"Like a spider, these days I eat my own heart."
-Nikos Kazantzakis

The city always looked more beautiful at night.

He's lived here all his life, but how Manhattan sparked alive when the moon rose was something that still took his breath away when he took moments like these— Moments where he wasn't letting it all go with a wind-rushing glance. Moments where he could just sit and watch the lights twinkle and breathe in the smog and see the people smoke, dance, sing, walk, yell, chant...

Camera slung around his neck from previous job-related activities, he tucked his knees under his chin and leaned forward from where he sat perched on the edge of a very tall, very precarious crane. He sighed.

There was a lot to think about.

As it turned out, Peter Parker may have quite a crush on one Wade Wilson, enough to invite the heart-speckled man over to May's house to decorate a Christmas tree. Enough for him to sit as a weight in his pocket as Peter itched to call or text him, to see how he was doing, what he was up to, if he wanted to hang out later.

He hadn't felt that way since— Well, since her. And while it took back some of the guilt to reason through his feelings about this, he came to the conclusion that Gwen would have loved Wade. They may have even been friends, if she were alive. Wade certainly would have loved her. Who wouldn't? Who didn't?

As for Spider-Man, the one currently sitting over the distant glimmering sights of people skating in Rockefeller Center, he had more pressing things to worry about than to be a little heartsick. There was still a highly dangerous individual wandering around with an unhealthy obsession to watch his every move, and no, he didn't mean the one in red and black leather.

The Employer had his blood. Peter's seen enough from his time of web-slinging to know how badly this little problem could explode. His mind rumbled through the possibilities, The Employer weaponizing his abilities, isolating the isotopes creating his mutation, profiting, selling it to Oscorp, using it himself and slaughtering in his name— It could be catastrophic. Peter couldn't let it happen under any circumstances.

The real trouble lay in the fact that they had no information. Pool knew the same amount about the guy that Peter does, meaning: close to nothing.

The crane vibrated underneath him. He jerked his head up and swiveled it over to where the movement came from.

At the other end of the metal cross beams, Deadpool lay on his stomach and hugged on to the crane for dear life, latching his legs under to secure himself. "Webs?"

Peter spluttered and stood up with ease. Balance not an issue, he hopped over, ignoring the panicked yelps from Pool as the crane shook and trembled. He crouched beside him, scrunching his face up with confusion. "What the hell are you doing all the way up here?"

"I wanted to chill with you!" Deadpool gasped dramatically. "You were sitting up here all thoughtful like! So serene. So handsome."

Peter scoffed. "I meant how did you get up here, Pool."

Pool spared a glance up to him. The eyes of his mask were blown comedically wide. "I climbed? How did you get up here, sticky fingers?!"

"I swung," Peter answered bluntly.

"Is that a camera?"

Peter looked down. "Oh. Yeah. It's, a.. It's a hobby."

Pool made a disgruntled noise, half disinterest and half exasperation. "Can we go chill somewhere else? Like, on the ground?"

Despite his best efforts, Peter let out a gentle laugh. "Yeah. Okay, fine. You did go through all the effort to get up here though, might as well enjoy the view—"

"Oh, no. Nope. I'm good, actually. It's plenty good from the ground."

"If you say so," Peter shrugged. "Hold on to me, okay? I won't let you fall."

"How romantic," Pool wheezed. He held onto Peter with a vice-grip, squeezing the muscle of his arm as Peter helped him stand up. His eyes were still wide and they looked down over the crane before shutting tightly closed.

Peter looked over too, then put an arm around Deadpool's waist. He found a spot to swing from. "Hold on to me, I'll swing us down."

"I'm in love with you," Deadpool blurted. "Joking. Not joking. Joking. I'm actually in love with this other guy I think. You can get us down now."

Peter snickered. He leaped off the crane and Deadpool yelled, loudly, hugging him tightly. Peter shot the web, latched onto the crane they just fell from, and swung through the buildings ahead.

They ended up at a park. The second they landed on solid ground, Deadpool fell to his knees and yanked his mask up over his mouth. Peter quickly turned away, but winced as he heard the familiar sounds of retching. (People normally didn't like going through that many g-forces in such a short amount of time. Understandable.)

"You okay?"

Deadpool let out a droned-on groan in response.

Peter looked around at his surroundings while his teammate recovered. This was one old playground. Rust flaking paint chips off of the structure, bark chips damp and dark from rain and shriveled up from use. A creaking swing set moving back and forth in the wind, a little ahead of its horizontal pair.

A thought occurred to him, and he quickly looked down and checked out his camera. Not cracked or broken from the swing, fortunately. That would have cost the rent money for the next two years to replace, and he's already in hot water from the busted phone.

"That sucked balls," Pool finally spoke up. "Ugh. How do you do that so often? See the— The heights, and the— the not throwing up—"

"I used to be afraid of heights," Peter replied simply. "First time I swung I did throw up. It gets easier with practice."

(Practice: or as Peter would call it, climbing to the top of the Empire State Building and swinging from it back to Queens. He couldn't be afraid of heights after that. Everything else was small potatoes, as far as Peter was concerned then— Too bad problems got bigger when you weren't fifteen anymore.)

Deadpool let out a breathless noise and pulled himself up. He slipped his mask back over his chin and trudged lazily forward, plopping himself down on the creaking swing. He tilted his head to the side. "Come sit?"

Peter squinted, the eyes of his mask narrowing.

"Swing with me?"

"We just did," Peter teased.

Deadpool tossed his head back and kicked his feet forward like a little kid. "Webssss. It's not the same!"

Peter quirked his lips upwards.

"...Ok. I'll swing with you," he finally relented. He walked forward and took a seat on the swing beside Pool, kicked himself off the ground and gently swung back and forth. "Happy now?"

"Yes," Deadpool answered sincerely. "Now. Serious talk time."

Maybe once, Peter remembered Deadpool being "serious", and he wasn't even sure Pool was conscious about doing it. Then again, Peter was barely conscious at the time too.

(Deadpool had gone rigid, entirely focused on removing the bullet. His voice stayed calm and firm, as if he had done this before and reduced it to a practice that he had fallen back into.

"Stop moving.")

Needless to say... This should be interesting.

Peter silently nodded his head upwards to show Pool that he was paying attention.

Deadpool took a breath. "I'm sorry."

Just like that, the silence Peter had was not planned. His mind took a moment to rewire itself, then Peter blinked once. Twice. He cleared his throat. "What?"

"I'm sorry for taking the job," Pool explained. "First things first. I don't take hits from people like that. Not— Not on purpose. I feel partially responsible for getting you into this mercenary shitfest, so... Yeah."

Then he saw it. Deadpool, his shoulders rising with the stature of a soldier, rigid. It was as if a shadow came over him, and the air grew still. Peter knew, then. Before, Pool had been sincere. Now this was him being serious.

"Secondly—" Pool began, his voice calm but angered. "The dickstick called me."

Peter furrowed his eyebrows. He stopped swinging, his feet stilling in the bark chips. "The Employer?"

"Yeah. It was a threat. He doesn't want me getting any closer to his shady business, or else people will get hurt. My people."

Peter opened his mouth to ask more about Pool's personal life, because last time he was disappointed to learn that Deadpool didn't have 'people,' and would be happy to know more about the change of heart—He knew better. He switched tracks.

"Were you able to track the call?" Peter asked dumbly. Then he caught himself, shook his head. "No, of course you didn't. That's the first thing you would've said, if you had."

Peter sighed with frustration, getting up off the swing and pacing back and forth. "Why would he have called you? He obviously knows you're working with me, but why wouldn't he just go after me?"

"He doesn't know you who are under the mask," Pool answered. "I don't have that special luxury because my best friend's a blabbermouth. Plus, he wants me out of the way. He doesn't want to run tests on bad ol' red and black, he wants to run tests on good ol' red and blue."

Peter crossed his arms, deep in thought as he kicked the mushy bark chip with his webbed boots.

"But," Deadpool spoke up, his posture easing up along with his tone. He grinned wildly. "I've got a hunch on how to figure out who this guy is."

Peter looked up at him with interest.

"Think about this, Webs. The Employer sneaks into a level on Oscorp that to public knowledge was empty, just storage for old projects." Deadpool stopped his swing and stood up, walking across to him. "He had intel. He knew where he was going. Which means he either has a really good informant, or, judging by how this prick can't work with anybody for diddly-squat..."

"...He worked for Oscorp," Peter said with understanding.

"Bingo!" Pool cheered, throwing his hands up in the air.

"Wow," Peter exhaled. He couldn't help but feel impressed. "This isn't for sure yet, so... we shouldn't get our hopes up. But this is— This is a good start."

Peter thought for a moment. He turned slowly, looking upwards and to the distance. A glowing tower, lit up in hexagonal shapes from top to bottom, a company name written in thin shaped letters across the side and the top. His mind turned.

"Webs? You've got a twinkle in your eye. Whatcha thinking?"

"Hm."

Pool stepped up to him and followed his gaze. Then he looked back at Peter. "Ohohoh—"

"It's just an idea," Peter started.

"—you wanna—"

"Just a possibility," Peter continued quickly. "I don't even know if I can do it."

"—break into Oscorp?" Deadpool finished, grinning like a maniac and jumping from toe to toe with excitement. "Golden-hearted Spidey wants to commit a crime? Baby's first B-and-E? What a big moment. I remember mine like it was yesterday. That's a lie. I don't remember anything from before 17. Ah, trauma. What a silly mistress."

"It's not breaking and entering," Peter defended immediately. He paused, trailing off a little, avoiding eye contact and shifting on his feet. "Because we won't be breaking anything. We'll just— We'll sneak in, and— and see if we can find anything connecting to The Employer. Nothing criminal. Got it, Pool?"

"Baby's first B-and-E," Deadpool sang. "Baby boy's first breaking and entering!"

Peter's ears went red-hot. "Anyone ever tell you you're obnoxious? I can be the first if not. Actually, I'll say it no matter the answer. You're obnoxious, Pool."

Deadpool chuckled and slung an arm around Peter's shoulders, close enough for Peter to smell gunpowder and leather something distinctly familiar. "Alright, baby boy. Let's break into Oscorp together. We've got it. You and me. Bad besties for life. No, that's spelt wrong. it's LYFE, L-Y-F-E. Yeah. There you go."

Peter sighed heavily.

"So how are we gonna do this?" Pool asked.

"I've got it," Peter said firmly. "I can shut down the air conditioning and filtration for a few minutes, enough for me to sneak in through a vent on the top floor."

Deadpool slowly nodded, squinting at him with thought. "And what about me?"

"I can let you in from the inside," Peter explained. "How fast can you get up to the southeast side exit door?"

"Okay. Wait, wait, wait. How do you know this much about Oscorp?" Pool laughed lightly. "Don't tell me Spider-Man works for Oscorp too. That'd be a twist I didn't see coming."

Peter looked over, and hesitated. He cleared his throat. "Gwen worked there."

He waited for a wave of grief that didn't come.

Wade's laughter faded easily and he simply patted Peter on the shoulder. "She musta been real smart, then."

He smiled.

Peter crouched at the electrical box, knees and the bottom of his boots sticking to the side of the building. The wind whipped around him, and he pressed the phone between his ear and his shoulder, because somehow Pool convinced him to give his phone number to save into the merc's burner phone.

("For business!" Pool exclaimed, holding out an older looking cellphone. "C'mon, it's totally safe! I won't even look at your number. If you can call me, it'll make this way easier."

For not the first time that night, he relented. Peter sighed and reached for the phone, putting in his contact as 'Webs.')

"You almost done?" Pool said in his ear. "I'm freezing my keister out here. My balls are turning blue and not in the fun way."

"I didn't need to know that." Peter grunted, fidgeting carefully with the circuits. "Check the lights. Are they flickering?"

"Nope."

Peter swore. He twisted around, finally tearing a red wire out and cautiously moving it. "This is the last electrical box. It should—"

The whole building's lights went black with a hum of dying electricity. Peter grinned as Deadpool began cheering in the crackled audio.

He began scaling up the side, up to a balcony door. He ducked down, kicking in a small air vent. "Okay. It should take them five minutes to reboot their electrical, so just hang tight."

"Got it."

Peter navigated through twists and turns, dragging forward quickly and quietly— or as quietly as he could while the vents made rummaging metal noises with every inch he crawled. His phone remained tightly in his hands.

He stopped suddenly and put the phone to his ear. "Are you humming the Mission Impossible theme right now?"

"Oh yeah," Pool confirmed. "Can you blame me? Let's steal the NOC list, baby boy."

Peter fought a smile. He shook his head and continued crawling. At the end of the tunnel, he carefully pushed a different vent out and then caught it with his hand. He pulled it inside and looked in the hallway of the Oscorp building. It's dark, glowing red emergency exit lights that rim the ceiling trim being the only ones active.

Nobody's in the hallway. He crawled out of the vent, onto the ceiling, and quietly let himself drop to the floor.

"Okay," Peter whispered. "I'm in the hallway, heading to you. I'll be there as fast as I can."

He carefully looked around the corner. A singular intern busy in paperwork rushed into an office room. Peter waited, and when they didn't return, he took the chance to duck forward and open up the exit door. No alarm went off. Success.

"You did it!" Pool whispered loudly, standing in front of him with the phone still held up to his ear. "You're just like all the best spies now."

"Yeah, whatever." Peter let him step inside, then closed the door. "That was the easy part. Now we need to find out which floor The Employer stole from, and why."

"Oh." Deadpool cracked his knuckles. "Leave that one to me. That's easy shit. Go hide on the ceiling or something."

Instant dread. Peter complied anyway, flipping up to the ceiling. He looked down at Pool with judgement. "Should I be worried?"

"Not unless you stay quiet. Don't worry, Webs! I won't hurt a hair."

Peter narrowed his eyes.

Deadpool loaded a gun, mechanical clicking ringing through the hallway. Then he checked the safety on, and showed it up to Peter. "See? I'm just gonna scare 'em."

"I hate this idea."

"I knew you would." Pool shrugged. "I'll be back in like, three minutes. One minute. Two minutes. Four minutes. You know what? We'll just wait and see."

He disappeared into the office that the intern had walked into a moment before. Peter crawled along the ceiling and listened through the glass windows of the room.

The luck the intern must have had, to be the only one in an office room while Deadpool stood, weapons branded, staring directly ahead.

"Oh god," the intern said suddenly, her eyes going wide. Her spine straightened with rigid fear. The name tag clipped to her shirt read that her name was Camilla. "Please don't kill me, I— Please, I'll tell you anything you want—"

"Perfect!" Pool said cheerfully. "That's so helpful of you. You'll never believe the things I have to do sometimes to get people to talk. It's just... Oof, y'know? You seem like a really nice lady. Anyways, back to business."

Pool stepped forward once, and his voice grew sweet as he twiddled the weapon in his hand. "How long have you been working here, Camilla?"

"Um, I—" Camilla swallowed. She pushed her glasses up nervously, eyeing the gun. "I— I got hired, um... two? Two years ago. In the— In the Spring."

"Aw, Spring hires," Deadpool sighed wistfully. He slipped into a faux British accent. "You get to stop and smell the roses before blasting brains. Just lovely. I adore the daffodils, myself."

He cleared his throat, pausing his fiddling of the gun. He stared up at her calmly. "The break-in. The one from a few weeks ago. What do you know about it?"

Camilla shuddered. "I— Um. I don't— Are you gonna shoot me?"

"Camilla, I thought we were friends." Pool clicked his tongue. "I won't hurt you if you just tell me what I need. You're in no danger, it's not like you actually run the experiments that go on here. I just need information. We're just besties telling secrets right now. Gossip slumber party with the lights out. Capiche?"

Camilla swallowed and nodded frantically. She took a breath and looked down. "Um... the break in. It happened on a sub-level. I, um... I heard, that, uh, it used to be used for genetics, like... from some of the older, uh... uh, residents. Scientists and stuff."

"Take a breath, Camilla. What did you hear?

Camilla inhaled sharply. Her eyes snapped to the gun, then back to Deadpool. "I heard that, the— the guy who broke in, he— He was looking for the old research. But, um, the lab had changed before even I got here, and now it's— It's weapons manufacturing, which is why people were so freaked when it, um, got broken into."

"Got this, Webs?" Pool whispered under his breath.

He did.

"Do you know who broke in?" Deadpool questioned.

Camilla shook her head. "No. No, I don't. Is that— Did— Is that all?"

Pool hummed. "One last question."

Camilla looked back down to the gun. Then to Pool. She looked terrified. "...Yes?"

Deadpool put the gun back on his harness. "Do you know where they moved the old research?"

Camilla let out a massive breath of relief, swaying where she stood. She mewled as tears came to her eyes, but nodded quickly. "Yes. I— Yes. It's sub-level twelve. Massive warehouse of— of old research, all categorized alphabetically. Oh god. Thank you. Thank you."

"No, thank you, Camilla," Deadpool said, pleased. He dug his hand into his pocket and took out an old coupon for some ice cream place, then handed it to her. "For your troubles. FYI, red-velvet cookie crunch is the best flavour. Highly recommend."

He swung around and walked out of the office. Peter watched as Camilla collapsed heavily into a chair, staring at the coupon with wide tearful eyes as she caught her breath.

Peter quietly dropped down from the ceiling. "You terrified that girl."

"You do your job, I do mine," Deadpool said simply. "We got information, she gets ice cream. Seems fair to me."

Peter rolled his eyes. They walked toward the elevator.

"He worked in Genetics," Peter thought aloud. "That's why he broke into Oscorp. It must have gone wrong though, because when he went to his old lab, there were only weapons... so he stole what he could and left before security came. That makes so much sense."

They enter the elevator just as the building comes back alive, lights humming loudly as they turn on. Peter winced from the input but relaxed as it leveled out.

Pool pressed the button for the floor, and the elevator fell down with a gentle lilt.

The doors opened with a dull clanking thud. They stepped out into a ginormous floor full of filing cabinets; a library of information with signs above that stated letters of the alphabet.

"Damn," Pool said. "Reading."

Peter sighed and walked toward 'G' with acceptance, and Deadpool trailed behind. He scanned the boxes of files.

"I think it's ordered by topic and then scientist," Peter realized. He turned his head to Pool. "We'll know his name, if we just find the right file."

"How hard can that be?" Deadpool asked with tired rhetoric, standing with his hands on his hips in the middle of the aisle. Every shelf was chock-full of file boxes. "Super easy. Easy as pie. You know, that's actually a perfect metaphor, considering pie crust is really pretty fucking difficult—"

"That's a simile," Peter said, beginning to scan the labels on the boxes for anything familiar. Spiders. He was looking for spiders. "Start on the other end."

Deadpool groaned and trudged to the other end, but began looking as well.

Minutes go by.

"I've got something!" Pool said, yanking his head up. "Webs, come here."

Peter paused his search and quickly walked over.

"Genetics, Curtis Connors, Arachnology. Genetics, Richard Parker, Arachnology," Pool read off slowly. "And a few down the line: Genetics, Rory Reyes, Arachnology."

Peter froze. He reached for the second one first, opened the file with complete silence. He stared down at his father's photo.

It's not like it was a surprise to him. He already knew his dad worked for Oscorp. He already knew his dad was the reason the spider bite didn't kill him. It still stung as a reminder, though, that there was so much he'd never fully understand about his family history.

"Is that the guy?" Deadpool asked, looking over his shoulder.

Peter startled and closed the file. "No. Dr. Parker started the program, though."

He looked down at the bottom of the page. Pointed to a line of text and showed it to Pool. "It says Dr. Reyes took over the spider research directly after Dr. Parker left."

Deadpool pulled out the labeled box. Thick papers stacked in files and folders, photographs, everything. He pulled out the first paper in front. "Lead scientist and head of research, Dr. Rory Reyes."

The two of them looked at the black-and-white photo. A slender face, narrowed eyes and pursed lips. His hair was trimmed neatly, and he looked almost young. Glasses sat on the edge of his nose. He seemed serious, the illusion of feeling esteemed.

"What a dick," Pool broke the silence. He pocketed the photo.

Peter took a file out of the box. It was labeled 'Steatoda Nobilis Trial 16.' He opened the file and began to read.

'Arachnida in pulmonary oedema: To test the effects of surviving dna strands, it will first be tested the baseline of the subject Steatoda Nobilis spider under extreme stress. The first experiment will be conducted as to how long it takes for the subject to lose consciousness in deoxygenated conditions. Subjects will be put into an enclosed glass area(s) of water and timed to the amount it takes for movement to halt. This will be compared to the results of three other species of spider: Latrodectus mactan, Loxosceles reclusa, Eratigena agrestis.'

"This is awful," Peter said quietly, his face contorting with disgust. He put the file back into the box and picked up a different one. 'Std. Nbls. Trial 65.'

'DNA extraction, second test: Repeated process as test one. Modified genomes from Rattus norvegicus (Brown Rat) and Steatoda Nobilis (False Widow) will be combined in an enclosed space, recorded. Notes will be taken to ensure documentation of every detail.'

Deadpool picked up the photos. "Holy fuck. I think I'm gonna throw up again."

Peter spared a glance. He immediately felt nauseous.

'Spiders after the extraction,' it said. The spiders were gnarled up, limbs disjointed and crunched off in odd shapes, minuscule hairs and small eyes scattered in the enclosure. The rats... were even worse. Covered in their own sick, their skeletons and insides showing through their small bodies. Melted is the word Peter could put to their appearance, if appearance was a description that could even be used.

"Acute radiation syndrome," Pool read from the caption. "Fucking hell. This guy is insane."

He shuddered and closed the file. "Let's... focus on what we can do. What we... What we know. The Employer is Rory Reyes, and he's... capable of doing some really... awful things."

Deadpool put the box back on the shelf. "We know his name. I can do a lot with a name, Webs. We'll get him before he can do any more of... this, to you. Okay?"

Peter nodded. "Yeah. Yeah, I know. We've got this, he doesn't stand a chance."

"And I've got your number now," Pool reminded cheerfully. "I'll call you if I get anything."

"Same goes for me," Peter sniffed. He stood up and stretched. "Let's call it a night. We have enough to go off of. Can you get out of Oscorp yourself?"

Deadpool winked. "You know it, baby boy. You don't gotta worry about little old me."

"Ok." Peter sighed. "I'll see you around then. Bye, Pool."

"See ya, Webs."

It's always easier sneaking out than it is sneaking in. The air is freezing when he's swinging home, a chill in his bones that wasn't helping the horror he was still experiencing from what he'd seen and learned.

He crawled in through his window, spotting a pile of bills to greet him at his door. He walked over in the pitch darkness of his apartment and scanned the contents. The power's out. He's being evicted by the end of the month.

"That's cool." He huffed and tossed the bills on his desk. "That's really cool."

Exhaustion creeped in with the cold.

He peeled his suit off robotically and left it crumpled on the floor, then crawled onto his bed and curled up, shivering in the dark. He willed himself to fall asleep and forget the events of the break-in.

His eyes closed...

Dark.

It was dark in the Oscorp lab. Silence echoed from every wall, and Peter—

Peter had been here before.

It's all achingly familiar. He squinted through the darkness and plunged forward, searching for something new, something he could control.

He saw a lamp. Every step toward it felt like he was in a vat of some scratchy liquid substance, as if he were trying to walk through moving black sand. He was being swallowed by the darkness and sunk into it with every heavy movement of his feet. His hand reached forward, stretching himself to reach the lamp, his muscles burning—

The lamp clicks on, followed by a series of linoleum lights on the ceiling, revealing the lab to be full of jars. Spiders in every single one, every jar in a perfect place, uniform along the walls, covering the the desks, the counters...

Peter felt something move up his leg, a tickling sensation over his ankles.

He shivered and looked down, and his eyes came across a sea of tiny black spiders coming up to his calves, moving in and out of each other in a tangled gnarled mess. The scritching, chittering noises grew louder, and the crawling continued, moving up his body and clinging under his clothes. His skin felt on fire.

Bile hit the back of his throat and he stood paralyzed, the spiders holding him in place— Everything itched. He wanted to scream but was afraid to open his mouth.

A warm liquid ran down the back of his ear, oozing as it dripped into the ocean of tiny scrambling legs. The smell of blood filled his nostrils, a weighty iron scent that coated his lungs and churned his stomach. His ear burned, he couldn't handle this. He needed to leave. He needed to get out.

"We're going to test the heart," The Employer said in one note, his voice echoing around Peter's head. "How fast can a heart beat before it bursts? I've done my research. I've tested before. Genus Latrodectus, Araneus diadematus, genus Nephila..."

STOP IT.

"Argyroneta aquatica. Solifugae. Tell me: does your body function with haemolymph? It's a shame that not all your friends have regeneration abilities," The Employer continued. "We'll test it."

"Peter?" Wade called. He was desperate. He was so afraid. He needed help. "Peter!"

"Poor Wade," The Employer sighed. "Your friend can't regenerate like a moulting spider can."

I KNOW I KNOW I KNOW I KNOW.

"Don't fret, Arachnida." He chuckled lowly. "I'll just make him evolve, too."

Wade screamed. A vicious snapping sound, like a spine hitting the floor, the neck disconnecting, a bone being bent against its will, knocked Peter awake from his nightmare.

He can't fucking breathe.

His hands shake, and he's jerking up from his bed, frantically swiping at his legs and rubbing his ear against his shirt and trying to wipe his skin free of a sensation that doesn't exist, then he's fumbling over his messy floor to get to his phone.

"Crap," Peter gasped, his lips and fingertips cold while his lungs squeeze and constrict like a coiled snake in his chest. He can hardly see what he's doing around the tears and black spots and his hand shaking so hard that his phone is merely a blurry image. He put it up to his ear and waited for it to ring, taking greedy panicked gulps of the freezing stale air of his apartment.

Logic was a thing past recognition. The call picked up.

"Petey?" Wade answered, his voice serious and full of concern. "Why're you calling so late, what's going on?"

"Oh thank god you're alive," Peter blubbered. "I'm— I don't even— I just needed to hear you. Oh god, it's so dark in here. I had— It was just a stupid— and then—"

"Hey," Wade's voice was steady. Peter had a hard time focusing on it over his own rocket-paced heartbeat. "Hey, no no no. It's okay. Take a breath. Are you safe?"

Peter didn't even clock that Wade asked a question, the breaths heaving in his throat. A moment later, he shook his hand, rubbing a hand so hard over his knee it made the skin red. "I'm just— I'm in my, um— I'm at my apartment. I'm fine. I don't even— I don't know why I called you, I'm just— I needed to know you were okay. I thought he got you, and it was—"

"Who?" Wade questioned suddenly, cutting into Peter's sentence. His voice was hard. "Thought who got me? Who's he?"

"Nothing," Peter breathed out. "Nobody. It's nobody. Nevermind. I'm— I am so sorry for calling. Shit, what time even is it—"

"I'm coming over, okay? Just hang tight. Do you want me to stay on the line?"

"No, no that's not necessary. It was just a nightmare." Peter made a pained noise. "It's not a big deal. This is so embarrassing, I'm so sorry. I bet this is only happening because my power went out, you know. I'm usually fine with nightmares, but it's—It's dark."

Absolute lie. The dark probably didn't help, but the nightmares have always been Peter's least favourite job of the gig; right under bullet wounds and stab wounds and pretty much any other wounds.

"It's okay." There's a clattering noise. A door opening. "I'm heading over now. I wanna pick something up first though."

Peter didn't have the energy nor the want to argue. He was tired of dealing with these alone, especially now that he knew he didn't have to.

The cold was settling in now that the adrenaline was winding down, his teeth chattering against each other. He let out a shuddering breath and climbed back onto his bed, curling up to himself.

"You good?"

"Cold," Peter said shortly. "Freezing."

"Put my hoodie on," Wade suggested.

Peter poked his head up and looked around the room, spotting the hoodie draped over his desk chair. He pushed himself off the bed and walked over, pulling the thing on. It was better.

He turned around and noticed something that he couldn't have noticed earlier with how much he had been freaking out— His curtains, torn from the newly dented bar over the window and in a scattered mess on the bed from when he awoke. "Shit."

"Hm? What's going on?"

"Oh." Peter hesitated. "Uh. Nothing. Just— I broke something by accident. It's fine."

In his own defense, he shouldn't be expected to control his strength in his sleep. Plus, it's really, really cold. He got back onto his bed and bundled the sweatshirt, the curtains, and his thin quilt tightly around himself.

He wiped away tears from his cheeks with his hands and sniffled quietly. "Wade, you really don't have to come over. It's okay. I'm all good now."

"I know I don't have to. Nobody said I had to, Pete. I'm doing this 'cuz I can, and 'cuz I want to. I didn't know you were this stubborn."

Peter huffed a dry laugh. "Yeah. May coulda told you that."

"Do you want to talk about your nightmares?" Wade asked. There's a bright ding on his side of the phone, as well as sliding doors. Very muffled music playing distantly in the background.

"Um." Peter blinked hard. In the darkness, he shivered with his arms wrapped around himself. "It's not... It's not pretty."

"I wasn't expecting it to be roses, Petey-Pie."

"Orange roses?" Peter asked with a weak smile, his gaze flickering to the dried out flowers on his desk.

Wade snorted. Another series of quiet beeps. Crinkling plastic. "Yeah. Wasn't expecting it to be orange roses."

Peter's smile faded. He chewed on his bottom lip. His head was a flickering movie screen of images, from the desks of a lab to a light shade to the hairs on a spider— a drop of blood on the floor, a dry voice that's hoarse and sinister, a shelf of jars and broken glass.

"I, uh..." Peter sighed. "I don't know where to start with it all. It's kind of a lot."

How can you condense a lifetime of trauma on top of a month and a half of being stalked into something that won't cause someone to worry?

Wade hummed thoughtfully. "Well, I'm almost there."

"That was fast."

"You're not very far away from my apartment," Wade pointed out. "Like. Barely three blocks."

Peter stood up quickly, leaving the blankets and curtains on the bed. He scanned the room, keeping his phone tucked under his ear, and began to gather any incriminating evidence. His suit. Articles about Spider-Man and his lamer foes. Webshooters. His mask. All of it was stuffed under his bed without much thought.

"Knock knock," Wade sang. "Open your door! I'm here. I bring gifts."

Peter stumbled over to the door and cracked it open. He gave a watery smile, but the movement was exhausting and he could feel how broken it was. He pulled his phone away from his phone and hung up.

"You look like you've had the worst night of your life," Wade said with a frown.

Not even close.

Peter grimaced and stepped away from the door, letting Wade in.

"Now," Wade cleared his throat and opened the plastic bag he held in his hands. "First things first—"

Wade pulled out several small black plastic baggies and ripped one open. He made an awkward gesture and Peter held out his shaky hand questioningly— then watched as Wade poured green glow in the dark stars into his open palm.

"Thought they'd help with the darkness," Wade explained quietly. "And also you're a nerd. So you probably like stars. Then again, who doesn't fucking like glow-in-the-dark stars? They stick on your ceiling!"

Peter smiled, and his teeth were audibly chattering now. "T-That's..."

"Shit, baby boy." Wade's frown reappeared and he set the bags down on the desk chair, then gently pushed Peter back onto his bed. "Just— Get warm, mkay? I'm gonna stick a few of these up on your ceiling. Maybe the wall too. That'd be cool, right?"

Peter nodded, pulling the comforter back around his body. He watched as Wade pulled his shoes off and stood up on the bed, ripping the packages open and sticking the stars everywhere he could reach. A crude constellation sat in the corner, causing Wade to wiggle his eyebrows at Peter in an attempt to get him to laugh.

It worked.

Wade placed every last star and then sat down next to Peter on the mattress.

"I'm gonna have to move out in a few weeks," Peter said. He smiled slightly. "I'm gonna have to take them down pretty soon."

"That's alright," Wade looked up at the green glowing constellations. "For now they can stay. I like the stars. They're pretty."

Peter leaned his head tiredly on Wade's shoulder and nodded, following his gaze to the ceiling. His voice is soft. "I think they're pretty too."

Wade put an arm around Peter and the warmth was enough to make Peter melt into his side, still cold under the comforter and the sweatshirt. He rubbed Peter's arm comfortingly.

"Do you wanna talk about it?" Wade murmured.

Peter's eyes drift closed. He licked his chapped lips. "Um..."

"Do they happen often?" Wade asked instead. He brought his arm up comfortably to card a hand through Peter's sweat-matted curls.

"I guess they started really bad after my uncle died," Peter explained shortly. "They come and go. Stuff happens and it offsets it, I guess. They've been worse recently."

"I'm sorry." Wade said genuinely. "I get it. I really do, I'm not just saying that. My, uh... my fiancée got shot a couple years ago. Those nightmares are no good, I wouldn't wish them on anyone."

"I lost my girlfriend," Peter said empathetically. "That was most recent. You, um... You probably heard of her, actually. Gwen Stacy? She died helping... helping Spider-Man."

Wade stilled beside him.

He cleared his throat. "Gwen Stacy?"

"Yeah," Peter sniffed. "But, either way. That's not... That's not what my nightmare was about. It's alright."

Wade still didn't relax. Peter pulled back to look at him, and to his surprise, Wade was already making eye contact with him. He had a look of fierce concentration, layered over something extremely complicated and indiscernible.

"Wade?" He questioned with a frown.

"Uh..." Wade trailed off. He smiled hesitatingly. "Nothing. I'm just... sorry. For your loss. Must have been hard with all that attention on the news."

"Yeah," Peter trailed off, not entirely convinced. "Are you sure you're alright?"

Wade's eyes softened, but he still looked troubled. Conflicted, even. He nodded. "Yeah, totally. I'm good. Are you good?"

"Better," Peter said with pause.

Wade stared at him for a moment. Peter furrowed his eyebrows as he stared back.

"How about you get some sleep?" Wade asked suddenly. "I'll sit with you, in case you have another nightmare."

"Are you sure?"

"Super sure," Wade confirmed. "Get some shuteye, Petey. Get some rest."

And of course, for the third time of the night— Peter relented.

He slowly sunk back down, curling close to his pillow and closing his eyes.

He thought it would take him longer to fall asleep with the knowledge that someone was watching him, especially considering the circumstances, the knowledge that he's already being stalked by someone else. But he was wrong.

He slipped into a dreamless sleep easily, and had the strangest notion that he was being protected, that he was safe.

He woke up alone.