Work Text:
Even in a city like New York, the sound of gunfire is an attention-grabber. Not that this time is anything to get excited about--some cheap popgun probably bought on a street corner along with a carton of stolen smokes--but it doesn't belong in this section of town, that's for sure. Straddling the line between the business and shopping districts, whoever's taking potshots out there is close to both easy money and the safety of dead-after-dark bolt holes, but if they're shooting, something probably went wrong.
Deadpool's a curious guy. He's also not dumb. When the muffled clap of gunfire is joined by the squeal of tires burning rubber but going nowhere, he pauses his game, tucks his phone away, and climbs to his feet with a grin.
Making his way along the rooftops, he keeps his ears pricked and his eyes peeled, and he isn't disappointed. A flash of red and blue arcs between two buildings up ahead, slewing around a corner to vanish in the next instant. Setting himself at an angle to Spidey's route, Deadpool passes a car with four doors flung wide, headlights barely piercing the thick webs strung across the front end, sticking it in place in the mouth of an alley.
There's one more shot, and then all goes quiet. He probably isn't even needed here, but it's the kind of thing Deadpool likes to be sure about. Besides, he's got some homework to do.
Bring him something, Al had said, only Deadpool's still trying to figure out what. His kind don't really do gift exchanges, not even courting gifts; you lived long enough to do your duty by the Spawner and the nest, and if you slacked off for even a minute, you got eaten and absorbed to fuel the strong. He's seen it, though, mostly in body-memories, enough to know that appeasing a human who wants you out of their territory isn't going to be easy. Their rituals are all over the place; you can't just sing at them or draw a nice pattern in some sand and call it good. One man's shiny shell is another man's velvet Elvis painting, and Deadpool doesn't want to fuck it up.
Food, though...food's pretty much universal, right? It's gotta be, considering humans bring it to everything from funerals to baby showers. And dinner always tastes better when it's still wiggling.
He grins at the sound of pounding footsteps, crouching low to the edge of the roof he's perched on. The guy who comes tearing into the alley is maybe in his thirties, a little too old to pass off whatever he and his friends were up to tonight as dumb punks egging each other on. Might be drugs involved, or a plan to fund some larger scheme. That part's not Deadpool's problem. This part is.
Still bent low, he hops up onto the roof ledge, flicks his eyes around the dark alley below, and drives the prongs of a grappling hook under the concrete lip beneath his heels. Rappelling down three stories in one fast slide, his boots hit the asphalt just as Spidey's runner goes streaking past, and he reaches out to smack one gloved fist down on the guy's shoulder. Already spooked, the fleeing man flails wildly as Deadpool spins him around, hooks an ankle between his legs, and takes his feet out from under him with a helpful shove between his shoulder blades.
There's a sharp click of teeth and a muffled screech, but the guy's still in one piece as Deadpool yanks his arms up behind his back, fishing for zip ties in one of his pouches. By the time Spidey comes swinging around the corner, Deadpool has his prey wrapped up nice and neat, still breathing and everything.
"Looking for this?" he asks, not bothering to hide his smugness. He knows humans have some sort of weird hang-up about eating each other, but come on. It’s a metaphor, right? Humans love those! And here he is doing a pretty blatant impression of 'plays well with others,' with a side helping of 'has snacks; brought enough to share.' It's obvious, right?
"Uh...were you...after these guys too?" Spidey asks warily, dropping from his line a prudent three car-lengths away. He does not, Deadpool notices, look happy to see him.
"No? What would I want with them? You were the one chasing them."
"Huh. Okay? Um...thanks?" Spidey offers uncertainly.
Oh, right. He's actually supposed to give the wiggling meat to Spidey. Because that's what you do, even if someone who can't hunt for himself is--no, nope, giving the nice present to Spidey, who actually is an excellent hunter, Deadpool's seen him, and--
"Uh, Deadpool?" Spidey clears his throat, inching cautiously closer. "You are going to let me turn that guy in, right?"
--of course Spidey's going to just give his present away. He knew that.
So maybe next time he'll try and find something Spidey will actually keep.
***
"So you know Spidey, right? Or you've got stuff in common with him, anyway. You wear red, you hang out on rooftops, you beat up bad guys.... Look, what's a good thing to bring him to say 'Hey, I'm awesome; you're awesome. Let's have awesome adventures together?'"
"Who are you, and why do you sound like your organs are all in the wrong places?"
"Shit. You can hear that? I mean, uh...catch ya later, Horny Guy!"
Okay. So asking New York's other superheroes was a longshot at best.
That's fine. Deadpool still has other tricks up his sleeve.
***
"Spide-e-ey," Deadpool whines, shoulders slumped pitifully as he clasps his hands in front of his chest. Turned sideways, he keeps pace with Spidey's purposeful strides easily; it's not like Spidey's trying that hard to get away. "Come on, we gotta stop for food. I just regenerated both of my legs, and both of them are hollow!"
Okay, and maybe he sort of ate them the second both Spidey and Doc Ock's backs were turned, so he's not as bad off as he could be, but dissolving and rearranging his own component parts still burns a fair bit of energy. Also his pants are ruined, held together with thick bands of duct tape wrapped around each thigh, so he thinks he deserves a bit of coddling.
"Fine," Spidey grumbles, shaking his head. Deadpool's on to him, though. He's like the stern parent on the sitcom who claims to hate the dog until the kids catch him sneaking the mutt bacon. Spoiler: Deadpool would straight-up murder a man for bacon, so everything's going according to script.
"Yes!" Deadpool hisses, fist-pumping once as he grabs Spidey's wrist with the other hand. "Taco cart!"
It's still early in the evening, not quite eight, and they happen to be near one of his favorite food trucks. It's a family operation, the kids all taking turns at the grill while their grandmother mans the register, and it's close enough to time for them to pack it in that if he cleans them out, it just means they get to go home early.
"Pilar!" he yells as he quick-marches up to the side of the truck, ignoring Spidey's half-hearted attempts to shake off his grip. "Light of my life, patron saint of my stomach!"
Pilar's seamed face crinkles up into a delighted smile at the sound of his voice, and he's pretty sure it's not just because he's bringing his wallet as well. She's even older than Blind Al, which is both mind-blowing and terrifying. Weasel had had to drag his frankly awestruck ass away the first time Deadpool met her. Most living things are just not that durable unless they're crazy mean, crazy smart, or crazy dangerous. He's not sure which one Pilar is, but she thinks he's hilarious, so he's careful to keep it that way.
"Well, well," Pilar greets him with folded arms and a smirk. "It's about time you came to visit. And I see you brought another handsome fellow with you."
"Er...evening, ma'am," Spidey says with a nervous little wave. It's adorable, like he honestly thinks Deadpool wouldn't push him out of the way if Pilar decided to bite.
"Nice to see you, Spider-Man," Pilar says without missing a beat. At the grill, her granddaughter Camila gives Spidey the New Yorker side-glance. She's playing it cool, like she has tea with the Avengers every Friday afternoon, but Deadpool doesn't miss the starstruck shine in her eyes. It makes Deadpool want to puff his own chest out, seeing Spidey get the respect he deserves. "Now, what will you boys be having?"
"Oh, man, all of it," Deadpool groans feelingly. "Whatever you've got, cook it up. We'll take it."
"Uh," Spidey starts to protest, but Deadpool's already fishing a wad of cash from one of his pouches. Half goes to Pilar, who just opens the till with an indulgent smile. The other half he stuffs in the tip jar. "Are you sure we can eat all that?"
"Don't listen to him, Camila!" Deadpool begs, shameless. "He's crazy. Has these weird fits where he just says random things."
"It's very kind of you to be looking after him, then," Camila says, playing along.
"I know, right? Oh, hey--can we get a couple of sodas?"
Spidey's quiet as they make their way up to a peaceful rooftop, six cans of soda dangling from a web-ball in one hand as Deadpool manages the bags of food. If it were Weasel he was with, Weasel would have insisted on exactly the opposite, but that's a holdover from early days. Deadpool is much better now about sharing food, or at least recognizing that that particular piece of food, which has Weasel's name on it, is not-for-taking. Okay, he's getting better at it. But this is Spidey.
It gives him a twinge deep in his gut to divvy up the goods without a fight, but pushing half of their spoils over to Spidey still feels right.
"Do you always, uh, tip like that?" Spidey asks suddenly, paused in the act of hiking his mask up over the bottom half of his face. He's got a sharp jaw to go with the long, fine lines of his neck, little divots cut by laughter etched deep to either side of his mouth.
Deadpool tilts his head, puzzled. "Uh...yeah? I mean, they sit all day in a metal can with a hot grill to give us food. I figure they deserve it. That's not weird, is it?" he asks, just in case. Not that he plans on stopping, but he trusts Spidey to tell him if he's breaking cover too badly, even if he doesn't realize Deadpool has a cover to break.
Spidey's lips part briefly, as if surprised, but then he smiles. "No. Okay, maybe the actual amount is a bit, uh...noticeable? But you're definitely not wrong."
"Cool," Deadpool says with a grin. "Now eat up. Pilar can't cook worth a damn, but their family recipes are to die for."
He gets that weird twinge again as Spidey takes his first bite, but it's drowned out by a fierce sense of satisfaction. Yes, good, some part of him is purring: body-memories devoured but never separated out with nothing to trigger them before.
Spidey is eating his food.
Maybe next time he'll see what Spidey thinks about pizza.
***
"Are these Happy Meal Avengers?" Peter asks, examining the cheap plastic figures arranged in a pleasing pattern on Peter's desk. Iron Meh's head may have popped off at some point, but no biggie. It's probably supposed to do that.
"Maybe," Deadpool says, admitting nothing. He gets that it's dumb to still be courting Peter now that he has him, but turns out it's a hard habit to break. He's just hoping a bunch of dumb toys will get a better reaction than the display of shiny shells had.
To be fair, that might've worked better if they hadn't been shotgun shells.
Anyway.
He watches Peter relocate the toys to the shelf over his desk and not the trash can and has to fight the urge to preen.
***
"So did you ever decide what to give Spider-Man?"
"Oh, yeah--turns out food gifts are pretty much universal. But not totally, and the food content is up for interpretation, but you know. Also the taco goddesses were smiling on me that day, so that probably helped!"
"Glad to hear it. So tell me...."
"Hmm?"
"Why do your organs all sound like they're in different wrong places today?"
"Oh em gee, it's just a phase. I'll grow out of it if you just ignore it!"
***
There are things Deadpool prefers to do while Peter's out of the apartment. Gun maintenance, DIY surgery, that sort of thing. Also usually reading over mission specs for his jobs, but this one's from SHIELD, so it's probably legit. Ish. He'd be a lot more suspicious, except it was Captain Neighborly who floated his name past the less-awesome Men in Black, and even he isn't immune to that aura of wholesome goodness and badassery.
He's on the couch, laptop balanced on his thighs as he scrolls through building plans, when a warm weight settles in at his side. A mug appears in the corner of his vision, and he takes it absently. The smell of homemade cocoa--the good stuff, cooked up on the stove from chunks of real chocolate--startles him out of his zone.
"Is that anything you'd want backup on?" Peter asks, reading over his shoulder. There's a faint tinge of worry in his tone, but from the flash of contact as their fingers brushed, Deadpool knows Peter's worry is for him, not because of him. He'd give that the attention it deserves except he can't stop staring at his mug.
Peter brought him hot chocolate.
He cups his hands around web-pattered red and blue ceramic and feels warmed, inside and out, before he ever takes a sip. Clearly the rest of the world is on to something with this.
Now he wonders how Peter would react to a sexy dance.