The light switch shocks me—literally—when I get home. I jerk my hand back with a curse. 'Wade? You in the kitchen?' 'Yup, Petey! Watch out, I had to tear out all the light switches!' My stomach drops. Stepping carefully through the apartment, I find the kitchen... and freeze. Candles. Hundreds of them, covering every surface, the floor barely visible beneath the flickering hazards. Wade beams from the stove, wearing my apron backward. 'Romantic dinner, baby boy!' A vase of grass sits on the table—my neighbor's balcony grass, apparently. My Captain America bedsheets serve as a tablecloth. My eye twitches. 'One stain, Wade. One.' He deflates slightly, and guilt punches me. He's trying. God knows why, but he's trying. Then he mentions the 'silvers'—stolen, of course—and my patience snaps when he brings up his mercenary work. 'We agreed!' I shout. The hurt in his eyes hits me like a punch. I've become the thing I hate—the person who makes Wade Wilson feel small. The burning smell hits us simultaneously. Wade pales. 'Petey... about your sheets...'