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Peter's first mistake is in thinking he can't get sick.
He hasn't gotten sick in years, and honestly assumed it was because of his mutate metabolism. The common cold was beneath him now, he'd figured with all the bravery of someone ready to eat a hotdog dropped on a New York city street.
Maybe he's even done that, once. Don't judge him too harshly.
But when he wakes up this morning, the world is made of wet cement. His head feels too heavy for his neck, a useless, throbbing weight. His throat is sand, and every joint in his body is a rusty hinge.
He longs, dramatically, for death, before he gets over that part and he manages to drag himself to the kitchen for water, leaning heavily on the counter while the sink fills the glass. He's supposed to be on patrol. He's supposed to be writing a lab report. He's supposed to be preparing for taking pictures at the parade tomorrow.
Instead, he's pathetically shivering in day-old sweatpants. He nearly drops the glass when he retrieves it.
He's going to rethink that dying plan, maybe, and he's considering just lying on the linoleum rather than having to trudge all the way back to his too-far-away room when there's the unmistakable jingle of a key in his lock, followed by the sound of the deadbolt sliding back.
Oh. God. No.
The door swings open and it would be inaccurate to say that Wade enters like a normal person, because what entering is something that anyone else did. Normal people. Non-Deadpool people. Wade meanwhile tornadoes in like a weather event, his boots too loud to Peter's poor ears, two crinkly plastic bodega bags in his hands.
"Honey, I’m hooooooo—ooooly shit." Wade drops the bags, and a can of soup rolls out and spins lazily by the doorway. "You look like a drowned rat tried to fuck a dumpster fire. And lost."
Peter's head can't handle any of this. "That doesn't make—what. No. Go away."
The order is weak. He buries his face in the crook of his elbow on the counter and regrets not having taken refuge in the linoleum floor when he had the chance.
"Go away? Baby boy, the only going I'm doing is going straight to like, the doctor. Are you dying?" Peter feels the air shift as Wade crosses the kitchen in two strides. He's in civilian gear, with jeans and a sweatshirt, but he's wearing gloves and his boots and a facemask today. Wade's tolerance for his own appearance varies day-by-day. Peter feels a gloved hand land on his forehead, heavy and too warm the way Wade always is, his body a constant fever burning on its own. Wade's gloves smell faintly of gunpowder and leather. It's comforting.
"Jesus," the mercenary is saying. "You're burning up. You're not supposed to be this squishy, you know. This is a vulnerability, and I, for one, am not here for it. My nursing simulator stats are terrible." Even as he's rambling, he's gathering Peter up from the counter, rescuing the glass from his hand to set down, steering him to the couch. Peter is a dead weight and just lets himself be put and propped, until he's on a pillow and under a blanket and listening to Wade bustle around the kitchen. A pot slams. The microwave beeps angrily. The blender turns on for some reason, whirs violently for three seconds, and then stops.
Wade says, "Chicken soup? Blended pizza? Both?"
Peter hates this and he refuses to answer, muttering something about it not being needed that Wade just ignores in the flurry of unexpected helpfulness which Peter will probably be picking up the aftermath of for days.
He hates how weak he feels, and he hates, maybe most of all, the small, stupid part of him that's relieved that Wade is here.
Suddenly, the mercenary is there, filling Peter's vision. He's got a tray that Peter certainly did not own, and there's a glass of neon-blue Gatorade on it, and a bottle of children's Tylenol, and a steaming bowl of soup, and none of these things were in Peter's apartment before. He's confused. Had he fallen asleep?
Wade confirms this went: "Good morning, sunshine! Time for soup!" as he sits on the coffee table, knees knocking into the couch. "Did you nap nice?"
"I fell asleep?" Peter's still confused, enough that the glare he gives Wade is weak. He feels exposed, raw, his hair plastered to his forehead with sweat. His nose is running. He's disgusting.
Wade doesn't seem to notice. He just lifts the spoon. "Open up for the chimichanga-plane. Neeeeerow!"
"It's not a chimichanga," Peter mutters, but he actually does open his mouth.
The soup is hot, salty, and Wade is a surprisingly non-violent feeder. He just keeps scooping, blowing on the spoon, and shoving it into Peter's mouth, one measured spoonful after another. His focus is absolute, and Peter is unsettled by it. It's the same focus he has on a job, an intensity that can't be shaken until he's gotten his target.
...Or until he gets bored. Not all jobs were equal.
The manic energy is still there, vibrating under his skin the way it always is, but Wade's hands are as steady as they are on a rifle.
Peter's seen Wade kill people. He's seen him cauterize his own wounds with a car lighter. He's seen him eat a taco out of a garbage can. This quiet, competent care is somehow the most unnerving thing he's ever done.
"You're staring," Wade says, not looking up from the soup, like Peter's the weird one here. "It's creepy. You planning on eating my face? 'Cause that’s usually my line, and consent is key, Petey. I mean, I'm not not consenting, for the record. I just wanna be on the same page."
"Why are you doing this?" Peter asks. His voice is a croak. He takes another bite.
Wade pauses, spoon halfway to Peter’s mouth. He cocks his head. “You're sick."
Peter waits for more explanation and none comes, and Wade feeds him another bite, and Peter doesn't know how to unpack it. His relationship with the mercenary is complicated on a good day. Ever since Deadpool had uncovered his identity, he'd just started coming by, but nothing else ever came of it. Peter never found his face plastered on some rag, or used as blackmail, or anything. He knew he had a bounty. Spider-Man was wanted by several major villains willing to pay Deadpool to do the job.
Instead, the mercenary came by unannounced, and made him play Mario Kart, and brought snacks.
The soup is gone, and Wade puts the bowl down and immediately starts piling more blankets on him. Peter's small couch is suddenly buried under three comforters and an afghan that looks like it lost a fight with a rainbow.
Again. Peter owns none of these things, and has no idea where they came from, but he's so used to Wade by now that he doesn't fight it or ask.
"You're a burrito," Wade announces, tucking a heavy quilt tightly around Peter's shoulders. “A sad, sick, Spider-Burrito. A Spidurito."
None of Wade's ramblings ever need replies, and Peter doesn't bother. He just sinks into the warmth. The fever is still there, but the aches are dulling, the cement in his head softening. He's warm. He's full.
"Gonna patrol for you,” Wade decides, pulling his phone out. It isn't a question. "I'll tell Jameson you died. No, wait. You're pregnant. With my child, maybe? He'll ask so I need an answer. Think of the headlines, Petey! Web-Slinger's Sticky Situation: Merc’s Mouthful Makes Miracle! Yes? No?"
"Oh my god," Peter sighs. "Just... be quiet for five minutes."
"Easy," Wade agrees, and it doesn't even last thirty seconds before he's humming the Jeopardy! theme song while tapping his foot. Somehow, the tapping doesn't match up, like they're two entirely separate songs.
Peter doesn't even care. He lets that incessant, chaotic, safe voice wash over him.
He still hates being sick. He hates being weak. He closes his eyes. He hates, just for a second, how much he doesn't hate this.
He doesn't remember falling asleep, but when he surfaces hours later, the room is dark and the TV is on, the volume low on some infomercial. His fever has broken. He's just warm now in his cocoon.
Wade hasn't moved. He's still sitting on the coffee table, though his head is tipped down. He's asleep, or pretending to be, and Peter doesn't say anything. He just lies there in the quiet, listening to Wade breathe.