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[Nice decorations we put together.]
{Dude, you were snoozing while I was twerking my ass off hanging up these balloons.}
[Bro, I’m the one who picked out the colors.]
{Puh-lease. Like you have any taste in aesthetics.}
“Will you two zip it? I’m the one who picked out the party ambiance.”
[Not really a party, man. No one is here.]
“People will be here soon.”
How could they not? Wade had curated this bash fit for a merc and all of his favorite people—enemies, acquaintances, the guy at the dentist, X-Force, the X-Men, the Avengers—but more importantly, his beautiful baby boy, the spider with the mostest.
Y’see, Wade had been crushing mad hard on Spidey for, like, ever, and their patrols were going as smooth as the butter on Wade’s pancakes. Recently, he and Spidey had gotten super duper tight, like, hanging out without their masks on tight. Wade’s heart did a silly little pitter-patter every time he saw the guy. Thought about the guy. Contributed to the spank bank in honor of the guy.
Spidey had even told Wade his name. His real name!
And Wade just wanted to spend some QT with his precious Peter. And while he would have lo-ho-hoved to be one-on-onesie with him, he figured a group thing was less pressure than the d-word.
[D-word?]
{You mean?}
Date.
So, instead of that, he decided to keep things disguised as super cazh and throw a party, inviting him. And besides! If Peter declined, Wade would just drown his sorrows in a game of spin-the-bottle with the Avengers. N.B.D.
He blinked up at the red, black, and blue balloons bobbing against the ceiling (his and Spidey’s colors!), then at his kitchen table covered in snacks—chips, fruit punch, three types of dip, a cheese ball the size of Spidey’s ass, and then some— while a playlist called Wade’s Party-Palooza looped on his old speaker. He’d even cleaned the apartment—well, “cleaned” in Wade language, which meant shoving everything into the closet and lighting two cinnamon candles to mask the lingering lunchtime chimichangas. And he’d put on his “party suit” (aka: his Deadpool suit plus a rainbow paper party hat).
Yep, everything was ready to go.
[Should we, like, give ourselves a pep talk?]
{Pep talks are for lame-os.}
[You’re a lame-o]
{We’re the same person.}
Wade sighed dramatically. “Fine. I’ll do the pep talk. Okay, Wilson, remember: be normal, mingle, light stabbing if necessary. Charm the webs off Peter.”
Speaking of. It was about time Wade checked his phone.
No calls, no texts, no notifications.
[Maybe they’re just busy.]
{Or maybe nobody wanted to come.}
Wade could feel his face go as red as Hello Kitty’s bow underneath his mask. “Wow, okay, negativity box. Who invited you?”
Then it hit him: maybe he just needed to pass a little time.
Pfft. Wade could do that. Do you know how many boring-ass stakeouts he’d been on back when he was doing shitty merc jobs? Wade was a time-passing professional.
He got out his doodle pad and crayons. He cleaned his guns. Checked on his plushies in the bedroom. Hummed the Golden Girls theme song forwards and backward (trust). Thought about Spidey's butt in spandex. Only a little. He didn't need Wade Jr. to make an appearance yet.
Sigh. That must have passed some time, surely.
Wade checked his phone again. Two hours since the party started, and nothing. Not a missed call. A Tweet. A voice note. A DM. Zip. Zilch. Zipparoo.
Nothing from the Avengers, X-Force, Jeff, and not even a peep from his precious Petey.
[Ouchie.]
{That last one hurt.}
Wade felt a sinkhole in his chest. “Cool, cool, cool. Definitely wasn’t expecting people. That would be embarrassing.”
[Well, technically, I showed up.]
{Yeah, bros, I’m here too.}
[So that means there are three of us. Score!]
Yeah. The party-palooza had officially turned into a party-pa-loser.
[Welp, might as well take the ol’ mask off. No one to perform for anymore.]
{Yeah, dude, I’m itchy. Let’s take our underwear off too!}
They had a point about that one.
Wade tugged off his mask (and, fine, made a few other strategic comfort adjustments) then did what any self-respecting mercenary host would do: he started eating the evidence.
Chips. Cookies. Mini quiches.
Gone.
The bowls of guacamole and queso?
Tragic casualty.
Wade’s belt?
That shit was coming off.
Wade cleared the bowl of popcorn, the cheesy puffs, and the fruit gummies. He even poured nine cups of punch—one for him, and the rest for Peter’s imaginary legs if he were an actual spider (which he drank himself).
By the time Wade had put away a family-sized bag of pretzels, his regenerative healing factor was struggling to keep up with everything he’d eaten. But hey, he now had a new party accessory: a very round, very full belly.
He sprawled back onto the couch, licking lingering salt from his fingertips, one hand resting on his tummy, the other clutching a sad, leftover streamer. His party hat had slipped down over his eyes, and every few minutes, a soft, involuntary burp escaped him.
“Congratulations, Wilson,” he muttered to himself, “You threw a party, and the only one who showed up was heartburn.”
-Knock, knock.-
[Hold up. Is someone at the door?]
{Nah, bro, our burps are just starting to sound like knocks.}
Then a voice, a little hesitant: “Wade? You still up?”
[Is that…]
{Holy shit.}
Holy shit.
“Peter?”
Little cartoon hearts floated around Wade’s head as he heaved himself off the couch and made his way to the door.
[Hold up, yo. If that is Peter, we can’t let him see us like this.]
{Yeah, dude, we got chip crumbs on us.}
[And we look like we’re preggers.]
{Surprise! Peter is the father.}
I wish. Wade brushed the crumbs off his suit and tried to suck in his stomach, which proved fruitless – it barely budged.
[Fuck it.]
{We’re doing this.}
Fine. Wade yanked open the door and–
[Oh.]
{Oh.}
Oh.
Peter, standing on his doorstep in civvies—jeans, nerdy science boy shirt, hoodie, hair windswept, cheeks pink, a paper bag in hand, looking cutie-ful as ever, like the tastiest party snack of the night.
Wade’s brain short-circuited.
“Hey, sorry I’m late,” Peter apologized. “Patrol ran long. You didn’t think I’d miss your party, did you?”
His lips crooked into a sweet little awkward half-smile, and it did something deeply inconvenient to Wade’s internal organ. No, not that organ. The other one. His bleeding, lonely heart.
Wade’s shoulders dropped. “You… you came?”
“Of course I did,” Peter said, searching Wade’s face. It was blank, a little flushed, not the usual bright eyes and toothy grin. Peter didn’t need his Spidey sense to know that something was wrong.
His gaze dipped briefly, taking in the way his suit stretched across his middle, before flicking over his shoulder, noticing the fallen decorations and the empty battlefield of crumbs and chip bags, formerly known as the snack table.
Peter’s heart squeezed. “Oh, Wade… did I miss everything?”
[Yooo, we can’t tell him no one showed up, he’ll think we’re lame.]
{We are lame.}
[What should we do then?]
{Um. Lie!}
Wade immediately lied. “Yep. Massive turnout. The Avengers came. X-Men too. You just missed Wolverine doing the Macarena. So, I, uh, yeah, technically the party’s over. And possibly eaten.”
Wade kneaded at a pinch of his suit, as he looked into Peter's eyes. They were sweet, gentle, sparkling. Like they were the only party decoration that he needed. Like they were the only ones who showed up when no one else did and suddenly—
[Yo. I’m having a hard time pulling off this fib.]
{Speak for yourself, broski. I’m living la vida lie.}
Nope. Wade couldn’t do it. Not to Peter.
“So, uh, haha, funny story about that. I made all of that up so you wouldn’t think I was a loser, because the truth is…”
Wade paused.
He sighed.
“No one showed up.”
He cleared his throat and gestured vaguely at the table. “The only thing you missed was me versus the snack table.” He patted his belly sheepishly. “Spoiler alert: snacks won. Don’t judge me. I had emotional support nachos. I regret nothing. Except for the second bowl of queso.”
Peter’s eyes softened. “You okay?”
“Define okay,” Wade said, waving his hands at the deserted decorations as he flopped back onto the couch. “It’s not exactly a hit bash when your guest list includes only yourself and…” A burp cut him off.
[Classy.]
{I think you mean gassy.}
Wade shrank into himself. “Sorry about the, um—”
Peter padded over to the couch, kneeling next to Wade, gentle and close, eyes warm. “Oh, Wade… you didn’t have to eat everything yourself.”
“You didn’t show up,” Wade purred pitifully, “So I had to fill the emotional void. With cheese balls. Also, possibly with regret.”
“I don’t regret this,” Peter said, popping one of the extra party hats onto his head. “See? Instant improvement.”
Something in Wade’s chest loosened. “You’re serious? You’re staying?” He huffed a quiet laugh. “Baby boy, it’s late, and I’ve already eaten everything. Besides, I’m mopey. The merc with the mope.”
“Of course, I’m staying. And hey, don’t worry about the snacks, I, uhh – brought you dessert, by the way.” Peter pulled a small, slightly squished pastry box from the paper bag. “For round two… or later, or whenever.”
Wade’s eyes lit up. “Well, smack my ass in the Sweet Factory at the mall. You brought backup sugar?!”
Peter smiled shyly. “Heh. Yeah. And I also brought a movie. I dunno, sometimes parties can be a lot, and I thought it might be nice to have something kinda chill to do as an option. Or y’know, maybe when things died down, if you, uh, wanted to, I dunno, maybe hang out after.”
[Is he asking if we want to Netflix and chill?]
{Hey-o! You know what that means.}
Wade melted like the two party-sized bowls of queso dip he had eaten.
"I'd love that," Wade tried to say. Tried because he had eaten two bowls of queso dip, and it was sitting heavily in his tummy.
Peter huffed a small laugh, a little pink. “Heh. Cool. I mean—awesome. I mean, yeah.” He nudged a half-deflated balloon out of the way and sat beside Wade. Close enough that Wade could feel he wasn’t alone, even if he wasn’t ready to say it out loud.
Close enough that their legs brushed together.
“Oh,” Peter said. He shifted awkwardly. “I uhh… sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry, baby boy. I’ve literally eaten an entire party’s worth of snacks. The ol’ regenerative healing factor’ll kick in soon, but until then, my tummy and I are taking up space on the couch. Remember me as I lived: brave, bold, and full of mini pretzels.”
Peter nudged Wade’s leg intentionally this time. “Hey. I believe in you. You’re going to survive to tell your story.” He paused, then added, “Can I get you something? Tea? Water? Tums?”
Wade made a muffled, happy noise, scooching a little closer. “Just… stay here and be my emotional antacid, okay?”
“Deal,” Peter said, then hesitated for a second. “Uh, if you wanted me to…” he started, cheeks warming a little, “I could, y’know, maybe…” Peter gestured toward Wade’s stomach.
Wade blinked at him. “Hold the fruit loops. Are you asking permission to pet the emotional support tummy?”
Peter huffed a small laugh, still pink. “Uh, yeah. Might help a little. Sorry if that’s weird. You totally don’t have to.”
Wade’s heart did a little flip. “Baby, I’d love it.”
“Heh. Okay,” Peter said, swallowing audibly, like he was working up the nerve. He made a small, fumbling gesture before finally settling his hand on Wade’s belly, gentle, careful, a soft little hum slipping out of him.
[Is this really happening?]
{I was just about to ask you the same thing.}
Listen. Wade had fantasies of Peter touching him. Tearing off each other’s suits. Peter’s top teasingly lifted, leather rolled down Wade’s ass—
But this? This was kind. Sweet. Careful.
Peter glanced up at him beneath lowered lashes. “Uh, is this okay?”
"Baby boy. Yes. A million, trillion times yes. You’re impeccable. Amazing. You’re kinda blowing my mind right now. But, I don't want to say something that’ll scare you away, and chances are I’m going to ramble, and I'm not going to make any sense, so I'm going to change the subject and ask you what movie you brought?"
“Lovers and Other Strangers.” Peter smiled shyly. “I know that you love rom coms, and I know that you love–”
“Hold. The. Fuck. Up. You mean to tell me you brought a Bea Arthur rom-com?”
[I’m about to cry.]
{Easy for you to say, I’m horny.}
“Heh. Yeah. I did a little bit of research,” Peter said, a little proud. “I looked up Bea’s filmography on Wikipedia and found out it’s available on Blu-ray.”
Wade swallowed hard. He pictured Peter in his apartment at night, or perched on some rooftop after beating up a baddie, Googling shit Wade liked and making one of his little Petey plans for him.
“Websy, my dearest,” Wade said softly, a little wrecked around the edges, “you’re perfect. Please. Put the movie in before I explode. From feelings. Or queso.”
“Heh. Sit tight.”
“Baby, I ain’t going anywhere.”
Peter popped the movie in, then returned to Wade on the couch, the pastry box nestled between them. Cock blocker. It was all Gucci, though, because even though Wade was excited to watch his queen, he was more interested in his king, sneaking glances at Peter between scenes. Peter caught him once, smiled, and nudged his shoulder.
Wade grinned, pink in the scars on his cheeks. “Hey, so not like there’s anything sweeter than you in there, but what kinda dessert did you bring?”
Peter popped open the lid of the pastry box, revealing two chocolate cupcakes with red and blue frosting. “Sorry, they’re a little smushed. But I, uhh—yeah. I kinda thought they matched our colors. Couldn’t find any cupcakes with black frosting for you, but the chocolate kinda does the trick.”
[Our colors?]
{OUR COLORS?}
“Ho-ly shit, colors! I got the balloons in our colors, y’know. We’re practically heart-mates, Petey.”
“Oh.” Peter blinked, bashful, glancing up at the ceiling. “They are our colors. Heh. Cool. I like them.”
Yeah, Wade was still full, but there was no way in hell he was going to miss out on Petey-pie’s soul-color cupcakes, so he helped himself to one, nibbling happily.
Peter’s hand found its way back to his stomach without much thought, gentle and circling slowly. It paired perfectly with another bite of the cupcake—red and blue melting together on his tongue, the edges of any lingering party woes blurring into oblivion.
But then he paused, something bashful flickering across his face.
“Uh—”
A soft little brrp escaped before he could stop it.
A flush crawled across Wade’s scarred cheeks. “Sorry, I—”
Peter’s brows drew together. “You okay?”
“Better than buttercream.” Buuurp. “Heh. Sorry. Last one. Maybe.”
“Hey,” Peter said, voice soft. “It’s okay. Means you liked it.”
“I… yeah.” Wade looked away.
It was dizzying, suddenly, how an hour ago he’d been pretty sure he was destined to be alone forever, and now he was here with Peter.
Poor an-hour-ago-Wade. Existing, not living, and now—
“I like this too.”
“You know…” Peter started, fingers tracing small, soothing patterns, “I, uhh… think you’re kind of adorable like this.”
[If this is a joke, I'm leaving.]
{Where are you gonna go?}
“Y-you… do?” Wade asked hopefully.
“I do,” Peter confessed. “I, uh… I’ve been thinking about you a lot. About how much I like hanging out—and the way you make me laugh. And the smile you get when you’re trying to make me laugh, and—” He ducked his head a little. “I’m really sorry I was late. I’ll make it up to you. I promise.”
“Websy.” Wade’s voice caught, and he reached for Peter’s hand, giving a gentle squeeze. “You already have. Can I tell you something?”
Peter nodded. “Of course.”
“I tried to pretend this was just some party, but the truth is…” He exhaled, a little shaky. “I just wanted to spend time with you.”
He huffed again, softer this time. “And I’m low-key—okay, high-key—freaking out that you’re here, calling me adorable and petting the Wade Wilson tummy-tum, and—fuck it. I’m rambling. But I’m good at that.”
Peter’s cheeks turned pink. “You’re cute when you ramble.”
[Cute?]
{CUTE?}
Wade practically fell off the couch. “PETEY-PIE. YOU CAN’T SAY THINGS LIKE THAT. Do you have any idea what it does to my poor, praise-kink-starved insides?”
Peter fluttered his lashes. “Something good?”
Wade melted like the fallen queso dip. “Yeah, something better than good. Like buy-one-get-one-free Build-A-Bear good. Like, when you thought you ran out of underwear and found a clean pair, good. Like, please baby, you’re so unbelievably cute, and I think you should kiss me good. But only if you want to and not because I suggested it, and fuck it, I’m rambling again. Still cute?”
Peter leaned in, sweeping his lips against Wade’s. “Still cute. Heh. The cutest.” Then a second peck, firmer, more certain. “Good party,” he said softly.
“Yeah,” Wade sighed happily against Peter’s mouth, “Best party I’ve ever had.”