Work Text:
Peter loves Saturdays.
It’s probably his favourite day of the week, honestly. Not only does it signal the official start of a much needed weekend, but on Saturdays his favourite bodega just down the street always restocks their croissants that are to die for. He introduced them to Wade one day after they finished with patrol, and ever since Peter’s always felt like the third wheel when they buy some with the way Wade waxes poetry and completely devours them a little too intimately.
It’s humiliating, being jealous of a croissant, but Peter manages. Besides, those fresh croissants have no idea what it’s like to wake up wrapped in Wade’s arms in the morning, so there's no reason to be jealous, really.
The real reason Peter loves Saturdays is because it's one of the only days both he and Wade don’t have anything planned, which allows them to slowly wake up together with no hurry. Most times he wakes up and Wade’s side of the bed is cold and vacant, Wade already mid-way through a job before Peter even blinks his eyes open. Sometimes Peter’s the one out of bed first, needing to hurry to the subway in the early morning in order to make it to his classes at his university on time.
And then there’s that blissful morning once a week that Peter always looks forward to, where he can count on waking up next to (or on top of) Wade, the early morning sun casting a dreamy glow on the rest of their room from the window.
Stirring, Peter cracks an eye open and is immediately blinded by a beam of light directly in his retina. Wincing, he closes his eye and mushes his face further into Wade's pecs and pulls his arm thrown across Wade’s waist closer to him, holding him tightly. Ugh, he groans internally, maybe we could make due without the ‘early morning sunlight’ bit.
Peter hears a light chuckle from above, and he leaves his spot on Wade’s bare chest to glance up at him, finding that Wade’s already looking at him with a fond gleam in his eye.
“Morning, Petey-Pie,” Wade rasps, his voice taking on a lower register than normal, full of sleep. Smiling, he reaches down and brushes what Peter’s sure is some gnarly bedhead out of his eyes, scarred fingers trailing gently across his face. Peter flushes, embarrassed and so, so in love, and he hopes Wade thinks that he’s just warm from the sun.
He makes a noncommittal grunt as a way of greeting, which earns Peter another chuckle as he lays his head back down in its rightful spot on Wade’s chest. Wade’s gentle fingers have found their way around to his back, brushing up and down in soothing motions against his skin that never fails to give Peter chills. If he could stay here forever he would, his degree and friendly-neighborhooding be damned.
The calming rubbing along his back and the occasional pressure when Wade finds a stubborn knot in his muscles makes Peter let out a sigh of content. He’s not quite asleep, but not quite awake, either, just floating in the realm of quiet wakefulness. He’s not sure how long they stay like that, Peter half asleep on top of Wade who’s more than happy to continue dragging his nails along Peter’s back, but when he opens his eyes again the streaks of light from the sun on their walls has shifted a fraction lower. He subconsciously realizes that their position has shifted, too, Peter’s thigh now in between Wade’s own, bare from when they had fallen into bed naked the night before.
Noticing that Peter must have finally woken up for real, Wade presses a kiss to the top of Peter’s head, no doubt messing up his loose curls even more. Peter hums, and makes the selfish wish that this will never end.
“What time is it?” He asks groggily, drawing aimless shapes on Wade’s abs with the hand Peter tossed over his torso. He can feel Wade’s stomach jump at his touch.
“Just after nine, I think,” Wade replies helpfully. He moves his hand on Peter’s back to rest at the nape of his neck, twirling the little hairs around his finger absentmindedly. Peter lets out another breathy sigh, and snuggles further into Wade.
“I’m probably going to be regretting this decision for the rest of my life,” Wade says solemnly after a while, still playing with the hairs at the base of Peter’s neck, “But I think we should get up, baby boy. We have a lot to do today.”
Wade’s pout only gets more pronounced when he receives a glare in return, Peter finding just enough energy to look at Wade to tell him without words how much he hates that idea.
“Oh, come on, you know I’m right!” Wade says. He raises his hand that’s not occupied playing with Peter’s hair and starts counting on his fingers, sticking one out every time he finishes listing an item on their to-do list, determined to prove his point. “We have to help Ms. Sinclair bring in the potted plants from her balcony, even though I think they're a little ugly,” He pauses, looking at Peter for a second. “Don't tell her I said that. I have a feeling she's wicked with that mahogany cane of hers. Also, we have to figure out whatever the hell is happening inside our fridge, because I swear to Madonna if I open it and see an empty void one more time I am going to lose it.”
Okay, Peter thinks with a frown, those are both, unfortunately, valid points.
“And don't forget about Mr. Cheung’s bodega. That is a must.” Wade gets a far-off look about him, and Peter doesn’t even have to ask to know that Wade is daydreaming about those damn croissants again. Peter watches him lick his lips, and he feels no pride in being able to read him like a book. Seriously, Wade’s obsession with those things is even starting to creep out poor old Mr. Cheung a little.
“I see where you're coming from,” Peter starts, and Wade rolls his eyes.
“But…” Wade prompts, nonexistent eyebrows raising.
“But, why don’t we just stay in bed for a bit longer?”
“Petey, we can’t! Didn't you just see me stick three fingers up? So many things to do!” Wade exclaims much too loud in the morning, waving his three pointed fingers in front of Peter’s face like an amateur hypnotist. “And you and I both know that Ms. Sinclair is going to hold us hostage for tea and biscuits for so long after the job’s done that we may as well move in permanently.” At that, Wade lets out a dreamy sigh. “God, I love that woman.”
Peter reaches out a hand and lightly smacks Wade across his chest, and he only feels marginally guilty about what he's about to say. “Ms. Sinclair can wait.” He clears his throat. “...She told me she lost her glasses yesterday when we ran into each other in the stairwell, so she won't even be able to read the time to know that we’re a little late.”
That gets a loud, shocked laugh from Wade. “Petey! Wow, I didn’t know you had it in you!” He mimes wiping a tear off his cheek, a wide grin plastered across his face as he sniffles dramatically. “Daddy’s so proud.”
“Ew, don’t call yourself that,” Peter snorts, sporting a small smile of his own. What Ms. Sinclair doesn’t know won't hurt her. He leans up and chastely kisses Wade’s smiling mouth, sliding his arms up to wrap around Wade's neck, and when he slowly pulls back he rests his chin on Wade’s sternum so he can look up at him.
“So,” Peter teases, admiring the way the late morning sun brightens Wade’s blue eyes, “What do you think?”
Wade pretends to ponder, rubbing a hand over his chin like he was stroking a long, wise beard. “Hmm, I don't know. Yellow’s saying that we need another kiss to help us make up our mind,” He says cheekily, pausing his ministrations and raising a single eyebrow at Peter.
All Peter can do is laugh, take that answer for what it is and pulls at Wade until he’s on top of him, switching their positions completely. “I love you,” He says, smiling.
With a smile of his own, Wade murmurs breathily into the crook of Peter's neck.
"I love you, too."
-----
Wade (and Yellow, the voice in Peter’s head supplies) does end up getting the kiss.
...
Maybe more than one.