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The first time George meets Deadpool, the man’s just killed someone. It’s not the worst first impression someone has left on him.
"Oh, my god," he manages to exhale once the sound of the gunshot has stopped bouncing around his head.
"Spidey!" The guy exclaims, and raises both his hands, gun included. It's still smoking. "I promise this isn't what it looks like."
"I just watched you kill that guy," George says. The man stops and visibly turns this over in his head.
"Yeah, this… is probably what it looks like," he admits, and before George can say anything about that, he continues. "You're a lot more British than I thought you'd be, y'know."
"I'm sorry?"
"I mean, you're sort of the figurehead of New York, so I just thought-" the man cuts himself off and waves his hand. And the gun. "Nevermind. Am I being rude?"
"I just watched you kill someone," George repeats, on the off chance that he hadn't heard George the first time. Weirdo- and until further notice George is calling him Weirdo- nods.
"But am I being rude?" he asks again.
"You're about to be arrested," George says. Weirdo winces, a surprisingly expressive move even through the sort-of ugly yellow mask he's got on.
"That would suck," he says. The only thing keeping George from ripping his hair out in frustration is the fact that it's all tucked under his mask at the moment.
"You just killed someone," he says slowly. "I literally cannot explain how f-fudged up that is."
"Aw, are you not allowed to swear?" Weirdo coos. George opens his mouth, closes it.
"I'm going to call the police," he says. "Because you just killed someone, and their dead body is just lying there, and that's so, so illegal."
Weirdo's lips tip downwards. "No can do, Spidey," he says. "Being in jail would put a huge dent in my weekend plans, so-"
In a series of fluid movements almost too fast for George to even keep track of, Weirdo hops onto the trash can behind him, leaping to catch the low rail of some unfortunate soul's fire escape, hauling himself upwards and then bouncing back and forth between the two walls of the narrow alleyway, up and out of sight. Stunned, George watches the soles of his boots disappear over the rooftop, and by the time he manages to collect his scattered braincells and web his way onto the roof in a half-hearted chase, Weirdo is clearly long gone.
So then George has to deal with a body. Great.
Deadpool is dying, the second time they meet. This doesn't turn out to be as much of a problem as George thinks it is, when he finds him bleeding out in another alleyway.
"Oh my god," he gasps, swinging down to land next to the heap of limbs lying limp on the ground. "Oh, fuck."
"Spidey," Weirdo croaks, the fabric around his mouth stained dark. He coughs wetly. "Did you just swear?"
"What the hell," George says instead of dignifying that with an answer, hands fluttering uselessly. There are four blooming patches of blood slowly taking over the fabric on his chest, and George isn't an expert in gunshot wounds or anything, but he knows a fatal injury when he sees one; the rattle of Weirdo's breath in his chest makes George wince. "Oh my god. Oh my god."
"I broke Spiderman," Weirdo says at the sky, blood loss-induced delirium setting in. The laugh that George lets out is entirely hysterical, and helpless tears sting at his eyes- sure, the guy literally murdered someone in front of him last time, but with the iron-tang of blood clinging to the back of George's throat and overwhelming his senses, it's hard not to feel grief for the inevitable.
“I’m not- whatever,” he chokes out. Weirdo tips his head towards George.
“Aw,” he coos. “Are you worried about me?”
“Shut up,” George says immediately. Blood is almost definitely staining the blue fabric covering his knees, uncomfortably warm as he settles back on his heels to watch another person die, unable to do anything but hold back tears. Weirdo coughs again, louder, and wheezes out a painful laugh.
“I’m like, severely injured,” he laughs. “Can’t you be a little nicer to me?”
George opens his mouth, then closes it to let out a gross sniffle. Weirdo jolts concerningly, propping himself up on one elbow to squint at George.
“Are you crying?” he demands. If George wasn’t too busy trying to collect the scattered shards of his dignity, he’d notice that the weak, airy rasp to his voice has faded; as it is, he blinks several times.
“No,” he says unconvincingly. Weirdo’s mouth turns downward into an exaggerated frown.
“I made Spiderman cry,” he says despairingly. “I’m going straight to hell.”
“Shut up,” George says weakly, covering his face with his hands. His tears are soaking the cloth of his mask, sticking it to his skin, and Weirdo lurches forward, squinting harder.
“You are,” he says, “Oh my god, calm down.”
“Don’t tell me to calm down,” George snaps. “You’re literally dying and there’s nothing I can do-”
“Calm down,” Weirdo orders, and George’s jaw clicks shut. “Spidey. Seriously. Listen.”
Weirdo’s next breath is firm and stable, none of the pained wheezing present; George focuses on it over the sound of his thudding heartbeat until it clicks.
“Healing factor,” Weirdo sing-songs smugly at the same time that George says, “Don’t call me Spidey.”
“Seriously?” Weirdo says. “I just returned from the brink of death, let me call you fun names.”
“Absolutely not,” George says, fighting back the beginnings of a panic attack as the adrenaline leaves him, feeling like he’s just accidentally flattened himself on the side of a skyscraper at top speeds. Weirdo sits up, oblivious to George’s unsteady breaths, and rolls his shoulders.
“Really though,” he says. “Spiderman? That’s such an uncreative name. At least I didn’t name myself ‘Heal-fastman, or something.”
“Your suit is bright yellow,” George manages to squeeze out around the panicked wheeze of his breaths. “I think- I think my name should be the least of your problems.”
A warm hand settles on his shoulder, startling him; Weirdo leans in, uncomfortably close.
“Are you alright?” he asks genuinely, and George must make some sort of motion, because he says, “You need to breathe. In and out, come on.”
They must make a strange sight- two spandex-wearing figures sitting in a pool of blood in some dark back-alley, coming down from near-death and a panic attack. When George’s eyes focus and his breathing slows to nearly normal, Weirdo leans back.
“Thanks,” George says awkwardly.
“My suit is green,” Weirdo returns.
George blinks at him, uncomprehending; Weirdo nods, slowly.
“You said my suit is yellow,” he explains. “It’s green, actually.”
“Oh,” George says. “I’m, uh, colourblind.”
“British and colourblind,” Weirdo mutters. “Pick a struggle.”
“At least I’m not bleeding out in alleyways,” George says defensively. Weirdo laughs, the same wheezing laugh that George had thought meant he was at death’s door.
“I promise I’m usually not the one bleeding out,” Weirdo says cheerfully, and George sobers abruptly; he stands, leaving Weirdo still lounging on the ground. “Wait, where are you going?”
“You literally killed someone the last time I saw you,” George says incredulously. “I should- I need to call the cops, or something.”
“Wait- no, no, hold on,” Weirdo scrambles to his feet. “Come on now, don’t be like that. Do you want food? I will bribe you with food. Pizza. I can bribe you with pizza.”
“I don’t want pizza,” George snaps. As if on cue, his stomach growls. Weirdo gives it a pointed look. “Don’t say anything. Fine.”
So George webs himself up to the rooftop, and Weirdo re-appears, a few minutes later, with three pizzas- cheese and pepperoni, dripping with grease and still hot. It’s a testament to New York’s general bullshit that he managed to procure them at all, bloodstained and armed as he is. They settle on the ledge of the building, George kicking his feet into open air, watching the distant shape of birds against a backdrop of sky as Weirdo opens his first pizza box and George gets somewhat possessed by the smell of food. He has his mask pushed up to his nose and a huge bite taken out of the two slices layered on top of each other before he realizes Weirdo is staring, only averting his eyes when George clears his throat, picking up a slice of his own.
“So,” he starts grasping for something to fill the tense quiet, “I can’t keep calling you Weirdo in my head.”
George decimates two of the three pizzas while they talk- Weirdo introduces himself as Deadpool (“a far more interesting name than Spiderman,” Deadpool argues when George scoffs), a mercenary for hire that literally can’t die.
“I can’t believe I cried over you,” George tells him curtly. “You kill people for a living.”
“Oh, come on,” Deadpool says from where he’s lounging comfortably next to him. “I can buy so much pizza with one kill, y’know.”
“This is blood money pizza, isn’t it,” George says as he chews through the crust of his sixteenth slice, the afternoon having long faded into dusk. Deadpool laughs. “Couldn’t you have gotten a normal job? I hear streamers are in, nowadays.”
“I’d probably be terrible at it,” Deadpool shrugs. “I suck at consistency. I’d only stream once every five weeks and lose all my fans.”
George laughs, too. And maybe that’s the problem- for someone that has probably killed more people than George knows, he likes Deadpool. And it’s only partially related to the fact that Deadpool feeds him every time they meet up.
And that’s how George, part-time vigilante superhero, role model to kids all over New York City, accidentally befriends a notorious mercenary.
Rush hour at Pandora’s Cup is usually just the right sort of chaos- busy enough to keep George at the coffee presses and Ant making repeated trips between the frontroom and the kitchen, but not enough to run the staff over. Mondays, though, are bad for everyone: every disgruntled white-collar worker and tired student needing a sugary energy boost in the city flocks to the cafes lining the streets during lunch, and Pandora is no exception. Even Sam, their boss, is in the kitchens helping Bad with the next batches of muffins and cupcakes as Ant remains stuck by the coffee presses with George, managing orders as Skeppy does his best to speedrun the line of over a dozen people, spanning nearly out the door. George is making the second cappuccino from an order of five when his sharp ear picks up a vaguely familiar voice from the din of customers and traffic.
“Large coffee, two sugars,” it says, “and a, uh- two chocolate chip muffins to go, please.”
George looks up from the machine, glancing towards the line of customers- the person ordering isn’t anyone he recognizes, tall and bulky, face mostly hidden in the shadow of a yellow hood. George can make out a sliver of his neck, the slope of his nose, and not much else, squinting against the light streaming from the windows. Skeppy rings his order in, his own voice slightly frazzled with stress.
“That’s gonna come to 12.92$,” Skeppy says. “Your coffee should be up in a couple minutes.”
The man’s thanks is lost under Skeppy calling for the next customer as Ant packs two muffins in a little paper bag, starting on the coffee after he drops it on the counter; George wracks his brain as he caps the cappuccinos, sliding them over to the lanky, impatient-looking teen that ordered them. He knows that voice, knows it well- but it’s not one of their regulars, or any of his friends from university, or one of his coding clients. It takes George a moment.
Oh my god, George realizes abruptly. That’s Deadpool.
Before the logical part of his brain can counter that, Ant sets the man’s coffee on the counter.
“Thanks,” Deadpool- and yes, that’s definitely Deadpool- says. “Have a good one, man.”
George pauses for a moment, brain scrambling to process what just happened, before Sam barks at him to help carry one of the trays over to the glass display case and kicks him back into gear. Still, though, Deadpool lingers at the back of his mind as they slog their way through the lunch rush.
When he meets up with Deadpool later that evening, the man offers him a chocolate chip muffin. George wants to laugh, or maybe cry; it’s not Deadpool’s fault in the slightest, but George isn’t ready for the gap between “Spiderman”, snarky superhero that laughs when Deadpool screams as he webs them through the city, and “George”, goofy Pandora’s Cup barista that does freelance coding jobs, to be bridged.
But he accepts the muffin. It’s still good, even though it’s long gone cold- Bad isn’t their daytime baker for no reason.
“Where’d you get this?” he asks, aiming for casual. It must work, because Deadpool grins- really, how is his mask so expressive?- and leans back on his hands, the duo once again watching the sunset from a high-rise office rooftop.
“This cafe, Pandora’s Cup,” he says, and squints down into the streets below them before pointing. George can make out Pandora’s storefront, their blocky letters set over the awning. The nighstaff are in by now, Punz in the kitchen and Hannah in the front, Ponk filling in to help them close. “Cute place.”
“Is that what you do with your time?” George asks drily. “Take mercenary assignments and frequent small businesses?”
Deadpool tosses his head. “I’m also a famous Minecraft streamer,” he jokes. George laughs, even though his shoulders are still tense.
“Minecraft ‘streamer’,” he says, making exaggerated quotation marks around the word. “Your streaming schedule-”
“-and lack thereof, I know,” Deadpool finishes. George grins. This is safe, easy- their back-and-forth teasing and joking. It’s been a few months since their first encounter in that alleyway, a far cry from their spread of food on this rooftop- a growing pile of discarded wrappers and cartons in between them. Deadpool knows Spiderman’s metabolism well by now.
George folds the muffin wrapper into a neat little square and adds it to the pile. Beside him, Deadpool rambles on, oblivious as George tries to map out his features from under his mask.
The problem isn’t that Deadpool showed up at George’s workplace once, scrambling the notion that he didn’t do anything between killing people and hanging out with George, it’s that he doesn’t stop.
George gets lulled into a false sense of security by the time the weekend rolls around, almost a full week since the incident; Saturday afternoon sees him idling by the coffee machines as Skeppy rambles on to Bad about something or other, only a few customers seated in the cafe. The bell over their door chimes as someone walks in, and George caps his water bottle, ready to take another order. Bad stands back as Skeppy straightens at the cash register.
“Hey,” Deadpool says, and George swears he sees his life flashing before his eyes. He ducks his head, angling himself away from his friend as Skeppy greets him. “Could I get a large coffee with two sugars and… two of those cinnamon buns? To go, please.”
“Yep,” Skeppy says cheerily, and George tries his very best to shrink in on himself as he starts pouring Deadpool’s coffee. What sort of horrible, terrible things did he do in his previous life to deserve this?
George’s hands shake almost imperceptibly when he sets the coffee next to the brown paper bag, but he manages a smile in Deadpool’s general direction as Skeppy bids him goodbye. It’s not until he’s out the door and halfway across the street before George relaxes even a little bit.
“Do you know that guy?” Bad asks curiously. George gives him a probably-unconvincing grin.
“No,” he denies, lying through his teeth, and when Deadpool hands him the other cinnamon bun later that night, he doesn’t ask where it’s from.
So that’s his life now. George serves Deadpool coffee twice, then three times, then almost every day of the week- he starts coming in after the lunch rush, when there’s that lull right before everyone is off work and looking for a treat before they head home, and George only barely manages to not make an utter fool of himself every time he hears his voice ordering.
(Large coffee, two sugars, and two of whatever pastry suits his fancy. Deadpool always gives Spiderman the other.)
Every time George meets up with him in his suit after a shift at Pandora’s, he expects Deadpool to call him out on the smell of coffee beans and warm baked goods lingering on his skin even through the spandex. George makes sure to say little to him whenever he’s at Pandora, but even though there probably aren’t that many more Brits that work at coffee shops in New York, the other remains oblivious, somehow. It makes guilt bubble up in George’s stomach every time Deadpool calls him Spidey.
Because George likes Deadpool- likes him. And neither of them know the other’s face, even though it would be so, so easy to show him.
It takes a while for Deadpool’s coffee visits to settle into George’s definition of normal- he becomes a regular at Pandora’s, and George stops jolting every time he walks through the door. He still tries to speak as little as possible to him as a customer, growing too interested in his coffee machines every time Deadpool and Skeppy start chatting at the counter, but it’s no longer an imminent threat to his secret identity. And that’s fine- George wouldn’t be a superhero without accepting that there would be some level of risk, after all. It’s hard to pretend that he doesn’t know Deadpool, doesn’t find his jokes funny and his laugh endearing, but George manages just fine. He only drops full cups of coffee twice.
And then, in true New York City fashion, a supervillain destroys their front door.
George’s Tuesday shift is coming to an end- he’d been in since 8 in the morning to open, and the afternoon sun is making him feel lethargic and sleepy in the post-lunch break haze. Deadpool is sitting in the corner sipping his coffee for once, something he rarely does- usually, he’s in and out within minutes, and George makes sure to lower his voice as he talks with Ant. Their tables are mostly filled, but thankfully customers have slowed to a trickle, wandering in at random intervals and leaving. Bad and Skeppy are chatting in the kitchen, distinct voices becoming a calming background drone.
The peace is shattered abruptly, alongside the large window that looks out into the street. Patrons scream, chairs scraping across tile as they leap from their seats in a panic, and the sudden, overwhelming noise has George hitting the floor with his hands clamped over his ears as Ant joins the fray, disappearing into the kitchen. He stays curled on the ground until the cacophony dies out, trying to breathe; it takes him a moment, but he finally manages to peek over the counter as the dust settles.
There’s two of them, George notes, wearing white lab coats and huge goggles that make them look like they’re about to audition for the role of a mad scientist. The one on the left’s grin certainly looks the part as she aims the opening of an enormous… cannon? of some sort at the pastry display and shoots a bright blue beam at it.
The glass shatters, and their freshly baked muffins become blocks of ice. Great. Freeze rays. George can feel the chill from where he’s crouching.
One part of his brain is laughing hysterically- Pandora’s Cup is a small business. There’s nowhere near enough cash in the till to justify all of this, and most of it is in coins, anyways. Seriously, they could have at least targeted the Starbucks a few blocks down the road. The other part of his brain is planning his route to the staff room, where his backpack is stored, along with his webshooters and suit.
George takes a deep breath as Sam emerges from the kitchen, arms crossed and looking more disappointed than scared, and begins his undignified crawl behind the counter as the supervillain duo start monologuing- or arguing, he can’t actually tell. It might be both. Either way, their voices drown out the sound of him opening the staff room door, ducking inside.
(In the kitchen, Bad asks Skeppy, concerned- “Where did George go?”
Skeppy shrugs. “Probably ran,” he says. “I would have, too.”
“Why didn’t you, then?” Bad replies. Skeppy shrugs, again, taking a spoonful of muffin batter.
“Well, you’re still here,” he says, and pops the spoon into his mouth.)
In the staff room, George gets his suit on with quick, efficient moves; he can’t hear any more destruction from the front, but the duo is still monologuing, so his time is ticking. He cracks the window open and hops out, crawling up the side of the building; it only takes him a moment to cross the roof and drop down in front of the shattered front window.
“You seem like two smart young people,” Sam is saying when George hops over the empty window frame. “Did you make those yourself? You could get a degree, get a good job designing tech-”
“I have a degree!” one of them shouts back at him. “The job market is in shambles, what am I meant to do with it?”
The other nods their head enthusiastically.
“Well, you’re certainly not getting anywhere by destroying small businesses,” Sam lectures. “Really, what do you think this is going to accomplish? Employers aren’t looking at front pages for potential new hires- assuming you even make front page, that is.”
“Shut up,” the first one orders, but it sounds more like a petulant whine. Sam crosses his arms again, eyebrow raising, and she scowls, hefting her freeze-ray in return.
“Am I interrupting something?” George pipes up. Before anyone of the trio can react, he webs one of the freeze rays’ openings shut, the machine making a concerning spluttering sound when the supervillain pulls the trigger reflexively with an alarmed yelp.
“Spiderman!” the other exclaims, mouth twisting. “You!”
“Me?” he asks innocently. She snarls and points her ray at him. “Hey now, that can’t be safe-”
The first shot misses him and flashes out the window, setting off the alarm of a car parked on the street. George winces, webbing the other supervillain to the floor before they can do the same, and then begins a dance with the other, dodging rays of ice while also trying to herd the few lingering civilians out the door. Deadpool, at least, is gone, George notes absently as he webs a frozen chunk of muffin and swings it towards her.
“Why wasn’t I invited to this party?” Deadpool asks from the doorway, because George’s luck is terrible. He laughs as he leaps into the fray, brutally kicking the downed villain for good measure. The other villain shrieks when he pulls out an entire actual gun, only for George to web it out of his hands.
“Come on,” he says, and Deadpool shrugs, not meeting his eyes.
“It was worth a try,” he defends, leaning over to grab a chair and then throwing it bodily at the villain. With her huge freeze-ray in tow, she can’t dodge it in time.
She drops like a rock.
In the ringing silence that follows, George tentatively asks, “Is… is she alive?”
Deadpool is inching towards the door, as if a 6’3 man clad in black, white, and bright green spandex would be able to sneak out without George noticing. He rubs the back of his head.
“I think so,” he says, with enough uncertainty that George whips around to double-check for the rise and fall of the villain’s chest. Although battered and unconscious, she seems otherwise fine.
Sam straightens from where he’d taken shelter behind the counter, looking like he has questions. George takes this as his cue to leave; by habit, he loops one hand around Deadpool’s waist, salutes Sam jauntily, and then webs them both out the door, onto the opposite roof. Deadpool stumbles out of his personal space almost as soon as they land, and George bites back the sudden pang of hurt. In the distance, he can hear police sirens ringing through the streets.
“So,” George says, shifting his weight from foot to foot. “What’re you, uh, what’re you doing here?” His attempt at casualness falls flat, and out of the chaos of the fight, he suddenly realizes how weird Deadpool is being- his shoulders are tense, and he’s angled away from George, like he’s trying to hide. “‘Pool?”
“I know who you are,” Deadpool says, and George’s heart drops into his stomach. Deadpool barrels on. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to, it’s just- it’s just that I was at the cafe today, and-” he falters. “Were you the guy that was sitting by the window?”
George takes a deep breath and puts his head in his hands. “No,” he says, suddenly terribly, overwhelmingly tired.
“Oh,” Deadpool mutters. “Nevermind, I guess.” He lets out a laugh- partly awkward, partly relieved. “Well, this was that cafe I was-”
Much like ripping a bandaid off, George rips off his mask.
“-oh shit,” Deadpool blurts. “Wait, you’re the cute barista?”
“I’m sorry,” George says at the same time. “I should have told you who I was sooner- the what?”
“Nothing,” Deadpool wheels around. “Nothing, nothing at all.”
“The cute barista?” George asks, his guilt and anxiety draining away and leaving amusement in its wake. “No, hold on, I wanna hear this.”
“I didn’t say anything,” Deadpool says weakly. “You’re hearing things.”
“No, I think I definitely heard you calling me ‘the cute barista’,” George says, fighting back a grin. Deadpool, looking very put out and indignant, sets his hands on his hips and turns to face George.
“Fine,” he snaps. “Yeah, the cute barista. Listen, do you really think your overpriced coffee was good enough to make me a regular?”
“Overpriced- the economy is in tatters, it’s hard to run a small business!” George jumps to Sam’s defence, crossing his arms. “And our pastries are great, okay-”
“You sound like that supervillain,” Deadpool mutters. George makes an offended sound.
“I do not,” he argues.
“The economy is in tatters,” Deadpool says in a horrible accent. “She literally said that-”
“-she said the job market-”
“-Is this your way of ignoring that I just confessed to having an embarrassing crush on you?” Deadpool asks. “Because I want to talk about that.”
“No, no, we can go back to talking about how I’m a cute barista,” George says. Deadpool throws his hands in the air.
“Okay,” he says. “Fine. I don’t even like coffee, I just thought the barista- you- were cute, and then you turn out to be my best friend who I also have a crush on. My life is a joke.”
“You like me,” George says, which sounds completely ridiculous out loud. Deadpool sighs.
“Yes,” he mutters. “Unfortunately.”
“Well, unfortunately, I like you too,” George says crossly. Deadpool’s head snaps up.
“You don’t even know my name,” he says, which- well, it’s true.
“You don’t know my name either,” George points out instead of arguing. “I never wear my nametag. And you know what I look like, at least.”
It’s not a fair blow, but it makes Deadpool pause. George takes a deep breath and sticks his hand out.
“I’m George,” he says. The plainness of his name is suddenly all too apparent, and he barrels past it. “Part-time worker at Pandora’s Cup, freelance coder, and-” he shrugs, mask clenched in his other hand, “-crime-fighting vigilante, I guess.”
Deadpool grasps his hand, but instead of shaking it, he pulls George closer; George stumbles into the hug with a yelp, tense as Deadpool’s arms settle around him, solid and warm.
“George,” he murmurs. George, dazed, manages to nod. “I’m Dream.”
When Deadpool- Dream- lets him go, he’s got his own mask clenched in a fist. George tries not to gawk, but probably fails miserably; nervous as he is, head tipped awkwardly to avoid meeting George’s eyes, Dream is handsome. The sunset lightens his face, making him radiant- he has freckles, George realizes. Life simply isn’t fair. For a moment, George forgets what to do with his hands, and between breaths, they end up on Dream’s face, tilting his head downwards.
“Hi,” Dream mumbles, clearly embarrassed.
“Hi,” George replies stupidly. “Dream.”
“George,” Dream says, smiling- the expression pulls at his lips, brightening his entire face until it sort of hurts George’s heart. “I-”
The piercing wail of a siren interrupts him, and they both startle out of each other’s arms, stumbling back a step. George is suddenly struck by how ridiculous they must look- two idiots in multicoloured spandex on a rooftop, making eyes at each other across from the wreckage of Pandora’s window. Dream must be thinking the same thing, because he turns to George with a sheepish grin.
“Do you want to get dinner with me?” he asks tentatively. George slides his mask back on, even though it can’t really conceal his smile.
“Only if I pay,” he says. “I’m not letting you pay for our first date with blood money.”
“But our second date is fair game?” Dream asks, amused. George snorts.
“Don’t get too far ahead of yourself,” he says haughtily, and holds his hand out. Dream takes it. “Dream.”
“George?” Dream replies. George laughs.
“I just like saying your name,” he admits, and before Dream can respond, he throws them both off the roof, web catching a distant wall, and swings them both into the sunset.