Work Text:
It had been over a month since you had last heard from Wade Wilson. Usually your friend texted you periodically, having memorized your work schedule ever since the two of you became official friends, but for the last several weeks you’ve received nothing but radio silence. You knew he must be busy—his job was difficult, after all, even if he did manage to pull through each time—but you couldn’t help worrying about him… or missing him, for that matter.
You and Wade had first become acquainted with each other three years earlier when you found him crashed out on your balcony in a pool of blood, groaning in pain, fully armed and decked out in his red and black spandex number. He looked up at you, appraising your pajama-clad appearance from head to toe, and greeted you with a flirtatious, “Nice stems, sweetcheeks.” Had you not been an ER nurse, you would have fainted at the sight of him, an arm wrapped around his middle as he fought to keep his entrails from spilling out, but your medical training kicked in, and so you went to work dragging him inside, wincing at the trail of blood he left in his wake.
Since then, Wade had considered you his personal medic, always hauling himself to your apartment when he needed some medical assistance (which was nearly every night when he was in town). Most of his visits occurred after your late night shifts—you had come home many times to find a bedraggled Deadpool waiting patiently on your doormat—but despite your fatigue, you were always happy to help, your concern for Wade greatly outweighing any frustration with having to work on yet another patient. You valued him for his humor and for the lighthearted air with which he spoke, and so when he wasn’t present, you missed him terribly. You had plenty of patients with outrageous injuries and stories to match, but Wade had slowly but surely become the most interesting part of your life.
You were lounging on the couch snacking on some Chex Mix and watching some Netflix original your coworker had recommended when you heard knocking at your door. You paused the show, placed the bowl of Chex Mix on the coffee table, and crept toward your door quietly. Your pulse roared in your ears as you wondered who would be here at this hour, your imagination rife with images of axe murderers and thieves. Last year goons had come to your apartment on five different occasions looking for Wade, and after some thought you had armed yourself with an aluminum baseball bat (Wade had offered you one of his pistols, but you didn’t trust yourself with a gun when you still nicked your fingers no matter how careful you were while slicing food). You snatched your baseball bat from your umbrella basket and waited a few seconds before throwing open the door, poised to strike whoever was standing there.
“Hey!” Wade called out jovially, tumbling to the floor in front of you with a pained grunt. Evidently, he had been leaning against your door, and so when it swung open, into your apartment he fell.
“Wade, oh, my God! Are you alright?” You tossed the bat aside and knelt down next to him, scanning his body for injuries with both your eyes and your fingers while Wade mumbled to himself. The first thing you noticed was his right arm, severed messily at the elbow. Wade turned over onto his back with a pained groan and you saw that he cradled the arm to his chest. The lower half of his left leg bent from the knee at an awkward and unnatural angle: definitely broken. You figured he had been leaning on your door for support, what with his noodly limb. How had he even made it to your apartment? His suit was shredded in multiple places; blood seeped through the tears, but most of the gashes themselves seemed to be sealing up before your eyes. You started removing his weapons, unbuckling holsters and sliding them off of him. You treated each weapon with care, carefully placing his katanas (and the discarded bat) in your umbrella basket.
“Oh, I’m doin’ just fine, sweetheart. Mind if I crash here overnight?” Wade finally rasped, turning your face to yours. You figured he was giving you puppy dog eyes from behind the mask.
“Yeah, yeah, let’s just get you patched up, alright?” He nodded. “OK, great.” You stood, bending over to grab him by the underarms, and dragged him over to your couch. He was heavy, but you had dealt with your fair share of dead weights in the past, and so carrying Wade was no different. You hurried over to your hallway closet and retrieved a nondescript dark red throw, the one you kept for situations such as these. You threw the blanket over your couch and managed to hoist Wade onto it, apologizing when he cursed in pain. Finally, you closed the door, locking it behind you.
“Twelve guys,” Wade grumbled before you had even opened your mouth to ask. “Not too shabby, am I right?”
You shook your head slowly, going back to your closet and returning to the living room with your medical bag in hand. “I’m impressed. Last time you took on six guys and you lost both arms.”
“These guys were punks. No guns, only machetes.” He pouted dramatically. “I miss bullets, babe.”
You chuffed derisively. “Bullets don’t miss you, Wade. Now, c’mon. Are you gonna strip or am I gonna have to cut the suit off by myself?”
“Oh, so you’re that kind of nurse. Alright. Go ahead and cut it off me, babe. Snip snip. It’s ruined beyond repair.” He paused, giving you an exaggerated and unimpressed onceover. “You’ll have to work on your sexy nurse get-up, though. As much as I love your pajamas, I think some lingerie would suffice, doc.”
You shook your head at his words. You hadn’t been expecting any guests, and so you were in your loungewear: a faded, oversized T-shirt and basketball shorts. “Well, if you insist. Maybe if you come back with all four limbs attached I’ll wear something nicer.” You retrieved a pair of scissors from your med bag and went to work cutting Wade out of his suit. “Do I need to cut the mask off, too?” you asked while you peeled the spandex away from his skin.
“I’ll do the honors. Brace yourself.” With that he used his attached arm to yank the mask up and off of his head. “Ta-da!” He flashed you a bright, crooked smile. You looked up from your work and saw that he had a black eye, and a couple of his teeth were missing.
You smiled back at him weakly. You knew how he felt about his face, how it was easier for him to feign overconfidence peppered with self-deprecating remarks, but the way he truly hated himself and the way he looked never failed to make your heart sink. He was handsome, unconventionally so, but handsome all the way, from his lack of eyebrows and raw, pinkish complexion to his strong chin and luminous eyes. “Glad to see that handsome mug of yours, as always. Have you gotten work done? I swear, you’re looking more and more like Ryan Reynolds every time I see you.”
“That egghead? I’m going more for the Gosling look actually. If you prefer Reynolds, I guess I can make an exception…”
You chuckled and patted his cheek. His eyes watched you seriously. “No, no, I prefer Wade.” You placed the scissors on the table, and Wade helped you strip him out of the suit. “There we go. I have some of your clothes here for you to sleep in. Thanks for wearing underwear this time.” You thought back to the time you had quite literally torn the suit off of him to staunch the bleeding in his thigh, only to find that nothing lay beneath the spandex. Nothing at all.
“My pleasure. Well, not my pleasure. It’s always better going commando in this thing.” He grinned at you. “Did’ya miss me?”
You glanced up at him with a tight smile. “Miss” wouldn’t begin to cover it. “Yeah, I did,” you replied, eyes trained on his, hoping for a more emotional confession from him.
Wade cleared his throat and looked away first. He held up his right arm and gestured to you with it. “Shall we?”
“We shall.”
You ended up sleeping for much longer than you had intended that night. You had been planning to watch the Netflix original into the wee hours of the morning, but you finished up with Wade around one. He survived the night with healing lacerations, and when you had decided to turn in for the evening, his bones had almost fully reattached themselves. He had fallen quickly into a blissful, pain medication-induced sleep. You had gone to sleep content that Wade was safe but also anxious to ask him about where he’d been for the last month—and why he hadn’t texted or called you once.
You shuffled out into the living room at nine, still in your cotton tee—now flecked with blood—and polyester-mesh shorts. You had woken up a few minutes before, washed your face and made yourself a little more presentable. Wade was on the couch where you had left him, clad in a hoodie, sweats, and socks. About a year after befriending each other, you had suggested that Wade keep a set of spare clothes at your place, lest he come to you for help and spend the night. You only wanted him to be comfortable.
He looked adorable, honestly, curled up on your sofa into a ball. His face looked softer in sleep, relaxed, calmer than you had ever seen it. You paused at the sofa on your way to the kitchen to rub his bald head, mostly for your own enjoyment. He stirred slightly, so you dashed away to the kitchen and began rummaging through your pantry. You figured he’d want pancakes when he woke up. You were melting butter in the microwave and adding eggs to the mixture when Wade woke up.
“Y/N?”
“Yeah, Wade?”
“Just making sure that’s you,” Wade slurred. “I thought it was you so I asked the couch to make sure. He wouldn’t tell me.”
“He’s a goddamn traitor is what he is.”
“Right?!”
You chuckled softly and added milk to the mix. “Did you sleep OK, bud? Sorry, my couch isn’t that comfy.”
“Eh, don’t worry about it, sweetums. It was plenty comfy.” Wade sighed contentedly, rolling over onto his back and observing you through half-lidded eyes. “S’not every day I wake up to a hot nurse in pajamas making me breakfast.”
You smirked, and the microwave went off. “Oh? Just on the weekends, then?” you queried cheekily, retrieving the butter from the microwave and pouring it into the bowl.
He snorted. “I wish. I’d come over every day of the fucking week if it meant you treating me to a comfy couch and pancakes.” He yawned, extending his arms above his head in a languid stretch before folding his hands over his chest. “Not to mention how you had me strip last night. Shame it took me being injured for you to ask, though. I could never refuse you, Dr. Sexy.”
You could tell from his slurred speech and heavy-lidded expression that he was still pretty high on opiates, so you didn’t bat an eye at his comment. Still, you’d be lying if you said his words hadn’t brought a surge of heat to your cheeks. “Well, thank you for the opportunity,” you told him, stirring the pancake batter vigorously. “How else was I gonna get a look at that hot bod of yours?”
Wade giggled. The high-pitched sound make you smile; yep, definitely doped up. “You think I’m hot, baby? You don’t half the know of it.”
“Oh, Wade,” you sighed sympathetically. “Go back to sleep, honey. You’re too high to talk.”
You glanced over at him and saw that he was squinting at you with the goofiest grin on his face. “I missed you,” he murmured, adjusting his position on the couch. He yawned loudly, and you stood frozen, heart thundering in your chest, waiting to hear if he would say more. “Goodnight, Y/N.”
“Goodnight, Wade. I’ll wake you up in an hour.” You supposed you could put off making the pancakes if it meant giving Wade an extra hour of much-needed sleep. You stored the bowl of mix in the fridge and went to the living room to sit in the recliner next to the couch. You leaned back in the chair until you were nearly supine and watched Wade for a few moments, eyes following the slow rise and fall of his chest as he slept, before you closed your eyes and dozed off.
You woke up nearly two hours later to find Wade sitting on the couch, watching TV. You slowly sat up, stretching your arms above your head and bringing the chair back to an upright position. “Whatcha watching?” you mumbled.
“That one show, the Netflix one, what’s it called again… Weird Shit? Unordinary Occurrences?Something like that. Why is it on your list, anyway?”
“Minnie recommended it,” you yawned, standing up and returning to the kitchen. Your stomach was roaring with hunger, but the pains subsided when you opened the fridge and retrieved the pancake batter, setting it on the counter. “You remember her, don’t you?”
“Short, perky, buzzcut? Yeah, I know her. Tell her I said hello.”
You slid your mini griddle onto one of the burners and turned on the stove. “Who, Wade or Deadpool?”
“Eh, tell her Wade sent ya. And tell her to bring me more of that banana bread.” You heard soft, quick footsteps as Wade rose from the couch and joined you at the counter, his socked feet rustling across the carpet before sliding across the kitchen tile. “Need any help with that?” he asked, peeking over your shoulder at the silver dollar pancakes you were currently frying.
You shook your head. “Thanks, but no thanks, big guy. I got this covered. You’re my guest; I’ll make the food.” You glanced over at him with a smile and a wink.
Wade grimaced. “Fine,” he muttered, stepping forward and craning his neck to rest his chin on your shoulder. He sighed heavily, and you managed to avoid commenting on his morning breath. Suddenly he turned his face into your shoulder and sniffed deeply, making you squeak and almost drop your spatula. “You smell good,” he remarked. “Or is that the pancakes?”
You chuckled. “I hope it’s me. Your pancakes are ready, hon. Order up!”
Wade squawked with delight—yes, squawked; you had no other noise to compare it to—and briefly left your shoulder, returning with a paper plate in one hand and your bottle of maple syrup in the other. You slid most of the pancakes onto his plate, leaving three for yourself. Once the stove was shut off and the bowl of mix was soaking in the sink, you settled down at the table in the seat across from Wade, who had scarfed down at least half of his pancakes already. You ate in relative silence.
“Thanks for this, Y/N.”
You paused, peering over at Wade curiously. He was watching you with soft eyes; the look made your skin tingle. “Yeah, Wade, any time. You’re always welcome here.”
“You do so much whenever I come by and I…” He swallowed. “I can never repay you. Not efficiently anyway. I could pay you in cash but something tells me you’re above that.”
“Am I though?”
“I stand corrected. The point is, I’m sorry.” You feigned another confused look but he saw right through it. “I should’ve called or texted and I would have but… I dunno, I got scared. Worried that you were getting tired of me, y’know? Everyone gets tired of me… Jeez, that sounds pathetic. But it’s true. You don’t have to put up with me if I annoy you, Y/N. I don’t want you to force anything with me.” He tapped his fingers on the table arrhythmically. “End of rant.”
You sat there speechless, eyes wide and lips parted, still registering what he had just told you. Wade rarely opened up to you; part of you was delighted that he had and the other part of you was unsure of what to say. “Wade, I… I missed you,” you murmured, blinking away tears. “I didn’t know how much I needed you in my life until you were gone. I never have to ‘put up with you.’ You’re always welcome here. Always wanted.” You reached across the table to take his hand. “I’m not forcing anything. I care about you. I like being your medic. I like you.”
Wade sat there with a stupefied look on his face, watching you with mouth open and eyes glazed over. He had never looked at you that way before (not when you were looking anyway) and the intensity of his gaze was making you blush, so you released your hand and quickly glanced away from him, clearing your throat. “Eat your pancakes, Wade,” you mumbled with halfhearted sternness. “You need your calories after last night.”
He shook his head wildly as if clearing his thoughts. He shoved a forkful of pancake into his mouth. “Delicious cooking as always,” he praised you, putting down his fork to pour more syrup over his plate. “Ever consider coming along with me and being my medic and my chef?”
You cocked one eyebrow skeptically. As much as you loved Wade, you also loved having a stable job and a somewhat stable life.
Wade shrugged. “It was worth a shot.”