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In hindsight, Wade can recognise that it was hilarious. (Although rarely does he not find things inappropriately funny as they are happening.)
It goes like this, starting the way a lot of stories involving him and Spidey do: with rooftops and food and the ever-alive chaos of New York City. They’re chatting (mostly bickering), with takeout boxes spread out about them, enough to feed a small army. Or , well, two supers. It’s Greek this time, yiros and pita and souvla, because Webs won their race last night so he got the choosy privileges tonight.
(“Christ on a bike, babe, you’re fast. Did you offer a race just so you could win it?”
“Yeah, ‘cus god forbid we eat anything other than Mexican food and pizza.”)
Though Wade has to admit it, Webs knows where to get some damn good yiros. And between them, they have a pretty exhaustive list of all the best takeout trucks, street food stalls, and itty bitty hole-in-the-wall places.
“You know, I think if anyone’s gonna figure out your identity, it’s not gonna be the supervillains or journalists or any of that shit. It’s going to be the tiny, angry ethnic women that we get all of our food from.” Wade says.
“The entire point of the secret identity is that no one figures it out, ‘Pool.” Spider-man replies through a mouthful of flatbread, and Wade finds it so pathetically endearing that he wants to take his heart of his chest to shake it and tell it to get its shit together.
“Yeah, yeah I know, but you have thousands of issues published now, we all see how well that goes.”
“For the love of- Wade , you know I have no idea what you’re on about.”
“‘Cus you haven’t been blessed with my magical insight.” Wade replies. They haven’t quite gotten to the fourth wall conversation yet in their relationship. Or the identity conversation. Or any ‘serious’ conversations at all.
“I might be the last one to talk, but I’m pretty sure that’s called mental illness.”
Damn, Spidey’s got him there.
“Okay but my original point-”
“Wow, I didn’t know you had the brain capacity to think that far back”
“Shut ya trap.” Wade responds, “I’m just saying, you pay them a visit even more than your big bads. I’m not sure you’re achieving ‘ subtle and reserved’ .”
“With all due respect - which is none, by the way - I wasn’t even aware you knew what the word subtle meant.”
“You’re making this conversation very difficult, you know that?”
“Pot. Kettle.”
Not literally, but spiritually, Wade can see the single raised eyebrow through the mask. He can certainly hear it in Spidey’s voice. He likes it… well he’d say ‘more than he can admit’ because that’s how the phrase goes, but both he and the readers know that he’d yap about it to anyone who would listen and probably even more people who won’t. It’s a talent.
But time ticks on in quiet as the food steadily disappears, far past the point that they usually get to before a crisis or another calls out to Spider-Man’s unfortunate morals, and Deadpool tags along. For all that he relies on this city to be a never-ending hub of action, there’s a big fat amount of fuck-all happening right now.
“Bleh, I’m boooored. ” He complains, because he is bored. He likes Spidey better than anyone because the hero’s basically a walking magnet for chaos, but there is currently no chaos happening, and New York is letting him down.
“Would it kill you to appreciate a break, sometimes? I, for one, like the chance to eat food and not get shot at.” Webs says. He’s at the edge of the roof - way too close for literally anyone but him - and doing what is probably stretching by his standards and contortion by everyone else’s.
Legs should not be able to do that, and that’s coming from the guy who once reattached the wrong limbs after they got cut off.
“Don’t kid yourself baby, you wouldn’t know a break if it whooped you over the back of your pretty head.”
“You’ve never seen my head.”
“Trust me, I know in my soul that you have a very beautiful head.”
Spidey snorts, and then laughs properly, and Wade feels like he’s won something. A zing of ‘he did that!’ through his veins in the shape of the hero’s grin.
The moment doesn’t last though, not even long enough to be a Moment, goddammit, because Spider-Man stops laughing abruptly and looks over his shoulder. Sometimes he cocks his head a bit like a puppy, but either way Wade knows it means he’s heard something that requires his attention as the friendly neighborhood superhero. Wade never has a damn clue about what exactly it is that Webs picks up on, all he knows is that it’s go time now.
“Ah yes,” Wade breaks the sudden silence, “The call of your moral duty. Of course, I can’t hear it because I don’t have any.”
Spider-Man huffs out one more small laugh, before pulling his mask back down over his mouth and offering Wade a red gloved hand. “You jinxed it.”
“Actually, you jinxed it. I’m gettin’ exactly what I wanted.” Almost exactly what he wanted - Wade could’ve stood to hear Spidey laugh like that a little longer.
“Just- come on, Wade.”
Wade takes the hand offered and Spider-Man pulls them both off the building with ease, swinging through the city like Deadpool is nothing but a carry-on - something that he never would’ve done a year ago but Wade holds onto every memory of it since. It’s exhilarating the way it always is, and without any of the brain matter on the pavement that usually accompanies Wade’s form of rooftop travel.
When they (and by they, Wade means Spider-Man) find whatever crime it is that demands their (again, mostly Spidey’s) attention, Webs drops him down like a cat before he rolls in himself. In the dodgy alleyway - jesus christ would it kill these guys to spice it up once in a while? - there are two bulky men holding what are probably knives in front of them and a young woman facing the men and now Wade and Spider-Man. She holds her bag protectively against her side with one hand and has the other balled up tight by her hip, and she looks pissed. Like, ‘I-just-found-my-husband-and-my-sister-fucking’ kind of pissed - ‘I-got-stood-up-on-a-date-then-catcalled-on-my-way-home’ levels of shitty mood. Wade has half a mind to take a step back and let her handle it. Could be cathartic for her.
Except one of the men steps forward with his weapon raised and she yelps instinctively, pressing further back into the alley wall she’s up against. Spidey is Spidey and webs away the man’s knife, making the first move in what is unsurprisingly a pretty dismal fight. It doesn’t take much to chase away the men, a few bruises here and there, a broken nose.
Wade finishes up with his fun (in his defense it was a miserable fight, and he’s bored, and he’s not being unnecessarily cruel… but maybe just a little mean) and Spider-Man has already started doing that debrief thing he does with the victims of these kinds of singular crimes. He has that gentle, respectful voice he uses with mostly women cornered somewhere on a dark night, and sometimes kids if the poor fuckers are unlucky enough to get caught up in these things. And sure, Wade jokes, because Wade jokes about everything under the sun, but it still hits him like a sack of bricks straight into the ribs how damn good Spidey is.
He lets Webs handle it and watches the two men scramble off, wiping the blood from the broken nose on his thigh.
“Hey, are you alright, miss? Do you need me to walk you home or anything?” Spidey says. It always gives Wade whiplash to hear him be even remotely polite.
“G-get away, menace!” She’s still pissed then, and terrified, and unfortunately a subscriber of The Daily Bugle.
Wade goes to offer his assistance, or watch the drama, except… Spider-man is collapsed on the grimy pavement and the woman is staring at him in something akin to abject horror. She looks from Webs on the ground to the can of… bug spray? In her hand?
“Shit,
fuck,
I didn’t mean to-” She says, and if she hadn’t committed the horrible crime of reading Jameson’s bullshit and
believing
it, Wade might’ve been able to muster up some sympathy - she’s got to be having the shittiest day of her whole life. “I’m sorry!” She scurries off.
Spider-Man is still on the ground, not twitching but still moving barely. He rolls his head over to face Wade, and that’s got to be a win, right? He’s not dead.
(If he was dead, Wade would have to follow him into the afterlife briefly just to hear Webs’ indignant grumbling that it was bug spray of all things, and by a scared civilian at that.)
Looking down at the ragdolled Spidey, Wade supposes that the only thing to do is to scoop him up and take him elsewhere. Although it does satisfy some horrid, earnestly in love little corner of Wade’s brain to be able to pick Spider-Man up bridal-style and feel the hero loose in his arms, an approximation of affection or ease if he tries hard enough to convince himself of it. Then Web’s head drops over the back of Wade’s arm in a way that’s got to be deeply uncomfortable, yeesh, and Wade gently pushes his it back up to rest against his collarbone. He’s impressed that Spider-Man has managed to hold back a grumbly noise about being picked up like a damsel.
“Holy guacamole and salsa, baby boy, what is this stuff even doing to you?” Wade mutters. “Should I stop spraying bugs? I’ve gotta be violating some sort of insect Geneva Convention if this is how they go.”
“‘M ‘n arachnid.” Spider-Man slurs, almost completely intelligible. It’s good to know that his brain is still functional, never one to pass up a chance to nitpick about the insect/arachnid thing. “An’ mos’ sprays have p-” (Wade wouldn’t know what he says here even if it wasn’t with half-immobilised muscles) “- they shu’ down th’ ner’ous sys’em. Bugs can’ breathe ‘r eat.”
Christ, even mostly paralysed, he’s still got it in him to be a massive fucking nerd.
“Yeah, I’m gonna stop spraying bugs.” Wade says, then adds, “And spiders,” because he’s disgustingly endeared to this massive fucking nerd.
“Good. Thi’sucks.”
“So, like, what’s happening to you? You seem… bad-”
“Th’nks.”
“But not dying? Wait, shit, you’re not dying right? Because I’ll admit, I’ve been killed by a lot of things but bug spray doesn’t make it on that list yet, and you’re really not selling me on it. It’s gotta be at least thirty percent more dramatic to compensate for being this miserable.”
“ No ‘m not dying . Was probably jus’ ryanoid, binds the calcium ch’nnels.”
“Sweetheart please, you know I have no idea what you’re on about- oh a callback, nice.”
Spider-Man ignores his second comment, like he usually does. “It blocks th’ nerves. Paralyses m’ bones an’ loosens the muscles.” Spidey’s slurred speech is slowly going away, and now he just sounds kind of sleepy. It’s adorable. “Healing factor is working on it.”
“Fucking bonkers that your kryptonite is a can of Raid, by the way.” Wade says casually, like this isn’t still a little bit terrifying. “You’d think that the spider part of Spider-Man was the fun little extra, but woah you aren’t kidding about it.”
“Wha- why would you th’nk I was kidding?”
Wade shrugs. “Everyone and their mama has powers now, you gotta have a gimmick if you wanna get anywhere in this economy. Thought you just put a spidery spin on unassuming powers and made your own webs to cap it off.”
Spider-Man’s judgment is palpable through the mask. “I make chemical compounds ‘cus my organic webs are functionally made of me. Tell me you don’t need me to explain why that’s a bad idea.”
“Wait what in the fresh fuck? You have your own webs?”
“Yes? Why is this news to you?”
“How is this not news to me!? You got paralyzed by bug spray! You have spider webs! ”
“Yeah, and I’m Spider-Man. We discussed this like ten seconds ago, that’s about as apt of a name as you can possibly get. I’m literally part spider.” Webs says.
“Just quickly, how many parts, exactly? Like, from a scale of slight peppermint allergy to hiding eight eyes and four more legs under that suit, what ratio is spider to man?”
“What, do you like, want a fully itemized list of all my creepy-crawly habits?” And then, “Actually, you would. I rescind that offer.”
“ Awwww.”
“Why are you so insistent about this?”
Because Wade’s in love with him and will take any scraps of information he can get, because Spider-Man is literally still in his arms with his head against his collarbones and Wade - so help him - was worried , because he’s desperate to understand who’s under the mask and the difference between Spider-Man and the man who is partially spider matters to him.
Any of those answers would be true.
Instead, he says “You keep your spidery secrets so close to your chest they’re, like, in your ribcage. You gave me this, I’m milking it for all it’s worth.”
Spider-Man does that adorable little head-tilt he does, the one Wade’s certain is him rolling his eyes under the mask and will prove it one day. A beat passes, and then two, and Wade finds himself waiting for something to happen instead of filling the stagnant silence like he usually does. It feels unexpectedly tense, unexpectedly contemplative (a shock, truly, given the company).
The sluggish, sloppiness of Spider-Man’s movements - still working through the chemicals - makes it seem like Wade is literally watching in slow motion when the hero pulls his head back a little and brings his hands up. The tension pressing against his squishy insides feels unbearable as Wade watches Spidey fumble with the edge of his mask, hands not quite cooperating. After what must be a million painful years (30 seconds, max), his fingers grip the mask properly and peel it off.
And yep, fuck, Spider-Man is beautiful. He has fluffy brown hair gone frizzy from the mask, sharp bright eyes, and the bone structure of a damn model. His nose is slightly crooked at the bridge with a scar laced over it, and another one cleanly slicing through his jaw and cheek. A front tooth is chipped where he grins up at Wade smugly, and everything about his face is a story written into him. Like he’d been sculpted by loving hands.
He’s also a goddamn bastard .
“Only two eyes, you’ll note.” He says.
“You little shit, did you show me your face just to be contrary?”
He grins wider, with his stupid, adorable teeth and the stupid, pretty dimples that press into his cheeks.
“Well, you insist that I keep too many secrets. So here it is, the biggest of them all.” Spidey says, and Wade will admit that he has no idea what’s happening anymore.
Why would Spider-Man just take his mask off like that? To be stubborn? He is overwhelmingly a tenacious git, but he’s even more so about his identity. (Wade has tried, in the past, to wheedle some answers out of him and was shut down so hard every time that you could’ve heard the walls going up with a thu-thunk sound.)
It makes him feel out of place, all of a sudden, like Spider-Man’s unexpected actions had pulled the rug out from under him.
“Uh, Wade, you okay?” Spidey asks, the joking tone of his voice replaced with something quieter. “I mean, I guess now that I’m thinking about it, this has gotta be a bit underwhelming, huh?”
What?
“Shit- no, no it’s not underwhelming. You’re gorgeous.” Wade says. “Just- why’d you do that?”
“ Why?” Webs repeats in that same incredulous voice. “God, Wade, you’re like my best friend. Regrettably, I think I trust you with my life.”
“We’re friends?”
Spider-Man splutters exasperatedly and for the first time, Wade gets to see how utterly judgmental his face can look. “ Yes! What did you think we were?”
“That I was your pet project you were morally obliged to take on because you were sick of me trying to get your attention and-slash-or woo you?” Wade offers. “Like a notice-me-sempai kind of thing.”
“Well, you were and I was definitely sick of your bullshit, but we eat together every night now, Wade. I see you more often than the one remaining family member I have.” Wade must still be visibly baffled, because Webs sighs and asks, “What did you even think we were doing earlier this evening?”
“Arguing?” He says, although that doesn’t mean much. Their conversations are usually arguments in one form or another, and their fights are vicious smackdowns. Something about supers and heroes and vigilantes that just ups the stakes of the relationship.
“And eating the Greek food that I won the right to choose last night because we literally hang out every single day. ”
Oh shit, Wade might be an idiot.
He must look it too, because Spidey bursts out laughing. And now all hope is gone for Wade not looking like a moron, not with the way that Spider-Man’s mouth curls and his eyes squint and how his hair falls when his head shakes ever-so-slightly like it always does, except now that Wade can see all the other things that make up his laugh and the picture is beautiful.
“You make me dumber, sweetheart, how fuckin’ dare you. It’s all neuron soup up here.” Wade says before Spidey’s laugh makes him even stupider.
“Truly Wade, you do not need me here to make you dumb.”
“Yeah, you’ve never seen me be super-duper smart, because you suck out all of my braincells like Hunsen Abadeer and then use them to be a massive fucking nerd about bug spray.”
“Mostly I’ve never seen you be ‘ super-duper smart’ because I don’t care for the mercenary shit.”
“Ugh so true. ” Wade complains. “Can you take like, a moral vacation, just for a little bit please? You only have to be okay with some light murder, I just need you to appreciate that I’m actually really cool and badass when you let me stalk and behead scumbags.”
Spider-Man raises a (visible!!) eyebrow at him and yep, Wade definitely feels like another braincell has died. “You think I’m pretty badass and I’ve never had decapitation on the table.”
And, okay, Wade can’t defend that because he’s pretty sure that if he tried, it would just be word vomit of all the ways Spidey is different and incredible and the exclusive badass things that only he can do, and it would really all just add up to ‘ I’m in love with you’. Which, while Wade’s never been one for subtlety or any kind of filter at all, maybe a mutual first-name basis would be a good start before confessions of disgusting undying love.
So instead he says, “Hey, what’s your name, Spidey?” Because his trains of thought are less like trains and much more like hitchhiking on a busy highway.
“Peter Parker.”
Holy shit, just like that?
“ Christ, Wade, you asked, why do you look so surprised?”