Chapter Text
Pain ripples across Peter's back, searing through his entire body and forcing his hand off his web. Shit. That wasn’t supposed to happen.
“Spidey!” Deadpool shouts, but he’s still on the roof the Villain of the Week™︎ had shown up on—there’s nothing he can do.
Peter’s going to have a killer headache when he wakes up. Stupid villains and their stupid claws, he thinks just before his body collides with the ground.
——
Peter groans and peels open his eyes as he awakens. His body feels like one giant ache; a good fall during a fight will do that to a guy.
Attempting to gain his bearings, he groggily notices the telltale shifting accompanying moving, his lack of mobility, and the almost unbearable warmth of being carried. That doesn’t make sense, does it? He cranes his head up to see… Deadpool.
“Shit.”
“Well hey, Sleeping Beauty. Took a tumble from your tower, huh?” Deadpool says as he digs his thumb into Peter’s bruised side, earning a grumble of annoyance. Before he can protest the situation, Deadpool continues. “Is that even the same story? Doesn’t matter. Good to see you’re just as cheery as ever, but we’re almost at my safehouse. He probably has a, uh, concussion, right? And he is definitely going to need stitches—”
“I’m fine, DP,” Peter attempts to assert. He fails miserably.
“Yeah, sure, princess.”
Maybe he isn’t alright, but he doesn’t like the feeling of being in someone’s arms—it’s too intimate, it feels like something he could let himself have but shouldn’t.
“The boxes don’t need to worry, I can handle myself.” He’s done it before, countless nights of limping into his apartment and hoping for the best. He’s made it out okay.
Deadpool doesn’t bother to respond.
Instead, he deposits Peter onto the floor in a heap, face-first to not disturb the slashes on his back. It still hurts like a bitch, though. From his spot on the floor, he hears the click of a lock alongside the creak of a door.
Then he’s being hefted up. “If you carry me again, I swear, I will punch you in the face.”
Deadpool just hums and shifts Peter into a standing position. Peter’s weight is supported as he limps into what he supposes is a safehouse. Honestly, it could just be a random person’s apartment and Deadpool’s doing a bit of casual B&E. Peter doesn’t care right now, as long as there are painkillers. He needs, like, a dozen. Probably more.
They walk—or, in Peter’s case, stumble—over to a leather couch that looks relatively unused. Hopefully, it is, because Peter needs to sit down yesterday.
Of course, he says so out loud. How else is he supposed to get what he wants?
“Yeah, think I got that. If you could actually walk, maybe we’d get there faster—or, I could carry you again. You don’t weigh, like, anything. You eating enough?”
Peter ignores him.
They reach the couch. Peter doesn’t spare a moment, and immediately collapses onto it with his face smushed into the cushions.
“Well, since you’ve made yourself so comfortable, I’ll grab some supplies. If I don’t see you when I get back, no tacos for a month.” Peter grimaces at the idea—how would he get sustenance for his super-metabolism? Also, he’s broke.
He’s still pondering his possible options when the door clicks shut. Damn Deadpool and his world-ending threats.
——
Peter’s been waiting for who knows how long (probably only a few minutes) when Deadpool comes in with an honest-to-god shopping cart filled entirely with medical supplies.
“Why do you have so much? What did you do, raid a hospital?” Peter squawks and Deadpool just winks.
Asshole.
“Something like that. Most of it’s for later. Hey, buddy, d’ya think you could sit up, maybe, and we can take this to the bed—I mean, bathroom. This might get messy.” Deadpool laughs at his own innuendo because of course he does.
At this point, Peter’s muscles don’t ache quite as much. He’ll be able to cross the small distance it’ll take to get to the bathroom.
“Just lead the way with your absurd shopping cart, princess.” Peter mocks, because he doesn’t mix well with vulnerability, okay?
“Gladly! And does the pet name mean you’ve finally accepted the inevitability of our relationship? Because hooooh boy, have I been waiting for this day.”
Peter springs to his feet just to shove Deadpool but overbalances. Oops.
“Listen, Deadpool—”
“—Wade,” he corrects, amused, ”Wade Winston Wilson, at your service.”
“Wade,” Peter splutters, “we are not talking about that. I will leave.”
“Yeah, good luck stitching up your back by yourself, baby. You can’t just go to the doctor! They’ll ask how in the world you got clawed. ‘Oh, I was just at the zoo when I fell into the lion’s enclosure and it scratched me.’” He says the last bit in a falsetto that is so not Peter’s voice.
God, Wade is so infuriating. Peter doesn’t feel like responding to Wade’s bullshit, though, so he lets himself be led to the bathroom. Once in front of the mirror, he plants his hands against the countertop, ready to get the show on the road.
“We probably have to, uh, take off your suit? To get to the wounds, I mean.” Wade says nervously, despite all his talk of ‘getting in Peter’s pants.’ Guess he’s all bark and no bite—that is, when it comes to all things Spider-Man. Not in his mercenary work.
I wouldn’t mind if there were some biting involved, he muses.
Then immediately shuts down that thought.
Peter doesn’t want to embarrass himself with a response, just lifts his shirt—the Spider-Man suit is not a onesie, contrary to popular opinion—which hurts the slashes on his back like an absolute motherfucker, goddamnit, to the point where he can’t continue above his shoulder blades without the pain becoming excruciating.
Well, shit.
“I could help,” Wade offers, and his fingertips run patterns over Peter’s shoulders.
“I—yeah, okay.” Peter drops the fabric from his hands and relaxes his arms.
Wade carefully, slowly, peels the blood-soaked fabric from Peter’s skin, brushing shapes on it when he needs to detach the fabric from a particularly stubborn section. Despite the situation, It’s soothing in a way that Peter hasn’t felt for years.
He loves and hates it for the same reason he doesn’t like being held.
“Just—hurry up, can’t you? I’m not made of glass.” It seems as though Wade thinks he is. Peter doesn’t like that, either.
Wade grunts and does as he’s told, and suddenly Peter is shirtless in front of someone for, again, the first time in years.
——
Wade doesn’t ogle his bare chest like Peter expects, just gets straight to work dousing a cotton swab in alcohol. “This is going to sting a little—or a lot. Depends on your pain tolerance. Yeah, Yellow, I assume he has a relatively high one, considering he’s a superhero; bad for business if he cries at every little jab, right?”
“Yes, I do have a high pain tolerance—holy fuck! Warn a guy next time!”
“So much for that pain tolerance,” Wade comments.
He continues cleansing Peter’s slashes with alcohol, this time warning him with each press of the cotton. His other hand is a comforting presence on Peter’s shoulder. It still hurts, but it’s better than doing it alone; maybe he could call Wade to help him with his more severe injuries.
Or even the little ones.
“This is nice,” Peter blurts. He doesn’t know why he says it, but he’s not lying.
Wade replies, incredulously. “Yeah, having your wounds treated is real fucking nice. What are you on?” Peter supposes it is kind of an odd thing to say in this scenario, but.
But.
“I just mean, it’s nice being here. With you.” Peter cringes. It’s the only way he can accurately describe his feelings, yet it couldn’t be more embarrassing if he tried. Well, maybe it could.
“Aw, thanks, sweetcheeks. Means a lot.” He can see the corner of Wade’s mouth tick up through the mask, smirking in a way that both infuriates Peter and makes him flush. This time around, Wade can see it; he’s not covered up like usual. “You look so pretty in red, but I already knew that. Just sayin’, that suit is very flattering.”
Peter tries to glare at Wade through the mirror, but he chooses that moment to grab more supplies, muttering about packaging and plastic, probably talking to the boxes. Damn.
He opens up a sterile package of suturing equipment, something Peter wishes he could use for his injuries more often but can never afford. Stupid Deadpool and his mercenary pay grade. “It’s getting late, and I have civvie duties tomorrow. Can you hurry?”
“Sure, honey. I’ll start phase II right now!”
“Did you just say II instead of two? Seriously?”
“Don’t yuck my yum, Spidey. That’s not something a proper lady would do.” Before he can respond to Wade’s bullshit, he feels a needle tug into his skin.
As Wade stitches him up, little hisses fall out of his mouth without permission. God, he hates back wounds. “I know, baby, it hurts. Want some whiskey to wash away the pain?”
Peter knows he isn’t joking, he does, but he starts laughing anyway. He laughs so hard that his grip on the counter falters.
Wade startles away from him, dropping the needle, which just makes him laugh harder.
“Spidey, are you okay? You sound almost as insane as me right now,” Wade is concerned; Peter guesses it makes sense, but as he clutches his stomach and wheezes out laughter, he can’t care.
“Sorry, DP. I haven’t laughed like that in a while, though, thank you.” Peter rights himself. “Proceed.” His word choice has him giggling a little more, but he controls himself. Kind of.
Wade continues to patch him up, this time with a fresh needle and a bewildered look on his face.
Eventually, he comforts Peter with meaningless words.
After what seems like forever, and maybe it is, Wade drops the used tools onto the counter and declares, “All done! With part two, that is. All we need now are bandages!”
He grabs the bandages and slowly reaches around to Peter’s chest to start the wrapping process. He wraps the bandages with the same tenderness he used to take off his suit, winding them slowly around his torso to avoid disturbing his back.
“Whew, tough work. All done, baby.”
“Thank you, Wade, really. I uh, probably wouldn’t have been able to do this without you. So um. Yeah.”
“You’re welcome, sweetheart. You could call in sick for civvies, and stay? Rest up?” Wade asks, hopeful. Timid.
“I’m sorry, I can’t. But,” Peter starts before Wade can make excuses, “I would love to another time. I’ll tell you when I have an off day, okay?”
“Okay.”
Before he can avoid his feelings, like usual, Peter lifts his mask to the bridge of his nose, leaves it there, and turns around. Wade is right in his space. Wade has always been an anchor for Peter.
It feels like an inevitability when he asks, “May I?” and stands with his fingers brushing against the neck of Wade’s suit.
He feels Wade swallow, feels him nod. He carefully peels the mask from his neck, and up, but not off. That’ll happen when Wade’s ready. He skims his fingers over lips and cheekbones, then leans in.
The kiss is comforting, it’s sweet, but it’s not home, like romance novels suggest. Peter thinks it could be one day, though.