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When Peter passes his third McDonalds while chasing a rogue pickpocket, he thinks the universe really has it out for him. It’s almost three am and he hasn’t eaten since, what, seven pm? Six-thirty? Whatever, it’s been a long time. And Peter is hungry. Fast food isn’t the best fuel, but it would be something. Even a small fry would be enough to curb his hunger until he could find something a bit healthier.
It doesn’t take long to web up the man who stole someone’s wallet and return it to them, but by the time he’s done he’s so hungry he thinks he might throw up if he swings. Problem: he has no money on hand. People love to give free things to Spider-man, especially food, but it’s always made him feel bad. For a second though, he genuinely contemplates the idea as he bounces between his feet.
“Hey, Spidey! Need a hand?”
Peter could pass out from happiness.
“Hey, ‘Pool.” Peter grins as he turns to face him. “Got any food?”
“Nah, but I got money and a McDonalds down the street,” Wade says as he skips towards Peter. His suit is sparkling clean; he must have just come out. Why, exactly, Wade roams the streets randomly and doesn’t kill anyone or seem to be on any job is beyond Peter. But it often brings him to Peter, so really, he doesn’t care enough to find out.
They eat in the restaurant, something they don’t often do, but Peter is too hungry to care even about the possibility of his mask falling off or some rowdy kid yanking on it. The burger he’s scarfing down is far more important. Wade noisily eats an ice cream laden with candy.
In the fifteen minutes it takes them to be done eating, they chat easily. Wade asks about his Stark Internship, and lets Peter ramble on about “crazy science stuff that makes no sense, but makes my Spider happy.” In return, Peter asks about Wade’s favorite shows: Golden Girls, My Little Pony, the occasional Hello Kitty episode. He gets numerous lore dumps, and decides he likes Fluttershy best.
Peter manages to get down a double cheeseburger, thirteen nuggets, a medium fry, and a water. He leans back against the booth with a pleased sigh, grinning as Wade tries to shove more fries into his already-full mouth.
“Thanks for the food, Wade,” Peter says. “Better get back onto the streets though. Idiots won’t web themselves up, unfortunately.”
Wade swallows, the noise comically loud, and says, “Of course, Spidey! Mind if I tag along?”
“That’s a terrible idea.” Peter stands up and stretches his arms above his head, back popping. “But as long as you bring more fries, I guess you can come.”
“Oh, you guess,” Wade mutters as he snatches up their last, untouched large fry. “At least you’re allowing it. Can’t get everything you want.”
“Find someone your own age to hang out with,” Peter snarks as they leave, the bell on the door dinging above them.
“I’ll have you know that I have some very nice friends! But I can’t let my favorite Spider get hurt, IronDick would kill me.”
“He wouldn’t kill you,” Peter responds. “I wouldn’t let him. Maybe just some light maiming.”
Deadpool splits off within an hour, looking incredibly morose as he goes. He makes Peter swear to eat a vegetable, and be in bed by ten tomorrow, taking the night off. The sentiment is nice, and Peter tells him goodbye genuinely, but he doesn’t need Wade fussing over him as well. He’s already got half a dozen calls from Tony telling him to wrap up patrol and head home.
It’s six am, sun breaking the horizon, when Peter calls it quits. Not exactly what Tony or even Wade might have had in mind, but New York never sleeps and its crimes had run rampant over the dark hours. Peter is glad to be done, at least, as he limps through the sliding doors into Stark Industries.
After Wade left, Peter had swung around the city until he’d found some crooks, got shot at, violently slammed into a building twice, and experienced general pain and unrest. Peter threw up once already in a shady alley next to a rusted dumpster, and now every bit of his body feels so weak that he isn’t sure he can make it to Mr. Stark’s lab.
His theory is proven correct as he approaches the elevator, says hello to Bruce as the doors slide open, and promptly collapses.
Not exactly his finest moment.
When Peter comes to, it’s in a bed somewhere in Mr. Stark’s penthouse. Peter would try to get up and maybe find someone, but the bed is soft and blankets fluffy, the TV playing something that looks half-interesting.
No more than five minutes have passed when Deadpool comes into the room, loudly declaring “Spidey, I know I told you to get some rest but I didn’t mean like this!”
Peter cracks a grin and pushes himself up to sit against the pillow. “Sorry. Just wanted to be extra thorough. What, uh, what are you doing here?”
“I convinced ole’ IronDick to let me in. Said I had some nice things for you. He was all ‘Deadpool, Peter has everything he needs here’ so I went, ‘Nuh-uh.’ So, I brought you some hoodies, soup, and this!” Rather proudly, Wade holds up a small Deadpool plush figure. It’s stupid and a little egotistical, but Peter finds himself laughing. The laughs quickly break out into thick coughs, Peter hacking up phlegm into the bedside trash.
“Thanks,” Peter says eventually, settling back onto the bed, voice scratchy. “I really appreciate it.”
“Though some people—” Wade raises his voice, angling towards the door “—don’t think this is necessary, I argue that taking proper care of your Spider is always what makes or breaks a good person.”
“You know you can call me Peter, right?” Peter asks, smiling slightly. It’s amusing, the way Wade veers around his identity, even after he’s known it for so long.
Wade gasps dramatically, racing over to cover Peter’s ears. “Don’t say that. People can hear you!”
Peter swats Wade away, his arms limp as uncooked noodles. He hasn’t realized before now just how drained and empty he feels. Nothing exactly hurts, but his entire body is weak and achy if he moves too much. His mind, on the other hand, is completely fine and raring to go. Peter already knows it’s going to make resting that much harder.
“I don’t want you lifting a finger, Spidey,” Wade says. “Mainly because you look like you can’t hold a spoon, but also because I love spoiling my friends!”
“Your murder-money help you buy a lot of shiny things?” Peter jokes.
“Rude! I don’t only buy shiny things, I buy other stuff too. Like groceries! And this!” Wade tosses the plush onto the bed, where it lands in Peter’s lap. It’s then that he can see how the stitches are a little uneven, the eyes sewn crookedly. Handmade, Peter thinks. The idea that Wade might have made the little plush himself just to cheer Peter up warms him from the inside out.
Wade heats up the soup, putting it into a glass bowl printed with Spider-man adjacent designs—where did he even get that?—and insists on spoon-feeding it all to Peter.
“Not. A. Finger,” Wade repeats, waving the spoon around. Droplets of soup fly through the air. “Oops. Anyways. You’ve wayyyy overworked your muscles, though getting beat up probably didn’t help. And no spoon means no glass bowls.”
Eventually, Peter relents. The soup, classic chicken and noodle, is just on this side of salty. The carrots are tiny cubes instead of slices, adding just enough flavor but not too much for Peter to dislike it.
Overall, it’s…nice. Wade is gentle, if not teasing, going “open for the airplaaaaane” every few bites as though Peter is a toddler. The soup is warm and comforting, and by the time Peter takes the last mouthful, Wade scraping excess drops from his chin, he feels sleepy and full.
“Get some rest, Petey,” Wade says as he places the dishes on the bedside table. “Need our Spider back to full strength.”
Peter falls asleep warm and bundled up, feeling safe and secure in a way that he hasn’t in a long while. It’s a nice change. One he thinks he could get used to.