Bruised knuckles rap against a frosty window pane. The sound is short and quiet, swallowed by the night without so much as an echo. There’s no tangible response, but Peter knows better than to let this deter him. It’s not the first time he’s come in such a state, and given his track record, probably won’t be the last, either.
Although the apartment’s interior is void of all light, Peter can just barely make out the details of the bedroom through the glass- clothes strewn across a dark carpet, a desk, a broken lamp, an unmade bed that’s claimed by the stark outline of a body, sound and unmoving in slumber.
With a frosty exhale, Peter presses his palms flat against the window and eases it open, careful not to make too much noise. The movement is painful, makes his throbbing muscles constrict despite the trivial motion, but he doesn’t hesitate as he slips in through the opening. Warmth wraps up his sore legs, kisses away the cold that’s left his cheeks bitten and red.
He lets out a sigh, sliding the window shut behind him. The change of temperature has his stomach churning, the mask clinging to his face in a manner that’s unusually suffocating, and it only worsens the headache pounding against his skull.
It’s been a long night, one that wasn’t necessarily supposed to end up with four large men cornering Spider-man behind a vacant 7-11, and all he wants right now is curl up and sleep, forget about his sore bones and the rampant crime of the city just for a moment.
It’s second nature now, removing the Spider-man costume beforehand, the mask and gloves coming off without a second thought. Stripping himself of the actual suit itself is a more complicated affair than it should be, his muscles protesting as he bends over to pull the fabric away from his shivering body. His ankles get tangled and the mask catches arduously on his split lip, and even though the room still spins and dips around him once it’s fully off, his cheeks colour pink with relief. He embraces the familiar smell of the bedroom, deep but subtle, one he’s been well acquainted with for a while, now .
There’s a mirror, hanging crooked beside the doorway- Peter bypasses it entirely. With every movement igniting one spot of pain or another, there’s no need to see the state of his body, not when he can feel every bruise and laceration so acutely. He’s almost certain that his wrist is moderately sprained, if not totally broken, and his left eye is a quarter-inch away from swelling shut entire. On top of it all, he’s nauseous from the difficult journey up to the apartment, his bones burning with residual winter chill.
Most nights he’s capable of dealing with his injuries, with the many discomforts and problems that arise with being Spider-man, but tonight he’s exhausted, every feasible inch of flesh seizing in pain like each and every pore is being pricked by needles, and-
Right now, he just doesn’t have the energy to handle it on his own.
Hence why he’s here at Wade’s apartment, for the third time this month, uninvited in the middle of the night- if there’s anyone out there who actively understands an emergency stitch-up, it’s the damage-prone ex-mercenary himself. And, although Peter hasn’t always been so keen on admitting such a thing, Wade is the only person he trusts enough to help in these kinds of situations, the only one that won’t take pity on him, won’t make him feel too bad for getting hurt.
In addition to being his partner on the field most nights, and one of his only friends, Wade understands Peter in a way that most people, to plainly put it, cannot. The two of them together are worlds apart when it comes to experience and personal grievances, but there’s a level of mutual comprehension and respect that founds their friendship, keeps it strong through even their largest moral disagreements. Their relationship is outlandish, a match that shouldn’t work. Except, it does, and when all is said and done, that’s what matters.
Peter is here because he knows that if there’s anyone who will take him in, as beaten and bloodied as he is in the absolute dead of night, it’s Wade Wilson, Deadpool himself- the self-acclaimed ‘ regenerating degenerate ’ who, despite fighting tooth and nail to keep his image as an insolent brute alive and well in the eyes of the public, might just be the most tender person Peter’s ever had the pleasure of meeting.
Suit left on the carpet in a puddle of red and blue, Peter moves to the bed, paces himself so as to not exacerbate the strain in his muscles any further. He’s bleeding onto the carpet, maybe, can feel as liquid dribbles down his chest, soaks into his boxers, but he’s too caught on the constant spikes of pain zipping through his veins to care.
“Wade?” He whispers, dropping his good hand against Wade’s shoulder. The man is buried beneath a number of mismatched linens, face concealed by the berth of his pillow. Peter can’t tell whether or not he’s wearing anything underneath the ungodly mound of blankets, but at the moment it’s hardly his biggest concern.
Wade stirs, gravitating over towards Peter’s form without really waking. The two of them are like magnets, Peter suddenly thinks, oppositely charged and constantly drawn together, even without really being aware of it. It’s a scary thought with too much meaning behind it , one that he doesn’t linger on any longer than necessary, but he can’t help but revel in the pull of his chest when Wade’s face shifts into view, expression peaceful and open beneath a guise of sleep.
Peter swallows hard when he squeezes Wade’s shoulder, fingers brushing against heated, rough skin. Touching Wade like this doesn’t happen as often as he’d like, especially not without the other’s express permission, but he doesn’t pull back - he’s in pain, still, and he knows that being polite right now isn’t necessarily his top priority.
Blue eyes crack open, blinking lazily a handful of times. “Hey, Petey, what’chu doin’ in my room, hm?” Husky from sleep, Wade’s voice is low and slurred. “Or ‘m I dreamin’? Y’know, havin’ you in my bed has been one’a my tip-top spank-bank bedtime fantasies for- ever now, baby, did’ya come here for a good time, ‘cause,” He pauses, languid smile spreading across his dry lips, “Daddy likey, mister- Daddy likey.”
Wade doesn’t look at Peter, his eyes still adjusting in the scarce amount of light in the room, and Peter’s thankful that he’s too physically uncomfortable to react to Wade’s crude prattle.
“I need some help.” He responds, his throat scraping as he tries to form words. His head feels like it’s bloated with helium, and it’s hard to focus on Wade’s familiar face- the intoxicating sea of his eyes, the crisp edges of his jaw. “I was on patrol, got a little hurt again, and I-”
Wade jumps then, shooting out of bed and nearly knocking Peter over in the process. “Hurt? Let me see, give me a second, baby,” He fumbles with the lamp, the one with the broken shade, until a yellow hue light remedies the dark space.
Peter tenses, self-consciously tucking his arms close to his exposed body as Wade scans over him, the grimace settling on his face eons away from the placid smile that had been there just seconds earlier. He stands tall, intimidating even in little more than an old pair of joggers, posture visibly tensing when he takes in the whole of Peter’s state.
“Fuck, you’re freezing- you swung here, didn’t you? Good lord, Pete- Did you tussle with a sentient lawnmower or somethin’? I’ve come outta fights with Wolvie less cut up than you, what the hell happened?” Wade speaks in a rush as his fingers ghost along Peter’s chest, tracing the dark bruises that pool around his ribcage. Unlike the hurried boom of his voice, his movements are gentle, his touch so carefully tender that it’s disorienting.
Peter opens his mouth to respond, but Wade stops him with a shake of his head, reaching over to cup Peter’s bicep. “Let's get you to the bathroom, gotta start patchin’ you up, dollface, make sure these ribs aren’t all outta wack and- Christ, look at your eye, Pete.”
They leave the bedroom, Wade keeping a supportive hold on Peter until they crowd into the small bathroom. His hand slides up to Peter’s shoulder, and then he’s guiding the younger man down to sit on the edge of the bathtub.
The light in the bathroom is blinding, an uncomfortable off-white that has Peter’s skin looking sickly in the mirror’s reflection. Inflamed gashes and wine-coloured bruises litter his body, painstakingly stark against the pale tone of his flesh. Looking at himself now, it’s clear to Peter that he’s in much worse condition than he’d initially hoped.
“Got caught up with some dudes cornering a dog in an alleyway, they had a couple of random weapons, as they always do , got me good a couple of times, but… You know how it is, nothing new for good ol’ Spidey, huh?.” He jokes, his trying smile pulling miserably at his busted lip.
For the most part, Wade ignores him in favour of gathering first-aid supplies from the cabinet above the sink. He drops them to the floor and kneels in front of Peter, eyes tired, cheeks sunken. “You gotta learn how’ta back down from a fight, Spidey. How many of ‘em this time?” His thumbs explore Peter’s well-decorated rib cage, adding pressure every so often to check for breakage. Peter doesn’t flinch at the contact- It’s been ages since he felt anything but comfort in the other’s presence, so he remains unmoving with little effort, his spider-senses at ease.
Peter vaguely remembers Wade talking about his time under the special forces, about his knack for field medicine. The talent is clear, prominent in the way Wade surveys his body, in the practiced stillness of his movements.
Wade’s hands are gentle, precise as a sniper’s as he examines Peter’s torso, searches for broken bones, torn muscles. Peter can’t force himself to look away, the sight of Wade’s unperturbed focus - on his own body of all things - always too intoxicating to ignore. There’s a particularly large cut above his hip bone, one that’s still actively bleeding when Wade presses an antiseptic wipe into the broken tissue.
“Like you’d ever back down from a fight,” Peter hisses, trying not to jerk away from the stinging sensation that flares across his abdomen.
Frowning, he glances up at Peter, hands not leaving his body. “That’s ‘cause it doesn’t really matter if I’m getting beaten into next week, you can pop my head off like a Barbie™ and call me Mrs. Marie D. Antoinette for all I care, doesn’t stop me from comin’ back in an hour or two.” Wade’s tone is fanged, but it softens when Peter squirms away from his gaze, good eye glassy and avoidant. “I’m sorry, baby boy.” He shakes his head, “But you just gotta learn to take care’a yourself a little better. I know I’m probably not the best person to tell you that, but that doesn’t mean it’s not true.”
“I know, but-”
“This is the fourth time this month, isn’t it? Been seein’ you like this more than I’m seein’ my own face, which I’m totally not complaining about - what you’re lookin’ at ain’t no Freddy Krueger mask, sweetheart - but I’d rather have you visit just to visit, y’know?”
“Thought you said I could drop by whenever?” There’s a hint of a grin in Peter’s voice as he teases, his good hand nudging against Wade’s shoulder.
Poking his stomach with an accusatory finger, Wade shakes his head. “Offer still stands, always will. No one’s gonna take care of you like I can, Petey. That’s a fact.”
“That sounds a little possessive, doesn’t it?” Peter’s throat scalds when he speaks, but the pain doesn’t dissuade the bloom of affection that balloons in his chest.
“You’re just an itsy bitsy spider, hon. Can’t help feelin’ a little protective over you, not with that pretty little face’a yours.”
“Wade Wilson, you’re an absolute nut , you know that?”
Wade only hums, looking back to Peter’s abdomen. He wraps nearly an entire roll of gauze around the largest wound, pinning it shut with an old bandage clip.
The slim wedge of air between them turns stagnant, then, as tight as the clench of Wade’s jaw when he shifts his attention to Peter’s wrist. Distended and alarmingly red, the flesh around the joint is angry and bulbous, ever painful with any movement.
Wade lifts his eyes, just for a moment. An unspoken question hangs over their heads.
Peter shrugs, purses his lips. He’s long since become accustomed to being this close to Wade without the masks or the open air of lonely rooftops, but he still struggles with how to act in the line of the other’s intense, honest gaze. “Went to dodge a crowbar, caught myself at a weird angle.”
It’s not a satisfying answer, Peter is aware, but it’s all he can offer. Wade accepts it, the icy concern in his eyes melting into something warm, something that sends a plume of heat rising in Peter’s abdomen. “We’ll have to put this on ice for a little bit.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I know, honey. S’all good- promise. Just wanna make sure you get better, okie-dokie?”
A length of time passes where neither of them speak, the only sounds occupying the cramped bathroom being the low buzz of the furnace and the occasional shuffling of medical supplies.
“You know,” Wade remarks once he’s finished disinfecting and bandaging, “When I blabber about how much I love checking you out, I absolutely, definitely, totally, certainly did not mean like this.” He gestures up Peter’s body, mostly nude and swathed in bruises and bandages. “I think I got a clean sweater you can borrow, you’re sleeping here tonight?” It’s phrased like a question, spoken like a statement. Peter, who’s still a little dizzy and more than a little tired, can’t find it in himself to decline.
Wade stands, reaches his hand out towards Peter. The younger man accepts, and then they’re leaving the bathroom with fingers loosely woven, the both of them too tired to be self-conscious of the action.
Staggering over to the bed, Peter goes limp when he hits the mattress. Through half-lidded eyes he watches Wade dig through a pile of discarded clothing, the taut muscles of his back flexing as he searches. Wind howls outside the apartment, rattling against the window, but the delicate glow that illuminating small room casts an intimate shield of safety around the two of them. Peter is relaxed, cozy and content and warm, even despite the soreness of his limbs and the ache in his ribs.
“Here, put this on,” Wade tosses a sweater onto the bed, the garish red fabric egregiously radiant in the dim light. Peter reaches over, grabs the soft material. “I’m gonna go get some ice for that wrist’a yours. Don’t you start climbing the walls when I’m gone, swear to god I’ll tie you to my bed if I- hey, I think I had a dream about that once, but it wasn’t your wrist that was swollen, it was-”
Peter groans, effectively interrupting Wade’s verbal tirade as he buries his face into the rumpled sweater. The other promptly leaves the room, delighted trill of a laugh lagging behind him as he exits. Peter only pulls his face away when he’s sure his cheeks no longer match the fabric’s awful crimson, thumbing the soft fleece before tugging it over himself. He’s in the process of threading his sprained wrist through the armhole when Wade returns, a bag of frozen corn in one hand and a mug in the other.
“I brought tea?” He offers, watching Peter closely as he places the mug on the bedside table.
Peter shrinks beneath Wade’s eyes, embarrassingly incapable of hindering another swell of adoration. “Thank you,” Peter concedes, burrowing his chin into the large sweater.
“Don’t even worry about it.” Wade waves his gratitude away with a tilt of his head. Dark shadows cast charcoal streaks across the hollows of his cheeks, instigating the sharpness of his jawline, the outline of his cupid’s bow.
With some careful maneuvering, Wade has Peter lying across the bed, wrist propped up by an assortment of pillows. The bag of frozen corn is balanced on the injured joint, and a number of blankets are pulled over Peter’s body, gingerly tucked around him in a fleecy cocoon. To say he’s comfortable is an understatement, cushioned by the lax plane of Wade’s mattress, hugged by the earthy tones of Wade’s scent, but there’s something heavy finding purchase between them.
Wade holds back, pupils dilated. When he speaks, Peter can feel the gravelly timbre, deep in his bones. “You’re all I have, you know that?”
It’s as though all the air in the room dwindles into non-existence, Wade’s uncertain presence exerting thick pressure over the two of them. The light flickers, once, twice- for a moment, they’re coddled by blackness, the night slithering in through the closed window.
Peter’s mouth opens, closes, opens. He’s not sure what to say to the admission, the quickening beat of his heart rising like bile in his mouth.
Wade scratches the back of his head, dull nails against textured skin. By the way he’s standing, haunches curled and alert, elbows tucked close to his core, it’s clear to Peter that the older is uncomfortable, self-conscious of his exposed skin, his bare face.
“I mean,” Wade steps forwards, bends down to sit at the foot of the bed, “‘Course I want you coming here if you’re hurt, but-” He breaks off, scrubs at his face. Through scarred fingers, Peter can only barely make out the light colour of Wade’s eyes, downcast and avoidant as he continues to speak. “It feels like shit, watchin’ you get hurt all the time. I get it, you’re Spider-man, you gotta put yourself out there because the city needs you. But you know what? You keep gettin’ yourself injured, puttin’ yourself in harm’s way because you think that’s what you have to do, even when you know you’re outnumbered? One day you’re not gonna win, Pete.”
Peter wants to reach out, ease the strain that seizes Wade’s muscles, but he can’t bring himself to move. It’s as though he’s frozen in place, mouth agape, capable only of staring at the awful tableau before him.
They’re friends, have been for a long time, now- conversations like this happen, sometimes, the sensitive emotional ones that neither of them are ever entirely comfortable talking about. They always push through them, though, always grow just a little closer afterwards, but this, Peter thinks as Wade seems to continue closing in on himself, this is different.
His lungs constrict, tears pricking his eyes. “ Wade, ” Peter croaks dumbly.
“One day you’re not gonna win, and then what am I gonna do?” Wade looks up this time, the look on his face raw, exhausted. “You’re what I got, sweetheart. Cash and booze and artillery? Don’t mean shit , not if you off yourself trying to do what’s right.” Dropping his head, Wade chuckles to himself, the sound bitter as it reaches Peter’s ears. “I come back, every single time, I’ll come back. You know that. But you? You take one wrong hit and that’s it. That’s it. ”
The room is quiet around them, the city outside nonexistent. There’s nothing but the two of them right now.
Wade licks his lips, swallowing audibly. “I don’t want you to stop. That’s not what I’m saying. I wouldn’t ever ask you to stop being Spidey- I can’t imagine what it’d be like, a world with no Spidey. I don’t want to live in a world without Spidey . Without Peter Parker . So just-” He reaches over, lets his hand find Peter’s. Their fingertips bump, just barely. The contact is hardly enough, and in this moment Peter wants nothing more than to hug the downtrodden look right off of Wade’s features, but he’s stuck in place, still, too afraid to move.
“Let me come with you. I tag along most nights already, I can do it full time if that’s what it takes. I promise I’ll be good, no killing or maiming or any’a that fun stuff, just for you. Don’t care what time or day it is. You feel like going out, you ring me up. You shoot me a text, and I’ll get my ugly mug outta bed and onto the streets and that’s it, that’s all it’ll take, and we’ll be all good, good and kosher, you hear?” His voice cracks, gives pitifully under the crushing weight of what he’s saying. “It’s fucking agony, seeing you get hurt. I love taking care of you, could spend my whole damn life with you in my bed, wrapped in my sheets, makin’ you tea and coffee and all that jazz, but I want you around because you wanna be here, not because you’re hurt and you’ve got no other choice.”
The tip of Peter’s index finger ghosts over Wade’s pinky, tracing the hard plane of the first knuckle. There’s a fist-sized knot lodged in his throat, but he chokes around it, forces himself to speak. “I’m not here because I don’t have another choice.” He says softly, gaze insistent.
Wade doesn’t reciprocate, Peter doesn’t falter.
“This isn’t- I’m not- Wade,” Pleading, Peter straightens his posture, supporting himself on his uninjured arm, “I come here because I don’t- I don’t know, I don’t trust anyone like I trust you.”
Still, Wade keeps his head down. His hand doesn’t retract, though, so Peter interprets this as a sign to continue.
“I didn’t know you felt that way. Didn’t really think of it like that before, and that’s because I’m stupid and I'm ignorant and I-”
“You’re not stupid.”
“ I’m stupid and ignorant and I didn’t consider what this could be doing to you. And that’s my fault. But- But Wade, you have to understand that you’re my closest friend, my partner in crime- stopping crime? In crime.” A shaky breath is inhaled, exhaled. For a beat, it’s the only noise in the room. “You’re right, about all of it.” Wade’s eyes meet his, glassy and honest. “I let Spider-man take priority over everything, and that’s not fair, not to the people I love. Not to you, not to Aunt May.”
Wade’s hand twitches beneath Peter’s, shifts ever so slightly. For the second time tonight, every ounce of Wade’s military-grade focus is locked onto Peter, heavy and overbearing. Heat flourishes under Peter’s skin, arises from his chest, creeps up his neck. He knows his words were bold, presumptuous, even- understands the depth of the declaration, and while a part of him wishes he hadn’t said it, not like that, not wounded and weary as he is, the more prominent part of his brain is drumming with adrenaline, itching to repeat it again, again, again.
Their eyes meet in a challenge, yield in a prayer- Peter swears he can see the relief colouring Wade’s cheeks as the older man’s shoulders slacken, chest expanding with a wobbly breath.
Involuntarily so, the corners of Peter’s mouth upturn, just enough for Wade to notice. “You and me on patrols, inseparable from here on out. How’s that sound?”
“I would love that, Petey.”
And just like that, it’s as though the tension in the room crashes into oblivion- the unspoken thoughts, the uncertainty, the anger, the nerves, all suctioned from the small space in such a hasty manner that it’s like they were never present in the first place. Barriers fallen, non-existent now, Wade turns his hand, presses his rough palm to Peter’s. It’s natural, when their fingers tangle, squeeze tightly together.
Peter tugs, motions with his chin towards the empty half of the bed. “Let’s sleep, yeah? Talk more in the morning?”
Instead of a verbal answer, he’s met with a toothy grin, with watery eyes and delicate laughter. Wade temporarily migrates his attention to Peter’s wrist, tossing the frozen corn and wrapping a compression bandage around the irritated joint. When he’s pleased with his handiwork, adjusting the layout of the gauze until it’s perfect, Wade lifts the bedsheets, crawls onto the mattress.
Peter watches intently the entire time, up until the lamp is turned off and the environment surrenders to the dark. His vision has yet to adjust to the change in brightness when Wade loops an arm across his midsection, warm and large and cautious.
Without really thinking, Peter settles closer to the other body, gradually resting his head on the broad torso, sighing blissfully when his ears prick with the muffled sound of Wade’s heartbeat.
Eyelids weighed by the night’s exhaustion, he’s only barely awake when Wade speaks again.
“Did you mean it, baby boy?”
His words are small, whispered gently into the shell of Peter’s ear. Had they not been so close, Peter thinks he would have missed the sound entirely.
“Of course I did.” He breathes out, curling tighter into Wade’s sheltering body. He’s not much smaller than the other, but his narrow frame slots well against the other’s broad chest, and here, secluded by the mountain of blankets covering their bodies, Peter feels small; safe.
Wade sighs, heavy and content, his palm flush to Peter’s abdomen, inches above the bandaged wounds. He’s prudent, not to putting too much pressure on Peter’s ribs or jostling his sprained wrist, and Peter can’t recall a time he’s ever felt so lovingly taken care of, so thoroughly watched over. It’s like he’s a child again, being babied by his aunt and uncle, but he doesn’t mind, not when it’s coming from Wade and his gentle hands, his tender hold.
Peter loses himself to sleep with thoughts of ocean-toned eyes, rough skin.
What might be the most restful slumber Peter’s had all year is interrupted by the harsh noise of clanging metal. He sits up with a start, immediately noticing that his ribs don’t ache nearly as much as they did last night, and-
Oh.
He’s at Wade’s, he realizes, wearing his sweater, wrapped in his bandages, asleep in his bed. It hits him all at once, but he’s nothing less than pleased, waking up here, smelling like Wade, still feeling the trace of Wade’s arm across his chest, Wade’s body so unabashedly close to his own.
Bathed in mild daylight, the bedroom is empty. His suit remains forgotten on the floor, blood stained and wrinkled in the corner- surrounded by mounds of other clothing, bloodied and not, the costume is anything but out of place.
Peter rolls his neck, shivering when the vertebrae pop, before slipping out of bed. His legs don’t protest when they take his weight, and he finds himself mentally thanking Wade again for making his life that much easier.
Wade.
The bedroom is abandoned without another thought, Peter set on finding the man in question. If he hadn’t been greeted by the rousing smell of melted butter upon exiting, he would be concerned that Wade decided to bail on everything, frightened by the previous night’s admissions.
But when Peter slinks into the kitchen, fingers twisted in the sleeves of the borrowed sweater, he’s met with the visual of Wade in his favourite fuschia apron, humming something that sounds like Cyndi Lauper under his breath as he tends to a sizzling pan of eggs.
Wade senses him instantly, twirling where he stands with a wide grin. He tosses the pan of eggs off of its burner and then he’s powering towards Peter, arms spread to their full berth.
“Baby boy!” He delights, hooking his hand around Peter’s hip. The space between them is scarce, and all Peter can think about doing is making it smaller- preferably to the point of non-existence. Wade looks him up and down, eyes lingering emphatically on the sweater, on the light blue hem of Peter’s boxers peeking out from beneath.
Before he even knows it, Peter is rendered breathless, and he forces himself to avert his gaze and look at anything that doesn’t consist of the very bare-chested, very attractive older man. Peter’s been here before, he’s seen the space on multiple occasions - the kitchen is straight out of an Ikea catalogue, piece for piece, and it’s inevitably boring. When Peter glances back at Wade, tilts his head up so they’re eyes connect, he’s met with blown pupils, Wade’s tongue darting out to lick at his lips.
“Love you in my clothes, Petey.” Wade rumbles, his adam’s apple bobbing in place. Peter can’t help leaning closer, inclining his body just a little further into Wade’s space. Wade responds automatically, crowding in until Peter can feel the strained puff of his breath tickling his chin.
They’re close, so close, and it’s what inspires a strike of confidence, quick as lightning, zapping through Peter’s veins. "I think you might just love me, hm?”
It’s spoken playfully, a teasing smile creeping across Peter’s cheeks, and Wade doesn't miss a beat, his grip tightening on Peter’s hip.
Pushing his lips to the side and jutting out his chin, Wade pretends that he’s deep in thought, considering what Peter’s just said like it’s some sort of complex equation. “Dunno- I’m a little bit of a dumb blonde, Petey-pie, think you might just have to help me figure that one out?”
And then, because their closeness had to amount to something, and because they’ve both been so desperately wanting this for too long, they move together, mouths meeting in the middle. Their noses bump and their teeth knock awkwardly and Peter’s certain he’s rocking some rank morning breath, but both of them too eager and lost in the sensation to concentrate on being gentle, to want anything different than this, because maybe this isn’t the best kiss either of them have had, but it may very well be the most significant.
Wade pulls back first, palm cupping the soft skin of Peter’s cheek. He’s smitten, it’s clear in the way he gazes down at the younger, the way his bottom lip quivers, the way his arm cradles the small of Peter’s back, holding their bodies together.
“I’m sorry about last night.” Peter apologizes, leaning into Wade’s palm, sighing as calloused fingertips part his hair, massage his scalp. His injured hand is preserved carefully between them, Wade acutely aware of the sensitive joint- and Peter thinks, really really thinks, that he must be incredibly stupid and blind, because-
Because Wade’s always been like this, ridiculously protective and aware of Peter at all times, had always made sure he was fed when he went broke a couple years back, watched his back even if it meant putting his own on the line, bailed on his entire profession because he just wanted to make Peter happy.
He feels stupid, but more importantly, he feels like he’s in love, and he lets himself experience it in its full capacity for the first time, here in the protective envelope of Wade’s hold. The emotion is overwhelming, dulling any residual aches and pains, and staring into the pools of Wade’s open eyes, he’s never been so certain of himself, so genuinely okay.
Ignoring his apology, Wade pulls him in for another kiss, yanking them both backwards until his back is pressed against the granite countertop. Peter lets his weight be supported by Wade’s torso, raking his hand along the defined planes of Wade’s bare chest as the injured one rests on Wade’s shoulder, ghosting the sensitive skin at the nape of his neck.
“I love you.” Peter mumbles against Wade’s pleasantly rough mouth, containing a moan as the other slides his hand down from the small of his back, over the curve of his ass, down to the muscle of his thigh.
“And I love you, baby boy.” Wade holds him ever tighter, because they’ve both been waiting so long, without really knowing it. Because neither of them can get enough, now that they have it. “I love you, Pete.” Wade doesn’t break the kiss when he repeats it, over and over and over again.