Chapter Text
It’s been a long fucking week for Peter Parker. Well, really, it’s been a long fucking life for Peter Parker, but if Peter thinks too much about that he’s definitely going to have a breakdown and he does not have the time for that.
“’scuse me, sorry. Coming through,” he mumbles as he weaves through the crowded sidewalk. His dead brick of a phone sits heavy in his pocket, taunting him with its shattered black facade. He’s only barely scraping rent this week; there’s no way he’s going to be able to get a new phone. It’s not that the electronics are screwed — Peter could totally fix those, no problem — but the fall and subsequent taxi mangled the body of the phone so badly it couldn’t even be considered a parallelogram anymore. Peter sighs harshly through his nose, fighting back his irritation.
It’s fine. It’s not like many people text him anyway. Mentally, he runs through the meagre checklist that is his contacts. He’ll make sure to give May a ring with some other phone to assure her he’s not dead, he’ll let his boss know about the situation once he gets to work, MJ probably won’t even notice until he hasn’t texted for a week or if Spidey does some truly insane stuff that lands him in the news, and Harry… Peter shuts down that train of thought before it can derail any further. As previously established, he does not have the time for a menty b — an unfortunate turn of phrase he’s absorbed from Deadpool’s vocabulary.
(He doesn’t let himself even linger on the memory of Gwen’s contact sitting at the bottom of his list. He still has her number — her old number — memorised.)
Shit. Peter’s pace stutters for a moment, causing some guy to shoulder check him with a muttered curse. He doesn’t really pay it any attention — he’s from New York. There’s a bigger, black-and-red-kevlar-themed problem he’s too fixated on.
His and Deadpool’s friendship has only recently crossed over the awkward threshold of the teething stage. As silly as it sounds, it was difficult to make the jump from work friends to friend friends with Deadpool. Five years ago, he wouldn’t have even dreamed of calling DP a work acquaintance.
(The merc — ex-merc — had actually squealed with delight the first time Peter called him his friend. Dogs around the country heard it, and so had Peter’s delicate Spidey-hearing. He’s just thankful the mask hid his wince.)
Nonetheless, the ex-merc has taken up the habit of incessantly texting Peter throughout the day. Recently, he’s been getting a lot of pictures of dogs followed by pictures of dog-shaped cakes followed by a rating and Deadpool’s thoughts on if he could make a better cake. Peter categorically refuses to examine how endearing he finds it. Even if he doesn’t always reply, he’ll usually double tap a spider-emoji reaction into existence to signify he’s read it. But today, the other vigilante will be bereft of Peter’s limited witty replies and spidermojis — and it’s kinda stressing Peter out. He doesn’t want DP to think he’s ignoring him and then, God forbid, be sad about it. More pressingly, he doesn’t want the ex-merc to think he’s dead or kidnapped or injured and go on some kind of anti-hero murderous rampage through the low-lifes of the city just because Peter’s phone got run over by a freaking taxi.
Unfortunately, there’s not much Peter can actually do about the situation at hand, other than catastrophize, given that his phone is and will remain absolutely bricked.
And catastrophize he does. He’s off his game all day, to the point that his supervisor sends him to lunch fifteen minutes early after he almost contaminates an entire cell-line they’d been cultivating for weeks. All his coworkers are still in the lab as he pours himself a cup of sludge-like coffee from the communal pot. He can’t even watch a Youtube video while struggling through his stale bread and dubiously in-date cheese sandwich. It makes him almost feel like he’s in time-out.
Five minutes into his now one hour lunch break, Peter decides that enough is enough. He’s gonna nip all this nonsense in the bud before it becomes a thing. It barely takes him a minute to clean up the table and slam back the rest of the coffee-flavoured tar in his cup before he’s shouldering his way onto the fire escape and pulling on his mask.
It takes him a concerningly short amount of time to find Deadpool, considering how big New York is. What’s most concerning is the way the ex-merc is perched on a building overlooking the very intersection where Peter’s phone got crushed that morning. His entire body is eerily still, every muscle a tightly coiled spring.
Peter has to stop himself from gulping audibly. Sometimes he forgets that prior to his newfound moral compass, DP was one of the best guns-for-hire this side of the Pacific.
(He ignores the fact that he finds it kinda… hot? Not the killing, of course, but the way ’Pool carries himself when he’s capital-w Working. He doubly ignores the fact that he thinks Deadpool is kinda hot all of the time — the kevlar and leather doesn’t hide the imposing figure his body cuts into the night. But! Peter’s ignoring that. Because he’s really good at ignoring things.)
The lightweight boots of the Spidey-suit barely make a sound as he touches down on the roof behind DP. Even so, the ex-merc reacts in a single fluid moment, so quick that Peter’s Spidey-sense barely flares in time for him to dodge to the side. The distinct thud of blades sinking into metal reverberates behind him as Deadpool’s throwing knives bury themselves into the fire exit.
The tension bleeds from the Canadian the moment he registers Peter, intensity immediately slipping out from under his skin.
“Oh em gee, Webs! I am so sorry about that,” Deadpool squeals. “I was completely under the impression you had been kidnapped and were currently being tormented by some big bad evil scientist person who wants to discover the secrets of your spooky, spidery DNA.” The other man wiggles his fingers at Peter to illustrate just how spooky Peter’s DNA is.
“Totally still an option. How do you know I’m not someone pretending to be me?” Peter quips instinctively, before immediately regretting the words. Nice one, Parker. Way to look a gift horse in the mouth.
Deadpool waves his hand around in the air like he’s shooing off a particularly annoying fly. “Psssh, if you were any old schmuck in the suit you’d have three new piercings in your throat, liver and colon. Plus, there ain’t no faking ’dat ass, sweetcheeks.”
“Wow. Way to make a guy feel special,” Peter deadpans, rolling his eyes. He gets some flamboyant finger-guns in response. “Anyway, thought I’d swing by to let you know I haven’t been kidnapped. Kinda guessed you’d jump to the worst case scenario on that one. I’ve honestly had a mostly normal day today, so please don’t go on, like, a vengeance spree or something.”
“Aw man.” Deadpool’s whole body droops, the man scuffing at the rooftop with his boot. “Does that mean you’ve been ignoring me the whole day on purpose?” he sniffs. It’s veering dangerously close to Deadpool’s brand of jokingly sincere vulnerability, causing alarms to blare in Peter’s mind.
“Nothing like that, I promise! I just, uh—” His words tumble over each other in his haste to ease the other man’s mind. “My phone just may or may not have been, y’know…” he trails off with a shrug.
“Unless I’m given mind-reading powers in the next five seconds, I can’t say I do.”
They both watch the hands of Deadpool’s Adventure Time watch tick down. Princess Bubblegum, Jake and Finn stare at them with judgement. “Yep. Still no idea.” Deadpool says once the five seconds elapse.
“It’s… compromised. Out of commission, even. And I can’t exactly afford to buy a new one right now, so prepare to be ghosted for a little bit.”
“And what, pray tell, decommissioned your phone?” Even though it’s hidden beneath the mask, Peter can feel DP’s judgemental eyebrow raise.
“Would you believe me if I told you it was in a really cool and heroic way?” Peter tries.
“Not a chance in hell, Webs. Hit me with it. Were you texting some hot MILFs in your area and it overheated your phone 'til it exploded? Or did you try to use it as a tennis racket? I’ve done that before, it wasn’t great. Or — oh, oh, I know! You started some ship war on Tumblr and someone doxxed your IP address so you faked your own kidnapping-slash-death and—”
“Jesus, DP. None of the above. Do not pass Go, do not collect two hundred dollars.”
“Damn, I could really use the two-hundo.”
“Yeah,” Peter sighs, “me too. I could definitely find something salvageable on Facebook Marketplace for a quarter of that price.”
“Well, shit. I was just being greedy." Deadpool blinks. "You’re really in the financial pits, baby boy.”
“My day jobs don't exactly pay well.” Peter shrugs, rolling his shoulders back as he glances down at the Adventure Time watch again. “Speaking of, I gotta get back to the— to work. I’ll see you tonight for patrol?”
Deadpool lights up, and Peter can practically see the Animal Crossing-esque shimmers and flowers surrounding his head. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world!” he swoons, hands clasped under his chin.
“Great. See you later,” Peter says before diving off the rooftop.
“Toodle-doo, my deeply dramatic knight in shining spandex!” Deadpool calls as momentum pulls Peter to the apex of his swing, the ex-merc's voice still loud over the whistle of the wind in his ears. “I await our next meeting with the utmost ardor!”
It's ridiculous, but beneath the mask, Peter feels himself begin to smile.
Peter’s sudden good mood follows him for the rest of the day, deeply confusing all of his lab members. He doesn’t pay it much mind — sue him if seeing a good buddy and pal of his makes him feel better! One of the braver honours students asks him if he’d received 'like, good news, or something' during his extended lunch break. Peter only shrugs halfheartedly before shimmying his way over to the biosafety cabinet.
(Bets immediately started getting made in the undergrad groupchat. People only ever approached the biosafety cabinet with glee if they had a date or their biggest enemy had been brutally slain, and everyone knew Norman Osborn had already died a horrific death years ago.)
All cultures in the lab remain blissfully contaminant-free by the time Peter clocks out for the day. He only feels slightly miffed about the fact that he can’t listen to music on the way home, too busy thinking about red and black kevlar against the night-time New York skyline.
Peter’s already stopped a car-crash, saved someone’s fly-away laundry, and helped an arthritic cat down from a tree by the time DP shows up on patrol.
“Took you long enough,” Peter says, not looking up from his solo game of cat’s cradle. His heels knock against the edge of the highrise he’s sitting on.
“Sorry ’bout that, Webs, I had an errand to run,” Deadpool replies. “Heads up, by the way.”
“Heads—” His spidey-sense barely flares before something heavy thonks against the back of his head. “Jesus shitting mother of—” Peter swears, hands tangling in his ex-game of no-longer-cradled-cat. He whirls around, glaring at the other vigilante. “What the frick, ’Pool?”
Deadpool snickers. “That’s some pretty colourful language you got there, Spides. Odd way to thank me, too.”
Peter swivels around on the roof edge, narrowing his eyes at Deadpool as he frees his hands from his knotted webs. “Why the hell would I thank you for throwing someth—” His gaze finally drops to the object that had so rudely hit him, his voice stuttering to a stop. “Dude, what the fuck.”
“You said your phone was broken and I got sick of not texting you. I already have 10 different cakes I need to send to you!" Deadpool whines. "I really think I could pull one of them off. Plus, I got you one of those super cool fancy-schmancy shock absorbing cases so you can’t smash it against the road again.”
"How did you know I..." The question dies in his throat as he picks up the device. The phone in Peter’s hand is sleek and expensive and way out of his pay grade. “This is…” Peter starts helplessly. “I — I can’t take this, ’Pool.”
“If it makes you feel better, it’s a hand me down. That sweet puppy was just sitting around the ole bachelor pad collecting dust. I only had to buy the case. I even promise it’s not bugged! Scouts honour.”
Peter snorts, brain still catching up to the present. “You were never a Scout.”
Deadpool shrugs. “Yeah. You got me there.”
“But really, ’Pool, I can’t accept this,” Peter tries again, holding the phone out to the other man. “Like, I appreciate it, really, but…”
“But what? Sounds like someone’s just being stubborn,” Deadpool sing-songs.
“This is way too much! Seriously! I can’t even begin to pay you back for this—”
“Do you know what a gift is, Webs? You don’t have to pay me shit.”
“But I—”
“Nuh-uh-uh.” Deadpool scolds. “Santa ’Pool is still talking. If you really want to pay me back, come over and help me bake that dog-cake. Combined, I think we’d be unstoppable. Spideypool to the max, y'know?”
“What the hell is a Spideypool?” Peter splutters.
“It’s obvi our ship name. Keep up, please.”
“DP, I—”
“And,” Deadpool barrels on, “You gotta start calling me Wade, baby boy. Only work people always call me Deadpool. And by that I mean those old fuddy-duddies that sign the contracts.”
(Deadpool had introduced himself as Wade “Merc-with-a-mouth” Wilson, way back when Peter still considered the man a scourge on society. Deadpool — Wade — hadn’t brought it up since, even once they began to work together. Sometimes, the name buzzes against the back of Peter's teeth before he bites it back, unable to shake the feeling he doesn’t deserve to refer to the other man with such comfortable familiarity. Sometimes, before he goes to sleep, he rolls the name across his tongue, just to see what it feels like. Getting permission— getting asked to call the ex-merc by his given name feels like a jolt of electricity to the chest. Without any of the pain or uncontrollable muscle contractions, of course. Well… aside from his racing heart. Peter realises he should quit this analogy while he’s ahead.)
“Deadpool—” Peter tries again, flagging in the torrent of Deadpool-ness coming his way.
“Wade. Way-ye-de. All you gotta do is say ‘Thank you for the phone, Wade. I’d love to bring my sweet cake over to the Deadpool-pad to bake some sweet cakes with you.’ Now it’s your turn.”
“‘Pool—”
“Nope!” Deadpool says, popping the ‘p’ with so much force Peter swears the mask over his mouth distends for a moment. “That’s not your line.”
Peter’s hand holding the phone drops down to his side, the smooth glass of the screen brushing against his suit. He sighs heavily.
"DP—"
"Uh-uh-uh!" he tuts. The other vigilante crosses his arms, staring at Peter expectantly. Peter huffs petulantly, feeling the corner of his mouth tick up. He hopes it's hidden well enough by his mask. He crosses his arms as well as the other man raises an expectant brow, the leather stretched across his forehead crinkling as the panda-eyes of his lenses widen.
“Thank you for the phone, Wade,” Peter says as blandly as possible, trying not to let his smile leak into his voice.
“And?” Deadpool asks gleefully, lenses somehow widening even more. Peter huffs again, shifting his weight to his other foot.
“And… I’d love to br—” A scream rips through the night, Peter’s head whipping towards the sound. “Huh. Saved by the bell,” he quips, slipping the phone into his suit pocket as he crouches at the edge of the roof.
“Aw, man,” Dea— Wade whines as he joins Peter, disengaging the safety on his grappling hook. “Couldn’t that person have waited one more paragraph to get mugged?”
Peter snorts. “Clearly not. You ready to kick some butt?”
Deadpool beams at him so hard Peter can see it through the mask, leather crinkling at the cheeks. “I thought you’d never ask.”
(Peter disassembles the phone on a random rooftop after patrol, just to double check there are no bugs. Call him paranoid, but he hasn’t gotten this far without accidentally revealing his identity by being a trusting guy. He does find a bug, but it’s a crude crayon drawing of a spider — or what seems to be an attempt at a spider — with the word GOTCHA! scribbled just above it. It makes his chest feel warm and fuzzy in a way that has him wondering if he’s finally fully lost it.
The screen lights up with a notification. Apparently ’Pool had been very confident in his ability to make one of the ten dog-cakes that he’d been unable to send Peter earlier. Maybe even overly confident, based on the frantic messages that pop up rapidly, each subsequent notification decreasing in legibility.
With a snort, Peter activates Do Not Disturb, slips his new phone safely away, and begins to swing home.)