Chapter Text
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Bolstered by a little liquid courage and Mary Jane's small pep talk, Peter takes the tray off the high-top table, squares his shoulders, and heads back to the bar. The stool on Wade's right is still open. Peter makes a beeline for it, concentrating on getting there as quickly as possible without upsetting the stack of drained shot glasses atop the tray. It prevents Peter from second guessing himself on the way and—when he slides back onto the stool and sets the tray on the bar counter—he's vaguely proud for not chickening out.
Wade turns his head just enough to check who sat next to him, a newly refilled beer idle in his left hand. Peter's stomach flutters, both with anxiety and anticipation.
"Hi," Peter says.
"Hi again." Wade shifts his weight so he can turn his torso more towards Peter. He cocks an eyebrow and says, "So I didn't scare you off?"
"Nope." Peter pops the p. Then, determined to introduce himself and not ruin their interaction a second time, he sticks out his hand and says, "I'm Peter Parker."
Wade's eyebrow lifts even further. It's only then that Peter realizes that shaking hands isn't the right way to introduce himself to a hot guy at a dive bar. He's supposed to do what Mary Jane did and accidentally-on- purpose bump into Wade, put his hand on Wade's body—his arm or maybe his leg, if he's feeling daring—and lean in, so Wade is forced to watch his mouth while he talks. Peter feels his cheeks heat at the social faux pas but, instead of retreating, he tilts his jaw up almost stubbornly.
He doesn't need to worry though, because as before, when Peter babbled nonsensically about trying not to sound stupid, Wade isn't phased. He reaches out and grips Peter's hand with his own.
"Wade Winston Wilson," he says with a wide grin.
Wade's hand is bigger than Peter's and his large palm is warm and dry. He squeezes, the pressure on the right side of firm, then shifts his fingers out of the handshake to lightly touch Peter's wrist, rough calluses briefly catching on thin skin. If the touch didn't magnify to a lightning strike of sensation as it traveled down Peter's arm and into his belly, Peter might have thought he imagined it.
"Let me buy you a drink, in celebration of our new alliterative allyship." Wade says. Then, before Peter can agree, Wade turns his head and yells, "Jack!"
The mousy bartender, who is standing less than five feet away, picks a sanitized glass out from the small dishwasher and begins to wipe it clear of condensation.
"Ja~aaaaack!" Wade sing-songs loudly. "Oh, Ja~aaaaack!"
The bartender picks up another glass, pointedly ignoring the summons.
"I swear he's being difficult on purpose," Wade mutters to Peter. Turning back, he barks, "Weasel!"
The bartender sets the glass down and comes over, slinging his damp towel over one shoulder. He glances at Peter, the barest flicker of acknowledgement, then leans against the counter. "Yes, Wade?"
"Another pint of poison for Petey Pie, my pretty pal," Wade says.
"Petey Pie?" Weasel frowns and looks at Peter fully. Rakes his mousy gaze down Peter's face and torso, the thick lenses of his glasses smudged and refracting light oddly. "You're back."
"Yes?"
"I still have that spray bottle," Weasel offers.
"Thank you, but I still don't need it. I'll just have a Malibu Coke."
"Take all the fun out of my night, why don't you." Weasel sighs and pushes away from the bar, and quickly makes Peter his requested drink. His movements are smooth and practiced from years of experience and—in less than thirty seconds—Peter's easy cocktail is in front of him, this time with a bright orange straw.
"Cheers," Weasel tells him dryly, then moves away to help someone else. Peter picks the drink off the counter and takes a sip; it's perfectly cool and cloyingly sweet.
"Thank you for the drink," Peter tells Wade.
"You're welcome, baby boy." Wade's smile is warm and inviting, his teeth showing through the part of his lips. Then, almost non-sequitur, Wade asks, "Anthropology major?"
"No." Peter shakes his head. He doesn't ask how Wade knows he's a student—it's obvious, considering that they live in a college town, the general age of himself and his friends, and that Johnny is wearing a t-shirt with their school colors—but he doesn't elucidate what his actual major is, either. "What about you? Construction worker?"
"Not currently, but I know how to hammer and drill." Wade wiggles his thick eyebrows suggestively, making Peter giggle. "How about... Art History?"
"I haven't taken that kind of art class since middle school. Electrician?"
Wade gives a thumbs down. "Elementary Education?"
"That's a negative, captain." Peter pauses to take another sip of his drink and give Wade another assessment. His complexion has a natural glow that indicates he's outside often—though maybe not all day—and there's a breadth to him that makes Peter think of manual labor. It might just be related to a hobby though, not a profession, so Peter goes in a more sedentary direction and guesses, "Accountant?"
"Ugh, please don't insult me like that," Wade says. His grin takes on a mischievous curl when he instantly asks, "Accounting?"
Peter gives Wade's shoulder a small but bold shove, touching Wade for the second time that night. A laugh bursts out of Wade's mouth. He's so handsome when he laughs that it makes Peter dizzy.
"Okay okay okay, no need to get violent." Wade runs a hand over his buzzed head and squints at Peter. "It's the browline glasses that are throwing me off. They're this weird blend of ironic hipster slash fifties banker that I can't pinpoint what subset of cute nerd you belong to. Throw me a bone, here."
Peter thinks for a moment, shuffling through a mental list of science-related knowledge, before telling him, "I can name every element on the periodic table, their number, and mass."
"That clue makes me feel like Chemistry is too obvious an answer." Wade taps his chin with a finger, contemplative. "And tell me if I'm wrong, but you don't strike me as pre-med or pre-pharmacy. How about... radiation sciences?"
Peter once again shakes his head. He keeps shaking it as Wade rapid-fires even more potential majors, including neuroscience, genetics, biology, astronomy, physics, microbiology, and biochemistry.
"Okay, I fold," Wade says after his last guess. "I have a feeling that this is going to be one of those degrees that makes my brain hurt just thinking about it."
"Honestly, it's a little bit of everything you guessed." Peter gives an apologetic shrug. "I'm getting a BSE in chemical engineering, and a minor in photography."
"A multi-disciplinary nerd!" Wade whistles, short and low and, before saying, "Is it weird to admit that I find that hot?"
"Maybe?" Peter can feel the heat of a blush overtaking his face once more. He's confident in his field of study and he loves the focus of his research—construction and enhancement of biological polymers—but outside of his academic sphere, most people tend to shy away from talking about the subject. "I mean, I think what I'm doing is pretty cool, and I think the applications are broad and sustainable long-term, but... I really gotta stop talking about it before I pull up 3D models on UniProt and start pointing out key amino acids."
Wade's smile hasn't waned in the slightest at the incredibly nerdy topic. He looks like he's enjoying himself, even as Peter has to mentally quash the urge to start talking about spider silk proteins.
"What about you?" Peter asks, both in an attempt to steer the conversation away from his research and because he's exceedingly curious about what Wade does for a living. Maybe he's a college student like Peter—albeit older and non-traditional—or maybe he's settled into a career. Wade has an energy that makes it easy to believe that he could do everything and anything.
"Eh." Wade shrugs. "I was with Canadian Special Forces for a while, doing stuff that I cannot legally talk about lest I want to face the wrath of Justin Trudeau and his legion of Mounties. Did that for seven-ish years before I got that good ol' medical discharge and a life-long monthly stipend. Since then? Well, construction for a bit, like you guessed. Weasel's bar back and bouncer, depending on the night. Pizza delivery, dishwashing, furniture mover, assets protection. You name it. I've done a bunch of stuff to fill my time, but nothing so impressive as chemical engineering."
"That sounds pretty impressive to me," Peter answers thinly. His brain is still overloaded by the mental image of Wade in military uniform, holding a gun and sweating; he takes a swig of his drink to regain his composure. "So what have you done most recently?"
Wade does not hesitate to grab his phone off the bar counter and show Peter some photos on his camera reel. They feature a small dog made entirely of attitude and fluff—Wade's words, not Peter's—doing mundane things like sleeping on an overstuffed couch and peeing on a fire hydrant. Wade has been dog-sitting her for the last week while her owner is overseas for some boring business trip, staying in a ridiculously big house with an indoor jacuzzi he's been taking shameless advantage of.
It's easy to talk to Wade. They springboard off each other's tangents and laugh at each other's jokes, and there are no strange pauses or painful lulls where they struggle to find common ground. Peter's never had such an instantaneous rapport with anyone; he feels light and carefree in a way that is unrelated to the alcohol buzzing in his blood, though he won't deny that inebriation plays a factor in his increasing physicality. He keeps touching Wade's denim-wrapped arm, fingertips lingering longer and longer every time.
"Want another one?" Wade asks as Peter finishes his second Malibu Coke of the night. "Or water?"
Peter thinks about it for a moment. He wants another drink—to continue to ride the happy wave of inebriation—but he knows he shouldn't; his two cocktails and two shots are sitting on top of a couple of saké bombs from dinner, and the sushi rolls he had can only soak up so much. He's gone past tipsy while talking to Wade, though he isn't so drunk that he trips over his words or that his vision has begun to blur. With some water and a half hour, Peter's fast metabolism will take care of the rest.
"Water," Peter decides.
"Probably a smart choice." Weasel appears out of thin air and puts two glasses in front of Peter, both filled to the brim. Wade gets another beer. "Anyone who pukes in my bar gets an automatic fifty dollar charge on their tab."
"I wasn't going to puke," Peter mutters petulantly.
"Sure you weren't," Weasel patronizes.
Peter sticks his tongue out at him before lifting the first glass and drinking. The coldness of it is welcome, and he drains half of it greedily. When he sets it back down, he finds that Weasel has scurried away once again and Wade is watching him. Wade's smile has faded and in its place is a more serious expression than the easy humor he's so far maintained.
"What?" Peter asks sheepishly. He automatically reaches up and wipes at his chin, sure that there must be something there. "I didn't forget how to drink, did I?"
"You didn't spill," Wade assures him. One of Wade's hands comes to rest on Peter's leg, halfway between his knee and his hip, and Wade's eyes catch the light as they trace the curves of Peter's face, causing the irises to flare a brief but vivid blue. The combination of the two makes Peter feel as though he's been electrocuted, and he sucks in a sharp breath. "Think you can finish the rest of it for me, Pete?"
It takes a long moment for Peter to realize that Wade means the glass of water.
"Oh," Peter says almost dumbly. "Yeah. I can... I can finish it."
Wade's hand stays on Peter's leg and his eyes on Peter's face as Peter picks up the water, brings it to his mouth, and drinks. The second half goes more slowly. Peter is hyper-aware of Wade's attention this time, and he's turned-on and confused in equal measure, the soft scrutiny making swallowing strangely difficult. By the time he finishes, setting the glass on the counter with a soft rattle of ice, his dick is chubbed up quietly against the placket of his jeans.
"Mmm," Wade hums, clearly pleased. "Good boy."
Wade squeezes Peter's thigh as he says this, the weight of his hand grounding even while the touch and the praise make Peter float, make his breath hitch. Wade hums again, low and lazy, then releases the pressure around Peter's leg and moves his palm down to Peter's knee. Wade's hand is so big it covers the patella completely.
"Okay?" Wade asks, drawing Peter's gaze back up to his face. Peter isn't quite sure what Wade is talking about—he is too focused on the heat of Wade's palm seeping through his jeans—and the vague confusion must show on his face, because Wade clarifies, "With me touching you."
"Um," Peter says, trying to unglue his tongue from the roof of his suddenly dry mouth. "Yes...?"
Wade lifts one eyebrow. "You don't sound sure about that," he teases gently.
"No, I am!" Peter scrambles to pull his scattered thoughts together. Wade has been nothing but straightforward, and Peter wants his response to be as clear. "I am okay with it. With you touching me. I—I want you to."
"Good," Wade says. His voice dropped into something dark and promising, though what he's promising Peter cannot fathom. Peter just knows he wants it. "I want to touch you too."
An anchor, Wade's hand stays on Peter's knee as Wade steers them back to safer topics, a litany of get-to-know-you questions that should be boring but are made fun and interesting by Wade's affable demeanor and similar sense of humor. Peter—who has always struggled to form connections—is relieved by how simple their interaction stays despite the underlying sexual element they've added. It takes little effort to sit on the stool and sip his water as Wade leads their conversation, coaxing responses and laughter and short stabs of want from Peter with every quip, every smile, every shift of his hand on Peter's leg. Truthfully, Peter feels more drunk on Wade's unwavering attention than the alcohol.
By the time Peter has nearly finished his second glass of water, Wade pulls back a bit. Peter frowns but—before he can ask what he's done wrong—Wade goes, "Your friends are done with their game."
Turning, Peter looks back at the pool table where his friends are gathered. Harry is making Johnny hold his cue, probably crediting their loss to some perceived fault in the pool stick than to Felicia and Gwen's combined superior skill, while Johnny wisely nods along to his complaints. Felicia has slunk over to Mary Jane and put one hand on her hip; her other hand is against Mary Jane's cheek, fixing her smudged eyeliner with the odd, imprecise focus of someone who is far from sober. And Gwen—
Gwen is headed to the bar. Their eyes flicker to Peter's knee, where Wade's hand remains, before stepping into the empty space on Peter's right.
"Peter."
"Hey, Gwen," Peter returns with a smile. "This is Wade. Wade, this is Gwen."
Normally, Peter would be nervous about introducing one of his friends to someone he was interested in because—while they're all enablers—they also tend to be overzealous wingmen, and Peter tends to attract other quiet types who are easily spooked. Luckily, Wade is neither quiet nor easily spooked.
"Nice to meet another one of Petey Pie's cohorts," Wade says with a smile. "You up here to buy winning shots?"
"Loser buys," Gwen confirms, holding up Harry's credit card. Then, to Peter, "Do you want a shot too? Or are you done for now?"
Peter shakes his head.
"Suit yourself."
Gwen orders the shots from Weasel, plus a few more drinks, and hands over Harry's card to pay for it all. After Weasel takes the card and goes to prep everything, Gwen props their elbow on the bar counter and says, "Harry's not going to want to leave until he wins a game."
Their eyes flicker past Peter to Wade, a discrete question, and Peter bites down on a smile. Mary Jane might have known him the longest, but it's Gwen who understands him the best. Peter doesn't know if their science backgrounds or similar neurodivergent characteristics are what bring them together, but he is incredibly grateful for it.
"I think he could be humbled one or two more times," Peter responds.
Gwen grins. "Say less, Petey Pie."
"Ugh, Gwen, no," Peter groans. It's cute when Wade says it, but less so when Gwen does. "You're not allowed to use that."
Weasel returns with the shots, the other drinks, and Harry's card. Gwen thanks him and takes the tray, lifting it off the counter and stepping back from the bar; they pause to once again look at Wade, sitting on the other side of Peter, and then give Peter a less than subtle wink. Peter stifles another groan. There is no chance that Wade missed the obvious stamp of approval.
"I'm sorry about them," Peter apologizes as he turns back to Wade.
"For what?"
"My friends can be really nosy."
"Eh, it just means that they care about you." Wade shrugs and takes a swig of his beer. Then another. And another. He drains half the glass before setting it down and licking his lips. It's a well-disguised hesitation, but a hesitation nonetheless. "Do you... want to go back to them?"
"Nah," Peter says. "I like where I am."
"Same." Wade squeezes Peter's knee. "Though I have to ask: did you volunteer to sit out or do you not know how to play?"
"I know how to play pool. I'm just... bad at it."
"Bad as in, 'will accidentally skewer a man if I get my hands on a pool stick' or bad as in, 'Wade, pretty please teach me how to get my ball in the corner pocket'?"
"Bad as in, I get smoked every time I go up against any of my friends, all of whom have excellent hand-eye coordination when sticks and balls are involved." Peter tilts his head to the side and considers the suggestion Wade planted. "You... you want to play a game of pool with me? Even if I'm terrible?"
Wade takes another sip of his beer. Sets the glass down. Leans forward into Peter's space. He stops only when their faces are mere inches apart. Peter does not dare to move—to blink or to breathe—even as his heart batters the underside of his sternum.
"I don't care if you're good or bad at it," Wade murmurs. "It's just an excuse to get my hands on you. All over you. I like sitting here, playing sweet with my hand staying on your knee, but I'd like to touch you other places too."
Other places. Peter takes a shuddery breath as he imagines it: Wade's hands on his face and his throat, his shoulders and his arms, his ribs and his hips. He watches as Wade's palm slides slowly up his thigh, a firm and purposeful drag. Wade goes higher and higher, further than the midpoint he had started at initially; he stops only when he hits the top of Peter's leg, fingers curled on the outside, thumb pressed to the inner softness. Peter's dick—which has been half-hard and aching the entire time—twitches noticeably in his jeans.
"Still okay with this?" Wade asks, voice darkened.
"Yeah," Peter answers. "Yeah, I'm... I'm okay." He lifts his gaze from Wade's hand to Wade's face and, breathless, he says, "More?"
It is Wade's turn to go completely still, nothing moving save for a flash of heat in his half-lidded eyes. It makes Peter forget that they're in a crowded room, sitting at the bar in plain sight of everyone, of his friends. He's only thinking about Wade's complete attention and how much he likes it. No one's ever looked at Peter the way Wade looks at him now, as though he would throw Peter to the dirty floor and fuck him until he cried. Peter feels wild beneath his skin, bold and reckless and invincible as he whispers,
"Please?"
A lesser man might have cracked. A lesser man might have kissed Peter right there, or dragged him to the bathroom for the illusion of privacy. Wade, however, does neither. Instead, Wade closes his eyes and exhales slowly, as though in pain. His hand slides off Peter's thigh but it doesn't feel like rejection—it feels like victory.
"Fuck." Wade keeps his eyes shut and his head slightly bowed as both his hands curl into fists. "You're a goddamned menace. The doe eyes and the freckles are a fucking lie—you're a brat, a fucking brat—how is that even possible—"
The intensity of the moment slides away with Wade's muttering and—instead of becoming anxious or second-guessing himself—Peter giggles. Wade is as clearly overwhelmed as he is, and Peter can tell that Wade wants the same things he does. Just... maybe not at the bar counter.
"So fucking cute," Wade gripes. "Hold onto that thought, baby boy, I just need to—" Wade sits up straight, looks over his shoulder, and shouts, "Hey Weasel! Weasel, stop flirting with Buck and get over here! Weasel! Hey! Stop ignoring me or I'll tell everyone about what you really got up to in Tijuana—oh, hi, Jack, thanks for coming over."
"Wade." Weasel is red-faced and grinding his teeth. "If you don't stop calling me Jack, I swear to Jesus shitting Christ—"
"Yeah, yeah, yeah, you'll smother me with a pillow, mother." Wade waves Weasel's irritation away with a hand as though it were a gnat. "Just give me a rack and another water and I'll be out of your greasy hair."
"Thank fuck," Weasel mutters. He does as Wade requests, though he gives Peter his third glass of water much more gently than he hands over the pool rack, which is to say, Weasel does not lob the glass at Peter's head vindictively. "And Wade? If you fuck the twink in my bathroom—"
"Automatic fifty dollars on his tab?" Peter interjects. "Or is it one-hundred, since there's two of us?"
Wade cackles. Weasel's face twists in disgust.
"Ugh, gross. Don't make me use the spray bottle on you too," Weasel threatens. "You know what? I'm happy for you, Wade, but if you want anything else, just fucking get it yourself. You two are dead to me for the rest of the night."
Done with his speech, Weasel throws his hands up and walks away. Peter smiles at his thin, retreating back; their humor might be a little different, but the interaction between Wade and Weasel reminds Peter of how his own friends bicker.
"Ready?" Wade asks, recapturing Peter's attention.
"Ready," Peter answers. He stands, grabbing his water, and waits for Wade to stand as well, sliding the pool rack into the crook of his elbow and grabbing his half-finished beer. Wade doesn't hesitate to put his hand on the small of Peter's back, palm hot through the cotton. A small and happy noise of contentment escapes Peter at the touch.
"Well," Wade murmurs as he guides Peter across the bar to an unoccupied table. "That makes one of us."
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