"I need silence, and to be alone and to go out, and to save on our to consider what has happened to my world, what death has done to my world." 

-Virginia Woolf

"Pssst. Webs. Spidey. Webs. Webs. Spidey. Spider-Man. Webs. Spidey."

Peter groaned.

"Wake uppppp."

He peeled an eye open.

Deadpool sat kneeled beside him, two inches from his face. "It's like looking into my own masked face."

Peter slowly sat up. The pull of muscles stretched painfully, and he grimaced with the way his ribs ached. The unusual weight of a leather mask on his face brought back the memories of yesterday's events, the good, the bad, and the ugly. "What time is it?"

"Time for you to get a watch." Deadpool grinned. "Also about twelve in the afternoon. Your eyes are the size of the moon. Blah blah blah. Anyways, you can stay here and rest up more if you want, but I have a date in a few hours and I'm gonna be gone."

"Shit."

"It's no biggie!" Pool said quickly. "Just— y'know, you probably won't want to look around too much, you might find stuff you don't want to see. Like my stuffed unicorn collection."

"No, I mean—" Peter scrunched up his nose. "You have a stuffed unicorn collection?"

"Don't ask."

Peter shook his head. "...Anyways. I meant that I also have a date, actually, and it's—It's also in a few hours. Coincidences are crazy like that I guess."

"What, a date with a doctor?" Deadpool snorted. "You might fall apart at the fuckin' table. 'Yeah, I ordered a salad, no, that isn't raspberry vinaigrette–' No offense. Seriously tough, those bruises are fucking gnarly."

Peter sighed. "Ob-la-di, ob-la-da, amirite? It's fine, they'll heal more. It's not like we're like... Going boxing, or something. It's just a friend hangout thing."

"Right.. Well, if all else fails, say you got mauled by a bear. I'm sure it'll be believable. It's not like we live in a Metropolis."

"I have to get my haircut," Peter mumbled. He looked down at his body, the torn suit exhibiting the portrait of yellow and purple bruises, the scrapes and dried blood. "I really hate to ask this, but do you have an extra shirt or something? I'll give them back! Just— the sun is out, it'll be hard going home with a shredded-up suit."

Pool scratched the back of his head and stood up. "I think I can find something that'll fit your... frail, scrawny body, yeah."

Peter watched him walk down the hallway and into a room off to the side, mumbling as he went about how he was "giving away all his clothes" or something of similar nature. He came back carrying a mesh yellow-black thing that reminded him of middle school flag football, cut off short with big sleeves and 'TRAINEE' written on the back, and then grey sweatpants that had grease stains which Peter was going to very pointedly ignore.

"...Thanks." Peter pulled the clothes over his tattered suit then looked up at him. "How do I look?"

"Like a sent-home contestant at a cosplay contest."

"Great." Peter crossed his arms. "Thanks again."

"Say it one more time and you'll sound like Ariana Grande," Deadpool said lightly. "I get it, I'm the Mother Teresa of clothes. Now get lost, leg-freak. That came out wrong. But seriously, you're gonna be late to your date, spider-stud!"

Peter laughed under his breath and nodded. "Whatever, Pool. I'll drop these off later."

Deadpool waved him goodbye as he went out the front door.

Before he went to get his haircut, he needed to make a pitstop at his apartment. He couldn't show up at May's doorstep covered head to toe in various physical afflictions or he would be questioned till his ears came off. This would call for some light touch ups with drugstore makeup that he picked up from the corner store every few weeks. Then there was this whole wardrobe situation that left much to be desired.

The subway trip back to his apartment was as normal as any subway trip could be while wearing a torn up Spider-Man suit, sweatpants, and a yellow and black croptop. He had stuffed Deadpool's mask into his pocket for whatever good that would do, but it didn't stop any of the confused stares from midday New Yorkers sitting across from him.

He got to his apartment and the first thing he did was take a shower. The lukewarm water additive of the cheap showerhead didn't help soothe his muscles quite the way he wanted it to, but at the very least he wasn't covered in dried up blood, which was always a plus. He pulled on the first clothes he could find and then immediately went to the medicine cabinet hanging by his sink.

The split lip he had was noticeable. It couldn't be covered with foundation, and would warrant questioning, but that was fine. He made sure to blend better around it so it didn't look like he was clearly hiding any other wounds. The bruises on the other hand were all spot-treated, as they would be something warranting suspicion. By the end of the hour he looked relatively normal— Peter's normal, that was— and he was running late.

His phone rang from where he had put it on the counter, and Peter used a web to yank it towards him. He held it up to his ear. "May?"

"You said you would be here at twelve, did something happen?" May asked. Peter could hear the frown in her voice.

Peter kept the phone up to his ear with his shoulder and pulled on his shoes. "Uh—No, just running a little late! I'll be there in a few minutes. I'm just getting on the subway now."

Peter grimaced and then walked out the door, shutting it behind him.

"Did you sleep in again?"

Peter ran down the hallway and down the stairs of his apartment building. "Would you know if I was lying if I said no?"

May laughed softly. "Yes, I would."

He smiled and left through the front doors, feeling the chill of the fresh air rush through his nose. "I'll be there soon. Love you, May."

"Love you too, Peter. Be safe."

After a few quick super-human strength "jogs" to the subway, followed by about 30 minutes of tapping his toe on the moving floor, he finally was at the doorway of one May Parker. He put in his key and opened the door.

"I made it!" He called out. He kicked his shoes off into the wall trim and stepped down the hallway. "Shaggy curls and all."

A white chair sits in the kitchen, set up right beside the sink. He remembered seeing the same chair, in the same kitchen, from before he could even come up to the countertop in height. Ben would be at the chair, and Peter would sit up on the counter, and he would watch the trimmed hair fall lightly to the sink.

May and Ben would banter softly to each other about groceries, taxes, and other things that Peter found incredibly mundane at the time. (Now he'd give anything to hear it again— sometimes the quietness of the Parker kitchen still got to him, even after all these years.)

"May?" Peter called out, looking around.

May stepped out of the bathroom and held up a pair of hair scissors. "I'm here, I just was looking for these darn scissors. The old ones are so dull, so I bought a new pair the other day, but I misplaced them this morning and— Oh, you don't want to hear an old lady gripe. The important thing is that I found them."

Peter smiled and sat down. "That's alright, May. I don't mind, you know that."

May hummed. She stepped up and combed her fingers through his hair. "Nevertheless. How short do you want?"

"I don't know," Peter said honestly. "Just enough to get it out of my eyes, I guess."

May threaded a section of the brown mess on his head through her fingers and ran it through, then stopped a few inches down. "I think I'm going to cut it here. That should keep it out of your face, but it'll still show those handsome curls of yours."

"You know best."

"Hm," May smiled with amusement. She took a comb that was on the counter and brushed through his hair. Then she raised the scissors and began to snip.

"That's a new sweatshirt," May commented. "Where did you get it?"

Peter furrowed his eyebrows and looked down. Oh. He must have picked Wade's hoodie up when he was changing clothes earlier.

"Uh," Peter trailed off. He fiddled with the sleeves then stuck his hands in the large pockets. He didn't know why he felt defensive all of the sudden; especially with May. Maybe he was just trying to convince himself of something that wasn't true. It wasn't like that, there weren't any thoughts that it was going to be like that.

"Wade gave it to me. I was just—I was cold the other night, and he wouldn't let me say no, so—"

"Maroon looks good on you," May interrupted calmly.

Snip. A crescent of hair fell to the bottom of the sink.

"I like Wade," May continued. "He's very sweet."

Peter nodded. "Yeah, he's a good guy. He asked me out to dinner tonight, to this little place in Chinatown. We're just gonna hang out, get some food. As a friend. A dinner between friends."

"Yes, I believe I've heard of those," May said. She didn't sound convinced, and the lilt of her voice had a teasing to it that couldn't be denied. She was amused.

There's another quiet snip. A curl of hair drifts to the bottom of the sink.

Peter waited for a comment that didn't come. He waited for the knowing smile of his aunt paired with a gentle, verbal callout of his nonsense. It wasn't like he was asking for a date, he wasn't going out of his way to find some new person to fall in love with. Still, he knew what the words sounded like beside each other when he spoke them aloud, and he knew May could read between the lines of all of it like they blended together seamlessly.

Instead his answer came in silence. He could feel the lack of judgement, a mutual understanding between the two of them that this was the closest thing to any kind of interaction with somebody new, friend or more, in several months—May did not think less of him for it. Could she ever?

It made him think again that taking a step forward was... the right thing to do. For him.

"I had a dream about Gwen last night," Peter said. He laid the events of the night before out in front of him and ate around the parts he couldn't mention. For May's sake, he didn't almost die, and he most certainly didn't see what could only be described as the afterlife.

May's hands stilled. The hesitancy radiated from her in waves. Carefully, she resumed trimming another inch off Peter's hair. "They're not getting better?"

'I will tread lightly,' her hesitancy said. Her heart trailed after it in its uptake of beats. 'But I will still worry.'

"Generally I guess they are," Peter said. "There are still bad days. This one specifically was good, though. It was like I talked to her, May."

May sighed softly with relief. It was quiet, something nobody should have been able to hear, but Peter had a small scorecard of luck to keep track of wins like these. Her heartbeat calmed. "What did she say?"

"She told me I should remember her life," Peter said honestly. "And... I don't know, I woke up feeling a lot better, I guess."

"Hm," May hummed fondly. She carefully snipped another inch. "Ben used to talk to me in dreams."

Peter furrowed his eyebrows at this very new information. It was the kind of thing that shouldn't be stated in such a casual manner, because the moment the words settled in it caused his world to sway for a moment.

"Used to?"

May nodded and stepped to the side of Peter's head. Another faint snip. "I suppose I needed him still, and he knew that. I stopped seeing him in my dreams when I found purpose. Closure."

She sighed, then softly laughed to herself. "I still love him more than anything. And I do miss him everyday. If you ask me, Ben knew when he didn't need to watch over me anymore. I would be okay then to focus on the next important part of my life— and with that, I chose to help people. I don't regret a thing."

"Why didn't you ever tell me that?" Peter wondered in a quiet awe. "I never knew."

"You were quite occupied trying to find yourself in your new role without him," May explained. If only she knew the full colours of that statement, the red, the blue, the red all over again. The spider web in his windowsill that month had been replaced by muddy footprints.

"Besides," May brushed her hands through his hair again. She then leaned his head back and turned the faucet on, letting the warm water run through his hair and rinse the stray strands out. "We've made our way now. Ben was always so proud of you, I'm overjoyed to carry on that legacy."

She turned the faucet back off and patted him on the shoulder. She grinned at him, glancing up at her handiwork. "Perfect. You look like a very handsome young man. Except—"

May thumbed over Peter's chin studiously. "Except for that lip. Don't think I didn't notice. Did you treat it correctly?"

"Yeah," Peter said with a quick nod. He felt the guilt flood his face in red. He expected this, but that didn't make the conversation any less of an internal struggle. "I did. It was just—"

"I understand," May interrupted quietly. She gave a sigh, and her eyes softened. "Have fun with Wade, okay?"

"Thank you," Peter said sincerely. "For the whole thing. The talk, and the haircut. You always know the right thing to say."

May brushed a wet curl of hair away from his eyebrow and genuinely smiled. "Anytime, Peter."

With a haircut out of the way, Peter was on with the second goal of the day. He found himself thinking of Deadpool on the way there— The man also had an event, apparently. It made him wonder how he acted under the mask, with the guise of civilian clothing with no set of katanas to hide behind.

Peter chuckled at the idea of Deadpool being this brooding figure, someone who wore a suit with no formal tie, a stern face, dark eyes. The opposite of who he portrayed himself as. He didn't think Spider-Man was terribly different from Peter Parker— Maybe just a difference in confidence, the way he carried himself. Was it different for Pool? Was he silent as a civilian?

His mind continued to wander as the subway sped along its tracks. Deadpool as he is, sitting on a date. The mask is on, the lenses widen and narrow with glee. In Peter's head, he cracks an obnoxious joke and is throwing his hands around the air to enunciate every inflection.

Peter snorted at the mental picture and burst into giggles, bowing his head down.

"Oh, someone's in love."

Peter's head shot up to see a pleased-looking old man, crossing his arms and smiling like a happy cartoon character. "Hm?"

"Don't try and deny it! I know love when I see it. Yes, I do. You have that look in your eyes. Mhm." He rattled off, his eyes creasing in joyful crescents. "When I was your age—"

"Oh." The subway halted on the path and the doors opened with blinking lights. Peter stood up. "This is my stop. Sorry, sir. You're mistaken. No young love here, I just thought of something funny. Have a nice day, though, it was nice to meet you."

Peter grimaced as he hopped off the subway, sneaking between the people entering through the doors and hearing the man's gentle laughter carry on when the doors closed again.

The sky was getting dark, and there was a familiar earthy smell in the air that told him rain would be coming in sooner rather than later. Luckily, the place in Chinatown that Wade was talking about is just a few blocks away. Peter pulled his phone out of his pocket as he walked and selected his contact.

[Peter Parker: Hey! I'm OMW.]

[Wade Wilson: whoop whoop‼️i'll look for ur face at the door👀]

"He's already there?" Peter muttered. He shoved his phone away and quickly crossed down the street. He jogged down the sidewalk until he saw the little restaurant tucked in the corner, paper lanterns hanging from the inside windows in colours of red, yellow, green, and purple.

He crossed another street and opened the door—a bell chimed as he walked in. He set his eyes on Wade, who sat at a table in the corner of the small restaurant and grinned at him with a cheery wave.

Peter moved forward to the end of the room and sat across from him at the wobbly wooden table. He smiled back. "Hey, Wade."

The restaurant was quaint, but cultured. He could tell by the way there were indents and chips in the furniture, cracks in the black and white tiles, a paper menu in the middle of the table with words faded away at the edges where a hand would have held it.

"What happened to your lip?" Was the first thing Wade said. He was casual about it, but the odd thing was that his expression didn't give away any sort of emotion. Peter had nothing to base an explanation off of.

"Nothing," Peter shrugged, making sure to keep the smile from faltering. "It's healing."

"Also! That is a very nice sweatshirt," Wade said, leaning back and posing his hand on his hip. "Super stylish. Whoever you got it from has excellent taste. Truly, just the best—Better than Vogue."

Peter looked down at his—Wade's hoodie, and facepalmed. His cheeks felt hot with embarrassment. "Oh geez. Yeah, definitely. Really good taste."

Wade laughed quietly and brought his arm back down to rest in his lap. "It does look good on you, though. I hope it's keeping you warm. This city can be cold when it wants to be."

"Yeah, it's keeping me warm," Peter smiled. "Thanks again. You look good too. The sweatshirt, I mean. The one you're wearing, it looks good on you. Too."

Smooth.

Wade exhaled with amusement and smoothed the wrinkles from the front of his crewneck, better revealing the faded picture of a horror movie's poster. "Thanks. You a fan of Halloween?"

"It wasn't bad," Peter said, raising his eyebrows to prove his point. "It's got a classic villain theme too. Can't go wrong with that."

"True!"

Peter smiled and then reached for a menu. "So... Wontons, right? 'To die for'?"

"Definitely," Wade assured. "The Chicken Lo Mein is really good too—Pretty much everything here, honestly."

Then, Wade leaned in with a dramatic whisper. "The owner, Ru, makes all the stuff fresh with his grown up kiddies. He pretends that he doesn't like me all that much, but I think he secretly loves me."

Peter snorted, then leaned in and whispered back. "Is that so?"

Wade widened his eyes and nodded with full conviction. "Oh, yeah."

"Well, then." Peter pulled back. "I believe you. This guy must have some killer chow mein."

Wade nodded solemnly. "How hungry are you? We could be here all night with this menu. I'm joking. I'm not joking. I'm joking."

A laugh startled from Peter's lungs before he had a thought about it, and he looked back down at the paper in his hands. "You know what? Order whatever. I'm not picky."

And 'order whatever' is exactly what Wade did. In the next thirty minutes, their table was full of Chinese food that smelled like heaven, and Wade was shooting the owner a wink and a thumbs up, which Peter found to be another source of stifled laughter as Ru rolled his eyes and returned to the kitchen as a response.

"So," Wade turned to his food and took a gargantuan bite, chewed quickly and swallowed the whole thing. "Do anything interesting this weekend?"

Nearly got killed, woke up at a mutant mercenary's apartment. The usual day-to-day activities.

"Not really," Peter smiled feebly. "Just work. You?"

"Crazy," Wade said, raising his eyebrows. "Like... Paper Man (2009) crazy."

"What happened?" Peter asked, already feeling the freeing beginning of a laugh in his chest.

Wade paused, then shook his head. "I met up with an old coworker. It was a fucking trip though, because the building he works at now is in desperate need of an exterminator, so much bugs. Really had to shoot the whole place down. Folks at home will get that joke."

"Right," Peter smiled. "Well, good luck with your coworker. And the bugs. Luckily my job only extends to taking pictures."

"Yeah, about that," Wade pointed out, holding a hand up. He looked curiously at Peter and took another bite of food. "What did you wanna be before you started working for Jameson?"

"A scientist."

Wade gave an impressive eyebrow raise. "Really? You're real smart, then? Modern day Isaac 'Fig' Newton?"

"It's just Isaac Newton, and... Something like that," Peter laughed.

"Sure. What made you quit?"

"I didn't 'quit'," Peter defended. "I just... Life happened, I guess. What about you? You got any dreams you gave up?"

"Career-wise? I guess not," Wade moved some noodles around on his plate. "The place I lived in was pretty much the Monster House, so my dream was always to get out of there. I faked my age when I was about sixteen and joined the Special Forces, and then boom: problem solved."

"Sixteen," Peter said in a sort of horrified awe. He didn't want to imagine Wade as a sixteen year old kid, camo paint on his face and seeing so much that nobody should see. "That's... Wow. And they just let you in?"

"If you can make it past training, they don't really give a shit. 'Cuz they already spent their money on you, y'know?"

Peter looked down at his food.

"Hope I didn't scare you away with all that," Wade joked. "Not exactly a super funny conversation. We could talk about James Corden's sudden and meaningless branch into Hollywood, that's pretty funny. Seriously, I didn't think he was that  bad in Into The Woods, but then he was cast as a fuckin' emoji? And don't even get me started on Cats. I've been hurt too many times, Petey. Too many times."

"No, no," Peter shook his head. "You didn't spook me or anything. I was just thinking about something, but it's not important. Um..."

He stuffed his mouth with food to prevent himself from talking any more, and wondered briefly how the conversation would change if he were able to bring up his own "story." The reason he was wearing makeup, the reason he had to reschedule this date, the reason he was himself.

"I noticed you cut your hair," Wade pointed out, fidgeting with his hands. He seemed just as jittery to move onto the next subject.

Peter nodded and quickly swallowed his food. "Yeah, May did it, actually."

"She did a really great job," Wade smiled. "My mom used to give me a bowl cut when I was a kid. I looked like that kid from The Shining. The little creepy one who talks to his finger."

"I can almost picture that," Peter smiled. "Bet you rocked that style."

"Totally. Oh, hey! Guess what?" Wade reached forward for a paper bag on the table.

"Hm?"

"Fortune cookies!" Wade poured the bag's contents onto the table, and several prepackaged cookies fell out. "Choose wisely, Petey. This determines your entire worldview, you know."

Peter scoffed lightly. Reaching over the pile, he selected one, then unwrapped it and broke the cookie open. Pulling the message out carefully, he read the message in his head.

'The love of your life is right in front of you.'

Peter narrowed his eyes, daring to glance up at Wade. "Did you write these fortunes?"

"No! That would be cheating." Wade broke open his own cookie. He read the words off with a goofy grin. "Be passionate and totally worth the chaos in bed."

Peter blinked.

"...No WAY does it say that," Peter leaned forward and angled his head to look at the small paper held in between Wade's fingers.

'Be passionate and totally worth the chaos.'

"It's funny!" Wade exclaimed with exuberance. "Here, read yours but add 'in bed' at the end."

"It won't make any sense, I'll grab another one." Peter stuffed the original message he got in his pocket. He grabbed a new cookie, cracked it in two, and then read the new message out.

"Love yourself hard in bed," Peter stifled, holding back laughter.

Wade howled, slapping his knee. "That's a good one! Holy shit."

Peter met him in his laughter until his face was cherry red. He couldn't remember the last time he was this truly happy, like it was something natural, something pure and clean. His chest rose with the light breath he took between laughs and began again.

At some point he wasn't laughing because the joke was funny, but rather laughing for the sake of the rush, the joy bursting at the seams. He didn't get to feel like that often, and it was such a nice feeling that it reeled him in at every possible moment. There were a lot of moments with Wade.

"Can I walk you home?" Wade asked, as the energy settled over into calmer waters. His smile was sweet, his eyes were bright, and Peter's head and heart felt all fuzzy.

"Sure, yeah," Peter said. "My apartment's not that far away, but—"

He turned around and looked out the window, watching rain pour down in the streets in thick droplets. "Look like it's pretty stormy out there."

"We can do our best impression of Singin' In The Rain, then." Wade started stacking the empty plates. "I'll be Kathy Seldon."

Peter snorted. "I've never seen it."

"A crime!" Wade groaned. "You gotta see that. It's playing at an old theatre in Harlem next week, this really bust up place with couches that look like they're from the 70s, but they're cheap tickets."

"Speaking of cheap," Peter laughed quietly under his breath. "I didn't actually think about the whole bill situation here. I can pay you back later, and—"

Wade shook his head. "I've got it, Pete, don't worry about it. It's my treat, y'know? I invited you, plus I'm the one with the coupon."

"If you're sure," Peter said hesitantly.

"I'm definitely sure."

Peter smiled slightly. "Alright, then."

Wade put down some money on the table, right beside the coupon, and they walked out of the small restaurant together. Rain poured down, splashing on the concrete and pavement, the windows of passing cars, the stretched fabric of umbrellas.

Peter pulled his hood over his head. "Chilly."

"Sure is," Wade said. "My hands are freezing."

"What, your space-heater hands?" Peter teased knowingly.

"Definitely."

Peter looked down at his hands. "You've got pockets, y'know."

"...Pfff," Wade stuck his hands in his pockets. "Yeah. I knew that."

"Mhm."

As they walked down the sidewalk, Peter looked up at the rain and squinted, letting the drops hit his face. "I think it's getting lighter, at least. It was worse while we were eating."

"Yeah?"

Peter looked over at Wade and nodded.

"What the fuck." Wade stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, his eyes going stern. "What happened?"

The world slowed. Peter furrowed his eyebrows with his sudden confusion. "What do you mean?"

"I mean your face," Wade said. His voice was... cold. Unwavering, still, calculated. His whole demeanor had changed, his shoulders stiffened, and it became suddenly very clear that Wade was taller than him. "Who hurt you?"

Red alarm bells rang in Peter's head. He slowly raised a hand to his cheek and pulled it away, seeing the watered down foundation smeared on the tips of his fingers. He looked back up at Wade.

It's just a lie! He's fine under pressure!

"Uh..." Peter said dumbly. "I just fell down the stairs?"

Wade subtly narrowed his eyes, a minuscule movement of his facial expression that somehow added greatly to the very protective stature he had.

Okay. Maybe he's not fine under pressure. What the hell?

Peter scratched behind his head and gave a nervous smile. It was like he was talking to a completely different person. "It's no big deal, Wade."

"Are you shitting me, or are you being serious?"

"I'm being serious," Peter lied, the words heavy on his tongue. "I'm totally and completely safe. It was just a freak accident, nothing else. Take a breath, okay, big guy?"

Wade slowly nodded and forced himself to relax. He continued walking, but glanced sideways back at Peter every few seconds as if he expected him to more, like he knew Peter was lying— and he probably did.

Wade Wilson was like a complicated puzzle. He was a sweetheart, he was funny, he was unconventional in the most interesting way. He wore his trauma like a mask, a visible tattoo. He cared a great deal, yet hid it so humbly that he probably didn't even notice it.

But he asked questions, and questions always tended to get good people in trouble. Peter had to end this curiosity now, or else some domino effect could happen and he'd be sitting at the bottom of a different clocktow—

Peter scratched the back of his ear. He sighed. "I got jumped last night."

Wade glanced over again.

"It happens too much for my own good," Peter explained further, choosing his words carefully, as honestly as he could without revealing the truth. "I didn't want May to worry this morning, so I covered it with makeup. I don't like it when she worries."

Wade relaxed genuinely this time, his expression softening as he listened to Peter speak.

"I'm sorry that I lied," Peter said firmly. It's all he's known since he was fourteen. He doesn't know how to live without it.

Wade hummed with understanding. "Right. Yeah. Sorry I went all Terminator on you. I have this weird thing with honesty or something. Hah."

Peter hid a wince, just the slightest cringe in his facial expression. He didn't know if Wade noticed or not.

"It's good to have someone who worries for you," Wade said. "I think you and May are similar like that. Always caring about other people, y'know? You look out for each other. It's sweet. Very familial."

Peter looked at him thoughtfully. "I guess I never noticed."

He turned away and let the conversation drift to silence. The rain pattered softly in a dissonant background to their matching steps.

"This is me," Peter said once they reached the end of the block. "Thanks for the dinner, this was fun. We should do that movie thing you were talking about, some time."

He was going to make this work, somehow. Questions could be avoided. Something told him that Wade Wilson was worth it.

"The fake age Special Forces thing really didn't throw you off, huh?" Wade smiled lightly.

Peter jutted his chin out with a smirk. "It takes more than that to scare me, Wade Wilson."

"Noted," Wade laughed. "Night, Pete."

"Goodnight, Wade."

Peter opened the door and walked into the apartment complex. He entered the elevator and watched the doors close.

His apartment building has a reputation that precedes him, he had heard the complaints before he even moved in. There were drafty hallways, poor insulation in the winter, worse air conditioning in the summer, and rumours of lead in the paint of the oldest windows on the bottom floor.

But if there was a chill in that elevator, he didn't feel it.

He smiled, stuffed his hands in his pockets, and gathered the hoodie closer to himself.

artwork as always done by lakka-arts on tumblr! please go check him out he is absolutely STELLAR