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Frank is sitting down to have coffee when the explosion goes off.
The mug freezes an inch from his mouth as the floor shakes from the impact. His head whips around to the window. He doesn't see any debris drifting down. It's quiet, just as quiet as it was a minute ago. He goes tense all over. He sets his drink down and crouches to get the gun strapped to the underside of the table. He's taking the safety off and grabbing a magazine as a second explosion makes the boast tremble.
This makes him pause. His mouth pulls into a frown because it's weird. His bombs are made to be a solution. They alert him that someone is in his area and they take care of that someone. They provide a nice, solid, permanent outcome for him. Sure, he has to scrub the floor and get rid of any bits left behind, but it's better than letting yourself get caught in your robe.
His bombs do what they're made to do. He only needs one for the job to be done. Hearing two go off… wasn't normal.
His gun is trained in front of him as he stands at the door. He listens for any sign of an intruder or group. Aside from waves and seagulls calling out in the early morning, there's nothing. Not the screams of a guy who had his leg blown off, not panicked yelling and cursing from people who didn't have the element of surprise now. No, there was none of that. It confused Frank. And pissed him off.
He kicks open the door.
"Ow! What the heck, man?"
The fuck?
He quickly steps outside, hearing a series of pained groans and muttered words to his left. He turns and finds a red and blue blob propping itself up on the railing. He stares long enough for his vision to adjust and for the blob to straighten.
Big bug eyes shrink at him and a hand waves weakly.
"H-Hey, Frank. Havin' a good morning?"
He almost walks back inside. The last thing he needs and wants right now is to get sucked into fighting another one of the kid's super-powered enemies. The most recent incident had already been the headache to end all headaches. He wasn't built for that kind of shit; his back still ached like a son of a bitch. But—and he hates that there's a but now, he hates that his brain doesn't immediately throw out the idea of helping, he didn't want to get attached, damnit—but he realizes that this isn't a case of Peter paying him a visit for no reason.
The smell of iron is strong, and if that didn't tell him what was wrong, the two large, dark red spots on his suit made it obvious.
Frank holsters his gun with more force than is necessary.
"What the fuck happened?"
"Hey, Peter. Nice to see you, Peter," the punk says instead of answering. He's doing that thing he was doing before all the shit with Jean went down; back hunched like he's in pain and his hand pressed to his forehead. "Nothing happened. Nothing's wrong. Just—Just wanted to say hi to my favorite vigilante. S-So. Hi."
Frank clenches his jaw. Why did he have to get saddled with the most annoying, stubborn kid in existence. "Why are you bleeding?"
"Bleeding? Whaaat? I'm not—" His free hand touches his side and he winces, posture stiffening even more. "Oh, th-this? This is just a little, um, something' from earlier. Got scratched."
"Scratched," Frank repeats.
"Yeah."
"By what."
"By a…guy."
"A guy."
"Yup."
"What'd he scratch you with, a fuckin' machete?"
"I wasn't paying attention to his weapon of choice, Frank, was a bit busy making sure his buddy didn't run off—"
"Jesus fucking—what the hell happened, kid?"
"Nothing!" Peter yells back, both hands flying up in surrender. "I got in a–in a scuffle and—I just need somewhere to rest, okay?"
Frank scoffs.
"Sooo it would be awesome if you would let me in."
He crosses his arms.
"Or I'll wait out here," Peter says. "I can wait all day."
"And bleed out?"
"Y-Yeah. Yes."
Frank glares until Peter's hand on the railing slips and he lets out a yelp. He sighs through his nose and grits his teeth. Then he turns, throwing open the door.
"Oh, thanks, man. Seriously, I appreciate you—"
"Shut up."
Despite the pain he's clearly in, Peter mimes a zipper on his mouth. Frank rolls his eyes.
He hears the younger man's steps follow behind him. He clicks the safety back on his gun and drags a stool from the cramped breakfast nook. He points to it without a word, then goes to find one of the several first aid kits he has. When he returns with it and tosses it on the table, Peter's sitting stiffly. His mask is off, gripped in the hand cradling his head. He's got a split lip, a nasty bruise on his cheek, and a cut above his eye. Sweat and dried blood clings to his face. Other than that, he looks like shit.
He frowns at the dented box. "Oh, no, man. You don't gotta do all that, my healing can—"
"Shut it."
"Really. I just need some Advil and I'm good to go—"
Frank pulls up another chair. "What'd I just say?"
Peter doesn't reply, but the older man doesn't miss how he mocks him silently.
He turns away and rifles through his cabinets until he finds a half empty bottle. He grabs three protein bars and throws them over his shoulder, knowing the kid will catch them.
"Here." Franks holds three capsules out.
Peter dry swallows them before tearing into the granola and peanut butter. He'll need to eat much more later, but it's enough for now, enough for his body to work with. The water bottle he's given is drained in seconds, as are the two more after it. He lets out a sigh when he's done. He feels a little less like he's going to fall over.
"Alright. Show me."
Peter blinks at Frank. His mind is still sort of foggy. He hadn't been in the best state when he left his apartment and getting clocked in the head and stabbed hadn't made it better.
"Huh?"
"Your suit, dumb dumb." Frank sits and motions to his chest, bandages in hand. "Pull it down so I can see the damage."
"Oh. Right. Sorry."
It's difficult to get the suit off. He chose the fabric because it's breathable, but swinging around the city and fighting bad guys still worked up a sweat. That, and bleeding out. It takes a moment of pulling and yanking to get it loose and it peels away with a gross sticky sound. Peter wrinkles his nose at the sensation and waits for Frank to make a comment, but when he looks up, Frank doesn't seem amused.
He seems…concerned.
Peter glances at his chest. There's bruises and scrapes, but nothing out of the ordinary. Those were normal from a fight. "What?"
"What do you mean, what? Look at you!" Frank soaks a cloth in disinfectant. "Jesus, you look like a Picasso painting. You let yourself be a punching bag for these guys?"
"No! I—I had other stuff goin' on! I can't take out three dudes at once, I'm not that good, geez!" Peter almost crosses his arms but the pain in his shoulder stops him. He settles for glaring at the other. "Stop gawkin'." He reaches for the gauze but it's held out if reach.
Frank glares right back. "You're such a little pissant sometimes."
"And you're a jackass."
"I'll scrub out your mouth with soap if you keep it up."
"I'm 22!"
"Yet you still act like a fuckin' baby half the time. Don't move."
Pain, sharp and hot, shoots up his abdomen. Peter lets out a hiss. both at the insult and ache, and bites the inside of his cheek. The stab wounds weren't big, which he was thankful for. Even so, his hands are clenched as Frank cleans them. The feeling of the alcohol and material of the washcloth is so vivid it makes him want to rip off his skin.
"You get the guy that did this?"
Peter half smiles. "Webbed him inside a dumpster."
"Good."
When his waist has been wrapped in gauze and the minor cuts on his face have been wiped and covered with butterfly bandages, Peter lets out a breath. Some of then tension bleeds out of his body now that he doesn't have to worry about his injuries. His healing factor will take care of the rest and he'll be back to normal in a few days with a barely-there scar.
Franks throws the bloodied towel in a hamper and packs away the first aid supplies. Peter closes his eyes and massages his pounding head. Because his senses were so overstimulated, they let him know about every sound. Like the pipes squeaking and creaking and the water running and the cheap, coarse paper towel Frank uses, and the way the man clears his throat—uh oh.
"You gonna tell me what happened?"
Peter's eyes land on a paint chip in the wall. "I did."
"I mean what really happened."
"Um, sure. What really happened…" He guess he tell some of the truth. A teeny tiny sliver of it. That wouldn't be so bad. "What happened is my spider sense is just…goin' a little nuts right now. That's it."
"Nuts?"
"Yeah." He doesn't want to explain, doesn't want to go through the whole conversation. Frank doesn't typically enjoy conversations of any kind, so he figures that'll work in his favor. "I just gotta ride it out."
"Ride it out?"
"Yeah. Is there an echo in here?"
His stool is kicked. "What does that mean? You need to take a nap or somethin'?"
"No, it means I leave and swing around until it sorts itself out."
"Why?"
"'Cause my patrol's not over."
"No, that's—I mean, why not just stay here?"
"I don't need to."
"Don't need to? You just got fucking stabbed!"
"Well, better me than someone else who doesn't have advanced healing!" Peter snaps. His eyes widen when he realizes what he said. "Um. Ignore that."
"Ignore what? You saying you'll pretty much jump in front of a bullet in a civilian's place?"
"…Yeah."
"Sure, fine. It's ignored." Frank sits down in front of him. "But the topic before that won't be. I don't know what the hell you're talkin' about, swingin' around and shit. You set off two of my bombs and could barely stand. If you left right now, I bet 50 bucks you're runnin' right into a building and knockin' your stupid ass out. Then who's gonna patch you up, huh?"
"I will," Peter argues, feeling like he's rehashing a conversation he doesn't want to remember.
Frank shakes his head with a disbelieving laugh.
"I will," he repeats. "I know how handle myself, Frank. I've been doing it for four years. Hell, I've been doing it for more than that. I'm not a idiot and I'm not a teen anymore." He can't help how the words come out bitter. It's a little hard to control himself right now, with his spider sense yelling at him to listen to every sound, to be prepared for danger. His temper is getting shorter by the minute. "I don't need a lecture. All I needed was some help and I've gotten it, so I'll leave you alone. You tell me all the time to do that, anyway. You should be happy"
"Yeah, yeah. Happy, I'm real happy." Frank leans back, crossing his arms. "You don't want a lecture? Great, I'm not givin' one. Here's some advice, though."
"Don't need advice either—"
"Shut the hell up, you're getting it. You need to slow the fuck down, Pete." His voice hardens. Peter holds back a flinch at the nickname. "You're burnin' the candle from both ends and the middle, then strikin' the wick, too. If you keep at it like this, you're gonna burn out. Take a fuckin' break. The city can survive a few hours without the amazing Spiderman zippin' through the streets."
He doesn't know what does it. Maybe it's his exhaustion, or his displeasure at being spoken to like he's an idiot, like he isn't well aware of what Frank is saying. Or, it could be that he knows the man is right. Whatever it is, one or all three combined, his control stretches and frays until it comes undone. Blood rushes to his face and he curls his hands into fists so tight he swears his bones creak. He has to bite his tongue so he doesn't bare his teeth in warning.
"The city can survive, huh?" Peter almost growls. "The city that was frozen and taken control by a telepath? The city that had countless car accidents and fires? In case you don't remember, I was the reason all that happened, Frank. I'm the one who realized what was going on too late. I'm the one who gave Jean to the men who tortured her sister. Jean was tortured the same way because of me. The city and all it's inhabitants were put in danger because I wasn't good enough, because I couldn't handle my new powers."
He's shaking. He can hear the stool leg hitting the floor minutely, he can feel his heart beating too fast.
"So, thanks for the advice, but no thanks. I'm not going to stand on the sidelines like last time. I'm not gonna let anyone else get hurt."
"What if you are that someone?"
"Who cares!"
"Who cares…seriously? You got your girl and you friend, and you're thinkin' like that?"
"Frank—"
"What are they gonna do if—"
"Don't you dare bring them into this!" Peter's head pounds with every word and his vision changes, gets sharper. He wonders if his pupils are still visible. "Don't you fuckin' dare! You want me to bring up who you've lost? Huh?"
"But you haven't lost them!" Frank shouts. A vein pops out in his forehead and under normal circumstances, Peter would find it funny. "We're not the same, kid! How many times do I gotta drill it into your thick skull? My family is dead. They're gone and they're never coming back. Your people, MJ and Ned, they're still here. How can you risk your life when you have two people who care? How selfish do you gotta be?"
"They don't care because they don't know who I am!"
"'Cause you've been hiding for years!"
Christ, his head hurts, it's like an ice pick is pressing between his eyes. "I've been keeping them safe! The only way they'll survive is if they can't be used against me."
"That's a load of horseshit and you know it."
"No, you're a load of horseshit," Peter spits, uncaring that a hiss slips out. He stands, forcing himself to stay upright. "I shouldn't have come here. Waste of fuckin' time."
"Yeah, yeah." Frank gestures with a hand, waving him away. "Go stomp off like a toddler, be my guest."
"I'm not gonna listen to this, not you preaching to me about something you would do if you still had your wife and kids."
He knows he went too far. He knows it was horrible to say, horrible to even think. He's exhausted and in pain and frustrated with himself, but that's no excuse to be an asshole. The moment the words leave his mouth, Peter regrets them. To his credit, Frank doesn't leap out of his chair and strangle him. Sure, he looks murderous and like he's itchin' for a gun, but he just looks at Peter, jaw clenched tight, hands gripping his knees. It feels like an hour passes with them staring at each other, too strained and stubborn to back down.
Frank's the one to break it. He lowers his gaze and shakes his head. He rubs a hand roughly over his face. Before Peter can do anything, apologize or simply leave, the man smacks the table once, quick and hard.
He knows he just did it out of anger. He knows it's not an attack or something to be afraid of. Still, Peter flinches. The smack is like a gun going off. His spider sense screams. His skin prickles so much it hurts and his ears ring. The stool scrapes the ground as he jolts back, arms raised defensively. He realizes what he's doing after several rapid fire heartbeats and his ears burn. Geez, Parker, act normal for once. He lowers his arms and hopes Frank will ignore the little display but the man does the opposite.
"The fuck?" he exclaims, his furious expression now a confused one. "What the—"
"It's nothing!" Peter avoids his gaze. "Just—don't do that!"
"Don't do what? The hell are you talking about?"
"That! The thing with the table! Stop being so… so—"
A boat horn goes off the distance, faint and echoing.
Peter cradles his head with a whine. It's loud, it's so fucking loud, he's convinced it's right next to him. Every single noise around him is amplified; the metal creaking, the waves crashing against the dock, the clock ticking, Frank's heartbeat, his breathing. It all comes together in one deafening wave and he can't take it anymore. He can feel the arachnid hormones spike, taking over him completely. He doesn't fight it. He can't even draw a full breath in.
Something loud, muffled and unclear, rises above the cacophony. He thinks it's Frank, probably freaking the hell out, demanding to know what's wrong. He can't speak, he can only groan in pain. His shoulder is touched and he jerks away. The contact was light, but it's entirely too much. Peter falls off the stool in an effort to get away and scrambles for a corner his sense tells him is nearby. He goes to it blindly and doesn't think twice about huddling against it. Webs instinctively shoot out of his wrists and wrap him in a thick, protective cocoon.
He can feel himself shaking violently, can feel tears streaming down his cheeks as his senses overload over and over, telling him he needs to hide. He rocks on his heels, the hard, cool surface of the wall bumping into his forehead.
The arachnid tells him to stay put and wait out the danger and Peter gives in to it.
It's dark when he opens his eyes.
He's utterly confused for a moment, feeling like he came up from underwater. The boat wasn't the brightest place, but it wasn't like a cave, so why…?
Frank must've turned the lights off.
It hits him all at once, what happened, and Peter groans, embarrassed beyond belief. The man already thought of him as too young, what would he think now after witnessing that?
He lets himself wallow for a moment, face flushed, before ripping away the webs surrounding him. His arms are heavy and ache like he's swung around for hours with no break. His head feels like it's full of cotton, but it doesn't hurt like earlier, which is good. The boat is silent as he crawls out of the corner and stands. He has to use to the wall to stay upright, his legs numb from being still for so long. He stretches, neck and spine cracking, and listens. He can hear the sounds of the city but they're at a reasonable volume. Peter sighs with relief. His sense seems like its finally calmed down.
He goes to turn on the lights to check his injuries but they flip on by themselves. He squints against them and turns only to startle at the sight of Frank.
He's leaning on the counter, arms crossed, face neutral. On the stove is a steaming pot and two mugs.
"Hi," Peter says quietly and coughs. His throat is dry and vaguely tastes like web.
Frank's only response is one hand flexing open and close.
"Um." Peter spots his mask on the floor and retrieves it. He glances at the door. "Thanks for patching me up. A-And letting me crash here during…that. Anyway…see you around?"
He doesn't make it more than three steps before Franks barks out two words.
"Sit down."
"Yeah, or I could…stay. I'll stay."
Peter turns on his heel and takes a seat at the table. Frank grabs the two mugs and sets one in front of him, then sits down. Peter blinks down at his, thinking it's coffee, but a sweet smell wafts up from it.
"Drink," Frank orders.
Peter drinks.
He burns his tongue, but the artificial chocolate flavor sends a wave of ease and nostalgia through him. It's nice. Before long, he's finished it, thick, muddy mix gathered at the bottom of the mug. The other man nurses his own mug silently. Peter hunches his shoulders and looks at the scuff marks in the tabletop.
"Wouldn't have pegged you for a Swiss Miss kinda guy," he jokes, smiling weakly.
"I'm not." Frank's voice is flat. "It's just what my dau—what she liked to have. When she was having a shitty day."
Peter winces, guilt twisting his stomach all over again.
It goes quiet again. It lasts for maybe a minute or two, then there's a soft clink. Peter looks up to see Frank finished with his coffee. He's staring at him. He doesn't appear angry, just serious, but the hair on his neck and arms stick up regardless in apprehension.
"Was waitin' almost an hour for you to wake up," he says.
"Oh." Peter hadn't realized it had been that long. When his senses got overwhelmed, he tended to retreat into himself. The arachnid took over whether he liked it or not. He sort of blacked out. Everything got fuzzy and pushed away. His sense operated on an almost primal level where it either slept or went on a sort of hunt. He didn't eat any bugs (thank God) or hurt anyone (that he knew of and he prayed it remained that way), but he could recall, very, very vaguely, swinging through buildings, scaling walls and moving unnaturally. After the arachnid went to sleep, he would come back to himself, dazed and tired. And really fucking thirsty. The process could take up to a half hour or more. He hadn't found a way to measure it yet. "Sorry."
"Does it happen a lot? Your spider thingy or whatever you call it, does it go crazy like that?"
It's odd to talk about after it being alone for so long. He shrugs a shoulder. "No. Well…not really. It only got bad recently." He glances at Frank, who raises an eyebrow and looks expectant. He sighs. Guess they were doing this, then. He explains his mutation, how it had worked before when he first got bitten and how it had changed because of…past events, how much of an adjustment it was, and how it led to him making the inhibitor. Frank's expression shifted as he talked, seeming more and more disturbed. It didn't soothe Peter's discomfort with discussing his powers, but the man had wanted an answer.
"So…your hearing is that sensitive all the time?" Franks asks after he's done.
"Uh, sort of? After the bite, it was really sensitive, but I've gotten used to it." Peter traces a finger along the rim of his mug. Stray coco dust rubs off on his finger and he licks it absently. "I actually didn't mind it, it was really helpful. Especially on patrols. The mutation made it even stronger. There isn't a way to stop it 'cause…it's a part of me. It's in my DNA. It's how my hearing is now. I just have to, you know, adapt. If I'm stressed out or haven't slept well, it ramps up. Last night…" He trails off, unsure if he should be even more forthcoming. Frank didn't need to know all that had led him to coming to his hideout. He was one of the few people who knew his identity, though. Maybe it wouldn't hurt?
"Last night…or this morning, I guess, I had a migraine. It was really bad. Like make-you-throw-up-and-pass-out kinda bad. I couldn't sleep and my sense wouldn't leave me alone. Kept saying there was danger, so I went on a patrol. Just a quick one. I figured I should try and help if I can't sleep, and maybe my migraine would go away. I know, I know, it was stupid." He holds up a hand and Frank rolls his eyes at him. "Well, it didn't go away. It got worse. I was gonna go home, but then I saw these guys breaking into a bakery. It was a place MJ likes and there wasn't anyone around, and I couldn't just… let them get away with it while I was able to fight. So I stepped in. It wasn't too bad at first. I could tell they weren't pros, but they didn't run away like I thought. I took one dude down, webbed him to a streetlight, but the other two were giving me trouble. My head was killing me and I kept getting that stupid aura in my eye and—God, everything was so freaking loud! My spider sense would not shut up and the guys kept getting up, and one had a knife and came at me and I—I was too slow."
His abdomen throbs in reminder. "My healing is pretty good, but it–it really fucking hurt. I took care of him and his buddy and tried to swing, but couldn't. I don't know if it was my sensitivity or migraine, but it was awful. I kept losing my balance on rooftops and losin' my grip on my web. I knew I wouldn't be able to get back to my apartment and you…you were close and…I figured you were the next best option."
Frank doesn't say anything. Peter deflates. He wishes he could disappear. Here he was again, dragging others into his mess of a life.
"I'm sorry for bothering you," he mumbles. His eyes sting and he blinks them hard to make it go away. "I-I know you hate when people force their way into your space, and I know that the whole thing with Jean, was a lot. I shouldn't ask for any more help, but because of the spell…I don't have anyone else right now."
It sounds pathetic, he sounds pathetic. He hates admitting it, hates he isn't strong enough to get through this by himself.
When Frank still remains silent, anxiety bubbles up.
"Sorry. That's not—I didn't mean to—shit. I'm not trying to guilt trip you. I'm grateful for what you did, really. I, uh, I can pay you back? For the bandages and-and food. And the hot chocolate. I can get some next time I need groceries, I don't mind—"
Frank's hand lifts. It twitches and Peter thinks he's gonna hit the table again, braces himself for the noise, but it simple waves at him to stop.
He shuts his mouth, rambling ceased. His hands wring together under the table.
"I'm gonna tell you something and you're gonna listen," Frank says. "You listening?"
He waits for Peter to nod.
"I'm serious. You're not gonna interrupt or do that thing where you talk over me, 'cause injuries or not, I'm chuckin' that pot at your head. Got it? Good."
He takes a deep breath. "I'm not mad you came to me for help. You could've swung over here fine and fresh as a daisy, and I wouldn't be mad. Sure, I like having my own space, and yeah, I don't work with other heroes or vigilantes or whatever bozo in spandex who fight crime. It's just not something I do. To be honest, most of them are annoying. And self-righteous assholes. But you…" Frank brushes a hand over his hair and he shakes his head, eyes looking out a window. The sun is coming up, gold slowly bleeding through the dark purple sky. "You don't gotta worry about that. If you need help again, like how you did today, or need a place to lay low or just crash, you come here, okay? I'm not gonna pump you full of lead. I meant what I said at the hospital, Pete. You're a nice kid, a good kid. Your life has been shit lately and yet you still get up and go out there to protect the city. I'd be a real dickhead if I let someone like you patch yourself up when I can do it. 'Specially with your…mutation situation. I'm not gonna sit here and act like I know how it acts or how you're feelin', but I know you're gonna need some extra help now and then 'cause of it. So I—I'm just lettin' you know you can count on me. Okay, that's it, m'done."
He expects Peter to argue immediately, to insist he doesn't need that kind of help, maybe deny some of what he said. Hell, he half-expected the kid to claim this was a one-time thing. He doesn't, however. Peter stares at Frank with those big brown eyes that remind him too much of his son's. In the dim lighting, it's hard to make out, but he sees his eyes shine. He looks down at his mug and bites his lip. A flash of white catches Frank's attention; a canine way too sharp to be human, and he thinks Damn, he really is like a spider.
Peter sniffs. "Thank you."
"Ah, don't thank me, you don't have to."
"No, I do." Peter sniffs again and wipes his face. It seems to work, but after just a few seconds, a tear falls. Then some more. Frank sputters when the kid starts to cry in earnest. "God. I—I'm sorry."
"Woah, woah, kid! Sorry about what?"
"For what I said! About your–your—" His breathing hitches. "It was awful to say. I didn't m-mean it. If my aunt was still… she would've slapped me." He swipes at his eyes, the words cracking. "It's been hard lately. Without MJ and Ned. I miss them so much. I've been so tired and I shouldn't have gone out last night. I was an idiot, a complete idiot. I wasn't thinking clearly. And I'm not making an excuse or anything, I was an asshole, but I…I want you to know I'm sorry, m'sorry…"
Frank's heart hurts listening to the younger man sob. While he had lost his family in a way that was heart wrenching and violent and would never leave him, he couldn't imagine going through what Peter had. He had lost everyone important to him and was on his own. Sure, Frank had offered his support and the man felt confident Jean would help if Peter asked—or she would sense it with whatever freaky powers she had—but they could never replace his family and friends. He had to live with the hope they could someday reunite, that they would even want him in their life again.
"Hey," Frank says, his own voice slightly hoarse. "Hey, hey, it's okay. Don't worry about that. I'm not gonna hold it against you."
"You should. It was horrible—"
"It was shitty, yeah, but Pete? We've all said or done shitty things, me more than most. I'm not mad. I promise, kid."
"But…"
"No buts. I forgive you. End of story."
Peter's quiet. Frank starts to think maybe he was too brusque. He hadn't interacted much with people younger than him since—well, since the obvious. Not that the kid was made of glass, but he'd had an emotional time already.
However, to his relief, Peter wipes his cheeks and straightens.
"Thanks, Frank," he says again, sounding steadier this time.
"You're welcome."
The kid's face is red, but he remembers how pale it was earlier, and the circles under his eyes are a concerning shade of purple.
"How about you stay here for a bit?" he asks, surprising himself. "Catch some Z's. Give your body a chance to heal."
He watches Peter hesitate, gaze flicking to the door.
"Listen, I'll tell you what." Franks stands, knees cracking. He takes their mugs and goes to the sink. "If you agree to try and sleep, I'll promise to wake you up if there's some big evil monster or maniac runnin' around terrorizing the city. Swear it." He can see the debate in the other's head. "You won't be help to anyone in the city if you can barely walk, kid. Take a moment and rest. All I'm askin'."
Peter's mouth quirks to the side as he thinks. His leg bounces under the table. "Okay," he finally replies. He points a finger at Frank. "But only for a little bit! Like…an hour, tops!"
Frank rolls his eyes. The kid is passing out the minute his head hits the pillow. "Sure."
"I mean it, Frank."
"Uh-huh."
He gives him clothes, practically orders him to change because he's not getting his only other cot covered in blood and sweat. Peter says that Frank is bloody and sweaty most days anyway. He gets a shove on the back for the comment. When he comes out of the bathroom, swimming in the older man's t-shirt and sweats, Frank hides a snort. He throws him a pillow and blanket and makes sure he actually lays down. He would assume given the lack of his suit and exhaustion, Peter would be ready to sleep. He does look tired, but he apparently can't calm down enough. His hands keep fidgeting and he continuously turns over and shifts, making the cot squeak.
He asks Frank if his police scanner is going off and on the third time, Frank huffs and swirls around to look at him.
"Jesus Christ, kid!" he barks. "Your hearing is better than mine! You would know if it went off, so I know you know it hasn't. Close your damn eyes and—geez, count spider-sheep or something."
Peter laughs. "That's not a thing."
"I don't care, shut up and sleep for God's sake."
When a few minutes pass without noise, Frank glances over and finds the younger man finally asleep. Eyes closed and face mashed into the pillow, dead to the world.
He goes about his usual routine, albeit a little quieter. He takes care of the bomb fragments from earlier, takes out the trash, washes the dishes, checks his other traps, cleans his guns, makes a grocery list, etc. An hour passes, then two, then three. The police scanner goes off twice, but it's only a car-jacking and an altercation at a bar. The city seems to take care of itself just fine while Spiderman sleeps.
He had avoided going near the backroom where Peter was so he didn't wake him up, but he walks by and can't stop from checking on him.
He's half on his side and stomach, and his breathing is deep, relaxed. He's curled up, one arm wrapped protectively around around his waist where his injuries are, and the other tucked close to his chest. God, he looks so…young. So fucking young, too young to have been dealt such a shitty card. Despite his efforts, he can't not think of his son. He knows it's stupid and definitely not healthy. He and Peter are different, would be different if his boy was still alive, but he can't help but imagine him in Peter's place.
Frank's chest aches.
He notices the blanket has been kicked off, hanging off the bed. Instinctively, he walks in the room and crouches, pulling it up to Peter's shoulder. He hesitates, then rests a hand on his back. Feels him breathing.
"You're gonna be okay, Pete," Frank murmurs. He moves his hand to his neck and squeezes it lightly. His fingers shift to his head and he rubs it before pulling away.
"Won't let anything happen to you."