Chapter Text
Peter felt more hollow than he had in the past three years combined. He’d thought that seeing Ned and Mj happy, actually talking to them instead of stalking them like some creep, would make him feel better. It didn’t. It just made the ache in his chest grow impossibly wider and deeper.
He swung around the city for a few hours, trying to outrun his churning mind. It used to make him feel better, the cool night air whipping his face, the city lights and the stars. Sitting alone on a rooftop, the world stretched out before him, limitless. Now it just made him feel small and insignificant. No matter how fast he swung through the buildings, he couldn’t stop ruminating, remembering each birthday he’d spent alone, all those hours staring at his phone, at their faces, so happy without him.
They really didn’t remember. He had no one anymore. Peter Parker didn’t exist. No one would notice…
He landed on the roof of a building, breathing in heavy gasps of air. He wasn’t crying, he hadn’t cried in a long time. It was pointless and just left him drained when there was no one to comfort him. He stepped to the edge. Cars hummed below. People shouted, laughed. He pivoted, and let himself drop.
The wind rushed in his ears. This, finally, made his head quiet. The ache in his chest faded. Total free fall. He savored the moment, eyes streaming as he stared up into the overcast night sky. It felt so good.
He considered, for a moment, letting a web loose. Catching himself. He thought about it- and hit the ground.
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Frank was doing a midnight patrol. That’s what he called it when his insomnia hit hard, and all the melatonin in the world couldn’t put his stubborn ass to sleep. He drove around the city, halfheartedly listening to the police scanner, drinking fireballs and trying to drown out the noise.
He rounded a corner, it was around two in the morning, and saw a body splattered on the concrete. The person was lying half in the glow of a streetlight, half in shadow. Faceup in a pool of liquid. Frank pulled over. He was no good samaritan, but he was bored. This seemed like a good distraction.
The guy lying on the ground looked young, dressed casual. Frank couldn’t see an exit wound on his front, maybe he’d been shanked? He got closer, scanning the area, one hand grazing the gun at his hip. No immediate threats popped out. He crouched down, pressing three fingers into the kid’s neck. There was a pulse. Up close, he could see a few scrapes and bruises on his face, homeless, probably. He rocked back on his heels, considering dropping the guy off at the hospital.
As he was waging internal war against the soft part of his heart, he noticed a familiar gleam. When Frank rolled up his hoodie sleeves, he found slim metal devices strapped to his wrists.
“Fuck me…”
There was a button on the inner wrist. He pressed it. A strand of familiar webbing shot out and hit his leg. He peeled it off and stretched it, attempting to break it. It held firm.
“Goddamnit, kid.”
This seemed like it was, unfortunately, his problem. He checked the pulse again. It was thready, too fast. He could see the kid faintly trembling, despite the layers.
Frank walked back to his van and swung open the backseat door, clearing aside his junk and locating his first aid kit. He hauled it back over and turned Spiderman on his back. Red blood was crusting brown, matting the back of his head and his hoodie. Frank prodded his scalp, feeling a deep gash and the sick way his skull gave when he poked. He hoped that this kid had a healing factor. He wrapped bandages around his head, then maneuvered him out of his shirts. The skin of his upper back looked like it had been scraped off. Surrounding the abrasion his back swelled and bloomed with black and purple bruising. These weren’t the type of injuries one would sustain from a fight or a scuffle. This looked like the kid had fallen off a building.
Frank wasn’t well versed in medicine. He wrapped bandages tightly around everything that bled or bruised, and wrapped him in his jacket to stop the shivering. He placed him in the back of his van and drove off.
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Peter woke up. His eyes were closed, but he returned to consciousness with a bittersweet sadness and relief.
He knew he was alive because he hurt. His head ached and his back and neck ached. His head was spinning, despite his eyes being shut. He didn’t know if he expected to wake up or not. He tried to examine the feeling, but he just felt numb.
The surface he was lying on was stiff but cushioned. A scratchy blanket was thrown over him, and when he breathed he felt resistance, someone had wrapped him in bandages. He smelled a nauseating mix of mildew, coffee, and cigarettes.
“Quit playing possum.”
Something was tossed on his legs, startling him. He flinched, and stars flashed in front of his vision, his stomach churned. When his vision cleared he was staring at a waterspotted ceiling.
It hit him fast, he recognized that voice, and he wasn’t wearing his mask. His hands flew to his face, his shoulders burned.
“Whoah, no, hey, kid. Don’t be doing that, it’s fine, you’re good.” Frank Castle was looming over him, eyes squinted, calloused hands raised in an effort to seem less threatening. “I’m the only one who saw you. ‘M sorry, but it was either I peel you off the concrete or you lay there and bleed to death, man.”
“How-” Peter’s voice cracked, he tasted blood and he coughed.
“Drink this. It’s just water.” Frank grabbed the bottle laying on his legs and twisted the cap off, offering it to him. Peter stared at it suspiciously.
“What’d I just- it’s not fuckin’ poison-” Frank took an exasperated swig and raised his eyebrows. Peter slowly propped himself up against the shoulder of the stained couch he was laying on, wincing as the world spun. He blacked out for a second, and when he came to Frank had his hands under his armpits, roughly settling him against a pillow. Peter tried to protest, but the water was shoved in his hands.
“Drink.”
Peter drank.
“Why am I here?” He rasped, shakily handing the bottle back.
“Why’re you here?” Frank capped the bottle and sat down in a rickety armchair, a cloud of dust puffed up. “You’re here outta the goodness of my heart. Don’t take it for granted. A better question, what the fuck happened to you? I thought those webs of yours were supposed to stop you from going splat. You gettin’ slow, Peter?” Peter looked to the side.
“Shut up, Frank.”
“Pfft, yeah, okay. Don’t tell me, fine. Just saved your ass, no big deal, whatever-” He stood up and walked behind Peter’s line of sight.
The room they were in was cramped. Sparse, threadbare furniture, cabinets on the walls, and weapons fought for space. A rotting door led to what Peter assumed was a bathroom. He heard the click click fwoosh of a gas stove behind him, and something metal scraping.
“You hungry?”
Peter was so nauseous he thought he was going to throw up what little he had drunk.
“No.”
Frank grunted and there was more clattering. Peter zoned out as the room filled with the smell of baked beans. The fall should have killed him. He tried twisting his neck, but anything more than ten degrees either way had his vision going white. He’d definetly fucked up his back. There were bandages wrapped around his head, too, but he couldn’t reach his hands high enough to inspect them.
“Yeah, it’s pretty nasty.” Frank plopped down in the chair, spooning beans into his mouth straight from the pot, presumably referring to his head wound.
“You got anyone I can drop you off with? Anyone who’d be worried? You can’t be- what- older than seventeen-?”
“I’m twenty two.”
“No way.”
“Yeah.”
“Mmph. Well, anyone? Not that I don’t want you as a roommate for however long you’re out of commish’...”
Peter was silent. No one, besides maybe DeWolff, had asked him a personal question in… probably years. He found himself fighting back tears. If he cried in front of The Punisher he might have to toss himself off a building all over again. The thought was disproportionately funny to him, and he chuckled, and then laughed, hysteric and breathless. It made every part of him hurt, the tears sliding out of his eyes were from the pain, nothing else.
When he caught his breath and wiped his eyes, he glanced at Frank. He was staring at him with his mouth parted.
“I- S-sorry, sorry. I don’t, um, I don’t know what that was.” Peter swallowed down a sob. “I’m good. Uh- no, theres… You can just bring me back to my apartment.”
Frank took another spoonful of beans, chewed, and swallowed, clearly thinking. He cleared his throat before he spoke.
“You got anyone at your place, kid? Anyone to take care of you?”
Peter shrugged. “Well, no. But I can handle it myself, it’s fine.”
There was a calculating pause.
“Drink some more. C’mere.” Frank picked up the bottle and held it out, just beyond Peter’s reach. Peter stared at him. “C’mon, ya gotta keep your fluids up.”
Peter shifted, trying to bend forward and reach it. He gingerly swung his legs off the couch, the blanket sliding down. His pants had itchy, dried blood on them, but he was otherwise shirtless. He leaned out to grasp the water, but his head spun and he felt himself passing out again.
“Yeah, nope.”
He was gently pushed back against the pillow. “Fat chance, man. You’re stayin’ where I can keep an eye on you.” Peter numbly accepted his fate and drank more water.
He tried to fall back asleep, not in the mood to make small talk, but now that he was awake everything hurt too much for him to relax. Frank, having scarfed down his dinner, looked at him from across the room, where he was cleaning a gun.
“You want some drugs?”
Peter stared at him. “I’ve got the good stuff, works on freaks like you, hold on…” He mumbled and began rifling through a duffel bag, coming up with a plastic bag full of white pills.
“Extra strength hydromorphone. They can’t give this out at regular hospitals.”
He shook a pill in his palm and offered it. At Peter’s blank look, he sighed. “Look, take it or leave it.” He grabbed Peter’s hand, flipping it over and pressing the medicine into his palm with calloused, grease stained fingers. It took a minute, but he dry swallowed it.
It kicked in about twenty minutes later, and he was out like a light.