Chapter 2: Midnight Embrace and Tactical Negotiations
Peter woke to the dull, persistent ache in his ribs and the unfamiliar sense of warmth along his right side. The television was off, plunging the room into a deep blue gloom broken only by the orange streetlight haze filtering through the blinds. His neck was stiff, but his head was pillowed on something firm and warm. A shoulder. Wade’s shoulder.
He blinked, the events of the evening reassembling themselves in his sleep-fogged brain. The fight. The steak. The kiss. The video games. The slow drift into sleep against a scarred, solid bulk he’d never allowed himself to lean on before.
Wade was motionless, his breathing deep and even. Peter could just make out the sharp line of his jaw in the shadows. He was still sitting upright, his head tipped back against the couch, as if he’d deliberately held the position all night to avoid disturbing him. The thought sent a weird, tender pang through Peter’s chest.
He shifted slightly, and a sharp twinge from his ribs made him suck in a quick breath.
Instantly, the body beside him tensed. Wade’s head came up. “Ribs still giving you grief?” His voice was rough with sleep, stripped of its usual performative edge.
“Just a twinge,” Peter murmured, not moving away. The intimacy of the position—waking up draped over Wade Wilson—should have felt surreal. Instead, it just felt… quiet. “What time is it?”
Wade twisted to check his wristwatch, the movement causing Peter’s head to slide a little. “Uh. Two-oh-seven AM. The witching hour. When all good little spiders and morally ambiguous mercenaries should be in their own beds.” He began to shift, gently dislodging Peter. “I should head out. Let the human healing factor do its thing without a gargoyle cramping your style.”
Peter sat up reluctantly, the loss of warmth immediate. The apartment felt colder. He watched Wade stand, his large frame stretching with a series of audible pops and cracks. He reached for his suit top, draped over the chair.
A strange, stubborn possessiveness welled up in Peter. It wasn’t logical. Wade could handle himself in any back alley at any hour. But the thought of him walking across the city, a target in his distinctive gear, after this… it felt wrong.
“No,” Peter said, the word coming out more firmly than he intended.
Wade paused, half into his suit. “No?”
“You’re not walking twenty-seven blocks in full tactical gear at this hour.” Peter pushed himself to his feet, ignoring the protest from his muscles. “Besides, I’m the one who needs the company. My ribs are conducting a symphony of pain every time I breathe. You’re a distraction.”
Wade stared at him, the mask of his suit still in his hands. His real face was unreadable in the dim light. “I’m a distraction, huh?”
“A loud, obnoxious, surprisingly comfortable one.” Peter walked past him, headed for his bedroom. “Just… stay.”
He left Wade standing there and went to his closet. He rummaged past his limited selection of non-ripped clothing, past the one good button-down he kept for funerals and disastrous job interviews. In the back, he found what he was looking for: a pair of soft, black sweatpants, brand new, the same cut and make as the well-worn grey pair he was currently wearing. He’d bought them on sale, a two-for-one deal he’d never had a use for until now.
He walked back into the living room and tossed the bundle at Wade, who caught it against his chest. “Comfort is key,” Peter said, a faint smirk touching his lips. “You can’t sleep in that Kevlar onesie. You’ll overheat and sweat all over my couch. The biohazard risk is too high.”
Wade looked down at the sweatpants in his hands as if they were a suspicious package. “You’re… loaning me pants.”
“Astounding detective work. The bathroom’s there.” Peter pointed. “I’m gonna go try to not die getting into my own bed.”
He didn’t wait for a reply. He needed to move, to push through the awkwardness with action. He retreated to his bedroom, leaving the door slightly ajar. He heard the soft click of the bathroom door closing a moment later.
Changing was a slow, painful process of bending and contorting. Every movement was a negotiation. He finally managed to swap his sweats for a pair of soft cotton pajama bottoms, hissing as he pulled the fabric over his hips. He was sitting on the edge of his bed, trying to decide if fetching a glass of water was worth the journey, when a soft knock sounded at the doorframe.
Wade stood there, backlit by the hall light. He’d changed. The black sweatpants sat low on his hips, a perfect fit. He’d kept his own black undershirt on, the fabric stretched tight across his chest and shoulders. He looked… ordinary. Domestic. The most dangerous man Peter knew, drowning in the soft cotton of Peter’s own clothes.
“Uh,” Wade said, uncharacteristically hesitant. He gestured vaguely with a thumb. “Couch is good. I’ve slept on worse. A lot worse. There was this shipping container in Marrakech…”
“The couch is a death trap of broken springs,” Peter said, cutting him off. His heart was doing a strange, fluttery thing against his bruised ribs. “You’ll wake up with a spinal deformity even your healing factor won’t know what to do with.” He swallowed, the words sticking in his throat. “Just… take the other side.”
The silence that followed was thick enough to carve. Peter couldn’t see Wade’s expression clearly in the shadows, but his posture was utterly still.
“The bed,” Wade repeated, his voice flat.
“It’s a queen. There’s room. Unless you kick. Do you kick?”
“I’ve been known to disembowel people in my sleep. It’s a whole thing.”
“I’ll risk it.” Peter shifted, pulling back the covers on the right side of the bed, his side, and slowly, carefully, lowered himself onto the mattress. He lay on his back, staring at the ceiling, giving Wade the space to make the decision. To run.
For a long moment, Wade didn’t move. Peter heard him breathe, a slow, controlled inhale and exhale. Then, without a word, he crossed the threshold.
The bed dipped under his weight, a profound sinking sensation. He moved with a cautious grace, settling onto his back on the far left side, maintaining a respectful no-man’s-land of sheet between them. He lay rigid, arms at his sides, staring straight up as if he were in a coffin.
They lay there in the dark, two parallel lines, the only sound their breathing and the distant, eternal hum of the city. The tension was a physical presence in the room.
“This is weird,” Wade announced to the ceiling.
A laugh burst out of Peter, short and pained from his ribs. “Yeah. A little.”
“I’m trying very hard not to have a mental crisis right now. The voices are having a field day. One of them is singing ‘Can You Feel the Love Tonight.’ It’s very distracting.”
“Tell them to shut up,” Peter murmured. He turned his head on the pillow to look at the dark shape beside him. “I’m trying to sleep.”
Wade turned his head too. Even in the near darkness, Peter could feel the intensity of his gaze. “You’re really okay with this?”
Peter considered the question. The weight of a man—this man—in his bed. The sheer, terrifying vulnerability of it. The fact that his life was complicated enough without adding a walking, talking regeneration-powered complication who kissed like a revelation and wore his sweatpants better than he did.
“Yes,” he said, simple and final.
Wade let out another long breath, and some of the rigid tension seemed to leak out of him. He relaxed, inch by inch, into the mattress. “Okay.”
Silence settled again, but this time it was different. Softer. The space between them on the sheets still felt vast, but it was no longer charged with panic. It was just space. Navigable.
Peter’s eyes drifted shut. The pain was a muted background noise. The warmth from the other side of the bed was a gentle radiation. He was on the very edge of sleep when he felt movement.
A careful, tentative shift. Then, the faintest brush of skin against his hand where it lay on the sheet between them. Wade’s pinky finger, hooking gently around his own.
It was such a small thing. Insignificant. But in the dark, it was everything. A question and an answer all at once.
Peter didn’t open his eyes. He just turned his hand, letting their palms slide together, intertwining their fingers. Wade’s hand was calloused, scarred, and warmer than it had any right to be. He gave a slight squeeze.
From the other side of the bed, Wade let out a shuddering sigh, a sound of profound and utter relief. His grip tightened, just for a second, before relaxing into something easy and secure.
This time, when sleep pulled Peter under, he didn’t fight it. He drifted off anchored by the single point of contact, by the solid, breathing presence beside him, by the unfamiliar and terrifying rightness of it all. The last thing he was aware of was the slow, steady stroke of a thumb across his knuckles, a silent promise in the dark.
The last thing he was aware of was the slow, steady stroke of a thumb across his knuckles, a silent promise in the dark.
---
Morning arrived not with a bang, but with a gradual, gray awareness. Peter woke to the scent of dry skin, cheap detergent, and something uniquely, chemically Wade. His face was pressed into the warm hollow of a neck. His arm was draped, heavy and possessive, across a solid waist, his hand splayed over the worn cotton of his own black sweatpants.
He blinked, sleep clinging. His ribs were a muted, manageable throb. The room was filled with soft, pearly light.
Beneath him, Wade was statue-still. The man was holding his breath, every muscle locked in a fierce, unnatural tension. Peter could feel the frantic drum of a heartbeat under his cheek. It was the rigid panic of a trapped animal waiting for the blow to fall.
Peter shifted, lifting his head from Wade’s neck to look at him.
Wade’s eyes were open, staring at the ceiling. The expression on his face wasn't one Peter had ever seen there before. It was pure, undiluted terror. He wasn't afraid of anything, ever. But he was terrified of this. Of Peter waking up and recoiling. Of the morning light making last night’s choices look like a mistake.
The realization cracked something open in Peter’s chest. He hummed, a soft, sleep-rough sound, and gave Wade a small, dazzling smile.
“You made a good pillow, not gonna lie,” he murmured, his voice scratchy. “That’s the most sleep I’ve gotten in months. Remind me to hold you hostage during finals week.”
Wade’s eyes slid to his, wide and unsure. He swallowed. “You…you want to do this again?” The question was bare, stripped of all bravado.
Peter didn’t answer with words. He shifted again, propping himself up on his elbow. He needed to shut up the doubtful voices he knew were screaming in Wade’s head. He leaned down and pressed their lips together.
Wade froze. Absolutely, perfectly still. Peter was patient. He kissed him softly, a reaffirmation in the quiet morning, letting his lips move with a gentle, persistent certainty. After a few long, heart-stopping moments, the tension broke. Wade melted into the mattress with a shattered groan and kissed him back.
It was deeper than the kiss on the couch, slower, infused with the raw vulnerability of dawn. Peter settled his weight more fully over him, his free hand sliding down from Wade’s hip to the small of his back. The fabric of the sweatpants was soft under his palm.
He was savoring the warm, perfect friction of Wade’s mouth when his own stomach gave a violent, audible growl. It echoed in the quiet room.
Peter broke the kiss, laughing against Wade’s lips. “Sorry. My body’s betraying the moment.”
Wade’s face still held that fragile disbelief, but now a fragile, bewildered hope shone through. It made Peter’s heart flutter against his bruised ribs.
“As much as it kills me to get up,” Wade said, his voice gruff, “you need breakfast. I’ll cook something.”
“Yeah,” Peter agreed, reluctantly rolling off him. The loss of warmth was immediate. “Food. Good plan.”
They disentangled, the ordinary movement feeling monumental. Peter watched Wade sit up, the sheets pooling around his waist. The black sweatpants were sinfully low on his hips. The scars on his torso and back were stark in the morning light, a history written in raised, pale lines. Peter didn’t look away. He found he didn’t want to.
They padded into the kitchen, a silent, comfortable procession. The air still smelled faintly of last night’s steak. Wade went straight to the refrigerator, a man on a mission. Peter, feeling bold and incredibly fond, hopped up to sit on the cleared counter.
He leaned back on his hands, shamelessly eyeing the man wearing his clothes. Wade moved with a focused efficiency, pulling out eggs, butter, a block of cheese. The muscles in his back shifted under his skin as he reached for a bowl. The borrowed sweatpants hugged his ass in a way that should have been illegal.
Peter planned to thoroughly enjoy the show.
Wade cracked eggs one-handed into a sizzling pan. He didn’t look at Peter, but a smirk touched the corner of his mouth. “Enjoying the view, friendly neighborhood?”
“Immensely,” Peter said, his voice full of sleep and contentment. “Don’t let me interrupt. This is the most domestic felony I’ve ever witnessed.”
Wade snorted, sprinkling cheese over the eggs. “Stick with me, kid. I’ll have you aiding and abetting in no time.” He glanced over, his eyes softening as they took Peter in—rumpled, sleepy, perched on his own countertop. “How’re the ribs?”
“Healing. Hungry.” Peter’s gaze dropped to Wade’s hands as they worked the spatula. “Thanks for staying.”
Wade’s movements stilled for just a second. “Thanks for the pants.” He finally turned, leaning back against the opposite counter, facing Peter fully. The morning light caught the silver in the scars on his chest. “Seriously. This… it’s a lot.”
“It’s just breakfast, Wilson.”
“You know it’s not.”
Peter held his gaze. “I know,” he said quietly. The admission hung between them, simple and enormous. The eggs sizzled loudly in the pan.
Wade turned back to flip them, his shoulders relaxing. “You’re a trouble magnet, Parker. A catastrophic, beautiful, pain-in-my-ass trouble magnet.” He slid the finished omelette onto a plate. “And I’m gonna need you in one piece.” He handed the plate to Peter, their fingers brushing.
Peter took it. The food smelled incredible. “So you’re on repair duty?”
Wade’s smile was small, real, and devastating. “Someone’s gotta be.” He watched Peter take the first bite, his eyes tracing the line of his throat as he swallowed. “So, what’s the plan for today? Lying around looking pretty? Terrifying small-time muggers?”
Peter chewed, considering. The world outside—the rent, the freelance photography gigs, the city’s endless need—felt very far away. Here, in his sunlit kitchen with a mercenary cooking for him, there was only one answer that mattered.
Peter finished the last perfect bite of omelette, setting the fork down with a soft click. The morning sun through the window warmed the back of his neck. He watched Wade move to the sink, the quiet domesticity of the scene still surreal enough to make his stomach flip.
Wade ran water over the pan, his back to Peter. His shoulders were relaxed in a way Peter rarely saw. “So?” Wade prompted, not turning around. “The plan. I’m all ears. And other, more interesting body parts.”
“I was thinking a Star Wars marathon,” Peter said, leaning back on his hands. He let his gaze travel the line of Wade’s spine, the way the black undershirt stretched across his shoulders. “If you aren’t busy.”
Wade shut off the water and turned, leaning against the counter with a towel in his hands. A dusting of white powder streaked the front of his black shirt. He looked down at it, baffled.
“How?” he muttered. He’d only used flour ten minutes ago, for god’s sake. With a sigh, he untied the frilly apron and pulled it over his head, tossing it on the counter.
He then grabbed the hem of the undershirt and tugged it off in one smooth motion. Now shirtless, he used the damp towel to swipe at the flour marks on his chest.
Peter’s breath hitched. He’d seen the scars last night in the dim light, felt them under his palms. In the clear morning sun, they were a detailed map. A history written in raised, knotted tissue and smoother, shiny patches. He didn’t look away. He let himself look, his eyes tracing the landscape of Wade’s torso, the powerful line of his shoulders, the lean muscle of his abdomen above the low-slung sweatpants.
Wade leaned back against the counter next to him, crossing his arms. The pose was casual, but a defensive tension crept into his jaw.
Peter raked his eyes up and down the taller man. “Then again,” he said, his voice dropping into a lower register, practically a purr. “It might be a challenge keeping my eyes on anything but you.”
The words short-circuited Wade’s brain.
His arms uncrossed. He blinked, his mouth slightly agape. The usual, chaotic stream of thought in his head—the sarcastic yellow boxes, the pragmatic white ones—went utterly silent. For three full seconds, there was nothing but the hum of the refrigerator and the distant traffic.
Then, a single, frantic yellow text box popped into his vision: [DON’T FUMBLE THIS!]
A white box materialized beside it, equally urgent: {Say something, you fool.}
“M-Me?” Wade finally managed, the word cracking.
Peter’s smirk was playful, wicked. He gestured vaguely around the empty kitchen. “See any other hot guys in my kitchen making me breakfast and wearing my sweatpants better than me?”
Wade was stunned. The raw admission, delivered with such casual confidence, shorted out his every pre-programmed response. He looked down at his own scarred chest, then back at Peter’s open, admiring face. The old, familiar script rose to his lips, a joke to deflect the unbearable weight of being seen.
“No one wears them better than you,” he said, the truth coming out flat and stark before he could coat it in humor. His voice softened, edged with a brittleness he couldn’t hide. “You don’t have to pretend the scars don’t gross you out.”
He’d meant to land it as a joke, to lighten the molten-heavy mood. It fell like a stone between them.
Peter looked at him, the playful smirk evaporating into something like pure disbelief. He slid off the counter, landing softly on his feet. He took the single step that closed the distance between them.
“The scars are sexy,” Peter stated, his tone leaving no room for argument. His eyes didn’t dart away in pity or discomfort; they held Wade’s, fierce and clear. “Not just to me, Wade.”
He reached out, his movements deliberate. He didn’t go for a dramatic touch. He simply laid his palm, warm and sure, flat against the center of Wade’s chest. His fingertips rested on a long, ropy scar that cut diagonally across his sternum.
Wade flinched. It was infinitesimal, a tremor under Peter’s hand.
Peter didn’t pull away. He applied the slightest pressure, his thumb stroking the damaged skin. “The whole world loves a bad boy,” he said, a faint, wry smile touching his lips. “I don’t make the rules.”
The contact was electric. It wasn’t the charged passion of last night’s kiss. This was something quieter, more devastating. An acceptance so complete it felt like absolution. Peter’s touch traced the story without flinching, reading the braille of his pain and seeing something worthy in it.
Wade’s breath shuddered out of him. He covered Peter’s hand with his own, pressing it more firmly against his chest, as if trying to imprint the feeling directly into his bones. The voices in his head were mercifully, blessedly silent. For once, there was nothing but the feel of Peter’s skin on his, the steady thump of his own heart under that hand, and the impossible truth shining in Peter’s eyes.
Peter leaned in, closing the last inch of space. He didn’t kiss him. He just rested his forehead against Wade’s,