Peter coughed loudly into the crook of his elbow, glancing up suspiciously at Wade, who was approaching his make-shift nest on the couch with a small cup and a spoon. “What’s in that?” asked Peter hoarsely. “Secret recipe,” Wade replied, making the couch creak as he settled down next to Peter. “Open up! Here comes the choo-choo train!” he cooed as he waved the spoon in front of Peter’s mouth. Peter sniffed, his flushed face scrunching up in disgust. “I’m not that sick, Wade.” Wade pouted, brandishing the spoon so that food went flying. “C’mon, Petey, let me take care of my baby boy for once.” Peter wiped at a splatter of the porridge-like whatever-the-hell-Wade-had-cooked-for-him, looking half unimpressed and half worried. Reluctantly, he leaned forward, opening his mouth for Wade. The moment the spoon entered his mouth, Peter's eyes widened in horror. “Wade—what the hell is this?” he asked awkwardly through a mouthful. “It’s just baby food,” Wade replied cheerfully. Peter's coughing fit turned into a choking panic, and Wade's 'help' quickly escalated into a disaster.