The Lease

Peter stared at the spreadsheet on his laptop like it was a hostile takeover bid. Every column—rent, utilities, security deposit, credit score—mocked him with neat little numbers that refused to bend. He had run the credit check three times that week and each time the system spat back a red X and a polite suggestion to “consider a co-signer.” He sighed, fingers hovering over the keyboard, and tried not to think about the fact that Wade had already RSVP’d to their future landlord’s “welcome party” by carving his name into the drywall of the bodega’s back room.

He’d known this was coming. Being a photographer for a mid-tier advertising firm didn’t pay enough to cover a decent Queens apartment, and his credit history was a patchwork of late-night pizza deliveries and the occasional payday loan that never quite got paid back before the next one. He’d tried to explain it to Wade, but Wade’s attention span was about as reliable as a Wi-Fi signal in a subway tunnel.

“Guys, I think we should just sign the lease and hope the landlord doesn’t ask for a credit report,” Wade said, slipping a half-eaten burrito into his mouth as they stood in the cramped living room of the bodega. His voice was a low, gravelly echo that made the neon “Open” sign flicker like it was trying to keep up with his jokes.

Peter could see the corners of Wade’s mouth twitch. He was trying to be funny, but the humor was a flimsy raft on a sea of anxiety. “You can’t just—” Peter started, but Wade cut him off with a grin that was both mischievous and weary.

“I’m legally dead, remember? I don’t have a credit score. I’m the perfect co-signer. The landlord will love the mystery.” He raised his eyebrows, and his hand brushed the scar on his cheek—a souvenir from a fight with a supervillain that had involved a lot of glass, a lot of screaming, and a lot of questions about whether the insurance would cover it.

Peter’s eyes flicked to the lease agreement on the kitchen table, the words printed in tiny Helvetica, each clause a reminder that they were about to commit to a space that would be theirs for the next twelve months. The lease required a “single applicant with a verifiable credit history.” The landlord, Mr. Alvarez, had sent a polite email that said, “We prefer a solid credit record, but we are open to discussing unique circumstances.”

He rubbed his temples. “Wade, you’re a... what? A dead guy? The landlord’s going to ask for a Social Security number.”

Wade’s grin widened, and he lifted his chin as if preparing for a heroic declaration. “I’ve got a number that’s not on any government list. It’s just an… artistic pseudonym. ‘Wade Wilson-the-Invisible.’ Works for my Instagram followers, at least.”

Peter felt a pang of genuine affection for the man who could turn a bureaucratic nightmare into a punchline, and the pang hit his chest harder than any of the super-villain fights he’d witnessed from the shadows. He swallowed, the taste of burrito sauce lingering on his tongue, and forced a smile.

“Okay, fine. Let’s call Mr. Alvarez and see if he’ll accept a dead man as a co-signer. But if he asks for a background check, you’re going to have to—”

“—Make up a story about being a traveling circus performer who lost his memory in a trapeze accident?” Wade finished, his eyes sparkling with mischief. “I can do that. ‘Wade Wilson, born 1978, suffered a catastrophic fall from a 30-foot highwire, now works in IT.’”

Peter chuckled despite himself, the tension in his shoulders loosening just a fraction. “You’re ridiculous,” he said, the word feeling both an accusation and a compliment. “But I’m also desperate. I can’t afford a place on my own. If we’re going to live together—”

Wade interrupted, slapping a hand on Peter’s back with a force that made the old poster of a salsa dancer on the wall wobble. “We’re already living together. You’re in my head, I’m in your… well, you know. And we’ll make it work. We’ve already survived a vortex that tried to turn us into a pair of sentient marshmallows. An apartment is just another thing we can navigate together.”

Peter stared at the ceiling, the fluorescent light humming a steady, indifferent buzz. He thought about the tiny apartment above the bodega—the one with the leaky faucet that sounded like a weeping baby when the night shift crew turned off the water. He imagined a kitchen where he could actually use a proper stovetop instead of microwaving everything, a bathroom with a shower that didn’t spray water onto the ceiling, a bedroom where Wade wouldn’t have to swing from the ceiling rafters because the building was too old for any kind of aerial acrobatics.

He sighed again, louder this time, as if the building’s thin walls might hear his frustration. “Alright. I’ll call Mr. Alvarez. But I’m doing it after I finish this spreadsheet. And I’m not going to lie about the credit score. I’ll just say… my credit is a work in progress.”

Wade raised his eyebrows, and for a moment his smile faltered, replaced by something softer, almost vulnerable. “You’re a work in progress, Pete. So am I. That’s why we… fit, right?”

Peter felt a knot in his throat. He wanted to reply with a joke, but the words caught on the edge of his mouth. Instead, he said, “Yeah. We fit. Like a puzzle piece that’s slightly warped, but still somehow makes the picture whole.”

Wade laughed, a short, breathy sound that seemed to echo the rhythm of the city outside. “See? That’s the real magic. Not the powers or the spandex or the endless night patrols. It’s the mundane… the fact that we can sit on a couch and argue about whether the rent is too high or whether you’re spending too much on kale smoothies.”

Peter felt a warm rush that wasn’t from any of his recent workouts. It was the kind of warmth that comes from realizing you’re not alone in your mess. He glanced at the lease again, the ink a little smudged where his fingers had brushed it earlier. The words “Tenant Obligations” stared back, a legal barrier he was ready to climb over, as long as Wade was on the other side, holding the rope.

He took a deep breath, the city’s honks and distant sirens seeping through the thin walls, and pulled out his phone. The screen displayed “Mr. Alvarez – 718-555-0198.” He pressed the call button, the tone a low buzz that seemed to sync with his own heartbeat.

“Hello, Mr. Alvarez?” Peter said, his voice measured, precise, the kind of tone he used when talking to clients about lighting setups. “This is Peter Parker. I’m calling about the two-bedroom above your bodega at 15-23 24th Avenue. I’m very interested in the lease.”

There was a pause, then a muffled “Yes, Mr. Parker. I received your application. I have to admit, the credit score is—”

Peter clenched his jaw. “I understand. I wanted to discuss an alternative co-signer. My roommate, Wade Wilson, is… well, he’s a unique situation. He’s legally dead, so he doesn’t have a credit score. He can, however, provide… references.”

Mr. Alvarez’s voice was a little tighter than Peter expected. “Legally dead? Sir, that’s not—”

“—a joke, I know,” Peter added quickly, the words spilling out like a reflex. “But he’s a reliable—”

“—a reliable witness?” Alvarez asked, a hint of amusement breaking through the professional veneer.

Wade, who had been perched on the edge of the counter, leaned forward, his elbows resting on the worn wood. “I’ve seen a lot of things, Mr. Alvarez. I’ve been through fire, water, a few dimensional rifts. I can vouch for the stability of the tenant. And I can guarantee that the rent will be paid on time, because I have… resources.” He tapped his temple, a wink in his eye.

Peter felt his cheeks flush. “Wade has, uh, a very stable source of income. He works freelance. He also… has an ability to generate revenue from unconventional avenues.”

Alvarez let out a soft chuckle, the kind of sound a landlord makes when he’s heard enough strange explanations to make him question his own sanity. “Well, Mr. Parker, I’m not sure how to process a legally dead co-signer, but I’m willing to give this a try. I’ll need a written statement from Mr. Wilson, and perhaps a reference from… someone who can attest to his… circumstances.”

Peter glanced at Wade, who gave a small, conspiratorial nod. “I’ll get that to you by tomorrow. We can meet in person if you’d like to discuss details.”

“Excellent,” Alvarez said. “I’ll hold the unit for you until then. I’ll email you the lease to review. Thank you for your… candidness.”

Peter hung up, the call ending with a soft click that sounded like a tiny applause in the quiet apartment. He exhaled, his shoulders finally relaxing. “Okay, that went… better than I thought,” he said, more to himself than to Wade.

Wade grinned, the burrito now a forgotten mess on the counter. “See? I told you we could make it work. I’ll draft the statement. You just… relax. We’ve got a roof over our heads now. And a kitchen that’s not a microwave cave.”

Peter smiled, genuinely this time. “Relaxing isn’t exactly my forte, Wade. But I’ll try.” He turned back to the lease, the pages now feeling less like a barrier and more like a promise. He highlighted the clause about “early termination” and underlined “no subletting without landlord consent.” He wanted to make sure every detail was accounted for; the world he lived in was too chaotic for surprises.

Wade shuffled over, picking up a stack of old comic books from the counter and flipping through them with a practiced thumb. He stopped on a page where Spider-Man was swinging through the city, his mask half-visible. “You know,” Wade said, his voice softening, “I always thought the idea of living above a bodega was… romantic. Like something out of a rom-com. You, me, the smell of fresh empanadas, a rooftop where we can watch the skyline. And then there’s you, always worrying about credit scores and lease clauses.”

Peter laughed, a short, breathy sound. “And you, always worrying about how to make a dead guy sound like a responsible adult.”

Wade’s eyes flicked to the ceiling, and for a second the humor faded, replaced by a fleeting seriousness that surprised them both. “I’ve been alive for a while, Pete. Too long to pretend that everything’s a joke. I’m… scared. Not of the villains, not of the night. I’m scared of... losing the little things that make this… this feel like home.”

Peter felt something shift in his chest, a weight he hadn’t noticed before. He set the lease down, his fingers still slightly trembling. “I get that,” he said, his voice steadier than he felt. “I’m scared too. Of being… invisible, of being just another face in the city. But maybe, if we have a place together, even a cramped one above a bodega, we can… be seen. By each other.”

Wade reached out, his hand brushing Peter’s arm, the touch warm despite the chill of the night outside. “We’ll be seen, Peter. We’ll make it work. And if the landlord asks for more proof, we’ll just… give him a photo of us in front of a garbage truck and say ‘we’re residents.’”

Peter laughed, the sound genuine and unforced. He felt a strange calm settle over him, the kind that only comes after a storm of paperwork and jokes, when the underlying truth surfaces without fanfare. He looked at the lease again, now more a symbol of possibility than an obstacle. “Alright, Wade. Let’s sign this thing. And then… maybe we can order some pizza, because I think we’ve earned it after that conversation.”

Wade clapped his hands together, the sound echoing off the tiled floor. “Pizza. And maybe a bottle of wine. I’ve got a bottle of… something I’m not supposed to be drinking. It’ll be a celebration, Pete. Our first night as… legal tenants.”

Peter smiled, his eyes lingering on the lease as if it were a map to a new world. He picked up the pen, the ink black and steady, and began to write their names across the top. As the nib glided over the paper, he felt the weight of each letter, each curve, anchoring them to a place that was more than just a roof. It was a promise that, even in a city that never slept, they could find a corner to call home.