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"Nothin' like a sausagefest on the roof after a hard day's patrol, amirite?"
"I'm gonna pretend you didn't just say that. Wanna try again?"
The city glittered beneath them, streetlights replacing stars and making the world feel somewhat flipped. Distant honks and sirens echoed up the concrete jungle—that and the taste of cheap pork cemented the night as a certified Big Apple™ evening.
"Thanks for the wiener?" Wade tried.
Spidey chewed his hot dog.
"You're no fun."
Wade took another bite of his own dog and grimaced. Too much mustard.
"What'd you think of that robber today, huh? Real low-life, that one. Bet he'd have a sausagefest with me."
Spidey side-eyed him. "You're so weird."
"Hah . . . yeah. . . ."
Wade let his legs dangle over the side of the roof and watched the traffic down below. Cars inched along, people shouted, life carried on. Nothing ever changed in this city. Nothing except. . . .
He cleared his throat. Spidey glanced over, a piece of bun hanging from his lips.
"Ah. . . ." Wade's mouth went dry. He wasn't good at this. Never had been. Everyone knew he didn't take anything seriously, and sometimes it was easier to hide behind the mask than admit he had actual feelings. He squeezed the hot dog a little tighter. Relish dripped onto his thigh.
"Something wrong?"
Wade lifted his eyes from the escapee relish to Spidey, who was looking at him with ever-so-slightly squinted eyes. Well, mask-eyes. What did he call those things, exactly? They were—
Forcefully, Wade shook his head. Not the time, he thought. Seriously, this isn't hard. Just tell him.
"Listen, Webs, I. . . ." He cleared his throat again. Had he accidentally swallowed web fluid? Surely he could take it better than that, right?
"You're not about to confess to me, are you?" Spidey joked. It sounded forced and more than a little awkward, like he was trying to alleviate the tension.
Wade's heart did a funny little flip.
Cut that out. "No, no, nothing like that." His hand—the one not holding the hot dog, though he wouldn't have been shocked if he messed that up, too—came up to scratch the back of his neck. "I just wanted to tell you I really appreciate what you're doing for me. I know I kinda suck, and I'm not the easiest guy to get along with. You didn't have to listen to me, or believe me, or actually choose to help me. It . . . it means a lot that you did. So thanks."
Spidey gaped at him, those weird bug eyes of his wide and bulging. His mouth moved incrementally. He said nothing.
Several moments of silence passed, until:
"Listen, Wade, I—"
Wade stood up. "Hey-hey, don't worry 'bout it, kay? I said my piece. You said you didn't want to turn this into a sausagefest, and as much as I disagree, I think that's where this is headed." He shoved the final bite of his hot dog in his mouth and pulled his mask down to chew and swallow.
"Wade, wait—"
"Hey, I'll see you tomorrow, Webs, alright? Don't stay up too late thinking about me." He saluted and let himself fall off the building, finding the rush of air and smack of asphalt to be preferable to meeting Spidey's eyes again. He picked his organs up off the street, waved to a passing woman—"How ya doin'?"—and started the walk home.