Fucking finally.
After tossing and turning for what feels like the better part of eternity, Peter has finally managed to fall into an almost decent kind of sleep. If one discounts the recurring nightmares, PTSD, waking up screaming and bathed in sweat, that is, because that's Peter's version of decent. Anyway, the point is, he's asleep—or as close as he's going to get these days—and all it took to make it happen was spending three nights in a row out on the hunt for Vulture and his henchmen, and then battling all of them.
At once.
If there's one thing Peter sucks at, it's taking care of himself, especially where his sleep routine is concerned, and—surprise—it's starting to show. He's gotten sloppy during fights, sustained injuries that could have been avoided. It had only been a matter of time until things would come to a head, and then bingo, turning point unlocked. He'd uselessly stumbled into an attack he'd have usually seen coming from a mile away, resulting in a cut the size of Avengers Tower on his chest and yet another disposal of one of his precious suits. On his way home from Central Park, he'd almost swung headfirst into a solid brick wall (twice), then dozed off in the middle of crawling up the wall to his apartment, so yeah—he figures it's probably high time he get some much-needed shut-eye to refuel his batteries.
He's in the middle of doing his habitual almost-but-not-quite-sleeping, when his Spider senses tingle and there's a faint scratching against his window. Where his usual, superhero-y self would be up and ready to fight in a heartbeat, his hopelessly exhausted self takes a full minute to even move a damn muscle, just long enough for it to be too late. The window slides open and there's a loud thunk when something hits the floor below the windowpane.
Peter holds his breath. Please let it be something harmless, like . . . a cat. A highly intelligent cat who's able to climb thirty-two stories and hoist windows.
"Heya, Petey! How's it hangin'?"
Okay, yeah. That's not a cat. Wade might have certain characteristics of a cat down—namely, the asshole part of one—but he's decidedly not as fluffy.
Peter would have groaned if he'd had the energy. As it is, he barely conjures enough of his depleted energy reserves to blink open an eye.
Only to regret it about 0.01 seconds later.
For some inexplicable, undoubtedly outrageous reason, Wade isn't wearing pants. There's also the tail end of a hunting knife sticking out of his chest. It's the knife that gets Peter to sit up, despite the fact that every last bone in his body is screaming at him to stay down.
"Wade? Oh my god, there's a knife—"
"—in my chest, yes." He waves a hand through the air as if it's nothing and okay, this is Wade, but still. "This cute little addition to my collection has proven to be extremely useful."
Peter gapes at him. It's only now that he's looking properly that he notices a takeout bag from Leo's dangling from the knife. What the hell?
"Wade, how—"
"—amazing is that, right?" Wade gushes. What also gushes is the freaking stab wound in his chest. Peter's twitching with the urge to get over there and help. He's always twitching with the urge to help, no matter how many times Wade ends up on his doorstep all battered and bruised, barely breathing and slowly fading away. So okay, this might be Deadpool and fine, he might be immortal. There's nothing he can't come back from, at least nothing they know of, but just. Just no. Peter will never get over witnessing Wade bleeding out while the only thing he can do is nothing. It's not going to happen, no matter how many times Wade tells him "not to sweat it".
"Credit where credit's due though, it wasn't my idea," Wade continues. "I was getting your favorite pizza, you know, from this place downtown? So yeah, I ran into Shocker and guess what? He was nice enough to pin this take out bag right here to my chest with his knife so I'd have both hands free to kick his ass. God, he's so considerate sometimes, isn't he? Anyway, here's pizza!"
It's easy being fooled by Wade's cheerful attitude and practically infallible ability to talk a mile a minute. Peter's been there, which is why now, he knows better. Wade's died in the middle of making a crude joke about Peter's butt in Spandex on one occasion, died on Peter's back while they'd swung around SoHo on another. Peter considers himself to be smart enough not to make the same mistakes twice, not if he can help it. So he doesn't.
He folds the blanket back and slides off his bed. His next words come out a little shaky, a tiny bit breathless, it's just that Wade won't stop bleeding and fuck, why won't he stop bleeding?
"Wade, we talked about this, remember? I have trouble making small talk when there's a hole the size of a Double Whopper in your body."
Wade gives Peter a goofy smile, or more like, his mask does, which never fails to weird Peter out. "Gee, one hole you notice about me and then it's not even my best one."
Wade has the nerve to pout and cross his arms, which results in him jostling the knife and groaning in what's undoubtedly pain. Peter didn't know he had an ounce of strength left in his body, but he'd obviously been wrong about that, seeing as he's at Wade's side within a nanosecond flat. One string of web is shot beneath his bed to pull out the first-aid kit—which has become more of a first-aid duffel now that Wade keeps dropping by—another to pin Wade's hand to the wall behind him, just so he finally stops messing with the knife.
"Woah, baby boy, all it takes for you to tie me down with that web of yours is being a little roughed up? Damn, you've been holding out on me," Wade drawls.
Peter would love to tackle him for that one, but the truth is, he is roughed up, so out of the goodness of his heart, he lets that one pass. The noble gesture would bear way more effect if he would stop grinning. This is really not the time to be weak to Wade's raunchy jokes. The problem is just that Wade is still grinning, which is technically something Peter shouldn't even be able to see with him wearing his mask, but he does and it's hilarious. It must be all the sleep he's not getting messing with his head.
"Stop it!" Peter cries. "Stop making me laugh, you're bleeding all over my crappy lino floor and I gotta fix it, so please. Behave."
He shakes his head, and the grin finally abates to a smile. There. That's better. Back to work.
Of course, Wade continues whispering horrible pick-up lines and thinly veiled sexual harassment remarks under his breath, but Peter turns a deaf ear for both their sakes and focuses on the task at hand, which is not letting Wade die on his watch.
"You still with me?" Peter asks while he's wrapping Wade's chest in thick bandages.
"Always," Wade says and takes Peter's hand, and okay, wow, that sounded kind of . . . real. As in, not meant as a joke or trying to be funny, but real. Real real, and that makes Peter's head go all funny in a way he wishes he could chalk up to the lack of sleep, too.
Wade's breathing has gone from wheezing to panting. Peter wishes he'd take off his mask, just so he can breathe easier. Not because he'd like to see Wade, for the sole reason of seeing him. That would be ridiculous, not to say highly unprofessional. It's just to make sure he's getting enough air.
"Petey," Wade sighs when Peter's fingers flutter over the bandages to make sure the fit isn't too tight. "Have I ever told you that you're the best nurse in the whole world? In a totally non-pervy way. Okay, maybe a little pervy. Like, thirty percent. Eighty."
Peter smiles absentmindedly while he wraps the knife in a paper towel and puts it away. "Yes, you have. It's usually followed by how I'm committing a crime against humanity, which is apparently code for you these days, by not wearing a nurse outfit to go with that."
Wade laughs out loud, which immediately winds down to a groan. "Damn right you are. But seriously, I don't know how to thank you. Oh wait, actually, I do. Gonna buy you a nurse outfit in return. With white fishnet stockings. And fully expect you to wear it every day, because you never know when I might be in need of your invigorating services."
Peter feels a traitorous blush rise in his cheeks, and God, why is he still doing that? He knows damn well that's just Wade's very blatant way of flirting, there's nothing remotely serious there. It's just that the flirting gets a little sweeter, a little . . . needier, on the days Peter comes to Wade's rescue and lets him sleep off the latest live round of "Dumb Ways to Die" on his couch. And makes him coffee after. Can't forget about the coffee.
Anyway, yeah, the entire flirting business is different when Wade's hurt and Peter takes care of him, but that doesn't make it real. That's just Wade being Wade, and Peter has no idea why he has to remind himself of that. Months of regular meetups for patrol and (thankfully) not-so-regular takedowns of super baddies together—one would think Peter is immune to Wade's constant sweet talk by now, but he really, really isn't.
"Is this a thing now?" Peter asks, biting his lip. "You using my apartment as your own personal sick bay?"
It's only fair to be in the know about what he's getting into, and that's got nothing to do with Wade's being too sweet when he's hurt and everything to do with stocking up on the supplies Wade goes through on the daily.
"I'm not using your apartment as my own personal sick bay," Wade says earnestly. "I'm using you as my own personal nurse. It's about you, Petey. There's a huge difference."
Yep, there Peter goes again with the blushing. Jesus Christ. He's just . . . tired. Yeah, that's it. Too tired to deal with things like acting cool and being unaffected and not letting Wade get to him.
Wade's looking up at his face when Peter's done making mental excuses, and Peter just . . . looks back, momentarily speechless for a reason he swears he'd known two seconds ago. He can't even see Wade's eyes with him wearing his mask, but he's still looking as if there's an actual chance he might develop X-ray vision if he only stares hard enough.
It's probably a violation of privacy and therefore all kinds of wrong when Peter reaches out and weaves his fingers into the seam on the bottom of Wade's mask. This is the part where Wade's supposed to say something, like no or what the hell, Spidey, or push Peter's hand away. They have seen each other before when the masks had come off during battles, but always on their own terms. Which means, never for the sake of looking at each other, but more like as a direct consequence of a fight, where tearing suits and breaking masks is a daily occurrence. Peter has never taken Wade's mask off, at least not without his explicit consent, and Wade has always stuck to that boundary in return. Well, he used to stick to it, before he'd randomly started showing up at Peter's apartment for "special treatment". And still, it doesn't change the fact that this right here, where Peter tugs softly on the material covering Wade's face, is uncharted territory. Territory Peter's normal self would never tread into, but since it's already been established that Peter is not his normal self tonight, he doesn't stop. Wasn't there somebody famous who said personalities might be subject to change when suffering from insomnia long enough? That's Peter. Change of personality? It's happening.
"Can I?" he whispers, just shy of breathless. There's a slight tremble in his fingers, and Wade must feel it, because he reaches up and brushes his knuckles over the back of Peter's hand.
"It's a mess under here, baby boy."
Peter's quite sure Wade doesn't realize how much resignation he's letting into his voice, but it's right there, in plain sight.
"Please," Peter says.
Wade sighs. Then he smiles and drops his hand away from Peter's, away from where he could stop him if he wanted to. "There's no universe in which I could ever say no when you gimme those eyes."
Peter doesn't care about the stupidly adoring smile thing his lips do and shuffles closer, his thigh pressing against Wade's. There's heat there, warm and comforting, and Peter smiles wider when he realizes that there's a very good chance tonight won't turn out to be one of those nights where he has to watch Wade bite the dust.
He's bringing his other hand up to join the first, and then he's rolling the mask up and up and up, as careful as he can manage, because he knows about Wade's scars and the last thing he wants is hurt him by jumping the gun. And jumping the gun is a very real risk here, now that Peter is a literal moment away from seeing Wade, from looking into his eyes without a mask to obscure them or a fight to steal his attention away.
Peter holds his breath when he gets to that last millimeter, and then Wade's right there, so close, eyes screwed shut and teeth worrying his bottom lip enough to leave marks.
Peter runs the pad of his finger down Wade's cheek, a smile in his voice when he says, "Huh. I signed up for the full mutant package, but this model doesn't seem to have any eyes?" he taps a fan of tanned lashes splayed out on Wade's cheekbone. "I want my money back."
The silly joke does the trick. Up to this point, the tension in the air has been thick enough to cut with a knife, but now that Peter hasn't missed a beat, Wade's whole body is relaxing back against the wall he's pressed up against. He's also grinning, which looks downrightincredible on those full lips of his. Not even his scars can take away from that.
And then there are his eyes, which holy—wow.
Peter knows he's staring. He also knows that he'll hate himself for it later, but right now, he couldn't care less about later.
Wade's eyes are gorgeous. Outright stunning. Beautiful. The softest shade of hazel, and are those flecks of—
Wade makes a soft noise in his throat that sounds like a mix of distressed and turned on, which is almost enough to jolt Peter out of the not-so-subtle eyeballing he's doing.
"Petey," he breathes. "You're close. Very, very close, and I'm neither prim nor proper enough not to take advantage of that, so maybe you wanna—yeah, that's . . . Whew, okay."
Peter backs away so fast that he all but crashes into the sofa, his face flushing red-hot, heart hammering against his ribcage.
What is he doing? Get a damn grip, Parker.
"S-sorry," he mumbles, eyes fixing on his lap. His lap, which is covered by boxers. Just boxers, and why exactly is he only noticing now that he's spent the last hour around Wade in nothing but his underwear?
Wade's apparently thinking along the same lines, and because this situation is far from being awkward enough, Wade calls him on it. "Care to explain your outfit?"
He's snickering. He's also staring. And damn if it doesn't do something to Peter, something he's not ready for, especially not when all he's wearing is one flimsy piece of clothing.
"I was just . . . I was sleeping when you did a B&E on my place, like any normal person does at two thirty in the morning," he says, way too defensive for no reason at all. His gaze drops to Wade's legs, his bare legs. He wishes he could help himself. He really does. But Wade's legs are right there, and they are all gorgeous muscles and thick thighs, bare and tucked into tight boxer briefs.
He clears his throat and forces himself to stop staring. "What's your excuse?"
Wade runs his palms over his boxers to smooth them out, and Peter's trying really hard not to follow the motion with his eyes, and even harder not to crawl over there on all fours and take the smoothing out off Wade's hands.
"I lost my pants," Wade says, as if that's a perfectly normal, everyday thing to happen. "And you're staring. You just love the boxers, don't you?"
Right. The part where Peter is not staring isn't working out too great. About now, it's a good thing that Peter can't physically blush any more than he already has, because he's helpless against sneaking a peek (okay, a pretty long peek) at Wade's underwear, which is blue and red and has little Spider-Man figures printed on it.
Oh god.
He's gonna faint. For real. Tonight's the night Wade's finally getting him to swoon. "I can't believe you're wearing, well, me. Down there."
"Believe it. I like to keep you close to me at all times. Well, close to the parts that matter."
Wade wiggles his sparse eyebrows for good measure, and Peter hides his face in his hands. At this point, fainting doesn't even seem like such a bad thing.
"Okay, let's just not, alright?"
"But—"
"Can you stand?" Peter interrupts before Wade can say something else that gets him just that much closer to a serious case of spontaneous self-combustion.
"Sure can. My third leg, that is. Wanna see?"
"Wade!" Peter squawks. "Stop it! God. I'm nowhere near lucid enough to do this right now."
"My baby boy's touchy today, huh?" Wade says. "I can stand. I think. Do you mind?"
Peter's brain is still hung up on how Wade just called him my baby boy, not the baby boy, but the my part of it, to get that Wade's referring to his hand, which is still secured to the wall by a delicate amalgam of Peter's webs.
"Oh! Uh, sorry. Sure." He walks over and kneels next to Wade to tear through the webbing. "Do you need help getting up?"
"No," Wade says and uses the wall for support. As soon as he's upright and lets go, his knees give way and he'd have collapsed like a card house if it weren't for Peter, who's catching him mid-air.
"Okay. Yes. I'll take the help. This time," Wade concedes.
Peter can't suppress a smug smirk. He wraps Wade's arm around his shoulders and tucks his hand into his side to lead him to the bathroom.
"Please don't tell me you need help washing up," Peter says, half-hoping Wade says yes, actually, he does need help. He's seen Wade's face, his eyes (damn, those eyes), and instead of being grateful for small favors like a good boy, he's only curious for more. Who wouldn't want to see the chest that goes with thighs like that?
"Nah, I'm fine," Wade replies. "Unless you want to help, in which case my answer is yes, please, nurse Petey. Strip me down. Clean me up. If there is anyone who can scrub off my kinda dirty, it's you."
"O-kay," Peter groans. "Offer retracted." Ha. No, it's not.
Peter has a sneaking suspicion that there's more to what Wade said about "scrubbing off his kinda dirty", much more, but he bites his tongue and doesn't dig deeper.
"Damn. You can at least stay and watch the show then." Wade's already working on slipping off what remains of his suit, which Peter figures is the show he's referring to, so Peter turns and leaves, closing the bathroom door behind him.
What a night.
He doesn't like how much everything that's happened since Wade's crawled through the window is making him feel. He doesn'tlike how, despite of it, he doesn't want it to stop making him feel how he feels. He's just not himself tonight, and what scares him the most is how good that feels. Goddammit. What he should do is slip back under the covers and spend the rest of the night convincing himself none of this ever happened. But what he does do is tiptoe to the bathroom to press his ear up against the door and listen to the shower going inside, wishing he was in there instead of out here.