Chapter Text
Peter was hungry. Like astronomically hungry. Like his stomach sounds like a chainsaw revving type hungry.
It had been a couple days since his last full meal, a sad bologna sandwich from the grocery store down the road. Clearly not big enough from how loudly Peter’s stomach was currently growling.
How hard can it be to make a good sandwich? Or at least a filling one. His metabolism may be ridiculously fast but come on, the sandwich would have been considered measly to anyone. In fact -
A bullet zipped past his ear, yanking him from his thoughts abruptly. Shit. He needed to focus. Focus. Focus dipshit.
He shot a web that latched onto the closest building, throwing himself from the wall into one of the criminals. His foot made contact with the man’s stomach, catapulting him a few feet and forcing the gun from his grip and into a dumpster.
“Verdammter Bug…”
The man groaned as he curled in on himself.
“Der Verrückte hat mir die Rippen angeknackst!”
Peter winced at his angry words; he didn’t need to speak German to understand. Well…he thinks he understands? Fuck, he’s kind of dizzy.
Shaking his head, he steps closer to the men writhing on the floor, and crouches to their level.
“Dude, you know I can’t just let you guys rob a bank.”
He starts.
“I’m dirt poor and you don’t see me messing about with guns tryna steal money like an asshole.”
One of the men shot him a dirty look from the ground, ski mask having already been ripped from his head.
Peter grins cheekily under his own mask before continuing.
“And you know what? This is such a waste of my energy- ”
His mind wandered back to food. God he really did need more energy. Maybe he could get a couple churros from the nice guy a few blocks down? Jason? Jackson?
A loud siren once again drew him from his thoughts.
“And bam. They’re here to finish the job.”
Peter huffed in relief - he could finally go eat. Churros from James. Definitely James. Probably James.
He began to rise from his crouched position as the sirens grew louder, but felt a sharp pain in his head. The criminals groaning, the sirens screaming - it was all engulfed by an eerie quietness. It’s as though he was suddenly forced underwater. His senses were muffled, his thoughts were slowing, and black splotches were dancing across his eyesight, as though they were mocking him.
Huh.
He’s going to faint.
His eyes rolled back, and he dropped to the floor like a sack of potatoes.
Frank is gonna be pissed.
—————————————
It had been just over a year since Dr Strange had cast the godforsaken spell, erasing Peter from everyone’s memories. Effectively leaving a child with not only no friends, but no guardian. And no adult with an adult salary? That meant very little money. And, subsequently, very little food.
Peter had come to terms with this months ago, relying on kind street vendors, and his measly salary as a barista. Yet, out of everything, his hunger was probably the easiest thing to deal with. No one was there to see his declining weight, his protruding ribs, and his increasingly gaunt face…
Except maybe Frank.
Frank Castle. A moronic douchebag who has sporadically fought alongside Peter for almost a year. A grumpy, trigger-happy ex-marine who is hellbent on ‘waging a war’ on crime. An asshole who patronises Peter, calls him ‘kid’, and undermines him any chance he gets.
Yet also a man who, in the last few months, has been treating Peter a little softer. Checking on him, treating his wounds, covering his back.
The first time Peter had heard Frank say in a gruff voice “You alright kid?”, he was so surprised that he momentarily froze, forcing the aforementioned man to pull him away from the path of a bullet.
He remembers how weirdly angry he was after too: “Pete, what the hell is wrong with you? You almost got hit in the fucking head. Right, fuck it, I’m taking you back to mine. We need to get you checked out.” His eyes were shining with rage and…
Fear.
Something Peter has been seeing more and more often recently.
When Peter was thrown against a building a little too roughly. Fear.
When Peter had a stomach bug and vomited mid-fight. Fear.
When Peter told him that he had no one whilst falling asleep on Frank’s sofa. Fear.
And Peter is sure that fainting after a very minor fight will increase that fear tenfold.
Whoops?
—————————————
“Pete?! Peter!”
A loud, deep voice rang through Peter’s mind. Fuck, it felt as though glass shards were pricking his brain - dancing on it with little sharp feet. Ha. Tiny glass people.
What?
“Peter I swear to fucking god don’t…ugh fuck!”
The gruff voice cursed, before Peter distantly felt one large calloused hand cradle the back of his head, and another gently pull his mask off.
Wow, it’s comfy here. Why is Peter in a cloud? Is this voice God? Wait no. God wouldn’t swear to God.
“Come on kid. Let me see those ridiculous doe eyes of yours huh?”
The voice was gentler now, tickling instead of stabbing, and wrapping around Peter like a warm blanket.
“We’re back at mine, you don’t need to worry about the mask honey. Just…open your eyes.”
Well who could say no to that?
Peter’s eyes creaked open, attempting to unscramble the mush that his brain had been reduced to. He winced at the dim light, blinking rapidly before opening his eyes fully.
He almost burst into laughter at the sight before him.
Big, burly, scary Frank Castle was leaned over him, face painted with concern and eyes flicking back and forth.
“There you are kid. There you are.”
He murmured down at Peter, clearly relieved. His voice was soft, softer than Peter had ever heard it.
Peter squeaked.
Frank’s face instantly lit up in laughter, carefully removing his hand from behind Peter’s head, but not before he ruffled his hair fondly.
Frank stood from his crouched position, still chuckling, and began to walk to the table.
Oh. The cloud. The cloud is Frank’s couch.
Frank broke through that thought, dropping back down by Peter’s side.
“Right, let me help you sit up.”
Peter couldn’t utter a word, shocked by how gentle Frank was acting. Where the hell was the jerk whose voice barely ever fell below a shout. Or, at least, a loud reprimand.
Frank’s hands were on him again, carefully pulling him to a seated position.
Peter suddenly felt cold glass pressed against his lips.
“Right kid. Drink. And then you’re telling me what the fuck just happened. Capisce?”
Peter just stared with wide eyes, before hesitantly tilting his head back to drink the water. Water from a glass that Frank was holding. For him. Like Peter was a little kid.
He quickly pulled away before he could entertain that thought.
“What’s…why am I here? What happened?”
Frank raised an eyebrow at that, before his expression dropped to a frown. He reached out his hand, pressing the back of it against Peter’s forehead.
“Kid, you fainted. Good thing I arrived just before the cops, else they would’ve tried to take your mask off. Fucking idiots.”
He murmured the last part, taking his hand away from Peter’s face in order to pull up a chair from the nearby table.
They both sat staring at each other for a second, wide eyes meeting narrowed ones.
“Pete-”
“Sir-”
They both began at the same time before snapping their mouths shut almost simultaneously.
Peter winced slightly as his teeth cracked together.
Frank sighed, rubbing his eyes, before continuing in an exasperated voice.
“Okay firstly, it’s Frank, not Sir. Secondly, you’re not in trouble. I swear. I just need to know why you fainted, alright?”
Peter nodded slowly, his brain still trying to make sense of the situation.
He was in Frank’s…house? Lair? Being looked after by…Franks nicer twin? After fainting from- Oh. Right.
“Well I guess I was just a little bit hungry.”
Peter said quickly, his voice quiet.
Frank’s brows furrowed but he said nothing, clearly waiting for Peter to elaborate.
The latter cleared his throat anxiously before continuing.
“I just…I haven’t managed to eat that much recently so just got a bit dizzy. I’m kinda low on money. It’s not like it’s anything serious I swear! I was literally just gonna go get some churros but. Um. Blacked out before I could.”
Peter laughed nervously, staring down at his fidgeting hands. Now comes the part where Frank scolds him for being irresponsible and almost letting the criminals escape.
Instead, he heard a sigh, and felt a hand gently yet firmly grab a hold of his shoulder.
“Peter. Look at me.”
Peter’s head tilted up instantly, confused by the man’s calm tone.
He was met by a face twisted in pain.
“Honey you can’t go on like this.”
Wait…honey? Wait what -
“You’re fucking tiny.”
Frank continued, replacing Peter’s thoughts with a surge of indignation.
“And I know you’re short and all, but I don’t mean like that. I can see your ribs. I could feel them as I carried you. And I could also feel how unbelievably light you are.”
Frank sounded more and more upset as he continued, his voice gaining a more desperate edge.
“You’re just a child. A baby. And you’re getting hurt, getting shot at…and you don’t even eat enough food to give you energy for these fights.”
Peter flinched as his voice gained a sharper edge, yet he felt Frank’s thumb rub his shoulder comfortingly in response.
Is he in an alternate dimension right now? Is this Frank? Is this another hologram? Fuck, Peter hopes not.
Maybe Frank hit his head? Maybe Peter did? Maybe when he fainted. Concrete is a bitch.
Oblivious to Peter’s inner turmoil, Frank continues his befuddling speech.
“So I’m putting myself in charge of your food intake.”
That snaps Peter out of it, and he instantly opens his mouth to protest, before closing it at Frank’s harsh look.
“No arguing Pete. If you keep up like this, you will die. And I am not going to let that happen. Never. Do you understand me?”
Peter breathed in a shaky breath before nodding. This is the most confused he’s been in years. Has he accidentally snorted cocaine?
Frank’s face relaxed slightly and he squeezed Peter’s shoulder before letting go.
“Right. I’m making you some bomb-ass chilli, and you’re staying the night.”
Peter’s mouth opened and closed like a fish.
What just happened?
—————————————
After that day, Frank made it a habit to drag Peter to his place every evening to eat dinner, forcing Peter to leave with a bag full of snacks each time.
He even began packing lunches for him, something that Peter felt was overkill. He’s almost 18, he absolutely does not need to be babied.
Yet, whenever he opens up the Spiderman themed box (something Frank thought would be ‘funny’) to find peeled carrot sticks and a large bologna sandwich, he feels a traitorous tug on his heart.