Work Text:
Peter was startled awake by a loud banging noise. He groggily raised his head and looked around the spinning room. The loud banging sounded again, ringing in his ears, and he winced and pulled a pillow over his head.
"Dammit kid, let me in!" he heard Frank shout, muffled from the other side of his apartment door.
Peter was so cold and tired. He just wanted to be left alone. He moaned something unintelligible that approximated to "go away" and all was quiet for a minute. Then there was a loud splintering sound as Frank kicked in his door jam. Peter flinched then buried deeper into his blankets.
"Kid. Kid, where are ya?"
Peter heard heavy footsteps then the covers were pulled off of him. He shivered and made a low grumbling noise.
"Jesus kid, you look like shit." Peter felt a cool hand on his forehead and he leaned into the touch despite himself. "You take those meds the doctors gave you? Peter? Peter!" Frank shook him roughly and Peter opened his eyes and glared at Frank. "You take your meds?" Frank demanded once more.
Peter nodded weakly, that small movement setting the room spinning again. He groaned and fumbled for the blanket, shivering so hard his teeth clacked together. Again Frank pressed his hand anxiously to Peter's sweaty forehead.
"Dammit kid, I knew you checked outta the hospital too soon. You're burnin' up."
Peter shut his eyes tiredly and listened to Frank stomp across the room then mutter to himself as he rifled around Peter's kitchen.
He had taken his pills. At least the first dose. But then he'd fallen asleep and by the time he'd woken up he was feeling sweaty and achy and he was so cold he couldn't stop shaking. He'd wanted to stumble across the room and find his pills but he couldn't seem to make his limbs respond to his brain. He had reached out an arm and tried to grab the bottle with his webs, but his vision was too blurry and his arm was shaking too hard and all he had managed to do was shatter a glass sitting by the sink and knock a box of cereal onto the floor. That was when he probably should have called Frank... Instead his arm had thumped weakly back to the bed and he'd lost consciousness.
Frank pulled back the tangled sheets and blankets now despite Peter's protests and carefully rolled him onto his side. He peeled up Peters' t-shirt, sticky with sweat, and inspected the inflamed bullet wound anxiously.
"May?" Peter's eyes were scanning the room weakly.
"Sorry, kid," Frank said, voice tinged with remorse. "You got me instead."
"May, I'm trying...I'm trying to be..." Peter's eyes slid shut again.
He could have sworn... he could have sworn his aunt was here in the room with him. A tear slipped out of the corner of his eye. He really wished May was here right now. She'd tuck him in and make him soup and everything would be okay again. Okay like it hadn't been in so long. Peter shivered again, cold down to his bones despite the heat pouring off him.
Frank frowned. The kid was doing bad. Real bad. The bullet wound was infected, a surprise since Peter had such enhanced healing capabilities. But perhaps a body could only take so much. And god knew the kid's had taken too much. Now he'd spiked a worryingly high fever and was straight up hallucinating. Frank stood with a grunt and strode to the bathroom to get a wet washcloth. He needed to cool the kid down before this killed him.
As he sat back down on the bed and laid the washcloth on Peter's sweaty brow, Peter stirred and blinked his eyes open, staring at a spot over Frank's shoulder.
"I told you," Peter mumbled and Frank leaned in closer to hear. "I don't lay eggs, Ned."
"What the hell?" Frank blinked. "You're a weird kid, you know that?" He wiped the side of Peter's temple with the washcloth, then flipped it over to the cooler side and laid it across his forehead. Peter shivered and tried to turn his head away but Frank gently grabbed his chin. "Hold still," he murmured, "I'm trying to help you."
After a while Peter slipped into something between sleep and unconsciousness and Frank stood up to stretch out his legs and back. He paced the apartment restlessly, shamelessly poking around and snooping through Peter's belongings. The kid didn't have much. This place was bare bones and even more depressing than his own, if that was possible. Frank glanced over at the injured young man, twitching fitfully in his sleep. If this was how he was living, no wonder he seemed so...sad.
Frank sighed heavily then headed to the bathroom to take a leak. As he was drying his hands on a paper towel he heard a soft cry from the other room and ran back out, dropping to his knees beside the bed. Peter was reaching out a weak hand to the far side of the room, eyes wide and searching. Frank looked but there was nothing there. He heard Peter mumbling under his breath and leaned in closer to hear.
"...MJ...your necklace...'s broken. 'S'broken, m'sorry..."
Peter's eyes were full of tears and he seemed distraught at whatever he was seeing that Frank couldn't. The older man gently grabbed Peter's hand and pressed it back down to the bed. "There's no one there kid," he told him softly.
Peter moaned and buried his face in his pillow. Ghosts, so many ghosts. Why wouldn't they leave him alone?
****
"Kid. Hey Peter, wake up." Frank shook Peter gently by the shoulder. "You need to drink some water. Can you drink?"
Peter looked at Frank like he didn't know him, then frowned and shivered violently, pushing the offered cup away with trembling hands. "...M'mm... so cold..." Frank pulled the blankets up higher with a worried sigh, then ran his hands anxiously through his hair.
****
Peter didn't know what time it was or how long he'd been out but he woke to a muffled voice from the far side of the room--it sounded like Frank was on the phone with someone. Funny--Peter hadn't thought Frank really spoke to anyone other than him. Other than last words before he shot someone in the head, of course.
Maybe it wasn't Frank at all though. There had been so many faces in his apartment; he didn't know what was real and what was a lie anymore. It scared him.
Then Frank was beside him again. It was Frank. Frank was here. But was he real?
Peter felt the mattress dip as someone sat down. That felt real.
"I have to run out, but I'll be right back kid."
Peter reached out a shaky hand. "No..." he mumbled. "Don't go..."
"I have to get you some medicine Pete."
"No...please...Mr. Stark, please..."
"It's okay," Frank whispered. "You're okay."
Peter felt a hand ghost through his hair, though he wasn't sure if he wasn't hallucinating that too. Then the click of his front door shutting and silence. Peter whimpered softly then slipped back into the dark.
****
Peter awoke to Frank's arm around him, propping him up in the bed and coaxing some water down his throat. He choked and sputtered, thrashing a bit in Frank's grip.
"Easy kid, easy. You need to get these pills down. We gotta break this fever."
"...Wha...what's happening?"
"Just a little infection, no big deal. Just swallow these, alright? You'll feel better soon." Peter coughed again, then winced and swallowed the pills Frank gave him. "That's good," Frank murmured in what Peter could only describe as a soothing tone. "That's good kid. Go back to sleep now. You're gonna be okay."
The man gently laid Peter back down in the bed, cradling him carefully, then he pulled the blankets up around him and, there was no other way to describe it, tucked him in. If Peter hadn't been so out of it, he'd have keeled over from shock. Instead he just passed out again.
****
When Peter woke up again his fever had broken at last and he was alone.
But there was a note beside his bed.
"Went out for soup, be back soon. Stay in bed. Or else. --F"
Peter dropped his head back onto his pillow with a surprised laugh. So that part had been real. Frank had been taking care of him. Of all the crazy, impossible things Peter had seen in his fever-induced fog, somehow The Punisher taking care of him was the least believable of all.
He wondered if Frank would actually come back. Surely he had better things to do than play nursemaid to the kid who thwarted his every move while dressed up like a spider. It had been good of him to check in, and he'd probably stayed out of guilt over the whole shooting Peter with a sniper rifle thing. But it seemed a long shot that he would actually come back.
Peter threw his sweat-soaked sheets back and sat up stiffly, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. His back twinged in pain but felt much better. He felt much better overall. He went to stand up and a wave of dizziness washed over him, nearly knocking him sideways.
Okay. Maybe he'd just wait here for that soup after all--IF it was coming.
He had to admit, he hoped it was coming. He was starving. Just as he thought it, Peter heard the doorknob turning.
Frank had come back.