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You Wear My Name Over Your Heart Like It's Invisible

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Everyone gets their Name when they turn twenty-one. It isn’t their own name either. It’s the name of their Soulmate. Their Amor Fati. Their Bashert. Their Twin Flame. Some people get Names they know, some people get Names they’ve never even vaguely heard of before. No one can explain it. But everyone gets one. Some people even get what’s called a Nom De Mort. Name of Dead. (Like Tony Stark. Who, at twenty-one, woke with the name Steven Grant Rogers over his heart and couldn’t remember the following week at all. But this isn’t his story, though he is in it. Briefly.)

 

Most people are eager for their twenty-first birthday but some dread it. Some wonder if they’ll ever meet their Soul-Mate. (Most do.) Some, like Wade, (who this story is actually about) are indifferent.

 

When Wade Wilson wakes on his twenty-first birthday, he looks down at his chest and sees Peter Benjamin Parker. He stares for a moment then shrugs, gets dressed, and doesn’t think about it for another six weeks until he decides to google the name. Nothing comes up so he forgets about all over again. Every time he meets a Peter he does pause and wonder if this one, this one, is his but then again, he’s being paid a lot not to care, so…

 

Wade is twenty-six when he meets a Peter that he doesn’t kill. The kid is Tony Stark’s twelve year old son, Peter Stark. He’s standing just inside the briefing room, sucking on a blow pop, and looking like a pissed off teen. Wade figures having Iron-Man as a father would do that to you. (Seriously, the kid just shows up on Stark’s hip one day when he’s, like, two and then bam, not three years later his dad goes missing for three months, his uncle Obbie turns out to be an asshat, and then his dad declares he’s the first super hero since Captain America. Shit, Wade would be mad, too.)

 

Right at that moment though, Mini-Stark is glaring at his dad and Wade is bored enough to contemplate blowing his own brains out. Papa-Stark says some stupid shit and Mini-Stark scoffs and stomps out.

 

And that seems to be that. Wade gets back to his usual business and the Avengers is just another group that ignores—and sometimes—tolerates him. Wade writes off Mini-Stark, too, because, well, most kids are asshats.

 

He ends up meeting the kid again though, somehow, three years later (also because of the Avengers). He’s stomping through one of S.H.I.E.L.D.’s helicarriers and nearly bowls the kid over.

 

“Shit, Pipsqueak, watch where you’re… uh, sitting,” he finishes pretty lamely ‘cause really, he did pretty much trip over the kid’s feet. And it’s not like the kid was hiding.

 

Mini-Stark stares at him though, like he can’t really tell if he’s actually seeing a six foot two red-clad asshole with a pair of bright katanas on his back. (Which he totally is. Wade knows how fucking attractive the suit is.)

 

“Yeah, yeah… Uh, sorry,” Mini-Stark pulls his feet up, fidgets, and then rests his head on his knees.

 

Wade decides to leave the kid there but he can’t seem to make his feet move ‘cause the kid looks sick. Like, really sick.

 

“Aaaaaare yoooooou… alright?”

 

Mini-Stark clears his throat, nodding. “Yeah, yeah. I’m fine. You can—you can leave now.” The kid looks up again, runs a hand through his sweaty hair, and then shoos Deadpool away.

 

And so Wade leaves but he can’t really shake the feeling that he should have done something. So when he sees Captain America he tells the blond his step-son is, like, convulsing or something down that hallway over there and the hero fucking runs.

 

˹Job done, ˼ his boxes think.

 

And then Spider-Man.

 

Wade is immediately a fan. He starts a fan club and everything. (So far, it’s only him and Yellow Box but he’s pretty sure White Box will join them eventually and he can probably rope Hydra Bob into it, too.)

 

Unfortunately, every time he asks for Spidey’s autograph the web-slinger refuses. It’s pretty disheartening.

 

When Peter Stark gets kidnapped Wade figures he’ll try to get into Spider-Man’s good books by rescuing the kid. (Who’s actually seventeen by now but whatever, it’s not like Wade’s seen him since he tripped over him at S.H.I.E.L.D. Pfft.)

 

Mini-Stark is being kept on a moving train, apparently, and Wade has to commend the kidnappers for their original thought. But Wade is determined because—Spider-Man—so it’s no big deal. The fucking robots though, are another matter. They’re big and hard to destroy and they’re good at stabbing him. (And even though Wade heals it still fucking hurts.) When he finally cuts his way through the robots and makes it to the humans guarding Mini-Stark he’s just this side of exhausted and a big part of him is wondering where Papa-Stark and Step-Ma-merica are.

 

When he bursts through the last sets of doors, Mini-Stark is chained to a chair that looks bolted to the floor. Actually, upon closer inspection, the chair totally is bolted to the floor. And then Wade sees Mini-Stark’s face.

 

“Fuck. You alright, Tiny?”

 

Mini-Stark nods weakly. “Peachy-keen, jelly bean,” the teen mutters, which impresses Wade, given that his face is a mess of blood and bruises.

 

Wade sets to work on releasing the shackles around Mini-Stark’s wrists. “What’d they do to you? The vid they sent to Papa-Stark said they’d return you untouched if he paid the ransom. And I was pretty sure he’d pay the ransom. I mean, I know he certainly had enough to pay it. It wasn’t like it was a lot. I’m also sorta wondering where the hell he is. You’d think he’d show up to rescue his only kid and—HOLY FUCKING SHIT DID THEY FUCKING WELD THIS MANICLE AROUND YOUR WRIST?! I’d beat it against the ground but Mini-Stark’s arm isn’t that long. I don’t fucking see a seam and it’s nearly skin tight. Do you fucking see a ‘PRESS HERE TO UNDO’ button? No? Then stop asking stupid questions!”

 

Wade hears giggling and when he looks up Mini-Stark is fucking losing it.

 

“Whaaat?”

 

“It—,” Mini-Stark stops and tries his best to collect himself. “Little—little holes on either side. Gotta press the buttons at the same time and it’ll pop open. They’re Stark Tech. Stolen but still…”

 

Wade narrows his eyes and doesn’t really believe Mini-Stark but he looks and sure enough there are two little holes on either side of the shackle. Wade grabs for his lock picking kit and manages to get the left one undone before a bullet slices through his thigh.

 

“I do have to commend you for killing all my ‘bots, Mystery Man, but you’re not going to get much farther,” the woman at the door says, before she saunters into the light of the room.

 

Wade has no fucking clue who she is but she has red hair and looks very vaguely familiar.

 

Whatever,

 

“Cool story, but I’m gonna finish rescuing Mini-Stark so just piss off for a bit?”

 

She seems to not like the thought because she shoots him through the stomach this time.

 

Mini-Stark hops up from the chair and tries to get around it to check on Wade but the last shackle doesn’t have the reach. Wade can feel fingertips on his shoulder but his insides are still knitting back together so they sit through the lady explaining her plans and why she’s getting revenge on Papa-Stark though his son.

 

(Turns out she was some sort of ex-lover of Papa-Stark and was bitter about how he, Papa-Stark, would adopt Mini-Stark instead of have a kid with her but also, apparently, she was kidnapped by some militant group and then Stockholm Syndrome and something about a lion, a witch, and wardrobe, or maybe Wade had just stopped listening. You just never knew with these things.)

 

When she finishes, she calls for her muscle but by then Wade is all better so he just beats their faces in.

 

˹Yay! ˼

 

When he’s done, there is blood dripping off his katanas but no one is dead so Wade figures he gets an A Plus on the whole ‘no un-aliving’ thing.

 

“Ready to go?” he asks Mini-Stark.

 

The teen nods from where he’s crouched, trying to undo the last manacle. But his hand is shaking and it is sort a bitch to get the tools just right so Wade just walks over and pulls the instruments from Mini-Stark’s hand.

 

“Lemme.”

 

The shackle pops off easily and Wade catches it out of the corner of his eye: it’s pale, but it’s obviously a thin, vertical pink scar across Mini-Stark’s wrist.

 

Wade decides not to mention it and just get the teen home.

 

Of course, once at the Stark tower (and getting all sorts of looks from Papa-Stark and Step-Ma-merica), Wade mentions it to Mini-Stark’s parents. And since Wade has no tact what-so-ever he just blurts it out:

 

“Has Mini-Stark ever tried to kill himself?”

 

It doesn’t get the reception he’s expecting but both of Mini-Stark’s parents seem to freak out enough that it reassures Wade the teen’ll be alright so he leaves.

 

He’s sitting on a roof top three nights later eating a burrito when Spider-Man lands next to him.

 

“Spidey! What’s up, my favorite arachnid-human!” Wade would go on but Spidey is actually taking a seat next to him and the hero seems pensive so Wade offers him a taco from his take out bag.

 

“Thanks,” Spidey says but he doesn’t eat yet, just plays with the wrapper. “I—I wanted to say thank you. For rescuing Peter Stark.”

 

Wade’s teeth grind. He’d honestly forgotten that Mini-Stark’s name was Peter but he pushed the thought away because Spidey was still talking.

 

“And I wanted to thank you for not killing anyone in the process. It… it means a lot to me that you’d… you’d do that for me.”

 

Wade doesn’t remember the last time someone thanked him for anything other than killing people. So all he says is a lame:

 

“No problem, Spidey.”

 

After that, it seems like Spider-Man is a lot more willing to spend time with him.

 

It’s weird.

 

Wade also finds himself trying to spend time with Mini-Stark. He doesn’t really know why but since he rescued the teen and saw that scar he… He doesn’t want the teen to kill himself and then he’ll feel responsible because he saw the signs but no one else did. So he decides he’ll be Mini-Stark’s new best friend.

 

And surprisingly, Mini-Stark doesn’t seem to hate the idea.

 

Of course, the teen does ask what the hell Deadpool is doing in his kitchen making pancakes at five A.M. and, honestly, Wade had just gotten done fighting boring crime with Spider-Man and he wanted some damn pancakes!

 

“But why at five in the morning, Wade? I was trying to sleep but J.A.R.V.I.S. said someone was breaking in. You’re lucky my parents aren’t here otherwise you might be dead,” Mini-Stark is still rubbing at his eyes when he finishes. The teen walks into the kitchen and instead of sitting on the counter (like Wade thought teens did nowadays) Mini-Stark curls up on the floor in the corner by the stove and promptly falls asleep.

 

Wade doesn’t stop talking just because Mini-Stark is asleep though. He tells the sleeping teen all about his night with Spidey and his day running around rescuing kittens from trees. He stops, at one point, caught off guard by Mini-Stark’s twitching. The skillet is in one hand and the spatula in the other and he’s staring at Peter Stark, who’s wearing an oversized grey sweater and Captain America sleep pants. The teen looks tiny and fragile and Wade can see the edge of a scar peeking out of his sleeve where his hand is resting next to his face. The scar is light and pink and looks deeper the closer it gets to Mini-Stark’s palm.

 

Wade wonders when and why the heir to the Stark fortune would try to take his own life.

 

He comes up with far too many reasons.

 

So, after he finishes the six dozen pancakes, he lifts Mini-Stark up and puts him back in bed. Or, he would if he knew which room was Mini-Stark’s so instead he puts him on the most comfortable looking couch he can find and then crashes on the floor.

 

When Wade returns to consciousness, it’s to the smell of reheated pancakes and…

 

“Boysenberry syrup? Are you eating my pancakes with boysenberry syrup? How could you, Mini-Stark? That’s just—just sacrilegious! DeadCakes are only meant to be eaten with true maple syrup. Anything else is just—”

 

But Mini-Stark cuts him off, “I was allergic to maple when I was younger. I don’t really like how it’s tastes now tha—”

 

“WHAT? How can you not like maple anything?”

 

So Wade ends up spending the rest of the day trying to get Mini-Stark to eat anything maple flavored. Maple syrup is apparently super out but maple cookies and maple glazed pecans seem to go over rather well. (Wade ends up making about fifteen different things and forcing Mini-Stark to try them all. He promises to bring more maple things over later.)

 

Turns out, being best friends with Mini-Stark is fucking awesome. It’s all the fun of having billions of dollars without having to earn any of it. And being best friends with Spider-Man is fucking awesome, too! The hero only tells him to shut up half as often and once he even got a hug for not killing someone!

 

There were downsides, too, un-fucking-fortunately. Like Papa-Stark and Step-Ma-merica glaring every time they were around. (Which was surprisingly infrequent. Apparently, Papa and Mama were usually away on either missions, press junkets, or in Malibu at the other Stark Industries H.Q. Also apparently, it wasn’t always like that. Mini-Stark said once that Papa-Stark used to take him with but then he was accepted into university at sixteen and he told them not to worry about him. Also-also apparently, a lot of Mini-Stark’s friends were either overseas in boarding school or still in high school.

 

˹Did you know Mini-Stark was friends with Harry Osborn? ˼ Yellow asked once.)

 

The only downside to being friends with Spidey was that he’d web his mouth shut sometimes and then disappear into the night. (But the view of that ass was always worth it. Seriously? That ass.)

 

It’s months later and Wade is weirdly disappointed when Mini-Stark calls him one night to tell him he’ll have to cancel their Xbox marathon plans.

 

“Harry’s back from boarding school and we were going to hang out and catch up.”

 

Wade can hear the regret in Mini-Stark’s voice but a large part of him feels like the eighteen year old is just trying to shake him once and for all. And maybe Wade has been hanging around with Mini-Stark too frequently…

 

Or not.

 

So Wade puts on his best dress over his suit, a nice bright sun hat, and decides to follow Mini-Stark and friend around for a while. He doesn’t try very hard to be inconspicuous, after all, Mini-Stark was the one who canceled their plans and left Wade’s evening wide open. So he follows the two teens to the park, down to the river, over to a little bistro that doesn’t sell any Mexican food, over to an old arcade, and then all the way down to Coney Island. 

 

It’s like a date.

 

And that one thought rankles Wade’s scars like petting a cat backwards and then leaving the fur messed up rankles fucking everyone’s nerves.

 

Because Peter isn’t supposed to be on a date with anyone! He’s supposed to be playing video games with Wade and all Wade wants to do is march over there, throw Peter over his shoulder, and tell Harry Fucking Osborn to go get his own Peter because this one is Wade’s.

 

And that thought terrifies Wade. Because Peter Stark isn’t his. Peter isn’t his. Peter isn’t his. Not this Peter. Not Peter Stark. Someone else has Peter Anthony Stark over their heart. And all Wade has is Peter Benjamin Parker. Whoever the fuck that is.

 

Wade leaves quickly. Wade goes back to his apartment. Wade hangs himself.

 

A few hours pass.

 

“Holy shit! Holy shit. Holy—Fuck. Fuck. Shit. Oh, fuuu—Wade? Wade!”

 

Wade’s pretty sure he’s being hugged. And that he’s laying down.

 

˹Weird. ˼

 

Especially since last time he was conscious he was still tied to the rafter by his neck.

 

“Mmmini-Stark?” Wade’s voice is still hoarse from the rope but his vision is clear enough to make out the top of Peter’s mop of unruly brown hair buried in his chest. “What’re you… here?”

 

Peter looks up at him and the thick frames he occasionally wears make it obvious he was crying.

 

˹That’s… touching… ˼

 

“Shut up.”

 

“I didn’t,” Peter starts but shakes his head. He sits back, one hand still on Wade’s chest near his shoulder. He drags a hand through his hair and then pulls his glasses off and pockets them.

 

“I called,” he says, “after Harry and I got done catching up. You didn’t answer and I got worried ‘cause you always answer. So I came over and you were—were… Damn it! Wade, just ‘cause you can kill yourself doesn’t mean you should! Fuck! I’m gonna have nightmares for weeks, Wade!”

 

“Sorry,” Wade mutters, pushing his mask up to his forehead. He rubs at his eyes for a moment and then decides to ignore the next question Peter is bound to ask. Which is, of course:

 

“Why?”

 

“How was your date with Osborn Jr.?” Wade sits up and makes for the kitchen. Burritos, he needs burritos.

 

“It wasn’t a date!” Peter hollers after him.

 

Wade singsongs, “Potato tomato!”

 

“That doesn’t even make seeeense!” But Peter follows and hops on the counter to watch Wade make his food. He talks about the not-date, about them revisiting their favorite haunts, about Harry’s worries for his father, Norman, who’s dying (or something), and about Harry’s super model ex-girlfriend.

 

“I want a bite,” Peter says, suddenly.

 

“No.” But when Wade looks over he’s surprised that Peter hasn’t fallen off the counter, since the teen is trying lean over the four feet between them. “My burrito. You went to Coney Island.”

 

“But I wasn’t hungry then! I haven’t eaten in forever.”

 

Wade glares. He looks at his burrito. He looks at Peter’s pout. He looks at his beautiful burrito. He looks at the fridge. “Make your own,” he decides.

 

Wade may have realized he like-likes Peter but he can ignore it.

 

˹Burritos. ˼

 

It’s actually really fucking funny that it takes Wade so long to find out that Peter Stark and Spider-Man are the same person. He does it by accident.

 

It is so far past midnight that it’s closer to sunrise. They’re both a little out of it, laying upside-down on Peter’s king-size bed, and Wade is playing with Peter’s wrist. He’s careful not to bring up the scars but he’ll occasionally rub his thumb over it. It feels different than his own scars; softer, hotter, just a little more solid feeling where it’s deeper by the wrist.

 

Peter’s on his back, watching the TV with his head hanging off the end of the bed. The bend of his neck is distracting so Wade goes back to his hand. Peter’s only about five-ten so it doesn’t surprise him at all that his hands are just a bit smaller, what does (and always) surprise him is how fucking soft they are. (Seriously? Peter’s a scientist and is always working in the lab with Papa-Stark but his hands are like silk: smooth and velvety and pale and just slightly tan.) In the combination of half-light from the TV and what was trying to work its way in through the window, it looked like porcelain. Especially with Wade’s ragged skin slipping against it.

 

Wade slides his palm along the back of Peter’s hand aligning their fingers. He curls his hand into a fist and Peter allows the motion. He flexes his hand back straight and Peter’s fingers follow. He bends his pinky down, then his ring finger, the middle, the index, the thumb. He relaxes them in the same order. He does this faster and faster but gets bored quickly. He curls down just Peter’s middle and ring fingers and then pulls his palm back.

 

“Pew-pew!”

 

There’s a quiet little ‘splat’ and Wade looks at the ceiling to see a quiet little web dangling there.

 

“Huh.”

 

Next to him, Peter is absolutely frozen. Wade’s pretty sure he should probably be freaking out, too, but he’s running on thirty-six hours without sleep. (Wade will only find out his best friend is Spider-Man once, after all.)

 

“Are you secretly Spider-Man, Petey?” Wade shifts, angles Peter’s hand so he’s staring at his palm. He pulls the hand back again and ends up with a face full of web.

 

Wade tumbles off the bed, yelling curses behind the webbing, and, by the time he’s free, Peter is a mess of giggles.

 

“Heeeey! Why didn’t you tell me?” Wade pouts, his chin resting on the bed. “Am I not trust worthy? Have I not proven myself on the field of battle?”

 

Peter starts laughing all over again. “No, no, not—not that,” he rolls over and army crawls over to Wade. Peter reaches absently and plays with the sleeve of Wade’s tee-shirt. “When my parents found out, they made me promise not to tell anyone.”

 

“How long—”

 

“About a year before they found out.”

 

“And the scars? Or are they web-holes?”

 

Peter chews his lip for a moment. “Both. I was sixteen. Had just started college, my friend Gwen wasn’t talking to me, and my Uncle Ben was murdered. Dad and Steve were out of town. I didn’t have anyone to talk to. J.A.R.V.I.S. called the paramedics. He sent Dad’s ‘bots up from the lab to apply pressure. I wouldn’t have survived if it wasn’t for the healing ability from the spider bite.”

 

Wade stares for a long moment; his boxes are sluggish, too. He reaches instead, for Peter’s wrists, pulls them from under the other man’s head, and stares at the thin pale scars.

 

“Well, I’m glad he lived,” Wade mutters to the boxes, and before he can think about it, presses his chapped lips to each scar, gently and briefly.

 

There’s a small moment between them but, before Wade can do anything, it’s broken.

 

Peter pulls his hands back and says, “I’m super tired. Are you staying the night?” before hopping off the bed to run to his en suite bathroom.

 

Wade should go. He feels like he should really leave. Really. But instead he hops in to the bed, steals the big, comfortable quilt, and burrows down into the pillows.

 

When Peter crawls into bed, he stares at Wade for a long moment.

 

“You can’t tell anyone,” he says seriously. “I mean it, Wade, not a soul. Or my parents will probably kill you. For good.”

 

Wade holds out a hand, “Pinky-promise, Petey-Pie.”

 

It seems like after that there’s a tension that releases, one Wade didn’t realize was there.

 

Peter’s six months from twenty-one when he asks Wade about his Name. Which is weird considering they’ve been friends for almost four years by then.

 

Wade shrugs a shoulder and says, “I dunno. I mean, yeah, I have one, but I’ve never really paid much attention to it. It’s just a name. I’ve had it for, shit, fourteen years and I haven’t met them yet. Maybe I’m like Captain America! Maybe I’ll be frozen in ice and I won’t meet them for seventy years!” He smiles but Peter doesn’t look very amused.

 

“I just,” the younger man starts, “I don’t want a Nom De Mort. That would… I don’t think I could deal with that.”

 

Wade shrugs and takes another bite of his taco, “Don’t worry about it, Petey. It’s just a name.”

 

“It’s not—it’s not just a name, Wade.” Peter scoffs and sits up, knocking a shoulder into Wade’s. “It’s my soulmate. It’s, like, fate’s decision of whoever completes me. It’s not just a name. It’s… my Name.”

 

Wade scoffs. “Nobody completes you but you, Petey. The Name’s just whoever complements you best. Like the color wheel. I mean, like, say, you’re red. The color red, not like, sunburnt, anyway. You’re red. And green isn’t gonna complete you ‘cause then you’d be brown, not red. But what green does do is complement you, Peter. You’ll be Christmas. Not some bass ackwards mish-mash. So don’t worry about the Name. If they’re dead, they’re dead. Accept you couldn’t do anything about it and move on. ‘Cause if they’re dead, most likely you’ve never met them. Hell, my Name is probably a Nom De Mort. I don’t let it affect me. I’ve never met them, probably won’t meet them and that’s how it is. Life’s a beach.”

 

Peter’s staring like he can’t believe Wade just said the most profound thing he’s probably ever heard. The wed-slinger snaps out of it and shakes his, giving a gentle laugh.

 

“You say the most fucked up things sometimes and then you go and spout some other world shit like that.”

 

Wade gives him a wide, cheeky smile. “No problem, Petey.”

 

But Peter asks about it again a month and a half later. And three weeks after that and then a week  later.

 

It’s pissing Wade off. Because no matter how long he stares at those three lines saying Peter Benjamin Parker they’re never going to say Peter Anthony Stark. It’s a fucking joke. Wade’s never fucking cared about anyone like he cares about Peter but it’s not his fucking Name. And in a few months Peter’s gonna wake up with someone else’s name over his heart and Wade knows Peter’s gonna go looking for them because Peter’s told him as much.

 

“I want to know them. Whoever they are. Even if they’re dead. Some sort of power deemed them special enough for me. I owe them that at least, to find them and find out who they are,” he’d said once.

 

Wade takes a knife and carves off the Benjamin Parker part so that just Peter remains and it feels so right, for the few moments before his skin starts to grow back. And part of Wade is immeasurably angry at Peter for always bringing up the Name and his twenty-first birthday. It’s like a slap in the face, how excited Peter is for it and Wade just… Wade just knows it’ll be so much more painful after the Name appears. Nothing will be the same. The universe will prove to Wade that he deserves nothing good and he certainly doesn’t deserve Peter Anthony Stark.

 

It’s one month and three days till Peter’s twenty-first birthday when he finally (finally) gets cold feet about it.

 

“I… I don’t know if I want the Name anymore,” Peter whispers one night when they’re watching reruns on Wade’s couch. “I don’t… I don’t want so much of my life to be defined by knowing who’s supposed to be my soulmate. I just…” He fidgets, tucking his feet under Wade’s thigh. “I want to be able to love who I choose to. Not whomever the universe chooses for me.”

 

Wade shrugs, a weird mix of hope and despair burning in his chest. “So don’t worry about it.”

 

But Peter groans and pulls the blanket he’s burrowed under over his face. “It’s not that simple, Wade. I don’t—I don’t want a Name at all. I just… I just want…” Peter pulls the cloth down slowly, giving Wade an intense look. Then, he moves quickly, flinging the blanket around his shoulders instead and suddenly he’s kneeling next to Wade on the couch, giving the mercenary a look he hasn’t seen since the last time he was killed.

 

“Kinda weirding me out here, Petey.”

 

“Sorry,” Peter whispers and then his lips are pressing against Wades and everything in Wade’s brain sort of short circuits.

 

And then Peter’s pulling away and Wade’s brain starts again.

 

“Not that I,” Wade licks his lips. “Not that I don’t appreciate the gesture but what—”

 

“I don’t want any higher power to tell me who I can and can’t fall in love with. I want—I want you, Wade. All of you. I—I love you.”

 

Wade can’t decide if he’s offended or excited but he’s pretty sure he’s glaring. (Not necessarily at Peter. The boxes are making a lot of noise, too.) Wade doesn’t want to be some experiment caused by pre-twenty-one nerves. But he also won’t look a gift horse in the mouth so he fits a hand behind Peter’s head and pulls him in for kiss. (It’s also a good way to avoid responding to whatever the hell Peter just said.)

 

Peter moans and it’s ridiculous how much of an affect it has on Wade. So he reaches with his other hand and, placing it on Peter’s hip, and drags the younger man onto his lap, blanket burrito and all.

 

Peter shakes the quilt down to free his arms. He trails his soft, beautiful hands up Wade’s arms, over his broad shoulders, up his neck, and cups the merc’s face. And Wade… Wade feels like Peter actually enjoys touching him. It’s… too much.

 

Wade pulls back and waits for Peter to open his eyes.

 

“What?”

 

“Will you still respect me in the morning?”

 

Peter rolls his eyes and glares, but he’s smiling so Wade smiles back.

 

“I don’t even respect you now.”

 

“Aw, but Petey!”

 

“Shut up and kiss me or I’m going to hurt you.”

 

So Wade pushes all those troublesome thoughts away, (tells the boxes to shut the hell up,) and focuses on making Peter forget about any Name that isn’t Wade Winston Wilson.

 

It’s a whirlwind. Wade loses himself in the feel of Peter for a moment and when he comes back to himself Peter is half naked on his bed (which is impressive considering they started all this on his couch).

 

“Fuck, Baby Boy, you…” but Wade gets distracted by the fact that he can finally touch every inch of Peter’s magnificent skin. He traces two fingers down that little valley between Peter’s pectorals, down his abdominals, circles his navel, and then drags his hand over to grab at Peter’s hip bone.

 

Wade can’t resist so he presses an open mouthed kiss to Peter’s sternum. It’s so soft against Wade’s tongue, velvety and warm and he kisses his way to one of Peter’s nipples. And Peter’s sides are hot on Wade’s palms and Peter’s jeans and underwear are just in the way Wade pulls them off.

 

“Peter’s just ridiculously pretty, okay?”

 

“Wade…?”

 

“And that’s how Petey ends up naked in my bed.”

 

“Wade.”

 

Wade giggles. But now that all of Peter’s clothes are off he has so much more skin to explore. Like the gentle skin of Peter’s inner thighs. Or the bottom of his feet or behind his knees or his ass. Jesus, Wade has died and gone to heave because Peter’ ass is just—

 

˹Could bounce a half dollar off of it. ˼

 

˹Yeah... ˼

 

And Wade should probably get his own sweatpants off. And grab the lube and condoms.  But first, Wade slips down the bed, nips at Peter’s hips, and then buries his face in the crease of Peter’s thigh. Wade curls his tongue around the base of Peter’s dick and it’s warm and solid and amazing and Wade’s pretty sure it’s perfect, too, because why wouldn’t it be? The rest of Peter is perfect. It even fits down the back of his throat nicely! Which makes Wade think about how it would feel in his ass but that’s another day.

 

Or maybe later tonight.

 

Wade’s not picky.

 

When Peter’s shaking and clawing half-moons into Wade’s shoulders, Wade decides to back off. He stands, shucks his sweatpants and boxers, and walks to his nightstand to grab the lube and condoms.

 

Wade crawls back between Peter’s legs, runs his hands down his thighs again and has to ask, “Is this alright? If I have sex with you? Is it okay?”

 

And Peter understands. Understands why Wade needs to ask and needs just as badly to hear an answer. (It took a lot but Wade’s told Peter about… everything, really.)

 

“Yes. Wade,” and he cups Wade’s face and makes the older man look him in the eye. “Yes,” he says, beyond serious, “have sex with me, Wade.”

 

Wade kisses Peter again, slow and relaxed. “Yes,” Wade whispers.

 

Wade stretches Peter slowly, even though he knows the other man’s done this before, but he wants it to be special. (And honestly, he’s more than a little distracted by the sounds Peter makes and how his back bows taught and his hands fist in the sheets and—really, Wade should probably roll that condom on before he comes just from watching Peter.)

 

So Wade does roll the condom on and he pushes in slowly and dear any-god-that-will-listen Peter is hot and tight and fucking perfect: the way Peter’s thighs feel against Wade’s hips; his hands slipping under Wade’s shirt; Peter’s lips against his neck.

 

It’s far too much; far too perfect. It makes Wade’s Name burn over his heart.

 

But then Peter is coming, hot jets of it hitting Wade’s exposed abs and landing on Peter’s chest. And the sight alone is enough to make Wade lose it but coupled with the noises and the feeling… And suddenly Wade’s clenching hand shaped bruises onto Peter’s thighs and coming with a strangled moan.

 

After, Wade cleans them both up. He pulls Peter tight up to chest as they fall asleep and he lets a hand wrap around to caress right over Peter’s heart. Right over where the hero’s Name will come in, in a month’s time.

 

 Peter asks, two weeks before his birthday, “Why don’t you ever let me see it?”

 

They’re in Peter’s bed, naked and covered in sweat. Save for Wade’s grey tee-shirt (which is still covered in sweat. Anyway).

 

Wade tries to ignore the question.

 

But Peter persists, “If you have the Name already, why can’t you tell me whose it is?” He trails his soft fingers over the shirt, caressing Wade’s Name through the cotton blend. Peter looks up and pouts, “I thought we were best friends.”

 

“Why, Petey!” Wade pretends to be offended, the back of a scarred hand falling to his forehead. “After all this time, I thought we were more than friends! You sure know how to lead a girl on!”

 

Peter laughs but shakes his head. “Of course we’re more than friends.”

 

“More like looooovers?”

 

Peter slings a leg over Wade’s hips and sits on the merc’s stomach. He bends down to press a kiss to Wade’s chapped lips. “Yes. But you know what I mean. I… I want to know whose name it is… who it’s supposed to be.” Peter pushes at the Name gently. “I’m… jealous.”

 

Wade catches Peter’s hand and brings it up to kiss his palm. “It doesn’t matter whose name it is, Peter. They’re not important to me. You are.”

 

Peter’s still pouting but Wade’s gives him a heated look and licks up his wrist to his elbow.

 

“And you’re not gonna be anywhere near as jealous as I am when your name comes in.”

 

Peter blows a raspberry and mutters, “Yeah, right,” and then leans back down for a slow kiss.

 

Wade knows Peter was born at 1:37 in the morning on December seventh. (Knows because he asked.) So when he glances at the clock and sees 1:36 AM on December seventh he places a hand over Peter’s heart because he can’t bear the thought of seeing someone else’s name appear on his lover’s skin as they’re fucking.

 

When Wade wakes up, Peter’s gone and Wade tries to convince himself it’s better this way.

 

Wade doesn’t see Peter or Spider-Man for two and half weeks. He spends them having a Golden Girls marathon, eat questionable burritos, dead, or crying in the bath tub.

 

˹Shut up. ˼

 

˹Guess we’re just another experiment after all. ˼

 

So when Wade hears a knock at the door he really doesn’t want to answer it. But he does and he hopes that since all he’s wearing is a pair of boxer-briefs and a black undershirt, they’ll go away.

 

But it’s Peter.

 

Peter, who looks nervous and is giving him a tentative smile and looks like he hasn’t slept at all in the last seventeen days. He’s clutching a large, thick manila envelope.

 

Wade glares, one hand tightening in the door knob, the other on the door jamb. (It flexes out his forearms and he doesn’t miss Peter’s glance. Good.)

 

“What do you want? It’s Christmas Eve. I have places to kill and people to see.” It sort of rhymes and that pisses Wade off even more.

 

“Uhm,” Peter clears his throat and Wade hates himself for still finding that blush so attractive. The younger man runs a hand through his hair before straightening his shoulders. He thrusts out the envelope and says, “Look at it.”

 

Wade does. It’s yellow. But he doesn’t take it from Peter or open it.

 

“Why? So you can leave me again? Go away, Peter.”

 

Wade flicks his wrist to slam the door but Peter catches it and barges into the apartment.

 

He throws the envelope at Wade’s chest and it makes a heavy slapping sound. The merc barely catches it.

 

Peter looks wrecked. “Fucking—look at it, Wade!” And then he starts to pace and pulls at his gloves.

 

“I woke up with my Name, alright. And I was beyond confused and I got scared so I ran. Like a goddamn coward. ‘Cause I thought, ‘Maybe they fucked up. Maybe fate has fucked up. Or maybe you lied to me. Maybe you were just fucking with me, Wade.’ But then I remembered: Names don’t change. My uncle Ben died with Aunt May’s maiden name on his chest. So I looked into it and Names. Don’t. Change. They’re the same as what you’re given when you’re born. (Which is a big kick in face to the trans community but that—) So I thought, ‘Why wouldn’t you tell me’ and then I realized you didn’t know! So I went to my dad and asked him about my adoption except he wouldn’t tell me anything and asked why I was asking and do you know how hard it is get a court order for your original birth certificate? Or any other adoption papers? Especially when Tony Stark is the one to order them sealed and buried? But I needed to give you all that before I could see you again so you’d know. So you’d know why I ran and why I was so confused and—and… Please, Wade. Please. Open it.”

 

Except Wade doesn’t want to open Pandora’s Envelope. Because it’s either going to crush his poor little soul or… or… the other option is too much. Way too much.

 

But when he looks down his hands are shaking like fucking leaves and he gives in. He can’t take that depressed little hopeful look Peter keeps sending him so he rips the seal off the envelope and grabs at the thick sheaf of papers.

 

The first half is legal mumbo-jumbo detailing visitation right of the bio parents/family and shit like that but then something catches his eye:

 

Child’s Name: Peter Benjamin Parker

 

And then wade flips through the papers very quickly.

 

Biological Father: Richard Allan Parker

 

Biological Mother: Mary Kathryn Parker (nee: Fitzpatrick)

 

Adoptive Parent: Anthony Edward Stark

 

And then Peter is talking again, “My bio parents died two years after I was adopted by my dad. They were CIA agents and couldn’t take care of me. My aunt May was going through chemo so they couldn’t either. But Richard was friends with my dad so my dad offered to adopt me. And then they died and well... But my dad always made sure that I had a good relationship with my aunt and uncle since they’re my only blood relatives left alive. But I—”

 

“Let me see it,” Wade whispers. He feels weak, like his head is spinning off his shoulders. He drops the papers on the floor, sits heavily on the arm of his shitty couch, and watches as Peter nods franticly.

 

Peter pulls his pea coat off, then his dark green hoodie, then his scarf, then he grabs at the back of his three shirts and Wade closes his eyes.

 

He hears the fabric hit the floor in a soft ‘fwump’ but he doesn’t want to look. Can’t look because what if… what if this is just some big elaborate joke? What if the cosmos is just playing the cruelest prank on him it ever has? What if the Name over Peter’s heart isn’t his?

 

“Wade?”

 

˹Shit! When the hell did he get so close?! ˼

 

Peter cups Wade’s face. “Look at me,” he says so softly, so gently and Wade wants to cry. “Please… Look at me. Look at my Name.”

 

Peter drops his hand to Wade’s heart and Wade finally blinks open his eyes.

 

And—shit—tears! Those little traitors!

 

Wade doesn’t look right away though. He stares at Peter’s face, stares at those big brown eyes and those pretty pink lips and then—then—he looks and…

 

“Huh.”

 

Because right over Peter’s heart is his Name. Wade’s name.

 

Wade Winston Wilson

 

Wade rubs a thumb over it.

 

“It’s not smearing so it must not be Magic Marker.”

 

“You ass,” Peter punches him in the shoulder.

 

Wade moves, wraps Peter up in a hug and buries his face in his soulmate’s neck.

 

“Shit, Baby Boy.”

 

Peter holds him just as tight.

 

“Can I see it?”

 

“What?”

 

“Your Name? My name. On you?”

 

Wade almost says no, because that’s what he’s been avoiding for fourteen years. His Name. But then again, who better to see it that Peter Benjamin Parker? (Who turns out to be Peter Anthony Stark? Who turn out to be his soulmate? Fucking hell.)

 

Wade pulls at the hem of his shirt, up and over his head and flings the piece of cloth across the room.

 

Peter stares for a moment and then raises a hand to trace the Benjamin Parker part. He leans down and kisses the Peter.

 

Wade cups Peter’s cheek and tilts the younger man’s head up. He presses a kiss to Peter’s so soft lips.

 

“Come to bed with me?”

 

“Fucking duh.”

 

Wade.”

 

(And if Wade spends most of the time in bed kissing and tonguing and caressing Peter’s Name—his name—well, Peter enjoyed it so whatever.)

 

(They do forget it’s Christmas though, but whatever. Papa-Stark and Step-Ma-merica can wait.)