Chapter Text
If there was one thing Frank Castle loved more than violence, it was chilli con carne. Standing here, watching the motherfucker that has started a fight right as his chilli con carne would be finished cooking, he scowled.
He should be sitting at his table, eating his generational family chilli con carne recipe, but instead he was on Staten Island, fighting some overpowered fuckwad while his chilli burned back at home. He hated when fights happened outside of his home turf. He was drawn out here by the villain, when he should have just tapped out the minute it had crossed the water.
Matt was always telling him he was too helpful. He also always said he was being sarcastic, but in Franks opinion, sarcasm was a concept made by bullshitters and if Matt said he was helpful then he was goddamn helpful.
The villain was now throwing a toddler tantrum, throwing people up in the air, like he was some off brand hulk. He wasn’t even cool looking either. The only feature on the guy that would make you realise he had powers was his massively oversized hands.
Frank had always hated villains with powers, it didn’t feel fair that he had to fight them when he was just a regular human. Surely that should be up to the Avengers or the New Avengers or whatever the fuck he was supposed to call them. There were so many new heroes and vigilantes running around ruining things.
Frank missed the old times when there were barely any heroes and everyone knew each other. He might be blinded by nostalgia though, Because back then, every one of them except for Matt had hated Punisher and they had all tried to kill him any chance they got. Oh well, it was better than now. Recently, superhero’s have become as confusing as politics to Frank.
A loud crash brought him back to the fight, the dude had stopped his throwing tantrum and was now throwing rocks at him. Massive, inhuman sized rocks coming from his massive, inhuman sized hands. Why did Frank even bother anymore? He should just retire, go to Florida and live in a retirement village with other old people and work in Disney World till he died. Right now, that didn’t sound like such a bad life.
He was shooting at Hulk Hands, but the guy wasn’t being affected by any of his bullets. Of course he wouldn’t be. Why would anything be easy for Frank, ever?
The rocks were getting closer and closer aswell, Hulk Hands’ aim was improving.
Frank paused to reload his gun, aswell as fish out a bomb from one of his concealed pockets, when he heard a whoosh by his ear and suddenly pain exploded in his left shoulder.
‘Fuck’ he grunted out.
Hulk Hands aim was on point. It hit the arm that he was using to hold his gun, and while he didn’t drop it, he also didn’t think he could move his arm for at least a few days. The fucker was really starting to get on his nerves.
Another rock landed centimetres away from his feet, and Frank realised now was probably when he should run. But the Punisher never ran from a fight. Ever. With the exception of that one fight a few years ago, but he chose to erase that from his memory.
With immense effort, he propped the gun up on a bit of debris using his other arm, and fired a round of shots at the villain in front of him. Just like the previous rounds he’d fired, none of them seemed to affect the guy, except for his last bullet. It clipped Hulk Hands right in the eye, causing him to howl in pain, stumble around and start blindly chucking giant rocks in all directions.
Frank quickly tried to get away, but he wasn’t quick enough and his legs got trapped under one of the flying missiles. He tried to lift it up, but the fucking thing was heavy.
His head started swimming, and blood was gushing from someone. As he lay there, Frank could swear he could smell his chilli, wafting down from Heaven where he was sure to be headed in a few minutes, when the stumbling blind idiot got his bearings again.
He hoped he’d go to Heaven, but it was more likely to be Hell if he was honest. He didn’t even believe in that stuff, but thinking about it now, he wasn’t sure if Heaven would let him have guns, bazookas and explosives. Maybe he was better in Hell after all. Plus it would be pretty funny if he got to go to Hell before Daredevil, Matt would never live that down.
A blurry red figure appeared in front of him, walking over. Maybe this was his last 7 minutes, but he’d never be able to tell Daredevil he was there.
If this was him replaying his life, why the fuck was it just a slow motion of Daredevil walking. He’d done much more cooler things than Daredevil. Why did Matt have to steal this from him?
‘Mr Punisher?’
Frank must be dead. He must have died and this is Heaven where there’s no guns and no fun bombs and stupid fake Daredevils who call him mister.
‘Mr Punisher, are you alright, you’re… um, loosing some blood, sir’
‘Fuck off Matt, I’m trying to enjoy my last few minutes before Hell’ he mumbled, causing the red figure in front of him to crouch down, getting all up in his face.
‘Sir, I’m not Matt, whoever that is. I’m Spiderman, like your friendly neighbourhood Spiderman!’
‘What the fuck.’ Frank was utterly confused. Why was Spiderman here, on Staten Island. He’d heard of the web slinging vigilante, but the Spider usually stuck to Queens. He watched dumbly as Spiderman lifted the rock off his leg with ease, and used his webs to patch up where he was bleeding from.
With his head clearing, Frank was now starting to realise that the red figure had never been Daredevil and had in fact always been Spiderman. Matt would have a field day if he heard about this.
Spiderman helped Frank up, and the guy was a lot shorter than Frank realised.
‘Man, are you even five foot?’
Maybe Frank had lost more blood than he originally thought, becuase that sentence was supposed to be said only in his head, but his mouth clearly didn’t get the memo. Spiderman slowly turned to face him, clearly put out, and the guy whined out
‘No way, I’m 5”10 and a half!’
‘Yeah right, fat chance of that, kid.’ Frank liked Spiderman. He did seem young though, if Frank had to guess, he’d say that Spiderman must be about twenty, or twenty-one.
The Spider didn’t like the comment of ‘kid’, though. He stiffened, Frank had clearly ruffled his feathers.
‘Look, okay, Mr. Punisher. We don’t need to know anything about each other more than we already know. We’re not friends. We’re just coworkers. I came here, found you in danger so now I’m saving you, or is that too hard for you to understa-‘
‘Hold up Spider-kid. I was not in need of saving, ok? Punisher never needs to be saved. I was just getting Hulk Hands over there under control before you showed up and ruined my perfectly good plan.’
Spiderman laughed at him. Actually laughed. Frank had never been more offended, ever, in his whole time being alive. He was being laughed at by a five foot man-child dressed in spandex.
‘If you consider being in control and being trapped under a rock the same thing, Mr. Punisher,’ Spiderman was talking again. God, did he ever shut up?
‘Then I worry for you, because they are definitely not the same thing to me. Also, those guns you were using? Not cool, man. Someone could have been seriously hurt.’
Frank was in disbelief. Who did this guy think he was. If his shoulder wasn’t unusable right now, he would bazooka Spiderman out of existence for talking this way about his missiles.
Frank had forgot that Spiderman was all self righteous and didn’t use guns, and he had a no-kill rule. Weak.
‘Look, man, just get me off this fucking island, and then we can talk about my guns, okay?’ Yeah, no way that conversation was ever happening. Spiderman seemed to realise this, but he also wanted to get away from Frank and never see him again, so he just nodded and brought him back to the main city of New York.
Frank breathed in through his nose, let the smell of city smog and cigarettes and weed flood his nostrils, and he let out a deep content sigh. He was never going back to Staten Island, ever again. He was never going to leave his precious city, the furthest he would go would be Hell’s Kitchen, which was in New York but always felt like a completely different place.
The minute they got to Frank’s place, Spiderman web-slinged away, and Frank could only pray he’d never see that spider freak again. Now, all he wanted was a long sleep and chat with Matt that would definitely not involve anything about the day, he was never going to speak of this day again.
But most of all, all he really wanted, was chilli.
What Frank didn’t see was Spiderman swing onto a nearby rooftop and look back at the Punisher’s place, longingly, before swinging back to his own run down apartment. Where he ate pot noodles alone, surrounded by objects and memories of those who he’d lost, as if it was no longer an apartment but a shrine.
He didn’t see Spiderman remove his mask as soon as he got inside, revealing a too-skinny face of someone who doesn’t eat enough for their enhanced metabolism, but still retaining some baby fat, as Peter Parker wasn’t twenty like the Punisher thought, no. He was five months away from his eighteenth birthday, and he couldn’t have been more alone.