Chapter Text
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The robots are big and clunky. Their hydraulics hiss as they plod down the empty street, their gears grinding, their welded plates rattling. Each one has a thick lens planted in the middle of their chest, which glows bright red and fires a laser sporadically, a quick burst of energy that shoots off in a mostly random direction. None of the robots are fast or accurate. But this fight is not meant to be a challenge; this fight is a game of overwhelming numbers.
Yet despite being simple, straightforward, and mindless, mowing down a small army of laser blasting robots requires a level of slash-and-hack firepower that isn't exactly Peter's forte. Sure, Peter can take down swathes of the clunky machines with a well-aimed web and good timing, but it is not something he can do indefinitely. His web-fluid will run low sooner or later. And since his luck tends towards terrible and is very much out to get him, Peter only had one back-up cartridge when he got the red alert.
Which was... roughly an hour ago.
At least Deadpool's having fun, Peter thinks sourly as the man below him plows steadily through the mass produced army. Wires spark. Oil leaks. Metal heads and limbs skitter across the road and sidewalks, macabre even in its bloodlessness.
Aloud, Peter asks, "Is it weird to feel bad for the robots?"
No one answers. Peter doesn't have a comm—those are for the big boy Avengers, not their reserve of gofers like Spiderman—and nobody is near enough to hear him. All of the other heroes are strategically spread out in a wide rough circle; they had formed a perimeter to contain the deluge of robots spewing from one of New York's many abandoned subway stations, and have been working on tightening the circle ever since. Except the problem is that the robots keep erupting from the ground like a hoard of ants abandoning their hill, ceaseless and seemingly infinite. Not even the Hulk's excellent smashing seems to be doing much. Together, the Avengers and other city-based vigilantes have maybe managed to push everything down to a radius of three city blocks, which is... not great.
Sighing, Peter lifts one hand away from the brick wall he's attached to and runs a gloved hand over his masked face. The general lack of progress is frustrating, especially since Peter had hoped to be back on campus in time to make his inorganic chemistry lecture. Ten percent of his grade is attendance and—while Gwen has offered multiple times to sign in for him while he was out saving the city—Peter still hasn't given them his log-ins. It feels too much like cheating.
Below, Deadpool whoops loudly as he swings his katana around, decapitating and dismembering robots with the same glee as a teenage boy playing video games. The noise brings Peter out of his head, reminding him that he needs to focus on the robots and not the slow descent of his grade point average.
An A- won't kill him.
Probably.
Jumping from the mid-sized building, Peter flips through the air and rejoins the chaos. Since he doesn't know how much fluid is left in his cartridges, he's relying on his knowledge of robotics and his physical strength to do the heavy lifting. It's... an experience. Peter uses his webs almost exclusively when fighting, and muscle memory frequently kicks in before he remembers, No, you can't do that right now, making his movements jerky. He's had a few close calls with the lasers and one hit, which grazed his thigh and left a clean cut through his suit and skin. Thankfully, it did not go deep and the wound was instantly cauterized by the heat of the laser. It itches, mostly, and sometimes stings if he extends his quad too far during a kick.
The fight drags on. Peter and Deadpool push forward, inch by inch, leaving scraps of metal, wire, and oil behind them. The robots are not fast and they can only fire one beam per thirty seconds, but there are just so many of them. Sweat trickles down Peter's spine. Deadpool's chest heaves with exertion. Exhaustion bears down on them more and more heavily, threatening to crush them.
"Why—" Deadpool roars as he severs the legs from one robot, "the fuck—" as he kicks it to the ground, "won't it—" as he jams the end of his katana through the lens in its chest, "fucking stop?"
"They're a distraction!" Peter shouts in response as he hops onto the back of another robot. He tears the plate from the back of its neck and yanks out a handful of wires, and it crumples beneath him. "A decoy!"
Peter had figured that out within the first ten minutes of being on scene. It's why he hadn't seen Iron Man or Thor amongst the others, despite them being some of the heavy hitters on the team, and it's why the robots are numerous but relatively easy to take down. There's a mastermind behind this attack, someone who wants the superheroes pre-occupied while they enact their real plan.
"An unwelcome—pain—in my—ass!" Deadpool grunts between swings of his katana. "This—is not—what I—signed up for!"
Peter can't help but agree. He has no idea how long they've been at it now. It's unusual for him to fight at this pace for extended periods of time, and every muscle in his body aches for reprieve. He wonders if he and Deadpool are somehow getting the worst of it or if the others are similarly overwhelmed.
"I'm gonna take a quick look, see where the others are at!" Peter yells. "You got this?"
Deadpool gives a thumbs-up, his lack of a verbal response a sign of how tired he is. Peter has only ever known him to be silent when temporarily dead.
Shooting a web upwards, Peter quickly makes his way to the roof of a nearby skyscraper to assess. He can see the unmoving piles of destroyed robots spreading out from the abandoned subway station, as well as the movement of the other heroes pushing against the throng. The Hulk is at the epicenter, pulverizing roughly half of the robots as they skitter out, but it doesn't look like they're slowing down. Aggravation spikes in Peter's chest. He doesn't know how much more of this he can take before he collapses or—
"Fire in the hole!" a magnified voice booms overhead.
Peter looks up as Iron Man streaks past, a smear of crimson and gold against the colorless gray of steel, glass, and concrete. He zips towards the source of the robots, stopping directly above the entrance to the subway station before dropping something small downwards into the writhing mass of metal. It disappears...
And does nothing.
Turning his gaze back to Iron Man, Peter watches as he lands on a patch of street that is miraculously free of carnage; as his suit ripples and the plates peel away from his body; as he steps out of the armor, clad in little more than a pair of black briefs. Freed of the armor, Tony immediately turns back around and opens a panel on the left gauntlet. He hits a few buttons on the display, and then—
Peter does not hear, see, or feel the electromagnetic pulse. He does, however, watch every robot fall forward at the exact same moment, an army of silver dominoes given one massive push. The Iron Man suit fails too, as well as every other electronic in a six block radius. Peter huffs. He is suddenly glad he left his backpack on campus with Mary Jane. Neither his cellphone nor his laptop have insurance, and there's no way he can afford new ones.
A couple rooftops over, Hawkeye lets out a wordless victory shout. It carries through the surprisingly silent section of the city, echoing faintly.
It's over.
It's finally over.
Thank god, Peter thinks. I don't want to see another robot for at least six months.
Wearily, Peter turns away from the epicenter and shuffles over to the edge of the building. Adrenaline lingers in his blood, keeping him upright, but he knows he's running on fumes. Fatigue pulls on his shoulders. All he wants to do is get back to campus, collect his things from Mary Jane, and find a nice quiet corner of the science library so he can take a catnap before his physics lab at four. Hopping up onto the ledge, Peter shoots a web out and jumps before it finds the side of a building to stick to. He thinks nothing of the familiar weightlessness for the first second, but when he keeps falling—
And falling—
And—
Cold panic slices through Peter. He instinctively lifts his right hand—double taps the palm switch of his web shooter—nothing happens—the cartridge finally emptied—Peter quickly lifts his left hand and double taps—a thin strand shoots out—catches—slows his momentum—but the angle is awkward and he wrenches his shoulder painfully and he can't stop and the ground is getting closer and closer and—
Something barrels into him just before he hits the pavement.
No. Not something. Someone.
Deadpool.
It is not an easy catch. Peter is heavier than his lean figure would suggest, and Deadpool grunts with the effort it takes not to collapse beneath his weight. He buckles a bit, thighs straining, yet impressively remains on his feet. Peter gasps as he lands in Deadpool's arms and automatically grabs Deadpool's shoulders for stability. Peter feels his fingers dig into the thick muscle there, bruising even through the leather.
For a moment, Peter and Deadpool do nothing but stare at one another. Their masked faces are inches apart. Shock has Peter wide-eyed and numb and unable to completely process what just happened, but Deadpool recovers more quickly.
"Hey, baby boy," he murmurs. His voice is gentle and sincere, a low rumble Peter can feel vibrating within his chest. "Haven't seen you take a plunge like that in awhile. You alright?"
Peter's hands twitch against Deadpool's shoulders. His heart is pounding. He barely notices as Deadpool straightens up and adjusts his hold on Peter's body, one arm sliding behind the hinge of Peter's knees while the other supports Peter's back more firmly.
"Spidey." Deadpool bunts his nose against Peter's mask-clad cheek. "You with me?"
"Yeah," Peter answers softly. "I just..."
Fell.
Peter hasn't been scared of heights since he was fifteen, since he was bit by a radioactive spider and developed the web-fluid in his high school science lab. Even when he's been thrown off buildings and tossed out of various aircraft—several helicopters, one plane, and two alien cruisers—Peter knew he would be safe as long as he had his web shooters. The stab of panic he just felt is... disorienting.
"Baby boy," Deadpool whispers again. "Don't worry. I've got you."
Closing his eyes, Peter lets his hands relax and slide down to Deadpool's chest. Lets his cheek fall to Deadpool's shoulder, twisting his head so that his face is almost tucked into the side of Deadpool's neck. He can smell acrid sweat and buttery leather, the burnt smoke of gunpowder and the sweet heaviness of machine oil.
"Yeah," Peter breathes. "I know."
Peter allows himself to be held as the adrenaline fades from his bloodstream. It's nice, he thinks. His aunt and his friends express affection through physical touch—Peter cannot go a single day without being hugged or having his hair being ruffled—yet it's rare for Peter to feel like this. Small. Safe. He wants to burrow deep into the warmth of Deadpool's hold and rest.
Except he shouldn't.
He... shouldn't.
The reasons why he shouldn't feel flimsy even as Peter inhales deeply, as he lifts his head from Deadpool's shoulder and pulls back. Deadpool lets Peter down gently. He sets Peter on his feet, sliding his forearm out from behind Peter's knees, then straightens, his big gloved palms resettling on either side of Peter's ribs. His touch is firm. Peter's breath catches as said touch slides down, pausing briefly on his waist—Peter's waist is as lean as the rest of him, and the tips of Deadpool's fingers are able to meet in the divot of Peter's spine—before going lower, to his narrow hips and tops of his thighs—
"You hurt?" Deadpool asks lowly as he taps Peter's leg, right above the spot Peter had been hit.
Peter hums in the negative. The weight of Deadpool's hands on his body feels so nice that he sways once more into Deadpool's space. Deadpool's fingers tighten briefly before those palms go back up to Peter's waist. Warmth pools in the pit of Peter's stomach.
"Christ on a pogo stick, Spidey," Deadpool swears quietly. "You sure you're okay?"
Peter is aware of the fact that he's letting Deadpool touch him with too much familiarity, yet he cannot bring himself to care as much as he usually does. The fight has left him exhausted; the fall has left him vulnerable; and in all honesty, he isn't stupid. He knows something has been brewing between him and Deadpool for months, something that is neither platonic nor professional. This moment is only the most recent in a long stream of moments, a foundation of trust built brick by brick and made stronger by the mortar of time. Such a thing should be scarier than it is.
"Yeah," Peter says as he moves his own hands from Deadpool's shoulders to Deadpool's biceps. He squeezes, feeling the strength there, then lets his hands drop. Deadpool mimics him, letting Peter go for the first time in several minutes. "I'm just... tired, I guess."
Half a truth, half a lie. Peter can feel his shoulders curling forward and downward without the support of warm hands on his body. He is tired, but that tiredness is not why he wants to climb back into Deadpool's arms.
"Nap time?" Deadpool suggests.
"I still have a physics lab at four," Peter answers. Such a personal tidbit is not said unthinkingly; he simply gives it to Deadpool and pretends not to notice the way the other man freezes, cocking his head minutely as he takes the information and files it away. "And those are impossible to make-up. So."
"So," Deadpool echoes.
They look at each other. Deadpool's mask is blank and expressionless, an indecipherable swatch of red and white and black. Peter aches. Physically, the build-up of lactic acid in his muscles make his extremities feel twice as heavy as normal and he's aware that there's a fine tremor in his hands; emotionally, he's standing on the edge of more, unknowing of what awaits him if he gives into gravity...
Except he does.
Deadpool has already caught him.
The reasons Peter shouldn't crumble beneath the weight of certainty. Conviction fills him. He takes a sure step forward, erasing the space between them, and places his hands on Deadpool's shoulders again. Then he rolls onto the balls of his feet and kisses Deadpool's cheek. Peter can't feel anything except the inside of his mask against his lips and the pressure of Deadpool's face against his mouth, but the intention behind the action still makes the warmth in his belly ignite. It feels nice. Inevitable. As though this moment was going to happen no matter what, as though the simple fact of meeting and getting to know one another could have no other outcome than this.
Deadpool makes a wounded noise as though he has been punched.
"Thank you for saving me," Peter whispers as he pulls away, deliberately scraping his hands down the firm line of Deadpool's chest and abdomen. "I'll... I'll see you tomorrow night?"
One of Deadpool's hands—which were hovering in the air around where Peter's hips had been—reaches up to touch the side of his own face. His fingertips stop a breath above his cheek. He croaks, "Did you just—" before shutting his mouth so hard Peter hears the click of his teeth snapping together. It's an unexpectedly cute reaction. An inappropriate giggle rises in Peter's throat and bubbles out without his permission, happy and light.
"I want a chicken burrito this time," Peter says playfully as he takes another step backwards. He's grinning so widely he's sure it can be seen through his mask. "Extra queso, extra tomato—"
"No cilantro," Deadpool finishes a little dumbly. His hand is still lingering by his cheek. "Webs—"
"Tomorrow," Peter interrupts. "I'm not lying about my lab, and I can't..." Peter trails off. If he starts talking about how much he wants to stay, he might not have the willpower to leave. He already feels the temptation tugging at him like there's a line through his solar plexus reeling him back towards the other man. "Tomorrow, okay?"
Slowly, Deadpool nods. Agrees, "Yeah," with a softness not many would expect from the merc.
Peter smothers another giggle as he lifts his left arm and double taps the firing mechanism in his palm. A web pops out and sticks. He doesn't know how much fluid remains in the left canister, so he'll have to hoof it most of the way back to Queens. He isn't looking forward to the journey—he'll have to jump from rooftop to rooftop and hitch a ride on the tops of a few trains—but now he has something to carry him through the next few hours: the promise of good food, a maybe first date, and the sight of Deadpool standing motionless in the middle of the street, surrounded by the mechanical debris of a long fight, with his hand curled wonderingly around his own cheek.
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