Archive of Our Own ^beta

“MJ, this is a terrible idea,” Peter groans as quietly as he can, phone cradled between ear and shoulder. “I told you before this was a terrible idea, and I was right, and you’re a terrible friend.”

“You said it yourself, Pete. When it comes to Deadpool, go big or go home. And once he gets a look at you, tiger, you will not be going home. At least not until tomorrow morning.”

“Strike my last comment. You’re not a terrible friend. You’re just an all around terrible terrorizing terror. This is useless. He’s not gonna answer.”

“And we’re totally sure he’s home?”

“Yes, one hundred percent sure.”

“Then knock again, Bozo. And keep knocking. Wait, hold on a sec- ah, damn. I gotta run, Pete. You got this!”

“Wait! Hey! Oh-” the door opens under Peter’s fist right as MJ hangs up on him; freaky. “Oh, uhm. Hey?”

Wade’s body fills nearly the entire doorframe, and he looms menacingly, gun dangling from one hand. Peter pretends to be thoroughly menaced. Maybe he should have practiced his cowering in the mirror before he came over. He tries for a tasteful flinch of horror to sell it, but he’s pretty sure he just looks like he’s on meth.

“Whaddya want, kid?”

Peter’s not used to that particularly threatening growl being aimed at him. If Wade catches the shiver that runs up his spine, he hopes it just comes off as regular fear, like a regular person would probably (definitely) be feeling right now. Or at the very least, he hopes Wade didn’t take it as a brief but intimate glance into Peter’s fucked up psyche.

Which - yeah. As far as Wade knows, Peter is an unknown entity. So, likely he takes it as a fear thing, but Peter wouldn’t put it past him to have ‘ferreting out the kinks of total strangers’ in his repertoire. Deadpool’s talent list is truly expansive and bizzare.

“Uh, yeah, sorry - yeah. I’ve got a package here? For a,” Peter pretends to read the label. “A Mr. Wade Wilson. You’re Mr. Wilson, I presume?”

The whites of Wade’s mask narrow in suspicion. “You might be wearin’ the costume - and don’t take that part as the complaint coz it is one finely tailored costume on one finely tailored figure - but you ain’t no delivery boy.”

Don’t engage. You’re afraid. You’re shaking in your boots. Do. Not. Engage, Parker.

“Well, I’m a guy, and I’m delivering a package. I think that’s all the qualifications I need. Though, I prefer the term Delivery-Man, to be honest,” his spidey senses stopped picking up on Wade a long time ago, but there’s a very familiar prickle at the back of his neck beginning to kick up.

“Ah, of course. Silly me. Nice use of caps and hyphenation, by the way. Now, scram kid. I don’t got time, and I don’t want none of what you’re selling.”

Shit - Peter really wasn’t prepared for this version of Deadpool. He’s gotten too used to Wade.

“Wait! It’s from a mutual friend,” Peter shifts the box to the crook of one arm and sticks out his hand. “I'm Peter Parker. I take - I mean, I’m Spider-Man’s photographer? He asked me to drop this by.”

Peter shoves the box at Wade’s chest. “Just take it. And uhm, I think he said don’t open it until Christmas.”

Wade snatches the box with another little growl and slams the door in Peter’s face. Rude as hell. Does no one say goodbye properly anymore? Jeez.

And now… Now, Peter waits. Hopefully, not for very long.

It takes 45 whole seconds for the door to swing back open and Wade’s hand to fly out to twist in the front of his brown, canvasy, uncomfortably collared shirt. Peter is yanked inside and the door slams hard behind him.

“This some kind of a sick joke, Petey? You and- you and him, you fuckin’ with me? You get dragged along for the ride? ‘Cause it’s a little late to tell you now, but I am not one-hundo-p put together in the attic, if you catch my drift, and, Sweetheart,” Wade steps in close enough that Peter can feel his breath through the leather, warm on Peter’s cheek. “I like to play with my food before I eat it.”

Oops, this is not going how Peter planned, though he is totally coming back to this fantasy later when he’s alone.

Plan B, then.

He moves a small step back and a slightly longer step to the side so he can see past Wade’s shoulders (so wide. it’s just not fair damnit) then takes a peek around and aims.

Fwip. Swoosh. Three points to Parker, yeah!

When the box is safely in his hands, Peter idly picks a bit of stray web from the top and opens the flap. It had only held two things to begin with, and they’re both still there, though they’ve been crushed and hastily shoved back in. And since Wade hasn’t actually tried to strangle him yet, he steps back again to put enough space between them for the box.

The first thing he pulls out is the note. It’s a goner, nearly ground to pulp (idea: supe-proof notebook paper. Tony’ll hate it - it’s perfect), but it doesn’t matter. He can remember every word - not in some creepy, love sick Wuthering Heights way. It was just a really short note. Peter will leave the flowery words to Wade, if they can ever get that far.

It had seemed a lot smoother when he was writing it. Nerves are a hell of a drug.

“So, what,” Wade says finally, voice gravelly but no longer a growl. “You were just gonna wait out there til Christmas?”

This time when Peter cringes, it’s not fake. It’s not because he’s scared, though, either. It just feels a little too close to a prank, even if his intentions were in the right place. Next major life crisis, he’s going with Ned’s advice, even if it is boring.

“I figured it was the one thing that would guarantee you’d open it right away, actually. I’m dedicated, but I’m not ‘camp out for three days in a crack den hallway’ dedicated. Although, if you think about it, it’s almost like working from home, at that point,” and then, before Wade can get a word in: “You do believe me now, right? And like, maybe no stabby-stabby?”

Wade takes a deep, shuddery breath, like he’s steeling himself for something. He reaches into the box and pulls out what’s left and they both stare, Spider-Man’s rumpled mask in Deadpool's black gloved fist. Then he shoves it forward and nearly knocks Peter over with the force.

“Put it back on,” he says, gaze still trained downwards.

“What? I- Wade, c’mon. You don’t mean that, do you?” he is going to KILL MJ; Spider-Man’s hero streak is finally about to meet it’s end.

“Put it. Back. On,” Wade growls.

Ohhhhh shit.

“Wade, please don’t mean that.”

“I swear to every fuckin’ god who has ever fucked his own mother, if you don’t cover up those sickeningly adorable puppy dog eyes, I will not be held accountable for what I do. No wonder you wear a mask, Spidey. Look at a man wrong and kill ‘im on the spot, broken heart, wham bam ain’t got no-”

Peter’s the one growling, now. It must be at least somewhat fearsome, because Wade has stopped dead in the middle of his sentence. Ha, see, universe - Peter Parker can be macho, too!

“You absolute asshole,” Peter grinds out, before he snatches back his mask, slaps Wade with it hard enough to earn him an ouch!, and yanks it over his head. “You- you- you’re a fucking fruitcake!”

Wade had started snickering even before Peter had smacked him with a piece of what is essentially still reinforced spandex (Peter hopes he got Wade with the lenses. They can withstand the impact of a charging rhinoceros), and he’s quickly coming up on full-out belly laugh.

“Fruitcake? Fruitcake? Baby, have I taught you nothing?” Wade wheezes.

Laughter is contagious - like yawning. It’s been scientifically proven, and so when Peter feels it bubble up in his chest it’s just an instinctual reaction. He is not letting Wade off that easy.

“You taught me the best place to find a dumb costume on short notice,” he responds around the edge of a giggle.

“Yeah, let’s talk about that, by the way. I’m all about roleplay, Petey, you know me, but why would you pick mail boy - I’m sorry, Delivery-Man - over sexy nurse? Or vampire?” Wade gasps “Sexy-nurse-vampire!”

“Vampire Delivery-Man. They made me file down my fangs before they’d let me into package handling school,” Peter deadpans.

“Jesus Christ on a haunted pogo stick, marry me now baby boy.”

Peter finally breaks and lets a real laugh out, and then another, and then Wade is joining right back in with him until they’re both laid out on the hallway floor.

After they’ve finally caught their breath, staring at the ceiling, Peter hums in thought. “That was so overly-climactic. We’re like a bad romance novel.”

Wade tsks. “Careful, Spidey. Gettin’ awful close to the fourth wall there, and that’s my schtick.”

“What?” Peter turns his head just enough to look over.

“Eh, nevermind. But yeah, maybe a little. Bein’ upfront witcha babes, I don’t have much experience in this arena. Not even wholly sure which arena we’re in right now.”

“But the mask thing? Both cats are out of the bag now, so,” Peter trails off, peeling his own mask back off, tentatively, as a peace offering.

“Spidey, it’s not a trust thing, you know that,” Wade groans, and when he pulls his arm up to scrub a hand across his mask he brushes Peter’s side; even that barely there touch feels a little different now.

“But what if it’s because I want to see you? Like, not in some weird circus fascination way. I just want to see you. I like your face, Wade. I like you.” Ok, now they’re definitely being a little melodramatic.

“Heads up, Webs. I think it’s gettin’ sappy again.”

It doesn’t sound like a complaint, proven more so when the hand Wade had rubbed over his face keeps travelling up - all the way over the back where he can grab and tug. The leather slides so smooth and Wade pulls it so quick Peter nearly misses it. It’s jarring, like a sloppy cut in a film, and Peter has to blink a few times before his brain catches up to what he’s seeing.

That was… disturbingly easy, Peter thinks, immediately suspicious as Wade tosses the mask to the side and locks their eyes. It feels like he’s about to be punked - maybe they should call mask jokes off limits from here out. Play it cool, Parker.

“I think you love it when I’m sappy, Wilson,” Peter tries to channel a tiny bit of the growl he’d miraculously conjured up a few minutes ago.

Added bonus of mask-less Wade? Peter now has undeniable proof of that particular groan being an eye-roll groan. This one is accompanied by a quirking little smirk that tells Peter all he needs to know about the success of his growl - more ruffled house cat than fearsome predator.

“I knew it!” Peter accuses, poking a finger into Deadpool’s collar bone with more force than intended, hard enough to draw a flinch even through the leather and kevlar (Peter catalogues that look away, too, just in case this is all a fluke). “You always say that’s a sexy groan, but you’ve been eye-roll emoji-ing me this whole time under there. You dirty liar!”

The very real betrayal Peter is trying to convey is probably severely undercut by the smile still on his face.

Deadpool shrugs and scoots in a little closer. He tips his head forward so his lips are brushing the shell of Peter’s ear, his body pressing in and over. Peter’s throat goes tight and his heartbeat jack-rabbits. Many plans had been hatched for tonight, but none of them had actually accounted for getting this far. He’s counting this a solid success, but most of the time, the things he gets that he actually wants come with assembly instructions...

...Deadpool actually might come with instructions, come to think of it.

But then Peter thinks about the kinds of federal lists he’d probably end up on if he tried to find them. And then, for a few blessed seconds, Peter stops thinking altogether when Wade shifts his lower body to tangle their legs and press them together from ankle to sternum. He gets another few seconds of mental reprieve as Wade doesn’t stop shifting when they collide.

Peter ends up on his back; he doesn’t fight it.

“Peter, you underestimate me,” Wade chastises with a real growl of his own. “I’m a trained mercenary. I can eye-roll and eggplant-waterdrop-peach at the same time.”

There’s a tiny voice in the back of his mind that chimes in to let him know he should be feeling on edge right now, trapped by someone twice his size - forced to bare his throat, so to speak. He thinks normal people might call that tiny voice ‘survival instinct’. Peter, though, hasn’t listened to that little voice since high school and he doesn’t intend to start now. He nudges Deadpool’s chin with his temple until they’re looking at each other again, and narrows his eyes.

“You know I could shove you off me, right?” Peter sniffs, almost haughtily; he may be sappy, but he’s still strong.

“Know it, love it, and, gotta say babe, really looking forward to it in the very near future.”

Now Peter’s the one rolling his eyes. “You seem pretty sure it’s not gonna happen right now.”

Wade’s smile turns absolutely evil. He dips down to nip at Peter’s mouth until Peter’s lips part on a surprised gasp and Wade’s granted access - a kiss. Kissing. They’re actually kissing, woah (of course they are - Peter thinks about this all the time. Why hadn’t this figured into any of his plans? Did he brush his teeth this morning?).

Wade just bites at his mouth again until Peter gets with the program and kisses back before Wade's pulling away far too soon. Peter groans in frustration.

“Well, that seems like pretty solid evidence in my favor,” Wade hums, and it takes a second for Peter to even remember they’d been having a conversation. “But more importantly,” Wade starts moving his mouth lower, teeth grazing Peter’s jaw and sucking kisses against Peter’s neck that are so wet it would be gross if he wasn’t also insanely into it. “I’m about to give you your present, and good manners means you’re gonna lay there and accept it.”

“Manners, huh?” Peter asks on a gasp as Wade reaches his belly button and pushes the shirt out of the way to get at bare skin.

“Mhmmm,” Wade’s lips buzz softly against Peter’s stomach, and his abs twitch. “Personally, I don’t got any, but I know Spidey does. Let’s see if Peter Parker does, too.”

Peter laughs and tips his head back, body going lax in response when Wade makes it to the button of his khakis. Someone’s gotta teach Deadpool how to accept a present with grace, and Peter is definitely up for the job. It looks like it’s going to be a very Merry Christmas, after all.

He’s still going to kill MJ later, though, because it really was a terrible plan.