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Clouds Drift

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The thing about Wade’s scars, when Peter’s finally close enough to examine them, is they don’t really live up to the hype.  You hear a lot of stories about them, because nearly everyone’s seen Wade dismembered, gutted, or burned all to hell.  Nearly everyone’s seen vast swathes of skin whenever circumstances are such that his clothing hangs off him in shreds.  A lot of people have seen his face, probably more than Wade would ever be comfortable with.

Usually, though, when people see any part of him, he’s horrifically wounded.

So, the scars.  They’re pale and strange, they curl and fade and twist over his skin, and they don’t look raw or red or angry.  They don’t look painful, but Wade never talks about the physical process.  So Peter wouldn’t know.

They don’t move around while you watch, not really, but they’re different every day.  It’s not like a storm folding over itself:  it’s like watching clouds drift across the sky on a slow day, or watching the constellations spin, inch by inch, in the night sky.  You have to be watching them for a long time to see.  Otherwise you look away for a few hours, and when you look back—well, the whole landscape’s changed.

Peter gets close enough to look because he’s one of the many, many people who sees Wade get the absolute crap kicked out of him, and he’s the one who more or less picks up the pieces this time.

Wade can take a hell of a lot of damage.