Chapter Text
The doorknob came off in Wade’s hand. In an instant, his senses were put into overdrive. Every tiny scratch on the bulb was as deliberate as braille. The decorative ring of ridges wrapping its center; the nubby twist lock pressing into the heel of his palm. His brain was flooded with the single, overtaking feeling of too much .
He watched wide-eyed as attempting to set it down failed miserably. It stuck to his hand like superglue. Violently shaking his arm like a dog ridding itself of water successfully dislodged it, thankfully, and sent it careening into the wall, leaving a dent behind. He rubbed his hands together, opening and closing his fist with a shudder.
Pulling the door open from its empty-handed socket revealed a stairwell overlooking a small, comfortable living space. Peeking behind the door, he spied a myriad of balloons and streamers tapped across the ceiling. A homemade banner hanging so it framed an archway, reading HAPPY BIRTHDAY PETER with a sloppy 18 painted beneath it.
-
Peter stared at the frame hanging crooked above the toothpaste-coated sink. Stared and blinked at the velvet backing given the frame was sans mirror. Some small chunks of reflective pieces clung to the corners, but the majority was gone from some long-ago shattering.
The rest of the bathroom was normal enough–toilet with the seat left up; shower-tub combo with an obscene amount of soapy body lotions and hand towels crumpled in balls; a matted bath towel folded on the tile to soak up any escaping water.
He felt oddly stunted. When he was younger, May would tell him how wonderful her eighteenth birthday had been. She woke up, ran to the bathroom mirror, and knew then and there she would be spending the rest of her life with Ben. He was so handsome, she’d said, with his broad shoulders and square-framed glasses. Her favorite comment was how clear it was that he played football. One day, you’ll wake up in somebody else’s body and see the prettiest girl in the world looking back at you .
The mirror was broken. In the kitchen, a sheet was draped over the surface of the stainless steel fridge. So many small details piling up. Everything from the old-style TV to the microwave had something draped on top of them. Even the windows had some chalky substance like ice in the winter painted over them. Anything mildly reflective was covered.
He was overthinking. This was his Soulmate, Peter chastised, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that something wasn’t quite right. Like he was being watched. Maybe it was the leathery scars across his arms and burrowing deep into his knuckles. The small gun on the nightstand; the splatter of unidentifiable red across the couch back. The smell of cigarettes soaked so thick into the air it was nearly visible.
He crossed his arms. Scratched the back of his neck. What had he gotten himself into?
-
Wade whispered the name incredulously as the text slowly seeped into his skull. His eyes went wide, shiver running up his arms and settling in his neck. He shook his head. Then again, more decidedly. No. Nope. Not happening. Wade had gone the better half of forty years without a Soulmate–he’d come to terms with the fact that he was one of the few people who simply did not have one. But here he was, in a body not his own. That damn birthday banner. The details added up–there was no denying it.
He shuddered again, ignoring the clanking of dishes coming from downstairs, and turned on his heel. He shoved open another door, figuring one with a handle was better than without, and carefully closed it behind him.
Stretching his arms over his head–he hadn’t been this sore since high school–he flicked the lightswitch on and promptly froze. Before him, in a mirror hung neatly above a double-vanity, stood a stranger. A wreak of mousy curls; dark doe eyes narrowed as he tilted his head to the side. He wasn’t bulky but the description of ‘lean’ didn’t quite cover the expanse of strength hiding beneath his skin. He exhaled, massaging a bicep.
His skin was covered in a sickly, purple-yellow bruise. Either his Soulmate had taken a nasty fall or found it fun to get the shit beat out of him. Whichever way, just seeing the injury made Wade wince.
He ruffled his hair. Ran a calloused finger along the newly-scabbed cuts on his jaw and neck. When he was swapped back into his body tomorrow, he was determined to make this boy feel some semblance better, Wade decided. Even when he inevitably rejected Wade as his Soulmate.
-
The refrigerator being empty was somewhat less devastating than normal. It appeared Peter’s Soulmate lacked the debilitating voraciousness he himself carried ever since the bite. He wondered if his own body, inhabited by someone new, was gorging out on his and May’s food back home. Regardless, his mouth was dry as cotton as he chugged a half-empty bottle of blue Gatorade he’d found on the coffee table, delighting as it softened the taste of tobacco on his tongue.
Patting his arm to subside the itchiness growing there, he hauled himself onto the countertop–a relatively simple feat considering he was taller than usual. He began sorting through the hordes of papers, creating a handful of piles: take-out receipts; uncashed cheques; subscription magazines most of which made Peter roll his eyes and scoff; miscellaneous unopened letters–all of which bore the recipient Wade Wilson .
He tried the name. The rough voice echoing back made sense, Peter supposed, but it was still surprising just how gravelly he sounded. He cleared his throat and, this time, said his own name. His hands warmed as some instinct buried deep inside him flopped around happily at the sound of it in his Soulmate’s sleep-heavy voice. He buried his face in his palms, groaning once more, muttering some cacophony of disgruntled words under his breath.