Booger-Man
Deadpool watched in hiding as Spider-Man swung in a wide arch, twisting and turning in a ballet of acrobatics and speed. The masked vigilante landed on the roof of an old warehouse—because his villains still always chose warehouses, apparently—and waved a corked glass vial in the air. A blue liquid sloshed around wildly.
“One little sip, man! That’s all it takes,” Spider-Man shouted towards the roof.
Deadpool hadn’t heard that warm timbre in years, his voice sounding deeper and raspier than he remembered. He leaned in, eager for more.
The roof trembled as an animated mountain of a green jelly-like substance burst from the vents and towered over Spider-Man. It roared, flinging bits of goo that stuck to the spandex of the vigilante’s suit.
“Eugh,” Spider-Man cringed. “Looks like I’m in a sticky situation.”
Deadpool rolled his eyes at the same time that the green goo man roared again.
Spider-Man snorted, though he sounded smug as he said, “Yeah, you’re right. That was a low blow.” He jumped to the top of the nearest metal spire, getting as close to eye-level with the green goo man as he could with the monster’s staggering height. He still hadn’t picked up on Deadpool’s presence, presumably preoccupied enough by the villain of the week that even his enhanced senses were not privy to the mercenary’s thundering heart and watchful gaze.
Deadpool stood from his crouch behind a large industrial fan. He crept to the base of the spire, looking up at the man’s red and black behind, noting with glee that it was still as well defined as it had always been.
{Damn. We’ve missed those sweet spandexed cheeks.}
Spider-Man uncorked the vial and tilted it towards the goo’s mouth. “Open up! Here comes the airplane!”
Deadpool, forever the opportunist, decided on that moment to reveal himself. "Oh!" he yelled. “I didn’t know you were into Mommy-play?"
Spider-Man nearly jumped out of his skin, lurching forward as if physically struck. The vial went flying into the air and he belatedly shot a web to catch it. He snagged the bottom of the glass, the blue liquid spilling to the ground as the vial swung upside down. The cork was still clenched tightly in his other fist. He whipped around. “Seriously!?” Spider-Man hissed. “What are you doing here?”
Deadpool’s smile fell into a pout. “Hello to you, too, Grumpy. I see your people-skills haven’t improved since we last talked.”
Spider-Man held up a finger in a wait gesture and turned back towards the roof, eyeing the villain. The green goo monster had already switched its focus to the metal water tanks, trying to smash them with its gelatinous fists. Luckily it seemed like the tanks were doing more damage to the goo than the monster was doing to them. Spider-Man faced Deadpool once more, jaw clenched. “I know this isn’t something you’re capable of understanding, but I’m actually trying to do some good here. Leave.”
Deadpool began fiddling with a clunky belt on his waist, pink and blue like cotton candy. They were already running late for the adventure he had planned. “Yeah, yeah, you’re busy playing hero. Booger-Man, awesome. Hey, have you ever been to New Jersey?”
Spider-Man climbed down the spire and crossed his arms. “Deadpool, I’m serious.”
“You act like you’re in the middle of solving the global warming crisis or getting Elon banned from America. I have something more important for us to do!” Deadpool grabbed Spider-Man’s wrist and yanked him into his chest. His skin tingled where they bumped together.
“Really? A hug?” Spider-Man started to push away from Deadpool but the mercenary tightened his grip. “Ugh, why do you smell like beef—”
“Hold that thought,” Deadpool shifted, his hand going to his belt again. He let out a grunt. “That’s it—” A loud pop rang out and the ground disappeared. After a brief weightlessness, they were free-falling through a cloud of cerulean smoke.
Spider-Man yelped. “What the—”
“Yay! My teleporter still works!” Deadpool cheered.
With a sudden lurch, they were swept into a thick netting, dangling upside down above a concrete floor. Their bodies pressed together like sardines in a can, chest to chest. Spider-Man kicked around wildly but the tight netting didn’t allow for much movement. Deadpool felt the friction like bolts of electricity, the warmth of the vigilante’s body against his making his head spin. Spider-Man smelled exactly the same as he always had, a mixture of earthiness and some sort of mechanical oil. Deadpool resisted the urge to huff in a deep, creepy sniff.
{And they say chivalry is dead.}
Spider-Man was bristling. “Of course you would drop us right into a trap!” He kept kicking, bucking his hips back and forth as if the netting would loosen with enough force.
Deadpool moaned. “Baby boy, please stop squirming. Unless you want my gun to start shooting blanks all over the place. And by gun, I mean—”
“Shut up!”
“What!? How would you feel if I shimmied all over your spandex parts? I bet you’d release your webbing all on my—”
“Shutupshutupshutup!” Spider-Man thrashed again, shoving an elbow into Deadpool’s gut.
Deadpool grunted. “B-T-W, yelling is also one of my kinks.”
“You’re disgusting,” Spider-Man decided. He shook his head as much as he could with the restricted movement. “Like, seriously. You know they make self-help books now? I'll even loan you my library card.”
Deadpool scoffed, feeling a rare flicker of annoyance at the vigilante. “And I have a great self-help book for that ridiculous paradoxical self-hating superiority complex you have.”
“Yeah? Well you can shove that book right up your—”
“I suggest starting with the anger chapter!”
BANG!
Deadpool felt a rush of wind as a bullet whizzed by their heads. “Would you two shut the hell up!?” bellowed a deep voice that had almost certainly been victimized by one too many cigarettes.
Deadpool glared at the goon that stood beneath the net trap with a large military style weapon in hand. “We’re having a moment here, Captain Camel! Go take a smoke break!” Then he stage-whispered to Spider-Man, “Total homophobe, that guy.”
Spider-Man scoffed. “Deadpool, stop. Where are we? Why did you bring me here?”
The twinge of annoyance flared again. “Ugh. It’s always ‘Why are you putting me in mortal peril?’ with you, and never ‘How are you doing, hot stuff?’ or even, ‘Is that a new suit material? You’re looking extra yoked today.' Just something nice for once, I dunno.”
“Please remember for the rest of your miserable eternal life how much I freaking hate you.” Spider-Man grit. Then he paused, head tilted. “Wait—what happened to the leather?”
Deadpool tried to shrug. His arm was pressed too tightly against his side. “I realized the Dominatrix vibe just wasn’t for me—too many whips and chains, not enough guns and grenades. I only roll in kevlar now. I found Daredevil’s suit guy.”
Spider-Man hummed. His tone had shifted from homicidal rage to thinly concealed exasperation, which Deadpool took as a win. “Oh? How is the Devil?" Spider-Man asked. "Actually, wait, don’t answer that. I’m still mad at you—”
“Enough!” The goon below them growled. “For years, I have been building my underground army of misfits and rejects—”
“Uh-uh!” Deadpool interrupted, “Can we, like, put a rain check on the villain monologuing? I haven’t even told Spidey my brilliant master plan yet!”
The goon scratched his head, face scrunched, but remained silent.
“You?” Spider-Man snorted. “You have a plan?”
{Hater!}
Deadpool gasped. “Hey! Don’t make me channel my inner Abby Lee Miller. You WILL be at the bottom of the pyramid next week. Right next to Bounty Hunter Wolverine and that bitch with a bob who messed up my Starbucks order this morning.”
The vigilante sighed. “Deadpool—”.
Deadpool clicked his tongue. “Anyways, I came to you so we could work together! My plan is for you to make all the plans.”
Spider-Man took a deep, measured breath, like he was one more sentence away from strangling the man with his bare hands. The brief respite from homicidal rage was over. “I thought I made it clear that I want nothing to do with you. You’re unhinged. You can’t be trusted. Our last mission with the Avengers—”
“Okay! Okay! I get it. My therapist—and maybe everyone I’ve put in the hospital—has told me that I don’t really have a good grasp on this ‘moral compass’ thing. That’s why I need you to teach me! I want to be a good guy now! And you’re like, the bestest good guy, so you’re most fit for the job!” He hoped the vigilante didn’t have some freaky ability to sense half truths. What he really wanted was Spider-Man back in his life, and pretending to aspire to his level of moral accountability was a means to an end. He knew that wouldn’t sit well with the vigilante, though, because he was frustratingly genuine in his pursuit of justice even if the outcome of saving people was all the same.
Spider-Man thrashed side to side. “No way! I need out of this thing so I can never see you again.”
Deadpool moaned at the movement. “Alright, that’s it. I need to get out of here.” He put pressure on his arm, dragging it further from his side. “Stop it. I’m gonna—I’m gonna—”
“Wait! Dude, ew, not right now—” Spider-Man frantically shifted away.
CRACK!
A noise akin to an elephant sitting on a bag of tortilla chips cut through the air as Deadpool bent his arm at an angle that a contortionist would gawk at. He grunted as he retrieved his knife from his back holster, swiping at the netting to slice a large enough hole for the two of them to fall through. Gunfire started raining towards them from all angles, revealing a gaggle of cronies that had been in hiding.
“Jesus, ‘Pool!” Spider-Man yelped. He twisted mid-air, landing silently with his hands between his legs.
Deadpool landed face first, adding another crunch to cacophony. “You’re welcome,” he said, voice muffled by the concrete.
Spider-Man grabbed Deadpool’s shoulder with an iron grip, yanking him into a standing position. “Come on, you Canadian idiot.” He ushered them through the warehouse, shooting webs into the faces of gunmen as they passed. He briefly let go of Deadpool’s shoulder to backflip off a wall, incapacitating three men in one sweeping kick as he twisted down.
Deadpool reached for his katana with his good arm, a smile lighting up his face, but Spider-Man stopped him with a sharp look. “Seriously, dude? Not now.”
Deadpool holstered his weapon with a huff. “My bad. I forgot you’re allergic to fun!”
Spider-Man shot a web towards Deadpool’s face but the mercenary swiftly dodged it with a side step. He heard a grunt behind him and turned around just in time to see a goon hit the ground from a web to the head, gun aimed at Deadpool still. Spider-Man shot a second web to clog the barrel, striking it with impeccable precision. Deadpool had thought he had been aiming at him out of anger, but the vigilante had evidently anticipated his flinch.
“Murder is never fun, Deadpool.” Spider-Man stood rigid, hand nonetheless still aimed towards Deadpool’s face.
{Hot.}
[Spidey seems dangerous.]
{Doesn't he always? That’s part of his angsty charm.}
[Or he just really hates us for what we did…]
Deadpool chuckled but his tone came out cold as stone. All the previous lightheartedness he had felt was gone, replaced with a bitter churning in his stomach. “You sure you want to have this argument right now?”
Spider-Man kept his hand in a position ready to fire, trembling almost imperceptibly. “You’re the one that came back after I told you I want nothing to do with you.”
Deadpool stepped forward so that he towered over the vigilante. He seemed to have shrunken down since they last met, body dwarfed entirely by Deadpool’s shadow. Still, Deadpool knew the man could take him down easily if he wanted. He was willing to take the risk.
“I already apologized,” Deadpool said, voice low. “I’m not asking you to accept it, but I’m telling you that what happened two years ago won’t happen again. No one innocent is going to get hurt.” The sickening twist of frustration and resentment came to a crescendo in his chest until all he was left with was an emptiness that felt an awful lot like longing. Like the flip of a switch, he stepped back and popped a three finger salute. “Scout’s honor! I’ll even let you eat my cookie. OOH- or, I can show you how to tie a knot. Yeah, slip knots are my specialty since I’m an easy-way-out type of guy, but we can Bing which ones the kids are hip to these days.”
Spider-Man clenched his fist. The metal of the web shooter creaked under the pressure. Then he deflated like a balloon, arm falling to his side. “I really can’t stand you.”
[...]
{No comment.}
[Enough with the lover’s quarrel. I think we’re forgetting something.]
Deadpool perked up. “Oh, shoot! I forgot about the children!”
“The chil—Deadpool, what the hell?”
Deadpool took off in a sprint and Spider-Man followed, hot on his heels. The mercenary flung open a metal door and they raced down a dimly lit stairwell. As they turned the corner, they encountered another armed man in the landing. Deadpool swiftly neutralized the threat with a well-aimed kick to the man’s chest.
After three sets of stairs, they stumbled into a cool, damp basement. Yellow, flickering fluorescent lights lined the ceiling. The far wall housed a series of holding cells made of rusted metal bars for containment and straw lined flooring. Each cell had one cot each. They were all empty, doors wide open as if thrown open in haste.
“Dang it!” Deadpool stomped. “Someone else saved them first.” He grabbed his belt, looking down wistfully. “Stupid teleporter. It was in the shop for like a week so we’re a little late.”
Spider-Man was panting, hands on his knees. He looked up with his head tilted. “Huh? Didn’t you say we’re in New Jersey?”
“Yeah, so?”
“Dude! Ever heard of this thing called a cab!?”
Deadpool scratched his head. “But then where would I put all the kids?”
Spider-Man stood up fully. Aghast, he exclaimed, “You call the cops! You don’t just—take them home!” He pinched the bridge of his nose and let out a deep breath. “Whatever. I’m over this. Let’s bounce.” He looked around briefly before he yanked open a hefty metal door with a slit for a window, revealing a steep staircase attached to the exterior.
“You can bounce on my—” A web hit Deadpool’s mask, right where his mouth sat beneath. “Okay, yeah, I deserved that.”
He expected Spider-Man to shoot a web into the air and launch into the night like the show off he remembered him to be, but the vigilante began a slow ascent up the concrete stairs.
[Weird.]
{Aww, I wanted to see his sexy mid-air acrobatics.}
Deadpool hurried after him. “In the mood for a late night stroll, are we?”
Spider-Man huffed. “Not now, Deadpool.” He took too short of a step, kicking the concrete and stumbling forward.
Deadpool grabbed the vigilante’s upper arm to steady him. His fingers clamped around it entirely. “What’s wrong? Out of webs? Pulled a hammy? Sudden fear of heights? Come on. You’re setting off my Deadpooley senses.”
Spider-Man tried to pull away. “Stop. That’s my thing.”
The vigilante trembled under his grasp. Deadpool tightened his hold. “Webs.”
Spider-Man looked forward as if he hadn’t heard him. Deadpool pulled on his arm so that they faced each other, the vigilante complying with surprising ease. Deadpool frowned. “Okay, seriously, what hurts? Is this some sort of zombie movie moment where you’ve been infected all along but have been hiding it for some plot hole ridden reason? Because I don’t even know if I can be a zombie or if I’m immune and I don’t want to test it. Tonight. Definitely later though once I get done with my evening wank. I can’t risk my schlong necrotizing off halfway through. That would be such a boner killer, you know?”
His eyes scanned over the vigilante’s suited body for any sign of injury as he rambled. The man looked relatively unscathed besides a small cut on his arm, which exposed pale flesh riddled with goosebumps. His suit looked somewhat ill-fitting, baggy in some places and all sharp angles in others, but did not sport any blood, holes, or broken limbs. Deadpool loosened his grip.
Spider-Man slumped forward with the lack of support.
“Spidey?” The nickname slipped off Deadpool’s tongue as he stepped closer, prepared to sweep the man off his feet bridal style.
“Sorry,” Spider-Man cleared his throat. “I just—You kidnapped me right before dinner and then I had to save your ass, so…” He gestured vaguely to his stomach.
Deadpool remembered how the vigilante had an enhanced metabolism, revealed once in confidence years ago. “Why didn’t you just say so? Come on, I’ll buy you tacos! I can smell the Mexican in the air. I’m like a bloodhound when it comes to those sultry spices, but with more blood and less hound.”
[And tacos are our favorite, according to the fanfic community.]
{Meh, pretty sure our real favorite food is chimichangas.}
Spider-Man shook his head. He tried to pull away again, but Deadpool didn’t let go. “Stop. S’fine. Leave me alone.”
Deadpool clicked his tongue. He could feel the trembling under his fingers still. He knew what it was like to have low blood sugar, having something of an enhanced metabolism himself. “Mm-mm, no lying. Your rules. Or was that Captain America’s thing? Well, whatever, you fuddy-duddies all follow the same prissy moral code.”
Spider-Man shrugged. He looked to the ground, his normally stick-straight posture curving inwards.
[Usually Spidey has a clever comeback when we say something patronizing.]
{I don’t think I like him without his quips.}
Deadpool patted his spandexed head. “Now sit your perky butt down and Daddy Deadpool will come bearing nourishment.” He pushed on the vigilante’s shoulders until the man complied. It took less effort than he anticipated. Spider-Man went down with a thump, back flopping against the metal balusters.
Deadpool booked it up the rest of the stairs. The warehouse happened to be located around the corner from a dingy bar, drunken patrons ambling about outside. A small line formed at the window of a rusted red food truck parked on the curb of the establishment. The heavenly smell of hot kitchen oil and queso wafted out, and Deadpool gravitated towards it like a moth to flame. He pulled out Bea, the sharp metal glinting in the blue and purplish-pink neon lights of the bar’s fascia sign. The line dispersed with haste at the sight of the weapon.
“Hola, padre,” Deadpool greeted the food truck worker, “quiero uno de todo.” He pointed at the taco shells with the tip of his katana.
The man worked quickly. Soon Deadpool was bounding down the warehouse stairs, merrily swinging the plastic bag full of food.
Spider-Man rested against the balusters still, arms wrapped around his knees.
[Wow, he actually stayed.]
{I’m surprised he didn’t run away when he had the chance.}
[It’s hard to say no to free food.]
“So,” Deadpool dropped down next to Spider-Man with unadulterated glee, “I got beef, chicken, and vegetarian. I couldn’t remember your favorite so I got them all.”
[His favorite is chicken. He told us once.]
{How could you forget? Too many holes in the brain?}
“Thanks,” Spider-Man grumbled. He looked into Deadpool’s masked eyes through the lenses of his own suit. For the second time that night, the two were close enough that Deadpool could feel the vigilante’s warm puffs of air on his face.
{Now kith.}
Deadpool looked away quickly, licking his lips. He dug in the bag for a taco. “Psssh. No big. Can’t have the Friendly Neighborhood Spider-Man fainting like a spider in distress on my watch. Although, I would totally love to nurse you back to health. I already have the costume just begging to be worn.” He handed a chicken taco to the vigilante.
Spider-Man waved his free hand dismissively. “I wasn’t going to pass out.”
Deadpool snorted. “Yeah, and I’m not the world’s sexiest merc in kevlar.” He paused from digging through the bag to lean in conspiratorially. “Spoiler alert: I totally am.”
The vigilante shoved him away. “I think you’re the only merc in kevlar.”
“Still the sexiest!”
Spider-Man conceded. “Yeah, you got me there.”
Deadpool gasped, pressing the palms of his hands to his cheeks. Before he could shout, however, Spider-Man cut him off, “On a technicality!”
The mercenary flopped against the concrete steps. He sighed dreamily. “Spidey thinks I’m sexy.”
Spider-Man shook his head. “I think you’re annoying."
{Told you so.}
Deadpool’s chest clenched. He straightened up to unwrap a taco of his own. He took a bite so large that the remainder crumbled in his hands, pieces falling down his chest and onto the ground.
Spider-Man still hadn’t unwrapped his.
“Did I give you the wrong one? White insisted you like chicken. No, wait. Don’t tell me you’re a taco hater now,” Deadpool mumbled around the food in his mouth.
Spider-Man stared at him. “No, I just…” Then he looked down at the taco, shrugging weakly.
Deadpool gulped down the remainder of his bite, unchewed pieces of hard shell scratching his throat. “I know I’m a mass murderer and all, but I think you’ve got me beat in villain-points if you seriously don’t like tacos anymore.”
Spider-Man groaned. He set the taco on his lap and buried his face in his hands, voice muffled by the spandex of his gloves. “Okay, fine. Screw it. I earned it for putting up with this today. God, I need therapy.”
Deadpool patted the vigilante on the back. “Sure, yeah, that's the spirit. You can even have two tacos, if you want. Carpe diem, and all that jazz.”
Spider-Man looked up and choked out a laugh. It sounded wet. “Right.” He finally lifted the bottom of his mask to rest on his nose, revealing swollen, cherry lips. They were cracked down the middle, chewed on a bit too often. The vigilante's pallor skin had a porcelain quality, unblemished besides patches of natural pink blush reaching down his cheeks, and his jawline had a sharpness that rivaled Bea and Arthur’s refined edges.
[He’s beautiful…]
{He’s a twink.}
Deadpool turned his attention to his lap, picking at the loose pieces of shell. He hadn’t seen any part of the man’s face in eons and the sight felt both so familiar and so foreign. Last time they had eaten together, the vigilante had a sun kissed tan and cheeks plump with youth. Deadpool felt nauseous at the stark reminder that while he himself would never die, time marched on mercilessly for others. He could never make up the two years they spent apart—the two years it took him to get his head out of his ass and acknowledge that his feelings for the vigilante were bigger than his pride.
They sat together in silence. Spider-Man ate with an agonizing slowness—he picked out certain pieces of the taco innards with a deliberation Deadpool couldn’t decipher. It first looked as though he weeded out particularly saucy chunks, but then he targeted a chunk of cheese that had no sauce at all. This, too, made Deadpool’s chest clench with a crush of devastating nostalgia. Spider-Man had always been eager when Deadpool brought him food before their falling out—demolishing the offerings with an appetite that rivaled his own. But in that moment, Spider-Man poked at his taco as if it may be poisoned. As if Deadpool could not be trusted even insofar as to provide a safe meal.
The sun peeked over the skyline by the time they finished. Spider-Man pulled himself up, supporting his weight along the railing. He lifted an arm to aim a web at the nearest building.
“Hey Spidey?” Deadpool called, before the vigilante could take off.
Spider-Man turned, head tilted. “Yeah?”
A burning part of Deadpool needed to know if they had any hope of salvaging the camaraderie they had once shared, or if all his efforts would be in vain. He briefly considered going for a hug, or grabbing Spider-Man’s hand, or sweeping him into his arms. He could tell that the vigilante wouldn’t be receptive to any of that though, his anger still evident in his stilted body language and less than enthusiastic words. Instead, Deadpool pulled a busted up figurine of the two of them holding hands out of his fanny pack. The mini Spider-Man had a missing arm. “I want you to have this.”
Spider-Man took it hesitantly. “Seriously?” He turned it around and back, inspecting it.
“It’s from Walmart… World’s finest.” He flicked the miniature Deadpool head.
The vigilante huffed. “Wow, a family heirloom. I’m honored.” He pulled open his suit at the waist.
{No way...}
Deadpool squealed. “Baby boy, are you putting that in your pants!? I always wanted to get into your drawers but not like this.”
"Er… I don’t have any pockets.” Spider-Man rubbed the back of his neck. Of all the things that had changed, his awkwardness was not one of them. He tucked the figurine into his waistband hastily and then he was off, disappearing into the light of the rising sun in a blur of blue and red.
[Oh, how we’ve missed his nerdish charm.]