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“Nobody likes a show-off, Spidey.”
Kicking the heels of his tactical boots against the side of the building, Deadpool sharpens his knife. And steals several, lingering glances at the superhero hanging upside down from one of the poles jutting from the satellite.
Peter’s mask is rolled up just above the bridge of his nose. It’s careless. Something he wouldn’t have dared around the chatty mercenary months ago.
The continuation of secret identities tends to go best when you don’t give an inch–or so his philosophy has gone thus far. He admits he could do with broadening his references a bit.
The only hero in the city who seems to understand is Daredevil, and his brand of secrecy gets a little too intense for Peter’s taste.
He’s sure his fellow hero-in-red wouldn’t condone the current reason for his half-masked state–one of his favorite parlor tricks. Sipping a paper cup of coffee from the deli, while hanging from a web-strand. Gravity fights every gulp and yet it goes down like water.
So, yeah. He’s showing off a little.
Gets harder not to, around Deadpool. A guy who has no problem doling out mockery to the rest of the heroes and vigilantes in this town, yet, for some peculiar reason, saves his admiration for Spider-Man. As if Peter’s numerous failures haven’t been very publicly plastered on the front page of the Daily Bugle for the past eight or so years he’s dedicated to protecting his home.
Sue him, it makes him a little warm and fuzzy. Two sentiments that, if personified, would probably cower from the merc when he’s in the throes of his not-so-secret profession.
They try not to talk about it. And Wade? He just–tries. Like the gushing over Peter’s spider side isn’t just fluff. It means something.
And on evenings when the city’s rare calm chases both men to the top of one of its skyscrapers, it’s good enough for Peter.
Even if none of it can follow him home.
“Told you, it just takes practice.”
“And a third-degree burn to the throat. Which I wouldn’t be griping about if you’d’ve kissed it better.”
“I helped you clean it up.”
“With a napkin, like a scandalized Victorian housemaid. I was counting on tongue action.”
“You left your mask rolled down, so one, it was always going to spill, and two, I don’t know where that fabric’s been. New York can’t afford it if I contract a new strain of tuberculosis. Or…rabies.”
“Yeah, well, mask only has a slim chance of coming off after I’m wined and dined. Or if Spidey junior makes a compelling enough case for it.“
The late September chill pokes accusingly at Peter’s flushed cheeks. He just barely stops himself from flinging the cup of coffee to a trash can yards below his perch. Going half-masked is great for a fuel break on patrol. Terrible for smothering his reactions to shamelessly lewd assholes.
Somedays, he thinks he’s gotten used to it. Most days, he gets hot under the collar and curses himself a thousand different ways for not giving himself better ventilation in this damn spandex.
“Still,” Wade continues, “you did rub me down pretty good. Although I coulda sworn you were sticking to me for a second there.”
Peter scoffs. “I wasn’t.” He was. He did. And he thought he successfully blocked it out. “Not to tug my own web, but I–wait–don’t–“
“Wait for what? You to bulldoze past another perfect set-up without me getting my lick in? Pump the brakes, Spidey. Oooor yank the–“
“Okay, shut up, I’ll rephrase.”
“‘Cause nothing beats the original? I don’t know. You’re not half bad, for an adaptation.”
“I–what?”
“Never you mind. Proceed.”
“I was saying, not to toot my own horn, but I’ve got the spider stuff down pat. Unintentional sticking’s a thing of the past. It’s you who’s got a lot to learn.” He tuts, indulging in another sip of coffee, while Deadpool jerks his head up at him indignantly.
“Are you offerin’ to teach me, Charlotte? Because that’s a fantasy coming true that I didn’t have on my rooftop bingo card.”
“Not much I can teach you about being a spider, Wade. Maybe instead, we start with finding you a new occupation.”
“Save the soul-searching for the priest in Hell’s Kitchen, sweetheart.”
Peter snorts in surprise “Daredevil’s…not a priest, he’s just Catholic.”
“And running around in a badly tailored suit, making a mockery of ole Beelzebub.”
“Eh. It’s a decent suit.”
“And you think I’m a decent guy, despite Bea and Arthur’s best efforts to the contrary.”
He chugs down the last lukewarm sip of mediocre deli coffee and tosses it, eyeballing the trajectory to a distant speck of a trash can on the sidewalk. “I think…” Lowering himself from his web strand, Peter flips onto his feet. “That decent has its polar opposite somewhere and that person wouldn’t jive with you.”
“Bobby and I are best friends, thank you very much.”
Peter rolls his eyes. Trying to have any sort of introspective conversation with the twitchy mercenary feels like corraling a rampaging Alexsei. “Wade–“
“I like my line of work. You don’t see me telling you how to shape yours.”
“…pretty sure you’ve been very vocal about what you think I should do to Scorpion with his own tail, actually.”
“No, no, I said it’s what I woulda done. Making friendly conversation. You’re free to imagine yourself in my shoes purely for the sake of banter, too, you know.” He tucks his knife away and leans back on his palms, then tilts his head thoughtfully. “Hooo boy I don’t know if I love or hate the image that just popped into my head.” He inhales slowly. “Scratch that. I love it.”
“I’m not even going to as–“
“You. In my threads. Sans katanas, ‘cause the girls get weird about strangers, but just about everything else is free game.” Deadpool lazily glances over his shoulder, sizing Peter up like he’s a freshly baked cake sitting tauntingly in a bakery window. “Jesus, Webs. Please tell me I can gift you some thigh holsters. Even if all you fill ‘em with are puppies and rainbows.”
Peter gingerly sits beside Wade on the roof’s edge, leaving a few inches between them. “Not really the look I’m going for.”
“And what fashion philosophy is the spandex adhering to? Defusing villains by eliciting hard-ons?”
New York’s crisp wind on his tomato face is a jarring reminder that his mask is still half-up. He pulls the fabric down tight, a shutter to his traitorous blood vessels. “That’s literally just you, Wade.”
“Tell yourself that if it makes you comfier. But I happen to think there’s a reason Big Bird keeps coming back for more.”
A noise of disgust rises up Peter’s throat. “Vulture’s like eighty.”
“And likes swooping you off your feet an awful lot.”
“God.” He cracks up at the inane subject. “You’re such a freak.”
“Mhm. Means I know how to spot ‘em.” Deadpool turns his head. “Speaking of–what’s up with the mask?”
“The mask…that I’ve always worn. To protect my identity?”
“I mean you just had it halfway off, sunshine, and I was starting to appreciate the view. Also, I was a few splashy thought bubbles away from figuring it out and you’re killing my progress here.”
“Figuring out my identity?” Peter snorts dismissively. A tiny bundle of nerves sparks up somewhere inside him, but he demolishes it. Because Deadpool has already brushed up against the truth before, practically shook hands with it. The day he started prodding the web-slinger for the rationale behind providing the Bugle’s most prolific spider-hero photographer with posed angles.
Jesus, Peter remembers holding his breath. Waiting for the inevitable “gotcha” moment that the merc seemed to be agonizingly building toward.
Just for that vat of tension to simmer and die, once it was numbingly obvious that all Deadpool wanted to do was complain about Peter Parker.
“I don’t care if he quit, Spidey, it’s the goddamned principle. He uses your likeness to rack up funds for his–his test tubes, or textbooks, or–test monkeys–whatever he does in that lab these days–and you’re telling me you never even got a CUT? Didn’t grab him by his lab coat and shake him around ‘till some coins fell out, at least?”
“No, Deadpool. Because intimidating civilians and demanding their money is literally the opposite of what I do here.”
“Yeah, well, get with the gray area, gorgeous. Y’know, the fuzzy, fun space that lets heroes be heroes and still indulge in the perks once in a while.” Deadpool peered at his phone screen, humming deeply. “I’ll give your nerdarazzi one thing, though. He knows his angles.”
Deadpool cracks his knuckles absently, passing another look over Peter’s lean frame. The mask never seemed to stop him from playing coy when he wanted to and it makes the hero prickle like a bug under a magnifying glass and a searing ray of sun.
“You can ask me not to pry, but you can’t expect me not to wonder. Figures that my favorite superhero in New York would also basically be the only one that gives a shit about a mask.”
“Besides–“
“Daredevil, I know. And he’s not the mystery he thinks he is. I could scope out the churches in Hell’s Kitchen and have it narrowed down to a handful of tortured white guys in a couple days.”
That…almost sounds legitimate. Peter tacks on a mental note to give Matt a mild warning next time their patrol paths cross.
He gazes out at his city, and feels its restlessness thrumming in his heart. They both are ravaged by impulses; Peter restrains his for the moment. Rules may blur on rooftops but some transcend the stars.
“Speaking theoretically: the pros of a Deadpool on the straight and narrow? A resourceful, mind-numbingly handsome fella with lotsa time on his hands. Kinda time one could dedicate to crocheting granny squares. Or running facial recognition for nothing but a gorgeous jawline. Or plastering ‘have you seen this mouth?’ posters in every borough and waiting for one of your exes to give me a call.”
“Right. Remind me to never drink around you ever again.”
“‘Cause your mouth will be otherwise preoccupied? Not very T for Teen of you, Spidey.”
Peter grumbles to himself. Keeping a quick tongue is a matter of serious pride for him. Makes the fights go faster, staves the lull. But sometimes, the only way to keep up with Deadpool is meet him on his level, sexual innuendos and all. And that’s a can of worms he’s a little afraid to open.
Curious, too, maybe. Like the way someone gets curious about oblivion when they’re standing cliffside or over a busy train platform.
Common sense keeps him rooted to his seat. Ignoring that the only other source of warmth on the rooftop is the bulky outlaw hellbent on coaxing out his embarrassment.
“Websy.”
“Wade.”
“Can I at least get a hint? Buy a letter or something?”
“No.”
“Just the first name, Christ. I already imagine you as Spidey Wilson when I’m feeling dreamy so I don’t need much else.”
“Nope.”
“Michael.”
“What are you–“
“Arthur.”
“You can’t just–“
“Heath.”
“Wade.”
“Oh, woah, what was that? Call and response? Are you a Heath?”
“No, I’m a–nnoyed.”
“Is that French, mon ami?”
“Moron.”
“Moroccan?”
“No, you’re a moron.”
“Never told a lie, Reginald.”
A surprised snort of laughter escapes Peter. “Are you actually trying?”
“I can try. Only if you’d cooperate.”
“I won’t.”
“I know that, Reg. But you wanna know something?” Deadpool bounces his leg absently, searching the sky for stars that refused to surface. “I think I’m okay with that.”
From the corner of his eye, Spider-Man dares a glance at Deadpool. It’s a fragile glimpse, hoping to go unnoticed. He can sniff out looming sincerity from Wade Wilson like a shark after blood, but unlike the sea-born predators, he prefers a quieter approach. He listens. Waits. Tries to be stiller than New York City would ever normally allow one of its own to be.
“Not sure you and I would know what to do with ourselves at a dinner party, or a grocery store, or–whatever the hell your weird little day job is. All I know is it definitely doesn’t pay enough and I’m happy steerin’ clear. This’ll do us fine.”
“The roof?” Peter murmurs, frowning for reasons he can’t quite articulate as his eyes scan the merc for any sign of…something. Anything but contentment. Because Peter can’t see this being enough. He only knows that it’s all they’ve got.
“Yeah, Spidey. The roof. ‘Cause frankly I think your attitude gets better with altitude.”
“I just called you a moron.”
“Exactly. Swoon.”
Scoffing through a grin that he’s grateful Wade can’t see, he draws a knee up toward his chest and wraps his arms around it.
“Okay. If I give you one letter that still won’t be enough for any meaningful hypothesis, will you take it and keep your guesses to yourself from now on?”
“…no. I’d guess even harder. Might start slamming down shots like I’m at trivia.”
“Yeah, I figured. Never mind then.”
“You should get this by now, Webs. If you give a merc a cookie, he’ll blow up your house.”
“I…don’t think that’s how that book ended.”
“It’s how mine ends. Keep up…Quentin.”
“Still no.”
“Thank God. I’ve always envisioned something hotter.”