Avengers Texts

Peter's Apartment

Peter had been frustratedly digging through drawers, looking under the bed, turning the apartment upside down to try and find one god damned pair of socks. He searched the small mounds  of Wade's clothes that he always left laying around because he can't ever clean up after himself, ever, not even once. Peter glanced at his phone clock. Now he was definitely late for a meeting.  He didn't even need to bother leaving now, because showing up late would be pointless.

"Agghhhhhhhh!" He threw a shirt from a drawer at the floor in a sudden outburst of hostility. Everything sucks. He gets kidnapped, it takes forever to get home, he gets almost no sleep and has a thousand things to do and is clearly not going to get them done. And then there's Wade, who's always almost dying, and he's gone all day doing God-knows-what or (Peter hates himself for thinking it) God-knows-who.

He knows Wade wouldn't cheat on him. He knows that, obviously, he knows Wade loves him and he knows Wade isn't some kind of uncontrollable sex hound. But there's always that voice in the back of his head. It's like the nasty cousin of his conscience. It's doubt. And it says that Wade doesn't answer his phone a lot because he's busy with someone else. It says that Wade is using him because he's Spiderman, and he's naive. Peter hates this voice and he usually ignores it because he knows that Wade loves him, but right now he doesn't care that Wade probably loves him. He is mad. Because he's late and he has no socks and Wade is probably screwing someone in the back of that skeezy bar he does all his business at.

"Honey, I'm ho- What happened in here?" Wade climbed in the window in the living room, glancing at the state of disarray.  Peter huffed and stomped into the room. "I brought you socks," he held up a plastic store bag.

"Great. Thanks," Peter sighed, grabbing them from Wade and tossing them across the room. He'd pick them up later, along with all the other crap he threw around whilst looking for his nonexistent socks.

"You okay?" Wade asked suspiciously, looking Peter up and down. He had gotten dressed, but his clothes were messy. Probably from creating the danger zone that was their entire house. "You seem tense."

"Oh, really, do I? Do I seem tense? Because I feel fine," Peter snapped, turning from Wade beginning to pick things up off the floor. Wade cocked his head.

"I think we need to talk."

And Peter knew that Wade didn't mean they needed to have that talk, but the voice was saying otherwise, and he was upset.

"Oh, no. There's no need. You can just pick up your shit from the piles that you leave everywhere and you can go. Okay? Is that what you wanted to talk about?"

"I- Y- What?" Wade stammered, hurt. Peter immediately felt terrible and dropped the articles of clothing he had been picking up.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry," Peter pleaded, grabbing Wade's shoulders and then the sides of his face. "I didn't mean that. Don't leave. Don't-" he choked. He didn't realize he was crying, but suddenly he was. Wade didn't hesitate to pull him into a hug and pat his head.

"Hey, it's okay. You're not having such a good day, huh?"

Peter shook his head.

"Life is hard when you don't have socks. I get it. Your toes get cold, and then everything is just shit," Wade tousled Peter's hair. Peter looked up at him and laughed, and then started crying again.

"I'm sorry."

"It's alright, snot it up, I gotta get this dry cleaned anyways."

"No, I'm sorry," Peter stepped away. "I'm sorry for yelling and- Making a mess," he gestured around.