Chapter Text
What He Don’t Know
Wade’s POV
It wasn’t his fault.
Not really.
There’s just something so alluring of a closed box, a simple, brown cardboard box. It’s human nature to want to know what’s inside, and the majority of the time, your brain will conjure up something that’s ten times better than reality. Deadpool should’ve just tossed it against the wall and watched it settle into the corner, along with the rest of Peter’s mail.
Oh, yeah, he’s in Spider-Man's rinky dink apartment. {If we could even call it an apartment, ‘how is your kitchen next to your toilet? How yo bed next to yo kitchen?’}
He does this often, simply walking in like he owns the place and it’s also not his fault Spidey leaves the window unlocked. Basically inviting him in, no?
{Dude, he leaves the window open because he’s Spider-Man. It’s almost like gasp, he can’t walk through the front door!}
[Nope, nada, mhm, he totally invited us in.]
It had only been a few minutes after Deadpool shuffled the window up, a familiar click of it hitting the top and he slightly turned his torso adjacent to squeeze inside, then there was a knock on the door. Three crisp knocks made his head tilt and halt for a mere second before snapping the window closed as he eyed the casted shadow leaking into the dark room. The yellow lights made it obvious that someone was just standing there. The bridge of Deadpool's nose twitched, and he contemplated between either ripping the front door open to see who was knocking on the door like they were Walter White or simply waiting to see what the other would do.
The sounds of retracting footsteps decided for him and he strove forward, in two long strides he was at the door and prying it open after undoing the thousands of chain locks [Jesus, little Petey needs to tone it down on the ‘house’ protection!] He popped his head out, left, right, and both were completely void. Wade would think the complex was abandoned if it wasn’t for the mewling baby next store, that always seemed to rouse up at 3 a.m. He prays for the parents, dramatically drawing a cross over his chest.
It was then, that he noticed that cursed brown box. If it were a snake, it would’ve bit him, that’s for sure. Wade blinked once, twice, then scooped it up in his arms before swiftly closing the door and fumbling to put the locks back. Wade bounced it in his arms, noting how light it was and remember how human imagination can think big?
{We shouldn’t open his mail.}
[We’ve done it before! I wanna know what’s in it, ohh, do you think it’s something embarrassing? OMFG, what if it’s a sex toy-]
{We. Shouldn’t. Open. His mail.}
[Listen, all sex toy companies send shit in a blank brown box, atp they might as well just slap “ADAM & EVE” on it!]
{He’s going to get so mad at us.}
[#Worthit.]
Wade hopped over the couch, plopping on the cushions and listening to the wood creak. He slipped his fingers towards his utility belt, spinning an 8-inch blade through his fingers, humming the tune of Genghis Khanas he listened to the hushed ‘swooping’ from the knife slicing through the air before he halted it, aiming to effortlessly cut the tape off.
The air promptly exited his lungs and the world quickly did a 90 flip, the cheap laminate table felt cool against his cheek. The box slid against the table along with his knife (#Nooo! Bowie!), teetering to slip off before a silk web latched to the back of the box, and Wade couldn’t help the shudder that racked through his bones as he felt warmth press against his back. He whistled,
“Damn, you’re so sneaky.”
There was silence, and if Deadpool’s head wasn’t currently pushed flush down, he’d turn to see the expression on Spidey’s face. Oooh, he would kill to watch those lenses twitch. Finally, he spoke, and his tone felt like steam against the mesh of his suit. Peter must be leaning over, Wade’s fighting the urge to groan at the lucid image piercing his mind. How dirty must they look to anyone who walks in?
“How many times do I have to kick you the hell out of my apartment?”
“Until I’m dead,”
“So never.”
“Yu-p.”
Wade popped his lips. Greeted with empty noise, and like always, Wade has to fill it,
“How was patrolling? Catch any bad guys, string them up like Christmas lights—“
“Wade.”
“Shit, Petey, keep saying my name like that and you’re going to be a lot more mad at me.”
The mercenary heard an annoyed ‘tsk’ and a grumble of something along the lines of “Why did I tell you my name?” And “You’re fucking gross.” Before the warmth of him parted, and Wade had to suck on his tongue to stop the whine escaping his mouth, he lay there for a moment basking in the ghost of Spidey’s warmth.
Spidey whisked the box up into his hands, and eyed the knife that clattered on the floor, then kicked it up in the air, snatching it and tucking it somewhere..in the seams of his suit. Wade still doesn’t understand how he does that, probably hammerspace. He perked up when Spidey sighed lightly,
“Do I even want to know what you’re doing opening a box that’s clearly not yours?”
Wade lifted himself off the table, tucking his legs under his body and leaning back against the couch. He put his hands up as if claiming innocence, “Someone knocked like three times, all cryptic-like, then stalked off. Just, you know, checkin' it out for ya.” He watched the way the younger man’s jaw flexed and he found himself tonguing the roof of his mouth, trying to coax moisture back.
Peter’s thumbs tapped the cardboard, the lenses of his eyes dilating and Wade could practically hear the gears turning in that smart-ass brain of his. Peter cocked his head, murmuring, “It was probably just the mailman, ‘pool. But I don’t remember ordering anything. Doesn’t have a sender address, nothing.” He carefully maneuvered himself to the kitchen, resting the box on the counter and leaning against it. He’s just glaring at the box as if he can magically will it to tell him what’s in its contents.
Wade snorted, practically leaping off the floor and stalking to stand across Peter, mimicking the way the other was propping himself up, “You know, you could just open it.” The hero’s eyes don’t even leave the box as he replies, “I rather just throw it out,”
“Come on, you’re not a little curious?”
“It’s a sus—“ A beat, Wade wills himself to not crackle, “Suspicious box, and Peter Parker isn’t one to get random packages, too much of a nobody.”
Wade shifts, once again at a crossroads, arguing with Spidey that Peter’s not just a nobody or letting the comment go. This is a petty argument they always circle back to, which usually ends with Spidey turning on his heels and storming off. Wade would let him cool off for all of five minutes, before buying apology tacos and they eat in silence before the previous conversation seems to dissipate. They settle back to their usual banter, but they both know the tension clings to their clothes. Deadpool always takes showers so hot that it borders on painful after nights like that, gotta wash it all off.
He opts to say, “Give’er.”
There’s a flash of hesitation, and Wade thinks that before Spidey can convince himself of the better choice, he shoves the box towards the mercenary. Wade easily locates another knife, much to Peter’s dismayed groan, and slices the tape like butter.
He grips the flaps and opens it, he feels Peter lingering over him, trying to peer inside. The tops of their heads are inches from each other, Wade swears he feels electricity bouncing in the air between them and fights the urge to take a sneak peek of Spidey being so close.
Inside, it was a single gray sleek cube with a bright red button.
“Are you serious?” He hears Spidey hiss out, “This is- stupid, whoever sent this must think I’m an idiot. Who would press a red button?” The crackle of energy disappears as Peter uses the countertop to shove himself backward, and distantly there’s the sound of a fridge opening. {As if there’s actually food in there.}
Well.
[We would. We would press a red button.]
{Are you crazy??}
[👍.]
Spidey should know better than to turn his back on Wade Wilson. Something bad always happens when he does. He should also know better that when Wade Wilson is quiet for more than two minutes, he’s thinking about doing something horrendous. And wouldn’t you know? He did.
Wade’s pointer finger pushed in the red dot, half expecting an explosion, half expecting something worse, but…nothing came. Except for a slight pop in his ears, he glances at Spidey’s way to see if everything’s fine and peachy. [def something peach shaped] There was a slight falter in his movement as he grabbed what looked like old Chinese takeout but he continued easily. He quickly withdrew his finger when Spidey turned on his toes to face him, and the crazy fucker is eating lo-mien cold.
The bottom half of his mask is rolled up, bunching up on the bridge of his nose and there’s dried blood on his Cupid bow, slightly chipping away. Wade wishes he could climb over this counter and lick it off.
{Christ. Take a deep breath.}
Wade does, and laughs off-handly, “Are you for real eating that shit cold?” He only gets a shrug in response, and Wade leans over the counter, swatting at the box to which Spidey steps back. Deadpool huffs, “I’ll order us hot-delicious-not-6-week-old Chinese food if you throw that out, Pete.”
Peter considers this, his mouth doing that cute thing where he puckers them before sucking in the corner of his bottom lip and he finally says, “It’s 3-week-old Chinese food, but, yeah. If you’re paying.”
“I’m standing in your bum ass apartment, yes, I’m paying.” Wade bares his teeth in a smile, “Always am, baby boy.” He watches Peter roll his eyes so hard, his lenses struggle to capture it.
They let the box rot.
//
Have you ever woken up and not remember how you got there?
That’s currently how Wade’s feeling.
He has jostled awake in peculiar places, the sewers, the Eiffel Tower, inside a laundry dryer at a Laundromat, in a taxidermy shop, in the middle of a LARP battle. Long story short, he’s woken up in pretty odd fucking places.
He’d consider this one tops all of those.
He’s staring at Spidey’s bed, his insanely small, messy, bed. Pillows are strewn everywhere, and the blankets are, somehow across the room. The little lamp that used to settle on a nightstand is scattered on the floor. No Spidey, no sounds besides the usual buzz of New York City.
It comes to Wade.
The fact that he’s clinging to the ceiling by the palms of his hands and soles of his feet.
[What]
{the}
“Fuck?”