Work Text:
Crouched on top of a building and pulling on a third pair of gloves, Peter decides he officially hates winter. The cold has somehow gotten to his bones, making them creak and ache as he attempts to do just about anything, Spider-Man-wise or Peter Parker-wise. Peter groans as he flexes his fingers, shaking his hands to get the building snow off of them. It’s fucking freezing.
Spider-Manning is basically impossible: stiff limbs where no amount of stretching helps, an apartment that’s riotously cold and has a very limited amount of blankets in stock, and a faster metabolism than his paycheck allows him to keep up with, food-wise. Nothing like being a superhero in New York during the winter, amiright?
Peter steps up onto the edge of the roof, giving a final shake to his limbs. Dread is already singing in his bones: the whip-wind of the city won’t provide any comfort as he swings through.
“Spidey!” Peter startles at the call and almost slips off the rooftop before whirling around. And…it’s Deadpool. Because of course it is. And why wouldn’t it be.
“Hey, ‘Pool,” Peter responds, nervously fiddling with his jacket’s zipper. He loves Wade, he does, but Wade likes to talk, and there’s certain times—like now—where that could result in things like Peter becoming a Spider-sicle.
“I come bearing food,” Wade says brightly, holding aloft a takeout bag. “Hot and greasy, just like me.”
Peter can practically hear the wink Deapool throws his way. He also just…doesn’t want to know. At all. Ever.
“What’d you bring?” Peter asks, the chill of the night overshadowed by his growling stomach.
“Chimichangas, baby,” Wade says with another lecherous wink. “Just for you. Went all the way out to Manhattan for these.”
Peter shakes his head, hanging it as he laughs. “Thanks, Wade. I appreciate it.”
“Now, let's get to your apartment before you freeze. Spiders don’t do well in the cold, you know!”
“Some of them do,” Peter corrects as Wade bounds over to him, arms wide open.
They take off into the dark, Wade wrapped tightly around Peter with the food bag clutched in his hand. The hot press of Wade against his side is something he’s gotten hooked on; stronger and more intense an obsession than could be found with any drug.
“Wooooo! I love my Spider!” Wade cries, all too close to Peter, making him flinch away. “Nothing could ever beat this, Spidey, holy shit.”
“Sensitive ears, ‘Pool,” Peter murmurs in reminder. He can see his apartment from here, soon enough the heat of Deadpool will be removed, and it’ll be back to the cold.
“Sorry,” Wade gasps immediately, his voice lowered to a comically loud whisper. “Forgot my little Spider is sensitive.”
“Shut up, Wade.” Peter’s not sure he can make it to the apartment. He has half a mind to dump Wade down onto the street right now. That thought seems to occur often, though Peter knows, at the back of his mind, that he’d never drop Wade. Couldn’t bear to; has felt emotions rough and intense enough while seeing Wade’s cracked body before, doesn’t ever, ever wish to be the cause of it.
When they get into his apartment and Wade pulls away, the cold rushes back full force and Peter nearly collapses with the weight of it. In the moments between the rooftop and the apartment window, he’d nearly forgotten of the dreary ice lapping at every inch of his skin.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” Wade’s arms are around him then, startling and burning hot.
“Sorry,” Peter says, grinding his teeth to keep them from chattering. “Cold.”
“Yeah, I can tell. Here, let me help you.”
Peter is settled onto the couch and Wade prances further into the apartment, headed for Peter’s room. And Peter should be concerned, probably, because Deadpool has a severe snooping problem, but he digs anxiously through the food bag instead. The first bite feels like heaven, the simple idea of warmth coursing through him relaxing his muscles.
Wade comes back with a long sleeve, a crewneck, and Peter's warmest set of sweatpants.
“Now we have two options here,” Wade says. “Option A: I help you out of that little spider get up and into these. Option B: I very respectfully cover my eyes and you get dressed.”
“You always peek anyway,” Peter responds with a sniffle. Fuck, he hates when his nose runs. Never a pleasant sensation. “You can just help this time.”
“Oh my god!” Wade squeals, “I’ve had so many dreams begin like this—”
“Please don’t finish that sentence. Or I’ll just get dressed myself.”
To himself, Peter almost laughs—Wade is always conscious of Peter’s privacy and boundaries, never pushing beyond well-natured jokes despite the fact that Peter has heard, rather against his will, the contents of Wade’s dreams and fantasies.
“Right!” Wade dumps the clothes onto the couch beside Peter. His hands hover just over Peter’s shoulders, fingers clenching and unclenching, but he doesn’t reach out to do anything. “Uhm. How are we doing this?”
Peter reaches up and grapples with the back of his suit until he manages to tuck his fingers under the edge of his mask, pulling it up and off.
“Hi,” Peter mumbles. He wipes his nose on the back of his gloved hand, already feeling the cold sure to come settling in.
“Hi, sweetheart,” Wade replies, his face softening. Peter can always tell, even when Wade wears the mask. Know him once, know him always. Peter thinks that, perhaps, there’s nothing that could ever make him forget these things: the tilt of Wade’s mouth when he’s made a joke he’s proud of; the way he rolls his shoulders before stepping into battle; his nervous habit of picking at his cuticles. “You look like shit.”
“Thanks,” Peter says, laughing weakly. “‘S always nice to be told that.”
“Now you know that’s not what I meant.”
Wade helps him out of the suit carefully, smoothing his hands over each new section of exposed, goose-bump riddled skin as they go. Each touch is like sunlight being rubbed into Peter’s skin, a new soaking pleasure to bask in. Peter melts under the gentle attention.
“There we go,” Wade murmurs, helping settle the last bit of clothing over Peter’s head. “Better?”
“Much,” Peter sighs. “Still cold. Chilly.”
“Spidersicle,” Wade teases. “Can I do anything else, baby boy?”
Wade smooths Peter’s hair back, running his fingers through the tangled waves. Peter leans into the motion, Wade’s hand a soothing balm to the cold of Peter’s skin.
“Can you just…hold me?” Peter requests, his voice dropped to a weak whisper. Wade’s expression softens.
“Of course, honey bunches. C’mere.” Wade settles himself back onto the couch and opens his arms wide, allowing Peter to crawl in and settle his weight into Wade’s lap. Peter fumbles around until he manages to get Wade’s mask off, tossing it carelessly onto the floor.
“You need a shower,” Peter mumbles, tucking his face against Wade’s neck. Wade laughs, rubbing his hand slowly up and down Peter’s spine. The firm pressure and continuous motion makes Peter sleepy, blinking drowsily as Wade begins humming softly. Peter’s going to have a god-awful cold tomorrow, but for right now he falls asleep comfortably wrapped up in Wade’s embrace.