Chapter Text
Peter had worked with difficult people before. Tony was controlling. Strange was arrogant. Even Clint had his moments of “absent dad with a bow and arrow.” But Wade Wilson was a different kind of challenge. He was impossible to ignore.
By the third night of this so-called temporary strategic collaboration, Peter was seriously considering faking an injury just to get out of the deal. But Fury had threatened him with a full report if he “abandoned duty.” And Peter was terrible at disobeying orders.
So here he was — leaning against the edge of a rooftop in Queens, trying his best to ignore the loud, insistent presence beside him. Wade spun his katana slowly between his fingers, like he was bored. But Peter could feel it. He knew. Wade was watching. Not with hostility. With... curiosity.
“You always grind your teeth when you're focused, or is that just for me?” Wade asked, voice low — too low for his usual tone. “Seriously, I’m starting to worry about your enamel.”
Peter didn’t answer. Didn’t look up. If he looked, he’d lose. That was the rule. Wade turned everything into a game — and Peter hated losing.
“Are you always this grumpy, or is that special treatment just for me?” Wade pressed, leaning a little more in his direction. “Because if it’s exclusive, I’m honored.”
Peter took a deep breath. Counted to three. Then to five. The mission hadn’t started yet. The target hadn’t even shown up. They were just waiting, in the dark. And Wade had never known how to handle silence. Peter, on the other hand, used to love silence. Until someone started filling it with words that stuck in his head.
“You don’t have to talk all the time,” Peter said finally, quietly. Not annoyed — not yet. Just tired. “We’re supposed to be stealthy, remember?”
“Stealthy? I’m the shadow of the night,” Wade spread his arms dramatically. “You’re the one glowing like a disco ball in that suit.”
Peter let out a dry sigh. He wasn’t going to take the bait. Not tonight. But the truth was, the suit was clinging to his skin a bit from the heat. And he wondered — for one quick, stupid moment — if Wade had been looking. And why that bothered him so much. Or if it bothered him at all.
They went quiet for a few minutes. The kind of silence that should’ve been comfortable, but instead buzzed with invisible electricity. It wasn’t hate. Not exactly. But it wasn’t peaceful, either. It was... irritating. Uneasy. Like a phantom touch that never quite landed.
And Wade didn’t say anything else. But Peter knew. He could feel it. Any second now, the other man might say something. Make a joke. Drop some offhand comment that would make Peter turn his head, or twist his stomach, or — worse — make some part of his body react the wrong way. And he hated that. Hated how silence could be a form of provocation, too.
The alert came through the wrist comm. “Target in motion,” said the SHIELD voice, muffled by the wind. “Sector 7, near the alley between 43rd and Broadway. Prepare to intercept.” Peter was already standing before the sentence finished. He launched himself off the rooftop with a soft, silent thwip of webbing. Wade followed a second later — without yelling, without talking. Which was almost more unsettling than if he had shouted “cavalry’s here!” in the middle of the night.
They dropped into the alley like shadows. The target was a low-level alien arms smuggler — theoretically small-time, but backed by extra muscle and Chitauri tech. Of course. Because Peter never got an easy night.
Wade struck first, as always — chaotic, loud, and ridiculously effective. Peter hated admitting it worked. While Wade distracted the guards with gunfire and awful jokes, Peter moved with precision — webs to the wrists, a kick to the gut, a clean throw into the wall. They didn’t coordinate their moves. But somehow, they clicked. Which was frustrating. Because it shouldn’t have worked this well.
A small explosion rocked the alley floor. Peter dropped to his knees, instinctively covering his head. One of the men tried to take advantage, but before he could get close, Wade stepped in — planting a knife in the guy’s knee with a move that was both elegant and grotesque. Peter looked up. And Wade was there. Standing between him and the danger. Body tense, breath uneven, blood on his shoulder.
He turned slowly, glancing at Peter over the half-torn mask. Only his eyes were visible — and they burned with something Peter couldn’t name. “You okay?” Wade asked. No sarcasm. No joke.
Peter swallowed hard. “Yeah. Just the scare.”
They stood there for a second too long. Their breathing still heavy, the air thick with gunpowder and blood, the fading echoes of the fight behind them. Peter noticed Wade’s fingers still clenched tight around the knife handle. That he was trembling, just a little. That even with a healing factor, he looked... tired.
And then Peter realized he was staring. Too much. He looked away first.
“You could’ve been more subtle,” he muttered, trying to sound normal. “The plan was to stay low-key.”
“My plan was to keep your pretty ass from getting blown up,” Wade shot back automatically — but his voice was quieter than usual.
Peter rolled his eyes and stood up, a little too fast. “Don’t start.”
But it was too late. That offhand, crude comment stuck in his ears like a stubborn buzz. Not because of what was said — Peter had heard worse. But because of how it was said. Like Wade wasn’t joking. Or maybe he was. Halfway.
They moved down the alley in silence, heading after the rest of the stolen tech. But the air between them had shifted. It was thicker now. Warmer, despite the cold. Peter could feel Wade right behind him. Feel his gaze. Feel the heat. And he hated how much he didn’t want to run from it.
The mission ended without any major surprises — which, in Peter’s life, was a miracle. Goons down, weapons secured, data transmitted. Done. But even as they walked away from the alley, Peter’s body stayed on high alert. Like the danger was still close. Or maybe it was just Wade.
They walked side by side through dim streets, jumping over trash piles and broken pavement in silence. Peter noticed how Wade held his shoulder — not like it hurt, but like he knew Peter was watching. That he would watch. The blood was drying slowly across the torn fabric. The suit clung to his skin in spots. Peter tried not to focus on it. Tried not to think about the heat pulsing under Wade’s disguise. But it was hard.
And Wade didn’t speak. That was the strangest part of all. He walked in silence, steps slower than usual, eyes fixed on the ground. No joke. No dirty comment. Just... silence. And that said more than any line he could’ve delivered.
The entrance to the safehouse was hidden behind a closed-down Chinese restaurant, tucked between rusting trash cans and a crooked gate. Peter punched in the code without a word, and when the door opened, Wade went in first — no flourish, no theatrics. The room was small. Bare concrete walls. A crooked chair, a metal locker, and a narrow bed shoved into the corner. The whole place seemed to beg for silence.
Wade stopped in the center, took off his backpack, and placed it gently on the floor. Peter watched him out of the corner of his eye as he opened the locker and grabbed the med kit.
“You should take care of that shoulder,” he said, voice low, steady.
Wade took a second to respond. Then gave a half-smile — awkward, almost sad. “You know I don’t die, right?”
Peter slammed the locker shut harder than necessary. “That’s not the point.”
Wade didn’t reply. But when Peter turned, he was already tugging off the top half of his suit. Not seductively. Not like a tease. But with hesitation. He turned his back, as if that hid something. The movements weren’t confident. Skin appeared in pieces — scarred, burned, broken into chaotic patterns. Scars that told stories no one wanted to hear. Stories Wade never let anyone hear.
Peter’s breath caught. Not from shock — he already knew. But from seeing it. Up close. Unmasked. Without the loud persona that filled every silence to cover what was left.
“You can... not look,” Wade murmured, still facing away. “If it’s too ugly.”
Peter stepped closer, slowly. “It’s not ugly.”
Wade let out a dry, humorless laugh. “Pretty sure you’re standing in the wrong light, Spidey.”
Peter knelt beside the chair, kit in hand. The cut still bled a little. The healing had already started, but it wasn’t instant. The wound pulsed under the marked skin. He cleaned it carefully. More carefully than he cared to admit.
“You shouldn’t be ashamed of this,” he said, without thinking too hard.
“You think I’m ashamed?”
Peter didn’t answer. Because Wade’s back was turned — but his body said everything. The way he kept his head down. The way his shoulders never quite relaxed. Like he was avoiding any reflection that might show his face. Like protecting himself from Peter’s judgment mattered more than the wound.
Peter finished the bandage and stepped back, slowly. Wade still hadn’t moved.
For a few seconds, the silence hung heavy. Until Wade turned his head just slightly and said: “You’re too kind. That’s gonna bite you in the ass someday.”
Peter held his gaze. And answered quietly: “Maybe. But not today.”
Wade laughed again. But this time it sounded more human. More tired.
Peter stood up, put everything back in the locker, and tried to ignore how fast his heart was beating. Because being there, in that small room, with Wade like that, was dangerous in a way that had nothing to do with weapons or villains. It was a different kind of threat. The kind you can’t punch your way out of.
He closed the locker gently. Left his hand resting against the cold metal for a few seconds, as if the touch alone could anchor him in the present. But nothing held.
His mind was drifting. Or maybe too close. Caught in the image of the wound on Wade’s shoulder. In the heat of skin he felt through the glove. In scars his eyes didn’t want to see, but couldn’t look away from either.
He took a deep breath. One. Two. Three seconds. Walked to the base door. The blue light of the panel lit his hand in an artificial glow. The exit code blinked, waiting for him to press it. Waiting for him to leave. Waiting for him to be rational.
But Peter didn’t press it.
He stood there, finger hovering just millimeters above the sensor. The air behind him was still heavy. Warm. Far too quiet.
He could feel Wade even without seeing him. Like the man’s presence had sunk into the walls. Into his skin.
Peter knew he should leave. End it here. Be professional. Take that silence as a win.
But then a voice came. Low. Rough. Like it slipped out by accident.
“You always been like this?”
Peter turned his head slightly — just enough to hear better. “Like what?”
A pause. Then: “Careful. Like everything you touch might break. Like you’re always scared of shattering someone.”
Peter bit the inside of his cheek. Took a small step closer. Just enough to see Wade’s face better under the white, ugly light — too harsh for an intimate moment, and yet somehow, exactly right.
“Maybe because I have broken things,” Peter said, eyes fixed on him. “People.”
Wade smiled. Not the usual grin — not loud or filthy or clownish. It was small. A little crooked. A little sad.
“Yeah. But I don’t break.”
Peter crossed his arms. Didn’t know what to say. Because technically, Wade was right. The healing factor was insane. Bones grew back. Skin closed up. No wound was permanent.
But Peter had seen it. Saw the hesitation when Wade peeled off his suit. The way he turned his face. The unease hiding in the jokes that never came. And Peter wasn’t stupid. Or blind.
He leaned against the wall beside the door, eyes still on Wade.
“You’re ashamed,” he said. Not accusing. Just naming it.
Wade didn’t reply. But the way his fingers clenched tightly around each other said enough. His breath caught for a second. The scars shimmered faintly under the ceiling light — ugly and beautiful and human.
Peter continued: “I get it.”
“You do?” The question was quick. Almost sharp.
Peter didn’t flinch. “I do. Not on the outside. But inside, all the time.”
Silence returned. But it tasted different now. Not just discomfort. Recognition.
Peter pushed himself off the wall, heading toward the door. “Good night, Wade.”
His voice was calm. But inside, nothing was. He knew — knew that if he stayed one more minute, he’d say something stupid. Or do something worse. And he couldn’t. Not yet.
Before the door closed, he heard — very softly: “Good night, Spidey.”
Said in a different tone. No irony. No armor.
Peter didn’t look back. But his whole body heard it.
And he already knew that voice, like that, would echo in his head a lot longer than he wanted it to.