Chapter Text
Peter hated guns—always had. He hated the sound, the look, the idea of what a small pistol could do to a man. Later, he realized that he also hated the smell. Gunpowder was a striking scent in comparison to the city sewage of New York; they did not complement each other in the slightest, he would say.
But if he thought about it, Peter had been surrounded by guns his entire life, encased in his own traumatic war that only a seven-year-old could create.
Frank was first, though he was fighting his own battles. Papa was rigid in a way that reminded the young boy of a general, which made sense considering his father's history in the dunes. He carried a pistol on him at all times, almost always holstered. There was only one time in his life that Peter ever saw the handgun drawn and actually fired, and that was the day Papa lost everything.
Second was Richard Parker. Peter hated him.
It surprised him how, even though Frank had a gun on him at all times, he was never abusive or violent with his kids. Whereas Richard had his handgun locked in a safe and never seemed to use it, preferring his fists to dole out pain upon Peter and his wife. That was the one and only time Peter wished he had taken Papa's lessons seriously and knew how to pick a lock.
Ben was last, and we all know how that ended… how it always ends.
Oddly enough, the day at the park was not the worst of his memories. Peter, at the time, had a crippling fever of 104, and Mama sat in the grass with his head cradled in her lap. He barely remembered getting to the park, much less the actual gunfire. Life with Richard and Mary was just like that day at the park: a blur almost all the time.
But the night that Ben died, he remembered all of it. Peter had learned all his colors in elementary school, but he had never realized that red could be so bright. He was taught at an early age that oranges and reds were akin to fire and warmth—something safe. But that night, the warmth of red was fire and death; it felt hot. The blood felt like souls screaming in agony in hell, all the while leaving his uncle cold.
And yet, with all those moments, Peter felt like none of it could have prepared him for this—for Papa to be pointing his own handgun at him.
"You like getting in the way? Huh?" Papa spat at him. "You can't save everyone!" The angry vitriol almost made Peter jump; he had never seen his father like this, never with him.
I could have saved you that day, he wanted to say. If only my abilities had developed a little bit faster that day. If only I was a little bit faster.
"So you want me to just stand to the side and watch you massacre everyone? Is that what you want, Frank?" Calling Papa by his first name felt weird. Despite what the media said, not all white people did that, and Peter was not one to be disrespectful.
"I want you to get out of the goddamn way. You and Red are so similar, ya know? With your naive beliefs of right and wrong."
"He didn't deserve to die—"
"He deserved worse."
"The police—"
"The law doesn't do shit to these scumbags. What are they gonna do? Let him rot for maybe a couple years before he goes out and hurts these kids all over again? Is that what the suit is meant for, Spider-Man?"
"I wouldn't have let that happen." Peter wanted to cry. Papa was being so mean.
"That's not something you can promise, and you know it. I make sure these criminals stay down."
"I'm not DD. You don't need to lecture me."
"You act the same, and that's good enough for me. You and Red can run around all you want in your little spandex with your hopes and dreams, but it will never rid New York of the dirt."
"I'm trying to protect it, Frank!"
"You can't protect shit! Sure as hell ain't protecting those kids!"
"What do you know? Didn't protect yours—"
Yeah… Peter may have deserved the punch that the Punisher laid on him. He choked as Papa held his throat with his forearm and pushed him against the wall. Peter thought he deserved that, too.
"You listen to me, Spider-Man. You mind your own goddamn business and you keep my kids' names out of your fucking mouth—"
"Yeah, well, where are they, Frank?" Peter couldn't help it. He was just so scared, and so angry, and so… lonely. "Stop using them as a fucking excuse. You walk around with a vengeance and kill this guy or that guy, but it will never bring them back." I'm right here. They're gone, but I'm right here.
"And they should have been here!" God, look at me, please. I'm right fucking here. "If it wasn't for the piss in this city, they would have been here." Frank released him, watching with painfully impassive eyes as Peter heaved on the floor. "And with what I do, I'm going to make sure that no father has to lose his kids like I did."
"So you kill them? They had kids of their own. Wives to go home to."
"I killed pieces of shit who didn't deserve the family they had."
"You don't decide that, Frank."
"Yes, I do. I'm not Red, kid. I don't believe in God to make decisions. I do that shit all on my own."
Peter could only watch as Frank walked away, turning his back on his last standing son. Beside him were the ghosts of his younger brother and sister, hands held in Papa's as he swung them around—just like how Peter used to enjoy it.
"I'm a coward," Peter whispered.
"I thought you were going to tell him this time," Matt said from behind him.
Peter shook his head. Frank Castle had survived so much on his own already; he had mourned his family and moved on. While Peter was still reliving the day at the park, Papa was living the lonely days afterward.
"He doesn't need me anymore."
Matt sighed. "I think you don't see how much he does need you."
Peter's shoulders trembled. "Please don't do this right now. Not now, Matt."
Matt could only remain silent as he studied the boy. Peter had come far from the elementary student who had walked into his office asking for help. He had grown into himself and grown a lot stronger, even without the spider bite. But right now, Matt remembered that Peter was still only fourteen years old.
"C'mon, kid. I'll take the couch."