Chapter Text
One thing no one ever tells you about being in the Avengers: it's fucking hard work.
Before this job, Peter was mostly webbing up small-time crooks, maybe the occasional mad scientist in a stupid robotic suit. Sure, you'd get an exploded lab, a super mutant rampaging through downtown. Jewel theifs, goons who ran the underworlds of New York, cracked mutants with weird abilities, highly trained assassins, assholes with mech suits who just…didn't like him, for whatever reason. That guy who tried to hunt him, that was fun.
He could handle those guys. A fight, a bit of web slinging, maybe some witty remarks to distract them. It was doable, and he could reasonably manage his classes and a part time job on top of it all. Maybe even a love life, here and there.
But the Avengers were something else. All of their fights recently seemed to be epic, world-in-the-balance battles. They were blowing up whole sections of the city, fighting dimension-jumping, bad guys who raised whole armies against them. Not to mention the aliens, demi-gods, and actual gods that were after them. All of the Avengers' enemies seemed to be on some "quest for ultimate power" or another. It's like these guys attract chaos and destruction, thought Peter.
And then, when the day is saved, the bad guy is vanquished, the crowd cheers, the cameras stop flashing, you're covered in scrapes and bruises and blood and (ideally) someone else's guts, dust and soot and rubble and who knows what interdimensional or super-science goo.
(Not to mention the emotional damage, the trauma of seeing people you care about, or any people really, lying dead and dismembered on the pavement. Seeing cities razed and fighting super giants and fucking dimension jumping. There is nothing as draining on the psyche as dimension jumping. There's a reason Dr. Strange is so strange.)
So you're filthy, and mentally broken, and probably starving, and you have to get home. You can't take a fucking taxi if you're Spider-Man, no. Sometimes Tony remembers to call you a car, but he's usually giving press conferences and glad-handing politicians by then. So you sneak off, up to the rooftops, and limp home, exhausted, so you can try to catch a few hours' sleep before going to class, studying in the library, and doing it all again tomorrow.
Now it was just past sunrise, after a long night, a long week, and Peter couldn't remember the last good night's sleep he'd had. What was today? Thursday, maybe? That means an evening class at 6. He'd have enough time to get back to his dorm, heat up some ramen, shower, fall into bed, and then drag himself back out for class tomorrow. He'd already missed three classes this week, and he was bound and determined to at least pass something this semester.
The only problem was, his dorm was the last place he wanted to be right now.
Peter limped along the rooftops. He was sore and bruised, but nothing that a shower, a deep sleep and some protein wouldn't take care of. It was the emotional damage, the psychic damage, that felt the worst.
He needed some medicine.
Peter landed softly on a particular rooftop. He pushed against a familiar, unlocked window, opening it and climbing through. He didn't even take stock of his surroundings when he got in, just flopped down on the waiting and welcoming bed.
"Good morning, sunshine."
Wade's voice emanated from somewhere above him in the bed, and he realized he'd flopped down right on top of the merc's back.
Wade was laying on his stomach under the blankets, propped up on a pillow, scrolling on his phone. Peter was now laying along Wade's body, his face planted in Wade's back and limbs spread akimbo. Wade's big, muscular back felt like the perfect pillow right now, and Peter didn't want to move.
"Look, baby, you're on TV!" He held his phone over his shoulder to show Peter. "Only, I don't think they got your good side. You look like hell, no offense shnookums."
Peter raised an eyebrow to peer at the phone. There was Tony, looking valiant, saying something about the importance of industry-government partnership in the war on super crime. And there, in the background, skulking and leaning on a broken pylon, leg gashed bloody and suit covered in black streaks and burnt in places, was Peter, or at least him 20 minutes ago.
"Gee, thanks. I'll try to up my wardrobe game next time I'm fighting an interdimensional, shape shifting demigod."
"Well, it wouldn't hurt. You know, a nice layered look. Coordinate your socks and tie. 'Juj' the sleeves. Maybe apply a light foundation and bronzer."
Peter raised his head and peeled off his mask. "Sure, Queer Eye. Anyway, why are you laying on my side of the bed?"
"It smells nice. And you're not supposed to be here. Why didn't you go back to your dorm?"
Peter thought about all of the reasons, his loneliness, his mental fatigue, his emotional rawness. The idea of a night (or day, now) in bed, alone, felt unbearable. He wanted nothing more than to be here, right here, as close to Wade as humanly possible. Preferably touching his skin.
But how do you encapsulate all of that and lay it on someone? How do you tell another person that you need them, just to feel human? That's quite a big lift to ask. So he just said, quietly, "I missed you."
Wade lay his head down, tossing the phone aside. Peter could feel Wade's heartbeat softly on his cheek, through the shirt and blankets.
"I missed you too, baby boy. Welcome home."