Chapter 28
Peter stares at his phone in mild dread. He has, like, three back up phones at all times. He's down to two now that his other phone was destroyed by the bomb. He bites his lip, running a hand through his hair.
He dials the number.
"Mr. Parker?" Jarvis answers on the first ring.
Peter bites at his lip. "Hey, JARVIS. Just wondering if Tony's okay?" His voice is a little shaky and three octaves higher than normal. He's sitting in his bathtub, curled up and holding his phone out and away from his knees. His wrist is relaxed, but his whole body is tense.
"Sir is hospitalized at the moment, Mr. Parker. Would you like to know which hospital he is in?" JARVIS responds.
Peter nods, before realizing JARVIS can't see it. "Yes, please," he almost whispers. "I-Is he..?"
"Sir is not in critical condition. The wounds proved to be less fatal than everyone believed. Sir will be out of the hospital within three days, and he has already informed me that you are not allowed to come back to the tower for work unless you are entirely healed, fed, and well-rested," JARVIS responds. Peter sighs in relief and amusement. "He is currently at St. Richard's Hospital."
"Thanks, JARVIS." Peter responds, voice sincere.
"Will you be visiting soon?"
"Uh, yeah, today or tomorrow."
"I will inform Sir."
"Great, cool, okay, thanks, yup," Peter hangs up the phone and sits there for a little bit, head leaning back against the wall, eyes closed as he lets himself breathe in and out. In and out.
"Petey? Is your scrumptious ass doin' okay in there?" Wade's voice calls.
Peter smiles involuntarily. "Yeah. Yeah. I'll be out in a sec!" Peter calls back, and Wade doesn’t reply with anything but a ramble about bees’ knees. Peter stands up, pulling his shirt and pants off to inspect the varying degrees of damage to different parts of his body. He unwraps the now-unnecessary ones, and then puts on his clothes again and steps out of the bathroom.
He wanders into the living room to see Wade watching Princess Bride again. Peter watches Wade, who’s murmuring to himself and staring at the screen. His eyes show he isn't paying attention the plight of the characters. He is growing more agitated, his fingers twitching. Peter walks over.
"Wade?" Peter questions, and Wade stares at him. Through him. Cold, calculating, and angry, frustration buried in a haze of negative emotions.
"Don't look at me! How the fuck are you looking at me?" Wade yells, grabbing the nearest object (Peter's second back up phone. How was he running out of his supply in less than week?) and hurling it at him.
Peter sidesteps the flying cellular device, making himself look as calm as possible. “Wade!" Peter doesn’t yell, but his voice is steady. He moves a step and Wade seems to grow more desperate.
"Don't look at me!" he shrieks, and rather than throwing something else or attacking, he covers his face with hands and curls in on himself as much as the box he is in will allow.
Peter lets his body relax and soften, reaching out to place his hand on Wade's shoulder. "Wade, I trust you," Peter says, wondering why the fuck he is talking about trust. He decides he won't question himself. Wade stays silent and stone still. "I trust you, okay?"
"You shouldn't."
Peter doesn't flinch even as his spidey sense suddenly jolts at him somewhat halfheartedly. Wade's hand is around his wrist, eyes a little cold. He's got his hand in a hold he could just—snap it. Peter remains calm and holds Wade's eyes. His spidey sense is telling him in the vaguest sense that Wade could hurt him, but not that it is a definite possibility.
"I trust you," Peter repeats.
Wade stares longer. One second, two seconds, three- Wade drops his wrist, looking down.
"What happened?"
"They won't leave me alone," Wade mumbles.
Peter figures he means the boxes in his head that he occasionally talks to or about. Peter moves his hands up to Wade's head, not forcing Wade to maintain eye contact but not breaking his own. "What are they saying?"
Wade looks at him, and suddenly his gaze snaps from soft to cold. Peter ignores the zing racing up his spine. Spidey sense can go fuck itself.
"You wouldn't want to-"
"Stop right there. Do not say I wouldn't want to know, because obviously I do. These... boxes? Voices? They’re distressing you. I can't take them out of you—I don’t think I can, anyway. The most I can do is listen and tell you what I think is true or not." Peter doesn't stop the eye contact. He's determined, now, he realizes, to give Wade a friend. A real one.
"They're saying you pity me. And that you shouldn't see me. I'm disgusting. And they keep saying you'll hurt me or kill me or I'll hurt you or kill you," Wade begins. Peter stays quiet, letting his arms and his gaze relax. He listens. "They keep saying you don't want me here. Or that you’re some weird fetishist or that you'll lock me up in a freak show or that you’re Weapon X. They keep—” Wade cuts himself off, and Peter's heart breaks.
"Wade," he begins, and his voice is stern, but conversational. "Wade," he repeats, “listen, okay? I want you here, because—well, honestly, because I kinda consider you my friend at this point. And I don't want you to heal alone, and unable to move. I don't want you to have to stumble out of anywhere naked and alone or something ever again. And I know, realistically, I can't prevent that all the time but I want to be safe for you. I want to be your friend. I don't care about how you look, that's not important to me. Your scars are just that: scars. They’re not something I'm disgusted of. I—" Peter stops, trying to think of words, "—I don't pity you. At least, I don't think I do. I'm sorry that you had awful experiences and I'm sorry that I hadn't met you earlier on but I don't pity you."
Wade stays quiet, Peter decides he'll add a little more.
"I know realistically you won't stay here forever, and I don't expect that. If you want to leave, you can. I won't stop you. But I don't want you to. You can stay as long as you want, and when you leave you can always come back."
Wade stays quiet still.
Peter starts to nervously ramble. "Even if you're injured. But, like, don't get too much blood on my stuff, okay? I don't really mind, but it's hard to wash off. But like, if you can't help bleeding out everywhere it's not your fault. And if you ever need me to come over and bring you here or help or something you can always call me. I'll give you my number."
Wade is still not responding.
"And I really want to be your friend. I mean it. If you're ever having a bad day or a good day or just wanna come over and cry or something I'm totally here. And like, yeah."
Wade does not start talking. He's just staring blankly.
"I'm really bad at social cues and stuff but if I ever make you uncomfortable you can tell me that, too," Peter makes himself stop. Wade stays quiet.
"I, um, think I should take you out of the box and lay you down so your legs can grow in. Then I'll make you some clothes, okay? Okay. And I'll give you more lotion for when you leave and stuff," Peter says lamely.
Wade doesn't speak. He pulls Wade out of the box and lays him down on the couch. The leg bones are already starting to grow. He can actually see the growth. By tomorrow, they should be done. Peter pulls some stuff out and starts sewing. He finishes the clothes at around three in the morning before he passes out in the floor.