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Peter had not yet become accustomed to life alone. His pantry consisted entirely of freeze-dried pot-noodles and miscellaneous 'others'. Crackers, mostly. Heavy carb diets and plenty of coffee, the motto of any college student scraping by. The security protocol at home was effectively 'Spidey-senses tingling; best deal with that', which is why he barely concerned himself with buying a burglar alarm (the fire alarm was a completely different matter entirely). Of course, situations which were not a pressing threat such as a bird decided to get a make-over from his bedroom window or the neighbours cat was clawing against the peeling wooden front door (again) did not effect him, but incoming humans would. Sweet little old ladies in the vicinity set his nerves on fire.
Which is why when Peter was stirred from sleep by a cool breeze across his feet and what sounded like a dreadful attempt at a mariachi band he didn't instantly understand the situation. Should anyone intrude while he slept, he'd instantly feel the tension, if not in the air then in his very fibres. Bleeting pulled him into reality, and with an non-committal sound he heaved out of the bed sheets, tossing them aside. The temperature was uncomfortably cold in contrast to the warmth of his bed, but Peter persisted. Good thing he'd pulled on a pair of pyjama trousers to save his modesty, given that when he went into the living room he was faced with -
"What the fuck?"
The masked man peered over a large instrument - that explains the music, if it could even be classed as such - and gave a huge thumbs up, "Nice pad, man."
The infamous Deadpool. Assassin turned rogue turned not-quite-hero, self-destructive and junk food all wrapped in a neat red bow. He'd been tasked to photograph him for the Bugle, but was fortunate not to have had any dealing with him prior this, despite them having the same... Occupation. A little less blood and a little more blue, but still the same in many regards. Peter furrowed his brow, lips pursed, 'I live on the 12th floor.'
'Yeah, I noticed,' Deadpool gestured to the open window, the guitar-like object shifting in time with his movement, 'Lot of climbing.'
"You climbed?"
"Yeah."
"The entire 12 stories of apartments?"
"Uh-huh."
Peter pressed his hands against his eyes, as if the entire situation could be willed away. Bleeting again, and slight coo noises from Deadpool, "I'm not even going to pretend to understand the situation at all, and I've decided that I don't want to either, but how did you get a goat up here? And how'd you get it in a poncho?"
"Careful manoeuvring, plenty of elbow-room," Deadpool pulled off the detachable gloves, using the exposed and mottled skin to pet the animal affectionately, 'You know, for a guy who woke up to this, you're not having the sort of reaction I envisioned."
"It's new york," Peter shrugged, resigned exasperation leaking into every gesture, "Somehow, I'm more surprised that this hasn't happened before. I mean, I'm as likely to see a werewolf as I am to get a taxi somedays. Besides, you've got enough of a name for yourself for me to know what to expect. If I go back to sleep will you leave? And preferably not break anything?"
"I have guns. Look," He drew several weapons from the holsters strapped against his thighs and calf, uncomfortably perhaps but functional, "I could literally kill you, for all you know. I might have been contracted to do so."
Peter blinked, still bleary eyed, weighing up the next few sentences. Rationally, he should feel threatened in this situation, but his spidey-senses were only active because of the drawn gun and had been lying eerily silent prior. Sleep-deprivation wasn't a valid excuse, of course, because a mosquito had kept him awake for three days before reaching the natural end of it's life span. So why this was a comfortable situation, he didn't know, "If you wanted me dead, I would be. As it is, you're just sitting there. I'm gonna make myself some coffee thanks, want anything?"
After putting away the guns, Deadpool seemed pensive for several second. That is, if it was possible to express any emotion with ones face entirely covered but there was a tilt to his head before he declined, preferring to strum on the strings lightly, "This is a lie. I can't play." He tossed it aside with much disdain, pulling the goat up.
"No," Peter put out an accusing finger as the hooves became painfully close to the sofa, "I've pretended not to notice the utter insanity of this situation, but you get dirty prints on my sofa and that's it, got it? I have not woken up properly and I am in no mood to be cleaning."
More aggressive than passive, perhaps, but the message was clear enough and the mercenary lowered the creature within seconds. Peter nuked his drink because it was that kind of morning before lingering in the doorway, sipping timidly, "Do I get an explanation for anything?"
"You left your window open?"
"Right," He sighed, blowing away the steam emitted from the scratched old mug. Salvaged from a thrift shop, like the majority of his possessions. It was a simple life, "How and why is it wearing a poncho?"
"It's more of a capote torero, I couldn't convince her the poncho was a superior fashion statement. Kinda ruins the authentic style. I guess I could have worn one, but there's less novelty in that," Deadpool picked up his instrument - whatever, Peter officially dubbed it a guitar -and plucked the strings unhappily, "And it didn't match my costume."
"Why are you here?"
"Wife kicked me out," Deadpool retorted before glancing at his bare ring-finger and huffing, "I dunno. Boredom, mostly? You know, if you have the resources and ability, why not? Quiet days and easy jobs can drive any man crazy."
"Most people take up sewing," Peter stopped hovering and moved closer, perching on the arm-chair a good few feet away, "Golf, for the country-lovers. Crime-fighting for the super-charged militants. A universe of opportunities, and your preference is climbing into a strangers home and impersonating a mariachi band. What's your name, anyway? Besides Deadpool, that is. Everyone knows that much."
"Aw shucks, people talking about me again? All good things, I doubt," There was a minuscule hesitation, an evaluation of trust in an abstract situation before there was a crinkle in the mask that could almost be a smile, "Wade. They call me Wade. Choice adjectives or verbs prior. You get to pick, so long as it starts with A,H, O or Z. I won't tolerate anything else."
Before Wade could divulge anything else, he reached out and gestured to shake hands, "Hey. I'm Peter."
Deadpool shook with a relatively firm grip, a tell-tale sign there was more strength to his body than one might perceive, "Good to know. I always prefer to place a name with the body."
Peter paused, contemplating that before it computed he was shirtless, batman trousers hanging loose against his hips. Great. Fucking fantastic. He would love to feign ignorance and get changed, but with the goosebumps against his skin it wasn't as if there weren't any warning signs. Besides, he specifically picked out last nights attire, "I wasn't expecting visitors."
"And I wasn't expecting a show. Not that I'm complaining or anything, of course, I just thought you should know you're rather exposed. It's the.... correct thing to do, I should think," Wade had that tilt to his head again, as if he was trying to dissect Peter, "You really should have called the cops on me, you know that right? Also, deal with your window lock. I mean, I literally hopped up."
"Normal human beings don't scale buildings to harass other people at ungodly times in the morning and no I don't care that the sun's up," Peter almost snarled towards the window, "It's the wrong side of midday for life, let alone this."
"Did you imply that this is not part of real life? Also, if it's any consolation, you're not the first person I've done this to today. You're just the first person not to resort to unnecessary violence. Also, definitely the cutest."
"You say that to everyone topless?"
"Depending on the context. Again, choice adjectives may vary," Deadpool smirked, having rolled up the bottom of the mask to help express emotion, "But I mean, ignoring the fact you are a foetus, you're adorable."
"Come on, I'm barely that young. How old are you? 20's?"
"Voice gives it away, huh? And you? You're like, 12, right?" Deadpool prodded him teasingly, the slightest signs of amusement creeping into his features.
"Come on, I'm 17 man. We could be a couple and nobody would think a damn thing of it," Peter tried not to kick himself that romance was his first insinuation.
"Including you, I assume?" Wade quirked an eyebrow before playing the whole awkwardness off, "You don't mind if I crash here for a while? I promise, I'll take my goat and all when I leave."
Peter picked up the guitar and played basic chords, remembering what he'd been taught many years ago by Uncle Ben. Neither of this careers had been very good at theoretical or academic practices, but he'd always envied Ben's music skills. Nothing fantastic of course, but it doesn't have to be to impress a developing child, "You're going to either way, right? I mean, I might just keep this in return."
"Go ahead," Wade shrugged, giving him a strange, almost distasteful glance, "I don't need the damned thing, it's not like I can play it anyway."
"Pull this stunt again and I might just teach you," Peter smiled, trying to shake off how discerning this situation was. Manners had been ingrained into him, as had good hosting and the prospect of 'trust your instincts', but this was borderline madness. Maybe that was just the effect that Deadpool had on others. After all, the mans insanity hadn't exactly been excluded from tabloids. Peter came to the uneasy conclusion that madness was contagious.
"Next time? Sounds like a date," Deadpool's comment was probably accompanied by a wink, but the white across his eyes made it impossible to tell, "I might use the door next time, if that's possible. Clearly not a necessity, but appreciated."
Peter nodded, eyes on the strings rather than the intruder, humming the tune he was trying to remember. A cartoon anthem, if he remembered correctly, "Just don't bring the goat, no matter how well behaved it might be. I don't want it trashing what little furniture I can afford."
Wade acknowledged the surroundings, noting that there was in fact very few items in the vicinity, "Hey Peter? You're exhausted, don't pretend you're not. How about you go to bed, I'll hang out in here until I'm ready to face the world of adult-ness and responsibility, And then I'll split, and it'll be like I was never here?"
Peter's protest was swallowed by a yawn, the coffee betraying him as he sprawled across the sofa, head close to Wade. A little black nose was shoved in his face and he moved away, hearing laughter at his side, "Hey, Wade?"
"Mmm?"
"You should laugh more often. It suits you."
"Will do."
Peter dozed, ready and waiting for his senses to tell him when there was movement, wanting to see the state Wade had left his apartment and berate him should any calamity be left in his wake. However, they betrayed him yet again and he woke to nothing in particular, staring straight at the instrument propped against his coffee table.
The next few nights, Peter slept with the window open. When he was woken up by the tone-deaf plucking of strings, he was woken up with a smile.