"Does it still hurt?"
Wade snarled at Peter, ripping himself from his arms, moving up off the bed before he reached for his mask. The motion was violent. It startled Peter, but not because of the suddenness, no. His reflexes were honed to unpredictability. It was just that he thought they were finally making progress. And seeing Wade cover his face again, fists bunching around the fabric of the mask so tight like it was a part of him, it just felt like all the trust that had been building between them, brick by fragile brick, came crashing down in a frantic heap.
"It always fucking hurts. Never stopped hurting," he grunted, sitting back down on the edge of the bed. Wade had his back to Peter, and he could see the ragged scars, see the way they shifted almost effortlessly, like they were marking him. A relentless signature of his captivity with ceaseless pain.
Peter reached out. Wade flinched, making a low noise in his throat.
This was their trust.
Even though Wade still hid behind his mask, he trusted Peter enough not to hide behind his humour. He was open. He let his pain break through, didn't care that he would hurt Peter in the process, because he knew that Peter trusted him.
So Peter waited.
Hours went by and they continued to sit as they were. Wade hadn't budged an inch. Really, Peter should have been scoffing at how remarkable that was, considering how normally restless the merc was. Particularly his mouth.
But he just sat and stared at Wade. Stared at the scars constantly dancing across his back, redefining the texture of his skin. He felt so helpless.
And he shouldn't be making this about himself, he knew. It was Wade who was the one in pain. It was Wade who had to suffer with this every day, in and out like a never ending taunt. Wade who put on a smirk for the public. And for himself.
Still, it hurt to sit on the sidelines, helpless against the pain of someone he cared for. Someone he loved.
Peter let the breath he was holding out through his nose, slowly. He tried once more to reach out his hand.
This time Wade didn't respond at all.
He was probably pushing his luck, and he knew that he shouldn't press anything from Wade when he was so vulnerable. But he just needed to try. Needed to do whatever he could to try and at least distract him from all this baseline misery that Wade had to endure.
Peter started to run his hands down Wade's spine, fingers slow in their attempt to soothe. He reached his hip and gently cupped the flesh there, fingers firm as they kneaded taught muscle. He pressed his lips to the nape of Wade's neck, skimming them carefully around until he reached his jaw.
Then he heard a whimper, felt Wade flinching away, ducking his head. He'd shut his eyes, and Peter backed off without any questions.
He hated being this useless.