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It was August 12.
Noon, sharp enough that the sun sat directly overhead, bleaching the city into something almost gentle.
Peter Parker swung between buildings like he always did, easy, light, humming something off-key through his mask. Wade Wilson followed behind him with far less grace, grappling hook misfiring once and nearly clotheslining a hot dog cart.
“Ten points for style, minus twelve for OSHA violations,” Wade muttered, before grinning up at Peter. “You know, if I fall to my death, I want it noted that I did it for love.”
Peter laughed, soft and fond. “You didn’t have to come patrol with me.”
“Counterpoint,” Wade said, landing beside him on a rooftop, “I absolutely did.”
They moved just like that, jumping, swinging, talking over each other as they swept the neighborhood. Petty crime. A mugging stopped. A broken fire hydrant webbed shut. The usual rhythm of New York breathing around them.
It was good.
It was happy.
That should’ve been Wade’s first warning.
They heard the meowing before they saw it.
A small orange cat clung to the branches of a street-side tree, tail puffed out, eyes wide with terror. A small crowd had gathered, murmuring anxiously.
“Oh my god,” Peter said immediately. “Hey, hey, it’s okay”
Before Wade could crack a joke, Peter was already climbing. He moved slowly, murmuring soft nonsense, coaxing the cat closer until it finally allowed itself to be scooped into Peter’s arms.
“There we go,” Peter whispered, cradling it carefully as he climbed back down. “You’re okay. You’re safe...”
Wade watched him with something dangerous swelling in his chest. The way Peter held the cat, careful, reverent, like the world was something breakable and worth protecting.
“Marry me,” Wade said.
Peter snorted. “Wade.”
“I’m serious. I can plan a whole wedding around this moment.”
Peter shook his head, still smiling, the cat purring against his chest.
It was perfect.
Then the cat squirmed.
“Oh! hey!!! wait—” Peter tightened his grip, but the cat leapt free, landing on the sidewalk before darting straight toward the street.
Peter didn’t think.
He ran.
“Spidey!—”
The light was red. It should’ve stopped. It should’ve—
The truck came out of nowhere.
Too fast. Too loud. Too real.
Wade watched it happen like the world had suddenly slowed, every detail burned into his brain, the sickening impact, Peter’s body snapping forward, blood hitting the pavement in a red arc that didn’t make sense.
“PETER!?”
The scream ripped out of Wade’s chest, raw and useless. He hit the ground beside him, hands shaking, trying to put Peter back together even as the city erupted into chaos.
Peter didn’t move.
The sun stayed bright.
The day didn’t care.
Wade woke up gasping.
Sweat soaked the sheets. His heart hammered like it was trying to break out of his ribs.
“…Okay,” he said hoarsely, staring at the ceiling. “That was…that was new.”
He checked his phone.
August 12.
11:43 AM.
Wade stared at the date.
Then he laughed.
“Ohhh,” he said weakly. “Of course. Of course my trauma’s branching out into prophetic dreams now.”
He rolled out of bed, shaking it off. Nightmares happened. Vivid ones happened more. Especially to guys like him.
Still, the unease clung to him like smoke as he geared up and headed out.
He found Spider-Man mid-swing, humming the same tune. The patrol unfolded like deja vu wrapped in barbed wire.
Same mugging. Same hydrant. Same stupid hot dog cart.
Wade’s stomach dropped when he heard the meowing.
“Nope,” he said immediately. “Nope, nope, nope.”
But Peter was already climbing.
The cat. The crowd. The sun.
Every detail was wrong in the exact same way.
Peter cradled the cat again, smiling.
Wade’s hands shook.
“…Hey, Spidey,” Wade said, voice tight. “I think we should go.”
Peter blinked. “What? Why?”
“Just…trust me.”
Wade grabbed Peter’s wrist and tugged him away from the curb. They stepped off the exact spot Wade remembered.
For one blessed second, Wade thought he’d fixed it.
Then the screaming started. People looked up.
Wade followed their gaze just in time to see a metal beam tear loose from a rooftop above them.
“No—!”
It fell fast.
Too fast.
It slammed down through Peter’s torso with a wet, impossible sound, pinning him to the concrete.
The cat shrieked and bolted.
Peter didn’t even have time to scream.
Wade dropped to his knees, hands slick with blood that shouldn’t exist, shouldn’t keep existing.
“…No,” Wade whispered. “No, no, NO!—” and just like that, he woke up screaming once more.
August 12.
Again.
The third time, Peter fell from a collapsing fire escape.
The fourth, a sniper’s bullet meant for someone else.
The fifth, an explosion Wade didn’t see coming.
Five weeks passed like that.
Five weeks of August 12.
Peter died in Wade’s arms, on pavement, in alleys, mid-swing, smiling, confused, apologizing even as he bled out.
And every time. Every single goddamn time…And of course, Peter had no memory.
“Hey, Wade,” he’d say, bright as ever. “You okay? You look tired.”
Wade stopped joking by the second week.
By the third, he started begging.
By the fourth, he tried everything, changing routes, knocking Peter unconscious, dragging him across the city, screaming at civilians to move, trying ANYTHING to make sure Peter and him survive the day.
Nothing worked.
The day just wanted Peter like the universe bent itself into new shapes just to take him. Why was the universe so hellbent on killing his precious baby boy…
Wade noticed the pattern eventually. It always happened after the cat.
Same street. Same moment. Same leap.
Like the world had chosen its trigger and refused to let go.
The fifth week, Wade stood, watching Peter cradle the cat, heart breaking so hard it felt like it might finally kill him for real.
“Wade? You okay?” Peter said gently, looking towards the merc. “You’re staring.”
“…You ever feel like today’s important?” Wade asked.
Peter tilted his head. “I mean. It’s Tuesday.”
Wade laughed, wet and hysterical.
“Yeah, webs,” he whispered. “It is.”
The cat jumped.
Peter moved.
Wade didn’t hesitate.
He grabbed Peter by the arm and shoved him backward with everything he had.
“What the—Wade!!—”
The truck hit Wade instead.
Pain exploded through him, loud and blinding and familiar. Bones shattered. Blood soaked the street.
But Wade was still conscious.
He lay there, staring up at the sky, laughing through broken teeth as the world held its breath.
Peter was screaming his name.
The universe faltered. The day cracked.
Wade woke up to sunlight. Quiet sunlight.
No sirens. No screaming…
He checked his phone with shaking hands.
August 13.
8:02 AM.
“…Huh,” Wade said softly.
He laughed. Then he cried. Then he laughed again.
Later, Peter sat on the edge of Wade’s bed, hands tight in his lap, eyes red.
“You pushed me,” Peter said. “Why would you do that?”
Wade shrugged, wincing. “Heroic impulse. Also love. Mostly love.”
Peter swallowed. “You could’ve died.”
“But I didn’t,” Wade said gently. “And you would’ve.”
Peter stared at him for a long time.
“…I don’t remember it,” Peter admitted. “But I feel it. Like something almost happened. Like you saved me from something I can’t see.”
Wade smiled, tired and real. “Yeah. Me too.”
Outside, August moved forward.
And for the first time in five weeks…
Tomorrow was allowed to exist.