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.

¯\_(ツ)_/¯ Oh boy, I hope you guys weren't counting on Peter being saved by Wade.