Chapter Text
The rooftop of the old warehouse smelled like blood, cordite, and bad decisions.
Frank Castle knelt beside the crumpled body of a cartel lieutenant, methodically zip-tying the man's wrists while ignoring the stream of Spanish curses aimed at his back. The job was clean. Two tangos down, one secured, and the police would get an anonymous tip in exactly fourteen minutes.
Standard Tuesday.
Except for the part where Spider-Man landed on the fire escape with all the grace of a startled deer.
"Frank! Hey! Big guy! Wow, you really—" Peter gestured vaguely at the unconscious men, then at the bullet casings, then back at Frank. "You know what? Not gonna ask. I actually came to talk. About a thing. A personal thing. If you have a second."
Frank finished the zip-tie and stood, cracking his neck. "Busy."
"It'll take two minutes! Three, tops. I've been practicing the delivery." Peter bounced on his heels, web-shooters clicking nervously.
Frank's eye twitched. "Spit it out."
"Okay. Okay." Peter took a breath. Held it. Exhaled. Then, in a rush: "Wade and I are together. Dating. Romantically. Like, exclusive. We're a couple. A pair. An item. Two halves of a very weird, potentially codependent whole—"
Frank's hand shot up, stopping Peter mid-ramble.
"Repeat that."
"I'm dating Deadpool."
The silence that followed was thick enough to choke on. A distant siren wailed. A pigeon cooed. Frank Castle, the Punisher, the man who had stared down the devil himself, simply stared.
Peter shifted his weight. "Frank? You okay? You're doing the thing where you don't blink. That's usually a bad sign. The last time you did that, you threw a guy through a—"
"Wilson," Frank said flatly. "The merc with the mouth. The one who once replaced my entire ammunition supply with paintballs."
"He said that was a prank."
"He stuck a 'Kick Me' sign on my backplate. In vibranium. While I was wearing it."
"...Okay, that one was actually impressive."
Frank closed his eyes. When he opened them, something in them had shifted. Not anger. Worse. Disappointment.
"Kid," he said, and his voice had gone dangerously soft. "Look at me."
Peter looked.
"You're a genius. You've got a moral compass that makes Captain America look flexible. You could have anyone. A doctor. A firefighter. That nice girl from the coffee shop who gives you free muffins."
"She gives everyone free muffins. It's a loyalty program."
"Not the point." Frank stepped closer, and Peter instinctively took a step back. "You chose the man who once tried to sell my left kidney on the Dark Web. For fun. He listed it as 'slightly used, one careful owner.'"
"That was years ago. He's grown."
"He still has a running bet with Logan about how long it takes me to snap and shoot him in the face."
"What's the over-under?"
"Three minutes, forty-two seconds." Frank paused. "I'm aware of the bet. I'm the one who set the timer."
Peter opened his mouth. Closed it. Then, weakly: "That's... actually kind of sweet?"
"It's not sweet." Frank grabbed his duffel bag and slung it over his shoulder. "It's self-preservation. Because the moment I do shoot him, he'll respawn and make it weird."
"Frank—"
"I'm not done." He turned back, one hand on the fire escape railing. "You're not dating him. You're babysitting with benefits. There's a difference. And if he gets you killed, I'm not avenging you. I'm finding the nearest necromancer, bringing you back myself, and putting a bullet in you for being this stupid."
Peter blinked. "That's... honestly more caring than I expected?"
Frank was already dropping off the roof. His voice floated back up, flat and final.
"Use protection. And I don't mean web-fluid."