Wade comes home to a man on the floor of his kitchen. It’s not the weirdest thing he’s seen all day, and the poor fellow is in much better shape than the scumbags he’d been dealing with earlier had been.
“Pete?” He calls out, skirting around the unconscious body. The toe of Wade’s boot brushes against the man’s calf, jostling him just enough to stir out a dazed groan- this guy is kinda awake, sure, but the knit of his brow and the looseness of his arms tells Wade that he’s probably not feeling too hot, not after whatever happened to him.
Not too sorry for bumping him, and absolutely not sympathetic towards his current position, Wade slips out of the kitchen and into the den, where he’s met with another handful of men, dressed in black and heaped atop one another in the corner. There’s an orbit of crimson seeping into the rug. Their collective form is held together by silver webbing.
Wade skips over, tilts his head. “You must be his friends,” He guesses, offering his hand. None of the men move to return the gesture, so he turns on his heel, vaults over the back of the couch, and settles against the leather cushions. “Be like that, then. No big comfy couch for you three- or was that just a Canadian thing? Do y’all know about Loonette? No? Unconscious and uncultured, what a shame.”
He keeps the pile of bodies locked in his peripherals, but they’re incapacitated and pretty out of it, so he’s really not too worried.
It’s 1:23am, according to the cable box, and it’s late enough that Wade could give one of his guys a call and have these men disposed of without issue. The number is ready on the screen of his phone, so he waits for Peter to emerge before making any preemptive decisions.
“Petey-pie,” He calls again, craning his neck over the back of the couch, hoping to catch a glimpse of the bedroom- more specifically, of a certain person he’s hoping hides within.
A minute passes, and then another, but Peter appears eventually, ambling out from the dark room with a mug in one hand and an empty plate in the other. His eyes are sleepy, cloaked by thick lashes, heavy lids.
“Hey, babe.” A lazy smile wanders across Peter’s cheeks. He puts the plate and mug down in favour of joining Wade on the couch. “How was work?”
Wade shrugs, throwing an arm around Peter’s shoulders and tugging him closer. “Same old, same old. Had some ancient jackass to protect, an English dude with no idea how to dress and a major beef to pick with booty shorts, of all things, but hey, heyo, I got paid and he’s still just a dipshit with a massive head and a tiny brain, so.”
Slender fingers find purchase at the base of Wade’s neck, massaging random shapes into the taut skin. It’s easy, this interaction, natural as it is soothing, and Wade finds his eyes rolling back in response, the always-burning state of his skin relaxing into something just a little more bearable.
He has to remind himself that there are others in the room with them, passed out and actively bloodying their new carpet.
“So, uh,” Wade eyeballs the writhing pile of bodies in the corner, prodding Peter’s side for emphasis. “What’d you get up to today, honey-bunches?”
Peter blinks, almost like he’s unsure of what Wade is referring to. “Nothing too exciting, not by your standards. Graded some papers, put together that seminar for the university next week, put my suits through the wash, patched up a couple of yours-”
“Pete.”
“-and I took out some goons trying to grab me for some ransom cash, or something like that.” He says it nonchalantly, the right corner of his mouth quirking. “Don’t know when they’ll get the hint that they’re not gonna get their hands on mean ol’ Deadpool’s boo, but. Alas. What can you do?”
“How many did they send this time?”
“Five? Maybe six? S’not like they had a chance, either way-”
Wade huffs, shooting a dagger of a glare over at the heap. “I’m gonna-”
“No you’re not.”
“But Petey-”
“I took ‘em out just fine, yeah?” Peter challenges, but his features are soft, fatigued and careless despite the circumstances. “We’ll dump these bums on the curb, and they can go running back with their tails between their legs to whichever bossman send them this time, and hopefully they’ll learn their lesson.”
“They won’t.” Wade counters.
He doesn’t like that he can hear them squirming where they lie, their limbs dragging fruitlessly across the blood-soaked carpet.
His guns are still strapped to his person, sitting prim and pretty in their holsters, begging to be revealed, to load a dozen or so rounds into the chests and heads of the invaders. Their metal voices ring at the back of his skull, nibble at the sensitive skin behind his ears- they’re assertive in a way that Wade’s rational thinking isn’t, but Peter’s hands pleading at his chest are overpowering. Peter anchors him, liberates him.
They’re not worth it, Peter says, without actually having to say it. His eyes are wide, flecks of green apparent against a backdrop of earthy browns. They’re not worth it.
Wade relents and holds Peter closer. “You totally owe me some cunnilingus later, mister.”
“I think you mean fellatio, baby-”
He shakes his head, grinning tightly into Peter’s scalp. “You heard what I said.”
Peter laughs, then, a twinkle of a sound that dispels the caution hanging above Wade’s head. “Cunnilingus it is, then.” With a roll of his shoulders, Peter slips out from Wade’s grasp, saunters over to the goons in the corner. “You wanna call those guys?”
Wade peers over the back of the couch, holding his phone out for Peter to see. “The ones that took care’a this last time?”
Peter nods, turning away from Wade to pull a face at the bodies below him. “I would’ve just taken them out myself, but I had to make dinner, and then I had to finish that seminar, and- you know how it is, got carried away doing, I don’t know, more important stuff.”
Wade offers a sympathetic nod, shooting a quick text to his contact before jumping over to Peter. “Y’know,” He begins, nudging the mass of people with his boot, “You could’a made a little less of a mess here, Petey-baby. If you wanted to redecorate, we could’a just bought a carpet that started off in red.”
“Says you!” Peter admonishes, his features twisting with mock affront.
“Says me!”
“You’re ridiculous.”
“Ridiculously sexy, you mean?”
“Not at all.” Peter saunters away, collecting his discarded mug and plate. He makes a beeline for the kitchen, playfully avoiding Wade’s reaching hands with a smile on his lips and something radiant behind his eyes.
Left alone with Peter’s assailants, Wade bumps into their neighboring bookshelf, accidentally knocking it down and onto their bloodied forms. It’s an act of clumsiness and nothing more.
Peter returns with a bag of tortillas and a bottle of water. He tosses the bottle to Wade, his gaze emphatically avoiding the fallen piece of furniture. “You down for some talk show reruns?”
They settle into the couch again, Wade sprawled across all three cushions and Peter tucked beneath the shelter of his arm. It’s late, and Peter is three minutes away from passing out from sheer exhaustion, so they unwind easily, keep each other steady and present.
Nondescript men and women in grey attire enter the apartment empty handed and leave with black bags slung over their shoulders. Wade and Peter are already asleep when they arrive.