calciseptinefic

[calciseptinefic]

the eight second hold on

a spideypool bull riding au

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Summary: Back in 2004, National Geographic wrote an article on bull riding and called it "the most dangerous eight seconds in sports". Peter—who has been riding bulls since he was seventeen—can't help but agree.

or,

"C'mon, vaquero," Wade purrs. "I wanna see how you ride."

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Marvel || Wade Wilson/Peter Parker || EXPLICIT || WEEK ONE: OKLAHOMA CITY

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"We need an 86 to beat Austin," Harry half-shouts over the din of the stadium. His face is flushed from the heat; the dark red strands of his hair stick to his temples; his once crisp collar is limp with sweat. "So stay the fuck on the bull, okay?"

Peter ignores Harry's unhelpful pep talk as he double checks the fit of his gear: his helmet, his Wildcatters vest, his cherry red and navy blue chaps. He knows the scores. He knows what the team needs from him. The pressure of this moment—of being the last rider on the last day of the first week of Professional Bull Rider's Team Series—is so immense that it leaves no room for anxiety or Harry's freaking out.

"Are you trying to mess him up?" Mary Jane hisses at Harry, shoving him away with her shoulder. Then, with more sweetness and less acridity, she turns to Peter and says, "Don't listen to him, tiger. You've got this."

Mary Jane's smile is warm. Her fingers adjusting the wrinkles in his sleeve cuff are gentle. Nearby, there's a rattle of metal as Peter's bull is loaded into the chute. The Rhino is five years old, weighs nineteen hundred pounds, and has bucked off his two previous riders from the two previous nights.

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[calciseptinefic]

as you wish

a spideypool au inspired by the princess bride

Summary: Several years after having found true love and lost it, talented and brilliant apothecarist Peter finds himself engaged to be married to Duke Harry Osborn, young lord of the realm. It is a marriage of convenience for Peter and nothing more. But the night he is married, Peter is kidnapped by a small team of criminals for unknown reasons. More shockingly, as they run further and further away from all Peter has ever known, the criminals learn they are being relentlessly pursued by the infamous rogue, Deadpool. But not all is as it seems; the longer Peter remains in Deadpool's clutches, the stronger the memories of his past return, and another sinister scheme—one beyond Peter's imagination—begins to unfold.

Marvel || Wade Wilson/Peter Parker || EXPLICIT || Part 09 notes: The last 400 words of this chapter contain some suicidal ideation, though it is not explicit nor does Peter physically attempt anything. Just a warning for individuals who might be sensitive to the subject. ♥

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Winter thaws slowly that year. Frigid nights become more bearably chill; dawns bring the warming sun up earlier and earlier; snowdrops rise like promises from the half-frozen dirt. Peter takes a quilt off the bed and stores it in Aunt May's old hope chest, the comforting smell of cedar wafting up from within, while Wade tracks in more and more mud when he goes out to get firewood. One day, he remarks, "The roads will be safe to travel soon."

The comment is an idle one. Off-handed and nonchalant. It should not make Peter freeze in place at his worktable with his mortar and pestle in hand, and think, No, with a panic so fierce and sudden it stops his breath.

This is it, Peter thinks wildly. An amorphous anxiety—previously held at bay by the growing bloom of love—takes the shape of an unforgiving blade. Peter cannot help but look at Wade with wide-eyed alarm as he feels the stab. This is when he tells me he's leaving.

Wade sees the panic. Of course he sees it. He is stood in the doorway with several logs under one arm, and he immediately notices how Peter goes fawn still at his words. Whatever expression is on Peter's face makes Wade drop the firewood. A second later, the mortar and pestle are taken from Peter's grip and placed upon the worktable. A second after that, Wade's sword-callused hands cradle Peter's jaw, his thumbs coming to rest on the apples of Peter's cheeks. Wade angles Peter's face upwards so they're looking directly at one another.

"Sweetheart," Wade murmurs. His voice has gone low and soft, the way it always does when he soothes. "Sweetheart, no. I didn't mean it like that, okay? That came out wrong."

.

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or start at the beginning

[calciseptinefic]

as you wish

a spideypool au inspired by the princess bride

Summary: Several years after having found true love and lost it, talented and brilliant apothecarist Peter finds himself engaged to be married to Duke Harry Osborn, young lord of the realm. It is a marriage of convenience for Peter and nothing more. But the night he is married, Peter is kidnapped by a small team of criminals for unknown reasons. More shockingly, as they run further and further away from all Peter has ever known, the criminals learn they are being relentlessly pursued by the infamous rogue, Deadpool. But not all is as it seems; the longer Peter remains in Deadpool's clutches, the stronger the memories of his past return, and another sinister scheme—one beyond Peter's imagination—begins to unfold.

Marvel || Wade Wilson/Peter Parker || EXPLICIT || Part 08

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Now alone—eyes squeezed shut, hands curled into tight fists—Peter lets his fear overwhelm him. He lets his frayed nerves threaten to snap; lets his lungs struggle to find air; lets his tears burn his eyes and clog his nose. His head falls to his knees. His shoulders tremble. He doesn't know why any of this is happening—doesn't know what is going to happen to him. All he knows is the conviction he heard in Toomes' voice when the other man said he would maim Peter without hesitation if Peter tried to run.

"Weren't you afraid?" Peter asks Wade in the soft silence of an afterglow. His head is in the crook of Wade's shoulder and his hand is on Wade's naked chest. An old keloid scar rests beneath the curious tip of Peter's finger, slightly raised and pink. He knows it was made by an enemy blade in the last war fought with Latveria, years ago when Peter was still a boy and Wade was barely a man.

Wade hums, warm and lazy like the fire burning in the hearth of Peter's bedroom. One of his hands is idle in Peter's curls. He murmurs, "Afraid of what?" and Peter feels the reverberation of them in Wade's chest.

"Of fighting." Peter drags a fingertip down the length of the scar. "Of dying."

Again, Wade hums. He doesn't answer for so long that Peter thinks he won't; not because he doesn't want Peter to know, but because the truth is ill-suited for the way they are tangled together beneath the thick quilts. Then—as Peter's eyelids begin to droop, sleep beckoning him away—Wade softly tells him, "Fear keeps you alive, Webs."

In the cart, in the dark, in the terrifying unknown, Peter inhales shakily.

.

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or start at the beginning

[calciseptinefic]

howling in shadows

Summary: Almost two years after being transformed by the Upside Down, Steve's monstrous instincts drive him to a small bar on the outside of town. There he meets Eddie Munson, who is the lead singer of a metal band on the cusp of making it big; Eddie, who has also been irrevocably changed by the supernatural horrors of Hawkins; Eddie, who is drawn to Steve as Steve is to him. Together, they learn to navigate the intense push and pull of their feelings, and—inevitably—fall in love.

Stranger Things || Eddie Munson/Steve Harrington || EXPLICIT || Part 03 notes: Many thanks to babygato for her beta! ♥ Title from Ozzy Osbourne's 'Bark at the Moon'.

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Dana's is an old, retro-futuristic themed diner that was built in the mid-sixties. It is a narrow building on the east side of Hawkins, all chrome and curved lines, and the sign out front has a wacky boomerang shape that always reminds Steve of 'The Jetsons'.

"Wow," Eddie breathes as he hops out of Steve's car, leather jacket clutched in one hand. His dark eyes reflect the bright lights of the diner and his sardonic mouth curls at the corners. "This place is exactly like I remember. Nothing in Hawkins ever changes, does it?"

Locking the car, Steve rounds the trunk and shrugs. He used to come to Dana's all the time. Since the food was relatively cheap, and since it was one of the few places in town open past ten, it was a popular spot for high school students to aggregate after extracurricular events. Win or lose, Steve had come to Dana's after nearly every swim meet and baseball game and basketball semi-final.

But that was before. Before the Upside Down, before his transformation, before Main Street was split in the middle by an interdimensional rift. All of it is proof enough that things in Hawkins do change, though not in the half nostalgic, half bitter way Eddie means.

"Still probably requires a shirt." Steve rakes his eyes down Eddie's naked torso, and adds, "Not that I'm complaining, but I'm kinda hungry and you might distract the waitress."

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[calciseptinefic]

as you wish

a spideypool au inspired by the princess bride

Summary: Several years after having found true love and lost it, talented and brilliant apothecarist Peter finds himself engaged to be married to Duke Harry Osborn, young lord of the realm. It is a marriage of convenience for Peter and nothing more. But the night he is married, Peter is kidnapped by a small team of criminals for unknown reasons. More shockingly, as they run further and further away from all Peter has ever known, the criminals learn they are being relentlessly pursued by the infamous rogue, Deadpool. But not all is as it seems; the longer Peter remains in Deadpool's clutches, the stronger the memories of his past return, and another sinister scheme—one beyond Peter's imagination—begins to unfold.

Marvel || Wade Wilson/Peter Parker || EXPLICIT || Part 07 notes: Many thanks to babygato for her beta! ♥

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The bed beneath Peter is not large enough to accommodate two grown men—especially not one as broad-shouldered as Wade—but it holds him and Wade easily when they're pressed together like halves of a whole. Both of them lie on their sides with a heavy quilt and flannel sheets atop them, cozy and warm, even if the logs in the hearth have long since burned out to crumbling ash.

Peter wakes first. It is the hour before dawn. The small room is quiet and cold, and the window set opposite the door rattles with the strong winter wind. Pale light—gray and thin—washes everything in faded monochrome: the unadorned walls and the brick fireplace, the vanity and its earthen washbowl, two pairs of heavy boots and the strew of clothes upon the floor.

Blearily, Peter pulls the blankets up to his nose and burrows further into the comfort of the bed. One of Wade's arms is curled loose around his waist and, when Peter moves, the hold unconsciously tightens, hauling Peter closer, fitting Peter more perfectly into the cradle of his body. Peter can feel the blunt of Wade's knees behind his own; the strong flex of Wade's muscular thighs; the quiescent curve of Wade's cock between the apex of his legs.

Despite himself, Peter blushes and squirms. He and Wade had spent half the long night tangled up in one another, unabashedly exploring each other with eager hands and mouths, but all of this was new to Peter. The physicality of sex, the vulnerability of love.

Behind Peter, Wade hums sleepily. Rubs his prickly cheek against the crown of Peter's curls, and rumbles, "Go back to sleep, Webs."

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or start at the beginning

[calciseptinefic]

howling in shadows

Summary: Almost two years after being transformed by the Upside Down, Steve's monstrous instincts drive him to a small bar on the outside of town. There he meets Eddie Munson, who is the lead singer of a metal band on the cusp of making it big; Eddie, who has also been irrevocably changed by the supernatural horrors of Hawkins; Eddie, who is drawn to Steve as Steve is to him. Together, they learn to navigate the intense push and pull of their feelings, and—inevitably—fall in love.

Stranger Things || Eddie Munson/Steve Harrington || EXPLICIT || Part 02 notes: Many thanks to babygato for her beta! ♥ Title from Ozzy Osbourne's 'Bark at the Moon'.

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Secure in the promise of later, Eddie leaves Steve with a wink and a swagger. He heads to the bar where his bandmates wait, and Steve's eyes unconsciously follow, watching as Eddie loops a long arm around one set of shoulders and claps the flat of his palm against another's skinny back. Two of the band members dart curious glances at Steve, while the third downs a shot before he jabs Eddie in the chest with his elbow.

Shot Guy says something.

Eddie throws back his head and barks a laugh. His long, curly hair cascades down his back, a dark river that stops halfway down his spine; it is only a few shades lighter than his black leather jacket, shadow upon shadow. Steve wonders what made Eddie laugh like that—if he could make Eddie laugh like that—and unintentionally focuses on the conversation.

"—here for a metal cover band? I mean, he's wearing a polo for chrissakes," Shot Guy continues. A normal person wouldn't be able to hear their conversation from across the bar, but Steve can understand Shot Guy as though they were standing side by side. "Doesn't seem like his kind of thing."

"Can't say," Eddie replies easily. "I'll ask him after."

"After?" snorts the band member who Eddie clapped on the back. "Seriously?"

"What can I say? The polo really does it for me." Eddie flashes a sharp grin and takes a step away, his arms falling back to his sides. "Now, do you losers want to stay here and keep gossiping, or do you want to go play some fucking music?"

CONTINUE ON AO3

[calciseptinefic]

as you wish

a spideypool au inspired by the princess bride

Summary: Several years after having found true love and lost it, talented and brilliant apothecarist Peter finds himself engaged to be married to Duke Harry Osborn, young lord of the realm. It is a marriage of convenience for Peter and nothing more. But the night he is married, Peter is kidnapped by a small team of criminals for unknown reasons. More shockingly, as they run further and further away from all Peter has ever known, the criminals learn they are being relentlessly pursued by the infamous rogue, Deadpool. But not all is as it seems; the longer Peter remains in Deadpool's clutches, the stronger the memories of his past return, and another sinister scheme—one beyond Peter's imagination—begins to unfold.

Marvel || Wade Wilson/Peter Parker || EXPLICIT || Part 06 notes: Many thanks to babygato for her beta! ♥ warnings: none for this chapter

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Blind Al's tavern is one of several overnight inns in the village, built on the eastern edge. It is further away from the community hall and the main bustle of shops—including Peter's apothecary—and has the reputation of catering to less reputable patrons. The tavern itself is old; it has two stories, with an attached stable, and appears to lean to the left, as though the entire building were sagging tiredly.

Peter has never stepped foot inside Blind Al's tavern. He hesitates as he approaches, toes numb in his boots, and watches light and movement flicker out of the frosted windows. The comforting smells of cooking food and woodsmoke pour from the chimney, and—if he listens hard enough—Peter can hear the strains of conversation.

Wade is inside.

Wade is inside, and Peter has not seen him in almost five months.

CONTINUE ON AO3

[calciseptinefic]

howling in shadows

Summary: Almost two years after being transformed by the Upside Down, Steve's monstrous instincts drive him to a small, no-name bar on the outside of town. There he meets Eddie Munson, the lead singer of a metal band on the cusp of making it big; Eddie, who has also been irrevocably changed by the supernatural horrors of Hawkins; Eddie, who is as drawn to Steve as Steve is to him. Together, they learn to navigate their wild feelings for one another.

Stranger Things || Eddie Munson/Steve Harrington || EXPLICIT || Part 01 notes: Many thanks to babygato for her beta! ♥ Title from Ozzy Osbourne's 'Bark at the Moon'.

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Steve has never been to the bar on the outskirts of Hawkins and, in the dark, he almost misses his turn.

"Shit," he curses as it pops up. He hits his brakes, jerks his steering wheel to the left. The car bounces as it goes over the edge of the paved road. "Shit—!"

His tires kick up gravel as he drives down a short incline towards the bar. There's a slab of cracked concrete jutting out from the front, a parking lot in name only; it is unable to accommodate more than six cars, and Steve ends up parking further away on a patch of packed dirt, between a pickup and a rusty Chevelle.

"Shit," Steve mutters a third time. His fingers flex off the steering wheel, white-knuckled. He's been distracted all day, thinking of this moment, thoughts circling around what he might find inside the bar. To himself he says, "Focus, Steve. Get your head in the game."

Taking a deep, steadying breath, Steve unbuckles his seatbelt. Gets out of the car. Closes his eyes and briefly tilts his head towards the waxing gibbous moon. The crisp October air and the silver moonlight caress his cheeks, dual sensations that help center him. He doesn't know why his nerves are frayed; he's lived through three separate almost-apocalypses, and he's stronger and scarier than anything in the bar.

Well, probably. Steve is probably stronger and scarier than anything in the bar. Neither El nor Will have mentioned sensing anything strange since the gates to the Upside Down were closed months ago, but... that smell...

And now Steve's here. Following his instincts, for better or worse.

CONTINUE ON AO3

[calciseptinefic]

as you wish

a spideypool au inspired by the princess bride

Summary: Several years after having found true love and lost it, talented and brilliant apothecarist Peter finds himself engaged to be married to Duke Harry Osborn, young lord of the realm. It is a marriage of convenience for Peter and nothing more. But the night he is married, Peter is kidnapped by a small team of criminals for unknown reasons. More shockingly, as they run further and further away from all Peter has ever known, the criminals learn they are being relentlessly pursued by the infamous rogue, Deadpool. But not all is as it seems; the longer Peter remains in Deadpool's clutches, the stronger the memories of his past return, and another sinister scheme—one beyond Peter's imagination—begins to unfold.

Marvel || Wade Wilson/Peter Parker || EXPLICIT || Part 05 notes: Many thanks to babygato for her beta! ♥ warnings: none for this chapter

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After the ceremony, the marriage celebration moves quickly into the banquet hall. Food is brought out, course after course after course, and wine flows freely into everyone's cup. The general hum of noise rises steadily as the crowd becomes increasingly more drunk, loud laughter and happy shouting bouncing around in Peter's ears.

The feast takes several long hours. Peter—who had been starving before the ceremony—can barely look at the food put in front of him. His stomach has turned into a hard knot, and every bite he chokes down is sour. He doesn't touch his wine at all, letting it rest, full and dark, in the clinquant goblet by his continually picked at plate.

"Not to your liking?" Harry whispers. He's noticed that Peter is merely moving his fork around the dishes being served, and frowns.

"Not that, no." Peter pushes a piece of poached pear with cheese and walnuts slightly to the left. "I'm not hungry."

"You should eat, my darling." Harry leans in, pressing a kiss to Peter's naked temple. Peter's valet has done a truly impressive job with his normally wild hair; the curls have not yet escaped the pearl studded net. "The night will be long, and you need your energy."

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[calciseptinefic]

as you wish

a spideypool au inspired by the princess bride

Summary: Several years after having found true love and lost it, talented and brilliant apothecarist Peter finds himself engaged to be married to Duke Harry Osborn, young lord of the realm. It is a marriage of convenience for Peter and nothing more. But the night he is married, Peter is kidnapped by a small team of criminals for unknown reasons. More shockingly, as they run further and further away from all Peter has ever known, the criminals learn they are being relentlessly pursued by the infamous rogue, Deadpool. But not all is as it seems; the longer Peter remains in Deadpool's clutches, the stronger the memories of his past return, and another sinister scheme—one beyond Peter's imagination—begins to unfold.

Marvel || Wade Wilson/Peter Parker || EXPLICIT || Part 04 notes: Many thanks to babygato for her beta! ♥ warnings: none for this chapter

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After his short visit with Norman, Peter's escorts lead him down to the great hall.

The great hall is the metaphorical heart of the castle. It is centered on the lowest floor and—while the huge doors marking the entrance are usually open—today, they are temporarily shut. It will take all four of the footmen to open the doors once the music heralding Peter's presence begins.

For now, Peter waits. He fidgets beneath his silken wedding shroud, subtly shifting his weight from foot to foot in his pinching shoes, picking mindlessly at the golden embroidery stitched into his sleeve cuffs. He can hear the muffled murmurs of the crowd in the room beyond and tries very hard not to think of the exact number of people that are stuffed inside.

"Most of the court has confirmed their attendance," Harry told Peter a month ago. He was sitting behind his desk with a letter in hand whilst more letters lay strewn across the heavy wood. "That includes the princes and their consorts! We will have to make this quite the spectacle, won't we, darling?"

Peter—who had been sitting by the fire with his legs tucked beneath him, a book of medicine in his lap—did not know how many 'most of the court' was. He still does not know. For his own peace of mind, he never asked.

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[calciseptinefic]

as you wish

a spideypool au inspired by the princess bride

Summary: Several years after having found true love and lost it, talented and brilliant apothecarist Peter finds himself engaged to be married to Duke Harry Osborn, young lord of the realm. It is a marriage of convenience for Peter and nothing more. But the night he is married, Peter is kidnapped by a small team of criminals for unknown reasons. More shockingly, as they run further and further away from all Peter has ever known, the criminals learn they are being relentlessly pursued by the infamous rogue, Deadpool. But not all is as it seems; the longer Peter remains in Deadpool's clutches, the stronger the memories of his past return, and another sinister scheme—one beyond Peter's imagination—begins to unfold.

Marvel || Wade Wilson/Peter Parker || EXPLICIT || Part 03 notes: Many thanks to babygato for her beta! ♥ warnings: none for this chapter

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Peter sits upright in bed long before the first wave of servants arrive. He wakes feeling as though he left a piece of himself behind in his memories, and he fists a hand in his nightclothes over his sternum, the material the only thing he can hold onto. Blankly, he stares out the window as the sky melts from star-studded indigo velvet to soft petal rose. He sees none of its beauty; to him, it is only the relentless forward passage of time.

Today, he will be married.

Today, he will bury another dream of his past.

Today, he will push through until the day becomes tomorrow.

Today, he will…

CONTINUE ON AO3

[calciseptinefic]

as you wish

a spideypool au inspired by the princess bride

Summary: Several years after having found true love and lost it, talented and brilliant apothecarist Peter finds himself engaged to be married to Duke Harry Osborn, young lord of the realm. It is a marriage of convenience for Peter and nothing more. But the night he is married, Peter is kidnapped by a small team of criminals for unknown reasons. More shockingly, as they run further and further away from all Peter has ever known, the criminals learn they are being relentlessly pursued by the infamous rogue, Deadpool. But not all is as it seems; the longer Peter remains in Deadpool's clutches, the stronger the memories of his past return, and another sinister scheme—one beyond Peter's imagination—begins to unfold.

Marvel || Wade Wilson/Peter Parker || EXPLICIT || Part 02 notes: Many thanks to babygato for her beta! ♥ warnings: none for this chapter

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The red doublet is a beautiful silk monstrosity. The puffed shoulders and tight sleeves are currently the height of fashion, as are the tapered waist and high collar. Peter cannot put it on alone; it closes in the back, a line of tiny buttons running from the nape of Peter's neck to his tailbone. It takes several minutes just to make sure it is properly fastened, despite the valet's swift and practiced fingers.

"Are you supposed to be unable to move?" Peter had joked the first time he had been stuffed into the garment. He could barely bend his spine and his arms refused to go higher than his shoulders. "I feel like a sausage inside its casing."

The valet had frowned at Peter's attempt at light-heartedness. Or at least, frowned more deeply; the valet seemed a humorless man, his mouth set in a permanent grimace.

"Your garments are at the height of sophistication, my lord," the valet had assured primly, his hands folded behind his back. "Do you not find them to your satisfaction?"

It was not the first time Peter felt the valet's vague sense of disapproval, and it had been far from the last. Peter feels that same censure now, even though he is silent and allows himself to be done up like a doll: the clothes, the hair, the glittering accessories. The valet is nearly finished when Harry arrives, knocking twice on Peter's door before coming in, heeled boots clicking against the stone floor.

CONTINUE ON AO3

[calciseptinefic]

as you wish

a spideypool au inspired by the princess bride

Summary: Several years after having found true love and lost it, talented and brilliant apothecarist Peter finds himself engaged to be married to Duke Harry Osborn, young lord of the realm. It is a marriage of convenience for Peter and nothing more. But the night he is married, Peter is kidnapped by a small team of criminals for unknown reasons. More shockingly, as they run further and further away from all Peter has ever known, the criminals learn they are being relentlessly pursued by the infamous rogue, Deadpool. But not all is as it seems; the longer Peter remains in Deadpool's clutches, the stronger the memories of his past return, and another sinister scheme—one beyond Peter's imagination—begins to unfold.

Marvel || Wade Wilson/Peter Parker || EXPLICIT || Part 01 notes: Many thanks to babygato for her beta! ♥ warnings: none for this chapter

.

The door to the apothecary opens, a familiar tinkle of bells on a rope and the creak of an old oak door. Peter, who is carefully digging out ingredients for an experimental elixir, calls blindly over his shoulder, "Just a moment, please!"

There is no answer. In his focused state, Peter does not notice. He simply makes sure that all of his ingredients—some fragile and rare, some hearty and common—are arranged nicely and neatly on his small worktable before he turns around, wiping his hands on his linen apron. When he notices who it is in the shop, however, his polite smile falls to a frown.

"Wade," Peter says.

"Peter," says Wade.

The other man looks out of place in the apothecary. He is a thing of night and shadows, clothing dark and countenance wicked. His sly smile and cunning eyes war with the warm sunlight coming through the windows and his bulk contrasts with the delicate sway of bundled herbs tied to the rafters. There's a healing gash along his cheek, thin and pink; he has a reputation of starting trouble, and is always bruised or scabbed when Peter sees him.

"Here for more healing salve?" Peter asks, already turning to retrieve two jars of said paste from his stocks. After a short contemplative pause, he also retrieves a small vial of tonic stoppered on his worktable.

"You know me well." Wade's voice and grin are irreverent. "Want to know why I need it?"

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[calciseptinefic]

then out of nowhere, somebody comes and hits you with an ooh la la la, ooh la la la, ooh la la la, ooh

Marvel || Wade Wilson/Peter Parker || Part 12 notes: Title from 'Mad Sounds' by Arctic Monkeys. Many thanks to babygato for her beta on this chapter. this fic is also available on ao3 warnings: none

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← previous: Part 11

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Wade’s head is a mess as Peter tells the story of him and the other Wade.

It begins the way Wade already knows it does: Peter was fifteen when he was bitten by a radioactive spider and got his unique powers. It was a thrill, at first; he was strong when he had once been weak, and the possibilities of being someone more than poor, puny Peter Parker went to his head. Doing good for nothing more than the sake of helping others did not cross his mind until his inaction led to the death of his uncle.

"I was angry," Peter tells them softly. "One of the people I loved the most in the world was suddenly gone and the man who did it was still... out there. Sure, I stopped purse snatchers and returned stolen bicycles and got the occasional cat out of a tree, but I was definitely looking for that man. Looking for trouble. And I found both, eventually."

Wade tries to listen. Tries to pay attention and tries to follow along. Tries to imagine Peter younger and smaller, shaking with guilt and rage as he confronted the man who murdered his uncle, tries to empathize with how easy it would be to kill—not just because Peter had the proportional strength and agility of a spider, but because killing was easy when revenge felt like justice.

"I didn't know the guy was involved in bigger things, and I got in over my head," Peter explains. "Sixteen and already on Kingpin's radar. They put a hit out on me and... well..."

Peter is telling Wade this story for a reason. To apologize, maybe, or to explain why he kept the truth from Wade. He sits on the edge of the couch cushion, folded hands tucked between his knees, and tells them that, in his universe, Wade Wilson is a mercenary infamously known as Deadpool. He was contracted by the mob to bring Spiderman to them, dead or alive, and when he accepted the job, he didn't know that Spiderman was a teenager. He knew, several hours after, because Peter didn't realize that the low level buzzing in his brain was a warning that someone was following him; he just went home, tired from a long day of classes and patrol, and collapsed onto his bed while Deadpool watched him from the opposite rooftop.

But this story doesn’t make Wade feel any better or any less lied to.

In fact, it might be making him feel worse.

"I hated him, at first," Peter says, smiling sweetly down at his ring. "I thought he was crude and obnoxious and a little holier-than-thou than warranted, given that he was a mercenary for hire. But under that he was funny and sincere and always tried his best. Life had dealt him one of the shittiest hands it could and yet there he was, protecting a stupid teenager from the mob, buying me tacos and keeping me safe despite the danger it put him in."

"A big marshmallow," rePete says, turning his gaze to Wade.

"Don't look at me," Wade says, shaking his head. "I’m not him."

"Yeah, sure." Peter rolls his eyes. "That's why you immediately let me sleep on your couch. Fed me. Sheltered me. That's why you let me drag you all over New York even though you didn't believe me."

Surprised, Wade says, "You knew?"

"What, that you didn't believe me?" Peter snorts. "Come on, Wade. I've known you for ten years. I know what you look like when you're analyzing a situation from every angle—"

Ten years.

Ten years.

For Wade, it's the last straw. For the past two days, he's been hyper-vigilant: trying to keep Peter safe while constantly running into wall after wall after wall; trying to ignore a surge of inappropriate feelings every time Peter smiled at him; trying to wrap his brain around the reality of alternate universes and super powers and magic. All he’s been doing is trying and he’s exhausted to learn that most of it was for nothing. The sudden loss of that stress leaves a vacuum behind, an emptiness that's easily filled by his confused and aimless anger. He interrupts Peter with a snarl, slamming a fist down on the coffee table with a loud bang.

"But you don't," Wade snaps viciously. "You don't know me. You can't know me. You just—you broke into my apartment, and I tried to shoot you, for fuck's sake, and you decided, 'Oh, this man is my husband in my universe, so that's alright'?" Wade's voice has steadily risen to a shout, and his throat tight with the force of it, face hot. "You made all these blind assumptions about who you thought I was, Pete! Do you even know how fucking stupid that is? I could have killed you!"

Wade knows he looks terrifying—teeth bared in frustration, scar stark against his skin, shoulders rounded for a fight—but neither Peter seems to be scared. They're just staring at him with their big doe eyes, mouths pinched into identical frowns, clearly upset but not at him.

For him.

"Fuck you both," Wade snarls, getting to his feet. It's hard beneath the weight of their combined stare, but he needs to get away. Not out of the apartment but just—away. Mindlessly, Wade snatches the dirty plates and utensils off the coffee table before storming into the kitchen; he dumps everything into the sink, cranks on the hot water and squeezes out some dish soap. There's no real division between Wade and the Peters except for the kitchen island, but having his back turned to them is enough.

You're a good man, Wade Wilson, Peter had said. In every universe.

A big marshmallow on the inside, rePete had said.

You make it very hard to love you, Vanessa had cried.

Wade waits until the sink is full to turn off the tap, suds threatening to spill over the sides. When he dips his hands in, the water is scalding; he hisses at the prickling sensation, but doesn't pull out. The key is acclimation. Soon, his body will adjust, and he'll forget that it's supposed to hurt.

The apartment is quiet as Wade starts on the veritable mountain of dishes that has been building up for the past two days. He grabs the green scouring pad and begins to scrub, and scrub, and scrub at crusted-on food and coffee stains. Having something to do with his hands helps—he’s always been a doer—but as his fury seeps from him, he begins to feel the soreness of resentment and exhaustion.

Peter comes over when most of Wade's anger has faded. He pulls a clean towel out of a nearby drawer and silently starts to take the washed dishes from Wade, drying them and putting them away. There is no hesitation as he does so; maybe he and the other Wade—Peter's husband—keep them in the same places.

"Why didn't you tell me?" Wade asks as the dishes dwindle steadily down. He’s calm enough now to ask the question that sits at the root of his sudden rage, but it still leaves his mouth like an accusation. "That you're married to... other me."

Peter finishes wiping down the stainless steel pan in his hands. Puts it back. Waits for Wade to give him another dish to dry and huffs when Wade purposefully keeps his hands submerged in the water.

"A few reasons," Peter admits begrudgingly. "At first, it was because I didn't want you to treat me differently or feel obligated to help me. You were already being so nice to me—flirting with me—and I didn't want to come out and say, hey! Guess what! You're my husband in my universe!" Peter sighs. "You were already giving me so much that it felt... selfish, to want more."

"You totally could have," Wade tells Peter, handing him a wet plate. "I was already invested."

"But that's why I couldn't, you know?" Peter wipes the plate more thoroughly than necessary before putting it in the cabinet. "You had already decided to help me and I know that when you decide to do something, you give maximum effort. Not telling you was also a way to remind myself that you aren't my husband, because you two are honestly so similar. I'm sorry I flirted with you constantly, but—"

"Wait, what?" Wade frowns, turning his attention away from the other plate in his hands to Peter. "You were flirting with me?"

"Since I got here," Peter drawls. "Thanks for noticing."

From the couch, rePete stifles a snort of highly amused laughter.

"Huh," Wade says. "I thought you were just comfortable with me."

"I am comfortable with you," Peter says, "because I've been married to my Wade for five years and—before that—we dated on and off since I graduated high school. And I know you don't want to hear it, but you're really not that different. Not in the ways that matter."

Wade gives Peter the last plate, letting him dry it and put it away, before saying, "I'm sorry I shouted." Staring down into the sink, Wade watches the suds break slowly on the surface of the water. "It's been a long two days."

"Tell me about it," Peter commiserates, bumping his hip gently against Wade's. It's a mirror of the movement rePete did earlier, and any hard feelings Wade might have still harbored for being compared to his other self vanishes. He can't fault Peter for drawing parallels when he does the same thing for Peter and rePete. Wade knows and appreciates that they're individual beings with unique experiences, but it's impossible not to acknowledge their similarities.

Argument settled, Wade and Peter fall into a comfortable silence as they finish the dishes. Or—that's what would have happened, if Peter's head didn't snap up, suddenly and brutally alert. Wade puts the mug he was holding out back into the sink.

"Pete?"

"Do you feel that?" Peter asks stiffly. He steps away from the sink and turns in a slow circle, eyes darting to every corner of Wade's apartment. "My spidey-sense is going crazy, but I can't pinpoint where it's coming from."

Wade doesn't feel anything. He briefly closes his eyes to try and use his own intuition to feel what Peter's feeling. Nothing. He opens his eyes, and is about to tell Peter as much, when a huge wave of not-right washes over him. It makes every hair on his body stand up, gooseflesh breaking out on his arms and the back of his neck.

"Baldy?" Wade gasps.

"No," Peter answers, still looking around frantically. "Still in the tub."

"Then what—"

A roar just beyond the edge of audibility forms from no direction. It is more sensation than sound, a mute noise that makes Wade think of damp construction paper being slowly torn down the middle, but infinitely magnified. It doesn't hurt—not in the way pain hurts—but the nerves in Wade's body are misfiring as something grows larger and larger between the atoms in the air.

"Umm, guys?" rePete all but yelps, clambering off the couch. He points a shaking finger at a thin shimmer sliced into an empty space by the wall. "What the hell is that?"

Both Peter and Wade dash into the living room. Hands still damp from washing dishes, Wade reaches under the couch to yank out the glock and spare magazine he has strapped to the underside of the frame; he slaps the magazine in place and unlocks the safety, lining the sight up with the steadily growing disturbance in his living room. The bigger it gets, the more unignorable that sensation of not-right becomes, a nauseating drone that settles into the hollows of Wade’s teeth and bones.

"Stay behind me," Wade barks at rePete, who is already behind him, fingers clutched in the fabric of Wade's sweater.

"Don't have to tell me twice," rePete says.

Next to Wade, Peter has shifted into a ready stance, his attention focused solely on the strange phenomenon occurring before them. The vague shimmer distorting the air becomes a roil and begins to spark. The small specks of light flare brightly, briefly, before breaking away harmlessly and disappearing. They are like the ones produced when Baldy used his magic, though these are warm gold instead of sickly green.

"Another spell?" Wade asks.

"Yeah," Peter answers. He’s still crouched, ready to attack or defend, yet the tightness in his shoulders have loosened. "But—Wade—I think these are—"

The shimmering cut in the air explodes without sound or heat, cutting Peter off. RePete yelps, moving completely behind Wade, as the golden sparks multiply to a near blinding shine. They whirl madly in a wide circle and—within it—there is an alleyway, empty and dim.

For a moment, nothing.

Then—

A tall, broad man steps through. His huge boots make no sound as they touch the floor. He's dressed in red and black leathers from head to toe, wearing a full cowl mask and a tactical belt; he’s armed to the teeth, carrying enough weaponry to take out a small squadron, including small knives and explosives and a pair of katanas. He also has a huge gun in each hand, the metal gleaming, and he radiates so much wrath and ill-intent that Wade's finger twitches on the trigger of his pistol. In Wade's experience, situations like these end better if he shoots first. Wade might have gone through with it too if—at the same time the man stepped through the glowing circle—Peter didn't step between them, arms flung out wide, and shout,

"Wade! Not an enemy!"

In tandem, Wade and the masked man who stepped through the portal point their guns at the floor.

What the fuck? Wade thinks at the same time the man in red-and-black asks, "Pete? Are you—"

"I'm okay," Peter answers quickly. His voice is high and thin, like it was last night, before he began to cry. "Wade, I'm—"

Wade watches as the other man holsters both guns and opens his arms. Peter lets out a single, choked sob—his only hesitation—then launches himself across the living room, over the coffee table, and into the man's arms. The man doesn't even stagger as Peter’s full weight hits him. He just holds Peter easily, wrapping his bulky arms around Peter's torso and tucking his face into the crook of Peter's neck. For a moment, they just hold each other tightly, relief evident in every line of their bodies.

Shock replaces every single one of Wade's thoughts. He knows that he's missing something—something important—but the past hour has left him emotionally exhausted. That fatigue combined with the sight of Peter clinging to some weirdo who just came through a magic portal is currently putting a serious strain on his mental processing power.

"God, baby boy, I'm so glad we found you," the man says, his low and raspy voice sounding as though his vocal chords went through a rock tumbler. One of his big, gloved hands runs up and down the length of Peter's exposed spine. "I fucking missed you."

"I missed you more," Peter burbles back, voice thick with unshed tears.

"I missed you mostest—"

"Break it up," interjects a third, new voice.

Wade automatically swings his glock back up and points it at the second person coming through the portal. This man is handsome, in an evil magician sort of way, with a pointed goatee and flashes of pure white at his temples. He's wearing dark blue robes of extremely ambiguous ethnicity and a crimson cloak. The long length of the cloak flutters gently in a non-existent wind while the man literally floats further into Wade's apartment, his feet hovering several inches off the floor.

"Strange," Peter greets. He lifts his head from the shoulder of the man holding him to do so, but otherwise stays put. "Good to see you too."

Strange. Wade's tired brain restarts with a twitch. Stephen Strange.

The Sorcerer Supreme from another universe.

Levitating in Wade's apartment in Queens.

"Holy shit," Wade says, lowering his gun. Every bizarre thing that happened within the last ninety seconds shifts into a frame of perfect understanding. His stare swings away from Strange's face—seriously, that perfectly arched eyebrow is a paid actor—to Peter and the man holding him. To his alternate self. Who... winks at him.

"Hey there, handsome," Deadpool croons. "First time?"

"Wade," Peter warns, finally untangling his limbs from his husband's body. "Be nice."

"I was being nice," Deadpool mumbles as he lets go of Peter just enough so Peter can slide to the floor. They're still pressed together, bodies a line from chest to thigh, Peter's curls brushing Deadpool's chin. "I was being complimentary, even! That hair: swoon-worthy! Those eyebrows: smoldering! Clear skin highlighted by a dashing, debonair scar—"

Peter elbows Deadpool in the ribs. Hard. Wade winces in sympathy—Peter's elbows are dangerous, and he has the bruises to prove it.

"As charming as this all is," Strange interrupts, raising his voice as he floats further into Wade's living room, "this portal will not hold indefinitely. We are here to bring Peter back to his universe. The sooner he returns, the more likely we will be able to prevent the untold tragedy of an Incursion, a world-ending cataclysm that will end the lives of trillions—"

"Christ," Wade mutters, resisting the urge to scrub at his tired eyes. "He talks Shakespeare worse than Baldy."

Behind Wade, rePete adds dryly, "It must be part of the core curriculum at wizard school."

RePete is still largely hidden behind Wade, but he's gotten to his tip-toes to peer over Wade's shoulder at the scene unfolding before them; he has both hands on Wade's back, using Wade as a balance. When Wade giggles at his commentary, Deadpool's head snaps back towards them, spotting rePete for the first time.

"Oh. Em. Gee." The white eyes of Deadpool's mask widen and he covers his mouth with one hand dramatically. "Is that... Petey-Pie, take two?"

"That's offensive," rePete says. "How do you know I'm not the original?"

The noise Deadpool releases is caught between what a human throat is capable of and the shriek of a deflating balloon. His head swings from Peter—who is pinching the bridge of his nose—and rePete, who takes a tentative half-step forward and waves.

"I'm pretty sure I've died again," Deadpool says in disbelief, one hand clutching at his suit over his heart. "Not one but two baby boys? Both of them sassy and sexy? There's no way I'm sneaking past the pearly gates to get into that kind of heaven, so maybe I'm hallucinating again?"

"Alternate universe, Wade," Peter reminds his husband gently.

"Right." Deadpool straightens, one arm still slung around Peter's shoulders. The wide and charming grin he dons is the same one Wade uses when he wants to fight or fuck. Wade doesn't know what's more disturbing: the fact that he and Deadpool share mannerisms or that Deadpool can emote clearly through his mask. "This might be a little off the cuff, but… You guys come here often?"

What, Wade thinks as rePete chirps, "Nah, first time," and Peter simultaneously hisses, "Wade, no—"

"I did not open an interdimensional portal for you to proposition your alternate selves," the Sorcerer Supreme says icily. He floats further into the living room and holds out his arms, palms upturned and spitting more golden sparks in a display of power. It would be impressive if his shin didn't accidentally bump the corner of Wade's coffee table. "Ahh—goddamnit—"

Wade and Deadpool burst into identical giggles. Strange drops to the floor and glares at them, attempting to straighten his still fluttering cloak. The cloak must have a mind of its own because it continues to roll in gentle waves despite Strange's tugging.

"Come on, funky magic man," Deadpool wheedles. "An orgy of this caliber is like, a once in a lifetime opportunity! Or—wait. I dimension hopped in December and met my zombie counterpart, so I guess it's more like a once in a yearly occurrence?" Deadpool shrugs. "Didn't fuck, though. That guy was even uglier than I am, sheesh."

"Be that as it may," Strange interjects, raising his voice above Deadpool's continued muttering. "We have come to retrieve you, Peter, before your presence in this universe causes permanent damage. The sooner we return, the smaller the ripple effects will be."

"What about the guy in my bathtub? I don't know how much longer he's gonna remain unconscious and I really don't know how to handle non-metaphorical Death Eaters." Wade asks, jerking a thumb over his shoulder. "He's from your universe too, isn't he? Don't you need to take him?"

"Bathtub?" Strange repeats, as though that was the weirdest detail in Wade's sentence and not the 'from your universe' bit.

"Yeeeeah," Wade says slowly. "Do you not have bathtubs in your universe?"

Strange opens his mouth to answer. He's clearly frustrated—Wade can see it in the downward angle of his eyebrows and the tightness of his mouth—but he does not let Wade goad him further. He simply stops himself and takes a deep, calming breath, and says faux serenely, "We have bathtubs."

Next to Wade, rePete does a very bad job at turning his laugh into a cough.

"We had to incapacitate him, earlier," Peter explains to Strange. "He attacked Peter, thinking he was you in disguise, and after we knocked him out, we brought him here. His magic is kinda like yours, but green. And not nearly as strong."

"Perversions of the natural forces used by magic manifest as different colors." Strange looks past Wade and rePete to the bathroom, the door partially ajar. "Purple and red are the most common, derived respectively from the teachings of the Dormammu or Cththon. Green is indicative of the Order of the Forsaken Ones, who were cast out by the first Sorcerer Supreme, Agamotto, for their heresy." He pauses for dramatic effect, though the gravity of his words is ruined by his still moving cape, the red cloth jerking around like the tail of a dying fish. "It is… lucky, then, that you fell into this universe."

Peter tilts his head to the side and asks, "Considering?"

"This world, Earth-82467, is not devoid of magic. No world is. But it is hidden here, buried deep and far, and incredibly hard to access. In our universe, a member of the Forsaken Ones would be a formidable opponent. Here, they would only be able to access a fraction of their usual power." Strange looks down at his hands; Wade can see that the fingers are scarred and trembling. "Yet since I am bound by different laws than the Forsaken Ones, it is possible that—in this reality—I would have been unable to defeat them."

"So you're saying that my precious Petey Pie saved your ass," Deadpool sing-songs.

"By accident and happenstance, yes," Strange snaps. Then, to Peter, he dips his head in acknowledgement. "But I am not ungrateful. Thank you."

"You're welcome," Peter returns.

Clearly done with the awkwardness of gratitude, Strange crosses the living room threshold, passes Wade and rePete, and enters the bathroom. With his back turned, it's difficult to see what he is doing, but the large, expanding motions of his arms are reminiscent of the way Baldy spellcast. Warm light fills the small space—a literal sparkle of magic—and the webbed-up body of the Forsaken One rises out of the tub. When Strange exits the bathroom and heads back towards the portal, the body bobs along behind him; both Wade and rePete take a step back from it, perturbed.

"Strange," Peter says.

The Sorcerer Supreme pauses at the threshold of the portal, cocking an eyebrow.

"Can we have five minutes?" asks Peter. When Strange hesitates, Peter adds, "I'll keep it PG. Promise."

Strange's gaze flickers from Peter's face to Deadpool. Deadpool kicks up a foot and flattens a hand under his chin; add in a halo and a set of baby angel wings, and he'd be the leather-wearing, katana-wielding picture of innocence. It isn't fooling anyone.

"Five minutes," Strange concedes. "And if you are not back in our dimension by that time—"

"I thought we were keeping it PG?" says Deadpool. "I mean, the fic rating is M for Mature Audiences, so it could have adult content. [ Proceed ] or [ Go Back ]? Myself, I'm always logged in on multiple devices—"

"I will never understand you," Strange hisses. Then—with a dramatic whirl hindered by asynchronous twitching of his cloak—the Sorcerer Supreme and the unconscious form of the Forsaken Dipshit cross the portal back into their original dimension.

"We bonded," Deadpool says into the silence.

RePete barks a laugh. "Does bonding mean something different in your universe or…"

"No, it definitely means the same thing," Peter says. "It just means something else to Wade."

"I've been thrown out a window three times in the past twenty-four hours," Deadpool tells them cheerfully. "One time, the window was actually open first!"

Wade legitimately does not know if Deadpool is joking or not. He himself has been defenestrated a half dozen times, and none of them have been fun overtures of friendship. Wade considers asking, but before he can even open his mouth, Peter reaches up towards his husband's masked cheek and gently says, "Wade."

Deadpool tilts his head downwards.

"We don't have a lot of time," Peter says. "And I want to talk to Wade before we have to go."

"Leaving me for the better looking version, baby boy?" Deadpool teases. "I thought you liked the forgotten slice of salami that is my face."

"Forever my favorite kind of meat," Peter grins. Then, more seriously, "Without commentary, please. It's important."

"Ugh, fine," Deadpool whines. "The things I do for that ass."

Peter rises onto his tiptoes and presses a kiss against Deadpool's mouth. It's a small gesture, but it speaks to the years they've been together; it's the kind of kiss that can only be given after it has been given a thousand times. It should make Wade jealous, as the other things concerning Peter and his spouse have made him jealous, yet it does not. Seeing this kiss only makes Wade ache.

Falling back to his heels, Peter and Deadpool separate for the first time since the portal opened. Peter's hand skims down Deadpool's arm, a reassurance, before he turns around and walks towards Wade. Over the top of Peter's head, Wade makes eye contact with Deadpool; Deadpool smiles and gives Wade a thumbs up. He's startlingly blasé about the fact that he's interacting with an alternate version of himself, though Wade supposes that, after a while, one gets used to the weirdness.

"Kitchen?" Peter suggests.

It's as good a place as any, and Wade follows Peter back to where they had been minutes before. The sink is still filled with water, though most of the suds have dissolved, leaving behind a murky sheen. In the living room, Deadpool has approached rePete; whatever conversation they're having is no more than a low, undecipherable murmur.

"So." Wade rubs the back of his neck, unable to look at Peter directly for fear of what his face will give away. "I guess this is goodbye—"

Peter makes the same high, choked noise he made when Deadpool came through the portal, and flings his arms around Wade's shoulders, face tucked into Wade's throat. Wade immediately wraps his arms around Peter's waist, closes his eyes and dips his own head down, hiding himself in Peter's embrace. Wade hasn't been hugged like this in years. Not since Vanessa. He feels a small part of him break as he hugs back, uncaring that he's holding Peter too tight.

"I'm so glad you broke into my apartment," Wade tells him, voice low. He can feel the hot threat of tears building behind his eyes. "Pete—"

"I know, Wade," Peter whispers. "I know."

For a minute, they say nothing. They just stand there and hold each other. Wade—who has a reputation for being a chatterbox even in the most dire of situations—finds himself unable to speak. He wants to tell Peter everything he feels roiling in his chest, but articulating those feelings into the right words is impossible. It shouldn't be. Wade's only known Peter for two days. Two long, odd days in which he's done things he's never done before: he's shot at a shadow; made a spider-themed superhero some pancakes; attempted to read several scientific papers about space-time; tried to track down the most powerful sorcerer in the universe; participated in a fight with a wizard from another dimension; met an alternate version of himself; and found himself here, back in his apartment where it all started, saying good-bye to the man who changed his life.

"I'm never gonna see you again, am I?" Wade croaks.

"Probably not," Peter says. His voice is as gentle as Wade has ever heard it, but each syllable still feels like a blow. Wade knew, conceptually at least, that he would have to eventually say goodbye to Peter; he just didn't think it would be so soon, and the sense of sudden loss swells in his chest.

"It's just…" Wade swallows. "You made me feel… less alone."

Peter inhales shakily. Loosens his arms. Falls back just far enough so he can reach up with both hands and cradle Wade's jaw. His thumbs are under Wade's still closed eyes, brushing away the tears that have managed to escape. The tenderness of his touch is a contrast to the crushing weight of Wade's loneliness; Peter's presence had kept the worst of it away and, for the first time in years, Wade had been unburdened and happy, if not carefree. To go back to the way things were even forty-eight hours ago feels cruel.

"Wade," Peter says, smudging more of Wade's tears from his cheeks. "Baby, please. Look at me."

Helpless to do anything but obey, Wade opens his eyes. Peter's own eyes are glassy and his mouth trembles as he attempts a watery smile.

"I'm so happy I got to meet you," Peter tells him. "Both again, and for the first time. But we both know that I don't belong here. This isn't my universe, and I need to go home."

"I know." Wade's hands briefly tighten around Peter's waist in contradiction. "I just… wish we had more time. I'm not ready to be alone again."

"You won't be." Peter's hands slide further back, fingers overlapping on the nap of Wade's neck, and give a reassuring squeeze. "I don't know if you noticed, but this universe's version of me is standing in your living room, flirting with my husband, who is another version of you. And maybe it's corny of me, but I like to think that in every universe that has a me and a you, we're… together."

"That is corny," Wade admits. "But I like to think that too."

Peter smiles again, and it's more solid than the last one. He says, "It will be okay," and slowly releases Wade. A wild thought tears through Wade's brain—what if he grabbed Peter and just never let go—but he knows Peter's right. No matter how much Wade wants him to stay, Peter needs to return to his universe. Wade's hands slide from Peter's body and fall limp to his sides.

"Five minutes, Peter," Deadpool says, raising his voice slightly.

"Alright," Peter answers. He touches Wade's cheek one more time—the side of his face that's marred by his scar—then heads back to the living room. Wade follows as though he's being tugged along by an invisible string. He watches unblinkingly as Peter gathers the folded remnants of his Spiderman costume from underneath the coffee table, bundling the red and blue spandex beneath one arm, then goes to stand by his husband. The portal shines golden around them, illuminating their bodies in warmth.

"Got everything?" Deadpool asks, holding out a gloved hand.

"Yeah." Peter slips his hand into Deadpool's. "Let's go home."

Both of them look back as they go through the portal. Deadpool gives a wink and a jaunty salute—the same thing Wade would have done, if their roles were switched—while Peter gives a small wave. He says, "Thank you for everything, Wade," and then—

.

And then they're gone.

.

The portal fades without fanfare. The circle shrinks, cutting off the bridge between their dimensions, and the golden sparks of magic fade to nonexistence. All that remains is Wade's familiar apartment and the two people who stayed.

For a long moment, Wade stares at the negative space where the portal had been. His glimpse into the world beyond and the lives it contained feels like a metaphor. It probably is a metaphor—something about love, something about chance, something about possibility, blah blah blah—but Wade doesn't want to think about it right now. Right now, it still hurts. Hurts not because he lost it, but because it happened. It's a clean hurt, though, the kind Wade knows he'll get over once enough time has passed; the kind of hurt that will be eventually forgotten, and replaced by fondness and nostalgia.

"So," rePete says gently, walking over to Wade.

Burying his hurt for later, Wade scrubs the last of the damp from his face and turns to look at rePete. No, that's not fair. Wade turns to look at this universe's Peter Benjamin Parker. Peter, who doesn't trust Wade like other Peter did. Peter, who doesn't know Wade like other Peter did. Peter, who likes Wade enough to flirt with him, but remains both a stranger and a potential future.

"So," Wade echoes.

They stare at one another silently. Assessing. Acknowledging. Wade's seen how in love Other-Wade and other-Peter are, and he can admit that he wants that. He wants it so badly he can feel it like a knife that's been left in him for too long, deep and aching and bleeding sluggishly. But as much as he wants to be known—like he is, in another universe, by another Peter—Wade is completely, soul-shakingly terrified. He's been alone for years. Not just in the three years since he and Vanessa broke up, but in the years before that:

As a dishonorably discharged fuck-up taking odd jobs to meet ends.

As a soldier who learned a million ways to kill someone but couldn't form a single genuine emotional connection.

As a snotty teen who broke rules and had his bones broken.

As a scared kid who missed his mom.

Wade wants to be somebody to someone. And he knows he might have that with the Peter in front of him, if he can take this small leap of faith, if he can put in the work, if he can allow himself to be vulnerable enough to be known. It's not like it was with the other Peter—who already trusted him, knew him—but if it means having something like that? If it means not being alone?

Wade can be brave.

"Okay, elephant in the room," Wade says, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. His eyes slide from Peter's face to the coffee table, still a little off-kilter from where Strange had slammed his shin into the corner. "But our alternate universe selves are like, super in love and happily married, and frankly, I'm jealous of those assholes. And I'm not saying that we're obligated to... follow in their footsteps, because I know that I'm not exactly like that Wade Wilson and that you're not exactly like that Peter Parker, but honestly? Cards on the table?" Wade gives a small, choked laugh. "You're overwhelmingly the kind of guy I go for—in multiple universes, it seems—and I would absolutely kick myself if I didn't at least try to get your number."

"Are you... asking me out on a date?" Peter asks, his tone vaguely unsure.

"Uh, badly, but yes." Wade takes a deep breath. Squares his shoulders. Looks up at Peter, with his big doe eyes and his freckles and his thick brown curls, and says, "I, Wade Wilson of Earth-867-5309 or whatever the fuck that wizard man said, am formally asking you, Peter Parker, out for an awkward dinner of greasy wings and cheap beer, whichever night you are available."

Peter bites his bottom lip and tilts his head to the side, and asks, "Whichever night?"

He still sounds unsure. Wade tries very hard not to deflate and jokes, "Too desperate?"

"Well, it's only..." Peter checks his watch. "Four in the afternoon, and we did just eat, but I could really go for that beer. This afternoon has been an absolute clusterfuck, and I don't want to process it until I'm alone in my shower."

"Gonna have a little existential crisis?"

"Medium sized one, probably." Peter drags a hand through his hair before grinning at Wade. There's a mischievous twist to it that makes Wade go weak at the knees. "Anyway, there's a pub near my place that does three-dollar domestic pitchers until six. Unless… you want to wait?"

"Fuck that," Wade replies. "Let's go get crunk on cheap beer and make awkward small talk. Talk about the weather. Talk about our exes. Religion, politics—literally anything but the multiverse, please."

"Agreed. The multiverse is definitely third date material."

Third date. Just the suggestion of it makes Wade smile so wide that his scar hurts. It makes him think that Peter wants this as much as he does, that Peter saw the same thing Wade saw when their counterparts came together. It won't be easy—no strong relationship is built without testing its foundations—but it will be worth it. Wade and Peter have seen that.

"Oh, and Wade?" Peter says. "One more thing before we go."

"What is it?" Wade asks, raising an eyebrow. "It's too late for take-backsies, you know."

"Not a take-backsie," Peter assures.

"Okay then." Wade spreads out his arms wide, as though daring Peter to give it his best shot. "Lay it on me, Parker."

Peter grins. Takes a step forward. Both of his hands slide around Wade's neck, pulling him down, and then Peter is kissing him, firm and sure. Surprise keeps Wade still for less than a second—but surprise cannot hold against the rush of happiness and giddy delight that quickly follows. Wade tilts his head to deepen the kiss and his fingers come up to clutch at Peter's denim clad hips; he can hear the way Peter's breath hitches, feel the way Peter smiles against his mouth. It's their first kiss but, somehow, it's like they've done it before. Like the kiss is an infinite constant within infinite possibilities.

And as they fall further into one another—standing together in the apartment where it all began, and then continued—Wade decides he can live with those odds.

.

end.

.

[calciseptinefic]

then out of nowhere, somebody comes and hits you with an ooh la la la, ooh la la la, ooh la la la, ooh

Marvel || Wade Wilson/Peter Parker || Part 11 notes: Title from 'Mad Sounds' by Arctic Monkeys. Many thanks to babygato for her beta on this chapter. this fic is also available on ao3 warnings: none

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← previous: Part 10

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As soon as Wade and rePete turn the corner, and are away from the scrutiny of their unintentional audience, Wade slides his arm off rePete's shoulders. Wade is a big guy—especially compared to the Peters—and he doesn't want rePete to feel as though he's being physically strong-armed into going to Wade's apartment as well as metaphorically. The less trapped he feels, the better.

"That was good acting," Wade comments as he adjusts the Thai take-out bag, settling the straps in the crook of his elbow. He also tucks his other hand into the pocket of his joggers, away from rePete. "Natural talent?"

"I've run a lot of lines over the years," rePete mumbles. Then, more clearly, "Do you think they bought it? The whole 'we're filming a movie' schtick was barely an excuse. Uh, no offense."

"None taken, baby boy." Wade shrugs. "And yeah, I think we're fine. People tend to believe what they want to believe—I just nudged them in the direction of an incorrect one. Plus, this is New York. Most people mind their own business when it comes to weird shit."

"This is a little more than weird." RePete looks at Wade. Takes in his size and his scar, and frowns more deeply than before. "I can't believe I'm about to ask this, because it's not like you can't lie to me, but... this isn't some weird men-in-black situation, is it? You are actually taking me to your apartment, and not to some underground military bunker where you keep me indefinitely for the rest of my life? Or like, mind wipe me and leave me a drooling, brainless mess?"

Wade almost laughs. Almost. But he doesn't, because he knows that rePete is expressing genuine concern beneath the dry tone, and laughing would be the worst thing he could do. Wade covers it by clearing his throat, and says, "In the spirit of full disclosure, I've only been in this for two days longer than you have and, honestly, even the Canadian military didn't want me. So, sorry to disappoint, but there shall be no secret agency shenanigans. We really are just going to my place."

"Wait wait wait," rePete says quickly, slurring the syllables together. He stops on the sidewalk, his free hand rising, palm up in a universal 'hold on a second' gesture. "What do you mean, two days?"

"It's been a crazy-ass rollercoaster ride," Wade admits. "But yeah. Two days. Peter broke into my place only a couple nights ago, being all spider-y and spewing stuff about the multiverse." Wade smiles as he thinks of Peter sitting at his kitchen island, shoving pancake after pancake into his mouth. "It was pretty obvious from the get go that something weird was going on, but I've been operating under the assumption that he was a genetic experiment on the run from the shadow government. Then—well—Baldy showed up and..."

"Magic," rePete extrapolates.

"Magic," Wade confirms.

That's the short and long of it. It's why Wade is being so honest with rePete and why he isn't actively watching for a tail. The moment Baldy showed up and started shooting lightning bolts made of acid out of his hands, all of Wade's theories and assumptions had gone out the proverbial window. He hadn't whole-heartedly believed Peter's assertions that he was from a different universe until he couldn't deny it any longer. It's just like Wade told rePete; people believe what they want to believe, and up until fifteen minutes ago, it was easier for Wade to believe that Peter wasn't from another dimension.

"I have so many questions I don't even know where to start," rePete says, pushing up his glasses to pinch the bridge of his nose. "Mathematically, it's been proven that parallel universes exist, so that's not a surprise, per say, but..."

"What, you weren't expecting to meet yourself on this fine Thursday afternoon?"

"Or any afternoon. Ever."

"Yeah, I don't envy you that," Wade says emphatically. "Peter says he knows me in his universe which is fucking insane, especially now that I know that it's true and not like, some sort of trauma-induced delusion."

"That's..." rePete trails off, adjusting his glasses so they sit high on his nose. "Huh."

"What?"

"You're a nice guy." RePete tilts his head back and looks at Wade with a sly grin. "Some rando you don't know breaks into your apartment, and you decide to help him despite the red flags? Most people would have just called the cops or carted him to the nearest mental facility."

"Cops give me rashes. Loony bins too."

"Still nice."

"Nice?" Wade gripes. He hides the fact that rePete's statement has him flustered by starting back down the sidewalk. "You've known me for fifteen minutes and you're already slandering my totally badass character."

"Oh, I'm not denying that you're totally badass," rePete says, falling into step with Wade. "That flying jump kick earlier was very Bruce Lee of you. But being badass and being a big marshmallow on the inside are not mutually exclusive concepts."

"Marshmallow?"

"Uh-huh. Big one."

Wade's hands clench. He might have been able to recover from the deadly combination of rePete's cute smile and sincere compliment if—at that very moment—rePete did not bump his hip into Wade's.

But that's exactly what rePete does and—

And Jesus Christ on a pogostick, Wade thinks. He's flirting with me.

Wade's step does not falter, but his brain grinds to an absolute halt. This is exactly why Wade had barely let himself consider the idea that there might be more than one Peter, that his universe would have an analog of the Peter who broke into his apartment. Because even if Peter belonged to another world and another person—which he was and he did—then maybe—maybe—Wade would have a chance with the other Peter—

Except just as Peter is married to MJ, rePete is married to Mary Jane. Wade's seen the documentation. Sure, rePete isn't wearing a ring—Wade checked—and sure, it didn't seem as though a woman lived alongside rePete in his apartment. But Wade can think of a half-dozen reasons why rePete might not be wearing a ring and why it seems as though rePete lives alone. Mary Jane is an actress, after all; she might be on location in Hollywood or Vancouver or some other film friendly city, and maybe she's a minimalist who took all her stuff with her.

Besides. It's not like any of this really matters. He needs to focus on getting Peter back home—which is looking more and more like an impossibility—and right now, he also has an unconscious wizard from an alternate universe tied up in his bathtub. How does one even go about dealing with rogue wizards from another world?

Priorities, Wilson, Wade tells himself. Focus.

Luckily for Wade's fraying sanity, his apartment is less than two blocks away and rePete is silent for the remainder of their short journey. They walk up several flights of stairs—as the elevator hasn't worked in months—and after Wade unlocks his door, he holds it open for rePete. RePete steps inside and sets the bag of take-out on the floor to untie his chucks.

"Mi casa es su casa," Wade says, removing his own boots before taking the Thai to the living room coffee table. The plastic bags crinkle as he sets them down. "I'll be back in a second. Just gonna check on Peter and my other, less welcome houseguest."

The bathroom door is partially ajar and the light is turned on. Wade can hear the whispering sounds of movement, indicating that Peter beat them home, and sticks his head inside. Peter is standing next to the shower with his back to the door, arms moving in wide, repetitive motions as he webs up the Forsaken One.

"Pete?" Wade asks. "You okay?"

"Hey, Wade," Peter answers. His mask is still on. "Almost done."

'Almost done' looks like something straight out of a horror movie. Baldy is lying in the tub, his limbs completely immobilized; he's wrapped in layers and layers of webbing like a fat horsefly who's been caught in a spider-silk coffin and saved as a midnight snack. Peter has also torn off strips of Baldy's purple robes, creating an impromptu blindfold and gag.

"Damn." Wade gives a low whistle as Peter finishes. "He ain't getting out of that anytime soon."

"Better safe than sorry," Peter says. "He spellcast with just his fingers when we fought, which I haven't seen before; Strange always has to use his hands, but that might be because of his injur—ahh—shit—"

Peter has taken a step back and bumped his leg into the edge of the vanity counter, where one of the acid spells has eaten through the jeans. He hisses as he touches his thigh; Wade can see how angry and raw the skin beneath looks.

"You said you had aloe vera?" Peter asks, a high edge of pain in his tone.

Wade digs his first aid kit out from under the sink while Peter strips, taking off his mask and his hole-riddled sweatshirt. Wade's seen the lean lines of his abdomen before—thank god for crop tops—but Peter somehow seems bigger half-naked, the definition in his chest, shoulders, and biceps reminding Wade of a competitive swimmer. Freckles bloom across his skin, and a small garden of hair rests between his rose-tinted nipples. He's so fucking hot that, if the random spots of burned skin littering his torso weren't there, Wade might have forgotten why Peter took off his clothes in the first place. As it is, it takes all of Wade's brainpower to grab the aloe vera and hand it over.

"Thanks," Peter says, oblivious to Wade's half-wild stare. "Is it okay if I change in your room? I know the Forsaken One is unconscious and everything, but it still feels weird to strip down to my underwear in front of him."

Wade pictures Peter in his bedroom, taking off those borrowed jeans, wearing nothing but that rank jockstrap he’s worn for the past couple days as he spreads aloe vera on his skin and—

"Yeah, go for it," Wade croaks, shoving the vivid image out of his conscious mind. "I'm gonna—"

Wade jerks a finger back towards the living room and beats a strategic retreat before he does something stupid, like offer to rub aloe vera into Peter’s hard to reach places. Not that walking away helps or gives any respite; rePete is watching from the couch, knees tucked under his chin, head cocked vaguely to the left, assessing. Wade can't help but wonder if he has freckles on his shoulders too.

I am so unbelievably fucked, Wade thinks as he beelines to the kitchen. He busies his aching hands by pulling out plates and utensils, and filling three glasses with water. One was bad enough. But two? The multiverse has a cruel and cold sense of irony.

Out in the living room, rePete is tapping out a message on his phone. Wade sets all the dishes on the table before plopping down on the floor opposite, using one of the flatter throw pillows as an impromptu cushion.

"Texting my manager," rePete tells Wade as his phone pings with a response. "Told her I rolled my ankle while getting lunch and won't be in for the rest of the afternoon."

"Accident prone?" Wade asks, taking the styrofoam boxes out and opening them. Some of them are squished from being dropped, but nothing is overflowing and—surprisingly—the small containers of soup remain unharmed.

"Not really? But even if she thinks I'm lying, I haven't used a sick day since... October?" RePete shrugs, his eyes going to the spring rolls Wade just unearthed. "Fuck, are those from Prachya's? I call dibs on one of those as emotional compensation for almost being wizard-napped. You have the dipping sauce, right?"

"Do I have the dipping sauce?" Wade scoffs before pulling said sauce out. "What do I look like, a fool?"

"Arguments can be made," Peter interjects as he settles on the opposite end of the couch, folding his legs beneath him. He's back in his borrowed pajamas—Vanessa's old cropped hoodie and Wade's smallest pair of sweatpants—and he pushes his hair back with one hand, smiling nervously at his alternate self. "Hey."

"Hey," rePete echoes.

For a long moment, they stare silently at each other. Wade watches as identical pairs of brown eyes flick over identical features, taking in the similarities. Peter's expression is more openly curious than rePete's, who is more cautious now that the urgency of leaving the alleyway and getting to relative safety is no longer clouding his judgment.

"This is still really fucking weird," rePete states, breaking the tension.

"Tell me about it." Peter exhales dramatically, puffing out his cheeks. "I mean, I've met people from parallel universes before, but this is the first time I've met another me. Or you. Or... us."

"Us." RePete's eyes slide away from Peter and to the table. He says and does nothing for the space of a second—then he picks up the plate Wade set in front of him, and holds it out, saying, "Make that two spring rolls, please. I think I'm gonna need it."

.

The Thai is lukewarm when they begin to eat and stone cold by the time they finish. Peter tells his story in between giant bites of noodles and slurps of soup, talking about his routine patrol that ended up here in their world, in an alternate universe.

"And you had no clue at all that you were transported to another dimension?" rePete asks incredulously. "How does that even work? The amount of energy needed to fold space-time should have caused at least some noticeable disruption—"

"That's why I'm so confused!" Peter agrees around a huge mouthful of Pad Kee Mao. "I didn't realize something was up until I woke Wade up and he tried shooting me."

"He what?" rePete chokes on his own food. Wade can't help but laugh at the surprise on his face. Sometimes, Wade forgets that the average person's life isn't steeped in active violence; for Wade, firing a gun or getting into a fist fight is a weekly occurrence.

"We can edit that part out for the grandkids," Peter says with a wink directed at Wade, which…

Like many things that have been said to him in the past two days, Wade doesn't know what to do with that, so he just shoves his own food into his mouth and pretends nothing happened. Wade also doesn't miss the way rePete's gaze slides from Peter to Wade, eyebrow cocked. There's a question there, in the angle of it, but Wade ignores that too because how the actual fuck would he answer? It's not like he wants to call attention to the fact that he's stupidly attracted to them, considering the fact that they're both married to iterations of the same woman. That way lies an uncomfortable madness.

Undeterred or oblivious, Peter continues to recount the events of yesterday. It's interesting to hear everything from Peter's point of view. None of the information is new—Peter was very open as soon as Wade became fully involved—and rePete's reactions are hilarious.

"So you can't find him?" rePete asks after Peter describes their meeting with Christine Palmer and their subsequent 'escape' from the hospital. "The real Sorcerer Supreme, I mean. Strange?"

"I think if we went to Kathmandu and knocked on the front door of every temple, Stephen Strange would eventually pop up." Peter rakes a hand through his already untamed hair, mussing it further. "But I don't think we'd find the Sorcerer Supreme."

"You said that yesterday too," Wade says, remembering the way Peter had slowly slumped into resignation, then held onto Wade and cried his frustration and fear into Wade's shoulder when it became too much. "That you don't think there's a Sorcerer Supreme in this universe."

"The details weren't matching up," Peter replies. "And according to Tony's infinite constants theory—"

"Paradoxical," rePete immediately counters.

"Not if it's offset."

"By... infinite differences?"

"Bingo."

"Huh." RePete chews slowly, staring at the blank television screen just behind Wade. "So since Strange isn't the Sorcerer Supreme, and the Sanctum is just some old yuppie's house..."

"Small sample size, but I had a gut feeling," Peter says. "Then, when I was fighting the Forsaken One, he said 'in our universe, that spell would melt the flesh from your bones' and 'curse this dead world'. Maybe it was just posturing, but circumstances being what they are, I'm going to say that there is magic here but it's... hard to tap into."

"An unpredictable fuel source." Focus returns to rePete's eyes and he shakes his head, as though to settle his racing thoughts. "What I don't get is why he thought I was the Sorcerer Supreme. He said something about illusion spells? I mean—sure, he melted a wall, so I guess illusions aren't too far-fetched—but why was he so adamant?"

"My guess is that if The Forsaken Ones sent me here by accident, thinking I was Strange, they could have put some sort of... tracker on me as well." Peter moves his fork around in vague circles as he thinks. "And since we're the same person—sorta—the tracking spell recognized you. If magic is different here—or wonky because of inaccessibility—that might be the reason. Not that I know the parameters of magic in my own universe. There are rules, of course, but even after like, ten years of being in the business, I haven't been able to make heads or tails of what those might be."

"So what happens if you can't get back by magic?" rePete asks. "It sounds like science in our universe isn't as advanced as it is in yours."

Peter brings up the quantum computer and Reed Richards, and suddenly, he and rePete have entered nerd territory. They use terms Wade is only familiar with in the broadest sense, and it isn't long before he's left behind. He doesn't mind though. The Peters are cute to watch as they debate, speaking mostly in fragmented sentences and flailing hand gestures. Wade is fairly certain that if he met his alternate self, they'd either be fighting or fucking at this point, not sitting on the couch talking about string theory.

RePete's phone rings while they're talking about quantum resonance and eigenstates and observable uncertainties, and he automatically reaches for it. Looks at the contact, wrinkles his nose, and ignores the call.

"Work?" Wade asks.

"No," rePete says. He pauses for a moment, gaze darting to Wade before quickly going back to Peter. "It was Flash."

"Flash... Thompson?"

"Yeah. You went to high school with him too?"

"Unfortunately." Peter frowns and cocks his head. "Why is Flash Thompson calling you?"

Again, for some reason Wade cannot fathom, rePete's gaze darts to Wade for a split second before returning to Peter. This time, however, he says nothing. He simply lifts his chin up a few stubborn degrees and crosses his arms while his cheeks turn oddly pink. Peter seems to understand what is happening before Wade, because his mouth goes slack and his eyebrows jump towards his hairline.

"No way," Peter says, high-pitched and breathy. "No fucking way."

RePete's shoulders crawl up towards his reddened ears.

"Flash Thompson? The guy who bullied us throughout high school? The guy who shoved into lockers and blew spitballs at us? The one who called us Penis Parker on every social media account known to man? That Flash Thompson?"

"Look, I'm not saying it was the smartest idea that I've ever had—"

"Yeah, no shit—"

"But you can't tell me you haven't thought about it too!"

Peter's mouth, ready for another retort, snaps shut. He glances at Wade, eyes wide and wild, then back at rePete. Wade can't tell who is redder: Peter, who's ashamed about thinking of sex with Flash Thompson, or rePete, who regrets actually having sex with Flash Thompson.

Under any other circumstance, Wade would exploit their embarrassment for maximum teasing—but under this circumstance, it's all he can do to keep from snapping. That thick, choking jealousy he felt when Peter talked about MJ hits him once again and he clenches his hands beneath the coffee table, out of sight. It isn't that Wade cares what other people do in their relationships—as long as he isn't involved, it's none of his business—and he knows he doesn't have any details, but he can't help but feel the sharp sting of hurt hearing the Peters talk about another man like that.

"Aren't you married?" Wade asks, attempting to sound normal and unaccusing, yet not quite able to look at either of them. "To MJ? Mary Jane?"

"Uh, I guess we are technically married, in the eyes of the law." It's rePete who answers first, shifting on the couch. "But we've been separated for almost a year. The whole thing with Flash was... a lapse in judgment, but I was on the rebound and his biceps made up for his genuine lack of a personality. But now he won't stop trying to get a hold of me even though I told him it wasn't working out, and—"

As rePete continues to complain about Flash Thompson's slow neuronal synapses, Wade sits there, trying to get his own brain cells to work. Any progress he makes, however, is quickly demolished by the word 'separated' and the fact that rePete is apparently single and interested in men and has been flirting with Wade.

"Then why are you still married?" Wade blurts, interrupting whatever rePete had been saying about Flash Thompson's frat boy personality. Wade only realizes how invasive the question is after it leaves his mouth and—despite his burning curiosity—he winces. "Shit. Sorry. You don't have to answer that."

"No, I get it," rePete says easily, physically waving away Wade's apology. "Most people expect marriages to end in these dramatic, ugly trash fires, but Mary Jane and I just... fell out of it. We went to a few therapists to work it out but, in the end, we just wanted different things. We're still married because, honestly? My health insurance is better than anything Mary Jane could get right now. That might change if she gets this movie deal her agent has been working on but, until then, still technically married."

"Health insurance," Wade croaks. "Right."

"Umm, not that, my marriage status has any bearing on yours," rePete continues. Confused, Wade looks up—but rePete has turned to Peter, and is smiling awkwardly. "Sorry, man."

"No, that's—that's okay," Peter responds faintly. His expression is a little dazed and he's holding the golden wedding ring on his left hand with the fingers of his right tightly, as though someone is going to run into the room and take it from him. "It's just... I'm not..."

"You're not married to MJ," rePete says.

"No." Peter shakes his head slowly. "No, I'm not."

All of Wade’s thoughts come to a sudden, screaming halt, and the Peters make eye contact: Peter looking up from his ring, rePete leaning curiously forward. Something innate and unspoken passes between them, making Peter bite his lip and rePete's grin grow wide, and—in eerie tandem—they turn their identical faces and dissimilar expressions towards Wade. Peter looks contrite, like he wants to apologize, while rePete is smug. His eyes drag down Wade's face and torso, as physical as a touch; it's the same assessing look he's given Wade twice now. Wade has absolutely no idea how to respond to such a blatant overture, especially when he is still trying to process the fact that Peter just admitted not being married to MJ.

"Wait a sec," Wade says, struggling to fit the pieces together. He must have heard Peter wrong; it’s probably just wishful thinking on his part, and what Peter actually said was twisted around in his traitorous ear canals. "You're not married to MJ? But you said that you were—"

Peter's teeth dig harder into his bottom lip, and realization hits Wade harder than any punch could: not once has Peter referred to MJ as his wife. That idea had come solely from Wade. When Peter talked about MJ and Aunt May and the other Wade in the same concerned breath, Wade had incorrectly inferred who Peter's spouse was from it. He let the possibility of another truth slip away from him because—if MJ wasn't Peter's wife—then that would mean—

"I'm not married to MJ," Peter repeats, his words as quiet and as heavy as a confession. "I'm married to you."

.

Part 12

.

[calciseptinefic]

then out of nowhere, somebody comes and hits you with an ooh la la la, ooh la la la, ooh la la la, ooh

Marvel || Wade Wilson/Peter Parker || Part 10 notes: Title from 'Mad Sounds' by Arctic Monkeys. Many thanks to babygato for her beta on this chapter. this fic is also available on ao3 warnings: none

.

← previous: Part 9

.

Wade does not think as he drops the take-out bags—

Yanks both tactical daggers out from the sheaths strapped to his boots—

And sprints into the alley after the other Peter and the shadow that took him.

There is nothing but unnatural dark down the alley. It's as though the early afternoon sun has been switched off as easily as lamplight, plunging Wade's surroundings into black. His eyes struggle to adjust, darting this way and that, desperately searching for variations in shade—

But there is nothing.

Nothing.

Nothing.

Wade's defensive stance becomes more rigid and he clenches his fists more tightly around the hilts of his daggers. He slides one foot forward and feels the solid reassurance of the ground. Sucks in a hard breath. Closes his eyes, despite the illogic of the action, and listens—

"Hello?" a voice yells as though from an immense distance. "Hello? Can anyone hear me?"

It's other-Peter. The panic in his voice is evident, a thin thread strung taut through the syllables. Wade aches to answer—to assure—but he doesn't know if this darkness goes both ways, doesn't know if whatever waits beyond is blinded as well or has the advantage. So he stays motionless, straining to hear.

Wade does not have to wait for long.

"Sorcerer Supreme." Another voice resonates through the gloom. It is little more than a rasp but it comes from everywhere, impossible to pinpoint. "We meet at last."

"Excuse me?" Wade hears other-Peter call out. "What did you say?"

"Sorcerer Supreme," the voice reiterates more loudly. "We meet at last—"

"Sorry, but... sorcerer who?"

"Do not play childish games with me, Strange!" the voice hisses. Agitation makes the infinite layers sharp and painful to listen to. "You shall not mock me! I have brought you here to pay for the innumerable and immeasurable crimes of your predecessors—"

"My what now?" other-Peter asks. Oddly, the panic in his voice has faded, and has been replaced with genuine confusion. "My predecessors? Like... my parents?"

"Not your parents, you ignorant fool!" The layers change again, becoming discordant notes heaped together in a headache-inducing cacophony. "Your predecessors! Those who have come before! Those who have previously held the sanctimonious position of Sorcerer Supreme, and wrought their ignoble version of justice across the multiverse! How they performed careless and thoughtless deeds, how they purported falsehoods and lies and—oof!"

The voice is abruptly cut off. There is a dull, heavy noise—the familiar sound of a body hitting the ground—and the sudden return of light. Wade opens his eyes and immediately winces; even the shady dimness of the alleyway is blinding after absolute dark, and tears flood his eyes to soothe the burning adjustment. Wade wipes the wet away roughly.

"That's a hell of a mission statement," says other-Peter. "Are you the one who brought me here?"

No—not other-Peter.

Peter Peter. Who… should be back at the apartment, waiting for Wade.

That sneaky shit, Wade thinks as he forces his stinging eyes to stay open. He must have been following me.

Further down the alley, Peter stands in front of other-Peter with his arms crossed, wearing the clothes from this morning plus the mask and boots of his superhero costume. On the ground is a third man, his limbs and deep purple robes splayed across the dirty ground. His head is devoid of hair, the skin fish-belly white, and there is a fractal tattoo in the middle of his forehead, a spiral that slowly fades as it spreads outwards, down over his eyes and the bridge of his nose, and back towards the crown of his skull.

"Spiderman." As he struggles to his feet, Wade realizes that Baldy’s voice is no longer magnified and directionless; it is just a normal voice and it comes only from his mouth. "You are not meant to be here."

"I figured that one out on my own, buddy. Can you tell me something new?"

"I will not kill you if you hand over the Sorcerer Supreme." Baldy lifts both hands and holds them out in front of his chest; they hover parallel to one another, palm facing palm, as though he were holding an invisible basketball. "My quarrel is not with you."

"You seriously think the guy behind me is Strange?" Peter jerks a thumb back at other-Peter. "With those baby cheeks? That lack of questionably fashionable sideburns? Come on."

"A paltry illusion spell," Baldy spits. Behind Peter, Wade sees other-Peter—ugh, this is so confusing—sees rePete mouth the words 'illusion spell' like he's never encountered the concept before in his life, even theoretically. "A second warning, Spiderman. Stand aside and allow the Sorcerer Supreme to face the consequences of his unchecked actions."

"Sorry." Peter shrugs. "Not gonna happen."

"Very well." Baldy nods once. "Your misplaced loyalties have been marked. Goodbye, Spiderman."

Several things happen in quick succession. Baldy contracts his hands, fingers rigid, then rapidly pulls them wide. A net of sickly green light sparks into existence in the space between his palms. When he pushes it away from himself, it condenses into a single bolt, heading towards Peter—

Peter grabs rePete around the waist and shoots a web, lifting the both of them off the ground—

The bolt strikes the building behind where they had just been, melting the exterior wall as though it were acid—

And Peter shouts, "Wade—!"

RePete is falling. Wade immediately drops his knives and braces himself. He's strong—works hard to stay that way, because you never know when brute force will save your life—yet even he knows that catching a full-grown man who is sailing through the air towards him won't be easy.

And it isn't. He manages to catch rePete in the least awkward way possible, with no hands in inappropriate places, but he still falls backwards, landing hard on his back with rePete on top of him. One of rePete's bony elbows hits him in the solar plexus and he grunts. For a moment, both of them lay there: Wade, struggling to breathe, and rePete, struggling to mentally process what just happened.

"Up," Wade wheezes, patting rePete's shoulder. "Can't—"

"Oh my god, I am so sorry," rePete says, immediately clambering off Wade and kneeling on the ground beside him. His hands hover unsurely over Wade's chest. "Are you okay?"

"Fine," Wade winces as he sits up. There will be a spectacular bruise in the middle of his torso—one to match the bruise Peter gave Wade yesterday when he elbowed him too hard in the ribs—but the hurt of it is smothered by the adrenaline pounding through his veins. "You okay?"

"Yeah, I'm good, I just—" rePete shakes his head in disbelief, doe eyes wide behind his glasses. "What the fuck is going on?"

Further down the alley, Peter is high on the wall of one of the buildings, crouched against the brick as though gravity were optional. Baldy is moving his hands again and that sickly green light once more grows between his palms. It isn't smart to use the same move twice, though; now that Peter doesn't have to worry about rePete's safety, he drops down and shoots his webs the moment before Baldy pushes the lightning out, catching Baldy's wrists and forcing the bolt to go directly upwards instead of causing more property damage. Baldy snarls and yanks his hands back, sparks fading from his fingertips.

"Neat trick," Peter says he lands with barely a sound. He puts his hands on his hips. "Haven't seen an acid spell before."

"In our universe, that 'trick' would melt the flesh from your bones."

"But not in this one." Peter cocks his head. "Who did you say you were again?"

"I do not have a name," Baldy spits, as though the very idea were deeply unpalatable. "Like all members of my order, I have shed my identity to prevent the hubris caused by the formation of self. Know instead that I am one of the Forsaken! We, the Forsaken, who were cast out from Kamar-Taj millennia ago by the first master of the mystic arts, Agamotto!"

"Agatha who?"

"Agamotto!" Baldy shrieks. "Agamotto! The first Sorcerer Supreme! And he—" Baldy turns to point a finger at rePete, who is still kneeling on the ground beside Wade, completely baffled, "—shall be the last of Agamotto's corrupted legacy!"

"Yeah, still not the Sorcerer Supreme, dude," Peter says as rePete whispers to Wade, "Is this some sort of flash mob? Are we being recorded?"

"Uh, yeah," Wade says. Such an explanation is better than any lie Wade could come up with at the moment, as he's too preoccupied by the fact that Peter is fighting a nutbag who can do magic. Wade grabs his daggers and gets to his feet. "Just stay behind me, in case the pyrotechnics get weird. Okay?"

"Sure," rePete says as he also stands. Thankfully, he does as Wade asks, hovering close as he peers around Wade's shoulder to watch Peter and Baldy duke it out.

Clearly frustrated, Baldy tries forming another spell. Peter simply stops him by knocking a hand out from the configuration, and the green light that had started to form fizzles away harmlessly. Baldy steps back and tries again—but again, Peter strikes, disrupting the spell before it can be completed.

"Curse this dead world!" Baldy hisses and, to Wade's vague surprise, abandons his spell casting for hand-to-hand combat. Well, he doesn't completely abandon magic. While he fights—the sharp and offensive jabs reminiscent of Northern-style martial arts—Baldy also moves his fingers in small circles to create small spells, flicking them from his fingertips like darts. Peter dodges most of them but some of them hit, eating through cloth to get to the body below.

Watching Peter fight is both thrilling and nerve-wracking for Wade. Thrilling, because it's obvious that he knows what he's doing—his movements have form and are executed perfectly, which comes both from natural talent and years of practice—and nerve-wracking because it's also obvious he's slowly losing. Wade doesn't know why. Maybe it's because those spells hurt more than they appear to, or maybe it's because Peter has to shield both Wade and rePete. Whatever it might be, it's costing him, and Baldy is pressing the advantage.

Not for long, Wade thinks, shifting both his weight and his grip on one of the daggers. Just wait. Just...

There are no openings. Peter can't move out of range unless he wants to risk exposing Wade and rePete to Baldy, and they both move too quickly for Wade to intervene without potentially hurting Peter. It fucking sucks having to wait for an opening while Peter takes another acid spell—

And another—

And another—

And—there!

"Spidey!" Wade shouts, dagger already in the air, already running forward. Peter—wobbling from a nasty blow to his side—lets himself go down and gets out of the way as the knife flies true and strikes Baldy in the fleshy hinge where arm meets chest, sinking to the hilt. Baldy gasps, hand going up instinctively, and in a second Wade is on him, punching him as hard as he can in the jaw.

A satisfying crack echoes in the alley.

Wade's knuckles scream.

Baldy lurches back, surprised, incapacitated, and Wade jumps—gaining momentum—and slams the heel of his boot into Baldy's solar plexus. Baldy goes down, gasping, his hands rising once wildly to perform another spell—

Wade punches Baldy again, though this time in the temple, and Baldy crumples, unconscious. Wade waits to see if he'll come out of it—counting slowly to ten—before straightening his spine and uncurling his sore fingers, gently shaking them out and swearing. Then he looks over at Peter, who is upright but clutching at his side. Several of the holes in his clothes are smoking.

"You okay?" Wade asks.

"Nothing a little aloe vera can't fix." Peter nods at Baldy. "Thanks."

"I'll be your element of surprise anytime, baby boy," Wade answers. Then, "What do you want to do with him?"

Peter says nothing as he comes closer. Nudges Baldy with his boot. No reaction. Even when Peter pulls the dagger out of his shoulder, Baldy doesn't do so much as twitch.

"He'll be out cold for a few hours at least," Wade says. Peter wipes the dagger clean on Baldy's dark purple robes and hands it hilt-first back to Wade. Wade sheathes it and the other knife while Peter webs Baldy's barely bleeding wound shut. "You can lift him, right?"

"Easy enough," Peter answers.

"Take him back to my place?" Wade suggests. It isn't ideal. It's broad daylight, and few of the buildings in the area are tall enough for people not to notice someone leaping from rooftop to rooftop, but it's not like they can leave a fucking wizard behind a random garbage bin. "You can web him to the bathtub."

"It's as good a plan as any." Peter sighs again. Then, "We need to bring Peter back, too."

"Me?" Wade glances over his shoulder. RePete is standing an arm's length away, hands twisting around each other with anxiety. He's pale beneath his freckles. "I don't—I don't understand what's happening. How do you know me? Why did this—this man attack me? Is this some sort of prank? Did MJ put you up to this? Because this isn't funny and I really don't appreciate being thrown around and threatened."

"Sorry," Peter says automatically. "And it's... it wasn't a prank or anything. MJ's got nothing to do with it."

"Then—then what the fuck is going on?" RePete looks desperately between Peter's masked face and Wade's scarred one. "If this wasn't—I don't know, some sort of stupid video stunt or something—then what just fucking happened? You threw me like a bag of flour and stuck to the wall and you—" rePete's eyes slide back to Wade, "You stabbed that man in the shoulder and he did magic? Real fucking magic? And he thought I was strange—"

"Dr. Strange," Peter says. The interruption causes rePete to halt mid-tirade. "Sorcerer Supreme. In... my universe. I'm beginning to think that this universe doesn't actually have one. Sorcerer Supreme, I mean."

"What."

"Look, I know this is really complicated and surreal—"

"I think the word you're looking for is insane—"

"But can we please move this discussion back to Wade's?" Peter gestures behind Wade and rePete, toward the entrance of the alley. A handful of people have gathered, though none of them have been brave enough to venture forward.

"Motherfucking shit balls," Wade hisses.

"Exactly," Peter agrees. "I'll take the Forsaken One, and meet you and Peter back at your place before that crowd gets any bigger—"

"I am not going with you!" rePete all but shouts, flinging his arms out for emphasis. "Have you lost your fucking minds? That weirdo just tried to kill me and you just tried to kill him—"

"Trust me, Petey Pie, if I wanted him dead he'd be dead—"

"Wade, not helping—"

"And you guys know who I am and I have no idea who you are and I am freaking out because I was just getting some fucking lunch and instead got ambushed by knock-off Voldemort, some sort of man-spider—"

"Spiderman," Wade and Peter correct in tandem.

"—and Freddy Krueger's stupid hot cousin—"

Wade blinks. Hot?

"—so pardon me for not wanting to go to some random apartment with complete strangers and potentially get murdered!"

RePete's rant has turned into actual shouting. He's panicking, Wade gets that, and he’s trying to be aggressive to cover up the fact that he's scared shitless. Wade knows from experience that it would be best to back off, to give rePete time to cool down, but unfortunately, they have no time left and they cannot leave him here. One of the bystanders behind them is probably dialing 9-1-1 at that very moment and Wade hates, hates, hates that he might have to haul rePete over his shoulder and book it—

"Peter," Peter says. "Look at me."

RePete's gaze snaps to Peter, and Peter takes off his mask.

It's like seeing double. Peter's hair is mussed from the mask and rePete is wearing thick browline glasses, but everything else is the same: the shape of their brows and the slope of their noses, the round swell of their bottom lips and the angles of their chins. All the helpless anger in rePete's expression transforms into blank shock. Wade wonders how bizarre it would be to stare into a face identical to your own when no mirrors were involved.

"W-what?" rePete stammers. "You... You're..."

"You," Peter confirms. "Well, I'm me, but I'm also you. Sorta. I'm you if you were from a different universe where you got bit by a radioactive spider at fifteen, and were subsequently hit with the double whammy of puberty and sudden mutant superpowers. Fun times. So please trust that you can trust me."

"I—" RePete's eyes move from Peter's face to Wade's. "And are you—from another universe too?"

Wade shakes his head and says, "Home grown, baby boy."

"Oh." RePete looks back at Peter. "So... other universes exist."

"Yes."

"Where there's... magic?"

"Yes, though not everyone can use it. Kinda like Harry Potter? You have it or you don't—"

"Pete," Wade interjects. Both Peters look at him simultaneously which—trippy. "We can do this at the apartment. But we need to leave before someone calls the cops."

"Right." Peter nods, then turns to rePete. "I'm going to take the Forsaken One back, and you're going to go with Wade. I know you don't know him, but I trust him with my life, and he'll keep you safe. So just follow his lead, alright? I'll answer all your questions then. Promise."

It takes a moment for rePete to consider his options—to weigh his potential safety against the appeal of having his questions answered—but eventually he nods his agreement, curiosity winning. Peter's shoulders sag with relief; like Wade, he too was probably considering how much it would suck to have to take rePete back to the apartment against his will.

"You got this?" Peter asks Wade as he tugs his mask back on.

"Don't worry about us," Wade says. "I've been doing stuff like this before you had chest hair."

"Whatever, grandpa." Peter picks up Baldy and hauls him over his shoulders in a fireman's carry. Baldy is not a small man by any stretch of the imagination, but Peter moves as though he's weightless. "See you at home."

Wade does not watch as Peter goes further down the alley, slides behind one of the dumpsters, and begins to quickly scale the wall. Instead, he's pulling his phone out of his pocket, turning on the video function, and slinging an arm around rePete's shoulders. He laughs—as loudly and genuinely as possible—and proclaims, "I think we got it!"

"What?" rePete says.

"The shot!" Wade turns them around and pulls rePete back to the street. A handful of people are standing there, their expressions a collective mishmash of confusion and worry. "Oh, hey guys! Didn't see you there. None of you were recording that, were you? That'd be copyright infringement, you know."

"Copyright?" someone says.

"Yeah! For my sweet ninjas vs wizards movie!" Wade holds up his own phone, wiggling it. He looks at each person; several of them are holding their phones, but none of them appear to be recording. Small miracles, Wade thinks.

"That was... for a movie?"

"Uh, yeah." Wade smiles as charmingly as he can, despite the fact that his scar always makes his mouth lopsided. "We're filming it on my phone so we can put all the money into special effects. Looked real, didn't it?"

Every single person falls for Wade's fabrication hook, line, and sinker, and their consternation practically melts off their faces. There's no doubt in Wade's mind that they saw Baldy's bright green spells, Peter's preternatural parkour, and Wade's own brutality, but now they'll be explaining away the blanks with preconceived notions about Hollywood movie magic. The idea that it was real magic, real superpowers, and real violence will fade from their minds and be forgotten.

"Oh, and look! Our lunch!" Wade lets go of rePete to grab the bags of Thai food he dropped earlier. "Can't believe you started the scene early. Here—you get to carry one as punishment."

"We didn't start early," rePete says as he rolls his eyes and takes the bag. His lack of resistance erases any last shred of doubt their onlookers might have had, especially considering how he had been screaming bloody murder just a couple minutes ago. "You were late. As usual."

"Don't bring my punctuality into this."

"And what punctuality is that?" rePete drawls.

RePete's ability to shoot the shit—to lie—is so markedly different from Peter's inability that Wade nearly drops the act in surprise. The only reason he doesn't is because he's a professional, goddamnit, and he's not about to be outdone by a highly bangable ex-mathlete in red Converse All Stars.

Hah, Wade thinks smugly. Called it.

"Ah, whatever," Wade says. He slings his arm back around rePete's shoulders and tries very hard not to think about how nicely the other man fits beneath him. "Let's get back before the food gets any colder. I'm fucking starving."

.

Part 11

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[calciseptinefic]

then out of nowhere, somebody comes and hits you with an ooh la la la, ooh la la la, ooh la la la, ooh

Marvel || Wade Wilson/Peter Parker || Part 9 notes: Title from 'Mad Sounds' by Arctic Monkeys. Many thanks to babygato for her beta on this chapter. this fic is also available on ao3 warnings: none

.

← previous: Part 8

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The clock in the right hand corner of Wade's laptop reads 2:53 AM as he pulls the files Weasel emailed him. Compared to some dossiers Wade's read in the past—both for the government and for private contracts—there isn't much. A small digital stack of records that boil Peter's entire existence down to its skeleton, devoid of the details that flesh it out into a life:

A birth certificate, a government-issued ID, a marriage license. Medical records. Multiple education transcripts, scholarships, and science-related awards and accolades, as well as various research papers and a Ph.D. dissertation. Bank and credit card statements. A 401(k) retirement plan and several years' worth of tax returns. A lease agreement.

Sitting atop his unmade bed, legs crossed and hunched over the computer, Wade cracks his knuckles and begins. The first thing he does is pull up Peter's ID. It was issued several years ago and the picture of him isn't great, as most identification pictures are; yet despite the grainy quality and the bad lighting, the man depicted looks the same as the man sleeping on Wade's couch. Brown hair, brown eyes, button nose. The only difference is that his curls are a little longer in the photo, hanging messily past his ears.

Kinda mad scientist looking, Wade thinks fondly.

Wade goes through every document meticulously. He learns that Peter was born on August 10th to Richard and Mary Parker. He doesn't drive—unsurprising, considering he was born and raised in New York City—and he grew up in Bayside. During middle school and high school, he won first place eight separate times in various science fairs and—as an undergrad—he was an honors student who graduated with a 3.8 GPA. He has a prescription for an MDI to treat mild asthma; a generic prescription for generalized anxiety; and prescription glasses for moderate myopia.



And according to the date on the marriage license, he and MJ have been married for nearly five years.

Five fucking years, Wade thinks. Peter would have been twenty-one, married in the brief pause between finishing his bachelor's and starting his doctorate.

When Wade was twenty-one, he was in Indonesia. He spent his time picking up Malay, developing a tolerance for spicy food, and trailing various members of an extremist group who sold dirty bombs on the black market. Marriage had been the last thing on his mind. Hell, marriage hadn't even occurred to Wade until he was dying of cancer. For months he wondered if it would be kinder to leave Vanessa as a dead boyfriend or a dead husband; when he finally proposed, Wade could barely hold his arm up, and Vanessa had just cried, and cried, and cried.

He guessed that meant no.

Inhaling deeply through the nose, Wade sets Peter's marital status aside and delves into the other documents, focusing mostly on his academic accomplishments instead of personal information. Interestingly, the scientific papers Peter has co-authored are focused on spider silk: the elucidated molecular structure of various species, mechanical properties, and potential benefits of a bioengineered polymer combined with inorganic nanoparticles.

I synthesize it in a lab, Peter had said. It's definitely not... organic.

Peter's dissertation is a variation on this theme, and the company he works for develops unique polymers for 'sustainable and long-term use'. Wade wonders if that's where Peter creates the web-fluid he used the night before to immobilize Wade's hand and gun. Personally, Wade can't think of any way such a thing could be used commercially. He can think of ten different ways it might be weaponized, but he's also an ex-soldier turned man-for-hire, and he sees the world differently than a scientist invested in renewable resources.

Maybe the military saw it differently, too.

Yet despite Wade's hunch—that Peter's powers came from top secret government hijinks—nothing Weasel sent him indicates that Peter's tied up in anything of the sort. There isn't even a hint of suspiciousness. If there is a larger power at work behind everything, then they've done an incredible job of hiding their involvement.

Pulling up Peter's bank and credit card statements, Wade does not see anything unusual either. Rent payments, student loan payments, various subscriptions, and other random purchases. Most of the extraneous charges hover around $10 to $15. Lunch, Wade guesses, or take out. The most recent statement ended over a week ago, however, so if there was any disruption to Peter's normal card usage, Wade can't confirm it.

Wade sighs. As Weasel said earlier, Peter is a dead end.

The last thing Wade opens is Peter's lease agreement. It's a decent apartment in Astoria—one bedroom, one bath—with a monthly payment that's neither cheap nor exorbitant for its location and size. Both Peter Parker and Mary Jane Watson are listed as legal occupants. They've had it for three years, and the address listed is different from the one on Peter's ID card. Technically Peter should have gotten a new ID when he moved but—

Wait.

Wade's eyes crawl back up to the address listed.

It's familiar. Not in the 'I've lived in New York City for seven years and I know my way around' kind of way but the 'I know this place well enough to start ignoring the street signs' kind of way. A strange feeling comes over Wade as he pulls up Google Maps and types Peter's address in, hitting the 'enter' key with more force than necessary.

The page loads.

Peter's apartment is a mile away. One point two miles to be exact. An easy fifteen minute walk. Wade knows because he's made it many, many times since moving into his current apartment, at least once every two weeks. Sometimes more.

That's by my favorite Thai place. Wade runs a hand over his buzzed hair, stopping at the nape of his neck and squeezing the tense muscle. I could have walked past him a hundred times.

And maybe... Maybe Wade has.

Staring at the tiny red pin on the map, Wade feels the sharp scratch of realization inside his skull. One of the biggest mysteries Wade has not been able to solve was why Peter latched onto Wade. If Peter was indeed from this universe, as Wade mostly believed, why him?

At first Wade thought it was purely coincidence. Maybe Peter had scuttled into Wade's apartment at random and imprinted on him, his trauma-riddled brain constructing an entire backstory in the five seconds they stared at each other. Unlikely, Wade knew, but so was super strength and sticking to the ceiling.

A smaller part of Wade—a part he had been actively ignoring until now—wondered if it went back even further. Wade enlisted on his eighteenth birthday and had been an active soldier until his dishonorable discharge at twenty-six. He's been all over the world. Done a lot of things. Met a lot of people. It's doubtful that Wade met a barely legal Peter during his last year of service, as most of it was spent being a grunt protecting capitalism's investments in the Middle East, yet there was no way to be sure. Wade really doesn't want to think that he was in any way involved, even unknowingly, but...

Again.

There is nothing probable about Wade's current situation. In fact, Wade would say that his situation lands firmly outside the visible portion of the bell curve, in one of those tail ends that stretches out infinitely towards 'not gonna fucking happen'. Except it is fucking happening and Wade has to figure out how to navigate the impossibilities.

This, though. The fact that Peter's listed address is right next to one of Wade's favorite and most frequented restaurants. Maybe Peter saw him, time and again for years while Wade remained oblivious. Maybe Peter's break from reality was a long time coming and the resulting delusion had been crafted from slowly collected details. Wade is loud and he often overshares in the form of a bad joke; it wouldn't have been hard for Peter to learn things about him, especially the cancer.

And all that stuff he asked you? It was specific, but what did he really know about you? whispers the forever rational and unforgiving corner of Wade's brain. He acts like he knows you, trusts you, but he doesn't actually know anything. You just wanted to believe it and so you did.

This new insight explains why Peter might have latched onto Wade instead of one of the other eight point five million people living in New York City. Sure, it would still be a coincidence that Peter constructed a false reality with Wade as one of the major players, but the coincidence has firm roots in Wade's routines and—most importantly—it makes sense.

"Still doesn't tell me jack shit," Wade mutters. He is no closer to finding out the truth than he was an hour ago. All he has are mundane details attached to an exceptional person, and that leaves him with two options:

Option #1: Let Weasel and Peter do their respective research and go from there, or Option #2: Be proactive.

Wade quickly considers the pros and cons of both before deciding on the latter. He's never been the kind of person to sit around and wait; inaction makes him antsy, and the more antsy he gets, the more... inventive his responses become. It is truly in everyone's best interest that Wade tackles this mystery immediately instead of making him mull over more possibilities while he rigs increasingly dangerous C4 explosives in the spare bedroom.

Besides, Wade's approach is unique from Weasel and Peter's. They approach situations from more cerebral angles, and nerds like them tend to forget that most people are dumb, basic animals. Sometimes the best intel can't be gathered digitally. It needs to be found under a not so metaphorical squeaky floorboard or stuffed in a not so metaphorical mattress.

Or, in this case, from a not so metaphorical apartment in Astoria.

Tomorrow—or today, considering the late hour—is Thursday, which is a good day to break into someone's apartment. Most people tend to be at work during the day on weekdays and, in an apartment complex, this means there are less people around to potentially catch you when you jimmy open a door. Obviously, Peter won't be there, but MJ? Wade knows nothing about her other than she's married to Peter, including if she has a job that will remove her from the premises so Wade can snoop safely and uninterrupted.

Opening a new tab on his browser, Wade searches for 'Mary Jane Watson'. He knows that it isn't the most effective way to search for people, but he's hoping that he'll get lucky and—

Whoa.

The images that show up under the search bar feature a red-headed bombshell with beautiful green eyes, a femme-fatale smile, and old Hollywood glamor. She's wearing full make-up and gorgeous dresses in every photo, posed against varying sponsored backdrops. Below the small collage of pictures are links to several social media accounts and a Wikipedia page. Wade skims the small 'ABOUT' section that automatically populates on the right-hand side of the page. She's an up-and-coming actress that's played various small television roles, was born the same year as Peter, and... is married to Peter Parker.

"Holy shit," Wade says because, honestly, holy shit.

Wade doesn't know what he expected from Peter's spouse. Held at gunpoint, he would probably describe Peter but in lady form: someone good-looking but not immediately arresting, until the details and personality came out like a sucker punch. Wade isn't downplaying Peter's physical attractiveness—far, far from it—but MJ is Jessica Rabbit levels of hot, the kind of hot that gets wolf-whistles and double-takes.

Wade hadn't been that hot even before his face was permanently disfigured.

Not that it matters, Wade berates himself. It's not a competition. He's already married her.

Scrubbing a hand over the lower half of his scar, the thick line of keratin smooth beneath his touch, Wade ignores the re-emerged jealousy bubbling acridly in his gut and thinks about what MJ's career means for his plan. As an actress, her hours are less predictable than the average salaried schmuck. Of course, this won't stop Wade; there's no fun in a little B&E without the element of uncertainty. He'll just have to compensate for potentially barging in on Peter's starlet wife.

Having decided on his course of action, Wade exits out of everything on his laptop, closes it, then sets it underneath the bed frame. He makes sure he has an alarm set, checks that his gun is underneath the opposite pillow, then turns off the bedside lamp. He lays back down and spreads his limbs wide, the cotton sheets pleasantly cool against his bare feet and naked forearms. None of the deep shadows on the ceiling or in the corners of his bedroom move. Yet unlike the night before, when Wade had passed out almost immediately after making Peter pancakes, sleep will not come to him. His thoughts keep turning in an effort to make connections that aren't there and, in the end, he keeps asking himself one question:

What do an ex-soldier, a quantum information scientist, a monk in Nepal, a vintage car mechanic, and an actress all have in common?

.

Wade wakes. His hand is under the pillow, gripping the handle of his gun—but it was the familiar blare of his alarm that woke him, not panic, and his fingers slide away easily. It takes more effort to roll to the side and grab his phone off the bedside table, hit snooze and drop it on the mattress next to him.

He falls asleep again.

Wakes.

Snooze.

Snooze.

Snooze.

Half an hour after his original alarm, Wade sits up. 9:37. He yawns, mouth opening so wide it hurts the hinge of his jaw. Untangles his legs from the sheets and shuffles across the room. Opens the door, looks at Peter still asleep on the couch, and shuffles into the bathroom. Brushes his teeth. Hops in the shower and pees down the drain. His dumb, traitorous dick grows hot as he scrubs his body down; his hand is nice and slippery with soap, and this is usually when he starts to jack it.

"Not today, buddy," Wade tells his pitifully hopeful half-chub, the head poking out tentatively from the foreskin like a question. "Letting you drive the car yesterday was a mistake."

Wade gets out of the shower, skin pink, and wipes the condensation off the mirror to look at the rough stubble of his face. A few white hairs are growing on his chin to match the ones on his temples, but he once again postpones shaving. He rubs on some moisturizer—he isn't a heathen—and some deodorant. No cologne though, because cologne is a bad idea for both stealth missions and inappropriate wooing.

Wrapping his towel around his waist, Wade exits the bathroom. Glances over into the living room. Peter is barely cognizant, sitting up with his hair a fluffy halo around his face. Seeing him awake surprises Wade somehow, and he stops halfway between his bathroom and bedroom, dripping on the floor.

"Morning," Wade says reflexively.

Peter groans, the barest approximation of human speech.

"Bathroom's free, if you want." The combination of his lack of mental coherency from having just woken up and his almost nakedness make Wade feel wrong-footed. "I was gonna get dressed and start breakfast. Sound good?"

"Coffee too?" Peter garbles.

"Like either of us can function without it."

Peter turns his head to look at Wade, eyes flickering down the length of him: skin still damp, thighs barely contained by the towel, nipples tight in the cool air.

"Mmm," Peter hums, eyes half-lidded. "Okay."

Wade all but retreats into his room and tries to tell himself that there is no way—absolutely no fucking way—that Peter was checking him out. People just did that sometimes. Looked at other people. Especially when said other people were mostly naked and wet and standing like a fool in the hallway. And Peter's eyes were glazed because he was still sleepy and not because he liked what he saw and wanted to get all up on that—

Wade's dick gives another valiant twitch.

"No," Wade hisses at the little eager bump beneath the towel. "Down boy."

Once again ignoring his dick, Wade dresses in briefs, socks, and black joggers, and layers a black crewneck over a long sleeve shirt. He also picks out new clothes for Peter. Peter can wear the jeans from yesterday again, but Wade grabs a fresh pair of socks, a plain white tee, and a sturdy flannel.

After that, Wade opens the bottom drawer of his dresser and pulls out a pair of gloves and a balaclava, a lock-pick set, a camera detector, and two tactical daggers in clip-on sheaths. All of these go into one trusty fanny pack, which he takes out of the bedroom with him and hangs next to his jacket by the front door. He also brings the clean clothes with him; Peter has already ensconced himself in the bathroom, so Wade sets them on the floor.

"Pete!" Wade half-yells, knocking on the bathroom door. "Clothes!"

"Thanks!" Peter shouts back.

While Peter showers, Wade brews coffee, toasts the leftover bagels from yesterday, fries up four sunny-side up eggs, and heats the pre-made sausage patties in the microwave. The bagels, eggs, and sausage patties are assembled into breakfast sandwiches, one for Wade and three for Peter. Peter emerges as Wade is pouring the coffee out into clean mugs.

"Looks good." Peter sits on the barstool, wet hair sticking to his forehead and neck.

"Hot sauce?" Wade asks as he sets a mug in front of Peter. "I have Cholula or fiery habanero."

"I do not have your spice tolerance, Wade. Do you have ketchup?"

"Firstly, fuck you, you vile blasphemer," Wade says even as he moves towards the refrigerator to get Peter his bland condiment. "And secondly, get out of my house."

Peter merely smiles sweetly, shakes up the bottle after Wade hands it to him, and squeezes a huge dollop onto the plate. Wade slathers his own breakfast sandwich with the fiery habanero hot sauce as though proving a point.

They are quiet as they eat. Neither one of them mentions the night before. It was too emotionally raw and—if Peter is like Wade—he'll need a few days to process before he can talk about it with minimal deflection. By the time Wade has finished his singular breakfast sandwich, sucking the grease and traces of hot sauce off his fingers, Peter is already starting on his third.

"I have never seen anyone eat as fast as you do," Wade says. "Can I just say how impressed I am by your ability to unhinge your jaw like a snake? Or is that a secret spider power too?"

"Sometimes, if you don't eat fast while on patrol, you don't eat at all. Do you know how many times I've left a half-finished sub on a rooftop only to find it gone when I came back? Too many."

"What the hell was taking it?"

"It's New York," Peter answers with a shrug. "A rat? A cockroach? A particularly tenacious pigeon? I don't know and I don't wanna know."

"Crazy," Wade mutters because, yeah, he doesn't want to know either. He takes a swig of his coffee and changes the subject. "Anyway, I'm gonna head out soon. Got a new job from Weasel yesterday."

"The boring stuff?"

"A dead end," Wade answers truthfully. "I'm gonna see if I can't dig up a little more. Shouldn't take me too long, and I can pick something up for lunch after. Do you like Thai?"

Peter hums in affirmation. Nothing about his expression or body language changes. Not that Wade was expecting it to, but people could be odd about their triggers; if Peter associates Wade with Thai food at all, he doesn't show it.

Putting their plates and his mug into the sink—the dirty dishes starting to build into a precarious mountain—Wade retrieves his laptop and charger and sets it up in the living room so Peter has something to do while he's gone. Peter smiles at Wade and thanks him as he grabs his boots and laces them snug.

"Try not to get arrested," Peter says.

"No promises," Wade answers as he clips on his fanny pack. Then—with a cheeky salute—Wade is out the door, down the stairs, and on his way to commit a class A misdemeanor.

.

The apartment building is a brick, post-war walk-up with fire escapes crawling down three of the four sides. Unfortunately for Wade, each side is highly exposed to the semi-busy street below and—even if they weren't—he has no idea which one will lead him into the correct apartment. So he goes in the old-fashioned way: through the front door.

Peter's apartment is labeled with vinyl stickers, a black, italicized 4-B printed against a white, rhomboid vinyl. Wade stands there for several minutes, eyes closed, and listens. The fourth floor and apartment 4-B are still and silent. Wade cannot hear anything, not even the murmur of a television or the shuffle of a moving person, so he opens his eyes, unzips his fanny pack, and crouches down onto one knee.

Years of experience guide Wade through the next minute without hesitation or thought. He needs everything he put in the fanny pack, so he takes care of each item as he randomly pulls it out. The tactical daggers get strapped to his boots; the balaclava gets pulled over his head; the camera detector is set down on the ground by his left heel; the lock pick set is placed by his right knee; the half-eaten bag of shark gummies—

Ooh, shark gummies! Wade thinks. He takes one of the gummies out of the bag and pops it into his mouth. Must be from last time. Thank you, past me, for your generosity and forethought.

The shark gummies go next to the camera detector, and his gloves go next to the lock pick set, which he grabs now that his fanny pack is empty. He pulls out two of the picks and—in under ten seconds—has the key pins leveled at the shear line, opening the lock. He gently twists the doorknob and cracks the door, peeking inside.

It's dark.

Empty.

Wade exhales slowly and puts the picks back, then stows the set and the shark gummies. He dons his gloves, then grabs the camera detector with his left hand. Stands. Opens the door and steps inside, using the hem of his crewneck to wipe the doorknob free of prints. Closes the door. There's a security guard bolted to the jamb that Wade uses; if anyone tries to get in while he's there, it will buy him at least a few seconds to exit via the fire escape.

Without turning on the light, Wade gives the apartment a cursory glance. It's a nice place. Renovated recently—within the last few years—and has the neutral walls, white molding, and nice wood veneer flooring that are currently popular. To Wade's left is a small coat closet, which then turns into a small galley kitchen. A decent sized living room. Two doors beyond that, both ajar, identified easily as the entrances to the bedroom and bathroom. Both of those rooms are dark as well, but Wade quietly beelines to the bedroom to make sure the no one is sleeping.

Again, empty.

Wade sighs with relief, shoulders sagging. He has definitely walked into occupied rooms in the past, and the fallout generally involves being shot at.

Turning back, Wade goes back into the living room, flipping on both the overhead lights and his camera detector. He brought it to check for recording devices, in case the military had eyes on the place, and the first thing he does is a methodical sweep of the space. When nothing causes bounce back, he begins to search. Wade doesn't know what he's looking for exactly, but he figures that he'll either know it when he sees it or he'll get lucky and find a USB taped somewhere weird.

Wade really hopes he find a USB. To him, it's the modern equivalent of finding buried treasure.

In the living room, Wade opens every drawer, both of the tv console and the side tables; he checks under the couch, under the couch cushions, and in the couch cushions; and he checks behind the television and on top of the ceiling fan's blades. He finds nothing but dust and crumbs there so—with a put out sigh—Wade moves to the kitchen.

The kitchen is a little messy. Crusty dishes are stacked up in the sink, the counters are cluttered with appliances, and unopened mail is littered about in various piles. There are take out containers and a bag of wilted lettuce in the fridge. The trash can is full of wrappers, empty cans of seltzer, and the boxes of microwave meals. The oven desperately needs to be cleaned, bits of old food charred lumps carbonized to the bottom floor. Wade scours every inch of the kitchen but—once again—he finds nothing.

"If this is another fucking dead end..." Wade mutters as he moves to the bathroom to start the process over again.

The bathroom is where Wade starts to put together the puzzle pieces. It is as vaguely dirty as the rest of the apartment, a swatch of disarray layered over by a thin tinge of neglect, but the lack of cleanliness isn't what makes him suspicious. It's the fact that every single product in the bathroom is geared towards men. The gray bottle of two-in-one shampoo and conditioner. The Irish Spring soap. The razors, the deodorant, the body spray. The dark blue towels and washcloths. The rumpled bathmat and single PEVA shower curtain.

There isn't a single thing in the bathroom that indicates a woman lives here at all: no products, no make-up, not evening a fucking tampon.

Leaving the bathroom, Wade enters the bedroom. Scans for cameras, finds none. Goes to the closet and sees only button downs and slacks and blazers hanging from nice wooden hangers. There's a dresser below that has more clothes in it: folded jeans and colored seersucker shorts, a pair of red swimming trunks, graphic t-shirts, underwear and socks.

No clues.

No trace of MJ, either.

Going to the bed, Wade kneels to check underneath the frame. A lone sock is balled up underneath with the dust bunnies. Nothing else. Wade groans and gets back up. Eyes the large, unmade bed. A mess of blankets and two standard pillows, one more rumpled than the other. Wade imagines Peter sleeping, curls splayed across the sheets, mouth slightly open.

"Eh," Wade says aloud as he eyes the pillow. "Fuck it."

Tugging the balaclava off, Wade flops face down onto the bed, feet hanging off the edge and nose smushed into the pillow. He's being a creep—he knows that—but the action itself is harmless. So he breathes in, and in, and in.

Detergent. Shampoo, soap, and sleep sweat. The faintest traces of musk.

Peter.

Rolling onto his back, Wade reaches into his fanny pack and pulls out the remaining shark gummies. They're a little stale and extra chewy, giving him something to physically gnaw on while he mulls over the reality that Peter's apartment is overwhelming ordinary. There is no surveillance of any kind and there was nothing unusual to be found. Which is weird. Military institutions love to keep close tabs on their pet projects. If Peter isn't being monitored, then no one knows he's missing or...

Or no one knows he has superpowers.

It's an idea that Wade hasn't had before. Perhaps Peter is one of those crazy scientists who believed so firmly in his own research that he injected himself with spider DNA and kept the results a secret. Or maybe that story Peter told Wade two nights ago—in which he was bitten by a radioactive spider—contains a kernel of truth. Either explanation feels too good to be true; in Wade's experience, nothing is ever so simple or easy.

And then there is the fact that MJ does not live here.

It doesn't add up. The lease Weasel pulled says that both Peter Parker and Mary Jane Watson rent this apartment. Peter says he's married and wears the ring. But there's no trace of another person in the apartment, despite what the lease says. If MJ ever lived here, she hasn't for at least the past several weeks.

Wade sighs, annoyed.

Another dead end.

Swallowing the last masticated shark gummy, Wade pulls his phone out of his pocket and checks the time. 1:16. He's been combing through Peter's apartment for over two hours. He should leave soon, go get enough Thai to knock a normal man into a tryptophan-induced coma, and head back to his place. After lunch and a nap, he can scroll through some of the social media accounts MJ and see if he can't track her down. Peter wanted to keep distance between himself and his loved ones, but...

The thing is, Wade's been doing shifty stuff since he actively went against orders and was slapped with a dishonorable discharge. Stuff that would have gotten him into trouble with the law if he was caught and stuff that have gotten him into actual trouble with the lawless who hunted him down. He's done some not shifty stuff too, like dog-walking and helping old couples move heavy boxes and threatening people's abusive dirtbag exes. But mostly it's been shitty, because Wade is very, very good at doing the shitty stuff.

Doing recon on the wife?

Well, it's shitty, but it won't be the shittiest thing Wade's ever done. So he gets up, takes one final look at the semi-depressing bachelor pad that is Peter's apartment, and leaves.

.

The Thai place Wade frequents is down the block and around the corner. It takes about twenty minutes for his order to be finished and he spends that time sitting at one of the small tables, mindlessly scrolling through MJ's public and personal instagram accounts.

There is a lot of content, but all of it is curated: no bad angles, no controversy, no wedding ring. Even the selfies are flawless. Wade cannot begin to imagine how exhausting that must be. Sure, his scar is ugly, and he's violently reminded of its existence every time a stranger looks at him for longer than a glance, but that's just his face. Having every inch of yourself scrutinized by thousands—by millions—must be awful.

"Wade!" the man behind the counter calls. "Order 67! Wade!"

The shout knocks Wade out of his thoughts. He pockets his phone, thanks the worker, and takes the two plastic bags stuffed with styrofoam take-out containers.

Outside, the brisk spring air nips Wade's cheeks and keeps him cool as he walks home. The foot traffic is light but his eyes still flit around, checking buildings and other people out of long habit, before unconsciously settling on the back of a man's head about twenty feet in front of him. The man is shorter than Wade, with brown hair and a lean body. The jeans he's wearing do little to hide his frankly spectacular ass and, when he turns his head to the side, Wade can see that his glasses have slipped down his nose. It's a cute nose, round and upturned, and—

"Peter?" Wade says loudly, abruptly.

The man stops—

Turns around—

And in the space of heartbeat, as Wade stares at the familiar face of Peter Benjamin Parker, a shadow emerges from the adjacent alley to drag him away.

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next → : Part 10

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