This is Going to End in Disaster

"It's a date."

Final chapter here we GO!

Peter didn't burst awake like they did in the movies.

His eyes didn't fly open, nor did he spring up in bed, gasping for breath as life surges through him. Clarity didn't give him a perfect picture of what happened, or an idea of what he should do next.

He woke up as if he were asleep. Slow, groggy, and dazed.

The sound of people talking was the first thing to register; far off voices that he couldn't make out. His eyes cracked open next, blinking gunk out of his eyes as his vision cleared. For a few seconds he stares up at the ceiling, trying to sort out the sharp ache in his head that he can't quite place. He gets the flash of a gun going off. A BANG. A blood-soaked face snarling at him, pocketed with scars and lined with rage.

That has him lurching upward, post-adrenaline hitting him too late, telling him to move and get out of there . Which is a bad idea. The moment he's two inches off the pillow, his headache erupts into banging drums and he doubles over, grabbing his head.

"Easy," a voice said. "Give it a few minutes. You're not completely healed yet."

It was a woman's voice, smooth and sultry in a way that draws the ear. It's faintly familiar but he can't place that either. He blinks between his fingers, watching as she turns to someone else, talking. He's too busy nursing his headache to listen to what she's saying.

Only, it wasn't just a headache, was it? Headaches were when you stared at your screen for too long, or didn't drink anything all day. This was brain trauma. Something deep in the tissues of his mind, his skull, because he'd gotten shot. In the head. By a gun . Held by someone he knew.

It takes a few more minutes before he can lift his head. He recognizes this place as the master bedroom. The one he was supposed to live in. The one he avoided going into at all costs. It looked bare and tasteless, given that he'd thrown away everything inside, unable to look at the furniture, notes, and clothes without falling into a panic attack. Otto Octavius had left a scar in his mind, a taint everywhere he touched. This room had been ripe with the man's essence after he'd gotten his body back, from the wardrobe to the décor. Even stripping it down couldn't get rid of the stench.

So, he'd taken one of the guest bedrooms.

Being back in here makes his skin crawl and he shudders. He focuses on the woman to distract himself from the tightness in his chest. She's wearing black satin, accented by purple lace and gold highlights. She's beautiful in a way that doesn't seem quite human, emphasized by the streaks of purple down her eyes and the circlet framed by ebony black hair. She's standing next to the bed, staring over Peter, talking to someone across from her.

Peter follows her gaze and the memory of the gun and bloodied sneer flashes across him again. Deadpool is leaning against the wall, arms crossed, and listening intently to what the woman is saying, nodding when appropriate, but staying quiet. For a moment, Peter thinks Wade doesn't even realize he's awake. But the man's neck is so tight it barely moves, the veins almost visible beneath the spandex, and Peter realizes it's because he's doing everything in his power not to look at him .

"What happened?" His voice has a rock-salt rasp to it that burns coming out of his throat, and kills the conversation between his two overseers.

He knew what happened...sort of. He knew he was shot by Wade; he didn't know why .

The woman raised an eyebrow at Wade and gestured to Peter, "Your mistake has been undone, but you've still got a mess to clean up. I'll leave the two of you to it. I'll see you later tonight about those favors."