Archive of Our Own ^beta

“So who’s this Deadpool guy I keep hearing about?” Jameson asks as Peter enters the office armed with photos destined for rejection.

“Uh.” Peter pauses mid-step, the professional smile he’d plastered on faltering. “I’m not sure? A vigilante, maybe?”

“Another one, huh? Just what this city needs, two masked terrorists on a rampage!” His eyes dart to the folder Peter holds. “What have you got there? Tell me you caught Spider-Man red-handed and we can talk about that staff position. Otherwise, not a word, Parker!”

Peter sighs.

—

Of course he knows who Deadpool is.

Deadpool is famous — or rather, infamous — and for the past few months, he’s been regularly appearing when Peter’s in the thick of it. Sometimes he dives in when Spider-Man is outnumbered or outgunned, providing an assist that wasn’t strictly needed but definitely appreciated. Other times he’s already at the scene, but pivots from whatever he was doing to offer quips and an extra set of fists. Usually those fists are clenched around a pair of gleaming katanas.

“Thanks,” Peter says afterward, still unsure how he should handle the encounters.

On one hand, he’s grateful for the help. Being able to return home without dripping a trail of blood is a luxury.

On the other, Deadpool is a mercenary who might be working with the very criminals Peter was fighting.

What he doesn’t know is why Deadpool is always around. It’s a big city; what are the odds he’s appearing by coincidence? Peter is suspicious of coincidences. Over the past few years, he’s learned to be suspicious of most everything.

The crooks rarely seem surprised when Deadpool arrives.

The only person perpetually surprised is Peter himself.

—

“You again?” he begins asking.

“Me,” Deadpool agrees with a slanted grin while pinning a would-be arsonist to a wall until Peter is able to web him. “How’s it hangin’, Spidey?”

“By a thread.” He gives the strung-up crook a little push, sending him into metronomic motion before fleeing the scene.

Helpful or not, Peter suspects it wouldn’t be good for Spider-Man’s already questionable reputation if he were caught being chummy with a mercenary. He can easily imagine headlines screaming accusations that he and Deadpool are exactly the same. People already distrust him. He doesn’t want to feed the fires, so it’s best he keeps his distance.

He can feel Deadpool’s eyes on his back as he swings away, but the mystery of what the mercenary wants will have to wait. Peter has to work in the morning. If he goes to bed the moment he gets home, he’ll manage almost five hours of sleep.

Maybe that will be enough.

—

Peter sleeps through his alarm and stumbles into work twenty minutes late.

“Twenty-two minutes late,” his manager corrects, arms crossed over his chest. “Which brings you to a grand total of…” He makes a show of consulting notes on his desk. Peter fidgets. Being in this office brings back unpleasant memories of being summoned to the vice-principal for excessive absences in high school, post-spider bite.

In fact, the longer he looks at his manager, the more similarities he sees. Even the curl of his upper lip is similar to Midtown High’s second-in-command.

“Parker? Are you listening to me?”

“I am! I am, sorry. I’m just…” He blinks rapidly, aware that mentioning his fatigue isn’t going to help. His manager probably thinks he’s drinking and partying. “Repeat that last bit?”

The man gives a long-suffering sigh. “This is a good place,” he recites. “Lots of college kids want to work here. We’re close to campus, offer fair wages, flexible hours, even a few bennies. Like that free coffee you’re always slurping down. Very generous of the owners, if you ask me. But you, you don’t seem to appreciate the opportunity—”

“I do though,” Peter cuts in. “I really do, and I’m sorry, it’s just that my alarm didn’t go off—”

“For the sixth time.” His manager gives a slow shake of his head. “I’m sorry, but I need employees I can depend on. Not ones who haven’t figured out how to set an alarm.”

He argues for a few more minutes, but half-heartedly. Peter’s been through this routine before, and he recognizes when someone has had enough of his fuckups.

His inattention.

His lack of commitment.

The worst part of it, besides the unlikelihood of scraping together rent, is that he understands completely.

He wouldn’t want to employ Peter Parker, either.

—

The following night, Deadpool appears out of nowhere to assist a fight that was going just fine until a second group of criminals crashed in via a car driven at top speed. It sends Spider-Man sailing across the street like a rag doll. The short flight terminates when he smacks head-first into a brick building.

That would have been no big deal, except the building is an old one with questionable structural integrity. Something gives, and the external wall collapses. It takes a few minutes to dig his way free of the rubble and another moment to clear his dust-clouded vision.

By the time he’s vertical Deadpool is taking down his assailants two at a time in a flurry of graceful brutality, muscles working beneath red leather in a way that Peter really shouldn’t find so distracting.

When Deadpool reaches for his katanas, Peter returns to himself. “Don’t kill them!” he shouts. “Just knock ‘em down until I can get them webbed.”

That part doesn’t take long. Webbing immobile targets is as easy as it gets. Deadpool, meanwhile, makes mowing through bodies look like child’s play — in that it’s easy for him, he’s clearly having fun, and also that he’s whining about the restriction.

“This one hit you with his car,” he says, giving the man in question a teeth-rattling shake. “If you were anyone else, you’d be dead. Do you really wanna give him another chance?”

“Yes,” Peter states emphatically as he webs the would-be assassin. “We aren’t judges, a jury, or executioners. Besides, I’m fine.”

“You sure are,” Deadpool says, eyeing him up and down in a manner that manages to be lewd even behind a mask.

Peter ignores it, instead taking a moment to ensure that the entire gang is securely entangled. When sirens wail in the distance, he jerks his head toward the nearby alleyway.

He should probably just swing away, but he needs a moment to recover from the brick wall incident, and besides…

He’s curious.

“So, what’s your deal?” he asks once they’re alone.

Deadpool gives an odd look. “You hurt your head, baby boy? How many fingers am I holding up?”

Peter swats the hand Deadpool thrusts towards his face. “It’s just a bump,” he says, even as he reflexively touches the impressive swelling rising on his noggin. It hurts, but his ears have already stopped ringing. That’s encouraging. “What I mean is, why are you suddenly turning up everywhere I go?”

Deadpool grins. “We’re neighbors. I’m just being neighborly. What sort of neighbor would let you take on eight scumbags all by your lonesome? Especially when I’m not busy doing anything scummy of my own. At least, not currently.”

Something sinks inside his chest. “So you’re taking a break from committing crimes to help me catch other criminals?”

Deadpool cocks his head golden retriever-style. “I wouldn’t call myself a criminal,” he hedges. “I do plenty of good.”

“Such as?”

“Such as… helping Spider-Man when he’s in a tight spot. And hey, speaking of Spider-Man’s tight spots, I—”

“ —would really prefer you not finish that sentence.”

Deadpool beams. “You finished my sentence saying you didn’t want me to finish something I wasn’t gonna finish! That’s next-level Sickening Sweethearts trope. We’re really making progress here, Spidey, and I couldn’t be happier about it.”

Peter rubs the back of his neck, which is as sore as his head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he sighs. “But anyway, thanks for the help. And for not killing anyone, no matter how much they annoyed you.”

Deadpool continues grinning. “It’s Wade.”

“Huh?”

“Wade. My name. The name that isn’t Deadpool, or Pool-comma-Dead — it’s Wade. And you can call me Wade, if you wanna. You might, considering that we’re neighbors and all. It’s a standard thing, knowing your neighbors’ names, right?”

Peter frowns. “How do you know we’re neighbors?” Alarm lights through his nerves, although his spidey-sense remains silent. All’s well, it says, although maybe it’s confused. He did just take a building to his head, after all. “Do you know where I live?”

If he does, it’s a disaster. Peter can’t have a mercenary knowing his address. He’ll have to move, and there’s no possible way he could conjure first and last months’ rent plus a security deposit plus whatever else landlords have dreamed up to charge him for. No possible way he could find a new place quickly, either. He’ll be living in a cardboard box under a bridge, and that’s if he’s lucky.

If he’s not, he’ll be crawling back to Aunt May, admitting that he can’t hack it as an adult.

At the moment, he can’t think of anything worse.

“Spidey?” Deadpool’s voice drops with concern. “I don’t know where you live. Uh, not exactly. I just figured that since I’m always seeing you around, it’s probably someplace nearby. But I could also be wrong! Sometimes, I’m wrong! Maybe you get around. Maybe you swing through time and space, some people do, I don’t know. I don’t know anything.”

Peter draws a shaky breath and tries to ignore his pounding heart. “So, um. Wade, it’s Wade instead of ‘Pool.”

“Yeah. No jokes about the shallow end, I’ve already made them all.”

Even with a minor head injury and rattled nerves, Peter can’t help but smile. “It’s nice meeting you,” he says, extending a hand. “You can call me Spider-Man. Or Spidey, that’s okay too.”

“Sure thing, baby boy.” Wade’s grip is surprisingly gentle, like he’s worried Peter might be breakable. He continues shaking past what’s socially acceptable, holding on until Peter pulls away.

It’s either that or stand here holding a mercenary’s hand for no particular reason.

“Okay then,” Peter says with a nervous glance upwards. “I’ll um. Catch you later. Until then—”

“Don’t kill anyone, yeah yeah.”

He webs away, once again feeling Deadpool’s eyes on his backside.

—

One might think losing his primary employment would leave Peter with all the time he needs to catch up on his neglected classwork, but it turns out he’s able to waste endless hours doing nothing but worrying.

He makes lists and runs numbers and then runs them again when they refuse to calculate in his favor. Sadly, math doesn’t lie. Regardless of how much he cuts his expenses, he won’t have enough money for rent next month.

He needs another job, and fast. The problem is that he’s been fired by his last three employers, and even the most forgiving of managers will have questions about that.

Still, all isn’t lost. He’s still freelancing for the Daily Bugle. He also has a functional if outdated phone, and with a little luck, he should be able to snap more photos of Spider-Man in action.

—

He spends an absurd amount of time setting up action shots and editing the good ones, but when Peter presents them to Jameson, the editor-in-chief tosses his prints aside.

“Terrible,” he declares, lip curling with disgust. “And not what I’m after. Who cares about this criminal swinging artfully through the air? What the people need is the truth about the terrible twosome!”

Everything inside Peter clenches as he forces a baffled expression onto his face. “The… who, what?”

“The Terrible Twosome! Word all over town is that the masked menace has hooked up with an actual mercenary and is taking hits for cash.” He rubs his hands together, gleeful. “I always knew it would come to this.”

Peter takes an involuntary step backwards. “That’s not true. He wouldn’t.”

Jameson fixes him with a scathing look. “Of course he would. And he is! Now I need photos of the pair committing crimes together. Don’t come back until you bring me the money shot. Spider-Man and Deadpool, menacing the city in tandem.”

“I can’t take photos of something that isn’t happening.”

The scathing expression transforms into a contemptuous one. “Well, if you can’t, then someone else will. It’s just a matter of time before they’re caught in the act. When they are, the Bugle better get the first photos — or else.”

—

He’s regretful, but doesn’t have much choice. The next time Deadpool appears on the street to help Spider-Man with a crime-fighting conundrum, Peter tells him they need to talk.

“We Need to Talk, huh,” Deadpool says. “Okay, okay, I get it. But before you start, I want you to know that this is my least favorite part of any romance arc, and I expect a lot of credit for stoically enduring it. Later, that is. Once everything has worked out and we’re living our HEA.”

Peter blinks, lost. It’s a curious thing, how Deadpool speaks words he knows in a language they share, yet he often understands nothing. It’s maddening and also, kind of fascinating. “I’m sorry about this,” he begins, “but I can’t accept your help anymore. Apparently people are talking about us teaming up, and the public already has doubts about me. I can’t be seen, um…”

“Consorting with a shady character?” Deadpool asks, pocketing the taser he used to even the odds Spider-Man faced a few minutes ago.

“I’m… not saying you’re shady, in fact you’ve been really great with the whole not-killing thing lately, but—”

“But I put you in a compromising position.” Deadpool heaves a sigh. “And not even the ones I’ve been dreaming about.”

The words escape his mouth before he knows he’s going to speak. “Which are those?”

Deadpool’s eyes widen within his mask. “Oh-em-gee, I have lists! Drawings! Diagrams! Just give the word, baby boy, and I’ll share my most fanciful of fantasies—”

Peter cuts him off with a wave of his hand. “We’re getting sidetracked, and what I was saying is important. I can’t take a knock on my reputation right now. I need to return to being a solo act. I appreciate all the assistance you’ve given me, but things are bad enough as they are. I can’t risk making them worse.”

Deadpool tilts his head to the side. “Bad? Things are bad for you? What sort of bad, and how bad is bad?”

“Bad as in I’m broke,” Peter replies. That’s probably more information than he should be sharing, but he’s pretty sure Deadpool will notice once he takes up residence beneath a bridge.

To his credit, Deadpool doesn’t look horrified to learn of Peter’s financial crisis. Or even surprised, although Peter would have appreciated him at least faking a bit of that. “Are we talking ‘considering delivering pizzas for a little extra cash’ broke, or ‘starting an OnlyFans’ broke, or…?”

Peter gives a despairing shake of his head. “It’s actually ‘I might have to move back home’-level broke.”

Deadpool allows a respectful beat of silence to pass. “It really seems like the guy who devotes so much of his time to saving people should get a paycheck.”

Peter shrugs. “If I’m doing it for money, then it’s a job. What do they call a hero who only saves people for a pile of cash?”

“A mercenary,” Wade provides cheerfully. “Maybe you should consider it. Sure, it’s not pure like the volunteer thing you’ve got going, but it comes with the upside of not having to live in my parents’ basement. Which would be super inconvenient, considering that they’re Canadian, and also dead.”

“Oh no,” Peter says, momentarily distracted from his own sorrows. “I’m so sorry to hear that.”

“Don’t be,” Wade replies breezily. “No great loss. Besides, we’re talking about you and your problems, and I’ve got good news! The solution to your money woes.”

Peter eyes him. “I’m not gonna go the mercenary route,” he warns.

“‘Course not, and I wouldn’t dream of suggesting it, Spides. No, the solution is that you need a financially flush roommate. And here I am!”

It takes Peter a moment to gather enough of his wits to string together a response. “Wade,” he begins patiently. “I just finished telling you that I can’t accept your help anymore. I definitely can’t be your roommate. Besides, you don’t need a roommate. You’ve got a place of your own, right?”

Probably a luxurious one, funded by that sweet, sweet mercenary money.

“I do,” Deadpool admits. “But there’s nothing wrong with having two places to call home, because home is where the heart is, and my heart belongs to you.” He presses both hands to the center of his chest.

Peter rolls his eyes. “No offense, but you don’t seem like the roommate type.”

Deadpool arches his brow. “I don’t think there’s a specific roommate-type. In fact I’m pretty sure ‘being the roommate type’ requires one and only one thing: wanting a roommate. And guess what? I do!” He grins. “So long as that roommate is my baby boy, the one and only Spidey.”

Peter is already shaking his head before Deadpool can finish. “Sorry, but that’s not going to work. Even if the other problem didn’t exist, my apartment is tiny. It’s not really an apartment, just a room with a hot plate for cooking. The bathroom is shared with the whole floor, you’d hate it. Besides, I’ve got my identity to protect, and I don’t think it’s possible to keep that a secret from a person you room with.”

Deadpool’s face falls. “True,” he admits. “Even if I did my best not to notice, it wouldn’t work. I suppose I could start each day by stabbing out my eyeballs—”

Peter winces. “I appreciate the offer,” he says gently. “But I need to figure this out for myself.”

After a moment of dejected silence, Wade brightens. “Okay, next idea. I pay your rent until you’re gainfully employed again.”

Peter resumes shaking his head. “That’s kind of you to offer, and I really appreciate it, but it’s like I said. I need to figure this out for myself. And in the meantime…”

“I can’t help with your volunteer crime-fighting, either.”

Deadpool sounds so dejected that Peter gives him a comforting pat.

“I’m sure you have better uses for your time. And it’s been fun.” Peter forces a smile while Deadpool leans into his touch with his warm, well-muscled body.

He continues patting long past what’s socially acceptable, but Deadpool doesn’t seem to mind.

—

As the first of the month slides past and he’s no closer to conjuring rent money, Peter begins sneaking in and out of the building, coming and going via his window even while dressed in his civvies. It’s only a matter of time before someone spots him, but he can’t bear facing his landlord empty handed.

Unfortunately his luck doesn’t hold for long. With rent a week late, he all but crashes into the landlord on his way towards a badly needed shower. He half-turns, prepared to run, but the man actually smiles at him. Sure, it’s a thin-lipped smile that doesn’t warm his eyes, but at least he’s not bellowing threats of eviction or uncharitable descriptions of Peter’s character.

“Listen, sorry I’m late again,” Peter begins, unable to help himself.

His landlord’s smile vanishes.

“What’re you talkin’ about? For once, you were on time, and you covered the late fees, too. Appreciate that, Parker. Makes me think you’re finally on the right path. The straight an’ narrow. Responsible and bill paying.” He continues in that vein as Peter nods, zoning out while he ponders his salvation. It’s not a difficult puzzle to solve. He only knows two people with extra money, and Deadpool swears he has no idea where Peter lives.

Harry, then. It’s not the first time his best friend has covered for him.

It’s embarrassing to accept his generosity, but still.

At least he won’t be tent-sleeping in the city park.

—

Peter should be responsible and continue his job search, but it’s like the criminals of New York City received notice of his increased availability. Almost overnight, crime rates skyrocket.

Muggings. Arson. Car chases. Robberies. Each night he returns home battered, bruised, and so tired he can’t even be bothered to eat. Instead he faceplants onto his mattress and remains motionless until his alarm blasts him awake at dawn.

If Deadpool was still around, he’d probably ask why he bothered. Do superheroes need advanced degrees in nanotechnology or genetics? And even if he eventually earns lofty letters to place after his name, could he really shut himself into a lab, ignoring his spidey sense, allowing bad things to happen to innocent people while he optimizes experimental protocols or analyzes data using statistical methods?

It’s a good thing he doesn’t have Deadpool asking those questions, because he wouldn’t have answers.

When he wakes he’s starving. He opens the door with the intention of heading to the nearby cafe, but directly in his path is a large bag of groceries. It even has a baguette thrusting out like a movie prop.

He makes a mental note to thank Aunt May for her kindness as he rushes to campus.

—

While half-listening to a droning lecture about nanoelectronics, the answer to his employment problem flashes into his mind. It’s actually the solution to two problems at once.

He can deliver what Jameson wants, save Spider-Man’s reputation and — if he plays his cards right — maybe even land a staff position at the Bugle.

All he has to do is wait for Deadpool to reappear, which shouldn’t be a problem. Even after being asked to stay away, Deadpool always seems to be watching from the shadows. It’s just a matter of attracting his attention—

”Hey, Deadpool,” he calls into the night while dispatching a pair of thugs. “I need a word.

Deadpool pops down from his nearby perch, smiling broadly. “Oh, hello there! I’m all yours, baby boy.”

Once the crooks have been webbed up and left for the authorities, Peter motions for Deadpool to join him.

“I’ve been thinking,” Peter says while leading the way into a darkened alcove. “Maybe the solution to my PR issue isn’t avoiding being seen with you. Maybe a better approach is doing a good deed together, capture it on film, and make it clear that you’re a hero now. Make people see that while teaming up, we can do twice as much good.”

“Great idea!” Deadpool enthuses, responding so quickly it’s clear he hasn’t processed Peter’s words. A beat later, he continues. “...but I’m really more of an anti-hero, although I guess we shouldn’t delve too deeply into that. There’s people with literary degrees who don’t understand the concept, so I don’t hold out much hope for the Bugle-reading boomers.”

“Right,” Peter agrees, because agreement seems like the way to go. “So, doing good. I was thinking something easily photographed. Something simple for the audience to understand with nothing more than still images. Something—”

“Kittens! Who doesn’t love kittens? Especially hot, muscular men saving kittens. You bring the hot, I bring the muscles, and now we just need to acquire some baby cats.”

It pains him to do so, but Peter has no choice but to reject Deadpool’s initial suggestions. There’s no way he’s tying kittens to train tracks. No, no ticking time-bombs, either. Absolutely no eight-wheelers headed towards the entire liter while momma cat watches in terror—

“Deadpool, we need something easy to photograph that has zero potential for kitten carnage.”

“I would never! I love kittens. They’d be perfectly safe in my hands, don’t look at me like that, I’m not remotely kidding, kittens are the most precious things in this world.”

After some debate, they decide against involving babies of any species. What they need is footage of them helping people together. How hard could that be? Just set up a ring of recording devices in a crime-prone area and wait. Sooner or later trouble will descend, and when it does, the heroes and their cameras will be waiting.

He’s a little concerned the wait might be a boring one, but the scene unfolds quickly and painlessly. He and Deadpool have barely managed to consume half the bag of greasy tacos Deadpool brought when nonsense erupts. A trio of masked hoodlums burst from a store, all but trailing dollar bills as they make off with their ill-gotten goods.

“There will be none’a that in this town so long as Deadpool and Spidey patrol the streets!” Deadpool calls in such a convincingly heroic tone that Peter regrets not springing for microphones.

It plays out smoother than anything ever has in his entire bad-luck existence. Peter takes one side, Deadpool the other, and after yanking away the stolen merchandise, Spider-Man webs them one at a time while Deadpool prevents the others from escaping.

Okay, fine, to anyone watching it would probably be obvious that Spider-Man didn’t actually need an assistant, but the photos come out great.

“We look like real heroes,” Deadpool gushes.

Peter throws an impulsive arm around his shoulders and pulls him close. “That’s because we are real heroes.”

As soon as the words leave his mouth he worries they’re too sincere and sappy for someone like Deadpool, but the mercenary beams at him behind his mask, something close to actual light shining from his eyeholes.

—

He selects the best of the photos, spends a few hours editing them to perfection, and creates glossy prints for Jameson. He’s feeling pretty good as he enters the Daily Bugle, pleased that for once, his plan went off without a hitch. He feels even better as he hands over the photos. They might not be what Jameson was hoping for, but they’re the next best thing: vivid action shots, heroic poses, Spider-Man and Deadpool teaming up to save the day.

Or if not the day, then at least the profits of a singular shop owner.

Jameson pages through the offerings, his customary frown deepening. “Crap,” he declares. “Crap, crap, and more crap. Who cares about their little show? Obviously this was performed to throw us off the real story!” He holds up the last, eying it skeptically. “Although maybe one of our Photoshop wizards can do something with this one. Shift things around, and—”

“The other photographer is here, sir,” Betty announces through the intercom just as the office door bursts open.

In strides a wide-eyed blond man carrying a briefcase.

“I think you’re going to be pleased, Mister Jameson,” the man says, dropping his leather case directly on top of Peter’s photos. “Not exactly what you asked for, but I think these should tide you over until I get the money shot.”

“Already have a whole pile of things I don’t want…” Jameson begins as he pages through the prints. The words trail away as his eyes linger on several shots of Deadpool and Spider-Man working in close proximity and then sharpen on one in particular.

Peter, meanwhile, stares at the other photographer. “How’d you get these?” he asks. It’s worrisome that he didn’t notice.

Jameson grabs one of the photos with a hoot of pure delight. “You’ve got to be shitting me,” he says, waving it around too quickly for Peter’s eyes to focus. “This is for real?”

“Really for real.”

Jameson claps a hand on the man’s shoulder. “Excellent work, Eddie. It’s not what I wanted, but it’s got legs.”

Peter finally gets an eyeful of the photo. The image is sharp and clear, leaving no doubt about who the subjects are. In his memories, the moment was a companionable shoulder-squeeze, but the photo tells a different story.

His arm, wrapped around Deadpool; their heads, tipping towards each other; Deadpool’s eyes, glowing with love-light; Peter’s tender expression, bleeding through his mask.

They look like they’re about to kiss.

“Spider-Man’s a fairy!” Jameson crows, drawing stares from the next room.

“You can’t use that word, sir,” Eddie says evenly.

“A fruit?”

“No, not that one either.”

“A poof?”

“Definitely not.”

“Nancy-boy?”

“Absolutely not, super offensive.”

Jameson’s expression darkens. “Well, what word can I use to describe this… this…” He gives the photo another rattle, as if the correct term might shake free like glitter.

“Best not to use any words,” Eddie replies, and Peter can’t help but admire the way he manages Jameson. “Best if we just provide the photographic evidence and let your readers draw their own conclusions.”

“Smart boy,” Jameson says, tipping his head towards Betty. “Go get your payment from the girl, and tell her you’ll be joining our staff. This is almost as good as the two of them robbing a bank!”

Peter follows right on his heels. “So how did you get those photos?” he asks.

“Just doing my job,” Eddie says breezily. “I’m an investigative photographer.”

“You mean a stalker?”

Eddie shrugs.

“Don’t you feel bad?” Peter presses. “Violating their privacy like that?”

Eddie turns to him with a performatively astonished expression. “It’s the same thing you do!” he says with a laugh. “Only I’m better at it, I guess, seeing how I came through with what Jameson wanted.”

He then turns to shower Betsy with a rush of compliments, ignoring Peter so completely he might have ceased to exist.

After taking a moment to steady his nerves, Peter trudges back into Jameson’s office.

“Oh,” Jameson says without looking up. “It’s you. You’re still here. Why are you still here?”

“Just getting my photographs. Unless you’ve decided to buy any of them?” he can’t help but add, hopeful.

Jameson shoves them at him in a messy pile. “For the first headline I’m thinking, ‘Spidey’s Same Sex Surprise! Turns out the masked menace has been hiding more than his face,’ heh heh heh…”

Peter turns and flees.

—

Peter Parker has two long-held secrets.

The first, of course, is his superhero identity.

The second is less dangerous, but more personal. He’s known that he’s gay since puberty, but told no one. He was considering sharing with Uncle Ben at one point, but… well.

He also considered telling Aunt May, but the hopeful look on her face when the topic of children arises stills his tongue.

He’s also considered talking to MJ or Harry about it, but the right moment never arrived and now that he’s kept his silence almost halfway through his twenties, the truth would be awkward. Fessing up now would make him seem like a secretive weirdo — and, well.

There’s also his homophobic boss, who just proved himself to be far worse than Peter ever imagined.

“I need a new job,” he mutters to himself, which certainly isn’t new information.

But he also needs to protect Spider-Man’s reputation, which means steering clear of Deadpool for the foreseeable future.

—

Deadpool doesn’t make it easy.

He always seems to be lurking nearby. Even when Peter can’t see him, he can feel him.

And hear him.

“Need more heroic photos?” Deadpool calls from the shadows.

Peter waves him off. “Nope! I’m good! But thanks for your service!”

Deadpool’s disappointment is so strong it’s almost a physical presence, but what can he do? Eddie probably also lurks nearby, ready to snap another incriminating photo.

Over the next few weeks he spends as much energy dodging Deadpool as he does fighting crime, so it’s a lucky break when the cafe down the street hires him. The hours are erratic, the wages are low, but he now has access to day-old baked goods and coffee.

It’s enough to keep him going, at least temporarily, and a distraction from everything else.

—

“I’m starting to think you’re avoiding me.”

The voice emerges from nowhere, but Peter’s spidey-sense is calm.

“I am,” he replies.

“Why? I thought that plan was to get photos of us saving people together?”

“It was,” Peter calls quietly. “But… it didn’t work out. So now we need to go back to keeping our distance.”

Deadpool doesn’t respond, but his silence is so filled with sadness that Peter sucks in a deep breath and explains. About the photos, and Eddie, and the Daily Bugle editor’s obsession with his sexuality, and how he can’t risk any level of exposure right now, he just can’t.

“I’m sorry about this,” he adds, and he is, he really is.

He then swings away, his body feeling far heavier than usual.

—-

Superheros and Same Sex Shenanigans! blares the Daily Bugle above an interview with an ‘expert’ in such things.

Peter scans the first few paragraphs, fuming. The ‘expert’ clearly knows nothing, going so far as to say that it’s usually supervillains who possess homosexual tendencies.

“Bullshit,” Peter mutters. Not one of the supervillains he’s encountered pinged his gaydar… well, except maybe for Doppelganger, but that made a certain amount of sense.

It’s even more maddening how deftly the article manages to make it clear it’s a commentary on Spider-Man without mentioning his name. He imagines there’s been meetings about this. Strategy consultations. Advice from lawyers. Jameson lording over the underlings with that smug look stamped on his face.

And then there’s the Bugle’s newest staff member, Spider-Man’s stalker.

He truly has the worst luck.

As sad as the decision makes him, Peter knows he’s making the right call about Wade. There can’t be any contact between Spider-Man and Deadpool for the time being. He’s got to starve the paper of gay content until the public’s interest shifts away.

And it will, it always does. Something will explode, some new villain will appear, another threat to the city will emerge from the shadows. He just has to give it time and let this blow over.

—

He’s not wrong.

Just like clockwork, a new villain rolls into town to start some nonsense.

It’s super annoying, considering that Peter is once again gainfully employed. It’s already tricky to balance hours at the cafe with his classes. Time is a limited resource. He doesn’t get many chances to settle down on his bed with his phone, watching a mindless show while crunching through a bag of chips. He’s going to regret the crumbs later, but that’s a problem for future-Peter. Present-Peter is just chilling, relishing his chance to relax until—

He’s simultaneously jolted back to reality by a series of low booms. Groaning, he pauses the video, rolls out of bed, and struggles into his suit. Can’t he have a single night off?

Apparently not, because as soon as he opens his window he’s greeted by another cascade of noise. He swings off into the night, hoping that it isn’t a madman intent on leveling buildings.

That would be dangerous.

Not to mention time consuming.

Peter is certain he’s going to run headlong into a massive inferno, or perhaps an apartment in the early stages of demolition.

Instead, he finds someone perched on a roof dropping explosives into the alleyway below. They strike a trash bin and bounce onto the asphalt, exploding impressively on impact.

Peter lands directly behind the culprit, hands moving to his hips. “Excuse me,” he says. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Setting off firecrackers,” Deadpool replies flatly, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

Which — okay, he might have a point.

“Those aren’t firecrackers,” Peter says, nudging him with his foot. “Those are explosives. I could hear them blocks away, it sounded like war was starting. And it’s late; people are trying to sleep. If you really have to set off explosives to get your jollies, go do it somewhere less populated.”

“I could do that,” Deadpool allows. “But you wouldn’t hear me, and definitely wouldn’t come join the party, so what would be the point?”

Peter huffs. “You’re doing this just to ruin my night off? I was in the middle of watching my show. I could be watching it right now, but instead I had to suit up, race over here, and argue with you.”

Deadpool nods as he listens, his eyes wide within his mask. “That was the idea, Spidey. I’ve missed you. How you been?”

“Busy,” Peter snaps. “And I already explained. We need some time apart—”

“So people don’t think you’re gay.” Deadpool drops the large red explosive he was holding — unlit, fortunately — to waggle spirit fingers into the air. “But you’re safe up here, almost no one can access this roof.”

“How’d you manage it?” Peter finds himself asking, curious.

“Grappling hook.”

“Really?” Peter glances downwards, skeptical. They’re at least nine stories up.

“Grappling hook, plus muscles, plus maximum effort. It’s a winning combo, Spidey.” He grins. “And my prize is your delightful company.”

“Not for long,” Peter replies, gathering the remaining explosives. “Regardless of which approach the Daily Bugle takes to destroy my reputation, I have to get up early tomorrow. Some of us have to work, you know.”

“Ooooh, so you’re a working man again, huh? Congrats on your gainful employment! Hopefully it’s a job where you can snag some food. What sort of food do you like, anyhows? Me, I’m partial to pancakes, especially covered in real Canadian maple syrup. Or tacos, nice n’ greasy, mmm, sounds good, doesn’t it? If you’re hungry, I know a place—”

“Wade,” Peter interrupts, rubbing at his forehead wearily. “I’m going home. And back to bed. Can I trust that you aren’t gonna make a bunch of noise, or light anything on fire, or destroy anyone’s property?”

Deadpool heaves a sigh. “Yeah,” he says after a beat. “I’ll let you rest.”

“Thanks,” Peter replies as evenly as he can manage.

Deadpool looks and sounds sincere, but Peter takes the explosives with him just in case.

—

He has a few days of peace before the bullshit begins anew. This time, it starts while he’s at work.

One of his coworkers stumbles out of the manager’s office, red-faced and tense. “I’m not stupid,” she fumes while scrubbing the countertop with enough agitation to strip the glaze. “Why do we accept cash, anyhow? We should switch to electronic payments only. And how closely does anyone look at the bills when we’re busy? What am I supposed to do, pull out a magnifying glass to make certain the bill’s adorned with the right ugly face?”

Peter frowns, lost. “Was your till count off?”

She shakes her head, sending her blonde ponytail flying. “Two of the twenties I took this week were counterfeits. Good counterfeits, the bills looked worn and used and everything, but instead of what’s-his-name’s face in the center…”

“Andrew Jackson,” Peter supplies helpfully.

Or perhaps not all that helpfully, if her annoyed expression is any gauge.

“Yeah. Him. Instead of old Andrew, it’s some masked vigilante’s mug. So now we’ve got to check every single bill.”

Peter’s heart begins racing. “A… masked vigilante?” That doesn’t necessarily mean Deadpool, he tells himself. Deadpool is more about kicking ass and making noise than painstaking work like creating counterfeits. On the other hand—

“Pretty ballsy, putting his own face on his fakes,” he muses.

A moment later their manager emerges from his office, his brow creased with lines that suggest the weight of the world is bearing down on him. “Okay,” he says in clipped, falsely bright tones. “Everyone needs to be on the lookout for fake twenties. It shouldn’t be too hard to spot them, being that the faker made no effort to conceal his identity, but if someone passes you one, please don’t accept them as legal tender…”

The lecture continues, but Peter tunes him out in favor of taking a closer look at the bill being passed around the room. Sure enough, the portrait is Deadpool’s face, looking smugly self-satisfied.

Peter heaves a sigh as he passes the twenty back to his manager. It doesn’t seem like “don’t put your face on funny money” is something he should have to spell out, but apparently that’s on his to-do list.

—

Fortunately it’s easy to find Deadpool: Peter simply follows the largest cacophony until the racket leads him directly to the leather-clad mercenary. Getting his attention presents a challenge, considering that he’s dancing with his eyes closed to music that pours from three battery-powered music-playing devices that look like they teleported in from the previous century.

It takes him a moment to figure out the controls and power them down one at a time. “Prison, ‘Pool,” he says as he twists rust-corroded knobs. “The city might not care about random explosions or high-speed car chases or men armed with katanas, but money is something they take very seriously. They’ll lock you up for years, decades even. I can’t imagine what you were thinking, using your own face on your fakes!”

Deadpool presses his gloves fingertips to the base of his throat. “Prison, you say? Oh my!”

“Oh, yes.”

“Well, they can’t. I’m far too pretty for prison.”

Peter rolls his eyes. “Then I suggest you stop the printing presses and find a new hobby. Something less illegal, less easily traced back to you, and less likely to wind up being my problem.”

Deadpool hums thoughtfully. “Do you think I’d have a cellmate?”

“Huh?”

“In prison. A cellie. Someone to share the empty hours with. And then at night, alone in the quiet dark — well, Wattpad tells me that a cellmate is basically your romantic destiny.”

Peter shakes his head, lost as usual. “You’d be prisoners,” he points out. “And nothing about prison is romantic.”

“Any location can be romantic if you’re got passion in your heart,” Deadpool replies, placing both hands over his chest and cocking his head to one side. “Besides! Sex isn’t just licking and thrusting, grinding and moaning, rutting and rhythm. It’s also good for connection. Not to mention comfort.”

“So now you’re planning to comfort your potential future cellmate with sex?” Peter asks, incredulous. “How about you skip all of that, leave said unknown inmate in peace, and just not create any more fake money? Isn’t that a simpler plan?”

Deadpool turns his eyes skyward and continues in the same half-mock-dreamy, half-jesting tone. “Being the only two people in your own little concrete world, with no one to turn to except one another…”

Peter frowns as another thought occurs to him. “You’re trying to make me jealous, aren’t you?”

Deadpool grins. “Is it working?”

Peter fumes because it was, sort of. He’s grateful for his mask. “Just, cut it out, would you? I’m barely making enough money for rent and food, I can’t afford to bail you out if you get arrested. Besides, the most likely scenario is you being tossed into a cell with like twenty other men, half of them drunk, all of them unshowered.”

Ignoring the last, Deadpool reaches into one of his pouches. “If you’re short on cash, I’ve got—”

“Deadpool. Have you not listened to a single word I’ve been saying?”

“I, uh—”

“Seriously, why do I even bother? I’ve met brick walls that are better listeners!”

“I’ve been listening! Hanging tight off every word, Spidey!”

“Oh yeah?” Peter drops his hands to his hips. “Then tell me your updated list of things you aren’t allowed to do.”

Deadpool heaves an enormous sigh. “No murders,” he says glumly. “No explosions within city limits. No sneaky-stolen kisses with my Spidey. And no printing my own money, which seems kinda unfair to me considering how easy it was and how people barely even glance at it—”

Peter gives a pointed clearing of his throat, and Deadpool sighs again. “No counterfeiting,” he finishes.

“Good. Also, you need a hobby.”

“Like what?”

Peter takes a moment to consider. “How about video games? You can kill bad guys in those, blow stuff up, and break all the laws without risk of incarceration or worse, distracting me while I’m doing important things, like saving innocent people from harm.”

Deadpool shakes his head. “Those are fine for most, but me, I’m a whole-ass video-game character. Characters don’t control themselves, someone else does that. My job is just to run my mouth while some nerd mashes the buttons.”

Peter sighs, in no mood for this. He should be working on his thesis right now, not arguing on top of a building about prison romance and filling someone else’s free time.

“Knitting, then. I’ll bring you some needles and thread.”

—

He doesn’t need his spider-sense to alert him to trouble when said trouble is apparently driving in circles around his block, intermittently blasting a car horn while music pours into the night air.

With a sigh, Peter closes the book he was attempting to read. He’s had exactly two peaceful nights and now this. How is he ever supposed to finish anything when he’s constantly being interrupted? If it’s not buildings catching fire or criminals attacking innocent people, it’s some asshole determined to create the maximum amount of noise.

He suits up, dangles from a light post, and drops to the car’s hood on its next pass down the street. His plan was to knock on the windshield and politely request that the driver take his racket elsewhere—

But he finds Deadpool’s smiling mask on the other side of the glass.

“You,” he says, exasperated.

“Hey-ho, Spidey! Fancy meeting you here!”

He swings in through the passenger window and crawls into the seat. With an irritated motion, he snaps the music off.

“My tunes!” Deadpool has the nerve to object.

“Your tunes? This isn’t even your car!”

“How’d you know?”

Peter sighs.

“Okay, fine. It’s not mine. Who drives in New York City anyways?”

“Presumably, the owner of this vehicle,” Peter replies dryly. “Can you please return it to where you found it?”

Deadpool casts him a disbelieving look. “Already? But you just got here! Finally, the joy is in my joyride, let’s gooooooo!” He hits the gas, only to immediately slam on the breaks because as it turns out, people do drive in New York City, and one of those people is directly in front of them.

“I don’t even have my seatbelt on,” Peter says. “And when I said ‘return it,’ I meant in the same condition it was before, not as a husk of crushed metal.”

Deadpool huffs. “You won’t let me have any fun.”

“Knitting, Deadpool. I said you could knit. Where’s my scarf? I don’t want to see you again until you’re giving me my very own spider-scarf.”

Deadpool scoffs. “As if my big dumb fingers could do something like that.”

“Aren’t you the one who was trying to convince me that those big dumb fingers could work cellmate magic?”

Deadpool doesn’t have a comeback for that.

Peter grins beneath his mask.

—

The following night he has dinner with Harry. It’s been a while since they’ve hung out, and Peter eagerly accepts the invitation even before Harry offers to cover the bill.

“I’ll leave the tip,” Peter offers, but Harry shakes him off.

“I heard you got fired from your job,” Harry says. “I’m sorry, that really sucks.”

Peter grimaces. He really needs to tell Aunt May not to share that sort of information, but if she didn’t, Harry wouldn’t have paid last month’s rent for him and he’d probably be homeless right now. “It’s okay, I’ve already got a new one. Doesn’t pay any better than the last, but still. Gainfully employed!” He lowers his voice. “Thanks for covering my rent. I’ll pay you back as soon as I graduate and get a real job.”

Harry tilts his head. “I’d say you’re welcome, but I didn’t. I didn’t even know you needed help… which, if you do, you should tell me. Let me put my father’s ill-gotten wealth to good use.”

Peter wraps both hands around his water glass. “Thanks, but I’m okay now,” he manages. “Employed again, like I said.” He forces a little laugh, which earns him a frown from Harry along with a penetrating look.

“Are you sure? I wasn’t going to say anything, but you look tired, Peter. There’s dark circles under your eyes. You’ve also dropped a bit of weight. I could have groceries delivered to your place if you’re running short?”

Peter forces a second, hopefully more convincing laugh. “I had a few lean weeks, but Aunt May restocked my pantry, and they give us day-old pastries at the cafe. Coffee, too. Life is good again, I swear it.”

Harry doesn’t appear exactly convinced, but fortunately their food arrives and the topic is dropped.

—

Peter is working on his homework while the police scanner plays in the background. He’s only half-listening, trusting New York’s finest to manage reports of drunk drivers, domestic disputes, and petty theft. Nothing strikes him as the sort of activity requiring intervention from Spider-Man… until a call from the Animal Care Center comes in.

“You’re reporting what” the dispatcher asks a second time.

“A masked man in a red leather get-up is stealing a litter of kittens,” the woman repeats, her voice edged with panic.

Peter’s stomach drops.

“Is he armed?”

The woman gives a strangled laugh. “With two swords,” she reports. “But he hasn’t drawn them yet.”

Peter tosses his pen to the table and reaches for his suit, swearing beneath his breath.

“Now he’s stuffing them into a… into a cat carrier,” she continues.

“Ma’am, are you sure he’s not just adopting them?”

“Yes, I’m sure! There’s a process for pet adoption, and he’s just… just taking them!”

“Okay, okay, we’ll send a car.” It would be difficult for him to sound any less interested in the woman’s plight.

Peter, meanwhile, is fuming as he swings out the window into the chilly night air. He said video games, not helpless animals. He said knitting, not baby cats. He knows Deadpool is an intelligent person; why can’t he follow basic instructions?

He’s still fuming when he enters the shelter and really, maybe he should have given some thought to how the employees would react to a second masked man charging through the doors. A wave of almost palpable fear sweeps over the group before someone calls out, “That’s Spider-Man!”

“Here to help, not to clear you out of puppies,” Peter tells them jauntily, but the joke lands flat.

“Do you think he’s going to hurt them?” a young woman asks anxiously. “They’re just babies, they’re so sweet and innocent–” Her voice breaks, and Peter reaches forward to awkwardly pat her arm.

“He won’t,” Peter promises. “I’ll bring them right back.”

“How? He’s been gone for at least ten minutes! Those kittens could be anywhere, poor little things.”

“I, uh. Have my ways,” Peter says as he backs out the door.

The location process isn’t complicated. He returns to his neighborhood, then swings around until he catches sight of a tree with suspiciously swaying branches. He lands at the base of the trunk and peers up.

“I’m sure there’s a very good reason for this,” he calls. “I’m certain you didn’t just interrupt my entire night, terrify a group of shelter workers, and traumatize a batch of kittens just for the fun of it.”

“Nope,” comes Deadpool’s voice from the quivering leaves above. “I can tell you with… one-hundred-percent certainty, get back here!... that this is not… hey! no! much fun at all.”

“About as much fun as herding cats, huh?

“Yeah. If the cats were tiny, and kinda pissed. Hey! Get offa my face!”

“I’m pretty sure you had it coming,” Peter says, squinting upwards. “Seriously though, what do you think you’re doing?”

“Helping with your PR issue. I figured I’d score some baby cats, put them in a tree, then let you swoop in and rescue them. Switch up the narrative from ‘Spidey likes dick’ to ‘Spidey saves kits.’”

“How would anyone even know?” Peter grabs onto the branch above his head as it begins trembling alarmingly. “People don’t know anything about most of the stuff I do, and I prefer it that way.”

“Mrrow,” agrees a feline.

“Well, the plan was for me to be waiting, ready to snap photos and send them to the Bugle. But it turns out planting a half-dozen kittens in a tree is harder than you might guess. Especially since they don’t seem inclined to just sit here and wait for rescue.”

“You don’t say,” Peter begins, pausing to snatch a flailing kitten before it hits the ground. He has no choice but to catch it in a web, which earns him an understandable hiss. “Great,” he mutters. “The shelter’s gonna love getting that out of her fur. Can you bring the rest of them down, please, before someone gets hurt?”

“Someone like me,” Deadpool whines. “Did you know these little guys have got razor sharp teeth?”

Peter says nothing as Deadpool passes him the cat carrier and then the squirming, mewling, confused kittens. Wrestling them into the cage proves to be another challenge. They’re tiny and fragile, so his strength is no advantage. Ultimately it takes them working together with a considerable amount of growling, hissing, and snarling from all seven of them.

With the door latched, Peter heaves a sigh of relief. “Now I’ve got to return these to the shelter,” he informs Deadpool. “If I ask really, really nicely, do you think you can abstain from causing any more trouble tonight?”

Deadpool has the nerve to look injured. “I thought it was a good plan.”

“Exactly what part of this fiasco seemed like a good plan?”

Hurt all but radiates from the masked man. Meanwhile, the kittens begin meowing and chirping, probably wondering where their dinner is.

“It could have been a nice photo,” Peter allows, because he’s suddenly feeling bad for everyone involved. “But the plan was not to be seen together for a while, right? And you’d help me a lot by just following my plan. Do you think you can do that?”

“Oh-kay.” Deadpool pauses. “Alternately, we could keep these little guys. Raise them as our own. Dunno if you’re aware, but kittens are one of the best things in the world, and I think you’d make a great cat-dad. Or cat-mom, if you want me to be the dad, I’m good either way—”

“Deadpool!”

In the end, Peter allows him to pay for his cab, but only because he doesn’t want to subject the babies to a long and smelly bus ride.

—

Peter’s a patient person.

He has a long fuse, isn’t easily rattled, and responds to most annoyances with amusement rather than anger.

Deadpool seems intent on testing the limits of his temperament.

His transgressions are well paced. Usually just enough time passes between incidents that Peter’s residual irritation bleeds away. Sometimes he’s even missing Deadpool, thinking maybe he should just ditch the whole keeping-apart idea because what good is it doing anyhow? He hasn’t seen Eddie in months, and the Bugle is no longer running stories about Spider-Man’s orientation.

Maybe the whole exercise is completely pointless, and he could return to the less lonely days when he and Deadpool patrolled the streets as a team.

But then he’s awakened from a dead sleep to a car alarm blaring outside his apartment complex. He buries his head beneath his pillow, waiting for the owner to take care of it, but no such luck. Worse, a second alarm joins the action. And then a third. Peter drags himself out of bed and into his suit, because he recognizes the noisy calling card of someone who wants his attention.

It’s no effort to catch Deadpool in the act. He’s not even trying to hide what he’s doing. Quite the opposite, in fact; he flounces from car to car, executing little dance moves after each alarm is triggered. Peter watches in sleepy amazement, spurred into action only when apartment windows open and people begin shouting obscenity-laden threats.

“Deadpool,” Peter snaps. “Knock it off before someone shoots you.”

Deadpool comes to a stop, twirls on his toes, and grins. “Would you believe I found myself a hobby?”

“Setting off car alarms is not a hobby!”

“Au contraire,” Deadpool calls back to him. “A hobby is, by definition, an activity done in one’s leisure time for pleasure. This happens to be my leisure time, and I’m currently experiencing pleasure.”

“By making a ton of racket,” Peter says, skeptical.

“Well, not really that part.” Deadpool pauses to power off the alarm blaring behind him. “The part where you came out to help was pretty great, though.”

“I am not here to help! I’m here to stop you so my neighbors can sleep. And so I can sleep, too. Why aren’t you sleeping? That would be a much better use of your time.”

Deadpool waggles his brows. “Ooooo, is that an invitation?”

With an exasperated shake of his head, Peter points at the cars. “Turn off those alarms! Now! It isn’t funny anymore. I’m tired and I’m sick of this and to be honest, I’m starting to doubt your judgment.”

Deadpool’s eyes widen behind his mask. “This is what made you question my judgment?”

“Deadpool. I’m not laughing. You’re making my life difficult, and it was already difficult enough. On top of work, and school, and patrolling, my sleep is being constantly disrupted by your bullshit. I need you to stop before I lose my mind.”

“Oh.” Deadpool appears to shrink before his eyes. “Sorry about that. I figured you could just, you know, ignore me if you didn’t wanna play along.”

“I can’t ignore alarms blaring outside my apartment. Besides, when you pull stuff like this, it sets off my spidey sense.”

“Your what?”

“My spidey sense,” Peter repeats, feeling silly. “It’s this… tingle that alerts me to things. Problems, dangers, threats. I can’t really ignore it, especially when the source of the trouble is right here.”

“You can’t?” Deadpool’s words are strangely clear once the owner of the final blaring car alarm emerges from their residence to click it off. “Why not? It’s not like every crime is your responsibility.”

Peter raises his voice over the ringing in his ears. “You’re doing these things in my own neighborhood! If I ignore my tingle and something bad happens to someone, then it’s my fault.”

“I’m not sure I’m following that logic.”

“You don’t have to. All you’ve got to do is stop committing crimes in my neighborhood.”

“Won’t your, uh, tingle eventually stop alerting you when it’s me?”

“Apparently not. I don’t know.” He rubs the back of his neck, suddenly just completely exhausted. “It’s not like I have the option to set filter settings. If I could, trust me, I would.”

Deadpool gives a sage nod. “I can’t seem to filter myself, either, so I can relate.”

Peter squints at him. “Maybe I need to leave.”

“...Leave?” Deadpool asks, sounding stricken.

“Since you can’t stop causing problems. Maybe I need to go stay with my aunt for a while.”

Deadpool looks horrified. “I don’t wanna chase you out of your house and home, Spidey! That was never the plan.”

“So what was the plan?”

Deadpool looks away. “I just… you know.”

“I don’t know. I really don’t know at all. In fact, from my perspective, it seems like your goal is to cause me the maximum amount of problems.”

Deadpool shakes his head. “That’s not it at all,” he says, voice small.

Peter returns to rubbing the back of his neck. It aches with tension. “How about you cool it with the crime for a while, okay? Or at least do your crimeing outside the range of my spidey senses. Right now you’re constantly interrupting me from doing other things. Important things, things I’m being graded on.”

“More important than stopping crimes?”

“Yes, considering that you’re the one committing the crimes, and you could just… not do that! Right?”

Deadpool looks up again, hopeful. “You should know I haven’t murdered a single person since you asked me not to. Not even when offered fat stacks. Not even when one’a them really sucked.”

“That’s great, and I’m proud of you, Pool, I really am, but what you’re doing right now is driving me crazy.”

Deadpool widens his eyes. “Is it? Tell me more about that, about how I drive you crazy—”

“Okay, that’s enough, I’m done encouraging this. I’m…” He flaps his arms against his sides. “Done! Please, just go away.” Peter turns and swings away, cursing beneath his breath. “And stop staring at my ass!” he calls.

—

Peter would stay at his aunt’s house for a week or two if it were possible, but between his classes and work schedule, the best he can manage is a short visit for dinner. He eats glumly, picking at food he has no appetite for and worrying her.

“It is trouble with work or school, dear?” she asks, pouring more tea.

He wraps both hands around his cup, grateful for the warmth. “No. It’s…” He peers downward, studying the tea leaves as if there might be vital information coded into their formation. “It’s sort of my love life,” he admits at last.

She instantly brightens, as he knew she would. “So there’s a special someone?”

“Sort of.” He stirs a spoonful of sugar into his tea. “Or they could be, if they’d stop driving me crazy.”

May laughs. “That’s what love is, I’m afraid. A bit of madness and a lot of things that no longer make sense. Why, when I first realized I was in love with your uncle…” She lapses into familiar stories that make him smile through the grief and guilt that always accompany memories of Uncle Ben, even when the memories aren’t his own.

By the time she finishes, he’s managed to clear his plate and finish his tea. She beams at him, pleased. “I worry about you getting enough to eat. Let me make a few sandwiches before you go.”

Peter shakes his head. “I’m good now, but thanks. And thanks for the groceries you sent last month, they really helped.”

She pauses, smile faltering. “I didn’t know you needed groceries,” she says, and Peter’s stomach drops.

“Well, I don’t. I’m fine now, it was just a lean few weeks. And it must have been Harry,” he continues, lying to her just like a liar.

She arches a brow, but doesn’t argue. “Anytime you need things, you let me know, Peter. I might not have much, but I can still take care of you.”

Peter does his best not to wince. “I’m fine now,” he says quietly. “Really. Honest.”

“Well then. Tell me more about this person driving you to distraction. Have you told them how you feel?”

Peter shakes his head. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea. It’s… risky. And complicated. And less than ideal. It’s also… well, not a person you would have chosen for me.”

May sniffs. “Well, of course not! The person I chose for you was lovely MJ…” Her discerning eyes sharpen on his face. “But as it turned out, there were factors I wasn’t aware of.” She pauses for a beat. “If you’re worried I'll disapprove…”

“Oh, you’ll definitely disapprove. Most people would.”

“As I was saying. If you’re worried about that, stop. I’ll love you no matter what, and it would do my heart good for you to find someone.”

Peter manages a wry smile. “I’m going to hold you to that, if things work out. Better start practicing your polite expression in front of the mirror.”

She gives him the most genial of genial looks, projecting such perfect sincerity that he can’t help but laugh.

He wonders what she’d make of Wade, and if he’ll ever have the opportunity to find out.

—

Peter had meant it when he told Wade he was done, and sincere when he asked him to go away, but it doesn’t take much time before regret sets in. He thought it would be a relief, having a break from the constant shenanigans, but instead he’s merely lonely.

Worse, he suspects Wade is even lonelier than he is.

The more he thinks about it, the guiltier he feels. Wade was just trying to get his attention and solve his problems, and Peter was ignoring him for what? The approval of random homophobes who likely look down their noses at Spider-Man, gay or straight?

He wants to apologize but for once, he can’t find the mercenary anywhere. He circles nearby blocks, scours alleyways, and scans the city from atop buildings. As he searches, the final words he said to his friend reverberate in his ears. Sure, the car alarms were annoying, but that was just mean. He should be better than that.

Deadpool isn’t the real issue, anyway.

The issue, he decides while dejectedly swinging home, is Eddie.

Things were going mostly okay until that guy showed up and threw a wrench into the works with his gay Spider-Man photos. Not to mention poaching his job. Peter should have objected more at the time, but there’s no time like the present.

He catches him outside the Daily Bugle. Apparently the man doesn’t have much of a work ethic; he’s the first of the staff to depart, eyes darting left and right as he steps onto the sidewalk like he’s looking for a sneaky escape route.

Peter steps directly into his path and smiles. Not that the expression is readable from behind his Spider-Man mask. “Eddie, we need to talk,” he says before grabbing the other photographer and swinging them both to the top of the building, away from the eyes and ears of pedestrians.

It takes a moment for Eddy to regain his equilibrium once Peter releases him.

“We… do?” Eddie shivers, his face rapid-shifting through at least six expressions before settling. Half his mouth is curled upwards while the other side twists awry. His eyes are strange, too, twitchy and not quite in focus. “About what?”

“Yeah, we do,” Peter says, forcing himself to continue despite tinges of warning from his spidey-sense. “About how you’re making a career from homophobia. You can’t really be okay with that, can you? You don’t seem like a bad guy, maybe you’re just someone who lost their way—”

He’s distracted from his planned speech by Eddie arching up on his toes, muttering something beneath his breath, and twisting his fingers into a tangled knot.

“Um.” Peter eyes him, his concern deepening. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah.” Eddie’s head bobs up and down rapidly, like he’s a puppet controlled by a hidden hand. “Fine. Great! Really. I’m just…” His half-smile dies. “Just really, really hungry. He wants to know…” He gives a hard swallow, and when he continues, his voice is something else entirely. “Wants to know, what does man-spider taste like?”

He doesn’t have time to process the question. Eddie’s face is suddenly gone, swallowed by inky darkness that’s mostly rows of jagged teeth.

Peter takes an involuntary step back, horrified. “What are you?” he manages.

The thing doesn’t reply. Instead it lurches at him, all darkness and tongue and flashing incisors. Peter manages to knock it back, but not without gouging open his forearm. The mouth continues snarling and snapping, undeterred by Peter’s punches. Teeth catch him again and again, until he’s bleeding from a dozen places and uncertain how to proceed. How does one fight black goo? The only thing solid about the creature are his teeth, and those are razor sharp.

Before he knows it, his back presses against an air duct. His hands and feet sink harmlessly into the dark substance, leaving him feeling queasy and the monster unharmed. His webs connect, but slide uselessly to the ground. He’s about to launch himself skyward when a red-clad arm grabs his attacker from behind, wrenching it away from him.

“Oh that’s just about enough of that,” Deadpool sing-songs, and Peter could weep from how happy he is to see the mercenary.

Relief morphs into horror when Deadpool’s hands close around his katanas. “Deadpool, no,” Peter shouts. “There’s a person under there… in there… somewhere inside that, don’t kill him!”

With a sigh, Deadpool slides his weapons back into place and reaches for one of his many pouches instead. “You’re lucky I come well prepared,” he informs the monster before shoving a dark lump into its mouth.

The thing stops — then chews, and swallows.

“More,” it demands.

Deadpool produces two lumps that he tosses into the gaping maw before dusting off his hands. “That’s all I’ve got. What do I look like, a vending machine? You want more, go to the convenience store. And shift back first, Spidey doesn’t want you giving anyone a heart attack.”

It slithers off, transforming into a humanoid shape as it stumbles away.

“Thanks,” Peter tells Deadpool, turning to give him his full attention once Eddie vanishes from sight. “What was that, and what did you give it?”

“Eh, just some chocolate. ‘Melts in your mouth, not in your suit’ they told me, but lemme tell ya baby boy, they lie.”

For a moment, all Peter can do is stare.

Deadpool stares right back. “So, um. You don’t know what that was?”

Peter shakes his head. “Never seen anything like it.”

Deadpool’s head cocks to the side. “Huh! I guess the chapters got shifted out of order again. Well, no matter, that’s a problem for future-you. Or maybe past-you, if this is a time travel story. Ooh, I hope it is, those are so much fun! Plus they give the writers a terrible headache which, lemme tell you, is the very least they deserve after everything they do to us.”

Peter continues shaking his head. “Nothing you’re saying makes any sense,” he says. “And unfortunately, I really need to know what that was, since it seems to… live inside the guy who stole my job? That seems bad.”

Deadpool shrugs. “Well, it’s not ideal, but I have a feeling those two crazy kids will work things out.” When Peter doesn’t reply, he tries again. “Uh, you know how people are always blaming aliens for everything? I know it gets old, but honestly — aliens. That’s an alien. Or at least the blacky goopy part of it is.”

Peter takes a moment to consider. “An alien in the wrong timeline?” That seems even worse, but still… “That’s probably above my paygrade. So long as he isn’t eating people or destroying anything important, I’ll leave it for future- or past-me to deal with.”

Deadpool grins. “That’s the spirit! So, now that you’re not gonna get eaten or pounded through a wall by someone who isn’t me, I’ll be off.”

“Wait! Don’t go. I’ve been looking for you.” He pauses, draws a breath. “Listen, I’m really sorry I lost my cool the other day. I don’t actually want you to go away, I just wanted less noise. And, you know…” He flaps a hand through the air. “Less crimes.”

Deadpool makes a murfling sound. “Yeah, I see how it is. ‘Be gay, do crimes’ they say, but when I do one itsy-bitsy little crime—”

“It was more than one.”

“A couple of itsy-bitsies—”

“It was a one-man crime wave! Of noisy crimes, none of which I could ignore!”

“Well, that was sort of the idea,” Deadpool admits. “But yeah, my idea for getting your attention was probably a little annoying.”

“Probably? And a little?” Peter scrubs a hand over his mask. “So um. You’re gay?”

Deadpool shifts his weight. “Uh. On the spectrum of gay, at least. Can you keep a secret?”

Peter nods.

Deadpool leans closer. “I think I might be… spidey-sexual.”

Peter fixes him with a look. “Now you’re teasing me.”

Deadpool gives a mock gasp. “I would never! Well, not unless we were alone together in bed, and you’d given consent, and we’d already discussed boundaries, safe words, yada-yada. Oooh, can we bring some webs into this fantasy? I have this great idea about teasing you with your own webs, and—”

The words are interrupted by bright light flashing in his eyes. Peter staggers a bit, momentarily dazed before he spots the source: a drone, snapping photos. Deadpool turns and takes a swing at it, but it buzzes away before he can connect. Peter nails it with a web and is about to slam it to the ground when Deadpool stops him.

“I’m sure it’s transmitting the photos as it takes them,” he says glumly. “Don’t kill it, or you’ll have pics of Spidey committing a property crime with me at your side which is… exactly what we wanted to avoid, right? Well, that and someone getting a photo of us making out, but that’d be considerably harder to score.”

There’s nothing he wants to do more than work out a little aggression by destroying an inanimate object, but Deadpool is right. He breaks the webs and sets it free, glowering as it shudder-jerks back into the air. “Fine,” he says testily, turning back to Deadpool with the intention of telling him that it really is fine, he doesn’t care about people getting photos of them together, at this point what happens happens—

But Deadpool is gone.

He’s alone atop the building, just him and a sad pile of severed webs.

—

By the third day of his Deadpool-free existence, Peter realizes that he knows exactly how to draw the mercenary out of hiding.

All he needs to do is put himself in danger, and Deadpool will somehow swoop out of the shadows to save the day.

He’s excited by the realization for about two minutes before the potential problems crash over him. There’s no way he could cast someone in the role of his tormentor without putting them in danger. There’s a million different ways fake danger could turn into real danger, especially with someone like Deadpool involved.

Alternatively, he could wait until a situation that he can’t handle occurs organically, but that doesn’t strike him as an ideal time for a reunion. He wants to be ready and prepared. He definitely plans to be armed with a better speech next time, one he can rattle off before Wade has a chance to bolt.

He could always throw himself off the top of a building to see if Deadpool swoops in to save him. But, if he doesn’t, he risks injuries that his healing factor could take painful days to repair, not to mention traumatized bystanders.

The more he thinks it through, the more depressed he becomes. So depressed, in fact, that he does something he almost never does: he visits the bar around the corner from his apartment complex.

It’s dark and grimy, with sticky countertops and a surly bartender who never says anything more than ‘what’ll it be?’ Or at least that’s all he has to say to Peter. He seems plenty talkative with the group of shady characters that form a cluster at the far end of the room… but Peter isn’t here to worry about them or what they might be plotting.

No, he’s here to drink.

“Um. Coke and rum?”

The bartender looks offended. “Rum and coke,” he corrects as he pours the rum and sprays cola onto the ice like he’s attacking the cubes. “You order that as a rum and coke.”

Peter is tempted to ask ‘or what?’ but manages to restrain himself.

He finishes his drink, which has absolutely no effect on him as usual. Even so, it’s disappointing. Is a few minutes of tipsy lightheartedness too much to ask?

Sulking, he trudges to the restroom before heading home, all the while contemplating the impossibility of his earlier plan. It’s a shame, because a bit of playacting could be fun. ‘Help me Deadpool,’ he imagines himself crying into the night’s sky, convincing as an Oscar-winning actress. ‘Save me from the monsters!’

As he reaches for the toilet paper, his eyes catch on a bit of graffiti. It stands out from the rest with round, childish script that appears to have been written in…

Crayon?

Is that possible?

“For a good time, call Deadpool,” the message reads, followed by a string of numbers.

“Or a bad time, if you like,” someone added in a different colored crayon, possibly a few days later.

A little cartoon drawing of Deadpool’s mask follows as punctuation.

“Too easy,” Peter mutters to himself even as he pulls out his phone to snap a photo. Nothing is ever this easy for him. That couldn’t possibly be Deadpool’s phone number, could it?

—

Maybe it is, he tells himself later.

It’s still not a solution to his problem, because then he’d have to admit that Spider-Man is the sort of guy who would take a number written on a bathroom stall.

He can’t possibly do that, can he?

—

Amidst his second Deadpool-free week, Peter decides that yes. He can do that. He can step up and admit that he’s the sort of person who isn’t above scoring a number from a public bathroom stall.

It takes time to work up the nerve, but finally he manages to compose a text. He keeps it simple:

Deadpool?

He prepares himself for a long wait, he can’t imagine Wade as the sort who hovers over his phone waiting for messages to arrive—

New number, who dis?

Or maybe he is. It’s me Peter sends in return.

OH, well if it’s YOU.
Sorry you, but you’ve been misinformed.
I’m not open for business rn
Too-da-lou!

Peter frowns as the string of responses cross his screen. Great, he replies. Because this is personal, not business.

The second delay is longer.

A personal text from someone who got my # off a bathroom stall? Sounds like my night is looking– What follows is a string of at least a dozen emojis that make no sense to Peter. It’s possible Deadpool is selecting them at random. Or that he’s having a stroke.

Can I call you?” Peter asks. Surely talking would be easier than whatever this is.

Ooooooh, you wanna talk dirty?
Sorry, but I can’t.
I’m sort of seeing someone.
Even if he isn’t seeing me.

Peter grins. Nice to know you’re loyal.

Yup! Good chat.

Don’t go, Peter taps out. It’s me. I’m the someone. Or at least, I assume I’m the someone. If I’m not the someone, then I’m about to be really embarrassed.

There’s another pause, and then:

NO WAY

His phone rings, startling him. As soon as he answers, he has Deadpool’s excited voice in his ear:

“SPIDEY? Baby boy? How’d you get this number? Was it from Weasel? ‘Cause I know you aren’t looking for hookups in dive bar bathrooms—”

“No, of course not,” Peter interrupts. “How long were you planning to avoid me?”

“I’m not? It’s just that I did what you said and got a hobby! Wanna see?”

Peter hesitates. “Is it… explosive?”

“Nope! Meet me on top of the building and I’ll give you a look-see. You’re gonna be so proud of me, Spidey. This might even be a tearing-up while violins play in the background sorta situation.”

Peter hums. “Tearing up out of joy and pride, not because your hobby is leaking fumes… right?”

Deadpool laughs and disconnects the call.

—

By “the building,” Peter assumes Deadpool meant the Daily Bugle building. It makes sense; it was the last place they’d seen each other, and the Bugle has been important enough in Peter’s life to qualify as the building.

He webs his way across town, arriving in record time, but finds himself alone. So, he waits. He’s a patient person. He’s been waiting for weeks, he can wait a bit longer.

By the forty-five minute mark he’s pacing with annoyance. He doesn’t want to call Wade, doesn't want him to know he’s standing atop the building that houses his ex-employer, waiting, and oh god, has he been ghosted? Is that what’s happened? Is he going to wait here in his Spidey-suit until the sun sets before slinking his way home, webs of shame trailing in his wake?

Before he can contemplate which emo song would play in the background during this humiliation, his phone vibrates.

He answers on the first ring. “Where are you?” he asks, unfortunately sounding just as distressed as he feels.

“Right where I said I’d be,” Deadpool replies. “Top of the building? Three floors vertical from where you live? Did you maybe go up too high? Wait, do I need to grapple into the clouds for you? I’ll do it, baby boy—”

“Ha ha,” Peter manages through his suddenly-constricted throat. “I’ll be there in a few.”

He’s built up quite a head of steam by the time he returns home.

“Listen,” he says, talking even before his feet connect with the roof. “You were not remotely clear about which building you meant. We’re gonna need to work on our communication.”

Deadpool widens his eyes. “Oh no, does this mean couple’s counseling? Don’t get me wrong, it’s got some great potential for lolz, but also equal potential for bummers. We’d have to talk about childhoods, shitty parents, cancer, torture, and even more unsavory shit that I am one-hundred-percent certain my current writer does not wanna get into because this is a goofy love story. Love, Spidey! Have we finally gotten to the confessions part? Because I have been exceedingly patient, if I do say so myself—”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Peter cuts in. “But no, of course we don’t need counseling, I just need you to start being specific when you say things like ‘the building.’ I visit the tops of a lot of buildings, you know. It’s one of my things. More importantly, you told me you didn’t know where I lived, although I suppose I should have guessed. You’re the one who paid my rent, aren’t you? Even though you swore you didn’t know where I live?”

Deadpool thrusts a fist to his chest in a stabbing motion. “Guilty of yet more crime,” he admits. “Wait, is this a crime? Paying your beloved’s rent while he’s in dire financial straits?”

“Maybe it’s not a crime, but you should have told me. You know I keep this stuff secret for a reason. I was ready to move at the idea that you’d found my apartment.” He fixes Deadpool with the most serious expression he can manage from behind his mask.

It must be effective, because Deadpool hangs his head.

“If it factors as a mitigating circumstance, I don’t know exactly where you live. I located the building, which was hard to miss on account of me living close by. I found the landlord and sweet-talked him some, telling him I was the big bro of the guy who hasn’t paid his rent and off he went. Ranting about how he was gonna evict you and he’s been patient but enough is enough and so on and so forth. Lemme tell you, that man’s mouth could give mine a run for the money. In fact that only thing that shut him up was when I vemo’d him the full amount, and then suddenly he was the nicest guy you’ve ever—”

Peter’s stomach lurches. “Did he tell you my name?”

There’s a pause. “Well, yeah. But it’s okay, Spidey. It’s safe with me. And you know mine too, so it’s… well, that’s not really the same, but I swear. I’d never tell anyone who you are.”

Peter is quiet for a moment, concentrating on his breathing and convincing himself that this is no big deal. Surely he can trust Wade, right? If you can’t trust a semi-reformed mercenary strapped with dozens of weapons, who can you trust?

Deadpool looks more than a little alarmed when a burst of deranged laughter escapes Peter’s throat.

“I’m fine,” Peter assures him with a flap of his hand. “It’s fine. Well, not completely fine, I’m not thrilled to hear it was easy to figure out who I am and where I live, but I’ll cope. I’m coping right now. This is me, coping.”

Deadpool doesn’t look convinced, but seems to realize that arguing wouldn’t be in his best interest. “Would some distraction help?”

Peter eyes him. “Distraction from my coping mechanisms?”

“Well, yeah. They can run in the background while you pay attention to me, right?”

Peter considers. “I don’t see why not. This big brain isn’t just for looks.”

Deadpool grins. “It’s your third sexiest part. Hey, don’t look at me like that! Fine, second sexiest part, but that’s only because it’s impossible to compete with your ass, absolutely nothing can compete with—”

Peter clears his throat, and Deadpool reaches into one of his many pouches to produce… well, something. A new mask, maybe? Although if it’s a replacement, he and Deadpool are gonna have to talk, because it certainly doesn’t look like an upgrade.

“I learned how to crochet!” Deadpool informs him. “And I’ve spent the past few weeks making you a scarf, your very own spidey-wrap. It’s gonna keep you nice an’ toasty when I’m not around to do that for you.”

Peter takes the object with both hands as the shapeless form resolves into something he can recognize. It’s significantly longer than it is wide, which squares with his concept of scarves. “It’s… one of a kind,” he says, turning it back and forth as he examines the fabric.

Clearly handmade, the garment consists of alternating blotches of red and blue yarn. It’s not quite the red and blue of his costume, in fact the red holds a clashing orangish tone, but an attempt at matching was made. The edges are jagged, there’s random holes and gaps where things went awry, and uneven stitches create a rumpled bunching effect. Dozens of unwoven threads cheerfully sway in the breeze.

“I taught myself from YouTube tutorials,” Deadpool informs him proudly. “Took me awhile to get the basics down, these fingers didn’t wanna cooperate so I chopped them off to show ‘em who’s boss and then things improved—”

“You what?” Peter looks up sharply, alarmed.

“Chopped ‘em off,” Deadpool repeats. “It’s no biggie, they grow back, and they’re smaller at first so that helped with the yarn-holding thing. The vids, they make it look easy, but let me tell you there’s a learning curve to this stuff—”

“Deadpool,” Peter says, softening his tone. “Wade. I don’t want you chopping off your parts, okay? Not even if they grow back. That’s, that’s… hurting yourself, and I don’t like it. In fact, if we’re going to…” He flaps the scarf through the air to punctuate his words, “...do this, then I'll have to insist on a no-chop rule.”

Deadpool looks suitably abashed. “Okay, no more chopping. And no killing either, and no explosions, no doing crime to get your attention. Any other rules? Maybe I should write this stuff down.”

“It all seems like common sense to me.”

“Yeah, well, remember what we decided about my judgment?”

Peter hums. “For now, we’ll just focus on no murdering and no-chopping-off-your-parts. I prefer that other people remain alive and your bits remain connected to you.”

Deadpool gives a sappy smile. “Most people don’t much care about my parts or what happens to them.”

“Well, I’ll care extra to make up for that.”

Deadpool waggles his brows. “Does that care apply to all my parts?”

Peter grimaces, but can’t keep the smile from his face. “I suppose I walked right into that,” he says before returning his attention to the scarf. “And this is amazing, I love it. You not only picked up a whole new hobby, but you actually created something!”

Deadpool grins. “So, um…” He shifts his weight between his feet and reaches for the end of the scarf to toy with loose strands of yarn. “Do you want to start, or should I keep going? I’ve got a whole monologue about how amazing your ass is, if you wanna hear that.”

Peter clears his throat. “I don’t think I’m quite ready for the part where we talk about my ass.” He pauses, gathers himself, and pushes on. “I wanted to tell you that I’ve been working on something, too. Not anything as tangible or impressive as a scarf, but still…”

Deadpool makes an encouraging gesture.

It takes him a moment to figure out how to begin. “I was really focused on the whole Eddie thing for a while. Blaming him, being angry at him, wanting to lash out at him. Jameson, too. It felt like they were ruining my life… when the real problem was… well, the actual problem was me. Trying to keep all these secrets. I wasn’t being honest with anyone, not even myself.” He pauses. “Uh, are you okay there?”

Deadpool nods rapidly.

“You sure? Because you don’t seem to be breathing. Pull up your mask so I can see if you’re turning blue.”

Deadpool shakes his head. “No way am I ruining your confession with this ugly mug,” he says in a breathless rush.

“Well, it’s not really a confession, it’s not like I’ve been committing a crime—”

“A misdemeanor, then. A love misdemeanor, which is more cute than criminal, but still. Anyhow, not being honest with yourself, you were leading up to…”

“Right.” Peter takes a moment to re-center himself. “Not being honest with myself, that’s bad. Keeping my identity a secret is one thing, I need to do that in order to keep my loved ones safe, but I’m ready to be honest about the rest. And if people treat me like a monster or an alien for being gay—”

“You said it,” Deadpool marvels, triple-wrapping the scarf around his neck. “Now we’re getting somewhere. Congrats, you’re out! At least to a fugly mercenary, but that’s progress. So what’s the next step? Telling Jameson and the Bugle to get stuffed?”

Peter shakes his head. “No, next step was gonna be asking out the guy I’m interested in.”

Deadpool’s eyes go wide within his mask.

“So, um… what do you think?”

Deadpool cocks his head to one side and then the other. “Yellow’s squealing like a little girl,” he says. “And White’s saying I’m an idiot if I think you’re talking about me.”

“Yellow? White?” Peter frowns. “Who else would I be talking about?”

Deadpool makes an expansive gesture. “You can’t blame me for not being able to believe it, right? I mean, it’s you. And it’s me. I figured I was just gonna have to keep committing minor crimes forever if I wanted your attention, so…” He trails away, swallowing hard.

With a sigh, Peter slips an arm around him. “It’s you,” he says softly. “You’re weird, and funny, and we make a great team, don’t you think?”

Deadpool gives a mute nod.

“Maybe we should go downstairs,” Peter says. “It’s more comfortable in my room and besides, you probably wanna see the place you helped pay for, right?”

The question brings another nod and a swallow. Peter places a hand on his back and leads him to the staircase. “Easier than grappling,” he says softly, guiding them to his room.

He left it a mess, but figures it’s better this way. No need to give false impressions about what sort of housekeeper he is. “Sorry there’s not really anywhere to sit,” he says, transferring a pile of clothing from his mattress to the floor.

“This is fine.” Deadpool takes a seat beside him. “Although could I ask a favor?”

“Sure, what do you need?”

“Go ahead and call me Wade from now on.” He pauses a beat. “And do you mind me calling you Peter? Now that I don’t have to pretend I don’t know.”

“Yeah, that’s fine, Wade it is.” He draws in a breath. “So, Wade. How do you feel about dating your friendly neighborhood Spider-Man, aka Peter?”

The question is poised in a warm and jaunty tone, so he’s a little surprised when Wade responds by turning his head away, chest hitching.

“It won’t be that bad,” Peter continues, shifting closer. “I take some getting used to, but I promise—”

Wade heaves a sigh and presses the heels of his hands to his eyes. “It’s nothing about you,” he says. “It’s me, in an entirely non-bullshit sort of way. The thing is, you don’t know what I look like, and that’s gonna be an issue.”

“Why would that be an issue?” Peter pauses the hand that’s been idly rubbing Wade’s back.

“On account of what’s under this costume. I could just keep the mask on all the time, but—”

“That would make kissing pretty awkward.”

Wade gives a hard swallow. “You… want to kiss?”

Peter nudges him. “That’s part of dating, isn’t it? For most people, at least. I was hoping you’d be pro-kissing.”

“I am!” Wade is enthused for about two seconds before he seems to remember the complication. “...But maybe it would be best if we did that in the dark.”

“We could… but nighttime hours are limited.” He pauses. “And I don’t really care what you look like. I like you. It doesn’t matter to me if your features are a little… irregular…”

Wade snorts. “Baby boy, we aren’t talking slight irregularities here. We are talking about a whole-ass skin situation. I promise you that you’ve seen lizards with nicer complexions than mine. I regularly get mistaken for an avocado three days past its prime. I look like a sharpei fucked a rotting orange. Have you ever crumpled up a piece of paper and then attempted to smooth it out? Well, I—”

“Wade,” Peter interrupts gently. “Afraid I’m gonna have to add another rule to the list. ‘No more insulting yourself.’ Absolutely no one is allowed to talk about my boyfriend like that, so don’t make me web your mouth shut.”

“...Boyfriend?”

“I hope so,” Peter says, reaching for his hand. “I mean, you might decide against it. Not many people want to date someone that’s part spider. It’s pretty gross, if you think about it.”

Wade thinks about it. “Actually, not gross at all, unless the sex part involves, um, spider stuff, which yeah, that might be weird, but I’m down to work with whatever you’re, uh, presenting with—”

Peter laughs. “Just the normal situation in the, uh, southern hemisphere. I hope you’re not disappointed.” He draws in a breath, then eases the mask off his face, taking a moment to run his fingers through his hair before seeking eye contact. “Normal up here, too. See? Just an average looking guy.”

Wade’s eyes widen as they stare at him. “You think that’s average?” He shakes his head. “Prepare yourself for the disappointment of—” He catches himself, clears his throat, and tries again. “Prepare yourself for uniqueness.”

He removes his mask with far more care than Peter did, and as his skin comes into view, Peter can see why. Truthfully, Wade’s description of a crumpled piece of paper isn’t that far off. He’d be a handsome guy if not for his complexion, which is lined and creased, scarred and distorted, covered in strange configurations of scar tissue and…

“Tumors,” Wade confirms. “But don’t worry! They’re just here to be ugly, they won’t kill me. Can’t kill me, on account of my healing factor.”

Peter’s hand strays up to explore. Tiny spider-hairs on the pads of his finger quiver with excitement; it’s exactly the sort of texture the arachnid part of him can’t resist. “I like it,” he murmurs. “You’re right, it’s unique.” He traces a finger from Wade’s temple down to his chin. “There’s so much variation.”

Wade eyes him. “You like it,” he echoes in a disbelieving tone. “How could you like it?”

Peter shrugs. “I’m more tactile than visual, if that makes sense. It’s a spider thing.”

Wade takes a moment to consider that. “If you say so. But if you decide it’s too much for you, or you’d prefer someone, uh, smoother—”

“You know, we could just skip to the kissing part,” Peter tells him. “That might be more fun. Not that the part where you try to talk me out of this isn’t going great, but—”

“It is?” Wade’s eyes widen. “Wait, this isn’t the part that I wanted to go great! Shit, editor, delete that last bit!”

“No need, you weirdo,” Peter replies, laughing. “Kiss me, and we’ll skip to the good stuff.”

It’s a surprisingly tentative kiss, just a brush of dry lips against his. It feels more like a question than the assertion he was expecting. Rather than greedily demanding more, he gives Wade time, letting him relax into the contact. When Peter makes an encouraging little sound, Wade’s chest hitches. Emboldened, Peter sweeps his tongue across the seam of his lips. When they part, he presses their tongues together.

The contact seems to stir Wade from his cocoon of caution and suddenly he’s kissing him with all the desire and intensity Peter had hoped for. They continue until he has to pause for air, which seems awkward until he notices that Wade is in the same state.

Once Wade catches his breath, he starts talking again.

No surprise there.

“So, what made you decide you liked me?”

It takes Peter another moment to gather the facilities to respond. His voice emerges rough and scratchy, which is a little embarrassing.

“Well, everything I already mentioned, but the crimes you were committing to get my attention were pretty funny. I mean, now that I’ve got some space and distance. Counterfeiting money!” He pauses to laugh. “How could I not admire that level of effort?”

Wade grins. “I only created a few. Mostly to see if you’d notice.”

“You were passing them where I work. The odds were pretty high that bills stamped with your face would get noticed.”

“I dunno. You’d be surprised at the things people don’t notice. For the most part, people see what they expect to see. And what they want to see. My face? You’re pretty much the only person to give it a thumbs-up.”

Peter decides to allow the self depreciation to pass without comment. “Did you have other crimes planned?”

“Did I ever!” Wade pauses. “Although it’s probably a good thing I didn’t get around to some of them. Pulling bricks from the building with a grappling hook, that might’a been an okay way of getting your attention, but pickpocketing the Hulk—”

Peter widens his eyes. “Wade, he would have pounded you into the pavement.”

Wade nods agreeably. “And not in a fun way, either. Still, I was tempted. Who knows what he’s got secreted away in those pockets? Also, how many people can say they got pounded by the Hulk and scolded by Spider-Man in a single day? Not many, I’m betting. At least not many who survived to talk about it.”

“Or were willing to admit it,” Peter replies with a pointed look.

“I also considered spraying graffiti inside your building.”

Peter triple-blinks. “Who sprays graffiti inside a building?”

“Me, obviously,” Wade says with entirely too much relish. “It was gonna be great, I had all sorts of plans — but then I realized I’d probably get caught, banned from the building, and maybe even get you evicted. Still, I already bought the spray paint…”

Peter shakes his head in disbelief. “Anything else?”

“Sure! It’s not like you can really run out of attention-grabbing crimes. One tends to lead to another, yanno? They’re like potato chips, you can’t stop unless you find something to distract yourself with.”

“Like… needlework?”

Wade grins. “I was thinking more along the line of kisses. But I’d settle for cuddles. If we’re gonna be a thing, we should find out how well we fit together. I’m thinking ‘perfectly’ but it seems like a good thing to confirm while there’s still time for you to back out.”

“There’s time for you as well, you know. You haven’t signed any contracts.”

Wade scoffs. “There’s never been a time when I could have backed out. From the moment I saw that ass—”

“And here I thought you were about to get sappy and romantic,” Peter says, nestling himself close. Sure enough, their bodies slot together easily, arms and legs and shoulders finding their positions as if choreographed. As he settles his head against Wade’s chest, he sighs with contentment. “So what are you gonna do with that spray paint?”

“Throw it– I mean, donate it to a good cause. I bet there’s some promising young artists out there who’d appreciate twenty cans of high-quality paint.”

“Twenty cans?!”

Wade shifts, winding their bodies closer. “You might not have noticed the first can or two.”

Peter chokes back laughter. “I can’t believe I’m preventing a crime spree with the power of… cuddles.”

Wade hums. “You know, this really isn’t the content my audience expects of me. Are you sure I can’t go on a tiny murder spree for the sake of my rep?”

“I’m sure.”

“What if it’s someone who really sucks?”

“Wade…”

“Okay, okay, let’s just cuddle.”

“Well, maybe not justcuddle. C’mere…”

They’re in the middle of removing clothing when Wade suddenly stops and looks towards the center of the room. “Okay, this is where you get off. Well, technically it’s where we get off, but did you really think I was gonna let you watch me with my true love, my heart mate, my baby boy?”

Peter follows his gaze and sees nothing, because there’s nothing there to see. “Um, who are you talking to?”

Wade waves a hand through the air. “Just them. And they’re leaving. Adios, friendos! But no worries, I’m gonna make this super-extra good for him.”