Chapter Text
“I had Noodle Arms on the ground by that point, but then Sunglasses was trying to sneak up on me from behind. Little did that fucker know I heard him coming. So, I whipped around, wa-bam, and knocked him right in the smell cannon, sent his glasses flying and everything.”
“I know. I was there.”
“Just recounting it for the readers,” Wade said, cheerfully stuffing half a chimichanga in his mouth.
It was one in the morning, post-patrol. Wade had insisted on getting something to eat—
( “The crippling burden of defending all of New York City without stabbing anyone makes my tummy growl.”
“Wade, it’s been one night.” )
So, here they were, in a booth by the window at their favorite, if not the only, taco joint in the area to be open this late. Peter’s mask was halfway rolled up, gloves off, so he could dig into the three steamy and soft corn tortilla tacos on his plate. Wade had taken his mask off altogether, setting it on the seat beside him, determined to avoid a repeat of the salsa verde incident.
This must have been the longest consecutive time that Peter had seen Wade maskless, come to think of it. He couldn’t deny that it was sort of nice, getting to see Wade’s expressive face do its thing. It was something that Wade would never have on him, Peter thought selfishly. Peter had his eyes, his smile, his cheekbones, his nose. All Wade got was the few inches of skin beneath Peter’s rolled up mask—a chin, a flash of exposed cheek, the rounded tip of his nostrils.
“I’m basically friendly-neighborhood-certified,” Wade said through a mouthful of refried beans. “I kicked that guy’s ass in a totally polite and respectful way.”
Peter reached across the table with a tortilla chip in hand to steal a scoop of guacamole from Wade’s plate. “You did break his nose. He screamed in pain.”
Wade waved a dismissive hand. “What a drama queen, am I right?” He retaliated by dipping one of his chips in Peter’s queso. “But last I checked, broken bones were allowed.”
“Yeah, but not preferred.”
Wade shrugged. “Point is, he’ll be fine. Aren’t you proud of me, baby boy?”
Out of habit, Peter was about to disagree but then he saw the look on Wade’s face. His eyes were trained on Peter expectantly, but his mouth was a firm line, his shoulders rigid as if bracing himself.
And then it clicked. The whole ‘good guy’ thing wasn’t an act or a whim, not this time. This was what Wade looked like when he was trying, and trying desperately at that. This workshop, the focus on Spidey’s ‘stick in the mud’ morality was the proof. Tonight’s patrol was a start. For some reason, Wade cared that Peter noticed he was trying to be better.
Something fluttered between Peter’s ribs. “I am proud,” he said softly.
Wade smiled, slow and warm and relieved. He had a smear of guac smudged against his chin. Never mind the katanas, guns, and knives— this Wade bought him tacos, pinched Peter to keep him awake on patrol, tilted his head all the way back to laugh the deep, rumbling laugh that shook Peter to his core. This was the Wade that Peter spent most of his nights with, and to be honest, most of his time with. He wasn’t sure when that had happened, but Peter figured if the roles were reversed, he wouldn’t make a bad Deadpool expert.
Wade’s smile morphed into a wolfish grin. “That workshop really did a number on you, huh? Are you hot for teacher, or do you have some Spidey clone fetish thing I haven’t found about yet? Don’t worry, I’m not going to yuck your yum. I’m down for anything.”
“Don’t be gross,” said Peter. “You’re allowed to just accept the compliment without deflecting.”
“I—” Wade swallowed, silently conferring with the Boxes. “I’m not deflecting. You’re deflecting.”
Peter finished off the last of his tacos, wiping at his mouth with a napkin. “Wow, you should really teach superhero quips and backtalk at your workshop. You’ve got a knack for it.”
Wade frowned at him, petulant. “It’s in the lesson plan.”
“Lesson plan?”
Wade leaned across the table, lowering his voice to a stage whisper. “Try not to get too aroused, but I made a spreadsheet. Just some things the disciples might need to know, considering I’m the expert on Spidey facts.”
“How about you prove your knowledge and go buy Spider-Man another round of tacos, just how he likes them?” Peter suggested, his tone innocent.
Wade opened his mouth, most of the way to defiance, but seemed to think better of it. “You’re lucky the ‘nerd in skintight spandex’ thing is really doing it for me.” Wade scooted his way out of the booth and headed in the direction of the counter where the bored looking teenager who had put in their orders twenty minutes ago was painting her nails neon green.
While he waited, Peter speculated about Wade’s spreadsheet. He wondered if it was color-coded in different shades of red and blue.
Wade slumped back into the booth, startling Peter. “The friendly neighborhood Spider-Man shtick is false advertising by the way.”
Peter blinked at him, mind still wandering Wade’s hypothetical Google Drive. “What do you mean?”
“This isn’t your neighborhood,” Wade said simply. “You’re from Queens.”
It was like a slap to the face. Peter felt the blood drain from his cheeks, and his pulse hammered away in his throat. He froze, trying to come up with a denial that sounded believable, but realized too late that the hesitation just served as Wade’s confirmation.
“Told you I could read you like a book,” Wade winked.
“Wade,” Peter hissed. “What the fuck? Did you follow me home?”
Wade slapped his hand to his chest for a dramatic, offended gasp. “You think me capable of such a thing?”
You used to kill people for a living, Peter almost said. But that wasn’t fair. Wade had sworn that was behind him, and had given Peter no reason to doubt him yet if tonight’s patrol was any indication. This wasn’t about that anyway. This was about Wade’s frustrating insistence on ramming through every personal boundary Peter set before him just for the hell of it.
“Yes, I do,” Peter said through gritted teeth.
“One, ouch. Tell me how you really feel, Webs. And two, I figured it out at the workshop,” Wade explained. “I knew there was no fucking way you could afford Manhattan, and the way you looked like you wanted to…murder-suicide? Spideycide?” Wade scratched his head. “Whatever-cide the shit out of Cosplay Spidey and Times Square Spidey when they were debating which borough could claim you—I mean, it was clear you weren’t from Brooklyn or the Bronx.”
A faint droning rang in Peter’s ears. How could he have been so careless? Peter folded his arms. “Well, what about Staten Island?”
Wade stared at him for a good ten seconds before bursting into a fit of bellowing laughter. After a minute during which tears beaded his eyelashes and Peter watched his face grow progressively more and more red, Wade finally calmed down. “Oh, you’re serious? You are the first person I’ve ever heard utter those words.”
“Shut up for a minute,” Peter snapped, then added a weary, “Please.”
To his surprise, Wade’s jaw clicked shut.
“There are—there are people that I need to protect,” Peter said, choosing his words one at a time. “People that could get hurt, and it would be my fault. I don’t maintain a secret identity because I think it’s fun.”
He locked eyes with Wade, trying not to let his voice tremble too much. Peter was thinking of May, thinking of the worried lines around her mouth every time she saw how thin he was getting or how the dark circles beneath his eyes deepened week by week.
“I need you to promise me that you won’t screw this up for me.” Peter hated begging, but damn it, this was more important than his dignity.
Wade lifted a solemn hand to his heart. “I swear on my homeland—known to some as the Great White North, to others as the land of maple syrup, and to everyone as the holy birthplace of pop sensation Justin Bieber.”
“Seriously, Wade,” Peter said, stretched taut, a rubber band buzzing with the tension of it all.
“Seriously. I mean it.” Wade traced his pointer finger in a sloppy ‘X’ across his chest. “Cross my heart and—” He paused. “Well, I don’t think hoping will do much for me in the death department.”
Peter studied him, waiting for the other shoe to drop, waiting for the part where Wade put out a press release on the secret identity of Spider-Man, or dropped his government name and address into casual conversation. But it never came.
Peter wanted to believe him. God, did Peter want to believe with every aching fiber of his being. He sat with that want for a moment, wondering where to stow it.
“I promise,” Wade told him. His eyes were wide and earnest, brown and flecked with the reflection of neon light from the Open sign in the window behind Peter. Red and blue, pulsing like a heartbeat. Red and blue, like blood and bruises, like cheap Amazon costumes, like Spider-Man and everyone who had ever wanted to be him.
“Okay,” Peter exhaled.
Wade grinned. “By the way, can I ask you a question that’s been bugging me?”
Peter nodded reluctantly.
“ What is your ass workout regime? Squats, genetics? Does the radioactive spider bite package come with juicy glutes? Inquiring minds would like to know.”
Peter made a face. “What inquiring minds?”
“My disciples. Duh.”
“Tell your disciples I don’t see how that’s their business.”
“Look, Webs. I know you’ve got some dark magic deal with Spider Jesus or whatever because the universe doesn’t go around bestowing such a dump truck of a caboose upon anyone. ” Wade raised his arms to the heavens. “Plus, spandex doesn’t do for my ass what it does for yours, so don’t you dare tell me it’s the suit.” He narrowed his eyes, scrutinizing Peter.
Peter snorted at the accusation. Wade was gearing up for another round of questioning when a ding sounded from the pick-up counter. Peter’s tacos were ready, saving him from Wade’s interrogation. Peter offered one to Wade along with a wad of preemptive napkins. And just like that, he felt lighter.
Peter kept a running tally of Wade’s progress. That first week, Peter counted eight and a half broken bones, rounded down from nine due to Wade’s stubborn insistence.
( Yes, fracturing someone’s pinky finger counts.
That’s the least important finger and you know it. What does he need it for, drinking tea with Your Highness?)
By week two, the count was down to four. Stab wounds were down by 78.3% percent from the previous Wednesday.
Peter’s no gun policy had been the hardest to enforce, but Wade was coming around on it. There was one day that he’d shown up without any ammo, making a performative show of turning his pockets inside out.
( Told you. Nothing in my pockets, and yes, I am happy to see you, baby boy. )
The workshops were biweekly now. Peter had to miss a couple of them because he had agreed to run additional review sessions on top of TAing for the summer semester for some reason, which meant he was forced to choose between making Sisyphean progress on his thesis, going on night patrols with Wade, attending Spidey Skills workshops, and you know, basic necessities like food and sleep.
Besides, Wade was plenty enthusiastic to fill him in on the details.
( It’s too bad you missed the lesson on upside down smooching.
The what?)
Peter still wasn’t sure how many of these details were embellished.
It was already August by the time Peter made the sweaty pilgrimage through Central Park again. Cosplay Spidey was there as usual, sticky notes and pen poised and ready to go, but there was a new face, or new mask rather, in place of Times Square Spidey.
“What happened to Times Square Spidey?” Peter asked, interrupting Wade in the middle of re-introductions.
Wade cocked his head, confused. “What do you mean?” No mask again today, and his costume had torn slightly at the shoulder seam at some point since Peter’s last attendance. Half an inch of skin peeked out at the edge of his collarbone. Peter pointedly did not look at the rip and did not think about how obscene it was.
The new guy waved at Peter. “Nope, still me. Just upgraded the suit.”
“Oh,” Peter said, inspecting the detailing on the mask. “It looks great. You made it yourself?”
Times Square shifted from foot to foot, hands clasped in front of him. “Yeah, figured I could put my sewing skills to use. It’s a pain to wash though.”
Peter smiled grimly. “Tell me about it.” Not too long ago he’d thrown his suit in blindly with the rest of his laundry and stained his nicest button-up purple.
Wade cleared his throat obnoxiously. “As I was saying before Birthday Spidey rudely interrupted, last session you all graduated from the Marvel School of He’s-right-behind-me-isn’t-he. Today, we’re skipping the foreplay and getting right to fingering.”
Peter choked on his own saliva, certain he couldn’t have heard that right.
“Oopsie, little slip of the tongue there.” Wade snuck a deliberately smug glance at Peter. “I’ll be teaching you finger positions for web shooting.”
Times Square Spidey raised his hand eagerly. “I know that one!”
Wade wagged his finger, sage as ever. “Ah, ah, ah. Hubris shall be your downfall, my friend. There’s always more to learn.”
Times Square Spidey nodded quickly.
Wade paced back and forth in front of them, arms folded, a general inspecting his ranks. “Come on, class. Show me your Spidey fingers!”
Peter didn’t quite see the point in this exercise. If there was one thing that any Spidey impersonator worth his webs knew, it was Spider-Man’s web-shooting hand position. As Peter looked around, it seemed that his doppelgangers already had a handle on the gesture: the middle and ring fingers tucked in toward the palm, the other fingers stretched out.
Peter forced his fingers to hover awkwardly, careful not to let them touch his palm where the trigger for his web shooters rested beneath his gloves. The position was more than a bit awkward, and he could feel the muscles in his hands begin to cramp after a minute or so.
With perfectly irritating timing, Wade approached him, taking hold of Peter’s right hand between his own hands. He tsk-tsk ed disapprovingly. “You can do better than that , Birthday Spidey.”
Peter scowled, already in a sour mood from the sticky August heat. “You know I invented this position, right?”
“Yeah, and you’re doing it wrong,” Wade said. “Two things can be true.” His fingertips skittered between Peter’s knuckles, crested the heel of Peter’s palm.
Wade’s fingers were thicker and calloused, and they felt strange tracing the lines of Peter’s slender ones. Peter could almost feel Wade’s touch through his gloves. Wade wrapped his hand around Peter’s and used his thumb to slowly press Peter’s fingers down toward the palm.
Peter flinched backwards, free of Wade’s grip. “You’re going to make me actually shoot webs.”
Wade smirked at him. “Whoa, Tiger! At least buy me dinner first.”
“Propositioning your mentees doesn’t seem like appropriate life coach conduct to me.” Peter raised an accusatory eyebrow.
“You’re the one who wanted to ‘shoot your webs’ all over me,” Wade shot back. “And, hey, if the offer’s still on the table…”
“It isn’t,” Peter informed him. “There was no offer.”
Wade shrugged at him like well, what can you do. Peter watched him as he moved on to straighten Cosplay Spidey’s left pinky.
As he watched, Peter dropped his hands, unclenching his fingers. They tingled faintly with the memory of where Wade had held them.
They wrapped up the workshop with a quick backflip demo, which Wade must have quickly realized wasn’t quite beginner level when Times Square Spidey flung himself to the ground, landing hard on his knees.
Peter winced in sympathy, grateful that they were practicing on grass rather than concrete or—in typical Spidey fashion—a rooftop ledge.
Wade started to conclude the lesson with his usual, “Well, if there’s no further questions, that’ll be all for today.”
But there were further questions. Cosplay Spidey’s arm had shot up, straining out of their socket. “Um, Mr. Wade?”
“Yes, Cosplay Spidey?”
“You, uh, advertised on your flier that you’re a friend and confidant of Spider-Man.” Cosplay Spidey’s eyes were wide beneath their mask and their hand twitched hopefully around their ballpoint pen.
Wade nodded. “Best, most dearest friend and closest confidant. Yep.”
Peter pursed his lips hesitantly. Friend? You could call Wade that. But best friend?
“I was wondering—well, what’s Spider-Man like? In real life?”
Wade blinked at them, caught off guard.
Peter stared at Wade, expectant. What was Spider-Man like in real life? Peter hardly knew the answer himself.
Wade tapped his chin thoughtfully. “Imagine a nerd with a caffeine addiction, a heart of gold, and a guilt complex bigger than the Empire State Building,” he said slowly. “He’s got this whole ‘friendly neighborhood’ vibe, but let me tell you, he takes it seriously. Like, this is the dude who will literally stop mid-swing to help an old lady cross the street or rescue your cat from a tree or give you both his kidneys if you say ‘pretty please.’ The guy can’t help himself. He’s gotta make sure everyone’s safe and sound, even if it means missing out on normal people stuff like sleeping or not getting punched in the face.”
A small smile split Wade’s lips and he glanced at Peter. “But, you know, he’s got this weird kind of charm. Like, you know how puppies trip over their own feet? That’s Spidey in a nutshell: dorky in a cute way and always stumbling over himself to do the right thing. He’s the guy you’d want to have your back in a fight, even if he accidentally webs his own hands together.”
Wade chuckled lightly. “That’s a funny story actually—”
“No, I mean, who is he?” Cosplay Spidey interrupted, not bothering to raise their hand this time.
Wade’s mouth slammed shut.
Peter’s stomach dropped, nausea bubbling to the surface. His legs were slabs of marble, leaden.
“I’m assuming you know his identity, right?” Cosplay Spidey soldiered on. “Cause I have this theory—”
Wade lifted his hand abruptly. “I’m going to have to stop you right there, Cosplay Spidey. Snitches get stitches. We’ll pick up where we left off next week.”
Cosplay Spidey stared at Wade in shocked silence. “But—”
“Class dismissed!” Wade called in an authoritative, booming voice.
Peter could feel the relief seeping into his bones as the group dissipated. And once the quivering of anxiety subsided within his ribcage, a different fluttering settled in its place.
He waved a quick goodbye to Wade, not managing to stifle a smile when Wade winked and mouthed call me, forming the symbol for “phone” with one hand.
Peter retraced his steps out of the park with Wade’s words echoing in his head. He’s got this weird kind of charm.
Patrol that night was the slowest it had been in weeks. The air was stagnant, the city almost muffled. The heat smothered the streets, not interrupted by a single stray breeze. With little else to do Peter and Wade sat, feet dangling off the side of the roof of an apartment building.
Someone was having a party in an apartment four floors down and two units over. It was almost midnight but Peter could still see the warm glow of light leaking from the windows. Their laughter bounced off the adjacent buildings. Peter could hear the distant boom of music from a speaker. There was a cluster of them out on the fire escape, like ants glittering in the moonlight from Peter’s point of view.
Instinctually, Peter pulled out his phone and took a picture of the scene. There was something nostalgic about it.
Wade crowded in behind Peter, nosily trying for a look at the photo but Peter pressed the off button and set his phone down beside him.
Wade’s brow narrowed under his mask, but curious enough, he was quiet.
Peter tucked his knees up toward his chest, resting his chin there. “I wanted to thank you for what you said earlier at the workshop,” he said, turning his head to watch Wade out of the corner of his eye. It was much harder to gauge a reaction like this, masks on, in the dark—or as dark as it ever got in Manhattan.
Wade shrugged. “No problemo. Didn’t think that secret identity shit was anyone’s business. I mean, I know you pretty damn well and I still don’t know your name.”
Peter considered for a moment. Just who did Wade know exactly? Spider-Man was no more real than the abstract concepts of truth or justice. And if Spider-Man was only a persona, who was left? Whose habits, whose mannerisms did Wade have memorized?
Mine, thought Peter. He doesn’t know Spider-Man. He knows me.
The realization settled like silt sinking to the bottom of a pond. In a way, Peter had known this for a long time.
Wade placed his hand on Peter’s shoulder and squeezed. “Of course I’m going to look after Birthday Spidey, my favorite student.”
“It’s not nice to play favorites,” Peter pointed out.
“Fuckin’ sue me!” Wade proclaimed loudly, cupping his hands around his mouth to amplify his voice. “Birthday Spidey is the best Spidey!” Peter wondered if the people on the fire escape down below could hear him.
“I guess the name’s extra accurate today, right?” Wade said with that familiar wink-wink-nudge-nudge sort of tone.
Peter gave him a blank look. “What?”
“Birthday Spidey,” Wade said slowly. “It’s midnight, August 10th. It’s your birthday.”
Peter instantly sat up straight, every muscle in his body going tense. “Wade, we had this conversation.”
“Whoa, take a chill pill, Webs,” Wade said, raising both hands in a placating gesture. “I swear I didn’t go snooping around for your social security number or whatever.” He pointed at Peter’s phone. “You got a Google Calendar notification last night after patrol. And one just now, by the way.”
Peter’s face flushed with mortification beneath his mask. He stuffed his phone into a pocket, cursing himself for his carelessness. It could have been worse , he reminded himself. At least it was just Wade. Oddly, the thought comforted him.
When had the “just” attached itself to Wade’s name—to Deadpool’s name? Peter had to be crazy to feel at ease in the almost-former mercenary’s presence, yet he did.
“I mean, really, you are such a nerd. Who puts their birthday in their Google Calendar?”
Peter might have bristled at the insult if not for the soft, downright fond way that Wade had said it.
“I…forget sometimes,” Peter said self-consciously.
Wade leaned into Peter’s side. “It’s a good thing I’m here to remind you, then.” He squinted at Peter, sizing him up. “Let me guess. Double digits?”
“Very funny,” Peter responded, deadpan. “I’m twenty-five.”
Wade pumped his fist overenthusiastically. “Damn, you just got twenty-five times hotter, Birthday Boy. I love a fully developed frontal lobe, makes for excellent banter—which we do have, in case you were wondering.”
“I wouldn’t call it excellent banter.”
“Hey, Webs, play nice,” Wade poked his arm, chastising. “You should be grateful to be in an AO3 fic. God forbid we were subjected to Wattpad banter. It’s either mafia boss or uwu smol bean, and there’s no in between.”
Peter opened his mouth, shut it, opened it again. “I’m actually glad I understood none of that.”
“See, I knew you would say that!” Wade beamed. “That’s called good banter, baby boy.”
Peter nodded. “Yeah, tell me again about how you know me so much better than I know myself.” He had meant it as sarcastic, but it came out genuine, a simple question, pure in its curiosity.
Wade was ready this time. With the confident air only befitting of someone who had rehearsed in front of the mirror multiple times, he rattled off, “I know your poison of choice is redbull because you hate the taste of coffee. You always wake up with your first alarm but you set fifteen more like a little weirdo. I know you hum the Star Wars theme when you’re concentrating, and you swap to Doctor Who when you’re stressed. I used to think you were a clean freak cause you carry around like five hand sanitizer bottles at a time, but they’re just for extra web fluid.”
Wade paused only to suck in a much needed breath. “I know you’re a Leo and your birthstone is peridot.”
Peter rolled his eyes. “Now you’re just showing off.”
Wade still wasn’t done. “I know you’re too damn hard on yourself. His voice was low, serious. “I know that you make me want to be better every fucking minute I spend with you. I know that the people who dress up like you don’t do it because they think they can replace you; they do it because they admire you and it’s the only way they know how to show how much they care about you. How much I—”
Peter’s heart was straining in his chest, perched on the edge of that unfinished sentence, but Wade just cleared his throat, switching gears.
“I got you something, a birthday gift,” he blurted. From behind his back he produced a cupcake, packaged in plastic but looking worse for wear. The red and blue frosting was half melted, sloughing off the side of the cupcake.
Peter accepted the battered dessert with a quiet sort of reverence. He popped open the container and immediately tore the cupcake down the middle, handing one half to Wade.
“It’s your birthday, Spidey,” Wade protested weakly.
“Just take it,” Peter insisted. “I’ve got a heart of gold, and a guilt complex bigger than the Empire State Building, remember?” he said, repeating Wade’s own words back to him.
Wade sighed. “Okay, fine. You make it so hard to be the bigger person.” He shoved his mask up to take a big bite of the cupcake. Peter watched his eyes widen, the sugar going straight to his bloodstream.
Peter rolled up his own mask before taking a tentative bite. The sugary frosting coated his tongue, but Peter hadn’t eaten since three in the afternoon, so the cupcake tasted heavenly. He wiped his gloved fingers on the discarded wrapper once he was finished.
When he looked up, Wade was watching him. Wade’s lips were pressed tightly together, lost for words. It didn’t happen often.
“Thanks for the cupcake,” Peter said. The words didn’t feel big enough for the moment.
Wade wiped his hands on his pants hastily. “That’s not all, Webs. Best for last.” He began rummaging around in his utility belt. “As you know, there’s a lot of Spideys out there, but I wasn’t lying when I said you’re my favorite one.” His hand went still, seeming to latch onto the object he was searching for. “You could even say I’m your biggest…”
Wade held out something small and plastic.
“Fan,” he concluded, grinning.
Indeed, it was a fan, the cheap souvenir kind, battery-powered with flimsy blades that stirred the tiniest breeze. But in that moment, when Peter held it to his sweaty neck and felt its weak gust of wind, he’d never known such relief. New York summer, finally defeated. Peter took his small victories where he could.
“While you would make a cute damsel in distress, I thought it would be better to avoid any swooning in the middle of patrol,” Wade explained.
Something swelled in Peter’s chest to the point of overflowing. “You know, there’s still one thing that any self-respecting Spidey expert should know about me,” he said.
Wade glanced at him, insatiably curious. He had a smear of blue frosting on his chin. Peter couldn’t look away. “What thing is that?” Wade asked.
Peter extended his hand toward Wade. “My name is Peter Parker. Nice to meet you.”
The smile on Wade’s face was positively iridescent. “The pleasure is all mine, Peter Parker.” He said Peter’s name slowly, dragging out the syllables like he was running something sweet over his tongue, letting his taste buds soak in the flavor.
They shook on it, ridiculously formal.
Much too formal , Peter thought. Putting his newly-minted, fully developed, decision-making frontal lobe to good use, Peter leaned in and planted a soft kiss on Wade’s lips. He tasted like frosting, like budding, reluctant trust, like inside jokes, like hot summer nights at the summit of the city.
Peter pulled back, wiping away the stripe of frosting on Wade’s chin.
Wade gaped at him for a minute, mouth hanging open. When he finally managed to recover from the shock, he muttered appreciatively, “Why Peter Parker, you horny bitch. You kiss on the first date.”
Peter laughed loud enough for it to reverberate off the concrete all around them.
“Shut up,” he said.
And Wade did, gladly.