Chapter Text
Now, when people tell you not to give out personal information to strangers, it’s wise to heed the warning. It’s a good lesson, and like most other New Yorkers, Peter had a multitude of safety measures just like it drilled into his head since he could comprehend basic human speech. He knew all about anonymity in most public spaces, keeping his nose out of trouble (as much as he could help it, at least), and having a hearty amount of caution when interacting with people he does not know personally.
Peter, also, found himself regularly in situations that had…extenuating circumstances. In other words, he gave his phone number to two other vigilantes (Deadpool was sort of an honorary one, if they wanted to shorten his title from ‘ex-mercenary, reformed crime fighter, lover of chimichangas’) and never really thought past the consequence of total strangers having his contact information. It wasn’t like he was worried they would share his number, or somehow sign him up for a list of scam marketers, but any other implication of the matter went right over his head. He really only expected to be contacted in case of emergencies, or in Deadpool’s case, if he saw a really cute pigeon.
Thus, he was entirely unprepared for the messaging menace that came in the form of a thirty-something year old merc-with-a-mouth (despite what the nickname would suggest, Peter thought it primarily for in person communication). Sue him, he’d thought the sanctity of sharing your personal cell number before even exchanging first names was a vigilante staple. Maybe there really was a world of difference between courtesy of mercenaries and…well, whatever Peter and Daredevil were.
It all started on a Tuesday morning. His phone was on low battery, and he’d spent most of the night before punching and getting punched, so truly, he didn’t think it would be a big deal if he left the device plugged into a charger while he ran to the corner store for some Tylenol and a sandwich. He knew Jameson only called him on Wednesday’s and weekends, and anyone else who would’ve possibly tried to contact him knew to expect a long delay, didn’t remember who he was, or were…dead. So, he didn’t think much of the instinctive action, grabbing his keys and wallet and taking the fire escape to avoid talking to his neighbors.
He got back less than an hour later, having taken a detour to the dumpster behind the apartment complex a few blocks down, scoring new parts through an old DVD player and a bunch of tangled cords. His sandwich had also only been three dollars since the packaging was faulty, so overall, Peter was winning at life. He dropped the plastic bag with a few energy drinks by the counter, then started towards his little desk in the corner, excited to spend his day off deconstructing a movie console. As he passed through his apartment, he paused, retracing his steps towards the dining table with the wobbly leg. His phone sat face-up, unassuming, cracked and still plugged in. Then, it began lighting up again.
The police scanner, he leapt forward, dropping his goods on the nearest surface and lunging for his phone, how long has the app been going off?
He punched in his password, glancing briefly at his messages before holding the volume button, turning it all the way up. He held it towards his ear, too, as if he didn’t have super hearing, or normal hearing with his phone practically on speaker. He really shouldn’t have been surprised when a voice came booming out, making him startle, nearly dropping his phone, saved only by his sticky fingertips.
Crackling over the line was a familiar voice, if not a little distorted through the static of classic radio chatter. “This is Deadpool. Deadpool to Eagle One. Deadpool to Spider-Man. Yes, I am using the hyphen. Over.”
Peter stared at his phone screen. He stared at the blinking dot on the map, showing a random precinct in Midtown, a little tab at the top following the voice over the radio, sound waves jumping up and down with the volume of tone. Peter continued to stare at it when Deadpool began to speak again.
“I feel so unsure….as I take your hand and lead you to the dance floor…” Peter rubbed at his face, closing the app and paying more attention to his other messages, noticing a staggering 40 missed calls —did this guy have hobbies????
He ignored his voicemail inbox, clicking on the latest call, waiting as the call rang once, then picked up in the middle of the second.
“Good afternoon, Mr. President,” Deadpool said, cheerfully, crystal clear compared to the radio’s effect. “Did you have any crazy dreams last night? Over.”
Peter nearly laughed, but thought he might find that rude, so he took a moment to compose himself. “It’s, like, ten in the morning. It’s not after noon.”
“Well, I mean, technically, it’s after yesterday's noon. And midnight. Noon. Over,” He replied.
“That’s not how that—oh my god, you called me like fifty times,” Peter took the phone away from his ear, pressing it to his chest and breathing, already feeling his patience running thin. He began again, calmer, “Dude, if you text me and I don’t answer, call me. If you call me and I don’t answer, assume that I am busy. I will call you back, I promise. Don’t,” He looked around his apartment, at the DVD player thrown to the single chair he owned, at his suit hanging off the back of a chair. “Don’t tap into radio waves to send me a message like it’s wartime and we need to speak in, like, code.”
“Of course, Mr. President, over,” Deadpool said, cheerfully.
“And don’t call me that,” He added.
There was a pause, where the line was uninterrupted, a soothing wash of sound and nothingness. Then, quietly, his voice clipped through again. “Would you prefer a different code name? You could be: Itsy Bitsy, or Secretary of State, or Charlotte’s Web, or Arachne— unrelated but are you good at weaving? Or Tarantula (1955), Aragog, oh! Or maybe—”
“None of the above,” Peter shot back, trying to get the words out quickly before he began another set of spider (and governmental?) adjacent names. “I’m just—you can call me Spider-Man. Or Spidey, since we’re friends.”
“I knew it,” Deadpool whispered, almost delayed. “Best friends. Over.”
“I think we need to discuss boundaries. And, like, why I gave you my number to begin with. It wasn’t like,” Peter sighed, beginning to pace as he talked, waving his free hand around. “A social thing. This is for emergencies.”
The other made a noise, and it was pretty unclear of what exactly, since the phone barely picked it up. “I did have an emergency! Over!”
“What,” He asked, slowly. “What was your emergency?”
Another pause. Silence. Then, “I missed you. Over.”
Peter pinched the bridge of his nose. “Okay, let’s say this: you can text me. Text me a few times a day, and I’ll answer. Maybe not right away!” He interrupted the other, right as he took a big gulp of air. “Maybe it’ll take an hour of two. But I promise I’ll respond. Just. Don’t call me. Don’t call me unless it’s an actual, physical emergency. And don’t call me a ton, either, if I miss your call, then I’m busy . Go to Daredevil. I don’t know,”
“But what if—”
“And if you do,” He continued, voice lowering. “I will go into my phone settings and turn off read receipts to your texts. So you won’t know if I’ve seen your message, or if I haven’t, or if I have and I’m just plain ignoring you. You’ll have no clue, and your message will just sit there by itself with a little ‘delivered’ underneath it, and you’ll have to wait to see my dot-dot-dot to know if I’m going to respond. And you might even see that little dot-dot-dot appear…and then disappear. With no explanation and no reply. Not even a little heart or exclamation on the message itself. Not even a reaction emoji.”
“Oh my God,” Deadpool muttered, horrified. “You are truly evil. Over.”
Peter tried to stop himself from laughing, if only to deliver one more serious warning. “Keep that in mind for next time. And maybe wait for, like, two hours before soft-stalking the Midtown’s police department.”
“Technically it was just their radio frequency,” He pointed out, and Peter rolled his eyes, even when he knew he couldn’t see him. “Over.”
“Boundaries,” He reminded him, letting himself exhale in amusement. He thought for a moment, then asked, “If my code name was Mr. President, what was yours?”
There was barely any hesitation before the line crackled to life again. “First Lady.”
Peter immediately ended the call, and didn’t even feel bad that he had cut off the line just as Deadpool was about to say ‘over’.
Later on, when he’d had his quiet time, and he’d found a good use for the circuits of the DVD player, he finally picked up his phone again, replying to a text from Gwen, scrolling through Instagram, and at last, going through each and every one of Deadpool’s voicemails. A few of them included him singing Wham. Most of them included him fake-crying at the end. One in particular made him laugh, soft and in the back of his throat, when he began to have a conversation with ‘the Spider-Man that answers phone calls’, giving him a particularly high-pitched and strained voice.
He opened his texts again, sending a screenshot of the empty inbox, adding a quick ‘You should go into impressions’ at the end. Deadpool sent him back a string of emojis, and it almost looked like his phone was about to download a virus.