Chapter Text
“I love the sunset over New York,” Peter said softly, blinking up at the gold and cotton-candy pink sky.
“I love the sunset over New York with my favorite spider,” Wade swooned, feetsies kicking over the rooftop’s edge. “Correction. I love the sunset over New York with my favorite person, my favorite Peter, my favoritest little tight ass in blue.”
“You really are buttering up my Parker buns. Is it because I had to web all of those guys up while you stopped mid-fight to take a selfie?”
“Tsk, tsk, Petey. You looked hot, and the lighting was perfectly catching my mask. Had to pause for a cause. The cause was us looking delicious. Oh! Fuck it. Almost forgot.” Wade popped into one of his belt pouches, rummaging around and pulling out a crumpled ball of fabric.
“Lucky,” Peter sighed. “Wish I had pockets. Or a pouch.”
“I’d be happy to hold anything you want, baby boy. I’ve got like twelve of these MFs on me. You don’t even wanna know what’s inside them. Hell, I don’t even know what’s inside them.”
The crumpled piece of fabric turned out to be a blanket — Wade shaking it out softly. “Borrowed it from that nice little old lady’s laundry line — don’t worry, she agreed to it, and I left her a churro as payment.”
“Is that what you got in that Hello Kitty backpack of yours? Churros?” Peter hoped so.
“Hoho! I am so glad you asked!” Wade beamed, unzipping. “I was hoping you’d be down for one of our post-patrol rooftop seshes. I kinda mighta sorta planned ahead and brought a few things for us.”
“You… planned?”
“I planned like a guy trying to earn my little Spidey-Widey’s affection and a forehead kiss, sweetums.”
And then came the big reveal: sandwiches. Deli sandwiches.
“Cuban with extra pickles. Tuna with hot sauce. One meatball sub — just in case. I did my research, babykins. ”C’mon.” Wade patted the blanket. “Scooch scooch that little boot… y.”
Peter’s insides did a happy little shimmy, like he’d just won the sandwich lotto. He dropped onto the blanket with a soft flump, legs folding pretzel-style, and gave Wade a shy nudge with his shoulder. “You really did all this?”
“You bet your sweet little spider ass I did! And!” Wade pulled out a ziplock bag of slightly too-crispy cookies and a thermos. “I baked for this special occasion. The burnt edges are artisanally intentional. And the Swiss Miss is hand-whisked with love.”
“You... had all this stuff in your backpack this entire time we were fighting those bad guys, just in case we came up here?” Peter’s heart did a little backflip. “And remembered I like tuna with hot sauce?”
“Course I did. I also remember the first time you called me babe.”
“I… I haven’t called you, babe, Wade.” Not that he hadn’t thought about it.
It wasn’t Peter’s fault that Wade had been growing on him a lot lately. Wade was a five-star quipper, and when they weren’t word-playing baddies to shame, Wade was making Peter laugh or saying something that made Peter feel special—doing things that made Peter feel special, like bringing these awesome sandwiches and stuff for them. And ever since they started hanging out regularly, Peter had this little fluttery feeling in his chest that he was having more and more trouble ignoring.
“Ha! Gotcha. You said it — you called me babe. Babe, Wade!” Wade beamed. “Aww, Pete. You’re the cutest.” He gently nudged the thermos. “Here. Babe's peace offering. Drink up and let it be known: I will never forget this moment for as long as we both shall live.”
Peter shook his head with a smile and tugged up the lower part of his mask to take a sip. “You’re—”
“Handsome? Charming? Cuddly?”
Oh. Well, yeah, maybe all of those things. Still, Peter took a sip and diverted, saying, “Mm. That’s good hot chocolate.”
“Only the best for you, Webs.”
Wade followed suit, tugging his mask up, and did that thing where he talked way too much to cover how happy he was just to be there. Sandwiches, the bodega, baking the cookies, Peter’s butt—no topic was off limits. All the while, he was hanging onto every nod of Peter’s head, every little - mmpf- he made as he sank into a sandwich, every last swipe of his tongue across his lips. It wasn’t Wade’s fault that Peter was so witty, and funny, and sweet, and Wade couldn’t help but brush his hand against Peter’s thigh or, oofa-poofa, land one soft touch at the small of his back—each contact sparking like static through his gloves.
That soft kind of affection from Wade settled over Peter like the sunset — sweet, golden, and before he could stop himself, he was leaning into Wade’s every touch. A nervous giggle bubbled out of him. He glanced away, suddenly shy.
C’mon, Pete, you’re Spider-Man for crying out loud, get it together.
“So, uhh – you made cookies?” Smoother than a jar of Skippy peanut butter, Parker.
“Fuck yeah I made cookies. Your favorite.”
“How do you know what…”
“No backsies. Put that cute little spider-paw in that bag, take one, and tell me it’s not your favorite.”
“Spiders don’t have paws, Wade. But I’ll forgive you because you’re –” Peter reached into the bag, retrieving an especially misshapen one. Kinda looked like a little puppy. “-- Cute.” Oh. Uhh, Peter didn’t mean to say that. Not out loud anyway!
“Hold. The. Fuck. On. Did you just call me, Wade W. Wilson, what I think you did?”
Peter felt a little lightheaded. “Huh? Yeah, Wade, these cookies are—uh—cute. I mean, good. And tasty. You’re, um… You bake. Well.”
Wade sighed. “Pish, posh, distractions, distractions. Wait. A good baker? You think so, baby boy?”
“Mm. Mm-hmm.” Peter reached into the zip-lock for another. He tucked one between his lips, eyes fluttering closed, little buttery crumbles spilling down the front of his suit.
Wade noticed. “Speaking of cute, Webs. You are - sigh - too fucking cute. May I?” Wade asked sweetly, thoughtfully, attentively.
Peter nodded, not quite sure what Wade was “may-I-ing”—maybe another cookie?—only that his voice was soft, soothing, and holy crap, his cookies were pretty darn good. And why did he look so handsome in the flicker of the city lights?
Then – oh – Wade’s fingers brushed gently against his chest, sweeping away the crumbs. The flutter in Peter’s stomach jumped straight to his throat. He didn’t mean to catch Wade’s gaze so intently when he looked up at him.
“You light up the whole skyline, y’know that, Petey?” Wade cooed, tucking his hand around Peter’s.
Uh. Peter looked down at Wade’s hand covering his, and a fluttery feeling ran up and down his spine. “Why are you being so…” Sweet, warm, irresistible. “Nice to me?” Crap. Clunkier than Peter’s busted vacuum when it ate his last clean sock. He felt a deep pang in his chest as Wade’s hand slowly fell away.
“Oops. My B. Sorry. Spidey. Haha. I shouldn’t have said that. I just really like being here with you. Not only now, but all the time. You’re so—you, I can’t help flirting with you sometimes.”
Peter could feel his ears turn pink. “Oh, uhh, sorry, it’s not that.”
“So you do like me flirting with you?”
“I uhh –” Why was this so hard? Peter wasn’t expecting to feel so… Fuzzy. Floaty. “Guess I do.”
“Are you–are you-you-you’re saying that – hoo boy! No jokes, Webs?”
“No jokes.”
It was no joke that Wade’s fingers were now running along the inside of Peter’s wrist. It felt too good: something not so great was bound to happen. Peter started to spiral a little, waiting for the other Parker luck shoe to drop—but it didn’t.
Wade looked at him sweetly and said, “The biggest non-joke of them all is… I like you, Spidey-Widey. Like – like like you. I like spending time with you. Going on missions and quipping and laughing together and dangling our feet off the rooftops and being close to you and your smell and your tight little ass and your big bambi eyes and your good heart, Webs.”
Peter melted like the chocolate chips in Wade’s cookies and leaned into it—into Wade. His warm, strong arms wrapped around him, and without even thinking, Peter reached up to give them a gentle stroke.
“I, uhh—this is nice.”
Crap, Peter wanted to say it back – to tell Wade everything, how much he liked him and how he’d been thinking about him constantly for months. But the words caught in his throat. It was all happening so fast, and he hadn’t prepared a ‘Hey, Wade Wilson, I like you’ speech. He’d been busy, that was all.
Busy thinking about Wade.
Wade gave it, like, five full minutes. Five whole minutes for Peter to say it—‘I like you too.’ But he didn’t.
Wade really did like Peter. Like, really liked him. But he wasn’t going to pressure him. Not ever. So, with a quiet exhale, he let his arms slip away from Peter’s shoulders. He crumpled their sandwich wrappers, tucked them into his backpack (because no fucking way was he going to litter in front of Peter!), and then sat beside him as the city lights blinked on across the skyline.
Oh no. Wade hadn’t said anything in like a bajillion years: This was worse than Peter thought. He didn’t say I like you back, and now Wade is quiet, and Peter ruined everything. There’s that other shoe. Only Peter didn’t think he would be the one to let it drop.
“We should do this again sometime,” Peter suggested sweetly.
Wade shook his head. “It’s coo. We don’t have to.”
Peter took Wade’s hands and said, “I really want to. Sorry, I’m just having an off night, I think. I’ll be better the next time around. Promise.”
“K.” Even though it wasn't the worst way to end it, Wade suddenly felt weak, and his hands fell away. “Think I should probably head home.”
“D-do- do you need a lift?” Peter offered. “I could swing you home. I know you like that.”
“Nah. You’re tired, get some rest. See you around, Webs.”
“See you around, Wade. I’ll let you know about the picnic!”
But Wade was already gone. Peter’s heart dropped to his stomach. He was going to make this right.