Chapter summary: Bodies aren't the only things that need upkeep. Peter cleans his wounds, physically and emotionally.

(Also there is blood and injury stuff in this chapter. It's basically half of the chapter. I'm so sorry. I DIDN'T MEAN FOR IT TO TURN INTO WHAT IT HAS.)

Chapter Seventeen: Bandages

Peter caught the Eevee and only used a single Pokéball on it. Wade, however, used three Greatballs and even an Ultraball on it, and then the thing ran. Peter was glad it was daytime, because the racket the Merc with the Mouth caused would have woken the dead.

None of it actually made any coherent sense, and most notably consisted of 'son of a fucking,' 'cockmunch,' 'asswagon,' 'buttgobbling,' and 'shitswizzler.' He was actually surprised Aunt May didn't just show up with with a broom and start beating the crap out of Wade for being near enough to her nephew and having such nasty language.

Peter named his Eevee Not Wade's. Wade reeled his arm back and looked like he was about to punch Peter in the shoulder before he wound up just pulling a dirty shirt from the pile under them over the brunet's head and giving him a noogie. "I will throw your phone out the window," he threatened, and Peter laughed, muffled, and it turned into the least evil-sounding cackle ever.

"Just try to pry it from my hand," he challenged, blindly holding it up like it was the Olympic torch, his upper torso still wrapped up in his laundry.

Wade actually attempted to, and gave up after fruitlessly tugging and trying to twist it every which way. He fell back, huffed, crossed his arms, and then whipped his head around to point at Peter, who now had a peephole through the sleeve of the shirt. "I went easy on you," he said, waving his finger around like he had any authority whatsoever.

"Of course," Peter said smugly and then settled back down into his spot and closed the app (since there were no more Pokémon and they weren't close enough to any Pokéstops), and started browsing news articles and forums from the comfort of his new shirt-cave. He looked ridiculous. Eventually he gave in and opened his Google Docs app and started working on his paper from the floor instead of moving three feet and using his computer. It was much easier to write his paper when his mind was calmed by Wade's presence beside him.

After somewhere around twenty minutes, Wade leaned over and got Peter's attention, nudging him and inclining his head towards the younger man's lower body. "You're bleeding through your pants," he said, and Peter shifted, seeing that there was now a mass of red growing on his previously-clean sweats. That meant the webbing had finally dissolved, and the blood was able to get through the denim-'bandage'. He hissed under his breath and sat up, getting himself free from his laundry mess and then he pushed himself to his feet using his arms and a single leg.

Shit, that really hurt. He'd been pretty still while he relaxed on his phone, so his body had healed some around the bullet again, and he was actively having to tear the area back open by moving. He limped back to the bathroom and shut the door behind him. He sat himself hard down on the toilet and propped his leg up on the edge of the shower. The movement hurt a lot. He peeled his sweats back, and the bloody patch tugged against the tattered remains of the jeans, which tugged against the tattered remains of his thigh.

The denim had gotten itself pretty mashed into the wound, and his body had attempted to heal around it, which meant the fibers were very much in him. Oh, this was going to suck so much. This is why he wore spandex; it tore easily and opened up the area around injuries and hardly got stuck to them bad, nothing like this.

He zoned out, so he had absolutely no idea how long he'd been in there, but he was pulled back to the real world when a loud knock on the door startled him so bad that he jumped. He was getting more skittish than he would have liked to admit recently. "Uh, yeah?" he called, trying to calm himself back down. Wade. Wade was here, in his apartment, it was Wade at the door. He heard awkward shuffling from the other side of the wood.

"You're gonna be okay, right?" he heard Wade ask.

Peter slumped down again, and he eyed the wound. "I'm going to be fine. This just isn't very fun."

Wade grunted in agreement. "Yeah." He paused. "I don't really have to do upkeep like this, and I sometimes kinda forget other Costumes aren't like that."

Peter dropped another piece of the denim into the plastic bag he'd worked out from under the sink, having wiggled enough of the fabric away from his skin and sawed through the now-partially-hardened material with the blade of the scissors. "Well, I do have advanced healing," he said, his voice strained, "it's just not as fast as yours."

He heard Wade sigh. "Good to know. I figured, but it's still really scary to think about that stuff. Like, I know you're capable, but shit happens. You can't get like, super crippled or anything, right?"

Peter didn't like thinking about that, either, and he finally got his nail under the last part that was merging with his body. It felt like he poured boiling water on the spot when he ripped it away, and he had to bite his lip and jiggle his other leg a few times with both hands fisted. At least the worst was over with, and he just needed to let nature do its work. Well, after cleaning, that is. Afterward, it should close up completely within two days, but who knew when the bullet would work itself out. That was what was going to be the most annoying - because the longer it stayed in there, the longer it would work against his muscles. The last thing he wanted to do was go in after it and remove it. He could seriously hurt himself worse attempting it.

He sighed in relief and leaned back against the toilet as the immediate, intense pain ebbed away into a heavy throb. Now he just needed to fix it all up nice with a pretty bow made out of bandages. He leaned down and got out the bacterial-killing liquid from Hell and readied himself for another nice string of internal words that was sadly less creative than Wade's spiel from earlier. Oh, did the damnable stuff not let him down.

After it was done fizzing more than a shaken soda, and Peter's muscles were able to untense some, he wrapped it in non-stick bandages to keep everything out that needed to be. Now he just needed to let his healing factor do the rest of the work, and he got to his feet (albeit a little bit shakily) and pulled his sweatpants back up. The blood was dry on them, and there was no point to change into something more clean when these were still perfectly good for covering his lower body.

He tied off the bag of trash but left it on the floor to take out with the rest of his garbage, and then set to washing his hands. Finally, when he went to open the door, he got it maybe half an inch before it collided with something solid with a bang that then let out an "oof" and backed up. Peter opened it some more and then peeked around at Wade on the other side, who was rubbing his head. Yikes. "Sorry," he said, even though Wade probably shouldn't have been trying to listen that hard. "I'm done," he added, and then limped out into the main room and back to his computer chair. His phone was lying on the ground a few feet away, but he just didn't feel like getting it. Besides, he needed to finish his paper, and he typed much faster with a proper keyboard, and… oh. Oh, dear.

Evening was already setting in. Just how long had he been doctoring himself up? After checking the clock, he saw that it had been almost an hour. He had twelve more pages to get done and then he needed to go out as Spider-Man and do his rounds, eat somewhere in all of this, and then he had to somehow manage to get some sleep before his morning class. The class that he liked the very least, which was another reason why he'd been putting this off. "I hecked up," he groaned and slid down into his chair and covered his face. "I'm not getting sleep tonight," he resigned, and realized that he needed more pictures to turn into Jameson, too, and that Tuesday's work wasn't printed out and he still needed to make a diagram for Thursday's.

Why had he let his life get like this? He was supposed to be punctual and have everything sorted out at this point. This was why he couldn't afford himself a social life. It distracted him and took away time he should have been putting towards graduating and getting paid. Aunt May was the only social life he could have.

...But that's not what he wanted. He didn't want to only have Aunt May. He loved her more than he could ever find words for, and he would fight every villain in the world to keep her safe - would do anything to keep her safe - but only having May… he never realized just how lonely he'd gotten. How depressed.

He glanced up at Wade, who looked like he was thinking up excuses on why he should let himself out, and he watched the older man's face as he frowned to himself. It would be so quiet without Wade here. Quiet was what he needed to do what needed to get done, but he knew he would get stuck thinking about that. Then it would be an endless cycle that fed itself for the rest of the night.

"I should get going," Wade said slowly, and he rubbed a hand along the back of his neck. It was clear he wanted to do otherwise, wanted to do something, but was caught with himself over it. Peter bit his lip along with the inside of his cheek, and he tried not to let his mind go into every nook and cranny of what and why. (Maybe it was the same anxiety Peter had from earlier, only… being kicked out. Maybe he was trying to cut it off himself so Peter didn't cut it off for him.)

"Hey, Wade, come here a second? You got something on your face." He sounded just a little bit jittery, and his voice hit an off note near the end.

Wade frowned harder, looking much more dangerous than he ever should, and he let his hand slide across his own jaw. "Yeah, it's called ugly." But even having said that, he moved closer to Peter, within arm's reach. The brunet tried to make it look like he was about to just wipe food or a stain off of the other's skin, but as his hands wound back over the Merc's neck, he froze, he let his nerves get the best of him.

"Could… it be me?" he asked, his breath hitched and his face burned darker and darker as he realized how stupid he sounded.

Wade looked like he'd been struck dumb. His eyes were left wide and his mouth open. "Uh?" he asked, sounding… a lot like the main character from Home Improvement.

Peter, whose heart was thumping like a startled rabbit's foot, looked away and mumbled, "I'm asking for a kiss."

More seconds passed between them, before Wade swallowed hard and then, very quietly, said, "Hell yeah."

It was Peter's first kiss in years.