Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Peter woke up in handcuffs. 

Given any other circumstance, that might not be such a bad thing.  

But this wasn’t a good circumstance, and these weren’t even sexy handcuffs. 

The pinch of his skin alerted him to them in the first place and he blinked blearily, following his arms up, over his head, where his hands were bound to the headboard with a pair of thick, black cuffs that were as cartoonish as they were bulky. His head swam, an ache pierced his brain so deeply he felt it in his eyes, and he sagged back into the bed, closing his eyes. Nausea churned in his stomach, rolling throughout the rest of him so harshly moving sounded like actual hell. 

When it settled, more or less, he cracked his eyes open again and carefully craned his neck to get a better look at the handcuffs. A few tough tugs confirmed they were sealed to his skin. Getting out of them would not be easy—nigh impossible—which made sense, considering they held the super-powered inmates of The Raft . The police carted away more than one of his enemies in them. He’s even got a close look once or twice—you know, considering the many warrants for his arrest. 

At the end of the bed, his feet were given the same treatment.  

Nausea rolled through him again and Peter groaned softly, squeezing his eyes shut until it faded. His brain was as helpful as a soggy paper-bag, and just as put-together, but it didn’t take a genius to figure out that this was a no-good, terrible, very bad situation. And Peter didn’t do well in no good, terrible, very bad situations. His anxiety was far stronger than any drug conceived by man, and as it lanced through him, his brain sharpened, rising subliminally above the fog, and he yanked on the cuffs, swallowing bitter nausea as it rose in the back of his throat.  

The cuffs didn’t budge. Not even a little. 

So, he tugged on the headboard instead, but whatever these bars were made of it wasn’t a typical alloy used for bed frames, because it doesn’t dent either. It didn’t help that his head felt like it was about to combust in an explosion of searing light, or that if he vomited right now, he was going to choke and die on it, and what a way to go. Also, he really wasn’t feeling like himself right now, and he liked that explanation a lot more than the idea that he was well and truly trapped.  

He collapsed against the mattress with a huff and glared, wishing he could feel the texture of the popcorn ceiling on his fingertips. He always felt better being high up, especially in unfamiliar places. This room looked like his room, but he was all too aware now that it was nothing but an excellent copy. Now that he was looking closer, it was obvious that the desk against the wall was new, that the dresser was like the one at home but with different knobs, and that his clothes were too systematically scattered on the floor to be natural—most of them he hasn’t worn in years. This must be where Chameleon stashed the clothes he’d stolen from Aunt May’s house. 

The walls were cleaner than they should be, too. The watermark that was supposed to be in the far right corner was gone, as were the questionable yellow stains around the (no longer) peeling wallpaper. Everything was too…fresh. Clean. 

Still, it’s impressive. Chameleon really did his homework. 

Chameleon. Peter ground his teeth, clamping the name between his jaw like an angry dog. 

He should’ve known it was that metamorphosing scumbag that was stalking him. It fit his motif to a T; blending into crowds, disappearing from the naked eye, sneaking up with someone else’s face. Really, Peter’s ashamed he didn’t put the pieces together sooner, considering the last time Chameleon pulled this shit.

Chameleon didn’t even try to keep it a secret last time. He followed Peter for days, happy to keep him on his toes with psychotic mind games he went as far as signing with his own signature. Civilians were his favorite disguise—usually old or pregnant. Someone Peter wouldn’t expect to pull a knife on him (which is something that actually happened, mind you. Peter still has the scar). Chameleon whispered threats in his ear, played with his spider-sense like a cat with string, and disappeared into the crowds before Peter could wrap his hands around his throat and throttle him.  

Even when Peter grabbed him, he was never sure it was actually him. 

Chameleon played the part of a terrified, screaming old woman astonishingly well. 

Peter couldn’t risk going home; hadn’t dared to take off his mask; couldn’t sleep for more than a few minutes before the cat pounced again. 

Waiting has always been one of Chameleon’s specialties. He bided his time, waiting for Peter to slip up. Waiting for him to let his guard down. It was all Peter could do but keep his eyes open and stay as far away from people as he could, which was like jumping into a pool and trying not to get wet. New York wasn’t a city built for isolation—or, at least, not the isolation Peter needed. 

He was lucky Wade came along when he did. 

This was before he considered Wade a dating option. Before he ever really considered him a friend. He had no qualms with slamming Wade into a building rooftop, assuming he was just Chameleon in a new bold disguise. Wade didn’t stay away like Peter told him to, but, if Peter were being honest, it was a relief to have someone on his side. Someone hard to impersonate. It’s not easy to fake a healing factor and after Wade took several bullets to the chest without dying, well, Peter was properly convinced. 

But even with Wade there, Chameleon still nicked him with a drug that knocked him on his ass for hours, which actually wasn’t that hard considering he was already dead on his feet. A strong gust of wind would’ve been enough to cripple him. He should’ve been toast, burnt and crispy, easy to throw in the trash. 

But Wade kept his identity safe. 

It was Deadpool, a guy Peter only thought of as irrationally irritating before, who prevented him from being unmasked by, not only a building of people, but a man threatening to wear Peter’s skin as a suit—that’s not a threat that’s easy to forget. Wade switched their costumes, so Chameleon went after him, while Peter took a nice drug-induced cat nap in a closet. 

Wade really saved his bacon.

Shame Peter wasn’t quick enough to save his own bacon this time. A real teeth-grating, fist-clenching, vomit-inducing shame. 

His mind raced with possibilities of what Chameleon’s end goal might be. He might want to sell Spider-Man’s identity to the highest bidder. Or to smack him around for shits and giggles. Hell, it could be nothing good old-fashioned revenge. Peter swallowed, maybe he wants to make good on his promise to skin me alive and wear my face like a fucking mask.

The drug lingering in his system teases him with the possibility of higher thinking, only to snatch it back, leaving him with flimsy wisps of dark thought that float around his fingers. He yanks on the cuffs again, harder this time, straining his arms, willing them to bend the stupid metal already. He’s punished for his efforts with a sharp ZAP that makes his entire body jolt. 

“Now, now, don’t be doing that,” Chameleon chided, wagging a finger as he opens the bedroom door. He’s not wearing a disguise this time, just his plain white mask. It’s unnerving the way it looked molded to his face. Too much like Goblin’s mask, stretching and pulling in a way that felt too real. 

Chameleon set a steaming bowl down on the nightstand and sat on the edge of the bed. “How are you feeling?” He asked. His concern was off-putting. More so that he sounded like he meant it. He tries brushing a strand of hair out of Peter’s face, but Peter jerked away, baring his teeth, not unlike a hissing cat. 

“What do you want, Chameleon?”

“Right to the point,” Chameleon chuckled. “I expected as much. But later. I promise,” he grabbed the bowl and swirled the spoon around, clinking it against the sides, before lifting a spoonful of white-beige goop out to Peter.  

Peter leaned away from it. It was probably poisoned. Or drugged. Or both. Chameleon sighed but didn’t look put out. 

“I don’t blame you for not trusting me,” he said, lowering the spoon. “I understand why you don’t. But I promise I’m not going to hurt you. Quite the opposite, in fact.” 

Peter glanced at the cuffs on his feet with an unimpressed look. He still had a headache from being tackled to the floor, choked, and sedated. 

“Gee,” he drawled, “excuse me if I’m a little skeptical.” 

Chameleon smiled softly. He lifted his hand and Peter recoiled, prepared for a hit, but Chameleon threaded his fingers through his hair, pulling loose strands out of his face. His touch was surprisingly gentle. Not a stroke of aggression, or the slightest indication of violence, in his frame. He even went as far as adjusting the pillows supporting Peter’s neck and fixing the cuffs so they weren’t digging so harshly into his skin. He’s just about to adjust the blanket too when Peter jerks, having had enough. 

“What do you want?” He reiterated with a growl. “If you’re not going to hurt me, then why am I here?” 

“Not everything is about revenge,” Chameleon chuckled, sitting back, just out of reach so Peter can’t hit him with his knees. 

“Oh really? Cause I remember you saying something about wanting to wear my skin like clothes.” Peter glowered, even as his stomach rolled. It probably wasn’t smart to remind him of such promises. But, strangely enough, Chameleon rubbed the back of his neck and looked away, embarrassed. 

“Ah. Yes. That.” He cleared his throat awkwardly. “You don’t need to worry about that. Those were…angry words from an angrier man.” 

“Yeah? What’s changed?” 

Chameleon picked the bowl back up. “You should eat first.” 

Peter leaned away. “Not until you tell me why you’ve been following me for three fucking months.” 

“Do you promise to eat if I answer your questions?” 

Peter scowled. He wasn’t promising shit. Or eating anything this psychopath was offering, no matter how much his stomach grumbled. Panic lingered on the precipice of his brain like a pressurized spring waiting to pop. The only reason he wasn’t lashing out right now was because this godforsaken drug made him feel like he was slowly melting into the bed and everything around him was tinged with a faint, fuzzy filter. 

The only comfort Peter took was that this wasn’t his first kidnapping. It was the first time he’d woken up in a comfortable bed, as opposed to a cell, gurney, or lab table, sure, but it wasn’t his first time being held against his will. His go-to method was annoying answers out of his captor, but Chameleon was being frustratingly patient.  

His eyes flickered to the bowl. His spider-sense was quiet…he wanted answers. And he was a little hungry. 

“Maybe.” He said, annoyed with the way Chameleon lights up. “It depends.”

“How about this,” Chameleon offered, scooping a spoonful of goop. “With every question I answer, you take a bite. That’s fair, right?” 

Peter eyed him, then the bowl again. “What’s in it?” 

“Oatmeal.” was his answer. “With raspberries and a touch of sugar.” 

Peter’s eyes widened. 

“Just how your aunt used to make it, I know,” Chameleon nodded. 

The knowledge that Chameleon knew about his food preference was also unnerving. May used to make oatmeal like this all the time, when they could afford the berries. It was his favorite breakfast after wheat cakes. 

“How do you know that?”

“I asked her,” Chameleon shrugged. “She loves talking about you. I hardly needed to say anything and she would go on and on.” He held the spoon out. When Peter didn’t open his mouth, he gave him a hard look. “Come on, I answered your question. Now you honor your end of the deal.” 

“Why can’t I feed myself?” Peter said through tight lips, not trusting Chameleon to not sneak in the spoon if he opened up wide enough. “This isn’t much of a deal if one of us is being held hostage.” Chameleon didn’t answer, only held out the spoon expectantly until Peter figured he would say nothing else until he cooperated. 

It took a few minutes to unwind his pride enough to open his mouth, but he still flushed red as Chameleon spoon-fed him. Like a child. Chameleon grinned, and Peter looked away, hardly chewing before swallowing. 

“I think you know why I can’t let you feed yourself,” Chameleon answered belatedly, spooning more oatmeal. “The second I take those cuffs off you, you’d attack me and try to leave. I can’t have that.” He held out the spoon. 

“Why are you keeping me here? When did you talk to my aunt?” 

Chameleon held out the spoon and Peter irritably accepted it and repeated his questions with a full mouth. 

“I talked to your aunt a while ago, actually. My intentions weren’t sinister, I promise.” His lips quirked, amused. What a time for puns, and this was coming from Peter. “I just wanted to get to know her better. She’s a wonderful person. Running that FEAST center of hers, volunteering at everything she can get her hands on. A truly remarkable woman.” 

When offered the spoon this time, Peter only hesitated a second before accepting it. The oatmeal didn’t taste like it was tampered with, and his spider-sense was still quiet. It was fine. Probably. 

“As for why I’m keeping you here,” Chameleon continued, “it’s a safety precaution. You’re in a lot of danger, Peter.” 

Peter’s eyes narrowed, and he tried to sit up, as much good as that did him. “What do you mean?” The spoon came back, but Peter didn’t take it this time. He didn’t have room for food while his stomach was sinking like a punctured ship. “How am I in danger?” 

Chameleon’s smile turned humorous, as if Peter told an amusing joke. Apparent that he was done cooperating, Chameleon got up, set the bowl on the nightstand, and bent to rummage through its drawers. 

“How are you in danger?” He repeated softly, pulling out a syringe that he carefully filled from a bottle of clear liquid. Peter’s heart dropped into his stomach, forcing it further under the waves, and wrenched at the cuffs, but neither gave way. 

“Hey, you said you weren’t going to hurt me!” he said, panic spilling down his throat like bile as Chameleon stalked towards him. “You said—“ 

Chameleon dropped his knee on Peter’s chest, cutting him off, and held down one of his shoulders with his free arm. Peter bucked upward with a snarl, trying to dislodge him, but Chameleon leaned his weight into it, putting unwanted emphasis on the aches and pains still littering Peter’s skin like loose trash. 

“I don’t want to hurt you,” Chameleon said, sliding the needle into Peter’s skin. “I’m protecting you,” he got up, needle now empty, “from yourself.” 

“What?” Peter said, wincing from the sting. “What are you talking about? I’m-” his struggling got weaker, his eyelids heavier. “I’m-”

Chameleon shushed him, running his hands through his hair as if to comfort him. “Shhh, it’s okay. Just go to sleep, you’ll be fine. I’ll be right here when you wake up.” 

That was incredibly un-reassuring, and Peter would’ve loved to tell him that if he hadn’t already passed out. 

Chapter Text

Wade should’ve known something was wrong long before he stepped inside his apartment. 

There were plenty of red-flags tickling his brain before then, but he’d been so happy to be home, so eager to see his boyfriend, that he ignored them like a brain-dead idiot. 

What were these red-flags? Well, for one, Peter wasn’t answering his phone. That might not be weird under normal circumstances, because Peter’s boss was the human-incarnate of a porcupine and thought anyone on their phone for over 5 minutes was wasting company time, but he still kept it on in case of emergencies.(Wade suggested he quit already and allow Wade to lavish him with luxury as his sugar baby—he made more than enough to support them both. He suspects old issues with his rich ex, but Peter refuses to talk about it.) 

Red flag #2 was that neither MJ nor Aunt May were picking up their phones either. Sure, life got busy and phone’s died, but Aunt May almost always picked up, and MJ typically texted him to let him know she was busy. 

Red flag #3, and possibly the biggest, reddest flag of them all, were the voicemails. 

They started out fine. They were cute. Peter left messages outlining his day, what had gone wrong, how he almost got fired again, what villain-of-the-week was giving him a headache, you know, things to make Wade feel like he was still there with him. Like he wasn’t missing out on their life. 

It was heartwarming going through them one-by-one, and hearing Peter say “love you” at the tail end of each message made Wade giggle and kick his feet, feeling like a schoolgirl with his first love. But the longer he listened, the more his skin crawled. 

He’d gone through a handful during the flight, and brought the list back up to continue as he slid inside the cabin of Dopinder’s taxi. He snorted as Peter ranted about stupid bag guys and chuckled when he mumbled half-asleep about a weird dream he had. But as he sat on that thread-bare seat, the distant scrape of the windshield wipers and Dopinder’s loud rendition of Britney Spears “Toxic” became a dull-white noise as dread slowly filtered through his body like poison being drip-fed into his veins.

The burglary in their apartment. Robberies Peter couldn’t catch. Aunt May’s house getting broken into. The steady rise of frustration in Peter’s voice. The unease. 

But it’s the last one that really puts Wade on edge. 

“Hey, Wade, um…so I think someone’s been watching me. I just saw someone outside the window. They got away before I could see who, but…but I think they were taking pictures? I don’t know, um…I guess I’m kind of freaked out,” Peter laughs tightly. “Yeah, uh…I know, it’s kind of funny, right? Me, Spider-Man, freaked out over something like this. But, do-do you know when you’re getting back?” Peter pauses and for a moment all Wade can hear is his breathing. He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose, because he can see what’s coming next. 

Peter laughed again, not as tight, but small and sheepish, probably running a hand through his hair like he always did when he was embarrassed. “I’m…I’m sorry, I don’t know why I called. It’s ridiculous. I can take care of this easy-peasy lemon squeezy. I think it just rattled me a little, you know? Don’t worry. Call me when you can. I’ll update you when I catch this perv. Haha, okay. Bye. Love you.” 

The phone clicked and Wade automatically swiped for the next one only to come up empty. That was the last one. He checked the date. Not even a week old. He played it again, and again, and again, dissecting Peter’s tone until he’s got every hitch and shake memorized. Unease pings in Wade’s brain because Peter rarely sounded that shaken. Fighting psychopaths since fifteen has a way of dulling the most mundane of scares. 

But it was the break in the message that Wade dreaded most. That moment when it’s just Peter’s breathing, losing himself in his thoughts, overthinking his situation, and ultimately deciding to fix it himself. It’s been a long hard battle breaking Peter’s walls to the point of even allowing Wade to patrol with him back when they started getting closer. Wade’s seen it time and time again when Peter sunk back into old habits, closing himself off to keep the problem to himself, because his stupid superhero complex was obsessed with keeping all probabilities of danger from his close-knit circle of loved ones. 

Not that Wade can judge. He wasn’t exactly a handful of daisies back then, either. His head was a cesspool of violence and debilitating self-hatred, and more often than not, the only way to get a proper night’s sleep was with the help of a gun. It wasn’t hard to fall into familiar, if destructive, habits. 

Even now, a part of Wade wanted to brush this off, convinced that he was blowing it out of proportion too. Peter probably just got busy at work. Or his phone died. He forgot to keep up the voice mails. He could’ve just gotten tired of making them. 

A darker, more experienced side of him laughs at every idea. 

“Hey, Dopinder,” Wade said, and Dopinder immediately perked up, cutting off his sing-along with “Womanizer.” “Has anything happened while I was MIA? Anything newsworthy or exciting?” 

Dopinder thought for a second, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel, face pinched as he rifled through the last few months. “Hmm, no I do not think so, Mr. Pool. It has been very quiet since you left.” 

“Yeah, that’s what I was worried about.” 

Which was bad. Wade and worry didn’t get along. He usually started acting on impulse and doing things that upset the general populace—or earned the stink eye from his beloved arachnid. Drastic measures were a long-time ex he couldn’t help but fall back into, and as of right now, he debated on whether to cause some havoc in Times Square to draw his Spider-Babe out, or threaten to buy Peter the priciest piece of Stark Tech on the market, because Peter considered any gift even remotely expensive a crime, and he had a personal distaste for Stark-Tech. 

He was scrolling through options when the cab pulled up to his apartment building. He didn’t get the eccentric welcome home party he was fantasizing—although that party was limited to him, Peter, and the bedroom, wink, wink, nudge, nudge. 

Besides, he doubted anyone even knew he was gone. The other tenants probably assumed he and Peter broke up and were living their lives in peaceful, ignorant bliss. The landlord was yelling in the backroom as he passed her office, raving about a fire and stupid kids playing pranks. 

Maybe something exciting did happen while he was gone. 

He was just screenshotting the new Stark phone Peter was absolutely going to hate, sending it off via text message, when he stopped in front of his apartment and stuck the key into the lock. 

He went very, very still. 

It was already unlocked. 

Peter never left the apartment unlocked. Well, not usually. He did mention that he forgot to lock it in one of his voicemails, and that someone had stolen their bedsheets because of it, but even that was strange. He’d never done that before, and on the off chance he did, he was a fast learner. Peter wouldn’t make the same dumb mistake twice, especially if his precious weighted blanket was a casualty of it.  

Wade pulled his gun from the holster strapped to the back of his pants, hidden by his hoodie, and flipped the safety off as he eased the door open with the toe of his boot. His old army days came back to him like he was sliding on a pair of old gloves as he strode into the apartment with easy, practiced steps. 

“Peter,” he called. “If you’re in here, I’m gonna need you to give me a shout.” 

He’s met with a silence that feels too heavy. He rounded the corner, into the kitchen, and then the living room, but both are empty, in more ways than one. He may have been gone a few months, and his memory was splotchy on a good day, but he swore there was something missing. The furniture was still there. The table too. His TV and the array of games stacked next to it were untouched. His My Little Pony figurine collection was still displayed on the bookshelf. But something was missing. He could feel it. 

Uneasy, Wade carefully walked along the perimeter of the room and into the small hall that led to the bedroom. The door was cracked open. 

“Peter,” he called again. “I’d suggest saying something before I accidentally shoot someone. Preferably, not you.” Deep in his gut he knew it was a useless attempt. There was no one here but him, even if he desperately wished it wasn’t true. Peter, a homeless bum, even some random yut would do. 

He kicked the door open and walked into the room, checking the bathroom and closet in rapid succession. No one there either. 

What does stand out as odd is that the blinds are pulled over the window, and upon closer inspection, the window was locked as well. Peter rarely put the blinds down and never locked the windows. They left through them more often than the door, so locking it was nothing but an inconvenience, and they lived on such a high floor, climbing the fire-escape to this specific window was too much of a hassle for the common crook. 

Peter’s camera was gone, so he could be at work. 

Wade did another spin around the room. Peter’s laptop was gone, as well. So was his cellphone. The bed was stripped bare, as mentioned in the voicemails, but his stack of science magazines were gone, too. 

That’s when it hit Wade what was missing. 

Peter’s belongings. 

Clothes were missing from the dresser. Framed photographs from his desk and nightstand. Books, old and new, that had been stacked near the bed. In the living room, it was the soft Fantastic Four blanket he snuggled in when they watched movies. His coat, his winter gloves, the Deadpool beanie Wade bought as a joke (to match the Spider-Man beanie he’d bought for himself). In the kitchen, it was his favorite mug.

Not everything was missing, just things that held special value. Things that would go unnoticed at first glance. 

Wade punched in Peter’s number again and cursed when it went to voicemail. He called MJ and Aunt May again, but neither picked up either. Wrongness churned in Wade’s gut. A nasty feeling that made him tighten his grip on his gun, teeth grinding as it rose up his throat like bile. 

He left the apartment. There was no use calling the police. He didn’t need that heat on him, and he definitely didn’t want them snooping through his guns or Peter’s Spider-Man gear. It was always a special case where superheroes were involved, and Peter’s particular brand of vigilantism made it that much more complicated. 

Wade wasn’t one to ask for help, but even if he wanted to, the Avengers were still stuck in Wakanda, and judging by the news, the Fantastic Four haven’t returned from space. He could go to Hell’s Kitchen. Dare Devil had a soft spot for Spider-Man, and he might overlook his distaste of Wade long enough to help track him down. 

He stormed down the hall, down the stairs, through the lobby, and was out on the street in record time, joining the throng of people as he called Peter’s workplace. He felt like he could breathe a little when someone actually picked up. 

“This is Betty Brant of the Daily Bugle, how can I help you?” 

“Hey, I’m looking for the Bugle’s best photographer. The one who takes pictures of Spider-Man. Goes by Peter Parker. Real cutie. Sometimes wears glasses and has the fluffiest brown hair you’ll ever touch.” 

Betty paused, and when she spoke again, it’s cool and clear, like cut glass. “And who is asking?” 

Wade likes Betty Brant of the Daily Bugle. 

“His boyfriend. Boy toy. Long-term booty-call. His official squeeze. Take your pick.” 

“Oh,” Betty warmed. “So you’re the infamous boyfriend.” 

“The one and only.” Wade chirped. “Is snookums still at the office? He’s not answering his cell.” 

He’d never met Betty before, but he could imagine her shrugging as she said, “I don’t know. Haven’t seen him since,” she thought for a second, “two days ago, I think. Sure stirred the boss into a tizzy with his disappearing act.” 

Wade slowed. “Oh?” He was careful to keep his tone light. “What happened?” 

“Not sure. He just upped and left. Called in sick, but I could see that bullshit from a mile away. Barely convinced Jameson he couldn’t afford to hire another photographer if he fired him, so tell him he owes me lunch.” 

“Will do,” Wade said, already knowing he’s going to forget. “Let me know if you see him.” 

“Sure,” he imagined her shrugging again. “But I wouldn’t hold my breath. He does this kind of thing a lot.” Wade half-mindedly agreed, prepared to end the call and try MJ’s workplace next, when she added. “Oh, and those gifts you’ve been sending him were cute. Kudos on you, but maybe sign them next time.” 

Wade’s eyes narrowed, and he nearly hit a pedestrian as they walked past him to get into a cab. 

“Yeah,” he forced a smile, the squirming in his stomach getting tighter. “My job took me overseas for a while, so I thought he might like a reminder that I still exist. God, it’s been a while though. Which one did he get last week?” 

“The model camera.” 

“I thought he’d like that. What about the one before?” 

“A ceramic hotdog, I think.” 

Wade shoved the man walking past him, no longer bothering to skirt around those who got in his way. “He sure does love his hotdogs.” 

Betty paused. “Are you okay?” 

Wade forced his jaw to unclench. “Yes, perfect. Thanks, Betty Brant of the Daily Bugle. Pass my love to your boss.” He ended the call before she could get another word in. 

His merc senses were tingling, and they were not happy. 

MJ’s workplace was next, but according to them, she’d called in sick and was taking the next two weeks off. Same with Aunt May and the FEAST Center. Aunt May never took time off from the FEAST Center. 

Wade hailed a cab to MJ’s apartment. 

Her locks were the good, expensive kind, and it took a hot-minute to lockpick them, but his espionage went undetected. Good. He’d consider hanging up the kevlar for good if he couldn’t break into one mildly secure building. Her apartment was nearly untouched too, but a few things stood out, like a bowl of rotting bean-dip on the kitchen counter, a vase of dead flowers on the table, and, most importantly, her missing suitcase. Wherever MJ had gone, she planned on staying for more than one night. 

Wade perused the bathroom and rifled through her drawers. Creepy, he knows, but it's for the greater good. She had only taken the necessities, so she’d been in a hurry. She hadn’t even stopped to change her laundry. Wade opened the washer to determine how damp the clothes were—if they were dry, he was days behind her trail, but if they were damp he wasn’t far behind. 

What he found made him falter. He picked up the Spider-Man plushie with careful hands, thumbing the threaded white eyes tenderly as an ache panged unexpectedly in his chest. It was a little damp, couldn’t have been in the washer for more than a day or two. 

But there’s something off about it. Wade weighs it in his hands. It’s a tad too heavy for a plushie. He would know, he’s owned many in his lifetime. He turned the doll over in his hands, inspecting it, and found a seam on the bottom. Small and cleanly done. Sliding out the knife he carried in his boot, he slit the seam open and fished through the fluff until his fingers brushed something hard and clunky. 

It was a device. A small one, with a microphone. A bug. 

Wade crushed it between his fingers. The squirming became a fiery coil, getting hotter and hotter, searing him down to his bones. He looped the plushie to his belt, Cable-style, and exited the apartment with the same finesse he used when he entered. When he visited Aunt May’s house it was an identical picture. Her suitcase was gone and so was she. She’d also been in a hurry, considering she’d forgotten to turn off her closet light. There were no signs of a struggle. Unless she’d been held at gunpoint. 

The thought makes something feral inside him gnash its teeth. Aunt May was the kind, more maternal version of Blind Al. She was Peter’s mother. If anything happened to her…

Gently, Wade shut off the closet light, watered the plants on the windowsill, and locked the door behind him as he left. 

Looks like Deadpool wasn’t finished with his job after all. 

He returned to the apartment to change into his suit. 

With each new weapon he strapped to his body, he felt a little more in control of the situation. His anger honed into a deadly point as he strapped his ammo belt across his chest. His thoughts sharpened as he slid his katana’s into their sheaths. 

His experience with family hadn’t been good for a long time. Had a mama who died too early, and a papa who loved to remind Wade who the man of the house was (when he could pull himself away from the bottle, that is). He’s had strange, sometimes one-sided, relationships with many people over the years, of both platonic and romantic varieties. Some of them had simply fallen apart, but most he’d destroyed intentionally and unintentionally. 

With a daughter he saw only on occasions, an ex who doubled as a Jesus-wannabe from the future, and a friend who’s entire gig was weapons-dealing with a side of information-brokering, well…he wasn’t exactly familiar with a down-to-earth, dinner-every-Sunday family unit. 

He took him a while to even consider Peter, MJ, and Aunt May as family. And, dammit to hell, he wasn’t going to lose them now that he’d gotten used to their biweekly brunches. 

He called Weasel as soon as Deadpool had taken the reins—the weapon-dealer/information broker friend mentioned two paragraphs up. If anything had gone down while Wade was gone, Weasel would know about it. And if not, he had links to the black market and a myriad of contacts where he got his information. All Wade needed was a point in the right direction. Or any direction, really. 

“Yo, Weas, I’m in need of your particular brand of expertise,” he said as soon as the phone picked up. “Some motherfucker has been sniffing around my crib while I was gone and baby wants to blow up some heads. Heard anything on the streets? New players? Anybody kicking up a fuss?” 

“Well, hello to you, too,” Weasel’s voice was clipped. He sounded pissed. Great. Not even back a full day and people are already mad at him. “Does it ever cross that swiss-cheese brain of yours that maybe, just maybe, you shouldn’t call? Stop dragging me into your messes and let me live my illegal life in peace.” 

Wade dropped his cheery demeanor. “Weasel, I’m no longer putting forth the effort to coddle you.” He pulled back the hammer of his gun, enjoying the click and snap it makes, hoping it’s audible over the phone. “Besides, your life would be a joyless pit without me.” 

“It'd be a hell of a lot safer,” Weasel muttered. “You know, it is a good thing you called. You know why? Because I don’t serve senior citizens in my bar. Not ones that looked pulled straight out of a Golden Girls rerun. I don’t care how hot her nursemaid is. Do you know what I’ve had to do to keep people off their backs?” 

Wade straightened. “What are you talking about? I didn’t send anyone your way.” 

“Tell that to the smoking hot babe sitting in my backroom with her grandma. They showed up at my doorstep toting bags like I’m a fucking Western Inn, claiming they know you. The only reason I even let them in is because they had one of your cards.” 

The breath left Wade’s chest, and he nearly dropped the gun. “Give them the phone.” 

“Call them yoursel-” 

“Weasel, give them the damn phone now.” 

Weasel muttered under his breath again, shuffling over the phone, being the grouchy piss-baby he is until it’s passed off . Wade couldn’t help but sink down on the bed in relief as a woman’s voice came over the speaker. 

“Wade?” MJ said, and he heard the breathless relief in her voice as well. “Finally! Where the hell have you been? We need to talk. Now.” 

Chapter Text

Peter Parker got scared often. It kind of came with the job. He didn't read the fine print, nor had he gone over the contract with a lawyer present when he first put on the costume and head-dived off the nearest building with too much excitement in his heart and not enough smarts in his head. He'd been a stupid 15-year-old boy who didn't realize he was biting off more than he could chew.

He was drunk off the grief of losing Uncle Ben and high on the prospect of becoming a hero like the Avengers, he didn't realize just how terrifying this life was.

But he was all too aware of it now. After years of being Spider-Man and experiencing the highs and the lows that came with the tights, he just about covered every area that being a vigilante entailed. Like a good little hero, he fought off the villains that crawled out of the woodworks, periodically, week after week, like some deity spinning a chore wheel and dropping whatever man-hybrid villain it landed on in his lap. Peter's fought terrestrial bad guys, extra-terrestrial bad guys, multi-verse bad guys, and even dark dimension bad guys, so he had all his bases covered.

Sometimes they were goofy, like Stilt-Man or the Wheel, and it was easy to point and laugh at them, and they were easier still to fight. Fighting guys like these made the hero life almost fun.

But then there were the serious bad guys. The scary ones. The villains who enjoyed inflicting pain on people and drank up every cry and sniffle they could squeeze out of their victims. These were the ones who looked down on a multitude of suffering people and turned their backs because they didn't care, or even worse, they put their villainous heels to their foreheads and pushed them farther in the dirt.

Kingpin was like that. He was terrifying in his mortal strength, and the limits he would go to achieve his goals were astronomical. Doctor Octopus was similar; he had a drive for science and achievement that pushed higher on his priority list than innocent civilians who got caught in the crossfire of his ambitions. Kraven has always been a special case too. A man that set all his attention and drive on a single person or animal and then funneled all that skill and intellect into hunting them down and adding them to his collection. Peter would never forget the icy chill that washed over him, settling deep in the marrow of his bones, when he came face-to-face with Kraven for the first time. That spine-tingling realization that he was someone's else's prey, to be hunted down like a common animal. Weeks after defeating him, Peter was still too afraid to explore the dark corners of the city or stray too far from people in fear that the predator would still be lurking in the shadows. He couldn't walk in Central Park by himself for the longest time.

And then there were his self-dubbed A-listers. The monsters. The creatures who looked like they crawled out of a horror-book or belonged under a child's bed. Venom and Goblin were two examples of this, and even they took it to whole new extremes.

Never, in all Peter's life as a superhero, has he experienced anything quite as terrifying as being pinned down by Venom and seeing nothing but inky blackness, a slimy, serpentine tongue that almost had a mind of its own, and rows of too-many teeth and claws that tore into his skin and threatened to bite his head clean off his shoulders. It was the monster that stalked Peter's shadow, eagerly waiting to jump him and pull him kicking and screaming into darkness, where no one could interrupt as it tore him apart.

Then there was Goblin. A grotesque combination of insanity, bloodlust, and worse of all, intelligence. This was a monster that watched and dissected Peter's movements like it were a game and he was nothing but a challenging chess-piece that needed to be struck down. What was worse was how much he enjoyed doing it. Every move was designed to get Peter second-guessing, every attack hit him where he was most vulnerable, every plan had the intention of pinning him like a bug to paper just so he could watch Peter squirm.

They were the ones who enjoyed hurting him on a personal level. They took pleasure in watching him scream and bleed because it was his pain. They loved taunting him with the idea of tying him up and killing everyone he loved in front of him, slowly, one-by-one, so he could watch every terrible, torturous minute.

Sometimes, they almost succeeded.

As a hero, his quips were one of his most defining traits and a lot of the time it got him in even more trouble. You see, people had this funny idea that Spider-Man was fearless, or stupid, or naïve, or bullheaded because he laughed in the face of danger and shot jokes at those who put a knife to his throat. But they couldn't be more wrong. Peter was scared all the time.

And he was scared now.

He didn't like being pinned down and loathed the idea of being rendered immobile for long periods of time. He had too many memories of being helpless, hurt, tortured, and taunted under these conditions, so it was a bit of a sensitive subject for him. Besides, it wasn't in a spider's nature to be caught in another's web.

And that's exactly what he was caught in, wasn't it? A web. Not of his making, but the making of a different predator. An enemy that posed as a friend, and kept him fed, and chatted as if they were life-long buddies, but Peter wasn't stupid. He's known Chameleon for a while and he's all too aware of what the guy can do.

If he applied himself, Peter had little doubt that Chameleon could reach the Venom and Goblin tier of supervillainy.

Chameleon could easily infiltrate his life without him knowing it; could manipulate things behind the scenes, and get Peter alone, and earn his trust, and get close to his family, and the cherry on top was that Peter wouldn't be able to pick him out in a crowd. And that rattled him to his core.

He didn't trust how soft Chameleon spoke, or how gentle his touches were, or his amused smiles whenever Peter insulted him. It was unsettling, like seeing a dog with human teeth.

He woke to Chameleon sitting on the edge of the bed, running his fingers through his hair, humming as he massaged Peter's scalp.

If Peter kept his eyes closed and ignored the position of his arms, he could almost imagine it was Wade waking him up in the morning, patiently waiting for him to open his eyes by kissing his forehead, or his temple, and Peter would groan and bury his face in Wade's chest to avoid getting up, and Wade would laugh.

But this wasn't Wade and this wasn't a blissful, domestic morning. This was a known villain who'd once threatened to wear Peter's skin as his own personal costume, and that alone had Peter flinging himself away the moment he became aware of who he was sitting next to, and if not for the handcuffs, he would've fallen right off the bed.

"What the hell?" He shouted, yanking hard on the cuffs on sheer momentum, wrinkling his nose in disdain and glaring at Chameleon. He could still feel the creep's hands in his hair and the way his warmth lingered on his skin and it made him sick.

Chameleon sighed, disappointed that Peter had woken up so soon, and got to his feet. "You're probably thirsty," he said, and grabbed a glass of water sitting on the nightstand. Peter didn't accept it, even though his throat did indeed feel dry, because he wasn't an idiot. It had taken him a while to figure out it was Chameleon who was getting all touchy-feely and that was because his head was woozy and his thoughts slow. The drugs Chameleon were using on him were powerful and for all Peter knew that water was drugged too.

"You need to drink," Chameleon insisted when Peter turned his head away stubbornly.

His heart was thumping so hard in his chest he could feel it in his ears. How long was Chameleon there? Had he been watching him in his sleep this whole time? What else did he do while Peter was unconscious? Each thought was worse than the last and Peter's skin felt like it was crawling with ants.

"Leave me alone," he growled, nearly snapping at Chameleon's hand when it tried to push the cup to his lips.

Chameleon sighed again, but it was resigned, as if he'd already accepted this, and put the glass down. "How do you expect to get your strength up if you don't take care of yourself?"

He was joking right? Peter eyed Chameleon up and down in search for signs that he'd contracted a funny bone in Peter's unconsciousness, but he was being stupidly serious and Peter arched a judgmental eyebrow, snorting a huff that was so thick with disbelief it punched itself out of his chest. "I'm sorry, do you actually want me at my full strength?"

"Of course, I do," Chameleon said, "How can you be healthy if you're not at your full physical strength?"

Peter's eyebrow climbed higher, reaching for his hairline in increasing amounts of disbelief, "You want me to be – oh ho ho. You can't be serious. Are you being serious right now? This is fucking unbelievable," Peter squirmed to sit up straight, which wasn't much, but he looked Chameleon squarely in the eye and confirmed very slowly, "You want me to be healthy?"

Chameleon nodded.

"Then why the HELL did you kidnap me?" He practically bellowed. He didn't bother keeping his tone down, cause who was he going to disturb? Chameleon? He sure hoped so. "If you're so concerned for my "safety" why did you follow me around for months, and drug me, and imprison me in this...this," he looked around the cheerful room in disgust, "copycat apartment?"

If Peter's outburst bothered Chameleon, he didn't show it. "I wanted to learn about you," he answered calmly, as if that could possibly be considered a legitimate answer, "I want to know the things you like, what your favorite breakfast foods are, what movies are your favorite, how you like to spend your evenings, you know, stuff like that. I'm sorry my surveillance freaked you out, I did get a little carried away sometimes, I admit. Sorry, I didn't mean to scare you."

"Didn't mean to scar- oh-ho you cannot play that card, you sick freak! You were stalking me. You were taking PICTURES of me and my family. You threatened to out me to the media. How is any of that justified? How is any of this," he gestured his bound wrists toward the rest of the room, a tad hysterically, "justified? And you still didn't answer why I'm here, or what you want, asshole."

"I did answer that. I want you to be safe and happy."

Peter felt like tearing his hair out, "Whyyyy? How the fuck is this safe and happy?"

Chameleon leaned back on his side of the bed, calm and relaxed as he took a sip of the drink he'd been offering Peter, "Easy," he shrugged, "You can be happy here if you just give it a chance. I'll be the one keeping you safe, and I know everything about you, so I can keep you entertained."

Peter felt his eye twitch, "But why would I even want that? Why do this in the first place?"

"Because," this time Chameleon hesitated and it took a couple seconds of pondering before he admitted, "Because you deserve it," and that's not the answer Peter was expecting, "Yes, we've had our blows with each other in the past, and for a while I did want to hurt you. Badly. I won't deny any of that. But then," Chameleon sat up, gaze a little unfocused as he stared off to the side getting lost in thought, "I became you. I finally caught you changing out of your costume and I was so surprised to see Peter Parker standing there in that alley, holding the mask and looking around like you were expecting someone to pop out. I guess you sensed me, but I was too well hidden, so you never saw me. But it was the perfect opportunity to find out how to hit you where it hurt the most, and to do that, I needed to become you. You were busy fighting one of your other "villains"at the time, so I don't think you, or even your family, noticed. I walked the streets in your shoes, and your clothes, and I wore your face and I lived your life. I went to your job, met your coworkers, met your aunt and MJ, and dug up things about your past and I just…realized that there was no need to hurt you, you were already hurting yourself so much."

Peter studied Chameleon carefully, mouth suddenly desert dry, "What are you talking about?"

Chameleon sat up eagerly, as if Peter's permission was all he needed, "You see, Peter, to do what I do, to be the Chameleon, you need to know how to impersonate people. And I don't just mean looking like them, you have to BE them. You have to get inside their head and understand their thoughts and the motivation behind their actions. Their desires, fears and regrets become your desires, fears, and regrets. That's the mark of a true Chameleon. You become them, completely and utterly. And when I was you," he broke off into a wistful smile, "I learned so much. I had to piece together your past through talks with your aunt and colleagues, and the odd police report. I know that your parents were killed in a plane crash and you were taken in by your aunt and uncle. I know that you ran away because you didn't feel at home there. I know you were bullied and ridiculed by your peers throughout childhood, and I know you used to be a costumed wrestler."

His expression turned sad and this time he looked at Peter, "That man that robbed the wrestling house, he murdered Uncle Ben, didn't he? That's why you became Spider-Man."

Hearing it come out of Chameleon's mouth was strange. Like getting politely punched in the face, but verbally. Peter flinched and looked away, gut churning with nausea - he didn't tell a lot of people that. It took years to tell Wade about his brief time as a wrestler and the fateful night that changed it all, and even that had been so hard.

Chameleon barreled on, whether he noticed Peter's discomfort or not, "I know about Gwen, and Harry, and all your relationships that suffered because of how much you care for this city," his sadness turned into a soft smile and he placed a gentle hand on Peter's knee, "I know how much you beat yourself up over those you couldn't save, and how you bend over backwards to keep the city safe. I know how your social life suffers, and your relationships, and your job. No one understands, or knows why you do what you do."

"And it's okay," he whispered, so softly, so earnestly, "I know. I get it now. You punish yourself for what you can't do, or who you failed, and you won't stop. I had to ask myself what was causing you all this misery and heartache, and I realized what it was," his eyes brightened like he was about to bestow on Peter all of life's unknown answers, "It's Spider-Man. He's why your life is the way it is. And I just...you don't deserve that Peter. You don't deserve this life. You've done your part, you can stop now. You can rest."

"But," his face fell, dropped back into reality, and he sighed, "I know you won't stop being Spider-Man, and there's nothing I could say that's going to stop that. So..." he gestured around the room, "I fixed it. You don't have to be Spider-Man here. You don't have to worry about anyone but yourself now. You can be happy and safe. You can have anything you want. Just say the word and I can get you anything your heart desires."

Peter was shaking his head, Chameleon's words starting to sink into his skin and he yanked on the cuffs, trying to physically back away from this conversation.

"No, that's...that's so fucked up. You can't just take me from my life, Chameleon. I have people who need me, and responsibilities, and my job, and-"

Chameleon shushed him, "Not anymore. I tried to get you fired from the Bugle with that thing with Urich, but it didn't work. But since you stopped showing up, I'm sure you're fired by now anyway. I understand that this will be...hard, for you at first. I don't expect you to accept this right away, but trust me, this is for your own good. You'll like it here."

"And what about my aunt?" Peter spat, his nervous fear breaking into anger, "And Mary Jane and my job, and my boyfriend, and the city? Someone's going to notice that Spider-Man disappeared. They're going to notice that Peter Parker has gone missing. You can't just erase me from existence."

"Oh, I know that," Chameleon shrugged, "But you forget that I can impersonate people. I've impersonated you as Peter Parker and Spider-Man, and no one has ever been the wiser. It wouldn't be too difficult to stage some sort of...accident. After all, vigilantism is a dangerous thing, and it's not safe for photographers to go snooping in places they shouldn't be."

Peter's heart was racing, he could feel it rushing in his ears. Hysteria was on the precipice of his mind. "They'd never believe it," he said, wildly, "None of them."

"Maybe not, but I only need the public to believe. Your family won't tell anyone you're Spider-Man, they can't risk it, and sure, they might try to find you for a while, but that will only go on for so long until they give up. All we need to do is wait a few years, keep our heads down, and day by day people will just...forget. It's human nature to move on and adapt."

Peter shook his head more forcefully, "No. No. They'd...they'd never stop looking. I won't let it happen. What makes you think I'm even going to stay here with you? Huh? What's going to stop me from fighting you every step of the way."

Chameleon smiled, as if Peter said something silly, and brushed his hair out of his face. Peter jerked away, glaring until Chameleon put his hand down.

"I don't expect you to understand yet, and I don't expect you to be grateful. Not for a while, at least. It's okay, I can be patient. But you'll see, it may take months, years, or even decades, but you'll see. You'll be grateful that I got you out of this life you're trapped in, I'm sure of it."

"No, I won't," Peter growled.

Chameleon smiled in amusement, "Sure," he humored him, "Of course not."

He got up to leave, grabbing the cup.

"Wait," Peter said, trying to sit up but frustratingly unable to do so, "You can't possibly think this is going to work. I love my family, Chameleon, and yeah, my life can get really fucked up sometimes, but I wouldn't trade it for anything in the world. You can't kidnap me, keep me from my family, and claim it's for my own good."

"Oh, you don't even need them anymore," Chamaeleon said, grinning excitedly, and gesturing to himself, "That's the best part. I can be anyone you want me to be. I've watched everyone in your life, I've studied all their behaviors, I know how they act and how they think. I can be whoever you want me to be," He clicked the image inducer on his belt and his form melted into an elderly woman with grey-white hair, wrinkled, weathered hands, and a pastel cardigan.

"I can take care of you," Chameleon said in Aunt May's voice, face firm in the expression Aunt May gave him whenever she found out he was skipping meals.

His form shifted again, skin becoming softer, body getting curvier, freckles splashing across cheekbones as red curls fell down his shoulders. MJ leaned against the end of the bed, winking at him with one of her patented, fan-adoring smiles, "I can keep you company."

It shifted a third time, growing in height and build, pockets of scars morphing on skin and a large, crooked grin that made every hero and villain in the super community itch to throw a punch, smirked at him. "I can be your lover," Wade said, braced at the end of the bed, shaking Peter's bound feet humorously, "I can be your everything. You don't need anyone else."

"S-stop it," Peter stammered, stomach sinking so far down it hit his feet. He slammed his eyes shut, shaking his head hard. "Just - stop it, Chameleon. Go back."

"Why?" Wade asked, grabbing onto Peter's ankle as if to yank him down, "Does this body no longer do it for you? Do you want to make love to someone else? I can be any celebrity, any hero, any villain, you ever desired."

The grin he wears makes Peter's spine tingle and he shuddered, looking away. "No. I don't want that, I-" he squeezed his eyes shut again, "I don't want any of this."

Chameleon let go of his ankle and turned back into his normal self. "Well, the option is there if you want it. I just want you to know that I've thought of everything, I can be anything you want me to be. Once you calm down and understand what I'm trying to do here, think of all the things we can do together. I don't want to keep you here, you know. What kind of life is this," he gestured around the room, "We can go places, take vacations, visit sites you've always wanted to see. I mean, it'll take a few years waiting for the media to die down and for you to slip out of attention, and I know how tricky you are," he wagged a finger at Peter, "Don't even try tricking me into thinking you won't run off the moment we step outside. We'll wait a few years. I'm sure we can pass the time in here until then."

"You're insane," Peter spat. Fear sat like vomit on his tongue, thick and disgusting, and dripping down his throat to infect the rest of his body. He probably looked insane himself, wide eyed, pale faced, clothes disheveled from how much he'd been struggling.

Chameleon hummed, "Love does that to people," he tilted his head, smiling oh-so sweetly, "This is all for your own good. I know you'll see it one day.

"You can't - I don't understand why you're doing this," Peter insisted, "It can't just be because you spent some time in my shoes. That can't be it. Why are you - what do you get out of this? What's the point? Why go through all this trouble?"

Chameleon rounded the bed, bending down to look Peter directly in the eyes. "Why?" He whispered, eyebrows scrunching into a soft, almost yearning look, He placed his hand on top of Peter's bound ones, softly stroking his thumb over Peter's knuckles. "Because I love you, Peter. I love you so much, and I'm sure one day, someday, you'll love me too."

Chapter Text

Chameleon finally let him get out of bed, but only after a lot of moping and grumbling from Peter and not without drugging him first.

His request to stretch his legs was met with a needle getting pushed into his skin and the cuffs staying firmly planted on his wrists and ankles. When he was woozy and half-conscious from the drug, all Peter could remember after being helped from the bed was leaning against Chameleon to keep himself propped up and then everything became too fuzzy to piece together. He could hardly think straight, much less walk without wobbling like a newborn fawn.

It would've been an ample opportunity to escape if only Chameleon could stop being a douchebag and didn't keep preventing it. He sat Peter on the couch in the living room, a brand similar to, if not identical, to the one in his apartment, and propped him up with couch pillows so he wasn't slumped over the armrest and drooling over the fine material. Vaguely, Peter thought to himself that he didn't like this couch, not at all. It lacked all the gross food stains of the original.

The drug wore off slowly, and when Peter finally became aware of his surroundings, he realized the laugh-track in his head was coming from the TV and not his cruel, innermost thoughts. It was one of the older shows he and Wade watched together, Peter's favorite Sci-Fi, which was a shame because he couldn't enjoy it with Chameleon clattering around in the kitchen and humming along with the theme song.

Peter stayed still, not letting on how lucid he was and took the opportunity to observe. This apartment really was almost identical to the one he had. The same layout, the same wallpaper, the same furniture, the only difference being that this was newer...and cleaner. Most of the furniture looked recently bought, or at the very least well maintained, and the wallpaper was fresh and clean of water stains. It didn't smell the same either, nothing like the gun oil from Wades weapons and the chemicals Peter used to make his webbing, and too much like lemon-shine and Lysol. It was a good copycat, but different in the ways that mattered.

He flexed his hands and twisted his wrists, gauging how tight the handcuffs were. They were advanced alright, probably fresh out of the box. He's seen the specs a few times when rummaging through Avengers Tower to annoy Tony, and only ever saw them in person when they were being slapped on a villain with abilities that granted them Raft treatment. These were handcuffs specifically designed to immobilize people who are stronger or more "advanced" than your average human. Peter didn't know their full extent, or what they could do, but they were thick and sturdy. It would take a lot of strength to break them, maybe more than he had if they were strong enough to contain Rhino. The ones on his ankles were identical.

Careful to keep his breathing slow, Peter tilted his head just a fraction so he could give the room another once-over. If the layout really was like this apartment, then the door should be just outside the hall. He could probably walk now but wouldn't get far without Chameleon noticing. Maybe if he knocked Chameleon down hard enough, he could bunny hop to the door and then fall down the stairs and roll out onto the street yelling for help. Peter refrained a snort. Yeah, that would be his grand master plan.

He did like the idea of knocking out Chameleon though. How hard would he need to hit him without the use of his fists? Chameleon had to have the key on him somewhere, so maybe he could get the cuffs off too.

Peter took a controlled breath to cool his agitation. Throwing all caution to the wind and hoping for the best, wasn't going to get him out of this. Yes, it was his go-to strategy, but Chameleon already had the upper hand and he said as much that he didn't expect Peter to take this on the nose, so he's going to be expecting something sooner or later. Peter needed to be smart about this.

But fuck if whatever Chameleon was cooking didn't smell amazing. Peter glared at his grumbling stomach.

Food, it moaned in betrayal.

Eat shit, Peter snapped back.

He craved something big, greasy, and so full of calories it would give a normal person a heart-attack.

We are not eating his food, Peter scolded himself. We are not. We are not. We are NOT.

A plate of noodles, sauce, chicken, and garlic bread slid on the table in front of him and Peter startled.

"Good, you're awake," Chameleon smiled, "Food's ready."

Peter bit his tongue. The aroma was so good, fresh-baked it looked like. Who knew Chameleon knew how to cook?

"M'not hungry," Peter muttered, forcing himself to look away so Chameleon couldn't see the way he was salivating like a ravenous dog.

"You're lying," Chameleon said, sitting on the far end of the couch with his own plate, "But if that's what you want." He twirled the noodles in the sauce and ate happily, watching the TV. Peter stared on too, stomach punching him in anger.

Five minutes passed and Chameleon nonchalantly asked, "Are you hungry now? I know how big of an appetite you have. You haven't eaten since yesterday morning, you're probably starved."

"I'm fine," Peter growled,

I'm dying, his stomach cried.

Peter told it to fuck off.

Chameleon smiled wryly, "Alright. I just figured if you plan on escaping you want to be at your full strength."

Peter's head snapped toward him and Chameleon snorted, "Come on, I know you're probably thinking of some way to escape right now, it would be uncharacteristic if you weren't. I'm just saying that if you want to attempt it, you might want to be at your best when you do. It only makes sense."

Peter curled himself tighter in his corner, staring at the other man suspiciously, "I thought you didn't want me to escape."

"I don't," he paused to take a sip from his wine glass. Wine. As if they were just two pals enjoying an evening together. "I'm not worried you'll escape, but you do need to eat. Can't attempt anything if you're shaking with hunger, right?"

Peter scowled, tearing his eyes away from Chameleon and they landed on the plate without his permission. His stomach rumbled again, more insistent.

"It's not drugged is it?" He muttered.

"Of course not, I'm eating the same thing."

"You could've spiked mine."

Chameleon shrugged, "Well, I guess you're just going to have to take my word for it. But I would hurry if I were you, it's getting cold."

Out of pride, Peter lasted another five minutes, and then slowly, bitterly, he picked up the plate and set it in his lap. It was awkward with the handcuffs keeping his wrists locked so close together and it was no better as he tried twirling noodles onto his fork, and then stabbing them when they kept slipping off. Getting them into his mouth was even harder and Chameleon laughed when a glop of noodles and sauce slid off the fork and down Peter's shirt.

"Here, let me help," he grabbed a napkin from the stack he put on the table, but Peter jerked away when he tried to wipe at his shirt. Chameleon put his hands up, "I'm just going to clean you up."

"I don't need your help," Peter growled.

Chameleon looked at the plate that was now lopsided on Peters knees, seconds from spilling onto his lap and the couch. "I think you do," he said, grabbing the plate before it made its descent and set it on the table, "Now hold still. You're making a mess of yourself."

He was close now. Too close. One knee on the couch and the other on the floor, leaning down and hovering over Peter. Peter didn't like how caged in it made him feel but there was a ray of sunshine in the otherwise gloom. Chameleon was unbalanced and Peter took the opening. He lunged forward, tackling him to the floor and pressed his weight onto Chameleon, pinning his forearm underneath the other man's throat and pushing until he choked.

"Where's the key," he demanded, "Give it to me or so help me I'll-" out of nowhere, something hot and sharp erupted from Peter's wrists and ankles and cut him off with a choked noise and then a scream. Chameleon threw him off and he convulsed on the floor, limbs spasming from the shock. Still breathing hard, Peter noticed the little remote in Chameleon's hand, he hadn't even noticed him reaching into his pocket.

"That," Chameleon rasped, rubbing his throat with his free hand, "Was really naughty." He clicked the button again and Peter's body jerked as he was shot with electricity once more. Chameleon cut it off just enough for him to suck in a breath and then pushed it again, and then did the same thing one more time.

When he finally cut it off, Peter's body was a mess of twitching and spasms as he rode out the aftershocks, gasping and choking into the floor. Chameleon bent over him, "I wouldn't do that again. These settings can go a lot higher. I really don't want to hurt you Peter, I really don't, but you just," he took a frustrating breath, "You keep making me do it. It's the only way you listen."

He exhaled deeply through his nose, expression relaxing. His hands were gentle again as they curled around Peter's twitching body and hauled him back up and onto the couch. He picked up another napkin and this time, before Peter could lean away, he lifted both it and the remote.

"I'm going to clean you now and if you give me any more trouble," his finger hovered over the button and Peter's spider-sense buzzed with promise. "I don't want to punish you, but you force my hand when you lash out like this. Your comfort here as well as your pain is all up to you, so think carefully before you try something like that again. Now hold still for me."

He carefully wiped the mess from Peter's shirt, taking care to pick off all the noodles and clean up the sauce as much as he could. When Peter didn't move or lean away, he whispered soft praises and Peter squeezed his eyes shut when Chameleon trailed a finger down the side of his face in an appraising caress.

"See, that wasn't so bad," Chameleon murmured. He got up then, taking the plate with him as he returned to the kitchen.

Peter let out the breath he was holding as soon as he was gone, slumping into the couch with a wheeze. Electrocution wasn't new to him, but it never stopped hurting.

Chameleon returned with a new plate, but instead of handing it to Peter, he sat on the cushion next to him, twisting noodles onto the fork. "Since you can't feed yourself, I'm going to have to do it."

Judging by his smug tone, Peter had a feeling that's what he was planning all along. He wondered if Chameleon let him try himself just so he'd make a mess and it gave him an excuse to clean him up. Or maybe he knew Peter would have never agreed to being fed if he didn't know he couldn't feed himself.

Either way, when he held the fork out, Peter kept his lips pinched shut.

Chameleon quirked an eyebrow, "Don't tell me you're not hungry."

Peter's glower turned cold, "Electrocution does that to me."

Chameleon held up the remote again, "Hmm, then maybe it will bring it back too."

Peter's glower became a glare, but slowly, fighting his pride every step of the way, he opened his mouth and accepted the bite.

"Yeah," Chameleon grinned, "That's what I thought."

Peter endured dinner for as long as he could, eating every bite Chameleon offered with a bruised ego and an angry scowl until his plate was empty. Chameleon "allowed" him to finish watching TV as he washed dishes and cleaned the kitchen, and then, like clockwork, he was back in the living room as the credits started rolling.

"Time for bed," he announced, holding up a syringe and Peter scrambled back on the couch, scooting as far away as his bound limbs would allow.

"Don't!"

"I won't use the syringe, buuut," Chameleon gave him a pointed look, "that's only if you can do as you're told and not fight me on it. Can you do that?"

Peter eyed the syringe wearily, but nodded. Chameleon nodded back and gestured for him to get up. Peter did so and shuffled forward. The cuffs on his ankles were barely long enough for him to take quick, shuffling steps that reminded him of old metal balls and chains prisoners wore in old movies, so they couldn't run away. It was slow progress to the bedroom, but Chameleon showed an amazing amount of patience and never rushed him once. They made it to the bedroom but when Chameleon grabbed Peter's shirt as if to lift it over his head, Peter recoiled so quickly he stumbled and hit the floor.

"What are you doing?" he demanded, shoving his shirt back down.

"You need to get into your clothes."

"I am in my clothes, thank you very much," he snapped, holding his hands close to his chest so there was no way Chameleon could lift it.

"I mean pajamas. You don't want to sleep in that," he gestured to Peter's shirt, splotchy with leftover stains from the debacle during dinner.

"You don't know that" Peter said, tucking his legs in as well, "I'm fine sleeping like this."

With the way Chameleon was staring at him, Peter wondered if he was going to electrocute him into getting undressed, and was prepared to fight him on it, punishment or no. Some of it must've registered on his face because Chameleon held up his hands and backed down.

"If that's what you want," he said breezily.

Since when does that matter to you, Peter thought bitterly, but didn't say. He didn't want to provoke Chameleon into stripping him down and forcing him into whatever pajamas' bottoms he'd stolen from his drawer. He used the bedpost to pull himself back up, and when Chameleon gestured for him to get in, Peter debated jumping out the window. His eyes must've lingered because Chameleon warned, "I wouldn't. That's made with reinforced glass, bullet proof and nearly impossible to shatter."

Peter's shoulders fell, "Where do you get all this stuff," he said, thick with exasperation.

Chameleon smirked, and there was a touch of smugness in his voice, "Just like you, I've been in the business a long time. I have contacts and more than enough favors I can cash in. It does help to be able to impersonate anyone I want and sneak off with a few things."

Peter's lips pursed, mulling over his words. Something tugged at his brain and his eyes widened, "You've been the one robbing all those places, haven't you? That's why I never came across them while they were being robbed. You just impersonated the people working there and walked out with whatever you wanted, and left someone else to take the blame," another thought came to mind and he went rigid, "That man the police were arresting? He didn't rob the pharmacy, did he? You set him up."

Chameleon's smirk was all the answer he needed.

"You bastard," Peter snarled, "Do you even care that you ruined that man's life?"

"Oh please, he deserved it," Chameleon said, turning his back to Peter and shrugging off his shirt to slip into a button up pajama one, "He was a narcissist, skimped on the money he paid his employee's, and beat his wife and kids. I figured you wouldn't like it if I set up an innocent man, so I let him take the fall for it. He does deserve to be in prison, don't you think? For all the things he did?"

"I - you-" Peter sputtered, face going blotchy to match his shirt, "Of course, he does if that's what he was doing. But you -…you can't just -"

Chameleon finished getting in his pajamas and walked over to him, "Who cares if he didn't actually rob the place. He's in a cell where he belongs. That's what matters right?"

Instead of answering, Peter leveled with, "You should be in a cell too, you know. The hypocrisy is astounding."

Chameleon hummed, not exactly disagreeing, "Same could be said for you, Mr. Vigilante. We'll have to agree to disagree. Now down you go," he curled his hands around Peter's arms and nudged him to the bed, "And don't try anything, you know what will happen if you do."

Peter wondered if it was possible to strangle someone with a look. Maybe one day he'd learn the trick, but for now he allowed Chameleon to coerce him back onto the bed, clenching his jaw and glaring at the ceiling as his arms were lifted above his head. He was cuffed back to the headboard and the bedpost, immobilized once more.

He sank into the blankets, trying to find a fragment of comfort in the familiarity of the bed, but was startled when Chameleon rounded the other side and lifted the covers to puff the pillows, as if preparing it.

"What are you doing?" he asked, skepticism creeping into his voice.

"Getting ready for bed, of course," Chameleon smiled, rummaging around in the nightstand on his side.

Peter's eyes bugged out so wide he probably looked like one of those toys whose eyes popped out of their heads when you squished them. "You can't sleep here," he sputtered, "Go get your own bed. What the hell, man?"

"I don't trust you in here by yourself," Chameleon shrugged, "Besides, it's not like you're not used to sleeping with someone else. You look so lonely when you're by yourself."

Peter's face flushed, a red mixture of anger and embarrassment that made his cheeks hot. "That is none of your business, And - and that's completely different. I'm not sleeping in the same bed as you, I have a boyfriend. You might know him, Wade Wilson, Deadpool. The merc with-" the next moment happened very fast. He registered the sudden buzz of his spider-sense and in the next second Chameleon had him pinned down, one hand curled around his neck and the other pressing on his chest so he couldn't move.

"Don't talk about that piece of shit," he snarled, eyes narrowed in blazing anger. Peter's face went tight as the hands on his throat got tighter, completely cutting off his air, "Don't even speak his name. That bastard doesn't exist to you anymore, you hear me. He's gone and he's not coming back. You're with me now. I don't ever want you to mention him again. Do you understand?" Peter's face was going purple and he bucked and pulled on the handcuffs, trying to get him off, but Chameleon had his legs tucked tightly on either side of his torso and was sitting on his chest, he wasn't going anywhere. His mouth fell open as he gasped for air. "I said, do you understand me?"

Peter gurgled a response and nodded, desperate for him to let go. Chameleon hands released him and he got off to fiercely pace the room while Peter sagged into the bed, coughing and choking as he sucked in wheezy gasps of air. Chameleon had never been so aggressive with him before, not when he snarked at him, not when he refused to eat, not even when he'd tackled him to the floor.

He sounded jealous.

Chameleon walked a rigid line across the room, running his hands over the top of head and sucking in deep inhales to calm himself. When he finally turned back to Peter, his face was relaxed again. Almost apologetic. He gingerly sat on the edge of the bed, watching Peter heave for breath with a sheepish look, "Sorry about that," he said, "I lost my temper. You didn't know, so I shouldn't have been so rough with you. Just...," he took a deep breath through the nose, "don't mention his name again, okay."

Peter didn't respond, and was still wheezing too hard even if he wanted to, but Chameleon wasn't looking for an answer this time. He finished preparing his side of the bed and slid under the blankets next to Peter. It took a lot to bruise Peter, but he could almost feel the ring of green and purple slowly inking his skin. It was uncomfortable laying in the same bed with someone he's fought with. Someone he's feared. Like turning over and seeing a monster staring at you, not from under the bed, but beneath the covers. Peter didn't look at him, but Chameleon's presence was like a too hot, too bright fire built right next to him. He yearned to move away from the burning heat, loathing the sting on his skin, but he was stuck in the flames to slowly burn alive.

Before Chameleon settled down for the night, he picked up the object he'd been rummaging for in the dresser earlier.

Peter rasped a protest when Chameleon pressed the syringe into his skin.

Chameleon shushed him gently, "I know it stings, but it'll be quick."

"Why did you-" Peter croaked, but his throat ached from the abuse and he couldn't finish the sentence.

"You can't possibly expect me to trust you while I'm sleeping in the same bed as you. Besides, don't want you to try anything when you're supposed to be sleeping," he winked.

Peter was going to be sick. His stomach lurched so violently he was sure he was going to throw up all over his already gross clothes, but he didn't. The drug was already in effect and his limbs were going slack with each passing second. He wondered what kind Chameleon used if it was powerful enough to knock him out so quickly. Most sedatives didn't work on him, not even high doses used on regular people.

The last thing he remembered was Chameleon humming again, a soft tune as he gently stroked the spot he inserted the needle, as if to wipe the sting away. He pressed his lips to Peter's forehead in a goodnight kiss, the same way Wade did whenever they settled down for the night.

Peter could feel his eyes on him, even in unconsciousness.

Chapter Text

MJ look like a couple of shiny white pearls sitting in a mud puddle. That's the only comparison Wade can think of when he walks into Sister Margaret's School for Wayward Children, the notorious bar for thugs and soldiers of fortune looking to get a little cash.

Aunt May is bundled in her winter coat and earmuffs, a gift from Wade last Christmas, with her hair wound into a bun on her head. She's nursing a cup of watered-down tea that she's pretending doesn't taste like dishwater, with a face that seems completely at ease in her surroundings, like she's at a cafe and not a drab bar. MJ is sitting next to her, far more anxious in demeanor, and also wearing a winter coat with her red curls pinned beneath a fashionable cloche hat (also a gift from Wade). She's drumming her nails against the table, her own mug of tea abandoned, and was giving any man (or women, for that matter) the stink eye who so much as looked at her.

Given that they both had all their teeth and wore clothes outside 80's grunge, it was obvious that these two don't belong in a smelly watering-hole like this. Like seeing a couple of well-groomed cats amidst a pack of flea-bitten dogs.

Aunt May is the first to spot him and immediately sat up in her seat, setting down her mug as she gave a wide smile that, dare Wade say, looked almost motherly as she pulled him down for a hug. "There you are, Wade," she scolded, though any real bite was absent, "I was beginning to worry."

"Ah, auntie, you don't have to worry about lil' ol me. Besides, you know how much of a nightmare the New York transit system is. I had to beat off a 5-year-old with a stick just to get here."

"Oh," Aunt May gave his head a little swat and Wade snickered as he took a seat across from them.

Any lingering gazes came to a grinding halt the moment Wade greeted the two women, and everyone went back to pretending they've been minding their own business this whole time. It helped that Wade had a reputation around these parts, and his reputation came in the form of a fully-loaded Deadpool suit and the hand he was currently resting on one of his favorite guns, Lil' Bertie, which was in full view of anyone who wanted to stick their nose where it didn't belong.

But they were smart, no one was going to become the new Voldemort today.

MJ's shoulders instantly dropped, relaxing from the tensed hunch she probably had ever since she first walked into the bar. Wade didn't blame her one bit, this wasn't the most savory place to hole up in, especially looking the way she did. Weasel could be a grumpy piss baby, but he did his job and kept MJ and Aunt May safe, Wade would have to make it up to him somehow. Maybe by not starting any bar-fights this month.

Still, the fact that these two are here at all is very bad news. He told MJ to only come to this bar if circumstances were dire and they needed somewhere to lie low until he could contact them. MJ wasn't one to over-exaggerate or use their backup systems lightly, so Wade was on edge as he tucked his chair into the table and laid his arms out.

Besides, at the end of the day, he just didn't like seeing them in this grungy bar that smelled too much like smoke and old piss.

"And what are a couple of dames like you doing in a place like this?" he asked with a suave smile, tucking his anxiety away to be dealt with at a later date. Like never.

"Believe me, we wouldn't have come here if it wasn't desperate," MJ said, giving the room another disgusted once-over, and pausing to glare particularly spiteful at a man who had caught her eye and was giving her a yellow-toothed grin. She didn't return it. When her eyes came back to Wade, she shuffled forward, fingers curling in as her expression became earnest, "Have you talked to Peter?"

Wade's stomach twisted painfully and his smile dropped as quickly as he plastered it on his face. "No," he said, also leaning forward and bracing his arms on the table similar to her posture, "I haven't seen him since I got back. I haven't seen any of you at all, actually. Not to sound like a worried old ninny, but do you KNOW how worried I was? I've been looking all over the city for you two. Broke into both of your houses, which, sorry about that by the way, but also not sorry – because I find your luggage gone and no one knows where you're at. I'm ready to call in all my available resources and then I hear Weasel bitching - excuse my language Aunt May-"

Aunt May nodded her agreement, "No, he was bitching, we all heard it. I'm old, Wade, not a ninny. I've said worse in my time."

Wade smiled, "Which is why I want to be just like you when I grow up. Anyway, I hear Weasel bitching about two people looking for me at his bar, and we all agreed this was a last resort option."

"And it was," MJ agreed, "Believe me, it was, I just..." she wrapped her fingers around her abandoned tea, grimacing, "I'm really worried about Peter. I know you've been gone a while, Wade, but you should've seen how he was acting. All uptight and stressed, and he kept looking over his shoulder when he thought I wasn't looking. His eyes were wild like he kept expecting something to pop out." She leaned even closer, gripping her mug tightener as she whispered through her teeth, "He called a Code Blue."

Wade's back went rigid and the hand he was resting on Lil Bertie instinctively got tighter. Back when he and Peter decided their relationship was getting serious, they came up with a list of code words to use for any dangerous situations that cropped up in their superhero lifestyle, for Peter especially. There was one for hostage situations, one for life-or-death situations, and some for undercover situations. Code Blue was in the identity category, meaning someone dangerous figured out who he was, and anyone close to him had to get out of the city as soon as possible - for their own safety and for Peter's sake, so they didn't get wrapped up in a show-down between Spider-Man and whichever villain-of-the-day it was.

Peter didn't use his code words lightly, and only ever used them for last-minute situations when there were no more options. Wade's anxiety spiked like a needle on a seismometer machine.

"Tell me everything," he said, not meaning for his voice to get as deep and as serious as it did, but if either of the other women find it concerning, they don't say.

MJ does tell him everything. From her talk with Peter the day after the apartment was robbed, and how he'd seemed normal at the time, to the following days when he showed up to her apartment, uninvited, with eyes constantly sweeping around as if looking for the boogieman. She mentioned his strange questions; the note of tension in his shoulders that Wade, too, had picked up on after spending so much time with him; the discovery of the camera and disposing of it, and Peter's order to get out of New York until he contacted her again.

"I was freaked out," MJ said, with a little heat, which was a big thing because she's suffered years of being associated with Spider-Man, and all the baggage that came with it. She's been held hostage by villains, injured, threatened with death, and even thrown off a bridge once. It took a lot to rattle her. "You should've seen the way he was acting, Wade. He looked so...scared. I know he'd never admit it because he's him, and 'Spider-Man can't show fear,'" She added the finger quotations for added effect, "But I could tell he was freaked out. Someone's been watching him, and they've been watching me, I figured they were probably watching Aunt May too, so I called her just after Peter left. We were going to head out of the city together, but," MJ looked down, manicured fingers stopping the tap-tapping they'd been doing on the table, "I didn't want to leave him. If it really was this serious, he was going to need help. I know I don't have powers, and I can't do much in a fight against a real supervillain, but I couldn't just leave, you know? I remember what you said about this bar, in case we needed to contact you. I didn't know when you were going to be back, but I was worried about what was going to happen to Peter and I knew someone needed to do something."

"I'm glad you did," Wade said, "I mean, I didn't ever want you guys to step foot in this place, it's not a very good place obviously, but I'm glad you're filling me in. I haven't seen jack-shit about Peter since I got back."

MJ took a ginger sip from her cup, "I'm just worried about him. I haven't heard from him either, and I-," she took a breath, "I'm scared that something happened to him."

Wade didn't want to say it, but she was probably right. Something had happened to Peter. It would take an idiot not to see it now. It was just a matter of what happened to him. His mind was racing through the ridiculous roster of Peter's villains, searching for one that was out of the Raft, had a revenge-boner for Spider-Man, and could pull this off with such little fanfare. Kraven was a contender, but Wade was fairly certain he was still locked up. The Goblin seemed like the kind of conniving bitch to do something like this, but he liked a spectacle. Doctor Octopus was too much of an egomaniac to do something that no one else could see unless it was a body-swapping mind whammy.

But whoever it was, Wade knew one thing for certain.

"I'm going to find him," he said, laying a hand on both MJ and Aunt May's hands. "I promise."

Aunt May froze and then smiled at him, clasping her other hand over his tightly. Her expression was firm, but her lips wavered a little, barely concealing the concern for her surrogate son. "See that you do. And once you do, tell him he's grounded for the rest of his adult life."

Wade laughed, "Will do. But in the meantime, I doubt you wanna swat in a dump like this. I'll set you up in a hotel under false names, so whoever this shitface is can't track you. Don't go outside unless absolutely necessary and keep your faces hidden. No contact with anyone. I'll come find you when I've got Peter."

They nodded.

Before they got up, MJ paused, halfway out of her seat, "Oh, wait, there's something else. When Peter didn't return my calls, I snuck out to his building to check on him. Policemen were just leaving as I showed up, someone pulled the fire alarm in the building. I don't know if that helps, but I thought I should mention it.

It tugged at Wade's brain. "Yeah," he murmured, stroking his chin, "I heard our landlady complaining about that."

Maybe he did have somewhere to start. If the apartment was the last place Peter was seen, then maybe there was a clue that would tell Wade where he went.

He dropped Aunt May and MJ off at a fairly good hotel. It's no red-carpet, gold-furnished palace, but it's a good place run by good people. The rooms are well maintained, the food edible, and the beds comfortable. It also didn't hurt that the guy who owned it owed Wade a favor and would make sure his VIP guests went undisturbed. Just as they pulled up, Wade twisted around from the passenger seat to hand both MJ and Aunt May a black, disposable phone.

"Call me if anything happens or you think of anything else," he said, "My pal, Enrique, is a dynamite dude and will make sure no one bothers you. And remember, stay inside. Keep your phones close, I'll call you as soon as I find anything."

Aunt May thanked him again and gave him another hug, punctuated with a kiss to his cheek, and finished off with a tight, "Please find my boy." Wade promised.

MJ embraced him as well and told him to give Peter a swat on the head once he found him for scaring her like this. Wade promised to do that too. He had Dopinder stay parked at the curb until Aunt May and MJ disappeared inside the building, before giving the green light. Dopinder dropped him off at his apartment building immediately after and Wade scaled the fire escape to their window, which was surprisingly locked (it was never locked) so he was forced to break the edges of the frame and glass and pulled himself inside.

Everything was just how he left it.

First things first, if MJ and Aunt May were being recorded, that meant Peter probably was too. Either Peter found the camera and destroyed it, or he never found it at all. It was when Wade spotted a strange pile of trinkets in the garbage did he find what he was looking for. He assumed the keychains and ceramic toys were the "gifts" Betty mentioned, and upon more intense rifling he found a busted toy camera.

He compared it to the camera inside the Spider-Man plushie, still hanging from his belt, and yep - these were the same kind of camera. Peter was being watched at home too, but judging by the crushed pieces, it hadn't gone undetected.

His spider-sense could be a stickler for when people were watching him, and Wade wondered if the camera had given him a lot of grief over the past few weeks. He couldn't imagine his own head buzzing more constantly and annoying than it already did, especially if it was a sense associated with a danger he couldn't see. He crushed the camera in his hand as well, letting the pieces scatter on the floor.

Most of Peter's stuff was gone, but thankfully, Wade's belongings had been spared. He swept through the apartment meticulously anyway, to make sure there was nothing he overlooked. He was no soap-opera detective, but he did make a living in hunting people down and killing them, and as of recently, infiltrating and extracting information. Most people saw him as an obnoxious, murderous piece of meat, but the jokes on them. He was an observant, obnoxious, and love-sick piece of meat when he wanted to be.

And right now, his love-bug was missing, and he was not a happy merc about it.

Whatever went down, Wade didn't think it happened in the apartment. There were no signs of a fight, or even a struggle; nothing that wasn't already broken, that is, and if this person did manage to corner Peter, they wouldn't have been able to get the upper hand on him without him throwing a punch.

Unless, they snuck up on him, but with his spider-sense, that was nearly impossible.

So maybe they threatened him. Promised to hurt someone if he didn't go with them calmly, Peter's selfless ass would do it in a heartbeat if innocent civilians were involved. But how would that explain the fire alarm?

Now that Wade was thinking about it, he didn't think it was just a hapless prank by a bored teenager. There had to be a reason behind it. But why would someone pull the fire-alarm to begin with? What did they gain from it? There weren't very many trouble-making kids in the building, and as far as Wade was concerned, none of the adults other than himself would pull it just for funsies.

Wade perked up. Unless whoever did it wanted everyone out of the building, he realized.

It would be the fastest way to evacuate a public place, which meant the villain probably hadn't been the one to pull it, but Peter was. According to the bits Wade picked up from the landlady and that tiny segment from the news, no one had been harmed during the evacuation. Everyone who was at home got out of the building and waited outside until the NYPD and firefighters arrived, which meant Mr/Mrs. Bad Guy didn't have anyone to hold against Peter.

Wade wandered out in the hall, chin in his fingers, trying to imagine Peter was there with him, and going through the events that might've happened through Peter's eyes. Was Peter in his civvies? Or in his suit? Did he want to stay incognito? Or was he expecting a fight?

If the building was evacuated, he wouldn't need to worry about anyone seeing him in his suit, so Wade was leaning towards dressed as Spider-Man.

But what did he do after that? Wade turned slowly, taking in the entirety of the hall, but like the apartment, there were no signs of a fight.

He was missing something. He had to be. There had to be something else here.

A thought struck him and he paused, looking over his shoulders to the elevator. He was missing something and he knew who he needed to talk to to get the answer.

Chapter Text

Wade found her in her office, lounging in a chair, watching some 'Murderers and Pink Lipstick' show on her phone. He snuck in quietly, with all the prowess of a merc with his level of expertise, and with her back to him, he eased the door shut with the toe of his boot and locked it. He almost rolled his eyes when she didn't even look up from her screen – people these days and their electronics. Back in Wade's day, they broke into old houses, lit firecrackers inside glass bottles and fell down the stairs for entertainment, and they liked it.

He didn't bother with formalities or introductions, and before she had the opportunity to find out who was killing who, or make a noise for that matter, he wrapped a hand around her mouth, leaned the chair back so it was only supported on two legs, and kept her pinned there with his other arm strewn across her shoulders.

"Don't scream" he whispered in her ear, "You make one noise and things are gonna get real messy real quick, and this is such a nice dingy little office. I would hate to ruin the paint job." She nodded her head frantically, body so still he may as well have been holding a piece of wood on a chair. But he hummed in approval. Better a piece of wood than a panicked civilian. "Good. Now, I'm going to let you go and if you scream, throw anything, or mildly inconvenience me in any way, I have a lovely bullet here with your name on it. You got me?"

Another shaky nod.

"Fantastic."

Wade let her go and the chair fell back on all four legs. Despite him being gentle, in his terms anyway, she jerked and nearly fell off the chair, and when she whirled around to face him, she was gripping the edge of the small table with white knuckles, eyes wide and face pale. Wade had his gun out, but pointing it at her to emphasize his point seemed like overkill, especially when she looked like she got the gist. Besides, he had no intention of actually shooting her, because 1) he was a reformed man, and shooting civilians was so 1990's, 2) She was his landlady, and she was a pretty decent one all things considered, and he'd hate to see her go, and 3) Peter would be pissed.

But he did keep the gun in full view so she knew he still meant business and was all too aware of the way her eyes followed it as he backed up a few paces.

Good, he had her attention.

"Okie dokie, sit yourself back in that chair, answer my questions, and we won't have to get nasty," he cocked the gun, this time for emphasis, and she returned to the chair, replacing her grip on the table with her own hands by locking her fingers together. Wade rounded the table slowly and perched himself on the edge, directly in front of her chair, kicking his feet out like a child despite his size and the way the bottom of his soles scraped the floor.

A bit more cheerily he said, "Now, tell me all about the fire that happened, and don't skimp over the details, I want to know every itty-bitty, juicy thing that went down."

Her shoulders quivered, and okay, maybe he felt a little bad about freaking out an innocent civilian like this, but he needed answers quickly, and he didn't have time to schmooze or play nice. His main Spider squeeze was on the line.

"W-well, it wasn't much of a fire," she said, swallowing hard and darting her eyes between the gun and the two narrowed white eyes of Wade's mask. "The-there was no fire, actually. It was some prank, or so the police think. Some kid, but we don't know who. I - uh, I was in my office when it happened, doing...things-"

"You were watching porn," Wade said, waving the gun nonchalantly, "Everyone knows, you aren't subtle."

Her face reddened and for a minute it looked like she was going to argue, before she decided better of it and moved on instead, "An-anyway, the alarm was pulled and everyone got out of the building. We all evacuated to the street, and then the cops and fire department showed up, but when they went inside and took a look around, they didn't find anything. Said someone must've pulled it by accident, or as a prank. That's - that's all there is, I swear. Nothing else happened."

Shit, fuck, fuck, shit, fuckety shit, shit-ton fuck, Wade cursed. He clutched the handle of the gun tighter, jaw clenching in frustration, "That can't be it, there has to be something else. Anything else." She whimpered when he shoved the gun closer to her face. "Come on, think."

"There's nothing else," she repeated desperately, "Nothing, I swear. Just some punk kid trying to be funny. Believe me, I wish there was more, that fire cost me a tenant and I'd love for you to find whoever done it. Really I do."

Wade roared, jerking the gun away in favor of kicking the wastebasket across the room, sending an arc of trash flying through the air. He scrubbed his hands over his face, bumping the gun against his cheek carelessly. That couldn't be all there was; this didn't give him anything to work with. He couldn't just outright ask if she'd seen Peter that day, that would connect Peter Parker to Deadpool, which was an entirely different mess he didn't want to start.

But she was giving him next to nothing, just meaningless landlord garble, and tenant problems.

He paused, looking up from his hands, and turned back to her incredulously.

"Tenant? You said a tenant moved out? Tell me about them."

"I'm - I'm not sure if I can-" she started, and Wade took out a second gun from his holsters just so he could cock the hammer and aim for her head – somewhere out there, Peter was rolling over in his sleep. "His name was George Thatcher, late twenties or early thirties, I can't remember. Had black hair and a goatee. Moved in almost 6 months ago."

"What else?"

"He - he was real quiet. Never asked for anything, never complained, always paid his rent on time. He seemed like a nice guy, even though he was a bit of a recluse. I - I didn't mind him as a tenant, but after the prank, he kicked up a real fuss. Came storming into my office to give me an ear full, going on and on about how he wasn't going to live in a building with a bunch of hoodlums, and moved out the next day. Just packed up his things and was gone within 24 hours."

Wade cocked his head, squinting, "That quickly?"

She nodded frantically, "That quickly. Just paid the rent due for the month and was gone. I guess he found somewhere else to live."

Wade rubbed his chin with the nozzle of the gun, "Well, he sure as hell did that quickly."

It was hard getting a decent apartment in this city, much less one with a fair rent, but in such a small window of time? It was nearly impossible. Georgie over here must not have had a lot with him if that's all it took to pack up and go, which meant he was either a dedicated minimalist or has been living with close to nothing for 6 months straight.

He looked the woman over one last time and slid the guns back into their holster. She let out a relieved breath that didn't last long as he stalked forward, crowding her into the table and leaning in close to her face to whisper darkly, "Forget you saw me. Call the police and they won't be able to save you. As far as you're concerned, I was never here, we never talked, and you didn't see anything. Got it?"

She nodded hard and fast it reminded Wade of a bobblehead. He snorted at the imagery and bopped her nose. "Fantastic. One more thing before I go."

Wade tossed the key in the air and caught it again as he skipped down the hall, whistling a tune from the ever beloved Snow White.

"Just whistle while you work," he sang and whistled under his breath as he stopped in front of the door, sliding the key into the lock. "And cheerfully together we can kill a bitch today, so hum a merry tune – oh?" he paused, squatting eye level to the door frame and ran his gloved finger over the splintered ridges around the lock. "What do we have here? Baby Boy got here first, methinks. Did all the hard work for us."

Good. This meant he was on the right track.

The door was already busted open, and the area around the lock and hinges were splintered, like someone attempted to rip it off. Landlady ironically forgot to mention this little tidbit of information. Wade has gutted people for less, but he's gone through whole character arcs and storylines and settled on a "Fuck you, too," under his breath. He slid the door open, and gave a small "Oooh," as it creaked ominously loud on its abused hinges.

Gun out, he moved silently across the floor, using his phone as a flashlight. The apartment was empty aside from a few token pieces of furniture, and most of the surfaces looked dusty and unkempt for someone who supposedly lived here for six months. Red flag #1.

He scoured the apartment quickly and quietly, trained steps carrying him from the kitchen, through the living room, down the hall, and to the bedroom. Out of everything, the most used rooms looked to be the kitchen, the spare bathroom, and the bedroom judging by the disturbed layers of dust.

5 minutes in, nothing offered him anything in lieu of clues, until he walked past the bathroom door and something rancid caught his nose. It was a smell, sour, like chemicals. He recognized it. Paraphenylene diamine, a chemical used for developing pictures. Peter had the same thing when he personally developed his film instead of sending them straight to the Bugle via email. There have been several occasions where he turned their bathroom into a dark room, and it looked like someone else had the same idea here. Red flag #2.

Wade inspected the sink and the bathtub, both of which were wiped clean. But on the railing holding the shower curtain, a clip was pinned to one of the rings, the kind used to hold drying photographs. But unfortunately, there were no photos, and aside from the clip, there was nothing else indicating that someone used this bathroom at all. If this had been a dark room, Mr. George had done a mighty fine job cleaning it up.

He moved to the bedroom. There was nothing in the dresser drawers, or in the nightstand; the closet was empty, but judging by the indents left in the carpet, something heavy had been in there. A desk maybe. But otherwise, nada. He slammed the door shut with a frustrated growl.

It was as he was walking out of the room that he noticed something else, something he could've brushed right past if he weren't paying attention. A crack in the wall, barely visible from behind a picture-frame of some yellow flower in a field. Wade traced the crack with his finger, up to the frame where the rest of it was hidden from view. He grabbed the frame and tossed it over his shoulder. Underneath, the wall was cracked and caved-in, just a little, as if someone hit it with a mallet. Or a body.

Maybe Peter was kicking some ass in here after all.

Red flag #3.

"And if you were here, and no one's seen you since, that means something happened to you in this room sweetums," Wade mumbled, turning around and seeing the room in a whole new light.

He tried to imagine the scene playing out in front of him, Peter in costume, facing off against some hippie-looking bozo. His first instinct was that Peter was the one throwing people around, but if this guy had a secret mutant ability, then he could've thrown Peter if he got an open shot.

Wade walked slowly, fingers creating a box for him to look through as if he were judging the potential-picture quality of a scenic view. The box drifted to the floor where a patch of carpet was a shade lighter than the rest and he bent to one knee, tilting his head to get an estimate of how big it could've been.

"There was a carpet here," he mused, "Barely big enough to roll a human body in, I reckon." He leaned down to examine it closer, hand braced on the edge of the bed when something white and barely poking from the underside of the bed caught his eye.

Squinting, Wade bent, and then shuffled under the bed until his head was parallel to the glossy piece of paper that was stuck between the mattress and the bars of the frame. His breath caught in his throat as he recognized what it was and carefully slid it free.

It was a picture of him and Peter. Months ago, before he took the job. He remembered it because it had been after a big gang war in Hell's Kitchen. They changed into their civies after the fight, and despite being bloodied and bruised, they made a pit stop at Mikes. They intended to grab food and go home, but Peter sat at one of the booths to rest his feet, Wade joined him, and they got caught up talking about whether or not Hulk or Thor could win in a fight, and somehow, they ended up staying almost the entire night, eating and laughing, and winding down from a long day. The picture was taken from outside the restaurant, featuring him and Peter bent over the table laughing, faces flushed, with plates of half-eaten food around them.

It had been such a special night. One of the few Wade didn't mind being outside without his mask in, which might've lent to the fact that they were one of the few customers in the restaurant at that hour. It was fun, and they let-loose and relaxed, and told stupid stories and even stupider jokes, and the memory put something so tender in Wade's heart his old self would've claimed it a hallucination and shot him in the head. It had been them. Just the two of them, together.

At least that's what he thought.

He recalled Peter pausing halfway through one of his stories to look out the window, lips twitching downward as a peculiar look entered his eyes. At the time Wade thought he was still jittery from the fight, but looking back at it now, he probably sensed someone lurking outside their window. It hadn't been enough to worry him, obviously, as he'd smiled a second later and muttered something about needing sleep. But it still hurt seeing the signs.

Wade cursed himself for not paying more attention. For getting so lazy in the sweet, amazing, domestic bliss his life became with Peter Parker.

Peter was a paranoid shit and Wade wasn't any better.

When had they gotten so complacent? If this were a year ago, Wade would've sniffed out this stalker's ass in a heartbeat and had it all taken care of and wrapped in a pretty pink bow by morning.

He lay against the floor, the picture gingerly held in his hand falling on top of his chest, and he stared up at the mattress. He'd been an idiot. A stupid, lovesick, complacent idiot who didn't know when some creepo was lurking in his own backyard. Didn't see the signs that were so obviously there. Hadn't noticed a stalker lurking just a few doors down the hall. He slammed his head back into the floor. Then did it again and again and again, wishing it would crack open and let all the stupid out. In the end, it only made him light-headed.

He looked back at the photo, eyes roving over Peter's face.

Whoever this bastard was he'd been watching them for a while. And he had Peter.

Wade slipped the picture into one of his pouches.

But not for long.

Chapter Text

Everything about Peter's situation was terrible, even if Chameleon lacked the common sense, and decency, to see it.

It was bad enough falling asleep next to him. The guy had a habit of running his hands through Peter's hair and tip-toed the lines of his personal boundaries, like a child testing his limits. Given that, Peter didn't know what was worse: the feel of Chameleon's hands in his hair, or waking up to Chameleon staring at him from barely a foot away.

"OH FUCK!" Peter shot awake; any drowsiness that came with waking up fled his system for a heart-stopping dose of adrenaline that's only found in horror movie jump-scares (and waking up to a psycho's in your bed, apparently). If he hadn't been cuffed, he would've fallen right on the bed – although that wasn't for lack of trying. He teetered for a bit, suspended by his bound hands and wrists until Chameleon pulled him back up.

"Whoa, easy there," he said, easing Peter back into his spot. His hands are uncomfortably warm where they rest on Peter's thigh.

Chameleon didn't sound tired and as Peter's eyes roamed over his mask, he wondered if the man slept at all. It was hard to tell.

"What the hell?" Peter gasped between breaths, glaring daggers. If his hands were unbound, he'd be clutching at his chest like a heart patient experiencing technical difficulties. "Were you watching me?"

Chameleon shrugged, not looking put-off by the accusation, or the least bit sorry for it. "You look peaceful when you sleep and you don't scowl as much." As if that was all the logic he needed.

"That doesn't stop it from being creepy as hell," Peter snapped, "And highly inappropriate. There's this thing called personal space and I think it's something you should consider with all your captives moving forward."

It only reminded Peter how much he wanted to put ]distance between him and Chameleon. Just being this close to the other man made his skin feel itchy and uncomfortable. When Chameleon's hand didn't let go of his thigh, Peter jerked his leg to signal him to move it, but it made his heart thud louder when Chameleon kept it there for a few seconds longer.

"You didn't seem to mind before," Chameleon said, finally putting his hand in his own lap, where it'd better stay.

Peter squinted at him, "Before? I've never wanted you to do it before. What kind of made-up reasoning is that?"

"I wasn't talking about me."

Peter squinted thinner, barely able to see Chameleon through the slits of his eyes before it dawned on him. "Are you talking about me and Wa-" he paused. Even barely saying the name, Chameleon's frame braced, as if prepared for it. His hands twitched and Peter distinctly remembered them wrapping around his neck the night before. He swallowed carefully. Chameleon said he was sorry for lashing out, but that didn't mean he wouldn't do it again.

He continued cautiously, "It's creepy that you know that at all," and immediately despised the look of pleasure that bloomed across that animated mask. Chameleon was obviously very pleased that he corrected himself and it made Peter feel skeevy for playing along.

Chameleon didn't offer an excuse for his actions this time, just chirped, "I'll go make breakfast," and cheerfully rolled out of bed.

That's when Peter noticed that he was already dressed, indicating that he'd woken up sometime before Peter did. But how long ago was the question.

Yes, Peter has caught Wade watching him in his sleep before, but that was leagues different in context than whatever Chameleon was trying to build off of. He never found it creepy waking up in Wade's arms and feeling his hands comb through Peter's hair or stroke his cheek, while Peter rolled over and grumbled at him, because morning person he was not. But Wade would chuckle and press a kiss Peter's temple and bury his face in his hair, holding him close. Wade never got out of bed, dressed himself, and then returned to bed and watched him for hours on end in complete silence.

Wade may be crazy, and sometimes he said inappropriate things and committed extreme acts of violence, but he respected Peter's boundaries and never pushed him into anything uncomfortable or overstepped any lines. Which was something Chameleon didn't seem to pick up in all his time watching them.

The clamoring of the kitchen was so loud Peter could hear it from the room, and he wondered if that was for his benefit too. Just another thing Chameleon was adding to this illusion of domesticity he was painting.

Peter took the opportunity to test the handcuffs again, not expecting them to be any different, but hoping they would be anyway. And as suspected, nothing changed, and he felt stupid for being frustrated about it. Obviously, there was no breaking them. Chameleon took his super strength into account - which was irritating because villains were supposed to be stupid. It added fuel to his incessant need to get them off. Once he did, his chance of escape became way, way, way more favorable.

Unfortunately, much like his strength, Chameleon took into account his brain as well, which was the root of all these precautions and safety measures that were almost as infuriating as the handcuffs. He had the key and it was unlikely he'd give Peter the opportunity to steal it from him, which meant he needed to get Chameleon to take them off himself. And how in the hell was he supposed to do that? Dozens of scenarios raced through his head, but they became more ridiculous and far-fetched the longer he thought about them.

Pretend to faint? Chameleon would see through that in a split-second, and he'd have no reason to take them off anyway. Claim they were cutting off his blood circulation? Chameleon could just check his hands and see for himself. Say he needed to use the bathroom? That was already an issue because Peter had needed to pee in the middle of the night, and Chameleon had stood outside the bathroom, with the door open, to make sure he wouldn't try anything. It was the most awkward 2 minutes of his life and not something he was eager to experience again.

It felt like only minutes since Chameleon left, but before Peter knew it, he was walking in again, wiping his hands on his pants and proclaiming, "Breakfast is ready."

He went straight for the dresser and Peter's stomach dropped, arm aching already.

"Don't," he said, trying to scoot away as Chameleon ripped a clean syringe out of its package and filled it. How many of those did he have? They weren't exactly reusable. "I'll go quietly, alright. You don't need to poke me."

Chameleon didn't even humor him by pretending to think it over, "No, I'm afraid I don't trust you yet. We'll see how things are going in a few months. A few weeks if you're good."

Not the answer Peter wanted, but the one he should've expected. He flailed, at least wanting to make it as hard for him as he could, and it worked for a nice minute before Chameleon pushed his knee into Peter's chest, leaning all his weight into it so Peter couldn't breathe so easily, and with his other hand, he wrapped his fingers around Peter's throat to steady him. Peter seized up, going stiff and Chameleon cocked his head.

"Interesting."

As much as Peter wanted to comment on that creepy wording, Chameleon inserted the needle with gentle care and he winced instead. For such a small thing, no matter how gently handled, it never stopped stinging.

"This can't be healthy, you know," he commented as Chameleon got off.

"It won't be a permanent thing," he said as he tossed the used syringe into the trashcan next to the desk, his tone light and easy, as if assuring him. Funny how Peter didn't feel any better. "How long this goes on is up to you."

"I just told you I didn't need it."

"And I won't believe it until I have proof," Chameleon replied, good humoredly bopping Peter's nose and Peter wrinkled his face in response.

Like a patient boyfriend waiting for his girlfriend to finish shopping, Chameleon leaned against the wall near the covered window (a blackout curtain so Peter couldn't see the sun, or the sky, or anything hinting towards a world outside), crossed his arms, and waited for the drug to take effect. And take affect it did, like clockwork, from the most efficient clock Peter's ever seen.

His breathing slowed first, and his head got dizzy, eyes blurring as the room spun and he tip-toed the line between consciousness and unconscious. His mind entered a hazy state, like his thoughts were balloons loosely tethered to his skull and were bumping into each other, rubber squeaking against rubber. It's not enough to take him completely out of it, but when Chameleon uncuffed him from the bed, all Peter can do is stare half-lidded at his freed hands until Chameleon is binding them again.

After that, Peter was shuffled into the living room, forced to lean against Chameleon so much that the other man was practically carrying him by the time they made it to the couch. If he was in his right mind, and not drooling into Chameleon's shirt, he might've snapped at Chameleon's when his hands lingered over his torso too long, as he was set into a kitchen chair. If he were in his right mind, he would have told Chameleon to keep his fingers to himself as they carded through his hair one more time and mussed his bedhead even more. He would've told Chameleon to shove it where the sun doesn't shine when he swayed and nearly fell off the chair, and Chameleon steadied him with a firm hand that slid up and down his arms unnecessarily. But Peter couldn't string together enough thoughts to piece these moments together, much less voice his displeasure over them.

He's further distracted when a plate of food slid in front of him.

"Eat when you're ready," Chameleon says faintly.

Peter's not sure how long the drug takes to filter out, but he came back to himself slowly. His eyes focused on the yellow mush closest to his hand and it slowly dawns on him that it's eggs. There's toast as well, slathered in jelly, a handful of berries, a small bowl of oatmeal, and a glass of orange juice. The type of meal you'd see in a breakfast commercial, too well-cooked and put together to be realistic (who ever had the time and money for food like that?). Not Peter Parker, for one. He hasn't had orange juice since spending the night at Aunt May's for Christmas almost a year ago, and the only thing he used his toaster for was to warm his hands on too-cold mornings when the heater was broken.

Any other day, Peter would've scarfed down a breakfast like this, eager as a kid on Thanksgiving, but because his thoughts were coming back, so came the knowledge that this food was prepared by a psycho holding him captive, and that kind of ruined his appetite. Besides, his maneuverability was still tedious and even if he had a fork he'd probably drop it.

Either Chameleon was aware that Peter couldn't feed himself and wanted him to fail as an excuse to feed Peter himself, or he had an incredibly low view of Peter and unexpected him to eat like a pig. Not that Peter was above that, mind you. If the food was good, he'd eat with his hands, no biggie. He's had times of being so hungry he'd literally eat anything – but that normally took place after he moved out of Aunt May's house, lived by himself, barely survived off his current income, and hadn't met Wade yet.

But that didn't matter because he wasn't feeling hungry anyway. He pushed the plate away with his bound wrists, and across from him, Chameleon frowned around the spoon in his mouth, his enjoyment of his own oatmeal interrupted.

"What are you doing?"

"M'not hungry," Peter mumbled, leaning his forehead against the table and closing his eyes, waiting for the last of the drug to run its course.

"You need to eat."

"M'not hungry."

"Peter," there was a clink as Chameleon set his spoon down and Peter frowned, he sounded like an exasperated parent trying to get their child to eat their vegetables. Peter didn't like being talked to like he was a child. "If you don't eat, I'm going to have to punish you, and I don't want to do that."

Peter lifted his head high enough to glare at him, hands tightening into fists against the edge of the table where they were trapped between it and his chest. "I don't even have a fork, moron. How am I supposed to eat if I can't-" he was cut off by a large, painful dose of electricity flooding his body, and this time he does fall off the chair, knocking his knee into the table as he went, and nearly sending their food flying.

He hit the ground hard and convulsed on the cheap tile-print vinyl, body spasming as he choked on grunts and shouts in their quaint little kitchen.

"I don't like that tone," Chameleon said, and it's wrong how serene and patient his voice is, like a torturer talking softly to their victim as they twist a knife into their gut, "and don't resort to name calling. It's very unbecoming of you."

When it finally ended, Peter sucked in deep breaths through his nose and dug his forehead into the floor, both to recover from the impromptu electrocution and to keep himself from kicking a chair at Chameleon and (likely) earning another round of torture. His jaw is clenched too tightly to be healthy, but it's necessary to keep the stream of unflattering names he wants to call him from slipping past his teeth. He closed his eyes to regather his wits, and then looked back up at Chameleon.

"I don't have a fork," he repeated, as calmly as he could through gritted teeth, "I need one if I'm expected to eat."

"Of course," Chameleon conceded with a nod, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world, "All you needed to do was ask."

He helped Peter up and got him situated in his chair before fetching the fork. Peter flipped him the bird behind his back. When he passed the utensil to Pete it was hard getting a good grip on it, and it would've dropped if he didn't adhere to his skin in time.

He twisted his wrists to stab at the eggs, but the cuffs were too big and clunky and the angle his wrists were in was all wrong, making any mobility, even with his flexibility, nearly impossible. But Peter was a tenacious guy and didn't take it kindly when he was treated like a tantrumming child for not wanting to eat his captor's food. He ended up ditching the eggs, deciding they were too soft to properly stab, and managed to skewer one of the berries instead. But it dropped into his lap when angled to his mouth and Chameleon snorted, leaning back in his chair as he ate his toast. He may as well have been eating a bucket of popcorn and pointing his finger at Peter going "Ha-ha!"

Peter glared and tried again. The result was the same.

He kept trying with varying degrees of success. At one point he did manage to get one berry in his mouth through intense arm contortion that would've broken a normal person's wrist, and chewed victorious as tart blackberry juices flooded his mouth. Chameleon didn't look as impressed.

"You're supposed to eat the berries, not wear them."

Peter sniffed, the tartness in his mouth going sour, "Well, maybe if you took these cuffs off it'd be a lot easier."

Chameleon shook his head, not bothering to engage in this argument again. Peter thought about bringing it up anyway but figured it wouldn't get him anywhere and he'd just be wasting air. Talking to Chameleon was like talking to a brick wall.

He looked over the contents of his plate again, debating which challenge he should attempt next. Chameleon hadn't been wrong about Peter wearing the berries, juices now stained the front of his shirt and lap in gross splotches, and thankfully, there were no more on the plate to add to his collection.

He glanced between his bowl and Chameleon, who was distracted with a mushed berry on the floor. Maybe if he threw the bowl fast enough, it would shatter against Chameleon's skull, and if he were lucky it would knock the bastard out. If he were unlucky, and it just made Chameleon very angry, well, at least he'd get a good laugh out of it.

He eyed the oatmeal and slowly an idea came to him. It wasn't the best idea, and frankly, his stomach churned at the very thought, but it might give him a chance at a little privacy, at least.

The thing Peter was counting on was that Chameleon couldn't be there for him every single second of the day, for everything he might need. And even if he was nearby, it gave Peter a small window of opportunity to work somewhere where he wasn't being heavily watched.

He carefully set the fork down and went for the bowl of oatmeal. He wasn't about to go through the humiliation of asking Chameleon for a spoon too, or worse, being fed by him again. It was tremulous work balancing the bowl in his hand with how closely bunched his wrists were, but he's Spider-Man, he's balanced himself on one finger on top of a skyscraper before, he could handle this.

Noticing, Chameleon set down the orange juice he was drinking to ask, "What are you doing?"

"It's easier to eat it this way," Peter answered easily.

He had to lean himself in the chair and pull his arms up to tip the rim of the bowl into his mouth and get the oatmeal, but with a well-placed fumble and a gasp of surprise, he braced himself and allowed the bowl to slip too far and crash into his face, spilling oatmeal over his eyes, nose, and cheeks, slopping down his shirt, and plopping onto the floor in wet heaps. Peter made a noise in disgust and tried to wipe at his face as Chameleon erupted into laughter.

"Shut up," Peter griped, shaking his head to get oatmeal clumps out of his hair, not unlike a dog.

"Anymore bright ideas," Chameleon laughed. He'd gotten up to grab a roll of paper towels and tore a couple squares off to help him. Peter glowered when he tried to wipe his face, and Chameleon rolled his eyes and handed it over so he could do it himself.

"I have a few," Peter mumbled, even though he really didn't. He made another disgusted noise when a glob of oatmeal fell down his shirt, squeezing between his chest and his arms, which were pressed close so he could wipe at the gunk. He was sure to "accidentally" cover the cuffs in oatmeal as he did.

"I need to clean this off. Am I allowed to take showers or is that prohibited too?"

"Of course, you can," Chameleon said, as if he were being silly, "I'm not inhumane, Peter."

Says you, Peter thought, but allowed Chameleon to help him to his feet and lead him to the bathroom, and just like everything else, it was nearly identical to his actual apartment, right down to the towels and brands of shampoo. The only thing missing was the water stains in the tiles and a crack in a corner of the mirror.

Peter walked inside, squinting at all the stolen belongings and subtle changes that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. There were things that Peter was only now realizing were missing, thanks to how microscopic they were. A towel he favored because it was the fluffiest one he owned; he assumed it was dirty and had yet to take his laundry to the laundromat (or MJ's). His tube of toothpaste disappeared and he'd been forced to buy the discount brand because it was the only one he could afford at the time; he'd assumed he just accidentally threw it away, but nope, it was Chameleon. How many other doohickeys and paraphernalia had been swiped from his apartment that he hadn't noticed?

There was a lot he wanted to say about this, from how creepy it was that Chameleon could pick out which was his toothbrush in the bathroom, to how this was such a violation on Peter and his entire life that it made his stomach sick. He could scream all of that, and more, as it piled on his tongue, straining to be let out.

Instead, he pressed his lips into a hard line and held out the cuffs so they could be unlocked, or loosened at least, so he could properly shower, and was wholly surprised when Chameleon stepped inside the bathroom as well, locking the door behind him.

Instantly caught off guard, Peter took a step back, hands coming back up to his chest as he assessed this new situation. "What are you doing?"

"Giving you a shower," Chameleon replied in a 'no-duh' tone, "What else?"

However wry or sardonic his words were, they hit Peter with the force of a speeding truck – and he could make that comparison, because he's been hit by a lot of speeding trucks. He backed up wildly, tripping over the toilet in his haste and falling into the bathtub. He didn't register the dull ache in his lower back or calves as Chameleon stepped forward, heart too busy beating an escape out of his ribcage.

"No, no, no, that's really unnecessary."

"I don't think it is," Chameleon replied, and made to drag him out of the tub, but Peter pulled his legs inside instead and squeezed himself against the wall. Chameleon dropped his hands, immediately becoming exasperated.

"How else did you expect to get clean? It's not very doable, or comfortable, with those on," he nodded towards the cuffs.

"Can't you just take them off," Peter sputtered, "Or drug me, or stand out in the hall with the door open? Literally anything but this."

"Drug you, uncuff you, and let you try and shower," Chameleon quirked an eyebrow. "Well for 1, that's not very safe, and 2, I don't trust you in here alone. Besides, I can't keep an eye on you from out in the hall. This is the safest option we have."

As if that ended the argument, Chameleon lifted his shirt over his head and tossed it to the side, and Peter went pale enough to give a ghost reason to be concerned. He didn't intend to just clean Peter, he intended to shower with him. In the same bathtub, in the same small, confined space, running those freaky hands in his hair and over his skin. Reflexively, Peter pressed his own hands closer to his chest, bunching his fingers in his shirt in the process, and adhering the rest of the fabric to his skin. If Chameleon wanted to get his clothes off, he'd have to cut them off, and even that wouldn't work well in the long run.

"Nope. No, not happening. Not happening at all. I really don't think I need a shower anymore; those paper towels will do just fine. I think you should go back and get them right now."

"Oh, don't be silly," Chameleon laughed, still very shirtless and coming closer. He better keep his pants on. "Now come on, let's get you undressed."

Peter scrunched tighter if that were even possible. He'd meant to come in here and get a moment of privacy; to figure out a game plan or look for something that could help him, or hell maybe try and pick-pocket Chameleon for the key. But this was so much worse than anything he anticipated.

His hard-slapped fear thawed into something thicker, angrier, and immovable.

"No," he snarled, "I'm not showering with you, you creep. Not happening, no way in hell." It sounded reasonable to him.

But Chameleon, the motherfucker, sighed heavily and pinched the bridge of his nose as if Peter were throwing another tantrum and he was just too tired to handle it. "We're both adults here, it doesn't have to be weird."

Peter lifted an objective finger, "On the contrary, it has to be weird. Very weird. Do you even hear yourself right now?"

"I'm not going to do anything to you," Chameleon insisted, putting his hands on his hips and scowling, almost offended that Peter would think such a thing.

Well, forgive him if he didn't exactly trust the man who's been stalking him for months on end, and was now holding him captive in a make-believe apartment to fulfill his freakish domestic fantasy. It wasn't exactly pulling a lot of trustworthy points in Chameleon's favor.

Peter scowled harder and scooted away, making it very clear where his trust lay, and it was not in the other man. As if sensing that Peter was fortifying himself, readying for a fight, Chameleon's hardened resolve softened and held out his hands in a truce.

"Look, I'll keep my pants on, alright. My shirt too if it makes you more comfortable."

"I'd feel a lot more comfortable if you walked out of here right now and never came back."

Chameleon sighed again and this one was harder, more strained, like Peter was forcing his hand and he didn't want to do what he was about to do. With begrudging slowness, he pulled the remote out of his pocket and pointed it at Peter, insistently, "I will force you if I have to Peter. You need to get cleaned and if you're not going to cooperate, well…"

Peter bared his teeth, "Go ahead," and brought his legs to his chest. "It's. Not. Happening."

And go ahead he did. No hesitation. No preamble or warning. It was cranked up to a higher setting than before and the surge of electrical energy that flowed through him was so bad, Peter's head snapped back, smacking hard against the wall of the shower, and his back arched involuntarily. He could feel it zapping through his nerves, sending jerks and spasms throughout his limbs, and the smell of burnt hair filled the small cavity of the tub. Chameleon turned it off and on in bursts, only ever giving Peter a second or two to catch his breath, before doing it again. When he finally conceded and turned it off for good, Peter was a wheezing, shaking, twitching mess at the bottom of the tub, sucking in air and grunting into the acrylic plastic.

Still, as Chameleon bent toward him, Peter flinched and scooted backward, rasping, "D-don't."

He screamed when the shocks came back, even stronger than the last time. His mouth flooded with copper and he could taste blood from biting his tongue.

"You always make things so hard," Chameleon sighed, shaking his head as he took a pocket knife from his pocket. Peter tried to scoot away again but could only go so far in his condition and the limited space he had.

His body twitched as Chameleon cut his shirt away (probably so he didn't have to uncuff him) and was just reaching for his pants when panic seized his heart and Peter shouted, "No! No, please, just..." he took a shaky breath, "Please just keep those on."

Chameleon stared at him long and hard for a few seconds, and then nodded, "Fine. The pants can stay."

Peter exhaled in relief. He still had his hands pinned to his chest and Chameleon had to pry away the remaining scraps of his shirt off and carelessly discarded them on the floor. This wouldn't be the first time Peter was naked – or half naked – in front of another man, but there was something so belittling and humiliating about it now. Like he was back in gym class, thin and knobby kneed, getting undressed in front of all the other boys who were so much bigger and impressive than him. He felt exposed and like hiding himself behind whatever feeble scrap of clothe he could get his hands on.

If Chameleon noticed, or cared, he didn't comment on it as he tugged Peter up and turned on the shower. As Peter hunched in on himself, leaning so far into the wall he may as well have become part of it, Chameleon finally said, "We can do a bath if you think that will be better."

Peter wanted to snort. As if the shower itself was the problem. As if a bath was what Peter actually wanted. The only thing that would make any of this better would be Chameleon going as far away as humanly possible. Not next to Peter, in a tub full of water, running a rag and soap over his skin, in nothing but a pair of soaked pants. At least standing up he had the option of kicking Chameleon in the groin if he got the chance.

Once the water reached Chameleon's satisfaction, he gestured for Peter to get in. Peter hesitated, wondering how far he could get if he kicked Chameleon into the wall and ran, and whether or not that remote had a long-range distance – if it were designed for prisoners, it probably did. Chameleon gestured again, this time with a stern look, and as if sensing the way Chameleon's fingers lingered over the remote button, his spider-sense prodded at his brain.

Begrudgingly, Peter stepped into the spray.

The water was warm, maybe a little too hot at first, but it was the first shower Peter has had in…well, he wasn't sure how long he's been with Chameleon, but it's been a while. For a precious minute, he can imagine that it's only him enjoying a warm shower, and his fear and anxiety slipped down the drain with the rest of the oatmeal and grim, and he sighed. And then Chameleon was stepping in behind him, closing the shower curtain and reaching for the shampoo bottle, which was directly in front of Peter, and the illusion shattered to pieces at his feet.

He shuddered as Chameleon's chest pressed against his back, the illusion of a cage heightened with the shower curtain acting as a barred door.

"Can we just make this fast?" Peter said, inching away so there was as much distance between their skin as possible.

"Sure," Chameleon said and Peter pretended not to notice the sudden rumble in his voice.

When Peter tried to scrub his own hair, Chameleon swat his hands away and sank his fingers into Peter's water-logged hair, combing through it get all the oatmeal out. Peter squeezed his eyes shut and desperately tried to imagine it was someone else in there with him, someone bigger, with scars, and a mouth that never stopped talking, even as he cleaned up. The illusion was a faint one at best and feeble in its foundations. Chameleon's hands didn't have the same texture as Wade's did, his voice didn't have the same cadence, and it did nothing to soothe Peter's anxiety.

Chameleon squirted shampoo on his hands and massaged it into Peter's scalp.

He wished it hurt. Wish it yanked at his hair, and that the water wasn't so warm, and that he didn't feel the leftover grime rinsing off his body. He hated how great it felt to have fingers in his hair again, gently massaging his scalp. He hated Chameleon for making it feel good because there was nothing about the other man that didn't make Peter want to puke or donkey-kick him into the next room.

As the soap ran down his neck, and over his chest, abdomen, and legs, Chameleon's hands started to wonder. It was small at first. From his scalp to the nape of his neck. Then his clavicle, then over his shoulders as they gently followed the ridges of his spine, before coming up to slide along his ribs. Peter breathe caught in his throat, ensnared like a fishing line around his heart and lungs and kept it trapped there as unwanted fingers explored his body.

There was a beast at his back, dark and looming and so much bigger than him, opening its giant maw, preparing to swallow him whole.

It reminded Peter of another time, long ago. When he'd been smaller, and thinner, and so so lonely, and wanting a friend. A monster had found him then too, disguised in the skin of someone who wanted to be his friend. It hid from him for a while, picking him apart piece by piece, before sinking its fangs into his flesh. And then…

And then the monster devoured him. Like a bleeding treat, mind and body, it ate him up until he was nothing but an empty, crying, confused little boy who didn't understand why.

Those memories came back, stitched into the hands that were now roaming his body, leaving pain and hurt and empty lines all over his skin, marking him once more. He was getting eaten away inch by inch, and he couldn't stop it. He was a 7-year-old boy again, small and little, with nowhere to go.

He was shaking.

"Stop." He meant for it to come out louder, stronger, like a lion's roars, but it was so weak and soft he almost couldn't hear it with his own enhanced ears. Maybe Chameleon mistook it as a sigh, or a small noise, because he pressed closer, fingers dancing along Peter's of ribs before following rivers of water down to his hips.

"Stop."This one was a little louder.

"Sorry," Chameleon whispered breathily near his ear, "I thought I could restrain myself, but you truly are a specimen Peter Parker. So good. So perfect." A hand stroked along the abs on his stomach.

Peter squeezed his eyes shut, wanting to throw up. He was paralyzed. He'd looked the monster in the eye and now he was stone. He couldn't move as much as he couldn't breathe. This room was too stifling, the water suddenly too hot. It ran molten red lines down his skin, searing into him, burning him alive. Was the wetness on his face from the shower, or was he crying?

"Stop it."

Those fingers trailed down his stomach, going down, down, down. "I promise I can make it feel good." They slipped into the waistband of his pants and something deep in Peter snapped, splintering like the abused foundation of a crumbling house. It was innate and burrowed so deeply inside him that touching it erupted like an angry volcano in his core. A torrent of emotions crashed into him. Fear. Anxiety. Pain. Anguish. A cry for help. A whisper in the dark. But most importantly: a scream of rage.

"I said STOP!" he whirled around, swinging out with his arms so hard and fast that Chameleon didn't have the opportunity to raise his hands in self-defense, and was shoved so violently into the wall that something cracked inside his body. Chameleon bent over, an arm wrapped around his middle, and when he looked up at Peter, his teeth were gritted together and fire lit his eyes.

"You little-" he fished for the remote and Peter lunged forward.

The tub was small and could barely fit the two of them comfortable, but that didn't stop them from wrestling like a pair of matadors in a mud pit, scrambling for the little black device. Peter managed to grab the remote first, but Chameleon was hot on his heels, clawing his back to get it back. With the fleeting whispers of a plan in his head, he scrunched his eyes shut and clicked it on.

They both screamed as electricity raced through their bodies, conducting easily through the water to punish them both. The setting was still on high and with the addition of the water, Peter blacked out in seconds.

But he wasn't out for long.

When he woke again, just a few minutes later, the shower was still running, the water was still warm, and he's splayed on top of Chameleon, who is out cold.

A small relief in the otherwise deep-rooted ache planted inside his body.

He felt like a deep-fried chicken and every single one of his joints smarted as he pulled himself to his knees, thankful that his fall was softened by a convenient lump of villain. The remote had fallen at the bottom of the tub, hopefully so water-logged that it's rendered useless. But seeing how this was tech used for the Raft, it was unlikely it could be bested by a bathtub. Still, Peter was grateful he'd seen blueprints for these handcuffs, they had a safety measure in place in case too much electricity was conducted to its charge, as well as precautions against water that automatically shut it off once it surpassed danger levels.

Grunting, Peter pushed himself up and with shaky fingers, searched the rest of Chameleon's pockets.

It was slow, strenuous work with how wet his pants were, and with each jerk he worried that Chameleon would wake up, but it was unlikely. That was pretty big shock for the both of them - puns at a time like this - but what Chameleon overlooked was that Peter has fought Electro so many times and has been zapped so often, from villain or a police taser alike, that it took a lot of voltage to knock him down for the count.

Chameleon, on the other hand, probably didn't have the same endurance.

Peter nearly wept in relief as he pulled the key card from Chameleon's front pocket. Thank goodness he wasn't so paranoid that he kept it in the other room. He unlocked the cuffs on his ankle first by pressing the card on the blank slate on the front, and then set it on the tub so he could press it to his wrists.

The cuffs released with a low hiss and then a click as they fell away, pulled by gravity to the floor. Peter hissed as he was released, revealing red irritated skin that was only a few tugs away from bleeding. Hissing again, he rubbed the tender areas and winced as he stumbled out of the tub. It felt almost surreal to take full strides again, but in his over-eagerness, nearly toppled to the floor and had to catch himself on the doorframe. It didn't help that his body was still recovering from all the electric therapy.

Chameleon wasn't going to stay unconscious forever and Peter was in no condition to fight him right now, nor did he want to. He stumbled into the hall, going straight for the phone on one of the bookshelves. He pressed it to his ear and jabbed at the buttons for a solid 10 seconds before he realized there was nothing on the other end. Either the phone lines were down or Chameleon never installed them in the first place. They were just there as decoration to finish off the look. Peter dropped it, going for the door.

He could get a real phone once he was out, first things first, he needed to get as far away from this damn place as he could. The door was locked, but Peter didn't pause long enough to unlock it. He grunted and shoved the door outward with his shoulder, breaking the lock and tearing it off its hinges.

He didn't know what he expected outside the apartment, or where he might be, but stumbling out into the hallway was like receiving a slap in the face.

Where the apartment behind him was well kept and clean, the hallway outside was down-trodden and dirty, the carpet musty and stained and the walls marked with dried water-stains, mold, and things of discernable design. There were doors on either side of the hall, spaced evenly, and a decent distance from each other. Was he in an apartment complex?

He tucked the thought away for later and hobbled down the hall. He didn't have time to stop and explore the strange building. His ankles were bruised from the cuffs and each step felt seconds from giving out to his weight. The elevator was out of order, as was to be expected in a building this far into decomposition, but the stairs weren't. Peter hurried down them, going two at a time as his desperation for freedom rose.

In his briskness, he tripped over a step and tumbled, rolling down the stairs until he stopped on a landing, foot exploded in pain with a loud POP.

"Fuck," he hissed through his teeth, gripping the throbbing appendage tightly.

He did not need this right now.

Grimacing, he pulled himself into a sitting position and tested his weight on it.

Not broken, he thought. Just sprained. Popped out of place. Nothing he's hasn't handled before. He got back to his feet using the stairs, and leaned on the wall with each step downward.

Far up, he heard a scuff, the sound of feet maybe. His heart quickened, beating at a rhythm suited only for beatboxers and bass-speakers. He needed to get out of there and he needed to now. There was no telling what Chameleon would do to him if he caught up and dragged him back.

He forced the pain to a small corner of his mind where it could sit and wait it's turn to be addressed. He was limping, but clearing the steps fast. He made it to the last floor in record time and with a rush of relief threw himself at the emergency door, shoulder first, knocking it clean off its hinges. He landed in the back of an alleyway, dirtied with torn garbage bags and soggy, discarded newspapers. A gush of bitter cold wind fell on top of him like a heavy frozen blanket and Peter didn't stop to take in the alley, or the grimy make-up of the building he just escaped from. He brushed dirt, muck, and cold water off his hands and limped to the street.

It was getting late, but that might've been an illusion of the clouds piled high above the buildings. Which didn't make much sense because he and Chameleon were just having breakfast, it couldn't have gotten late so quickly. And yet, there was no denying the dark overhang that scraped the top of skyscrapers, sending down thick flurries of snow that swirled and coated the cement in frosty white.

Had Chameleon been trying to screw with his perception of time? Is that why he kept the window covered with a blackout curtain? Because he didn't want Peter to keep track of how long he'd been with him?

Shaking his head hard, Peter wrapped his bare arms over his naked chest. Another thing he could mull about later. There was already a fine layer of snow building around him, only spared on the sides of the sidewalk where traffic was heaviest. Which wasn't much here. All the buildings down this street looked like rundown skeletons, almost all having broken windows or scorch marks that indicated that they've seen their fair share of disaster. People could be seen huddling inside some of these buildings, others out on the street corners, or inside boxes. They looked as well off as Peter did. Some of them eyed his sopping wet pants, as if debating on whether or not it was worth it to brave the storm, mug him, and wait for them to dry out for use.

None of them pursued him.

They wouldn't be much help to him, and he wouldn't be much help to them. He needed a phone, he needed to get away from that damn building, and he needed to put distance between himself and Chameleon. He needed somewhere to go.

The snow was coming down thick and faint memories of an incoming snowstorm rose to the forefront of his mind. Something told him that this storm was only getting started.

Forward was the best direction he could go, but his thighs stung where soaked fabric met frozen air, making it feel as though sharp needles were threading ice into his skin. Clutching his arms now, he shivered violently, ducking his head to stay as protected from the wind as his half-naked body could. When he shook his head, water was already freezing his hair and turning it stiff.

He'd always been perceptive to temperature, particularly cold weather, even more so after he got his powers. Apparently, spiders couldn't thermoregulate, and despite his human biology, some of that spider-ness wove its way into his DNA structure. He could already feel the tips of his fingers and toes going numb.

As Spider-Man, he could take on this weather for a while, as long as he kept moving and didn't let his body temperature drop. But in his current state, he wasn't going to last the night if he didn't do something fast. He could scale a building and get a sense of where he was, but the storm was thick, and it's not like he could webswing home. He'd just as easily slip off the roof and fall to an icy death.

He found his savior in a closed bodega. From outside it looked unkempt and dirty, the windows smattered with papers and fliers, and the sign out-front so faded he couldn't make out the words, but peering through the window the store looked well-kept and wonderfully abandoned for the night.

He looked left and right, making sure no one was watching as he curled his hand around the knob, and like the door of the apartment, he jerked it out and broke the lock. Not enough to break the hinges, just enough to slide it open. It wasn't necessarily warm inside, but it wasn't blasting freezing wind at him anymore, so he considered that a step in the right direction.

He attacked the back of the room first, where the employees clocked in for work. There was a coat left inside a closet and a pair of ruddy sneakers. Peter shed his pants and underwear, skin red and raw from enduring the cold, and shucked on the coat. It was bigger than him, obviously made for someone the size of Wade or Captain America, and went down to his midthigh. He bundled it around him, and blew air into his hands to thaw them out. He had no socks, but he stuffed his feet into the sneakers for extra protection.

They also had a bathroom, which he gratefully used.

Out in the store, he raided the aisles for food; chip bags, candy bars, and a cheap soda from one of the fridges. He downed it all eagerly, guilt picking at him all the while, but he promised to come back and pay for it as soon as this was all over. With his fingers covered in chip dust and the last of the soda guzzled, Peter hunkered into a small corner of the room, pulling his knees inside the coat and pressing them to his chest. He pulled the hoodie over his head and zipped it up completely, hiding as much skin from the elements as possible.

He rubbed his hands together for friction, hoping to spread warmth throughout his body, but with his blasted spider biology, it wasn't going well. Still, he didn't think he was in danger of hypothermia, or you know, death.

His wrists hurt like hell, his ankle was throbbing, his skin tingled raw, and shivers racked up and down his body at such random and violent intervals, someone might've thought he was having a seizure.

Despite all his pain and discomfort, he kept his eyes pinned to the door and windows, waiting for someone to walk in.

It might not be Chameleon, but it might also be. He wouldn't know. Chameleon could wear anyone's face.

He needed to keep his guard up. He needed to stay awake. And he tried, he really did. But he was so exhausted, so drained, so tired.

He was asleep before he even realized his head was on his knees.

Chapter Text

Adrenaline made Wade feel like he was on a high, and what an addicting feeling that was.

Drugs didn't work on him anymore (thanks healing factor) so he had to get his euphoria elsewhere, and that came in the forms of jobs, being elbow-deep in a mission, or coming across a battle that was his particular brand of chaos. He never felt calmer and more in control than when he was pulling the trigger of a gun. It was arguably one of the few times he felt peace at all.

See, there's a lot of messed-up shit crammed inside his body; his head, his thoughts. Stuffed in every nook and cranny until he's pulling at the seams to keep it all in. When his skin wasn't burning him alive like a Salem witch on trial, his head was a never-ending roller coaster of loops, neck-snapping turns, dizzying highs, and stomach-rolling lows on an unfinished track where seat belts didn't exist. Sometimes his thoughts didn't feel like his own. His brain was a congress of monkeys banging gavels and shooting guns, screeching for a new job, for money, for pain, for sex, for someone to please shut the noise up because he can't think and he can't feel and nothing makes sense, and everything is moving too fast, and it hurts.

But when he has his finger on the trigger, or a katana in his hand, all of that screaming, and screeching, and banging, and sobbing, and agony narrow into a laser-focus that clears his head and leaves it to operate like the well-oiled machine it was cultivated to be. He took jobs for silence of mind as much as he took them for money.

So, you can imagine his surprise when he found a similar relief in Peter Parker.

Yeah, Wade always had an obsession with Spider-Man, the hero and mascot of NYC, who stopped buses with his bare hands and swung around buildings like the world's most attractive spider-monkey. But it was with Peter Parker that Wade found stillness of mind. There were mornings when he woke and Peter would be there, sleeping next to him, breathing deeply and expression peaceful, and in the silence, as Wade committed that face to memory because hell and heaven knows that he might not get another chance, his brain settles. A lake of rippling water becoming a sheet of glass, or a tornado of leaves coming apart and drifting softly to the ground. Talking with Peter kept him focused. Playing games and teasing each other distracted him from the pressure building in his head. Peter even helped his scars by rubbing baby lotion over the dry areas when it got bad and Wade couldn't reach.

Spider-Man was his hero, but Peter Parker was his anchor. Tying him down in one position so he wasn't in danger of floating into a million other directions. The eye of his storm, you could say. The stitch to his wound. A warm blanket on a cold day.

Now that he was gone - no, taken. Now that he'd been taken, Wade could feel those stitches starting to unravel, seeping, bleeding. Pieces of him crumbling, like a worn statue wearing down from weather and abuse.

He tapped his finger on the picture laying over the counter, tracing the lines of Peter's face with his eyes and searing every detail into his brain. One leg bounced with pent-up energy, but otherwise, he was frozen. His laptop was perched on the table with multiple tabs open, but his gaze kept snapping between it and the photo, trying to draw lines from Peter's face to the map of New York like he was weaving a homing beacon between his Spidey and his location.

His phone dinged, pulling him out of his mental threading, and he swiped open a message from Aunt May detailing the break-in to her house. He shot a quick thank-you and a kissy-face and read it through, several times, while matching it to his memories of the Parker household.

The chances of this stalker also watching MJ and Aunt May was high, considering Peter's use of Code Blue, and for mentioning that he thought his cover was blown in one of his voicemails. It was likely that the person who took Peter also robbed their apartment and Aunt May's house – the fact that the perp only stole Peter's belongings and his pictures added to that theory. So, Wade wasn't just looking for a creepy stalker, but a creepy, obsessed stalker. One of the fun ones.

"Sooo, whatcha thinking big guy?" Weasel asked from behind the bar as he rearranged alcohol bottles and brushed broken glass off the counter.

"That I'm going to kill a bitch and fasten their skin into a mating drum," Wade deadpanned, tapping the corners of the picture in rapid succession, his agitation building until he finally sat up and pulled the laptop closer.

"Kinky," Weasel commented, wrinkling his nose, "Gross, but kinky."

Wade snorted, unamused, and squinted at the screen. Local listings and cheap apartment buildings were pulled up on the first tab. He was cross-referencing them by condition, how easy it would be to move things in and out, and how much they cost, with how close they were to his and Petey's apartment. Given that this person stole so much of Peter's stuff, Wade didn't think they could've gone far. They had to be in the city at least, the 5 boroughs at most. He scribbled down a few names to check out and clicked on another tab.

A man's face stared back. Narrow chin, black hair, goatee, brown eyes. His name was George Thatcher, the man who had been supposedly renting the room down the hall. This was their guy, and Wade knew that because he's been dead for 8 years.

Died of an overdose in Chicago. Little to no family. Wasn't very loved by that little family due to his drug addiction and the fact that he couldn't hold a job for more than a few weeks. So why was this Mr. Thatcher coming back from the dead to kidnap Peter Parker?

Elementary, my dear Watson. Their stalker wasn't this deceased druggie, just the face and name someone was using to cover their tracks. Which meant' whoever this bastard was, was good at keeping their head down. This couldn't be the first time they've done something like this.

"So, what are you going to do?" Weasel asked, feigning indifference as he grabbed a bottle of tequila.

Wade picked up the notepad he'd been scribbling on and checked off names of villains, anti-heroes, and anyone suspicious that he and Peter got involved with within the last year. "I'm going to hunt down the son of the bitch who took my boo, is what."

Weasel sighed, "Okay man, I'm going to level with you," he leaned onto the counter, "Can you do that anywhere but here? I know you're going into scary merc mode, and I'll admit, it's kind of badass, but your brooding is scaring off my customers."

Wade snorted, "You say that as if they're a bunch of thumb-twiddling, wide-eyed civvy's coming in for a cup of coffee."

"Yeah, well, you're probably one of the few people outside a superhero or life counselor that can scare them away. Criminals or not, they're my income. So find somewhere else to do your Brian Mills roleplay before I'm run out of business."

Wade ignored him by turning around and purposefully putting his feet up on the table, getting comfortable.

"You bitch," Weasel grouched under his breath.

Wade grinned, but that dropped quickly enough when he turned back to his list. He crossed off names that didn't have an association with assuming identities or going deep undercover. He crossed off Kraven the Hunter, but underlined Doctor Octopus with a question mark scribbled at the end.

"Weas, have there been any image inducers sold on the black market recently?"

Weasel stopped cleaning the counter, "How am I supposed to know that?"

"Can't you look it up?"

"I can't just tap into my phone and see every dealing that's happened in the black market for the past 12 months, Wade. This isn't Costco."

"Can Costco even do that?" Wade shook his head, "Doesn't matter. Can't you figure out who the big sellers are? There aren't a whole lot of them, so it should be an easy list to narrow down. And where are you at with that footage?"

Weasel threw his hands up in the air, "Wade, you do realize I can't just hack into the city's traffic cameras whenever the fuck want. Do you know how much coding and smarts go into hacking? I'm a weapons dealer who dabbles in information broking, I'm not your handyman of crime."

"That's probably the most humble thing I've ever heard you say about yourself," Wade hummed, "But I am going to be needing that footage. Soooo..."

Weasel took a deep controlled breath through the nose and looked up to the ceiling as if mumbling a prayer, which was ridiculous because Wade knew for a fact, he wasn't religious. He clapped his hands excitedly when Weasel trudged into the backroom and returned with a flashdrive.

"I had a buddy of mine do it, she wasn't able to download more than a few days without getting caught, so this is all she could get, don't ask me to get more."

Wade grabbed the flashdrive with eager fingers and slid it into his laptop. Weasel didn't return to his counter and continued staring down at him, casting judgment until his hands came up to exasperatedly pinch the bridge of his nose, "Seriously, can you do that anywhere else but here? Take my backroom for all I care, just please hide yourself from members of society."

"You're so sweet," Wade blew him a kiss, but scooped up his laptop and notes. Not because it would be sparing Weasel and his customers, but because that seat was uncomfortable and his butt was going numb anyway.

He parked himself in the backroom, sitting on the edge of the ratty old couch with his laptop on the table. He pulled up the video footage and got comfortable. It wasn't of the apartment building he and Peter lived in, that building had no security systems set up, and only a handful of the small stores and rentable spaces nearby did. But there were traffic cameras, and Wade cased the perimeter enough to know the streets around it like the back of his hand.

Most of the footage was useless. None of the people met the descriptions of the stalker or Peter. But Wade sat diligently, combing through every second and analyzing every face that came on screen, slowing it down when he needed to.

He was two hours in when he saw it, and sat up so quickly to pause the feed that his notepad went flying. It was a moving van. The image was fuzzy, but he could make out details on the side. EZ-Move Co. was inked in bold letters, and sitting in the passenger seat was good ol' Casper himself, George Thatcher. Wade fast-forwarded the rest of the video, checking different areas for the same van, but Dead-Man must've taken a side street, or one of the back alleys, because he didn't show up on any of the main roads.

Still, he had a name now. EZ Move Co. It wasn't much, but it was a lead and Wade was grasping for straws. Looking up the name, he found several listings throughout the city, but the nearest one was downtown, in what some might consider a shadier part of the city. Wade wasn't intimidated by a few could-be gangs and druggies, and it checked all the boxes for the perfect location to stash a person you didn't want to be found.

He wrote down every address anyway, just to be careful, and stuffed the paper in one of his pouches. He closed the laptop, bundled his things, blew Weasel a kiss on his way out, and reciprocated the birdie he received in response as he left. Stepping outside, his breaths came out in puffs as soft whiteness flitted from the dark sky, illuminated by the scarce light of the streets. Wade craned his neck. The snow, from below, looked like thousands of tiny bugs descending from the heavens, covering the earth in scourge. At least that's what snot-nosed 8-year-old Wade Wilson used to think when he watched snowfall. Adult Wade still agreed.

He inhaled, letting the chill fill his lungs and sharpen his mind to a razor point. It was a cold night tonight. The kind of weather people hid from in their homes and warded off through large coats and space heaters. Not the kind of weather that spider's thrived in.

Wherever that bastard took Peter, it better be warm.

Chapter Text

Peter is cold.

Getting rid of his sopping clothes helped, the jacket was leagues better than the alternative (pure nudity), but the night became long hours of compulsive shivering, numb fingers, frozen toes, and fitful sleeping. When he wasn't huddled in a corner of the store, wedged between a glass-refrigerator and a shelf of assorted candy, trying to sleep, he had his hands stuffed between his thighs and groin (the warmest area of the body - thank you 10th-grade biology) and tucked his head in the pocket between his chest and knees, with the coat zipped over his head.

Despite his best efforts, the night was brutal and bitter.

Even if he were in his bed, wrapped in a blanket, toasty and just out of the dryer, he didn't think he'd be able to sleep. There were too many thoughts clogging his mind like a backed-up toilet. Too much paranoia scratching his skin like a nervous cat, kneading deep into his flesh. The hoodie was thrown over his head, casting the lower half of his face in shadows, and through it he watched the window and door, waiting for the moment a silhouette appeared in the glass. His eyes drooped and he had to blink rapidly to keep the lids open. His head aches like someone had his brain clamped between their hands and were trying to meet in the middle.

But no matter how much his body begged him to sleep, his heart kicked up too much of a panicked fuss.

Chameleon was lurking somewhere outside. Peter knew this. Why wouldn't he be? More than enough time passed for him to wake up in that bathtub, and Peter was positive he heard someone chasing him out of the building when he escaped. If all his swaggering were true, Chameleon made it obvious that he wasn't going to allow Peter to walk out of this. Storm or not, he had to be out there, stalking the streets looking for him. Every shadow became hostile and every sound had the potential to be aggressive.

But like all living things, he could only tell his body "No" for so long. It was somewhere around early morning when he finally dozed off.

It felt like he only closed his eyes for a few seconds, and a minute later he was lurching awake when the door rattled, creaked, and someone screamed. Peter was on his feet before the sound left her mouth and pinned himself against the wall as fight-or-flight adrenaline rushed through his body.

A woman was standing in the door, staring at him with wide saucer-like eyes and a hand splayed over her mouth. Peter's brain chug-chug-chugged going through the mental process of thinking. She was standing in the door, blocking the only exit, aside from maybe a back door that he didn't see when he first broke in. She was big and stocky, enough so that running past her would end with them both hitting the floor.

Grogginess clung to Peter like long strips of party streamers, and his head pounded with abandon. A deepening pressure behind his eyes made him squint, and when he held his hands up, they shook.

Chameleon? She could be. But maybe she wasn't? She looked genuinely shocked and didn't try to charge him. Then again, Chameleon was crafty and has fooled him with that same trick before.

He dipped into his spider-sense, hoping it would point out any clues, but his brain felt stuffed to the brim with cotton. Cotton made out of razor wire, crawling with ants. It was still snowing like crazy outside. His spider-sense always acted funky around it, like the old TV Uncle Ben used to have, with its clunky box frame and antenna; you had to bang on it three times to get it to work, and even then, when the picture showed up it was scrambled with static and TV noise. His spider-sense could be telling him that this was Chameleon, but it might just be the snow.

He wasn't sure and the uncertainty shook in his chest like a loose screw.

"Don't scream," he said, and his voice is scratchy and hoarse. Swallowing feels like drinking cactus needles. He sniffed, wiped his running nose on the sleeve, cleared his throat, and tried again, "Please, don't scream. I - I'm leaving. Right now." It wasn't better, he sounded like an old, unfiltered air conditioner.

The woman was frozen in shock, mouth agape like she wasn't sure what she was seeing, and Peter wrapped the coat tighter around himself, suddenly aware of his nakedness. No wonder she looked so stunned. It was bad enough opening her shop and finding a half-frozen man sitting in the corner; a half-frozen, naked man wrapped in nothing, but what was probably her coat, was the unwanted cherry on top.

Slowly, as to not startle her (Chameleon?) Peter inched towards the back room. His body shook like he was a cat someone dipped in a pool, and any spider grace and agility he had was gone. He almost stumbled over his feet, catching himself on the frame of the refrigerator. The front door was still wide open and blowing wind and snow inside, making his body all the less willing to cooperate.

She had her phone poised near her face like it was a weapon, Peter wasn't sure when she even grabbed it, but to his relief, it dropped a little as her shock began to thaw and incredulity took its place. Her finger still hovered over the button, prepared to call in a moment's notice, but the fact that she hadn't pressed it yet was relieving.

She looked him over again, slower this time, and her lips came together in a tight, borderline concerned, line.

"Who are you?"

"No one," Peter whispered, voice unable to rise to a normal tone, with his hands still up to keep her at arm's length, "I'm leaving, I promise. Please don't call the police."

Or maybe she should. Maybe he'd be safer in a room full of police officers.

Or maybe Chameleon would infiltrate their ranks too. Only one of the officers at Aunt May's house knew about the significance of the picture with May and Ben, and that night the same picture showed up outside his building. Chameleon was definitely one of them, and he was probably already checking precincts, looking for reports of a half-frozen man in pajama bottoms.

So, no, the police weren't an option. Besides, he couldn't tell them he was captured by a villain known as Chameleon and expect them not to look into it. Chameleon still had those incriminating pictures of him.

Another wave of anguish threatened to topple Peter. Fuck, he still has the pictures. What's going to stop him from outing me this minute?

Is that why she looked so shocked? Because she recognized his face? Does she know he's Spider-Man?

Peter shook his head once to get rid of those thoughts. He needed to focus. He needed to stay calm. He needed to be smart about this. And he couldn't do any of those things if he was having a meltdown.

His head aches.

The woman followed him step-by-step to the back room. Peter slipped on his underwear and pants underneath the coat - the frigid night air had frozen them a little - but it was significantly better than how drenched they were before. He shrugged off the coat next, bare chest exposed, and tossed it at her feet. She bent down and picked it up, still prepared to sock him in the jaw if it called for it, and never once took her eyes off him.

He didn't like it. What was she thinking? Was she going to hurt him? Was her face about to change? Was she not who her appearance claimed she was? He wanted to rap his knuckles against his head, demanding his spider-sense tell him, but it crackled and popped with TV noise.

His fingers twitched. His hands needed to do something. Peter scrubbed them up and down his arms to warm himself up. "I'm sorry again," he whispered because what if she was an innocent civilian? Aunt May didn't raise an impolite bitch. "For breaking into your store and eating your food. I'll pay you back, I promise. I just ...I need...I'm sorry," he tried to scoot past her, and her incredulous eyes followed him to the main room of the store.

Peter's breath left his lungs when a hand fell on his shoulder and he reacted before he realized his body was moving. If he were more coordinated and his limbs didn't feel like frozen bags of rice, he would've jumped straight on the ceiling. Instead, he tripped over his feet, tried to catch himself on the register counter, and hit the floor. She gasped.

"Whoa, hey, are you okay?" She surged forward to help, but Peter scrambled back, his hands coming up reflexively to shoot webs at her, only to be slapped with the reality that he didn't have his webshooters.

She paused, stepped back, and eyed his hands. Her eyebrows nearly shot off her face, and she quickly backed up. Peter registered that he was doing the exact same thing Spider-Man did when he webbed up bad guys and dropped his hands, scuttling away until his back was pressed against the wall.

Skepticism. She was skeptical of him. Her eyebrows knit together, a perfect mixture of wonderment and disbelief.

"Are..." she stopped, "Are you..." Whatever she wanted to say seemed ludicrous, even to her, and she shook her head, "Okay, I know you broke into my store and all, but are you...okay?"

Peter had his legs pulled up to his chest with his arms wrapped around his knees. His heart was racing, his mind a flailing, screaming, scrambling mess as he took mental stock of his options. Door was near him, he could bolt. If she was Chameleon, a confrontation was inevitable. There was a back door in the other room, he could make it there in seconds.

He didn't want to go back outside, it was freezing. He didn't want to stay inside, it wasn't safe.

Or was it? He didn't know. He didn't know.

"M'fine," he murmured, eyes wide.

As off the fritz as his spider-sense was, she wasn't pinging it more than usual. But Chameleon was crafty, he could be posing. But she seemed nice and sincerely concerned for him.

This could be a trap.

But she could be trying to help.

This could be fake.

But this could be real.

Her face softened, "You look cold."

Peter thought about it, and nodded once, "I am."

As if that was all the confirmation she needed, her jaw set, mind made up, and handed the coat she was cradling in her arms back to him, as well as her own gloves. Peter stared at them incredulously; stunned. For once in his life, he was speechless, up until the microfibers of the gloves registered on his skin and he slowly shook his head.

"No," he rasped, and sniffed again, because his nose was so backed up, "No, it's okay," he tried handing them back, "These are yours. I'm fine. I - I should go."

The woman didn't take them, she leaned against the counter, not exactly looming despite how tall she was, and Peter doesn't feel intimidated. Her body language is open and friendly. This is good. His spider-sense likes that, and the static tuned down a notch.

"Look, normally I wouldn't trust a guy I found broken into my store, but you look like hypothermia waiting to happen. It doesn't feel right sending you back out there. Besides," she looked around the room and then checked the register, "Doesn't look like you stole anything."

"I ate some chips and soda," Peter confessed.

She thought about that, and conceded with a nod, "Not cool, but I understand why. Just stay and warm up for a second, okay. I won't call the cops if you don't give me reason to."

Was this a trick? This felt like a trick. What was Chameleon playing at? Was he trying to get Peter's guard down? Peter glanced outside the door, which was STILL open a few inches; snow was coming down like it was the end of the world. It hadn't lightened up at all since last night and the idea of heading out into it made him shudder. Keeping his eyes on her, he pulled the coat back on, and then slid the gloves over his hands with a sigh. The woman didn't smile, still somewhat cautious, but left the room and came back a little while later with a steaming cup of coffee. Peter thought he might cry as his hands closed around it, and he huddled over the steam to warm his face.

"Thank you," he whispered.

"Sure," she said, but there's a kind of uncertainty in her words, like she wasn't sure she was taking the right course of action. Peter couldn't blame her. For all she knew, he was a serial killer, or someone on the run from the police – any sane person would be nervous. "So, uh...what are you doing here? I mean, I know it's snowing outside, but," she gestured off-handedly to her store. "Why here? Why are you-" she gestured to his pants this time, but couldn't seem to find the words to ask about his partial nudity.

Peter ducked his head, wishing he could hide behind the mug. Or better yet, disappear. He wanted to be gone by the time anyone showed up, but he miscalculated how much time he had. He was stupid and fell asleep. He let his guard down.

"Sorry again," he said, and despite the coffee wetting his throat, it still felt parched and dry, "I meant what I said about paying for the food I ate. I will. I just...need to get home." He didn't answer about his clothes. It led to thoughts of Chameleon, then to thoughts of the shower, to thoughts of those wandering hands, and he didn't need to have a panic attack on top of all things.

"And where's home exactly?" she asked when it was apparent he wasn't going to elaborate on his own.

"It's...not here," he said, squinting. That was a lot of questions.

Of course, it's a lot of questions. She has a right to ask questions.

But what does she want out of it? What was she planning?

To figure out why there's a man hiding in her store, stupid!

His mental back-and-forth wasn't helping and she was still staring at him. "I'm not supposed to talk to strangers," he finally said.

"Neither am I," she retorted, "but here we are."

Peter smiled, but it was brief, "Yeah, I guess so." His head throbbed again and he frowned, pinching the bridge of his nose and sniffing to clear up his sinuses. It didn't work. "I'm sorry to ask this, but...can I use your phone? Please?"

She looked skeptical again, and rightly so. If this was a real lady, and not Chameleon, then just allowing him to stay in her store made her the greatest person of all time in the entire world, in Peter's books. Uncle Ben used to say that just as there are bad people in this world, there will always be good people too. She seemed like good people, and that only cemented in Peter's brain when she sighed and dug her phone out of her pocket.

Definitely good people. One of the best people. Possibly one of Peter's favorite people in the world at that very moment.

"It's almost dead, so you'll have to make it quick."

"Thank you," Peter breathed, cradling it in his hands. She may as well have given him gold, "Seriously, you have no idea how much I appreciate this."

Yep, Peter was convinced superheroes existed. Sure, he was Spider-Man, and he's rubbed elbows with Avengers, X-Men, and the Fantastic Four, but this woman was the true epitome of "Not all heroes wear capes." He slipped the gloves off to dial a number and pressed it to his ear, nibbling nervously on one of his fingernails.

He's done this exact process dozens of times over the last few months, and each one ended with a beep and a message telling him to leave a voicemail. Peter didn't know if he had it in him to leave another damn voicemail. He didn't know what to do if this didn't work.

Please pick up, please pick up, please pick up, he chanted as the ringing droned on. Please pick up. PLEASE pick up.

The line clicked. "Yeah, who the fuck is this? I happen to be a very, very, very busy kill-people-cenery, so if this a prank call, or you want to talk to me about your stupid 'get rich quick' schemes, shove it up your ass, I already get rich quick, and imma add your punk-ass to the list if you don't-"

"Wade," Peter interrupted, and his throat went tight, the desire to sob in relief hitting him with the force of a speeding Rhino-mech suit. "Wade. It's me, Peter."

The line on the other end went dead silent. Then Peter hears a thud and Wade's voice comes back, eager and breathy, like he just ran a marathon in the 10 seconds he wasn't talking, "Peter? Oh my go - is this really you? The realzies one? Not a clone or really good impersonator? 100% organic Petey Pie? "

"Yeah, it's me," Peter said, wanting to laugh as he leaned against the wall. Hearing Wade, after months of silence, was like balm to a festering wound. The pain eased, applied with ointment and cooling cream, and every painkiller in existence. He does laugh breathily, sniffing again, feeling like a flower blossoming in spring with the warmth in his chest, "I'm glad you picked up."

"Baby, where are you?" Peter can hear him moving around over the phone, "Gimme an address. I'm on my way right now. Don't you move an inch, I'll be there before you can say 'Ralph Bohner'."

Peter laughed, but this one's humorless. Where was there to go? In his haste to get away, he hadn't bothered looking for landmarks of where he was. He didn't know where he was or where to go. If he scaled a high enough building he could figure it out, the city was so much easier to maneuver from above, but call him crazy, because he was paranoid a certain someone might see him.

Peter turned to the woman, trying not to flush red as he asked. "Do you know where I am?" He sounded like such a child, asking if she knew where his mommy and daddy were. It was embarrassing.

She did in fact know where he was, it would be weird if she didn't. Peter's surprised to learn that he's somewhere in lower Manhattan, definitely in a sketchy neighborhood, but he wasn't out of the city and that was a relief. Peter rattled the address back to Wade, and over the server, Wade clambered around and a few minutes later was hailing a cab.

"I'm on my way," he repeated, "Do. Not. Move. Okay? I'm coming to pick you up right now. I want you to stay on the phone with me. Can you do that?"

Any other day, Peter might've rolled his eyes at Wade's over-the-top protectiveness, but today it's a crutch he can lean on. He held the phone closer to his ear, but as the woman mentioned, it was nearly dead. He was grateful she was allowing him to use it at all.

"I can try," he said, "But the batteries almost dead."

"I don't care," Wade growled stubbornly, and Peter nearly laughed, unbridled amounts of affection attacking him from all sides. Can't hold down the fort, captain, the enemy is too strong. Gosh, he missed him so much. "Keep talking, Petey. Do you know how worried I was? I was coming home, ready to bathe you in love and affection and all the knick-knacks I bought for you, but imagine my surprise when my baby-boo is gone, and it's radio silence from everyone. What the mcfuck happened?"

Peter hesitated. This lady may be willing to help a stranger in her store, but Peter couldn't toss around words like Chameleon, villain, kidnapped, and Spider-Man willy-nilly. Besides, because of how much dirt Chameleon had on him, Peter was sure he'd slip the police a hint the moment they showed up, because there's no way she wouldn't call the police after hearing all that. Peter wouldn't blame her if she did.

"Uh, you remember the thing we were talking about? It was true," Peter said, picking his words carefully, "Tried to handle it, but" a brittle laugh as he rubbed his forehead, "apparently, I couldn't. Managed to...distance myself from the thing but that can only go on for so long. It's really, really cold here, Wade. So cold." He sniffed at the reminder, pinching the bridge of his nose again, and chuckled weakly, "Any chances I can exchange my weighted blanket for a heated one?"

Not a very good joke, and frankly, the timing was terrible, but timing was never his thing and he didn't know what else to say. His brain was too overstuffed, too frayed, and he was grasping at was falling back into his default setting of wise-cracks and sarcasm. His voice shook with the barest of tremors, but if Wade picked up on it (and he probably did) he didn't say anything.

"I'll buy you the warmest, most expensive electric blanket money can buy," he promised, terrifyingly serious, "It's gonna be so warm, your ancestors are going to be toasty in their graves. So warm, you'll never know what it's like to be cold."

The idea put a pit of yearning in Peter's stomach and he sighed, leaning back and closing his eyes. Normally, the thought of Wade indulging so much money on him would've made him queasy, but any financial break-down he wanted to have would have to wait. "That sounds nice, but I'll settle with a warm bath."

Wade chuckled, and his tone softened, "Then I'll make it the best bath you ever done experienced, cross my heart and pinkie-promise, blood oath and everything. It's gonna be so good, there will be bath salts, and bubbles, and rubber duckies, and I'll set up some candles, and put on your favorite music and -"

"I have one request," Peter interrupted.

"What's that?"

"You have to join me." The woman quirked an eyebrow and Peter blinked, realizing she was still there. With the current pandemonium in his body, he didn't need blood flowing so quickly to his face, and his cheeks ignited in a blush, making his frozen face feel hot and stifling. He cleared his throat and looked away.

Wade's smile was felt over the receiver, "Thanos's scrotum chin couldn't keep me away,"

"I don't know what that means, but okay."

"When I pick you up, I want you to tell me everything, okay? I -" Wade never finished. He was cut off so abruptly that Peter blinked in surprise and pulled the phone away, staring at its blank screen.

"Dead," the woman answered his thoughts, picking it out of his hands.

"Thanks for letting me borrow it," Peter murmured, distractedly looking out the window, hoping to see Wade running across the street despite the impossibility of it. The yearning was so strong it made his fingertips tingle with feeling and he rubbed his hands together.

He hated this. Feeling so...weak. So dependent. So vulnerable. Afraid to walk outside without Wade there to hold his hand.

He should just get off his ass and go out there. Not to quote Flash from the 8th grade, but he needed to stop being a wuss. Chameleon was one guy and he didn't even have powers. After all the people Peter's fought, and the countless times he's almost died far more gruesome deaths, this can't be the thing that breaks him. He shouldn't be able to make Peter feel like this.

But just staring at the streets made him feel small. It was too open out there. Anyone could be watching him, and the prospect of Chameleon wearing someone's face, following him without his knowledge, his ability to do anything to Peter and then blend seamlessly into a crowd. It rattled him down to the bone and his heart picked up as scenario's popped in his head, each one more tormenting than the last.

This only happened to him once before, and Peter should've seen the signs to stop it from happening again. The first time Chameleon did this, Peter was in costume. He'd pretend to be a civilian that needed saving, only to thrust a knife into Peter's gut the moment he got close. Posing as a hapless pregnant woman who then whispered threats in his ear, making him lash out. Keeping Peter in his suit, making him too afraid to go home and change in fear of his identity being blown. Too paranoid to risk falling asleep, because whenever he dared to close his eyes, Chameleon was there again, pretending to be a hotel maintenance man, or a teenager with a skateboard, or an old man who needed directions.

Wade saved him back then too. He found Peter passed out on a rooftop, too exhausted to keep his eyes open any longer. Their interaction hadn't gone well. Peter flipped him through the air, grabbed his ankle, and slammed him into the rooftop, screaming at him to "LEAVE HIM THE HELL ALONE!" He didn't know if it was another trick and Chameleon was posing as people in the superhero community now to take his paranoia to the next level.

But Wade proved himself to be the real deal with a bullet in the chest that didn't kill him. Peter hadn't been exactly...fond of Wade then. He tolerated him at best. He didn't want Wade's help, but looking back on it now, he was so grateful Wade showed up when he did. Peter didn't even make it out of the building before he found Chameleon and watched him change disguises with his own two eyes. But Wade doubted, and then Peter doubted, and then Peter got a syringe in the neck that knocked him out cold.

He didn't know what happened after that, but according to Wade, he kept people from trying to sneak a peek under his mask and switched their costumes so he could get the upper hand on Chameleon. Wade played Spider-Man for the day while Peter took a power nap in a closet, wearing the Deadpool suit. When he woke up, he found Wade and Chameleon on a rooftop. The suit was torn and whatever drug he stuck Peter with, he'd attempted the same with Wade. It didn't knock Wade out, but it did make him act rather loopy.

In the end, they beat Chameleon and sent his ass packing to the raft. Wade filled Peter in on what happened over hotdogs, including the very disturbing information that Chameleon planned on wearing Peter as a skinsuit (major shudders).

If Peter were being honest, it was this interaction that got him seeing Wade in a new light.

Wade dropped everything he was doing to help him, switched their costumes without even thinking about sneaking a glance at Peter's face, and pretended to be Spider-Man for a day (although Peter suspected he enjoyed that part) to catch a bad guy he had no business getting involved with. He didn't have to. There was no obligation to help out, but he had, and he'd done it for Peter.

Out of anyone who could be helping him with Chameleon again, Peter was glad it was Wade. He knew he could trust him.

Peter turned back to the woman, feeling better than he had all morning, "Thank you so much for your help. It means a lot."

She studied him closely, "Sure thing. You just...looked like you went through something rough."

His smile was weak, but he didn't elaborate. She deserved the truth, but the truth was something he couldn't dish out right now, if ever. "My boyfriend is coming to pick me up. I promise I'll pay for the food I ate. Would you be okay if I waited for him outside?"

She nodded, and when he held out her coat to her, she asked him if he wanted to keep using it but he shook his head. From the bottom of his cold, shivering heart, he wanted to keep it and the gloves forever, but he already hindered her enough this morning. He could last a little longer in the cold.

He bid his goodbye and wrapped his arms around himself as he stepped outside, wanting to be there so Wade saw him immediately. The sooner they were back at the apartment, or a safe house, the better. The apartment would need another sweep for remaining cameras and bugs, but that was a risk Peter was willing to take. He settled against the building, using the small awning near the door as shelter from the snow and wind.

24 minutes came and went, dragged along by the flimsy crowds, when Peter heard his name and his head snapped up like someone fastened a string to his chin.

There.

Across the street.

Like an angel sent to guide him home. The thought makes Peter want to snicker, because Wade would only ever refer to himself as an angel in the context of a joke. On second thought, that's kind of sad, but Wade is staring at him, and Peter can't bring himself to care about his Angel-Wade juxtaposition because the happiness that swells in his chest has the inundation of a tsunami. Wade is smiling back at him, and in the moment that their eyes meet, his shoulders drop as if something stopped pressing weight into his chest and he could breathe again.

The snow was evil, and the crowds made him nauseated, but they became back-burner problems and Peter abandoned the protective awning to meet him halfway.

"Peter!" Wade bounded across the street as well, completely ignoring the car that knocked into him (just a little, not enough to seriously hurt him), and he limps a little after it, but in his true fashion, kept going.

Peter's arms and legs are like cheese sticks that have been put in the freezer, pale and frozen, so he only made it to the curb by the time Wade reached him, but he engulfs Peter in a hug, almost lifting him clean off his feet. Peter allows this. It's been too long. Months since he's seen Wade in the flesh, could hold him in his arms like this, and that fact that Wade was here now right in front of him, coupled with the stress of the past week, makes emotion well in Peter's throat. He sank into that warmth he's been so desperately craving.

They spend a long minute like that, soaking up each other's presence, until Peter finally releases him to lean up, wrap his arms around Wade's neck and crashes their lips together. He knew Wade wouldn't mind that he was burning up and getting his pesky germs everywhere (thank you healing factor). The scars feel strange to Peter's numb lips, but it's a texture he's missed since the day Wade stepped out the door.

"You did get here fast," Peter rasped when they broke apart and Wade fit him into his side, like they were two lost puzzle pieces clicking together. Peter greedily sapped up his warmth.

Wade grinned, that cocky, shit-eating grin that used to drive Peter nuts. "Nothing was getting in my way, Petey. Come on, let's get you out of this weather." He wasn't wearing his Deadpool suit, but he shucked off his thick winter coat and wrapped it around Peter's shoulders. Like a cat, Peter melted into it, and mindlessly let Wade pull him along a few steps before digging his heels into the pavement.

"Wait, I need to pay the lady in there for-"

"We will," Wade interrupted, he's looking over his shoulder and harboring Peter close as if worried someone might swoop in and take him. "I'll come back, okay. I promise. But we need to get you outta here first."

Peter hesitated. He didn't want to leave her hanging like that, not after he promised she'd get her money. She was probably watching them right now through the window, and the thought of just leaving her without a word. Wade was tugging on him again, entering what was commonly referred to as his "merc mode," by anyone that knew him well. Not much could stop him once he entered this mindset.

Peter did want to leave with him as soon as possible. His guilt, and anxiety, and fever ate him up from the inside out, and he felt like he might throw up again – but that might've been from moving too quickly.

We can come back, his internal voice urged, she'll still get paid. Chameleon could be out here right now. We need to be careful. For once, just let yourself get to safety first.

Peter chewed on his bottom lip, and Wade was getting more anxious. Peter couldn't imagine what he was thinking, coming home to Peter gone without a trace. He was probably freaked out of his crazy in his true Wade fashion and pulling all stops to find him.

Mind made up, Peter memorized the store and any distinguishing features, promising to either come back himself, or send Wade, before allowing himself to be pulled away.

He'd be back. He promised.

They cut into an alley, shielded from prying eyes, and Peter took a deep, grateful breath as they left the crowds behind. His anxiety was settling with each step they took, and something comparable to peace unfurled in his chest. It was like going home after a long, terrifying fight. Or being taco'ed in his favorite blanket, curled on the couch, where he could pretend the rest of the world didn't exist. It was a safe feeling. He felt safe for the first time in days.

For a moment, he forgot about the stress, and that he was probably going to be sick after spending a night in the cold, and his impending fever, and that Chameleon was still out there; he was just eager to get home.

They turned down a street and then cut through another alley, and then another, and Peter's peaceful smile slowly turned into a confused frown. "Wade, where are we going?"

"Somewhere safe," Wade promised, observing their surroundings with hawk-like rapture. He's walking stiffly, shoulders tensed, eyes snapping all over the place like they were being yanked to-and-fro by invisible tethers. His body was leaning a little more into Peter's with each step and that's when Peter realized he was still limping.

His thoughts feel too slow.

There's something wrong about it…

"Why are you-" his question is cut off viciously when he's suddenly thrown into the wall and a pair of hands closed around his throat, squeezing like Peter was in debt and he came to collect.

His head slammed into the bricks and his vision swam, broken up and buzzing. His eyes were looking into TV static until he realized it was snowfall against the wall backdrop over Wade's shoulder. He was an idiot. A stupid, fucking idiot. Wade had a healing factor, it wasn't possible for him to limp for more than 5 minutes – especially if it was from a measly car.

"Chameleon," he growled, but it came out as a wheeze.

Not-Wade didn't reply. His face twisted into a sneer, the scars and pocketed skin crinkling around his narrowed eyes; his grip tightened. Peter kicked out, hitting his hurt leg, and Not-Wade stumbled with a shout. His grip loosened a fraction, and Peter shoved Not-Wade off. If he were at his normal strength, it would've sent him through the opposite wall, but Not-Wade only stumbled back, holding his ribs.

That didn't stop him from tackling Peter when he made a break down the alley, and Peter hit the ground hard, slamming his head for a second time. That couldn't be good for his health. His hands were pinned beneath Not-Wade's thighs, and a weight settled over his middle as he was straddled. Not-Wade's hands were back on his throat and squeezing like his life was the one that depended on it.

Peter's face was going tight, straining like his skeleton was going to pop right out of his skin, and purple crept across his cheeks and throat.

MOVE, he screamed at himself, MOVE YOU USELESS SACK OF IDIOT. But snow was invading his senses, a chill was creeping into his body. His head hurt so damn bad. He was so weak and tired. He tried to buck Not-Wade off, but it only made him lean into him harder. Wet snow was seeping into Peter's clothes.

His vision blurred. Not-Wade's face flickered and spasmed, giving Peter snippets of the man underneath. That horribly animated mask, snarling down at him. He hung on for as long as he could, gasping for breath, fighting the pain in his head, begging his body to do something. To forget about the sickness, and the weakness, and do something.

The last thing Peter saw before going unconscious was Wade's face twisted into a snarl as he strangled him. The last thing he heard was his name being called, far out in the distance.

Chapter Text

"Wade? It's me, Peter." 

Wade can't believe his ears.

No, you don't get it, he literally can't believe his ears. The moment he hears those words uttered over the phone, he has to fit his pinkie into his ear and clean it out, and then he has to lift up his mask and clean it for real because what? What? This better not be a hallucination on his part, or a cruel joke, because his sense of humor was wry, could border on inappropriate, but it did not extend to prank calls from the boyfriend he was tirelessly working to save.

Then the words clicked like the cogs in a machine, finally clearing up in his brain, and he got to his feet so quickly it knocked the table and his food and drink spilt over his notes. If there were tears to be shed for his paper, it would have to wait, he clutched the phone in his hand, so tightly the screen-protector might break if he held on any harder. With just a couple of words, his heart was loop-de-looping and he felt somewhat light-headed.

"Peter," he repeated because is this real? Please let this be real. If this wasn't real Wade was going to break something in half, "Oh my go - is this really you? The realsies one? Not a clone or a really good impersonator? 100% organic Petey Pie?"

Wade was not above killing clones. Peter had so many of them, who would notice one missing? Besides, the amount of spider-people cropping up was getting ridiculous. They were the daisies of the superhero community, no matter how many you tried to pull out, another two took its place.

Or was that Hydra?

Nevermind, it didn't matter.

"Yeah, it's me," Peter said, laughing a little, and the sound is slightly tinny over the receiver. He sniffed and even over the phone he sounds congested. He sounds tired too. "I'm glad you picked up."

"Baby, where are you?" Wade scrambled through his soggy papers, shaking off food remains and half-mindly mopping up his milkshake with a napkin as he searched for a clean pen and paper, "Gimme an address. I'm on my way right now. Don't you move an inch, I'll be there before you can say 'Ralph Bohner'."

Once a decent paper and pen had been acquired, he bolted out of the diner, barely remembering to drop a few hundred dollar bills on the table as he went. Out on the street, he bumped into a few meandering New Yorkers while waving his arms wildly to grab the attention of a taxi, but big surprise, no one wanted to pick up a red and black costumed rando with too many weapons to be legal.

Typical.

So, he improvised. A few meters down the sidewalk, a cab pulled up for a nice young man and his date. Wade ran, pulled out a pistol, and hip-bumped the guy out of the way as he bent to slide in.

"Hey, what the fuc-" Wade shoved his gun in the guys face and he backed up, hands going up.

"Sorry, hey, need to borrow your cab real quick. Be a dear and get the next one would you." He slammed the door shut, adjusted his gun to the driver, who took on eye-full of Wade and obediently slid out into traffic. Wade didn't even give him an address yet, he admired his eagerness.

Meanwhile, over the line, Peter laughed, but it was dry and humorless, and in no way a happy sound. Wade didn't like it. He said something Wade couldn't pick up, and when someone muffled a response, he realized Peter wasn't alone. He gripped the gun tighter and pressed the phone closer to his ear, wishing he could pick up what they were saying, but it was far off and tinny.

Finally, Peter returned and rattled off an address that Wade immediately repeated to the driver. The man nodded a few more times than necessary, eyes jumping between the road and the rearview mirror.

"I'm on my way," Wade said, "Do. Not. Move. Okay? I'm coming to pick you up right now. I want you to stay on the phone with me. Can you do that?"

"I can try," Peter said, "But the batteries almost dead."

Wade scowled at nothing, but the cabby must've thought he was glaring at him because he squeaked and quickly averted his eyes again, gripping the steering wheel with white knuckles. Wade wondered if he should feel bad for scaring the daylights out of the guy, but then again, he should be minding his own business.

He decided he would feel bad. He wouldn't want to cart his crazy ass around the city either.

"I don't care," Wade growled, redirecting his attention where it mattered, "Keep talking, Petey. Do you know how worried I was? I was coming home, ready to bathe you in love and affection and all the knick-knacks I bought for you, but imagine my surprise when my baby-boo is gone, and it's radio silence from everyone. What the mcfuck happened?"

Peter doesn't answer right away. He takes a moment to evaluate his thoughts, and the silence feels like metal clamps pinching Wade's lungs together. He doesn't like silence. Not this kind.

This is the kind of silence that you hear in the middle of the night when you're all alone in bed and the shadows start moving. This is the kind of silence that you strain your ears in, picking out something you don't want to hear. The kind of silence that builds into something bad.

"Uh, you remember the thing we were talking about?" Peter finally said, and Wade racks his brain for what that could be. He doubts it's something from before he took the job, it has to be the voicemails.

"It was true. Tried to handle it, but," Peter laughed, but it's brittle and falls apart in Wade's hands, "apparently I couldn't. Managed to...distance myself from the thing but that can only go on for so long."

His heart aches. Peter's fear that he was being watched was true then. He tried to handle it, but things obviously didn't go well. It was probably eating him up inside. That stubborn Parker pride that he couldn't wrestle down even if he tried, twisting in his chest like a knife. Peter didn't like losing. He didn't like it when people got the upper hand.

Losing was never an option for him. It's why he was always on the move, always putting his all into a fight, concerned for the people of the city, and concerned for the family he was protecting.

Beating him, kidnapping him, and holding him prisoner was like rubbing salt into an already festering wound, and asking for help made it hurt all the more.

Like clockwork, Peter tried to distract from his obvious hurt and discomfort about the whole situation, "It's really cold here, Wade. So cold," he sniffed again, and his chuckle has a forced life to it, "Any chance I can exchange my weighted blanket for a heated one?"

This was not the time for jokes. So far from it, Wade couldn't even see it in the horizon. But he understood the need to feel disconnected from a serious situation. He could tell how shaken Peter was, and it wasn't from the cold. It was the dark shadow in his voice, the faintest tremor that he tried to hide when he talked about things that unsettled him.

His Webhead, his Special Boy, was scared.

The thought makes Wade heart stop aching and start bleeding. He knew how much it took to make Peter sound like that, and he was going to discover an entirely new level of torture for the bastard that made Peter feel so vulnerable.

All he wanted to do was climb through the phone and grab Peter on the other end. Take him home and lock all the windows and doors until New York city was either a floating dystopian city or nothing but crumbling buildings.

"I'll buy you the warmest, most expensive electric blanket money can buy," Wade promised, nodding firmly to himself, "It's gonna be so warm, your ancestors are going to be toasty in their graves. So warm you'll never know what it's like to be cold."

Peter sighed, "That sounds nice, but I'll settle with a warm bath."

Sounds just like him. Settling for less when he could have the world. Wade would buy him the moon if only he asked for it.

He smiled, a chuckle breaching the vice-like clamp on his entire body, and something in him eased. Just a little. The brewing storm let a few rays of sunshine peak through and the roar growing in his head went a few decibels quieter.

This was more like the Peter he knew.

"Then I'll make it the best bath you ever done experienced, cross my heart and pinkie-promise, blood oath and everything. It's gonna be so good, there will be bath salts, and bubbles, and rubber duckies, and I'll set up some candles, and put on your favorite music and-"

"I have one request," Peter interrupted.

Wade cocked his head to the side, "What's that?"

"You have to join me."

The bubbling warmth that invaded his heart made Wade feel like he was experiencing a heart attack. He scrubbed a hand down his face, unable to hide his smile, mask or not. "Thanos's scrotum chin couldn't keep me away."

"I don't know what that means, but okay."

"When I pick you up, I want you to tell me everything, okay? I want to -" but in the next second the phone clicked and the line went dead. Wade cut himself off, recoiling from the sudden silence. "Peter? Peter?"

It was just the phone dying. That's what Wade told himself. Peter said it was almost dead, so that's all it was. That's all it had to be. Peter was fine.

But his brain never failed to drive home that he could be wrong, and was auto-filling his thoughts with horrible scenario after horrible scenario, logic and rationality be damned, and he told the driver to speed up. He didn't even need to pull out another gun to be persuasive, the driver looked at him again and his Adam's apple bounced. He nodded and sped up.

Wade's leg jumped faster and faster with each road they turned down. The streets were bustling, and traffic was an absolute nightmare, but as they got closer to their destination, the roads cleared (a little) and Wade decided he wouldn't throw himself into oncoming traffic to get there quicker. 20 minutes came and went, and he decided they were close enough. He told the cabbie to stop, tossed him a wad of cash, slammed the door shut, and ran the rest of the way.

A 6'2, 210 pound man running through the streets with enough weapons to make the Punisher jealous was more than enough to get people moving out of his way.

The relief he felt when the store came into view was palpable, like a broken dam slamming into him. It matched the directions he was given and the few distinguishing remarks Peter made about it so he could pick it out from the other buildings. He bolted across the street, nearly getting hit by a car as he did, but that was a small thought as he burst into the shop, looking left and right for a familiar mound of brown hair. A stocky woman looked up from behind the cash register, immediately getting tense and defensive as Wade marched in.

His elation fell as he craned his neck to check the isles, and even the back room, but Peter wasn't there. At least nowhere Wade could see him.

Why wasn't he here? He was supposed to be here, this was the right store. If it wasn't the right store, he was going to shoot someone in the foot.

After another look around, Wade strode up to the counter to the woman, who had her phone in her hand.

"I'm going to call the police."

"Phones dead," Wade said, leaning over to check behind her counter to see if Peter was bound and gagged, fortunately for them both, he was not. "Besides, who says they're going to call the police to the person they're going to call the police about? Seems kind of counter-intuitive and just screams 'I'm a liability, please shoot me.' But more importantly, was there a man here?" Wade asked, and hovered his hand in the air around the height of his neck, "About this high, brown tousled hair, gorgeous brown eyes, has a bit of a bite to him, but still secretly cares very deeply. Goes by Petey-Pie."

"I'm…" she blinked, dropping the dead phone from her ear, "yeah. Yeah, he was here, but," a strange look flitted across her face. She may have been put off by his attire, and even more so by the maniac way he just infringed upon her store, but she looked suspicious now. "Who are you?"

"I'm his Wade-friend. I mean, his boy-Wilson. I mean, boyfriend. I'm his boyfriend. He called me, I'm here to pick him up."

She pulled back, eyebrows now scrunching together and lips in a flat line. "He left. Someone already came by and picked him up."

Wade's blood ran cold.

Funny how all it took was 10 words and he could feel a storm of his own brewing inside his body, dark clouds building in his chest, rolling and shifting and prepared to tear the world apart. Her words sprung around in his skull, bouncing off the walls and screeched at him.

He left.

Someone picked him up.

"What."

"Yeah, a guy came by. He, uh - your boy must've recognized him because they hugged, kissed, and left together," her lips pursed, somewhat irksome, "Never paid for the food, like he promised."

Wade waved those concerns to the side, "What did this person look like? How tall were they? What were they wearing? And where did they go?"

He was using his merc-voice. He should really stop using his merc-voice, this wasn't her fault - unless it was. She could be lying. But it wouldn't make sense if she was. She must've been the person Peter was talking with over the phone.

"He was scarred," she said, shifting to the side a little, trying to discreetly go for the small gun she had under the counter. Valid. Fair. Wade couldn't blame her. "Heavily scarred, might've been burn scars, but I'm not sure. He was bald, was wearing a big winter coat. Your boy recognized him, I could tell that much. They met by the street and," she pointed at said street, "They went down that first alley."

Wade's breath left him in one unfailing swoop. Someone has taken Peter, AGAIN. Right out from under his nose. He would've torn out of the store then and there, a hound dog with the scent of blood in its nose, but he needed to clarify something first.

"This man," he said, curling his fingers under his mask, "did he look like this," he lifted his mask off, just enough to reach his eyes, and the women's eyes turned to saucers.

It was all the answer Wade needed, but she still breathlessly said, "Yeah. He - y-you, -"

Wade burst out of the store, flinging the door open hard and sprinting towards the alleyway. The sidewalk was trodden and wet, with only a thin layer of building snow that wasn't disturbed yet. Snowfall was coming down thick, and the footprints Wade could see were quickly being filled in. But they were visible enough that he could still follow them. He ran down the alley, yelling Peter's name.

"Peter? Peter?"

No response. Not a muffle or a crash to let him know if they were close by. The person who took him would hear Wade coming, but Peter needed to know he was nearby. He needed to give Peter some sort of indication that he was close.

Wade's shouting stopped abruptly when he came upon a disturbance in the snow.

Snow was kicked up, smeared around the concrete and blacktop like blood stains. Something went down here.

He bent down, examining the upturned snow with quizzical eyes. Whatever happened, it happened fast and abrupt. Someone hit the ground, and beyond it was a single set of footprints and a long trail in the slush. Two people walked down this alley, only one walked out, the other had been dragged.

He didn't like it.

Wade swore. Then swore again, kicking the wall and running his hands over his head. If he had hair, he would be pulling it up from the roots. He'd been this close to getting Peter back. This fucking close and someone pulled the rug out from under both of their feet. Someone with his face.

Was it a mutant? A shapeshifter? Was this magic? An image inducer? There was an itch in the back of his mind. There was something familiar about all of this.

He punched the wall this time.

"No," he growled, "No. Not happening. Not like this. Nope."

He was a damn mercenary for a reason. Finding people was 85% of his job, and he would scale every single inch of this city if that's what he needed to do, starting with this street. There were lines in the snow, but no blood, so it didn't look like there was a physical injury.

You don't need to spill blood to kill someone, a voice reminded him, and Wade snapped at it to shut up.

Peter was still alive. He had to be, because if he wasn't...Wade didn't know what he was going to do. Probably something stupid and terrible and involving a lot of weapons.

Snow was filling in the draglines and it wouldn't be long before they were gone for good. He took out a gun, cocked it, and followed. The lines twisted through back alleys, before crossing a street. The street was relatively empty, and the lines disappeared into a building opposite of him. Wade flattened himself against a wall, observing the rugged, demolition-job-waiting-to-happen building for signs of Peter and anyone else.

He switched his position behind a dumpster, a little closer to detect hanky business, and took stock of his weapons, making sure each one was loaded and his knives and swords were in pristine quality. The building looked empty and run-down, poorly maintained, and in need of demolition. The perfect place to hide out.

Instead of going in through the front door, as was to be expected, he retraced his steps and cut around the building, so he could enter from the back. If anyone was waiting for him here, they would be waiting for him in the front.

The building was quiet, and he strained his ears for sounds as he crept through each gutted room and peered around each corner. He kept his thoughts grounded to the weapon in his hand, letting it tunnel all his fury, energy, anxiety, and fear into a single driving force. Either they were going to see him first, or the last thing they were going to see was the bullet-end of his gun.

The downstairs appeared empty at first glance, but as Wade stepped into the room occupying the front door, he noticed wet draglines across the floor, leading to a clunky pile in the corner that didn't look quite right. Upon closer inspection, he realized it was a pair of legs, half-hidden behind a corner where the rest of their body disappeared.

Peter. Peter. Peter. Peter.

He didn't know if it was Peter. And even if it was, this reeked of a trap. Wade listened for sounds of breathing, or the clink of bullets, or the cock of a gun. The silence felt too absolute, but the longer he stood there, the itchier his trigger finger became. After 10 minutes, he finally got up and crept across the room, moving along the wall and keeping his steps light, gun pointed down until he could confirm whether they were an enemy or a friend.

He whipped around the corner, gun aimed, but it dipped when the nozzle landed on a familiar tussle of brown hair.

PETER. PETER. PETER. PETER.

Wade sucked in a breath. Peter was unconscious. He was shirtless, with only a pair of pajama bottoms and some worn sneakers to cover himself. He's wrapped loosely in a giant winter coat that looks astonishingly like one Wade had in his closet. For a minute it doesn't look like Peter's breathing, but upon closer inspection, Wade can pick out the faint rise and fall of his chest.

He scrambled to his knees, "Peter?" He whispered, hovering over him, wanting to help, but not sure what he needed, "Hey, Petey?"

Peter didn't respond and Wade slipped one of his gloves off to feel for a pulse. It's cold, even in here, and his fingers tingle as they seek out Peter's heartbeat. It's there, which is a relief. Wade's a personal fan of Peter's heart beating.

There are no outward signs that he's injured either. No broken bones, no blood, he may as well just be sleeping.

"Peter, I need you to wake up for me, baby," he jostled him a little, and Peter's face scrunched up. It took a few more insistent jostles before he cracked his eyes open, and Wade wants to drink coffee out of those beautiful brown eyes.

" 'ade?" He croaks, and his voice is like a calming blanket over Wade's prickly anxiety. He wants to hug him, and hold him, and tell him everything is going to be alright.

"It's me. I'm here. Come on, let's get you outta here, Pete."

Peter looks groggy, like he's not sure what he's seeing. He allows Wade to coax him into a sitting position, pulling the coat tighter around himself with a shiver. His eyes are roving over Wade's face, just on the precipice of brightening with realization before they land on something over his shoulder and they widen instead. "Wade,"

A heartbeat. Wade whips around, squeezing off a shot as he does, and is half raised off his knees, prepared to tackle his assailant, but blinks when there's nothing there but an empty room. The bullet hits the opposite wall and the shot echoes throughout the building with a loud CRACK.

"What?"

Wade turned around, perplexed, to a gun being shoved under his jaw, the nozzle fitted beneath his skull.

Peter was not Peter. Not-Peter was holding a gun. Not-Peter was smiling wickedly at him.

He hadn't felt right. When Wade touched Peter's skin, it wasn't the cold that made his fingers feel tingly. It was the static of an image inducer.

Peter wasn't here.

"Son of a-"

The trigger pulled. His brain and skull met open air.

When Wade woke up it's inside a room.

The room is dank and dark, aside from a single light bulb positioned directly overhead. He can't move, and he's not sure why until his vision is completely healed and, yeah, the pain and immobility makes sense now. Stakes are hammered into his body. The good kind too. Sturdy, steel spikes used in construction, jammed into his arms, forearms, shoulders, legs (calves and thighs), both hands and both ankles. The pain is there, blinding and overwhelming, making his vision go motley, but it's not the worst thing he's ever felt.

Besides, he's a lot more preoccupied with Peter standing in the corner of the room, leaning against the wall, arms crossed, and looking peachy-keen.

Except he's not Peter. Wade knows that now.

"Oh, cut the act," he grunted, gritting his teeth and lifting his head so he can look him in the eye, "I know you're not Peter. Spare us both the effort, why don't you."

Not-Peter shook his head, and it angers Wade that he does the same thing Peter does when he's humoring him. Rolling his eyes and giving him this look. It used to be fond exasperation, but there's something darker about it now. Something Peter, but not Peter.

"Don't do this, Wade," Not-Peter said.

"Do what? Cut the bad guy foreplay short? You know I'm open-minded to all things you may want to try, but non-con isn't my thing, just check the tags. It wasn't put there for this."

Not-Peter sighed, wiping a hand down his face and stopping around his mouth, looking almost sad. "I really didn't want it to go like this, you know."

"Like what? Pinning me down like a bug? Maybe next time try rope and a proper safeword. Rookie."

Not-Peter chuckled, but there isn't a drop of humor in it. He rubbed his head, hand threading through his hair. "Look, I know this is hard, Wade. This isn't how I wanted to have this conversation either. But I guess," he spread his arms awkwardly, "here we are."

Wade's head thunked back on the floor, "You really are going all into this, aren't you? Do you get off on identity theft? I'll have you know that millions of families suffer from this every day-"

"Wade, stop," Not-Peter snapped, holding up a hand, "Just...stop for a second, alright."

Wade rolled his eyes, but he doesn't like how much this Peter sounds like his Peter. They've got his temper down, his exasperation - kudos, he guessed. They're giving it their all.

"It seems you won't stop flapping your gums until you get off on your little fantasy, so hurry it up. I haven't got all day."

Peter walked around Wade, nibbling his lip in thought. Wade scowled. "You were gone for a while, you know," he said, not quite looking at Wade, "Almost 3 months. A guy is bound to get lonely."

"Ah, so you're playing the cheating boyfriend card. Ha, yeah, I'm not buying it. See, if you're going to impersonate someone, you really should do your research. Petey isn't the type of guy to cheat on someone, his aunt didn't raise no bitch."

Peter crouched next to him, leaning over a little, considering that. For just a second his smile turns into something a little more sinister, "Are you sure though? I mean, an attractive guy, a lonely apartment, an equally unattractive boyfriend away on a mission who won't even answer his calls. Who knows what one would do when the nights get a little cold."

Nope. Not true. They had a talk about this. Peter knew Wade wasn't going to be able to answer the phone, Wade made sure he knew this so Peter didn't start thinking these exact thoughts coming out of Not-Peter's mouth.

Not-Peter stood back up, "I don't love you anymore, Wade."

It's a blow to his heart. He knows it's not Peter. Is confident that it isn't. But seeing Peter's face, his voice, saying these words that Wade always feared, it pricked at a hastily sewn stitch in his heart.

Ignore it. It's not real. He only sounds like Peter.

"I'm not sure if I ever really loved you," Not-Peter continued, "Honestly, everything kind of just started out as a fling. A wild ride. But," he shrugged, "rides over now. I've had my fill. I don't want to see you anymore."

"Yeah, keep telling yourself that Fibber on the Roof."

"I know this is hard to understand for someone of your..." Not-Peter pretended to ponder for the word, "intellect. But this is for the best. I mean," he crouched next to Wade again, "Did you actually think this was going to work between us? Me and you?"

He scoffed.

Wade tried not to flinch.

It's not Peter, he said again. It's not Peter. It's not Peter. It's not Peter.

He's had nightmares that started out like this. Fantasies that turn sour with the fear that Peter will tire of him. That he got into it for the adrenaline rush, but it wasn't enough anymore, and he's kicking Wade to the curb for someone who really deserves his attention.

It's like watching his own fears play out in front of him. A hallucination, only real.

"See, Spider-Man would never date someone like you. Peter Parker would never date someone like you. It was fun while it lasted, but at the end of the day, that's all it is. Just a little game. But it's time to grow up and face it, Wade. We weren't meant to be together. I think it's time that we part ways."

"I will gladly part ways with you," Wade said, staring fixed into those false brown eyes. "And once this is all over, I'm going to string you hide outside this building, paint the city red with your blood, and take my actual Petey back home, and we're going to spend the whole night making out. With tongue."

Not-Peter sighed and stood up, reaching into the pocket of the hoodie he was wearing. He pulled out the gun Wade assumed was weighing down the pocket. It looked so wrong in Peter's hands. In a shade that didn't match Peter's palette. A piece that didn't fit with his puzzle. Wade hardly saw him hold one, much less point it at him and aim for his head.

"It's a shame you don't feel the same," he said, and he smiles an amused smile. Like he and Wade are sharing an inside joke. "We both know he wouldn't let you paint the town red."

He pulled the trigger and for the second time, Wade's brain matter splattered across the floor.

Chapter Text

As someone who has been almost beaten to death, nearly crushed under a building, and stabbed enough times to make a corpse jealous, because come on he should be dead by now this isn't fair, is it possible for him to feel any closer to death?

Because Peter feels like the grim reaper is standing on his doorstep.

He was probably just being dramatic. The same way people did when they got sick and eventually convinced themselves that their fever was actually the product of some undocumented disease and was going to die in 3 days.

But like any other person, he couldn't help but think he was different. It helped that he was bitten by a spider and obtained powers, so technically speaking, he was special.

Because of said powers, he had a nifty little thing called a healing factor (and an immune system that could make any healthcare professional swoon) so he didn't get sick very often.

But when he did, it was like the forces of heaven and hell was punishing him all at once, from all sides. Once again, that might just be his over-dramatic brain freaking out because it isn't used to feeling this gross. And it definitely didn't help that his tolerance for sick pains was at an all-time low, so every chill that rattled through his body felt extra violent.

73% of the time he's convinced his body is on fire, but that's debunked by cold shivers that shake him down with the aggression of a dirty cop on a power high, and this duality alone is half of his hell.

Was it possible for someone to cut his head open and fill it full of steaming, moldy cotton while he was sleeping? His nose is backed up too. Aches and chills bump and shove around inside his body, pushing against his bones and scratching down the undersides of his skin.

On the rare occasions that he got sick, he got it bad.

Fortunately, he's asleep most of the time, unable to scrounge up the energy to stay conscious for more than a few minutes before his body gives up without a fight.

Considering his current predicament, he prefers being unconscious. In sleep, at least he can pretend he's not sharing the room with a supervillain.

Whenever he wakes up, someone is there with him. Someone who, rationally, shouldn't be there at all. Once it was an elderly woman with white hair pulled into a bun, and wrinkles around her eyes. She sat on the edge of the bed, shushing him gently as he grumbled and groaned, and encouraged him to sip broth as she spoon-fed him. Another time, it was a different woman, this one with red curls and freckles. She helped him drink from a glass of water and switched the ice-pack on his forehead, to keep his temperature down so he doesn't burn to ash.

Then there was a man, large and broad-shouldered, skin pocketed with sores and scars, and a voice with a strange gravelly twang to it. Unlike the other two, he was sitting in bed with Peter, easing his head on his chest as he ran fingers through Peter's sweaty, knotted hair, murmuring softly.

It was wrong, somehow. All wrong. The man's shirt didn't feel right, the texture of his skin tingled, and with his head pressed so closely to his chest, Peter could pick up a faint hum of some technology at work. This man was not who he claimed to be and that should've worried him, and maybe deep, deep, deep down it did. But the fever was clouding his judgment, making thinking a chore and him an irreverent teen who figured he'd done enough already. So he sagged into the man's body and was asleep again in minutes.

He's not handcuffed to the bed so tightly now. The cuffs had been lowered and the locks loosened so it was more annoying than uncomfortable, but it's still strange trying to sleep with both hands over his head, and any attempts at breaking them are feeble and the most he can do is tug-tug-tug pitifully.

Stupid. That's what he was. He was a stupid, idiotic man with too much pride and not enough brain cells to learn his lesson the first time. He'd gone out into a snowstorm, wearing nothing but a pair of sopping wet pants, and spent the night inside a cold store. He was lucky being sick was the only thing that happened - not counting getting duped and rekidnapped of course.

When he remembered why he left in such a hurry and why he was so desperate, he forgave his initial stupidity. Just a little. The memory of those hands running down his body, the presence of someone at his back, too close and unwanted, made him want to throw up. He almost did, several times.

He forgave his stupidity to run out into a storm when he was being molested, he did not forgive his stupidity for allowing himself to get kidnapped again. He should've stayed inside the store and waited, because that was the sensible and smart thing to do, but no, his pride had to have a say in it. He was stupid and idiotic and foolish and hard-headed and if he weren't pinned down right now he would be ramming his head into a wall.

So close to freedom, so close he could taste it, and he messed it up because he was too eager to get home, and too prideful to admit that he was terrified of Chameleon.

What did it matter though? He thought glumly, the words a sluggish roll in his mind. Chameleon could've been the one who picked up his call in the first place. Wade probably wasn't even back from his mission yet and he should've known better.

This was all on him and he would not make the same mistake three times.

Chameleon was disguising himself as Aunt May again, carrying another bowl of soup. He probably thought the image of his primary caregiver would soothe him, the same one who's been at Peter's bedside when he was a kid sick with chickenpox and stomach bugs, but all it did was make his throat feel tight and his heartache.

"Stop," he rasped, but his throat is dry and itchy, and the words are barely louder than a whisper.

"What's that dear?" Fake-Aunt May asked, pressing her hand against his skin gently, checking his temperature. He wishes desperately it was really her so he could lean into that familiar touch.

"Stop," he repeated, "Stop this. I know," he paused and closed his eyes, waiting for the wave of nausea to finish rocking against him before he continued with a hard swallow. "I know you're not her. Stop pretending."

Fake-Aunt May smiled softly, as if he were being silly, "You're sick, honey. Don't talk. Focus all that energy on getting better."

"Stop it," Peter insisted, "Chameleon, you can't..." a wheezing cough, "you can't fool me."

Fake-Aunt May rolled her eyes, "I know I can't, Peter. I just thought you might feel better if you saw your Aunt instead of me. Now if you're going to be awake, how about you have some more soup.

Peter couldn't argue even if he wanted to, and he did want to, there wasn't a day that went by where a Parker wasn't complaining about something, but he was helpless as Chameleon tucked a hand under his neck, supporting his head so he could eat. Peter tried turning away, but it's laughably, embarrassingly easy for Chameleon to catch him. Peter swallowed around the spoonful of broth, more out of the desire to not choke than anything else.

A few minutes passed in silence and eventually Peter gave up trying to avoid the soup. It soothed his throat anyway, no matter how much he hated the person on the other end of the spoon.

"You know, that was a very stupid thing you did," Fake-Aunt May murmured, a dash of maternal scorn lacing her words. "Going out in that storm in the condition you were in. Very stupid indeed. I'd say you almost deserve what happened to you."

Peter's brain was so confuddled it was hard comprehending Chameleon's words and sorting them out, but when he did, his eyes came together and his lips pinched. "You...you were," he tried to say, but Chameleon was shoving the spoon back in his face. He leaned away. "You were touching-"

"You mean in the shower?" Fake-Aunt May interrupted, and Peter hates the words coming from her mouth. It's gross and unsettling, and should not be spoken with Aunt May's lips. He shouldn't be hearing this in Aunt May's voice. She wasn't there, she had nothing to do with this. It was wrong associating her with something so dark and ugly. "I got a little out of hand, I admit, but that really didn't warrant such a reaction. You seemed to be enjoying it for a second."

Peter squeezed his eyes shut to physically block him out. His stomach rolled and if Chameleon kept talking, he was going to throw up the soup he just fed him. "Change your appearance," he rasped, "I don't - I can't talk to you like this."

"Oh?" Fake Aunt May straightened, "Then how about this?"

When Peter peaked through his eyes, Wade was sitting next to him, swirling the spoon in the bowl and offering it to him again. Peter grimaced, heart,= panging at the sight of that familiar pock-marked skin. Chameleon likely chose this skin suit because he thought it would calm Peter down, but all it did was remind him of his own stupid mistake.

How could he have let his guard down? He saw Wade once and figured that was it. He didn't think Chameleon could pose as Wade so easily. He'd messed up the first day Peter woke up, his story had been riddled with phrases Wade said, but none of it clicked right. Back on that street, Peter had been so exhausted, so relieved to see Wade again, he'd let his guard down. They had fucking code words for a reason.

He was such an idiot.

"Hey, none of that," Not-Wade said, a finger tracing Peter's frown as if he knew what he was thinking about. "If seeing him makes you upset, I can be someone else. Anyone else."

"Just - be yourself," Peter said, jerking his face away from Chameleon's fingers, but all it did was give him a bigger headache. Said fingers switched from his lips to caressing his cheek. Wade's skin didn't feel right. There was too much underlying static.

'You want me to be myself?" He sounded pleased.

"Stop pretending," Peter said, "I - I can't-"

"Shhhh," he shushed him, "You're getting worked up and that's only going to make your condition worse. Lay down and stop worrying, I'll take care of you."

Peter's heart ached, bleeding from the cuts Chameleon kept giving him, whether he realized it or not. He wanted nothing more than for this to be the real Wade next to him, feeding him soup, and running his hands through his hair. Real Wade would kiss Peter on the forehead and claim he's going to "steal the germ" from him - Chameleon probably didn't want to get sick, so thank goodness he wouldn't go that far.

Maybe we can pretend, a soft, tired voice whispered in his head. Just this once. Indulge in the fantasy. Let yourself believe it's Wade, just this once.

The thought is tempting and Peter hated himself for just having it. He's ashamed his brain would even offer the suggestion and hates how exhausted he is at the idea of fighting Chameleon over and over again. He's so tired, his body so hot and weak, he didn't have it in him to keep fighting. He wanted to go to sleep for a thousand years.

But Parker's were made of sturdier stuff. Stubbornness was genetically ingrained into their DNA, and the thought of letting Chameleon have his domestic scenarios made that stubbornness rear its head like an agitated beast. Chuffing and growling, with its ears pinned to its head.

No, he wasn't going to give in so easily.

"'Don't want you to take care of me," Peter murmured, moving his head again when Chameleon tried to feed him another spoon-full. "'want you to go away."

Fake-Wade sighed, ever the exasperated one, but didn't push it. "Go to sleep," he said, getting up. "We'll try again in a few hours. Any requests of who you'd like to see when you wake up?"

"You're mom."

Fake-Wade rolled his eyes, "Don't be so childish."

Peter jolted awake sometime later by what he thinks, and he's pretty sure because he's heard them before, are gun-shots. He stared blearily through the bedroom door, left open so Chameleon could watch him as he cleaned the apartment or cooked food.

His head was swimming and his brain wasn't all there. He's delirious from drowsiness, which makes it all the more mind-boggling when he sees himself walking through the apartment, carrying a clunky black object.

It looks like a gun.

But he doesn't see much else. His brain and body are too weak to decipher what he was looking at and he drifted back to sleep, forgetting what he'd seen entirely.

He wakes up in periodic bursts.

Sometimes he's alone and other times he sees a face that shouldn't be there. Chameleon didn't seem prone to exposing his own face anymore and was becoming Aunt May, Mary Jane, and Wade more and more. But he experimented too, rifling through an assortment of associates Peter had and gauging his reaction to each one. There was Betty from work, Ben Urich, the woman who ran Peter's favorite hotdog stand, Black Cat made an appearance, and so did Tony Stark and Johnny Storm.

Chameleon even became Harry Osborn.

Waking up and seeing his ex in the chair next to the bed was...an experience. Chameleon got Harry's fashion down nicely, the guy was always dressed in the best that money could buy, with perfectly tailored shirts and pants, and no two articles of clothing that didn't go together. But he must not have had a lot of Harry to go off of, despite him being the son of one of the richest people in New York, because his portrayal is off.

He made Harry too confident, too suave, and too full of himself. The Harry Peter knew was a lot more subdued, he put on a confident mask in front of others, but in truth it was in tatters thanks to Norman's abuse. And he wasn't nearly as suave or assertive as people made him out to be. He and Harry had met in college, and it took a lot to get past Harry's walls, but when he did he was surprised with what he found. Harry was soft and sweet. Where his father was malice, manipulation, and power-hungry, Harry was kind, considerate, and sought the love and attention from everyone he was around.

It was a common mistake to make him the spitting image of Norman, so when Peter opened his eyes and saw Harry lounging in the chair, leaning back and looking as though he belonged on the set of a celebrity talk show, he wasn't fooled.

"Hey Peter," Fake-Harry smiled, showing off a row of perfect pearly teeth. Harry used to have crooked teeth, just a few in his teen years, and he'd admitted that Norman forced him to get procedures and aligners because 'an Osborn had to be perfect.'

It was the strife for perfection that bothered Peter. He didn't have a problem with braces or straightening teeth, but not when it was used as an excuse to belittle his best friend's appearance. Dad of the year, right?

"Har," Peter croaked.

"You're not looking so hot."

"You look exactly how you did 6 years ago. I'm guessing you got his picture off one of the old business magazines, right"

Fake-Harry quirked an eyebrow, like they were back in their college dorm and Peter was giving him a ridiculous excuse explaining why he was coming in through the window at 2 AM, "Excuse me?"

Peter turned over. Or, at least tried to, he was getting so used to having his arms above his head he kept forgetting he couldn't turn onto his side. "You're wearing the same outfit he wore for one of his interviews for a business magazine, I remember because I was with him during it. He wanted me there as support. I also know that he spilt wine on it, because we went to dinner right afterward. At least try and be more creative."

"Sorry, I didn't have much to go off of for this character."

Peter's heart twisted nastily, "He's not a character, he's a person."

"Same thing."

Peter shot him a withering glare that landed flat because moving made him want to die, and frankly, he was getting used to Chameleon's bullshit, and that alone was sad enough. Besides, his head felt crammed with a headache and he didn't have the strength to put much heat into it.

"If you want to get an up-to-date version of his character, try the Raft. He'll be in the Psych Ward, tell him I said hi."

Fake-Harry got up and approached the bed. Peter sighed, turning over to look at him, because ignoring Chameleon never worked for long, when long, slender fingers grabbed his jaw and wrenched him upward. Harry's face was twisted into a manic grin that stretched across his cheeks, too wide to be natural. His eyes were big and bulging, and the creases around his eyebrows and nose painted dark shadows in his face. He's no longer wearing the fancy outfit and is adorned in a familiar green bodysuit. His gloved fingers dug into Peter's neck.

"But I did go see him in the Psych Ward," he says, and the sharp, borderline hysteric tilt of his voice sends Peter careening to the past when he stared down this twisted, maniacal face the first time. Fighting him, begging Harry to stop, demanding to know why he'd taken that serum, and holding his unconscious body afterward, heartbreaking for the man he'd loved, "He says hi back."

Peter's brain goes white and before he thinks about it he's lashing out, trying to push Fake-Harry away, but all he succeeds in doing is denting the headboard. The realization that he's stuck hits his heart with a home run and he flailed harder.

"Get the fuck off me," he snarled, with more life than he should've had in his current state, overcome with fight or flight. He didn't want to see that face. He never wanted to see that face again. It put a hole in his heart that has taken years to seal up, and he wasn't prepared to handle the demons in the closet.

Fake-Harry released him, and the hysteria melted away into a calmer, kinder Harry, who's blue eyes were soft and his smile warm. Fake-Harry retook his seat, back in his slacks and button-up. "You really should give me more credit. I didn't think you'd want to see Harry in his current mental state, so I became the him you knew before. Unless you want me to go on a hysteric rampage."

Peter's chest felt like an elephant was sitting on it, and it heaved as if it did. He felt light headed, his ears were ringing. Fake-Harry's smile was kind, but all he could see was hysteric madness that tore at the stitches in his heart, making him bleed. He could hear his own heaving breaths, his lungs were tight, his vision swam. He could hear the echoes of a past fight in his head, explosions, and crumbling buildings, and screams, and a high pitched laughter that made the hairs on his back stand on end. He could hear Harry's twisted voice, sneering and cooing "Do you love me, Pete?"

Peter turned over and threw up before he realized what was happening.

Fake-Harry rushed over and helped him sit up so he wasn't choking on his own vomit, and by the end of it, Peter was dry-heaving and the blankets around him were a disgusting, smelly mess. Puke had slopped down his clothes too and Fake-Harry wrinkled his nose.

"I was afraid of this," he took a few tissues from the nightstand and wiped Peter's face. "I'll draw you a bath."

Bath. Shower. Water. Hands running over his body. Peter wanted to cry. No matter where he turned, there was something horrible waiting at the end of it. Harry, Wade, Aunt May, sedatives, unwanted attention, unwanted hands. There's no escaping any of it.

He's left to stew in his own mess and heard water turn on in the bathroom, and a few moments later, Harry walked back in, rifling through the nightstand for a syringe. Peter can't fight him off, and he wonders if Chameleon should be pumping drugs into him right now, when he's two breaths away from puking again. Was it healthy to drug people who were sick? Maybe he knows, but not right now, when his head feels like a pressurizing atmosphere in his skull. He's stripped down, and instead of handcuffs, his hands are bound by strips of cloth.

An ideal opportunity to escape again, but Peter can't. He just can't. The drugs are messing with him, the sickness is messing with his body - there's too much going on and he feels like a shadow of himself. Cast by a light and forced to follow, attached by the soles of his feet and bound to a body he didn't want to be in. Why couldn't he be Peter Pan's shadow? Free to detach and run away from his own fleshy prison.

Chameleon settled him into the bath and all he can do is lay there and pray that nothing else happens.

He cleans Peter off, runs his body over with soap and a sponge, and all Peter can do is sit there and let it happen. His hands don't wander this time, and Peter wonders if that means he learned his lesson - or if he was just biding his time.

He almost throws up a few more times, but Chameleon is careful and gentle in his handling, and before Peter knows it, he's being settled back in bed. Sometime during his clean-up, Chameleon left, and seeing the clean sheets and blankets, Peter now knew why. The rancid smell of puke is covered by a whiff of febreeze.

He doesn't fight it as his hands are rebound to the headboard, and his ankles to the frame. Chameleon leaves the room to dispose of the garbage bag in the hall, probably holding Peter's thrown up bed-sheets, and leaves.

Peter sank into the pillow. It was going to get the pillowcase wet and make him colder but he didn't care. He stared up at the ceiling, then towards the headboard.

He needed to get out of here. Sick or not, he couldn't stay here and play domestic prisoner. Who knows what Chameleon was planning, or what he'll do next. After Peter's initial escape, he was going to be on guard more than ever, so catching him off balance again was going to be impossible.

He just doesn't know how to do that and his brain fills the silence with the damning noise of a ticking clock. Time was slipping through his fingers, and eventually he was going to run out of sand in the hourglass.

His eyes lazily drifted up to the bar of the headboard, and what he saw jarred him back to life. It was made of sturdy metal, that much was evident, but Chameleon had handcuffed him closer to the frame it was drilled into, so he wasn't so uncomfortable, and the material was cracked from his earlier freakout. It was thin and almost indiscernible, but definitely there. The bars were strong, but maybe the frame wasn't made of the same stuff. Peter's eyes went heavy and lidded, fatigue embracing him like a too-close friend, but the wisps of a thought infiltrated his mind nevertheless.

Maybe there was a way out of this.

A trap was only as good as the foundations it's built on, after all.

Chapter Text

Is this de'javu?

It feels like de'javu. He has distinct memories of being strapped down like this, and he's been tortured so many times that it's easy to recognize the jerk in his gut that tells him that something is very, very wrong. It's kind of sad actually that he's not immediately panicked, a true sign that maybe this has been done one too many times. A saner person might consider a change in career, because job safety hazards like this kept cropping up and his health insurance didn't cover coming back from death.

He could become a telemarketer - whatever the hell that is. Or get a nice desk job, with little succulent plants and pictures of his wifey and two kids. Have a white-picket-fence home with a dog and a cat, and an armchair he can kick his feet up in.

He's cracked the American code.

Bad guys didn't torture people who had the nuclear family dream. That's not a thing that happened - they were safe by design. He could settle down and live the most typical American dream a Canadian like him could.

But that's not his point, he was going somewhere with this. The real point is, Wade is certain he's been in a situation like this before, but he can't place the room or who was doing the slashy-slash and bangy-bang. He thinks it was a laboratory, or a dark warehouse, not this cement box. A basement, he thinks.

Not-Peter is back. He always comes back. Can't keep him away, Wade supposes. It's his addicting animal magnetism.

The copy-cat is carrying a loaded gun, and Wade's brain catches on it like a loose thread to a nail, unraveling his thoughts fiber by fiber. He studies the strings carefully, finding each anomaly and plucking it out with precision. He doesn't like seeing that gun in Peter's hand. Even if it's not real Peter, it's still Peter's face and his body, and those hands didn't hold weapons like that. It's wrong and gross, and it paints Peter's picture with ugly strokes that don't match his color scheme.

Besides, it makes Wade want to kick something really hard.

Everything about Not-Peter is wrong. He may look like Peter, from the scruffy hair, down to the run-down soles of his shoes, but there's a difference to him.

His mannerisms are close enough, and they got the inflection of his voice down pat. It's a really good copy, and under normal circumstances, Wade would be impressed. But this happens to be his Peter they're talking about, and he didn't take it kindly when someone took the people Wade enjoyed having around and twisted them into something unrecognizable.

The illusion is completely broken when Not-Peter starts speaking words, and making threats, and shoving that gun in Wade's face.

He hears copy-cat enter the room before he sees him. It's a faint shuffling of feet from somewhere beyond the door, then the doorknob creaks as it's opened, and it ends with feet scraping against concrete. The lightbulb directly above Wade flash's on, and being the only thing he can see looking straight ahead, it burns his eyes and makes him turn his head to avoid the blinding pain. It doesn't do much to alleviate his discomfort, but it helps him adjust quickly enough that he can squint through the light, searching for the person stalking the shadows beyond.

"And what's on the agenda today?" Wade chirped, finding the shadow among the shadows, his position given away by the subtle glint of the gun catching the light.

"Oh, same ol, same ol'' comes Peter's voice, and Wade takes the soft yearning that invades his heart and shoves it into a little, tiny box and dumps it into a vast ocean. This wasn't a Peter he wanted to hear, and yearning for Peter's real voice wasn't going to get him out of this. "Thought about switching things up a bit today," Not-Peter continued, "Shooting you in the head is getting boring."

"Yeah, guess you didn't think of that, huh? Typical. It's like you're not even trying. Out of all the maniacs who've ever tortured me, you're severely lacking. A bit of personal feedback if you're up to it, as someone who's been on both ends of this shtick, I think the face you're choosing to wear breaks the entire atmosphere you're trying to create. I mean, do you even know the guy? He's allergic to guns and starts sneezing justice whenever they get close.

Not-Peter hummed and drew closer into the light, a yellow glow creeping along his face and making the shadows around his eyes look darker. He's playing with the gun in his hand, running slender deft fingers over the pointed edge, and Wade realizes it's not actually a gun, it's a knife. A kitchen knife, the same brand he and Peter have in their apartment.

"I think you're right," he agreed, "There's a lot more I can do with a knife." He ran the razor edge over his finger, just shy of breaking the skin.

"Is this supposed to be torture or a porn fantasy? Because I'm pretty sure I've had fantasies that start out like this. Run your tongue over it next and tell me I've been a bad boy."

Not-Peter takes it a step farther and straddles Wade's chest, tucking his knees just under his arms and settling on his stomach. He looks down at Wade, literally and metaphorically, and Wade can't help but be caught off guard by that messy bed hair, those brown eyes, and his familiar figure. It's Peter staring down at him, but it's dark and overshadowed by the light illuminating him from behind. Under different circumstances, this situation could be incredibly arousing. But this wasn't Peter, it was someone using his body, and it made Wade's stomach gnash and twist. He wanted to throw him off.

"You've been a bad boy," Not-Peter drawled, and stabbed him in the chest.

Wade screamed as metal tore through flesh, muscle, and bone, puncturing his lungs. He broke off with a wet, heaving grunt, chest heaving and driving the knife further into his body. No matter how many times he's gotten stabbed, shot, or blown up, the pain never went away. Every nerve sent those frustratingly painful signals to his brain, telling him he was in agony, and he didn't appreciate the memo.

Not-Peter slowly pulled the knife out of his chest, and red seeped from the wound, soaking into Wade's suit on one end and filling his lungs on the other. Choking on blood was never a fun way to die, and frankly, of all the ways to die, it took so damn long. Like drowning, but slower.

Not-Peter hummed again, quirking his lips in the way Peter did when he was thinking really hard, and leaned forward, pressing the edge of the knife to Wade's throat. He slid it over his skin slowly, opening Wade's throat like he was dragging a zipper down his neck, and blood gushed out, falling in rivers down his skin as it reached one side of his neck to the other. He leaned back to admire his handiwork. Wade gurgled and gasped, choking on the blood filling his airways. He coughed violently and a spurt of it shot from his mouth and leaked from the corner of his lips.

Intrigued, Not-Peter cocked his head as the skin slowly knit back together, tissue by tissue. When the wound was sealed, he traced his finger across the scarred skin, enraptured. "Amazing."

Chameleon was going into this hard. His craft was assuming identities and posing as people, and Wade could see how he managed to wiggle his way into their lives without them noticing. He was good. Damn good. His mannerisms almost matched Peter's to a fault. Wade could almost believe that this was Peter, if he'd decided to go off the deep end. It was disgusting.

Leftover blood welled in his throat, and Wade coughed again. It needed somewhere to go, after all, and it's not like it was going to drain back into his veins. He had no sympathy or regret when splatters of it landed on Not-Peter's face and he leaned back. Screw him, he deserved to be uncomfortable and gross.

Only, Not-Peter didn't look uncomfortable, and Wade immediately wished he could take it back. All it did was capture the picture of Peter staring down at him with blood-flecked across his face, not bothered at all, and that was incredibly unnerving. It was wrong. All wrong. Some twilight zone, glitch-in-the-matrix shit that Wade didn't care for in the slightest.

"You-" he coughed again, voice thick, "You know I can't die, right? There's literally no point to any of this. At all. Your plan is stupid and flawed, and if you think I'm not going to get out of this, then you're really really, really dumb."

"'Oh, I know I can't kill you," Not-Peter murmured, tracing the knife across Wade's temple and forehead as if contemplating cutting his thoughts open and spreading them out in sheets, "But so many shots to the head, so much brain trauma, I wonder how many bullets I'll need to pump into that skull of yours before you start forgetting."

Wade's heart petered to a stop.

"I know you, Wade. Bad memory, can't remember most of your life. It's all too splotchy and," he waved a hand around, "messed up. All those years taking bullets to the head, getting your skull smashed in - how long do I need to keep this up until it finally resets again and you forget all about me?"

Wade swallowed hard, shaking his head, "If you think I'm gonna forget an ass as fine as Spider-Man's, or a smile as stupid as Petey's, then you've got another thing coming."

Not-Peter hummed a thoughtful noise, scratching his head with the tip of the knife, leaving small trails of blood on his skin. "Maybe not," he admitted, "There's always a chance you'll remember my face. But will you remember what I was like? Or," he traced a scar on Wade's cheek with the knife, "will you remember this? Me tying you down and shooting you in the face, over and over again. Will you remember how much you love me, or how painful it was as I cut your body to pieces and fed you to yourself?" Not-Peter's smile was wicked and dark, and seeing it sent massive amounts of wrongness shooting into Wade's brain. "Who knows, maybe one day you'll wake up, and realize you hate me. You're going to want to kill me, slowly. Piece by piece. You're going to want to hunt me down and make me endure every painful second that you had to endure." Not-Peter leaned forward, "And to really push you over the edge, maybe I'll even visit your little girl one night while she's sleeping. Tear her to pieces too, see if she has a healing factor like her daddy. And if not, send her back to you in little zip-lock baggies."

Wade roared, surging towards Chameleon, but all it did was drive the stakes in his body deeper into his flesh. "You dog kicking, child threatening fuck, you lay one finger on her, Chameleon, and I'll-"

Not-Peter tsked, wagging a chastising finger at him, "Chameleon won't do a thing. It'll all be me, Peter Parker." Not-Peter sat up straighter, as if thinking, "You know, maybe after you hunt me down, Chameleon will send you a little gift. A memorial of our time together. All the dates we went on, the patrol dinners, and declarations of love. A confession that maybe, just maybe, you got the wrong guy. That you killed the wrong Peter Parker. And then you can live the rest of your life knowing that you killed the only person who was willing to give you a second chance."

"No," Wade said, "Fucking liar ass. You wouldn't hurt Peter. Why would you go through all this trouble just to kill him in the end."

"Because," Not-Peter leaned down, so close to Wade's face that he blocked the light above, and his outline glowed like an angel cast to the fires of hell. Peter's voice dropped and it no longer sounded like him. It sounds like someone else talking through him, revealing the devil hiding underneath the surface, "If I can't have him, I don't want you to have him."

With that, Not-Peter reached inside his hoodie and pulled the gun out. He clicked the safety off, cocked it, and gently pressed the tip to Wade's head. Whatever bit of Chameleon was showing through was gone now and replaced with Peter's smiling face. The smile he had whenever Wade walked through the door, like he was happy to see him.

"Don't forget about me, Wade," he said and pulled the trigger.

Chapter Text

Chameleon is planning something. Peter can hear him murmuring to himself. Always out of the bedroom, in the kitchen, or the small living room, out of earshot so every word is an indistinguishable murmur. He tries to listen. As much as it chafes him to admit, his condition has gotten a little better under Chameleon's care, and he funnels what little strength he has into picking out Chameleon's words. Still, he's far from recovered, and straining himself for scraps just puts a headache between his ears.

At this point, being light-headed is normal. Swallowing down his pride is like pushing a fork into his eye, but he stopped fighting Chameleon and allowed himself to be fed and cleaned, and only really pushed back when his captor started overstepping boundaries. Chameleon was still wearing different skins, the faces of his family or coworkers, and Peter only ever saw his white mask outside the bedroom, through the door when he thought Peter was sleeping as he cleaned, cooked, or talked quietly on the phone.

To prevent any more unsavory incidents, Peter slept more and when Chameleon started anticipating it, he started pretending to sleep. It wasn't as hard as he thought it'd be, given that he was drowsy most of the time. Honestly, if he's not careful he does fall asleep for real, and yes, that has happened a handful of times. Stop judging him, he's doing his best.

It's during one of these fakeouts that Peter finally got a whiff of Chameleon's plan.

He only caught snippets of words. Phrases like "plane tickets," and "housing", and even "smuggling" was tossed around a few times. He muttered about different countries, how populated they were, what kind of resources they had. It took Peter a few minutes of slugging through his foggy brain before the words clicked.

Chameleon was trying to relocate.

He was trying to relocate with Peter.

Staying in the city was probably too much of a hassle for him now. There were too many ties to Peter Parker here, too many strings attached, and too many people who would eventually go looking for him. It was only a matter of time before he was caught. Chameleon was looking for a way out. Peter didn't know how he planned on smuggling him out of the country, where he wanted to go, or what he planned outside of toting Peter along like a human carry-on, but he wasn't going to sit here twiddling his thumbs waiting for it to happen.

No more mistakes. No more stupidity. He was getting out of this now and he was getting away from Chameleon for good. If he needed to disappear and live in the sewers for a few days (weeks? Months?) he'd do it. He'd sit there with the sewer rats, and wait, and figure out a plan. Find a way to contact an ally, maybe try Wade again, and get out of this mess once and for all. He's sick of playing the damsel and he's tired of his mind being played with like a child's toy.

It's time to get the fuck out of dodge.

He'd make his move tomorrow. Chameleon disappeared every two days or so, usually accompanied with a gun. Sometimes it took an hour, sometimes less than 30 minutes, but it was an open window of time that Peter could work with

Peter pretends to sleep. Humans are prone to habit, so Chameleon doesn't have a suspicious thought when he pokes his head into the room and sees Peter passed out in the bed, chest heavy with slumber. He lingered inside to adjust the blankets and fix the pillow supporting Peter's neck, and topped it off by sweeping Peter's hair out of his face, touch lingering too long. Even when he pulled away, Peter could sense him there, standing silently at the edge of the bed, watching him. For a horrifying minute, Peter thought Chameleon saw through his ruse and had to force himself to keep his eyes shut.

Go away, go away, just go away.

Eventually, Chameleon left. And like the creature of habit he was, he left the door open so he could keep an eye on Peter as he cleaned up the apartment.

This was normal. Only 10 minutes passed before he deemed their living quarters clean and nodded to himself. His fingers went to the belt at his waist, fiddling with the notch and his form changed. Messy brown hair sprouted from his scalp, the white mask became skin, his shoulders got a little wider and his height a tad shorter.

Peter forgot how to breathe as he stared at himself.

Chameleon grabbed the gun he'd placed on the counter and wrestled on a hoodie Peter recognized as his own. Humming softly to himself, Chameleon slid the gun in the pocket, grabbed a knife from the kitchen, and using Peter's face as his disguise, left the apartment.

Peter waited silently, straining his ears for any indications that Chameleon was coming back. When the coast was clear, he dropped the facade and sucked In a deep breath, clearing his fog-riddled head, and got to work.

He squirmed and arched his neck backward to look at the hairline fracture in the bed frame. Chameleon still hadn't noticed, and re-handcuffed Peter to the sturdier side, so it was now or never. He positioned the cuffs close to the juncture, between the steel bars and the frame, and pulled. The cuffs clanged hard against the bar, almost echoing through the empty space, and his head snapped to the door, listening for the sound of footsteps returning. All he heard was his own heart pounding in his ears. Anxiety was acid on his tongue. He returned to the bar, trying again.

His body didn't appreciate the strain of effort, and if he slowed down to actually consider his current state, he'd throw up. Swallowing it down, he glared at the bar, adamant about keeping his focus.

Come on, come on. He was so close. He pulled again, hard, and the fracture grew just a little. If he were at his full strength this would be child's play, but just moving made him want to shrivel up and die. But freedom was waiting beyond these cuffs, he could hear it calling him. And as a true American, he followed that call of freedom, just like Captain America taught him.

Peter stopped, repositioned the cuffs, and took a deep breath. He squeezed his eyes shut, balling up nausea and throwing it far far away, and counted to three.

1...2..3!

He yanked as hard as he could and the bar finally, finally, came free. The frame broke with a loud SNAP and his arms collapsed on top of him, followed with a few stray pieces of the frame. The bar broke, and a jagged edge caught his wrist painting a running, sticky red line down his arm, but Peter didn't have time to register the pain.

He needed to go now.

There was no telling when Chameleon would be back. Time was draining out of the palm of his hand and he needed to leave. With his arms freed he reached down and broke the frame of the bed near his feet. A few quick tugs and they were free as well. He wasn't strong enough, or even healthy enough, to try breaking the cuffs. He'd already established that it was a hard thing to do, even at full-functioning capacity.

He eased his legs over the bed and hobbled to his feet. The cuffs barely gave him the length to take a full step and he had to shuffle across the room. It would've been humiliating if nervous sweat wasn't dripping down his neck, or if his heart leap didn't leap at every sound. Did Chameleon still have the key on him? Did he hide it? Was there even more than one?

Frantic, Peter took a pit stop by Chameleon's side of the bed and eased the drawer open. Inside was a decent pile of throw-away syringes and several bottles labeled: Carfentanil. Peter picked up one of the bottles, holding it up to his face. He recognized this drug. It was used to sedate elephants, incredibly potent for human consumption, and so dangerous you can't touch it with bare hands. He knew this because Kraven used it to sedate him. Nice to know Chameleon picked up a few tricks in his time with the Sinister Six. This was probably one of the few drugs that had a heavy-enough effect on Peter, which explained why Chameleon managed to keep drugging him so heavily.

He wondered if this is why he hasn't gotten better and why he's been feeling so weak, even when not drugged. Yes, he was feeling a little better, but his body should've been able to overcome a head cold if he was laying in bed eating soup all day. Getting injected with this, even for one day, would've killed dozens of healthy, full-grown adults, and healing factor or not, his body couldn't keep taking it. He put the bottle back and snapped the drawer shut again. The key wasn't in there.

He shuffled into the living room, frantically looking through drawers or in nooks for a hidden key, his desperation growing by the second. He fumbled to a stop when a faint BANG reverberated through the building. It was small, and deep inside, probably towards the lower floors or basement. A gunshot. That meant Chameleon was on his way back up. He always came back after that shot.

There wasn't time to find the key, he had to leave now. The door was locked when he rattled it, so with a deep breath, he yanked and broke it off its hinges. Only one hinge snapped, and the door teetered, connected to the wall by one hinge, and hit the floor with a loud THUD. Peter tried breaking the last hinge off, but his feet didn't have enough room to kick it down, so he stumbled over it, collapsed on the floor once, and hobbled back to his feet. He scrambled down the hall, breaths coming out heavy and labored through panic. Sweat dripped down his neck and anxious fear shot throughout his body like carfentanil. But he kept going, doing his best not to trip and fall over his feet when the sound of a door slamming reached him.

He froze, straining his ears, and his heart leaped into his throat as footsteps echoed through the stairwell down the hall. Chameleon was on his way.

Chapter Text

Wade was starting to pick up hints of aggression and it wasn't just because Not-Peter kept shooting him in the head.

No, it's because he was shooting him everywhere else now. And stab. He's been stabbing him too. Not-Peter's grip on his stolen personality was starting to slip too, but just barely. Wade could tell with small hints, like the way he's started mumbling to himself whenever he thinks Wade is too choked on blood to notice. Or how he fiddles with the gun, checking the barrel, counting the bullets, looking over the cartridge. All those nooks and crannies that Peter wouldn't know about because he's only fired a gun a handful of times - all in Wade's supervision - and he still wasn't keen on shooting one, much less memorizing its ins and outs. He wanted to get Real-Peter to dismantle a gun and put it back together to help him overcome his fear of them because Peter's crafty little fingers were greedy for knowledge and he didn't like things he didn't understand, but after watching this Fake-Peter handle one like he's been doing it for years, Wade came to the conclusion that he didn't like the sight of a gun in Peter's hands.

It's not my Pete, though, he had to remind himself. At this point it was a mantra in his head, playing loud enough to drown out the voices. If he let the voices have their fun for too long, he might start believing them, and then this sick fuck's plan would work, and Wade had a high record of ruining evil plots and he wasn't about to let that go now.

But yes, he was starting to pick up a lot of aggression in Not-Peter and it didn't match up with the face he was wearing at all. Peter was plenty aggressive on his own, but this was different. Different habits. Different body language. Not-Peter was getting frustrated, and while it might not be because of Wade (What could he do? He was innocently staked to the ground like a vampire pinned for dissection) it had to be something else.

"Petey giving you trouble?" Wade asked, spitting out a glob of blood. The large gnarly gash across his face was healing up nicely, but one eye was still too horribly mangled to see through, so Not-Peter's twisted face was blurry and out of focus.

"Shut up, Wade."

"That wasn't a no. Pete's a stubborn son of a bitch. Believe me, I know. Did you know it took him 9 months to tell me he liked me? The loser kept it all bottled up inside him forever. We could've conceived and had a baby in all the time it took for him to admit he wanted to tap this ass. I mean, it took me 10 months to admit I liked him back, but that's not the point. He's a stubborn prick and once he decides he's not going to move, he's gonna dig his heels in the dirt and not let go."

"I said to shut up," the gun snapped back towards his face, the hammer audibly clicking, but Wade rolled his eyes.

"Yeah, shoot me, that's gonna solve your itsy-bitsy problem. You know what you need? A long vacation elsewhere. Go relax, think about what you did wrong, and in a few months you can try again. You're gonna fail then too, but I've tried to read a lot of self-help books, and they always say to pick yourself back up and -" BANG! The gun's nozzle went downward and a bullet pierced his stomach and Wade broke off with a cry and a grunt, "try again," he finished in a pained groan.

Not-Peter took the knife out of his hoodie pocket, still smeared with blood, and Wade closed his eyes because he did NOT need to see Peter stalking towards him with a knife. Maybe in a few of his bolder fantasies, but none of them had that angry look in Peter's eyes. The knife slit his throat - a personal favorite of Not-Peter's, Wade noticed - and as Wade choked on blood, he stabbed the knife deep into his body until it was sunk to the handle.

"Is that a knife in my chest, or are you just happy to see me," Wade garbled.

Whatever Not-Peter had to say was interrupted by a beep from inside his hoodie. Ignoring Wade, he brought out a phone and whatever he saw on it made his eyes widen. That was panic. Wade's seen it on enough faces to recognize the widening of the eyes and paling skin like someone found out their cat was roaming around a dog impound.

It looked like an alarm of some kind from what Wade could see in his position. Cameras? An alarm system? Was someone knocking around the building, finally checking out the gunshots? Or was it Peter? The real Peter?

Whatever it was, Not-Peter didn't look happy, and before Wade had the opportunity to annoy information out of him, he was shot in the head. Cool. Crisp. And brutal. Not even turning around to say goodbye to Wade's deadened body, Not-Peter stormed out of the room, his form shifting as the door swung closed behind him.

But he made a mistake.

He should really look when he's aiming and check to make sure his target is dead. A rookie mistake really. One that's going to cost him now. Wade lifted his head. A good portion of his ear was gone, and through the blood white pieces of his skull were visible, but his brain was still very much intact, which meant no fatal headshots today. The bastard missed.

And it looked like the perfect time to try some shenanigans of his own. He's been waiting for the ideal opening. Not-Peter watched him too closely when they were in the room, and always made sure the stakes were firmly in place before he left. But he was distracted this time, and that was just sloppy. Really, he should feel bad. Wade's embarrassed on his behalf.

He shook his arm, testing the stake stabbed through his flesh, and concluded that it was still pretty sturdy. He leaned his head back, closed his eyes, grit his teeth, and yanked on his arm. He had to swallow the scream as his arm tore around the metal stake, muscle tearing from muscle like warm bread, and new pools of blood puddled under his flesh. He tore again and had to violently yank his arm a few times to snap the bone in half before it finally broke around the spike and his arm flopped to his side at all the wrong angles.

A clean break would have been preferable, but he was working on a deadline. He couldn't be sloppy with this though. 1) he had more finesse and professionalism than that, and 2) who knows when Not-Peter would be back, and frankly, Wade wasn't a fan of real Peter being in possession of this poser any longer. Call him an overprotective boyfriend, but he had something to say when psychopaths kidnapped his lovebug and held him captive for indeterminate amounts of time.

It takes too long for his arm to knit itself completely, and it's not even totally healed when Wade props himself up and starts on the other arm. He doesn't need to break this one, just needs to slide it over the top. There's less damage that way, and less time it'll take him to heal. It still hurts like a bitch though because the skin healed around the metal stake, but it's a step up from self-mutilation.

He does have to pry the stakes out of his thighs and legs though but give or take 5-10 minutes, there are bloody metal spikes piled near his mangled arm and the rest of his limbs are free. Getting to his feet with a bunch of bleeding holes in his body (don't you snort at that, Wilson. Don't do it) is a struggle, but he's walked away from worse, and there's no time for nonsense - like recuperating.

He needs a weapon. A gun would be nice, but all he had were stakes and...

He looked down at the knife still protruding from his chest. Yes, that'll work just nicely. He wrapped his fingers around the hilt and slowly pulled it out, which hurts like a bitch, but such is life, and right now it feels more like an annoying sting compared to what he's used to. The anger helps too. That sweet, burning, all-consuming anger that puts fire in his veins and mania in his eyes.

His costume is torn and frayed beyond belief, in large swaths across his body. Blood, new and old, stained whatever piece of cloth it could find and clung to his skin in a variety of dried flakes and flowing red streams. The single lightbulb in the room flickered, sending dark shadows over the valleys and rivers of his pockmarked flesh. To anyone who might've been watching, he would've looked like a demon sent straight from hell. A vessel of the Devil.

And this little Devil wanted to spill some blood.

With one step out the door, Wade Wilson sidestepped to let Deadpool take the reins, and with flashing eyes and a wide, manic grin set off by the pain still rattling deep in his body and heart, Deadpool pulled himself up the stairs.

It's hunting season.

Chapter Text

Peter panics. The footsteps coming up the stairs are getting louder, and all he can do is react. He turned to the closest door and wrenched it open. He didn’t need to, it wasn’t even locked, and the creak that squealed from the hinges was loud and ominous, and he winced.  It feels like a cracking whip in the silence. 

He hobbled inside. It mirrored the layout of his apartment, but it lacked personality or substance. The walls and floors were bare, and the wood floors grimy. His first instinct is to get as far away from the door as possible, so he half hobbled, half hopped to the bedroom, and by the time he stumbled in his head was a hot pounding and his stomach felt as stable as a turbulent ocean. He sagged against the windowsill, taking deep breaths, and then wrenched the window open.

They were barred. Who took the time to bar windows this high up? He wrapped his hand around one of them incredulously. Were all of the windows like this? Or just the ones closest to the room Chameleon was keeping him in? Did Chameleon anticipate that he would come here? 

Each thought was a punch in the gut. The cold bite of the metal drilled into his fingers. The cold air was pleasant to his feverish skin, but the longer he stood there the more the chill settled deeper into his body. The city was under assault from the clouds and snow, that was the only comparison that Peter could think of. It looked like an assault. The wind was howling and aggressive, and the snow came down like droves of bullets. His heart squeezed and he tightened his grip. The first pull is weak, the second is barely better. 

Any minute Chameleon could come bursting inside, tase him with that stupid remote, and drag him off. 

His heart picked up speed and his mouth went dry at the thought. No, that wasn't going to happen. Not this time. 

With more force, he yanked at the bars. It took only a minute for him to wrench them off, but it felt so much longer. With a final grunt and shaking arms, the bolts keeping the cage up burst from their holdings and fell to the ground below, quickly eaten up by the snow. The bars themselves dangled from his hand for a second before following suit.

It was hilarious that he was already winded. Funny in a bitter way that twisted like a barb in his chest. Something as simple as breaking these bars made him exhausted. He braced against the windowsill, clutching the edge to pull himself up, but a strong gust of wind billowed against the building and he shuddered. He was already shaking, and his fingers were going numb. His nose was running, and his head pulsed like an achy drum. He wavered and leaned against the window instead. 

He couldn't go out there. Not like this. Chances are, if he tried climbing this building with his bare hands and feet, he was going to get frostbite. Or he was going to slip and die. If he made it to the roof, how was he going to get down from there? If he made it to the street, where was he going to go? How long would he last until his thermoregulation took effect and he collapsed in the street? 

Frustration grabbed him by both shoulders and dug deep into the meat of his flesh, the ledge cracked under his hands. He couldn’t stay here either, dammit . Everywhere he looked he was trapped. 

The walls were closing in on him. He was caught between two rocks and they were crushing. If Chameleon wasn't already up the stairs, then he would be soon. He might be right outside the door right now. Time was slipping, if Peter didn't act soon, then he was going to find himself right back where he started, and he was sick and tired of losing. 

He wouldn't go out into this storm, not yet. But maybe he could make it look like he did. He smudged the snow sticking to the wall outside the window to make it look as though it had been disturbed, straining as far as he could reach, before retreating back in. The closet didn't have a door, but it had a pocket of space hidden behind a corner that he could hide behind. As long as Chameleon didn't look inside he wouldn't be spotted. 

The door to the apartment creaked and Peter hobbled into the closet, sliding against the wall and out of sight just as footsteps scurried through the threshold. They slowed as they entered, careful, giving the faintest scuff or creak as the person they belonged to crept throughout the room. 

Even though Peter stopped breathing at all, he still had to clap a hand over his mouth, afraid that his presence would be too loud. There was no quieting the frantic beat of his heart or the way it beat its fists against his rib cage. 

The creaking got closer and every fiber of his being froze. He was convinced that if he pushed himself any farther into the wall he'd be heard. If he so much as loosened his muscles, Chameleon was going to peak around the corner and find him. 

The footsteps got faster as they approached the window and for a long excruciating moment it was quiet. He couldn't tell if his trick was working or if Chameleon was giving the room a suspicious side-eye glance. It wasn't exactly an original idea to hide in the closet. In fact, it was the kind of thing Peter would've made a joke about if the situation was different. 

If only he could joke and take the edge off.  He couldn't think. He couldn't breathe properly. With his lungs frozen and his hand fused over his lips, his breathing still felt loud. Any moment those footsteps were going to approach the closet and he'd be done for. That's it. 

Then Chameleon cursed and Peter’s heart jumped. 

The wood creaked again, closer to his hiding spot and he flinched, but then they were receding out of the room. They ran through the rest of the apartment, and were out the door in seconds. For a moment all Peter could do was sit there. 

When he was positive Chameleon was gone, his hand dropped from his mouth and he took a deep shaky breath, filling his screaming lungs. His headache was so much worse, he thought he might actually pass out. 

But there were better places to pass out in, like his own bed, or a dumpster. 

Straining his ears for signs of Chameleon, he crept out of his hiding spot. His shuffling gait made small scrapes against the floor, but he couldn't do anything about that unless he found a key to the cuffs. If he was spotted, there was no way he was going to be fast enough to outrun Chameleon. So his only option was to not get caught. As much as he wanted to throw all caution to the wind and book it down the hallway with the speed of a disabled rabbit, time was his friend. Caution was his ally 

He waited by the wall of the front door. There were no signs that Chameleon was even on the same floor anymore. But Chameleon was crafty. He could be anywhere. Be anyone . He's probably going to try catching  Peter off guard or by posing as Aunt May in the hall, or calling his name as MJ in the stairwell. 

He wasn't falling for any more tricks. This game was over. 

With the coast clear, he crept into the hall. There would be no wallcrawling with his hands and feet bound like this, but he could probably pull himself up a wall if he was desperate. 

Each step was torturous. The longer he was out in the open the more certain he was that Chameleon was going to catch him. 

I should be bringing the fight to him, he admonished in his head. I shouldn't be running away like this. Find a Chameleon and show him what you're really made of. 

It was tempting. So very tempting. Nothing sounded sweeter than giving Chameleon the punch down. But he’d been burned once already, and he was twice shy. Chameleon managed to overpower him before, and being as sick as he was, it wouldn't be hard to do it again. As much as it irked him, he couldn't rush headlong into this. 

He made it to the stairwell without interruption, and descended down the stairs. He had to grip the railing to not trip and fall, so his progress was slow. At least in this echoey stairwell, he would be able to hear Chameleon coming. On the downside, Chameleon could probably hear him too. 

He was only a few flights down before a noise below echoed throughout the cavernous space. He couldn't tell if it was a door opening, or if it were boots stomping down the stairs - it could’ve been both as far as he knew - but he didn't wait around to find out. 

He scrambled down the steps, barely managing to keep himself upright. He made it to a floor landing, and shoved the door open. It slammed closed after he shuffled onto the musty carpet floor, and winced. Chameleon definitely would've heard that. He needed somewhere to hide. 

In his rush, he tripped over his feet and hit the ground hard. The ground soaked up his drive and for a moment he felt every ache in his being in one overwhelming wave. His entire body shook as he wiggled to his knees, and then back to his feet, wasting precious time.  

He hobbled to one of the rooms, rattling the doorknob. This one wasn't locked either. 

But he must've misjudged how far off that sound really was. Just as he was wrenching the doorknob out of its place, the door to the stairwell flew open and someone large stepped inside. Peter's heart leapt into his throat, and the knob dropped from his hands. For the first few seconds, his heart ached. 

Then fear struck him in the chest. It gripped him by the throat, squeezing hard. His body buzzed and a tingle swept across his brain and the back of his neck. He shuddered.

And then fight or flight took over and his fear was burned to ash by stone-cold fury. Peter grit his teeth, glaring at the intruder with loathing malice. "You tried this on me already," Peter snarled at the Deadpool standing in the door. They were holding a bloody kitchen knife. The same one from that damned fake apartment.  "I'm not falling for the same trick twice!" 

He wasn't much of a killer, but Wade always did manage to bring out his more aggressive side. 

With a shout, he lunged. 

Chapter Text

Wade loves playing games. 

This might come as a surprise to you, but he’s great at strategy. If it involved breaking down an enemy’s defenses and squeezing out every last one of their weaknesses, he was the merc for the job. Not a lot of people believed that about him, or maybe they just never looked close enough to tell. To them, he was a bumbling, trigger-happy lunatic who happened to take bullets like a champ. That’s what made him dangerous, right? That he could just keep coming back over and over and over again. 

Partly true, but they were wrong. Wade was killing people long before he got healing powers wrapped in a pretty silver bow. And he’d kept himself alive, something his targets couldn’t say.

But that was their mistake, wasn't it. It would’ve been annoying if he didn't rely on it. He savored the moment those dumbasses realized they made a crucial mistake. 

"1...2...3," he counted slowly as he climbed the final step of the basement and entered the main lobby of the building. It was similarly built like the one he and Peter lived in. It was easy to imagine a dead plant on the front desk, and replace the smell of dust and grime with an old musty carpet. 

"4...5...6..." 

The elevator was out of order, which made sense. This building was not well kept and looked like it had been abandoned for years. But someone had made a habit of walking the same route. A grimy path had been worn into the carpet, trodden from one face-snatching fatherfucker who walked this hallway multiple times a day. He followed it to the stairwell door.  

“7…8…” 

He swung it open, stomping into the narrow chasm of space, and let it slam shut behind him. The sound that followed was loud and echoed throughout the stairwell. Subtly wasn’t one of his concerns. He wanted Chameleon to know he was coming. It made the game more fun. It’ll make the payoff sweeter. It’ll give him so much more satisfaction in the long run. 

He didn’t even have to wait long. 

Somewhere above, there was a scuffle, like someone had tripped, and a moment later he was answered by another echoing door. Wade twisted the knife in his hands, rolling its hilts around his fingers eagerly as he grinned. 

“9…10…ready or not, here I come.” 

Chameleon was not good at hide and seek. Wade supposed he would be a lot better if he had a crowd he could disappear into. But he wasn’t in his element, he was locked inside this building with Wade, and he made the terrible mistake of pissing him off. Really, he brought this on himself. He was the one that brought Wade here, he was the one who meddled in his life, he was the one who thought he could get away with it, and honestly, that was just bad strategizing on his part. 

It helped that he didn’t know Wade was free yet. 

Surprise! I found you! And my reward? All I want you to do is hold this knife in your chest for me. Thanks, you’re a doll! Mwah! Mwah! 

He started up the stairs slowly, but the higher he climbed the more riled he felt, until he was running, taking 3 steps at a time. It was hard to pick up where the sound started and where it stopped in an echoey place like this, but he didn’t think it was far off. Most of his injuries were healed up by now, save for a few minor aches and pains. But even if he was bloody, broken, and in pieces on the floor, he would be crawling up these steps with the knife clenched between his teeth. 

It took him a minute or two to find the door, and he knew it was the right one because the doorknob was dented. His grip on the knife got tighter. The urge to stab and keep stabbing was a revving engine in his limbs. He felt like one of those wind-up toys, but instead of walking or talking it was extreme violence. 

“Knock, knock,” he grunted and kicked the door open, stepping inside to meet his prey. 

What he sees makes him pause, but only for a second. Honestly, it makes his blood boil even more. 

Chameleon had to know that Wade was coming after him. He wasn’t subtle about the noise he was making, and who else in this building would be out for blood? He didn’t have to know for long, it was a simple equation to put together. And now, here he was trying to play on Wade’s sympathies. Trying to weasel his way under his skin and prick at his heart. No amount of physical pain would stop Wade, but seeing Peter staring at him like this, wide-eyed and shaking, was like getting his heart ripped in half.  

Chameleon replaced Peter’s hoodie with a pair of rumpled pajamas. The healthy glow of his face was replaced with pale, sweaty skin that looked clammy to touch. This Peter had bags under his eyes and limp, ragged hair. His hands and feet were bound with a pair of thick black cuffs, and the skin around his wrists and ankles were rubbed raw. There was a gash on his arm that left trails of red blood running down his skin. His eyes and cheeks were sunken too, and in the faint light of the corridor, he looked frail. Sickly. Not at all like the Peter he left behind when he took that job.

But hadn’t Chameleon already done this? Pretended to be Peter to get the upper hand on him? He’d stuffed himself in a corner in that gutted building, pretended to be cold and unconscious, and when Wade got close enough, he shot him in the head. He wasn’t going to make the same mistake twice. The guy probably had a knife stuffed inside his pajama pants and was going to stab him in the neck the moment he turned his back.  

Not-Peter looks surprised to see him. A moment of vulnerability that flashes across his face like a ray of sunlight streaking over a moving car. And then those sickly, bruised eyes are glaring at him, and every muscle in his body goes rigid. 

“You tried this on me already,” he snarled. His voice is raspy and raw and his arms and legs shake as he falls into a braced stance, “I’m not falling for the same trick twice.” 

Damn, Chameleon was good. Wade had to give him kudo’s for technique and craft, he really knows how to get into the head of his character. Wade would've been impressed if it didn’t give his heart an aggressive, violent,  and not-at-all-friendly noogie.  He wasn’t a fan of emotional pain. Only his truly closest archenemies were allowed to break him down to the human-incarnate of the Great Depression, and Chameleon hadn’t whined and dined him enough to reach that level of their relationship. 

Not-Peter lunged and that’s how Wade knows this can’t be the real deal. 

Real Peter is fast. Super-fast. Incredibly fast. Not as fast as Quicksilver, or any of those handy dandy speedsters, but he’s fast . Even with a head cold he would’ve been able to punch Wade 5 times before he even moved. Peter was agile and quick on his feet, constantly moving and jumping around the walls like a red-and-blue bouncy ball. This Peter is slow. His punch, while still fairly quick, is nothing compared to the speeds of the real Peter. Wade dodges it easily, tucking and rolling to the side with the knife poised in hand. 

“I have to agree,” Wade said, “These tricks are getting pretty old. Try something new before your audience gets bored of the same ol’ shtick. Newsflash , anyone can commit identity theft.” 

Not Peter stumbled when his fist didn’t meet his target, but he recovered and managed to stay on his feet. His skin was looking a little flush now, like even this much effort was wiping him out. Wade didn’t like seeing Peter like this almost as much as he didn’t like seeing a gun in his hand. He told himself not to think about it too much. Chameleon was just trying to get under his skin. That’s how he lost the last battle, and despite what people thought, Wade learned from his mistakes.

Panting hard, Not Peter swung at him again, “I’ll admit, your impressions are getting better. You almost sound like – AH !” he stumbled, holding his freshly bleeding arm. He hadn’t been quick enough to block Wade’s swipe with the knife, and blood ran down his forearm in a steady stream. 

Wade grinned, flipping the knife through his fingers with expert finesse, “Thanks. Now hold still. Or better yet, make it a little fun for me and run. Scream. If you beg, I might even let it go by faster. But not much. I want to take this nice and slow and sweet, darling .” 

Not-Peter bent over himself, arm pressed deep into his stomach, but when he looked up at Wade, something dark was staring back. A type of anger that Wade only ever saw in Peter’s body language when they were taking down human traffickers or abusers. 

“You-“ he said, and his voice is so strangled and tight it breaks off. It takes a couple seconds before he can say between gritted teeth, “You sick freak ,” He lunged at Wade again, harder this time. It was strange and awkward with the handcuffs, but even with them on he was surprisingly nimble. Enough to be a pain in the ass at least. 

Wade dodged by a hair and slashed him across the thigh. He didn’t need to do any stabbing yet, he could slash and cut and make him bleed before putting steel inside flesh for real. 

“Ooooh, are we going pre-relationship? I remember those days. I was called a sick freak a lot back then.” 

Not-Peter grunted, but ignored the pain and turned, throwing another two-fisted punch, but once again, Wade was quicker. 

“You’re disgusting,” he shouted, “You make me fucking sick,” a hand wrapped around the handle of a door, and with one aggressive tug he yanked it right off its hinges and hurled it at Wade. It made him stumble to his knees, but the throw was still strong. 

Yelping, Wade rolled to the side, hitting the wall. This wasn’t the most spacious place to fight, shame they weren’t down in the lobby, or even inside one of these apartments. But that was a minor thought as he stared at the splintered door, wide eyed. 

Wait a second…

“What happened to all that bullshit about wanting to protect me,” Not-Peter was yelling, voice getting shrill and dry, and it was painful to hear. He stumbled and pulled himself back to his feet, hobbled a step, and found another door, which he also ripped off its hinges. He threw it as well and this time it did hit Wade, and sent him careening down the hall in a broken mess of wood.

“How is this helping me? How isn’t this fucking torture? What do you want from me? Why – why do you keep doing this.” 

Not-Peter faltered, and then tripped, barely catching himself on his wrists. His entire body was trembling now. “Why…why won’t you leave me alone? Why-“ his voice cracked and broke off. He sounded broken. 

Wade, meanwhile, shoved pieces of the door off his body. How strong was Chameleon supposed to be? He couldn’t pull doors off their hinges, could he? It had to be a trick. A ruse. He untightened the screws on the doors to make it easier.

All of them? A little voice in his head piped up. On every floor?  

Unease churned in his gut. He found his knife where it had fallen from his grip and walked towards Not Peter carefully. His hackles were raised, but he hesitated this time. There was something off about this. Not off in the way Not-Peter usually was. But differently. Like Wade was missing a crucial piece to a puzzle. 

“You’re really stupid if you think I’m going to fall for this,” he said as he approached, even as doubt hung from his back like a too-hot coat.  

Not-Peter sniffled, not bothering to look up at him. “What do you want me to do?” he whispered, “What’s the point in all of this? Are you trying to get me to hate him? To not trust him anymore? Is that what this is about?” 

Wade didn’t answer. He didn’t know what to say.  

Anger rose in Peter like a swelling tide, flushing his skin red, but his head remained bowed, like he was too tired to lift it, “IS THAT WHAT THIS IS ABOUT? IS THAT WHAT YOU WANT? COME ON, SAY SOMETHING! YOU’VE ALWAYS BEEN SO FUCKING CHATTY BEFORE.” But he wasn’t looking for any answer, nor was he going to give Wade the opportunity to look for one. 

Wade was close enough now that Not-Peter pushed himself off the floor, and slammed into him, shoving them both to the ground. 

The position was awkward, especially with Not-Peter’s bound ankles and wrists, but he managed to get to his knees, and brought down his fists like they were clubs. It hurt about as much as clubs did. Too hard and too brutal to belong to a normal person. Wade knew super strength when it was beating bruises into his skin. 

And Chameleon didn’t have super strength. 

He’s rarely seen Peter let go like this. All his anger bubbling and spilling over. There was something animalistic about it, like a cornered beast on its last leg, doing whatever it could to keep itself alive. Not Peter was furious and tired and hurting, mindless with the urgency to get away. But Not Peter wasn’t Not Peter. He was Peter. Real Peter. The realization came to Wade slowly, hindered by whispers of doubt and paranoia that clung to his brain like sticky cobwebs. 

He wasn’t sure. He didn’t want to be fooled again. He didn’t want to wake up tied down, looking up at the face of someone he loved as they shoved a gun at him. 

Before Possible-Peter could hit him again Wade grabbed his wrist, maneuvered his leg, and flipped them over with the smooth expertise of a man with his skillset. He pushed Possible-Peter face-down on the floor and swung one arm around his neck in a chokehold position, but didn’t apply pressure. Not yet.

“Peter,” Wade said in his ear, “If this is really you, you’ve got to give me something right now. Anything. A sign, or a signal, or – or a hint that this is really you, because so help me if this is another trick I’m going to lose my fucking mind, and we both know I can’t afford what little of that I have left.”  

“Get the hell off me,” Possible-Peter snarled, bucking up and trying to loosen his grip, but the action is pitiful and useless.

Wade’s mind raced for different possibilities. He needed something only they would know. Something Chameleon couldn’t possibly figure out or bullshit his way out of. He leaned down and whispered into Peter’s ear, “Code White.” 

Possible-Peter froze. His entire body hardened, and Wade would’ve been convinced that he’d turned to ice if not for the hitch in his chest and the way his eyes widened. A silence fell over them, settling like a heavy blanket.  

“How do you know about that?" Peter whispered. His voice broke. Something hopeless and resigned molded the lines of his face, as if this was the final straw. His face darkened, watery eyes clamping shut and his lips twisted violently, "How the fuck do you know about that?" 

That proved it. This was Peter. The real him. There was no way Chameleon would know about Code White, they've only ever mentioned it once before, and it was before Chameleon started his surveillance. They haven’t said it since then either, so there’s no way he could’ve overheard it. The relief Wade felt made his body sag. 

"Peter-" was all he got out before Peter struck, 

"HOW THE FUCK DO YOU KNOW ABOUT THAT?" He screamed, shoving his elbow backward, slamming it into Wade. The cavity of Wade’s chest was immediately crushed, his ribs snapped, and pain exploded in his lungs like someone had shoved a live grenade down his throat. As Wade gasped for breath. Peter twisted and threw him off, and he hit the far wall. 

Wade’s vision swam in and out, chest heaving in broken, jerking pants as blood and pain welled in his throat. Lack of oxygen made his brain fuzzy; he couldn’t take in enough without his chest screaming in agony. Across from him, Peter was on his knees, glaring at Wade with such hatred it dove straight into his heart and twisted to the point of tearing. His arm was still bleeding. 

I did that , Wade thought, and the shame hurt almost as much as his collapsed lung. 

This is exactly what Chameleon wanted. He wanted Wade to hurt Peter, and it worked . Loathing flooded Wade’s body, filling his mouth with the bitter taste of self hatred and remorse. 

"Peter-" he tried again, but talking was hard and all that came out was broken syllables. 

"Shut up! Just shut up!" Peter screamed, and he’s crying. Tears ran down his face, and his chin wobbled, and he looked so hurt and anguished. His bound arms pressed into his chest and he bent over himself, as if Wade had thrust that knife into his heart. 

Wade could see paranoia hanging off him like chains, pain and uncertainty covering  him like a veil. His chest heaved as he tried to get himself under control, but he was at the end of his rope. He couldn’t take it anymore. 

"It was on Christmas Eve," Wade rasped, pulling himself into a sitting position. "We were sitting opposite of the Rockefeller Center. We were drinking hot chocolate and I was trying to convince you to go ice-skating with me. I - I said that as a Canadian, it was my divine mission to teach poor saps like you how to ice skate, and you told me you already knew how." 

Peter's chest hadn't stopped heaving, but he was silent. 

"The lights were pretty, and the giant-ass tree they decorated sparkled on the ice, and you cuddled up to me. You wrapped your arms around me and put your head on my shoulder, and said that you were freezing your ass off, but when I asked if you wanted to leave, you wrapped your arms around me tighter. Like you were going to web me down if I moved. It started snowing, and it was all so pretty that I said I want us to have a winter wedding. And without missing a beat, you said you'd prefer something in spring or summer." 

Carefully, Wade pulled himself from his position and crept closer to Peter, hands open so it was clear he didn’t have a weapon on him. "We've never talked about marriage before, but it felt so natural we didn’t even hesitate. But it was...scary too. We talked about it, whether or not we were ready for that step; if we wanted to get married at all,” he stopped next to Peter, who was looking down at the floor. 

"We decided that we weren't ready for that yet, but maybe in time...maybe we could…we decided to call it Code White, in case we ever wanted to bring it up again. But we haven't yet. I've wanted to a couple of times, but I...yeah. There's no way Chameleon can know about it. It was just the two of us on that rooftop, all alone. No one else." 

Peter looked up at him slowly, and it breaks Wade's heart that there's still skepticism there. What had Chameleon done to break his trust so completely?  

"What were the colors of the candy canes lining the rink?" he finally croaked. 

"Red and white, except for one candy cane that was spray-painted rainbow. It had a sign attached to it that said, 'Be Merry and Gay .' Which I read as ‘be married and gay,’ which led to the whole...you know, Code White thing." 

"What were we wearing?" 

"I was wearing my ultra-big, fur-lined winter coat, and you were the dum-dum who wore a regular jacket, and you had to snuggle up in mine because you got cold." 

"What were we drinking?" 

Wade smiled softly, "Trick questions? We started drinking the seasonal hot chocolate shit they were selling near the rink, but you forgot you couldn't have peppermint because your spiderness is a killjoy, and you dropped it over the edge when you took a sip." 

When Peter looked up at Wade there was tenderness in his eyes. Hope. A sliver of desperation. "Wade?" 

"It's me, Peter." 

Peter collapsed in Wade's arms. Wade couldn't tell if he was shaking from the cold, or if he was crying, but it didn't matter. He was feeling a little choked up himself. Either way it was time they got out of there. Peter's clothes were damp with sweat, and when Wade put a hand to his forehead, it was hot to the touch. Far too hot to be healthy, even by their superhuman standards. 

"Damn, you kinda got the hots for me, dontcha." 

Peter chuckled wryly, but it's weak, and watery, and buried in Wade’s shoulder, "I don't think this is the kind of hots you want." 

"We could make it sexy. I could rub some ointment on your chest. Give you a little kiss and steal the germ away." 

Peter sighed, relaxing on Wade's shoulder, and said in a wrecked whisper, "I just want to go home." 

"Then let's go home, baby boy. Can you stand?" 

Peter nodded, but when hefted to his feet, he immediately sagged into Wade's side, like all his energy had drained through the soles of his feet. Up close he looked worse. Pale, gaunt face, bags under his eyes so dark they look like bruises, sunken cheeks. In Wade's arms he looked fragile, and he's seen Peter throw trucks over his head, take bullets like a champ, and get thrown through entire buildings and walk it off. It was strange seeing him like this. So small and broken. 

It tore at Wade like angry beasts were digging their teeth into his flesh and shaking their heads, ripping him apart. He never wanted to see Peter like this. Ever . 

He bent and scooped Peter up, carrying him bridal style. Wade’s wounds were all closed up by now, so it was no trouble for him. Naturally, Peter thumped his hand against Wade's chest a few times in protest, and the words "I can walk," were a raspy whisper on his tongue, but he didn't fight past that. Which meant he truly was exhausted. 

"Let's go home," Wade said, but like everything in this damn universe, it took a turn for the worse.

The door to the stairwell was open, and when they turned, Chameleon was standing there, face overshadowed and looking none too pleased. He was wearing Wade's face, probably looking for Peter with the intent of catching him off guard, and Wade bared his teeth at the thought. Peter's spider sense must still be online too because he looked up, and when he saw the copycat his hands gripped Wade's shirt so tightly the fabric ripped. If possible, his face got paler, and if Wade didn't know any better, he'd say Peter looked almost afraid. 

"Oh good, you're both in the same place," Chameleon said, "Makes it easier for me then." 

Wade hefted Peter, curling around him protectively. He looked down at the man in his arms, but Peter’s eyes were glued to Chameleon, as if afraid to look away even for a second. 

"Okay stunt double,” he said, as calm and collected as he could because Peter already looked spooked as it was, “here's how this is going to go. I don't make offers like this very often, but you've caught me in a mood, so I'm going to extend it to you, and if you know what’s good for you, you'll take it and make both of our lives easier. I'm going to walk out that door, with my little shivering bundle of nerves over here, and we are going to leave . In exchange, I'm not going to hunt you down and turn all your nifty little insides into gross, bloody outsides, and make you chew on your own intestines. This is a one time offer, and I promise you're never going to catch me feeling so generous ever again." 

" Please ," Chameleon drawled and from the hoodie pocket he produced the gun that Wade had become so intimately aware of in the last few days. "We both know you won’t let me out of this alive." 

Wade's grin could’ve scared off a pack of sharks, " Oh , you got me. I’m a liar, liar, pants on fire." 

Chameleon fingers tighten around the gun's hilt, but he doesn’t pull the trigger. Not yet. He’s frustrated though, Wade can see it in the tense lines of his shoulders, in the way his jaw was clenched so tightly, and the way the space between his eyes creased in agitation. 

“Why’d you have to get out?” He said, rough with irritation, “Everything was going according to plan. Just another few days and we could’ve been out of here. You couldn’t have just waited .” 

Wade opened his mouth to say some very unkind, very unflattering things, but Peter fidgets, and he realizes Chameleon isn’t talking to him. He’s talking to Peter . 

“Told you I didn’t want to go with you,” Peter croaked, and Wade’s surprised he’s talking at all. He looked a hop, skip, and a blink away from unconsciousness. 

“But you’ll go with him ,” Chameleon demanded, jabbing the gun at Wade, “Look what he did to you,” he gestured to the bleeding cut. “He doesn’t deserve you.” 

“And you do?” 

The question catches Chameleon off guard, and he shuffled in his stance, suddenly defensive. “I could give you a good life. I can take you away from this responsibility hanging off your shoulders. I can make you happy .” 

“No you can’t,” Peter rasped, and he lays his head against Wade’s shoulder, reaffirming that he’s there, and solid, and real , “You never could.” 

“You heard the man,” Wade said, “He doesn’t want to go with you, and he doesn’t want your freaky-deaky brand of help. He made his choice.” 

 Chameleon’s eyes snap up to Wade, like he’d forgotten he was there, and that tension and frustration hardens into anger. “Then it looks like I have to make my choice too,” he said, and aimed the gun. 

Wade turns, curling around Peter as the first shot goes off, and the bullet tears through his shoulder, going through all those lovely muscles and tendons, and rendering his arm useless. Peter dropped, but he managed to catch himself, and roll with the fall. Getting back to his feet, on the other hand, wasn’t as easy, and he lay on the floor for a beat, arms trembling to bear his weight as he sat up. 

Wade didn't give Chameleon the chance to land a hit and rolled to the side as the second shot was squeezed off. A bullet whizzed past his head.

He was going for head shots again. Predictable, but it was one of the few ways to successfully incapacitate Wade for a period of time. He could die, the problem was keeping him dead. But unlike any other time in his life, he couldn't afford taking  a bullet in the brain and losing Peter all over again. 

Farther down the hall, the knife gleams into the low light where he'd dropped it prior. His eyes darted to Peter, and then back at Chameleon. He didn't want Peter to think he was leaving, but it would only be for a moment, and besides, Wade preferred having a weapon in hand. Charging head-on was an option, but it was only a good option if he wanted his head off . 

His hand wrapped around the doorknob Peter wrenched from the door earlier and chucked it at Chameleon as hard as he could. The next shot takes off a chunk of his ear, but the aim is off thanks to the brass knob, and Wade uses the opportunity to sprint down the hall, skid across the floor, and grab the knife. He’s rolling back up on his knees in seconds and aiming for Chameleon’s head. 

For a split second they make eye contact. Chameleon had changed his appearance in the brief window that Wade had his back turned; he’s wearing Peter’s face again. Peter’s happy, smiling, healthy face, and seeing it only gives Wade the briefest of hesitation, but it’s enough. His eyes darted down to the real Peter and Wade's heart stops. 

The world stops moving. 

" NO !" He threw the knife, but everything was in slow motion. Chameleon's aim dropped, and the next shot was deafening. The knife sunk deep into the meat of Chameleon's shoulders, but Wade's eyes are on Peter. He sees the way Peter’s body tenses and his head as it turns to find the source of danger. The way he starts to move out of the way, but he's still too weak and tired. He isn’t fast enough. The bullet hits its mark. 

"Peter!" Wade screamed, and he lurched to his feet. 

It only takes a few seconds to get there, but it feels like an eternity. He stopped next to the other man, skittering on his knees and giving himself a rug burn that goes unnoticed. Peter is hunched over himself, clutching his shoulder as blood seeped between his fingers, staining his shirt in deep red pools that get wider and wider the longer he stares. 

"Fuck," Wade hissed, " Dammit .” At least it looked like the bullet passed straight through, Chameleon was close enough to shoot him point blank. Wade tore off the feeble remains of the utility belt still wrapped around his waist and strapped it around Peter's arm to cut off blood circulation, but it didn’t look like it would hold for long. 

A gasp and grunt of pain drew his attention to Chameleon, who was slumped against the wall, hand around the knife embedded in his shoulder. It’s startling to see a mirror of Peter across from him, also clutching a shoulder wound with a fade screwed up in pain that's similar to the man beside him. Some second dimension shit that doesn’t sit well with him.  

Glaring, Chameleon stumbled up, going for the doorway. 

"No you don't," Wade growled, shooting to his feet, but he didn't pursue. His eyes wander back to Peter, who’s grunting, chest heaving, and bleeding, and in need of medical attention, not an empty hallway as Wade chases an over-enthusiastic cosplayer. He glanced back at Chameleon who was already making his way up the stairs, and muttered a frustrated, “ Fuck.” 

It couldn’t end with Chameleon getting away. Not again. Not like this. Not after everything he did. 

But....

Peter was his priority. 

Watching Chameleon go made Wade want to scream and hit something, and break something else, and maybe twist something over and over and over again until it broke too. He wanted to cause pain, and hurt, and destruction. To make someone feel as much hopelessness as he was feeling right now. His fingers were itching for it. 

Instead, he curled them around Peter, cradling his neck and adjusting his body so he can breathe easier. 

"Peter, can you hear me?" 

Peter’s eyes are blurry and unfocused. 

" Peter ?" 

They land on Wade, but they don’t recognize him. They’re flitting, and confused, and his breathing is getting erratic m, which isn't a good sign. He’s reached a point beyond understanding. He was in shock, and his body was shutting down. He needed help now. 

"This is going to hurt, baby," Wade said, sliding his hands under Peter's legs and back, "I'm sorry, but it's gotta be done." He lifted Peter, and the other man shouted as his shoulder was jostled and moved. "Sorry, sorry, sorry," Wade whispered, and pressed a kiss to his head in apology as well. 

He continued his litany of apologies as they descended the stairs. 

The snow was coming down, barely lighter than the last Wade saw. He paused long enough to take off whatever scraps of a shirt he had left and covered up any bare skin Peter had showing. He's careful to keep him tucked close to his body, giving Peter any heat he can provide. 

The longer he goes without medical attention, the more unresponsive he starts to get. 

 "It's okay now, Peter," Wade whispered into his hair, the other man’s head pressed against his chest as they embarked into the storm. "I've got you now. Just stay awake for me, okay. Just for a little longer. I've got you." 

Chapter Text

The St. Ellis hospital is quiet. 

Being as late as it is, the only people awake are the night staff, and a handful of too-anxious family members who were given the clear to stay overnight with patients. A blizzard rages outside, as it has been, on and off, for the past few days. 

Some were calling it the biggest snowstorm New York City has ever witnessed, already breaking several records. For everyone else, it was a very cold, very unwanted inconvenience. 

The biggest worry on everyone's mind was that it would knock out the city's power grid, and while the hospital generators would hold up, it wasn't a scenario they wanted to test. Thankfully, the weather reports were predicting that the storm would break late in the morning, so for the people inside the building, this nightmare would hopefully be over soon. 

Little did they know that their night was going to be anything but easy. 

The receptionist at the front desk is an ordinary-looking woman, with her brown hair pulled into a tight ponytail and wearing a standard pair of pale green scrubs. The night had been a dull one for her, and just as she started another monotonous game of Solitaire on her computer, the monitor to her right began blinking red. This was the first sign that her calm night was about to break. 

Almost everyone was gone, and the night staff itself was nothing more than a skeleton crew large enough to keep the institution running. The entire building was locked down for the night, save for the Emergency Department, but even those doors were closed. They had motion-sensing cameras outside the ED that notified her system when someone was outside, wanting to be let in. Only she and the few guards on duty could open the doors; a security measure to keep anyone with malevolent intent from causing havoc on the unsuspecting staff and patients. 

She'd opened the doors plenty of times for late-night patients with crazy stories about whatever injury they were sporting, but this one caught her off guard. They were in the middle of a blizzard, the city had issued an all-citizen home lockdown to keep people off the streets, and it was just past midnight. Who could possibly be out there at this hour? 

But there the light was, beeping innocently, indicating that someone had set off the sensors outside the door. 

Maybe it's just a stray animal, she thinks, or the storm blew some trash around and it activated the cameras . 

She swiveled her chair, the squeal of her shoes scuffling against the linoleum floor being the only other sound aside from the ticking clock in the corner. She brought up the camera feed to confirm her suspicions, but what she saw made her heart stop. She blinked, dumbfounded, and had to stop herself from rubbing her eyes to make sure she wasn't seeing things. 

There was a man out there. The camera feed was somewhat grainy thanks to the snow, so there wasn't a lot about him she could make out. He was shirtless, as far as she could tell, except for maybe a few scraps of clothing that clung to his shoulders. Snow frosted the tops of his head and shoulders, but past it, his skin looked...strange. Weird and almost surreal in the dull camera light. He was tall, broad, and big in every sense of the word. 

She's heard plenty of horror stories of creeps walking into hospitals at night from other members of the staff, and her first instinct is to keep the doors locked firmly shut. It didn't look like this man was injured, and who in their right mind would be walking around in the middle of a storm like this? But the situation throws her a curveball when she realizes that the man isn’t alone. There was something in his arms. 

No, someone . 

Whoever it was was covered in snow too, as much as the other man angled his body to shield him, and looked as motionless and pale as a corpse. Maybe it was a corpse. 

Her stomach dropped to her grey hospital shoes and her mouth dried up like the Sahara Desert. The man was shouting through the grainy comm outside, barely legible over the howling winds. 

"WE NEED A DOCTOR!" He was shouting, "LET US IN! HE'S FREEZING, AND HE'S UNRESPONSIVE, OPEN THE FUCKING DOOR!" and when she didn't move fast enough to buzz him through, he kicked the door so hard it shuddered. She could hear the thunk against the doors across from her and her heart jumped. 

She pushed the button and the doors swung open, and then another that let the staff know there was a medical emergency in the ED, before shooting to her feet and rounding the desk as the man entered the room. He was a lot more intimidating up close and she faltered for a fraction of a second before steeling herself. 

Off guard or not, this was an emergency dammit. This was her JOB. 

"He needs help," the man said, holding out the body, his voice has a rock-salt rasp to it that gives him a strange gravely tone, "He's not responding to me anymore. He's really cold, and he's hurt, I - I don't know if he-" 

"It's okay," the receptionist reassured him, "It's going to be okay, we're going to help."  

Thankfully, despite the short notice, the rest of the night staff were quick to respond as well, and within minutes three nurses were rolling a gurney down the hall. And just like that, the quiet atmosphere of the night was broken into shouts, and clamoring, as the smaller man was placed on the gurney. The wet pajamas he was wearing were soaked through with snow and blood and left watery red puddles dripping on the floor. He was gaunt and pale. Sickly. There was no way to tell that he was even alive if not for the faint rise and fall of his chest. 

The bigger man looked marginally better, however undressed he was. There were no feasible wounds on him, and she assumed the blood on his hands came from his friend. Red and black tattered fabric clung loosely to different parts of him, and it was a fucking wonder he looked as well as he did after trudging through a storm for who knows how long. The scars that litter every inch of his body are disconcerting though, each mottled piece of skin telling a story that no one could hear. 

The scarred man laid his friend on the gurney carefully but didn't back off to let the staff do their jobs. He clung to the man's hand, walking alongside him as they all moved inward. 

"Sir, please, I'm going to have to ask you to let go," one of the nurses said as he wheeled them around the corner. 

"I'm not going anywhere," the scarred man growled, leaving no room for argument. 

"I'm going to have to insist," the nurse says anyway because this is an emergency and they don't need another person hanging off them as they work, "We'll take care of him. I promise. His care will go a lot smoother if you let us handle this."

The scarred man thinks about that and then falters, hesitation flickering through him, and his grip on the sick mans' hand softened. But just before any of the staff could breathe a sigh of relief, like a switch, the sick man stirred, movements slow at first, but quickly getting more panicked as he felt the hand in his slipping. His eyes flew open, wide and panicked. 

"Wade?" he searched the faces hovering above him, chest heaving as he tried to seat up, " Wade?!" his eyes landed on the scarred man - Wade - who was back by his side in an instant. "Don't leave me," he rasped, voice thick with sickness and congestion, "D-don't leave - please, don't leave. Not again- please -" 

"Hey, hey," Wade shushed him, "It's okay, I'm not going anywhere. I’m not going anywhere." 

"But-" the nurse started. 

" I'm not going anywhere ," Wade snarled, and the threat in his tone settles the debate.

There's a reason people aren't allowed in the emergency room, but this guy is tall, thickly built, and there's something in his eye that suggests he isn't unfamiliar with blood, broken bones, and pain. If they wanted to force him to leave, they were going to need the help of the security guards. 

Whatever it would have to be dealt with later. They wheeled the sick man away to begin diagnosis, their long night only just beginning. 

Pneumonia. 

Head cold. 

Abrasions on the wrists and ankles. 

Injured shoulder. 

Blood loss. 

Near-frostbite. 

Abdominal pain. 

Cut on his arm. 

Cut on his leg. 

Breathing problems. 

Weight loss. 

These were just some of the things the sick patient, now referred to as John Doe, was medically diagnosed with. No one knew his name, but it was clear he'd gone through a terrible experience. As soon as he was rolled into an emergency room, he was connected to a breathing device and given a sedative to keep him calm. 

Or at least they tried to. 

The moment he saw the needle, he’d flipped out. The gurney bent beneath the palm of his hand, and it took 7 nurses and doctors, plus the burly scarred man, to hold him down. He’d been pleading for them not to put him under, begging not to be drugged. They tried to talk to him and figure out why, but he was becoming hysterical, upsetting his bleeding shoulder and making himself worse and worse. His aggression was only building, and if they didn't do something to settle him, he was going to hurt someone. 

Wade - the scarred man - hesitated, like he was going to force them to work on him awake, before squeezing his eyes shut and holding down the man's arms, telling them to stick the needle in now . When it was done, it was hard to tell who looked more upset, the patient or his friend, but it gave the staff the time they needed to do their job. 

It has been several hours since then. The patient was out of the surgery room where his bullet wound was tended to, and once again the hospital entered a state of temporary calm. The patient was tucked away in one of their rooms now, unconscious and lying-in bed, hooked to machines. There was an IV drip in his arm, a heart monitor keeping tabs on his vitals, and a breathing mask to help his lungs. It had taken a while to get his body temperature back up, but he had yet to open his eyes. 

Wade sat in the chair next to him, one hand on his chin, and the other wrapped around Peter's hand. He was exhausted, emotionally and mentally. Morning was fast approaching, and with it came the inevitability of the police showing up. And why wouldn't they? A half-naked man covered in scars, carrying another bleeding, half-dead man, was going to raise a lot of questions that Wade wasn't keen on answering. It didn't help that he provided none of the staff with information about him or Peter, only giving them the basics of Peter's medical history - but that wasn't much to begin with anyway. 

Besides, Peter was still wearing the handcuffs. Wade was certain they were from the Raft now. Their design was too strong and indestructible, they were built to hold superhumans, and nothing the staff had on hand could pop them open. Which was going to inspire a legion of questions on its own. 

So, yeah, they were walking a razor's edge by coming to the hospital, but he didn't know what else they could've done. 

Wade watched the unsteady rise and fall of Peter's chest, focusing on the heart monitor instead of the hospital stench seeping into his skin. He hated hospitals. They brought back bad memories of illness, and bad news, and dread, and pain .

He squeezed Peter's hand, "Just focus on getting better," he murmured, but he felt like he was reassuring himself more than Peter.

They couldn't stay here for long. Wade never really kept his identity as Deadpool a secret; it seemed unnecessary when his costume was constantly being blown up every other fight. But after becoming official with Spider-Man, he decided to put more effort into secrecy, and it turns out, he enjoyed the anonymity. It helped keep things quiet on Peter's end too, so that was a bonus. 

But it was only a matter of time before someone connected the dots. There had to be some newspaper or internet article about Deadpool, aka Wade Wilson, aka the merc who was glued to Spider-Man side most these days. 

The sooner he and Peter were out of there, the better. 

But Peter had just been checked in. The hospital staff did everything they could do in such a small window of time, but was it enough? Would it only be making Peter worse if they snuck out now? 

Wade rubbed his forehead hard, hoping to spark an idea, but the truth of the matter was that he didn't understand hospital nonsense, or what prescriptions Peter would need. There was a reason Spider-Man didn't frequent hospitals, and Wade didn't know how to figure out how big of a dosage Peter would need for medicine if he bought it himself. 

Besides, the longer they stayed, the higher the chance someone was going to recognize them. Wade wasn't entirely sure how it worked, but couldn't they match DNA to figure out who someone was, right? Would someone walk in and recognize Peter on the bed? There were so many ways this could go wrong. 

Wade chewed on his lip in thought. If Stark was back he could check in with him, and if not, maybe he could sneak Peter into Avengers Tower. It was leagues better than a hospital and at least there their superhero aliases would be given complete privacy - depending on whether or not Tony had a stick up his ass. 

It wasn't much of a plan, but it was a start. There are a couple of things he'll need to take care of first. Leaving Peter alone made him itch uncomfortably, but he needed to make a phone call and he didn't want to wake him up.

Digging a burner phone from one of his pouches, he scrounged up the number saved on it and quietly opened the door. Out in the hall, he kept the door open a crack so he could monitor Peter, but put the dialed phone to his ear. He didn't have to wait long for the person on the other end to pick up. 

"Wade?" 

"Hi Auntie," Wade said, and he has to work to keep exhaustion from bleeding through his words. "I found him. I have Peter." 

The noise Aunt May makes on the other end sounds like a sob and he can imagine her clutching onto the phone with white knuckles, one hand on her chest. It takes her a moment to respond, but when she does, her voice comes back choked and tight, "Is - is he okay? Where are you now? Can I see him?" 

"Easy," Wade chuckled gently, "I've got him, he's okay. We're at a hospital-" another choked sound, "But I can't give you any details just yet." 

"Why not?" 

Wade hesitated, warring with his next response. He didn't want to worry Aunt May, but they all needed to be on guard. "Because Chameleon got away. We can't risk an information leak." 

Aunt May is deathly quiet over the phone. It's a long moment of Wade fidgeting before she speaks again, "He got away?" 

There's a sharpness in her tone that makes Wade feel a little frantic. Like a little boy in trouble with his mother. "I'm-...I'm sorry May. I wanted to go after him, but it was a choice between him or Peter, and I -... I couldn't leave Peter behind. I -"

"Wade, it's -" but Aunt May cuts herself off, and the word okay hovers in the air.  Because honestly, was it really okay? "You made the right choice," she said instead, and her tone is gentle, "You've got Peter and that's the most I could've asked of you. As long as he's safe." 

"Yeah," Wade mumbled, leaning his forehead against the wall, "as long as he's safe." 

"'How is he?" 

Wade glanced toward the door, "He's...going to get better. The doctors already worked on him." 

"What's he being treated for?" 

"Auntie, I'm not sure if-" 

"Wade, he's my so-...he's my nephew. I can handle it. I need to know how he is." 

Wade holds his ground for a few seconds before breaking, "He's...not in the best shape, Auntie," he confessed in a whisper, "He was already in bad shape when I got there, and that motherfucker shot him in the shoulder before running -" a noise of pain from May as if she'd been shot herself. 

"But the doctors already patched that up, and he should come out of it as good as new," he hurried to add, "The bullet passed right through the shoulder, which is the best outcome you want from a bullet wound. It - uh...it could've been worse. It didn't hit anything important, and he'll be good as new with some physical therapy. It's going to be-" he didn't even know what he was saying anymore. He rarely made phone calls from the hospital, breaking bad news to someone who was more of a mother to him than what he could remember of his own mom. 

"Anything else?" 

Wade thought about lying. " Nope, that's all. He'll be better in no time!". Aunt May didn't deserve this kind of torment, hearing pain and suffering about the man she considered her son. But she'd asked and she was strong, it would be disrespectful to lie to her now. 

"He's got pneumonia. And they found high traces of Carfentanil in his system, so they think he was drugged." 

" Carfentanil ? What's that?" 

"It's an elephant tranquilizer. They're really scratching their heads about why he's still alive. Stuff's toxic as hell." 

Aunt May took a shuddering breath, but steeled herself, "What else?" 

"Blood loss. Weight loss. His wrists and ankles are pretty bruised and scratched up too. He has these handcuffs on him, and none of the staff were able to get them off. Nothing I have on me could either. It's really high-tech stuff; I think it's from that Raft robbery a little bit ago. They're sending some officers to take them off, but I don't think we should be here when they arrive." 

"That's...probably for the best." 

"I'm just...I'm not sure where to take him," Wade said, "I can bring him to Stark Tower, but if Stark's not there, it's going to be hard as hell sneaking him in like this." 

"What about that other organization? The one that works with the Avengers so much. SHIELD, is it?"

Wade chuckled wryly, "Believe me, Auntie. We don't want SHIELD touching him with a nine-foot pole. They'd love to have the both of us in their wheelhouse, and this is just the kind of debt they're looking for." 

"What other option is there?" 

Wade pinched the bridge of his nose hard, "I...I don't know. I want to take him home, but I'm not sure he'll last a week in his condition. I don't want to make it worse, but he can't stay here for much longer either." 

Aunt May was quiet. "You know," she said carefully, "before I started working at the FEAST center, I was a nurse." 

"Auntie-" 

"I know Wade, it's been a while and I may be a little rusty, but I know my stuff. If we can find a warm, safe place to stay for a while, and we had the right equipment, I think we could take him there. I don't," a brief hesitation, "I don't want you two out there with that - that man wandering around. It scares me." 

He’s forgotten what it was like to have someone worry for him. Someone who wasn’t Peter. Wade's face softened, "I hear you. Let me see what I can scrounge up." Noise from inside the room drew his attention, and Wade’s head jerked in the direction of the door, back going ramrod straight, "I have to go Auntie. But real quick, before I do, we need to start using code words so there are no more swaps or mishaps. My code word for you is Dynamite Dash, so don't tell anyone . Whenever you think you're talking to me, ask for the codeword first, and I'll do the same. Establish a code word with Mary Jane too. I'll call you when I have a plan." 

Aunt May agreed and the call ended. Slipping the phone into a pouch, Wade crept back to the room and opened the door, only to freeze in his tracks. His hands slowly moved up to show that he had no weapons on him. 

"Peter," he said carefully, "It's okay, it's just me." 

Peter is sitting up in bed and he isn't happy. Wade thinks he might've just woken up; the sedation the doctors used was supposed to keep him under for several more hours, but what they didn't anticipate was that he was superhuman and burned through drugs like a wick in an oil lamp. Still, his shaking body is struggling to fight off the lethargy, and his eyes are droopy and unfocused. His cuffed hands are up to his chest and trembling like shaking leaves. 

But it's the expression on his face that breaks Wade's heart. 

Fear. Wide-eyed, pale-faced, knuckle white fear. 

"It's Wade," Wade said, taking a slow, careful step inside the room, and Peter's entire body tenses, breath hitching in his lungs so hard Wade sees his chest stutter. The heart monitor was getting louder and frantic as it picked up his racing heart, and it wouldn't be long before a nurse or doctor came by to check the commotion. Cornering a confused and paranoid Spider-Man wasn't a good idea for anyone. 

"Code White," Wade said, "I know about Code White, I was there. It's me, the genuine article." 

But Peter doesn't move. He doesn't acknowledge the word, "You could've been listening in," he rasped, and his voice is so dry and hoarse he could've been mistaken for a longtime chain-smoker, "You could've heard us talking. You - you could've- " it doesn't take long for panic to infiltrate Peter's very being and his eyes flitted over to the window across the room, Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed. 

Wade forced himself to stay calm, even if all he wanted to do was step in front of the window so Peter couldn't make a break for it. That would send all the wrong messages and he doubted it would inspire any trust between them. So instead, he relaxed his stance, keeping his hands up. Body open and non-threatening. 

"Okay," he said easily, "That's fair. You're right, you shouldn't trust me right off the bat. Ask me a question. Any question you want." 

Peter's eyes narrow, like he's looking for the knife hidden behind Wade's back. Even as weak and medically intoxicated as he is, he glares like he's expecting a trick. 

After a long, tense moment, he asks, "When was the first time we met?" 

Wade smiled, wry and amused, "The Queensboro Bridge. You were riding with someone, it was, uh...Ken? Kent? Ellis? Ken Ellis? I don't remember him that much, but it started with a K. I needed to chat with him, and you just so happened to be in the passenger seat of the car, so I…just grabbed you and threw you off the bridge," he rubbed the back of his head with a small chuckle, "You were so pissed. It was no wonder you weren't holding back your punches. Cute story to tell the kids one day, huh?" 

Peter doesn't laugh, "Where did you and I fight the Hypno Hustler?" 

"I don't know, it was only ever referred to as 'high-level security prison''" Peter squinted at him, and Wade hurried on, "But the guy paid me to lure you there so you could help me bust him out. And it worked, but he was a complete sell-out. Got inside my noodle and sent me after you, but you snapped me out of it and we did the costume whammy jammy. I pretended to kill you, but you were really in my costume, and we got close enough to take him out." 

"Uh-huh....and who was the cheer captain we met in my hallucinations." 

"I was the cheer captain, and I looked great in my uniform." 

Peter's expression softened, but it was a small chip in his walls.  

"Who was it that killed Mr. Chang in his pharmacy store the night you came to town?" 

"The guy's name wasn't Chang, it was Cheng , and it was a grocery store, not a pharmacy," Wade approached him cautiously, "You thought I killed him and gave me a solid beating for it, which you never apologized for, but that's not the point. When I told you it was actually Hit Monkey, you and I tracked him down, and you got shot, and I ended up posing as you again and faked your death to draw him out, like the sentimental bitch he is. I'm also starting to detect a running trope of us swapping costumes in our runs," Wade stopped by the bed, "Guess I’ve always wanted to get into your pants." 

Peter's trying hard to keep up his facade, but his glare crumbles into doubt, "Wade?" 

"It's me, baby boy. 100% authentic Canadian beef." 

The doubt becomes overwashed with emotion and Peter grabs Wade and yanks him down into a hug, and like a balloon releasing all its pent-up air, Peter sags into him, deflated and shaking. 

"You're really here? This isn't another trick? I swear if this is another fucking trick, I'm throwing the both of us out that window." 

"Dark. But unnecessary because I'm the real me." 

It squeezes Wade's heart watching Peter struggle to keep his emotions under control, and being medicated probably didn't help his battle. His eyes are wet with the tears he's furiously keeping in, and he's gripping Wade so hard it leaves bruises blooming on his skin that heal immediately after. 

"What happened?" Peter asked, trembling, "I don't remember much after Chameleon shot me. Did - did you get him?" 

Wade swallowed hard, guilt and remorse creeping back on him like a darkening shadow, "No. He got away." 

Peter tensed, turning into petrified stone, and Wade ran his hands up and down his arms to relax him again, "Hey, it's going to be okay. I'm not going to let him come back. We're going to take all extra safety precautions, and our location will be hidden, and we're going to have more code words than a super-spy novel. That lizard isn't even going to make it past the front gate." 

Peter sniffed and dug his head in Wade's shoulder. He doesn't respond right away, and as much as Wade wants Peter to tell him that he understands, he bites his tongue to keep it to himself. "We're in the St. Ellis Hospital right now." 

"Hospital I know," Peter murmured, "Too tired to freak out." 

"Hahaha, that's okay. You don't need to worry a pretty, greasy hair on your head. I'll take care of everything. We're going to be moving locations soon." 

"How are we doing that?" 

"Still figuring that part out. I need to make a couple of calls and cash in a few favors." 

As if afraid Wade was going to disappear, Peter latched onto him, fusing their skin together, "D - Don't leave. I can't tell - I'm not sure if you'll be -" 

Wade ran his fingers through Peter's hair, tucking him closer with his chin on his head, careful of the tubes and wires. Peter wraps around him, fusing any bare skin of his to Wade's body.

 "I'm not going anywhere. I'll be right here in your line of sight, and you'll be in mine. We're not going to be caught off guard again. 

"What about Aunt May and MJ? Where are they?" 

"They're safe. Moved them to an undisclosed location the moment I found them. They'll be waiting for us at the safe house, and they'll have code words too so none of us get impersonated. Everything's been thought out." 

"B - but Chameleon is crafty and clever. How do we know he won't sneak in? How can we be sure?" 

"Everything has been thought out," Wade reaffirmed, "We're going to take every precaution. Chameleon isn’t going to trick us again." 

Peter didn't look as convinced, so Wade eased him back down on his back, and pulled the chair up next to the bed. He intertwined his hand with Peter's, squeezing tight enough that he knew he was being serious, but not enough to hurt. However clunky the handcuffs made it. 

"It's going to be okay," he promised, "Get some sleep, we're sneaking you out of here in a few hours." 

Peter lay back on the pillow, squeezing Wade's hand back with glossy eyes, "You're not going to leave?" 

"Petey, I don't trust anyone in this hospital to be alone with you. I'm not going anywhere." 

That comforted him a little. Peter relaxed into the pillow, even if the rest of his body was having a hard time doing the same. He ran a bruised thumb over Wade's knuckles, looking back up at him with those dark eyes of his. 

"He's not going to trick us again? Then Chameleon got to you too, didn't he?" 

"You don't need to worry about that." 

"What did he do to you?" 

"Nothing." 

"Wade." 

"It's nothing." 

" Wade ." 

"Peter please ," Wade said, exhaustion slipping through and he pressed an earnest kiss to Peter's knuckles, fighting off the memory of a darker, more sinister Peter standing over him. "Please, not now. Maybe later." 

"He did something bad to you," Peter murmured, and Wade can hear the guilt creeping into his voice. 

He wasn't having any of that. 

"Hey," he said, "He didn't do anything worse to me than he did to you. Don't go blaming yourself for anything that creepazoid did." 

Peter's eyes were shining, his grip on Wade's hand borderline painful, "You were all cut and bloody when you found me. Your costume was in tatters. Did he do that?" 

Wade closed his eyes, taking Peter's hands in both of his and pressing them to his lips. "Please, Peter. Please, I don't...I don't want to talk about that right now. Ask me again when we're in the safe house, okay. I'll tell you everything then." 

For a long moment, Peter stared at him, eyes following every groove and dip in his skin like he was mapping it out, and then nodded. Just once, a curt jerk, and he lay his head back on the pillow and closed his eyes. He's not asleep, and he probably wouldn't be for a while. But as long as he wasn't moving or stressing his injuries, it was fine. 

Wade dug his phone out of his pocket again and dialed up Weasel. He needed those favors cashed in, and maybe he'd have to deal out a few of his own. There were a couple of things he needed to get his hands on before they moved locations, and he wasn't taking any chances.  

Several hours later, a group of officers is making their way through the hospital. They got a call about two men who arrived early in the morning, covered in blood with one of them half dead. The staff were unable to get information out of them, but the patient had traces of Carfentanil in their system, had been shot, and had on a pair of handcuffs that were only ever seen in one place: the Raft. 

There was a story here, and if the hospital staff couldn't get answers, maybe the authorities could. 

If everything went right, then at the very least, they could weasel out information on who they are, where they came from, and what happened. If things went sideways, they would be making a few arrests.

They made their way up to room 63, followed by the doctor who tended to the patient. 

Hospital confidentiality was important, but some things weren't lining up. Nobody should've survived if they were pumped full of an elephant tranquilizer, much less with a gunshot wound, in the middle of a blizzard. The patient was speculated to be a mutant of some kind, given that he'd bent the medical table while being subdued. It might also explain why he was still alive. 

"Just follow my lead," the officer in charge told her partner as she knocked on the door. When no one answered, she turned the handle and stepped inside. 

"Excuse me, we need just a few minutes of-" she started, but stopped dead in her tracks. Her partner bumped into her, and then peered over her shoulder, eyes going wide. 

"Where the hell are they?" he cried. 

The doctor peeped inside as well and his eyes turned to saucers. "They were right here. This is their room, I was in here 15 minutes ago." 

Grabbing her radio, the head officer turned on her heels, "We've got a couple of runners. The patient is gone and so is his friend. Head down to the lobby and scour the perimeter. We need to find them." 

She hurried down the hall, away from the empty bed, from the empty room, cleaned so spotless it was like no one had been there at all.

Chapter Text

There are better options, Wade thinks that night, lying on a couch with an old tweedy blanket pulled up to his chin. He scowled at the stippled ceiling, the rhythmic thump thump thump of the ceiling fan becoming white noise as he tried to convince himself that he didn't just make a huge mistake.

It's dark inside the room, the only source of light being a pink My Little Pony night light. There are no windows. No closets. Just four walls and a locked door. The bed has a box spring and the frame is so close to the ground it'd be impossible for anyone other than Ant-Man to hide underneath. Still, he checks for monsters before they settle down for the night.

We could've gone somewhere else, he continues to think, whispering his thoughts with the same aptitude as his breathing, low and careful, afraid to break the silence.

Stark Tower is still an option. Maybe the Baxter Building if they're back from space.

Hell, if he swallowed his pride and dished out a few apologies (and even more favors) they could go to the X Mansion and hunker down at Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters. No villain in their right mind would attack a mutant school. Right?

Then again, if said villain played off being a mutant…

But no, instead they're trapped inside a near inhospitable building owned by Weasel. It's still in New York, so Wade can keep in contact with his informants, but out of the way enough that no one will pay it any mind. Bought under a false name, paid in cash, and despite what the records say, no one lived there. Only them. Four people, crammed inside a tiny basement safehouse meant for a maximum of 2; no windows, one door, one staircase.

It was the best he could do on such short notice, but the nagging (and frankly annoying) voice in his head is convinced he could've done better.

Maybe it's right.

Sneaking Peter, Aunt May, and MJ inside wasn't too much of a hassle. Their biggest concern was being followed or seen. Per Wade's request, any transaction between him and Weasel was kept just between them, and so close to the chest that Weasel knew he would be killed 100 times over if he spilled even a drop of information. Wade spent the better part of 20 minutes questioning the guy whenever they chatted, sprinkling in passcodes and trick questions to confirm he wasn't being tricked.

But they'd done it. Weasel even managed to get his hands on most of the medical equipment on Wade's list. Of course, some of it wasn't the latest or greatest, certainly nothing that held a candle to Stark technology, but it got the job done and that's all he could ask for. Within hours, they'd gotten basic necessities, and as soon as they were all inside, he asked Aunt May to draw up a list of anything else she'd need.

She had to look Peter over for this, and take a look at the hospital records Wade stole.

The reunion between aunt and nephew had been...tense, in a word. But not because they didn't miss each other. Far from it. Most of the tension came from Peter's end.

He had to lean against Wade as they entered the room, drowning in a coat, covered with a beanie, and wearing thick gloves that had to be strapped tight to his hands. Necessary for the winter chill, but Peter was sweating under all of it, hot with fever and trembling from exertion. The moment Aunt May and MJ saw him, they were out of their chairs, eyes wide and full of concern.

That concern tripled when Peter flinched backward, but it stopped them in their tracks. Gears shifted, and like a metal wall slamming shut, paranoia slid across Peter's face and his grip on Wade's arm became bruising. He hadn't let Wade out of his sight since the hospital, and Wade was fully aware of the way Peter tracked him with dubious eyes whenever they were not in touching distance. The same couldn't be said for the other two, and as much as it hurt, they double back to the table, but don't retake their seats.

For the next 30 minutes, Peter meticulously questioned them both, ignoring Wade when he suggested he take it easy and rest for a few minutes (particularly when he started trembling with exhaustion) but Peter was relentless. He slouched over the table, almost bent double, and pulled the coat so tight around his body, it was as if he were a caterpillar preparing to turn into a butterfly. A really sad, very sick butterfly. Purple bags hung from his eyes like drooping banners, and his eyes were lidded and heavy with sickness.

He doesn't let himself relax. Not until he was positive they were who they claimed to be.

And once he was, well…then came the waterworks.

To Peter's credit, he tried to hold them back. He bit his trembling lip and blinked rapidly to keep his eyes from getting shiny and wet, but when Aunt May opened her arms to him, he broke. Like a child returning to the comforting touch of their mother, he collapsed into them, his first sob coming out choked and wretched. He was still trying to hold it in, but it was a mess, as he makes quick apologies and admissions that flew by too quickly to catch. He babbled about being smarter, or faster, or doing things differently in some microscopic way.

It made Wade want to grab him by the shoulders and demand that he not take the blame for this, for once, and then pull him into his arms, shush him and kiss his temple, and never let go.

The moment felt too vulnerable to watch. Too sincere. A scene between mother and son that's not supposed to be intruded on.

MJ must have felt the same way, because she turned around with him to give them privacy. They took the opportunity to come up with questions and code words for each other.

When Peter and May settled down, both wiping their eyes and sniffing softly, MJ swooped down to give him a hug of her own. Peter looked embarrassed to be caught, and wiped hard at his eyes a few times, before he latched onto her as well, sticking his hands to her shirt like she might disappear under his touch.

Wade watched from the side, letting them have their moment of reunion, listening as May and Mary asked what happened. A barrage of questions about how he was, where he'd gone, and what happened to him. Peter gave them the same stripped-down version he gave Wade: he was captured by Chameleon, chained inside an apartment for several days, managed to escape, but got caught. Then he escaped again and found Wade in the same building he was being kept in.

Being the seasoned Spider-Man veterans they were, Aunt May and Mary knew he was holding back details, Wade could see it in the side-long glance they give each other when Peter wasn't looking, but they let it slide. This time.

Once all reunions were over, Aunt May did her examination. There's still a lot of bruises peppering Peter's body, mostly around his wrists where the handcuffs had been (before leaving, Wade rummaged through the police car that came by the hospital, and found the key they brought to unlock Peter's cuffs). He looked thin too. Chameleon fed him, obviously, but it wasn't enough to keep up with the rest of him. Wade wondered if it was a clumsy oversight, or a strategic move. It would be easier to move Peter out of state if he was malnourished, after all.

The cuts Wade gave Peter's thighs were still red and inflamed, but at least they stopped bleeding. Not that it stopped Wade from flinching every time he saw them.

On a normal day, Peter would be right as rain by the next afternoon, but his healing factor was slugging along at a snail's pace, tired and asthmatic.

"Our first order of business is keeping these wounds clean and breaking that fever," Aunt May told Wade afterward, scribbling down a list of medicines she'd need and a few more odds and ends, "We've got to flush those toxins out of his system and build his immune system back up. Fetch me the IV, dear."

Turns out, Aunt May wasn't lying when she said she knew her stuff. She'd been out of nursing for a year or two, but stepped back into the role seamlessly. Wade hung back and let her do her thing, helping where needed (which was not a lot) and hovering in a corner when he wasn't.

Aunt May, bless her heart, tried to keep him involved (like he so desperately needed) but in the end, she was the expert and he was just a shadow on the wall.

But that was hours ago, and even though they've all reluctantly retired to bed, Wade can't sleep. Too plagued with thoughts of what he could've done and better choices he could've made – ugh, is this how Peter feels all the time? All this crushing responsibility and doubt? Keep this up Wilson, and people really will start mistaking you for Spider-Man.

With every second of every hour, he's more tempted to scoop them all up and break into Avengers Tower, security be damned. JARVIS would let him in, right? He can do that freaky body scan, read their DNA, see their dental records, figure out who took their v-card, verify that they're the real deal, and Peter can be protected in a supermax tower designed to withstand an apocalypse.

And if not the Avengers, then the Fantastic Four. Or the X-Men. Hell, even Dare Devil would probably let them sleep on his floor if they asked. But no, Wade took the panicked route and locked them in a box, then threw away the key.

"Wade? Are you awake?"

The voice shatters the silence like a crack of thunder. Wade sits up immediately, head snapping in the direction of the bed. His hand closes around the gun he'd snuck under his pillow. "Petey? Is that you?"

Who else would it be, dipshit?

"Yeah."

"Are you okay?"

A long pause. "Yeah?"

Wade makes to swing his legs over the couch, but is stopped by Peter's frantic whisper, "No. No need to get up. I just -...I just wanted to check."

"To see if I'm Chameleon?" Wade sat back down, "Hit me with a question, baby. The more vulnerable the better. Rip it off like a bandaid."

"No, I just...wanted to make sure you're still here."

Wade let go of the gun, confident that neither of them were in danger, but it made him want to hold onto something else. He forced a smile, hoping Peter can't tell how fake it is, "I'm here. M'not going anywhere."

"Why are you awake?"

"Why are you awake?"

"I couldn't sleep," in the darkness Peter's voice sounds soft. Frail, almost. Like a rose petal. Or a thin sheet of glass. He sounds like a child afraid of attracting the boogeyman. "Too much on my mind. What about you?"

"Same here, baby. Twinsies."

There's the rustling of blankets, and when Peter's voice comes back it's stronger and clearer as he sits up. Wade wants to tell him to lay down. "What are you thinking about?"

Wade hummed, weighing his thoughts in his head, "Just...thinking thoughts. Mulling over regrets. Visiting old haunts. The usual."

"Ah, okay," a beat, "Do…any of those regrets have to do with me?" he asks meekly.

Wade can make out the faint outline of Peter's body on the bed, as hunched and withdrawn as it is. A dark stain terrified of the answer it might get.

Wade will never understand Peter's self-doubt when it comes to them. Did he really think Wade was going to leave him over a loser like Chameleon? His variety of romantic partners were…something, from Nathan, to Shiklah, to Carmelita – but none of them had stuck. Things happened, and it all crashed and burned eventually. Wade was waiting for the day his luck runs out and Peter leaves him, not the other way around.

His desire to close the distance between them grows on like an algae, and Wade can't tell if it's because he wants to comfort Peter, or himself, but he keeps his butt planted on the cushions. "I'm not regretting you, Pete, if that's what you're asking. Kind of a silly question, actually. Who would regret an ass as fine as yours? You are on my mind, but not for the reasons you're thinking of. No regrets except my regret for not stabbing that douchebag in the balls before we left."

Peter doesn't say anything to that, his shadow rubs its arms uncertainly. Wade opens his mouth to emphasize his point, but Peter beats him to it. "I want to hold your hand."

Wonderful. Fantastic. Wade didn't know if it were possible to salivate over skin contact, but he feels like an eager dog, wagging its tail and ready to go. He would've been off the couch in an instant if he didn't catch Peter's underlying tone.

He gestured with a hand, "Buuuut?"

"But…it makes me sick to my stomach to think about."

Ah. Okay. Not quite what Wade was expecting. He dropped his hand, swallowing hard, and rubbed his fingers against his palm absentmindedly. The grooves and scars make his own stomach twist, and he has to close his eyes and remind himself that Peter didn't mean it that way. Probably. Hopefully. Unless he did because Chameleon got into his head too.

Oh fuck, what if Chameleon got into Peter's head? What if he made Peter hate him? Would the sight of Wade truly make him sick? He's used to that kind of response, people typically didn't want to look at him. That, or they stare far too long to be comfortable. Peter claimed that he didn't mind the scars, and went as far as saying he loved them for being a part of Wade. But was it true? Did Chameleon change his mind?

Deep, controlled breaths. Self-loathing curls its fingers around Wade's shoulders, slowly pulling him into its wailing, writhing abyss.

As if reading his thoughts, Peter quickly added, "No, not because of that. It's not because of you. I promise. It has nothing to do with…with your skin, or anything. I just…"

"Yeah?" Wade shakes off the claws, even as they dig into his skin. Peter didn't mean it like that. He didn't mean it like that.

More rustling, followed by a silence that goes on for so long that Wade wonders if Peter fell asleep again.

From the darkness, he says, "It was...uh...sometimes, I would wake up and he...he would be in bed with me and he'd be running his hands through my hair, or stroking my cheek, or...holding my hand. And he would pose as you, and talk to me, and sing in my ear, and…" the sentence strains the farther it goes until it cuts off altogether.

Wade closed his eyes and took a final deep breath. Well, looks like Chameleon was mentally fucking him up too. Neat. Fun. Fantastic. Wade can't wait to get his hands on the guy so he can fuck him up in the goriest, bloodiest way possible.

Maybe it was part of the plan to get the two of them to be uncomfortable around each other, and he hated that it was working.

"So...you want me close...without me getting close?" he asked.

The shadow on the bed moved. Peter might've been nodding his head.

"Okay...would if I wasn't on the bed," Wade proposed, "I can sit on the floor. You don't have to get close."

When silence falls over them again, this one's different. You see, Wade's fluent in Spider Language, verbal and physical cues included, from years of watching and learning Peter's tells. Swinging his legs over the couch, he padded over to the bed, sunk down next to it, rested his head on the comforter, and slid his arm across the mattress, palm up. An open invitation.

Peter's darkened shape gets more edges and details closer up, highlighted now in faint pink from the nightlight. His eyes are visible now, and they're wide. His hands are drawn up to his chest as if afraid of being bitten.

It takes a moment, and what is no doubt an internal struggle, before Peter slides his hand across the bed and slowly intertwines his fingers with Wade's. They both let out an exhale of relief at the same time, and then chuckle.

Peter relaxes visibly, body sinking into the mattress as his thumb strokes a scar on Wade's knuckles. "I missed how you feel," he murmured. "Image inducers can never get the texture right. It's always too staticy and soft."

Wade isn't one for emotional sincerity. Not usually. When he's the butt of every cosmic joke and free entertainment for the people watching, it gets easy to fall into a routine. Dumb jokes, satire, poking at walls that aren't meant to be poked. It's easy to get lost in it. But, he swallows hard now, fighting the urge to clutch Peter's hand to his chest. He stuffs his face in the mattress to avoid the pair of glossy, red-congested eyes staring back at him.

He wants to believe Peter's words with every fiber of his being; he loved the way they sounded coming out of his mouth. Would make a mixtape out of it and turn it on full blast as he walked down the street. But he can't even stand running his hands over his own body, how can someone else?

Peter loves touching him. As much as this statement feels like staring directly into the sun, he knows it. He wants to let it sink deep into his bones and sand down all his jagged edges.

"I missed you too," he says, coughing hard to clear the crack in his voice. "Missed you bunches and bunches. Not even Honey Bunches of Oats can compare to how much I missed you."

Peter chuckled, but there's an emotional edge to it like he can't quite bring himself to believe he's here, in this present, either. He murmurs in agreement and they fall into silence, neither falling asleep. It's comfortable at first, even if Wade's knees are starting to cramp, but as Peter starts to fidget, tension crawls its way back.

"What is it?"

Peter startles, looking up bewildered, and then huffs a breath, "How do you always know?"

Wade smirks, laying his cheek against the blanket, "You fidget when you have something to say. So, spill the beans."

An eye roll, but Peter's amusement fades quickly. "I uh – was just wondering what Chameleon did to you…down in that basement."

He should've guessed. Because Peter has an annoying, incessant urge to carry everyone else's burden on his shoulders, no matter how bruised or broken. Typical. Giving a damn about other people when he should be giving a damn about himself.

Flashes of a dark, smiling Peter come to mind. A glinting knife, the bang of a gun. Pain – but that wasn't anything new. The dark, harrowing knowledge that this person wasn't who they claim to be is what really unsettled him. It tugs on something deep inside. A clumsily sewn stitch that starts to bleed, drenching him in old memories and emotions that make him want to hide under a bed. Or take a shower. Or jump off a building.

But he wasn't about to tell Peter that, "Let's just say he put that image inducer to good work."

It's the wrong thing to say. Peter looks away, jaw clenching so hard it's a wonder that his teeth don't crack. "Did he use my face?"

Wade doesn't answer, and that's all the answer Peter needs. He covers his face, and through the shadow and pink light, Wade can make out the IV tube feeding into his arm. He really shouldn't be moving so much.

"Fuck - I'm – I'm sorry Wade, that was…gosh, it probably…it was just like…"

Wade knows what he's trying to say. Who it reminded him of and he would be right. This wouldn't be the first time someone's tried to dupe him by pretending to be someone else. This wasn't the first time he was taken advantage of by someone he thought he trusted. Typhoid Mary had lingered in the back of his head like a disgusting whisper every time Chameleon came into that basement wearing Peter's face. It set every nerve on fire. It made him want to throw up. When Not-Peter straddled his stomach, Wade's fight or flight instincts were kicking so hard he felt like a trapped bird in a cage. Or more accurately, a plucked bug pinned to paper, with nowhere to go. All he could do was endure every harsh word, every stroke of pain, and tell himself that it wasn't real. Determining fiction from reality wasn't easy for him, but at that moment, he was determined not to slip.

Not again.

He wants to hunt Chameleon down and tear him to pieces for what he did to Peter. But another part of him wants to do it for another reason. A different sense of justice for a different crime he wasn't a part of, but dangerously close to replicating.

"He didn't…do anything like that to me," Wade whispered, fighting to keep his voice level. "Nothing like what happened…before. Heh, I just think you should leave all the cutting and shooting to me from now on. I've come to the conclusion that you don't look as sexy with a gun as I thought you would."

Peter drops his hands, and pain is painted over his face in bright strokes. It doesn't help that he's still running a fever, and his reddened, glossy eyes make him look downright miserable. Wade's attempt to lighten the situation failed drastically.

"I'm sorry," Peter apologizes again, voice cracking, and the swelling tide inside Wade's throat gets bigger.

He scoots farther up the bed, so his front is propped up, and gently carded his fingers through Peter's hair, "Wasn't your fault," he murmured, "None of it was. Believe me. We would not be sitting here right now if it were your fault."

"How is it not?" Peter says miserably, "I was so stupid. A fucking idiot. I didn't see the signs. I didn't listen to my spider-sense. I made mistake after mistake, and you, Aunt May, Mary Jane - you all paid the price for it. I put you guys in danger because I was stupid, and – and arrogant, and an idiot who doesn't know when to ask for help, and –-" a lone tear slips past Peter's eye, and his squeezes them shut, shoulders trembling. "I'm sorry. I'm – I'm sorry you got hurt, and had to relive all of that. I'm so sorry."

"Hey," Wade says, firmly, drawing Peter's attention back to him. He sighs in heavy disappointment, leaning his head onto his hand, "I can't believe you wanted Chameleon to stalk us. If you were into that sort of thing, I would've happily stalked you on my own a long time ago."

"Wade, you know that's not what I mean."

"Wait, so?" He tapped his chin in dramatic thought, "You're saying you didn't want Chameleon to stalk us?"

"…No, - well yes, I didn't, but-"

"So, you didn't want to be nabbed by him?"

"No, of course not. That's not-"

"So it wasn't you who put us at risk. It was the psychopath who was going all peeping tom on us, right?"

"No, Wade, you're not listening. I should've been smarter. If I caught him before then, if I'd done things better, none of this would've happened."

Wade pulls himself the rest of the way on the bed, perpendicular to Peter, "No," he says slowly, "none of this is your fault. And if it was, then it's my fault too. I was the guy who didn't notice we were being stalked by a tenant in our own building. I'm a mercenary for fucks sake, I'm supposed to know when I'm being watched. It's part of the job description. I can kill someone 50 different ways with nothing but a fork. Hell, I can track a target down from the other side of the world, and yet, I wasn't able to protect you from a villain right under my nose. I failed you, Peter, I-" his voice is getting thick, and he sniffs, then coughs to clear it up, "I -…I should've been here. I should've-"

Irritation boils inside him, poisoning his bloodstream and Wade wants to hit something. He wants to break something over his knee or kick a wall down.

Frustrated tears prick at the corner of his eyes and Peter wraps a hand around his neck and pulls him down so their foreheads are touching. They have to be careful of the wires and IV tube, but it feels so good to be wrapped in his arms again, to feel his skin no matter how feverish. Peter's trembling, and as hard as Wade is trying, he can't suppress a choked sound from crawling out of his throat.

"Don't you dare start blaming yourself," Peter grumbled, hard and firm and heavy with emotion, "You weren't even here when it happened."

"I was present for a good chunk of the stalking. You saw those pictures."

"So? You did everything you could to find me, didn't you?"

"Not before he did Hela knows what. You still haven't told me what he did, and I know he did some crazy shit to you. I can tell, Peter. Every time you look away from me, or get that distant look in your eye, I know."

Peter's breathing stills, like he's suddenly afraid of being overheard. The change is palpable, and Wade eases closer, flattening his hand against the side of his face in a warm caress, but Peter grimaces and he retracts it, letting it fall and interlock with Peter's fingers instead.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"No," is the immediate response. No hesitation. "I don't want to even think about it. Never again. I…" he chuckles, wet and humorlessly, "Heh, but I know we're probably going to anyway, whether I want to or not. But just…not now. Please," with the weight of a mountain crushing his chest, how can Wade say no?

"Yeah, okay. We don't have to talk about it now. But later, definitely. You should get some sleep."

Peter smiles, the barest upturn of his lips, "So should you."

"You first."

He snorts, but turns over so that he's lying on his back, looking at the ceiling. He frowns at the stilted paint the exact same way Wade was barely 10 minutes ago, and then turns back to his side, even though it makes it difficult for the IV. He finds Wade's hand and clutches it to his chest like a child holding a teddy bear.

"Stay with me?"

"I'm not going anywhere," Wade whispered. "So long as you're still here when I wake up."

Peter smiled softly, relieved. "I'll be here."

They sleep through the night with minimal trouble.

There's some shuffling around, unhappy grunts, and mumbles in sleep. Peter needs to throw up once, but thanks to an added dose to his IV bag, he sleeps dreamlessly. Wade, on the other hand, wakes up in panicked gasps throughout the night, with memories of soft hands running over his body. Lips on his ear. Breath against his skin.

He's careful not to wake Peter up. Once he gets his breathing under control, and softly pokes Peter's hand to make sure there's no image-inducer static, he pretends to fall asleep.

The real trouble comes in the morning.

Peter doesn't anticipate waking up in a full-blown panic, and Wade doesn't anticipate being launched across the room like a football.

His eyes aren't even all the way open when a pair of panicked hands grab him by the shoulders, and the first thing he sees is the wall. He crashes into it, followed by a thud from behind as Peter flails and falls off the bed. The commotion brings Aunt May and MJ running to the door in a cascade of concerned shouts.

Wade shakes off pieces of plaster and stumbles to his feet. He hadn't gone through the wall, thank goodness, but a decent sized crack split the place he collided with. His collarbone thrums, one of his ribs is certainly cracked, and he hit his ankle on the side of the dresser at an odd angle.

"Ooh, what the fuck, what the fuck," he hisses, pulling himself up. He limps towards the bed, muttering short profanities under his breath, and peers at the floor. "Peter?"

Peter has his back plastered to the wall. The IV was torn from his arm, and its pole lay on the ground at his feet, the medicine bag still intact. His knees are pinned to his chest and he's breathing so hard he looks ready to pop.

"Shit, hey," Wade rounded the bed, fully prepared to give Peter his space, but also trying to put himself directly in the man's line of sight. Hands up. No weapons. No aggression. No threats. "Hey, Peter. It's okay. We're still in the safehouse. We're okay. You're okay."

His eyes are on Wade, so wide that he can see the whites of them like a spooked dog.

"It's okay. Just breathe. Deep breaths. Do it with me. In for 6 seconds, out for 8. We'll start on the count of three. 1...2...3," Wade took a deep, controlled breath, and Peter mimicked him, shaky and rushed, but he held it until Wade released.

"Good job. Again."

He repeated and so did Peter, still strained, but with each inhale it gets easier. When Peter isn't in danger of passing out, Wade switches tactics.

"Okay, now we're going to try one of those calming techniques you told me about. The ones for anxiety. Name four things you can see."

"Um," Peter swallowed hard, eyes flitting over the room at rapid speed, "I can see the, uh - the bed. I can see the IV. I can see you. H – how many is that?"

"That's 3. Just one more to go."

"Um – the - your Pinkie Pie nightlight.

"Good. That's good. What are 4 things you can feel?"

"My arm," he winced, rubbing the spot the IV had been yanked, "My clothes," a third option eludes him, and Wade holds out his hand. Peter takes it, rubbing his finger over scarred knuckles. "Your hand."

"Good, two things you can smell."

It takes a moment, "Wheatcakes?" he's not shaking anymore, and is becoming more lucid.

"Yep, Auntie's probably making wheatcakes. Wouldn't want to be late for that, would we?"

"Y-yeah," he murmured, and slowly, still a little dazed, picked himself off the floor. Halfway up, he grunts in pain and sags back down. Wade catches him before he falls and leans his weight onto him. Peter flinches from the touch, then looks immediately apologetic.

A growing spot of red on the thigh of his pajama pants catches Wade's eye.

"Shit, your stitches tore. AUNTIE."

"Right here, Wade," Aunt May's voice comes through the other side of the door, and right, they're still waiting outside.

Wade helps Peter back onto the bed and then unlocks the door. Aunt May and MJ rush inside, confused, but ready to attack. Mary Jane is holding a rolling pin and Aunt May wields a knife.

"Whoa, at ease," Wade said, holding his hands up. He eyes the knife a few seconds too long, "We're okay."

"What happened?"

Aunt May is looking between Peter and Wade, and then around the room like she intends to put that knife to use. When her eyes settle onto Peter, and the IV on the floor, he looks away, embarrassed.

"We...uh…were sharing the bed. Peter must've been caught off guard," Wade said, rubbing the back of his neck. "Sorry, stupid move. I should've known it would set him off."

"I'm not a bomb," Peter muttered, probably not intending for Wade to hear it, but he does. "I'm as much to blame," he says louder, "I let you on the bed knowing it might…it won't happen again. I just wasn't expecting it."

Aunt May and MJ share a look.

Whatever silent communication passes between them is fast, and Aunt May tuts, shooting forward, "Oh, your IV came out," she gingerly looks over his arm to make sure there's no lasting damage as Wade picks up the pole.

Peter isn't hurt, but the area the IV was yanked is red and inflamed. Aunt May has Mary wash the needle under scalding water and replaces the medicine bag on top.

"Where did you get these?" Aunt May had inquired of Wade when presented with the "borrowed" medical supplies.

Wade had winked, "I know a few people. Also, probably best not to ask. But don't worry, no one's gonna miss them."

Aunt May had decided to take his word for it. It was what she needed, and she wasn't going to look a gift horse in the mouth.

She got the IV back to where it belonged, and then shooed Wade and MJ out of the room so she could tend to his stitches. Peter looks panicked at the suggestion; at Aunt May seeing his bare thighs or Wade and MJ leaving his sight, it's unclear.

Unclear, that is, until he leans forward as they headed to the door, as if to scoop them up in his hand. "N – no, It's - it's fine, they don't have to leave."

"Peter, dear, I need to get these stitches cleaned up, and they're not exactly on your calves."

"It's okay," Wade says, shooting Peter with what he hopes is a reassuring look, "I'm going to go fix us up a plate of wheatcakes, okay? You'll be down lickety split, and then you can lickety the plate of wheatcakes we're gonna split. Sounds weird saying that out loud, but don't lose your appetite. I'll be right back."

Peter doesn't look reassured, more like a spooked animal being told to sit and stay, but if there was anything he wanted to say, he bit it back and lay on the bed like a piece of stiff plywood. Mary Jane closes the door behind them, and the two walk to the open kitchen in silence.

The thing about this safe house is that it's more of an underground studio. There are no walls that separate the room, the exceptions being the bathroom and two bedrooms (one for him and Peter to share, and the other for MJ and Aunt May). The rest of the floor is open space, each corner dedicated to a different section of a house. In one corner, it's cluttered with cabinets, counters, a table, sink, and fridge. The second is the living room, made up of two couches and an old TV mounted on the wall. The third is their dining room, which consists of a single table near the kitchen. And the third is what Wade likes to dub the "entryway" holding the only door that led out of the safe house. It's bolted, locked, and has a nice, round peephole to spy on visitors.

True, it's a little cramped for 4 people, but he didn't want them to be separated. It'd be so much harder to keep track of who's who if they're not in the same room.

Should've brought them to Stark Tower , Wade's irritating, and now belittling, inner voice pops up again. Or the Baxter Building. We could've at least tried to break in.

That would've been hard to do with four people.

Honestly, the idea of going to Stark, of all people, makes Wade want to nosedive into a vat of chemicals. Become the Joker to Stark's billionaire. But he also didn't care enough about the other man to embark into years of gay-coded villain-hero rivalry with him.

Stark couldn't afford him anyway.

Still, Wade's never had a lot of pride to begin with. He lost most of it years ago, over silly, bloody missions as Deadpool, or breakdowns that left him stripped bare. But what little he still had he would swallow if it meant keeping Mary Jane Watson and the Parkers safe.

Getting into Stark Tower would be hard. Doable if it's only him sneaking in, but with two civilians and a very injured Spider-Man, they wouldn't make it past the front gate. JARVIS wasn't allowed to let anyone in the building whatsoever, but maybe if he brought Peter, Aunt May, and MJ and told the AI the situation…

Wade snatched a few wheatcakes from the cooling stack, Mary behind him, making herself a plate as well. She pours an insane amount of syrup onto her bunch, sits at the table, and glumly pokes at them with her fork.

No one is happy here. There's nothing about this situation to BE happy about. We did this. We need to do something.

There is a way to fix it.

A way Peter can get the help he needs, Aunt May will be given all the medicine and equipment she could want, and at least something for MJ to do that's not sitting in one place all day, reading the boring books stacked on the lone bookshelf in the living room.

And it gives Wade a chance to track down Chameleon.

But Peter wasn't going to like it.

He hummed a mindless, cheerless tune, chopping away at fruit he had stocked in the fridge so his hands would have something to do. Chop chop chop. Slice slice slice. Entertaining.

Aunt May comes out of the room sometime later, leaving the door open to a very grumpy, very annoyed Peter with his arms crossed over his chest.

"Did he try to get out of bed?" Wade askes.

"Yes," Aunt May griped, "Such a stubborn boy. Always been so stubborn. But I put my foot down on this one. He's going to rip himself to pieces if he tries to be up and about so soon," she shakes her head obviously annoyed, but Wade can't help but smile at the motherly affection.

"Sounds like him," he mused, picking up the plates he'd prepared, "You relax Auntie, I'll take the first watch."

"Keep the door open."

"We're not going to DO anything. We only fell asleep last night, nothing else, I would never-"

"No, Wade, not that. For him. He won't admit it, but I don't think he likes not being able to see us."

Aunt May washes her hands in the sink, frowning. It's a sad frown, one that tugs on her eyes and makes her face look longer than it is. Wade wants to wrap her in a hug.

"Whatever that man did to him, it's really taken root. It reminds me of..." she tapers off, like she's not sure she wants to bring it up. Wade pops a strawberry in his mouth, patiently, waiting for her to decide. "It reminds me of when he was a little boy, right after his parents died. One minute he was this happy little thing, running around our house and tinkering with Ben's old radio, and the next he's paranoid, and afraid, and so, so scared. He tried to run away from home once, did you know that? Scared the living daylights out of me and Ben. Said that it wasn't his home, and he didn't belong there. I know he went through something terrible, but it hurts to see that fear in his eyes again."

This time, Wade does wrap Aunt May in a hug, and she returns it, squeezing harder than he thought she could.

"It's gonna be okay," he tells her, "We're at home now, uh- sort of, and Petey's gonna be fine. He'll get better."

Aunt May hummed, and when Wade released her, she's looking at him closely, "And what about you, dear?"

Wade blinked, "M-me? What about me?"

"Peter told me that…man had you trapped down in a basement. How are you doing?"

"Well, Peter's just a blabbermouth, ain't he?" Wade grumped, "I'm fine Auntie. It's nothing I haven't dealt with before. Hell, I've experienced worse. It's no water off my back. Is that how the expression goes? Water off my back? I don't know, it doesn't make a lot of sense. Why water? Why not scabs? Or scars? Of course, it's no water off your back, why would water be there?"

"Wade."

"It's okay, I'm fine. There's not a lot that crazy cuckoo could do to me to scramble my brain any more than it is. I'm hunky-dory dandy." He doesn't want to talk about it anymore, so he retreats quickly. Aunt May's sad eyes follow him on his back.

Peter is still crossing his arms, looking grumpy, when he walks in.

"Hey loudmouth, hear you've been filling Aunt May's head with stories and words that you shouldn't be."

Wade gives him a plate, and Peter's hand slips a little as he grabs it. The medication must be taking hold.

"Hmm?" he says, all innocent and angelic like he doesn't know what Wade's talking about.

"Don't change the subject. Why're you telling Aunt May what Chameleon was doing in his basement? No one wants to hear that."

"I didn't tell her what Chameleon was doing to you. I don't even know, you won't tell me."

"Cause you're going to tattle on me to auntie, that's why."

"She asked how you were doing, and I said probably not well after what Chameleon did to you. She asked what that was, but it's not like I can tell her what happened. You haven't even told me." He punctuates it with a pointed look, and Wade scowls.

"Pot meet kettle. You haven't been open on that front either. Besides, it's nothing. The douche can't hold a candle to Weapon X, or any of the other cooc's who want a slice of this meat – not in a sexual way…or maybe also in a sexual way, I don't know. I'm just used to shit like this, it's fine."

"It's not fine and you saying it is is what worries me," Peter snapped. A war of emotions clamor onto his face: annoyance, frustration, sadness, "You shouldn't be used to this. You shouldn't have to be used to it. Fuck, Wade-" he dropped his face in his hands, "I wish you would cry, or yell. Or – or – do something. But instead you're just standing here worrying about me, and –" the sentence falls, lingering with unsaid frustration.

Wade sets the plate down, "So you're saying I shouldn't be taking care of you? Is that it?"

"I'm saying you should take care of yourself. Feel something that's not just-," whatever Wade is supposed to be feeling eludes him and Peter's shoulders fall, "You couldn't sleep last night. You kept waking up. I could hear you mumbling, and breathing fast. You need help too. You need to do something that's not just worrying about me."

Wade set his head in his hand, cocking it to the sound, "Really? This just sounds an awful lot like your guilt complex," Peter scowled, but Wade carried on, "And why can't I worry? I don't know about you, but I think it's very normal, and, you know, valid of me to be concerned about you after you got kidnapped by a literal madman who's tried to kill you on multiple occasions."

"He wasn't trying to kill me."

"Babe, sweetie, honeybottom, you have a literal gunshot wound in your shoulder. Where he shot you. With a gun."

"No, I mean...before, in the apartment. He never really tried to kill me. He just," whatever Chameleon had done makes Peter stop talking. He looks a little sick now, like he'd eaten too much food, although he barely touched his wheatcakes.

Wade wants to take his hand again, but resists. "He just what?"

Peter looked away. "Nothing."

Pot meet kettle.

Look, Wade doesn't want to push, or make him relive memories that are still too fresh on his mind, but a stab of irritation makes him grip his fork tighter. "You shouldn't defend him. Whether he tried to kill you or not, he's still a piece of rotting shit."

"I'm not defending him, I'm just saying it could've been a lot worse. He could've done a lot worse."

"Yeah? And what did he try to do?"

Still no response. Peter bites down on whatever he has to say by shoving his mouth full of food. He's purposely keeping his eyes down, pretending he hadn't heard Wade's question at all.

They eat in silence, the only sound being the clinking of forks against plates.

"I do feel things, you know" Wade mumbled, and Peter looked up.

"What?"

"I feel things too. A lot of things. Too many fucking things. About you, about Aunt May, and MJ...and Chameleon, it's a stupid name and he should change it."

"You can call him Dimitri."

"No, makes him sound too human."

"He is."

"And ain't that a problem." Wade dropped his fork on his plate, glaring at the half-eaten wheatcake. He crossed his arms, tracing the ridges of his scars. "I...feel a lot of things. I'm not a brick wall. I'm not heartless-"

"I never said-"

"But I can't do a damn thing about them. Not here. Not right now."

"Why not?"

"Because," Wade enunciated, gesturing inward, "how I deal with these emotions is I unload a round of bullets into a wall, or into someone's head, or into myself - I know, I know, I'm not going to do it, don't give me that look. But that's how I used to handle them, it's how I know best to handle them, and right now, the only thing I can think of besides painting this fucking room red is hunting down that reptilian wannabe piece of shit and tearing him to pieces. But I can't, because I need to stay here with you, and I need - I wasn't...I wasn't here last time to stop this from happening, and I can't just leave you again, I -" his Adam's Apple bobs in his throat as he swallows. Now or never. "I have a plan...of sorts..."

Peter was looking at him softly. An expression Wade used to hide from in their early dating days when he wasn't prepared to be looked at like that. But it lightens somewhat at this news. "Oh?"

"You're not going to like it though."

Peter looks, decidedly, less interested in hearing his plan. "Oh. Well, what is it?"

Wade took a breath, "I think you should go to Stark Tower. All of you. Stark has more than enough room, and he likes you enough that he probably won't mind if we crash there for a while."

Peter's reaction is exactly what Wade expects. His scowl slides into a glare and he rolled away like Wade told him they were moving into the sewers. "Why the fuck would we need to do that?" He's already chuffed, like an irritated cat.

"Maybe because we've got a crazy villain chasing after us, mainly you, who can turn themselves into anything they want."

Peter's face pinched, "We got away. And he didn't get away scot-free either, he'll be out licking his own wounds for a while. And it's not like he's going to catch me again."

"Fine, let's say he is busy, then how about the fact that you're beaten up, sick, malnourished as fuck, and drugged up the wazoo? Cause you can be damn sure it'll end up worse if he catches you again."

"He isn't going to catch me again," Peter growled through his teeth. "He won't."

"He already did twice," Wade shot back, "Your record for alluding him hasn't been the best lately, dontcha think?"

He shouldn't be getting riled up, and he sure as hell shouldn't be riling Peter up, but he needs him to understand. He needs to get his point across.

Notably, Peter looks pissed, "I made a mistake," he snapped, cheeks burning, "Alright? I. Made. A. Mistake. And it won't happen again. The only way Chameleon is going to get me is over my dead body."

"That is exactly what I'm worried about," Wade said, throwing his arms up in the air, "That bastard shot you because he's got some fucked up notion that if he doesn't get you, nobody does. He said that to me, I'm not even pulling it out of my ass. Those are words he SAID with his MOUTH. Yes, it's going to be over your dead body, and do you think I want that? Or Aunt May or Mary Jane?"

"Oh, do NOT bring them into this," Peter gnashed, jabbing a finger at him, "You're only saying that to guilt trip me and you know it."

"For hellsake Peter, we're squatting in a basement with nothing but a lock on the door, just waiting to be found! How can I go out there and find this bastard when I'm too busy sitting here worrying about you?"

Peter flinched, recoiling like he'd been slapped in the face. He may as well have been.

"Okay, that came out wrong," Wade backtracked.

"You don't need to be sitting here worrying about me," Peter said snipingly. He jammed his thumb into his chest, "I'll be fine. Why don't you worry about yourself for a change."

"Dammit, that's not what I meant."

"Fine, then let's talk about what you do mean. You want to go find him? Newsflash, he tricked you just like he tricked me, I wasn't the only one who got duped! And for your information, I got myself out of that situation all by myself the first time. I called you the minute I could. It's not my fault he can steal your fucking face."

"He's not going to trick me a second time," Wade said.

"Why not? Apparently, if he's tricked you once, he can do it again."

"He tricked you TWICE."

"Yeah, well you didn't know he was just a few feet down the hall from us, so how are those mercenary skills working out foryou?"

Wade is glaring now too, and he's not gonna lie, he felt the sting on that one. Like HE'D been slapped in the face. He might as well have been.

He straightened, going rigid, "I'm taking you guys to Stark Tower."

Peter looks him in the eye, "Over my dead body."

Wade's eye twitches.

If not for being bed-ridden, Peter would've stormed out of the room, wobbling out with his IV pole like an old Grandma. So, Wade spares them both the pathetic display, and leaves instead.

"I'm heading out," he says, shooting a look over his shoulder. He expects the look of panic, feels a moment of wicked satisfaction, and then it crumbles and blackens, souring his stomach immediately.

"Wade don't-" Peter, eyes wide and pale-faced, is getting out of bed. The moment he puts his weight on his feet he stumbles and leans against the frame. "Don't go out there."

"Peter," Wade stopped, hovering anxiously in the door, "Get back in bed, you can't be on your feet."

He's ignoring Wade, as per fucking usual. "You can't go out there."

"And you need to get back in bed right now before you keel over."

Wade is back by his side in an instant, easing him down, and Peter has his hand fisted in Wade's shirt. Through the corner of his eye, Aunt May is hovering near the door, but she hasn't stepped in yet. Fuck, they probably heard every word they were saying, he'd left the door wide open.

Wade dragged a hand down his face, but deposited Peter on the bed. When he turns, Aunt May is still there. Behind her, MJ is at the table, but she's turned to the room, eyebrows quirked like she's wondering how this is going to end. She probably has her own opinion of what she wants to do. He needed to remember that it isn't just him and Peter, this involves Aunt May and MJ as well.

Sighing, he sat on the edge of the bed, shoulders hunched.

"We'll give you two some privacy to talk," Aunt May says, and the door clicks shut behind her.

It's silent. Peter's hand hasn't let go of Wade's shirt, didn't even lighten, like he's afraid he'll make a break for the door.

Wade pinched the bridge of his nose.

This time, Peter's the one who speaks first, "Wade..." it crumbles, brittle and unsure, "I know this is...just so screwed up. Everything about this. I'm sorry."

"If you keep saying sorry, one of these days it's going to stop sounding like a word."

"Yeah, well, I am sorry. I know I'm sorry about a lot of things, but with this…I was so stupid. So stupid, Wade. Back when this was all happening. I...I just...I thought I could handle it."

Wade looked up from his hand, "I know you have a personal grievance with asking for any kind of help whatsoever, I get it, samesies and all that, but why didn't you ask for help?"

"From WHO?" Peter stressed, "The Avengers were gone, the Fantastic Four were gone, I don't even have the X-Men's number. DareDevil was probably dealing with the Hand or something. It's not like I had a lot of options. Besides...he," Wade's shirt ripped, just a little, as Peter tightened his grip, "he blackmailed me. Chameleon. I was going to call Tony. Tried to reach out to him, but the moment I got out my phone, he slid these pictures under our door and...and it was of us, Wade. In costume, out of costume, with our masks, without them. There were some of Aunt May and MJ too. He said that if I tried to contact anyone, he would send them to every media company in the city. Everyone would know who I was, where I lived, where they lived by the end of the day. I couldn't let that happen."

Defeated. Peter looks so wrung out, like a washed-out dish rag. Wade wants to take his hand again, wants to feel his skin, and it must be obvious because Peter's face twitches, but he grabs it, determined.

"Okay," he said carefully, "I get that. But why now? Why not go for help now? We're here, and we can get out of this. Like you said, he's licking his wounds. It's the perfect time to get out and find this son of a bitch before he can find us."

"If you think we'll be safe at Tony's, you'd be wrong. Chameleon's infiltrated SHIELD before, he knows how to get past systems and security. There's a reason he's not behind bars right now. He's too good at what he does. If we go to Tony's, it's...it's just going to be this big, shiny metal cage."

"A big shiny metal cage that has some of the best defenses in the world. Which is a lot more than what I can say for here," Wade gestured around the room, "It won't be forever, I sure as hell don't want to be stuck in Stark's ivory tower, it'll just be until we've dealt with this guy."

Peter doesn't look convinced. He's purposefully looking away, staring at the wall with his arms closed. Frustration bleeds into desperation, and Wade wants to grab him by the shoulders and force him to look at him.

"For fucks sake, Peter, why are you so against this? Why are you being so stubborn? And don't give me some we'll-be-safer-here bullshit, because we can only hide out here for so long, with two other people, before we're caught. If not by Chameleon, then by other heroes. The media. Friends. People will start wondering where Spider-Man is. Speculating where Mary Jane is. She's a fucking TV icon, they're probably already making conspiracy videos. Someone probably thinks Aunt May tripped and got hurt or something. If not for you, then please do it for them."

"Fuck," Peter burst, like a blocked fountain finally rupturing, and pressed his hands into his face. "I know. I know, this isn't fair to them. None of this is fair to them. They shouldn't have to be dealing with this shit at ALL. This -...this is why..."

He's shaking, words coming out clipped, strained, and fast. Like he's gotta get them all out before he can't anymore. It softens Wade's edges and he sinks closer. Peter leans in, slumping into his side. He still has his face covered, fingers digging into his skin and Wade pries them away so he doesn't hurt himself. It's funny, usually their positions are reversed.

Peter's eyes are angry, red, and wet. He looks at Wade for all of 2 seconds before squeezing them shut, and he's bent like he has the weight of the entire world on his shoulders.

"Please tell me what's wrong." Wade's fingers itch with the urge to do something. Anything. To make this better.

"You're right," Peter wrung out, "I know you're right. I just..." his hands find their way into his hair and tugs, "Wade it's...it's so stupid."

"Between the both of us, there's already a lot of stupid. Who am I to judge?"

Peter laughs, but it's wet and lands flat, and it makes him sound even sadder. "It's just...I've spent years trying to keep Aunt May and Mary from this. It's why it took me so long to come clean to them about Spider-Man. It's why I still have such a hard time letting them in. I would stay up at night, terrified that something just like this would happen. That one of them would be hurt because of me, and - and it happened. He was in their homes, he talked to them. He could've hurt them. He could've killed them."

He turns to Wade, delirium and hysteria darkening him like a shadow, "He talked to Aunt May. He figured out the things I liked by talking to her, face to face. She never knew. I never knew. He snuck a camera into Mary's apartment. He was down the fucking hall from us for MONTHS. I know I've never been like DareDevil, or the Avengers, or the Four, but I thought I was still competent, you know? If I couldn't save everyone, if I couldn't keep this city safe, at least I could keep them safe, and I…couldn't. I failed them. I - I hurt them. I -" tears are running down his face, and he's falling in on himself, turning away so Wade doesn't see.

But Wade wraps his arms around him and leans him in, and Peter cries into his chest, clutching the back of his shirt with both hands now. Wade pats his messy hair down, and rubs his back.

Peter rarely cried in front of him - the stress of the last day and a half excluded. Wade wondered when the last time he cried was. It wasn't like he was one to talk, baring his emotions - even to Peter - has always been a hard-fought battle. But Peter has some hero notion that he needs to be strong for everyone. For Aunt May. For Mary Jane. For Wade. For this entire blasted city. And it weighed on him. So much. Wade can see it in the sad, melancholy look in his eyes when he's too late to a scene, or wasn't fast enough to save a victim.

It makes him want to set Peter down, lay him out, and take all those burdens away. Stand between him and all of this responsibility he crushes himself with. Call it hypocrisy, or selfishness, but for one day he wants Peter all to himself. Just for him.

"I know you're not going to believe me," he rumbles softly, when Peter's crying and shaking turns into the occasional sniff, "But none of this is your fault and I think that this would've been way worse if Aunt May and Mary didn't know you were Spider-Man."

Peter lifts his head, looking so wretched and miserable that Wade wants to tuck him closer and hide him away. "How?"

"Well, think about it. If Aunt May and Mary didn't know you wore the spider tights, they wouldn't know what Code Blue means. They wouldn't have been as prepared as they were to go underground the moment they were threatened. They wouldn't have known where you were or what you were doing. They wouldn't have found me so quickly. They probably would've been worried out of their minds."

"They were already worried."

"Yes, well, they would've been WAY more worried. At least they had an idea of where you'll be and what was happening. Imagine being in the dark about it when you disappeared. Scary shit."

That seems to make Peter feel worse, so Wade carries on, "Point is, they were safe and better prepared BECAUSE they were in on all of this. You did protect them. You kept them safe, and in turn, they're gonna keep you safe too."

"They shouldn't have to."

"Yeah? And why not? I don't know if you know this, Mr. Spider-Man, but you're made of squishy human flesh too. And whether you like it or not, we're gonna take care of you. Sorry not sorry."

Peter hides his face in Wade's chest, "I thought I was an adequate hero at best. But I feel useless. And stupid. And - and humiliated. And gross. And - fuck I hate going to Tony. He gets that look on his face, and then he tries to get all involved in your business, and then he starts talking about joining the Avengers, and SHIELD, and - ugh, I don't know how I'm going to face him after crawling to his doorstep like this. They're all going to want to know what happened, and…and I really don't want them to know. "

"It's necessary."

"It's humiliating. Do you know how long I've been saying I don't need his help?"

"Not as humiliating as it's gonna be for me. I told Stark I was going to endorse and advertise all of his Iron Man merchandise before I asked for his help. Looks like I'm going to be wearing Iron Man thongs for the next month."

Peter snorts, and Wade's delighted to find that this one is authentic. Not quite happy, but close, and he smiled, digging his face in his hair, nuzzling.

"I don't think Tony will like that, actually."

"His loss. I look great in a thong."

Peter hummed in agreement, "You do."

Something about emotional problems and talking about your feelings is so exhausting. They end up lying on the bed, Peter lolling against him, lying against his chest with one arm wrapped around his middle and the other lying flat for the IV. It's peaceful and quiet.

"You're too good to me," Peter mumbled.

Wade thought he was asleep.

"You're the one to talk, Mr. Spider-Man. Do you not know who you are?"

"Yeah, and I know who you are, and you're too good to me. Always dealing with my shit. No one likes to deal with my shit. I don't even like dealing with my shit."

Wade shushed him, "Self-deprecation is my thing. I'll sue."

"You know I'm broke."

Wade snorted, and affectionately brushed hair out of Peter's closed eyes, "Yeah, you are."

"Thank you," he whispered, "I... you're the best thing to ever happen to me. Love you so much."

Wade isn't expecting a rush of emotions, and it's suddenly very hard to swallow, or talk, or breathe. He looks at the ceiling to blink away his tears, get back in there you little shits, now's not the time. But they're still there when he looks back down, and so is that warmth that flickers in his chest and expands outwards. It makes him want to bundle Peter up and hold him so tightly, and never let go.

It's the kind of emotion he's only felt a handful of times, and it makes him feel more alive than un-aliving a whole platoon of degenerates.

He thinks about what Chameleon told him, wearing Peter's face.

"I don't love you anymore Wade."

"I'm not sure if I ever loved you."

"We weren't meant to be together."

"I - " his voice cracks, and a tear – the first of many - slips down his cheek, "I love you too."