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He shouldn't have squeezed the trigger. He should never have taken that shot.
Frank slammed his hands on the steering wheel in frustration, cursing loudly as he swerved around cars and pedestrians, racing his truck towards Roosevelt Island. Why had he taken the damn shot? He careened across the bridge, willing the seconds to slow down, for the moments to crawl, just to let him get there in time. Please let him not already be too late. Why had he taken that goddamn shot?
At last Frank arrived, slamming through the DODC barricades, gun at the ready. But there were no guards to stop him. People were running around, frightened, shell-shocked. It was chaos. Frank driving through the front gate just added to the chaos and no one paid him any mind at all.
He hopped out of his truck and ran into the building, pushing past panicked people running out, fighting the flow of traffic to where he estimated the room he'd shot into would be. Up one flight of stairs, two, three. Frank burst through a door and skidded to a halt at last, breathing heavily.
He'd never forget what he saw next. The bloody, awful result of his actions.
Frank knew the kind of damage his bullets caused. That's why he used them. He'd never considered the cost of friendly fire. Never considered that his own hands could do...this. To someone he cared about. And it was very clear in this moment that he cared very much for this young man.
Peter was lying on the floor, in a quickly widening pool of his own blood. His eyes were closed but his chest was moving, barely. Jean was leaning over him, her hands covered in blood, her own eyes squeezed shut tight, breathing slowly and calmly in through the nose and out through the mouth. How could she be so calm?
Frank dropped to his knees beside the kids--and that's all they were, just kids, goddammit--and laid a tentative hand on Peter's shoulder. "He's still breathing?" Frank hated how shaky his voice sounded. How scared.
Jean's eyes stayed shut. "I'm helping."
Frank glanced over at her confused.
"I'm breathing for him," Jean continued. "I'm pumping his heart." She opened her eyes and looked urgently over at Frank. "But you need to hurry."
He didn't need to be told twice. After gawking at Jean for just a moment, at the extent of her powers, at her ability to literally will someone to stay alive, he scooped Peter up off the ground and ran for the door.
The kid weighed almost nothing. That was the thought that kept running through Frank's head, over and over as his feet pounded down the stairs. There was practically nothing in his arms. Did Peter weigh less because there was so little blood left in his body? Thanks to Frank? Or did he always feel this small and fragile?
Frank ran out of the building and laid Peter down gently in his truck, then drove like hell to the nearest hospital, praying to a God he didn't trust in the whole way there that Peter wouldn't bleed out in his backseat. He peeled into the parking lot in record time and slammed on the brakes, then, after making sure that the kid was still alive, still breathing (thank you Jean), he hurriedly tugged Peter's mask back over his head. He wasn't sure how much it mattered now--the doctors would remove it in a moment, goodbye secret identity the kid had clung to so tightly, but it felt right. It felt like what Peter would want.
Frank lifted the young man's limp body and carried him into the emergency room as he shouted for help, drops of blood dripping behind him the whole way in. Instantly people came running and whisked the kid away, leaving Frank's arms empty and shaking.
And then it was time to wait.
Frank was escorted to a hallway where he sat down. And waited. And waited, through hours of touch and go surgery. He thought of Jean somewhere out there, tethering Peter to this world, fighting so hard for the boy who had betrayed her. He didn't know what Peter had said or done to talk her down, but he wasn't the least bit surprised he'd been able to. Peter had that effect on people. He brought out the best in them.
He was such a good kid.
And now he might not make it.
Because of him.
Frank finally broke down.
****
At last Peter was stabilized and moved to a private room. Hospital staff hadn't wanted to let Frank in, but when he told them he was the only person Spider-Man had, that there was no one else to call, they acquiesced. The multiple weapons on Frank's person may have helped a bit too.
So Frank settled into a chair beside the bed and waited some more. The sun had long gone down. It had to be past midnight now. He rubbed his tired face but refused to sleep, anxiously checking on Peter every few minutes. Vitals remained weak but stable. He got up frequently to glance out the window and observe the growing crowd, hundreds of admirers holding vigil in the hospital parking lot. Doing their quiet part out their while Frank did his part in here.
Except all those people out there weren't the ones who had put the kid in here. And Jesus, he was just a kid. Frank studied Peter's beat up face beneath the oxygen mask, tracing the lines of his jaw, the flare of his eyebrows, committing them to memory. Just in case.
He watched Peter's chest rise and fall, the mask fogging up with every breath Jean continued to breathe into his lungs from wherever she was hiding out. He didn't know how long the girl could keep it up. Long enough, he hoped. They just needed Peter to stay alive long enough for his preternaturally quick healing to kick in.
If it could. Could even Spider-Man survive a 300 Winchester Magnum sniper bullet to the back?
The doctors had seemed amazed that Peter had made it through surgery and multiple blood transfusions. Spider-Man must be incredibly strong, they'd said, to even hang on long enough to get to the hospital, let alone survive the procedures.
Peter was strong. Stronger than anyone Frank knew. But he also knew it wasn't up to the kid whether or not he lived or died. It was Jean keeping him going. She was hanging on tight to him until he could manage on his own. And she wasn't going to let him go anywhere.
Thank God.
Eventually, despite everything, despite all his guilt and worry, Frank felt his eyelids sliding shut. But it was okay. He knew Peter was in good hands.