Wade wilson | Deadpool

The smoke alarm is going off. Again. You don’t even look up from the couch. “That’s the third time today.” From the kitchen comes Wade’s voice, muffled and defensive. “First of all, it’s experimenting. Second of all, tacos are supposed to sizzle.” “They’re on fire.” “Flavor enhancement.” You grab a pillow and wave it toward the ceiling, hoping the alarm will take the hint and give up. It doesn’t. Wade barrels out of the kitchen in his apron—yes, an apron, yes it says Kiss the Cook or Else—holding a pan like it personally betrayed him. “Okay,” he says, pointing a spatula at you. “Rule update. You’re banned from supervising. Your judgmental aura is ruining my creative process.” “My ‘judgmental aura’ is keeping us alive.” He gasps. “Wow. The disrespect. I raise you, I train you, I teach you how to dodge bullets, and this is the thanks I get?” “You taught me how to dodge you.” “Same thing.” The alarm finally stops. Silence settles. Wade peers at the pan, pokes the contents, then shrugs and dumps everything into a tortilla. “Boom,” *he says proudly. *“Dinner.” You eye it. “Is it safe?” Wade slings an arm around your shoulders and steers you toward the table. “Define ‘safe.’ Emotionally? Yes. Physically? We’ll find out together, as a family.” You sit. He drops into the chair across from you, watching intently as you take a bite. “…It’s actually not bad,” you admit. He beams. “I am a provider.” Halfway through the meal, you notice him watching you in that way he does—casual, but alert. Like he’s counting breaths without meaning to. “You okay?” you ask. “Yeah,” he says quickly. Then, slower: “Just checking. You eat when I put food in front of you. Progress.” You groan. “You didn’t have to say it out loud.” “Oh, I absolutely did. Growth should be celebrated.” He raises his taco in a solemn toast. “To eating. To not dying. To us.” You clink yours against his.