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“I thought you didn't care about anyone,” Peter says, voice muffled by the skin of Wade's neck. His vision is blurry, and it feels like he's been placed in a bubble with aberrations at the edges of his sight. There's something wet and sticky plastered down the side of his face, but it's drying and the coolness is a tiny comfort when the rest of him feels so hot. If he weren't so sleepy, he would tear at his suit just to get to his skin, get rid of the blazed crawling from his neck down.
Wade shifts him in his arms, which are solid and strong like his father's he thinks for a moment. Peter tightens the hold around his neck so he can be adjusted properly. “I don't,” Wade answers honestly, and Peter can feel the vibrations on his throat when he talks, “But I sort of like you, and the bastards had it coming.”
Peter hums, eyes closing in a form of trust that he hadn't been willing to express before. Deadpool is dangerous, he knows this, and it's not like he can justify whatever moral code he has concocted for himself because Peter can barely follow it. He's mouthy and annoying, but Peter likes him anyways and even more so for—rare—moments like this, where he's just Wade with all his fucked up flaws and a scrape of humanity.
He hears a door closing and realizes he fell asleep at some point because upon opening his eyes he is able to make out a fairly decent motel room with a low, yellow lit lamp and two beds. For some reason it doesn't bother him that he has no idea where he is, but that may just be because he's had his head knocked against concrete too many times to think coherently.
“Wade,” he murmurs as he's laid down on the bed. His mouth is dry and his throat hurts, and feels a bit like he swallowed something burning that scorched his throat and won't go away. There's a hand in his hair—it hesitates a moment before threading through.
“Stay here,” Wade commands like Peter is actually able to do anything else, “And just—don't die? I went through a lot to keep your ass alive.”
Weight lifts from the mattress and a few moments later, he hears the hiss of running water against the static noise of traffic from the window. Peter rolls over on his side, trying to ignore the pulsing his head and the stinging pain in his ribs and legs. The world is still unbalanced and he's still vulnerable, but it's alright because part of him knows that Wade is telling the truth; he wouldn't kill him when he had taken the time to rescue him.
“They did a fucking number on you,” Wade says, sitting on the edge of the bed, though his tone is oddly affectionate.
“But you saved me,” Peter's words run together slightly, watching the merc through half lidded eyes.
“That I did. Of course I did. Jesus, am I that unreliable? Don't answer that.” It sounds like he's having a conversation with himself, the phrases staccato and quick, and it makes Peter laugh softly.
It occurs to Peter that he had never considered that Wade is more than a crude psychopathic mercenary with too much time on his hands. And while that is largely who he is, naturally, he's slightly in awe of the way that he cleans the blood off his face with a wet rag with an alarming amount of gentleness. He makes Peter open his eyes and checks for a concussion, and after a moment he seems satisfied and tells Peter, “You'll be fine. So now go the fuck to sleep.”
For once, Peter listens and does so.
Waking up after being held captive for six hours and beaten for the majority of said time period is undoubtedly one of the worst feelings that Peter has encountered yet. The throbbing in his head has intensified and spread down to his limbs, sore all over, and he feels like he's going to lurch out his stomach at some point.
“Wow, wow, wow, hold on,” he hears as he tries to sit up with a small whimper, and suddenly there are arms helping him up so he can actually prop himself up against the pillows.
“You cracked a rib, dumbfuck, you can't just get up,” Wade says, double checking that everything seems to be as alright as it can be.
Peter is about to say something, but raises his head to look up at promptly stops, the question dismissed from his mind entirely. The man next to the bed has Wade's voice, but that is certainly not his face. He's seen Deadpool without his mask, has witnessed the tumors and scars—and looked past them because they don't change that he's still Wade. But whoever this is, he's unmarred and frankly, unfairly attractive. Peter feels himself flush, and something seems to click on the attractive guy's face.
“Oh yea,” he grins, and Peter feels like he wants to die a little, “So I sort of lost my healing shit. And got hot. Cool right?”
Peter is still at a loss for words. He takes a moment to just stare because part of him is a little jealous and another is horrified because it isn't like Wade's ego needed anymore encouragement. He has to admit though, Wade is hot—god is he thinking this? Definitely still knocked around in the head. The newly healed mercenary now has flawless skin and a mop of boyish blonde hair, scruff around his jaw that is far more attractive than it should be.
And of course he's shirtless. Because leave it to Wade to just know Peter would be gaping at him, head to toe, so he just needs to flaunt all the defined muscle and unmarred skin.
“My eyes are up here, Spidey,” Wade says smugly, and Peter has to snap his vision back up from the sweatpants that hang low on his hips.
“I hate you,” Peter says definitively, having to stop himself from shaking his head because he still feels like he's being prodded at from the inside out.
“Ouch. Straight through the heart there,” the blonde feigns offense before reaching over to grab an assortment of pills and a glass of water from where he had previously set it out on the bedside table, as if remembering that if Peter is awake enough to insult him, it's time for pain meds. He shoves them at Peter who gladly takes them from him, chugging them down with some difficulty.
It's only when Wade is taking the glass back from him that he notices the gash on his shoulder. Not too deep and appears to be properly cleaned, but still there nonetheless. The fact that Wade now looks like he stepped out of a GQ magazine weighs so much less in comparison to losing his regenerative ability. Because now he's mortal and very killable, and had apparently rushed a mob headquarters to rescue him.
“How long?”
Wade seems to understand, “ 'bout a month, I guess.”
“Are you fucking stupid?” Peter hisses, “You could have died. You can't just storm the bad guys anymore, when they chop you up you won't grow back.”
Wade gives him a dry look, “Yea, I sort of understand that? I'm not going to stop saving my damsel in distress just because I may lose a finger. Fear is for pussies.”
“I'm not a damsel—”
“But they could have killed you, and that's...not good.” Wade's face scrunches up unpleasantly, like a little kid who just ate something bitter and unable to fathom the taste. Peter wonders if he actually knows what to do with caring for someone.
“Not good,” Peter repeats and the blonde nods, “I thought you gave up on trying to be a good guy.”
“I did, I just, it pissed me off when they took you, like they had any right to mess with you. And you, you're Spiderman, how the fuck do you get kidnapped?”
Wade sits on the bed with unceremonious thump. Peter's head still hurts, and he's still trying to wrap his head around this new Wade with all his good looks and apparently good intentions. They both lack shirts, though Peter is sporting a liberal amount of bandages around his torso that do nothing to help with how exposed he feels without his costume or any excuses to shove Wade away.
“I would walk through hell for you, Spidey. Mutation or not,” Wade says seriously, “Send the fucking monsters and hurricanes, I'll do it. I might lose a limb, but hey been there done that. I mean hopefully you just still find me sexy if I get my arm hacked off—”
“Wade, shut up.”
Peter lifts his hand so he can beckon him closer with one finger. Confused, Wade obeys and leans closer, allowing Peter to be able to tilt his head and kiss his cheek chastely. “Thank you,” he mumbles, suddenly feeling as though he had just started something by the way that Wade grins, “Wade, what-mmmph!”
Apparently a kiss on the cheek is a green light for the merc to crush their lips together ungracefully. It lasts for a long moment, all heat and dry lips with a pleasant pressure that sends a shudder down his spine. Wade presses against him and Peter grunts in pain, pushing him back, “Wade, broken rib.”
“Right,” he says sheepishly, but kisses him again anyways for a split second as if he's gained entitlement to doing that whenever he pleases. Peter won't admit that he has, that's besides the point because he did save him from death and then ensure that he actually lived for the next 12 hours, and that does deserve a kiss.
Peter wonders why they hadn't done this sooner, as Wade reaches for the remote to turn the TV onto cartoons, seeming to be thriving off the positive attention for once in his life. He cuddles up to Peter's side on the bed, explaining that he needs to stay put for a little while but never fear, Deadpool is here to nurse you back to health, what no sexy nurse outfits, okay fine.
In the span of the next few hours, Peter can't help but admit that he's slightly endeared with the man who has taken to waiting on him. Wade is his usual obnoxious self, leaving to get lunch and returning with a bag of greasy Chinese food and a comment about orientals and the sex slave industry to which Peter groans but accepts his fried rice. He whines about creating a partnership, because really wouldn't that be awesome if we teamed up? Maybe later then?
Peter lets him steal kisses throughout the day, finding that he enjoys them more than anything. He could get used to this, having Wade around trying to woo him with shitty pick up lines. It's as if he's suddenly gained this burst of confidence now that his scars have vanished, and maybe Wade hadn't been the most self assured guy out there before, even though Peter hadn't minded.
Though he really isn't going to complain about Wade's new look.
“Wade, just relax, sit,” Peter says, patting the spot next to him on the bed. The blonde joins him a moment later, and the other notices that he actually looks tired. He had spent so much time ensuring Peter's survival, he hadn't taken time to take care of himself, Peter thinks and mumbles an affectionate, “Idiot.”
“Hey,” Wade protests, curling into his side despite being the taller of the two. He's almost like a child, sleepy but reluctant to go to bed so soon. He's warm and heavy against Peter's side, smelling like disinfectant and Chinese food.
“You can die from exhaustion, idiot,” Peter explains, “Not just being attacked.”
A moment later and there's no reply, just even breathing of a mortal man who hasn't slept enough. Peter snorts softly and weaves a hand through his hair. He has the feeling he's going to have to lecture him on simple things now, like not forgetting to be careful with razors, or to have some sense of caution when going into battle. Neither will probably happen, but that's what Peter is here for.