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.

Hey look, it's the first time Peter and Wade have seen each other in this lil book series :D how neat. Too bad Peters about to beat ass, and Wade's about to cut him up.

Ah well. It be like that sometimes I guess.