The fourth time they met, Peter was in the middle of pulling a giant box out of a moving truck and setting it on the curb with all of the furniture May hadn't wanted to keep, trying to make it look like he was struggling even though he could carry twenty times that. It was four months after their last meeting.

In that time, Peter had helped May pick a low rent place and helped her move in. He had found a tiny apartment for himself that wasn't in the best neighborhood, but it wasn't the worst, either (he was Spider-Man, so he could take care of himself, and he was also a poor college kid, so he didn't have much by way of possessions). His new place was also much closer to school without being as cramped as his dorm, and cheaper too because someone (or someones, judging by the multiple russet splatters on his puke green walls) had been killed there.

Even though he'd quit the internship at Oscorp, paranoid Harry was keeping tabs on him, and had accepted the assistant position at Stark Industries, which actually paid, it still didn't give him enough to cover his tuition, rent an apartment, buy groceries, and still have money to repair his Spider-Man gear, not in New York City at least. So, he kept his other job at the Bugle where they slandered his good name (well, not his, but he was Spidey, so it counted) just so he could get some quick cash for the pictures.

He heard a cat-call presumedly directed at him, considering he was the only other person on the street, just as he bent to set the box down on the concrete sidewalk. Peter scowled, stood, and turned around ready to chew out the asshole who'd whistled when he locked gazes with the white eye-holes of a Deadpool mask.

"Wade?" Peter asked incredulously, stuffing his hands into his pockets for lack of anything better to do.

Peter's eyes were arrested by the bulky figure Wade cut in his form-fitting jacket and worn jeans. It was December and Wade wore his ever-present combat boots. His double layer of a red wool jacket and hoodie over a tight black Rent t-shirt made Peter's fingers itch to touch the jacket's fleece inside, to see if it really was as soft as it looked—it definitely wasn't because Peter wanted to run his fingers over Wade's muscular chest or washboard abs (if his spandex suit was to be believed), no sir.

Wade carried an armload of paper bags filled with groceries and when he shifted them for a better grip, Peter could see a shoulder holster with Wade's favorite Desert Eagle pistols (Wade had told him through text one day that their names were Bonnie and Clyde and his beloved katanas were named Bea and Arthur, in honor of his love for Golden Girls) nestled next to his side. Peter was suddenly reminded that Wade could very well kill him without blinking, should he choose to do so. He was an interesting juxtaposition of danger and boy-next-door that had warm feelings fluttering in the pit of Peter's stomach at just the sight of him.

He ignored the little voice in the back of his head that told him that was exactly how he'd felt about Gwen, and more recently, Liz Allen. But the thing he'd almost had going with Liz had blown up in his face when he'd taken her to the homecoming football game as their first date (personally, Peter kind of hated football because Flash, who'd bullied Peter all through high school, had been on the football team and ruined the sport for him—Liz, however, had been really into it, and Peter was nothing if not a giver). He'd found out the man he'd been investigating for illegal arms dealing and weapon manufacturing, the man who went by the codename "Vulture," was actually Liz's father. So, yeah. You can imagine how that played out once Vulture was finally arrested.

Then Liz decided to move.

Even worse, he'd needed Iron Man's help during one of the battles before he was able to put Vulture away. Thus, Iron Man had even more ammunition to throw at Peter for why he wasn't allowed to join the Avengers since he couldn't even "take down a lowly arms dealer, Spider-kid." And the rest, as they say, was history.

But then there was Wade. Wade was uncomplicated in a way that had Peter hooked from the very first moment. Wade didn't push for more, didn't ask for anything, really. He just took whatever Peter had time for at the end of the day when he wasn't working, wasn't beating up bad guys, wasn't in class or doing homework. Wade was a no-strings-attached kind of guy, and Peter sort of really needed that safety net. They'd texted on and off since that first time, but it was mostly Peter sending Wade hilarious memes and Wade sending Peter his reaction to the memes as well as pictures of the random things he was up to when Peter happened to text. They had a standing text-date for every Thursday between 5 AM and 8 AM to watch shows together (he'd long since given up any semblance of regular sleep patterns after the first week of classes) and Peter was quickly becoming attached to the mercenary (he'd always worn his heart on his sleeve, but this kind of easy affection almost scared him).

"Heya there, Petey-pie," Wade said. "What's a boy like you, moving into a girl like this?"

Wade shook his head then, and murmured, "no, I don't think he's following us. Because, moron, we haven't seen him for like five months."

Peter smiled and nodded at the front door.

"No, not following you. I wanted to move closer to school but still have breathing space. You live around here?"

"Yup, same complex as you, it looks like," Wade said, pointing to the building. "Where's your auntie, anyway? Don't'cha live with her?"

"She's back at our old place grabbing the last load of stuff she didn't want to take to her new place," Peter replied, moving back to the truck and unloading another box. He'd told Wade a bit about his childhood and how he'd grown up through several comments while they'd texted—though he was very surprised the mercenary remembered. He was sure Deadpool had more pressing issues that filled his head. "She should be here in the next few hours."

"I'll go put these up," Wade said, crinkling the bags in his arms as he eyed the mountain of furniture and boxes Peter had stacked on the curb, "then I'll come back and help you lug your shit up to your place."

"You don't havta do that, Wade," Peter said, setting the last box on the ground and running a hand through his unruly hair that never wanted to stay flat, no matter what he did to it. Then he rubbed some warmth into his fingers since it was hella cold out, though it still hadn't snowed, and he'd forgotten to put gloves on.

"I know I don't, Cutie-Pete, but I'd feel bad if you got robbed or propositioned by any of the other dirty hobos that live around here," Wade answered, and Peter could tell he was smiling.

"Wade…did you just call yourself a dirty hobo? And are you propositioning me?"

"Promises, promises," he said before walking up the steps with a chuckle and a wave. "I'll be back quicker than you can say 'Regina, Saskatchewan rhymes with fun.' Which is where I'm from bee tee dubs."

Wade's voice faded as he walked into the building, but Peter's super hearing picked up, "no we can't touch the butt—because he's like…thirteen, that's why. We don't do jailbait—that's a hard limit, no."

Peter shook his head and lugged a few of the boxes up to his new apartment just to have something to do instead of focus on the weird mixed feelings he tended to get in his stomach when it came to Wade Wilson. True to his word it didn't take Wade long to come back down, and in no time, they had all the boxes and furniture moved into the small apartment on the second floor.

They took a break after settling everything in and Peter found himself sitting on the counter drinking a cup of water from the tap. Wade leaned his back against the kitchen island with his arms crossed, facing Peter as he slowly sipped at a can of Sunkist grape soda May insisted on him keeping around even though she didn't drink it and Peter had lost his taste for it when Ben passed.

It took Peter a few minutes of running his eyes over Wade's chest because he'd taken off the jacket and hoodie, leaving him in the t-shirt over a long-sleeved thermal (yeah, the man should stop wearing tight shirts because it was distracting) to notice that Wade was working himself up into yet another rant.

"—which is why I now reside on the third floor of this less shitty building and not with that blind ol'fart, Althea. Do you even wanna know how much nursing homes cost? A fuckin' arm and leg, that's what and lemme tell ya, Pete, that's a helluva lot, considering I've lost both before," Wade said shaking his head. "I'll tell ya, they call me a criminal, but what's criminal is the prices of everything now, man. Time was when I could walk down to the corner store and buy candy for a fuckin' penny. A penny, Petey-pie. But she needed someone to take care of her in her old age—not that she can't take care of herself, mind, cus she's a cunning ol'bat who used to work for British Intelligence, but I just feel responsible for her these days and I can't be responsible for a broken hip, fractured ribs, and blindness. I just can't Petey-pie."

"You live on the third floor?" Peter asked as that was the only piece of information he'd been able to retain from Wade's word vomit.

"Yep! 303, that's me," Wade said, hooking his thumb towards his chest. "Haha! Like the band. Plus, you really can't trust me. Damn. You're right, that did rhyme. We're awesome!"

Peter smiled at that and couldn't stop himself from singing, "do the Hellen Keller and talk with your hips," under his breath. So, sue him if he knew all the words, it was a catchy song and part of his childhood.

His soft singing prompted Wade to pull out his phone, look up the song on YouTube, and hit play.

He pushed himself off the counter and grabbed Peter's hand, pulling him up so that they were chest to chest. Peter gulped at the feel of Wade's well-defined pecs pressed against him.

"Dance with me Petey!" Wade said, breaking the spell Peter had found himself under. He twirled Peter out only to pull him back in, settle his warm hands on Peter's waist, and swing their hips in time with the music singing, "black dress, with the tights underneath, I got the breath of the last cigarette on my teeth!" Peter laughed and danced with Wade, having the sinking suspicion that it was easier to go along with Wade's antics than it was to say "no". Plus, it was rather fun.

They moved together as if they'd been doing it forever, dancing into each other's personal space before whirling away at the last second. It was one-part serenading each other with interpretive dancing and two-parts singing in silly falsettos and making faces at each other, and it was…not something Peter ever thought he'd find himself doing on a Wednesday, at four in the afternoon.

His heart melted a little bit at the innocence the moment brought out in Wade.

Towards the end of the song, Peter danced his fingers down Wade's arm along with the "she wants to touch me, she wants to love me" lyrics and then twirled away, only to find the couch at his back.

Wade went to try and catch him, but the momentum just made both of them topple over the back onto the cushioned front. They collapsed into laughter at the ridiculousness of the situation, Wade trying his best not to crush Peter who was underneath him. Peter's chest pressed down into the cushions, but it wasn't uncomfortable, and that was when he suddenly realized that he didn't mind the older man's weight on top of him. It reminded him of the day Deadpool had protected him from the fire of that explosion. It made him feel warm and safe and calm.

They were in the middle of catching their breaths when a throat cleared and broke them out of the companionable silence they'd fallen into.

Peter looked up to see May standing in the doorway, box under one arm, and an eyebrow raised.

"Peter Benjamin Parker," she said, her voice either suppressing anger or amusement—Peter could never actually deduce which, when it came to her, "would you care to introduce me to your guest?"

Wade jumped off Peter then, sticking his hand out towards the older woman. He scratched at the back of his neck with his free hand where his mask had ridden up. It was a movement that Peter had gathered meant Wade was uncomfortable and two seconds away from bolting.

"The name's Wade Wilson. Or Deadpool. Whichever you prefer. And can I just say? I now understand where Pete gets his good looks from, Miss May."

Both of May's eyebrows rose then. She turned to Peter for an explanation.

"He's a friend," Peter summed up, rolling off the couch and tossing Wade his phone to turn off the next song that had begun to play. Wade caught the device and fiddled with it, making Peter wonder if he was nervous to meet his aunt. "I met him at a laundromat, where he helped me figure out the machines. We're texting buddies. I didn't know he lived here, but he saw me unloading the boxes and offered to help."

"Oh? Well then, thank you, Mr. Wilson," May said with a nod, dropping the box she'd been holding. She tossed Peter the keys to her car, which he easily plucked from the air and shoved into his pocket. "Then you two capable gentlemen can take care of the rest of the stuff while I whip something up for supper."

"That's not necessary, Miss May," Wade said, shuffling his feet. "I don't wanna impose or put you out."

"Nonsense. It's payment for your help. Now off with the both of you," May shooed both men out the door, tossing her greying brown hair over her shoulder. "I have some rearranging to do."

After moving the last of the possessions (which weren't many because the space was already small to begin with) into the new apartment and helping arrange some of it, they mindlessly chatted with May while Wade cut the veggies for the stew May was making and Peter set the tiny table.

"So, Mr. Wilson, how old are you?" May asked as she stirred the pot, shooting a raised brow at the masked man's back.

"Forty-five," Wade answered. The hand not holding the knife twitched, and Peter noticed that Wade was wearing a pair of soft cotton gloves. He wondered if they'd been dirty that day at the laundromat since he hadn't worn them then. "And please call me Wade, Miss May. Wilson was my pops, and he wasn't nothin' gentlemanly to deserve the 'mister' if ya get my meanin'."

"Oh?" May said, turning her look on Peter; he didn't know what her tone was, but he didn't appreciate it. "We're nearly the same age."

"Age twins!" Wade said with excitement, but the knife twitched in his hand and his voice was too light. The last time that happened he'd vanished, so Peter moved closer to him, though he didn't know what he could do to help. "I really don't know what Petey was thinkin' talkin' to some sorry old dude in a laundry mat. No sense of self-preservation, that nephew of yours, Miss May."

"Oh yes, I do know that. Would lose his head if it wasn't glued to his shoulders," May said, turning back to the stew. "Okay, boys. I think this is just about done. Wade, dear, please put the veggies in."

Wade was quick to follow the orders and then dart away. Peter felt bad about allowing the interrogation, so he waited until May said a quick, "thank you," before pulling Wade out into the living room.

"You okay?" he asked, running his hands up and down Wade's arms without much thought. He was generally a cuddle-monster and when he saw distress, his first instinct was to soothe. He wasn't a hero just because he could climb walls.

"Yeah, Petey-pie. 'Course I am," Wade said, backing away to flop on the couch. Peter followed but kept the space between them. Maybe Wade wasn't a touchy person?

"Okay, dude," Peter said, switching tact, "sorry about the third degree. May's a bit over-protective of me."

"It's alright, Petey. Really," Wade said, finally looking Peter in the eyes (well as much as one could look directly at eye-holes without knowing for sure if they were making eye contact or not). "You're lucky you have someone who loves you enough to do that. 'Sides, she seems like a pretty cool lady and tough as nails, which is the best combo—trust me."

"Mm, yeah, she is," Peter agreed, itching to curl up against Wade's side and burrow into the heat he felt radiating off him. The heat in his apartment wouldn't get turned on for another day or so. "Wade, are you—do you not like to be touched?"

"Huh?" was the intelligent response he received.

Peter smiled affectionately—he found that he adored catching Wade off guard.

"Because, I'm a touchy-feely kinda person, but I don't wanna make you uncomfortable if you aren't," Peter iterated, "hashtag, consent is sexy."

Wade gaped at him for a moment and then gaped at him some more.

"I know what he just said, I'm not Hawkeye—deaf you idiot—I just don't think he actually said that," Wade mumbled to, Peter assumed, the voices in his head. "Sorry, Petey. I just hallucinated. What did you say?"

Peter laughed and moved a bit closer then turned at the last second to pull his knees up to his chest.

"First, ten points to Hufflepuff for the Legally Blonde reference," Peter said.

"Pete!" Wade mock gasped, "how did you know?!"

"Duh, you find people for a living, Wade. And you're good at it." Then in his best Scottish brogue, which, to say, was not good at all, Peter said, "yer a finder Harry."

Peter was sure the entire city heard the nerdy snort-laugh Wade let out at that comment.

"Anyway, second," Peter said when Wade's giggles had subsided, "I said that I want you to tell me if you mind being touched. Consent. Is. Sexy. Even if it's consent for, like, non-sexy actions. Like a hug."

"Oh, Petey-pie, Petey, my cutie Pete-Pete—"

"Ew, no. Not that last one. That was gross."

"—I'm so damned touch starved that sometimes it's…too much, ya know? You just give it out like it's free fuckin' candy for just anyone to take—fuck you I'm tryna be for reals with Pete—and I just ain't used to it."

"Oh," Peter said, digesting that news. "So, I just have to let you get used to it?"

"Did we not just say—no, no. Stop it. He didn't say that Yellow, dammit," Wade squeezed his head with his hands so tight, Peter was sure he was actually crushing his own skull like Khan did in Star Trek: Into Darkness.

Peter moved to lean against Wade's side and gently unclutched Wade's hands from his head.

"Hey, hey," Peter soothed, infusing his voice with as much warmth as he could, "it's okay, Wade. Tell the voices—"

"Boxes."

"I…what?"

"I see text boxes. One's white and one's yellow. That's who I talk to."

"Oh. Well, okay. Tell the boxes to shut their fuckin' mouths and let you be. We were having a great conversation until they interrupted," Peter said, unsure if he was saying the right thing. It's not like psychology was his chosen scientific field.

There was a pregnant pause and then Wade let out a sigh that was like a balloon slowly letting out air. Wade even seemed to deflate a bit as he relaxed into the circle of Peter's arms.

"Huh. They're complaining, but not sayin' anything rude anymore," Wade said softly. "Thank you, Petey-pie."

"Any time, Re—Wade," Peter said, catching himself before he could let Spider-Man's nickname for Deadpool slip from his lips.

"Okay, boys. Dinner is—" May walked over then, critically eyeing the way her nephew had twisted his body protectively around the older (much, much older—she'd never forget that, forty-fricking-five) man and held his hands tightly. She knew Peter was touchy, but this was something else. This was…possessive and, somehow also loving. And she doubted Peter even realized it (the boy could be so stupid for being so smart). "Dinner. Dears. It's ready."

"Thanks May!" Peter launched himself off the couch and pulled Wade with him easily supporting half the man's weight. "C'mon Wade, May makes the best food!"

Dinner was an interesting affair, to say the least.

As soon as they sat down, May launched into her second round of interrogation. Wade seemed to handle it better this time, and if Peter made sure their thighs touched, it was all for the sake of making Wade feel better. Or so Peter reasoned with himself. It did not go unnoticed by his supremely observant aunt who still didn't know how to break it to her protective nephew that she knew he was the Spider vigilante. She wasn't stupid. And Peter was a terrible secret keeper—worse than Peter Pettigrew was for the Potters.

"So, Wade," May said about five minutes after they sat down, "were you in the military? You carry yourself like my Ben used to."

"Yes ma'am, Canadian Special Forces," Wade said, pleasantly. "What branch was your hubby in?"

"He was a marine, through and through. Though truth be told, he grew up a Navy brat," May said, chuckling at the memory of Ben's face and the way she just knew he'd say, "don't tell the boy that, May."

"He seems like quite the character," Wade said, noticing the fondness that crept into both of his hosts' faces.

"That he was," May agreed. She took a bite from her fork before saying, "is that why you cover your body? Do you have scars?"

Peter, who, on some level, had already deduced how sensitive Wade was about his skin (his comments the first time they met as Peter and Wade, had been a dead giveaway), shouted, "What the hell, May!"

Wade tensed and gripped one of his knees under the table.

Peter looked from his clam aunt to his distressed friend—he didn't know why May was acting so out of character or why Wade seemed to resort to self-harm when he was upset, but Peter was done with both. He wedged one of his hands between Wade's bruising grip and his knee.

He gently laced their fingers together, rubbing his thumb over the soft fabric of the red gloves, and said, "you don't need to answer, Wade."

"Uh, yes'm," Wade said, ignoring Peter's words, but squeezing his hand in a palpitating manner to let him know he was grateful for the out. "They're really bad."

"Well, dear, don't let that stop you from eating," May pushed, noticing the challenge in Peter's eyes that shouted, "back off." How interesting—Peter was rarely so stern.

"I'd rather not make your dinner come back up," Wade disagreed, his grasp on Peter's hand tightening a fraction, but did not squeeze like Peter knew he wanted to. "It's a, well a horror show, under here, to say the least, ma'am. Like, My Bloody Valentine meets Jason on Halloween and they fall in love, and their love child got with Chucky, only to be put into a Saw game, kinda horror show, and I don't wanna take you to that show." Wade had really gotten into the rant now, and Peter was starting to realize that his chattiness wasn't as mindless as it seemed on the surface. It was Wade's armor. "My friend, Wease, said it looks like 'Freddy Krueger face-fucked a topographical map of Utah' excuse my French. And he's right, ya know. I told Spidey—you know, Spider-Man signed a shirt for me once, and he's kinda the greatest thing since sliced bread and crocks—no, not the masturbatin' shoes, that was the movie—and anyway, I told him, I said, 'Spidey, I feel like I was put through the meat grinder, eaten by a dog, and shat out' and that's what it looks like under this mask, Miss May. It ain't pretty. And I used to be. Pretty that is. I used to look like the kinda guy every mamma dreamed her darling baby would bring home. But not anymore. You can thank those fuckers from Weapon X for that."

Peter wanted to say something about the fact that Wade had actually said "goat" but instead he just rubbed his hand up and down Wade's leg, trying to comfort him the only way he knew how.

"Well, that wasn't very nice of your friend to say," May said, taking another bite from her plate.

"No," Peter finally spoke up, glaring at his usually so sweet-tempered and kind-hearted aunt, "it wasn't."

"Wade," May said again, ignoring Peter's angry gaze, "did you know I'm a nurse in the trauma center at the hospital downtown? And I told you my Ben was a marine."

"No, Ma'am, I didn't know that," Wade said, but instead of relaxing he tensed even further.

"So, trust me when I say, Wade Wilson, that I've probably seen worse, or equally as bad, injuries, in the many years I've been on God's green earth," May said, her voice genuinely kind, now. "You don't have to be embarrassed. I can assure you, I won't be disturbed. And I raised Peter better than to be put off by a few skin blemishes."

Wade, who knew when he was fighting a losing battle, sighed, let go of Peter's hand, and rolled up his mask to the bridge of his nose. He sat there for a moment, intense silence as if he was prepared for screams of horror and chaos. Or puke, like he'd said. Peter caught a glimpse of the constantly reforming scars that peppered his chin and throat like they had on his hands before Wade took a quick bite of the food and then covered his mouth with his hand while he chewed it.

May leaned across the table and patted Wade's empty hand.

"Thank you for that, dear. And I'm sorry for pushing you like that, I know it was hard. But trust is earned, and you can imagine how I felt when a man twice my nephew's age wouldn't show his face," she said. "I hope you like the food, and I hope you can forgive an old lady her neuroses."

"It's very good, Miss May," Wade said, his voice tight. "And I understand. I'd probably do the same if I were in your shoes. There's nothin' to be forgiven of."

Peter didn't know why May had been so…rude and unlike herself, but regardless, Peter didn't care what Wade looked like, as they were friends. And friends didn't judge shit like that.

Peter kept his hand on Wade's knee throughout the rest of dinner, squeezing it gently at times to remind Wade he was there, and give Wade something to focus on. Eventually, Wade relaxed and fell into telling increasingly unlikely and inappropriate stories and jokes as the night wore on. By the time they'd finished eating, Peter was eighty percent sure that May wanted to adopt Wade and was just happy she didn't seem to know Deadpool by his masked persona.

Peter was in the kitchen washing and drying the dishes (Wade had protested and said he should be the one to do it, but May had waved him away saying Peter needed to earn his keep) as May saw Wade to the door with a nice little bundle of leftovers after they'd finished dinner.

Peter tried not to listen in on their conversation. He really did. But his super hearing made that nearly impossible in the small studio apartment.

"I know who you are," Peter heard May say. He could practically feel Wade tense up and he did too. "I know what you do, or did, for a living."

"I, ugh," Wade sounded a bit panicked like he didn't know whether to run or stand his ground.

"I just want you to know that I don't care," May continued. "You helped out today and helped Peter out when you met. And you seemed like a good man during dinner. You earned my trust, showing your face like you did. Plus, every time you text Peter, he smiles like he hasn't done in a very long time. He likes you, you know. And now that I know I can trust you with him, I like you too."

"Um, thank…you?"

"Just…don't hurt Peter, and we won't have a problem," May said, her tone dangerous.

Peter choked on his own spit.

She sounded vaguely reminiscent of Spider-Man had from that very first meeting. And the fact that May was threatening someone she knew to be a highly trained mercenary, made Peter's skin crawl—yet his Spidey Sense stayed significantly quiet. Peter didn't know if he should laugh or go get his web shooters.

He'd made his way over to the nightstand he kept his trusty weapons in when Wade's next words stopped him.

"I won't," Wade murmured. "You never havta worry about that Miss May. Petey is…he's the first person to show me kindness in a very long time. That means…everything to me." Wade tapped his head and then a minute later, said even softer, "means everything to us."

"Thank you," May said. Then her tone brightened, "it was lovely to meet you, Wade. I hope to see you again. Don't be a stranger, now."

"Yes'm," Wade said, his voice like honey. Warmth blossomed in Peter's chest when he heard, "and thank you, Miss May. Pete is lucky to have you," before the door closed.

Peter was royally screwed.