Chapter Text
It’s been three nights since Frank knocked hard on Peter’s brittle apartment door, with the kind of determination that made it clear he intended to dodge any question about how he’d figured out where he lived. Peter cracked the door open, but not for fear that it might finally fall apart, though that seemed entirely possible.
It was pouring that day, the sky an expanse of gloomy gray beyond the curtains, raindrops trailing down the Punisher’s sharply defined nose, just crooked enough to suggest it had been broken before.
High on Advil, Peter stared at Frank’s nose and blurted out something halfway between a curious “Why are you here?” and a relieved “I thought I’d never see you again.” Frank’s eyes darkened for just a heartbeat before he told Peter, in that gruff, resonant voice of his, that he wanted to make sure he was taking care of himself.
The hesitation was almost palpable in the air, charged with static and ozone. Despite the medication-induced dizziness and the lingering dull ache in his chest, physical and otherwise, Peter could still pick out the steely glint behind the older man’s usual frown. Maybe for that reason alone, or maybe because after everything that had happened he was still miserable in his loneliness, when Frank finally asked whether he’d like to come with him and “relax for a bit,” Peter didn’t offer a single witty remark.
He nodded as quickly as his hazy mind would allow and packed his things into a duffel bag and a backpack, backup suit included.
Just in case.
They left through the old building’s back door with Frank holding the umbrella over him, while the downpour muffled the sirens, laughter, and screams the city lived on. Frank even held open the passenger door of the black Honda, and Peter wasn’t sure which surprised him more: that Frank could be chivalrous when he wanted to be, or that the car seemed far too small and ordinary for the other man’s taste.
He was still gaping when he lowered himself into the seat with a weak yelp, answering Frank’s concerned look with nothing but a faint smile.
They drove through the crowded city streets toward the docks, definitely slower than either of them would have preferred on any other day. Peter’s eyes stayed half-closed against the fresh, damp breeze seeping through the cracked window, and Frank’s sidelong glance looked so unexpectedly gentle beneath the passing neon that Peter had to swallow.
It’s now the third night in a row that Peter has sat beside Frank’s chipped, stained kitchen table waiting for food that’s actually... warm. Savory. The sizzling from his right, together with the smell of buttered asparagus, makes his mouth water.
He swallows, remembering the rainy night three days ago, when everything in his mouth had tasted much more bitter. He breathes in, indulging in the aroma of a homemade meal and fixing the moment in his now much clearer mind. It’s 7:16 p.m., according to the small, worn desk clock, and a vague idea begins to take root amid this cramped yet orderly safe house.
He only finds words for it later, when Frank sets down a thick pork chop, seared in the same skillet with the asparagus on the side, before heading back to the kitchen for another bowl of mashed potatoes, humming some tune that was definitely catchy before Peter was born.
He’s been taking good care of me, Peter muses. For some unnamable reason, a wave of heat creeps up from beneath the wound in his chest and stops just below his neck. Peter swallows again.
“What are you staring at?” Frank smirks, already cutting into the chop with practiced ease from where he stands. “Something in the air?”
Peter gestures toward the skillet, his eyes still glued to the tiny, heated space between them. “Was just thinking ’bout how good it smells.”
“You haven’t even taken a bite.” Frank takes the seat across from him, picks up the fork lying in front of Peter, and spears a piece of pork. “Try it.” He holds it over the skillet, wisps of steam still curling above it.
Peter leans forward and tilts his head, biting into the juicy pork with a pleased hum.
Frank’s hand stills. Then it trembles, ever so slightly, as Peter pulls back.
If Peter is being honest with himself, he’ll admit that the genuine surprise flashing across Frank’s face and the way his lips part without a word, exactly as Peter had expected, are what drive the little impulse in the first place.
But today, Peter decides to take the whole concept of baby steps to an extreme. “Sorry,” he says when Frank blinks at him twice. “Too lazy.”
Frank blinks for the third time and puts Peter’s fork back where it was. “Eat your damn pork chop, kid.”
“22.” Maybe the steps don’t have to be that baby. Peter scoops a spoonful of mashed potatoes onto his plate and watches Frank’s stoic expression hopefully. “And my name’s Peter... Parker.”
He sits back and meets the other man’s eyes, where amusement, along with something suspiciously close to joy that never quite reaches his mouth, glimmers beneath the fluorescent light.
Frank simply shakes his head. “Still a kid,” he mutters, taking another bite and ignoring Peter’s half-pout, half-grimace.
They eat in silence, though it’s far from uncomfortable. It’s been an excruciatingly long time since Peter has felt this... anchored, with a full stomach sitting where it belongs instead of somewhere up in his throat. He has done his share of flying across the city, witnessing the wonders, disasters, and miracles the concrete jungle seems endlessly capable of brewing. Yet the other man’s presence tethers him to the here and now, to a safe house that smells of gun oil, aftershave, and unscented shampoo.
And that’s Frank’s smell. The mere thought makes Peter shudder inwardly.
“You okay?” Frank raises his eyebrows in that comical yet oddly adorable way, and Peter nods once before finishing the rest of his food in a blur. “I’m going to take a shower after washing the—”
“I told you. No dishwashing, no house chores.” Frank waves his fork at him for emphasis.
“Until?” Peter asks, batting his eyes.
“Until I say so.” Frank pops open a can of beer with one muscular, callused hand. He holds Peter’s gaze and salutes him with the can. “This, too.”
“You’re such an old man.” Peter smirks, already getting up with his plate and utensils in hand.
“Hey, stop that bullshit—”
“I’m only putting them in the sink!” Peter calls without looking back.
If he notices Frank’s fiery gaze burning through the back of his T-shirt, traveling upward from the small of his back to where the bullet went in before softening into something far heavier than the familiar mixture of sadness and guilt, Peter keeps quiet.
It would be blistering to the touch, he’s sure of it.
——
The shower is quick but pleasant, because Frank somehow has water that runs hotter than anything Peter’s own apartment has to offer. The water itself is clearly coming from the neighborhood supply, tapped through some kind of plumbing shenanigans, but Peter tells himself that he’s long since moved, at least partly, beyond naïve idealism—because life is always more complicated than good and evil.
The wound next to his heart has already closed, covered by faint scar tissue that turns slightly itchy under the steam. Absentmindedly, he traces it with his fingers in front of the small cabinet mirror, staring at himself after wiping the mist from the glass.
He looks... not exactly happy, but happier. His cheeks are rosier, and the dark circles under his eyes have faded.
A set of heavy yet smooth footsteps echoes on the other side of the bathroom door, followed by a dull thud. Probably Frank tossing his beer can into the trash outside. Peter’s reflection smiles back at him when he realizes that Frank hasn’t strayed far since he came here, at least not while he’s been awake.
How long do you think this will last, whatever this is? His own voice coos from the back of his mind, and Peter wonders whether passing out on painkillers might actually have been a blessing.
Before more intrusive questions can take shape, Peter quickly towels his hair dry and pulls on his shorts and pajamas—a euphemism for the ugliest sweatshirt-and-trunks combination ever rescued from a thrift store. He pads toward the kitchen, where the overhead light remains on.
Frank is sitting at the table, looking down at his folded hands. He only raises his chin when Peter clears his throat—a rare moment of distraction for a man who lives perpetually on the edge of violence, always prepared to die. His gaze, so laden with relief and grief, lands on Peter’s tousled hair, but Peter has the strange feeling that Frank is looking straight through him.
“Hey,” Peter says, immediately feeling stupid for sounding so timid.
“Hey, kid.” Frank opens his mouth again, then shuts it.
Peter fidgets where he stands, his fingers drumming against his thighs. “Your turn to shower? I believe, uh... the water’s still hot.”
The older man quirks his lips in that painfully obvious, self-deprecating way of his, and Peter’s spider-sense prickles at three rhythmic knocks on the door.
Someone has made it past Frank’s deadly traps... only to knock.
Peter is already on the move when Frank calls after him: “Just put your mask on. He’s safe.”
He hurries back to the kitchen, his curls almost falling into his eyes beneath the mask. And Peter stares, absolutely stunned, at Daredevil’s relaxed posture against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest. His batons have been casually left on top of the boxes stacked by the door.
As for Frank, he’s opening a box of donuts on the table with the precision and focus of a surgeon, his back to the door. The box wasn’t there a minute ago, and the brand isn’t cheap.
“Spider-Man, Daredevil. Daredevil, Spider-Man.” Frank waves a hand dismissively.
“We’ve crossed paths before.” Daredevil’s voice is lighter, silkier than Frank’s, but somehow just as... charged. “Twice, actually. Queens, then Brooklyn.”
“Yeah... yeah.” Peter steps forward, scratching at the fabric over his head. “That was, what, two years ago? Human trafficking, drug trafficking. Nasty one. But you, uh... fought well.”
He holds out a hand. Daredevil smiles, pushes away from the doorframe, and comes down the short steps to take it, squeezing gently.
“Same to you.” His smile broadens, just a little. “I heard about the Damage Control mess. I’m glad you’re doing okay. So, you’re Frank’s houseguest now?”
The Punisher’s fingers tremble over the donuts, almost imperceptibly. “Cut the crap, Red. Drink your damn coffee.”
Daredevil shrugs, then walks straight to the second kitchen cabinet and takes out the hazelnut-flavored ground coffee.
Peter looks between them, and the words are out before he can stop them. “How come he knows where your coffee is? And is ‘Red’ a... nickname?”
“Would you feel better if it were a codename?” Daredevil is already boiling water, handling Frank’s old kettle with effortless familiarity. “Try a donut, Spider-Man.”
“Powdered or glazed?” Frank asks, sliding the box toward Peter.
“...Glazed,” Peter admits, taking one. That’s when he notices the manila folder pinned beneath Frank’s elbow. He looks toward Daredevil again. “You’re not here for coffee.”
A pause follows, heavy and hesitant, as something unspoken passes between Frank and Daredevil. “You should stay out of this, kid,” Frank mumbles.
“Shouldn’t I decide that for myself? C’mon, Frank.” Peter talks around a mouthful of high-end donut, then hums appreciatively. The sweetness hits just right, rich and layered, with just enough grease to complement it.
Another silent exchange passes between them, except this time Peter finds himself in the middle of it. Frank’s pained gaze lands squarely on his mask, while Daredevil tilts his head toward Frank, something inquisitive in the gesture.
Truth be told, Peter feels a little helpless.
“Let him decide, Frank,” Daredevil gives his verdict. It feels almost like a whisper, but his voice is deep enough to carry even when the kettle whistles. Out of the corner of his eye, Peter sees him turn off the stove and start on the French press gracefully.
Frank doesn’t offer any verbal response at first. Instead, just as he did with the donut box, he slides the folder toward Peter. “Wash your hands first,” he grumbles.
Peter finishes the donut in one last bite and practically jumps toward the sink. Daredevil is pouring coffee into two ceramic mugs now, a faint smirk tugging at his mouth.
Peter dries his hands on the towel hooked to the wall and hurries back, his heart thudding hard against his ribs. He pulls the contents from the folder: a few photographs of a man in his twenties, a sheet with his basic information, copies of collection letters, a handwritten log of phone calls, and an NYPD case number.
Daredevil sets a mug of black coffee down in front of Frank, the one he keeps for himself is several shades lighter.
Peter looks at it, then at the cabinet. The creamer is tucked safely inside—the creamer Frank doesn’t even use.
“Oh,” Peter says despite himself. Then, “Wait, how did you both get coffee and I don’t?”
“’Cause we didn’t get shot.” Frank makes a point of staring into his mug. “Recently.”
“To be fair, it’s been more than a week, and my scar’s already closed...” Peter goes on. Frank shakes his head, while Daredevil visibly fights back a laugh.
To Peter’s absolute surprise, Daredevil rests a hand on Frank’s shoulder. Frank doesn’t tense or shrug it off. “Let him have a little, Frank. It won’t hurt. You know we’ve been through worse.”
“You two, I swear,” Frank mutters. He rolls his eyes, then points a finger at Peter. “I’ll leave one-third of the cup for you. Nothing more.”
“A win is a win.” Peter beams at him. “So, uh, what’s the case?”
Daredevil draws his hand away from Frank’s shoulder and moves to the side of the table, pointing at the photographs.
“A lawyer friend of mine had a consultation this morning. A woman wanted to know whether a debt collector could legally come after her for her brother’s debt just because she’s his only living relative. Said she never cosigned anything. She hadn’t been able to reach her brother for four days, and the calls had been coming for three days straight.”
Peter picks up the handwritten log. Nothing looks out of the ordinary at first glimpse. The caller had asked if she knew where her brother—Daniel—lived, where he worked, and whether she’d heard from him.
“The debt’s real?” Peter asks, handing the log to Frank. Their knuckles brush.
“It is. So is the collection agency that bought it, as far as my friend can tell.” Daredevil takes a sip of his coffee.
“Then what’s wrong?” Frank asks from across the table, frowning.
“Those calls didn’t come from the agency.” Daredevil taps one entry on the handwritten log. “They came through a subcontractor. Skip tracing, asset recovery, that sort of thing.”
“Name?” The crease between Frank’s brows deepens. Daredevil gives him a registered company name and an address.
Frank’s expression goes completely flat. Peter looks between them. “I’m guessing that face means you’ve heard of them.”
“Yeah.”
“Debt collectors?” Peter asks hopefully.
Frank takes a drink of coffee. “They ain’t exactly a collection office.”
“How do you know?” Peter glances back down at Daniel’s information. The man had been prescribed antidepressants, but the sticky note beside the sheet says when his sister unlocked his apartment, she found that he hadn’t taken any of his medication with him. Or cash. Even the cat’s food bowl had been empty.
Frank is staring at the note too. When Peter looks up, he meets Frank’s eyes.
The older man sighs. “’Cause I know the block. It’s a transfer point.”
A shiver runs down Peter’s spine. “For what?”
“Depends on who’s paying.” Frank grimaces.
“I need to know what they’re using that building for now.” Daredevil sets his empty mug down with a soft clink. “It could have nothing to do with Daniel. I’d rather know before I assume otherwise.”
“Then I’m coming.” Peter has made up his mind.
“Kid—”
“I know you two can handle it,” Peter cuts in, “and I’m not saying I’m taking the case.” He breathes in the warm, coffee-scented air. “Just in case you need someone to watch the exit... or watch your back, okay?”
Something shifts across Frank’s face. It’s too complicated for Peter to put a name to, but so grave it almost gives him heartburn.
Peter sucks in a shuddering breath before disguising it as a cough. Frank eyes him suspiciously, drains some of his coffee, then sets the mug down in front of him. “Drink your coffee. We’re leaving in ten.”
——
The brick-walled building’s flat rooftop flickers in and out of the night mist, bathed in pale moonlight like red wax melted down and hardened again. Every window is pitch-black, as if whatever is behind them is devouring both city light and moonlight alike. The loading area seems frozen in place, too, huge shipping containers stacked neatly across the asphalt. Only a rat darts past their feet and disappears into the dark.
As far as Peter can tell, they’re the only people here.
“The cameras are dead,” Frank mutters, lowering his binoculars.
“Too convenient.” Daredevil tightens his grip on his batons. “But also too obvious for a trap.”
“Depends on what kind of trap.” Frank slips around the side of the container and bolts toward the building in a zigzag, Daredevil keeping close at his shoulder and Peter a step behind them.
In tacit agreement, the three of them cut through an expanse of bushes damp with night dew toward the fire exit they’ve dubbed the back door.
Frank stops dead in his tracks.
His gun comes up. The safety clicks off. Peter knows immediately that they are, indeed, not alone.
“Don’t shoot,” Daredevil murmurs. Frank doesn’t answer. He doesn’t move, either.
Peter quickly sidesteps to get a clear view past them—and sucks in a breath.
“Jean?!”
The young woman is standing in front of the fire exit, her hands hovering inches from its already twisted handle.
Jean turns. Her startled gaze flashes across their faces, the gun, until it meets Peter’s. Not with fear, but with determination. “There’s someone inside.” Her brows draw together. “Someone... reaching out to me.”
Daredevil tilts his head. “Her heartbeat didn’t change when she said that. No sign she’s armed.”
“Wow, thanks, Superman.” Frank still hasn’t lowered the gun.
“What do you mean by reaching out?” Daredevil asks. Before Peter can say anything to deescalate the situation, Frank cuts in, furious. “She’s the one who pulled that mind-control shit. Got into my head, too.”
Jean parts her lips, wets them, then says quietly, “For that, I’m sorry.” Before anyone can respond, she adds, “Can we talk about this later? Someone needs my help. They’re scared.”
Daredevil’s head tilts again. “Still steady.”
Frank makes a throaty sound somewhere between a groan and a growl.
“Listen. You stay where we can see you.” He finally lowers the gun, and Peter lets out a sigh of relief. Frank shoulders past Jean and shoves the door wide open.
Jean shoots Daredevil a quick, grateful look. Her eyes linger on Peter for half a beat before she turns toward the darkness beyond the doorway.
For the first time since Peter met her in person, he sees uncertainty in her body language. Not about going in, but about whether any of them will follow.
And Peter does.