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I am sorry. I am grateful.
I just want us to be friends now, forever.
Take this bowl of blackberries from the garden.
The sun has made them warm.
I picked them just for you. I promise
I will try to stay on my side of the couch.
★
Peter Parker is cold. Like, the down to your bones, chill-you-can’t-shake type of cold. It’s the fucking spidery bits of him, completely unable to thermoregulate, combined with being a college student with the metabolism of a freaking body-builder and the budget of, well, a college student.
He honestly, genuinely cannot remember the last time he went grocery shopping. Real grocery shopping, not the thing he’s been doing lately, where he buys whatevers the most calorie dense and on sale in the protein bar aisle. He can hardly afford it, with how much he’s spending on rent, and college, and repairing his suits every time some asshole in a dark alley swings at him with a knife, or scrapes him with a bullet that his senses barely alert him to.
It’s probably an issue how little he eats, how his jeans are getting baggier, how he’s got just that tiny bit less energy. It’s definitely an issue that he can see his hips and collarbones jutting out harshly, sharp enough to cut himself on.
That’s going to be a problem for tomorrow, when he gets his photos to Jameson, when he gets paid for the stupid amount of time he’d spent taking action shots of himself mid-swing. Tonight he’s got a patrol at eight with Deadpool and Peter’s pretty sure that if he shows up late to another rooftop meeting, Deadpools gonna show up inside his apartment, and that’s a disturbing enough thought to get him up and out of his bed, rushing shakily into his suit.
It’s been getting too loose lately.
★
Peter lands a little too hard on the rooftop behind Deadpool, stumbling and eating shit on the gravel when he lets go of his webs. Literally, and he means literally the second his body hits the ground, Deadpool is spinning to face him, guns out, safety off.
This might be the lamest situation he’s ever, in his whole life, been in. Laid out flat on his stomach, about to be shot by his kinda-sorta reformed mercenary friend.
Peter squeaks from the floor, whisper-shouting a “ Dude, it’s just me!” because he really, really doesn’t want to heal from getting fucking shot and also to be real, he doesn’t know if he can heal things like that when, technically speaking, he hasn’t eaten in a good three days.
There’s a gasp above him followed by a high pitched “Baby!” and the sound of Deadpool putting his stupid guns away. Peters swept up in Deadpools ridiculously buff arms and lifted off the ground, a little too surprised to stop him before he’s got Peter tucked up in his arms.
In the least bad, leaning-into-a-murderer way possible, Peter leans into Deadpool. Not in a cuddly way. Just in a, two bros, one who just could’ve been shot and is freezing to death, the other who is a literal living furnace way.
“Show me.”
“Show you?” Peter is quiet and mumbly, drifting a little in his head.
“I could’ve shot you Spidey,” Deadpools patting him down now, keeping him close, and, shockingly, not going for his ass, “You never land that bad, so, c’mon babes, show me where ya got shot or drugged or whatever else it is that your baddies do to you these days.”
It’s a whole stream of words and Peter just kinda half heartedly blinks up at him through the mask and sags just a little more against Deadpools weight. They’ve been standing around for a few minutes now and he’s so cold without the adrenaline from swinging high enough to kill himself, and now? Now he’s tired, so why not indulge in warmth for a bit.
“Webs?” Deadpool prompts, squeezing his waist a little as he speaks.
“I’m fine.”
It’s the shy kind of half whisper one does when they know damn well they’re not telling the truth, and they know damn well the other guy can tell too.
“No baby, you aren’t. Let’s not lie.” Deadpool gives a sharp laugh and Peter flinches because it’s so loud and his nerves are a bit shredded raw from the hunger, and the cold, and the amount of contact he’s still got going on with the merc.
Before he can stop him, Deadpool is dropping his hands off Peter's waist and backing up, mumbling to something over his shoulder. Peter stumbles forwards, legs half crumpling underneath him and he whines when the flood of cold air hits him again.
He manages to twist a bit as he falls, and ends up flat on his back, the air knocked out of his lungs. Peter blacks out for a moment, in a disturbing amount of pain. All he can process is the chill in his bones and the gnawing pains in his stomach and embarrassingly, the hot, salty tears under his mask. Peter really didn’t want to be there anymore, he wanted to be gone and he sure as hell didn’t want Deadpool seeing him cry like a fucking baby over banged up ribs.
“ Oh, sweetheart.” Deadpools next to him again, too close and his heat is burning Peter up but he leans in anyways, leans into the hand Deadpools pressing against his masked cheek, leans into the warmth because he’s pretty sure if he doesn’t he’s gonna get lost in his head again and he’s still Spider-man, he still has to patrol tonight, he can’t be in the clouds, watching his body in a horrible fucked up third person.
“ Baby boy, sweetheart, c’mon, what’s goin’ on?” It’s slow, and deep, and soothing from the merc, and Peter can barely catch on to the edges of the words. He’s still sobbing under the mask, hiccuping, as tears so hot they have to be burning through his skin run down his face, and soak through the spandex.
Scratch what he said earlier. This is definitely the most embarrassing thing to ever happen to him.
“I’m-I’m cold ‘Pool,” Peter can barely slur the words out, fingers numb and clunky where he tries to grab at the other mans suit, tries to pull him closer and whisper a shaky, “ help me” through chattering teeth.
Peter thinks he hears a rough “ okay baby, whatever you need,” from above him but he’s not really sure, not sure of anything in that moment because he’s burning to death and he’s being lifted off the rooftop and it’s too much stimulation and- he blacks out.
★
Wade is scared.
He’s Deadpool , he is a fucking killing machine and he is terrified as he makes his way down to street level, through Queens, and back to his apartment because there is something deeply, deeply wrong with Spider-man.
He can feel the mans bones digging into his arms through the leather suit, and that’s just wrong , no one should be that skinny, Spider-man should not be that fucking skinny and he’s so light, it’s devastating. He’s skinny and he’s tired, and he’d leaned into Wade for fucks sake, no comments about him being too close or the nicknames and he’d stumbled when he’d landed. Spider-man doesn’t stumble. In no universe should he do anything other than stick a perfect landing, it just doesn’t happen.
Wade isn’t even really sure what he’s doing when he takes Spider-man's small, fragile body back to his actual, real apartment, he just knows he’s gotta find a way to fix him as fast as possible and right now? When Spidey had asked him for help? He doesn’t think he could do anything other than give him everything he has.
The thought hits him harder. Spidey had asked for help. The borderline dangerously independent vigilante, the one Wade had taken close to a year to grow on, had asked him for help. And then passed out. So maybe he wasn’t in the best state of mind but still.
He gets back to his apartment, stripping his mask and gloves off as soon as the door is double locked and deadbolted behind him, crading Spider-man as carefully as possible. God, he’s just so fucking small. He’d bet that if he lifted the spider mask right now, he’d see a horribly pale and gaunt face but. He’s not going to do that. Wade is better than his baby boy thinks and he is not going to take advantage of this just to see his face.
It’s a straight shot to his room from the front door and Wade heads over quickly, footsteps heavy and loud, and he’s shouldering his door open, careful to keep Webs away from the doorframe. He pushes his blankets out of the way, nestles his cracked-porcelain boy in the middle of his bed. He grabs a random hoodie and a pair of sweats and two or three pairs of socks and sets to getting them on over his babys disturbingly baggy suit, pausing when he whimpers, high and fragile in his throat. Spider-man is tense for a moment, limbs locked like he’s about to go into shock, and he reaches out frantically for Wade's hands, where they’re settled on his waistband.
Wade waits a few beats as his Spidey settles back down, going boneless, hand still wrapped around his wrist. Hopefully he’s just passed out, there is no damn way his boy is sleeping nearly enough, and even if it’s because his body has hit a breaking point, at least he’s going to get some form of rest.
He probably shouldn’t call Spider his, but it just feels so fucking right. Especially now, with the little thing curled up in his clothes, his bed. If he wasn’t still high on adrenaline he’d be wondering if this was a fucked up, possessive hallucination.
Spider-mans hand on Wades bare skin definitely isn’t a hallucination though, not with how freezing fucking cold they are. He moves to pull his wrist out of the sleeping boys grasp, but the second he moves, even a bit, his baby boy whines again, sounding on the verge of teers and he’s gotta be at least a little awake because his voice breaks halfway through but he manages to give a sleepy little mumble to “ please stay,” and hey, Wade has never said he was strong when tiny little twinks are in his bed so he whispers back an “okay baby.”
One hundred percent he’s assuming too much of the request, but he changes out of his suit and into his own sleep clothes in the most awkward manner ever, wrist still clutched by the sleeping spider, and at one point he says fuck it and just tears the suit open because he thinks his heart might break if Spidey cries for him again.
He probably looks pretty when he cries.
It’s an inappropriate thought and Wade shakes it out of his head as he slides into bed with the little Spider-man, laying himself around the too-small body, trying not to get too close. Spider-man is so out of it that even with a direct request, it feels wrong to get into his space like this. It’s almost like lying with a corpse gone long-cold, and he’s scared for half a heartbeat until his sweetheart makes a little moan, rolling over and tucking his head into Wades chest. He freezes, afraid to breathe because shit man, his baby is so fucking close to him right now. If it had been almost any other situation, Wade would fully have been screaming with joy. Unfortunately, he would rather kill himself a dozen times before waking his boy up, so he settles for wrapping an arm around his boney back, frowning when he can feel the outline of every vertebrae through the sweatshirt.
Spidey gives a soft sigh when Wade starts petting him and burrows deeper, like he’s trying to climb inside his chest and Wade bites straight through his cheek trying to keep it together.
He’s not entirely sure when, but he knows he gets lost like this, floating down, and eventually, he’s out.
★
When Peter wakes up it’s slow. It’s gradual and warm and he feels so good. He’s so warm and he thinks that maybe his landlord has finally fixed the heating for a moment until he realizes that there’s nothing digging into his spine and he’s still wearing his suit and what the fuck happened last night.
He remembers Deadpool, he remembers feeling like he wasn’t really himself, not anymore, and he remembers, flushing red, that he’d fainted like some delicate flower and that worse, Deadpool had carried him like a bride.
He remembers feeling so impossibly warm and begging someone to stay and then burning up and then nothing and that means-
That means he’s not at home.
Peter is hyperventilating ten seconds later and he’s clawing at his mask because he can’t breathe, and it is frankly pathetic how fast he comes unraveled. He’s gasping for air and he’s sobbing and he gets his mask off but it doesn’t help, and the next thing he knows he’s falling out of the bed, bruising his knees on the hardwood floors.
He passes out again.
Maybe.
He isn't sure of anything really, his heads been filled with cotton and his body isn’t listening to him and honestly it might be better to be gone.
★
Wade has been gone for literally ten minutes, going through his fridge to see what he can make for his baby boy, something easy to eat, something that won’t overwhelm him when he hears a muffle noise from behind the bedroom door, followed by a heavy thump on the ground and he’s moving as fast as he can in there.
He’s frantic when he sees Spidey on the ground, crumpled on his side like a doll someone got bored with. Wade over at his side instantly, lifting his upper half and cradling it against himself, and he’s pushing the hood back from Spider-man's face when he realizes his mistake.
Spider-man looks so young. His lips are red and he’s bitten through the bottom one, and theres angry red tear tracks streaking down his face and, god, Wade was right, his sweethearts got such a dainty face, it’s perfect , but far too pale and gaunt and it is terrible and wonderful to see. It’s everything and nothing because as soon as he looks, he can’t look away even though it’s wrong and fucked up, and there is not way his boy was ready for this, there’s not way that this was intentional in any way, he would never willingly reveal his identity to the mercenary.
He’s frozen, hunched over Spideys body, and then he starts moving, anxious and twitchy and fast, and he’s pulling blankets off the bed and wrapping his lovely, small, fragile boy in them. Wade blinks and he’s got his boys hood pulled back down because damn if he isn’t going to respect his identity and keep an eye on him somehow. He builds a nest around his spider, tucking him so tight that if he wasn’t the shockingly strong ( can he still be strong like this-), vigilante that he was, he’d be stuck until someone let him out again.
And then Wade turns around, goes into the kitchen and resolutely ignores any thoughts he’s having about how pretty his boy is.
★
The second time Peter wakes up, it’s just as slow, like fighting through a heavy fog, but he doesn’t feel. He’s just drifting.
He can feel the blankets pressing him down, but instead of being constricting it’s just nice, it’s warm and it’s grounding and he’s not aware enough to notice the lack of a mask when he asks “ Deadpool?” Peter's voice cracks halfway through, and he doesn’t even have it in him to be embarrassed beyond the flush in his cheeks.
The clattering that he wasn’t actively aware of stops. He can hear footsteps and then Deadpools there, mask pulled halfway up, and he’s helping Peter up, tilting a glass of water into his throat as he swallows, greedy.
It’s halfway through this that Peter realizes he can feel the warmth of Deadpools hands on his face. He squeaks, cheeks burning, turning his face away, bringing his arms up as fast as he can to cover at least some of his face, even though he knows, he knows, Deadpool already knows what he looks like now.
“Did you take it off?” It’s slightly muffled, Peter's mouth is buried behind the hoodie he’s wearing and he sounds like he might cry and he hears Deadpools sharp breath in front of him and he’s on his knees now, hands on Peter's waist.
When Deadpool speaks it’s low, and serious, and scares him a little, but the “I would never.” sounds honest.
“Please baby, will you look at me?”
He won’t do it and then there’s hands framing either side of his face, guiding him towards Deadpool, but for some reason- for some reason he isn’t pulling Peter's hands away from his own face. He lowers them on his own and he doesn’t even know why, he has no reason to trust any of this.
But the way Deadpools looking at him. He’s looking at him like Peter is something to possess and it doesn’t feel heavy, it feels good and Peter believes him.
“Sweetheart, I would never take off your mask. You did it yourself and I am so sorry for not being there when you woke up.” The merc sounds full of regret, his scarred lips twisted into a frown.
Peter wonders if it hurts.
He doesn’t realize he’s asked out loud until Deadpool responds with a weak, “Yeah, it does. All the time.” and now he feels bad, and tears are welling up in his eyes again, so he scrunches his nose and wipes his face and hopes he doesn’t look too stupid.
“Pool, ‘m tired,” Peter practically whimpers at him, too far in his own head to control it and Deadpool coos at him, cradling his face in both hands.
He sounds full of regret when he says “I know baby boy, but we gotta get some food in you first. Have you eaten recently?”
Peter, somehow blushes even darker, avoiding eye contact. It’s probably more of a tell than him lying would’ve been but it feels so fucked up to lie to the man who took him home, so he just shakes his head no and hunches his shoulders in on himself.
Deadpool grabs his chin and forces eye contact. “You’re eating. You’re eating something real and then I’ll take you home and let you sleep.”
Peter can’t help the sound that comes out of him when Deadpool says he’ll take him home, but it sounds well and truly pathetic and then he’s crashing back into his body and he’s crying and begging, fingers twisting in his sweatshirt to “ please let me stay, please. I don’t wanna be cold anymore, please,” and Deadpool is crushing him into his chest and murmuring into his hair and Peter can’t tell what he’s saying but he knows he likes it and he likes being pet like this. He doesn’t fight it.
★
Wade is horrified by all of this. He’s got his spider wrapped up in a blanket at the counter, watching him make pancakes because the boy had nearly burst into tears when he’d tried to leave.
He slides a few pancakes off the griddle and places it in front of Spidey, eyes catching on how terrified he looks by the food. People with metabolisms like Spider-man don’t get scared by food.
“I-I’m not hungry ‘Pool,” His boy stutters on the words, tucking his chin down and peering up through his eyelashes at Wade. It’s the hottest thing he’s ever seen, barring the context,
There’s a beat while Wade recollects himself and then he’s tearing off a piece of the pancake with his hands, and he's holding it up to Spideys mouth, lightly tapping his plush lips with it.
“Eat.”
There’s no room for argument in the tone and his boy does it, opens his mouth willingly, lips closing around the tips of Wade's fingers and then all of his blood is rushing south, in possibly the most inappropriate situation for it ever. He holds back a groan, ripping off another piece for his boy, pushing it at him again. They manage to get through half of one pancake before his spider won’t accept any more.
“It’ll make me sick,” Spider-man mumbles, almost like he thinks Wade won’t hear, and at the questioning look he receives, he elaborates, “I just- I don’t eat much I guess? I don’t need it and I’m really sorry, I know you made this for me and I really appreciate it, i just. Can’t eat that much anymore.”
He must misinterpret what the clenching of Wades fists means, because he’s rushing to explain himself. “I’m so so sorry, I just don’t wanna get sick, but like, if you want me to eat it I can try?” His voice lilts up at the end, making it a question and Wade is suddenly disgusted with himself, he’s scaring his spider, and he drops the bite of food on the table, leaning in towards Spidey.
“I’m not going to make you do anything baby boy, absolutely nothing. Do you understand that? ” It's low and it’s serious because he needs his boy to understand this, and he’s appeased immediately when his boy nods frantically, eyes wide.
A few minutes pass and then Spider-man asks, “Why do you call me that?”
Wade's reply is instant. “Coz i don’t know your name sweetheart, and because you’re my baby boy.” He’s rewarded by the gorgeous blush across Spideys cheeks and neck. He wants to know how far down it goes. Distracted by the redness, he misses it when Spider-man mutters something, too quiet and quick to catch.
“What was that baby?” Wade leans in closer, caging his boy in on the counter to watch him go even redder.
“My name, it’s uh, Peter? Peter Parker?” He sounds uncertain in himself, like he isn’t really sure it’s his name but he looks so pretty when he confesses it that Wade knows, in his soul, that it’s true. It takes everything in him to not crowd Spider- no, Peter, even more, and honestly he should get an award for the amount of restraint he’s got going on here.
“Oh, Petey, Peter, Pete, you’re adorable.” Wades words are rewarded by the ridiculously cute squeak his Peter makes when he doesn’t know how to reply and he needs to get him to make that noise all the fuckin’ time now because God, the things it does to him.
He leans in all the way, reaching up for Peter's gorgeous mess of curly brown hair, slipping his hand in and pulling his head to the side, exposing a long, pale neck. Wade gets close to his ear, lips brushing the shell, and whispers, “ Hi Peter. I’m Wade Wilson.” He feels, rather than sees the shudder that goes through Peter's body and there is an immense amount of satisfaction rushing through him when he backs up and sees how glassy Petey's eyes have gotten, how red his face is, how he’s breathing like he’s just run a marathon, pink lips parted.
★
Peter is uncomfortably close to getting hard in Deadpools- or, he guesses, Wades- clothing and he thanks every god out there that he wears a cup when he plans to patrol. He can feel how hot his face is and he knows that he probably looks halfway to fucked out when he sees how much darker Wades eyes have gotten. His first thought is to change the topic and there’s no action from his brain when his mouth says “Take me to bed?”
As soon as it leaves his mouth he regrets it, frantically stuttering apologies, because it seems like he might’ve broken Wade. he jumps off the counter, moving quickly towards the only door he hasn’t been through, and pushes his way into a bathroom.
He locks the door behind him and he’s stripping as soon as he’s sure it’s secure, because his suit is so uncomfortable for casual wear and he needs Wades smell against his skin. When he’s settled in just sweats rolled up four times to keep from dragging, and a hoodie that makes it to mid thigh, he turns to the mirror and stares at himself. I am fine. I’m going to go back to bed. It’s not very reassuring because he wants Wade in bed, sleeping with him.
God, that’s embarrassing.
The door creaks when Peter pushes it back open, staring at where Wade seems to have frozen by the counter and he coughs quietly to get his attention. Wade's eyes snap to him, and Peter’s already gone red again, unused to this kind of attention.
“Bed? Pl- please?” He knows he’s begging again a little, but he can’t muster up the energy to really give a fuck, not when he’s already cold again.
Wade gives a tight nod, coming over to Peter and picking him up, ignoring the high pitched noise Peter makes when his feet leave the ground. It’s a little scary how safe Wade’s arms make him feel and he pushes himself further into the hold, turning his face towards Wade’s chest and breathing in. He smells like gunpowder and sugar and pancakes and it’s so nice.
Wade throws him into the bed lightly before turning to leave and Peter keens, reaching out and grabbing his sleeve before he gets too far. He averts his eyes staring down at his own knees when he asks Wade to “stay with me, please. I don’t wanna be alone.” He’s so scared that Wade is going to leave him anyways but he doesn’t, even though Peter has to be bothering him now.
He doesn’t leave. He’s got his hoodie off in moments, leaving Peter staring, mouth open at how fucking built Wade is, and then he’s making grabby hands and then Wade is in the bed, pulling Peter on top of him. Peter’s got his face buried in Wade’s chest, and it’s so warm , he makes a little moan in delight and Wade is petting his hair all soft, scratching at his scalp lightly and he’s actually never been happier in his whole life he thinks.
He looks up at Wade through still damp lashes and moves up, fast, so he can’t talk himself out of it and he kisses Wade’s scarred, hot lips quickly, before tucking himself back down.
Peter is out in seconds , but he catches the kiss Wade lays on his hair, and he catches the quiet “baby boy,” that comes with it.