Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Growing up, Peter is assumed incompetent. He misses his milestones. His body doesn’t listen to him. When he is a toddler, he starts to form words but then it stops. It regresses. He can’t speak.

The child psychologist gives him an IQ test with questions he understands but no way to communicate the answers. “What color is the block, Peter?” 

He rocks and hits his fists in frustration because he does not have a voice. Peter lunges forward, trying to aim for the red on her shirt. Red! Can’t you see it’s red? She chastises him, softly, in a baby voice, and asks again, “What color is the block?”

Peter does not have words. Not words that come out of his mouth and throat. All Peter has is his body which does not move how he wants it to. Peter has frustration, Peter is not listened to, Peter grows up being taught the alphabet when he already knows how to read. 

The ABA therapists are worse. When Peter refuses to look them in the eye, they give him a bad smell. When he flaps his hands, they hold them down. “Quiet hands, Peter.” Their smiles are kind but their actions are rotten. Peter cries more, trapped in his body and his mind, as the world spins and Aunt May reads to him at night. It is his only reprieve. 

“He can’t understand you, May,” Ben says, standing in the doorway. 

Peter whines in joy at the sight. His Uncle Ben is nice to him and he likes the feeling of being on the back of his motorcycle. Peter wishes he would read to him, too. He likes the sound of Ben’s voice - even if sometimes Ben tries to hold him or make his hands quiet. 

“He likes it,” May says. With her eyes looking away, Peter takes in her face - warm, kind, smiling but not rotten. “See how happy he gets when I read, Ben. I just turn off the lights and read, look how happy he is.”

“How can you tell?” Ben asks. “He’s not crying but-” 

Peter tunes them out. He doesn’t like them talking about him like he’s not in the room. His happy rocks turn violent and his hand thwacks against his head, distracting his body from the brimming anxiety and tension. Life is constant stress and stimulus. Peter does what he has to in order to calm down. 

“Peter, Peter, look at me, buddy.” No. He doesn’t want to. “Peter.” Ben grips his face and Peter flails his arm out, hitting him across the face. He’s not as little as he was when he was a kid. Ben bleeds. “Shit.”

“Ben, are you okay?” May has stopped her reading and puts her palm against Ben’s face. He doesn’t recoil. His skin doesn’t crawl from the soft pressure. Ben sighs like May’s hand is a deep pressure blanket. 

“My fault, I should’ve learnt not to touch him by now.” The only way Peter can communicate is through his body. He says no when he resists, when he screams, when he struggles. But sometimes his body is beyond control and it says things that he does not agree with. “Goodnight, little buddy.” 

Peter hates how they talk to him like he’s still a little kid. 

One day, Peter sees how May writes on the calendar. She picks up a blue biro and writes his ABA appointments and adds a new one to the calendar. Peter reads it, then - speech therapist. He wants to cross those words off the calendar. Peter can’t speak. Why are they so hellbent on making him speak?

So he steals May’s pens. Whenever he sees them, he goes for them, whether they’re in her hand or not. He gets distracted, sure. The world is a detailed and intricate place. He is entranced by the lines and grooves in their dining room table. He hears a bird outside of his window and listens to her song. May forgets to turn off the lights and has the evening news on too loud so his brain lights up and explodes, leaving Peter to pick up the pieces of his sobbing rocking body. He feels embarrassed and annoyed because when he cries, people do not see a man in distress but a child having a tantrum. 

After a few days, May starts to notice her missing pens. “Ben, honey, do you know where my blue pens are?”

Ben looks up from his newspaper. “I saw Pete holding one the other day.”

“Is this true, Peter?” May asks, even though the question is redundant. Peter rocks and makes a noise. It does not come out as a word. His brain refuses. “Would you show me where you put them, Peter?”

Peter gets to his feet and shuffles to his room, decorated in Iron Man memorabilia and his array of rocks are in their display case. He gets one every birthday and for Christmas, as well. Peter knocks on the glass of the display case. May kneels down and sees the blue pens on the floor. He’d tried to get them in the case but couldn’t get the glass to move.

“It’s locked, honey. Why did you want the pens in here?” May gathers up Peter’s hard-won hoard. She doesn’t know that Peter wants to write with them. He just can’t get his motor skills to let him. Curiously, May hands him one of the pens.

Peter holds it and presses it to the case. It doesn’t write. 

“You need to click the pen, honey.” May clicks it for him, her hands nimble. Peter scrapes the pen along the case. He wants to write. “Peter, we’ll have to repaint it.” She clicks her tongue. 

It’s his shelf. Why does she care about painting it? 

“Here, try this paper.” May puts down an A4 sheet of paper and Peter puts the pen up to it but cannot make the letter shapes form like the books May reads to him do, her finger running against the letters. Her laugh is honey-sweet-golden-soft and patronizing. “Not quite, honey.”

Peter is 18 years old when he is placed in Oscorp’s vocational work program where he is paid less than minimum wage and segregated from his allistic peers. His brain rots in his skull and he fumes with the injustice of the experience. He pitches fits every shift until eventually he is removed from the program - but not before he is bitten by a radioactive spider. 

Peter gets sick. His family does not know what is wrong with him and assume his stress is due to autism rather than a medical condition. Peter cannot communicate that he feels feverish, that his bones hurt, that he can hear and see and feel and taste and smell even more than before. The stimulus is unbearable and Peter hits his ear over and over until it bleeds, just to make the sound stop. The sound stops, his head hurts badly, and Peter is taken to the ER where he is fussed over by condescending nurses and a doctor who sees him as less than human and recommends “no intervention” due to his “lack of quality of life”. Aunt May storms out and Uncle Ben talks to her softly about how Peter’s life is not a life at all. 

Miraculously, he heals. He does not die from the edema in his skull. The doctors call it a miraculous recovery. Aunt May sobs with joy and Uncle Ben smiles at him but Peter cannot forget how willing Ben was to let him die, all because he didn’t believe Peter’s existence was worth it. Peter no longer makes happy sounds when he sees Uncle Ben. He whines and hits and struggles whenever he enters the room until one day Ben learns what Peter’s no means. One day Ben leaves him alone and Peter is left with the soothing words of Aunt May’s stories. 

His hypersenses make his body even harder to contain. Peter is in a constant state of stimming in order to function. His sunglasses, noise-canceling headphones, and loose clothing aren’t enough to soothe him. He weeps as the world attacks him with the noises of traffic, the microwave beeping, the bird outside his window (now harsh and shrill where it was once beautiful and melodic), and the tastes of his favorite foods. Peter is no longer able to eat chicken nuggets. 

Peter is in crisis. 

Uncle Ben notices how much he is struggling and takes Peter out into nature. They go for a rural hike with Ben carrying everything including Peter’s special pillow that he can’t sleep without and the tent. At first, Peter thinks he will hate it. He doesn’t like the heat - sticky and constant - and he doesn’t like the sound of mud squelching, the feeling of spiderwebs in his face, or how bushes and branches brush against him. But Uncle Ben has seemingly thought of this. He takes Peter through a dappled apple orchard and through miles of farmland. It is open, secluded, and dry enough that the leaves crackle pleasingly as he walks. As they travel further and further from the bustle of traffic and the smoky scent of houses, Peter’s shoulders relax.

Uncle Ben talks. A lot. Like a man who thinks his companion can’t understand him. He talks about falling in love with May, about how much he loves Peter and wishes he could help him, and he apologizes for what he said at the hospital. Peter doesn't know if he should let it go. It's not like he has a lot of options. Ben is shameless in the way people get when they are alone. He doesn’t think Peter will remember any of this or could understand it to begin with. 

The hike likely would’ve been harder before his spider-bite but Peter has found that although his sensory difficulties are exponentially worse, his motor skills and physical strength have improved and sharpened. He is not as accurate as most people and if he picked up a pen, he still would not be able to write, but he may be able to type if the keys are big enough. 

It is as he listens to the wind rustling through the trees, howling across the plains through the gatherings of corn and wheat, that Peter comes up with his idea. In his mind lay schematics for a suit that holds him tightly and securely, with his favorite colors red and blue, for a hero that the world didn’t know it needed. Peter thinks of Iron Man and how his greatest wish would be to meet him, not as a charity case but on a level playing field. He thinks of how the world consistently underestimates him, viewing him as incompetent and empty in his mind simply because he cannot form words with his mouth. 

So Peter plots to leave the house to find something to speak with. He can’t get the door open by turning the knob but he manages to brute force it. The hinges squeal as they snap. “Peter! Peter, what are you doing, honey?” Aunt May flies into the room at the loud noise. “Are you hurt? What happened?”

Peter starts to walk through the hole that the door has left but May stops him, gripping his arm. “Peter, stop. Where are you going?” He takes another step, shaking off her grip, and making a soothing humming sound in his throat. I’m an adult! He thinks. I need to make my own choices! 

Uncle Ben hears the commotion and stares at the gaping doorway with a pale face, like he sometimes gets when he comes home from patrol late. Ben is a police officer and Peter is told that means he’s a good man. “What happened to the door, May?” 

“He- I’m not sure.” Aunt May wrings her hands. “I think Peter did it.”

Uncle Ben’s brow creases. “How could he do that? That door is reinforced, May.”

“Maybe, maybe he’s a mutant?” She trails off, weakly. Uncle Ben groans like it’s the last thing either of them needs. “Remember that ER visit and how he, how he almost.” How I almost died. Peter finishes her sentence. “Then he didn’t. He was fine. Healthier, even. He hasn’t been sick since, which is strange because Peter usually gets all the season’s colds.”

Ben frowns. “This isn’t good, May. Peter already doesn’t know his own strength. He could really hurt someone.” Peter lingers in the doorway, hitting his hand against the wall to try to calm his racing heart. There is an undertone here that means nothing good. His internal senses are screaming at him, danger! Danger! “If he does that, you know what they’d do with him. He may be intellectually disabled-” I’m not! Why can’t you hear me? “-but they’ll still put him on the Raft.”

Aunt May gasps like it’s the worst thought imaginable. Peter knows about the Raft. He saw it on the news when the Avengers had their falling out. It’s where they lock up bad guys, criminals, mutants with an evil agenda. I’m not evil. It’s not right. “He can’t survive that, Ben. He needs special care.”

“I know.” Ben looks grim. “I think I have a solution, May. Some guys I know - on the force - have access to special bracelets that suppress mutant abilities. I can get a pair for him. He’ll go back to how he was and no one will ever need to know.”

You’re going to take away my strength? Peter starts hitting his hand harder, head lolling as the thought frightens him. You’ll take away the only thing that gives me a chance to be a hero? The wall cracks.

“Peter! Stop it!” May rushes forward, careful not to touch him. “Peter, deep breaths, darling. In for three, hold it, out for three. There you go. Oh, Ben, he’s bleeding.”

“You okay there, buddy?” Ben says with a nervous smile. Peter rocks instead of hitting and watches as his broken hand heals in a matter of minutes. 

“That’s- that’s not normal, is it, Ben?” Aunt May, who is careful to call him disabled and not useless, who calls him autistic and not stupid, says that’s not normal. Peter’s gut shrivels up with shame and he feels sick and hateful all of a sudden. He’d trusted her not to hate him. 

“It’s all going to be okay,” Ben says, reassuringly, in a tone that Peter hates, a tone that people use when their solution is going to hurt him - a lot. “I’ll fix this, May. Just, just keep him here and I’ll get the bracelets ASAP.”

I’m on the clock, thinks Peter, plotting a breakout. He’s never really wanted to leave home. He knows that the outside world is cruel and that people need money to survive, money that he can’t earn because he can’t speak and his body doesn’t behave. But this is more important. Peter has the opportunity to be a hero and he can’t let that go. 

Peter watches the non-ticking digital clock by his bed for two hours before he deems it safe enough to leave. May is quietly snoring in the other room while Ben is out, meeting up with work contacts who have access to ability-suppressing bracelets, having called a contractor to come fix the broken front door in the morning. Peter packs his velcro backpack, filling it with his pillow and his raincoat, and then drags it onto his shoulders. It takes a few tries but comes easier than it used to before the bite.

He manages to leave the house and the building. The other occupants of their apartment complex know of Peter and have met him, and cooed in their baby-voices about how brave he is and how brave Aunt May is for looking after him. Their knowledge is a danger but Peter’s spidey-senses allow him to avoid them as he takes the elevator to the ground floor and makes it out onto the street. It is not the first time he has left the house alone but it is the first time that he has not intended to return. 

With his sunglasses on and his headphones off, Peter hopes to avoid the notice of people as they walk by. He has the strange ability to stick to buildings but wants to wait until he has a suit with which to hide his identity to use it. He wishes that Aunt May had read him more non-fiction growing up so that he might begin to hypothesize what his powers precisely were. He knows they originate from the glowing spider that bit him but can’t be certain what properties that spider had and what properties he would inherit from it. The most he knows about spiders is what he observes of the ones who build their webs around the house. 

“Spare a dollar?” A homeless beggar on the corner of a street a few blocks away from his home says. His voice gets louder as Peter walks past, “A dollar, please sir?”

Peter wishes he had money to spare but he doesn’t. “Not going to spare a dollar, Bambi? You may be cute but your heart is as black as coal!” Peter stops as he hears a voice that he has only heard when shown in tandem with wanted ads and warning PSAs. Deadpool, the notorious mercenary with a mouth.

Peter turns to him, slowly, looking over his shoulder to avoid his face. He is infinitely curious about meeting his second hero - first villain? - and lets out an excited sound. Deadpool’s white lenses widen and Peter thinks oops, so much for going unnoticed. 

“Are you okay, man?” Deadpool cocks his head. “I think that was a happy sound but I don’t want to assume. That makes me an ass and your ass look- wait, how old are you?”

Peter continues standing, sighing internally as yet another person in his life will no doubt assume he’s got nothing going on in his brain. 

Deadpool squeaks, “Shit, my bad, dude. Do you have your AAC? Taking that silence as a no?? Sorry if you do. I think I’ve got a pretty basic letterboard in my pocket, wait a sec-” Deadpool rummages around his apparently deep pockets, pulling out old paper gum wrappers that crinkle nicely and loose change that clangs not-so-nicely together, before finding a creased sheet of paper with the alphabet on it. “Here. If you can use it.” He holds it out for Peter who has never been able to use one before, due to his motor difficulties. After enough tries, his speech therapist simply gave up and Aunt May sighed in relief that the weekly cost from their already skimpy budget was removed.

Staring at the cracks in the brick wall that snake up to the top and ignoring the beggar who continues to beg and the streetlamps which flicker unpleasantly, Peter drags his fingers over the letters, hovering over each one long enough for Deadpool to sound it out. 

A p r a x i a

A u t i s m

“Apraxia! Ah, I know that one! Sorry for assuming you were a cheapskate, man - or a man. Actually, what do you identify as? I’m genderpunk as fuck, to be honest, though most people would say I’m a man. Basic Barbie bitch is my main term!”

H u m a n 

N i c e  t o  m e e t  y o u

It takes an embarrassingly long time to spell that sentence even with his spider powers, but Peter counts it as a victory nonetheless. Not bad for someone who has been kept in segregated classrooms at a third grade level for most of his life. Peter just has to be grateful that May read to him, otherwise he thinks he would feel a lot more lost and betrayed than he already does. 

“Nice to meet you too! Omg, are you a fan? Human is such a good gender and sorry for calling you cheap, I saw your sunnies and assumed the worst. People who wear sunglasses are either cool as fuck or Tony Stark wannabes so-” Peter grows defensive at the slandering of his idol and starts to walk away. “Okay, nice to meet you, human!” Peter takes the crinkled letterboard with him and puts it in his backpack when he’s able to stop.

It’s the first step to independence, he thinks.

Chapter Text

Peter bites at the inside of his mouth as he convinces himself that he’s going to go through with this. He’s going to break the window and slip inside… 

He has been Spider-Man for a little over two weeks now and has caught the attention of the local press. He sees newspaper headings in The Daily Bugle who cast doubt on the vigilante who never speaks whereas magazine clippings like to speculate about the newest super on the scene, sleek like a spider and mysterious like the Black Widow! 

There are some teething pains. 

Peter is still autistic, mutant or not, and struggles with his day to day tasks. He finds it easier to swing from building to building, webbing up violent offenders who sometimes wear the colors of the state and sometimes wear civvies, than he finds it to eat or sleep or keep good hygiene. The victims of violent crime thank him but sometimes comment on how Spider-Man reeks. It is at the bottom of Peter’s list to take a dip in the ocean. He hates the feeling of sand between his toes and how it sticks to him for days. 

There are no baths now. No sweetly scented soaps. No jasmine or ylang ylang or Aunt May’s honeyed apple shampoo. There is only city smoke and the intense scents of takeaway shops as he passes them and the honking of yellow taxis all trying to get where they need to go. He misses May and Ben terribly. He hopes they aren’t worrying themselves too badly. He hopes they still love him when he gathers the strength to go home and tell them what happened.

Peter hates it.

Peter loves it.

He loves the freedom. No one here tells him who to be. No one talks to Spider-Man in a baby voice after he has saved their cat from a tree. People thank him like Peter is a miraculous human, rather than a scourge on society. He loves the feeling of his snug suit pressed against his body that tells him where he is in the space. It makes it a lot easier to avoid crashing into things. He loves the stark communication cards he drew at the library. He would have printed them but printing costs money so he’d knocked a hand, nervously, on the front desk and got the librarian’s attention.

The librarian had looked at him sympathetically and asked if he needed to call anyone until Peter made his first and most important card - I cannot speak but I am an adult. Do not treat me like a child. He makes his own letterboard with a borrowed pen grip and a weighted pen (thanking the small mercies that one of the staff members has nerve damage and then feeling instantly guilty for thinking that and relieved that no one can hear his thoughts) but keeps Deadpool’s cherished one in his backpack and forever knowing that he was the first person who succeeded in giving him a voice.

He loves the new friends he has made, friends who treat him like an equal. When Peter hears danger in Hell’s Kitchen and saves a child from being taken, a devil-horned Daredevil steps out of the shadows and thanks him. He says I can take it from here. Peter holds out a secret card he has been waiting to use, a card that says Spider-Man. Daredevil takes the card and runs his fingers along the indents in a way that Peter has seen visually impaired people do before. He nods after a moment and says, thank you, Spider-Man. 

Peter apparently has very low standards for what constitutes a good friendship because he can safely say he would die for that man. The first man to use his hero name. To thank him, like an adult. To read between the lines. Peter makes it a priority to add braille indents to his cards. He does not have the appropriate paper for braille but he can make an effort, at least.

His second friend is a person that Peter had been both dreading and enthusing over meeting again. Deadpool has been in New York on a mysterious mission for the past few months - so says the evening news - and Peter had been certain that he’d come across him again donned in his vigilante costume. He’d met Deadpool for the second time mid-fight, when the man was holding a very sharp implement to a perpetrators neck and threatening a variety of bodily harm that spanned from feed him your toes! to which would you prefer, to lose fifty percent sensation there or one hundred percent sensation there? The kicker was the sweet midwestern voice Deadpool used to deliver the concerning news.

Peter may have a heart-on for this particular mercenary - disability advocate!! Muscles!! He called me Bambi!! - but he draws the line at letting him torture people, so Spider-Man swings into the alley and holds out one of his favorite communication cards. 

“Gah! Jumpscare!” Deadpool flinches back and then cocks his head. “Spider-Person! Oh em gee! Wait a sec, it’s too dark to read, let me just-” He fumbles with his phone and puts on the flashlight. “Right, so, stop, in the name of the law! Really? Spidey is pro-cop?”

People have no appreciation of irony! Peter is a vigilante and actively works against law officers more often than not! Peter pulls out a second card that says Spider-Man does not support the abusive and racist actions of American police departments. You’d be surprised how many times he’s had to use it. Or maybe you wouldn’t. He flicks a hand against his collarbone nervously. He hates being misunderstood.

Deadpool whistles in relief. “Phew! You’re one of my top ten anime babes, Spidey! I’d hate to have to teach you a lesson in antifascism, it’s so not sexy…” 

Spider-Man reaches over to the perpetrator and starts to break his bonds. The man thanks him profusely. 

“He’s a real baddie, Spidey, and not in a fun way! Check his phone.” Deadpool growls ominously. Peter reads through the man’s messages with a fourteen year old and stops freeing him. He purses his lips beneath his mask and rubs his hands over the smooth spandex on his thighs repeatedly. “He deserves a lot worse than what I was promising!”

Peter buffers for a few moments, looking at the phone and considering what he should do. He pulls out his letterboard and says p h o n e  n u m b e r. 

“You want his phone number? Mine??” Deadpool’s white lenses blink coquettishly. “I must say you have a strange idea of what counts as flirting! But I am here for it, don’t get me wrong!” 

It takes longer than it should to explain that he’s not picking Deadpool up - but wow! He’d be down for that?? Peter stows that information away - but actually intends to take screenshots of the bound man’s misdoings as evidence so that if anything shady happens with the first set of evidence, then there’ll be a backup. It takes the promise of enchiladas - Peter will likely have a plain cheese wrap if he’s being totally honest - for Deadpool to finally stand down and let Peter try to get this man incarcerated rather than murdered. They leave a message with the fourteen year old’s parents as well after Deadpool hacks into their private accounts to check that the boy’s parents aren’t utter douchebags who will react badly to the information. 

Sitting on a roof, eating for the first time that day, Peter revels in the feeling of wind on his face and the warm melt-y taste of cheese. 

“I think we’ve met before, Spidey. A few weeks ago?” Deadpool seems hesitant to bring it up. “You had the cutest backpack and had lost your letterboard and-”

Thanks, stupid is the only card Peter has that appropriately conveys how he’s feeling about this conversation. Because yes Deadpool listened and treated him like a human being but Peter also had really hoped that Deadpool would not connect the dots between the two of them. It’s been an hour! Peter had hoped to have a secret identity for longer than that! The only consolation is that Pool only knows his face and not his name. 

H o w  d i d  y o u  k n o w

Deadpool’s mask is still down. He hasn’t eaten yet. Peter doesn’t bring it up because that would be awkward and he hates awkward moments but it definitely registers in his mind as something significant. Does Deadpool not trust him with even the smallest of clues to his identity? 

“I’d recognise that ass anywhere, Bambi,” Deadpool says. “I mean, ten for ten, perfect shape, perfect everything. I can hardly believe you’re real. You’re a walking wet dream, my god.”

Peter flushes bright red. He flaps his hands happily, the energy exulting out of him in a wild rush of romantic attraction. He starts to rock, aware of how close to the edge they’re sitting but not concerned over the heights because all he can think about is how this is the first crush he’s ever wanted to have - a crush on an even playing field. 

It takes a while to calm down his body enough from the excitement to ask the question at the forefront of his mind. He knows it’s soon and maybe it’s too fast by anyone’s metric but Peter has never truly felt this way without feeling bogged down by expectations and how underestimated he is. People have only tried to date him to take advantage of his appearance while seeing his disability as something to manipulate - on the very rare occasion that they look past their assumption of him as a child or prop to view him as a dating prospect at all. 

Deadpool is very quiet as Peter spells out, slowly, w i l l  y o u  g o  o u t  w i t h  m e ?

His heart stops when the man sits there, silently. Did Peter misread this? Is Deadpool like this with everyone? Has he made a fool out of himself? The whine pops out of his throat, unbidden, and the embarrassment chases it soon after. His body never takes a day off, not one.

Deadpool rolls up his mask and gestures to himself. “You deserve better, sweet cheeks. Look at me, Bambi. My face has been foreman grilled. My skin is moon craters filled with pus.”

I m m o r t a l 

“Which is a curse, Petie. I can’t die, not even when I want to.”

C a n t  b e  u s e d  a g a i n s t  S M 

He knows how dangerous being a significant other to a super is. It makes him relieved that he’s essentially cut off May and Ben from his life, as mixed as his feelings are on that front. They can never be used against him if Peter is never seen near them.

“Oh.”

F i r s t  p e r s o n  t o  l i s t e n 

My voice. Peter wants to put his hand on Deadpool’s chest, to show that he is Peter’s heart outside of his body, to show how much the antihero means to him. Peter puts the hand on his own chest, tapping it to the rhythm of the hustle and bustle of the city down below, not trusting his own strength still. Hurting Deadpool would kill him. 

A c c e p t a n c e 

“I won’t ever be pretty,” Deadpool says. “Not like you, not like anyone. There’s no fixing this.”

Peter holds out a precious card that reads I don’t speak. He knows what it feels like to be different in a way that people tell you should be fixed because everyone is that way. The truth is that there is nothing wrong with Peter’s existence, with his way of living, with what he can and can’t do. Peter’s life is worth it, words or not. 

Deadpool takes a messy bite of his tomato filled enchilada which makes Peter’s gut squirm in sympathy. He licks his scarred lips and says, “Then you got it, baby! Imma date the hell out of you!” He blows him an air kiss and Peter squeals so loudly that a flock of birds scatter from their nest. Deadpool cracks up laughing and it’s the most perfect night he’s had in a long time. 

So yeah, Peter has a boyfriend. A boyfriend! Wow! 

Let that sink in for a second because Peter can still hardly believe it! 

It’s one of Peter’s big reasons to love this new life and the only reason that Peter is considering breaking-and-entering at three in the morning.

Peter and Deadpool - who tells him his name is Wade Winston Wilson but Peter can call him “Big Daddy”, “Pool”, “Big D”, “D Plus” and a host of dick jokes far too vulgar for you, dear reader - fight crime together every night. They web up baddies, consider whether to let them go because the risk of prison is too high for their crime, counsel victims, restock community fridges, and check in on homeless shelters and women’s shelters to check for the ever present seeds of corruption and systemic abuse. Wade invites Peter to his favorite safe house and they play Jenga which Peter loses and then Go Fish which Peter wins because Wade believes whatever cards Peter asks him for and Peter is a dirty dirty cheat! They haven’t kissed yet - and Peter may be grown but he is not grown enough to start that conversation - and he hasn’t mentioned his concern over Wade’s flagrant disregard for his own personal safety. 

Awkward conversations continue to be harder than stopping crime and canonically, Peter is a hot mess. 

The only issue is that other than their enchilada roof dates, Peter is starving. Literally. 

So, Peter could work. Theoretically. He could interview over and over until he found a place willing to hire a nonverbal autistic and he could endure the anxiety and stress of being in public (and the overstimulation) and he could be some sort of shelf-stacker or box-sorter which didn’t involve social interaction. But you know what else he could do? He could not. 

Because it doesn’t appeal to him to work hour upon hour for minimum or below minimum wage being pitied and infantilised and scolded for things he can’t control. It doesn’t appeal to him to work somewhere that may not accommodate his needs and may see him as less than human. He doesn’t feel like begging for a job, over and over, to people who don’t understand disability. He doesn’t want to overstimulate himself and meltdown more than he already does for things other than Spider-Man. And he certainly doesn’t like the idea of explaining himself, over and over and over, that yes, he can’t speak, but no, he’s not a child, and yes, he has motor issues, but no, it’s not on purpose and he’s not lazy and it’s not just clumsiness. 

So he doesn't. And Peter goes hungry. 

So this leads him to deciding to rob his boyfriend in the middle of the night. He’d rather be a bad person than for Wade to see him as a helpless child! The window breaks easily - already cracked from a few nights ago when they played indoor cricket together - and Peter slithers through, narrowly avoiding messing up his suit. He’d hate to wreck it since the story of how he got his super suit is a long one that involves grand theft auto, mini golf, failing to learn how to sew, and Peter’s difficulty accepting charity. 

“Babe!” Oh geez. “Babe, what a surprise!” Wade, hearing the crash, comes into the room with his katanas already out. He slides them away easily, having zero thought in his mind that Peter would be here to rob him. 

Peter flops down onto the floor and rolls around for a bit, trying to ease the pain of being a disaster human. 

“Is this a good roll or a bad roll? Wait, I’ll let you get it out of your system... Do you want waffles?” Wade has a highly piled plate of steaming waffles. “There are also potato ones and I found a deep fat fryer on the side of the road! I died a little but it works!” 

Brushing past the concept that Wade dies on a spectrum of a little to a lot, he shakily pulls out his I need help card, one he’d sworn he’d never use. He can only hope that this won’t change Deadpool’s opinion of him - that he will still see Peter as Bambi and a worthwhile super and someone who doesn’t need bracelets to lock away his abilities.

F o o d  p l e a s e

N o  m o n e y 

As easy as anything, Deadpool makes an oh sound and reaches into his gray slacks. He still wears his Deadpool mask at home but changes out of the rest of the costume when off duty. He pulls out ten Benjamin Franklins and waves them about helplessly. “Is this enough, Spidey? Wait a sec, I have more in my couch!” Without further ado, he takes Bea - his preferred katana - and stabs it ruthlessly into a couch cushion, which splits with a whiny sort of sound as the air escapes. He rummages about inside the fluff and digs out an obscene amount of money. 

Peter is reminded that Wade does not pay taxes and makes a wounded noise for all of the paperwork Ben and May have had to do over the years for their arguably measly incomes. Like a puppy dog with his favored ball, Wade finds an only slightly blood-stained pencil case to put the money into and asks, casually, “Can you use the zip as is or should I tie something to it to make it easier to pull?” 

A s  i s 

Peter stuffs the money away, resisting the urge to sulk. Looking at the wall, he holds out a gloved hand. 

“Do you want a handshake or?” Wade looks at the outstretched appendage fretfully. “We haven’t really talked about touching yet, Spider-babe. I don’t want to make an ass out of you and me when your ass is The Ass, you know what I mean?”

No, Peter really doesn’t. Stiltedly, he spells out, h o l d  h a n d. 

“Okay, sugar boo.” Wade holds his hand and Peter sits in the tableau - on his grotty floor, shielded by his lovely suit, pulled between the sides of distressed loneliness and guilt at taking advantage, and lets himself rest for a moment. “Is this what you want? A sweet ol’ hand hold?” Wade says excitedly, his mouth running like a motor, “That rhymed! Did you hear that?? I didn’t even try! I’m Picasso, I’m a poet, I know it, woah - it. Okay, I lost it but I had it for a sec, you saw! You’re a witness!”

Peter hangs his head and withdraws his hand. He’s so ashamed he was going to rob his own boyfriend to avoid this conversation. 

“Is this a sad head hang? This seems like a sad one?”

Peter holds out his sorry card which has a drawing of a watery eyed forest creature with begging hands. 

“Sorry? What for?”

He slowly explains the situation - that he’d broken in, not for late night waffles but for late night treachery and that he would understand if Wade wanted to break up. 

“It’s okay. You know that, right? Things don’t mean a lot to me, Spidey. People do. You do. Though shut me up if I’m too sappy too soon, my heart has a heart of its own that lives in a basement inside of my brain, you know?” He really doesn’t. “You feel embarrassed?” Peter pulls out his yes, duh card and scrunches up his clothed toes against the carpet. Very good carpet, he must say, but there is no current card for that. Too many thoughts, so little amount of guilt that he can squeeze from that presumptuous librarian for free stationary supplies. “Don’t feel embarrassed, Spidey. We all need help sometimes and it’s not your fault that the world is ableist and not designed for you to join the workforce. I mean, how incongruous is it that you can defeat baddies on the reg that would make a Walmart manager shit his pants over but he can’t hire you because you don’t fit into his neat little boxes!”

Peter holds out his hand again and Wade holds it eagerly. Once he’s had his fill, he spells out a very important sentiment.

P o t a t o  w a f f l e s. 

Chapter Text

Peter doesn’t intend to ghost Ben and May forever. He knows they must be worried. He’s their son, despite their difficulties and miscommunications and the terrifying ability-suppressing cuffs that Ben no doubt has now.

It’s just that Peter has everything he needs here! Wade feeds him and respects him and listens to him. He gets to collect rocks he finds on patrol and add them to a new display case that Wade finds on the side of the road. It’s an old fish tank and they leave it open so that Peter doesn’t have to ask when he wants to use it. He gets to pursue his interest in following - re: stalking - Iron Man, this time in real life. 

He has the perfect excuse, after all. He’s Spider-Man! Peter is there when the Avengers fight the mutant rats that an evil scientist let out. Peter is there when Red Skull turns out to be alive and kidnaps Captain America. Peter is there when Tony and Pepper break up again to offer Iron Man a double shot caramel latte! Best of all, Peter helps. He webs up rats, he distracts Red Skull, and he orders the coffee himself after finding a quiet mom-and-pop cafe that is patient while he uses his letterboard. Tony Stark calls him squirt and Spider-boy. 

Tony Stark will be his best friend, Peter thinks. It’s that or die trying.

That’s why it’s so detrimental to his ego when on Stark’s first offer to team-up, Peter has a meltdown. 

Picture this. Last night on patrol, Peter’s spidey suit got a tear in it so he asked Wade to sew it up. He did! Wade is a great boyfriend! It’s just that he’s a terrible seamstress and the seam is bulky and digs into Peter’s skin. 

That’s fine. It’s fine! Peter doesn’t want to make a fuss or go through the exhausting process of asking and listening and responding ( and listening again ) after a week of being busy almost everyday. Socializing is hard, even with Wade, so he doesn’t. He stays up watching the news and sleeps without any layers other than a sleeping bag. He puts it off and he assumes he will be fine. He’s dealt with worse sensory situations as Spider-Man! He fell into a sewer once and managed to push down his meltdown until he got home! He can do this.

It’s just that Iron Man has a new suit. Mark 36, Peter assumes, since Mark 35 was his last one. This new suit is great, like all of Stark’s inventions - except for a beep it makes every five minutes. Tony comments on it, jokingly, that it still has some kinks to work out, “like Pep and me,” but leaves it at that. Peter tries to push it out of his mind. It’s not even that bad! He loves getting the chance to web up baddies with his idol. It's just that it’s driving him insane. 

The beep digs its claws into his skull. Peter can feel it physically. The seam makes itself known everytime he moves. It’s so annoying. His gestures become more violent and jerky. Iron Man asks if he’s okay. Peter can’t speak so he lets out a sound that isn’t what allistics do and he is awash with shame and embarrassment and then…

It’s a bit of a blur after that. He’s crying, screaming, all of the “fun” stuff that he wishes he could do in the privacy of his own home. Iron Man is nice about it which is the worst thing. He takes on that baby-voice that people get when they realize that Peter’s autistic, as if having a disability makes him mentally a child. It’s a voice that Tony Stark hasn’t used with him yet. It’s exactly what Peter was trying to avoid. 

The meltdown ends, like it always does, and although he feels physically better afterwards - like a catharsis has occurred - there is a pit in the bottom of his stomach. Iron Man doesn’t ask him to team up again after that. Peter doesn’t press the issue. 

When he cries himself to sleep that night, Wade doesn’t ask him to talk about it. He just makes him a hot chocolate with extra whipped cream and turns off all the lights and machines. They’ll have to go out and replace all of the easily spoiled food in the fridge because Wade goes to the effort of shutting the humming fridge off when Peter takes to staring at it with dark rings under his eyes. Peter hates that fridge. 

Peter thinks he might be in love. Secretly, he plans to make a special communication card for that. He doesn’t know when he’ll use it but it’s good to be prepared. 

When the city goes dark the first time, it isn’t a big deal. New York has backup generators and the people know that the network can be affected by storms. It doesn’t appear to be malicious and Spider-Man spends the first blackout shepherding cars, stringing up Christmas lights with Deadpool, and helping to block off busy roads while the city waits for the traffic lights to turn back on.

The second time, it’s clear that there is something amiss. 

The buzzing stops. There are no loud city sounds overstimulating him. The cars are silent. The fridge is off, again. The city is sleeping. Everything is paused and quiet. 

Peter would love it if it didn’t mean that something was wrong. 

When Spider-Man steps out into the street, the people are sleeping. Drivers snooze behind the wheel, pedestrians have fallen to lie on the sidewalk, and office workers are asleep in their chairs. He tries to rouse a few people, to no avail. They are in a deep Sleeping Beauty sleep. Spider-Man doesn’t kiss anyone, not even Wade, who is sleeping in his bed. They haven’t talked about that yet.

Peter webs his way over to Stark Tower, finding it in a similar state as the rest of the city. Stark’s AI, JARVIS, is asleep too. Why am I awake? Peter wonders. 

He gets his answer after he crawls along the outer metal shell of the tower. It has automatically locked down - a backup plan built into the very blueprints of the building in the case of complete energy failure. Peter assumes that is due to the unstable isotopes that Stark and his scientists have for their experiments. Peter has read about it but he’s never been that interested in chemistry. He prefers rocks. 

With his super strength, Peter wedges his fingers between the metal paneling. With his sticky skin seeping through his suit, he manages to grip the building through his toes and pull back with all of his weight. The metal groans unhappily before splitting. The spider crawls inside. 

“Hello? Who’s there?” None other than Captain America greets Peter when he shimmies down the empty elevator shaft, looking for the Avengers. “Spider-Man?” He is the only other person awake. 

Steve Rogers sighs in relief when Peter slides down a web to land on the ground with his knees bent. “Thank goodness you’re awake, Spider-Man. Do you know what’s happened here? Is anything happening outside of the tower?”

It takes Peter a long time to use his letterboard to spell out the situation. Rogers watches his movements keenly, saying nothing about how time consuming Peter’s method of communication is. Peter has to hope that Iron Man hasn’t told him what happened on their one and only patrol together. Peter wonders if this is why people tell you to never meet your heroes - you’ll only disappoint them.

“Do you have any idea why we weren’t affected by whatever this is?” Rogers, who is already partially suited up, pulls his blue hero mask over his face. It doesn’t cover his face completely, a fact that Peter has always thought was a liability. He doesn’t say as much. With most people, they take criticisms like that as a personal affront, even when it’s not meant that way. “Do you think it has something to do with our changed physiology? I have a heightened metabolism and super strength.”

They discuss the possibilities while they patrol the tower, getting confirmation that the other Avengers are, indeed, still asleep. Peter’s phone buzzes in his pocket. 

It’s a message from Wade. 

Hey, spider-babe, the whole city is catching some zzzzs. I woke up after I died but I don’t think that’s an option for most ppl… where you at? Are you awake?

Peter’s motor skills don’t allow him to use the typical size of the keyboard on his phone but if he has it incredibly zoomed in, he is able to type. At stark tower, cptn america awake

“Who’s that?” Rogers asks, peering at Peter’s phone. Peter turns the phone on, off, on, off, on, off, liking how the screen looks when it lights up. 

Peter pulls out a card he has made which shows Spider-Man and Deadpool with a love heart surrounding them. It was originally made by a fan of their heroics but Peter had loved the image so much that he’d had to print it out. 

Rogers frowns. “Deadpool is not really the sort I would involve in a case this big, Spider-Man. He’s a liability.”

So am I, Peter thinks, not saying so out loud. The Avengers dislike Wade because he’s loud, irreverent, and has violent tendencies. Peter only takes issue with the last of those things and thinks that Wade is steadily improving. 

Exhausted after talking to Rogers and trying to keep a handle on his fidgeting, Peter crawls up the wall and makes his way back to the hole in the building. Deadpool waves from the ground below and makes a series of inscrutable gestures before he starts the death-defying climb to where Peter is - on the 115th floor. The first time he slips, Peter acts on instinct, shooting a web to catch him on the shoulder. He hauls him up as if Deadpool weighs nothing

“Thanks, babe!” Deadpool preens and does a cartwheel. 

Rogers, who has managed to scale the elevator shaft, looks unimpressed. “We’re in a time crunch. There are people in hospitals all over the city who are not getting the care they need. We need to work out how to wake people up ASAP.”

“I’m here now,” Deadpool says in a gravelly Batman voice. “You forget, Mr. Captain, that I’m actually a genius! I speak six languages and-”

“No time,” Rogers grits out. 

Deadpool rolls his eyes exaggeratedly and follows along the trails of Peter’s webbing to find the other Avengers. Rogers has gathered them in the one room. Deadpool takes his time to inspect their vitals, lifting up their eyelids carefully, before reaching for a syringe.

“Hold on one moment!” Rogers puts a hand out to stop him. “What are you doing with that, Pool?”

“I have a plan!’ Deadpool pouts. “I think the reason we’re awake and they’re not is due to our increased or wacky metabolisms! I’ve read the study that Dr. Wu uploaded onto AAAS about how injecting people with super-blood gives them a temp metabolism boost. I figure we give ‘em some of the good stuff and hey presto, smart people are awake enough to fix the problem!”

“What about blood types?” Rogers frowns heavily. “I’m O+ but that’s not universally compatible.”

Deadpool says cheerily, “Spider-babe is O-! Universal donor, hey-o!”

Peter turns to his boyfriend with wide eyes. How does he know that? He’s never told Wade his blood type. 

“Awww, don’t look at me like that! I just like to stock up on blood bags in case I ever date a vampire or a mortal who gets hurt a lot…” 

Peter regrets so much right now. 

Half an hour and three transfusions later, Dr. Banner, Tony Stark, and Black Widow are up and about, organizing how to fix the city-wide catastrophe. There is only so much metabolism-boosting blood to go around and three woozy supers do not have enough plasma to rouse an entire city. Dr. Banner works out the time it takes for the three men to replenish their blood supplies, Black Widow gets on the case of why this happened in the first place (AKA what was the evil motivation to Nyquil the entirety of New York), and Stark focuses on creating an antiserum for the infection that knocked everybody out.

It turns out Peter has special antibodies in his blood that made him immune, as was the case with Captain America. Wade had the unlucky occurrence of having to first die - making the infection die with him - before being cured. This leaves only two humans with antibodies against the infection and Wade is not one of them. This does not stop him from offering Peter his blood, as if that would help, in the hope that it will make him less woozy. Wade is not a universal donor and has an incompatible blood type to Peter. The doctors retrieving Peter's blood also don't want to dilute his antibodies. Wade says it's the thought that counts and Peter is happy to humor him.

Three hours later, the city has woken up its major leaders and has begun to rouse emergency service workers and the people who manage the radio, energy, the water supply, and the hospitals. Peter is hooked up to an IV that is steadily draining his blood at timed intervals, counting down the moments to when Stark will have created the cure and he can stop being used like a human blood bag. 

“It’s kind of funny,” Wade says, seated next to Peter who has been told to not jiggle the needle out of his arm. He has been rubbing his hand up and down the hospital blanket while glaring at the fluorescent lights. One of them is flickering. This is not the time to have a meltdown. “I mean, think of all of those people who think they’re soooo much better than you because their brains are boring, but now they’ll have you to thank for being awake.” 

Confirmed that Sleeping Beauty Disease is man-made , Stark texts. Natasha has found a group of hopped-up mo-hawk scientists in the sewers who seem to know something. Will keep you updated.

Peter rubs at the blanket harder, closing his eyes at the headache beginning to brew in his temples. He makes light under-the-breath singing sounds. 

“Peter?” Ben’s voice is disbelieving and fragile. “Peter, is that you, buddy?”

Peter freezes. Oh. Emergency service personnel. Ben is a police officer. This is Queens’ Hospital. It’s not surprising that he’d be here. Peter holds his hand out to the left of him. Wade takes it, silently. He doesn’t speak for Peter. 

His heart swoons in his chest. He could die happy. 

Ben rushes forward to the hospital bed, falling to his knees. He places a hand on Peter’s knee. “What are you doing here, buddy? Me and May have been worried sick.”

Peter can’t seem to move. He’s overwhelmed by the idea of this confrontation not being on his own terms. He makes a disquieted noise, humming getting louder. The flickering light makes the sound again. He shifts. Must stay still. Can’t let the IV slip. 

Ben notices his discomfort and turns off the main light overhead. “They should’ve had that off.” The other patient in the room turns to Peter with a scowl. Peter didn’t ask him to do that! It’s hardly his fault. “Where have you been, Pete?” Ben pauses and turns to Wade who has his hand in his. “Excuse me, sir, but he doesn’t like touching.”

Wade swallows. He seems as anxious about this confrontation as Peter is. “Peter initiated the touch. If he wants me to stop, he usually just pulls his hand away.”

Ben scowls. “He’s clearly frozen up. You’re scaring him.” Peter feels so many things in that moment that it’s like he feels nothing at all. He is overwhelmed by his thoughts, all clamoring and climbing over each other. 

Wade’s eyes go dark. “He was fine before you got here.” He glances at Peter, asking a silent question. Peter has no idea what that question is. 

Peter begins to pull his hand away and Wade lets go instantly. Easily. With the light off, it is a little easier to focus, even if it rubs him the wrong way that Ben did so without asking him first. 

He taps on the velcro of his bag. 

“Do you want me to open it?” Wade asks. “Tap something else if you do.”

Peter slides his fingers down to the buckles of the bag and taps. Wade nods like a man on a mission and opens his bag. He pulls out Peter’s things onto the bed, not touching his legs - his special pillow, the prettily shaped chlorite from the park, and his stack of cards. 

“Pete, what happened?” Ben asks the question like Peter is fragile. “You left and we thought the worst had happened… Was it something we did? Or did someone take you?”

Peter flicks through the cards. He likes the feeling of lamination and the wobbly sound they make when you shake them in the air. Feeling numb and shaky and horrible, Peter makes a low oooh sound and hands Ben the card. He repeats the sound, dragging his fingers across the spindly velcro. It is a sharp feeling and everything is much more manageable when he is permitted to choose what he does and does not feel.

I cannot speak but I am an adult. Do not treat me like a child .

Ben swallows like he is very thirsty. He takes the card. It seems special to him, like how Peter’s rocks are to Peter. He wonders if Ben will give the card a name and feel sad when it gets dirty or illegible. That’s what Peter does with the things he loves. “I’m sorry, bud- Peter. I never meant for you to feel that way.”

Peter exhales in relief. Ben doesn’t take it personally. Ben doesn’t snap at him. He can finally breathe. Peter finds his letterboard and although he is not looking Ben in the eyes or trying to make words like they wanted him to, it feels like the first time that they have ever truly communicated.

I  l i v e  w i t h  m y  b f

T r u s t  m e

Peter holds out the please card. It has a picture of a boy with his arms crossed over his chest, as if the please is begrudging and sarcastic. It’s not tonally right but it’s the only card that fits.

“And you are the boyfriend?” Ben turns to Wade with a scrutinizing look. “What’s the deal with your costume, huh?” Yes, Wade is wearing his full Deadpool garb. He only shows skin when he is in private. 

“I’m his boyfriend… yeesh.” Wade looks to the ceiling for help. None is forthcoming. Then he spits out a word sandwich with completely uncomplimentary ingredients. “Are you going to give me the shovel talk, officer? I must let you know now that I am a terrible influence and I own guns without permits and I’m an antifascist who doesn’t like the po po."

Ben stares. “That’s a lot to unpack there, chum.” He pauses, thoughtfully. “We’d best invite you over for tea.” He turns to look at Peter who is keeping track of everything even if he doesn’t appear to be. “I’m going to tell May that I found you, Peter, but it’s not because I think you’re a lost child. It’s because you’re our boy and even if you weren’t autistic, I would let her know when we found our boy. Got it?”

Peter hands him a very special card. Thank you, stupid. 

It’s not a perfect ending but he’s seen and he’s heard. Ben returns the ability-suppressant cuffs to his friend, Iron Man sends Peter a thank you card, and Aunt May cries a lot and hugs him and then apologizes for hugging him without warning and then they’re okay. Wade gives Ben reading homework about the value of disabled lives and Aunt May unlocks the glass cabinet in the living room. She buys him a limestone stalagmite for Christmas. Peter buys her a reindeer pillow pet.

Even footing is hard to get used to but it feels nice to be treated like their grownup son.

Wade sees his I love you card, sincere and unapologetic, truthful and reverent, and asks if he can kiss him. Peter misses on his first try and his lips land on Wade’s cheek. The second time, it lands.

fin.