Chapter 4: Countertop Confessions
The scent of burnt toast was, unfortunately, a permanent fixture. It was layered over the ghost of last night's garlic-heavy stir-fry and the chemical-laden orange cleaner Peter used in a futile war against the grime. Morning light, weak and pale, slanted through the single window over the sink, illuminating a galaxy of grease spatter on the backsplash.
Wade was at the stove, a novelty apron reading ‘Kiss the Chef’ (with a crude drawing of Deadpool’s logo) tied haphazardly over his tactical pants. He was humming something tuneless and violent, wrist-deep in pancake batter. A half-empty carton of eggs sat precariously on the edge of the counter.
“—and that’s when I told him, ‘Mister Sinister, more like Mister Whiner, am I right?’” Wade spun around, spatula held aloft like a conductor’s baton, his face lit with the joy of his own anecdote. “Because his whole cloning thing is just a cry for attention, you ask m—whoa.”
Peter had entered the kitchen.
He was leaning against the doorframe, all casual grace and sleepy confidence. He wore one article of clothing: Wade’s own black t-shirt from the night before. It hung loose on Peter’s slimmer frame, the neckline stretched, revealing the sharp line of a collarbone. It was also notably, decisively short. It ended high on his thighs.
And below that, a sinuous band of midnight blue lace.
The spatula hit the floor with a plastic clatter. Wade’s voice, mid-quip, died in a strangled gurgle. His eyes, wide and unblinking, tracked a path from Peter’s mussed morning hair, down the exposed length of his legs—lean and muscled from a million web-slinging lunges—to the delicate, impossible fabric that might as well have been a live wire.
Peter didn’t move. He just offered a slow, sleepy smirk, his eyes heavy-lidded. He reached over to the small bowl of cherry tomatoes on the counter, plucked one, and popped it into his mouth. He chewed slowly.
Wade’s brain had flatlined. The internal chorus, usually a chaotic debate team, was a single, sustained tone of emergency broadcast static. His knees actually wobbled. He grabbed the edge of the counter for support, the linoleum cool under his bare feet.
“Holy fuck,” he rasped, the words scraped raw from his throat. His gaze was nailed to that strip of blue. “Are those… are those webs under there too?”
Peter’s smirk deepened. He swallowed the tomato. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”
It wasn’t a question. It was a statement, low and even, that went straight to Wade’s nervous system like a key turning in a lock. He felt his face grow hot. The scars on his chest and back, usually a network of muted, leathery lines, seemed to itch and prickle with sudden sensitivity.
He was a man who had faced down gods and monsters without breaking a sweat. He was undone by lace and a knowing look.
Peter pushed off the doorframe and took a few steps into the kitchen. The shirt rode up another fraction of an inch with each movement. He stopped an arm’s length away, within touching distance. Wade could smell his own soap on Peter’s skin, mixed with the unique, clean ozone-and-cotton scent that was purely Peter.
“You burned the pancakes,” Peter observed, glancing at the smoking pan behind Wade.
“I was distracted by strategic planning,” Wade managed, his voice still two octaves too high. “Very important. Tactical.”
“Mm-hmm.” Peter reached past him, his arm brushing Wade’s side, and turned off the stovetop burner. The hiss of gas ceased, leaving a ringing silence in the small kitchen. He didn’t step back. “You’re a terrible cook.”
“I’m an excellent cook. I can cook a man in his own shoes with a stick of dynamite and some sarcasm.”
“That’s not cooking. That’s performance art with a body count.” Peter’s eyes were fixed on Wade’s now, the playful glint softening into something more searching. “You’re staring.”
“You’re… you’re wearing my shirt.” It was a dumb thing to say, but it was all his rebooted brain could supply.
“I am.” Peter tugged gently at the hem. “It smells like you. Gun oil and cheap cologne and that weird, spicy soap you use. It’s awful. I like it.”
He said it so simply, so matter-of-factly, that it stole the last of Wade’s breath. The vulnerability in it was a physical blow. He wasn’t joking. He wasn’t performing. He was just stating a truth, bare and disarmed as he was.
Wade’s hand, moving on its own, lifted from the counter. He didn’t touch Peter. He hovered, his scarred, calloused fingers a breath away from the soft skin of Peter’s waist, just above the lace. He could feel the heat radiating from him.
“Last night,” Wade started, his voice rough. “The… the extraction. It wasn’t clean.”
Peter went very still. The easy confidence didn’t leave, but it solidified into alertness. “What happened?”
“The intel was bad. The warehouse wasn’t just a holding cell. It was a processing hub. There were… others. More than just the Patel girl.” Wade’s gaze dropped from Peter’s eyes to his own trembling hand. He let it fall back to his side. “I got her out. Clean. But the others…” He shook his head. “I had to call in a favor. Got the cops an anonymous tip. They’ll be rounding up the leftovers as we speak.”
“You did the right thing,” Peter said, no trace of doubt in his voice.
“Did I?” Wade laughed, a short, bitter sound. “The client paid for a discrete snatch-and-grab, no waves. I made a tidal wave. He’s pissed. Reputation took a hit.”
“Your reputation is that you’re a lunatic in a red suit who talks to himself. I think it’ll survive.” Peter took that final half-step, closing the distance. The loose fabric of the t-shirt whispered against Wade’s chest. “Look at me.”
Wade forced his eyes up. Peter’s expression was fierce, uncompromising.
“You saved more people than you were paid to,” Peter said, each word deliberate. “That’s not a hit to your reputation. That’s you being a good man who happens to have a very messed-up job.”
The words ‘good man’ landed like a physical touch, both soothing and scalding. Wade wanted to believe them so badly it hurt. He could feel the old, familiar arguments rising—the ledgers of blood money, the bodies piled high, the irredeemable math of his life. But looking at Peter, standing there in his shirt and his own secret lace, offering absolution without even being asked… the arguments lost their voice.
He leaned forward, resting his forehead against Peter’s. The contact was a grounding rod. “I hate it when you’re all noble and right. It’s obnoxious.”
“I know.” Peter’s hands came up, fingers sliding into the short hair at the nape of Wade’s neck. “You left again this morning. Before I woke up.”
It was said softly, but it was an accusation nonetheless. Wade had slipped out at dawn, unable to bear the quiet intimacy of waking up together. It felt too much like a dream he wasn’t allowed to keep.
“Had to move the car,” Wade lied weakly. “Double-parked. New York’s finest and all that.”
“Bullshit.” Peter’s thumbs stroked his temples. “You got scared.”
Wade closed his eyes. The truth was a dull ache behind his ribs. “It’s a lot. You. This.