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There was a sun setting in the distance of the buildings and lakes and somehow, above the sounds of New York, Peter could hear gentle music playing in his ears, swaying his hair and tickling across his now pinking exposed skin, or the lack thereof. Yellows and oranges swept over his head in a glossy painting, and soft puffy clouds dotted the sky. Behind him the earth grew darker under the slowly bluing world, the day ready to rest for the evening. Ahead of him, Peter could see the bustling of people, their steps matching the rhythm and beat of the song that was playing off in the distance. Gentle breezes swept by him as he dangled his feet over the edge of the building he was sitting upon, brushing the tips of his fingers to his slightly bruised bottom lip while his other hand clutched tightly onto the mask in his hand.
It hurt, but it wasn’t something Peter wasn’t used to by now. Spider-man had been through a lot, and a simple cut lip wasn’t that big of a deal.
Perhaps it was just the simple recognition of the smell that was spectacularly familiar or Peter’s insane spider-senses that he had enough time to slip his mask on before he heard a soft grunt and a grin in the air. Deadpool was so easy to read.
“Spidey! Hey hey hey, sweet baby, I brought you some tacos.”
Peter smiled behind the mask and turned his head slightly, looking back at the man and humming. Deadpool made his way over and gladly plopped himself right into Peter’s space, dangling his legs over as well and handing him a bag of the food he had gotten probably from a nearby corner store. Nothing more and nothing less could be expected from New York’s favorite antihero.
“You know, it’s almost 7,” Deadpool said, rolling his mask up as he unwrapped a taco, then took a bite. Peter hummed again, grabbing his own bag of food.
The man chewed, a small smile curving on his lips. Peter studied him closely like he always did when Deadpool showed a bit of skin. It had taken a year for the man to become entirely, unconditionally comfortable in front of Spider-Man, bad skin days and all, and Peter would be lying if he said he minded it all too much.
Deadpool was fine. His presence was more than just scars that traced his body. He was gunpowder and blood and shitty Mexican food and witty jokes and flirtatious comments. He was strong and huge and unpredictable and protective and alive, no matter how many times he seemed to defy that last bit.
Of course, Peter knew who he was and wasn’t allowed to hang out with, as per Mr. Stark’s orders, but so far he hadn’t heard a single peep from Happy or the Tin Can himself about who he could spend his evening patrol with (and Peter would like to keep it that way). He knew Mr. Stark would probably flip his fucking shit if he found out he was on Deadpool’s radar, but there was something exhilarating about having shitty tacos on a Tuesday evening with the vigilante, sitting on top of a 10 story building, swinging their legs over the edge, and watching the setting sun.
“Don’t you have, like, school tomorrow or something?” Deadpool asked through a mouthful of taco. Peter scoffed, rolling his eyes as he lifted his fingers to his mask, taking the spandex in between his fingers and rolling it up his chin, over his mouth.
It probably wasn’t good that Peter was used to this by now, right? That it felt comfortable, natural even, for him to expose his lips, his chin, a part of his throat to the man next to him. He couldn’t remember when he started doing it, or how long they had been doing this, or how many times Deadpool had shown up with dollar store tacos or cheap sushi, and how many times Peter simply decided he was going to have dinner right there, right next to the bastard.
Definitely not good. And yet, Peter didn’t seem to mind, reaching for the other taco.
“Shut up, I’m not twelve.” He chuckled, biting into his food.
“Right, right. Totally forgot - fourteen and a half?”
Peter swallowed his food and grinned, taking some lettuce from the top of the taco and flicking it at him. Deadpool leaned back, scandalized and raising his hands. “Hey, hey, those are precious calories right there! I know how you young, big boys go right through your metabolism - and you should be thankful for that, by the way.” Deadpool pointed a gloved finger at Peter. “Not all of us can be built like if Andrew Garfield had sex with Ryan Reynolds.
“Oh stop it, Pool.” Peter grinned and poked the side of Deadpool’s stomach.
“Stop touching my fat!”
“Dude, you’re like 2%.”
“I’m bloating, look away!”
Peter burst out into laughter, leaning back a little and catching a glimpse of Deadpool’s crooked little grin.
It was on nights like these that he was thankful to be Spider-Man. Sure, the praise from the public was pretty nice, and knowing a billionaire was ready to cover you at any moment helped him sleep pretty comfortably at night-
But it was this, sitting here next to Deadpool, whatever the fuck this guy really did in his spare time, that made some of the cuts and scrapes and broken bones and bruises, some of the stuttered excuses to his Professors about Peter’s need to use the bathroom, or awkward, unthought-through explanations to his college peers about why he disappeared for 2 days, made it a lot easier for him to go out every day knowing he had made a friend along the way.
Deadpool really was a rarity, Peter observed as the man went back to eating and babbling about how he had stopped someone from stealing a car full of two dozen dogs today (apparently some guy was going to use the poor things as test subjects and he just wasn’t very subtle about it). It was hard to find individuals who knew exactly how you felt and were living under the stress of having a double life, although Peter was pretty sure he would be able to spot Deadpool from a mile away if he ever saw the man outside the suit. He wasn’t sure how far those scars traveled, but if the indication of his face, the sliver of skin on his wrist, and sometimes (very rarely) the exposed abdomen of his stomach was anything to go by, Peter could assume it stretched like that for miles.
Sometimes Peter wondered if there was somewhere that had gone untouched. If there was a place on Deadpool’s body that, perhaps, was not a constant reminder of his pain, something Peter knew nothing about, only that Deadpool very much did not like to discuss what had happened to him. Peter only knew that Deadpool was “more revolting than the cheap sushi he had bought several months ago out of desperation”.
“-Motherfucker was gonna use those dogs for his little science experiment. How fucked up is that? Human testing I get - but dogs? Dogs can't even have the ability to not consent-”
Peter liked that sushi, though. Then again, Peter can’t recall a time he could afford to have good sushi, so maybe he isn’t the best person to determine what is and isn't good fish.
“Spidey? Spidey-Pie, you in there, sweetheart?” Deadpool asked, and Peter perked up, inhaling sharply as he was pulled from his thoughts.
“Yeah, sorry, just… lost in thought for a moment, I guess.”
“Can’t be distracted on the clock, baby! Maybe you should head home and rest - I can protect all the little people while the big heroic Spider-Man has his nappy time.”
Peter smiled, shaking his head. He took one last bite of his taco and then rolled his mask back down. He gazed out into the horizon, seeing the sun finally drown below the ocean.
“I should probably check in with the Avengers before I take my nap - they’re having some recruits coming in this week and Mr. Stark wants me to help out,” Peter said and stood up, walking back from the ledge and stretching out.
“Oh yeah? They're gonna learn the special tips and tricks about unaliving the bad guys all from my favorite Avenger?!” Deadpool asked excitedly, turning to watch Spider-Man flex out some stretches. He enjoyed the show for what it was.
Peter scoffed behind the mask. “Unlike you, I think the best way to give justice is to let the public decide.” He said simply. Deadpool groaned. “That shit takes too long and you know it. Some of these bad guys have money and power - better to just kill ‘em while you can and save everyone the trouble!” He reasoned.
The humor in Peter’s chest died out a bit and he shrugged, finishing up his stretches. “I should get going.” He said simply and turned to look up at the larger man in red.
“So soon, sweetheart? You didn’t even give me a goodnight kiss!” Deadpool exclaimed.
“Bye, Deadpool,” Peter said in a light finality and began to jog just a bit before sprinting and jumping off the ledge. He took the simple free-falling moment to breathe, fluttering his eyes shut. For just a couple of seconds, Peter let the air fill his lungs, expel out his throat, and replace what was inside with something fresh and clean (well, as clean as New York air could get, anyway).
The moment was broken when he heard Deadpool’s whoop ring through the air, which was Peter’s cue to thwip out a web and begin his swing to Avengers Tower.
“That’s my favorite Superhero!”