"Oh my GOD ," Peter repeats, dropping the suit into the tub and stumbling back.

AHAH! There are no gods here!

Wow, Spidey, I'm so flustered. I just don't know what to say.

Man, you REALLY drew the short stick, didn't you?

The voices press against his brain, putting an ache between his eyes, and he clamped his hands over his ears to block them out, but it does nothing. He hits the door, rights himself, and shakily flees back into the room he woke up in.

It's bigger than his apartment, with an actual kitchen, bathroom, and a separate bedroom if the door across the room was anything to go by. A handful of trashbags are nestled in a corner, and an array of cleaning bottles and paper towels sit on the kitchen table. Someone was in the process of cleaning.

Yeah, our guys' usually a big ol' slob.

100% certified pork.

Because he's a pig.

Living in a pig sty.

Because pigs are-

"Yeah, I got it." Peter snapped.

Well, SOMEONE'S pissy.

I mean, we get it, web-butt. We're not happy to be here either.

Peter shook his head, pressing his hands to his eyes, which he quickly tore away when it put pressure on the sore on his nose. His hands hover over his skin, wanting to scratch the tight itchiness of the scars, but his skin burns like an open wound whenever he tries. The desire to touch but the dread of doing so was already driving him up the wall.

No upping walls here, bucko.

Yeah! You're gravities bitch now!

Peter needs to find a phone. Now . He surges toward the couch, knocking over a pile of take-out boxes, and digs through the cushions, ignoring the way it makes his hands prickle. He looks under the couch and rifles through the duffel bag he almost tripped over earlier. What's inside only makes him pause for a few seconds.

Guns. Ammo. Knives. Grenades. Granola bars. Fruit boxes. A Hello Kitty watch. Seeing a bag of this would normally garner an amount of concern, but what else did he expect from Deadpool?

Whatcha doing, boo? The voice creeps up on him like an unwanted whisper in his ear.

Peter grit his teeth. "I need a phone." He feels ridiculous asking, but, "Do...you know where one is?"

He can't see the voice, but he has the inexplicable sense that it's shrugging. Beat's me. Big Red might've broken it.

Alarms are the worst.

Peter inhaled a slow, careful breath. "I need a phone to call Deadpool. If I'm here, he's probably in my body right now.

I can't believe he's cheating on us , the more nasally of the two sniffed. I thought we meant more to him than that.

I knew it was going to happen one day. You better be a knock-out hottie, Spidey, or else I'll never forgive you for this.

"I didn't do this," Peter snapped. "I woke up like this. I didn't-"

Last night.

I can't believe you already forgot. You're really disappointing me right now, Webby.

Oh. Right. Peter slapped his palm against his forehead, which really hurt. Shit. Shit, shit, fuck, shit.

Wow. Language.

"That witch."

You accidentally swapped the "b" with a "w." Stupid.

"She body-swapped us!"

There had been a witch last night. Causing trouble down by the docks. Peter happened to be patrolling the area, and Deadpool decided to tag along because he's Deadpool, and everything he does is for shits and giggles. They'd almost gotten her, hoping to hold her there until Dr. Strange showed up to take care of it, but she blasted them with an energy beam and disappeared. The blast had tired them out and knocked them on their asses, but Peter thought it was just so she could get away. A defense mechanism.

Apparently, it did a lot more than that.

What else do you remember? The voice probed.

Peter grimaces, shoving aside the duffel bag. It's heavier than he expected. Not so heavy that it's hard to move, but there's a weight to it he isn't used to. A weight that he wouldn't be able to feel at all if he was in his own body. He's had his super strength for so long, it's strange to be without it. To experience the complete mass of an object as heavy as a duffel bag without it feeling lighter than a handful of feathers.

Stop dodging the question.

Peter looks under the couch again.

Do you remember what you said to us?

I remember.

"My god, Pool, can't you do ANYTHING right!?

Peter blows out a hard breath. "He got in the way of my shot. He was the reason she got away."

Ah, but you should've seen the way that stung. How much that hurt his shriveled little heart.

He certainly hadn't acted stung. Not with the careless way he shrugged it all off and claimed someone else could take care of the witch. Peter clenches his jaw and decides to ignore them. He doesn't have time for this. He needs to call Wade now and figure out how to reverse this. A burner phone falls out of a hoodie Peter tosses to the side, and he quickly scoops it up.

But just as he flips it open, a knock on the door makes him stop.

Yo, we expecting anyone?

Wait...what day is it?

Peter slid the phone into his pocket and cautiously approached the door. His fingers itched with the desire to curl around something. Aside from the voices, his head is quiet. Being without spider sense puts his nerves on edge. It makes him feel like he's walking down a flight of stairs in the dark, never knowing if the next step would be there.

There's no peephole, so he cracks the door open an inch. "Yes? Who is it?"

A pair of small hands weasel into the crack and widen the opening, and the next thing Peter knows a young girl is jumping at him, flinging her arms around his waist.

"Daddy!"

Peter's brain short-circuits. Daddy???