Despite an eternity of longing for its company, tranquility is not a concept Peter has ever been well acquainted with.
His life, from the very beginning, had consisted of unfortunate event after unfortunate event, of tragedies and casualties and cruelties all transpiring into the becoming of Spider-man, an event that marked the figurative ruination of any and all chances with settling peacefully, exiting quietly.
Peter’s entire existence had always been a bang - shocking, blaring, consisting of disaster after disaster as he stumbled through his first eighteen years, swung through the proceeding seven. He’s never known quiet, never known what it feels like to encounter a week without some cause of grief, some strain of tuneless clamour beating against the overly-sensitive membranes of his inner ears.
It’s a fact he’s come to accept over the years, fix to his breast like a bloodied badge of honour, because despite everything, he’s made it - he’s survived a lifetime of dubious odds, of catastrophe and mourning and starting over again, again and again. A callous resilience had developed in the wreckage, grown like bacteria on the face of a corpse until it became something useful, something that had been able to breathe new life into the forgotten waste.
Spider-man had arisen, where Peter had fallen.
And with the guise of Spider-man came the realignment of his spine, the re-establishment of his morality, the adoption of a purpose. Where he had begun his life in strife, he shaped it into one of hope, of feeling alive despite the sometimes frightening cowls of humanity encountered on a weekly basis.
He took to the job like a natural, embraced the bang of his life like he’d never been able to before. When he dons the mask, soars above the city, he doesn’t feel the pain that more than two decades of tragedy have crippled him with. His body is rejuvenated, a wildfire of adrenaline burning through his veins, spreading, intoxicating, tingling in the pads of his fingertips, keeping his hair standing on end. He’s alive, like this, awake and aware and fulfilled like this, protecting innocents from people who’ve made the wrong choices, giving hope to those who loosen their grips, let go entirely.
At some point, Wade crashes into his life, a sword wielding, trigger happy tornado of lewd racket and uninhibited commotion- at first he’s a shock to Peter’s system, a torrent of freezing water against tepid skin, perpetually moving, perpetually speaking, perpetually alive and present. But the mercenary, to Peter’s utter dismay, stood a constant source of comfort and laughter and genuine understanding, and Peter finds himself falling into his offbeat tempo easily, finds himself plunging hard for the man, increasingly endeared with every moment shared.
He’s not peaceful and he’s definitely not the safest , per se, but Wade Wilson tries his hardest and does his best, changing his very much lethal methods of combat to notably less lethal methods of combat , tidies his image and teaches himself to do right not only by himself, but by others, as well.
He teaches Peter to take care of himself, to loosen his shoulders and stop taking life so seriously. He gives Peter a hand to hold and a shoulder to cry on, takes away the fortress of isolation he’d spent years constructing.
Both Wade Wilson and Peter Parker are changed men when they inevitably come together, years of teamwork and friendship blooming into something new and lovely, so intensely unlike anything either has ever felt.
Their partnership is wayward, emphatic and ostentatious, but it’s functional and beautiful, too, a symphonic masterpiece of jarring clangor and gentle euphony, startling timpanis and soft violins. They exist in love, once separately and then together, and it’s enough for them, even when the world chooses to tell them otherwise.
Tranquility is something he still yearns for, late at night when the streetlights outside his window emulate stars and the moon hides behind the adjacent building’s towering body, but it’s passive, wistful. It’s moderated by the awareness that it’s the noise, the chaos, that motivates him to step into the suit, slip out his window. The pandemonium of his own life is what propels him to soothe the turmoil of others’, give something he’s never truly gotten the chance to have.
He brings the city peace, in any and all capacities he can manage, and that’s enough to keep him returning every night, dressed in blue and red, protecting those that need it, saving those that deserve it and even those that don’t. He’s not the judge, not the jury, not the executioner- Spider-man is about hope, not about deciding who gets to see another dawn.
It’s not an easy life, but it’s a fulfilling one. Sometimes that’s all that matters.
He has to remind himself of this, when his phone blares to life and rouses him from a dreamless sleep. Suppressing a particularly bothered groan, Peter reaches out towards his bedside table, feeling clumsily across its cool surface until his fingers brush smooth glass.
Glancing briefly at the phone’s interface, Peter accepts the call, brings the device to his ear without opening his eyes more than a crack. It’s three in the morning, and he doesn’t have the patience for this.
But he knows who’s calling without checking the number, and he’s not about to ignore them in favour of salvaging what few hours of sleep he might have left. Sleep isn’t important, not when it’s the marimba rendition of Another One Bites The Dust blasting from the phone’s blown speakers.
“Wade?” Peter rasps, shifting until he’s sitting up against the headboard. The bedroom is stagnant around him, dusk’s heavy blanket weighing down on the room like fatigue, and his lips are dry, uncomfortable. Wade doesn’t respond instantly.
Knowing better than to hang up, Peter waits, lets his tired eyes adjust to the dark room, blinking out the post-slumber blur that clouds his peripherals. He never knows with Wade, whether or not the other is in trouble, so he keeps quiet, scrubs at his face, drags his nails against his scalp as he focuses on the low crackle of the speaker in his ear.
Ten minutes pass before there’s sound from the other line. Not once does Peter consider hanging up, burrowing back beneath his duvet, resting once more. His senses prick in response, the noise something methodic, a procession of boots knocking against concrete, maybe. The hair at the nape of his neck stands, spider-senses humming softly beneath his skin, fizzling like champagne against his sternum.
Peter breathes, once, twice, and then Wade’s whiskey-smooth voice rumbles through the receiver, low and familiar; saturated with something rigid, angry . “Pete? Hostages. Lower Manhattan Hospital. Could use some backup.” He swallows, and then the line goes dead.
Peter flinches, as though his partner’s state had permeated through the phone line, diffused into his own head. He’s out of bed in seconds, changing into the Spider-man suit without so much as turning a light on. These motions are practiced to the point of automation, requiring no thinking, no doubt or effort - this is what he’s conditioned himself to be capable of, hardening in the face of pressure, jolting into action regardless of his current state.
Moments later the room is empty, its sole occupant the night breeze, dancing with the open window’s lavender curtains.
The hospital is surrounded by a sea of commotion that swallows the nearby streets, injecting the air with an anxious charge. Squad cars flash red and blue against the building’s white exterior and bathe the bystanding population in unsettling wash of colour. A line of heavily armed men create a barrier between the main entrance and the gathered population, exerting authority in their orderly stance despite the uncertainty hanging in the atmosphere.
Nurses and paramedics are stationed in electric clusters across the property, tending to displaced patients and crying children, angry mothers and worried fathers.
It’s three in the morning, still. The city should be quiet, now, most of its occupants sound under the spell of sleep, but this chaos is rebellious, as disruptive as it is unnatural.
Nervous chatter echoes into the night, stirring the humid air unpleasantly as priority patients are whisked away to other nearby hospitals, newscasters shooed away from the action.
Perched on a streetlight, Peter keeps his watch from a distance, unsure of how to approach the situation. In such a limited space, the concentration of volume and activity is overwhelming, and it has his senses sparking like electricity behind his eyes. With a tired grimace, he scans over the ill and the injured, the bloodied and the bruised, the sick and the worried, the young and the scared, all littered about the area in panicked bundles, swelling and collapsing as groups of doctors, police officers, frightened onlookers move from one to another, their motion perpetual, frantic.
His chest expands, deflates. Judging by the lack of interaction between the crisis team and hostage takers, it seems that a stalemate has been reached- no one is entering the building, and no one is leaving. Peter doesn’t know how many people are trapped, to what extent the hostage-takers are armed, the current number of casualties, but it doesn’t matter- whether there are three people inside or thirty-five, he needs to find his way in, locate Wade, and put this bullshit to an end.
He’s dealt with the police enough times over the years to know they’re not about to let him in, not without the needed clearance, and so while he can try his luck coordinating with his third-favourite class of government officials, the other option, which involves breaking and entering the hospital with nothing more than his own permission and a little bit of elbow grease, isn’t quite as legally viable.
Ultimately the decision is easy- he’s never been the NYPD’s favourite vigilante, and it’s unlikely that the media is about start rooting for him, anyways. The police haven’t taken notice of his presence yet, either, and it’s only more incentive to go about this situation without their assistance. He doesn’t have a plan, not entirely, but he’s got an outline and an end goal, which, under these circumstances, are more than enough to justify kicking into action.
With a good deal of effort put towards avoiding being seen by the officers blocking the main entrances of the building, Peter locates his own point of entry in the form of a rooftop emergency exit. The door is rusted and sorely unused, and it’s no surprise that the handle doesn’t budge under his grip, locked from the inside out. He’s debating whether he should risk setting off an alarm kicking it in when his phone rings again, buzzing rhythmically from the inner pocket of his suit. The tune drifts emptily across the plane of the desolate rooftop, comforting despite its obnoxious volume.
The device is in his gloved hand and against his ear as quickly as he can manage. “I’m on the roof. Don’t know if I can get in without tripping an alarm.”
“Copy.”
Once more, the line goes dead. Peter is only left in silence for a moment, though, the locked door swinging open to reveal Wade’s stately figure, clad in full Deadpool regalia.
Peter is awash with relief at the sight of the other, uninjured and gloriously familiar before him. Gravitating towards Wade, the younger makes to speak, but he’s stopped before he’s able to squeak out a proper greeting.
Demeanor rigid and unyielding from where he stands in the doorway, Wade doesn’t waste any time grabbing Peter’s hand, pulling him inside the dark building. “Hope you came with an empty stomach, baby. We got a lot on our plate tonight.”
Within the eerily silent walls of the stairwell, his voice is a growl, quiet and sinful. Gone is the crude playfulness Wade typically speaks with, replaced by something low and angry, dangerous. If Peter weren’t so trusting of the mercenary, weren’t so certain that there’s no one he’d rather be standing beside right now, he’s sure he’d be terrified.
“How many?” Peter breathes, trailing behind Wade as he leads down the staircase. Their footsteps reverberate against the walls, waft up towards the ceiling. The air is laced with the arrogant scent of cleaning products, of bleach and chlorine and hygiene , and they penetrate the fibres of the mask, burning mercilessly in Peter’s nostrils.
Emergency lights flash, a handful of times every second, but otherwise the power appears to have been cut. The two of them are enveloped by darkness between bursts of yellow-tinged light, the occasional red glow of an exit sign. Peter finds it hard to think, so Wade does it for him.
“Thirteen. Nine now. Eight, maybe? I tied a few of ‘em up, the ones patrolling the upstairs, made sure each one of them got their very own ball-gags, got ‘em looking like spit-roasted piggies on a Saturday night in premium DP fashion, as always,” Wade stops when they reach the third level. Straining his ears, Peter can hear a distant rumble of voices. “Rest of ‘em are in the pediatric ward. Some jilted ex-lover bullshit, a mutant fucker and his gang of idiots, wants his kid back, because this is definitely the best way to prove you’re a fit parental figure and not a total coconut . It’s like no one knows how to go about organized crime anymore- such a tragedy, Petey. Such. A. Tragedy.” With a morose shake of his head, Wade crosses his arms. “Anyways. Your boy spent some time scoping the place out, and from my count they’ve got like, eight fucking kids and some doctors and parents tied up, I don’t know what in the ever-loving fuck they were thinking pulling this kinda stunt, but-” He breaks off, stony expression turning sharp, predatory.
Peter knows better than anyone that there’s nothing capable of pissing Deadpool off like children put in needless danger by the stupidity of adults. If the hard clench of his jaw beneath the crimson mask is anything to go by, Peter can only imagine the angry fire ablaze behind Wade’s eyes, the self-control it must be taking not to tear in, guns blazing, and fire into the group of hostage-takers until they’re unrecognizable.
“The rest of them all in one place?”
Wade scoffs, rubs his gloved hands together. “‘Course they are. Fuckin’ amateurs, babycakes. Wouldn’t be doing this if they didn’t take an entire classroom worth’a kiddies, but they did, and I’m not about to let those fuckin’ scum-nuggets hurt a damn child like they’re Cosby or some shit, so we’re gonna go in there, get those kids out, knock those fuckers into next week, and then we’re going to get some food, because lately you’ve been lookin’ skinny as ever and that upsets me almost as much as this fuckery does. Deal? Deal.”
“Wade-”
“I got the kiddies, you take the big boys out. You let me go at ‘em and I’ll have ‘em all lookin’ like tuna tartar in seconds, better for your eyes and for those tots that I play Rescue Ranger™ tonight.”
It’s logic that Peter isn’t about to argue with, not when Wades fingers twitch impatiently against the holster strapped to his hip. He reaches over, brushes the back of his hand against Wade’s quivering knuckles- a gesture of comfort, one he can only hope reads as such.
Sometimes Wade is unpredictable. Sometimes there’s no telling how he’s going to react to certain actions, especially in these kinds of circumstances. They’re partners in every sense of the word, have been for years, now, but Wade’s fickle nature, his inconsistent bearings, and his somewhat unhinged attitudes always beg for caution, or, at the very least, a degree of mindfulness on Peter’s part.
To Peter’s relief, the rigidity in Wade’s stance subdues, his shoulders lowering an inch, jaw loosening. “We’ll get them all out, s’all gonna be just fine, yeah?” Their eyes meet behind two sets of lenses, and it’s not enough for the sincerity Peter tries to convey. He wishes their masks were off, wishes he could see Wade’s expression beneath the offending fabric, wishes he could soothe his fingers over Wade’s rough cheeks, down the curve of his neck. But even inactive, security cameras hang over their heads like guillotines- this isn’t the time for acting on these thoughts.
Wade pulls his hand away from the holster, away from Peter’s touch, and tucks it under his chin. His posture hardens once more, steely and intimidating in the small space, and it’s this calculated stillness that worries Peter, reminds him that this unnatural silence is symbolic of Deadpool at his deadliest- the clumsily boisterous demeanour is Wade rebelling against his nature, turning his back from what he had been trained to do, mutated to become. This soundless precision, unspoken dominance- this is where the danger lies, not in the vulgar words, the outrageous actions.
For a moment, Peter questions the decision to let Wade handle the hostages, and he banishes the thought as soon as it appears. It had taken a while, years of trial and error, of working together and apart, but regardless of the danger rolling off the mercenary’s shoulders like tidal waves, Peter’s reverent trust in the other doesn’t falter.
“How do you want to go about this?” He asks, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. Sirens howl somewhere outside, barely a whisper through the hospital’s bulky walls.
A beat of silence passes before Wade replies. “Last time I checked, they’re all holed up in some recreational room in pediatrics. First floor. Got a couple guys guarding the exits, they’re armed but they’re not loaded. Empty threats, could’ve at least come in with a couple’a firearms, but hey, makin’ our job easier. Not complaining.” He gives a noncommittal shrug, “We take out the fuckers on the perimeter first, and then we corner the rest of ‘em in the rec room. Only their boss boy is a mutant, far as I could tell. One of his grunts I took out earlier called him Gambaro a couple of times. Crime-boss type’a guy, got this whole ‘ I wanna raise an army of mutant super soldiers starting with my own son (that totally wants nothing to do with my bullshit’)- schtick - like he’s not the billionth person to try.”
“Anything I should watch out for? Crazy octopus abilities? Super strength?”
“No tentacles from what I could tell, maybe super strength? Seemed to have some sort of unresolved anger issues but hey- that’s none’a my business, he doesn’t wanna go see a shrink? That’s his problem. What a shame, though, therapy could really do a man like himself some good- oh , I found this study the other night, on the effects of the amygdala during-”
“ Wade-”
“Powers! Right! Okay, so, from what I saw, our boy’s got a whole Disney™ movie packed into his pants- Kristoff build, budget Elsa voodoo magic. Frollo face, the like. Can’t miss him. You take him out, the rest of ‘em’ll go down without a hitch. Probably. I’ll grab the hostages, don’t worry about them.”
With a knot in his throat, Peter nods. “They’re not up for negotiation.” It’s meant as a statement, but his voice curves like it’s a question- he knows the answer before Wade opens his mouth.
“Boys in blue been tryin’ all night, these dickweeds won’t budge. Not interested in money or drugs like normal people, s’all about getting their kid, and that’s sure as shit not about to happen. So.” He pauses, scratches his head, leather gloves dull against the kevlar-spandex concoction of his mask. “I was in the area, scoutin’ out some new takeout places, those magnificent police lights drew me a little off track, so I broke in to see what all the hubbub was about. Was gonna take ‘em out on my own, but it would’a ended in a whole lotta blood and not a whole lotta survivors.”
I didn’t want it to end that way, hangs unspoken, implicated only by the tightness in Wade’s voice.
A muted swell of pride occupies Peter’s chest, and he has to resist pulling the other into a hug. He quells the urge only by reminding himself they’ll have time later, when they’re safe in the privacy of Peter’s apartment, free to join together and resume their real partnership, the one that the media’s prying eyes don’t (and can’t) ever see.
“I’m glad you called me.” Peter states, watching closely as Wade’s expression morphs under the mask. He takes a moment to digest what Peter’s just said, and then he’s leading down the stairs again, effectively deflecting and forgetting Peter’s comment.
When they reach the ground floor, Wade bows his head. “You first, honey.” The endearment of the term doesn't quite reach his tone, and it makes Peter’s insides constrict miserably.
There is little more upsetting to Peter than seeing Wade like this, dejected and icy like he’d been when Peter had first met him so many years ago- hard and raptorial and scarily precise in his movements. This is Deadpool , the world’s leading mercenary, an apex predator perpetually in his prime. Like this, he’s no longer Wade Wilson, all traces of his compassion, his rambunctious personality, and his warm presence sealed behind the mask.
Peter nods, bumps his shoulder against Wade’s, and peers into the hallway. There are more pressing matters at hand- they’ll speak when this is over with.
Through the entryway, he can see the first goon hovering by a set of emergency doors, baton gripped improperly in his gloved hands. An exit sign casts a red light over his slouched form, a deep-set scowl the only prominent feature amongst an otherwise unremarkable face.
Peter has him webbed to a wall before he can so much as react to their approach. He struggles against the silver fibers, cheeks quickly colouring red with exertion as he jerks his torso, flails his legs. His baton is almost immediately forgotten, noisily clattering to the ground as he fights the binding of the webs..
“Good luck poppin’ outta that spidey-jizz, buddy-o.” Wade sings, crowding up against the restrained man. His neck is craned, chest puffed, as he prowls forth, claims all personal space. “It’s sticky, it’s strong as fuck, and my god does it taste de-”
“ Deadpool.”
“Fine.” Wade tosses his hands up, sends one last glare at the goon before he falls into step with Peter again, their shoulders ghosting as they continue towards the recreation room.
The hallways are wide enough to justify a greater space between their forms, but the closeness is comforting. Impractical, perhaps, but neither man moves to separate, not as they pass discarded medical equipment, abandoned floral arrangements.
The next four goons go down similarly, offering little more than poorly honed combat before they’re bound by Peter’s webbing. Wade nearly decapitates one of them, his katana ripping from its sheath faster than Peter had thought possible when they’d muttered some choice words about Spider-man’s usefulness as a superhero, but he stops at the last moment, forces his bristling anger away to draw his hand across Peter’s. The gesture is brief, not lasting for more than a breath before they’re off again.
To Peter, this entire ordeal is bothersome, unnecessarily exhausting at its core. The whole thing makes his skull pound - that a group of definitively unprepared idiots had been able to shut down an entire hospital, most likely inhibiting the care of hundreds of patients who needed it and endangering the lives of anyone with the misfortune of being involved. Perhaps he’s not as angry as Wade is, whose biceps are so tense they tremble as he walks, but his brain vibrates with anticipation and his fists clench involuntarily at his sides- he looks forward to knocking some teeth out, can feel the adrenaline spike in his veins when the recreation room comes into view, a space guarded only by glass panes and a single door.
The hostages are huddled in a corner with gagged mouths and tied wrists, mostly comprised of young, teary-eyed children in hospital gowns and panicked adults with staff badges. They’re overlooked by the five remaining men, two of which are posted by the door, a gun poised in both of their grasps.
A tall man in a slick charcoal suit stands in the middle of the room, shoulders squared as he spews orders at a shorter man, and Peter immediately recognizes him as the leader of this mess of an operation- Gambaro, Wade had called him. His grey hair is gelled flat to his skull, glossy like polished silver. Even from where they watch, down the hallway and just out of the man’s sight, Peter can see that his fingers are tinged blue, the hems of his sleeves coated with a dusty layer of frost.
“I’m not leaving until they give me my fucking son. Either they deliver him, or I kill each and every one of these worthless roaches, you hear me?” Gambaro roars, his subordinate flinching away as he nods profusely. Snowflakes trickle down from his fingertips, gather in a pile on the linoleum floor.
When Peter speaks, his voice barely pushes a whisper. “You were right, G-man over there’s a poor boy’s Elsa if I’ve ever seen one.” The space between them sparks like a livewire, nervous energy electrifying as his spider-senses trill restlessly. “You ready for this, Wade?”
Instead of a verbal response, Wade powers forwards, every limb moving with purpose, every muscle precise. Peter doesn’t hesitate when he follows, keeping only a step behind.
Through the glass dividing the recreation room from the hallway, one of the restrained children catches sight of Spider-man and Deadpool, her eyes bulging as she frantically elbows the boy next to her. The quick change in her demeanour is enough to alarm the five hostage-takers, who swing around in unison.
“Delivery?” Wade chirps, cocking his head before propelling his body through the separating glass. Peter feels the spray of shards pelleting his suit, refracting tiny fragments of light as they ricochet off his chest, and then he’s running towards the two men with guns, using their momentary shock to grab their firearms with webbing. He yanks, the weapons sailing over his head and out into the hallway.
The hospital’s interior is dark, dim emergency lights the only source of brightness, but Peter’s at full advantage here, nailing the first one with a punch to the jaw, the second with an elbow to the groin. They shout out as he binds them together, the sound inaudible overpowered by the blood rushing in his ears.
With his men down, Gambaro charges at Peter, who dodges with ease. He’s dwarfed by the larger man, who towers a solid two feet taller than Peter, but what he lacks in height, he makes up for in speed- he’s in the air and on top of Gambaro before the other has time to process, the addition of Peter’s weight on his shoulders causing the man to topple backwards. The back of his head collides with the floor, frost crawling across the tiles that meet his head.
Peter takes advantage of this, glancing over his shoulder to see Wade holding back the remaining two goons with one katana, cutting through the restraints of the hostages with the other. “Look at me, Spidey! I’m Am- bi -dexterous, just like you! Don’t your heart just freeze up with pride? No? Not my best work? I’ll have you know I thought about that for a whole three seconds, Webs-”
Wade’s efficiency is remarkable and unfairly attractive, as always- it’s a display that Peter watches for a moment too long, letting his guard down just enough to allow Gambaro an opening.
A hand grips Peter’s forearm, blunt nails digging harshly into spandex. His vision shudders as searing cold radiates from the point of contact, the sensation exploding up and into his shoulder, both impossibly hot and impossibly cold at the same time. He drops to the floor, the muscles in his arms seizing helplessly.
“Spider-man and this babbling psychopath ? You’re the best they could do?” Gambaro barks out a laugh, the corners of his eyes crinkling manically as he tightens his grip on Peter’s arm. Up close, his features are ugly, almost unnatural in their proportions- eyes intense and too blue beneath a gnarled forehead, his nose casting a long, crooked shadow over the wiry stretch of his thin lips. Their faces are close as they wrestle, Gambaro’s stale breath leaving trails of rime along the fabric of the Spider-man mask.
“Woah there, Jack Frost- would it kill you to- shoot- ” Without warning, the grip on his arm tightens. The ravenous force isn’t quite enough to tear through the reinforced material of the suit, but the cold penetrates the fibres anyways, creeps beneath his skin, along his bones. “Would it kill you to give a guy a little space?” Gritting his teeth, Peter tries to land a blow with his free arm, contorting his torso to gather just the right amount of momentum, but Gambaro catches his fist mid-air without so much as a change of expression.
Blistering frost travels like fire along his skin, blazing over his chest, up his neck, grasping the contour of his jawline with icy talons. His legs are free but he can’t muster up enough energy to kick up at his assailant, the pain consuming every thought, exploiting every nerve ending.
Out of other options, he writhes against the inhuman grip, narrowly managing to free his right arm, swinging it around to clock Gambaro in the face. The hard cartilage of the man’s nose gives out against his knuckles, fracturing like brittle ice under heavy boots.
Gambaro jerks backwards, disoriented. Blood leaks down from his nose, into his mouth, but the glimpse of weakness Peter catches is only that- a glimpse. He yells out, lunging for Peter’s freed arm and burrowing his indigo-tinted nails back into the soft flesh. Tendrils of ice burn like acid on his skin, continuing their relentless progress until they pry into his mouth, wedge into his tear ducts.
“You think you’re all that, don’t you? Little bug, you should have stuck to petty crime. I’m the fucking boss here- my men don’t fuck with me, the police don’t fuck with me, my enemies don’t fuck with me, and I’m sure as hell not about to let a pathetic insect be the first.” The older man smiles, pinning Peter to the floor, holding down each one of Peter’s limbs with those of his own. “Shame, too. Under better circumstances, you could have been a marvelous recruit, could’ve even taught my spoiled brat of a son a thing or two about combat, hm? Alas.” Another chuckle vibrates in Gambaro’s chest, humourless and sharp.
All Peter can hear is Gambaro’s sadistic voice overtop a piercing scream, thunderous and agonizing in his ears. He thinks he himself might be the source of the underlying noise but he can’t tell, can’t feel past the unbearable fire engulfing his throat, digesting his tongue.
The ceiling is white above him, peripherals blurred and spotted, and then for a moment, the world goes silent.
The screaming reduces to a low rumble, and then to nothing at all. The white of the ceiling morphs into black, slowly evolving until assuming no discernable colour identity- all of them at once, none of them at all. His skin preens when the burning sensation fades into periphery, disappears as though it had never been there in the first place, and for a heartbeat, Peter is content to give in to this quiet, relish in this peace and claim it as his own.
The moment ends abruptly, and the world is plunging back into colour and sound and sensation, whirling incomprehensibly around Peter’s head before stabilizing on the image of his own cold-bitten arms, still held by Gambaro’s grip.
Except, instead of Gambaro’s robust chest looming over him, bloody stumps replace the area where the man’s forearms once were, hands disembodied and only partially hooked into Peter’s flesh. There’s an alarming moment where Peter reduces to panic, wholly freaked out by the lifeless fingers curled around his wrists, but the moment shatters away when he absorbs the rest of his surroundings- more specifically, when his eyes land on Wade.
Katanas drawn and freshly bloodied, the mercenary stands horribly still next to Peter. His back is straight, head cocked teasingly. “Oh- I know from experience that that’s gotta hurt.”
At his feet lies Gambaro, who stares down at his mutilated arms in shock, his mouth opening and closing wordlessly. Peter’s stomach churns at the sight, and he’s shaking off the disembodied hands until they fall lifelessly to his feet. Even with the contact terminated, he can still feel the cold soaking into his bones, whispering across his shivering skin.
Wade stalks forwards, weapons lowered defensively. “Listen here, you fucking piss popsicle - I was gonna let you off easy today, even though you decided preyin’ on sick kids was how you were gonna spend your evening. Had a whole plan set up, y’know? Get those tiny tater tots out, let Spidey over here take y’all out humanely, because we all know that’s not how it would’a gone if I’d been in charge’a you bastards.” He sheathes the katanas, rolls his shoulders until the tense muscles loosen. “But hey, get this; you felt like usin’ your damn Disney™ princess powers on my baby here was the right thing to do and- and hey, I get it, we all wanna experience the whole Elsa package, get all up in that Idina Menzel groove, baby- but that? That, my dear fuckwad, was just a little too uncool to be chill with me, you get what I’m saying? No? Well. It’s a good thing I sent those little kiddies out, would’a been a shame if they’d had to see this go down.”
Peter doesn’t interfere when Wade pounces forward. He’s graceful as a leopard as he sails through the air, with his drawn limbs and poised form, his taut muscles and lethal accuracy. The impact of Wade’s fists is devastating, the disturbingly discernable crunch of snapping bone only amplified by the limited space. He holds back no punch, landing hit after hit to Gambaro’s face, chest, neck, the other unable to defend himself.
Eventually, Peter wills himself forwards, drags Wade off and away from the broken body of the criminal, wobbly-limbed and dizzied by the flickering emergency lights as he navigates them out of the building. He can hear as cops storm the building, as they find the distinctly bound goons he’d taken care of, and his skin still feels frozen and hot, but he doesn’t slow his pace, not until they’re stumbling out onto the rooftop, received by the understated gaze of the moon overhead.
“We should go,” Peter suggests. His fingers shiver. Cold gnaws on his joints, relentless. The temperature shows no sign of leaving, even when challenged by the embrace of humid night air.
Wade stares at him, expression unreadable under the mask, and then he’s crumbling forwards, tugging Peter to his chest. His fingers press hard enough into Peter’s skin to leave marks, but Peter remains in place, content. Although the cold doesn’t disappear, Wade’s warmth sedates its aggression, dulls the icy fangs that pierce his skin, pollute his thoughts.
Peter holds him back just as tightly. The quivering of his body doesn’t pacify, not even when Wade presses a masked kiss to his forehead. “He nearly killed you.”
“Nearly.”
“I should’ve slaughtered him.”
“He got what he deserved, babe.”
The commotion below continues, progressively inflating in volume until the whispers of Spider-man and Deadpool’s unsanctioned appearance float up to the rooftop. It’s a proper departure point, Peter knows, so he separates himself from Wade, knots his fingers with the other’s before motioning out towards the city - towards the general direction of his apartment. He’s uncomfortable and stiff, and now that the adrenaline is gone, exhaustion plows into his body at full velocity, but he’s fit enough for a swing back home, even supporting an extra passenger.
“C’mon. We’ll go to my place tonight.” Is what Peter says as he offers a wavering hand. There’s a bitter taste in his mouth, and the image of disembodied hands clamped around his arm is burned into his vision, but he swallows everything he’s feeling for the sake of getting home, warming his fingers.
Wade takes it cautiously, his stance tight; guarded. He folds his arms over Peter’s shoulders, his hands locking at the base of Peter’s chest, and then they’re of into the night, little more than a blur of motion amongst an endless grid of buildings.
Peter’s window is still open when they reach the apartment.
The ancient fire escape groans beneath their joined weight, rattling in protest as Wade releases his hold on Peter, slips into the room without hesitation. Turning in like this has long since become routine, and it’s so wonderfully familiar after another nearly-fatal outing that it makes Peter want to cry.
The mercenary reaches his hand towards Peter, eases him in, shuts the window once his feet are steady on the interior carpet. “You’re freezing.” He states, thumbing the ribbed fabric of Peter’s glove. Even through two layers of material, Peter can feel the warmth emanating from Wade’s touch, only enhanced by the tenderness in the action, the exasperated concern in his voice.
Wade’s pissed, still, Peter’s known him long enough to recognize the underlying edge in his tone, the stringent tightness in his shoulders, but he puts Peter first, now, ignores the compacted anger that circulates through his system in favour of tending to the injured body before him.
Tugging off his mask, Peter presses his lips together in a gentle smile, achy and aggravated and painfully relieved to be back home. “Guess I am,” he walks forwards, past Wade and out of the bedroom. Wade promptly follows, allowing himself to be led into the den. “Picked the wrong Miser brother to mess with, didn’t I?” It’s avoidant, what he chooses to say, but he’s tired and he’s hungry and fuck, he’s cold, and he figures they can talk about what’s just transpired once they’re both a little less wound up.
Much like the rest of Peter’s apartment, the den isn’t anything to write home about, with its contents limited to his aunt’s old paisley loveseat and Ikea coffee table, a starved bookshelf, a relic of a television set, and the shag carpet that had come with the place. He’s no longer fazed by his less-than-ideal living conditions, though, and he drops down onto the loveseat, tilting his head back against the cushioned arm before closing his eyes.
He doesn’t fall asleep, still too buzzed and too cold to fully relax, so he listens as Wade moves into the kitchen, digs through his cupboards. Wade closes them abruptly- they’re empty. It’s not uncommon.
The kitchen is promptly left vacant when Wade returns, kneels by Peter’s tired body. “Petey, baby, there’s no food in your cupboards.” Wade admonishes sadly, and then he’s draping a blanket over Peter’s body, tucking in the overhanging fabric. The gesture is careful, and even though Wade’s spine is rigid, he regards the wounded man with unattended kindness.
Eyes opening only marginally, Peter watches as Wade steps back, rubs a jittery hand over his elbow. “But you already knew that,” He deadpans, burrowing into the heavy blanket. Although he’s unable to pinpoint why, something about Wade’s actions is upsetting- irritating. He’s grateful for the warmth the sheet offers, and he’s glad to have another here to keep an eye on his condition, but the evening’s events blur through his mind, charge something deep and resentful in the pit of his stomach- the call for assistance, the stiff anger in Wade’s demeanour, the cold, the blood, the ruined body of Gambaro. His mouth goes dry when Wade steps back once more, receding further into the corner.
The apartment is excruciatingly silent, the absence of Wade’s usual chatter and effervescent conduct leaves the space empty, unfamiliar. The clock, a thrifted item crookedly affixed to the wall, tells Peter that it’s nearly five- soon the sun will rise, and the morning newscasters will be speaking of the crisis at the Lower Manhattan Hospital, no doubt consisting of twisted reports and fabricated rumours about Spider-man and Deadpool’s involvement. He dreads the morning paper, dreads the headlines about crime bosses with mutilated arms, men encased in swathes of silver webbing.
Peter’s bones remain inconsolably chilled, and the feeling bleeds into his skin, poisons his veins. The blanket helps some, but it’s not enough.
Though he doesn’t portray himself as such, Wade is intuitively perceptive, talented by means of harsh training and necessity. He’s on Peter’s discomfort instantly, narrowing his eyes behind the mask. “I ordered some food, should help with the- uh-” A quick motion to Peter’s periodically shivering body, “ This.”
Peter’s curled in on himself, thighs held tight to his chest because of the loveseat’s inability to accommodate his generous legs, and while Wade isn’t much bigger than he is, standing only an inch or so taller, shoulders only slightly broader, in this moment, Peter feels pathetically small, shrinking further and further under the other man’s unmoving gaze. He’s unsure of what to say, what to do- he’s both upset at Wade and worried for him, wants to crawl into bed and fall asleep on his chest, wants to kick him out of the apartment and spend the rest of the evening alone.
“You didn’t have to order me anything.” Peter bristles, closing his eyes once more. He doesn’t think he can keep looking over at Wade, not with the tide of emotions wreaking havoc on his system.
“Baby-”
“Don’t baby me-”
“But-”
“I thought you called me because you didn’t want it to end in a bloodbath.”
“ Petey-”
“You had no right to end it like that. No fucking right. ” It’s out of Peter’s mouth before he even realizes it, seeping into the air like blood in water. His eyes are still closed, but he can hear Wade’s breath catch in his throat, hard and sudden.
“That wannabe-Frozone shit-sack was gonna off those kids, cheese’em and freeze’em with his freaky ice-fingers. That something you can just reconcile ? Kids, Peter. He went for Sick fucking kids, who the fuck do you think you are, tellin’ me that I shouldn’t have done that? Like I’m the villain here for givin’ that stain what he deserved?”
Against the indistinct canvas of his eyelids, Peter can only see those dead hands, their fingers bent lifelessly, palm cupped upwards, blood everywhere, everywhere. Bile rises, acidic and bitter on his tongue, and he’s swallowing the harsh liquid back, wincing as it burns down his throat, settles like a stone in his stomach. “Who am I to- You all but killed him, Wade . In what world does that make you any different than him? Any better than him” In a swift motion, Peter vaults himself over the back of the loveseat, his hands fisted and his jaw set. The old piece of furniture acts as a barrier between them, victim to the brunt of the antagonized energy radiating from both men.
“ The kids-”
“It’s not about the kids!” Peter nearly shouts, his skin chilled and his face red hot. “It’s about you being careful, being better, about you not hurting people, regardless of who they are. ”
“Well maybe-” Wade challenges, initial volume matching Peter’s. His voice floods the room, a verbal assault on all fronts, but when Peter flinches at the tone, continuing to shiver in the thawing Spider-man suit, it re-emerges softly, when he continues, “Maybe I- I couldn’t- Pete, that mound of crap was gonna kill you and- fuck me eight ways to Friday, I put you there, called you in because I didn’t trust myself, not when the fucker was usin’ kids like some sort’a disposable meat shield, and-” He breaks off, head slumping.
All of a sudden, Wade’s bravado is gone, replaced by something hurt, something vulnerable. Where he had stood, haunches bared and hands twitching, he is now meek and small, free to be preyed upon by gluttonous insecurity - it manifests as a vulture perched on his shoulder, hungry and vigilant as its talons bury into his scarred flesh. He resigns to this insecurity, clasping his hands together, crossing his arms over his abdomen self-consciously.
Peter doesn’t interject. Instead, he waits for Wade to continue, his heart twisting into a mangle of valves and muscle as he watches the other close in on himself.
Wade inhales, exhales, inhales. For a moment, it’s the only sound occupying the room- it doesn’t make the metaphysical moat of tension flooding between their contrary bodies lessen, but it doesn’t harbor it, either. “I called you in, Peter. I was the reason you were there, I was the one who didn’t trust myself enough to take care ‘a those kids. And because of that, you got caught in the fuckin’ crossfire. I tried pryin’ his hands off you but Pete- Petey, baby, you stopped moving, I swear to death herself that I could feel your heart givin’ up, like it was so damn cold it decided to stop beating, just for a second, sure, but- but- I put you there. I did that. I would’a been responsible, and you fuckin’ know how much I hate responsibility, but that was me, I did that .”
Peter opens his mouth, and then he closes it. Somewhere, at the back of his mind, there’s an understanding that he’s tired, and that he’s still so awfully cold, but where anger had been at the forefront of all his thoughts, it’s now displaced by guilt, scalding and undeniable as it billows from his lungs like dense smoke, making it hard to breathe, harder to think.
Wade keeps going. His head is down and his shoulders bow inwards, his torso appearing smaller than it should. “How the hell would I have lived with myself if you’d- I mean, I’d have to live with myself, ‘cos I don’t really have a choice in that matter anymore - as mother Ariana so wisely said, ‘thank you, next,’ you radically annoying healing factor - but, c’mon, that fuckwad wouldn’t let go’a you, he kept grabbing and stabbing those perfect arms’a yours with his dirty claws and- I swear I could see the suit freezing and you stopped fighting back, and- and that was it, Petey. That was it, and it would’ve been my fault.
“I tried forcing him off of you. Knocked out his lackies and I sent the kids outta the building and everything, I tried, I promise, Petey, I tried. But he wouldn’t let go, s’like he’d frozen himself to your skin, and it was him or you, baby. I would’ve been responsible for him dying, or I would’ve been responsible for you dying. Of course I chose him. I’d choose him every damn time, because I can’t lose you, not now, not ever, and that’s- hey, that’s scary, that’s probably terrifying to hear, I’m the fuckin’ god-awful lovechild of Frankenstein's monster and Daddy Krueger, you don’t wanna be tethered to me your whole life and you’re not, I promise you’re not, I swear, I swear, Pete-”
Cutting out, his voice throaty and tired, Wade ducks his head, slips off the mask. When they meet with Peter’s, his eyes are glistening - sincere and blue like nothing else, they don’t fail to take Peter’s breath away.
A telling beat of silence passes, and then Wade shifts forwards, his joints loosening, muscles visibly losing their strain, “But that’s- that’s not the point.” He shrugs, keeps his eyes on Peter’s. In the dimly lit apartment, Wade’s scars fade tiredly into his skin, and he looks younger than Peter’s ever seen- they’re not too different in age, not more than a handful of years, but right now, with earnesty softening his sharp features, he’s youthful and beautiful, adolescent and unreal.
Peter holds his breath.
“Because, hey, you can get mad at me for dancin’ into that situation without hitting you up first, and for lettin’ my emotions get the better of me when I found out they had kids with them, and for beating the ever-loving shit outta the Ice King’s ratty uncle, but- but no, I won’t let you get mad at me for saving your life. I did what I had to do. It was messy and ham-fisted and maybe I didn’t totally think it through but what could I have done, with you dyin’ in front of me like that? Pray that he’d let you go? Have faith that you’d just take care of it on your own? Because hey, hey, I don’t pray and I sure as shit don’t put my faith in anythin’ except mama Bea herself, you hear me?”
Wade’s hands curl into fists, and then they creak open, defeatedly hanging limply at his sides. Peter watches in disbelief, the frost in his bones taking a backseat to the swell of tears at the back of his throat. He’s upset, of course, and he’s sure that the awful visual of disembodied hands and blood-soaked linoleum won’t be immigrating from his memory any time soon, but he’s also overtaken by the urge to press himself to Wade, reclaim the solace his partner’s embrace never fails to bring.
“I didn’t think about it like that.” Peter relents with a grimace. Admitting his own misguidance is never not difficult, and yet he’d rather admit faulty logic on his part than keep this futile argument ongoing. With all the rationality he can muster, he knows that if he’d seen Wade in such a compromised position, he would have acted similarly, if not just as radically. He wants to be cross, wants to continue advocating against Wade’s destructive actions, but-
It’s not reasonable, not when he’s still feeling the cold beneath his skin and the fingerprints bruised into his forearms. His job isn’t exactly the safest, and while he’s durable, he’s far from unbreakable- blaming Wade for how events transpired isn’t fair, not to either of them. Peter knows, better than anyone, that this is just another occupational hazard, unfortunate collateral that just sometimes happens regardless of how much he doesn’t like it.
It’s not fair, not when Peter’s aching to be held, to be tucked in, to be kissed, to be loved.
The room is too quiet, with neither speaking, hardly breathing, and Peter’s suddenly desperate to put an end to the static tension weighing against their spines, pushing them apart. He’s across the threshold in three strides, launching himself over the couch and stopping only inches away from Wade’s prickled form.
Peter’s voice is hushed, when he speaks. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have-” He exhales, rubs the back of his hand against his heavy eyes, “It wasn’t right of me to get mad at you for- for that. You saved me, it’s not like you had much of a choice in how. And that’s not your fault.” The admission is shy, Peter’s eyes never leaving the expanse of Wade’s. “I’m sorry. You called me like I asked you to do, and you saved those kids, you did, and- I don’t like it, but casualties happen, and hey, I guess you saved him from Disney’s legal team, huh?”
Wade doesn’t react, at first, and Peter’s on his way to an anxiety-driven panic when he finally does, tugging Peter’s body against his own, his palms resting flat against the ridge of Peter’s shoulder blades. Peter’s nose finds the dip of Wade’s collarbone - he smells like blood and gunpowder, like spices and earth and hardwood.
Like home.
“I love you,” Wade murmurs, the rough exterior of his cheek soothing against Peter’s temple. “And you can get mad at me all you want, mad man makes man mad, y’know? It’s all good, comes with the job and the face, Petey-baby. But you feel like you took a nap in a penguin exhibit and I’m hungry, so let’s get you outta that suit, burrito’ed on the couch again, wait for the our faithful ol’ pizza delivery man to arrive, and then let’s hit the bed, hm? ‘S probably gonna be dawn when that happens, but hey, hey, hey, you gotta be meant for sleepin’ in the day, ‘cause spiders are nocturnal, aren’t they?”
Peter shudders against Wade, warmth staining his cheeks for the first time since the frost had claimed his skin. “Some are nocturnal? Can’t say I am, but you’ve got the right idea.” He closes his eyes, revels in Wade’s proximity. “And hey, do I look like I’m in any position to deny this poor body some mediocre pizza and a cuddle? Count me in, maximum participation.”
“Cuddling you? Who said I’d be cuddling you? Don’t think I said that, nope , just spoke two paragraphs ago, definitely didn’t say that. Look.” He gestures forwards, shrugs his shoulders. “Whatever, whatever, didn’t say it, maybe that ice gave you some sort’a brain freeze or something, you’re going crazy, little spider-”
“Uh-huh. Okay. Guess I’m just gonna have to freeze again,” Only able to grin at the other man, Peter relishes in Wade’s return to form. His words lose their edge, his muscles their tension, his face its scowl, and he feels familiar, once more- gone is Deadpool, here is Wade Wilson. “All alone in my bed, unprotected, vulnerable, privy to any creep or freak that wants a shot at my ass- ets, what a shame, what a cruel, cruel world. How will I ever-”
He’s stopped short when Wade’s mouth meets his, the kiss unassumingly gentle as it draws him in, cradles him close. It’s delicate and protective, desperate and relaxed, noisy and peaceful all at once, a harmony of chaos and calm, of bedlam and order. Wade pulls back when the doorbell rings, steals away from Peter to answer. As they usually tend to be, the delivery guy is positively shocked when a wad of notes is dropped into his hands and the boxes swiped in one swift movement, the door slamming in his face promptly thereafter. Wade deposits the four cardboard boxes onto the coffee table, a heap of grease and warmth that calls to Peter like a siren.
“C’mere,” Wade grins, breaking into the first box. His face is stuffed before Peter’s even grabbed his first slice, but Peter’s not complaining, not when Wade’s pulling him down onto his lap, wrapping the previously discarded blanket around his shoulders, whispering praises and apologies in between mouthfuls of food. Peter complies easily, burrowing into Wade’s space-heater of a chest as the ice in his veins begins to melt away.
Wade doesn’t allow him to ruminate on the previous events, the images that haunt his memory- he holds Peter close, rubs his arms, rambles and rants about nothing important, nothing in particular, like it’s a normal date night, like Peter hadn’t just been inches away from losing his life to the frosty hands of an ill-tempered crime boss. Right now, it’s what Peter needs- this directive shift in Wade’s attitude is chaotic and nervous, energetic and forceful, but it’s just enough to lure Peter from the confines of his anxious mind, distract him with boisterous noises, overstated opinions and colourful language.
There’s not a thing Peter doesn’t love about it.
They only get through a box and a half of pizza. It’s a quarter after six when they incur their final bites, and by this point, Peter’s body has regulated its temperature once more. Wade brushes ungloved hands through Peter’s hair, massaging his scalp, pressing the occasional kiss to his temple. The bedroom door sits ajar, only a couple of feet away, but neither of them have the energy to untangle their bodies and migrate over, so they stay where they are, watching as the sun begins to crawl through the open window.
Conversations from the streets below tickle the peripherals of the apartment, honking cars and hurried accelerations creating a pacifying sort of white noise that drills contentedly in the background, swathes the two men further within their intimate bubble. With Peter’s enhanced senses, everything sounds louder than it is, resonates harder than it should, but this it what he knows - this is what he identifies as solace, what he takes asylum amongst.
Wade shifts against him, knocks the topmost pizza box with the toe of his boot. It falls to the floor, ignored by both men.
Peter cuddles closer, admiring Wade’s relaxed features as they bathe in the new dawn’s light. His eyes are heavy but the image is beautiful- it’s rare, for Wade to look so comfortable with a barren face. Even though he’s known Peter for ages, now, and even though they’ve been together for nearly a year, stable friends for three, he seldom appears so at peace, so unconcerned with the state of his skin. Peter loves him like this, uncensored and gorgeous, loves the strong arch of his cheekbones, the hard line of his jaw against the graceful curve of his neck.
He could stare all day, all week, all month, and he’d still never want to look away. The acknowledgement of this is frightening, on some level, but ultimately, Wade is who he loves, who he’s loved for a long time now, who he’s wanted for even longer. He’s a storm of unkempt energy and anarchy, and yet, he’s everything Peter needs - he comes with a noise that rivals Peter’s own, drags pandemonium wherever he goes like he’s got it on a leash, he’s fearless and stupid and arrogant, tender and loving and passionate, and though he’s an absolute mess on the best of days, every crooked edge of his aligns with Peter’s, every jagged spike fitting seamlessly against every twisted nook.
Wade Wilson is the inverse of tranquility, the indisputable enemy to peace and quiet. Wade Wilson is chaos at its purest, racket at its loudest, fire at its hottest. Wade Wilson is the nature in a storm, the symmetry in a web, the tiger in a tree, watching, waiting; intelligent, destructive. Wade Wilson is Peter’s balance- his anchor in a sea that rages indefinitely, his burning sun amongst a fiery sky.
He’s the company Peter’s never had, a hand to hold and a mouth to kiss, a lover to protect and a protector to love.
Wade glows in the morning sunlight, content despite the painful red of his scars. Peter’s decision is made up without really having to put any thought into it, and he’s turning his head to brush a kiss against Wade’s chin before he makes to speak.
“Move in with me.” Peter declares, watching as surprise morphs across Wade’s features.
“Sorry- blood in my ear or somethin’, must’a beat that boy a little harder than I thought - repeat yourself, Baby boy, ol’ Deadpool’s gettin’ old, losin’ my mind and all that good stuff.” Wade taps his bald head with a crooked finger, smiling anxiously down at Peter.
Peter blinks, once, twice, and then crams closer into Wade’s space. His lips are upturned, his eyes half-lidded, “You’re thirty-three, Wade.”
“ Petey, please-”
“I mean,” He starts, straightening his spine, “You’re always dragging me into trouble anyways, and it’s not like we don’t practically spend most nights together, and, I was just thinking, a more permanent arrangement might make things easier, won’t have to rely on these phones, we could just go out together?”
When Wade doesn’t answer, Peter finds himself doubting the rationality of the proposition, and whether or not it’s too soon after their not so tiny argument to be suggesting such a thing. He’s rushing, when he continues, “If it’s too early, that’s okay, I get it, I was just-”
And then, without any warning, Wade’s crushing Peter against his chest, squealing something unintelligible into his ear, his entire skeleton practically vibrating beneath layers of lean muscle . “Of course, babycakes! Oh-em-effin-gee, did you think I’d say no to that? Me? Wade Wilson? Deadpool? The Deadpool who’s had a crush on you from the moment I laid eyes on that sweet ass? Who absolutely fell in love the instant you slapped me into the fourth dimension and then stuck me to a wall when you caught me ooglin’ at those fine cheeks?”
Peter shakes his head, struggling to breathe against the cage of Wade’s strong arms, wincing as another excited squeal rips from Wade’s lips, but there’s no place he’d rather be, no body he’d rather feel against his own.
When Wade calms down, Peter pins him to the couch, kisses him until neither of them can think straight, joins them together until their warmth becomes unanimous, their forms indistinguishable from one another.
They’re loud and unruly, clumsy and hasty. They’re slow and tender, patient and loving.
It’s beautiful chaos, and it’s all Peter has ever wanted.