Chapter Text
Peter was exhausted. That was the first thing. I guess getting shot does that do you. The second was that he had never felt so alone. Ever. Even now after everything has happened.
He knew now that he wasn’t as alone as he thought he was. People were lined up to see him and praying for him to wake up. Candles lit for him, posters made for him. Frank was there, at his bedside literally crying! Weeping for him! He was grateful for all this, really, and he still felt a sense of warmth in his chest from the past hour.
But his appartment, the smell, the everything, fully took him back again to everything that had happened. The room brought him back to the loneliness.
Nothing changed. Nothing will ever change. He’ll always have this stuck feeling in his chest. That won’t go away no matter how many days he saves.
He loves being Spider-Man. He does not love being Peter Parker. The sad man who locks himself up in his apartment for hours. The one who can’t even tell the woman he’s loved what happened. Or his best friend. Or any of his friends really. The one who couldn’t even get into MIT because everyone had to forget Peter Parker.
And even after that, he still couldn’t put himself out there. He was still that shy, introverted 14 year old from years ago.
A knock on his door startled him out of his thoughts. He had felt somebody there, but since his head was still killing him and he was barely functioning on his feet he didn’t know exactly who.
Not sensing any real danger, he decided to open the door. No use in playing a guessing game. If he had, he would’ve lost anyway, because why was Frank, of all people, standing there?
“Frank? What are you doing here? How do you even know where I live?” He questioned, looking around as if that would answer his question.
“Oh c’mon kid, I ain’t stupid, of course I know where you live. Now let me in.” Frank scoffed as he stepped inside, kicking the door shut behind him. The older man had a much softer expression on his face as he looked at Peter.
Clearly he hadn’t had any say in the matter as Frank let himself in, oh well, “Uh- okay…do you need something?” Peter asked, but Frank just kept looking around and everytime he looked at Peter it was with this unreadable softness that not even his spidey senses could pick up and fully understand.
Frank didn't answer right away. Instead, he paced around the apartment, his eyes scanning every corner, every shadow, as if checking for threats that weren't there. His jaw tightened, a muscle feathering near his temple. Finally, he turned back to Peter, shoving his hands into the pockets of his weathered tactical jacket.
"Yeah, I need something."
Peter straightened. It was as if he only sparked up whenever somebody needed something from him. And for Frank, he only had one request.
Frank's eyes narrowed, studying the younger man's posture—the rigid spine, the practiced readiness for a demand. It was a look Frank recognized, had seen in too many soldiers and far too many good men who had been shaped by nothing but their utility to others.
"Sit down, kid."
Peter blinked, “Oh! Uh…okay.”
Frank lowered himself into the couch, his broad frame taking up way more space than necessary. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, watching Peter like he was something fragile— something that might break if he looked too hard.
"When was the last time you ate a real meal, Parker? And don't give me that 'I grab something real quick' bullshit."
Peter stared at Frank, “Uhm…. you’re not going to like the answer.”
Frank didn't even flinch. His expression remained unchanged—just that unreadable softness underneath. But something in his eyes flickered. Not disgust, but a deeper anger, or maybe regret.
"I already don't," he said flatly, his gaze moving to the kitchen. "I know you're not eating good. I know you're barely sleeping."
Peter clenched his jaw as he didn’t even try to deny it, and just slowly looked down.
Frank's fingers tapped once against his thigh, a quiet, controlled rhythm. The silence stretched, thick with everything Frank wasn't saying—everything he couldn't say, not without breaking the careful distance he'd built between them.
"Right. That's what I thought."
He stood, shrugging off his jacket and tossing it over the back of a chair.
“Wait— what are you doing?”
Frank didn't look back, his shoulders broad and solid against the dim lighting of the cramped apartment. He had pushed up his sleeves, revealing forearms covered in scars and faded tattoos that told stories of a lifetime of violence.
"Fixin' you some food," he muttered, his voice rough but devoid of hostility. "Sit your ass back down."
Peter immediately stood, “Uh okay!” He smiled. Staring at Frank with one could only ironically describe as bug eyes. Great.
“There’s uh…not much that you can work with. But in the fridge there should be—!” Peter stopped as Frank held up a hand towards him.
Frank had heard the enthusiasm in the boy's voice and it clearly unnerved him. He kept his back turned, jaw tight, working with a focused intensity that bordered on aggression.
He moved through the cramped kitchen with a practiced economy of motion, opening cabinets and pulling out items as if he'd been here before. There was a quiet, methodical confidence to his movements.
When Frank turned back to ask Peter a question, he was suddenly gone. Like physically gone in the blink of an eye, “Frank, up here!” Frank looked up and saw Peter crawling on the ceiling. Nice.
Frank stared up at the kid clinging to the plaster like it was the most natural thing in the world. He didn't even flinch, though his eyebrows shot up toward his hairline. For a man who dealt in gritty realism and blood-soaked pavement, seeing Spider-Man clinging to his living room ceiling was still a surreal sight.
"Get your ass down from there, Parker."
Peter smiled as he let swung down, only got him to shadow Frank the entire time like a clingy kid. And to be frank (pun intended), it was kind of cute.
“You’re a fuckin’ freak.” Frank grumbled as he grabbed the boys’ wrist and examined them. Everything looked normal. He doesn’t understand (nor want to) how web comes out of his wrists.
Frank noticed the way Peter hovered, shadowing him as he moved through the kitchen. Every step, every reach for a pot, every stir of a spoon—Peter was right there. It should've been annoying. A grown man with boundaries and a need for solitude being followed around like a puppy.
But it wasn't. The kid needed... something.
“Hi” Peter smiled tiredly.
Frank stared down at him. That exhausted smile, those puppy-dog eyes that had seen entirely too much bullshit. The kid looked wrecked, physically and emotionally, yet was sticking to him like velcro.
"Hi yourself." Frank tapped Peter's forehead gently with one knuckle. "Stop hovering and sit your ass down at the table-”
“Do you need help?” Peter asked as soon as Frank finished his sentence. Not really processing what the older was saying.
Frank exhaled slowly through his nose. He could see it—the way Peter's brain was moving a little too fast, bouncing from one thought to another without landing. Kid was running on fumes and spider-strength, and that combination was dangerous.
"No. I don't need help. I’m cooking eggs."
He turned back to the stove, giving Peter a pointed look over his shoulder.
"Sit. Down. Parker."
Peter looked around a bit before nodding, sitting down on the kitchen counter next to him.
And sadly, a win is a win.
Frank didn't respond with words. He just grabbed a pan and started cooking—something simple, basic. Sliced the bacon. Crackled through eggs. A smell that made Peter's stomach growl loud enough that he had to awkwardly shift his weight on the counter.
Frank ignored it. Or rather, he'd heard it and chose not to acknowledge it.
Peter watched him, his eyes blinking slowly and even slower.
Frank slid a plate piled high with scrambled eggs and bacon onto the counter in front of Peter. He didn't say a word about the way Peter's eyelids were drooping, looking like he might faceplant right into the bacon.
"Eat." Frank commanded, leaning his hip against the stove, arms crossed. "And don't give me any shit about not being hungry."
Peter didn’t even complain, he gobbled the meal in practically four seconds. Smiling happily the entire time. He forgot when the last time he had a home cooked meal, even if it was a breakfast meal at…11pm.
Frank watched the kid eat, the way he scarfed down the food like he hadn't had a decent meal in weeks. Maybe he hadn't. The thought made Frank's jaw clench, a muscle feathering near his temple. He pushed off from the counter and started cleaning up without a word, the silence stretching between them.
Peter hummed softly every few bites, seriously…when had this kid actually ate something that was fully plated and not just takeout? Not to mention how occasionally his eyes would space out as his head bobbed slightly with sleep before he shook off the exhaustion.
Frank scrubbed the pan with aggressive efficiency, watching Peter through his peripheral vision. The soft humming—quiet, contented—was painfully at odds with the exhausted slump of the kid's shoulders. It was the sound of someone who had forgotten what it felt like to be taken care of.
He dried his hands on a towel, tossing it over his shoulder as he turned back to Peter.
Peter trashed the paper plate and plastic fork and jumped down from the counter, “Thank you, Frank! It was very good.”
Frank caught Peter's eyes, saw the genuine gratitude flickering there along with exhaustion. The kid was swaying slightly on his feet now, that plate of food clearly doing nothing but reminding his body of all the damage it had sustained and ignored.
"Mm." Frank grunted, already stepping toward the couch and situating himself with that gruff efficiency he had. "Sleep, kid."
Peter blinked, taken a back by Frank’s straightforwardness, “Oh, I’m not tired!!” He smiled, even though Frank knew he did not just see Peter nearly nodding off in the middle of eating. Right. Not tired.
Frank's lips barely moved, not quite a smirk—hardly recognizable as amusement on a face that rarely gave anything away. But something about the way the kid's eyes kept drooping, the way his shoulders would slump the instant he thought no one was watching, and he'd just told a bald-faced lie.
"Yeah. Sure."
Frank watched as Peter bounced slightly on his feet, trying to appear alert when he clearly couldn't keep his eyelids open anymore. The kid had fought, bled, screamed, and carried the weight of the world on those young shoulders—and now he was pretending he wasn't exhausted down to his very bones.
Peter gasped as Frank dragged him over to his bedroom, “Frank! But Frank! I’m not tired!!!” The two men paused as Frank opened the door to the bedroom only to see a mattress on the floor and one (1) box as a nightstand with a few miscellaneous items.
Peter’s face blushed out of embarrassment as he chuckled nervously before Frank fucking exploaded.
Frank stared at the nearly bare bedroom, taking in the lack of a real bed, the absence of any personal touches or signs of a life outside of this room. His gaze flicked back to Peter, who was trying to laugh it off, and something inside him snapped. "You're fucking kidding me."
“…Okay I’ll go to sleep so long as you don’t say anything about my room.” Peter offered, crossing his arms to stare at Frank.
Frank pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaling like he was trying to keep something explosive from going off. A mattress on the floor. A box for a nightstand. This was what the kid was living like? Between missions and bleeding out in alleys, he was crashing on a bare floor?
"Deal." The word came out clipped, too short.
Peter smiled as he crawled into ‘bed’. He grabbed the tossed blanket and tucked himself in, “Okay, goodnight, Frank!”
Frank barely heard the kid's "goodnight," his jaw tightening as he watched Peter curl up on that mattress like it was the only comfortable spot he'd found in weeks. The kid smiled, genuine and bright-eyed, yet utterly convinced that a night on the floor was perfectly normal.
"Peter."
The name sounded almost warning-like.
Peter froze, expression stilling as it churned nervous. “Y-yes?”
Frank stared down at him, that protective instinct warring violently with the sheer fury rising in his chest. He wasn't yelling. That was the problem. His voice was dangerously low, terrifyingly calm.
He sighed as he made his way over to him, "Sit up." He commanded, gesturing vaguely at the pathetic excuse for a bed. "We are gonna talk about the mattress. And the box."
Peter looked around. He could understand the mattress part just fine. But. “The box? You leave my box out of this— what has it done to you!”
Frank's brow shot up, but he kept his voice controlled. The kid was worried about his personal belongings— his fucking BOX— while sleeping on a mattress on the floor like some kind of homeless soldier. His temper flared, but he shoved it down.
"Kid, you're sleeping on a mattress. On the FLOOR." He gestured at the pathetic setup.
“Oh so now you’re attacking my mattress. Wow, Frank. I’m hurt.” Peter held a hand up to his heart. How could somebody who is so fucking tired, still have the energy to be sarcastic as shit???
Frank stood over the bed—no, the floor mattress—the absurdity of it all hitting him in waves. Kid had just been half-killed, half the city had been gathered around his hospital bed, and THIS was what he came home to. His sarcasm, the tired deflection, the fucking box that apparently meant more than sleep or comfort or fucking dignity.
“Go to bed!” Frank said, dragging Peter out of the sad pathetic use of a bedroom and onto the couch.
“Oh so you’re the one telling me to go to bed?! Even though you came in here barging into my place!?” Peter argued, pointing to himself.
Frank’s eyes rolled as he waved Peter off, “Oh, please. I was concerned. You should not have left the hospital this early! You should have kissed the ground of that nurse who let you out early despite how fucked you are!”
Peter frowned at that, he was more than capable. He was cleared for many things. He could walk and swing and do things normal people and Spider-Man could do!
“Oh shut up!”
“You shut up!”
“Frank, please.”
Frank sighed as he kicked the box next to Peter’s mattress a bit, just slightly moving it over.
Slightly.
“Hey! Watch it!” Peter sprung up and protected the box, webbing it closer to him. Frank rose a brow at that. It was a box. A plain, cardboard moving box. There was nothing special about it. Besides the fact that it was a bit heavy when Frank kicked it.
Oh.
“Peter,” Frank grunted as Peter turned away from him, pursing his lips as he crossed his arms. “Peter, what’s in the box?” Peter knew that Frank had connected the dots, not just on spidey senses alone but also on the older’s tone. Or at least, he assumed Frank knew what was going on.
Frank did not. That’s why he wants to know what’s if the box. Peter’s hands flew over to the box, he lifted the lamp off of it and opened the box up. He first looked through the contents before immediately turning pale and handing it to Frank.
His bedside table cardboard box was filled to the brim with old textbooks, sketch books, and generally just stuff from high school from when his friends remembered Peter Parker. Old Midtown High notebooks from science classes Aunt May never threw away. Science fair ribbons. Aunt May’s letters and hand writings. A cracked disposable camera. Movie ticket stubs. A tiny LEGO minifigure missing one arm.
Frank doesn’t say a word.
Until he does:
“You’re pathetic.”
Peter can’t help but laugh at that because for once he can admit that he is indeed pathetic. “I know, I know it’s childish. I mean…I’m 22 years old and-“
“No, cmon I’m not talkin’ about that,” Frank interrupts him, shaking his head as he gently sets the box down on the ground next to the mattress. “What I mean is, you can’t be stuck in the past. That’s pathetic.”
Peter looked up at him with raised brows as he motioned for Frank to continue.
“I know that, what happened between you and whats-her-face wasn’t…a good ending. But whatever you have is gone now,” Frank groaned softly as he sat down next to Peter. “Our past shouldn’t blind our present, right? I mean, it can influence us. Into doing some things.” The elder motioned towards himself with a dumb half crooked smile.
“But that doesn’t mean we should act like the past is still our present.”
Peter stared down at the box and it’s contents. Taking in Frank’s words made tears bridge into his eyes as he stared up and inhaled sharply. It didn’t help when Frank wrapped an arm around Peter’s shoulders.
“You’re not weak for it though. I mean, you’re totally a loser. But I understand it. I just don’t want you to end up like me because of it.”
Peter’s bottom lip jutted out as his chin quivered, he never remembered when holding back tears felt this hard.
Frank squeezed him tightly and pulled him closer to him, “Yknow…we both lost somebody. Everybody to us. We can’t stay in the past for them forever.”
Peter’s body broke down into sobs. Frank looked away nervously as he let go of the younger man before opening his arms wide open for him.
“You have to live. To overcome everything. Because that’s what we were born to do.” Frank smiled nervously as he rubbed the boy’s back, up and down gently with the firmness of his knuckles.
Peter cried, shaking his head against Frank’s shoulder, “I’m so alone, Frank. I mean…me! Not Spider-Man. Me. I have nobody!”
Frank paused, seperating their embrace for a minute, “You have me now. And I don’t want you to end up like me.” Frank chuckled at his own words which immediately made Peter crack and laugh at his words.
They stayed like that for a minute, maybe more. Time flew into the deep night as Peter stayed their in his arms. Finally having somebody who knows both of him. Both parts of who he is. Not either or. Peter must have forgotten so easily what it was like to have somebody tell you that they care about you.
“You gotta sleep, kid,” Frank finally broke the hours of silence between the two of them.
Peter groaned as his body ached from being in the same position he begrudgingly laid up onto the mattress. He pulled onto Frank slightly.
More than slightly.
Okay, so as Peter slept he fully laid ontop of Frank using him as a pillow while Frank mindlessly stared up to the ceiling. Frank froze for approximately half a second when Peter's head hit his shoulder. Then his chest. Then his whole goddamn body curled against him like a cat finding a warm spot.
He didn't move.
Just sat there, arm resting stiffly at his side, staring at nothing. Frank glanced down at the kid. Drool on his chin. Mouth slightly open. Snoring like a chainsaw. One arm dangling off the bed, the other curled against Frank's chest like he was holding onto something he was afraid would disappear.
Frank exhaled slowly through his nose. He reached over with one hand and grabbed the blanket and draped it over the two of them.
Frank must have forgotten too. He missed having to take care of somebody.