Archive of Our Own

Something was wrong with Spidey.

It was all Wade could think about.

Truthfully, it was hard to define what really counted as normal when it came to Spidey, who Wade could say, with confidence, was the only person he’d ever seen sleep-walk up the side of a building. Mutant spider-powers aside, the guy had a hero complex bigger than the tri-state area, a disturbing fascination with graphical analysis, and the kind of rotten luck that constantly left him speckled purple and blue, nursing about a dozen bruises in various stages of healing—so much so that Wade had nicknamed him “Grimace but with abs” and had gifted him not one, but two sets of elbow and knee pads that Spidey refused to wear. 

For God’s sake, he’d been putting up with the likes of Wade for the better part of a year now, as if there wasn’t reason enough to question Spidey’s sanity.

Still. Something new was wrong with Spidey.

This singular thought drowned out the usual tumult of Wade’s cluttered mind, drowned out the roar of wind rushing past as he swung his legs over the edge of a rooftop in Midtown.

In fact, the thought was drowning out whatever Spidey was saying to him just then. Wade managed to catch maybe every fourth or fifth word. Something something downward slopes, something something positive reinforcement.

Friday nights were when Spidey gave Wade his weekly performance review, and Wade did his best to stop his eyes from glazing over at the sheer number of data points and optimistically-rounded percentages. 

Spidey was in the middle of gesturing enthusiastically at a slightly wrinkled stack of papers, freshly printed copies of his infinite-tabbed spreadsheet on Wade’s progress in living up to Spidey’s strict no-unaliving rule.

“...almost thirty-eight percent decrease,” Spidey was saying, gripping the relevant page between his index and thumb as a vicious gust of wind threatened to tear it from his grasp.

Wade just smiled and nodded along, sprinkling in a pensive tap to the chin when it felt right. Spidey’s statistical summary faded away, reduced to background noise, as Wade zeroed in on his masked expression, the slope of his shoulders when he leaned forward to trace the curve of a graph with his fingertip.

What was different? It was on the tip of Wade’s tongue, like an itch he couldn’t scratch, even as the gloating, blood-slaked mosquito buzzed at his ear.

Turns out that even a healing factor that made him virtually immortal didn’t defend against the irritation of mosquito bites. Spidey had once given him a whole lecture on histamine and inflammatory response, and all Wade had gotten out of it was that his overactive immune system was to blame.

“What do you think?”

Spidey was staring at him expectantly.

“Uh,” said Wade intelligently. He racked his memory, coming up empty-handed.

Spidey tilted his head to one side, watching Wade curiously.

Well, shit. No choice now but to consult the Boxes.

Little help here, guys? What was the question? 

Radio silence.

Great. Even the voices in his head abandoned Wade in his moment of need.

Thanks for your invaluable assistance, Wade thought bitterly.

Spidey folded his arms, and fixed Wade with a look that could only be described as grudging patience.

“What do I think…about what?” Wade ventured.

One of the main disadvantages of hiding your face behind a spandex barrier was losing the ability to express annoyance by rolling your eyes. This didn’t stop Spidey from trying.

“I was asking you what you thought about being fourteen weeks fatality-free,” he explained.

Wade let out a low whistle. “Second trimester, already? Our little one keeps growing faster and faster every day.”

Spidey’s brow creased in confusion. “Our?”

Wade laid a protective hand over the imaginary swell of his belly, glaring at Spidey. “You better not be an absent father to our bundle of joy, Webs.” He stopped short, a thought occurring to him. “Ooh, do you think I’ll lay eggs?”

Spidey stared at him blankly.

“What?” said Wade. “I don’t know how your Spidey-swimmers factor into my mpreg hypothetical. Arachnid anatomy is your area of expertise, right?”

Spidey buried his face in his hands, mortified. “Please, I’m begging you, never say any of those words again.”

“Just fucking with you, Webs.” Wade smirked. “But fourteen weeks—damn, do I get a trophy or something? Or, like, a really fancy gift basket?”

(Ask him for one with chocolate-covered strawberries.)

[No, ask him for cash like a normal person. Or better yet, a blow job.]

(Oh, and cornichons! That’s a fun word to say.)

Wade bristled. Oh, so now you decide to chime in? he scolded the Boxes. Fucking traitors. No cornichons for you.

Spidey was shaking his head lightly. “I’m not going to bribe you.”

Wade pouted. “Aw, why not?”

“Because,” said Spidey. “Most people don’t need external incentives to avoid homicide, Wade. Isn’t personal growth and a clear conscience enough of a reward? ”

Wade groaned. “Lawful good clashes with my aesthetic,” he complained. “Besides, weren’t you just saying how a little positive reinforcement goes a long way?”

Spidey paused, cautious. “I didn’t mean—”

“Oh, come on,” Wade cut him off. “I’m dying over here. I’d even settle for a crisp high five at this point.” He held up his hand in compromise.

Spidey seemed to consider for a moment, eyeing Wade like he was a shiny, red button labeled DO NOT PUSH, or perhaps a slice of cheddar wedged beneath the mousetrap.

“I don’t bite, Webs,” Wade said. “Well, not usually.”  He flexed his hand, wiggling his fingers, suddenly feeling a bit awkward.

He’d recovered, no biggie, after literally having his arm hacked off, layers of sinew and bone cleanly severed, but he didn’t know if he could survive it if Spidey left him hanging now.

Wade watched, almost in slow-motion, as Spidey set his mouth into a thin, determined line, and drew his arm back, hinging at the elbow. With a solid thwack, their palms collided. For a second, Wade could feel the shape of Spidey’s fingers through his gloves, and then Wade was sitting there with his hand still in the air like an idiot.

“Congratulations,” Spidey said.

In his half-delirious state, Wade almost expected him to add, “It’s a girl!”

But Spidey didn’t say that. Instead, he placed a solemn hand on Wade’s shoulder and squeezed. “The gift basket’s a little out of budget, but I’m proud of you, Wade.”

A fiery rush of pins and needles cascaded down the length of Wade’s arm. He figured that if worst came to worst he’d simply cut his losses and amputate the damn thing. 

“Thanks,” Wade mumbled.

Just over three months, and not a single soul unalived, Wade marveled. Admittedly, it had been quite the learning curve. Like re-learning how to ride a bike, but except this time he’d been blind-folded and paralyzed from the waist down. Wade thought it was pretty unfair that everybody else was allowed to get as much blood on their hands as they wanted, while he was the one stuck wearing kid gloves.

He glanced at Spidey’s hand, considering the warm weight of it, memorizing how the heel of Spidey’s palm pressed into the divot of his collarbone.

Unfair—but worth it, Wade supposed.

“Oh, that reminds me,” said Spidey, releasing his hold on Wade’s shoulder to flip through his stack of papers again. “I can make you some copies if you like. I know you’ve got the link already—”

“Yeah, about that,” said Wade, frowning. “Why’d you put me on view-only mode? I thought we were a team. Now, all of a sudden, you don’t trust me? ”

Spidey’s eyes went all wide and innocent. “You can’t edit? Really?” He shrugged. “Must be some weird technical glitch. Maybe, for now, you can make a list of suggested corrections and I’ll give them a look later.”

Wade could see right through his bullshit act. “Friendly neighborhood Spider-Man, my ass,” he muttered, pointing an accusatory finger. “You are drunk with power.”

Spidey tried to swallow a laugh and failed. “I’ll make you copies,” he said, more insistent this time. “It can be nice to have physical proof. Something tangible, to—you know, make the progress feel real.” He glanced at Wade. “You’ve come a long way. Seriously.”

Wade squinted at Spidey, studying him like he was a spot-the-difference game. It was as if the particles of the very air between them were vibrating at a different frequency.

Spidey’s mask caved in at the mouth, wrinkling around the outline of what Wade knew to be his smile. Christ, he was beaming at Wade over a spreadsheet. Something was definitely wrong.

And Wade was going to get to the bottom of it.

Normally, Wade loved a dramatic entrance. He loved the clomp of thick-soled boots in an echoey stairwell, the slam of a heavy door to announce his presence. He loved shouting out a hearty “Yoohoo, Spidey!” across the expanse of a mostly empty rooftop, anticipating the half-hearted wave or the answering sigh, what now, Wade?

Still, Wade also derived a fucked-up kind of joy from stealthier tactics. After all, it wasn’t every day that he found an excuse to bust out his trusty grappling hook.

Sometimes he liked to creep toward a distracted or sleep-deprived Spidey and count the seconds before reaching the invisible barrier of Spidey’s red-alert sixth sense. Wade could never really tell which step was the one that did it, hardly one toe over the threshold before Spidey whipped around, hackles raised as he searched frantically for some looming threat.

Wade found it oddly adorable, the way he stiffened as if electrocuted. He couldn’t help but imagine Spidey as a spooked stray cat, hair standing on end—that is, if stray cats were morally pedantic martyrs who gate-kept the contents of their Microsoft OneDrive.

So, there Wade was, sneaking up behind an unsuspecting Spidey at the start of what was certain to prove an uneventful Wednesday patrol. As he drew closer, Wade held his breath, waiting for the moment when he tripped the alarm, when the switch was flipped and Spidey launched into one of his default action figure poses.

The moment never came.

Wade was near enough now to see the tiniest of wrinkles where Spidey’s suit bunched around his slouched shoulders. Spidey was leaning down from his seat on the roof ledge to peer at something on the sidewalk a hundred feet below.

Wade was starting to wonder if he was the one being pranked here. Was Spidey about to spin around and declare himself the long lost fifth impractical joker, cementing the fact that, actually, Wade was tonight’s biggest loser?

Wade took another hesitant step forward.

Spidey wasn’t turning around.

Why wasn’t he turning around?

[Maybe you’ve pissed him off so severely that he’s recruited even his Spidey-sense to give you the silent treatment.]

(Maybe he’s finally gotten tired of you and replaced himself with a decoy dummy for you to bother instead.)

Both plausible, thought Wade.

At a complete loss, he reached out and flicked the back of Spidey’s head.

Spidey shot up immediately, losing his balance as he keeled toward the edge of the roof, inches from flinging himself over the side and becoming a friendly-neighborhood-shaped splat on the pavement.

Wade’s reflexes took over, and before he knew it, he’d grabbed a fistful of Spidey’s suit, yanking him back from the precipice.

Spidey stumbled slightly before shrugging off Wade’s grip. His hand drifted to the back of his head, ghosting over where Wade had flicked him.

He shot Wade an annoyed glance. “Ow. What was that for?”

Wade wasn’t sure why he’d done it. Honestly, it had scared him, seeing Spidey truly unaware of his surroundings, lacking in his typical defenses. There had been a desperate part of Wade, worried that Spidey had lost his survival instinct altogether, and suddenly dead-set on getting any reaction out of Spidey that he could. 

“That’s no way to speak to the man who just saved your life,” Wade scolded.

“You mean, the man who almost jump-scared me off the roof of a ten-story building?” Spidey crossed his arms. “Would it kill you to make a normal entrance every once in a while?”

“You usually catch me before I get to the jump-scare part,” Wade protested. “I think the real question here is why didn’t you turn around this time? Hm? If you think about it, you’re lucky it was your old pal Deadpool and not some perverted creep sneaking up on you.”

Spidey raised an eyebrow at him.

“Well, better the devil you know,” Wade muttered.

Spidey rubbed at his arm self-consciously. “I must have been distracted.” He pointed to the street below. “Look, I’m break dancing down there.”

Wade closed the distance between them to cup Spidey’s face in his hands, turning his head this way and that as he scanned for injuries. “I didn’t think I flicked you that hard. What kind of hallucinations are we working with here? Do I need to whip out my DSM-5 or something?”

Spidey peeled himself free. “No, seriously,” he said, laughing. “There’s a guy in a Spider-Man costume down there spinning on his head. He’s been going for like ten minutes straight.”

Wade took a look for himself, and sure enough, a small crowd had gathered around a Spidey doppelganger in a backwards cap who was busting several moves beside a boombox.

“Damn, Webs. Where have you been hiding those moves?” Wade said appreciatively.

“Maybe I was saving it for a worthy audience.”

“You don’t do any shows that are a little more…private, do you?” Wade nudged him in the ribs, winking exaggeratedly. “Like, for an audience of one?”

“No, Wade,” Spidey said flatly. “I do not.”

Wade studied Spidey, a prickle of concern still flaring at the back of his mind. “So, you’re genuinely telling me that you were so mesmerized by watching a knockoff version of you—what, popping and locking?—that your extra special Spidey-tingle went on sabbatical for a second there?”

“My spider-sense,” corrected Spidey. “And, yeah. I guess I was a little distracted. That’s all.”

Wade narrowed his eyes at Spidey.

(Don’t tell me you’re buying that?)

[Of course he’s not buying it. He’s not a complete fucking idiot. He just seems like one.]

Wade liked to think that he had a Spidey-sense of his own, or rather, a sense for when Spidey wasn’t telling him something and shit was about to hit the fan as a result. It was a sinking feeling.

Wade felt that unique kind of dread now as he watched Spidey squirm under his scrutiny.

Worst case scenario officially confirmed. Spidey’s early warning system, the one thing that had kept him alive through years of swinging into every nightmare this city could throw at him, was offline. Just…gone.

His spider-sense was broken. Spidey was broken.

If there’s one thing Wade had learned from Spidey’s nerdy ramblings, it was that good data was reproducible. So, before he went about fixing a broken Spider-Man, Wade figured he should probably verify that his Spider-Man needed fixing.

If anything, Wade was simply following Spidey down the path of scientific inquiry. How hard could it be?

As for his methods…well, sometimes empirical discovery required a few fumbles.

In Wade’s case, said fumbles were literal. Within a couple days, he’d upped his clumsiness by about 300% and dropped maybe a good quarter of Spidey’s collection of gel pens off of various skyscrapers in Manhattan, Brooklyn, and Queens.

Wade was moderating a side bet between the Boxes about how many pens it took before either the missing spider-sense returned, or Spidey put two and two together that Wade’s slippery fingers were no coincidence. Yellow had insisted on a six-pen limit. White had gone with the more conservative guess of three, on the basis of satisfying narrative structure.

The number, it turns out, was five. Although, to be fair, Wade probably had made it too obvious, going for two “accidents” back to back. There were only so many times one could hear “Whoopsies, there goes another one! My bad, Webs,” before suspicion crept in.

“Despite what you might think,” Spidey told him, looking physically wounded by the demise of pen number five. “My gel pen funds are not unlimited. They are extremely limited, actually. I am living on a PhD student stipend in the city with the highest cost of living in North America.”

Spidey glanced at Wade, shoulders heaving as he took a steadying breath. “I understand it can be…frustrating trying to quit the whole murdering-people-thing cold turkey, but you don’t need to take it out on my pens. That’s why they have rage rooms, and first-person shooter video games, and—I don’t know, those little smiley-face stress balls that they pass out at trade shows.”

Unbelievable. Spidey actually thought that Wade was throwing some sort of tantrum. As if Wade were not a man of science. As if he wasn’t testing a carefully crafted hypothesis.

“Why didn’t you just catch them?” asked Wade, not missing a beat.

“I—” Spidey swallowed. “I mean, I think if my spider-sense was set off by every little thing, there wouldn’t be enough, like, battery life left behind for the important stuff.”

“The important stuff,” Wade repeated.

Spidey nodded quickly, head bobbing.

Wade raised an eyebrow at him. “So your magical Spidey senses were set to power-saving mode? How…economical.”

Spidey’s right hand flew to his wrist, fiddling absentmindedly with one of his web shooters. It was one of his nervous tells, Wade knew. And unless Wade was completely misreading everything, it wasn’t only gel pens that Spidey was worried about.

For whatever reason, Spidey hadn’t snatched a single one of those pens out of midair before gravity caught up with them. His superpowered instincts were still asleep at the wheel, leaving his slightly-below-average human reflexes scrambling to compensate.

On to stage two of Wade’s research, then.

If Spidey insisted that his spider-sense was reserved for real danger, Wade had no choice but to raise the stakes.

“Uh, Spidey? You okay in there? You’re kind of holding up the line.” Wade brushed his knuckles against the door, glancing apologetically at the eight-year-old behind him who was currently wriggling uncomfortably.

“Sorry that I’m not used to catching Cheesy Gordita Crunches with my face,” came Spidey’s muffled, indignant response.

Normally, Wade found himself waiting outside a Taco Bell bathroom under very different circumstances, but tonight, he was only slightly more concerned for his own safety than usual. All that separated him from the wrath of one extremely pissed off Spidey was a flimsy door.

 “On the bright side, next time you’ll be able to see it coming,” Wade pointed out cheerfully.

He had meant well, honestly. He’d only been trying to evaluate a hypothesis that all Spidey needed to jump-start his defective alarm system was a good old-fashioned scare. And, well, what better time to pounce than when Spidey’s defenses were disarmed as he downed a beef burrito the size of his head?

“There better not be a next time,” Spidey said, forcing the words out from behind gritted teeth by the sound of it. “Christ, Wade, I think I have Diablo sauce up my nose.”

Wade winced. “Sorry, Webs. But, hey! That means your sinuses will be clear for at least a week.”

“If I survive that long.”

Wade heard a metallic click as Spidey unlocked the door. “You know,” Spidey said wearily. “For a former mercenary, your attempts on my life aren’t very effective.” Water was splashed all down the front of his damp suit, but Wade could still make out splotchy red-orange stains across his chest and mask. 

“I’m not trying to unalive you,” Wade told him. The opposite, in fact.

Spidey’s gaze shifted to the kid still waiting patiently for the bathroom. He softened instantly. “Bathroom’s all yours. Sorry about that.”

The kid blinked up at him, wide-eyed.

When the kid didn’t move, Spidey slipped a hand into his utility belt and pulled out a sticker. It was printed a bit off-center, the image of a hand-drawn, cartoonish Spidey doing a thumbs-up, slightly cut off at one edge. “Here, this is for you,” he said, holding out the peace offering.

The kid gave him a strained smile, before dashing into the bathroom and slamming the door behind himself.

Wade pinned Spidey with an offended look. “So, you’ll bribe a child, but not your dearest friend and partner in crime? Ouch, Spidey. Twist the dagger a little deeper into my heart, why don’t you?”

“Partner in justice,” Spidey corrected.

Wade made a face. Part of him wanted to roll his eyes at the corniness that had just come out of Spidey’s mouth. Yet another part of him struggled to fight the fondness swelling in his ribcage.

“And I wasn’t bribing anyone, “ Spidey said. “Kids like stickers. I just—it’s a nice thing to do, okay?”

“Okay,” Wade agreed, his voice even. “I believe you.”

“What? Why are you looking at me like that?”

Wade shrugged. “No, nothing. I mean, it’s a smart PR move. Proactive.”

“Right, and why do I need to be worried about PR all of a sudden?” Spidey squinted at him.

Wade was doing his best to suppress a grin. Spidey’s mask was still rolled up halfway, so Wade could see the way his nostrils flared, the suspicious tilt to his lips, the band-aid plastered over a small cut at his jawline—whether from a well-timed uppercut, or a routine nick during shaving, Wade couldn’t tell.

“Wade?”

Wade bit the inside of his cheek, hard, using the small jolt of pain to bring himself back to his senses. “While you were in there, that kid may or may not have asked me what Spider-Man was doing in a Taco Bell bathroom,” he said slowly. “And I may or may not have told him that even Spider-Man has little accidents from time to time.”

Spidey stared at him, horrified. “What? Why would you—You do realize that you’ve not only made it sound like I’ve shit myself, but you’ve also specifically convinced that kid that I shit myself habitually, right?” He sighed, shoulders sagging in defeat. “With my luck, the inside scoop on Spider-Man’s incontinence problems will be splashed across the Daily Bugle’s front page by tomorrow morning.”

Wade poked his tongue at his fresh cheek wound, feeling for where tender skin was already scabbing over. “Don’t be ridiculous,” he said, waving a dismissive hand at Spidey. “Like I said, the kid’s been paid off. You’ve got nothing to worry about.”

Spidey burst out laughing at this. “Nothing to worry about?” he managed to wheeze. “Nothing to worry about?” 

Wade watched as Spidey struggled to catch his breath, trembling as his giggles trailed off into a series of hiccups.

(Looks like you’ve broken him for real this time. Like, beyond repair.)

[That’s a win for the scientific method. Nice one, Wade.]

Yeah, I know, Wade retorted. Shut up. I’m working on it.

Wade studied Spidey, gaze fixed on the visible half of his face. Even hysteric, there was something magnetic about his smile, Wade decided.

His eyes traced the lines of Spidey’s nose, his jawline, curving along the dip of his neck. There was still a smear of hot sauce streaked along the underside of his chin, Wade noticed. Spidey must have missed it in the mirror.

Despite himself, Wade wondered what it would taste like on Spidey’s skin. He was feeling a little dizzy. 

Impulsively, Wade reached out a gloved hand and swiped at the hot sauce with his thumb.

Spidey froze, staring at the point of connection where Wade’s finger had grazed his chin.

Again, it was like Spidey hadn’t been expecting the action. Wade wondered if Spidey would have moved out of the way if he had seen it coming.

“Missed a spot,” Wade said.

“Oh,” said Spidey, his voice just a tiny thing folded up behind his tongue. “Thanks.”

The problem with putting on the metaphorical lab coat in an attempt to solve what Wade and the Boxes had now dubbed as the “Spidey-Tingle Dilemma,” was that this science thing took fucking forever.

Wade was forced to shut down the throwing shit at Spidey and hoping for the best line of inquiry, after Spidey had threatened to knock a couple days off of Wade’s no-unaliving streak. Wade had retaliated the only way he could: by leaving a dozen or so passive-aggressive comments on Spidey’s precious spreadsheet. But in the end, Wade had relented.

This was only after he’d tested Spidey’s reflexes with a wide variety of projectiles, including a stapler, a handful of Skittles, and Wade’s own left shoe, of course.

Wade wandered in endless cycles of speculation, bouncing ideas off the padded walls of his mind.

What could make a spider-sense go dormant anyway? 

Soon, he was staying up till 3AM, scrolling through articles on diapause and the circadian rhythms of different species of spiders. Wade actually did download a pirated copy of the DSM-5, and quickly developed an intimate connection with WebMD which, contrary to the site’s title, didn’t have much advice on what to do with a malfunctioning spider.

To make matters worse, things were only getting weirder.

Spidey was quick, almost too quick, to forgive Wade’s role in the Taco Bell bathroom incident. Spidey started awarding Wade with his signature thumbs-up stickers semi-regularly at the end of especially non-lethal patrols. Every once in a while, when Spidey was in a particularly good mood, Wade would ask him for a high five, and Spidey would give him one. Wade liked to watch his face as Spidey calculated the trajectory, his palm landing perfectly against Wade’s every time.

At the sixteen-week mark, Spidey invited Wade out to a celebratory brunch. Sunday brunch in their super suits, masks and all.

Wade got—well, not drunk, but at least a good bit past tipsy off of bottomless mimosas. Somehow, he ended up gushing to Spidey about how perfectly-shaped his nostrils were, as if chiseled by the gods themselves. In Wade’s defense, the tip of Spidey’s nose was as far as Wade had seen, so he was already working with limited body parts to compliment. 

From there, he’d rehashed old material about his appreciation for Spidey’s ass between bites of avocado toast. Spidey had swatted Wade’s arm, face flushing as he switched Wade’s drink out with a glass of ice water, apologizing profusely to the eavesdropping table of elderly women in judgmental florals sitting behind them.

There was also the time that Wade had bought Spidey a replacement pack of frankly overpriced gel pens, the nicest ones he could find. Spidey had stared at him for a solid minute before wrapping his arms around Wade and pulling him in for a tentative hug.

Wade hardly knew what to do with himself. Even through Spidey’s mask, Wade could smell his shampoo, fresh and faintly citrus-y. It took a concerted effort for Wade not to take another sniff like a weirdo.

The second Spidey let go, Wade was already regretting not hugging him tighter, not holding on for a few seconds longer.

Though, he supposed, he could always run by the office supply store for another pack of gel pens.

To be honest, Wade was rather enjoying himself, only slightly soured by the gut feeling that he was the childhood dog you took on one last romp through the woods, letting it gorge itself on chocolate because you knew you were putting it down the next day. That, and the creeping sense of guilt that insisted he was taking advantage of what had to be some sort of compromised mental state.

Curse that Spider-Man and his knack for moral rehabilitation. Wade didn’t use to have a conscience to worry about.

Wade’s Greek chorus had their own ideas about what was up with Spidey.

(Maybe it’s a tapeworm. Doesn’t Spidey look like he’s lost weight recently? He’s tired all the time, distracted, pale—

Well, he is in grad school. That all seems pretty much par for course, Wade pointed out. Let’s think outside the box here, folks.

He smirked, pleased with himself. Get it? Think outside the box?

[Jesus fucking Christ. I’d tell you to kill yourself if you weren’t physically incapable of success in that department.]

Never say never, Wade thought brightly.

(Ooh, what about tuberculosis? You know, since he’s all repressed and damp-looking?)

Wade snapped his fingers enthusiastically. Now, we’re getting somewhere! I really wouldn’t be that shocked if Spidey started coughing up blood into a monogrammed handkerchief. He does have a certain waifish, Victorian orphan je-ne-sais-quoi about him lately.

[Not any more so than usual.]

True. Wade tapped his chin, deep in thought. 

He rubbed absentmindedly at his neck as the Boxes brainstormed. He’d had a rash all week, yet another annoying itch Wade scratched and scratched at to no avail.

(I don’t like this, whatever’s going on. The whole thing reeks of dramatic irony.)

[I hate to say this, but Yellow’s got a point. We all know how non-canon shit gives you hives, Wade.]

(It could be worse, though. Could be Wattpad.)

Don’t remind me. Wade shuddered from head to toe. The sensation that his skin was crawling with fire ants hadn’t gone away for weeks. Please, anybody, change the subject.

[Let’s be realistic. It’s probably CTE. One too many bonks on the head, and something’s finally been knocked out of alignment.]

(Don’t listen to that moron. Spidey’s obviously been replaced by an evil clone.)

[Next you’ll be saying that he’s got a demonic spirit with a hand up his ass, puppeteering him.]

(I haven’t heard a single better idea out of you yet, genius.)

And now the Boxes were bickering again. Lovely.

Wade pinched the bridge of his nose, trying and failing to tune them out. Okay, enough, he cut in. Hear me out.

Silence.

For once, the Boxes were actually listening to him.

What if— Wade faltered. What if he’s been bit by another radioactive spider and it canceled out the effects of the first one?

A beat.

[Well, that’s fucking stupid. The rest of his powers are obviously functioning fine.]

Once again, back at square one.

Wade exhaled, nice and slow. I’m open to suggestions. Really, I am. But let’s practice giving constructive feedback. 

[Respectfully, in the kindest way possible, that was the stupidest fucking thing you’ve ever said.]

Okay, Wade sighed. We’ll work on that.

The feeling of almost-but-not-quite knowing was an agony in a category of its own, and it wasn’t often Wade came across a kind of agony he hadn’t yet experienced. Like blue balls, but for the brain, and twenty times worse.

Hell, Wade would take being drawn and quartered over this. Dismemberment was pretty gnarly but, at least, fairly straightforward.

Wade was getting desperate, slipping caffeine, cold medicine, and the occasional probiotic into Spidey’s bodega sandwiches, hoping that some miracle cure would do the trick. In the heat of the battle, he couldn’t bring himself to leave Spidey’s side, never letting that vulnerable blur of red and blue out of his sight for more than a few seconds at a time.

“You don’t have to babysit me,” Spidey had reminded him after one skirmish during which Wade had been so busy watching Spidey’s back that he’d missed the knife-wielding bad guy in his periphery until too late, he was already impaled through the eyeball.

“Somebody has to,” said Wade. “Just be glad I’m the fun kind who lets you watch R-rated movies and stay up past your bedtime.”

“Sounds pretty irresponsible to me,” Spidey remarked, bracing one hand against Wade’s forehead, as he wrapped his fingers around the hilt of the knife currently protruding from Wade’s eye. 

He locked eyes with Wade. “But I guess that’s basically your MO, right?”

Wade’s completely irrational heart leapt in his chest. He found it weirdly attractive when Spidey was petty. It was like a secret meant just for Wade that, yes, even the virtuous Spider-Man could be kind of a bitch every so often.

“Hey, I take offense to that,” said Wade. “According to your spreadsheet, my new MO is kicking ass in a totally courteous and trustworthy manner. You’re the one who’s cupping my face in your hands in a dimly-lit alley at an ungodly hour, you rake.”

Spidey cocked his head, and Wade could tell he was rolling his eyes under mask. “That’s because you’ve got a goddamn knife sticking out of your face.”

He adjusted his grip on the hilt, and a sharp twinge lanced through Wade’s eye socket, sparking painfully at the back of his skull. Wade flinched.

“Shit. Sorry,” Spidey said, wincing. “Here, hold still.”

With one quick motion, Spidey tugged the knife free. Wade’s nerve endings lit up a Christmas tree, red-black spots dancing across one half of his field of vision.

Spidey examined him, face pinched with worry. “Are you okay?”

“Hunky-dory. Copacetic. Peachy keen.” Wade yanked his mask off, blinking against the blood spurting from his left eye as he waited for his healing factor to kick the clotting process into gear. “Don’t be such a drama queen, Webs. It’s only a scratch.”

Spidey didn’t look convinced. “You don’t have to be so carelessly self-sacrificing. Look where it lands you.” He pointed at Wade, who was brushing tacky, half-dried blood out of his eyelashes.

“Oh, but I’ve learned from the best!” Wade said, beaming. “Better they stab me than you, anyway. Where else are you going to find a human shield with my roguish charm and raw sex appeal?”

Wade punctuated this with a wink, which looking back on it, probably wasn’t a good idea when he’d just suffered a stab wound to that eye. Ouch.

Spidey hummed, considering, but ultimately didn’t argue. “Come on,” he said, threading an arm around Wade’s elbow. “Let’s get you cleaned up. You look like you went to prom in a Stephen King novel.”

That Friday was Wade’s next performance review, and coincidentally a rather momentous milestone.

“Twenty weeks!” Wade gushed, through a mouthful of celebratory ninety-nine cent pizza. “Can you believe it?”

Spidey didn’t respond from where he was leaning up against the railing of a sixth-floor fire escape, watching the sprawl of Friday night traffic crawl by, yellow taxi-cabs and sleek black limousines wedged together far below. He’d rolled up his mask halfway, but his slice of pizza sat, untouched, on a greasy paper plate that was balanced precariously on the fire escape railing.

“Webs?” Wade prodded Spidey’s shoulder impatiently. “Hey, Webs. I looked it up, and our bundle of joy is the size of a banana now. Neat, huh?”

Spidey nodded, on auto-pilot. “Yeah, that’s great.”

Wade watched as Spidey’s hand drifted toward his wrist. There he went again, messing with those damn web shooters.

Wade frowned, wiping his fingers on his wadded up mask before tucking it into a pocket. “What’s up with you? Don’t even try to tell me there’s yet another crew of break-dancing Spideys down there. I’ve checked.”

Spidey followed Wade’s eyeline to his fidgeting, and hastily folded his hands together behind his back. “No, I’m just—” Spidey clenched his jaw, seeming to steel himself. “I’m really proud of you.”

[Why do I sense a “but” coming?]

Shut up, snapped Wade, even as deep down, he was fearing the same thing.

Could you actually break up with someone you weren’t dating? Was Spidey about to fire Wade from their professional crime-fighting affiliation and/or friendship?

“So…” said Wade, his mouth suddenly dry, tongue coated in congealed mozzarella. “What gives?”

He watched as Spidey bit his lip.

Wade could hear sirens off in the distance, their wails fading in and out on the evening breeze. It didn’t seem like the best omen.

“I’ve been thinking these last couple weeks,” Spidey said carefully.

(Definitely not a good sign.)

Wade was inclined to agree.

Spidey opened his mouth to say something more, but paused, seeming to think better of it. “Maybe it’s better if I just get this over with.” He swallowed. “I need you to not…freak out. Okay?”

Wade could feel his partly digested pizza gurgling in his stomach, threatening to come up. “Mhm,” he mumbled. “Hit me.”

Spidey was studying him, lips pursed as if he was running the numbers, checking for structural integrity. Wade didn’t like that look one bit.

Spidey’s hand rose halfway to his mask, hesitating at the precipice. Then, without warning, he pulled his mask up past forehead, fully baring his face to Wade for the first time ever.

Oh.

Ice cold shock settled into Wade’s bones. Wade could hardly bring himself to look, but could hardly bring himself to look away either. His brain pieced together a patchwork of stilted glances. A lone freckle here, a sliver of brown iris there, a tuft of soft, sweat-damp hair curling away from the hairline.

It took him another minute before some semblance of rational thinking returned. Wade flailed widely, knocking Spidey’s pizza off the railing in the process. Finally, he managed to grab at the bottom of Spidey’s mask with both hands and tugged the damn thing back down to cover Spidey’s face.

Spidey’s unsurprisingly, and unfairly gorgeous face that was now seared into the backs of Wade’s eyelids forever.

To Wade’s absolute horror, Spidey pulled his mask off again, stuffing it into one of the pockets of his utility belt. He was watching Wade with a curiosity in his eyes—holy shit, his eyes, not the blank holes of his mask, but his actual, real life eyes. 

“What, am I really that hideous?” He was laughing as he said it, but there was a hesitance there, as if he was waiting for Wade to agree.

Wade gaped at him. “Are you fucking concussed?”

“No, I’m Peter Parker,” said Spidey, a lop-sided grin tugging at his mouth. He held out his hand for Wade to shake, as if they were exchanging pleasantries at a mutual friend’s dinner party.

Wade wasn’t sure what orifices to cover as, against his will, his senses greedily drank in the details of Peter Parker. Wade clapped a hand over his eyes. Then, changing his mind, he squeezed his eyes shut and plugged both ears, rocking back and forth on his heels.

Okay, Spidey had officially lost it. Wade was decidedly the most sane person on this fire escape, and that was with the disembodied box-shaped voices in his head.

“Let’s just put the mask back on?” Wade said slowly, the same way he might have said let’s just put our guns down and we can all walk away from this in one piece.  “I swear, Webs, I—”

“Peter,” Peter corrected.

“Peter,” said Wade, annoyed at how right those two syllables sounded sliding off the tip of his tongue. “We can pretend this never happened, okay? I have terrible short-term memory. You know how they say an elephant never forgets? I’m the opposite of an elephant. I’m like a…”

He paused, waiting for the Boxes to fill in the blank. They didn’t.

“A seahorse,” Wade finished.

He cracked one eye open, squinting through the slit of his eyelid at Peter.

Peter raised an eyebrow at him, amused. “A seahorse?”

Wade nodded, doubling down. “There’s still time to take it all back.” He gestured at Peter encouragingly. “Please?”

Peter frowned, nose scrunching as he eyed Wade with confusion. “Why would I do that?”

Wade felt as if he’d stepped into another dimension entirely. He pulled his fingers out of his ears so he could point at himself, spluttering, “Because you don’t just hand your civilian identity on a silver platter to the mercenary with documented impulse-control issues.”

“Former mercenary,” Peter said, unyielding. “According to the spreadsheet—”

“Ugh! You and that damn spreadsheet,” Wade groaned. He gripped the railing of the fire escape so hard that he was sure his knuckles were going white under his gloves.

“You said you wouldn’t freak out,” Peter reminded him.

“I lied, obviously,” Wade snapped.

Peter heaved out a breath, shaking his head. “I’m not doing this on a whim, you know. I trust you.”

“You shouldn’t.”

Peter blinked at him. “What do you mean?”

Wade’s stomach sank.

He had done his experiments, tested all the hypotheses, isolated all the controlled variables. Once you eliminated all the other possibilities, there weren’t many places left to hide. A common denominator tended to emerge.

It was a suspicion he’d held at the back of his mind for far too long now, that this had never been the dead-end mystery he’d made it out to be. Not if he was honest. Not if he stopped pretending this was just bad luck or coincidence or some weird Spider-glitch in the universe.

The truth was that Wade knew exactly what kind of person he was. He knew what happened to good things that got too close to him. He knew that a few weeks of pretty downward-trending data couldn’t erase a lifetime of collateral damage. The bloodstains soaked through.

Peter’s spider-sense had been working just fine before Wade was in the picture.

“Why aren’t you scared of me?” Wade said at last, frustrated, his throat scraped raw. 

His hand drifted, hovering atop one of the pistols holstered at his thigh, half instinct, half desperate, last-ditch attempt at intimidating some sense back into Peter. He kept most of his guns unloaded, lugging them around only for show these days, but technically, he knew Peter didn’t know that.

Peter watched on silently. His lines had shifted, shoulders stiffening—tense, alert—but not afraid. Not in the way Wade expected him to be. Not in the way Wade wanted him to be.

“I had a feeling it was about this,” Peter said finally. He glanced up at Wade, almost guiltily. “I can explain.”

“So can I,” said Wade, ignoring him. “You’re looking at a tornado, black hole, trainwreck of a human—or whatever the hell I am. I ruin things.” He ducked his head, unable to meet Peter’s eyes. “I’ve broken you. Empirically, this is all my fault.”

“Wade—” Peter hesitated. “That’s not what empirically means.”

Always such a know-it-all, Wade thought, not unfondly. 

Peter took a step toward Wade. “And anyway, you haven’t broken me.” He poked a stubborn finger into the center of Wade’s chest so Wade would look at him.

“Look,” Peter said, spreading his arms as if to demonstrate. “I’m fine. Promise.”

Wade shook his head violently. “But you’re not,” he insisted. “You’re not. Your Spidey-sense has up and left, and it’s all because of me. Fuck, Webs, acting like you’re invincible doesn’t make it true.”

Wade tightened his grip on the gun without meaning to.

Peter stared at him, seeming more puzzled than frightened. “I’ve still got my spider-sense,” he said.

“Well, you could have fooled me.” 

“You didn’t let me finish,” said Peter. “I’ve still got my spider-sense, just not—” Now it was Peter’s turn to avert his gaze, suddenly extremely interested in the metal grating of the fire escape. “Not when it comes to you,” he added quietly.

Wade crossed his arms. “How is that even remotely possible?”

Peter scratched at the back of his neck. “Like you said, I’m not scared of you. My subconscious has finally gotten the memo.”

“I think your subconscious is praying on your downfall. Maybe you should be in the market for a new one,” Wade told him.

Peter gave him a somewhat exasperated smile, before he reached for Wade’s hand. Peter’s fingers didn’t wait for an invitation, slotting themselves between Wade’s. Wade stared at him, surprise written all over his face, and maybe a smidge of shame too.

Peter squeezed Wade’s hand gently. “Is it really so hard to believe that, after all this time, I feel safe around you?”

“Yes,” said Wade. “Like, really, really hard. My brain is filing a formal complaint. There’s error messages and everything.”

Peter huffed a soft laugh through his nose. His eyes were almost amber in the moonlight, Wade noticed.

“It’s actually a nice change,” Peter said. “Not being on edge all the time. Even if it’s just for a few minutes. Can you stop giving me that guilty look now?”

Wade spent a good minute or two trying to organize his thoughts as his neurons short-circuited. Looking back on it, he’d never run any of his Spidey-tingle experiments in the field, mid-fight. A pretty enormous oversight, now that he considered it.

“So, just to clarify some things here,” Wade said slowly. “If someone other than me were to, I don’t know—lob a Taco Bell exclusive menu item at your face…”

“Yes, I’d see it coming,” Peter assured him. “And yes, I’d have the self-preservation instinct to dodge this time.”

“And in the case of a bullet, or a bomb, or a bloodthirsty chihuahua…”

Peter snorted. “Yes, my spider-sense would go off, and I’d dodge those too.”

“Huh,” said Wade as his whole world view recalibrated. “Got it. I’m the exception.”

“You’re the exception,” Peter confirmed.

Wade wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or give into his raging FOMO.

“And, uh, any theories about that?” Wade asked, his voice an octave too high for nonchalance.

Peter’s thumb traced a bumpy path over Wade’s knuckles. “I feel safe around you,” Peter said once again. “Because I like you, Wade.”

Wade nearly choked on his own saliva, not sure whether he’d imagined that italics placement. “You do?”

Peter nodded firmly.

“Oh,” said Wade, blood roaring through his temples.

The Boxes were practically shrieking at Wade to kiss him, but Wade couldn’t move. He was too busy memorizing every pore on Peter’s unmasked face.

“Samesies,” Wade managed to force out at long last, holding up his palm awkwardly. “High five?”

Not his finest pick-up line, admittedly

But it didn’t seem to matter to Peter, who smiled at him, a little bit shy, and then leaned forward and pressed a kiss to the corner of Wade’s mouth instead.

Wade stared at him, speechless, for a moment.

The contact had been brief, feather-light. Wade would have thought he’d daydreamed it if not for the fact that Peter hadn’t pulled back all the way, his face lingering only a few inches from Wade’s, their fluttery exhales intermingling.

“So,” Wade finally broke the silence, “I’m guessing that’s a no on the high five?”

Peter laughed, rolling his eyes. “Maybe some other time,” he said, and leaned back in, kissing Wade like he had a point to prove.

Wade had never been so happy to be left hanging in his life. Now that was a rain check he could get behind.