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The human body has 7 trillion total nerves spread out, with 43 total named nerves and 86 individual nerves. And currently, every nerve in Peter’s body is radiating with pain, making him feel less like a person and more like one big ache.
If you looked up beat to shit in a dictionary, the photo would be Peter with the words “Scorpion is a little bitch ass loser who stole my fucking churro” written underneath.
Sure, he’d gotten Scorpion back in custody- at the expense of most of his bones and, more pressing, his fucking churro- but now his body fucking hurt, and all he had to look forward to was his kind-of-not-really-boyfriend's cold-ass mattress because Frank was MIA digging into some lead for something he refused to tell Peter about because “plausible deniability daffodil, can’t have you trying to superhero my bullshit,” which Peter thought was stupid, but he digresses.
Frank handled his shit his way, Peter handled his shit his way, and they tried not to overlap unless they stumbled upon each other- and even then, Peter turned a blind eye to Frank's excessive amount of explosives, and Frank put a little more effort into not blowing up entire buildings. Compromise. Relationships were built in that, he supposed.
Though he wasn’t sure if he and Frank's… arrangement could be called a relationship. Sure, they fucked and kissed and argued like an old married couple; they shared space like they’d been doing it for decades and not since Frank put a bullet through Peter’s right lung a little over a year ago- but they never said anything about it. There was no grand gesture, no “Will you be my boyfriend?” However, if Frank ever called Peter his boyfriend, he might just put a bullet in his mouth because, for some reason, the title felt weird. And honestly, Peter couldn’t find himself calling Frank his boyfriend either. It felt too… flippant? Childish maybe. Which, sure, Peter was only 23, but calling them boyfriends felt like a step back to an old life Peter couldn’t get back to without tearing apart the fabric of the universe.
He shook his head; now was not the time to start asking the “what are we?” Question. He was currently more bruise than man; any higher brain function was being put on the back burner until he’d used up all of Frank's hot water and curled up in one of the man’s hoodies that Peter never planned on actually returning.
His entrance into Frank's hidden boat house is an uncoordinated stumble held together by duct tape and a dream. His whole body meets every wall, and it’s honestly a miracle he doesn’t fall down the stairs like an over-animated cartoon character.
He pulls his mask off once he settles inside the rickety old ship, leaning against the metal doorframe as his rattling brain attempts to settle back into place.
As he’s mulling over whether or not he can stay awake for his great plans of stealing all of Frank's hot water, a warm hand cradles his face. It’s a testament to how exhausted he is that he not only didn’t notice Frank's presence in the boathouse, but also that he doesn’t jump completely out of his skin at the surprise touch.
“You look like shit, dollface,” Frank rumbles, thumb swiping over a bruise that has definitely begun to bloom across Peter’s cheekbone.
Peter hums, leaning into the man’s hand as his eyes flutter open. “You’re a real charmer,” he says, voice rough with pain.
Frank chuckles under his breath, shifting on his feet to take more of Peter’s weight. “All for you, baby,” he says, letting his other hand rest on Peter’s hip. “Scale of one to ten, how much pain are you in?”
Peter hums again, bones vibrating in pain and joints screaming their way to collapse. “Where does 'got a bus thrown at you' fit into the pain scale? Cause the pain scale is at bus.”
His words make Frank curse under his breath, letting Peter lean completely against his chest. “Remind me to shoot Scorpion next time I see him, yeah?”
“I’m in too much pain to give you my no-kill speech, so I’m just gonna say, bad Frank, and leave it at that,” Peter grumbles noncommittally, reveling in the warmth of Frank's chest. The older man chuckles, slowly and carefully lifting Peter into his arms and carrying him through the boat.
“Let’s clean you up, daffodil; you can give me your lecture in the mornin’,” he says, pushing the door to the tiny bathroom open. Peter nods, head resting against Frank's shoulder until he’s settled on the lid of the toilet so Frank can turn on the shower. It’ll be a tight fit for the two of them in the criminally small shower, but Peter didn’t mind being pressed against Frank, and really, all he wanted was a quick rinse and maybe a shampoo of his hair,
He must’ve dozed off because the next thing he knows, Frank is peeling off the rest of his suit and shepherding him beneath the semi-warm spray of the shower. Peter sighs in equal amounts of relief and discomfort as the water pelts against his weary bones and bruised skin, but Frank cooes him quietly and gently washes him off and massages shampoo into his hair.
If Peter were capable, he’d probably be purring like a cat because despite the bit of soap in his eyes, the feeling of Frank pressed against his back is the most comfortable feeling in the world right now. This is the closest Peter could get to heaven, honestly: 10/10, no notes.
Unfortunately, the water goes cold rather quickly, meaning Frank is shutting off the water and corralling Peter out of the shower once more. Peter grumbles the whole way through the drying-off portion that comes with showering, and Frank swats him gently with the towel before wrapping his hair up in it. “Quit your whimpering,” he teases, wringing the water out of Peter's curls before wrapping the towel around his waist.
It's a half-coordinated stumble to the bedroom in Frank's boat, mostly led and held together by Frank. At this point, Peter’s legs are something akin to Jell-O, and it's a wonder of physics alone that his body remains one whole piece.
Peter attempts to flop himself onto the bed, but Frank forces him to remain upright so he can wrap the younger man's now-freezing body in thicker layers. It hadn’t yet begun to snow in Merry New York, but the temperatures were dropping, and Frank knew that Peter didn’t do well when it dropped below 70 outside.
“Work with me here, baby,” Frank mutters mostly to himself as Peter does a piss poor job of putting his limbs through the coordinating arm and leg holes in the hoodie and sweats Frank is attempting to stuff him in.
Eventually, Peter is all bundled up, and Frank lets him burrow himself beneath the few blankets already on the bed. Peter huffs, about to puppy-dog-eye Frank into curling up in bed with him, but the taller man exits the bedroom before Peter can get the words out.
He pouts momentarily, preparing himself to sleep alone. However, his wallowing is cut short by Frank walking back into the room with at least a million more blankets piled up in his arms. He drops the decently sized pile on top of Peter's curled-up form, and he’s surprised to find that all the blankets are warm.
“Did you just put these through the dryer?” he asks, watching as Frank pulls on a loose henley and crawls into bed beside him.
Frank nods, lying flat on his back and pulling Peter to lie completely on his chest, draping all the pleasantly warm blankets over them both. “Put ’em in the dryer when I got home; thought you’d like a warm bed for your freezing toes,” he says, hand running up and down Peter’s back once before sliding under the hem of his hoodie to rest on his bare spine.
The warmth from the man's palm eases the ache that had settled at the base of Peter’s spine, making him relax further into the man's hold. “Have I ever told you you’re the best? Cause you are,” Peter mumbles sleepily.
Frank chuckles, pressing a kiss to Peter’s slowly drying curls. “Don’t worry, baby, we’ll find you your standards eventually,” he jokes. Peter hums, tilting his head to press a kiss to Frank's sternum before lifting himself up to press a feather-light kiss to his lips.
“Thank you for this,” he says earnestly, petting a hand down the side of Frank's face. “You make me feel cared for, and that really matters to me, so thank you.” Frank smiles, cradling the side of Peter's face and pulling him down for another, firmer kiss.
“Anything for you, doll,” he whispers when they part, pressing another kiss to Peter's forehead before pulling him back down so his head settles on Frank’s chest.
They lay there in silence for a moment, with Frank’s hand still pressed against Peter’s spine and the other massaging through his curls. “Does that mean you’ll do the dishes tomorrow morning?” Peter asks with a shit-eating grin, and Frank laughs, swatting his ass.
“That’s your chore, babydoll; last I checked, your arms ain’t broken,” he says, and Peter whines, pinching Frank's forearm.
“I’ll blow you if you do them for me,” he offers, fluttering his eyelashes up at Frank. The older man rolls his eyes, pressing a slow kiss to Peter’s lips.
“You were gonna do that anyways,” he says while their lips are still brushing together. Peter huffs, pouting against Frank’s neck.
“Well, yeah, but still,” he says, like that's any sort of argument. Frank chuckles, returning to his earlier actions of rubbing a hand down Peter’s spine and massaging his scalp.
“You’re a spoiled brat, you know that?” he asks, and Peter smiles, pressing a kiss to Frank's neck.
“All your fault,” he teases, and Frank chuckles, pressing another kiss to the top of Peter’s head.
“My spoiled brat, that’s for sure,” he says, pressing the words into Peter’s hair. Peter nods, his entire body slowly relaxing into Frank’s warmth, seconds away from giving in to his body’s need to sleep.
“All yours,” he mumbles, words half slurred as his brain starts to shut off. He burrows further into Frank's chest, perfectly content to drift away with Frank’s arms keeping him safe.
“Yeah, baby, all mine,” Frank whispers into the quiet room, watching as Peter finally drifts off to sleep in his arms.
….
Frank was definitely doing Peter’s dishes in the morning.