"You can put your strength down. I'm sitting here with you at your kitchen table. You don't need to say anything." 

-Eden Robinson

Wade hadn't mentioned anything about him being him.

The entire night went quietly after the whole reveal, and Peter had been so tired after everything that he crashed instantly... Then the sun rose, and the morning came on, and Peter was waiting for something more. A shoe to drop.

Peter was a very curious person when his brain wasn't too addled on adrenaline and near-death-level pain. He's observant. He pressed for questions in his mind and then answered them, it was part of his whole scientist brain, for better or worse.

He's sitting on the barstool of Deadpool's kitchen, who also happened to be Wade Wilson, watching him at the stovetop.

Wade's expression is calm and pleasant, humming George Michael's "Last Christmas" to himself as he sprayed down a stovetop griddle with canola oil cooking spray. He had this goofy Kiss the Cook apron on that had Peter's heart doing silly loops, and he just looked... like somebody who didn't experience an earth-shattering confession the night before.

As for himself, Peter's shirtless, with his chest and shoulder wrapped up with some high-quality bandages. Like, the good kind that cost a lot, and not the cheap kind he usually bought in the back of random Manhattan pharmacies while nursing various wounds. He also had on a pair of Wade's baggy grease-stained sweatpants, which hung low around his waist and he had to keep folded around his ankles so he didn't trip over his own feet.

(And no, it wasn't because he was short! He was average height and had a gymnast build! It was not his fault that Wade Wilson was half beefcake.)

Peter watched as Wade poured several dollops of batter on the griddle, waiting for him to bring it up. He didn't. Peter decided to start some kind of small talk anyways.

"I really should pack up my apartment soon," Peter spoke up. "Eviction isn't really, uh... my friend."

Wade hummed. He flipped a pancake and it sizzled on the pan. "I don't think it's anybody's friend, baby boy."

Peter pressed his lips together and awkwardly drummed his fingers on the counter.

"It's alright," Wade shrugged. He piled the pancakes onto a plate and handed it to Peter with a fork. He gave him a crooked grin. "You can crash with me. I'll even help you pack."

Peter gave a half-grateful smile. It hurt against his lip, still on the cusp of being fully healed. "Yeah. Thanks."

"How're you feeling?" Wade asked. He looked up at him from where he stood at the stove.

Peter pushed a cut bite of pancake around in syrup on the plate. "I'm..."

How was he?

Physically? One night had only healed half of his wounds, and he still hurt with every move. He did sleep well though, Wade's mattress was far more comfortable than his could have ever hoped to achieve. He was hungry, but Wade's pancakes were fixing that up nicely. He hadn't been kidding. He was damn-good at making them.

Emotionally— well, that was always the kicker, wasn't it? He let Reyes get away, and he's out of commission til his wounds heal, leaving him vulnerable. But he still felt grateful that Wade was with him, and that's what he decided to focus on.

Peter swallowed the bite of pancakes. "I'm okay. We need to come up with a plan though. The Employer is still out there."

"Just, hold on, cowboy. Even if we have a plan, we won't be able to execute it anytime soon. You still gotta heal," Wade pointed out. He piled pancakes on another plate and then turned the burner off. He sat next to Peter. "What can we do right now?"

Now, for this next part... Peter couldn't help it. He had to ask.

"How did you know?" Peter blurted out, searching Wade's expression with pinched eyebrows. "If you weren't looking for me knowing I was Spider-Man, I mean. How did you find out? When was it?"

Wade looked down, stuffing his face with pancakes. "Eh. Just being aware. Listening to things. Being Deadpool gives you some cool social perks, great for figuring out when people are bullshitting you. The whole 'getting jumped' story you gave me— I thought you were in some deep shit, baby boy."

Peter huffed an unexpected laugh. "Usually people don't react like you did. I panicked. I'm usually better at lying about Spider-Man stuff."

Wade raised his eyebrows wordlessly.

"...Well, I thought I was better at lying," Peter mumbled. "I guess I should really work on that."

Wade smirked, his eyes twinkling with amusement as he looked down at his plate.

"Tell me about Deadpool," Peter decided, taking another bite. "The real story. Everything that happened."

Wade paused, his hand stilling on his fork. He looked up at Peter with hesitancy and something almost afraid. "I don't think you want to hear all that, baby boy. It's not exactly breakfast conversation. Or fragile stomachs. Or any conversation. Or any stomach."

"I think I can manage," Peter promised lightly, nudging his shoulder. "I wanna know the truth."

He wanted to know everything. He could listen for hours.

Wade sighed dramatically. "Okay. Well, it all started with me being born in a shitty little hospital in the grand old maple leaf country Canada. Equally shitty little town in Regina, Saskatchewan. My mother—"

"Wade," Peter smiled.

Wade tapered off and gave Peter a gentle smile of his own. He looked down thoughtfully and pushed pancake bits around with his fork.

"My dad was a piece of shit," he started honestly. "I was ready to do anything to get out of there. Luckily, I was able to fake my way into Special Forces when I was about sixteen. That part wasn't a lie."

"Got discharged ten years later," Wade continued. "I refused to do some heinous shit the asshole with the badges wanted me to do, and they sent me home with nothing. I didn't go to college, there's only so much you can do with my 'skill set' and no diploma to earn cash."

"Merc for hire," Peter murmured. He paused. "You knew the X-Men. That photo you have on your laptop—"

Wade laughed slightly. "That's... a little ways from now. I went into normal mercenary work for about two years, met this really pretty girl. Vanessa. Just as we were about to get married, you know, really take off with our lives, I got fucked over with a cancer diagnosis."

Peter's blood went cold. He furrowed his eyebrows and frowned deeply. "Wade, I—"

"Don't worry," Wade said with a grimacing smile. "Because this really... really awesome bag of three-pronged dicks told me he could heal me. And me and Nessa— we'd already travelled the fuckin' world looking for experimental cures and all this other bullshit, so... I was getting desperate, for her sake. He took advantage of me. Next thing I know I'm getting round-the-clock tortured to spark up my 'mutant transformation' or whatever motherfucking garbage—"

Peter moved his knee to press into Wade's thigh. Wade settled, looking down at his food again. He waited.

Wade took a careful breath, and smiled sharply. "And now I look like this! A walking bag of cancer cells, inside and out. I can't die, but who would wanna live like this, you know? Anyways. Turns out being a mutant who's known for murdering people doesn't sit well with Russian Santa, so him and his little behemoth kid squad started tailing me. That's all in the past now, though. We hardly see each other."

"Ah," Peter said blankly.

He let it get quiet, trying to formulate any kind of response. His mind was void of one. There were a lot of things he wanted to say, a lot of things he wanted to express. He wanted to say some sort of apology, but that wouldn't come across like he wanted. He wanted to tell Wade about his promised loyalty. He wanted to tell Wade it didn't matter, he'd still be here.

From now on, if there were any doubt, it was now clear: Wade Wilson wouldn't be going at anything alone. Not if Peter Parker had anything to say about it.

Wade sighed. "I took the hit on you because I don't like the idea of powerful people taking advantage of those who need help."

That made sense. Deadpool had been honest about it from the start. It's only now that Peter's connecting the dots as to why.

"I investigated F.E.A.S.T. first, heard Spidey talking about it on the phone the night we met— sorry about that, by the way," Wade said brusquely. "Instead of finding evidence of corruption, I just found..."

"...Me," Peter finished.

Wade nodded. "You. I quit then and there. Figured there wasn't any possible way that place had shady business running on when I saw how you treated it, and how the people in there treated it. It's a real good place. Haven't seen much of those in my lifetime."

Peter considered this, and then sighed. "I can't believe you're a mercenary. I can't believe you're—"

"A killer?" Wade supplied, the word coming out with a bitter, tense smile.

Peter scoffed, nudging their shoulders together again, harder. (He ignored the pain from this particular movement.) "No. I can't believe after all of that you're still so good."

Wade widened his eyes with pure disbelief. He fully put his fork down, clinking it against the plate. "Are you still bleeding? Are you suffering from the confusion of major blood loss? I have basically a thesaurus of words my buddy has called me or referred to me as, and 'good' ain't in there, Petey."

"Okay, well. I think you have a good head on your shoulders. You're smart, you make hard choices to protect the people who can't, or shouldn't have to. That sounds pretty damn good to me." Peter pressed his lips together firmly, hesitating on his next words. But they were important. And he trusted Wade, and he deserved to hear them. "There have been a few times in my life where I didn't want to be... good. hard. I'm proud of you."

Wade shifted uncomfortably, remaining quiet. It was clear that he didn't agree with him, and that was fine, because Peter would be there to remind him from now on. They could keep each other on their toes, on the right path.

Wade cleared his throat. "What about you, Webs?"

Peter raised an eyebrow at the change of subject. He took another big bite of pancakes and licked the syrup from his bottom lip. "What about me?"

"I don't know, I thought we were doing movie synopses," Wade said, gesturing between them. "I wanna hear yours. It's your turn, take it away."

"I wouldn't know where to start. You already know about Gwen, because I—" Peter hesitated, his eyebrows furrowing. "I told you about that twice, didn't I?"

"Yep. That's actually how I busted your little masquerade charade."

"Well, I wouldn't exactly call it a—"

"How'd you get your powers?" Wade interrupted, leaning into his side. "That's pretty interesting, hm? Did you get tortured too or were you born with it, Maybelline?"

"Uh, neither, I guess." Peter smiled wryly. "I was just bit by a spider."

Wade hummed. "Kinda boring. What about that scar on your ear? I've been real curious about that."

"Sorry to say, it's the same boring answer." Peter turned his head and showed the white mark behind his left ear. "I got bit on a field trip to Oscorp when I was fourteen."

"That scarred?" Wade exclaimed with an unreasonable amount of stun. "A teeny tiny spider bite?"

"It wasn't teeny," Peter corrected, and sure, he might be a little defensive. "It was bigger than my thumb, and it was like, really painful. And itchy. And also, like, radioactive, so yeah, it scarred."

"Oh, shit," Wade repeated softly. Then he gasped. "Oscorp. Oscorp spider. Motherfucker, Reyes worked with spiders at about the same time, didn't he?"

"Yeah, I'm..." Peter let out a tired breath. "I'm basically the only living DNA of his spider project, I guess. Probably why he stole my blood, and the other stuff."

"It's like he was made specifically to hate you," Wade said with narrowed eyes. "Seems a bit intentional. On the nose. I can, and will judge character design."

"I really don't know what that's supposed to mean."

"You're not supposed to," Wade said sweetly. "Anyways, I knew it wasn't just a scar! Definitely a biggie. You seem way too haunted by that thing."

Peter made a face. Wade wasn't wrong, but the bluntness of his observations, especially regarding the accuracy of the spontaneous soul-read, was almost scary. Seriously, Wade could be one of those street-psychics in Central Park.

"It's just a lot of responsibility, okay?" Peter twirled his fork around, trying to find the words. "If I had a shitty patrol, I can always just take the mask off at the end of the day. But the scar never goes away, it's always just there."

He paused and shook his head. "Whatever. That probably doesn't make sense."

"It makes sense," Wade said, softening.

Peter glanced up at him, and Wade slowly lifted his hand to cup the left side of his face. It settled behind his left ear, with his thumb able to gently rest on Peter's earlobe.

He smiled bright and sharp, eyes full of genuinity, an expression noticeably adorned by Wade when he looked at Peter, and said: "You have a very handsome ear."

If that wasn't the most ridiculous thing Peter had ever heard in his life. And yet he could feel his face going hot and the urge to smile back at him was a battle he was finding it hard to lose.

"You're crazy, Pool," he replied simply, keeping his expression levelled.

Wade's smile widened to a grin. "Crazy for you, Webs."

Peter hummed and looked around at the apartment again. Deadpool's apartment. The large corkboard in his living room was now full of post-it notes, print out pages of documents from Oscorp's databases, and of course— scribbles of Spider-Man and Deadpool in crayon, littered along the board and tucked in hiding spots.

"I see the board got an update."

"Hell yeah, always." Wade smiled. "Think I got your likeness down? Sorry for mostly drawing ass-shots. It wasn't intentional. Yes it was."

Peter rolled his eyes.

"Oh sweet fuck. That's what that looks like," Wade laughed, slapping his knee. "Out of the mask. That's just, that's just so great. So pretty."

Peter guffawed, beginning to laugh at the ridiculousness of everything, particularly the whole "Deadpool is his best friend" portion that was spiraling out of proportion as Wade continued flirting with him. (Because hey, Wade kept saying stuff that made his stomach turn inside out in the bubbly crush kind of way, and hey, technically they're... dating?)

Wade raised his eyebrows, clearly clocking in his mood change. "What?"

Peter opened his mouth to start explaining this revelation, but his phone rings. He pulled the broken thing from his pocket, blinking down at May's contact. He showed it to Wade quickly before he answered the phone.

"Hey, everything alright?"

"Everything's well," May said pleasantly, her voice chiming through the speaker. "No need to worry, Peter. I was just calling to remind you I'm baking Christmas cookies today. Now, I know you also have Wade's number, so I thought it would just be so much fun if you gave him a call and both of you boys could come over to help."

Peter looked back up to Wade, who was eating his pancakes and watching him curiously. "Uh, actually he's right in front of me. I'll ask him. Erm– Wade, do you want to go to May's and bake cookies?"

Wade's face lit up and he shouted exuberantly: "Abso-lutely? May, I wouldn't miss it for the world!"

May laughed softly. "I assume that's a yes?"

"That's a yes," Peter smiled, his heart comfortably warm. "We'll head over there soon."

"I'll make sure I have everything out by the time you're over." May sighed happily. "I'm so glad you made friends with him, he's such a nice young man I missed seeing you so happy with—"

She broke off and began to laugh again. "Geez, look at me just rambling on and on. I'll let you go now, but I'll see you soon."

"Alright," Peter trailed off, continuing to watch with a grin as Wade pointedly did a happy dance in front of him. "See you soon. Love you."

"Love you too!"

The subway had a calming lilt to it as they rode to the 71st Avenue station. Wade began to lean into his side as the train doors closed and the people settled in their seats.

"How's your ribs?" Wade asked simply.

"Looks worse than it is," Peter replied. The bandages rubbed against the cotton of his sweater, and truthfully, the pain had gone down with the swelling. The bruises were a yellow-green, well on their way to fully healing. They were sore, but manageable. He had gone out on patrol with worse, so a day of cookie-baking wouldn't bother him. "I'm alright."

"Good. By the way, I talked to Weasel," Wade murmured, speaking close to Peter's ear. They were maybe four inches apart, and their thighs were touching, and Peter was wondering if Wade always smelled like gunpowder and he only just noticed it now.

"Your friend?" Peter whispered back questioningly. "The... business friend?"

Wade quirked a smile. "Sure. If that makes you comfy. Anyways, he's keeping close contact on the mercenary gossiping lines. He's got eyes and ears all over the city, if anyone spots our guy, we've got first dibs and he said he'd call me."

"Keep your voice down." Peter glanced around, ensuring nobody was looking at them. He didn't feel anybody's eyes on him except Wade— which was usual, and comforting. He looked back at him. "Is this guy someone you trust?"

"Unfortunately," Wade said with a scoff. Then he did this thing; scanning over Peter's face, and his own expression relaxed into something more certain and solacing. "We can trust him. He's not gonna do anything scummy."

Peter nodded faintly. "If you say so."

Wade hummed, his feet swinging back and forth. "Can I see your phone?"

"You gonna ask for games?" Peter teased, even as his hand went digging into his pocket to retrieve it. "What do you want with it?"

"I'm gonna play music." Wade took the phone and held it in his hands, staring at it for a moment. He looked up with some expression of pity. "Does this thing work?"

"When the duck tape is on it, yeah," Peter said. "Just be gentle."

Wade winked. "I'm always gentle."

He swiped up and correctly entered in Peter's passcode, which, honestly, he didn't even want to ask about. He selected the music app and went to the search bar, typed something in with a grin, and then held the phone's speaker up between their ears.

Peter broke into a laugh. "Is this Salt-N-Pepa?"

"Oh yeah, baby." Wade nodded along to the beat. "Hear that? That's good shit."

"Wow," Peter said simply.

Wade pulled the phone back and began fiddling around on the app. "I'm making you a playlist. It's for your own good. What's your favourite movie?"

"It's already on there," Peter looked over his shoulder and pointed to a playlist. "Empire Strikes Back."

"Nerd." Wade hummed affectionately. He paused and began to whisper. "Wait, question. Your work playlist is called The Karate Kid, so is that a Spider-Man joke or do you just associate photography with Ralph Macchio? I'm very curious."

"Of course it's Spider-Man," Peter whispered back. "The Daily Bugle job has a different playlist."

Wade raised his eyebrows.

"Whiplash, because that's what it's like working for Jonah," Peter said.

It wasn't a great joke, but still, Wade burst into the kind of rib-hurting laughter that rang through the subway car, his head tipping backwards enough for the hood to fall off. Peter's grin grew, unable to hold back his own chuckles just from watching Wade.

Eventually, the subway stopped at its proper station and the two of them stepped off. They walk to May's house side-by-side, close enough to share earbuds and their hands to brush against each other. Wade was very enthusiastic about singing along to every song , and Peter's very pleased to learn that he's got a great voice.

He also learned little tidbits about Wade as they continued along the sidewalks and streets, just breadcrumbs of information that Wade would drop randomly without thinking about it. An ABBA song played while they crossed a street, and Wade launched into a story about how once he had a mission where the hit's name was Fernando.

"He was like, totally clean. He didn't do shit that was bad. But I was already there and I wanted to mess with the guy," Wade explained. "So I hid in the vents and started blasting Fernando— you know, the song– and this guy went fucking nuts. He thought he was having a stage five mental break, kept yelling at his fuckin' Alexa and finally I got to watch with sweet sweet success as he chucked the thing out of a seventeen-story window because he thought it was malfunctioning. Funniest motherfucker I've come across in the last seven years."

"What did you even do afterwards?" Peter had asked, after he finished laughing his ass off. "Just leave?"

"Yeah!" Wade grinned. "I just snuck back out. After, of course, I left a remote-controlled radio in his vents so I could still spontaneously play the song if I ever wanted to. I have the remote somewhere in my apartment. It's still connected, so clearly he hasn't found the thing yet. I like to think he deconstructed his house by the walls and called a seance for his dead Alexa to get it to stop, but to no avail..."

He was hilarious and addicting and entertaining beyond any reasonable belief. Peter could listen to him talk for hours and hours like his favourite science podcast on loop, and he was still laughing when they showed up to May's door.

"You boys are so loud," May said playfully as the door swung open. Peter didn't even get a chance to reach for his keys. "I can hear you giggling down the block."

Peter swallowed his laugh in exchange for a smile; but it faded within seconds. May searched over his face, her eyebrows creased and an instant dim in her usual cheerful disposition. A deep frown settled on her face.

"Peter," May tried quietly. She brought a hand up to gently caress the bruises on his face.

"I'm alright," he said quickly, giving her a grimacing smile. He went into auto-pilot, pushing himself forward and bringing May into a hug– she's worried sick, and he could feel it. Holding back tears, too, if to go by the shaky tenseness of her breaths while he held her in his arms.

His fault. If he had gotten Reyes, really gotten him, then he wouldn't have gotten so beat up in the process of losing a fight.

"It doesn't even hurt, May. I swear," he continued, rubbing soothing circles on her back. "Wade got me and fixed me up."

She sighed tearfully and pulled back, putting a hand on his cheek delicately as if he were one of the China plates that she kept in the top cupboards. "How do you even manage to get so beat up, Peter? You need to get out of that neighbourhood, it's so unsafe. Maybe I could write to the Police Department..."

"Hey, no," Peter insisted. "I'm alright. Really. I'm moving out soon, anyway. Wade said I could move in with him until I get back on my feet."

May looked overcome for a moment and turned fully to Wade. She gave him the most relieved smile, her eyes brimming with tears. "You're so good for him, Wade. Thank you so much for looking out for my boy."

Wade smiled bashfully and scratched the back of his neck. "'Course. He's my second favourite Parker, after all. Can't let anything happen to him."

May brightened up at that, something Peter was eternally grateful for, and gave a wet chuckle as she waved her hands. "Oh, you. Alright, well– make yourselves at home. I've gotten the ingredients out on the counter and Peter, the recipe is in the box, you know which ones to get."

"Yep," Peter said. He followed May in, kicked his shoes off, and walked down the hallway to the kitchen. On the counter, several bags of flour, vanilla and almond extract, a large container of sugar, and butter had been set out to soften. A full carton of eggs sat close to the edge.

Wade trailed closely behind him, never lingering too far away. A glance behind him and Peter is pleased to see that Wade was comfortable enough to leave his hoodie at the door. He dawdled to the sink and rolled up his sleeves to wash his hands.

Peter smiled faintly at him and opened a cupboard above the window. He took out a box of pancake mix, null of the pancake mix, wrinkled and faded from age. With Sharpie, "FAMILY RECIPES" is written across the front of the box in Ben's jaggedy cursive handwriting. He opened the box and went fishing through the multitude of ancient notecards, magazine cutouts, and post-its of cakes, frostings, cookies, casseroles, salads, jellos, and everything in between.

"Wade, can you preheat the oven to three-fifty?" May spoke up as she walked in. She stood beside Peter and helped him go through the recipe cards.

"Of course, m'lady," Wade slid over to the oven and fiddled with the settings until it beeped. "What cookies are we baking?"

"Oh, I don't know. We have so many of them," May smiled. "I'm thinking sugar cookies, because they're versatile and I have a lot of the most precious cutouts for them, angels, trees, snowflakes, and things. Chocolate chip maybe, and my famous ginger cookies."

"Ginger cookies are a must," Peter said immediately. "It's not Christmas without them."

"If Pete says they're a staple, we gotta have them. I'm so intrigued I could die," Wade backed up, his voice serious and his eyebrows raised.

"Ginger cookies it is," May chuckled. "We can triple batch the sugar cookies. We got a generous donation earlier this morning of baking goods, so I just thought it would be wonderful to make extra for FEAST."

"I like that." Peter reached up on his toes and easily plucked the electric mixer from on top of the upper cabinets. He set it on the counter and plugged it into the outlet. "Plus the kids would have a blast decorating them."

"I'll have to call Oliver," May said, setting the recipes for ginger, sugar, and chocolate chip cookies out from the rest of the pile. "They can pick up frosting and sprinkles for the kids."

"I could do it," Wade jumped in enthusiastically. "I'll buy out every store, I swear it."

"Oh, dear, you wouldn't mind?"

"Pfff," Wade furrowed his eyebrows and grinned. "Not at all. Just let me know how much we'll need."

There was this moment, then. May looked over at Peter, and Peter looked over at May— and as they made eye contact, there was a very clear line of understanding and communication, entirely nonverbal. Approval, with the creasing lines at the corner of May's smile, and the softness of Peter's eyes that knew he didn't need to ask for it.

"Let me show you how to make these," May said sweetly, looking back to Wade. She stepped beside him at the mixer.

The first hour was spent adding in dry ingredients, a process which is usually much shorter, except for the fact that Peter was helping.

"I forgot what cup I'm on," Peter said, hesitating with his arm fully in the bag of flour. His sleeve was covered in white fluffy powder, and a measuring cup half full of the stuff in his hand. "Am I on three? Three cups?"

He probably looked as distressed as he felt, because May put a hand over her eyes and held it there, looking down to hide her laughter. Wade was not as successful in this venture.

The second hour was spent adding in wet ingredients, and Peter had been moved instead to mixer duties. Wade carefully measured out vanilla and butter.

"This is really fun," Wade murmured.

"I'm really glad," Peter smiled at him, hand on his hip as he turned the mixer unknowingly on at high speed. Globs of three-batches-worth of unmixed dough began spattering out of the bowl and his smile fell as he rushed to turn the mixer off.

"Peter," Wade practically cried out, his face red as his wheezing howls and cackles got the better of him. "What the hell. This is so painful to watch. You need a lifetime ban from the kitchen, I swear to god."

Peter wiped up the small piles of unmixed dry ingredients with a napkin. "Listen—"

May playfully shoved him away from the mixer. "Alright, mister. You can hand Wade ingredients now. He's my new kitchen partner."

"Oh, be so jealous," Wade said, sticking his tongue out to Peter. His eyes were bright. "I'm May's new kitchen partner. Be so jealous."

"I'm so jealous," Peter laughed. "What do you need next?"

"Eggs," May and Wade answered simultaneously. May smiled. "Six of them."

"Gotcha." Peter opened the egg carton and held two in one hand, then moved towards them.

One egg slipped from his hold, and it hit the ground with a horrible cracking splat.

"Oh, shit—" Peter blurted, putting the other egg down on the counter and reaching for a paper towel to clean up the mess. "Sorry! Sorry, my bad. Sorry, guys. It's all good, just one egg."

"Peter..." May sighed, but sounded as though she was not surprised in the slightest, trying her best to stifle a laugh for not the first time that evening.

"Take a lap, Parker," Wade teased. "You're off the team."

"Yes, Coach," Peter agreed with defeat. He wiped up the egg and tossed the towel in the trash. "I think I'll just sit until you need help uh... with dishes, or something."

"Good idea," Wade smiled. "They warned me about your kitchen habits but I really didn't know it was this bad, but this is bad. Like, I had hope for your Christmas cookies at least."

"That was your first mistake," May fired back easily. Her grin was also big.

"Ohhhh!" Wade laughed and gave her a high-five. "Guess Peter's Christmas cookies aren't the only thing getting burned today. May Parker, you are feisty."

"My own aunt," Peter held his hand against his heart in mock pain. He sniffled fakely and blinked up at the ceiling with a pout. "Horrible."

"You lost my defense after the third turkey," May said solemnly, her eyes crinkling with joy.

Peter smiled and sat up at the counter, watching the two of them resume joyfully. It was nicer from there, Peter thought. He got to watch the patient focus on Wade's face, the coolness in his blue eyes as he listened to May's instructions.

And as Wade cracked eggs into the mixing bowl, it was such a strange thing to notice, but Peter thought as though his hands were so gentle about the task, as if he were hesitant everytime he tapped the egg against the edge of the bowl.

Ironic headline. Infamous mercenary under the name 'Deadpool' is scared to break an egg with his bare hands. Even stranger was that it fit perfectly; although Peter couldn't scratch his brain right to explain why.

Wade was just gentle with delicate things, wasn't he? There wasn't much more to it then that. He can pull the trigger of a gun and turn around to stitch a wound together without slipping in the blood. He can crack a sternum during CPR and later hold your hand gently over his steady thrumming heartbeat, and this dichotomy is what made him... him.

Yes, he was sure of it. Peter was sure of Wade Wilson, and what a lovely person to be sure of.

By the time it hit ten in the afternoon, the house was baking hot from the use of the oven. May was tired, leaning against the counter beside Peter as the two of them listened to the Christmas radio. She had her short-bobbed hair pulled up in a messy ponytail, and her face was pink from exertion and heat.

Wade stacked sugar cookies in a large bin that would be taken to FEAST tomorrow, a variety of trees, angels, snow people, and ornaments to be decorated with frosting and sprinkles by some very happy kiddos.

There's one more batch of cookies left to be put in the oven, the last of the chocolate chip dough in the mixer. May yawned as the oven beeped again, signaling that another tray had finished baking and was ready to be moved to a cooling rack.

"Hey, May, why don't you go to sleep?" Peter suggested. "Wade and I'll finish the cookies off. We'll lock up the house before we leave."

"Yes," Wade agreed quickly. "You need your beauty sleep, May. We've got this. I promise I won't let Peter blow up the kitchen."

She sighed. "Well, if it isn't too much trouble."

"Of course not," Wade said immediately.

"Yeah," Peter smiled encouragingly. "Get some rest, May."

"Alright, then..." May yawned again. She pulled Wade in for a hug. "Thank you for the help, Wade. You're welcome to come over anytime."

"I'm so taking you up on that," Wade said, hugging her back tightly. "Get ready for Golden Girls marathons."

"I can't wait," May chuckled goodnaturedly. She pulled away and hugged Peter, and lowered her voice so only he could hear what she was saying. "Keep that one, he's so good for you. Invite him for Christmas."

"I will," Peter said quietly, his heart warming at the thought. He squeezed her once and let her go. "Night, May. Love you."

"Sleep well, May!"

"Goodnight, boys," May said pleasantly, trailing away as she went up the stairs.

Peter pushed himself up and took the cookies out of the oven, then began to scoop them up with a metal spatula onto the cooling rack. Wade stepped up beside him.

"Looking good, Webs," he said.

The corner of Peter's mouth perked up. "Thanks, Pool."

The absence of May in the kitchen let a different wave of peacefulness wash over them. It was just the two of them, and the radio crackled quietly on the countertop, and the oven hummed vibrantly with heat. Peter leaned closer to Wade, enjoying the safety it brought him.

Wade plopped the last of the cookie dough on the sheet and slid it into the oven. Then he shifted, leaning gently into Peter's space.

Peter glanced over at him and noticed a bit of flour dusted over Wade's cheek. He fought a laugh and reached up. "Stay still."

Wade raised an eyebrow but listened, not moving. He watched Peter carefully as he brought his thumb up and brushed the flour away. Then their eyes met, and both of them smiled all over again.

"This is like my favourite scene in all those Hallmark movies," Wade joked lightly. "Do we kiss now?"

Peter felt his ears warm up, going a cheery red. He grinned easily up at him, shrugging. "I wouldn't mind that."

Wade's blue eyes crinkled with a soft amusement. "Oh, you wouldn't mind?"

Peter shook his head quietly.

He felt restless in his body, caught between wanting to press forward or to pull away out of nerves. But Wade was looking at him with adoration in his eyes and something sticky sweet on his lips, and so the decision was made.

The tile creaked under his feet, slowly, softly, as Peter moved forward. Wade's heartbeat was a heavy thudding rhythm in his chest, full of hope; the sound humming in Peter's head. He exhaled quietly, and no words were spoken as he rested his hand on Wade's cheek, closed his eyes, and pressed their lips together.

There weren't any fireworks. It was special in its own way, a silent promise of something gentle and lacking the violence both of them endured so often. Wade's lips were scarred just like the rest of him, chapped, and fit nicely against his own.

Wade pulled back, resting his forehead against Peter's. Then he cracked a shit-eating grin. "Weasel's gonna be so jealous. I'm officially Spider-Man's bitch."

Peter laughed. "Wade."

"Do it again!" Wade said, overjoyed.

Peter rolled his eyes but leaned in again, meeting Wade halfway into the kiss. (And he would do it again, and again, and again.)