Chapter Text
Six months later.
Wade's walking Mary Puppins through the park when he sees him.
Peter Parker. Not Spider-Man. Just Peter. Sitting on a bench under a tree, red pen in hand, grading papers with that little furrow between his eyebrows he gets when he's concentrating. There's a coffee beside him, probably cold by now, knowing Peter. He never drinks it fast enough.
Wade's feet stop moving before his brain catches up. His first instinct is to turn around. Walk away. Maintain the distance they've carefully built over six months of not talking, not texting, not existing in each other's lives.
But Mary Puppins has other ideas.
She sees Peter and loses it. Barking, tail wagging so hard her whole body shakes, pulling at her leash with a strength that's frankly impressive for a dog her size. She's making this high-pitched whining noise that Wade's only heard a handful of times, and every single time it's been about Peter.
Peter looks up.
Their eyes meet.
For a second, neither of them moves. Peter's pen is frozen mid-correction. Wade's hand is tight on Mary Puppins' leash. The park continues around them, joggers, kids on bikes, someone's boombox playing old hip-hop, but they're frozen in place.
"Hey," Wade manages.
"Hey," Peter says back. His voice is softer than Wade remembers. Or maybe Wade just forgot. Six months is a long time.
Mary Puppins is going absolutely feral now, pulling so hard she's choking herself on the leash. Wade looks down at her, then back at Peter.
"Can I-?" Wade gestures.
"Yeah. Of course."
Wade unclips the leash.
Mary Puppins takes off like a rocket, scrambling across the grass, launching herself at the bench. She jumps into Peter's lap, licks his face, his hands, his neck, making sounds Wade didn't know dogs could make. It's pure joy. Pure recognition. Pure I missed you so much I thought I would die.
Peter's laughing, a real laugh, the kind Wade hasn't heard in so long he forgot what it sounded like, and trying to fend off the assault of dog kisses. His papers scatter. His coffee tips over. He doesn't seem to care.
"Mary Puppins, oh my god, hi baby, hi-" Peter's voice cracks. He buries his face in her fur. "I missed you too. I missed you so much."
Wade stands there like an idiot, watching his ex-boyfriend cry into his dog's neck, and feels something crack open in his chest.
"She missed you," Wade says quietly.
Peter looks up, eyes wet, still holding Mary Puppins. "I missed her too."
"Just her?"
It's supposed to be a joke. It comes out too raw.
Peter's face does something complicated. "No. Not just her."
Wade's throat is too tight. He walks over slowly, sits down on the bench. Careful. Leaving a full cushion of space between them. Mary Puppins is still in Peter's lap, tail thumping against Wade's leg, bridging the gap they're both trying to maintain.
"How've you been?" Wade asks.
"Better. Not great, but better." Peter's petting Mary Puppins with one hand, the other fidgeting with his pen. "Therapy's helping. I'm sleeping more. Eating regularly. You know. The basics."
"The basics are good."
"Yeah." Peter looks at Wade properly now. Really looks at him. "You look good. Healthy."
"I'm trying. Got a new therapist. Haven't been banned yet, so that's progress." Wade attempts a smile. "Haven't died in three weeks. Personal record for the past six months."
"Wade."
"I'm kidding. Mostly." He's not kidding. "But I'm being more careful. Thinking before I jump in front of bullets. Revolutionary concept."
"That's really good." Peter's voice is sincere, warm. "I'm proud of you."
Wade has to look away. Stares at the joggers, the kids, the city moving around them. "Thanks. That... that means a lot."
They sit there for a while. Not talking. Just existing in the same space. Mary Puppins has calmed down, head on Peter's lap, tail still occasionally thumping against Wade. The afternoon sun is warm. Someone's grilling somewhere nearby. It smells like charcoal and summer.
It should be awkward. It is awkward. But it's also the most comfortable Wade's felt in six months.
"I'm teaching two classes now," Peter says eventually. "Advanced physics and intro chemistry. The intro kids are disasters but they're trying. Had a student ask me if Spider-Man understood physics. I said probably."
Wade laughs. It feels strange in his throat, rusty. "What'd they say?"
"That Spider-Man probably failed high school physics because no one who passed would wear that much spandex by choice."
"Harsh. Accurate, but harsh."
"Right?" Peter's smiling now. A real smile. "I gave them extra credit for the roast."
"You're a good teacher."
"I'm an okay teacher. I care too much. Get too invested." Peter's smile fades a little. "Story of my life."
The words hang between them. I care too much. Get too invested. Both of them know he's not just talking about teaching.
"Wade?" Peter says after a moment.
"Yeah?"
"I really am proud of you. For doing the work. For trying. For-" He stops. His voice feels like it will never be stable again. "For taking care of yourself. Even though I'm not there to see it."
Wade's throat is killing him. "You didn't have to see it for it to matter."
"I know. But I wanted to. Want to." Peter's petting Mary Puppins more deliberately now, like he needs something to do with his hands. "Is that okay? That I still want to know you're okay?"
"Yeah. It's okay." Wade swallows hard. "I still want to know you're okay too."
More silence. A little kid runs past chasing a soccer ball, screaming with joy. Life continues. The world keeps spinning. They're just two people on a bench with a dog between them.
"Do you ever think about-" Peter starts.
"All the time," Wade interrupts. Because he knows what Peter's asking. Thinks about it constantly. Dreams about it. Wakes up reaching for it. "But I'm trying not to. Trying to accept that we were good but we weren't right. That we loved each other but couldn't figure out how to do it without destroying ourselves."
"Yeah," Peter whispers. "That."
"Are you happy?" Wade asks. Needs to know. "Without me?"
Peter's quiet for a long time. "Not yet. But I'm getting there. Some days are better than others. Last week I made it three whole days without crying." He says it like it's an achievement. Maybe it is. "Are you?"
"Same. The not-happy-yet thing. But I'm... I'm better. The apartment's still shit, but Mary Puppins and I are figuring it out. I cook sometimes. Actual food. I go to therapy. I take jobs that won't kill me." Wade pets Mary Puppins' head. "I'm learning how to be alone without being self-destructive. It's slow going, but..."
"But you're trying."
"Yeah. I'm trying."
They sit there with their dog, their shared custody emotional support dog that neither of them planned on but both of them need, and their separate lives and their mutual grief.
A group of teenagers walks by blasting music. Someone's dog barks in the distance. The city is loud and alive and indifferent to their pain.
"I should go," Peter says finally. "I've got office hours in forty minutes. Need to get back to campus."
"Yeah. I've got a job tonight. Nothing crazy. Surveillance. Very safe."
"Good."
They stand. Mary Puppins whines, looking between them like she knows what's about to happen and doesn't like it.
Peter bends down, kisses the top of her head. "Be good for Wade, okay? Take care of him."
Mary Puppins licks his face.
Wade clips her leash back on. They're both standing now, too close and too far apart at the same time.
"Can we..." Peter hesitates, fidgeting with his pen. "Can we do this again? Not dating. Not trying to fix anything. Just... this. Seeing each other. Being okay around each other. Something like friends."
Wade thinks about it. Really thinks about it. About whether he can handle seeing Peter and not touching him. Not kissing him. Not asking if he can come home. About whether he's strong enough to have Peter in his life without having him in his life.
"Yeah," Wade says. "Yeah, I think I can do that."
"Good." Peter looks relieved. Scared. Hopeful. "I'll text you? Maybe we can do this once a month or something? Coffee? Dog park?"
"I'd like that."
"Okay. Good."
They stand there for another second. Neither of them knows how to say goodbye. How to leave. How to end this moment that feels both too short and too long.
"Take care of yourself," Peter says finally.
"You too."
Peter gathers his papers, picks up his empty coffee cup, adjusts his bag. Gives Wade one last look, soft, sad, something else Wade can't identify, and walks away. Back toward campus. Back to his life that doesn't include Wade anymore.
Wade watches him go. Doesn't call out. Doesn't chase. Just watches until Peter disappears into the crowd of students and professionals and people going about their ordinary Saturday afternoon.
It hurts.
It'll probably always hurt.
"Come on, pupper," Wade says. "Let's go home."
Mary Puppins looks back toward where Peter went, whines once, then follows Wade. She keeps looking back though. She hasn't forgotten. Dogs never do.
Wade walks home to his shitty studio apartment in Hell's Kitchen. Makes dinner for himself and the dog. Checks his weapons for tonight's job. Takes his meds. Does the dishes. All the small acts of self-care that Peter wanted him to learn and Wade's learning too late.
His phone buzzes as he's getting ready for work.
Thanks for letting me see her. And you. Take care, Wade.
Wade stares at the text for a full minute. Types and deletes five different responses. Settles on: You too, Pete. See you next month?
Yeah. Next month.
Wade sets his phone down. Looks around his apartment, still terrible with living walls, but lived-in now. Familiar. His. There are photos on the wall. Mary Puppins' toys scattered around. Evidence of a life being lived, even if it's not the life he wanted.
It's not what he imagined six months ago.
It's not Peter.
But it's his. And he's learning to be okay with that.