Chapter Text
Frank Castle never purported to be sane. The very idea was laughable. Anyone who knew him–and that was vanishingly few people these days–would say the same. They all knew exactly what he was and what he stood for. They all knew he didn't do lost causes and he didn't do pity. He woke up, worked himself to the bone, slept, and then in between, he screamed himself hoarse when the nightmares came calling.
And yet, there he was walking up a set of dingy, dusty stairs. There he was striding toward a shabby, unappealing loft.
Once was a test, twice was a joke, and three times was a pattern.
Frank hated patterns.
"Open up," he banged on the door.
There was muffled movement inside. Then a small voice:
"Um, no soliciting!"
"Open the door before I open it for you," he growled.
"Frank?"
"Now."
He'd done it just last week: kicked in the door. There were still cracks in the frame, covered up with duct tape and loose screws. A stiff breeze was liable to blow the whole thing over, much less a winter storm.
"Just like me," Frank muttered under his breath.
"What?" the door swung open, yanked not by a hand, but by a clump of webbing.
The interior was a mess, as usual. It looked more like a junk drawer than a home, which Frank was qualified to say as New York City's foremost expert in disordered living. He scanned the exits automatically, checking the windows one at a time before stepping inside. Never could be too careful. Never knew who was coming to get you, or when.
Inside, the lights were off. The curtains were perpetually half-drawn, concealing the sun and increasing the gloom. Instead of cozy furnishings, storage shelves lined most of the available space. They were littered with half-split wires and the carcasses of long-dead electronics. Boxes filled up the gaps, stacked and jammed into place before spilling over onto the floor.
The kitchen was worse than the last time he'd seen it. Gossamer strands of webbing clung under the cabinets and around the appliances. It rendered the coffee maker unusable, and forget about the lights. Dust collected on the microwave. An open box of cereal perched next to a full sink of dishes, all of them cobwebbed to hell. The only thing that wasn't molding was an extra-large tub of protein powder. Lovely.
Frank checked the corners one more time. Still empty.
He threw open the fridge. There was a half-eaten sandwich going moldy on the top shelf. The door sported half a jar of olives and a gallon of congealed milk. As for the rest, it was empty. Again.
"Frank?" Peter said from behind him.
Frank grunted.
"I thought you were busy," Peter added.
"I am," Frank slammed the fridge door shut.
"Oh."
Peter shifted on his chair, going from a perch to a lean. The difference was subtle, but his eyes weren't. He kept flicking his gaze toward Frank, staring at him surreptitiously before jolting back toward his work. He had a screwdriver in one hand and a web shooter in the other, but he'd long since stopped his tinkering.
There was always a heaviness to Peter Parker. A weight. A pall. Frank noticed it when he'd first met Spider-Man. He'd recognized it, and he'd seen it many times since. At first, he thought it was the normal kind of weight. The kind a lot of people had. The kind that Peter could manage. But lately… Whatever it was, it was getting worse. Much worse. That was what drove Frank to map two years of Spider-Man sightings. It was what had him tracking down yet another idiot in a bright red suit. It was what had brought him up those stairs originally, and it was the single thought that managed to slip between the night terrors: something bad is going to happen to that kid.
"What's that?" Frank jerked his chin toward Peter's workstation.
The computer was on, as usual. It displayed a schematic Frank couldn't make heads or tails of. The outline was a rough match for whatever Peter was fiddling with, probably. Last week he'd been working on something medium-interesting–Peter's words–and the week before that he was repairing his tiny fabricator.
"Just upgrading the flow rate again. I'm pretty sure if I swap out the intake valve…"
Peter's voice faded to a dull buzz. His hands moved animatedly, but his eyes were sunken. He lit up when he talked about his tools, but even that was fleeting. Frank shifted on his feet, flexing his calves to keep his blood flowing. He checked the windows again, then the door. He listened carefully, searching for anything unusual he might have missed. His Glock was tucked comfortably at the small of his back, and he let his fingers brush it for a second before–
"Sorry, Sir–"
Frank flinched. Curtis flickered at the edge of his vision, there for a second and gone just as fast. He heard the ring of gunfire in his ears, then the echoing wail of a child screaming.
It took him a minute to realize the apartment was silent.
"What?" he snapped.
"Nothing," Peter said quickly.
Frank exhaled. God, he was bad at… whatever he was trying to do here.
"Let's go for a walk."
"A walk?" Peter furrowed his brow. "I mean, thank you, but–"
"Wasn't a suggestion," Frank squared his shoulders. "Let's go."
It was warm out lately. Unseasonably warm. Today was no exception, creeping heat under Frank's hoodie and into his bones. He rolled his shoulders, failing to shake it. Beside him, Peter adjusted his backpack. He straightened the strap once. Twice. Again. It clung on one side, threatening to skate off at a moment's notice. Somehow, though, he always grabbed it right before it did.
They settled into a blistering pace, cutting past pedestrians with long strides. Peter wasn't as restrained as usual. Instead of play-acting at normalcy, he ate up the ground like a starving man. They cleared block after block without pause, always moving, always faster. Frank didn't mind, though. He could keep up. He could–
Suddenly, someone bumped Peter on the shoulder. Frank had a hand on his gun in a heartbeat, about to draw when:
"Sorry," Peter muttered, and they were moving again.
Frank sighed. It was too damn hot and he was too damn twitchy. Peter was twitchy, too. He just hid it better. Underneath the threadbare shirt and a ratty set of jeans, he was a mess. A disaster. The jeans were from last week. The shirt was from last month. It smelled rank. Money was tight, sure, but why wasn't he using his washing machine? His suit was always pristine.
Peter's hair stuck to his forehead, greasy and unkempt. There were hollows under his cheekbones. His physical fitness wasn't in doubt–Frank had seen him flip around and twist around and then flip around again for good measure–but he looked sick. The sunlight made it obvious, flushing out everything the dark liked to hide.
They breezed through a crosswalk, agitating a cabbie. Peter mumbled another half-hearted apology, but his eyes were anywhere but the road. He kept looking up and around. Here. There. He found a flock of pigeons right before they scattered. He found a window just before it opened. It was like he was seeing the world five milliseconds ahead of everyone else.
Five milliseconds ahead of Frank.
Frank didn't like being behind. Behind got you caught. Got you killed.
They passed under a line of scaffolding. The shadows rippled. Peter tensed. Somewhere very, very far above them, a piece of rebar clanged. On the sidewalk, foot traffic thickened. Frank pulled his hood down over his face. They passed a street vendor selling ten different kinds of sandwiches and bleeding fifteen different aromas. Peter wrinkled his nose. Frank took a right instead of a left, sending them across the intersection and away from the smells.
"How's Queens?" Frank broke the silence when Peter flinched before a car horn went off.
"Queens is good," Peter said a little too quickly. "I mean, it's weathering the storm, you know?"
"No."
A beat of silence.
"Right," Peter cleared his throat. He adjusted his backpack again, playing with the frayed strap like it was the last thing holding him together. "Things are tough, I think. New Avengers. New Mayor. New York. New problems."
"Problems? What problems?" a muscle worked in Frank's jaw.
"Just problems," Peter spread his arms, laughing even though the smile didn't reach his eyes. "Like everywhere."
Frank grunted.
"I don't know," Peter rubbed his arm. "I just– I feel like the city can't catch a break."
Right. The city.
"There's always something. There's always someone. They need my help, or they're going to and they don't know it yet. And I want to help them. Of course I do. But if I can't get there in time and something happens, then that's on me…"
Mentally, Frank added chronic insomnia to the growing list of Peter's problems. Then he added the hole fraying on the side of Peter's backpack. It was tearing by the second, threatening to reveal his suit or whatever gadgets he had in there. Every step tested the threads. Every step tested Frank's resolve. Slowly, he tapped a finger against the side of his thigh. Slowly, he considered if it was his place to add additional pieces to Peter Parker's crumbling life. But no. It didn't matter. The list was too long already. Too long by far.
They turned again, following the street as it slashed over the highway. Trees clustered down below, playing at obscuring traffic. It was a pleasant splash of green, but the noise broke through the canopy anyway. The whir of engines and the screech of tires assaulted their eardrums, drilling at them over and over. It would let up for a second, then start again. Again.
Peter pulled ahead, only to slow. He veered toward the chain-link fence on the side of the bridge. Frank scanned left and right. There were at least five good angles to get a shot off. His skin crawled, but he didn't fight it. No use fighting it.
Just keep moving forward.
Peter stopped in front of the railing, staring aimlessly through the links. The highway buzzed below, congested without spilling over.
"Do you think it's raining in Boston?" Peter asked suddenly.
"Wouldn't know."
"I mean, it's not raining here. Maybe it's not raining there. Maybe it's sunny. Do you think it's sunny? It would be cool, I mean, if it were. Maybe we can both be not raining–or sunny. Both sunny."
"New York and Boston?" Frank shifted his feet.
"Or Cambridge."
"Cambridge," Frank said flatly.
"Yeah."
Peter sucked in a breath like he was about to keep talking.
"You studying meteorology or something?" Frank cut him off.
"Me? No. Definitely not–"
"Then shut up about the weather."
"You are literally the worst person I know," Peter said, abruptly turning away from the fence.
Frank rubbed his jaw. He was exhausted, and not from all the walking. But at the same time, he felt lighter than usual. The tension that usually coiled around his neck wasn't choking him so tight.
"Maybe it is," he jerked his chin vaguely south. "Sunny."
"Yeah?" Peter finally managed a smile.
"Yeah."
"You know, my friends are down in Cam–"
Suddenly, something chimed. Frank drew his Glock, pointing it at the offending sound. His shoulders stiffened, drawing the lines of his body taut as a bowstring. His heart pounded in his ears–a familiar refrain as he waited for the moment to–
"Suspect fleeing north on 35th Street," came a female voice. Peter immediately pulled out his phone.
Frank exhaled, grimacing. Not a bomb. Still a problem. He tucked his pistol away.
"Correction: armed suspect."
Peter swung the backpack around, already reaching inside. His limbs came alive, moving with purpose instead of going through the motions. The transformation was total, reaching all the way to his pupils, which dilated wider and wider–
"Wait."
Frank looked down, surprised to find his hand clamped firm around Peter's wrist.
"I can't," Peter said, but he didn't move.
Peter's phone chimed again: "Officers in pursuit. They have him."
Peter relaxed, but Frank was slow to let go of his arm. His body got stuck for a few seconds, locked in place like an incomplete thought. The AI shut off with another chime, and he finally broke free. Peter's eyes were on him, but his expression was open. Relief Frank hadn't expected flooded his overworked nerves. Peter Parker was a lot of things, but scared of a dodgy old man wasn't one of them.
"You can't be everywhere at once," Frank grunted, shoving his hands into his pockets.
"I have to try," Peter hitched his backpack up on his shoulder.
"What about your life?" Frank leaned forward, putting more into the words than he intended.
"What about yours?"
He didn't have an answer for that.
They ended up at a nearby basketball court, sitting shoulder to shoulder on a bench. Peter watched a spirited game of two-on-two while Frank glowered at exposed sight lines and kids skipping school. The two of them lapsed into an easy silence, sitting there while the ball slammed into the pavement.
Peter leaned back, stretching his legs and staring at the sky. There wasn't a cloud to be seen up there, just endless clear blue. Peter's eyes looked clear, too. He looked better–healthier in spirit if not in body.
Frank hauled himself to his feet. He needed to be getting back. When the sun went down, his targets came out. He couldn't afford to waste any time.
"See you, kid," he offered by way of goodbye.
"Sir– I mean, Frank," Peter fiddled with his jeans, sheepish.
Frank raised his eyebrow.
"Sorry, I know you don't like it when I call you that."
"Nah," Frank shook his head. "I don't mind."
And for once, it actually felt true.
He turned on his heel to leave, but Peter suddenly looked up.
"I'll see you next week?"
"Yeah," Frank nodded. "You will."