#dwrites spideypool

Wade texts him the next day.

sexy motherfucker upstairs: ive got a hankerin

sexy motherfucker upstairs: i crave… ikea builting

sexy motherfucker upstairs: petey pie

Peter edits the contact, rolling his eyes. He’s in the breakroom at work, half of a sandwich still on his plate.

Peter: Im at work

Wade (A305): booooooo

Wade (A305): cum ovr after?

Wade (A305): i feel like pounding aftr midnite

Peter: Please dont. Im off in three hours, dont disturb the rest of our neighbors.

Wade (A305): cravings…. growing

...

“Okay,” Wade said when they reached the outdoors. Peter stood to attention, staring up at Wade and squinting in the sunlight now fully risen overhead. Wade's figure was outlined by a bright halo, “If you want to pay me back so badly, give me your number. I'm making you pancakes. Maybe more if I'm lucky.”

What?

“Huh?” 

Wade laughed warmly, a kind of fondness on the masked features, “You, Peter. Give me your number and then you come over. I make pancakes. Maybe some hanky-panky? Give meaning to that E-rating, right? Badda-bing-badda-boom. You don't owe me anything else.” 

Peter squinted at him.

“No hanky-panky. Just pancakes. We play three rounds of Mario-Kart, I whoop your ass, and then we’re even.” 

Giving Wade his number might have been his last chance to have his questions answered, without having to be too intertwined into Wade's life. He probably should have thought about it before inviting the man to breakfast, but he wasn't about to drop the opportunity on the basis of pride. 

Okay, he took a deep breath, attempt number two.

Peter held out his hand, “Two games, I beat you. The end.”

“You can try, baby boy. I was there when Mario was invented.” Wade grinned and dug into his pocket, pulling out his phone. He typed on it briefly, before placing it in Peter’s outstretched palm. 

Peter laughed as he accepted the device, typing in his contact information quickly, and then handed the phone back to its owner, “You wish you were that old.”

“Peter Parker.” Wade breathed as he glanced at the screen.

Peter’s heart stuttered.

Peter had woken up in strange places more often than he could count. Under bridges; in abandoned houses; pinned beneath piles of rubble; in some stranger's bed. Something all of those places had in common was that he always woke up alone, clawing his way back to the surface. Battered and bruised, and on his own.

It could be scary at times, of course. Like that time that a cement beam had fallen on top of him, crushing his legs against the ground, and he hadn’t been sure that he was strong enough to move it. At that moment he was terrified. No help was coming for him. But he knew it was better that way. It was better that he was the only one under that beam, that he wasn’t dragging anyone down with him. Peter was better off alone.

Or so he thought. As he stirred awake slowly, he imagined the sound of Wade beside him. Would he snore? Or would he be the sort of person who wakes up early and clatters around until Peter joins him? Would his side of the bed be warm and inviting on those mornings when Peter’s body ached? Or would Peter kiss Wade into wakefulness alongside him? Lips on soft scars, filled with silent promises to give back in all the ways that Wade had given to him already.

Peter awoke slowly, like he was being dragged out of hot tar. His eyes cracked open and blinked against the light streaming in through the windows. He must have forgotten to shut the blinds again. No matter. He felt far too relaxed and at peace to care about the sun. 

It was kind of odd. Pleasant, but odd.

His mind was… silent. Like a blank canvas. Peter couldn’t remember the last time the inside of his head had ever been so quiet and he was determined to savor every moment of it. He breathed in deeply, sighing in relief as his nostrils were filled once again with the scent of kevlar and musk and gunpowder, adorned with fresh linen. Had he fallen asleep with Wade’s coat again? A strange habit to pick up, but he wasn't upset about it. 

At the back of his mind, a dream washed back and forth like waves on the shore, coming in and out of focus. Something about melted ice cream and hands in his hair. It was pleasant and Peter was content to let himself fall back into it again as his eyes fell shut once more. On his blank canvas mind, he drew pictures. Behind his eyelids was someone’s face.

Large eyes, a gasping expression.

A playful smile.

And then, suddenly, a cacophony of sound. An explosion.

Screams and shouts followed quickly.

A boy with a yellow Mark falling out of his grasp.

Catch him! Catch him and don't let go!

Peter’s heart began to race. Catch him!

The boy was now replaced by Wade, and he disappeared into the black abyss below.

“Are you gonna stay in bed all day?”

Huh? 

Peter’s eyes snapped open. The image of the boy, of dream-Wade flashed once, twice, thrice, as he blinked away the dream– nightmare. He expected his room to come into focus, to see the cracked window and the blinds swaying from the autumn breeze. 

That is not what he saw.

The view in front of him was decidedly not his bedroom window. Instead, across from the bed was a shiny, black dresser with gray knobs that he had absolutely never seen before. Now that he was thinking about it, the bed was way softer than his own – and the comforter was so plush under his hands that it had to be expensive. Nothing like his hand-me-down quilt.

He sat straight up, dizzy as blood rushed back out of his skull, his heart pounding. There was a large figure standing at the edge of the bed, slowly coming into focus.

Peter tilted his head, squinting, and then his eyes widened in horror.

Oh my god. He had slept in Wade’s bed.