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 were 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 judgement, 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 braincells to learn his lesson the first time. He'd gone out into a snow storm, 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 chicken-pox and stomach bugs, but all it did was make his throat feel tight and his heart ache.

"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 though 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."

[LINE BREAK]

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.

[LINE BREAK]

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, heart breaking 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 homerun 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 night stand 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 freak out. 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.