When Wade walked into the apartment, Peter was finishing his second bucket of ice-cream, rewindingBreakfast at Tiffany's back to the cat scene. He liked watching it, because it reminded him that sometimes directors made better life choices for the characters than novelists. He ignored Wade dumping his bag in the middle of the room with a loud clank. Wade roamed around the apartment for a while, muttering under his breath, mostly curse words. Finally, he flopped down on the couch with a grunt and leaned his head on Peter's shoulder.
"Watching the cat scene again?" he asked.
Peter nodded, offering Wade a spoonful of ice-cream. "Bad day?" he asked.
"What tipped you off?" Wade muttered, clanking his teeth on the spoon in his mouth.
"The pads in the trash bin."
Wade snorted and licked around the spoon. He sighed and leaned back on the couch and Peter turned around to look at him. His eyes were closed and he was breathing deeply through his nose. He looked exhausted and drained.
"You okay?"
"No," Wade admitted, smiling bitterly.
"Wanna talk?"
"No."
"Wanna cuddle?"
Wade chuckled tiredly and nodded, slumping against Peter's side. Peter put away the empty bucket, turned off the TV, and laid down, opening his arms. Wade fumbled for a while and finally managed to lay between Peter's legs in fetal position, resting his head against Peter's chest. Peter put his hands on the back of Wade's neck, stroking the base of his skull with his thumbs. Wade sighed contentedly and closed his eyes.
Wade had two basic default modes for bad days, letting off steam mode and sulking mode. And even if, clearly, today was a sulking day, both of them shared the same fundamental characteristic – Wade shut off any form of verbal communication.
At the beginning of their relationship Peter tried convincing Wade to talk to him, but he soon discovered it was pointless. He learned that before Peter most of Wade's days were bad days. And the way he would always talk endlessly to anyone who made a mistake of not stopping him before it was too late regardless, only meant that Wade's primary solution to his problems was denial – hiding not talking about them under talking about everything else. That he clammed up in front of Peter only meant that he stopped pretending.
So Peter stopped pushing. He never stopped offering, but he didn't pressure. Baby steps. If Wade had deemed Peter safe enough to drop at least that one guard, maybe he would open up completely in due time. Wade was a broken person, there was no way Peter could ever ignore it, but if Peter could offer him some kind of comfort, he wanted to, he really did.
And it didn't take him long to figure out that what brought Wade most comfort was what he had been denied most of his life – touch. Not physical contact, because Wade couldn't complain about lack of it in his line of work, but gentle, loving, human touch. From simple act of holding his hand, through all kinds of hugs and kisses, to the very act of making love, Wade experienced it only in humble amount. Peter had learn about Wade's past mostly from Wade's jokes and off-hand comments, but he knew enough. He knew enough to realize how much touch Wade craved. And he wanted to smother Wade with it.
He stroked Wade's cheek with one hand and his forehead with the other. Wade lifted his head and looked at Peter with tired eyes. Peter smiled and leaned in to place a kiss on top of Wade's head. Wade tightened his hold around Peter's middle, rubbing his face against his chest; Peter could feel his lips twist into a small smile through the fabric of his shirt. Peter rubbed Wade's arm and relaxed against the couch.
"Gonna sleep?" Wade muttered into Peter's chest.
"Food coma," Peter slurred. "Ice-cream in the freezer were due tomorrow so I had to eat them all. You know how I hate wasting food."
"You're so cheap, web-head," Wade chuckled.
"Probably has something to do with how poor I am."
Wade hummed and didn't say anything. Peter run his hand over Wade's back and slapped him lightly on the ass. "Come on, let's go to bed."
Wade whined in protest before lifting his head to show Peter his best pout.
"Your face's gonna stay like that if you don't knock it off. Come on, you can be the little spoon."
Wade gasped, scrambling off Peter, looking wounded. "I hate being the little spoon," he hissed, helping Peter off the couch.
Peter squeezed Wade's hand and kissed it lightly before smirking knowingly. "Of course you do. And I love Aunt May's meatballs."
Wade squealed indignantly and grabbed Peter by the hips, lifting him up and throwing him over his shoulder. Peter laughed and cursed, but when Wade dropped him on the bed and laid down beside him with his back to Peter, he wrapped his arms around him without a word.