Chapter Text
The Punisher was splayed out in his bed in his bunker, finally easing down after a long, tiresome day full of bullshit. His ribs ached and his knuckles stung fiercely, but nobody would feel too bad for him once they saw the end result of the other guy's face.
Although satisfied, he was exhausted, and almost immediately felt his mind start to drift off into sweet nothingness. That lasted about five seconds, before there was a familiar, loud, resounding sound.
CRASH!
Frank’s eyes immediately flew open and he rolled out of bed, nearly tripping on one socked foot as he instinctively reached for his rifle from the side of his bed. He trotted across the room and threw open the ratty door that led to his balcony, immediately greeted by the cold night air and the sharp scent of gasoline.
The crash had been, as expected, one of his traps he'd set up, as an extra precaution in case somebody he had really pissed off wanted to follow him to his home. He aimed his rifle at the shadowy figure that stood about fifteen yards ahead, drawing in a breath to yell out a booming threat.
The figure stepped out of the shadow of the concrete drum that had fallen, and once the moonlight hit him, he was immediately recognizable. It was difficult to remain discreet when wearing vibrant red and blue spandex.
“You've gotta be shitting me,” Frank muttered, dropping his weapon and raising his voice. “Kid, do you know what time it is?”
“Didn't take you for an early bird.” The hero called back. His voice sounded oddly strained, despite the quip, and now that Frank could get a better look at his posture, his whole form was bunched up, head lowered and one arm wrapped tightly around his waist.
“Two AM is early for you?” Frank said, cocking his head. “That's gotta be past your bedtime.”
“Oh, that's what time it is?” Peter mumbled. It seemed like he was talking to himself more than anything. His knees looked close to buckling.
Frank bit back an irritated sigh, swinging his rifle to his back. “You have a concussion or something, kid?”
“It’s possible,” Peter replied, which wasn't a satisfactory answer. The kid limped forward, and Frank could tell even through the mask that he was wincing with every drag of his feet. It was bizarre to see Spider-man so roughed up– Frank had seen (from behind the wheel, no less) the kid be slammed by a truck going thirty miles per hour and pop up like it was nothing.
“And you really had nowhere else to go? I know not the doctor ‘cause of your goofy masked hero shit, but come on.”
“No, no doctors,” Peter panted, shaking his head. “Look, Frank, I can go–”
“Nah, it's fine. You already hauled your ass all the way here,” Frank grunted, waving with one hand. “But I'm far from a medical professional, kid. I can stitch up wounds with a sewing needle, that's about it.”
“Even– uh, bullet wounds?”
Frank stared at him for a solid moment, squinting his eyes as if he was trying to determine if he was serious or not. “... you did not get fucking shot, Spider-man.”
Instead of answering, Peter just lifted his hand from its place over his gut, revealing dark red blossoming beneath it, soaking both his spandex and hand.
“Christ,” Frank swore. “Alright, I'll give you that.”
“If I can borrow your needle and thread, I can, uh, do it myself, I just…” Peter’s head nodded under his mask. “I’d never been shot before, so I guess I panicked a little.”
“You ain't doing that yourself,” he said, hardly able to believe what Peter was spouting. “Follow me. You able to climb the stairs?”
“Yeah, I'll be fine,” Peter panted, already starting to limp after him. Frank’s mind only had one objective now, which was to patch up the kid before he toppled over. Everything else could come after, including asking him why he was the only option. It definitely wasn't because Peter could sense the kindness in his heart, and it wasn't because his base was easy to get to, either.
He couldn't even remain angry at being woken up at such an hour, not when Peter obviously felt guilty for showing up in the first place.
“Watch the overhang,” Frank muttered, stepping through the door into his abode. Peter followed, even more hunched over and making small, painted noises with each step. He was clutching his stomach as if something was trying to escape from it.
“Alright, lay down on the couch, make yourself comfy,” Frank ordered. “I gotta grab something to cut through your suit.”
“No, no, you don't gotta do that,” Peter protested, flopping down onto the ratty, faded couch. “I can pull it down, just– give me a sec.”
Frank cocked an eyebrow, wanting to say something about him exerting himself and speeding up the blood loss, but held his tongue. The kid was always cagey about his identity– or perhaps he only had one suit. Either way, he was halfway through pulling it down, breath heaving and cinching at the strain of bending over and moving his arms.
He just watched in silence, as Peter peeled the suit away, revealing a fit body that was mottled with bruises and sticky with dark red blood on his lower torso. Peter let out a slight disgusted-sounding breath as he revealed the bullet hole to the air. It was slick with blood and oozed steadily.
“That’s nasty,” Frank remarked with a similar expression (at least from the face he assumed the kid was making behind the mask), even though he'd seen far worse. And inflicted far worse. “Wait here a sec.”
He walked to his bedroom, flicking on the dusty light bulb that hung from the ceiling, and started rummaging through his side drawer until he found what he was looking for– a needle and thread. Next he went to the kitchen and grabbed a clean washcloth, bottle of alcohol, bandages, and a mug of lukewarm water. He walked back to find Peter in the same position.
“It's gonna sting like hell, but these should do the trick,” he said. “I recommend you lay back.”
“No, I- I can do it. Thanks, Frank,” Peter said breathily, holding out a shaking hand.
“No offense, kid, but I don't believe you can,” Frank said.“Not effectively, anyway. I'm already here, might as well let me do the honors.”
Peter seemed conflicted, but after a moment’s hesitation resigned himself, letting his head fall back onto the couch with a sigh. “Fine.”
Frank squatted beside him and got to work digging out the bullet. It was a fairly easy process- he did have precise hands- but a painful and messy one nonetheless. He then cleaned out the wound, which involved thoroughly dousing it in burning alcohol, which caused the kid to bite back a yell. He’d demonstrated that his pain tolerance was something else, either that or he simply didn't feel pain like a regular human, but Frank couldn't fault him for flinching.
He didn't hold back though, because he knew how susceptible a giant hole in your flesh was to infection. He rinsed it out several times before pressing the washcloth against the wound, making Peter’s breath catch once more.
“Sorry,” Frank muttered, surprising both of them. He didn't think he'd ever apologized to Peter, even after slamming into him with his truck. He wasn't sure why he got the urge now.
“Are you- gah- making this hurt on purpose?”
There was a long, awkward silence, while Frank just dabbed his wound with the washcloth, which was steadily growing a rusty red color.
“How'd you get shot anyways?” Frank asked, breaching the tension.
“Long story,” Peter grunted.
“Did you deal with the asshole who did it?”
“I was a little busy trying not to bleed out.”
Fair enough.
Frank poured the cup of water over Peter’s waist, some of the blood washing away and seeping into his couch, instead, joining the stains that were already there. He picked up the roll of bandages and started wrapping the wound, tightly enough that Peter’s breathing became shallower.
“If you wanted to give him a taste of his own medicine, uh, you know who to call,” Frank said. He meant it, even if the kid was too much of a goody-two-shoes to ever accept.
“Think I'm good.”
Frank pulled the bandages and tied them, maneuvering Peter slightly to the side to ensure they were in place. When he did, the shitty lamplight illuminated his waist, and the small purple bruises that littered his side and hip.
“Jesus, kid. Did the shooter take a break to dance the bachata with you? Lil’ bit of unhealthy romance?”
“It's none of your business,” Peter said, his voice unexpectedly sharp.
“Relax, I was joking,” Frank said, frowning. Peter didn't answer, just reached down to pull his suit back up, fingers fiddling as he pulled it over his shoulders with great difficulty.
“Thanks for patching me up, Frank, but I should get going. I, uh, really appreciate it, man.”
“Hey, woah, woah. You sure you're in a state to be walkin’ home?” Frank asked, gesturing dubiously to the kids' whole form.
“I’ll be fine. I've walked off worse,” Peter said, as if that was supposed to be reassuring. He tried to push himself up off the couch, but his legs immediately buckled, and he barely caught himself from crashing to the floor, throwing one hand against the couch and letting out what sounded like a swear under his breath.
Frank didn't need to say anything, the sorry sight spoke for itself, but he opened his mouth anyways.
“Walking is the plan?”
“Yeah, it is, just- gimme a minute,” Peter groaned, his legs trembling with the effort as he rose to his feet, swaying unsteadily. “See? Look at me. All good to go.”
Frank raised one eyebrow.
“I'm serious,” Peter said. “I appreciate your help, really I do, and I'll repay you somehow, I don't know how yet but I will, but I… I need to go home.”
“Got somebody waiting back there for you?”
Peter shook his head in frustration. “I want to go home.”
“I'm not holding you hostage, kid,” Frank said. “But it's my opinion that you ain't in a state to be walking,” he paused, “And maybe I don't got a right to know, but I feel like I deserve some explanation of what the hell happened that led to you showing up at my place in the middle of night.”
“I told you what happened,” Peter said, sounding irritated. “You saw it, I think it spoke for itself.”
“Yeah, but you didn't tell me why,” Frank crossed his arms across his chest. “Or who did it. Hell, I don't even know if you might'a been followed here.”
“I wasn't followed.”
“But how do you know?”
“I just do, Frank!” The kid raised his voice, clutching his midsection tighter. “Just trust me on this, okay?”
“You aren't giving me a lot to work with, kid,” Frank said, his voice stern to match the rising tension. “I'm not trying to force you to tell me the whole story, but a bit of context would be appreciated.”
“He didn't follow me,” Peter said. “I know because he already got what he wanted, and he probably thought I was dead.”
“What do you mean he got what he wanted?” Frank’s eyes narrowed. “Did you give him anything important?”
He knew it wasn't any of his business, but he couldn't help but stress over the possibility of the kid selling himself out or being cowed into giving up potentially dangerous info. He didn't agree with Spiderman’s methods, and he could be incredibly annoying and interfering, but that didn't mean he wanted to see him get dragged down to the dirt.
“Nothing,” Peter said. “Nevermind, just- just know they're not coming back.”
“Are you in trouble, Spiderman?” Frank felt ridiculous addressing him by his superhero name while asking such a serious question, but there was no known alternative.
“No, it's nothing,” Peter shook his head, turning away from Frank and wincing as he hunched his shoulders. “It's nothing for you to worry about. I already dealt with the situation, I…”
The kid trailed off, turning away from Frank as if to hide his face, as if it wasn't already covered in spandex. “I just want to go home.”
Frank wasn't expecting his voice to come out so weary and choked, as if all the fight had been drained out of him. Getting shot was an ordeal, even for somebody with superhuman strength, but something about his tone made the unsettled feeling in Frank's stomach jump.
It's none of your business.
Peter had snapped, recoiling from him and pulled up his suit, too quickly for how tedious moving was for him. His switch in attitude was confusing, and Frank felt like there were pieces to a puzzle floating in his mind, that he just couldn't connect.
He hadn't denied it.
It was just a dumb jab, and obviously he didn't think he was actually involved in a moonlit tango, but something about the kid's reaction didn't feel right to him.
They got what they wanted.
“Kid, is this… is this about those bruises?” Frank asked, unsure what territory he was even treading.
Peter stiffened. “No. I just got thrown against a few walls, it happens.”
Frank realized with a cold, seeping feeling what they resembled, why they looked familiar– fingerprints. Deep, purple, bruising, fingerprints. Like the ones he'd left around some guys’ necks, but in this case, they were pressed into the kid's hips.
“Kid–”
“Goodnight, Frank.”
Peter turned and reached for the door, but Frank stepped forward before his hand closed around it, surprising both of them with the loudness and clarity of his voice.
“Did they hurt you?”
He could hear the potential smartass respond before Peter even opened his mouth, so Frank corrected himself immediately. “Like– in a different way? Apart from the obvious?”
Silence.
“Cause, if they did, you could…” Frank couldn't even recognize what he was saying, “you could tell me.” He finished lamely, aware of how awkwardly the words would hang between them, even before they did.
Who did he think he was? The kid's friend? Somebody trustworthy? Anybody other than a decorated military veteran who currently kills people for a living, and clashes (sometimes violently) with Spiderman on a weekly basis?
It was laughable, but at the same time, a situation had never felt so humorless.
“Thanks,” Peter said. His throat sounded tight, and Frank hoped to everything almighty that that didn't mean he was near tears.
“Alright?”
“‘lright,” Peter nodded.
Frank waited for him to say anything more, but he didn't. He really didn't want to think about what his silence said, or what him accepting Frank's words meant. He couldn't believe that he'd been so done with the night and ready to sleep, because currently his hands were practically twitching at the prospect of blowing some motherfucker’s head off. That was the easy part, the satisfying part.
Even if he was wrong– and he prayed he was wrong– the outcome would be the same.