#deadpool angst

It started on a Sunday.

That's the cruel thing about spirals, they never begin with something dramatic. No explosions, no villain monologues, no near-death experiences. Just… erosion. A slow, quiet wearing-away of the bedrock you'd been building.

On Sunday, you burned toast. Burnt toast. That was the first domino.

You stood in Wade's kitchen—your kitchen too, now, technically, since you'd been staying here more than your own house—staring at the smoking remains of what was supposed to be breakfast. Your hands were shaking. You couldn't remember why you'd wanted toast in the first place.

Wade had shuffled in behind you, still in his taco-print pajama pants, and said: "Wow. You really cremated that guy. Should I say a few words? He was a good toast. He had dreams. He wanted to be buttered."

You laughed. You always laughed at Wade. That's what he was for.

But the laugh felt hollow. Like a bell with a crack running through it.

That was Sunday.

By Monday, you'd stopped eating. Not intentionally, really. You just.. forgot. You were drawing in your sketchbook, a portrait of Princess the symbiote dog, and time slipped away from you the way it always did when you dissociated. When you finally looked up, it was 8 PM and you hadn't eaten yet.

You didn't bother making anything. You just grabbed a packet of crackers, ate it, and went to bed.

Wade found you there at midnight, curled into a tight ball under three blankets, and he didn't say anything. He just climbed in next to you, fully clothed, still wearing his mask because sometimes he couldn't stand to look at his own face, and let you press your cold feet against his warm legs.

"You're a furnace," you mumbled.

"Healing factor," he replied. "Also I'm literally on fire all the time. Emotionally. And also literally sometimes. Ask the landlord."

Tuesday was worse.

You went patrolling, not because you wanted to, but because you couldn't sit still in your own skin. You helped a lost kid find his mom at a bus station. You talked a college student out of jumping from a parking garage.

You held her hand while she cried.

And then you went home and sat on the bathroom floor for an hour, staring at the blade you kept hidden in the back of the drawer.

You didn't use it.

But you thought about it.

Wednesday, Thursday, Friday blurred together. You were running on fumes and coffee and the stubborn refusal to admit that you weren't okay. You drew. You baked a batch of chocolate chip cookies that turned out perfect, because even when you were falling apart, your hands remembered how to measure flour and sugar and butter. You gave half to Wade, who ate them in three bites and said "These are aggressively good. Like, personally offensive to every other cookie I've ever eaten."

You smiled.

It didn't reach your eyes.

And then came Saturday.

You came home from patrol at 1 AM.

'Home' being Wade's apartment, the one he'd grudgingly started calling "ours" instead of "mine" after you'd left your toothbrush there for the third time. It was a disaster: chimichanga wrappers on every surface, bullet holes in the wall that he'd "patched" with duct tape and a poster of Bea Arthur, a suspicious stain on the carpet that neither of you wanted to investigate.

It was the only place in the world that felt even remotely safe.

You were cold.

Not the normal cold, the bone-deep, soul-deep cold that came from spending hours on rooftops in clothes that weren't warm enough because you'd refused to buy a proper jacket (too expensive, too much, you didn't deserve it, the voice said). Your fingers were numb. Your nose was red. You were shivering in a way that made your teeth click together.

Wade was on the couch.

He was wearing his mask—the full one, the one that covered everything—but you could tell from the slump of his shoulders that he'd had a rough week too. His missions were always worse than yours. Yours were emotional labor and lost children and the quiet devastation of suicide notes. His were blood and screaming and the kind of violence that stained your soul.

But when he saw you standing in the doorway, shivering and pale and so, so tired, he didn't mention his own week.

He just opened his arms.

"C'mere, you pathetic little icicle. You look like a drowned Victorian orphan. It's very aesthetic. Very Tumblr. Get over here."

You crossed the room on autopilot. Your boots left wet footprints on the floor. Your coat (too thin, always too thin) was still zipped up to your chin.

You didn't hesitate.

You climbed onto the couch, then onto his lap, settling chest-to-chest with your legs tucked on either side of his hips. Your head found its usual spot: his shoulder, right in the curve of his neck. Your cold nose pressed against his warm skin where the mask ended.

"Jesus, kid, you're freezing," he muttered, pulling the blanket from the back of the couch and draping it over your shoulders. His arms wrapped around you, one hand splayed across your back, the other resting on the back of your head. "You're like a corpse. A very cute, very traumatized corpse. If I didn't know better, I'd think you were auditioning for The Walking Dead."

You mumbled something incoherent into his neck.

"What was that?"

"…warm."

"Yeah, well. Healing factor. Also I'm pretty sure my blood is mostly chimichanga grease at this point, which is, like, scientifically insulating. You're welcome."

The TV was playing in the background. The Golden Girls. Wade's comfort show—the one he put on when the voices got too loud, when the memories of Weapon X and torture and everyone he'd ever failed came crawling back. Something about four older women living together, supporting each other, making terrible jokes about cheesecake. It grounded him.

Tonight, it was grounding you too.

You closed your eyes. Not sleeping (you were too wired for sleep, too deep in the exhaustion that lived beyond tiredness) but drifting. Floating. Letting the sounds of Betty White's laugh and Wade's steady heartbeat wash over you.

He thought you were asleep.

He thought you were zoning out.

He was wrong.

You loved Wade.

That was the problem. That was the only thing you knew for certain.

You loved him when he made you breakfast, you loved him when he came home bleeding from a dozen wounds and his first words were "Did you eat? You look thin. Thinner than usual. That's not a critique, it's an observation, I'm very observant, ask anyone."

You loved him when he sat with you on the bathroom floor at 3 AM, not saying anything, just letting you cry into his shoulder until your throat was raw. You loved him when he made terrible jokes about your terrible jokes and somehow made the darkness feel like a shared apartment instead of a solitary cell.

But how did you love him?

The question had been building all week, a slow pressure behind your eyes, a splinter under your skin. Every time you thought you had an answer, it shifted. Changed shape.

You've been telling yourself it's platonic. Father-daughter. Mentor-protegee. The kind of love that lives in the space between a broken man and a broken girl who found each other in the dark and decided to hold on.

But you've been telling yourself that for months, and lately, this week, this horrible exhausting week, the word platonic has started to feel like a lie.

Not because you want to kiss him.

Do you want to kiss him?

You don't know. That's the problem. You don't know.

Your brain is a mess of wires that got crossed a long time ago, probably when you were twelve and your father's friend told you that you were "mature for your age" and put his hand on your knee. Probably when you were fourteen and the teacher at school said he knew what was best for you and you believed him because no one had ever said that before, and then he proved he didn't by the things he tried to make you do. Probably when you were fifteen and you'd just gotten out of the bathroom in a rock concert and a man that reeked of alcohol started talking about how girls with your taste were really hard to find. Or when you were walking back home alone after school one winter and a 50 year old man said that you reminded him of his wife when she still had it.

You don't know what love is supposed to feel like.

You don't know the difference between I want to be near you because you're safe and I want to be near you because I'm attracted to you.

You don't know the difference between I would die for you and I would die with you and I would live for you and which of those is romantic and which is platonic and which is just... the way your brain works, the way your mind just makes everything intense, the way you love everyone you love like they're the only person in the universe and you'd burn down cities for them.

You're thinking about this now.

You're sitting on Wade's lap, chest-to-chest, your head on his shoulder, your nose pressed against the collar of his hoodie. He smells like gunpowder and cheap body wash and something that might be chimichangas. It's not a good smell. It's his smell, and that makes it the best smell in the world.

You love him.

But how?

Like a friend? Yes. He is your best friend. The only person in the world who didn't flinch at your darkness because he had darkness of his own. The only person who could match your intensity without being overwhelmed.

Like a father figure? Maybe. He was older—decades older, centuries older if you counted the time-travel bullshit and the general chaos of his existence. He took care of you. He worried about you. He called you "kid" and "baby girl" and "sweetums."

Like a guardian? He kept you safe. Mostly. You guessed. He taught you how to throw a punch (badly), how to use a grappling hook (worse), how to survive in a world that wanted to break you. He'd killed people for threatening you. He'd burned down buildings for less.

Like a…

You couldn't finish the thought.

Because that last option—partner—was terrifying. Not because you wanted it. Not because you didn't. But because you couldn't tell. Your brain didn't know the difference between platonic devotion and romantic attraction. It never had.

You'd confused affection for love before. You'd confused safety for desire. You'd confused the absence of harm for the presence of something more.

And the men in your life, the older men, the ones who'd presented themselves as father figures, as mentors, as safe, had always, always wanted something from you. Something you weren't ready to give. Something you'd been told since childhood was the only thing that made you valuable.

You're only worthy if you're pure.

Untouched.

Unbroken.

But you were broken. Everyone could see it. And broken things, you'd learned, attracted predators the way honey attracted flies.

Wade wasn't a predator. You knew that. You knew it.

You knew it.

Right?

Your brain had been conditioned, by years of control, by the men who'd whispered promises and then tried to collect, by the way your parents' love had felt like a cage, to expect betrayal. To expect the other shoe to drop. To expect every safe thing to eventually reveal its teeth.

He's going to want something, the voice whispered. Everyone does. The only question is what, and when, and how much it will hurt when you say no.

The thought makes your stomach turn.

Not because it's disgusting. Not because Wade isn't attractive—he is, in a broken, chaotic, absurd way. Not because you haven't thought about it. You have. Late at night, in your bed, when your brain is whispering "if he loved you, he would want you" and "the only way to keep him is to give him everything" and "you're not worthy of love, but maybe you're worthy of desire."

Your brain is a maze of those memories. Every kind man is a potential threat. Every safe hand is a hand that might eventually grab. Every "I love you" is a negotiation.

You don't know how to love a man without fearing that he wants something from you.

You don't know how to be loved by a man without waiting for the other shoe to drop.

And Wade.. Wade is so good. So safe. So different. He's never looked at you like that. Never touched you like that. Never hinted or implied or suggested.

But your brain doesn't know what to do with that.

Your brain keeps waiting.

Your brain keeps asking: "If he doesn't want that... then what DOES he want? Why is he here? Why does he stay? What's the catch?"

And tonight, completely exhausted, cold, pressed against his chest with his heartbeat under your ear, your brain has found an answer that feels almost logical.

Maybe he DOES want that. Maybe he's just waiting. Maybe you have to make the first move. Maybe he' s been giving you signs you've missed because men are always expected to initiate. Maybe if you kiss him, you'll finally understand. Maybe if you kiss him, you'll know if this is love or just... survival.

You lifted your head from his shoulder.

The TV was still playing. Rose was telling a story about St. Olaf. The laugh track hummed in the background.

Wade felt you move, felt the weight of your head lift, your breath shift against his neck, and he glanced down automatically. He was used to you waking up disoriented, surfacing from dissociative episodes with wide eyes and a mumbled "how long was I out?"

But this wasn't that.

You were looking at him.

Not at him, exactly, more like through him. Your eyes were huge, dark, ringed with exhaustion. Your brows were furrowed slightly, like you were trying to solve a math problem that kept changing its variables. Your lips were parted, just a little, like you were about to speak and then thought better of it.

"You okay?" he asked, his voice softer than usual. The mask muffled his words, but you'd learned to read him anyway: the tilt of his head, the tension in his shoulders, the way his hands tightened or relaxed.

You didn't answer.

You just kept looking at him.

"Kid." He shifted slightly, one hand moving from your back to your cheek, cupping your face. His thumb brushed under your eye, catching a tear you didn't know you'd shed. "You're doing the thing again. The staring thing. It's very intense. Very 'I'm about to deliver devastating news.' You're not dying, are you? Because if you're dying, I need to know so I can have my dramatic monologue ready. I've been workshopping it."

You loved him.

You didn't know how.

You needed to know.

"I love you."

The words came out flat. Not romantic. Not desperate. Just… factual. The way you'd say the sky is blue or water is wet.

Wade blinked behind his mask.

"I love you too, sweetcheeks. Obviously. You're literally my favorite human. Top five at least. Possibly top three. Definitely above Weasel and he's been dead for years, so-"

He was rambling. He always rambled when he was uncomfortable. You'd learned that too.

But you didn't look away.

The silence stretched. Three seconds. Five. Ten.

You're still looking at him with that strange, searching expression. Like you were waiting for something. Like you were trying to see past his face into something deeper.

Wade's smile flickered. Just a little. Just enough.

"Hey, what's.. what's going on, baby girl?" he asked carefully.

What was it?

What was this?

Your brain, ever helpful, offered a series of increasingly unhelpful possibilities.

Maybe you're in love with him.

No.

Maybe?

God, you don't know.

You don't know.

Maybe you just think you are in love with him because he's the first man who's ever been nice to you without wanting something.

That was... closer. But not quite right.

Maybe you're confusing gratitude for romance because you have no framework for healthy male affection and your traumatized brain is desperately trying to categorize this feeling into a box it understands, and the only boxes you have are "abusive," "absent," "predatory," and "romantic," so it's picking the least damaging option even though that option is still wrong.

Oh.

That one landed.

Every man who had claimed to care about you had eventually wanted something from you.

Every. Single. One.

And now here was Wade.

Wade, who held you when you were cold and didn't make it weird. Wade, who fed you chimichangas and watched Golden Girls and let you draw him without complaining about how long it took. Wade, who told you he loved you, casually, easily, like it was just a fact of the universe, like gravity or entropy or the way chimichangas were objectively the best food, and never, ever followed it with conditions.

He loved you.

Just... loved you.

No fine print. No expiration date. No "I love you, but..." or "I love you, so you owe me..." or "I love you, now prove it."

Just love.

And your brain didn't know what to do with that.

It was like someone had handed you a gift wrapped in paper you'd never seen before, and you were so used to gifts being traps—pretty boxes full of broken glass and expectations—that you couldn't stop yourself from searching for the catch. There had to be a catch. There was always a catch.

But there wasn't.

And that was the most terrifying thing of all.

"You okay? You're looking at me like I'm a math problem you can't solve. Spoiler alert: I am. The answer is tacos."

You didn't laugh.

That should have been his first clue.

He went very still.

He could see the gears turning inside your brain, could see the lost look in your eyes. You were very deep in thought right now, looking straight at him, trying to figure out something that was eating you up from the inside.

And he didn't like that you were not answering to him.

You just kept looking at him.

And then, before you could think about it, before you could talk yourself out of it, you leaned closer.

Your face tilted. Your eyes fluttered half-closed. Your lips parted.

You were going to kiss Wade.

You were going to kiss Wade, and you didn't even know why, except that you loved him and you didn't know how and maybe this would help you figure it out, maybe this was the only way to know for sure, maybe—

His fingers were on your lips before you made contact.

Not a slap. Not a shove. Just two fingers, pressed gently against your mouth, holding you an inch away from his mask.

"Whoa there, Speedy Gonzalez."

His voice was different now. Not angry. Not disgusted. Just… firm. The way you'd speak to a child who was about to touch a hot stove. Not cruel. Just certain.

You froze.

"Nuh-uh," he said.

Your eyes opened fully. Confusion flooded your face—not hurt, not yet, just what? why? I don't understand.

Wade looked at you.

Really looked.

He saw the exhaustion in the dark circles under your eyes. He saw the confusion in the furrow of your brows. He saw the way your hands were trembling—not from cold anymore, but from something else, something deeper.

And he understood.

Oh, kid, he thought. Oh, baby girl. You don't even know what you're doing, do you?

He was looking at you like you were a puzzle he'd just solved.

And you felt... seen.

Not in the warm, fuzzy way. In the oh god, he knows way.

He kept his fingers on your lips for another second—just to make sure you weren't going to try again—and then he let his hand drop. Not to his side. To your shoulder. A grounding touch. An I'm still here touch.

"Okay," he said quietly. "Okay. So that was almost a thing that almost happened. And I'm gonna stop it from happening because I'm the adult here, which is terrifying. Let's just… let's just talk about this."

You looked away.

Your face was burning. Your throat was tight. You didn't understand what had just happened, why you'd done that, why he'd stopped you, why everything felt wrong and broken and too much.

"I'm sorry," you whispered. "I'm sorry, I don't know why I—I didn't mean to- I'm so sorry-"

"Hey."

His hand moved from your shoulder to your chin, tilting your face back toward him. Not rough. Not demanding. Just… there. A gentle pressure, easily resisted, asking for your attention instead of demanding it.

"Look at me."

You looked.

His mask made it hard to read his expression, but you'd gotten good at this. You could see the softness in the way his head was tilted, the patience in the stillness of his body, the love in the way he was holding you. Not like something to be possessed, but like something precious and fragile and worth protecting.

"I love you," he repeated.

The words were different now. Slower. More deliberate. Each one weighted.

"I love you more than I've ever loved anyone who wasn't directly related to me or a symbiote dog. I love you in a way that makes me want to be better. Not good, let's not get crazy, but better. I love you so much that sometimes I lie awake at night and think about how terrified I am of losing you, and then I remember that I'm literally immortal and you're not, and then I have a small existential crisis about it and eat an entire sleeve of Oreos."

He paused.

"But I don't love you that way."

You flinched.

Not dramatically, just a small recoil, a pulling-back of your shoulders, a lowering of your gaze. Your hands, which had been resting on his chest, curled into fists against his shirt.

"I know," you said. Your voice was barely a whisper. "fuck- I know. I'm sorry. I didn't—I wasn't trying to- I just-"

"Stop apologizing."

"I can't."

"You can. You're choosing not to. Which, fair, apologizing is like breathing for traumatized people. I do it too. 'Sorry I killed that guy, sorry I burned down that building, sorry I exist.' It's a whole thing."

You laughed despite yourself. A broken, hitching sound that was half horrified sob and half genuine amusement.

"There she is," Wade said softly. "There's my lovely girl."

He shifted beneath you. He did not push you off, just rearranged you. His arms wrapped around you differently now, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other pressed flat against your spine. The hold was still intimate, still close, but it had changed. Less romantic. More protective.

You were still on his lap. Still chest-to-chest. Still wrapped in his warmth and the blanket and the quiet hum of The Golden Girls in the background.

But the energy had shifted.

He wasn't holding you like someone who might kiss you back.

He was holding you like someone who would never let you fall.

"Okay," Wade said, settling deeper into the couch. His thumb was tracing slow circles on the back of your head, a soothing rhythm. "Let's talk about what just happened. And before you say 'nothing,' I want you to know that I can literally hear your heartbeat from here and it's going about a million miles an hour, so 'nothing' is objectively false."

You buried your face in his neck.

"I don't know what happened," you mumbled.

"Yeah, you do. You just don't wanna say it."

"Wade—"

"I'm not gonna be mad. I'm not gonna be weird about it. I'm literally the least judgmental person you know, and I once watched a guy get eaten by a dinosaur and my main takeaway was 'huh, I wonder if that dinosaur is single.' So. Spill."

You were quiet for a long moment.

The TV played on. Dorothy was saying something sarcastic to Sophia. The laugh track swelled and faded.

"I don't know how to love you," you finally said. The words came out thick, heavy, like they were being dragged up from somewhere deep. "I know that sounds stupid. I know I should know. But I don't. I've never had… I've never had someone like you. Someone who's… safe. And kind. And who doesn't want anything from me."

"I want things from you."

You stiffened.

"I want you to eat. I want you to sleep. I want you to stop wearing that stupid thin coat when it's fucking freezing outside. I want you to use the nice shampoo instead of the cheap stuff because you're worth the extra three dollars. I want you to stop apologizing for existing. Those are the things I want."

He paused.

"I don't want your body. I don't want your mouth. I don't want you to perform for me or dress up for me or be anything other than exactly who you are. Which, by the way, is a tiny disaster of a human being who somehow makes the world better just by being in it. That's not flattery. That's just true."

You were crying.

You hadn't noticed when it started—maybe during the part about the shampoo, maybe during the part about the coat. But your face was wet and your breath was hitching and you were crying against his neck, soaking the collar of his shirt.

"I tried to kiss you," you choked out.

"Yep. You did."

"Why aren't you freaking out?"

"Would that help?"

"...no."

"Then what's the point?"

He pulled back slightly, just enough to look at you. His hands moved to your face, cupping your cheeks, thumbs brushing away tears. The mask was still on, but you could feel his warmth through the fabric, could see the softness in the way he held you.

"Here's the thing, kid. I've been exactly where you are. Not the same, obviously, as I'm a six-foot-plus Canadian mercenary with a healing factor and a crippling chimichanga addiction, but the same shape. The confusion. The not knowing if you love someone or you are in love with someone. The way your brain takes every good thing and tries to turn it into something scary because at least scary is familiar."

"You have?"

"I literally fell in love with Death, hon. Death. As in the skeleton lady. As in the cosmic entity. Do you know how many therapists I've had to explain that to? It's exhausting. The point is, I get it. I get being confused. I get loving someone so much that your brain short-circuits and goes 'well, this must be romantic because what else could possibly feel this big?'"

He tapped your nose with one finger.

"But it's not. What you're feelingit's not romantic, alright? It's.. devotion, or safety. It's the first time in your life that an older man has been kind to you without wanting something in return, and your brain doesn't know what to do with that, so it's trying to file it under 'romance' because that's the only category you have for intense feelings from men."

You opened your mouth to argue. Closed it. Opened it again.

Nothing came out.

Because he was right.

He was right.

"I hate when you're right," you mumbled.

"I'm always right. It's a curse. Now listen—I'm gonna say something, and I need you to hear it. Not just with your ears. With your whooooole chest. m'kay?"

You nodded.

"No kissy kissy with me."

You blinked.

"What?"

"No. Kissy. Kissy. With. Me." He said each word slowly, like he was explaining something to a very confused puppy, even noding along to each word. "That's the boundary. That's the rule. You don't kiss me. I don't kiss you. We don't do anything that even looks like it might lead to kissing. Because that's not what we are. We're not that. We're something better."

"Something better?"

"Yeah. We're us. We're the found family that doesn't make sense to anyone else. We're the two people who looked at each other and said 'yeah, okay, I guess we're doing this' and then just… did it. No labels. No expectations. Just… this."

He gestured vaguely between the two of you, the tangled limbs, the tear-streaked faces, the blanket and the Golden Girls and the bullet holes in the wall.

"You're my traumatized baby girl, whom I love with my whole heart. Not my girlfriend, not my partner, not even a situationship. Alright, honey?"

You were quiet for a long time.

Wade didn't push. He just held you, his hands rubbing slow circles on your back, his heartbeat steady under your ear. The Golden Girls played on. Blanche was saying something about a gentleman caller. The laugh track swelled and faded.

"They all wanted something," you finally said.

Your voice was small. Younger than sixteen. The voice of the girl who'd worn ribbons and skirts and smiled until her face hurt.

"The men. They all started the same way. Kind. Patient. Safe. And then…"

You trailed off.

"And then they wanted something." Wade finished.

"Yeah."

"How many?"

"I don't know. I stopped counting."

His arms tightened around you. Not painfully, just… firmly. Like he was anchoring himself to the moment, holding on so he wouldn't float away.

"I'm not them," he said.

"I know."

"Do you? Because you just tried to kiss me, kid. That tells me that somewhere, deep down, you're still waiting for the other shoe to drop. You're still waiting for me to want something. To take something. To turn this into…"

He gestured vaguely.

"Into what they wanted."

You flinched.

"I'm not," you whispered. "I don't think you're- God, I know you're not- I- I just-"

"You're confused. Because your brain has been trained to expect betrayal. Because every time someone was kind to you, there was a price. And now I'm being kind to you, and there's no price, and your brain doesn't know what to do with that, so it's trying to create a price. To make this make sense."

You didn't answer.

Because he was right again.

"I'm not going to hurt you," Wade said quietly. "I'm not going to touch you. I'm not going to kiss you. I'm not going to do any of the things they did. Not because I don't want to—okay, no, nope, that came out wrong. I don't want to. Not in that way. But even if I did, I wouldn't. Because you're a kid, and I'm an adult."

"I'm not a kid," you said automatically.

"You're sixteen."

"So?"

"So you're a kid. A baby. That's not an insult. That's just math. You're sixteen. I'm… complicated. But old. Very old. Old enough that the thought of kissing you makes me want to throw myself into the sun. Not because you're not cute, you're very very cute, in a 'sad Victorian ghost girl' kind of way, but because I'm not that guy. I will never be that kind of guy. I'm not them."

A beat of silence.

"And it's not your fault," he said. "You hear me? It's not your fault. Your brain is doing exactly what it was trained to do. Every man who was supposed to take care of you ended up wanting something from you instead. So now when someone doesn't want something, your brain panics. It doesn't know what to do with that. It tries to fit me into a box it understands, and the only boxes it has are 'threat' and 'romance,' and I'm not a threat, so..."

"So you must be romance," you whispered.

"Bingo."

He pulled back again, cupping your face in his hands.

"I need you to hear me," he said. "Really hear me. I love you. I love you more than I've ever loved anyone who didn't share my DNA or have four legs and was a symbiote. I would die for you. I would kill for you. I would burn down the entire Marvel Universe for you. But I will never, ever want you like that. Not because there's something wrong with you, there is nothing wrong with you, but because there was something wrong, EVERYTHING wrong, with all the men who wanted you like that."

You were crying again.

Softly this time. Not the ugly, heaving sobs of before—just tears, sliding down your cheeks, catching on his fingers.

"I don't know how to do this," you said. "I don't know how to love someone without… without it being that. I don't know how to just."

"Then we learn."

"What?"

"We learn. Together. That's what this is. That's what we're doing. You're not supposed to know how to do this. You're sixteen. You've been through hell. You're allowed to be confused." he says. "You're allowed to not know how you feel. You're allowed to try things and realize they're wrong. That's how learning works. That's how being alive works. But you're not allowed to beat yourself up for not having all the answers. You're sixteen. You've been alive for sixteen years, and most of those years, someone else was making your choices for you. You're allowed to be bad at this. You're allowed to be messy."

You laughed. A wet, hiccupping sound.

He cupped your face in both hands, holding you steady, forcing you to look at him.

"So here's what we're gonna do. We're gonna recalibrate. Every time your brain tries to turn me into something I'm not, you're gonna tell me. And I'm gonna tell you, again, and again, and again, and as many times as it takes, that I love you, and I'm not going anywhere, and I don't want anything from you except for you to be okay. That's it. That's the whole deal. No fine print. No hidden fees. Just... me. Being yours. In a no kissy kissy way."

"You keep saying no kissy kissy" you chuckled, it came out wet with remaining tears.

"Because I need you to remember. The kissy kissy stuff is off the table. It's not on the menu. It's not even in the kitchen, but the point is—"

"I get it," you interrupted. "No kissy kissy."

"No kissy kissy," he confirmed. "Huggy huggy? Yes. Cuddly cuddly? Absolutely. But kissy kissy? No. That's not what this is. That's not what I am to you."

You nodded.

You understood.

Not because the confusion was gone (it really wasn't, it would take more than one conversation to untangle years of trauma and bad wiring) but because he'd given you something you'd never had before.

He'd given you a map.

This is what we are. This is what we're not. This is where the boundaries are, and they're not walls, they're just... guides. So you don't get lost.

It was working.

"You're an idiot," you said.

"I'm your idiot. Which is worse, honestly. You could have picked anyone. Spider-Man. Wolverine. That guy from accounting who keeps leaving fliers in my mailbox. But no. You picked me. Your decission. Now I'm your problem."

You shook your head, but you were smiling. A real smile. The kind that reached your eyes.

"Okay," Wade said, settling back into the couch. He didn't push you off his lap—just shifted, adjusted, made himself comfortable. His arms stayed around you, protective and warm. "We're good. Right? We're okay?"

"We're okay," you said.

"You're not gonna try to kiss me again?"

"No."

"Good. Because I have very limited material for 'no kissy kissy' variations. I've got 'no smoochy smoochy,' 'no lippy lippy,' and 'stop trying to put your face on my face.' That's it. That's the whole repertoire."

"Noted."

"Also-" He paused, tilting his head. "You know this doesn't change anything, right? Between us. You're still my kid. I'm still your... whatever I am. We're still us."

"I know."

"You're not gonna pull away? Get all weird and distant because you're embarrassed?"

"I'm already weird and distant. It's my brand."

"Fair point."

You rested your head on his shoulder again.

"You sure you're okay?" he asked after a while.

"I don't know," you said honestly. "I.. think so. I'm just.. embarrassed."

"Don't be."

"I tried to kiss you."

"And I stopped you. No harm, no foul. Well, no foul except the emotional kind, but we're already processing that, so it's fine."

"I'm really confused," you admitted.

"I know."

"About everything. Not just you. Everything. Who I am. What I want. Why I keep..." You trailed off, not sure how to finish the sentence.

"Why you keep trying to fit square pegs into round holes?"

"Yeah."

"Because that's what trauma does, kid. It gives you a hammer and tells you everything's a nail. But some things aren't nails. Some things are... I don't know. Chimichangas. You don't hammer a chimichanga. You eat it."

You laughed. A real laugh, tired and watery but real.

"That's the worst metaphor I've ever heard."

"I'm aware. My metaphors are terrible. It's part of my charm."

Another beat of silence.

"Wade?"

"Yeah?"

"Thank you. For not… for not being weird about it. For not getting mad. For not-"

"For not taking advantage of a confused, exhausted teenager who clearly doesn't know what she wants?" He snorted. "That's not a 'thank you' thing. That's the bare minimum. That's 'congratulations, you're not a pedophile' territory."

"Still."

"Still."

He pressed a kiss to the top of your head. A paternal gesture. An I love you but not like that gesture.

"You're gonna be okay, kid," he said quietly. "Not today. Maybe not tomorrow. But eventually. You're gonna look back on this and laugh. And I'm gonna be there. Being annoying. Making jokes. Eating your food."

"You always eat my food."

"It's how I show affection."

You closed your eyes.

The Golden Girls were still playing. Rose was telling another story. The laugh track hummed in the background like a lullaby.

Wade's heartbeat was steady under your ear. His arms were warm around your back. The blanket was soft against your cheek.

"Wade?"

"Yeah?"

"I love you."

"I love you too, kid. In the right way. The platonic way. The 'no kissy kissy' way."

"Shut up."

"Never."

You smiled into his neck.

And for the first time all week—for the first time in a long time—the spiral stopped.

Not because you were fixed. Not because the confusion was gone. Not because you'd figured anything out.

But because you weren't alone in it anymore.

Someone was holding you. Someone safe.

"Wade?"

"Mnh-mnh?"

"I'm glad I tried to kiss you."

His eyes opened wide. He turned his head to look at you, and even through the mask, you could see the confusion.

"You're… glad? That you tried to kiss me? The thing that made you cry and spiral and have a whole breakdown?"

"Yeah." You tucked your hands under the blanket. "Because now I know. Now I don't have to wonder. Now I know that you're not going to… take advantage. Now I know that you're safe. Really safe. The kind of safe I've never had before."

Wade was quiet for a long moment.

Then he reached up and ruffled your hair, messy, affectionate, paternal.

"You're a weird kid," he said.

"I learned from the best."

"Damn right you did."

The slums were from now on her home. Y/n had escaped from the clutches of the facility, but the scars of her past- both mental and physical- were still engraved deeply in her body. The nights were the hardest, when the world around her was quiet and the memories screamed the loudest. She lived in a cramped, old apartment, the flickering neon lights outside her window casting shadows on the walls.

It had been weeks since her escape, weeks of hiding and laying low, blending into the filthiness of the city. Here, she was just another face in the crowd, another soul struggling to survive. But she was different. She could feel the darkness within her, the uncontrollable power that surged through her veins. She had to find a way to control it, to suppress it before it consumed her.

Y/n spent her days looking for information, piecing together bits of knowledge about mutants, about powers like hers. She searched through the back alleys and seedy bars, listening to rumors and whispered conversations. Slowly, she began to understand the nature of her abilities, the twisted gift that had been forced upon her. But understanding was not enough. She needed control.

One night, in a ed bar that reeked of sweat and stale beer, Y/n finally found a lead. She had been sitting at the counter, nursing a glass of cheap whiskey, when she overheard a conversation between two men at the next table. They spoke in low tones, their words slurred from alcohol, but Y/n's ears caught every word.

"Essex House... that place was a nightmare," one of the men muttered, his face half-hidden in the shadows. "They did some real messed up shit there."

The other man, a burly figure with a ashen beard, nodded grimly. "I heard they had a way to control mutants. Some kind of device."

Y/n's heart skipped a beat. She leaned closer, pretending to adjust her coat as she listened.

"Yeah, I know a guy who used to work there," the bearded man continued. "Big guy, real quiet. He hangs around here sometimes."

Y/n did not waste any time. She slid over to their table, her movements smooth. "Mind if I join you?" she asked, her voice low and steady.

The men exchanged a glance, then shrugged. "Sure, why not?" the bearded man said, gesturing to the empty seat.

Y/n sat down, fixing them with a piercing gaze. "I couldn't help but overhear. You mentioned Essex House. I'm looking for someone who worked there. A guard, maybe?"

The first man, looked her up and down suspiciously. "Why do you want to know?"

"Let's just say I'm looking for answers," Y/n replied, her tone leaving no room for argument. "If you can help me, I'd appreciate it."

The bearded man scratched his chin, his eyes narrowing. "I don't know his name, but he's usually around here. I'd be careful, though. He doesn't like to be bothered."

"Point him out," Y/n she said, her eyes scanning the bar.

The bearded man nodded toward the far corner, where a large figure sat hunched over the bar, nursing a drink. "That's him."

Y/n followed his gaze and saw the man- a huge, muscled frame with a shaved head and a face that looked like it had seen more than its fair share of violence. He was a mountain of a man, his broad shoulders hunched over as he downed another shot of whiskey. There was a darkness about him, an aura of danger that warned others to keep their distance.

Y/n thanked the men and made her way toward the bar, her eyes never leaving the figure in the corner. She did not approach him directly, instead choosing to observe him from a distance, waiting for the right moment. 

The man continued to drink heavily, oblivious to the world around him. It was not long before he started to show signs of drunkenness- his movements sloppy, his head nodding as if fighting off sleep.

Now. This was her chance.

Y/n moved swiftly, her steps silent on the worn wooden floor. She slipped behind the man, her hand reaching into her coat to retrieve a small vial of chloroform and a cloth. In one fluid motion, she pressed the cloth over the man's face, her other arm locking around his throat.

The man struggled, his instincts kicking in despite his drunken state, but Y/n was quick and precise. Within seconds, his body went limp, his heavy frame slumping against the bar.

She wasted no time. With the strength born from desperation, Y/n dragged the unconscious man out of the bar, navigating through the back alleys until she reached her hideout.

The basement of an abandoned building, it was cold and damp, the walls lined with old newspapers and broken furniture. She had set up a small, makeshift interrogation room- just a chair and a bare light bulb hanging from the ceiling.

Y/n tied the man to the chair, securing his wrists and ankles with thick rope. She stood back, her heart pounding as she waited for him to wake up. The adrenaline was still coursing through her veins, her hands shaking slightly as she paced the room.

Finally, the man moved slightly, his dazed eyes blinking against the harsh light. He groaned, tugging at the ropes before realizing he was restrained. Panic flickered across his face as he looked around, his gaze settling on Y/n, who stood before him with a cold, determined expression.

"What the hell—?" he began, his voice stammered from the lingering effects of the chloroform.

"Shut up," Y/n snapped, stepping closer. "I'm the one asking questions. You're going to answer them."

The man's eyes narrowed, anger replacing his initial fear. "You've got no idea who you're messing with."

"Oh, I think I do," Y/n replied, her voice icy. "You used to work at Essex House. You were a guard there."

The man's expression hardened, his jaw clenching. "I don't know what you're talking about."

Y/n's patience was wearing thin. She had spent too long hiding, too long searching for answers, to be stonewalled by this brute. She leaned in, her face inches from his, her voice low and menacing.

"Don't lie to me," she hissed. "I know what they did in that place. The experiments, the torture. I know about the children. If you think I'm bluffing, you're sorely mistaken."

The man's boldness stopped for a moment, but he quickly recovered, sneering at her. "You don't know shit."

Her hand moved faster than he could react, striking him hard across the face. His head snapped to the side, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth.

"I said, don't lie to me!" Y/n shouted, her voice trembling with fury. "I know what kind of monster you are. I know what you did to those kids. Now tell me about the device that suppresses mutant powers."

The man spat blood onto the floor, glaring up at her aggressively. "Even if I did know, I wouldn't tell you."

Y/n's fist connected with his jaw again, this time with more force. The man groaned, his head lolling forward as he struggled to stay conscious.

"You have no idea what I've been through," Y/n said, her voice barely above a whisper. "The things I've seen, the pain I've endured. If you think for one second that I won't make you suffer, you're dead wrong. Now, talk."

The man's resolve began to crumble under the weight of her words, the fear returning to his eyes. He took a heavy breath, finally giving in.

"There's a wristband," he muttered, his voice barely audible. "It was designed to suppress mutant powers. But that place... it's gone. Some kid blew it up, the whole building came down."

Y/n's heart raced as she absorbed his words. "Where can I find one?"

The man hesitated, his gaze darting around the room as if searching for a way out. Finally, he sighed in defeat.

"Maybe there's still some in the storage rooms beneath the building. But it's dangerous. The whole place is crawling with security, even now."

Y/n stared at him for a long moment, her mind racing. She had what she needed, but the anger still burned within her, the memories of those children haunting her every thought.

"And one more thing," the man added, his voice a broken whisper. "There were others involved in that explosion. A man in a red and black suit... mutants from the X-Men... and some scary guy with a teddy bear."

The mention of the man in the red and black suit made Y/n's blood run cold. Wade. The man responsible for her suffering. But she pushed the thought aside, focusing on the task at hand.

"Thank you," she said coldly, before slamming her fist into his face one last time. The man's head snapped back, and he slumped in the chair, unconscious.

"You deserve much more, you little piece of shit," Y/n muttered, her voice thick with disgust. She untied him and dragged him out to a nearby street, leaving him there to be found. She had no use for him anymore.

•┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈•

The ruins of Essex House stood before Y/n like a tombstone, a monument to the atrocities that had taken place within its walls. The once impressive structure was now a gutted shell, its walls burned and crumbling, overtaken by creeping vines and nature's slow reclamation. The air was thick with the stench of decay and rot, a fitting aura for a place that had been a living nightmare for so many.

Y/n moved silently through the rubble, her senses heightened, every sound increased in the stillness of the night. The moon hung low in the sky, casting long, sinister shadows that danced across the broken ground. 

She had checked out the area earlier, avoiding the main entrances, which were still patrolled by security teams guarding whatever was left in the aftermath of the explosion, a few months ago. She needed to find the storage rooms beneath the building, where the guard had said the wristbands might still be.

Her heart pounded in her chest as she walked through a craggy opening in the wall, her eyes scanning the darkened interior. The building's skeleton remains were a labyrinth of broken beams and collapsed ceilings, the floors plastered with rubble and shattered glass. Every step was a calculated risk, the floorboards creaking ominously beneath her weight.

Y/n made her way down a long corridor, the walls covered in peeling paint and faded sceneries that had once depicted happy, smiling children- an ironic touch for a place that had been anything but.

Her breath stuck in the throat like there's a blockage as she approached a large door at the end of the corridor, its frame cracked and splintered. The guard's words echoed in her mind, urging her forward. She pushed the door open, and stepped into a vast chamber that had once been a laboratory.

Y/n's breath stopped as her eyes landed on the twisted metal chair in the center of the room. It was unmistakable- a torture device designed to restrain and torment its victims. The cold steel of the torture chair, the searing pain of electric currents coursing through her body. The sight of it brought a wave of nausea crashing over her, memories of her own time in such a chair flooding her mind, the mocking laughter of Francis as he watched her suffer in agony.

Flashback

She was strapped to the chair, her wrists bound with cold, hard metal. The room was dimly lit, the air thick with the smell of disinfectant and blood. Francis stood before her, his cold eyes glinting with sadistic glee. He was dressed in his usual black combat gear and white coat, his arms folded as he watched her struggle against the restraints.

"Ready for another round, sweetheart?" he sneered, his voice dripping with malice.

Y/n's heart pounded in her chest, her breath coming in short, ragged gasps. She was drenched in sweat, her body trembling from the aftershocks of the last session. She had lost count of how many times he had done this to her, how many times he had pushed her to the brink of death, only to pull her back and start again.

"Please... no more," she whispered, her voice barely audible.

Francis chuckled, his laughter a cruel, grating sound that echoed in the small room. "Oh, I'm just getting started," he said, reaching for the control panel beside the chair. His fingers danced over the buttons, and a low hum filled the air as the machine powered up.

Y/n's eyes widened in fear as the currents of electricity surged through her body, her muscles spasming uncontrollably. The pain was unbearable, like being ripped apart from the inside. She screamed, the sound tearing from her throat, but there was no one to hear her, no one to save her.

Francis watched with detached amusement, his expression one of mild curiosity. "You know, it's fascinating," he mused, his voice calm and measured. "Watching how much pain a person can endure before they break. You're tougher than most, I'll give you that."

Her vision blurred as the pain reached a crescendo, her mind teetering on the edge of unconsciousness. But she held on, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing her broken. She had to survive, had to escape, no matter what it took.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the currents stopped, and Y/n slumped in the chair, her body limp and exhausted. Francis leaned in close, his face inches from hers.

"Don't worry, darling," he whispered, his breath hot against her skin. "We'll keep doing this until you learn to behave."

Present

Y/n snapped back to the present, her hands trembling as she stared at the torture chair. The memories were like a vice around her chest, squeezing the air from her lungs. But she could not afford to break down now, not when she was so close. She forced herself to move, to search the room for the wristband.

The storage room was hidden behind a steel door, half-buried under rubble. Y/n unlocked it with a crowbar she had found earlier, using all her strength to pull the door free. Inside, she found a small, windowless room lined with shelves. Dust coated everything, the air stale and suffocating. She searched through the shelves, her hands moving frantically as she searched for the device.

Finally, her fingers closed around a small, sleek wristband, its surface smooth and cold to the touch. This was it- the device that could suppress her powers, that could give her the control she so desperately needed.

But as she pulled the wristband from the shelf, a shrill alarm pierced the air, the sound reverberating through the building. Panic surged through Y/n as she realized she had triggered a security system, her heart racing as the distant sound of footsteps echoed through the halls.

She had to get out, and fast.

Y/n bolted from the storage room, clutching the wristband tightly in her hand. She sprinted down the corridor, her mind a blur as she searched for an escape route. The footsteps were getting closer, the shouts of guards filling the air.

She spotted a window at the end of the hall, its glass cracked but still intact. Without hesitation, she launched herself at it, her shoulder slamming into the glass. The window shattered with a deafening crash, and Y/n tumbled through the opening, her body twisting in midair.

The world spun around her as she rolled to her feet, glass shards cutting into her skin. But there was no time to stop, no time to recover her injuries. The guards were right behind her.

Y/n ran, her breath coming in ragged gasps as she sprinted through the darkened streets. The sounds of pursuit faded into the distance, but she did not stop. She could not stop. Not until she was safe.

Finally, after what felt like hours, she slowed to a halt, her body aching and exhausted. She had made it. She had escaped, and she had the wristband. But as she stood there, alone in the shadows, the memories of Essex House lingered in her mind, a reminder of the horrors she had endured- and the revenge she would soon unleash.

•┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈•

Y/n sat in her dimly lit hideout, the cold, metal wristband clasped tightly in her hand. She had waited for this moment, the promise of control over her powers finally within her grasp. With a deep breath, she slipped the wristband onto her wrist. A series of tiny, almost inaudible clicks signaled its activation. She felt a slight hum of energy ripple through her body, a sensation that was both foreign and strangely comforting.

"Okay, Y/n," she whispered to herself, her voice barely more than a murmur in the silence. "Time to see if this thing really works."

Her heart pounded in her chest as she picked up a small, sharp knife. She took a moment to steel herself before pressing the blade against the palm of her hand. Slowly, deliberately, she drew the knife across her skin, wincing as a thin line of blood welled up. She braced herself for the familiar agony of her powers activating, but to her astonishment, the pain remained localized. The cut did not heal as it usually would.

"It works," she breathed, a mix of relief and awe in her voice. "It actually works."

She wrapped her hand in a bandage, her mind already racing with the possibilities. For the first time in years, she felt like she had a measure of control over her life, over her destiny. She was not just a victim of her circumstances; she could be the master of them.

Over the next two years, Y/n threw herself into training with a passion that bordered on obsession. She perfected her combat skills, mastering various martial arts and weapons. She trained with knives, guns, and swords, each session pushing her limits further. Her hideout became a makeshift dojo, littered with training equipment and weapons of all kinds.

Her reputation in the slums grew as she took on hitman jobs to fund her training. She became a ghost, an unseen force of retribution for those who could not fight back.

One evening, she was approached by a woman with bruised arms and tear-streaked cheeks.

"Please," the woman begged, her voice trembling. "My husband... he beats me. I can't take it anymore. Please, make him stop."

Y/n looked into the woman's eyes, seeing the same helplessness and desperation she had felt so many times before. "What's his name?" she asked quietly.

"Jack. Jack Thompson. He works at the docks," the woman replied, her voice barely above a whisper.

Y/n nodded. "Consider it done. He won't hurt you again."

•┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈•

Two years had passed since Y/n had escaped from Francis, two years of relentless training and hard-earned survival. She decided it was time to visit her own grave, a symbolic gesture to honour the person she once was. She made her way to a small flower shop, her mind set on finding the perfect bloom.

As she approached the counter to pay for a single white lily, she saw a woman laughing and chatting with the shopkeeper. The sight made her freeze. It was Vanessa. Alive and well, her smile as bright as ever. Y/n's heart clenched painfully in her chest, pulling her hood that covered her face even more down. She quickly paid for the flower and fled the shop, her mind a whirlwind of confusion and anger.

She reached her grave, a simple, unadorned headstone with her name etched into the cold marble. The vase next to it was empty.

"I see," she whispered, her voice cracking with emotion. "Forgotten and abandoned, even in death."

She knelt down, placing the lily in the empty vase. "I can't remember my old self," she said softly, tears welling in her eyes. "She truly did die, as well as her trust in you."

Her thoughts turned dark as she slowly stood up. Wade had saved Vanessa, she realized, her mind piecing together the puzzle with cold clarity.

He must have used Cable's time travel device during the Mutant Rehabilitation incident to go back and save her... but he left me to die.

As she turned and walked away from the grave, she could feel a rising tide of hatred surging within her, anger directed at Wade for abandoning her, for choosing Vanessa over her.

Later that evening, Wade approached the same grave. He was dressed in his red and black costume, the weight of his grief and guilt heavy on his shoulders. In his hand, he held a brand-new flower and a polished vase. He had not missed a single visit, always coming back to this lonely, forgotten corner of the cemetery to leave a token of his sorrow and love.

As he knelt down to place the new flower in the vase, he noticed the fresh lily already there, wilting slightly in the cold night air.

"Who...?" Wade muttered to himself, confusion furrowing his brow. He looked around, but the cemetery was empty and silent.

He placed his own flower beside the lily, a pang of sadness piercing his heart. "I'm sorry," he whispered to the grave. "I'm so damn sorry."

He stood there for a long moment, staring at the headstone as if willing it to give him some sort of answer, some sign that she knew he had not given up on her, that he still mourned her every day.

But the silence of the graveyard offered no reunion, only deepened the gap of misunderstanding that was growing between them, unseen and unspoken.

As Y/n made her way back through the slums, her mind was a storm of emotions. She was determined now, fueled by a dark purpose. She had been forgotten, left to rot in the shadows while Wade had moved on, living his best life with Vanessa.

You don’t answer, just roll your eyes and stare back out at the city. But something in the fact that he said it—that he got it so easily—makes you feel strange. Seen.

“Oh, man, nailed it!” Deadpool cheers, like this is some sort of accomplishment. “See, I’m like a therapist, but with 90% more leather and 100% more explosions. And, I make house calls. You’re welcome.”

“Yeah? Where’s the PhD?” You give him a sidelong look, unimpressed. “Bet it’s in the mail.”

He gasps theatrically. “Excuse me, my online course was very thorough, thank you. You’re looking at a fully certified therapist-slash-savior-slash-pizza connoisseur.” He steps even closer, as if he’s trying to get a read on you. “So, what’s it gonna take for you to, I dunno…step back from the edge, champ?”

The question catches you off guard, but you school your expression back into that empty, unreadable mask. “Nothing,” you say. “Don’t need saving.”

“Aw, sure you do. Everybody does,” Deadpool replies, with a smile that’s a little too wide. He’s still in that crouch, head tilted like he’s studying a lab rat. “C’mon, take me up on my deal.”

“I didn’t agree to any deal,” you mutter.

“Well, that’s about to change, Mr. Antisocial.” Deadpool leans in, his voice a dramatic whisper. “I’ll make you a bet. If I can’t show you something worth sticking around for, something that doesn’t totally suck, you win. But if I can—and oh, I will—then you gotta promise not to do anything stupid up here. No ‘jumping’ and no ‘leaping gracefully off into the night’—not on my watch. Deal?”

You look at him, trying to figure out if he’s serious. But then, you’re not sure this guy even knows what serious means. A smirk slips onto your face, mostly from disbelief. “And if you fail, I get to come back here and do what I want.”

Deadpool slaps his hands together, eyes lighting up like he’s just scored a jackpot. “Deal! Signed, sealed, and delivered. What’s your name, by the way? So I know what to call you when I start ‘Operation Make You Not Hate the Universe.’”

“None of your business.”

“Oh, that’s not gonna work,” he replies breezily. “I’ll call you...” He pauses dramatically, finger tapping his chin. “Shadow Kid. Because of your gloomy vibes. Or Edgy McBroodface. Either one works for me.”

You sigh, exasperated. “Fine. It’s Y/n. Happy?”

He claps his hands like a kid on Christmas. “Delighted! Well, Y/n, pack your bags because you’re about to take the Deadpool Tour de Joy. First stop: that little bakery down the street that makes these empanadas that are just to die for—pun very intended.”

As ridiculous as he sounds, something inside you—against all odds—doesn’t completely hate this idea. Maybe he’s right, maybe he’s wrong, but at least he’s distracting you. And it’s better than the silence. So you sigh, push yourself back from the edge, and follow him, if only because he’s made it impossible not to.

“Don’t get too excited,” you warn, hiding a hint of curiosity beneath a mask of sarcasm. “I don’t like pastries.”

“Don’t worry, kid, you will,” he grins, guiding you off the ledge. “Deadpool guarantees it. Or I’ll give you a full refund. You know, after we make sure you don’t end up sidewalk art.”

It’s midnight, and you’re trailing behind a lunatic in red and black spandex as he skips down the street like he’s leading a parade of one. You almost regret stepping away from the edge of that building. Almost. Because, despite everything, Deadpool’s got your attention, even if it’s just so you can see where this trainwreck of a night is headed.

“Now, Y/n,” he says, spinning around to face you while walking backward, “it’s time I introduce you to my squad. My inner circle. The people who either love me or have given up trying to kill me. I figured, what better way to kick off Operation: Don’t Be A Self-Destructive Edgelord than some quality time with family?”

“Your ‘family’?” You raise an eyebrow, skeptical.

“Oh, yes. They’re the most dysfunctional group of weirdos you’ll ever meet, which, in our line of work, is high praise.” He turns back around, leading you down a couple of twisting alleyways until you’re standing in front of a building that looks like it was abandoned about a hundred years ago.

“Home, sweet home!” Wade announces proudly, shoving the door open. “Well, it’s not really mine, but Al’s not much of a decorator anyway.”

You’re about to ask who “Al” is when you spot her: a short, older woman with oversized sunglasses, leaning against a sofa, flipping through a Braille magazine. She doesn’t even look up when she addresses Deadpool.

“You brought home another stray, Wade? You’d think you were trying to start an orphanage for misfits,” she mutters.

“This one’s special, Al. Meet Y/n,” Wade says, guiding you inside. “Y/n, this is the one and only Blind Al. She’s my friend, roommate, therapist, probation officer, and part-time parole board.”

Al snorts. “You think I’d live with Wade if I had any other options?”

You almost smirk. “So you’re telling me he’s like this all the time?”

Al nods, and you catch the tiniest hint of a smile on her face. “Constantly. And unfortunately, you’ll get used to it.”

“Come on, Al, don’t ruin the surprise! I’m a blast to be around,” Wade says, slapping you on the back with a little too much enthusiasm. “Anyway, I promised Y/n the Deadpool Experience™, which includes only the finest influences and biggest badasses on the market.”

“Speaking of badasses…” Wade nudges you, gesturing to the kitchen doorway, where a tall, grizzled man in flannel and jeans leans against the frame, arms crossed. His eyes are hard, the kind that say he’s seen more than his fair share of horror, but he’s giving you a look that’s somewhere between curiosity and caution.

“Logan, meet Y/n,” Wade says, pushing you forward. “Y/n, meet Wolverine, aka Logan Howlett, aka the surliest Canadian this side of the Rockies. Logan, Y/n here’s having a tough time deciding if life’s worth sticking around for, so I figured you could help me convince him otherwise. Since you’re all about that whole ‘living through endless suffering’ thing.”

Logan looks you over, clearly unimpressed with Wade’s choice of words. “You tell this kid what he was getting into by sticking with you?” he grumbles, giving Wade a side-eye.

“Why spoil the fun?” Wade chirps. “Besides, I figured I’d ease him into the nightmare that is my lifestyle by introducing him to you first. It’s all part of my master plan.”

You scoff. “Not exactly a plan so far.”

Logan grunts, shooting Wade a look. “Kid, if you’re here, you better be ready to put up with more crap than you signed up for. And if you don’t, well, don’t expect us to sugarcoat it.”

“Gee, thanks, Logan. Great pep talk,” Wade says, clapping his hands together. “You’re practically the Canadian Dr. Phil.”

“Whatever,” Logan mutters, giving you a short nod of acknowledgment. “Stay out of trouble, kid.”

“Thanks,” you reply dryly. “I’ll make a note of it.”

Wade flashes a grin. “All right, now that we’ve got the somber stuff out of the way, it’s time to meet my real pride and joy. Follow me, Y/n.” He leads you down a narrow hallway, barely glancing back as he goes. “And here, in the third and definitely not cleanest room on the left, is the Mini Wolverine herself, Laura Kinney!”

You peer around the doorframe, and sure enough, there’s a young girl, no older than you, sharpening a knife with an intensity that could probably slice through steel. She looks up, one eyebrow raised as she sizes you up.

“So…another of Wade’s recruits?” she asks, her tone half-sarcastic but half-genuine, like she’s as surprised as anyone to find herself among this crowd.

“Not exactly,” you reply. “Apparently, I’m part of some…life-affirming experiment?”

Laura smirks. “Good luck. Most people just end up scarred. Or worse.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence, mini-me,” Wade says, swooping in to ruffle her hair, which she swats at with the speed of a ninja. “Y/n, Laura here is what we call a ‘clone’—same rage issues, same claws, same immunity to hugs as Mr. Broodmaster in the kitchen. Laura, Y/n here is testing out the Wade Wilson School of Life Choices.”

She snorts, shaking her head. “Well, better you than me. Good luck.”

“Look at that, Y/n! She’s already rooting for you,” Wade says, pulling you back out of the room before you can reply.

“Sure,” you mutter. “I feel like I’m one big science project.”

“Nah, science projects are boring,” Wade says cheerfully. “And last, but certainly not least, the crown jewel of this ridiculous ensemble is… Peter!”

You frown, confused, as Wade leads you to the living room, where a man with glasses and a receding hairline is lounging on the couch, a sandwich in one hand and a soda in the other. He looks up and waves at you with a sheepish smile.

“Hey there. I’m Peter,” he says. “No code name, no special abilities, just…Peter.”

You raise an eyebrow at Wade. “How does he fit in?”

“Oh, he doesn’t,” Wade says matter-of-factly. “He’s just a genuinely good guy. The one, non-superpowered person who got tangled up in my dumpster fire of a life and didn’t immediately bail. I figured he’d be a nice balance to all the violent murderers in the room. Plus, he makes a mean ham and cheese sandwich.”

Peter shrugs, giving you a friendly smile. “Sometimes, it’s good to have at least one guy who knows what life’s like for the average person. And I figure, if Wade can make it, maybe there’s hope for all of us, right?”

You nod slowly, unsure what to make of all this but also, maybe for the first time in a long time, feeling something close to warmth. These people are rough around the edges, sure, but there’s an understanding in the way they look at you—like they know what it’s like to have the world chew you up and spit you out.

“Well, Y/n,” Wade says, clapping his hands together, “you’ve met the gang. Now, how about that empanada?”

You can’t help but roll your eyes, but there’s a small smile tugging at your lips. “Fine,” you mutter. “One empanada. But if it sucks, this deal’s off.”

Wade grins. “Deal! And hey, if you’re lucky, maybe you’ll even get a side of wisdom and life lessons from our merry band of misfits. Consider this step one on the path to…not hating everything.”

He leads the way, Peter and Al in tow, while Logan and Laura hang back a bit. And as you walk down the dimly lit street, surrounded by this unlikely crew, you realize maybe—just maybe—Wade might actually have a point.

The morning sun drips through the dirty windows of Blind Al’s apartment, casting a pale yellow glow over the chaotic mess of takeout boxes, weapon cases, and torn-up furniture. You’re sprawled on an old, threadbare armchair, an empanada wrapper stuck to your shirt from last night’s “Deadpool Tour de Joy.” You’d made it through an entire night with Wade and his crew of insane, sarcastic maniacs—and, against all odds, it wasn’t completely awful. In fact, you’d felt something almost like…belonging.

But now it’s the next day, and you’ve already told yourself a hundred times that you should probably just slip out, go back to what you were doing, forget all of this ever happened. You’re starting to push yourself up when Wade barges into the room, wearing his costume but missing the mask, eyes bleary, and looking like he hasn’t slept in days.

“Ah! Sleeping beauty rises!” Wade yells, startling you. “Figured you’d skipped out by now, but no! Y/n, my little suicidal protégé, how’s life on the wild side?”

You roll your eyes. “It’s early. Can you not yell?”

“Oh, no-no-no, kid, this is normal volume,” Wade replies with a grin. “Wait ‘til Logan shows up and starts shouting at me. Speaking of which…”

Right on cue, Logan comes around the corner, his expression twisted in irritation. “Wade, it’s nine in the damn morning, why are you already so loud?”

“Why are you such a ray of sunshine?” Wade replies cheerfully, barely dodging Logan’s hand as he tries to grab him.

“Because you’re annoying,” Logan growls, rolling his eyes and making for the coffee pot. But Wade is already blocking him, a mug in one hand, smirking.

“What if I told you there was no coffee left? Would you kill me?”

Logan raises an eyebrow, as if daring him to repeat it. Without a word, he pops out his claws, a metallic snikt slicing through the silence.

“Oh, I’m shaking!” Wade sneers, clearly egging him on.

“Deadpool, just get out of my way.” Logan tries to push past, but Wade laughs, making some obnoxious buzzing noise that apparently does the trick, because Logan grits his teeth and stabs him, right through the side.

You jump, stunned, watching as Logan’s claws slip back out, leaving Wade clutching his side. Blood pours out of the wound, and you’re about to call out when you realize that Wade’s grinning.

“Oh, there it is,” Wade says, inspecting the hole in his side, barely even phased. “You got me good, Wolvie. Was hoping you’d go for the chest, but I’ll take what I can get.”

“What the hell?” You can’t help but gape at him. “You’re bleeding, and you’re laughing?”

Wade winks, dropping his hand and letting you see that the wound is…healing. Muscles and tissue knit themselves back together, as if he hadn’t been stabbed at all. “Oh, yeah! Y/n, I forgot to mention one of my best features: I’m unkillable! Like an annoying houseplant that refuses to die. Cool, right?”

You blink, still trying to process. “So…no matter what happens to you, you just…keep coming back?”

“Yup! Think of it like this,” Wade says, throwing an arm around your shoulders, ignoring the sticky blood on his suit. “I am the miracle of human resilience, cranked up to eleven. Plus, I give Logan a stress outlet every morning. Win-win, really.”

“Wouldn’t call it a win,” Logan mutters, pouring his coffee. “If anything, you’re my worst nightmare.”

Wade smirks, turning to you. “Logan here’s my best friend. Don’t let him fool you.”

Logan takes a long, deliberate sip of his coffee, glaring over the rim. “One more word, Wade, and I’ll make it two stabs.”

“Oh, two stabs?” Wade clutches his chest dramatically. “Why, Mr. Howlett, you really know how to flatter a guy.”

“Honestly,” you mutter, looking at them, “this is the weirdest friendship I’ve ever seen.”

Logan glances over at you, grumbling, “It’s not a friendship. It’s a…complicated arrangement.”

Wade beams, throwing an arm around Logan’s shoulder, which Logan promptly shrugs off. “Call it whatever you want, sweetie.”

As they bicker, Laura enters the room, unfazed by the chaos. She gives you a nod of acknowledgment before grabbing a seat at the table, watching the two men as if this is just another morning.

“Y/n, how’s Wade treating you?” she asks, a smirk forming on her face.

You can’t help the sarcasm in your voice. “Oh, it’s just been fantastic. Nothing like witnessing multiple acts of violence before breakfast.”

She grins. “Get used to it. That’s pretty much every day around here.”

“Hey, I call it ‘combat therapy,’” Wade retorts, tossing her a wink. “You know, bonding time for the soul. Plus, Logan secretly loves it.”

You’re still processing all of this when Peter comes in, looking almost suspiciously normal, like a PTA dad in a nightmare of superheroes and chaos. He gives you a friendly wave, balancing a bag of bagels and a coffee tray.

“Morning, everyone!” Peter says, the only cheerful voice in the room. “Brought bagels for you all. Thought maybe today we could take it easy and just…you know, be normal for a while?”

Wade gasps. “Normal? Peter, buddy, you’re really asking a lot of me.”

“Don’t mind him, Peter,” you mutter, taking a bagel. “I think I’m the only sane one here.”

Peter gives you a sympathetic look. “I figured as much. Good luck with this crew, Y/n. If you ever need a sane friend, I’m your guy.”

Laura scoffs. “He doesn’t want ‘sane’ friends. If he did, he’d have run by now.”

You can’t argue with that. In fact, the thought does cross your mind—why didn’t you leave? But before you can dwell on it too long, Wade claps his hands.

“Today’s adventure awaits!” he announces, eyes alight with his usual chaotic energy. “We’ll start with breakfast and then…well, I’m not sure yet, but it’ll be something awesome.”

The group groans as Wade grabs his mask and heads for the door, beckoning for you to follow. Logan sighs, Laura grabs her knives, and Peter just looks resigned. But they all follow, like it’s a ritual they’re somehow tied to, and after a moment, you find yourself tagging along too.

The day is filled with antics. You lose track of the times Wade gets hurt, only to heal right in front of your eyes. Logan mutters that he’d be better off without Wade, only to punch him in the shoulder five minutes later with a hidden grin. Laura challenges Wade to a knife fight, and Peter just sighs, trying to keep everyone in line. And for the first time in…who knows how long, you’re laughing. Really laughing.

It’s almost night by the time you head back, the sky darkening as the city lights flicker on. You’re about to part ways and make your way home, but somehow, your feet keep taking you back to Al’s apartment. You know you don’t belong here, not really, but when you reach the door, there’s that same warmth—a strange pull you can’t ignore.

Wade notices you hesitate by the door and grins. “Aw, he’s back! See, I told you I’d be your favorite person in no time.”

“Don’t get too cocky,” you mutter, but you don’t turn to leave. Logan, Laura, Peter, and Al all glance at you, each with a look of welcome that they probably wouldn’t admit to feeling. It’s an odd sight, this bunch of misfits, but in some way, you realize that maybe they’re not as much of a mess as they seem. Maybe, just maybe, you’ve found something here that doesn’t completely suck.

“All right, all right, enough with the mushy stuff!” Wade says, breaking the silence. “Y/n, welcome back to Dysfunctional Central. We’re going to make you regret every second.”

You roll your eyes but smirk, stepping back inside and letting the door click shut behind you. Because this time, you don’t mind sticking around.

As night settles in over Blind Al’s apartment, the usual chaos of the group fades. Laura’s busy sharpening a blade on the couch, Logan’s nursing a beer in the corner, Peter is cleaning up the disaster of takeout containers from earlier, and Al is sitting near the window, her face turned toward the cool night breeze drifting in. Wade, in his typical way, is chattering aimlessly about everything and nothing at all, flipping between mocking TV commercials and talking up his latest “brilliant” idea for a reality show. And, as usual, you’re mostly tuning him out, feeling a mix of exhaustion and…something else. Something that’s starting to feel suspiciously like relief.

Wade breaks off suddenly, his head cocked as he glances over at you with a curious look. “So, Y/n,” he begins, his voice dropping a few notches in volume—a rarity. “How’s our little…adventure going? You feelin’ the spark of life yet? The whole, ‘maybe being alive doesn’t completely suck’ kinda thing?”

You shrug, fidgeting with the edge of your jacket. “I mean, it’s…been okay. You guys are insane, obviously, but it’s not the worst.”

Wade grins. “Insane and proud, baby. It’s kind of our brand. But don’t think I haven’t noticed your little act.” He leans in, dropping his voice even lower. “You’re good at the sarcasm, the deadpan thing. But I can see the cracks, kid. What’s under there?”

You freeze, not sure how to answer. Part of you wants to laugh it off, throw a sarcastic line his way, but something about the way Wade’s looking at you, uncharacteristically sincere, throws you off guard.

“Why’re you asking?” you mutter, looking away.

He shrugs, casual but not unkind. “Because, believe it or not, I give a damn. And because if I’m gonna help you out of whatever pit you’ve fallen into, I need to know where to start. So…give me the lowdown. What’s so bad it made you wanna bail on this whole rodeo?”

You swallow, throat tight. The last thing you want is to spill everything, to lay out every messy thought and feeling. But the words are there, just behind your teeth, begging to be let out after you’ve kept them buried for so long.

“It’s…” You hesitate, searching for the right words. “It’s not one thing, okay? It’s like…everything.”

Wade’s eyes don’t leave yours, an unspoken encouragement in his gaze.

You take a breath, still unsure, but the dam is cracking, and suddenly the words are pouring out before you can stop them. “I don’t know, Wade. I just—I feel like I don’t fit. Anywhere. I’ve tried, I really have, but no matter what I do, it’s like I’m some kind of outsider. The kid who’s always…wrong. Like I don’t belong in my own life. And the more I tried to fit in, the harder it got.”

Wade nods, not interrupting, just letting you talk.

“School was a nightmare,” you continue, voice barely above a whisper. “People either ignored me or treated me like I was invisible. Even my own family doesn’t seem to get me. I just…there’s no place for me. No one who actually cares, and it’s been that way for so long that I can’t remember a time it wasn’t. And I know you’re supposed to push through or whatever, but I just got so tired, Wade. Tired of always feeling like I’m on the outside looking in. Tired of being…me.”

You shake your head, trying to keep the tremor out of your voice. “Everywhere I look, it’s like people have these lives, friends, family, things that give them a reason to wake up. But me? I don’t have anything, not really. So I started wondering…if I just disappeared, would anyone even notice? Would anyone care?”

Wade is quiet, watching you with an expression you can’t quite place. It’s not pity—thankfully, you don’t think you could stand that—but something softer, gentler.

“That’s why I went up there last night,” you admit, surprised by the honesty in your own voice. “Because I couldn’t stand the emptiness anymore. I thought maybe if I just…ended it, at least it would stop hurting, you know?”

There’s silence in the room now, even the usual background noise faded to nothing. You can feel the weight of your own words, a relief but also a vulnerability that makes you want to crawl out of your own skin.

After a moment, Wade shifts, sitting down next to you. “Hey, kid,” he says, his voice uncharacteristically soft. “I know that feeling. I know it all too well.”

You glance at him, surprised. “You? You seem like you’ve got everything figured out.”

He chuckles, shaking his head. “Oh, kid. I may be the king of talking big, but I’ve been where you are. Hell, I’ve been to worse places. You think I’m here just ‘cause life handed me everything I wanted? Nope. I got scars, inside and out, that’d make your head spin. And you know what? That ‘don’t belong’ feeling? I had that too.”

Wade pauses, running a hand over his mask, which he’s bunched up in his hands. “I used to think…if I could just disappear, maybe that would be the best thing for everyone. And that was before I became…this.” He gestures to his scarred skin, his voice low but steady. “When you look like this, people either turn away or look at you like you’re some kind of monster. It was…lonely. Really, really lonely.”

You swallow, something in his words hitting close to home. “So what changed?”

Wade smiles, a bit of his usual spark returning. “Well, I guess I just got stubborn. Figured if the world didn’t want me, then I’d make my own place. Found people—well, like the circus act you met last night. Turns out, sometimes family’s not about blood. It’s about…finding people who see the worst parts of you and stick around anyway.”

“Not everyone has that,” you murmur, glancing at the floor.

“True,” Wade admits, his gaze softening. “But kid, here’s the thing: you’re still here. And now, you’ve got us—like it or not.” He gives you a wry smile. “You don’t have to carry that weight alone anymore. I get it, I really do, but there’s no shame in letting someone else help pick up the pieces. Maybe you just haven’t found your people yet…but you’ve got me, and the squad. We’re not perfect, but we don’t go down without a fight.”

You look at him, a strange warmth spreading through your chest despite the heaviness of the moment. For the first time, you feel like maybe someone actually understands. Maybe, just maybe, you’re not completely alone.

“Thanks,” you say, the word barely loud enough to hear. “For…listening.”

Wade grins, reaching out and patting your shoulder, a bit rough but oddly comforting. “Anytime, kid. I’m annoying, sure, but you won’t find anyone more loyal.” He gives you a wink. “Besides, I told you—I’m not letting you off the hook that easy.”

You chuckle, feeling a little lighter despite everything. “You really don’t give up, do you?”

“Nope. It’s a gift and a curse.” Wade stands, offering a hand to help you up. “Now, you and me? We’re gonna keep going until you see just how much life’s got to offer. I mean, look at me—scarred, hated, stabbed on a daily basis—and somehow, I’m still here.”

You roll your eyes, but there’s a smile tugging at your lips. “You’re a walking disaster.”

“Guilty as charged,” Wade says with a laugh. “But hey, you stick around with us long enough, maybe we’ll rub off on you. Logan can teach you how to growl menacingly, and Laura can teach you how to stab with precision. Peter’s got the dad jokes covered. It’s a real all-inclusive experience.”

For the first time in what feels like forever, you feel a spark of hope. It’s small, fragile, but it’s there. Maybe life’s not all bright and shiny, and maybe you’ve got a long way to go, but with Wade and this dysfunctional crew, maybe there’s a chance you can start over. At the very least, you’re not alone.

“Alright,” you say, meeting Wade’s gaze with newfound determination. “I’ll give this a shot.”

Wade’s grin stretches wide, genuine. “That’s the spirit, Y/n! I knew you had it in you.” He throws an arm around your shoulder, squeezing a little too tight. “And hey, if it ever gets too tough, just remember—you’ve got us.”

You nod, letting yourself lean into the odd but reassuring presence of Wade by your side. For the first time in a long time, you feel like maybe there’s a path forward, one you don’t have to walk alone.

And with this crazy group, maybe that path won’t be as empty as the one you were on before.

You had appeared into his life around three years back, when he crashed clean through several buildings in a row (thanks a lot, Carnage), eating mouthfuls of rubble and inhaling pure dust and shards of glass. After the fourth building he was thrown into, he crashed out of a window, stumbling into you, an innocent pedestrian just on their way to try out the new vegan restaurant down the street. He collided into you with enough force to send the both of you toppling over onto a busy road, asphalt scratching painfully against your cheek. Cars screeched to grueling halts only inches away from the two of you, angry honks erupting from a dozen vehicles at once. Wade almost had the gall to feel guilty for a second upon meeting your wide eyes. Then he spotted your trembling lips start to open into a horrified gape, which then gave way to the most awful, ear-splitting scream he’d ever heard.

He began screaming with you shortly after, because he promptly realized that his legs were gone and the pain was nearly enough to have him pass out.

“FUCK! FUCK, OH MY FUCK! SHIT! JESUS CHRIST, SO NOT COOL, CARNAGE! SO NOT COOL,” he yelled, using his arms to drag himself across the road, spitting out obscenities at the cars honking at him. There was a thick trail of blood and bits of mutilated flesh and skin following his severed knees, and you had to physically force your eyes away before you could feel your breakfast move its way back up your digestive tract. You pushed yourself up onto shaky feet, grabbing Wade’s suited hands and dragging him to the sidewalk with a groan. 

“What the fuck happened to you?” you panted raggedly, staggering away from him as soon as he wasn’t under the imminent threat of being run over by a white man’s dirty Toyota. “Do you need to go to the hospital?”

“Oh, I’m fine,” Wade winced, completely not fine. “They’ll grow back in a day or two. I’ve had my legs cut off way too many times to count.”

Your brows furrowed. “Jesus. You’re one of those Avengers folk, aren’t you? Fuck.” 

“Nuh-uh! That is so offensive. Just because I’ve got superpowers, doesn’t mean I’m an Avenger! I’ve been sending them my resume for months now, and they still haven’t gotten back to me.”

You had the audacity to roll your eyes. “Listen, hot-shot, I don’t know what I can do for you, then. I have a reservation I can’t miss. Are you gonna be okay on your own?”

“Ooh, reservation. Sounds fancy. Where are you going? You got a date or somethin’?” Here he was, bleeding out on the side of the road, and nonchalantly asking you about your love life. 

You blinked twice. “Yeah…” you started hesitantly. “Just down the street at that new vegan restaurant. It’s my first one with him and I don’t want him to think I’ve stood him up.”

“Must have a humongous penis to get you dressed up all fancy shmancy for the first date. At a vegan restaurant, no less! Listen, here’s a life lesson that I had to learn the hard way: vegans only gain happiness from two things and two things only—tofu and being mean to millennials on Twitter. Save your time,” he hummed glibly. You absentmindedly wondered if he was going loopy with the amount of pain he was enduring. Blood began dribbling from his nose and leaked past his cracked lips, and he sat up abruptly, spitting into his mask. “Oh, gross. Gross! Fuck, all I taste is blood now—Edward Cullen you nasty fucker. Look, I’m sorry to ask this, you seem like a really nice person and I really don’t want to drag you into my shit but I’m gonna drag you into my shit anyways. Do you have a place I could maybe lay low for a while? There’s this really awful alien after me and I don’t think I can take them without losing any more limbs.”

After a beat of silence, you pinched the bridge of your nose and sighed heavily. God damn it—you couldn’t just leave him here alone, could you? “Yeah. Yeah, it’s just down a block. Let’s go.”

So, that was how you met him for the first time. Blew off a tofu-loving, millennial-bullying vegan (his theory, you never actually got to meet him), in order to save his ass from a goo parasite from space.

You quickly realized that this was nearly an everyday experience for him. It eventually became a routine pattern. He’d go out, get himself beat up by some otherworldly beings (there was that one time a gaggle of girl scouts beat him to a pulp, but he made you vow never to speak of that again). Then, he’d come slinking back to his apartment where he’d call you and whine until you begrudgingly agreed to come over with a pint of Ben and Jerry’s—specifically requesting the Hunka-Hulka Burnin’ Fudge flavor or he’d threaten to set himself on fire. Dramatic fucker. 

And sometimes he’d come to your apartment, dripping vermilion blood everywhere, or high out of his goddamn mind, or so drunk that he could barely formulate a coherent sentence. Usually it was some infuriating combination of the three. Nonetheless, you’d tuck him into your couch with a fleece blanket and a throw pillow he often complained smelled like nacho cheese, but he slept like a baby despite it all. 

And when you woke up? He was never there. No notes, no crude pencil drawings of dicks on your wall, no trace of him whatsoever. The process would continue to repeat itself a million times over, and you began to find yourself unsettled with your predicament. 

Who was Wade to you? A friend? A stranger? A man who occasionally slept on your couch and constantly made you worry for his well being despite knowing that he was practically immortal? 

The day you finally exploded at him, bombarding him with questions he had no answers to, he hadn’t meant to start yelling back. Insults were traded, scathing and cutting far too deep for either of your liking. He particularly remembered you hissing out, “Please, you can barely even function without me! You’re awful at taking responsibility for yourself, Wade! You don’t eat well, you barely ever sleep if not passed out on my couch, you’re always high or piss-drunk or beaten up halfway to hell! You know how fucking exhausting that is? Taking care of someone that doesn’t give two shits about you? I bet you wouldn’t last a fucking day without coming crawling right back up to my door on all fours! Like a little bitch!”

Wade knew you were just caught up in the heat of the moment—that this wasn’t really you. But damn if your words still hurt. 

The fact that so many of your angry tirades were falling upon deaf ears and a stonily blank expression only seemed to fuel your frustration more, pushing you to the brink of tears glossing over your reddened eyes. That night ended with you telling him to never come back, and you had to physically shove him out of your apartment, slamming the door with such ferocity that the floor rattled beneath his feet for a split second.

Wade had stood outside your door for a full minute before coming to and realizing just how much of an asshole he’d been. You didn’t owe him anything. Hell, the two of you barely knew anything about each other. He began knocking softly, asking you, begging you to open the door, apologizing over and over and over. Then, he proceeded in his attempts to bribe you—with chocolate bars, movie nights, free vegan dinners, the chance to shoot him in the ribs, he put it all on the table for you. He was in front of your apartment for hours. 

The door never opened. 

That was around six months ago.

Now, as he found himself back in front of your apartment after so long, things were different. He wasn’t wearing his superhero suit like he usually did, there were flashcards of what to say in his hands just in case he completely blanked upon seeing you, and clutched in his other palm were half-wilted flowers he scavenged in the back of an alley dumpster (listen, he didn’t have the time nor money to buy you proper ones, so it was the thought that counted). 

After rapping his knuckles against the wood three times, the door swung open. 

Fuck, Wade was nervous. Suddenly his sweaty fingers fumbled and flashcards were fluttering to the ground, making a mess of pink little cards, some filled with doodles of extremely realistic (a style commonly known as ‘stick-men’) depictions of what he thought he looked like while fighting bad guys, and other cards with his lines of what to say to you. He dropped to his knees, hurrying to grab at the scattered pieces of paper.

“I knew you’d be back,” you sneered, staring down your nose at him with thinly-narrowed eyes. “Jesus, Wade. It’s been… forever. I didn’t—I thought something might’ve happened—”

With a heavy sigh, you got down on your knees beside him, picking up some cards with a curious hum. “When I said you’d come crawling back to me on all fours… I wasn’t actually being serious, Wade.”

“Shucks,” Wade said, nervously taking the cards from you, uncharacteristically tentative. “And here I was thinking you were into that.”

Your expression immediately soured. “What do you want from me, Wade? Come to mooch off of me again? Make me care about you and leave just before things get heavy?”

“Y/N,” he breathed out, mentally going fuck it and setting the cards back down on the floor. “You’re wrong. All those months ago you said I couldn’t give two shits about you. I did—I do give two shits about you. In fact, I give so many shits that the toilet would be clogged with just how many shits I give about you! I don’t know how to deal with this. I don’t know how to care for someone properly. I don’t know how I’d do it right. But I wanna try. Please, Y/N, let me try.”

The way your jaw set made Wade swallow nervously. Then, the slight quirk of the corner of your lips made Wade tilt his head in surprise. “Are these… flowers? You got me flowers?”

“Yeah, but they’re from the dumpster.”

“No need to put yourself down, Wade. They’re lovely.” You took the wilting bouquet from his grasp with a mild grin.

He didn’t have the heart to tell you that he was telling the truth. Just as long as you didn’t stick your nose into them, he supposed he’d let you remain blissfully oblivious.

“So what are you asking?” you asked, thumbing the bruised stems of the flowers. “You wanna try being friends? Real ones?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I’d like that,” he whispered with a near watery chuckle. “Whose balls did I have to fondle in my past life to get lucky and crash into you all those years ago, huh?”

The way you wrinkled your nose in distaste made Wade snort. “Don’t be crass, fuckwad. I missed you, too, for the record. And for what it’s worth, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean most of what I said that night. I was being really harsh for no reason. There’s nothing wrong with struggling with things like that, Wade, you just need a bit of help, is all.”

There was a beat of comfortable silence before Wade sighed, pushing himself up to his feet, dusting off his pants before offering you a hand up. You took it gingerly, opening the door wider for him to step in. 

Glancing once at one of his cue cards, he cleared his throat. “My name is Wade. Also known as Deadpool, founder of X-Force, and an Avenger-in-waiting,” he declared, gazing at you fondly. “I may suck at this whole living thing, but at least I look amazing while doing it.” When you shot him a halfhearted glare, he lifted his hands in surrender. “Kidding, kidding. I look like a chewed up piece of gum, let’s be honest. It’s nice to meet you… friend.”

The brilliant smile that painted itself violet over your features made just a slight fraction of the same expression mirror itself onto Wade’s face. “Nice to meet you, too. I think we’ll be getting along just fine.”

The night smelled like garbage and rain that hadn't quite decided to fall.

Wade Wilson sat on the edge of a rooftop in the industrial district, his legs dangling over six stories of rusted fire escapes and dumpsters that hadn't been emptied in weeks. His hands were clasped loosely in his lap, and he was staring at the sky, except the sky wasn't visible here, it was just the sickly orange glow of city lights reflecting off low clouds, the kind of glow that made everything look like it was filmed through a dirty lens.

He'd been sitting here for three hours.

Three hours of thinking about the tumor in his lung. Three hours of thinking about Vanessa, about the way she'd looked at him when he told her he was sick, about the way she'd said "we'll get through this" like she actually believed it. Three hours of thinking about the shady guy in the bar who'd mentioned an experimental treatment, something off the books, something that would either save his life or end it faster.

"Weapon X," the guy had said, lowering his voice like he was sharing a state secret. "They can cure anything. But the price is… unusual."

Unusual. Wade liked that word. It was a nice, soft, pillow-y word that you could hide all sorts of pointy things inside.

He wasn't going to jump.

He kept telling himself that. He wasn't going to jump, he wasn't going to jump, he wasn't. He was just… sitting. Thinking. Letting the cold air seep into his bones because it was the only thing that made the burning in his chest feel less like dying and more like weather.

The drop wasn't even high enough to guarantee death. That was the pathetic part. Six stories. He'd probably just break both legs and lie there in the trash, wheezing, until someone found him or he bled out slowly over the course of an hour. Not dramatic. Not heroic. Just sad.

He was thirty-six years old, he had stage four cancer, and he was sitting on a rooftop too short to kill him properly.

This, he thought, was rock bottom with a garnish of absurdity.

He lit a cigarette—because why not, at this point—and took a long, slow drag. The smoke tasted like ash and regret and the faint, metallic tang of blood that was always in his mouth now. He exhaled, watched the gray curl upward, and tried not to think about the fact that this might be one of his last cigarettes.

"You look like shit."

The voice came from behind him, and it was so unexpected—so sweet—that he almost didn't process it. It was the kind of voice that belonged in a lullaby, soft and round and honeyed, the kind of voice that made you think of warm blankets and hot cocoa and everything gentle in a world that wasn't.

Wade turned his head veeeeery slowly.

You were sitting on a rusted air conditioning unit about ten feet away, legs crossed at the ankle, swinging them back and forth like a metronome set to a rythm named idgaf. You were wearing a black long-sleeved spandex bodysuit over white spandex tights, the kind of costume that looked homemade but intentional, like you'd raided a dance supply store and a superhero comic and mashed them together with safety pins and hope. A white mask covered the top half of your face, cat-style, leaving your mouth and chin visible. Your lips were pink and slightly chapped, and there was a faint smear of something blue at the corner of your mouth.

You were holding a popsicle. It was blue. It was melting. Rivulets of electric azure dripped down your fingers and plinked onto the gravel below.

You looked about young. High school old. Definitely not old enough to be on a rooftop at two in the morning, definitely not old enough to be wearing a vigilante costume, definitely not old enough to be looking at a dying man like you understood exactly what was happening inside his head.

Wade stared at you.

You stared back.

The popsicle dripped.

"You look like shit," you repeated, and the sweetness of your voice made the insult land like a compliment, like a kiss on the forehead, like something your grandmother might say while pinching your cheek. You tilted your head to the side, curious, like he was a puzzle you were trying to solve. "Are you gonna jump?"

Wade blinked. "What?"

"Off the building." You took a bite of the popsicle: a small, delicate bite, the kind a Victorian child might take while pretending they weren't starving. The blue stained your lips even more. "You've got that face. The 'I'm-calculating-the-velocity-of-my-own-demise' face. I know it well. I've got a mirror."

He should have been alarmed. Any normal person would have been alarmed. A strange teenage girl in a superhero costume, appearing on a rooftop in the middle of the night, talking about suicide like it was a hobby she'd tried and discarded. But Wade Wilson hadn't been normal since the day he learned that love and abandonment were the same thing written in different fonts, and something about you, something about the way you looked at him without flinching, without pity, without that awful sadness that everyone else wore like a hair shirt, made him feel, for the first time in weeks, something other than the cancer.

He felt seen.

Like you weren't looking at a dying man. Like you were looking at him.

"I'm not gonna jump," he said, because he wasn't. He was too stubborn to die without taking a few bastards with him. "I'm just… sitting."

You nodded slowly, thoughtfully, like you were weighing his words against some internal scale only you could read. The popsicle dripped again. You didn't seem to notice, or maybe you didn't care. There was something dreamy about you, something unmoored, like you were floating slightly above the rest of the world and only touching down when absolutely necessary.

"That's what they all say," you said. "The sitters. The thinkers. The 'I'm-just-here-for-the-view' crowd." You took another bite of the popsicle, chewed, swallowed. "But you've got the math face. I'd know it anywhere."

"The math face?"

"Yeah." You uncrossed your legs and pulled your knees up to your chest, wrapping your arms around them. "The face you make when you're calculating. How high. How fast. How much it'll hurt. Whether anyone will find you before the rats do." You paused, tilting your head to the other side. "You've been doing the math for a while, haven't you?"

Wade didn't answer. He couldn't. Because you were right. He had been doing the math. Every night, for weeks. Every time he coughed up blood, every time Vanessa looked at him with those desperate, hopeful eyes, every time he caught his reflection in a window and saw a ghost wearing his face.

How long. How much. How bad.

You sighed, a small sound, almost musical. "The math is a liar, you know. It tells you there's a right answer. A clean answer. But there's no such thing." You looked down at the melted popsicle in your hand, then back up at him. "This drop, for example. Six stories. Maybe six and a half. You've done the math on this one specifically, haven't you?"

Wade's throat was dry. "Maybe."

"It's not tall enough," you said, and your voice was still sweet, still honeyed, but there was something else underneath now. Something careful. Something kind. "Not tall enough for your body to have enough time to have a heart attack before reaching the ground, I mean. You'd feel the splat. You might not die immediately. Probably wouldn't, actually. Not from this height. You'd just…" You made a gesture with your free hand, closing your fist, as if crushing something invisible. "You'd just lie there. And it would hurt. A lot. And you'd have plenty of time to think about how much it hurt before the ambulance came or you bled out or someone found you and screamed."

You said it the way someone might describe the weather. Not cold. Not clinical. Just… factual. Like you'd thought about this before. Like you'd done the math herself, on different rooftops, different heights, different ways to fall.

Wade felt something crack open in his chest that wasn't the tumor.

"How do you know that?" he asked, and his voice came out rougher than he intended. "How do you know what it feels like to fall from six stories?"

You smiled. It was a small smile, a sad smile, the kind of smile that had seen things it couldn't unsee. "I don't," you said. "Not personally. But I've read a lot. I like to be prepared." You paused, and then, softer: "And I've stood on a lot of rooftops. Different heights. Different cities. Different… calculations."

The silence that followed was heavy and light at the same time, the way silence gets when two people who understand something unspeakable are standing in it together.

You looked at the popsicle stick in your hand, then at him, and then you did something unexpected.

You hopped off the AC unit.

Not gracefully. You stumbled a little, then caught yourself. You walked over to him, your boots crunching on the gravel, and you didn't stop until you were standing right next to where he was sitting, close enough that he could smell the sugar on your breath and the vanilla in your hair and something else, something floral and dying, like lilies in a too-warm room.

You held out the popsicle stick. The popsicle itself was gone, just a wooden stick with a smear of blue at the top, but you held it out like it was an offering anyway.

"Here," you said. "You look like you need sugar."

Wade stared at the stick. Then at you. Then back at the stick.

"The popsicle's gone." he said.

"I know." You didn't lower your hand. "But the sugar's still there. On the stick. You can suck it."

You paused. Wade's eyebrows rose in that way of his. Your eyebrows rose in sinc. He smiled. You smiled.

"That's what she said." you finally said.

And he snorted. Actually snorted. The sound surprised him so much that he almost choked on it, and then he was laughing—a real laugh, rusty and cracked and painful in his chest, but real—and you were laughing too, that hollow giggle, and for a moment the cancer didn't matter and the rooftop didn't matter and nothing mattered except this strange, impossible moment of alive.

He took the popsicle stick.

He sucked on it.

It was sweet. Artificial, chemical, aggressively blue-sweet, the kind of sweet that coated your teeth and made your tongue feel fuzzy. It was the sweetest thing he'd tasted in months.

"Thanks," he said.

You beamed. It was the kind of smile that split your face in half, the kind of smile that made your eyes crinkle at the corners even behind the mask, the kind of smile that looked like it hurt but in a good way, like stretching after being curled up for too long.

"You're welcome," you said. And then you sat down next to him.

Not close enough to be touching, you left a few inches of cold air between you, but close enough that he could feel the warmth radiating off your body, a little furnace of a thing despite how thin you looked. You tucked your knees up to your chest again and rested your chin on them, staring out at the orange sky.

"Can I ask you something?" you said.

"Sure."

"Why are you really here?"

The question hung in the air between you, fragile as smoke. Wade looked at the pop¡sicle stick in his hand, then at the drop below, then at the city sprawling out in every direction like a broken circuit board.

"I have cancer," he said. "Stage four. In my lungs. They say there's a treatment, something experimental, but it's…" He trailed off, searching for the right word. "Sketchy. Off the books. The kind of thing that might kill me faster than the cancer."

You nodded, not looking at him. "And you're trying to decide if it's worth it."

"Yeah."

"Do you want to die?"

The question was so direct, so bald, that it should have been jarring. But coming from you with your sweet voice and your melting popsicle and your too-old eyes it felt like the most natural thing in the world.

"No," Wade said, and he was surprised to find that he meant it. "I don't want to die. I just don't want to…" He gestured vaguely at his chest, at the cancer, at everything. "I don't want to drag it out. I don't want to be a burden. I don't want Vanessa to have to watch me waste away."

"Vanessa," you repeated, tasting the name. "Girlfriend?"

"Fiancée. Sort of. I haven't officially-" He stopped, shook his head. "..It's complicated."

"It always is." You turned your head to look at him, and even though he couldn't see your eyes through the mask, he could feel them. "She loves you, doesn't she?"

"Yeah."

"And she's scared, isn't she?"

"Yeah."

"And you're scared too. But not of dying. Of leaving."

Wade's throat tightened. He looked away, blinking hard, because he was not going to cry in front of a teenager on a rooftop. He was not.

"Of leaving her." you punctuated, when met with silence.

"Yeah..." he whispered.

You were quiet for a long moment. Then you reached over and very gently, very carefully, you took his hand.

Your fingers were cold. Sticky with popsicle sugar. There was a small scar on your thumb, the kind that came from holding a blade too tight, and your nails were bitten down to the quick. But your grip was warm, and steady, and there.

"I'm not going to tell you it gets better," you said softly. "Because I don't know if it does. I'm not going to tell you not to do the treatment, because I don't know if it'll work. And I'm not going to tell you not to jump, because…" You paused, and your voice got even softer, even sweeter, like spun sugar dissolving on the tongue. "Because I know that if someone's dead set on jumping, nothing anyone says will change their mind. You can't talk someone out of a decision they've already made in their bones."

Wade's heart was doing something strange in his chest. Something that wasn't the cancer.

"So what are you going to tell me?" he asked.

You turned his hand over in yours, studying his palm like you were reading his future. There was something almost ceremonial about the gesture, something ancient and gentle and impossibly sad.

"I'm going to tell you that if you do decide to jump," you said, "this isn't the place. This rooftop. This height. It's not tall enough. You'd feel everything. Every bone. Every break. Every second of lying there, waiting, hurting." You looked up at him, and your smile was crooked and sweet and heartbreaking. "I know a place. A better place. Taller. More beautiful. The kind of view that makes you feel small in a good way, like the universe is hugging you instead of crushing you. If you want to jump, I can take you there. And I'll stay with you. Until the end. So you're not alone."

Wade couldn't breathe. Not because of the cancer—because of you.

"You're a child." he said.

"I'm in high school."

"You're a child."

"Very well then, I am a child. A child who's stood on a looooootta rooftops," you said, and your voice didn't waver. "I'm a child who's done the math. I'm a child who knows that sometimes the kindest thing you can do for someone is help them make their ending beautiful instead of ugly." You squeezed his hand. "I'm not trying to convince you to jump. I'm not trying to convince you not to, either. I'm just… offering. Whatever you need. If you want to jump, I'll help you find the right place. If you want to write a note, I have a notebook." You reached into a small pouch on your belt and pulled out a battered spiral notebook and a pen with a chewed-up cap. "I always carry one. You never know when you'll need to leave something behind."

He stared at the notebook. At the pen. At you.

"You're serious." he said.

"I'm always serious about death," you replied, and there was no irony in your voice, no self-deprecation, no performative darkness. Just… honesty. "Death is the most serious thing there is. But it doesn't have to be ugly. It doesn't have to be lonely. It can be a gift. A final kindness. A last I love you."

Wade thought about Vanessa. About the note he'd written in his head a hundred times but never put on paper. I'm sorry. I love you. Don't blame yourself. Live a good life. Be happy. Forget me.

He thought about the rooftop you were offering: taller, more beautiful, the kind of view that made you feel small in a good way. He thought about falling through the air knowing someone would deliver his note, someone who didn't flinch, someone who understood.

"I'm not going to jump," he said again, and this time it felt different. Less like a lie. More like a promise. "Not tonight. Maybe not ever. I don't know. But I'm not going to jump tonight."

You nodded, accepting this like you'd accepted everything else. "Okay."

"But…" He looked down at your hand in his. At the scar on your thumb. At the chewed-up pen cap. "Can I… can I stay here? With you? For a while? I don't want to be alone."

Your smile was so bright, so warm, that it felt like standing in front of a fireplace after being out in the snow. "Yeah," you said. "Yeah, you can stay."

And you did.

You stayed for hours.

And during those hours you talked about nothing and everything.

You learned that his name was Wade. That he used to be in the special forces. That he worked as a mercenary now, which you thought was "very morally ambiguous but also kind of hot, in a 'I-can-fix-him' sort of way." You said this with a completely straight face, and he choked on air. He then admited that was probably what Vanessa thought when they met.

You told him about your routines, that you were trying to keep NY a little bit safer. "I'm like a budget Spider-Man," you said, and then immediately added, "Please don't tell him I said that. He's nice and I don't want him to be sad."

Wade had never met Spider-Man, and he wasn't sure he ever would, but he filed this information away for later.

You asked him about the treatment. About Weapon X. About what they wanted in exchange for curing him.

"They want to… experiment.." he said, choosing his words carefully. "Run tests. See how far they can push the human body. They said I might not survive it, but if I do, I'll never get sick again."

"That sounds like a deal with the devil," you said.

"Yeah."

"Are you going to take it?"

"I don't know."

You thought about this for a long moment, picking at a loose thread on your sleeve. "I think," you said slowly, "that you should do whatever gives you the best chance of staying alive. Not because living is always better than dying, I don't believe that at all, but because you have a Vanessa. And she deserves a chance to say goodbye properly. Or to watch you get better. Whichever happens."

Wade's chest ached. "You're very wise for a teenager."

"I'm very tired for a teenager," you corrected, and your smile was rueful. "Wisdom is just exhaustion pretending to be profound."

He laughed at that. A real laugh, not the rusty one from before. It felt good. It felt like remembering what it was like to be a person instead of a diagnosis.

You talked about books. You loved poetry: Mary Oliver, Sylvia Plath, Anne Sexton, a girl named Rupi Kaur who you said was "basic but in a comforting way, like chicken noodle soup." You quoted a line from something Wade had never heard of, something about the wild geese flying overhead and not needing to be good, and your voice was so soft and so lovely that he felt tears prick at his eyes again.

"You should write your own poems, y'know?" he said.

"I do," you said. "They're terrible. Very dramatic. Very 'I'm-fourteen-and-this-is-so-deep-and-edgy.' But I like writing them. It helps."

"Helps with what?"

You didn't answer. You just looked out at the city, at the orange sky, at the nothing and everything. And Wade didn't push.

At some point, you started shivering. The night had gotten colder, and your spandex wasn't exactly insulated. Without thinking, Wade shrugged off his jacket (a beat-up leather thing that smelled like cigarettes and regret) and draped it over your shoulders.

You looked up at him, surprised. "You don't have to-"

"You're freezing," he said. "And I'm already dying. What's a little more cold?"

You stared at him for a long moment. Then you pulled the jacket tighter around yourself and buried your nose in the collar, inhaling deeply. "You smell like smoke," you said. "And also like… sadness. But like, a cozy sadness. Like a rainy day."

"That's the most insulting compliment I've ever received."

"Good."

You leaned into him, just slightly, just enough that your shoulder pressed against his arm. He didn't pull away. He didn't want to.

"Can I tell you something weird?" you asked.

"Sure. I like weird, I actually love weird, I'm the king of weird."

"I'm glad I found you tonight." Your voice was small, almost childlike. "I was patrolling. Just… walking around. Looking for something to do. Someone to help. And I saw you sitting here, and I thought-" You stopped, bit your lip. "I thought, That's a man doing the math. And I didn't want you to do the math alone."

Wade's throat was tight. "You don't even know me."

"I don't need to." You looked up at him, and even through the mask, he could see the sincerity in your face, the earnestness, the desperate, aching need to matter to someone. "No one should do the math alone. That's the worst part. The loneliness. The feeling that no one would even notice if you stopped doing the math and just… fell."

"Someone would notice," Wade said. "Vanessa would notice."

"Yeah," you agreed. "But not everyone has a Vanessa. Some people have no one. And those are the people I worry about the most." You paused. "The people sitting on rooftops alone. The people doing the math in silence. The people who've already written the note in their head but don't have anyone to deliver it."

"Is that why you carry the notebook?" he asked. "To deliver notes?"

You were quiet for a moment. Then, very softly: "Yeah. I've delivered a few. Not many. But a few. Notes to parents. Notes to girlfriends. Notes to best friends." Your voice cracked on the last word, just a little, and you looked away. "I always stay. Until the end. So they're not alone."

Wade thought about what it must cost you, to do that. To watch strangers die. To hold their hands. To carry their final words to the people who loved them.

He thought about how old you were. How young. How fragile you looked, wrapped in his too-big jacket, shivering in the cold.

"How do you do it?" he asked. "How do you watch people die and not… break?"

You considered the question for a long time. The wind picked up, rustling your hair, and you tucked a strand behind your ear. The gesture was so young, so girlish, that it made his heart hurt.

"I do break," you said finally. "Every time. I break a little. But I put myself back together because…" You trailed off, searching for words. "Because someone has to be there for them. Someone has to care. And if I don't do it, who will?"

"You're a child."

"I know." You smiled, and it was the saddest smile he'd ever seen. "I know."

The sun started to rise around five.

It came slowly, reluctantly, like it wasn't sure it wanted to be seen. The orange glow of the city lights gave way to something softer, something pink and gold and impossibly gentle. The clouds burned off. The stars disappeared. And for the first time in weeks, Wade watched the sky change without thinking about whether it would be one of the last skies he ever saw.

You were asleep.

At some point in the last hour, you'd slumped against his side, your head resting on his shoulder, your breathing slow and even. His jacket was still wrapped around you, and your hand was still loosely holding his, even in sleep. You looked younger like this, softer, the sharp edges of your vigilante persona smoothed away by exhaustion.

Wade didn't move. He didn't want to wake you.

He looked at your mask, still on, still covering the top half of your face, and wondered what you looked like underneath. He wondered if your eyes were the same color as the sky, or as the grass, or as the wood of an old oak, or like the night, or something in between. He wondered if you smiled in your sleep, or frowned, or talked to people who weren't there.

He wondered how someone so young had learned to be so kind.

He wondered how someone so kind had learned to be so sad.

The sun rose higher. The city woke up. Cars started honking, garbage trucks started rumbling, the distant sound of a train reached his ears. You stirred, mumbled something that sounded like "five more minutes." and then went still again.

Wade smiled.

He didn't know it yet, but this moment—this strange, impossible, beautiful moment—would stay with him forever. Long after Weapon X. Long after the scars. Long after everything. He would remember the way the light looked on your hair, the weight of your head on his shoulder, the smell of sugar and vanilla and dying lilies.

He would remember that a high school girl in a homemade costume had offered to help him die, and then, without meaning to, had helped him want to live.

Just a little.

Just enough.

You woke up around six, blinking groggily, your mask slightly askew. You yawned (a huge, jaw-cracking yawn that showed off your molars, just like a kitty cat) and then froze when you realized you were using Wade's shoulder as a pillow.

"Oh," you said. "Sorry. I didn't mean to-"

"It's fine." Wade stretched, his joints popping. "You were tired. I didn't want to wake you."

You sat up, rubbing your eyes under the mask. His jacket slipped off your shoulders, and you handed it back to him with a mumbled "thank you" that was almost too quiet to hear.

The sun was fully up now, golden and warm, and the rooftop looked different in the daylight. Less ominous. More ordinary. Just a roof, just some gravel, just a place where two people had sat through the night and talked about dying and not-dying and everything in between.

You stood up, brushing off your spandex. "I should go," you said. "My… I have school. Sadly." You made a face. "Truancy officers are a thing, apparently."

Wade stood up too, slower, his joints aching. "You should get some sleep," he said. "Real sleep. In a bed."

"I'll try." You didn't sound convinced.

There was a moment of awkwardness, the kind that comes when two people have shared something intimate and don't know how to transition back to normal. Wade shifted his weight from foot to foot. You fiddled with the pouch on your belt.

Then you stepped forward and hugged him.

It was a quick hug, fierce and brief, the kind of hug that said I care about you even if we just met because i am a broken teenage girl and you are a broken man and that's basically the same so, same, dude. Your arms wrapped around his waist, your face pressed against his chest, and then you were gone, stepping back, already moving toward the edge of the rooftop.

"Hey," Wade said.

You paused.

"Thank you," he said. "For… for staying. For the popsicle. For the…" He gestured vaguely at everything. "The not doing the math alone pep talk."

You smiled. That big, bright, explosive smile that looked like it might crack your face in half. "No one should do the math alone," you said. "Ever. If you ever need someone to sit with you again, on a rooftop, in a hospital, wherever, you can find me. I patrol this area a lot. Just…" You tapped your mask, where your ear would be. "Listen for me."

"I don't know your name."

You tilted your head, considering. "It doesn't matter, bye Wade." you said.

And then you were gone, a flash of white mask, a whisper of spandex, a soft laugh that echoed off the brick and faded into the morning air.

Wade stood on the rooftop for a long time after you left.

He looked at the popsicle stick still in his hand: the one you'd given him, the one he'd sucked the sugar off of, the one that still smelled faintly of artificial blueberry. He tucked it into his pocket, next to his wallet and the crumpled business card for Weapon X.

He thought about the treatment. About the risks. About the chance, the chance, that he might survive.

He thought about Vanessa. About the note he'd never written, the goodbye he'd never said.

And he thought about you. About a teenage girl in a homemade costume who carried a notebook for dying people's final words. About the way you'd held his hand. About the way you'd offered to help him find a taller rooftop, a more beautiful view, a less painful end.

He thought about how strange it was, how sweet it was, that a child had been worried about a grown man killing himself, and had tried to help him do it better, because she knew she couldn't talk him out of it and she wanted to make sure he wasn't alone.

He thought about how that was maybe the kindest thing anyone had ever done for him in a very, very long time.

Wade Wilson took a deep breath. The air was cold and clean and tasted like the beginning of something.

He wasn't going to jump.

He wasn't going to die on a rooftop too short to kill him properly.

He was going to call that number. He was going to do the treatment. He was going to take the risk.

Because maybe, just maybe, he wanted to see this girl again.

Maybe he wanted to eat another popsicle with her on a rooftop at 2 AM.

Maybe he wanted to be someone worth staying for.

He pulled out his phone, dialed the number on the business card, and listened to it ring.

"Weapon X Experimental Therapeutics. How can we help you?"

"My name is Wade Wilson," he said. "I was told you can cure anything."

"That's correct, sir. But the price is… unusual."

Wade looked at the horizon, at the sun rising over the city, over the garbage and the beauty and the broken, beautiful people.

"I don't care about the price," he said. "I have someone I need to live for."

He didn't know it yet, but that someone was you.

And you didn't know it yet, but you had just changed his life.

Three weeks later, Wade walked into the Weapon X facility.

He was scared. More scared than he'd ever been. But he carried something in his pocket—not a good luck charm, not a photo of Vanessa, not anything sensible.

He carried a popsicle stick.

Blue. Artificial. Sticky with remembered sugar.

And when they strapped him to the table and the needles went in and the pain started, the real pain, the kind that made him scream until his voice gave out, he closed his eyes and thought about a girl on a rooftop.

"You've got nice eyes," you'd said. "It'd be a waste."

He held onto that.

He held onto her.

And when he woke up—scarred, broken, alive—the first thing he did was laugh.

Because his face was shit-fucked, totally scarred, but his eyes remained

Because somewhere out there, a sixteen-year-old girl in a white mask was eating a melting popsicle on a rooftop, waiting for someone to need her.

And Wade Wilson, the Merc with a Mouth, the man who couldn't die, the miracle, was going to find her.

He was going to say thank you.

He was going to stay.

And maybe, just maybe, he was going to make sure you never had to do the math alone either.

The thing about living at Professor Xavier’s School for Gifted Youngsters, also known as the X-Mansion, also known as the place where a teenage girl with a healing factor and a lot of emotional baggage lived under the watchful, metal eyes of Colossus, was that it was never, ever boring. Especially when Wade Wilson decided to grace you with his presence.

“Knock, knock, little dudette!” a voice sang from your bedroom doorway, followed by a rapid-fire rat-a-tat-tat against the wood.

You didn’t even look up from your sketchbook. “The door’s open, Wade.”

“Ah, but where’s the fun in that? The anticipation! The dramatic flair! It’s the difference between a microwave burrito and a five-star meal.” He burst into the room in a swirl of red leather and unearned confidence, a crinkly paper bag held aloft like a holy relic. “I come bearing gifts from the outside world! Things that will make Colossus’s rivets pop with disapproval!”

He dropped the bag onto your bed, and the smell of greasy, glorious, chemical-laden goodness filled the air. You peeked inside. A jumbo bag of sour gummy worms, two cans of Dr. Pepper, and a DVD copy of Die Hard.

“You brought me sugar, caffeine, and Bruce Willis. Are you trying to get me to marry you?” you asked, a genuine smile finally cracking your focused expression.

“Only if we can have a montage wedding set to ‘Careless Whisper’,” he deadpanned, collapsing into your desk chair and spinning in a slow, dramatic circle. “So, what’s the sitch? Been blowing anything up with Negasonic? Practicing your brooding face in the mirror? I heard it’s a required course for all X-Men trainees.”

You shrugged, turning back to your sketchbook. “Just drawing.”

Wade, being Wade, couldn’t stand not being the center of attention. He leaned forward, trying to get a peek. “Ooh, let Uncle Wade see. Is it a portrait of me? A tasteful nude? Because I’m flattered, but I think my contractual obligations with Fox might prohibit it.”

You rolled your eyes but tilted the sketchbook his way. It was a detailed drawing of a phoenix, rising from a tangle of thorny, black vines.

He was quiet for a second, which was always unnerving. “Heavy. I like it. Very symbolic. The thorns represent the soul-crushing ennui of teenage existence, right?”

“Something like that,” you murmured.

His eyes, however, had drifted from the sketchbook to your arm. It was a hot day, and you were wearing a tank top. He wasn’t looking at your bicep or your elbow. He was looking at the faint, silvery lines that crisscrossed your forearm like a pale, tragic roadmap.

You saw his gaze, and your arm immediately jerked, tucking itself against your stomach, hidden from view. Your whole body went rigid.

The playful energy in the room evaporated. Wade stopped spinning in the chair. He didn't make a joke. He didn't make a crass comment. He just sat there, his masked face unreadable.

“Hey,” he said, his voice suddenly stripped of its usual manic showmanship. It was just… Wade. Soft. Careful. “You don’t have to do that.”

“Do what?” you mumbled, not meeting his eyes.

“Hide. Not from me. Never from me.” He got up from the chair and moved to sit on the edge of your bed, a respectful distance away. He gestured to his own masked face, then to the red suit covering every inch of his body. “Kiddo, I am a walking, talking, wise-cracking monument to skin that looks like a topographical map of the moon. You think I’m gonna judge you for some lines?”

You kept your arm pressed tight, your jaw clenched. “It’s different.”

“Is it?” He tilted his head. “Enlighten me. How?”

You finally looked at him, your eyes stinging with the threat of tears. You hated this. You hated the vulnerability, the way your throat closed up. “Because yours are… they’re from being a hero. From fighting. Mine are just… stupid. From being weak. From being so messed up in the head that the only way to feel better was to…” You trailed off, unable to finish the sentence.

Wade was silent for a long, long moment. Then, he did something unexpected. He reached up and pulled off his mask.

Your breath hitched. You’d seen his face before, of course, but it was always a shock. The mottled, textured, scarred landscape of his skin. He looked at you, his eyes, the only part of his face that was still perfectly him, were full of a sadness so profound it hurt to witness.

“You think these are from being a hero?” he asked, his voice a low rasp. “Sweetheart, no. Most of these are from me being a dumbass who got cancer and then made a deal with some back-alley chucklefucks to stick me in a machine that was supposed to ‘activate my mutant genes’ as a cure. They just turned me into a human avocado that can’t die. The rest?” He pointed to a particularly nasty cluster on his cheek. “Pain tolerance tests. And these ones on my neck? From a fight where I was literally just trying to survive to get back to someone I loved.”

He leaned forward, his gaze intense. “Scars aren’t about how you got them. They’re not medals of honor for the ‘right’ kind of pain. They’re just… proof. Proof that you were hurting. Proof that something happened. And the fact that they’re scars and not open wounds?” His voice cracked, just a little. “That’s the part that gets me. That’s the part that makes me wanna find Past-You, whoever wasn’t there for you, and have a very stern, katana-filled chat with them.”

A tear escaped and rolled down your cheek. He saw it and his expression softened into something unbearably tender.

“Look at me,” he whispered. You did. “When I look at these,” he said, gently tapping his own scarred cheek, “I see a mess. I see the guy Vanessa looked at and tried her damndest to still see as beautiful, but who she had to learn to love all over again. I see the guy who scares kids at the grocery store. But when I look at yours?” He shook his head, a genuine, warm smile appearing on his ravaged face. “I don’t see that at all.”

He reached out, slowly, giving you every chance to pull away. His rough fingertips gently touched your arm, coaxing it away from your body. He traced the faintest line on your wrist, his touch as light as a feather.

“I see a warrior,” he said softly. “I see someone who was in a battle so dark, so lonely, that the only enemy she could see was herself. And I see that she fought it. Every single day. And she won.” He looked from your scars to your eyes. “She won. Because she’s here. She’s drawing phoenixes and hanging out with a mouthy mercenary and making Colossus’s metal butt clench with her foul language. She won, and I am so obscenely, stupidly, cosmically glad she did. Because if she hadn’t, I never would have gotten to meet the most awesome, talented, resilient kid I know.”

The dam broke. You let out a choked sob and launched yourself at him, burying your face in the rough leather of his shoulder. He didn’t flinch. He just wrapped his arms around you, holding you tight, one hand cradling the back of your head.

“I gotcha, kid,” he murmured into your hair. “I gotcha. Let it out. This is a judgment-free ugly-cry zone.”

You cried for a while, the kind of crying that leaves you hiccupping and exhausted. Wade just held on, a solid, surprisingly comforting presence. He didn’t try to shush you or fill the silence with jokes. He just let you be.

When you finally pulled back, wiping your nose on your sleeve, he grinned, though his own eyes looked suspiciously bright. “There she is. Now, that’s what I call a cathartic release. Better than a colon cleanse, and way cheaper.”

You laughed, a wet, snorting sound that made his grin widen. “You’re so gross.”

“It’s my superpower.” He grabbed the bag of gummy worms and ripped it open. “Here. Emergency emotional support sugar.”

You took a worm, chewing thoughtfully. You looked at his face, really looked at it. You saw the landscape of his pain, the texture of his battles. And you heard his words echo in your head. When I look at yours, I see a warrior. You looked at his scars, and for the first time, you didn't see something ugly.

You saw proof that he was a fighter, too. Proof that he’d been through hell and had clawed his way back. Proof that he had survived.

“Wade?” you said.

“Mmhmm?” he asked, his mouth full of red gummy worm.

“You know how you see my scars?”

He nodded, swallowing. “As the coolest battle wounds ever? Yeah.”

“That’s how I see yours.”

He froze mid-chew. His eyes widened, a flicker of the insecurity he’d just described flashing through them. “What? These old things? Please, they’re a dermatological nightmare.”

“No, they’re not,” you said, your voice firm. “They’re proof. Proof that you went through something horrific and you’re still here. You’re still the funniest, most annoying, most caring person I know. You’re still Wade. So when I look at them, I don’t see a mess. I see… you. All of you. And you’re pretty great.”

He stared at you, utterly speechless. For the first time in his life, Wade Wilson, the Merc with the Mouth, was completely, utterly silent. He just looked at you, his eyes wide and vulnerable and filled with a kind of awe.

He blinked rapidly, then cleared his throat gruffly. “Well. Shit, kid. Now who’s making who cry?”

He quickly pulled his mask back on, hiding his face. “Okay! That’s enough emotional nudity for one day! Time for the main event!” He grabbed the Die Hard DVD and waved it like a flag. “We’re gonna watch John McClane save Christmas, we’re gonna drink our body weight in Dr. Pepper, and we are NOT gonna talk about our feelings for at least the next two hours. Deal?”

You smiled, a real, genuine smile. “Deal.”

He popped the movie into your laptop and settled onto the floor, leaning his back against your bed. After a moment, you slid off the bed to sit next to him, your shoulder pressed against his.

Halfway through the movie, during a scene where Hans Gruber was being particularly smarmy, Wade spoke without looking away from the screen.

“Hey, kid?”

“Yeah, Wade?”

“For the record?” He paused. “You’re pretty great, too. The greatest. The ‘best there is at what you do’ kind of great. Even if what you do is beat yourself up. Stop that, by the way. You’re too cool for that crap.”

You leaned your head against his shoulder. “I’ll try.”

He put his arm around you, pulling you into a side hug. “That’s my girl.”