Chapter Text
It started small.
Peter noticed he laughed more when Wade was around. Not just polite, breathy chuckles, real, gut-deep laughter that made him feel a little lighter, a little less like the whole world was trying to crush him.
He noticed Wade touching him more- a nudge of the shoulder, a pat on the head, a hand lingering at the small of his back when they ducked into cover. Peter noticed he didn’t mind. He noticed he leaned into it.
But it didn’t mean anything.
Of course it didn’t.
Peter had friends. He knew what friendship felt like. He and Wade were just... close. Close in a way that Peter didn’t let himself be with many people. That was all it was. That was all it had to be.
Still, sometimes he caught himself watching Wade a little too long when he thought he wasn’t looking. Still, sometimes Wade said something so earnest, so stupidly sincere beneath all the noise and bravado, that it made Peter's chest ache.
Still, sometimes Peter went home after patrol and found himself smiling at the memory of Wade’s voice, rattling around in his head, like a song he didn’t know he’d learned the words to.
He ignored it.
He buried it.
He told himself he was imagining things.
Until one night, it was raining- a miserable, pounding storm that turned the city into a blur of lights and reflections. They ducked into the doorway of an old brick building, soaked and laughing, and Wade pulled off his mask with a wet squelch, running a hand over his face.
"You look like a drowned rat," Peter teased, shoving at Wade’s shoulder.
"Yeah? You look like a wet T-shirt contest reject, Spidey," Wade shot back, grinning wide, eyes crinkling.
Peter was still laughing when he looked up- really looked- and caught the way Wade was looking at him. Open. Bright. Soft.
The laugh caught in his throat.
Something cracked open inside him, sudden and sharp.It wasn’t the easy comfort of friendship that tightened in his chest. It wasn’t some passing warmth.
It was more. It had been more for a while now- he was just too stubborn, too scared, too Peter to see it.
And right there, dripping wet, heart hammering against his ribs, Peter thought:
Oh.
Oh.
And he couldn’t unthink it.
He couldn’t unfeel it.
Peter jerked his gaze away so fast he nearly gave himself whiplash.
Don’t be weird, don’t be weird, don’t be weird, he chanted internally, schooling his face into something neutral. Or what he hoped was neutral. Knowing him, he probably just looked constipated.
Wade didn’t seem to notice. He just snorted and shook out his arms like a dog, sending a fresh spray of water everywhere. Peter yelped as cold droplets hit his face, grateful for the excuse to turn away and focus on brushing himself off, heart thundering against his ribs like a wild thing.
He couldn’t do this.
He could not do this.
It was bad enough he was realising he liked Wade- Wade Wilson, of all people- but it was even worse that he liked him like this- while Wade still thought of him as just SpiderMan. Just a mask and a voice. A friend with secrets so thick you could choke on them.
Wade didn’t know him. Not really.
And Peter… Peter didn’t get to want things like this. Not when every part of his life was a lie he could never untangle.
He swallowed hard and tugged his mask down tighter, wiping the rain from the lenses. He needed to say something. Something normal. Something that didn’t scream I just realized I’m probably, definitely in love with you and I’m very much freaking out about it.
“Uh,” Peter said, eloquently. “We should- we should probably find somewhere dry before you melt into a sad, soggy chimichanga.”
Wade tilted his head, studying him. For a second, Peter thought he saw something flicker across Wade’s face- something knowing, something curious- but it was gone almost as fast as it came.
“Lead the way, Spider-Babe,” Wade said cheerfully, slinging an arm around Peter’s shoulders.
Peter stiffened automatically. And then, worse, he melted.
He hated how easy it was. How natural it felt to lean into Wade’s weight, even with every nerve in his body sparking with panic.
Wade was chatting about some diner he knew that stayed open past midnight, somewhere with terrible coffee and pancakes the size of his head. Peter made encouraging noises where appropriate, trying to focus on the words instead of the warm, solid presence at his side.
But the whole time, that quiet, terrifying thought beat louder and louder in his head:
It’s him. It’s been him for a long time.
And Peter had no idea what the hell he was supposed to do about it.
***
The diner was a bust.
Turns out even greasy, too-tough New York diners eventually caved to health codes- closed early for deep cleaning or something equally offensive. Wade banged on the dark windows dramatically for a minute before giving up.
“Well, Plan B, Spidey,” Wade said, tossing an arm back around Peter’s shoulders like it was the most natural thing in the world. “My place isn’t far. Towels, dry clothes, crappy microwave burritos- the works.”
Peter hesitated.
Going back to Wade’s apartment felt... dangerous. In a way he couldn’t name. In a way that set his skin buzzing and made every instinct scream at him to run, to find some excuse, to not put himself in a position where he might blurt out something stupid like hey, by the way, I think I’m accidentally in love with you.
But Wade was already tugging him along, cheerful and oblivious, and Peter- being Peter- couldn’t say no.
The walk to Wade’s building was mercifully short. A battered walk-up, cracked red bricks and an even more cracked buzzer. Wade didn’t even bother with keys, just picked the lock with a credit card and a cheerful whistle.
Peter stepped inside and immediately took stock: small, cluttered, chaotic. Weapons stashed in cereal boxes. Laundry tossed in heaps. A couch that had definitely seen better days. It should’ve felt overwhelming, too much- but somehow, it just felt Wade.
“Mi casa es su casa, Spidey,” Wade said, tossing his soaked mask onto the counter. He peeled off the rest of his costume in pieces, switching to battered jeans and a T-shirt that said TACOS ARE MY EMOTIONAL SUPPORT.
Peter’s brain short-circuited for a second.
He turned away too fast, pretending to examine a wall covered in bizarre postcards and aggressively ugly fridge magnets.
“I, uh, probably shouldn’t stay long,” Peter mumbled, suddenly hyperaware of the way his suit was clinging to him, cold and soaked through.
“Nope!” Wade said brightly. “Wrong. You’re dripping all over my floor, and you’re gonna catch a cold, and then I’ll have to carry your congested, fevered body through the streets like a tragic rom-com heroine, and frankly, I don’t have the upper body strength for that kind of drama today.”
Peter opened his mouth. Closed it. Gave up.
Towels were thrown at him- big, fluffy, surprisingly clean towels- and a set of clothes that clearly belonged to Wade. Oversized sweatpants and a loose T-shirt that would absolutely drown Peter. He stared at the pile in his hands, heart doing some kind of erratic gymnastics routine.
“Bathroom’s down the hall,” Wade said, jerking a thumb over his shoulder. “Go on. I promise I’ll only peek a little.”
Peter snorted despite himself and shoved past him, locking himself in the bathroom with a click.
He braced his hands on the sink and stared at himself in the mirror. His mask hung around his neck, his hair plastered to his forehead, water dripping from the ends.
Get it together, he told his reflection.
This was fine. This was fine. Friends crashed at each other’s places all the time. Friends borrowed clothes and made stupid jokes and didn’t- did not- spiral into existential crises about how badly they wanted to stay, to sit on Wade’s couch and laugh about nothing until they forgot the rest of the world existed, to kiss him until he was out of breath.
Peter dragged a towel over his face and tried not to think about how it smelled faintly like Wade- soap and leather and something sharp and unmistakably him.
Tried and failed.
He tugged the dry clothes on, the fabric soft and worn and too much, throwing back on his damp mask, and when he finally, reluctantly opened the door again, Wade was sprawled across the couch, flipping through channels with a remote that looked like it had been chewed on.
Wade’s eyes lit up when he saw him. Actually lit up- crinkling at the corners, a big, stupid, open grin blooming across his face.
“Look at you,” Wade said, tossing the remote aside. “All cosy and adorable. It’s like a Pinterest board come to life.”
Peter laughed, too loudly, too sharply.
He shoved his hands into the sleeves of the giant sweatshirt like they could hide him.
Wade patted the couch next to him. “Come on, Spider-bro. Movie night. I got Die Hard, Die Hard 2, and uh- ” he squinted at a disc “-something labelled ‘Die Hard but Worse.’ We can mock Bruce Willis together.”
Peter stood frozen for a second, towel draped around his neck, heart pounding painfully against his ribs.
He could leave. He should leave.
Instead, he crossed the room and sat down- closer than he should, close enough to feel the heat radiating off Wade, close enough that it made his whole body hum with tension.
And as Wade queued up the movie, rattling on about bad one-liners and explosions, Peter sat there, staring at the screen without seeing a second of it, feeling the full, devastating weight of what
he was realising settle into his bones:
He was in trouble.
He was so, so far gone.
And Wade had no idea.
The movie played, not that Peter could pay attention, mostly because Wade couldn’t go more than five minutes without cracking a joke, pointing out continuity errors, or doing terrible Bruce Willis impressions. Peter laughed more than he should’ve. That high, nervous laughter that cracked in his throat and made him want to crawl inside the giant sweatshirt and never come out.
The whole time, he kept his mask tugged down over his face. Just in case. It was a flimsy barrier, but it was something.
Wade didn’t comment on it, didn’t even blink at it. He just handed Peter a microwave burrito at one point and kept up a running commentary about the relative merits of action movie tropes.
Peter clutched the burrito like it was a lifeline, too aware of every inch of space between them- or rather, the complete lack of space.
Wade sat sprawled out, taking up half the couch like a contented cat. One of his knees bumped against Peter’s thigh every time he shifted, casual and unthinking, and every time, Peter felt it like a
live wire under his skin.
"You know," Wade said eventually, voice gone low and almost thoughtful, "you’re real quiet tonight, Webs."
Peter froze mid-bite.
"I mean, not that you’re a motor-mouth usually," Wade continued, tilting his head toward him. "But normally you chirp more. Quips. Sarcastic little jabs. It’s our whole thing. Our dynamic." He waved a hand between them vaguely.
Peter swallowed hard- maybe too hard. He coughed into his mask to cover it.
"Just tired," Peter mumbled, voice muffled through fabric.
Wade hummed like he didn’t believe him for a second.
There was a long beat of silence- longer than Peter was used to with Wade. Heavy. Stretching out between them like a pulled thread.
"You know," Wade said finally, voice a little softer, "you don't have to keep the mask on. I mean- you’re safe here. No judgment. No cameras. No bad guys popping out of the vents, unless you count the rats. And honestly, they're mostly unionised at this point."
Peter laughed- a startled, real laugh- and immediately hated how fond it sounded.
He shook his head quickly. "Nah. I’m good," he said, a little too fast. "Habit."
Wade’s gaze lingered on him- not prying, not pushing, just... seeing him, in a way that made Peter’s chest hurt.
"Okay," Wade said simply, leaning back again, arms stretched wide along the back of the couch, so casual it hurt.
One arm brushed lightly behind Peter’s shoulders- not quite touching, just there. Peter sat stiffly, every nerve screaming, staring at the TV without seeing it.
Because the truth was- he wasn’t keeping the mask on for anonymity.
He was keeping it on because if he took it off- if he let Wade see his face- Peter didn’t trust himself not to do something stupid. Something reckless. Something he couldn’t take back.
Like kiss him.
Like fall harder than he already had.
The thought made Peter’s whole body flush hot under the sweatshirt. He tugged the hood up over his head to hide it, feeling like a ridiculous, lovesick disaster.
Wade didn’t seem to notice. Or if he did, he didn’t say anything.
He just let the bad movie flicker on, explosions casting weird shadows over the room, and stayed there- close enough to touch, but not quite touching.
And Peter sat there, mask on, heart in his throat, pretending not to notice how easy it would be to lean into him.
Pretending it didn’t already feel like the most natural thing in the world.