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Frank liked the kid. Begrudgingly, of course. The kid had somehow attached himself to Frank and burrowed deep under his skin. No matter how hard he tried to shake him off, Spider-Man had his fangs sunk in.
It wasn’t friendship, or at least that's what he told himself. Frank didn’t really make friends. It was toleration, mutual tolerance formed in battle. They kept ending up in the same fights, it was a matter of time before they formed some sort of connection; something that Frank was lacking these days, and he could tell it was something the kid was lacking too.
The Punisher didn’t do fond: he didn’t care about people or wear his heart on his sleeve, he had learnt the hard way that that only ended up doing more harm than good. Caring got people killed. The Punisher was a hard shell of sharp, jagged edges, loaded guns, cold glares and no remorse. Yet, somehow…
He looked at this idiot kid in red spandex, no older than twenty three, and something warm settled in his chest before he even realised– the kind that made your lips pull up into a smile without you noticing. Yes, the kid still grinded his gears to high heaven, but he didn’t immediately want to blow his brains out whenever Spider-Man showed up to stop him anymore.
He didn’t know when it happened. Somewhere along the line the soft thud of feet hitting the floor beside him stopped making him reach for another magazine, even when all he wanted to do was shoot someone. Maybe because he accepted it. Frank had stopped wondering if Spider-Man would show up because the answer was always yes, swinging in at the last second and webbing his gun away from his hand.
The kid was like a fungal infection. He just kept coming back.
And what was worse? Well, the kid just kept talking. Filling the air with observations as if Frank was fucking blind or something. It could be the weather, commenting on a fresh bruise or cut Frank had obtained, or worse– pointing out the fucking obvious.
“Ya know, Frank.” Spider-Man would say from behind Frank, perched like a bird on a roof, “Killing is wrong in all fifty states. Illegal, even. Weird you keep forgetting that, huh.”
Frank rolled his eyes, “Yeah? Someone should have told that to this guy.” he muttered, pressing his gun against whatever guy had wronged hims’ head. Frank held it there for just a second, let the guy shake and sweat and beg for his life, or even better, beg Spider-Man to do something. He didn’t pull the trigger though. Not yet, anyway. Instead, he angled his aim just behind the guy's head, pulling the trigger and putting a bullet in the wall, just to see the man jump.
Then, Frank heard a quiet thwip!, and his gun was pulled out of his hand as it got encased in webs. “Didn’t they teach you in school that shooting people is bad?” Spider-Man quipped, clicking the safety on and spinning the gun on his index finger.
“Shut the fuck up.” Frank spat, before kicking the guy in front of him in the gut. But, he would end up turning and stepping away, facing the kid. He held out his hand towards Spider-Man.
“Give me back my gun.”
Spider-Man laughed, shooting a web at the perp to keep him in place, and Frank noticed his plastic eyes narrow slightly. “See, that wasn’t so hard, was it?”
That fucker ignored him. Frank grit his teeth, shouting “Gun. Now.”
“I’m so proud of you!” The kid said as he dialled the police, eyeing Frank as he slowly dialled the numbers. “Better get going, Frank.”
Frank stood there, faltering at what to say, before pointing at the masked hero. “Fuck you.” He said before turning and walking away, stopping when something hit his back. His gun. He walked away with his middle finger in the air.
“See ya soon!” Spider-Man waved back at him.
“God, I hope not.”
And, of course, when there was a tank hurtling down the streets of Queens, Spider-Man was there, and so was the Punisher… and he just so happened to hit the kid with his van. It was his fault for standing in the middle of the fucking road. Frank was gonna take this guy down one way or another, and he wasn’t gonna have the spandexed hero stop him.
“The hell, Frank! You just hit me with a van!” Spider-Man yelled, climbing onto the hood of the van, blocking his line of view. He was sort of relieved, Frank didn’t have time to scrape spider guts off of his bumper. But, Spider-Man was getting in his way, so he pulled out his gun, keeping one hand on the wheel.
“Quit your whimpering.” He muttered, eyes trying to see past the kid so he could see where the hell he was driving.
Then, Spider-Man shot a web at the barrel of his gun. Stupid ass kid, like his weak webs would stop him. “Suit yourself.” He shrugged, and pulled the trigger, launching Spider-Man off his van and onto the tank.
That wasn’t the last time he saw Spider-Man this week. Hell, the kid showed up at his home asking him to babysit his fucking girlfriend who ‘wasn’t his girlfriend’. Yeah, right. There were two things Frank wasn’t: he wasn’t stupid, and he wasn’t a fucking babysitter.
Somehow, Frank ended up in the same fight as the Hulk. He didn’t want Staten Island to hang over his head, so he thought he’d help the kid out. He also didn’t want the kids girlfriend getting mad, that girl was interesting. Frank didn’t admit this often, but he was way in over his head. He’d told the kid he was going to go find the source of the weird voodoo shit.
Then he blinked. They had caught the girl, Jean, or something. She was being wheeled off to Damage Control. Hulk was getting put in a psychiatric hospital. Spider-Man had saved the day, or so he thought.
It was when they were back at Frank’s place when the kid had his big realisation. He was going to save Jean, and Frank couldn’t let that happen.
He followed the kid to Damage Control. Yeah, when the giant freeze shield thing exploded, that put a wrench in his plans, but he worked around it. Frank did what he did best, he found a tall building, not so far from where Jean was being held, giving him a clear view into the room that had been destroyed.
Frank settled into position, setting up the sniper on the roof ledge as lowered himself onto one knee, groaning as his knees protested at the strain, cracking and popping. He wasn’t thirty anymore.
The rifle rested against its stand, the stock pressing into his shoulder, the weight a familiar comfort. Frank had done this so many times it had become automatic, check the chamber, adjust the scope just so, lean in and aim the cross hair just slightly upwards, taking slow breaths.
New York was quiet. He was just on the edge of the magic bubble produced by Jean, he could look down and see thousands of civilians frozen in time. Absent-mindedly he wondered what they were experiencing. A breeze rustled through his dark hair, carrying the sounds of distant sirens and panicked bystanders. But it was soothing. He knew what he had to do.
Through the scope he saw Jean and Spider-Man standing a meter apart, just staring at each other, in the foreground were the remains of the walls; rebar and concrete hanging dangerously, dust thickening the air. How powerful was this girl? That was a stupid fucking question. If Spider-Man had it his way, he and Jean would be skipping off down the yellow brick road, off to see the wizard as they held hands and made daisy chains. This girl was dangerous, she needed to go.
The pair were dangerously still. Had they been affected by her magic as well? Fuck it. This was his chance. He inhaled, one, aimed the crosshair just slightly above her head, two, exhale, three, and shoot. The shot rang across the silent block as the bullet whistled through the air.
Frank saw what happened next in slow motion. It was like the shot had woken the pair up. Jean whipped her head around, and Spider-Man… Spider-Man lunged forward, grabbing Jean and spinning them, moving her out of the way. For a second, Frank thought he had missed.
Then he saw it through his scope, the way Spider-Man dropped to the ground, blood pooling around him. Frank had never moved so fast in his life, he doesn’t remember running over to the building, or running up the stairs or shooting any asshole who got in his way. All he remembered was the weight of Spider-Man’s body in his hands, and the warm, sticky blood that began to coat his hands and clothes.
He had gotten Spider-Man to the hospital, and then had spent many gruelling hours in the waiting room with his head in his hands until he was allowed to see him.
—
“Hey, Kid…” Frank stands in the doorway, looking into Spider-Man’s hospital room. He looked away, dragging a hand down over his face as he sighed, covering his mouth. “Fuck, man.”
The room is quiet, on an isolated part of the hospital to conceal his identity, no doubt. They had left the mask on, during treatments. Frank had ‘insisted’. He didn’t know anything about having a secret identity, but he knew it would probably suck being outed in the hospital. There was a clause, though. The doctors had told Frank that he needed an oxygen mask, and to do that, they needed to remove the face covering.
He told them he’d do it. So here he was, looking over this kid that he’d just shot. Spider-Man looked… ridiculous to say the least. The hospital room was bare and dark, the curtains drawn to try and block the noise of the crowds swarmed outside. There was a mask connected to tubes on the bedside table.
Frank walked over to Spider-Man’s bedside. It was uncanny, really. His big white eyes were staring back at him, but he could see the faint outline of closed eyelids through the translucent screen. He reached out, carefully, so so carefully, like he was dressing a baby, and hooked his thumb under the mask and used his other hand to stabilise the kid’s neck. Slowly he started pulling the mask up and up, revealing his mouth, his nose and eventually those closed eyes.
Quickly, he looked down at the mask in his hands. Frank sort of felt like he was violating the kid. He had been so protective over his identity, so it was weird, wanting to look at his face. But he was going to be in this room for the foreseeable future, and there was no way he was going to avoid looking at his face, so he looked up… and Jesus Christ, man, the kid really was just a kid.
He was young. Frank knew he was twenty something, but he looked younger than he thought. The kid belonged in a college dorm, complaining about exams, not laid up unconscious in a hospital room.
Dark curls splayed across the pillow, covering his forehead, and his smooth skin was broken with blooming bruises of deep reds and purples. His lip was split and blood was dried across his chin, but under all the blood and bruises, he could see a light splay of freckles.
What was worst of all, in Frank’s opinion, was the lifelessness in his face. There was no expression, no sign of life. His face was entirely relaxed. Yeah, he had hidden behind a mask, but this kid was an emotive guy. Frank could see his face moving under the mask, expressive enough he could tell whatever the kid was feeling just by looking at his mask. And the kid was always in motion, he would bounce on the balls of his feet, move his head or sway his arms, but he was never still. Yet, here he was, unconscious, completely relaxed.
Frank stood there for a moment, mask in hand, just standing there and looking. He didn’t know what he expected. Maybe for the kid to wake up and smirk that cocky fucking smile Frank knew he had, and then say something stupid like “Funny seeing you here.” or some cringy shit like that. Instead he just stood there staring at this unconscious kid– Spider-Man.
There was a particularly loud yell from outside that snapped Frank from out of his motionless state. He sniffed once, placing the mask on the edge of the bed as he walked around to the other side, picking up the oxygen mask. Using one hand he carefully lifted the kids head, and with the other he hooked the elastics around his skull, something that was extremely difficult, mind you.
After a few frustrating attempts, he managed, and Frank stepped back with a sigh. Wait, the elastic was crooked. He leaned back in, frowning before fixing it and muttering, “There you go, kid.”
He would never tell anyone this, but he resisted the urge to ruffle the kids' hair. What the fuck was wrong with him.
Frank stood there awkwardly for another moment before deciding to sit down. He dragged a chair from beside the window to the kids bedside and groaned as he sat down. Frank tapped his hands against his knees a few times, looking around the room in silence. What was he supposed to do? Then he saw the kid's personal belongings bag containing what was left of his suit and his phone.
He looked at it for a moment. He shouldn’t, but when had he ever cared for following morals, he was the Punisher for fucksake. Frank grabbed the bag, ripping it open and grabbing the phone. He felt awkward just referring to the kid as ‘kid’, maybe he had an emergency ID or something. Maybe Frank could call his girlfriend.
Swiping across to the emergency contact slide, Frank held his breath. Why was he nervous? He had done a million worse things than looking in some kids' phones. Maybe it was because it would make the fact he shot this kid real. Frank inhaled, exhaled, then he looked down.
Peter Parker.
What a normal fucking name. Frank chuckled to himself, scrolling down to see the rest of the information. Well, he would if there was any. The rest of the ID was blank apart from his age and date of birth. No emergency contacts, no nothing. He really was alone.
Frank sighed, placing the phone on the bedside table, resting his elbows on his knees.
“You know, kid… Peter.” Frank began, resting his chin on his hand, “You’re a dumbass motherfucker.”
He snorted to himself, “A real pain in the ass.”
There it was again. That warming of his heart. Fondness, for the kid. For Peter.
Frank didn’t know what to do with that, but maybe he had learned to accept it. Maybe he was willing to let someone in. Maybe.