Chapter 3: Reversal of Fortune
The breakfast dishes sat in the sink, abandoned. The morning sun had climbed, painting warm rectangles across the floorboards. They’d migrated to the couch, a natural gravitational pull, the same space where they’d first dozed off tangled together. Now, a comfortable silence stretched between them, punctuated only by the soft hum of the city and the rustle of Peter flipping through a dog-eared physics journal.
Wade had reclaimed his spot, sprawling across the majority of the cushions, his head in Peter’s lap. He wasn’t reading, just staring at the ceiling, one hand idly playing with the hem of Peter’s t-shirt. He looked absurdly peaceful. The scarred, terrifying bulk of him was utterly relaxed, grounded by the simple weight of a thigh under his skull.
Peter’s fingers absently combed through the short, coarse hair at Wade’s temple. It was an unconscious gesture, born from a deep, startling contentment. His ribs were a distant ache, a manageable complaint.
“You’re thinking too loud,” Wade murmured, his eyes still closed. “I can hear the gears grinding from here. ‘Kinetic energy this, thermodynamic that.’ Give the brain a break, Parker. It’s Saturday.”
“It’s Tuesday,” Peter said, not looking up from his journal.
“See? Your calendar needs a break, too.” Wade shifted, turning his head to nuzzle into Peter’s stomach. “Mmm. You smell like my soap. And ozone. It’s a weird, good combo.”
Peter felt a blush creep up his neck. He dog-eared a page and set the journal aside on the armrest, next to an empty energy drink can. “That’s the scent of cheap body wash and perpetual near-electrocution. A classic.”
Wade opened one eye, peering up at him. “Admit it,” he said, a slow grin spreading across his face. “You’re loving this. You, the noble, put-upon hero, secretly reveling in having a notorious loose cannon as your personal lap-warmer. You like being pinned down.”
The words were pure Wade—teasing, provocative, testing the boundaries of this new, fragile thing. But Peter was learning the dialect. He saw the slight tension in the shoulder pressed against his leg, the carefully veiled hope behind the bravado.
Peter’s expression didn’t change. He looked down at Wade, his face the picture of thoughtful consideration. Then, in one fluid motion born of strength that always seemed to surprise people, he moved.
His hands clamped on Wade’s shoulders. He twisted his hips, using the leverage of Wade’s own weight against him. It was too fast, too efficient for Wade to counter. One second he was lounging; the next, the world flipped, and the worn leather of the couch was against his cheek, Peter’s knee a firm, careful pressure in the small of his back. Peter’s body was a lean weight over him, one hand pinning Wade’s wrist to the couch cushion beside his head.
“Funny,” Peter breathed, his voice a low murmur near Wade’s ear. He leaned down, his lips almost brushing the shell of it. Wade could feel the warm puff of air. “I was just thinking the same thing about you.”
A full-body shiver wracked Wade. Heat, immediate and intense, flooded his stomach. He squirmed, not to get away, but to feel the pressure more completely, to arch back against the knee holding him down. The breath left his lungs in a shaky gust. All his clever quips, his fourth-wall asides, evaporated into a static haze of pure sensation.
Peter held him there, perfectly still. He could feel the powerful muscles in Wade’s back tense and release under his weight. He could see the rapid pulse thrumming in the side of his neck, exposed and vulnerable. This wasn’t a fight. It was a statement.
“You—” Wade started, his voice strangled.
“Me,” Peter agreed softly. He eased the pressure on the pinned wrist, letting his fingers slide down to intertwine with Wade’s instead. His other hand stayed splayed on the center of Wade’s back, feeling the intricate landscape of scars through the thin cotton of his borrowed shirt. “You talk a big game, Wilson. But you fluster pretty easy.”
“Do not,” Wade grumbled into the leather, but he turned his head to the side, granting Peter more access. His eyes were closed tight.
“You do.” Peter bent lower, letting his mouth ghost along the column of Wade’s neck, just below his ear. He felt Wade jerk beneath him, a stifled gasp catching in his throat. “I like it.”
He kissed the spot, not soft and questioning like before, but with a deliberate, hot pressure. Wade made a sound—a choked-off, desperate thing—and pushed back against him, his free hand scrabbling for purchase on the couch cushion.
Peter released his hand and sat back up, the sudden absence of contact like a vacuum. Wade instantly rolled onto his back, his chest heaving, his eyes blown wide and dark. He looked utterly wrecked, his hair mussed, his lips parted. The sight sent a jolt of pure possession through Peter.
He braced his hands on the couch back on either side of Wade’s head, caging him in. “You’re not the only one who can be a menace,” Peter said, his own breathing uneven now.
Wade just stared up at him, all pretense gone. His defenses were vaporized, leaving behind raw, unvarnished want. He lifted a hand, his fingers trembling slightly as they traced the line of Peter’s jaw. “You’re playing with fire, kid.”
“I’m fireproof.” Peter dipped his head, catching Wade’s mouth in a searing kiss. It was all the pent-up tension of the morning, the nervous energy of newness, channeled into something hot and demanding. Wade responded instantly, his hands coming up to fist in Peter’s hair, pulling him down harder.
The kiss was a slow burn rapidly escalating into a blaze. Peter let his weight settle more fully onto Wade, the leather creaking under them. He tasted of coffee and something uniquely, addictively Wade. One of Wade’s legs hooked around Peter’s thigh, anchoring him.
Peter broke the kiss, dragging his mouth down Wade’s jaw, to his throat. He nipped at the corded muscle there, earning a sharp gasp. “Still think I’m the one who likes being pinned down?” he murmured against his skin.
Wade’s answer was a low groan. He bucked his hips up, a clear, frantic signal. “Semantics,” he rasped. “You win. You always win. Just… don’t stop.”
The simplicity of the plea undid Peter. He slowed, lifting his head to look into Wade’s face. The usual chaos in his eyes was gone, replaced by a vulnerability so deep it was almost painful to see. Peter softened, brushing a thumb over Wade’s cheekbone. “I’m not going anywhere.”
The words hung in the air, heavier than any kiss. They were a promise, and they both knew it. Wade’s throat worked. He looked like he wanted to say a hundred things, to crack a joke, to deflect. Instead, he just pulled Peter back down into another kiss, this one slower, sweeter, but no less hungry.
They lost track of time. The sunbeam on the floor crept across the room. The city’s noise faded into a dull, irrelevant roar. There was just the slide of hands under fabric, the hot skin being discovered, the shared breath and the quiet, gasping sounds neither tried to stifle.
Peter was mapping the terrain of Wade’s chest with his lips, his tongue following the raised edge of a particularly long scar, when Wade’s phone erupted from the pocket of the discarded sweatpants on the floor.
The sound was brutally loud in the quiet apartment—a shrill, synthesized mariachi trumpet blast.
Peter flinched, his head lifting. Wade cursed, a long, fluent, inventive stream of profanity that made Peter blink.
“Ignore it,” Wade growled, trying to pull Peter back to him.
“You can’t ignore that,” Peter said, the spell momentarily broken. His own senses were kicking back in, the mundane world intruding. “That’s your ‘work’ ringtone.”
“It’s also my ‘Al just got a new shipment of chimichangas’ ringtone. Could be either. Let’s gamble.” Wade’s hands were sliding up Peter’s back, under his shirt.
The phone stopped. For two blessed seconds, there was silence. Then it started again, the same obnoxious trumpet blaring with relentless urgency.
Peter sighed, a frustrated sound that ended in a soft laugh. He pushed himself up, sitting back on his heels. Wade lay beneath him, a portrait of agonized betrayal. “You have to get it.”
“I really, really don’t.”
“Wade.”
With a dramatic, world-weary groan, Wade disentangled himself and lunged for the floor, grabbing the buzzing phone. He glared at the screen, his expression shifting from annoyance to acute displeasure. “Ugh. It’s work.” He hit answer and put it on speakerphone, flopping onto his back beside Peter. “This better be a multi-million-dollar hit on a literal demon, Weasel.”
“Wade! Thank god,” a nasal, anxious voice crackled through the speaker. “Where are you? You were supposed to be here an hour ago to case the waterfront deal.”
Wade closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I’m in the middle of a critical strategic reassessment of my life choices, Weas. It’s very time-consuming.”
“You’re with him, aren’t you? The web-slinger.” Weasel’s voice dripped with resigned disdain.
Peter mouthed, ‘Him?’ with a raised eyebrow.
Wade waved a dismissive hand. “Details are superfluous. What’s the job?”
“The Patel extraction. Tonight. The client is getting twitchy. The meet is in three hours at the usual spot to go over the final layout. If you’re not there, he’s hiring the Wraith.”
That got Wade’s attention. He sat up, all pretense of laziness gone. “The Wraith is a hack with a penchant for collateral damage. He’ll torch the whole block.” He scrubbed a hand over his face. “Fine. Fine. I’ll be there.”
He hung up and tossed the phone onto the coffee table, where it skittered next to a half-built Lego Death Star. The earlier mood was shattered, replaced by the grim reality of their lives.
Peter watched him. The easy, open vulnerability was gone, sealed away behind a familiar, professional mask. “Extraction?” Peter asked quietly.
“Rich guy’s daughter. Snatched by a rival conglomerate. They’re holding her in a dockyard warehouse.” Wade stood up, a sudden coil of restless energy. He began pacing the short length of the living room. “Should be clean. In and out. No fireworks.” He said it like he was trying to convince himself.
Peter stayed on the couch, pulling his knees up to his chest. The warmth from moments ago was leaching away, replaced by a cold dread that settled in his stomach. He’d known this was coming. Wade’s world was one of bullets and blood money. He couldn’t be surprised. But the sudden yank back to reality was jarring.
“You don’t have to do that kind of work,” Peter said, his voice barely above a whisper. “You know you don’t.”
Wade stopped pacing. He looked at Peter, really looked at him—sitting small on the couch, his arms wrapped around his legs, the ghost of their kisses still on his swollen lips. The conflict on his face was brutal.
“What else am I gonna do, Pete?” The question wasn’t rhetorical. It was desperate. “I’m a high-end, custom-built can opener. This is what I’m for. The skillset… it’s a little niche for the 9-to-5 crowd.”
“You could—”
“I can’t.” Wade cut him off, gentle but firm. He walked back and knelt in front of the couch, putting them at eye level. He took Peter’s hands in his. His were warm, rough. “This is tonight. One job. In and out. Then I’m yours. We can… we can figure out the Star Wars marathon. All of it.”
He was bargaining. Peter heard it. The fear underneath was palpable—the fear of this new, good thing being shattered by the old, ugly one.
Peter turned his hands over, lacing his fingers with Wade’s. He thought about the smell of breakfast, the feel of scarred skin under his palms, the terrifying rightness of waking up tangled together. He thought about warehouses and gunfire and the kind of men who hired Deadpool.
He leaned forward until their foreheads touched, just like in the kitchen. “You come back,” Peter said, his voice low and fierce, leaving no room for argument. “You come back in one piece. Not most pieces. All the pieces. You hear me?”
Wade’s eyes searched his. He saw no judgment, no naive heroics. Just a stark, clear demand. A line in the sand. He nodded, a short, sharp movement. “Yeah. I hear you.”
He started to pull away, to get up and begin the grim process of gearing up. But Peter held on, tightening his grip.
“And Wade?” Peter waited until Wade met his gaze again. “After. We are going to figure this out. All of it.”
It wasn’t forgiveness for the job. It wasn’t approval. It was a promise of a future, messy and complicated and theirs. Wade’s expression fractured for a second, showing the sheer, staggering force of his hope. He brought Peter’s knuckles to his lips and pressed a hard, silent kiss against them.
Then he stood, the moment broken by necessity. He grabbed the black sweatpants from the floor and headed for the bathroom to change, his shoulders already set in the familiar, deadly posture of the mercenary called Deadpool.
Peter stayed on the couch, listening to the sounds of preparation through the door. The clink of weapons being checked. The rustle of tactical gear. He wrapped his arms tighter around himself, the phantom feeling of Wade’s weight still lingering on his skin, and waited for him to re-emerge, already counting the hours until he’d return.
He wrapped his arms tighter around himself, the phantom feeling of Wade’s weight still lingering on his skin, and waited for him to re-emerge, already counting the hours until he’d return. The bathroom door opened. Wade stood there, fully encased in the familiar red and black suit, a duffel bag slung over one shoulder. He was a different person now, his posture coiled and alert, the easy warmth from the couch locked away behind layers of Kevlar.
Peter stood up from the couch, the air between them suddenly charged with a different energy. “All the pieces,” he repeated, his voice firm.
Wade nodded, the mask’s white eyes giving nothing away. “All the pieces.” He crossed the room in two strides, cupped Peter’s face in his gloved hands, and kissed him, hard and brief. It tasted like resolve and good-bye. “Don’t wait up,” he said, his voice modulator flattening the words.
Then he was gone, the apartment door clicking shut with a dreadful finality. The silence he left behind was immense and hollow.
The hours crawled by. Peter tried to busy himself. He washed the breakfast dishes, the smell of Wade’s omelette still clinging to the pan. He attempted to read his journal, but the words swam on the page. Every distant siren, every thump from the apartment above, sent a jolt through him. His spider-sense remained quiet, a small mercy that did nothing to calm the anxious twist in his gut.
He finally gave up and stripped the bed, gathering the sheets and their clothes from the floor—his grey sweatpants, Wade’s black ones, the borrowed t-shirt. The domestic normality of stuffing them into the washing machine felt absurd. He spent the evening in a cycle of pointless activity, his mind twenty-seven blocks and a world away in a dockyard warehouse.
Night fell. The city’s lights blinked on beyond his window. He thought about suiting up, about swinging downtown to watch the periphery of the extraction. He dismissed it. Wade needed to work, and Peter needed to trust him. The decision felt like holding a hot coal in his hand.
He ended up doing laundry. It was mindless, mechanical. He moved loads, folded towels, matched socks. The mindless work was better than staring at the ceiling. He stacked the clean, warm clothes into baskets and left them on the couch and coffee table, a monument to killing time. The thrum of the shower finally offered a distraction, the hot water sluicing away the nervous sweat and the lingering scent of his own anxiety.
He was in the shower when he heard the front door open.
The sound was unmistakable—the soft scrape of a key in the lock, the gentle sigh of the door swinging inward. Peter froze under the spray, his heart hammering against his ribs. He listened, straining past the drum of water. No heavy footsteps. No cursing. Just a profound, waiting silence from the living room.
He shut off the water. Dripping, he grabbed a towel and wrapped it hastily around his waist. He didn’t bother with the rest. Pushing the bathroom door open, he stepped into the steam-clouded hallway.
Wade was there. He was sitting on the arm of the couch, still in full tactical gear, his mask on. He was perfectly still, a statue of red and black amidst the soft piles of folded laundry. One gloved hand rested on his knee. He didn’t turn.
Peter walked towards him, bare feet silent on the floorboards. Water dripped from his hair, tracing paths down his chest. He stopped right in front of Wade, between his parted knees.
He didn’t say a word. He reached out, his fingers finding the edge of Wade’s mask. He tugged the fabric up, just enough to expose his mouth, and leaned in.
The kiss was slow and deep, a reclaiming. It tasted of sweat, city grime, and the coppery hint of blood that wasn’t his own. Peter poured every worried hour of the evening into it, his hands coming up to cradle Wade’s jaw through the mask.
When they parted, Peter kept their foreheads touching. “Missed you,” he breathed, the words ghosting over Wade’s lips. “How’d it go?”
Wade’s eyes behind the mask were unreadable, but the line of his mouth was tense. He made a face, a subtle tightening that Peter was beginning to recognize. It was the face that meant the white and yellow text boxes in his head were being too loud, a chaotic, internal argument screaming behind his silence.
Peter leaned in closer, his damp chest nearly brushing the hard planes of Wade’s armored suit. He put his lips directly to Wade’s ear, his voice a low, visceral purr that vibrated in the space between them. “Can you do something for me, gorgeous?”
Wade shuddered, a full-body tremor that rattled his gear. He nodded, frantic. “Anything. Literally anything.”
Peter moved his hands from Wade’s jaw down to his thighs, his thumbs tracing the seams of the tactical pants. He could feel the dense muscle beneath, still taut with residual adrenaline. He kept his voice in that intimate, commanding register, each word a deliberate stroke.
“Tell Yellow and White to shut the fuck up.”
This got a laugh from Wade, a sharp, surprised burst of air. “That obvious?”
Peter nodded, his nose brushing Wade’s cheek. He didn’t pull back. “And also,” he continued, his tone shifting to something lighter, practical, “help me fold laundry.”
He stepped back then, breaking the electric contact. He turned and sat on the couch, pulling a basket of warm towels towards him. He picked up a bath towel and began folding it with methodical precision, the mundane action a stark contrast to the moment before.
For a second, Wade just stared, utterly disoriented. Then, with a slow, almost disbelieving shake of his head, he stood. He peeled off his gloves, then his mask, dropping them onto the duffel bag by his feet. His real face was pale, a fresh, thin scar already sealing shut on his temple. He sat on the couch beside Peter, careful not to let his bloody, armored bulk touch the clean laundry.
He picked up a t-shirt, shaking it out. The domesticity was surreal. “What are they saying?” Peter asked, not looking up from his precise corners.
Wade focused on folding a sleeve. “That you’re hot,” he mumbled. “Only time they’ve ever agreed on anything.”
Peter laughed, a warm, real sound that filled the quiet apartment. He kept folding. Wade followed his lead, the two of them working in companionable silence, building neat stacks on the coffee table. The ordinary rhythm of it began to sand down the jagged edges of the night.
Wade lifted a grey henley to fold it and froze. His eyes locked on what had been beneath it.
Four. Not one, but four lace thongs, nestled together on the cushion. Black, deep red, forest green, midnight blue. Delicate, explicitly masculine in cut, and undeniably his.
He didn’t touch them. He just stared, his brain visibly short-circuiting. The internal cacophony his face had hinted at earlier seemed to boil over into the quiet room. He swallowed hard, his gaze flicking to Peter, who was calmly pairing socks.
“Please,” Wade said, his voice strained. “Please tell me these are yours and not left behind from a… from a hook-up.”
Peter didn’t pause. He picked up the forest green lace, folded it neatly into a small square, and placed it on his own “keep” pile. “They’re mine,” he said casually, as if admitting to owning a particular brand of socks.
Wade made a sound like a deflating balloon, a high, helpless whine. He dropped his head into his hands, then ran them over his face, dragging the skin. “You’re killing me, Peter.”
“Am I?” Peter asked, a sly smile playing on his lips. He finished the last sock and looked directly at Wade, his eyes bright with a mixture of affection and mischief. “You seem very alive to me.”
Wade looked from the folded lace to Peter’s face, then down to the towel riding low on his hips. The math was being done in his head, visibly, and the answer was sending him into systemic failure. He opened his mouth, closed it, then just gestured weakly at the pile, unable to form a coherent sentence.