Chapter Text
In hindsight, Wade doesn’t know what he should’ve expected.
The name “Spider-Man” is pretty self-explanatory. The guy got bitten by a radioactive spider, gained spider powers, and used those powers for good. Basic and straightforward as far as origin stories go.
Sure, it left a plethora of unanswered questions, like:
Does he have six eyes now? Can he control an army of spiders? Why doesn’t he shoot webs out of his butt?
But taking into consideration all the above, Spider-Man’s schtick isn’t very deep.
And yet, Wade’s got a shovel, and he’s digging for treasure.
It all starts with an explosion.
He feels the heat before he hears the boom and is halfway through a building across the street when his brain catches up to the rest of him in the form of a simple thought: Yep, that’s a bomb, alright!
He lies beneath a blanket of plaster, drywall, and wood for several minutes, head ringing as he coughs up clouds of dust. Even on a good day, his body never truly stops hurting–give it up for a healing factor, everyone! Death is no biggie, but skin cancer is where it draws the line!–but he takes mental stock of all the minty-fresh pain littering his being and the injuries tied to them. There’s a single, pulsating throb in one leg, his right arm is flopped at an unnatural angle, burns all along his left side, and he’s pretty sure he broke most, if not all, of his ribs smashing 70 mph through a room of office cubicles.
The consensus: Wade’s considering making this demolished desk his new home. It’s kind of, almost, sort of comfortable if he doesn’t think about the metal bar impaling his leg.
His ruptured eardrums will be up and running soon, and any physical damage won’t last over fifteen minutes, but still, damn.
Groaning, he sits up and blearily peers around the evacuated office. When the smell of drywall and dust begins to settle, it’s replaced by melted kevlar and burnt fiber. His suit is intact, thankfully. For the most part. His left side had taken the brunt of the blast, leaving a spotted mess of smoldering holes and tatters, the sleeve more or less hanging on by a thread. Miraculously, his utility belt is still attached, but he’d lost a few pouches in the tumble. And one of his holsters.
Groaning louder, he gives the metal bar in his thigh a little jostle, igniting pain all the way down to his ankle. That’s technically good. Means the nerve damage isn’t too bad. But, first things first, he wrenches his right arm into place and holds it there, adjusting occasionally, as bone and muscle knit themselves back together. Once he can move it again, he grabs the bar with both hands and pulls it out with–what he assumes–is a long, wet squelch. A thick stream of blood oozes out, turning the pant-leg into a deeper, more menacing red. He throws the bar aside with a snort. Any higher and it’d look like he peed himself.
Using a busted panel as support, he pulls himself to his feet just as a red and blue figure kicks down the only remaining door and stumbles out of what used to be a bathroom. That’s a bit overkill. There’s a perfectly good Spider-Man shaped hole right next to it.
Spidey had been running point with him before the explosion. He’d recoiled before it went off, but even he, with all his speed and agility, wasn’t fast enough to escape the blast radius.
“Webs,” Wade doesn’t so much say than feel the motion of his jaw and vocal cords moving, ultimately getting him more acquainted with the taste of blood and dust in his mouth than proper communication. There are red stains where Spider-Man’s ears are, so hearing is probably off the table for him too.
To prove him correct, Spider-Man spots him and gestures to the side of his head, mouth moving to convey speech where part of his mask had been torn. It’s impossible to make out what he’s saying, but the message is obvious: Busted ears. Can’t hear a thing.
Like him, the spandex of Spider-Man’s suit is warped from the heat, the black web-lines are a little more curved than normal on his left side, and the smell of burnt rubber gets thicker as he closes the distance between them. Otherwise, he’s unscathed.
Unfair considering Wade’s bones are still healing.
Together, they stumble out of the vacated building and back into the chaos outside. The street is overrun with a messy superhero-versus-clay monster slugfest. A bald hermit—Mole Man, Mr. Fantastic had said—stands on a roof a short distance from the fight, loudly urging his minions on as they enact his plan to sink the city into the ground. Grayish brown golems and globs swarm the streets like riled ants, either flocking around individual members of the Fantastic Four or sticking home-made bombs to surrounding buildings.
The sounds of battle are muffled and far away, but it’s a vast improvement from the painful ringing that had been bouncing through Wade’s skull. Give it another minute, tops, and he’ll be back in tip-top shape. Spider-Man, on the other hand, gingerly touches the side of his head and the exposed portion of his jaw twitches in discomfort. Wade grimaces. Not everyone is lucky enough to have a life-hack healing factor like him.
He taps the bloody area below Spider-Man’s ear, and when the man turns to him, points at it and gives a questioning thumbs up. Spider-Man returns the gesture with more confidence and yells again—probably something flippant about his bargain brand healing factor—before shooting a web and launching himself into the air.
Shrugging, Wade does a quick weapons check as he follows. Deaf or not, Spidey can handle himself. He’s more worried about a glob of semi-sentient clay humping his leg like a gooey chihuahua. That shit’s embarrassing.
By the time Sue Storm descends from above on an invisible platform, having spotted them approaching, Wade’s ears are fully functioning again.
“Deadpool,” she shouts, hovering eight feet in the air and still somehow covered in muck, “help Ben drive them back. Spider-Man, Johnny could use a hand.”
Wade lifts a finger to relay the information that Spider-Man can’t hear jackshit and a game of charades is in order, but Spider-Man shoots Sue a thumbs up and veers in midair, heading for the streak of fire herding a gaggle of clay-monsters towards Mr. Fantastic.
He drops his finger.
“Huh,” he cocks his head. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say our Spidey’s H-factor got exponentially better since our last romp in the streets.”
Maybe you’re finally rubbing off on him, the voices jeer, unfortunately, unaffected by any recent hearing loss.
“One can only dream,” Wade sighs, unholstering a gun.
But it’s a minor thought. So minor, he drops it as another BOOM shakes the end of the street, sending rubble into neighboring buildings with thick plumes of smoke smothering the air. Sue is already back with Mr. Fantastic, helping round up little blobs, while The Thing is steadily being overrun with goopy monsters the size of small horses. Wade checks his gun one more time, cocks it, and follows The Thing’s gravelly curses, putting bullets into heads as he goes. BLAM!
These things aren’t alive, right? Well, even if they are, they’re made of clay! They’ll probably come back to life.
Maybe.
He shoots another in the head. “Fuck you. Fuck you. Double fuck you. Fuck you.”
Overhead, a tiny figure swings by on a web, donning a tasteful red and black costume that is both similar and completely different from the one Wade’s used to seeing Tarzan between buildings. The younger Spider-Man, or Spidey Jr, as Wade has taken to calling him—catches up with Spider-Man Sr, who nods in greeting. They twist and swing around a large, accumulating mass of clay that’s turning into a dripping monster the size of King Kong (1933).
For a while, they distract it by shooting webbing into its eyes, before being summoned to the ground by Sue. Unlike last time, it takes Jr tapping Spider-Man on the shoulder and motioning to her and Mr. Fantastic—who’re waving their arms to get their attention—for him to drop down.
Wade jogs over to them. With a gun in one hand and a katana in the other, he’d cleared more than enough buggers to give The Thing ample breathing room. It was kind of fun, actually. If not for the satisfying way their clay heads explode, he would’ve forgone the guns and just used his swords—they’re a waste of bullets, otherwise.
As if to further his delight, a clay devil materializes in front of him and, with a giggle, he shoves the barrel of his gun into its head, pulls the trigger, and continues on his merry way as it erupts in a burst of brown and gray matter that smells of sewage and regret.
He joins the group just as Spider-Man motions to his own ears, yelling, “I can’t hear you. What are you saying?”
It’s hilarious, actually, watching the distinguished and world-renowned Sue Storm and Reed Richards act their plan out with silly charades. Wade almost loses it when Mr. Fantastic makes an exaggerated spraying noise, mimicking a firefighter’s hose.
“Distract it!” Sue shouts, hands cupped around her mouth, despite being only a few feet from Spider-Man. “We have a plan. A plan! Do you understand?”
They scream their strategy for a few more minutes, loud enough for Mole-Man to hear if he had the brain cells to be paying attention, before Spider-Man nods and motions for Spidey Jr to follow him, who’d been perched on a street-lamp watching the exchange with as much delight as Wade (judging by his smothered laughter). Together, they vault into the air, working double-time, throwing pieces of debris into the creature’s face and covering its eyes with thicker globs of webbing.
“Mr. Fantasia! Sue, baby!” Wade opens his arms, wide and inviting. “What about me? What can I do?”
Sue and Mr. Fantastic share a glance.
“Uh, I think we got it, Deadpool. Just…take five, okay,” Mr. Fantastic says, holding up the appropriate number of fingers.
Wade doesn’t have time to be offended before they run off to join the rest of the team.
“What kind of plan doesn’t include two hundred pounds of cancer?” He shouts peevishly after them.
Grumbling under his breath, he checks his ammunition, holsters his gun, and pulls out his other katana, when a shadow zips across the sidewalk. Spider-Man lifts a giant scaffolding of concrete with his webs, as easy as a kid with a magnetic fishing toy, and lobs it at the creature with captivating ease. His body arcs through the air, muscles rippling and bunching with controlled power as he swings up on another web to repeat the process.
Wade’s mouth goes dry.
On second thought, they don’t really need him. May as well kick back and enjoy the show. It’s what Reed would want. Sheathing his katanas, he leans against the nearest wall and crosses his arms, watching the battle enfold.
It’s not like the Fantastic Four needed their help to begin with. He and Spidey happened to be patrolling nearby when they heard screaming, and while it sounded serious at first, the Four were already on the scene and handling the situation. They only tagged along to escape the sheer boredom of their evening. Spidey Jr showed up halfway through, likely for the same reason. What’s a fella gotta do to get a little excitement around here?
Spend all night running around on rooftops to fight Clayface’s estranged cousins, apparently, the voices say.
Wade snorts in agreement, watching as the Human Torch joins Spider-Man and Jr in annoying the creature, giving The Thing room to tear open a fire hydrant. It bursts into a geyser for only a moment before Sue creates an invisible tube that funnels the water straight into the creature's face like a pressurized hose. That’s all it takes. The creature falls apart, dramatically reaching for the sky as it dissolves into sludge, screeching I’m melting! I’m meeeltinnng!
With his boots planted on the ground, Mr. Fantastic stretches a full 180 feet up in the air, grabbing Mole Man by the collar before he can scuttle off the building he’d set as his base, and return to his hidey-hole.
See? Easy peasy.
Wade pushes off the wall and jogs towards Spider-Man and Jr, who’d landed outside the giant mud pile caking the rest of the street. Aside from a mean-looking gash on Jr’s upper arm, both look unharmed. The injury doesn’t go unnoticed, of course. Spider-Man lifts it up for inspection, mumbles indiscernibly, and wraps it in a web-bandage.
It’s cute. Really. Tooth-rottingly sweet.
But then something strange happens.
Spidey Jr proceeds to climb onto Spider-Man’s back and cling to him, arms curled atop the older man’s shoulders, legs tucked by his sides, and head resting on the juncture of his neck. Like a freakish baby koala-spider. Spider-Man doesn’t seem to think this is unusual and strides towards Mr. Fantastic with the confidence of someone who isn’t confusing Wade with unforeseen displays of social interaction. This doesn’t come off as weird to Mr. Fantastic either as he ignores everything but the gash on Jr’s arm, gesturing to it with a look of concern. Wade slows his gait in confusion, but is close enough to hear what they’re saying.
“Still healing, but I can hear a little!” Spider-Man shouts.
“Do you want to come back to the Baxter Building and get patched up?” Mr. Fantastic shouts back.
“What was that?”
“Do you. Want to. Get patched up. At the Baxter Building.”
“Louder!”
“I said, do you–”
“Reed, I’m kidding! I heard you the first time!” He glances over his shoulder, at Jr. “Do you want to?”
Jr thinks for a moment, before shaking his head.
Spider-Man turns back and needlessly says, “No thanks, we’re good.”
Mr. Fantastic shoos him away as he then loudly announces that he’s going to help clean up with the Human Torch and The Thing, and wanders in their direction. Wade takes the opening to sidle up to Mr. Fantastic.
“Sir Stretch, how’s it going? Hey, random question. What’s all… that about?” He nods to Spidey Jr, who, still clinging to Spidey’s back, half-heartedly webs a piece of debris and launches it upwards at Spider-Man’s face, who catches it with amused ease.
Mr. Fantastic looks up from the cuffs he’s slapping on Mole Man’s wrists, tracking the arachnid-duo across the street. “Spider-Man and the kid? He’s his mentor. Showing him the ropes, presumably. Good thing too, given their similar power sets. They–”
Wade rolls his eyes. “I know what a mentor and mentee relationship is, Rubberband. I mean, why is he giving the squirt a piggyback ride? He doesn’t look that hurt.”
“Oh,” Mr. Fantastic fixes the two with a new stare, curiosity gleaming, giving Wade the feeling that he’d unintentionally flipped the nerd switch in his brain. “They’ve always done that as far as I can tell. I suspect it has to do with their shared spider biology. It’s quite fascinating, really. Some spider species have been known to carry their young on their back. That, combined with their own human nature, could be a–”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Wade interrupts him with a sharp, cutting gesture. “Hold up. Young? As in offspring? As in kid? Is Spider-Man a Spider-Papa?” He looks back at them, offended. “How come he never told me?”
Mr. Fantastic huffs, exasperated, and hoists up Mole Man, who’d been attempting to tiptoe away. “No, as far as I’m aware, Spider-Man isn’t…er, Spider-Man’s kid.”
“They really need to figure out a way to differentiate those two,” Wade mumbles.
“Yes, well, they’re not related to my knowledge. It’s likely just a side effect of an inborn arachnid instinct. They’ve been doing it for a while.” He fixes Wade with a dull stare. “You and Spider-Man have been working together as of late, right? How could you not have known?”
Wade shrugs, stroking his chin. Yeah, he and Spidey have been patrolling together for a while, but he’s never seen him give the runt a piggyback before. Then again, he’s only fought alongside Jr a handful of times. The first experience ended with Wade taking a rebar through the skull, the second one was cut short after getting his lungs crushed from falling debris, and during the third, he’d gotten shot in the back of a getaway truck and landed face-down in the fifty pounds of cocaine they were carrying. Certainly not the worst way he’s died.
But by the time he came back around, Spidey Jr was always gone. It can just be that he’s never been awake long enough to see it.
Satisfied with this, he claps Mr. Fantastic on the shoulder, who looks down at it with a raised eyebrow. “Muchas gracias, Mr. Above-Average. As you were.”
He pokes Mole Man’s weirdly shaped head as he walks away, sauntering over to Spider-Man, who’s carrying a sizable chunk of wall while asking, “Did you finish your homework?”
“Yes,” Jr huffs with the patented exasperation of a teenager feeling unjustifiably interrogated.
“Did you eat before you came out?” Spider-Man asks.
“Yes. I had a sandwich.”
“Alright, make sure you have a Gatorade or something when you get home. And relax that arm. Take a nap. Resting is nature's best remedy.”
“I know, I know,” another huff from Jr. “It’s not like you’ve told me a million times.”
Spider-Man is still putting too much volume into his words, but Jr, oddly enough, doesn’t raise his voice at all. He’s not even talking near Spider-Man’s ears, he’s…talking to the back of his head?
Wade glances around, wishing someone was nearby so they could point at the two and go, “What the fuck?” and prove he isn’t seeing things again. The Thing is closest, but he’s too busy shoving muddied cars out of the way and clearing debris. The Human Torch is farther down the street helping Sue with crowd-control, and Mr. Fantastic is hauling Mole Man to the authorities, who’d taped off the entire area to give the Four (and friends!) room to take care of it.
No one is around to point out the weirdness of the situation, and given that ridiculousness follows him like a stench, it’s not like he can call it out. He slows his walk, observing as Jr’s hands reach up and stroke Spider-Man’s shoulders. Stranger still is how Spider-Man reaches up and rubs Jr’s wrist in return. It doesn’t come off as sexual, thank fuck . Something more akin to tussling a kid's head or patting them on the shoulder. Like a sign of reassurance.
Still, Wade was under the impression that rubbing people in public is weird AF. At least, that’s what Weasel’s been drilling into his head. Why do the arachnoids get to rub and he doesn’t? That’s not fair.
Hanging back, he watches them discuss the woes of web-fluid, an upcoming math test, and how to avoid T-boning pigeons in midair. Amid a discussion about insulated coats he tries an experiment.
“Spidey?” He calls in a normal tone.
When Spider-Man doesn’t look up, he calls louder. “Spidey.”
Jr hears him, but Spider-Man is still droning on about which brand of gilet vests are warmest.
Wade inhales, cups his mouth, and shouts, “Spider-Man!”
This time, Spider-Man looks up, lenses squinting.
“Pool?” He shouts back. “You talking to me?” He gestures to the side of his head. “Ears are still busted. You need to speak up.”
Wade gives him a double thumbs up. “Just checking.”
Spider-Man shrugs and the two arachnoids continue chatting until Jr announces he needs to go home. As he swings away, Spider-Man shouts post-battle remedies after him.
“Don’t forget to wash your costume! And the Gatorade! Don’t forget about the Gatorade!”
Wade takes his spot next to him once the kid is clear and Spider-Man turns, juts a thumb over his shoulder, and struggles to lower his voice as he says, “Are you ready to go? I’m starving.”
Wade gestures to the mess they’re supposed to be cleaning. Not that he wants to. Spider-Man’s the one who’s always getting on his ass about leaving his messes everywhere.
Not this time, apparently, because Spider-Man brushes it off, talking in what he probably thinks is a whisper, “Johnny and Ben can finish it up. If we move now, we’ll be three blocks away before they notice we’re gone.”
Wade grins, pushing thoughts of blasted ear drums and spider-antics aside. “Webs, you’re speaking my language. Let’s go before the grown-ups notice.” He clambers onto Spider-Man’s back when offered and it strikes him that just five minutes ago, Jr was doing the exact same thing. Unlike Jr, Spider-Man doesn’t seem inclined to rub his wrists.
Bummer.
They’re a block away when Johnny and Ben storm after them (you know that pun is intended) demanding that they return and help clean up. By the time they’re safely tucked beneath a water tower, watching the Human Torch fly by in pursuit, Wade had crammed the weird events of the night to the back of his head, to be analyzed or forgotten, he didn’t really care which.
The next time he notices something strange, it’s two weeks later.
They finish their night with the weapons trafficking ring they’ve been trailing for the last few days. The crew itself was small, but they had a handful of souped-up grunts, so it took a little longer than expected. No one was killed.
Maimed and injured, certainly, but still breathing.
Wade had taken a crowbar to the gut and several bullets in the spleen, but those were nothing but sensitive pangs in his spine by the time they were catching their breath on the next building over. Spider-Man rolled an ankle and had a few bruised ribs, so he was doing fine. They stay around the warehouse long enough to bandage up and call the police before taking their leave.
Given the success of the night, celebrations were in order! Which meant high-tailing it to the closest fast-food joint and buying out their entire menu.
It’s become something of a post-patrol tradition. They have a routine and everything! Wade pays for the food, and Spidey the drinks, followed by locating a favored building to eat on as Spider-Man safeguards their order like it’s the president and he is Secret Service. Not many people know this, but that man is actually three ravenous raccoons stacked inside a spandex suit. The rumors of strange noises and late-night dumpster diving are true.
It’s the only explanation for the speed with which he inhales his food.
But things are different this time.
Nature calls and Spider-Man bee-lines for the bathroom, reminding Wade to get extra sauce before he disappears behind the door. When he returns, their order is finished and handed off to Wade. Which isn’t a big deal. Or, at least, it doesn’t feel like a big deal. Spidey manifests next to him, hands out to take the bags, but Wade’s feeling silly. A little mischievous, even. He sidesteps him, wagging a finger.
“Nuh-uh, your food rights have been revoked. That’s what you get for peeing for so long.”
He expects Spider-Man to knock him in the shoulder and shoot back a snarky remark, but instead, he goes quiet, hands dropping. He looks between Wade and the employee behind the register, and his shoulders stiffen.
“Oh.” He turns on his heels and storms out of the restaurant.
Stunned, Wade looks back at the employee, who merely shrugs, and follows.
Spider-Man continues giving him the cold shoulder as they climb a fire escape to one of their designated rooftops. He doesn’t bother slowing down for the less adept at wall-crawling, and by the time Wade’s hauling himself onto the roof, he’s already sitting on the ledge, sipping on the smoothie he’d snatched on his way up.
Wade plants a hand on his cocked hip, the plastic bags making an ungodly amount of noise, and waits until Spider-Man looks over his shoulder before demanding, “What’s got your tighty-whities in a bunch?”
Spider-Man’s lips flatten and he turns away, taking a long, extra loud sip from his straw before replying. “What are you talking about?”
“Don’t play dumb,” Wade plops next to him. “You were shooting daggers at the lady down there. Do you know her? You acted like you knew her.” He looks down at the bags, suspicious. “Did she spit in our food?”
“No,” Spider-Man mumbles, sounding strangely glum, as if disappointed the employee hadn’t violated an act of human decency. “It’s…nothing. Don’t worry about it.”
Wade leans forward, almost entirely off the ledge, just to give him a deadpan look. “You were shooting daggers at me too, so I think I will worry about it, thank you very much.” More playfully, he knocks into his shoulder. “Come on, what’s wrong? You can tell your ol’ buddy Wade. I’ll only judge a little bit.”
For a long time, Spider-Man says nothing, just stares ahead, rigid as a gargoyle, holding the straw in his mouth without sipping. When it’s obvious that Wade isn’t letting it go, his shoulders curl inward and he finally mutters, “It was my job.”
Wade quits drumming his fingers against his thigh. “Mc’Pardon?”
“Holding the food. It’s my job.”
Wade blinks hard. “That’s what you’re mad about?”
Spider-Man twists away with a scowl.“Whatever, I told you it was nothing.” He thrust out a hand, grabbing the air. “Now, can I please have my deep-dish before I starve to death? You’re the one who’s going to explain to the cops why you allowed Spider-Man to die next to a Denny’s.”
Wade snorts, handing over the bag.
Once again, it’s not a big deal. Spider-Man normally dishes out their food because he’s quick about it, but the moment Wade holds it out, he freezes. His mask is already pulled over his nose, so there’s no hiding the sudden flush of color that washes his face, burning his cheeks a shade of red that should only be accomplished on hot summer days at the beach. No sun block. No clouds. Just straight solar radiation barbeque.
With the speed of a rattled viper, Spider-Man snatches the bag and cradles it to his chest, like it might get taken away.
“Someone’s hungry,” Wade says, giving him a weird, sideways look.
But there are more important things to think about, like the extra cheesy, extra greasy, supreme pizza in his lap. He yanks open the box and has half of a slice shoved into his mouth, sauce dripping down his chin, before realizing Spider-Man is watching him.
“What?” He dabs at his lips with a napkin. “Is there something on my face?”
Spider-Man shakes his head, snapping out of his stupor. “No. Nothing. It’s nothing. Uh, here,” he thrusts Wade’s smoothie at him. Shrugging, Wade accepts it and takes a long sip, ignoring the way Spider-Man is still watching.
It can’t be the scars. Spidey’s never cared before. He’s never stared like this before.
Well, you didn’t notice him giving Spider-Boy piggyback-rides either, so it’s not like you’re batting great in that department.
Yeah, maybe you’ve just never noticed until now. I mean, you’re not exactly looking your best today, bud.
Well, sure, the ol’ skin was looking a little worse for wear this morning, but it wasn’t that bad. A handful of open sores had broken out on his cheek, which isn’t fun to look at, but…but Spider-Man’s seen worse.
He forgot to moisturize, too, so they are a bit dry. The stale Manhattan air certainly isn’t pulling him any favors, either. Had one of them started leaking pus?
His insides squirm and he’s suddenly aware of the chilling August breeze and the faint, constantly burning prickle of his skin, like it’d been doused in bleach and scrubbed with a wire sponge. The aches in his joints and back, the ones that never truly go away, pang, refusing to let their contribution to his discomfort go unnoticed.
Grotesque inside and out, the voices agree. He probably lost his appetite. It was bound to happen, eventually.
Wade’s stomach twists and his cheeks grow hot, caught between wanting to discreetly pull his mask down and pretend not to notice, and to snap at Spider-Man to have some goddamn manners and lean over the side if he’s going to throw up, when Spidey finally turns away with a wiggle.
Read that again. A wiggle. Not a shudder of disgust. Not a shoulder-shaking laugh. A full body, head to toe, Jason Derulo wiggle, wiggle, wiggle. And this, in all effects, throws Wade off.
Any other night, he might not have noticed. Cold wind, post-fight jitters, leftover adrenaline, it happens. But he’s on alert, and this is another strange act on top of an already piling heap of weirdness. He’s not a wiggle expert, nor an optimist, but it looked like a pleased wiggle.
Spider-Man digs into his food with vigor, mood restored.
I mean, your general physiognomy can make anyone feel more optimistic about their life. The voices say. So, uh…job well done?
Maybe.
Wade watches him from the corner of his eye, critical of any more antics as he goes into an epic retelling of the night's escapades and how badass they were. Spidey smiles and laughs, engaging willingly in his gaudy storytelling, but his jovial mood doesn’t feel like a result of their successful night. The only time it drops again is when he slurps up the dregs of his drink and sets the cup aside with a sigh. He loves his smoothies. Something about their thick and creamy texture endears him to them—yes, that’s a direct quote, and yes, Wade offered something else of the thick and creamy variety, but he was turned down. :C
Smoothies are okay. They aren’t special. Not if they don’t come with extra sauces or sugary candy bits, so Wade doesn’t mind handing over his half-full cup. And like before, Spider-Man’s face flushes a shade of red that’s deeply worrying for his pigmentation.
He doesn’t snatch it away this time, just mumbles a quick, “Thanks,” as he takes it.
While sipping, his lips turn down, and Wade’s come to learn that means he’s thinking very hard. There’s a spot of grease on the corner of his mouth that he hasn’t noticed, and a yellow bruise on his jaw, surrounded by the short hairs of a developing stubble. That usually meant he had a lot going on, life wise. Job troubles, family troubles, financial troubles–something significant enough to draw his attention away from personal grooming. It took time to connect the dots, but Wade has started mentally cataloging when these rough patches begin.
Clean-shaven jaw and relaxed smiles one week. Prickly hairs and grimaces the next. A growing five o’clock shadow and stress lines means it’s getting bad. But always, eventually, he returned to patrols with bright laughs and loose shoulders, and when he rolled up his mask to eat, he’d be clean-shaven again.
What’s going on now? Boss making him work extra hours? Car broke down and he has to dip into savings to cover it? Secret lover giving him grief? Oh, how Wade wants to pull back the curtain and see the inner workings of Spider-Man’s life beyond the tights. Connecting stress lines to problems, and how it bleeds into his hands as he pursues criminals more aggressively. Pinning his crooked smile to a board and scribbling down the stupid joke that put it there. Studying the hard lines of his sinking shoulders as he reads a text that Wade can’t see.
Then Spider-Man straightens and looks at him, and Wade, who’d been tracing the sharp outline of his jaw with his eyes, jumps, snapping his head away like he’d been caught doing something he wasn’t supposed to. Spider-Man must've come to a solution for whatever problem he was mulling over, and with a stubborn set to his shoulders, he offers his half-eaten box of pizza to Wade.
Wade looks at it, confused for a moment, before it clicks and he holds up his hands to refuse—he’s seen Spidey shirtless, and while he’s got mass, it's gotta be unhealthy to see that much ribcage. Depriving him of a meal feels like taking food from the homeless.
But Spider-Man is firm with determination and Wade doesn’t have the heart to say no.
This is the right decision, apparently, because the moment it passes to his hands, Spider-Man beams, and the tightness in his shoulders eases. Picking up the previously given smoothie, he slurps away at it, swinging his legs.
Wade rolls two slices into a mega burrito, takes a hefty bite, and studies his friend. A lot of things are stacking up. Details he hasn’t noticed before, but now that he thinks about it, can recall separate, similar occasions. A subtle wiggle as Spider-Man dished out their food. The way he avoided taking things directly from Wade’s hands. The shy, almost flustered way he smiled while he ate—Wade assumed it was a nervous tick. Or passing gas.
Then there’s that whole interaction with Spidey Jr. The carrying. Hair talking. Affectionate rubbing.
Inborn arachnid instincts, Mr. Fantastic said. Spider biology.
Maybe it’s time Wade does a little studying of his own.
