#technically........

When you feel like the world is sitting on your shoulders, take a deep breath, Peter, May used to tell him.

It’s been almost two years since the spell wiped the world’s memories of Peter Parker from anyone who knew him as Spider-Man. That day, he lost more than his identity: he lost everything.

It took weeks for him to understand the full scope of what had happened, and months for him to regain a semblance of normalcy. Even now, over a year later, he’s still picking up the pieces left behind, only to drop one and scramble backwards just pick it back up.

It feels unending. The pile just keeps growing higher, and heavier. The weight sits on his chest and threatens to cave it in.

Peter takes a deep breath.

He’ll be the first to admit he was privileged in his position. Being Stark’s protégé had its perks. Peter got grossly accustomed to both what it afforded him and ignoring what it signified.

Now…now he struggles to afford the occasional take-out. Classwork is mind-numbing in ways it didn’t used to feel, and he’s alone. Peter isn’t used to being alone. Maybe that’s why he hasn’t been sleeping.

At least he’s got his secret identity, even if he doesn’t have his aunt or the Avengers or his prospective career track.

Not the point, Peter.

None of that is the point. The point, and the crux of the matter at hand, is that Deadpool won’t leave him the hell alone.

“Focus,” he mutters to himself. His backpack feels like it weighs six hundred times more than it should.

Peter takes another deep breath.

He can’t believe he’s considering doing this.

Peter knows Deadpool. Or more accurately, he’s aware of him. He knew who Deadpool was well before he became Stark’s protégé, and well before a magic spell sent him back to the Shadow Realm of mediocrity. He knew about Deadpool, but Deadpool must have never made it a point to introduce himself, for reasons that Peter suspects were in part due to his relationship with the Avengers.

With the current situation at hand, it’s a wonder Deadpool managed to contain himself at all.

Their first meeting wasn’t ideal, because it happened right near Peter’s apartment. Even worse, it was an accident.  

Later than usual to his patrol due to classwork and a lengthy power nap, Peter had just started scaling the wall outside his apartment building when his spider-sense dinged, setting off alarm bells dizzyingly fast. He webbed his way to the rooftop in a matter of seconds and shot webs at the source of that tingling sense of danger.

Peter recognized the suit first. He’d seen that suit in news articles, live footage—hell, even TikTok edits. He’d recognize that costume anywhere.

Deadpool.

Peter carefully shifted into a crouch. His webs had Deadpool pinned to the wall bisecting the rooftop access door. Only his legs and head were visible, but that sense of danger didn’t go away.

“Oh. Em. Gee!” Deadpool shrieked. “Is that Spider-Man? The Spider-Man?! And you webbed me? I’ve been webbed!” Deadpool laughed and kicked his feet, which were hanging a few inches off the rooftop. “Wow. What a fucking surprise, meeting you here. What are you doing all the way out here, Spidey?”

That blithe tone did not lower Peter’s guard. Deadpool’s kill count spoke for itself.

“Spidey? Spider-Man? Mr. Web-Slinging Slasher? You’re awfully quiet, Spider-Man. Did I catch you at a bad time? I’m the one encased in your sweet little web.”

He kicked his feet harder.

“Look, I know what you’re thinking. Deadpool. Big bad ex-merc—well, mostly ex, when it suits me—hanging out a random rooftop. You might have a few questions.” Deadpool barked a laugh. “I honestly wish I had answers!”

Deadpool went on, even as Peter didn’t say a word. He was trying to think of words, because one, Deadpool’s unexpected reaction to seeing Spider-Man had thrown him off severely, and two, he wasn’t about to reveal that the building he’d climbed was his own building. It was just his fucking luck that Deadpool happened to be around when Peter also happened to be going out on patrol.

Does the infamous Deadpool do anything by accident? a very rational voice in his head offered.

Peter had already started running through a dozen scenarios before he had to stop himself. No: if Deadpool knew who he was, he wouldn’t be saying—

“—and I know we haven’t met before, but I’ve been dying to. For ages! You’re the hero to end all heroes. The purest, sweetest of cinnamon rolls. As somewhat of a universe-saving hero myself, this is the best day of my month. By the way, you are way more svelte than I thought you’d be. Though don’t think I don’t see those muscles through that suit, because damn, Spidey—”

Holy shit people hadn’t been kidding when they said he didn’t shut up.

“Fighting crime!” Peter blurted.

Deadpool cocked his head.

“Your question earlier. I’m criming fight.” Deadpool cocked his head in the other direction. Peter slapped his hand over his face. “F-Fighting crime! Fighting. Crime. Patrolling the city. For crime.”

He’d only got four hours of sleep the night before, and Peter was still trying to calculate how many power naps he could squeeze in later with a fifteen-page research paper that required a minimum of ten distinct primary and secondary sources that he hadn’t even touched.

Point being: it was the best he could do in the situation, all right?!

“That is such a coincidence. Me, too!” Deadpool wiggled his feet harder. “Today I was going to jump off this roof and see how long it took to regenerate from this height—spoiler, five minutes or less—but this is so much better. I can’t fathom why we haven’t met before now. For some reason I feel like there was a cataclysmic, catastrophic event that nobody remembers. So weird!”

“Why are you really here?” Peter asked. “Dude, I know you’re joking, but don’t—don’t jump off the roof.”

“Well I won’t now. Now I’ve got Spider-Man talking to me! Webs, think you could free me so we could continue our heart-to-heart on even ground?”

Peter tensed incrementally. Deadpool didn’t seem bothered by Peter’s webs covering his torso. He kept kicking his feet, allowing the webs to fully support his weight.

Years ago, Peter would have been left a stammering, stumbling idiot in this situation. Time had worn away his fresh-faced naivety. He knew how to handle himself.

“Spidey, come on. I’m obviously criming fight, too,” Deadpool crooned.

“I’ll never live that down,” Peter muttered to himself.

“Since you’re here, and I’m here, I’ll help!” Deadpool said.

“What do you mean, help?”

“Uh, fight crime? Chase down baddies? Getting down bad for crime fighting?”

“I don’t need help,” was all Peter could think to say. “I work alone.”

“Well, you are in luck!” Deadpool said, still wiggling his feet with apparent glee. “I also work alone. And since I happened to be in the area, this works out for both of us. We’ll wear our alone-together shirts over our suits. Plus, I am great at fighting crime. Grade fuckin’ A. I’ve got enough guns to outgun any pickpocket. I always carry around rubber bullets, just in case we meet. Sure, there’s no rubber in my patent pending Rubber Bullets™ bullets, but it’s the thought that counts, right?”

“That’s not—” Peter didn’t even know what to say to that. Deadpool had thrown him off so completely he was still trying to recover. Also, criming fight would haunt his nightmares like just about everything he said in the tenth grade. “That’s—it’s very nice of you to offer, but I don’t need help.”

“That’s where you’re mistaken. You haven’t fought crime with me. I have it on the highest authority that I beat ass better than the Avengers. Why haven’t they recruited you yet?”

That stung in a way Peter didn’t expect. “I’m doing very well on my own. Thank you. I’m gonna go now.” Peter started backing way, but there was still a level of politeness that May had beat into him from such a young age that he couldn’t help but add, “Don’t jump off any roofs. You’ll leave blood everywhere.”

“Wait, wait, wait! I think you haven’t given this enough thought! Let me read you my pitch!” Deadpool called to his receding back.

“No, thanks!” Peter called back. “You’ll be free in about an hour. See ya!”

“An hour? But I have to pee! Webs! Webs!! You don’t understand, I have a pi—”

After he left, Peter thought that would be the end of it. He was sure he would be the end of it.

Deadpool found him about fifteen minutes later.

“Holy shit you are fast!” Deadpool wheezed as he jogged up to Peter.

“How did you—there’s no roof access here!”

Wade blew a raspberry. “Roof access. Can you believe this guy? Who do you think I am, Ant Man?”

Peter then spent the majority of the night trying to escape Deadpool and his attempts to ‘help’. After what became a very long night, Peter barely had the wherewithal to rip off his suit before he collapsed straight into bed. He only managed a nap that lasted half an hour, anyway.

After that night, Peter prayed it would be the end of his relationship with Deadpool. Deadpool had had his fun chasing Peter around, and he could go back to whatever it was he usually did.

Only Deadpool kept showing up.

---

“Spidey, is that a web-shooter in your suit, or are you just happy to see me?” He paused. “Is that joke too overdone?”

---

“Webs! So glad I caught you. The night is young, and you are looking younger! Wait, fuck, please tell me you’re not a teenage vigilante.”

---

“Baby boy, I was just in the market for some high-quality webbing. The reason it’s necessary is top secret and involve my dick. Have you got any to spare?”

---

“Have you been working those glutes in between all that swinging, Webs? Because those cheeks are clappin’.”

---

“What do you get out of this?”

“Pardon?”

It wasn’t every night, but over the next few weeks, Deadpool found and chased Peter around the city, scurrying alongside him from rooftop to rooftop, from one web to another. And while Peter was very good at covering his tracks, even with his webs leaving being a trail, Deadpool always managed to find him. Always.

Currently, he has Deadpool webbed to the rooftop again. Peter realized almost immediately that Deadpool has a lot of knives hidden in a lot of places. There isn’t a point in attempting to get them off him. Not unless he wants to be there all night and deal with more of Deadpool’s…flirting.

At first Peter brushed it off as a misinterpretation on his end, but then Deadpool kept going. He kept flirting. With Peter.

The problem isn’t so much the flirting—though that is a problem—but that Peter gets flustered. He hates getting flustered, because then he starts reverting to his teenage self that barely knew how to even look at a girl, and Deadpool lives off agitating him.

“What do you get out of this?” Peter demands again, refocusing his attention on Deadpool.

“What do I get?”

“You must have better things to do than chase me around, right? I mean—You’re a mercenary!”

“—was a mercenary,” Deadpool corrects.

“You’ve got to have better uses of your time. And I’ve told you before. I don’t. Need. Help.”

This is the third time that week Deadpool has shown up, so Peter can’t be blamed for the way his voice is starting to fray at the edges.

“You can offer all you want and my answer will be the same,” Peter adds. “That last pickpocket was overkill—he didn’t even have a weapon!”

“Overkill would be me making a kill. Trust me, that was underkill. Underwear. Are you wearing underwear?”

“I’m not—I’m—that’s none of your business.”

“So, commando?!” Deadpool’s voice ratchets up another decibel. “Oh my god that makes so much sense. No wonder your ass is so defined yet jiggly!”

“It’s not ji—” See? This is what Peter hates. “Stop talking about my ass! And first off, your ass is way fatter than mine.”

“You’ve been looking?” Deadpool voice has now risen to hysterical levels. “Spidey’s checking out my ass, guys! Does that mean there’s a chance? I thought I didn’t have a chance!”

How did they even get here?

“Deadpool!” Peter snaps. “Stop talking about our asses.” He waves his hand. “Asses are off-limits.”

“What about tits? Sorry—pecs? I’ll tell ya, kids these days say anything. Someone on Instagram the other day told me I’ve got massive milkers that would drive a horny nun to—”

“Stop. Just stop. Stop flirting with me, and stop following me. I mean it.”

“I’m not in the business of if recognizing when I’m unwelcome,” Deadpool says brightly. “In addition to being gender-blind, I’m blind to—"

Peter sighs, pinching his nose over his mask while Deadpool rattles on.

Weeks pass like this. He still has no idea what prompted it, if it’s really hero-worship or if Deadpool is just bored.

He doesn’t know why Deadpool started following him around, and he doesn’t care. He just needs it to stop. Peter is struggling enough with school, his job, some minor insomnia, and Deadpool making his nights long and destructive is not helping.

---

After May died, it took Peter too long to realize that the spell had not only erased people’s memories, but in some cases his actual existence. The entire world knew that Peter Parker was Spider-Man, so in nearly every capacity Peter Parker ceased to exist.

That meant that in addition to losing said identity, he lost all earthly possessions he didn’t snag from May’s home before it was claimed by the state. To top it all off, it also meant he had to restart his education and earn his GED while also scrambling to find odd jobs to afford an apartment.

Life sucked for a little while.

When the loneliness hit hard enough that he was crying most nights, Peter decided he wanted a pet. Then when he realized his shitty apartment didn’t allow pets, he went for the next best thing: being a dog sitter-slash-walker. He needed money, this was the closest he could get to owning one, and the job didn’t require a bachelor’s degree.

The idea sprouts during his job. Peter has been mulling over the situation at hand for weeks, and finally realizes the massive problem holding him back.

That problem is that Deadpool is helpful. He’s helpful the way a car crash is helpful at stopping traffic; the way a tree falling is helpful at demolishing a home; helpful in that somehow he gets the job done, even if it tests the tethers of Peter’s dwindling patience. He follows Peter’s rules—at least the one about no killing—and he’s scarily efficient.

In the haze of sleep deprivation, the idea felt like a stroke of brilliance. Peter had been cramming for weeks, and with his job, he had dog-parents in his texts and dogs on the brain. So when he was walking a few of the dogs and wanted to stop at the pet store for some treats, his eyes caught sight of the simple nylon collar that just happened to match Deadpool’s color scheme.

It was ridiculous; humiliating; innovative. There was no way that Deadpool would go for it, and that was why it was so perfect.

Later, Peter will realize it was the sleep deprivation. Even later, he’ll realize it wasn’t just the sleep deprivation.

---

Peter is waiting for Deadpool this time. He sits at the spot around where Deadpool usually makes an appearance and paces. By the time an hour passes, he’s created a web-mural in a small area of the rooftop out of boredom.

Of course, the one time he actually wants Deadpool to show up…

“You know what? No,” Peter says suddenly. “This is ridiculous. No. Not doing this. What was I thinking? What am I, insane?”

“That’s my line,” says a voice behind him. “Baby boy, I’m home!”

Much to Peter’s trepidation and relief, Deadpool clambers over the edge of the roof and jogs up to Peter’s stiff form.

“Finally made it back to our rooftop.” Deadpool rubs his hands together. “One day if we work hard enough, we can afford a real roof over our heads. I don’t mind leaving our love nest as is—you know I’m an exhibitionist—but eventually the cops are going to show up, and pigs really stink. Makes my trigger finger itch.”

“Deadpool.” Peter places both hands on his hips. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

He’s aiming for intimidating, but a quick glance downward makes him second-guess the placement of his hands.

“You have been waiting for me! You look so expectant.” Deadpool mirrors his pose. Peter should have crossed his arms. It’s too late now. “Are you willingly fighting crime with me tonight? Webs, you shouldn’t have!”

Not willing to give himself another chance to second-guess, Peter tosses his backpack in front of him.

“I’ve got something for you.”

“Ohh, whaddya got there?” Deadpool head cocks. “The bag is pretty loose. Almost empty. What’s in there, a surprise pipe bomb? Hate those. Though I always thought the size of your cup suggested a really explosive pipe—"

“Deadpool!” Peter’s face is on fire behind his mask. “Will you just take the bag and open it?”

“I’m not kidding about the bomb thing. If it’s a bomb, tell me now so I can at least remove my utility belt. The bandaids I carry in here are limited edition. You can’t find these Hello Kitty’s anywhere on the market. And I’ve tried.”

“It’s not a bomb. I wouldn’t do that to you or anybody else!”

Humming thoughtfully, Deadpool picks up Peter’s bag and unzips it, pulling out the collar. Peter tenses, waiting.

“Well, that’s not what I expected,” Deadpool says. “Huh. I thought it’d be a restraining order, and I’d finally get to learn your secret identity.”

“I’ve been thinking,” Peter says hurriedly, while Deadpool inspects the collar. “I realized that you were right all along: there’s no point in fighting you. You’re not going anywhere, and I can’t make you. So I’ll cut you a deal, Deadpool. If you want to keep following me around like a dog? Fine. Then you’ll get treated like a dog.”

Deadpool’s eyes are still on the collar. “I’m sorry? Could you run that by me again?”

So far, so good.

“Put that on and you can follow me. I won’t even fight you on it. But you can’t take it off, and you’ll wear it the entire time we’re together.”

Deadpool looks at the collar. His masked head flicks towards Peter. Somehow, Peter can tell his eyes are narrowed.

“Do you even know what you’re saying, Webs?” Deadpool says, his voice low and velvety soft. “You understand what kind of message that would send, right?”

“I’m fully aware,” Peter says, with the confidence of a man who does not, in fact, fully recognize nor grasp the ramifications of his own actions. “I know what it is; I bought it. You wear this, you can follow me around all you want. Otherwise, you leave me the hell alone.”

Any second now, Deadpool will see that Peter is serious and he’ll be so turned off by the whole thing, he’ll run off to do whatever it was he did before he started following Peter around. Deadpool may be crazy, but he’s not stupid. There’s a level of respect the world of mutants and supers has for him, and Peter would bet anything he doesn’t want to lose that.

Peter is so confident in this complete and utter miscalculation that he can’t imagine a world in which Deadpool actually takes the bait.

He couldn’t be more stunned when Deadpool abruptly slips to the ground cross-legged, tosses the collar at Peter, and casually says, “Put it on me, Spider-Man.”

He doesn’t say Webs, or Webster or any other nickname he’s come up with. Not even baby boy. It’s Spider-Man.

Deadpool wants Spider-Man to put the collar on him.

“Wh—are you serious?” Peter gestures wildly to the collar. “You’re not—you know that everyone will see that, right? You follow me around with that and they’ll think—"

“They’ll think I’m either being open about one of my many blatantly obvious kinks or assume it’s a fashion statement. Besides, people already know I’m down bad for Spider-Man.”

Deadpool shrugs. Peter gapes.

“But…dude, this isn’t just a…you’d be…” Peter gestures wildly again.

“Why’d you offer it if you didn’t want me to say yes?”

“I didn’t think you would! I thought you—I thought I’d—”

Maybe running on the fumes of 24 hours of sleep for the whole week has been influencing a few of his decisions.  

Either way, this is insane. Peter can’t go through with it. He’s not going to go through it.

Deadpool makes another sudden shift onto his hands and knees. Then he sits back on his haunches. Peter just watches this happen and can’t think of how he should be reacting. He stares at him for so long, the words just eventually slip out.

“You really do look like a puppy.”

Peter has no idea where that thought came from. He doesn’t know why he says puppy.

It’s not remotely accurate; Deadpool does not look like a puppy. He doesn’t. Peter walks up to Deadpool, still holding the collar, and moves his fingers along the thick nylon. His thumb pushes the strap under the buckle, and then, moving without his input, his hands unbuckle it. In a show of what must be incredible restraint for Deadpool, he hasn’t moved an inch.

A new, ridiculous thought occurs to Peter before he can stop it.

“I’ve never had a dog before,” he says. “I can’t believe those words actually came out of my mouth.”

Another incredibly inappropriate thought seats itself in his brain. I don’t know how to take care of one.

He looks towards Deadpool, swallowing down a feeling that’s rising to the surface.

“You’d really wear this?” Peter asks.

Deadpool barks.

Peter is so startled he drops the collar. Deadpool oh-so hopefully picks it back up and hands it to him. And because Peter made this choice, it’s Peter who can’t back out. Deadpool’s not going anywhere, and Peter can either walk it all back and uphold the status quo, or he can have control of at least this one thing.

“What I say, goes,” Peter says eventually. “No exceptions. No killing. No maiming. We play it by the book. My book.”

“You won’t have to worry, because I do not read.” Deadpool clasps both his hands. “I’ll do exactly as you say and be your perfect little doggy. Easy peasy.” He pauses for a beat. “No, I can’t believe this is happening either.”

“What?”

“Nothing!”

Deadpool keeps waiting, more patient than Peter thought possible, and he can’t hold off forever, so Peter walks forward and kneels in front of Deadpool, his gaze a heavy weight. The strap is already undone, so all Peter has to do is unhook it all the way and slide it around Deadpool’s neck.

The moment his hands make contact, Deadpool’s throat bobs. Otherwise, he’s completely still.

Up close, Deadpool fills up more space than Peter has given credit. His body is powerfully huge; his arms are bulging with muscle; his legs are thick as tree trunks. The muscles on his back and shoulders flex as he bends down lower, giving Peter better access to tighten the collar.

“Is that…is that too tight?” he asks, feeling abruptly way, way out of his depth. “I should have gotten a bigger one.”

“It’s perfect, baby boy.” Deadpool’s voice wobbles the slightest bit. “Fits—fits like a glove.”

Peter steps away, drinking in the sight. He has no idea what he’s feeling.

“Okay,” he says. “You know the rules. Next time I see you, this whole thing…well, it becomes a…thing.”

“Next time?” Deadpool croaks.

“Next time. Because I’ve—I’ve got some stuff I’ve gotta do.” Peter starts backing away, towards the roof’s edge. “School stuff. I’m in school—college! College. Not a teenager. Why am I specifying that? Okay…bye!”

He webs away before Deadpool can so much as move, already swinging by the time he calls his name.

Smooth, Parker. Very smooth.

He’s not running away. Peter just needs some time to adjust to the decision he’s made, because he’s just gone and collared Deadpool, which is something the insane and sleep-deprived Spider-Man does, apparently.

As he heads off to do some schoolwork before bed, Peter takes comfort in the thought that things probably won’t even change. Who’s to say that Deadpool will even behave any differently now that he’s wearing what most people will just assume is a ridiculous statement piece? He’s betting that next time they meet, it won’t feel any different.

---

It’s different. It absolutely, with one hundred percent certainty, feels different.

Deadpool is waiting for him at what has become their usual meeting spots via rooftop, well before Peter gets there. He’s wearing the collar, unsurprisingly, and when Peter thwips on the rooftop, he catches sight of Deadpool’s hands curling reflexively around it before he lowers them.

“Spidey! You made it. I wasn’t sure you’d show.”

“Well, we—we have a deal, and I keep my promises,” Peter says.

“That’s the bull-headed altruism I love! I am really loving it right now.” Deadpool giggles maniacally before reining it in. “Sorry. I feel like the luckiest boy right now. I have the seal of approval to go on patrol with you now! What are we doing today, Webs? We criming fight?”

Peter groans. Never living it down. “Yeah, we’re going on patrol. I’ve got a couple tests coming up, so if we’re lucky, tonight will be quiet. We can start off as a team so I can look after you, and then we’ll split up and meet here later.”

The collar goes unacknowledged. Peter decides that’s a good thing.

He starts backing away and leaps off the building out of pure habit. Leaving Deadpool behind is so ingrained at this point because he knows he’ll follow regardless.  

The night starts out significantly less peaceful than he’d hoped. The cops are on Peter’s ass way more than usual, which makes navigating the city and doing his job annoying as hell. It may not be helping that the mercenary Deadpool is there with him, and he keeps bringing up the many, many guns he carries on him at all times within earshot.

“No killing,” Peter says, webbing away one of Deadpool’s guns when he whips it out. It’s the fifth time he’s done it in an hour.

“Just a little?” Deadpool asks. Peter can hear his pout. He hates that he can hear it. “I swear I won’t hit anything vital!”

“You know you’re never getting a yes out of me, dude. Why do you keep asking?”

“Maybe I’ll get a reverse boy-who-cried-wolf. Eventually those no’s have to become a yes!”

Peter responds by webbing the gun to the nearby building, high enough that Deadpool would have to climb it to get to it (he’ll grab it himself later).

Deadpool miraculously avoids committing murder, though the way he tosses his guns viciously at the heads of the shitheads they run into during a robbery, he’s not sure the resulting concussion will do much better. He’s almost certain Deadpool is doing it just to rile Peter.

“Don’t you have rubber bullets?” Peter asks.

“I was kinda hoping you’d forget about those,” Deadpool chirps. “I grow fond of my gun-shuriken.”

“Just for that, I’m webbing another gun to the wall.”

Deadpool groans dramatically.

“Are you serious about helping me? If you want to be my kind of hero, you’ve gotta play by my rules, remember?”

Deadpool goes quiet. “I remember,” he says eventually.

Peter still struggles to understand what Deadpool is getting out of this. The only thing he knows for certain is that Deadpool admires Spider-Man and that he’s committed to following him around. Outside of that, he remains a mystery.

Despite the rough start, the night turns quiet. Quieter. Partway through they end up on what is becoming their rooftop, waiting for something to happen. Enough time goes by that Peter considers turning in for the night and getting some work done. He tells Deadpool as much.

“Watcha studying, Webs?” Deadpool asks when he sits down next to him. Peter scoots away. “You made those fancy web-shooters, right? Your suit looks handmade, too, in a good way! Been there.”

“Right now, I’m…”

Peter feels his face go hot under his mask. He hasn’t spoken with anyone about this before. There’s been no one to talk to. But it’s Deadpool. He doesn’t care what Deadpool thinks of him, right?

“Well, I had…I had to get my GED because of—of a long story,” he says in a rush. “So I’m just entering my second year of a transfer program. It’ll let me go from community college to a four-year. I’d wanted to aim for MIT with—” He stops himself. “—I wanted to get into MIT. But that was a long time ago.” Peter rubs one arm thrown across his knee. “Feels like it’s been a lifetime since then.”

“School was never my thing. Can you imagine me hitting the books?” Deadpool lets out a shrill laugh. “Ah, yeah. That was funny. But you’re smart, Spidey. MIT? Fuck, man, that’s the land of squares. I’ve seen the shit you can do. I’ve gotten job offers to steal your fancy little shooters, but I couldn’t do that to my boy Spidey.”

“Thanks,” Peter says, surprised. “Lately, I don’t feel all that smart. There’s so much I wish I’d known before—”

He keeps doing that. Keeps almost opening up. To Deadpool. It’s probably because Peter hasn’t had anyone to talk to—to engage with on a meaningful level—since before the memory wipe.

“Wait, did you just say you’d been hired to steal my web shooters? Multiple times?”

The design isn’t that complicated. It’s possible the intention was access to his web fluid, but those are in separate canisters.

“Nevermind that pesky little side hustle of mine. You hungry?” Deadpool abruptly asks him.

Starving, actually. He’s not eating like he should be—with his jobs and school and Spider-Man-ing, he doesn’t exactly give himself much time to cook.

“I could eat,” Peter replies. “What, you have a place in mind?”

Deadpool claps his hands excitedly. “Only the best gorditas this side of Queens. I’ve been doing some scouting on my off hours. Using my mouth.”

“Is food the only way to get that mouth to stop talking?” Peter drawls.

He can’t believe the words just came from his mouth. Based on his posture Deadpool looks, if anything, even more startled than Peter does.

“That is by far not the only way, but it is the second most effective.” He rises to a stand. “Baby boy, prepare that humble tum, because we are embarking on a food adventure.”

The place Deadpool scouted is a food truck, with food that smells mouth-wateringly good. The chorizo is so delicious that Peter scarfs down four in a row, and when he tries to pay Deadpool, he denies Peter point blank.

Peter didn’t bring his wallet anyway—he never does, unless he’s carrying his backpack for some reason—and he’s not about to give Deadpool his phone number.

But you’ll put a collar on him.