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Contrary to popular belief, Peter is perfectly capable of handling a simple fight less than a week after getting shot. So when he swings around the corner—ignoring the painful tug at his back—and finds Frank busy unloading his semi-automatic into the plated armor of a guy nearly twice his size, his mood sours. Just a little. Because he knows exactly what he’s about to hear.
“I better be hallucinating right now.”
There it is.
Peter shoots a web to the third floor of a high-rise, pulling himself upward to avoid the powerful blast that emits from whatever high-tech gauntlets are strapped to the arms of the baddie standing in the middle of the road. The shockwave rattles down the street.
“You dream about me, Frank?” Peter calls back cheerily once the dust has settled. He bounces off the building and lands on top of the crumpled sedan that is currently serving as Frank’s refuge. Normally, he’d have flipped down without a second thought, but his back is telling him that’s a horrible idea.
“You wish.” The growl is drowned out by the wail of sirens and screams of nearby civilians. The man pops back to his feet and braces himself over the hood of the vehicle as he begins to fire his weapon again.
Peter drops to a crouch, analyzing gaze sizing up their opponent. “You know, this whole ‘no shooting at people’ conversation is getting kind of old.”
“I agree—so let’s quit having it.”
Just as Peter is about to fire back with his own sarcastic retort, his ears pick up the high-pitched thrum of charging energy from the armored guy’s gauntlets.
“Move!” Frank shouts, slamming a hand against the hood of the car.
Peter shoots off a web and yanks himself sideways just as another heavy blast tears through the space he’d just been occupying. A close call, but he has a lot of those on a daily basis. “Whoa, that is some serious firepower!” He swings back across the street. “Are those, like, sonic blasters?” A black market high-tech weapon, no doubt.
“Kid,” Frank says, irritation infusing his words, “I’m only gonna tell you this once—go home.”
Peter bounces off the side of a building with a grunt and fires a web toward Sonic Blaster Guy. It misses when the man steps sideways at the last moment. “You know, you never listen to me when I tell you that. It’s a little hypocritical, Frank. You should work on that.”
Frank ignores him. “I ain’t messin’ around, kid. Get the hell outta here.”
“Or what?” he challenges. “You’ll shoot me again? It’s a free country.”
Frank moves from his cover and rushes forward, finding new protection under the entryway of a bar. “Just because you have the freedom to be stupid doesn’t mean you should abuse it.”
Down the street, Sonic Blaster Guy is gearing up to fire off another shot. Frank raises his gun and shoots before he can, but the man barely stumbles, the bullet ricocheting off the heavy chest plate.
“I’m totally fine, Frank,” Peter promises. He launches a web toward one of the gauntlets, dodging when the weapon is aimed at him. The blast obliterates the corner of an apartment building, and he immediately scrambles to ensure no tenants are injured.
“You got shot six days ago,” Frank snaps back, reloading his rifle with an almost scary level of efficiency and ease. He doesn’t even have to look.
“Yeah, I’m well aware,” Peter deadpans, peering past crumbled brick to look inside the apartment. His back is stiffer than a board, making him feel all of eighty years old—not to mention he should probably still be slightly concerned about his stitches. But when he checked them in the mirror this morning, the incision looked fine. No angry red streaks surrounding the area or any other signs of infection and everything already well on the mend. One little fight is not gonna break him.
It wasn’t even like he planned to be out here today; he was trying on the new Spider-Man suit he’s spent the last few days working on—since there’s been nothing else for him to do except sleep while his body recovers—when he’d seen the alert about the disturbance down the street and figured he could at least stop by to see if there was anything he could do to help out. Maybe crowd control would have been a better option, but he could use the exercise after being cooped up all week anyway.
Honestly, Frank is such a hypocrite. Peter knows with absolute certainty that if the roles were reversed, Punisher would be out doing his thing despite what any doctor or health professional would advise. So what gives him the right to boss Peter around like he’s some kind of kid?
Frank starts cursing and grumbling under his breath as he’s so often wont to do. He forgets that Peter has super senses and can actually hear every insulting complaint.
He tries to defend himself as he launches forward toward their opponent again, webs firing. “Crime doesn’t stop just ’cause I do.”
“That’s why I’m here!” Frank says, voice rising in volume.
The huffed words give Peter pause; you know, he has noticed that Punisher has been making his rounds in Queens the past few days.
Huh.
He has no time to dwell on the implications of that little revelation though, because Blaster—an unoriginal nickname but the best Peter can come up with for the time being—is firing again. The sonic blasts seem to be increasing in strength, barreling right through whatever’s in the path of the shockwave.
Peter lets out a long whistle, the kind you would use to call a stubborn dog, waving his arms above his head. “Hey! Over here!” he shouts, trying to draw Blaster’s attention from the civilians still trying to flee the scene.
The battle continues, a frustrating exchange of bullets, webs, and high-powered blasts that are intense enough to send cars flying and tear up the concrete under their feet. They’ve got to keep this guy distracted and aim his blasts away from people.
Peter is having a difficult time getting the drop on him, because despite his massive size and heavy armor, Blaster is surprisingly agile, and Peter is operating far below his usual standard right now. He springs upward just as another blast tears through the street. The air seems to buckle in front of the man’s gauntlets, a pressure wave rippling through the dust and broken glass before the impact catches a parked car and sends it skidding sideways.
Peter drops to the ground near Frank, stumbling a little at the rough landing. “Could you stop shooting for five seconds so I can get a better look at—”
“No.” The crack of gunfire erupts again.
A painful, ringing echo erupts in Peter’s sensitive ears at the close-range shots. He winces.
“I need to see his blasters so I can figure out how to disable them!” he calls, probably louder than necessary to be heard over the ongoing chaos.
“You need to get your ugly mug off this street and let me handle it!” Frank snaps at him.
Peter huffs. This Blaster guy has to have some sort of power source he’s using to charge the emitters. If he can figure out where it is, then all he needs to do is dismantle it, which should then make it a piece of cake to fully incapacitate him. The problem is figuring how to get close enough to do that without getting blown apart.
Before he can begin to explain this to Frank—who probably wouldn’t listen anyway—Blaster raises both hands, the gauntlets swinging around to aim directly at them.
Peter’s spider-sense flares.
“Get down!” he yelps.
But there’s no time to move out of the wide path of destruction.
The pulse of energy slams into Peter with the force of a freight train. He hears a low grunt as his body is thrown back into something solid. Strong arms wrap around him as he and Frank go sailing through the front window of the bar. The sound of shattering glass erupts around them, a thousand tiny shards raining down on their heads.
Peter hits the ground with a painful thud, the abrupt landing knocking the wind out of him. A sharp pain pulses though his head, matching the one in his abdomen. Ow ow ow.
He lets out a groan, disoriented and unsure if he’s still in one piece. He’s almost afraid to move and find out.
Suddenly, a large hand grabs him by the scruff of the neck. Peter’s limbs flail in automatic motions, scrabbling for purchase on the glass-littered tile as he’s dragged behind an overturned table. “Hey, hey, hey!” he protests weakly around gasps for air.
Once behind the makeshift barricade, Frank releases him unceremoniously before popping up on one knee and leveling his rifle just over the top of the table. He fires out into the street, cursing under his breath.
Peter throws his head back against the back of the table and writhes, hands clutching at his mask as he desperately tries to catch his breath—an impossible feat when he can’t even think straight.
“What’d I tell you, huh?” Frank growls in frustration, no regard for the fact that every word slices painfully through Peter’s ringing ears. He fires off another several rounds. “This is exactly why I didn’t want you here—you’re a liability right now.”
“Frank—”
“And now I gotta take this guy down and make sure you don’t get both of us killed.”
“I—I’m fine,” Peter gasps, even though he’s pretty sure he’s not. He struggles to sit up properly, testing each arm and leg to ensure they’re still intact. His back twinges, but not in a way that makes him think he’s torn anything open.
Frank growls, though Peter isn’t sure if the aggravation is directed at him or at Blaster—who, by the sound of it, is still tearing up the street outside. The man climbs to his feet, sending a barrage of bullets through the broken window.
Head still spinning, Peter ignores the pain in his midsection and scrambles to follow but is stopped by a heavy hand on his shoulder, pushing him back down to the floor.
“Stay. Here.” Frank emphasizes each word, combined with a glare that would make a plant wither.
Fortunately, Peter is not a plant, nor is he scared of Frank—well, not really. So as soon as the man steps through the busted window and back out into the street, Peter goes after him.
Frank doesn’t even look back as he snaps, “I said—”
“Look, you’re not gonna stop this guy with bullets,” Peter interrupts. His dizziness is finally subsiding, and he can see Blaster raging a couple dozen yards away. “His emitters, they have to have a—a power source of some sort. If I can disable it, he won’t be able to shoot these blasts.”
Blood drips from a cut across Frank’s brow, streaking down the side of his face. “And how exactly are you gonna do that?”
“You let me worry about that. Just keep him distracted so I can get behind him.”
Frank stares at him assessingly. “Can you even see straight right now?”
More or less. “I’ve got this—been doing this kind of thing for a long time on my own.”
The other man doesn’t look happy—but then again, when does he ever? He adjusts the strap of his rifle across his shoulder.
“We gotta stop this guy,” Peter points out just as another explosion rocks the street.
“Fine,” Frank finally concedes. “But if you get yourself pounded, I’m not carrying you into the ER again. That was a one time deal.”
Peter flashes him a grin from under his mask. “Heard you loud and clear,” he says, raising a gloved hand up to offer a smart salute.
Frank waves him off aggressively with his free hand. “C’mon, quit messin’ around and get on with it. I got other things to do.”
“Yeah? Like what?” Peter asks lightly, scurrying up the side of the bar, hands and feet pressed against brick. “Hot date?”
“You think you’re funny?” Frank sounds half-disgusted. “Shut up and start moving.”
“All right, all right, going.” Peter leaps into action, swinging up to the nearest rooftop, hoping this approach will allow him to stay out of sight while he makes his way around Blaster. Meanwhile, Frank starts shouting and shooting down below—which is his specialty.
Peter lets a web fly; he’s still getting used to these organic webs, but they’re much stronger than his web fluid. He moves quickly—well, as quickly as he can considering his current physical state of ringing ears, pounding head, and aching back.
Another sonic blast rattles the street below.
From this new, higher vantage point, he can see the slight bulge on Blaster’s back underneath his armor. Probably where the power pack is located. There has to be some sort of cable or wire serving as a conduit, driving the power from the source to the emitters.
Just as the thought crosses Peter’s mind, Blaster takes several stomping steps toward Frank, who is firing relentlessly back. As he turns, Peter sees a gap in his armor where the shoulder plates meet the back, exposing the power cable. Bingo.
Peter scrambles across another rooftop to position himself fully behind the raging guy. He’s crawling down the side of the building when Blaster suddenly whirls around, catching sight of the vigilante sneaking up behind him and firing off a blast.
“Frank!” Peter yelps, barely evading the concussive shot in his direction. “You’re supposed to be distracting him!”
“What do you want me to do—I’m one guy with a gun!” Frank shouts back.
“That’s usually not a problem for you!”
This time the response is an indistinguishable series of shouts that no doubt are eighty-nine percent expletives.
Peter swings over Blaster’s head to dodge another blast. “Left, Frank!” he yells. “Left, left, left!”
Thankfully, the man gets the message, darting toward the sidewalk again while simultaneously firing his weapon.
Blaster roars, shooting at Peter once more before redirecting his attention toward Frank.
When his body twists, exposing wires, Peter strikes. He moves with lightning speed, shooting a web with as careful aim as possible. The web hits its target and sticks.
“Yes!” Peter quickly fires another web against the side of a building as an anchor point before dropping and pulling, leveraging all of his strength to pull against the thick cables under Blaster’s armor. He grits his teeth and does his best to ignore the throb in his back. He’s so close…
His spider senses flares milliseconds before he spots one of the emitters aimed toward him again. “Oh sh—”
The repetitive pop of gunfire erupts, managing to dislodge the emitter just as the blast erupts, the sonic wave missing Peter by inches.
His heart stutters at the close call. Thanks, Frank, he thinks.
There’s no time to lose—Peter pulls as hard as he can, the muscles in his arms burning and the ones in his back screaming at the pressure. “Come on, come on,” he mutters, straining heavily.
Then, with a sudden, crackling pop, the cables snap free. The glow in the emitters dies slowly, the telltale high-pitched sound of the tech powering down echoing through the air.
“Ha, yes! Take that, buddy!” Peter yells at Blaster, wasting no time in spinning the guy up in webs and pinning him to the wall of the nearest building. With the blasters now powerless, it’s a laughably easy task.
Blaster roars, straining heavily against the thick webbing, but to no avail.
The cops move in next, taking over the situation now that the threat is contained.
Peter trots away from the action, his stride quickly turning into a concealed limp as the physical strain of the last few minutes begins to catch up with him, overriding whatever adrenaline he’d been operating off of.
“Thanks, Spidey!” one of the officers calls as he passes by. “Good to see you out here. Glad you’re doing okay!”
“Yeah, yeah, anytime,” Peter says, walking backward and throwing a quick wave toward him. “Thanks!”
He turns back around and nearly runs smack into a big, black vest. His eyes drift up to the glaring face above it.
Peter plasters on a grin, holding up a hand for a high-five. “Teamwork makes the dream work, am I right?”
Frank ignores him, instead snagging his shoulder and strong-arming him into the nearest alley.
“Whoa! Hey, what are you—?” He stumbles as his feet try to regain traction, but Frank’s tight grip keeps him upright.
“That was the stupidest stunt I’ve ever seen anyone pull,” the man says, nudging them deeper into the alley. “And that’s a high bar.”
Peter shrugs. “Worked, didn’t it?”
Frank doesn’t answer. “Take off the mask,” he instructs.
“What?”
The man reaches toward Peter’s face.
Peter recoils automatically. “Whoa whoa whoa, paws off!” He bats the invasive hands away. “What are you doing?”
“What do you think I’m doing? Trying to make sure you didn’t get yourself concussed.”
“I’m not concussed.” It’s highly possible he’s concussed.
“Listen, kid, you’ve got about two seconds to take the mask off before I do.”
“Okay, okay,” Peter relents, huffing as long-suffering of a sigh as he can manage. He doesn’t doubt the man’s threat one bit. “Fine.” He reaches up and tenderly rolls the mask up, exposing his sweaty face. His gaze darts around the alley; the thought of someone potentially seeing him maskless a deep-rooted fear.
But Frank is standing at an angle that blocks anyone’s sightline into the tucked-away alley, his large frame blocking Peter’s smaller one. From the sounds of it, all focus is on the armored villain out on the main road anyway, so Peter tries not to worry too much.
The man grips Peter’s chin with one hand, the hold firm but surprisingly gentle. He tilts Peter’s head up a little, gaze assessing. “You dizzy?” he asks.
“Not anymore.”
“Hm.” Apparently finding whatever he sees satisfactory, he releases Peter.
“We good now?” Peter asks, rolling his eyes as he tugs his mask back down. Something settles in his chest at having his face covered once again.
“Nope. Turn around.”
“Frank—”
“Turn around, kid.”
Peter sullenly turns so his back is to Frank, crossing his arms over his chest. “Is it bleeding?” he asks, his curiosity getting the better of him. The wound seemed closed enough that a little action wouldn’t ruin his stitches, but no telling.
“Doesn’t look like it.”
Something probes at his back, and a spasm of pain explodes there. “Ow!”
Frank grunts. “Yeah, you’re gonna feel that tomorrow.”
“I think I’m feeling it now,” Peter groans.
“What’d you think was gonna happen, huh? Out here trying to play hero less than a week after you almost died.” The last words are grumbled under his breath, but Frank’s voice is taking on that weird tone again, the one that almost contains some semblance of emotion underneath. “Idiot.”
Peter’s petulance fades somewhat, shoulders relaxing as he turns around to face Frank again. “I really wasn’t planning to be out, okay? It just kind of… happened.” He knows he needs to take it easy, let other people handle things instead of letting the responsibility rest on his shoulder alone all the time. Harder than it sounds though.
Frank snorts, like he doesn’t quite believe the flimsy excuse, but he doesn’t chew Peter out further. He waves his hand in a flippant gesture. “Go home. Get some rest. I don’t wanna see you again until you’re completely cleared for duty, all right? You got that?”
“Yeah, okay, I got it,” Peter says, not bothering to ask who exactly is going to consider him cleared for duty. His aching body is telling him everything he needs to know about getting back out there before he’s recovered enough, and he knows he needs to listen to it. Spider-Man has taken priority over all else in his life for so long now; he can take a couple weeks for Peter Parker. It won’t be easy, but it’s a start.
Frank gives him an odd look, clearly having been braced for more resistance.
“What?” Peter asks innocently. “I can take a hint.”
“Could’ve fooled me.”
Peter rolls his eyes beneath the mask, then turns toward the mouth of the alley. “See you later, Frank.”
“I hope not.”
Peter doesn’t bother to hide his chuckle as he heads off in the direction of his apartment, the sound of sirens fading in the distance behind him.