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Peter wakes up choking for air. His skin is drenched in sweat and simultaneously everything is freezing and too hot. Despite how dark it is in the room, he can still see everything from his dreams so vividly, so painfully bright as though it continues to play out in front of him.
It takes a moment to realize that Wade is calling his name. The way the blood pounds through his veins like a torrent is the only rush of sound he registers for a good moment.
“Peter, Peter . It was a dream.”
Peter looks to him and confirms that Wade’s face is still wholly intact and that his neck is at a possible angle. It calms the peaks of the anxiety, but his body is still reacting violently to the adrenaline in heavy racks of his breathing.
“Did I die again?”
A weak nod precedes Peter wiping sweat from his forehead.
“I’ll trade you. Sweet dreams of death for me, and unlimited loops of Golden Girls for you,” Wade offers with a raised brow and a winning smile.
“That’s not funny,” Peter snaps at him before taking a slow breath, slower --at least comparatively, “Sorry. I mean, I don’t like thinking about you dying. Even if you’re joking.”
It comes out rehearsed, somewhat mechanically but as though the years of emotional turmoil had been funneled into something constructive.
Wade leans back in the bed, one arm up to carve out a Spiderman sized space for him in his side that Peter falls into naturally. “This therapist is really good for you, that sounded like Amy’s work.”
“It was Amy’s,” Peter mutters a confirmation, trying to use the tools that his newest, and most promising, therapist has been working with him on. Like reducing the emotional outbursts and letting out the anger and fear through communicative statements. Because at some point when Deadpool of all people suggests that getting some help for his mental health would be beneficial, Peter relented that it was time. And sure, maybe they are both tired of being woken up at 3AM with wild terrors and an inconsolable Peter.
Peter buries his face into Wade’s chest, thankful that the merc is more intuitive than he lets on. That he knows the way to rub circles on the back of his neck with just enough pressure that it anchors Peter back to their bed and away from that bridge. Otherwise the thoughts just spiral, an endless loop of horrible flashes.
There’s a long pause that Peter is thankful for, giving his body a moment to catch up and take things down to defcon five. His vision stops tunneling and his heart rate comes back down to something less than marathon levels.
“Did you see her again too?” Wade asks, and it’s a gentle pry that Peter would have minded much more even just a few years ago.
“Yeah. It’s been 10 years and I still keep seeing her fall.” He nearly chokes on the last word and refuses to let his mind conjure up that image again. “But the ones with you are recent. Amy says it’s because I’m afraid of losing someone else.”
There’s something easier about the confession when the room is pitch black. Even the moon gives them a thin veil of privacy behind the hazy clouds that night. The traffic outside is quiet for once, only a low thrum of activity in the city as the nightly white noise machine. The world is stopped when it’s this late at night, as though things that are said before 5AM don’t really count.
The flash of his phone screen confirms that it’s 2:57AM before Peter places it face down on the side table.
Wade laughs at the admission, “Well, aren’t you a lucky little spider. You can’t lose me, I don’t die. That’s kind of my shtick.”
And Peter knows that’s true. He’s been in battle with Wade before, he has seen him take impossible hits and get back up from impossible heights. Logically, he knows that Wade literally cannot die and that on similar nights, he will lament that fact in a wistful tone.
“But I still see it.” He tries to explain, tries to make Wade, and his own god forsaken brain, understand how illogical it is. That he has all these emotions still brewing under his skin and that they occasionally form a storm that paralyzes any logical thought. “I see you getting ripped in half.”
“I mean, yeah, been there and done that. Actually, so many times that they made another Deadpool out of the parts. Good times. Good times.”
“Wade,” Peter sighs, “You get what I mean. In my dreams…you don’t get back up.”
“Hm,” Wade hums, and takes a moment to think--which in itself is terrifying because he can count on one hand how many times that has happened and no one got hurt. He watches his boyfriend lean over to his side of the bed, rummage around in his side table, and pull something out. “Here, I have an idea, take this.”
There have been plenty of times that Wade has expressed glee at the fact that Peter, like most people, will accept being told to hold something without realizing what it is. This is one of those moments. Because even with the limited glow from the distant city lights outside, Peter is able to recognize the cold metal and its ominous weight.
Wade just handed him a gun.
“ What?”
“If you’re worried about me dying for real, you just need to see for yourself it won’t happen. Go on, it’s like exposure therapy,” Wade nearly beams at him, obviously thrilled with himself for the idea and lacking the medical license to understand just how fucked up this particular suggestion is.
Peter blanches. “That is not how exposure therapy works, dumbass.”
Wade shrugs. “Close enough. Seriously, just take a shot. Everything will be fine and you’ll have proof that you’re stuck with me.”
For good measure, Wade takes his hand and positions the gun on his forehead for him. The gesture is intimate, almost tender in true Deadpool fashion. Peter’s stomach churns, the fear runs through his veins like ice and he feels like he’s going to throw up. “I literally cannot do that, Wade, please.”
“It’s fine! I’ll just shake the bullet out afterwards. It’s kinda like getting water out of your ears, it feels pretty weird but god , so good when it finally comes out.”
The gun rattles against his forehead, Peter’s hand trembling and only being held up by Wade’s at this point.
“Wade, I don’t want to do this,” he croaks out and it’s highlighted by every failure he’s ever made in keeping his loved ones safe. That this will somehow go wrong and it will be his fault that Wade dies. Just like Gwen. But somehow even more direct this time.
They stare at each other for a long moment, Peter searching his eyes desperately for help before Wade pouts and puts away the gun. “For the record, I thought it was a really good idea.”
“That was literally the worst idea you’ve ever had,” Peter admonishes, but tucks himself back into the stupid man’s side, “I don’t need to see you not die, this is enough.”
Wade has never been great at that comfort part of hurt/comfort. And Peter knows, again logically, that he had been genuine in his attempt to help. That Wade navigates every situation with a certain element of chaos and more often than not with the grace of a hand grenade. But he tries, and Peter appreciates the way he wraps himself around him. His weight is a concrete assurance that he is here, he is safe, and that Peter is safe.
“Alright, but if you do ever wanna try it out, I would let you. Just for you, baby,” Wade coos at him, tangling their legs together.
His response to that is a roll of his eyes that goes unnoticed from having his face pressed into a bony collar. Sleep won’t come back easily tonight, that much he’s pretty sure. But being able to lay here with Wade who is very alive and very much so now describing to him his dream about the Golden Girls, it’s good. A good distraction from the horrors that await when he closes his eyes. And he wonders at some point if maybe he will stop seeing her ghost fall off that bridge. Or if Wade’s appearances will ever get less bloody. His therapist has told him it won’t ever fully go away, but he can find peace. Being held tight like this might not take the nightmares away, but it might be a good step towards something like peace.