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Okay, Peter was being a bit stupid. Even he can admit that. It’s just…
Ever since he got shot by his friend ,The Punisher (yeah, that surprised him too. Frank was the one to initiate it!), and subsequently spent a couple days in the hospital, he’s been a bit careless. If he can survive getting shot by the guy who has a 99.9% kill rate, he can survive anything, right?
It was a terrible mindset. This job wasn’t something you could get careless in, especially about your health. When you got careless you or others got hurt. Peter knew that. He just couldn’t seem to shake it.
And what’s even worse: Hospitals scare him now. Every time he thought about his hospital stay, a giant knot formed in the pit of his stomach, twisting and churning and making him feel sick with dread.
Peter wasn’t scared of the pain or the boredom, he was scared of what could happen. He was so close to having his identity revealed again, the only reason it didn’t was due to Frank’s less than friendly threats, making it abundantly clear whoever lifted his mask would have a significantly shorter lifespan.
What if he went to the hospital again and his identity was revealed? If he was unconscious again and he was alone, there would be no one there to stop his mask being removed. Peter had only just gotten Ned and MJ back in his life– if that happened, he’d be putting them in danger again.
Those weren’t two qualities that went well together, huh.
It was fine, for the first few weeks. He walked away from fights with nothing but a few deep bruises, some scrapes and a few aching muscles here and there, but there was nothing serious that some arnica cream, bandages and a good night's sleep couldn’t fix.
Until a knife lodged itself underneath his ribs. It had happened when he least expected it. Peter wasn’t fighting any big league villain tonight, instead he had spent his patrol looking out for the little guy: helping an old lady cross the road, rescuing a cat stuck on a fire escape, stopping some petty thieves. It was supposed to be an easy night, one where he could wrap up early and go home to work on some modifications for his suit.
He didn’t even realise it had happened. Peter was trying to stop this idiot kid– who had to be younger than he was– from mugging some terrified girl who had ran away when Spider-Man showed up. One second he was dodging a sloppy punch and the next his spidey-sense was blaring a second too late, feeling a pressure followed by warmth radiating from underneath his suit.
He stumbled back, being taken off guard, frowning as he looked down. It wasn’t every day one saw a cheap kitchen knife sticking out of their chest, buried just underneath his ribs.
“Seriously?” He croaked, simply looking down at the knife as his brain caught up with his eyes. Obviously he didn’t react quick enough, because the next second the panicked mugger was lunging forward, grabbing the black handle and yanking the blade out of his chest.. Fire erupted from his side, blood dripping from the knife and spreading under his suit, soaking the already red fabric.
“Shit, man!” Peter gasped, doubling over for a moment as his vision flashed white,” Why would you do that!” He groaned, holding his side with his left hand and keeping pressure on the wound. The mugger stumbled back, holding his hands up in surrender, “Fuck! I didn’t mean to–” He stuttered, running a hand through his hair.
“Yeah,” Peter hissed, firing two webs without a second thought. One pinned the mugger up against the wall, and the other snatched the knife from his hand, securing it to the wall out of reach. “It's a bit late for that now.”
Shaking, he fumbled with his phone, dialing the police. “Hey, yeah– uh– mugger– webbed up in an alleyway down first street.” There was a pause as the dispatcher responded, “No, I’m not staying– I’m uh, busy. Sorry.”
He hung up quickly, pointing to the kid with his free hand, “Police are on their way.” he said before swinging up to a nearby rooftop. Peter landed hard on the concrete, one hand catching himself on the rough stone as the other kept pressure on his wound. He slowly lowered himself to the ground, leaning against the roofledge.
“Okay.” Peter panted, squeezing his eyes shut, “We’re good, we’re good.”
He wasn’t good. Peter grimaced as he peeled his hand away for just a second, blood immediately flowing from his wound, dripping into his lap before he slapped his hand back over it. “Fuck.” He muttered.
There was a lot more blood than he thought, but he could tell his lung hadn’t been punctured or anything. As much as he hated to admit it, he couldn’t just sit out and wait for his healing factor to take care of it– that ability was more for minor cuts and bruises, not a stab wound. What was he going to do? He wasn’t going to the hospital. That much was final, but he didn’t really have anywhere else to go.
Peter wasn’t that close to MJ and Ned yet, and he was pretty sure he couldn’t swing to the other side of Queen’s while he was bleeding out. There wasn’t really anywhere else he could go…
There was a time when he was younger where he could have swung to Stark Tower and get patched up there with no worry about his identity being revealed, or he could have gone to Aunt May for the minor stuff. But those days were over and Peter was alone. He didn’t have any friends that could handle this, did he? I mean, he could count his friends on three fingers.
Wait. Could he? No, that would be so embarrassing.
Peter thunked his head against the brick ledge behind him. “Nope.” he told himself. Frank would never let him live it down. Imagine it, Spider-Man turning up at The Punisher’s doorstep in the middle of the night with a stab wound because he was too scared to go to the hospital. He groaned, he would definitely get cussed out by the man for waking him.
He sat there for what seemed like an hour, but it could have been only a few minutes. Sighing, he pressed down harder as another gush of blood trickled out.
“...Yeah.” Peter muttered. He didn’t really have another option, did he? He didn’t have anyone else.
Peter hauled himself to his feet, using the roof ledge as support to stop him swaying. “Don’t pass out. Don’t pass out. Don’t pass out.” He muttered quickly as he looked to where he needed to go, and with considerably less grace than usual, Spider-Man swung to Frank’s warehouse.
—
Frank was having a quiet night; in fact, this was the first time in a long time that he had gone to bed before midnight. Maybe he should have been more aware, because tell him why he was woken up at god knows what time, to his name being shouted, echoing throughout the warehouse.
He groaned, turning to the side. His alarm clock said 2:04 AM. “Jesus Christ.” Frank spat as he rolled over, grabbing the pistol under his pillow and standing up. Whoever was outside sounded desperate enough to wake the dead, and was stupid enough to wake him.
“Frank!” The voice sounded again. There was something about it that set off warning sounds in his brain. He was still too asleep to recognise what it was trying to tell him though. “Come on man!” The person called again, laughing weakly, the voice getting closer to Frank, “I know you’re not deaf!”
Then it clicked, that voice was too familiar for comfort. Shit. Suddenly every ounce of sleep rushed from his body.
“Kid?” He shouted back, gripping his gun tighter as he clicked the safety off. There was no answer, so he tried again. “Peter?”
He made it to his door, looking through the peep hole to see a worse for wear Spider-Man at his doorstep. Sighing, he unlocked the deadbolt and stepped aside, opening the door while roughly saying “What the hell you doing here so late–”
Frank stopped mid sentence as he looked at the young adult on his doorstep. He could see Peter pulling off his mask, smiling as he greeted the older man with a voice obviously rough from the shouting. “Hey, Frank.”
The first thing he notices was Peter’s hunched over posture, leaning against his door frame as he clutched his side like he had a massive stitch. The next thing he noticed was the kids shaky breath and the massive fucking stain on his side. Frank had seen stains like those enough times to know what it was.
“Get the fuck inside.” Frank growled, grabbing Peter's shoulder and yanking him into the boat. Peter stumbled in behind him, catching himself on the nearby table with his elbow.
“Wow, no– shit– hello? How are you?” Peter quipped, swearing when the steady pressure he had been applying with his hand stopped due to him catching himself. Frank rolled his eyes, dead bolting the door and looking through the peephole to make sure no one was behind Peter.
“Shut the fuck up and sit down.” Frank growled, swiftly moving around the kitchen and opening cabinets looking for the med kit. Something in his voice made Peter actually listen. It wasn’t because he was scared of Frank, maybe he should be considering the man is a serial killer, but because he heard something in Frank’s voice that he had never heard before. Was it worry?
Slowly, he lowered himself into the kitchen chair, wincing at the loud creak that radiated from the legs. They didn’t seem very stable, he didn’t need a concussion in addition to his stab wound. Peter sat there, watching Frank flit around the kitchen before finally locating the med kit. He felt bad, waking him up– and it was obvious that Frank had just woken up, his hair sticking up in all different directions.
The older man walked over to Peter, standing there and looking at him expectantly. They stared at each other for a moment. “What?” Peter broke the silence.
“Are you gonna make me say it?” Frank squeezed the bridge of his nose.
“I have no idea what you want me to do.” Peter confessed. His brain wasn’t really working, on account of the blood loss.
“You gotta pull down the suit, kid.”
“Shit, sorry.” Peter began wiggling out of the neck, stretching it over his shoulders and pulling his arms out, sucking air through his teeth as he pulled the fabric off his wound. It was stuck on like glue, having been cemented by the dried blood. He left the fabric bunched around his waist.
Frank watched him struggle with the suit for a moment, not offering to help, before crouching down in front of him, batting Peter’s hands away in order to get a better look. “Jesus Christ, Pete.” Frank sighed, it wasn’t pretty, that's for sure, but it wasn’t life threatening. Peter had lost blood, yeah, but his healing factor would account for that, Frank’s job was to disinfect the wound and stitch him up. (And then give him a stern talking to, but he would save that for when the kid wasn’t bleeding all over his furniture.)
Peter sat there awkwardly as Frank just looked at the stab wound. He wasn’t saying anything, which was a bit unnerving. Peter and Frank never just sat in silence, there was either banter, arguing or once in a while they would have a conversation. But they were never silent.
“So…” He cleared his throat, tipping his head back against the chair. Even keeping his head up seemed like too much effort right now. “Good news?”
Frank shot him an unimpressed look before reaching over to the med kid and grabbing a packet of antiseptic wipes. “You ain’t dead.” He responded, ripping open the packet of wipes with his teeth, unfolding it with steady hands.
Peter smiled weakly, “Yay…”
“Don’t celebrate yet.” Frank huffed, eyes flicking up to meet Peter’s before looking back at the wound. “Hold still.”
“Ow, fuck!” Peter yelped, jerking away instinctively as antiseptic seeped into his open cut. It felt like he was getting stabbed again. “Fucking hell, Frank!” he hissed, sucking air through his teeth as he ran his fingers through his hair.
Frank sighed in frustration, “Quit squirming.”
“I’m sorry. You try– shit– sit still while a man is prodding your stab wound!”
Frank snorted quietly, the first emotion shown other than frustration since Peter had dropped on his doorstep. Using his left hand to brace Peter’s shoulder, stopping him from jerking away, he used the other to continue to clean the wound and the surrounding skin. The white wipe was stained within seconds.
“I told you it was going to sting.” he huffed, throwing the used wipe off to the side and grabbing another one.
“No you didn’t! You told me to hold still!” Peter argued, shivering as another cold wipe touched his skin.
The older man hummed, “Maybe you’re just deaf.”
“Maybe you’re just mean.”
“That ain’t breaking news, Pete.”
Their back and forth died down as Frank finished clearing away the blood obscuring the wound. He leaned in using his fingers to prod around the wound, raising an eyebrow when Peter hissed in pain, tensing up. “It is tender.” he asked, his voice low in the quiet atmosphere of the kitchen.
Peter chuckled slightly, but ultimately stopped due to the pain radiating from his side, “I’ve been stabbed, Frank.”
Frank huffed again, turning around to grab a needle and suture thread, before saying “Answer the question.”
“Just when you touch right by it.” Peter whispered tiredly.
The older man grunted, moving his fingers a bit higher before moving away satisfied. “Blade didn’t hit nothing important.”
Peter blinked, “That’s good, right?”
“Mean’s you ain’t bleeding internally, which would have meant a hospital.”
He tensed at the word, his loopy experience disappearing in a second, eyes going wide as he whipped his head to look at Frank, “No hospitals.” The words came out way too quickly, spoken in a hoarse voice as he lurched forward, grabbing Frank’s shoulders with surprising strength. “Seriously Frank, no hospitals.”
Frank frowned. Peter’s grip wasn’t painful, but it was harsh. It was clear the kid was upset, his breath quickening and his eyes flicking around Frank’s face. Grabbing the kids wrists and pulling them off of his shoulders, which took a lot of effort, Frank shushed him. “Hey, easy.” He said, “I didn’t say nothing about going to the hospital.”
Suddenly, Peter blinked as the words registered, snapping out of his state of panic and pulling his hands back in a surrender motion as he realised what he was doing. He felt his face heat up, no doubt going red in embarrassment. “Sorry, I… don’t know why I did that.” Peter confessed, running his hands through his hair as he sighed. “Could you stitch me up now, please?”
The older man watched him for a second, his dark brows furrowed. Why had he reacted so adversely? This obviously was a new development– he had been fine going to the hospital just a couple of months ago. He’d seen a lot of panic before, hell, he’d been the source of most of this panic, but it just felt foreign on a boy so young. Biting his lip, he threaded the suture thread through the needle, then hovered over the wound. “This is gonna hurt.”
Then, he began stitching up the wound. Peter tensed up, sucking a breath through his teeth in pain, his knuckles going white with how hard he was gripping the table. “You can cuss, ya know.” Frank told him, “Ain’t gonna offend me.”
Peter let out a strained laugh. “Shut up.”
It took a while, Frank’s fingers were too big for delicate work, it wasn’t pretty or anything, but he got the job done. “All done.”
Frank placed his hands on his knees, groaning as he got on his feet and straightened up. He began picking up the discarded wipes and rubbish, putting it in the bin and packing away the med kit. The room was quiet except for the rustling of clothes and plastic snapping shut. Frank left for a moment, before coming back with a black t-shirt and throwing it at Peter.
Peter looked at it for a moment before smiling and pulling it on over his head. It was getting a bit chilly. It was a bit big for him, but it did the job.
“Need water?” Frank asked, already walking to the glassware cabinet. Peter nodded, smiling when Frank came back with a glass of water. “Now, you’re gonna start talking.”
Peter rolled his eyes as he sipped his water, leaning back in his chair. He placed the glass on the table with a thud. “It was just some idiot kid.” Peter sniffed, “Caught be by surprise.”
He didn’t really want to talk about it, it was late (early?) and he was tired. Peter just wanted to swing back to his apartment and fall into bed. But, he did wake up Frank, so he guessed he owed him some answers.
Frank tutted, sitting on the chair opposite to Peter’s, running his fingers through his hair. “Nah, I couldn’t care less about who stabbed you.” He began, looking at Peter, “I’m talking ‘bout whatever happened there.”
The younger man huffed an awkward laugh, “Awe, man. I dunno.” He waved his hand in a nonchalant gesture, “Just… can’t afford it, you know.”
“That’s bullshit and you know it, I know your daddy Stark set you up with great health insurance.” Frank laughed, tapping his index against the table, “Seriously, Pete. Why the hell didn’t you go to the hospital?”
He was silent for a moment, before resuming. “Why did you come to me?”
Peter groaned, resting his face in his hands, “Come on, Frank. We gotta do this now?”
Frank leaned back in his chair, leaning back and crossing his arms, cocking his head as he looked at Peter. “Yeah.”
Peter looked at him through his fingers. He looked upset, Frank’s eyes were squinted and his eyebrows were furrowed, his lips pulled into a tight line.
“You were bleeding out.” Frank began, “And instead of doing the sensible thing and going to the hospital, you dragged your ass halfway across queens to come bother my ass.”
Frank sat there, looking at him expectantly, and Peter was never good at lying. He crumbled under the pressure. “It’s probably stupid…” Peter muttered.
“Probably.”
He shot him a look, scoffing, “I thought you wanted me to open up?”
“Nah, I don’t do that ooey gooey shit.” Frank cracked his knuckles, before realising that was probably the wrong thing to say, “But you still gotta talk.”
Peter laughed at the hypocrisy of what Frank was saying. He portrayed himself as this tough guy, but he was one of the only people to give Peter’s wellbeing the time of day. Frank was a better friend then he let on. His laugh died off and he sat there for a moment, thinking over his words.
“It’s just. My mask.” Peter muttered, chewing the inside of his cheek. Frank frowned, gesturing for Peter to get to the point. “If I go to hospital again… they could take off my mask, or something.”
The room went quiet.
“They almost did last time!” Peter defended himself, waving his hand through the air, “The only reason they didn’t is because you scared the shit out of everybody.”
Frank sighed, “I ain’t following.”
Should he tell him? Yeah, Frank was tough, but he was street level. But Peter cared about him, he didn’t want to put him in more danger. Then again, he could handle himself, and it would feel good to talk about it with someone who wasn’t MJ…
“There was a time where my identity was revealed to the entire world.” Peter began, playing with his fingers out of nerves.
"It happened a couple years ago. My name was on every headline. He rubbed the back of his neck. "People were rioting outside my apartment. Outside May's apartment. MJ and Ned..." His voice caught for half a second before he continued. "...they got dragged into it too."
“I don’t remember this shit.”
“Yeah. That’s because I got Dr. Strange to erase Peter Parker.” He blurted out, looking down to the ground. “Wiped all pictures and documents, everybody's memories… So it was like I never existed.”
Frank exhaled, leaning back in his chair, “Shit…”
Peter laughed. “Yeah. So… I don’t really want that to happen again.”
It was out. He had confessed to someone out of his own will. It was like this weight had been lifted off of his shoulders. Peter had spent years alone, being a shadow in every room, and yet here he was– talking to someone about before. It felt… nice. Frank was a good listener.
Once again, they sat there in silence, processing the confessions made. The room felt heavy with emotion, but Peter felt safe.
“Lemme tell you something.” Frank began, breaking the silence, “For a genius you’re really fucking stupid.”
Peter burst out laughing, clutching his wounded side and wincing in pain. “There it is.”
Frank sighed, “When you next wanna go get gutted–”
“Oh, come on.”
“--Next time. Come here.” Frank said, “I might be real mad you woke me up, but I’d be more mad having to find your ass dead.”
Peter smiled to himself. Maybe he was stupid– he should have gone to the hospital. But at least he wasn’t alone anymore.
“Thanks, Frank.”
“Any time, Pete.”