hunger

And, well, Peter wiggles away again. And again. And again. He and Deadpool haven’t even been friends for that long, there'd be no reason for any sane person to be so invested in Peter’s dietary habits, but unfortunately, Deadpool is not entirely sane. 

At this point, he’s actively avoiding Deadpool. He takes the bus to the furthest edges of his patrolling area, swinging in awkward patterns to try to keep the merc off his trail. Obviously, it won’t work, but he’s not insistent enough to actually track down Peter’s home yet. Peter is still anxiously anticipating a disoriented awakening at a taco shack. 

They do end up running into each other every now and then, though. Tonight, Peter’s trying to catch his breath in an alleyway while listening in on the interaction between the police and the criminal he just webbed up. Peter makes a point to ignore the pain in his lower ribs as he listens to the criminal's complaints, muffled against the webbing over their mouths.

“Fancy seeing you here,” says a familiar voice from behind him. Peter slides a hand over his mask, suppressing a groan. 

“What do you want from me now, Deadpool?” 

“Well, since you’ve asked, I think a lap dance—”

Peter spins around, about to retaliate with some sort of cutting remark that his foggy brain is yet to come up with, when he notices that Deadpool’s voice is coming from his severed, unmasked head, resting on top of a dumpster. So, instead of a clever remark, Peter just says:

“You don’t even have a lap, you idiot.” 

“Most people don’t react that way when they see a speaking severed head.” Deadpool mutters, rolling his eyes. “Pretty sure my lap is in the dumpster. You might want to get my mask on first though, unless you wanna vom all over the place.”

Peter sighs, but dutifully walks over to Deadpool’s head, cradling it in one arm as he flips the dumpster open to start looking for bits o’ merc. He finds the mask strewn across an arm, both surrounded by stinking bags of trash and flattened cardboard boxes.

“I’m only giving this to you first because I know you want it.” Peter clarifies, reaching in to pick up the mask. “You really don’t look as bad as you think.” 

“Yeah, sure bud.”

Deadpool doesn’t look like he believes him. Peter just huffs, putting the mask down on the floor before placing Deadpool’s head on top of it to try to keep debris out of the bloody stump of his neck, then turning to rummage around the dumpster again. 

“Do I even want to know?” He asks, pulling out a mutilated leg and an arm. His younger self would already be puking his guts out, but Peter has grown less and less squeamish over the years. Plus, it’s not like there’s much in his guts to puke out anyways now. 

“It’s actually a very interesting story, so I was about to take a hit on this one guy, leader of some sorta–”

“Nope! Don’t want to know!” Peter waves his hand in the general direction of Deadpool’s head. “I need my plausible deniability, man.” He turns around with two legs thrown over his shoulder, and two arms balanced in the crook of his elbow. “Where the hell is your torso?” 

Deadpool shrugs, somehow, despite his lack of shoulders. “If it’s not in there, it might be a couple blocks over. You can just duct tape what’s left of me together though, everything will grow back to its usual size just fine, if you know what I mean.” His hairless brow wiggles. Peter shakes his head in disappointment. 

“Where should I drop you off?” He asks. 

“You could leave me in the alleyway.” Deadpool suggests. 

“That feels a bit mean.” 

“What happened to deniability? How are you gonna have that if you know where I live?” 

 “I never said it had to be your address.” Peter emphasizes. “Any friends, family, coworkers?”

Deadpool doesn’t say anything, for once. Peter feels a stab of sympathy. Me neither, man. 

“Well, I do have this… coworker.” Deadpool says. “You can drop me off at his place.”

Peter nods, scooping up Deadpool’s head in the mask and holding it upside down. 

“Anything I should know about this ‘coworker’?” Peter asks. 

“His name is Wade. Wade Wilson. He’s a big fan of Spider-Man. Maybe you could stay for dinner?” 

Peter’s stomach clenches painfully at the thought. He’ll regret passing up this chance to get to know Deadpool, or rather, ‘Wade’, better, he knows he will, but still…

“Maybe some other day.”

"Are you seriously separating the cardboard from the trash and recycling it?!"

"...yeah?"

"I'm a bleeding stump of a head, and you're recycling."

"Hey, it's important! Go green, you know?"

"Only you, Spiderboy."

"Spider-Man."

"Same diff."

Peter resists the urge to whistle when he slides Wade’s window open. The apartment isn’t the cleanest, but it’s sizable, for New York. The kitchen appears fully stocked, with a bar separating it from the living room. There’s a large flatscreen TV taking up most of the wall on the far right. There’s a door right across the apartment from the window Peter’s currently climbing through. Next to it, there’s a short hallway. If Peter cranes his head, he can see the two doors inside it. Both are ajar, one showing bathroom tiles, the other a sliver of a bedroom. As Peter suspected, there is only one bedroom. Wade lives alone.

“Nice place.” He comments, lowering himself onto the windowsill. 

“Thanks,” says the severed head webbed to his back, peeking out from the duct-taped mass of limbs. “Most people have more things to say about the hello-kitty rug and pink knife set though.”

“Well, ‘Wade’ has an interesting taste. Can’t say I dislike it.”

“Uh, yeah, about that, ‘Wade’ is actually—”

“Plausible deniability!”

Wade Deadpool shuts up at that, and Peter quietly pads through the apartment, pausing in the middle. 

“Where should I put you?” 

“The couch is fine. I can get the bloodstains out later, it’s seen worse.” 

Peter hums and walks over to the living room, taking out a generous amount of web-dissolver and pouring it over the mass on his back. Deadpool slowly slides off, landing on the couch.

“What is this, lube?”

“It’s web dissolver, you perv.” Peter deadpans. “It’s water soluble, it shouldn’t stain anything. Do you need anything else before I go? Painkillers?”

“This is well past the point of painkillers, baby boy.” Deadpool laughs. “If you’re offering though, I wasn’t kidding about sticking around for dinner. Get it? Sticking?” 

“Yeah, yeah.” Peter huffs. He caps the dissolver and stuffs it into a compartment under his web shooters. “I’ve gotta get back home though. Got homework to do.” As if on cue, his stomach interrupts with a howl, burning his chest. Peter resists the urge to double over. He can feel Deadpool’s uneasy stare through the mask. 

“You sure about that, Spidey?”

“Yep! Totally sure. It’s, um… I just, I got food poisoning, you know, so it wouldn’t be the best idea, and I really do have homework to do, and I gotta get that sleep in! So, uh, yeah. Bye.” Peter awkwardly waves. “I’ll check in on you tomorrow, okay?” He dashes over to the window and quickly scrambles through it, darting up the wall before launching himself across the street. He hears Deadpool’s uncertain ‘okay!’ from the next building over.

Peter does end up coming by the next day, right after his shift at work ends, in costume. He finds Deadpool to be mostly put-together, wearing a tank top and short-shorts that ‘literally took forever to get on, Spidey, you have no idea’. His torso is unusually small, but all the superficial injuries have healed up, and his limbs are more-or-less attached to his body. They do kind of flop around, though. 

“Don’t worry about it baby boy, I’ll be a-okay in a few more hours.” He laughs. “It would go by faster if I could get some food in me though.”

Peter nods doubtfully, feeling like this is some sort of trap. He can’t leave Deadpool without any food while knowing it would help him heal, and Deadpool knows that. 

“I mean, sure, but why didn’t you mention that earlier?” He asks. 

“Well, you seemed pretty strongly opposed to it.”

“Opposed to eating, ‘Pool. It’s a vulnerable position to be in when you’re a vigilante trying to keep a secret identity, and you haven’t been giving me the option of takeout like you used to.”

“Well why didn’t you say so!” Poorly-hidden relief colors his voice. “My— er, Wade’s place is perfectly safe and secure, I’ve triple-checked it myself. No one’s gonna break in and photograph that precious face on my watch.” 

Peter weighs his options. He could keep turning down Deadpool, raising suspicion, or he could take a break from his diet and make up for it in the coming weeks. He’s just so hungry. 

“Okay.” He takes a deep breath. “Okay, sure, I’ll make us something to eat.” Peter gets up from his place on the couch, making his way over to the kitchen. He finds himself surrounded with a wholly unfamiliar sight. A well stocked kitchen, complete with a full-size oven and a dishwasher. Every cabinet he opens is practically overflowing with food; he counts ten different types of pasta, cans and cans of soups and beans, jellies and jams, multiple containers of nuts, dried fruits, potato chips, tortilla chips, cereal, oatmeal, and so many ingredients. One cabinet seems to primarily consist of different types of flour, another of sugars, sweeteners, and leavenings. Fresh fruit is scattered on bowls on the counter and in the fridge. Several types of meat are found in the fridge and the freezer, as well as broccoli, corn, iceberg lettuce…

Peter’s stomach howls again. He swallows thickly, embarrassed about how much he’d been salivating, and starts to pick out what he thinks he’ll need to make a solid dinner. He feels wholly out of his element. 

“I was expecting more junk food.” He jokes, looking around for the pots drawer. 

“I love it, but it doesn’t keep well.” The voice comes from a lot closer than the couch Deadpool was supposed to be on. Peter turns around, almost jumping at the sight of him sitting at the counter. “Trust me, I’d be living a lot more unhealthy if McDonald’s still tasted good reheated.” 

Peter laughs, carrying a pot over to the sink. He sets it on the stove once it’s full, then looks around for tomato sauce. 

How do you make tomato sauce again? He finds himself wondering. He pulls a can of tomato paste from the pantry. His pause is enough to give away his confusion. 

“You have no idea what you’re doing baby boy, do you?” Deadpool says. Peter is grateful for the mask covering his reddening face. 

“I’m a college student, it’s been a while.” He mutters. “Is this not tomato sauce?”

Deadpool sighs. “Hopeless, I tell you, hopeless. You know what, how about we switch places? I’ll cook, you watch.”

“I thought you could barely control your limbs?”

“I got better.” He shrugs. “Go, sit down. We’ll be eating good in no time.” 

It was a trap, Peter realizes as he takes Deadpool’s seat at the bar. He feels too guilty to leave now. He’s staying for dinner. 

Deadpool’s right, it takes no time at all for the kitchen to fill with the smell of pasta and tomato sauce. Peter watches with amusement when the pink knife set makes its debut, chopping through parsley and sausage with ease as Deadpool chatters away about this and that, arguing with his boxes about pointless things. Peter grows restless, going over all the technicalities regarding this dinner. He’ll have to eat, he’ll have to remove his mask, Deadpool will have to see his face. He can’t stop second-guessing himself as anxiety slowly takes the place of his hunger. 

Deadpool is none the wiser, straining the pasta with a pensive silence, probably listening to one of his boxes. 

As though the universe heard his anxious prayers, there’s a shout in the distance. It’s loud enough to make Deadpool pause, and Peter watches his shoulders slump. 

“You can’t put that off, can you?” 

Peter shakes his head. “Sorry, man.”

“And you won’t be coming back tonight, will you?”

“Sorry.”

“It’s fine.” Deadpool doesn’t sound like it’s totally fine with him. “Please drop by once you’re done with patrol, at least? You don’t have to stay, just pick up the Tupperware I’ll leave for you on the windowsill.”

“Okay.” Peter nods. “See you around, ‘Pool.” 

He opens the window, carefully sliding out and sticking to the side of the wall as he adjusts his web shooters. He can hear Deadpool sigh as he swings away.