Work Text:
When he awoke, it was with a jolt of pain. He shivered, blinked. His head hurt. It was like the worst headache he’d ever had. He blinked a few times and his vision was blurred. He reached up a hand to his face and panicked when he couldn’t feel his skin. But — oh. He was wearing gloves. Gloves and a mask. Of course. He was still in his spider suit. But where was he? Why couldn’t he recall how he’d got here?
Voices were nothing more than ambient sounds in the background. But as he dropped his hand back to his side, he lay there and listened. His back ached and the floor was hard. His vision was returning and he could see a stained ceiling above him.
“Found him outside. That freak Mysterio was flying through the city. He’s got that ray gun thing. I think Spider-Man must have taken a faceful.” He didn’t recognise the man’s voice. He curled his fingers around his web-shooters. Just in case.
“Hard to believe that one shot could put Spidey on his ass. Maybe he’s not as tough as we think.”
He didn’t recognise the second speaker’s voice. Or any of the other voices that joined in. they were more indistinct but he recognised the universal jeers of a cruel audience. Where the fuck was he?
“Yeah, yeah. Don’t worry, we’ll get our fun. Oh look, he’s waking up!”
Peter dropped his head back down on the floor but not fast enough. Heavy boots approached him and for a fleeting moment, he hoped it was one of his hero friends. Daredevil or Deadpool. Anybody who could help him. But the boots stopped in front of his face and he craned his neck to see an unsmiling stranger. The man kicked Peter’s chest with his boot. More of a tap than a kick, but it still hurt. He barely reacted but he couldn’t work out why his spider-sense hadn’t seen it coming.
“How’d you feel, Spidey? You took a tumble. You’re lucky we took you in.” Laughter met his words. None of it was friendly. The man crouched down beside him, and Peter saw the gunmetal beard and the dark eyes. “Do you know where you are?”
He shook his head, hating the way that such a minute movement could send him into nausea.
“You’re in a bar. Called Sister Margaret’s. A lot of people in here who don’t agree with the way you do things, buddy…”
Sister Margaret’s. That was the bar that Wade frequented. Peter searched wildly amongst the scowling faces, hoping to see Wade’s easy grin or his black and red mask. But he wasn’t there.
“And we’ve been dying to see what’s under that mask,” the man went on. A few of the crowd — the mercenaries — nodded and chuckled. Peter’s mask suddenly felt too flimsy and thin. As if one cruel hand could rip it off his face. He didn’t want these people to see his face. The man reached a chubby hand towards him as if to tear the fabric off him. He tried to stop it. Clapped his fingers around the thick wrist, squeezed it as hard as he could. Hard enough to shatter bone and constrict the flesh until it bled. But nothing happened. His hand was weak, he could barely hold his arm aloft. His arm slammed back down to the ground.
“I was right,” the man said, grinning toothily. “There was something in that fuckhead’s ray gun, didn’t I say, guys? Look at him. He’s got no powers. He can’t do shit to us. We could kill him and he couldn’t even stop us.”
Panic clawed at Peter’s skin and he tried to scoot backwards, but his limbs were like splintering matchsticks. He collapsed back down, panting. Unmask him. Or kill him. Both options would destroy him. And he couldn’t stop them. Any of them. He didn’t know what had happened to his powers but he knew he had no hope against these men. Tomorrow, his face would be plastered all over the front page of The Daily Bugle. They’d be reporting on either a fugitive or a murder victim.
The man pulled a phone out of his pocket and switched it on. Angled it over Peter’s masked face. “Time to face your adoring fans, Spidey. Now smile for the camera!”
The men cheered.
But a new voice joined the rabble. “What’s up, guys? Did Weasel finally croak?”
Deadpool. Wade, that was Wade. Peter tried to lift himself up but he only managed to prop himself up on his elbows. He raised his head. Wade was pushing through the crowd, eager to see what was up. Wade. Dressed in unremarkable civvy clothes but to Peter’s eyes, he looked like his saviour. Wade’s eyebrowless forehead furrowed as he clocked sight of Peter’s aggressor. And Peter himself.
“Guys… What’s going on?”
“We got him, Wade. Spider-Man.”
Wade’s expression didn’t change. “Uh...huh. And did Spider-Man want to be got?”
“Excuse me?”
“‘Cause I don’t think he did. I think he shouldn’t be in this dump. And frankly, I don’t think we want that little narc hanging out in here. He’ll...get his webbing all over the place. Let me kick him outta here.”
“No need,” the other man said. “We’re gonna unmask him and put it online. In an hour, Spider-Man won’t have a secret identity to hide behind. What do you think, man?”
Wade snorted impatiently. An impressive noise. Made him sound like a horse. “Jerry, if you unmask him, I’ll unmask you.”
The man — Jerry — squinted up at him. His phone still dangled in his lax hand. “I’m not wearing a mask.”
“Oh, I know. What I mean is, I’ll peel off every layer of skin on that ugly face of yours. Until we can see what you really look like under there.” Wade fiddled with his belt and pulled out a gun. Aimed it at Jerry’s head. “All the blood and guts and fat. What do ya say? Would that be fun for you?”
Jerry didn’t respond but he sprang to his feet and stepped back. Wade continued to advance, ignoring the crowd behind him. “How about this, instead? I take Spider-Man and leave? Yeah. If I do that, I won’t need to kill everyone in here and tear your face off. How’s that sound?”
“Take him,” Jerry whispered. “Fucking take him. Now.”
“If you insist,” Wade said cheerfully. He didn’t greet Peter. He picked him up like he was a sack of potatoes and threw him over his shoulder. He walked away, with Peter thumping along on his shoulder. Peter didn’t think he’d have the strength to walk out of there so he was grateful for the lift.
“See you later, boys!” Wade called as he and Peter left the bar.