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Wade wasn't trying to get into trouble. Honest. Had he known that the stumbling figure walking towards him would do this, he may have crossed the street and avoided the person entirely. But, despite his many gifts, he does lack precognition. And so, he was taken completely off-guard when the man wrapped his arms around Wade, grinning as if he'd just won a prize. Wade squirms as the unruly brown hair rubs into the crook of his neck- from his lips escapes a laugh, equally caused by the way the boy’s nuzzling tickles, and how utterly strange this situation is. It’s not until the stranger starts playing with his katanas, seemingly amused with popping them in and out of their sheathes, that he pushes the shorter fellow back slightly. This does nothing to dissuade the brunette, who stumbles back a couple of paces before prodding Wade’s chest accusingly.
“Yerr… Yerr Deadpool!”
“Guilty as charged?”
He cocks his head, peering up and down the street for any sign of this guy’s friends, groaning at the absence of life. Come on! First rule of going out drinking with your pals: stick the hell together. The buddy system...? Is no-one looking out for bambi-face over here? What if he runs into someone dangerous?!
< Luckily, he obviously hasn’t done that. >
[ OH I GET IT! Because WE ARE the dangerous person! ]
< Look at that, he can pick up on basic sarcasm. Round of applause everybody. >
“Shut up, I’ve got enough on my hands without you two- hey, hey- personal space, buddy!”
He laughs a little as the drunkard attempts to climb him like some kind of lanky-limbed, hairless koala. With a cute nose. And less chlamydia. It’s surprisingly a huge problem in the koala community and- oh, okay, he’s doing the katana thing again. Great. Wade instead resorts to grabbing his sides and holding the man at arm’s length. Surprisingly, he’s rather compliant, snorting and snickering to himself.
“Okay. Now, as much as I’d usually adore being climbed on by a cutie-pie like you- honest to the dead God- you reek of alcohol. And bad decisions. But mostly the alcohol part. And both you and I know you are too young and pretty to be drinking alone. So where’s your troup, boy-scout? Your amigos? Compadres? Polycule? Who failed at babysitting you tonight? Hello? I need answers, honey.”
He cocks his head, setting the stranger down on the ground. The boy stares at his masked face for a while, as if finding it terribly difficult to comprehend anything, nevermind the merc’s famous motor-mouth. After an uncomfortable silence that yellow attempts to fill by counting the freckles on the inebriated man’s face, he finally speaks:
“Duhn’t needs a babysit… er. You need a babysitter.”
He jabs another accusing finger with a scowl, and Wade is genuinely taken aback at the sudden sharpness in his voice, before bursting into laughter. This is ridiculous. The hilarity only grows when he observes the way this makes the brunette’s face scrunch up in indignation.
“Making me worry all the time… Asshole. Asswipe! Ass- Ass-MAN! ASS-POOL!”
At this Wade needs to clutch his stomach- holy fuck. His sides are going into orbit at this rate, and he should know, there was this time in Bolivia where- oh. Right. Drunkard. Should probably get the name of this... Over-enthusiastic fan? Maybe he could call someone on the guy’s cellphone. Or order him an Uber. Actually, no. The rate he’s going, he’ll be creating the next Pollock on the driver’s floor. He could always call in one with Dopinder, he supposes. The taxi driver’s had far worse smeared in his car.
“Ass-pool, the s-ass-ing ex ass-assin.. I like the ring of that. You truly are a wordsmith, beer breath. Now you’ve helped me find my new moniker, how about I help you get home. Alright? Sounds peachy? How about we start with a name, porkchop? Afterall, I’m going to have to be able to tell everyone who to credit with my newfound identity!”
He prompts, before noticing that dull gaze in the man’s eyes again. Right. Keep things a bit more simple.
“Name? Got one? See, I’m Deadpool-”
Wade points to himself, then gestures to the stranger.
“-And you’re…”
“PETER!”
The drunkard, Peter, beams back with a smile so bright it would blind a lesser man. Hell, maybe it did damage his retinas a little. Either way, Wade is thankful for his regenerative abilities for saving him from a life of sad, pitiful Al-dom. (Somewhere, off in the city, the woman in question senses she needs to give Wade a kick to the kneecaps for a smart-ass comment.)
“Alright! Peter-pumpkin-eater! We’re getting somewhere now! Peter, I want to help you get home, okay? Can you help me with that?”
He prompts, to which Peter begins stumbling towards a nearby alleyway, mumbling something incomprehensible. He smacks against a wall, and Wade needs to peel him off it- fucking Christ, this kid has a grip - eventually managing to coax him from attempting to climb up a brickwall. Like that isn’t a head injury waiting to happen. And look, Wade’s not one to judge a book by it’s cover, but the way the guy’s dressed? He’s suspecting he doesn’t have health insurance. Hell, he probably can’t cover the cost of the ambulance.
“Mmrngh. Can get home. Lemme- lemme… Climb home!”
He wiggles his arms at the wall and Wade shakes his head in disbelief.
“No gum-trees around here, koala-bear. And because we’re not in your down-under homeland, healthcare’s going to be a bitch to pay. So... No drunken parkour, Petey. We’re going the old fashion, New-York way: taxi. You got an address I can text my friend to pick you up?”
Peter squints, then huffs, before finally relenting an address. It takes a couple of times for Wade to properly understand through all the slurring, but he gets there in the end. After receiving a confirmation from Dopinder, he manages to get Peter to sit next to him against a wall. Now he’s just gotta keep the guy occupied long enough for his ride to come- and avoid being Slimered. Boomered. Exorcist’ed. Some other witty reference.
“Thanksh, Dead’ool...”
Wade chuckles softly as Peter’s head collides with his shoulder with a contented hum.
“... I like youuuu!”
He sings out, wiggling his head further towards Wade’s neck like he’s trying to burrow into it. The man tilts his head to accommodate, attempting to focus less on the boxes’ taunts, and more on the way the sensation distracts him from the usual dull ache of his body. It helps a little.
“Back to Deadpool, am I? Alas, Ass-pool, we barely knew thee!”
He sniffs melodramatically, causing his newly-found snuggle-buddy to snicker. The sounds of amusement stop, however, when he continues speaking:
“Petey, I bet you say that to all the murderous psychos. Seriously though. You are far too cute to have this poor of taste. Like, awful, fuck-terrible taste. You probably think Lean Cuisine is the height of- OUCH! No jabby Pooly’s side!”
He yelps as his companion’s wriggly little fingers angrily poke at him- Peter is scowling now, and Wade doesn’t know if it’s the scariest or most adorable thing he’s witnessed all week.
“Stop! Yuh- yuh know I hate it whensh you talks ‘bout yourself like that!”
He snaps, and now Peter’s hands are clasping each side of Wade’s face, and those gorgeous eyes are peering at his mask with steely determination.
“There’s… A difference between poking fun at yourself and being cruel to yourself. I hatesh it when you mean to yourself… Don’t deserve it.”
“Okay- okay, I’m sorry, just stop looking at me like that- like I shit on your puppy. Which I wouldn’t do, b-t-dubs. Anyone who defiles animals is dead to me. Bet you’re the same way, Petey. Probably cry when someone hurts an insect, don’t you? Don’t even keep fly-spray in your apartment, I can tell. Little softie, that’s what you are. Which leads me to the original point- who the fucking crapstick let you wander off? Hm? I need to have a stern word with your supervisors, young man. Doing a poor job of-”
“Mm. I like your voice. It’s nice.”
His own tone is soft, an absentminded air to it- as if he didn’t mean to interrupt, as if he is instead merely incapable of keeping a lid on his thoughts. Wade could relate, he supposes. Although the fact this is the guy’s stream of consciousness means Dopinder needs to hurry his ass up. Peter’s getting more out of it by the second, clearly. He wonders if Peter even recognizes who he’s talking to. Sure, he did earlier, but that little speech about loving yourself? That was meant for a friend , as applicable as it might be to Wade’s own actions. He huffs, deciding to play along for now.
“Yeah? I do too. Like the sound of it so much, I rarely take a breath. Not that I need to. I mean, suffocation takes me out for a couple ticks, but it ain’t temporary. They don’t call me the merc-with-a-mouth for nothing, although that’s kinda a shitty tagline now I’m on the path to good. Can’t sell kids action figures if I’m still un-aliving the ever-living FUCK outta morally-neutrals, can you? So I’ve gotta be slightly more palatable to audiences. Marvel, those hacks ! Not that it’s a bad deal for me, I get to hang out with my friend Spidey and admire his perfect A’s all day: abilities, altruism, apparel, abs and ass. He’s got it covered on all fronts, I’m telling you-”
Wade is once again interrupted, this time by Peter nudging into him with a giggle, as if something he’s said has delighted the drunkard thoroughly. Clearly, he’s a Spider-man fan, but who isn’t, really? Jonah? Wade’s sure the guy has a Spidey-shrine, the way the web-slinger lives rent-free in his head. Probably wears tighty-spidies with the superhero’s mask plastered on it and- ugh, fuck no, now he’s imagining Jonah in his underwear, abort, ABORT!
“Yeah? Yeah? Well- well, I likesh your D’s!”
Wade raises his eyebrows:
“Last time I checked I only had one, but-”
Peter pushes his finger to the spot on Wade’s mask where his mouth would be.
“Shush-shush-shush. I’m talking now. I like your dedication, daring, dexterity, determination, decency and… Deadpool-ness.”
He finishes, looking rather pleased with himself- he’s counted each on his fingers, and Wade is impressed that he managed to think of anything starting with D in this state. He can’t help but snort at one of those, though:
“Decency? Mister Peter, sir, you might find that I have never in my life been described as anywhere close to decent. Decent and I live in different states. Different countries! We’re long since divorced- decency took the kids. I’ll never see shame or politeness again!”
He wipes a fake tear from his eye, and is nudged by Peter again. The man offers him a shrug.
“Yerr here. Aren’t you? Helpin’ me. Makin’ sure I get home.”
He pokes the pavement, looking awfully shy for someone who was climbing all over Wade only minutes prior.
“Could’ve left me. But you didn’t.”
Peter peers up at Wade, his voice thoughtful as his lips form a soft smile.
“Deadpool’s decent. I like you.”
“Oh. Okay. Well- shit. Right. Glad to hear it?”
Wade shifts a bit where he sits, suddenly feeling a bit bashful himself. He’s not exactly used to this kind of praise, okay? And especially from adorable drunken scamps like the guy glued to his side. His eyes fall to his phone, and something tugs at his stomach: at once, he wants Dopinder to arrive soon. But… He also wishes this could last longer. It reminds him of sitting on the rooftops after a patrol with Spider-man, clutching whatever take-out they’ve chosen, watching the city-that-never-sleeps. Mindlessly arguing about some inane disagreement; usually about a movie or something along those lines (Can you believe Spidey doesn’t like the Prequel trilogy? Preposterous! They are the greatest comedy movies of all time! Endlessly quotable! ).
“I’m glad… I got’to see you tonight…!”
Peter continues, his smile widening.
“Clubs- too loud. Too- bright. Couldn’t- think. Alcohol… Didn’t help. Made it worse.”
“So it can’t fix every problem. The more you know. And here I thought it was a-”
“SOLUTION!”
He completes with a triumphant cheer.
“I have that. On a shirt!”
“I bet you do, dork.”
Wade teases, but the other only sticks his tongue out petulantly in response. He jolts slightly as Peter starts tracing the top of his hand with a finger- slow, deliberate and curious. The digit swirls in a perfect circle, the action seemingly helping him concentrate some. His words are more comprehensible when he speaks:
“I mean it. You… You always make me feel safe. And there- there I was. Stumblin’ around, then- then there you were. You’re always there when I need you.”
He says softly, more fingers joining the lone one until his hand is snuggly wrapped around the top of Wade’s.
“I gotta… Gotta be there when you need me. Hate that I’m not.”
“Uh- well, I appreciate that Petey, but I think you got me confused with someone? Unless I got my memory wiped recently, or you’re some advanced hallucination- which okay, likely- I’ve never met you in my life. Or you’re one of those crazy stalkers who think they are best friends with their victim- but I think I’d have noticed if I had such a cuddly little fanboy.”
He shakes his head, more amused than confused at this point. He’s Deadpool. Crazier things have happened to him today. Even in the last hour.
“Thanks, though?”
“Oh… Identities.”
Peter nods to himself, as if putting together a piece in a very important puzzle. He shrugs, then squeezes Wade’s hand once more before letting it go. He immediately mourns the loss- it’s been a while since someone touched him like that. Tender. Oh well, all good things come to an end, he supposes. They remain like that, watching the street quietly as cars whizz by. Peter seems to be getting more alert by the minute- at some point, they begin playing Spotto, trading the punches for light pokes of each other’s arms. It’s nice. Wade barely notices how long it’s been since he texted Dopinder until his pocket buzzes- he reads the message and groans.
> SORRY MISTER DEADPOOL! Super-villain is blocking bridge! Cannot get past!!!
He thumbs out a response- thanking him for trying, then searches up the news. Fortunately, the attack isn’t blocking the path from here to Peter’s apartment, they’ll just have to walk. Or… His eyes flick to the sky, and his eyes flick to the contact labelled “SIR WEBS-A-LOT” in his phone. This is the kind of shit Spidey loves, right? Helping old grannies cross the road, making sure folks get home safe. He can’t help but help the little guy. Or gal. Or those who lieth betwixt. It’s worth a shot, right? He nudges Peter:
“So. There’s good news, and there’s bad news. Which you want me to dish out first?”
“Mm. Always pick bad first.”
“Smart cookie! So my taxi-boy? He’s not making it, champ. But… I might have something cooler in store for you. Just sit tight, I’m going to hit someone else up.”
He carefully composes a message for his favourite superhero- signed with a copious amount of emojis and an abuse of acronyms that would make an English teacher faint. When he’s done, he dramatically pushes the send with a smug smile.
And then a few things happen at once.
One of Peter’s pockets coincidentally buzzes. The man then picks up a shabby phone- white snorts it looks like a burner- and Wade can’t help but look at the message for a second.
And then he screams.
Which causes Peter to tumble backward with a yelp, the man freezing like a deer-in-headlights where he has landed, sprawled out on the pavement on all fours. Like a spider. Like a SPIDER-MAN.
HOLY FUCK.
Something registers in Peter’s eyes and he stumbles to his feet, scrambling to pretend as if everything is normal, as if this is one huge misunderstanding- like he and his friend roleplay as the wondrous-duo-in-red in their freetime- but no. Wade’s mouth is too fast for him, as now it is his turn to jab an accusing finger at Peter:
“YOU HAVE MY CONTACT SAVED AS ASSHOLE?”
“IT’S AFFECTIONATE!”
He snaps back, clutching the phone to his chest defensively.
“I can’t believe this- you’re a drunk? And CUTE? THE FUCK, PETER? Do I need to take you to rehab? Is this how you spend your nights without me, you poor, poor, alcoholic arachnid!”
“I- I am not an alcoholic. This was- was- one time. And- Christ- can we continue this tomorrow. My head’s still-”
He grimaces, swaying slightly- Peter stumbles towards the wall, relaxing against it.
“-Fuzzy.”
“Baby, we’re continuing this for the rest of our fucking lives. But yes.”
He holds out his hand, grabbing Peter’s and beginning to walk.
“Time to get you home. And get some water into you, unless you want the hang-over of the century. And some sleep! And then, and only then, shall I continue to be a blight upon your existence.”
He pinches at Wade’s hand in response, huffing.
“Don’t make me do the speech again.”
“I dunno. I kinda liked it.”
He shrugs, before Peter’s hand moves to completely envelop his. They continue wordlessly- Wade is half expecting another lecture- but something about the simple gesture speaks volumes. He squeezes the hand softly, and it squeezes back.
Peter wakes up to the sound of his alarm and regret. Also pancakes. The smell of glorious, delicious pancakes.
“Good-morning, Petey-pint-pounder!”
Wade’s voice sing-songs out, and suddenly the man has the urge to slam his face back into his pillow. He was really hoping this whole thing was some kind of insane dream- but as the muddled swirls of memory surrounding the previous night emerge in his head, he is forced to face the reality of the situation. Peter pushes himself out of his bed with a groan; right. Dealing with consequences. Doing adult things. Like an adult. He can do this. He rounds the corner into the kitchen and spots Wade stacking a pile of fluffy cakes onto a plate, a pink frilly apron wrapped around his suit.
Peter can’t do this.
“Come on, don’t be shy! I made them all nice for you- and I bought some maple syrup. Canadian, like all the best things in life. WINK!”
He grins, placing the place on the kitchen table. Peter takes a seat despite himself.
“Thanks, Wade.”
“Aw, it’s nothing, just a Pool-patented recipe-”
“I mean about everything. Taking care of me last night- not freaking out too much. About everything.”
He pokes a fork into a pancake, peering up at Wade. The man shrugs in response, taking a seat opposite to him at the small table. He plucks out a pancake from the top of the stack and begins cutting it up- Peter smiles at this. Something about how Wade seems to respect the sanctity of pancakes enough to cut them so delicately when he’s seen the guy cram a burrito down his gullet in five seconds flat… The humour in it makes him relax a bit.
“Psh. That’s what decent Deadpools do!”
He grins, laughing as Peter moans in response.
“I said… Some very stupid things.”
“True.”
“Not helping.”
“Haven’t I done enough? Haven’t I earned some teasing, after all this?”
“Shut up. This is so embarrassing. I should jump off the Brooklyn Bridge.”
“Oh you know I’d catch you, Spidey.”
“I just… I can’t believe I let my identity slip- and called you ass-pool. And- tried to climb a wall. In front of you. Christ- I-”
Peter looks down at his pancake and swallows, poking it bashfully- Wade admires how his cheeks blush red- hell, he’s going to mourn the mask being put on now.
“I- I told you that I loved you. ”
Wade drops his knife and fork, and the clatter against the table is deafening.
“You- you never said that.”
He stares in disbelief, his wide-eyes matching Peter’s.
"I mean- you said the like word but..."
“Oh.”
The two sit in silence for a few moments, before Peter abruptly pushes his chair back, standing up.
“Well. That settles it, then. Most embarrassing twenty-four hours of my life. I’m going to the bridge now. Bye.”
Before he can move another muscle, Wade is already scooping him up in a hug:
“NO! DON’T GO! I LOVE YOU TOO, PETEY!”
He wiggles him enthusiastically,
“THIS IS THE LEAST EMBARRASSING TWENTY-FOUR HOURS OF MY LIFE!”
Wade releases Peter, who snorts at him, pushing the man gently.
“Keep it down, Romeo. I have neighbours.”
“Back to sass now, are we?”
“Sorry.”
“Don’t be! This is amazing! This is- I love you. So fucking much.”
Wade’s hands go wandering for Peter’s, and soon they are holding them again. He grins.
“So… Can I change your contact name to Spider-Babes? Spider-Boyfriend?”
“You’re going to do it anyway.”
He laughs, and Wade makes a noise of agreement.
“Can you change mine to Dating-Pool?”
“No.”
“WHY WOULD YOU CONTINUE TO CALL THE MAN YOU LOVE ASSHOLE?”
“IT’S AFFECTIONATE!”