Archive of Our Own

The moment Peter had left the hospital, it was clear that Frank was not giving him an inch until Peter was well and truly going to be fine.

It had been a dazed limp into a cab and a slow crawl into his loft. When he woke up he was not on the couch where he had fallen asleep in his jacket, but in bed- wearing pajamas and new bandages.

Frank was standing in his kitchen, stirring a soup pot. The entire loft smelled of onion, garlic and celery. It was comforting in a way. As comforting as waking up with your apartment lock picked and a mercenary making soup could be.

Apparently, being able to reach his apartment on his own was not enough evidence that Peter was not going to die of sepsis.

“Frank- I have a healing factor.. I’ll be fine. Really.” Peter had counterproductively slurred at him as the elder propped him up with pillows and put the tv remote in his hand. 

“Swallow your pride, brains-for-shit. You have a bullet wound.” Frank eased him back onto the bed with an air of finality. Peter narrowed his eyes- which were no doubt still dilated from painkillers- and scowled.

Peter had been prescribed rounds of antibiotics, pain medications and antiseptic bandages. He would need to do physical therapy in-person three times a week and the exercises daily. Along with his post-op assessment in a few weeks. 

Turns out that Frank had not just taken the liberty of breaking into Peter’s loft and making soup, but taken the liberty of picking his medications up from the local pharmacy for him as well. 

Frank is incredibly talented in his line of work, Peter found this out the hard way. The bullet had gone between his ninth and eighth rib, puncturing his right lung and nicking a major artery. If not for those surgeons he really would be dead by now.

It was a through wound, so not only did he have to bandage his chest but he needed to change the bandages on his back with a limited range of motion. 

In addition to the mess that had become his vital organs- several ribs had been broken from prolonged CPR.

Being shot in the chest meant Peter couldn’t raise his hands above his chin, bend over at all, or lift anything heavier than a pound until he was given the all clear at a follow up appointment.

Having broken ribs meant that Peter was either gritting his teeth in pain with every breath or loopy from drugs. You know what apparently required those abilities? Everything. Everything on earth. 

Frank had felt the need to crash on his couch for the entirety of his healing process. A couch which had come with the apartment, and also with broken springs and mildew.

Peter had insufficient funds at the time to both remove the furniture and replace it. He had settled for throwing a tarp and then a blanket over it.

It worked well enough if you could ignore the loud crinkling of a plastic tarp from Ikea. He had offered to let Frank take his bed- Peter really could sleep anywhere. 

Frank had laughed in his face at the idea.

Frank actually pried Peter’s jaw open at one point and forced him to swallow his painkiller by rubbing his throat. You know, the thing you do to cats to get them to take pills. It was done to Peter. A grown man. Peter swore to bite him if he ever tried that again. 

Frank had clearly felt guilty about the event- a guilt that manifested in forcing Peter to attend every physical therapy appointment and every post-op appointment. What could Peter do- fight back? He had a hole in his chest.

Every morning Peter was woken up by a thermometer in his ear- checking to see if he had magically gained a septic infection overnight. Peter was made to take every medication that was prescribed. 

Peter didn’t have a bath, and his bathroom was not exactly approved by the American Disability Association in terms of not slipping and bashing his head open in the shower. The shower floor wasn’t big enough to sit enough on and there was no way he was getting up on his own afterwards.

Besides, how was he meant to wash himself off if he couldn’t get his hands above his head or exert himself? Peter eventually gave in and allowed Frank to clean him up. 

Frank would drag a chair over to the kitchen sink and wash Peter’s hair under the faucet, a washcloth over Peter’s eyes so soap didn’t get into them. Also, because it meant they didn’t have intensely uncomfortable eye contact. 

During which Peter would be in just bottoms and a towel wrapped around his torso so he didn’t get cold. Spiders don’t thermoregulate well. After his hair was done Frank would take off his bandages and wash off his torso.

Peter would bite his lip, refusing to hiss at the sting of alcohol pads every time Frank changed his gauze and tape. Then he would have to help Peter into a T-shirt, pulling it over his head and letting him worm his arms through the arm holes.

Peter would scrub the rest of his body with a washcloth in private (Frank had mocked him for being so shy but had never fought him on it), manage his boxers on and then he would need Frank to help him put on pants. 

The whole thing was a mortifying ordeal, Peter couldn’t lean down at all- so it was nearly impossible to dress himself independently. It had been a learning curve, both of them had gotten used to the least painful system of looping Peter’s calves through the pant legs and then letting the younger lean against Frank’s chest as he pulled the waistband up. 

Peter hadn’t had someone else wash his hair since… since he last let May bring him to a hairdresser. He cut his own hair now, it was cheaper. Besides, nobody really saw it.

Frank had insisted on cutting it for him after finding that under the mask was an uneven mullet of sorts, mousy brown hair sticking out wildly. It wasn’t half bad. Though, his hair did look a lot more like Frank’s then he’d prefer.

It was a weird change in dynamic. Much too intimate for either of them to be comfortable with the shift. But Peter didn’t have much choice, he needed the help. Frank knew that. So it would have to do.

God it was fucking frustrating. Peter could do these things on his own, he didn’t need help. He had survived all these years giving himself stitches and cauterizing his own wounds. It had been weeks. Peter was fine.

Frank was a manipulative asshole when he wanted to be, he had conned Peter into a six-week hiatus from vigilante work. Peter was forced to sit at home and watch in real time as the crime rate spiked and New York's police were spread thinner and thinner. 

Peter was literally held captive in his bed for the first week- Frank set up a motion sensor alarm that would wake him if Peter tried to get out of bed.

“Frank, I really do feel fine-” Peter reassured two weeks into recovery, the gruff man firmly guiding him back into his spot on the couch. “You don’t need to do this- I really should get back out there.”

“I make you grilled cheese and you won’t even eat it? What- you too good for me now?” He furrowed his brows, a hint of teasing behind his eyes but his tone mockingly serious and lightly accusatory. “And I don’t do anything I don’t want to. Don’t flatter yourself.”

“No- I.. thanks for the soup.” Peter groaned, squinting his eyes at the man in frustration. His wet hair dripped down the back of his neck, soaking into his t-shirt. The tarp crinkled under him. He bit his tongue, trying to follow his own advice. He can’t do this alone.

Frank had been incredibly amused to find Peter had very little civilian clothes that were not from high school and much too small. 

“Oh my fucking god, you do live in the suit don’t you?” He had mumbled to himself as he ransacked Peter’s dresser, finding an extra small 100% polyester science pun t-shirt.

Frank had gotten ‘bored’ one time while Peter was out cold and organized everything. He said he was snooping around, Peter had known what he was actually doing. Turns out when you folded everything- he only had a drawer and a half of clothes. By the time Frank left, he had three drawers full of clothes. Peter hoped he had paid for them. 

Peter could handle being shot in the chest. But the boredom of doing nothing all day and waiting for the bullet hole to close? Excruciating. He wanted terribly to get back out into the world and do anything other than rest. Stupid near death experience getting in the way of his hobbies. 

Peter longed for Ned or MJ to stop by, but neither knew where he lived and MJ was probably wary of the man she knew was likely looking over him.

Frank had eventually folded and started playing Mario Kart with Peter to “pacify him”. It never felt like a fair fight, though. There was no satisfaction in beating someone who could barely play.

Frank was a lot like Tony, hell- the two were practically synonymous in the way they fussed over Peter. 

The realization was an agonizing thing, somehow it was worse to push it away and wait to wade through the meaning until it was all too distant to matter. It was one of those shower thoughts that made you turn the tap to freezing to ward it away.

The two would hate each other, probably. Tony was callous, egotistical, and softhearted. Frank is.. no different. Perhaps a bit rougher around the edges. Peter didn’t mind that though.

Maybe it’s the crowd he attracts, grumpy old men with deep-seated family issues- the kind that wouldn’t give you a bite of their food but would give you a kidney. What does that say about Peter? …He’d rather not think about it.

Peter eventually did heal completely and returned to his ‘normal’ life. Frank moved back to his own place with no excuse to stay and checked in once or twice a day- never without an excuse. God forbid he admit he was simply checking in. 

Frank, of course, denied any moment of softness once it was over. 

Peter had simply hallucinated the Punisher himself cleaning puke off of the floor when antibiotics took their toll on his stomach. He was delirious on pain medication, Frank had only been there to make sure he didn’t choke on his own tongue.

“You owe me a favor, bring a six pack to my place and show me how to use the damn dvd player, I can’t get it.” Frank had called him one night, blatantly just wanting a movie night. Frank is a grown man, he obviously knew how to switch an HDMI cable. But Peter hadn’t pressed it, and showed up with a pizza and beer.

Casual hangouts had to be disguised under this idea of a transactional relationship, needing something- more like demanding something, being coarse so that if Peter ever left it would hurt less.

It reminded Peter of someone.

He refused to let the notion continue as is, anyone even vaguely parental in his life had immediately died a tragic death. He refused to repeat the cycle. Frank would stay at an arms length. 

Besides, the man wanted it that way. Frank didn’t do mushy crap. Peter had no intention of pushing that.

Peter started up his patrol schedule, he checked in with Ned and MJ every now and then. He made a point of missing a call here and there from Frank. It was for the best.

God how he had missed them over the years. He had to build an Ikea shelf for all the legos they built, sitting around his apartment- making up for lost time. Peter didn’t know how he stood the cold silence of his apartment for so long. Police radio chatter and stupid podcasts could never light up a room like they could. 

Mayor Mamdani had learned Spider-Man was not actually making a liveable wage from hero work and jumped through about a hundred hoops in order to get Peter a paycheck. He couldn’t just refuse it after the man had worked so hard.

He bought a nicer couch with said paycheck, and some nicer clothes. Frank seemed to be checking in with Peter more and more often.

One night Peter was crashing at his place– it was far too cold outside to swing home– he realized that Frank had started to keep a toothbrush in the bathroom for him, pyjamas under the cupboard and unscented shampoo- the same kind he had helped Peter scrub into his hair once a day for six weeks. 

When questioned, Frank said it was strictly convenience based- if Peter was going to crash there he “..might as well not be packing a sleepover bag every time, what’s this- the fuckin’ third grade?”

It was touching regardless, Peter vowed to take another step back from the man. He couldn’t have it happen again. He couldn’t let another person die because of him.

Spider-Man had gotten better with the noises since he last mutated, the loud hissing of underground subways at night, the constant bustle of cars and chatter during the day and the cacophony of construction that was repairing the wear-and-tear of New York.

Spider-man had slowly desensitized himself enough that he could do patrol regularly without incident. He could keep focus and escape the night without incident. He had reprogrammed his mask to monitor his hormone levels and restrict how much stimuli was let in automatically. 

Peter Parker, on the other hand, had made progress in different ways. His apartment now gave less ‘divorced dad’ vibes according to MJ, he had started meditating. Sometimes he would journal. It was great. Peter was doing great.

After finding out how ineloquently his code has responded to the new medical event that was sensory overload- Evie had received a few thousand lines of code on medical self-response protocols.

She already had vital sensors and diagnostic intelligence, the tech was all there- but there was a huge gap in her logic. 

Evie could tell Peter he was bleeding out- which he usually already knew- but would fail to mention things like how long until he loses consciousness and where to apply pressure.

So, four hundred lines of code later- she now could guide Peter through the best way to treat most injuries and internally predict if she should disobey his orders and call for help. 

It was a pretty cool piece of code in Peter’s opinion. Peter’s vitals were constantly monitored- Evie had been trained to recognize individual changes like respiratory rate dropping, body temperature lowering and low blood pressure. Before the updates that was all his monitoring system was- an alarm that yelled raw data at him. She couldn’t group events into a diagnosis, that part was left up to Peter.

Nowadays, Evie would label the data based on severity- giving it a value that would help when grouping the symptoms into a diagnosis. After internally processing the data into severity-weighted events, and grouping them into diagnosis- Peter was given instruction on how to act. 

Low blood sugar would give him directions to the nearest cafe or deli (depending on open hours), Hypothermia would crank the heaters in his suit, in the event he was unconscious and in immediate danger, his location and vitals were sent to the best candidate.

The best candidate was out of a pool of very few candidates- Frank, Yelena, MJ, Ned, Or 911. In that priority list- Frank was automatically ruled out if he was too far away (he had snuck a GPS chip in Frank’s car), unresponsive, or if Peter had already called him that day. 

Frank’s phone- or one of his many burners would be sent a call from Peter- if he didn’t pick up twice then a distress signal with exact coordinates was sent directly to Black Widow. She was far quicker than EMS, also- much more motivating to not bleed out when you picture her annoyed face. 

She was ruled out if she didn’t pick up after the first call- there was no way that Peter was going to even attempt to place a GPS on her. He’d like to keep all his body parts and he figured placing a tracker on the Black Widow was counterproductive to that notion.

Ned and MJ were weighted as the same priority- Evie would call whichever was closer. But it was exceptionally unlikely that she would ever call either of them as she was forbidden from calling them for anything that would likely scar them. And most situations that Evie would run the program in are incredibly eligible for that criteria. 

Emergency services were a last resort- coded there for redundancy. 

The coding had taken much trial and error. It had been Frank’s idea. Or.. more like a threat? He had held the suit captive until Peter finished the “I’ve fallen and I can’t get up” protocol. 

Peter thought the name was hilarious, Frank did not.

The important part, though- anytime his freaky spider hormones surpassed the set concentration threshold, Evie would dampen the light and sound around him proportionally to the disbalance in his system. Air filtration would kick in and filter out most of the sharp, painful stench of the overpopulated city. 

It was all fine when he was in the suit. When the mask was on, and he was Spider-Man- none of it was a problem. It’s fine. Peter is fine. He can manage himself.

—

It was early December when the buzzing started.

It had been quiet at first. Manageable. Non-existent with the mask on.

Spider-Man could go through his day like normal, Peter Parker would just have to wear the mask at home. It was fine. It was nothing, sometimes he had bad days and his senses flared a little. It was no big deal.

The harsh winter of New York had driven most crime down, nobody wanted to be outside in the sleet- including Peter. He was spending more and more time inside his apartment, sitting in front of a computer and monitoring. 

The buzzing was getting louder- like a constant fuzzy pressure at the back of his head. Not unmanageable. Peter noticed himself eating plainer and plainer food, wearing softer and softer clothes. Sometimes he would spend the entire day with the lights off and his mask’s noise cancelling on. 

The buzzing remained.

So what if it wasn’t going away? It had only been a week, and yes- the constant hum of ‘danger’ front and center in his brain had gotten irritating. But obviously nothing was wrong. 

It was a feeling of unease, it could be anything. Maybe he’s picking up on mold in his showerhead or a new allergy to a change in the formula of his protein powder. 

Frank was noticing it- how could he not? Peter was always wearing the mask when they spoke and never turned on the lights. Peter insisted he was fine. 

Four weeks into December a blizzard hit New York, the icy roads closed and the snow piled up over cars. The buzzing consumed him. It wasn’t buzzing anymore- it was a hissing sound, something animalistic and uncontrollable. 

Peter stayed in bed for the first day, his arachnid body convinced he was going to die from the winter. 

This must be what his problem was. He could sense the breeze of fall dropping into the chill of deep winter and his stupid bug brain had assumed he needed to hibernate. He would just rest in his warm apartment until it calmed.

Despite how high he cranked the heat, the buzzing didn’t stop. It was more like a jackhammer in the back of his skull, now. Every sound hurt- his heart was hammering in his ears and he walked around with his eyes fully closed. Yet he could see everything around him just fine.

Peter searched his room for cameras, listening devices- anything that could set him off so badly. He crawled on the ceiling with an RF detector to no avail, he swabbed his baseboards and his tile grout for mold and found nothing. He tested his sink water for lead- nothing.

On the third day he opened the fridge for the first time since the blizzard and immediately vomited into the sink- the bright light illuminating his otherwise ever-dark room and the overwhelming mix of smells punching him in the gut. 

By the fourth day he had not slept in over 70 hours. His head started to pound- the roads were clear by now but he could barely go near the door without the buzz turning deafening. 

Peter couldn’t bear to even get near his phone when it rang. He couldn’t bear to wear anything but his softest pyjamas, even if they stank from a week of constant use. He had been sitting in his spot on the floor for either days or minutes. The buzzing was quietest under his desk.

The thumping of the washing machine- five floors down, it taunted him. It was inside his skull. He pulled his hair through the fabric of his mask and choked out a weak sob- anything to make the buzzing stop- anything. 

“Evie..” He whimpered.

Evie was nearly muted, her volume a fraction of what should be audible. “Yes, Peter?”

He tucks his head in between his knees, fingers digging into his palms. “Muffle.”

“I’m sorry, but it’s not possible to block anymore stimuli- would you like me to cal-” 

“Mute.” He hissed, ears ringing from the soft words

He had long since muted Evie's efforts to soothe him- she could only respond when called upon in this mode, it was all too loud. It was all too much, he needed to just stay still until it stopped.

She was muting as much as she could but the room was practically silent. Peter was simply picking up on everything around him like a dog. You could have convinced him his ears were twitching like one.

Peter, not knowingly- had spun himself a nest of white, cottony webbing and curled into a ball under his desk. From his perspective- he was sitting there silently in the loudest room on earth, the subway’s break hiss pounding his eardrums, his downstairs neighbor’s snoring purposely mocking him.

In reality, Peter lies in a fetal position under his desk. He’s in a pair of pyjama pants, a hoodie and his mask. Surrounding him is miles and miles of weaved silk strands tangled into a cushiony nest. The room is silent to a normal person, save for the light choking of sobs and the animalistic hisses of pain coming from the nest.

Peter’s blinds have been drawn and the lights are off- casting the room into a pitch black. He can see perfectly fine in here though. It was all too much. His skin itched for something, danger flared over and over- he needed someone- he needed someone to protect him.

A moment of clarity hit him.

What was he doing? He wasn’t a spider. He was curled up in a web thinking straight nonsense. He wasn’t six years old hiding from the dangers of a monster under the bed. He could handle this. 

It started to hail.

Peter could hear every ball of ice hit the roof above him, the wind hissing outside- the drip of pipes under him vibrating to his very core. The noise was beyond just overwhelming, every push in and out on his eardrums felt as if they would burst any moment now. 

Sobs started to escape him, a sort of cathartic howl that a child would produce after breaking a bone. Something equally unstoppable and pathetic. His palms pushed tighter around his ears, doing virtually nothing to help.

Peter felt helpless to stop this. He was helpless to stop this. There was no way to stop the onslaught of stimuli- more sobs escaped his dilated eyes. 

“Evie..” Peter felt himself choke out desperately.

The Ai’s voice was nearly inaudible, yet deafening. “Yes, Peter?”

“Make it stop.” He mumbles, brain too fried to clarify. Peter feels himself pull his head inside his jumper as Evie runs a few thousand lines of code, trying to decide the best course of action.

Peter felt his vocal chords vibrate and his lungs empty as he started to scream in agony as his downstairs neighbor turned on the vacuum. His eardrums pounded inside his head- pressure building with nowhere to go. His head was going to explode- his skull would shatter and embed fragments in the surrounding drywall soon. 

Peter felt himself go limp against the floor.

_

Peter woke drearily. His mouth felt dry. Someone familiar enough to not set off his spider sense was near him.. several heartbeats vibrated through the floor and into his skeleton.

Awake was a pretty strong word for what he was, he drifted in and out of being aware of his surroundings for what felt like a long time. 

There was something blocking all of the light from his sensitive eyes- the darkness was nice. Something equally powerful over his ears. It was nice. He was calm. Peter felt himself gently lifted upward and onto a surface.

He could feel his bed under him- all but one hand removed- the scent of his unscented detergent familiar. His sheets had been changed, cool and soothing on his bare skin. He was in just his boxers, but covered with something weighted. 

The buzzing had faded into something weak and far from where he floated in between states, silver stars forming around him as the eyemask pressed on his eyelids. 

People were talking, somewhere far away. He couldn’t hear them- but he could still feel the vibrations. Someone was holding his hand. Peter squeezed theirs- seeing if they would do it back. 

They returned the gesture eagerly, but incredibly gently- as if Peter’s hand was made of antique porcelain. A thumb was rubbing circles into the back of his hand.

Super senses gave him a truckload of information normally, now he was mutated- and with his other senses blocked out he could easily identify the owner of said hand.

Their palm was smaller than his, uncalloused and freakishly cold. It was familiar in a gutting sort of way. MJ was here. She was holding his hand. 

Peter moved his other arm to the eyemask on his face- feeling over the fabric.

A familiar palm with slender fingers and rough palms guided his hand away from his face, Frank was gently pulling Peter’s hand back and pats his head.

What confused Peter was the other person in the apartment. It couldn’t be Ned, Peter could sense him pacing around the living room and cleaning webs, Ned had a sort of shake in his hands- and he tended to run hot. 

There was someone in the room that he trusted enough to not set off his spider sense… but he couldn’t place it. It wasn’t Yelena, she would have enough weapons on her at any given time to spike Peter’s heart rate to at least 100 over what was safe.

They didn’t smell familiar, and he couldn’t place them at all.

People are talking.. the vibrations travel through the floor and up through the bedpost- it’s making it hard to feel out how many heartbeats are in the room. 

Peter gives a weak grunt and the room goes quiet. Four nervous pulses beat around him. 

He rolls over- lying on his stomach and fumbling around at his waist level for his other pillow-  someone places it in his searching arms and pulls the blanket over his shoulders. 

Peter hums, relaxing into the squishy mattress as he clutches the memory foam to his chest. This was nice.. everything was too fuzzy to care much. His skull felt lined with felt, doped up and happy.

—

Frank wasn’t mad at Peter for giving him the Irish Goodbye. He understood- Frank shot him in the chest. Peter had every right to hold a grudge. He had every right to take a step back. Peter could let 

Frank’s calls ring out until they auto-cancel if that’s what he wanted. 

Frank wasn’t sore- he’s not some teen girl with running mascara because her boyfriend of one week blocked her on MySpace.

He tried to reach out often enough. He tried to connect with the kid. Every advance was met with a retreat. He got the message. Whatever, Peter was going to do his own thing if he wanted to. No stopping him.

They had made peace with their debt, they could go their separate ways. 

Frank stopped calling after three straight days of missed calls- Peter had been dodging more and more often leading up to the stretch of absence. He pretended like he was just busy. 

Frank could see it from a mile away. They all did leave eventually.

Three straight days of missed calls and two days of silence… and no Spider-Man sightings for two and a half weeks…

Frank could have shot himself when he got the distress signal. 

Obviously something was wrong. Peter was being distant- Peter doesn’t do that. Peter doesn’t just double-text- he’ll assault you with voicemails and missed calls until you pick up. Peter shows up at your apartment with takeout instead of an invitation. Peter falls asleep on you during movie night and drools over the throw pillows.

Peter doesn’t hold grudges. You could shoot him and he’d apologize for bleeding on your leather seats. Real thing that Peter did, by the way. 

Maybe Peter was taking a step back, maybe he wanted to stop relying on people like Frank- fine. But Frank knew Peter. Peter’s too soft to just leave entirely.

Peter’s not ghosting him like the collage kid he is- he could have been kidnapped, or assassinated- or maybe his heating broke and his cold-blooded spider genes forced him into hibernation.

An infinite number of scenarios flashed through Frank’s mind as he threw weapons into a duffel bag- and fumbled for his keys. He cursed himself as he got to his car and realized he had forgotten a medical kit. Running back up the stairs while avoiding his own traps. 

He sped to the apartment- violating most major traffic rules, he stormed up the stairs with a loaded gun and bashed through the door, scanning for the intruder to aim at. 

You could have given Frank an eternity’s worth of guesses, and ten to the sixteenth monkeys on typewriters and he never would have gotten to the conclusion that had drawn itself out in front of him.

Peter was perched in the center of the room, resting mid-air on a dense network of webs. Hundreds of thousands of strands stringing from the fridge to the rafters. He was just wearing boxers- his favorite pair of pajamas ripped to shreds underneath his hammock. 

Peter hissed loudly, shifting. His inky eyes boring into Frank’s soul. Frank swallowed thickly.

“Hey buddy..” Frank stepped into the apartment slowly, hugging the wall- trying to not get too close just yet. He’s dealt with this before- well.. not directly. Peter’s just warned him about it. 

He set his bag of weapons down in the doorframe and kicked it gently out of the apartment. “It’s alright. I just wanna help you.” He knew for a fact Peter could sense danger when he was… like this. He didn’t wanna be perceived as a threat because, yes- while Peter is a sweet, kind-hearted and empathetic individual- he is also a mutant who could tear Frank’s clavicle in half if he so desired. 

Peter looked just as terrified as he was terrifying. He hissed wildly, spreading his limbs out to look bigger. Like an animal. He bore his teeth at Frank and yowled- canines glinting in the limited light. 

What the fuck does one even do in this situation?

Frank spoke after a few minutes of silence sporadically interrupted by hissy fits. “Pete,.. can you give me a sign or somethin’? Are you there?” He stared at the floor- holding his hands up in surrender as he craned his neck to look at the floor. 

Peter hissed at him. Great. 

His mask was on the floor under the main nest, close enough that Frank could take it. It seemed like a plausible next step. Peter was smart enough to tell his suit how to deal with this- it had gotten Frank to come, right?

Frank very slowly reached his foot closer, flinching every time the hissing got more and more aggressive. “Easy, I’m here to help you… easy.” Frank pulled back quickly- taking the mask with him. Peter yowls at him, shifting positions… he looks feral.

Frank side-steps into the kitchen alcove, trying to get as far as he could from those eyes. God that was freaky.

He pulled the mask over his head- coughing wildly. “Pete, do you ever wash this thing?!” He choked, grabbing the counter. Frank found that he could not hear a response from Peter- everything was muffled. All the light was blocked out, and within a few seconds a filtration system of sorts was definitely active because he could not smell the mask that definitely still reaked.

“Right.. hey.. suit. What do I do.” He questioned dumbly, shuffling on his feet. 

“Hello, ‘Frank Castle’ clearance level ‘Emergency’. What can I help you with?” A robotically soft female voice said quietly. 

“Yeah, hello to you too- what do I do with him?” Frank gestured in Peter’s general direction, still blinded. 

“Peter’s arachnid hormones have been unstable for the past four weeks, increasing rapidly four days ago,” A graph appeared in his field of view- the Y value labeled hormone levels and the X being time. It spiked wildly just where the suit said it did. 

“Root Cause: unknown, may be due to isolation, improper nutrition, drastic temperature shift, danger, new allergy, and one-hundred-and thirty three others. Would you like me to list them all?” 

Peter’s suit was insufferable.

“...No.” Frank deadpanned.

“Previous intervention has been unsuccessful, do not approach him. Peter’s senses are dangerously overloaded, he is no longer capable of rational decision. Chemical signatures indicate fear.”

“Great. What do I do about that?” Frank rubbed his temples.

A list of contacts came up in front of him- names, numbers, and relationships. “Would you like me to call for assistance?” 

“How would that help?? He doesn’t seem to like just me being here.” Frank whispered back- cautious of annoying the owner of the eyes burning into the back of his skull, he pressed himself into the wall.

“‘Dr. Bruce Banner, PHD’ is a skilled scientist in the field of mutation, and someone Peter’s danger sense does not flare for. He is not listed as an emergency contact, but is most qualified to handle this development. Would you like to override?”

“What? I thought he was in jail? For the whole smashy-smashy thing?” Frank questioned. 

“Incorrect. Dr. Banner was found innocent of all charges and released with a court order to wear his Inhibitor at all times. Would you like to override?” 

Frank pulled the mask up on his left side- sneaking a look at where Peter was. Currently biting himself and lapping at the wounds. Jesus Christ. Frank stared for a few moments- unable to look away as Peter- or.. whatever thing he was in the moment- it didn’t feel right to call that Peter- sank canine teeth into the muscles of his arm. Crimson blood spilled down and he ran his tongue along the wounds- making a sort of.. purr?

What the fuck. This freaky mutant shit was definitely above his paygrade.

“Yeah- that.. that definitely. Alert someone with a clue.”

“Excellent. Calling now.” A ringtone started. 

“Wait a fucking second- can’t you just- send him an alert?” Frank hissed, back pressed into the wall.

“Hello?” A male voice rang out of the speakers, startling Frank more than he would admit to.

“Uh.. hey. Is this Bruce?” Frank probed awkwardly.

“Yes, this is him. Who is calling? I don’t have this number saved.”

“Friend of Spider-Man, we have that in common. Listen, I’m his emergency contact or something- whatever. I showed up to a distress signal and the guy is wigging the fuck out. In a giant web- hissing and biting- real freaky shit. Suit says to call you because it’s a mutant thing. Are you going to help or not?” Frank bristled, words blurring together as he spits out the sentence in one breath.

“I-I’m not an expert on all mutants, er- do you have any more information than that? How long has he been like this? Is he responsive to stimuli? Can he communicate? Is he aggressive?” The man shot questions at him, Frank could hear papers being gathered up and drawers being rifled through in the background. 

Bruce deliberately kept his voice soft and low as he talked, perhaps hearing the panic in Frank’s.

“Uh- yeah. Suit says it started early December- he’s been full blown hissing and growling for.. 4 hours. Jesus.. yeah he’s aggressive. I don’t think there’s a thought behind those eyes, he would kill me if I tried to touch him. The address is 73 West Street- Brooklyn. Floor four.”  

A long pause was held before Bruce responded. “Don’t get near him, don’t make noise, call me if he starts attacking, I’ll be there in twe-” 

“Himself or me?” Frank interrupted.

Bruce paused. “What?” 

“Attacking himself or attacking me? He’s.. drinking his own blood right now.” Frank suppressed a shudder.

A long silence was held. “I’ll be there in five.” Bruce hung up.

—

Turns out, Evie had also alerted Peter’s little friends- who showed up halfway through Bruce and Frank desperately attempting to coax Peter out of the ceiling rafters. Whatever sedative Bruce had injected through Frank’s blow Dart gun was clearly ineffective against raging spider instinct. 

The web was thick- and incredibly sticky. It was not something you wanted to be wading through. Peter was lighter than both of them- and like this he had so much trust in his body to carry himself where he wanted to go. Every leap was on all fours but accurate and with ease. Meaning he was navigating his home turf with ease. 

Three hours into the mess- all four of them had been standing around deadly silent for hours- waiting for Peter to come down from the rafters on his own.

Peter was not as aggressive anymore as he was fighting a heavy dose of medication, he eventually came down from the ceiling like a sack of potatoes. He woke up just long enough after Frank broke his fall to claw at the man wildly- trying to escape. 

“Easy- easy..” Frank had held him firmly now- close to his chest as he lowered them to the ground. He gave Bruce a pointed look. 

“Hey, Ned- hold his head steady.” The scientist ordered, struggling to get a clear shot to attach the inhibitor. Kid needed a haircut.

"What?? Won’t he like- bite me and stuff?” Ned squirmed, inching closer. MJ was already kneeling in front of Frank to help.

MJ pressed her flat palm to the back of his head- pushing his skull into frank. Peter struggled wildly- she stretched her hand out at Bruce without looking. A few seconds passed and she then looked back. “Give it here. I can’t hold him forever!”

Bruce broke out of his daze and produced the device with a sheepish look, MJ attached it to the back of his neck. Peter went limp.

The four all let out their collective sighs.

—

Peter woke up slowly, his limbs felt heavy. He didn’t open his eyes for a long time, letting himself soak in the rare calm. He loves this space between being awake and asleep. Relaxed enough for nothing to matter, for everything to fade into the background. But aware enough to enjoy it.

Eventually, he did open his eyes. He was thirsty- and hungry.

He was in his bed. In his apartment. He slowly pushed himself up into sitting- swinging his feet over the edge of the bed. Peter glared at the cold floor as he pulled on a hoodie, pants could wait until his breakfast burrito was in the microwave. 

Peter rubbed his eyes with the cleft of his palm, yawning as he shuffled to the curtain that separated his bedroom from the living room. 

He walked past his desk before he nearly jumped out of his skin. 

“Oh hey. You’re up.” MJ deadpanned, not looking up from her sketchbook.

“Jesus Christ.” He squawked, holding onto the shelf for support. An impromptu group of his emergency contacts had gathered. Peter would be reprogramming Evie. “Why.. bow long..? What are you guys doing here?”

Ned moved his knight, taking Bruce’s pawn- the two were incredibly absorbed in a game of chess. Peter didn’t even know he had a chess set in the apartment. “Evie called us. Frank called Bruce.”

Bruce moved his pawn and claimed Ned’s Queen, smirking at the younger opponent. “I’ve no idea how you got my number, but I’m glad you did. It would be wise for you to rest until the sedative has worn off.”

MJ met Peter’s startled expression, tilting her head to the side. “We tranquilized you. You’ve been out for seven hours, it’s 8pm. There’s pizza on the way. Black Widow is patrolling for you. Put on some pants.”

“...I’m gonna go.. do that.” Peter backtracked slowly, feeling an embarrassed blush form on his face. He knew most of these people very well. But they didn’t remember it. Ned and Mj had no memory of watching Star Wars with him over and over again.

Bruce had no memory of the time Tony had been caught up in meetings and Peter had fallen asleep in the lab- Bruce had been dropping off some files and stumbled upon who he assumed was some burned-out intern working through a cold, asleep on the counter. 

Peter had woken up on the couch of the common rooms, next to a humidifier.

But Bruce didn’t remember that, and Peter didn’t intend on telling him.

—

The pizza had arrived and the group was sprawled out around the living room. It was times like this that Peter was glad he had splurged on a couch. Even if Ned preferred the bean bag, MJ preferred the couch arm, and he himself liked the floor.

Nobody seemed inclined to leave anytime soon. Which was fine, Peter didn’t mind keeping company for a little while. Bruce was sticking around until Peter’s hormone levels were back to his baseline and he could take another blood sample, also to monitor if Peter went… weird again.

“So you just.. showed up? Like- Frank called you and said I was ‘wigging out’ and you figured you’d come help? What if it was a trap?” Peter questioned.

Bruce swallowed his bite- cheese and pineapple on pizza. Peter wasn’t judging, he liked it. Frank was judging- MJ was judging harder. “...I mean, yeah. What else would I do?” 

“..Right.” Peter responded.

Frank broke out laughing, starting a chain reaction of the rest of them absolutely losing their shit at the absurdity of the situation. 

A few hours later, the medication had fully worn off and Peter was very, very awake. All five of them watched some Sci-fi movie Frank and Bruce were appalled Peter and Ned had never seen. MJ looked up from her sketchpad and at the screen every now and then.

Peter got up to go to the bathroom, stepping into the tiled room. He felt goosebumps form from frigid air.

A sigh escaped him as the realization dawned on him. Peter had left the window open when he was showering off the residual webs this afternoon.

His bathroom had no ventilation for the steam that came from a hot shower. If you want anything other than a freezing shower in the middle of December, you have to leave the window open when you take a shower or the paint on the walls will peel and mold and all sorts of things that Peter didn’t know who to call about. 

It also meant Peter was fucking freezing when he got out of the shower, and he usually just ran to his room, leaving a trail of little wet footprints in his wake. This particular time he had entirely neglected to close said window. 

The snow was picking up again, a heavy blizzard was starting to form- aggressive wind and sleet making the outside inhospitable. He scrambled to close the window- its screen was almost completely obscured with snow.

Peter could feel his heart pound in his ears, panic started to set in. 

Oh fuck.

They were all snowed in together. They were all going to die- they were going to die here because of Peter. The roof would cave in- or they would freeze or food would run out and Peter would turn spider and fucking eat them all.

His breath caught in his throat as Peter slowly lowered himself onto the bathmat.

They didn’t know the root cause yet- what if it happened again and he hurt them? What if he scared them?  

Bruce said Peter’s system hadn’t had enough time to take another blood sample and compare it to the one he took when the inhibitor had only been on for a few minutes. What if he was mutating again?

What if it hurts?

After much hesitation, he called out. “Frank!” Peter called out, hearing the hesitant wobble in his voice, he felt himself shiver. 

“What!?” The man shouted back.

“Can you c’mere?” Peter responded, putting his head between his knees like he knew he was supposed to when he was panicking. He wasn’t panicking. He was entirely in control. He just.. ne didn’t have to explain himself. It only had to make sense to him.

Frank knocked quietly on the door, not waiting for an answer as he softly opened it. “What’s up?” His voice was forcefully soft, the same sort of hushed tone they had all been speaking in since Peter woke up.

Peter stared at him, unable to discern why exactly he had called Frank. He broke eye contact- looking at the ground beneath him.

Frank sighed lightly, walked into the room and softly closed the door. He sat down next to Peter on the bathmat, waiting for Peter to talk.

“It’s snowing out.” Peter managed after a few minutes, his hand brought to his lip to pick at dry skin. His mouth felt dry, tongue glued to the roof of his mouth.

“Yeah, it is. The news says roads will be plowed by morning.” Frank acknowledged, waiting for Peter’s breathing to even out. He knew by now that Peter sometimes got like this, and the best thing was to just sit with him. Which was nice- because Frank never knew what to say.

Peter slowly dropped his head onto the older’s shoulder, seemingly unaware of the action. Frank consciously stops himself from stiffening. It’s not that the action was unwelcome.. just- unexpected.

“I’m sorry I ghosted you.” Peter mumbled, rubbing his eyes.

Frank didn’t know how to respond to that.

“I just.. I dunno. I.. just.. I’m cursed.” Peter groaned, pressing his palms into his eyes.

“Really?” Frank probed, placing his hand on the younger’s back. “Why would’ja think that?”

Peter stares at his hands, waiting for the words to surface from his twisted gut into his unbelievably dry mouth. The lines and the creases, calloused from the monotonous friction of webslinging. 

His hands used to be softer, his nails used to be bitten down to the nub- cuticles pushed back with the lead of a mechanical pencil and futilely picked at when he was bored in class. Tony would pull Peter’s hand from his mouth whenever it happened- used to. May would tut at him and lecture him on how he ought to stop the habit. 

Peter guessed that somewhere along the way he had grown out of it. Maybe it was because he couldn’t pick at his hands if they were always typing or writing or gloved by the suit. 

His hands used to be softer, Peter thinks they used to be at least. He didn’t used to have fine dark hairs protruding from his arms, he didn’t used to get chapped skin in the winter. 

Frank had callouses too, the ones you get presumably from handling weapons and doing pull-ups all day, the thickest part of callous turned a sandy yellow from habitual smoke.

“I just.. I- Spider-Man- gets in the way. I can’t have people who know me as both- it.. it messes things up. They get hurt.” He manages after many moments, letting out a breath he might have been holding since junior year. 

Frank doesn’t miss a beat.

“You think we don’t know that? Pete, everyone in this apartment right now- your little friends, Bruce, me- we’re all here because we heard you were in danger, and we wanted to help.” Frank pauses, taking a breath.

“You know you’d do anything for any one of us, why is it so hard to believe we’d do the same for you? What about you is so unlovable? Because it certainly isn’t the burden of being a superhero that was forced upon you.” 

Peter chokes out this weird, sort of strangled noise- hiccupping. He sniffled, wiping his eyes roughly on his shirt. “Sorry.” He mumbled, knees tighter to his body.

Frank ran his hand up and down Peter’s back in the comforting sort of motions that soothe upset children, Peter hiccups- replacing his head on its spot on Frank’s shoulder. 

Eventually, Peter stood up. “Sorry- I don’t even remember why I was upset..” 

“Hey if I was as short as you I’d be upset too.” Frank teased, stretching his back from sitting on the tile floor. 

Peter turned from where he was drying the sink water he had splashed his face with. “I am average height!” 

“Yeah yeah, sure.” Frank smiled, walking back to the living room. Peter sat down where he was previously- a nest of blankets on the floor close enough to the armrest so that he could lean against it.

“What took you so long?” MJ asked from atop the arm rest, eyeing Frank interrogatively.

“Pete couldn’t reach a shelf.” Frank replied teasingly, the lie coming easily. 

Two could play this game. “You couldn’t either.” Peter shrugged, reaching for a slice of cold pizza.

Ned was the first to start snoring, lying on a beanbag with a blanket completely over his body. MJ ended up asleep curled into the armrest, Bruce had a similar fate. 

Peter pretended to sleep on the floor so that Frank would take his bed- which backfired because the softhearted bastard tried to carry him to bed and take the carpeted floor.

“Frank.” Peter startled him as he started to walk away.

“..What?” Frank whispered back. 

“I don’t wanna hear you whine about your back. Just get in. I take up like 10% of the space anyways.” Peter mumbled, struggling to stay awake by now.

“I’m fine on the floor.” Frank insisted.

“Shut the fuck up and get in bed.” Peter groaned, itching around the contact point of his inhibitor.

“Fine. If it stops your tantrum.” 

Peter smiled to himself, and for once- the apartment wasn’t freezing.