Chapter Text
The city doesn't sound the same anymore. It's still loud, still alive in that constant, humming way New York always is. Cars dragging over wet pavement, voices bleeding together on sidewalks, sirens threading through everything like a warning that never quite stops—but it feels... off. Like something's been pulled out of it. Or maybe it's just him. Peter moves through it the way he always has, swinging between buildings, landing light on ledges, keeping to the shadows where he can, but there's a delay now, a fraction of a second where his body hesitates before doing what it's supposed to. His grip slips sometimes. Not enough for anyone to notice. Enough for him to. The mask sticks to his face where it shouldn't, damp with sweat he doesn't remember earning, breath uneven for no reason he can name. He tells himself it's exhaustion. He tells himself a lot of things.
Below him, someone laughs. Bright, careless, alive. It cuts through him sharper than any scream ever has.
Peter keeps moving.
He doesn't stop anymore unless he has to. Stopping means thinking, and thinking means remembering, and remembering means—no. He doesn't finish that thought. He never does. There's always another building, another ledge, another place to go that isn't there. The city stretches endlessly in front of him, a map he knows better than anything, every corner familiar, every street holding something he refuses to look at too closely. He used to love this view. Used to feel something like peace up here, wind rushing past, the world small and manageable beneath him. Now it just feels like distance. Like he's watching something he doesn't quite belong to anymore.
The police scanner crackles faintly in his ear, background noise more than anything else, a habit he hasn't been able to break. Petty theft. Noise complaint. A car accident two blocks over. Nothing that needs Spider-Man, not really. Not with the avengers in town or the other plethora of recent heroes emerging. Not tonight. He should go home. The thought lands heavy and unwanted, sits in his chest like something lodged there, unmoving. Home isn't... it isn't what it was. It's quieter now. Too quiet. Every room echoes in a way it didn't before, like the walls themselves are trying to remind him of something he already can't forget. He's been avoiding it. He knows that. Swinging until his muscles burn, until the city blurs, until there's nothing left in him but momentum.
It's easier like this.
He lands on a rooftop harder than he means to, knees bending to absorb the impact, hand catching on the gravel to steady himself. For a second, he just stays there, crouched, head down, breathing through something that feels too big for his chest. The wind shifts around him, cold against the back of his neck, slipping under the edge of his mask. He closes his eyes.
Just a second.
Just—
"Wow. That was either a dramatic superhero landing or you tripped mid-air and I missed it, which would honestly be way funnier."
Peter's eyes snap open.
He's on his feet before he fully registers it, body moving on instinct, turning toward the voice, toward the figure perched on the edge of the rooftop like he's been there the whole time. Red and black. Masked. Head tilted just slightly, like he's looking at something interesting. Watching.
Deadpool.
Peter's heard of him, of course. Everyone has, in the way people hear about things they'd rather not deal with. A name that comes up in conversations with a tone that always lands somewhere between annoyance and concern, usually followed by a story that sounds too ridiculous to be real and somehow still is. He wasn't supposed to be here. Not on this roof. Not watching him.
Peter straightens, shoulders tightening under the suit, every muscle alert in a way that cuts through the fog he's been moving through all night. "You've got about five seconds to explain why you're stalking me," he says, voice sharper than he intends, but he doesn't bother softening it. He doesn't have the energy for that.
Deadpool hums, actually hums, like he's considering it. "Stalking is such a strong word," he says, pushing himself up from the ledge with an easy movement, landing a few steps away like gravity is more of a suggestion than a rule. "I prefer 'aggressively observing.' Less legal implications."
Peter doesn't laugh. Doesn't even come close. He takes a step back instead, just enough to put space between them, eyes narrowing behind the mask as he takes him in properly now. The way he stands—loose, casual, like this is nothing. Like this is normal. "You've been following me."
"Following implies you were leading," Deadpool shoots back immediately, pointing a finger at him like he's making a correction in a lecture. "I've been... coincidentally in the same places as you. A lot. Frequently. Over an extended period of time."
"That's stalking."
"I retort that statement."
Peter exhales sharply through his nose, already exhausted by this, by him, by the way his voice fills the space too easily, too loudly. It grates against something raw. "What do you want?"
Deadpool pauses.
It's subtle. Barely there. But it's enough.
Then he shrugs, easy again, like nothing happened. "You," he says, like it's obvious. Like that explains anything.
Peter stares at him. "No."
"No?" Deadpool echoes, sounding genuinely surprised. "You can't just 'no' me, that's not how this works. I had a whole speech prepared."
"I don't care."
"Ouch. Harsh. I'm wounded. Emotionally. Physically I'm fine, obviously, that'd be embarrassing."
Peter turns away before he can say anything else, before he can keep going, because it's clear he will. He always will. People like him don't stop unless they have to, and Peter doesn't have the patience for that tonight. He steps toward the edge of the roof, already calculating the next swing, the next direction, anywhere that isn't here. "Find someone else for whatever insane idea you have," he says, not looking back. "I'm not interested."
"Yeah, I got that," Deadpool says, voice closer now.
Peter freezes.
He didn't hear him move.
"That's kind of the problem," Wade continues, quieter this time. Not by much. Just enough to feel different. "You're not interested in anything right now. It's weird. For you."
Peter turns, slower this time, something tightening in his chest in a way he doesn't like, doesn't understand. "You don't know me."
Deadpool tilts his head again, considering him in that same unsettling way. "I know enough," he says. "You swing like you're running from something. You land like you forgot how. You haven't made a single quip in the last..." he glances at his wrist like there's a watch there, "week? Two? Which, by the way, is deeply concerning. Brand consistency, Spider-Man, come on."
Peter's jaw tightens. "Stop talking."
"You look like someone just ripped the center out of your life and everyone around you is pretending it didn't happen," Wade says, and there's no joke in it now. None at all. "That one hit or am I still cold?"
It's like being shoved.
Peter steps forward without thinking, closing the distance between them in a second, hand fisting in the front of Wade's suit, grip tight enough to wrinkle the fabric. "You don't get to—" he starts, voice low, dangerous, something sharp breaking through the exhaustion, the numbness, all of it.
Deadpool doesn't fight him.
Doesn't even move.
"Yeah," he says, softer now. "There it is."
Peter lets go like he's been burned, stepping back just as quickly, breath coming too fast, too uneven. This was a mistake. This whole thing—being here, stopping, engaging—it was all a mistake. He turns again, more force this time, not giving Wade the chance to say anything else, and shoots a webline off the edge of the building, body already moving with it, already gone before the silence can catch up to him.
The wind hits him hard, rushing past, loud enough to drown out everything else.
Almost.
For a second, just a second—he swears he hears it.
A faint, tiny sound, like music playing from somewhere far away, carried on the air.
He ignores it.
He keeps moving.
Behind him, on the rooftop, Deadpool watches him go, head tilted, something unreadable settling into the way he stands, the way he doesn't follow this time. Not yet. He lets the silence stretch for a moment, the city filling it in, loud and alive and completely indifferent.
Then, slowly, he reaches down, clicks on a small, battered radio sitting at his feet.
Static crackles.
A song tries to come through, distorted, cutting in and out like it can't quite find the right signal.
Wade listens anyway.
"Yeah," he mutters, almost to himself, voice low, certain in a way nothing else about him is. "You're coming with me little spider."
The radio hisses, the music slipping between stations, never quite settling.
It doesn't need to.
Not yet.
Peter doesn't mean to look down.
It just happens.
A flicker of movement in the corner of his eye, instinct pulling his attention toward it before his brain can catch up, before he can tell himself to keep going, to not stop, to not get involved unless it's something big, something necessary, something that justifies the way his chest still feels tight and wrong. It's small. It's always something small. A hand grabbing too roughly at a purse, a voice raised too sharply, the quick, panicked stumble of someone who wasn't expecting it. The kind of thing he used to respond to without thinking, without hesitation, muscle memory and responsibility working in tandem, easy as breathing.
He hesitates now.
Just for a second.
Long enough to notice it.
Long enough to hate it.
To hate himself too.
Peter exhales, sharp and quiet under the mask, already moving before the thought can settle into something heavier, something worse. The web shoots from his wrist clean, precise, catching the man mid-stride as he bolts down the sidewalk, yanking him back with a force that sends him stumbling hard onto the pavement. It's over quickly. It always is. A few seconds, a few movements, and the world resets itself like nothing happened, like it never mattered all that much to begin with.
He lands lightly a few feet away, stepping forward as the man struggles uselessly against the webbing, muttering something under his breath that Peter doesn't bother listening to. He's already turning, already reaching for the purse where it's been dropped, already holding it out to the woman who's standing there frozen, eyes wide, hands hovering like she's not sure if it's real yet, if it's actually over.
"It's okay," Peter says, softer than he feels, forcing the words out the way he always has, the way people expect him to. "You're okay."
She takes it from him carefully, fingers brushing against the fabric like it might disappear if she's not careful enough. "Thank you," she says, breathless, voice trembling just slightly. "Oh my god, thank you, I—he just—"
"It's alright," Peter repeats, because that's what he's supposed to say, because that's the part of this he knows how to do, even now, even like this. "He's not going anywhere."
She laughs then, a shaky, relieved sound that doesn't quite settle right in his chest, doesn't land the way it used to, warm and satisfying and good. It just... sits there. "You're amazing," she adds, looking at him like people always do, like he's something bigger than he feels, something brighter. "Really. I don't know what I would've done if you hadn't—"
Peter looks at her.
Really looks.
And for just a second—
It's her.
The same softness around the eyes, the same way her smile pulls just slightly to one side when she's trying to steady herself, the same warmth that used to feel like home no matter where he was, no matter how bad things got. It hits him all at once, sharp and sudden and wrong, like his brain is trying to fill in something that isn't there anymore, like it's trying to trick him into believing—
He steps back.
Too quickly.
"Be careful," he says, the words coming out tighter now, thinner, like they've been stretched too far. "Okay? Just—yeah."
He doesn't wait for her response.
Doesn't stay for the rest of it—the gratitude, the relief, the part where this is supposed to feel like something. He turns, shoots a webline, and he's gone again, the city swallowing him up just as easily as before.
This time, it doesn't even try to feel like enough.
————
His apartment is quiet.
Not the kind of quiet that feels calm, or peaceful, or earned after a long day. It's the kind that presses in, heavy and constant, filling every corner of the space in a way that makes it feel smaller than it actually is. The window clicks shut behind him with a finality he doesn't like, the sound echoing just slightly in the stillness, like even that is too loud here.
Peter stands there for a second, mask half-lifted, like he hasn't fully committed to being inside yet.
Then he exhales.
Steps forward.
The suit comes off in pieces, slower than it used to, more deliberate, like each movement requires thought now instead of instinct. The mask last. It always is. He pulls it up and off, dragging it through his hair as he does, leaving it messier than it already was, strands falling into his face in a way he doesn't bother fixing. It's longer than it should be. He knows that. He just... hasn't done anything about it.
His eyes catch on it before he means them to.
The frame sits on the edge of his desk, slightly angled, like it's been moved and not quite put back the way it was. Him and May, frozen in a moment that feels too bright now, too alive compared to everything else. He remembers that day. Of course he does. The way she'd insisted on taking the picture, laughing when he complained about it, pulling him closer anyway, telling him to smile like she didn't already know he would.
Peter stares at it.
Long enough for it to start hurting.
Then he reaches out, fingers brushing the edge of the frame, hesitating just slightly before he turns it face down.
The click of it against the desk is louder than it should be.
————
The bathroom light is too bright.
It always is.
Peter leans forward against the sink, hands braced on either side, staring at his reflection like he's trying to recognize something in it. Brown eyes, duller than they used to be, shadows sitting heavy beneath them no matter how much sleep he gets—or doesn't. Freckles scattered across his nose and cheeks, familiar and unchanged, like they didn't get the memo that everything else did. His hair sticks up in uneven directions, longer than it ever is, curling slightly at the ends where it brushes his forehead.
He looks tired.
Not the kind that sleep fixes.
He exhales slowly, shoulders dropping just slightly as he reaches for the edge of the sink, fingers tightening there for a moment before he pushes himself upright again, turning away before he can keep looking, before he can start thinking about it too much.
The shower helps.
Not really.
But it's something to do.
The water runs hot, hotter than it needs to be, steam filling the small space quickly, fogging the mirror, blurring everything out until there's nothing left to look at but shapes and movement. He stands there longer than he means to, longer than he notices, letting the water hit his skin, letting the sound of it drown out everything else for a while.
It's quiet in here, too.
But it's different.
Less... empty.
By the time he steps out, the apartment feels just as still as before.
Peter pulls on a pair of worn pajama pants and an old t-shirt, the fabric soft in a way that feels familiar, grounding in a way the rest of the room isn't. He moves through the space without thinking about it too much, routine guiding him more than anything else now, reaching for his headphones where they sit on the counter, slipping them on before he can second guess it.
Music fills the silence.
♫ In My Room - Julia Wolf ♫
Soft at first.
Then louder.
Enough to push everything else back.
He doesn't think about the song choice. He just lets it play.
I miss you all of the time ♫
He moves through the kitchen slowly, methodically, hands working on autopilot as he pulls ingredients from the fridge, from the cabinets, setting them out in a way that used to feel practiced, almost effortless. A web shoots from his wrist without him looking, catching a utensil from across the room, tugging it into his hand with a precision that used to feel fun, something he'd lean into, joke about, make a show of when May was watching.
"Show off," she'd say, smiling like she wasn't even a little annoyed.
Peter swallows.
Keeps moving.
Another web. Another ingredient. The motions are the same, the timing still perfect, everything landing exactly where it should. It's efficient. Clean.
Empty.
He doesn't rush.
Doesn't need to.
The music hums in his ears, soft and steady, the kind of song that fills the space without demanding too much from it, wrapping around him in a way that feels almost... safe.
Almost.
I'm walking these woods, am I 30 or 13? ♫
By the time he's done, the plate sits in front of him, warm, neatly arranged, exactly the way it should be. He looks at it for a long moment, hands resting on the counter, shoulders slumped just slightly forward.
He's not hungry.
He hasn't been.
Not really.
Peter exhales, reaching for the foil instead, movements slower now, more deliberate as he covers the plate, pressing the edges down carefully before sliding it into the fridge with the others.
For later.
There's always a later.
————-
His bed dips under his weight as he collapses onto it, exhaustion settling into his bones the second he stops moving, heavier than anything he felt out on the rooftops, heavier than the swing, the wind, the fight, all of it. The headphones are still on, the music quieter now, softer, like it's fading into the background of something else.
His phone cuts through it.
Sharp. Sudden.
Peter stares at it for a second before reaching over, pulling one side of the headphones off as he answers, pressing it to his ear. "Yeah?"
"Kid."
Of course.
Peter closes his eyes briefly, leaning back against the pillows, staring up at the ceiling like it might give him something to focus on. "Hey, Mr. Stark."
"You busy?"
Peter almost laughs.
Doesn't.
"Not really."
There's a pause on the other end, shorter than it should be, like Tony's deciding how much to say, how much not to. "Listen, about the last mission—"
"I know," Peter cuts in quickly, because he does, because he's already gone over it a hundred times in his head, every misstep, every second he hesitated when he shouldn't have. "I messed up. I—"
"You were sloppy," Tony says, not unkind, but not soft either. Direct. Practical. "And I can't have sloppy right now."
Peter nods, even though he can't see it. "Yeah. I get it."
Another pause.
Longer this time.
"...You alright?"
It's quick. Almost an afterthought. Like he tacked it on at the end because he felt like he should.
Peter stares at the ceiling.
The fan spins slowly above him, uneven, clicking faintly with every rotation.
"Yeah," he says.
The lie comes easy.
"Okay," Tony replies, just as easily. "Take some time. A good amount of time. We'll call you when we need you."
"Got it."
"...Hang in there, kid."
The line clicks dead before Peter can respond.
The room falls quiet again.
The music keeps playing.
Peter pulls the headphones back on fully, rolling onto his side, facing the wall, eyes closing even though he knows sleep won't come right away, won't come easy, won't come at all if he thinks too much.
So he doesn't.
He just listens.
Lets the song fill the space where everything else wants to be.
And for a little while—
It almost works.
I want your things in my- ♫
—————
Wade doesn't rush.
That's the first thing.
For someone who talks too much, moves too much, exists too loudly in most spaces, he's... patient here. Perched across the street when it happens, weight balanced on the edge of a fire escape like he's part of the structure, like he belongs there in the rust and chipped paint and quiet observation of other people's lives. He sees the mugging before it finishes, before the panic fully settles into the woman's voice, before the man even makes it three steps with the purse in his hand.
And he doesn't move.
Because he knows.
Of course he knows.
Peter hesitates.
That's definitely not like him.
Wade tilts his head slightly, watching the pause stretch just a fraction longer than it should, just enough to matter. A second. Maybe less. Anyone else wouldn't notice. Wouldn't think twice about it. But Wade does. Wade notices everything about him, the way his body stutters before committing, the way the movement that follows is sharper than it needs to be, more force behind it, like he's making up for something he doesn't want to acknowledge.
The web snaps out.
The guy goes down.
Clean. Efficient. Over in seconds.
Same as always.
Not the same as always.
Wade exhales slowly, resting his elbows on his knees, fingers lacing together loosely as he watches the rest of it unfold. The handoff. The reassurance. The way Peter's voice softens automatically, slipping into something practiced, something familiar, something he probably doesn't even realize he's doing anymore. It's good. It's convincing.
It's empty.
And then—
Ah.
There it is.
The shift is subtle, but it's there. Wade sees the exact moment it happens, the exact second something catches in Peter's chest and doesn't let go. The way he looks at the woman—not at her, not really. Through her. Past her. Like he's trying to place something that isn't lining up right, like his brain is filling in a face that doesn't exist in front of him anymore.
Wade's expression stills.
Peter steps back too fast.
Leaves too fast.
Gone before the moment can settle into anything real.
Wade watches him disappear into the skyline, the swing just slightly off, just slightly tighter than it should be.
"...Yeah," he murmurs, almost under his breath, something quieter than his usual cadence, something closer to understanding than humor. "I'm getting to the bottom of this spider crisis."
He waits.
Not long.
Just enough.
Then he moves.
Tracking Spider-Man isn't hard.
Not when you know what you're looking for.
Not when you've already spent enough time watching to understand the patterns, the routes, the places he avoids versus the ones he clings to like they still mean something. Wade moves across the city with a different kind of rhythm, less graceful, less clean, but no less effective. He cuts across rooftops, drops down fire escapes, disappears into shadows when he needs to, reappears somewhere else entirely like the space in between doesn't matter.
He doesn't follow directly.
He never does.
That's amateur.
Instead, he predicts.
Angles himself ahead of the path, catches glimpses in reflections, in motion, in the way the air shifts just slightly when something moves through it too fast to see clearly. It's a game, in a way. One he's very good at. One he loves.
By the time Peter reaches his apartment, Wade is already there.
Not at the window.
Not yet.
Across the street again, higher this time, crouched on the edge of another building with a clear line of sight into the dimly lit space beyond the glass. The lights flick on inside a second after Peter slips through the window, movement quiet, practiced, like he's done it a thousand times.
Wade doesn't look away.
———-
He watches everything.
Not in a rushed way. Not scanning, not skimming. He watches. Lets each moment play out fully, uninterrupted, like it's something worth paying attention to. The suit coming off slower than it should. The way Peter lingers for half a second too long before stepping fully into the room, like he's bracing for something that's already there waiting for him.
Wade's gaze shifts when Peter's does.
Follows it.
The picture.
Ah.
There it is.
Wade leans forward slightly, resting his chin against his hand, elbow propped against his knee as he watches Peter stand there, completely still, caught in something he can't quite step out of. The distance between him and that desk isn't far. It might as well be miles. Deadpool wonders who might just be on that picture, a girlfriend maybe?
"...Got it," Wade murmurs quietly.
Peter turns the frame over.
Wade's expression flickers.
Just for a second.
Then it's gone.
Time passes.
Wade doesn't track it.
He doesn't need to.
He watches the light shift under the bathroom door, listens faintly to the sound of water running, steam fogging the edges of the window just slightly from the inside. He doesn't move. Doesn't get bored. Doesn't reach for the radio sitting beside him, though his fingers tap once, twice against it like the urge is there.
He waits.
Patient.
When Peter comes back out, Wade notices the small things.
The clothes—softer, looser, not meant for movement, not meant for anything but existing. He can't really make out his face, but he definitely notices the all too messy chestnut waves.
The headphones.
That's fun.
Wade's head tilts slightly as he watches Peter slip them on, something unreadable passing through his posture as the music starts. He can't hear it from here. Just a faint suggestion of something through the glass, distorted by distance, by the city, by everything in between. Or maybe it was all in his head.
Still.
It's there.
Peter moves through the kitchen.
Slow.
Deliberate.
Wade's gaze tracks the webs automatically, the way they snap out and retract with perfect precision, the way the motions are still flawless even when everything else about him isn't. It should look impressive.
It doesn't.
It looks like routine.
It looks like muscle memory dragging something forward that doesn't want to go.
Wade exhales through his nose.
"Yeah," he says softly, more to himself than anything else. "He's not eating that."
He's right.
Of course he is.
The plate sits untouched. Gets covered. Gets put away with the others, the quiet accumulation of "later" stacking up behind a fridge door that probably hasn't been opened for anything real in days.
Wade's fingers still.
Just for a second.
Then they start tapping again.
The call catches his attention.
He can't it.
Doesn't need to.
Posture carries.
The way Peter's shoulders tense, the way they drop, the way his face shifts slightly when he responds—Wade picks up the rhythm of it, the pattern, the familiar push and pull of someone being told something they already expected to hear.
The room goes quiet again.
Peter curls into himself on the bed, smaller somehow, even though he hasn't physically moved that much. The headphones go back on. The world gets shut out again.
Wade watches him lie there.
Still.
Listening to something Wade can't quite hear.
Something that clearly matters.
"...Yeppers," he says again, softer this time.
Decision made.
He moves then.
Finally.
It's quick, efficient, a smooth drop from one building to the next, a careful adjustment of angle and distance until he's right there, right outside the window, boots landing soundlessly against the narrow ledge. The glass reflects him faintly, red and black against the dim light of the room beyond, a ghost of something that doesn't quite belong in the space he's occupying.
He tilts his head, looking in.
Peter hasn't noticed.
Of course he hasn't.
Deadpool isn't a threat.
Wade lifts a hand.
Pauses.
Just for a second.
Then—
knock knock.
Two sharp taps against the glass.
Bright.
Out of place.
Impossible to ignore.
Wade grins behind the mask.
"Hey, Spider-Man."