Work Text:
[BRO.]
{BROTATO.}
“BROTATOES AND GRAVY! I CAN’T BELIEVE WE SCORED TICKETS TO SEE THE NEW SPIDER-MAN MOVIE ON OPENING DAY!”
[Should we like… I dunno, take a deep breath or something, chat?]
{Nah, fuck the deep breath, because I AM STILL FREAKING THE FUCK OUT!}
“ME TOO!”
Wade blinked back a happy tear, beaming at the confirmation email on his phone. Two tickets at the best theater in town—the one with the recliner seats, good snacks, and the exclusive Spider-Man merch.
[HOO BOY. POPCORN BUCKETS WITH SPIDEY ON THEM!]
{Bro, I want the Spider-Man blanket!}
Wade was definitely buying two of everything. Or twelve.
[YO! We gotta text our boy.]
{Yeah, dudes, what the fuck are we doing with our lives?}
“BUYING TICKETS TO SEE SPIDER-MAN!”
Okay. Okay. The party train choo-choo’d its way to Wade’s phone, and he texted Peter a screenshot of the movie tickets, followed by thirteen exclamation points, along with a GIF of himself twerking in his Spidey PJs that he'd made last week in preparation.
Wade: OPENING NIGHT BABY BOY
Wade: POPCORN IN THE OFFICIAL WALL-CRAWLER BUCKET
Wade: YOU ME SPIDER-MAN MOVIE DATE
It was the perfect hype message. Wade stared at his phone, anticipating Peter’s reply.
Ten minutes passed by.
Then twenty.
[Yo, uhh, has he texted us back yet?]
{Nah man, he’s leaving us on read.}
“Nu-uh. Peter’s probably like, out eating a hot dog one-handed while swinging through the city or saving a sweet little kitten from a tree.”
Thirty minutes passed by.
Then forty.
Then, the sacred dots. The holy trinity of boyfriend communication.
Peter: Hey. I’m sorry. I’m not sure I want to see the Spider-Man movie.
[WHAT?]
{WHAT!]
[Bros. I think we just got rejected.]
{I told you Peter hated us.}
Peter: I love going to the movies with you, it’s just.. It feels a little weird seeing a Spider-Man movie.
Wade: HONEY BUN
Wade: I PROMISE I WON’T FALL IN LOVE WITH THE OTHER SPIDER-MAN
Peter: It’s not that. I mean, how would you feel if they made a Deadpool movie?
Wade: Baby, they’ve made three of them.
Wade: And your boy was there on opening day.
Wade: IN DA SUIT!!!
Wade: AND NO UNDERWEAR!!!!!
Peter: I’m sorry. Please don’t hate me.
Peter: But you should totally go if you want.
[You heard him!]
{HOO BOY. One seat for us and another for our snacks!}
Hold up.
[Wait a minute.]
{Let me put some popcorn up in it.}
[I love that song!]
I mean. Wade was excited to see the movie. Like, trashy tacos-from-his-fave-spot-at-3-a.m.-y’know-the-one-with-the-good-salsa-bar-and-the-fresh-churros excited.
But, y’know. There was something he was even more excited about.
[YO. Are you thinking what I’m thinking?]
{Hundo. Uh. What are you thinking?}
Wade: I want a movie date night with you, boo boo.
Wade: Come over on Thursday.
Wade: Ain’t got those fancy reclining seats, but I will have popcorn, a movie, and a year's supply of candy.
Wade: Plus cuddling with the hottest merc in town.
Peter: Deal.
—
By the time movie night rolled around, Wade had pulled out all the stops. He’d cleaned. Bought blackout curtains. Set up new speakers. He’d prepared what he was calling the Couch Cozy Zone (registered trademark): fluffy pillows, a Spider-Man and a Deadpool blanket, enough candy to open his own Costco candy aisle, and, not to mention, a brand new popcorn maker popping away on the counter when Peter arrived.
He hovered just inside the doorway. A little timid. A little shy. “Wade,” Peter said softly. “I’m really sorry.”
Wade pointed the popcorn scoop at him like a tiny buttery sword. “Nope.”
“Nope?”
“Nope. We are not doing the apology appetizer on Spideypool movie night. There will be candy, couch cozies, one very handsome merc overcommitting to his sweetie’s experience, and zero Peter Parker guilt sprinkles.”
Peter scratched at the back of his head. “Guilt sprinkles?”
“They get everywhere. Terrible mouthfeel.”
“I just…” Peter looked down, fiddling with the hem of his shirt between his fingers. “I know you were excited.”
“Baby, that excitement ain’t gone anywhere. In fact, I might even be more excited,” Wade insisted. “Because tonight, we are watching the greatest Spider-Man movie of our lives.”
“Wade—”
“—Wilson cut, honey pie!” he held up his phone, giving it a wiggle. “Runtime: twenty-three minutes. Made with love, questionable editing, and a healthy helping of emotional feels. No theater. No strangers. Just us. Trust. And if you don’t like it or think it’s weird, say the word, and we can turn it off and watch something else or do something else. Just want to spend time with you, baby.”
Peter melted like microwaved butter for the popcorn. “You… you made twenty-three minutes of me?”
[Twenty-three minutes.]
{And still not enough.}
“Yeah, baby, and yours truly might even make an appearance or two. Now quit fishing for spoilers, and sit your sweet little buns on the couch.”
Peter smiled. “Heh. Okay.”
“That's the spirit!" Wade clapped his hands. "Premiere time.”
He tapped through a few screens on his phone and mirrored it to the TV. The screen went black, then brightened into a title card he made himself in an editing app that had begged him three separate times to upgrade to premium.
SPIDER-MAN: THE WADE WILSON EDITION
Runtime: 23 minutes
No refunds. All feelings.
Then Peter’s voice filled the room through the speakers.
“Wade. If you film me eating this fry, I’m webbing you to the roof.”
The image came into focus.
Rooftop. Sunset. Peter in his suit with the mask pushed up over his nose, sitting cross-legged beside a paper bag of fries. He was glaring at the camera, but his mouth kept trying to smile.
Off-screen, Wade’s voice said, “Ooh-hoo! I love it when you threaten me with web-play. C’mon, sweetums. Either make good on that threat or say something else for the documentary.”
Peter shrugged his shoulders. “I’m hungry for fries?”
“Powerful. Raw. Very vérité.”
“Do you know what vérité means?”
“No, but I’m pretty sure I look hot saying it. You’ll have to be the judge. Not Judy. Judge Petey.”
On the couch, Peter made a small helpless sound. “You kept this?”
“Damn right I did.” Wade dropped onto the couch beside Peter, and threw both hands up à la Scorsese. “This is absolute cinema!”
“Of me threatening to web you up over a fry?”
“Of you eating the fry anyway.”
Onscreen, past-Peter did exactly that. He took a fry from the bag, and held it up to the camera.
“For the documentary,” he said.
Then he ate it.
The clip cut to Peter in Wade’s kitchen, sleeves rolled up, hair falling into his eyes, as he crouched in front of the microwave with a screwdriver.
“Be careful, baby boy! That little hot box is like my child. She’s been there with me through thick and thin. Reheated Shake Shack burgers. Frozen burritos. Morning oatmeal.”
Peter snorted. “You don’t eat oatmeal. Besides, your child sparks when you press popcorn.”
“My child thinks they’re Jubilee. Please, Charles, let my microwave be a student at your school!”
Peter looked up at the camera, deadpan. “I’m unplugging your child.”
Then the clip cut again.
Peter on Wade’s couch, head tipped back, laughing so hard there were tears in his eyes. Wade had pitched a line of Spider-Man-themed kitchenware, including “great power, great colander.” Peter had fired back with Deadpool-themed Tupperware called “Maximum Capacity,” and the clip shook as Wade wheezed with giggles behind the camera.
The movie kept going.
Peter in a grocery store aisle, insisting that he try to cook a homemade meal for Wade, holding two different kinds of pasta sauce and frowning like the fate of New York depended on marinara.
Peter asleep against Wade’s shoulder, mouth slightly open, one hand still curled in Wade’s hoodie.
Peter feeding a stray cat half a piece of deli turkey and whispering, “Don’t tell Wade.”
Off-screen, Wade whispered back, “I am literally filming you.”
Present-Peter laughed under his breath.
The clips weren’t perfect. Some were blurry. Some were sideways. One was mostly Wade’s thumb. There were probably too many transitions. But Peter watched every second.
He watched himself dance badly in his underwear and socks with little hot dogs on them that Wade had gifted him for no other reason than “cute boys need cute socks.”
He watched two-hours-of-sleep-past-Peter fall asleep halfway through explaining a physics concept to Wade, still mumbling about tensile strength.
He watched himself patch a cut on Wade’s cheek, tongue poking between his teeth, while Wade scoffed that Peter needed to trust his healing factor.
At minute twenty-one, the screen showed a shaky rooftop. Night wind crackled against the microphone. Peter stood at the ledge in his suit, mask in his hand.
“Wade?”
“Yeah, baby boy?”
“Are you filming?”
A pause.
“No?”
Peter turned towards him, eyebrows raised.
Off-screen, Wade sighed. “Emotionally, no.”
Past-Peter shook his head, but he was smiling.
Then he looked out at the city again and said, “Come here.”
The camera moved closer. The image tilted. Wade must have forgotten to keep filming properly, because most of the frame became Peter’s shoulder, the edge of his jaw, the dark blur of the skyline.
Then Peter’s hand entered the shot and found Wade’s.
The clip lingered there.
Gloved fingers. Red suit. Peter’s thumb brushing over Wade’s knuckles.
Present-Peter’s hand moved on the couch.
Wade felt it before he saw it. Peter’s fingers sliding into his, warm and steady.
The final clip was barely five seconds long.
Peter in bed, half-covered by a blanket, blinking sleepily at the camera.
“Wade,” he mumbled.
“Yeah?”
“Stop filming me.”
“Never.”
Peter’s eyes closed again. “Love you,” he whispered.
The screen cut to black.
Peter didn’t say anything.
For one awful second, Wade thought maybe he’d overdone it.
[Broskis. Was that too much?]
{Told you we should have made a spicy video.}
Peter shifted beside him, and his fingers tightened around Wade’s hand. Not Spidey-strength tight. Peter tight.
“Wade,” Peter said after a beat. “That was… a really nice thing you did. I, uh—” he huffed, cheeks pink. “A-plus. Two thumbs up. One hundred percent on Rotten Tomatoes. I guess what I’m trying to say is… thank you.”
“Yeah?” Wade asked hopefully. “For the movie? Because I do accept glowing reviews, standing ovations, and butt squeezes as legal tender.”
“Heh.” Peter huffed a laugh. “For the movie, yeah, but for everything. You were so excited. And I know I made it weird.”
“Baby—”
“—But you didn’t make me feel bad about it,” Peter went on, before Wade could argue with him. “You just… made room. For me. For us.”
Wade’s fingers shifted against his.
[Say something.]
{Make a joke before your heart does that thing where it tries to crawl out of your chest.}
“And then you made me this,” Peter added. “I think…” He stopped, started again. “I think I was scared of watching a version of Spider-Man that didn’t feel like me. And then, you made me something that made me feel like the best version of myself.”
Wade couldn’t keep it in anymore.
[Do not propose.]
{I LOVE YOU PETER PARKER PLEASE MARRY ME.}
“Baby.” Wade squeezed Peter’s hand. “I just wanted you to see what I see. Someone brave. Strong. Someone who’s a real person, the best person I’ve ever known. Someone who still gets up the next morning after two hours of sleep to feed stray cats deli turkey and someone who swings around helping people who do not deserve how nice your ass looks in spandex.”
Peter’s mouth twitched up into a smile. “Wade.”
“There he is.” Wade squeezed Peter’s hand. “My Spider-Man. My Peter. You just keep swimming, or swinging. You’re like the spider version of Dory, except with better thighs.”
“Heh.” Peter’s thumb brushed over Wade’s knuckles. “We should watch Finding Nemo on our next movie night.”
“As long as we watch it together, baby, I’ll be there.”
“And maybe,” Peter said, looking down at their hands, “you should still see the Spider-Man movie.”
Wade gasped. “Without you?”
[Alone?]
{Like a hot dog without a bun?}
“Without someone who is having an identity crisis about it. I really want you to.”
“Fine,” Wade agreed. “But if I need someone to talk to about it afterward, I’m writing about it in my Hello Kitty journal. No peeking. Top secret stuff.”
Peter kissed the back of Wade’s hand. “Deal.”
But tonight, with Peter tucked against his side, still holding his hand, Wade knew he had already seen the best one.