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Chapter 1 - I Know It's A Little Bit Late For Fast Food
Frank Castle does not let people get close.
Okay, that’s a lie. A pretty big one.
He used to not let people get close. Especially after his family. Then, Curtis found his way back into Frank’s life. Meetings here and there, patch-up jobs when shit went south, and information. Plus, he was a good backup when a job took a little more than just the Punisher. What started as medical help and a spare set of weapons turned into coffee on slow mornings and long conversations on a bench in Central Park.
The Lieberman’s wormed their way into Frank’s heart whether he liked it or not. David somehow found every single device Frank had and would leave him messages, like asking him to meet for coffee, or warning him of what crime boss’s list he was on top of. Eventually, Sarah started to call and ask him over for dinner, which, of course, encouraged Leo to start leaving books for Frank to pick up. Zach managed to get Frank to play a few games of ball with him, and now, it was a monthly ordeal to go to the Lieberman household and to play, eat, and read.
Of course, there was that moron Matt Murdock— Daredevil— that kept ending up in Frank’s arms and in his bed. Boyfriend was too childish for what they were, how deep their feelings went, and Frank couldn’t be a husband again. But partners… that was Frank and Matt. The Punisher and Daredevil. In fact, Frank couldn’t remember a night where Matt didn’t show up in his stolen boat-converted-safehouse, complaining about the noise of his apartment, or the cold chill. Or missing Frank.
And now, basically a kid, was attached to Frank’s hip. Peter Parker. Spider-Man. At first, the little shit annoyed Frank. He didn’t like another red-masked vigilante that wasn’t his Matt up his ass all the time about the way he dealt with scumbags. But somewhere between fighting the Hulk and saving New York from yet another kid, Frank started to enjoy Peter’s company.
Somewhere along the way, Frank started to think of Peter as a son. Shit, Peter would basically be his son’s age if Central Park never happened, if Frank never became the Punisher.
Sure, Frank has Amy, who will always be a bit like a daughter to him. They have their weekly call, checking in and shooting the shit on her fancy marine biologist job, Matt, and whatever trouble Frank got into. He also has Karen, who is more like his sister than anything, but the protective instinct is still the same. Jeanie sometimes reaches out to him (in his head, which he still isn’t used to) when he’s near the school. Frank likes to take her for lunch and offers to threaten the kids at that school that think she’s a freak. But that was rare, maybe once every few months.
Peter Parker, however? That was a daily occurrence. Almost as frequent as Matt Murdock.
If Frank was sitting in a coffee shop, drinking a cup of coffee alone and reading the paper, Peter would be right across from him the next turn of the page, grinning with all of his teeth and asking Frank if he has five bucks for a sweet treat in the dessert case. The first few times, Frank barked at him to bother someone else. Then, he started fishing his wallet out of his jeans and giving Peter enough money for two pastries. Now, he buys one before Peter gets there so it’s waiting for him. On the off chance the spider-kid doesn’t show, Frank drops it by Matt’s office for Karen.
When Frank is posted on a rooftop, eyes trained down the barrel and through a scope, Spider-Man comes swinging in and usually lands right on top of Frank’s back. No matter how many times the Punisher yells at him to cut it out, he still does it. Occasionally, when Daredevil is with him, tucked under Frank’s coat or under his arm, Spider-Man shows up with playful taunts. That is also the reason he doesn’t let Matt seduce him on slow nights anymore; Peter always shows up in alleyways and rooftops when Frank is there, and is probably traumatized from it.
So tonight, a stormy, New York night, Peter swinging up under the roof where Frank is packing his weapons away, wasn’t a surprise. It was just recon; Murdock has him on some goose chase with a ring of criminals that are selling poisoned products. Frank would’ve stayed out of it, but the bastards are targeting kids in the poorer parts of town. It almost makes him laugh; break a man, granted— a man that he is in love with— out of prison, and in return, get stuck doing his boring work. But, within flashes of lightning, Frank caught a red mask with big, white lenses out of the corner of his eye.
“Jesus, Frank! Aren’t you freezing to death?” Peter calls from where he’s tucked out of the rain.
“Nah, but if it was snow, that’d be a different story,” Frank says, slinging his duffel over his shoulder. “What’re you doin’ here, Web-Head?”
Peter shrugs, crossing his arms over his chest and tucking his gloved hands in his armpits. “Just sightseeing,” he jokes.
Frank sighs and shrugs off his leather trench, gritting his teeth against the cooler chill that soaks into his thermal shirt. He tosses the coat at Peter, haphazardly wrapping it around his shoulders in the process.
“Well, I’m gonna go find a cup o’ coffee. You stayin’ out here to freeze?”
Frank kicks open the abandoned steel door and starts trotting down the moldy, wood steps, watching where he puts weight so he doesn’t fall through. Matt is already going to give him a hard time about the half-assed stitch job across his ribs from getting a little too close to one of the main poison distributors.
“Oh! Can we go to McDonalds?” Peter asks, crawling after Frank on the wall. The little showoff even jumps and catches the sloped ceiling, pausing right in front of Frank. Even with that damn mask, Frank can tell he’s getting the puppy-dog eyes.
Or, the spider-eyes, which are just as effective. At first, when Frank saw his eyes completely black, it freaked him out. Now, they’re kind of endearing, when Peter isn’t using them to get Frank to not kill someone, or buy him something. And Lord, help Frank when both Matt and Peter team up, all wet, sad eyes and pouty lips; of course Frank folds immediately and does whatever they want.
“Aren’t you sick of eating that crap?” Frank asks, using his palm to push Peter back and out of his way.
“No! Better than cans of beans.”
That earns him a glare from Frank that usually sends people running.
“You bring a change of clothes?”
Frank can feel the way Peter smiles sheepishly under the mask, shaking his head. With a sigh, he descends the last of the steps and heads back out into the rain to get to his van, Peter on his tail.
“Don’t you have something in the van?”
Throwing his duffel in the back and shutting the doors with a bit more force than necessary, Frank throws another glare at Peter. It doesn’t do anything to deter him; Web-Head basically skips around the van to slide into the passenger seat.
“No, the Devil took my last pair of sweats and that old Henley after we got into trouble bustin’ an illegal weapons trade,” Frank grunted, starting the van and heading to the closest McDonalds.
“Hey! That was my shirt!”
Instead of responding, Frank fiddles with the radio, turning on an old rock station. The rain pelts the windshield like a little drum solo, lightning flashing through the sky in an astounding symphony. Peter reaches to the radio and messes with the station, finding a new song every few minutes. Surprisingly, Frank lets him, even when it’s that awful, peppy, pop music.
After the third song that sounds like all the others, Frank is ready to put his fist through the stereo. Thankfully, he pulls into the McDonalds parking lot, shutting off the car and taking a breath of relief at the lack of radio. Peter bounds out of the car, talking about some kind of Happy Meal toy, holding the door open for Frank.
New York is the only place in the world where the Punisher and Spider-Man can walk into a McDonalds, white skull on full display, skin-tight spider suit reflecting the orange-ish lights, without anyone batting an eye. Frank held the door and walked in behind Peter, raising a brow when he started ogling the case full of plastic toys.
“Oh, my God. Frank! Hello Kitty and Godzilla!”
Frank smiled and looked into the display. It reminded him of taking Lisa and Frankie to McDonalds after school; Lisa would usually get the “boy” toy because she liked the little cars, and Frankie got the “girl” toy for the small stuffed animal. Seems Peter never really grew up.
Or, on a sadder note, maybe he never really had the chance to be a kid.
“Do you want a Happy Meal?” Frank asked, heading to the register.
“Hmmm. No, it’s never enough food. Just get me whatever you get!”
“So I’m payin’ again?” Frank snorted.
“Hey, the suit doesn’t have pockets!” Peter called, slinking away to the play area.
Stepping up to the counter, Frank ordered a few burgers, nuggets, and fries. Peter can put it away better than anyone Frank has seen, which is saying something, considering he saw his comrades eat their weight in food before they were shipped off to war. Maybe that’s why Pete was so hungry, because he was always playing hero and never ate. Frank looked at the Hello Kitty doll that was on the screen, a frown on his face.
“Anything else?” The cashier asked, bored.
“You think you can throw a couple o’ those Hello Kitty things in there? For the kid.”
The employee glanced up for the first time, her dark eyes heavy with black makeup bouncing lazily between Frank and Peter, who’s playing with the little arcade game in the back of the dining area.
“We only have the Keroppi and Cinnamonroll toys left,” she said, tapping the screen a few more times.
“I don’t even know what— okay, yeah. That’s fine.”
He paid for their meals and gave the cashier a tip for giving him the toys, sliding it up the sleeve of her black long sleeve when she said they can’t accept tips. Frank filled their plastic cups with Coke, something he knew Peter really liked for the sugar and caffeine, and sat at a table by the arcade game Peter was playing. He winced slightly at the pull of his ribs, moving his stretched legs when Peter slid into the chair across from Frank.
“Man, that is supposed to be for kids. I suck,” Peter frowned, pulling his mask up to his nose to sip his soda.
“What, Peter Tingle doesn't work for video games?” Frank teased, taking a pull from his own Coke. That earned him a deadpan stare.
“I should’ve never told you that.”
After a few rounds of banter, their number was called. Peter was on his feet before Frank could ask him to go get it, grabbing their couple of trays of greasy food that would probably give Frank issues later, but would be worth it to spend an extra hour or so with the kid. Peter got back to the table, sliding Frank a tray and taking his seat across. When he dug into his bag, there were two plastic bags on the top.
“Frank!” Peter gasped, a big smile revealing all of his teeth. In his hands, he held a frog-looking thing with three heads and a bunny that looked like it was swallowed by a red dragon. “My favorites! I love Keroppi!”
Frank couldn’t hide his grin when Peter tore the plastic open and took the frog out, setting it on the table.
“Eat your food before it gets cold,” Frank said, pointing at Peter with a fry.
Chapter 2 - And It's Raining Like A Goddamn Monsoon
“This wasn’t what I expected when you asked me for help!” Frank yelled over the gunfire, reloading one of the many handguns he had. Once there was a break in bullets, Frank peeked from behind the crate and started firing. Peter didn’t need Daredevil’s special sense to know he was aiming to hurt, not to kill.
“I’m sorry!” Peter called back, head starting to get that terrible pressure behind his eye. Then, E.V. flashed his hormone diagram across his lenses, warning him of an arachnid spike. Oh, crap.
“Move, kid!” Frank yelled, grabbing his bicep and tugging him upright. He stayed in front of Peter, bullets landing in the kevlar of his vest while he got them behind another crate. Peter didn’t even realize the sniper between metal rungs on the ceiling, until Frank shot him down.
“What the hell was that?! You didn’t feel that guy with your… spiderness?” Frank called, turning on a dime and firing off two more rounds. He ducked to reload, popping back up to finish what he started. “You alright, Web-Head?” Frank asked, ducking behind the crates as another round of fire bounced off of metal and wood.
“Yeah, yeah, I’m good. It’s just… my head,” Peter grimaced. His arachnid hormones were almost twice what his human ones were, and Peter could feel the pain in his cells. He ripped the mask off; E.V.’s shrill warning was going to make his ears bleed. Stupid, yes, but Frank would make sure no one got close enough to see him.
Frank hmm’ed and tucked his gun away, putting a cool hand on Peter’s forehead. It was a relief against his hot skin and sensitive eyes. He closed them, but Frank probably saw the deep black taking over. “Are you not used to that spider shit yet?” Frank asked, feeling around Peter’s face and neck. He was warm, but seemed like he would be good enough until Frank got him to the van.
“Eloquent, Frank,” Peter muttered, leaning the entire weight of his head into Frank’s cool palms.
“Alright, let’s leave these guys for the Devil and his group of misfits,” Frank grunted, standing and doing a quick sweep of the room. With any luck, Matt and Jessica would be here soon to clean up.
“My head Frank, I can’t focus right,” Peter whined, rubbing his head harshly in his palms. Frank heard a bit of yelling, then quickly fired five rounds: one miss, two knee caps, and two elbows. These damn mobsters were like cockroaches.
Frank stuck his hand out. “C’mon, Web-Head. I’ll show you a trick that works for the Devil. Just focus on me.” His fingers were outstretched, reaching toward Peter. God, it was so childish, having to hold the Punisher’s hand to get a grip on himself. But, if Daredevil had to do it sometimes, maybe it wasn’t that bad.
“Okay,” Peter said, grabbing Frank’s hand. He sagged with relief, Frank’s large, calloused hand encapsulating his gloved one. Frank was like a rock, tugging Peter to his feet, making sure he was steady. Peter tried to not be so… sticky, but he couldn’t really reign in the hormones. Frank didn’t seem to mind, though, humming some old country song that Peter trained his ears on.
Peter gasped and slung a web (completely missing, damn this migraine) at one of the guys that was shooting at them. Frank didn’t hesitate, stepping in front of Peter and firing off a few rounds. Spider-Man winced at the pounding in his head intensified by the noise of the bullets, and also at the fact this guy saw his face. But, to Peter’s horror and relief (and wasn’t that a scary thing), Frank had put the man down. Peter almost started panicking, but he felt Frank’s hand squeeze his own, realizing the Punisher didn’t let him go once.
“I’ll get’cha out’a here, kid. Just focus on me and I’ll handle the rest.”
So, Peter focused on Frank. He let his head hang down, looking at his own red boots and Frank’s black combat boots, putting one foot in front of the other. Frank didn’t let his hand go, even when they were completely outnumbered. Every so often, he’d check in with Peter, communicating with hand squeezes.
It was going great, until some sort of explosion happened. Frank tried to keep walking, but Peter felt his brain split in half. His ears were ringing, his vision was blurred, and every hair on his body was standing straight up. He felt his knees quake.
“Frank, I can’t,” Peter nearly sobbed, legs wobbling. Frank held him up, letting his most prized pistol fall to the floor. Even Peter’s own heartbeat in his ears was too loud, like a bass drum pounding in his skull.
“Alright, alright. You did good. C’mon, let me take it from here,” Frank said, squatting with a grunt and literally scooping Peter into his arms. If his head wasn’t about to cave in, Peter would’ve argued and thrashed about. Instead, Peter stayed perched on Frank’s hip, using his now free hands to plug his ears, burying his sensitive eyes in Frank’s neck.
Frank jogged them through the warehouse, one hand holding Peter up like a kid getting carried in from falling asleep in the car. The other hand was on a new gun, his other left behind much to Peter’s surprise. Man, he must really be worried. Peter didn’t worry about being dropped once, or about getting attacked. Frank had his back, just like he always had Matt’s, and would protect him.
Finally, they got into the van. Frank, despite the frost coating the windshield, cranked the air conditioner for Peter, soothing the burn across his skin. He already felt better, though his ears rang with the old sounds of bullets and that explosion. Frank slid into the driver's seat and started the van, offering his right hand to Peter. And, like a kid, Peter took it, focusing on Frank's callouses instead of every little thing his special sense was trying to warn him of.
Frank didn’t let go of Peter’s hand until they were back safely in his stolen boat, standing in the little kitchenette. Even then, he didn’t let Peter go first; Frank used one hand to tug his gear and weapons off, turn lights on, and get the cabin situated, all while Peter clung to him, nothing shy of a toddler.
“Alright, let me get you some clothes. Why don’t you try to heat up some of that soup in the fridge?”
Frank moved to the small bedroom while Peter numbly took the soup out and stuck the entire container in the microwave. His ears were still ringing, but his head felt better. Peter could hear the water lapping against the relatively abandoned warehouse that stored Frank’s stolen boat, an almost calm feeling washing over him like salty water over a jetty.
Peter sat at the table and slurped lukewarm soup out of the container. There were no clean bowls, or spoons, and the container is an old Chinese takeout dish, so it’s pretty hard to slurp soup out of. But, Peter does it anyway, relishing in the taste and the feeling of a home cooked meal in his belly. Frank always cooks with love, something Peter likes to tease him about, but it’s evident in every bite.
“Here. These are some of the softest things I own,” Frank says, dropping a folded set of pajamas on the table. He changed, too, into new pants and shirt, foregoing the white skull.
“Thanks, Frank,” Peter said, stuffing his suit in the plastic grocery bag Frank pulled from the cupboard. He was kind of swimming in Frank’s pajamas, but comfortable. The fleece pants were checkered red and black, soft, and smelled a little like coffee and laundry detergent. Frank also gave him a hoodie which was a bit closer to his size, probably something of Matt’s. With how silky-smooth it was against his skin, it was definitely Matt’s. Of course Frank would give him soft clothes to not overwhelm his senses.
Frank grinned, a rare but recurring treat. “No problem, kid. C’mon, I’ll give you a ride back to your place.”
Chapter 3 - But I Haven't Seen You In Days
“I’m not sure about this, Frank,” Peter said, looking at the gates of the cemetery through Frank’s van.
“Well, I’m gonna go that way. You do what you gotta do,” Frank said, hopping out of the van. He reached in the back and grabbed the supplies they picked up earlier that day: a bottle of O'Harren's Scotch Whisky, a bundle of hydrangeas, a bouquet of lilies, and a large assortment of different types of flowers Peter had never seen. In his own lap, he had a white-knuckled grip around white Picasso lilies that Frank had bought for him to give to Aunt May.
It started as a fleeting comment on a patrol Spider-Man and the Punisher went on. Peter wanted to visit Aunt May at the end of all their hard work, but something was stopping him. It was always hard to face her, but this time, it felt worse. Like Peter got to move on in ways she never would. So, the next day, Frank dragged him to a flower shop, to the liquor store for the O’Harren’s, and to the cemetery.
Now, he was walking up to the gates, looking like a murderer gone florist. It was kind of silly, seeing Frank with all of those flowers. It always amazed Peter his softer side, like when he purposefully cut the spices out of a recipe so Matt would like it more, or ironed Karen Page’s blouses because she hated doing it. Peter hopped out of the van and jogged up to Frank, clutching his flowers close to his chest. Frank leveled him with a look, his signature raised eyebrow, and stalked forward.
“There’ll be no petals left by the time we’re over there,” Frank joked.
Peter scowled and followed Frank, allowing the Punisher to throw a comforting arm around his shoulders. He squeezed three times, then let his arm drop as they approached a set of three polished headstones. Peter’s eyes burned when he read the names, but he blinked his tears back.
“Hey, baby,” Frank muttered, squatting to kiss Maria’s headstone. He laid part of the huge bouquet of flowers down, arranging them with a sniper’s precision around her headstone. “Brought someone for ya to meet. This is Peter Parker, the spider-kid I’ve been helpin’,” Frank said, his hand delicately tracing the stone.
“Hello, Mrs. Castle. For the record, I’ve been helping Frank,” Peter smiled, separating a lily from his bouquet and setting it on Maria’s headstone.
“And this is my baby girl, Lisa, and my little boy Frankie,” Frank said, setting the remainder of the bouquet amongst his children.
“Hey, kids,” Peter said quietly, setting two more of his own lilies down.
“Pete’s been keepin’ me company while you two are waitin’ on me. He’s full o’ energy, just like you two. Likes to get into trouble, too.”
Peter gently shoved Frank, earning a laugh.
“One batch, two batch, penny and dime. I love you both, to the end of time,” Frank said, barely a whisper, pressing two lingering kisses, one to Lisa and one to Frankie, to the headstones. Peter wasn’t sure how to comfort him, he was always bad at that, so he reached out and squeezed Frank’s now empty hand. Frank gave Peter a rare smile, his eyes glossy with unshed tears.
“C’mon, Pete. There’s someone else I like to say hi to as well when I’m here,”
They walked down the rows, the sun setting and warm against their skin. Peter still clung to Frank’s middle and index fingers, nothing shy of a toddler clinging to their parent. Frank strolled leisurely, reaching the end of a row of headstones.
“Hello, Mr. Murdock. Still takin’ care of your boy. Don’t you worry, he’s still a pain in my ass,” Frank snorted, laying the large bundle of hydrangeas on Jack Murdock’s grave. Frank wiped away cut grass, leaves, and dead flowers, so the stone was clean. “I try to keep him out’ta trouble, y’know? But that boy of yours… he thinks the world is on his shoulders. Reminds me of Web-Head here,” Frank said, clapping Peter’s back with his palm.
Peter smiled. “I also help Mr. Murdock, sir. Though most days, he’s the one helping me.”
“Yeah. Me too,” Frank laughed, bringing the bottle of whiskey out from under his arm. He cracked the lid, then poured a measure out onto Mr. Jack Murdock’s grave.
Then, Frank took a shot of O'Harren's Scotch Whisky right off of the bottle, exhaling with a bit of a wince at the taste. Peter was sure if he held a lighter to Frank’s mouth, he could've breathed flames. He held the bottle out to Peter, with one raised brow.
“C’mon, Pete. It won’t bite ‘cha.”
Peter grinned and took the bottle. He never really drank, just a bit of sangria or jungle juice at MJ’s parties, but something about bonding with Frank over the headstones of his family and Matt’s dad felt right. It felt like home, and it made Peter more confident to face Aunt May’s grave. So, he grabbed the bottle of O’Harren’s, and took a swig. Immediately, Frank was snatching the bottle out of his hands.
“Easy, easy! Jesus, I’m gonna be carryin’ your ass out’a here!” Frank laughed, tight grip on the bottle while Peter coughed through the awful taste and burn in his throat. Frank beat a fist on Peter’s back, not doing much to help but reassuring him anyway. “Damn, Matt’s going to be pissed if you’re drunk. Better grab a pizza on the way home,” Frank chuckled. He got to his feet, leaving Peter to cough in the grass, and poured another shot’s worth out over Jack Murdock’s headstone. Then, he set the open bottle next to the smooth, carved rock. “Enjoy, Mr. Murdock. Up you get, c’mon, kid,” Frank grunted, tugging Peter up to his feet. Finally, he was done coughing.
“I can’t believe you actually like that stuff,” Peter wheezed, wishing he had a can of Coke to get the taste out.
“You’ll like it here in about fifteen minutes.”
And Frank was right. Because by the time they made it to Aunt May’s grave, Peter was pleasantly relaxed. Sure, he was still sad, and could feel the tears burning behind his eyes, but his head felt floaty, and a bit fuzzy. Frank took the lilies he bought and laid them in front of her headstone, then wiped away the old leaves and dry grass. Peter sat down, gently brushing her headstone, and setting his own flowers down.
“Hey, Aunt May,” he said softly, no longer embarrassed to talk to her. It felt right, especially after watching Frank chat with his family and Matt’s dad. Frank sat next to him with a grunt, resting a hand on his shoulder.
“I don’t… I don’t know what to tell her,” Peter whispered.
“Whatever feels right, Web-Head. Ain’t gotta be waxing poetry,” Frank said.
So Peter talked.
He talked about what life was like without her. He talked about what happened with the Hulk, and Jean, and what was happening to him on a biological level. Peter talked about how depressed he was, especially being completely alone in a city of strangers. He said how much he missed her, but finally was feeling better with Frank at his side, with MJ and Ned back in his life.
Then, there was silence. Peter stared at her stone under the twinkle of the rising stars, the setting sun painting the graveyard in gold. Frank was like an anchor at his side, warm and strong and ready to support Peter if he fell.
They sat side by side for a while, Frank’s hand a comforting presence on his shoulder. It kind of reminded Peter of Mr. Stark, but honestly, it felt more familial. With Frank by his side, whether the battle, it almost felt like Peter was protected from anything. For a fleeting moment, he wondered if this is how Frank’s children felt. Finally, Frank let out a heaving sigh that ended with a grunt. He stood, knees cracking and back popping, then rested a hand on Aunt May’s headstone.
“Don’t worry, ma’am. For as long as air is in my lungs and blood flows through my veins, I’ll keep your boy safe. Peter’s one of mine, now. I have a couple’a strays… there’s Amy, and Matt, and the Liebermans. Hell, even Curt, stubborn as his ass is,” Frank chucked, his calloused fingers brushing the stone. He walked a few steps, then turned to Peter.
“You want that pizza, or what, kid?”
Peter smiled, feeling tons lighter. He chased after Frank, talking about all the toppings they’d get.
Chapter 4 - And Someone Has Gotta Snap You Out Of This Phase
Peter jumps out of Rhino’s way, grunting at the impact of the brick wall at his back.
“Incoming call from Frank,” E.V. chirps.
“Answer,” Peter says, slinging a few webs into a sticky trap for Rhino, who’s about to take charge again.
“Kid. You’re on the news,” Frank says in his helmet, some sort of clanking noise in the background.
“Last time you were on the news, you made an entire— ah!”
Rhino gets a lucky hit, nearly breaking Peter’s leg. The previously slung webs saved him from another hospital visit, because it recoiled Rhino’s large body back into the wall. For good measure, Spider-Man shot a few more webs. “What do you need, Frank?”
“I’m makin’ lasagna for dinner and will have too much. Come eat.” A request, not an invitation.
“Why don’t you call Matt?” Peter asks, slinging webs across Rhino’s arms. Just to be rude, he gets him across the face too, to stop his cussing at the NYPD.
“I’m here already,” Matt says. “Frank’s had four glasses of wine—”
There’s a lot of rustling, then laughing, and Frank is back on the phone. Peter smiles under his mask, already slinging towards Frank’s homey boat in a cacophony of cheers. “So, he’s drunk,” Peter snorts.
“Not drunk. Relaxed. ‘N Murdock had six. He’s drunk.”
“Not true!” Matt yells from the background.
“Guys, not sure I want to interrupt date night,” Peter starts, only to get cut off by Frank.
“You’ve only eaten McDonalds and Little Caesars this week. Get your ass to the boat.”
The line goes dead and Peter can’t stop smiling. Frank always feeds him one good meal a week, sometimes more. To be nice, Peter swings by the corner store and grabs a bottle of sangria that he has seen in Frank’s fridge. And even though Frank treats Peter like a kid, he is old enough to drink, and he wouldn’t mind joining the buzzed party.
When he gets to the boat, Peter rips his mask off and smiles at the white Christmas lights Frank let him keep up. He can hear Matt and Frank singing some old song on the beat up radio, their voices a warm symphony in the center of Peter’s chest. He doesn’t remember much of his mom or dad, but Peter thinks it would be a little like this.
Matt has his hands around Frank’s neck, swaying to the beat of what Peter recognizes as Frank Sinatra. The Punisher has one hand curled around Matt’s waist, pressing them flush, and the other is holding a wooden spoon stained with red over a glass dish.
“Hey, Web-Head,” Frank says, not stopping his waltz with Matt.
“Hello, Peter,” Matt smiles. “Smells like you brought sangria.”
Peter grins and tosses his mask on the counter, setting down the bottle. “Yep. Figured you two didn’t leave any in the bottle for me.”
Frank sits Matt down and goes to the cramped cupboards, arm brushing Peter’s. He gets down the fanciest glass he owns, setting it down and turning to grab a near-empty bottle from the fridge.
“I left ya a’bit,” Frank grins, pouring the rest of the red wine into the glass for Peter. He busies himself at the stove, finishing the layers of lasagna that he was probably working on before Matt interrupted him. There’s also a loaf of bread Peter offers to cut, but is told to get a drink and sit down.
So, he pours two healthy glasses of sangria (and quickly downs a few mouthfuls from the bottle, earning a wink and shushing motion from Matt), handing one to Frank and sitting by Matt at the table to slide over his glass.
“So, how’s the Rhino?” Matt asks, sipping his glass.
“With the NYPD now. It wasn't the hardest thing I’ve done. How’s that poison-seller-drug-thing going?”
“Bad. Frank busted the entire thing.”
“Well, what did he do?” Peter asks, sipping his wine. His head already feels a bit floaty, from not eating and exerting himself so much against Rhino.
Matt glares in Frank’s direction, missing by a few feet. Frank doesn’t turn, just keeps toasting the bread. “I killed him. Well, tortured, but still.”
“Frank!” Peter yells. “We talked about that!”
“He was goin’ after Matty, what, you expect me to trust a bunch o’—”
“Yes!” Matt and Peter yell at the same time.
Frank groans, taking the longest pull of sangria Peter has ever seen. He pours a bit of oil onto a shallow plate, arranging the slices of bread around the spill. “Now I’ve got two reds up my ass.”
Matt grins like the Devil he is. “Perjury! In fact, you are up my—”
A piece of oily, salty bread is pushed into Matt’s mouth so fast Peter has to do a double take. “Not in front of my kid, Matthew! Jesus,” Frank barks.
Peter, also tipsy, just giggles. “No, not always. That one time in the alley between—” Frank shoves a piece of bread in Peter’s mouth next, much more gently.
“Okay, let’s all just stop. One more word, and no one gets dessert,” Frank warns, ears and cheeks pink. Whether that’s from the wine, or the sangria, or being flustered, Peter will never know, but he can’t help but laugh around his bread.
Matt presses an oily kiss into Frank’s cheek, reaching for another chunk of bread. Peter grins, feeling like he’s at home enjoying the warmth of the boat and the wine. Frank keeps putting pieces of bread on his plate, and even makes him a little arugula salad, fussing like a concerned parent. He does the same to Matt, making sure his glass stays full and he has something on his plate.
Finally, the lasagna gets done, and it is divine. Peter has three whole slices, relishing a real, authentic meal instead of the crap he usually feeds himself. There is a difference between eating because it’s good, and eating to stay alive. Matt is just as eager, scarfing down two pieces and the rest of the bread.
While Frank does the dishes, Matt and Peter talk, sprawled out and full of pasta and wine. The boat is so cozy, more like home than Peter’s own apartment, with the dull, orange lights and the smell of salty water if the breeze blows just right.
“Hope you guys saved room for dessert,” Frank says, setting a tray of cannolis down.
Peter eats five. Then, leaving with a slight headache the next morning, Peter has a backpack full of leftovers, a greasy breakfast soaking up the alcohol in his belly, and a smile on his face.
Chapter 5 - Because You're Sad, Alone, And No One's Home
Peter knows better than to show up randomly at Frank’s boat. The first time, he and MJ almost became squished, flat, and then pieces. But a lot has changed; Frank is a bit more careful with his traps and points them out to Peter when he changes them. Tonight, it was like instinct navigating the trip wires and claymores.
Before he can even hesitate, Frank is silently stepping out onto the makeshift porch, the stupid, white Christmas lights Peter insisted on hanging up creating eerie shadows against the boat and the wooden dock. Peter feels like his eyes are black, the way they take in so much detail.
Of course, he’s in that stupid, plaid bathrobe that Peter is so used to seeing on Frank. It really completes the dad look; loosely tied over a pair of boxers that undoubtedly have a hole or two in them, chest bare after he probably literally gave Matt the shirt off of his back, and threadbare slippers on his feet. The only thing missing is the rifle Frank usually has slung over his chest when Peter shows up like this.
“What’s goin’ on, kid?” Frank asked, leaning against the railing to peer down at Peter.
His head was soaked; Peter was dressed only in the body suit of the Spider-Man outfit, no boots or mask. The storm raged outside, lightning making the docks light up like a rave. It was a miracle he was able to get Matt to sleep with the storm, but the bat was probably hyper-focused on Frank’s beating heart. Peter stared up at Frank, big, black eyes full of fear. Droplets of rain dripped off of his hair, falling down his face. Peter had to be cold, barefoot, gloveless, and without any sort of jacket or hat.
“Why don’t you come up? Get warm. I can get’cha some dry clothes to wear. Let me go put some pants on,” Frank said, turning and heading back into the boat.
He heard Peter sling himself up on the dock with his webs and the sound of his bare feet slapping against the floor. On silent feet himself, Frank ducked into what was probably once the captain’s quarters, where Matt was rousing from his sleep. He rolled over with a small huff, arm stretched out to Frank.
“Can’t sleep, baby? Who’s here?” Matt said, voice syrupy-sweet with sleep.
Frank dug through his drawers, looking for spare sweatpants, thick socks, and some sort of shirt for Peter. “Kid’s here. He shows up like this sometimes; usually a nightmare.”
Matt hummed, half-asleep, and curled up on Frank’s side of the bed. Watching Matt take his pillow, Frank shook his head with a grunt and walked back into the small kitchen and dining area, handing the clothes to Peter. Turning to the stove to give him some privacy to change, Frank pulled out the small amount of milk he had left and started to heat it up in a small sauce pan.
“What’re you doin’ here in the rain, kid? With no shoes or mask?”
“I-I don’t know. I think I was having a nightmare about Thanos, which is something I haven’t had in years. Then, I woke up really afraid, and… and disoriented. Before I really knew what I was doing, I was on the way here.”
Frank understands that better than anyone; all those times after bad dreams, ending up on Matt’s fire escape half-dressed in his gear and carrying his armory. A few times, when Matt was still in the church after Midland Circle or in that terrible prison, Frank would still end up in his bed, curling up in the dusty, unwashed sheets.
“Your feet carry you to where you feel safe, Pete. Ain’t no shame in that.”
So Peter wasn’t embarrassed at the attention, Frank busied himself at the stove, finding a clean mug to pour the warm glass of milk into. Because warm milk alone was kind of nasty, Frank threw a couple shakes of Nesquik into it, stirring it with a knife because he wasn’t sure he had spoons. There was a bit of milk left, so Frank poured his own mug and sat across from Peter.
“Thanks,” he said quietly, sipping the mug Frank slid across the table.
Frank grunted, watching Peter drink his makeshift hot chocolate and checked the clock on the small stove. It was pretty late, still plenty of time to get back to bed before Matt had to go to his day job and Frank had to wake up to make breakfast. Peter seemed a bit more calm, leaning back in his chair, playing with the handle of his mug.
“C’mon, kid. Let’s go to bed.”
Frank put both mugs in the sink and turned to Peter, who was heading toward the bunks he and MJ slept in months prior. With a raised brow, Frank stopped Peter in his tracks. “Were are you going?”
“To the beds,” Peter said, voice quiet.
“Nah, come lay between us. I haven’t washed those sheets in weeks,” Frank said, turning his back on Peter. Quietly, they snuck into the room where Matt was dozing. Frank peeled the covers back, gesturing for him to crawl in the bed next to Matt.
“This feels stupid, Frank,” Peter whispered, stiff as a board as he looked between Frank and the unmade bed. It did look comfy, and there was no safer place in New York than between Daredevil and the Punisher. But Peter wasn’t a kid anymore; he was twenty-two! Too old to be getting coddled by the Punisher.
“It’ll help you sleep, kid. C’mon.”
“Either argue outside or get in the bed, boys,” Matt huffed, voice thick with irritation and sleep.
So, Peter sighed and peeled the soft blankets back a bit further, careful to not disturb Matt, and crawled into the bed. Thunder boomed outside, but didn’t shake the boat Frank made his safehouse on. Once Peter was settled, Frank slid in on the edge, rolling onto his side to face Peter and Matt. And… It wasn't so bad. Peter thought it would be awkward, but it felt oddly familial, like a child would feel heading to their parents’ room after a bad dream.
“Nothin’ will happen to you here, Pete. I’ll make sure of it,” Frank said, tucking the blanket up over the three of them.
“What about me?” Matt teased, rolling to face Frank and Peter.
“Eh, you’re on your own, Red. I got my kid to worry about,” Frank joked, stretching an arm over Peter to rest on Matt’s waist.
“It’s okay, Mr. Murdock, I’m pretty strong too,” Peter said, voice thick with sleep.
It was warm in the bed, the blankets and sheets smelling like coffee and the clean, unscented bar soap Matt used. Peter was comfortable under Frank’s arm, and safe. Matt would hear anyone coming from blocks away, and Frank was strong enough to get Peter out of a warehouse full of men without batting an eye.
As Peter dozed, onto happier dreams of Frank and Matt carving pumpkins, somewhere deep, in the back of Frank’s sleep-addled brain, he remembers what it felt like to hold Maria with Lisa and Frankie between them. How calming it was, to have everyone in one bed, arms wrapped around his wife and kids, to feel as if he could protect them from anything. Even though that was a lifetime ago, with the storm raging outside and Peter’s mop of brown hair dripping on his pillow and Matt’s warm body under his fingertips, that feeling is back. He presses Matt a little closer, sandwiching Peter between them, and traces little hearts up Matt’s spine through the shirt of Frank’s he stole. Peter sighs and nestles further into Frank’s bare bicep, mumbling about pumpkin seeds, causing goosebumps from the chill of the rain soaked into his hair. With a smile on his face, he pulls the blanket up over his Matt and his Peter a bit higher, holding them, and protecting them, from the raging storm and their dark thoughts.
In the morning, Frank will probably wake up first, with Peter somehow on one side of him, curled in a ball with his back pressed into Frank and his head on Frank’s bicep, and Matt on the other side, his head tucked into Frank’s neck and leg tossed over his hips. Frank will probably slip out of bed and make pancakes with smiley faces drawn on the top with maple syrup, blueberry for Matt and chocolate chip for Peter. Frank will probably make the special coffee he has for Matt, with a couple tablespoonfuls of the oatmilk he complains about keeping in the fridge, but buys fresh every week. He’ll pour a glass of orange juice for Peter, who will probably say something to annoy him or get him into trouble with Matt.
But for tonight, he’ll hold his family, and revel in the old nostalgia of being a protector. A hero.
Epilogue - And It Doesn't Have To Be That Way
“You’re kiddin’,” Frank says, his head jerking away from the scope on his rifle.
“Nope. We’ve been together for a long time now, Castle. It’s time to meet Maggie,” Daredevil said, perched on the edge of the rooftop, head turned toward their targets swapping information on the docks.
“Jesus, Red. I’m not sure about this, honey—”
“Frank, it’s important to me. She’s all the family I have left, besides you and Peter,” Matt says, tone serious. Then, he snaps his fingers. “Oh! You should bring Peter!”
Before Frank could argue, Matt pulls his cowl down and tells Frank the guys they’ve been after for months are on the move. So, Frank bounds down the building behind Matt, checking his weapons on the way. He forgets to start an argument after, probably because Matt gives him that sweet look he always does and asks Frank if he can make them hot chocolate before bed. So, he decides to quit being a coward about it by the next time he sees Peter.
“Hey, I got’a favor to ask you, kid,” Frank says, sipping his cup of black coffee. Peter tilts his head in question, mouth full of diner waffles. Spoiled brats is what Frank has; Matt gets hot chocolate and massages every night before bed— even when Frank is the one who’s beat up— and Peter gets diner waffles and meal prep from Frank. “Matt wants me to, uh, meet his mom. Her name’s Sister Maggie, she’s a nun. He wants you to come, too, because you’re family.”
Peter swallows, then drinks a big gulp of chocolate milk. “Sure! When are we thinking?”
Frank blanches. He was hoping Peter would put up more of a fight.
So, now, he stands in the church entry, hands clutched around a bouquet of cosmos. Peter is at his side, holding the tiramisu in the glass dish Frank bought to look fancy for Matt’s mother. He feels fake dressed in a button down shirt, with slacks and a tie. He bought the outfit last week, realizing the only fancy clothes he owns are his dress blues, and he can’t put them on again without feeling like the hallucinations are going to come back.
“I’m nervous,” Frank admits, trigger fingers twitching where his hand is limp at his side.
“Why? You’ll be totally fine, Frank. You literally fought the Hulk with less fear than—”
“Oh, my! Matthew, are these handsome young men here for you?”
A nun comes around the corner, a wicked smile on her pretty face. Matt taps with his cane and holds her bicep, a smile on his face when he hears Frank’s pounding heart and smells Peter’s cheap cologne.
“There should only be one handsome, young man. The other is some rough-road-looking guy,” Matt jokes, leaning over Maggie to give Frank a small peck on the corner of his mouth.
“Rough road?” Peter asks, letting Matt pull him into a small hug.
“Amy calls me that. I never should’ve let you two meet,” Frank grins.
Then, he’s all business.
He addresses Sister Maggie when Matt steps back by her side, extending the flowers. “Hello, ma’am. I’m Frank Castle, Matthew’s partner.”
“Well, hello, Frank Castle. Call me Maggie,” she grins, taking the flowers and smelling them. Then, she looks at Peter.
“This is—” Frank starts, throwing an arm around Peter’s shoulders.
“I’m Peter Parker. Frank’s kid,” he smiles, stretching a hand out to Sister Maggie.
“Oh! Well-mannered too!”
Matt smiles at Peter, arm resting on Maggie’s thin bicep. Peter turns to look at Frank, a bit nervous to see his reaction, but thinks it must be fine because Matt is grinning and Maggie looks like she couldn’t be more proud. When Peter fully turns, Frank is already looking at him, smiling brighter than Peter has ever seen, unshed tears in his brown eyes.
“Yep. That’s my kid,” Frank says, jostling Peter around. “We brought dessert, ma’am. I hope that’s alright. I made tiramisu.”
Maggie takes a bite of Frank’s tiramisu the second she gets it in the kitchen, ooh-ing at the flavor and tucking it on a safe shelf in the fridge. She has pasta made, which seems like it’s been cooking for a while, but Frank doesn’t say a word. He helps Maggie get the dishes and while she prepares the salad, he fixes the loose cupboards and leaky faucet.
Matt makes himself useful by ogling Frank as he fixes things around the kitchen, talking to Maggie and trying to shoo Matt away. Peter eats the bread and butter Maggie has cut and tells her about what he does for work, accidentally revealing his Spider-Man gig.
But, the rest of the night goes off without a hitch. Maggie does not care that Frank is the Punisher, or that Peter is Spider-Man. In fact, she only gives Matt a hard time about his alter ego, commenting on how handsome Frank looks in his skull-painted vest and how much hope Peter gives the kids at the orphanage. The pasta is not nearly as good as Frank’s, but the tea Maggie serves with the tiramisu after dinner includes a heavy pour of whiskey, making Peter forget all about the overcooked noodles.
They retire to the sitting room, where Frank sits on the couch across from Maggie's armchair with Peter under one arm, Matt under the other, and talks about repairs he can do for free around the church. Matt dozes, probably on a cocktail of pain killers and whiskey, warm from Frank’s side. Peter is just as tired; it was a long day of fixing his suit and adding some changes to E.V.’s software. As Peter drifts, he feels Frank brush his hair back, like a father would do for a son.
“I think you are home to them, Frank,” Maggie says, voice light, standing and collecting the dessert plates.
Frank presses a kiss to Matt’s head, then to Peter’s.
“Nah. They’re my home.”