They continued to scream at them, louder and louder and the shutters wouldn't stop and he was being carried and humiliated like a child.

His throat tightened and his eyes burned. His body throbbed and ached, crying out with each step Wade took. This needed to stop.

But what could he do? He stuffed his web shooters away so they wouldn't be seen. Yelling wouldn't do anything but make more trouble. They were trapped.

He was trapped.

And they wouldn't stop taking pictures. Thousands and thousands of shutter bursts, some were silent, a testament to the mirrorless cameras some of them had. His gut twisted in jealousy.  What a waste of equipment.

He was ready for this to end.

His chest burned with anger. It bubbled and boiled through him, through his arms, and rushed up to his head.

He hated them. He hated this. These people.

He didn't want them here.

He just wanted them to go away.

He clamped his eyes shut.

Go away. Go away. Goaway goaway goawaygoawaygoawaygoaway.

He felt Wade's balance lurch, and he snapped his eyes open just in time to catch sighed of a hand tugging on the backpack Wade was attached to.

Enough. That was enough.

Anger crawled up his throat and he pulled on Wade's hand, forcing him to release so he could drop to the ground, careful to land on his good leg.

He'd had enough.

He reached for the hand that had caused Wade to stumble first, ripping it away from the backpack containing his prized camera. The bones in the wrist under his fingers shifted under his grip.

"Hey!" The hand's owner objected, pain ringing out through their voice. Good. That's what he deserved. That was his reward for his actions.

He turned and shoved the man sideways into another photographer. The air left them both and their cameras clattered loudly to the ground.

He wanted to hurt them. He didn't just want to push them away, he wanted to teach them, to meld them to his hands. He wanted to break bone and kneed bruises. He wanted them to feel his pain.

Why shouldn't he?

He reached for the next person who got within arms reach and he was less gentle. He experimented and flung them like he might a competitor. Someone he was fighting but still gentle, really. They slammed into a parked car. They whined, unable to breathe. They hurt.

Yes. Wasn't it curious to feel? Wasn't it a unique experience to understand what it felt like to be tossed and flung and hurt for no good reason? The only thing this person was missing from the experience was backlash from society. It was their fault they were hurt. They should have taken themselves elsewhere and never drawn the attention of their attacker.

Him. They shouldn't have drawn his attention. Because he didn't want to play the role of punching bag anymore.

The last few who were following had fallen back but they were still taking pictures, still desperate for that perfect shot. For that incriminating photo everyone wanted.

"The hero you're looking for isn't here to save you from me," he warned with a smile

The smarter of the two he was looking at paused and backed away, his face pulled away from his sight and finger raised as he adjusted the grip of his camera. His weapon of choice. He was going to run.

Sometimes those who run live to see another day.

He turned his attention to the woman who persisted. She was young and her hair tied up in a blue bun. She thought she was special, didn't she. The last one standing, someone who could be important.

She wasn't. She was just someone who didn't know when to run.

He pulled himself forward. His leg was slowing him down but he knew he was still terrifyingly fast. She lost sight of him as he rushed her and screamed when he came up and shoved her down into the ground, moving with her so he could hover over her. He wanted her to be afraid. He wanted her to know she was being played with, that he wasn't someone to play with.

Her eyes widened as he knelt over her. "Do you think you're special?"

He reached for her camera. Her pride, her weapon she'd so happily used. It crushed effortlessly under his fingers, the plastic and glass shattering under his pressure.

Her eyes widened in surprise, and then anger and that quickly transformed into defiance before she glared at him with a wicked smile. A smile he needed to humble.

"I am," she hissed. He let her shover his hand away from her as she vanished, but he could see the dirt moving, he could hear her, smell her, sense her as she spun over and quickly jumped behind him.

He didn't turn around as he shot his hand back to catch the invisible foot flying toward his head.

She gasped and flashed back into view as her surprise cost her concentration. He stood from his kneeling position and she screamed when she fell back unto the assault before he raised her up, dangling her by the leg for a moment before he lowered her just enough for her to lay her head on the ground. She tried to grab at his pants and leg to pull him off balance but he stuck himself to the ground with one foot while he raised his bad leg over her resting head.

He could kill her like this. All it would take was a little pressure and her skull would burst.

"You are nothing," he stared down at her, "but a girl with big dreams and limited possibilities. Your imagination does not reflect reality."

Her eyes darted up to him and she tried to push his foot away as it rested on her blue hair. "Let this be your warning," he growled before shoving her away from him. She gasped and clutched her arm which had been scraped along its entire length from being on the ground when he pushed her. It began to bleed as he stared at her and satisfaction settled in his chest as the confidence in her eyes was washed away.

She had earned that. She could be proud of that if she wanted.

He turned around and paused, meeting Wade's wide-eyed stare.

They stood frozen like that for a moment before the blonde glanced around. "Kay, we still need to move." He seemed afraid to approach but after a beat of hesitation marched back toward him with confidence. He was going to strip him of his dignity again and carry him away like a damsel.

"You're making me look like a moron," he complained.

"You are a moron, Peter." Wade sighed. "But it takes one to know one, so don't take it to heart."

He frowned to himself and looked past Wade's head as he was taken away from the scene. His scene. He focused on the feeling of the man's cotton sweatshirt under his fingers, the thick seam of the shoulder, grounding himself in the warmth radiating off his body as each step they took shot a bolt of electricity through his body. 

"What I'm doing, is really stupid," he whispered.

Silence followed, but he knew Wade heard him.

"You're just in a bad place right now. Don't focus too much on things that were bound to happen one day. You've been playing with fire for years. You've just gotten singed, there's still a way out of this." Wade promised.

He wondered if he was being honest.

* * *

Wade let him down carefully when they reached his apartment. That of course didn't mean he went down gracefully. He'd gotten stiff after his stair-walking and photography confrontation. He hurt. He didn't want to go from the kitchen to the couch in the living room.

"It looks different in here." He noted as he leaned against the counter while Wade shed the bags containing his things. He wished he could just lay down on the floor and call it a day. But Wade would insist he be comfortable. But comfort wasn't an option. He was in pain and nothing would make it go away.

"Here," a bottle of water suddenly appeared in his face. Once he took it his palm was opened so two pills could be deposited.

"What is this?"

"Pain killers that—" Wade paused "Were designed for me. You better only take one or you might get high," he offered Peter his hand so he could take the extra pill back.

Being high sounded like it might be nice right now. "You have pain management?" He asked

"For the first time in many years," he nodded. I don't need them often, but I go in cycles typically and these are for when I go out of remission." I feel like I'm cheating by taking them... I don't hurt as much as I used to and they make me afraid of losing my pain tolerance"

He frowned. "I don't want to use your prescriptions,"

"I'm not giving you an option," Wade said. "Take it willingly or be tricked into it. It's up to you,"

"Wouldn't that be a roofie somehow?"

"No," Wade drew out the vowel. "That's an entirely different thing. I would be drugging you, but a roofie is a sedative. Flunitrazepam. Or Rohypnol if you want to go with brand name." 

"Should I be concerned that you know that much about the topic?" he asked and took the pill and water, honestly excited at the prospect of not feeling terrible. He wondered how quickly it would kick in and how long it would last. What if it made the pain worse when it came back?

"An ex thoroughly educated me on the topic. Even showed me how easy it was to get it into someone's drink. By demonstrating. She thought she was spreading awareness but I think she was showing too many strangers how to get away with a crime." He rolled his eyes and moved away.

"Oh," Peter muttered awkwardly.

"Moral of the story, if you're in public, cover your glass. If you're being offered a drink and you don't trust them, just refuse." Wade stepped away and then turned around again. "Do you want help to get to the couch?"

"No, I've got it." He said, raising a hand to wave the man off and slowly limp toward Wade's couch. His pants were pressing uncomfortably into his hip, digging the bandage into his raw skin. "Did you get new furniture?" He asked with a frown as he approached the couch. It was a different color and had a long extended part for laying down. It was blue. He glanced around and noticed that the side chair was also a matching blue. A dangerous blue, if he bled on this it wouldn't be coming out. 

"Um, yeah. Needed something brighter to make my space more welcoming. You know?" Wade almost sounded nervous. Maybe embarrassed. 

"Yeah, I guess. It's something I would not trust myself to own... do you have a blanket we should throw over it?"

Wade frowned. "Are you cold?"

"No, I just don't want my wound to weep through and ruin the fabric." It was suede. It wouldn't clean easily. He paused and looked down and realized he'd walked in onto a matching rug with his shoes on. He wasn't sure if he was annoyed with himself or the fact Wade had a fucking rug as he tried to toe his shoes off. They shouldn't be dirty but he felt like a loser now.

"Peter."

He was struggling with his shoe. it hurt so fucking much to bend his leg. He needed to lean to the side and balance so he could step on his heel but his body didn't want to. It hurt to stretch or tense anything. 

"Peter."

God, why couldn't he just get it off? Fucking hell he just wanted to do a small motion. Just take your fucking shoe off Peter, it's not that fucking hard.

"Hey." He jumped when hands appeared on his shoulder and grunted as a bolt of pain shot through his leg and into his back. "Take that pill and drink the water," Wade instructed, voice light but his blue eyes burned into him. He wasn't asking. Peter would do these things... so he did. 

Wade watched his every move, waiting until he knew the pill was down before sending a heavy glance toward the water bottle to silently tell him to drink more. Which he did, much to his annoyance. "Take your weight off your injured leg."

Peter did as he was told and Wade pivoted him and helped him carefully down to the couch with as little pain as there could be, all things considered. 

"The only thing I care about regarding this setup is that I don't put my blood stains here on purpose. Okay? If something happens to this shit, I'd be happy to look at a blood spot and know that it's from someone I was helping and not from a self-inflicted wound, okay? I don't care about the new shit, you won't care about the new shit. This is a mental thing," Wade waved at this living area. "Not a fashion or money thing. I was advised to do this for my health. Don't stress over something that doesn't matter." He was kneeling in front of Peter as he spoke, his words direct and intense. 

Maybe it was the way he was being spoken to or the stress of the morning, or maybe it was the intensity of Wade's blue eyes boring into him. His throat began to ache and he swallowed thickly, staring back at the man as he fought the tears welling in his eyes. Why now? Why did he have to cry at all? He wasn't sad, this wasn't scary. So why was he crying?

Wade looked him over, confused at first but he didn't say anything. He didn't ask what was wrong, didn't brush his tears away or stare at him longer. He moved, sitting on his good side, and wordlessly pulled him in to lean against him. He didn't say it was okay, he didn't use any worthless words that Peter wouldn't listen to. 

He just let him cry.

So he did.