Chapter Text
Everything froze the moment Frank realized again that it was him who ruined everything.
Peter.
He shot Peter.
After that, everything was a blur—getting to him, picking up his fragile body, wrongfully feeling so light, too light for someone so strong, and then getting him to the hospital in time, Frank breaking every speed limit by over twenty miles.
And the blood. Jesus. It was everywhere, his passenger seat pooling a circle of it. The moment they reached the hospital, he grabbed Peter out of his car bridal style, Peter groaning at being jolted.
"Sorry- fuck- I'm- I'm so sorry…" Frank muttered under his breath as he tightened his hold on him and rushed into the building.
From there, it's all doctors, white doors, and antiseptic. Then, the constant waiting. Waiting and waiting and waiting.
Finally, after hours, he came to. He coughed, then tried to get up, but Frank told him to take it easy. They then talked in a way they never did before—Frank was truly angry with Peter, but he was not about to take it out on him. Peter, having no care for his life, was not ok and it was anything but ok for him to say that it's fine.
"You know, you look exactly the way I thought you would. A nice kid. Never had a friend like that," Frank told him.
"Are we friends now?" Peter asked him, his eyes genuinely shone. Frank let the silence stretch too long between them that Peter stirred the conversation again in another direction, always so considerate.
When Peter looked outside the window at the crowd that had formed, his shoulders slumped a bit, even as his eyes filled with wonder. He must be tired.
"Hey, when you are ready to split, I've got a plan," Frank reassured him.
Peter looked at him with gratitude, and Frank looked away, ashamed. This was the least he could do for him after literally shooting him.
As Peter left and Frank hollered at the window, yelling out, "Hey! It's Spiderman!" he felt a sudden sadness come over him. This must have been how Peter felt—loved by the world for being Spiderman, yet known by no one. It must be lonely.
Which was why, hours later, Frank was standing outside of Peter's apartment, feeling like an idiot.
Frank, for once, was persistent in bugging Peter for his address to come over. At first, after the hospital and the ruckus of people cleared out, he headed for home, no one batting an eye at him, but halfway through the drive, he grew nervous, his thoughts drifting to Peter, this young man, caring for himself alone in his apartment, all on his lonesome after all he's done for the people of New York.
Knocking on Peter's door, he heard a raspy, "Come in."
When Frank entered, he was greeted by a small yet cozy apartment. Sure, it was messy, but all the circuits and electronical parts just added to the look. He looked at Peter, who sat up clumsily, pulling his laptop, which was on the nightstand, to him.
"Hey," he said awkwardly to Frank. He seemed to have been doing nothing, just lying in bed. Frank couldn't blame him—it had been what—only four hours since he left the hospital and not even twelve hours had passed since he'd been shot.
His skin still looked pale—although it was better than before.
"Hey," Frank said back, just as awkward and stiff, bringing his hand to knead at the back of his neck as he stood there.
Peter sighed, moved the laptop aside, and got up to stand, "Do you want something? Maybe a cup of tea?"
"Jesus, kid- no, no! Sit down- sit," Frank said with frustration, walking up briskly to Peter who flinched slightly as Frank pushed on his shoulders to go back down on the bed.
"I got it, Peter," Frank said, forcing himself into the kitchen.
"I'm not a kid," Peter pouted, but remained seated.
"Fine, what would you like, Daffodil?" Frank asked, opening an unnecessary amount of cabinets to find the tea and turning on the kettle.
When he didn't get a response, his head turned back to look at Peter sitting on the bed, his legs crossed, his shirt sitting loose on him, his face red, blushing the same way it was the last time he called him that.
"What? You like it when I call you that- Daffodil?" Frank teased, and Peter just groaned, covering his head with his hands in his lap.
He smirked and went back to setting up their cups and pouring some water into the English Breakfast tea.
He came up to Peter, holding out his cup, and he took it, muttering a quiet, "Thanks."
Frank didn't say anything, just sat down on the bed with him since there were no other seats nearby.
They sat quietly drinking their tea- the whole experience oddly domestic and uncomfortable for Frank, but Peter deserved someone to be at his side right now. They sat like that for a few minutes, hearing the sound of the sirens from a cop's car in the distance as New York continued on without them.
Then out of nowhere, Peter said, "I'm sorry- I'm so bad at this-"
"At what?" Frank asked, genuinely confused.
"It's been so long since I've had guests, so I don't know how to be," Peter said, his voice growing really quiet at the end.
Frank was too stunned to say anything. He meant, he got that impression when he first met Peter that he was lonely, but having completely no one, at his age, was depressing.
"Well, with me, you don't have to be any certain way. I like you just the way you are," Frank said, his hand reaching out to pet Peter's hair. Peter seemed surprised but leaned into the touch, his features melting the moment Frank's hand moved past the fluffy curls to massage his scalp.
After that, Peter weirdly suggested they watch a movie, and Frank huffed, declaring that it better be some slasher thriller and not some sappy shit the kid most likely watched.
So they settled down on the couch and spent the rest of the evening like that, watching some Mafia x Sorcery film crossover.
Eventually, Peter dozed off, head slumping against Frank's shoulder on the small couch. Frank didn't mind and only brought his own arm around Peter, and with time, fell into a dreamless slumber of his own.