Wade Wilson's Guide to Studying Your Spider

If the molting was bad before, it's in Defcon II now.

At least, before, Peter had been able to walk. But by morning, he's on the ground in the fetal position, knees tucked against his chest and head tucked by his knees, barely taking a deep enough breath to fill his lungs. Every time he moves, he makes a noise of pain, and his body fractures.

Kneeling next to him, failing at getting him to sip water, Wade realizes it's not just that Peter is growing out of his old skin, but his old skin is shrinking on him at the same time, like a wet wool shirt left to dry in the sun. Except, Peter's still inside the wool shirt, and the shirt is glued to his skin.

His heightened sensitivity isn't helping either. Every time Wade tries to help him sit up, or pry off another chunk of his exoskeleton, Peter recoils, hissing harshly through his teeth like he's biting back a scream. Wade's fingers may as well be tiny, acid-tipped needles.

"It's fine, it's fine," Peter keeps wheezing through clenched teeth. "This always happens. It means the rest of it is ready to come off. It's just," his face screws up, "not going to be pleasant."

"What do you need me to do?" Wade asks, hovering his hands uncertainly over his body. "Should I run another bath? Would a massage help?"

"No," Peter looks ill at the suggestion, and yeah, that makes sense. If breathing on him makes him flinch, then a massage was going to feel like acupuncture from a blind child, and a bath would be like laying in boiling oil. Both things Wade knew from experience.

Still, he isn't keen on sitting on the couch and twiddling his thumbs while Peter writhed in agony at his feet. Maybe in another timeline, in different circumstances, but not right now. He says as much and Peter opens his eyes, a squint barely wide enough to see through.

"Help me to my room," he croaks.

God, just looking at him makes Wade's skin hurt. He's fortunate enough to be having a relatively good skin day (as good as those days can be, that is. It's an ignorable pain, as opposed to the burning, itching, peeling agony it can be). Just looking at Peter's dry, crackling skin makes him prickle in sympathy. It's like dried dark in a drought. You could start a fire with those things. Make s'mores and hotdogs.

Huh, would the smoke smell like burning meat?"

Wade kneels down, making sure Peter is looking at him and understanding his words. "You know that means I'm going to have to touch you, right?"

Peter grunts in acknowledgment.

"Okay, here we go." Wade slips his arms under Peter's legs and back, but he's as holdable as a back of bricks. He's curled too tightly in on himself, every inch of his body tense and pulled tight. A boulder that did not want to be picked up. Hurting or not, Peter is still very much a superhuman, and if a collapsing bridge isn't going to unstick him if he didn't want to than Wade has no chance. After a few minutes of senseless trying, Wade falls back on his haunches in defeat.

"You need to relax, Petey. Just bend your knees a little so I can get my arm under there, and it'll be enough."

Peter whines, "I know. It just hurts."

"I know," Wade says, soothing, "but it's the only way you're getting to your room."

Peter grunts in affirmation, but notably doesn't relax. "Okay," he whispers, "let me just..." he takes a deep, trembling breath through his nose, squeezes his eyes shut, and jerks his legs outward. The sound of a snapping log should never be associated with any part of a human body, but that's what comes to mind. Peter barely holds back a scream, body seizing, but he's succeeded in uncurling his legs.