Chapter Text
To say Frank was surprised when his phone rang with the number of none other than David “Micro” Lieberman himself would be an understatement.
It’s not like they parted on bad terms. The opposite, in fact. But once their mission was behind the both of them, David wanted to be a family man again, and Frank—well. Any sensible family man would want to keep him at arm’s length and then some. He gets that. So he saved David the trouble of asking and kept his distance, something David seemed to appreciate by the zero contact Frank received from him afterward. Of course, Frank prides himself on being a hard man to pin down, but it's David, so he knows that's never been the issue.
He almost thinks it's accidental when his phone shows David's number, but he picks it up when it keeps ringing without any idea what the hell this is about.
Turns out some creep in a white van had been hanging around his daughter's school. According to David, he'd hang out in the parking lot with the parents waiting for pick-up, but no kid had ever climbed in. While that was enough to raise David’s suspicions, the line was crossed when the guy started taking pictures of Leo and her friends as they walked down the sidewalk. So David had reported it and when the guy was still there throughout the following week, he took matters into his own hands and ran the plates.
Creep has an impressive criminal record, isn't allowed in a school zone, and is a member of some gang on the edge of Queens bordering Manhattan that allegedly deals in human trafficking. David made sure to emphasize that he wouldn't have called Frank if it were anything else, but these are his kids he's worried about. Frank gets that too.
So David scouted out an abandoned warehouse outside of Queens and they set up shop. He digs around and finds out that their creep’s a crony of a man named Mac Gargan who recently got out of prison and is trying to cement himself as some kind of big shot. David equips Frank with the address of a headquarters and another one of those needle-pens that he jabbed Frank with when they first met. He said he’d appreciate it if Frank brought the creep back alive so he could ensure all the photos of Leo were properly erased, though he didn't sound too picky about it.
It's a cockroach nest when Frank arrives. They're all playing cards around a table, their laughter grating in Frank's ears. They don't even realize they're under attack until half of them are on the floor, and half of those guys can't draw quick enough before they're dead on the ground too. Frank has to hide behind a cement pillar to avoid return fire, and he leaves only two left when they have to stop and reload.
It's all pretty routine until he sees red and blue spandex pressed into the corner of the ceiling.
Frank ducks behind the post just in time to avoid a sticky white glob to the face. The remaining gang members aren't so lucky; he hears gunshots and shouts and thwips before the gunfire ceases altogether.
Frank lines his spine up against the post and takes a breath to reassess.
Spider-Man. He remembers the guy from news segments and YouTube videos and some impassioned articles from the Daily Bugle. A cocky little shit that taunted criminals as he gift-wrapped them for the police without throwing a single punch, even more theatrical than Red with the way he went about it. Perhaps Frank should've anticipated another vigilante for a gang gathering as big as this, but he’s never factored in vigilantes unless he's around Hell's Kitchen. A habit to break, then.
“Shouldn't you be in prison?” Spider-Man calls from his perch on the wall. “Not that I was invested, but I distinctly remember a guilty verdict for your trial of the century. Was prison not enough of a goldmine for you?”
Oh yeah, Spider-Man’s chatty. Frank almost forgot that bit. He doesn't grace him with a response, but he hopes the cocking of his gun is loud enough to get the message across.
“Are you gonna shoot me?” Spider-Man asks immediately.
Direct. Frank can appreciate that. “Not if you walk out now.”
Spider-Man doesn't reply at first, so Frank braces himself for a Red-style lecture on the bodies he’s littered on the floor. Instead, he says in a slightly wavering voice, “They've got hostages downstairs. At least six.”
This is new. A bluff, maybe, but it doesn’t match what he knows of Spider-Man’s style. Frank makes a gut decision, stuffing his pistol in his belt and emptying the bullets from his automatic before he drops it to the floor. He holds out his hands, open palms on either side of the pillar. There’s a swoosh and a thud as Spider-Man lands behind the post, so Frank steps out to meet him.
The top of Spider-Man's head barely goes above Frank's chin, and he's standing ramrod-straight. His figure is lithe, more of a gymnast than a fighter. He sidesteps to block Frank from the two breathing guys he webbed up, yet when his head starts to turn toward the bloodbath on the ground he jerks it back to Frank and his white eyes grow wide. He looks Frank over, sizing him up, gaze lingering on the white skull on his chest.
Finally, he clears his throat and says, “How about instead of buffing your kill count you up your save count? Only save counts give XP, you know.”
Frank doesn't see why it has to be an either-or situation, but he can prioritize. “Take me to them.”
“Glad we’re on the same page.” With a curt nod, Spider-Man takes off.
He rounds a corner and half runs, half swings down a small staircase with Frank hot on his tail. It opens to a dimly lit hallway with grime on the walls and the reek of mold heavy in the air. Each side door is closed, but Spider-Man takes only a moment to do that distinct head-swivel thing that Red does before dashing to the second door on the left. He twists at the handle without an ounce of hesitation.
It doesn't open, so Frank reaches for his gun to shoot out the lock once Spider-Man gives a frustrated grunt. It proves unnecessary when Spider-Man takes a few tiny steps back and kicks out at the door with a single thrust. The door—the metal door—is blasted off its hinges and flies inward with a force that lets Frank know shit, they weren’t playing up the guy’s super strength.
High, frightened screams come from inside. Spider-Man swiftly steps in and rushes out, “Woah, hey, guys! It's me, your friendly neighborhood Spider-Man! This is a rescue!” He pauses a moment to gag dramatically and waft his hand in front of his face. “Phew, it's stinky! What do ya say we get out of here?”
It's honestly amazing how fast the screams morph into giggles. A strange mixture of pissed and impressed churn together in his chest at the situation before him. Frank’s not surprised it’s kids—not even out of elementary school by the sound of them—but it only cements his certainty that he can’t allow those two webbed guys to walk out of here alive.
Spider-Man glances back at him and says, “This is my big, scary friend. He's bigger and scarier than all of the guys who put you here, so he’ll keep you safe from them.”
Frank takes this as his cue to enter the room. It's probably the best introduction he could've asked for because only half the kids flinch when six pairs of eyes look up at him. His heart twists in righteous fury, but he gives them his best disarming wave that’s met by a few relieved smiles. Spider-Man swoops down and picks up two of them, one with each arm, and carefully transfers them to Frank.
It's been years since he’s held a kid this young and he can't help but flash back to his Lisa and Frank Jr. But now’s not the time, so he shoves those memories back.
Aside from the six first to third-graders, there’s one woman in the room. She stands in the corner, hands curled protectively on the shoulders of two of the four kids huddled around her. Her hair is long and brown and Frank puts her around her mid-forties. He thinks teacher at first, but there's something about her smile as she stares at Spider-Man that says something other than relief. He'd label it pride if he didn’t know any better.
And shit, maybe he doesn’t. Spider-Man approaches her and catches Frank off guard again when instead of the kids, he reaches for her.
The lady reaches right back. It’s a brief embrace and the strained way they release each other tells Frank that it’d be longer if they didn’t have their priorities straight. But it’s enough time for her eyes to meet his over Spider-Man’s shoulder—she recognizes the Punisher, too. Must have something to say about it, what with her mouth moving by Spider-Man’s ear, to which Spider-Man just gives a small shake of his head.
She knows Spider-Man. Really knows. Frank makes a note of it and clears his throat. “This everyone?”
The woman dips her head and scoops up two of the kids. “Yes, this is everyone.”
That’s all Frank needs to hear. Spider-Man gets the final two and with everybody accounted for, he marches out of the room for the staircase.
Frank stops at the bottom, shifting each kid in his grasp until they both look to his face. “Close your eyes,” he says, because he wouldn't have done it like this if he'd known kids would see it. They blink up at him with mirrored expressions of confusion, so he repeats in a voice that doesn't leave room for questions. “You close your eyes and don't open them until I tell you.”
It works. Their eyelids snap shut, and the youngest one—barely a first grader with one of those bead ponytail holders Lisa used to complain about—wraps her arm around his neck and buries her face into his shoulder. He catches Spider-Man and the lady repeating the order, both on his heels as he makes it up the stairs.
He’s about halfway across the room when he sees Spider-Man freeze in his periphery.
It's too late when he notices the remote clasped in one of the webbed guy's hands and it's too late when Spider-Man shouts out a desperate, “RUN!”
There's a deafening BANG and an earthquake beneath his feet. The children scream in his hold and clutch onto him with all the strength in their tiny arms as he careens to the side to avoid a large chunk of ceiling that nearly takes out all three of them. He doesn't look back before he breaks for the exit, making it just outside before depositing the kids on the pavement.
“Don't move,” he snaps, and makes sure to get their jerky nods before he runs back in.
The building is collapsing.
Explosives planted around the corners, he wagers. The guy who set it off has to be crushed under a large portion of ceiling, but he must've deemed it worth bringing two vigilantes with him. Well, joke’s on him. Spider-Man is still standing, staring up at the sky through where the roof used to be as dust rains around him. His arms are raised at his sides and he's poised for defense with the four children clustered around him.
Frank rushes down and picks up two of them, frozen in terror, and somehow Spider-Man seems to be in the same state. “Shit,” Frank says under his breath. “Hey!”
He steps into Spider-Man's space and knees him in the hip. Spider-Man jolts.
“Get your ass in gear and grab them!”
That snaps Spider-Man out of it. He snatches the final two kids and races after Frank for the exit.
They make it right before a wall gives way, but Spider-Man doesn't seem to appreciate the solid ground. The instant the kids are out, he spins on his heel and bolts back into the building right before the door frame crumbles behind him.
Nothing comes of Frank’s warning shout. Cursing, he all but throws the last two kids on the ground and sprints after the vigilante.
The building is falling apart around him and he can barely see past the flying plaster and dust, but Spider-Man's red and blue sticks out like a sore thumb. He's near the leftmost, still-standing wall, and he's heaving and struggling to lift a massive piece of roof.
He spares a glance to Frank and cries, “Help me!”
Frank has to stop in his tracks. Spider-Man's voice is high and panicked and it cracks in the way a teenager’s does. This guy—Spider-Man—is a goddamn kid. The realization hits Frank hard enough that he hardly registers a chunk of roof that clips his shoulder.
Frank has to force himself to refocus and rushes back to Spider-Man's side. He’s about to demand what the fuck this kid thinks he's doing when he sees the figure on the ground in front of him.
It's the lady. Her arms are splayed out at her sides and her hair is spread around her head like a halo. Her legs are trapped underneath a fallen wall, but it doesn’t make a difference. Her chest isn't moving and a thin line of blood trickles from the corner of her mouth. Frank's seen enough death to know she's gone after only a second of looking at her. It doesn’t stop the kid from trying to hoist the wall off her legs.
Frank swallows and puts a hand on Spider-Man's shoulder. “We gotta go. The floor already caved on the other side.”
He might as well haven’t spoken. Spider-Man groans and strains at the wall and grits out, “I've got you, May. I'm gonna save you, I promise I'm gonna save you, just- just a little more-”
Frank clenches his jaw as a crack in the floor makes its way closer. “Spider-Man, listen to me-”
He gives the kid's upper arm a harsh tug and doesn't see the blow coming. Spider-Man hits him back with a single hand, sending him flying back on a near-collision course with the post barely keeping what remains of the roof above their heads.
He pushes himself to his feet with a wheeze and pauses a good yard away from the kid, still trying to pry off that wall. Frank grits his teeth and lunges, ducking under the next hit to grab the kid around the shoulders and haul him back. Spider-Man yells out as he's dragged across the floor. For a second Frank thinks he's going to make it, but then Spider-Man plants his heels into the ground and suddenly he's immovable.
“GET OFF ME!” he shrieks, elbowing Frank aside. The jab’s harsh enough to let him squirm free.
Shit. They've got maybe thirty seconds before they find out if it’s the floor or the walls that’ll cave in first. Spider-Man's not going to leave without a fight. He's one stubborn son of a bitch, but he’s not special there.
Frank searches his pocket for the syringe-pen David supplied him with. He'd loaded it with a paralytic—best for scaring the scumbag once Frank had him stuffed in his van, keeping him entirely aware of what he had coming for him and entirely helpless to do anything about it. Something about poetic justice.
There’s no justice in this.
He catches the kid from behind in a chokehold. Frank kicks out at his knee to knock off his balance and shove up the back of Spider-Man’s mask, exposing pale skin at the base of his neck. He clicks the pen and jams the needle into the side of the kid's neck. What starts as a yelp of pain turns into something full of terror and fury as the kid shakes him off. Frank stumbles, but he's back on his feet before Spider-Man is.
Spider-Man totters to the side and meets the ground with his knees. Frank crouches to pick him up and the kid lets out another infuriated shout as he shirks away from Frank's grasp. His chest collides against the floor with a thud that resolves in a whimper.
“Sorry, kid,” Frank grunts as he grabs him by the legs, draping his upper body over Frank's shoulder. He can feel the kid's heart pounding against his back and hear the quick, frantic pants from his nose. Frank ignores both in favor of securing the kid and booking it to the door.
He bursts out with a second to spare before the building falls to rubble behind him. Frank uses his free hand to wipe the dust and sweat from his forehead as he tries to catch his breath.
“Is Spider-Man okay?” a small, hesitant voice asks.
Frank turns his attention to the little kids, huddled together in the cold November air, and offers up a short nod. “He’s gonna be fine. Just passed out.”
Spider-Man scoffs.
“What about May?” another one wonders.
“She'll be all right. She made it out the back,” he lies, because they’re kids. Doesn't stop the flash of guilt when Spider-Man's breathing falters at his words.
That's when a siren wails in the distance, so he ushers the children under a lamppost by the road. “Tell the officer what happened. Shout to get his attention and stay put till he gets here. I've got to go.”
There's not a single protest; the most he gets are scattered grave nods. It tugs at something in his chest, but it’s the answer he needs, so it’s the answer he’ll take. Long as they’re all getting home to their folks in one piece.
Frank adjusts his grip on Spider-Man's dead weight and leaves for his van parked around back. Taking the kid to their base is a risk, but if he’s as young as Frank thinks he is—and Christ, he better not be—it’s nothing next to the risk of the police finding him here.
He says another “I’m sorry” once the kids are well out of earshot, as if it has any more meaning than it did the first time. “She was gone, kid. She was dead.”
Spider-Man can't respond, so Frank's not sure why he pauses like he expects him to. Once they get to his van, Frank opens the passenger door and slumps Spider-Man on the seat. He almost takes a nosedive for the dashboard, so Frank has to catch him and prop him up as he buckles him in. He tilts back the seat so Spider-Man can rest his head instead of having it loll over his chest.
Frank tightens his jaw as he studies the kid. Red had been relieved when Frank didn’t take off his mask. Odds are this kid would feel the same. At least Red had the lower half of his face exposed so Frank could read something. That mask of Spider-Man’s can’t make breathing any easier, either. Slowly, Frank reaches for the edge of the cloth underneath the kid’s chin.
“Just gonna pull it up to your nose. No higher,” he says.
The lower half of the kid's face is blank, save for two identical wet streaks that go down to his upper lip.
Frank looks him over, his gaze settling on a long, deep cut on Spider-Man's calf. There's another gash between the kid’s hip and his ribs that’s getting bloodier by the minute. “Gonna need to stitch those up. Probably hurts like a bitch,” he comments, because the paralytic wouldn’t do shit to stop him from feeling all of it. Kid’s in for a world of pain once the adrenaline fades. “I'll check if I've got anything for it.”
Frank closes the door. He opens the back and scans it with a tight brow. He isn't big on painkillers; the most he has is a half-empty bottle of ibuprofen in his first aid kit and the kid’s in no state to take any. He follows a hazy memory and zips open the outside pocket of a duffle bag. He lets out a short hum when he spots the tiny glass bottle inside. Nabbed it off some nurse who moonlighted as a drug dealer, he's pretty sure. He picks up the bottle and turns it over in his fingers to better study the label. He skims for anything along the lines of pain reliever and mutters a quick “dammit ” when nothing comes up.
It’s some kind of sedative, by the looks of it. The thought crosses his mind that he has no idea how long the paralytic will last, especially with whatever enhancements Spider-Man's got going for him. More importantly, he has no idea how the kid’ll react once it passes. Whoever May was, they were close, and Frank knows more than most how watching your family die around you can fuck you up. He can handle a crying Spider-Man or a numb-to-the-world Spider-Man, but the kid’s got super strength. Not a whole lot he can do if the kid acts up.
Hell, a knocked-out Spider-Man would be easier on the both of them. He makes his decision when he determines he’d rather not chance the kid memorizing the route to their warehouse set-up and trying something stupid. He stuffs the bottle in his pocket and grabs a roll of bandages, rubbing alcohol, gauze, and some medical tape before he shuts the back and returns to the passenger door.
“Not gonna let you bleed all over my car,” Frank says, wrapping the bandage around the kid's leg. He follows up by placing a pad of gauze between the slash in the kid's suit and the wound by his stomach and taping it down.
He pulls out the rubbing alcohol and another gauze pad and pours a small amount over the cotton. He finds a tear in the suit on Spider-Man’s upper arm, so he pushes up the spandex and cleans a patch of skin. A forceful exhale comes from the kid's nose, drawing Frank's attention to his face.
The pulse point on his neck below the corner of his jaw is hammering at a pace Frank’s used to seeing on shitbags with the barrel of his gun at their temple. This kid—kid—is terrified out of his wits. Spider-Man or not, he’s a child getting manhandled into a van by the guy he watched put bullets in half a dozen men, right after witnessing a woman who might be his mother get killed in front of him. And he's paralyzed and unable to do a thing about it. Of course he’s freaking the fuck out.
“I'm cleaning up your arm,” Frank narrates as he swabs away the grime. “I'm not gonna kill you, kid. Not gonna hurt you either. I'm leaving your mask on, so don't flip out on me about your identity. I'm gonna take you somewhere I can stitch you up proper.”
Frank already has him where he wants him, so he hopes Spider-Man grasps that Frank would find no point in saying it unless he means it. But the kid's pulse doesn't slow. Frank sets down the swab to reach for the syringe-pen and empties the cartridge to replace it. Once he starts to extract the sedative from the bottle, the kid takes a sharp breath.
“Relax,” Frank says. “This is just gonna make the ride a little smoother and help with the pain.”
If his nostrils flaring and the small grunt coming from the back of his throat is anything to go by, Spider-Man’s not assured. Frank doesn't blame him. But he doesn't have time for this, so he squeezes the kid's bicep and presses the needle into the cleaned skin.
He ducks through the door into the driver's seat when he notices a squad car through the buildings a few blocks over. He twists the key in the ignition and backs out, taking off in the opposite direction of the squad car on account of the vigilante in his front seat. He spends a minute or two weaving through the back alleys and allows himself a breath of relief once he’s on the main road.
He sets on course to the warehouse and splits his attention between Spider-Man and the street when the kid sniffs. Spider-Man’s jaw shifts and a short noise escapes through his mouth. “You tryin' to talk?” Frank guesses. “Believe me, kid, we're gonna have a long talk later. So save it.”
Frank turns on the radio to drive the point home. He messes with the volume dial until it's just loud enough to pick out the lyrics over the bustle of traffic around them. He checks in on Spider-Man out of the corner of his eye until the kid’s breaths are deep and even.
For all the shit Red put him through, Frank can’t say he’d pass it up for the leg-up he’s got now. It takes a special type of crazy to don a mask to take on New York's criminal underbelly, and Frank wouldn’t have opted to familiarize himself with it through the guy who shoots webs out of his hands. As long as he’s not about to find out Red’s crazy is the tip of the iceberg for his sort, it might finally be worth those concussions and bruised ribs.
After a good five minutes, once Frank’s certain the kid’s not faking and his own pulse is back down, he fishes his phone out of his pocket and dials David’s number.
“Was he there?” David says immediately.
“Probably. Check the casualty list once it comes up.”
“Probably?” David echoes. “You didn't take him, then? But you did see him? You remember what he looks li-”
“The building collapsed before I could do a headcount. Every one of those bastards bit it, I can tell you that.” Frank pauses, glancing at Spider-Man beside him. “Still ended up using that pen, though.”
David takes a second to process this. “Who's with you?”
“Remember that red and blue spider guy?”
A slightly strangled noise comes from the receiver. “Hold on- Frank, did you- Are you telling me you kidnapped Spider-Man?”
“I didn't kidna-” he starts, but quickly cuts himself off, because whether or not he set out to do it doesn't change what went down. “Look, he was there when I showed up. Told me they had some hostages in the basement—a bunch of elementary schoolers. So we busted them out, but the building was rigged. We got all the kids, but one hostage was middle-aged; I'd ballpark her around forty-five. She didn't make it out of the wreckage. Must've been Spider-Man's mom or something with how hysterical he got trying to free her. She was already dead, David. I had to dose him to drag him out of there so he didn't get himself killed.”
“So Spider-Man's, what, a teenager?” David says after a beat. “And you just dragged him away from his mom's dead body?”
Frank takes a small breath. “Yeah.”
“Shit. We- We gotta find his dad or something.”
“He's banged up. I'm bringing him to the warehouse to stitch him up first.”
“So he's paralyzed and bleeding out in your van right now? Jesus, Frank, he's probably scared shitless-”
“He’s clocked out. Found a sedative in the back.”
“Of course you did,” David mutters. “Wait, sorry, that's hypocritical of me. I might have a reversal in here somewhere. ETA?”
Frank glances at the dashboard. “Thirty.”
“Good luck.” With that, David ends the call.
Frank casts another look at Spider-Man, at the steady rise and fall of his chest. His face is slack and Frank would even call it peaceful if he didn't know any better. He lets out a small sigh with a shake of his head. “You’re gonna need all that luck, kid.”