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The roll-up door frame is really the perfect place for someone to dramatically appear as a savior, outlined by the flood lights outside the warehouse, haloed like a fucking angel. But, of course, Spider-man has to slink in like a raccoon getting ready to raid the trash.
Wade rolls his eyes, but it’s the only part of his body that he allows himself to move. Anything more would rattle the chains and he wouldn’t get to watch the hero work. And by work he means crawl along the wall in a way that’s vaguely reminiscent of a pole dancer. Close enough for Wade anyway.
Well, shit.
Now his brain’s on walkabout, picturing the spandex-clad stick in the mud of his dreams doing the splits while hanging upside down as Pour Some Sugar on Me blasts from the overhead speakers and everything is softened by bisexual lighting. Wade knows Spidey is flexible, but he’s always wondered just how flexible. And toward what purpose the superhero might bend.
Spider-man finally drops into the open doorway, the light caressing the outline of his body in a way that Wade wants to follow with his tongue. The hero was eerily quiet as he made his circuit of the room, body tensed in preparation for an attack, long limbs bleeding into the shadows of the ceiling. If Wade didn’t have Spidey radar, he almost would have thought the hero had left. But the tingle at the base of Wade’s neck told him otherwise, so he waited with bated breath.
And now he’s getting the payoff.
Power pose, lit from behind, wearing clothes tight enough that Spider-man might as well be naked. Wade bites his lower lip to keep himself from ruining the moment but, let’s be real, he never had a chance.
“Heya, Websy,” he rasps out.
Wade finally shifts his arms which are starting to go numb from lack of blood flow, causing the chains to rattle and Spider-man’s gaze to snap in his direction. The tension riding the superhero drains out immediately, replaced by the sort of vibrating irritation that Wade has come to know and love.
“Are you kidding me?” Spider-man crosses the dusty cement floor in several long, graceful strides, stopping in front of Wade, towering over Wade really, and crossing his arms over his chest. Power pose, take two. “Well? Explain.”
The order is followed by a kick to the sole of Wade’s boot where it’s stretched out in front of him. He tips his head back and looks into those wide white lenses. He knows they’re just polymer whosy-whatsis but it’s a very judgy polymer.
“My hands are numb,” Wade says, wiggling on his ass which is also numb. “Maybe you unlock me and we take this interrogation elsewhere.”
Spider-man doesn’t answer which is the worst possible answer as far as Wade is concerned. Instead, he’s looking around the warehouse like there’s anything in this godforsaken place but Wade. The perusal takes a long time, like two whole minutes, and Wade wants to kick the superhero in his stupidly attractive kneecap.
Finally, that mirror lens gaze lands back on Wade.
Mmm, frisson.
“You’re the only thing in here setting off my spider-sense.”
“Aw, you make me tingle, too, honey bunny.”
Wade waggles his eyebrows and knows that Spider-man has seen it when he tips his head back with an annoyed huff.
“Please tell me this isn’t a hoax.” Spider-man tips his head down to glare at Wade again. Frisson, take two. “It was reported as a kidnapping.”
“It is! A totally legitimate kidnapping,” Wade insists, rattling his chains for emphasis. “I’m tied up and everything.”
Spider-man shifts and uncrosses his arms, and Wade knows this is the moment of truth. The superhero exhales a big breath that somehow manages to convey exactly what he thinks about this entire thing. (Hint: Not much.) But then he steps closer and crouches down.
Got him.
His hand curls around the back of one of Wade’s wrists where it’s chained to the wall above his head; the touch is gentle enough to feel like cradling, and Wade fucking swoons. Get him a fainting couch and some smelling salts because there’s no recovering from the way Spider-man is leaning toward Wade like he—
“Wade,” Spider-man grouses as he gets a good look at the cuffs and chains, “you can get out of these on your own.”
“That doesn’t mean I wasn’t kidnapped.” Spider-man cocks his head at Wade’s insistence like a disbelieving little bird. “C’mon, Spides. How many times a day should one have to dislocate one’s shoulder?”
“One wouldn’t even need to dislocate one’s shoulder, would one?” Spider-man drops his hand, fixing Wade with a Look, their faces less than a foot apart. “Where are the keys, Wade?”
“Would you believe down my pants?”
“I mean, yeah. Kinda.”
“Damn. Really? I guess that missed opportunity is on me then.”
A snorting laugh escapes through Spider-man’s mask as he rocks back on his heels, doing his little gargoyle perch thing. Wade likes having Spidey’s face close to his, but he likes this view, too. All broad shoulders and narrow hips, and spread thighs Wade wouldn’t mind—
“What the hell is this, Wade?”
Wade shifts again. Because he can’t feel his ass not because he’s tucking his tail between his legs in response to that exhausted and mildly aggrieved tone. Maybe this wasn’t his most thought-through plan. But what is really?
Definitely not the honesty bit he comes out with next.
“Heard about the thing with Doc Ock.”
Now it’s Spidey’s turn to tuck tail like someone just dropped the weight of the world on his shoulders. Then he drops too, sinking down onto his ass with his legs bent up in front of him, elbows resting on his knees.
“Bad news really travels, huh?”
He’s trying for snappish and irreverent, but it comes out dull.
“I don’t know,” Wade says, tipping his head back so he can look up at his hands. “I’m pretty impressed.”
Spidey snorts. “You would be.”
Wade extends the thumb of one hand out to the side and wraps his other hand around it. He looks back at Spidey once he has his grip and reaches out to nudge one toe against the outside of Spidey’s ankle.
“Technically,” he drawls out, using the long word to hide the snap of bone, “you stopped him. That’s gotta count for something, yeah?”
“Jesus Christ, Wade.” Spidey is on his feet again, scrambling toward Wade’s bound hands in a crouch. Oops. Apparently, snapping bone pings Spider-man’s danger siren. “You could have just told me where the keys are.”
“Would you believe me if I said lost them?” Wade slips his newly deformed hand out of the cuff, absently noting how his thumb is hanging loosely off the side, and lets his other hand drop to this thigh, the chain and empty cuff clattering to the concrete floor next to him. “As soon as I get both opposable thumbs back, I can pick the lock. No biggie.”
“What are you doing here, Wade?” Spidey’s gaze drops to Wade’s mangled hand, then jumps back up to his face. “What am I doing here?”
“Thought maybe we could grab somethin’ to eat. There’s an all-night gyro place not far from here.”
Spider-man glances around the empty warehouse again and Wade’s eyes latch onto the line of his neck and the way his Adam’s apple moves when he swallows. The lenses pin Wade in place as Spider-man turns back to him.
“You weren’t really kidnapped.”
“Kidnapping yourself counts, right?” He tries to move his loose thumb before deciding it’s not quite attached enough to pick locks yet. “I am a high-level mercenary. I’m super fucking hard to kidnap. No one’s ever done it before.”
This is ridiculous, Peter knows it, but he can’t help feeling… hell, he doesn’t even know what he’s feeling. But he definitely feels better than he did an hour ago when he watched Doc Ock throw three separate cars off a bridge at the same time and Peter hadn’t been able to grab them all before they plunged into the harbor.
He almost hadn’t come out to the kidnapping call. It had almost been Matt that found Deadpool self-restrained in a clean and tidy warehouse building three blocks from Peter’s favorite gyro place. But he’s glad it had been on the way home. He’s glad he decided to come because, while it’s embarrassing to admit, when Peter’s spider-sense had pinged against Wade, something inside of Peter relaxed. He wasn’t ready to openly admit the merc was the only person Peter would want to see after his world-class fuck-up, but he didn’t have to admit it, did he?
Wade had done all the hard work for him.
“How did you even manage to lock yourself up?” Before Peter can think better of it, he reaches out and grabs the wrist that is still circled by a manacle again, feeling the chill of the thick metal through his glove. “These are, like, medieval dungeon level restraints, Wade.”
Peter’s thumb skims below the metal cuff, along the leather covering the inside of Wade’s wrist. Wade goes still and sucks in a breath, frozen for a heartbeat, before he shifts again.
“Thought it would be too obvious if I used my fuzzy handcuffs.”
Peter laughs and tilts his head up, just now realizing how close his face is to Wade’s. Yeah, they both have their masks on, but that wasn’t a barrier to Peter finding himself in the weirdest friendship of his life. And he doubts it would be a barrier to anything else that might happen.
“Everyone survived at least,” Peter admits, his voice quiet between them. “Even if one of the families had to be rushed to the hospital.”
Wade doesn’t say anything, just bumps his knee against the outside of Peter’s thigh. It’s the exact opposite response from the one he’s expecting. Everyone had already told him that it wasn’t his fault, and he did the best he could, and everyone survived. Just a few seconds ago, Peter thought maybe he needed to hear it from his ill-chosen best friend, too, but he was wrong.
Because the thick silence and the pressure of Wade’s knee against his leg says enough. Says all of it, maybe.
“They shouldn’t have had to go to the hospital,” Peter says into the quiet, a little surprised by the honest words spilling out of his mouth. “I should have been able to catch everyone.”
He hadn’t told anyone that because people don’t want Spider-man to have existential crises. They want him to show up, save the day, and then put himself back on the shelf until next time.
“That’sa fuckton of guilt there, Spides,” Wade laughs. The sound is deep and rough, and Peter’s thumb is still tracking back and forth across the inside of Wade’s wrist. He shifts his body again, bringing his face even closer to Peter’s, but Peter doesn’t let go. “It’s not like you’re the one that chucked ‘em off the bridge.”
“Yeah, well… That’s how Spider-man operates.”
And Wade must have known that, too, otherwise he wouldn’t be chained to a wall in the warehouse district.
“Good thing the only one here right now is my buddy, Webs, then.”
A smile twitches onto Peter’s face as he watches his thumb stroke back and forth, back and forth, bright red spandex contrasted with dark iron and even darker leather. Wade is warm underneath Peter’s hand, and he can feel the steady thrum of the merc’s heart against his thumb. Peter realizes that his own pulse has slowed to match Wade’s and all the anger and frustration and guilt he’d been feeling earlier are slowly draining away.
“Thanks, Wade,” Peter says, finally letting go of Wade’s arm. “Not everyone would fake a kidnapping on my account.”
“I am your number-one fangirl.”
Peter tips his head up to meet Wade’s gaze, scant inches separating them, and Peter’s pulse starts thundering again for a different reason. He can feel the warmth of Wade’s breath on his jaw and Wade’s thigh still pressed into his own. It would be so easy to close the distance and take the comfort he thinks Wade wants to give him.
He licks his bottom lip under his mask and sees Wade’s eyes flick to the movement.
It’s not that Peter’s never thought about it — he’s thought about it a lot, actually — it’s just that there’s something about the way he and Wade are tangled together, the way Spider-man and Deadpool are tangled together, that makes closing that last little bit of distance seem like the stupidest possible thing Peter could ever do.
But he wants to do it anyway.
He wants to do it so badly.
Peter sways closer despite the alarm ringing in his head that has nothing to do with his spider-sense. Wade’s leg shifts against Peter, rubbing along the outside of his thigh and making him wonder what Wade might feel like rubbing against him in other places. Peter can feel the vibrations in the air from Wade’s breathing as it changes, his breaths coming shorter and faster, his heart pounding in his chest.
There’s no way this ends well.
There’s no way that Peter’s most unstable stable relationship can weather something like this.
But he’s not sure he cares.
He wants to feel something other than his guilt. He wants to feel like he deserves this weird little gift that he’s been given. He wants to feel Wade.
“Got it,” Wade says loudly, jerking back as both hands come up between the two of them. One of his hands is soaked in blood and the other is holding a knife. “Told ya I could do it.”
Peter jerks back, too, mostly to hide the fact that he’d been about to smash his mouth into Wade’s, but also a little because Deadpool is holding a knife near his throat. It takes his scrambling brain a minute to realize that the second metal cuff is off. That Wade was using his knife to pick the lock while Peter was contemplating the utter annihilation of their bizarre friendship.
“Oh. Yeah. Cool,” Peter stutters, scuttling backward and standing to his full height. “Coolcoolcoolcoolcool.”
Shut up, Parker.
Peter snaps his mouth closed and watches as Wade hops to his own feet. His gaze lingers on Peter, running from head to toe like something tactile, before Wade clears his throat and looks down to sheath his knife.
“So… gyros?”