Work Text:
The soft ping of Peter’s phone was a welcome reprieve from the soul-crushing monotony of his third statistics lecture. He snuck a look under the desk, expecting a weather alert or maybe a meme from Ned.
It was a text from an unknown number, which was always a dicey proposition.
Unknown: Hey, Petey-pie! Guess what? We’re famous! Well, more famous. Which is a paradox, because I’m already the most famous person I know. But we’re famous together! It’s like a buddy-cop movie but with more sexual tension and fewer car chases. Wait, no, there’s definitely car chases. But MORE. Check the link! XOXO, Your Favorite Merc with a Mouth <3
Peter sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. He should have known. Deadpool had somehow gotten his number. Again. He ignored the text, trying to focus on the professor’s droning voice. Five minutes later, another ping.
Unknown: Did you check it yet? Check it! I’m dying of suspense! Well, I’m dying anyway. But this is a different kind of dying! It’s an emotional dying!
With another sigh, Peter clicked the link. It led to the homepage of a popular fanfiction and fanart archive. He was vaguely familiar with it. The banner at the top read, "Top Ships of the Week."
And there, at number one, was a familiar, clashing color scheme of red and blue.
1. Spider-Man x Deadpool
Below it, in a distinct silver, was:
2. Deadpool x Spider-Man
And, bringing up the rear at number three, a more mundane entry:
3. Peter Parker x Wade Wilson
Peter felt his brain short-circuit. He stared at the screen, his enhanced vision picking up every pixel. It was… it was a ranking. Of them. As a couple. His and Deadpool’s names, intertwined in romantic and, judging by some of the tags, explicit configurations.
His first coherent thought was mortification. His secret identity was plastered right there, albeit in the third slot. His second thought was sheer, unadulterated confusion.
“What the hell is the difference?” he muttered under his breath, his eyes darting between the top two slots. It was the same two names. Just reversed.
His phone vibrated again.
Unknown: Right?!?! I know! It’s literally the same thing! I’m top in one and bottom in the other! They couldn’t decide who gets to do the heavy lifting! I personally think it’s more fun to mix it up. Keeps the relationship spicy! Like a good chimichanga! Speaking of which, you hungry? Let’s grab a bite. My treat. After we address this CRISIS.
He felt a presence drop onto the bench next to him, a familiar, chaotic energy that could only belong to one person. He didn’t even have to look. The entire row of students had inexplicably turned their heads, staring at the man in the full red and black tactical suit who was now casually leaning against Peter.
“Pool,” Peter hissed, keeping his voice low. “What are you doing? We’re in the middle of a lecture!”
“And we’re in the middle of a public opinion crisis!” Deadpool whispered back, dramatically clutching his chest. “Look at this! They’re quantifying our love! They’re putting a number on it! A number that isn’t eleven, which is my favorite number because it’s one louder, isn’t it?”
“It’s a fanfiction website, Wade. It’s not a public opinion crisis,” Peter argued, trying to subtly edge away. “And I’m not sure I want to know why you were looking at it.”
“Wade Wilson.” Deadpool corrected, tapping the phone. “Ranking number three! That’s the one that’s got me all twisted in a knot. Or, you know, the knot I’d be if we were tying the knot, which we’re not, but if we did, I’d be a fabulous bride, obviously.” He gestured at the screen with a gloved finger. “But Peter Parker and Wade Wilson are in third! The real us are third! That’s just rude.”
Peter blinked, a new wave of confusion washing over him. “Wait… you’re upset that the pairing that uses our secret identities is in third place?”
“Yes! It means people think the suit does the heavy lifting! It’s the real, beautiful, messy, neurotic us that’s the foundation for this whole beautiful disaster. It’s our witty banter, our shared trauma, your ‘with great power’ mantra that you try to make sound cool and my ‘with great power comes great opportunity to be a huge pain in the ass’ mantra. That’s the stuff of legends! And it’s in third place? Unacceptable!” He crossed his arms, pouting. The professor, a middle-aged man with a permanent look of existential dread, had stopped his lecture and was now staring at the two of them with bewildered recognition.
Peter had two options: stay and make a scene, or leave and let Deadpool make a scene for him. He grabbed his bag and hauled Deadpool to his feet. “Fine. We’re leaving. But this is not the way I wanted to get out of Stats.”
They ended up on a rooftop, the New York skyline glittering around them. Deadpool had procured a bag of chimichangas from somewhere, and was waving one around like a baton.
“Okay, so we need to process this,” Deadpool declared, his voice muffled by a mouthful of fried tortilla. “The masses have spoken. They love us. But they can’t decide who gets to be the ‘aggressor’ in this passionate, super-powered love story. We are a Schrodinger’s Cat of a relationship. Simultaneously topping and bottoming until observed.”
Peter slumped against a ventilation shaft, rubbing his temples. “Or, and hear me out here, it’s just a bunch of people having fun on the internet. It’s not a judgement on our actual relationship. We don’t even have a relationship.”
“We have a situationship!” Deadpool insisted. “A very important, very complicated situationship. The kind that inspires art! My author’s notes are legendary.” He paused, tilting his head. “Okay, I read a few of these. To get a feel for the zeitgeist. Very creative. I have some notes, though. The sound effects are a bit on the nose. And I would never call you ‘Petey-cakes.’ I’m a ‘Pumpkin’ or ‘Sugar-Buns’ kind of guy.”
Peter’s head shot up, a fresh wave of mortified heat washing over his face. “You read them?!”
“Of course I read them! Research!” Deadpool said, sounding affronted. “I’m a method actor! I have to understand the source material. And the source material is us! It’s a beautiful, recursive loop of creativity and self-loathing!” He threw an arm around Peter. “But here’s the thing, Spider-baby. We need to assert our dominance. Our narrative.”
“What do you mean, ‘we’?” Peter asked, his voice dangerously quiet.
Deadpool ignored him. “We’ll do a podcast. A livestream. A dramatic reenactment for charity! We’ll settle this once and for all.” He struck a heroic pose. “We’ll reveal the truth.”
“And what’s the truth?” Peter asked, genuinely curious.
Deadpool deflated slightly, his shoulders slumping. He took a long moment, staring out at the city. “That it doesn’t matter,” he finally said, his voice losing its usual flamboyant edge. “That whether it’s Spider-Man and Deadpool, or Deadpool and Spider-Man, or Peter and Wade… it’s all just… us. A couple of idiots who are way too traumatized to function, but who happen to find it slightly less horrible when the other is around. You’re my best friend, Petey. The only guy who can bench press a car and still get me. The suit and the names… they don’t change that.”
Peter stared at him. For all his chaos and absurdity, Deadpool could be disarming in his moments of startling clarity. It was true. The core of it, the stupid, reckless, and somehow profound connection they had, wasn’t reliant on who was listed first in a fanfiction tag.
“So,” Deadpool said, snapping back to his usual self with a clap of his hands, “I propose we do nothing. We ignore it. We are the proud, unrankable chaos that exists beyond such petty, mortal concerns as top and bottom. We are a Mobius strip of love and violence!”
A small smile tugged at Peter’s lips. “You just wanted an excuse to say you’re unrankable, didn’t you?”
“I wanted an excuse to get you out of class and eat chimichangas,” Deadpool corrected, handing him one. “The ranking was just a happy accident. But the real victory,” he said, his voice growing serious again, “is that when you look at that list, every single one of those entries is us. And you know what? I’m okay with that.”
Peter took the chimichanga, looking at the man who was both the most infuriating and most loyal person he knew. “Yeah,” he said, taking a bite. “Me too. But I’m still not calling you ‘Sugar-Buns’.”
“Aww, but Petey-cakes…”
“Don’t call me that.”
“Fine. How about ‘Mr. President’?”
“Just… stop.”
Deadpool grinned, the white lenses of his mask crinkling in a way that Peter knew meant he was beaming. It was a stupid, weird, wonderful mess. And for now, that was more than enough.