Work Text:
Luckily, Wade woke up right before they could cut you open.
He jolted awake, your cries for help and pleas for mercy still echoing in his ears. His room was dark, and as his sight adjusted, the image of you strapped to a chair, bruised and bleeding, flickered before his eyes. He squeezed them shut, pressed his thumbs into them, trying to erase the dream in its entirety. It was no use.
He blindly reached to his left and sighed with relief when his hand found you, soft and asleep, curled up next to him in bed. He slid his hand up to your ribs; warmth emanated through your T-shirt, and your form rose and fell with even breaths. You were here. You were okay.
Wade had had this dream before, but it was never exactly the same. The first time, they’d thrown you to the floor and kicked you into submission. Last time, they’d stuck electrodes to your body and he’d watched you seize and screech with induced pain. This time, he’d managed to wake himself up before the violence. They were going to torment you with knives, and you’d already started screaming before the metal could touch you. It was always in the same creepy white room, with the same creepy masked faces. God, what was wrong with him? Why couldn’t he appreciate the one good thing in his life, his relationship with you, instead of imagining what it would be like to lose you?
You made a soft, sleepy sound, one that normally would have made Wade’s heart skip a beat with adoration, but he was still coming down from his terror, so all he could do was smile weakly. By now, the room seemed a little clearer; he could see you facing him, your cheek smushed against your pillow. You were cute. You were alive. You were still here. What did he do to deserve you?
He didn’t. He didn’t deserve you.
Grumbling to himself, Wade swung his legs to the side of the bed and stood, walking out of the room and down the hall of your shared apartment. He tried to avoid the creaky planks in the wood floors, not wanting to wake you, until he entered the living room and could stomp as loud as he wanted on the fuzzy carpet. He turned the lamp on, almost tipping it over when he tugged on the pull string too hard. He considered turning the TV on, maybe tuning in for some late night laughs, but again, he didn’t want to wake you, so he settled for cheesy soap operas on mute.
You really were too good for him, but he already knew that, and he knew that you would always deny it. You told him over and over that he was the best thing that had ever happened to you. It was a routine: he would sink into another depressive or even chaotic episode and you would grab his face and tell him to look you in the eyes and he would see himself reflected there, terrified, not just because you were scary when you were angry but because the love you had for him was fierce, and he didn’t know how to react to that. He only knew that he liked it, that he wanted it, and so he stayed with you, even when every fiber of his being told him to leave you alone. Every voice in his head—and there were many—shrieked and cursed at him to leave. They’d shout in his mind and he’d open his mouth, then close, open it again, lips flapping like a fish while he thought of what to say to you. Then you would kiss him, again, again, all over his face, whispering those heavenly three words into his skin. And he would pull you close and hold on to you while he stared at nothing, or you would tug at his clothes and he’d tug at yours and the two of you would wear down the sofa together.
He liked wearing down the sofa with you. You were going to need a new couch soon.
And here he was, his mind filled with visions of you getting hurt because of him. How ungrateful was that? The least he could do was have happy dreams about you. Or sexy dreams. Not all of the happy dreams were sexy but all of the sexy dreams were certainly happy. He could live with that, but not with those torture dreams.
“Wade?”
Goddammit. “Babe?”
You sat down next to him, leaning against his shoulder. He wrapped an arm around you instinctively. “Why are you up?” you yawned. “Another bad one?”
Boy, did he regret talking about this with you. He thought it would bring him relief, but all it did was make him feel worse for keeping you up at night, too. “Yeah. It’s fine. I’m okay now.”
You hummed, and he knew you could see right through him. You were too smart, he decided, too intuitive. You tilted your head up and kissed his neck. Wade sighed. “Come back to bed,” you murmured against his skin.
Wade grinned. “Tempting offer. What if I don’t want to sleep?”
“Then we’ll fuck.”
“Jesus.”
“Too much? I’m running on fumes here.”
He shook his head. “We can just sleep, babe. I don’t want to keep you up. You have work tomorrow.”
“You know I sleep best when you’re next to me,” you mumbled. “When you’re sleeping next to me.” Was that your hand on his thigh? Christ, you were good at this.
Wade rubbed your back. You felt solid, and real, and warm. You weren’t bleeding, you weren’t bruised. He could see your eyes, peering groggily up at him. He turned off the TV, set the remote on the coffee table, and switched off the lamp. “C’mon, then,” he muttered, standing up and pulling you to your feet with him.
You leaned into him as he walked you both back to the bedroom. The moment he was under the covers, you got comfy, practically wrapping yourself around him. You were hugging his arm, kissing his shoulder sleepily. “Night, baby,” you sighed.
“Goodnight.” How could he leave you when you were holding on to him like that? If you needed him as much as you said, as much as he needed you, he wasn’t going to leave you. Ever.
He closed his eyes and for once, the voices were silent.