There are better options, Wade thinks that night, lying on a couch with an old tweedy blanket pulled up to his chin. He scowled at the stippled ceiling, the rhythmic thump thump thump of the ceiling fan becoming white noise as he tried to convince himself that he didn't just make a huge mistake.

It's dark inside the room, the only source of light being a pink My Little Pony night light. There are no windows. No closets. Just four walls and a locked door. The bed has a box spring and the frame is so close to the ground it'd be impossible for anyone other than Ant-Man to hide underneath. Still, he checks for monsters before they settle down for the night.

We could've gone somewhere else, he continues to think, whispering his thoughts with the same aptitude as his breathing, low and careful, afraid to break the silence.

Stark Tower is still an option. Maybe the Baxter Building if they're back from space.

Hell, if he swallowed his pride and dished out a few apologies (and even more favors) they could go to the X Mansion and hunker down at Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters. No villain in their right mind would attack a mutant school. Right?

Then again, if said villain played off being a mutant...

But no, instead they're trapped inside a near inhospitable building owned by Weasel. It's still in New York, so Wade can keep in contact with his informants, but out of the way enough that no one will pay it any mind. Bought under a false name, paid in cash, and despite what the records say, no one lived there. Only them. Four people, crammed inside a tiny basement safehouse meant for a maximum of 2; no windows, one door, one staircase.

It was the best he could do on such short notice, but the nagging (and frankly annoying) voice in his head is convinced he could've done better.

Maybe it's right.

Sneaking Peter, Aunt May, and MJ inside wasn't too much of a hassle. Their biggest concern was being followed or seen. Per Wade's request, any transaction between him and Weasel was kept just between them, and so close to the chest that Weasel knew he would be killed 100 times over if he spilled even a drop of information. Wade spent the better part of 20 minutes questioning the guy whenever they chatted, sprinkling in passcodes and trick questions to confirm he wasn't being tricked.

But they'd done it. Weasel even managed to get his hands on most of the medical equipment on Wade's list. Of course, some of it wasn't the latest or greatest, certainly nothing that held a candle to Stark technology, but it got the job done and that's all he could ask for. Within hours, they'd gotten basic necessities, and as soon as they were all inside, he asked Aunt May to draw up a list of anything else she'd need.

She had to look Peter over for this, and take a look at the hospital records Wade stole.

The reunion between aunt and nephew had been...tense, in a word. But not because they didn't miss each other. Far from it. Most of the tension came from Peter's end.

He had to lean against Wade as they entered the room, drowning in a coat, covered with a beanie, and wearing thick gloves that had to be strapped tight to his hands. Necessary for the winter chill, but Peter was sweating under all of it, hot with fever and trembling from exertion. The moment Aunt May and MJ saw him, they were out of their chairs, eyes wide and full of concern.

That concern tripled when Peter flinched backward, but it stopped them in their tracks. Gears shifted, and like a metal wall slamming shut, paranoia slid across Peter's face and his grip on Wade's arm became bruising. He hadn't let Wade out of his sight since the hospital, and Wade was fully aware of the way Peter tracked him with dubious eyes whenever they were not in touching distance. The same couldn't be said for the other two, and as much as it hurt, they double back to the table, but don't retake their seats.

For the next 30 minutes, Peter meticulously questioned them both, ignoring Wade when he suggested he take it easy and rest for a few minutes (particularly when he started trembling with exhaustion) but Peter was relentless. He slouched over the table, almost bent double, and pulled the coat so tight around his body, it was as if he were a caterpillar preparing to turn into a butterfly. A really sad, very sick butterfly. Purple bags hung from his eyes like drooping banners, and his eyes were lidded and heavy with sickness.

He doesn't let himself relax. Not until he was positive they were who they claimed to be.

And once he was, well...then came the waterworks.

To Peter's credit, he tried to hold them back. He bit his trembling lip and blinked rapidly to keep his eyes from getting shiny and wet, but when Aunt May opened her arms to him, he broke. Like a child returning to the comforting touch of their mother, he collapsed into them, his first sob coming out choked and wretched. He was still trying to hold it in, but it was a mess, as he makes quick apologies and admissions that flew by too quickly to catch. He babbled about being smarter, or faster, or doing things differently in some microscopic way.

It made Wade want to grab him by the shoulders and demand that he not take the blame for this, for once, and then pull him into his arms, shush him and kiss his temple, and never let go.

The moment felt too vulnerable to watch. Too sincere. A scene between mother and son that's not supposed to be intruded on.

MJ must have felt the same way, because she turned around with him to give them privacy. They took the opportunity to come up with questions and code words for each other.

When Peter and May settled down, both wiping their eyes and sniffing softly, MJ swooped down to give him a hug of her own. Peter looked embarrassed to be caught, and wiped hard at his eyes a few times, before he latched onto her as well, sticking his hands to her shirt like she might disappear under his touch.

Wade watched from the side, letting them have their moment of reunion, listening as May and Mary asked what happened. A barrage of questions about how he was, where he'd gone, and what happened to him. Peter gave them the same stripped-down version he gave Wade: he was captured by Chameleon, chained inside an apartment for several days, managed to escape, but got caught. Then he escaped again and found Wade in the same building he was being kept in.

Being the seasoned Spider-Man veterans they were, Aunt May and Mary knew he was holding back details, Wade could see it in the side-long glance they give each other when Peter wasn't looking, but they let it slide. This time.

Once all reunions were over, Aunt May did her examination. There's still a lot of bruises peppering Peter's body, mostly around his wrists where the handcuffs had been (before leaving, Wade rummaged through the police car that came by the hospital, and found the key they brought to unlock Peter's cuffs). He looked thin too. Chameleon fed him, obviously, but it wasn't enough to keep up with the rest of him. Wade wondered if it was a clumsy oversight, or a strategic move. It would be easier to move Peter out of state if he was malnourished, after all.

The cuts Wade gave Peter's thighs were still red and inflamed, but at least they stopped bleeding. Not that it stopped Wade from flinching every time he saw them.

On a normal day, Peter would be right as rain by the next afternoon, but his healing factor was slugging along at a snail's pace, tired and asthmatic.

"Our first order of business is keeping these wounds clean and breaking that fever," Aunt May told Wade afterward, scribbling down a list of medicines she'd need and a few more odds and ends, "We've got to flush those toxins out of his system and build his immune system back up. Fetch me the IV, dear."

Turns out, Aunt May wasn't lying when she said she knew her stuff. She'd been out of nursing for a year or two, but stepped back into the role seamlessly. Wade hung back and let her do her thing, helping where needed (which was not a lot) and hovering in a corner when he wasn't.

Aunt May, bless her heart, tried to keep him involved (like he so desperately needed) but in the end, she was the expert and he was just a shadow on the wall.

But that was hours ago, and even though they've all reluctantly retired to bed, Wade can't sleep. Too plagued with thoughts of what he could've done and better choices he could've made – ugh, is this how Peter feels all the time? All this crushing responsibility and doubt? Keep this up Wilson, and people really will start mistaking you for Spider-Man.

With every second of every hour, he's more tempted to scoop them all up and break into Avengers Tower, security be damned. JARVIS would let him in, right? He can do that freaky body scan, read their DNA, see their dental records, figure out who took their v-card, verify that they're the real deal, and Peter can be protected in a supermax tower designed to withstand an apocalypse.

And if not the Avengers, then the Fantastic Four. Or the X-Men. Hell, even Dare Devil would probably let them sleep on his floor if they asked. But no, Wade took the panicked route and locked them in a box, then threw away the key.

"Wade? Are you awake?"

The voice shatters the silence like a crack of thunder. Wade sits up immediately, head snapping in the direction of the bed. His hand closes around the gun he'd snuck under his pillow. "Petey? Is that you?"

Who else would it be, dipshit?

"Yeah."

"Are you okay?"

A long pause. "Yeah?"

Wade makes to swing his legs over the couch, but is stopped by Peter's frantic whisper, "No. No need to get up. I just -...I just wanted to check."

"To see if I'm Chameleon?" Wade sat back down, "Hit me with a question, baby. The more vulnerable the better. Rip it off like a bandaid."

"No, I just...wanted to make sure you're still here."

Wade let go of the gun, confident that neither of them were in danger, but it made him want to hold onto something else. He forced a smile, hoping Peter can't tell how fake it is, "I'm here. M'not going anywhere."

"Why are you awake?"

"Why are you awake?"

"I couldn't sleep," in the darkness Peter's voice sounds soft. Frail, almost. Like a rose petal. Or a thin sheet of glass. He sounds like a child afraid of attracting the boogeyman. "Too much on my mind. What about you?"

"Same here, baby. Twinsies."

There's the rustling of blankets, and when Peter's voice comes back it's stronger and clearer as he sits up. Wade wants to tell him to lay down. "What are you thinking about?"

Wade hummed, weighing his thoughts in his head, "Just...thinking thoughts. Mulling over regrets. Visiting old haunts. The usual."

"Ah, okay," a beat, "Do...any of those regrets have to do with me?" he asks meekly.

Wade can make out the faint outline of Peter's body on the bed, as hunched and withdrawn as it is. A dark stain terrified of the answer it might get.

Wade will never understand Peter's self-doubt when it comes to them. Did he really think Wade was going to leave him over a loser like Chameleon? His variety of romantic partners were...something, from Nathan, to Shiklah, to Carmelita – but none of them had stuck. Things happened, and it all crashed and burned eventually. Wade was waiting for the day his luck runs out and Peter leaves him, not the other way around.

His desire to close the distance between them grows on like an algae, and Wade can't tell if it's because he wants to comfort Peter, or himself, but he keeps his butt planted on the cushions. "I'm not regretting you, Pete, if that's what you're asking. Kind of a silly question, actually. Who would regret an ass as fine as yours? You are on my mind, but not for the reasons you're thinking of. No regrets except my regret for not stabbing that douchebag in the balls before we left."

Peter doesn't say anything to that, his shadow rubs its arms uncertainly. Wade opens his mouth to emphasize his point, but Peter beats him to it. "I want to hold your hand."

Wonderful. Fantastic. Wade didn't know if it were possible to salivate over skin contact, but he feels like an eager dog, wagging its tail and ready to go. He would've been off the couch in an instant if he didn't catch Peter's underlying tone.

He gestured with a hand, "Buuuut?"

"But...it makes me sick to my stomach to think about."

Ah. Okay. Not quite what Wade was expecting. He dropped his hand, swallowing hard, and rubbed his fingers against his palm absentmindedly. The grooves and scars make his own stomach twist, and he has to close his eyes and remind himself that Peter didn't mean it that way. Probably. Hopefully. Unless he did because Chameleon got into his head too.

Oh fuck, what if Chameleon got into Peter's head? What if he made Peter hate him? Would the sight of Wade truly make him sick? He's used to that kind of response, people typically didn't want to look at him. That, or they stare far too long to be comfortable. Peter claimed that he didn't mind the scars, and went as far as saying he loved them for being a part of Wade. But was it true? Did Chameleon change his mind?

Deep, controlled breaths. Self-loathing curls its fingers around Wade's shoulders, slowly pulling him into its wailing, writhing abyss.

As if reading his thoughts, Peter quickly added, "No, not because of that. It's not because of you. I promise. It has nothing to do with...with your skin, or anything. I just..."

"Yeah?" Wade shakes off the claws, even as they dig into his skin. Peter didn't mean it like that. He didn't mean it like that.

More rustling, followed by a silence that goes on for so long that Wade wonders if Peter fell asleep again.

From the darkness, he says, "It was...uh...sometimes, I would wake up and he...he would be in bed with me and he'd be running his hands through my hair, or stroking my cheek, or...holding my hand. And he would pose as you, and talk to me, and sing in my ear, and..." the sentence strains the farther it goes until it cuts off altogether.

Wade closed his eyes and took a final deep breath. Well, looks like Chameleon was mentally fucking him up too. Neat. Fun. Fantastic. Wade can't wait to get his hands on the guy so he can fuck him up in the goriest, bloodiest way possible.

Maybe it was part of the plan to get the two of them to be uncomfortable around each other, and he hated that it was working.

"So...you want me close...without me getting close?" he asked.

The shadow on the bed moved. Peter might've been nodding his head.

"Okay...would if I wasn't on the bed," Wade proposed, "I can sit on the floor. You don't have to get close."

When silence falls over them again, this one's different. You see, Wade's fluent in Spider Language, verbal and physical cues included, from years of watching and learning Peter's tells. Swinging his legs over the couch, he padded over to the bed, sunk down next to it, rested his head on the comforter, and slid his arm across the mattress, palm up. An open invitation.

Peter's darkened shape gets more edges and details closer up, highlighted now in faint pink from the nightlight. His eyes are visible now, and they're wide. His hands are drawn up to his chest as if afraid of being bitten.

It takes a moment, and what is no doubt an internal struggle, before Peter slides his hand across the bed and slowly intertwines his fingers with Wade's. They both let out an exhale of relief at the same time, and then chuckle.

Peter relaxes visibly, body sinking into the mattress as his thumb strokes a scar on Wade's knuckles. "I missed how you feel," he murmured. "Image inducers can never get the texture right. It's always too staticy and soft."

Wade isn't one for emotional sincerity. Not usually. When he's the butt of every cosmic joke and free entertainment for the people watching, it gets easy to fall into a routine. Dumb jokes, satire, poking at walls that aren't meant to be poked. It's easy to get lost in it. But, he swallows hard now, fighting the urge to clutch Peter's hand to his chest. He stuffs his face in the mattress to avoid the pair of glossy, red-congested eyes staring back at him.

He wants to believe Peter's words with every fiber of his being; he loved the way they sounded coming out of his mouth. Would make a mixtape out of it and turn it on full blast as he walked down the street. But he can't even stand running his hands over his own body, how can someone else?

Peter loves touching him. As much as this statement feels like staring directly into the sun, he knows it. He wants to let it sink deep into his bones and sand down all his jagged edges.

"I missed you too," he says, coughing hard to clear the crack in his voice. "Missed you bunches and bunches. Not even Honey Bunches of Oats can compare to how much I missed you."

Peter chuckled, but there's an emotional edge to it like he can't quite bring himself to believe he's here, in this present, either. He murmurs in agreement and they fall into silence, neither falling asleep. It's comfortable at first, even if Wade's knees are starting to cramp, but as Peter starts to fidget, tension crawls its way back.

"What is it?"

Peter startles, looking up bewildered, and then huffs a breath, "How do you always know?"

Wade smirks, laying his cheek against the blanket, "You fidget when you have something to say. So, spill the beans."

An eye roll, but Peter's amusement fades quickly. "I uh – was just wondering what Chameleon did to you...down in that basement."

He should've guessed. Because Peter has an annoying, incessant urge to carry everyone else's burden on his shoulders, no matter how bruised or broken. Typical. Giving a damn about other people when he should be giving a damn about himself.

Flashes of a dark, smiling Peter come to mind. A glinting knife, the bang of a gun. Pain – but that wasn't anything new. The dark, harrowing knowledge that this person wasn't who they claim to be is what really unsettled him. It tugs on something deep inside. A clumsily sewn stitch that starts to bleed, drenching him in old memories and emotions that make him want to hide under a bed. Or take a shower. Or jump off a building.

But he wasn't about to tell Peter that, "Let's just say he put that image inducer to good work."

It's the wrong thing to say. Peter looks away, jaw clenching so hard it's a wonder that his teeth don't crack. "Did he use my face?"

Wade doesn't answer, and that's all the answer Peter needs. He covers his face, and through the shadow and pink light, Wade can make out the IV tube feeding into his arm. He really shouldn't be moving so much.

"Fuck - I'm – I'm sorry Wade, that was...gosh, it probably...it was just like..."

Wade knows what he's trying to say. Who it reminded him of and he would be right. This wouldn't be the first time someone's tried to dupe him by pretending to be someone else. This wasn't the first time he was taken advantage of by someone he thought he trusted. Typhoid Mary had lingered in the back of his head like a disgusting whisper every time Chameleon came into that basement wearing Peter's face. It set every nerve on fire. It made him want to throw up. When Not-Peter straddled his stomach, Wade's fight or flight instincts were kicking so hard he felt like a trapped bird in a cage. Or more accurately, a plucked bug pinned to paper, with nowhere to go. All he could do was endure every harsh word, every stroke of pain, and tell himself that it wasn't real. Determining fiction from reality wasn't easy for him, but at that moment, he was determined not to slip.

Not again.

He wants to hunt Chameleon down and tear him to pieces for what he did to Peter. But another part of him wants to do it for another reason. A different sense of justice for a different crime he wasn't a part of, but dangerously close to replicating.

"He didn't...do anything like that to me," Wade whispered, fighting to keep his voice level. "Nothing like what happened...before. Heh, I just think you should leave all the cutting and shooting to me from now on. I've come to the conclusion that you don't look as sexy with a gun as I thought you would."

Peter drops his hands, and pain is painted over his face in bright strokes. It doesn't help that he's still running a fever, and his reddened, glossy eyes make him look downright miserable. Wade's attempt to lighten the situation failed drastically.

"I'm sorry," Peter apologizes again, voice cracking, and the swelling tide inside Wade's throat gets bigger.

He scoots farther up the bed, so his front is propped up, and gently carded his fingers through Peter's hair, "Wasn't your fault," he murmured, "None of it was. Believe me. We would not be sitting here right now if it were your fault."

"How is it not?" Peter says miserably, "I was so stupid. A fucking idiot. I didn't see the signs. I didn't listen to my spider-sense. I made mistake after mistake, and you, Aunt May, Mary Jane - you all paid the price for it. I put you guys in danger because I was stupid, and – and arrogant, and an idiot who doesn't know when to ask for help, and –-" a lone tear slips past Peter's eye, and his squeezes them shut, shoulders trembling. "I'm sorry. I'm – I'm sorry you got hurt, and had to relive all of that. I'm so sorry."

"Hey," Wade says, firmly, drawing Peter's attention back to him. He sighs in heavy disappointment, leaning his head onto his hand, "I can't believe you wanted Chameleon to stalk us. If you were into that sort of thing, I would've happily stalked you on my own a long time ago."

"Wade, you know that's not what I mean."

"Wait, so?" He tapped his chin in dramatic thought, "You're saying you didn't want Chameleon to stalk us?"

"...No, - well yes, I didn't, but-"

"So, you didn't want to be nabbed by him?"

"No, of course not. That's not-"

"So it wasn't you who put us at risk. It was the psychopath who was going all peeping tom on us, right?"

"No, Wade, you're not listening. I should've been smarter. If I caught him before then, if I'd done things better, none of this would've happened."

Wade pulls himself the rest of the way on the bed, perpendicular to Peter, "No," he says slowly, "none of this is your fault. And if it was, then it's my fault too. I was the guy who didn't notice we were being stalked by a tenant in our own building. I'm a mercenary for fucks sake, I'm supposed to know when I'm being watched. It's part of the job description. I can kill someone 50 different ways with nothing but a fork. Hell, I can track a target down from the other side of the world, and yet, I wasn't able to protect you from a villain right under my nose. I failed you, Peter, I-" his voice is getting thick, and he sniffs, then coughs to clear it up, "I -...I should've been here. I should've-"

Irritation boils inside him, poisoning his bloodstream and Wade wants to hit something. He wants to break something over his knee or kick a wall down.

Frustrated tears prick at the corner of his eyes and Peter wraps a hand around his neck and pulls him down so their foreheads are touching. They have to be careful of the wires and IV tube, but it feels so good to be wrapped in his arms again, to feel his skin no matter how feverish. Peter's trembling, and as hard as Wade is trying, he can't suppress a choked sound from crawling out of his throat.

"Don't you dare start blaming yourself," Peter grumbled, hard and firm and heavy with emotion, "You weren't even here when it happened."

"I was present for a good chunk of the stalking. You saw those pictures."

"So? You did everything you could to find me, didn't you?"

"Not before he did Hela knows what. You still haven't told me what he did, and I know he did some crazy shit to you. I can tell, Peter. Every time you look away from me, or get that distant look in your eye, I know."

Peter's breathing stills, like he's suddenly afraid of being overheard. The change is palpable, and Wade eases closer, flattening his hand against the side of his face in a warm caress, but Peter grimaces and he retracts it, letting it fall and interlock with Peter's fingers instead.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"No," is the immediate response. No hesitation. "I don't want to even think about it. Never again. I..." he chuckles, wet and humorlessly, "Heh, but I know we're probably going to anyway, whether I want to or not. But just...not now. Please," with the weight of a mountain crushing his chest, how can Wade say no?

"Yeah, okay. We don't have to talk about it now. But later, definitely. You should get some sleep."

Peter smiles, the barest upturn of his lips, "So should you."

"You first."

He snorts, but turns over so that he's lying on his back, looking at the ceiling. He frowns at the stilted paint the exact same way Wade was barely 10 minutes ago, and then turns back to his side, even though it makes it difficult for the IV. He finds Wade's hand and clutches it to his chest like a child holding a teddy bear.

"Stay with me?"

"I'm not going anywhere," Wade whispered. "So long as you're still here when I wake up."

Peter smiled softly, relieved. "I'll be here."

<><><><><><><><>

They sleep through the night with minimal trouble.

There's some shuffling around, unhappy grunts, and mumbles in sleep. Peter needs to throw up once, but thanks to an added dose to his IV bag, he sleeps dreamlessly. Wade, on the other hand, wakes up in panicked gasps throughout the night, with memories of soft hands running over his body. Lips on his ear. Breath against his skin.

He's careful not to wake Peter up. Once he gets his breathing under control, and softly pokes Peter's hand to make sure there's no image-inducer static, he pretends to fall asleep.

The real trouble comes in the morning.

Peter doesn't anticipate waking up in a full-blown panic, and Wade doesn't anticipate being launched across the room like a football.

His eyes aren't even all the way open when a pair of panicked hands grab him by the shoulders, and the first thing he sees is the wall. He crashes into it, followed by a thud from behind as Peter flails and falls off the bed. The commotion brings Aunt May and MJ running to the door in a cascade of concerned shouts.

Wade shakes off pieces of plaster and stumbles to his feet. He hadn't gone through the wall, thank goodness, but a decent sized crack split the place he collided with. His collarbone thrums, one of his ribs is certainly cracked, and he hit his ankle on the side of the dresser at an odd angle.

"Ooh, what the fuck, what the fuck," he hisses, pulling himself up. He limps towards the bed, muttering short profanities under his breath, and peers at the floor. "Peter?"

Peter has his back plastered to the wall. The IV was torn from his arm, and its pole lay on the ground at his feet, the medicine bag still intact. His knees are pinned to his chest and he's breathing so hard he looks ready to pop.

"Shit, hey," Wade rounded the bed, fully prepared to give Peter his space, but also trying to put himself directly in the man's line of sight. Hands up. No weapons. No aggression. No threats. "Hey, Peter. It's okay. We're still in the safehouse. We're okay. You're okay."

His eyes are on Wade, so wide that he can see the whites of them like a spooked dog.

"It's okay. Just breathe. Deep breaths. Do it with me. In for 6 seconds, out for 8. We'll start on the count of three. 1...2...3," Wade took a deep, controlled breath, and Peter mimicked him, shaky and rushed, but he held it until Wade released.

"Good job. Again."

He repeated and so did Peter, still strained, but with each inhale it gets easier. When Peter isn't in danger of passing out, Wade switches tactics.

"Okay, now we're going to try one of those calming techniques you told me about. The ones for anxiety. Name four things you can see."

"Um," Peter swallowed hard, eyes flitting over the room at rapid speed, "I can see the, uh - the bed. I can see the IV. I can see you. H – how many is that?"

"That's 3. Just one more to go."

"Um – the - your Pinkie Pie nightlight.

"Good. That's good. What are 4 things you can feel?"

"My arm," he winced, rubbing the spot the IV had been yanked, "My clothes," a third option eludes him, and Wade holds out his hand. Peter takes it, rubbing his finger over scarred knuckles. "Your hand."

"Good, two things you can smell."

It takes a moment, "Wheatcakes?" he's not shaking anymore, and is becoming more lucid.

"Yep, Auntie's probably making wheatcakes. Wouldn't want to be late for that, would we?"

"Y-yeah," he murmured, and slowly, still a little dazed, picked himself off the floor. Halfway up, he grunts in pain and sags back down. Wade catches him before he falls and leans his weight onto him. Peter flinches from the touch, then looks immediately apologetic.

A growing spot of red on the thigh of his pajama pants catches Wade's eye.

"Shit, your stitches tore. AUNTIE."

"Right here, Wade," Aunt May's voice comes through the other side of the door, and right, they're still waiting outside.

Wade helps Peter back onto the bed and then unlocks the door. Aunt May and MJ rush inside, confused, but ready to attack. Mary Jane is holding a rolling pin and Aunt May wields a knife.

"Whoa, at ease," Wade said, holding his hands up. He eyes the knife a few seconds too long, "We're okay."

"What happened?"

Aunt May is looking between Peter and Wade, and then around the room like she intends to put that knife to use. When her eyes settle onto Peter, and the IV on the floor, he looks away, embarrassed.

"We...uh...were sharing the bed. Peter must've been caught off guard," Wade said, rubbing the back of his neck. "Sorry, stupid move. I should've known it would set him off."

"I'm not a bomb," Peter muttered, probably not intending for Wade to hear it, but he does. "I'm as much to blame," he says louder, "I let you on the bed knowing it might...it won't happen again. I just wasn't expecting it."

Aunt May and MJ share a look.

Whatever silent communication passes between them is fast, and Aunt May tuts, shooting forward, "Oh, your IV came out," she gingerly looks over his arm to make sure there's no lasting damage as Wade picks up the pole.

Peter isn't hurt, but the area the IV was yanked is red and inflamed. Aunt May has Mary wash the needle under scalding water and replaces the medicine bag on top.

"Where did you get these?" Aunt May had inquired of Wade when presented with the "borrowed" medical supplies.

Wade had winked, "I know a few people. Also, probably best not to ask. But don't worry, no one's gonna miss them."

Aunt May had decided to take his word for it. It was what she needed, and she wasn't going to look a gift horse in the mouth.

She got the IV back to where it belonged, and then shooed Wade and MJ out of the room so she could tend to his stitches. Peter looks panicked at the suggestion; at Aunt May seeing his bare thighs or Wade and MJ leaving his sight, it's unclear.

Unclear, that is, until he leans forward as they headed to the door, as if to scoop them up in his hand. "N – no, It's - it's fine, they don't have to leave."

"Peter, dear, I need to get these stitches cleaned up, and they're not exactly on your calves."

"It's okay," Wade says, shooting Peter with what he hopes is a reassuring look, "I'm going to go fix us up a plate of wheatcakes, okay? You'll be down lickety split, and then you can lickety the plate of wheatcakes we're gonna split. Sounds weird saying that out loud, but don't lose your appetite. I'll be right back."

Peter doesn't look reassured, more like a spooked animal being told to sit and stay, but if there was anything he wanted to say, he bit it back and lay on the bed like a piece of stiff plywood. Mary Jane closes the door behind them, and the two walk to the open kitchen in silence.

The thing about this safe house is that it's more of an underground studio. There are no walls that separate the room, the exceptions being the bathroom and two bedrooms (one for him and Peter to share, and the other for MJ and Aunt May). The rest of the floor is open space, each corner dedicated to a different section of a house. In one corner, it's cluttered with cabinets, counters, a table, sink, and fridge. The second is the living room, made up of two couches and an old TV mounted on the wall. The third is their dining room, which consists of a single table near the kitchen. And the third is what Wade likes to dub the "entryway" holding the only door that led out of the safe house. It's bolted, locked, and has a nice, round peephole to spy on visitors.

True, it's a little cramped for 4 people, but he didn't want them to be separated. It'd be so much harder to keep track of who's who if they're not in the same room.

Should've brought them to Stark Tower , Wade's irritating, and now belittling, inner voice pops up again. Or the Baxter Building. We could've at least tried to break in.

That would've been hard to do with four people.

Honestly, the idea of going to Stark, of all people, makes Wade want to nosedive into a vat of chemicals. Become the Joker to Stark's billionaire. But he also didn't care enough about the other man to embark into years of gay-coded villain-hero rivalry with him.

Stark couldn't afford him anyway.

Still, Wade's never had a lot of pride to begin with. He lost most of it years ago, over silly, bloody missions as Deadpool, or breakdowns that left him stripped bare. But what little he still had he would swallow if it meant keeping Mary Jane Watson and the Parkers safe.

Getting into Stark Tower would be hard. Doable if it's only him sneaking in, but with two civilians and a very injured Spider-Man, they wouldn't make it past the front gate. JARVIS wasn't allowed to let anyone in the building whatsoever, but maybe if he brought Peter, Aunt May, and MJ and told the AI the situation...

Wade snatched a few wheatcakes from the cooling stack, Mary behind him, making herself a plate as well. She pours an insane amount of syrup onto her bunch, sits at the table, and glumly pokes at them with her fork.

No one is happy here. There's nothing about this situation to BE happy about. We did this. We need to do something.

There is a way to fix it.

A way Peter can get the help he needs, Aunt May will be given all the medicine and equipment she could want, and at least something for MJ to do that's not sitting in one place all day, reading the boring books stacked on the lone bookshelf in the living room.

And it gives Wade a chance to track down Chameleon.

But Peter wasn't going to like it.

He hummed a mindless, cheerless tune, chopping away at fruit he had stocked in the fridge so his hands would have something to do. Chop chop chop. Slice slice slice. Entertaining.

Aunt May comes out of the room sometime later, leaving the door open to a very grumpy, very annoyed Peter with his arms crossed over his chest.

"Did he try to get out of bed?" Wade askes.

"Yes," Aunt May griped, "Such a stubborn boy. Always been so stubborn. But I put my foot down on this one. He's going to rip himself to pieces if he tries to be up and about so soon," she shakes her head obviously annoyed, but Wade can't help but smile at the motherly affection.

"Sounds like him," he mused, picking up the plates he'd prepared, "You relax Auntie, I'll take the first watch."

"Keep the door open."

"We're not going to DO anything. We only fell asleep last night, nothing else, I would never-"

"No, Wade, not that. For him. He won't admit it, but I don't think he likes not being able to see us."

Aunt May washes her hands in the sink, frowning. It's a sad frown, one that tugs on her eyes and makes her face look longer than it is. Wade wants to wrap her in a hug.

"Whatever that man did to him, it's really taken root. It reminds me of..." she tapers off, like she's not sure she wants to bring it up. Wade pops a strawberry in his mouth, patiently, waiting for her to decide. "It reminds me of when he was a little boy, right after his parents died. One minute he was this happy little thing, running around our house and tinkering with Ben's old radio, and the next he's paranoid, and afraid, and so, so scared. He tried to run away from home once, did you know that? Scared the living daylights out of me and Ben. Said that it wasn't his home, and he didn't belong there. I know he went through something terrible, but it hurts to see that fear in his eyes again."

This time, Wade does wrap Aunt May in a hug, and she returns it, squeezing harder than he thought she could.

"It's gonna be okay," he tells her, "We're at home now, uh- sort of, and Petey's gonna be fine. He'll get better."

Aunt May hummed, and when Wade released her, she's looking at him closely, "And what about you, dear?"

Wade blinked, "M-me? What about me?"

"Peter told me that...man had you trapped down in a basement. How are you doing?"

"Well, Peter's just a blabbermouth, ain't he?" Wade grumped, "I'm fine Auntie. It's nothing I haven't dealt with before. Hell, I've experienced worse. It's no water off my back. Is that how the expression goes? Water off my back? I don't know, it doesn't make a lot of sense. Why water? Why not scabs? Or scars? Of course, it's no water off your back, why would water be there?"

"Wade."

"It's okay, I'm fine. There's not a lot that crazy cuckoo could do to me to scramble my brain any more than it is. I'm hunky-dory dandy." He doesn't want to talk about it anymore, so he retreats quickly. Aunt May's sad eyes follow him on his back.

Peter is still crossing his arms, looking grumpy, when he walks in.

"Hey loudmouth, hear you've been filling Aunt May's head with stories and words that you shouldn't be."

Wade gives him a plate, and Peter's hand slips a little as he grabs it. The medication must be taking hold.

"Hmm?" he says, all innocent and angelic like he doesn't know what Wade's talking about.

"Don't change the subject. Why're you telling Aunt May what Chameleon was doing in his basement? No one wants to hear that."

"I didn't tell her what Chameleon was doing to you. I don't even know, you won't tell me."

"Cause you're going to tattle on me to auntie, that's why."

"She asked how you were doing, and I said probably not well after what Chameleon did to you. She asked what that was, but it's not like I can tell her what happened. You haven't even told me." He punctuates it with a pointed look, and Wade scowls.

"Pot meet kettle. You haven't been open on that front either. Besides, it's nothing. The douche can't hold a candle to Weapon X, or any of the other cooc's who want a slice of this meat – not in a sexual way...or maybe also in a sexual way, I don't know. I'm just used to shit like this, it's fine."

"It's not fine and you saying it is is what worries me," Peter snapped. A war of emotions clamor onto his face: annoyance, frustration, sadness, "You shouldn't be used to this. You shouldn't have to be used to it. Fuck, Wade-" he dropped his face in his hands, "I wish you would cry, or yell. Or – or – do something. But instead you're just standing here worrying about me, and –" the sentence falls, lingering with unsaid frustration.

Wade sets the plate down, "So you're saying I shouldn't be taking care of you? Is that it?"

"I'm saying you should take care of yourself. Feel something that's not just-," whatever Wade is supposed to be feeling eludes him and Peter's shoulders fall, "You couldn't sleep last night. You kept waking up. I could hear you mumbling, and breathing fast. You need help too. You need to do something that's not just worrying about me."

Wade set his head in his hand, cocking it to the sound, "Really? This just sounds an awful lot like your guilt complex," Peter scowled, but Wade carried on, "And why can't I worry? I don't know about you, but I think it's very normal, and, you know, valid of me to be concerned about you after you got kidnapped by a literal madman who's tried to kill you on multiple occasions."

"He wasn't trying to kill me."

"Babe, sweetie, honeybottom, you have a literal gunshot wound in your shoulder. Where he shot you. With a gun."

"No, I mean...before, in the apartment. He never really tried to kill me. He just," whatever Chameleon had done makes Peter stop talking. He looks a little sick now, like he'd eaten too much food, although he barely touched his wheatcakes.

Wade wants to take his hand again, but resists. "He just what?"

Peter looked away. "Nothing."

Pot meet kettle.

Look, Wade doesn't want to push, or make him relive memories that are still too fresh on his mind, but a stab of irritation makes him grip his fork tighter. "You shouldn't defend him. Whether he tried to kill you or not, he's still a piece of rotting shit."

"I'm not defending him, I'm just saying it could've been a lot worse. He could've done a lot worse."

"Yeah? And what did he try to do?"

Still no response. Peter bites down on whatever he has to say by shoving his mouth full of food. He's purposely keeping his eyes down, pretending he hadn't heard Wade's question at all.

They eat in silence, the only sound being the clinking of forks against plates.

"I do feel things, you know" Wade mumbled, and Peter looked up.

"What?"

"I feel things too. A lot of things. Too many fucking things. About you, about Aunt May, and MJ...and Chameleon, it's a stupid name and he should change it."

"You can call him Dimitri."

"No, makes him sound too human."

"He is."

"And ain't that a problem." Wade dropped his fork on his plate, glaring at the half-eaten wheatcake. He crossed his arms, tracing the ridges of his scars. "I...feel a lot of things. I'm not a brick wall. I'm not heartless-"

"I never said-"

"But I can't do a damn thing about them. Not here. Not right now."

"Why not?"

"Because," Wade enunciated, gesturing inward, "how I deal with these emotions is I unload a round of bullets into a wall, or into someone's head, or into myself - I know, I know, I'm not going to do it, don't give me that look. But that's how I used to handle them, it's how I know best to handle them, and right now, the only thing I can think of besides painting this fucking room red is hunting down that reptilian wannabe piece of shit and tearing him to pieces. But I can't, because I need to stay here with you, and I need - I wasn't...I wasn't here last time to stop this from happening, and I can't just leave you again, I -" his Adam's Apple bobs in his throat as he swallows. Now or never. "I have a plan...of sorts..."

Peter was looking at him softly. An expression Wade used to hide from in their early dating days when he wasn't prepared to be looked at like that. But it lightens somewhat at this news. "Oh?"

"You're not going to like it though."

Peter looks, decidedly, less interested in hearing his plan. "Oh. Well, what is it?"

Wade took a breath, "I think you should go to Stark Tower. All of you. Stark has more than enough room, and he likes you enough that he probably won't mind if we crash there for a while."

Peter's reaction is exactly what Wade expects. His scowl slides into a glare and he rolled away like Wade told him they were moving into the sewers. "Why the fuck would we need to do that?" He's already chuffed, like an irritated cat.

"Maybe because we've got a crazy villain chasing after us, mainly you, who can turn themselves into anything they want."

Peter's face pinched, "We got away. And he didn't get away scot-free either, he'll be out licking his own wounds for a while. And it's not like he's going to catch me again."

"Fine, let's say he is busy, then how about the fact that you're beaten up, sick, malnourished as fuck, and drugged up the wazoo? Cause you can be damn sure it'll end up worse if he catches you again."

"He isn't going to catch me again," Peter growled through his teeth. "He won't."

"He already did twice," Wade shot back, "Your record for alluding him hasn't been the best lately, dontcha think?"

He shouldn't be getting riled up, and he sure as hell shouldn't be riling Peter up, but he needs him to understand. He needs to get his point across.

Notably, Peter looks pissed, "I made a mistake," he snapped, cheeks burning, "Alright? I. Made. A. Mistake. And it won't happen again. The only way Chameleon is going to get me is over my dead body."

"That is exactly what I'm worried about," Wade said, throwing his arms up in the air, "That bastard shot you because he's got some fucked up notion that if he doesn't get you, nobody does. He said that to me, I'm not even pulling it out of my ass. Those are words he SAID with his MOUTH. Yes, it's going to be over your dead body, and do you think I want that? Or Aunt May or Mary Jane?"

"Oh, do NOT bring them into this," Peter gnashed, jabbing a finger at him, "You're only saying that to guilt trip me and you know it."

"For hellsake Peter, we're squatting in a basement with nothing but a lock on the door, just waiting to be found! How can I go out there and find this bastard when I'm too busy sitting here worrying about you?"

Peter flinched, recoiling like he'd been slapped in the face. He may as well have been.

"Okay, that came out wrong," Wade backtracked.

"You don't need to be sitting here worrying about me," Peter said snipingly. He jammed his thumb into his chest, "I'll be fine. Why don't you worry about yourself for a change."

"Dammit, that's not what I meant."

"Fine, then let's talk about what you do mean. You want to go find him? Newsflash, he tricked you just like he tricked me, I wasn't the only one who got duped! And for your information, I got myself out of that situation all by myself the first time. I called you the minute I could. It's not my fault he can steal your fucking face."

"He's not going to trick me a second time," Wade said.

"Why not? Apparently, if he's tricked you once, he can do it again."

"He tricked you TWICE."

"Yeah, well you didn't know he was just a few feet down the hall from us, so how are those mercenary skills working out foryou?"

Wade is glaring now too, and he's not gonna lie, he felt the sting on that one. Like HE'D been slapped in the face. He might as well have been.

He straightened, going rigid, "I'm taking you guys to Stark Tower."

Peter looks him in the eye, "Over my dead body."

Wade's eye twitches.

If not for being bed-ridden, Peter would've stormed out of the room, wobbling out with his IV pole like an old Grandma. So, Wade spares them both the pathetic display, and leaves instead.

"I'm heading out," he says, shooting a look over his shoulder. He expects the look of panic, feels a moment of wicked satisfaction, and then it crumbles and blackens, souring his stomach immediately.

"Wade don't-" Peter, eyes wide and pale-faced, is getting out of bed. The moment he puts his weight on his feet he stumbles and leans against the frame. "Don't go out there."

"Peter," Wade stopped, hovering anxiously in the door, "Get back in bed, you can't be on your feet."

He's ignoring Wade, as per fucking usual. "You can't go out there."

"And you need to get back in bed right now before you keel over."

Wade is back by his side in an instant, easing him down, and Peter has his hand fisted in Wade's shirt. Through the corner of his eye, Aunt May is hovering near the door, but she hasn't stepped in yet. Fuck, they probably heard every word they were saying, he'd left the door wide open.

Wade dragged a hand down his face, but deposited Peter on the bed. When he turns, Aunt May is still there. Behind her, MJ is at the table, but she's turned to the room, eyebrows quirked like she's wondering how this is going to end. She probably has her own opinion of what she wants to do. He needed to remember that it isn't just him and Peter, this involves Aunt May and MJ as well.

Sighing, he sat on the edge of the bed, shoulders hunched.

"We'll give you two some privacy to talk," Aunt May says, and the door clicks shut behind her.

It's silent. Peter's hand hasn't let go of Wade's shirt, didn't even lighten, like he's afraid he'll make a break for the door.

Wade pinched the bridge of his nose.

This time, Peter's the one who speaks first, "Wade..." it crumbles, brittle and unsure, "I know this is...just so screwed up. Everything about this. I'm sorry."

"If you keep saying sorry, one of these days it's going to stop sounding like a word."

"Yeah, well, I am sorry. I know I'm sorry about a lot of things, but with this...I was so stupid. So stupid, Wade. Back when this was all happening. I...I just...I thought I could handle it."

Wade looked up from his hand, "I know you have a personal grievance with asking for any kind of help whatsoever, I get it, samesies and all that, but why didn't you ask for help?"

"From WHO?" Peter stressed, "The Avengers were gone, the Fantastic Four were gone, I don't even have the X-Men's number. DareDevil was probably dealing with the Hand or something. It's not like I had a lot of options. Besides...he," Wade's shirt ripped, just a little, as Peter tightened his grip, "he blackmailed me. Chameleon. I was going to call Tony. Tried to reach out to him, but the moment I got out my phone, he slid these pictures under our door and...and it was of us, Wade. In costume, out of costume, with our masks, without them. There were some of Aunt May and MJ too. He said that if I tried to contact anyone, he would send them to every media company in the city. Everyone would know who I was, where I lived, where they lived by the end of the day. I couldn't let that happen."

Defeated. Peter looks so wrung out, like a washed-out dish rag. Wade wants to take his hand again, wants to feel his skin, and it must be obvious because Peter's face twitches, but he grabs it, determined.

"Okay," he said carefully, "I get that. But why now? Why not go for help now? We're here, and we can get out of this. Like you said, he's licking his wounds. It's the perfect time to get out and find this son of a bitch before he can find us."

"If you think we'll be safe at Tony's, you'd be wrong. Chameleon's infiltrated SHIELD before, he knows how to get past systems and security. There's a reason he's not behind bars right now. He's too good at what he does. If we go to Tony's, it's...it's just going to be this big, shiny metal cage."

"A big shiny metal cage that has some of the best defenses in the world. Which is a lot more than what I can say for here," Wade gestured around the room, "It won't be forever, I sure as hell don't want to be stuck in Stark's ivory tower, it'll just be until we've dealt with this guy."

Peter doesn't look convinced. He's purposefully looking away, staring at the wall with his arms closed. Frustration bleeds into desperation, and Wade wants to grab him by the shoulders and force him to look at him.

"For fucks sake, Peter, why are you so against this? Why are you being so stubborn? And don't give me some we'll-be-safer-here bullshit, because we can only hide out here for so long, with two other people, before we're caught. If not by Chameleon, then by other heroes. The media. Friends. People will start wondering where Spider-Man is. Speculating where Mary Jane is. She's a fucking TV icon, they're probably already making conspiracy videos. Someone probably thinks Aunt May tripped and got hurt or something. If not for you, then please do it for them."

"Fuck," Peter burst, like a blocked fountain finally rupturing, and pressed his hands into his face. "I know. I know, this isn't fair to them. None of this is fair to them. They shouldn't have to be dealing with this shit at ALL. This -...this is why..."

He's shaking, words coming out clipped, strained, and fast. Like he's gotta get them all out before he can't anymore. It softens Wade's edges and he sinks closer. Peter leans in, slumping into his side. He still has his face covered, fingers digging into his skin and Wade pries them away so he doesn't hurt himself. It's funny, usually their positions are reversed.

Peter's eyes are angry, red, and wet. He looks at Wade for all of 2 seconds before squeezing them shut, and he's bent like he has the weight of the entire world on his shoulders.

"Please tell me what's wrong." Wade's fingers itch with the urge to do something. Anything. To make this better.

"You're right," Peter wrung out, "I know you're right. I just..." his hands find their way into his hair and tugs, "Wade it's...it's so stupid."

"Between the both of us, there's already a lot of stupid. Who am I to judge?"

Peter laughs, but it's wet and lands flat, and it makes him sound even sadder. "It's just...I've spent years trying to keep Aunt May and Mary from this. It's why it took me so long to come clean to them about Spider-Man. It's why I still have such a hard time letting them in. I would stay up at night, terrified that something just like this would happen. That one of them would be hurt because of me, and - and it happened. He was in their homes, he talked to them. He could've hurt them. He could've killed them."

He turns to Wade, delirium and hysteria darkening him like a shadow, "He talked to Aunt May. He figured out the things I liked by talking to her, face to face. She never knew. I never knew. He snuck a camera into Mary's apartment. He was down the fucking hall from us for MONTHS. I know I've never been like DareDevil, or the Avengers, or the Four, but I thought I was still competent, you know? If I couldn't save everyone, if I couldn't keep this city safe, at least I could keep them safe, and I...couldn't. I failed them. I - I hurt them. I -" tears are running down his face, and he's falling in on himself, turning away so Wade doesn't see.

But Wade wraps his arms around him and leans him in, and Peter cries into his chest, clutching the back of his shirt with both hands now. Wade pats his messy hair down, and rubs his back.

Peter rarely cried in front of him - the stress of the last day and a half excluded. Wade wondered when the last time he cried was. It wasn't like he was one to talk, baring his emotions - even to Peter - has always been a hard-fought battle. But Peter has some hero notion that he needs to be strong for everyone. For Aunt May. For Mary Jane. For Wade. For this entire blasted city. And it weighed on him. So much. Wade can see it in the sad, melancholy look in his eyes when he's too late to a scene, or wasn't fast enough to save a victim.

It makes him want to set Peter down, lay him out, and take all those burdens away. Stand between him and all of this responsibility he crushes himself with. Call it hypocrisy, or selfishness, but for one day he wants Peter all to himself. Just for him.

"I know you're not going to believe me," he rumbles softly, when Peter's crying and shaking turns into the occasional sniff, "But none of this is your fault and I think that this would've been way worse if Aunt May and Mary didn't know you were Spider-Man."

Peter lifts his head, looking so wretched and miserable that Wade wants to tuck him closer and hide him away. "How?"

"Well, think about it. If Aunt May and Mary didn't know you wore the spider tights, they wouldn't know what Code Blue means. They wouldn't have been as prepared as they were to go underground the moment they were threatened. They wouldn't have known where you were or what you were doing. They wouldn't have found me so quickly. They probably would've been worried out of their minds."

"They were already worried."

"Yes, well, they would've been WAY more worried. At least they had an idea of where you'll be and what was happening. Imagine being in the dark about it when you disappeared. Scary shit."

That seems to make Peter feel worse, so Wade carries on, "Point is, they were safe and better prepared BECAUSE they were in on all of this. You did protect them. You kept them safe, and in turn, they're gonna keep you safe too."

"They shouldn't have to."

"Yeah? And why not? I don't know if you know this, Mr. Spider-Man, but you're made of squishy human flesh too. And whether you like it or not, we're gonna take care of you. Sorry not sorry."

Peter hides his face in Wade's chest, "I thought I was an adequate hero at best. But I feel useless. And stupid. And - and humiliated. And gross. And - fuck I hate going to Tony. He gets that look on his face, and then he tries to get all involved in your business, and then he starts talking about joining the Avengers, and SHIELD, and - ugh, I don't know how I'm going to face him after crawling to his doorstep like this. They're all going to want to know what happened, and...and I really don't want them to know. "

"It's necessary."

"It's humiliating. Do you know how long I've been saying I don't need his help?"

"Not as humiliating as it's gonna be for me. I told Stark I was going to endorse and advertise all of his Iron Man merchandise before I asked for his help. Looks like I'm going to be wearing Iron Man thongs for the next month."

Peter snorts, and Wade's delighted to find that this one is authentic. Not quite happy, but close, and he smiled, digging his face in his hair, nuzzling.

"I don't think Tony will like that, actually."

"His loss. I look great in a thong."

Peter hummed in agreement, "You do."

Something about emotional problems and talking about your feelings is so exhausting. They end up lying on the bed, Peter lolling against him, lying against his chest with one arm wrapped around his middle and the other lying flat for the IV. It's peaceful and quiet.

"You're too good to me," Peter mumbled.

Wade thought he was asleep.

"You're the one to talk, Mr. Spider-Man. Do you not know who you are?"

"Yeah, and I know who you are, and you're too good to me. Always dealing with my shit. No one likes to deal with my shit. I don't even like dealing with my shit."

Wade shushed him, "Self-deprecation is my thing. I'll sue."

"You know I'm broke."

Wade snorted, and affectionately brushed hair out of Peter's closed eyes, "Yeah, you are."

"Thank you," he whispered, "I... you're the best thing to ever happen to me. Love you so much."

Wade isn't expecting a rush of emotions, and it's suddenly very hard to swallow, or talk, or breathe. He looks at the ceiling to blink away his tears, get back in there you little shits, now's not the time. But they're still there when he looks back down, and so is that warmth that flickers in his chest and expands outwards. It makes him want to bundle Peter up and hold him so tightly, and never let go.

It's the kind of emotion he's only felt a handful of times, and it makes him feel more alive than un-aliving a whole platoon of degenerates.

He thinks about what Chameleon told him, wearing Peter's face.

"I don't love you anymore Wade."

"I'm not sure if I ever loved you."

"We weren't meant to be together."

"I - " his voice cracks, and a tear – the first of many - slips down his cheek, "I love you too."