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“I’m going to KILL him.”
It’s the 23rd time Wade’s muttered those same words under his breath since Peter started keeping count an hour ago. Under normal circumstances, he would have put a stop to that line of thinking from the start, but, quite frankly, Peter's right about there with him this time.
Plus, Johnny can defend himself. He's going to be doing a lot of defending of himself for a good long while, as a matter of fact. And he'll be lucky if Peter decides the only consequence to their friendship was a knocked out tooth.
"I'M GOING TO FUCKING KILL HIM," Wade shouts again, this time from the vicinity of the bedroom.
Peter sighs. He can't actually let Wade murder his (possibly former) best friend.
"No killing!" He calls back, but the words lack their usual heat.
Wade's halfway into his suit when he stumbles back out to the living room, one boot on, the other kicked out of the room in front of him. Peter might actually be worried, except he moved all the ammo to a different cabinet yesterday when he was on a cleaning spree and Wade hasn't noticed yet. He's mostly decided on letting the tantrum run its course like he usually does, until Wade stops dead in front of the TV and glares at Peter, mask still off. He makes a point of zipping his pants as slowly as possible while maintaining said glare.
Peter tries to crane his neck to see around him, but Wade shifts a few inches to the left to keep his view blocked.
"Webs," he growls - a real growl, pulling himself to full height to loom menacingly.
Five years ago, Peter might have felt menaced. Today? He's just annoyed.
"Red," he growls back. He makes sure to use what Wade insists on calling his Batman voice so Wade knows he's being thoroughly mocked.
"Pete."
Peter rolls his eyes and scoots to the other side of the couch where his view is less restricted. It's the Westminster dog show - the corgis are on. Wade takes a half step to his right and Peter whines as the corgis disappear.
"You're right," Peter finally agrees, with a solemn, heaving sigh; Wade begins to nod along. "We should have gone with the 80 inch. Even you couldn't block that much screen."
"Peter," Wade snaps, and uh oh, maybe this is a bigger deal than Peter had let himself believe. An Official Big Deal, if Wade's using his actual name. "He kissed you. In front of everyone. He outed you! I may have once been a capital B, capital G Bad Guy, but even at my nastiest I'd never do that to someone. Not ever!"
Peter glares right back until Wade visibly deflates. There’s enough of the TV visible now that he could probably at least catch some of it around Wade’s shoulders, but the corgis are gone and it kind of is his job to console Wade, as tedious as it can occasionally be (he knows how bad that sounds, ok, but no one should care that much about discontinued pop tart flavors).
“Don’t you think you’re being a teeny, tiny bit dramatic here? Even for you? You know he didn’t actually out me. He couldn’t out me, because I’m already out. We’re married, Wade. And it’s never been a secret. Tony bought us a two thousand dollar blender as a wedding present.”
“He bought us a blender as a joke, Pete,” Wade hisses, throwing his body to the couch; It’s not the angry kind of hiss, either - it sounds a little watery. “Because everyone thought you were joking. Everyone.” He stacks three tiny pillows between himself and Peter, sinks back with a pout and begins to pick at the stitching on his mask
Not everyone everyone, Peter wants to argue. He’s never thought it was a joke. Wade’s never thought it was a joke, either, and as far as Peter’s concerned those are the only two people who matter here. He’s trying to be gentle and understanding, but it’s Peter’s (luckily, mostly masked) face that is all over the tabloid front pages at every corner newsstand, not Wade’s, and - oh.
“Why don’t you tell me what’s actually bugging you, buddy,” Peter pushes, actually soft and gentle this time, after Wade has been silent for long enough to be worrisome. “It’s not the outing part, is it?”
Wade has the decency to look chagrined, eyes falling to the mask he’s now wringing between his hands. Peter reaches out and pries it from his fists before it rips. He’s out of spares and they haven’t had much downtime for suit repair, lately. And no matter how many times Wade spouts off “what’s yours is mine!” and “marital property” and “blah blah blah whatever” Peter is NOT letting him go out dressed as Spidey again. Not ever. Not even on Halloween.
Peter’s reputation can’t take another hit like that.
“Wade, c’mon,” he presses. “No secrets, remember?”
Throwing their vows in his husband's face is probably, maybe, possibly dirty pool, but his husband is Deadpool. It’s kind of poetic, in Peter’s opinion.
Wade trumpets like a sad brontosaurus and burrows farther into the couch, pulling more cushions with him. The tiny throw blanket he commandeers to hide under barely covers his hulking shoulders and a pang of fondness hits Peter, strong enough that he is reminded that yes, there was a reason he married this emotional torpedo.
“Mmmph mpdsj pfgh.”
He gives Wade’s shoulder a squeeze and a shake. “Ok, now try telling me instead of the pillow, Space Cowboy.”
One angry eye peeks out as Wade cranes his neck just far enough to peer past a cushion Peter hadn’t even realized was removable. He’ll have to confirm that later. Sometimes Wade likes to… modify things and forget to mention it. He’s pretty sure normal people who marry other normal, non-mercenaries never have to worry about throwing stars stashed in couch pillows.
“I said," Wade enunciates petulantly. “Everyone thinks you’re fucking the human zippo.”
And thus, Peter’s hunch is proven correct. He wriggles as close as he can, nudging his way into the fortress of depression that's growing taller by the pillow. He nudges his head against Wade’s jaw to try and prod more of him out of his stuffy hidey hole.
“But I’m not,” Peter points out as gently as he can manage.
Jokes are all fun in the sun, but he’s too aware of Wade’s insecurities to find any humor in this. Johnny is perfectly aware of Wade’s insecurities, as well. And as one of the few people to actually take Peter’s relationship seriously, he’d honestly expected better from him.
“Oughta flick that little lick o’ flame right off a cliff,'' Wade grumbles, burrowing back down and undoing all Peter’s hard work in an instant; at least Peter’s close enough now to actually pick out full words. “Kissing up on my man on New Years eve and plastering it all over the city. Probably blogged about it! Dear diary, today I got to molest-”
“Wade,” Peter groans.
Wade ignores him, voice rising steadily to an ear splitting falsetto. “-the most luscious set of lips to ever grace-”
“Wade.”
“AND- AND- guess what diary?! I got to fuck over my number one arch-enemy in the process-”
“Wade!” Peter finally shouts when he realizes Wade is just getting started.
“WHAT? Spidey, babe, my heart, my soul. What don’t you get here?! You’re the one good thing in my life, and I know I don’t deserve you, but c’mon. Let a man hold onto just, like, half an ounce of his pride, ok? He doesn’t get to-”
They’re quickly approaching the point where nothing Peter says will get through. He could promise to throw Johnny from the summit of Everest with his own two hands and Wade wouldn't hear him.
He darts a hand out, web-slinger quick, and grabs Wade by the ear. It's the only part of him that hasn’t completely sunk into the deep dark depths of the couch. He tugs, hard, and Wade’s entire head rises up, followed by his shoulders as the blankets slip aside.
It kind of reminds Peter of that one alligator hunter show, when they hook their catch and haul it from the water. Peter bets he could give those guys a run for their money - a 12 foot gator rolling for it’s life ain't got nothin' on Deadpool at his most ornery.
“Ow ow owie owwwww! Peteeeey, why?”
He ignores the complaints and keeps pulling Wade towards him. When there’s enough of him free to get a better hand hold, he grabs the collar of the suit and yanks, full strength. Wade slides the rest of the way out, his tower of soft things tumbling off the couch to their feet.
“Shut up and just-” Peter grunts as he arranges all eight of their limbs to his liking, Wade moving exactly where Peter directs him, even as he continues to make tiny pitiful sounds.
It’s not going to work - no matter how good Wade is at sounding like an injured kitten. Peter knows damn well he’s only doing it because he knows how much Peter loves both kittens and Wade.
Can two people know each other too well? It sounds so romantic, until you realize the reality is less ‘I knew what you needed before you even needed it and have provided’ and more ‘muahahahaha I know ALL OF YOUR WEAKNESSES’.
Or maybe that’s just him and Wade. They did kind of break the mold when they finally shacked up.
He leans back into the corner of the couch and spreads Wade out between his thighs so Wade’s back is pressed to his chest. It’s admittedly a little awkward, what with Wade being twice his size, but it’s also one of Wade’s favorite places to sprawl so they’ve had a lot of practice.
He shoves Wade’s head into his mask and hooks his chin over his shoulder. “Hand me my phone?” He asks sweetly, pressing a kiss to the leather covering Wade’s jaw - blech, diablo sauce.
Wade grumbles, but he’s distracted by Peter’s voluntary cuddles. He grabs it from the table and hands it over.
As soon as it’s in Peter’s hand he opens the camera app. Then he pushes Wade’s mask up just enough to free his mouth, grabs Wade by the ear again and forces his head around so he can plant a wet, goofy kiss on his lips. Wade’s so shocked he doesn’t even notice the fake click of the shutter.
When they pull back from each other, Wade looks so befuddled Peter has to laugh. He slips his phone in his pocket - the next part of the plan will come later, after Wade is asleep and can’t read over Peter’s shoulder - and goes in for another kiss. Then another, and another and- well, it’s not long before they’re both properly distracted.
For once, Peter wakes up before Wade. He taps around on his phone for a while ( Operation ABBHI (Assuage Big Beefy Husband’s Insecurities) is officially a-go) until his bladder starts to complain.
And from there, he’s already in the bathroom, so he may as well get clean. He blames the shampoo in his ears for not noticing Wade’s presence until he’s sliding up behind Peter and wrapping an arm around his waist. Peter’s not as jumpy as he used to be - finally used to living with someone who can be even sneakier than Spider-Man when he wants to be - but he still startles. Wade’s arm tightens to steady him.
“Busy morning, shnookums? Saw you tagged the Pool Boy on your insta,” he chirps, lips buzzing against Peter’s slick skin.
“Mmmhmmm,” Pete hums back, leaning into Wade’s embrace. "Someone's in a better mood today."
“Some shot, babe. Guess you can take the Spidey from the Bugle, but you can’t take the- wait, no. That’s not right. You can take the- the-”
“The wild Deadpool hurt itself in its confusion,” Peter snickers; it turns into a (manly!) squeal when Wade digs mean fingertips into his ribs.
“No faces in the pic, very sly, much throwback,” Wade says, considering.
Peter shrugs. Then he shrugs again just because it feels nice and he can. Wade’s got him rucked up tight, and he’s warm, relaxed. His Spidey senses are quiet - safety. The sluice of the warm water slicks the way so Wade’s normally rough, chapped skin slides against the full length of Peter’s back without catching, and he can feel every bump and ridge of scar tissue and corded muscle. Under that, farther, beneath the pounding of the spray and their synced breath is the thud thud of a steady heartbeat. Strong. You can stop it, sure, Peter thinks. But never for long.
“No faces on the official Spidey ‘gram,” he agrees, forcing his eyes to stay open; he will not fall into Wade’s tempting trap.
“Of course not,” Wade agrees sagely. His fingers have stopped their evil tickling and his touch softens to a caress. “Knew there was a reason you shoved me into the mask. White said you needed a break from the mess, and Yellow said it’s cuz you’re kinky. But you don’t mind my mess - you said so and spiders never lie about the really important stuff - and yeah, sure, you’re kinky but I know you’re more of a boot man.”
It’s hard to tell, sometimes, if Wade is rambling because he’s nervous, just feels like rambling, or if he knows his voice plus a warm Peter equals a satiated Spidey that will do almost anything he asks. Right now, Peter would put his money on all three.
“I don’t have a thing for feet. I definitely don’t have a thing for your feet.”
“I said boots!”
“It’s the boots that are the problem!”
“Then why are you so obsessed with getting your sticky lil’ fingers on ‘em, huh?” Wade jabs him in the ribs again before quickly returning to the petting. Smart man - Peter bristles but doesn’t pull away.
“To wash them! Because they reek!”
“You don’t wash shoes, Spidey.”
That explains a lot. How is he just learning this? That might have been a deal breaker if he'd known that before he signed the marriage contract.
They fall silent after that, and Peter figures 50-50 Wade doesn’t want to talk anymore (because he knows he’s not going to win) or he completely lost track of their real conversation. Once Wade is finished washing himself he re-washes Peter. Then he re-washes Peter’s hair - twice (Peter doesn’t have the heart to stop him).
Wade starts talking again as he tips Peter’s head back for a final rinse. He jumps in right where they left off, so no psychic husband points to Peter for that one, but he’s going to chalk that up to too much steam cooking his brain.
“Yep. No faces. Buuh-uut… something else sure was front and center,” Wade says, covering Peter’s eyes with one hand, cupping water in the other to trickle over Peter’s hairline; Peter ruins his efforts when he nuzzles into the touch and gets soap in his eyes.
Wade tsks and fills his palm again to wash that away, too, leaving a delicate kiss at the crease of one red, watery eye. Peter’s always been curious how the others would react if they ever got to see this Wade, his Wade.
Not that they deserve it. For all of Wade’s mania, all his under-developed coping mechanisms, all the death and chaos he’s left in his wake -
Peter will never admit it out loud, because he knows it would be taken as permission before it would be taken as solidarity, but the world is a shit place and sometimes, it deserves a lot worse than Wade has ever dealt out. Sometimes, he thinks the world needs Deadpool more than it needs Spiderman.
(It’s taken literal years to come to terms with that revelation. Wade drops paradoxes and fractured morals in his wake like a tornado drops houses.)
“Oh yeah?” Peter asks, once he can blink again without tears, casual and light. “What’s that?”
“Little piece a’... Spidey bling, I do believe.”
“You do believe wrong. Only bling in that shot was Peter Parker-Wilson bling.”
Front and center, indeed. That was the whole point: hide behind his own hair, cover the bottom half of Wade’s exposed face (despite having twice as many followers as Spidey, there are zero skin shots on his own ‘gram. Peter wasn’t about to push that boundary), and do it with his left hand.
He might have touched up the colors after so the gold really popped, but otherwise, hashtag no filter. Peter’s not always great with words, but he damn well knows how to tell a good story with a single photograph.
“You know what sayin’ that kinda shit does to me, Mr. Parker-Wilson," Wade growls into the shell of Peter’s ear.
Assuming Wade hasn’t broken the no guns in the bathroom rule (Peter’s still not sure his hearing ever fully recovered), what’s pressing against his ass tells him exactly what it does to Wade.
“That I do, Mr. Parker-Wilson.”
Of course Peter had already known how very all-in Wade was long before they made it to the courthouse. But if he hadn’t been sure, Wade voluntarily destroying his own precious alliteration would have sealed the deal. He’s not nearly as into the sappy heart eyes shit as Wade, but hearing their names all smashed together into one always makes them feel so much more real.
“You do, huh?” Wade nuzzles in close, and Peter holds back a groan, not of pleasure, but because he knows what’s coming next is going to be too sappy-
“What a coincidence,” Wade says. “I do, too.”
Then he ruins the moment by grinding his dick against Peter’s thigh.
Peter elbows him in the gut. “I have to go to work. No time for that.”
Wade sighs like Peter’s insistence on a steady paycheck is ruining his life, but he steps back to give Peter space to turn off the shower and grab them towels. When he turns back around to hand one over, Wade is leaning against the wall, leering, dick swaying at impressive attention. Instead of wrapping the towel around himself he crowds Peter against the wall and goes to town with it on his hair
“Wade,” Peter says - a warning - and tries to shake him off.
Wade puts his hands up in the air. The towel drops, a fallen soldier that will likely lay abandoned until laundry day. Housetraining a Deadpool is a constant, unending process with a whole lot of backsliding and not a lot of moving forward. Then again, Peter set off their neighbor’s fire alarm the last time he tried to make pasta, so at least they’re well matched.
“I’ll be good, Daddy,” Wade croons, and Peter fakes a gag. “I can wait.”
“Wade,” Peter warns again, Wade following right on his heels as he makes his way back to the bedroom, leaving dark, wet merc-prints on the carpet wherever he steps.
“Just one more teeny thing, then you’re free to go, my little American Muffin with fake strawberry jam,” Wade sings, replacing the shirt in Peter’s hands with another.
“What? What, Wade?”
He liked the first shirt better, and Wade always picks out the tightest shirts Peter owns. Except, he does the sniff test, and this one is actually clean, and urgh. Wade is not supposed to be the put together one in this relationship.
“I want you to say it. What you wrote in your post. Can you say it? Out loud?”
Not what he was expecting, but a request he’s more than happy to comply with. He’s gotten much better at the feelings-talks over the years, but Wade will always be the more verbose between them. He thinks something; he says something. Words never come that easy to Peter unless he’s allowed to wrap them in a pun.
He grabs Wade’s face (not by the ear this time) and bends him down til their foreheads meet.
“Nice try, at-the-real-human-torch,” he quotes from memory. “But I’ve already got someone to spend my year with, and he still has all his teeth. Hashtag-five-years, hashtag-love-this-guy, hashtag-fuck-Johnny-Storm.”
Wade dips his head and burrows his face into Peter’s neck to steal a last kiss at the pulse. He’s snickering when he pulls back, eyes crinkling in mirth, scars and laugh lines bleeding together into Peter’s favorite face.
He can’t recall exactly how long it had taken for Wade to let Peter see him bare, or how long it had taken before he stopped looking at him like some cruel curiosity and started seeing Wade . It's far enough in the past that any disgust or shock he might have once felt has been long since overwritten, forgotten, along with any ability Peter ever had to separate Deadpool the Merc from Wade his best friend- fuck buddy- confidant- boyfriend- husband.
“I can’t believe that dumb tag is still alive,” Wade giggles, like he wasn’t literally the one who started it two years ago. “Did you really punch him?”
Peter ends up stuck halfway into his shirt, body still damp, the tight fabric clinging, so he can’t reply right away. Wade straightens him out and gets Peter’s head through the hole before frustration can set in.
He tries to flatten his now crazy hair with his hand for naught, until Wade again takes pity and grabs the comb from the dresser and sits on the edge of the bed. Peter moves between Wade’s spread thighs and tilts his head to let him work his magic.
“Thanks,” he mutters, completely serious, then hisses as Wade hits a nasty tangle. It’s never been a secret how much of a disaster he is before coffee. “Yeah I punched him. I don’t care if he was drunk and thought I was Selma Hayek dressed as Spider-Man. And if there's a next time? I won’t just threaten to set you loose on him, either.”
Wade sucks in a gasp through his teeth and the comb falls to the floor. “You used me as a threat?”
“Uhm… yeah? It just kind of slipped out? I know you hate the whole ‘mangy dog following commands’ shtick, but - wait, are you...oh no. Wade, baby. Don’t cry? Please? I’m really sorry.”
Wade’s shoulders are quaking softly and when he sniffs it’s gross and wet and makes Peter’s skin crawl. He looks around frantically for the tissues.
“That’s the sweetest thing you’ve ever said to me,” Wade hiccups. “And I wasn’t even there to hear it!”
Peter shoves a wad of tissues into Wade’s hand and squeezes his wrist. Not that the tears are ever fun, but he can deal with happy tears much easier than sad tears. “You’re so strange. And now I really have to leave for work,” he gives his (now extra) drippy husband the once over. “But if you’re gonna stay un-dressed like that I might have to come home for lunch.”
Wade’s sniffling turns into a strangled groan that doesn’t manage to become real words until Peter’s nearly out the door.
“Fuck. Marry me, baby boy!” Wade yells, far louder than necessary.
“Already di~iiid!” Peter calls back.
“That wasn’t a no!”
He shuts the door behind him before he really does end up calling out from work, letting Wade have the last word without a fight for now. But later? He’s going to remind Wade who, exactly, proposed to whom.
