"You are cute when you look like you wanna kill me."

Peter could have sworn he felt the vein at his head pop. "Wade," he said evenly, and he had to admit, that tone sounded quite deadly, sent a sudden chill down his own spine.

Or, you know, he could have been just feeling the jolts of anger that were racing through him after coming home to a completely wrecked apartment. Apparently Wade felt the need to use all his furniture for target practice. With a water gun. Full of hot sauce. That left stains.

"What, you said no weapons in the apartment! You should be very proud of me for holding out this long, Petey, two more seconds and I would have pulled out a pile of grenades so high it would have blown your socks off! Ha! Get it?"

Peter crossed his arms, foot tapping the floor in quick irritation.

"And the water gun?"

"Oh come on! I had to improvise somehow! I was super bored. And your furniture is just sitting there! It looks so dull too. You were in need for some redecorating at some point anyway. I totally just saved you form hundreds of dollars of sleazy New York hipster fakers who think they can walk around with a paint roller and beg for money. No wait, those are probably those people who try to wash your windshield at a stoplight. They totally need to - hey!"

The hot sauce gun was ripped out of Wade's hands. Peter aimed the nozzle right at his masked face. "You have until the count of three to start cleaning all this up, or I swear to god, I will shoot so much hot sauce up your ass you'll be shitting it out for weeks!"

"If that's your way of telling me we need more lube, it's very effective."

Peter groaned. He did not need this right now.