Chapter Text
Peter wasn’t hungry. He hadn’t been hungry in a long, long time. Not long after May died and Strange’s spell took effect, his appetite had begun to crumble. The brunet already didn't have much money, and when he started college and had to pay for books and supplies along with his Spider-Man gear, he slowly started to wean himself off of food. It saved money and, well, Peter didn't really need that much food anyway.
It wasn’t like he never ate, of course. He had to eat. Peter knew he had to eat. He didn't have a problem. At least, that's what he told himself when he collapsed on top of an apartment building while swinging home one night. It was an honest mistake, really. A simple miscalculation. The man wasn't intentionally starving himself, he’d just… forgotten to eat. Again. But it wasn’t a problem.
Peter pushed himself up from the cold concrete of the apartment’s roof, groaning. His ears were ringing, senses going haywire. An odd buzzing sensation found its way into his head, accompanied by a dizzy feeling. The city skyline seemed to tilt and spin on its axis. Maybe Peter should just sit down and rest for a second before trying to go home again. Feeling how he did, it wouldn't be good to go parkouring through New York. God, his head hurt. Peter couldn't focus. Why couldn't Peter focus? What was–
“Spider-Man?” grunted a rough voice behind him. Peter jolted up, jumping to his feet and whipping around. His face scrunched up in confusion at the man in front of him. What the hell was the Punisher doing on a random rooftop in Queens? Apparently, the vigilante was just as taken aback by the sight of Peter as the red-and-blue suited hero was by the sight of him, judging by his tone. Peter blinked away the dizzy spell that came with standing up really fast and tried to look unfazed.
“Uh. Yeah. That's me,” he cleared his throat. “What do you want?” Peter internally smacked himself on the forehead. Now the freaking Punisher probably thought Spider-Man was an awkward weirdo. The other vigilante huffed gruffly and shook his head slightly.
“I wanna know why Spider-Man’s passed out on a roof. Are you dying or something?” Frank replied, eyeing the boy. Peter cringed slightly, embarrassed to be caught like this by the Punisher of all people. Was he gonna shoot him? Peter rubbed the back of his neck, looking back slightly to make sure he had room enough to make an exit if things heated up.
“No. I'm not dying,” Peter blurted, cheeks tinging slightly. He was thankful the mask covered his embarassment. “I just, um– why are you here. The Punisher normally isn’t seen unless there’s something bad happening. I haven't picked up on much in this area,” he diverted. In all fairness, he hadn't picked up on much at all, really. His senses had been finicky the whole night; a simple robbery was almost too much to handle.
“Gun trade. Big player gangs were supposed to be meeting tonight. Someone told them the plans got busted. Meeting didn't happen,” Frank quirked an eyebrow at Peter. “How fucking old are you? You sound twenty at best.”
“I've been doing this for over five years. I'm not…” Peter huffed, avoiding the question. Yes, he was nineteen but he wasn't going to be telling the Punisher that. Besides, Peter was certainly experienced enough at being Spider-Man. “You can't stop me from helping New York.”
Frank scoffed as Peter’s vision swam a bit. Maybe he should start eating more, he thought, before cutting himself off. He didn’t deserve to eat more, not with the shitty job he'd been doing, both in and out of the suit. May would’ve been so disappointed in him. So would MJ and Ned and–
“... hey kid, you in there?” Frank waved a hand in front of his face. How long had the other man been talking? Peter stiffened, mentally chastising himself for drifting off. Really, he should know better than to be daydreaming while talking with a notorious killer.
“Yeah, um. Sorry. Long day. You know how it is. I should probably get back home and sleep,” Peter took a small step back, feigning a yawn. It was believable enough, considering the boy truly was tired. Judging by the rapidly dwindling supply of coffee in his apartment, he was likely overdoing it a bit with his caffeine intake. The hero’s sleep schedule was all sorts of screwed.
“You should. You look dead on your feet. You're gonna get killed out here, dozing off like that,” Frank remarked. To Peter’s ears, it sounded like a threat, though Frank, of course, didn't mean it as such. He wasn't going to be the one to off the boy, in fact he was oddly worried about the odds that someone else would. “Crazy fuckers would love a chance at Spider-Boy–”
“‐Spider-Man.”
“Y’know what you gotta do?” Frank lifted his gun and made a mock shooting gesture, causing Peter to flinch and stumble backward, unbeknownst to Frank. “Blow their heads off. ‘Friendly neighborhood Spider-Man’ might work for dumbass thieves, but it sure as hell won't for child traffickers.”
Frank glanced at Peter, who was now teetering close to the ledge of the building. If the two vigilantes had met on an occasion when Peter was adequately fed, Frank likely wouldn't care about how close to falling the boy was. Peter had his webs; he could easily catch himself. But Frank had seen him faint, seen the way he’d been stumbling around. So when Peter began swaying and blacked out, Frank was able to catch the boy just in time, lunging forward to grab him as his knees buckled.
Frank swore, dragging Spider-Man’s limp body away from the rooftop’s edge. Jesus, he could feel the boy’s bones through his spandex costume. No wonder the hero had been so off, Frank huffed. He weighed about as much as a ten-year-old girl. That had to have some sort of effect on the body, malnutrition or whatever medical terminology Frank refused to care about.
The vigilante had no idea what to do. He set Spider-Man onto the apartment roof, pulling out his burner phone. He scrolled through his short list of contacts, finding Matt under ‘Red.’ He pressed the call button, muttering, “Come on, Matt. Fucking pick up.”
“Frank?” came Matt’s voice from the phone’s receiver. The blind man was unusually croaky, meaning Frank had probably woken him up. “What's wrong? How'd the trade bust go?”
“Nothing happened. Gangs called it off, apparently,” Frank rubbed his brow, sighing. He could picture Matt tilting his head at him in confusion, wondering what the hell Frank was calling at nearly three in the morning for. “I ran into Spider-Guy and he passed out on me. Red, you ever come by this kid? He looks like he's fucking dying.”
“No, I've never met him in person,” Matt yawned, stretching himself awake. He'd only picked up because he'd known it was Frank. The two had been growing closer, though Matt would never admit to being fond of the man. “Is he injured? Bleeding?”
“No, I don't think so. He's wearing a whole spandex outfit, though, so hell if I know,” Frank looked over at the boy’s limp body, face scrunching in his version of concern. “Whatever it is, it's bad.”
“How bad?” Matt switched the phone from his right hand to his left, slipping out of the covers and beginning to stand. “Do you need me out there?”
“No, not…” Frank looked over at the limp body on the rooftop beside him. He rubbed his forehead, grumbling under his breath. “Yeah, maybe. Fucking kid doesn't look like he's gonna wake up any time soon.”
“Where are you?” Matt asked, taking out his suit. Frank’s lucky he even picked up, never mind agreed to help. It wasn't often that the blind man found time to get much sleep.
Frank chuckled lowly. “Aren't you supposed to be able to tell–”
“Frank.”
“We’re on a rooftop in the middle of Queens. Can you find us from that?” Frank answered. He knew the man could, with all the freaky shit he’d seen him do.
“Yeah, I can,” Matt breathed.
“Good. Bye, red. Don't get your dumb ass killed on the way,” Frank joked, pressing the little red icon that hung up the call. Leaning against the wall, he huffed. It was gonna be one hell of a long night.