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Wade sat on the edge of the bed and stretched mightily, taking pleasure in the popping of his jaw and shoulders. The sun filtered in through the blinds of the bedroom that he and Peter shared as if punctuating the warm remembrance of beginnings that Wade could never hope to recall.
“Mmm, good morning, gorgeous,” Peter’s sleepy voice greeted him, followed a moment later by a pair of slender arms wrapping around his shoulders from behind. Wade’s head dropped back and turned to place a soft kiss on his husband’s cheek. “Who are you callin’ gorgeous?” he harrumphed, though he was unable to hide his wide, beaming smile at the sentiment. “You, idiot,” was the fond, familiar retort.
The warmth of Peter’s skin against his own was a newly welcome addition in Wade’s life and bound him like an addiction. A mantle of unconditional acceptance blanketed his shoulders each and every morning that he awoke next to his Baby Boy.
Wade glanced at the clock.
“Hey, babe, don’t you gotta get to the lab?” he asked on the tail end of another satisfying yawn. Peter merely groaned and nuzzled into his neck in return. “Don’t want to,” he mumbled.
“Well, you know you could just play hookie this week so I can tie you up and live out my fantasy of going all Misery on your fine bubble-butt.”
Laughing softly, Peter released Wade’s shoulders in favor of maneuvering to straddle his hips from the front. “And have my dad calling in the cavalry when I don’t show up? No thanks.” He ran his hands over the deep furrows of Wade’s shoulders and stroked his fingers lovingly down the cleft between his pectorals. “But really tempting,” he amended.
Wade couldn’t help but be lost in that mischievous grin. Without the need for prompting, his calloused palms immediately smoothed a line down the taper of Peter’s waist and came to rest on his buttocks. He kneaded them firmly while he spread them wide and watched as Peter’s eyes fluttered shut with a soft “oh.”
One intrepid finger found the place where his dick had been buried for half of the night, still come-slick and stretched loose enough to admit one of Wade’s thick fingers without much resistance. “Really, really, tempting,” Peter moaned.
Wade chuckled, voice thick with arousal. “Yeah? Maybe after that you can return the favor. Make it so I can’t walk for weeks.”
Surging forward, Peter laid a searing line of kisses across the column of Wade’s neck until he finally captured his lips. He scooted his hips forward, moaning once more when the finger inside of him shifted into a more satisfying angle. “Months,” he gasped against Wade’s chapped lips, then proceeded to absolutely conquer him with teeth and tongue.
That was the thing about Peter, Wade thought as he pistoned his finger with intent, you would never suspect this level of dynamic appetite from him at first sight. This was something reserved for quiet days behind closed doors; this passion belonged to Wade and Wade alone.
A questing hand pressed their straining erections together and wrapped around them both. “Yeah, babe, just like that,” Wade gasped against his lips, stealing Peter’s air in the process. The response was immediate. Peter stroked them both with finesse despite the awkward angle, using his thumb to lave particular attention to the silky glide of Wade’s foreskin. At the same time, he rocked against Wade’s chest from the force of the thrusting fingers, now two, buried within him. They writhed together for a time until the fire in Wade’s loins rose to such a crescendo that he thought he might burn with it.
Moaning brokenly, he finally flooded Peter’s fist with pulses of preternaturally hot release. Peter followed soon after with a hitched sigh. For a long moment, they sat there, damp foreheads pressed together, and caught their respective breath.
“I’m going to be so late. Tony is going to kill me,” Peter laughed breathlessly.
“Worth it,” Wade retorted. He pressed a tender kiss to his brow.
“Yeah, you are,” Peter replied as he returned the kiss and climbed off of Wade’s lap. He took a second to stretch his legs then made his way towards the adjoining bathroom, but not before tossing a saucy smile over his shoulder. “Love you.”
“Love you too, Baby Boy,” Wade whispered reverently to his retreating back.
Their morning passed as they typically did in Wade’s most recent memory: a discussion of the day’s plans over coffee and toast, then a tender embrace that often resulted in Wade having to bodily shove Peter out of the front door. It was simple, domestic, and he couldn’t get enough.
When Peter finally slipped out of the apartment, Wade stared at the chipped, white paint of their door and listened to the patter of Peter’s retreating footsteps. Finally, he glanced down at the platinum wedding band that had been slipped onto his finger only a week ago. The cold curl of guilt that flashed through his chest settled heavily in his stomach and made him swallow reflexively.
Frowning, he walked over to the shelving unit on the adjacent wall that Peter had deemed his ‘shrine.’
Picture frames occupied every surface in a wash of joy and happy faces. He studied the picture with him and Peter messily feeding each other at a thanksgiving gathering. Tony and Steve’s various expressions of feigned parental disapproval were only mildly overshadowed by the lewd gesture that Clint was making behind them. Peter had explained that immediately after Bruce had taken the picture, the family meal had devolved into a food fight the likes of which took three days to clean. As a matter of fact, Peter had to explain the context of all of the pictures displayed on account of Wade not having been there.
He studied the smooth, easy confidence in the set of his doppelganger’s shoulders and resented this Other Wade for this picture-perfect life.
From what he could unearth, this universe’s Wade Wilson had come from a loving home and served his country proudly, ultimately retiring as a decorated war hero. He had been happily married to Peter for three years before the cancer struck, but Peter’s father had worked feverishly to cure him. Stark’s cure had the unfortunate side effects of a rampaging healing factor and mottled skin that Wade was already intimately familiar with, but apparently without the pain and agony of torture that had so shattered his own mind.
He plucked the centerpiece from its place of honor and traced the cupid’s bow of Peter’s lips. Other Wade sat curled up beside him with a Christmas mug in one hand and Peter’s hand clenched loosely in the other.
“Fuck you and your fucking perfect Mary-Sue life,” he muttered angrily to the face that was both his and not. “What gives you the right to have all of this? You haven’t been through half of the shit I have. You don’t know a single goddamn thing about struggle. So why the dick-swizzling fuck do you deserve to just be given what I’ve fought for my entire life?” Wade gestured broadly at the shelves full of joyous memories. The photograph offered no defense.
Pinching the bridge of his nose, he sat down heavily on the sofa. He glanced at the picture frame in his hand, at the broad, bright smiles and the obvious love between them. Morality be damned, he wanted what they had. He deserved to be happy.
When he had first arrived in this universe a week ago, it had been simplicity itself to feign amnesia. After all, who was to say that, with as many head wounds as he had taken in his lifetime, he and Other Wade weren’t actually the same person? On the good days he could almost convince himself of his own convoluted bullshit. But Peter, Peter had swallowed that pill like a champ and had immediately jumped on the ‘if you can’t remember then we’ll just have to make new memories’ bandwagon. This universe’s Peter was almost disturbingly naive. All of this universe’s constituents were, as a matter of fact.
“You had your fucking chance. It’s my turn,” he whispered wetly to his grinning doppelganger, then fished around in his utility belt for the teleportation drive responsible for the shift in space that brought him here in the first place. There was no Reed Richards in this universe to initiate the teleportation project, and no major threats to time and space to rope Tony into its production with the single minded purpose of a raging conflagration.
Wade could have his happy ending. After all, he would cherish every moment with Peter like the gift that it was; between him and Other Wade he would be the better man. His continued silence would be a pact made for them both and sealed in blood.
With one last lingering look at the photograph, he crushed the drive in his fist and smiled hugely at the twisted bits of glass and metal as they tumbled to the carpet.