The sound for a message bleeps from Peter's phone, muffled from being buried in fabric; he's learned the hard way that the phone is a necessity, even in the Spidey suit, so he's made some adjustments and improvements to accommodate. With a sort of disgruntled scoff, he digs the thing out and stares at the notification blinking on his screen. He quirks a brow and slows down, trying to figure out whether the message should annoy him or not, let alone what it says. Wade really needs to invest in some type-ready gloves. Pete settles for being mildly annoyed and slides his phone back, not even bothering to reply (but he could. Coherently. His gloves are prepared for that, thank you).
Normally, he wouldn't be rude enough to blow off a message, but he's right around the corner, and anything that Wade has to tell him (if it's anything other than "where the hell are you?"- which he doubts) can wait the few moments it will take him to get there. Speaking of "there," he can't believe that's where he is. Not at all. This whole part of town looks sketchy and sort of run down, most of the buildings look decrepit. He's glad that he opted not to show up in plain clothes- though that had been a possibility for a second- because he wouldn't be caught dead here without his Spidey costume. Or, rather, he might be caught a little too dead, and he didn't want to risk that. At least the spandex acts as a little bit of a crime deterrent, although,admittedly, not much. Something about wanting to make a statement and break tropes, show the cops and the rest of the people who look up to the spider (there was your first mistake, mr. criminal: that's not much of anyone) that even gods bleed and blah, blah, blah. He doesn't really know because he doesn't typically listen, and he doesn't really care.
When finally he makes it the next couple of yards to the restaurant, it looks just as shabby and forlorn as the rest of the damn block, and the brief disbelief that he's actually going to eat here races across his mind. Deadpool is standing at the door like he's standing guard, arms folded across his chest and leaning against the window, one leg crossed over the other like he's the top muscle for some two-bit gangster, which, actually, for all Peter knows he could be. He shoots the taller an incredulous look though he knows he can't see it under the mask and adds a shrug for emphasis. "Dude, what the hell were you trying to say with that message? Did you invent some sort of language or something? I don't speak Wilsonian, you know." He chuckles a little, sort of proud of his own joke, before clearing his throat and glancing up to the sign above the door; the lights in several of the letters have gone out and the no doubt once cheery and welcoming fried egg character that had graced the spot beside the name is now sort of cracked, and Peter can't look too long without being reminded of a twisted Humpty Dumpty.
"Seriously, this place? You could pick anywhere, and you pick here?" he asks, thumb jerking toward the door. "Well, whatever you say," he says quietly, sort of mumbled, and shrugs with one shoulder. With a sigh that's really a tad dramatic for extra effect, he turns toward the door and nudges it open. For a moment he thinks about being a giant asshole and letting it shut on Wade, but in the end, Aunt May's good upbringing wins out and he holds the door open for his companion, falling in step as it swings shut behind them.
baratheonpilled
stormborns
jacobvanloon
yousharknotpass
2087
