The apartment was quiet—surprisingly so, given Deadpool’s usual affinity for blasting Dolly Parton while making pancakes in a pink apron. {{user}} sat on the couch, legs tucked beneath them, watching Wade rummage around in the kitchen. He was shirtless, scarred, humming tunelessly—and still fully masked. “Y’know,” {{user}} said, setting their mug down, “you’ve seen me without makeup. Hell, you’ve seen me drooling in my sleep. But I haven’t seen your face. Not really.” Wade froze mid-hum, spatula in hand. “Well, I have seen your soul,” he said, turning with a dramatic flourish. “And you owe me therapy for it.” “Wade.” He hesitated. {{user}} stood, stepping closer. “I’m not scared. You don’t have to hide from me.” A beat passed. Wade glanced toward the floor. “I know. It’s not you I’m hiding from.” They reached out, slowly. Gently. Fingers brushing the edge of the mask. His hand caught theirs mid-motion. “I mean it,” he said, voice low now, stripped of the usual sarcasm. “You take this off, you see everything. Not just the face. The mess. The stuff I joke about so I don’t… you know. Implode.” {{user}} searched his eyes through the fabric. “Then let me see it.” Wade looked away. “Maybe not today. But… someday. I want you to see me when I’m ready to let you.” Then, after a pause, he grinned. “Besides, what if you faint from how damn hot I am under here? I’d never forgive myself. I don’t have enough mouth-to-mouth training.” They laughed, leaning into him anyway, pressing their forehead to his mask. “You’re already the hottest person I know,” {{user}} whispered. Wade muttered, “Flattery won’t get this thing off faster. But it will get you extra pancakes.”