Chapter Text
Peter woke up in handcuffs.
Given any other circumstance, that might not be such a bad thing.
But this wasn’t a good circumstance, and these weren’t even sexy handcuffs.
The pinch of his skin alerted him to them in the first place and he blinked blearily, following his arms up, over his head, where his hands were bound to the headboard with a pair of thick, black cuffs that were as cartoonish as they were bulky. His head swam, an ache pierced his brain so deeply he felt it in his eyes, and he sagged back into the bed, closing his eyes. Nausea churned in his stomach, rolling throughout the rest of him so harshly moving sounded like actual hell.
When it settled, more or less, he cracked his eyes open again and carefully craned his neck to get a better look at the handcuffs. A few tough tugs confirmed they were sealed to his skin. Getting out of them would not be easy—nigh impossible—which made sense, considering they held the super-powered inmates of The Raft . The police carted away more than one of his enemies in them. He’s even got a close look once or twice—you know, considering the many warrants for his arrest.
At the end of the bed, his feet were given the same treatment.
Nausea rolled through him again and Peter groaned softly, squeezing his eyes shut until it faded. His brain was as helpful as a soggy paper-bag, and just as put-together, but it didn’t take a genius to figure out that this was a no-good, terrible, very bad situation. And Peter didn’t do well in no good, terrible, very bad situations. His anxiety was far stronger than any drug conceived by man, and as it lanced through him, his brain sharpened, rising subliminally above the fog, and he yanked on the cuffs, swallowing bitter nausea as it rose in the back of his throat.
The cuffs didn’t budge. Not even a little.
So, he tugged on the headboard instead, but whatever these bars were made of it wasn’t a typical alloy used for bed frames, because it doesn’t dent either. It didn’t help that his head felt like it was about to combust in an explosion of searing light, or that if he vomited right now, he was going to choke and die on it, and what a way to go. Also, he really wasn’t feeling like himself right now, and he liked that explanation a lot more than the idea that he was well and truly trapped.
He collapsed against the mattress with a huff and glared, wishing he could feel the texture of the popcorn ceiling on his fingertips. He always felt better being high up, especially in unfamiliar places. This room looked like his room, but he was all too aware now that it was nothing but an excellent copy. Now that he was looking closer, it was obvious that the desk against the wall was new, that the dresser was like the one at home but with different knobs, and that his clothes were too systematically scattered on the floor to be natural—most of them he hasn’t worn in years. This must be where Chameleon stashed the clothes he’d stolen from Aunt May’s house.
The walls were cleaner than they should be, too. The watermark that was supposed to be in the far right corner was gone, as were the questionable yellow stains around the (no longer) peeling wallpaper. Everything was too…fresh. Clean.
Still, it’s impressive. Chameleon really did his homework.
Chameleon. Peter ground his teeth, clamping the name between his jaw like an angry dog.
He should’ve known it was that metamorphosing scumbag that was stalking him. It fit his motif to a T; blending into crowds, disappearing from the naked eye, sneaking up with someone else’s face. Really, Peter’s ashamed he didn’t put the pieces together sooner, considering the last time Chameleon pulled this shit.
Chameleon didn’t even try to keep it a secret last time. He followed Peter for days, happy to keep him on his toes with psychotic mind games he went as far as signing with his own signature. Civilians were his favorite disguise—usually old or pregnant. Someone Peter wouldn’t expect to pull a knife on him (which is something that actually happened, mind you. Peter still has the scar). Chameleon whispered threats in his ear, played with his spider-sense like a cat with string, and disappeared into the crowds before Peter could wrap his hands around his throat and throttle him.
Even when Peter grabbed him, he was never sure it was actually him.
Chameleon played the part of a terrified, screaming old woman astonishingly well.
Peter couldn’t risk going home; hadn’t dared to take off his mask; couldn’t sleep for more than a few minutes before the cat pounced again.
Waiting has always been one of Chameleon’s specialties. He bided his time, waiting for Peter to slip up. Waiting for him to let his guard down. It was all Peter could do but keep his eyes open and stay as far away from people as he could, which was like jumping into a pool and trying not to get wet. New York wasn’t a city built for isolation—or, at least, not the isolation Peter needed.
He was lucky Wade came along when he did.
This was before he considered Wade a dating option. Before he ever really considered him a friend. He had no qualms with slamming Wade into a building rooftop, assuming he was just Chameleon in a new bold disguise. Wade didn’t stay away like Peter told him to, but, if Peter were being honest, it was a relief to have someone on his side. Someone hard to impersonate. It’s not easy to fake a healing factor and after Wade took several bullets to the chest without dying, well, Peter was properly convinced.
But even with Wade there, Chameleon still nicked him with a drug that knocked him on his ass for hours, which actually wasn’t that hard considering he was already dead on his feet. A strong gust of wind would’ve been enough to cripple him. He should’ve been toast, burnt and crispy, easy to throw in the trash.
But Wade kept his identity safe.
It was Deadpool, a guy Peter only thought of as irrationally irritating before, who prevented him from being unmasked by, not only a building of people, but a man threatening to wear Peter’s skin as a suit—that’s not a threat that’s easy to forget. Wade switched their costumes, so Chameleon went after him, while Peter took a nice drug-induced cat nap in a closet.
Wade really saved his bacon.
Shame Peter wasn’t quick enough to save his own bacon this time. A real teeth-grating, fist-clenching, vomit-inducing shame.
His mind raced with possibilities of what Chameleon’s end goal might be. He might want to sell Spider-Man’s identity to the highest bidder. Or to smack him around for shits and giggles. Hell, it could be nothing good old-fashioned revenge. Peter swallowed, maybe he wants to make good on his promise to skin me alive and wear my face like a fucking mask.
The drug lingering in his system teases him with the possibility of higher thinking, only to snatch it back, leaving him with flimsy wisps of dark thought that float around his fingers. He yanks on the cuffs again, harder this time, straining his arms, willing them to bend the stupid metal already. He’s punished for his efforts with a sharp ZAP that makes his entire body jolt.
“Now, now, don’t be doing that,” Chameleon chided, wagging a finger as he opens the bedroom door. He’s not wearing a disguise this time, just his plain white mask. It’s unnerving the way it looked molded to his face. Too much like Goblin’s mask, stretching and pulling in a way that felt too real.
Chameleon set a steaming bowl down on the nightstand and sat on the edge of the bed. “How are you feeling?” He asked. His concern was off-putting. More so that he sounded like he meant it. He tries brushing a strand of hair out of Peter’s face, but Peter jerked away, baring his teeth, not unlike a hissing cat.
“What do you want, Chameleon?”
“Right to the point,” Chameleon chuckled. “I expected as much. But later. I promise,” he grabbed the bowl and swirled the spoon around, clinking it against the sides, before lifting a spoonful of white-beige goop out to Peter.
Peter leaned away from it. It was probably poisoned. Or drugged. Or both. Chameleon sighed but didn’t look put out.
“I don’t blame you for not trusting me,” he said, lowering the spoon. “I understand why you don’t. But I promise I’m not going to hurt you. Quite the opposite, in fact.”
Peter glanced at the cuffs on his feet with an unimpressed look. He still had a headache from being tackled to the floor, choked, and sedated.
“Gee,” he drawled, “excuse me if I’m a little skeptical.”
Chameleon smiled softly. He lifted his hand and Peter recoiled, prepared for a hit, but Chameleon threaded his fingers through his hair, pulling loose strands out of his face. His touch was surprisingly gentle. Not a stroke of aggression, or the slightest indication of violence, in his frame. He even went as far as adjusting the pillows supporting Peter’s neck and fixing the cuffs so they weren’t digging so harshly into his skin. He’s just about to adjust the blanket too when Peter jerks, having had enough.
“What do you want?” He reiterated with a growl. “If you’re not going to hurt me, then why am I here?”
“Not everything is about revenge,” Chameleon chuckled, sitting back, just out of reach so Peter can’t hit him with his knees.
“Oh really? Cause I remember you saying something about wanting to wear my skin like clothes.” Peter glowered, even as his stomach rolled. It probably wasn’t smart to remind him of such promises. But, strangely enough, Chameleon rubbed the back of his neck and looked away, embarrassed.
“Ah. Yes. That.” He cleared his throat awkwardly. “You don’t need to worry about that. Those were…angry words from an angrier man.”
“Yeah? What’s changed?”
Chameleon picked the bowl back up. “You should eat first.”
Peter leaned away. “Not until you tell me why you’ve been following me for three fucking months.”
“Do you promise to eat if I answer your questions?”
Peter scowled. He wasn’t promising shit. Or eating anything this psychopath was offering, no matter how much his stomach grumbled. Panic lingered on the precipice of his brain like a pressurized spring waiting to pop. The only reason he wasn’t lashing out right now was because this godforsaken drug made him feel like he was slowly melting into the bed and everything around him was tinged with a faint, fuzzy filter.
The only comfort Peter took was that this wasn’t his first kidnapping. It was the first time he’d woken up in a comfortable bed, as opposed to a cell, gurney, or lab table, sure, but it wasn’t his first time being held against his will. His go-to method was annoying answers out of his captor, but Chameleon was being frustratingly patient.
His eyes flickered to the bowl. His spider-sense was quiet…he wanted answers. And he was a little hungry.
“Maybe.” He said, annoyed with the way Chameleon lights up. “It depends.”
“How about this,” Chameleon offered, scooping a spoonful of goop. “With every question I answer, you take a bite. That’s fair, right?”
Peter eyed him, then the bowl again. “What’s in it?”
“Oatmeal.” was his answer. “With raspberries and a touch of sugar.”
Peter’s eyes widened.
“Just how your aunt used to make it, I know,” Chameleon nodded.
The knowledge that Chameleon knew about his food preference was also unnerving. May used to make oatmeal like this all the time, when they could afford the berries. It was his favorite breakfast after wheat cakes.
“How do you know that?”
“I asked her,” Chameleon shrugged. “She loves talking about you. I hardly needed to say anything and she would go on and on.” He held the spoon out. When Peter didn’t open his mouth, he gave him a hard look. “Come on, I answered your question. Now you honor your end of the deal.”
“Why can’t I feed myself?” Peter said through tight lips, not trusting Chameleon to not sneak in the spoon if he opened up wide enough. “This isn’t much of a deal if one of us is being held hostage.” Chameleon didn’t answer, only held out the spoon expectantly until Peter figured he would say nothing else until he cooperated.
It took a few minutes to unwind his pride enough to open his mouth, but he still flushed red as Chameleon spoon-fed him. Like a child. Chameleon grinned, and Peter looked away, hardly chewing before swallowing.
“I think you know why I can’t let you feed yourself,” Chameleon answered belatedly, spooning more oatmeal. “The second I take those cuffs off you, you’d attack me and try to leave. I can’t have that.” He held out the spoon.
“Why are you keeping me here? When did you talk to my aunt?”
Chameleon held out the spoon and Peter irritably accepted it and repeated his questions with a full mouth.
“I talked to your aunt a while ago, actually. My intentions weren’t sinister, I promise.” His lips quirked, amused. What a time for puns, and this was coming from Peter. “I just wanted to get to know her better. She’s a wonderful person. Running that FEAST center of hers, volunteering at everything she can get her hands on. A truly remarkable woman.”
When offered the spoon this time, Peter only hesitated a second before accepting it. The oatmeal didn’t taste like it was tampered with, and his spider-sense was still quiet. It was fine. Probably.
“As for why I’m keeping you here,” Chameleon continued, “it’s a safety precaution. You’re in a lot of danger, Peter.”
Peter’s eyes narrowed, and he tried to sit up, as much good as that did him. “What do you mean?” The spoon came back, but Peter didn’t take it this time. He didn’t have room for food while his stomach was sinking like a punctured ship. “How am I in danger?”
Chameleon’s smile turned humorous, as if Peter told an amusing joke. Apparent that he was done cooperating, Chameleon got up, set the bowl on the nightstand, and bent to rummage through its drawers.
“How are you in danger?” He repeated softly, pulling out a syringe that he carefully filled from a bottle of clear liquid. Peter’s heart dropped into his stomach, forcing it further under the waves, and wrenched at the cuffs, but neither gave way.
“Hey, you said you weren’t going to hurt me!” he said, panic spilling down his throat like bile as Chameleon stalked towards him. “You said—“
Chameleon dropped his knee on Peter’s chest, cutting him off, and held down one of his shoulders with his free arm. Peter bucked upward with a snarl, trying to dislodge him, but Chameleon leaned his weight into it, putting unwanted emphasis on the aches and pains still littering Peter’s skin like loose trash.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” Chameleon said, sliding the needle into Peter’s skin. “I’m protecting you,” he got up, needle now empty, “from yourself.”
“What?” Peter said, wincing from the sting. “What are you talking about? I’m-” his struggling got weaker, his eyelids heavier. “I’m-”
Chameleon shushed him, running his hands through his hair as if to comfort him. “Shhh, it’s okay. Just go to sleep, you’ll be fine. I’ll be right here when you wake up.”
That was incredibly un-reassuring, and Peter would’ve loved to tell him that if he hadn’t already passed out.