Work Text:
“Are you seriously kidnapping me?” Peter asks.
Frank’s fingers tighten around the steering wheel of his van, brow furrowing as he takes a hard right at the traffic light, directing them away from Bellevue. “The hell are you talking about? You got in willingly.”
“Yeah, because I thought you were taking me home.”
“Your place is clear across town. I’m not driving all that way.”
“I could’ve taken the subway.”
The snorting laugh Frank lets out tells Peter exactly what the man thinks of that. “You’re lucky you didn’t pass out walking out of that hospital.”
Peter wants to tell the man he’s survived a lot worse on his own—thank you very much—but arguing with him never goes anywhere, so he holds his tongue. Truth be told, it’s been a while since an injury laid him out like this. He’s used to getting roughed up when patrolling; the comforting ache of a bruised jaw or the burn of a gash across his forearm have become so familiar and routine that it’s an anomaly if he doesn’t have to patch himself up when he gets home. Pain has been his only companion for the last four years. He knows how to handle it.
But he can’t remember the last time he had a brush quite this close with death. If it hadn’t been for Jean, there’s no way he would have survived that bullet. Knows because of the haunted expression of guilt in Frank’s eyes when the man had told him what happened and immediately followed it up with a self-loathing apology.
The steady pain in his side and the way his limbs all feel like jelly tell the same story. Maybe he does need a day or two off.
“Besides,” Frank adds, as if they’re having a casual conversation about the weather, “if I was kidnapping you, you’d either be unconscious or gagged.”
Peter rolls his eyes, but a hint of a smile twitches on his lips. He adjusts his seatbelt where the shoulder strap is rubbing uncomfortably against his sternum and glances over at the dashboard curiously. “Did you get your old van fixed, or do you just have a stash of them somewhere in case something happens?”
The glaring side-eye he gets for that little probing question is enough to shut him up. Probably not his brightest moment. Frank is definitely still sore about that incident the other day, even though it was his own fault for trying to shoot a whole bazooka in the middle of a high-speed chase when civilians were everywhere and potentially at risk.
Peter gingerly leans back in the passenger seat, careful to not put too much pressure on his injury. Whatever pain meds they had him on at the hospital are already beginning to wear off, and he can feel the steady throb returning to his midsection with every pothole the van hits.
“You don’t have to do this, you know,” he finally says after the silence has dragged on for several minutes. “I’d be fine on my own.”
He’s been surviving alone for a long time now. From what he knows, Frank has too. They’re loners, both of them—used to doing their own thing and determined to hold everyone at arms’ length after the tragedies they’ve been forced to live through. Maybe it’s just the sad reality of vigilante life.
Frank keeps his eyes on the road, but Peter sees the way the man’s jaw twitches. “Yeah, kid, I know,” is all he says.
Right. This guy wouldn’t do anything he really didn’t want to do. For all his bluster and hard exterior, there’s something in him deep down that cares. It was evident in the way he folded when Peter showed up at his place with MJ, terrified and desperate to protect her. He wasn’t happy about it, sure, and he made them well aware of it, but Peter is certain the man would have done whatever necessary to keep MJ safe if it came down to it.
Plus, he can tell Frank is still wrestling with an enormous amount of guilt over what happened in that DoDC building yesterday. Peter doesn’t blame him for it—he really doesn’t—but if dragging Peter back home with him to make sure he doesn’t randomly keel over helps absolve some of that penitence, well, then Peter might as well let him.
It’s kind of comforting, actually—to know someone cares at least a little about what happens to him. A night of good rest knowing someone’s got his back? It’s almost unbelievable. He can’t remember the last time he had someone looking out for him.
Never had a friend like that.
Silence stretches between them again, and this time Peter doesn’t try to break it. Instead, he leans his head against the van window and watches as the New York City scenery passes them by.
***
“Kid—kid!”
Peter wakes with a harsh gasp, jackknifing upward while his fingers curl into fists in an instinctive motion.
“Hey, hey. Whoa.” Strong hands wrap around his arms, a hold he could easily break out of should he try. “Watch it. You punch me, I will swing back.”
Peter freezes, blinking blearily at the shadowy figure hovering over him. “Frank?” he croaks.
The man sniffs, rocking back on his heels and releasing his grip. “That must have been one hell of a nightmare, kid.”
Peter exhales. Some of the tension leaks out of his body as his brain starts to catch up, sorting out dream images from memories and his current reality. His overly-strong senses ground him, taking in his surroundings in milliseconds—the lumpy mattress underneath him, the blankets tangled around his legs, the overpowering scent of gunpowder and leftover canned soup, the distant drip of water from the leaky kitchen faucet.
Right—he’s not at his own apartment.
The light in the small room is dim, but he can just make out the furrowed brows and frown that seem to be permanently etched onto Frank’s face.
“I—I’m okay,” Peter mutters, the words automatic. His head throbs, and he scrubs a hand across his face in an attempt to wipe away the lingering disorientation from his sudden disruption of sleep. “Sorry to wake you.”
“I wasn’t asleep.”
“Oh.” Peter falls back against the mattress, a movement which is immediately met with heavy tendrils of pain shooting up his spine. He hisses and arches his back as fire lances across his forgotten wound.
“Let me see,” Frank demands, easing up from his crouch to instead tower over Peter.
“I’m all right—”
Frank grabs his bicep roughly, pulling him forward and lifting his shirt to get a glimpse of the bandage underneath. He must not like what he sees because he lets out a growl of displeasure, followed by an impressive litany of swears. “Think you pulled a stitch with all your thrashing.”
Peter tries to twist his head around to see, but Frank’s grip on him remains steadfast, keeping him firmly planted in his seat. “Don’t do that, you’ll make it worse.” He jerks his head toward the door. “Bathroom. Now.”
“It’s—”
“I ain’t letting you bleed all over my good sheets. Come on.”
Peter has a feeling Frank is well-practiced when it comes to cleaning blood out of things, but he doesn’t mention it. His head is spinning and his back is hurting, so he forces himself to stumble after the other man into the small bathroom where he’d showered just hours earlier.
“Sit,” Frank commands when they enter, a first aid kit already in his hand as if it was summoned out of thin air.
Peter obeys—his brain too tired and muddled to argue—easing himself down onto the edge of the bathtub, wincing when the movement pulls at his injury. Man, this sucks.
He watches with mild interest as Frank rummages through the kit, coming up with a pack of clean gauze and some antiseptic wipes. The man steps over to the tub and gestures for Peter to lean forward slightly.
“How bad is it?” Peter asks when he feels the bandages being pulled away from his skin. He forces himself to keep still to avoid an incursion of Frank’s wrath.
“Well, it sure ain’t pretty, but doesn’t look like you did any major damage.”
“Told you it was fine.”
“No,” Frank says, heavy and fast. “No, it’s not fine.”
This guy sure is prickly.
Frank continues muttering unintelligibly under his breath as he begins to clean the blood leaking from the wound where the stitch must have pulled. The man moves with careful precision and expertise, which indicates this isn’t the first time he’s done something like this.
Peter jolts a little when something cold touches his back, regretting the sudden movement when his injury protests.
A hand lands on his shoulder, steady and grounding. “Stay put,” Frank warns. “I gotta clean this up.”
“It’s cold,” Peter mutters indignantly.
“Sorry, princess, you’re not at the spa. It’s this or an infection.”
“I—”
“That was rhetorical.”
“Wow, Frank, I didn’t know you knew words with more than one syllable.”
That quip earns him a cuff on the neck. “You know, nothing’s stopping me from throwing you out in the cold,” the man says.
The threat is empty, and they both know it; the heated words are undercut by the way Frank’s touch is featherlight as he uses the antiseptic wipe to clean around the stitched wound.
Suddenly, a familiar, jarring pain pierces through Peter’s head. “Gah.” He brings his hands up to his face, eyes screwing shut against the ache.
“You all right?” Frank asks, and there’s an underlying hint of concern in his voice.
Peter tries to nod. “Ah, yeah. Just—just a headache.”
The cold feeling on his back dissipates, replaced by something soft being dabbed against his skin.
“Huh.” Frank grunts. “You sure that girl didn’t scramble your brains when she was in there?”
Peter lifts one shoulder in a shrug. He doesn’t know if it’s a side effect of the injury, his recent spidery developments, or something else entirely, but whatever the case, it’s miserable.
“I’m just sayin’,” Frank adds, “’cause she was in my head too. That kind of stuff, it messes with you.”
“I don’t think Jean did this.”
“Hand me that gauze.”
Peter grabs the packet sitting next to him and holds it up for Frank to take. A few seconds later, the soft dressing is pressed against the wound, re-covering the row of stitches and providing a protective barrier.
Frank rips a piece of medical tape with a little more force than necessary and smooths it into place. “It wasn’t right, what she did.”
“She was looking for her sister—”
“I know, all right?” Frank snaps. “I know.”
“She’s just a kid.” Peter isn’t entirely sure what he’s pleading for. But he knows what it’s like to be young and new to having powers, how utterly terrifying it can be when you don’t fully understand them. He also knows what it’s like to make mistakes that have far-reaching consequences—boy does he know it.
“Still not an excuse,” Frank says with a grunt. “And it sure as hell doesn’t mean what she did was okay.”
Peter nods slowly, accepting Frank’s words. Because it’s true that Jean’s blatant disregard for innocent people caused immeasurable amounts of harm. When someone you love is in danger, rationality often goes out the window, but… How many civilians did she hurt? How much damage did she leave in her wake?
He thinks about the terror that had gripped him when Jean had threatened him and gone after MJ. He thinks about the pit of horror that had formed in his stomach when he realized it wasn’t really MJ kissing him on that rooftop, and how easily he’d fallen for it. How he’d been so lonely and desperate for even a fleeting taste of his old life that he’d allowed himself to be fooled so entirely. But the way MJ had looked at him, tears and recognition in her eyes…
A flicker of hope is so, so dangerous, and he’d fallen for it—hook, line, and sinker.
Silly Peter.
Suddenly, his stomach is turning violently, and Peter is gagging before he can process what’s happening.
“Whoa, whoa—hey!” In one smooth movement, Frank has him braced over the toilet, and not a moment too soon.
Peter retches again, expelling the contents of his meager supper into the porcelain bowl. His back protests in time with his gut, each spasm wrenching already-sore muscles in painful succession.
“Sheesh, kid, if you hate my cooking that much you could just say so. No need for all the dramatics.”
Peter lets out a choking laugh and immediately regrets it when it turns into a coughing fit.
Frank curses, and Peter feels the man’s fingers nimbly pull at the tape that had quite literally just been placed to secure the gauze on his back.
“I pop any?” he rasps. His mind conjures up the horrific image of the laceration completely splitting back open like the seam of his Spider-Man suit the first time he attempted making his own. Based on the fiery pain, it certainly feels like a real possibility.
“Doesn’t look like it,” Frank answers, a hint of relief underlying his otherwise-monotone response. “Good thing too, because I’d be pissed if you just undid all my hard work.”
Peter laughs, the sound brittle even to his own ears.
Frank resituates the bandages, smoothing them back into place before letting Peter’s shirt drop down. “You gonna puke again?”
Peter shakes his head. He can feel the hot flush creeping up his cheeks. Vomiting in front of the Punisher—totally on his bucket list.
The man doesn’t call him out on it though. Instead, something oddly empathetic ghosts across his expression before he turns back toward the bathroom counter. Peter hears the faucet turn on, and a moment later, Frank is handing him a cup of water.
Peter takes a small sip, swishing the liquid around in his mouth before spitting it out. His tongue burns with the acidic aftertaste of bile. He quickly takes another drink, this time swallowing.
“Here.” Two white pills are held out to him next.
Peter doesn’t bother to question it, just pops them into his mouth and washes them down with another sip of water. He exhales heavily. Not for the first time, he imagines being at home alone in his apartment, having to walk himself through all of this. He’s been doing it for ages, but somehow one night has turned everything upside-down, making him question how he ever managed it on his own.
“All right—we good to go back to bed?” Frank asks. “I’ve gotta catch at least a few z’s tonight.”
“What, long day at the office?” Peter says, voice slightly hoarse.
Frank snorts. “Yeah, something like that.”
A small chuckle chuffs its way past Peter’s dry lips. “You don’t have to wait up with me. I think I can find my way back to your bed.”
“It’s not about you finding it, it’s about you getting there without keeling over,” the man grouses, extending a hand down toward Peter.
Sending a rising argument if he doesn’t concede, Peter reaches out and clasps the offered hand, allowing himself to be pulled to his feet. Once upright, he sways a little, head spinning at the sudden change in altitude, but Frank keeps a steady grip that eliminates the possibility of Peter ending up in a heap on the tiled floor.
Thankfully, they make it back to the bunk without any incidents, and Peter is deposited back onto the cushions. He sighs, readjusting himself to find a comfortable position.
Frank steps back and crosses his arms, watching with hawk-like eyes. “You feel queasy again, holler,” he says. “I mean it—you cannot afford my cleaning fee.”
“Are you making assumptions—”
“And watch your back. You put too much pressure on those stitches and they’re not gonna like it. I’m not sewing you back up.”
“You know, Frank, I’m really starting to think you don’t like me.”
“You just figuring that out?”
Peter rolls his eyes as he shifts onto his side, unable to hide a wince when the motion tugs at his bandaged wound.
“Easy.” Frank’s tone immediately softens an octave—something Peter would make fun of him for if he wasn’t busy gritting his teeth through the pain.
“I’m good.” He finally settles into a position that doesn’t press uncomfortably against his injury, easing back carefully against the borrowed pillow he’d been given. “Uh—you planning to stand there all night and watch me sleep like some kind of creep?”
Frank shrugs. “It’s my house.”
Peter closes his eyes. “Okay. Suit yourself.”
It’s only about fifteen seconds before the floorboards creak with the shuffle of boots making their way across the room.
“Night, Frank,” Peter calls, the words somewhat slurred as exhaustion already begins to claim him.
The footsteps pause. Something rustles in the silence that follows.
“Night, kid.”