Archive of Our Own

He is never buying eggs again.

The only reason Peter is even in this stupid mess is because a drunk Johnny decided to fry every last egg he could find in Peter’s apartment the night (morning?) before at three in the goddamned morning. So Peter, minding his own non-Spidey business thank you, made the adult decision that late afternoon to head down to the corner store a block from his apartment for a dozen eggs and hot pockets. He even made it half the block back before some asshat hit him over the head, knocking him out cold.

Basically, this whole thing is Johnny’s fault.

Peter wakes up in what looks like an abandoned warehouse, which, cliché much? His wrists are shackled by what feels like a steel chain that pulls his arms taut over his head, stretching his t-shirt across his chest. The chain lifts him just enough that the toes of his shoes barely scrape the concrete floor below him. Peter struggles to open his heavy eyelids past a squint and his neck doesn’t seem able to properly hold up his head. His eyes adjust to the darkness, and he focuses on the only light source in the room.

About ten feet across from him he can barely make out a (he assumes) locked door with harsh yellow light filtering through the gap under the door. His concentration is on the door for too long. His vision is blurry and the warehouse spins drunkenly on an axis. Quickly, he shuts eyes and forces down rolling nausea in his stomach. Great, he’s been drugged.

He’s going to kill Johnny.

As Peter impatiently waits for the world to stop spinning, he wraps his fingers around the thick chain. It’s strong, but he can feel the rust rub coarsely against his fingertips. Where there was rust, there was a weakness. Peter twists his torso violently, trying to find that one weak spot he needs in the chain, but whatever drug they used left him too weak. All he manages is a pathetic swing.     

Yeah, he’s never eating eggs again.

The only good thing about any of this is that Peter’s fairly sure this isn’t a Spiderman related kidnapping. Even though his patrols bring him around his home block, Spiderman is rarely needed since an incident a few months back eradicated any kind of criminal activity in a six block radius. His neighborhood was due for something violent and stupid is what Peter is saying.

Besides, none of Spiderman’s big time enemies would go for a kidnapping this sloppy. They aren’t a part of amateur hour. They invest in big boy toys like lasers and bullet proof glass. Memorably, once, a tiger shark.    

Hell, now that he can pay attention he hears, at the most, three male voices arguing far off on the other side of the door. From what he can make out, they’re debating the merits of keeping him chained for another night or selling him to the highest bidder in two hours. A brief flash of anger burns hotly through him at the thought of traffickers reaching his territory before he realizes how young his kidnappers sound. Peter relaxes minutely. Most likely they’re just wannabe gangbangers looking to move up in the world of hardened criminals.

They did get lucky with the drug, though. Whatever concoction they used was able to sedate him hours after his abduction. They still hadn’t counted on any kind of healing factor dealing with it. Peter estimates he’s been awake for about an hour now and no one has come to check on him.

In conclusion, it looks like Peter Parker was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. He hates eggs so much.

As the cloud around his mind begins to lift, Peter rapidly forms a plan. A plan that, if you ask Peter, is awesome. It involves a lot of swinging and ass-kicking and smug one-liners that Peter’s been dying to try out. Unfortunately, The Awesome Plan of Ass-Kicking is scrapped as screams interrupt the increasingly heated fight.

Peter’s adrenaline kicks up as gunshots follow the rapid-fire bratatat of a machine gun. A guy’s clear yell for backup is cut off by a gurgling noise that Peter hopes in vain is just the dude choking on a gob of spit. Peter tries desperately to jerk his arms down, but he’s still too weak. Two sickening thuds land outside. The machine gun abruptly stops and the clickclick of an empty magazine follows. In the ensuing silence, Peter hears the gun clatter and slide across a distance, hitting whatever was outside (not bodies, not bodies, not bodies) with a soft thump.

Peter strains his hearing. “Come on, man,” a far-off voice implores, “Take whatever the fuck you want, I won’t say shi-.” Another thud.

Heavy footsteps advance closer to the door.  

Peter sucks in a breath. He may not be strong enough to break the chain, but there is no way in hell he’s dying tonight because of an egg run. The footsteps pause long enough to drag the barriers away from the door. Peter’s body tenses, his instincts on high alert.

The door rattles once, a test of the lock. There’s a moment of stillness where the only sound is Peter’s rapid breathing. Then the door bangs open, slamming and bouncing off the adjacent wall. Fluorescent lighting floods his part of the warehouse forcing him to shut his eyes against the spots dancing across his vision.

“Shitshitshitshit.” The expletives are muffled, but the footsteps aren’t. They echo impossibly loud as the person rushes quickly to Peter. Leather covered hands, too big to be female, gently grip the sides of Peter’s neck. He instinctively rips his head away from the grasp. Big mistake. White hot pain stabs harshly through the back of his skull in protest of the harsh movement. Ow.

Immediately the hands retreat. “Christ Petey,” leather creaks and suddenly the man’s voice is much clearer, “what the fuck did they do to you?”

Peter frowns in confusion at the question. He thought it was fairly obvious he’d been kidnapped and held against his will? Either the drug is a hell of a lot stronger than he gave it credit, or this dude was blind.

Wait. He knows that voice. He tries to speak, but his mouth feels like cotton and he swears his tongue swelled twice its size. Peter wets his lips, tries again. His voice is raspy, but he’s able to whisper out a questioning, “Wade?”

“I’m here kid.” The hands come back to his neck, and Peter allows the touch. Welcomes it. “Peter, come on, open your eyes. Lemme see those brown babies, kiddo.” Huh, that was weird. Wade’s usual flirting had a hint of, concern? 

Wade’s hands travel north to cradle his head and carefully shake him. Peter groans as the pain that had previously ebbed away comes back, pulsing dully. He cracks his eyes open to glare down at Wade. “There,” he says through his clenched jaw, “they’re open asshole.”

Wade’s answering grin is so close and so blinding that Peter has to stop himself from closing his eyes again. A thumb strokes upwards along his cheekbone. “Peter.”

Fuck. His name is uttered like a prayer, like a benediction, and it’s not fucking fair. It’s been closing on a year since Peter’s gotten his crush under control and he really doesn’t need his will to run for the hills after a kidnapping of all things.  

The thumb moves to the side, resting on the tip of his left ear; Wade’s palm curls around his jaw. He’s still grinning and his eyes frantically map Peter’s face. Christ, but he’s only human and it’s been such a long day. He leans forward, seeking more of that careful touch.

A sharp yelp escapes him and pierces through the silence as he leans too far forward and wrenches his arms at the rotator cuff. Wade’s gaze sharpens, zeroing in on the shackles biting into Peter’s sore wrists. The scars around Wade’s lips distort as his grin flattens out in anger.

“I’ll kill them all.” It’s a promise. One that Peter can’t have on his conscious.

He sways forward awkwardly, bumping his knees into Wade’s flank. With the winning combination of him dangling like bait on a hook and hardly any distance between them, Peter hesitantly brushes his lips along Wade’s forehead. He smells like sweat and gunpowder. Peter swallows compulsively around the sudden lump in his throat. “Don’t,” he croaks out, “Please. Don’t kill for me.” Wade freezes. Peter panics for half a second that Wade will pull away, but his hand slips past his ear and buries itself into his hair.

“Ok,” he replies hoarsely. “Alright, fine no killing. No more murdery acts tonight. Let’s just get you outta here.” He pulls back so he can look Peter directly in the eye. That grin from earlier slowly reappearing, “Huh? Sound like a good idea kid?”

Peter smirks tiredly, “Any day now shit for brains.”

Wade widens his eyes and shakes his head in mock offense, the hand not buried in Peter’s hair flying to his chest for added emphasis. “I come all this way to rescue your skinny ass, and here I stand, insulted,” he ducks his head and looks at Peter dejectedly, “I’m hurt, Petey.” Peter rolls his eyes, thankful for the break in tension.

Wade backs up – taking his hands with him – to peer upward into the darkness. “Ok, problema número uno compadre,” he reaches back to easily flick one of his katana over his shoulder. The light catches the gleam of the blade that managed to stay clean of blood. Peter ignores his nausea. Wade frowns, “My babies won’t be able to cut through the chain.” He tilts his head, trying for a better angle.

Another grin lights up his features and Peter is so gone it’s no longer funny. “I just gotta jimmy the lock!”

Peter furrows his eyebrows, “What lock?”

Wade absentmindedly holsters the katana, and pulls out a knife from god knows where. He taps the flat of the blade on the part of the shackle on top of his carpal bones. “Right here kiddo.” Shit, Peter must be out of it if he didn’t even think of a lock. “Problem number two,” Wade continues, politely ignoring Peter’s minor existential crisis, “is that you’ve been hanging so long you mi-“

“I’ll be more useful as a sack of potatoes,” Peter interrupts him. Wade shrugs mildly; a ‘what can ya do’ kind of action. Peter sighs. With the adrenaline long since gone, and now that he isn’t in mortal danger in the foreseeable handful of minutes, exhaustion creeps up his spine. He can feel every strain on his muscle, every ache in his bones, and all he wants is to sleep for a couple hundred years. He rests his head on his right bicep, the chain clinking ominously, “Just get it over with.”

Wade’s face softens with something. He takes a step forward, knife loosely held in his right hand. “You trust me, Petey?”

Peter lifts his head at that and frowns, “Yeah. ‘Course I do. Why?”

Wade’s breathing hitches and he takes another, shaky step. Huh, the drug must still be affecting his vision. “Ok, just. Just hang on for a sec.” His mouth twitches (god he’s so close), “Pun intended.”

Before Peter can start voicing, very loudly, his annoyance that Wade is cracking really awful puns right now, Wade carefully tucks his hands underneath Peter’s thighs and lifts upward, wrapping them around Wade’s hips. He hisses in surprise as the painful stress on Peter’s spine immediately eases. Automatically, (without thinking he swears to every god out there) he crosses his ankles, pressing his heels into the small of Wade’s back which causes him to stumble forward. Peter’s pelvis ends up right above Wade’s belly button and he’s just incredibly, amazingly, fucking phenomenally grateful that he’s in too much pain to really get much of a hard on. His dick just gives a half-interested twitch at the muscles shifting between his thighs.

“Um. Wade?” he squeaks.

If Wade had any eyebrows left, they would probably be on his head. Instead, his forehead just wrinkles slightly.

“You good buddy?”

Peter is going to die. He’s going to die because of eggs.

Jesus. He needs to get a grip. Peter drags in a ragged breath, “Yeah, yeah. All good.”

Wade slides his left forearm back supporting Peter’s ass. Peter is both hyper aware of Wade’s diaphragm expanding and contracting, as well as stupidly grateful the dark hides the heat rising to his cheeks. Wade stretches his right arm above Peter’s head to cautiously poke the tip of the knife where the lock must be.

Peter shuts his eyes as Wade works. The muted scrape of the knife is suddenly overwhelming and the dull throbbing in his head magnifies while the cramps snaking up his arms become almost agonizingly painful. He rolls his neck, trying to relieve stiff muscles and accidentally bumps his forehead into Wade’s collarbone.

Wade grunts in response but keeps working diligently. Peter lets his head rest even as the angle pulls uncomfortably at the muscles between his shoulder blades. He fails to stifle the groan that crawls deep from his belly.

“Almost there. Stay with me just a little longer Pete,” Wade soothes, his strong chest vibrates, calming Peter. He tightens his thighs around Wade and anchors himself more firmly. A shudder so microscopic that he almost misses it shakes through Wade.

“Petey? Talk to me kiddo. Pete? Peter? Fuck.” Wade sounds agitated which, no. That’s wrong? Yes, he decides, very wrong.

Peter should really fix that.

But he can’t. His jaw doesn’t want to work and neither does his head. Man, that’s so weird. And worrying, but mostly weird.

The scraping gets louder as Wade works faster. Then, the lock clicks satisfyingly. Peter only has a fleeting moment of finally flood him before his arms feel like they’re being yanked from their sockets. Peter cries out sharply as they crumple around Wade’s shoulders. His legs give out completely and only Wade’s forearm keeps him from falling on his ass

Peter hears the snick as the knife is sheathed, and Wade’s arm hastily wraps around his middle; the only thing keeping him plastered to Wade’s front.

“Shit, fuck,” Wade is even more frenetic now, but Peter can’t focus past his body’s anguish. Wade starts to sound like he’s underwater. Or maybe Peter’s underwater? Something’s underwater. Oh, Wade’s still talking. Are they moving? Peter thinks they might be moving.

“It’s all over Pete,” Wade babbles. “Just listen to my better-than-Ryan-Reynolds-voice, bud. Hey! I ever tell you about that time I was in, like, Beverly Hills, or some shit and had to fight off an entire gang of ninjas with a stolen stroller? Obviously without the baby, because what the fuck can a baby even do, amirite? Anyways, maybe they were a gaggle of ninjas, or like a murder of ninjas. Since, ya know, they do murder things.”

Peter lets Wade’s chatter wash over him, drifting off as Wade carries him away from that dark room. The last thing he hears is Wade explaining in excruciating detail why Zootopia was a way better movie than Frozen before he passes out.

He doesn’t sleep peacefully.

The sheets beneath him are soaked with sweat as his body detoxes. An hour doesn’t go by without him being torn from his nightmares with his screams lodged in the back of his throat. He can’t escape the nightmares. They dig their claws deep into his thighs and calves so he can’t run away as they drag him back down into the abyss.

The last time he wakes (heart hammering against his ribs, his chest heaving, and the piercing cry of someone he knows still echoing faintly in his ears), weak morning light filters through the crappy blinds of the shitty apartment he rents. As he gets his breathing under control he backtracks through what he remembers.

It’s not much. He definitely remembers being in the warehouse, but anything after Wade showed up is hazy. Did Wade carry him all the way back here? Did Wade tuck him in?

“Oh god,” Peter groans low, flinging an arm across his eyes.

Suddenly, he hears a crash outside. Immediately he’s up and across the room with his back flat against the wall adjacent to his door ignoring his throbbing muscles. A metallic sound follows the crash, ringing shortly through the apartment.

He listens intently as a silent minute crawls by. Another minute passes slowly until the unmistakable sizzle and pop of meat landing on a hot skillet crackles enticingly.  What in the hell?

Gathering up every reserve of energy he has left, Peter turns the doorknob, wincing at the soft click, and creeps out into the hallway. He attaches himself to the wall and crawls deftly up and across the ceiling.  He holds his breath, making sure to keep as quiet as possible, as he rounds the sharp corner leading into the living room/kitchen.

The first thing he notices is the distractingly muscled back stretching a hideous mustard yellow t-shirt as the owner of said back flips the bacon frying on the stove in front of him. The second is the familiar scarred head. Peter’s eyebrows knit together with a mix of interest and confusion.

“Wade?”

Wade yells in alarm and twists on his bare heel, arms flailing wildly and brandishing the spatula in his hand as a weapon. The t-shirt is just as equally stretched across his chest warping the artfully faded Salt n Peppa logo on the front. “What in the shit, Spidey?!”

Peter can’t help but laugh at Wade’s upside down outrage. “It’s not funny!” Wade sputters. “Do you see this shirt? It could have been ruined by meat grease or your blood you asshole.”

“Oh come on,” he chuckles again, dropping neatly to the floor. He grimaces as his exhausted muscles shake from pain and overuse. “It’s a little funny,” Peter says as he weaves around the clutter on his floor towards the kitchen.

Wade scowls in response, turning back to his task. Peter grins at his back in return and hops carefully onto the kitchen counter. 

They ease into a comfortable silence. Peter leans back against the cabinets, occasionally bouncing his heels off the bottom cabinets, and watches as Wade adjusts to his presence, relaxing back into his cooking. Wade putters around the tiny kitchen grabbing glassware, silverware, and, oh god, a carton of eggs.

Wade pauses in mid-crack over the pan, “You okay, kid?”

Peter might have choked on some spit. No big deal. “Nope,” he wheezes between coughs, “All good.”

Once the coughing subsides he hesitantly asks, “So, uh, how long was I out?”

Wade’s focus zeroes in on the egg sizzles as it makes contact with the hot pan. “About a day. Maybe a day and a half,” he says casually.

Peter freezes, inhaling sharply. He exhales slowly, “Oh.”

Wade glances at him out of the corner of his eye. Peter bangs his head on the cabinet doors behind him. Ok, no issue. He basically overslept. For, like, thirty-six hours.

Wade leaves him be, taking his time flipping the last pieces of bacon and begins transferring the eggs and bacon onto the two plates sitting beside the stove.

“You know,” he drawls. “I didn’t commit any serious felonies within the last forty-eight.”

Peter tilts his head to get a better look at him. “Yeah?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.

Wade shrugs. “I mean besides those dick pricks from the warehouse,” his voice is hard as he drops the eggs rather maliciously onto the plates.

Listen, Peter isn’t stupid. In fact, some people might deign to call him a genius. Point is, he remembers certain things from that night. Including, but not limited to, certain killing type sounds that he now knows were directly generated by one Wade Wilson. He knows the asshole is a mercenary and deadly and not one hundred percent mentally stable, but. But, come on. It’s Wade. Yeah, ok, in the beginning, he couldn’t stand Wade. Between the kills for hire and the abrasive personality, Peter could barely tolerate the guy.           

But goddamn it, that was five years ago. A lot has changed, Peter has changed. They’ve fought side by side through a few minor crises as well as one or two more major world saving incidents since then. Wade hasn’t even been going off the grid as much lately, and his kill count has lowered from fifteen in a week to maybe nine a year. Plus, his kills have become centered on the worst of the worst. The guys who even Peter has a hard time arguing for their redemption. Granted he spends far more time stalking Cap than Peter really wants to know, but it could be worse. 

The point is, Wade sometimes kills people and while Peter hates it, it could be a fuck ton worse. Because he also remembers the ruthless vow in Wade’s eyes that promised an entire city destroyed if only to drop a few bodies. So, the fact that Wade listened to Peter’s plea and didn’t drop bodies means something to him.

It means Wade is trying.

And, it’s been five years. He’s tired of struggling with his own moralities when Wade is obviously trying to be a better man.

He pushes off the counter and reaches around Wade, snatching up one of the plates. His arm brushes Wade’s and he can feel his stupid face heat up from the contact. Crossing his ankles, he turns so his hip rests on the edge of the counter. Now even closer to Wade in the already cramped kitchen. The crisp bacon crunches as he takes a bite, quickly shoveling the rest into his mouth as his stomach twists with hunger. “So. No killing, huh?” he asks around his mouthful.  

“Was a little busy,” Wade grunts, taking the other plate for himself. Leaning back, he digs into his own breakfast.

Peter’s knuckles turn white from his tight grip on the plate. He continues eating, meticulously avoiding the two sunny-side up eggs staring back at him.

“About that,” he stops to clear his throat. He starts again, trying to keep his nerves quiet, “About that. Why did you stay?”  

Wade keeps his attention on his food, “Ah Petey, you know me.” He waves his piece of bacon dramatically in the air, “Me and my supremely giving nature means I have to look out for all the Spideys of this shitastic place.”

Abruptly, Peter is overwhelmingly angry. Not just angry, he’s hurt. It’s like an iron band is squeezing his stupid heart and the sudden suppressive heat in the kitchen makes it difficult to breathe.  

It feels like when he first met Wade, nonchalantly covered in the blood of three bikers with reputations of hurting little kids. Peter had been digging up piece after piece of evidence that wouldn’t have only put the assholes away for three life sentences each, but would have upturned their entire “motorcycle club” and possibly put a dent in the cocaine ring that the club was dealing with. Instead, thanks to Wade, any evidence he had collected was burned to ash; the other twenty fucking five men walked; the drug ring would take another four months before he could make any kind of damage; and the icing on the fucking cake was the three bodies he had to deal with.  Back then, the only thought he could process beyond his hindbrain screaming at him to runrunrun was that Wade only left bodies in his wake, literally. Now, that same part of his hindbrain is screaming attackattackattack, and he doesn’t know why.    

Peter slowly puts the abandoned eggs back on the counter. “So that’s it? You just felt what,” he scrambles for the right word, frustrated when he doesn’t find it, “guilty? Or some shit? Because I don’t need that.”

He’s been avoiding looking at Wade, choosing instead to fixate on a pigeon sitting on the fire escape just outside his window, so Peter jumps a mile high in the air as Wade carelessly tosses his cheap plate on the counter breaking it in half and the startled pigeon flies away. Ok, so maybe not as nonchalant as three dismembered bikers.

In contrast to the ear-splitting demise of the innocent plate, Wade’s voice is low and deceptively soft. “You think that’s it, kid? That me making sure you didn’t choke on your goddamn vomit, is because I feel guilty instead of my actually giving more than an ounce of shit for your well-being?”

Wade’s voice grows dangerous with each word and his outrage fills the room. Peter is suffocating from it. He steps backward, his ass bumping into the corner of the L-shaped countertop, seeking space to fucking breathe.

“How the hell would I know?” he desperately spits out, “It’s not like you ever take anything seriously. In what fucking universe am I any different?”

Wade’s mouth drops open in surprise – Peter wildly thinks that he’d better close it before he chokes on a fly – and holy shit on a stick he did not mean to voice that particular insecurity.    

He quickly snaps his mouth closed so hard Peter swears he hears a clack from his teeth colliding. The cold look in his eyes pins Peter to the tile with icy daggers that seem to pierce his gut and chest. He still can’t fucking breathe. Wade, on the other hand, is breathing heavy and rhythmically; as if he’s trying to gain some kind of control.

Goddamn him, but it’s stupidly hot.

“So,” his voice is like grit, scraping painfully across Peter’s raw nerves. It’s nothing like Peter’s ever heard from him. “So, that’s it, huh Petey?”

Peter can’t answer, as the muscles in his throat seem to compress and strangle him. Oh god, this is going so wrong. He wants to go back in time and shut the fuck up. Fuck, what if Wade leaves and never wants to talk to him again? All because his stupid fucking crush got in the goddamn way. Wade’s face is an unforgiving mask, and Peter hates himself that he’s started this.

Wade slowly advances on him, giving him a chance to run, but Peter stays. He stays completely still as Wade comes closer, blocking the last escape route. He grips the edge of the countertop on either side of Peter’s hips, boxing him in. The knuckles of his thumbs press indents into the top of his thighs right below his pelvis. A flash of white hot heat burns through him, and he can finally breathe easy as the ice rapidly melts. His heart cracks when even now the nearness of Wade eases him, makes him feel safe.  This close he can smell Wade, and god he would drown himself in it if he could.

“I looked for you,” Wade whispers hoarsely. “For eight hours, Peter. I was going more insane than normal, the boxes wouldn’t shut up, and I couldn’t find you, kid.” The mask slips an iota, and Peter can see the fear in the back of his eyes. Peter’s fingers twitch. He wants to reach out somehow, but he still can’t seem to move. Wade doesn’t notice, his eyes becoming unfocused and staring blankly over Peter’s shoulder.

From this close of an angle, Peter can see his throat work as he swallows. “I would have killed every motherfucker connected to those fucknuts after I brought you here.” Peter can’t stop his wince at that.

Wade’s smirk is cold and bitter and knowing, “But I couldn’t leave you alone. The last time I wasn’t here, a bunch of baby gangster hoodlums managed to steal you and drug you. I mean, Jesus Christ, kiddo,” his eyes meet Peter’s gaze, “I’ve seen heroin junkies have better comedowns.”

Peter’s speechless. Or maybe he doesn’t know what to say. Or is that the same thing? His mind is racing, trying to keep up. If Wade would just give him some goddamn space so that he could think clearly without his scent immersing every possible fiber of his being, and holy shit his eyes are so nice. Are there flecks of hazel around his iris? Jesus, Peter needs some distance.

“Nothing to say, webhead?” Wade scoffs, “Fine. I guess I’ll see you around.” He starts to pull away, and Peter fucking panics, ok. His damn hindbrain – which had shut the hell up briefly for a minute there – was screeching at him to make Wade stay put, and he had already moved an inch away in the millisecond that passed. Basically, Peter makes a very bad decision, but no one can blame him because he is an awful state of mind, ok? Ok.

Peter kisses Wade.

He grabs two fistfuls of that ugly as sin t-shirt, yanks the asshole forcefully down, and smashes their lips together inelegantly. For a long minute, Wade doesn’t respond. Peter slams his eyes shut, and presses forward insistently, hoping he’ll do something. Terrified that even if he somehow didn’t fuck up everything before, that now it was definitely a done deal.

Finally, oh god finally, Wade reciprocates. Peter opens his mouth eagerly as Wade nudges his tongue at the seam of Peter’s lips. Licking over his teeth, he coaxes Peter to rub their tongues together. Peter melts into the kiss. A trembling hand slips underneath Peter’s sleep shirt, and strokes unsteadily along his ribs. The hand not busy mapping out the entirety of his torso prods gently at the underside of Peter’s thigh. Peter gets the hint and scrambles ungracefully to sit on top of the countertop. From this angle, Peter has a slight height advantage which his dick really appreciates. Wade slots himself in the V of Peter’s legs, consequently wrenching an embarrassing moan from him as his dick drags enticingly along Wade’s hip and inner thigh through two layers of fabric, but Peter can’t find it in him to give a shit.

One of his own hands releases Wade’s shirt and cautiously cups the nape of his neck, angling his head to deepen the kiss even more. The scars under his fingers feel bumpy and hard. Unexpectedly, he’s reminded of Wade’s constant pain, and something in Peter twists violently at the thought that he’s useless to stop it. Ignoring his still sore muscles, his other arm wraps around Wade’s strong shoulders, pulling him closer.

Eventually, he needs to breathe. Whimpering pathetically, he tears himself away from Wade gasping for air. Wade doesn’t let him go far. Like a magnet he goes straight for Peter’s neck, alternating between persistent nips and licks that drive Peter insane. His head thunks painfully against the cabinet doors behind him in an attempt to give Wade more surface area to work with. “Ow,” he says, deadpan.

Wade pauses momentarily. “I know I’m like a sex god, but ya gotta be careful with that big brain of yours, baby boy,” he jokes, voice rough and shaky in the crook of Peter’s neck. He can’t help arching his back at the sensation.

He giggles a little hysterically. “Hoodlums? Really?”

Wade extracts more of himself from Peter’s skin. “No, baby gangster hoodlums.” The skin between his eyes wrinkle and he frowns in concentration, “That isn’t, like, offensive, right?”

Peter laughs again, this time with a little more sanity. He swipes his thumb from the back of Wade’s jawline up and behind his ear. Wade hums contentedly and lets his head fall forward onto Peter’s chest, sucking innocuous kisses on the top of his breastbone exposed by the stretched collar of his shirt.

The air in the kitchen had grown humid, but eventually, it recedes and Peter can finally feel the last bit of the weight on his lungs disappear. He allows himself to relax into Wade’s ministrations, trailing his hand from the back of Wade’s head down to rest between his shoulder blades. He can feel his lips stretch into a smile as the previous frantic edge from before seems to disperse.

But then a fucking ambulance decides to ruin the morning by harshly screeching down the street.

Peter can feel the muscles in Wade’s back tighten. He closes his eyes partly in denial, partly in preparation.

Little by little he feels Wade pull back. Peter’s hand slides off his back and flops uselessly on top of his thigh. He keeps his eyes squeezed shut. Wade’s hips still keep his legs spread and Peter hopes like nothing else he stays. Please.

He doesn’t.

Soon enough the air is displaced as he moves away.

“Shit. Alright, Petey. Uhm that was great. Like absolutely, The Best makeout sesh in a kitchen. Capital T and B.” Peter’s lips twitch. “But I uh, gotta go. Ya know, people to maim, X-Men to run from.”

He unwilling forces his eyelids apart just in time to see Wade trip over his coffee table in his haste to both pull on his boots and reach the window, knocking it over with a crash. Paying no heed to it, Wade shoves his feet into his boots and immediately clambers over the toppled furniture quickly to clumsily struggle with the window’s latch.  

Peter watches Wade for a time as he continuously fails to open it. Finally, he sluggishly pushes himself off the counter and away from the support it gives. Every unhurried step he takes is a knife burying itself agonizingly into his chest searching for his heart as he moves forward. Every instinct telling him to keep Wade here, to console him and cement whatever this was between them.

He ignores them.

He knows Wade. Understands a lot about the man in these past five long years, more than he thought he ever would. As much as he wants Wade to stay, Peter can’t force him; balks and recoils at the very thought of imprisoning him against his will.

When Peter reaches him, he wraps his fingers around Wade’s and extracts them gently from the latch. Without looking at Wade, he deftly unlocks it and smoothly lifts the window up. The morning sun warms his skin and he turns his head into the soft breeze letting it tousle his hair. On the sidewalk below, the neighborhood gradually wakes as people open stores and begin their tasks for the day.

Wade doesn’t leave immediately as Peter expected. “Go,” he urges quietly. Wade stays crouched by the window sill. The knife is dangerously close to piercing his vulnerable heart. “Go,” he repeats, his voice cracking.

He can’t explain it, but he can feel Wade rise deliberately slow behind him, as if afraid to spook a wild animal. Cautiously he steps around Peter and out onto the fire escape, the clang of his boots on metal resonating shortly. He goes no further, and the godforsaken knife inches closer. Please.

Peter can’t bring himself to look at him, but he hears Wade shuffle on the platform, and a bitter relief floods him because he’s finally leaving.

He stops again, and Peter hears a muttered, “Fuck it.” At this, he frowns in confusion and shifts to face Wade intending to ask him what was wrong, but the question vanishes as Wade bends forward and presses their lips together. His hand curves around Peter’s jaw, a gesture that’s becoming more and more familiar. His thumb tentatively brushes his cheekbone, and just like that once again Peter is at his mercy.

Peter entwines their fingers and relishes the touch briefly, knowing that it can’t last forever. All too soon Wade withdraws. Tilting Peter’s face up, he brings their foreheads together. His breaths puff softly on Peter’s sensitive lips.

Wade releases him after a long moment. He leaps nimbly onto the flat part of the railing; balancing expertly on the balls of his feet, he grasps the platform above his head for additional stability. A hesitant grin graces his features, “See ya around, Spidey.” He raises two fingers to his brow saluting him before letting go of the railing and effortlessly flips backward towards the ground. A loud bang follows shortly after his descent as well as a muffled, “damn it.”

Peter can’t help but laugh. At the constant contradictions that make up Wade Wilson, at the insanity of the last forty-eight hours, at Peter’s entire life. Letting the windowsill support him, he laughs until his belly aches and tears form, running down his cheeks.

The pain from the knife that had so easily cracked his chest dissolves.

His mirth fades, and in its absence warmth is left. Eventually, he will retreat back into his apartment and finish the breakfast that Wade had made (minus the eggs because fuck eggs). An hour later he’ll suit up and begin his daily patrols as Spiderman, but for now, he savors the sunlight and the fleeting peace. It is, after all, only the morning.