Chapter Text
Peter liked to think he’d gotten quite good at rolling with the punches after nearly a decade of his vigilante career. He could handle getting his ass kicked once in a while. Hell, he’d even crawled his way back from the brink of death a few times. More than a few times. He’d held his own against the Green Goblin, Mysterio, the Vulture. He’d become very well acquainted with all the ways his body could bleed, break, and bruise—
But none of that could compete with late July in New York City.
Peter had many regrets, yet there was nothing he regretted more than suiting up head to toe in the least breathable spandex imaginable. The heat was a caged animal, crouching, pressed against him like a second skin. His palms were damp, fingers clumsy. A layer of sweat lingered on his forehead, his nape, the backs of his knees, the creases of his elbows. He could feel it, stubbornly refusing to evaporate and provide him with what little relief it could.
His goddamn air conditioner was broken for the second time this month, and the windows in his apartment wouldn’t open more than halfway. So, he’d given up on staring at his blank Word document, waiting for his thesis to magically write itself, and gone out for a head start on patrol. Even as he watched, legs swinging over the edge of a rooftop, the sky darkening, he could feel the sun’s warmth radiating up from the concrete all around him.
Inescapable. Even above the city, the heat was annoyingly persistent.
Suddenly, Peter’s spider-sense prickled along his spine, delightfully cool. A few seconds later, he heard someone’s footsteps from inside the roof access stairwell. The stairway door slammed open with a deliberate bang.
“Did ya miss me, baby boy?”
Peter sighed, the release of hot breath trapped inside his stifling mask. Speaking of annoyingly persistent.
Deadpool crossed the roof in a matter of seconds, plopping down cheerfully beside Peter. “How’s my favorite wall-crawler doing?”
“I’m fine,” Peter said. Well, he had meant to say that, but it came out as more of a weak groan.
Deadpool leaned in to press the back of a gloved hand against Peter’s forehead. As usual, Peter’s personal space didn’t exist when it came to Wade. Peter had first met Deadpool six months ago when the two of them had happened to be tracking down the same crime boss. After a few chance encounters (which Peter soon realized were probably closer to stalking than coincidence), Wade had successfully planted himself like a burr in Peter’s side. Peter hadn’t held much influence in the decision. It wasn’t like he texted Wade patrol tonight, same place, u coming? It wasn’t like he’d sent Wade the link to his Google calendar.
Peter just had habits, and Wade had learned those habits. That was all. And if you would have asked him why not break them? Why not pick a different schedule, a different rooftop, a different starting sector of Manhattan—Peter wouldn’t have had an answer.
Deadpool wasn’t his ally, or partner, or peer. Deadpool wore red to hide the blood on his hands. But the scent lingered, ferrous and cloying. Peter could smell it on him.
Peter brushed Wade’s hand away, the heat making him sluggish. He doubted Wade could check his temperature with the barrier of the mask anyway.
Wade tsk-tsk ed disapprovingly. “This heat wave is no joke. Honestly, it wouldn’t kill you to lose a few layers. Ditch the suit, keep the mask if you’re worried about all that secret identity shit. It would be a good look on you. Trust me, I’ve had a few dreams like that.”
Wade was doing that ridiculous head tilt of his that Peter knew meant he was attempting to wink beneath the mask.
“You do know you don’t have to tell me every single one of your sexual fantasies, right?” Peter asked.
Wade shrugged. “Hey, someone’s got to justify that T rating, and they don’t call me the Merc with a Mouth for nothing.” He nudged Peter playfully. “Besides, I don’t think there’s enough time in the day to tell you every single one.”
Peter didn’t bother with a response. He was used to Wade’s endless stream of empty flirting pointed in his general direction. Peter’s working hypothesis was that Wade much preferred the sound of his own voice to silence, and predictably enjoyed getting a rise out of Peter.
“Anyway,” Wade said, once again beating the silence into submission. “I can be chivalrous too. I defended your honor today.” Wade poked Peter in the ribs twice for emphasis.
A spark of fear lanced through Peter’s chest. For just a moment, the stark image of motionless bodies, pooling scarlet flashed across his mind.
Wade seemed to read his mind. “Relax. No unaliving, I swear.” He widened his eyes, the picture of innocence. “I’ve been a good boy. Scout’s honor.”
Peter squinted at him, still suspicious. “None of the three D’s?”
“No dismembering, decapitating, or death,” Wade recited.
It was a mantra that Peter had drilled into him with minimal success. Wade always spoke the last word with clear distaste as though sucking on a lemon. He still preferred “unaliving”, his more lighthearted synonym. But there was nothing lighthearted about ending someone’s life. Peter wasn’t sure that Wade would ever grasp this.
I still don’t understand why decapitating is its own category, Wade often complained. Isn’t the death part implied?
It was times like these that Peter wished he could properly roll his eyes in the Spidey mask.
“Do I want to know?” Peter finally asked. The idea of Deadpool marching around the city, causing bodily harm in Spider-Man’s name wasn’t particularly appealing.
“Aw, come on, Webs. Have a little faith.” Wade swung his arm around Peter’s shoulders, squeezing gently. “You’ll be happy to know I’m abandoning the mercenary lifestyle to become an upstanding member of society. I’ve got a new job now, helping others on a journey of enlightenment. I’m like a slightly less fuckable Master Oogway.”
Peter blinked at Wade, stunned. “What?” His heat-induced headache was intensifying.
“I promise you, that elderly turtle can have my Dragon Warrior anytime he—”
“No,” Peter interrupted. “What job?”
Wade pulled back, staring at him with an uncharacteristic solemnity. “Are you aware that there are impostors wandering around, claiming your identity? And not a single one of them has the ass to back it up!”
“What, like character actors?”
“Con artists! Thieves!” Wade flung his hands up in frustration. “Whatever happened to intellectual property? The bastards are ejaculating all over the sanctity of copyright. I mean, Yellow’s right. Someone’s gotta get Feige on the phone about this.”
Peter had painstakingly developed a filter for taking bits of Wade’s confusing chatter and extracting the hidden bits of sense, and it was working overtime now. “It’s just a costume, Wade,” he said. “I’m not going to hunt down Spider-Man impersonators at every kid’s birthday party in the city.”
What Peter didn’t say was that he picked up the birthday party gig on occasion if it was a month when the photography job couldn’t quite cover the combined cost of rent, utilities, and groceries—which was often.
“Oh, no, I have no issue with birthday party Spider-Men,” Wade reassured him. “I can personally attest to the quality of those guys. They do bachelorette parties too, if you’re in the market.”
Peter wrinkled his nose. “I’ll pass.”
Wade shrugged his shoulders like too bad, your loss. “Imagine this: I’m strolling around Times Square, official superhero mumbo jumbo. You know the deal, Webs.”
“Sure.”
“Okay, you got me. I was at the M&M store to see if they’d let me write dick jokes on the custom M&Ms,” Wade admitted, sounding much too pleased with himself. “Spoiler alert: that was a no-go. Then, next thing I know, I’m surrounded by a squad of so-called Spider-Men. I’m not talking Andrew or Tom. Hell, I’m not even talking Tobey.” Wade paused for effect.
Peter just sat, staring at him with crossed arms. Was that supposed to mean something?
Wade continued, “So at first, I’m like this isn’t that bad. Actually, I’ve had a couple dreams like that too—“
“Wade.”
“No need for jealousy, Webs. You’re still my favorite Spidey.” Wade leaned his head against Peter’s shoulder affectionately. “Besides, they kept asking me if I wanted to take a picture with the real Spider-Man and I think one of them was trying to pickpocket me. That or he was getting a little too friendly with my neighborhood, if you know what I mean.”
Peter did his best to ignore the absurdly suggestive gesture Wade was currently making with his hands.
“My point is,” Wade said. “I can’t have those store brand Spideys running around, tarnishing your good name. I’m willing to offer them my guidance as the world’s number one Spidey expert.” He puffed out his chest with pride, as if I’m waiting for Peter to applaud him.
Peter did not applaud.
“You?”
“Yeah, me,” was Wade’s response, instantly defensive.
Peter snorted, half-delirious. Maybe the heat was getting to him. Maybe he was going crazy. Maybe they both were.
The thing was, Spider-Man was not real. Spider-Man was an idea, a symbol. Anyone could have worn the mask. Sure, today Peter was in the suit, slinging webs, but that didn’t mean that the way Peter spoke or stood constituted the essence of Spider-Man. Spider-Man was speculation and story and rumor. Nobody knew him, not even Peter.
This, Peter decided, was inexplicable. Back to sarcasm, then.
“You’ve known me six months—“
“Seven next week,” Wade corrected.
“What makes you such an expert?” Peter challenged.
“Oh, trust me, baby boy. I can read you like a book. It’s like I’m crawling through that cute nerdy brain of yours, plunging inside of you—“
“Wade,” Peter warned.
“Inside of your mind. You didn’t let me finish.”
“So?” Peter asked, curious despite himself. “What’s inside my mind?”
Wade seemed to consider for a moment. It might have been the longest Peter had seen him think before speaking. “You’re a student, graduate most likely. You obviously don’t have a stable job, and you don’t sleep nearly as much as you should.” Wade counted the supporting evidence on his fingers as he listed them. “I’m guessing PhD, something science-y.”
“I already told you that,” Peter shot back. He must have, at some point, complaining about his thesis or long hours in the lab. A stupid slip-up, but not a damning one. “And it’s biochemistry, by the way.”
Wade fixed him with a determined look. “I know your taco order. You always get carnitas, street style, extra squeeze of lime, and you hate sour cream.”
Peter faltered, surprised that Wade could recite this so readily. “I don’t see how that’s relevant,” he said, unyielding.
“You don’t know a man until you know his taco order,” Wade said.
Peter shrugged. “Then I guess you know me.”
“Backwards and forwards.” Wade was still wearing his mask, but Peter could tell he was grinning.
Suddenly, Wade reached for his tactical belt, and pulled out something that Peter was shocked to discover was not a weapon. It was a red flier, slightly creased.
Bright blue Comic Sans blinded Peter. Spidey Skills for Dummies , it said. Smaller font declared Wade to be a certified friend and confidant of Spider-Man.
“I’m holding a workshop tomorrow,” Wade told him. “In case you’re free.”
Peter studied that eyesore of an advertisement as he weighed his options. On one hand, the last thing Peter wanted to do on a Tuesday afternoon was babysit Deadpool as he life-coached a bunch of Times Square Spider-Men. On the other hand, if it distracted Wade from adding to his kill count, it might be worth the sacrifice.
“I might be,” Peter finally said.
Besides, what’s the worst that could happen?
According to the flier, Wade had set the workshop location in Central Park, a nice little grassy area where people sat sprawled out on top of picnic blankets. With no skyscrapers to swing from in sight, Peter was forced to trudge through the park, fully suited up. The trees provided some shade, but the humidity was overwhelming, the air so heavy with trapped moisture that Peter could almost feel the weight of it. If this workshop didn’t kill him, the agony of summer in New York would.
He arrived five minutes late, finding the group easy enough. Spider-Men were everywhere these days—Peter had seen one hurtling down the sidewalk on roller skates just the other day—but you rarely saw a congregation of them like this, three of them standing together. Peter assumed most of the Times Square Spider-Men hadn’t been interested in character work. The trio reminded Peter of the Spider-Men pointing meme. Wade had shown it to him, taking time to over-explain as if the image on his phone was the indecipherable runic language of a civilization lost to time. Peter had patiently clarified that yes, he knew what a meme was. He was only twenty-four, for God’s sake.
As Peter approached, he easily picked Wade out from the Spidey trio. Broad frame, a good bit taller than the others. He wasn’t wearing his mask and Peter could see the back of his bare head, bald and pockmarked with red blemishes. He was wearing a poor imitation of Peter’s suit, the kind you might get on Amazon, awkwardly padded around the shoulders and biceps, abs drawn on to the costume’s torso. The other two Spideys wore similar get-ups.
As if wearing a knockoff Spidey suit had imbued Wade with a spider-sense of his own, he spun around when Peter was still halfway across the lawn from him. His gaze snagged on Peter, and instantly a smile carved its way across the desert of his face, his eyes lighting up. Peter had never known that brown could sparkle like that. Peter waved, suddenly self-conscious. He was used to Wade eyeing him up and down, but this was something else entirely: raw and hopeful and frighteningly honest. It scared him.
Peter tried to shake off the feeling. It was the novelty of seeing Wade mask-less in public, that was all. Peter had only seen him without it a few times, usually on a rooftop somewhere after a long night’s patrol, and once at their favorite Mexican spot when Wade had accidentally smeared salsa verde across the rolled up mask fabric bunched around his nose, then said ah, fuck this, and yanked it off in frustration.
Abruptly, Wade clapped his hands together, nearly making Peter jump with the noise. “Well, well, well. Looks like we’ve got a latecomer.”
“Yeah, well.” Peter shrugged. “You can’t web-swing through Central Park.”
One of the doppelganger Spideys let out a hearty chuckle and clapped him on the shoulder. “Good one, man.”
Peter nodded along. Right. Joking.
“Late Spidey, meet Cosplay Spidey and Times Square Spidey,” Wade said, gesturing first at a lanky Spider-Man with a shock of red hair protruding from where their mask met their neck, and then at the shorter Spidey who had laughed at Peter’s remark.
Peter mumbled a polite greeting to the others.
“Oh, how rude of me,” Wade gasped, raising his fingertips to demurely cover his mouth. “Is Late Spidey okay with you, Late Spidey? Perhaps you have another name you’d like us to call you? Like, just for funsies, the one that appears on your birth certificate or equivalent legal documents? No pressure.”
“I go by Birthday Spidey, actually. Bachelorette Party Spidey every other weekend,” Peter said, deadpan. Nobody could see, but he was smirking beneath his mask. Hey, at least he could have a little fun with this.
Wade watched Peter, one edge of his mouth curled upward as if amused. He had a nice smile, Peter decided. It was the sort of smile that made you feel like you were sharing an inside joke with him—a subtle nudge of the elbow, a playful, well-timed wink.
“Alrighty then, class,” said Wade. “The first thing you should know about my good pal Original Flavor Spidey is that the guy is a stick in the mud, morally speaking. He doesn’t go in for the chaotic neutral approach. I mean, I doubt he’s even jay-walked before.”
Peter knew Wade was purposefully getting on his nerves, but he took personal offense to that last bit as a New Yorker.
Cosplay Spidey and Times Square Spidey nodded aptly. Cosplay Spidey had produced a pad of sticky notes and a ballpoint pen from their utility belt and was scribbling away diligently. Peter took a moment to admire their suit. It was tailored perfectly, better quality than anything you could get online, and even looked more breathable than Peter’s suit. Peter almost considered asking if Cosplay Spidey did custom orders.
“Can anyone here tell me if they’ve heard of the three D’s?” Wade said in a professorial kind of voice. “They’re a big no-no in Spidey land.”
Cosplay Spider’s hand shot up instantly.
“Yes, Cosplay Spidey?”
“Death, dismemberment, and disfigurement?”
“Oof, so close,” Wade winced. “But disfigurement is A-okay in Spidey’s book.”
Peter opened his mouth to protest, but Wade wasn’t finished.
“Take it from me, my disciples—scars just make you hotter. Any other guesses?”
“Disablement?” suggested Times Square Spidey.
Wade tapped his chin thoughtfully, but then shook his head. “Nope, Spidey says that adds character . How fun, right? Good thing that’s not in the three D’s.” He gave Peter a pointed look.
Peter finally raised his hand, halfway only to assert whatever free will he still had in the situation.
“Yes, Birthday Spidey? Go ahead, give me your D.” Wade was biting back the grin spreading across his lips, thoroughly delighted by his own innuendo.
Again, Peter wished he could take off his mask just to roll his eyes. “Is it decapitation?”
“Ding, ding, ding!” Wade patted him on the back appreciatively. “Someone’s done their research.”
“Wait, decapitation?” said Cosplay Spidey, glancing up from their notes. “Isn’t that, like, included in death?”
They turned to Times Square Spidey for support, who just nodded firmly and said, “Yeah, that kills people.”
“ Thank you. That’s what I tried telling him,” Wade said, shooting Peter a smirk that said told you so. “Actually, that’s your next lesson. Spidey is very stubborn. He doesn’t listen to the sage wisdom of his dear friends.” Wade punctuated this with a pout directed at Peter.
Suddenly, Times Square Spidey raised his hand, fingers waggling in the air.
Wade blinked at him, vaguely surprised. “You have a question?”
Times Square Spidey fidgeted slightly as all eyes settled on him. “Can we, uh, work on physicality? You know, like cool poses and stuff.”
“Ah, a man who wants to get physical. I like you already, Times Square Spidey,” Wade winked.
Well, Peter thought. I guess he has a type. Any Spidey seems to do.
“We’ll start with a classic,” Wade said, squatting low. “Remember, class: ass out, back arched, hand on the ground.”
To Peter’s horror, the other Spideys immediately followed Wade’s demonstration. Not wanting to stick out like a sore thumb, Peter lowered himself to the grass, easily shifting into a familiar pose of his. It was how he landed sometimes, one leg bent at the knee, the other extended.
Wade was circulating, calling out advice. “More pizazz! Have fun with it. Yeah, just like that. Stay on your tiptoes, really work those arches. It’s only one hand on the ground. Your left arm is raised like this, see? Like you’re going to punch a bad guy.”
“It’s for balance,” Peter muttered.
Wade spun on his heel, making a bee-line for Peter. Damn it, he should have just stayed quiet.
“Let’s take a look at your form, Birthday Spidey.” Wade was behind him, then on his right, circling him like you might circle a sculpture at the Met, searching for the perfect angle from which marble melts into flesh and fabric folds.
Wade crouched down to make adjustments, prodding Peter between the shoulder blades, lifting Peter’s arm by the wrist no more than half an inch higher. He tilted Peter’s chin upward, made sure his toes were pointed.
“Not up to your standards?” Peter asked, sardonic. Yet a small part of him was overthinking, wondering if there was something he was missing. Was this what people pictured when they thought Spider-Man? Why did his hands look so odd with his fingers splayed like that? If someone saw him like this, in a group of copycat Spider-Men all crouched in his signature pose, would they think him just another suit in the crowd?
The doubt caught him by surprise, a suffocating, staticy feeling in his stomach. Peter crumpled to the ground, sitting in the grass as his pose dissolved. Spider-Man didn’t collapse in defeat, but Peter Parker did.
Wade nudged Peter lightly with the side of his leg. “Why so stiff, Webs? And I don’t mean the good kind of stiff either.”
Peter took in a shaky breath. He could feel sweat gathering in the crease of his knees. Fucking spandex.
“Come on, loosen up,” Wade urged. He bent beside Peter wrapping his arms around him to give a gentle shake. Wade’s tone was light but his eyes were wide with concern. Peter was glad for his mask, glad Wade couldn’t see the very unheroic look that was surely on his face.
Peter forced his muscles to unclench, relieved as some tension bled from him. The pressure of Wade’s touch grounded him, one hand on the small of his back, the other gripping his forearm. Ten years, Peter reminded himself. Ten years of this. You must be doing something right.
“There you go,” Wade said, pulling back. He could feel the brush of Wade’s fingertips as they lingered at his waist hesitantly.
“It’s the heat,” Peter lied. “I thought I was going to pass out for a second. I’m fine now.”
Wade stared at him, brow wrinkled. “Sure you’re okay?”
Peter nodded.
Wade didn’t look convinced. “Okay, but call me if you swoon. You’d make a cute damsel in distress.”
Against all reason, Peter thought he might take Wade up on the offer. He blamed dehydration, obviously.
The rest of the hour-long workshop went as well as you would expect. Wade moderated a debate between Cosplay Spidey and Times Square Spidey about what borough Spider-Man was actually from. Cosplay Spidey was willing to bet all their worldly possessions that Spider-Man was from Brooklyn while Times Square Spidey insisted that Spider-man was a native of the Bronx.
“Have we considered the fact that there’s a two in three chance he’s a Brit with a killer dialect coach?” Wade piped up.
Peter’s doppelgangers didn’t seem to hear him. Peter, on the other hand, was using every last bit of his will power to prevent himself from blurting out the truth and setting the record straight.
When the hour was up and the other Spidey students had said their goodbyes, Peter decided to take a breather on a nearby park bench. He wasn’t quite ready to swing his way home. At least there was shade and the faintest bit of breeze here, leaves rustling overhead. Predictably, Wade invited himself to plop down beside Peter, sitting sideways so he could drape his legs over Peter’s lap. Peter didn’t bother to push him off.
“So, Spidey,” Wade said, lightly nudging Peter’s knee with his heel. “What did ya think?”
Peter shrugged. “Honestly, I’m surprised anyone showed up.”
Wade swatted at his arm. “Oh, don’t be modest. Most impersonators started as Spidey fans, and there’s an infinite supply of Spidey fans.”
And of people who hate Spider-Man’s guts, Peter wanted to say. Who print his picture in the newspaper and call him a vigilante and a menace. Spider-Man was still a “him” and not a “me” to Peter. It was better that way.
“White says I’ve earned my title as the world’s leading Spidey expert,” Wade informed him. “Educating the public one D at a time.”
Peter crossed his arms. “Well, tell the Boxes that I never said that disfigurement is ‘A-okay.’”
Wade was silent for a moment, lips pursed in concentration as he listened to the voices in his head. Peter watched him. Wade hadn’t put his mask on yet and his face was dappled with late afternoon sunlight filtered through the tree canopy overhead. It was strange seeing him out of the Deadpool uniform. Gone were the holsters and buckles and katanas strapped across his back. Black traded in for blue, weapons traded in for polyester and cheap padding. This suit had never been riddled by bullet holes or slashed to shreds or stained with as many tints of blood as there were shades of the sky.
Peter didn’t mean to stare but he was endlessly fascinated and disturbed by this mercenary turned Spider-Man life coach who had barged into Peter’s life and refused to leave. Maybe Peter didn’t want him to.
“White says you never said that it wasn’t A-okay,” Wade relayed.
“I heavily implied it.”
“Oh, and Yellow says you’re being a buzzkill.” Wade paused, waiting for Peter to laugh or applaud or some third thing. “You know, like insects? Cause you’re Spider-Man?”
“Spiders are arachnids,” Peter corrected. “I’m revoking your expert status.”
“Aha!” Wade pointed at him, triumphant. “You admit I had expert status to begin with.” Peter almost expected him to leap up and break into a victorious jig.
“No, I—”
“Nuh-uh. I win this time,” Wade bragged, wagging his finger in Peter’s face. “I am an instrument of justice, setting my students on the path of righteous Spideyhood, one edumacational workshop at a time.”
“That’s not a word.”
“I hate to side with Yellow, but you’re kinda proving his point about the buzzkill thing.”
“Alright,” Peter stood with a groan, peeling Wade off of him. “I’m going to go home and take a shower.” He didn’t even care about the possibility of there not being hot water. He was sticky with sweat and would have accepted being dunked in ice water at that point.
“Aw, without me?” Wade whined. “What a stab to the heart.”
“You’ll grow a new one,” Peter reminded him.
Peter turned to walk away but Wade called after him. “Are we patrolling tonight?”
“ I’m patrolling,” Peter said. “ You’re focusing on not killing anyone.”
Wade lifted his hands in mock surrender. “Jesus, you’re breaking out the italics and everything. Okay, okay, no unaliving. I’ll make you proud, Webs.”
There was a note of uncharacteristic sincerity to his words. Peter almost believed him. He wanted to.
“Seven-thirty,” Peter decided. “Don’t be late.”