Wade Wilson's Guide to Studying Your Spider

Chapter 3: Cracks in the Foundation

A frightened Spider-Man is a deadly one.

Wade whispers support and soothing placations as he fishes his phone from his pouches and dials a number.

"Hey, Dopinder," he says when the recipient picks up on the first ring, "I need a favor..."

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Dopinder picks them up from the same alley.

Wade tells him to shut off the radio as he helps Spider-Man inside, because sensory overload is a bitch, and the driver does so with little argument. He does a double take when Wade shuts the door and settles into the backseat, eyes darting to the passenger seat where Wade normally sat, then back at Wade, before slowly pulling onto the street with more grace and patience than he ever has before.

"Who's your friend, Mr. Pool?"

Wade half rolls his eyes, too focused on making sure Spider-Man won't punch the cab's old worn seats into fluff. The iconic red and blue suit isn't hard to place, any 5-year-old on the street can name the hero on sight.

"Just a work buddy," Wade chirps. If Dopinder really doesn't know he has one of New York's most well-known superheroes in his cab, then Wade will keep it to himself. For Spider-Man's sake.

The hero himself stares transfixed out the window. Wade follows his eyes to the street outside, wondering what he is seeing in the shadows. He wants to turn Spider-Man away, to have him close his eyes until they're somewhere less populated and loud, but that won't help. So, he does the next best thing and retakes Spider-Man's wrist, rubbing it again.

Sensing the contact, Spider-Man leans into Wade, his grip on the seatbelt loosening. His eyes never leave the window. He's still shaking, and every so often his breath catches in his throat, like an invisible boogeyman keeps popping in front of him. How long has it been since the injection? Close to an hour, maybe two, Wade thinks. How long until it clears out of his system?

LSD's—if that's even what this drug is—were normally taken in small amounts. The tiniest dot or thinnest square of solvent paper, and Spider-Man was injected with enough to OD several regular men of his age and size.

Wade has a feeling this drug isn't your run-of-the-mill drug.

He grimaces, leaning in, finding comfort in being close to the other man, even if he isn't the one who needs it. He moves his fingers over Spider-Man's wrist to check his pulse, which is beating faster than it should be. Erratically. Wade's no doctors—he does the breaking, not the healing—but he has a feeling that isn't good.

"Hey, buddy o' pal," Wade catches Dopinders eyes through the rear-view mirror, which the driver had been glancing through sporadically to look at them. "How about we speed up a little? As graciously with as little bumpy-ness as possible. My friend here is...sick, and he needs soup and bedrest."

"Of course, Mr. Pool." Dopinder affirms with a determined nod and speeds up. It's still a tad too bumpy to be comfortable, but Wade figures the sooner they make it to his safe house, the better.

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When they arrive at the safe-house, Wade pays Dopinder his usual fee: a nice crisp high-five. Two, in fact, as an extra incentive to keep quiet about this late night call.

It's not an old gutted building or dingy scab-of-an-apartment he usually stays in while kicking his feet up in New York, but an old warehouse near an isolated wharf. Mostly abandoned and off the record, paid for in cash under the table. No one would even know it exists unless they wandered by and broke in. Which wouldn't be a good idea once they realize who was squatting in this shit hole.