you are the hole in my head

by sleeponrooftops

Summary:

“Stay with me,” he whispers, and it takes a moment, but then Wade’s winding his arms around Peter and nodding. “Okay,” he says into his neck, closing his eyes.

Notes:

Notes —

i. Same rules apply as before. See previous fic for notes.

ii. So I wanted to bring Harry into this because Flash is in raising webhead, and I thought it would be fun to give Peter some more people in his life outside of Wade and Johnny, but Wade says a thing at some point—I’ll be impressed if you catch it because I didn’t until I started writing about Harry—and I had to be a little creative while also using a little bit of canon, so this is basically a discrepancies note.

There’s a drumming noise inside my head,

That starts when you’re around.

I swear that you could hear it.

It makes such an almighty sound.

 

“You know who sucks?  AZTECS.”

 

Peter jerks fully awake when Wade smacks him, and he groans, squinting at him through the dark.  “What?” he asks, his voice half muffled by the pillow beneath him.

 

“Shit man, I meant the Mayans.  Like, what the ever living shit, I don’t want to be dyin’ cos some assholes decided they wanted to get lazy and just totally fuck off and not continue with the calendar.  And I mean, why are we even listening to them anyway?”

 

“Wade,” Peter cuts him off, reaching out and grabbing at him.  He gets his ear, and he tugs on it, finger slipping inside and pushing against the hole so that Wade whines at him.  Peter lifts his head up and says, eyes still closed, “First of all, that was supposed to happen in 2012, which was last year.  Secondly, it’s—fucking hell Jesus Christ almighty I’m going to stab you four o’clock in the morning.”

 

“The sun ain’t even up yet, spidey, the fuck do you know it’s past 2012 for?  Like—oh my god, it’s 2013?”

 

Peter whines softly, dropping back onto the bed, pressing his face into his pillow.  “Go back to sleep.  If not for my own sanity, for the boxes.”

 

“Oh, the boxes have been up all week, been goin’ crazy, bumpin’ back and forth like OOMPA OOMPA.”

 

“Toodle do,” Peter responds, and Wade shrieks with glee.

 

“Them mice, man, they were so fuckin’ cool, but that was one freaky deaky movie, it made me have the heebie geebies.”

 

“You’re not speaking English.  You are not actually speaking English.  Go back to sleep.”

 

“I mean, even if it is 2013, it’s almost 2014, cos it’s fucking November or some shit, and like, why did the Mayans even get to decide that we had twelve months in a year and however many days in a year and however many years in our life before the world ended?  And I don’t even get why months have different days, and shit, wait—the Mayans didn’t decide the months because Augustus, man, and then there was Julius.  And them painters are always all up in history, like, hey man I know what I’m doing cos I went to fuckin’ university because I’m a fuckin’ pretentious hoebag and call it university instead of college except that’s just cos Britain is cooler than us, but like, they don’t actually pay attention to history because dental hygiene, spidey, dental hygiene.”

 

Wade stops suddenly, and Peter hums softly, shifting until he’s comfortable.  He’s just dozing off again when Wade smacks him again, hand curling around his elbow and shaking him.

 

“I knew you weren’t listening, dickhead.  Julius Caesar had awful fuckin’ dental hygiene.  His teeth were probably wood and rusty metal, and you know what, et tu Brute, he probably died from a cavity and not Brutus gettin’ all hood and backstabbin’ the little shit.  It pisses me off, too, cos Shakespeare was way cooler than everyone else—except Wilde—and people keep sayin’ that he didn’t actually write his shit, and it’s like, fuck off, man, you’re about as fan-fuckin-tastic as alarm clocks, just sittin’ there going EHR EHR EHR EHR EHR EHR—”

 

“WADE!”

 

“EHR EHR EHR EHR EHR EHR—”

 

Peter swings, his fist landing on Wade’s shoulder, and then they tumble off the bed, and Wade starts giggling, so Peter sticks his finger in his nose and proceeds to fall asleep curled up on top of him, and then he doesn’t remember how he wakes up in the morning back in bed.  When he does wake up, though, it’s because Wade’s hand is down his pants.

 

“Rule number fifteen: no sex until I’m awake,” Peter grumbles, voice muffled again by the pillow.

 

“That is definitely not going to last,” Wade says even as he kisses Peter’s bare shoulder before getting out of bed and stretching, “C’mon, you promised to make pancakes.”

 

“Make your own pancakes.”

 

“Spidey,” Wade says, and Peter looks up, snorting when he finds him butt naked, hands on his hips, glaring down at him.  “You promised.”

 

“I’m making banana ones,” Peter says, smirking as he settles back in bed, and then Wade jumps on him.  Peter shrieks as Wade tickles him mercilessly until he’s just lying on top of him, Peter’s limbs in a crazy, tangled mess around him.  “I hate you,” Peter grumbles fondly before he sticks his finger in Wade’s ear, and he shrieks, flailing off him and onto the floor.

 

Eventually, they end up in the kitchen, and Wade helps him make pancakes, though really he’s just working his way through a bag of chocolate chips because Peter won’t put them in the pancakes and singing loudly, “I said, hey, girl with one eye!  Get your filthy fingers out of my pie!  I said, hey, girl with one eye, I’ll cut your little heart out cos you made me cryyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy!”

 

“Florence?” Peter asks, looking over at him when he finishes.

 

“She’s my jam, spidey.”

 

“I know,” Peter says, smiling fondly, and Wade returns the smile, his whole face scrunching up, eyes squeezed shut, and all his teeth showing.  Peter laughs loudly, reaching for him until he grabs Wade’s wrist, and he pulls him over, leaning up to press a kiss to his mouth.

 

It starts slow, just an easy movement of mouths, until Wade’s crowding him against the counter and deepening their kiss, one of his hands coming up to hook around Peter’s jaw, thumb pushing at the bone until Peter can’t move his head.  He leans up into him, though, swallowing him down, and Wade lets out this soft noise, shifting a thigh in between them.

 

They keep kissing, slow and languid, and Peter gets lost in the taste of him until he smells something burning, and he throws out a hand, webbing the skillet and tossing it from the stovetop.  Wade chuckles softly as he pulls away, tipping Peter’s head back so he can mouth down his throat, pausing at the hollow there to suck the skin in between his teeth and bruise him.  Peter groans, pushing up against Wade’s thigh, revealing the hard curve of his cock beneath his sweats, and then Wade’s other hand is darting down between them, sliding beneath sweats and briefs, hand curling around and cupping Peter, who groans louder this time, pushing up into his hand.

 

“Wade,” he whines, his breath coming out sharp as Wade’s fingers slide back to squeeze at his balls lightly.

 

Wade keeps kissing around his neck, moving up this time, and he bites down and pulls on Peter’s ear before he kisses it wetly, and then whispers, as his hand is coming back around, fingers wrapping around Peter’s dick loosely, “Oh, I’m gonna suck you off, baby boy, wrap my mouth around your cock and feel you on my tongue, make you come so hard I’ll be tastin’ you for weeks, and I know you taste so fuckin’ good, spidey, I’ll be beggin’ to have your dick in my mouth again, in my fuckin’ throat.  Wanna feel you shakin’, feel how your dick throbs, wanna taste you, spidey.”

 

“Fucking hell,” Peter gasps out, head tipping further back, “Fuck.  Yes.”

 

And then Wade is pressing closer, hands grabbing at Peter’s thighs, and he barely has a chance to brace himself before Wade is lifting him up onto the counter and yanking his sweats and briefs off.  He tosses them into the kitchen, lifts one of Peter’s legs up over his shoulder, and then Peter’s letting his head thud back against one of the cabinets as Wade takes his cock in his mouth, swallows him down until his nose is brushing his belly.

 

“Wade,” he groans, one hand coming up to cradle the back of his head, just resting there until Wade hollows his cheeks and sucks, and Peter’s blunt nails scrape against his bald head.  Wade hums around his cock, and Peter’s hips jerk upward in response, but Wade just curls a hand around his hip and holds him down.

 

Peter’s pretty sure every blow job he’s ever had was absolutely fucking wretched in comparison to this because this, holy mother of he’s going to die, he’s pretty sure.  He can’t even form words, too lost in the sensation of Wade’s tongue and his lips and the way his fingers keep pressing harder and harder against his hip, and he knows he’s going to have a bruise there, but fuck.

 

Wade pulls off suddenly, and Peter’s cock slaps against his belly, wet and shiny, the head swollen, and Peter whines loudly, bringing his head up to yell at Wade, but then his eyes go wide at the sight of Wade, who is sucking on two of his fingers, his hand gone from his hip.  He looks up at Peter, his eyes dark and his mouth red.

 

“Shit,” Peter manages to gasp out, and then Wade’s pulling his fingers out with a wet noise and dropping them between them, rubbing at Peter’s entrance before he dips his head back down and takes him in his mouth again.  He gets Peter good and wrecked with his mouth before he slides both fingers in, and the burn and stretch makes Peter shout, but then Wade’s pulling back to suck only at the head, his tongue pressing down over the slit, and Peter’s shout dissolves into a low moan.

 

Wade fucks his fingers into his ass, setting a quick rhythm, and Peter presses his heel against the back of Wade’s shoulder when he feels a low tug in his belly.  He presses him closer as his breaths hitcher higher and higher, voice pitching upward until all he can manage is a litany of Wade’s name over and over again until, “Fuck, Wade,” and he’s coming, head slamming against the cabinet as his nails scrape against Wade’s head, his other hand curling around the edge of the countertop.

 

Wade keeps going, sucks him down until Peter’s too tense, coiled too tight, and holy fuck, he doesn’t know the last time his orgasm lasted this long, and then he’s shattering apart, pushing at Wade’s head until he pulls off, and he sags awkwardly against the cabinets and counter, panting.  His dick aches from it, and his whole body is trembling with the aftershocks, but when he looks down at Wade, he groans.  All he can see is the head of his cock slipping in and out of the tight circle of Wade’s fist as he jerks himself, one of Peter’s legs still hooked over his shoulder.

 

Peter reaches forward, hand coming up to knead at the back of Wade’s neck, which pulls a low, wrecked groan from him, and Peter closes his eyes, shifting closer to him.  “Fuck, Wade,” he says, his voice a little hoarse, “Fuckin’ love your mouth of my cock, want to be there again, so fuckin’ warm and wet, and—shit, want you to hold me down and fuck me later, want you to come inside of me, want you to fill me, and—”

 

“Peter,” Wade groans, and he opens his eyes to find Wade staring at him, swollen mouth hanging open.

 

He holds his gaze and then grins, teeth coming out to scrape over his bottom lip.  “You gonna come for me, Wade?  Gonna come all over my dick, fuck, you’re so fucking beautiful, I love your fucking cock, Wade.”

 

“Shit,” Wade grunts, and then he’s losing his balance, and Peter grabs at his shoulder at the same time Wade reaches for the counter, his other hand slowing as he comes over Peter’s thighs and stomach, his head dropped back, exposing the long pane of his throat.  He stays like that, coming down, until Peter leans forward, mouthing up his neck until he kisses just under his chin, and then he tips his head forward and gives Peter a lazy grin.

 

“My pancakes burned,” Peter says, and Wade breaks out in an easy laugh, shrugging Peter’s leg from his shoulder before he leans forward to kiss him.

 

“I’ll make you new ones, okay?”

 

“I love you.”

 

“I know,” Wade says, smiling cheekily until Peter smacks his chest, “I love you, too, asshole.”

 

“Butthead,” Peter grumbles before he slides off the counter and tries not to fall on the floor, and Wade just cackles as he heads out to clean himself off.

 

——

 

Wade lets out a war cry, Peter ducks, and the controller crashes against the wall.  Peter explodes, “If that’s broken, I will—”

 

“OOPS!  I DID IT AGAIN!”

 

Peter throws his arms up and drops onto his back, and he wouldn’t be able to stop laughing even if he wanted to.  Wade does victory laps around the living room, dancing wildly, and Peter just keeps laughing until he can’t breathe.

 

“Wade,” he whines, clutching at his stomach, “Come back, I’m dying.”

 

Wade jumps over the back of the sofa and lands on Peter, leaning up so he can giggle like a prepubescent girl in his ear, and then they’re both on the floor because Peter is going to kill him via tickling, which, ultimately, just turns into making out on the floor until Peter pushes Wade away by his face.  “Wade.”

 

“Spidey?” he asks, his voice a little muffled from where Peter’s hand is.

 

“We need food.”

 

“Pizza?”

 

“Pizza.”

 

And so they order pizza, pop in a stupid funny movie, and just hang out for the rest of the night, Peter shifting after they’ve finished eating so he can snuggle his way into every crevice Wade has to offer.  They end up with Wade horizontal and Peter splayed out on top of him.  Wade just laughs softly at him and threads his fingers through Peter’s hair, fingers rubbing against his scalp, and Peter would be worried about how quiet Wade is if it weren’t for the way he keeps yawning, his fingers slowing until they stop, and Peter looks up to find him out cold.

 

Peter webs the remote control over to him, shuts off the television, and shifts until he’s comfortable, and he falls asleep tangled in Wade, head resting against his chest.

 

He never expects Wade to wake up like he’s been electrocuted, but he does, jerking so violently that Peter is thrown off the sofa and lands with a heavy thud.  He groans, rubbing at his elbow as he rolls over, and then he hears it, hears Wade’s breath coming in these clipped, angry bursts, and he struggles upright, frowning.

 

“Wade?”

 

Wade shakes his head, and it’s so dark in the room, he can barely see him, but he does see him start to move, start to leave, and Peter scrambles upright, nearly toppling them both over.  “No,” he says, his voice hard, and he grabs at Wade, pulling him back down until they’re tangled together, and Wade is trying to push at him.

 

“You’re not leaving, not again,” Peter says, forcing him into the circle of his arms, but then Wade is fighting harder, using his strength, and so Peter uses his own, knowing he can take Wade if he really wants to.  He parts his legs, looping them around him, his ass dropping between Wade’s legs, and he hooks his ankles at his lower back, hands coming up to curl around the nape of his neck.  He presses them together, pulling Wade in close until he can hold him, leaning his cheek against Wade’s temple, and he just starts singing because maybe it’ll work, maybe it’ll bring him back, sometimes I feel like throwing my hands up in the air, I know I can count on you.  Sometimes I feel like saying, “Lord I just don’t care,” but you’ve got the love I need to see me through.

 

Wade calms at his voice, going a little slack in his arms, and Peter closes his eyes, lowering his hands to rub over his back slowly, and he lets him breathe a little before he keeps going, keeps bringing him closer and closer, sometimes it seems that the going is just too rough, and things go wrong no matter what I do.  Now and then it seems that life is just too much, but you’ve got the love I need to see me through.

 

“Peter,” Wade whispers, and Peter just shushes him and kisses him lightly on the mouth.

 

“I’m right here.  Please stay.”

 

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

 

“You’re never going to.  Shut up,” he says before Wade can respond, and they spend nearly half an hour like that, wrapped together, until Wade asks to go to bed, and Peter holds his hand until they’re in his room, and then he gets as close to Wade as he can and doesn’t let him go.

 

There’s a drumming noise inside my head,

That throws me to the ground.

 

“You’re taking Deadpool out on a typical date?  Like, dinner and a movie typical?”

 

Peter rolls his eyes, but nods.  “Yeah, it’ll be fun.  He called last night, said the job was a rough one, so I figured we’d go out, have a nice time together.”

 

Johnny snorts, shaking his head.  “I don’t get it, man.”

 

Peter frowns, looking over at him, but Johnny’s focused on the video game, sticking his tongue out as he leans to the side.  “Get what?” he asks, looking back to the screen.

 

“Why you’re with him.  It makes no sense to me.  He doesn’t treat you right, Peter.”

 

“Dude, the fuck are you talking about?” Peter snaps, looking over at him again, but Johnny still won’t meet his gaze, just shrugging one shoulder.

 

“He’s fucking with you, man.  He’s in and out, and he never tells you where he’s going or when he’ll be back.  I mean, for fuck’s sake, Peter, he sent you his finger, and all you did was call him up and tell him to come home.  I’m sorry, dude, but it juts pisses me off, seeing the way he treats you, and—hey!” he exclaims as Peter shoots his character until he’s dead and then clambers over the side of the sofa and heads for the kitchen.

 

He starts to aggressively make tea, slamming down his mug and yanking the faucet on so he can fill his kettle.  Johnny sighs and gets up, coming over to lean against the doorway and fold his arms.  “Spidey—”

 

“Don’t!” Peter shouts, whipping around.  He shakes his head, jaw clenched, and Johnny opens his mouth, but Peter just says, “No!  I don’t want to hear another fucking word from you!”

 

“Okay, come on, this is so typical,” Johnny says, rolling his eyes, “Of course you’re defending him, he’s shoving his dick up your ass.  Open your fucking eyes, Peter, he’s abusive, and—”

 

Suddenly, Peter’s on top of him, shoving him hard enough in the chest that Johnny staggers backward.  He glares at Peter, but doesn’t move, and Peter starts to turn away when Johnny makes a soft, mocking noise, and then they’re fighting, Peter’s fist swinging around and catching Johnny in the jaw.

 

Johnny gets him in the side, a quick jab that makes Peter gasp, and then he’s driving into an uppercut that sends Peter sprawling against the wall.  Peter pushes off against the wall with his hands, his legs flying up, feet kicking Johnny hard, and he hits the ground with a heavy thud.  Peter flings himself off the wall and lands on Johnny, driving a knee down against his sternum before he punches him dead on in the face, lifting his fist again, but Johnny throws up an arm, and Peter jerks to a stop, shaking.

 

He stays there for only a second before he stumbles away, lifting a hand to his mouth and spitting into it, frowning when it comes away red.  He goes to spit in the sink and wash his hands before he’s splashing water on his face, and then, when he turns, Johnny is just coming into the kitchen.  He stops, and they just stare at each other, and then Johnny’s sighing and going over to clean up his face.

 

When he’s finished, he goes to find Peter in the living room with his tea, knees pulled against his chest and fingers curled around his mug.  “Peter—”

 

“I want you to leave.”

 

“Peter—”

 

“Look, I get it.  You’re just trying to look out for me, that’s what friends do, but I’m gonna hit you again, I can fucking promise, so you need to leave.”

 

“Peter, I’m sorry.”

 

“Johnny, please.”

 

Johnny lingers a moment longer before he nods and heads out.  Peter quietly drinks his tea, and then he just sits there, holding it loosely as he goes over what Johnny said, and then he can’t take it anymore, and he throws the mug across the room, screaming.

 

When it smashes, he’s already on his feet, storming through his apartment until he finds his phone in his room, and he dials Wade as he clears his throat, trying to swallow past the rising thump.  He feels raw inside, and he just needs to hear his voice, just needs to know they’re okay, but then it’s not Wade that answers, “Uh—hi?”

 

Peter clears his throat again and says, “Who is this?”

 

“Lacey, who’s this?”

 

“Is, uh—is Deadpool there?”

 

“He’s busy, clearly, and—”

 

“Are you serious, bitch?” Wade’s voice cuts in, a little distant, “I’ll cut your fuckin’ tongue out and shove it up your cunt.  Go sit in the corner and face the wall.”

 

“Deadpool—” she’s cut off by a harsh noise, and then she’s screaming nonsense, but it only lasts a few seconds before there’s the sharp retort of a gun, and then silence.

 

“Shit, sorry, Deadpool here,” Wade says after a moment.

 

“What the fuck?” Peter explodes, “Did you just kill her?”

 

“Peter?”

 

“Oh my god, were you fucking her?  I can’t do this, I can’t—”

 

“Peter.  Really?  Look, I know I ain’t the greatest boyfraaand you ever had, but I think I been doin’ pretty good, a’ight, so don’t get your knickers all in a twist.  Picked her up while I was workin’ the job, I thought she was one of the victims, turns out she’s just another fuckin’ whore the bossman picked up, and she’d been tryin’ to spy, to spy, spidey, and—wait, why are you calling?  Shit, are you okay?  Did someone hurt you?  Look, I’m on my way back right now, okay, you just—you stay wherever you are, I’ll come in guns a-blazin’, a’ight, and don’t—”

 

“Wade.  I’m fine, I just—I needed to—shit.”

 

He falls against his bed, his knees giving out as he tries to swallow down tears.  He can’t cry in front of Wade, that is not part of the deal, but then he’s breaking, and he covers his face with his hand, holding his breath.

 

“Peter, what happened?” Wade asks very softly, and that’s what finally does it.

 

“Johnny,” is all he manages to get out before he’s crying audibly, and then he curls up in his bed, pulling the blankets over him and wishing that Wade was right here, curled around him.  Wade waits it out, lets him cry until he can talk again, and then he says, shakily, “We had a fight, and he said you were abusive, and our relationship was fucked up, and I just—I need you to come home.”

 

“Spidey, I still got this shit to take care of.  I’ll be there in two days, okay?”

 

“No, but okay,” Peter mumbles, and then he pulls away the phone and hangs up without saying goodbye.

 

——

 

Two days turns into three, and then four, and then another full week has passed, and so Peter shoots Johnny a text and boards over to Baxter Building, shivering when he finally gets there.  Johnny’s waiting in the lobby when he gets there, and so he heads inside, reaching up to brush the snow from his hair.  “Dude, it’s cold out there,” he says as he comes in.

 

“It’s December, I’m not surprised.  What’s up?”

 

“Can we talk?”

 

Johnny holds his gaze for a few moments before nodding, and they head upstairs.  A few hours, a six-pack, and a violent video game later, and they’re back to normal.  He has half a mind to just spend the night at Johnny’s, but he wants to go home for some reason, and so he hooks his board onto his backpack and takes to the skies a little after two, swinging through the cold night air.  He drops onto the fire escape and pulls open the window to his bedroom, ducking inside and rubbing at his arms from the cold.

 

He quickly sheds his layers for warmer ones, tugging on a pair of sweats and Wade’s red and black sweatshirt, and then he goes to take out his contacts and put on his glasses before heading out of his room.

 

Peter stops short in the living room as he notices the flickering glow from the bathroom, and so he carefully heads over, frowning.  When he pushes open the door, he deflates a little at the sight.  There are dozens of candles lit all over, a bottle of expensive wine in the sink, and a bowl of cut up cheese on the closed toilet.  He hears the humming then, a soft tune that he recognizes as Florence, and he turns, smiling as he sees Wade coming out of the kitchen with a bunch of grapes.

 

“What are you doing?” Peter asks with a fond smile.

 

“Bein’ romantic, spidey.  Shut up, and get naked.”  Peter laughs softly before doing as he’s told, stripping out of his clothes, and then he goes in to turn on the shower.  “No, we’re—”

 

“We’re taking a shower,” Peter cuts him off, “There’s no way both of us are fitting in that bath.  We can drink and eat in bed.”

 

Wade rolls his eyes but complies, and so they take a quick shower together, and Wade doesn’t even get handsy, but Peter figures that’s because he can’t stop talking, “It was like fuckin’ China, man, I’ve never seen so many little munchkins all cooped up, just havin’ their fine sweet way with each other, and I mean, shit, spidey, I a’int never gonna buy shit from China again if it’s bein’ made in those fuckin’ sweat shops.  Have you seen the kind of child abuse they put those dwarves through?  It’s like hobbit here, hobbit there, hobbit everywhere, fuckin’ Smaug blowin’ ass up their smokes, and like, why does he get to have all the fun?  Why do we get this bossman home dawg, callin’ all the shots while there be China dwarves runnin’ amok just causing all sorts of mayhem like incest and shit, did you get the new season of Game of Thrones?  I’m so in love with Beric Dondarrion, I’d fuck him so fast.  Spidey, can we have a list of people it’d be okay if we slept with?”

 

“Only if I get Jon Snow.”

 

“You would like the virgin, two little peas in a pod, fuckin’ peas.  My mama done said that peas in a pod are better than peas in a can, and fuck me upside down with a stack of Bibles, spidey, the juice in them cans is like—shit, it’s like goblin piss or somethin’, and oh my god, you remember that time that friend you had, what was his name?”

 

“Harry?”

 

“James Franco, right.  Have you seen his brother smile?  It’s freaky deaky, looks like you’re lookin’ in a mirror but not because they’ve kind of got different faces, you know?  Spidey, you know?”

 

“I don’t, tell me more.”

 

“Tell me more, tell me more, does he have a car?  Look at me, I’m Sandra Dee, blushing like a red, round, ripe tomato, got that dick all up in her—”

 

“Nope!  You are not ruining Grease for me!” Peter shouts, flicking soap at him.

 

“You ever had a tomato from a farm, spidey?” Wade goes on, pulling Peter by the ear, “Bitin’ in, it’s like pop, there goes your virginity, and I ain’t talkin’ like how Denethor’s got the red juices all down his throat, that shit is nasty, I’m talkin’ like—”

 

Peter opens the shower door and gets out, leaving Wade to continue ranting to himself.  He grabs the wine and cheese on his way, and he gets into bed naked.  He’s got the bottle opened when Wade finally joins him, and they waste the night away until the sun is rising, and then Peter feels heavy with good wine and better cheese, and he snuggles up to Wade, and they sleep the next day and night, getting up only to pee and eat once, and Peter doesn’t care what anyone says, he’s happier with Wade than he’s ever been.

 

Louder than sirens,

Louder than bells.

Sweeter than heaven,

And hotter than hell.

 

“On the first day of Christmas, Peter done got me his dick in a pretty pink bow!”

 

Peter looks up from where he’s sitting on the floor, trying to choose between lights.  “Wade?” he calls, but he doesn’t hear him moving nearby, and so he waits for a few minutes before going back to his deciding.

 

“On the second day of Christmas, Peter done got me two rainbow grenades, and his dick in a pretty pink bow!”

 

Peter fishes his phone out of his pocket, tapping into his contacts and thumbing over Wade in his favorites, trying and failing to hide a grin at the picture there, of him half asleep but smiling softly, his eyes tired but open, and he’s just staring, and Peter had to have a picture of it, and he’s pretty sure it’s the only one of Wade that he has.

 

“On the third day of Christmas, Peter done got me three shrunken heads, two rainbow grenades, and his dick in a pretty pink bow!” he sings by way of answering.

 

“Where are you?” Peter asks, trying not to laugh.

 

“I am looking at wrapping paper.  Can you get me a taco for Christmas?  I’ll get wrapping paper with snowflakes, and THEY HAVE GLITTER,” and then he hangs up, and Peter just sighs and puts both the lights in their cart.  He gets two more boxes of each, dumps them in, as well, and then goes off to find Wade.  When he does, he almost falls over because Wade is covered in glitter, and he turns when Peter starts laughing hysterically, and he just grins, this wide, goofy thing.  He’s in a pair of ratty jeans, torn at one of the knees and stained with paint of some kind, a pair of Peter’s Converse because he doesn’t really have his own shoes beside his Deadpool boots, a black thermal, his red and black sweatshirt, and an old baseball cap that he can hide under a little.  Head to toe, though, he’s covered in glitter, and he’s grinning like a total idiot, and Peter can’t help it, he walks over to him and kisses him, getting glitter on his mouth and his clothes, and then he pulls back, still laughing, and says, “I love you so much.”

 

“I love you,” Wade says, his grin slipping into a soft smile, and then they’re kissing again until Peter tastes glitter on his tongue and he steps away, his laughter quiet now as he wipes his mouth.

 

“You’re ridiculous.  Did you pick out wrapping paper?”

 

“I did!”

 

They argue over wrapping paper briefly before they continue their Christmas shopping, and they’re looking at everything that could possibly be hung up, though Wade’s mostly preoccupied with the tinsel and Peter’s trying to find ornaments.  They’re on opposite sides of the section when it happens, and Peter doesn’t register what’s going on right away when he hears, “Woah, look at the fairy princess.  Hey, faggot, fell into a pot of glitter, did you?”

 

Peter frowns, looking up from his ornaments but not turning, and he waits for it, but he doesn’t hear Wade’s voice, and then, “Check it out, dude, freak’s got major scars, looks like a fucking burn victim.”

 

His chest hurts suddenly, tightens up and pulls the breath from him, but he still turns, and he can’t see anything but the way Wade’s shoulders are too high, his face too hidden, and he knows he feels vulnerable because he doesn’t have any of his weapons on him.  There are three of them, the asshole teenagers, and Peter grabs the first one he can reach, jerking him backward.  “The fuck do you think you’re doing, dickwad?”

 

“Easy there, kiddo,” the teen says, taking a step back.  His friend elbows him, smirking, and he nods.  “This your boyfriend, fairy?”

 

And then he’s not speaking because Peter’s forearm comes forward, a quick flash, and he webs his mouth just before the shout comes as his elbow connects with his nose.  He grabs at him, and Wade jerks a step forward when his friends try to jump to his aid.  Peter hushes him, cupping a hand around his neck, and meeting his gaze.  “Fuck off, yeah?” he says, smiling tightly, and the teen nods before twisting out of Peter’s grip and pushing at his friends.

 

They run off, and Peter waits until they’re gone before he turns, reaching for Wade even as he starts to step away.  “No,” Peter says, catching his wrist and tugging him close.  He leans up, looping his arms around Wade’s neck and hugging him tightly.  “Stay with me,” he whispers, and it takes a moment, but then Wade’s winding his arms around Peter and nodding.

 

“Okay,” he says into his neck, closing his eyes.

 

They stay like that for a few moments until Peter thinks Wade’s okay, and then they gather their things and head out of the aisle.  They don’t spend much longer in the store, and Wade’s quiet when they get to the register and pay for everything.

 

“Hey,” Peter says as they’re heading out, laden with bags, “Wanna get Taco Bell?”

 

Wade just grins and bumps shoulders with him.  “You know it, webhead.”

 

——

 

“On the fifth day of Christmas, Peter done got me FIVE SPANDEX ASSES!” is how he wakes up the week before Christmas, four days after they’ve finished buying their decorations.

 

The smell of eggs is wafting through the apartment, and Peter hums, slowly rolling onto his front and stretching.  He laughs softly as Wade continues, “four whores for the boxes, three shrunken heads, two rainbow grenades, and his dick in a pretty pink bow!”  He tapers off into a slow hum, though Peter can hear an occasional word or two.

 

He takes his time getting out of bed, just lounging until Wade comes barreling in, jumps on top of him, and belts out, “On the sixth day of Christmas, Peter done got me six strips of leather!”  He spreads his arms wide, jazz hands going, and he holds the pose for a minute before he drops down and stares at Peter with narrowed eyes.  “Can I spank you with them?”

 

“No,” Peter says, though he’s smiling, “What’s for breakfast?”

 

“Goodies,” Wade says, tapping him on the nose before he flies off the bed and runs back out of the room.

 

Breakfast turns out to be quite the spread, and Peter eats until he’s fit to burst, and then he whines at Wade about Christmas specials, and they go to lounge on the sofa, Peter bundled up with his toes under Wade’s thigh, one of Wade’s hands curled loosely around his ankle, and that’s how they spend the day, occasionally breaking for cocoa or tea.  It’s later that night, when they’re sprawled out, Peter upside down and Wade with his feet kicked up on his belly, stretched out, that Peter says, “I think I’m gonna see if I can get my job back at the Bugle.”

 

“Why?  I thought you left after all the Spiderman shit, made all that bank and then just became a loser.”

 

“Fuck off,” Peter says, kicking him in the shoulder, “It wasn’t that long ago, and I’m sick of doing nothing.  I’m not gonna live in this building forever, where my landlord is in love with me, and I need a job, a steady one.  Even you have a job.”

 

“Only sometimes.  If there be assholes out there that need to be unalive, I’m gonna unalive them.”

 

“Unalive, really?”

 

“Spidey, look!” he shrieks, grabbing Peter’s calf tightly, and Peter jumps, nearly tumbling off the sofa.

 

“I hate you.”

 

“You don’t, though,” Wade says with a cheeky grin, so Peter just kicks him again and goes back to the game.

 

——

 

The morning of Christmas, Peter can hear him before he feels him, “On the tenth day of Christmas, Peter done got me ten lords o leaping, nine snuggle and kissing hours, eight sharp knives for torturin’, seven dead bodies burnin’, six strips of leather, FIVE SPANDEX ASSES, four whores for the boxes, three shrunken heads, two rainbow grenades, and his dick in a pretty pink bow!”  He smiles, eyes still closed, and still mostly asleep, and then he can hear Wade shushing across the floor, bare feet making soft, squeaking sounds until he comes into the room, and Peter can smell him.

 

He smells like pine, like he’s been rolling around in the tree, but also like Peter’s laundry detergent and soap, and there’s a faint hint of leather from his suit, and his fingers always, always, smell, and taste, like gunpowder, even if it’s only lightly.  He smells like home, Peter realizes, and he hums, turning onto his back when Wade lifts the blankets and slides in next to him, singing quietly, “On the eleventh day of Christmas, Peter done got me, eleven spidey senses tingling in my balls.”

 

“You’re so crude,” Peter mumbles, though he tilts his head over as Wade leans in to kiss him.

 

Wade kisses the corner of his mouth, grinning wickedly when Peter whines quietly at him.  “I’ll sing the whole song,” he threatens.

 

“No, you won’t.  I’m not wearing briefs.”

 

“You have pants on,” Wade says, like it’s an insult.  He clears his throat, so Peter starts kicking at the blankets until he gets them off, and then Wade’s singing, loudly and off-key, “On the twelfth day of Christmas, Peter done got me twelve bulging tacos, eleven spidey senses tingling in my balls!”

 

Peter pushes off the mattress, thumbs hooking in his sweats, and tugs them down.

 

“Ten lords o leaping, nine snuggle and kissing hours, eight sharp knives for torturin’!”

 

Wade’s eyes flick down as Peter runs a hand over his half-hard cock, just a slow brush of his knuckles.

 

“Seven dead bodies burnin’, six strips of leather, FIVE SPANDEX ASSES!” Wade screams the last part, and Peter can’t help but chuckle, a low, dark thing as he circles his fingers around his dick and squeezes up, thumb passing over the head.  He watches Wade, darting out his tongue to wet his lips, and then Wade is looking at his mouth, and he looks conflicted on where to keep his gaze, so he just keeps singing, “Four whores for the boxes, three shrunken heads, two rainbow grenades!”

 

Peter drops his other hand down to rub at the inside of his thigh before sliding over to cup his balls, and he tips his head back a little, eyes slipping shut.

 

“AND HIS DICK IN A PRETTY PINK BOW!” Wade shrieks, and then he’s shuffling around, and, when Peter opens his eyes again, Wade is naked and dropping a knee between his legs.  Peter spreads his legs, and Wade makes a soft noise, running his hands over his thighs, staring down at the slow drag of Peter’s hand over his dick.

 

“Oh, spidey,” Wade says, shaking his head.

 

“Yeah?”

 

“I wanna fuck you boneless.”

 

Wade looks up at Peter, who’s struggling to swallow, and he nods quickly before he’s reaching out to web at the drawer, yanking it open.  Wade leans over, grabbing the lube, and Peter shifts until he’s comfortable, but Wade shakes his head, and pats at his right hip.  “On your knees, spidey,” Wade says when he doesn’t move, and Peter groans, hand tightening over his cock.  He stays there, jerking himself slowly, and Wade suddenly isn’t moving, isn’t breathing, just staring at him.

 

Peter lets himself enjoy the moment, hips shifting up to meet the rhythm of his hand until it’s all too much, and he just wants Wade inside of him, so he reluctantly lets go of his cock and pulls his right knee up, twisting around until he’s got his back to Wade.

 

“Holy fucking Jesus Christ on a cracker,” Wade says, one hand coming down to curl around the curve of Peter’s ass, squeezing, “Merry Christmas to me, ho ho ho.”  Peter can’t help but laugh, shaking his head as he reaches for pillows, positioning them under him so he has something to rest on, and then he’s just presenting himself, and Wade lets out this low groan, and suddenly he’s right there, his teeth nipping at Peter’s ass, who jumps, tensing.  “You okay, webhead?”

 

“Yeah,” Peter lets out on an exhale, shifting a little so he can look back at Wade just as he’s placing both hands on Peter’s ass and spreading him, and then Peter is having an out of body experience because fucking hell, Wade’s mouth is right there, pressing a wet kiss to his entrance before his tongue slides out, pushing against it.  Peter moans outright, trying not to shift up toward him.

 

Wade mouths at his ass, just enjoying the way he tastes, before he slowly eases his tongue in, grins as Peter shouts in surprise and pleasure, a full body tremor passing through him.  Wade works him open, tongue moving in easy pushes until he finally pulls back, straightening, and Peter gasps, “Fuck, Wade, what the hell,” and deflates against his pillows a little.  Wade just grins and reaches for the lube, slicking three of his fingers on his right hand, letting his left slide up over to the small of Peter’s back, pressing down before he’s pressing in, three fingers deep, and Peter groans loudly, shifting up to him, trying to take more of him in.

 

“Oh, I got stuff for your stocking,” Wade says in a low voice, and Peter is silent for a moment before he bursts out laughing, hiding his face in a pillow, his shoulders shaking.  “Are you laughing at me?” Wade demands, offended, and that just makes Peter laugh harder.

 

“Wade,” he whines when he pulls his fingers out quickly because he knows he’s going to play dirty now, the fucker, and, sure enough, then Wade’s shifting, and he can practically feel how near he is, but he can’t stop laughing.  “Stuff for my stocking, really?  That’s the—shit,” he breaks off as Wade slams in, jerking him forward.

 

He gives Peter only a brief moment to breathe and adjust before he’s curling two hands around his hips, pulling him toward him, and Peter pushes up onto his elbows, trying to anticipate, but nothing could have prepared him for the way Wade slides out, only the head of his cock still inside, and then slides back in, a quick, hard thrust that makes Peter bow up toward him, wanting more.

 

Wade gives him three slow, hard thrusts before he’s filling Peter with the quick, brutally blissful slap of his hips, and the only sound in the room is their skin hitting, a blush rising across Peter’s ass, and the way he can’t swallow his voice down, can’t muffle anything, because Wade keeps sliding over his prostate, keeps winding him up tighter and tighter until Peter can’t take it, and he pushes off the mattress.  Wade goes with him, right hand sliding up to brace against his sternum, holding him as Peter’s knees spread wider, the muscles in his thighs coiled tight as he fucks himself down on Wade’s cock.  One hand flings back to grip at him, fingers curled around the curve of his neck, where it bleeds into his shoulder, nails pressing in against that spot, and Wade groans, leaning forward to bite at Peter’s neck.

 

Peter rides him, body moving as quickly as he can, trying to keep Wade’s cock inside of him as much as possible, and his whole being aches with wanting.  “Wade,” he pants, slowing until he’s just rocking in Wade’s lap, keeping them together, but he’s shaking, and he needs something else, something harder.

 

“Wade,” he groans when he won’t answer him, and Wade responds by reaching around to curl his fingers around Peter’s cock, squeezing tight and pressing upward.  He jerks him fast, and Peter keens, voice pitched high and thin as his toes curl in the sheets, and he presses back against Wade, so tense it almost hurts, and then Wade’s pushing at him, hand against between his shoulders, pushing him away until Peter tumbles onto the bed.

 

“Over,” Wade says, and Peter flips gracelessly, trembling from his almost orgasm.  Wade’s cock slides out of him as he moves, and he whines, wanting him back, but then he looks up at Wade and sees it there, how far away he is, how tightly he’s wound, and Peter reaches for him, pulling them together until he can kiss him.

 

It brings them both down, Peter’s hands cradling Wade’s head, holding him there, and they slow their mouths until Wade pulls away, and then they’re just breathing together until Wade groans and says, “Peter.”

 

“Fuck me,” Peter says in return, and Wade kisses him again, bruising and so good, Peter wants to get lost in it, but he pushes at Wade until he leans back up.  He reaches for Peter, jerking him down the bed to him, and Peter stares up at him with an open, swollen mouth, eyes wide and dark.  He loves this Wade, the hard, quick one, loves how unpredictable he can be, loves how it sends a thrill of adrenaline through him as he thinks about how dangerous this Wade is, how far from control he is, and it makes Peter moan just thinking about it, one of his feet coming up to press at Wade’s elbow until he gets the hint and hooks both of Peter’s knees over his elbows, guides his cock back to his ass, and then Peter’s bowing off the bed, his back a sharp curve as Wade snaps his hips against his ass in fast, unforgiving thrusts, and Peter knows he’s going to have bruises, but he just presses closer and begs for more, for harder.

 

Wade looms over him, and Peter curls closer to him, legs stretched so wide it almost hurts, his back aching with the effort to be nearer, until Wade’s letting out a soft, “Fuck,” and his thrusts get a little erratic.  “Peter—Peter,” he moans, dropping one of Peter’s legs so he can lean forward, pressing their mouths together as he reaches between them, fisting over Peter’s cock.

 

Peter groans into the kiss, hands coming up to grab at Wade, one landing on his shoulder and the other on his head, and he shifts against him, their bodies moving together in one fluid motion.  “Peter,” Wade gasps as he pulls away and drops his face into his neck, pressing against him.  He squeezes tightly up Peter’s dick, his hand moving in a blur until Peter’s swearing, his leg stretching higher where it’s still hooked in Wade’s elbow.

 

“Wade—fuck, I’m gonna—so close—Wade,” he says, squeezing his eyes shut as he feels it tug in his belly, feels it lick down his spine, and god, he’s so close, it hurts, and then Wade’s letting out this loud, wrecked noise, slamming in and stilling before he fucks into Peter shallowly, his dick pulsing inside of him, and Peter comes with a soft cry, arching up toward him as Wade continues to jerk him through it.  Peter hangs there, suspended, until Wade slides his thumb over the head of his cock, and then his breath comes out on a whine, body twisting away, too much too soon.  “No, stay,” he says, his words slurring as Wade starts to pull back, and Wade groans softly, winding them together, giving Peter a last, slow thrust before he stills, just lying there with him, as close as they can get.

 

Finally, though, Peter’s legs start to ache, and he lets out a soft, pained little gasp, and Wade drops his leg back to the bed as he slides out of him, rolling over onto his side and letting out a heavy breath.  “Shit,” he says after a moment, and Peter lets out a tiny laugh.

 

“Yeah.  Shit.”

 

They’re quiet for a bit before Wade gives his chest an easy slap and says, “Spidey, you flexible,” and then Peter’s laughing, loud and clear, and it’s worth it because Wade grins widely and kisses him quiet.

 

They spend the rest of their Christmas being lazy, falling into a light slumber after their morning sex, and then, when lunchtime rolls around, Peter stretches awake, slips out of Wade’s hold, and wakes him up with his mouth around his cock, lets him harden on his tongue until all he can taste is him, and then Wade gasps awake, and they have slow, lazy sex, still sleepy, an easy climb up, and Peter is loud when he finally comes.

 

After that, they order Chinese takeaway, shower, and then go to unwrap their presents, a small offering, but they each got a crazy assortment of things for each other, and Peter’s face aches with how much he’s smiling.  After Chinese, Wade puts on Nightmare Before Christmas, and, halfway through, he goes off on how much he hates pants, and then he’s naked, watching the movie, and Peter can’t help it, he’s asking for it, and so, they forget to finish the movie and instead end up on the floor in tangle of pillows and their comforter, Peter hovering above Wade, hands braced against his thighs for leverage, their sounds echoing over the sound of the movie.

 

They take another shower, and Wade tries to get handsy, but Peter whines at him, claiming that his dick is sore, so, of course, Wade takes that as a challenge, and Peter nearly blacks out when Wade sucks him off in the shower, but then Wade’s hard enough that he’s actually whining about it, so they finish up in the shower quickly, Peter shoves him down onto the bed, and gives him the best head he’s had in a long fucking time.

 

When night finally creeps around, they fall asleep tangled in each other, peaceful, and they sleep uninterrupted through the night, waking up late the next day, and Peter thinks he should have realized this wouldn’t last forever, not with Wade.

 

I ran to a tower where the church bells chime.

I hoped that they would clear my mind.

They left a ringing in my ear,

But that drum’s still beating loud and clear.

 

It all happens so fast, Peter feels a little dizzy when it’s over.

 

About a month after Christmas, Wade gets a job that he’s predicting about three weeks for, and he’s just past his second week, so Peter’s over at Baxter Building on a Thursday night when one of Reed’s alarms starts going off.  Johnny groans before taking a final drag on his blunt and then getting rid of it.  “Got your suit?” he asks as Peter comes out of the bathroom, and he nods, heading over to his backpack.

 

They all get suited up, take the fantasticar over to the Tower, and then they’re meeting up with the Avengers and getting organized.  “Fuckin’ Doom,” Johnny grumbles when they get out of the meeting room, and then they’re splitting up.

 

They work together to bring him down, and Peter’s just getting into position when his phone rings, and he says, as quietly as he can manage, “Hey Jarvis, switch frequencies for me, yeah?”

 

“Shall I inform Mister Stark, sir?”

 

“Nah, Tony said it was cool, he does it all the time.”  Jarvis patches him over to his phone, and he answers the call with, “You called.”

 

“It is Thursday,” Wade states matter-of-factly, “I mean—take that, ass monkey—I am your boyfriend, figured I might as well take a crack at bein’ good at it, you hear?  Hey-o, gonna blow your asshole!”

 

“Are you working?” Peter asks with a soft laugh.

 

“Might be I am, might be I’m not.  This—oh, get at me, brotha, I’ll fuck your day up, pinky promise—job sucks so hardcore, spidey, I just wanna snuggle.”

 

“Cuddle whore.”

 

“Cuddle whore?” Wade shrieks, and then Peter’s wincing at the loud gunfire before Wade’s back, “Whatchu up to, webhead?  Please tell me you’re jerking off right now, I might just—BRAINS, I EAT BRAINS—whip it out and come all over this—shit.”

 

And then all Peter can hear is the quick dance of his blades, and it makes him shake his head, trying so hard not to smile, but it’s Wade, and he can’t help it.

 

“Sir, Captain Rogers has requested that you pay attention.”

“Shit, sorry, Jay, gimme a second.  Wade, I gotta go.”

 

“But spidey!”

 

“Doom’s out and about, I’ll call you after, I love you,” he says, shifting so he’s on the edge of the building, poised and ready.

 

“Hey.”

 

“Yeah?” Peter asks, going still.

 

“I love you, too,” Wade says softly, and Peter’s got this ridiculous grin when he drops the call.

 

“Spiderman,” Steve says sharply.

 

“Reprimand me later, Cap,” Peter cuts him off, “What’s up?”

 

And so they get to work, and they’ve nearly finished when Peter gets knocked out of midair, and he hits a building at an awkward angle.  He crashes into the ground, twisting so his shoulder takes most of the damage, but then he feels something pop, and he shouts in pain, falling onto his back and squeezing his eyes shut.  Johnny finds him struggling to get up as they’re subduing Doom, and he helps him to his feet, letting him lean on him as they go to find the others.

 

“Johnny,” he gasps halfway there, stopping, his breath coming in short, painful bursts, “Johnny, I can’t—fuck, it hurts to breathe.”

 

“Damn it,” Johnny grumbles, looking around.  He lets out a huff after a moment and carefully lowers Peter to the ground, perching him on a curb.  “Don’t move, okay?  I’ll go get someone.”

 

Peter nods, watching him go, and then he’s doubling over, pressing his forehead against his knees.  Each breath feels like someone’s twisting a knife into his side, and his shoulder is screaming with pain.  He can hear Johnny return eventually, but he doesn’t think he can move, and he just whimpers when Johnny lays a careful hand on his back.

 

“Come on, webhead,” Tony’s voice floats down to him, “You’re either walking, or I’m carrying you.”

 

Peter groans before he reaches up, and Johnny helps him to his feet.  Peter lets out a soft cry and sags against him, wrapping his good arm around him, and he would’ve fallen if it hadn’t been for Johnny.  His vision starts to blacken around the edges, and he reaches out with a hand, so dizzy he can’t keep his eyes open, so he closes them, and then he’s gone.

 

When he wakes up, he’s in the Tower’s med center, and everything is blurry when he opens his eyes.  “Hell,” he groans, flailing a hand around until he comes in contact with his glasses.  He pushes them on, and then looks around.

 

He’s got an IV in his left hand, a heart monitor attached to his finger, and he’s wearing a pair of SHIELD pants.  His torso is wrapped up tight in white gauze, but it still hurts to breathe, and so he rubs a hand against his chest, frowning.

 

“Hey Jarvis,” he says quietly, closing his eyes.

 

“Yes, sir?”

 

“Can you find Johnny for me?”

 

“Of course, sir.  I’ve also sent for one of the nurses.”

 

“Thanks,” Peter mumbles, and then he’s drifting off to sleep again.

 

Things start to blur together, a mess of dull, throbbing pain, and all Peter really remembers is nurses fading in and out of the room until he gets fed up enough that he just wants to go home, and Johnny offers to go with him, setting up camp on his sofa.  He’s awake enough once to hear Johnny trying to be discreet as he says, “Hey, it’s Johnny.  Peter got hurt fighting Doom, and he really needs you right now, man.  I’ll have his phone if you call,” and then he’s fading out again.  He keeps waking and sleeping in a fog of pain, and he vaguely recalls eating and drinking, and then these sharp bursts of Johnny making him get up to use the bathroom, and though it feels like fucking forever, it’s only two days after the fight with Doom before Wade comes home.

 

He comes in through the front door with his key, and Peter struggles awake as he listens to him come in.  “Peter?” he calls, shutting the door quietly.

 

“Hey,” Johnny says, coming out of the kitchen, “I think he’s asleep.  You gonna stick around for a while this time?”

 

“Fuck off, Storm.  Go home,” Wade grumbles, and then Peter’s bedroom door is opening.  He can hear him hurrying to undress, and then he’s carefully getting into bed.  “Hey, Peter,” he whispers, and Peter reaches for him, trembling as he tries to hold back the tears.  “Just let go, baby, I got you,” Wade murmurs, letting Peter curl into him, holding him close as he shakes apart.

 

He tries so hard to stay awake because he knows if he falls asleep, all he’s going to be able to see is the image he’s created of Peter being thrown against a building, being broken apart, and it’s so much more violent and bloody and awful than what he thinks it really is, and then he’s asleep without realizing it, and he wakes screaming, trying to fight out of the tangle of blankets and limbs, but Peter grabs at him, and then he’s not the one screaming.

 

Wade jerks backward, hitting the floor with a heavy thud, his ears ringing with the silence that follows Peter’s initial scream.  And then all he can hear is his harsh, angry breathing, and he kicks at the blankets until he’s free, and he scrambles up onto the bed, and Peter’s thigh is just red.

 

“Wade,” he gasps, but he can’t, he can’t, and he doesn’t think anything would have been able to stop him from leaving.

 

Wade throws Peter’s phone at the bed, and then he’s gone, grabbing his suit and practically leaping out of the window.

 

Peter squeezes his eyes shut, tears falling freely down his face, and he lies there for a moment before he grabs his phone and dials Johnny.

 

“Peter?”

 

“There’s a knife in my fucking thigh, and I can’t move.  I need you.”

 

“Dude, call an ambulance, I’ll meet you at the hospital.”

 

“No.  We’ll just go to the Tower, I—”

 

“Peter, there is a knife in your thigh, you need—”

 

“I don’t want them to know how it happened!” Peter exclaims, and Johnny falls silent.

 

It’s a long, painful minute before Johnny says, his voice so furious it makes Peter’s chest hurt, “I’m on my way,” and then he hangs up.

 

——

 

Wade doesn’t know where he ends up, just that it’s dark and cold, and he finds a corner to huddle in, and he cries for the first time since he became Deadpool.  It hits him like a bullet, rocketing through him, and he doubles over, sinking down until he’s curled up in the corner, and he just shakes apart, sobs wracking through him, and he doesn’t remember it being this painful, but he feels like he’s being set on fire, very slowly, from the inside out, and he wants so badly to go back to Peter, but he can’t, he can’t.

 

As I move my feet toward your body,

I can hear this beat, it fills my head up,

And gets louder and louder.

 

He doesn’t see Wade for five months.

 

After the nightmare, after Bruce tries to sit down with him and talk to him about what’s going on, after he nearly pulls his stitches trying to get away from him, after he shows up at Tony’s lab freaking out, and they talk while working because Peter thinks better when his hands are moving, after he finally, finally, goes home, there’s no one there, and he curls up in bed and cries.

 

Johnny offered to come home with him, but Peter had just shook his head and quietly walked away from him.  He needs to be alone right now, needs to cry until he can’t anymore because he knows, he fucking knows, and five months later, it still hurts sometimes.

 

When he gets back to his apartment, a week after he goes back to the Tower, he finds his phone, plugs it in, and immediately calls Wade.  When he doesn’t answer, he leaves him an awful voicemail, “You know what, fuck you, this is against the rules, okay, and the consequence by-laws state that I get to erase your scores from every single video game, that there will be no tacos, chimichangas, or burritos for one year, the windows will be locked for an undisclosed period of time, I will stop protecting you from Nick Fury, and, you know what, this is definitely grounds for presenting you to Nick Fury, and also, I reserve the right to wear baggy pants for as long as I feel like.  Okay, so fuck you.”

 

Ten minutes later, after he’s paced—and checked on the fridge that he got the by-laws right—he calls Wade again and sighs when he gets his voicemail again.  “I’m not sorry, but I’m sorry.  I shouldn’t have said all that, but I really should have because you’re an asshole, but you broke rule number five, and you need to come home.  I need you, Wade.  I need you here.”  There’s a long, silent pause, and then he hangs up and goes to take a shower, needing to be busy.

 

A month later, he calls him after he’s woken screaming, shaking from a raging nightmare, and he’s pacing across his room, the window wide open even though he’s been locking it, and he screams when he gets the voicemail again.  “Why won’t you come home?  Wade.  I need you, I can’t do this without you, and fuck—I feel like a fucking drug addict going through detox, I need you,” and he hangs up before he can say anything else that shows how much he’s really breaking without him.

 

Two weeks after that, when he’s worked himself into a fit, he’s glad when he gets his voicemail because his message is short and clipped and angry, “I’m glad you’re gone, you know that?  I’m fucking glad because then I don’t get to listen to your bullshit anymore.  It’s actually fucking quiet, and I can hear my own thoughts, and I don’t have headaches anymore, and I can’t fucking stand your voice, I’m so glad you’re fucking gone.”

 

He makes it nearly three months this time, but then Johnny tries to talk to him about it, and, when he gets home, he crawls into bed and tries to sleep, but he can’t.  He just keeps staring at the window, willing Wade to come through, and so he calls him, breaking apart when he doesn’t answer.  “Wade, please.  I love you.  Come home.”

 

Two weeks pass, and then, he just gives up.  He goes out for drinks with Johnny and some of the guys, and he’s not drunk, not really even close, but he’s got a nice buzz going when he lets himself into his apartment, and the lights are on.

 

He frowns, quietly closing the door behind him, and then he hears it, you are the hole in my head, you are the space in my bed, you are the silence in between what I thought and what I said.

 

Peter throws his keys, and they shatter across the wall as he erupts, “Get out!”

 

A heavy silence settles as seconds tick by until Wade walks out of the kitchen, suit on but mask off.  “Hey,” he says softly, and Peter shakes his head.

 

“How dare you,” he seethes, “What the fuck are you doing here?”

 

“Where were you?”

 

“Where—where was—where was—oh my—where—where was I?  WHERE THE FUCK HAVE YOU BEEN?” his voice cracks, his jaw clenched so tightly it hurts.

 

“I told you this would happen!” Wade shouts, glaring at him, “I told you it would hurt!”

 

“You never said how much!” Peter screams, and then he’s falling apart, gasping for air as he covers his mouth, turning away.  “Get out,” he whispers, and, when he turns back, Wade is gone.

 

He spends that night finishing off what he’d started, getting so drunk he passes out, and then he cleans himself up in the morning, calls out from his shift at the Bugle, and calls Johnny to come over and waste time playing video games. 

 

Peter gets into a rhythm, working as much as he can at the Bugle, covering the shittiest stories because they’re still pissed at him for leaving in the first place, and spending his nights with Johnny, who is the one to convince him to patch things up with Harry.  “Dude, it’s not like he remembers who you are or who he was, and you need friends right now, and you guys were stupidly good together, just call him, spidey, and let the past go.”

 

And, for the next three months, he and Harry slowly rebuild their friendship until it’s like nothing ever happened, and he feels good for the first time in the past nearly eight months.  He and Johnny are inseparable like they used to be back in college, and the three of them are transported back to their younger selves, as though they’d never gotten to this point in their lives.

 

Juggernaut decides it’s clearly an opportune time to tear about Manhattan, and Peter will never forgive himself for that night.

 

He gets a royal beating from Juggernaut, and he’s bruised all over, but he’s so wound up that he can’t stop moving, and so he and Johnny go out for something greasy, Peter getting the takeaway while Johnny gets the booze, and going to sit up on top of Peter’s apartment building.  They sit close, just talking and talking until the night is deep and dark, and then Peter stretches, yawning a little, and says, “Hey man, why don’t you just crash here for the night?  It’s late.”

 

“Yeah, okay,” Johnny says, nodding slowly, and they head for the door to the building, taking the stairs down to Peter’s floor and heading for his apartment.  Peter giggles softly when he can’t get the door open, loose from the alcohol, and Johnny snorts from behind him, leaning his head against Peter’s back until he finally lets them in.

 

Peter starts whining incomprehensibly as he struggles out of his suit, tossing his keys haphazardly toward the coffee table.  He gets out of the top half of it, letting it sag around his waist, and then he dumps onto the sofa, stretching and yawning.

 

“Get up,” Johnny groans, flapping a hand at him as he struggles to get out of his own suit.

 

Peter just lifts his hands, and Johnny rolls his eyes, taking his hands and yanking him upright.  Peter stumbles into him, laughing softly, but then Johnny’s hands are sliding up his arms and wrapping around his forearms, and Peter falls quiet, leaning back to look at him.

 

“Johnny?”

 

“Shut up,” Johnny whispers before he’s kissing him.

 

Peter stays frozen for only a second before he’s kissing back, so starved for touch that he grabs at Johnny, desperate to get closer, to be held.  He starts to tangle his fingers in Johnny’s blonde hair, but it’s hair, and Peter jerks back, gasping.

 

“No,” Johnny says, pulling him back, kissing him harder, and Peter lets it happen, tries to trick himself into believing this isn’t Johnny’s mouth pressing against his own, isn’t his fingers wrapped tight around his arms, isn’t his body lining up with Peter’s in a way that feels so wrong, he wants to scream.

 

And yet, he finds himself struggling to get the suit down farther, trying to get it out of the way.  Johnny pulls back to do the same, yanking it from his shoulders, and then they’re tumbling onto the sofa, naked bodies sliding together, and Peter groans, burying his face in Johnny’s neck.

 

Johnny slides a hand between them and curls it around both their cocks, bringing Peter to full hardness, and his fingers are too thin, too harsh, too smooth, and he can’t breathe.  He tries to pull away from Johnny, but he just holds him tighter, twists them so Peter’s pressed against the back of the sofa, and he nudges at Peter’s leg until he lifts it up, settling it around Johnny’s ribcage, and then Johnny’s jerking them in earnest, leaning forward to kiss Peter too hard, too fast, and it’s making his head spin, and he still can’t breathe.

 

“Johnny,” he gasps, hands coming up to push at his chest, trying to push him away.

 

“Peter, just shut up,” he groans, squeezing their dicks tightly, and Peter chokes back a moan at the same time he feels his throat constrict, tears pricking hotly at the corner of his eyes.

 

“Johnny—”

 

“Fuck, spidey, just—”

 

Johnny hits the floor with a thud as Peter shoves him, and then he’s on the other side of the living room, crouched in a defensive position, his heart thudding painfully in his chest, his breaths coming out in short little bursts.

 

“No,” Peter says, shaking his head as he gets up.  He turns and walks as calmly as he can into his room, but, once inside, he starts yanking open drawers until he finds a pair of briefs and sweats, and he pulls those on before tugging a thermal over his head, and then reaching for a shirt.  When he comes back out, Johnny’s still naked, and he rolls his eyes at Peter’s clothes.

 

“You fuckin’ serious, webhead?  You’re really not gonna let me jerk you off?  Come on, man, what’s going on?”

 

“What do you mean what’s going on?” Peter exclaims, giving him an incredulous look before he starts to head for the kitchen.

 

“Dude, it’s not like you have a boyfriend or anything.  Come on, we’re both a little drunk, let’s end the night with a bang.  It’s not like it’s the first time I’ve ever seen your cock, Peter.”

 

“I do have a boyfriend!” Peter explodes, whipping around, “I don’t care what you think, Johnny, there’s still something there!”

 

“For fuck’s sake, Peter, you haven’t seen him in months!  It’s almost been a year!  It’s absolutely fucking pitiful that you’re still holding onto that.  He’s gone, okay, and he’s never coming back, and it’s as much your fault as it is his!”

 

“He’s coming back!  I don’t care how long I have to wait, I know he’s going to come back!  He always does!”

 

“You shouldn’t even have to wait for him!  This is just another one of his fucking mind games!  God, you don’t even see how abusive he is, how he’s just fucking with you constantly, and—”

 

“I know, okay?” Peter shouts, stalking forward until he can shove Johnny in the chest.  He gets in his face and keeps going, “I fucking know, alright?  Does that make you happy?  I know he’s abusive, but it doesn’t fucking matter!”

 

“Of course you’d say that!  You’re so fucked up because of him, Peter!” Johnny shouts right back, shoving him in turn, “He stabbed you in the fucking thigh, man, stabbed you!”

 

“You think I don’t realize how messed up that is?  You don’t even know the half of it!  He choked me out on the sofa one time, cut my fucking hand open with his katana, and then left me!  It’s not his fault!  We’ve both got shit to work out, and his nightmares are just another fucking thing that needs help, but that is not him abusing me!  You think Bruce is over there calling Tony abusive everytime he has a nightmare and calls the Mark 42 in his sleep?  You should see the shit they deal with!  Living fulltime with Deadpool is nothing compared to Iron Man and Hulk shacking up!  He may be fucking abusive sometimes, but not with that, never with that, and you can’t just accuse him of something when you don’t know the whole story!  I love him, Johnny, and it’s not—” Peter’s voice cracks, and he loses momentum, stepping back and looking away, trying to swallow down the overwhelming urge to just break, to just shatter apart and let someone else deal with his mess.  Finally, though, he takes a few steadying breaths and continues, his voice much quieter, “I love him, and it’s not okay what you just did.  You can’t—you can’t fucking take advantage of me like that, not now, not when I have no idea what’s going on.”

 

“That’s just it,” Johnny says, yanking his suit up from the ground, “You have no fucking idea what’s going on because your abusive asshole of a boyfriend up and left you again, for eight months, and you have no idea where he is, what he might be doing, who he might be fucking, or when he’ll be back, so good luck with that, Peter.”

 

“You’re a fucking dick, you know that?”

 

“At least I know who I am.  I don’t need someone else to complete me.  You’re miserable, Peter, and I won’t sit by and watch him ruin your life.  If I see him with you again, I’ll call the fucking cops, okay?  I’ll file a domestic abuse report, whatever I have to do, but I will not let him hurt you again.”

 

“I’d like to see you fucking try,” Peter says before he turns away, and he waits until Johnny’s gone before he slams into his room, and he’s shaking by the time he gets his phone in hand.  “Please, just answer, please,” he says as he paces back and forth across his room, and, when he gets Wade’s voicemail, he almost throws the phone across the floor.

 

Peter doesn’t mean to cry, he really doesn’t, but then it’s just pouring out of him, and he can’t stop, “Wade, please.  I fucked up so bad.  I didn’t mean to.  I broke one of the rules, and there aren’t even consequence by-laws that I can go by, and I just—I need you to come back.  I’m so sorry for what I said.  I never should have told you to leave.  Please come home.  I love you,” and then he hangs up because he’s shaking too hard to hold the phone anymore.

 

——

 

When Wade sees he has a missed call from Peter, he kicks the whore out of his room, the seventh unsuccessful time he’s tried to sleep with someone in the past three months, and he only gets halfway through the message before he’s getting his shit together and leaving.

 

It’s four days before he can get home to Peter, and, when he does, he forgot his key in some country, but the window isn’t locked, so he falls through that, frowns when Peter’s not in bed because it’s around four o’clock in the morning, and then he goes out into the living room and sighs.

 

Peter’s lying in the midst of a mess of clothes and empty Chinese containers and various bottles of alcohol, slowly smoking a blunt.  When he comes into the living room, though, Peter swivels his head to face him, and he looks an absolute wreck.  His hair is sticking up in a million, greasy directions, he’s got a red mark on his neck like he kept scratching and scratching, and there’s some kind of stain down the front of his shirt.

 

“Hey!  DP!” he shrieks, struggling to get upright.  When he does, though, he falls into a fit of giggles, somehow managing to say, “That sounds like TP!  We should make a teepee!  Oh my god, where did you go?  Is it Thursday already?”

 

“Peter,” Wade says, shaking his head, “Are you drunk?”

 

“I don’t remember,” he says, pouting, “Maybe?  Hey!  Probably!  I also got the marijuuuuuana, and I dated her one time, but then she died, so I said fuck it, I’ll just smoke her.  Hey!  DP, help me up, I gotta pee.”

 

“You’re a tool,” Wade sighs, but he goes over to help him to his feet.

 

Peter sags against him, giggles, and then says, trying to whisper and failing, “Guess what?  I saw Johnny Storm’s penis, but you cannot tell my boyfriend.  Except I don’t even know if I have a boyfriend, he keeps running away.  Wait.  Are you my boyfriend?”

 

“In the morning, sunshine,” Wade says softly, leading him into the bathroom.

 

In the morning, Peter wakes up with a loud groan and slowly rolls over.  He comes in contact with another body halfway there, though, and his opens his eyes, fearful that he’s going to see Johnny, but the skin he sees isn’t smooth, but scarred and so familiar.  “Wade?” he whispers, poking him.

 

“I’m real,” Wade says.

 

“I don’t think so.  I think I’m still drunk.”

 

“You were high, too,” Wade says as he shifts until he’s facing Peter.  They lie on their sides, this distance between them that Peter wants to close so badly but isn’t sure if he’s allowed to.

 

“What happened?”

 

“We had quite the fun conversation last night,” Wade says, and Peter groans, covering his face.

 

“I broke rule number six,” he says, his voice muffled by his hands.

 

“So did I,” Wade admits, and Peter peeks at him through his hands.  They’re silent for a few moments before Wade sighs and says, “Okay, so.  I love you.  I fucked up, and I’m sorry.  I’ll leave if you want, but I just—I don’t know who I am without you, Peter.”

 

Peter scrubs a hand over his face before he shakes his head and says, “I’m so sorry, Wade, I never meant for any of this to happen.  I love you, I do, and I want you to stay.  I just—we need to talk this shit out, man.  This can’t keep happening.  I’m going to be dead pretty soon.”

 

“I’m not into necrophilia.”

 

“No, just somnophilia.”

 

“What’s that?”

 

“Sex with sleeping people, I think?”

 

“That’s a thing?”  Wade gapes at him, and Peter laughs when he slaps the bed.  “Well, fuck me sweetly with a chainsaw, really?  My name is Deadpool, and I am a somnophiliac for my itsy bitsy spider.”

 

“Boyfriend,” Peter says, and Wade falls quiet.  “If that’s okay with you, dickhat.”

 

“Your insults are improving, boyfraaaand,” Wade says, and then he’s shifting closer so he can kiss Peter.

 

It fills my head up and gets louder and louder.

 

They spend four days not talking about it.

 

They get back into their rhythm, and, for the first time in the past eight months, Peter feels like he’s finally okay, like he’s finally back where he belongs, and though he knows it’s not perfect, it’s far from fucking perfect, and they really need to work some things out, he’s happy.

 

After using up most of his sick days, Peter groans when his alarm goes off, hand coming out from under the blankets to smack it.  Wade shuffles quietly beside him, trying to octopus him, but Peter just laughs softly and slides away.  “I have to go to work,” he mumbles, and Wade whines.  “Just go back to sleep, I’ll be back later.  Hey,” he adds, and he smiles when Wade lifts his head, eyes still closed.  Peter gives him a soft kiss before going to get dressed.

 

He dresses in layers because it’s late September now, and it’s starting to get cold out—tight jeans, old skater shoes, a brown thermal under a dark blue shirt, with holes for his thumbs, a dark green sweatshirt, a tan jacket, and fingerless, striped gloves that Wade got him.

 

He boards to work, and he calls Harry once he’s outside and soaring down the streets, humming softly to himself as he waits for him to answer.  “Hey Parker, what’s up?” Harry says.

 

“Work, ugh,” he groans, “You doin’ anything tonight?”

 

“Nah, wanna grab something to eat?  I haven’t heard from you in ages, man, what the hell?”

 

“I’ve got a lot to tell you.  Listen, don’t call Johnny, okay?  We had a fight, it was bad.”

 

“Yeah, he called, absolutely flipping out, said he was—thanks, Alicia, you’re a doll—afraid something was going to happen to you.  I tried calling?”

 

“Yeah, I’m sorry, Harry, I—it’s a long story.”

 

“Wade?”

 

Peter laughs softly, shaking his head.  “Yeah.”

 

“It’s cool, man.  I know how Johnny is about him, but I know how you are, too.  Listen, I gotta go, a client just walked in.  I’ll see you later, yeah?  Hey, bring Wade.  It’ll be fun.”

 

“You sure?”

 

“Yeah, yeah.  Joshua, hey!  Come on in, I’ll just be a minute.  Be good, Peter, you hear?  Don’t do anything stupid.  Just ignore Johnny, he’ll come around.”

 

“Thanks, Harry,” he says before he hangs up.

 

Peter knew work was going to suck now that Wade was back, but he never expected it to drag by so slow, and then lunchtime is rolling around, and he gets a text, spideeeeeeeeeeeeeeey, and he doesn’t mean to laugh out loud, but he’s so over the moon about Wade being back that he does, this quick thing that makes a few eyes turn his way.

 

He dials Wade, spinning in his chair as he waits for him to answer.  “Fuckin’ ass monkey squirrels, that’s right!  Keep fuckin’ walkin’, you dickwad!”

 

“Wade,” Peter says, trying not to laugh.

 

“Hey-o, spidey-o!  Do you eat spaghettios?  I love spaghettios, but mama done said that canned food is bad for the soul, bad for the heart, bad for the body, and I’m like, I don’t care, mama, canned food is da bomb.  Do you get a lunch break?  You should get a lunch break because I’m already here, and I ain’t wastin’ a perfectly good pair of chopsticks shoving them up my nose, pretendin’ I’m a walrus, so get your spandex booty down here, MOFUCKA,” and then he hangs up, and Peter lets his head drop down onto his desk, laughing quietly.

 

He does get a lunch break, and so he grabs his jacket and his keycard, shoulders his backpack, and heads out, leaving his board under his desk.  He takes the elevator downstairs, leaning back against the wall and singing softly to himself, the sweetest submission, drinking it in, the wine, the women, the bedroom hymns.

 

When Peter gets down into the lobby, he snorts, shaking his head.  Wade is outside, duking it out with a few pigeons, chasing them around the sidewalk.  He’s in civvies, and it makes Peter pause, just looking at him, taking in his tattered jeans, Peter’s Converse still, his layers—his own black thermal, his own dark green shirt, one of Peter’s grey sweatshirts—and a dark jacket, his baseball cap pulled low.

 

Peter smiles and heads out, shrugging his shoulders up by his ears as he gets outside and the wind nips at his face.  “Hey handsome,” he says, and Wade makes a bird calling noise before he turns and gives Peter his best smile, whole face scrunching up.

 

When he comes over, Peter tips his cap up a little, and Wade tugs him close, leaning down to kiss him softly.  “I got food,” Wade says when they part, and he nods quickly, his grin still in place, “Come on, the pigeons are planning their counterattack, we better scoot and skedaddle, AAAAH!” he ends with a war cry, spinning around to face the pigeons, which immediately take flight.

 

Peter just shakes his head, laughing, tugging at Wade until he starts walking away with him, and that’s when he notices the backpack.  “Where’d you get that?” he asks, nodding toward Wade’s back.

 

“Found it in the closet, and lo!  It bears our sustenance!”

 

“Okay, Thor.”

 

“Norse gods, man, they’re crazy mofuckas, but, like, Loki’s a real cool shit, I’da loved to been around when he was tearin’ up the island’s heart when he’s with them aliens, and spidey, can you imagine if aliens belly danced like them boy bands did?  Did the boy bands belly dance?  They should have, Shakira my hips don’t lie, wam bam,” Wade says, dancing awkwardly before he presses the button for the walk sign and then crosses the street anyway, his hand wound tightly with Peter’s, “She’s got a nice belly dancin’ body, but six packs on women freak me the fuck out, freak me out on men sometimes, too, unless you’re Captain America because hey-o, he’s smokin’ hot, I’da banged that popsicle, HA CAPSICLE, I’m so clever, call Robert Downey Jr and let him know I made a funny.”

 

“Hugh Jackman?”

 

“Fluffalo, right.  I mean, give me scruff, or give me spidey hair!  Your hair’s a fuckin’ bird’s nest, and I dig it, spidey, I dig it real hardcore, and it’s not even a real bird’s nest cos it’s awesome, you know?  Like, lemme dig my fingers in and pull, webhead, and oh man, now I’m thinkin’ about you on your knees, we may have to find a public place so I can put my dick in your mouth, and holy shit that’s a crossbreed pigeon!”

 

Wade lets go of Peter’s hand and runs down the street, chasing a pigeon that’s really just fat, and Peter smiles fondly, digging his hands in his pockets and shrugging into jacket, shivering a little.  Wade keeps chasing the pigeon, arms flapping wildly at his sides like he’s trying to take flight.

 

When they get to another crosswalk, though, Wade waits for Peter to catch up before he yanks his hand out of his pocket and curls their fingers together again, picking up where he left off, “EHR EHR EHR EHR EHR EHR —”

 

“I remember this one, move on.”

 

“Like, who wants to wake up to that?  Give me noise pollution, or give me rock!”

 

“Calm down, Brian Johnson,” Peter says, grinning when Wade breaks out into a quick round of AC/DC, but then he’s back to his rant.

 

“Tick tick BOOM, spidey, and then I be pew pew pew pew pew pew!”  He drops Peter’s hand in favor of dancing around, shooting off imaginary guns, his voice getting higher and higher until he’s suddenly gone, and Peter stops, blinking and frowning.

 

“Wade?”

 

He feels his gut twist, and he groans softly, bracing himself for the impact, and then Wade’s fucking everywhere, dropping onto Peter’s back, who gives a soft grunt and stumbles forward a step.

 

“Yippie-kay-yay, spideeeeeey!”  He clicks his heels in Peter’s sides, and Peter just rolls his eyes before walking again, shifting Wade’s weight until he can carry him more easily.  “Mama done used to turn off all the clocks at night, said she was afraid of the devil gettin’ into mah brains when I was little, but then I told her about the boxes, and she tried to drown me, spidey, put me in the fuckin’ tub and sang, rub a dub dub thanks for the grub God but I’ma gonna kill me son, and you know what I said?”

 

“I haven’t the faintest.”

 

“I said, MAMA.”  Wade squirms until Peter lets him down, and then he’s holding Peter’s hand again and walking next to him.  “I said, MAMA, I ain’t never gonna die, you wanna know why?”

 

“Why?”

 

“Cos I’m Deadpooooooooool!”

 

“Calm down, Clark Kent, don’t wanna go giving away your superhero identity.”

 

“Clark Kent’s lame as fuck, spidey, except he’s not, okay, cos he was, but he’s not now because have you seen that new guy they got, what was his name?”

 

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Peter admits, laughing softly.

 

“The guy, the guy, spidey, he’s fine, but he ain’t got no ass like yours, ooh!” he shrieks, pinching Peter’s ass and then running away.  “I CAME IN LIKE A—”

 

“NO!” Peter shouts, and Wade erupts in a wild cackle.

 

“Okay,” he says when Peter catches up with him, “But there better be a fuckin’ Rice Krispy in the Japanese, cos I said, GIVE ME KRISPY OR GIVE ME KRABS.”

 

“Oh, for fuck’s sake—”

 

“Krabs with a K, spidey, chill out, I can’t contract STDs, wanna know why?”

 

“Cos you’re Deadpool,” Peter says softly even as Wade screams, “COS I’M DEADPOOL.  Oh look, we’re here!”

 

“Where’s here?” Peter asks, looking around as Wade brings them to a stop.

 

“DATE TIME,” Wade opera sings as he opens the door and bows, flourishing his hand so Peter will go in ahead of him.  Peter goes inside, looking around curiously, but then Wade’s there, taking his hand and leading him through.

 

They go through a long, dark hallway until Wade opens another door, and Peter gasps, looking around.  “You brought me to a planetarium?” he asks softly, turning his gaze up to Wade, who just smiles softly and nods before leaning down to kiss Peter, who reaches for him, pulling him and kissing back with everything he’s got, and when they part, Wade’s smile is a little goofy, and that’s all Peter really cares about.

 

They eat Japanese in the planetarium, chatting quietly so as not to disturb the other people present, and Wade rambles on about the history of Rice Krispy’s until Peter agrees to buy him one later, and then he switches off into the history of World War III, when the pigeons joined forces with the squirrels and took over the world and how he’s trying to avoid the beginning of that because they’re really in the past, and he’s been to the future, and Peter just sits back and enjoys it.

 

An hour later, long after they’ve finished their food, Peter checks his watch and starts swearing, smacking at Wade until he gets up, and they head out.  “Hey, I’m gonna take a shortcut, okay?” he says, already tightening the straps on his backpack.

 

“Spidey!” Wade gasps, “Are you a superhero?”

 

“You’re an idiot, and I love you,” Peter says with a laugh, leaning up to kiss Wade, “I’ll see you later?”

 

“I’m gonna sext you!” Wade says loudly before he spins around and heads off in the opposite direction.  Peter shakes his head as he heads down a side street, looking around before he makes his way up the side of a building.

 

He makes it back to work in good time, though his boss warns him not to be late from lunch again, and so he decides to stay a little later, which, of course, is a terrible idea because, like clockwork, right around six, Wade’s texting him, I’m so hungry I might eat my own fingers, come home and make me food.

 

Peter rolls his eyes and types back, I forgot to tell you, we’re going out for drinks with Harry, that okay?

 

THE GOBLIN?

 

No, he doesn’t remember.  I’ll call you when I’m out.

 

He shoves his phone back into his pocket and gets back to the article he was finishing up.  He’s just saving and logging out when his phone buzzes, and he ignores it for now, instead shutting down his computer, clicking off his light, and getting into his jacket.  He shoulders his backpack, grabs his board, and fishes his phone out once he’s in the elevator.

 

Peter opens the message and immediately closes it, gritting his teeth and staring pointedly at the opposite wall.  There are two other people in the elevator with him, and so he waits until he’s in the lobby before he opens the message again, biting down on his lip when he sees it, Wade’s hard cock, lying against his belly.  He scrubs a hand over his face, closes the message, and calls Wade.

 

“You asshole,” Peter says when he picks up, “I’m wearing jeans.”

 

“Oh, how you doin’, spidey, your crotch in jeans is about as fabulous as your ass in spandex.  Get home now, webhead.”

 

“I’m just leaving the Bugle now.  Fucking hell, Wade.”

 

“You thinkin’ about my cock, spidey?  Fuck, it’s hard, wanna be inside of you, been thinkin’ about you all day, been wantin’ to fuck you nice and slow, fill you up and let you feel me there, shit.”

 

“Are you—” Peter stops, clearing his throat before he whispers, “Are you jerking off right now, asshole?”

 

“Fuck yeah, I am.  Got my hand on my dick, and I am buck-fuckin’-naked, let me tell you, spidey, let me—shit, that’s good.”

 

Peter groans, biting his lip to muffle the sound.  He wants to be there so bad, his cock is aching in his jeans, and he knows how obvious it is right now, the hard curve of it so visible, but he doesn’t care, he just wants to be there.

 

“Spidey.”

 

“Stop it.  I’m hanging up.”

 

“I’m gonna wait til you get home to come.”

 

“Fuck,” Peter says and then he pulls the phone away because he can’t, he’s going to come right in his jeans like a fucking teenager if he keeps listening to him, so he hangs up, and his legs may ache a little when he finally gets there because he was boarding faster than normal, but he barely feels it as he hurries to let himself in and runs up the stairs past the perpetually broken elevator.

 

When he finally gets home and inside, Wade’s on the sofa, legs spread wide and dick just lying there, swollen and waiting, and Peter doesn’t think he’s ever gotten naked so fast.  He throws his keys at the coffee table, tosses his backpack onto his board and kicks it away, and then he’s stripping out of his layers, kicking his shoes haphazardly around the room before he’s clambering over the coffee table instead of around it, and Wade groans when he straddles him, dicks sliding together.

 

Peter lifts a hand, wiggling his fingers until Wade opens his mouth, and he shifts against him when he takes them in and sucks, pressing them close together, and Wade lets out a startled moan at that.  Peter has the brief, flashing thought that this is the first time they’ve had sex since Wade got back—they’ve done plenty else, but sex has been off the table, and Peter really doesn’t want to think about why that is because right now, right here, this is where he wants to be forever, as close to Wade as he can get.

 

Wade pushes at his fingers with his tongue, and Peter settles his left hand on his shoulder, using it to balance himself before he reaches behind him, back curling as he rubs one finger over his entrance and then slides it in, twitching at the burn and stretch of it.  He knows he should take his time, stretch himself open, but he wants Wade’s cock inside of him yesterday, and so he’s quick to get the second finger in, groaning half pain half pleasure.  And then Wade’s hand is on his cock, pulling in slow strokes until Peter’s rocking down on his own fingers, nails digging into Wade’s shoulder, but then his thighs start trembling, and Wade’s hand is gone at the same time Peter’s pulls his fingers from ass.

 

“Peter,” Wade says, looking up at him, and Peter just leans down and kisses him silent before he pulls back and twists around so that his back is to Wade.  He looks over his shoulder, suddenly nervous, but Wade leans forward, mouthing down his spine, and Peter smiles softly, closing his eyes.  After a moment just enjoying the feeling of Wade all around him, he shifts, lifting up on his toes, feet on the floor, and he lets Wade guide him, gives him all of his trust as Wade’s hands curl around his hips, holding him steady, and he keeps his eyes closed, breathing audibly until he feels the head of Wade’s cock nudging at his entrance, and he groans softly, his head tipping forward.

 

And then Wade’s lowering him down, thrusting up a little at the end so that he fills Peter wholly, and Peter lets out this broken little sob, shifting down into his lap until there’s no space between them.  “Peter?”

 

“I’m okay.”

 

“I love you.”

 

“Do you?” he asks, looking back at him, and Wade lets his eyes slip shut, head tipping back.

 

He’s silent for a long moment before he says, his voice a little hoarse, “Of course I do, spidey.  Do you?”

 

Peter twists until he can tug at Wade.  He kisses him when he lifts his head, and, when they break apart, he presses their foreheads together and says, “I will always love you.”

 

They have easy, slow sex just like Wade wanted, moving together, Peter’s toes braced against the floor, the muscles in his legs tight, Wade’s hands everywhere, squeezing his thighs, rubbing over his balls, kneading at his stomach, just touching, and Peter feels like his blood is on fire everytime their skin touches.

 

Peter’s phone starts buzzing just as Wade is groaning and biting at the back of his neck, his hand coming around to curl around Peter’s dick.  “Spidey,” he whines, shifting beneath him, and Peter pushes off the ground a little quicker, feet bouncing against the floor as he moves, and Wade takes his hand back to hold both his hips, bring him down a little harder, his own hips shifting up to meet him on every thrust until he’s dropping his head back, his breath coming out in a thin whine.

 

He’s so close, he can feel his orgasm pooling in his belly, but he’s still so far, far enough that he’s a little bit frustrated, and then Peter shifts a little, curving back toward him, not thrusting so much as rocking, and Wade looks down the plane of his body to see Peter's hand on his cock, fist moving in quick, jerking movements, his breath stuttering out of him.

 

“Fuck, spidey,” he groans, biting at his shoulder, “God, so close, wanna come in your ass.”

 

“Wade,” Peter gasps, his thighs tightening where they’re rubbing against Wade’s, and his inner muscles flutter, clenching spasmodically until Wade feels a low tug in his belly, and then he’s letting out this slow keen, hips jerking up as he comes, cock pulsing inside of Peter.

 

Peter rocks down hard into his lap, stilling, and Wade’s vision goes white as his ass tightens.  Peter whines, so close, shaking with it, and then he presses his thumb up under the crown, and his orgasm hits him like he’s been sucker punched, and he falls backward against Wade, gasping.

 

They come down together, just sitting there until Peter’s phone starts buzzing again, and Peter groans, lifting his head.  He stretches, Wade shifting inside of him, and Wade lets out this noise that makes Peter turn.  “That was—that was a weird feeling of awesome,” Wade says, hands coming up to curl around Peter’s hips, pushing him off.

 

Peter goes to fish out his phone from his jeans, and he calls Harry back as he walks through the living room, pausing to kiss Wade before he continues on to the bathroom.  They get cleaned up quickly and go downstairs, Peter hailing a cab while Wade winds his arms around him and mouths at his neck.

 

When they finally get to the pub, Harry’s already there in a little booth, and he waves as they enter.  Wade rubs at Peter’s arms when he shrugs his shoulders up, shivering, and Peter smiles up at him before they head over.  They order food and drinks after they’ve settled in, and then Peter’s doing introductions, and Harry’s telling an embarrassing story from college, and Wade is kind of quiet, just observing.

 

After a few drinks, though, Peter instigates him, nudging him with his foot as he says, “We never got your Rice Krispy,” and then he’s off, ranting about how Rice Krispy’s actually suck because Milano’s are better than the world, spidey, the world, and Peter can’t help but laugh.  He shifts until he’s comfortable, back pressed against the wall and feet kicked up on Wade’s lap, and, as soon as his feet are there, Wade circles one of his ankles with his right hand loosely, thumb rubbing over the bone there, and it makes Peter smile fondly.

 

Eventually, Wade realizes there’s a jukebox, and he goes off in search of it, and Peter goes to get drinks.  When he returns, Harry demands the whole bloody story, and Peter tries to summarize, telling him about how they got together, how bizarre the whole thing was, and then what happened recently, and, when he’s done, Harry is quiet.

 

“My ears were a-ringin’,” Wade says, plopping down, “Were you talkin’ about my ass, spidey?”

 

“Most definitely not,” Peter says, smiling cheekily, so Wade pinches his thigh.

 

Harry leans forward, tapping the table a few times.  “Couples therapy,” he says, and Peter hums, looking over at Wade.

 

“That sounds fun,” Wade says, looking at him and then back at Harry, “What is it?”

 

Peter just laughs and shakes his head.  “Something we should try,” he says, leaning over to kiss Wade’s cotton shoulder, “I think it would help.”

 

“Oh no, helping people, those are bad, I don’t like those.”

 

“We’ll get a SHIELD-assigned helping person,” Peter murmurs, and Wade makes an obnoxious noise and flails until Peter smacks him.  “Don’t be a child.”

 

“Not Nick Fury, that breaks rule number four,” Wade says somberly, nodding.

 

“Not Nick Fury,” Peter agrees, and then Harry’s asking about the rules, and Wade launches into an explanation that’s far too lengthy, but it makes Harry laugh, and Peter can’t help feel this overwhelming warmth in his chest as he watches Wade talk, occasionally giving his input whenever Wade flaps a hand at him.

 

It turns out to be a pretty fantastic night, and Peter’s teetering pretty close to drunk when they get home, so he’s all handsy in the cab, but then falling asleep on the stairs, so Wade gives him a piggy back ride upstairs, dumps him into bed, and then Peter’s awake again when Wade starts taking off his clothes, and he tries to get Wade to have sex, but Wade just taps his nose and says, “You fell asleep on me last time we tried to have drunk sex, and I’m only into somnophilia when you’re already asleep, duh,” so Peter just flails around until he’s comfortable, and he’s out cold in seconds.  Wade laughs at him and gets into bed, pulling Peter close and drifting off.

 

I run to the river and dive straight in.

I pray that the water will drown out the din.

But as the water fills my mouth,

It couldn’t wash the echoes out.

 

“Son of a bitch,” Peter groans before he falls out of bed.

 

He whines, pushing himself upright and staggering out of the room and through his apartment to the bathroom, where he crashes to his knees and folds over the toilet, heaving violently.  When he finally comes up for air, he’s shaking, and he can’t quite catch his breath.  He sinks backward, colliding with the shower, and he tips his head back, eyes slipping shut.

 

Peter sits there for some time, just breathing, and then he tries to get up, but he’s barely stood up when he’s falling again.  This time, his knuckles are white as he grips the porcelain rim, and his whole body is tight, muscles shuddering as he vomits.

 

When he’s done, Peter drops his cheek against the cool rim and reaches up a trembling hand to flush.  “Wade,” he calls out weakly, “Wade.”

 

He hears a thud in the bedroom, and then silence until Wade is peeking out into the bathroom.  “Oh, spidey,” Wade sighs, leaning against the doorway, “I thought you didn’t drink that much.”

 

“I didn’t,” Peter whines before he’s groaning and pulling himself up.

 

Wade drops down beside him, rubbing his back as he vomits again.  “Timber,” Wade sings softly when Peter sags against him.  He lifts a hand to push his hair from his forehead and frowns.  “Damn, spidey, you about as hot as the sun.”

 

“I think I’m already dead,” Peter mumbles, and Wade just laughs softly before pressing a kiss to his temple and then rearranging Peter so he can pick him up.  Peter whines and snuggles against him, head tucked under his chin.

 

Wade brings him back to the bedroom, strips him out of his sweat-wet clothes, dresses him again in sweats, a shirt, and a large sweatshirt, and then tucks him back in, drawing the blankets up over his shoulders and kissing his forehead before he heads out to the kitchen.  He starts humming to himself until he hears Peter whine, and he laughs, singing instead, “And I never wanted anything from you, except everything you had and what was left after that too.  Happiness hit her like a bullet in the back, struck from a great height by someone who should know better than that.”

 

He keeps singing Florence while he makes tea and finds crackers, and then, when he goes back into the bedroom, Peter is barely awake.  “Spideeeeey,” he sings, and Peter groans, not opening his eyes, “I have tea.”

 

“I love tea,” Peter mumbles, and Wade smiles.

 

“I know, pumpkin spice, so get up, time to drink.”

 

“No,” Peter says as he shuffles.

 

“Sugar plum?”

 

“Definitely not.”

 

“Sweetums?”

 

“Sure, go for that.”  Peter opens his eyes and gives Wade his best tired smile, showing all his teeth, and Wade just laughs and helps him up, handing him the mug.

 

“Don’t be a bitch, sweetums, and drink that.  I’m gonna go find some drugs.”

 

“Bathroom, not street corner,” Peter says as he lifts the mug and closes his eyes.

 

“Fine,” Wade huffs as he leaves.

 

He realizes, as he’s standing in the bathroom, staring at the medicine cabinet, that he really has no idea what to give Peter.  Wade fights with himself, mumbling back and forth, until finally he just calls out, “Who do you ship more—science boyfriends or superhusbands?”

 

“What?” Peter whines.

 

“Well, both have Tony, and spidey likes science,” Wade reasons, lifting his hands and pretending to weight them.  “Alright, SCIENCE.”  He goes back into the bedroom, tells Peter to shut up and drink his tea, grabs his phone, and then goes back to the bathroom.

 

“Hello?” Bruce answers.

 

“Hey-o, Hulk buddy, listen, it’s Wade, and—”

 

“Why are you calling from Peter’s phone?” Tony cuts in.

 

“Okay, tin can, calm down.  Peter’s got a fever and is vomiting, and I’m badass, so I don’t get sick, but, like—what should I drug him with?”

 

Tony lets out a little laugh as Bruce responds, “What is his fever?”

 

“Hot?”

 

Bruce sighs.  “Look in the bathroom for a thermometer.”

 

“I thought those thingamagigs only existed on walls,” Wade muses to himself as he rifles through the medicine cabinet, “This white thing?  Oh!  Do I get to stick this up his anus?” Wade shrieks, and Tony practically cackles.

 

“Go put it under his tongue, have him close his mouth, wait for it to beep.  Uh, I’d probably run it under hot water first.”

 

“Right on, green daddy.  So, what’s cookin’, good lookins?”

 

“We’re good,” Bruce says evenly, “I heard Peter put in a request for a couples counselor.”

 

“Yeah,” Wade says slowly, shrugging each shoulder one after another as he heads back through the apartment, “Had our ups and downs, me and the webhead, but we’re gettin’ there.”

 

“Wade, you left him.”

 

“Yeah,” Wade says, frowning.  He pauses in the doorway, looking at Peter with the tea mug just under his nose, his eyes closed, just looks at him for a long moment before he takes a deep breath and comes in.  “Hey,” he says softly, and Peter’s eyes flutter open.  “Hey there,” Wade laughs, sitting on the edge of the bed and tossing the phone at Peter’s feet, “You look high.”

 

“I think I need to puke,” Peter says, “But I don’t want to.  Why do you have a thermometer?”

 

“Hulk told me to check your temp, so I’m playing doctor.  Oh!”

 

“No, you cannot put on a nurse outfit.  Gimme,” he says, snatching the thermometer and popping it in his mouth.

 

“Mama done said that crackers are good for rolling tummies,” Wade says when he notices the uneaten crackers.  Peter just makes a face at him.  “I’m tellin’ you, spidey, I’m a good nurse, I be struttin’ my stuff and—”

 

“99, here.  I’m fine, tell Bruce to stop mother henning.”

 

“I called him,” Wade says, leaning up to kiss him before he takes the phone and leaves Peter to grumble to himself.  “99—is that bad, doc?” Wade asks once back in the bathroom.

 

“Just monitor him.  Take his temperature every hour, and if it spikes past 100, every half hour.  102, and you need to bring him to the hospital.  Anything past that, and he’s in danger.  Do you have Tylenol?”

 

“Uh—yeah.”

 

“Read the dosage instructions.  Call us if you need anything, okay?”

 

“Thanks, doc.  Keep bein’ awesome,” Wade says before he hangs up, and then goes to take care of his itsy bitsy spider.

 

——

 

The second day Peter wakes up vomiting, Wade sits with him in the bathroom for two hours, trying to keep his breaths steady as Peter shakes in his arms, never able to really catch his breath, his whole body aching.  His fever spiked wildly during the night to 102, but he’d still managed to find the strength to fight him, yelling that he was fine, that he’d be fine, until Wade had just given up and did as he asked, whether it was to hold him and keep him warm or to “get every fucking blanket off of me before I burst into flames.”  That second morning, though, had been brutal, and Wade isn’t sure how he made it through without snapping, just sitting there watching Peter’s body be abused with nothing he could really do.  After that had passed mostly, though, they took a slow shower, Wade tucked Peter back into bed, waited until he’d fallen into a fitful sleep, and then he’d gone out into the hallway and called Harry.

 

“Peter?” Harry says by way of answer, and then, “Oh, Alicia, thank you.  Could you find Marie for me?  She’s supposed to have a sample ready by now, I believe.  Sorry, man, working.  What’s up?”

 

“You busy, Oscorp?”

 

“Osborn, Wade.  And yes, very.  Is everything okay?”

 

“Yeah, uh—Peter’s just sick, wanted to see if you could pop by, play Mary Poppins while I run out.”

 

“Wade, I—ah, Marie, thank you.  Take a seat, I’ll be with you in a moment.  I’m sorry, Wade, I really can’t, I’m swamped.  I gotta jet, man,” he says, and then Harry’s gone.

 

Wade goes back into the kitchen to stare at the pitiful fridge before he sighs and looks back down at Peter’s phone, thumb hovering Johnny’s name.  “Mother hubbard,” Wade sighs before pressing it.

 

He paces the kitchen, waiting for it to ring, and then he remembers Peter is still awake, and he goes back out into the hall just in time for Johnny to answer, “Peter?”  He says it with such hope that Wade wants to go through the phone and fucking throttle him.

 

“No, Wilson.  Shut up,” he snaps before Johnny can say something nasty, “Peter’s sick, and I don’t want to leave him alone while I go out.  Either grow the fuck up and come over here, or continue to be a fucking pussy.  Your choice,” and then he hangs up.

 

A full two minutes have passed before there’s a text, on my way, and Wade just makes a face at the phone and goes back into the apartment.  He makes a list because Peter loves lists, and then, when Johnny arrives, he buzzes him in and goes to get dressed.  He tugs on a pair of jeans, a thermal, a sweatshirt, and a jacket before he reaches for his hat, stuffs his—not Peter’s—phone in one of his pockets, and he’s just pressing a soft kiss to Peter’s forehead when the front door opens.

 

“Fuck off,” he says when Johnny opens his mouth.  Wade steps around him and out into the hall, and Johnny doesn’t say anything.

 

Wade starts walking, decides that’s fucking boring after about three minutes, steals a scooter, and then heads to the market, which is really weird to do without Peter, and so he’s out of there as soon as possible, stops off to buy some cheap movies, and then he’s heading home.  He’s just heading into the apartment building when his phone starts ringing.

 

“Spidey!” he shouts.

 

“Why, why, why of all people?” Peter says angrily, and then a door is slamming, “Fucking Johnny.  Really?  After everything?  Why, Wade?”

 

“Spidey, listen—”

 

“No, you fucking listen.  I don’t want to be near him.  I don’t want anything to do with him.  I—I—I fucking hate myself for what I did, and then I wake up, and he’s on my fucking sofa, where he tried to jerk me off, and you—” he breaks off in a yell, and then he hangs up, but Wade’s frozen on the stairs, the image burned into his mind.

 

“Shit,” he says and sits down.

 

He sits there for an hour before he hears Peter’s voice floating out, “Yeah, I’ll call you.”

 

And then Johnny, “Are you sure there’s nothing—”

 

“Just go home, Johnny.  Thank you for coming over, really, but I can’t—I can’t do this right now.  There’s still so much shit between us that we haven’t talked about.”

 

“Peter, you know this isn’t healthy, man, you gotta get out while you still can, and—”

 

“What do you think started our last fight, asshole?” Peter shouts, and then there’s a soft thud.  There’s a long silence before, “You need to get it through that thick fucking skull of yours that me and Wade, that’s it.  I love him, Johnny, and nothing is going to change that.  I don’t care if you think it isn’t healthy because, you know what, he makes me happy, and he makes me feel fucking safe and loved, okay?  So it doesn’t matter, and I know we’ve both got our hang ups, and we fucked up royally with each other, but we’re working through it, and I love him enough to keep trying until I got nothing left.  So just—fuck off about it, alright?  I’ll call you later, we can go out for drinks with Harry or something, but stay away from him, and stop fucking bringing this up.  I don’t want to hear it again, and, if I do, I will erase you from my fucking life, Johnny.”

 

Wade can feel it, can feel him wanting to say so much, but Johnny holds his tongue, and there’s silence again before footsteps, and Wade sighs, lifting a hand to pull his hood up.

 

Johnny doesn’t say a word when he goes past him, but then Peter’s leaning over the railing and calling out, “Wade?”  When he doesn’t respond, Peter sighs, “Come on, I feel like absolute shit, and you’re gonna make me walk down all those stairs?”

 

“No,” Wade mutters before getting to his feet.

 

Peter is still on the landing when he reaches their floor, and he sags a little, holding out his arms and making grabby hands.  Wade can’t help but smile, going over to him and allowing Peter to pull them together.  “I’m sorry,” he whispers, and Wade nods.

 

“I know,” he says, kissing Peter’s ear, “I’m sorry, too, Peter.”

 

“Did you at least get food while you were out?  I could eat a fuckin’ cow, man.”

 

Wade laughs loud and clear when Peter pulls back and heads for the apartment, and Peter just tosses a smile over his shoulder.

 

I swallow the sound and it swallows me whole,

Til there’s nothing left inside my soul.

As empty as that beating drum,

But the sound has just begun.

 

“Wade, come on,” Peter groans, rolling his eyes.

 

They’re currently in the office of their couple’s counselor, waiting for her to arrive as they’d been let in by her secretary.  Peter’s sitting on the sofa, though, knees drawn up to his chest, his Converse poking off the edge.  He’s in one of Wade’s hoodies, letting it swallow him because he’s nervous.

 

Wade, however, is poking around her office, looking through her drawers, making pterodactyl noises at the locked ones—he’d tried to pick one open, but Peter had webbed him—and rifling through her file cabinets and bookshelf.  He pokes at her awards and plants, and then the door is opening, and Peter makes a small, squeaking noise and hides behind his knees.  Wade, of course, doesn’t turn around, just continues to sniff at one of the plants.

 

Peter looks over at their therapist, and he can’t help but smile when he sees her pause, door halfway closed, her gaze fixed on Wade.  She’s beautiful, with a fading tan from the summer and a ponytail of loose brown curls.  She’s at least in her thirties, though she carries herself with an older kind of professionalism that Peter is almost certain Wade is going to try to break.

 

“Wade,” he hisses.

“It’s what it’s all here for, spidey, calm down,” Wade says even as he turns.  He gives their therapist a big, goofy grin and waves before continuing on, “I mean, it’s like fuckin’ candy vans.  They wouldn’t be handin’ out candy if they didn’t wanna be capturin’ kids, keep up with the times, spidey.”  He flops down next to Peter, nudging at him until Peter lifts his head, dropping his chin on his knees.  Wade scoots closer, reaching to curl a hand around Peter’s ankle, and that’s when he realizes Wade’s hands are trembling, that he’s just as nervous as Peter is.

 

“Mister Wilson, I presume?” their therapist says, finally smiling.  She closes the door and goes over to her desk, sorting a few files away before she takes one out from one of the locked drawers and comes over to sit opposite them.

 

“Deadpool, preferably,” Wade says, and Peter rolls his eyes.

 

“Wade,” Peter corrects, “And Peter.”

 

“Violet Summers.”

 

Wade snorts, and Peter looks over at him.

 

“Yes, Wade?” Violet asks when he doesn’t elaborate.

 

“Sweet summers that taste like little boys, do you enjoy the sun?”

 

“Excuse me?”  Violet looks a little taken aback, and Peter shakes his head, though he’s grinning.

 

“Mm, might be I have to peacock you, purple lady.  Peter!” he erupts, slapping his thigh suddenly.

 

Peter jerks, and then looks over at Violet with wide eyes, “I’m so sorry.”

 

“Apologies!” Wade exclaims.

 

“He doesn’t usually do this in public.  He usually behaves better with new people,” Peter says, though he’s not sure he really believes that.

 

“SMALL CHILDREN!” Wade shrieks.

 

Peter sighs and shrugs.  “Buckle up.”

 

“Ferris wheels, got it,” Wade says, and then he’s off, “Let me begin this hot damn apology by sayin’, Miss Sweet Summers, that I think you be a wonderful human, even though you kinda look like a fem version of my spidey, and you’ve obviously got some great potential.  I mean, how you get into this profession anyway?  I always thought I’d be good at pickin’ people’s brains apart, just like some zombie chompin’, NOM NOM NOM, wacka wacka wacka, but mama done said that I ain’t never been good at anythin’ but pickin’ apart her brain, said that I was just a damn little shit that wasted her figure, made her all big and bloated and then spat me out, sploosh, and there I was, fuckin’ squealin’ and butt fuckin’ ugly.  Oh my hell, bafugly!  I be a genius, Miss Sweet Summers, and do you even know how expensive those little fuckers are?  I don’t get why them pervs wanna snatch up little boys and little girls, and you know what, ORIGIN STORY TIME.  I was a normal baby for thirty seconds, came out like a fuckin’ ninja, though, and then bam, shaloop, fizzle de spidijit, I was cooler than crepes.  But who be cooler than the French?  You wanna know who?”

 

“Wade—” Violet tries.

 

“NO-FUCKIN’-BODY, THAT’S WHO.  Even them Canadians ain’t better than the French, even though they were all like, caw caw mofuckas, I be leavin’ the motherland, which is what we did, even though the Brits are way better than us, and I mean, they got that fuckin’ Ferris wheel that them idiots with that stupid fandom—you know, the one that only has, what is it, three fuckin’ episodes, and yet they’re all like GAY LOVE CAN PIERCE THROUGH THE VEIL OF DEATH AND SAVE THE DAY.  Oh wait,” Wade lets out a cackle and then drops into a whisper, hunching over as both hands spread out, fingers shaking into jazz hands, “Small children, Miss Sweet Summers, they never be as good as small kittens because kittens, they be so much better than those damn rodents of unusual size, and you know what, spidey?”

 

“What, Wade?”

 

“As you wish, princess.”

 

“Oh yeah?”

 

“You’ve got the love I need to see me through,” Wade says softly before leaning over to kiss Peter on the cheek and then settle against the sofa.

 

Violet holds Wade’s gaze for a moment before making a small noise and asking, “So, can either of you explain to me why we’re here?”

 

“He makes rules,” Wade says, and Peter looks over at him with a weird expression.

 

“Rules?” Violet says, lifting one of her legs to cross it over the other.

 

“There’s seventeen of them right now.  Little fucker just added two new ones, what the holy pits and circles of hell, number sixteen be no explodin’ shit in the microwave even though it’s cool, spidey, fuckin’ cool.  Number seventeen, shit balls, is no dousin’ the flamin’ torch out even though I want to gut him like a fish and make him squeal, hurt him real slow because how fucking dare he try to take the only thing that makes me happy away, how dare he—” Wade breaks off, looking over at Peter who is just staring at him.

 

“Wade,” he says, trying to swallow, but he can’t because his throat is so tight, and he just wants to curl up in Wade’s arms and pretend they’re home.

 

“Fuck, Peter, I’m sorry,” Wade mumbles, leaning forward until his head drops onto Peter’s shoulder, “I didn’t mean it.”

 

Peter reaches up, curling his hands around Wade’s neck and leaning his head against Wade’s bald one.  “Rule number eighteen, you can’t lie to me about shit like this.”

“Clarify,” Wade mumbles.

 

“Feelings.”

 

“I hate feelings.  Mama done said they was the reason she always hated me, said I spewed my fuckin’ feelings all over the goddamn floor, made a mess that she ain’t never been able to clean up, and that’s why she slit my father’s throat, watched him gurgle up and—”

 

“Sometimes it seems that the going is just too rough,” Peter cuts him off, singing as softly as he can, “and things go wrong no matter what I do.”  He falls quiet, just listening to the rhythm of their breaths until Wade sighs and pulls away, rubbing at his face.

 

“I’m done,” he mumbles, and Peter nods.

 

“Okay.”

 

Wade reaches behind him, yanking up his hood and scooting closer until he can burrow against Peter, head dropping onto his shoulder again, the hood hiding his face as he closes his eyes.  Peter unfolds his legs until he can cross them, one knee settling on Wade’s thigh, and he flips his hand, palm up, waiting for Wade to take it and tangle their fingers together.  When he does, Peter looks up at Violet and shrugs his free shoulder.

 

“So, this is why we’re here,” he says, “We, uh—we’ve got some issues to work out.”

 

Violet holds Peter’s gaze for a long moment before taking a breath and shaking her head.  “I have to admit, I’m a little flustered,” she says after a bit, “I mean, I’ve dealt with Tony Stark, Matt Murdock, and the likes, and yet this is something else entirely.  Director Fury did warn me, though.”

 

“Yeah, he’s—he’s a bit much to those who haven’t had time to get to know him.”

 

“And you have, Peter?” Violet asks, shifting her notepad.

 

“Uh, yeah.  I met Wade about five years ago, I think, and we’ve been dating, I guess you could call it, for a couple years now.  Huh.”

 

“Really?” Wade murmurs, not looking up.

 

“Yeah, I think,” Peter says, rubbing his thumb in circles over Wade’s hand, “Do you count the bad months?”

 

“I mean—yeah, I just didn’t know you did.”

 

“The bad months?” Violet asks.

 

Peter frowns, looking down at their hands, trying to will the pain away trapped in his chest.  Finally, Wade leans up and kisses his ear, his voice ghosting against his skin, “You don’t have to, spidey.”

 

“Yeah, I do,” he mumbles before taking a deep breath and looking back up.  “I, uhm—I cheated on Wade when he was away on a job.”

 

“That’s not the whole fuckin’ story,” Wade says when Peter doesn’t continue.  He straightens, taking his hand back and facing Peter, “You know that’s not the whole fuckin’ story.”

 

“I cheated on you,” Peter says, and he hates that he sounds breathless, but everything is so tight, he can barely find air, “A direct violation of rule number six, and there aren’t even consequence by-laws for me, and why not?  I should have consequences for breaking the rules, too, Wade.  We can’t just expect things to be all fine and dandy when—”

 

“Fuck off, okay,” Wade cuts him off, reaching up to yank his hood down so he can glare at Peter better, “We talked about this shit.”

 

“No, we didn’t!” Peter exclaims, “This is exactly why we’re here because we can’t talk about it!  I tried, and then we were talking about fucking necrophilia and somnophilia and—”

 

“That’s a thing?”

 

“NO!” Peter yells, “We are not doing that again.”

 

“Oh, for pie’s sake, spidey, we made up, remember?  I called you my itsy bitsy spidery, you said boyfriend, if that’s okay with you, and I’m damn certain you called me dickhat, and I called you boyfraaaaand, and we were okay.  I thought that made it pretty clear things were okay, then.”

 

“Are they?”

 

“I don’t fuckin’ know, you tell me.”

 

“Why are there no consequences?”

 

“There were, spidey.  Those eight fuckin’ months were consequences.  I don’t know what the hell happened, but—”

 

“You stabbed me, remember?”

 

“Okay,” Violet cuts in, her legs unfolding as she prepares to stand.

 

“No, wait!” Peter says, turning abruptly to her, “It’s not like that.”

 

“It’s not like what?  A physically abusive relationship?  I’m going to have to call the director.  He didn’t say anything about a stabbing.”

 

“I was having a nightmare,” Wade says quickly, and Violet stills, frowning.

 

“What?”

 

“I have—nightmares,” Wade says, deflating, “I didn’t—I didn’t mean to.”

 

He looks over at Peter, who sighs and gives him a little shove.  “I know that, dickhat, that’s why I was mad when you left.”

 

“Spidey—”

 

“I don’t think you understand that I’m here for you, through all the shit, Wade.  Everything that has happened, I just—I want to get in front of it.  I want to leave it alone, and I want to know that you’re not going to do that to me again.  Rule number five.”

 

“You never asked me to,” Wade says quietly, looking at Peter.

 

“Then this is me asking you to stay—forever.”

 

Wade is silent for a few long moments before he nods.  “Yeah, okay.”

 

Violet lets out a soft noise and settles again.  “Are you quite sure you need to be here?” she asks.

 

Peter lets out a small laugh, shaking his head, “I don’t know.  I think so.  We’re bad at talking about things that aren’t food or video games.”

 

“Ha, boys,” Wade says, and it breaks Peter until he’s giggling, sinking in against Wade, who just wraps an arm around him and lays a smacking kiss on his forehead.

 

 Violet just watches them for a second before getting up.  “Tea?”

 

“Yeah, thanks,” Peter says, waiting until she’s turned her back before he reaches over to grab at Wade, kissing him hard.

 

——

 

“I’m wearing the mask.”

 

“You are not wearing the mask.”

 

“I am, you can’t stop me.”

 

“I will tickle you.”

 

“You’re such a buzzkill, assbutt.”

 

“Assbutt, really?  That’s about as good as some of my insults.”

 

“I’m wearing the mask.”

 

Instead of responding, Peter tackles Wade onto the bed, and then they’re getting nowhere because Wade is shrieking and giggling like a little girl, and Peter is laughing so hard he can barely breathe, and then, somehow—and really, he should have expected this from them—they’re making out, and Wade’s hand is in his pants, and then Peter is smacking him and tumbling off the bed.

 

“No sex, we have to go,” he says from the floor, and Wade actually listens, going to finish getting ready.

 

When all is finally said and done, Peter thinks he definitely could get used to this.  Wade is in a full suit, black and white because Peter had practically ripped the sparkly one off of him, and even though he’s wearing Converse, he looks so handsome, Peter is rethinking his no sex comment.

 

“Hey there, you fine piece of spandex ass,” Wade says when he turns and sees Peter, who just rolls his eyes and goes over to him.

 

He reaches up, smoothing his hands over the lapels of his jacket before tugging him close.  “This is nice,” he practically purrs, tilting his head up and grinning.

 

“Oh look, now spidey’s turned on,” Wade grumbles before leaning down to kiss him.

 

It’s just a soft, slow kiss, but then Peter’s leaning up on his toes and kissing up along Wade’s jaw to whisper in his ear, “I would so love it if you fucked me later.”

 

“Right on, spandex booty,” Wade hums, reaching down to squeeze Peter’s ass, which just makes him laugh softly and drop back onto his heels.

 

“Come on, we have to go,” Peter says, reaching for Wade’s hand and pulling him away.  Wade heads for the stairs, but Peter shakes his head and tugs him toward the door at the end of the hall that leads to the stairs up to the roof, and Wade looks over in surprise.

 

“Yeah?” Wade says, grinning openly.

 

“You’ve never webbed before, it should be fun.”

 

It is.  Wade war cries nearly the entire time, and Peter almost drops them because he’s laughing so hard, and he can’t remember the last time he was this happy.  When they finally drop into the alley next to the function hall, they have to take a moment to catch their breaths and stop laughing, and then they’re heading around to the front.

 

Bruce had invited them the week previous to attend one of Tony’s award ceremonies, practically pleading with them to come to help subdue Tony, and Peter had agreed if only to get Wade into a suit and have good food.

 

And so they find Tony and Bruce, laughing as Bruce tries to convince Tony to stop being a queen, and they settle in for the night.  It’s fun, just relaxing and drinking and laughing, and then, when the first half of the night is finally over, and they’re headed for the second half, a big party, Peter shoves Wade out toward the dance floor, and thus begins the real fun.

 

When they finally get out into the cool night again, Wade is loose and happy, and Peter’s feeling a little crazy, so he just nods along when Wade says he has an idea, and that’s how they end up breaking into Natasha’s apartment.

 

“We’re going to die,” Peter giggles, and Wade just shrugs one shoulder.

 

“We might, but at least we’ll die like pirates!” Wade exclaims as he gets the door open, and he tugs Peter inside, rolling his eyes when the alarm starts going off.  “Fix that,” he says, waving a hand at Peter, who grumbles under his breath at him and goes to fiddle with the alarm.

 

Wade disappears into the apartment, and, when Peter finally finishes up, kicks the door shut, and goes to find him, he’s stretched out on the sofa with an expensive bottle of whiskey.  Peter comes around behind him, letting his arms loop down as he presses wet kisses to his neck.  Wade hands up the bottle, and Peter straightens, taking a long pull and then coughing a little when he hands it back.  “That’s fuckin’ good,” he says before clambering over the sofa and onto the floor.

 

Wade gives him a low whistle when he does, mumbling, “Graceful little fucker,” and then he’s making an appreciative noise as Peter drops onto his knees and tugs lazily at Wade’s dress pants.

 

“Off,” he says, patting at his knee, and Wade just chuckles softly and tips back the whiskey, hands it over, and then starts shimmying out of his pants.  He gets them to his knees, and then the bottle is being handed back up, and Peter takes over, pulling them down and licking his lips.

 

“Hey,” Wade says, tapping Peter with his foot, “Grab me one of those.”

 

Peter reaches behind him, picking up a pack of cigarettes and a lighter from the coffee table and handing it up.  Wade knocks one out, lights it, and tips his head back as Peter kisses up his left thigh, his hand running along the right, fingers kneading in occasionally.  Wade lets out a little groan when Peter licks up his half-hard dick and then starts mouthing at his belly, one hand shucking up his shirt a little.  He lifts his head, mouth open a little, and Wade leans down, kissing him slow and easy before he replaces his mouth with the cigarette, groaning when Peter inhales, lips in a tight circle.  When he exhales, smoke pouring from his mouth and nostrils, Wade can’t stop the hand that lifts and threads in his hair, but Peter hums and tilts toward the whiskey.  Wade just laughs, this low, rumbling thing and leaves the cigarette balanced between his lips to grab the bottle and tip it Peter’s way.  He swallows, two big gulps that stretch his throat, and Wade watches the way the muscle there moves, and he’s fully hard by the time Peter pulls away and kisses back down to his cock.

 

It’s a slow climb, Peter taking his time and just being generally lazy about it, occasionally stopping to ask for the cigarette or to mouth down to Wade’s balls, sometimes nipping at his inner thighs or up along his belly.  He takes Wade’s dick all the way in, lets the head nudge at his throat, and Wade can’t remember the last time he felt this good, felt this warm and loose and relaxed, and he just wants to stay here forever, with his Peter always.

 

The last time Peter pulls away, his dick sits heavy and leaking against his belly, and he aches with wanting, but Peter tastes like nicotine and amazing whiskey and sex, and he can’t stop kissing him, and then they hear it, Natasha’s angry voice echoing through the building.  Peter pulls back and looks over at the door, but she’s still far away enough, and Wade’s so close, he coaxes him back until Peter’s wrapping his swollen lips around his cock and sucking in earnest, fingers digging into Wade’s thighs and tongue pressing in all the right places until Wade’s coming undone, groaning loudly and tugging at Peter’s hair, hips shifting up a little as he comes, cock pulsing in his mouth and spilling down his throat.  Peter pulls up until he’s just sucking at the head, tongue curving around, and Wade lets out a low, hoarse, “fuck.”  Peter keeps sucking, thumbs pressing up against his hips, and Wade feels like he could fucking die like this.

 

“Peter,” he groans, tugging at his hair, “Fuck, Peter.”

 

And then Peter’s pulling away with a gasp, looking up at Wade with dark eyes.  “We should go,” he says, his voice a little raw.

 

Natasha is louder now, and they can hear her footsteps, so they get their shit together as fast as they can, Peter takes another pull from the whiskey, Wade grabs a cigarette, and they’re just disappearing onto the balcony when the door is thrown open.  Peter yanks Wade close to him, and then they’re webbing off the balcony and into the night air.

 

They don’t get too far before Peter’s dropping them down in an alley, and Wade grabs him, tipping his head back so he can kiss him.  “The fuck’s gotten into you, spidey,” he groans when they part.

 

“I think I’m drunk,” Peter says, and then Wade’s laughing, loud and clear.

 

“Wee bit stoned too, mayhaps?”

 

“Mayhaps,” Peter allows, grinning before he pulls Wade back to him, and he can’t get enough of him, wants him closer and closer until Peter’s pressed up against the wall, Wade’s breath coming out in short little pants as he kisses away from his mouth and down to his throat, sucking a nasty bruise there that makes Peter’s voice pitch up into a keen, and then his hands are twisting in between them, and Wade just wants him naked, now.

 

“Fuck me?” Peter asks, and Wade groans.

 

“Fuck yes.”

 

Wade shoves down his pants enough that he can comfortably move, jerks his slowly hardening cock in quick, tight pulls before he lifts a hand, watching Peter suck three fingers into his mouth, his eyes fixed on Wade.  He barely stretches him enough, barely has enough to lube his way, but Peter wants Wade inside of him so bad he thinks he might burst from it.  He braces himself when Wade reaches for his thighs, and then he’s being lifted off his feet, and he presses his hands against the wall on either side of him, muscles in his arms tightening as he inhales, and then Wade is slamming inside, and Peter would have screamed if not for the hand Wade slaps over his mouth.

 

“Quiet now, spidey,” Wade murmurs before he’s kissing him, and that’s how they have sex.

 

It’s rough and fast and Peter is damn sure he’s going to have a scattering of bruises over his back, but it’s so good, and, when he finally comes, head hitting the wall as Wade thrusts into him, hips slapping against his ass, so quick and so fucking good that he comes without being touched.  Wade is soon after him, pressing him against the wall, and then the fucking lights.

 

“Shit, shit, shit,” Peter says, slapping at Wade’s head until he lets his legs down, and he stumbles into Wade, his knees shaking.

 

“The po-po,” Wade says sadly, and Peter just groans and tries to reach for his pants.

 

“My legs fucking hurt,” he whines, and Wade cackles, “Put your pants on, asshole.”

 

“I love your asshole,” Wade groans, and then they’re making out, mouths so hot that Peter feels like he’s on fire, but he just presses closer until there’s a flashlight, and he doesn’t think he’s ever gotten dressed that fast before.  They’re out of there just as the beam of light is falling on them, and Peter is out of breath by the time they get to a nearby rooftop.

 

“Holy fuck,” he gasps, sinking against Wade.

 

“That was awesome,” Wade says before letting out a catcall into the night, and Peter just smiles and closes his eyes, enjoying the nearness and warmness of him as Wade wraps his arms around him.  They stay like that, just holding onto each other for a bit, until Wade sighs and kisses Peter’s ear.  “I love you,” he whispers, and Peter hides his smile in his chest, so wide his cheeks hurt a little.

 

“I love you,” he whispers, and Wade squeezes him a little tighter.

 

——

 

He’s working when he gets the text, fahkin po-po just took me away!

 

Peter stares at his phone.  He knows it’s from Wade, can see the sleepy smiling picture he loves so much, but it doesn’t make sense until he hears, “Parker!  In my office!”

 

“Shit, Wade,” he says softly before pushing away from his cubicle and going over to Jameson’s office.

 

“Close the door,” Jameson says when he walks in.

 

“Mister Jameson, I—”

 

“Parker, shut the fuckin’ door.”  Peter sighs and closes the door, going to sit.  Jameson looks at him for a few moments before getting up and shaking his head.  He comes around, sitting on the edge of his desk.  “Listen, Parker.  This is not me bootin’ your ass to the curb, okay?  But your boyfriend needs to stop comin’ around.  He’s freakin’ out the regulars goin’ by on the streets, and I can’t have it.  You’re a good kid, and you write damn good stories, and those freakin’ pictures, Parker—you’re a natural at this, which is why I’m not bootin’ your ass, you hear?  If I see your boyfriend hanging around again, though, we’re gonna have a problem.  Okay?”

 

“I’m sorry, I’ll get rid of him.”

 

“Get,” Jameson says before getting off his desk and going around it again.

 

“Thank you, Mister Jameson,” Peter says before hurrying out.  He grabs his jacket on the way, and he’s dialing Wade when he reaches the elevator.

 

“Spideeeeeeeeeey,” Wade whines dramatically when he answers.

 

“Dude, you almost got me fired, asshole.  I told you to stop hanging out in front of the Bugle.”

 

“Shit, really?  Okay, fine.  Hey, let’s get mozzarella somewhere.  I want mozzarella.”

 

“Specifically mozzarella?”

 

“Yes, spidey, oh my god, I always choke on it, but it’s so fuckin’ fabulous, I just want to bathe in it!”

 

“I’m hanging up,” he says, laughing as Wade just keeps going.  When he gets down into the lobby, he sneaks around the fuming security, hurries outside, grabs Wade, and pulls him away.  “You’re a dick,” he says, and Wade just beams and gives him a smacking kiss on the cheek.

 

They end up in a pizza shop where Wade can get mozzarella sticks with his pizza, and Wade’s just rambling away when, all of a sudden, “You know, Miss Sweet Summers—”

 

“I really wish you wouldn’t call her that, it makes you sound more pervy than you already are,” Peter cuts in, but Wade just keeps going.

 

“—said she’d therapied pajama boy, and I haven’t seen him in forever, and I was thinkin’, hey, girl, I got friends, too, might as well do the awkward dance and—”

 

“Pajama boy?”

 

“Good ole Matty, spidey, I miss his spandex booty.”

 

“What?”  Peter stares at Wade, trying to decipher what he’s talking about.

 

“The man without fear, spidey.  You know, Daredevil,” he hisses the last part, and Peter frowns in confusion.

 

“You know Matt Murdock?”

 

“Know him?  Spidey, I done fucked him.”  Peter doesn’t know how to respond and Wade just shrugs one shoulder and says, “We’re just gonna skip the awkward bit, yeah, and then later you won’t be like, hey, so you was hidin’ things from me, Wade, and I won’t be like, but spidey it’s my jam!  So this is me tellin’ you that Matty and I had a thing way back forever ago, we done fucked a couple times, nothin’ special, but you my main squeeze, spidey, you know?”

 

“For fuck’s sake,” Peter sighs, dropping his face into his hands so his voice is muffled, “I don’t know you.”

 

“I love your ass, spidey.  Let me squeeze it right now.”

 

“Go away.”

 

“Be honest, home skillet, you mad at me about Matty?”

 

“No,” Peter says, lifting his head and frowning at Wade, “I’m not mad, you just kind of sprung that on me is all.  It’s not like you were anywhere near my first, Wade.”

 

“Don’t I know it,” Wade says with a wink and Peter rolls his eyes.

 

“So, Deadpool and Daredevil?”

 

“Oh, we go way back, Spiderman.  Been best friendlies since the dawn of time, seems like.”

 

“You should invite him over sometime, it’d be fun.”

 

“Might be I might,” Wade says, and Peter rolls his eyes again.

 

“Stop being over bizarre.  Tell me about the war between candy canes and marshmallows.”

 

“Oh my pizza!” Wade shouts, and then he’s off, and Peter just listens with a smile, sometimes not even really listening, just watching him, at how he flails about as he talks, and he just wants to kiss him silent and let him keep going all at the same time.

 

There’s a drumming noise inside my head,

That starts when you’re around.

I swear that you could hear it.

It makes such an almighty sound.

 

Peter lets himself into Violet’s office after her secretary signs him in, and he goes to sit on the sofa, pulling his legs up to his chest and resting his nose between his knees.  Violet is late by a few minutes, clicking in and apologizing, “I’m so sorry, boys, I didn’t mean to—oh.  Peter, it’s just you.”

 

“Yeah,” Peter says softly, and Violet looks up from her desk, frowning.

 

“Is everything alright, Peter?” she asks, coming over to sit opposite him.

 

Peter shrugs one shoulder, picking at his Converse.  “Wade’s away on a job,” he mumbles, not looking up.

 

“How long has he been gone?”

 

“About four days.”

 

“That’s not too bad.  Did he have a predicted return time?”

 

“He said about two weeks, probably.”

 

Violet lets them sit in silence for a few moments before she leans back in her chair.  “And how do you feel about that, Peter?”

 

“I mean—yeah, I guess I’m okay with it.”

 

“And if I say I don’t believe you?”

 

“I don’t either, so.”

 

“Peter, you know you can talk to me.”

 

Peter sighs and unfolds, letting his feet settle on the ground and crossing his arms, but he starts to feel itchy inside, so he folds his legs into a pretzel and starts picking at the hem of Wade’s sweatshirt, not looking at Violet.  They’re quiet for a while before Peter finally says, “I don’t want to not be okay with it.”

 

“I’ve been seeing you and Wade for about a month now, Peter, and this is the first time he’s taken a job since your split, correct?”

 

“It wasn’t a split.”

 

“How would you categorize it?”

 

“We were—I don’t know.  It wasn’t a split.”

 

“Okay.  But this is his first job, yes?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“It’s perfectly normal for you to be upset about him being away.  There’s the fear that he won’t return, that it’ll just be like last time.  Did you talk with Wade about this before he left?”

 

“Kind of.”

 

“What was said?”

 

Peter sighs and shrugs his shoulders each back and forth for a bit until he shrugs both of them and looks up.  “He said he was going to come back, no matter what, and I know he means it, cos even if he’s dead, he can still come back, but I’m just afraid some shit is gonna happen, and it’s going to be over two weeks, and then it’s going to be five months again, and then he’s going to come back, and I’m going to yell at him for being an asshole, and then he’s going to leave again, and I just—shit,” he breaks off, reaching up a hand to rub at his chest, dropping his gaze from Violet.

 

“Peter?” she asks, frowning.

 

He tries to speak and finds he can’t, but all he can think about is those months, those fucking months, so far away from Wade but so close, always calling and never getting anything but the voicemail, Deadpool here, drop the deets if you want it unalived, and he just kept leaving message after message after message after—

 

“Peter?”  Violet straightens, moving her file from her lap.

 

His nails scrape at his chest, fingers bunching in Wade’s sweatshirt, and he feels like his throat is on fire, like someone has reached into his chest and burned it raw, and he’s so afraid he’s going to break again, that he’s going to fall apart and that the next time Wade comes back after eight months, he’s not going to be able to pick the pieces up again and he’s going to make him leave, going to make himself get over him, and he doesn’t want to, but he can’t keep doing this, and he can’t breathe and—

 

“Peter,” Violet says, and he looks up to find her suddenly in front of him, kneeling, hands hovering near him but not touching.  “It’s okay.  You’re having a panic attack.  Just listen to my voice, Peter.  You’re okay.  Just breathe in and out.  Focus on your breathing.  Keep looking at me.  You’re okay.”

 

“I can’t—I can’t—breathe,” he manages to gasp out, clawing at his chest before he presses the heel against his sternum, trying to push the pain away.  It feels like he’s being turned inside out, and he’s too hot suddenly, he can’t breathe, and he jerks up off the sofa, struggling desperately to get out of Wade’s sweatshirt.  He can’t, though, it’s too tight, it’s suffocating him, and he lets out this broken, terrified noise and collapses, knees hitting the ground hard as he doubles over, forehead pressing against the floor.  A sob bursts out of him, and he just wants Wade, he wants him right there to fold him away in his arms and sing to him.

 

He can hear Violet moving, hear some faucet running, and he can’t stand it, he needs him, so he just starts whispering to himself, you are the night time fear, you are the morning when it’s clear, when it’s over you’ll start, you’re my head, you’re my heart, and he’s calm again, finding his breath and willing himself to be okay.

 

“Hey,” Violet says as he lifts his head.  She’s sitting near him, a glass of water between them, and he reaches for it, gulping it down.

 

“What happened?” Peter asks when he’s done, shifting until he’s sitting instead of kneeling.

 

“A panic attack,” Violet says softly, “You were talking about Wade being gone, and it must have triggered something from those eight months.  You’re okay, Peter, but maybe you should call Wade and talk to him about this.”

 

“You think?”

 

“I do.”

 

“Okay,” he says after a moment, nodding.

 

“I think we might be done for today, though, unless you feel up for staying a while longer.”

 

“Maybe just a little bit,” he says, and Violet nods before getting up and coming over to hold out a hand to help Peter up.  He takes it, and then goes to sit on the sofa again, pulling the sleeves of Wade’s sweatshirt over his hands.

 

——

 

It’s two days later when Peter wakes up screaming in the middle of the night, six days since Wade left, and he just curls up, hugging his knees to his chest, and shakes, trying desperately not to cry and failing.  Eventually, he manages to calm down enough to find his phone and dial Wade, but he gets his voicemail, and he doesn’t want to leave a message, but he can’t stop himself from saying, “I’m so lost without you.  I need you.  You’ve got the love I need to see me through, and I’m freaking out, Wade.  I’m so afraid,” and then he hangs up because he’s even more afraid of what he might say.

 

He calls Violet the next morning, pacing back and forth in the kitchen as he tries to make pancakes.  “Miss Summers’ office, how may I help you?”

 

“Hey Wendy, it’s Peter Parker.  Is Violet in?”

 

“If you don’t mind holding, Mister Parker, I can check.”

“Thank you.”

 

He goes back to his pancakes while he’s on hold, and he’s just tipping them onto a plate when Violet says, “Peter, hi.  How are you?”

 

“I don’t know,” he says, reaching up a hand to scrub at his face, “I’m kind of going out of my mind.”

 

“Did you call Wade like I told you to?”

 

“I got his voicemail, and it isn’t Thursday yet, which is usually the day I can most easily get ahold of him, but I keep getting his voicemail, and—”

 

“Peter, calm down.  It’s okay.  Do you want to come in and talk for a bit?”

 

“No, I just—I just don’t know what to do.”

 

“Do you have a shift at the Bugle today?”

 

“No.”

 

“Why don’t you go out and take a walk, then?  Bring your camera, maybe a book, and just enjoy yourself.  Alone time is not always a terrible thing.  Make the best of it, and stop calling Wade.  Let him call you now.”

 

“You think?”

 

“I know.  Now, eat something for breakfast before you go out, and I expect to see some pictures in two weeks, okay?”

 

Peter sighs, “Okay.  Thanks, doc.”

 

“Anytime, Peter.  Is it okay if I hang up now?”

 

“Yeah, bye.”

 

He ends the call and then just stares at his phone for a few moments before grabbing his pancakes and going to plop in front of the television to eat.  He unwinds with an episode of the Three Stooges, and then he’s off to shower, dress, and take his camera out for a stroll.

 

It ends up being a pretty damn good day, and he gets some excellent photography done, but then his stomach is starting to grumble, and then he realizes he’s in Manhattan, and he sighs, sitting down across the street from the last place he wants to be and the place he knows he needs to be.

 

Peter stares at the Baxter Building like it’s the thing that offended him, keeps staring until he’s really hungry, and then he digs out his phone and dials Johnny without giving himself a chance to second guess.

 

He answers on the third ring, “Peter?”

 

“Hey.”

 

Johnny pauses, and then, “Hey, man.  What’s up?”

 

“I’m starving, do you wanna grab something to eat?”

 

“Yeah, sure, where are you?”

 

“Outside, actually, if that isn’t pathetic enough.”

 

“Fuck off, you’re not pathetic, just sometimes stupid.  Is there something I should know before I come down?”

 

“Yeah.  Here’s the deal.  I love Wade with everything I’ve got, and we’re currently in therapy trying to work out our issues because I want to be with him, but I understand the shit that happened wasn’t okay, and I know that if it happens again, I can’t be okay with it, but I also need you to know that we’re just friends.”

 

“I know that.”

 

“Do you?”

 

“Peter, I’m so sorry.  I know I was a shit friend, and I shouldn’t have done that to you, I should have just fucking listened, and I’m sorry.  I don’t want to lose you.”

 

“You’re not going to, not unless you decide to be an asshole again.”

 

“Hey, no guarantees,” Johnny teases, and Peter can’t help but smile.

 

“Stop lingering in the lobby and get out here, then, I’m freezing my ass off.”

 

Johnny just laughs and hangs up, and he’s coming out just as Peter’s boarding across the street.  Johnny shrugs when Peter approaches, Peter lets his skateboard skid against Baxter, and then they’re hugging, squeezing tight until Peter’s stomach grumbles.  “Starving,” he says as they part, and Johnny nods, bumping shoulders with him.

 

——

 

Peter’s out cold in bed, naked because he jerked off thinking about Wade and then didn’t bother getting dressed again, when his phone rings.  He flings a hand out from under the blankets to slap at his nightstand, getting pretty much everything but his phone and even managing to spill his glasses onto the floor, which he whines incomprehensibly about, before he finally gets it.  He squints at the screen, barely makes out a W, and answers it, dropping it onto the pillow next to him.

 

He makes a noise, something soft and tired, and Wade responds in the same way, “And I am done with my graceless heart, so tonight I’m gonna cut it out and then restart cos I like to keep my issues drawn, and it’s always darkest before the dawn.”

 

“It’s hard to dance with a devil on your back,” Peter hums in return, and Wade laughs, though it sounds exhausted and faraway.  “Hi.”

 

“Hey yourself, love.”

 

“I’m asleep.”

 

“Yeah, me too, I think.  I miss you.”

 

“I wish you were right here.  Can you come home?”

 

“Not yet, my itsy bitsy spider.  Hey, don’t get wasted without me this time, okay?”

 

Peter smiles and closes his eyes, reaching out a hand under the blankets and pretending Wade’s there.  “Tell me a story,” he whispers.

 

“Don’t feel like it,” Wade says, and then he’s yawning, “I’m gonna pretend we’re snuggling, okay?”

 

“Already started without you.”

 

“What are you wearing?”

 

Peter whines, “I don’t want to have phone sex.”

 

“No, we’re pretending, remember?”

 

“Uh,” Peter opens his eyes and peeks down, “Shit, I forgot.  I’m naked.”

 

“Well, I mean, if you want phone sex—”

 

“No.  What are you wearing?”

 

“I may also be naked?”

 

“Did you jerk off?”

 

“Obviously.  I assume you did, as well, and—” Wade breaks off into a long yawn, which only makes Peter yawn, and this is jaw is cracking, and he whines.

 

“Why did you call so late?” he mumbles, shifting a little.

 

“I dunno, couldn’t fall asleep.  Sleep is bad, spidey.”

 

“Liar,” Peter says, and then he’s yawning again, “Come snuggle.”

 

“Too far away.  I’m in—Zimbabwe, spidey.”

 

“Bring me home a souvenir.”

 

“Already did.  Hey.”  Peter hums, so Wade continues, “Did you know that I love you to the moon and back?”

 

“Space is creepy.”

 

“Assbutt.”

 

“I love you all the way to the stars, there and back again.”

 

“Okay, Bilbo.  Hey.  What time is it?”

 

Peter groans, glaring at his phone.  “Two o’clock in the morning.”

 

“Can I come home?”

 

“Not yet, you said, but yes.  Come home right now.”

 

“Can’t, still gotta—shit balls,” he says before he’s yawning again.

 

“Are you sleeping okay here?” Peter asks, shifting again until he’s on his back and the phone is on his chest.

 

“No, but whatever.”

 

“Tell Violet.  I went to see her the other day.”

 

“Without me?  What a bummer.  Hibernation, spidey.”

 

“I’m asleep,” Peter mumbles, and Wade laughs softly.

 

“Okay, baby spidey, I’ll call you in the morning or something.  I love you, sweetums, nuh-nights.”

 

“Goodnight, Wade, love you.”

 

——

 

In the morning, Peter wakes up to his bladder, and then his phone is ringing, and he groans, finishing up and going back into his room.  “Hey babe,” he says, and then realizes what he said, and he just smiles and keeps going, “How’s Zimbabwe?”

 

“Oh no,” Wade says, and Peter rolls his eyes, putting him on speaker and dropping his phone onto his dresser while he looks for clothes, “You’re not getting away with that, spidey, I get a nickname?”

 

“Sometimes, if you’re good.  Color?”

 

“Green, it makes your eyes look nice.  Hey!  Have you checked the mail yet today?”

 

“No, should I?”

 

“Probably!” Wade giggles, “I miss your pancakes.”

 

“Even the banana ones?”

 

“Mayhaps, stupid head.  I was thinkin’, we should do somethin’ special, just the two of us.”

 

“What kind of special?  Suit and tie?”

 

“No, that was so boring, though you were all hot and bothered about it, so maybe maybe sugar baby.  I wanna take my spidey on a date proper, you know?”

 

“Not really.  What does a date with you mean?  Color?”

 

“Brown.  Dates are lovely, dates are fun, sometimes I eat dates because cannibalism is the bestest ever, hey-o!”

 

“That didn’t even rhyme,” Peter says as he shakes his head and tugs on his jeans.

 

“Doesn’t have to.  Do you think good ole Hannibal ever rhymed?  Heck no, spidey!  I think up somethin’ wicked this way comes.  I gotta jet like a jet plane, though, sugar and spice.”

 

“Knock it off, okay?” Peter laughs, grabbing his jacket and pulling it on, “Be good, be safe, don’t send me any fingers.”

 

“IT ISN’T A FINGER!” Wade shrieks before he hangs up.

 

Peter just keeps laughing and gets ready to leave, grabbing his backpack and his camera, tossing it over his shoulder before he finds his skateboard and then he’s heading out, taking the keys from the bowl and making sure to lock the door.

 

When he gets downstairs, there’s a package with holes waiting for him underneath the mailboxes, and he unlocks his mailbox first, grabbing the envelopes and sifting through them uninterestedly before he’s stuffing them in his backpack and kneeling to pick up the package, but then it moves.  Peter stops, hands hovering over the box, just staring at it.  It jerks to one side, and he jumps back, starting to back away when it meows.

 

Peter frowns at the box and then pokes it, a quick jab of his finger.  “Hello?” he asks, and it meows again.  “Oh, for fuck’s sake, Wade, really?” he grumbles before sitting and carefully undoing the packaging.  There’s a tiny kitten inside, this little dark grey and white thing, and Peter just falls apart at the sight of it, reaching forward and letting it sniff his hand.

 

He fishes out his phone with the other hand and sends Wade a text, what is this?

 

Peter drops his phone onto the floor and smiles when the kitten pushes its wet nose against his hand.  “How long have you been in there?” he asks, carefully petting it.  The kitten meows pitifully at him, and Peter frowns, rubbing his fingers over its head.  “Alright, well—looks like I’m doing something else today.  You stay right there,” he says before picking up his phone as it vibrates.

 

miss sweet summers said we should get a plant, so I got a kitten.  IT’S CUTE.  also, it’s a girl.

 

Peter just smiles and texts back, Florence?

 

SHE’S MY LADY!

 

Peter takes that as an affirmative, so he scoops Florence out of the box, gives her a little kiss, and then settles her in his jacket pocket before heading outside, tightening the straps on his backpack.  He keeps one hand inside his pocket to make sure Florence stays calm as he boards, and, when he ends up outside Baxter, Johnny’s on the phone with Harry.

 

“Dude, you suck,” he whines as he comes outside, “Always cancelling and shit, you’re no fun.”  He rolls his eyes at Peter.  “Yeah, yeah, whatever, successful business man.  We’re having a boys night out soon, and I’m not taking no for an answer.  Bye, Harry,” he whines, and then he’s hanging up, “I’m going to eat my arm.”

 

“Wade sent me a kitten.”

 

“Okay, you win.  What?” Johnny says, one corner of his mouth lifting in a smirk.

 

Peter carefully lifts Florence out of his pocket, smiling when she mews softly and shrinks back against his hand, staring up at him.  “It’s okay,” he murmurs, rubbing his thumb against her side, “This is Johnny, Florence.”

 

“Florence?”

 

“Welch,” Peter says with a shrug, “So, new plan?”

 

“Yeah, that’s cool.  I’m still gonna eat my arm, man,” Johnny says, nudging him before he drops his board onto the ground, “Mexican?”

 

Peter groans, rolling his eyes.  “Dude, no.  All Wade ever eats is Mexican.  Japanese.  Let’s go to a hibachi grill, dude.”

 

“You have a kitten, idiot.”

 

“She can try sushi, it’ll be awesome.  What d’you say, Flo?”

 

Florence meows, and Peter considers it an affirmative, so he settles her back in his pocket, and then they’re off.

 

They take Florence to a Japanese restaurant where she hates sushi, loves Peter’s shrimp, and then goes to town on the rice.  The waitress never seems to notice, but then, when they’re paying and leaving, Peter makes a face at the scattering of food where Florence was sitting next to him and gives her a little pat where she’s curled up in his pocket.  After that, they head over to the pet store, where Peter whines at the prices until he remembers his mail, and he shrugs out of his backpack, waving when Johnny calls out that he’s going to play with the dogs.  Inside, there’s an envelope addressed to him in scratchy handwriting, and so he digs out his phone as he goes to find a carriage.  He starts to take Florence out of his pocket, but she’s sound asleep and purring, so he leaves her in there, dumps his backpack in the carriage, and hums as he waits for Wade to pick up.

 

Wade is screeching when he answers, “SAY MY NAME AS EVERY COLOR ILLUMINATES.  WE ARE SHINING, AND WE WILL NEVER BE AFRAID AGAIN.”

 

“Waaaaade,” Peter groans, pulling the phone away.  He waits until he’s finished before he brings it back.  “Did you send me something?”

 

“I put holes in the box.”

 

“No, asshole, the envelope.  Which, okay, that’s animal cruelty.”

 

“Yeah, blood money for Flo.  Hey.  I put holes in the box.”

 

“You’re psychotic.”

 

“That’s the rumor.  How’s my baby?”

 

“Sleeping,” Peter says, looking down at his pocket with a smile, “She just had Japanese.”

 

“Awh, fucker, you went for Japanese without me?  Whatever.  How’s Stormy McStorm Stormface?”

 

“What the fuck even,” Peter laughs, shaking his head, “You’re in a weird mood.”

 

“Spidey, I am the urban dictionary definition of a weird mood.  WHAT IS UP, BITCHES?”

 

“Are you working?”

 

“Pfffffft, yes.  Get her toys and stuff, I wanna play when I get home!  Oh, hey, uh—I might be early?”

 

Peter stops the carriage, brightening.  “Really?”

 

“Yeah, I—you know what, fuck off.  I miss you.”  Peter just grins and ducks his eyes, biting on his lips.  “Shut up, asshole,” Wade grumbles, and then, “I SAID, HEY GIRL WITH ONE EYE, GET YOUR FILTHY FINGERS OUT OF MY PIE!”

 

“Stop singing Florence at the unalivers and come home.  I miss you, stupid.”

 

“You’re stupid,” Wade says, and then hangs up, and Peter just laughs and goes to continue shopping.

 

——

 

When they finally get back to the apartment, Peter’s landlord, Beth, is talking to his neighbor, Luke, across the hall, though she brightens when she sees him.  “Hey, Peter!” she exclaims, waving before she turns back to Luke, “I can give you a week’s extension, but no longer, Luke.”

 

She turns away, and Peter smiles.  “How are you, Beth?” he asks as he puts down some of the bags to fish out his keys.  Johnny leans against the wall, grinning as Beth comes over.

 

She’s in early thirties, with short blonde hair and blue eyes.  “Pretty great, thanks.  I haven’t seen that guy you’re always with in a while.  Hi Johnny,” she adds, flashing a smile his way.

 

“Wade’s away for work,” Peter says as he finally gets the door open.  “Wanna meet Florence?” he asks, going inside.

 

Johnny and Beth follow as Peter dumps the bags by the entertainment center and then turns, watching Beth look around.  She hasn’t been inside since the bad months, and he can see her noticing how Wade has filtered back into his life.

 

“Who’s Florence?” she asks after a moment.

 

Peter peeks into his pocket and smiles when he sees Florence looking up at him with sleepy blue eyes.  He carefully picks her out, and Beth absolutely melts.  She coos over Florence, who shies away until Peter coaxes her to go with Johnny so he can start unloading the shopping.  Johnny and Beth chat while he puts away the food and then goes to start sorting through the new cat things.  Florence looks over as he opens a bag of toys, and he laughs softly, tossing a ball with a bell in it onto the floor.  She tumbles off the sofa and goes to play with it.

 

“Well,” Beth says after a few minutes watching Florence play, “I need to finish knocking on doors.”

“Speaking of,” Peter says, digging in his pocket.

 

“Oh, Peter, no, it’s—”

 

Peter cuts her off as he comes over with a small wad of Wade’s blood money.  “Sorry, it’s Wade’s turn,” he says as Beth slowly takes it.

 

She doesn’t respond right away, and then sighs, “Thank you.  I’ll see you around, then?”

 

“Yeah, of course.”  He smiles brightly, and Johnny starts laughing as soon as she’s gone.

 

“Dude, she wants your dick bad.”

 

“Oh, fuck off,” Peter says, rolling his eyes.  He’s quiet as he finishes getting Florence’s things set up, and then he dumps onto the sofa next to Johnny and nudges him.  “I’ve actually been thinking about maybe moving,” he admits.

 

“Woah, really?” Johnny asks, looking over at him.

 

“I dunno.  This place is so old, and I’ve been here for almost eight years, man, and I’m kind of over it, you know?  I wanna live somewhere else.”

 

“With Wade?”  Johnny doesn’t look at him when he asks.

 

Peter’s response is instantaneous, “Yeah.  That okay with you?”

 

Johnny looks at him, then, and he’s got a strange expression before he rolls his eyes and shoves Peter lightly.  “I’m over it, okay?  I get that you’re trying, and I get that you guys are going to therapy, working out all the shit between you, so I’m backing off.”

 

“Thank you,” Peter says softly, and then he stretches and continues, “Wanna get takeout and get your ass whooped in Call of Duty?”

 

“Dude, you have Ghosts, right?  Fuck yeah, but I’m ballin’, just warning you.”

 

“Yeah, okay.  You know who I live with, right?  All we do is game, eat, and fuck, man.”

 

“Dude, I’m single, what do you think I do with my life?”

 

Peter just laughs and goes to find Florence, scooping her up and snuggling his face against hers until she meows and bats at him, so he dumps her on his shoulder, where she sits like a parrot, tail curling around his neck.  They go into the kitchen together where Peter starts calling out countries until they settle on Indian.

 

——

 

Johnny leaves a little after midnight, and Peter gets a late snack for him and Florence before settling onto the sofa to flip aimlessly through the channels until he settles on Law Abiding Citizen, and he doesn’t know what it is about action films, but he’s out in minutes, and it’s only a massive explosion that jerks him awake later.  Florence is curled up on his chest, sound asleep, so he cradles her in his arms carefully as he stumbles through the apartment.  He leaves her on Wade’s pillow, strips down to his boxers and a shirt before grabbing Wade’s sweatshirt, pulling that on, and then getting into bed, tugging the pillow and Florence closer.  He falls asleep with Wade’s scent surrounding him.

 

As I move my feet toward your body,

I can hear this beat, it fills my head up,

And gets louder and louder.

 

Wade is four days late getting home when the package comes in the mail.  Peter doesn’t notice it at first, too busy looking through the envelopes, but then he turns to leave, and he kicks it.  He frowns, looking down, and there it is, Wade’s scratchy handwriting, and Peter just stares at it for a few seconds before grabbing it and hurrying back upstairs.  He’s barely through the door when he’s tearing open the packaging.

 

Florence meows curiously from on top of the fridge, and Peter pauses to look at her strangely before he keeps unwrapping, going into the kitchen and sitting at the table.  He finally gets it open, yanks the cardboard back, and then yelps and promptly falls on the floor.  Florence meows again, sounding a little disgruntled, and Peter glances over at her and then back at the box, not getting up.

 

“Flo,” he says softly, “You’re coming to therapy today.”  She meows, and Peter points a finger at her, not looking away from the box, “No excuses.”

 

When he arrives at Violet’s office two hours later, the box is still sitting on his kitchen table, open but untouched, and Florence is riding shotgun in his pocket when he takes the elevator up.  “Hey Wendy, Violet in?” he asks, already heading past her.

 

“I can check, if you’ll just take a seat, and—Mister Parker!” she exclaims when he pushes open Violet’s door.

 

He closes it quickly behind him and says, “I think he’s dead.”

 

Violet frowns, looking up from her desk.  “What?”

 

“I think he’s dead,” Peter repeats, coming in and pacing, “He sent his finger that time, but it was just for giggles or whatever because he was fine when he came back, but then I was getting the mail today, and his entire fucking hand was in there, and I don’t know what that means, but it was still bloody and I think there might have been puss or something, but it looked fucking disgusting, and I keep staring at the box, and I think he’s dead.  I think he’s dead, and I don’t know what to do, and I’m trying not to freak out because it’s Wade, so that means, even if he is dead, he’ll come back, but I don’t know what to do.  I’ve tried calling him, but it keeps going straight to voicemail, and he’s four days late, and I just—what if he’s dead?  What if something’s happened?”

 

Violet is on her feet when Peter looks back over, and she steps in his way, lifting her hands to touch his shoulders lightly.  “Why don’t you sit down?  There, good,” she says calmly, sitting with him on the sofa, “Take a few deep breaths.  Good.  Now, should we call anyone?”

 

“I don’t know,” Peter admits, “I don’t even know if something’s wrong, but he’s four days late, and I don’t know what that means, but I can’t do it again, I can’t fucking do it again.  Shit,” he says, trying to inhale and failing.

 

Violet rubs circles in his back until Peter remembers Florence, and he makes a choked noise, reaching in his pocket for her and holding her close.  She mews softly and snuggles against him, purring.

 

When he’s calm again, he sits back and sets Florence on his lap.  “Who’s this?” Violet asks.

 

“Florence,” Peter says with a small smile, “She’s named after our favorite singer.  Wade remembered that you said we should think about getting a plant, so he got a kitten.”

 

“She’s adorable.  How old?”

 

“About two months, I think.  At least, that’s what the vet said.  I took her the other day.”

 

“Excellent.  Peter, do you mind if we talk about why you’re having such a reaction to Wade being late?”

 

“I’m terrified he’s not going to come back because something’s wrong, and then I’m terrified that I’m going to hate him for leaving when it might not even be his fault.  I don’t know what to do.  I don’t know what his hand means.  Violet, I’m—I’m losing control.  I can’t—my hands won’t stop shaking.”

 

“I’m going to make some tea, alright?”

 

Peter nods, and Violet sighs, rubbing his back briefly before she stands.  Peter watches her go before he settles into the sofa, pulling his knees up, and putting Florence on his shoulder, where she gets comfortable, her little head pressing in under Peter’s jaw.

 

——

 

When Wade wakes up, he doesn’t know where he is.

 

He’s naked, though, even his mask gone, and his wrists are bound above his head, his ankles stretched out beneath him.  He’s hanging suspended in midair, and his head throbs on one side.  He can feel dried blood, mostly on his face, though elsewhere on his body, as well, and it absolutely sucks to breathe, so he thinks he might have a few broken ribs.  He can already feel them healing, though, and so he doesn’t really pay it much mind until he tries to shift his arms, and a shout of pain escapes him.  Now that he’s moved, he can feel how fucked up his left shoulder is, but it’s still at such an awkward angle that there’s no actual way for it to heal, and Wade understands suddenly.  They know who he is, and so they know how to torture him.

 

His second realization comes a few moments later, when he’s trying to plan out a way to escape.  He doesn’t know how long he’s been unconscious, and so he doesn’t know if he’s late getting back to Peter or not.

 

Desperation floods through him, and he yanks at his bindings, but it only grates against the broken bones in his shoulder until he’s sobbing through the agony, uncontrollable tremors running through him, and he sags, his vision fading.  All he can think about is Peter, how he found him, how shattered open he was, and he knows that if he comes back too late, if he hurts him again like that, Peter will shove him out and never let him back in.

 

——

A week passes.

 

Peter does his best not to let it bother him.  He goes to work, he hangs out with Johnny and Harry, he spends some time in the lab at the Tower with Tony and Bruce, and he spends all of his free time with Florence and his camera.

 

A month passes.

 

Halloween goes by, and Peter spends it with Johnny and Beth, who are trying something out, though it’s awkward because she keeps trying to flirt with Peter the second Johnny leaves the room, so Peter just plays with Florence and ignores her.  They get shitfaced that night, and then Johnny rolls a blunt, Beth frowns about getting high, and Peter lets loose, lying on his back on the floor as he smokes.

 

In the morning, he’s a little hung over, but he just takes a cold shower, drinks some tea, makes himself scrambled eggs while Florence eats, and then goes out to spend some time photographing until Florence shivers lightly, and they go back up to snuggle under some blankets and watch the Movies that Don’t Suck marathon because they’re playing Fast Times at Ridgemont High, and Peter can quote nearly the entire movie.

 

He goes to bed a little early at one, tosses around until three, Florence whines at him and pads across the bed to go curl up on Wade’s pillow, so Peter tries calling him and gets his voicemail.  He stares at the ceiling for ten minutes after he doesn’t leave a message, just thinking about him, and then he starts to turn over when he realizes he’s hard.  “Motherfucker,” he grumbles, closing his eyes, but then all he can think about is Wade’s mouth and his fingers and his stupid fucking grin and his cock, so he jerks off and falls into a fitful sleep.

 

Peter wakes up barely four hours after he finally gets to sleep, jolted out of sleep with a high, thin scream, and he scrambles out of bed, crashes to his knees, and vomits violently, his whole body shaking with it.  When he comes up for air with a shuddering gasp, he feels like he might pass out, but he forces himself to his feet and stumbles through the apartment to find cleaning supplies.  He gets rid of the mess in his bedroom and then curls up on the sofa with a mug of tea, staring blankly at the wall until he hears Florence hit the floor, and then she’s padding softly through the apartment and climbing her way up onto the sofa.  She nudges at him until Peter shifts, getting comfortable.  He bites his lip until it bleeds, but he doesn’t cry.

 

——

 

They only leave something broken long enough for it to almost heal, and then they snap it back into place, and Wade’s healing factor gets to work, pulling him back together.  He doesn’t know who they are, just that they keep twisting his body with gloved hands.  He only gets an hour or so of sleep here or there, though, and his body just starts to wear itself down, starved and exhausted and dehydrated until he can barely lift his head.  He doesn’t know the last time he felt this helpless, felt this useless, and still, the only thing he can think about is Peter, his baby spider, lost.

 

Two months have passed before they let him down for the first time.

 

It happens all at once, the bindings releasing so he crumples to the ground, and he just lies there, his broken knees slowly sliding back into place.

 

“Awh, what’d you let him down for?” a low voice whines, “I wanted to try out my new toys on an old friend.  Heeeeeey, Wilson!”  Wade’s head is jerked back, and he feels one side of his jaw crack with the pressure from the thumb.  He opens one eye, the other still swollen shut, and groans.  Alex Hayden grins down at him.  “Oh yeah,” Alex sneers, “We’re gonna have a blast.”

 

——

 

Three months pass.

 

Peter nearly dies fighting Carnage.  He’s reckless and alone, doesn’t tell the team and doesn’t wait for it to hit the news before he’s seeking him out and going toe to toe with him.  He finds him when he’s at his worst, though.  Peter hasn’t slept in a few days, which he keeps doing, trying to avoid the nightmare—because there’s really only one, and it’s always Wade, in some mangled form or another—he hasn’t been eating much lately, and sometimes he thinks the only reason he goes out besides work is to get food for Florence.  And so, when he finds Carnage, he might as well be drunk, and he really should have known better.

 

It ends up that he just barely manages to stumble out afterward, and he doesn’t even really remember calling Johnny, but, when he wakes up, he’s at the SHIELD med center.  He checks his charts, groans, and then sneaks out, dialing Wade when he gets outside.

 

He staggers a little, with his sprained shoulder and his bruised ribs and his pulled hamstring, lilting to each side, and then the phone stops ringing.  He tries to stop and ends up on his ass, so he just dumps his feet in the street and curls over a little.

 

There’s silence, and then, “Peter?”  Peter tries to respond, but all that comes out is this wrecked noise of relief.  “Peter.”  It’s more urgent this time, and he can hear it now, the pain in Wade’s voice, pain he doesn’t recognize because it’s Wade, and this doesn’t happen to him.

 

“You’re alive,” Peter finally manages to say.

 

“I need you.”

 

Peter straightens at this, frowning.  “Where are you?” he asks before tucking the phone between chin and shoulder and pushing himself to his feet.

 

There’s a moment of silence before Wade breaks, his voice cracking when he says, “I don’t know.”  He sounds like he’s crying, or is close to, and that scares Peter more than not knowing where he is.

 

He hails a cab as the doors to the SHIELD tower open.  Someone starts shouting his name as he says, “I’m going to find you.  I promise.”

 

“I love you, Peter.”

 

“Shut up.  Don’t be stupid.  I’m coming,” and he hangs up.

 

——

 

Four months have gone by since he first woke here when they finally make a mistake.

 

He barely sees the opening before he takes it, and he can feel his adrenaline kicking in after the first body drops.

 

Somewhere, distantly, he hears gunfire, and he understands.  When the fourth body drops, he just wants to lie down and go to sleep, but he keeps moving until he hears a sick crunch, and then all he really sees is red and blue before he’s sinking against the wall.  “Spidey,” he says softly, his head lolling to the side.

 

Peter is just there, catching him as he starts to fall, and he hauls him to his feet, trying to pull him away, but Wade stumbles and nearly falls, and so Peter pushes him back against the wall and turns.  “Wade, please.”

 

Wade groans before shoving off the wall, and he tries to get onto Peter’s back, but really he just falls on top of him, and though Peter staggers forward a step, he manages to catch him.  He hoists him up, and then he’s carrying him out.

 

The rest of the team is there, and they cover Peter as he gets Wade out, and then, only when Peter gets into the med flight with him and lays a kiss on his temple does Wade shut his eyes.

 

——

 

Peter fights until his throat aches, fights until hot tears are blurring his vision, fights until no one’s listening, and he screams, punching the wall hard enough that his knuckles bleed, and he knows he’ll have bruises there for a few weeks.  His hand throbbing, he goes back over to Wade, who has been unconscious for three days, his body almost fully healed, but his mind so far away.  He takes his phone out as he sits, and he dials Violet.

 

“Peter?” she answers, fear tainting her voice.

 

“Yeah,” he says tiredly.

 

“Thank god, you’re okay.  Did you find Wade?”

 

“I did.  He’s—he’s alright.  He’s healing, but he won’t wake up.  They won’t release him to me, says he’s not able to make his own decisions, so they’re taking his well-being into their hands.  They want to do psych evals and figure out what happened when he wakes up.  They’re so much worse than regular doctors.”

 

“The SHIELD ones?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“You’re saying they won’t release him because he’s unconscious?  Is he stable?”

 

“Breathing on his own, brain function is fine, all that jazz, but they won’t listen.”  Peter closes his eyes and tips his head back, lifting his free hand to rub at his shoulder, which he doesn’t think really healed all the way right.  “I don’t want him to wake up here,” he says finally, his voice soft and hoarse as he tries to swallow back the tears.

 

“I’ll speak with Director Fury.  I’ll let you know if anything changes, okay, Peter?”

 

“Really?  You’d do that?” he asks, opening his eyes and staring at the ceiling.

 

“I agree with you—I don’t think he should wake up here.  From the time I’ve known the two of you, Peter, it’s very clear how much you distrust SHIELD, and it’s always surprised me that you continue to come back for sessions, but I definitely think Wade should wake up in his own bed with you and Florence by his side.”

 

“Yeah—yeah, thank you, really.”

 

“Of course, Peter.  Hang in there, okay?  I’ll let you know.”

 

Violet hangs up, and Peter holds it all in until he lifts his head and sees Wade, and then he folds over and stops trying and just lets it all go.

 

——

 

After a conversation Peter kind of wishes he could have witnessed, Wade gets released into his care, and he recruits Johnny and Harry to help him get Wade back to his apartment.  Harry brings Florence with him because she’s been staying with him for a couple weeks, and she’s a little bundle of excitement, running circles around Peter as he moves about the apartment.  He finally picks her up and rubs his face against hers until she starts meowing and batting at him, and he smiles, giving her a kiss before settling her on his shoulder.

 

She curls up in the sink when Peter takes a shower, and then they play on the bed for a bit, mindful of Wade.  Eventually, Peter just feels heavy, his eyes and his body and his being, and so he lies down and curls up with Florence, one hand resting lightly against Wade’s forearm.  He doesn’t dream, but he doesn’t have a nightmare either.

 

It’s early when Wade wakes up, his jaw cracking as he yawns, and he lifts a hand to rub at his eyes before turning his head, and he can barely contain his smile.  “Peter,” he whispers, reaching over to shake his shoulder.  Peter wakes slowly, the skin under his eyes dark and sunken in, and he still looks exhausted when he stares at Wade, his brow furrowed in confusion.

 

“Morning, sunshine,” Wade mumbles, and then Peter’s eyes blow wide.

 

He scrambles upright and over, and Wade laughs softly, winding his arms around him and holding him tightly as Peter burrows against him.  “I was so afraid I would never see you again,” Peter says, his voice muffled by Wade’s neck, where he’s buried his face.

 

“You weren’t afraid that I’d left?” Wade asks because he has to know.

 

“I knew,” Peter says, leaning back enough that he can look at him, “I knew it was different this time.  I could feel it.”

 

Wade looks at him for a long moment before he laughs, loud and clear, and it makes Peter’s heart swell until he’s kissing him silent, and then Florence is bouncing around, and they break apart so Wade can reach for her.  She runs around him before finally pausing to run her scratchy tongue over his nose, and Wade nearly giggles, tickling her.

 

“Hey,” Peter says, lying down again, though closer this time, as close as he can.  He waits for Wade to look over at him, this big, goofy grin on his face, before he says, “I love you.”

 

“I know,” Wade says, leaning over to kiss him, soft and slow.  When he pulls back, he smiles, kisses him again, and says, “I love you, too, spidey.”

 

It fills my head up and gets louder and louder.

Notes:

HOLY HELL ON HIGH WATER.

Before I get into anything crazy, I’d like you guys to know that there is onehundred percent going to be a third one. I already have a few ideas for it, and I can barely wait to get it started. However, my focus will not be on that next, but on a new project that I’m kind of nervous and really excited about. If you read the opening notes, which you should have because I always say important things, you’ll have noticed that I’ve edited the series note for shake it out a little bit to better explain it. I’ll briefly summarize it here: shake it out has two things in common, science and Florence and the Machine. Therefore, when I tell you I’m writing a Peter/Johnny, that means that it has absolutely nothing to do with either of the spideypools.

But, hey! I’m writing a spideytorch! Erin gave me the idea recently when we were watching The Social Network—because, come on, it’s so freaking good, I love it almost as much as Tron: Legacy, I could honestly watch it once a month and not be sick of it—and we were thinking about Peter in college, and she’s been wanting Johnny lately, so then we watched Fantastic Four because she’s never seen it and Chris Evans as Johnny Storm is just about the greatest thing in the world, though him as Steve Rogers is infinitely better and just beautiful, but that’s not the point. I love Johnny, I’ve always loved Johnny, and, aside from raising webhead, I’ve never really gotten to write a relationship with him and Peter, so I’m going to explore that in a kind of college AU. I say kind of because they still have powers, but I’m aging everyone down to fit, though everyone is just Peter, Johnny, Harry, and Flash. After we’d finished the film and done a quick dance party, we sat up for about a half hour and did a high bit—I dunno, we’re weird, but it’s going to be a kind of boys are stupid fic, I think. I’m excited to write it, and I hope some of you will read it! I don’t really know when it’ll be up, though, especially because I’m still in such a Wade brain, and there are so many things I want to write for the next spideypool, so.

For those of you wondering about other parts of this series, like the science boyfriends, all I can really say is that it will come eventually. I’ve been a little caught up in Peter lately—understandably, because good grief, that trailer, I just about fell on the floor and wept—but I do still have plans for a third one, so keep an eye out, just not a crazy eye because it’s not coming soon, but not too, too far away.

Okay, this is getting really rambly, I should stop. I am so pleased with this fic, especially with its length—I haven’t done one this long in a while, and it felt good, man, real freaking good. I hope you guys enjoyed this as much as I did, and don’t forget to leave your thoughts!

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 2 of shake it out