Archive of Our Own

He used to like the sound of the train passing. A horn off in the distance brought him comfort. Or the lights of a car cutting through the window into his room. It made the world feel less lonely.

Then his hearing was enhanced, and it all became far too loud. And then he moved into the city where the cars drive by all night, sounding their horns under the window he has to crack open on 90 degree summer nights. It's probably bad enough with normal hearing, but it's like falling asleep in the middle of the road.

He prefers winter, by the way, even if it sounds counterintuitive. His body post-bite was not made for the cold, but as long as he bundled up semi-appropriately he could manage. In the summer he's hot and sticky in ways he's not supposed to be sticky.

Either way, he makes things harder for himself. He loves technology, but he hates the high-tech suits---even minimal tech suits were pushing it. They could make his life more efficient, but they just feel almost constricting in a way. Call him old school, but there's something in him that refuses to adapt.

Part of the reason he's such a loner probably has to do with the fact he refuses to keep his phone on him. Not that there was anyone trying to reach Spider-Man anyways. He had a virtual number on his personal cell for those purposes, but his most recent attempts at being contacted had Wade at the top, and then a two-week gap before anyone else reached out. And at this point Wade was mainly just calling to "hear his voice."

For some reason, it would be 3am and Peter would still answer. He guessed it's something to distract him. It's no longer hot or cold, and his previous "wide-awake ness" gets shy in response to the presence of another person.

If he turns the volume down really low and Wade's not talking directly into the mic, he kind of has that type of radio voice.

Peter does miss that soft rumble of distant movement, and he misses the quiet. And answering that call or the taller the building he's on, the closer he gets to that.

But being on top of the world doesn't last. He gets this guilt about being so far away from the action and, if he's being honest, a little yearning. So, he crawls or swings or jumps back down, knowing he'd do it all over again.

He feels a tingle that's more about sensing the air around him shift than a Spider-Sense. A grappling hook whizzed past him right on cue. Wade, unsurprisingly, on the other end of it.

"What's up Wade?" Peter asked for formalities sake really.

"Ya like jazz?"

There's the thud of Wade's general mass as he settled beside where Peter was sitting. A little too close, but far enough.

"I can't tell if you're genuinely asking or-"

"Both." Wade's voice, Peter realized, is weirdly smooth. "The jazz museum is, like, around the corner."

Peter turned to look at him.

"Dude, I'm aware. I live here."

"You live in Harlem?"

There's no visual clue as to why the usual gravely timbre was gone from Wade's voice, but every other part—like his inflection—was correct. It wasn't off enough that Peter had to suspect there was someone else under the mask, but still just enough that he had to keep reminding himself he was talking to Wade and not some stranger.

"No, I mean, I know Manhattan like the back of my hand. If you haven't noticed, protecting New York City is kind of my thing."

Wade scrunched up his face under the mask.

"New York City is bigger than just Manhattan."

"Not my fault a lot of things happen in Manhattan," Peter muttered back with a shrug. "Some might say Manhattan is the cultural capital of the U.S."

"Blatant favoritism. When aliens target the smallest borough of a city not even the top 10 largest in the world, it's called karma."

"I will be unbelievably mad if this week ends with an alien invasion."

"Bonus points for when you deal with it alone."

Peter shook his head.

"No way. Not doing it."

"I will be off in, I don't know, Staten Island which will be inexplicably not at all affected by anything happening in Manhattan."

"If you're in Staten Island, I'm in Staten Island."

The smile that formed on Wade's face was evident even through the mask, probably because it was the type of smile that was all cheek.

"That's possibly the cutest thing you've ever said to me."

"The art of sucking up."

"I'll allow it. Hell," Wade leaned closer, "let's even ditch the city all together and go up to Canada. Will you marry me Spider-Man?"

The sun was setting on them. They were too busy joking to notice it, but Peter had seen it so many times it's lost its meaning to him. The beauty of it was not lost on him completely, but the ability to sit down and appreciate it was.

Instead, he watched how the changing colors affected the lighting of Wade's mask. And Wade probably didn't even consider anything besides staring right back.

There is something pure in witnessing someone else's unconditional love for something or someone, even if, or rather, especially when you don't understand it. And there was something to the fact it was hidden behind man-made barriers. 

"What do you offer?" Peter asked.

He has one leg pulled up to his chest, his chin rested on top of that.

"A beautiful country that waits with open arms for Spider-Man?"

"It's cold though."

"Global warming has you covered," Wade replied with a shrug.

"That just made me sad."

"You have two options: we get you Timbs and a flannel suit with a maple leaf on the chest, or, and you might like this one, we put you in a red and white suit with a fur lined hood, throw on gloves and fur lined boots, plus you start carrying around a hockey stick. Also, you're a Spider-Woman."

"I don't understand why I have to be Spider-Woman just because I'm a girl," Peter argued. "Man isn't gendered, it just means human."

"Don't worry, you keep pushing your agenda and we'll call you Spider-Canada. But the eyes of your mask have black eyeliner in case people can't tell you're a girl."

"You drive a hard bargain. I might take you up on that offer."

Wade tilted his head slightly.

"You want eyeliner on your mask?"

Now, Peter turned his attention to the twilight. There's a science to all of it. Time is calculated in degrees instead of minutes. And yet despite how mathematical Peter's brain is, he can't get himself to see the sky in numbers instead of colors.

"I'd like to see the northern lights," he explained.

He knew about the light waves and the angles that explain away natural phenomenon as something that graspable, and yet all the science in the world could never prepare you for actually seeing it for yourself.

It's the wonder of science that once enthralled him. Studying the moon phases and being able to look outside and understand what he sees. Reading about the eclipse year after year until finally it's happening right in front of him. Asking himself what makes up a spider's web and then being able to create a formula in a lab. And every single time it is wonder he feels.

"I'll go ring shopping," Wade announced.

Peter felt himself let out a chuckle. He also felt Wade look at him for a moment, registering the emotion before asking:

"Why are you laughing?" 

"I just remembered I lied to my professor about going to a planetarium for my astronomy final."

"What?"

"I really did want to go was the thing, I just ran out of time."

Wade looked at him for another moment, and this time, Peter decided to look back at him in the silence. His knee pushed into his cheek.

"Let's go to Connecticut."

"Why?"

"It's our anniversary," Wade replied simply.

"I don't think it is."

"We can call a babysitter. Forget the kids for a night. Squirrel Girl is more than capable."

"I can't go to Connecticut, Wade."

"Why not?"

Peter motioned vaguely with his hand before falling on:

"Where am I supposed to swing?"

"New Haven is a city!" Wade rebutted without second thought. "They claim they have good pizza and– oh we could rob a Yale student!"

"Do people in Connecticut know who I am?"

That sounded stupid the moment he said it. If people in Boston knew him, then people in Connecticut had no excuse.

"Dude. It's Connecticut. Come on don't make me go alone. The job will only take 20 minutes."

Peter turned his head away with a stifled scoff.

"Wade, I am not participating in a hit with you."

"It's not a hit! It's stealth, you'll love it."

"What do you need to do?"

"A little of this, a little of that-"

"Wade."

"I'm exhuming a body."

That's enough to get Peter to turn back towards Wade.

"Wade."

"It's for a good cause! I can explain on the way there."

"The only good cause I can think of is rescuing someone from being buried alive and that's clearly not happening."

"Spidey. Trust me."

He has no reason to. He has no want to.

"It doesn't take 20 minutes to dig a grave," Peter muttered. 

He can hear Wade smile.

"So, you're coming?" he asked.

"I don't know."

"There's basically no tunnels between here and Connecticut."

"Yeah no chance."

Wade gave an exaggerated groan.

"No fun. You couldn't last the trip inside the train."

"Wanna bet?"

"Prove me wrong baby. Do you promise not to get stir crazy stuck in a train car for 2 hours?"

He doesn't remember that last time he was in some type of public transportation. Unless a taxi counts, but those are far and few between, and only when he's playing the part of Peter Parker.

"If I do, just knock me out for everyone's sake."

"I don't think that many people are traveling right now."

"Let's hope you're right." Then: "Can I get an image inducer?"

Wade doesn't make any move to fulfil the request.

"You like that thing," he stated with the intonation of a question.

"I just," Peter shrugged, "I don't know. I need a secret identity for my secret identity."

"You mean you want another alter ego."

He still doesn't move, waiting for a response. There's a buzz in Peter's chest he identifies as either discomfort, anxiety, or vulnerability. Perhaps all three.

"Can I tell you something weird?" Peter acquiesced.

"In what world do I say no?"

"I don't feel represented unless there's two of me."

Unless he splits himself in half. He has to feel like he has something else to him, for himself. All his Bugle photos are saved under a different name because his identity works like mitosis.

It's him, whoever he is---or was---at the core which becomes equal parts Spider-Man and Peter Parker that then respectively divide themselves further. And when he's messing around with Wade, not quite Spider-Man but not quite Peter either, he likes to cut it off and isolate it with the image inducer because otherwise he can't understand it.

It's a crutch and he knew it.

"Why?" Wade asked.

"Because there are. Two of me that is."

One day he will have to dissolve that secret, third thing that calls itself PJ. But not today.

"Sometimes I think I'm in-between an I and a we." Before Wade could answer, Peter added, "Don't say anything."

The most frustrating thing about Wade is Peter only thinks the mercenary can understand. He has no proof.

Finally, Wade took an image inducer out of one of his pouches and held it in front of Peter to take carefully.

Dependence is not a feeling Peter enjoys. He may tell himself this isn't it, just like anyone else tells themselves they're not addicted, but in the back of his mind he knows he's lying.

"You should probably eat something first. I don't want to hear anything about you being hungry," Wade said.

Peter hummed. He stood in one motion and held his hand out for Wade to hold. He can see the way Wade bounced a little straighter and moved a little faster in his excitement.

"You ready?"

"Do you even need to ask?"

They swing farther out first, find a hot dog stand. Maybe part of it is procrastinating, but they eat on a roof for a while before finally swinging to the station. If Peter listened for it, he could hear a distant train slowly making its way up the tracks toward them. That, he guessed, was the train Wade was talking about. And just like he had said before, the station was relatively empty.

In the wait, Wade got tickets, and Peter activated his image inducer. He walked onto the train looking like a different person than the one that had arrived at the station. Peter looked up as they entered, and Wade clocked that with a:

"Nuh uh, ass in the chair."

The cars are small. Low ceilings, narrow passages. The chairs are a worn beige and bright red, grouped in either two or three. Wade was right about it being empty as well.

They sit in the 4-seater---two pairs of seats facing one another---that demarcates the start of the vestibule. Instinctively, Peter sat at the window seat, trying to nestle into the corner but it turned out to be uncomfortable in every position but one.

He can handle it.

Wade sat across from Peter, though not in either seat. He sits right in the middle of the two and manspreads to take up the entire area---they're slotted together that way, with Peter allowed the middle and Wade encasing him. To be fair, the seats aren't wide enough for someone like Wade, tall and an egregious exhibit of muscle.

It made Peter think of those heavily bronzed body builders he never understood, which in turn made him think of high school and what he didn't have back then.

"You're being so brave right now," Wade teased when the train started to move again.

"You disgust me," is all Peter said back.

"What'd I do?"

The question was pure curiosity, not a hint of offense taken.

"Why do you look, like, so much person?"

"I'm interpreting this as a compliment by the way."

"I am disturbed by such a disgusting display of the male form."

He finds the human body disgusting, almost. He's at an impasse. Peter understands and can appreciate good faces or nice hair, but the neck down loses him. It never felt like it concerned him before, but from teen years on, the little things---why do hands look like that?---could not escape his scrutiny. He could give people insecurities they wouldn't have otherwise if he wasn't careful. Himself too. Especially himself.

"Disgusted or threatened? Perhaps intrigued. Aroused if you will."

Despite Wade's well of bodily insecurity, Peter appreciated him not taking his words to heart. It's not Wade he has a problem with---in some weird, convoluted way Peter is actually complimenting Wade. Congrats on the success of your person, I could not look away even wanting to.

"Close your legs."

"And so, the claustrophobia begins," Wade mused, complying only by resting one leg on the empty seat across from him.

It wasn't claustrophobia, but Peter kept shifting on the chair, not able to get comfortable. Surely it was not indicative of how the rest of this trip will unfold.

The conductor comes and goes. Wade pats his pockets to show the paper tickets he got back at the station, receiving just a look and a thank you. Peter watched it happen though the reflection of the window.

"You know you might be on to something about ditching this meat suit and experiencing crabifornication," Wade said, presumably returning to the previous topic of conversation.

"Carcinization," Peter corrected first. "Unless you mean a weird mix between crabs and the video game in the Californication music video."

"Marry me, girl, be my fairy to the world, be my very own constellation," Wade replied instead, only half-hearted in his singing.

"Why do you just know that?"

"Because I'm cool."

"Debatable."

"You love me, we're getting married in Connecticut."

Sometimes, halfway through a bit---or well past one---Peter realized Wade might be more serious than he's letting on.

"Speaking of," he redirected, "can you tell me more about this job?"

Wade shrugged.

"What else is there to know? Dude's hoping his friend isn't dead and is instead hiding out in the forest somewhere. He got a note."

"A note?"

"Not like a goodbye suicide note, but a waiting for you in our special place note."

"Okay," Peter said, "so, what are we looking for?"

"A body. Dead or alive."

"Fun."

Peter looked out the window. By now the sky had reached as dark as it was going to get. You couldn't see anything. From his reflection, Peter could see Wade followed his gaze.

"They have observatories in Connecticut," Peter mused.

Wade shifted at that, then turned back away from the window. Peter did the same, and asked:

"Do you ever miss the stars?"

Wade spends more time out of New York, Peter's sure he's had plenty of opportunities to see a speckled night sky. But Wade just shrugged.

"Not when I've got the North Star right in front of me."

Peter rolled his eyes.

"That was bad."

"My flirting is just too advanced for you."

"No, it's just bad."

"Pick a language."

Peter didn't let the change in topic slow him down, and said:

"Italian."

"One I know. God."

"You know Spanish," he argued, "you have no excuse not knowing the rest of the romance languages. At least French."

"I'm not that type of Canadian."

"What type of Canadian are you?"

"The type that comes to America. You know Connecticut was the first state to officially recognize French-Canadian heritage?"

At some point in the conversation, Wade ended up upside down. Or rather, Peter was sitting in the seat wrong, with his back on the seat and legs crossed against the backrest. Wade hadn't commented on the transition, but Peter had a feeling this position was likely not allowed.

"You're not French-Candian," Peter stated.

"Yeah, that's why I don't live in fucking Connecticut. Imagine the taxes."

Peter stifled the chuckle with a shake of his head.

"You live in New York," he said. "And I don't think you pay taxes."

"I don't. Except sales tax. They always get me with the sales tax. If only I could pirate store goods."

"That's called stealing."

"I don't think you know what piracy means."

"Me? You don't think I know about piracy."

Wade exaggerated a gasp.

"Spidey you old dog! What next? Stealing candy from a baby? You know what they say, piracy is a gateway drug."

"No one says that."

Wade shook his head and wagged his finger cartoonishly.

"You wouldn't steal a car. Piracy is a crime."

"You're right Wade," Peter replied, matching the energy with his own, much less so, exaggerated nod.

He could understand the small spark of enjoyment in overplaying the action.

"No one commits crimes, they're illegal," he continued.

"Only if you're caught."

"No, still illegal."

"Agree to disagree." Then before Peter could disagree, Wade moved on to: "Would you move to Connecticut?"

"No way. Commuting is not for me."

"I mean you could just protect Connecticut instead of New York."

To his own credit, Peter thought about it for a moment.

"I mean, I don't know, I guess."

"You could also retire."

"So soon? It'd feel so unfinished."

The conversation had shifted in tone so suddenly that Peter didn't have any time to decide not to answer honestly.

"How long did you plan to be doing this for?" Wade asked.

"I never thought that far ahead. Are you going to stop?"

"I always assumed I'd get bored eventually. I don't know what else I'd do though. I guess I have the time to learn anything I want."

He looked out the window, not exactly searching for an answer outside, but giving his internal thought an external action.

"I could get really into whittling," Wade said.

"You could do that now."

Wade hummed instead of responding, so Peter continued:

"I never understood arts and humanities."

"Spoken like a true STEM major."

"Not like that I mean it just always felt so personal. So competitive."

Wade turned back to Peter, tilting his head in lieu of asking for an explanation. Peter supplied.

"I took an art class as a requirement and yeah, you can say STEM majors don't take the arts seriously, but I felt so looked down on in that environment as 'not an artist.' Treated like I don't know what they know or that I'm worse than them. In my science courses we were equals, always assuming we had the same knowledge. You don't even know what I'm talking about, you skipped college."

"I'm listening though."

Peter paused just long enough that Wade felt the need to add:

"I didn't know you could draw."

"Dude, I made this suit. Give me a pen and pad and my hand eye coordination alone could accurately trace you."

"What about before you mutated?"

"I was bored in class," Peter said with a shrugged. "I wasn't immune to scribbling in the corner of my notebook 3D squares even if the margins were mainly random math equations and structural formulas. I mean, engineering taught me how to draw—and I had art classes before that like most other kids—but everyone acts surprised when I too know what perspective is. You're just thought of more highly in STEM, I feel, where instead they'd only act surprised if you didn't know what perspective was."

"Maybe you just took a shit class with shitty people."

"Maybe. I took a photography class that confused the hell out of me because everyone was really nice? At least on the surface level. It was connected to the film program which I didn't hear many good things about really, so maybe they were just good liars. They always found something nice to say about these blurry, badly edited photos. I mean I guess they still didn't expect much of you, but they hid it better."

Peter lived under the philosophy that the same thing happens everywhere, which is why he was always so confused when people transferred because of "the people." In his book, you were just going to run into those same types of people in the next place you ran off too, so might as well stay in the familiar where it can't be any worse. The devil you know is better than the devil you don't.

"You're not in college still, right?" Wade asked.

"I never got to finish graduate school."

"You should go back."

"I hope to one day." 

Aunt May used to tell him he should stay in school for as long as he could, then he'd never have to grow up and join the adult world. Peter's pretty sure she was saying it as another one of her ways to protect him. Thing is he would've had no problem taking her advice.

"Do you remember wanting to major in something?" Peter asked. 

"I don't know, higher education never sounded for me." Wade still thought about it, answering: "Probably a trade. Like plumbing."

"Plumbing?"

"Yeah, like Mario."

"I know who Mario is, I just don't think you're a plumber."

"Well, no, I'm a mercenary."

"That's the problem. I really can't see you as anything else." Peter paused as he thought. "Maybe a mechanic?"

"That doesn't sound right. What about welding? Or woodwork?"

"No that's not it either."

"I think I was just born to be a killer."

Before the sentence could settle, Peter said:

"Wait, I got it. You're definitely my barber."

He felt himself smile at that for reasons he hadn't exactly figured out yet. It was just such a civilian image that he's never really connected with Wade before. There was a charm to that.

"You like that?" Wade asked.

"Yeah, I like that."

"I'll work on it."

Peter shifted his sitting position again, laying across the two seats and facing the window. There wasn't much to see. Darkness had encompassed the outside, and the lights of the train made it all the much darker when there weren't any streetlights on the other side of the window to match.

Peter doesn't travel. There's a level of sadness he gets watching himself get further and further away from the only home he's ever known. An empty sadness. Not one that invoked anything in him other than the want to watch.

Wade's looking at something on his phone and Peter thinks of making some sort of joke about it, but nothing actually makes it out of his mouth. But then curiosity started to settle in the silence. Obscurity of the mask aside, there was an intensity to the focus Wade was exerting on the unknown task in his phone. There's no answers in the window reflection either---Wade's phone isn't at the right angle for that.

Peter wouldn't say he cared all the deeply, but in some strange way he was enraptured by the idea of a question without an answer.

Either way, he'd exhausted his own seating positions and made the decision to sit next to Wade instead, leaning against the mercenary and still facing the window.

"Woah," Wade said, shifting himself to accommodate Peter, "what's up cuddlebug?"

"Put your arm around me, your shoulder is pointy."

This is the closest he's gotten to a comfortable corner, even if he is hearing Wade's body at work—heart beating, blood pumping, digestion.

"You don't have to tell me twice."

He's able to stay still for only a couple moments before Peter began scooching again.

"You are antsy-pantsy for a spider."

Peter felt like a thousand bugs.

"I need to, like, to do something. I'm freaking out man."

How long has it been? How much longer will it be?

"You promised me you would be fine."

"You didn't tell me we'd be in here for 2 hours."

"I did and it's been an hour," Wade corrected, "and you only have 30 minutes left. Cabin fever at this stage is just embarrassing."

Peter attempted to stretch, testing the confines of his environment and deeming it to be too little.

"Just take me out."

"I only have ketamine and I'm not sure if that works on you?"

That, at the very least, distracted him.

"Why do you keep horse tranquilizer on you?"

"Because the mounted unit exists. Duh."

"What do you have against them?"

"Pavement isn't good for horses."

"That's weirdly thoughtful of you-"

Wade cut Peter off by adding:

"And it should be me up there."

"There it is. Pure unadulterated jealousy."

"In another life we're cowboys and it's beautiful."

"Sure dude."

Peter stretched again, doing a backbend over Wade's legs to grab onto the armrests. The problem there would be he doesn't have enough space to finish out the second-rate back walkover. The solution is he doesn't abide by the laws of physics. That and he has an insane amount of upper body strength.

The main obstacle he has to tuck in to avoid is the overhead luggage storage anyways. After that it was just not hitting the ceiling and sticking the landing---which he does no problem.

"What the fuck Spidey," Wade commented once Peter finished out the movement.

"Imagine if I was a contortionist," Peter mused instead.

"You're telling me you're not one?"

"Not technically."

"Do you ever miss your wrestling era?"

"Oh, um. I don't know. I wasn't… a good person back then."

He still cringed every time he came across old videos of him on TV.

Again, Peter bent back to grab the armrests behind him and balanced on his hands again, this time keeping his legs in front of him so he can poke his head in between them to keep looking at Wade.

"Should I debut circus Spider-Man?" he asked.

"I hope this doesn't awaken anything in me," Wade replied instead of answering.

"As if it wouldn't already be awakened."

"You're so right. You don't do this enough though."

"I'm never in the position where I need to be doing all this."

It just so happened that the feeling of being scrunched in one place is just met with the need to exert flexibility. Similar to the feeling of a wide-open space being met with the need of using all of it through athleticism.

"I feel weirdly calm," Peter continued, letting himself back down.

"You're literally doing extreme yoga, so no shock there."

"Huh."

Peter stretched his arms behind him, again grabbing hold of the armrests though this time he lifted himself above the ground without bending or contorting himself. All his weight supported by the palm of his hands under Wade's watchful eye.

"You're leering," Peter said.

"I'm not leering."

"Then what is it?"

"It's weird seeing you be you as not you."

Peter titled his head slightly.

"What do you mean?"

"The image inducer."

"Oh, I forgot about that."

Again, Peter let himself down. He let himself fall back into the seat with the armrests he's been using, satisfied in his stretch break. In normal circumstances they'd be side by side, but here, in this empty train with rules of etiquette thrown out the window, they still faced each other without Peter so much as turning his neck.

"Are you going to wear it the whole time?" Wade asked.

"I guess so."

"What's it matter?"

"It doesn't. But for now, it does. You can wear it too."

"Nah."

Instead, Wade grabbed at the top of his mask, pulling it forward over his face. Underneath is… a face. A face Wade will argue is the true him.

"Surprise," Wade said.

A face that is handsome in all the right ways because it is chiseled and masculine and all the other arbitrary descriptions people use. Features that have always been there from when Wade was "ugly" are still there, just no longer overshadowed by a varying degree of marred skin. Skin that was now smooth and conventional, if not for the realistic and humanizing blemishes like cuts from shaving.

Wade had all the hallmarks of a good-looking guy and yet Peter doesn't see it. Moreso he could only see what other people would say. He could grasp what makes a person attractive without also finding them attractive. 

What he understands is the mental barrier of seeing this thing, this part of you, as obstructing your real appearance. And for that, he's happy for Wade. He can imagine how good it must have felt to wake up and see yourself in the mirror, and the smile that followed that.

"You look good," Peter replied.

"I gave it up. Today, we're both just mortal."

Peter tilted his head slightly.

"What did you do?"

"Got a serum. I'm cured."

"That explains your voice."

At that, he changed seats again, sliding right back against Wade's side though much closer this time. He placed one hand where the vocal cords were and tucked his head underneath Wade's chin so he could place his ear up to them too. He wanted to hear the vibrations, feel the difference.

"Speak," he said.

"I gotta get you on trains more often."

It was undeniable how much more vibration there was: the root cause of the newfound smoothness of his voice.

"I need to get used to it," Peter said, which was just a less nice way of saying he's being accepting. "Do you… like… this?"

"Honestly? I feel good. No more cancer."

Peter crawled off Wade, settling beside him.

"You never had cancer." And he quickly elaborated: "I mean, not all your cells are– were cancer cells. Not even all of your skin cells were cancer cells. There's no difference between your cancerous and healthy cells. It's more like you're simultaneously full of and devoid of cancer. But it'd be, uh, cancer to someone else. The way you duplicate– used to duplicate. You can't heal at all?"

"No, I'm going to die."

"Why haven't you?" He didn't mean it so bluntly, but he couldn't think of how else to put it. "Wasn't that what you wanted?"

Wade rubbed the fabric of his mask between his fingers, pressing his lips into a line. His eyes flicked between that and Peter once or twice before settling on eye contact. For all the emotion that still comes across with the Deadpool mask on, nothing shows more than an uncovered face.

"No. I wanna make this last life count."

They run out of idle chat for the rest of the ride, but Peter has never had a problem with silence—or rather Wade's droning. Wade never put the mask back on.

The train announced the New Haven stop twice before it actually arrived, and Wade just repeated it a third time once the doors actually opened. He waited until they exit the station—down a level of stairs and then right back up another level and through the building—before announcing:

"Welcome to New Haven!"

Peter's not sure what he expected, but it's not Grand Central. Instead, they're situated on a long road with more trees than buildings.

His first instinct was to hug himself.

"Yeah," Wade continued, "It's significantly colder here but you'll adjust. I think." Wade tilted his head slightly at Peter. "You seem disappointed."

"More like vaguely intrigued."

Wade nudged him, directing his attention away from the street and towards the sky.

"Look at those stars."

"Oh. There's actually a lot of them."

By a lot, he meant more than he expected—more than the city. Though it was nothing cosmic, it was a clear night and the sky actually looked black, with a scattering of evenly spaced white dots. Something he hadn't seen in a while.

"Just wait," Wade promised. "This isn't even deep suburbs."

Peter peeled his eyes away to look at him.

"Is that where we need to be?"

"Further up the coast actually."

"Another train?"

Wade chuckled. Without the mask, without the cancer, Peter could actually see it. The way the corner of his eyes wrinkled and the muscles in his cheeks contracted in a way that highlighted his cheekbones.

That was what was lovely about people.

"That's the fun part," Wade said, his face settling into a soft smile, "they don't have those here."

"What do you mean?"

"It's the suburbs. We're in car country baby."

Peter spared a glance at their surroundings. There was no shortage of cars, of course, but there didn't seem to be any that were for them.

"And where are we supposed to get one of those?"

Wade shrugged.

"I'm pretty sure you can just grab whichever one off the street you like."

"And I'm certain that's wrong."

Peter wasn't foolish enough to assume Wade was joking, especially not with the way he started to walk towards what looked like parking. He still followed. Peter's arms still crossed over himself.

"You know," Wade started, "long term parking is really bad for cars. We're actually doing an unsuspecting fellow a favor."

"If I knew the value of a car and a driver's license, I'd be much more against this. Also, I'm cold. But I'm still going to act like I'm not a part of this."

"Your only job is passenger princess."

The two found the parking lot easily, the long-term parking sequestered off into a garage. Wade looked at every car while they walked, like he had something in mind.

Some part of Peter just wanted him to pick one so they could leave.

"How long is the drive?"

"45 minutes?" 

"Seriously?"

"I can make it 30 for you BB."

Peter doesn't argue anymore. For all he knew Wade was joking and there actually was a rented car waiting for them. On the other hand, this was Wade he was talking about.

They keep walking by car after car until Wade stopped and stood in front of one.

"Look at this beautiful Kia 2018 all abandoned."

"It's in a parking garage," Peter hissed.

Wade pointed to the one next to it.

"And look, this Honda Odyssey is a subtle nod to Wolverine."

Yellow and blue wrapped and Peter doesn't know enough about cars to say which is the original paint---if either. That wasn't what gave it away though, it was instead the three large scratch marks across the car doors.

"I wonder why that is."

"Because culture shifts and changes as new media comes out."

"What?"

"You wouldn't get it, it's fine."

"I just didn't realize the X-Men would have reach in Connecticut."

"Dude. Once again. It's Connecticut. I'm sure half the people in this station commute to New York regularly."

"Right."

Logically, he knew all that. He could have said as much himself but actually traveling and being here had given him this weird sense of distance. He felt strange in the way

"It just feels so different," he muttered.

"I think half of that is actually you finally leaving fight or flight. Come on."

Peter missed if Wade opened the car—a Jeep—through legal means or not. He's sure he would have heard it either way, but nothing. And he realized, for some reason, that his eyes felt heavy.

When Peter himself got into the passenger seat, it became blatantly obvious to him that the support of the headrest would very quickly become the only thing to keep head upright. The Jeep's sunroof was a nice touch though.

Again, Peter missed the part where Wade actually started driving, just clocking the fact they were on the road and going maybe a little faster than necessary. Peter can't be sure—he's never in cars anymore and he doesn't drive.

He had forgotten being a kid and watching the world pass you by in the windows. He had forgotten leaning your head against the glass to watch the moon as it followed you.

And the moon happened to be beautiful, shining much brighter than he remembered.

"Hey," Wade said, poking Peter. He pointed to the sky through the windshield and said:

"That there's the morning star."

"It's actually the planet Venus."

"Which is the morning star. And sometimes Mercury. Star light star bright first star I see tonight."

"Are you making a wish? Isn't it a little late for that?"

"Wouldn't want to jinx my birthday wish anyways. You can go for it though."

"I don't think that's how it works."

Yet Peter made a wish without really thinking at all. Stupid and simple—stupidly simple.

I wish we weren't on a job.

He doesn't know why he wished that, not exactly, but he did.

"By the way," Wade started, "you have never told me your birthday. I just assume you're one year older every new year."

Peter slouched in his seat, leaning his head to look at the moon.

"Okay, I don't know your birthday."

"I have told you my birthday."

"Damn." Then: "If it's any consolation, I don't celebrate my birthday. I also just assume I'm one year older every year."

He didn't grow up with those big childhood birthday parties because he never had the friends for it until he met Harry, who also had his own hang-ups about birthdays. It was just a day when he'd wake up to a gift on the dinner table and Aunt May's pie. That and the emptiness of knowing his parents weren't around to see him grow up anymore.

The older he grew, the more Aunt May tried to make him think it's a big deal to have a birthday, she had tried her hardest in those years after Uncle Ben died and celebration had lost its appeal completely. Peter appreciated it, to an extent. It was no fault of her own but the days, weeks even, leading up to the date had soured even more by leaving him guilt ridden and racked with shame gnawing at him whenever she had tried to encourage him to be happy.

She couldn't afford to get him anything—he was probably in his most expensive years too—and yet she all but begged him not to think about that even though it was all he could think about.

Now, when the day comes around, she leaves it be and nothing ever amounts to anything more than two words: happy birthday.

"That sounds like exactly what I expect from you."

"So where are we going?" Peter asked.

"We're going to a university."

"College kids?"

"Yeah, juniors. You remember being a junior?"

"It was lonely."

Gwen had died sophomore year. Even if Harry wouldn't die until a little after graduation, Peter was already losing him then too. Not to mention MJ also leaving.

The moment Peter realized, truly realized, he was a deeply lonely person, despite needing more than one hand to count all the people who care about him in his life, was the day after his birthday in junior year. It wasn't the fact that no one really wished him happy birthday, it was instead that moment of deep-rooted sadness he felt when Harry was running late to their lunch meeting and Peter thought that he wasn't coming. He had bordered on tears with the anxiety and desperation clawing inside him as he waited. And Peter knows he's left a lot of people waiting in his lifetime and he will always have more sympathy for them than he could show.

"Too busy Spider-Man-ing?"

He had crafted his own isolation since high school by being overall unpleasant, but he had told himself he had changed by then. And if he had changed, why had nothing changed with him? Why was everyone still so far away?

Everyone he met couldn't find it in themselves to actually connect with him. He could understand and see how busy everyone was, but he could also see who they prioritized when they weren't busy.

Two good friends and a girlfriend and Peter still had the audacity to complain. And for that, he lost it all.

"Even if I wasn't Spider-Man in college," Peter explained, "I wouldn't have fit in with my peers anyways."

If he wasn't Spider-Man, if it wasn't for the grief, Peter still didn't think college "fixed anything." It's easier to fade into the background at college. It slips through your fingers so fast.

"Okay, Spider-Man, you're going to tell me that you honestly have been sober of everything your entire life?"

"Yes."

"No smoking, drinking, even caffeine– nothing?"

"Is that so hard to believe?"

"I'm sure you're not the only one, it's just, why?" Wade asked. "Like Spider-Man aside, why?"

Peter shrugged.

"I don't know. I guess it just didn't appeal to me."

Thinking about it, it's not like Uncle Ben or Aunt May were that strict over those things. Of course, Aunt May had always warned him against anything bad for his health and peer pressure, but he had made his own choice some random day as a kid that caffeinated drinks didn't interest him. And, he guessed, being Spider-Man helped him stick to that decision.

And if he ever felt ostracized by being sober, it was much easier to point to the bigger issue at hand.

He didn't really surround himself with people that different from him, which is what made Harry's fall so heartbreaking. To watch him change into something so different and being helpless to stop it.

It's just hard to be different than the people around you, in any way that ends up being. It's hard to feel yourself change and it's hard to watch someone else do it. It's hard to be a happy person around unhappy people, and Peter says that as the unhappy person. He and Harry grew up into miserable people. They worked with only each other because of that. Peter broke Gwen before she died, and he would have killed something in MJ too if she stayed. And to know, without a shadow of a doubt, that people were just better off without you sucked. He'll always lose to the idea of himself.

"Do you think you made the right choice?" Peter asked then. "Skipping college?"

Wade shrugged.

"I just had to leave."

"Do you remember?"

"Remembering is stupid Spidey. Remembering why you did something doesn't change the fact that you did it."

Peter shrugged too.

"I'm a scientist. We care about cause and effect."

Wade sucked his teeth and sighed.

"I don't know. I think it was my mother. My father left when I was younger, maybe died, but either way he's out of the picture and it is my mother who I cannot stand. I'm 17 and I can't take it anymore, so I enlist. It was either that or dying."

Peter turned his head to face Wade, who stared straight at the empty road before them.

"Is that true?"

"I don't lie. They're half-truths. It's just I'm not exactly sure which half is the truth."

"Do you believe it though?"

"Within the context of my existence, it makes sense. I'm a spoof. But any way you want to shake my childhood, whatever trauma you want to give me that matches yours– at the end of the day it doesn't matter. I'll end up in the same place.

"Do you want to hear the story I like? My father wasn't abusive. Neither was my mother. But they couldn't find it in themselves to love each other although they lived under the same roof. And because they couldn't understand each other, they couldn't understand me, who was half of both of them. I was a troubled kid but not in the obvious way. I never set ants on fire, but I lied. All the time. And one day, I started to get mad about my lying. And I start to get aggressive. I start fighting, and I become a problem. I'm getting older and smarter and stronger and suddenly that house is too small for me. And I get out."

"Do you believe that?"

"I don't believe anything." He thrummed his finger against the steering wheel. "Not every person has these traumatic underdog stories. I was just not right. Maybe my parents, my environment was normal. They're so unremarkable, so unrelated to the rest of my life-- to everything that's happened to me, that it simply doesn't matter what to truth is."

Peter hummed, letting his head roll back towards his window. The moon was right where he left it.

"I'm an orphan," Peter started, not expecting to say anything but there he was doing it. "But I grew up in a loving, supportive home."

He'd never told Wade this, not as Spider-Man at least.

"I just," he continued, "I couldn't appreciate it fully. You lose your parents like that at a young age– I was 5, and you never stop waiting for them to walk through the front door. You're just old enough to understand death, but not yet emotionally mature enough to deal with it. Your brain just processes it as your parents just walked out that door and left you behind. As if they made a choice to die. And you never– I could have lived in paradise, and I never got past that. It was my formulative years or whatnot."

It's not so much his parents' death that bothered him—again he was young, and he had Aunt May and Uncle Ben. He doesn't spend all that much time thinking about it, but the feeling of it stuck with him. He guessed that's why the compounding deaths hurt so much. There's this child inside of him that is getting beaten down, not the adult Peter is. Death does hurt, grief hurts, but it's the abandonment that goes with it that sneaks up on you.

"Some part of it," Wade was saying, "you know, is baked into us whether we remember shit or not. Something happens when you're two and suddenly you're 20 and still dealing with it. But I don't know. Do I seek out relationships with powerful women? Yes. Does that mean mommy didn't love me? Who's to say."

The words settled between them.

There's something about Wade that he related to. Something about relationships and love was broken in the same way between them because they were both incapable of letting someone stay in the nest that person created within them. They did it to each other, again and again. Always trying to get the other to leave and stay gone.

The difference is Wade claims love and Peter…doesn't.

They're just Wade and Spider-Man.

"Wade," Peter started again not meaning to, "do you actually like men or do you just idolize them because of some part of your childhood you don't remember?"

"Wow, homophobe."

"I didn't mean it like–"

"You want to know what it feels like? The difference between crushing on a guy because yay positive male relationship versus crushing on a guy because you love him?"

He turned to face Wade again who, this time, glanced over too.

"How did this become about me?"

"Because it's obviously, always about you. Sure, you like women because that's all you've known, but men?" He let out a low whistle. "That's messy."

Over the years, it felt like his capacity for love was disappearing. He could still feel things like affection and familiarity, but they were strongest for the people who've been around the longest. Aunt May is the only pure part of him left. He will never be able to love anyone like he loves her and loved Uncle Ben again. And if he can't love her, if he ever loses her, Peter's pretty sure it's over.

He's always been a mess of emotions no thanks to the death of his parents, but back then he still felt things so strongly. Negative and positive emotions alike.

After the bite, his understanding of emotions failed him again. Things shifted and changed in him the way people describe puberty but instead of growing out of cooties like the rest of the kids his age, he was overthinking what it should feel like to love someone. Those stronger, negative emotions were easier to feel—like distress—and those base neurological emotions were easy to identify—like adrenaline—but the more nuanced and complex things escaped Peter.

The last person he truly loved outside of family might not have even been Gwen, it was Harry. Because Harry had cemented himself into Peter's psyche in childhood—before the mess of mutating—and it's true he left, but that just meant Peter held on all the tighter when Harry came back into his life. He would have done anything for Harry—he wanted everything for Harry. With Harry. He saw the world in him. And Peter never really felt quite that deeply about a person again.

MJ was a close second, he guessed, but there wasn't that attachment to her he created before mutating. There were a lot of things he knew he should have felt about her and some things that he did feel that he couldn't pin exactly.

Gwen was much the same, but she liked him. Loudly. And mimicry and reciprocation are very similar things. He really shouldn't have dated her. One happy winning moment doesn't make up for all the heart ache, nor the death.

"So do you want to know?" Wade asked.

They stare at each other, and it is so different to see those eyes—that face—looking back at him, so Peter broke off the contact because one of them needs to look at the road.

"I can't stop you from telling me," he muttered in response.

"Oh, Peej, I know you love me."

"Shut up."

Out of the corner of his eye, Peter saw Wade turn back to the road.

"It's just about the satisfaction, I think. Are you satisfied that this guy is simply in your life whatever form that may be, or do you feel yourself fantasizing about a particular life with him?"

Him as in Wade was the obvious subtext Wade meant, making the question does he like the relationship as it was, or did he want more of Wade.

It was a stupid question. Of course he wanted more from Wade, but it had nothing to do with loving him like that. He just… Peter just liked this.

His emotions have subdued so far in recent years to the point where being with Black Cat almost felt like nothing. And according to Peter's calculations, being with Wade should feel much the same, so there was no point in spoiling a good thing.

"Are there no people in CT?" he asked as a change of topic.

Wade chuckled.

"Dude it's past 9 in the suburbs, what did you expect?"

"It's so quiet."

He felt his eyes closing and he let them.

It wasn't about Connecticut, you could find this pocket of peace somewhere else, but it just so happened to be Connecticut right now.

"I'm so tired. I don't know why I'm so tired."

"Because without all the overstimulation, your body is actually relaxing for once."

"I might genuinely fall asleep I'm so tired."

He kept his eyes closed, letting the image of Wade driving take over instead of the actual visual stimuli.

"Do you have cavities?" Peter asked. "I heard cavities are contagious and I don't want cavities."

"No, Spides, I can't have cavities."

"I could kiss you," he mused.

"But you won't."

"Cuz that's gross."

"Yeah, P, it's gross."

There's a hint of amusement in Wade's voice. Peter liked it.

"Not cuz you're gross."

"I'm a little gross."

"Yeah, you are," Peter bookended with a short laugh. "But that's cuz you keep old food in your pockets."

"I do."

"But it's not your fault you get hungry. It's the circle of life."

"You're tired baby," Wade cut in.

Peter went on unperturbed:

"The three criterium of surviving in the wild. Food, shelter, and companionship."

"Actually, in the wild we call them mates."

"Gross."

If he had a point, Peter lost it.

The two of them kept straight for a while, and then Wade had to turn down a different street because of a road closure. And again sometime later. It starts to feel like they're lost, driving in circles.

Wade abruptly pulled off the road.

"Dude," Peter said, jolting in his seat with his eyes wide open again.

"You fell asleep."

"Did I actually? When? Are we there?"

"No," Wade practically jumped out of the car before turning back to Peter, "just, I want you to look up."

"I already did–"

"No, it's different." He motioned for Peter to come out as well. "Promise."

Peter crawled out of his side of the car and did what he was told.

"Oh."

If he thought the view from before was a lot of stars, this was more. The less bright stars that were obscured before emerged in between the dots of white, filling the dark sky even further. The moon its own light amongst it all. Sure, it's still nothing like those photos NASA takes, but it was so much more than Peter had the chance to see normally. It's easy to forget there's an entire galaxy out there when you couldn't see it.

Wade was standing in the car door, leaning over the top of the Jeep and, out of the corner of his eye, Peter felt Wade staring at him. He turned to match.

"What?"

"We gotta get you to the country." Wade slides back down into the driver's seat. "Anyways, we're halfway there."

With one last look, Peter returned to his seat as well. He wasn't so tired this time around, so as they started on the road again, Peter resumed his previous activity of staring at the moon.

"What were you dreaming about?" Wade asked.

"I'm not convinced I fell asleep."

"Oh, you did."

Peter shrugged.

"All my dreams are my subconscious talking to me."

Things as simple as just telling him "you should change your sheets" or as aggressive as "some part of you is dying."

"What about you?" Peter asked back. "What do you dream about?"

"Uh," Wade hesitated. "Reoccurring things."

"Bad?"

Wade shrugged and to Peter that felt like both a yes, and an end to the conversation. He wasn't going to push anyways, Peter's no stranger to bad dreams that he'd also rather not talk about.

His eyes never falter from staring at the moon.

"What are you thinking about?" Wade asked.

Peter shrugged.

"That Moon Knight is looking at the same moon."

"Wow. Can't believe you're thinking about other men on our date. What's next? You'll yell someone else's name in bed?"

"Ugh," Peter cringed. "You always have to make things so gross dude."

"Yeah, yeah. Cheater."

"I don't want to hear from you, aren't you literally with Death right now?"

"No?"

They turned to each other at the same time.

"What do you mean no?"

Wade shrugged.

"It's more like I'm only with her when I'm with her, you know?"

"No, I don't know, but I also don't care enough."

"Moral of the story, you can kiss me tonight."

Peter hummed as he turned his gaze back away from Wade.

"I'll remember that for when you drive me home."

"And I'll remember you said you'd remember."

Instead of responding, Peter just rolled his eyes.

Just like at the end of the train ride, they ran out of conversation.

At the university, Wade parked and assured Peter he knew exactly where they were going, which turned out to be a closed building.

That was weird because Peter was under the impression this job was outside.

"Wade, I fear you were punked."

"Actually, Spides," Wade started slowly, "you were."

"What about the job?"

"That was last week."

"You went to Pennsylvania last week."

"That's where the job was."

Peter furrowed his brows.

"But last week your job was to find a teen who ran away in New York to Connecticut."

"No, I said no to that."

"I'm confused."

Wade smiled, a soft, satisfied smile.

"I thought you should see the stars. Welcome to an observatory." When Peter didn't answer, Wade added: "They also have a planetarium. It's not a lie if you did it eventually."

"That's what this whole thing was about?"

Wade shrugged, almost shy. Peter turned to ground, failing to stifle his laugh and instead letting out short huffs of air.

"We gotta get back to New York," Peter managed to let out.

He's still looking away, but, from the limits of Peter's vision, there's a certain way Wade seemed to deflate.

"Spidey, I believe this job is killing you."

"As the smile ran away from your face," Peter continued to himself.

Peter had begged MJ to stay. That night, at his place, was the first and last time she told him she loved him.

"Thank you, Wade," Peter said, finally looking up. "But I'm not breaking into a university observatory."

"It's always the same song and dance with you, isn't it?"

Peter can't look at him. He tried, flicking his eyes up, but Wade's intensity was intimidating. The weight of "please don't reject me" exuded off him stronger than anyone could possibly begin to ignore.

"You know," Peter started, "I have a lot of fun when we're doing things the right way."

"We stole a car to get here."

Peter shrugged.

"Was hoping you didn't."

"I mean, you don't have to act like you're better than me every time I try to do something nice for you."

"What? No. Wade. Where did that come from?"

Wade kicked at the floor instead of answering directly. Something about "it's just my opinion" and "you're probably listening right now."

Suddenly they were both skirting around this bush and Peter's pretty sure he's never going to stop feeling like kid trying not to fuck up conversations he hasn't memorized the script for yet.

"Listen, I, uh…" Peter rocked on his heel, clenching his fist in time. "Okay. What I'm saying is you do this thing where you overshoot how much it takes to, uh, for lack of a better term: win me over. I was happy, you know, to see the stars from the random place on the side of the road, okay?"

Peter's looking at Wade's normal, civilian face and it just—Wade thinks that he has to change. That he had to be more than he is to distract you from the things he thinks drive people away and Peter, God help him, likes Wade when he's not putting on the show.

"That was nothing though," Wade argued. "That wasn't– it was just on a whim."

"Coming to Connecticut was on a whim. It's kind of what you do. And I– I like that. I'm not good at plans. It works for me to do things right then and there. Thing is, I don't need 110% from you Wade because then I need to be 110%. So, I don't know, maybe 50/50?"

Wade stared back at Peter for a solid minute before:

"We usually start arguing at this point."

It was embarrassing, he had to admit that. The idea of someone knowing you or something about you enough to point it out. But it's more than that.

Peter was embarrassing. He's too old to be acting the same way as he did as a teenager. And there was nothing stopping him from seeing that now. 

"Yeah well," Peter said, staring at the ground again and trying to shrug off creeping shame, "what'd you say about me finally relaxing or something?"

The moment turns awkward quickly. Peter still feels the tension in his muscles from being perceived and nothing is helping him not feel like a child.

"So now what?" Wade asked.

"I don't know. I'm not tired." A pause. "Maybe a little cold."

"We could break into the library."

Peter shook his head, finally able to look back up at Wade.

"What did I say about breaking into places?"

Wade rubbed at his neck as he looked around. They were in a plain open field, and past that was just more university buildings. He turned back to Peter and shrugged.

"Are you hungry?" he asked.

"Do you need to ask?"

"We can hit a diner before we return the car."

"No notes."

Wade motioned to be followed back to the parking lot. It takes one minute before Peter started complaining:

"This is exactly what I was talking about by the way."

"You're just the type to skip leg day," Wade scoffed.

"Not true, I'm very hard on my knees."

"Squatting isn't bad for your knees."

"I wasn't talking about squatting."

A smile immediately split Wade's face.

"I'm going to be so honest it sounds like you're implying oral–"

"I will be praying for you," Peter interrupted, "which is, by the way, what I was talking about."

He was actually talking about how he landed, but Wade could think for longer than two seconds and figure that out.

They climb back into the car, and the first thing Peter needs to get off his chest is:

"You didn't actually steal this car, right Wade?"

"We did not steal a car."

Peter doesn't have to believe him fully to leave it at that.

After a moment, amidst them attempting to find the exit, Wade said:

"By the way, I like it when we argue."

"Arguing isn't the problem."

"We survived a road trip together, that's a good sign."

"The problem isn't us, it's"—he put his pointer fingers together and then separated them—"us."

"I don't know about you, but I'm perfect."

"Yeah, so am I," Peter responded sarcastically

If he had to choose, he'd have to say he just wasn't a good friend. He was debatably a good person, but those weren't mutually exclusive.

He knows exactly what he needs to change to be a good friend, but it's easier to just stay the same as he's always been. And there's a comfort in it. There're no surprises when he kept acting in the way that came out naturally because he's done it so many times.

"Are diners open 24/7?" Wade asked suddenly.

"Shouldn't you know, Mr. Connecticut?"

"We'll hit a bar," Wade decided. "Ya like Jazz?"

"I've got a feeling you do."

Wade made a sharp, aggressive turn into the empty parking lot of what looked like a jazz bar. And unless there was a hidden, second parking lot in the back of building—and all the windows were blocked out—Peter would guess this was a closed jazz bar.

Still, that didn't seem to bother Wade.

"I don't think–"

Wade shushed him. Giving the benefit of the doubt, Peter crossed his arms over his chest and followed to a back door with a placemat in front of it.

"Do not tell me," Peter started, trailing off.

Under the placemat, was a key. A key that opened the door in front of them.

"Seriously? How would you even know that?" Peter asked.

"Less talking, more walking," Wade said back, motioning for Peter to enter.

He was right though. The bar was dark inside, the chairs stacked. At the back where they entered was a stage with a piano.

Wade shook his head as he moved to the bar adjacent to the stage.

"What's the point of going to a live music venue if there's no live music?"

"This place is literally closed."

"Hellhouse never closes."

"What?"

"Not for you, don't worry about it."

And Peter didn't because he couldn't take his eyes off of the piano. A grand piano no less, and it looked old at that even if the wood looked well taken care of.

"Want to see a party trick?" Peter asked suddenly.

"Does it include dislocating a limb?"

"No. Watch this."

He stepped up onto the stage, faltering on slightly when opening the piano top and sitting at the seat. It's been a long time since he's touched a piano, let alone played, but his fingers settled on the keys in a way that would leave anyone none the wiser.

Again, he hesitated on what to actually play. He panicked and just started playing Für Elise because it felt like the most recognizable tune. He stopped after the beginning, pulling his hands into his lap.

"Holy shit," Wade shouted, "I saw this in a movie once."

Peter rolled his eyes to the sound of Wade stepping onto the stage himself.

"I'm not, like, an actual musician or anything. You know how you're a weapon savant?"

"Tell me more about my genius," Wade said, leaning against the piano.

"I told you I was kinda like that with drawing, uh, I'm a very good imitation. So I can play any song on the guitar, but only when I'm watching someone else do it."

"I bet you play some mean drums. Do you sing?"

"No, but Johnny does," Peter started excitedly, remembering the way his friend used to be. "He– oh."

Used to be.

All the excitement drained from him. Why did that feel so different? His death has been an unhealed wound, but this was raw emotion he hasn't felt because- he never mourned Johnny.

The ground is hard at his feet. His hands feel sticky. Wade felt closer than a moment before even though he hasn't moved an inch. Peter flexed his fingers and they're his fingers. And he feels it.

And Johnny's dead.

How long has this been waiting to be felt? Oh God he's forgotten what this felt like.

He felt sick.

"Spides?"

His eyes sting and the formation of tears is instant, leaving his face warm.

Peter turns the image inducer off—so he can see himself—but that's not enough. He raised his mask up to his nose and breathed. He would take it off if he could. He slid down to the floor and took his gloves off, laying his hand flat on the ground.

At the creak of Wade's feet shifting, he stuck his hand out to stop him approaching any further.

And the water works start. Not just tears rolling down his face but he is sobbing, gasping for air to fill his lungs. He didn't cry when Johnny died, and now he was mourning everything that has happened to him in the past who knows how long. Everything he's had bottled up. It was a long time coming. All the tears he had denied couldn't be stifled anymore.

He's never cried this hard.

And in between those sobs he misses the numbness. He misses the not feeling, the faux control of having every emotion hidden away. But then again, when everything is said and done, he's met with catharsis.

Eventually, Wade worked up the courage to say:

"I've never seen you cry."

Peter's not quite ready for a conversation. All he knew was the heavy weight of the mask still on his own face felt wrong.

"I don't know why you like me," Peter muttered.

"Everyone cries."

"I'm not nice to you, it's not fair that I take out my emotions on you."

He hasn't stopped staring at the ground this whole time.

"Oh, Peej…"

The pity, it angers him. It always angers him, and he doesn't understand how he can still feel that after everything.

"God, crying like I'm the fucking victim here." Peter let out a huff of air. "I'm tired."

Bone tired. Mentally and physically.

"I," Wade hesitated, "don't want to take you home."

"Why not?"

"I don't think you're in a good state."

Wade, slow at first, lowered himself down onto the floor next to Peter. He didn't get any closer.

"You cried."

"Everyone cries," Peter parroted.

"Spides," Wade continued," despite everything that bite gave you, you didn't inherit the lifespan of a spider. You could grow old. We could grow old."

"And what? Live in Connecticut?" Peter has moved his eyes up to stare at Wade's shoes, still not willing to look at a face. "You don't get it. I'm switched. My flip is switched."

"You're stupid when you're tired."

"You're smart when I'm stupid. Except you're not cuz you can't get that I'm… me."

He flicked his eyes up for just a moment, but it was still long enough to see the concern. And Peter… Peter couldn't be mad at that face.

"Wade?" he said softly.

"Yeah Peej?"

"I'm done. I have been angry my entire life. I think I'm done. It's time to let it go."

He raised his head and finally opened himself up to stare and be stared.

Wade's expression was soft, searching. Not that he could see anything.

Peter was tired. He can feel his own eyelids, heavy and drooping over his eyes. He has no energy to move the muscles around his mouth into an expression but the natural one. He's aware the latter is the only thing Wade can see, and Peter couldn't help but think that he wished it weren't. He wanted to show his face.

But I'm going to scare you away.

There it was. Under all that anger and annoyance about Wade being purposely obtuse was just plain old fear. That's all he's ever been underneath the mask. A scared 15-year-old telling himself jokes like they could fix him.

If you laugh, it's not scary. If you laugh, you can't cry.

They sit there for god knows how long.

There was that feeling again, of never having grown up and, really, Peter doesn't think he has. Wade's right, he wasn't given the lifespan of a spider, but instead he's been trapped. Stuck in a perpetual stage of adolescence

When they eventually made it back to the car, Peter munched on candy. Every so often he'd hold out the bag for Wade to take a few.

He wanted to grow up, he did. He knew how, he's seen everyone else do it--- he's seen everyone else leave him behind. But he died. That's the truth. The only person who made it out was MJ and Peter can't do anything but stare at the bloody trail she left behind. He can't move. He can't get up or crawl, all he can do is stare and wait for his own heart to stop beating.

They don't park the Jeep in the same place, but at least it's back in the garage. Instead of going anywhere, Wade just pulled out his teleporter.

"Why didn't we do that in the first place?" Peter asked.

"Because it's not about the destination, it's about the journey."

"You're the worst."

Wade's slow handling it. Without the mask, Peter could see the way he bit at the inside of his lip and the slightest crease between Wade's brows.

How do you even start to outgrow an entire state? Maybe Peter should go to Boston where he can sleep on Aunt May's couch until he started to feel better again.

Instead, they land on a roof on the Upper West Side that makes Wade curse for reasons beyond Peter.

"Maybe we can watch the sunrise," Peter offered.

"Okay."

Wade spun on his heel, taking in their location and Peter stopped Wade with a hand on his arm.

"This is okay," he said.

Wade just nodded.

It was actually painful to look at his face. It was so real. Not the cartoon he made himself out to be. And all that raw, human emotion—the concern and sadness and love—was all directed right at Peter. To Spider-Man who was nothing more than two oversized white voids staring back you and not the person that face was trying to reach.

So Peter looked away. Towards the textured and slightly eroded brick they stood on or the vast, empty sky above them where the moon was slowly leaving.

This was not a reasonable time to decide to watch the sunrise—it was much, much too early—but they didn't care. Wade propped himself against a wall next to a corner and Peter, of course, took the corner.

"Are you going to leave?" Peter asked for conversation sake. "Now that you're cured?"

Wade stared at Peter as they spoke.

"I think I want to take you to Canada."

"I think I could do it."

"Give it up?"

"Take a vacation," Peter corrected. "I'm not gonna–" stop. "I'm never gonna–" put us first. "I'm gonna–" die.

"I know," Wade said.

They have hours to kill. They've spent all day talking and all that was left were the tough conversations neither of them was trying to have.

Wade sat up with a sigh.

"I'm going to get some food."

"Okay."

He used the teleporter again and it occurs to Peter that maybe he couldn't scale buildings anymore. And it occurs to Peter, that Wade wasn't going to eat as much as he used to either. And Peter realizes that Wade is effectively a civilian.

And that was terrifying. He got this itch, and Peter scratched at his wrist for no reason. He should leave—well, he could leave. This should be the end of them—or, rather it could be. If they let. And God, does everything in Peter tell him to let it.

But he can't leave, he can't do that to someone. He could make this day count. End with a bang.

Peter furrowed his eyebrows at the stinging in his eyes. That wasn't right. And when he thinks of why, he finds the sentiment "I wish Wade had cancer again" float by in his brain. And isn't that such an awful thing to say?

He couldn't possibly mean it. 

When Wade returned with a bag of take out, Peter couldn't get himself to eat more than Wade despite how hungry he was. And he ignored the way Wade noticed that fact.

They look at apartments in Canada afterwards. Wade fell asleep while they watch videos on his phone. He looks peaceful.

It's the first time Peter's seen Wade sleep. Sleep to sleep. He's not dying anymore. And Peter hates that.

And he hates that Wade can change. He hates that he did.

But maybe, if Wade doesn't die anymore, maybe Peter doesn't have to be dead either. Maybe they could...

Peter doesn't sleep himself. Just makes himself relax. The sound of the city surrounds him completely and he can't believe it's possible for places to be as quiet as Connecticut was. He's trying to figure out if he liked it.

Probably not for long. He'd likely get bored. This is where he was supposed to be, doing what he was supposed to do.

Peter stayed on Wade's phone while the other slept. He took a couple selfies too. Some with Wade in the background.

There's a poker app on Wade's phone that Peter hopes is a game because he spends three hours on it speed running a crippling gambling addiction---the math was fun and the winning felt good. He won't drink coffee, but oh boy will he gamble.

He almost missed it, but when the sun started threatening to come up, Peter woke Wade up. They change positions to a ledge facing it and watch for the few minutes the sun took to rise and then watched the sky even longer.

"Thanks Wade," he said eventually.

"I love you," Wade said back, facing Peter.

Peter faced him back. He let himself lean closer until they were a breath away. Catching and holding Wade's gaze, but Peter didn't see him. He saw civilians and heartbreak and mortality. He saw two bug eyes reflected back in them.

And he couldn't do that.

He shifted his weight even further forward, resting his head against Wade's chest.

"Be nicer to Peter."

He said, he asked, he pleaded.

It's the only way they're going to work. Hand in hand. One with the other.

Take both, Wade.

Peter will try. He wants to.