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Peter Parker has been told, on a few different occasions, that he’s a brilliant young man--academically and otherwise. He’s smart, funny, and charming when he flashes his ever so slightly crooked smile. Brown hair slicked back and hands moving animatedly as he tells a story in his Queens accent, it’s nearly impossible for anyone not to be enamored with the boy.
Teachers, May’s friends, even Doctor Banner, they all tell him the same thing.
‘He’s a brilliant young man.’
For how smart he is, he can be pretty stupid sometimes.
A lot of the time, if certain billionaire playboy philanthropists have anything to say about it.
When he wakes up at the ungodly hour of five a.m., sunlight streaming through a crack in the curtains, he notices an overall ache in his body that he immediately dismisses. It’s unpleasant, but not a reason to shirk responsibilities. That doesn’t stop him from pressing his chest to Deadpool’s naked back, eyelids fluttering as his boyfriends warmth spreads across his skin.
Peter sinks into contentment, the feel of Deadpool’s calloused skin flush against his own an instant comfort. The sound of Deadpool’s breathing, the even rise and fall of his chest, is almost enough to lull him back to sleep. He’s close to drifting off when Deadpool shifts and mumbles something about chimichangas.
Another thing teachers and Tony like about Peter is his work ethic. The boy could be on his deathbed and he’d still be trying to figure out an equation that had stumped him. There were many high school nights May physically had to force Peter to go to bed. Deadpool, to Peter’s annoyance, is the same way. But he’d be hard pressed to say the man doesn’t make going to bed fun.
It’s a herculean effort to peel away from Deadpool and stand.
Outside the morning is young, but already Long Island is abuzz with life. Cars choke the streets and he hears water gurgling through the pipes. The air conditioner breathes to life and Peter shivers. It’s summer in New York. The city is sweltering, yet a chill clings to his skin.
He kisses Deadpool’s temple, whispers a loving goodbye, and puts on the suit he knows Deadpool loves him in. Mr. Stark had gifted it to Peter when he hired him, offhandedly saying he couldn’t come in looking homeless. Which wasn’t necessarily true, given that he worked as a lab assistant, but Peter appreciated the gesture.
The suit makes him look… grown-up, as May had put it.
He’s legally an adult with rent to pay and a boyfriend he privately refers to as his husband when talking to strangers. He’s filed taxes and he still doesn’t feel grown-up. Deadpool told him, through a mouthful of half-chewed pizza, that growing old is mandatory (even for mutants life him). Growing up is optional.
It’s a statement he thinks perfectly captures Deadpool’s essence. What other man in his mid-thirties would proudly keep rubber ducks, that he names, in his bathroom? Peter smiles at his reflection as he dresses, glancing at the periodic table shower curtain he’d chosen, and then to the novelty shag carpet toilet seat cover he’d insisted upon.
Growing up is far off in his future.
That doesn’t stop him from admiring the illusion in the mirror. The pinstripe suit is cut to his frame and makes him look like a miniature Tony Stark. The worn backpack he slings over his shoulder and sneakers on his feet keep him from looking to distinguished, thankfully. Tony would probably faint from shock if he saw Peter with a briefcase and dress shoes.
On his way out he glances into their fridge. The nauseating smell of leftover thai food that wafts into him is a sign he takes to mean that breakfast will be coffee. And no matter what his supervisor says, it’s still coffee if it’s half cream and four tablespoons of hot chocolate.
Work drags on and by two in the afternoon he wants to curl up into a ball and sleep forever. His legs are sore, the office is unreasonably cold, and he had to steal a box of tissues from a co-worker. Still, for the ‘brilliant young man’ he is, it doesn’t occur to him that something could be wrong.
That he should have called in sick because he’s sick.
It’s lucky Bruce hasn’t stopped by the lab today, as he usually does. If the man saw he was sick he’d surely insist on unnecessary tests to see how illness was affected by his healing factor. (How quickly Bruce figured out his secret identity was pathetic, and Peter is starting to think he needs to ask Mr. Stark about adding a voice changing feature to his suit that doesn't make him sound terrifying.)
By four, one hour left until he can go home and receive all the cuddles it will require to lift his spirits, disaster yet again plagues New York. Mr. Stark calls his desk and orders Peter to meet him on site. He also gives him details about the situation, but Peter is drifting in and out of acuity and there’s a ringing in his ears that blocks everything aside from the borough he’s heading to.
He grabs his Spider-Man suit from his backpack and changes into it quickly in the private bathroom Tony allotted him for just this occasion. He bitterly wonders why it is every other week it seems some up and coming villain decides to attack the best protected State in the US.
Seriously, Black Widow, Hulk, Iron Man, Scarlet Witch, Vision, and himself all live in New York. Are these idiots trying to get caught?
In minutes he’s swinging towards the disturbance, which, as it turns out, is the Hulk.
That explains why Bruce wasn’t at the lab today, Peter thinks.
He lands unsteadily and over the telecommunications link in their suits Tony barks at him to evacuate any remaining civilians. As he does, Tony tries to calm Hulk down.
Panting, Peter hangs off a wall and scans the area. Good news: there are no more fear stricken civilians. Bad news: Tony is no closer to bringing Banner back.
He’s about to step in anyway when Hulk swats Tony out of the air.
“Mr. Stark!” Peter wastes no time in webbing Hulk, even though he knows it’s probably the equivalent of silly string to a normal person. Hulk pauses his smashing of a credit union to confront the thing trying to stop his fun.
Green eyes fix on Peter, clinging to a wall, and light up.
“Spidey!” Hulk shouts. Peter opens his mouth to reply, the air punched out of his lungs when Hulk jumps and wraps a massive hand around him. “Spider friend!”
Peter swears he can hear his ribs creaking.
“Hi Big Guy, how’s it hanging!” He wheezes. Hulk crushes him in what must be a hug. A back breaking hug for anyone not bitten by a radioactive spider.
“Need some help, baby boy?” His head whips in the direction of the voice, relief sweeping over him. Deadpool doesn't wait for an answer, walking confidently towards them.
“Hey, Hulk!” Hulk roars and clutches Peter possessively, reminding him of a child who didn’t want to share a toy. “You’ll love this. It’s not a knock-knock joke, but it’s hi-fucking-larious. ‘My bad’ and ‘I’m sorry’ mean the same thing,” Deadpool waits a half second before delivering the punch line. “Unless you’re at a funeral.”
If Peter had a free arm he would have slapped his forehead.
Amazingly, the vice grip holding him loosens. Green fades and Hulk shrinks back into Bruce. The doctor falls to his knees. Peter catches him before he can fall flat onto the pavement. Behind him he hears Tony telling Scarlet Witch nevermind, they have it handled. Tony takes Bruce from him, already on a new call ordering Happy to bring the car around.
Peter stands and it’s then his body decides to betray him.
His vision flickers and he feels the sensation of free falling. Someone yells his name and he doesn’t register the pain of hitting the ground. When the world stops spinning he realizes he’s in a position he knows well.
A strong arm is curled under his bent knees and another is around his back. He’s pressed to a brawny frame that emanates a suffocating heat and smells of gun oil and musk. The warmth and scent envelope him like a blanket and he struggles to lifts his head.
A shushing sound rumbles in Deadpool's chest, soothing and demanding. Peter blinks owlishly beneath his mask and obediently settles. Deadpool rarely gives commands in normal life, so even in his muddled state of mind he figures Deadpool must have a good reason to do so.
“Pe--Spider-Man, are you okay?” Tony--when did he get here? Where are they?--asks frantically.
He manages to say yes, he is fine, although perhaps a tad sick. Tony, who has stepped out of his suit, fixes him with a glare May would approve of. “We can have someone check you out,” he offers, knowing Peter will decline.
“I’m good mister Stark. I’ll be fine by tomorrow.” Peter somehow manages to say this brightly. Tony shakes his head. The kid, and to him Peter will always be a kid, is going to be the death of him.
“You’re not coming in tomorrow.” He meets the whites of Deadpool’s eyes. “I trust you’ll make sure he doesn’t exert himself.” It’s not a question. He already knows the answer. As much as he disapproves of the mercenary, he’d be a fool not to see how much Deadpool cares for Peter. The man would never let harm come to the boy.
Deadpool’s head tilts expressively to one side and Tony suspects the man’s eyes are shut as he smiles.
“Spidey’s not doing anything besides resting, mister play-bunny millionaire.”
Tony doesn’t correct him. He just sighs, rubbing at his forehead to ward off the headache he feels coming on.
“I mean it kid,” he warns. “No Spider-Manning until you’re better. You’re lucky Bruce can’t insist you have an MRI or something.”
Peter, who’s close to dozing in Deadpool’s hold, nods. He doesn't bother telling Tony an MRI would do absolutely nothing to detect a cold.
“Come on, baby boy. Let’s get that bubble butt home.” Deadpool hugs Peter a little bit tighter and the boy hums his assent.
Tony watches them go and runs a hand through his hair, heaving a sigh. He doesn’t like it, he probably won’t ever, but Deadpool treats Peter with the devotion he deserves. Peter is in good hands. After all, Deadpool will bring death to anyone who dares hurt what is his.
Tony thinks this and then shudders. Peter is not depraved enough to let himself be viewed as an object to be possessed, but wheather he knows it or not Deadpool is a weapon. A weapon that Peter now wields but does not control. If anyone hurts the boy, death will swiftly come their way.
The man can’t say he doesn’t condone that, however. If anyone ever did hurt Peter, he wouldn’t stand idly by. Maybe he wouldn’t go on a massacre, but the offenders life would assuredly be ruined.
That Peter is someone to be protected, well, at least that’s something he and Deadpool can agree on.
“I’m very disappointed in you, young man.”
Peter whines, tries to hide his face in Deadpool’s neck. “None of that.” He scolds, gently setting Peter down on their bed. He strips Peter of his suit, revealing his skin and new bruises to the open air. Purple blotches litter his torso and arms. By tomorrow morning they’ll be yellow hued and the day after they’ll be completely gone.
Without further comment he whisks around their room and dumps a pile of clothes on the mattress.
Peter reaches for the pajamas and Deadpool lightly smacks his arm away. A calloused, warm hand encloses around a thin ankle and he maneuvers slim legs as he slides a clean pair of underwear onto his lover. Peter lifts his hips to help get them fully on, surprised when Deadpool doesn’t grope his backside the way he does at any given chance.
Soft pajama pants follow as well as one of Deadpool’s Spider-Man hoodies. It’s too big on him and the sleeves slip past his hands, the hem falling to his thighs. It’s the hoodie he donnes on Saturday mornings, wearing nothing else with it and loving every moment of the smoldering stare Deadpool gives him.
Deadpool croons at him, still fully dressed. He notices Peter’s rapt attention trained on him and tugs his mask off. Any lingering tension bleeds from the younger man’s body and he burrows under their thick comforter, leaving only his head and fluffy hair out of his cocoon. Something glitters in those brown eyes, watching him expectantly.
Swathed in sheets and the thick duvet May gave them for a house warming present, Peter looks even smaller than he his. His hair sticks out wildly and the blanket is drawn up to his chin. He looks positively childlike.
It’s not quite the ‘baby boy’ personal Peter plays sometimes. It’s something more genuine, more innocent. Peter is physically much smaller than Deadpool, but his super-human powers tilt the scale to his favor in any type of confrontation. In that moment, Peter looks every bit a sick child. In need of protection and caring.
“Daddy’s going to take good care of you.” Deadpool says, voice like kerosene and silk. He doesn’t intend to start up any sort of role play, but the sight of his baby boy in such a state just makes those words come out.
Peter’s head cocks to the left, big doe eyes blinking at him curiously. Deadpool smiles sweetly and smoothes the shock of his hair. Peter nuzzles into the touch and rises to catch his mouth in a kiss. Deadpool smiles and pushes Peter flat onto the mattress. “Not until my baby boy’s feeling better.”
Peter huffs. Crosses his arms and pouts. Deadpool laughs, deep and rich, and tucks the blankets under his body, trapping him. “I’m actually going to take care of you, baby boy.” He amends, flicking the tip of Peter’s nose. “And when my itsy bitsy spider is all better, he’s going to get a spanking for super-heroing when he’s sick.”
The threat--promise--sends a shiver up the curve of Peter’s spine and he nods vigorously. He then suppresses the devious smile pulling at his mouth and sighs complatently. “‘M sorry, Daddy.”
Deadpool regards him with an amused look, non-existent brow raised as if to say ‘go ahead, test me. I won’t budge’. Peter takes him up on that unspoken challenge. In the time he’s been with the man, he’s learned to navigate his moods. He’s also learned Deadpool has a long list of kinks he likes. Which, he thinks, makes sense. If one had the prospect of infinite time and lacked the fear of repercussion, it wasn’t a jump in reason to assume that person would do whatever brought them pleasure. And sex brought Deadpool consistent pleasure.
It became clear to him in a short amount of time that Deadpool adores taking care of him in the most domestic ways. The man whose apartment had been a tornado of garbage, does his laundry for him. He likes cooking for Peter, and hand feeding him when Peter is in the right mood for it. The man is a mother hen.
He has the same kink in bed. Bringing rapture onto Peter’s face is a favorite past time. Tipping him over into blissful oblivion delights the man. Deadpool likes taking care of him, and has not yet had to the opportunity to do so while he’s legitimately in need of it.
In spite of being responsible and abstaining from sick sex, Deadpool is no doubt getting a thrill from this.
Peter decides his mission is to break that resolve.
He bats his eyelashes, glancing up through them. His teeth worry his lower lip and he looks away, thinking about all the filthy things Deadpool has murmured against the love-mark bruised flesh of his neck. A pink flush colors his cheeks and he sighs again, swinging his gaze back to Deadpool.
“I was a bad boy. Please forgive me, Daddy?”
The blow lands and figuratively knocks Deadpool off his feet. But he won’t be defeated so easily. It has now become a game of waiting for the other to crack.
“Baby boy,” he croons. “I could never stay mad at you.” Standing at the bedside, he stoops and moves to press a kiss to Peter’s lips, changing course last minute and leaving the kiss on his fevered forehead. “Daddy is going to nurse you back to health.”
Nurse. That’s a thought. Peter is about to suggest a costume to match his current occupation of caregiver, but doesn’t get the chance. Deadpool turns on his heel and walks out of the bedroom, giving Peter the opportunity he doesn’t need to picture the man in a sexy nurse costume.
The mental image has him squirming under the sheets. A few years ago, as a high school student who slept with one girl once, he wouldn’t have dreamed he could be such a pervert. He tries to picture a girl in the same skimpy outfit he can clearly envision Deadpool in. His imagination proves much less vivid in this endeavor. He can’t pick a hair color and the faceless woman has a head of streaky blonde, red and brown hair. He’d pictured Deadpool in a white mini skirt and plunging V-neck, feet spread out past his hips and clad in knee-high, high heeled boots.
The woman wears the same outfit but the pose is blurred and unnatural.
The most important flaw he finds is that the figment of his imagination is not Deadpool, who is the reason for his new found perversion and sexual awakening.
He exhales through his nose, lets go of his nurse fantasies for favor of a nap.
After an undetermined amount of time he’s pulled from sleep and feels, unfairly, worse. His throat feels like steel wool and the sheets are damp from his sweat. It’s ironic that he can be hit by a speeding car and be fine, but a virus can put him out of commission.
Deadpool sits on his side of the bed now dressed in casual clothes. Peter automatically smiles at the sight. He doesn’t think seeing Deadpool in civilian clothes will ever cease to please him. The man had been hesitant to show Peter his body and seeing him in sweats and a T-shirt reminds him of the victory that is their relationship.
Deadpool trusts him with not only his skin but Wade Wilson’s painful history. A dead mother, an abusive father, rape and molestation. Peter’s heart breaks a little bit every time Wade flippantly mentions something that hints at his tragic past. As though his trauma, for some reason, doesn’t count. Is only something to be joked about.
And while Wade and Deadpool are different sides of the same coin, there is something infinitely more calm about Deadpool when he sheds his suit, and with it his mercenary identity. His manic energy remains, but he seems more inclined to gentle lulls of silence. The Merc with a Mouth can stare at him quietly for entire episodes of Golden Girls when he thinks Peter is asleep.
He wonders how long Deadpool has been sitting there, watching him.
These musings are the reason he smiles dopily as the man pets his hairline.
“Am I hot Daddy?” The words pop out of his mouth thoughtlessly, and for a moment shame burns Peter. He’s undeniably ill, now is definitely not the time to start calling Wade ‘Daddy’.
Nevertheless Deadpool hums deep in his chest and scoots Peter into the center of the bed, propping him up on a pile of caseless pillows. He twists to grab something from the nightstand: an obnoxiously yellow lunch tray with a steaming bowl of soup on it.
“Open your mouth.” He instructs lowly, a smokiness in his eyes that makes Peter suspect he’s close to winning the challenge he’d given himself prior to his nap.
His lips part obediently and his eyelids flutter shut, his hands folded in his lap. He’s careful to wipe his expression clear of any emotion, waiting. Hot soup lands on his tongue and his lips close around the spoon, sucking it clean before releasing it.
They continue this way until the shallow bowl is empty. Anytime soup dribbles down his chin it’s blotted with a napkin. It’s a testament to Deadpool’s willpower, as he’d usually delight in licking the mess away.
A crazy straw is pressed to his lips and he drinks a few mouthfuls of water. Deadpool sets aside the tray and studies him thoughtfully. “How is my baby boy feeling?”
Peter pretends to think about his answer and glances up at Deadpool shyly, because he’ll be damned if he loses a self-imposed challenge. “My legs are sore, Daddy.”
An alarmed sound wriggles from Deadpool’s mouth and his hands press dramatically to his cheeks. “Well that won’t do, will it? Daddy will fix it.”
He sweeps back the covers and takes Peter’s delicate foot in his hands. A thumb scrapes across the length of his heel, rubs circles into the sole of his foot. Those burning hot hands and deft fingers push up his pajama pants and work their way to his calves, massaging the ache out of his limbs. Palms come to rest on his bare knees, fingers pulsing maddeningly.
This is a crossroads of sorts. If Peter admits he’s too sick for sex (which he is), Deadpool will probably reward him by continuing the massage. If he continues to push, he risks being denied later as punishment.
The decision he makes would not make anyone think he is ‘a brilliant young man’.
Peter’s hips push up and he whines, his head tossing on the pillow. Dark brown curls splay on the white fabric and it’s almost enough to break Deadpool. Almost.
Images flash through Peter’s mind, images he’s sure would win Deadpool over. He could say something cheesy, like “thank you, Daddy. I’m sore one more place… between my legs.”
He’d tilt his head down to glance up through his lashes. Doe eyed glances are one of his signature moves in his arsonal against Wade. He would pinch his knees together, “kiss it better, Daddy?”
He does none of these things.
Instead he lurches out of bed and runs to the bathroom, where the soup Deadpool lovingly made splatters in the toilet bowl. As he dry heaves a heavy hand lands on his shoulder. After he’s finished puking, Deadpool scoops him up and carries him back to their bedroom.
“‘Mm sick.” Peter admits miserably, the exhaustion he’s denied all day catching up to him.
Deadpool covers him with the blankets and hands him the remote to the TV across from their bed.
“Pick a movie, baby.” He says, his voice less like ‘Daddy’s’ and more like… an actual parents. It’s even and gentle. Soothing. Peter might have resented being treated as a child on a regular day, but it’s oddly comforting to his sick self.
Deadpool brings him more water and keeps a hand on the glass to prevent Peter from gulping it all. Peter browses their Netflix queue and ultimately decides he wants to watch a Disney movie. Deadpool was absolutely right in saying Disney was the top choice for curing low spirits.
The mattress dips as Deadpool stands. Engrossed in searching for a film, Peter doesn’t notice his lover leave the room, return, and start rummaging through dresser drawers. Deadpool appears at his side with a bucket, a box of crackers, and a stuffed unicorn in tow.
“This is Sparkles.” Deadpool says, putting the toy in the crook of Peter’s arm and the bucket on the floor beside the bed. Peter cuddles with the toy immediately.
After a moment he says, “it’s clean, right?”
Deadpool gives an indignant squawk. “Of course she is.”
Peter nods, snuggling up to Deadpool moments after he lays down. “You’re still my go to for cuddling.”
“I’m your teddy bear. You can say it.”
Peter’s nose wrinkles. “I do have some manliness.”
He pretends he doesn’t see Deadpool’s doubtful expression.
Fully prepared for another bout of sickness they settle in for the night, Peter’s head on Deadpool’s shoulder and eyes on the television. Deadpool runs his fingers through Peter’s hair and it’s not long before Peter falls asleep.
Deadpool smiles at his little lover, kisses the crown of his head.
He really does love taking care of Peter.