Chapter Text
The thing about life is that it's always got a way of pulling the rug out from under you just when you’re starting to feel comfortable. It’s like the universe is sitting up there with a big, cosmic grin, just waiting for the perfect moment to remind you that peace is a fleeting illusion. And just when you think you've got a handle on things, just when you think you might be allowed to feel something resembling happiness—bam. Life throws you a curveball. Or, in Peter’s case, a sucker punch straight to the gut in the form of a nondescript guy walking through the door.
Wade sees it happen in real time—the way Peter’s body tenses and the way his eyes go wide like he’s just seen a ghost. The bartender's usually so composed, so in control, but in that split second, all of it shatters. And Wade, for all his bravado, knows exactly what that kind of look means. It means sh*t’s about to get real.
Peter’s grip on the glass tightens, his knuckles turning white, and Wade can almost hear the gears grinding in his head. The glass shatters in his hand as shards explode on the countertop and floor. The sound is like a gunshot in the bar—sharp, sudden and turning heads.
There’s a heartbeat of silence, the kind that stretches out forever, where the whole world seems to hold its breath. Wade’s seen Peter pissed before, seen him frustrated, tired, even close to breaking. But this? This is something else entirely. This is a man pushed past his limit and Wade knows, deep down, that whatever happens next isn’t going to be pretty.
Peter’s eyes lock onto the man, his body going rigid as if every muscle in him is straining against the urge to explode. Wade follows his gaze, and the sight that meets him is disappointingly average—a man of no particular distinction, just another face in the crowd. But the look on Peter’s face says everything—this guy isn’t just another face. He’s theface.
“Pete,” Wade begins, but the words die in his throat. Whatever’s about to happen, it’s already too late to stop it.
Oh sh*t. This is it. We’re about to go full Tarantino in here.
What are we thinking—Pulp Fiction? Kill Bill? Reservoir Dogs?
Peter moves. It’s not a conscious decision, it’s not a calculated attack—it’s pure, unfiltered instinct. One second he’s behind the bar, and the next, he’s vaulting over it, his body a blur of motion. Wade’s eyes widen in surprise as Peter crashes into the man, taking him to the floor with a sickening thud that makes the whole bar wince.
The impact is brutal, the kind that leaves an echo in the bones of anyone watching. Chairs scrape against the floor as patrons jerk back, their conversations forgotten and eyes locked on the spectacle unfolding before them. It’s not every day you see the quiet bartender lose his sh*t, and the shock alone is enough to hold them in place.
Peter’s fists are a blur, each punch driven by something more than just anger. It’s fury, it’s grief, it’s years of unresolved pain given physical form. His knuckles connect with flesh and bone, the sound of each impact loud and wet in the suddenly silent bar. The man beneath him struggles, his arms coming up to defend himself, but Peter’s relentless. There’s nothing measured about this, nothing controlled—it’s a storm, wild and uncontained, and it’s all crashing down on the man who had the misfortune of walking into this bar tonight.
Wade watches, frozen for a moment by the sheer intensity of what he’s seeing. He’s seen plenty of violence in his life—hell, he’s caused plenty of it—but there’s something different about this.
Damn, didn’t know Petey had it in him. Look at him go!
That's not a fight. It's a damn exorcism.
The man on the floor manages to get an arm free and tries to push Peter off, but it’s like trying to hold back a tidal wave with your bare hands. Peter’s fist comes down again, harder this time, and there’s a sickening crunch as the man’s nose shatters under the blow. Blood sprays across Peter’s knuckles, but he doesn’t seem to notice—or if he does, he doesn’t care.
For a moment, Wade considers stepping in, the urge to protect Peter—protect himself from what he’s about to do—tugging at him. But then the other screams, a raw, guttural sound that makes Wade flinch.
“Stay the f*ck back!” Peter’s voice is a roar, the kind that’s filled with so much pain it feels like it might rip him apart. “This is mine!”
The bar falls silent again, the patrons frozen in place by the sheer force of Peter’s rage. Even Wade, who’s used to being the loudest and the wildest, steps back to give Peter the space he needs to unleash whatever demons he’s been carrying.
It’s not just about beating this guy, that much is definitely clear. It’s about trying to beat back the years of grief that have been eating away at Peter’s soul, gnawing at him from the inside out. Every punch is a desperate plea for release, for some kind of closure that he knows, deep down, he’ll never really get.
The man’s face is a mess of blood and bruises, and yet, somehow, he manages to get an arm up and block one of Peter’s wild swings. It’s enough to throw him off balance, just for a moment, and the man seizes the opportunity. His hand darts to his jacket, fumbling for something—anything—to stop the onslaught.
Wade sees it happening but the realization comes too late. The man’s hand reappears with a gun, the muzzle suddenly pressed against Peter’s chest. The smaller man freezes, his breath hitching, and for a moment the world seems to stop.
Uh, that does not look good.
You think?!
The man’s sneer is ugly, a twisted expression of triumph that makes Wade’s blood boil. “You think this makes you a hero?” he spits, his voice a venomous hiss. “You think beating the sh*t out of me changes anything? She’s still dead. And you? You’re just a failure. A f*cking failure.”
The words hit Peter like a physical blow and for a moment, his fists falter. The gun shakes in the man’s hand, but his voice is steady, each word a knife twisting deeper into Peter’s gut.
“Blondie's gone because of you,” the man continues, his tone dripping with contempt. "You couldn’t save her, just like you can’t save yourself now. All you are is a broken little boy, clinging to a dead woman’s memory."
Peter’s eyes are wide, his mind caught in the vice grip of the memories he’s tried so hard to bury. The gun is pressed against his chest, the cold metal a reminder of just how close he is to the edge.
Before Wade can move and before the man can say another word, a gunshot echoes through the bar.
The man’s expression changes in an instant—from triumph to shock. There's a grotesque mixture of surprise and pain as the bullet tears through his skull. His mouth opens as if to utter a final curse, but no words escape. His body jerks violently, the gun slipping from his hand, and then he collapses in a crumpled heap on the floor, a grim finality settling over him.
Wade’s head snaps around to see Mac standing a few feet away, his gun still raised, smoke curling from the barrel. The old man’s face is a mask of irritation, his grizzled beard and scarred face making him look every bit the battle-hardened merc he is.
“Damn fool,” Mac mutters, holstering his gun with a gruff huff. “Can’t even have a drink in peace without some asshole yammering on.”
Weasel’s the first to break the silence, his voice loud and exasperated. “Goddammit, Mac!” he shouts, throwing his hands up in frustration. “Now there’s blood and brains all over the f*cking floor. Do you know how hard it is to get that sh*t out of wood?”
“Yeah, well, I’m getting too old for this sh*t,” Mac grumbles, his gaze softening as he looks at Peter. There's a rare, gruff warmth to his words. "I'm not losing my best bartender over some idiot with a gun."
Weasel looks almost offended. "Hey, what am I, chopped liver?"
"Nah, you're just... eh, you know. Weasel."
"Oh, f*ck off."
The patrons begin to move in, handling the cleanup with the casual efficiency of those who’ve seen it all before. Wade reaches Peter’s side, trying to get a read on him. The adrenaline from the fight is still coursing through him, and Wade can only imagine the tangled mess of emotions going through his head right now.
“Peter,” Wade starts, his voice low, cautious. “Are you okay?”
He doesn’t respond immediately, his eyes still fixed on the body. The anger that was so palpable moments ago seems to have evaporated, replaced by a kind of numbness. He blinks a few times, as if trying to clear the fog from his vision. “I—” he begins, but the words don’t come. He shakes his head, struggling to find something coherent to say.
The others nearby are now discussing the logistics of disposing of the body with a nonchalance that would be disturbing if they weren't all f*ck ups.
“Alright, so where are we dumping this one?” one patron asks, eyeing the corpse with mild curiosity.
“Same place as the last guy,” another replies, already moving to grab a mop and bucket. “Back alley’s got a good spot. Just need to make sure the CCTV doesn't catch any of it.”
“Can we at least get rid of the brain matter first?” someone else chimes in. “That sh*t’s gonna attract all kinds of pests.”
“Yeah, yeah. Just toss it in with the others. No sense making a fuss over it.”
Wade glances back at Peter, who’s finally managing to meet his eyes. “This guy…” Wade starts, searching for the right words, “Is he the one who—”
“Yeah,” Peter interrupts, his voice tight. “Yeah, that's him.” He swallows hard, his gaze falling back to the body. “And despite what people say about revenge, seeing him dead—it feels good. It feels f*cking gratifying.”
Wade’s expression shifts from concern to surprise. He’d expected Peter to struggle with the aftermath, to grapple with the morality of his actions. Instead, Peter’s admission is raw and unfiltered.
“Feels good?” Wade echoes. “I thought you’d be feeling all conflicted and... well, you know, how people talk about revenge.”
Peter’s face is set in a grimace of satisfaction mingled with something darker, an expression that’s hard to read. “Yeah, well, f*ck what people say,” Peter snaps. “Sometimes, you don’t get closure from a neat little bow or some philosophical lesson. Sometimes, you just get satisfaction from seeing the asshole who took something precious from you get what’s coming.”
Hey, at least he got his closure. Better than getting stuck with a bunch of unresolved issues.
Yeah, nothing like a bloody mess to solve your existential crises.
Wade takes a step back, absorbing Peter’s words. He’s seen people seek revenge before, but this level of straightforward, unvarnished honesty is different. “So, you’re saying you’re okay with how things turned out?” he asks carefully.
Peter’s gaze hardens, a flicker of defiance in his eyes. “Okay? No, I’m not okaywith it. I’m still f*cked up about Gw— It doesn’t change that. But seeing him dead, knowing he can’t hurt anyone else—that’s something. It’s not the answer to all my problems, but it’s a piece of justice I didn’t think I’d get.”
Wade watches Peter’s face shift through a maze of emotions—anger, satisfaction, and something else that’s harder to define. The rawness of Peter’s admission hangs in the air like a tangible force, heavy and unresolved.
Peter’s shoulders slump slightly, and he rubs his face in a tired fashion. His voice softens, tinged with regret. “Sorry if I came off as a total asshole,” he mutters, a hint of self-awareness creeping into his tone. “I guess I’ve been a bit... raw, lately.”
Wade sees the way Peter’s hands shake slightly, his knuckles scraped and bleeding from the fight. The sight adds another layer to the complex portrait of the man standing in front of him—a guy who’s just gone through a visceral confrontation with his past.
“Forget about it,” Wade says, trying to be reassuring. “You’ve been through hell. If anything, I’m surprised you’re not more of a mess.”
Peter chuckles mirthlessly, the sound rough and strained. “Thanks for that. You know, I should probably make us a drink. It’s the least I can do after... all this,” he says, then heads back behind the bar with a slightly unsteady gait. The clinking of glass and the soft rustle of bottles are the only sounds as he sets to work.
He grabs a bottle of rye whiskey and starts measuring out shots with a practised hand, though his movements are a bit jerky, betraying his raw nerves. As he pours the shots, he winces slightly at the sight of the cuts and bruises on his hands, which are now starkly visible under the bar’s lights. His face is a mix of concentration and resignation as he prepares a Manhattan. He adds the rye whiskey to a mixing glass, followed by vermouth and a dash of bitters.
Weasel, who has been busy dealing with the mess from earlier, approaches with a look of mild exasperation. The blood and debris are largely cleaned up, but the scene left its mark on the bar. Peter catches Weasel’s eye and offers a sheepish smile.
“Sorry about the mess,” Peter says, his voice lacking its usual confidence. “I didn’t mean to make such a disaster of things. I’ll clean up myself if you want.”
Weasel grumbles, though there’s an undercurrent of grudging sympathy in his voice. “Yeah, well, it’s not like I was expecting a quiet night or anything. But damn, Peter, you’ve really outdone yourself this time.”
Peter sets the martini glass aside and pours another shot of rye whiskey, placing it next to the drink he’s made for himself. He takes a moment to look at the spilt blood and shattered glass on the floor, his expression a mix of exhaustion and lingering anger.
“It’s just… sometimes I feel like I’m living in a constant state of fallout,” Peter admits, his voice low. “Every time I think I’ve got a handle on things, something else blows up. And tonight was... no exception.”
Seems like he's always fighting to get back on track. It’s exhausting.
Yeah, like trying to fix a leak that keeps springing new holes.
Weasel nods, seemingly understanding. “Yeah, life’s a bitch like that. But hey, you’ve got to do what you’ve got to do. Just... try to keep the mess to a minimum next time, alright?”
Peter gives a small, appreciative nod and finishes preparing the drinks. He slides the Manhattan over to Wade and swallows his own shot of whiskey, wincing as the alcohol burns its way down his throat.
As Peter leans against the bar, Wade watches him with a mix of concern and curiosity. “So, what’s next for you?” Wade asks, his tone gentle but probing. “You’ve got this piece of justice, but what now? How do you move forward?”
Peter’s eyes darken slightly, and this time it's honey Jack Daniels he takes a shot of. He pauses for a moment, his expression pensive. “I don’t know. I guess I’ve got to figure that out. It’s like I’ve got this temporary satisfaction, but it doesn’t really change the bigger picture. I still have to deal with all the other sh*t that’s been piling up.”
Wade nods, understanding the weight of Peter’s words. “Yeah, sometimes the big picture is hard to see through all the immediate mess. But you’ve got time. For now, just take it one step at a time.”
Peter manages a small, appreciative smile. “Thanks, Wade. I guess I’ll take your advice.”
Weasel returns to his cleaning duties and grumbles softly to himself. The bar is slowly returning to its usual rhythm, the patrons resuming their conversations and drinks. The earlier commotion has faded into the background, leaving a lingering sense of tension and relief.
In strides a woman with a commanding presence. Her name's Lex, known in the mercenary world for her sharp wit and even sharper skills. At least, that's what he hears from Wade as he's not so subtly whispering behind his hand. She’s dressed in tactical gear, with a no-nonsense attitude to match. Her boots make a decisive clunk against the floor, and her eyes scan the room with a practised gaze.
Lex walks up to Peter and Wade, her eyes glinting with a mix of amusem*nt and professional detachment. “Alright, boys and girls, let’s wrap this up with a proper lesson on body disposal,” she announces, her voice cutting through the haze of tension like a knife.
Peter raises an eyebrow, his curiosity piqued despite himself. “Do I really need to be here for this?” he asks, his tone laced with a mix of scepticism and exhaustion. He glances at Wade, who’s looking increasingly intrigued by Lex’s authoritative tone.
Lex flashes him a grin. “Absolutely. You’re getting a front-row seat to the art of staying off the radar. Besides, it’ll keep you occupied. And who knows, you might pick up a few tricks for your next cleanup.”
Wade, ever the eager student, claps his hands together with a grin. “Oh, this is gonna be good! I’m ready to learn.” He nods enthusiastically, playing along despite already knowing the ropes from his murky past.
“Fantastic,” Lex replies, rolling up her sleeves and revealing a set of neatly stowed tools and supplies. “First things first: immediate cleanup. Get rid of any traces of blood. It’s not just about mopping up the floor. You’ll need industrial-grade cleaners and plenty of cloths. Bloodstains are a pain in the ass to get out, especially if they’ve had time to set.”
Remember that time we bled all over that hotel bed and got banned from the entire chain?
Vividly.
Peter watches with a mixture of bemusem*nt and grim fascination on his face. Lex grabs a mop and a bucket of cleaning solution, demonstrating the thoroughness required. "Scrub every inch of the floor. You don’t want any residue. Trust me, even a tiny drop can get you caught."
“Got it,” Wade says, taking notes mentally while trying to look as if he’s absorbing new information. His eyes twinkle with mock seriousness as he mimics Lex’s actions with exaggerated precision.
“Next,” Lex continues, “you’ll need a body bag. Preferably heavy-duty. It’s important to get the body out of the scene before anyone has a chance to notice. We’ve got a van parked outside with a covered cargo area. Makes it easier to transport without drawing attention.”
Peter nods, still processing the information. “And after that?”
Lex raises an eyebrow. “Well, if you can’t dispose of the body immediately, you need to find a secure temporary storage. Somewhere no one will look. A basem*nt, an old warehouse, or even a private storage unit will do. The key is to make sure it’s somewhere off the beaten path.”
Or if you’re like us, you just use the dumpster behind a random diner.
Which, as we recall, was not a great choice.
Wade interjects with exaggerated curiosity, “And if we need to, say, dispose of the body permanently?”
“Good question,” Lex replies, her tone light but with a hint of professionalism. “You’ve got a few options. Landfills are popular for their obscurity. Or, if you’re feeling ambitious, you could go for an acid bath. But that’s a whole other level of messy. Acid can eat through bone, but it’s not for the faint of heart.”
Peter’s eyes widen slightly at the mention of acid baths, but he keeps his comments to himself. He can’t help but think about the gruesome implications, but Lex’s nonchalance makes it seem almost like a mundane task.
“And if you’re really in a pinch,” Lex adds, “you might even consider cremation, though it’s a bit more involved. You’ll need access to a facility for that. But remember, there’s no one-size-fits-all solution. It depends on your resources and how much time you have.”
Wade looks impressed, nodding vigorously. “Wow, Lex, you really know your stuff. This is like a masterclass in crime scene management.”
Lex smirks, enjoying the role of teacher. “I’ve had practice. It's not just about getting away with murder—it’s about making sure you’re not the next one in the headlines. Now, let’s move outside. We’ll get rid of this mess and make sure it’s all cleaned up. And remember, always double-check your alibis and make sure no one saw a thing.”
As they step outside into the cool night air, Lex waves over her associate, a burly man who’s been waiting by the van. He nods at Lex with a grim smile, ready to assist with the final stages of the disposal. The van’s doors are already open, revealing the covered cargo area where the body bag is carefully placed.
Her demeanour shifts to one of casual business. “Oh, and before I forget, how do you want to handle the payment?”
Peter blinks, momentarily caught off guard. “Payment? I—I thought—”
Lex bursts out laughing, the sound a sharp contrast to the sombre mood of the night. “Sweetie, do you think I’m doing this out of the goodness of my heart? I may be good at what I do, but I still need to get paid. So, how about it?”
Peter pouts, his earlier bravado slipping as he realizes the practicality of the situation. “Right. I guess I don’t really have a choice. How about an e-transfer?”
Lex grins, clearly pleased with the arrangement. “Perfect. Just make sure it goes through tonight. I don’t want to be chasing you for payment.”
Wade raises an eyebrow, trying to suppress his amusem*nt at Peter's discomfort. It brings him back to his own early days as a mercenary when everything was still fresh and raw.
The van doors close with a thud, and the vehicle pulls away, leaving only the faintest traces of its presence. The two watch the taillights disappear into the distance, a mix of emotions stirring in Peter's mind. He glances at Wade, who seems to have picked up on his mood.
"Hey, you good?" Wade asks, his tone gentle.
Peter sighs, the sound rough and tired. "Yeah, I guess. I don't know. Did I fu— I mean, what are your thoughts on... me?"
Wade shifts his weight, his eyes scanning Peter’s face for a moment before responding. “Well, that’s a loaded question,” he says, a sardonic smile tugging at his lips. "But let me put it this way: I’ve seen a lot of messed-up sh*t in my time. I’ve got voices in my head for god’s sake," he adds, gesturing vaguely to his temples, “they’re like my personal commentary track. You don’t exactly have to worry about making things worse for me.”
Peter does a double-take, his eyes widening slightly as he processes Wade’s comment. “Wait, you—what? You’ve got voices in your head?” The revelation surprises him, adding another layer of complexity to his understanding of Wade.
Wade’s grin widens as he notices Peter’s reaction. “Yeah, you heard me right. I’ve got voices in my head, and they’re not just any voices. They’re... well, let's call them White and Yellow.” He pauses for effect, then continues with a theatrical flourish. “They’re kind of like those narrative boxes you see in comics. You know, the ones that pop up to explain what the character’s thinking or feeling.”
Like this!
And this.
Peter blinks, clearly confused. “Narrative boxes? What do you mean?”
Wade chuckles, clearly enjoying the moment. He leans in closer to Peter, his eyes sparkling with mischief. “Alright, imagine this: you’re in a comic book, right? And instead of just thinking about stuff, you’ve got these little narrative boxes that pop up next to your head that give the readers a peek into what’s going on inside. That’s basically what White and Yellow are for me.”
Peter frowns slightly, trying to wrap his head around Wade’s explanation. “Okay, so what’s the deal with these... narrative boxes? What do they actually do?”
Wade gestures vaguely to his temples, as if trying to conjure the boxes. “Right, so Yellow is like this overly enthusiastic, upbeat cheerleader. Kind of like a motivational speaker who never shuts the f*ck up. Always wants me to see the silver lining, even if it’s buried under a mountain of sh*t.”
You’re welcome, by the way.
I’m not sure ‘cheerleader’ is the right term. More like ‘blabbermouth with a penchant for unhelpful optimism.’
Wow, you can be such a jerk sometimes.
Peter chuckles despite himself, the image of an incessantly cheerful voice in Wade’s head almost absurd. “And what about White?”
Wade’s expression shifts to a more serious tone. "White’s the exact opposite. The voice of doubt and reason. It’s the one that says, ‘Hey, maybe you shouldn’t be doing this,’ or ‘Is this really a good idea?’. Ugh, talk about a buzzkill. But at the same time, I need it to keep me in check. It's a balance, you know? Between optimism and realism. Without both, I'd probably be completely bonkers."
Flattery will get you nowhere, Wade.
Peter takes in Wade’s explanation, trying to process the surreal concept of internal voices as narrative devices. His expression is a mix of intrigue and disbelief. “Wow, that’s... pretty wild. I mean, I knew you had a lot going on, but this is a whole new level.”
Wade grins, his eyes twinkling with mischief. “Yeah, it’s a trip. And now that I’ve just dumped my whole personal soap opera on you, do I get to ask—am I the one who’s weirding you out now?”
Peter’s eyes widen again, his mouth twitching into a half-smile. "I wouldn’t say weirded out, exactly. More like... confused but intrigued."
Wade's grin widens, a playful glint in his eye. "Good to know. And you know, if it helps, we can always bond over our collective screw-ups."
Peter chuckles, a genuine warmth in his smile. "Yeah, I guess it’s nice to have someone who gets it. Even if it’s... as messed up as it sounds."
As their laughter fades, there’s a comfortable silence between them. Wade takes a step closer, the height difference between them becoming more apparent as Peter looks up slightly.
Before either of them fully realizes it, they’re drawn into an embrace. Wade’s arms go around him, his larger frame enveloping him in a hug. Peter leans into the embrace, resting his head against the toned chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. Wade can hear a soft sigh as the tension drains from Peter's body.
"Thanks, Wade. For everything," Peter murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper.
Wade tightens his embrace, gently running his hand along the length of his back. "Don't mention it. You can always come to me, alright?"
Peter nods, his breath warm against Wade's neck. He pulls away reluctantly, his expression shifting to one of reluctance and lingering uncertainty. "I guess I should go back to work," he says, glancing toward the bar.
Wade gives a small smile, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "Hey, it's okay. We'll catch up soon, yeah? Here—" He pulls out his phone and hands it to Peter. "—just put your number in here. We can be besties now."
Peter rolls his eyes, but there's a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. He types in his number and hands the phone back to Wade.
"Now, get outta here before Weasel kicks you out," Wade says, playfully pushing him away.
Peter flashes him a smile, the warmth in his expression returning. "See you around, Wade."
As the bartender walks away, Wade watches him leave, his eyes lingering on the subtle sway of his hips. He sighs softly, the sound equal parts wistful and content. What he wouldn't do for a man like Peter.
