Telling the future is not one of Wade’s mutant powers. That’s Scarlet Witch and Dr. Strange. At least, he thinks Scarlet Witch tells the future. Or is it just that she sees probabilities? Well, never mind. The point is, Wade had no idea that hanging out with Peter Parker masks-off was leading to anything but more movies and more pizza.
It had been five weeks since Peter insisted in getting together once a week and watching TV and ordering a pizza. Wade had mixed feelings. If he could have gotten a better read on Peter, or been less of a coward and actually asked point-plank what kind of a relationship Peter was fishing for, he would have felt like he was on steadier ground. On the one hand, the space between them on the sofa, usually filled by a pizza box, seemed straightforward. On the other hand, Peter kept veering into his personal space, either right after moving the pizza box to the fridge or during the movie or TV show, right over the top of the damned box between them. It was driving Wade crazy. Well, crazier. Refusing to sit right next to him seemed to say, Eww, don’t touch me, and leaning over into his personal space seemed to say, Touch me, you big, manly man. I want some cuddles. Don’t you want to touch sweet l’il old me?
Usually Peter induced calmness inside of Wade. But this back and forth behavior was prime fodder for the voices who loved to bicker about everything in Wade’s life: Yellow and White. They seemed to pick opposite sides most of the time just to make it harder for him to think. Once upon a time, he was sure they’d started out as his imaginary friends because he’d had no friends. He couldn’t remember such idyllic times clearly. In his early adult life, Yellow and White had looked out for him – kept him alert to his surroundings, told him when there was going to be trouble, warned him if there was danger. His own less impressive spidey-senses. His partners in crime (literally). These days Yellow and White felt more like bullies. Or little old ladies gossiping incessantly. Wade hated it. And until now Peter had gotten them to be silent.
Yellow was an insecure horndog about this situation with Peter and the couch, which was the worst combination Wade could think of. Insecure, yet eternally hopeful. And making jokes at all the wrong moments, unlike Wade’s excellent comedic timing.
White was a bleak voice of misanthropy, depression, and malevolent cynicism. He was worse than Tony Stark. Wade wanted to grab White by the throat and punch him. Too bad that White didn’t seem to have a body – and that his thoughts seemed to be a separate being intruding on his life from inside him somehow. Thus the imaginary friend theory.
In the comics, Yellow and White cluttered everything up with extra special boxes in the narration, color-coded, you guessed it, yellow and white. In a fanfic it was going to be even worse in some ways. Wade was sure of it. There was no good way to depict two rival voices constantly hounding him and commenting on his life.
To say Wade was desperate for Peter to not know about Yellow and White was an understatement. He usually had the most luck getting them to go away if he responded to them verbally, but like hell he would in front of the man he had a crush on. So he had to grin and bear it and not react when they started in on him and Peter and the situation in general.
After a small job and a disappointed Weasel whining about taking his messages and what is Weasel supposed to say in response to one prospective client who keeps calling back about needing some rival drug runners in Japan murdered, Wade returns home. “It’s Friday night!” Wade announces, throwing open his closet and looking at his civvies. He looks over his shoulder, where he typically imagines Yellow and White are. “You know what that means.”
It means a hot date with my boyfriend, Yellow says.
It means a disappointing time on the couch with a pizza box blocking us from touching someone. A time-out in the Friend Zone, White says.
“Tch. No. Neither. It means a fun and rewarding hangout with my favorite part-time Spider.” Wade turns back to his closet and picks out a Care Bears t-shirt, vintage graphics, of course, and khaki cargo pants. Pants that neither say ‘I am expecting trouble’ nor say ‘I am expecting sex’. He pairs that up with a light navy blue hoodie and a baseball cap for an imaginary baseball team – or, you know, a Canadian one. Same difference to most people. Black leather gloves, white athletic socks, and his favorite broken-in-but-not-trash sneakers complete the look. “And I consider it particularly cruel to tease me about my crush on Spider-Man. Spider-Pete. Somebody. Both of them? There’s only one of him, but he seems to split his life down the middle.”
Maybe there’s more than one him like there’s more than one of us, Yellow says excitedly. Multi-pals!
It’s just work-life balance, White says. Not that you would know anything about that. Also, don’t get your hopes up that this will last. Peter Parker is going to get tired of you, and so is Spider-Man. This is a pit stop on the road of life. Don’t get comfy.
“Shut up,” Wade says as he gets dressed. “And stay out of the way. I want to enjoy my movie and a pizza.”
You’d stay even if all you get is a movie and a pizza? Simp, Yellow says.
“Fuck off.”
He can block them out. It takes extra effort and makes him all tired, but he can. And it’s worth it to have some peace and quiet with Pete. That’s exactly what he does. On the way over, walking it because he needs to get out the extra nervous energy, Wade works on blocking them, hammering boards up between him and them one plank at a time.
You don’t need to do this, Yellow says.
You need us, White says.
“Bullshit. Goodbye, motherfuckers. At least until Peter and I are done for the evening.”
Then Wade breathes a big, old sigh of relief as his mind goes blessedly silent and he’s alone in it. Was it too much to ask for some peace and quiet? Jeez. He is all alone in his head and thinking, Oh, there is no way Peter Parker or Spider-Man is ever going to find out about this.
Halfway there, he gets a text, and the notification sound is Peter’s.
Hey. DoorDash isn’t working on my phone. Will you try? All proper grammar, spelling, and everything! How cute.
Wade sighs with happiness and texts back: np (winky emoji) Then he opens DoorDash on his phone, pushes some buttons, discovers it keeps freezing for him too, texts Peter that, and then: np (ok hand) (nodding emoji) (pizza emoji) (store emoji) He tucks his phone away in his pocket, picks up a large pie in person, their usual toppings, and heads over to Peter’s apartment. He knocks on the door and waves and smiles at the peephole. Peter told him before he installed a webcam peephole with an app on his phone to security check it at all times when someone’s at the door.
Peter lets him in. “Great! Thanks. Sorry about that.”
“Meh,” Wade dismisses.
Pete shuts the door behind them and they crash on the couch and watch a generic-ass action movie through Amazon Prime, chowing down on pizza and commenting on what they would do differently if the situation were happening to them. It’s a great friend-date. Wade doesn’t want anything to happen to these friend-dates. He doesn’t want to move them ‘forward’ like Yellow towards sex and he doesn’t want to move them ‘backward’ like White towards a ‘goodbye have a nice life,’ friend-dumping Peter before Peter can friend-dump him.
It’s true, though, that Peter keeps leaning into his space a lot. What does it mean? Neither White or Yellow answers him. That’s almost too good to be true. He gets to think about it himself. Peter touching his arm with one hand briefly, laughing, not shoving, just touching, suggests Peter is physically comfortable with him. And he wants Peter to be physically comfortable with him. Friends let down their guards around each other, right? That’s something friends do. He’s sure of it.
After the movie, pizza box in fridge, Wade and Peter are still hanging out. Peter seems reluctant to be alone – and Wade is nervous about Yellow and White showing back up, but he’s not going to leave Peter while Peter is sending all these unspoken messages that he wants Wade to stay. They play some Xbox. They talk about comic books. Peter is yawning more and more, but he’s resolutely refusing to ask Wade to leave.
Finally, Peter mutters, “Will you stay here tonight?”
“Sure, baby boy.”
Peter glares at him. “On second thought, never mind.”
“No – wait – I’m sorry – Shit. It just slipped out! I’m an asshole, remember?”
Peter sighs. “Fine. But imply I’m a baby again and I’m punching you.”
“I won’t even dodge,” Wade promises. Phew. I thought he was going to bitch me out for calling him ‘baby,’ not calling him a baby. That’s totally different. “What’s got you spooked? Spidey-senses expecting trouble?”
Peter shakes his head, then pauses. “Well – a little bit. But mostly it’s – you know, never mind, you can go home.” His shoulders slump.
“No,” Wade protests. He knows he’s on the verge of being thrown out. He scans Peter’s face and bod language for any clues for what this is about. “You don’t have to talk about it. Just let me stay. I’ll crash on the couch. It’s not even that uncomfortable. And what do I care about uncomfortable? I’ve got my arms and legs and no bullet holes or stab wounds.”
“That’s such a shitty litmus test,” Peter mutters.
“Maybe, but it’s all I got.”
Peter sighs. A big, long sigh. His shoulders fold and he seems so disappointed. Wade assumes Peter’s disappointed in him and his lack of caring about his own body. But then Peter’s head bows, and he wraps his arms around himself, and Wade picks up on the shame and the fear coming off of his friend. “It used to be me and Aunt May, and no matter how stupid it is, having her down the hall from me always made me feel better. Now there’s nobody.”
Ouch. That’s like knifing Wade in the chest with a dull blade. “Oh, I know all about ‘alone,’” he says darkly. “I’ve done ‘alone’.” Anger and despair and darker things stir in his consciousness. Then he thinks about him and Peter, here, the movie, the pizza, and patrols, and light flickers on inside him and smothers the dark things. “But you don’t have to do that anymore,” he whispers. “Anytime you want me over here, I’m over here. Okay?”
Peter lifts his head, and the hope comes on and lights his face from the inside out. For a moment, he looks like he wants to hug Wade. Then he turns away, stares at a Halo poster pinned to the wall, and nods, rubbing the back of his neck and filtering his fingers through his hair. Long, beautiful fingers through thick, dark brown hair that looks so soft…
Wade forcibly snaps himself out of it by reminding himself what his face looks like in the mirror. Yeah. There’s no way he’s into you. So fuck off. A very White-themed sentiment, but White and Yellow are still pounding on the boards from the wrong side of his brain, and he can’t hear them yet.
“Okay,” Peter says quietly. “Thanks.”
“What’re friends for?” Wade said self-deprecatingly.
Simp, he hears from behind him, far away. Yellow. Damn it.
Peter turns and smiles at him. “You are a good friend. No matter what anyone else thinks.”
White and Yellow are silent.
Spidey says I am a good friend! Wade squees to himself. Oh, he is so doodling about this later.
“Wanna watch another movie before passing out in bed and drooling all over yourself?” Wade asks brightly.
I’d drool all over you, Yellow says. Thank God Peter can’t hear that.
Peter chuckles. “Sure. You pick this time.”
“I did pick the last movie.”
“No, I picked it and you said it was okay.”
“Whatever.”
They flop down on the couch with a teeny weeny little bit less space between them than usual and watch Rocky Horror Picture Show. Wade rents it from Amazon Prime with his own credit card info. Somehow, Peter’s never seen it. Peter’s mystified expression is worth every second of awkwardness as Wade can’t keep himself from singing along.
Peter falls asleep on the couch ten minutes before the movie ends. He’s slumped over the arm of the couch on his side, mouth open a little, body splayed in a way that looks uncomfortable.
Wade doesn’t dare touch him. Instead, Wade puts on movie after movie at the same volume, knowing better than to let silence happen. Pete’s spidey-senses will jar him back awake at the change in environment. Wade stays up all night to make sure Operation: Sleep, Baby Boy happens. Peter’s whimpering and squirming at 3am is not the sexy kind. His best friendman crushboyfriend Peter is definitely having PTSD nightmares. Oh, Petey. I’m sorry. He wishes he could do anything to help. Instead all he can do is make sure the movies keep playing and Peter sleeps through it all. Shitty rest is better than no rest.
At 5:56am, Peter wakes up, stumbles off the couch into the bathroom, takes like five or six minutes there, comes back out, notices Wade is awake, groans, rubs the back of his neck and then his shoulder, and goes into the kitchen and gets a glass of water.
Wade waits. If Peter wants to talk about it, he’ll talk. If he doesn’t…it’s none of my business.
I know – we could make him feel better with a kiss and a hug, Yellow suggests.
Don’t count on Peter ever telling you his problems. You’re so fucked up it’s not like you have any advice anyone wants to take, White says.
Sweetly oblivious, Peter turns to Wade, still sipping his glass of water. “Did you even go to sleep?”
“Nope,” Wade says.
Peter looks frustrated and tired. “That’s not what I meant when I asked you to sleep over.”
“Insomnia,” Wade says. “You asked me to sleep over without asking me whether I usually sleep. Answer? No. No, I do not. Is that okay? Yes, it is. Do I feel put out or in any way taken advantage of by being asked to stay awake on your couch instead of stay awake in my apartment? No. Is Expendables 3 a good movie? Also no.”
Peter at least cracked a smile at that. “We’ll have to rewatch it together, then.”
“A man after my own heart,” Wade says, and then wants to swallow his tongue. Or cut it out.
Thankfully, Peter lets the comment slide. He leaves his empty water glass in the kitchen, comes back into the living room with heavy footfalls, and collapses on the couch with a groan.
Why don’t you go to your actual bedroom and sleep on your actual bed instead of sleeping next to me in an uncomfortable position that clearly hurts you? Wade wants to ask. Kinda hard to ask anything, though, since he’s forgotten how to breathe.
Peter shifts around a couple times, curls up, and goes back to sleep. On the couch. In his civvies. Next to Wade.
Wade’s heart beats uncomfortably fast and hard.
Precious, Yellow cooes. Definitely into you.
Not a chance, White retorts.
Wade puts on a Transformers movie. He doesn’t even notice which one because he’s too busy watching Peter sleep.
That’s not creepy at all, White says. You better hope he doesn’t wake up and find you staring at him like some kind of psychopath.
Sssshhhh. Don’t miss a moment. It’s too cute, Yellow whispers. Also, yes, don’t let him see. He’ll think we’re a freak and never invite us over ever again. And also stop being friends with us. No pressure. Nothing to lose or anything. Just don’t fuck up.
Wade sighs and cradles his head in his hands.
He nods off and wakes up to lights being on throughout the apartment and Peter pressing an energy bar into his hand. “Hmm? Wha?”
“Sorry, this is what I eat for breakfast and it’s all that I have around here,” Peter says, leaning over him, dressed in fresh clothes, hair still damp from a shower, looking socute. One word. Definitely.
“It’s fine,” Wade says automatically, peeling the energy bar open and taking a bite of the nastiness that is fake chocolate and dry peanut butter and oh god are those oats? Then the chemical taste of vitamins and minerals hits his tongue, and he doesn’t spit it out because he’s tasted so much worse, much, much worse. But this is not fun. He would not bring these on a picnic. Not unless he wanted to have the worst picnic ever. And have people throw dog poop at him. There’s always dog poop at the park. Doesn’t even matter which park. People are disgusting.
Peter is already eating another energy bar. It has a silver and purple wrapper and Wade absolutely does not want to know what’s in it. He also, bizarrely, has orange juice.
Wade stands up from the couch, stretches, and accepts a glass of orange juice, washing down the energy bar nastiness. The orange juice is the cheap kind, and it’s got pulp in it, but that is A-okay.
Peter goes over and picks up a black backpack. Wade’s seen it around.
“Got anywhere to be?” Wade asks, trying to sound casual and not nosey.
“No, but I’ve got homework to grade.” Peter unzips the main area of the backpack and pulls out, oh, god, a pile of at least a hundred papers.
“What the shit? This is the digital age,” Wade says, pointing.
Peter looks at the wad of dead trees. “Oh. Yeah. But I have to print them out and grade them by hand if I want to concentrate. I skim read too much if it’s on a screen.”
“What are these?” Wade is sitting at the little dining table with Peter now. He takes another bite of energy bar and chews it vigorously. It resists him like zombie flesh. Not that he’s ever eaten zombie flesh. It just makes him sure that this is the same texture and resistance.
“Studies.” Peter sighs. “Meta-studies, specifically.” He gets out, no shitting you, a red pen. What a stereotype.
“Split ‘em with you,” Wade offers before he thinks about it.
Peter gives him a look that is kind and patient and also firmly a ‘no’. “That would be unethical.”
“What? Why?”
“I’m the teacher. I’m supposed to be grading them. It’s part of my paycheck.”
“A shitty paycheck that does not cover this much pain and suffering.”
“No argument. But, still, I can’t ask you to grade these. Not even one. You won’t know what to grade for.”
“Gimme a rubric and set me loose on ‘em.” Wade eats his second-to-last bite of energy bar. “I know you. I know you’ve got a rubric.”
Peter, adorably, hesitates. “I have a rubric,” he says finally.
“I knew it.”
“But that doesn’t mean you know what the criteria mean.”
“I bet I can figure it out.”
“No.”
“Okay.” Wade finishes his energy bar and washes it down with the last of his orange juice. He studies his empty glass. Little flecks of pulp stick to the inside of the glass. The light from the overhead kitchen light filters through the glass, bending the light a little. “Betcha I could, though.”
Peter doesn’t ask him to leave. Peter ignores him, which is so much better. That lets him sit at the table and study Peter in silence. And putter around the kitchen, and wash the dishes, and peek into the freezer and fridge to make plans for lunch. And other intrusive things that he absolutely knows are inappropriate because Peter doesn’t give him permission to do any of it.
Those fun activities exhausted, he skips to the bathroom, whistling, takes a leak, and notices the washer and dryer, little ones, portable, not hooked up but with hookups and clearly work with the bathroom or tub spigots and regular wall sockets. A little light goes on in his head. Petey can’t be caught doing Spider-laundry. So he shelled out for this setup. Wade knows he’s looking at about a thousand dollars – tax and hardware included. He opens the washer. There’s laundry in it. Good! He can do something for Petey without an invasion of privacy. By which he means going into Peter’s bedroom. It’s unspoken but definitely understood the bedroom is off-limits in Casa de Parker.
Wade does the laundry. He’s a motherfucking mercenary. He knows how to hook up a washer and dryer to a spigot and drainage lines to basins.
Once he’s done with that, he folds up Petey’s laundry all nice and leaves it on top of the dryer. He sees a laundry basket, but he doesn’t know if it’s clean. Then he comes out of the bathroom to find Peter microwaving a Hot Pocket, very sad food, but nutrition. Kind of.
Peter looks him up and down. “What did you use all that water on if you didn’t take a shower? Please tell me my bathroom is intact.”
Wade grins. “Your bathroom is intact. I did your laundry.”
Peter blushes. As in, bright tomato, tide visibly coming in and then going down his neck. “Wh-Why?”
“Because you wouldn’t let me grade papers,” Wade says.
Peter smacks his forehead. Hard.
The microwave beeps. He opens the microwave, somehow both surly and cute, pulls out his plate, gets rid of the so-called ‘crisping sleeve’ in the garbage, goes to the dining table, sits down, head bowed, and takes a bite of sad, wet, cheese-leaking Hot Pocket.
Wade takes this all as a good sign. He joins Peter in Peter’s suffering, microwaving himself an equally sad Hot Pocket, and sits down at the table opposite, watching Peter grade with one hand and eat with the other.
“I’m not taking a break,” Peter mumbles.
“Didn’t ask you to.”
Finally, Peter is done grading. It’s like four o’clock in the afternoon. Peter goes back to the couch and passes out and still hasn’t asked Wade to leave.
Wade doesn’t know if he’s supposed to get the hint to go away, but perches on the sofa and plays on his phone, including texting Weasel a lot of memes until Weasel tells him to stop because he is unforgiven for refusing to take the drug dealer murder job. With a sigh, Wade stretches and tucks his phone back into a pocket on his cargo pants.
Peter wakes up two hours later with a little whine that makes Wade want to kiss his forehead. He rubs his eyes. “You’re still here.”
“Yep. Want some takeout?”
Peter pushes himself into a sitting position. “Yes. Chinese.”
“I can do Chinese. But only with MSG.”
“Is there any other kind?”
“I’m in love,” Wade declares. He’s done that often enough that he knows Peter will ignore him. Just…he’s never said it with the mask off, that’s all. Peter doesn’t comment on that tiny detail and lets him order and pay for Chinese. What would ordinarily be enough for three people, but they both know they’ll eat it. Metabolisms, superpowers, ‘nuff said.
And while they eat, they talk about nerdy things.
Peter finally says, “I’ve been having nightmares lately.”
Wade nods, sure that if he says or does the wrong thing now, Peter will never forgive him.
“But you – you were here. So…it didn’t suck as much as normal.” Peter looks away. His face is tense.
“And I had insomnia, but that didn’t suck as much as normal,” Wade says, sticking to his story. And ignoring Yellow’s dirty joke about sucking. Now is definitely not the time. Peter needs Serious-pool right now.
Peter looks relieved. He glances as Wade. “If I’m having…you know. And you’re having insomnia. We can hang out. You know. Extra.”
“Deal,” Wade says, smiling.
Great, more unpaid emotional labor, White says. That’s the best foundation for a good relationship. Good job. This won’t lead to anyone abusing you, leaving you, and making you suicidal again.
Shut up, Wade silently snarls. He puts on even more of a smile for Peter. “Now let’s watch Expendables 3.”
That’s a little on the nose, don’t you think? Yellow complains.
I will find where you originate from someday, and I will yank you out by the roots and I will never have to hear either of you ever again, Wade promises. Even if I have to shoot myself in the head.
Silence.
Good. Wade picks up the Roku remote and settles in for a good time with his friend, Peter Parker.
Don’t worry, kiddos, pervs, and friends. It all ends well. Eventually Peter pops the burning question and we jump in the sack faster than you can say Spideypool. This is just a sad little interlude. Life is like that. It’s a Whitman Sampler someone has opened, raided, left all the cherry cordials in, resealed, and left for unsuspecting strangers. But they missed one coconut cream! Everyone knows coconut creams are the best. But you gotta bite into a lotta cherry cordials to find the one, lone, solitary coconut cream in life. Everything in my life led up to being with Peter. At least in this one universe.