The second time they met, it was by accident and they weren't in their costumes. In fact, all Peter Parker had on was his father's thick-rimmed, black glasses and a pair of blue plaid boxers. It was eight months after their first meeting and Peter stood in a laundromat for the first time in his short life.

He was down to his last article of clean clothing (the boxers), trying to do his own laundry because May had gotten suspicious that one time he'd come home from Empire State University to spend the weekend with her. He'd accidentally washed his Spider suit with the whites, turning everything pink and purple and she'd yet to let him live it down.

It was a cold, early September evening and he'd just finished crawling his way through a rigorous number of exams and papers. It was also a few months before Thanksgiving break, and he was already begging for the break to come sooner, so he didn't have to deal with his coursework for a week. The sudden free time Peter found himself saddled with, and the impending week-long vacation looming at the back of his mind was the reason that he found himself fighting with the washing machine. He was trying to figure out how to use the machines in preparation for cleaning all of the clothes he'd brought with him to his dorm for the week of relaxing and helping May out around the house.

If only he could figure out how to turn the crappy machine on.

Peter had chosen two washing machines in the back of the cheap, ramshackle building. He'd chosen his little corner because he wanted to be able to keep an eye on anyone who may start a fight, even though there was only one other person in the place who looked like a hobo just taking shelter from the cold, and he also wanted to be able to hide his half-nakedness from the public eye.

"Are you serious?" Peter grumbled and began kicking the machine with his bare foot after each word, "just—fuckin'—start—you utter piece of—"

"You kiss your Mamma with that mouth, cutie-pie hipster, with the nice ass?" asked a deep voice from the front of the mostly empty laundromat.

Peter gave the man who'd spoken a slow once over starting at his thick black combat boots and sliding up the muscles of the jean-clad legs. He noted that the stranger was a good five inches taller than him and was so very well-built. It had taken Peter a long time to come to terms with his bisexuality, but after Gwen (he could say her name now without choking up, at least, he could within the confines of his own head), he couldn't be with any girls that had her smile. Her laugh. Peter's taste in burly men was the physical opposite of Gwen, and it helped. Peter could see the stranger's biceps strain against the fabric of the oversized hoodie he wore over the tight…was that…the t-shirt Spider-Man had signed for Deadpool that night on the roof?

Peter's eyes finally rose to the man's face, which was covered by a Deadpool mask. The mask itself looked softer like it was made out of cotton. Not made for combat then. He wondered if it felt better against the scars.

"Ugh," Peter said, swallowing the extra saliva that had gathered in his mouth, "my mother's dead. So's my father." It was the only thing Peter could think to say, being as shocked as he was.

"Well shit, this just got uncomfortably awkward. Sorry 'bout your 'rents, legs," Deadpool said, and Peter could tell he was frowning through the thin fabric of the mask. Deadpool then muttered, "because his legs are so long and sexy and it'd be a crime not to acknowledge that."

Peter chose to ignore the second part of the statement because he didn't think it was meant for him to hear.

"Doesn't matter. They've been dead awhile now," Peter said, refusing to even think about Ben, which tended to happen when he thought about his parents or any of the people that had recently died in his life. He gave Deadpool a small smile to ease the tension and nodded to the shirt Deadpool wore. "You a Spider-Man fan?"

Deadpool looked down as if he'd forgotten what he was wearing, then looked up at Peter and said, "hells yeah we are! He's my fave Super! Baby Boy is the goodest—yes, it is a word! Because I said so—hero of 'em all. He didn't even try to detain me when we first met. He trusted me not to unalive anyone in his city. No one trusts us. It ain't done."

Peter smiled at that, because, yeah, he hadn't been thinking when he'd left Deadpool unattended, running on only fumes as he'd been. But he saw now it'd been a good choice. Plus, anyone who didn't set off his Spidey Sense couldn't be all that bad, even if they were deranged assassins.

"Did the Wallcrawler really sign that?" Peter asked after a beat, noticing that he actually enjoyed the flow of conversation with Deadpool. At least it would never get boring.

"Oh yeah! He really did! I ran into him—no, not balls to face like in that one fanfiction, though that was pretty epic—and I wasn't expectin' him to even give me the time a'day, ya know? But he actually signed it, and even left me a fuckin' note! See?!" Deadpool gripped the bottom of his shirt and held it out for Peter to see his own spidery (heh, spidery) handwriting. "Not even the Star-Spangled Goodie-Two-Shoes tee em signed my Cap-plushie even though I asked him extra nice and didn't even take any jobs for a month, which was kinda rude. I also helped the Avenging Hypocrites out with that whole spider robot thing an' all, so I thought to myself, 'Pooly, you been a good boy, you deserve a treat' but Cap was like 'kinda busy right now, son' and he was only impaled in the thigh by one of those robot legs—I was once nearly decapitated, Nearly Headless Nick style, but still managed to eat a 'changa. 'Cept I couldn't swallow, on account o'my severed lungs, ya dig? But hey, that's life, I guess. But it's also why Spidey's my nonproblematic fave! He's a real good guy, ya know, hot stuff?"

Deadpool barely even took a breath while he stuffed his dirty clothes from a cloth satchel into the machine next to Peter's; several of the Deadpool suits get tossed into the washer as well. He smiled at the excited rambling that came from the bulky man. It was soothing to his mind, like one of those guided meditations some of his professors were so obsessed with.

"Anyway, you havin' trouble with the washer? The owner of this place rigs it so that people spend more than they should. I don't blame 'em though. Gotta make a livin' somehow. But since you're so adorable and half-naked, and your pout is like, damn boi, the hottest thing I've ever seen on anyone—besides Spidey's ass, but that's a whole different story—I'll tell ya how to work it, work it real good," Deadpool wiggled his nonexistent eyebrows suggestively but moved to the next washer without making any moves to grope Peter's ass like Peter was expecting from someone who flirted the way Deadpool did. "You gotta jiggle the coin slot like this, and then push it in three times. Ha! That's what he said."

"Huh," Peter said, copying Deadpool's movements and easily getting the machine to start. "Well, that's three whole dollars down the drain."

"The more ya know," Deadpool replied.

He finished with his laundry and then looked over at Peter who'd hopped up on the washer and leaned against the wall. He dragged his abandoned textbook into his lap and began reading. He was exhausted from school, patrol, his internship, and the part-time photography job he'd gotten at the Daily Bugle (he took pictures of himself as Spider-Man since the internship didn't pay), but he forced his eyes open, so he could finish reading the chapter his class had been assigned. When Deadpool had been quiet for over a minute, Peter rolled his head to the side to see what held the attention of the usual chatterbox and noticed the way Deadpool raked his gaze over Peter's practically naked body.

Peter blushed and wished he was in his suit to hide it, because he knew the red would spread to his chest. He decided to make more conversation to take his mind off being in only a thin pair of boxers while being so very obviously checked out by Deadpool, the assassin for hire.

"You're Deadpool, yeah?" Peter questioned, nodding at the suits in the wash, just to have something to say.

"You heard of me, sweet cheeks? And by cheeks, I definitely mean that killer ass you got—it's almost as great as Spider-Man's. Webs has the best booty, you can't convince me otherwise," Deadpool said, leaning against the washer next to Peter's bare legs, but with enough distance between them so it wasn't awkward and was quite unexpectedly respectful. Then he tilted his head like he'd heard someone else speak and said, "yeah I know. Hopefully, Spidey'll ignore the rumors—yes, I know they're true, but we haven't unalived anyone in at least three months. Because, we're turnin' over a new leaf and hopin' Web-boy notices, I told you that."

Peter knew that Deadpool talked to the voices in his head after their very first meeting, and after giving his file (which had been put together by S.H.I.E.L.D. so it was relatively comprehensive) a more careful read through, Peter also understood one of the voices was a representation of Deadpool's darker impulses, while the other was his more logical side. But the no killing was news to him, and Peter didn't know how to feel about that. On the one hand, he was happy the merc wasn't killing anyone, but on the other hand, he wished Deadpool was doing it because he actually wanted to.

Peter did know, however, that his Spidey Sense hadn't gone off yet and Deadpool's voice was lulling him into a sleepy stupor.

"Mhmm," Peter answered, his voice sluggish and slow.

"Well, cutie—"

"Peter," Peter said. He didn't even try to stop himself from saying it, because it wasn't like Deadpool could take an isolated incident, such as them meeting in a laundromat, and just happen to figure out he was Spider-Man.

"Well, Pete, if you've heard of me, then why are you practically falling asleep with a murderer standin' right next to you? It's hella cute, but kinda insane, just so you know, and I would know," Deadpool said, scoffing and folding his hands under his chin. Peter noticed the shiny, red sores, on his thick fingers, like Deadpool had walked through a fire and been severely burned. Peter wondered if they hurt as much as they looked like they did.

"Seems to me, you only kill when you have a reason," Peter shrugged, looking back down at his textbook. "And while I don't at all agree with murder—murder is horrible, it really, really is, and you shouldn't do it, ever—but, I mean, at least you're not like…killing needlessly. You seem kinda like—ugh, that one guy, Lord Elrond…um, oh!—Hugo what's-his-face plays where he wears the Guy Fawkes mask, Vee I think? He, like, shaves Natalie Portman's character's head, tortures her, and falls in love with her…maybe that was a bad example. Anyway, you just said you haven't killed anyone for three months."

Deadpool fell quiet again, which drew Peter out of his drowsy state since Deadpool was rarely silent. Peter pulled his legs up to meet his chest and rested his chin on his knees, glancing at Deadpool again. He was surprised when Deadpool, after what seemed like a moment of speechless internal struggle, suddenly stuck out his hand.

"You're a weird one, Mr. Grinch, and may be crazier than even me since you're all calm and shit talkin' to me like I'm not a hamburger faced, mean sonofabitch. But I like you, ya creeper. Plus, you just pulled out a vague reference even I'm barely familiar with," Deadpool said. "Wade Winston Wilson, at your service."

"Peter Parker," Peter said, taking the warm hand and shaking it. The warmth of Dead—Wade's hand felt nice in the cold air of the laundromat. It sent goosebumps up his arms and made him shiver.

"Nice t'meet'cha, Petey-pie," Wade replied. Then he tilted his head again and said, "he is fuckin' adorable, lookin' like a lazy, sleepy kitty. And look at that, he didn't even flinch at our three-day-old meatball hands."

Peter blushed and opened his mouth to say something, though he didn't know what, but was startled out of the conversation by the loud buzzing of the washers telling him his clothes were done. He was just happy he didn't jump up and cling to the ceiling as he was wont to do when he was really surprised. It was when he was sliding off the washer that he realized he'd yet to let go of Wade's hand.

His blush deepened, and he hastily took back his hand, so he could move his wet clothes to the dryer. When he was finished, Wade showed him how to avoid spending more money on the dryer, and then Peter hopped on top of the dryer, kicking his feet against the front.

He secretly enjoyed the rocking motion of the machines because it helped soothe his tense muscles and helped filter out the sounds around him. His heightened senses sometimes made it hard for his mind to focus, but the lull of the loud machines ran a pleasant buzz through his ears. Wade chattered on in the background, and it took Peter several minutes to realize that his eyes were closed.

He quickly fell asleep.

The snapped his eyes open, forcing the sleep away, only for his eyelids to droop again. The sounds around him faded.

He jerked awake when a gentle hand fell on his knee.

"Heya, Petey," Wade said, his voice oddly hushed like he wasn't used to trying to be quiet, or gentle, "if you're that tired, I'll wake you when your stuff's done. I won't let any baddies getcha while you're sleepin'."

Peter smiled, patted Wade's hand in thanks, curled his legs into his chest, and fell asleep right there on top of the dryer.

True to his word, almost an hour later, Wade woke him up with a tap to Peter's nose, letting him know his clothes were all dry. They parted ways on friendly terms and Peter almost didn't want the pleasant conversation to end.

It took Peter two days to find a card with Wade's number tucked into a pocket of one of the pairs of jeans he'd been cleaning that night. He almost texted the number right then, but he wasn't sure encouraging Wade to hang out with his unmasked (and by default nerdier, more self-conscious, and overall less cool self) was the best idea. However, he did tack the card to the corkboard above the desk in his dorm, right next to the drawing Deadpool had made of him and Spider-Man that first night.