Chapter summary: Peter hecked up. He hecked up bad. Or, "An apple a day doesn't stop you from being a complete idiot, Peter."
Chapter Seven: No Resolution
Peter had been hesitant to go back to his apartment, but he was too exhausted to spend his time doing anything other than sitting. Even though his recovery time was incredible compared to normal peoples', he still felt drained of everything, and hungry to top it off. He hadn't even been able to enjoy the food he'd gotten before it left him.
He wound up taking the bus home.
His spider sense was silent the entire time. There was no one waiting for him, either outside or on the stairs. He took every step up them heavy-footed and was relieved when he got to his floor. No one was skulking around there, either. He unlocked the door and opened it halfway. He lived in a cramped studio with canary-yellow walls, so he didn't even have to check anywhere to know he was alone before he shut the door and fell onto his bed. He could hear traffic passing on the street below, that the person living above him had their TV on too loud, and that the people down the hall were fighting again.
He'd checked the PokéDates website from his phone on the bus, and Wade had either blocked him or shut his profile down. Peter deactivated his account, too.
Even though he felt like he hadn't stopped moving for a month straight, he couldn't manage drift off. His mind was just too loud, and it wouldn't slow down long enough for him to fall asleep. Replaying over and over everything that had gone wrong, that could go wrong…
Peter uninstalled Pokémon Go.
He hardly slept at all the next few days. He spent every morning and night out looking for Deadpool, all to no avail. He kept his phone practically glued to his ear, and he called Aunt May every evening, and swung by her place once it got dark as Spider-Man. He'd asked around, had looked the Merc up online… but no one had seen nor heard of him since well before they'd split up abruptly during their date. Peter was so wound-up that he was jumping at every sound, every shadow, every movement. He finally passed out by day three, face-down on his bed, still fully dressed even down to his shoes. He woke up half an hour later to a phone call from a telemarketer. He was so tired and frustrated at this point that he wanted to cry, wanted to throw a temper tantrum because he only wanted one thing and the world was doing what it could to stop him from getting it.
Peter felt like he was coming completely apart at the edges. Deadpool had probably skipped town, could have skipped the country entirely for all he knew. The longer the Merc's absence went on, the more paranoid and confused Peter felt. Was Deadpool going to out him or not? Was he going to approach Spider-Man and try to talk about any of this? It didn't seem like there was going to be a climax to this at all… and the suspense felt like it was actually killing him.
It was half a week later when Peter, as Spider-Man, spotted a hulking silhouette on the edge of the roof of a thirty-story building. He felt his heart stop for a few seconds before it shuddered and started back up at a much quicker pace. He had been spread so thin emotionally, mentally, and physically that his landing almost ended in him falling on his ass, but he caught himself and only stumbled forward a few steps.
"Deadpool?" he asked, and he sounded winded.
The figure didn't even move.
Spider-Man crept closer, almost sure he was hallucinating again, but the shadowed man at the lip of the roof was turning in full three-dimensional glory, and Peter collapsed hard beside him. "Wade," he said, and his voice was small.
"Spidey," the Merc deadpanned.
Silence expanded out between them.
Peter looked down at the bustling city below them, at the people who looked little more than ants, at the lights flashing by faster than his brain could comprehend in his current state.
"I've been looking for you," Peter said.
Deadpool didn't even glance towards him. "Not to check on me, though, was it?" It was phrased like a question, but it sure didn't sound like one. Deadpool had such conviction in his voice, like he was more sure of his statement than he was about anything else in the world.
It was true. Peter hadn't gone looking for Deadpool out of concern for the older man. It had only been because Deadpool knowing Spider-Man's identity had scared the hero half to death. Probably literally. He was pretty sure he'd done lasting damage to his brain from how poorly he'd been taking care of his body since their, uh, split-up.
"No," he finally admitted.
Deadpool snorted derisively. "Didn't think so." He finally turned then, looking directly at the superhero. "You know what fucking sucks more than someone taking a rancid shit in your breakfast?" He didn't wait for Peter to answer. "I finally fucking meet someone who doesn't take one look at me and tell me to fuck off. I finally fucking meet someone who walked with me, who talked to me like I was a human fucking being and not some circus freak." His voice wavered. "And then the reason they wind up throwing up ain't because of my face, but because of me ."
Peter realized then that it sounded like Wade was actively trying not to cry. Whether they were angry tears or not, he wasn't sure.
Self-deprecating laughter bubbled up from Wade's throat. "I thought maybe things were gonna go okay for once in my fucking life, and then it just had to be you."
Peter was beyond confused. He'd thought that Deadpool had been flirting with him before this whole mess. He'd heard from other Supers that the mercenary wouldn't shut up about how they were best friends and how Spidey had the most perfect ass and legs he'd ever seen.
"I always knew deep down you didn't like me, but I didn't realize you hated me so much you'd fucking hurl at the thought of me."
Peter couldn't find the words he'd spent all this time coming up with. He'd been so terrified that Wade was going to sell Spider-Man's personal information off to the highest bidder, that he hadn't even thought that the other man had been hurt by Peter's response. He was so exhausted then that he had no energy to even try to keep up with the current conversation. He tried to open his mouth a few times, and then he tried to get up, but that was when the world pitched forward and Peter saw the city lights blur together in a mess before everything went completely black.
Peter woke up wrapped in a blanket. He tried to sit up, but he immediately lost consciousness again.
He had no clue if his eyes were even open, or if it was just really dark. He blinked, and felt the lids move. They were definitely open, then. He tried to lean forward but he was forced back by something.
He came to again later. He had no idea how much time had passed. He felt that he was moving, felt air rushing by him. He couldn't move.
The next time he gained consciousness there was light. His hands and feet felt like ice, and breathing was difficult. He reached up with a palm that felt like it was made of a one-ton weight and patted his face. No mask. He didn't know if he'd taken it off himself or not. His hand dropped back onto the bed, and his head lulled to the side like it was too top-heavy to keep its position.
The walls were grimy and the carpet was brown. He thought it had a marbled pattern at first, but it looked like those were just stains. The pillow he was on smelled horrible. He groaned and tried to roll over, tried to get away from the fabric that reeked of greasy food and bad breath and mildew. The blanket that was on him was too weighted, and he was over-cooking despite the shiver that ran through him. He felt like he was about to throw up again.
There was a staticy television on in the background somewhere. It was turned down low, but it was still too loud to his oversensitive ears.
Minutes passed, maybe even half an hour, and he didn't feel any better. He pushed himself into a sitting position and was surprised he actually successfully made it up. The nausea got stronger, and he bent to rest his head between his legs. It helped somewhat. Where even was he? He knew from the stale smell of the air alone that this wasn't his apartment, and Aunt May certainly hadn't moved into a dump. Once his mouth stopped salivating like he was about to get sick in the next few milliseconds all over this strange bed, he lifted his head and looked around.
There were packed boxes lining the walls, a corkboard with a bunch of photos and news articles tacked onto it, a chair that had a deflated… plastic thing in it?
He realized that the window wasn't covered, but the sun was coming up. Or going down. He had no idea what direction he was even facing. It didn't look like he was in a very good part of town.
He was too exhausted to panic, but he did feel unease nibbling along the edge of his mind.
Peter got out of the bed, had been barely able to get the blanket off of his feet (they'd gotten tangled), and he made his way to the slightly cracked-open door. He heard the electronic ringing from the TV get even louder to his senses. He had to stop to cover his ears as he winced. A few seconds more, and he was able to move forward. His legs were wobbly and he was trembling. It was hard to stay on his feet, but he managed to by some miracle.
The lights were all off in this room, and the TV was making every piece of furniture cast a disturbingly large, dark shadow. Canned laughter followed this realization, and it reminded Peter of something out of a horror movie. He sure hoped he wasn't about to find out he'd been kidnapped by someone who wanted to use his skin as clothes.
The lighting changed from blue to mostly white, and Peter was able to see that there was someone lounging on the couch. Someone large and wearing a red and black suit.
"Wade," he said, and his voice was quiet and hoarse.
Deadpool immediately jumped and turned to look at him. "Shit. You're up. Uh, here, let me-"
Peter wasn't actually sure if he'd passed out or just fell suddenly, but Deadpool was immediately by his side, helping him crumple to the ground in a better position. "The fuck is wrong with you, Spidey?" Wade asked. Peter couldn't tell if he sounded just concerned, or angry.
"Don't know," he managed.
"You're not gonna die on me, are you?"
Peter had to spend a few moments steadying his breathing. "Hope not," he croaked out. He felt the blood leaving his face.
"You're just sick, right?" Wade pressed a hand against Peter's forehead. "Cold and clammy." A pause. "I'm, uh, not a doctor, so…"
Peter tried to shift himself so he was sitting properly on the floor. He didn't want to think about how disgusting the carpet had looked when he'd gotten an eyeful of it. "What day is it?" he asked. Talking was difficult.
Wade moved his hand and Peter thought he saw the guy start counting on them. "Uh. Sunday? I think? Look, Spidey, you're really freakin' me out right now. I can barely hear you at all, and you're completely dead-weight."
Peter tried to think about what 'Sunday' meant. Had it been Sunday the last time he was awake? He thought it might have been Saturday. "What happened?" he asked.
Wade shifted, and he gave a quick warning before he lifted them both up, and he started moving them towards the couch. Peter grunted when he was placed on it, and his body went limp.
"I was yellin' at you and you suddenly fell over? Scared the absolute shit out of me. Like, I tried to get you to wake up and you would for a second, and then you'd try to sit up and you'd pass right out again. I couldn't get you to stay awake so I started looking in your costume for something - you can't get mad at me for it - and all you had on you was a phone and these bracelets? Or, I thought they were bracelets. Then I realized it was how you make webs. I'm not gonna lie, I had been a little bit worried about that, like how would that even work? Do they come out of your veins? Does webbing come out of your butt, too? Anyway, I put 'em on and tried to swing us somewhere safe. I wasn't really expecting guests, so I didn't kick everything in the closet and throw fresh sheets on the bed. Didn't do the dishes, either. Shit, that's a lot of mold."
Peter was somehow able to follow Deadpool's one-man conversation. He heard glass and metal clinking around in the kitchen, and then the sudden sound of water running.
"Oh jeez, that's really brown. Uh, okay, well, I got a Gatorade in the fridge."
Peter had been counting his erratic heartbeats. He was listing the symptoms off in his head. He wasn't a doctor either, but he figured out that he probably wasn't dying. Quick pulse, heart pounding way too hard, lightheadedness, losing consciousness, weakness… When was the last time he'd eaten? Or properly slept? He checked around for his phone and pulled it out of the sewn-on pouch.
"Here," Wade said, and Peter was too zonked to even be startled. He grasped the half-empty bottle on autopilot before he even recognized what it was. "I drank some already, but there's not a lot of options right now. You gotta get somethin' in your system."
Peter uncapped the bottle and tipped it into his mouth. He underestimated how much was left and some wound up spilling down his chin. He gulped the rest of it in, and finished the entire thing off. After huffing and puffing a few times, he said, "I think… I need food?"
Wade shuffled around and then went back into the connected kitchen area. "I got some canned soup, some cereal… I don't know about milk, though. Uh, well, there's some chili. Probably shouldn't put anything that rich in you. Oh, here's some bread. ...Okay, here's some bread with penicillin growing on it."
What Peter wound up being given was torn up pieces of white bread that were just a little too chewy. Wade had obviously pulled the mold off of it, but honestly, Peter was far too gone to care right then. At first he wasn't sure he was going to be able to keep it down, but after a few more bites his stomach felt much better. He wound up curling himself around his phone after he was done, and that was how he fell asleep, with the sound of another laugh track fading into a tarry, black abyss of unconsciousness.
