#spiderpool fluff

The apartment was quiet now.

That was the worst part, you thought, the silence. Because quiet had never meant anything good in your life. Quiet meant the storm was building. Quiet meant someone was about to throw something. Quiet meant your mother was giving your father that look, the one that said you're sleeping on the couch tonight but really meant I'm going to make you pay for existing.

But this quiet was different. This quiet was empty.

You pressed your forehead harder against your knees, your arms so tight around your legs that your fingers had gone numb five minutes ago. The blood was starting to come back in sharp, prickling waves, but you barely noticed. You couldn't feel much of anything right now except the echo of their voices bouncing around inside your skull like trapped birds.

"You always do this, Wade. You always-"

"Do what, exactly? Care? Because last I checked, caring about whether you come home in one piece isn't-"

"It's not caring, it's smothering. It's you projecting your own issues onto me and expecting me to just-"

"Oh, here we go. Here we fucking go. Pull out the therapist words, why don't you? Make me sound crazy. That's new. That's never happened before."

"I'm not trying to make you sound crazy, I'm trying to make you see that you can't just kill everyone who looks at me wrong. That's not how this works."

"How what works, Pete? How what works? Enlighten me. Because from where I'm standing, it looks like you're the one who's been pulling away for weeks and I'm the only one stupid enough to still be trying."

You'd heard it all. Every word. Every pause. Every sharp intake of breath that preceded something worse. You'd been on the couch when they came in, still in your nightgown. A ridiculous, frilly thing with tiny roses printed on it that Wade had bought you from some vintage shop downtown, because he'd seen it in the window and said it looked like something his mother would have worn in the seventies, and hadn't that been a whole conversation about his mother and you'd held his hand while he talked about her and tried not to cry.

But that was before. Before the bickering. Before the bickering turned into snapping. Before the snapping turned into fighting.

You'd been curled up on the couch with a book, something from the eighties, a battered paperback of The Shell Seekers that you'd found at a thrift store and fallen in love with because the cover was so pretty and the story was so sad and happy all at once, and you'd heard the door open and known immediately that something was wrong.

Their footsteps were wrong.

Peter's footsteps were always light, almost silent, the kind of footsteps that belonged to someone who had spent years learning how to move without being heard. But tonight they were sharp. Deliberate. The kind of footsteps that said I'm trying very hard not to slam this door.

And Wade's footsteps- Wade's footsteps were usually loud, careless, the kind of footsteps that said I'm here and I don't care who knows it. But tonight they were heavy. Dragging. The kind of footsteps that said I'm tired and I'm angry and I don't want to be having this conversation.

You'd looked up from your book just as they came into the kitchen, still in varying states of their costumes. Peter had already pulled off his mask, his hair a disaster, sweat still drying on his temples. Wade was in his full suit, mask still on, which meant he didn't want you to see his face.

That was the first sign.

Wade only kept the mask on around the apartment when he didn't want you to see what he was feeling. When he was upset. When he was scared. When he was anything other than his usual loud, obnoxious, safe self.

You'd marked your page with a scrap of ribbon and set the book aside, drawing your knees up under your chin, watching them through the gap between the back of the couch and the wall. You knew you should probably go to your room. Give them privacy. But your feet wouldn't move. Your body wouldn't cooperate.

And then they'd started.

"I'm just saying, maybe you should think before you act for once in your goddamn life."

Peter's voice was low. Controlled. That was how he got when he was really angry—he went quiet. He went still. He became something cold and hard and untouchable, and you'd seen it happen before, but never directed at Wade. Never like this.

"Think?" Wade's voice cracked on the word, went high and brittle in a way that made your chest hurt. "Think? You want me to think? Okay. Okay, fine. I'm thinking. I'm thinking that I just saved your ass from getting turned into a fucking shish kebab by some two-bit thug with a vibranium knife, and instead of saying 'thanks, Wade, you're my hero,' you're standing here lecturing me about-"

"About killing him, Wade. About killing him in front of witnesses. About leaving a body in the middle of the street with his intestines hanging out like some kind of-"

"Like some kind of what? Statement? Warning? Yeah, actually. That's exactly what it was. Because now everyone who saw it is going to think twice before pulling a knife on Spider-Man."

"I don't need you to protect me."

"Well, too bad, because I'm going to do it anyway."

"That's not- that's not love, Wade! That's obsession. That's control. That's you trying to make yourself feel better by-"

You'd flinched at the word love. Not because it was bad, but because it was true. Because you'd known for months now, maybe longer, that what they had was something real and deep and precious, something you'd never seen before in your life. Something you'd started to believe might actually last.

And now Peter was using it like a weapon.

"Don't." Wade's voice had gone strange. Flat. The kind of flat that meant something was breaking underneath. "Don't do that. Don't psychoanalyze me. You're not my therapist. You're not even my-"

"Your what, Wade? Your boyfriend? Your partner? Because you've never actually-"

"Because I've never what? Said it? Used the word? Is that what this is about? You need me to say it out loud? Fine. Fine. I love you. There. Happy now? I love you and I'm fucking terrified every single night that you're not going to come home, and I know that's my problem and I know I need to deal with it, but I don't know how, okay? I don't know how to not be scared. I don't know how to not want to kill everyone who even looks at you wrong. I don't know how to be normal about this. I don't know how to be good."

And Peter had said. God, what had Peter said?

"Then maybe you should figure it out before you ruin this. Before you ruin us. Because I can't keep doing this, Wade. I can't keep watching you tear yourself apart and expect me to just stand here and pretend it's not happening."

"So what, then? What are you saying?"

"I'm saying I need you to get your shit together. I'm saying I need you to be someone I can actually be with without feeling like I'm constantly waiting for the other shoe to drop."

"The other shoe."

"Yes. The other shoe. The one where you finally decide I'm not worth the effort and you disappear. The one where you get yourself killed and I have to explain to-"

Peter had stopped then. You'd felt the pause like a physical thing, a hand reaching out to grab you by the throat. Because you knew what he'd almost said. Explain to her. Explain to you.

"Oh, that's rich." Wade's laugh had been horrible, nothing like his real laugh, the one that made you smile even on your worst days. "That's really rich, coming from you. The guy who won't even say the word. The guy who's been keeping me at arm's length for two and a half years because he's too scared to admit that this is real."

"This is real."

"Is it? Because from where I'm standing, it looks like you're the one who's been looking for an exit. It looks like you're the one who's been waiting for me to fuck up so you can have an excuse to-"

"That's not fair."

"No? Then what is it? What do you call it when someone picks a fight over nothing and then acts like I'm the problem?"

"It's not nothing. It's never nothing with you. Everything is a production. Everything is a crisis. Everything is life or death because you can't just- you can't just be, Wade. You have to be everything all the time, and I'm tired. I'm so tired."

"Then go to bed."

"That's not what I-"

"Go to bed, Peter. Take a nap. Take a week. Take a year. I don't care anymore."

"You don't mean that."

"Don't I?"

And that was when you'd started sinking.

Not physically, not at first. You'd already been low on the couch, curled into yourself like a pill bug trying to hide from the light. But something inside you had started to drop. A cold, heavy feeling in your chest, like swallowing stones one by one.

Don't I?

The way he'd said it. Flat. Empty. Like he'd already given up. Like he'd already decided that this was the end, that he was the end, that he was going to do what he always did and burn everything down before anyone could leave him first.

You knew that pattern. You'd lived that pattern. Your mother had done the same thing, pushed and pushed and pushed until your father finally snapped, and then stood there with tears in her eyes like she was the victim, like she hadn't been the one holding the match the whole time.

And your father had done it too, in his own way. The silent treatment. The cold shoulder. The way he'd look right through your mother like she wasn't there, like she was already a ghost, and then turn to you with that awful smile and say at least I still have my little girl.

Don't make me choose, you'd thought, pressing your forehead harder against your knees. Please don't make me choose. I can't. I can't do it again. I can't.

But they kept fighting.

"You know what your problem is, Pete? You think you're so much better than everyone else. You think you're so good. But you're not. You're just as messed up as the rest of us. You're just better at hiding it."

"I never said I was better than anyone."

"You don't have to say it. It's in everything you do. The way you talk to me. The way you look at me when you think I'm not paying attention. Like I'm a problem to be solved. Like I'm a project."

"That's not-"

"It is! It is, and you know it! You've been trying to fix me since day one. And the thing is, Pete? The thing is, I don't want to be fixed. I like who I am. I like being messy and loud and wrong. I like killing people who deserve it. I like making bad jokes and worse decisions. I like-"

"You like pushing me away before I can push you away."

The silence that followed was the worst one yet. Because it wasn't angry. It wasn't even sad. It was just… empty. Hollow. The kind of silence that happens when something irreparable has been said, when a door has been closed that can't be opened again.

You'd heard that silence before. The night your father had packed a bag and walked out, and your mother had stood in the doorway watching him go, and neither of them had said a word.

No, you'd thought, your hands shaking where they were wrapped around your knees. No, no, no, no, no.

And then Wade had said, very quietly: "Maybe you're right. Maybe I do."

And you'd stopped breathing.

You didn't remember sliding off the couch. You didn't remember hitting the floor. You just remember suddenly being there, curled up in the small space between the couch and the wall, your back against the baseboard and your knees pressed so tight against your chest that your spine ached.

The fight continued above you. Around you. Through you.

"So that's it? You're just going to-"

"What do you want me to say, Peter? Huh? What words would make this better? Because I don't have them. I don't have the right words. I never do."

"I don't need the right words. I just need you to-"

"To what? Stop? Change? Be someone else? Because that's what you're asking. That's what you've always been asking. You just never had the balls to say it out loud until now."

"That's not fair."

"Life's not fair. You taught me that."

"Don't. Don't do that. Don't twist my words."

"I'm not twisting anything. I'm just saying what you're too polite to say. You want a partner who's clean and neat and normal. You want someone who comes home at a reasonable hour and makes you dinner and doesn't have blood under their fingernails. You want-"

"I want you, Wade! I just want you to-"

"To what? What, Peter? Use your words."

"To stop acting like you're already gone!"

The shout had rattled the windows. You'd felt it in your bones, in your teeth, in the hollow of your chest where your heart was supposed to be.

And then—nothing.

No more words. No more shouting. Just the sound of breathing, heavy and ragged, and the creak of floorboards as someone moved.

"I'm going to bed."

Wade's voice was exhausted. Defeated. The voice of someone who had given up on being heard.

"Wade, wait-"

"No. You're right. I need to calm down. I need to- I need to not be me for a while. So I'm going to bed. And you can sleep on the couch. Or don't. I don't care anymore."

"That's not what I meant."

"It never is."

Footsteps. Heavy. Dragging. Coming toward the living room.

Coming toward you.

And then-

Wade stopped.

You heard it. The exact moment his foot hit something that shouldn't have been there. The exact moment he looked down and saw you.

"What the-"

Silence.

And then: "Pete."

His voice was different now. Not angry. Not defeated. Something else. Something you couldn't name.

"Pete, get over here."

More footsteps. Faster this time. Peter's light tread, but urgent now, worried.

"What is it? What's—"

And then he saw you too.

"Oh, God. Sweetheart-"

You couldn't look at them. You couldn't look at anything. Your eyes were fixed on a spot on the floor, a small stain that might have been coffee or might have been blood or might have been nothing at all. Your whole body was shaking, fine tremors running through your muscles like you were standing in a freezing wind.

"Hey. Hey, kid. Look at me."

Wade's voice was soft now. Softer than you'd ever heard it. But you couldn't. You couldn't look at him. Because if you looked at him, you'd see the anger still lingering in his eyes. You'd see the frustration. You'd see the end of something, the place where love turned into resentment turned into nothing.

"Sweetheart, can you hear me?"

Peter. Closer now. You could smell him, sweat and city air and that weird soap he used, the one that smelled like nothing in particular but felt nice on your skin when he hugged you.

You couldn't answer. Your throat had closed up. Your voice was gone, lost somewhere in the panic that was still swirling through your chest like storm clouds.

"Shit. Shit, okay. Okay. Wade, don't—don't grab her. She's dissociating. You'll scare her."

"I'm not gonna grab her. I'm not- fuck. Fuck. How long has she been there? How much did she hear?"

"I don't know. I don't-"

"She heard everything. Look at her. She heard everything."

A sound escaped your throat. Not a word. Just a noise. A small, wounded thing that you couldn't hold back.

"Okay. Okay. Sweetheart, I need you to try to breathe for me. Can you do that? Can you take a deep breath?"

You couldn't. Your lungs wouldn't cooperate. Every breath you took was shallow and fast, too fast, the kind of breathing that made your chest hurt and your head spin.

"She's hyperventilating."

"I can see that, Wade."

"What do we do? What do we-"

"We stay calm. We stay calm and we talk to her and we wait for her to come back."

"And if she doesn't?"

"She will. She's strong. She's- she's been through worse than this and she's still here. She's still-"

"Don't. Don't do that. Don't pretend this is fine."

"I'm not pretending anything. I'm just-"

"You're just what? Optimistic? Hopeful? Because look at her, Pete. Look at her. She's—"

Wade's voice cracked. Broke. Went silent.

And then he was crouching in front of you.

You didn't see him move. You just looked up—or maybe you didn't, maybe your eyes just finally focused on something other than the floor—and there he was. Wade Wilson, in his full Deadpool suit, mask still on, crouched down on the floor in front of you like he was trying to make himself smaller. Less threatening.

"Hey, kiddo."

His voice was rough. Wrecked. The voice of someone who had been shouting and was now trying very hard not to.

You blinked at him. Once. Twice. Your brain was slow, sluggish, like trying to wade through molasses.

"There you are. There's my girl. Can you- can you look at me? Really look at me?"

You tried. You really did. But your eyes kept sliding away, sliding over to where Peter was standing a few feet behind Wade, his face pale and worried in the dim light.

"No, no, no. Look at me. Just me. Come on, sweetheart. You can do it."

Wade snapped his fingers in front of your face.

The sound was sharp. Loud. It cut through the fog in your brain like a knife, and suddenly you were there, really there, present in your body in a way you hadn't been for- how long? Minutes? Hours? You didn't know.

And you flinched.

You flinched hard, your whole body jerking back against the wall, your shoulders hunching up toward your ears, your eyes going wide and wild. You tried to scramble away, to push yourself backward through the wall, to disappear into the plaster and the lathe and never come out.

Wade froze.

His hand was still in the air where he'd been snapping his fingers. His whole body had gone still, the way a predator goes still when it realizes it's been misidentified as a threat.

"Oh, kid." His voice was barely a whisper. "Oh, kid, no. No, no, no. It's me. It's just me. I'm not gonna- I would never-"

But you couldn't hear him. Not really. You could hear the words, but they weren't landing. They were bouncing off the panic that was still clawing at your chest, the fear that had been building since the first raised voice, the first sharp word, the first hint that this was all falling apart.

"Wade, back up."

"I'm not-"

"Back up. You're scaring her."

"I'm not trying to-"

"I know. Just- give her some space."

Wade shifted back, just a few inches, but it was enough. Enough for you to see Peter's face more clearly. Enough for you to see the worry there, the fear, the desperate need to fix whatever was happening.

"Sweetheart." Peter's voice was so gentle. So soft. The kind of voice you used with frightened animals and small children. "Sweetheart, can you hear me? Can you understand what I'm saying?"

You nodded. A tiny movement, barely perceptible. But they both saw it.

"Okay. Good. That's good. Can you- can you tell us what's wrong? Can you use your words for me?"

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

Nothing came out.

"It's okay. Take your time. There's no rush."

But there was a rush. There was always a rush. Because if you didn't say something soon, they were going to start fighting again. They were going to start throwing words like knives, and then maybe real knives, and then-

"Hey. Hey, look at me."

Wade again. Still crouched, still trying to make himself small. His mask was still on, but you could imagine his face underneath. The scars. The worry. The fear.

You looked at him. For a whole second this time. Maybe two.

"There she is." He almost smiled. You could hear it in his voice. "There's my girl. Okay. Okay, we're getting somewhere. Can you- can you tell me what's going on in that head of yours? Because I gotta be honest, kiddo, you're scaring the shit out of us."

"Wade."

"What? She is. I'm not gonna lie to her."

"Maybe soften the language a little."

"She's heard worse. She's heard us."

That hit. Right in the chest. You flinched again, smaller this time, but they both saw it.

"Fuck." Wade's voice was barely audible. "Fuck, Pete. She heard us. She heard everything."

"I know."

"How much? How much did you hear, sweetheart? Can you—can you tell us that much?"

You couldn't. You couldn't tell them anything. Your voice was still gone, still hiding somewhere deep inside you where the fear lived.

But your eyes moved. From Wade to Peter. From Peter to Wade. Back and forth, back and forth, like a tennis match played in slow motion.

They were both looking at you. Both worried. Both scared.

"Okay." Peter took a breath. Let it out slowly. "Okay. I'm going to- I'm going to try something. Wade, stay where you are."

"I'm not going anywhere."

Peter moved. Slowly. Carefully. Every movement deliberate, every step announced. He came around the side of the couch, giving you a wide berth, and then lowered himself to his knees next to Wade.

Now they were both in front of you. Both kneeling. Both looking at you with those matching expressions of concern and fear and love.

Love.

Did they still love each other? Or had that fight been the end of it? The final straw? The last word?

"Sweetheart, I need you to try to breathe for me. Can you do that? Just one deep breath. In through your nose, out through your mouth. Like we practiced."

You tried. You really tried. But the breath got stuck halfway down, caught on the knot of fear in your chest.

"That's okay. Try again. Take your time."

Another try. Another failure.

"Come on, kiddo. You can do it. I believe in you."

This was Wade's voice. Soft. Encouraging. The voice he used when you were trying to do something hard, like reach a high shelf or open a stubborn jar or admit that you were sad about something.

You took a breath. A real one. Deep and shaky and not quite enough, but close.

"Good. That's good. Another one."

Another breath. Better this time. The knot in your chest loosened just a little.

"There you go. That's our girl."

Peter reached out. Slowly. Carefully. His hand hovered in the air between you, palm up, an invitation rather than a demand.

You stared at his hand. At the calluses on his fingers. At the small scar on his knuckle from that time Wade had accidentally cut him while demonstrating a new knife technique.

"Can I touch you? Is that okay?"

You didn't nod. You didn't shake your head. You just kept staring at his hand like it might bite you.

"Okay. That's okay. I'll wait."

He waited. They both waited. The silence stretched out, thick and heavy, but different now. Not the silence of an ending. Something else. Something that might have been patience.

And then, without meaning to, you leaned forward. Just a little. Just enough for your forehead to brush against Peter's palm.

"Oh, sweetheart."

His hand curved around the side of your face. Gentle. Warm. His thumb stroked across your cheekbone, wiping away tears you hadn't realized you were crying.

"I've got you. I've got you. You're okay."

You weren't okay. You were so, so, far from okay. But for a moment, with his hand on your face and Wade's presence a warm weight at your side, you almost believed you could be.

"Can you tell us what's wrong now? Can you try?"

You shook your head. Tiny movements. But they saw.

"That's okay. You don't have to. We can just sit here for a while. However long you need."

Wade shifted, settling more comfortably on the floor. His knee bumped against yours, and you didn't flinch this time. You didn't pull away.

"Yeah, kiddo. Take your time. We're not going anywhere."

But they were. They were going to leave each other. They were going to break up and split apart and you were going to have to choose, and you couldn't, you couldn't, because choosing meant losing and losing meant-

"Hey. Hey, hey, hey. You're doing it again. You're going somewhere else. Come back. Come back to us."

Wade's voice. Sharp now. Worried.

"Sweetheart, look at me." Peter's hand tightened on your face, not painfully, just present. A anchor in the storm.

You looked at him. At his kind eyes and his worried mouth and the small crease between his eyebrows that only appeared when he was really scared.

"There you are. Stay with me. Can you stay with me?"

You nodded. A lie, probably, but you nodded anyway.

"Good girl."

Wade made a sound. Not quite a laugh. Not quite a sob. Something in between.

"You're killing us, kid. You know that? You're absolutely killing us."

"Wade."

"What? She is. She's sitting here looking like a scared rabbit and we don't even know why. We don't know what we did. We don't know how to fix it."

"Maybe we should start by not fighting in front of her."

"Oh, don't. Don't you dare. Don't you dare make this about me."

"I'm not-"

"You are. You're doing it right now. You're-"

"Stop."

The word came out of nowhere. Out of your mouth, your voice, small and cracked and barely there. But it was enough.

They both stopped. Turned to look at you.

"Please." Your voice broke on the word. "Please stop fighting. Please. I can't- I can't do it again. I can't-"

"Do what again, sweetheart? What can't you do?"

Peter's voice was so gentle. So careful. Like he was handling something fragile, something that might shatter if he spoke too loud.

You shook your head. You couldn't explain it. You didn't have the words.

"Is this about the fight? About what you heard?"

Wade. Blunter than Peter, but not unkind.

You nodded.

"How much did you hear?"

Another nod. Not an answer, not really, but they understood.

"All of it." Peter's voice was hollow. "She heard all of it."

"Shit."

"Yeah."

They looked at each other. Something passed between them, something you couldn't read. An agreement, maybe. A truce.

"Sweetheart, I need you to understand something." Peter leaned forward, his hand still on your face, his eyes locked on yours. "What you heard- that wasn't- we weren't-"

He stopped. Swallowed. Tried again.

"Couples fight. Even couples who love each other. Especially couples who love each other. Because when you love someone, you care about the things they do. You care about whether they're safe. You care about whether they're happy. And sometimes that caring comes out wrong. Sometimes it comes out as anger, or frustration, or fear."

"We weren't trying to hurt each other." Wade's voice was rough. "We were trying to- I don't know. We were trying to figure something out. And we did it badly. We did it really, really badly."

"But we weren't-" Peter stopped again. His thumb was still moving on your cheek, wiping away tears that kept coming. "We weren't breaking up. We weren't ending anything. We were just… having a bad night."

You wanted to believe them. You wanted to so badly. But you'd heard those words before. From your mother, after a fight with your father. We're not breaking up, sweetheart. We're just having a disagreement. And then a week later, the dishes had started flying.

"I don't believe you."

The words came out before you could stop them. Small and scared and honest.

They both froze.

"What?"

"I don't—I don't believe you." Your voice was shaking. Everything was shaking. "You were saying- you were saying such mean things. To each other. And you looked so- so done. Like you didn't even want to look at each other anymore. Like you were-"

You couldn't finish. The words got stuck in your throat, tangled up with all the other words you'd never said, all the other fights you'd witnessed, all the other times you'd watched love turn into something ugly.

"Oh, kid." Wade's voice was barely a whisper. "Oh, kid, no. That's not-... we weren't-"

"You said you didn't care anymore." The words were pouring out now, unstoppable, a dam breaking. "You said you didn't care if he went to bed or not. You said- you said you were tired. You said-"

"I was lying." Wade's voice cracked. "I was lying, okay? I say things I don't mean when I'm scared. I say horrible, awful, unforgivable things because I'd rather push someone away than have them leave me first. It's what I do. It's what I've always done."

"But you can't-" You were crying now, really crying, ugly sobs that shook your whole body. "You can't do that. You can't say things like that and expect them to not mean anything. Words mean things. They hurt."

"I know." Wade's voice was wrecked. "I know they do. I know."

"Then why do you do it? Why do you-"

"Because I'm broken, sweetheart. Because I'm damaged and wrong and I don't know how to be any different. Because every time I get close to someone, every time I start to care about someone, I get scared. And when I get scared, I get mean."

"That's not- that's not an excuse."

"I know it's not."

"Then-"

"But I'm trying." His voice broke on the last word. "I'm trying so hard. I'm trying to be better. For you. For him. For- for all of us. I'm trying."

You looked at him. Really looked. At the mask that hid his face. At the hands that had killed so many people. At the man who had held you while you cried more times than you could count.

"I don't want you to be different." The words came out before you could stop them. "I don't want you to be- to be fixed. I just want you to stay. I want both of you to stay. I don't want-"

Your voice gave out. The tears were too much. The fear was too much. Everything was too much.

"You don't want what, sweetheart? What don't you want?"

Peter's voice. Gentle. Patient. Waiting.

"I don't want to have to choose."

The words fell into the silence like stones into still water.

"Choose what?"

"Choose between you." You were shaking now, your whole body trembling like a leaf in a storm. "When you- when you break up. When you stop- when you stop loving each other. You're going to make me choose. You're going to make me pick one of you to live with and one of you to- to visit. Like- like parents in a divorce. And I can't. I can't. I can't choose. I love you both. I love you both so much and I can't-"

"Sweetheart."

"-I can't do it again. I can't watch two people who love each other turn into two people who hate each other. I can't watch you throw things and say mean things and use me to hurt each other. I can't-"

"Sweetheart, stop. Please. Stop."

Peter's hands were on your face now, both of them, cupping your cheeks, forcing you to look at him. His eyes were bright with tears.

"No one is making you choose. No one is breaking up. No one is going anywhere."

"But you were fighting. You were saying-"

"We were being stupid. We were being scared and stupid and we forgot—we forgot that you were here. We forgot that you could hear us. And I'm so sorry. I'm so, so sorry."

"But you-"

"We love each other."

The words came from Wade. Quiet. Certain. Like he'd finally found something he was sure of.

You turned to look at him.

"We love each other," he said again. "We love each other, and we're not going to stop. Not tonight. Not ever. We're too stupid to stop. We're too stubborn. We're too- too in it."

"But you said-"

"I say a lot of things. Most of them are lies. But this-" He reached out, slowly, and took one of your hands. His fingers were warm through the fabric of his gloves. "This is the truth. I love him. I love him so much it scares me. And I love you. I love you so much it scares me even more."

"Then why do you fight?"

"Because we're human." Peter's voice was soft. "Because we're scared and imperfect and we don't always know how to say what we mean. Because love is hard, sweetheart. It's the hardest thing there is. And sometimes we mess up. Sometimes we say things we don't mean. Sometimes we hurt the people we love most in the world because we don't know how else to be."

"That's- that's what my parents did." Your voice was barely a whisper now. "They said they loved each other. But they fought all the time. And then they started throwing things. And then- and then they started using me. To hurt each other. Like I was a- like I was a weapon."

The silence that followed was different. Not empty. Not hollow. Horrified.

"Oh, God." Peter's voice broke. "Oh, God, sweetheart. We didn't- we didn't know. We didn't-"

"How could we not know?" Wade's voice was rough. "How could we not—she's been living with us for a year. A year. And we never-"

"Because she didn't tell us."

"Because she shouldn't have had to tell us! We should have—we should have asked. We should have-"

"Stop."

Your voice was stronger now. Not much. But enough.

"Stop fighting. Please. I can't- I can't take any more fighting."

"We're not fighting." Wade's voice was gentle again. "We're agreeing. For once. We're agreeing that we're idiots who should have asked more questions."

"We're agreeing that we're sorry." Peter's hand was still on your face. "We're so sorry, sweetheart. For scaring you. For making you think.. for making you think we were going to be like them."

"You're not." The words came out before you could stop them. "You're not like them. You're- you're good. You're both so good. Even when you're mean. Even when you're scared. You're still good."

"We're not good, kiddo." Wade's voice was sad. "We're just two broken people trying to do our best."

"That's what good is." You looked at him. At both of them. "That's what good is. Trying. Trying is what matters."

Wade made a sound. Something between a laugh and a sob.

"When did you get so smart, huh? When did you get so wise?"

"I learned from you."

"That's terrifying."

"Wade."

"What? It is. I'm a terrible role model."

"You're not." You reached out, grabbed his hand. Squeezed. "You're not terrible. You're just- you're just you. And I love you. I love both of you. And I don't want to lose either of you. Ever."

"You're not going to lose us." Peter's voice was fierce. "Do you hear me? You're not going to lose us. We're not going anywhere. We're not breaking up. We're not making you choose. We're just- we're just going to be here. Both of us. For as long as you want us."

"Forever?"

The word came out small. Hopeful. Childish.

"Forever." Wade squeezed your hand back. "Or as close to forever as two morons like us can manage."

"That's not-"

"It's a yes, sweetheart." Peter was smiling now. A real smile. The kind that reached his eyes. "It's a yes. We'll be here forever."

You looked at them. At Wade, still in his mask, still crouched on the floor. At Peter, kneeling beside him, his hands still on your face.

And something inside you broke. Not the bad kind of breaking. The good kind. The kind that happens when you've been holding something together for too long and finally, finally, you don't have to anymore.

You lunged forward.

Not away from them. Toward them.

You crashed into Wade's chest, your arms wrapping around his neck, your face burying itself in his shoulder. He caught you, of course he caught you, his arms coming up around your back, holding you tight.

"Oh, kid." His voice was muffled against your hair. "Oh, kid. I've got you. I've got you."

And then Peter was there too, his arms around both of you, his chin resting on top of your head. The three of you huddled together on the floor, a tangle of limbs and tears and something that felt a lot like hope.

"I'm sorry." The words were muffled against Wade's shoulder. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you. About my parents. About- about everything."

"You don't have to be sorry." Peter's voice was soft. "You don't have to tell us anything you're not ready to tell us."

"But I should have-"

"You should have done what you needed to do to survive." Wade's voice was rough. "That's all any of us can do. Survive. And then, when we're lucky, we find people who make surviving feel like living."

You cried. You cried and cried until there were no tears left, until your whole body was limp and exhausted and empty. And they held you. Both of them. They held you and didn't let go.

Eventually, the tears stopped.

Eventually, your breathing evened out.

Eventually, you lifted your head from Wade's shoulder and looked at them with red-rimmed eyes and a nose that was definitely running and a face that was probably a mess.

"I'm sorry," you said again. "I got snot on your suit."

Wade laughed. A real laugh this time, the kind that made his whole body shake.

"Kid, I've had way worse things on this suit. Trust me."

"That's not comforting."

"It's not supposed to be."

Peter was smiling too, even as he wiped at his own eyes with the back of his hand.

"Are you okay?" he asked. "Really okay?"

You thought about it. About the fight. About the fear. About the memories that had come flooding back.

"Not really," you admitted. "But I'm better than I was."

"That's something."

"Yeah." You sniffled. "That's something."

Wade shifted, adjusting his hold on you. "So. What now?"

"Now we get off the floor," Peter said. "My knees are killing me."

"Your knees are always killing you. You're old."

"I'm thirty-two."

"Exactly. Old."

"You're older than me."

"Yeah, but I heal. You just complain."

You laughed. A small, watery sound. But a laugh.

"Can we-" You stopped. Swallowed. Tried again. "Can we watch a movie? Something with a happy ending?"

"Anything you want, sweetheart." Peter was already getting to his feet, reaching down to help you up. "Name it."

"Something stupid," you said. "Something where no one dies at the end."

"So, a rom-com," Wade said, climbing to his feet with considerably less grace than Peter. "You want a rom-com."

"Yes."

"You know I love rom-coms."

"I know."

"You know Peter pretends to hate them but actually cries at the end of every single one."

"Wade."

"It's true and you know it."

Peter sighed. But he was smiling.

"Fine," he said. "One rom-com. But I get to pick the snacks."

"Deal."

"Deal."