"We have not touched the stars,

nor are we forgiven, which brings us back

to the hero's shoulders and the gentleness that comes,

not from the absence of violence, but despite

the abundance of it."

 -Richard Siken

There was a knife pointed at the back of Peter's neck.

"This is by far the most puzzling ability you've seemed to develop," Reyes said.

A blindfold had been secured firmly around his eyes, any light or motion entirely blocked from view. But he could feel it— the danger, the threat, concentrated at the intended target: himself.

The Employer called it a test of his "enhanced senses."

"Arachnids themselves perform saccades with their secondary eyes at any hint of danger or intrigue," Reyes pondered. "They're documented to be incredibly aware of their surroundings and reflexively reactive to threats... but they aren't clairvoyant. This response you have to threats seems to be entirely intuitive."

Peter exhaled stiffly through his nose and didn't say anything. The tingling at his neck stopped, the knife having moved away. It started again at his forearm. He could feel the hairs raise.

"It's almost as if your body operates with some form of magnetoreception in regard to a personal threat," Reyes commented. "Not uncommon given the origin of subject modification, but it's the 'threat' part that truly interests me."

The tingling goes away from his forearm. There's rustling, and then the scratching of a pen against paper. The whole left side of his face then went numb with alarm, and he yanked his head to the side instinctively just as something whizzed past his ear.

"If I explain it, will you stop throwing shit at me?" Peter huffed. "It's kind of annoying."

"And how would you have the capability to explain?" Reyes drawled, agitated.

"All of my abilities are proportionate to a spider," Peter said tiredly, his head hanging back against the chair. "They move away from threats fast because they're reactive, like you said— they're dependent on vibrations in the surrounding electromagnetic field. It's the same for me. Just... stronger. It's not really precognitive, it just looks like that because it's all faster for me."

The Employer was silent for a long minute, and then began to write quickly. Peter fought the urge to roll his eyes.

"See? Look at that. Imagine how much easier all of this could have been with a nice conversation," Peter smiled sharply.

"Don't forget your place here," Reyes snapped. "Your only use to me is information. The more you give me willingly the less I have to scrape out of you."

Peter shook his head. "It's not too late, Reyes. You can still do the right thing."

"Why would I care about doing the right thing?" Reyes scoffed. "That's the least of my concerns. Far too many people blunder about life focused on their moral compass, completely unwilling to test the boundaries of what they're capable of."

"And I am capable," Reyes continued seethingly. "I am more than capable. I've been waiting for this opportunity too long for Parker's son, of all people, to bring my operation to ruin."

"Why May?" Peter asked, glaring furiously at the darkness. "What has she had to do with any of this? She's pointless to your goals."

"Well you're here, aren't you?" Reyes responded, and Peter hated that he recognized how he sounded when he was smiling. He could imagine the way Reyes' lips curled up into a sneer. "I've planned everything exactly as it was supposed to go."

Peter bit his tongue, fuming. His arm tingled again, indicative of a pointed weapon, and he opened his mouth to quip again but was stopped short when he felt the knife dig in.

He hissed through clenched teeth, pulling back against the rope, his arm hot with alarm, dripping with blood. A small, almost surgical cut against the flesh.

"Are you aware of the work done by Professor Fritz Vollrath?" Reyes asked succinctly. "A distant inspiration of Dr. Connors, of whom I'm sure you're familiar."

"Early hit," Peter huffed, his head dipping down. Hair fell into his face, brushing against his cheek. "You sure've done your research. Let me guess, Vollrath likes messing with genetics."

"Quite the contrary," Reyes cleared his throat. "Professor Vollrath has never strayed as far as Connors had to achieve a goal, the poor bastard. But he has done research on how Arachnida may impact regeneration and health, particularly through their silk... I'm sure you can see where Connors had been so inspired. He wouldn't stop blabbering on about his theories during our joint employment together."

"You worked with both of them, didn't you?" Peter said. "My dad and Dr. Connors. Closely. It wasn't that you were all just on the same floor."

"Unfortunately," Reyes glowered. "But I digress. While Connors had always been so... centered, on curing others and himself of their maladies, I had always felt as though a different approach was needed to the craft."

Peter's fingers twitched. "Well, clearly they didn't need your approach. Connors was never fired from Oscorp— not until years later. You were let go as soon as the spider project was shut down."

"I'm very aware!" Reyes snapped. "That's why it's so critical, so salient, that you're under my observation. That the research is finished— and what a joy it is to have access to a subject of my Steatoda that can speak."

He felt the knife drag once again across his skin. His other arm, now. He winced, clenching his teeth hard as he heard his own blood drip onto the metal floors.

"One that has also the anatomy and biology of a homosapien," Reyes continued coldly. "So that I may study the quality of arachnid regeneration on a scale that no esteemed scientist has ever had access to before."

There's an odd feeling that has washed over him; like watching a torrential downpour through a window, only after you've just come inside. A distinct almost out-of-body experience where Peter couldn't fully comprehend that this was real.

That it was him who was trapped in a submarine under the water, being experimented on like something entirely inhuman, slowly and methodically with no foreseeable end.

That this was happening not just to Spider-Man, but to him.

He wished he could apologize to Wade; for their fight, for his ignorance, for his stubbornness, for everything.

He wished he could make it out of this in time to save May, who had done nothing to warrant such danger and harm except for simply loving him. A crime he was all too familiar with, for all the victims he'd held.

Guilt shouldn't mean grief. She was right. She's always right.

Peter wished he could tell her that, too.

It's only getting colder in the submarine, the pressure only increasing as they descended lower and lower into the bay. Peter's unsure what hour it was when he regained consciousness, but his blindfold had been removed.

The wounds were crusted with dried blood, healing at a much slower rate than usual— much thanks to the Employer's fun anti-venom. His notes on this were of course extensive, papers littered everywhere within the room, pens ran out of ink scattered across the floor.

The top of his suit was stripped off. Lines and illegible notes marked onto his welted skin. His body felt like it was on fire, like the only way to fix the itch under his skin was to peel it off and scratch until it bled.

"What..." Peter choked out. His eyes bleary, his neck stiff. A pinprick was jabbed efficiently onto his back, and he winced, a pained noise escaping his throat.

He flexed his hands and strained to look behind him, catching a glimpse of that damned coat, stark white and stained with cigarette ash. Nylon blue gloves.

"Keep yourself still, lest I feel the need to lower the temperature again," Reyes bit out cleanly. Another pinprick against his back. And another. Each stick felt like it began burning from the inside out, and they just wouldn't stop.

The small needles slammed into his skin at a rapid pace, he counted each one with increasing nerves. He flinched at every pinch, every sharp strike, and shivered and strained at the discomfort of his whole back inflamed in hives.

After the eightieth prick, Dr. Reyes walked around him, holding a small clear box, full of the tiny needles with red caps to hold. He narrowed his eyes, scanning over Peter's skin critically. He set the box down and picked up his notepad, clicking the pen with his thumb.

"What're you doing?" Peter rasped. His skin burned, angry welts forming in odd places all over his back, his arms. He fought against the restraints instinctually with the urge to scratch. "Electrocution just wasn't enough, you had to poison me, too?"

"I am identifying antigens within your system that imbricate with arachnid repellents," Reyes answered blankly.

"You're testing me for... allergies?" Peter asked, disbelieving. "But I'm not— I'm not allergic to anything."

He thought. Because he'd never been allergic to anything except for hayfever in the spring. A handful of sneezes, watery eyes. The usual.

"Evidential results indicate an entirely reality," Reyes drawled snidely, continuing to mark down notes. He scowled up at Peter. "With the questions you ask, it's hard to believe that you are related to Parker in any capacity."

"What is it?" Peter demanded. "What are the results?"

Reyes drew an eyebrow up, suspicion written on his face.

"Tell me what you found out," Peter hissed, leaning in. "Doctor."

The suspicion never faltered, but Reyes conceded, putting his pen down. He looked over him, calculating. "You show the most extreme reactions to eucalyptus and melaleuca, white vinegar, lavender, marigolds, and most plants in the Lamiaceae family."

"That's a lot," Peter gritted out. There was something awful brewing in his heart. He gave a grim smile, his eyes dark. "I guess no more candy canes for me, huh, Doc?"

"Less severe but still afflicted were the sites tested with capsaicin and citrus," Reyes continued, ignoring him. "These results confirm a correlation between your immune system and the sensitivities of the Arachnida class."

Reyes trailed off, mumbling to himself. He returned to his notepad again, and in the silence Peter sat with his new information.

He had done his own research— before. Sweating and scared at fourteen, huddled over his taped-up laptop well into the early morning, reading and reading and reading while he listened to the blood pounding in his ear.

He ran his own tests. Checked his own strength. His own endurance. Stuck himself on the sides of buildings, closed his eyes and jumped from roofs, tested the boundaries and broke them. From infected wounds and close calls he learned about what he was.

He'd been a scientist too, after all. For a long time that's all he wanted to be. In any other situation, he'd have loved to learn these things about himself— but in this place, in this light, with Reyes's cold eyes, all he could feel was disgust.

He hated Reyes for running the tests. He hated himself for being the tests, nothing more than a freakshow of DNA to be picked at and examined. The strength of his self-loathing had him grinding his teeth.

"That isn't surprising," Peter said, his voice dull. He shivered again, like his body knew that was the only thing he could do to possibly ease the itch on his back.

"What were you even expecting the results to be? Are these the kind of tests you've been waiting to perform your whole life?" He seethed at the Employer, sweat dripping in his eyes. "You're not a scientist. You're not a doctor. You're a hack. You're nothing."

Reyes' eyes flickered with pure malice, and he set his notes down. His lip curled into a sneer. "I believe you've exhausted my patience. I don't want to hear you speak anymore."

"Wouldn't be the first time I've heard that," Peter jutted his chin out, a challenging gaze in his eyes. "Guaranteed it won't be the last."

"We shall see," Reyes commented. "My next test will be conducted with the goal of fortifying a better understanding of your respiratory system with mutated DNA. Arachnids, as you are aware, don't have red-celled blood, they–"

"They run on hemolymph. I know."

"So you do," Reyes rolled his eyes, circling around him with slow steps. "And because of hemolymph functions, it would be rather detrimental to the closed circulatory system that homosapiens operate on. It requires oxygen, it requires energy, more than hemolymph would be able to provide."

"I don't have hemolymph in my blood," Peter said, infuriated. "I've already run tests on myself years ago, and besides– I know you've looked at my blood before. You know that it's hemoglobin. What are you getting at?"

"You don't have even the slightest idea, do you?" Reyes stalked forward, a smile stretching on his face. "How deeply she has woven herself through your DNA. How little of yourself is left unchanged, left human."

"The socially-acceptable term is mutate."

Reyes' eyes sparked, the smile falling away. He clenched his jaw. "I am going to drain the oxygen from this vessel until you choke. We shall see how encouraged you are to open your mouth, then."

"You have weird kinks," Peter shot back.

Reyes ignored him, securing a mask to his own face. It hooked to a singular oxygen tank that he situated on the floor beside his seat. A tablet in one hand, his damned notepad in the other. He glared at Peter as he moved his finger down the glowing screen– and then the submarine lit up in red blaring lights.

"WARNING, OXYGEN LEVELS DEPLETING," an automated voice said overhead. Air hissed around him through the vents and tunnels.

Peter kept his teeth gritted, staring darkly at Reyes as his lungs began to pinch. He kept his breaths small, his chest tight in a way he hadn't known since sixth grade.

"This is simply a test of time for you, Arachnida," Reyes said mechanically, his voice muffled from the mask. He jotted something down in his notes.

In, and out. In, and out. He kept his eyes locked on Reyes even when his fingers began to twitch and his jaw began to tick. The only way to win here was to have control, and Peter wouldn't relinquish his easily.

A minute or two passed. The red lights hurt his head almost as bad as the lack of oxygen. He inhaled slow and deep, then held his breath. He let his eyes close, letting time wash away from him for as long as he could.

If he could focus—

"Your aunt has remarkable trust in the world."

His eyes snap open, his heart jolting in his chest. Reyes was staring back at him, his hand stalling over his notes.

"She lets just anybody in," Reyes drawled. "Helps even the sickest of fools. It wasn't hard at all to find her home address."

A shiver went down his spine. The muscles in his stomach moving as if it would force his lungs to take in more air. Dark spots grew fuzzy in the edges of his vision. Peter ignored them, keeping his jaw clenched. He took another slow breath.

"She's stronger than I expected, too," Reyes added. "Didn't even scream."

Peter's nose flared, his chest constricting in a painful squeeze.

"Not even after the first bone broke. Nor the second. The third, though..."

Peter choked around nothing, the oxygen fully drained from the room. He jerked in his chair, his teeth bared, his nails digging into the meat of his own palms.

"She–" Peter rasped breathlessly, thrashing violently. His vision blacking in and out. "You'll–"

Reyes scratched away on the paper. His oxygen mask hissing in the vessel, the sound gratingin Peter's ears.

His body seized up, and then dropped, still twitching. His consciousness once again being ripped away from him.

He dreamt again of Wade.

Oh, he was bleeding. Blood was gushing out of him, layers of flesh shredded away, his insides spilling out, and he's on Deadpool's couch. He'd been here before. Bullet wounds and stitches and near-death experiences have made him familiar with the scent of gunpowder and the sight of Pool's littered apartment.

"Just breathe," Pool repeated behind him, his voice sturdy as always, unflappable in the chaos. Leather gloves brushed his cheek. "Stay with me, baby boy. Don't close your eyes. Come on, you can do this."

"I can't," Peter shook his head, his lungs heaving for an extra breath. "I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry. I can't do this. I don't want to do this anymore."

"You have to," Wade said sharply, and suddenly he was in front of him now. His gloved hand holding Peter's chin steady, his mask off– piercing blue eyes keeping him still. "You have to do this. It isn't fair, but you have to."

"I'm not strong enough," Peter said, his blood pooling at their feet, at their ankles. His chest was heavy. "I want to kill him, Wade. I want him to die."

"I know." Wade pressed a kiss to his sweat-soaked forehead. "I know, baby boy. But it'll be over soon. I'll save you. I always do, don't I?"

"You can't. This isn't real," Peter mumbled uselessly. "You're not even here. You're not here, because I pushed you away."

"Maybe," Wade answered. He carded a hand through Peter's hair. "But you are here. So wake up. Get your head in the game, Webs. May needs you."

He kept his head weakly dipped down. He blinked real slow, sweat dripping down the side of his forehead. A droplet fell to the floor and evaporated instantly, hissing against the metal. His chest burning, still gasping for air.

"How riveting it is," Reyes said. "That you somehow contrived yourself into such an intimate partnership with the mercenary hired to stalk you."

"What are you talking about?" Peter asked breathlessly. He looked up, meeting his eyes with poorly-concealed vitriol.

"You've been saying his name every time you lose consciousness," the Employer remarked. "So hopeless..."

"You saw a new constant in your life and clung to it, such as a moth to a fly, or a starved man to a meal," he smiled with grimacing teeth. "And look how you've evolved with it, Arachnida."

Peter shuddered, dipped his chin down. Rage rolled in his stomach, but he's so tired, all it could do was turn itself in circles until he felt sick with it. Sick from all of the fury unable to boil over, the tension unable to snap.

"I hate you," Peter mumbled slowly, the words dripping from his teeth like a spider's venom, the only bite he could manage with his energy.

A needle was stuck into his arm, pricking the skin roughly. A vial of deep blue liquid once again was pushed into his veins. Reyes' next words are clear and dark: "That won't make a difference to me."

He turned to the wall and pushed down a switch. Cold fog began hissing through the vents, burning against Peter's exposed skin. He shivered and twisted where he sat.

"There's no use fighting," Reyes rolled his eyes. "This temperature is specifically fixed to your nervous system's weakness. The Arachnida genes will prevail, you will struggle to thermoregulate, and you will become slow."

Peter exhaled shakily, his breaths coming out in short puffs of fog. His fingers and toes numbing from the cold, his ears and nose starting to burn red.

"F-Fuck— you," he chattered.

"If you were curious about the results of the previous test, I shall indulge you– you lasted seven minutes, thirty-seven seconds without any oxygen whatsoever," Reyes noted. "Eight minutes beforehand, as the oxygen was slowly depleting to zero. Above average, but hardly a world record. I would need to conduct further tests to ensure that Steatoda Nobilis had an impact, but given your previous medical history as an asthmatic, it's highly probable."

Peter didn't warrant that with a response. He couldn't think very clearly to begin with– the cold was starting to get to him again. His head full of webbing, his eyelids heavy against his own will. He felt like he'd been drugged with something strong.

"Speaking of your mercenary," Reyes cleared his throat. "He's made quite a few threats since your disappearance. It's been, oh, nearing thirty hours now... He's been productive. The police radios have been chattering about a potential serial killer."

Half-lidded and shivering, his face numb and his tongue sitting uselessly in his mouth, Peter stared back at him blankly.

"Not that I care terribly about your own morality, but I expected you'd have more of a... theatrical reaction," Reyes squinted. He turned around thoughtfully. "Perhaps apathy is a symptom of prolonged anti-venom exposure."

Peter said nothing.

"Nevertheless," Reyes pushed his glasses up on the bridge of his nose. "I do wonder what his progress has been. I've given him so much time, after all."

He flashed his teeth in a grim smile, and then slid an old flip-phone out of his lab coat's pocket. He fiddled with the buttons for a moment, before holding it up in the air.

White noise crackled from the speaker.

"Reyes."

This wasn't Wade. There was no gentleness in the way his teeth bit around the words. He was sharp, vicious, cold. Peter could almost see the blood dripping off of him. Even so, the relief of hearing his voice made him dizzy.

Peter's shoulders drop, falling forward in his seat. His teeth chatter. He couldn't speak.

"I've met your friend," Deadpool said shortly. "Hope you weren't attached to him. Or his head."

"...Shame," Reyes replied after a moment, his eyes dimming. His lips quirk into a frown. "But I suppose risks are necessary in any worthwhile experiment, no?"

"He left some documents behind. Real informative charts about wave currents and docking schedules. You wouldn't know anything about that, would you?"

Reyes' frown pressed into a tight line. His eyebrows furrowing, his nose flaring, and he's frustrated. Peter latched onto the emotion like a lifeline. Frustration meant something was going wrong. Frustration meant a chance. His way back in the door.

"Not anything worth mentioning," Reyes answered through gritted teeth. "No matter. With the direction my research has been taking, there may not be much left for you to find. Isn't that right, Arachnida?"

Peter glared at Reyes, shivering harder. He was so tired. The cold was controlling his body like a puppet on frozen strings, his mouth unmoving, his body still.

"Webs?" Wade spoke quickly, his menace morphing into something frantic and almost hopeful. Peter's heart ached. "Webs, hold on. Just hang in there, baby boy, I'm trying to find you. I swear, everything will be okay. I— Reyes, you fucking bastard, I'm going to tear you to shreds and feed them to your goddamn spiders, I swear to—"

Reyes clicked a button, and Pool's voice, the white noise, all went dead. He slid the phone back into his pocket.

Peter exhaled stiffly through his nose and clenched his teeth, wanting more than anything to shout, to scream, to break the chair, to break Reyes. Instead he kept glaring: exhausted, frozen, and beat.

"It is fascinating," Reyes commented, walking over to a selection of venting pipes that ran along the walls. He twisted some of the temperature gauges, letting the air grow even colder, and then huffed. "You having affection for the mercenary I hired to stalk you wasn't at all what I hypothesized, but I suppose I should have accounted further for your idiocy."

He stared at Peter for a moment, calculating, and then hummed, turning away.

"With that, you can sit idly," Reyes walked towards the ladder leading up from the submarine. "You'll find that time seems to drift down here."

So, without any choice, he drifted.

"Pete, you gotta wake up soon. You're going to be late."

Peter groaned, keeping his head ducked low. Sweat dripped down his brow, slipped down his neck. His chest felt tight, like he could take a breath but couldn't hold it— it was strung out tight and thin, a half-formed wispy thing caught just at the back of his throat.

A phantom touch graced his forehead, like the whisper of wind brushing against the sweaty curls stuck to his temples. He flinched, shivered, shuddered.

"You're running a fever, Pete. Still not feeling well, huh? Were you feeling sick before you left for school yesterday?"

"Ben," Peter rasped out, his voice trembling. He swallowed thickly, tried to lift his head— his skin prickled with the movement, a mass of grey spinning in his vision and making him dizzy. "What're you..."

Ben's been gone for ages. He imprinted the fact on his brain so many times since it happened, repeating the simple truth in the quiet of his teenage bedroom for so many nights just to make the message stick. He believed the unbelievable already. The reverse happening now made him feel even sicker, if it were at all possible.

Peter clenched his eyes tight enough for stars to swim in the darkness of his eyelids. He felt a curdling wave of nerves at the back of his neck, cringing in on themselves. "Ugh."

"Aw, kiddo. How about you stay home today? May'll make you some wheatcakes, you go back to bed. Rest up."

Another painful breath stuttered past his lips. His ear itched. The silver scar behind its shell was a screaming, singing thing. His head lolled, and he dazed in and out of consciousness until someone else spoke.

The Employer was there when his eyes cracked open next, while the sweat was still sticky on the nape of his neck. The doctor's eyes held an irrefutable insanity, his jaw held tight while his lips curved sickeningly at the edges.

A line of jars sat hauntingly on the metal table, spiders filling each one. Peter wasn't sure what was real or what wasn't.

Reyes turned the lid on the first jar slowly, the clinking scrapes of metal against glass reverberating through the walls of the submarine. The spiders in them, moving around in a frenzy, legs crawling over each other to try and escape, threatened to pour out. Several small ones managed to succeed, and became little black dots darting away faster than Peter could keep track. They caught webs and ballooned away.

Reyes took a small Pyrex beaker, full of a crystalline blue, and slowly tipped it into the maddening tangled mass of spiders. Screams began to ring out. They couldn't possibly have come from the spiders— but the things were frenetic now as they tumbled in the glass, trying to escape the liquid and its slow death.

"Stop," Peter begged. He didn't know if his voice was working. His ears were ringing from the screams, he wanted to clamp his hands over them and never hear again. "Stop it."

The blue liquid began to pool at the bottom as it skunk its way through the spiders, submerging those at the bottom. Peter could feel his own lungs fill, and he gagged instinctually, gasped for air, tried to get anything he could. Black dots flooded his vision.

The movements of the glass slowly churned to a halt, leaving nothing but corpses. Reyes closed the lid. The spiders in the glass had all curled in on themselves in ugly knots. He made a note on his clipboard.

"This is a solution supposed to be harmless to humans," Reyes said, his voice a million miles away. Sharp and grated like sandpaper. His eyes flicked up to Peter, emotionless. "My running hypothesis..."

The words went gargled, and his eyelids had a heavy pressure behind them that made him force his eyes closed. Then time was nothing but a haze yet again. Peter's a fumbling thing in his own head, pressing and pulling at the cotton woven between each airy thought.

Through the feverish smog, the hallucinations grow thick, becoming just as real as the shaking of his own goosebump-covered arms or the shuddering of his breath. There's a spider tickling its way up his ankle. He can't kick it away. There's a whisper in his ear. He doesn't have the energy to hear the words.

The whisper brushed against his ear again, barely forming a word. "Pete."

Peter mumbled incoherently back.

"Baby-boy," the voice sang.

Peter squinted and tilted his head up, and it was so heavy, heavier than anything he's ever picked up, whole buildings, semi trucks, train cars—

The Employer sitting primly, watching him with a blank expression. Staring, unmoving, Peter let his gaze carry up to a flash of motion.

Deadpool was on the ceiling. Peter didn't know how he got there. He couldn't remember stickiness being in the merc's list of mutant abilities in any of their conversations.

"Hey, Petey," the voice rumbled. Peter shivered. He was so cold— Antarctica is supposed to be colder than negative ninety degrees Celsius. This could be Antarctica, surely.

"What..." Peter said back, his voice hoarse. Words slid around his mouth like a thick syrup.

"I stole your powers!" Deadpool chuckled. "Look, I crawled up on the ceiling."

The man smiled at him through the mask. It looked strange. Peter blinked again, confused. He swallowed, and his throat burned something fierce.

Wade dropped down to the hard floor, and Peter was worried about him getting hurt for a moment, but he looked down and the metal had been replaced with a layer of wilting orange rose petals.

"I'm hallucinating," Peter blurted, understanding hitting him like a lightbulb turned on.

Reyes, sitting in the midst of orange rose petals, looked nonplussed. He said nothing, studying him with narrowing eyes as he jotted down notes. Peter struggled to turn his head back to Wade.

"Aww," Wade walked around him, flowers up to his ankles. "Why can't I be real?"

"I dunno. I wish you were."

Wade smiled again, the Deadpool mask he wore distorting with weird, uncanny creases. He reached a hand up, pressed a cool thumb across Peter's cheek. "We should go home now."

"Oh," Peter murmured. His teeth chattered around loudly in comparison. "Yeah. I wanna... I wanna go home."

"Not yet," Wade decided. He removed his hand. Peter leaned forward to try and catch it again, to press it against his ice cold face, yearning for the warmth of it, but it never seemed to reach him. "You gotta get out of here first. I don't like it here– gives me the willies."

"Me too," Peter said softly, a weak smile on his face. He watched Wade melt back into the shadows.

He blinked again, and Reyes wasn't there. His things left right where he'd been sitting. The rose petals were gone, too.

"You are planning on getting out, aren't you?" Someone teased behind him. He craned his neck to look.

"Gwen," Peter identified, feeling breathless. "Seeing you probably doesn't bode well, does it?"

"Maybe." Gwen stepped into the light. She collected her hair and dragged it behind her ear, looking thoughtful. "You look like you've gone through hell."

"I thought I wouldn't ever see you again."

Gwen smiled at that. "I'm never so far away. Just quiet. Besides, this is your head, isn't it? I'm only here because you need me."

Peter hummed with agreement. He let his chin drop slightly. "I'm tired."

"You always are," Gwen teased again. Then she cleared her throat, kneeling down to meet his eyes. They were serious, determined. "It's not time to sleep, though. He's gone. Which means this is your chance."

He shook his head. "I know, but I can't think straight."

"Excuses, excuses. You can never think straight." Gwen flicked him gently on the forehead. He didn't feel it. "Come on, bug boy. Use your big brain. I can't do all the work for you."

"I have to break the rope. And the ventilation pipes," Peter mumbled, "but I don't know if I'm strong enough yet."

"Yes you do. You've been keeping track of how long the formula takes to wear off."

Peter furrowed his eyebrows. "I have?"

"Haven't you?" Gwen challenged.

Peter blinked a couple times, his mouth opening and closing. Then he nodded once. "Last dose was a couple hours ago. I think."

"You think?" Another voice said between a laugh. Within a blink, Harry was leaned against Gwen, ducked down so that his chin could playfully rest on her shoulder.

"You too, huh?" Peter murmured. "Is this a 'Parker's Greatest Fails' Hallucination Special?"

"It's your noggin, Pete," Harry grinned. "You tell us."

"Well, go a little easy on him, Har," Gwen mused, elbowing his side lightly. "It's been a long time since he's seen us all together. Besides, he's had a long couple of days."

"Don't need to tell me twice," Peter sighed. "I feel like shit and I'm talking to a wall."

"A very handsome wall," Harry smirked. "I'll try not to take it personally."

"Alright, be quiet," Gwen crossed her arms. "Focus. Peter, the vents."

Peter grunted, lifting his head. The pipes were about six feet away, and he's tied down tight because of his previous fuck-up. He chewed on the inside of his cheek.

"There's also the tablet thing," Harry noted, picking at his nails.

"I know that. You're literally a part of my head," Peter muttered. He blew out a breath and then moved, pushing all his energy towards wriggling.

Harry laughed. "You look like a worm."

"Shut up," Gwen elbowed him again.

Peter moved until the ropes had slipped maybe an inch down his chest, giving just enough space for him to twist. He started then on the ropes that tied his wrists to the chair arms.

"Friction," Gwen reminded him, her eyebrows furrowed with concentration.

Harry winced. "This is gonna hurt like a bitch."

Peter made a noise of agreement and then started moving his wrist back and forth, the restraint cutting hot against the chair. It did hurt. The rope burned against his skin, and the blood dripping down helped it loosen.

"I just need my hands free," he said through clenched teeth, his face scrunched up in effort. "Then I can get out of the rest of them."

"Yeah, and you're almost there," Harry confirmed, Gwen nodding from his side.

The rope frayed, and Peter took a deep breath and yanked. It hurt like hell. His muscles ached like he'd just thrown a whale, his head was spinning, and the skin of his wrists was swollen and bleeding.

"Fuck," Peter said tightly. "Okay. Next one."

Harry clapped his hands, leaning forward. "C'mon, Pete. Hurry before he comes back."

"Don't jinx it," Peter said, fumbling to untie his other hand. He got it loose enough to tug at it, and then moved to his ankles.

Untying his back was the hardest, because he had to do it without looking. Stretching his arms behind him hurt more than it should, his shoulders felt like they were being torn from the sockets.

The ropes all on the floor, Peter heaved himself forward to lean on his knees. His vision swam.

"You're fine," Harry said firmly. "You've gone through worse than this."

"He's right," Gwen stared at him, her lips pursed. "He wasn't counting on you to wake up so soon. You have the advantage. Use it, Peter. You won't get another chance."

"May's counting on you, Pete. Don't let her down."

Peter caught his breath and raised his head, his hair falling in his face, his eyes dark. He listened past the metal creaks of the submarine, the deep warbling of water, the bright but distant hum of machinery— and Reyes.

He's in the control room, pacing, muttering to himself, clicking a pen on and off. He's smoking a cigarette again, Peter can hear the drag of oxygen, the shaky exhale.

Peter stood shakily, the muscles of his legs numb from disuse. He looked back at his hallucinations— his old friends, his dead— but they had been replaced by empty space.

His jaw set, determined, he limped to the wall, scanning the surface for a weak point. Along the pipes, an uneven metallic splotch where they'd been welded together, Peter found it.

He wrapped his hands around the pipes and pulled, pulled harder, shut his eyes and yanked backwards as far as he could until the seam bent. Air hissed and frosted over the open break of the pipe, stopping the flow of cool air towards the vents.

Warmth settled on his bones, and blissfully, the shivering stopped.

He climbed the ladder like something brought back to life wrong, something darker, heavier, deadlier. His teeth aching in his mouth, his ears ringing, his eyes burning with sweat. The remains of a torn suit were left on his legs, and his chest open with wounds, swollen with bruises.

At the top of the ladder, a compact space with three steel doors. More pipes, gears, and wires were illuminated by a dull purple light. Air canisters were hooked up to the walls with little dials on them indicating that they were low. Electrical boxes blinked with busy buttons and switches, crowded into the space.

Reyes was behind the door directly ahead of him, a straight shot from the ladder. Peter didn't bother investigating further. There was only one thing he wanted to do here.

He pulled the wheel of the door open, hearing Reyes stop, hearing him take a step back— and then leaped through the door.

Peter slammed him on the ground, hearing a deafening thud as the demented scientist's head collided into the metal floor. Reyes spluttered, his hands going up to his face, but Peter moved faster.

His fist made direct impact with the Employer's nose, making a sick cracking sound. Blood gushed down Reyes' face, and Peter didn't stop.

"Where is she?!" Peter yelled hoarsely, picking up Reyes by the lapels of his coat and hitting him back into the ground. "Tell me right now. Tell me."

"Spider-Man—" Reyes rasped, blood running from his mouth, "—doesn't kill."

Peter gritted his teeth. "He does tonight."

"You wouldn't. I've studied you, you wouldn't," Reyes continued, narrowing his eyes. His glasses splintered upon his face, shards embedded in his cheek, his nose, the bridge of his eyebrow. "Especially not when you don't know where she is, if she's even alive. You need my intel, Arachnida."

Peter kicked into his shin, hard, the tibia splitting open. Reyes screamed in pain, a noise he had never heard him make and was determined to hear again. He kicked the broken leg again, and Reyes swore loudly.

Peter pressed the sharp edge of his elbow against Reyes' throat, leaning close to his face.

"Talk," he demanded, his eyes glinting.

Reyes heaved, his face pale, his breath rotten of smoke. "Have you ever— have you ever broken an egg, Parker?"

Peter glared, digging his elbow in further. Reyes winced and swallowed painfully.

"Ever held one in your fist and squeezed? You'd think it would be easy, but..." Reyes let out a breathless laugh. He shook his head. "You crush your knuckles together, and it doesn't crack. So what do you do next?"

No.

"Oops," Reyes said, smiling with all of his bloodied teeth. They're not broken, yet. They will be. "The splatter... as it hits the ground, is... the most satisfying."

No, no, no, no.

"You remember," Reyes pressed forward. "I know you've done it before, after all. Broken a couple eggs..."

(She had fallen like the remains of a star where it lay contrasted on the dark, wet floor. Her hair shone with it, bright, blonde, splayed out beneath her head in a swirling pattern.)

"You're lying," Peter shook his head furiously. "You're lying."

"Have you known me to lie, Arachnida?" Reyes asked, his voice leveled blankly. "You two sound the most alike when you're in pain."

Peter reeled his head back and crashed forward into Reyes' cranium.

He didn't know when his screaming stopped and Reyes' started. He just knew that he was moving on his own accord, that his fists may as well have been knives the way they cracked through Reyes' bones.

Blood was on his face, and blood was on Reyes' face. The skin of Peter's knuckles burst crimson, Reyes was limp, unconscious. When had he passed out?

Booms rattled the submarine, maybe gunshots, maybe bombs. Maybe all of this would finally be over, maybe Peter would sink to the bottom of the ocean like the husk he'd become. He didn't care.

Reyes choked on teeth and blood, his body permanently flinched, and Peter thrashed around like he was still fighting for his life. He knew, distantly, that this was wrong. He knew, distantly, that this was killing him.

There's something pulling at him, a voice in his ear. Bloodied water seemed to be pooling at his ankles, the cold shock shooting him back into reality. He sucked in a breath, and jerked around, ready to swing a punch at his next assailant.

They took the punch, lurching backwards and grabbing their masked face, grunting and popping their jaw back into place. "Shit, you really pull your punches, don't you?"

Peter dropped his fists. "Wade?"

"I'm here," Deadpool assured firmly, standing back up to his full height. He went to pull at Peter's arms. "Come on, we need to go. This place is sinking fast."

Peter clawed away to get loose, his brain whirring on all cylinders. "No, I can't, I have to save Reyes."

He felt insane. He probably was insane.

"What the fuck?" Pool guffawed. "Fuck no, we're getting out of here, now."

"I can't!" Peter snapped, the words tearing out of his throat. It was animalistic, desperate, because he needed Wade to understand. He needed Wade to get it. "He didn't tell me. He's the only chance of finding her. He wasn't telling me, and I need to know—"

Deadpool caught his arm and reeled him back. He reached with one hand to messily pull off his mask, and then looked at Peter with wide, blue eyes. Wade.

Wade, Wade, Wade.

He put both hands firmly on his cheeks and steadied him. "Peter. You need to breathe. Tell me what's going on."

Blood ran down his face and dripped over his lips as he tried to speak. "I don't know— I don't know where her body is."

"Okay. You need him alive for information," Wade clarified. Peter nodded frantically.

Wade looked to Reyes, still unconscious on the floor. The water was up to his chest. His jaw worked, and finally he nodded back. "Okay. Okay. I need you to swim back up."

"No," Peter's nose turned up, almost snarling. "No, he's—"

"He's mine," Wade cut in. "Webs, this place is going down like a tanker. You have to trust me. Get yourself out, I'll take care of the rest."

Peter stared at him, his chest rising and falling. Wade's eyes carried a steady resolve, more serious than he's ever seen.

"You'll get him?" Peter asked hesitantly.

Wade leaned forward, kissing him soundly. He pulled back and gently pulled Peter's hair out of his face. "Baby boy, I promise you. Everything will be fine."

Peter swallowed thickly. "Where do I get out?"

"I breached the hull. The door was shut tight, but this thing is guaranteed to implode real soon," Wade explained, picking Reyes up. He doesn't say anything about how crumpled the body was. "Be safe."

"You too," Peter said distantly. He turned away and left for the hull.

He could hear the rushing water. The creaking of metal. The booms from before had only increased, loud and bellowing even from below the surface. He found the door Wade had come from, sealed poorly by an iron hatch. Water seeped through the cracks around the edge.

He grit his teeth and yanked open the hatch. A tsunami rushed in, the submarine groaning under the pressure. He stuck his feet on the metal and pushed forward, holding his breath and squinting.

Under the water, he could see a jagged-edged square cut out of the side of the submarine, where Wade must have slid in. He swam through the hole and pushed himself to the surface.

Everything was cold. His muscles relaxing involuntarily, his head tired, he wasn't swimming fast. It was pitch black outside of the submarine, the water dark and deep, but every once in a while he saw a twinkling splash of colour in the vast nothingness, illuminating and then fading away.

Peter chased it until his head broke the surface, his lungs on fire. He gasped for air, looking around wildly as he swam in the middle of the Hudson.

Everything was loud and bright, fireworks and cheers singing through the night sky. Peter made his way to the closest shore. He was somewhere near the Bronx, if he were to guess just by distance of the city in the background.

He crawled onto the sand, dripping wet and shivering. He turned over on his back, staring up at the sky. His teeth chattering. His body numb.

He was alive.

Fuck.

Peter let out a quiet hysterical bout of laughter. "Fuck," he reiterated, tears brimming in his eyes. They burned down the side of his face.

A distant splash, and Peter drew enough energy to sit up. Wade's figure broke the surface of the river and looked around.

He lazily raised his hand. Wade spotted the movement through the dark and began carding through the water towards him.

Wade crawled up on the sand with the same amount of exhaustion as Peter had. Discarded his katanas lazily on the sand, then collapsed next to him with a deep groan.

Peter sniffed, looking over to him. "You found me."

Wade huffed, a tired smile on his face. "Of course."

"May is gone," Peter said softly, his voice breaking. "I couldn't save her in time."

"No. But I did," Wade said. He turned his head, meeting Peter's eyes. Cracked a tired smile. "I couldn't really tell you earlier, because we didn't have a lot of time for me to explain and you were still manic, so I figured it was best to get you safe first."

The world quieted.

"...What?"

"I found her before I found you. Followed some blood trails," Wade grunted, sitting up with him. "She's in Lenox Hill right now."

Peter's lip quivered, his head tilting. "She's alive?"

Wade's eyes softened. "She's alive, Peter. Not much more than a few minor scratches. Bumps and bruises. She seemed more worried about you, than anything else. The staff can't keep her in a bed because she's so stubborn. We should—"

"He told me," Peter blubbered. His eyes locked onto Wade's, but he felt miles away. "He said that he killed her. Didn't say how, it was like he was talking in riddles, but I knew that she was— and then it was like I couldn't, like it wasn't me, and—"

Wade took his hands and squeezed them. He was so warm, heat radiating off his skin.

Peter tipped forward into his chest, his shoulders hiking up as he let out a keen. His face pressed into Wade's collarbone, his resolve completely shattered. All he knew was warmth and leather and gunpowder, the disgusting salted sulfur smell of the Hudson, and Wade's voice rumbling through his ears.

"It's okay," Wade promised, sounding worried. "She's fine, Peter. She's fine, I saved her. Don't worry."

Peter's face contorted, the sobs falling from his throat before he could breathe. A hand began to run through his matted curls, and bizarrely all he could think of was how he'd snapped at Wade before all of this. Thought it was his fault, had gotten angry, had left.

"I'm so sorry," Peter wept, clutching at Wade's shoulders as if he'd disappear. "I'm so sorry, Wade. I'm so sorry."

"Baby boy, I don't know why you're apologizing," Wade let out a weak, helpless laugh. He cradled Peter carefully, like he wasn't sure which parts of him would break. "You didn't do anything wrong, honey. Peter?"

"I want to go home," Peter said. "Wade, take me home."

Wade took him home.

He took him home, and he helped him into the shower. He didn't comment on the litany of new scars adorning his body, but Peter knew he was cataloging each one by the way his eyes scanned.

He washed the blood and grime clumped in Peter's hair, soothed his aching muscles with hot water and soap, and then dried him off in a fluffy towel that didn't scrape painfully against his wounds.

He covered Peter's skin in bandaids, wrapped up his knuckles, kissed a bruise on the vein of his inner arm, on his temple, on his shoulder. Didn't say anything substantial the entire time, save for short and quiet explanations of what he would be doing next.

"I'll help put your shirt on," Wade murmured. "It's big on you, but it'll let your injuries breathe better. Careful, watch your shoulder."

Peter lifted his arms. The joints cracked painfully, and Wade winced instead. He slid into the shirt. Wade was right— it was too big for him. He didn't mind. It smelt like someplace safe and hugged him in a way that he craved.

"Are you hungry?" Wade asked, holding onto his hand. "I could make you something easy. Toast?"

He wasn't hungry, not at all. His stomach was empty, not having eaten in nearly two days, but he just felt oddly numb after such an adrenaline crash. But Wade was looking at him like that, and he knew that May would want him to eat, so he hummed in agreement.

He slunk into the kitchen with Wade's arm at his waist. He ate a slice of dry toast bite by slow bite until it was gone. He drank a glass of water and ignored how the liquid burned down his throat.

"D'you need pain meds?" Wade asked, washing the plate and putting it back in the cabinet. His eyes tracked Peter's movements carefully.

"Just tired," Peter managed. "Need actual sleep."

Not just cold-induced comas.

Wade nodded with understanding, and helped him back into the bedroom. He fluffed the pillows. He made the bed. There were more blankets than Peter remembered, and he slid under all of them without complaint.

Wade was a steady heater at his back, an arm slung over his waist, his leg hooked over Peter's leg. His warm nose brushed against Peter's back. It ached, his muscles flared, but Peter wouldn't want to be anywhere else in the world.

Peter blinked heavily. "The hospital hasn't called?"

Wade shook his head, and hooked his chin over Peter's shoulder. "I checked. She's still alright. She'll be released tomorrow morning."

Peter relaxed, curling further into the shell of Wade's side. "You're okay, too?"

"Are you?"

Peter brought Wade's hand up and pressed it to his lips. He was quiet for a moment. "I will be."

"Then I'm perfect," Wade assured.

It was quiet again. Fireworks have winded down, only the occasional distant crackle every couple minutes. Early early morning— the sun was flirting with the horizon.

"Wade?" Peter mumbled, his eyelids heavy. His head syrupy from encroaching sleep.

"Mm?"

"I killed Reyes," Peter said. "Didn't I?"

He hadn't been paying attention to the heartbeat. He knew he'd been hitting hard. He knew he hadn't been in control.

He never saw the man get back up.

Wade's breathing stalled, and then resumed normally. His heartbeat went eerily calm.

"No," Wade said after a moment. "You didn't."

He wasn't sure what answer he had wanted to hear. Either he'd killed him, or he hadn't. Either way, the Employer was dead. Peter didn't pull him out of the water. Wasn't he a killer? If not a killer, who was he?

"Wade." Peter's eyebrows crinkled, an unsure frown tugging at his mouth. "Do you promise?"

Another beat.

"I promise, Peter. Get some sleep."

Peter hesitated, and then closed his eyes. He exhaled slowly.

"Peter?" Wade spoke up.

"Mmhm?"

Wade pressed a gentle kiss to the sprawl of his back, where the freckles lingered. "...Happy New Years."