Longest chapter for this fic yet!

[WARNING for non-consensual touching, implications to past-rape/non-con, and PTSD)

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.