"Wade. It's me, Peter."

Wade can't believe his ears.

No, you don't get it, he literally can't believe his ears. The moment he hears those words uttered over the phone, he has to fit his pinkie into his ear and clean it out, and then he has to lift up his mask and clean it for real because what? What? This better not be a hallucination on his part, or a cruel joke, because his sense of humor was wry, could border on inappropriate, but it did not extend to prank calls from the boyfriend he was tirelessly working to save.

Then the words clicked like the cogs in a machine, finally clearing up in his brain, and he got to his feet so quickly it knocked the table and his food and drink spilt over his notes. If there were tears to be shed for his paper, it would have to wait, he clutched the phone in his hand, so tightly the screen-protector might break if he held on any harder. With just a couple of words, his heart was loop-de-looping and he felt somewhat light-headed.

"Peter," he repeated because is this real? Please let this be real. If this wasn't real Wade was going to break something in half, "Oh my go - is this really you? The realsies one? Not a clone or a really good impersonator? 100% organic Petey Pie?"

Wade was not above killing clones. Peter had so many of them, who would notice one missing? Besides, the amount of spider-people cropping up was getting ridiculous. They were the daisies of the superhero community, no matter how many you tried to pull out, another two took its place.

Or was that Hydra?

Nevermind, it didn't matter.

"Yeah, it's me," Peter said, laughing a little, and the sound is slightly tinny over the receiver. He sniffed and even over the phone he sounds congested. He sounds tired too. "I'm glad you picked up."

"Baby, where are you?" Wade scrambled through his soggy papers, shaking off food remains and half-mindly mopping up his milkshake with a napkin as he searched for a clean pen and paper, "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'."

Once a decent paper and pen had been acquired, he bolted out of the diner, barely remembering to drop a few hundred dollar bills on the table as he went. Out on the street, he bumped into a few meandering New Yorkers while waving his arms wildly to grab the attention of a taxi, but big surprise, no one wanted to pick up a red and black costumed rando with too many weapons to be legal.

Typical.

So, he improvised. A few meters down the sidewalk, a cab pulled up for a nice young man and his date. Wade ran, pulled out a pistol, and hip-bumped the guy out of the way as he bent to slide in.

"Hey, what the fuc-" Wade shoved his gun in the guys face and he backed up, hands going up.

"Sorry, hey, need to borrow your cab real quick. Be a dear and get the next one would you." He slammed the door shut, adjusted his gun to the driver, who took on eye-full of Wade and obediently slid out into traffic. Wade didn't even give him an address yet, he admired his eagerness.

Meanwhile, over the line, Peter laughed, but it was dry and humorless, and in no way a happy sound. Wade didn't like it. He said something Wade couldn't pick up, and when someone muffled a response, he realized Peter wasn't alone. He gripped the gun tighter and pressed the phone closer to his ear, wishing he could pick up what they were saying, but it was far off and tinny.

Finally, Peter returned and rattled off an address that Wade immediately repeated to the driver. The man nodded a few more times than necessary, eyes jumping between the road and the rearview mirror.

"I'm on my way," Wade said, "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?"

"I can try," Peter said, "But the batteries almost dead."

Wade scowled at nothing, but the cabby must've thought he was glaring at him because he squeaked and quickly averted his eyes again, gripping the steering wheel with white knuckles. Wade wondered if he should feel bad for scaring the daylights out of the guy, but then again, he should be minding his own business.

He decided he would feel bad. He wouldn't want to cart his crazy ass around the city either.

"I don't care," Wade growled, redirecting his attention where it mattered, "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 doesn't answer right away. He takes a moment to evaluate his thoughts, and the silence feels like metal clamps pinching Wade's lungs together. He doesn't like silence. Not this kind.

This is the kind of silence that you hear in the middle of the night when you're all alone in bed and the shadows start moving. This is the kind of silence that you strain your ears in, picking out something you don't want to hear. The kind of silence that builds into something bad.

"Uh, you remember the thing we were talking about?" Peter finally said, and Wade racks his brain for what that could be. He doubts it's something from before he took the job, it has to be the voicemails.

"It was true. Tried to handle it, but," Peter laughed, but it's brittle and falls apart in Wade's hands, "apparently I couldn't. Managed to...distance myself from the thing but that can only go on for so long."

His heart aches. Peter's fear that he was being watched was true then. He tried to handle it, but things obviously didn't go well. It was probably eating him up inside. That stubborn Parker pride that he couldn't wrestle down even if he tried, twisting in his chest like a knife. Peter didn't like losing. He didn't like it when people got the upper hand.

Losing was never an option for him. It's why he was always on the move, always putting his all into a fight, concerned for the people of the city, and concerned for the family he was protecting.

Beating him, kidnapping him, and holding him prisoner was like rubbing salt into an already festering wound, and asking for help made it hurt all the more.

Like clockwork, Peter tried to distract from his obvious hurt and discomfort about the whole situation, "It's really cold here, Wade. So cold," he sniffed again, and his chuckle has a forced life to it, "Any chance I can exchange my weighted blanket for a heated one?"

This was not the time for jokes. So far from it, Wade couldn't even see it in the horizon. But he understood the need to feel disconnected from a serious situation. He could tell how shaken Peter was, and it wasn't from the cold. It was the dark shadow in his voice, the faintest tremor that he tried to hide when he talked about things that unsettled him.

His Webhead, his Special Boy, was scared.

The thought makes Wade heart stop aching and start bleeding. He knew how much it took to make Peter sound like that, and he was going to discover an entirely new level of torture for the bastard that made Peter feel so vulnerable.

All he wanted to do was climb through the phone and grab Peter on the other end. Take him home and lock all the windows and doors until New York city was either a floating dystopian city or nothing but crumbling buildings.

"I'll buy you the warmest, most expensive electric blanket money can buy," Wade promised, nodding firmly to himself, "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."

Peter sighed, "That sounds nice, but I'll settle with a warm bath."

Sounds just like him. Settling for less when he could have the world. Wade would buy him the moon if only he asked for it.

He smiled, a chuckle breaching the vice-like clamp on his entire body, and something in him eased. Just a little. The brewing storm let a few rays of sunshine peak through and the roar growing in his head went a few decibels quieter.

This was more like the Peter he knew.

"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.

Wade cocked his head to the side, "What's that?"

"You have to join me."

The bubbling warmth that invaded his heart made Wade feel like he was experiencing a heart attack. He scrubbed a hand down his face, unable to hide his smile, mask or not. "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 want to -" but in the next second the phone clicked and the line went dead. Wade cut himself off, recoiling from the sudden silence. "Peter? Peter?"

It was just the phone dying. That's what Wade told himself. Peter said it was almost dead, so that's all it was. That's all it had to be. Peter was fine.

But his brain never failed to drive home that he could be wrong, and was auto-filling his thoughts with horrible scenario after horrible scenario, logic and rationality be damned, and he told the driver to speed up. He didn't even need to pull out another gun to be persuasive, the driver looked at him again and his Adam's apple bounced. He nodded and sped up.

Wade's leg jumped faster and faster with each road they turned down. The streets were bustling, and traffic was an absolute nightmare, but as they got closer to their destination, the roads cleared (a little) and Wade decided he wouldn't throw himself into oncoming traffic to get there quicker. 20 minutes came and went, and he decided they were close enough. He told the cabbie to stop, tossed him a wad of cash, slammed the door shut, and ran the rest of the way.

A 6'2, 210 pound man running through the streets with enough weapons to make the Punisher jealous was more than enough to get people moving out of his way.

The relief he felt when the store came into view was palpable, like a broken dam slamming into him. It matched the directions he was given and the few distinguishing remarks Peter made about it so he could pick it out from the other buildings. He bolted across the street, nearly getting hit by a car as he did, but that was a small thought as he burst into the shop, looking left and right for a familiar mound of brown hair. A stocky woman looked up from behind the cash register, immediately getting tense and defensive as Wade marched in.

His elation fell as he craned his neck to check the isles, and even the back room, but Peter wasn't there. At least nowhere Wade could see him.

Why wasn't he here? He was supposed to be here, this was the right store. If it wasn't the right store, he was going to shoot someone in the foot.

After another look around, Wade strode up to the counter to the woman, who had her phone in her hand.

"I'm going to call the police."

"Phones dead," Wade said, leaning over to check behind her counter to see if Peter was bound and gagged, fortunately for them both, he was not. "Besides, who says they're going to call the police to the person they're going to call the police about? Seems kind of counter-intuitive and just screams 'I'm a liability, please shoot me.' But more importantly, was there a man here?" Wade asked, and hovered his hand in the air around the height of his neck, "About this high, brown tousled hair, gorgeous brown eyes, has a bit of a bite to him, but still secretly cares very deeply. Goes by Petey-Pie."

"I'm…" she blinked, dropping the dead phone from her ear, "yeah. Yeah, he was here, but," a strange look flitted across her face. She may have been put off by his attire, and even more so by the maniac way he just infringed upon her store, but she looked suspicious now. "Who are you?"

"I'm his Wade-friend. I mean, his boy-Wilson. I mean, boyfriend. I'm his boyfriend. He called me, I'm here to pick him up."

She pulled back, eyebrows now scrunching together and lips in a flat line. "He left. Someone already came by and picked him up."

Wade's blood ran cold.

Funny how all it took was 10 words and he could feel a storm of his own brewing inside his body, dark clouds building in his chest, rolling and shifting and prepared to tear the world apart. Her words sprung around in his skull, bouncing off the walls and screeched at him.

He left.

Someone picked him up.

"What."

"Yeah, a guy came by. He, uh - your boy must've recognized him because they hugged, kissed, and left together," her lips pursed, somewhat irksome, "Never paid for the food, like he promised."

Wade waved those concerns to the side, "What did this person look like? How tall were they? What were they wearing? And where did they go?"

He was using his merc-voice. He should really stop using his merc-voice, this wasn't her fault - unless it was. She could be lying. But it wouldn't make sense if she was. She must've been the person Peter was talking with over the phone.

"He was scarred," she said, shifting to the side a little, trying to discreetly go for the small gun she had under the counter. Valid. Fair. Wade couldn't blame her. "Heavily scarred, might've been burn scars, but I'm not sure. He was bald, was wearing a big winter coat. Your boy recognized him, I could tell that much. They met by the street and," she pointed at said street, "They went down that first alley."

Wade's breath left him in one unfailing swoop. Someone has taken Peter, AGAIN. Right out from under his nose. He would've torn out of the store then and there, a hound dog with the scent of blood in its nose, but he needed to clarify something first.

"This man," he said, curling his fingers under his mask, "did he look like this," he lifted his mask off, just enough to reach his eyes, and the women's eyes turned to saucers.

It was all the answer Wade needed, but she still breathlessly said, "Yeah. He - y-you, -"

Wade burst out of the store, flinging the door open hard and sprinting towards the alleyway. The sidewalk was trodden and wet, with only a thin layer of building snow that wasn't disturbed yet. Snowfall was coming down thick, and the footprints Wade could see were quickly being filled in. But they were visible enough that he could still follow them. He ran down the alley, yelling Peter's name.

"Peter? Peter?"

No response. Not a muffle or a crash to let him know if they were close by. The person who took him would hear Wade coming, but Peter needed to know he was nearby. He needed to give Peter some sort of indication that he was close.

Wade's shouting stopped abruptly when he came upon a disturbance in the snow.

Snow was kicked up, smeared around the concrete and blacktop like blood stains. Something went down here.

He bent down, examining the upturned snow with quizzical eyes. Whatever happened, it happened fast and abrupt. Someone hit the ground, and beyond it was a single set of footprints and a long trail in the slush. Two people walked down this alley, only one walked out, the other had been dragged.

He didn't like it.

Wade swore. Then swore again, kicking the wall and running his hands over his head. If he had hair, he would be pulling it up from the roots. He'd been this close to getting Peter back. This fucking close and someone pulled the rug out from under both of their feet. Someone with his face.

Was it a mutant? A shapeshifter? Was this magic? An image inducer? There was an itch in the back of his mind. There was something familiar about all of this.

He punched the wall this time.

"No," he growled, "No. Not happening. Not like this. Nope."

He was a damn mercenary for a reason. Finding people was 85% of his job, and he would scale every single inch of this city if that's what he needed to do, starting with this street. There were lines in the snow, but no blood, so it didn't look like there was a physical injury.

You don't need to spill blood to kill someone, a voice reminded him, and Wade snapped at it to shut up.

Peter was still alive. He had to be, because if he wasn't...Wade didn't know what he was going to do. Probably something stupid and terrible and involving a lot of weapons.

Snow was filling in the draglines and it wouldn't be long before they were gone for good. He took out a gun, cocked it, and followed. The lines twisted through back alleys, before crossing a street. The street was relatively empty, and the lines disappeared into a building opposite of him. Wade flattened himself against a wall, observing the rugged, demolition-job-waiting-to-happen building for signs of Peter and anyone else.

He switched his position behind a dumpster, a little closer to detect hanky business, and took stock of his weapons, making sure each one was loaded and his knives and swords were in pristine quality. The building looked empty and run-down, poorly maintained, and in need of demolition. The perfect place to hide out.

Instead of going in through the front door, as was to be expected, he retraced his steps and cut around the building, so he could enter from the back. If anyone was waiting for him here, they would be waiting for him in the front.

The building was quiet, and he strained his ears for sounds as he crept through each gutted room and peered around each corner. He kept his thoughts grounded to the weapon in his hand, letting it tunnel all his fury, energy, anxiety, and fear into a single driving force. Either they were going to see him first, or the last thing they were going to see was the bullet-end of his gun.

The downstairs appeared empty at first glance, but as Wade stepped into the room occupying the front door, he noticed wet draglines across the floor, leading to a clunky pile in the corner that didn't look quite right. Upon closer inspection, he realized it was a pair of legs, half-hidden behind a corner where the rest of their body disappeared.

Peter. Peter. Peter. Peter.

He didn't know if it was Peter. And even if it was, this reeked of a trap. Wade listened for sounds of breathing, or the clink of bullets, or the cock of a gun. The silence felt too absolute, but the longer he stood there, the itchier his trigger finger became. After 10 minutes, he finally got up and crept across the room, moving along the wall and keeping his steps light, gun pointed down until he could confirm whether they were an enemy or a friend.

He whipped around the corner, gun aimed, but it dipped when the nozzle landed on a familiar tussle of brown hair.

PETER. PETER. PETER. PETER.

Wade sucked in a breath. Peter was unconscious. He was shirtless, with only a pair of pajama bottoms and some worn sneakers to cover himself. He's wrapped loosely in a giant winter coat that looks astonishingly like one Wade had in his closet. For a minute it doesn't look like Peter's breathing, but upon closer inspection, Wade can pick out the faint rise and fall of his chest.

He scrambled to his knees, "Peter?" He whispered, hovering over him, wanting to help, but not sure what he needed, "Hey, Petey?"

Peter didn't respond and Wade slipped one of his gloves off to feel for a pulse. It's cold, even in here, and his fingers tingle as they seek out Peter's heartbeat. It's there, which is a relief. Wade's a personal fan of Peter's heart beating.

There are no outward signs that he's injured either. No broken bones, no blood, he may as well just be sleeping.

"Peter, I need you to wake up for me, baby," he jostled him a little, and Peter's face scrunched up. It took a few more insistent jostles before he cracked his eyes open, and Wade wants to drink coffee out of those beautiful brown eyes.

" 'ade?" He croaks, and his voice is like a calming blanket over Wade's prickly anxiety. He wants to hug him, and hold him, and tell him everything is going to be alright.

"It's me. I'm here. Come on, let's get you outta here, Pete."

Peter looks groggy, like he's not sure what he's seeing. He allows Wade to coax him into a sitting position, pulling the coat tighter around himself with a shiver. His eyes are roving over Wade's face, just on the precipice of brightening with realization before they land on something over his shoulder and they widen instead. "Wade,"

A heartbeat. Wade whips around, squeezing off a shot as he does, and is half raised off his knees, prepared to tackle his assailant, but blinks when there's nothing there but an empty room. The bullet hits the opposite wall and the shot echoes throughout the building with a loud CRACK.

"What?"

Wade turned around, perplexed, to a gun being shoved under his jaw, the nozzle fitted beneath his skull.

Peter was not Peter. Not-Peter was holding a gun. Not-Peter was smiling wickedly at him.

He hadn't felt right. When Wade touched Peter's skin, it wasn't the cold that made his fingers feel tingly. It was the static of an image inducer.

Peter wasn't here.

"Son of a-"

The trigger pulled. His brain and skull met open air.


When Wade woke up it's inside a room.

The room is dank and dark, aside from a single light bulb positioned directly overhead. He can't move, and he's not sure why until his vision is completely healed and, yeah, the pain and immobility makes sense now. Stakes are hammered into his body. The good kind too. Sturdy, steel spikes used in construction, jammed into his arms, forearms, shoulders, legs (calves and thighs), both hands and both ankles. The pain is there, blinding and overwhelming, making his vision go motley, but it's not the worst thing he's ever felt.

Besides, he's a lot more preoccupied with Peter standing in the corner of the room, leaning against the wall, arms crossed, and looking peachy-keen.

Except he's not Peter. Wade knows that now.

"Oh, cut the act," he grunted, gritting his teeth and lifting his head so he can look him in the eye, "I know you're not Peter. Spare us both the effort, why don't you."

Not-Peter shook his head, and it angers Wade that he does the same thing Peter does when he's humoring him. Rolling his eyes and giving him this look. It used to be fond exasperation, but there's something darker about it now. Something Peter, but not Peter.

"Don't do this, Wade," Not-Peter said.

"Do what? Cut the bad guy foreplay short? You know I'm open-minded to all things you may want to try, but non-con isn't my thing, just check the tags. It wasn't put there for this."

Not-Peter sighed, wiping a hand down his face and stopping around his mouth, looking almost sad. "I really didn't want it to go like this, you know."

"Like what? Pinning me down like a bug? Maybe next time try rope and a proper safeword. Rookie."

Not-Peter chuckled, but there isn't a drop of humor in it. He rubbed his head, hand threading through his hair. "Look, I know this is hard, Wade. This isn't how I wanted to have this conversation either. But I guess," he spread his arms awkwardly, "here we are."

Wade's head thunked back on the floor, "You really are going all into this, aren't you? Do you get off on identity theft? I'll have you know that millions of families suffer from this every day-"

"Wade, stop," Not-Peter snapped, holding up a hand, "Just...stop for a second, alright."

Wade rolled his eyes, but he doesn't like how much this Peter sounds like his Peter. They've got his temper down, his exasperation - kudos, he guessed. They're giving it their all.

"It seems you won't stop flapping your gums until you get off on your little fantasy, so hurry it up. I haven't got all day."

Peter walked around Wade, nibbling his lip in thought. Wade scowled. "You were gone for a while, you know," he said, not quite looking at Wade, "Almost 3 months. A guy is bound to get lonely."

"Ah, so you're playing the cheating boyfriend card. Ha, yeah, I'm not buying it. See, if you're going to impersonate someone, you really should do your research. Petey isn't the type of guy to cheat on someone, his aunt didn't raise no bitch."

Peter crouched next to him, leaning over a little, considering that. For just a second his smile turns into something a little more sinister, "Are you sure though? I mean, an attractive guy, a lonely apartment, an equally unattractive boyfriend away on a mission who won't even answer his calls. Who knows what one would do when the nights get a little cold."

Nope. Not true. They had a talk about this. Peter knew Wade wasn't going to be able to answer the phone, Wade made sure he knew this so Peter didn't start thinking these exact thoughts coming out of Not-Peter's mouth.

Not-Peter stood back up, "I don't love you anymore, Wade."

It's a blow to his heart. He knows it's not Peter. Is confident that it isn't. But seeing Peter's face, his voice, saying these words that Wade always feared, it pricked at a hastily sewn stitch in his heart.

Ignore it. It's not real. He only sounds like Peter.

"I'm not sure if I ever really loved you," Not-Peter continued, "Honestly, everything kind of just started out as a fling. A wild ride. But," he shrugged, "rides over now. I've had my fill. I don't want to see you anymore."

"Yeah, keep telling yourself that Fibber on the Roof."

"I know this is hard to understand for someone of your..." Not-Peter pretended to ponder for the word, "intellect. But this is for the best. I mean," he crouched next to Wade again, "Did you actually think this was going to work between us? Me and you?"

He scoffed.

Wade tried not to flinch.

It's not Peter, he said again. It's not Peter. It's not Peter. It's not Peter.

He's had nightmares that started out like this. Fantasies that turn sour with the fear that Peter will tire of him. That he got into it for the adrenaline rush, but it wasn't enough anymore, and he's kicking Wade to the curb for someone who really deserves his attention.

It's like watching his own fears play out in front of him. A hallucination, only real.

"See, Spider-Man would never date someone like you. Peter Parker would never date someone like you. It was fun while it lasted, but at the end of the day, that's all it is. Just a little game. But it's time to grow up and face it, Wade. We weren't meant to be together. I think it's time that we part ways."

"I will gladly part ways with you," Wade said, staring fixed into those false brown eyes. "And once this is all over, I'm going to string you hide outside this building, paint the city red with your blood, and take my actual Petey back home, and we're going to spend the whole night making out. With tongue."

Not-Peter sighed and stood up, reaching into the pocket of the hoodie he was wearing. He pulled out the gun Wade assumed was weighing down the pocket. It looked so wrong in Peter's hands. In a shade that didn't match Peter's palette. A piece that didn't fit with his puzzle. Wade hardly saw him hold one, much less point it at him and aim for his head.

"It's a shame you don't feel the same," he said, and he smiles an amused smile. Like he and Wade are sharing an inside joke. "We both know he wouldn't let you paint the town red."

He pulled the trigger and for the second time, Wade's brain matter splattered across the floor.

ヾ(⌐■_■)ノ