The alley was slick with rain, every surface glistening under the pale yellow of a flickering streetlight. Wade Wilson—Deadpool, the Merc with a Mouth, the man who could never shut up—stood at the alley's entrance, his hands flexing restlessly over his twin katanas. He hated nights like this.
It wasn't the mission that bothered him. Taking down low-level thugs for hire was child's play. What bothered him was the risk.
"Stay close," Wade said over his shoulder, his voice unusually serious.
Peter Parker—Spider-Man, the eternally sunny optimist who always seemed to find the light in Wade's chaos—stepped up beside him, his red-and-blue suit darkened by the rain. "Relax, Wade. We've done this a hundred times."
"Yeah, and the hundred-and-first time is the one that gets you killed," Wade muttered, his fingers twitching against the handle of his gun.
Peter shot him a sideways glance, the lenses of his mask narrowing. "If you're trying to psyche me out, it's not working."
Wade didn't respond. Instead, he led the way into the alley, his movements uncharacteristically cautious.
The ambush came quickly. Wade and Peter moved in tandem, their bodies a blur of movement as they took down the group of armed men waiting for them. Wade's katanas sang as they cut through the air, and Peter's webs snapped like whip cracks as he disarmed their attackers.
It should have been routine.
It wasn't.
"Behind you!" Peter shouted, his voice urgent.
Wade spun just in time to see the barrel of a gun aimed at his chest. He ducked, the bullet whizzing past his head.
But Peter was already moving, leaping into the line of fire with a burst of webbing that knocked the gunman's weapon aside.
For a moment, the fight was over. The gunman was subdued, the thugs scattered, and silence settled over the alley.
Peter landed lightly on his feet, turning to Wade with a triumphant grin. "See? Easy peasy."
And then he faltered.
His grin slipped, replaced by a confused frown. His hand drifted to his side, coming away wet and red.
"So…" Peter began, his voice faint and disbelieving. "I just realized… that I've been shot."
Wade's heart stopped.
Peter staggered, his legs buckling beneath him. Wade was at his side in an instant, catching him before he hit the ground.
"No, no, no," Wade said, his voice rising in panic. "This isn't happening. This can't be happening."
Peter's mask slipped up just enough to reveal his lips, pale and trembling. "I thought you… were the reckless one."
Wade's gloved hands pressed against the wound, trying to staunch the bleeding. "Hey, don't you dare start with the jokes. That's my thing, remember?"
Peter's laugh was weak, a thin rasp of sound that made Wade's chest ache. "Guess I'm… stealing your thunder."
"Stealing my thunder?" Wade repeated, his voice cracking. "Pete, you're stealing my everything right now."
The next few minutes were a blur of motion and desperation. Wade carried Peter in his arms, running through the rain-soaked streets as fast as his legs could take him.
"Hold on," Wade begged, his voice a frantic litany. "You're gonna be fine. You're Spider-Man. You don't get taken out by some random thug. That's not how this works."
Peter's head lolled against Wade's shoulder, his breaths shallow and uneven. "You talk… too much."
"Yeah, well, I gotta fill the silence somehow, don't I?" Wade snapped, though his tone was more pleading than sharp.
He didn't stop running until he burst through the doors of a clinic—a back-alley place he knew from his mercenary days, where questions weren't asked, and miracles were sometimes performed.
The surgeon was a gruff man with steady hands and a no-nonsense attitude. He took one look at Peter and barked orders at his assistants, leaving Wade in the waiting room with blood-stained gloves and shaking hands.
Wade paced the room, his mind racing. Every memory he had of Peter flashed through his mind like a cruel montage:
Peter laughing at one of his terrible jokes, his eyes crinkling behind his mask.
Peter scolding him for being reckless, his voice sharp but filled with concern.
Peter leaning against him on lazy nights, their bodies pressed together as they watched some awful sitcom Wade insisted on.
The door creaked open, and the surgeon stepped out.
"He's stable," the man said, his tone brisk. "But the bullet did a lot of damage. It'll take time to know if he'll fully recover."
Wade nodded numbly, relief and fear warring in his chest.
Peter was pale and fragile as he lay in the clinic's single hospital bed, tubes snaking out of his arms and monitors beeping softly at his side.
Wade sat beside him, his usual swagger replaced by a quiet, restless energy.
"You scared the hell out of me," Wade said, his voice uncharacteristically soft. "Do you know that?"
Peter's eyes fluttered open, hazy with pain and medication. "Scaring you… is the highlight of my day."
Wade chuckled, though the sound was hollow. "You're the worst."
"Still… better than you," Peter whispered, his lips curving into a faint smile.
Wade reached out, his fingers brushing against Peter's. "Don't do that again, okay? Don't… don't leave me."
Peter's smile faded, replaced by something softer, more vulnerable. "I'll try."
The recovery wasn't easy. Peter's injuries left him weaker than he'd ever been, and the guilt ate at Wade like a cancer.
He replayed the fight over and over in his mind, tormenting himself with all the ways he could have prevented it.
"You're not a mind reader," Peter said one night, his voice quiet but firm. "You couldn't have known."
"Doesn't matter," Wade replied, his tone bitter. "I should have been faster. I should have protected you."
Peter reached out, taking Wade's hand in his. "You did protect me. I'm still here because of you."
But Wade couldn't let it go.
Weeks passed, and though Peter grew stronger, the strain between them deepened. Wade's guilt and self-loathing became a wall he couldn't climb, and Peter's patience, while vast, wasn't infinite.
"You can't keep blaming yourself," Peter said one night, his frustration spilling over. "I don't blame you. Why do you?"
"Because I'm the guy who can't die," Wade snapped. "I'm the guy who walks away from everything. And you're… you're the guy who shouldn't have to pay for my screw-ups."
Peter stared at him, his expression stricken. "You think that's how I see you? As some screw-up?"
Wade didn't answer.
Peter's voice broke. "I love you, Wade. Isn't that enough?"
Wade left that night, disappearing into the rain without a word.
Peter searched for him, calling in favors from every hero and vigilante he knew, but Wade was a ghost.
It wasn't until months later that Peter found a note tucked into the pocket of his suit—a single piece of paper with Wade's unmistakable scrawl:
I can't be the reason you get hurt again.
I love you too much to stay.
Peter read the note over and over, his heart breaking anew each time.
Life went on, as it always did. Peter healed, both physically and emotionally, but a part of him would always ache for the man who had made him laugh even in his darkest moments.
And Wade? Wade wandered, his heart heavy with the weight of what he'd lost.
He told himself it was for the best, but late at night, when the world was quiet and his thoughts were loud, he allowed himself to remember.
He remembered Peter's smile, his laugh, the way his hand felt in Wade's own.
And he whispered into the darkness, "I'm sorry."