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Peter shut the fridge with a wince. Even that small movement had hurt. And it had been pointless--there was no food in there anyway. He really needed to go shopping, but the thought of leaving this crappy apartment was too much. He could barely shuffle across the small space from what passed for his kitchen to his bed, let alone make it to the corner store and back. Just getting here from the hospital had destroyed any goodwill his body had built up from days recuperating in the ICU.
He felt like he'd been hit by a truck. Or a hollow-tipped thirty caliber bullet traveling at twelve hundred meters per second. One of the two.
Peter winced as he limped back across the room and eased slowly down onto his mattress. His back was on fire, a sharp sting at the entry point and a dull, deep throb radiating outwards in all directions. They had loaded him up with painkillers before he left the hospital but his altered metabolism was burning through them before they could do much. Mostly they were just making him groggy and disoriented. All he wanted was to sleep, though he had his doubts that he'd be able to. He leaned back carefully until he was horizontal on the bed, limbs trembling from that small amount of exertion.
Then a knock at the door.
Peter made a pitiful noise somewhere between a groan and a whimper then exhaled heavily and pushed himself back to a sitting position. A knock again, a bit impatient.
"I'm coming, I'm coming," Peter mumbled.
He hauled himself to his feet, staggered slightly, then shuffled to the door. He glanced out the peephole and did a double take, then slowly cracked the door an inch.
"Frank?"
Frank pushed his way inside, almost knocking Peter over.
"Come on, pack some things, I'm taking you home."
Peter just stared blankly at him.
"Come on kid, chop chop, I ain't got all day." Frank glanced around, wincing at the sight. "Jesus, I thought I lived in a shit hole. My place is gonna be like the Ritz-Carlton compared to this dump. Come on, grab some stuff, let's go."
"With you?" Peter asked groggily, unable to keep up with Frank's steady stream of words.
"With me," Frank replied gruffly. "Hurry up."
"You don't have to do that Frank. I'm not a stray puppy," Peter protested halfheartedly. The truth was though, the thought of someone taking care of him sounded nice. Really nice. It had been a really long time since he'd had anyone to rely on.
He just hadn't expected it from Frank of all people.
Nonetheless he'd take it.
Peter looked around a bit helplessly, feeling suddenly overwhelmed. Pack....pack what?
"Come on kid, ya got some clothes? Some favorite snacks? Your phone?" Frank pushed past Peter into the kitchen. "What about meds? The docs give you any meds to take? We gotta grab those."
Peter pointed numbly to a paper bag on the counter. Frank snatched it, glanced inside, then stuffed it into a duffel bag he'd had slung across his back. He looked back at Peter, still standing in the middle of the room, eyes glazed over, swaying slightly. He strode over to him and placed his hands on the kid's shoulders.
"Tell you what," he said in a slightly gentler tone. "I'll grab some stuff, you just sit down." He steered Peter carefully back to the bed and guided him down. Then he darted around the room, rummaging through drawers and cupboards, before disappearing into the tiny bathroom.
Peter sat on the bed and stared at the floor, trying to wrap his head around the fact that Frank had just shown up at his place and was currently going through his medicine cabinet. Frank Castle. The Punisher. Was going through his medicine cabinet.
Peter shut his eyes tiredly, his back aching so bad he could barely pull in a full breath, and decided these were thoughts to ponder when he was a more alert, less hunched in pain version of himself. For now he was just gonna roll with it. Darkness started to creep in and he felt himself listing sideways. Then a hand on his shoulder. He opened his eyes again to see Frank crouched worriedly in front of him.
"You ready to go kid?"
Peter blinked and nodded. Frank held out a hand and pulled him gingerly to his feet. He slung the duffel bag over one shoulder and Peter's arm over the other, wrapped a protective arm around his waist, and together they limped out of the apartment.
****
"Kid. Hey kid, wake up, we're here."
Peter shifted with a soft groan but didn't open his eyes. Frank sighed, glancing out his windshield at the staircase leading to the partially obscured entrance to his place. That was a lot of stairs for the kid. He'd barely made it to the truck, stepping gingerly, muscles tensed, leaning heavily on Frank. Once inside he'd fought to keep his eyes open but that had been a losing battle. He'd been out by the time they merged onto the expressway, forehead pressed against the window, Frank desperately trying to avoid potholes.
Frank slid out of the truck and shouldered the duffel bag then walked around to the other side and tugged the passenger door open. Peter half fell out into Frank's waiting arms. And then he was carrying Spider-Man again. Frank shifted him slightly for a better grip then locked his truck and started up the stairs. The kid felt as light as ever, fragile and breakable as a bird, though this time at least he was sleeping fitfully and not bleeding out beneath Frank's hands.
Frank grunted as he ascended the rickety metal staircase. Light or not, it wasn't easy carrying another person up a steep flight of stairs. Reaching the top at last he kicked the door open with his heel and backed inside, careful not to bang Peter's head on the door frame. The kid was still out, though he was making small noises in his sleep.
Surprising no one, Frank's place lacked a guest room so he carried Peter to his own bedroom and laid him down gently on the freshly laundered sheets. After ensuring that the kid seemed okay, Frank headed to the kitchen to rummage through the now fully stocked fridge. What was becoming of him? The place was practically turning into a goddamn bed and breakfast. Frank grabbed some supplies and started cooking chili.
****
Peter stirred a few hours later, rising back to consciousness with the smell of stewing tomatoes in his nose. He shifted stiffly and grimaced from the pain, somehow made worse from lying still for a few hours, then he looked around in confusion, senses snapping into high alert. Or as high as they could be in the pain-addled haze of prescription meds. Where was he?
He heard a noise coming from down the hall and focused in on it. Whistling. Off-key. With a start he realized it was Frank, and memories of the last several hours came flooding back. Frank had come to get him. To take care of him. This must be Frank's place. Peter had only ever been inside once and never in this room. He glanced around blearily, clocking the dresser, the clothes strewn around, a few weapons cartridges and several pictures of a sweet looking family. He sat up slowly, hesitantly stretching his sore muscles, then left the room, following the smell and noise to the kitchen, a room he had been in once before. Frank had his back to the door, stirring something on the stove top.
“Smells good,” Peter said awkwardly from the doorway.
Frank didn’t turn around. “You finally up, kid? Thought you’d sleep all day.”
Peter rolled his shoulders with a wince but didn’t respond. The truth was he wished he wasn’t up. He wished he could just sleep for the next week. The pain was building and the meds, though barely making a dent in it, were dulling his senses to the point where he didn’t feel like himself. He didn't like it.
“Hungry?” Frank asked, his back still turned.
“A little,” Peter admitted.
He walked slowly over to the table and eased into a metal chair. After a moment Frank set a bowl of chili down in front of him then plopped down beside him. The two ate in silence for several minutes, Peter trying to ignore the way Frank was studying him like a lab rat.
“This is good,” he said at last. “Thanks.”
Frank shrugged. “It’s the only thing I’m good at making. Maria used to say–” He trailed off. "How you holding up kid? Pain bad?"
Peter considered lying then decided there was no point. "Yeah, it's not great." He shrugged then winced, regretting the small movement.
Frank frowned, clearly beating himself up. He opened his mouth and Peter interrupted him before he could apologize again. "It's okay Frank. I already forgave you. Stop beating yourself up."
Frank shook his head, staring down into his chili. Then he screwed his face into a more normal expression. "You still hungry? You want any more? I made lots."
"No thanks," Peter said. "Actually..." He paused, feeling awkward. "Do you think I could maybe take a shower? My head feels all...sticky?"
Frank paled a bit, realization dawning on his face. "It's the blood. You were--" He paused, clearing his throat. "You were laying in a pool of blood. When I got to you. The nurses, I think they tried to wash it out, but they couldn't get it all."
"Oh," Peter said, suddenly feeling small. "Yeah, that would explain it." He swallowed. "So..."
"Right." Frank stood up quickly, pushing his chair back with a metallic screech. "This way."
Frank led Peter down a hallway and pushed open a creaky metal door to reveal a dimly lit tiled wet room. Peter eyed it with some distaste but honestly, he'd take anything at this point. He just really wanted a shower.
Frank grabbed a towel and a new bar of soap from a shelf in the hall and handed it to Peter. "You, uh, you need any help?"
Peter turned red. "No, I got it."
"Alright, well let me know when you're out. I'll need to swap out your bandages."
Peter nodded and Frank pulled the door shut, leaving him alone. Peter stood still for a moment. Then he exhaled and slowly began to undress. Once his clothes were in a heap on the floor he reached up and gingerly pulled the gauze and tape off his back, grimacing with pain. Then he turned around and looked at his naked back in the cracked bathroom mirror.
His altered DNA gave him rapid healing abilities--but it hadn't done much to diminish the angry gaping wound between his shoulder blades, carefully stitched by the best doctors in Manhattan but no less overwhelming to look at. Peter's eyes welled up with tears and he blinked them away rapidly. He was fine. It was healing, and he was safe and everything was fine.
It was still...a lot though. This was a lot.
He didn't blame Frank, he really didn't. He knew the man blamed himself, would never forgive himself. But Peter already had. Besides, what Frank was doing now, how he was helping him--it more than made up for his mistake.
It was really nice, having someone looking out for him, after all those years alone.
Peter turned the water on and stepped into the shower, his tense shoulders loosening as the spray hit him. He tried to keep the bullet hole away from the direct stream but he still yelped as the water ran over it. He heard a bang on the door and hollered out that he was fine before Frank, who was clearly hovering just on the other side, could come barging in.
A quick glance around revealed the cheapest shampoo money could buy; Peter squeezed a generous dose into his palm before lathering it into his filthy hair. He worked his fingers through and grimaced--it felt almost crunchy--and watched in a sort of dazed fascination as dark blood swirled down the drain.
His blood.
He remembered what it had been like. Lying on the floor. His body getting colder and colder, the world around him dimming as it became harder and harder to suck in air.
He'd thought of May.
Peter pushed down any feelings trying to rise to the surface and focused on cleaning the rest of his body. When at last he felt semi human again he turned off the water and dried himself as quickly as he could, wincing every time his stitches stretched. He pulled on some clean sweatpants, swaying a bit on his feet from a fresh wave of fatigue, then softly called out to Frank that he was done. As he suspected, Frank pushed into the room a second later from his spot directly on the other side of the door, first aid supplies in hand.
They went back to the kitchen and Frank pushed Peter gently into a chair, then pulled the other one up behind him. Peter felt his warm, calloused hands on his back as he ever so gently applied antiseptic and then new gauze and tape to the bullet wound. Before Peter knew it, he was done and tugging a fresh t-shirt over Peter's head.
"There," Frank said softly, his voice tinged with bitterness. "Good as new." They both knew it wasn't.
****
Frank made Peter take another dose of painkillers and the heavy duty drugs both took the edge off and made him drowsy enough to sleep through the night and most of the next day. He woke up in the dark, disoriented and miserable and very thirsty. There was a large glass of water beside his bed and he gulped it down, then rolled stiffly out of bed and stumbled out to the other room to find Frank asleep on the couch, arms folded over his chest, gun on the floor beside him.
"Frank?"
Frank snorted awake, looking around blearily for a second then jerking upright. "Everything alright?" he asked, voice tinged with worry.
"Did I take your bed?"
"It's fine kid. You needed it more than I did." Frank yawned and stretched his arms.
Peter shifted uncomfortably, wrapping his arms around himself. Frank sprang to his feet, wincing as his back cracked and his knees crackled. "You cold? I packed a sweatshirt for ya. Let me grab it."
"Frank, you don't have to--" But the man was already gone, down the hallway.
Peter sighed and looked around the room. It was a bare metal square with a lumpy couch, a lamp with an exposed bulb and a small flat-screen TV. He shivered slightly. It was pretty cold in here. Probably because the whole place was made of rusty metal. Not exactly homey.
Frank jogged back in and handed Peter a maroon sweatshirt. Peter mumbled his thanks and went to tug it over his head, then stopped short with the pain raising his arms caused. He made a small noise, muffled through the fabric caught over his face. Then he felt hands on his arms and the sweatshirt slipped over his head as Frank gently pulled it down. Peter flattened down his hair self-consciously and nodded his thanks.
"Done sleeping?" Frank asked.
"I think so," Peter said. "The uh, the pain woke me up."
Frank frowned. "Is it bad?"
Peter looked away evasively. "Not too bad. But I think I need to sit up for a while."
This was how Peter ended up propped up uncomfortably on Frank's lumpy couch, watching old movies, Frank beside him. The older man even let him choose what they watched. They sat like that most of the night, though by the third Beverly Hills Cop, Peter was nodding off again. His head dipped a couple times, eyelids drooping, then would jerk back up. He was fighting it. Finally his head dropped down onto Frank's shoulder and his breathing evened out. His brow unfurrowed and his face looked peaceful and pain-free for the first time since he'd woken up in that hospital. Frank muted the TV and sat perfectly still, trying not to move or even breathe hard for fear of waking him. He stared sightlessly at the silent TV, thinking back to another head on his shoulder, another small body breathing beside him.
****
After a few days Peter was well enough to head home, his wounds mostly healed and the spring back in his step. Frank was secretly nervous to let him leave his sight, but on the outside he acted like it was about time. He would never admit he had enjoyed the company.
They had both enjoyed the company.
"Okay. You got everything?"
Peter slung his duffel bag over his shoulder. "I think so."
"You get your hoodie outta the dryer."
"Yup."
"And your toothbrush? You remember your toothbrush?"
"Yeah Frank, I have my toothbrush," Peter said, trying to hide a smile.
"Alright good." Frank waved a hand dismissively. "Beat it then."
Peter laughed and turned to go then spun back around. "Thanks Frank. For everything."
"The least I could do," Frank muttered, voice still tinged with shame.
"You're a good friend," Peter told him earnestly. Frank looked down at his feet.
"Wait, Frank, are you blushing?" Peter asked teasingly.
"Shut up," the older man muttered, shoving him gently. "Go on, get out of here."
Peter smiled over his shoulder then headed down the stairs.
"Hey kid," Frank called down.
Peter paused on the bottom step.
"Don't be a stranger. Chili's hot. Any time you want it."
Peter smiled up at him. "Thanks Frank."