Chapter Text
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After half an hour of struggle—in which a variety of inanimate objects are turned animate and try to chew Peter's limbs off—Peter manages to corner the wizard into an alley.
"C'mon, man," Peter pleads, equal parts exhausted and annoyed. There's unidentified slime oozing down his right calf from when a trash can attempted to swallow his foot, and it smells, predictably, like garbage that's been left out too long in the late July heat. "Let's just call it quits, yeah?"
"Mark the Marvelous, Master of Magic, stops when he pleases!" the wizard crows. He raises both hands high above his head as he speaks. His short cape falls away from his rounded shoulders and the long fake beard looped behind his ears quivers.
"I mean, is there even a point to all this?" Peter rubs one weary hand over his masked face. "Give me something. Anything. Like, are you making commentary about the evils of capitalism? Or maybe you're mad about the constantly decreasing funding to public services?"
"A master such as myself is above such petty social constructs!" the wizard warbles. His voice is high-pitched, vaguely nasal, and all-around obnoxious.
"So..." Peter drawls, "you're just doing this because...?"
"Transformation of the mundane into living monsters is a showcase of my skill!"
"Right. So it's for the vine, or whatever." Peter feels a dull throb right in the center of his brain. He's on his way to a headache and wants nothing more than to web this guy to the wall, snap his wand in half, and then go home and take a shower—except the last time Peter tried to shoot him with a web, the wizard had brought it to life, and the way it scuttled around disturbed Peter enough that he's unwilling to try again until he has a clear advantage. "Look, Mark, I'm sure you're an okay guy underneath your store bought wizard costume, but you can't keep aliving bike racks that eat people's dachshunds—"
"I sense condescension in your words!" Mark the Marvelous shrills. The wand in his still upraised hand trembles. "Do you doubt my abilities, Spider-Man?"
Peter should say no. He should lie to Mark the Marvelous and say that his skills are unparalleled, that Peter does not doubt him in the least, and that he is very intimidating in his short cape, wired hat, and ugly gray beard—except Peter is kind of a jackass, and he's not in the right headspace to fake it. So he lifts a hand to chest height and rocks it from one side to the other in a so-so gesture.
Mark the Marvelous shrieks at the disrespect. His already blotchy pink face turns bright red. He brings his wand down in a sharp arc and—
Above them, there's a sudden crack of a gun going off and—
A glittery purple cloud of magic envelopes Peter and—
Mark the Marvelous groans. His knees buckle. His eyes roll up into his head. He falls forward, face skidding against the dirty pavement. There is a tranquilizer dart the size of a fat sharpie sticking out from the side of his neck. Peter coughs a few times as the spell dissipates—magic is surprisingly dusty—and waits a few seconds to see if anything happens. Nothing does. Peter assumes that Mark the Marvelous threw a last ditch dud while Wade makes his way down the fire escape.
"Took you long enough," Peter says scratchily as Wade goes over to the unconscious wizard and nudges him onto his back with the toe of his boot. "But thanks."
"Anytime, baby boy," Wade answers. He pauses to squint down at the man, taking in the long fake beard and the shiny metallic fabric of the wizard costume, and asks, "What's the deal with discount Dumbledore?"
"Mark the Marvelous," Peter clarifies, clearing his throat. Although the spell cloud has dissipated, the urge to cough lingers, and there's a fading crackle in his mouth that reminds him of pop rocks. "But my guess is that he's a regular guy who wound up with an item of power. The wand, probably."
"Bag it and tag it?" Wade asks, eyeballing the slim stick of wood that's rolled out of Mark the Marvelous's hand. "Or...?"
Peter goes with 'or', walking over and stomping on the wand with his heel in one swift, decisive movement. It cracks in half with a sharp snap.
"Whoops," Peter says dryly.
Wade laughs, looping one burly arm around Peter's waist and dragging him in until their bodies are flush. Peter grins beneath his mask and wraps his arms around Wade's neck.
"Is it weird that I find your hatred of magic hot?" Wade says, bunting his nose against Peter's cheek.
"Most of the things you find hot are weird," Peter answers easily. He relaxes into Wade's hold and lets the bigger man take some of his weight. "And I don't hate magic. I just—I don't understand the rules of it, or the parameters, and I don't like that I don't know how to stop it, or fight it, because magic users are squirrelly bastards who refuse to share their knowledge with the quote, uninitiated, unquote. It's gatekeeping, is what it is."
Wade hums in absentminded agreement; he's heard this rant a hundred times. One hand trails down Peter's backside to palm the curve of his ass. "Those dickheads," he agrees amiably.
Despite the fact that it's early afternoon, and the fact that literally anyone could peer down the alleyway and see Wade copping a feel, Peter feels the stir of arousal low in his gut. It's ridiculous. He and Wade have been together for seven years—a year of sleeping together, three years of dating, a year of being engaged, and two years of marriage—but the chemistry between them has never waned or wavered.
"Wade," Peter murmurs.
"Yeah, baby boy?"
"I am not having sex with you next to a dumpster and an unconscious man dressed in a wizard costume."
"But sweetheart!" Wade whines. "My freaky sex bingo card!"
"There is no way this is on your freaky sex bingo card."
"It hurts that you underestimate my creativity." Then, after a second, Wade concedes, "Okay, well, I'd have to use up my free space, but c'mon! I wanna wear the hat while I fuck you."
Closing his eyes, Peter drops his cheek to Wade's shoulder and tries very, very, very hard not to laugh. Wade learned early on that making Peter laugh was the quickest way to get Peter to do what he wanted, and he's been using it to his advantage ever since. Peter knows this. He does. And he refuses to give in, no matter how much the mental image of Wade donning Mark the Marvelous's ridiculous hat while wearing nothing else amuses him as much as it turns him on—except now Peter is curious too, and the combination of amusement, horniness, and intrigue means he doesn't stand a chance.
"So is it just the hat?" Peter hears himself ask. "Or is it the hat plus the location plus the knocked out wannabe wizard?"
The hand on Peter's asscheek tightens, the pads of Wade's gloved fingers digging into the flesh and muscle. Peter chokes out a little gasp.
"None of the above, actually," Wade murmurs. "It's actually all about my cute little husband and his cute little—wait." The teasing in Wade's voice disappears; both of his hands fly to Peter's shoulders; he takes a step back. Peter almost loses his balance, having put so much of his weight onto Wade. "Peter."
The slight edge of panic Peter hears makes him tense. His eyes fly open. He doesn't sense any danger and the alleyway is clear. Mark the Marvelous is still out like a light, drooling onto the dirty pavement. If there is anything to worry about, Peter has no idea what or who it might be.
"Wade?" Peter asks.
"Are you—?" Wade's palms skim down to Peter's biceps. His hands loop easily around Peter's entire arm, fingertips touching thumb. "Holy shit, Pete. I think you're shrinking."
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Of all the shenanigans Peter has gotten involved in over the years, getting shrunk down to the size of an action figure is definitely in the top five weirdest things that has ever happened to him.
"I take back my previous statement," Peter mutters to himself once several minutes have gone by and it becomes obvious that he isn't going to get any smaller. "I hate magic."
Nearby, Wade is on his phone with one of his many contacts. He's stopped pacing and gesticulating wildly, and has started nodding along to whatever is being said on the other end. Peter knows it's a good sign—Wade tends to go still and silent whenever he's serious—and the intrinsic knowledge that Wade believes everything is going to be okay helps ease the knot of panic in Peter's chest.
"You're a real lifesaver, Ghrgrrgbr," Wade says, the name coming out as a grinding series of slightly different gurgles. "Thanks again. Yeah, yeah, I know. The deviled eggs. It's the least I can do. I'll make sure they get to you before the company picnic. Uh huh. Uh huh. Sure. Say hi to the missus and the hoards of otherworldly spawn for me."
There's a gargle of a language Peter doesn't understand before Wade hangs up. Peter cocks his head as Wade comes back over, as he sits criss cross applesauce on the ground. Peter's chest is as high as the knob of Wade's knee.
"Good news and comparatively bad news," Wade says, holding up two fingers. "Good news: Ghrgrrgbr says that shrinking or enlargement spells are pretty unstable, and as a result, don't last very long." Wade puts a finger down. "Bad news: Ghrgrrgbr is an ageless demonic entity with no concept of how time flows on the mortal plane, so the whole it doesn't last very long is relative. I mean, xe wants me to make xem my multidimensionally famous deviled eggs for xir corporate picnic in... oh, what equates to fifty-two human years?"
"So what you're saying is that I could be small for an indeterminate amount of time?"
"Not indeterminate so much as anywhere between three business days to three decades." Wade sighs and puts his hand down. "Ghrgrrgbr did say there is a ritual we can try, but that it involved the blood of five virgins and five candles made from hippogriff fat—which, how the hell are we going to get the blood of five virgins?"
Peter frowns, crosses his arms, and thinks. Magic is anathematic to the scientific logic Peter knows and trusts, but it operates under the same principles: there are things you can do, there are things you can't do, and what makes something work or not work is dependent on the variables that exist between the two.
"Alright," Peter says after a minute. "I have a plan."
The plan is three part. Firstly: Call the Sanctum Sanctorum and have a couple of the apprentices come down to collect Mark the Marvelous and the broken wand. Lie and say that he snapped the wand during the fight instead of afterwards. Second: Confirm that Peter's size is actually temporary and that it won't take thirty years for him to return to his original size. Ignore the look of delight on the younger apprentice's face as Peter stands on Wade's shoulder so he can talk without anyone crouching down. Lastly: return home as inconspicuously as possible by clinging to one of Wade's shoulder holsters as Wade jogs over rooftops. Breathe a sigh of relief when they make it back to their apartment. Tear off his mask and boots and gloves, and come to the realization that he has nothing to wear now that he's seven inches tall.
"Oh em gee," Wade squeals as he comes to the same conclusion. He has removed his mask and gloves as well, and his eyes are round with delight. "You know what this means, right?"
"Wade, I swear, if you think I'm walking around in the nude for the next week—"
"Not that I would complain," Wade interjects, "but no. This totally gives me an excuse to break out the sewing machine again! I have a bunch of scrap fabric I was thinking about making into a quilt, as well as that fleece I used for Ellie's jacket..."
A warm wave of affection washes over Peter as his husband chatters away. Wade has had so many odd adventures over the years that he accepts the weird and wild with ease, and his nonchalance regarding the Shrinking Situation™ soothes much of Peter's anxiety. Indeed, other than Wade busting out the sewing machine and setting up shop on the kitchen table, the rest of their day proceeds like any other. The tv plays reruns of whatever comfort show they're in the mood for; Peter cracks open his (now comically large) laptop to check his e-mail; Wade makes random commentary about whatever miscellany pops into his brain as he sews; and when dinner rolls around, Peter suggests getting take-out.
"Indian?" Wade suggests. "It feels like a biryani and samosa kind of day."
While they wait for their food to be delivered, Wade has Peter try on the clothes he made: two pairs of flannel pants, two t-shirts, and a simple sweater. The drawstring sewn into the pants is no more than a simple piece of embroidery floss, but it is as thick as a shoelace in Peter's tiny hands as he ties the ends into a simple knot.
"Everything looks okay," Wade murmurs, looking over Peter's new clothes with a critical eye. "Hems are a little long, but..."
"They're perfect, Wade," Peter says. He gestures Wade down, and presses a small kiss to the corner of Wade's mouth. "Thank you."
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After dinner—in which Peter eats half of a veggie samosa and a couple spoonfuls of spiced beef and rice—he drafts an e-mail to his department head about needing to work remotely for the week. It takes an annoyingly long time to type out considering how he has to peck at the keys one by one, the reach of his newly shortened limbs about as tall as the keyboard itself. When he's done, he closes his laptop, stands, and stretches. A yawn pops out of his mouth involuntarily.
"Bedtime?" Wade asks even as he picks up the remote and turns off the tv.
"Bedtime," Peter confirms.
Being small would be much worse, Peter knows, if he didn't have the ability to scale the suddenly building-sized furniture or lift ordinary objects that are now three or four times his mass and size. He also knows that it would be incredibly annoying if Wade had to do everything for him. Peter has always been fiercely independent, sometimes to the point of personal detriment, but Wade is deeply aware of Peter's prickly nature. The only thing he's done for Peter that he normally wouldn't do is cut his samosa into tiny pieces, which makes asking for Wade's help in the bathroom that much easier.
"I'm going to have to take a bath in the sink," Peter tells Wade after climbing the vanity. "The spray from the shower would probably just knock me over."
"Can't have you slipping down the drain, either," Wade chirps.
Wade runs the water until it's hot and plugs the sink. Peter strips, then slides into the bowl, hissing happily at the temperature of the water before dunking his head beneath the surface. When he emerges, Wade squeezes a drop-sized amount of Peter's 2-in-1 shampoo and conditioner and holds it out. The dollop is too much, filling the entirety of Peter's hand as he scoops it off Wade's fingertip and slathers it into his hair. After rinsing the 2-in-1 out of his hair, Wade does the same for their shared body wash.
As Peter bathes, the last of his lingering irritation at being seven inches tall dissipates like the soap bubbles in the porcelain basin. Wade puts the bottles back into the shower stall, then plops down on the closed toilet seat and leans onto the vanity counter, chin propped on his crossed arms. His eyes half-lidded and bright as he watches Peter relax into the warm, sudsy water. Peter isn't a big guy—average height and average build—but it's been a few years since he's been in a bathtub that was large enough to keep all his limbs submerged at once. The last time he experienced that had been for their honeymoon, when Wade booked a suite that featured an enormous sunken jacuzzi. Wade had fed Peter strawberries and champagne and fucked him stupid in that tub, turned Peter's whole body pink and wet before bundling him up and carrying him to bed to do it again.
"You know," Wade rumbles as Peter drifts, both in the sink and in his warm and hazy memories, "You look pretty cute like this."
Peter opens his eyes. Glances at his sweetly smiling husband. Murmurs, "Like this?" because he's unsure exactly what Wade means by this.
"Like a doll," Wade clarifies. "Makes me wanna pick you up and bite your little cheeks."
Peter leans back against the cool sink basin. There is a teasing reverence in Wade's voice, the same kind he always uses whenever he compliments Peter's physical body, and the familiarity of it keeps Peter's hackles down. But Peter knows Wade just as well as Wade knows him, and he knows an angle when he sees one. Wade is a wheedler to his core. When he wants something—especially something he thinks Peter might outright reject—he tends to try and soften Peter up first.
And this time, Peter knows exactly what Wade wants.
"Alright," Peter says with a sigh as he stands and gets out of the sink. Wade had gotten him a washcloth to use as a towel, and he scrubs it over his hair and body as he talks. "Ground rules. Firstly, this is not a blanket invitation. You are not allowed to pick me up or grab me whenever you want, or I will bite you. Got it?"
"Got it," Wade says. "Do not chihuahua the husband, or the husband will chihuahua you. What else?"
"When you ask, I can say no at any time for any reason. And if I want to get down, you let me get down."
Wade hums, a low contemplative sound, and suggests, "Safe word?"
Scrubbing the last of the damp from his hair, Peter thinks about it. He and Wade have had the same safe word since they started hooking up, back when Peter was a fresh-faced and deeply stressed out undergrad, but Peter feels strange using it in this kind of situation. It seems excessive to him. The few times he's had to 'rutabaga' out of a scene was always accompanied by serious or even traumatic emotions, and Peter doesn't like the idea of tying that heaviness up with this weird but temporary change.
"I don't think we need that." Peter's words are slow as he drops the washcloth and gets dressed in the clothes Wade made earlier. "Just... pay attention to me. If I tell you that I want to get down, I mean it. No negotiation, no whining. Okay?"
"Cross my heart." Wade unfolds from the counter and draws a quick 'x' over his sternum. "Hope to die. Stick my katana in my eye."
"That's not how that rhyme goes and you know it," Peter drawls, but he's feeling loose-limbed and magnanimous from his bath, and Wade is all but bouncing in place with barely contained excitement. "Alright then. Hold out your hand with your palm up."
Wade immediately obeys. Peter climbs on and sits down for stability. Wade's skin is as it always is—warm and rough, with random patches of keratinized cysts and pocks of sloughed off dermal tissue—and he finds that it feels vaguely comparable to when he straddles Wade's lap. Not the same, obviously, but similar.
"Okay, I think I'm good." Peter looks at Wade, who stares at him with such unabashed glee that Peter huffs a little laugh. "Just try not to jostle me too much."
Peter's nerves flutter as Wade lifts him, but his anxiousness is because of novelty rather than actual apprehension. After so many years of trial and error, Wade now knows just how careful—or just how not careful—he needs to be when it comes to Peter, and the slow, measured steps Wade takes towards their room proves that. Besides, the short trip is less turbulent than web swinging, and Peter hasn't truly been afraid of heights since he was bitten.
"Good?" Wade asks as he moves down the short hallway.
"Yeah," Peter responds. "I'm good."
Truthfully, Peter is more than good, all of his reservations left on the vanity counter. There is a faint wriggle of weightlessness in his lower belly and an imbalanced spin in his brain. He really likes the inward curl of Wade's fingers, the blunt tips pointed gently towards Peter's torso like a cage meant to protect rather than contain. He is a little breathless and a little dizzy and when Wade brings Peter to their bed, he climbs off without conscious thought. Wade immediately kneels on the rug so they are eye to eye.
"Sweetheart," he croons.
Peter tilts his face up automatically. They kiss—briefly, chastely—and it is in that moment that Peter realizes just how little he is compared to his husband. Normally, Wade is taller than Peter by a full head, and almost double his bulk, but the smallness Peter feels is exponentially more than usual. The epiphany buzzes into Peter's awareness like static and his belly shivers hotly. Wade pulls away before it can solidify into more.
"Be right back," Wade tells him with a happy grin. "Just gotta rinse off."
It isn't until Peter hears the distant rush of water that he comes back to himself. He blinks once, twice, and looks down as a familiar pressure between his thighs makes itself known. It's almost a surprise to see the vague tent in his flannels, his dick chubbed up and aching from the realization that he is so, so tiny and Wade is so, so big.
"Well fuck," Peter says.
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