Chapter Text
Frank Castle had a lot of enemies.
Mobsters. Cartels. Mercs. Ninjas. Cultists. You name it. And sometimes, even mercs who were also ninjas, and ninjas who were also cultists, because apparently the universe had decided at some point that Frank's life wasn't nearly complicated enough unless the categories started overlapping.
So, yeah.
He'd been through some shit. He'd been shot. Stabbed. Beaten. Tortured. Blown up. He'd also once spent three days hiding in a drainage tunnel under East Brooklyn while half a dozen armed men searched for him, and he'd considered that a relaxing vacation compared to some of the people he'd dealt with.
But nothing—and Frank meant nothing— could have prepared him for Peter Fucking Parker.
Now, technically, Peter wasn't an enemy. That was important. But Frank also wasn’t going to start calling Peter a friend either (that one time in the hospital didn’t count).
Peter was more like ...a twenty-something kid Frank kept running into because they happened to work in the same general line of business, except Frank's business usually involved guns and dead criminals and Parker's involved spandex, webbing, and apparently the inability to grasp the simple concept of ‘staying the fuck out of his way.’
So, technically, if somebody really had to describe their relationship, coworker was probably the closest thing.
Yeah.
Let’s go with that.
Anyway, the point was, as a coworker, Frank didn't feel the need to interact much with Peter outside of when they were both (okay, maybe just him) shooting up bad guys. Because, you know, that was how the general professional arrangement was supposed to go. You do your job. They do their job. You shoot your guys. They shoot their guys. Then you go your separate ways.
Of course, Peter Parker, being Peter Parker, apparently, just never got the memo.
Sometimes, it was a smart-ass note left on his door with whatever new complaint Peter had about his security system. Frank, however, liked his system the way it was. Simple. Physical. Reliable. He wasn't about to add all that techno mumbo jumbo because some kid had complained about his claymores.
Sometimes, it was Peter trying to follow Frank home because, according to Peter, Frank had lost too much blood. Which was bullshit, because Frank had been losing blood just fine on his own for years.
And sometimes, it was Peter just showing up.
On a random Tuesday evening.
Like right now.
“Frank?”
“No.”
“You don't even know what I was going to ask.”
“No.”
There was a pause where Peter didn't say anything, but he did give Frank a smile.
The hell.
Frank knew that smile.
It was the smile Peter wore whenever he'd already done something unnecessary and was waiting for Frank to discover it.
The first time Frank had seen it, Peter had webbed Frank's rifle to the ceiling of a bank.
The second time, he'd cut the brakes on Frank's truck. Technically, Peter claimed he'd only disabled the brakes because he needed Frank to stop driving into a warehouse full of armed men. Frank, naturally, cussed him out.
The third time, Peter had somehow managed to attach a tracking device to Frank without him noticing. That one, Frank admitted, rather begrudgingly, had been kind of impressive. Frank had still considered shooting him, though. For about three seconds, at least.
Now, once again, Peter stood in front of Frank's ship wearing sweatpants, a hoodie, and that same god damn stupid cheeky-ass smile, like he was suited up and fully ready to commit another crime against Frank's peace of mind.
“Can Jean stay here tonight?”
Frank stared at him, his eyes narrowing.
Jean. That Jean. Ever since the incident on Roosevelt Island, he knew that Peter had been keeping tabs on her. Apparently, he even made a deal with Rivera to help her get settled into an apartment in Manhattan somewhere; something, something about how she could readjust to civilian life.
Frank suddenly felt the need to rub his face. Damn Peter and his bad habit. Kid just couldn't leave people alone, could he?
Someone needed help, Peter helped. Someone was lonely, Peter showed up. Someone was in danger, Peter threw himself between them and whatever was trying to kill them.
Frank had seen the kid do it enough times by now to know it wasn't just some stupid superhero act. Peter really just couldn't help himself. He was a good kid, in that sort of way. That was probably why Frank hesitated for a second.
Only a second.
Though it didn't mean anything, because the answer was still the same.
“No.”
“Okay.” Peter nodded once, then he started walking away.
Frank narrowed his eyes again. That was too easy. “Why?”
Peter stopped mid-step. “Why what?”
“Why'd you ask if you already knew the answer?”
“Well, I thought I'd try.”
“You thought wrong.”
“Yeah.”
Peter nodded again as Frank watched him go without so much as another peep. Oh. Something was definitely wrong. Peter was never this agreeable. Peter argued. Peter yapped. Sometimes, he even whined. Once, he'd spent twenty-seven minutes explaining to Frank why taking out six armed ninjas with webbing was superior to bullets. Frank didn't understand the argument, but mostly because, at the same point in time, the ninjas were still in the middle of trying to fucking kill them. Peter had apparently felt that was beside the point.
Finally, Peter reached the end of the dock, and something about the way Peter's shoulders dropped started to bother him. Not much. Just enough, which was when Frank sighed. “What happened to her place?”
Peter stopped, turned around, but didn’t quite look Frank in the eyes. “Stuff.”
“What stuff?”
“Just... stuff.”
“Parker.”
“It's complicated.”
Frank stared at him. Peter stared back. Frank waited, because Frank could out-wait anyone. He'd waited in a drainage tunnel for three days; he could wait out one damn kid. Even if he was a spider-kid.
Peter lasted maybe 5 seconds. “Damage control.”
“No.” Oh. Hell to the no.
“Come on, Frank. You owe me. Remember Sta—”
“Staten Island again?” Frank rolled his eyes. “Got to be kidding me. You used that one last time you came by.”
“I still saved your life!”
“And I saved yours when you were getting your ass handed to you by the Hulk.”
"Well, technically," Peter muttered, "you also shot me afterwards. So."
Frank's jaw tightened. There it was. The guilt. The kid was using the guilt. Though probably not because he meant to (and enough people in Frank’s life had tried to manipulate him that he could see it from a mile away), he just stood there looking disappointed in himself, and somehow Frank ended up feeling like he'd just kicked a fucking puppy.
Despite himself, Frank rubbed a hand over his face anyway. “What's wrong with your place?”
Peter hesitated, his eyes darting left again. “She just... can't stay there.”
“Why?”
“I told you. Damage control.”
“That doesn't answer the question.”
“It doesn't need to.”
“It does if you're asking to bring a telepath into my house.”
Peter frowned. “She's not gonna hurt you.”
“That's not what I'm worried about.”
Peter immediately went quiet, and Frank didn’t even have to ask. He knew that look. The kid was trying to decide how much to tell him. That usually meant whatever came next was either going to be something Frank wasn't going to like, or something Peter thought Frank wasn't going to like. With Peter though, those two things were usually the fucking same.
Frank sighed. “Peter.”
“Yelena said somebody’s looking for her.”
That got Frank's attention. “And?”
“If Jean stays with me, she’ll try to figure out what’s going on!” Then the kid looked down, as if he wasn't quite sure how to explain it. “She just went through one crazy organization trying to use her, I don’t want her to have to worry about another one yet.”
Ah. Classic Peter. Kid found someone who'd already been used, manipulated, and nearly destroyed by people who wanted something from her, and his response was apparently to personally take responsibility for making sure nobody did it again.
Frank should’ve known.
Still, if the Black Widow had felt the need to share that intel, that means things weren't as simple as Peter was trying to let on.
Frank studied him. “Who?”
“Don't know yet.”
“Then why the hell are you here?” What was he? Some sort of babysitter for Peter Parker's girlfriends? The nerve of the kid.
“Because you're the safest person I know.” Peter's explanation came without a shred of hesitancy.
Frank stared at him.
Peter immediately looked embarrassed. “You know what I mean.”
Frank did. Unfortunately. The feeling crept up again, not quite guilt, but something like understanding. For maybe the 50th time that day, he sighed and looked toward the ceiling. If he still believed in God, He could almost hear God laughing. Probably having a goddamn party up there too. “Fine.”
Peter's entire face lit up. “Really?”
“One night.”
“Thank you.”
“No food on the couch.”
“Of course.”
“No fights.”
“Absolutely.”
“No voodoo magic shit.”
“Wouldn't dream of it.” Peter paused. “Oh. Wait, what if Jean needs to talk to me—”
Frank pointed at the exit. “Get out.”
Peter only responded with a grin. “Thanks, Frank! I’ll bring Jean over later.”
Then he disappeared, leaving Frank alone in front of his ship as the realization slowly dawned on him.
Ah. Fuck.
He had made a mistake.
Not a small tactical mistake.
But a giant, catastrophic mistake.
Because he had just agreed to let Peter Parker bring Jean Grey into his house.