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The rain started as a whisper - just a gentle patter against his mask as Peter crouched on the ledge of a grimy Queens building. He barely noticed it at first, too focused on the alleyway below where something suspicious was supposed to happen.
Spoiler: nothing did.
Then the whisper turned into a conversation. Then a yell. Then a full-blown argument with thunder and lightning.
By the time Peter gave up the stakeout, the rain had become a wall, slapping sideways across his face as he swung between buildings. Within minutes, he was soaked to the skin. His suit clung like shrink-wrap, heavy with water, and his fingers kept slipping on his webs.
“God, I should’ve brought a poncho,” he muttered, landing on a rooftop and stumbling as his foot skidded against the slick surface.
Lightning split the sky like a warning shot. Thunder answered a beat later, loud enough to shake the air.
He looked down. The streets were already pooling. Storm drains were clogged, water swirled around abandoned umbrellas and fast food wrappers. He wasn’t getting home tonight - not unless he wanted to go for a swim through the subway system or spend two hours stuck on top of a stopped train.
He glanced toward the east toward Queens, toward May’s apartment, but it was so far, and he was so unbelievably cold. His body shook violently once, then again, and he realized with a slow, sinking certainty that he was reaching his limit.
“Okay,” he said to no one. “Okay. Think, Parker. You’re a genius. A cold, dripping genius.”
That's when he realised - with crushing dismay - that there was only one other person he could turn to: Wade.
Wade lived nearby - midtown - close enough to walk.
Peter grimaced. He hadn’t exactly planned to go to Wade’s place like this. Usually, there was a lot more sarcasm involved. More bickering, less dramatic weather.
Still, he had no other options. Wade wouldn’t say no, he knew that. The man would probably throw him a towel and call it a romcom moment.
“God help me,” Peter muttered, peeling off his mask. It squelched as he stuffed it into a belt pouch.
Then he turned toward Wade's apartment, dragging his soggy, frozen limbs through the rain like the worlds most pitiful stray cat.
By the time he reached Wade’s apartment, he couldn’t feel his toes.
His limbs ached with cold, his soaked suit clung to him like wet newspaper, and his teeth were chattering so violently he was worried about cracking a molar. It was the kind of deep, gnawing cold that soaked into his bones, the kind that made him feel sluggish and small.
He stood in the hallway for a moment, dripping steadily onto the welcome mat in front of Apartment 3B. His fists were clenched at his sides, partly from the chill and partly from stubborn pride.
This is so stupid. He’s fought alien warlords and killer robots. He’s swung into explosions with barely a flinch.
And yet here he was. Shaking. Freezing. Ringing Wade's doorbell looking like a stray in the middle of a hurricane.
There was a crash inside after he rang the bell. Something metal clanged. A very enthusiastic voice shouted, “IF THAT’S THE DOORDASH GUY, I’M ALREADY IN LOVE WITH YOU-”
The door flung open.
Wade was standing there in sweatpants, a tank top with a cartoon taco on it, and one novelty shark slipper. He had a smear of salsa on his cheek and a dishrag in one hand.
And then he saw Peter.
The smug grin fell off his face like someone hit a switch. “Oh. Oh shit.”
Peter opened his mouth to say something, but his jaw just clicked uselessly. He gave up and lifted a limp hand in a weak, “Hi.”
Wade stared for one breathless second before lighting up.
“OH MY GOD. YOU CAME TO ME.” He did a small hop in place. “Like a damp little romcom protagonist! Spidey, you’re soaked! This is better than the time I found a machete in my laundry basket!”
Peter let out a long, shuddering breath. “Wade, can I- can I come in? Please?”
Wade’s enthusiasm shifted instantly into action. “Yes! YES. Get in here, you poor frozen spider."
He stepped aside so fast he nearly tripped over his own slipper, and Peter stumbled in just as badly like a storm-blown leaf. The warmth of the apartment hit him like a punch, and his knees almost gave out, quickly reaching for support on the nearby wall. Wade caught him with strong hands and made a noise that was somewhere between a gasp and a coo.
“Oh my god, you’re shaking like a blender full of ice cubes. Pete, you idiot, you should’ve come here hours ago.”
“I didn’t- I wasn’t planning-” Peter mumbled, but his jaw was locked tight, the words barely making it out.
“Shut up,” Wade said gently, pressing a hand to Peter’s back and steering him inside. “You did great. You came to the hottest man with heating and snacks. I am so proud.”
Peter managed a weak huff of breath - maybe a laugh, maybe a sob - and let himself be led further into the apartment, dripping all the way.
Wade didn’t even flinch at the trail of water. He looked like Christmas came early.
“You look like a sad baby bird,” he murmured with an alarming amount of affection. “A sexy, rain-soaked, tragic baby bird. Let’s get you dry before you get pneumonia and I have to nurse you back to health using only my chest hair and the power of love.”
Peter huffed, but didn’t resist.
He barely noticed being steered down the hallway. Everything was a blur of color and warmth and Wade’s constant, low-level stream of comforting nonsense. Something about “rain gods blessing me with a boyfriend” and “this is basically The Notebook if you squint.”
His boots squelched with every step. The dripping was embarrassing.
“Okay, okay, bathroom,” Wade announced, pushing the door open with a flourish. The light flickered dramatically, like it too was excited to participate.
Peter blinked. He was shivering so hard he was starting to feel floaty.
Wade’s hand settled on his back again.
"I'm turning the shower on. Don't rgue. I know you. You’ll try to be noble and shiver to death instead of mildly inconveniencing me.”
Peter opened his mouth. Nothing came out.
“See?” Wade grinned and leaned in to nudge Peter’s forehead with his own. “Too cold to sass. That’s a war crime. Get in the shower.”
The sound of water rushing to life was the most beautiful thing Peter had ever heard. Steam began to rise, curling into the mirror like a promise.
Wade was already rifling through a nearby laundry basket. “Okay, you’re smaller than me - by a lot, my god, Peter, eat a carb - but you can borrow these.”
He threw a bundle of clothes onto the closed toilet lid: an old pair of sweatpants with a faded Deadpool logo on the thigh and a loose black t-shirt that said BLOW ME in gothic script.
“I’ll find socks too,” Wade added. “Or maybe I’ll just knit you some while you’re in there. Do you like frogs? I could do frogs.”
Peter made a noise halfway between a snort and a whimper. His head thunked lightly against the doorframe.
What
Wade stepped close again, a little more serious this time. He pulled Peter’s mask out of his belt pouch and set it aside with more care than he usually showed anything.
“Hey,” Wade said softly. “Shower. Warm up. I’ll be out here. Not going anywhere.”
Peter nodded once. Then he started peeling the suit off, fingers clumsy and slow. Wade made a dramatic face like a gentleman cartoon character and marched out with a salute.
“Just shout if you die,” he called over his shoulder.
The door clicked shut.
Peter turned to the steam-fogged shower, exhaled hard, and stepped under the hot spray like it might bring him back to life.
Thirty minutes later, the bathroom door creaked open.
Peter emerged in a cloud of steam, hair damp and curling at his forehead, Wade’s oversized clothes hanging off his frame like he’d shrunk in the wash. The sweatpants pooled around his ankles; the t-shirt slipped off one shoulder, exposing a long stretch of collarbone and shivering skin.
His nose was red. His eyes were glassy. He was sniffling like a kitten with allergies and still visibly trembling, even after the shower.
Wade was on the couch, waiting. A thick, fuzzy blanket was folded neatly beside him and a steaming mug sat on the coffee table, suspiciously labeled Worlds Okayest Roommate.
When he saw Peter, Wade beamed.
“Oh my GOD,” he said, shooting to his feet like an excited labrador. “You look like a Tumblr dream. Is this what victory feels like? Is this what it means to live?”
Peter stared blearily at him. “I’m gonna die here, aren’t I.”
“Only from love and mild hypothermia,” Wade chirped. “C’mere.”
“I’m fine-” Peter sniffled, rubbing his nose on his sleeve.
“Wrong. You’re still shaking like that adorable hairless dog from the Deadpool and Wolverine movie and your sinuses sound like a haunted house. No offense. Blanket time.”
“I don’t need-” Peter started, then broke into a short, miserable coughing fit.
Wade didn’t wait for permission. He swooped in and wrapped the blanket around Peter like a burrito made of exasperation. Then he herded him gently onto the couch, plopped down beside him, and pulled the bundled spider firmly into his side.
Peter made a feeble noise of protest, muffled by blanket and chest.
“This is unnecessary,” he muttered.
“You came here in the rain,” Wade said, grinning into Peter’s damp hair. “Soaked. Freezing. Sniffling. In my clothes. That means I get to cuddle you and fuss over you like the tragic little protagonist you are.”
Peter sighed heavily. “You’re enjoying this too much.”
“I’m enjoying it the perfect amount,” Wade said, draping his arm around the blanketed mass of Spider-Man and squeezing gently. “Now shut up and let me smother you with platonic-ish concern.”
Peter leaned against him with the weight of someone who would never admit they needed it.
“Thanks,” he mumbled, barely audible.
Wade didn’t say anything for a moment. Just tightened the blanket a little and leaned his cheek against Peter’s hair.
“Anytime, Bug Boy.”
Peter had dozed off for maybe five minutes.
One second, he was curled under the blanket, warm for the first time in hours, tucked against Wade’s side like a reluctant cat. The next, he was jolted awake by a clatter and the very specific smell of... garlic?
His head snapped up. The blanket sagged.
“Wade?”
“In the kitchen, sunshine!” came the muffled response. “Don’t move. I’ve got sustenance on the way.”
Peter sat up fully, confused, nose still running. Wade's kitchen was supposed to be a myth - like Bigfoot, or decent customer service.
But when Peter padded in, blanket still draped around his shoulders like a cape, he found Wade at the stove - apron on, spatula in hand, and a pan sizzling with something that smelled suspiciously like actual, edible food.
“You cook?” Peter asked, cautious.
Wade turned to face him. “What, did you think I lived off sadness and vending machine jerky? I’m not that feral.”
“I kind of assumed you’d poison yourself by accident.”
“Excuse you, this is my grandmother’s recipe. She was only mostly unhinged.”
Wade slid a pan onto a trivet and began plating pasta - honest to god pasta, with sautéed garlic, a little tomato, spinach, even a sprinkle of cheese. Peter’s stomach growled so loudly it startled them both.
Wade grinned like he’d won a bet. “Your body speaks truths you’re too stubborn to say. Take a seat, bug.”
Still shell-shocked, Peter sat. A steaming plate was set in front of him like a peace offering from a chaotic deity.
He took one bite, stopped, and stared.
“Holy crap. This is actually good.”
“Actually?” Wade looked scandalized. “Excuse me? I am a man of many talents. Assassination. Improvisational dance. Culinary miracles.”
Peter chewed slowly. The warmth of the food sank into his bones like sunlight.
“Thanks,” he said again, quieter this time.
Wade softened. “You’re welcome.”
The TV played something low in the background - some old sitcom rerun - and the rain still pattered against the windows. Peter finished his plate, then let himself melt back onto the couch, limbs heavy, full in every sense of the word.
Wade joined him, setting their mugs of tea down on coasters shaped suspiciously like asses.
They sat in a comfortable silence for a few minutes
Eventually, Wade bumped their shoulders together gently. “Hey.”
Peter glanced over.
“You ever need to crash here again,” Wade said, voice uncharacteristically calm, “I’ve got a hundred blankets, and one of them even smells like laundry soap.”
Peter huffed a tired laugh. “And the others?”
“Dangerously close to smelling like me.”
“Gross.”
“Intoxicating,” Wade corrected smugly. “But sure.”
Peter rolled his eyes and let his head fall back onto Wade’s shoulder with a sigh.