Archive of Our Own

The pool of blood was spreading rapidly underneath him, the maroon of it at odds with the friendly red and blue of the suit. His eyelids fluttered as his breaths hiccuped and staggered wet and bleeding. In the silence that followed releasing the city, alone on this peninsula, every hack was like a whip crack, every wheeze a knife on chalkboard.

Sweaty strands of hair hung down from Jean's face, framing the young man in front of her. Who had showed her compassion, empathy, in a room where there was none left. Where it had been forcibly extracted, just as they'd extracted her sister's ability.

She had lost her sister here.

She would not lose him too.

Those swirling feelings within her, that awareness of a new ability, shuddered in front of her. She could not let him die, she would not. She clenched her eyes shut, feeling the air warp around her with the movement of her mind, physical and yet incorporeal.

It did not wind like a tendril, nor drift like a breeze. Rather like an explosion, it passed through anything in front, below, behind, above, her ability touched everything. She could move anything, through anything, as fast as a bomb or slow as a second.

It expanded in front of her, around her. Above was the air, the atmosphere intertwined with smoke, held in by foam tiles. Behind her, an unconscious man, a monster, in a chair, shards of glass scattered over the floor, their edges sharp and brittle against her senses. Once weapons, now rubble. If she looked even farther behind she would find the bedroom setup that had trapped her, and once, her sister.

But she couldn't look that far. She needed to see what was in front of her.

The iron scent of accumulating blood found her first, before she could register her extrasensory input. Then the fading heat of his body as his breaths grew choked. She focused once more, reaching out, found the life of him. The blood that shuddered through veins as pressure decreased. The faint electricity of nerves on high, overloaded with sensation. The wet air churning in lungs, seeping into slowing blood, whistling up and out. The small wedge of metal, its destructive path torn through muscle and membrane, wrecking the sponge-like mass of lung that had begun to fold in on itself at the breach.

She didn't see so much as feel when he lost the battle to his body, when his eyelids fell shut, his muscles relaxed, his chest fell still, his heart slowing…slowing…

Immediately she reached out in ten different ways, hundreds of tiny hands working to hold the lungs open, the blood vessels closed, keep his windpipe clear, pump the heart, matching its movement to her own, moving the diaphragm up and down, up and down…

Up and down, up and down, up and down.

It could have been minutes, it could have been hours when a door burst open behind her. Still, she focused on the only thing she could. With every breath she inhaled, his diaphragm contracted, and every exhale, diaphragm relaxed.

Up and down.

In and out.

The man who burst in was large, angry, and fraught with distress. He skidded to a knee, careless of the glass around them. He reached out large, worn hands towards Peter.

"Out of the way, Jean Grey."

Her mind split again, the way she was able to hold onto thousands of people at once. Multiple parts kept Peter Parker's body alive, and one focused on the anger towards the man in front of her, holding him still.

"Who are you? What do you want with Peter?" she shouted into his head.

She didn't dare look up to him, but in her periphery she could see dark fatigues, one heavy military-style boot, all black. She freed his mouth to let him respond.

"That's freaky," he commented. He had a very gruff voice. "I'm…" he trailed off a moment as he searched for a word. "I'm a," he hesitated, "friend, of his."

"I'm gonna need more than that. He's dying, and he will die if he leaves without me."

"Look, if I wanted to kill ya, you'd already be dead. We just need to get him the hell out of here. I never meant to hit him, he moved somehow as soon as I shot."

She knew what he wasn't saying. Never meant to hit him. Meant to hit her.

She hopped into his head and immediately recognized where and who she was. She had been here before. Frank Castle, the Punisher. She pulled out, those topmost thoughts easily read.

He didn't care about her so much as he needed to make sure Peter was alright.

"Let me up," he ordered, and though it was faint, there was a tendril of frantic urgency that, if she hadn't been convinced before, she was now.

She dropped her hold on him, ready to freeze him in a second.

With all the care of lifting a child into bed, he slid arms under Peter's unconscious body and hoisted him into a cradle against his chest. He was already off moving, and Jean made sure to stay close.

"Grab his mask."

She scooped the mask up with out moving, pieces of glass trickling to the floor as it floated up into her hands so she could quickly slide it over his ragged face, leaving it tucked above his nose.

His rough voice showed no strain even with the extra weight. "What exactly did ya mean by 'he'll die without you'?"

In and out, up and down.

"I'm breathing for him."

He grunted. Probably affirmation. "Then stay close. Keep him alive"

Frank Castle had lost a lot in this city.

He would not lose the kid too.

He knew he'd had her in his sights. The aim was perfect. He could miss, but he knew this time he hadn't.

Spider-Man had moved. Frank had seen it through the scope, but it was after the trigger was pulled, the moment it was out of his hands. The kid was insufferably noble, and he had moved to save Jean Grey and gotten himself shot instead.

It was a hell of a stretch to call him family. Friend was probably closer to accurate, but associate or fellow vigilante sure didn't capture it.

He swore, harshly, even as he was already up and moving, stowing his rifle and finding an exit off the roof.

The barrier that had trapped people in the city, the force emanating from where Peter was now probably lying in his own blood, instantly began to shrink, falling back towards the Damage Control building.

With that gone, there was nothing that would keep The Punisher from getting to Spider-Man

He knew he was running against the clock. With the aim on Jean Grey, he had known exactly how it would kill her (quickly). When the kid moved, suddenly he wasn't sure. It could have hit plain muscle, it could have punctured a lung, shattered bone. The options only got worse, and the time only shortened.

Getting to the Department of Damage Control building, an unassuming cement block of a building sitting pretty on the edge of an almost-island, was a blur of stolen vehicles and commandeered vessels. If he bothered to he could remember, but his focus was on getting into the building.

The occupants that had been released post-control were gathering out on the lawn in front of the building, law enforcement and emergency response scattered among the clusters of scared workers.

Frank took a back entrance. Or rather, he made one, shattering a window that led to a stairwell, and climbed and searched until he found a broken door.

He slammed it open, revealing a room scattered with glass, the remnants of a wall encasing some intrusive bedroom setup. A man tied to a chair laid unconscious. He clocked Jean Grey, always aware of the dangers, but his eyes went straight to the kid on the floor. Frank swept past all of it and immediately kneeled beside the limp figure of Spider man.

The kid's mask was off, somewhere discarded, and a pool of spreading blood emanated from his back. A mess of short, sweaty curls fringed a bruised, youthful face, eyes closed. Obviously he knew Spider-Man was young, but he was surprised to see just how young.

The clock was ticking to get him help, and that amount of blood lost made that clock tick faster. Frank immediately reached for him.

"Out of the way, Jean Grey."

He found himself stopped, his body held in place by an unseen pressure.

A voice—young, female, probably the girl in front of him—boomed into his head.

"Who are you? What do you want with Peter?"

Peter, huh. Guess the kid had a name.

Now, he'd dealt with some crazy shit in New York over the last few years—events involving a certain blind lawyer came to mind—but having a voice in his mind was new.

The pressure released on his jaw like a hand unclamping it.

"That's freaky." Hope that never happens again. "I'm a…friend, of his."

Felt even weirder in his mouth than it sounded.

We don't have time for this was all he could think as he bargained with this girl. She couldn't be more than twenty years old, probably younger. He figured somewhere around the kid's age.

He respected her desire to protect the kid. Peter. He felt the same. Why she was suddenly his ally, he couldn't be sure, but right now any retribution she was owed had to wait. He scooped up the kid and immediately made for his entrance, now exit.

He glanced around the corner of the building as they left the confines of the stairwell. There were paramedics outside, and while that would be instant help, there was no guarantee they would keep his identity secret. There was a crowd out there too.

They needed a way to keep Spider-Man separate from Peter.

"I can get us a ride," came Jean Grey's chilling, omnidirectional voice inside his head. He hated the feeling of it.

"Do it."

In seconds a small speed boat whipped around to the edge of the island. The driver looked uncannily towards the trio and gave a light finger wave.

Frank rolled his eyes, but he started towards the edge of the island, careful not to jostle Peter.

His arm underneath Spider-Man was growing damp as warm blood soaked into his sleeve. They didn't have much time. Every breath choked in and out of the kid, full of sounds that sounded closer to death than life. Jean's audible inhales and exhales were not helping.

"There's a hospital straight across. Go," he barked at Jean. "We'll find some place for you to hole up nearby once he's taken care of."

"I know how to stay hidden. Now let me focus."

The minutes it took to cross the small channel felt an eternity. Guilt flooded through Frank as fast as the waves washed behind them. The kid had to live. He couldn't die without knowing it wasn't supposed to be him.

He didn't betray the kid.

The boat coasted up to a small dock barely a block from where they needed to be. Sliding the mask over Peter's mouth and nose, Frank stood, Spider-Man cradled in his arms.

"It's go time."

Jean stood and jumped out of the boat. It never seemed like she was actually looking where she was going. There was a distance to her stare Frank had seen many times. He didn't care to know what had a girl like her wearing it.

When he found the emergency bay doors, he marched in as loud as he could.

"SOMEONE GET ME A MEDIC!"

Then began the waiting game.

The alley behind the hospital was filled with garbage. Every breath she took for Peter, the stench burned through her nose, nearly forced a gag. But she kept on.

Jean monitored everyone around him: the doctors and nurses that relocated Spider-Man to a gurney, the staff, patients in hospital beds, the occupants of the waiting room. Her telekinesis found every person and object, a bit like brushing through clothes walking through a department store, and her mind found their thoughts and intentions.

She watched the streets outside, the sidewalks, the ambulance drivers, the regular drivers, the terrible drivers. The people in the neighboring buildings, and those buildings' neighbors. Twice she had been forced to move already for fear of being chased away, but here, tucked in a forgotten corner between the hospital and a deli, she had found privacy for just a little longer.

She also kept an eye on Frank Castle. A begrudging ally for the moment in the fight to keep Peter alive, but she didn't trust him. She didn't trust anyone really, but especially not someone who had just tried to kill her.

He had found a chair just outside the doors Peter had disappeared behind on a gurney seconds ago. He had buried his head in his hands. He had looked at the emergency department doors at least ten times in five minutes, like Peter was going to waltz back through and declare he was alright. Like he needed Peter to.

She continued to watch him. Not eager to get back inside that messed-up head, she barely brushed past his foremost thoughts, then just as quickly jumped away.

The immensity of the guilt swirling inside that mind was nearly enough to knock her concentration. Her own breath caught at the sudden drop in her stomach, the weight in her chest. She pulled back, focusing again on the in and out, in and out.

When she was sure the doctors could handle whatever wounds Peter had, she released her control of his body piece by piece. She couldn't react the way he would, couldn't mimic the unique way his body responded. She didn't want to get in the way of the help he was receiving. Already she could sense an accelerated healing, but it was buried deep under the barrage of injuries ravaging an exhausted body.

She focused on the in and out, in and out, in and out.

"MJ! There's a new Spidey sighting!" Ned called out from his computer desk.

Ned still couldn't believe that Spider-Man had hung out in his apartment. It had felt like they were old friends, even though he was sure he'd never met the guy. Well, not counting the Washington Monument, Berlin, London, and then New York, right before they'd left for college. But there hadn't really been time to chat while they were actively trying not to die.

That he remembered, anyway. Those moments were always a little foggy, but he assumed it must have been the adrenaline of the moment. Between all the action, the thwip-thwip of webs, and presumably explosions, there were bound to be mix-ups.

Nearly an hour ago, he and MJ had gotten caught in that weird, time-stoppage. Except time hadn't really stopped—he had watched the clock on the stove change—but he and MJ had been frozen in place, stopped midstep. A space-stoppage? The last confirmed sighting of Spider-Man put him inside the area of effect, but ever since then, the Spidey Tracker hadn't updated with a confirmed sighting, and there had barely been even rumored sightings.

And yes, it was, perhaps not common, but occasionally normal for the Spidey Tracker to go quiet for extended periods of time. Spider-Man had to sleep too, didn't he? Unless he didn't, Ned thought. Some special spider power where he needs less sleep. His gut said no, but he had to consider the possibilities. And anyway, it was still the middle of the day, and the Spidey Tracker was always active following a big event like that.

Then two minutes ago, the Spidey Tracker had trilled from his phone with multiple rumored sightings.

"Where's it say he's at?" MJ perked up from her position on his bed. She'd been doodling in that sketchbook the entire time Ned had been searching for anything related to Spider-Man after the stoppage.

Ned pulled up his app, the rumored sightings populating the activity log. A sharp spike of fear jolted through him as he registered what the blurry photos were showing.

His voice went quiet as he read out the location.

"It says he's at a hospital."

MJ sat up all the way, abandoning her pencil. "You said that like it's bad."

"Here," he said, and tossed his phone at the bed. She grabbed it, inspected it. Her face barely changed, but he knew concern on her when he saw it.

She stood up suddenly. With a quick snag of her pencil and sketchbook, she was already out of the room.

"What are you doing?" Ned called, leaning back in his chair.

He heard the rustling of heavy fabric, like she was grabbing her coat. A few stomps that sounded like boots being shoved on. The jangling of keys being pulled from their storage hook.

"I'm gonna go see him."

Ned scrambled out of his chair and began searching for his own jacket.

"Well wait for me! Maybe we can get a confirmed sighting of him."

She stood by the door, bag over her shoulder and coat on, waiting, and gave him an exasperated look. Barely more than a tilt of her head and a raised eyebrow, but still. Exasperated. "We are not taking a picture of him for your app in the hospital."

"Ugh, fine. I'll just confirm the sightings if we see him."

"Good."

Together they left the apartment and headed for the last known location of Spider-Man.

Jean Grey was tired.

In a single day, she had stormed Damage Control, been taken hostage by Damage Control, found V-Max, determined what had become of her sister, had her powers wrestled out of her control, regained her powers and expanded them exponentially, and seen who Spider-Man truly was.

And after all of that, she had been keeping a vigil over the same Spider-Man who had, barely five hours earlier, stifled her powers with his own dampener and handed her over to Damage Control.

Actually, tired didn't even come close to covering it.

Of course that's when something went wrong.

The doctors were removing the bullet. Jean had assumed a sort of half-possessed state. One mental foot in Peter's body, one in her own. His thoughts were quiet and nonsensical, heavily dampened under anesthetics. Her focus was still on keeping him alive, moving his body the way it needed to. The bullet being tugged on was putting her under increasing strain, his body trying to react to the foreign objects, her mind trying to keep him from succumbing to that reaction.

"Hey, you!" A curious voice shouted from the end of the alley. It came to her as if at the end of a thickly crowded tunnel.

Jean had her hood up, so tilting her head was invisible to the newcomer.

"Hey!" came the voice again, a little more angry this time. Time to move again. "You can't be back here, find somewhere else to be!"

Jean lifted a hand and rose from her spot sat next to a dumpster, making her way towards the mouth of the alley. With her mind on Peter, she wouldn't jump into the man at the end of the alley. Of course it was a man. Why couldn't it ever be a nice old lady?

The man stood between her and freedom, the alley a dead end. A terrible choice for being hidden, but when she'd found it there had been two exits. At some point a truck had backed into the other end. A quick reach out told her the driver was still in the truck, smoking a cigarette out a cracked window and feeling bored.

She kept her head down as she neared the exit. Her heart was pounding. She forced herself to keep her breath steady, in and out. She couldn't go far, she couldn't risk the distance, not now.

The man stepped to the side of the alley as she passed. The security uniform the man wore was clearer up close. Hospital security, presumably. She turned right, hoping to sit with Frank Castle, but found the dull hum of a crowd overtop New York City traffic as she exited. Her feet slowed to a stop. People were gathering near the emergency department doors.

A deeply unsettled feeling washed over her in an instant. Lightheadedness and fatigue hit like a punch. She reached out for a wall to steady herself. Her mind zeroed in on Peter. That feeling wasn't hers, so it had to be his.

Distantly she felt herself be prodded, and not very gently. Her body reacted slowly, turning away from the entrance.

"Unless you need medical attention, I'll have to ask you go this way."

The bullet was almost out.

The guard's voice increased in intensity. "Ma'am…"

Jean sucked in a breath.

In a panic, she nearly dropped into Peter's body completely. Her senses expanded into a body that was not hers, and what immediately caught her attention was the rapidly mending wound, phantom injuries thrumming in her own back. The faint sensation of a small, warm piece of metal slipping out muscle and skin, the warm pulse of blood behind it. Another distant nudge scraped her hand against the brick wall. The instant sandpaper pain landed her back in her own body.

She muscled her way past the security guard in the opposite direction of the hospital. The guards shouted after her, but didn't follow. Then she reached back out to Peter and those around him. All the surface thoughts were calm, collected. The bullet sat in a small metal bowl off to the side.

In and out, she reminded herself.

The worst part was over, but Peter still needed to breathe.

She made a wide circle around the gathering crowd. The security guards stayed close to the building, so she kept to the opposite side of the street.

With a tiny tendril of power, she tapped Frank Castle's guilt-ridden mind. She fought to keep a tight hold on her concentration. His emotions were still full throttle, so it was a battle to not let them envelop her.

"Peter's okay," Jean said directly into his mind. She felt a burst of surprise, then a kick of annoyance that she was in his head again. Whatever. He could think what he liked. "The worst is over."

"Great. Now get out of my head." His reply came back to her in a whispered tone, although the volume was consistent. She assumed he'd spoken aloud as well, although whether he did or did not hardly mattered. His relief settled over his thoughts like a burst of snow, light and calm, lightly covering all the emotions still there underneath.

She dropped out of his mind. She glanced up at the sky, and the perfect hiding place came to her.

The hideout of all superheroes. And vigilantes, and probably antiheroes, and villains. Really anybody.

The roof.

After all her roaming earlier, she remembered where the fire escapes were and quickly found a path to the roof of the hospital. This particular one didn't have a helipad on it, so she didn't have to worry about being interrupted. Probably.

Jean holed up next to the door, the roof of the small extension just enough to make a temporary shelter. Of all the places she'd hidden over the years, this may have been one of the better ones. She would have to try this another time.

She burrowed her shoulders against the cool concrete and breathed.

Frank thought the first few hours waiting were hell, and then the adrenaline wore off and he really learned what it was to wait.

He knew how to wait. There was a certain kind of waiting that came with finding a mark, holding for the right moment, even if it was hours upon hours upon hours, alone. There was another kind of waiting he had learned decades ago in the military, hurry up and wait. Killing time, often with company. There was waiting for a child, walking slowly or distractedly noticing their surroundings. There was waiting for a bus, expected but tedious. So many ways to wait.

This was different. This was torture.

He spent an eternity in that waiting room. He thumbed through the magazines and newspapers, skipping over every article, pausing on a photograph once or twice but never for more than a few seconds. He catalogued exits, profiled people, scanned the room over and over and over. He counted tiles on the ceiling, on the floor. He examined every way he could have avoided this situation. He ran through every spot he'd had Jean stash a weapon on the way to the hospital.

Jean had better not take any of them.

Eyes snagged on his shirt, the skull intense even under a layer of grime and dried blood. They darted to his face, the scars. The bustling emergency room had enough going on Frank could keep a low profile even in such an enclosed space. A nurse had come out after an hour or so, bandaging the cuts over his eyebrow and along his cheek. An elderly woman was eyeing him like he was a growling dog with a penchant for nasty nips.

He sighed violently, an annoyed scowl turning down his face. "Look somewhere else, lady."

She startled at the reaction, clutching a small purse and turning in her wheelchair to stare towards a far wall.

Abandoning his chair for the bathroom only passed so much time, even spending nearly a half hour cleaning himself and his clothes. The blood had started to cake to his arms, and he knew when it started to become too uncomfortable to be around. The uneasy shuffles around him, the empty chairs on either side of his.

When he returned to the waiting room, the air conditioning cold against his damp skin, he glanced out the glass doors of the emergency bay. Apparently word had spread that Spider-Man was here. A small crowd had started to gather outside the doors, a few hastily drawn cardboard signs hovering overhead. People shuffled behind a barricade being arranged by a few security guards, and there was even one brave camera flashing, gathering tidbits for another, probably dry, headline.

And there at the front, the girl Spider-Man had hidden in Frank's hideout.

He caught her recognizing him, the slight posture change, her eyebrows' pop of muffled surprise, and, what Frank thought was odd reaction for seeing the Punisher (and therefore suspicious), a slight shoulder drop of relief.

Frank's first instinct was to get out of there before someone else caught onto the recognition. The last thing Peter would want would be for MJ to get caught up with the Punisher with law enforcement. It may have been quiet so far, but good only lasts so long.

His second instinct, the less survival inclined, said she could be helpful to Peter, and to help her.

With her eyes still on him, he nodded towards the south side of the building where he knew a side entrance was. Better to talk out of sight, away from the press and all those damn phones with their fancy cameras.

She nodded, and Frank moved.

"If you'll make an orderly line!" A security guard was shouting over the crowd outside the emergency bay doors. MJ and Ned stood near one of the barricades lining the street, pressed close as if they were at a concert and not the hospital housing New York's favorite hero. "If you have a gift you'd like to be considered, please form a line to drop it off at this table!"

MJ's hand immediately went to her bag. Inside was her sketchbook, and inside that was the drawing of Peter and Ned. Not Spider-Man, Peter.

She still fought herself for how to feel about the revelation that she had been friends (maybe more) to Spider-Man. The pragmatic side of her, which governed the grand majority of her life, said she didn't know who Peter was and, for all intents and purposes, she had never met him. Maybe she had known him once, but then four years had passed. A person does not remain unchanged in that time. Not her, not him. Their lives had diverged drastically, whether either had wanted them to or not. She could say much the same about any of her classmates from high school. Even Ned, and they had spent the last four and a half years living together.

Before she could second guess herself, her free hand found Ned's wrist, and she tugged him towards where the line was forming, shouldering her way between onlookers.

"You have something for him?" Ned asked as they found a place in line.

MJ nodded. The sketch should go to him, she knew what it would mean to Peter, but how to get it there without exposing him was a challenge that, based on the speed the crowd was moving towards the indicated donation spot, she had about ten minutes to figure out.

People continued to jostle against each other as the odd gift giver made their way towards the donation table. MJ was stuck up against the barricade, looking for a way to navigate around a group that had wedged themselves in front in red and blue outfits, oblivious to anyone around them as they waved their cardboard signs. She kept a tight grip on Ned's hand behind her. For a moment she considered hopping the barricade, but thought better of the chaos that would entail. In that split second she had looked beyond the barricade, she caught a glimpse of a familiar black-and-white, skull-emblazoned shirt through the bay doors.

The Punisher stopped in his tracks, his perpetually-scowling eyes finding hers in a moment. If she had been moving, her feet would have stopped in surprise.

He nodded towards one side of the building, opposite the direction she had been moving.

MJ found her solution.

She jolted forward as if bumped from behind and let her hand slip away from Ned's. He called out behind her, but she pushed farther away, towards the alley Frank Castle had indicated.

"I'll find you later!"

Once, she would have tucked her shoulders and chin, making herself smaller to squeeze through. Now she simply brushed shoulders, nudged people with a hand or word here, a light elbow there.

The rational part of her brain screamed out that this was the Punisher she was going to meet. In an alley, no less. But Spider-Man trusted him, and Peter trusted him specifically to protect her. And that afternoon and night on the boat, despite the "you're being hunted" circumstances, had been quiet, almost peaceful. She respected Frank Castle for that, at the very least.

Frank Castle was leaned with one boot against the wall next to a glass exit door when she turned the corner. He had stuck a small newspaper in it to keep it from latching, as there was no handle on the outside.

MJ came to a stop around ten feet from the vigilante. Better safe than sorry.

"What are you doin' here?" he asked as she approached.

"I could say the same to you."

He tossed his head to the side with a small scoff. "I'm the one who brought him here, you think I'm just gonna leave him alone?"

That caught her off guard. "What happened to him? Is he hurt?"

"Yes he's hurt." His gravel-rough voice was sharp and caught. "Why else would I have brought him to a hospital? I'll ask again, what are you doin' here?" With that, he pushed off the wall and began to cross the distance towards her.

She grit her teeth against rising frustration. He beckoned her over here, the least he could was cut the flippancy. "I was worried about him. I figured he didn't have a lot, or any, support, so I decided to come."

She fumbled with her bag for a moment, and then pulled out her sketchbook. With a quick flip she found the page of the sketch and ripped it from the binding to hold out to Castle.

"Can you give this to him? I couldn't give it where they're collecting gifts for him, not when it shows his face. But you know him."

The sound of rocks under boots echoed in the alleyway as he stopped short of a foot from her. She stood nearly eye-to-eye with him and met his angry look. Did he always look pissed off?

He considered her sharply for a silent moment, her sketch held outstretched. Then he stepped back, pinching a corner of the sketch with a careful hand, and the tension dissipated with an almost physical sensation. Whatever he had been thinking, he'd obviously come to a decision.

"He was still in surgery when I left. They haven't given me any other updates yet, but they're keeping things pretty tight, even if word is starting to get out about him bein' here."

So he was trusting her with information, about his status.

In surgery.

"What. Happened. To him," she asked again. Insistence and fear colored her question.

The Punisher's eyes dropped to the ground. "He caught my shot intended for Jean Grey, the girl that was after you before."

Her heart jumped. The intensity of it surprised her. Maybe she didn't know Peter, but she knew Spider-Man had saved her life over and over again. His presence in New York had become integral. For him to be that hurt felt…unreal. He had always been there, protecting everyone, always back up and back at it. It was impossible. He couldn't die.

"What happened to Jean Grey?"

"She escaped. But, before you go all acting crazy because you think she's after you, I can tell you she's not after ya anymore."

MJ crossed her arms. "I'm not convinced."

"And I don't have any way to prove it. But if you can trust me for one second, know that she wouldn't do anything that would hurt him now."

The implication of his words, intended or not, felt heavy on her mind. Now that she knew about his past, it was coming back to hit her again and again. She realized it also meant that Spider-Man and the Punisher were much friendlier than she had previously assumed, especially if he knew about Peter's past, about her. Very interesting.

The sound of the crowd was steadily growing louder, and Ned had to be worrying about her disappearing. She wanted to go back to the apartment now that she knew Peter would get her sketch. Ned's app would get them as close to real time updates as standing in front of the hospital would anyways.

She wasn't sure what she hoped to convey by giving Peter that sketch, but at least he would know he wasn't alone. And maybe, in time, she would get to know Peter Parker.

"I need to go back. Make sure he's taken care of." MJ emphasized her point with a jab of her finger at the Punisher as she turned to leave the alley to go find Ned. Peter would be alright. This time, she would not expect, or accept, disappointment.

He held up his hands in mock surrender. "Yes ma'am."

Frank's shirt had nearly dried from a light washing, if scrubbing it with thin paper towels could be called that, when a nurse came out with an update.

"He's just come out of surgery, but he's stabilized now and been moved to a room. Would you like to join him?"

Frank's throat threatened to close up, and his response came out choked and halting. Relief flooded his system, intense in its surprise. Get it together. He cleared his throat once, twice, before anything intelligible came out.

"Take me there."

Frank Castle knew better than to ignore the path he was led down. They passed exits and stairwells and hallways, and he didn't even give them a sliver of a thought. He was a vigilante, same as the kid, but his methods made him a slightly more wanted man than the "Friendly Neighborhood Spider-Man." The fact that he hadn't been pressed by law enforcement—who he barely trusted as it was—was a testament to the hospital's response. They were keeping everything quiet, or trying to. Probably mostly for the kid's sake, but hey, when life gave ya lemons.

Still, he followed with his gaze locked on the short nurse in front of him, and any thoughts he might have given to planning for escape vanished in a heartbeat when the door was opened.

The kid, Peter, laid in the bed, eyes closed, head tilted just off center, blankets pulled up to his chest. Outgrown brown curls dipped over a pale face, catching on the elastic of an oxygen mask covering his mouth and nose. It fogged with his every exhale. An IV line snaked out from a hand draped across the blanket towards softly beeping monitors and a saline drip hovering just out of reach.

He thought the kid looked like shit. And it was Frank's own damn fault.

"It may be a while before he wakes up, but you can stay as long as you'd like." The nurse guided Frank towards a chair by the room's bay window, currently covered with folded blinds. He sat in it heavily, his body heavy as lead. "Most of his suit was cut when he was brought in, but his mask and gloves remained intact. A nurse will bring those by in a little bit."

Frank nodded numbly. He couldn't take his eyes off the kid.

"I'll leave you alone for now, but if you need anything, the call button is just here," she said, tapping a small button wired to the wall. It reminded Frank of old scholastic bowl buzzers, of all things. Or a detonator.

The door clicked as the nurse left, and Frank Castle was alone with Peter Parker.

The room only had the one bed in it, the white walls cold and blank, drab teal window shades mostly drawn. There wasn't much to do in the quiet room, but for a while Frank sat as his thoughts swirled around him in a violent tempest. Guilt and relief battered back and forth. His eyes kept skipping over the kid in the bed while he avoided the searing thoughts. A glimpse of a row of stitches straight to shadows from the window blinds, a bandage tucked underneath a hospital gown to the dark TV on the far wall, a purple-red bruise to the foam tiles of the ceiling. Most of those weren't strictly because of him, but if not for him, that oxygen mask, that gown, those IVs, none of it would be necessary. Even that slow rise and fall with every breath, that little puff of fog across the mask, every inhale and exhale that Jean Grey took for him, none of it would be happening right now if not for Frank Castle.

A knock sounded at the door. Frank nearly jumped out of his skin, but he was on his feet in an instant.

The latch clicked and the door swung open. In walked another nurse, this one taller with a sleeve of floral tattoos up one arm, bearing an armload of red and blue, far more than a mask warranted.

"What's all this?" Frank asked.

"Gifts for Spider-Man," the nurse said with a wink. "Don't worry, only a few of us have seen him, and we have measures in place for this sort of circumstance."

The nurse began to arrange a number of hand-painted and -drawn letters on a small table top against the wall. Most had the choppy scrawl of a child across them, but a few looked made by older hands. Variations of "Get Well Soon" and "I <3 Spider-Man" were spelled out in a number of ways as well. Frank felt a smirk poke at his cheek. It was cute.

"There's a fair few more, and we expect there will be more coming in the next few hours. Is sit all right to bring them in?" the nurse asked.

"As long as I can inspect them before they're brought in."

The nurse nodded, and then exited the room. The door latched with a solid click.

Suddenly Frank remembered the sketch he held clutched in his hand. The edge was a little wrinkled, but after a quick swipe across a corner it was good as new. He propped it up in front of the other cards, tilting it again and again until it finally sat so Peter could see it from his bed. A vent just above kept knocking it over with small gusts of air, but a pen across the bottom did the trick to keep it standing.

Frank returned to his chair. The nurse returned twice more, once bringing two large bundles of balloons along with another bundle of cards. Each time, Frank would rise and take part of the load to distribute across the room. In quiet harmony, they decorated the space with every kindness New York could show its Spider-Man, every sentiment displayed echoed by a hundred across the city.

By nightfall, the room was filled with red and blue. Peter's mask sat next to his bed, just in reach, one small piece in a larger collection. When Frank turned on the TV, the news clicked on, thankfully none of the Daily Bugle nonsense. Frank had half a mind to pop that reporter himself, but in a cursory search he'd uncovered nothing against the man besides an agitating personality and a few speeding tickets.

The coverage showed an aerial view of the Empire State Building, its night lights shifting from their standard white to an alternating red and blue. The headline below read New York Hopes for Spider-Man. He settled back as the footage switched to an anchor, the voice buzzing quietly through terrible speakers.

For a moment Frank considered whether his very presence would put the kid in danger, but just as quickly dismissed it. Underneath the guilt, he knew that the kid shouldn't be left alone, and that if anyone were to keep watch over him, who better than the Punisher? Hell, he went to fight the Hulk for the kid, if that didn't give him some kind of points, he didn't know what would. Had he been scared as shit? Obviously, who in their right mind wouldn't be? But, the difference between him and any other regular (ish) person was that he had stayed. He would stay here too.

He leaned back in the chair so his head rested against the wall. It was going to be a long night.

Staying awake for an entire night is difficult in and of itself. Staying concentrated that long while exhausted was miles worse.

At the very least, New York gave Jean something to watch. Everywhere, signs of support for Spider-Man were cropping up. News of their downed hero spread quickly and without reservation. Every so often, she split a little part of her attention to tap nearby minds. Not the most efficient way of keeping watch or staying up-to-date on the awareness of Spider-Man, but it was better than sitting against the wind with only ominous thoughts to keep her company. An elderly woman down the street whispered a prayer for the Spider-Man. A ten year-old boy dreamed of Spider-Man visiting his school. A teenager tied a sign for Spider-Man to their balcony railing with their friends. Sounded like even the Empire State Building was lighting up for the hometown hero. A few blocks over, a jumbotron spat out the ramblings of J. Jonah Jameson as he railed on Spider-Man for what she had done earlier that day.

She rolled her eyes as she listened. Showed what he knew.

But as he continued, even he sounded a little put out that his favorite nemesis was down for the count.

Multiple times that evening she nearly grabbed Castle, awake or not, and made him bring her food or a blanket or some other comfort, but every time she considered the possibility of losing her hold on Peter just for a snack, her resolve renewed.

One night of discomfort was a small price to pay to return the favor of saving her life.

Even though Peter was stable now, she could feel how he continued to labor for breath. The oxygen mask was helping, and that sense of healing had magnified drastically. But he still needed more time.

Just after midnight, Jean heard footsteps echoing from the stairwell behind her.

She nearly jumped into the approaching person's head, but the muffled swear following a bump to the stairwell door answered the question of who was approaching and saved her the trouble.

With a small thought, she flicked the bar to the door. Frank Castle appeared around the corner with two coffee cups in hand, tendrils of steam escaping through the lids. He judged her spot beside the stairwell with a look, but said nothing. She didn't need to be inside his head to know he approved, if barely.

The cup was held out to her, and she took it gratefully. Removing the sleeve, she let the warmth seep into her fingers.

"I would say don't drink it," Frank began. "It's absolutely shitty coffee, but we both know that's not gonna happen. Better to be caffeinated for now than not."

Jean lifted it to her lips, taking a tiny sip. The tip of her tongue was immediately seared, but she still caught the taste of bitter grounds.

"Are you sure this is even coffee?" she asked, wiping her mouth. The taste was lingering in a highly unpleasant way, but the warmth traveling through her chest made it almost worth it. She hadn't realized how cold her hands were until now.

"Eh, if it's good enough for the nurses, it's good enough for me."

"Got any food with you?"

He dug around in a pocket on his belt and tossed to her what seemed to be a half eaten bag of red licorice.

She raised an eyebrow at him.

"What?" he said, holding out his hands in the same question. "They keep good. If you don't want 'em, give 'em back."

She replied by popping one in her mouth.

"So what are you doing up here besides delivering what most would consider a terrible dinner?" Jean asked as she alternated bites of licorice with coffee. Not the best, but certainly not the worst combination she'd ever experienced.

"Hey at least I brought you something." He emphasized his words by pointing at her the way a parent might playfully scold a child. There was some measure of unseriousness to him that kept Jean from backing away. He dropped the hand and leaned a shoulder against the wall as he continued. "But I thought you'd need something. He's out of surgery, but I expect you already knew that."

Jean took another sip. "So thoughtful. Who would've thought, the Punisher bringing coffee to his enemies?"

He considered her for a moment. "Enemies might be a strong word. I've got some real enemies, and you ain't nothing like them."

"I'm not sure if I should take that as a compliment or an insult."

He shrugged with a huff of a laugh. "However you take it, we've got one job right now, whether I like you or not. I'll make sure who I'm working with is taken care of."

"Right…" she muttered.

"So you couldn't talk before because you were focusing on his breathing, but now you can? Not that I'm mad about not having your voice in my head, because that sucked, but I'm curious."

Jean couldn't tell if there was a hint of accusation in there or not. "He's closer to breathing on his own at this point. And after doing it for hours I think I know what I'm doing."

With a roll of his eyes, Castle said, "Whatever you say." He muttered something under his breath that sounded like an exasperated teenagers. "As long as he's breathing."

"Is he…doing okay now?"

"He's stable and sleeping. Nurse said he should wake up soon, but he hasn't yet. Looks like shit though." His words struggled to remain even towards the end. He squinted at her for a moment. "Why did you end up saving him? I thought you were trying to kill him before? Certainly seemed that way back at the other Department building."

Jean thought to the memory Peter had shared with her. The kinds words of his Aunt May. How they had both lost someone. How he had shown her compassion despite it.

"He deserved to live. He's better than all of us."

Frank nodded towards her. "Can't argue with that. He's a good kid."

They sat in silence for a few moments and sipped their coffees.

"I oughta go back in case he wakes up." Frank stood up from the wall and turned to leave, but he paused on the way. "You've still got some good in you. Keep it that way, yeah?"

She laughed, the sound sharp and jarring amidst the quiet. "Yeah."

Morning appeared slowly. The sky lightened little by little, breaking up the skyline from a blocky silhouette into its individual buildings. The city never truly quiets, but it began to buzz with renewed vigor as the sun colored the sky from below the horizon. For a moment she just watched the clouds and the growing vibrant orange and yellow of a crisp morning. Fatigue dragged at her, but she forced herself to watch the approaching morning.

She tried to impart what she saw of the sky to Peter. He was still asleep, but she felt something in his mind stir at the image of a new day. Suddenly she felt very awake, her heart skipping for a moment.

He was coming out of it.

In and out. In and out. In…..and out…..

She let go of his breath and hovered for a long second.

He inhaled a little sharper, a little shallower than before, but it was on his own. He started to crawl out of the depths of sleep.

Jean fell back against the wall and looked up at the sky, savoring the moment.

He would be okay.

She closed here eyes, inhaled deeply, and withdrew into herself.

She would be okay.

The sun broke the horizon.