Chapter 1: Steak, Stitches, and Stolen Glances
The key scraped in the lock like it was fighting him, which, honestly, felt about right. Peter Parker shouldered the door open, every muscle in his body filing a separate, furious complaint. The Rhino had decided to use a bus as a bowling ball tonight, and Peter had been the pin. He kicked the door shut with his heel, the deadbolt clicking into place with a sound of finality. Home. The word was a sigh in his mind.
He leaned back against the door, the cool wood a relief against his throbbing shoulder. His apartment greeted him with its familiar, comforting mess. A leaning tower of comics threatened to avalanche from the shelf. A single sock, orphaned and forlorn, lay draped over the arm of the couch. The air held the ghost of this morning’s burnt toast.
And something else.
Something rich, savory, utterly out of place. The aroma of searing meat and herbs wrapped around him, cutting through the usual scents of dust and old takeout. His stomach growled, a traitorous sound in the quiet.
A soft, off-key humming drifted from the direction of his microscopic kitchen. It was a tune he vaguely recognized, maybe from a commercial, brutally murdered by its performer.
Peter pushed off the door, his body protesting with a symphony of aches. He padded into the living area.
Wade Wilson stood at his stove.
He was wearing an apron. A frilly, pink, ‘Kiss the Cook’ apron. It was tied neatly over his Deadpool suit bottoms. The top half of the suit was gone, folded neatly over the back of Peter’s only decent chair. Wade’s scarred back was to him, muscles moving under a topography of mottled, ruined skin as he expertly flipped something in a pan. The sight was so violently domestic, so utterly surreal, that Peter’s brain simply blue-screened.
He just stood there, in his torn, sweat-and-grime-stained suit, watching a world-class mercenary cook dinner in his kitchen.
Wade didn’t turn around. “You’re breathing like a asthmatic walrus, Webs. Door’s three inches of solid oak, not a security blanket.” He shook the pan, sending a flare of savory smoke into the air. “Also, you’re tracking what I hope is sewer water on my clean floor. My floor. I’ve decided. Possession is nine-tenths, and I’m holding the spatula.”
Peter blinked. “You’re cooking.”
“A+ for observation. Did the Rhino punch you in the cerebrum? I’m searing a New York strip. Because someone’s idea of a balanced diet is a cereal bar for breakfast, a chili dog for lunch, and existential dread for dinner.” He finally glanced over his shoulder, his brown eyes crinkling. “You look like shit warmed over.”
“Feel like it too,” Peter grumbled. The adrenaline had fully drained, leaving a hollow, quaking fatigue. He stumbled to the couch, collapsing onto it with a groan that started in his toes. The springs squealed in sympathy.
“I heard that little escapade on the police scanner. ‘Large… uh, mammalian vehicle.’ Creative.” There was a hiss, the sound of a plate being set down. A moment later, a cold, dewy bottle of beer appeared in Peter’s peripheral vision. He took it without looking, the condensation blissfully cold against his scraped knuckles.
Wade sat on the coffee table, right in front of him, the wood creaking under his weight. He’d plated the steak, a perfect medium-rare, with a side of what looked like instant mashed potatoes, glorified with a sprinkle of chives. He set the plate next to the orphaned sock.
Up close, without the mask, Wade’s face was a brutal map of his life. Peter had gotten used to it. Right now, in the soft yellow light of the single lamp, the scars were just topography. The expression mattered more. A playful smirk, softened at the edges by something that looked suspiciously like concern.
“Alright, let’s audit the damage,” Wade said, his voice dropping from its usual theatrical pitch to something quieter, more concrete. He reached out, his fingers hovering near Peter’s ribs. “Tell me where it hurts, Webs. And don’t say ‘my soul,’ we’re fresh out of metaphysical band-aids.”
Peter took a long pull from the beer. “Left side. Ribs. Might be cracked. Right shoulder feels like it’s been used as a speedbag. General overall feeling of being a human piñata.”
Wade nodded, all business. “Shirt off. Let’s see the canvas.”
There was nothing clinical about the request. It was just Wade. Peter, too tired and too comfortable in this bizarre normality, hooked his thumbs under the neck of his Spider-Man suit and peeled it down to his waist. The cooler air was a shock against his skin. He saw Wade’s eyes track the blossoming bruises, the angry red lines where concrete had scraped him raw.
Wade let out a low whistle. “Rhino’s getting fancy. That’s a masterpiece of contusions. The purples are really going to pop tomorrow.” He got up and walked to the bathroom, returning with Peter’s meager first-aid kit and a bowl of warm water. He knelt on the floor this time, dipping a clean cloth into the water.
The first touch of the cloth to Peter’s ribs was gentler than he had any right to expect. Wade cleaned the grit and blood with a focused efficiency, his movements sure and careful. The warm water stung, then soothed.
“So,” Wade said, not looking up from his work, his voice casually draped over something taut. “I offered, earlier. The kissing-it-better thing. Or the stitching. The offer’s technically still on the table. Limited time only.”
Peter huffed a weak laugh, which made his ribs protest. “You’d probably use the thread that dissolves on contact or something.”
“I resent that. I have diplomatic immunity from the International Association of Seamstresses. And I’d use the good stuff. Silk. For my favorite spider.”
The words hung in the air between them, just another piece of the strange furniture of their friendship. Wade said stuff like that all the time. It was his default setting. But here, now, with his hands steady on Peter’s skin, the lamplight catching the silver in the worst of his scars, it felt different. It felt weighted.
Wade finished cleaning the last cut—a shallow slice on Peter’s bicep. He daubed it with antiseptic, his touch lingering a half-second longer than necessary. His thumb brushed over the curve of Peter’s shoulder.
Peter looked at him. Really looked. At the faint lines at the corners of his eyes, the concentrated set of his mouth. He saw the man under the madness, the one who memorized how Peter took his coffee, who noticed when he was skipping meals, who broke into his apartment not to steal, but to cook him a steak because he knew it had been a bad night.
A jumble of realizations, slow-dawning and inevitable, clicked into place in Peter’s exhausted mind. The way his pulse kicked up not from fear, but from that casual touch. The way the chaotic, violent, profoundly annoying presence of Wade Wilson had become the most steadying thing in his life. The way ‘favorite spider’ didn’t sound like a joke anymore.
It wasn’t a lightning bolt. It was a sinkhole, opening up slowly beneath him until he was already falling.
Wade was staring back now, his gaze uncharacteristically still, watchful. The playful smirk was gone, replaced by a quiet, waiting tension. He was, for once, completely in the moment with him, no fourth wall, no commentary track. Just here.
Peter’s mouth was dry. The words were a tangled mess in his head—‘This is complicated,’ ‘What are we doing?’, ‘Your face is right there.’
What came out was softer, simpler. “The offer still stand?”
Wade went very still. The cloth in his hand dripped onto the floor. “Which part?” His voice was low, rough.
“The first one.”
For a long moment, Wade just searched his face. Peter saw the flicker of disbelief, the shield of cynicism trying to snap back into place, and beneath it, a vulnerable, desperate hope that made Peter’s heart clench.
Peter saw the flicker of disbelief, the shield of cynicism trying to snap back into place, and beneath it, a vulnerable, desperate hope that made Peter’s heart clench.
Wade didn’t move yet.
He was frozen, as if the slightest motion would shatter the moment into a million pieces of ‘just kidding.’ Peter understood then, with a clarity that cut through his exhaustion. Wade, who could talk a supervillain into a nervous breakdown, who faced down armed convoys with a joke, was waiting for permission. He was scared. The realization was a punch, softer than Rhino’s but somehow sharper.
Peter rolled his eyes, the gesture fond and exasperated all at once. He let his head fall back against the couch cushions. “Wade, I’m entirely too sore to climb you right now. Get down here and kiss me already.”
Wade didn’t need to be told a third time.
A sound escaped him, something raw and half-formed, lost between a gasp and a laugh. He leaned down, his large hands coming up to cradle Peter’s face, his thumbs brushing over the high arcs of his cheekbones. He pressed their foreheads together, his eyes wide and searching, their lips just inches apart. Peter could feel the faint, panicked puff of Wade’s breath, could see every minute detail of the scars webbing across his skin, the pale lashes, the utter awe in his expression.
Peter was the one who closed the final distance.
He pressed their lips together. It was chaste, at first. A simple, solid connection. A yes.
Wade went completely still for one endless second, a statue of shock and scar tissue. The processing lag was almost visible. Spider-Man. Peter Parker. Is kissing me. Of all the filthy, messed-up, beautiful— Then, with a shuddering inhale, he came alive. His fingers tangled deep in Peter’s messy brown hair, gentle but undeniable. He kissed him back, and it was like a dam breaking.
The kiss deepened, slowly, carefully. There was no rushed hunger, no frantic claim. It was a discovery. Wade’s lips were surprisingly soft, his movements achingly tentative, as if he was handling something more fragile than crystal. He was mindful of every shift, every angle, keeping his weight braced away from Peter’s bruised ribs. One broad hand slid from Peter’s hair to cup the back of his neck, a point of steady, warm pressure.
Peter melted into it. The pain in his body blurred into a distant background hum. The world narrowed to the scent of Wade—gun oil, expensive cologne, and now, seared steak—to the careful scratch of his stubble, to the perfect, warm friction of the kiss itself. He brought his own hand up, his sore muscles protesting, to rest against Wade’s jaw. He felt the hard line of it, the proof of a life lived violently, and kissed him harder.
They got lost in it for a moment. Maybe a minute. Time in Peter’s apartment had always been rubbery, stretching and compressing around deadlines and catastrophes. Now, it just stopped.
When they pulled back, both were a little breathless. Their foreheads stayed pressed together. Wade’s eyes were still closed, his expression one of fragile disbelief, as if opening them would make Peter vanish.
“Huh,” Wade whispered, the word barely audible. “Didn’t see that plot twist coming.”
“Shut up,” Peter murmured, smiling. He was so tired, and every part of him ached, but he’d never felt more perfectly anchored.
Wade’s eyes opened. He looked at Peter like he’d just unlocked the universe. Then, with visible effort, he shifted back. The practical mercenary reasserted itself. “Right. Okay. You’re running on empty and you need, like, seven gallons of protein.” He stood up, his movements slightly stiff, and fetched the plate of steak and potatoes from the coffee table. He handed it to Peter, along with a fork.
Peter took it. He was suddenly, ravenously starving. He hadn’t had real food in what felt like days. He forked a piece of the steak, the seared exterior giving way to a perfect, pink center, and put it in his mouth.
He couldn’t suppress the low, involuntary groan of pleasure. It was incredible. Salty, rich, tender, a completely different kind of combat against his senses.
Wade, who had been watching him with an intensity usually reserved for sniper scopes, flinched as if struck. His eyes darkened. He looked away, ran a hand over his mouth, and looked back. Peter saw the exact moment the knowledge settled in his bones.
Wade was screwed.
Not only would he never, ever be able to forget that noise—the pure, unguarded sound of Peter enjoying something he’d made—but he also knew damn well he was about to happily become Spider-Man’s personal chef if it meant he got to hear it again. The realization played out across his face in a rapid montage of terror, devotion, and utter capitulation.
“Wow, Wade,” Peter said, swallowing and already going in for another bite. “This is great. Is this exclusive to me getting my ass kicked? Because if so, it’s definitely gonna start happening more often.”
Wade sank onto the couch beside him, leaving a careful inch of space between them. He picked up Peter’s beer from the floor and took a long swig, his eyes never leaving Peter’s profile. “Try it, Underoos. I’ll stitch you up, but I’ll also hide all your webbing fluid. You’ll be swinging on dental floss.” The threat was hollow, his voice thick.
Peter just grinned, chewing. He nudged his foot against Wade’s thigh. “You’d never.”
“I’m a degenerate, not an idiot.” Wade sighed, the sound theatrically mournful. “I’m already planning tomorrow’s menu. It’s a sickness. Do you like pancakes? Of course you like pancakes. Everyone likes pancakes. Even people who hate joy like pancakes.”
Peter ate, listening to Wade’s voice roll over him, a familiar, chaotic soundtrack to the best meal he’d had in months. The ache in his body was still there, a persistent throb, but it was compartmentalized now, manageable. The empty, restless feeling that had haunted him for weeks was gone, filled up by something warm and solid and currently brainstorming whether buckwheat or buttermilk was the superior pancake medium.
He finished the last of the potatoes, set the plate on the table with a soft clink, and let his head loll sideways to look at Wade. The mercenary had gone quiet, just watching him, his expression unreadable in the dim light.
“You’re staring,” Peter said softly.
“Yep,” Wade agreed, without hesitation. “Gotta bank the visuals. For when you come to your senses and change the locks.”
Peter shook his head, a slow, tired movement. He shifted, gritting his teeth against the protest from his ribs, and pressed a quick kiss against wades lips, mumbling “If I was doing to do that, I would have done it a long time ago. Sorry but you’re stuck with me, deal with it. Now you want to play some video games or no?”
Wade smiled, a slow, easy curve of his lips that felt less like a performance and more like a real, unguarded thing. “Yeah, sure. What do you want to play?”
Peter slowly stood up, his body protesting the whole way. When he was up he said, “You pick. I’m gonna take a shower first though.” He started to make his way to the bathroom, moving with the careful, stiff-legged gait of someone who’d lost an argument with a semi-truck.
The bathroom door clicked shut, and the shower hissed to life a moment later. Wade let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. The air in the apartment felt charged, different. He moved on autopilot, setting up the console and selecting a game—a mindless co-op shooter, something that required minimal conversation. He used the time to clean the kitchen, scrubbing the pan and wiping down the counters with a military precision that kept his hands busy and his brain mercifully quiet. The domestic ritual was a bizarre counterpoint to the evening’s violence, and to the seismic shift that had just happened on that couch.
He hopped back onto the couch when he heard the bathroom door open. Steam billowed out into the cooler living room, carrying the clean, simple scent of Peter’s soap.
“Feel better?” Wade asked, his eyes glued to the character selection screen as he mashed buttons.
Peter grabbed the other controller, standing next to the couch and picking his own avatar. “So much better. Still hurts like a bitch but I’m definitely already starting to heal.”
Wade finally looked up.
And holy shit, he was so screwed.
Peter Parker, the love of his life, was standing there shirtless, showing off his impressive build. Wade had seen him shirtless earlier, he could handle that part. It was the pants. Peter wore a pair of grey sweatpants, slung low on his hips—low enough to show off that delicious V that made Wade want to drop to his knees. The sweatpants, combined with the side view as Peter focused on the screen, made it clear that despite being on the shorter side, he was packing something huge.
A hot, static wave crashed through Wade’s head. He forced his eyes back to the screen, the pixels blurring. Stop thinking about his dick, we’re taking this slow. Need to show him it isn’t about sex. We can choke on his dick after we figure out the whole feelings thing.
“You gonna pick a guy or just stare at the menu all night?” Peter asked, lowering himself gingerly onto the couch. He left a foot of space between them, a respectful, torturous buffer.
“Just appreciating the tactical options,” Wade deadpanned, his voice thankfully steady. He selected a character at random. “Ready to get carried, baby boy?”
“In your dreams, Wilson.”
The game booted up, loud and garish. It was a perfect distraction. They fell into the familiar, comfortable rhythm of insults and call-outs, their focus on the screen a safe neutral ground. Peter’s movements were slower, more careful, but his reflexes were still there, snatching victory from Wade’s grasp at the last second.
“Ha! Eat plasma, you overgrown test tube experiment!”
“That was luck and you know it.”
They played for an hour, the easy camaraderie settling back over them like a worn blanket. The kiss hung in the air between them, a silent, charged fact, but neither acknowledged it directly. It was in the way Wade would pass Peter a fresh beer without being asked. In the way Peter’s foot eventually, gradually, came to rest against Wade’s thigh, a point of warm contact.
During a loading screen, Peter leaned his head back against the couch, closing his eyes. The blue light from the television played over the clean lines of his throat, the damp curls at his temple. “Today sucked,” he murmured, not opening his eyes. “Really, monumentally sucked.”
Wade watched him, the game forgotten. “The Rhino stuff? Or the other thing?”
A small, tired smile touched Peter’s lips. “The Rhino stuff was straightforward. Smashy-smash. I’m used to that. The other thing… that’s new.”
“Good new or ‘oh-god-my-life-is-a-comic-book-and-now-this’ new?”
Peter opened his eyes, turning his head to look at Wade. The playful shield was down again, leaving something raw and quietly exhausted. “I don’t know yet. It just… is.”
Wade nodded, his own defenses softening. He understood ‘is’. ‘Is’ was a foundation you could build on, even if you were building on quicksand. “It can just be,” he said, his voice uncharacteristically gentle. “No labels. No deadlines. Just… this.” He gestured vaguely between them and the couch, the empty plates, the paused game.
Peter studied him for a long moment, his gaze searching. Then he nodded, seeming to settle into the idea. “Yeah. Okay. Just this.”
Silence descended again, but it was a comfortable one, filled with the low hum of the console and the distant sounds of the city through the window. Peter’s eyelids began to droop, his head tilting slightly towards Wade’s shoulder.
Wade stayed perfectly still, not daring to breathe too loud. He watched as Peter’s breathing evened out, the tension finally draining from his shoulders. The controller slipped from his loose fingers and landed softly on the rug.
Carefully, slowly, Wade reached over and took the controller from Peter’s lap. He set it aside, then shifted, just an inch, letting Peter’s head rest more fully against him. The weight of it was profound. He reached for the blanket draped over the back of the couch and pulled it over Peter’s torso.
Peter sighed in his sleep, a soft, contented sound, and nuzzled closer.
Wade sat there in the glow of the paused game, a scarred monument in the dark, holding the most precious thing he’d ever managed not to ruin. He didn’t move for a long, long time.