Be My Baby Boy

The quick and the Dead

Wade lay awake, his heart stuttering at the sight of Peter in his shirt. He couldn't stop looking, like he was memorising Peter. 

---

When Peter's breathing evens out, Wade looks up.

"You utter fucking asshole! Why couldn't you write Peter as an adult?! You fuck!" Wade says towards the ceiling in a low hiss. "You're a sadistic asshoe, that's what you are. A repressed housewife, right? Writing out your fantasies. Why can't any one of you cunts write me happy?!"

(INTERIOR: A COMFORTABLY DECORATED STUDY. A WRITER, GLUED TO HER LAPTOP, LOOKS UP WILDLY.

What was that?!

IT TAKES HER A WHILE TO START TYPING AGAIN).

---

Wade took one last look at Peter, now snoring softly. "Even his snore is so cute," Wade said, his heart breaking. He wiggled from under Peter, making Peter whine softly in his sleep and Wade leaned over to kiss his cheek. "Sleep, baby boy," he murmured and Peter turned over with a soft snort and quietened down.

Wade pulled off his sweat pants and sweater, rubbing off the dried cum from his thighs in the process and threw them in a pile on the floor. Grimly, he dressed in his Deadpool suit and took one last look at Peter. Peter was snuggled deep into the bed cover, his hands curling into the soft fabric from the inside. The cover had slid off Peter's bare legs and his bare ass, a glowing set of perfect cheeks, winked at Wade from under the sweater.

"You just fucking had to show me one last glimpse of what I can't have, huh?" Wade growled, unable to take his eyes off the view for a long agonized moment. He tucked Peter in gently, his hands resting for a moment on the exciting mound his ass made under the bed cover. Then he slipped out of the apartment and let the door close quietly behind him.

"Hey, see you next Tuesday, or whatever the hell your name is," Wade growled, looking in vain around the ceiling.

"It's Friday, mr Wilson," came the dry voice.

"Yeah yeah whatever. Can you take video?"

"Of course." The voice was even drier.

"Where do I look?" Wade asked, his head turning like a weathervane.

"If you want a close up, the port near the door would be best," Friday advised.

"This is for Peter only, get it. You show this to anyone else and I will fucking find where you keep your brain and it rip it off, capiche?"

"Perfectly, mr Wilson."

Pleasantries over, Wade got to business. "Baby boy... I love you more than I can say. I don't know why I never told you that. Maybe I was afraid you would leave me if it got too real. And now it's me leaving. If I stay, I won't be able to keep my hands off you and that's not right. Don't try to find me." Wade's shoulders slumped. "Be good. What am I saying? You're always good. Remember to eat. Okay? The condo is paid, I left a set of keys for you on the bedside table. I got it for you, anyway, in the off chance you would ever come home with me. I couldn't bring you to my shitty flat with a blind as a bat old black woman, now could I? Fuck," Wade's heartfelt goodbye devolved into curses. "This is too hard. You're too good for the likes of me. I always knew it couldn't last, but I had hoped--"

The sound of soft footfalls make Wade whirl around. "Friday, end that."

"Wade?" Steve yipped when a massive gun suddenly pointed at his head. "Hey, it's me, Steve. Rogers. Captain America."

"Did you know?" Wade asked bitterly.

"Know what?" 

"That Peter is sixteen. Did you know?"