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Peter barely has time to register the sound of the door to his hospital room creaking open before something soft and green is hurled directly at his head.
His spider senses are still a little out of whack with all the recent biological changes his body’s been dealing with, not to mention the whole almost-dying thing, so he doesn’t have the time or wherewithal to dodge. The object hits him square in the face and falls to his lap.
“Thought you would’ve seen that coming.”
Peter ignores the comment, clumsy fingers beginning to unravel the ball of clothing—pants, shirt, jacket. “Please tell me you didn’t steal these.”
“So what if I did?”
“Frank, come on—”
“Oh, shut up, would you? I didn’t steal them, okay—because I knew you’d throw a fit over it. Geez.” The man peers out into the hall one last time before he closes the door behind him, adding a muttered, “You try to help a guy.”
Peter rolls his eyes and slowly eases himself into a sitting position on the edge of the hospital bed. His abdomen twinges, an encompassing stab of pain that shoots from front to back. It’s been a long time since he’s felt this physically weak and vulnerable.
Frank steps over to the bed, depositing a pair of sneakers on the mattress without a word. Peter doesn’t even bother to ask where he found them or how he knew the right size; he’s simply grateful the man didn’t throw those with the rest of the outfit or Peter would be sporting a black eye to go along with all of the other bruises decorating his face.
“Thanks,” Peter says.
Frank is staring at him with narrowed eyes, a scrutinizing gaze that could make Thanos himself squirm uncomfortably. “Hey, you sure you don’t want to stick around here a little longer?” he asks, voice gruff.
“Nah.” Peter’s jaw twitches as his fingers tightens around the clothes in his lap. He hates hospitals. “I should get home.” There’s nothing they can do for him here that he can’t do for himself back at the apartment. A few days of rest and he’ll be good as new.
Besides, being in a public place like this without his mask—where people know he’s Spider-Man—is making him extra antsy. Not that he doesn’t trust Frank to help protect his identity, but he’d rather avoid as many risks as possible. He knows from experience how sideways things can go when people begin to discover who’s behind the mask. It’s a slippery slope—which is exactly why he’s spent every day since the world’s memories of him were erased doing everything in his power to keep himself anonymous.
Now within the span of about a day, three people know who he is and probably several more have at least seen his face. It’s both terrifying and surprisingly comforting.
“Suit yourself.” There’s equal parts displeasure and understanding in the response.
Peter reaches a careful hand up to undo the first tie on the back of his hospital gown, clearing his throat. “Uh, can you not, like, stare at me while I…?” He raises an eyebrow and gestures to himself with his free hand.
Frank huffs. “What do you take me for, kid, a pervert? I don’t wanna see what’s under there.”
The man spins on his heel, arms crossed as he turns away from Peter, face toward the window where the sounds of the crowd below continue to drift up to their floor.
Honestly, the whole thing still feels a little surreal—the fact that there are people out there, worried about Spider-Man. He’d only taken a quick peek earlier, but there had been at least a couple hundred of them. All wearing Spidey-themed apparel or holding up homemade signs. Cheering and calling out their love for New York’s friendly neighborhood Spider-Man, even though they have no way of knowing if he can actually hear them.
Something in his chest warms.
Peter takes a deep breath to steel himself, knowing this entire process is about to suck. He might be enhanced, but he’s not invincible either—no matter how hard he tries to convince himself otherwise. This isn’t the first time he’s been shot, but it is the first time he’s been hit with a bullet from a literal sniper rifle. Based on the ache throbbing across his entire midsection, the round did some serious damage. Maybe this whole situation will help Frank rethink the necessity of lugging around an arsenal of military-grade weapons and firing them willy-nilly.
On his back, Peter can feel the pull of stitches against skin, a neat line sewing together torn flesh that will definitely leave a permanent reminder behind. A cool scar he’ll have no one to tell about.
The first knot of the gown comes free, and the neck loosens, fabric pooling around his shoulders. He reaches for the next one, and his face contorts into a grimace—though he tries to hide it.
He considers asking Frank to wait outside but doesn’t want to risk incurring the man’s smart remarks about Peter being a prude. He doesn’t have the energy for their usual banter right now, so he’ll just have to do this as quickly and efficiently—and quietly—as possible.
It’s a wonder the perpetually angry and trigger-happy vigilante is still here; he must really feel bad about shooting Peter. Peter still can’t believe he watched the Punisher cry over that. Guy does have a heart, no matter how many times he’s sworn to Peter that he doesn’t.
Thankfully, Peter manages to get his pants on with little trouble—though he does have to grit his teeth when he leans over to put each leg through. The shirts are another story.
Peter threads both arms through the wrinkled white t-shirt, already dreading the motion of lifting them to pull it over his head. Even small movements are enough to make his entire midsection flare with a deep-rooted pain. He takes a steadying breath.
“You plannin’ to take all day with that?” Frank says, back still to Peter.
“Just… just give me a second,” Peter grumbles back, trying to brace himself. He forces himself to take another deep breath. Three, two, one.
With quick, jerky movements, Peter pulls the shirt over his head, trying but failing to bite back the pained grunt that rises up in his throat when his back protests vehemently. The shirt gets stuck halfway, fabric bunching up under his arms.
“Okay, that’s it. I’m turning around.”
“No, no, no—Frank, I’m fine.”
“Bull. You don’t sound fine.”
“Well, I am.” The reassurance sounds weak even to his own ears.
Peter tries to reach up again to fix the shirt, but his already-strained body is having none of it. His next movement pulls awkwardly at the wound, and he lets out a choked sound that he definitely does not mean to allow to escape.
Suddenly, calloused hands are there, shoving Peter’s arms down and adjusting the fabric with quick but precise movements.
Frank tugs the shirt down so it sits properly on Peter’s hunched-over figure. “You’re gonna pull your stitches, you idiot.”
“I heal fast,” Peter says petulantly.
“Not that fast,” Frank retorts. “Sorry, kid, even superheroes have limits. A bullet like that would tear apart a regular person. You might be enhanced, but a few hours ago you weren’t breathing. So cut it out with the ‘I’m fine’ crap.”
Peter is a little taken aback by the scolding. He blinks, a small smirk easing onto his face despite the underlying exhaustion. “Aw, Frank. It almost sounds like you care.”
The other man snorts. “Please. I just don’t want to have to be the one to clean your blood off the floor when you start spilling your life supply all over ’cause you couldn’t be careful.” He plucks the green Metro General Hospital jacket off the mattress, nimble fingers finding the opening and sliding it over Peter’s head instead of bothering to unzip it. “Quit squirming.”
“I’m not—”
“You’re squirming. For the love of—are you five? Just stay put.”
As soon as his head pops through, Peter glowers at Frank.
The man barks out a short laugh. “I see why you wear that mask. You’re about as intimidating as a Chihuahua puppy.”
The offhand remark is so offensive that Peter splutters in response, but he has no energy to come up with one of his usual quips to throw back. Exhaustion is clawing at him, threading through every inch of his aching body, and he’s already dreading the trek downstairs to leave the hospital—though he doesn’t dare admit it out loud, because then Frank will just get all huffy about how Peter should have listened to him and rested a while longer before trying to bust out.
Frank helps Peter thread his arms through the jacket’s sleeves and pulls the zipper a little higher, fiddling with the collar until it sits straight. “There. You good?”
“Yeah,” Peter says, releasing a breath.
“Cool.” Frank grabs the Spider-Man mask and gloves hanging over the foot rail of the bed. “Like I said, I got this part handled, so—”
“Do not do anything I wouldn’t do,” Peter emphasizes as he slowly climbs to his feet, poking a finger toward the mask in Frank’s hand.
“Oh for—”
“I’m serious, Frank!”
“Easy, Boy Scout.” The man waves off his concern. “I’ve got it under control.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Peter mutters under his breath, even as one corner of his mouth turns upward in a smile.
Frank actually smiles back, the quirking motion exasperated and maybe a little sly, but Peter almost thinks he sees something fond in the man’s expression. “Get outta here, kid,” he says dismissively.
“Thanks, Frank.” With those parting words of gratitude, Peter takes a deep breath and limps out the door.