you're gonna go far

The cafe was half-empty when he arrived, MJ and Ned sitting in the same corner booth as last time. Ned spotted him first, his face lighting up in relief, and he nudged MJ with his elbow. Peter hesitated in the doorway, an awful feeling he should turn and leave rising in his chest. Bracing himself, he took a deep breath and forced his feet to move.

“Hey,” he said awkwardly, sliding into the bench across from them.

MJ arched an eyebrow. “You actually showed up.”

“Yeah, uh…” Peter rubbed the back of his neck, avoiding her gaze. “I guess I owe you guys that much.”

Ned leaned forward, his expression a mix of curiosity and concern. “We’re not trying to push you, man. We just– we want to help. But we can’t do that if you don’t tell us what’s going on.”

Peter’s heart twisted at the genuine care in Ned’s voice. These were his friends – his best friends – and all they wanted was to be there for him. But they didn’t know. They couldn’t know.

“I…” He faltered, searching for the right words. “It’s not that simple, okay? I wish I could explain, but…”

MJ’s expression softened slightly, but her voice remained firm. “But what, Peter? You keep saying it’s complicated, or dangerous, or whatever, but that’s not a real answer. Why won’t you trust us?”

“I do trust you,” Peter said quickly, the words tumbling out before he could stop them. “I trust you more than anyone.”

“Then tell us,” MJ said.

Peter stared down at his hands, his mind racing. He couldn’t tell them the truth, but he couldn’t keep dodging their questions forever.

“I’m sorry,” he said finally, his voice barely above a whisper. “I can’t.”

For a moment, there was silence. Then MJ leaned back in her seat, her expression unreadable.

“You know,” she said quietly, “it’s hard not to feel like we’re just… placeholders. Like we’re here to fill some void in your life, but you don’t actually want us to be part of it.”

Peter’s head snapped up, panic flooding his face. “That’s not true! MJ, I–”

“Then prove it,” she interrupted, her voice sharper now. “Stop shutting us out.”

Ned reached out, placing a hand on her arm. “MJ, maybe we should give him more time. He obviously–”

“We’ve given him time,” MJ said, her gaze locked on Peter. “But he keeps running away. And I’m done chasing him.”

Peter felt like the air had been knocked out of him. He opened his mouth to respond, but before he could, his phone buzzed in his pocket.

He pulled it out, grateful for the distraction, but his stomach dropped when he saw the name on the screen.

Wade: DD got back to me with a name and an address, see u at 315 West 47th Street tonite sweet cheeks xxxxx

Peter swallowed hard, shoving the phone back into his pocket. “I… I have to go.”

MJ rolled her eyes. “Of course you do.”

“It’s work,” Peter said, his voice tinged with desperation. “I really-”

“Go,” MJ said, her tone icy.

Peter hesitated, guilt clawing at his chest, but he forced himself to stand. “I’m sorry,” he said, his voice cracking. “I’ll… I’ll figure this out. I promise.”

MJ didn’t respond. Ned offered him a small, sympathetic smile, but it did little to ease the weight pressing down on him.

As Peter stepped out into the night, he couldn’t help but wonder how much longer he could keep this up before everything came crashing down.

—

When Peter touched down on the roof they agreed to meet at, he was practically vibrating with excitement. 

This was gonna be so cool. 

He’d had a shit week. Work was alright, but the not-quite-fighting with Ned and MJ had been making him miserable. This was something for him to look forward to. It was his first real big mission with Daredevil, and he'd been looking forward to it all week. Deadpool had forwarded him the address that DD had somehow gotten to him, and there was, in Deadpool's words, ‘some pretty messed up shit going on.’ 

That made him nervous. It was not a good sign if Wade considered something messed up.

He glanced around the darkened rooftops, craning his neck and adjusting his mask as he caught the sound of a familiar set of heavy, unhurried footfalls before Wade’s red-and-black suit came into view.

“Petey!” Wade cried, throwing his arms out as if he expected a hug.

“Shut up,” Peter hissed. “Not while I’m wearing the mask, please.”

“No one's gonna hear,” the other man huffed, dropping down onto the rooftop ledge beside him. “You don't worry your pretty little head about it.” Peter rolled his eyes, folding his arms as he leaned forward to watch the streets below. It was a quieter area; less foot traffic and less traffic in general, actually. “DD’s late again,” Wade announced casually, bumping his elbow with Peter’s.

“Why?” Peter asked, twisting to face him. “Is he okay?”

“Fine, probably,” Wade waved a hand half-heartedly. “Got stuck saving a kitten or brooding in an alley. You know, the usual.” He paused. “Or,” he began conspiratorially, his tone almost sing-song, “Maybe he got caught up at work.” 

Peter narrowed his eyes. “What, you mean real work, or…?”

Wade just shrugged loosely in reply. “Hey, I’m not keeping tabs on the guy. If anything, that should be your job.”

“What–?”

“Wade,” came a sharp voice from behind him, and Peter jumped, nearly falling off of the roof. “I don’t know what you’re saying, but I don’t like it. Shut up.”

“How come you get to name-drop?” The man whined, before standing with a sigh. “Fine, if you say so. Even though this is like, insanely unfair. And mean. Jesus would be sad, I think.”

Daredevil’s mouth twisted downwards, but he said nothing.

“Okay!” Peter said, clapping his hands to break the awkward silence. “Mr. Daredevil, sir, what’re we doing?”

“Get up,” the man said flatly, and Peter scrambled into a standing position. “They're over there.” Daredevil cocked his head to the left, and Peter followed his indication, straining his ears. He couldn’t hear anything overly criminal sounding – no gunshots or shouting. The streets actually seemed kind of peaceful, for once. 

Then, Daredevil moved. He jumped across the rooftops in the direction he’d gestured in, and Peter stumbled after him. 

It only took a couple of blocks before there was an obvious shift in vibes. It definitely seemed like a rougher area, but when Daredevil stopped, they were standing across the road from a thrift store.

“Are you sure this is the right place, D?” Wade asked, blinking. “Like, not to shit on your parade or anything, but—”

“It’s the right place,” said Daredevil confidently, and ducked down, dropping into the alleyway behind the store.

Peter shot a glance at Wade, who shrugged before following suit off the roof. The alleyway was dark and dingy, and it was hard for three grown men in colorful suits to really constitute as sneaky, either. It only took a moment before they were around the back of the building. Daredevil cocked his head at the door, and Peter took that as his cue to step forward.

“Break it down,” the man muttered. “But do it quietly, if you can.”

Peter nodded sharply, stepping forward with a sense of determination that immediately wavered when he realized how sketchy this whole thing felt. Still, he raised his elbow and drove it into the lock with precision. The wood splintered, the metal bent inward with a satisfying crunch, and-

“Ow, my funny bone,” Peter hissed, immediately grabbing his elbow. Wade let out an amused snort.

“Can you both focus?” Daredevil’s voice cut through the amusement, and Peter felt guilt shoot through his gut. Right. He was supposed to be serious. Take it seriously, Parker. The man ignored them both, pushing past and into the back of the building. 

The interior was quiet, dimly lit, and smelled faintly of mothballs and old fabric. Peter blinked at the rows of shelves lined with mismatched knickknacks and vintage clothing. It felt… wrong, to break into a thrift store. Like stealing from a church donation box.

Peter was so going to hell.

Wade leaned forward, his voice a mockingly solemn whisper. “They’re hoarding grandma’s porcelain cats and weapons, apparently. Gotta love the modern criminal economy.”

“Shut up,” Daredevil snapped, craning his neck slightly when a noise caught his attention. For a moment, Peter couldn’t hear anything. Then, the quiet sound of voices filtered into his ears – though they were still too muffled for Peter to make out. “They’re in the back. Keep quiet.”

They were just steps away from the source of the voices when Daredevil raised a hand to stop them. “...Shipment’s almost ready.”

“Better be. We’ve got buyers waiting,” came the impatient response.

“Relax. The deal’s set. No one’s stopping this.”

Daredevil motioned for Peter to follow as he edged closer to the doorway. Peter adjusted his webshooters and Wade trailed behind, uncharacteristically quiet.

That was when the plan fell apart.

As Peter made his way to the door, his shin caught on the leg of a chair. While he was able to catch it before it fell, what he had failed to avoid was the initial scraping across the floor. The noise echoed in the near-empty building, the clothes not providing an adequate sound barrier.

“Shit,” he hissed under his breath.

“Nice one, Spidey,” Wade muttered.

Before Daredevil could chastise either of them, a voice called out from the darkness. “Hey!” The trio froze. “We knew you’d show up eventually,” the man continued, waving a gun. “Heard you brought friends, too. That’s why we brought you something special.”

Peter’s stomach dropped as the speaker stepped forward, dragging a woman into the light. She was tied to a chair, her face pale and streaked with dirt, her eyes wide with fear. “You know,” the man said, gesturing lazily to her, “just for insurance.”

Daredevil’s jaw tightened, his hands clenching into fists. Silently, he pushed Peter behind him.

“Now,” the man continued, his tone darkening, “you can let us go… or we can kill her. Your choice.”

Peter could feel the shift in the air just before Daredevil launched himself forward. “Wait!” he yelped, tackling Daredevil mid-stride and forcing him to the ground.“Stop! We’ll figure this out, but they’ll kill her-” His voice was frantic as he struggled to keep him pinned.

The sharp crack of a gunshot cut through the night air. Before Peter could react, Wade had already hurled himself at the gunman, disarming him and kicking the weapon out of reach.

Peter scrambled to his feet, his focus snapping to the woman in the chair. Without thinking, he darted forward, his hands working quickly to untie her. “You’re okay,” he whispered, more to himself than her. “You’re gonna be okay.” 

The woman whimpered, her wrists red and raw as Peter helped her stand. “Go,” he urged, pointing toward the exit. “Run. Get out of here.” He turned to rejoin the fight, but before he could take so much as a step, a searing pain exploded in his side. 

“What the hell?” Peter gasped, stumbling backward. His hand flew to his side, and his fingers came away slick with blood. The woman – the woman he had just saved – turned and ran, and it was only then that he caught the glint of metal in her hand.

She was a decoy. Oh.

Shit.

“Spidey!” Wade’s voice rang out, alarmed. Peter barely registered the warning before another gunshot echoed. Wade stumbled, a muffled curse escaping him as he clutched one of his legs.

“Fuck,” Peter gasped, his voice raw. That was way too close. He pressed a hand to his side, feeling a sharp, burning pain. When he pulled his fingers away, they were wet with blood.

Oof.

“Spider-Man.” Peter’s head lolled to the side just in time to see Daredevil stalk over to where he lay, glaring down at him. “What the hell was that?”

Peter gave him a weak, lopsided grin. “I was thinking… we needed to save her. So, win?” 

Daredevil snarled.

“Hey, DD, lay off the kid,” Wade interjected, causing Daredevil to turn and glare at him.

“That kid just lost me my lead, and potentially sunk our whole mission,” he spat. “If he can’t control himself, he needs to go.”

Peter sucked in a breath, shoving himself up on his elbows and ignoring the pain burning through his side. “There was a person!” he interjected. “I couldn’t—”

“That was bait!” Daredevil bit back. “I told you they’d been researching you. You’re an idiot who jumps at any opportunity to save anyone. It’s respectable most of the time, but this is not one of those times. This was Kingpin playing mind games, and youfell for them, hook, line, and sinker.”

“Daredevil,” Wade said, louder and more firm than before, and the other man quieted. “That’s enough. We got the message.”

Daredevil let out a ‘tch,’ before turning on his heel and leaving. His silence didn’t make Peter feel any less bad.

—

It had been a miserable trip home, and a miserable night, and a miserable morning after.

He’d done the bare minimum to clean the wound before sliding into bed to fester. He’d slept for a day, only actually getting up to close the curtains and check his phone. Once he saw the message from MJ telling him she was gonna track down the wizard either with or without him, he just rolled back over and went to bed again.

Karen curled around his side, and he sunk a hand into her hair; at least she liked him. It made him feel a little less bad.

—

When Peter woke up the next day—actually, it had been two days, but he didn't count 24 hours of fever dreaming and watching House M. D. to be a day—he regretted his departure from unconsciousness immediately. 

He felt nauseous and had an awful headache, his eyes throbbing and his side inflamed. The bandages had held up alright, but it turned out rotting in bed for a day or so without letting the wound air out wasn’t, in fact, the best way to heal quickly. His shower was miserable. He actually decided to take the train, too—he thought if he had to swing he might actually be sick—though the bumpiness of the subway wasn’t much better.

Matt and Foggy’s current client, a middle-aged woman with a sharp suit and an even sharper glare, was halfway through a rant about tenant rights when Peter felt his stomach churn violently. He'd felt awful all day - that horrible feverish burn, the headache, the urge to crawl back into bed and never move again - but he just pressed his hand against his middle and grit his teeth.

“And another thing,” the woman snapped, her voice rising. “The landlord’s refusal to address the mold problem is outright negligence. Surely, you—”

“Right this way, ma’am,” Peter interjected weakly, gesturing toward the little office space in the back. His voice cracked and he prayed she’d chalk it up to nerves, although a larger part of him just couldn't find it within himself to care.

As he showed her to the office, he could feel his shoulders hunch, the uncomfortable beads of sweat forming on his brow. His stomach gave another lurch, and panic began to claw at the edges of his thoughts. Just a stomach bug, he told himself. Nothing to worry about. But his legs felt unsteady beneath him, and every step felt like a monumental effort.

Matt was leaning casually against the door frame when Peter approached with the client in tow. “This is where Karen will go over the documentation with you,” Peter said as he turned to the woman, voice strained. He tried to muster a polite smile, but it felt more like a grimace.  

Then it hit. A wave of nausea, swift and unforgiving.

Before Peter could even think to excuse himself, his body betrayed him. He bent forward, retching, and the contents of his stomach splattered all over Matt’s pristine dress shoes.

“Oh my god,” Peter gasped, mortified. He staggered back, wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand. “I’m so sorry. Stomach bug. Must be a… stomach bug.”

Matt’s brow furrowed, but Peter was too tired to think too hard about it. He was too tired to think about anything too hard at all.

“It’s fine,” Matt said evenly, though his voice carried a steely edge. “Peter, sit down.”

“I’m okay,” Peter tried to protest, but his knees wobbled beneath him.

“Sit. Down.” The command was firm, brooking no argument.

Peter hesitated, glancing at the client, who looked equal parts disgusted and horrified before she turned and left, slamming the door behind her. “I… I’ll clean this up," he said, trying to ignore the throbbing headache and the urge to fall over and die right here. But God, he couldn’t get fired. He needed this job, he couldn’t lose it or he’d lose everything all over again. "I'm sorry, Mr. Murdock, I—”

“Karen!” Matt called, ignoring Peter’s rambling.

Karen poked her head out of the adjoining office, her expression shifting to alarm the moment she saw Peter’s pale, sweat-drenched face. “What happened?”

“Stomach bug,” Peter muttered weakly.

Matt shot a look in Karen's direction. “Get him some water. And… maybe a towel.”

“Got it,” she said, disappearing down the hall.

Matt turned his attention back to Peter, who had reluctantly collapsed onto the old, lumpy couch in the corner of the office. “You’re staying here,” he said flatly.

Peter blinked at him, confusion and embarrassment warring on his face. “I… I’ll be fine. I just need to go home and…” He trailed off, realizing he didn’t have the energy to finish the sentence.

“No,” Matt said sharply, and Peter jerked at the sound. “You’re not going anywhere. Just sit there and don’t move.”

Peter swallowed hard, guilt gnawing at him. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled, his words slurring slightly. “I didn’t mean to…”

“Don’t worry about it,” Matt said, though his tone had softened slightly.

—

Matt crouched beside the couch, listening intently to Peter’s uneven breaths and the faint, unmistakable tang of blood mingled with sweat and infection coming from his side. His frown deepened as he noted the feverish heat radiating off the boy.

This wasn’t just a stomach bug.

Karen returned with a glass of water and a damp towel, handing them to Matt before crouching next to him. “Peter,” she said gently. “Drink this, okay?”

Peter obeyed, though his trembling hands struggled to hold the glass steady. 

“Here, let me.” Karen guided it to his lips, her recently manicured nails clinking against the glass. 

Matt bent down, swiping the towel over his shoes before sliding them off completely. Those would need to be dry-cleaned. 

“I’ll buy you new ones,” Peter said, presumably referring to Matt’s dress shoes. The couch creaked, followed by a pained grunt from Peter. “I can… I can do it right now. I’ll jus’ go home, and— and I’ll sleep this off. Be here early tomorrow morning, and all that. Be fine.”

He was verging on incoherence. Matt reached out, pressing down on what he could tell was Peter’s chest. “I told you, you’re not moving until I say you are. Stop talking. Just rest while we figure this out.”

Peter’s posture relaxed, and he slumped back down, away from Matt’s hand. “‘kay,” he murmured, an exhausted puff of air escaping his lips. Within minutes, his eyes fluttered shut, and he curled into the couch cushions, unconscious. Matt’s stomach twisted with unease.

The sound of the door opening pulled Matt's attention away. "I just passed Mrs. Marley in the hall. She looked pissed, what did you–” Foggy cut himself off, stopping short when he saw the scene before him. “What the hell happened?” he demanded.

Matt stood and brushed off his knees, his expression grim. “He’s sick. Really sick.”

Foggy’s eyes widened. “Sick? Like… what kind of sick? ”

“Bacterial infection,” Matt said shortly. “I can smell it. It’s bad.” Any concerns he might have had last week about the kid’s safety outside the office were now doubled. Forget being consistently hungry– he had nonchalantly come to work with an open, infected wound.

“What do we do?” Karen asked, glancing nervously between them.

“We should call someone,” Foggy said. “An ambulance, or… I don’t know, CPS! Anyone.”

“He doesn’t have any emergency contacts,” Matt muttered, running a hand through his hair.

Foggy’s jaw dropped. “What do you mean he doesn’t have any emergency contacts? That’s, like, a legal requirement!" Matt shrugged. "We’re a law firm, Matt!”

“I didn’t think our intern would show up dying and throw up on my shoes,” Matt snapped.

“He’s dying?” Karen asked, alarmed.

“No, not dying,” Matt said quickly. “But he’s not doing well. He needs help.”

They all looked down at Peter, who stirred slightly, his face contorted in discomfort. “Peter,” Matt said firmly, placing a hand on his arm. “You need to go to a hospital. Foggy’s going to drive you.”

Peter’s eyes cracked open, glassy and unfocused. “No,” he slurred. “No hospitals.”

Matt frowned. “Then who can we call? You’re sick. We can't help you here.”

Peter’s head lolled to the side, and it looked like he was struggling to think. Matt thought that he might not have even registered the question. “Wade,” he breathed finally, barely conscious enough to register Matt's pause. “His number’s in my phone.”

“Wade?” Matt froze. “Wade who?” he asked, gently shaking his shoulder. “Peter, wake up. Wade who?”

“Wilson,” Peter responded blearily, his voice trailing off as his eyes fluttered shut again.

Wade Wilson?

Matt wanted to slam his head into a wall.

Foggy’s eyebrows shot up. “Wade Wilson? Are you kidding me?”

Matt pinched the bridge of his nose, frustration boiling over as he turned away from the unconscious, sick kid sprawled across the couch. “Of course, it’s Wade fucking Wilson,” he muttered. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

“Who let Deadpool babysit a teenager?” Foggy asked, throwing his hands in the air. “Fuck that, who let Deadpool near a teenager?”

Karen crossed her arms. “Better question: why does Peter know Deadpool?”

Matt’s resounding sigh was long and heavy. “Let’s just… call him. Maybe he can help.”

Foggy raised an eyebrow. “Or make it worse.”

“One problem at a time,” Matt said, already fishing Peter’s phone out of his pocket. 

—

“Wade.”

“Matty.”

Wade was leaning casually against the doorframe, clad in a faded hoodie that somehow didn’t make him less conspicuous, failing to cover that familiar, marred skin. The man stood there with a look on his face like the situation before him wasn’t absurd. Like Peter wasn’t barely conscious on the couch a few feet away, Karen sitting next to him to make sure he was still breathing, her brow furrowed as she adjusted the blanket they’d draped over him earlier. Every so often, she’d press her fingers lightly to his wrist, checking his pulse.

“I’m not giving you an injured child,” Matt said after a moment. “This was a bad idea. You can leave now.”

“You called me, DD,” Wade replied smoothly, tilting his head as though this were obvious. “I’m Peter’s emergency contact, aren’t I? You wouldn’t have called me otherwise.” His smirk widened, his eyes crinkling in delight. “I know. Who would’ve thought? Me, the responsible one. Truly, the world’s gone mad.”

Matt frowned harder. He could hear the slow, rhythmic pulse of Wade’s heart – steady and calm, as though this were all perfectly normal. Nothing about this was normal. “How do you know him?”

“We go way back,” Wade said in lieu of a real response. “Now gimme. I’m parked illegally and I’m out of room in my designated drawer for unpaid tickets.”

“That’s not answering the question,” Matt snapped, his grip tightening on the door frame.

Wade’s grin didn’t falter. Instead, he leaned in slightly, his tone dropping to something almost conspiratorial. “We got married last June. Tragic lovers, you know. The wedding was beautiful. Cherry blossoms, a double homicide for a backdrop— it was very us.”

Matt’s lips pressed into a thin line as he went to close the door, already done with the conversation. “Now you’re definitely not getting the kid.”

Before the door could fully shut, Wade jammed his fingers into the frame. There was an audible crunch, and Foggy winced visibly at the sound. Matt only sighed, frustrated but unsurprised when Wade didn’t so much as flinch.

“Matty,” Wade said, his voice taking on a mockingly patient tone. “I’m joking. Obviously. But I am taking him.”

“You’re not,” Matt countered, stepping forward slightly, his voice cold. 

Wade straightened up, his smirk falling into something more serious. “Listen, buddy, not to be a party pooper, but I will fight you. And you will lose. Only one of us has advanced healing, and it’s not you.” Matt cocked an eyebrow, his jaw tightening as he shifted to block the doorway a little more. “Yeah, you’ve got your special sensory powers, but you sure as hell can’t grow back a severed limb. Or three.”

There was a beat of tense silence, broken only by the faint sound of Peter’s uneven breathing from his position still sprawled across the firm’s beaten-up couch. His face was pale and his heartbeat quiet but steady. Karen shot Matt a look from her perch beside Peter. Foggy, meanwhile, stood frozen near the desk, his eyes darting between the two men like he was bracing for a fight that neither of them could afford to have in the office.

Matt finally exhaled, long and measured, before stepping aside with obvious reluctance. “Fine,” he muttered, his voice low and begrudging.

He expected some dumb comment, some smug response – but Wade didn’t gloat, didn’t smirk, didn’t say anything as he stepped into the room. For all his theatrics, the moment he crossed the room and reached Peter, his demeanor shifted. He crouched down carefully, his movements uncharacteristically deliberate, and slipped his arms under the unconscious teenager. Peter was dead weight, completely limp, but Wade lifted him with ease, cradling him in a way that was almost… gentle.

Matt’s frown deepened as he watched. Wade’s calm, assured movements weren’t the kind of thing you’d expect from someone who didn’t care – or from someone who was just a passing acquaintance.

“What’s wrong with him?” Matt asked finally, unable to keep the edge of concern out of his voice.

“Nothing permanent,” Wade replied without looking up. He adjusted Peter slightly, securing him against his chest. “Kid’s tough. This kind of thing happens more often than you’d think.”

More often than you’d think? Matt bit back a retort, his jaw tightening as he struggled to keep his frustration in check. “He’s not okay, Wade. He needs real help. Medical attention.”

“Relax, Matt. I’ve got it covered.” Wade finally glanced up, his expression unreadable. He seemed more serious, more solemn in a way that unnerved him. No nicknames, no flickering heartbeat and outright lying. Just… honesty. “Trust me.”

Trust him. The words grated against Matt’s every instinct. Wade Wilson wasn’t someone you trusted. And yet, as Matt stood there, every question he had about Peter multiplied. Who was this kid, really? What was this kid involved in? What kind of life was he living that left him unconscious on a couch, with someone like Wade Wilson as his closest point of contact?

“Matt,” Karen’s voice cut through the silence firmly. “We don’t have a choice. If Peter trusts him enough to… call him when he needs help, we need to respect that. We can talk to him about it later.”

Matt didn’t respond. He couldn’t shake the unease that had settled deep in his chest.

“Any other questions, Counselor?” Wade asked, his tone light.

Matt opened his mouth, but then shut it again. He had too many questions to even begin. Instead, he stepped back, his shoulders tense. “Just take care of him.”

Wade gave a small, almost imperceptible nod before turning toward the door. As he carried Peter out, the kid’s head lolled against his shoulder, his face pale but peaceful. The moment the door shut behind Wade, Matt was left standing in the hollow silence of the law firm. 

Wade Wilson, of all people.

“Matt,” Foggy said once the door clicked shut, his voice low and uncertain. “What the hell was that?”

He didn’t have an answer. Matt clenched his fists at his sides, his senses hyper-focused on every lingering detail in the room. The faint, stale smell of antiseptic still clung to the couch where Peter had been lying. He could hear Karen standing before moving back to her desk, dropping into her seat tiredly. Foggy was pacing in uneven, restless steps that grated against Matt’s already frayed nerves.

Wade Wilson. What the hell was Peter doing with Wade Wilson?

Matt turned back toward the couch as if the faint impression of Peter’s presence would offer answers. But all he could think about was the moment Peter had thrown up on his shoes, pale and shaking, apologizing through slurred words. 

And now this. Wade Wilson, strolling into his office like he owned the place, making jokes about cherry blossoms and tragic lovers while scooping Peter up like it was an everyday occurrence.

This wasn’t normal.

“Matt,” Foggy’s voice called to him again, a little more hesitant. “Maybe… maybe you were right. What’s going on with that kid?”

Matt shook his head, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I don’t know.” And that was the truth. He didn’t know. Peter had been nothing but polite since walking into their office a few weeks ago, eager to help, apologetic to a fault, never offering too much about himself. Before, that had made him suspicious. Now, that made him worried.

Karen spoke up from her spot by the desk, her voice calm but firm. “Do you think he’s in trouble?”

Matt sighed, dragging a hand over his face. “I don’t know,” he repeated, the words bitter on his tongue. “But Wade doesn’t just show up for no reason. And he doesn’t act like that for no reason.”

“Like what?” Karen asked, her tone edging on wary curiosity.

“Like he cares,” Matt said bluntly. “Like Peter isn’t just some kid he knows from… whatever shady business Wade’s involved in. He was worried. Genuinely worried.” And that, Matt realized with a cold sinking feeling, was the most unnerving part of all. He’d seen Wade kill people. He hated the guy in the few previous interactions he’d had, and he hated even more that the guy had his identity.

Foggy stopped pacing, his voice hesitant. “Do you think Peter’s involved in whatever he’s doing? Like… mercenary stuff?”

“I don’t know,” Matt said again, more frustrated this time. “But it’s not just Wade. There’s something about Peter that doesn’t make sense. He shows up here injured, smelling like alleyways and copper pipes half the time, and when I try to ask him about it, he dodges every question. He has no emergency contacts and the one time we need one, he calls Deadpool, for God’s sake.”

Karen frowned. “Maybe it’s not as bad as it seems. Peter’s young. He might not have anyone else.”

“He doesn’t,” Matt said quietly, the certainty settling in his chest like a lead weight. “He told me himself. No family, no one at home waiting for him. Just him. And now I can’t stop thinking…”

“Thinking what?” Foggy pressed, his voice low.

Matt hesitated, his jaw tightening. He didn’t want to say it out loud, didn’t want to put words to the uneasy feeling that had been gnawing at him since Peter collapsed in their office. “What if he’s in over his head? What if he doesn’t even realize how much trouble he’s in?”

Foggy sighed, running a hand through his hair. “So what do we do? We can’t exactly call CPS and say, ‘Hey, we think this kid might be hanging out with dangerous mercenaries.’”

“No, we can’t,” Matt agreed, his frustration mounting. “And even if we could, Peter’s not going to tell us anything. Not unless he trusts us. But how are we supposed to help him if he won’t let us?”

Karen crossed her arms, her expression thoughtful. “Maybe Wade wasn’t lying completely. About the tragic lovers thing.”

Matt turned toward her sharply, his brow furrowing. “What?”

“Not like that,” she said quickly, holding up a hand. “I just mean… maybe there’s a reason Peter trusts him. Maybe Wade really is the closest thing he has to family right now.”

Matt let the thought settle, unease prickling at the edges of his mind. Family. The word carried too much weight, too much pain, and too much responsibility. And if Wade Wilson was the closest thing Peter had to family… what did that say about the life this kid was living?

“He shouldn’t have to rely on someone like Wade,” Matt muttered, his voice low but tight with conviction. “He’s just a kid.”

“And we’re just his bosses,” Foggy pointed out gently. “We can’t save everyone, Matt. Especially when they’re not asking for help.” The words made his mouth twist, and he didn’t respond. He turned back toward the door, focusing on the faint sound of Wade’s footsteps retreating into the city with Peter in tow.

Matt didn’t know what Peter’s life looked like outside their office walls, but it was more than obvious that he wasn’t just some intern with a bad streak of luck. He was something more. Something complicated. For now, though, all he could do was wait. Wait, and hope that Wade Wilson, of all people, knew what he was doing.

But even as the thought crossed his mind, Matt’s jaw tightened again. He hated waiting. And he hated relying on people like Wade even more.

—

When Peter woke up, his side was on fire.

The searing pain alone was enough to drag him out of the haze of exhaustion and fever. He groaned, attempting to roll over, but something firm yet oddly soft pressed him back into the bed.

"Whoa there, Petey-pie. Stay down," Wade's voice came from somewhere above him. It was calmer than usual, carrying an unsettling weight that immediately put Peter on edge.

"Wade?" His voice cracked, throat dry and scratchy.

"Yep, still me. Let’s get you sorted out, bud. You’re sweating bullets, and your stitches look like a blind guy took a crack at ‘em." The last comment sounded… different. A little bitter. Either way, Peter was in too much pain to care. Before he could protest, Wade was helping him sit up, supporting his back with a surprising gentleness. The sudden shift made his head swim, and he barely registered being half-dragged toward the bathroom.

“Gonna rinse you off, patch you up, and then we’ll figure out why you decided to play piñata with a knife. Sound good?”

Peter tried to reply, but Wade had already started peeling his shirt off, careful not to yank at the half-dried blood sticking to the fabric. The bathroom light made him and to cry, and he squeezed his eyes shut as Wade nudged him under the lukewarm spray of the shower.

“Man, you’re a mess. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were trying to get me to strip you in my bathroom,” Wade muttered, although he didn’t have the usual lightness to his voice. Peter didn’t care.

“It’s not that bad…” Peter forced himself to mutter, before mustering up the courage to ask, “Could you hit the lights, please?”

"It’s always ‘not that bad’ with you until you’re on death’s doorstep,” Wade muttered, making sure Peter was able to stand before slapping the light switch and the room fell into darkness. He let out a sigh of relief, and Wade’s hands appeared by his sides a moment later. “Hold still, this might sting a little."

It stung a lot. Wade worked quickly, washing away the grime and blood before helping Peter out of the shower and into clean clothes. He wrapped new bandages over the cleaned stitches, his hands unusually steady as he worked.

Peter, exhausted, slumped against the bathroom doorframe. “You’re being weird. What’s wrong?”

“Me? Nothing.” Wade avoided Peter’s gaze, focusing on tightening the bandage knot.

“You’re never quiet. It’s freaking me out.”

Wade finally sighed and stood, hands on his hips. “Fine. You know what’s wrong? You. Why the hell are you working with Catholic Guilt over there?”

Peter blinked. “What? Matt?”

“Yeah, Matt! What’re you doing hanging around his office, playing intern or whatever?” 

Peter was too tired for this conversation. He groaned, rubbing his temples. “I needed the money?”

“Needed the money?” Wade scoffed.“What, did you lose a bet? Burn through your vigilante savings on web fluid or something?”

“No, my rent went up,” he replied flatly, trying to ignore the throbbing headache he felt coming on. “Wade, this is not that big of a deal—”

“Your rent? What does that have to do with— wait. Are you saying you work for him?”

Peter hesitated. “Uh. Yeah?”

Wade looked like someone had just explained quantum physics to him in Pig Latin. “You work for Matt Murdock.”

“Yes, Wade, I work for him. Like a job.”

Wade squinted. “Doing what? Fighting bad guys? Secret missions?”

“No,” Peter said, exasperation creeping into his voice. “I work for him. Like a normal person. I make coffee. I unjam printers. That’s it.”

“You’re…” Wade tilted his head, incredulous. “You’re working for him. Like a job-job. For real. Not some weird undercover superhero thing.”

“Yes, like a — what are you thinking about?” Wade looked perplexed. Peter felt even more so. “Sorry, am I high? What the hell are you saying? He’s a lawyer, Wade.”

“I just…” Wade scrunched his nose. “I don’t understand. You work for him. Doing coffee runs.”

“Yes.”

“And fixing printers.”

“Yes.”

Wade ticked off the criteria of the job on his fingers. “Coffee guy. Printer fixer. And nothing else? Nothing, like, web-slinging related?”

“Why would I tell him about that?” Peter hissed, clutching his side protectively. “Do you have any idea how illegal vigilantism is? That’d probably get me fired more than anything. He got me off murder, I don't need him trying to actually get me arrested for whatever laws I’ve been breaking! He’s a lawyer, Wade! A good one!”

“You just work for him,” Wade snorted, before laughing. Peter was so exhausted. He had no idea what the other man found so funny.

“Yes!” Peter snapped, throwing his hands in the air. He regretted it instantly, doubling over as pain shot through his side. Wade rushed forward to steady him, but Peter waved him off. “I’m just a guy who needs a paycheck, okay? My rent went up. I’m broke. That’s all there is to it.”

Wade crouched down so he was eye-level with Peter, his face unreadable. “You’re telling me you’re swinging around saving the day, getting stabbed for the greater good, and by day you’re playing Office Space with Lawyer Jesus?”

Peter frowned. “Okay, first of all, what? And second, it’s a job, Wade. Normal people have jobs. Not everything is a big superhero conspiracy, and your fascination at the prospect of me having a nine-to-five is getting redundant.”

Wade didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he flopped back into a chair, arms crossed, his head tilted in thought. Finally, he let out a long sigh. “This is just… I don’t know, Pete. I thought your life couldn’t get any weirder, and then bam, you hit me with this. It’s like the plot of a really bad sitcom.”

“Glad you’re entertained,” Peter muttered, leaning back and closing his eyes. “But I don’t see what’s so funny.”

“Oh, don’t get me wrong,” Wade said, the humor returning to his voice. “This is gold. But, uh…” His tone softened, turning almost serious. “You sure you’re cool with this? Like, for real?”

Peter opened one eye, glancing at him warily. “What are you talking about?”

“I mean, hiding all”—he gestured vaguely to Peter’s torso—“this? It can’t be easy, keeping your Spidey thing separate from the day job.”

Peter hesitated, his fingers fidgeting with the hem of his shirt. “It’s fine. My job has nothing to with spider-manning. They don’t need to know. Besides,” he said, his lips quirking up, “how hard can it be to hide injuries from a blind guy?”

Wade watched him for a moment, before letting out another amused snort. “Alright. But if he ever figures it out, I want to be there. With popcorn. Lots of popcorn.”

Peter groaned, burying his face in his hands. “Please don’t make this harder than it already is.”

“Sorry, Spidey-baby,” Wade said with a shrug. “That’s my specialty.”