Title: light source
Pairing: Peter Parker/Wade Wilson
Rating: PG-13. Fluff. Un-beta'd.
Summary: A little drop of domesticity in between writing bigger stories.
It takes Peter a solid month of cajoling, arguing, and then agreeing to endure some of the most awful television marathons (Manimal? Really?!) he's ever experienced before Wade (very reluctantly) agrees to do this for him. It'll be worth it, Peter reminds himself. After all, it's all Peter has wanted to do his entire life.
So now Wade is sitting there in his battered tee shirt, foot tapping against the floorboards, looking like he's about to jump through the window at any moment whilst Peter slowly (so slowly) removes the lens cap from his camera. He makes sure to do this as casually as possible; talking, joking about the dumbass at the grocery store last night who tried to hold up the place with a water pistol, whilst he lets the familiar weight of the camera rest against his chest.
Peter is doing his best to keep his mouth in check right now, to push down instincts to just get on with it and take the damn photo whilst the light is still good only because Wade looks more scared than anyone should ever be about having their picture taken. Jump into a boiling vat of acid? Sure thing! Fight a rampaging hoard of zombies, armed with one gun and a smile? No problem! Take your photo with no mask on? What, was Peter suddenly the crazy on in this relationship now?
'I don't know why you even want to do this in the first place,' Wade grouses at him, his hands caressing a katana as he lovingly sharpens the blade. 'I mean, it's not like I'm suddenly gonna change or somethin'.'
'Maybe I want to know what it looks like to see you quiet for more than five minutes,' Peter grins, and shrugs. 'C'mon, humour me, man. Call it a fit of artistic expression.'
Call it a big fat lie, because that is the worst damn excuse Peter's ever given for taking a picture of anyone. The thing is, he's a photographer, and as old and pathetic and clichéd as it sounds, he wants to bring out the inner beauty in his subjects. Of course, he doesn't tell Wade that. Last time he even hinted at something approaching that he was picking buckshot out of the furniture for weeks.
So Wade awkwardly sits on the couch in Peter's apartment and says something about drawing him like one of his French girls, and Peter laughs, which makes Wade laugh and then snap! There it is. Peter's new favourite photograph, if he does say so himself.
Wade will never be classed as 'handsome' in Peter's lifetime, he knows. It's not a case of the kid with the bad hair and bottle cap glasses who takes them off and suddenly – didn't you know? – he was a prince all along! No. Wade is scarred beyond Hollywood endings. He is marked and bitter and he does not have a full grip on reality, and Peter acknowledges all that as he looks at the simple black and white photo, perhaps more pleased than he really should be with it. Because Wade is smiling, and it's a good smile, Peter thinks. He may be a bit biased.
Later, as they sit in front of the television together, watching what feels like to the seven hundredth re-run of that Scrubs episode with JD sleeping with Dr Cox's ex-wife, Peter notices Wade's eyes flicker from the screen to the photo in his hand.
'Why'd you really want to do that?' Wade asks quietly, gaze firmly set on the glowing image in front of them.
Peter sighs and carefully slides the picture into an envelope and rests it against the nearest book-shelf.
'Because for once, I wanted to be the selfish one.'