“Here.”
Wade places a mug in front of Peter, bare hands shaking as they retreat back into his pockets. He doesn’t usually show Peter his skin, not like this, and it’s making the taunting voices in his head louder, more vicious.
Peter doesn’t hear them, doesn’t understand how violent they can sometimes get, echoing around in his brain like it’s some sort of empty cave waiting to be painted with the harsh words.
Deep down, he knows all these voices are his own, that it’s him who’s causing so much internal destruction, and and regardless of what he tries, they never cease their mocking. They’re booming and unbearable, but Peter is here, and he’s not about to ruin this rare moment of intimacy because his fucked-up brain can’t settle down.
The younger man grabs the mug, sips at the camomille Wade had prepared with little haste. Wade suspects his appetite is shot, yet another symptom of his still-burning fever. He didn’t know it was even possible for Peter to get sick, what with his mutation and all, but there he was- temperature frighteningly high and head pounding. The kid had hardly been able to stand upright when Wade found him tapping at his window in full Spider-man getup.
Peter, who’s got indigo bags hanging under his eyes, has never been so pale, but he smiles up at Wade anyways, eyes warm and welcoming despite being met with Wade’s naked face. If he weren’t so concerned about the wellbeing of the other man, he’d be scrambling to find his mask, cover his scarred visage with anything he could find because it was awful, too awful for Peter to be looking at, never mind looking at like that.
“Thank you, Wade.” Peter murmurs around the mug’s ceramic rim, his dark eyes falling shut as he takes another sip of tea. There’s nothing but gratitude in his scratchy voice, deep and kind as it washes through Wade’s head, contending with the other voices that only he can hear. The insults whipping against his skull don’t stop at the new voice, not totally, but they calm- take a moment to observe the newcomer, intrigued by the gentle tone that's so painfully different from their own.
It was nearly midnight, Peter’s status as a creature of the night failing him as his chest expands with a yawn. The day had been long, the fever burning in his skin only getting more aggressive as each new hour comes and goes.
“C’mon,” Wade starts, removing the mug from Peter’s unusually unsteady hands. He carefully slides his palms beneath Peter’s figure, glancing up at the man for permission before lifting him up and off of the couch. Peter complies easily, curling his body closer to Wade’s torso as he’s carried towards the bedroom. “I think it’s time for some sleep, huh? Your fever’s gonna break soon, hopefully while you’re knocked out so you don’t gotta deal with the worst of it.”
He approaches the bed slowly, taking his time to lay Peter down so as to not add nausea to his ever-growing list of ailments. Peter settles easily, eyes already shut as he pulls the bedsheets around his body. Wade watches for a moment, revels in the visual of the younger in his bed, before draping the duvet over his coiled form.
Peter is sick, pale and weak and exhausted, but he might just be the most beautiful thing Wade has seen in years- he’s nearly thirty now, Peter is, and yet, with the soft skin of his cheek pressed against the silk sheets of Wade’s bed, the man has never looked younger, never looked so at peace.
He’s so enamoured by the visual that he doesn’t even notice the silence in his head, every inch of his being devoted to watching over the other man like nothing else mattered.
Nothing else did matter, not to Wade, who’d lost more than anyone could fathom and had died hundreds of times over, forced to feel every inch of pain imaginable without ever receiving the sweet release that should have followed. He’s trapped here, locked in his own personal hell more often than not because everyone he once loved is gone and everyone he wants to love seldom comes close and yet-
And yet, Peter is here, and he’s beautiful, and he soothes the throbbing in his heart and makes the searing of his skin hurt just a little less and that’s all that matters. He’s his life, this one man.
This one man who’s not even his, and probably won’t ever be, but Wade thinks he can live with that, even just to get the chance of spending the rest of his days in his orbit.
Wade turns to leave the room when Peter opens an eye, stares at him with a pout sitting on his lips.
“Stay with me,” He suggests, voice quiet. Unsure.
Wade doesn’t want to let himself believe what he’s heard, the voices returning with full volume, mocking him for thinking that Peter actually said that, that Peter would ever want that. Because someone as beautiful and capable as Peter shouldn’t want Wade- fucked up and probably clinically insane Wade Wilson, who’s tormented by an endless stream of insults and degradations from his own fucking mind.
But Peter doesn’t loosen his stare, doesn’t release his pout. “Please.” he implores, lifting his head just enough to meet both his eyes to both of Wade’s. It’s a challenge, Wade knows, one that says, try me, tell me no.
Tell me no, Wade.
And that challenging look- it catches the voices in his head off guard, makes them retreat back into the dark crevices of which they reside, and in a rare occurrence, Wade’s head is silent again.
Every resource is devoted to Peter right now, searching the other man for any signs of disgust or rejection as he lets his body near, lets himself climb into the bed. Peter doesn’t flinch when Wade shifts his body close, but instead allows a lazy grin to pull across his lips and presses his frame against Wade’s.
“Thank you,” The younger whispers, burying his face in the junction of Wade’s neck
Wade is still shocked, still a little numb and uncertain and insecure about being so close to Peter like this, in bed, but he doesn’t let himself ruin the moment.
For once, he gives himself what he wants, takes a moment to absorb the reality of the situation and then wraps his solid arms around the other man. Peter only seems to nuzzle in closer, his chest flush against Wade’s as he begins to fall asleep.
There’s a moment, as Peter is drifting off, his heated forehead pressed to Wade’s neck, that Wade finds himself persuaded to move away, leave once the other is fully asleep, but before the doubt is granted full reign over his actions, Peter shifts again, his hair grazing the underside of Wade’s jaw.
“I love you.” Peter says simply, as though his words weren’t about to rock Wade’s very foundations.
“I don’t think you’ll let yourself accept it yet, but I love you.”
Peter is asleep within the next couple of minutes, and even though Wade’s heart is pounding at the admission and his hands are shaking, he doesn’t return to the thought of leaving.
He’s curled around Peter the remainder of the night, and even once he’s woken. The doubt and fear is vivid in Wade’s mind, but they’re overruled by other, more important emotions.
The voices don’t return tonight.