Chapter Text
Seven precisely timed raps at the door—now, who could that be?
"Oh, Wade! I wasn't expecting you tonight! Are you planning to stay for dinner?"
"Dinner—well, I wouldn't want to intrude, ma'am, and I was just gonna, well, I mean, if it's okay with you, that is—"
"Nonsense, of course it is! And don't call me ma'am."
"Of course, Ms. Parker."
"Wade, please."
Peter leaned out of his bedroom, maybe eavesdropping, maybe not. He could just barely see his aunt and Wade in the front hallway, the latter grinning as he said, "Miss May," and ducked to kiss her hand.
She laughed and said, "You joker."
"Hey, stop flirting with my aunt!" He let himself hang out into the hall, fingers stuck to the doorframe, and narrowed his eyes at his approaching... comrade. Because they weren't friends. Even though they knew each other's faces and Peter let Wade come to his Aunt's house often enough that she frequently boxed up leftovers or made extra food for him... Even though he'd grown accustomed to Wade's loquaciousness while working on various readings and assignments. Even though he—and he'd never admit this—enjoyed his company.
They were just acquaintances.
"Hey, boy." Wade leaned his forearm against the wall, raising a hand to wave it in front of Peter's face. "Whatcha zonin' out about?"
Oh, whoops. "Nothin'." Peter pulled back into his room, Wade right behind him.
The rambling began pretty much immediately. Peter pretended as though he weren't ignoring every other word out of Wade's mouth, but neither of them was such a fool. Subconsciously, he felt guilt. Just a little bit. Especially when Wade said, "Right?" with an inscrutable expression, well aware that Peter had not been listening one bit.
Shit.
"Uh, yeah—totally."
"Oh, good. I'm glad I'm not the only one who thinks dolphins are secretly demons from Hell."
Peter blinked.
This was... vengeance. Or karma. Or something.
He rubbed his forehead, setting his book aside, and mumbled, "Sorry."
"I'm just teasing you, buddy." A smirk, something dark in the back of his eyes. "I'm used to it, anyway."
Okay. Not just a little bit of guilt. A lot of it, actually.
Briefly, the quiet of the room was broken by the rumble of a motorcycle outside—it gave Peter maybe 30 seconds to formulate something to say, but as it turned out, 30 seconds? Not that long, actually. Peter floundered. "Look, Wade—" He raised a hand to hush Wade before he could interrupt. "I just got distracted is all—" Wait, no, bad apology. "I mean. Sorry. Uh... I shouldn't—what you have to say is just as important as anyone else." Better. "I have no excuse. I'm sorry."
A drop of silence, like the skip between a drumbeat.
"Damn, okay." Wade grinned, and either he had a lot of practice faking or it really reached his eyes. "Dork."
Peter made a face. "C'mon, man."
Wade threw an arm around Peter's shoulder, a motion both lighthearted and highly controlled. Strangely tense.
Just then Aunt May peeked into the room, with a gentle rap to the doorframe. "Peter, dear, you promised you'd help me with the ice cream."
"Ice cream?!"
Peter looked back at Wade as he stood. "Special request." He followed his aunt down the hall—sure enough, Wade popped out after a moment and sprinted after them.
"Hot damn!"
Peter rolled his eyes. He did that a lot when Wade was around.
Aunt May organized them into a veritable assembly line, herself overseeing the process while Wade and Peter sliced peaches and measured sugar. Wade actually proved very deft, much neater than Peter, though he had to wear gloves. Even if it weren't a food safety issue, the prospect of peaches or rum in open sores and cuts sounded... less than pleasant. He didn't seem to mind, either way.
"So? What's the occasion?"
A smile creased Aunt May's face and she looked over her shoulder to say, "Can't we make our own special occasions?"
At that, Wade fell uncharacteristically silent. Thoughtful. He nodded. "You know what, you're right." Dropping his voice to a stage-whisper, he leaned over to Peter, all conspiratorial with his hand in front of his mouth—"Your aunt's a visionary, dude."
Peter rolled his eyes (again), as he cranked the ice cream churn—it was older than him, something Aunt May had owned for years, and they finally got the ol' hunk of junk in working order for the summer heat wave. Had him working up a sweat, though... And an appetite.
Luckily, chilled pasta salad awaited him when he finished.
Something about having Wade over always brought the mood up considerably, during dinner. Maybe it was the way he showered Aunt May in compliments, as if he'd never had an olive until that very moment in his life. Maybe just his tendency to spew jokes left and right until something stuck. Aunt May laughed, he laughed, and Peter tried not to laugh at his particularly heinous puns but succumbed anyway, stubbornly hiding behind a forkful of noodles, beans and asparagus.
It was nice to see everyone genuinely happy. To be happy.
"So, Wade, was there any particular reason you came over today? Usually Peter tells me when you're visiting."
"Well, you know what you said earlier... Make your own occasion, right?" That was... a reach. "I was just in the area and I thought I'd stop by." And that was a lie, judging by the way Wade rubbed at the back of his neck as he spoke.
Peter narrowed his eyes at Wade from across the table. He got a wink for his trouble.
"Oh, is that so?"
"...No. My bathroom flooded."
Still a lie.
"I thought I'd pop over and, you know, use yours. Nothing beats the Parker Porcelain Throne."
Peter let his face fall into his hand. His sweaty palm stuck to his forehead unpleasantly.
But Aunt May seemed to find Wade's false admissions particularly tickling, and laughed.
--
Later, in his bedroom, Peter asked, "Why'd you really show up today?"
Wade looked... not bashful, exactly. More like a kid who'd been hoping his parents wouldn't ask about the missing cookies in the jar, but, oops, they were asking. He reached for the back of his neck, but then he lowered his arm, fidgeting. "Can't a guy hang out with his BFF?" He picked at the hem of his muscle tee with a huff, spinning slowly in Peter's desk chair. "...Just wanted company, is all."
"Yeah?" Peter leaned back against his pillows, crossing his arms behind his head and kicking one foot over his knee, closing his eyes. The very picture of casual. Or, he hoped so.
Wade poked at Peter's laptop as he spoke. "My bathroom actually did flood, though. Big, too! Shit-water everywhere—It's like Noah's Ark up in that motherfucker."
Peter snorted.
The two of them lapsed into wordlessness.
It had gotten dark, and the streetlights buzzed outside. Wade whispered some song to himself, as he unsuccessfully attempted to break into Peter's computer, and Peter lounged in his bed. The reedy sound of the TV drifted from the living room, merging with Wade's pecking clicks and hums, and it was just... so calm, in that moment. Wade's typing stopped—the mattress shifted as he sat down and flopped onto his back, sideways across the bottom of the bed. He grumbled something Peter couldn't quite make out, even with his advanced physical abilities.
Didn't sound pleasant, though. Peter looked at Wade with one open eye. "So, even Deadpool gets lonely, huh?"
Wade's half-articulated whispers cut off, and he turned his head to meet Peter's stare. "Deadpool? No. Wade Wilson, yes." He cracked a smile.
"Uh-huh," Peter poked Wade with his foot, right in the ribs. "As if the two aren't interchangeable."
"Not in this glorious house, they're not." Wade grabbed Peter's ankle, tugged him down—but playfully, just so Peter's head hit the mattress.
And Peter had to admit, that was fair—about the house. "Good." He propped himself up on his elbows. "I don't even wanna think about what would happen if Deadpool showed up here on a regular basis."
Wade's expression twisted, at that; a dismayed look of disgust, scrunched nose, just shy of aggressive in the way his mouth twitched down at the corners. "Yeah, me neither."
They went quiet again, with Peter's leg half across Wade's torso. Finally, Peter moved—to lay down parallel with Wade, legs dangling off the side of the bed. He didn't say anything. It was just nice to be close to someone, in companionable silence... Or near enough, with Wade's soft half-murmurs occasionally slipping out, repetitive self-soothing utterances. And only close, not touching, because it was still almost 90 degrees at 9 pm, and any prolonged contact could only result in sweat and discomfort.
The heat and the hanging shadows dulled Peter's senses, lulling him half-asleep, so he was almost surprised when something brushed his hand. Almost. But it was just Wade, reaching for him. And maybe any other time Peter would have shied away but... he let Wade take his hand. His skin was rough, scabbed and calloused, and very warm, and a little sweaty; no thanks to the summer heat. But Peter couldn't bring himself to push away such small contact, even as their palms stuck together.
He had a heart, after all.
Eyes closed, he mumbled, "You okay?"
Rather than say anything, Wade twined his fingers together with Peter's and squeezed.
Though he did mutter something to himself. Not for Peter to hear, so Peter didn't.
Almost heavy, drawn-out silence.
"S'there any more pasta salad?"
Peter smiled.
---
In the morning, Peter woke to his alarm—it was useful to set a consistent, daily schedule to keep him optimized for his Masters' program even when he didn't have classes—aaaaand.... the smell of burning. Not like, dangerous burning. More like the burning of a slightly-too-hot frying pan, seeping through the whole house, smoky and insistent through the open bedroom door. He rubbed his eyes before pushing himself upright. It was...warm. 7 am, and already he'd started to sweat as the early morning sun streamed in between the cracks of his blinds. He opted not to put pants on.
If he had to subject Wade and Aunt May to his zombie-patterned boxer briefs to keep from melting out of his skin, so be it.
Well, in fairness, he had slept like that, so it wasn't like neither had seen him in such a state. But it was different in the light of day, with his hair sticking straight out on one side and his cheek red and imprinted with pillow marks.
In the kitchen, Wade was dressed, singing the chorus of "Dancing Queen" softly to himself, frying up an ungodly pile of sausage and eggs. Peter sat at the table and watched him work, noting just how much skin he'd hidden under layers of fabric. But Wade didn't seem uncomfortable, even as smoke and steam coalesced around him.
In the middle of a line, Wade snapped his attention to Peter and said, "Your fridge was drier than the Sahara so I took the liberty of running down to the store to get some eggs and shit." He twirled the stove knob 'til it clicked off, and added to his pile of breakfast food. "I didn't know how much to make but I figured, hey, we've got two super-metabolisms in the house, so I made, like, a lot." He grinned. "Don't eat it all."
"Yeah?" Peter hauled himself to his feet, headed straight for the fridge as Wade dropped back into some indistinct humming. He opened the door, reveled in the wafting cool air, and balked at not just the carton of eggs, but also another package of breakfast links, a full gallon of milk, some jam, canned fruit, a new tub of butter, cream cheese—way more than he expected. "Yo, dude, you didn't have to buy us groceries." He looked over his shoulder at Wade's back, loathe to close the refrigerator and lose its cooling air.
Wade paused in his half-dancing movements, as he scraped himself a pile of eggs and meat. He sort of looked in Peter's direction, though he didn't quite make eye contact, and gave him a crooked, almost guilty smile. "I know, I know, you hate asking for help or whatever, but I figured it was the least I could do, considering I ate like..." He counted on his fingers. "...a gallon of pasta last night."
Fair enough.
Finally, with a sigh of great tragedy, Peter closed the fridge and let himself be embraced by the increasingly sweaty arms of summer...
Speaking of which—"Hey, man, aren't you hot?"
Wade looked down at himself. "Who, me?" He swished his hips a little. "Not really. Skirt's plenty cool, and you know how compression tights are for temperature managem—"
"I meant the hoodie, you goof."
"Ah." Wade lifted a finger to his lips, conspiratorially. "I'm shirtless under here."
Peter rolled his eyes and grabbed himself a plate. "It's still got long sleeves."
Wade nodded. "And fleece. Real cozy."
"Right. And fleece."
And the hood up.
Wade started up his humming again while they ate, the same bar repeated over and over as he moved his head and shoulders imperceptibly. A tiny motion back and forth, hypnotically rhythmic. Peter turned his attention to the clock, and his food, and the occasional pop as the frying pan cooled on the burner. Birds outside chirped, but fewer than usual. The floor creaked, and he glanced back toward the hallway as Aunt May emerged with a yawn.
She always woke around ten minutes after him, and now, as always, gave Peter a peck on the forehead on her way past. "My, my. What an impressive breakfast. I didn't even know we had eggs left!"
Wade beamed at her. "The 'Pool provides."
"Oh, you shouldn't have, dear."
Still beaming, then bashfully looking away with one hand on his cheek—under his breath, Wade mumbled, "Hear that? She called me 'dear.'"
Peter smiled.
Within the hour, it had gotten significantly hotter.
Wade still seemed largely unbothered, as the three of them sat around the table chatting—Aunt May with a newspaper folded out in front of her, while Wade regaled them with the story of how he had found a stray cat in the backwoods of... someplace Peter had missed the name of.
"Supposed to be over 90 by noon." Aunt May shook her head, half despairing. "I thought I might water my garden but those plants'll just have to wait."
"I can do it if you want, May."
She glanced up at Wade, a little surprised, though she smiled. "Oh, sweetheart, I appreciate the offer but I think it's best if we all stay inside."
She really had a point, for all that Wade seemed content to bundle himself up in the growing heat.
Of course, Peter knew it wasn't some kind of... unbothered, unaffected air keeping Wade in his sweatshirt. He'd slept fully-covered, too, after downing a full two bowls of leftovers. Curled up as close to the wall as possible, in Peter's bed, head half buried under a spare pillow. It was the security afforded by covering himself. He oozed restless energy now, tapping out a constant beat with his fingertips on his knees, legs half drawn up and crossed now that everyone had finished breakfast.
Peter tuned back in to Wade saying, "—can't impose on your guys' hospitality forever. Though it sure beats Casa del Sewage."
"Sure you can." Peter stretched out his legs and propped his feet up on the chair opposite his own. "Aunt May loves fussing over you. Right, Aunt May?" He shot her a playful grin, and she pursed her lips to hold back her own smile.
Wade rubbed his knees, back and forth, back and forth. "Aw, shucks, you guys." And again, that almost bashful smile—he never made that face outside of the confines of the May-and-Peter Parker residence, and Peter couldn't help but wonder what it was about their home that had him so soft. Maybe he just had a mushy spot in his heart for old ladies. Or free food. Okay, yeah, that was probably it.
--
"Wade Winston Wilson, it is 100 degrees out there—"
"Hey, I've seen way worse!" Wade held his hands up in a placating gesture. "You wouldn't believe how hot it gets in some places. Y'ever been to the jungle in the swing of summer? I don't recommend it—"
"Young man, do you even have water?"
At that, Wade hiked up his skirt, and for a brief second Peter just about had a heart attack—but Wade simply grabbed a water bottle from the holster around his thigh, with a self-satisfied smirk. "I'm fine."
Aunt May glowered at him. "Your face is more flushed than a toilet."
That brought out a perplexed expression from both Peter and Wade, though the latter began to laugh, leaning on the closed front door half-helpless in a fit of giggles. This appeased Aunt May, somewhat, though she still had her arms crossed against her chest. Peter had seen her this way before. No way would Wade convince her to let him go, even if he was right, and would be just fine.
And it wasn't the heat alone. Yeah, it was 100 out, and there also wasn't a cloud in sight. Little to no shade, and the air hung thick with humidity and car exhaust. No one was out or about. Not even strays. Not even birds.
Wade seemed... irritated. But he let May Parker steer him to the living room, where the air conditioner resided, and allowed himself to be plied with cold water and ice cream.
Good ice cream, too. Peach rum, a little hard but in such high heat that seemed like some kind of blessing. Peter could've eaten a gallon of it, and from the looks of it, he wasn't alone in his desire.
Everyone had calmed, now. At least a little bit. Though Wade hadn't taken off his shoes, or his baseball cap, or even his sunglasses, after Aunt May dragged him back inside. He sat with his head down, leather Deadpool backpack in his lap, empty bowl set aside, cyclically tapping his fingers against his thighs, with his knees half-drawn up. Shoes on the couch cushions, too...
Luckily, Aunt May had actually fallen asleep in the recliner and couldn't see him ruining her upholstery. Peter stood and took her bowl from her loose hands, and turned back to take Wade's bowl as well. Toward the doorway, he paused. Looked back at Wade. "Hey." He nodded toward the other room. "You can hide out in my room, if you want." He didn't wait to hear Wade's response before taking the dirty bowls into the kitchen, but as he rinsed them and set them in the sink, he heard footsteps.
Sure enough, Mister Wilson himself, too hot to argue. He took off his shoes by the front door—hat, too... glasses, bag, one by one, and then he slunk off ahead of Peter, curled in on himself like a bipedal pillbug.
Peter left him in the bedroom, with a fan pointed right at his face and the window blinds shut tight, lights off.
He'd be okay.
And finally... a shower. Cool, just a little lukewarm, and so refreshing. It felt like he scrubbed off a week's worth of sweat, even if it were only like... two days' worth. Nothing better. Of course, with the sticky humidity, the water did little to cool and evaporate outside of the shower. He just felt musty, as he rubbed himself down. And now his hair was wet, too... Gross... But still an improvement, overall. Peter took one last pass at his hair before emerging from the bathroom, into the slightly drier but still damp air of the hallway.
"You awake?" Peter leaned into his bedroom, just able to make out Wade's silhouette in the darkness, slumped over in his bed. He got a grunt in response. "Alright, well, I'll be in the living room if you need anything."
Peter sprawled across the couch to watch TV. Nothing like mindless commercial breaks and melodrama to turn your brain off. Though, really, he probably should have been doing something productive. Anything at all. Too hot to patrol, sure, but he could work on deciding his classes ahead of the fall quarter, or... try to toss out some freelance journalism, see if anyone would bite... But no... Discovery Channel instead. He dozed through some over-dramatic countdown of deadly animals.
His name, whispered from the doorway, jolted him into focus.
Just Wade, standing awkwardly, hands in his pockets (did skirts normally have pockets? He didn't think so.) He'd changed out of his hoodie, into—of all things—a Spider-Man tank-top. His posture had loosened, and he seemed... calm. Still slouching, but calm.
"Hey." Peter sat up, running a hand back through his hair. "What's up?"
Wade glanced over at Aunt May, still asleep, before asking, "Can I have some more of that ice cream?"
And who was Peter to say no?
They sat in the kitchen eating ice cream together, lights off but sun shining through the windows. Wade kept pausing, like he wanted to say something, but then he'd shove his spoon into his mouth with a frown.
Peter liked it better when he talked too much.
Not that he could begrudge him feeling shitty in this weather.
Finally—"Thanks."
Peter raised an eyebrow, questioning.
"Just for whatever." Wade shrugged. "You know. Giving me space. And stuff."
"No problem, man." Peter smiled at him, and he got a little bit of a smile back—good enough for him. "Sometimes you just need to be alone; I know how it is."
"Yeah?" A pause. "Yeah."
They sat in companionable quietude, Wade sing-talking under his breath (again), not quite forming coherent words though the overall tune felt familiar but not... quite. Oh that was gonna bother Peter all day. But it was nice. Something about his grumbly tone, and the softness of it all. Even if it was still hot as Hell and Peter had to periodically peel his shirt from his skin to get some air in.
"Once it cools down, I'm probably gonna head out."
Peter nodded. "Cool. "
Ha.
Cool.
The temperature dropped drastically around dinner time, and the evening found Peter and his aunt seeing Wade off—but not before insisting he take a Tupperware container of leftovers with him. They taped an ice pack to it, shoved it into his bag, and he was off, sweatshirt tied around his waist and pristine white baseball cap shading his eyes from the sunset.
"He really is a nice young man."
Peter grinned. "You think so?"
Aunt May gave him a teasing look. "I know so."