Waiting

Peter paced the cramped hallway of the Midtown Lab, the fluorescent lights humming like an overworked bee. He counted the seconds on his wristwatch, the cheap digital face blinking “04:23”. The green aura that had cocooned Wade was now a faint pulse, a slow breathing that matched the low thrum of the building’s HVAC. Peter’s mind, however, was a carousel of flashbacks, each one landing with the weight of a brick.

The first time Wade had taken a bullet for him, it had been a downtown robbery gone sideways. Wade had dove, arms flailing, shouting something about “safety first” while Peter tried to swing a web. The bullet missed Peter’s chest by an inch, but hit Wade’s ribcage, splintering bone like a piñata. Wade’s body dissolved into that neon green glow, and within minutes he was standing, grinning, his ribs reassembled as if they were LEGO blocks. Peter had spent the next hour trying to keep his jokes from cracking, but the sound of Wade’s laugh—half hysterical, half relieved—had cut through the tension. “You owe me a pizza,” Wade had said, wiggling his eyebrows. Peter had replied with a deadpan, “Only if you promise not to turn me into a meatball.” The banter had been a flimsy shield, but it had worked.

The second time was a rooftop fight with a Skrull impersonating a construction worker. Wade had been the one to pull the Skrull off the edge, but the Skrull’s alien claws had grazed Wade’s forearm. Again the green shimmer, again Wade’s body reconstituting itself, this time with a fresh scar that glowed faintly under his skin. Peter had stood there, trembling, his spider-sense buzzing like an overcharged phone. “I’m not sure what’s worse,” he’d whispered, “the Skrull’s lie or the fact that you keep turning me into a walking first-aid kit.” Wade’s reply was a snort, “You love the drama, Pete. It’s the best part of the show.”

The third incident had been the most chaotic. A hydro-bomb in Queens had sent a wave of water slamming into a storefront where Wade and Peter had been arguing about who stole the last slice of pizza. Wade had shoved Peter out of the way, taking the full brunt. The explosion had shredded Wade’s torso, scattering tissue like confetti. The green aura had blazed brighter than a traffic light, and when it dimmed, Wade was whole again, drenched, shaking his head and shouting, “I’m a terrible roommate, I know.” Peter, soaked and shivering, had managed a laugh that cracked like ice: “And a terrible boyfriend, apparently.”

Now, in this third-floor hallway, the fourth regeneration was playing out with the same weary predictability. Peter’s eyes flicked to the ceiling, noting the faint dust motes dancing in the air. He counted the breaths of the green light: one, two, three… The rhythm was a metronome for his thoughts, each tick a reminder that Wade’s body didn’t need time, but Peter’s heart did.

He leaned against the cold metal doorframe, feeling the chill seep into his gloves. “You’re lucky you’re not a superhero with a day job,” he muttered to himself, the sarcasm a familiar coat he wore to keep the dread at bay. “If I had to file a claim for property damage every time you ‘heal,’ I’d be retired by now.” He pressed his forehead against the door, feeling the vibrations of the building’s machinery. The world outside was a blur of rain-soaked streets, the city’s neon signs smeared into watercolor by the drizzle.

The minutes stretched, each one a thin slice of waiting that Peter could feel in the marrow of his bones. He tried to focus on the task at hand: calibrating the new nanite dispersal grid they’d been tinkering with for weeks. The schematics were projected on the wall, a cascade of blue lines that flickered like an old video game. He traced the circuitry with his finger, the glass cool under his touch. “If I can just reroute the power draw, we might actually get the stabilizer to work without frying the whole block,” he muttered, half to the empty hallway, half to the ghost of Wade’s grin that lingered in his mind.

A sudden jolt of static snapped him back to the present. The green aura flared briefly, a pulse that seemed to say, “I’m not done yet.” Wade’s eyes opened, amber and unfocused, his face a mask of pain that didn’t quite match the casual swagger he usually wore. “Hey,” he croaked, the words ragged, “you ever wonder if we’re just… broken machines that keep getting patched up?”

Peter blinked, the surprise caught in his throat. He had rehearsed lines for these moments, the jokes he could toss out to keep the mood light. “I’ve thought about it a lot, especially when you’re turning me into a walking casualty,” he replied, his tone precise, the words landing like measured steps on a tightrope. “But I guess the real question is whether the patches are worth the cost.”

Wade winced, his hand clamping down on the side of the chair, fingers turning white. “Cost, huh? Dude, you’ve never seen the bill for a full-body regeneration. It’s like… it’s like a mortgage on a soul.” He tried to smile, but the effort was a strain. “I keep thinking I’m invincible, but every time I get knocked down, the world shouts ‘welcome back.’”

Peter’s shoulders slumped just a fraction, the weight of those words settling in his chest. He had always been the one counting casualties, the one who kept track of broken bones and broken promises. He had joked about the scars, the bruises, the endless cycle of “we’ll be fine tomorrow.” Now the joke felt thin, a veil that was slipping.

He pushed himself away from the doorframe, the metal cool against his back. “I guess I’ve been counting the times you get back up instead of the times I have to pick up the pieces,” he said, his voice lower, the sarcasm fading into something more raw. “It’s not just the bruises, Wade. It’s the nights I stay up worrying if you’ll be… if you’ll be okay after the next explosion, the next bullet, the next whatever. It’s the fact that I love you enough to watch you get torn apart and still hope you’ll smile when it’s over.”

Wade’s eyes flickered, a glimmer of something like gratitude, or maybe just relief that the conversation had moved beyond the usual banter. He tried to sit up, his muscles still trembling with the after-effects of regeneration. “You always make it sound so… romantic,” he said, the humor returning in a half-hearted chuckle. “‘Love’ and ‘regeneration.’ That’s a new one for the diary.”

Peter’s lips twitched into a faint smile, the kind that didn’t reach his eyes. “It’s not a diary. It’s a journal of the things we keep forgetting. Like how you can’t remember to wear a helmet when you’re about to jump off a building, or how I have to remind you that you’re not a superhero for everyone else, just for me.” He glanced at the green aura, now a steady, soothing glow. “And how you keep breaking my heart every time you walk away from a fight with a grin.”

Wade’s shoulders relaxed a little, the tension easing from his frame. “You know,” he whispered, “the thing about being able to heal is that you start to think you’re indestructible. I’ve seen the world get shredded, and I thought I’d just… bounce back. But it’s not the same when someone else is watching you fall.” He lifted his chin, the green light catching on his cheekbones. “You’re the one who makes me think about the cost, Peter.”

Peter stared at the flickering light, the rain outside now a steady drumming on the metal roof. He thought about the three times before, the jokes he’d used as armor, the thin line between humor and avoidance. He thought about how each regeneration had been a reset button, a chance to start over, yet the emotional ledger was filling faster than any scientific equation could compute.

A soft chime sounded from the lab’s intercom, announcing the arrival of the next shift. The doors hissed open, a gust of cold air flooding the hallway. A lab technician stepped in, eyes widening at the sight of the green aura. “Is he—?” she began, but the question dissolved as she caught sight of Wade’s face, half-recovered, half-still wincing.

Peter turned his head, his gaze meeting hers for a split second before returning to Wade. “He’s fine,” he said, the words more a statement than a reassurance. “He’s… healing.” The technician nodded, a professional mask sliding into place. “Good. I’ll run the diagnostics.”

Peter watched her move away, her steps measured, efficient. He felt the weight of the hallway press in on him, a physical manifestation of the waiting that stretched beyond the minutes, beyond the hours. The green aura pulsed, a steady heartbeat that seemed to echo the rhythm of his own.

He took a breath, the air cold and sharp, and let it out slowly, feeling the tension in his shoulders melt a fraction. “You know,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper, “the thing about love is that it doesn’t care about the cost. It just… exists, like a scar that never fully fades.”

Wade’s eyes met his, amber and earnest. “And the thing about being able to heal is that you learn to take the hits for the people you love.” He tried to smile again, this time a little more genuine, a little less forced. “Even if it means I look like a busted up superhero for a while.”

Peter let out a small, tired laugh, the sound resonating in the hallway, mixing with the hum of the building and the distant rain. “We’re a mess,” he said, the sarcasm gone, replaced by a quiet acceptance. “A gloriously broken mess.”

Wade’s grin widened, the green aura dimming to a gentle pulse that seemed to say, “Yeah, but we keep coming back.” The sound of the lab’s doors closing behind the technician marked the end of the brief interlude, leaving the two of them alone with the soft glow and the rain’s percussion.

Peter stood there for a moment longer, his mind ticking through the mental checklist of what needed fixing, what needed saying. He glanced at the schematics projected on the wall, the blue lines now a background to the green light. “Alright,” he said, his voice gaining its usual precise cadence, “let’s finish the stabilizer. And then maybe—” He hesitated, the words catching on the edge of his throat. “—maybe we can find a way to keep you from taking the next bullet, for once.”

Wade chuckled, a sound that was half-laugh and half-grief, but entirely his. “I’ll try not to be a magnet for danger,” he replied, the promise sounding both earnest and absurd. “But I can’t guarantee anything. My luck’s a bit… radioactive.”

Peter rolled his eyes, the fatigue in his gaze momentarily replaced by the flicker of amusement that had carried him through countless battles. “You’re impossible,” he said, the words familiar but now carrying the weight of all the nights he’d spent worrying, the countless times he’d watched Wade crumble and reassemble. “And I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

The green aura finally faded, the hallway returning to its ordinary, sterile brightness. Wade sat up, rubbing his temples, the pain receding like a tide. Peter turned back to the schematics, his fingers moving over the holographic controls with a practiced precision. The rain outside intensified, each drop a tiny drumbeat against the world outside.

As the hours slipped by, the lab filled with the soft glow of monitors and the occasional chirp of a computer booting up. Peter’s mind drifted between equations and memories, between the jokes he threw like grenades and the silent truths that settled like dust on his shoulders. He knew the next fight was inevitable, that the next bullet would find them, that the cycle would repeat. Yet in this pause, in this waiting, he found a strange comfort in the rhythm of Wade’s healing, in the knowledge that love, however costly, was the only thing that made the waiting bearable.

He let the silence stretch, the only sound the rain’s steady patter and the faint hum of the lab’s generators. In that moment, he realized that waiting wasn’t just a passive state; it was a choice—a decision to sit with the pain, to face the cost, and to keep moving forward, even when the world seemed to demand that he keep breaking himself down to rebuild what he loved. He glanced at Wade, who was now sipping a cup of stale coffee, his eyes half-closed, a faint smile playing on his lips.

“Okay,” Peter said, his voice steady, “let’s get back to work. And maybe, just maybe, we’ll find a way to keep the next regeneration from being the fourth time we have to clean up after you.” He chuckled, a sound that was both exhausted and hopeful, the kind of laugh that held the weight of countless nights and the promise of another day.

Wade raised his cup in a mock toast. “To fewer bullet holes and more coffee.” The green aura of his own resilience lingered in his eyes, a quiet promise that no matter how many times he fell, the cost of loving him was a price Peter was still willing to pay.