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The kid’s body is heavy in his arms.
His front is wet from the blood that stains, pours, spreads all over, like a faucet running nonstop on low. Frank knows what he did to the kid. He did this to him, clear as day. The hospital doors slide open for them automatically, and Frank is desperate, so desperate. Please. Someone help.
He’s responsible for shooting Spider-Man. The words escape him, when the nurses and doctors remove him from his arms. It would’ve been harder to dislodge Frank’s grip on the kid if he hadn’t been dripping in blood from the gunshot wound he’d given to him. Instead, Spider-Man’s lifeless body slips from his grasp and into the relative safety of hospital staff.
They ask him what happened, but Frank only hears the sound of the wind blowing through the vents of the hospital ceiling. He’s aware of chatter, of beeping monitors being set up. He’s aware of a nurse touching his shoulder, of her speaking to him, of what happened out there?
He blinks, and the same nurse is picking herself up off of the floor from where he’d shoved her, clutching the back of her head. Two security guards are trying to get a hold on him, pulling him away. When had he done that? He looks towards Spider-Man, who is already laid out on a gurney; they’ve cut his suit away at the chest, and the attending physician on call has slid her fingers under the neck of the mask, lifting it—
“Stop! Stop. Fuck—“ Time skips again and Frank suddenly has an iron grip on the doctor’s wrist, who freezes, terrified. He shakes his head to clear his mind, then shakes off the two security guards, who weren’t really doing that much to hold him back anyway, those fuckers.
“Take him—take him somewhere else, first. Don’t let anyone see.” He owes at least this much to the kid. “I’m stayin’ with him.” He adds. At the doctor’s cautious stare, Frank lets go of her wrist and holds his hands up in surrender. I’m innocent, his hands say. He knows it’s not true.
The doctor waves off the security guards with her other hand. She straightens her shoulders and shakes out the wrist he had grasped. “Let’s put Spider-Man in trauma room four. Close the blinds.” She turns to Frank, beckons him to follow, albeit shakily. Two aids quickly roll Spider-Man’s gurney into the room just down the hall. The blinds flick closed shortly after. The doctor makes to follow, waving over the charge nurse from the nurses’ station.
Frank steps in front of her path, blocking her from entering the room. He leans close, shamelessly intimidating her. “Listen to me carefully. No one is allowed to know Spider-Man’s identity. No one. Got it?”
Despite her trembling, her voice is carefully level. “You guys did your job. Let us do ours.” She turns to the charge nurse: “Let’s keep essential personnel only, and get our security guys to screen all exit and entry. Figure out who’s on call next, and tell them…”
Satisfied for the most part, Frank strides away and shoulders the door to the trauma room open. Only—he’s entered the wrong room, because there’s a teenager on the bed, surrounded by doctors and nurses working on him. Frank backs up automatically and almost accidentally knocks over a different nurse. He swivels his head, breathing hard and deep. Where is he? Where did—where is Spider-Man? Please. Where is he?
A flash of red catches his eye. The mask is lying on the armrest of a chair not too far from the gurney. Frank stares at the mask. Then stares at the teenager on the bed. A kid. Oh. The kid.
Frank is holding the mask in his hand now. He sits heavily on the chair. He lets the hospital staff do their job, and then wonders why the hell he’s so bad at his.
*
“Are you Spider-Man’s emergency contact?”
Frank sits with his elbows digging deep into his knees, fists under his chin, sporadically clenching and unclenching. He doesn’t bother looking at the charge nurse asking him the extremely stupid questions.
They’ve left Frank alone all this time, so he can keep track of the right names and faces, makes sure no one who’s not supposed to be in there is in the room. He sleeps in short bursts while Spider-Man is in and out of surgery. He never leaves.
“Does Spider-Man have anyone else we can contact for him? Or maybe you can?”
“Do you know how old he is?” Frank does turn this time. The nurse visibly shrinks back. “Right, no personal questions. Okay.” He flees.
Franks grunts, which is enough of a signal for the nurse to freeze before exiting the room. “That other nurse okay? The one I—who fell, earlier.”
“…Yeah, she’s fine. Just bruised is all.”
“You tell her I’m sorry about that.” He’s sorry for a lot of things these days.
Frank doesn’t speak again for a while. He’s no doctor, but he knows that the amount of tubes poking out of Spider-Man is bad, and he knows that he has to expand the list of people who’ve seen Spider-Man’s face to include multiple surgeons and radiologists. The doctors told Frank that it was touch-and-go for a little while, and now they’re all just playing the waiting game. Maybe he will wake up. Maybe he won’t. Frank wishes for it to be a dream that he himself could wake up from. Waiting gives him too much time to think, to replay the shot he took that almost killed Spider-Man. He feels his pocket for the mask.
“The mask stays on for everyone. Even for you, Frank.”
Without the mask, Spider-Man looks like any other kid in New York. Like someone who studies hard. Frank could imagine him with a girlfriend or boyfriend, maybe some nice parents who help put him through school. Spider-Man could be an athlete, someone who would’ve won some high school championships. Not for anything actually tough, like football or wrestling. This is a person who is lithe, fast, a captain of the swim team or a track star. He’d even bet there’s medals hanging in a childhood bedroom somewhere. A place that the kid probably hadn’t even left all that long ago. He thinks of two different bedrooms, then, from a family of his that no longer exits.
“This isn’t a lifestyle, kid; it’s a sentence.”
Who does the kid have in his life? Parents? The girl? He’d sent a message to the kid’s girl, MJ, who stopped by to visit just hours ago. Their interaction was short, brief, but it was clear that whoever she was, she was hesitant around Spider-Man. Hesitant to touch him, hesitant to speak.
She left a sketchbook, which Frank makes sure to keep propped up where the kid would be able to easily see it when he woke up. If he wakes up. He’d thought the kid cared way more about MJ than she did about him, but now he’s not so sure.
It’s hard to reconcile this image of a kid with the Spider-Man he’s known on the streets. For as nice as this kid looks, he doesn’t look like someone who should be taking bullets. He doesn’t look like someone who should be laying in a hospital bed, fighting for his life.
Every hit that Spider-Man’s ever taken, every time Frank knocked the kid down…it’s always been him—a kid. But for all that he’s seen Spider-Man get his shit rocked, he’s also seen him hold his own against powerful, dangerous people—people like the literal Hulk. He’s capable of more than he looks. Yet with one decision, Frank had almost sentenced the kid to death.
It’s contradictory, the amount of shit the kid has survived compared to the peaceful innocence that lays on the bed in front of Frank. And what can he do now, to make it up to him? What on earth could possibly right this egregious wrong?
“Hey.”
Her voice rings clearly in his ears, as if she was sitting in a chair of her own next to his. Frank starts, half-stands out of his seat, scanning the room for Jean Grey. He’s alone, surrounded by machines that only beep and blink quietly back at him.
“Thanks for trying to shoot me, by the way. Great job.”
“Well, I didn’t actually end up shooting you now, did I? The fuck is this shit?” Hearing her voice in his mind raises the hairs on the back of his neck. Hell, it raises the hair on his balls too. He sits reluctantly, on edge. Just because he’s alone in the room doesn't mean there’s no threat to him or to Spider-Man, so he’s not lowering his guard any time soon.
“Don’t worry, I’m not sticking around for long. Too many issues.”
“Christ, get out!” Jesus, this is giving him the heebie-jeebies like no other.
“Okay, okay. Just let me say this one thing. About Spider-Man.”
Frank squeezes the armrest of his chair until his fingers turn white, then squeezes his eyes shut, too. The kid. Suddenly, he feels weak. “Tell me.” It sounds like begging. He is.
“I’ve been trying to do my part to help keep him alive. I’m not very good at it, at least not yet, but I think it’s been working.”
“You usin’ your magic voodoo shit on him?” If there’s a chance that she’s making Peter worse instead of better, he’s going to be sure as shit that his next bullet ends her life for good.
“First of all, don’t call it that. And second, will you tell him I said thanks? For saving my life…and not…I don’t know. I’m just trying to return the favor.”
Frank relaxes, marginally. It sounds just like the kid to give someone, even an enemy, helpful life advice that changes the way they perceive themselves and the world. God only knows how he’s done it to Frank, too. Either way, Frank senses now that whatever the kid told Jean, it’s only made her reflective, not vengeful. Plus, from what he’d gathered in the brief aftermath, Jean’s vendetta had been against Damage Control, not Spider-Man.
“Alright, I’ll tell him you said thanks for the extra brain cells. Are you done?”
“No. Yes. I think I’ve done everything I can for now. Say goodbye for me too, will you? He’s going to wake up soon.”
Frank doesn’t deign her with another response. The long silence afterward confirms her absence. He shifts in his seat, ready to be there for Spider-Man, whenever he wakes up. Frank will be there to talk to him, to apologize. To begin righting his wrong. He’ll do whatever it takes.
*
Frank falls asleep in the chair.
He wakes when Spider-Man takes in a rasping breath. “Where…” the kid breaks off into a rattling cough that brings Frank back to life. He curses himself. It makes him feel like an old man, falling asleep like that. His back and neck are already giving him hell.
Frank straightens as the kid attempts to sit up in his bed, wincing. “Don’t, don’t—just relax. You’re okay.” Frank holds his hands out placatingly, looks at the kid, really looks at him, and feels his stomach fill with rocks. These are the actual eyes behind the mask—behind the expressive white lens he’s used to seeing. This is different. This is the kid, for real.
Tired brown eyes are looking into his, and those eyes are filled with concern, with friendliness, and worst of all: without malice. It’s more than he deserves, and suddenly it takes everything in him not to fall apart. Frank had put this kid in the hospital, and when the kid wakes up he’s looking at Frank like he’s greeting an old friend rather than a murderer.
“Is everyone okay?” His voice is thick from sleep. He glances over at the room, at MJ’s drawing, smiling faintly as he turns back to Frank.
Frank nods, then starts talking just as Spider-Man starts talking, but he’s not going to shut up about his apology until it gets in the kid’s head that Frank’s an asshole, an idiot, and that what he’s done to him is unforgivable. Never mind the fact that Spider-Man’s stubborn as shit and loud about it, loud enough that Frank has to talk over him.
“None of this is okay, and whatever it is, it sure as shit ain't okay, kid.” Is what Frank gets out, finally. Spider-Man looks at him in a way that he hopes isn’t pity, but knows it’s worse than that, because it’s forgiveness. Frank despises forgiveness with his entire being. Not the concept, you see. Only when it’s directed at him. He knows he could never deserve it.
“Frank, don’t worry about it, really.”
“Peter.” Frank tests out the name. It sits in the room, heavy.
Peter licks his lips, but he doesn’t look surprised. “Who told you?”
“Your girl stopped by.”
“She’s not my girl.” Despite the automatic words, Peter’s gaze flicks once again to the sketchbook. “Anyone else see me?”
“Nah, just your docs, but I’ve sworn them all to secrecy, don’t you worry.” If he threatened a few people’s lives and families, then, well, that had nothing to do all with Peter, really. He’s just doing his part to keep the kid safe, following his wishes and all that.
“Where’s Jean?” Of course Peter is worried for the well-being of the person who tried to kill him. Typical Spider-Man bullshit. Frank shakes his head. This fucking kid.
“Think she was using her magic voodoo shit to keep you alive, man. But something tells me she’s gone for good this time.” Peter is crestfallen for some godforsaken reason, which makes Frank wanna shake him even more. He’s silent for a few moments, so Frank tells him to take a peak outside the hospital window. It’s an excuse to make sure the kid can walk safely on his own, but he also knows it’ll fill the kid’s heart or some stupid shit like that to see his people out there. And it does.
After everything he’s been through, it’s worth it to witness Peter shift from bewildered to quietly pleased. For a kid who’s taking on the world’s problems all alone, it’s important that Peter knows the world also stands by Spider-Man’s side.
Frank leans back, crosses his arm, and watches Peter watch the world. Peter laughs a little to himself, like he still can’t believe it. “How am I supposed to get out of here?”
“Oh, don’t worry kid. I got a plan for that.” Peter turns, doubtful.
“Yeah? You gonna threaten them all?”
Frank bristles. “Don’t sass me. I waited around for awhile; had a lotta time to think about things.” It was a little more explanation than he meant to provide. But, well, since he’s made it this far, he adds, more seriously: “I’m gonna make it up to you, kid. You’ll see.”
Peter sits back on the edge of the bed. “I told you. You got nothing to worry about, man, okay? I know you were trying to do the right thing.”
Frank flinches. “The right thing is me making all of this—“ he gestures at the room. “Up to you. For starters, when you get outta here, I want you to come to my place. I’m gonna look after you—“ Peter immediately starts protesting, but Frank barrels right over him. “Just for a little while, okay? Until you’re back at a hundred percent. Then I’ll shut up about owing you, blah blah. Capiche?” Frank will not actually shut up about owing him, but Peter doesn’t need to know that.
Peter shakes his head. Fuckin’ stubborn kid. “I don’t wanna put you out, Frank.”
“You and that MJ girl already did the other night. Who gives a fuck. You telling me you got a nice mansion somewhere around here?” Suddenly, Frank is nervous. Who funds this kid, anyway? Maybe he does have access to a mansion and infinite resources. Really, he knows nothing about Peter.
“…No, I guess not. My apartment’s pretty far from here, actually. Like, at least an hour.”
“It’s settled, then. We’ll rendezvous two blocks south of here, okay kid? I’ll drive us back to mine. I’ll even let you into my place without triggering any booby traps.”
“Gee, that’s real kind of you.” Peter rolls his eyes, and Frank chooses to let the sarcasm roll over him since he’s already been enough of a dick and tosses Peter that annoying nurse’s green fleece jacket; he’d stolen it hours ago.
“Meet you in 10.”
*
Frank’s got four parking tickets and no intention of paying back any of them, much to Peter’s dismay.
He does have to admit, though, it’s nice to have a ride for once instead of web-slinging back home, even if he does have to clear shattered glass off of the passenger seat. Frank smacks his hand away and brushes the rest of it away himself, muttering about not needing to add to the list of Peter’s dumb injuries. Peter asks if they can stop by his apartment first anyway, which Frank obliges.
There’s still no windshield, and one of the back van doors swings open violently whenever Frank makes a particularly hard turn. If Peter dozes a little, then that’s none of anyone's business. He thinks he’s earned a little rest. He gets it now, at least, about the dangers of taking on everything alone. Maybe step one of rectifying that situation can start with giving himself a little extra grace in the form of some occasional rest.
“We’re here, kid.” Frank nudges his shoulder with his fist, like he had intended to punch Peter awake and then changed his mind partway through. “Let’s be quick about it, they’re gonna ticket me before you know it.” He’s parked very illegally, so Peter hustles out of the van, lest they add ticket number five to the list.
Peter leads the way up to his fifth-floor shoebox deep in the heart of Queens. Peter realizes he doesn’t have his keys on him, so he tells Frank to wait there while he skips out to scale the side of the building to his window—which is how he gets back in most of the time anyway.
As soon as he slides his apartment’s window up, Peter quickly tosses dirty laundry into the hamper and clears off his empty takeout boxes into the trash, wincing at the stench and quickly shutting the garbage lid before it permeates the air further. He tosses his comforter over the stretch of his bed—there’s not enough time to fully make it, but at least it’s more presentable than having his bedding splayed out all over the floor.
Finally, he throws open the front door, panting. “Sorry about the mess.” He gestures at him to enter, then grabs his backpack off the hook and tosses his keys into the front pocket. He avoids looking at Frank. Peter knows his apartment is shitty; he’s not home often enough to give it the deep clean that it needs, and when he is home he’s usually too exhausted or just plain busy.
He finds some clean underwear and a change of clothes in his drawers, bumping it closed with the side of his hip. Then, he chances a quick peak at Frank, who is being uncharacteristically silent while Peter packs his little overnight bag.
Frank stands still, looking at Peter’s monitor set up slash workstation situation. The tech is nice, very good, even, and a stark contrast to the dismal state of the rest of his apartment. “This is where you live?”
“Uh, yeah. ’S been home for the past four years, actually.” Peter makes his way to the bathroom to grab his toothbrush.
“And where was home before that?” Frank’s still in the living room. Peter freezes, catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror of the medicine cabinet. Suddenly he’s standing in a different apartment, one that gets better sunlight and doesn’t belong to him anymore.
He shuts the mirror. “Um, Queens still. But I lived with my aunt, back then.” Peter swallows. May’s been gone for years, but for all that time Peter has rarely ever had to acknowledge it out loud. It’s unexpectedly difficult.
There’s an ESU hoodie laying around here somewhere, Peter knows. He exits the bathroom to hunt for it. The shipyard gets cold.
“An aunt?” Frank’s voice is doubtful.
“Yeah. She raised me. Her name was May.” Peter knows the conversation is over, then. Franks knows all about what it’s like to refer to loved ones in the past tense. It’s why Peter never asks about his wife, his kids, or anything else that Frank keeps locked away.
Peter finds the hoodie shoved behind the lone pillow of the loveseat he bought for a dollar off of Facebook marketplace. Belatedly, he realizes he might be a bad host.
“You can have a seat, man. Do you want some water, or—or something?” Peter hopes he paid the water bill on time this month. There’s nothing else to drink in his apartment. He hadn’t been able to actually buy the groceries he’d tried to pick up at the bodega a few days ago due to the usual crimefighting reasons.
“Nah.” Frank doesn’t move to sit, so Peter leaves him alone to snag his phone and charger off of his desk. Frank follows him this time, picks up the Lego figure from the table. Peter resists the urge to snatch it out of his hand.
“Where’d you get all this stuff?”
“Some of the tech’s from a friend of a friend.” That’s more cryptic than he meant for it to be, but it’s the truth. Peter had stolen the box of Stark tech from Happy’s apartment shortly after Dr. Strange’s spell. Peter had once thought that Mr. Stark might have intentionally left it to Happy to give to Peter someday, or maybe it was just that Happy had been planning ahead. Either way, he’ll never get the chance to know.
Peter shuts those thoughts down. They always led to nowhere. “I built most of it, though. And I do a lot of dumpster diving.” The words send Peter back to a different point in time, back when there was a different older man with dark hair standing in front of Peter’s bed asking him similar questions.
“Guess you’re some kind of genius, huh?”
“Well, actually, it’s not that hard to build your own PC these days. There’s tons of tutorials on YouTube—“
“I don’t care. How old are you?” Peter blinks at the abrupt transition. Frank sets Palpatine back on the table. He looks angry.
“…I’m twenty-two. Uh, how old are you?” It never occurred to Peter to wonder about Frank’s age, but fair’s fair.
Frank ignores the question. “You’re just a kid.”
“I’m old enough to drink.” Peter says automatically. “I could’ve graduated from college by now, too.” The words make him a little sad. He thinks back to Ned’s vlogs, watching his friends grow up into adults from a distance. Without him.
“That’s something a kid would say.” Peter wrinkles his nose at that, annoyed. He hasn’t been a kid in years. Not since he’d lost everyone he’d ever cared about. Isolation had forced him to forgo the last of his adolescence.
“Can we go now? Unless you’re gonna let me stay here after all.” Peter doesn’t care either way anymore. He’s suddenly so exhausted, and all he wants to do is eat dinner and go to sleep.
“Fine.” Frank says tersely, and Peter’s kind of hurt—what did he do to garner that kind of attitude from him? He follows him back to the van anyway, too tired to argue. Maybe he’ll try some of Frank’s chili after all, if he’s feeling particularly brave.
*
Unfortunately, Frank’s chili is delicious.
Peter eats every last spoonful, and then seconds, then an ambitious third serving that he just barely finishes. Frank’s still working on his first bowl, chewing slowly, contemplative as he watches Peter shove spiced beans down his throat.
“You’ve been in this business for what, eight years?” Peter sits back in his chair, absently patting his full stomach. It’s been awhile since he’s had access to a full, hearty meal like this.
“Yeah. Something like that.” Peter doesn’t put much thought into why Frank’s bothering to ask. He’s delightfully warm in Frank’s tiny kitchen, sated and relaxed.
“So you were, what? Fourteen?” Frank scrubs a hand roughly over his face. “Who the fuck was letting you do all that? Where were your—“ Neither of them speak the word aloud. “Your aunt was okay with all this?”
“Yes. Well, no. She didn’t know, at first. It’s complicated.”
“So who else knew? Or,” Frank looks awfully grave. “You been alone this whole time?”
Only the past four years, give or take. Peter doesn’t really feel the need to clarify, but he does anyway, at least so that he could take the grief off of Frank’s face. He shifted in his seat. What to share? How could he possibly explain that a wizard’s spell had wiped Peter Parker off the face of the universe?
He settles on a partial truth. “Mr. Stark helped me out a ton. In the beginning.”
“Stark? As in, Tony Stark, the billionaire?”
“Yeah. I guess I made an impression on him. And he needed me, for some Avengers stuff.”
“Thanos.” And an inter-Avengers civil war. But Spider-Man had been kept out of the news on that one, thankfully.
“Did he know who you were? That you were just a fourteen year old kid?” Frank seems to be squeezing the life out of his spoon as he speaks.
“Yeah. He met my aunt.”
“He met your aunt and still took you away? To fight in a war against aliens?” Frank’s voice was low. There was a flush rising in his neck. The room felt a lot warmer than it did before. He’s kind of touched that Frank is thinking some kind of severe injustice had been committed against Peter’s childhood, which is definitely not the case.
“Y-Yeah.”
“Then what the fuck was Stark thinking?” He’s loud. Peter flinches. At that, Frank looks away from Peter, setting the spoon back in his unfinished bowl of chili. He glances at him and then looks away to a fixed point behind Peter. “Sorry, kid. It’s just that you’re not that much older. When you started.”
Peter has nothing to say to that. His mouth is dry, all of a sudden. He turns to look behind his own shoulder, to see what Frank’s looking at, and confirms what he suspected.
“Frank.” He’s not relaxed anymore, but he understands where a lot of this is coming from, now. “Listen to me.”
Frank turns then, and Peter’s mouth turns down at what he sees in his eyes. Devastation. Despair. It tugs at something in his chest. “I’m really not a kid anymore, Frank. I need you to know that.” Then, even though it feels like he’s stabbing Frank and twisting the knife deep inside him, he says, “And I’m not your kid, either.”
For a few moments, there is only a palpable silence between the two of them. Frank’s shoulders rise and fall, and the terrible tension that had resided in them seeps out slowly. Peter sits taller in his chair. Perhaps it was an awful thing to say that to Frank, a risky assumption, even, but it needed to be said. The air is different now in a way that Peter didn’t even realize before. He’s not a meek child, dependent on Frank or anyone else. He’s Peter Parker and he’s Spider-Man, and he doesn’t need other people to defend him. He wins his own battles.
“Christ, I need a fucking drink.” Frank stands abruptly and pulls a bottle from a cabinet nearby. Peter strains his neck to see what else he has—a number of other liquor bottles, it seems. Frank brings back two small glasses and sets one in front of Peter.
“What are you doing?” Peter asks automatically. Frank pauses, squinting at him.
“Pouring you a drink. You said you’re old enough to have one, didn’t you?”
“Uh-huh.” Peter takes the glass carefully. Frank holds his hand over the rim of the glass, leaning in close to Peter over the length of the short kitchen table.
“You weren’t lying to me now, were you, daffodil?” He winks at him. Peter has to fight back the urge to gulp like a cartoon character.
“N-no. I just don’t drink all that much.” Peter’s first drink had been the punch at Ned and MJ’s housewarming party, and it hadn’t been that strong, as far as he could tell.
“To drinking.” Frank raises his cup to his; they clink their glasses together. Peter chokes immediately at the first taste of the liquid on his tongue.
“W-What is this?” He splutters.
“Vodka. The cheap kind.” Frank downs the entire glass in one go. Peter gapes at him.
“How’d you do that?”
“Years of practice, kid. Now tell me about your girlfriend.”
Peter frowns. “She’s really not my girlfriend. I told you.”
“Fine. Then tell me about your boyfriend.”
He rolls his eyes. “I don’t have one of those, either.” Then, because he’s feeling brave tonight, he downs as much of the vodka as he can. It’s a pitiful amount that sends Peter into another coughing fit. “You tell me about your girlfriend. Or boyfriend.”
“I told you, kid. This is a sentence.”
“Would you have one if you could?”
“A girlfriend? Or a boyfriend?” Frank smirks at him, refilling his glass and polishing off Peter’s own.
Peter flushes. “Either, I guess.” This conversation is making him feel funny.
“Yeah. I would. You?” Frank drums his fingers on the table, tilting his head and looking at him thoughtfully.
“Yeah. I guess I would. If I could.” The thought of letting anyone get too close remains untenable. He wasn’t sure how many new people he would let into his life, if any. His relationship with MJ remains nebulous at best, but including Frank in his life feels like a step in the right direction so far.
“You had one before?”
“Before Spider-Man?” Peter laughs a little. “I was too young, back then.”
“You telling me there’s been nothing, not even a little bit of exploration? Spider-Man’s living out his days like a nun?”
“What? I’m not a nun!” His voice comes out a squeak. He shakes his head frantically. Somehow, that’s more insulting than just calling him celibate. “In that case, we’re both nuns.”
Frank barks a laugh. “Oh, I haven’t sentenced myself to abstinence, kid. Trust me.”
Peter’s mouth is dry all of a sudden. “Oh?”
“What? You never considered the possibility?” Frank leaned back in his chair, pushing himself away from the table. “You thought not letting anyone get close to you meant you couldn’t have sex with anyone? Are you stupid?”
“N-No!”
“No, you thought you couldn’t have sex with anyone? Or no, you’re not stupid?”
Peter is standing. When had he gotten out of his chair? He walks around the kitchen table. Puts his hands on Frank’s shoulders. If Frank had known that it would get this far, he doesn’t show it. He uses only minimal strength to make him sit back further in his chair, and then Peter is straddling Frank’s legs, sitting in his lap. The chair creaks under their combined weight.
Frank has gone silent, staring up at Peter with parted lips.
“I’m not stupid.” Is what Peter says before he leans down and kisses him.
Frank groans into his mouth. His hands wrap around Peter’s waist, sliding around the length of his torso and then up into his hair. Frank grabs a fistful and pulls Peter backwards.
“What are you doing?” He rasps. He keeps an iron grip on Peter’s hair. It makes him moan.
“What does it look like I’m doing, Frank?” Peter huffs. He wants more. Frank doesn’t let him move.
“Tell me what you want this to be, kid.”
“What I want,” Peter can’t lean down and kiss him, so he rolls his hips pointedly instead. “Is for you to not be a nun.”
Frank releases his hair so he can grip Peter’s ass with both hands instead, lifting him off of the chair as if he was as light as a feather. Peter eagerly takes this as an opportunity to press his lips to his again. He’s aware that they’re moving, but doesn’t really take the time to consider where they’re going. He trusts Frank.
Frank sets him down, then presses Peter’s body into the mattress of his bed. “This what you want, Petey? You want me to fuck you?” Peter moans again, wrapping his legs around Frank’s waist. They haven’t even taken their clothes off yet, and Peter already feels like he’s ready to explode.
“Mm, fuck.” Frank yanks his head to the side so that he can suck sloppy kisses into Peter’s neck. Peter feels his scruff against his cheek, his collarbone, feels the other man’s hardness pressing against his own. Frank shoves his other hand up under Peter’s shirt to thumb at his nipple, and Peter lets out a strangled gasp, bucking against Frank’s hips as he shoots in his pants like a teenager.
Frank laughs at him. It’s a little mean. Peter likes it. He whines, doesn’t stop rutting. “You come already, Spider-Man? That all you got?”
“Frank, please,” he begs. “Gimme more.” Frank lifts himself off of him, and Peter gasps at the cold emptiness of Frank leaving him. “Come back.” He says weakly, turning his head to follow Frank, who is reaching for his bedside drawer.
Without thinking about it, Peter shoots off a web to yank the drawer open for Frank. Anything to get him back quicker. Startled, Frank looks back at his wrists. “Did that just come out of you?”
Peter flushes. Somehow, this is more embarrassing than just coming in his pants. “Yeah. It’s the spider hormone thing. Makes my senses crazy weird, too.” Frank takes a bottle of lube from the drawer and returns to the bed, sitting back on his knees next to Peter, who bites his lip, hungry.
“How weird?” There’s a glint in his eye. Peter shrugs.
“I dunno. It can be pretty bad sometimes, like, everything just becomes overstimulating.” Peter wants to pull Frank back on top of him. He reaches for Frank, who grabs his forearm instead.
With his other hand, he drags the hem of Peter’s shirt over his head, releasing his arm and then grabbing it again once the shirt is off. He pulls it closer to his face, examining his wrist.
“What is this?” Peter waits for judgement, or disgust, but all he senses is Frank’s simple curiosity.
“Um, spinnerets. Like actual spiders. I have it on both wrists, now.”
“Spinnerets.” Frank repeats. He licks his lips. Then, he runs his thumb over the opening on Peter’s wrist.
Peter gasps. “That feels, oh god…” Frank dips his head down and licks over the spinneret, watching for his reaction. “Ohfuck,” Peter thrashes, his hips bucking up at nothing. He can’t stop staring at where Frank’s mouth makes contact with his wrist.
With his other hand, Frank reaches down and palms Peter’s dick, running his tongue over the spinneret all the while. Peter moans loudly. “Hah, ah, f-fuck…” It’s warm and humid where Frank’s hand rubs between his legs.
“Yeah? You like that?”
“Uh-huh,” Peter nods dumbly. His other hand flops uselessly over his sweatpants, he wants to slide out of them. He wants to touch Frank. Frank snatches his other hand and tugs it close to his mouth, giving it the same lurid, sloppy kiss he’d given to the other one.
“Frank!” Peter is dying. He’s ascending into heaven because he’s dying. “Please…”
“Don’t worry sweetheart, we’re just getting started.” Frank does let go of his wrists, if only so he can tug Peter’s sweatpants off his body. He leaves the boxers on, where there’s a very visible damp stain across the front.
“I didn’t,” Peter gasps, eyes wide. “I didn’t know it could feel like this.”
Frank licks one last time, presses another wet and sloppy kiss to Peter’s mouth instead. He pulls back to look Peter over, to see the space around the spinnerets flushing pink from where he’d put his mouth on him. Satisfied with his work, he sits back on his haunches, pulling off his own shirt.
Peter drinks in the sight greedily. Frank is all strength and muscle, littered with thick veins and scars from years of winning battles. He wants to rub his face in Frank’s chest, feel the wiry hairs across his cheek; Frank interrupts this thought by shoving his own fingers into Peter’s mouth; Peter sucks them eagerly, licking and sucking and bobbing his head. Frank watches with darkened eyes.
“Show me how you touch yourself, baby.”
Peter couldn’t have suggested anything better himself. He shoves one hand down his boxers and wraps his hand around his wet dick.
“Is that all you do at home, kid?” Peter moans, sucking on the fingers harder. Frank withdraws them, much to Peter’s chagrin. With only two fingers, Frank pulls down Peter’s underwear. He doesn’t touch his dick, just brings the boxers close to his face to inhale deeply once before tossing them aside.
“Fuck.” Frank grunts. Then, he slaps the outside of Peter’s thigh and shoves his fingers back in Peter’s mouth. “Don’t stop. Show me what else you do to yourself, baby.”
Peter obliges, spreading his legs a little wider, squeezing his own balls teasingly and then venturing lower with his other hand. He’s too dry to do much more than circle his hole, trying to show Frank that he likes it, he wants more. He drools over Frank’s fingers. He hikes up one leg, allowing his left foot to plant itself more firmly on top of the bed. Frank groans appreciatively at the sight.
“Please, Frank, touch me,” he’s panting, he wants more so bad.
“Yeah? What do you want, kid?” Frank is lowering himself further back on the bed. Peter moans. Will he…oh god.
“Your mouth, Frank, oh god, please.”
Frank lifts Peter’s other leg so that he’s laying on his back with his legs spread wide, and then wider still as Frank makes a space for himself between them.
“Where do you want my mouth, Pete? Here?” He kisses Peter’s inner thigh once, then twice. Peter shakes his head, trembling.
“No, please, on my,” he shudders. Frank is getting closer, kissing the other side of his thigh, higher up this time.
“Yeah? Where?” He’s grinning, the fucker.
“Willyoueatmyassplease?” Peter gasps out, letting his head fall back against the mattress. Frank laughs and then pulls Peter by the hips, bringing him closer to his own face.
“Of course I will, baby. All ya had to do was ask.” Then he’s sucking on Peter’s rim, licking him fast and hard, and Peter can’t help it, can’t help the way he shakes and whines and comes all over himself again, when they’re just barely getting started.
Frank groans. “That’s fucking hot. Can’t stop coming, daffodil? Do I make you feel too good?” He brings his hand up to run his fingers through the mess that Peter made all over his stomach, drags it through Peter’s pubic hair, coating his fingers in it thoroughly and then breaching Peter’s hole with his own come.
“Mmm,” Peter whines. He loves the feel of it, the initial stretch in his ass as Frank plays with his hole. It’s wet and sloppy and beginning to border on too much. Frank pulls back to grab the lube, returns with an extra finger. Then, Frank takes Peter’s dick into his mouth and Peter bucks wildly. Frank has to hold him down with his free hand. He’s gonna come again, he can feel it in his bones.
Peter pants, pulling at Frank’s hair. “Wait,” he groans. It’s torturous to stop, but he’s desperate, he has to see Frank. Frank stops immediately, looks up, concerned, but Peter just tugs him up by the arm, uses a little bit of spider strength to do it, and then pushes Frank back so that he’s sitting up on the bed.
He’s too out of his mind with lust to consider being sexy about it, so he just scrabbles at Frank’s bulge until he gets the hint to pull off his pants.
“You don’t gotta do that for me, Pete.” Frank grunts.
“Trust me,” Peter sighs. “I really wanna do this for you, Frank.” He stares down at Frank’s dick, large and heavy and Peter really could come just from seeing this, he thinks. “I wanna make you feel good, too.”
He leans down and brings the tip to his mouth. He’s never done this before. Frank is uncharacteristically gentle with him, petting the top of his hair and his cheek. Peter gives the tip a kittenish lick once, then twice, then he brings the entire head into mouth and just sucks. Frank curses above him.
Peter feels for Frank’s hand on his head and curls his fingers around it so that Frank can tug at his hair the way that he likes it. It makes Peter’s mind white out, the feeling of Frank controlling the movement of his head, bringing Peter’s mouth further down his shaft each time, until Peter’s not even sucking, just drooling and choking around Frank’s dick. He can barely breathe, his mouth is stretched wide around the length of him.
“Fucking hell, Pete. Your mouth’s a goddamn dream.” He thrusts lightly. Peter can only gag around him. He pulls out suddenly, leaving Peter panting.
He taps his cock on Peter’s cheek. “Job’s not done yet, daffodil. Get me wet.” Peter moans around him, obliging as best he can, letting Frank fuck back into his drooling mouth.
Frank groans. “Yeah, baby, just like that, fuck.” He pulls out again, then uses his grip on Peter’s hair to bring him up for another kiss, licking deep into his mouth. “Gonna fuck you.” He pants, grabbing Peter’s waist to flip him onto his front. “Get on on your knees.”
Frank breaches Peter’s hole again with two fingers, then adds a third. He rubs a soothing hand down the small of Peter’s back, then reaches below to stroke him. Peter keens at the attention to his dick, bucks into Frank’s hand as he jacks him quickly.
“Frank,” he whimpers, his face is pressed into the mattress, partially because of the angle and partially by choice. Frank stops stroking him to line himself up with Peter’s hole instead.
“You ready, Pete?” He leans down to press a fast kiss to the back of Peter’s neck, petting his hair, his sides, reaching under to pinch a nipple between his fingertips.
“I’m ready, please-please—“ Peter gasps at all of the sensations, then lets out a long moan as Frank finally fills his hole with his cock. “Mmm, fuck, Frank!”
“Yeah, feel good?” Frank sinks in deep, pulls out slow.
“Fuck.” Peter grunts at the feel of the first thrust, so deep inside of him. His eyes roll back. Frank snaps his hips forward again, harder this time, and Peter grasps the sheets in his hands as he comes again, arms splayed out, back arching further as he tries to continue meeting Frank’s thrusts.
“Jesus, that’s fucking hot, baby,” Frank runs his hands down Peter’s flank as he thrusts again. “Still feelin’ good? Want me to keep going?”
Peter nods frantically. “Uh-huh, uh-huh,” Frank grips his hips and starts to really pound into him. The sound of Frank fucking into him is loud, Frank’s grunts and groans above him are loud, and Peter is too helpless to say anything at all anymore.
“Fuck, Peter,” Frank pulls him up by the shoulder, then huffs and suddenly he’s empty inside and the world is spinning for Peter. He’s staring at the ceiling now, somehow. Frank looks down at him, strokes the side of Peter’s face. “Still with me, daffodil?” He takes one of Peter’s wrists and kisses the spinneret. Peter nods. His face is wet, for some reason.
Peter licks his lips. “Say it again, please. Please…”
“What? Peter?” Frank punctuates it with another deep roll of his hips. Peter keens, high in his throat. His eyes are shiny, he knows. Frank takes one of his legs and places it on his shoulder, kissing the side of knee, watching him carefully as he grinds against him.
“Again…” Peter whimpers. “More…”
“Peter,” Frank whispers. He slows down his thrusts. “Are you okay, baby?”
Peter laughs a little. Of course he’d make it all weird somehow. “It’s just…it’s nice to hear my name. There hasn't been anyone…” he gasps, blinking away the tears that stubbornly fall anyway. “No one has known me. For awhile.”
Frank leans down until their foreheads touch. “Me, either.” Frank whispers. Peter smiles against him. He wraps his arms around Frank’s neck, keeps him there. He’s safe here, with Frank.
“‘M gonna come again,” Peter sighs. Frank picks up the pace, and Peter moans loudly as Frank really starts drilling into a spot deep inside that he barely even knew existed. He's falling apart, floating away, bursting at the seams, all at the same time.
“Come on, come for me, Pete, give me one more.” He reaches down, pulls Peter’s spinneret to his mouth and sucks. Peter doesn’t even make it ten seconds before he’s clenching tight around him again. His body jerks, he’s moaning, incoherent. It’s almost all too much, the feeling of it all, he’s so aware of the stretch in his hole, the hot length deep inside of him as he comes in long spurts. It almost hurts to come like this, untouched.
“Aw, fuck, baby, I’m gonna come.” Frank is pounding him into the mattress.
“Don’t stop.” Peter whispers. “I want you to fuck me through it.” He looks up at him through his wet eyelashes, wanting to see Frank come apart in front of him.
“Jesus, Peter,” He pulls out suddenly, climbs up the bed faster than Peter can keep track of right now. “Open your mouth for me, baby.” Peter obliges, watching with hooded eyes. “Yeah, fuck, that’s fucking good, ohh, fuck.” He strokes himself fast, watching his spend land on Peter’s tongue, his lips, his cheek. Then he’s leaning down and they’re sharing the taste between the two of them in another filthy kiss.
Frank collapses next to him, panting. Peter’s heartbeat is coming down now. Frank puts him arm around Peter. Maybe they should shower, or clean the bed, or something. But right now, Peter’s content to just be here with Frank.
Peter turns to smile sleepily at Frank, who leans over and brushes his thumb carefully over his cheek. “You’ll stay, right?”
“Yeah kid, I’m staying.”
* Epilogue
MJ places the sketchbook on the table by Spider-Man’s bedside. Her expression is unreadable to Frank. Doesn’t matter. He’s no good with reading face—or emotions, really, but what he lacks in the ability to read expressions he makes up for in strategic words.
“You love him?” He grunts. MJ doesn’t react. Her eyes scan Spider-Man’s face, though looking for what, Frank couldn’t say.
“Not for a long time.” She says quietly.
“He love you?”
“Yeah.” It’s a simple answer. Honest. He likes that about her.
“What’s stopping you from loving him back, face like that?” With Spider-Man’s features, Frank imagines he doesn’t have a hard time at all finding partners. He’s got the right jawline, the right nose. His brow is framed by wavy locks of brown hair. What’s she so hung up about? Spider-Man’s a pretty face and a hero to boot. They even have the look of a good couple. He can envision them together, going on dates, studying for finals in a library at a nice college somewhere. They would be good for each other.
“I don’t really know him anymore.” MJ takes Peter’s unconscious hand in hers for a moment, then releases it gently.
“What’s not to love with a face like that?” Frank shrugs and crosses his arms, feigning nonchalance. Her words, for some reason, make him feel uneasy.
“He does seem easy to love, if that’s what you mean.” She turns to Frank. “His name is Peter, by the way. Peter Parker.”
Frank looks up at her, where she’s standing by the bed. Then, his eyes fall back on the kid. “Peter.” He tests it out, chewing on the inside of his cheek. Peter. Peter is the one he shot and almost killed. In his mind’s eye he’s behind the scope of his sniper rifle again, watching Spider-Man—Peter—whip around fast enough to take a bullet for Jean Grey, who by all rights had deserved the death that Frank had sentenced her to.
“Yeah. Peter.” It’s MJ’s turn to act nonchalant now. She slides her hands into her dark coat pockets, studying the cracks of the linoleum hospital floors. “I don’t…no one else knows him, but you’re his friend, so you can see him for who he really is now. I think he needs that.”
“He needs better friends.” Frank is the last person Peter needs to continue having in his life.
“You are a better friend to him.” Than me goes left unsaid. She turns to leave the hospital room, but pauses before exiting. “You will take care of him, right? Promise?”
“Taking care of him is what got him here in the first place.” Frank is loathe to point it out, but it’s true. He grinds his teeth—his vision blurs with rage. There’s a hatred that brews stronger for himself with each breath of life that Frank takes in.
“Frank.” MJ glances at Peter again, with the same vagueness she carried in her face from earlier, now with a sheen in her eyes that makes Frank look away. “Don’t let him be lonely anymore. Just promise me you won’t leave him alone, okay?”
Frank swallows. He’s all too aware of the clutch the loneliness can have on a person—that inescapable grasp that drags him deeper into darkness each and every night.
MJ places her hand on the door handle, then adds, “Friends don’t need to wear masks around each other. And I don’t just mean the superhero kind. Stay with him. You don’t have to be alone if you stay together, got it?”
She doesn’t stay to hear Frank’s answer. He’s not sure if he has one, anyway. But he stays. He’ll stay and stay until maybe eventually he’ll find some answers. He stays.