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Peter's suit was hanging down around his hips, and Frank's fingers were pressed into his side, breath hot on his skin by the time Peter decided this had been a terrible idea.
"You really don't need to—"
"Just hold still."
"I am holding still."
Frank gave him a look, and Peter shut up with a sigh.
It was a classic situation: Spider-Man got injured, and the Punisher was there to stitch him up. Honestly, whoever decided that New York was the place for ninjas to come hang out? Fired.
It wasn't a bad cut, and Peter had barely felt it at the time. He felt it now, with Frank pouring alcohol into the open wound.
"You're twitchin'," Frank muttered, and Peter sighed again.
Frank stood between his knees while Peter sat on the edge of his bathroom counter, one broad hand braced against his bare waist and the other cleaning blood from the cut. Peter couldn't stop watching Frank's bent head, his hair long enough to curl slightly at the back of his neck, and his hands, thick fingers surprisingly dexterous.
It had been a couple of weeks since they'd…well, and this certainly wasn't how Peter has imagined he'd be (half) naked in front of Frank again.
They'd seen each other since then, briefly, mostly while they were both working. Tonight was the first time Peter had brought Frank home with him, though, and he hadn't been back to Red Hook since the afternoon on the dock.
Neither of them had mentioned it and Peter was fine with that. Really.
"Need a couple stitches."
Peter looked down. "Seriously?"
"Unless you wanna bleed all over your apartment."
"It wouldn't be the first time. Plus it'll just heal in a day or two."
Frank eyed him for a moment, then reached for the needle in Peter's first aid kit without comment.
Peter's apartment hadn't changed too much since he'd moved. He had a better mattress now, a couple more books on the shelves, a plant on the windowsill that was somehow still alive. It wasn't bad really; he'd made the rickety attic space his own, and while it wasn't home, it was starting to feel more homey.
Outside, somebody laid on their horn for several seconds and a siren started up with a long, low wail a few blocks away, the sound rising and then fading between the buildings as it travelled south. Peter felt the Pavloved rush of adrenaline at the sound but forced himself to sit still.
Frank's hand tightened slightly around his waist. "Ready?"
"Yep."
The first stitch pulled through his skin unpleasantly and Peter hissed through his teeth. Frank glanced up at him once before going back to work, his thumb shifting against Peter's ribs.
Peter watched his hands, which felt like a mistake. He knew those hands, knew what they felt like in situations much different than this. Had definitely not been thinking of what they felt like these past few weeks, definitely not.
Frank finished the second stitch and ran his thumb absently along Peter's side, clearing away a thin streak of blood. Peter looked away, swallowed hard, then tipped his head back to study the ceiling.
That afternoon had been good.
Really fucking good, actually, which was probably part of the problem.
Frank hadn't made it weird afterward, and Peter wasn't going to either. They'd already stumbled into one of the few relationships in Peter's life that seemed capable of surviving his bullshit, and it wasn't like he had so many friends that he could afford to get all careless with the ones he did have.
"Done."
Peter looked down. Three neat stitches closed the cut along his ribs.
"Thanks."
Frank stepped back, taking his hands with him, and Peter immediately missed the warmth. Which was stupid, and yet.
He slid off the counter and stood straight with a wince, glancing up to realize they were standing very close in Peter's tiny bathroom.
His eyes moved slowly over Peter from his bare shoulders down across his chest and stomach. Beneath the steady hum of the refrigerator in the next room, Peter heard Frank's heartbeat beat a little heavier than it had a moment ago.
Peter swallowed. "Chinese?" he asked.
There was a beat of silence before Frank answered him. "Yeah, sure."
Peter escaped the bathroom before he could do something dumb. They ordered enough food for four people and ate on the couch, cartons spread across the coffee table with some action movie playing on the tv.
This was normal now.
Somewhere along the way they'd become friends, though Frank would probably never admit it. They worked together sometimes, they ate together. Frank showed up when Peter needed him, and Peter had learned that he could do the same without Frank asking what the hell he was doing there—or running him over with a van.
August hadn't changed any of that, Peter was just considerably more aware of Frank's body beside him now. Which was fine.
Their knees touched when Peter leaned forward for another dumpling. Frank's shoulder pressed against his when he settled back, solid through Peter's T-shirt. His arm stretched along the back of the couch, close enough that Peter could feel the warmth of his skin.
At some point Peter stopped watching the movie entirely, eyes fixed blindly on the screen.
He could smell the hand soap Frank had used earlier mixed with the faint metallic trace of gun oil that seemed a permanent part of his scent. Peter knew what his mouth tasted like. Knew the rough scrape of his beard against his throat, the weight of those hands around his waist.
Frank shifted beside him, turning slightly, and Peter glanced over without thinking. The television flickered across Frank's face, throwing shadows along his jaw and cheekbones. His arm was still stretched along the couch behind Peter, their thighs touching knee to hip.
There was no reason he couldn't kiss him, Peter knew how it would go and wanted it with an ache that was surprisingly strong. They'd already done considerably more than that. Frank wanted him, or had wanted him in August, and judging by his heartbeat earlier, it hadn't changed.
Frank's eyes moved over his face, lingering on his mouth.
Peter could just lean in. Instead, he reached forward and grabbed the carton of noodles on the table in a deflection of his own desires.
"You want these?" He asked
Frank was quiet for a second. "Nah."
Peter settled back against the couch, putting a few more inches between them. The movie kept playing and Frank turned back to it.
Relief came first and then disappointment hot on it's heels. Good. This was good.
After the credits rolled, Frank stood and stretched, then started gathering the empty cartons and beer bottles from the coffee table. Peter watched him carry everything into the kitchen, tucking the containers into the garbage before rinsing the forks and leaving them in the sink.
Peter stayed on the couch, listening to the cupboards, the scrape of the garbage can, water running through the pipes. Small domestic sounds in an apartment that was usually so quiet Peter could hear the refrigerator hum from his bed.
For a moment, he let himself imagine Frank staying.
Nothing complicated, just him still here on the couch, maybe Peter falling asleep and waking up with his head on Frank's shoulder. Something simple and easy and normal. He could ask him to stay.
The thought came and went almost immediately.
Then Frank was there with his jacket already in his hand. "Text me if that starts bleeding again," he said.
"I will," Peter said, standing.
Frank pulled his jacket on and walked to the door. "Night, Pete."
"Night."
Peter stood there for a few seconds, listening to Frank's footsteps fade down the hall. He dropped into the spot Frank had left warm, staring at the television blankly until it asked if he was still watching.