Archive of Our Own

All Peter can think about is Wade. 

While that’s an alarming statement on its own, it’s worsened by the fact that Peter is more or less incapable of following his Quantum 4 lecture because he’s too busy daydreaming about ex-mercenaries with broad shoulders and strong jawlines.

Or, more realistically speaking, he’s too busy daydreaming about a specific ex-mercenary with broad shoulders and an impossibly strong jawline.

He squeezes his eyes shut; a scarred, grinning face and white teeth flash in the momentary darkness.

His cheeks heat up. There’s no way he can get away with this here, in the front row of a crowded lecture hall, especially not when his body refuses to hinder it’s reactions. It’s more than enough that he’s not paying attention to whatever concept the professor is going on about- the last thing he needs is to draw undue attention to himself as well. 

It’s embarrassing, the way his heart races whenever Wade comes to mind, just how quickly his mouth dries and his skin goes clammy regardless of where he is, what he’s doing. It’s as though his body has less situational awareness than a toddler, and Peter absolutely hates it.  

The worst part, though, is that he’s not really sure how things got so bad in the first place.

A chance encounter had led to a handful of team-ups, which led to the occasional dinner spent together, and then joint patrols, game nights, so on and so forth. Two years passed in a heartbeat, seamlessly, impossibly easily; it felt like only a matter of days before Peter had come to consider Wade his closest friend, and had come to develop feelings for him. It was a split decision, showing his face, revealing his name. 

Once his identity was out in the open, something had changed between them, quick like a bungee cable snapping at the apex of the jump. Without the masks posing as barriers (and with the help of some rather unprecedented levels of sexual frustration on both of their parts), they’d all but scrambled into bed together, spilling promises as they discarded their suits, reassurances that it never had to mean anything- that it didn’t mean anything. 

Skin met skin - the rest is history. 

It’s still as clear as a photo in his mind; Wade caging him against the wall, forearms braced on either side of Peter’s head, their bodies closer than they’d ever been, than Peter had ever thought they would be. There was no room for doubt or second-guessing, no space for anything but touching, grabbing, claiming. 

“It’s nothing, baby boy” Wade had murmured, the words existing only between their connected mouths, “ This is body stuff, and it’s-” A gasp, one that Peter can still feel reverberating throughout his skin, “ It’s all just mutual assistance, pals helpin’ each other out, yeah?”

Peter had nodded reverently, intoxicated by Wade’s proximity, by his size and his scent and his touch, “ Course, yeah- just- please-”

“Promise? That nothing’s gotta change?” 

“I- yeah. Promise.”

Nearly a year has gone by, and thinking about that night still makes his stomach swoop and his chest stutter. He can’t shake the feeling that washes over him, trying and failing to crush the strange warmth that curls up along his spine each time he recalls the sensation of scarred hands dragging against abdomen, gripping his waist, pinning him down. 

The class is still going on around him- he looks up, desperate for a distraction. 

“Right, so. If you would direct your attention to the projector,” His professor, a wiry beanstalk of a man with hair that insists on flaring out in every direction possible, projects some convoluted equation onto the overhead screens. “Here we have the non-relativistic time-independent Schrödinger equation. When we plug in the n th variable into the…”

Peter’s eyes cross. While most of the variables are somewhat familiar, the formula itself is foreign to him, and even the professor’s often-useful drone of an explanation is making absolutely no sense. None whatsoever.

He’d groan if he could, and then maybe sink to the floor. Or, better yet, into the floor. Preferably never to return. 

It’s ridiculous.

Even though Peter keeps telling himself that it’s Wade’s fault he’s this far gone, he’s well aware that it’s only an excuse he’s using to ignore the rather fruitless truth of the matter - that this stupid crush has developed into a hulking, veiny beast of a thing, and he’s way too much of a coward to do anything about it. And now that they’re physically together, it’s getting increasingly harder with every passing day to even want to speak about what he’s been feeling. 

A different formula pops onto the projector screens. Peter’s in no better shape with this one than the last. It’s a shame- Quantums 1-3 had been some of his top courses grade-wise, albeit some of his most difficult ones as well, and his complete mental absence right now sits like a slab of guilt across his shoulders.

He supposes that he’s the one who built this coffin around his lovesick brain. It’s much too late to do anything about it now, though, so he settles with the loss and accepts that he’s too far behind to understand any of the material that’s going to be discussed for the remainder of the lecture. 

Along with resigning from the lecture’s content, Peter’s thoughts shamelessly revert back to their previous dwellings: Wad e, his hands and his skin and his eyes, the rhythm in his voice and the melody of his laugh, the arc of his spine and the bulge of his biceps. Obscene and borderline unreal, he’s become something of a fever dream, one that survives much too long beyond the boundaries of Peter’s slumber to dismiss as just another crush. 

Which is why it’s no longer a question of whether Peter is royally screwed or not, but a question of how the hell he’s going to handle himself around Wade without completely embarrassing himself and ruining everything. 

Of course, there are a number of ways he can choose to go about this; he could approach Wade like the twenty-four year old adult he is and have a mature conversation about the semantics and potential of their relationship;  he could send a text that says, ‘Hey Wade, I think I maybe love you’, and hope for the best; he could call off the sex they’ve been having because it’s probably not the healthiest thing for their personal or professional relationship. 

Or, because all of the previous options are one-hundred percent mortifying to Peter, he could simply keep facilitating their fuck-sessions (for lack of better words) without discussing any of what he’s feeling, so as to not jeopardize the lovely rhythm they’ve found with each other. It’s what he’s done thus far, repressing everything he may or may not be feeling in favour of keeping the peace- he figures that he might as well continue regardless of whether or not his heart feels like it’s going to bowl right through his ribcage every time he sees Wade. 

It’s fine. He’s fine! Really .

He straightens one of the bent corners of his notebook: the page it’s open to is emphatically blank. Though remorse stings like vinegar on his tongue, Peter ultimately has more pressing matters to tend to than missing out on some lecture content. 

Tonight Wade is going to be in the usual place, likely with the usual bags of takeaway food from the usual mexican-fusion restaurant off of Fifth and Seventeenth, and they’ll power through their usual night patrol, and then, once the sun sets and the streets quiet, they’ll head over to Wade’s place (because lord knows Peter’s place is well on its way towards being a total fire-hazard) and get down to their usual post-business business. 

It’ll be fine, he tells himself, repeats it like a mantra until the words are little more than dislocated sounds thrumming against the back of his mind. Doubt pools in his legs, hardens in his shoes like poured iron. Everything is going to be fine.

When class lets out and he’s free to return to his dumpster of an apartment, Peter finds himself pulling on the Spider-man suit within moments of getting home. He’ll be early, no doubt, but he can either wait on their usual rooftop and watch over the city on his own, or he can wait on his bed, twiddling his thumbs as he stares at the spiderweb of cracked yellow paint decorating his walls. It’s hardly a decision when he slides out the window, mask fastened, web-shooters reloaded and ready to go. 

Swinging is easy, the evening clear and comfortably warm; the last days of summer are dwindling away, soon to give into the inevitable chill of autumn, but for now the warmth is appreciated. Peter soaks it up, allowing it to melt through the spandex and soothe the tightness in his muscles.

The streets below are slammed with the tail-end of the rush hour crowd, forming a body of perpetual motion that swells and recedes like the Hudson. Most days, Peter is content to watch the always moving city, fascinated by its liveliness. Today his admiration is absent— he’s too preoccupied by the excitement hot in his blood, the anxiety clogging his throat.

He tries to remind himself to breathe with every upswing, to keep the tension in his chest under control, but with every downswing he forgets to remember. His heart seizes when his destination comes into view- he’s here just as soon as he predicted, and it’s still much sooner than he’s comfortable with. 

Their spot has never been anything special; a grubby rooftop of an even grubbier apartment complex in Brooklyn, complete with a handful of dented AC units and a fire escape that’s more rust than metal. It's admittedly a dump, but it’s a secluded dump, and that’s all that really matters. 

Privacy, as Peter has come to discover, gets to be a little elusive when you’re an infamous vigilante with an ex-mercenary as your partner. The rooftop, however shitty it might be, is beautifully private, which is why Peter breathes a sigh of relief when he touches down. 

It’s silent, up here, like there’s a layer of glass separating this spot from the bustle of the city. 

He can still hear the cars and the chatter, but the noise is smaller here, less intrusive; a hushed buzz of noise he can feel at the nape of his neck, a vibration in the soles of his boots. If he tries hard enough, he can pretend he’s somewhere far away from New York, somewhere he doesn’t have to worry about endangered innocents, or animal-themed criminals, or chemistry homework, or empty bank accounts, or— 

“ Spidey! ”

Or this. Somewhere he doesn’t have to worry about this, specifically. 

As he tends to do, Deadpool appears seemingly out of nowhere- he’s just suddenly on the rooftop, dressed in full regalia with multiple bags of takeaway cradled precariously in his arms. Peter’s spider-senses have long since stopped reacting to Wade’s presence (which is irritating, to say the least), and though he should probably be acclimatized to Wade’s abrupt nature by now, Peter startles anyways, muscles tensed and web-shooters pointed.

“Woah. Woah. Watch where you point those things, mister. Unless-” Wade pauses, cocks his head, “Unless this is one’a your secret Spidey-kinks, because in that case? Tie me up like a honey-roasted ham and call me dinner, baby. Daddy’s ready for some-”

Peter can almost see the shit-eating grin splitting beneath Wade’s mask. He pretends it doesn’t make his heart stutter. “You uh- you definitely don’t have to finish that sentence.”

Wade skips forwards and doesn’t stop until he’s within arms’ reach, “Aw, c’mon Petey. You oughta learn to loosen up a li’l.” He crowds in, voice lowering, “And if it’s loosenin’ up you need, I’m pretty sure you already know I’m just the man for the job.”

Peter can smell him, he’s so close- it’s a familiar scent, some unmistakable mixture of leather and cinnamon and sandalwood. It smells like safety and fear, like the nights they spend together, first amongst the rooftops, and then in Wade’s kitchen, on his couch, in his bed. 

No. Okay. He blinks, already thoroughly embarrassed that Wade has been around for all of three seconds and his brain has the audacity to take his thoughts there, of all places. “Alrighty-o, okie-dokie- uh- Dinner?” Peter squeaks, ducking away from Wade’s sudden vicinity. He can’t help the flush that crawls up his neck, hangs from the perch of his cheekbones, and he’s never been quite so grateful for the mask on his face. 

From beneath the lenses of his own mask, Wade seems fixated on Peter for a second, his posture frozen in place as he assesses his partner before he clicks back into motion, thrusting the bags of takeaway into the air like he’d decided nothing was wrong . “Dinner!” he agrees, tossing one of them over at Peter, who has to scramble to catch it’s falling contents. 

“ Wade- ”

“Hm?

“What have I told you about throwing stuff at me?”

“Uh- not to?”

“So why-”

“You’re Spider-man, Spider-man. Gonna catch everything with your super spidey-reflexes. Your Spideyflexes, if you will.”

“You’re a menace, have I mentioned that yet?” Gaining some of his composure back (but likely none of his dignity), Peter tugs his mask up to his nose and scowls. “A tyrant. An absolute nuisance. ” 

“And you, my dear sweet Arachnoid-Adonis, are an angel amongst men. ” Wade croons. He drops down onto the floor and dumps his own bag out in front of him- it’s mexican food, because of course it is, an entire mountain of what must be every item available on the menu. 

“An angel amongst men, hm?” Peter shakes his head. With the heel of his boot just nearly brushing the toe of Wade’s, he moves to sit opposite of the other and tries not to think too hard about just how close they are. It’s a valiant effort, if not a successful one. “Definitely not how The New Yorker would put it.” 

“ The New Yorker is a joke, Petey. You’re a student. A scholar. And you know what that means?” He pauses for effect, “That means you gotta educate yourself on some credible news sources, not ones run by single-celled microbes that can’t tell a taco from a taquito, got that?” 

“They’re not-”

Wade sticks his index finger up, waggles it sternly, “Ah- nope, don’t wanna hear it. Now,” he motions to Peter’s untouched food, “It’s dinnertime and I’m nearly almost positively certain that you haven’t eaten anything in, let’s see- it’s Monday? At least seven hours? Eight hours? If I remember correctly, you had class all day today, and grad students are neurotic fuckers that have like, no time ever for anything, so,” He shrugs, raised brow visible even from underneath the fabric of his mask, “Tell me, my lovely little steam bun- am I wrong?”

There’s a pause- Peter doesn’t answer. Even though he’s not above lying to Wade about his feelings, he’s very much opposed to telling Wade he’s been eating properly when he most certainly hasn’t. Wade isn’t a serious person, not by any means, but there’s a smattering of very particular topics that he’s morally opposed to joking about. Peter’s nutritional health and self-care routines have been two of those topics for as long as he can remember.

“Exactly,” Wade concludes, and if the way his voice softens at his next words makes Peter’s throat close, no one has to know, “Now eat up, babes.”

The pet name, though something Peter would’ve found demeaning once upon a time, now sends a shiver down his spine. It resides as a fluttering feeling in the pit of his stomach, tickling the walls of his abdomen like a particularly insistent feather-duster. And, like the predictable and lovestruck loser he is, Peter does as he’s told, unwrapping the first thing he pulls out of the bag and finishing it in a monster of a bite. 

Wade tugs his mask back, just enough for the fabric to catch on the bridge of his nose, and sends a firecracker of a smile Peter’s way- it’s thankful, but more importantly, it’s genuine.

And the thing is, Peter kind of wishes he could end it all, with how his heart begins to thunder. 

Lightning sparks behind his eyes, flashes like the white of Wade’s teeth and strikes down along his chest. Electricity fizzles under his skin, bubbles like a shaken bottle of Cola. It’s humiliating, this reaction of his, because they’re not doing anything , not fucking or kissing or even touching, for that matter, and yet, as though just to spite his frazzled brain, his body decides to react like hydrogen to open flame. The feeling is frenetic and overwhelming, grabbing his thoughts by the reins and forcing them to revolve around Wade, Wade, Wade. 

“You feelin’ okay?” Wade asks, yanking Peter’s thoughts from their downward spiral. He’s already blown through most of his food, a snake of discarded wrappers littering the ground around him.

Nodding his head, Peter tries not to make a point of staring down at his feet, at the overhead clouds, at the crow perched on the far side of the rooftop, at anything that’s not Wade Wilson. “Yeah, totally good, feeling like peaches and sunshine and-”

Wade gives him a look. He straightens, offers a shy smile. 

“I’m uh- thinking about class. I’ve got a heavy course load and, like, a whole buttload of homework ahead of me, keep getting caught up in some- some convoluted physics stuff,” A beat, and then, “You, uhm- you know how it is.” Paper crinkles in his hand- the taco he’s holding is crushed in his grip, compacting like an empty can within it’s paper casing. If Wade notices, he doesn’t comment. 

Instead, Wade tilts his head, taking another bite of what Peter is willing to bet is his fourth burrito. “ Ur- No, erm- Ah don’t know how it is, ah’m no student, mishter. ” He says, his words chewed along with the food in his mouth. It’s not a pretty sight, not by anyone’s standards, but it doesn’t quell the hyperactive thrum of Peter’s heart, or the excitement buzzing in his fingertips. 

Because, even with the remnants of refried beans and tortilla spilling from his scarred lips, he’s still unfairly attractive, still so perfectly Wade that Peter isn’t even remotely able to shoulder the magnetic pull that seems to be constantly drawing him in. His voice is as low as it’s always been, his chest so familiarly broad and his arms so familiarly safe that Peter is stuck wanting to crawl forwards and curl in between them, reside in their security, nest like a dove, remain indefinitely. 

Not for the first time today, Peter decides that he’s fucked. 

(And, not for the first time this month, he decides that keeping this facade alive is only going to get a whole lot harder. It’s become something of a trying time, and he’s not sure how much longer his endurance is going to last.)

The sun is set by the time they finish up their dinner, the city’s nightlife already bleeding out onto the streets below. It’s a Monday evening, so the area shouldn’t be too slammed with crime; all Peter can think about is how quickly time is flying by, how much closer they are to finishing patrol, to heading back to Wade’s place, to-

“Webs!” Wade’s hands are suddenly on his shoulders; they’re standing at the edge of the rooftop, looking out over the maze of towering buildings and cracked pavement.  Their bodies are close, Peter’s back nearly flush to Wade’s chest, only a slice of humid air acting as a barrier. 

It takes every ounce of energy Peter can muster not to lean back and melt into the touch. 

“Okay- so, so I know we gotta go out and like, bash some baddies ‘n all that, but rumour has it that Regina King is wandering the streets, and- and- Regina King, Pete, no need to clean out your ears, you heard me, Madame King herself, and I cannot stress enough how important it is that we need to -”

“Drop by and say hey? Or- no, sorry, let me rephrase that; Politely drop by and say hello. We can do that, that’s pretty manageable. If we happen to see her. Emphasis on ‘ if’. ”

Wade’s thumbs ghost along Peter’s shoulder blades. There are two layers of spandex separating their skin but his blood heats up regardless. 

“S’like you don’t even know me,” Wade rumbles into Peter’s ear, “What I was going to say, before you so rudely interrupted, was that we need to ask for her hand in holy matrimony. Or- or I guess I need to ask, not you.” He dips down, hooks his chin over Peter’s shoulder, “I’m hers, bug-boy. Ryan Gosling’s gonna be my maid of honour, Hugh Jackman’s gonna her best man, and then we’re gonna live happily ever after. The end.”

The proximity is too intimate for this open rooftop, and if someone were to see them, or, god forbid, photograph them, the media would have a field day. To put it gently, Spider-man’s already shaky reputation would be totally and mercilessly obliterated . And yet, despite how painfully aware he is that this isn’t a good idea, that none of this is a good idea , Peter doesn’t pull himself away, too intoxicated by how safe he feels right now; by the way his spider-senses have all but gone silent with Wade’s closeness.

When he finally gathers enough sense to respond, his voice is breathy, inconsistent; “Just gonna leave me behind then, hm?” Peter knows they should be heading out into the city, because they’re already late to begin with, but he can’t find it in himself to do the right thing; he’s the responsible one, always has been, and yet, after spending all week and all day only capable of thinking about this exact thing, about being close to Wade again, about being held by Wade again, there’s nothing he’s inclined to do except give in to the feeling pouring down his chest and allow it to flood whatever little common sense he has left. 

Wade shifts forwards, the plane of his chest ghosting against Peter’s back. “Nah,” He admits, shaking his head, “Hot piece’a booty like you? Death herself couldn’t drag me away. And she’s smokin’, let me tell ‘ya. The tits alone- ”

“You always go right to-”

“Her tits! Because she’s spankin’, Pete!”

Peter spins around until they’re chest to chest, tilting his head back just enough to shoot Wade a nasty glare. “I’m pretty sure I’d love it if you never said that again. Like, ever, thank you very much.”

“If you’d seen her, you’d-”

“Are you saying you want me to have a run in with-”

Wade doesn’t even let him finish the sentence; gloved hands latch on to Peter’s biceps, pulling him inwards until he’s nestled firmly within the circle of Wade’s arms. “Never.” He asserts. The statement is final- the lighthearted tone he’d been toting vanishing without a trace. “You and Death? Never going to meet. Not in this universe, not while I’m around. Don’t you even fuckin’ think about it, not for a goddamn second. ”

An airplane cuts across the dark sky, white strobes blinking lazily as it passes. Peter relaxes his muscles, trying his hardest not to encourage the rigidity in Wade’s protective stance. “I won’t,” he says sincerely, flattening his palm against Wade’s abdomen- it’s a gesture that he hopes is comforting. By the way Wade eases up, backs away just an inch, it seems to work in his favour.

“Promise?”

The shift in atmosphere is jarring, but Peter doesn’t fumble his words. “Promise.”

“With me ‘til the end of the line?”

“I don’t think that’s our thing to-”

“ Petey -”

A sigh, and then; “I’m with you ‘til the end of the line.” The admission isn’t monumental, not by any means, but it still gets Peter’s poor heart aching, and he has to bite his lip to stop the nervous smile attempting to breach his expression. “Besides, who else is going to bring me dinner when I forget to eat? Or- or, c’mon, who else is going to wrap up all of my nasty pavement burns?”

“Well,-”

“With pink bandages? ”

“I’m sure Iron Man could-”

“Tony would never let me hear the end of it if-”

“Or Shrek’s older, sexier brother, then- er- Bruce Wayne? No- Banner, that’s it, he’d-”

“Only you, Wade.” Peter breathes, and there’s too much weight behind his words, too much emotion moistening his eyes. He doesn’t take it back, nor does he wait to see whether or not Wade realizes just how loaded his response was- he’s off of the building in a split-second, gracefully flipping into the air with a shout; “Patrol time, Pool! City’s not going to protect itself!”

Wade leaps after him, effortlessly falling into sync with Peter’s change of tempo, and then they’re both tearing through the grid of the city, ears piqued and eyes alert. Peter swings, Wade jumps, building to building to building. This is routine, what they’re doing now, and the familiarity that comes with venturing through New York with Deadpool summons a sense of calmness, one that bleeds out and over the anxiety clouding Peter’s thoughts. 

Does he still have to force himself not to watch Wade’s muscles flexing as he runs? Of course. Is it easier now, with a purpose over their heads and a direction guiding them forward? Marginally. H is brain doesn’t loosen but his muscles do, and that’s about as good as Peter is going to get right now. 

Tonight happens to be exceptionally uneventful, with the first couple of hours consisting of a rowdy handful of drunken Yankees fans in need of some directions and a kid who’d lost her mum in a crowd of pushy tourists- it’s only when the third hour trickles by does something noteworthy finally happen. 

Peter hears it first, the faraway shout of panic ricocheting between the rows of towering condominiums and commercial complexes, and he sends only a brief nod Wade’s way to indicate his thoughts before he’s off, swinging determinedly towards the source of the alarm. 

Because guns are all too easy to get a hold of, the first real disturbance of the evening is the result of a middle-aged man in an alleyway, a pistol held in one hand and a quivering teenager in the other. They’re standing in front of the back entrance of a closed Quickmart, just far enough from the street to be concealed from witnesses.

“Open the goddamn door or I’ll shoot- I’ll fuckin’- I’ll fuckin’ do it!”  He jabs the muzzle of the gun beneath the teenager’s jaw. Even from his perch at the top of the Quickmart Peter can hear the shakiness in the gunman’s voice, but the conviction in his words is too opaque for him to be able to justify jumping into action despite his senses’ increasing ringing. Wade, who may as well be a gargoyle next to him, appears to have the same idea.

The jangle of keys cuts through the night as the teenager, who can’t be any older than sixteen, frantically searches along his busy keyring. Peter can see the kid’s teeth clench when he nearly drops the ring, eliciting a frustrated groan from his captor, who keeps shifting in his spot, eyes jumping impatiently, left to right, right to left- he doesn’t look up, missing Peter and Wade altogether. 

The gunman’s tone is hushed, when he speaks once more- he doesn’t want to attract any attention, obviously, and Peter feels a bitter twinge of amusement tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Don’t make me say it again.”

The ringing in his ears heightens, manifests as tingling in his tongue, numbness in his fingertips. 

A hard swallow, “This- This one, it’s this one, here, it’s- no, wait it’s- ”

“You fucking reta-”

“Now mister, hasn’t anyone ever told you it’s not very nice to use the R-word ?” Wade chides, strolling out in front of the two men before anything has the chance to escalate, and- 

And superhuman senses be damned, it just so happens to be right at this moment that Peter realizes Wade is no longer next to him, waiting patiently for a more strategic time to interrupt, but, somehow , now in the alleyway with the gunman and his victim, arms crossed like he’s a disappointed montessori teacher. 

The teen freezes; the gunman’s arms lock.

Peter has to restrain himself from jumping out, his skin tightening almost painfully as his senses’ ringing morphs into shrieking. 

“I’ll kill him, I’ll do it before you can even-”

Wade hums, tilting his head, “Oh, I’m sure you will. Don’t doubt you for a second, hun.” He looks to the teenager, tilts his head the other way, “Do you doubt him? No? See?” His arms uncross, and he shows his empty palms to the gunman. “Totally believe you. You’re good. I mean, you’re not good, ‘cause you’re holdin’ a gun up to some poor kid who’s probably only gettin’ paid a student’s wage at a Quickmart of all places, for goodness’ sake, but you’re good, ‘ya feel, homeslice?”

The gunman looks like he doesn’t know how to respond, a glower crumpling his bearded cheeks and an uncertain wrinkle gathering between his eyebrows. To be entirely fair, though, Peter doesn’t know how to respond to Wade most of the time either, and he’s sleeping with the guy.

Regardless- Peter wants to yell. And then smack Wade upside the head. 

(There’s also some part of him that wants to pull Wade back to his apartment and kiss him stupid, but he chooses to ignore that part for the time being.)

Though it pains him to do so, Peter goes with what he feels he should do, not what he wants to do. Instead of obsessing over just how poorly this criminal intervention has gone, he looks for the silver-lining in Wade’s predictably spontaneous course of action. The gunman is no longer actively coercing the teenager into breaking into the shop for him, and his presence as Spider-man is still widely unknown, so he might as well take advantage of it.

It’s not ideal, not by any means, but nothing about this situation is, so he tries not to fret. Heart thrumming at the back of his throat, Peter hoists himself over the edge of the rooftop, the pads of his fingers and the soles of his feet adhering to the brick siding. 

Through the lenses of two masks, Wade’s eyes meet Peter’s briefly. The former mercenary nods, an action that’s so impossibly subtle Peter’s almost unsure that he’s really seen it. But this is Wade, and Peter knows Wade like he knows no one else- while their communication isn’t always the most affluent of things, their synchrony at times like this is usually pretty solid. Key word: usually. 

When Wade opens his mouth again, Peter begins a slow descent down the side of the building. Scaling like this is second nature, so his focus doesn’t stray from the pistol in the gunman’s hand- he’s ready to strike the moment he has to. He’s hoping it won’t have to come to that.

“See,” Wade begins, shoulders tightening as he folds his arms behind his head. He’s a panther, like this, watching  with diamond-sharp eyes, lean muscles winding up, preparing for the pounce. “I can’t remember the last time I went into a Quickmart so- so hey,  I could be wrong, I could totally be wrong, but like, how much bread can this bakery possibly have, hm?” 

Half a dozen feet above their heads, Peter halts his motion. His breathing is shallow, and his movements are stiff- he can see where the gun’s muzzle leaves an indent in the civilian’s skin and the jittering finger the gunman holds against the trigger. Any reckless commotion right now can and will put an innocent life in jeopardy. 

By the condescending tone in his voice, Wade doesn’t appear to be on the same page, “And by bread, I mean moolah . That sweet, sweet green. Cold, hard cash, baby. Get it? Hm?” He cocks his head, the fabric between his brows furrowing, “Can’t tell if you got that or not, you’re bein’ awfully quiet. ”

The gunman’s hand twitches. He’s a cornered animal, dark eyes darting back and forth; to the locked door; to the mess of keys in the teenager’s hand; to the wall of muscle and stabby weapons standing before him. “Look, you keep your mouth shut and I’ll let you in on twenty percent of what I can-”

“Ha!” A puff of air, and then, “My sweet, sweet scummy criminal pal, if I wanted cash I would’a busted into the Swarovski ‘round the block- not a dingy Quickmart in Queens. And besides, this hot Canadian piece’a bacon doesn’t do petty robbery - hold it; do you even know who I am? Read my comics? Seen my movies ? That’s right- movies, motherfucker. Plural. ”

“Listen, I don’t know what you’re going on about but-”

“C’mon man, I’m Deadpool. There’s no way you don’t-”

“Alright,” The gunman interrupts with a growl, “I think it’s time you shut the fuck up. And you-” he thrusts the gun against the clerk’s neck again, his grip tightening, “Open this fucking door already or else I’ll-”

Wade sighs, scuffs the toe of his boot against the pavement, “You’ll shoot, got that little tidbit the first three times, thank you very much- y’know, I think you gotta take a minute and learn the art of showing instead’a telling, buddy, because this schtick is getting real exhausting .” 

His spider-senses are screaming, and Peter thinks he’s going to be sick. He should have taken the man by surprise before any of this had the chance to progress any further, he thinks, should have swung in and webbed the gun to the wall. He should have done something differently, because if this goes wrong-

He’s certain that if this goes wrong, it’ll be his fault for not acting sooner. 

“Would you-”

“Shut up? I mean, I could, but why in Mister Roger’s - Fred, not Steve - good country would I want to do that?”

There’s a deafening pause, one that lasts just a little too long to feel right, and then the gunman is winding up, tightening his grip on the teenager and forcing him down onto his knees. 

The keyring drops to the ground. Peter cringes, the noise amplified in his ears, spiking his already-high adrenaline levels. 

Wade watches carefully, his stare predatory even with his face concealed. “What-”

The gunman’s hand begins to shake, “You’re friends with that- with Spider-man, aren’t you?” 

Wade takes a step forward. He’s reaching for the bowie knife strapped to his thigh when the atmosphere shifts, warps like impacted aluminum.

Impossibly so, the ringing in Peter’s ears intensifies- Wade looks like he’s about to open his mouth and deliver another round of unrelenting verbal pollution, but he’s stopped by a burst of movement, by the shock of a procession of gunshots. 

Victim to the bullets’ trajectory, Wade hits the floor with a thud - the pistol’s smoking barrel is pointed straight at where he’d just been standing, frozen in the gunman’s unsteady hand. Peter jumps down without thinking, then, his senses going positively berzerk as he kicks off the wall with enough force to clear both the gunman and his hostage.

He lands just over a foot away, the shrieking of some awful somatic banshee emanating from the base of his neck. The gunman’s eyes flash as he attempts to process what’s happening, and then Peter is sweeping forth, one hand reaching for the hostage while the other fires a web off at the assailant.

The gunman falls back, releasing the teenager in favour of narrowly dodging the incoming webbing. Heavy like iron, the harsh scent of gunpowder penetrates the fabric of his mask, slithers up his nose, brands the flesh at the back of his throat. It may be uncomfortable, but it’s nothing Peter isn’t already used to. 

Wade groans, shifts on the pavement, “‘ey, Spidey, he’s-”

He doesn’t get to finish his sentence. 

Adrenaline is ablaze in the gunman’s eyes, actions dominated by what Peter can only surmise is a bona fide survival instinct. Gun clasped in both hands, he fires directly at Peter, once, twice, three times, his overlapping index fingers jamming the trigger. 

Peter’s long-time residency as Spider-man means he’s no stranger to being the target of various firearms, neither point-blank nor at a distance, and so this is second nature now, responding to the sharp coil of sensation blaring in his muscles- he ducks, tossing the teenager back and away from his attacker as he does. The bullets sail past his body, aimless; Peter is left unscathed. 

He spares a moment to look back over his shoulder, catches a glimpse of the teenager scrambling away from the gunman, clawing fruitlessly at the ground as he tries to pull his body as far as he can. 

Only when he’s certain that the civilian is out of immediate harm’s way does Peter dive for the gunman again, this time catching the man’s waist in the juncture of his arm and knocking his larger frame to the ground. Even though he’s pinned to the pavement in seconds, the gunman adamantly fights back, kicking out at Peter’s shins and snapping his teeth like an aggravated hound, but he’s ultimately bested by virtue of Peter’s enhanced strength. 

“Alrighty,” He huffs, webbing the gunman’s wrists to the ground resolutely, “You, my friend, are finito. ” More webbing, this time across the scowl his opponent’s lips are curled into, “And y-”

“-And you’re also a complete shitbiscuit for shooting me in the fuckin’ nipple! Of all the places you could’a gone for, you had to pop off my nipple ? Cruel! Just plain cruel!” 

Peter glances back over his shoulder. Wade is starfished in a puddle of his own blood, his neck craned as he gently strokes the peak of his left pectoral. “‘Pool,” He says scornfully, lifting himself up and off of the gunman’s restrained body.

“Yo.”

“How many times have I-”

“He shot me in the-”

“In the nipple, I heard you. I’m pretty sure the whole district heard you.”

“Because it hurts-”

“If you hadn’t jumped in like that then maybe-”

“No! Not fair! I had to jump in!”

“You can’t just jump in because you’re-”

Wade knocks his head back, probably pouting like a petulant child behind the mask. “This is the first slice’a whoop-ass-pie we’ve had all night, and I wasn’t about to wait for an invitation. No one ever invites me anywhere, Spidey; it’s a hard life, being too cool for the in crowd. The- hey, do you remember that jam? A bop , as the young’uns like to say? Man, man, I can’t even tell you how much I-”

“What if someone had gotten hurt?” Peter interjects with a wave of his hand, “What if he’d seen you and decided to shoot the- huh. ” And he’s almost completely forgotten about the kid he’s just saved, who he only now realizes has been staring open-mouthed at him and Wade for the last minute or two. “Shoot you! You- uh, are you alright?”

Eyes wide with what can only be shock, the kid nods loosely, scrambling to his feet. “I’m- yeah. My boss is going to kill me, though, because this is my first closing shift and I’ve only had this job for like three weeks and- and woah, woah, just gonna say it, because- shit, man, you’re Spider-man, and you’re-” 

He swivels, the motion considerably smooth for someone that had just been shaking like a kitten in the rain, “You’re Deadpool! Man, that’s so cool- could you tell my boss I didn’t mean for this to happen? Or just- damn it. Look, I- er- I closed the door and turned the lock and I was just about to head over to my girlfriend’s place but that dude came out of nowhere and pulled a fucking gun and-”

“Woah, hey,” Peter holds his palms out, approaching slowly, “No need to work yourself into a panic- I’m alright when it comes to dealing with criminal underbellies and mammalian-themed baddies, but teenage anxiety is very much not my forte. So-” He pauses, shimmies the tension out of his muscles, “Panic is a big no-no right now.  Uh- Let’s see- What’s your name?”

“Liam. Like-”

Wade’s hand shoots up, index finger pointed at the sky, “Like the guy from One-”

Peter clears his throat, shooting an arrow of a glare in Wade’s direction. “Everything’s gonna be alright, Liam. This putz?” He motions towards the webbed-up criminal, “He’s not going to be wiggling out of that anytime soon, don’t you worry. You just focus on heading home. They’ll find him in the morning, you’re not going to lose your job, and things are gonna be just fine. Alright?” 

Liam doesn’t wait to be told twice. Peter watches as he grabs his fallen keyring and then all but bolts from the alleyway, leaving the two vigilantes with little more than a hasty, “Thank you!” 

Only once he’s gone does Peter migrate over to where Wade is, his body haphazardly splayed across the pavement as though moving has suddenly become some insurmountable chore. He’s healing, his body stitching itself back together with every passing second, but Peter’s chest constricts at the sight anyways. 

Regenerating mutant or not, seeing Wade like this never really gets any easier with time. He doesn’t think that it ever will. 

Peter offers his hand to Wade, who belatedly reaches up to take it. Warm blood seeps into his gloves along with the contact- it’s a feeling Peter wishes he weren’t so plainly accustomed to. 

“You know,” Wade grumbles as he hoists himself onto his feet, “Shooting a guy in his best nipple is absolutely without-a-goddamn-doubt despicable. Like. Sarah Palin despicable. No- the Russo brothers despicable, dammit. ” The pitch of his voice bristles on ‘despicable’, and if looks could kill Peter is certain Wade would be all but smiting the detained gunman. “Fuck those guys. Fuck those guys, Spidey.”

“Okay, first of all,” A pointed beat of silence, an inarguable stare, “That is totally on you for deciding to pop in before we could put together some kind of plan.” Peter counters, making a show of crossing his arms. “If we had just-”

“When do we ever come up with a plan?”

“Well-”

“ Never, we never do plans-”

“-we sometimes talk it through before we-”

“-crime is spontaneous, and hey, heyo, I get it; if this were a game of hockey-”

“-I mean we could start planning things out, wouldn’t be a bad idea to try and-”

“-then I’d totally be on board with a game plan and all to set my Lil Canuckies up for another Stanley - the fourth for the collection, I’ll have you know - but this is New York,  and-”

“- coordinate how we go about these things once in a while, just to-”

Their banter is interrupted by a particularly bothered (and majorly garbled), “ Mmph! Fmuckrsm!” 

“Oh, you-” Wade spins on his heel, stomps over to the source of the noise- the webbed-up gunman wriggles like a mosquito, the veins in his forehead bulging. “You motherfucker, who the hell do you think you are? You think you can just shoot me in the nipple and then interrupt my precious spidey-kins over there like it’s no biggie? Like you’re the Queen’a England or somethin’?”

He pulls out a wallet - from where , exactly, Peter isn’t quite sure - and releases a small army of unfamiliar currency onto the ground, “Well, you’re not on my loonies or my toonies and you’re definitely not on my twenties, so no, you’re not Her Highness. Not even close. You know what that means? ”

Wade bends over the gunman’s body, arms propped on his hips. One of his fingers nudges the ammo-belt slung across his chest, but the motion is devoid of any real threat. 

“ That, my dear sweet douche-pistol, means you’re in line for a lesson in some manners. Strictly worse than being in line for the crown, but I digress.”

Suddenly breaking off from his word-vomit of a scolding, Wade turns to look over at Peter- a frown implied in his tone; “Let me rephrase that- I strongly believe that lesson in some manners would totally be appropriate right about now, but I’m not gonna be the one to give it to ‘ya. You’re lucky that Webhead over there is, well, over there, because I’m as whipped as cream in a Kitchen-Aid and, for his sake, I’m gonna walk away. Leave you and your saggy tits for the boys in blue t’handle.”

The gunman’s body visibly relaxes. 

“But- but you bet your pathetic, nipple-blasting britches that if I weren’t tryin’ta make it onto Spidey’s Nice List this year, I’d make sure you left today lookin’ even worse than I do- and trust me, you don’t wanna look even close to how I look, because hot damn, ya’girl looks like a week-old hamburger minus the buns and the cookin’.”

And then, like he can’t bear to look at the gunman any longer, Wade trudges back to where Peter is standing, throws an arm around Peter’s shoulders, and guides them away from the crime scene without another glance.

They emerge onto the street inconspicuously (as inconspicuously as two men clad in spandex and leather can possibly be in New York City on a Monday evening), peeling away from the alleyway and following a trail of dim streetlamps toward the central part of the city. 

“Just to let you know,” Peter raises an eyebrow, bumping Wade’s shoulder with his own, “I’m totally not finished with you.”

“ Pshaw,” The low growl of an even bassline rumbles through the streets, mingling with the distant sound of traffic, the mumble of voices rising up from open windows and busy sports bars. Wade hums along with the drifting rhythm, his larger body cutting into Peter’s space, inching closer and closer until Peter can’t focus on much more than their increasing vicinity, “Everything worked out just fine. ”

“Everything?”

“ Everything. ”

They turn a corner, wandering with no direction in particular. A sliver of wind blows past, penetrates the fibres of Peter’s suit, tiptoes along the skin of his forearms. He suppresses a shiver, leaning closer, giddy as he knocks his elbow into Wade’s abdomen, “What about your nipple, hm?” 

Wade cackles, a river of a sound that gathers like coffee on Peter’s cheekbones, trickles down onto his chest, burrows until it’s resting at the core of his being. “She’s fine. ” He admonishes, jabbing Peter’s bicep with his elbow, “Maybe a little shaven, now, but hey- that just means I don’t gotta manscape tonight. More time for you, less for my nip, yeah?”

“You’re awful.”

“Mm. Tell me about it.”

Peter is warm and comfortable walking with Wade at his side. Even though they’re no longer touching, Wade having retreated his arm once they’d entered the more public domain of the street, their biceps graze every so often, and sometimes, when he’s certain that there’s no one behind them, Peter brushes their hands together, knuckles bumping. 

Tension hovers between them, suspended like glitter in water, but it’s different than what had been present during their earlier run-in; this time it’s electric, a swarm of worker bees buzzing in their ears, populating the wedge of space separating their bodies. 

Glancing over at Wade, Peter nudges him with the back of his hand. He’s quiet when he speaks. His words are only meant for Wade. “What’s on your mind?”

“What’s on my mind?” Wade scoffs, adjusting his posture, “What isn’t on my mind? S’like a whole goddamn exhibition up there, Pete. Ferris wheels and bloomin’ onions and fairy lights, y’know?”

“I’ve never had a blooming onion.”

Wade shifts closer, incrementally so, “ Never ? Ah- well, you’re not missin’ out on much. Unlike when you dropped that whole, ‘ Poolie, baby, I ain’t never tried poutine before’ nuke of a thing. That? That was a travesty. Shook me to my poor lil’ Canadian core. A sin, if you ask me.”

“Hey, no . Nuh-uh. It’s not like I purposefully avoided poutine-”

“Of course not- ”

“But I like poutine, now that I’ve-”

“-Sure, Webs. I totally believe you. One-hundo-percent-o. ”

“You’re nuts.”

“Tell me something I don’t know, sweetie,” He purrs, shakes his head mockingly, “Ma’am, I cannot believe I let my body be taken by such a man. It’s- it’s tragic. Preposterous. Unforgivable. ”

Peter grins, his heart expanding, pressing up against his ribcage, threatening to burst from his chest, “Are you saying that you regret sleeping with me?” They’re in the middle of the street, and although they appear to be alone, anyone could hear them, record them, send their exchange to the press for a quick buck and a wink of spotlight. Peter, like a giddy teen with a bottle of his parent’s rum, can’t pinpoint a single part of himself that actually cares. 

“Me? Regret sleeping with you? Never. Not in a million years. I’d sooner burn my sweet, sweet maple-y flag before regrettin’ anything that has to do with you, honeypie.”

“Oh. Yeah. Sure,” He tilts his head to the side, pausing dramatically, “What’d you say earlier? Ah- I totally believe you. One-hundo-percent-o .”

“Maybe I should just show you then, hm?” An ambulance whizzes past, disappears into the night. Peter’s initial reaction is to jump out, trace it to whatever disaster it’s seeking, but-

But then Wade is snatching his hand, fingers solid like the chain of an anchor as they weave between his own, and he forgets about the ambulance before he even gets the chance to think about where it could possibly be going, what could possibly be wrong. 

(Perhaps Wade having such a significant effect on Peter’s current state of mind is something that should warrant concern, but Peter is too distracted by Wade’s hand clutching his own to consider much else.)

“What if we head back to mine a little earlier tonight?” He suggests, voice low and breathy as he pulls Peter to a stop. His other hand twitches at his side, and then he’s yanking Peter into another alleyway, this one much smaller and notably more secluded than the earlier one had been. Peter struggles not to choke on his own tongue when he’s crowded up against a graffitied wall, pinned to the expanse of Wade’s chest, secured by the burly length of his arms. 

Escaping this hold would be easy, and yet- 

There isn’t a single instinct in Peter’s brain telling him to try, and so caged he remains, smiling like an idiot as Wade curls in further, pressing as close as he physically can.  

Wade’s mouth is inches away from his, and even through the reinforced fabric of their masks can Peter feel the warmth of Wade’s breath against his lips. “And who’s gonna watch the city?”

A pause- Wade’s palm flattens against Peter’s abdomen, sliding around his hip and finding the small of his back. Warm and large and impossibly intoxicating, his hand drags up along the curve of Peter’s spine, the pads of his fingertips tracing each individual knob and ridge until they find purchase at the bow of his shoulders. Giving into the fever of a sensation, Peter angles his head back in resignation, shivering as his scalp makes contact with the wall.  

All he wants to do is hand himself over, every part and every flaw, every bump and bruise and blemish. He needs more than this, he knows, needs a hand to hold and a heart to have, but he can do without for a little while longer. It’s just a matter of riding it out, waiting until he’s capable of accepting that this won’t ever be more than a physical endeavour, than two friends helping each other out. 

It’s fine. Really.

Somewhere at the back of his mind, he can’t help but think about how royally fucked he is. Again. 

“Stark and his cronies can take care of it, yeah? They’re-” Wade breaks off, nuzzles into Peter’s outstretched neck, his timbre thick with affection, want. “They’re capable most‘a the time, think we can trust them to take care’a things, just this once. One-time only kinda deal, y’know?”

Peter’s voice drops an octave, his eyes slipping shut behind the lenses of his mask, “You’re that desperate, hm?”

“Have I ever, across any of my many ( and, frankly, convoluted) existences, claimed that I’m not Trudeau-after-his-brownface-scandal levels of desperate for you?” 

Brain stuttering, Peter can’t help the way his breathing picks up, and there’s nothing he can do except pray that Wade doesn’t notice his increased respiration, or his thundering pulse. “So desperate that you’d trust Tony Stark for a little bit more time with-”

“I’d do anything for you, baby. C’mon. Don’t pretend like you don’t already know that.” For someone who’s built his image on being crass and mocking, Wade’s penchant for being painfully sincere never fails to shake Peter to his very foundation. It leaves him gasping for air, his mouth dry and his vision crooked - Wade is a natural disaster, in his shape and in his beauty, unpredictable and utterly devastating. 

Peter can’t look away. 

“Yeah, yeah, I just-” Peter tries to breathe around the want that lodges in his throat, “I just love hearing you say it.” 

In the blink of an eye, Wade’s entire body goes rigid, the rare looseness in his muscles becoming static and harsh, and Peter is certain that he’s finally taken it too far, saying something like that, but then the broader man is exploding back into motion, cramming closer and closer until the rest of the world ceases to exist.

When he moans, Peter can feel the noise fracturing beneath his suit, hot and overwhelming as it coils in the pit of his stomach. “ Fuck, Pete-” Wade fingers the seam of the Spider-man mask, the leather of his gloves creating an agonizing kind of friction along the soft skin of Peter’s throat, “The things you do to me.” He sounds wrecked, voice flimsy when he speaks, and Peter is rendered boneless at the heat in his tone. 

“What can I say? I’m - ohmygod - I’m irresistible ”

“Mm-” Wade’s mouth is an inch too far, “You’re irresistible and you’re delicious and-” His thigh finds a home between Peter’s, and the pressure is almost too much. “You should be crowned the sexiest man in America, no- you should - fuck - you should be in my bed, where I can see your pretty face and your pretty chest and your-”

With a fevered, “ Yes, shit, please,” Peter latches on to Wade’s biceps, gripping the hard muscle like his sanity depends on it. (Which very well may be the case, if Wade’s ability to drive him absolutely crazy is anything to go by.) 

Much too soon, Wade pries his body away from Peter’s and motions vaguely to his right. “Let’s, uh, let’s go, then, no need to waste- waste more time here, unless you want to just go balls to the wall - literally - and get down to business right here, because that would be-”

“Not happening.”

“Right so- so let’s go, let’s-”

“Yeah, we’re going, we’re going, just-” Peter can’t stop himself from lunging forward, desperate to reinstate some kind of contact. He scoops Wade up into his arms with the ease of a kid lifting an attention-hungry cat, trying his hardest to ignore the audible pickup of the other’s heart-rate. 

“ Spidey-”

“I’m going, I’m-”

Wade clutches onto the fabric of Peter’s suit, fingers knotting at the base of his sternum- this has become something of a routine, lately, so with only a minimal adjustment of Wade’s position in Peter’s hold, the younger wastes no time tearing from the alleyway. He fires a web off at a nearby apartment complex, easily propelling them up into the air.

They arrive in record time, gracelessly touching down on the rickety fire escape bolted out in front of Wade’s apartment. Breathing laboured and fingers twitching restlessly, Wade flops out of Peter’s arms and dives for the locked window. As though his life depends on it, he jimmies it open and gestures to the dark bedroom behind its frame. “Spiders first?” 

Peter scrambles through the gaping window. Wade is right behind him, his foot catching on the lip of the sill and sending him tumbling to the carpeted floor. He recovers quickly, too desperate to be dumbfounded, and Peter already has his mask off and the top of his suit halfway down his body by the time Wade is on his feet again. 

He’s been waiting for this , waiting all of today, all of last night, all of yesterday, really, although it’s not something he’s about to admit out loud, he’s spent the last two years waiting, yearning , needing, and now he’s here again, back where he always so desperately wants to be . The feeling is monumental, swamping him where he stands, dropping him on his head, swathing him like fleece, gutting him like a fish. It’s destructive and it’s reparative, being so inconceivably close to Wade, getting the enigma of a man all to himself; this is all that’s occupied his mind, all that’s kept his eyes blinking and his blood pumping for the last twenty-four hours.

Being here, now, is both an epiphany and a tragedy; they’ve done this too many times to count, and yet still he wants to cry and he still wants to laugh, wants to sew every fibre of this moment to the forefront of his mind, keep it like a treasure amongst every other memory of him and Wade.

It’s irrevocable, this feeling; terrifying and exhilarating, shockingly new and startlingly familiar.

“You coming?” Peter asks, his eyes smouldering, heart pounding. He’s barely in orbit, fire licking up his skin, heated armour gearing for the inevitable crash to earth. 

A loaded pause; “Am I coming? Hopefully not yet-”

“ Wade- ”

With a throaty laugh, Wade shakes out his shoulders, lumbers over to where Peter stands. He yanks his mask up over his mouth before Peter can put together a reaction, and then he’s stealing into Peter’s space, his hands clamping down on Peter’s hips, his forehead insistent against Peter’s own.  

And Peter? Peter wants to cry, he’s so overwhelmed and intoxicated by Wade’s advances, by his breakneck pace and his honey-whiskey voice and his unforgiving touch.

But he also wants to drag Wade into bed, kiss him until he can’t see straight, fuck him into the next dimension. Because it’s a much easier pill to swallow, he chooses the latter option, grabbing Wade’s shoulders and forcing him down onto the unmade bed. The other falls back willingly, his palms finding the hills of Peter’s thighs as Peter clambers over his frame, straddles the V of his hips.

“ Fuck, baby, ” He exhales, hard, like he’s struggling to keep himself in check, and then he’s sliding his hands up along Peter’s abdomen, over the crest of his shoulders. His thumbs creep into the valleys behind Peter’s clavicles, and Peter can’t control the low whine that burns the back of his throat. 

“Gloves off,” Peter urges, letting Wade pull him down until their chests are flush. “Want to- fuck, want to feel you- let me feel you, yeah?”

There’s a stagnant beat of silence, only the heavy drag of their stuttered breathing stirring the air before the muted slap of leather hitting the carpet sets the world back into motion. The rough skin of Wade’s palm reunites with Peter’s exposed back, and it takes every ounce of self-control he can muster not to melt into the sensation. 

Wade holds him like he’s blown glass, tracing the curve of his spine as he pulls Peter into a kiss- it’s a revelation, when their mouths finally meet, lights that don’t exist flashing in unison with their pounding hearts, the air in the room electrifying, humming beneath their skin, flaring like bonfires behind their eyelids. 

It’s a feeling that Peter knows he’ll never get used to- breathless and needy, he’s left starving for more, and more, and infinitely more. Like few things ever have, Wade makes him feel alive, as though he’s the sun that the earth revolves around, as though nothing Peter is ever going to do, ever going to say, ever going to experience will ever mean quite as much as this right here. 

Some part of him breaks, his resolve chipping away like antique china each time he forces himself to acknowledge that the whole point of this arrangement is that it doesn’t mean a thing, but he tries his damndest to ignore the reason, ignore the hurt , just for now, just until it’s over. 

He can deal with how much this stings later on, when he’s alone in his own bed, when the duvet doesn’t do enough to keep him warm and his arms are just a little too empty to be comfortable. 

Shifting his attention away from Peter’s lips, Wade trails his mouth along Peter’s jaw, down the length of his neck, across the hard line of his collarbone. He’s greedy, kissing and biting and sucking; every fibre in Peter’s being encourages the greed, the want; he’s transfixed, clinging onto Wade’s upper arms as he’s slowly dismantled. 

Wade flips them over at some point, clasping onto Peter’s shoulders and rolling until Peter’s back is against the mattress, legs slotted between Wade’s. There’s a moment that passes where Wade simply stares down at him, eyes still obstructed by the top half of the Deadpool mask, and then he’s swooping down, recapturing Peter’s mouth with his own. 

Peter gasps, freeing his lips long enough to breathe out, “No mask, please.”

“ Mm , not tonight, honey,” He responds, lifting one of his hands to cup Peter’s cheek. The tips of his fingers creep over into Peter’s hair, massage his scalp like just can’t help himself. “Just- I just want to see you, don’t want to think about you having to see me, yeah? Yeah, yeah, o-”

“Don’t have to see you. Want to see you.”

Wade bumps their foreheads, the tips of their noses brushing. Instead of responding to Peter’s question, he seems to adopt an entirely different topic. “I didn’t mean to upset you tonight,” he begins, rolling the pad of his thumb over Peter’s cheekbone. It’s rough and comforting and definitively not enough. 

“You didn’t-”

“Tossed myself into that alleyway without- without giving you any kind of heads up. We’re a team, though, I know, but-” He breaks away, leans back; their bodies remain in contact, but Wade’s suit is still too present for Peter’s liking. “But I can’t stand seeing you in front’a any kinda gun, not a pistol, not an automatic, nothin’. Hate it. Even water guns grind my gears, and you know how much I love a good squirt-” 

“Wade-”

“You’re mine. You’re mine, and-”

“I don’t think-”

Mouth dropping into a frown that, frankly speaking, shatters Peter’s heart, Wade leans back in, drops a wink of a kiss to the tip of Peter’s nose. Against his chest, Peter can feel the strain of Wade’s breathing, the thrum of his pulse, the weight on his shoulders. “I just want you to be safe and sound. And in my bed. Always. S’where you belong, right here.”

Peter stiffens, his mouth dropping open- he’s going to say something, he has to say something about the bomb Wade’s just dropped, but Wade beats him to it, an awful grin pulling across his scarred cheeks. 

“Woah, hey, don’t look so serious, Petey-baby. Just meant- I just meant that I love gettin’ to- well, get it with you, y’feel? Your bod? Kinda ridiculous, fanfiction levels of unreal - don’t hate me ‘cause I’m honest, baby boy - and it’d be a total shame if I didn’t get to tap this every couple’a nights.”

Fingers creep along Peter’s jaw; the contact should anchor him, should make him feel cherished and whole. But, because it’s apparently unfathomable for things to go the way they should, Peter is too focused on Wade’s words, by how sharp they land, how hollow they feel. Every sex-driven emotion that had been blasting through his brain just seconds before is reduced to dust, replaced by frustration and sadness, both of which seem to penetrate his bones, bloat his limbs. 

You’re mine. It’s where you belong, right here.

The phrases rattle against Peter’s skull, musical in their noise, merciless in their mockery. They’re just another cog in this facade of a machine, inherently unfounded and uttered only for the sake of participating in the moment, for the sake of Wade’s personal sexual gratification. Even though Peter knows this, knows that Wade is saying it just for the show, just for the mood, he can’t temper the swell of longing that douses his heated skin.

He can’t help just how badly he wishes those words were true. 

Wade’s mouth is on his again, hot and insistent and demanding, scarred hands searching,  gluttonous, possessively grabbing at any exposed skin they can find. Down the slope of Peter’s torso, onto his hips, his thighs, pressing, squeezing, claiming, and-

And Peter? He wants this, he wants this like he’s never wanted anything else, so desperately, so urgently that he can’t think straight, can’t see straight. Wade is his best friend; he’s the flame to Peter’s moth and the bass to his song, someone that Peter doesn’t necessarily deserve but wants with every cell in his body.  

It’s agony, having Wade like this, so impossibly close and yet still so impossibly far. 

You’re mine. It’s where you belong, right here.

Teeth scrape against his lower lip, rough hands pinning his wrists to the mattress. It’s here, trapped beneath Wade’s insatiable gaze, that Peter finally realizes he can’t keep this up, can’t keep pretending that nothing is wrong, that being with Wade like this without actually being with Wade is hell.

You’re mine. It’s where you belong, right here.

He can’t do this. He can’t.

The realization comes too late, nearly a year too late, but there’s no possible way he can keep this up, pretending like his chest doesn’t threaten to burst open every time Wade so much as breathes in his direction. He can’t do this.

You’re mine. It’s where you belong, right here.

The air shifts, quick like a guillotine snapping down into place, and then it’s suddenly all too much for Peter, who doesn’t give himself the privilege of thinking his actions through before he’s high-tailing out of the bed, his forehead glistening with sweat, his heart frenzied.

“Peter?” Wade is frozen, his torso carefully propped up over the space where Peter had just been as though he’s afraid to make any sudden movements. Peter can’t see his face; he can’t make out the emotion drawn across his features. Truthfully, he’s not quite sure if he wants to know what the other is feeling, anyways. “You good, bro?”

“Homework!” Peter squawks, taking a step backwards. His hip checks the corner of Wade’s dresser, the impact nearly sending the lamp it’s supporting to the floor. “I’ve got an assignment to do, and-”

Wade gets up, then, slowly lifting himself off the bed to stand before Peter. Though he’d been open and fluid just moments ago, he’s now tight and cautious, his arms hovering protectively around his abdomen, his shoulders perfectly parallel to the ground, his spine military-straight. “Don’t lie to me, Pete.” 

The words reverberate against Peter’s teeth, send a sharp jolt of guilt straight to his stomach. “I’m not-”

“Yeah, you are,” He states, and then he’s reaching up, yanking his mask down over his mouth. His hands, still bare, disappear behind his back. “I’m stupid, but I’m not an idiot.”

“I know you- you’re not an idiot. You’re not stupid, either. Not at all.” His voice wavers, drips like an icicle. He’s all but stumbling over his words, but there’s no way he can be honest here, not when being honest will most definitely mean jeopardizing their partnership and, more importantly, their friendship . “I just- I gotta go. Back to my place. I didn’t have time earlier to skim through tomorrow’s preliminary readings, and-”

“You could’a told me before we-”

“-I’ve got this huge pre-lab thing I forgot I had to finish, not to mention-”

“So you decided you needed to stop right when we were gettin’ down and-”

“-A brutal overall course load that, well-”

“ Peter.”

“ Wade-”

“Why are you lying to me?”

“I’m not-”

“I’m a Girl Guide, not a pansy, Pete. Won’t you just spit it out?”

Silence pools like blood, seeps between Peter’s toes. Wade watches him expectantly, unmoving. 

“-I can’t help that, uh, this,” Peter makes a gesture towards the space between their bodies, “has become a little… distracting ,” Wade’s jaw jumps, but Peter doesn’t slow his roll, too distraught to stop himself, “I used to study after patrol, but now I’m here, and- and now that school is really kicking in, I think I’m going to need-”

“What are you-”

“-Maybe just a minute to take a-”

“Be straight with me, Peter.”

A rushed inhale, remorse sitting like lead in his veins, “I think I-” Peter doesn’t want to say it, hoped he’d never have to even hint at something like this, but he can’t quell the feeling of hurt that clenches his heart like a fist, the awful sadness that slithers between his nerves at the fact that this is never going to be anything more to Wade, never going to be what Peter needs. His mouth is dry and his knees are shaking. Nonetheless, he doesn’t let himself retreat.  

Wade is a bleak tableau as he waits, a statue where a man had just been. 

Peter tries to breathe, but his lungs refuse the air. “I think I need a break. From this- this thing we’re doing.”

Lying through his teeth comes as Peter’s first instinct, even though it brings bile to his mouth and makes his stomach contract. It feels equally as wrong as it sounds, but he’s not about to go and reveal every dirty little skeleton he’s been hiding, not after the meticulous repression of his feelings, the year-long effort put into monitoring his expressions, leveling his voice, muting his reactions, and ignoring the ever-growing ache in his chest. 

Even though he hates lying to Wade, he’ll never hate it quite as much as the thought of his own immaturity vandalizing their friendship. It’s a hard direction to digest, but it’s that much easier than having to leave Wade all together. He’s not going to give into the teary-eyed fault in his armour. He’s not. 

So he repeats himself, licking his lips, “Yeah I- I need a break. I should have told you sooner.”

Wade is unnaturally still. Peter isn’t even sure he’s breathing- the room is impossibly silent, devoid of sound and colour and motion, and not even the usual noise of the city can breach the steely fortress of quiet that’s engulfed the two of them. 

His vision spins, rocks like a boat in a storm. All he wants is to head back to his place, gather his thoughts, remind himself just how critical it is that he keeps his emotions under control when he’s around Wade like this. He wants to remind himself, yet again, not to let what he wants fuck this up. That having Wade physically is better than not having him at all. 

Alas.

“Because I’m a student.” It’s spoken with uncertainty, as though he’s asking a question. Wade flinches like he’s been slapped. “And I mean, I’m paying for these courses, paying money I don’t actually have, and I feel like- I feel like if I put all of my time into- into something like this, then I’ll be sabotaging my grades and- and we could always come back to this later on, when I pull my shit together just a little bit, and-”

“Look,” Wade interrupts, bending over to retrieve his discarded gloves. He tugs them on the moment he can, obscuring the last of his exposed skin from Peter’s sight. “I, uh-” He forces out a laugh, one that’s too bitter and self-deprecating to be humorous,  “I know . What’s going on, I mean.”

Peter swallows, tries to clear the panic accumulating in his throat. All he wants is to go back to before he’d let himself feel this much, to a time where he could be with Wade physically without longing for something more. “You- you know?”

“Yeah. Yeah. Not to toot my own deformed horn or anythin’, but I kinda been knew. Y’know, that this would happen at one point or another. This, uh- this feelings, thing. Pretty sure that it was, uh- how did the bumpy purple dude put it? Ah- inevitable. ” Wade snaps his fingers, pursing his lips at the quiet that follows. “Damn. I was, uh- really hoping that would work. Y’know. Shame.”

Skull pounding, Peter doesn’t know how to reply. Wade continues for him.

“I know that, uh- that this means it’s over. This thing we’ve been doing, or maybe all of it -  Deadpool Team-up #72, the final issue, right? Because- boy, I don’t know where, uh, where else we can go from here. Which is a total NBC’s Firefly-level tragedy, ‘cause goddamn does your mouth know how to move, but- but I don’t think I can- not when-” Wade groans, compulsively tugs at the hem of his mask, pinching the skin at the base of his neck in the process, “I’m gonna respect your space. Not bombard you anymore. An OD on DP? Fatal, every time. Last thing we need’s ta’ add gunpowder to this campfire, hm? And, er- we can’t have Spidey outta commission, not right now, ‘cause The Big Apple is a total criminal shithole and there’s no way in hell Stark’s gonna do jack about it.”

Like a climber without a harness, Peter’s stomach plummets, tangles with his intestines and yanks, pulling everything in, turning his insides out. He wishes he could just jump up and run away, leave the room without looking back, but he can’t tear his eyes away from Wade.

Because even with the mask on, the way Wade scrutinizes him from across the room is devastating. It punctures what little of his resolve remains, leaves him feeling empty and exposed. 

He thought he’d been at least mildly successful at keeping this one secret from the other man, that the critical piece of information he’s been undermining for months would stay under the radar, but-

But somehow Wade knows the only thing Peter wishes he didn’t, that, despite repeated promises and sworn reassurances, Peter’s gone and let himself catch feelings. That Peter, who’s supposed to be the responsible one, let himself be just a little too clumsy, a little too reckless, and as a result, wrecked the balance they had so painstakingly achieved. He’s broken what they had together. What they should be able to keep having together.  

Wade scrubs at his eyes. Peter can’t look away from the perpetual strain in his muscles, the icy rigidity in his posture. “You don’t gotta be embarrassed, or anythin’ like that. I get that it’s difficult being put in this situation. We had rules, and- well, let’s just say that this is definitely not something I’d want, if we Freaky Friday-ed or anything like that. So. No embarrassment, Pete.”

Of course I’m embarrassed, Peter wants to scream, but his tongue is numb and his jaw is so tightly clenched it may as well be wired shut.

“I’m not- I’m not happy, not about to start lyin’ to ‘ya, but I’m not mad or angry or any of that, either.” Turning away from Peter, Wade drifts over to the window, grips the wooden sill just a little too tightly. If his face were visible, Peter is sure that his expression would be as flat as he sounded. “But, uh- I think I might need’a little time, too, yeah? 

“Because- ha, because damn, boyo- this kinda sucks, just a little bit. Just a tad. Just a token, really, a trifle- shit on a biscuit, have you seen the outrage about the new Little Mermaid casting?” Evidently trying to change the subject, his voice lightens, adopting it’s usual animated tone. The edge is still present, though, creeps in along his timbre, glaringly obvious in the way he holds his body, “Racists, everywhere. I’m telling you, if-”

“I’m sorry,” Peter chokes, effectively halting the beginning of Wade’s prattle. “I didn’t mean to-” He knows he’s hurt the other man, can feel the tension expanding, burrowing in beneath his fingernails like grains of sand, but he has no clue how to make it stop. “If we could just-”

“It is what it is,” Wade shrugs, staring out over the city. Defeat rolls off of his shoulders in waves, drenches the room in something that’s sad, empty. “I get it. Promise. It’s just one’a those things.” He clears his throat, hops up onto the windowsill, and then swings his legs around and out. His back is to Peter, who can do nothing but watch as his shoulder blades flex restlessly. “Again- I’m not going to lie to you, wouldn’t ever do that. And this is something that I expected, I think. I just- I didn’t think you’d be like this about it. All- like this. But I guess that’s my fault, for always seein’ you with a halo, huh?”

“‘Pool?” Calling him Wade is too intimate right now- he can’t bring himself to do it. “I don’t-”

“Take anythin’ you might need, alright? And- and anythin’ that’s yours. I’m pretty sure you left a sweater here last time, and it’s sure as hell not gonna fit me, so. No reason to have’ta come back in a couple’a weeks for somethin’ dumb like that.” Wade waves his hand noncommittally- his tone is straight and concise, entirely unlike what Peter is used to. A minute passes where nothing moves, where neither of them breathe, and then the minute is over. As though the cord keeping him here is severed, Wade drops from the windowsill, disappearing in seconds.

Once again, Peter is alone. 

With nothing else to distract his senses, Peter is forced to listen as Wade flees, his boots clunking against the metal of the fire-escape for a moment or so before he’s skipping over to the next building, and then the next. 

It takes a while for the dust to settle, for reality to snap back into place. Peter doesn’t move for a long time, too occupied by the open window, the deafening lack of sound, the gaping absence of life occupying the bedroom. They hadn’t gotten around to flipping the lights on, but Peter’s has no trouble making out every painfully familiar detail of his surroundings - the cracked mirror, the pile of discarded spandex in the corner, the unmade bed, the rainbow-toned lamp perched atop a wobbly nightstand. 

He closes his eyes.

The realization startles him as it inches into his brain, nestling into the fissures like molten glass- tonight may very well be the last time he’s going to see this furniture up close, the last time he’s going to be in this room. The last time he’ll recall being so close to Wade, having Wade as his own. 

And-

And… 

And Peter wants to cry. He wants to chase Wade down, kiss him until he can forget that this whole damn ordeal ever happened. He wants to beg for forgiveness, beg to start over, pretend they’d never been anything more than teammates. He wants to hide, torch the Spider-man costume and pretend that he’d never been involved with the former mercenary in the first place. He wants to press restart, go back to before he’d let himself make such a colossal mistake. 

But really, Peter just wants to cry.

He slips back into his suit instead, hides his face behind the mask, abandons the empty apartment. His body shifts into autopilot - the journey back to his apartment is mechanical and underwhelming.

Too soon, he’s stepping into his foyer. He closes the windows, draws the blinds, locks his front door, his bedroom door. 

His bed beckons to him. The threadbare sheets are cold and unyielding, grievously unlike the ones he’d lain against less than thirty minutes prior. 

You’re mine. It’s where you belong, right here.

Peter shakes his head, calls out to no one - he wants to cry, but he can’t find the energy. 

Nearly two months pass. 

Peter doesn’t see Wade. He doesn’t hear him or touch him or feel him, doesn’t read about him in the paper or find so much as a hint of his activity chronicled anywhere online. It’s almost as though he’s ceased to exist, dissolved from the streets of the city like he’d never been present in the first place. 

Almost.  But Wade’s Kiss Me, I’m Canadian hoodie is still bundled under Peter’s pillow, and one of his torn Deadpool masks still sits mockingly at the back of Peter’s closet, and the tea kettle he’d all but forced Peter to take when his old one had short-circuited is still plugged in next to the microwave, teasing him, reminding him. 

Because, despite the fact that Peter’s spent the last seven weeks completely and utterly Wade-less, Wade is everywhere; imprinted on every surface of Peter’s apartment, implied along every street, hiding around every corner. Wade’s voice tickles the back of his neck, whispers along the periphery of every crowd. There’ll be a flash of a familiar feature, a broad set of shoulders or eyes that look like home, an unaware glimpse of the face he so terribly misses amongst a swelling sea of pedestrians, but it’s never more than delusion.

It’s never him. 

And it hurts. Every single time, every single reminder, every single day - it all hurts. He’d not expected anything less, of course, not with the way his pulse picks up when he passes their old meeting spot, or the way his chest tightens when he wakes up and realizes that Wade isn’t beside him, that he won’t be any time soon. 

Yet, Peter hadn’t expected anything less than this because he’d known, right from the moment he’d chosen to reveal his identity (and probably much before then, too), that Wade had somehow become his everything;  his morning and his evening; his crashing tides and his howling wind. He knew it’d be hard, having to return to a life without Wade’s spontaneous appearances, his incessant prattle, his sometimes trivial opinions, his burning impulsions, but he couldn’t have ever imagined just how hard the impact would hit, just how badly Wade’s absence would sting. 

He’s experienced something like this in the past, when Wade had left for his final hit-for-hire job. He’d flown out below the border, citing some drug-lord shenanigans as the catalyst for his demand. Peter had been so oddly accustomed to having him around, and the two-and-a-half months before his return crept along as slowly as ever. Peter remembers the nail-biting boredom, waiting for Wade to shoot him a text, give him a call, and the anticipation, sitting at the edge of his seat, practically bouncing with excitement every time he thought of Wade coming back. 

Those months had been long and far too drawn out, with moonless nights and cloudy days, and gritty impatience that raked his skin raw. Those months were hard and lonely and seemingly unending.

Those months had not been nearly as painful as this. 

The weight of the newfound loneliness cemented to Peter’s shoulders is unbearable . It burns like bare ice against the curve of his neck, melts down over his biceps and drips onto the advanced organic chemistry textbook sitting open on his lap. He’s vainly trying to blitz through the last assigned chapter for tomorrow’s class, but even though he’s been staring down at the brick of a textbook for what feels like hours now, he’s absorbed next to nothing- without fail, every single time he tries to start a new paragraph his attention drifts away, floats up and out of the apartment, hovers above the city, searches, wonders, wants. 

All he can think about is Wade - it’s by no means a new problem, but it hurts so much more than it used to, latches onto his fingers and his toes, makes him want to crawl under the covers and succumb to the dark.

It’s all very melodramatic.

He lifts his hand to his face and pinches the bridge of his nose. There’s no doubt that any further attempts at studying tonight are destined to be futile. There’s no use wasting any more time staring blankly down at pages he doesn’t have the energy to read, not when his bones are all but quivering with the need to do something, anything. 

“Fuck me,” He grumbles to himself, shoving the textbook off of his lap. It lands on his mattress, bounces once, twice, and then crashes to the floor. He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t even blink at the obtrusive noise. 

As demonstrated by the glow of the streetlights creeping through the cracks in his blinds, it’s late enough to justify patrolling, so he forces himself to his feet, ignores the suppressed groan of his bed frame as he stands, and ambles over to his closet. 

It’s a barren little space, occupied only by a handful of thrifted wool and polyester sweaters, a stack of towels, and a suit-jacket that’s just a little too tight. Front and center, the Spider-man suit hangs like a corpse, as limp and uninspiring as it's ever been. He grabs it, turns away. If his stomach grumbles, he ignores it; it’s not the first time he’s neglected his hunger and it most certainly won’t be the last. 

Every action feels robotic, programmed . He can distinctly recall the last time it didn’t feel like this, and it sends a cold jolt of remorse down his spine. 

No motivation strikes him, not when he shimmies out of his jeans, not when he stretches the spandex over his body. Not when he looks in the mirror nailed to the wall, not when he slips on the mask, adjusts the lenses. In fact, nothing strikes him- he struggles to feel anything at all as he stares at his grey reflection. 

He glances at the sweater tucked beneath his pillow, the one he can distinctly picture stretched over Wade’s chest, and then he flees the apartment before the lump in his throat can grow any larger. 

Brisk and dark, tonight’s weather offers no asylum from the sepia-toned, room-temperatured reality Peter has been stumbling through for the last couple of months. With the moon resigned behind inky clouds, windchill cuts through his gloves, seeps into his fingers and lines his bones like plastic-wrap. It’s all likely alluding to what can only be a long and miserable night. 

And he’s right, to some extent. The night life doesn’t seem to beam and throb like it used to; the pedestrians and tourists and club-goers alike uncharacteristically dim as they traverse the streets, heads ducked, belongings clutched. Their movement is perpetual, entering bars, descending into the subway, hailing cabs, calling names, crossing roads, smoking, drinking, fleeting, constantly, and yet, their actions are subdued, as dry and disinteresting as his textbook had been. 

It’s as though the entire universe has shifted, flipped on its side - albeit nearly indiscernible, everything is suddenly dull and tasteless, hollow and misshapen. He’s shivering, perched atop an older office building that overlooks a crowded strip of bars and clubs, but he’s only vaguely aware of his own discomfort, only vaguely attending to the civilians moving below. His mind is elsewhere, too far off to be of any use. 

And yet, even under the veil of grey misery, shackled down by the loneliness and longing swollen in his chest, Peter isn’t surprised. Not by the diluted colours of the city or the deadbeat drone of noise it produces, not by the lame thumping of his pulse or the hazy vignette that clouds his vision. He has no reason to be, not when he feels like he brought this onto himself - that this is something he deserves.

Because, at the end of the day, he can’t help but think that this, Spider-man existing without Deadpool at his side, Peter existing without Wade at his side, is simply the ugly lovechild of his own insecurity and incompetence. If he had been a little more patient, or capable of handling his emotions, or if he had just learned to separate his dick from his heart, then he wouldn’t be in this situation, a lone figure sitting in the dark on a Friday night, waiting for something, anything, to happen. 

He misses Wade. He misses Wade so fucking much.

So much that, without being entirely cognisant of what he’s doing, he ends up at the window of an apartment that’s decidedly not his own, his fingers twitching, his senses silent.

He doesn’t have to clear the perimeter to recognize Wade’s place as vacant. The curtains are pulled back, exposing the unlit innards of the empty unit. When he nudges the window open and climbs in, he can’t help but notice that nothing has changed, or has so much as deviated , since the last time he’d been here. 

And yet, despite the apartment’s identical appearance, the sight is painfully estranged from Peter’s memory; lifeless, empty, and preserved in the vapid air like a corpse in a freezer, the atmosphere is unrecognizable from what it had once been. He longs for the shock of electricity that charged the air when it was only the two of them, the timid warmth that wafted like steam along the ceiling, condensing down onto their joined bodies, lulling them into a mist of something Peter dares to hope was happiness.

Compared to the memory trapped behind his eyes, all he sees now are the remains of something once lovely, an homage immortalized in rotting sediment. 

It reminds Peter of a snowglobe, almost, with the wealth of pale dust coating every surface, suspending like glitter in the air. Lit only by the dim glow of the outside, the bedroom is grey and static, stale to the taste and cold to the touch.  

Though entirely unlike what he’d been hoping for, the apartment’s sorry state is something Peter anticipated.

“Wade?” He calls out. The words are absorbed by the scuffed walls, replaced by the quiet as quickly as they break it. 

There’s no answer - of course there’s no answer. Even then, he waits a minute, and then another minute, knees bent and breathing short, as if there’s a chance, just a single chance, that his senses are mistaken; that Wade is here, somehow, hidden in the closet, or crouched behind the nightstand. 

The room remains a polaroid, unchanging, unalive.  

Being here without Wade isn’t anything new for Peter, who’d frequently wake up alone in the apartment after a night spent with the former mercenary. Hell, once upon a time, Peter would have been happy to be here alone, to have the freedom to lie in Wade’s bed without worrying about overstaying his welcome, to curl into the fleece sheets and the familiar scent, to swipe a too-large sweater on his way out, to leave subtle reminders that he’d existed in the space for Wade to maybe uncover later. 

Alone here now, though, the low buzz of his senses and the mournful clench of his chest are the only things he can feel. He blinks, once, twice, three times, as though closing and opening his eyes will revert things back to normal; as though Wade will apparate before him, maskless and grinning, arms wide in a readied embrace. Peter blinks again, this time screwing his eyes shut exasperatedly, fists tight at his sides. 

An inhale, exhale; his breathing is the only sound to be heard, as heavy as it is unsteady. Like a smudged reflection, Wade flickers behind his closed eyes. He's barely a concept that ghosts along his arms, against his throat, and yet it takes all the willpower Peter can gather to keep from falling to his knees. 

Heart a block of ice in his chest, Peter pries his eyes open: the bedroom is as dead as it had been when he broke in. 

“Okie dokie,” He swallows, tries to lick the dryness away from his lips. Though his limbs feel frozen in place (perhaps out of shock, or humiliation), eventually he’s able to loosen his stance and move away from the window, further rupturing the quiescence of the lonely room. “Here by myself, then. Alright. Alright. ”

No answer. 

“So- I guess if you’re not here, I can just,” He tugs his mask off, clutches it to his sternum, “I can just- uh. I don’t know, honestly. Why I’m here, I mean.”

In the reflection of the cracked mirror hung beside the bed, Peter meets his own eyes, frowning at the dark bags that hang beneath, the sorry, sunken state of his cheeks. He looks as pathetic as he feels, which is saying something. 

“I knew you wouldn’t be here,” He drifts over to the nightstand, pressing his lips together, “You’ve not really been anywhere, lately, and I’m pretty sure you only bought this place after we started- well. You know. I’m, uh- I’m sorry about that. By the way. This whole ordeal.” 

He’s quite literally talking to the walls and it’s crazy, absolutely bonkers, but this is the first time he’s said any of this out loud, and now that he’s opened his mouth, he feels out of control, unable to stop himself from jabbering on, “I didn’t mean to. With the feelings, you know? I- good god, I’m insane, I’m not even speaking to you and I’m still not making any sense.” 

He drags his heel against the carpet, his foot knocking against the leg of the nightstand. The sensation barely registers. “But, uh, maybe it’s better this way. That we’re not- that you’re not- look. Look. Okay. Uh.”

Peter paces to the closet, his tongue heavy in his mouth, “Okay. Okay. What I’m trying to say; if you had let me pressure you into some kind of- uh, relationship, because I felt something and you didn’t? I’d - shit - I wouldn’t be able to live with myself. You’re- you’re always too concerned about me, and- and yes, yeah, this is probably the better outcome, because I’m not- I’m not guilting you into something you don’t want.

“Because you’d do that. Pretend to want me like that, so you wouldn’t have to- so that- so you’d impress me, or something.  Keep me happy.” He laughs, but there’s no humor substantiating the sound, “You’d let me have you like that because- because you don’t think your own feelings are valid. Or whatever. You’d- shit, you’d let me take advantage of you and that would suck, that would suck so much more than this.”

He pauses, shoulders slumped. Without a response to occupy the room, he can’t help but feel dwarfed by the ceilings, caged by the drywall. 

“That’s- that wouldn’t be cool. You doing that. For me. So, uh- I’m glad you finally thought about, well, you first. Finally getting that self-preservation-reservation, yeah? Bed for one, food for two? Uh- no. That. Didn’t land. Not even with myself. Oh boy. Anyways. I’m- I’m glad. I’m glad, because that’s- that’s what I want for you. I’m doing- I’m,” A huffed breath, a laboured sigh, “I’m alright. Y’know?”

Turning away from the closet, Peter wanders around the bed’s perimeter, tracing the baseboard with his palm. The wood is as sturdy as it’s always been, and yet it feels like it might disappear at any moment, along with the rest of the furniture in the room. There’s a part of him that doesn’t believe he’s actually here in the apartment again, as if he’s really just in bed, plagued by a dream that’s much more vivid than it has any right being.

He scrubs at his face, the ribbed material of his gloves granting a fleeting sort of relief.  

There’s a crumpled Deadpool costume in the corner, in a seemingly forgotten heap on Wade’s favourite lounge chair. Peter doesn’t even try to stop himself from approaching, his hand outstretched. “I’m sorry, Wade. I wish- I don’t-” His voice breaks off, eyebrows furrowing, “I wanna say that I wish we’d never, uh- we’d never engaged like that in the first place, but. That’s a lie. I knew what I was getting myself into.

“I don’t think- no. I wasn’t ever in denial. About how I- uh, about what I was feeling,” He peers up, draws indiscernible shapes across the ceiling with the line of his gaze, and then down again at the deflated Deadpool suit sitting on the chair. “Just thought I could shake it off. Over time, y’know?”

Cautiously, as though it might dissolve with his touch, he draws the pads of his fingers along the loose spandex, over the worn leather- the image of Wade’s body beneath his touch burns a hole in his memory, wanton in response as he melts into the contact. He can almost hear Wade’s voice, can almost feel his presence flooding the room, but his senses don’t trigger, and the sadness lodged in his throat doesn’t loosen. 

He lifts the abandoned suit, carefully holds it to his chest; the lounge chair, now empty,  is still somewhat indented, like it’s waiting and ready for Wade to come home. Try as he may, Peter can’t not imagine himself there, perched in Wade’s lap as  scarred fingertips tease the hem of his shirt, muscular thighs solid beneath his own. The memories are almost as vivid as Wade himself, fantastically tangible in a way that makes Peter feel like he’s hallucinating, like this empty reality isn’t reality all all, but-

He knows what this is. He knows what he’s looking at. This reality, though painful, is the only one he has, the only one he’s going to get, and the truth of the matter is simple; Wade isn’t here, and he likely hasn’t been here in months. 

And the worst part, he realizes as Wade’s suit slips through his numb fingers, is that he’s not even sure why he’s here . His heart is knotted in his chest, impossibly more than it had been before he entered- whatever closure or resolution he’d been praying to find here doesn’t come. Instead, the remorse in his veins only sits heavier, the loneliness clamped around his abdomen biting harder, breaking skin, tearing muscle. 

Bombarded by the phantom of what used to be, Peter jerks backwards, overwhelmed, uncomfortable, and suddenly drenched in panic. He may not know why he’s here, but he’s certain that he needs to leave, needs to get out of this awful nightmare render of Wade’s room before it swallows him whole, drags him down and chains him here, alone and deprived amongst the skeletal remnants of a place he once cherished.

He’s back by the window in seconds, the rug a bed of hot coals beneath the soles of his feet. With a hasty intake of air and one last mournful glance at Wade’s bed, at the fractured mirror and the shag carpet and the deserted piles of laundry, Peter slips out of the bedroom.

Dim moonlight crests over his body, embracing him in a cold, silver hue. The city’s signature noise returns gradually, as though his ears are hesitant to accept the concept of sound, but the clamour of people and cars and music does nothing to relieve the tightness in his skin. 

“Fucking- fuck.” He curses, at himself and at the apartment and at Wade, at the city for being too small, at his heart for being too soft, and then he launches himself from the building. 

The next six days inch by, as dreary as they are lonely. Overwhelmed by torrents of school work and weighed down by his tragic lovelife, his time consists of dragging himself from one place to the other, from his apartment, to campus, to the 7-11 a  couple of blocks over, and then back to his apartment, where he tries to study and tries to sleep and tries not to think about Wade. Emphasis on tries. 

It’s a cycle, he knows; one he’s much too tired to contest and much too familiar to be upset with. 

He’s halfway through said cycle now, bundled in a bomber jacket that’s way too thin for the chill of late November. The 7-11 ’s signage is a beacon, glowing heartily only two blocks away, and it’s all that keeps Peter trudging forward, his head down and his sneakers wet with slush. 

His senses hum anxiously. Underlined by the howl of the wind, they alert with every minute change in the environment, useful or not- a child that drops her plastic truck, a car that brakes a little too hard, a branch that snaps beneath the boot of a hurried businessman. Locusts of awareness swarm his brain regardless of where he looks or what he hears. 

And most days, he can tune out the white noise. Most days he can force his attention onto one thing at a time, slow the rapid sparks of thought that singe his skull, but it’s like the nervous energy he’s been harbouring all week - all month, really - is manifesting as a full-scale sensory overload . 

It’s happened before, of course, the whole, experiencing-everything-at-half-the-speed-and-triple-the-intensity thing,   but there’s no way to prepare for what can only be described as a migraine on steroids, one that he can feel throbbing in the pit of his stomach and the pads of his fingers. And without any real way to remedy himself, all Peter can do is suck it up and keep forward, for better or for worse. 

He glances to his left, at the gridlocked traffic that inches along the street, and then back to the wet ground. His vision trembles, dips; sharp as a knife in the center and smudged around the periphery - there isn’t one thing he can focus on, not when there are so many engines rumbling and lights blinking, so colours blaring around his head.

Pedestrians shove past; their faces are blurry, dull canvases painted with unfamiliar features. Despite his messy state Peter doesn’t stop himself from searching for the one face he’s lost, his attention shifting desperately from person to person to person, looking for a pair of shoulders he wants to curl into, a set of straight teeth framed by textured lips.

The effort is futile. Nowhere amongst the raging sea of people are eyes that recognize his own. For what must be the sixth time today, his heart breaks all over again and his senses augment further, impossibly so. 

He can hear laboured breathing from across the street; the scurry of a sewer rat across the slippery breadth of an alleyway. Something like a ringing hangs in the overtone, and Peter can’t decide whether or not the ringing is just in his head. 

“Shit,” he chokes, tongue dry against his palette. The cursing doesn’t help, nor does it appear to impress the other pedestrians close enough to hear him. “Okay, okay, it’s-”

He forces himself to breathe, aware of just how insane he must look, and vainly tries to occupy his overstimulated brain with his own words. Internally, this time, because he doesn’t need to look crazier than he probably already does. 

It’s just some pre-exam anxiety, he reminds himself, repeats it three or four times in his head to try and quell the concern that gushes up his esophagus. It doesn’t work, not really, but he continues crooning to himself because there’s not much else he can do at the moment. With no food at his apartment, an empty stomach, and the promise of cheap, generic-brand groceries just another block or so away, he has no choice but to bite the bullet and push onwards.

This is just New York being New York, he digs his hands deeper into his pockets, shivering as a burst of icy wind lashes against his exposed neck, Everything’s cool. Everything is cool. S’all cool. 

A pedestrian shoulders past him. The buzzing in his ears roars at the contact, and he forces himself to clench his teeth and focus on the movement of his legs instead, nails digging into the meat of his palm. 

It’s cool, you’re cool. 

Somewhere in the distance, a cab blares its horn; a driver yells, another horn blares in retaliation. It’s nothing- they’re just sounds. The damp sidewalk quakes as a subway train passes underground. They’re just sounds. Everything is alright. It’s noisy but it’s safe. You’re safe.

Arms tightly wound around his body, his gaze skittishly flicking between a host of intrusive stimuli, Peter nearly cries out in relief when he finally reaches the 7-11 . The automatic doors slide open at his arrival, and he feels like a royal - a quivering, nearly impoverished royal, but a royal nonetheless. 

The 7-11 is a fluorescent haven, premature christmas music occupying the indoor air. Peter ducks into an unpopulated aisle to avoid the only other customer present, opting to stare at a shelf lined with cleaning supplies as he tries to pull himself together.

It works. Barely, sure, but memorizing the shiny lines of Mr. Clean’s smooth head does a half-decent job soothing the electric fizzle beneath his skin, and he’s able to navigate over to the non-perishables’ aisle within a couple of minutes. He’s not comfortable, not by any means, but he’s a little more adjusted than he’d been just moments ago- right now, this is as good as it’s going to get. 

With breathing that almost resembles that of a normal person’s, Peter gathers what he came for in record time, (which only amounts to a few soup cans, some instant mac’n’cheese, and two boxes of off-brand Froot Loops), and then makes a beeline for the check-out. There’s no one else in line, so he dumps his stuff on the counter and smiles politely at the cashier.  

Not missing a beat, the cashier smiles back, her dark eyes warm and sympathetic. Peter disregards the sympathy, though, too exhausted and on-edge to be ashamed of his less-than-optimal state.

Still, he purses his lips as she scans his items. There’s no way that this menial amount of food is going to be enough for the next few days, but his bank account hardly has enough for next week’s rent as it is and he’s not about to push his luck. 

The cashier is the first to break the silence. “Need a bag?”

Peter nearly misses the question, still a little too hyper-aware of his environment and the sound of his own breathing. He blinks, embarrassed, and then glances at the register, trying to decide whether it’s worth the extra five cents, “No, uh- that’s alright.”

With a hum of acknowledgement, “How’s your night been, hun?” 

“Pretty mundane,” Peter shrugs, reaching for his wallet, “Yours?”

“Nothing too exciting,” She responds, offering another glossy-lipped smile. Peter can’t place her age, isn’t sure whether she’s in her late thirties or early fifties, but  her stature is as wise as his aunt’s; her watch just as knowing. “Truth be told, I prefer it this way. Keeps the blood pressure down.”

“I can appreciate that.” It’s not riveting conversation, not in the least, but Peter appreciates her effort anyways- it soothes his frantic brain, if only temporarily.

Another customer steps in line, standing just a little too close for comfort, and Peter’s senses pique defensively. He takes a deep breath, his pulse beginning to thunder in his ears. 

It’s just a person, he tells himself, You need to chill out, Parker. 

The cashier watches Peter carefully, something like concern flickering across her expression. “Are you a student?”

You’re okay. Peter chews his lip, tries to focus on the sensation of his teeth instead of the person behind him. “I’m- yeah. Doing my graduate studies at NYU.”

“And how’s that treating you?” 

“It’s alright, for the most part,” He answers, swallowing hard. The man behind him seems to sidle closer, and Peter has to consciously stop himself from springing to the ceiling.  “Gets- It can get difficult. But, uh- it’s work that I love, so.”

The cashier frowns just as Peter becomes acutely aware of the laboured breathing behind him, of which keeps tempo with the impatient tap of a steel-toed boot against linoleum. 

“Good for you,” Maybe her voice is strained, all of a sudden, or maybe Peter is just a little too overwhelmed to think straight, “Not a whole lot of people end up enjoying what they’re studying. That’s something you should be proud of.”

Peter nods, and then their conversation ends. For a moment, he’s able to block out the guy behind him, the beeping of the cash register and the tinny christmas music playing over his head, too, but the moment is just that- a moment. 

The cashier is just about to scan Peter’s Fruitie O’s when his senses explode, screaming like a fox milliseconds before the man behind him steps into his field of vision, holding what Peter immediately recognizes as a handgun in one hand and a gaping backpack in the other. 

Guns, Peter thinks to himself as the cashier drops the box of cereal in shock, why do they always have to have guns? 

“Cash.” The guy demands, steadily pointing the gun’s barrel at the cashier. A shock of electric-blond hair is flopped over his sunglasses, the large sort that obscure the majority of his features, “All of it, everythin’ you got in there.”

Though her hands shake and her eyes bulge, the cashier complies with only a hint of reluctance, pressing a button on the till and allowing the register to pop open. Peter watches, his heart a kettle drum in his chest, his throat tightening, but-

But at the end of the day, this is Peter’s life- overstimulated or not, this is a glimpse of normalcy compared to the uneventful plateau his recent days have amounted to. He raises his hand slowly, straightening his back and squaring his shoulders. 

“Hey,” He begins, softly; easily. His voice is free of fear, clear as a flute and nearly just as melodic. For whatever reason, his senses have gone completely silent, their buzzing replaced by an uncharacteristic hush - he doesn’t allow himself to question it. “How about we-”

Speaking, it turns out, is a big mistake. 

The robber bares his teeth, swinging around and jamming the pistol’s barrel into Peter’s sternum. “Who the fuck do you think you are, kid?” 

Peter makes to answer, his mouth opening, a quick, “I’m-” escaping before a new voice joins the fringe, one that catches him completely off guard.

“Alrighty, Jak , it’s about time you drop ‘yer gun and get ready to run, dontcha think?”

Like a gust of autumn wind after a summer of stagnant air, Wade is suddenly in the room, one of his two katanas unsheathed and at his side. He’s perfectly still, a spandex-clad statue practically shimmering underneath the overhead fluorescents. 

Peter can’t believe his eyes. The cashier looks like she’s about to faint. 

The robber swallows audibly, still pointing his gun at Peter. “Woah, hey, you’re-”

“The man of your dreams? The Johnny to your Baby?” Wade cocks his head, “The dessert-fork to your twelve-piece cutlery set? I’m flattered, really. I am. But what you’re doing right now? Big no-no. And I’m not talking about that awful Manic-Panic dye-job, no sir.”

“My- what the hell’re you talking about?” 

Adjusting his position, Wade hunches his neck, slowly twirling his katana - Bea, Peter guesses - in between his fingers, the movement practiced and intimidating as hell. He’s reminiscent of a panther, ready to strike; head lowering, eyes narrowing, tail swinging dangerously behind his powerful form.

“Your - ahem - unfortunate target choices” His voice is airy, a jarring contrast to his locked jaw and straining muscles. “Let me tell you, you picked the wrong nail to bite, mister.” 

Peter watches carefully, his tongue dry and heavy in his mouth. There are a number of things he can do, a number of things he probably should do, but it’s like he’s stuck in a trance, frozen in place by the gun pushing into his chest and the shock of seeing Wade alike. So, unable to move, he sends a dart of a look to the cashier and then the landline sitting at the register, hoping that she gets the message; call the police. 

“You’re a fucking idiot.” The robber hisses, his words coming out in harsh pants. Despite his steady hands and his bared teeth, Peter can sense the stress bleeding from his skin, polluting the stale air like smog. And, if Peter can sense it, he’s sure as hell that Wade can sense it, too- he’s a predator, through and through, and while he doesn’t have the enhanced sensory receptors that Peter does, his hunting instinct more than compensates.

Wade’s shoulders rise and fall. “What is with you nutballs and robbing convenience stores? ” The whites of his mask are zeroed in, gloved hand still twirling his katana like a baton as he bends his knees, winding up for the inevitable strike. He’s terrifying. “High risk, laughably low reward. You’re going to-”

“Fuck off, man. I don’t have time for your goddamn-” 

Peter finds his voice then, glancing down to the gun still at his chest and then over at the robber. “Do you really think it’s a good idea to speak to him like that?” A pause, “Because, yeah, you’ve got a gun, but he’s got two swords, years of experience, and at least six different kinds of firearms on his person at any given time, and-”

The gun’s muzzle knocks against Peter’s sternum again, harder this time. It’s a silent threat, but Peter isn’t afraid, not with Wade standing an arm’s length away after being gone so long. 

“Another word from you and I’ll blow your fucking-”

Scratch that- Peter is afraid, just not for himself. 

Wade doesn’t hesitate. His bicep twitches, and then he’s exploding into movement, stealing forward and grappling the robber to the ground. The gun clatters down with them, and Peter swipes it up proactively, his breath caught in his throat as Wade presses the edge of his katana into the robber’s throat. A thin line of blood blooms over the polished steel. 

“Bastard,” Wade snarls, a hyena poised over his debilitated prey, “If you even think about so much as looking at that beautiful boy again I’m going to tear every individual strand of hair from your grimy scalp, tie ‘em all into a rope - Girl Guide here, remember? - and hang you like a goddamn windchime, capisce?” 

Peter turns away - Priorities, Parker. Wade can deal with this for a minute - and shifts his attention to the cashier. She’s shaken, as expected, but her glassy eyes are awash with relief. 

“Are you alright?” He asks, reaching over the counter to slide the drawer back into the cash register.

Using the counter as support, she takes a minute to even-out her breathing before answering. “Yeah-” She clears her throat, “Yes. It’s- I’m alright. I think. That was- rather quick ?”

For a moment her eyes jump to where Wade is handling the robber on the floor, an unspoken question burrowed in her wary gaze. 

Still in a considerable amount of shock and more or less unable to feel his legs, Peter can only offer a smile, one that he hopes is as reassuring as it feels. “He’s on our side. We’re-” He licks his lips, inhales, “We’re safe with him. Promise.”

She nods. Caution still haunts her expression, but even so the stiffness in her posture eases. 

“He’s, uh-” Peter glances over his shoulder, unintentionally drinking in the strong scapulas he can map out with his eyes closed, the black and red spandex he’s been searching for in every crowd. 

Wade is apprehending the robber with zip ties, dozens of them, his fingers hypnotically efficient as they work on locking the man in place. (If Peter’s knees go weak at the sight, no one has to know.)

Peter looks back at the cashier, silently praying that his eyes aren’t glazed over, “He’s a friend. Acquaintance- I mean- friend. He’s a friend. Or- Coworker. A- Nevermind. He’s a guy. A frightening guy, with the, uh, swords and su-”

He’s cut off by an exasperated, “ Katanas! ” from Wade, who spares little more than a breath in Peter’s direction before drawing away his attention once more. 

“K atanas and such, sorry, but- he means the best. Works with Spider-man.” He cringes at his own words, backtracking almost immediately - Wade can hear him, and the last thing he wants to do is chase him away again.  

(In fact, just the idea of Wade leaving so soon is enough to make Peter’s guts twist. Even though it seems like the most likely outcome, he can’t fathom the thought that Wade will disappear again, that Peter might turn away and Wade will have dissolved like alka-seltzer in water. Gone without a trace.)

“What was I saying? Oh-” Peter smiles lamely, scratching the back of his neck. “Worked with Spider-man?” A strange look from the cashier, and then; “Works. Worked. I- You know what, I don’t think it-”

“I believe you,” A small mercy, she interjects, and then promptly motions to the phone. “I’m going to call the police now, alright? Maybe you and your, um-” Her eyes hop between Peter and Wade, “Your friend, should go before they turn up.” 

There’s something soft in her expression - empathy, maybe - as she lifts the receiver to her ear, making speedy work of dialling 9-1-1 and giving the operator a run-down of what’s just happened. The entire time, she watches him expectantly. 

And here’s the thing- Her suggestion about leaving before the cops pop in is very much not unfounded.  They’ve never been big fans of Deadpool, nor will they appreciate his unorthodox method of seizure, with the katanas and zip ties and whatnot.  

Yet, even though she’s definitely right, there’s a sudden plume of anxiety spreading through Peter’s chest when he considers leaving with Wade. Because, for the embarrassing amount of times Peter had dreamt about what he wanted to say to Wade, about the river of apologies he’d intended to inundate the other with, he’s freaking out now that he actually has the chance to do so. 

So, totally not ready to turn around and approach Wade just yet, Peter stares at the cashier like an idiot, practically roasting beneath the blinding overhead fluorescents as he tries to prune the panic beginning to flower under his skin. It doesn’t help that he’s hyper-aware of the other man muttering to himself as he works, some nonsense about bleach and aluminum foil. 

“I suppose I should thank you,”  She says once hangs up the phone, giving Peter a once-over and continuing before he can answer, her voice gentle, “He- Deadpool, right? I’ve seen him in the papers, a couple of times, now. He saved my ass tonight, for sure, but he showed up because of you, so. Thank you. And thank him for me, too. It’s, uh, Carrine, if you want a name to give.”

Peter tilts his head questioningly, something about ‘just thanking him herself’ hanging on the tip of his tongue, and he turns around to look over at Wade, but- 

But Wade isn’t there. 

Struggling against his restraints, the robber is alone on the tile, his sunglasses a mess of shattered glass to his left, his hair wet with melted slush and salt. He’s pissed, if the crease between his brows is anything to go by, and he’s very much on his own. 

And Wade is gone.

Wade is gone. 

Peter’s whole body jolts, his eyes darting to the entrance, to the windows overlooking the street, and it’s only by sheer luck that he catches the tiniest hint of a spandex-clad arm amongst the sea of pedestrians outside, one that’s currently dwindling into non-existence as Peter watches helplessly. 

He doesn’t even grab his groceries before he leaves. Empty stomach forgotten, Peter books it, practically diving out of the 7-11 with a newfound wave of desperation burning through his veins.

“Wade!” He calls out, bursting onto the sidewalk, “Wait up!”

No answer. Disgruntled civilians glare at him as he passes by, but he’s too concerned about literally everything else right now to care whether or not he’s being a disturbance. Besides- it’s nighttime, and it’s New York, and he’s saved enough people in this city to justify being a little bit of a nuisance. 

“Dammit. Wade!” 

He takes off down the street, heading in the direction he’s mostly sure he’d seen Wade head in, well aware of how insane he must look as he weaves through ranks of irritated New-Yorkers. 

“C’mon, c’mon, c’mon,” His throat clenches when he hits an intersection. Wade could’ve gone anywhere from here, sewers below and rooftops above included, but he can’t let himself stop - not now, not when Wade is so close. “Please?”

Again- no answer.

He doesn’t even consider his options. Steering left, left, right, he trusts his instincts over all else, his legs moving on their own accord as he tears down the streets. The glow of still-open storefronts frame his shadow, hasty and disheveled. 

Eventually, the throngs of pedestrians thin out, disperse entirely, and he’s left alone on an ancient residential street, his stomach in his throat and his teeth chattering from the cold. 

“Mother- shit. ” He groans, fingers digging into his scalp. “C’mon, Wade.” It’s worth a try, he tells himself, backing into the wall of an apartment building, his chest deflating as he rests his weight against the old brick. 

He can’t feel his toes or his lips. “I know you’re here, I know you’re- you’ve gotta be- you have to be- ”

“Peter.”

It’s the sweetest asylum Peter’s ever felt, hearing Wade’s voice permeate the brisk air. Peter’s head snaps up, and he’s met with Wade’s silhouette- the sight is like a tranquilizer, voiding every inch of tension streaking across Peter’s muscles. 

“You’re here-” His voice falters as he rushes forward, hardly checking his surroundings before he’s firing a web off at the building Wade’s perched on and slinging himself up, “You’re-”

“Course I’m here,” Wade cuts in, “This is where I live, Webs.”

When Peter (finally , finally ) comes to stand before Wade, there’s no stopping the tremble in his fingers, or the way his mouth drops open. He wants to say something back, something witty or friendly or- or anything, but all words escape him. Has Wade really been here the whole time, only a couple of blocks over from Peter’s place? Just minutes away?

“Well- this is where I live sometimes. I’ve become something of a slumdo- no, uh- slumlord, ever since I found out that property investment is like, the best place to dump gallons of old merc-money, y’know? Good for long term gains and all that.” He shrugs nonchalantly, taking a step away from Peter, and then another, and then another, until he’s flush with the edge of the building. “Also, it’s a great stress reliever, droppin’ tiles, bashin’ old drywall- let me tell you, life-changing.”

The rooftop is small, spanning the length of two or three taxis at most, but the space between them is colossal. Peter thinks he’s lost his ability to speak, thwarted by the distance, unmoving where he stands. 

His knees won’t budge. 

You’re really here, Peter wants to say, I can’t believe you’re really here. I missed you. I missed you so much. I don’t care about real estate. You’re here.

No words leave his mouth, though, and Wade takes the silence as an invitation to continue, the whites of his mask fixed loosely on the next building over. “And you might be thinking, ‘Oh Poolie, what could have possibly enlightened you so?’ Well, the answer is simple!” 

His bubbly chatter makes Peter feel lightheaded. And a little like he’s drowning- like he’s simultaneously receiving too much air, and somehow, none at all. 

“I’m sitting there, naked as the day I was born - except for the suit. And my mask. And Bea and Arthur - flippin’ through the channels on my new flat screen, and then - oh mama, get ready - there they were, those glorious letters, spellin’ out HGTV and shining on my screen like a freshly-polished bowling lane on a Tuesday morning. I couldn’t look away. S’like I was hypnotized, just like that. Watched that beautiful network all night long, woke up with a newfound passion for renovation, honey.” Wade rolls his shoulders, still pointedly not looking at Peter, and then begins to ramble about the trick behind laying hardwood. 

To anyone else, the other might seem comfortable, prattling on about placement techniques as he looks out toward the city, but Peter knows Wade, knows him well enough to recognize every little twitch and falter tarnishing his otherwise seamless facade; his forearms are too tight to his body; the tip of his index finger is restlessly nudging the snubnose strapped to his hip; his throat is too still; his lungs seem unbreathing.  

And, because his brain is almost as distressed as his heart, there’s no way in hell Peter can pay attention to a single thing Wade is saying. His concentration is cemented to the Deadpool mask, as though his stare alone could make the damn thing disappear. 

Every fiber of his being yearns to see what lies beneath; he wants Wade’s eyes and skin and smile, wants to abandon every fear keeping him stuck in place and infiltrate Wade’s space, dive into his arms and listen to his heartbeat. 

Wade is prattling about the proper way to handle a nail-gun when Peter interrupts him.

“What were you doing there tonight?” Peter folds his arms. He clutches his elbows with his hands in an effort to keep them from shaking. “At the 7-11 . Were you following me?”

“ Me? Following you?” Wade straightens, gasping dramatically. “ Preposterous. I’m offended you’d even-”

“Why were you there?” Peter forces out, his voice nearly as stiff as his muscles. Despite how quiet his senses are, he can barely form a coherent thought, can barely feel anything besides the twisting in his chest. “You’ve been gone for months. Why were you there?”

The other shrugs, opening and closing his mouth a couple of times before deciding on an answer. “It’s my favourite 7-11, I should be asking why you were there, mister.” It’s a statement that’s too insecure for its own good, one that hooks too sharply at the end to be factual.

Peter narrows his eyes.

Wade curses under his breath before trying again. “No, okay, uh-” He stretches his arms back, his spine cracking, “Plot convenience? No? I- Just. Had to, uh- you know. I was heading over. To, y’know. Uh-”

Peter’s veins feel bloated, his blood fizzing and popping like sparkling water. “Why were you there?” He repeats again, brows knitting.

All he wants is an answer; all he wants is for all of this damn confusion to go away. More importantly, all he wants is for things to go back to normal, wants it more than he can remember ever wanting anything else. 

“ Iwasheadingovertoyourplacetocheckonyou.” Wade rushes out, his words nearly indistinguishable from one another, and Peter nearly chokes on his own saliva when his brain finally catches up. 

“You were-”

“Through the window, as per usual. I wasn’t going to go inside or anything like that, I’m not crazy !” Wade gives a sharp laugh, bending over with the force of it, “I was just going to watch. Casually, of course. With binoculars and such, the regular thing for this type of deal, nothing too freaky or weird or stalker-y. Nightvision? Nope! Wouldn’t dream of that, that’s creepy, Peter, get your pretty little spider-mind outta the perv-gutter and give a merc some credit, huh?”

“Hold on,” Peter shakes his head, trying to piece together the fact that Wade has been avoiding him for months with the fact that Wade has been here for months and with the fact that Wade has apparently been watching over him for just as long. 

“ Anywho, ” Wade sings, tone just a little too final, “Seems like it’s just about bedtime for this li’l miscreant,” His arm springs up, and he taps his watch-less wrist dramatically, “Dontcha think?” 

He pauses. Any moment now, Wade is going to flee, and Peter doesn’t think he can handle that. 

“ Great! Well! I’ll catch you around town, mi amigo . See-”

“Wait-” Peter blinks, swallows around the knot in his throat, runs forward in a chain of movement that’s lacking his usual grace and precision. He skids to a halt just inches away from Wade, having to restrain himself from reaching out and grabbing. “No, Wade-”

“I’m real tired, Spidey. You gotta understand that-”

“You can’t just leave after-”

“-good sleep hygiene is essential for growin’ gals like me, didn’t they teach you that in-”

“-months of not being here. Months! And then you tell me that you’ve been keeping an eye on me? Regularly?”

“-that fancy college’a yours? S’like you’re paying for nothing! If I were in charge, I’d-”

 “There’s no way I’m going to let you-”

“-make sure that they actually educated their students instead of just-”

“-leave just like that. I missed you so much and if you think I’m going to-”

“-sapping every last penny from their sad little- Sorry, what ?” Wade’s rambling veers off, head snapping in Peter’s direction, and for a split second his composure falls apart, his posture shedding its hardness, his jaw loosening at its hinges. He catches himself, though, much too quickly for Peter’s liking, covers up any and all vulnerability that had bled through the suit and into the space between them; he locks up once more, shoulders stony, chest puffed defensively. 

Peter licks his lips. Ultimately, he refrains from saying anything else because he’s a little embarrassed and more than a little worried that everything is about to go pear-shaped. Again.

“Alright. I think I gotta let you in on something.” Wade watches him like he’s a trip wire, a pipe bomb that’s a stray breath away from blowing on the spot. “I think it’s great. That we’re- that we’re friends. But, and hear me out, you can’t-” His voice goes dry, “You can’t just go around sayin’ things like that, Peter.” He tries for a light tone, but Peter can hear the bite behind it, the tightness threatening to choke out his words, and Peter’s chest clenches, as though what little is left of his poor heart is being chipped away, flaking apart like old paint. 

He’d scream, if he could. He’d tear away from this building, this city, even, find a hole and bury himself in it, if he could. 

Which is to say: if he weren’t so terrified of Wade disappearing again.

He steps back. Even with the mask on, Peter can tell that Wade’s eyes track the rise and fall of his chest, and the way his arms shiver against the cold within the sleeves of his jacket. 

“Wade,” Peter says, so carefully that he’s hardly sure he’s actually said it, and it almost sounds like a croak, the pathetic squeak of noise that teeters from his mouth, sputters and drops to the ground like a burnt match. The void between them swells, the scream of the night air amplifies. “I can’t-” His fingers shiver, “What do you mean?”

Wade swallows, his shoulders barbed wire as they curl in defensively. As though Peter is the enemy, someone that needs to be kept out at all costs. “Like-” Another swallow, “Like I’m Anna Scott and you’re- well, like you’re a younger, prettier Hugh Grant with at least three times the ass and none of the feelings, Peter. Like that.

“And hey, I know I’ve not been a daisy, either, because I’ve been-”

“Watching me.”

“No! Well- yes? Looking out for you. But I wasn’t tryin’ to change your mind or bombard you or anything like that! I was giving you space while also- just. Making sure that you were still doing alright.” 

Peter sighs, trying and failing to sound annoyed. “I’m Spider-man, Wade. Pretty sure I’m capable of taking care of myself.” 

“Not knowing was killing me, Pete.”

Peter stares up at him, scanning the uncharacteristically expressionless mask helplessly. “I don’t understand.” He shakes his head, ignores how stupid he sounds, “What are you- I don’t get it. I just-”

“You just what ?” Wade scowls, breaking away from their bubble and pacing to the other side of the rooftop. “You just think it’s fun to play with my feelings like that? Or- are you surprised that I even have feelings in the first place? Because-” Cutting off, Wade scuffs the toe of his boot against the ground, drops his head into his hands, “Because- fuck- ” His head snaps back up, and even with the mask Peter can tell he’s looking right at him, can feel the emotion leaking out from behind the fabric, “May not look like it, but I’m still- I’m still human, believe it or fuckin’ not, and every time you treat me like that , it- ha, fuck. ”

A car drives by a couple of streets over, accelerating too quickly, too loudly. The noise shatters their privacy, if only for a moment. 

“ Fuck, Peter.”

“Wade-” He’s pleading, now, his voice watery and thin as it wages war against the chilly air, “You’re not-” he tries, and then, “I know that you’re- I think that- shit, I don’t know what you’re talking about”, and then again, because he doesn’t know what else to say, “ Wade .”

He’s silent, for a minute, standing opposite to Peter at the other end of the rooftop, his arms folded across his chest, his head ducked, his spine straight. And then, with the slump of his shoulders, “I’m talking about that ,” he slowly lifts his hand, gestures to Peter, “Saying you miss me, looking at me with- shit, with those eyes, like you’re- like-” He groans like he’s in pain, wrapping his hands back around his abdomen. 

Peter’s never seen him look so defeated. 

It barely registers at first, Wade yanking his mask off and tossing it to his feet. From a dozen feet away, he can see how painful Wade’s skin looks today, abnormally red and inflamed and too tight to his skull; Peter watches with an open mouth, his lips dry and his eyes just a little too wide. 

“It fuckin’ sucks, Pete, every time you look at me like I’m the goddamn egg to your fuckin’ omlette or something- it sucks, because-” He stops himself, his voice dwindling, getting smaller and smaller with each word until even Peter, with his enhanced hearing and everything, is struggling to hear him, “Because you’re the one that- you don’t- you don’t feel that way. You’re embarrassed that I feel that way, rightfully so, I completely understand and then some, but it’s not fair that you get to pull that look for the fun of it and- it’s- it’s not a game to me, Peter.”

Trying to comprehend what Wade is saying is the hardest thing Peter thinks he’s ever had to do- his head is spinning and he can’t feel his fingers and he’s nearly certain he’s developed an arrhythmia because he can’t keep his thoughts straight, can’t reconcile what Wade is saying with what he knows to be true. 

You don’t feel that way.

“And- and I get it, I know, I was the fuckin’ onion that let myself believe you might have- that you might just feel something back, that you’d even be capable of feeling something for- for this ,” Wade glances down at his body, keeps his eyes glued to his boots once he’s made his point, “But you can’t look at me like that, can’t just- you can’t just pretend like you don’t know what you’re doing. Feels like you’re stringing me along. Like you’re mocking me. I didn’t mean to feel like this, Peter. I didn’t. ”

I let myself believe you might feel something back. 

“Hell, I tried to stop myself, but you’re kind of perfect and it’s terrible. ”

I didn’t mean to feel like this. 

“Wade-”

“Sucks more than a Dyson in a tornado, or- better yet, more than yours truly down on two knees, and lordy, it’s better like this, I know, I’m definitely no good for you, ask any of the Rowdyruff Boys over at Stark’s place, but that doesn’t mean I can’t still wish things were different.” Even in the lackluster light, Wade’s eyes gleam like crystals, and Peter can’t look away. “I know I’m no daydream, but I’m still just a dude, with feelings and thumbs and a heart and stuff, and I wish you felt the way I do about this, that you-”

“Felt what way, Wade? I don’t understand.” Peter shakes his head, tucking his cold fingers into his armpits as a gasp of chilly wind brushes past. He does understand, maybe, but he’s not about to jump to conclusions. Not again, at least, as it’s becoming increasingly clearer to him that perhaps jumping to conclusions is what catalyzed this whole mess in the first place. Either way, moisture gathers at the corners of his eyes, a murder of emotions flocking to the forefront of his mind. “ Please. I need you to help me understand.”

“But it’s embarrassing, ” The other whines, high and exasperated and dramatic, putting a dent in the seriousness permeating the air between them. It’s a return to form, almost, and it shifts the flavour of the air into something a little less bitter, a little more propitious, because Wade is still Wade, still the person Peter’s come to love maybe a little too much. 

Doubt perches like a buzzard on his shoulder, fear a tangled net at his feet, but Peter offers a half-smile anyways, a gentle quirk of the corner of his mouth, and allows his legs to guide him forwards, over and across the rooftop until he’s back at Wade’s side, just an inch or two out of arm’s reach. His organs feel like they’re floating, as though his body is teetering over an edge, his innards bracing for the fall, the impact that’s bound to follow, knotting in fear; anticipation. 

The other isn’t speaking just yet, but his voice reverberates in Peter’s skull, whispered iterations of the same heart-breaking phrase over and over and over again;

I let myself believe you might feel something back. 

Peter repeats himself: “Please, Wade?”

Wade huffs, his brow creasing, but he concedes, anyways, his mouth hardening like he’s just lost an argument. “Felt like- like… I wish you felt like you could take on the fucking sun every time you see me. That- that maybe you could give up Mexican food forever, if it meant getting to hang around with the DP, even just for a little bit.” 

His lip is beginning to wobble, Peter can feel it, the generous shake that starts on the surface of his skin before rooting deeper, capsizing his jaw, his throat, until his entire body is stiff with adrenaline, with panic, with hope.  

Wade’s eyes don’t stray. When Peter carefully lifts a hand in Wade’s direction, index and middle fingers held out in something of a peace offering, Wade’s pace quickens. 

“I wish that you felt like nothing you’ve ever done before matters when you’re with me, like you can be whoever you want. With me. Big Bird or- or PeeWee Herman or the Taco Bell chihuahua - rest in peace, soldier - and just, exist in any way you want, like you don’t care what everyone else says or thinks about you because- because you’ve got me.”

There are very few moments that feel big, in the grand scheme of things, and Peter can’t help but hope that this is one of those moments; that, after a marathon of monotonous days and bleak evenings, there will finally be reason for the void in his chest to fill once more, for the ache in his lungs to reside, even just a little bit. 

“Because that’s how I feel. But for you.” The skin around the corners of Wade’s mouth crinkles like wrapping paper, framing the resigned grimace they fold into. A sigh that’s closer to a sob bubbles up from his throat, and he’s visibly doing anything he can not to make eye contact. “I wish you wanted me, too.”

Every inch of doubt and loathing and loneliness that had accumulated over the last couple of months slams into Peter, a particularly nasty sucker punch in the gut that leaves him winded, gasping for oxygen. His lungs burn, the air he inhales tinged with remorse, with the realization that if he’d only asked a couple of questions, or had just been upfront and honest, then this could have all been avoided.  

They’re not cookie-cutter characters from a Hallmark movie but they might as well be with the weight of the sheer stupidity they’d both volunteered. It’s upsetting on every level, and humiliating, because they’re adults, superheros, morally tasked with protecting civilians from super villains and not-so-super villains, and yet couldn’t communicate their emotions when it really mattered. 

He feels like an idiot, but more importantly, he feels like he needs to be close to Wade, needs to try and mend the shredded mess he allowed their relationship to become. 

“Oh, Wade .” Peter chokes, because apparently that’s all he’s capable of saying tonight, and he startles even himself when he crashes forward, colliding with Wade like a tide would a shore, his hands awkwardly sandwiched between their bodies before circling Wade’s hips, finding a home at his waist. He’s shivering even with the new heat radiating from Wade’s chest, his heart pounding, and he thinks that maybe his lashes are wet with tears, along with his cheeks and his chin. 

Wade is stiff and unmoving. Although he’s seemingly shrinking away from Peter’s sudden closeness, his muscles taut as he leans backwards and away, he doesn’t make the move to actually escape, more so closing in on himself than actively trying to flee. 

“If this is pity, I don’t want it.” He grates out, eyes trained on the herd of grey clouds above. “I’m always sayin’ I’ll take anything you’re willing to give, but-” With the rigid shake of his head, he breaks off, and then his hands are on Peter’s shoulders, gently and firmly trying to push him backwards. 

Peter tightens his grip, though, determined not to let this moment go to waste; he’s not about to let Wade leave again, especially after what’s been said, what has yet to be said. “This isn’t pity, this is- Wade, good lord, ” A laugh escapes him, fueled by little more than disbelief and hysteria, “You’re everything to me, Wade.”

Wade doesn’t react. His mouth is pursed and his muscles are tense and his spine is rod-straight, a mannequin in Peter’s insistent embrace, the languid blink of his eyes acting as the only indicator of his presence. 

“When we- oh boy, this is a lot. I can’t even believe that we- oh my god. ” A particularly aggressive gust of wind cuts across the rooftop. Peter licks his lips, curling his fingers into the fabric of Wade’s suit to shield them from the cold, and it’s like a mental dam finally breaks, everything he’s been wanting to say over the course of the last year or so flooding to the forefront of his mind.  

“Of course I feel that way. I thought- I thought I was protecting our friendship by breaking it off because I- shit, I broke the rules and I didn’t want you to get mad at me, so I panicked and made some stupid excuse about homework, off all things, when really I couldn’t pay attention because I was too busy thinking about you and cuddling you and kissing you and just being with you and it was becoming this big problem because I promised you that I wouldn’t- that it didn’t have to mean anything and- and-”

Every neuron in his brain feels like it’s on fire, dozens of different thoughts and tangents shooting off at once, small realizations and colossal epiphanies flickering like a campfire behind his eyes, sparklers burning into his vision, fireworks roaring in his ears. He has so much to say - arguably too much to say - and he can’t make himself speak quickly enough, words congesting his throat in their haste to be spoken and made known. 

“And you said that thing, the-” Peter can’t remember the last time he’d word-vomited like this, but he doesn’t stop himself, instead dropping his voice into a poor imitation of Wade that he’s too urgent to be self-conscious about, “ You belong right here, you’re mine thing,” He grimaces at the memory, shakes his head. 

“You said it and then you took it back and I couldn’t- I wanted it to be real, so badly, but it was real and the thought that all this time you were also just freaking out because you broke the rules too kind of makes me want to swing face first into the Chrysler building but it mostly just makes me sad because I missed you so much that I didn’t even know what to do with myself some nights because I lost both my best friend and the person I love most in the world in like, half an hour, and that’ll screw a guy up, let me tell you-”

Peter doesn’t register the hands that come to a rest against his body, trembling as they cradle his shoulder blades. He’s still trying to force his words out, ignoring the way his cold lips smudge his pronunciation, when the worn leather of Wade’s glove is pressed firmly to his mouth. 

“ Huh. ” Wade says, blinking a handful of times as he (very pointedly) doesn’t remove his hand from Peter’s face. “You’re telling me that you actually… for me? You- feel that typ’a way for me?”

Peering over Wade’s glove, Peter nods. 

“For realsies? ”

He nods again. 

Wade throws his head back with a groan, working his jaw back and forth before whining, “You mean I could’ve had you as my boyfriend for three months instead of- of going MIA in NYC ?”

Peter, his heart in his throat and his stomach free-floating, tugs Wade in closer, squeezes his eyes shut. He smells like gunpowder and nostalgia, and, oddly enough, hardwood and varnish, but Peter melts into him all the same, blowing out an exhale that’s caught somewhere between a laugh and a sob. Wade, for once, doesn’t say anything, opting instead to hold Peter as close as their bodies will allow. 

It goes unspoken, hovers over their heads and around their joined bodies like a cloud of fireflies; everything is going to be alright.