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Webs presses the crumpled piece of paper into Wade’s hand with firm, strong fingers.
“We’ve been working together a lot lately,” he tells Wade, in his soft voice. “It makes sense if you can contact me.”
Wade wonders for a moment if the spandex-clad superhero has given him his phone number. He puts his fingers on the edges of the piece of paper, about to unfold it, but then a gun goes off behind him and he feels a white hot pain in his shoulder blade.
He shoves the piece of paper into his pocket and yanks a katana free.
“You okay, Wade?” Webs asks, flinging himself towards the assailants and shooting web at them.
Wade just sighs as his gaze falls on Spidey’s glorious ass.
Peter is drunk. Beautifully, gloriously, miserably drunk. He watches as MJ kisses the pink-haired human she currently has her fingers wrapped around. Jealousy flares within him. When was the last time he managed to get a cheeky night out kiss?
He finishes his beer with a scowl. He’s just a small, skinny guy with a messy shock of hair and a tendency to say stupid things. It’s no wonder he can’t attract a mate.
He tried his best tonight. MJ helped him pick out the blue shirt and black jeans he’s wearing, but when he looks down at himself, he can still only see the nerdy little freak who couldn’t get a girlfriend in high school.
And then the nerdy little freak who couldn’t get a boyfriend in college.
Nowadays, Peter has reached the age of twenty four, and the only person who regularly flirts with him is Wade fucking Wilson; the ridiculous mercenary has never seen his face. Peter has no doubt that with more information about the dorky man inside the suit, Wade would quickly lose interest.
And… if he’s being honest, that would hurt.
He came out tonight with MJ and Ned. Ned is nowhere to be seen, having disappeared off with a pretty blonde thirty minutes or so ago. MJ’s tongue is deeply in the mouth of another person. Peter folds his arms and huffs inaudibly over the pounding music.
Then his phone buzzes in his pocket. He pulls it out, frowning and squinting to see it through the haze of beer. He has a new text message from a number he doesn’t know.
Princess.
Peter frowns. He doesn’t hate the nickname outright; it’s sweet and oddly affectionate. He can almost imagine Wade calling him it. But he rather thinks someone has the wrong number. He types a reply. Who is this?
There’s a brief pause, then the response comes in. Sorry wrong number.
Peter’s stomach sinks. He glances up and sees MJ pressed against the wall, eyes closed as she tangles her fingers into pink hair. He sighs and looks back at his phone, a slight smile crossing his face as he types a reply. Come back I’ll be your princess.
There’s no response for a moment, and he feels his stomach sink.
Then his phone vibrates. We will meet again, in another life.
Peter snorts. Fuck it. He types a response, his fingers trembling. I love you.
What a strange occurrence. Presumably the guy texting him (and it’s statistically likely to be a straight guy calling a girl princess, right?) meant to text his cute little girlfriend, not a dorky and drunk scientist. Peter laughs.
His phone vibrates. Love you too, Princess.
He sighs sadly. When is he next going to get a message from someone telling him they love him? He shoves his phone into his pocket and goes off to get another beer.
He’s back in his corner, drinking furiously, trying to cheer himself up, when his phone buzzes again. To his surprise, it’s a message from the same unknown number.
Are you drunk, baby?
Peter wonders if he should reply. It’s risky to get too invested in this strange conversation; he’s lonely, and he’s drunk. It’s going to hurt if he somehow develops an interest in the mystery person at the end of the phone who called him Princess.
But he can’t resist typing a response. A bit, yeah. Well, a lot.
Where you at?
Should Peter really give his location to a stranger? Beneath the drunken haze, a sensible voice cries out that it's incredibly silly, but that voice is overruled by the booming confidence of alcohol. “I'm fucking Spider-Man,” Peter slurs to himself. “I once beat a man unconscious with a subway train.”
So he types a reply. The Electric Swan.
There's a pause. Then, a reply which makes Peter's heart race. Shall I come over?
This could be anyone. Peter has no idea who he's talking to. But he's filled with an intense longing and he can't stop his fingers from replying. Well, don't feel obliged or anything, but that might be quite nice.
You're my Princess. I'm absolutely obliged and happy about it.
Peter laughs. He's no longer aware of the people around him or the fact that his friends have both successfully hooked up with other people. Someone is coming to see him.
His phone buzzes again. Might be helpful if you send me a photo of your face so I know who to look for, Princess.
Peter blushes self-consciously. This is the point at which he's going to lose the guy, isn't it? Either he's going to be horrified that Peter's not a girl, or he's going to be horrified that Peter's a regular nerd.
But he has to do this. He sighs and takes a selfie, his round brown eyes wide and startled in the flash, before sending it.
There's a long pause.
Fuck.
Then a brief reply. I'm on the roof.
A sober Peter Parker might realise that a stranger trying to lure him up to the roof is not a good sign; in fact, someone who suggests it probably knows how easy Peter finds it to get onto roofs because of his superpowers. But drunken Peter Parker merely shrugs and heads outside.
The air is cool and fresh and suddenly, startlingly quiet compared to the club. He walks around to the back of the building and realises that he feels sick. Who is waiting for him on top of the roof?
He sticks his palms to the side of the building and scales it easily, his strength undiminished by alcohol. His balance, however, is affected, and he sprawls over the top of the wall, landing inelegantly, face down on the roof.
“That looked painful,” a deep, smoky voice observes.
Peter leaps to his feet, blushing. “Yes, no, I'm fine, but- Wade?”
Deadpool is standing in front of him, fully masked and suited up. He raises a hand in a friendly gesture.
“Wade, what the fuck are you doing here? I'm meant to be-” Peter blinks. He's meant to be Peter Parker, innocent civilian with no idea of who Deadpool is. “I mean, Deadpool, hi, I have no idea of your other identity.”
“Smooth,” Wade says drily. “How drunk are you?”
“Rather,” Peter admits. “Look, I'm meeting someone, so…”
“Webs,” Wade says slowly, “think about the last person you gave your number to.”
Oh, fuck.
“It was you!” Peter cries. He covers his face with his hands, embarrassed. “Oh my god, you dickhead! Why on earth would you text me calling me Princess?”
“I, um, got two numbers,” Wade says, shrugging. “One was yours. The other was a… female with an interest in mercenaries.”
Peter feels horrified. To begin with, he's revealed his face to Wade Wilson, as well as his own drunken loneliness. Secondly, Wade was apparently trying to message a potential hook up and accidentally messaged Peter.
“Why the fuck did you come, then?” Peter asks. “Go see your lady friend.”
Wade snorts. “Lady friend? God, Webs, you look barely legal but you talk like an old woman.”
Peter is crimson. He balls his hands into fists. “If you ever tell anyone what I look like-”
“What, you'll get drunk and shout at me?” Wade asks, laughing. “Nobody would believe me, anyway. It's not fair that you get to have that face as well as that ass.”
Peter blinks, the fury within him dying down a little. Is Wade… flirting with him? “What?” he demands.
“Princess, the second I realised I'd messaged you by accident, I realised that I wanted to message you and not her.” Wade takes a step towards him.
Peter is too stunned by Wade calling him Princess to move back.
“You said you loved me,” Wade tells him. “I know you didn't mean it, but I liked it.”
Peter cocks his head. Wade is right in front of him now, close enough for Peter to reach out and touch that incredibly muscular chest. He forces himself to keep his hands still. “You knew you were messaging me and you still said you loved me too.”
Wade doesn't move. “I know I did.”
“Oh.” Peter swallows. “So… you like me?”
Wade bursts out laughing. “You could say that. What's your name? Your real name?”
“Peter Parker.”
Wade offers him his gloved hand. “Wade Wilson.”
Peter rolls his eyes. “I know your name, you absolute dick. Take your mask off.”
Wade hesitates. “You've seen some of it before and you know it's not pretty.”
“If I didn't think you were pretty, I wouldn't still be standing on this rooftop, Wade.”
Sighing, Wade reaches up and pulls his mask off slowly, wincing his bright blue eyes as though afraid that Peter is going to recoil in horror. But of course Peter does not. He's seen an awful lot of Deadpool's face before and it's never horrified him; Wade has amazing eyes and a cheeky grin which ignites something in Peter. That grin slowly spreads across his face as he watches Peter bite his lip.
“Princess,” he murmurs.
Then they're kissing. It's hot and firm and passionate, and Peter is pulled against Wade's hard, huge body, whimpering into his mouth in delight.
“I've wanted to do that for a really long time,” Peter admits when they draw apart.
Wade smirks. “Me too.”