Chapter Text
Peter
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Carve your name into my arm.
Instead of stressed, I lie here charmed.
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Peter had done something embarrassing. He hadn’t meant to. The whole thing was really stupid, actually, but it was done and now he had to deal with it.
He’d been wandering around the city again, wasting a few hours while Aunt May thought he was meeting with Mr. Stark about his non-existent internship. He could have gone over to Wade’s, he wanted to, but he’d been ending up there every day for the past week and he was sick of it. He needed space. He told himself he needed space, at least. He didn’t want to encourage the dependency he could already feel sinking its teeth into his muscles and the soft achy flesh of his stomach.
It was just that… It was so easy. Disgustingly easy. Wade never made a big deal when he slipped in the window of his safe house near Midtown. He never said anything about it, even when Peter caught him at a bad time - with weapons spread out on the bedspread like toys. In the middle of a nightmare. Arguing with the boxes. He just starting chattering at Peter like he’d been expecting him all along, just turned on some sitcom or another and ordered food like it was their routine. Peter didn’t want it to become a routine. Except that he kind of did, and that was terrifying. That was dumbest thing he could possibly want, because it was unsustainable and unrealistic and nice in the worst way possible and Peter didn’t even deserve it. He didn’t deserve to want it.
Anyway, he was avoiding Wade and he was avoiding Aunt May, and he was avoiding putting on his Spider-Man suit because it was still a bit early in the day and crime had been slow enough lately that he was starting to fear he had beaten all the criminals into submission and there would be nothing left for him to do if he didn’t slow down a bit. Summer was halfway over already and the past month and a half felt simultaneously like a dream, passed by in a surrealistic flash, and also like the longest six weeks of his life. He was walking through Chinatown, skateboard tucked up under one arm because the foot traffic was too heavy to safely skate through, when a flashy roadside stand of toys caught his attention.
It was mostly the typical cheap New York fare: blow up hats and glow sticks, flashing sunglasses and necklaces and I <3 NY pins, neon statue of liberty figurines. But they also had a small collection of superhero-themed items. Iron Man and Captain America both had t-shirts with their respective insignias blazoned on the front. Both Avengers also had plush toys made of them, sitting next to a large stock of Thor plushes and a smaller, but not insignificant pack of Spider-Man figures. It brought a slightly bitter taste to Peter’s mouth, to see his red and blue costume sewn so cheerily into a cute little stuffed toy for kids to take home. He didn’t feel like that hero anymore.
But that’s not what had him stopping in the middle of the sidewalk, freezing in place for long enough that several people bumped into him on their way past. Because next to the Spider-Man toys, tucked against the edge of the display like an afterthought, were two red and black Deadpool plushes. They weren’t particularly well-made. The eye patches were a little lopsided and they got the pattern of his suit wrong in a few places, but it was still unmistakable who it was supposed to be.
Peter found himself stepping up to the stand without meaning to, reaching out to pluck one of the toys off the shelf and turn it over in his hands. He wasn’t going to buy it, of course, but then the old man attending the stall smiled at him over the cash register, and he looked kind and mildly hopeful. And the orange price sticker stuck to the Deadpool toy’s head only said five dollars even though all the other plushes were priced at nine ninety-nine. Peter dug his teeth into his bottom lip, fully intending to put the thing back on the shelf and walk away, but then he was digging his wallet out of his back pocket and moving over to the register anyway.
He hesitated before handing the money over, hand extended with a wrinkled five-dollar bill, before muttering a quick sorry and darting back over to the shelf. He grabbed the other Deadpool plush and stuck it under his arm with the first one, pulling out a few more dollars to hand over in exchange.
It was irrational. It was so stupid. He didn’t need a Deadpool stuffed toy, let alone two. It’s just that the last one looked so pitiful sitting by itself on the shelf. Would people even know who it was supposed to be? Deadpool obviously wasn’t as well-known as the other New York based heroes, and he didn’t have the best reputation with those who would recognize his signature look. And all Peter could imagine was that one dumb toy sitting there forever, thread coming out of its left arm, until the shopkeeper threw it out because no one wanted it, even on sale.
So he bought them both and stuffed them in his backpack and walked away feeling silly and just a little bit sick with himself. And now he had to figure out what the fuck to do with them.
In the end, he hid them under the blankets on his bed. It wasn’t like he was planning on having anyone in his room, and Aunt May wouldn’t bother the bedsheets because Peter had insisted on doing his own laundry ever since he started being Spider-Man (conveniently around the same age that many teenage boys decided to wash their own linens for very different reasons). It didn’t occur to him to stick them in the back of the closet, or give them away to some kid who had no idea who the fuck Deadpool was but could use a stuffed animal to play with. He would keep them, but it’s not like he ever had to look at them again. They could just… Live under there. Out of sight.
He ended up across town, breaking into Wade’s apartment building by mid-afternoon despite his efforts to spend the day doing other things. It’s not like he had anything better to do, in the end. He’d listened for people in need or nefarious activities in progress all day, and the worst he’d overheard was a lady yelling at her cats for getting kitty litter all over the floor again. And while she had sounded pretty unkind, accusing them of being ‘furball hacking little pieces of shit,’ it wasn’t exactly a situation that called for Spider-Man to step in. Especially not the new, darker Spider-Man.
Wade was cooking when Peter let himself in through the front door, breaking another chain lock without blinking (he’d seen a box of replacement chains in the bathroom closet, so he didn’t feel too bad). He could knock, but that would make the whole situation feel too formal. Like he was paying his friend a visit. Which he was not, because Wade wasn’t his friend and this wasn’t a hang out session. It just… Was.
“Ah, fuck!” Wade startled as Peter kicked the door shut behind himself, planting a hand on one of the open burners and presumably burning the hell out of his palm, if the way he jerked away and shouted was any indication.
“Sorry,” Peter mumbled, lingering just inside the entryway.
The mercenary waved him off, turning quickly back to the stove to tend to something bubbling alarmingly in a skillet. “No worries, Itsy Bitsy. It’s already healin’ right up, good as new. Or, good as something that’s been used hard and put away wet, dirty and torn the fuck up, actually.” He went still for a second, turning his head aside and mumbling under his breath like he did when he was talking to the boxes. “What? No. We don’t have a fucking hybrid kid, what the hell?”
Peter moved into the kitchen, stepping silently over a box of spare bullets left on the floor, and hiked himself smoothly up onto one of the counters to sit and observe whatever culinary disaster was currently in progress. Wade was wearing an apron covered in cartoon dogs over his sweatshirt and jeans, and he kept his eyes down while he worked. It still felt sort of strange, to be around Wade as Wade now that he knew… Who Peter was. It wasn’t the same as it used to be, when Peter was just some kid and Wade could pretend he was just some guy with fucked up skin and an aunt in a nursing home.
He never would have thought he’d actually miss being just that kid.
“Pancake tacos,” Wade stated.
“What?”
“Pancake tacos!” He gestured with his spatula towards a plate on the other side of the counter, spattering the stove with some of the substance from the pan. The plate was stacked high with pancakes, wide and even and swirled through with something that was probably either brown sugar or cinnamon. Hopefully. “We tried the taco pancakes and those were a bust. Even if Yellow kinda liked them. They were a shit show overall but we still love tacos and we still love pancakes, so.” He prodded at the boiling stuff. “Pancake tacos!”
Peter wrinkled his nose and leaned over the stove, bracing himself for something disgusting. It was dark red and kind of lumpy, and for a terrible moment all he could imagine was eviscerated blood and guts. But then Wade tipped the skillet towards him and the smell hit him all at once, sweet and tart and distinctly raspberry-like.
“It’s a compote,” Wade explained, whirling around to pull a carton of blueberries out of the fridge. “I do too know what that is! We saw it on The Great British Bake Off.” He proceeded to dump half the container of blueberries into the compote, splashing more of it onto the stovetop. “Mary Berry is a dame after our own heart.”
“Since when do you cook compotes?” Or anything at all, for that matter? Taco pancakes and one instance of regular pancakes aside, Peter had only ever known him to order take out in all the time he’d known the mercenary.
“Since feeding a hungry little spider became my part-time job. Duh.”
Peter’s mouth twisted into a bitter frown, and he parted his lips to vehemently reject any such notion, but Wade interrupted before he could get a word out.
“Shh, here, taste this.” He spun towards Peter with a spoon full of the stuff held aloft. Then, abruptly, he jerked the spoon back and blew on it for a few seconds before offering it again.
He maintained his frown, but allowed Wade to hold the spoon to his mouth so he could take a taste off the end. It was surprisingly sharp and tangy, and he must have made some sort of face because Wade broke into a lopsided grin that was stupidly distracting. But after a couple of seconds the sourness faded away and the berry taste was sugary and thick on his tongue.
“S’not bad,” he admitted mulishly.
Wade’s grin widened a bit at that. “See?” He replaced the spoon with the spatula and gave the compote another couple of prods before flipping the burner off with a click. “We knew he’d like it. And it is too healthy - it’s got fruit and shit. And blueberries are a superfood!” He went on to pull a clean plate out of the cabinet and transfer one of the pancakes onto it. Then he spooned a generous helping of the berry mixture onto the pancake. Some of the juice leaked off the edges and pooled on the white ceramic, bright and vivid like blood. “Hear that, Spidey? This compote will increase your super powers.”
“That’s not what that means.”
He just shrugged, gathering two edges of the pancake up with one hand so he could hold it like a folded taco. “Won’t know for sure until we try it!”
Peter leaned back slightly, hunched shoulders straightening as Wade stepped into his space and crowded him up against the cabinets. Wade offered him the taco, plate held beneath his chin to catch any drippings, and he kept his eyes down as he took a bite.
The initial bitter tang was tempered by the pancake, and he could taste both cinnamon and brown sugar. When he swallowed it was fruity and sweet like jam and sugar and spice and before Peter had made the decision to do so, he was leaning in for another bite, hands curling absently over the edge of the countertop.
It still made him feel… Weird, to eat out of Wade’s hand, but it got easier the more he did it. He should stop. Because he wasn’t a child and he didn’t need to be coddled. He didn’t need to be fed. But Wade just did it. Like it was normal. And once he started it was just easier to keep going so they didn’t have to do something annoying like talk about it, and he got sort of fuzzy when it happened and Wade always shared, so it wasn’t like it was just him being fed a whole plate of food. So it wasn’t really a big deal. He probably just didn’t have enough silverware to give Peter his own.
They finished the first one quickly enough. Wade took bites while Peter was chewing and spilled little bits of scarlet compote on the plate and on his apron. When they got down to the last bite and Wade held it up to Peter’s lips, he took it gingerly from Wade’s fingers, teeth and tongue scraping over uneven skin. He heard Wade’s breath hitch slightly at the contact, and for a moment he considered catching the mercenary’s wrist and licking the sticky juice from his fingertips. He imagined taking those fingers into his mouth and sucking until there was no trace of sweetness left. He leaned back instead, ducking his head as he chewed, and tried to ignore the flush of warmth that traveled down his face and neck.
They repeated the process with two more pancake tacos, until Peter was feeling full and much too warm to continue sitting on the kitchen counter with Wade pressed casually between his knees, humming something unidentifiable under his breath as he fed them.
After Wade dumped the sticky plate carelessly in the sink and washed his hands, he moved back into Peter’s space with a smooth intention that had his stomach tightening in anticipation. Not offering pause or explanation, Wade gripped Peter beneath the jaw, fingers cold and still wet against his skin, and tipped the boy’s head back until his skull hit the cabinet with a soft thud. Then Wade bent down, tucked his nose into the hair behind Peter’s ear and inhaled deeply.
Peter bit his bottom lip hard enough to ache and focused on not crumbling the edge of faux-granite countertop beneath his hands. Despite his attempt to keep rigidly still, a shiver worked its way down his spine as he felt the brush of Wade’s breath followed by a brief press of lips to the sensitive patch of skin just below his ear.
And then he was pulling away again, releasing his hold on Peter’s neck as quickly as he had initiated it. His hands came up to circle Peter’s ribs, firm and large, and he lifted him off the counter with an ease that stole some of the air from his lungs.
“Season two of The Office is just about to get good, Petey Pie. Still can’t believe you haven’t seen it before - there’s something clearly remiss with the youth of today.” He walked easily to his couch, scooping up the remote to start Netflix again, and left Peter blinking himself out of a bit of a daze in the kitchen.
Wade had been so careful with him lately. Just, deliberate. In how he treated him. But sometimes he’d just step in and touch him like that. Proprietary. Like Peter was his to touch. And it made him feel… Something sort of blurry that he was trying not to look too closely at.
He followed Wade to the couch and allowed the mercenary to toss a blanket over his legs as he pulled up the next episode of the sitcom they’d started a few days ago. Peter wasn’t really following the plot, but as far as he could gather, there wasn’t much of a plot to follow anyway, which made it easy to maintain a soft focus on whatever ridiculous scenario the characters were dealing with in the moment and not worry about watching actively. Wade tended to keep up a pretty steady run of substanceless commentary, which also helped him keep his mind from wandering without requiring too much from his attention span. It was a balance that Wade seemed to strike effortlessly, and Peter reluctantly allowed himself to sink into it. Just like he had yesterday. And the day before that.
They watched TV until Peter’s alarm buzzed silently in his pocket, notifying him that it was time to go meet Aunt May for dinner. He hated the way it made his chest go hollow and cold, knowing he would have to tear himself from Wade’s side once again. It shouldn’t be so hard, just like it shouldn't be so easy to let the older man sling his arm over his shoulders and thread his fingers through Peter’s hair.
Wade stopped chattering as Peter pulled his phone out and turned the alarm off, his fingers going still against the boy’s scalp. Peter closed his eyes, just for a second, and very deliberately did not think about how fucking much he wanted Wade to keep touching him.
“Gotta go meet your aunt?”
He nodded mutely, then gritted his teeth and forced himself to stand up, untangling from Wade’s arm and the fuzzy Pokemon blanket that had kept him toasty for the past hour. Wade stood as well, stretching easily and following Peter across the room. He stopped him there in the entryway, palm pressed to the flimsy wood of the door to keep it closed as he leaned over Peter and caught his mouth in a kiss, other hand wrapping around the back of his skull to keep him in place.
It made his head spin, brief and tame though it was. There wasn’t even tongue, just a firm press of lips, warm and solid against his. When Wade pulled back his heart was already racing, his skin hot and his knees sort of weak.
And he considered, for a second, asking if Wade wanted to come to dinner. Just to keep him near. Just so he wouldn’t have to walk outside and feel cold and empty even in the heat of July.
But that was a stupid idea. Wade didn’t want to hang out with Peter and his Aunt. Not when he wasn’t getting anything out of it. It would be too boring for him. Too… Normal.
“Be good,” Wade murmured, low and rough, and Peter had to swallow before he could nod and tear his eyes away from imperfect lips.
“See you,” he mumbled on his way out, letting Wade hold the door open for him.
He shoved his hands in his pockets and made himself not look back, even though he could feel the mercenary’s eyes on him all the way down the hall. Just like he had every other day that week.
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Two nights later saw Peter out on patrol in sweltering eighty-five degree weather. The sun had set a couple of hours ago, but it had barely cooled from the day’s high temp. It was better when he was in the air, or perched on a rooftop of one of the taller buildings. His suit was breathable, but there was only so much that could be done without built-in air conditioning (which he did not have - he’d asked Karen). He was slightly sticky with sweat just from swinging, so he could only imagine how uncomfortable Wade must be in his full-body leather. He wouldn’t have guessed it from the way Deadpool moved, though. Despite the heat, he kept up with Spider-Man with just as much aggressive grace and athleticism as usual. And if Peter took a few more breaks to stop and listen than he normally did, if he travelled at a slightly more leisurely pace, there was no particular reason for it and Wade gave no indication that he noticed.
They still didn’t speak on patrol. Not unless Peter sat in one place for too long and Wade crept up little by little to make a casual comment or hold a one-sided conversation about nothing in particular. And when Spider-Man took off again, he always hung back a respectable distance and avoided interfering with the fights. It was… good. Better. They weren’t partners and Peter didn’t need help.
And, every other night or so, when things were too quiet and there wasn’t enough violence to sate the itch beneath his skin, if Peter found an empty alley to drop into and wait for Wade to catch up with him, well. It was just par for the course with them. Just another part of the routine.
It was quiet tonight, and Peter found himself restless and craving something he shouldn’t, so he crept between two brick apartment buildings and clung to the wall beside a rusting fire escape. He was keyed up and tired at the same time, jittery but also sore with lack of sleep. It was a familiar feeling, though he’d had a couple of better days recently - when he managed to nap at Wade’s.
The mercenary only took a couple of minutes to close the distance, the familiar sound of boots on iron letting Peter know that he was making his way down the fire escape. He dropped to the ground and leaned against the wall, ignoring the twist of anticipation in his stomach as he raised his head to watch Wade descend a couple more flights and forego the ladder to leap neatly over the railing and drop the last story to the pavement. He landed with barely a sound, and Peter unconsciously wet his lips beneath the mask.
Wade was good at knowing what Spidey wanted without having to ask, and he didn't hesitate to cross the space between them and flatten the hero against the wall, palms pressed to brick and one knee slipped between his thighs. Peter inhaled sharply, like the sudden proximity surprised him, even though it was exactly what he’d meant to happen when he came down here.
“Mm,” Wade hummed, voice dropped to that low tone that always made Peter feel breathless and weak. “Yeah. Give the little spider exactly what he needs.”
Peter swallowed back a whine, tipping his head against the wall to bare his neck. Wade liked his neck. He liked when Wade put his mouth there. And he was trying very hard not to grab the mercenary’s katana straps and yank him closer, until there was no space between them, until all he could feel was the solid weight and heat of Wade’s body pressing him down and keeping him still. He let out a shaky breath as Wade dipped his head to bite gently at the seam of his mask, teasing it out of the way so he could trace his tongue over Peter’s rapid pulse. He couldn’t stop his hands from rising to grip the straps crossed over Deadpool’s chest, just to hold on.
“Your throat, where it’s exposed, looks like a crime,” He murmured against Peter’s skin, dark and seductive as an oil slick. “I’ll sneak up slow and whisper quiet.” His breath teased over the spit-damp spot where his blood rushed beneath the surface, and Peter’s knees felt distinctly weak. “Will you, will you come over here and do me violence?”
Clever fingers teased across his neck, tracing the thin line of exposed skin, and Wade hummed low in his chest when Peter swallowed hard under the touch.
“You eat dinner, Baby Boy?” The words were pressed into his throat, wet and warm while one hand worked his mask up to the ridge of his nose, and it took him a few long seconds to make his mouth work.
“Um. Yeah.” Wade had taken to asking that a lot. It was irritating. But he always managed to pose the question when Peter was distracted and more inclined to answer just to get it out of the way. “T-Thai food.”
“Good.” He dropped his hands to Peter’s waist and gripped him tight like a reward, hauled him up against his thigh and startled a moan out of his throat. Peter’s already hardening dick jumped at the contact, and Wade set his teeth to the edge of his jaw, nipping hard. “That’s good, honey. My good boy.”
Peter’s whimper got muffled by Wade’s mouth, and turned quickly into a filthy groan as Wade’s tongue slid against his and fucked in deep, like he wanted to taste the back of Peter’s throat. Like he wanted to consume him.
He couldn’t stop himself from hitching his hips forward, chasing friction against the firm line of Wade’s leg and flushing with arousal at the shamelessness of it. Wade’s hands tightened at his waist with a low growl, fingers digging in as he encouraged the movement, pulling Peter even tighter against him. It felt so good. So dirty and so good and he was already lightheaded with the pleasure of it, thought maybe he could come from just this, if Wade let him.
And then suddenly Wade’s hands were pushing him away, manhandling him back against the wall as he took a step apart, breaking their kiss. Breaking all contact. Peter stumbled in shock, his whole body left reeling and off center from the sudden separation. “Wade,” he gasped. And he hated how broken the word came out, weak and desperate. Hated how his hands rose automatically, reaching to pull him back in.
“Sh, it’s okay, Spidey.” He was tugging his Deadpool mask back over his face, stepping back in just close enough to tug Peter’s mask down too. “We have some company.”
Company. Fuck. It took too long for Wade’s meaning to sink in, and Peter still felt shaky as he straightened himself up and made sure his mask was tucked into place. Still felt a panicky ache to get Wade close again, just to touch his hand maybe, like a fist around his lungs.
Mingled distress and a creeping anxiety for the appearance of their ‘company’ had taken care of his erection, thankfully. And when he took a measured breath and focused his senses, he could feel a faint tingle at the back of his neck and hear quiet footsteps approaching from around the edge of the alleyway. He must have been too preoccupied to notice before, and he wondered with some disbelief and resentment how Wade had managed to hear the intruder when he hadn’t.
Just a couple of tense seconds passed before a dark figure slipped around the corner and approached at a leisurely pace, clearly not surprised to see them there.
“Hello, boys.”
Peter huffed out a breath, simultaneously relieved and irritated to see the Black Widow. She had her hair loose around her shoulders today, a shock of red against the high neck of her black tactical gear. It didn’t make her seem any less dangerous. Somehow, Peter couldn’t imagine that it would hinder her in a fight - she probably had some mysterious way to keep it out of her eyes or use it to her advantage somehow. He crossed his arms over his chest. “Stalking me again? I thought I made myself clear last time. I don’t need Tony looking in on me.”
Black Widow came to a stop a couple of yards away, hooking one thumb through her belt and cocking her head to the side. The inquisitive, near-friendly expression on her face was almost too convincing, like an actor who had practiced in a mirror. “Stalking implies a pattern. I merely tracked you down, for a conversation.”
“A conversation?” Wade asked from Peter’s side, tone casual though his hands hovered near his hip holsters.
“Mm,” Natasha hummed in agreement. She fixed her gaze on Deadpool, hooded eyes lingering for a moment too long, and Peter got the sense all over again that she could see right through them, masks or no masks. “I’ve got something to ask Spider-Man. Since it would appear that you usually accompany him on patrol, it’s probably best if you stay.”
None of them mentioned the fact that Wade clearly had no intention of leaving, whether he was being included in the conversation or not.
“Fine by me.” Wade tucked a thumb over his own belt, mirroring the Widow’s stance, and gestured for her to continue. “Ask away.”
“Is that Wilson? Jesus fuck does the guy never leave the kid alone? I thought he was gone on some murder spree in Africa. Shoulda taken a longer vacation if you ask me. Hell, I’d pay for a three-month luxury cruise if I thought he’d go on it.”
Peter frowned, eyes narrowing towards the inconspicuous comms piece tucked behind Natasha’s hair. She gave no indication that she could hear Tony’s tinny voice in her ear, but Peter could hear it just fine. He’d assumed that she must be here on his behest, but it still burned him up to hear the billionaire so blatantly involving himself.
“SHIELD is looking into something in the city.” She began smoothly, tactfully leaving out the part where Iron Man clearly orchestrated this little meet up. “We’ve gotten reports of an as-yet unidentified substance found at several crime scenes over the last few months.”
“What kind of substance?” He asked, peeved and surprised that this was the first he was hearing of it.
“Black, organic, prehensile until it deteriorates.”
“It’s alive?” Peter was intrigued in spite of himself.
Natasha nodded. “For a short time. Most samples are already decayed by the time we get ahold of them. It is…” She allowed her face to show a hint of concern. “Not like anything we’ve seen before.”
“Holy shit, aliens?” Wade rocked forward on his toes, clearly excited by the possibility. “Yeah. So cool.”
Tony made a retching sound through the comms. “Ugh. Of course the freak has a hard on for extraterrestrials. Does he not remember what happened the last time they decided to come to earth?”
“I assume neither of you have seen it?” The Widow inquired, and Peter shook his head. “Heard any rumors?”
He sighed, arms tightening across his ribs. “No. The criminals I catch haven’t really been inclined to talk, lately.”
She nodded once in understanding, face generously clear of any hint of judgment.
“What sort of crime scenes?” Wade interjected.
Black Widow turned another thoughtful gaze on him, hesitating only a moment before answering. “Missing persons.”
Missing persons. That meant kidnappings. How the hell hadn’t Spider-Man heard about this? How hadn’t he known anything about it?
“How many?” He asked with dawning horror.
Natasha did frown then, the first expression to cross her face that actually seemed authentic. “We don’t know,” She admitted. “It’s mostly been easy-access victims. Prostitutes, runaways. The homeless.”
People that the city didn’t bother to keep track of, in other words. People they didn’t bother to launch investigations for. Peter felt vaguely sick. This had been happening on his watch. For months. And he’d had no idea.
“I’ll look into it.” He stated flatly.
“No.” Tony ordered in Natasha’s ear. “We don’t know what we’re dealing with here; I don’t want him to get involved. Tell him we have it under control.”
“Tell Tony,” Peter growled before Black Widow could open her mouth. “That if he wants to try giving me orders, he can come over here and do it in person.”
There was a beat of silence, and he was satisfied to see a blank look of subtle surprise on Natasha’s face.
Wade seemed to catch on quickly, and he chuckled from Peter’s side. “Ah, classic Iron Dildo move. He knows how good Spidey’s hearing is, but his ego is too damn big to think that it will actually affect him and his clever little machinations. Be better, dude.”
“Alright fine.” Tony’s tinny voice was low with anger. “I’ll fly down there right now.”
Natasha rolled her eyes, raising a hand to brush her hair back from one ear and revealing the device hidden there. “You will not, Tony. You’re over an hour away by jet, get ahold of yourself.”
Peter stifled an unexpected urge to smile at the exasperation in her tone. Wade snorted to himself and muttered under his breath, “No matter what you say, he’ll be back for more.”
She fixed Peter with another considering look. “If you find anything, please let us know.”
That was probably something he could live with, considering they were already investigating the incidents, so he nodded in agreement.
“For the record, I think this is a bad idea all around. Just focus on saving the little guy, kid.”
Natasha and Peter both ignored him, and he resisted pointing out that those people who had disappeared were the little guys. They were exactly who Spider-Man should be protecting; the unseen and underserved inhabitants of his city. They were the ones who needed him the most. And he was failing them.
She nodded once in farewell. “I’ll see you around, Spider-Man.” Then she nodded in Deadpool’s direction too, and he stiffened slightly at the acknowledgement. “Wilson.”
She was gone before either of them could repeat the farewell, slipping smoothly down the alley and disappearing into the shadows.
Wade let out a low whistle once she was out of sight. “Damn, that one gives me the creeps. Yeah, too quiet like… Do you ever look at someone and wonder, what is going on inside their head?”
“Sh…” Peter hushed him, raising one hand to stop the impending flow of pointless vine quotes, which Wade was clearly gearing up for. He could hear Natasha talking again from down the block, voice low and slightly husky, but words crystal clear.
“You want some advice, Stark?”
“It’ll be unsolicited, but sure. Hit me with your best shot. You know how I love constructive criticism.”
“You need to stop treating him like a child. He clearly doesn’t react well to your control issues.”
“Yeah, clearly. He’s reacting like a kid. Which he is.”
“You told me he’s sixteen.”
“Right. He’s only sixteen.”
“You know what I was doing when I was sixteen? Because I know what you were doing.”
Tony’s sigh was a rush of static over the line. “Not everyone has traumatizing childhoods, Nat.”
“No, but I bet Spider-Man does.”
There was silence for a long time, and Peter was just about give up on the eavesdropping when the conversation continued.
“He’s just a kid.” Tony sounded more tired than Peter had ever heard him before. “Can’t he just be a kid?”
“Kids grow up, Tony.” Black widow sounded tired too, and almost kind. “Some kids grow up a lot faster than others. Some kids have to.”
Peter swallowed back a bitter taste and reached absently for Wade’s hand, not wanting to hear any more.
Wade threaded his fingers easily through Peter’s, leather sliding smoothly against reinforced spandex, and raised their joined hands to press a masked kiss to the back of his palm. “Want to call it an early night? Go back to my place for a couple hours? You seem like you could use some sleep.”
He pressed his lips together in an approximation of a frown, waiting for the urge to argue to bubble up from inside. He should stay out, whether it was a slow night or not. He should look into the disappearances. He should resent Wade’s assumption that he needed sleep, and that he needed to be pressed into the mercenary’s mattress by his considerable weight to get any of it.
But he was tired.
He was so fucking tired.
He nodded mutely, no arguments to make, and Wade held him by the hand all the way back to his safe house.
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The Office was a strange sort of comedy, dry and crass in equal parts. Peter thought he might have really enjoyed it, before. He could see that it was clever. And he liked the way it made Wade laugh, in full-body chuckles that he could feel vibrating through his skin. Sometimes high, wheezing giggles when the characters became particularly frantic. Those were the ones that brought a ghost of a smile to Peter’s mouth, just for a moment or two.
He could feel one of those laughs now, pressed against his back, low and rumbly beneath the commentary Wade was running through his nonstop mouth. The words were kind of soft today, tripping forward at a constant rhythm even as the inflection bounced all over the place. It was easy to tune out, like static on the radio, and it put Peter in kind of a sleepy sort of daze, though he wasn’t truly tired. He’d slept a lot the last couple of nights. A lot for him, anyway.
He’d wanted to stay out and patrol longer, after what Black Widow had told them two days ago, but he was just so… Exhausted. He didn’t have the energy to resist when Wade suggested, after an hour or two, that they call in early and try to get a few more hours of shut eye. Wade’s bed was just so soft. And the clothes he lent Peter to sleep in were pleasantly worn and large. And everything was dark and smelled like safety. And his sleep was dreamless in the other man’s apartment.
It was annoying. Except that it wasn’t.
He tried to focus on the show a little, but Wade’s breath on his hair was more distracting. He was seated between the mercenary’s spread legs on the couch, back pressed to his broad chest, only because he had been unwilling to move from the position after he was manhandled into it an hour earlier. Wade had one arm looped around his waist and the other hand clamped firmly over his wrist, thumb stroking over the thin skin the covered his veins there.
The touch was so light, it nearly tickled. If Peter concentrated, he could feel the uneven ridges of Wade’s bare skin catch on the tiny hairs at the underside of his wrist. The longer he focused on the sensation, the more it spread in rippling, sharp-hot tingles up his arm and over his skin, until he could almost feel it in his stomach, in his toes. He closed his eyes and let it roll over him.
Something tugged at his attention after a little while, and it took Peter a beat to realize that Wade had stopped talking. Another beat to realize why. He was squirming subtly in Wade’s lap, spine arching ever so slightly as his muscles stretched, like they were itching to get closer to his skin.
He fell still immediately, eyes flying open and face flushing hot with self-consciousness.
Wade gripped his wrist tighter for a second, a silent acknowledgement. “You know, I bet I could own a beet farm. Doesn’t seem too hard, at least not the way this guy does it. Might be fun to have a Deadpool B and B, too. Can you imagine the room themes? I’m thinking a Pleasure Me Unicorn suite and a Sharp Stabby Wonderland double. Maybe something with ropes for the kiddies. Kids like ropes, don’t they? I should look into buying a building.”
Peter relaxed again, relieved that the dialogue had picked back up. It was clear though, once he tuned back in, that the movement of Wade’s thumb against his wrist was less absent-minded now. More direct, though still intensely light in contact. He bit faintly at his lower lip, trying to distract himself from the steady sensation, but it was soon all he could focus on.
It wasn’t long before he was aching to move again, toes flexing in his socks as he struggled to hold himself still against the prickling of his skin. It was unreal, how he could hardly feel the touch at his arm over the tingle that covered his whole body like goosebumps. Like Wade had tapped into some sort of magic spot that was connected, through his veins and tendons, to every nerve in his skin.
“Ah, ah. Don’t do that, Baby Boy.” Wade lifted his arm from around Peter’s waist to thumb gently at his lip, and Peter released it from the clamp of his teeth with a sharp inhale. “Look, Andy’s gonna do something embarrassing again. Dude, no! She doesn’t like sing alongs, get a clue. I kinda feel bad for the guy, but he really is a willful idiot. Yes, he fucking is. He doesn’t even really like Angela, just the idea of her, and you can’t argue that he and Erin are not disturbingly child-like soulmates.”
Peter swallowed, and it took some effort not to immediately bite his lip again because Wade’s hand relocated when he dropped it from Peter’s mouth, palm landing high on his thigh and thumb slipping down his inseam. It had to be intentional, and he marveled briefly at Wade’s incredible ability to multitask because Peter could not even remember the names of the characters on screen right now.
He tried to hold still, he really did, but Wade didn’t stop stroking his skin and each passing moment had him winding tighter, growing warmer, until the air felt cool and his skin felt tight and hot, and his breaths were coming shorter. And then Wade squeezed his thigh, fingers digging in, and he couldn’t hold back a soft whimper. He writhed back against Wade’s body, unable to keep himself motionless a second longer, and his breath caught in his throat when he felt the hard line of Wade’s cock pressed to his lower back.
Wade bent his head until his mouth brushed the shell of Peter’s ear, breath hot. “You want something, Petey Pie?”
Peter wet his lips at the low rumble of his voice, at the way he could feel it vibrating through his back, and managed a weak dip of his head.
“What’s that, now?” Wade’s hands went still on him, the petting stalled as he prompted for a verbal answer. “Tell me what you want.”
He bit back a whine, squeezing his eyes shut as a tremble slid down his spine. “T-Touch me,” He breathed, flush quickly heating to a burn over his face and neck. “Please.”
Wade caught his earlobe between his teeth with a hum and tugged softly, tongue hot and wet where it teased. He slipped his hand further down the inside of Peter’s thigh and pressed, spreading his legs as far as they would comfortably go, bracketed tightly by Wade’s, and his fingers curled around Peter’s wrist like a shackle, constricting until he could feel his pulse jumping beneath the pressure.
“Like this?” He rumbled, kneading the sensitive flesh high on Peter’s thigh, close but carefully removed from where Peter was straining against the confines of his pants.
Peter panted around a soft sound of protest, grinding unconsciously back against Wade’s cock as he sought the friction he was very suddenly needy for, but he didn’t voice an objection. A part of him wanted to see what Wade would do, wanted to just let him, just take whatever he deigned to give and trust that it would be enough.
Slowly, so painfully slowly, Wade worked his hand higher. He pressed his fingertips into the divot at the base of Peter’s cock, slid them down beside his balls, outlining the shape of him in the pair of cotton lounge pants he’d stolen from the mercenary’s hamper. Peter trembled at the feel of it, both not enough and nearly overpowering all at once, and turned his head until his cheek rubbed against the fabric of Wade’s shirt. He kept his eyes closed - it felt better in the dark.
Wade traced around the area, over and over without actually touching his dick. Peter could feel him nuzzling into his hair, hot breath and deep inhales making him squirm, but he kept all other contact agonizingly still. The hand still clamped around Peter’s wrist was a solid, grounding presence, focusing the throb of his heartbeat, but he found himself wishing for the return of that sharp tingling touch to sweep him up again. He was aching for something. For more.
And then Wade trailed his fingers over the hard line of him, just skimming through the fabric of his pants, and Peter’s muscles jumped at the shock of pleasure and forced a rush of air from his lungs.
“Yeah?” Wade murmured into his hair, doing it again. “This what you want?”
Peter nodded around a high, needy sound, flushed hot all over with a desperation that he hadn’t ever felt before. Not quite like this. Being with Wade was always a wild-fire of pleasure and lust, a rush of urgency that demanded satisfaction, but this feeling had a physical edge that was entirely new. Too much, not enough, overwhelming hypersensitivity hand in hand with a hungry throbbing craving for more. His body had never been so confused before.
It was a relief, to be pulled so far into sensation that he couldn’t feel the confusion of his mind.
“Please,” He breathed, unable to keep himself from pushing his hips up into Wade’s touch. But the mercenary moved with him, keeping his strokes just firm enough to be felt, just a slow brush of sensation. After the third or fourth time Peter writhed towards the friction and was denied, a short sob of frustration was ripped from his chest. He could feel his heart racing. He felt out of control. On the edge of falling apart but unable to get that push over the precipice.
Unable to stand it anymore, he lifted his free hand and reached for his waistband, ready to shove it out of the way. If he could just get Wade’s touch on his bare skin…
“No.”
Peter froze, his fingers lingering on the elastic. Wade wasn’t stopping him. He wasn’t grabbing him and moving his hand away. He didn’t even command him. He just… Said no. Soft and firm. He was tempted to go ahead anyway. He needed it. And he knew Wade would give it to him. Would bite down on his ear in reprimand and fist him hard and fast, would make him come.
But… Wade said no.
He swallowed thickly, pulling his hand back and placing it carefully on the outside of Wade’s thigh.
“That’s right, honey,” Wade praised gently, a little breathless, a little rough around the edges. “Just like this.”
He kept his touch steady and light, until Peter was gasping for it, his veins tingling with too much oxygen, head spinning and fingers flexing mindlessly against Wade’s leg. Too much. Not enough. So fucking much and he was so close so close.
“So good for me,” Wade moaned quietly into Peter’s hair, thumb dragging down over the vein in his wrist, and Peter was coming.
He keened softly, hunching over at the sudden punch of pleasure that radiated out, toes curling and fingers tightening to fists. It shuddered through him, cock pulsing heavily, and Wade kept his touch so light and it felt like he was pulling it out of him, stroking the come out of him in waves. Peter writhed until it was too much, until he had to push Wade’s hand away, plaintive breaths heaving from his lungs until little white spots bloomed behind the red-black dark of his eyelids.
Seconds passed. Peter wasn’t sure how many. Slowly, he became aware that his cheeks were wet. And Wade was trembling. He was panting into Peter’s hair, harsh and quick, his grip on Peter’s wrist was bruising and he was trembling all over.
Peter surged up with a short noise, twisting around in Wade’s lap until he could press their mouths clumsily together, wet and warm and unsteady. He worked his hand under the waistband of Wade’s pants and sighed when he felt how hard he was, how his cock jumped when Peter wrapped his fingers around him.
He was already wet at the tip, leaking steadily when Peter squeezed up and spread the slick down his length, and his breath shook against Peter’s lips.
“Peter,” He breathed, hands landing in the boy’s hair and gripping gently, everything damp and shaky and Peter pressed closer, brushing their mouths together and mingling air.
He stroked Wade tight and quick, both of them hitching forward with each pull, and it wasn’t long at all before Wade went tense and tight with a small, stifled whimper. Peter shoved into a kiss that was hard enough to bruise, hard enough to catch the sound and keep it inside him always, and smeared the sticky wet heat against his palm. Wade groaned, hoarse and low in his throat, as his hips gave one last twitch before flinching away from the overstimulation.
“Peter… My Peter,” He whispered unsteadily. And then he was kissing Peter’s face. He kissed his wet eyelashes and his cheeks, his forehead and the hollows underneath his eyes, his temples, his jaw. He cradled Peter’s head like it was something precious.
Fresh tears slipped down his cheeks and he wanted to tell Wade to stop. It was too much. It was filling him up and it was too big for him to hold.
Before he could crack, Wade kissed him on the mouth again. Then he wrapped his arms around Peter and crushed him against his chest, allowing the boy to bury his face in his shoulder. Peter held him back just as tightly, both of them a bit shaky, and tried to catch his breath.
They sat there for a long time, until Peter’s face grew sticky as his skin dried and the heaving of Wade’s chest slowed to a calmer pace. His underwear was getting uncomfortable and he was pretty sure he had smeared come down the back of Wade’s shirt, but he didn’t want to move. It seemed Wade felt the same, as he adjusted his grip but didn’t loosen the clinging embrace, and murmured muffled words into the side of Peter’s head.
“It must be your skin, I’m sinking in. It must be for real, ‘cause now I can feel.” Peter swallowed, and Wade’s voice fell to a whisper, like a secret. Like an admission. “I treated you bad. You bruise my face.” He pulled back slightly and Peter ducked down, burrowing into Wade’s shoulder to keep his face hidden, but the mercenary gripped his jaw, touch gentle even as he forced Peter’s chin up so he could sigh against his mouth, “Couldn’t love you more, you’ve got a beautiful taste.”
Peter whimpered, twisting away from the kiss. “I’m… I’m not…”
“Sh.” Wade hushed him, palm spreading flat against his cheek to guide Peter’s lips back to his. “Light of my life, fire of my loins.” He teased Peter’s mouth open and dipped his tongue inside for a taste, humming softly on the curl of a smile. “Be a good baby, do what I want.”
Peter couldn’t help the unattractive snort that broke them apart, choking on an unexpected giggle as he tipped his forehead against Wade’s. “Are you seriously quoting Nabokov to me?”
Wade’s answering grin made his stomach flutter. “Lana Del Rey, Baby Boy. Queen knows what’s up.”
“Oh my god.” He shook his head, feigning exasperation.
But for a few moments, a few blissful moments, he couldn’t stop smiling.
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The night was mild and shockingly clear. A slight breeze had cleared the sky of clouds and a few brave stars winked through the haze of light pollution, dim pinpricks of fire in the dark velvet of outer space. Peter was dressed for patrol and swinging through Queens by ten-thirty, eager as always to escape his small room with too many memories and walls closing in. He had waited until he was sure Aunt May had fallen asleep for the night, but it was still rather early, so he wasn’t too surprised at the distinct lack of Wade’s presence trailing him through the neighborhood.
He squashed the inkling of disappointment in his chest and did not dwell on the absence of the mercenary’s voice, the absence of his steady exhales as he ran or the quiet thump of his boots on the pavement. He didn’t need Wade to follow him from home. He’d head towards Midtown and probably pick up his tail on the way there.
He travelled quickly, unrestrained by the speed of someone on the ground, and found that he was impatient to actually start patrol. For the first time in a while, he felt driven not just by guilt and responsibility, but by an urge to make a difference. To get to work solving the puzzle, figuring out what was going on and how he could put a stop to it.
He’d been thinking about the missing people, and how some of them must be his age, or maybe even younger. And he had had no idea that this was happening until SHIELD decided to tell him. It made him realize just how much went on in his city that he didn’t know anything about. He wasn’t doing enough, just running around at night and swooping in when it sounded like he was needed. He should be doing more, looking into things like this, hunting down the kidnappers and killers and rapists. The police did what they could, but Spider-Man could do so much more. He had the power, and so the responsibility was his.
And he could start now, with the disappearances and the mysterious substance. SHIELD was clearly more interested in this supposedly alien material, but Peter would work the case until it was solved for all the citizens who had no one looking out for them when they were taken. He didn’t have any solid leads, but it was probably a good idea to seek information from the people in the thick of it. These ‘easy-access’ populations.
When he landed on a bank in Midtown, there was still no sign of Wade. He could wait, and it wouldn’t be long before the mercenary appeared, but he wanted to get started. Now. And besides, Wade’s tactics for getting information out of people most likely involved far more blood and pain than was necessary for this mission. He’d go ahead and see what he could find out, and Deadpool would catch up later.
He took off across the rooftops, pausing every couple of blocks to peer down into the alleys below and listen for anyone who might know something. He came across a man before long, t-shirt grimy and sneakers peeling apart at the sole, digging through a dumpster behind a row of restaurants. He had a small shopping cart, rusting around the wheels and stacked high with newspapers and plastic bags full of clothes and other miscellaneous things.
Peter dropped down quietly, clinging to the wall two stories up so he could descend into the alley without startling the man. He stepped onto the pavement a couple of yards away and cleared his throat. “Excuse me.”
The homeless man jerked around, stumbling over a pothole and dropping whatever he had in his hands.
“Sorry! I didn’t mean to scare you. I just have a few questions.” Peter took a step towards him, and the man flinched backwards again, eyes darting from Spider-Man to the mouth of the alleyway and back again.
“What?”
“I have a couple of questions,” Peter reiterated. “There’s been some disappearances lately. Maybe some other homeless people. Do you know anything about that?”
The man shook his head vigorously, wiping one hand over his unkempt beard, peppered with grey. “I don't know nothing. I swear I don't know nothing about no disappearances.”
Peter frowned under his mask. “Do you know anyone who might have been talking about it? Heard any rumors or anything?”
“No, I don’t know nothing.” The man shook his head some more, and Peter noticed that his hands were trembling. “Please, I swear. I swear I don’t know.”
“Okay! It’s okay. You’re not in trouble or anything.” He held his hands at his sides, palms out, and stepped carefully forward. “I was just - ”
The man gave a hoarse shout and turned on his heel, darting towards the street in a panic.
“Fuck.” Peter muttered, staring at the spot where he had disappeared. That hadn’t exactly gone well. He approached the abandoned shopping cart and peered inside, but he didn’t expect to find any sort of identification or location where he could return the man’s things. It was probably best to just leave it all here and hope that he came back for it. Which he might not, considering a violent vigilante had just scared the shit out of him.
Peter heaved a sigh and webbed himself up to the roof, feeling like a complete asshole. He hadn’t exactly cultivated a good reputation in the last couple months, operating from a punch first, ask questions later sort of agenda. Maybe it would help if he looked a little less intimidating…
“Karen,” He mumbled, a tad reluctantly. “Switch my suit back to its regular mode. The red and blue.”
“Certainly, Peter. Stealth mode has been deactivated.”
He glanced down at his gloves, almost shocked by the brightness of the red. It looked garish after so long wearing the black and dull grey. He felt more vulnerable, sticking out like a neon sign for anyone to spot. But if it got people comfortable enough to talk to him, then it would be worth it.
He took off again, heading towards one of the poorer areas of Manhattan, and didn’t stop until he caught sight of a few teenagers hanging around a street corner. He might have thought they were just a group of friends hanging out and making poor choices, if it weren’t for the way they all stood just slightly apart from one another, not really talking despite the glances they exchanged as cars rolled by. And the way they were dressed. And the way some of the cars slowed as they passed, causing the teens to straighten up and watch, anticipatory.
Peter swallowed against the bitter taste in the back of his mouth and approached cautiously, unsure of the best way to initiate contact. He briefly considered going back home to change into street clothes and come back, since this would probably go better if he went undercover as a regular kid, but he didn’t want to waste the time. If this turned out to be another bust, he could always go digging without the Spidey suit later on.
In the end, he couldn’t think of anything smoother than, “Hey, uh, excuse me.”
Heads swiveled towards him and half the teens immediately took of running, scattering in separate directions and disappearing down neighboring streets. One girl jogged partway down the block, clutching something inside her purse the whole time, and lingered near a parked car with a wary eye trained on Spider-Man. Only two of them stayed put, though they both kept their distance, guards clearly up.
“The fuck do you want?” The girl asked, chin tilted defiantly upwards.
“I just want to talk,” He assured them, trying his best to sound nonthreatening and not moving any closer. “I need help. With an… investigation.”
“Are you really him?” The boy spoke up from behind the other teenager. He was edging further away, ready to run at a moment’s notice, but his eyes kept flickering back to the girl, concerned. “Are you Spider-Man?”
Peter nodded. “Yeah. That’s me.”
The boy looked him up and down, coal-lined eyes searching for any evidence to the contrary. Thankfully, he didn’t ask Peter to prove it. “Then why the hell do you need our help?”
It was a valid question. “I’m looking into a series of disappearances,” He explained. “Have you heard anything? About, missing people or… Anything strange?”
The two exchanged a glance, and the fear that flashed across both their faces sent a kick through Peter’s stomach. But the boy looked away first, and he shook his head in denial. “We don’t know anything.” He took a step away, tugging his thin, clingy t-shirt down over his exposed midriff. “Jess, come on.”
But the girl didn’t move. She stared at Spider-Man, eyes hard but considering, and Peter held his breath. Slowly, she moved a couple of steps in his direction. The light of a street lamp caught on the wisps of hair escaping from her braids, illuminating the strawberry blond roots under a cotton candy blue box dye job. “Are you trying to find them?”
“Yes.” He didn’t have the heart to tell her the unlikelihood that these people were still alive.
“And if you do, you’ll… You’ll help them?”
“I’ll do everything I can.”
Jess crossed her arms over her chest and gave one sharp nod, accompanied by a pained sigh from the boy behind her. “We all know about it.”
Excitement leapt behind Peter’s ribs, but he tried not to let himself seem too eager. “What do you know?”
She shrugged one skinny shoulder. “Not much. But people are going missing left and right. Runaways mostly, or regulars at the shelter. Some foster kids, from the group homes. Or else the crackheads. Marquis has been losing customers since - ”
“Shhh!” The boy hissed frantically, cutting her off.
She shot him a flat glare over her shoulder before continuing. “Marquis has been losing business and he’s angry as shit about it.”
It was even more widespread than Peter had expected, and the realization sat like a stone in his stomach. “Has anyone seen what happened to them? Any witnesses that you know of?”
Jess shook her head, blue eyes solemn. “They’re just gone. Thin air, or whatever.”
“Do you know any of their names? Maybe I could talk to people who knew where they were, when they were taken.”
The other two exchanged another silent glance, brows furrowed, and seemed to come to a decision. “Yeah, actually. There’s someone who’s been keeping track.” Jess glanced back and forth down the street before she stepped within reaching distance of Spider-Man. “You got any paper?”
He glanced down at himself regretfully. “No, but you can just tell me. I’ll remember it.” Or Karen would, at least.
She shook her head quickly. “No, it’s better if… Here.” She strode suddenly past him towards a trash bin leaned up against a shuttered storefront, out of which she pulled a backpack. She dug out a notebook and a pencil, flipping through to a blank page where she carefully tore a small corner off before shoving the notebook back in the bag. She scribbled something on the scrap of paper as she walked back, then paused a step away to stare down at what she’d written for a moment.
She folded it in half and held it out. Her nails were painted pink, chipping off around the edges.
Peter took the paper.
“I, um. I know someone.” She let her arm fall back to her side, face tilted away. “My friend Deja. We were in school together, and she hooked me up with this place I stay sometimes. We looked out for each other, but um. I haven’t seen her in a few weeks.”
She took a breath and looked back at him again, eyes dull with resignation and too much sadness. “She’s a fucking good person, you know?”
He swallowed back the lump in his throat and nodded, the only response he could manage. “Thank you.”
Jess slung her backpack over her shoulder and stepped off the curb. “Just find them, okay? Or at least find the people doing this, so you can kick the shit out of them.”
Peter let out a hoarse breath of laughter. “Will do.”
She saluted him sarcastically and turned on her heel, her friend falling into step beside her as they made their way down then street.
He shot a web and ascended to the nearest rooftop, where he settled on the ledge and carefully unfolded the small paper. On it was a name and an address, scrawled in a messy hand.
Rowan Bailey
Safe Horizon Streetwork
corner of 125th and Harrison
A lead. A real fucking lead. Someone who could point him in the right direction. Peter was relieved, but the weight in the pit of his stomach was still there. Why did the world have to be so goddamn fucked up, anyway? He sighed, tucking the scrap of paper into a hidden pocket in his suit and climbing to his feet. He would have liked to keep making progress, but he couldn’t just show up at a shelter in the middle of the night and go looking for a man who may not even be there at the moment. He’d have to go during business hours, at least.
He could keep questioning random people. He’d gotten lucky once, even if the majority of them had run away from him. Maybe he’d find out something more. But when he tossed himself from the roof and took off through the air, he found himself turning in the direction of Wade’s safe house.
He let himself in through the window when he arrived, leaping agilely over the unmade bed and padding silently into the living and kitchen area. The lamp by the door was on, but the apartment was quiet and still. He flung himself onto the couch and settled in to wait, annoyed with Wade for not having found him when he was out on the streets.
He considered turning on the TV after a while, but disliked the idea of continuing The Office without Wade. And there wasn’t anything else he could think of to play in the background. He plucked up a pocket knife to fiddle with instead, mind drifting over everything he had learned that night. Even though everyone who was taken was from populations easily overlooked by the authorities, there were so many of them… There must have been at least a few police reports. He would work on hacking into NYPD records tomorrow, just in case there was anything relevant to follow up on. Maybe he could get some actual locations, or witnesses. SHIELD had visited the scenes of some of the disappearances - he should ask Natasha for the details. But he had no way of contacting her, except through Tony. Who was the last person he wanted to include in this.
Peter’s phone buzzed against his thigh and he pulled it out, shocked to see that it was already half past four in the morning. He had to head home, before Aunt May woke up to get ready for her early shift. He sat up and listened hard, a frown creeping over his mouth when he heard no sign of Wade nearby. He must still be out looking for Spider-Man. Though Peter would have thought he’d have checked his own apartment by now…
Feeling somewhat paranoid, he did a brief walkthrough of the kitchen and bedroom, glanced in the bathroom and the closet, but nothing was out of place.
Aggravated with himself, Peter climbed back through the window and didn’t allow himself to linger before taking off towards home. This was stupid. He didn’t need Wade to accompany him on every fucking patrol. He could go a few fucking hours without the mercenary breathing down his neck and he did not need to stress out about it like some clingy fucking boyfriend.
Fuck.
Still. He couldn’t help the horrible, sinking feeling that settled under his skin when he saw no hint of Wade all the way back to his building in Queens. It just… Wasn’t exactly usual.
He feigned sleep when Aunt May checked in on him before leaving for work, but he didn’t get a wink of the real thing. He lay awake through the last couple hours before dawn, staring up at the long, thin crack in his ceiling and fingering the loose thread sticking out of one Deadpool plush’s arm.
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Song Credits:
Chapter Title:
Every You Every Me - Placebo
Lyrics:
Your Past Life As A Blast - Okkervil River
Stumbleine - The Smashing Pumpkins
Glycerine - Bush
Off to the Races - Lana Del Rey
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