Chapter Text
This couldn’t be the right place.
Peter rarely went out for fun; he had next to no free time between his multiple lives as Peter Parker, photographer of Spider-Man, part-time community college student, and most of all, the friendly neighborhood Spider-Man. When he was offered a chance to meet someone at a bar to talk about a lead for a non-Spidey story for The Daily Bugle, he jumped at it — two birds, one stone, right?
That was what he thought, at least.
He knew the contact wasn’t a stand-up citizen, but they were willing to meet on their turf. Peter found himself outside of a seedy bar deep in the city where a slew of people in leather and scantily clad outfits lingered outside, and he suddenly felt extremely out of place in his beaten converse, jeans, and plain black long sleeve. He tried to recall what was told to him over the phone earlier — he was in the right neighborhood, but maybe the cross-street was wrong? He glanced around and found the street quiet aside from a bodega a few buildings down one direction and a group of bikers off to the other.
Turning back to the bar, he looked at the placard that reminded him of exactly where he was.
Sister Margaret's School for Wayward Children.
Since he was already there, Peter sighed and headed inside.
Immediately, Peter was met with the ruckus of music and chatter and the smell of alcohol and smoke. He stumbled slightly at the onslaught of sensory intake, his body set alight with nerves as several people turned to look at him — God, Peter was more out of place inside than he was out. Baby-faced and clean cut didn't fit in with the lurkers of Sister Margaret.
Peter glanced around rapidly thinking nope, nope, definitely not as he looked between groups of people playing cards, pool, and darts, but he didn’t recognize anyone. He quickly realized that he was certainly in the wrong place, but if he backed out now, he'd place a big, blaring target on his back.
In an attempt to salvage his identity as Peter Parker, he decided to head for the bar.
There was an open seat near one corner that Peter claimed. He tried to focus on the names of the bottles lined up on the wall and not at all on the slew of conversations around him, of which the topics vary from mundane topics, to sex, to —
“—man, you should’ve seen how that fucker’s skull caved in, it was sick—“
His blood ran cold. Thin hair from his arms stiffened and rose, goosebumps littering skin and rubbing uncomfortably against the fabric of his sleeves. The back of Peter’s neck tingled with danger as his spider-sense shrieked at him, urging his posture to straighten and his arms to tense. He was definitely not in the right bar to meet the Bugle lead, nor was he in the right bar for anything Peter Parker would need or want.
He was in a bar filled with criminals. He was surrounded by killers.
His senses abruptly honed, zeroing in on the approach of one person.
Every part of Peter's being screamed danger. The clunking and thudding of heavy footsteps rang loudly in his ringing ears, yet through the noise pollution brought on by inner panic, Peter heard a contemplative hum.
Peter looked to the side just as the individual — a man — loudly slammed a hand onto the bar, leaning onto it and into Peter's space. The man was hot. Peter wanted to think handsome, but it didn’t cover it. Not even remotely. Restless eyes, unshaved jaw, and a smirk that could be classified as a minor crime. There was an easy confidence about him, like he was the only one in on a joke everyone else missed.
"Wow, the front is as cute as the back," the man observed with a grin. "You look like you just walked off of a frozen yogurt commercial, sweet thing. My name is Wade and I'm here to audition for the role of bad decision."
Peter's thrown off-kilter by the roundabout introduction. Still, he asked, "Whose bad decision?"
Wade leaned even closer. "Yours, hopefully."
Embarrassment colored Peter's face red instantly and he smiled bashfully, unable to help himself. Wade straightened, though his posture remained relaxed, and Peter had to lift his chin slightly to hold eye contact.
"So." Wade tilted his head. "Do I get to know the name of the love of my life?"
"The love of your life?" Peter could feel his ears burning as he repeated the words in disbelief. His heart was racing with the rush of blood to his head, and in the same second that he debated giving a fake name, he remembers that his ID and everything on him had his real name. Peter couldn't hide an easily disproven identity, so he fell onto the one crutch he always leant on when he was nervous: his mouth. "I mean, as long as you don't shout it across the bar as an announcement..." He licked his lips and hesitated, but he caught the flicker of Wade's gaze towards the action.
No harm in befriending someone in this place strictly as Peter Parker, right?
"It's Peter."
"Peter." The way Peter's name sounded on Wade's tongue, coupled with that lop-sided smile, was dizzying in a way that was beyond words, leaving Peter in the rare state of speechlessness. "Well, Petey, I must say that I can't agree to your terms. I know I should have said so before you shared such an important detail, but I already tweeted about it, updated my will, and told our shit-stain of a bartender that we're registered at Bed, Bath, and Beyond."
Peter let a laugh slip at how quick-witted and sharp-tongued Wade was. "You're a handful."
"Yes, but I'm your handful, now." Wade leaned in, voice low and conspiratorial. "I've claimed you. Dibsies."
"I don't think that's legally binding," Peter muttered.
"Oh, sweetheart," Wade purred, tapping on Peter's chest with his index finger. "You really don't know where you are, do you? You'll find out that I break a lot of laws. Lucky for you, you're mouth-watering enough to be worth the paperwork."
Peter swallowed thickly, his brain filling with static at how bold Wade was. He should leave, vanish into the night, and forget this entire encounter, but he didn’t. He didn’t move away.
Instead, he shifted closer.
His voice came out quieter than he intended as he held Wade's gaze. "Are you always like this?"
Wade cocked his head in an exaggerated display of contemplation. "Only when I meet pretty boys who smell like clean laundry and unresolved trauma."
Peter sputtered out a laugh, light and unguarded.
Wade's expression softened as he looked at Peter — just looked.
The shift tripped Peter's heart over itself.
"You've got a nice laugh," Wade commented.
"Thanks. I don't get to use it very often," Peter admittedly shyly, face turning pink all over again.
"That," Wade said, tapping the bar, "is a crime. A tragedy, even. We should fix that."
Peter's lips parted before he even knew what to say — his brows furrowed in amused disbelief and his cheeks ached from amusement. A thousand different warning bells were ringing in his ears, each one urging him to flee and hope that Wade never tracked him down.
But Wade's presence didn't set off his senses with alarm. Wade was dangerous, sure, and chaotic. Unfiltered. Underneath it all, though, Peter sensed something grounded.
Real.
Or maybe he was just so tired of being alone.
"How do you intend to fix it?" Peter asked.
Wade studied him, weighing out his responses. Peter could see him consider something facetious, but his heart stuttered when Wade went for something earnest. "Showing you what it's like to have fun for fun's sake."
Peter's breath hitched.
He really shouldn't entertain the idea in the slightest.
Peter was rapidly approaching the line between fine and overstimulated, so he made an impulse decision.
"Do you want to get out of here?"
Wade blinked, surprised, only for his voice to drop into a low tone. "Is that a real invitation, or one of those 'test your luck and maybe get maced' invitations?"
Peter didn’t know what else to say other than: "I don't have mace."
"Perfect."
Wade stood abruptly, the barstool scraping the floor. He grabbed Peter's hand in his own, pulling him out of the bar. When they neared the exit, he turned to Peter, grinning as he said, "I have an idea, actually."
Heat and excitement alike flared in Peter's belly, stirring something new to life.
Want.
So, he nodded encouragingly, squeezing Wade's hand.
Peter wasn't quite sure what to expect, but it wasn't being pulled to the rooftop via the fire escape with Wade. He found it amusing and even endearing, climbing up to the roof like a regular person, but he enjoyed the gust of air that greeted them once they were up top. He tugged on Wade's hand, walking to the edge to sit down and let his feet dangle over.
"You're brave," Wade observed, mirroring how Peter sat. He produced a flask from the inside of his jacket, offering it to Peter first, who accepted more for the action than the effect.
"I'd use the term reckless in this scenario, but I'll take brave," Peter quipped.
"You're alone on a rooftop with me," Wade countered, holding Peter's gaze as he drank from the flask. "You know what I do."
For the first time all night, it was addressed — and even though it was indirect, Wade still highlighted the elephant in their metaphorical room.
"I do," Peter spoke slowly, unwilling to break the standoff between them.
Wade bumped his shoulder against Peter's gently, cushioning the conversation with a hint of levity. "And yet you haven't run off screaming into the night. What does that say about you, Pete?"
Too much. Far more than Peter was willing to say to anyone aloud. Infinitely more than he wanted to say to Wade.
So, he said nothing at all.
He leaned in, lifting his chin as he closed the space between them.
Wade hummed softly in surprise, but didn't pull away. He returned the kiss, and to Peter's surprise, it was sweet. No bravado. No heated clash. Just warm lips, the hint of whiskey, and the press of a hand against Peter's jaw, lingering and unhurried.
When they broke apart, Peter opened his eyes, finding Wade searching for his expression for a moment before breaking the moment.
"That was totally a first-date kiss, bee-tee-dubs. Gotta leave room for growth."
Reeling, Peter laughed, his heart leaping in ways it hadn’t in years. "There's going to be a second date?"
The wide grin directed at him was borderline criminal. "Oh, baby boy. You have no idea."
Warmth enveloped Peter.
He woke slowly, surrounded by that warmth and the faint scent of leather, sweat, and cheap laundry detergent. Through the haze of sleep, he tried to orient himself — unfamiliar ceiling, the heavy weight of a muscular arm draped over his chest, and a steady heartbeat behind him.
Oh.
Peter took quick inventory of himself: his clothes were still on, sans his shoes and jacket, no aches or pains in his body. Wade was cuddled up behind him; they must have fallen asleep like this, curled together on the lumpy mattress that Wade unapologetically dubbed “vintage, not gross” the night before. The only light was dim and filtered through half-broken blinds. He shifted, weighing his options of a clean exit or staying, but Wade mumbled something and tightened his grip around Peter.
"You're not allowed to vanish like a tragic dream," he said into Peter's shoulder, voice hoarse and rough from sleep.
Peter chuckled as if he hadn't thought about doing exactly that. "I wasn't through thinking that plan out properly."
"Good. I was fully prepared to chase you out — shirtless, dramatic music, maybe even a boombox."
"You own a boombox?"
"I would find one."
Peter turned just enough to look properly at Wade, eyes soft despite the jabs. Wade's hair was messy, sticking up in multiple directions; he looked disarmingly boyish like this.
Wade kissed him, chaste but lazy, and Peter faced him properly when they pulled apart so he could steal the next kiss. Wade let him, but after a moment he moved back enough and began talking, more awake than the moment prior. "Okay, pause — did we...? I mean, we made out, and I definitely remember your tongue in my mouth — excellent form, by the way — but did anything else...?"
Peter shook his head, fresh heat gathering in his face. "No. Just... this."
Wade nodded seriously. "Cool, cool. Just wanted to check. I don't mind slow burns — the tension can build more. Makes the eventual sex even hotter."
Peter couldn’t help but snort, pressing the heels of his palms against his eyes to rub the grogginess from them. Stars swam beneath his lids when he lowered his hands, and his heartbeat accelerated at how openly Wade drank in the sight of him.
"I don't usually do this," Peter confessed in a whisper.
Wade didn’t make a joke; he just licked his lips as he brought his fingers along the line of Peter's jaw in a tender caress. "Neither do I."
The statement meant different things to them both — for Peter, he knew that it encompassed everything about this situation. For Wade, Peter assumed that it meant having someone over without sex being the first item on the itinerary.
"You're weirdly skittish, like a street cat. And hot. Stupidly hot," Wade chirped out easily. "But you're also different. I feel like there was something — is something there, something real. And I like that."
Peter exhaled; Wade's words weren't a declaration, nor a promise, but the reciprocation that he wanted to cling to.
Suddenly, Wade was yawning and stretching an arm above his head. Peter shamelessly ogled Wade’s shirtless torso and the way his muscles flexed with the stretch. "You hungry? I have cereal, and some suspiciously old Pop-Tarts."
A growl from Peter's stomach answered eagerly. "I can be tempted by those Pop-Tarts."
Wade grinned, fiercely handsome. "That's the spirit. Live fast, eat expired pastries, fall for the emotionally stunted mercenary."
With a roll of his eyes, Peter sat up, raking a hand through his unruly hair. Wade mirrored him, down to the letter when he even carded his fingers through Peter's hair once; Peter's eyes fluttered shut with contentment.
"Should have known you'd have irresistible bedhead," he commented casually, getting out of bed. Peter watched him, eyes drifting over Wade's back, the way his jeans hug his waist and ass. Through the haze of attraction, Peter recognized something in his chest, tension pulling like a tethered buoy drifting through rough waters.
Yearning.
He swallowed it back down and followed Wade from the bed.
The kitchen smelled like burnt toaster crumbs and strawberry Pop-Tarts with a veil of instant coffee. Peter leaned against the counter, sipping what was technically coffee but tasted like regret. He watched Wade move around the kitchen with theatrical flair, humming something off-key.
It shouldn't have been comfortable, but it was. It was almost domestic. Peter thought this was meant to be the awkward part, especially after a botched one-night stand that wasn't anything more than some tipsy making out, but he only felt a sense of belonging.
That felt more worrisome than any amount of awkwardness.
"I should probably go soon," Peter reluctantly said, setting down his cup.
Wade smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Yeah, no problem. Busy guy. Cameras to click. Secret identities to juggle. I get it."
Peter tensed — just a fleeting instant — but Wade didn’t acknowledge it.
They hovered on the edge of a goodbye; Peter knew his role. He should gather his things and be on his way, disappearing like a stranger, because that's what he was.
The thought made his stomach twist.
He took a step forward, then another, reaching out on instinct to hook a finger through one of Wade's belt loops.
Wade glanced down in confusion. "Uh, Peter?"
Peter didn't respond verbally. He crowded into Wade's space, mouth parted, eyes searching. He saw something raw in Wade's eyes that encouraged him.
It was only natural he kissed Wade.
They met, but it's not tentative this time. This kiss was messy and desperate, a collision of mouths that spoke in unfinished sentences and bad timing and all the things that Peter couldn't find his voice for to speak aloud. Wade responded in kind, wrapping an arm around Peter's waist, the other hand slipping into his hair, gripping like he was afraid Peter might vanish if he let go.
Peter was the first to part; his nose pressed to Wade's cheek and forehead grazing the man’s own. "I don't want this to be a one-night thing."
Wade's voice was quiet, much like Peter's. "I don't, either."
They both leaned in again — slower this time. Peter kissed with the intent of mapping the shape of Wade's mouth, and Wade kissed with affection that shouldn't exist between them yet. It was soft, less about heat and more about reassurance.
The hours bled together. They drifted from the kitchen to the couch, then to the floor when Wade told Peter that the couch "kills the lumbar," and they eventually wound up wrapped around each other on the rug with a random rom-com playing in the background. Eventually Wade found a shirt, not that Peter minded all too much, not when he could press his cheek to Wade's chest. Peter wasn't watching the movie, while Wade pretended to, but Peter knew better when calloused fingers lazily worked up and down Peter's back. Sunlight spilled in from the window, bathing them in warm gold.
A strong heart gently beat against Peter's cheek, lulling him into a deep sense of comfort.
Wade broke the silence first. "You always this hard to read, or am I just that rusty?"
Peter shifted so his chin was on Wade's chest, allowing him to look at the man. "Depends on who's reading."
"And what do I get as the reader? SparkNotes or the extended edition?"
Peter smiled, a bittersweet thing. "You're already past the prologue."
Wade regarded him carefully. The gravity of Peter's words wasn't lost on him, but he seemed to know when not to pry. "Guess that makes you the hero. Better watch out for an emotionally devastating midpoint plot twist."
Peter laughed, albeit breathily. He knew how these things typically ended, and it wasn’t with Wade or a happy conclusion.
Not when he had the responsibility of Spider-Man to uphold.
He sighed, moving to sit up. "I really should go, this time."
Wade nodded, letting Peter up.
Peter glanced around the apartment, taking in the clutter, the odd posters, and a half-open weapons case by the door. He didn’t belong here, but he's never felt so at home since losing Uncle Ben. Since losing MJ and Ned in one swoop.
Since losing Aunt May.
He forced the thought away as he stood, stretched, and started to gather his things. Wade followed at a distance; posture more guarded in a clear attempt to act unbothered.
Peter grabbed his jacket, only to hesitate and face Wade again.
"I don't know when I can come back, but I meant what I said," he said quietly. "I want to come back."
Wade's brow furrowed slightly. "Then don't say goodbye like it's forever."
"I'm not," Peter decided firmly. "Just — keep an eye out for me, yeah?"
"You'll show up when you're ready," Wade nodded.
One last time, Peter moved in for a kiss — soft, fleeting, full of a promise that he was too scared to speak into existence.
And then he left.
Peter threw himself back into the chaos of being Spider-Man, juggling school, and work — all while pushing the memory of Wade to the back of his mind.
But he lingered.
The rain tapped against the window; Peter sat hunched over his desk; a mess of textbooks and Bugle notes scattered across the surface. His camera rested nearby, lens still dusted from earlier patrols.
He hadn’t slept properly in days.
His phone housed a stack of texts he hadn’t responded to.
There's a single text that he kept coming back to, even though he couldn’t muster up the courage to respond.
Still owe you that second date, Peter Rabbit. I have fancy whiskey and expired Oreos with your name on them.
Peter stared at the screen like it would change. He wanted to reply and show up swiftly at Wade's apartment. He wanted to ask Wade to come to his apartment, however meager it was in comparison.
But because Peter was a coward in matters of the heart, he didn't do anything.
Nothing at all.
Weeks later, Spider-Man swung through the soaked night air, the city blurring below him. His movements were practiced but distracted. An itch in the back of his skull didn't ebb once — more than his Spidey-Sense, akin to instinct. He'd been hearing low-level chatter about experiments and disappearances tied to private contracts.
One name always came up. Always whispered, but never honestly said aloud, but Peter always heard it.
Weapon X.
He recognized it from old SHIELD reports, buried in redacted text. Dangerous records. Even more dangerous people.
He didn't want to believe it until he landed in an alleyway with a dealer he'd shaken down before, and then he was forced to confront reality. He grabbed the dealer's shirt and slammed him against the nearest brick wall — not enough to hurt, but enough to frighten some obedience into the crook.
"Talk," he demanded. "There's been disappearances. People going off-grid. What do you know?"
"I don't — I don't fuck around with that, man —"
"You know something."
The dealer stammered, holding up his hands in surrender. "There was a guy. Loudmouth. Didn't shut the fuck up. He used to run jobs for an underground fixer but vanished after taking a rare offer."
Peter's pulse skipped.
"This loudmouth have a name?"
"W-Wade. Wade Wilson. He's fucking nuts, but I don't know anything else —"
Peter let him go. He couldn’t wait for more. Already moving before he realized it — he was running, heart in his throat, legs carrying him until he swung off into the night.
Wade was gone. Wade was gone.
And Peter didn't notice.
All because he was too much of a coward to respond to a text.
He ended up on the edge of his own apartment roof, soaked to the bone, mask pulled up to his nose as he stared out at the city numbly. The city lights blurred from the water in his eyes, but he welcomed the dulling of his senses.
He didn't know if Wade was dead. Or hurt. Or — something worse.
Peter squeezed his eyes shut.
Wade wasn't a bad decision or a warm body on a lonely night.
He was real.
And now he might have been gone.
His search continued. He followed street-level rumors like a trail of breadcrumbs, piecing together whispers about a new player. Someone fast, brutal, insane. The stories were all inconsistent: some called him a phantom, others said he laughs when he's shot.
All of them said to run the fuck away if you see him.
Peter did the opposite.
He heard about a fight breaking out in a weapons drop behind an old warehouse near the river. He swung toward it without thinking, adrenaline buzzing in his veins.
As he landed on a rooftop, the scene unfolded below.
Men scattered and shrieked like roaches. Guns dropped to the ground with metallic clatters. Blood streaked the pavement.
At the center of it all stood a bulky figure, red and black leather clung to a muscular form, each hand holding a sword slickened with blood. He moved like a man possessed — efficient, violent. He yanked off his mask as he corners the last man, demanding something.
Peter's heightened sense of hearing confirmed his suspicion.
"Where the fuck is he?" the mercenary demanded. His skin was mottled with scars, his voice gravelly with rage, but Peter heard him.
Wade.
Peter watched from above, breath caught in his throat.
Wade lifted his head, looked around like he knew someone was watching.
Then his eyes landed on Peter. On Spider-Man.
And they both froze.
"Wade?" Peter whispered, but it carried across the space like a scream.
Wade tensed, taking a step back, hastily pulling his mask back on. Before Peter could drop to the ground below, Wade turned on his heels and ran — vanishing into the night.