Chapter Text
Peter usually doesn’t run into this sort of problem. The street-wise supers of new york are usually scattered along every borough, everybody just barely out of each others’ way. He had spent most of his younger years “Spidering” from Aunt May’s house, which typically meant nobody paid his specifically unique pajamas any mind at the laundromat. Forest Hills had better things to worry about than some “cosplayer”.
In college, he managed to keep it relatively under wraps at a run down laundromat in Chelsea. Of course, he also had to explain to Harry why all his clothes had been stained red and blue, but the guy was rich, so he ended up just … buying more. Peter will never really be able to wrap his head around how they had become such close friends with such different life experiences. Well, that ended quite poorly anyway, so maybe they were always doomed from the start. He tries not to think about Harry these days.
When the sting of losing Harry finally started to dull—thanks mostly to MJ’s help—Peter moved out of that apartment and found a place in Midtown. He split three cramped rooms with MJ and her college roommate, Felicia, who, he would later learn, happened to be The Black Cat. They ripped that Band-Aid off when they both stumbled home one night, bruised and sore, and did a double-take. Sure, Peter’s not thrilled about an anti-hero knowing his identity, but Felicia pays her rent, gives excellent fashion advice, and even helps him with dating apps. When you’re broke, you learn to compromise.
For the past decade or so, Peter’s been good at keeping his identity under wraps. He’s dodged most of the Avengers’ curious questions—though he’s sure they could figure him out in a heartbeat if they really wanted to. He mostly sticks to himself, even when he occasionally finds himself running patrols with Daredevil or Deadpool. Deadpool, of course, is a massive Spider-Man fan (because of course he is) and always poking around with questions that could give Peter away. Peter ducks every one and makes a point not to learn anything about the merc’s own identity either. What he doesn’t know can’t hurt him. Daredevil, at least, tends to stay all business, which Peter finds an immense relief.
He always ducks into an abandoned warehouse to change into his civvies after patrol (though recently, it’s been taken over by a Spirit Halloween, so he’s been ducking into the alley instead) and he’s careful of CCTV. The cops had stopped seeing him as a threat about 6 years ago, when they decided that Spidey had definitively been more helpful than hurtful to the entire city. Sure, there were some Spider Specific villains, solely hellbent on taking him down, but fan behavior sort of comes with the job. He’s handled it every time, with and without help.
Today, though, Peter’s running errands, trying to play it cool as he waits in line at the dry cleaner’s to pick up a suit that definitely needed mending after a particularly rough patrol. It’s mostly empty inside, save for a tall, broad-shouldered guy in front of him, and a very well dressed man behind him. Peter can’t help but notice the guy’s voice—a low, smooth tone, carrying a conversation with Mrs. Wang behind the counter. Something about it scratches an itch in Peter’s brain, like he’s heard that voice before. Maybe they went to school together?
Peter shifts his attention, catching a whiff of the guy behind him as he steps up to the counter—a mix of sage and sandalwood that oddly suits him. Peter glances over, noticing the guy’s round, red-tinted glasses. That’s a bit pretentious…until Peter catches sight of the man’s white cane.
Oh. He’s blind. Nice, Parker, Peter chides himself, way to be an ass.
Ahead, the guy at the counter finishes up, spinning on his heel with his laundry bag in hand. Peter freezes as he takes in the man’s face: perfectly chiseled jawline, defined cheekbones, blue eyes, and textured skin that hints at some serious burns. He’s staring, he needs to stop staring at his face, that’s rude. Peter makes the mistake of trailing his gaze down to his arms, which are so muscular god help him.
He’s so distracted he barely notices the man smiling back, clearly amused.
“See something you like, Bambi?” The low timbre breaks his ogling.
Peter immediately snaps his eyes back up to those baby blues, which was also a terrible idea. Peter needs to sleep, desperately. He’s clearly starting to lose his mind.
“Uhh” He splutters rather eloquently.
The man quirks a non existent eyebrow, but Peter gets the idea. “It’s rude to stare.”
“I’m sorry! I didn’t mean—it’s not that I was staring in a rude way, I mean…”
God, Felicia’s going to roll her eyes so hard when she hears about this, and MJ’s going to laugh until she cries.
“Oh yeah? Then how exactly were you staring?” The man’s lips curl in a playful smirk, which is so incredibly distracting.
“Respectfully!” Peter rushes out, “I was just, uh, admiring?”
He winces, smooth. Luckily, the guy behind him clears his throat, “Sorry to interrupt, but I’m kind of in a rush.”
His tone is low and gravelly, amused, and very formal, and as he steps forward, Peter notices the faintest quirk of a smile on his face as if he’s overheard everything. He doesn’t know who this second guy is, but there’s something about him that feels familiar, like maybe he’s crossed paths with him. Something about that voice sounds familiar too.
Peter snaps out of his daze just in time to mumble something vaguely coherent to the tired employee at the counter. The larger man had already left, the faint chime of the door signaling his exit midway through Peter’s exchange at checkout. Finally finishing up, Peter absently checks the name on his bag tag: W. Wilson.
Oh. Oh no
Realizing his mistake, Peter all but sprints out of the dry cleaners, a bit flustered and—strangely—feeling slightly breathless, which really shouldn’t happen to a superhero. Maybe he’s coming down with something.
“Mr. Wilson!”
The man didn’t make it very far, luckily, and he turns back, eyes a bit wide in surprise.
“I, uh… I have your bag. And I think you have mine?” Peter holds up the black bag and tries to catch his breath, hoping his flustered look isn’t too obvious.
“P. Parker?” The guy—hot guy—glances down at his own bag, reading the tag.
Peter nods, too flustered to say much more. “That’s me.”
They swap bags, Peters fingers brushing gloved hands for a second. Even through the gloves, Peter notices how warm he feels. Maybe he really was getting sick, he thinks, clutching his suit in relief once it’s safely back in his grip.
“Hey, we’re alliteration buddies,” Wade observes with a gleam in his eyes that’s a bit too knowing, though his grin softens it. “But ‘Mr. Wilson’ was my deadbeat dad. Call me Wade.”
That’s when Peter notices the guy’s beanie—a Spider-Man beanie, of all things—and his stomach drops.
Please, Peter prays, please tell me he didn’t peek inside the bag.
Thankfully, it’s the opaque one he started using, after learning the hard way. Still, what were the odds?
“Peter.” He offers Wade a small, sheepish smile. “And, uh… sorry if I made you uncomfortable in there. I didn’t mean to stare.”
Wade’s grin just grows wider, and he winks. “Don’t worry about it, Bambi. Been a while since someone looked at me like that.”
Peter feels his cheeks burn as a new wave of embarrassment rolls over him. “I, uh—”
Wade laughs, the sound strangely familiar, but Peter’s too busy floundering for a response that doesn’t end in utter catastrophe.
Come on, Parker, you’re Spider-Man, he reminds himself, You can talk without making a complete ass of yourself.
But Wade’s watching him, head tilted, clearly amused. “Look, I usually don’t do this—I’m not really relationship material. But you…let’s just say the universe doesn’t usually send drop-dead gorgeous, sleeper-build, Bambi-eyed twinks my way. So…” Wade reaches into his jacket pocket, producing a slightly battered card with his number scrawled on it in what can only be described as surprisingly neat penmanship. “I’m shooting my shot.
Peter blinks, staring at the card in disbelief. “Wait, you’re—you’re serious?”
“As the grave, gorgeous,” Wade says, winking again. “And no hard feelings, I get it—probably not in the market for a date with, uh, ‘walking roadkill,’ but if you’re feeling wild…” He lets the words hang, somehow both confident and strangely vulnerable. “Ball’s in your court, is all I’m saying.”
Peter’s mouth opens, then closes, then opens again. He can’t quite believe this is happening, but Wade’s watching him with this lopsided, hopeful smile, and there’s a warmth in his chest that he hasn’t felt in a while. Taking a breath, he gives Wade a tentative smile and takes the card, slipping it into his pocket.
“Thanks,” Peter says softly, forcing himself to meet Wade’s eyes. “I, uh… I’ll text you.”
“Good.” Wade’s smirk widens, glinting with mischief. “Hopefully in full sentences.”
Peter bristles, straightening his shoulders a bit. “I’ll have you know I’m perfectly capable of speaking in full sentences.”
“Oh, so it was just because I was around, huh?” Wade leans in a bit, that devilish grin growing even wider.
Peter’s cheeks burn hotter as he stammers, “That’s not—no! I just… I was—"
“Just speechless at my overwhelming charm,” Wade supplies, shrugging with mock modesty. “Don’t worry, Bambi. Happens to the best of ‘em.” He’s clearly enjoying this, arms crossed and eyes dancing as Peter tries to find a comeback that won’t sound completely unhinged.
“Anyway, see ya,” Wade says, finally relenting, though his smirk lingers. “As much as I’d love to see how red your face can get, I’m late to something. I’ll be sitting by the phone like a war-torn housewife until you text me, Parker.”
And with that, he turns on his heel and strides out, leaving Peter blinking after him, still flustered and trying to process the entire exchange.
“Bye,” Peter finally manages, shaking his head with an exasperated laugh. He pulls his phone out, quickly adding Wade’s number, and catches the time.
Oh shit—he’s supposed to meet Deadpool to take down a drug ring, and he’s already fifteen minutes late. Wade can wait, Peter decides, slipping into an alley and slipping his fresh mask onto his face.
As he swings his way across the city, heart still racing, he can’t stop the smile creeping under the mask. Wade’s number in his phone, that undeniable spark between them… Yeah, the guy wasn’t what he had expected—but in a way Peter couldn’t help but enjoy.
Besides, if Deadpool was going to lecture him for being late, well… Peter had some good material to distract him with.