AN: Ahh! First Spideypool (first fic outside of the PJO universe, to be honest) so I'm really excited. This is dedicated to my boo thang, Emma, because she will always be the Deadpool to my Spiderman. And I mean that in the most platonic way possible. Sometimes.

Disclaimer: Not mine. Because, obviously.

cheers,

~halestorm

When they meet, Wade thinks that Peter is one of those condescending jackasses who pretend not to notice his scars. That is, until he notices the white cane and the way Peter's eyes focus just to the left of Wade's face.

"So I guess this is like the ultimate blind date," he blurts out, and Peter purses his lips, clutching onto his coffee a little tighter.

"Ha," Peter deadpans, and Wade scratches at the underside of his chin.

"On the bright side," he continues absentmindedly, "you're the only date I've had in years who hasn't run away screaming from one look at me."

Peter's mouth twitches towards a soft smirk. "Are you sure they weren't running from your personality?"

Wade laughs, running his hand over his scalp. "You're still here, aren't you?"

"I can't exactly run without sight," Peter retorts. "I'd break a leg, and then I'd be stuck with you and in pain."

"I'd take you to the hospital!" Wade chirps, grinning. "I'd be like your prince charming."

"Without the charming," Peter says, screwing up his nose as he chuckles.

"Without the prince," Wade snorts. "There's a reason we're dining on food stand tacos instead of gourmet tacos, baby boy."

"You're taking me for tacos?" Peter asks, arching a brow.

"Of course! Tacos are food for the gods."

"I think you're mistaking tacos for ambrosia," Peter says, unimpressed.

"I'm pretty sure you're wrong," Wade says, vehemently shaking his head. "I mean, haven't you ever seen a taco?"

"No." Peter frowns, gesturing vaguely in the direction of his face. "I'm blind, remember?"

"I'd completely forgotten," Wade says seriously.

Peter snorts, shaking his head, and Wade leaps to his feet, reaching for Peter's hand. "Come on. Let's go get tacos before I scare you off completely."

Wade had assumed that, by the end of the night, Peter would become so fed up with Wade that they'd part, probably after an intense argument, and then they'd never see each other again, and Wade would have to explain to dear May Parker that he hadn't hit it off with her nephew.

Instead, Peter asks Wade to walk him back to his apartment, kisses his scarred cheek, and gives Wade his phone number.

And when Wade returns to May Parker's flower shop Monday morning to continue working through his community service sentence, the two share bright smiles, and Wade tells her that her nephew is practically a sex god.

(She doesn't seem to appreciate the terminology, but Peter comes by for lunch and it's so easy, how Wade and Peter click, even when Peter is being stern and disapproving, that May doesn't say a word.)

Wade kind of likes the fact that Peter's blind—not just because Peter can't tell what he looks like, but because Peter has one of the most open, expressive faces Wade has ever seen. It's easy to tell when Peter is joking and when he's mad and when he's terrified, because he's never had to learn how to hide his emotions.

Not that Wade reacts according to Peter's mood. He remains his same old self, and Peter remains completely exasperated and amused and sometimes, a little turned on.

But Wade likes knowing what Peter's thinking, anyways. He's so readable, usually all Wade has to do is look at him and know. Which is extremely helpful during sex, because Wade can tell when it's too rough and when it isn't rough enough.

Conversely, Peter hates not knowing what Wade looks like.

"You're scarred," Peter says, often. "I can tell—I can feel the ridges on your face, your body. I want to know what you look like."

"No," Wade disagrees, "you don't."

Peter harrumphs, shaking his head. "I do. I know it's ridiculous, because I'll never actually see your face, but I'd still like to know."

"You wouldn't love me if you knew what I looked like," Wade mutters, shaking his head. "I told you, people take one look at me and never want to look at me again."

Peter rolls his eyes. "Love is blind, remember?"

"Oh, I didn't know your nickname is 'Love' now," Wade teases, trying to change the subject. "Dully noted."

Peter gives a serious look to the picture frame behind Wade's head. "Wade."

Wade moans, draping himself across Peter's lap, pressing his nose into Peter's hip. "Fine. I'll be serious. I'm just saying, if you had been able to see me, that night we met, you wouldn't have given me the chance of a second date. We both know you're too polite to just leave me alone on a date, but there wouldn't have been a second one."

"You don't know that," Peter says quietly, but he sounds unsure. "I trust Aunt May's judgment. And I like to think I would have thought you were beautiful, anyways."

"You wouldn't have," Wade insists.

Peter stares down at him, and Wade can tell he's bothered by the conversation. "I don't know what I would have done if I'd been able to see you," he admits finally, raising his shoulders in a shrug. "But here, in this life, I don't need to see you to know that you're beautiful. Love is blind, so maybe I understand it better because I'm blind, too."

Wade snorts, rising up halfway and pulling Peter down the other half for a kiss. "You're such a sap," he tells him seriously, and rolls over in Peter's lap to face the TV.

Eventually, Peter puts his headset back in, playing the audio version of his science textbook as he runs his hand over Wade's scalp, his fingers brushing along the ridges of Wade's scars.

Wade closes his eyes, leaning into the touch, and mutters to himself, "At least this way, you won't see me when the cancer gets worse."

Just seven months left now.