Chapter Text
Frank got ready in silence. Guns cleaned and loaded. Knives tucked inconspicuously into anywhere they could fit. He took a moment to look over the floor plan of the building once more before finally pulling the vest over his head and tightening it into place.
The night was clear and cold, cold enough that the thick New York air almost felt fresh against Frank’s face. He appreciated the familiarity of the rooftops, but the memories they brought up made his chest ache. If he were to look back, he’d be able to see the odd tree in Central Park poking through the skyscrapers and blackened brick buildings. He didn’t look back.
Frank moved silently, but the city was alive with noise. Good. It might hide some of the gunshots. Frank listened in on the buildings as he passed over them, hearing arguments, parties, all sorts of crap that he hadn’t had to put up with in Michigan, or any of the other places he’d been to as Pete Castiglione.
Frank pretended not to like the noise, not to like the city. He pretended this was just his idea of a vacation, which was a bit of a ridiculous notion as it implied that after this trip to New York he had a home to go back to. Nope. Burnt that down to the ground.
Eventually, Frank settled on a rooftop opposite his target, an infamous dog-fighting ring that he’d thought he shut down years ago. They’d upped their security after Frank’s last visit so he’d planned to enter through a window on the roof, however the ring’s carefully-installed armoured door was wide open, so much so that Frank abandoned his initial entry plan to check out the door.
Had the police finally done something about their bullshit, forcing the owners to make a quick exit? Frank dismissed the idea immediately – there’d be some rookie forensic nerd scurrying about gathering evidence and Frank wouldn’t have been able to get within a mile of the area without dodging fluorescent tape. So not the police then, or the feds.
The owners couldn’t have known of Frank’s intentions to burn their dirty little enterprise to the ground, so Frank didn’t really consider that that was why the door might’ve been open. This was because the only two people who knew of Frank’s plans were the sources of the information he’d gathered while constructing said plans. Of the two, one was dead (due to terminal stupidity, of course) while the other had been scared so shitless that he probably wouldn’t utter a coherent sentence to anyone, not for a long while at least, let alone to the very people who Frank had told him not to snitch to.
As Frank worked his way over to the entrance, the first thing that caught his attention was the door itself. It had clearly been forced open – two huge shoe-shaped dents in its centre made it look to Frank like someone had launched themselves at the door horizontally (and with great force) in order to get it open. Frank frowned and continued along the hallway, hand hovering over the assault rifle hanging freely by his side. Whatever had blown that door open made Frank want to shoot first and ask questions later, an instinct generally frowned upon yet still one that had saved his life many a time in the past.
Along the corridor Frank found another door, and blocking the way through it was the unconscious body of the building’s main security guard, a huge man who judging by the lack of signs of struggle and the black eye already blooming on his face had been knocked out in one punch.
A flash of movement jumped into Frank’s peripheral vision – a heap of wagging tails and bright red fabric. Frank’s gun was in his hands, finger a twitch away from unleashing carnage on the room before him. But as his brain took in what his eyes were telling it he dropped the rifle and it returned, abandoned, to his side.
A remarkably small figure emerged from the pile of pitbulls. He was wearing an obnoxiously red hoodie with a spider emblem hand-painted on the front. Some kind of cartridges were strapped around both of his wrists and his face was completely covered by a mask, complete with a pair of goggles that, in Frank’s humble opinion, made him look totally fucking ridiculous.
“You’re the Punisher,” he stuttered through the mask, his already tentative voice muffled further through the thick fabric. Well, if the absurd costume wasn’t enough, this guy’s cracking voice confirmed to Frank that the man standing across from him was not, in fact, a man, but a boy. A child.
All of Frank’s fighting instincts drained from him before instead refocusing themselves on whatever (or, more likely, whoever) had put the kid in a place like this. At the sight of a group of men who’d been stuck to the walls of the fighting ring with some webbed substance, Frank finally realised what had occurred within the building. He chuckled a little, eyeing the struggles of the captured miscreants. Apparently not all of the criminals had managed to escape in time.
“They’re going to jail now,” the kid declared, a hint of pride evident in his tone.
“Like hell they are,” Frank muttered – a comment not meant for the ears of his company, but one that reached them anyway.
“You can’t kill them.”
The response was quick, just like the young vigilante’s movement as he moved himself stubbornly between Frank and his targets. Huh, Frank thought. This titch was enhanced.
“Sure I can, kid,” Frank replied just as quickly. He wasn’t going to fight the kid, but he sure as hell wasn’t gonna give in to him that easily, particularly not if he was gonna be a brat about it.
“Don’t call me that.”
Frank ignored him.
“Get outta my way, kid.”
“Not. A. Kid.”
“The fu-,” Frank hesitated, “hell else am I s’posed to call you?”
“Spider-Man.”
Frank laughed, then experimentally he left he two of them in silence for a moment. Unsurprisingly, Spider-Man found this uncomfortable. Frank could sense him glancing at the skull on his chest, could feel how nervous the child was to be in the presence of the Punisher.
Yeah, this kid was gonna be about as reluctant to fight Frank as Frank was to fight him. Ha. Maybe he was a spider.
Despite this, when Frank made to move around Spider-Man, the teenager once again stepped between Frank and his targets, shouldering him slightly in the process. Spider-Man seemed to momentarily pause, then he defiantly tilted his chin up towards Frank and pushed him backwards with both hands, hard enough to send him stumbling backwards without hurting him in the slightest.
“That how we doin’ this, kid? You push me around like we’re in a damn playground?”
“You can’t kill them,” Spider-Man repeated stubbornly.
Frank was prepared to object again, to try and get Spider-Man to leave so that he could finish what he came there to do, but then Spidey’s head twisted to one side, listening to something too far away for Frank to hear. The kid seemed to relax slightly at the noise, which after a while blared into Frank’s hearing too – sirens.
Frank laughed.
“You know, kid, the cops’ll want to bring you in too. To them we’re all just vigilantes, no better than these lot,” Frank gestured to the incapacitated criminals.
“Nah,” Spider-Man replied, “I haven’t killed anyone. Plus it’s you they’re gonna get the chance to catch.”
Frank barely saw the flick of Spider-Man’s wrist, it was so fast. What he did see, however, was that he was now covered in the same synthetic webbing that the kid had used to trap the dog-fighters earlier.
“What the-”
Spider-Man seemed just as surprised by his actions as Frank was, but he managed a few more words through his shock.
“Uh, sorry about this, Mr Punisher, Sir," really, the cheek of this kid, "But it’s not right to kill people, even criminals. Tell the police that’ll dissolve in a few hours!”
And with that the little brat was gone, launching himself out of the room through the same window Frank had planned to come in through.
Frank’s right hand was stuck fast to his clothes, but he managed to use his left to pull out his KA-bar and start getting to work on the webs covering his ankles, but even when pulled taut Frank couldn’t cut them apart.
Frank heard the sound of car doors slamming and voices approaching, forcing him to act as quickly as possible. He noticed a distinct smell of tobacco coming from the nearest member of the dog-fighting ring and sure enough, after shuffling over he found a lighter in the guy’s pocket.
To Frank’s relief, the flame managed to weaken the webbing enough for the knife to slice through it, freeing his legs enough to be able to run out of the back door and away onto the safety of the rooftops. Once he was hidden completely from the street below, Frank thought back to the events of the evening and laughed. Who the hell did Spider-Man think he was?
-
Frank packed away every bit of his research. The floor plans, the security’s schedules, plans A through D in case anything had gone to shit. The one thing Frank hadn’t prepared for was an adolescent vigilante with an attitude and a fierce moral compass.
Once he’d finished, there wasn’t much left to look at in Frank’s little safe house. Of course, the rack of neatly arranged firearms was rather conspicuous, but beside that there was little of note. A thin mattress was wedged into one corner, Frank’s desk opposite. Any files or papers were sorted into piles underneath it. Frank didn’t have a computer, as he found any information he wanted could be provided either by the PCs available at any old library or by his considerable network of contacts across the city (and, indeed, country). A tiny bathroom clung to the side of the room, containing a simple sink and toilet.
Upon Frank’s desk was probably his most prized possession – save Maria’s ring, of course – his NYPD mobile communications rig, the thing that told him all of the random (and most importantly, dangerous) shit that went down in the city. Frank listened to its scattered conversations with casual interest while staring at the ceiling from his mattress. Sometimes he imagined he could watch the paint as it gradually peeled away from the layer of mould lingering underneath.
The keys to Frank’s van felt heavy in his pocket. It reminded him of Pete Castiglione, and the fact that at the end of the day he didn’t have to be anywhere. If he wanted to leave the city, then he could. Whenever he liked.
Really though, Frank knew he couldn’t leave now. There was some teenager running around the streets of New York, putting himself in front of knives, bullets and God knows what else, and Frank wasn’t having any of it.
-
Matt Murdock had, so far at least, been having an excellent day. He’d managed to close a case exactly how he’d wanted – without stepping a foot in court and by getting the client a sizeable settlement too, which was more than they could ever have hoped for with the attorney that the city had provided for them.
This meant that for once, Matt was in a decent mood. Then Frank Castle walked into his office. He was subtle about it, of course – he kept a hood up to obscure his face and obviously didn’t talk to anyone on the way in, but Matt smelled him the second he stepped foot in the building. Gun cleaner and engine oil, the latter because of that tin can of a van that he refused to get rid of.
“What the hell are you doing here, Pete?” Matt spat crossly, ushering him behind a closed door hastily.
Frank held up his hands in a placating gesture.
“Just wanted to talk. I’ll leave as soon as you tell me what I gotta know, Red.”
Matt exhaled quickly in disbelief.
“What’s so important that we have to do it here, Frank? Why are you acting like you’re about to threaten the information out of me? You know where I live, we could have had this ‘talk’ there.”
Frank glanced outside before answering the question.
“The information I want is the kind that you might not want to give me, ok? But I ain’t leaving until you do.”
“Spit it out, Frank. As long as it’s not protected by attorney-client privilege, I’ll tell you whatever you want. You don’t need to do this to get me to tell you stuff.”
“It’s Spider-Man.”
“Who?”
“Don’t do that shit with me, Red. You might not wear that suit any more but you and I both know damn well you keep tabs on what goes on in this city.”
“Fine. I know of the guy, but no more than that. He pretty much stays in Queens anyway, so if he’s not in my neighbourhood he’s not my problem.”
“Bullshit. He was in Midtown last night and there’ve been sightings of him in Hell’s Kitchen repeatedly over the past few months.”
“What do you want me to say, Frank? I’m trying to leave that life behind.”
“So. Am. I.”
“Then why don’t you? What’s keeping you here, and what’s Spider-Man got to do with it?”
“He’s not a man.”
“What?”
“He’s just a kid. I was in Midtown too last night. I met him and he was just a kid.”
“Was he hurt? Did you hurt him?”
Frank looked appalled.
“Fuck no! If I’m being honest, it was closer to the other way round. Kid’s got guts, I’ll tell you that. But it could get him hurt. I want him off the streets, and I wanted to know if you knew anything about him that would help.”
Matt shook his head.
“I’m sorry Frank. All I know is that he mostly operates in Queens, and that he’s enhanced.”
“You can say that again. Strength, hearing, sticks to walls for some fuckin’ reason and he’s got these weird web shooter things on his wrists.”
Matt laughed.
“Sounds like a handful. Good luck dealing with him. If I still wore the suit I’d give you a hand, but now’s not the time for Daredevil to make a reappearance.”
“Is it ever?”
“I don’t know, Frank. I don’t know.”
Matt gestured to the door, and Frank decided that he wasn’t going to get anything more from the conversation, so he obliged, leaving Matt standing alone in an empty meeting room with a strange pit in his stomach.
“Was that who I thought it was?” Cherry asked, leaning through the door with an alarmed look.
“No, Cherry. Just some guy I couldn’t help.”
-
Great. Frank had been reluctant to go to Murdock for help, and how was he rewarded? With fuck all, that’s what. Guess he’d have to sort this out alone. Murdock was right – Spider-Man almost never left Queens, so that was where Frank headed.
After a week or so of tracking the guy’s activity, Frank had a whole load of information about how Spider-Man fought and how he picked his fights – he just waited around until a fight came to him. To be fair to the kid, he had a strong advantage, and most of the time he’d managed to web whatever low-life he was fighting to a wall before they could do any damage, and even when they did get a punch or two in he took it well. Still, Frank knew that if punches were landing, bullets could too, and that would be the end of Queens’ perkiest vigilante.
This information was all very well, but Frank wanted to talk to the guy, yet he was just too fast to keep in one place. He was used to evading the police, which meant that he kept away from Frank well enough as well.
After longer than Frank had liked, he finally got lucky. He’d been lurking on a rooftop that was right in the centre of the area in which Spider-Man was usually sighted when from the alley below he overheard the muffled yelp and subsequent sobs typical of some innocent woman being mugged.
In the time it took for Frank to debate on whether to step in or not, Spider-Man had already shown up. Without hesitating, he swung into the alley in a flash of red and blue, knocking the man over completely and giving the woman time to rush onto the nearby street and away, to safety.
Frank watched carefully as Spider-Man jumped back up onto the balls of his feet to face the man, whose knife was quickly webbed out of his hand and into a nearby dumpster. The mugger, now cornered into the end of the alley, ran at the kid before him in rage. Spider-Man, becoming all too confident, laughed and dodged out of the way, allowing the man to stumble past him.
Spider-Man’s wrist flew out, an attempt to restrain the mugger that Frank had seen a hundred times before, except this time around it didn’t work. No web appeared.
Ok. That was fine. The kid still had superpowers and the man was still flailing around, off balance…
Shit.
The mugger had a gun. Frank should have noticed before, but his jacket had only just moved enough for its telltale bulge to become visible through the thick fabric. Still, Frank should have noticed before.
Frank drew his weapon at the same time the mugger reached for his. Spider-Man suddenly jolted upwards, as if finally aware of the danger he was in, and opened his mouth to speak.
“Stop! Don’t shoot!”
He’s panicked. Scared, even. But despite that, it’s not his own life he’s begging for. Spider-Man holds eye contact with Frank, and the mugger, confused, turns his head just enough to see Frank’s dimly lit figure standing on the rooftop above.
“You’re the Puni-”
The mugger’s face contorts, first with fear and then with the impact of Spider-Man’s fist connecting with his jaw. Frank drops down to street level, but he doesn’t bother trying to kill the now-unconscious bastard. Instead, he slams the heel of his boot onto the guy’s wrist, which delivered a satisfying crunch and told him that he wouldn’t manage to point a gun at anyone else’s head anytime soon.
Spider-Man’s breathing is quick, much quicker than it should be. Frank casts him a worried look, but receives a glare in return.
“I had that covered.”
“Don’t gimme that bullshit, kid.”
“Language,” Spider-Man muttered.
“What did I just say about bullshit? Am I supposed to avoid certain words around you, kid? Cause you’re only twelve?”
“Fourteen.”
Frank exhaled quickly, a sound somewhere between a gasp of shock and a chuckle.
“Don’t tell me that! I was joking, for fuck’s sake. Of course you’re not twelve. Christ. Let me tell you somethin’, kid. If you’re gonna do this shit as if you want me to treat you like a fuckin’ adult, then I ain’t gonna watch my language.”
“So you’ll treat me like an adult?”
“Fuck no. You’re gonna stay off these streets, ok? This is not the place for a fourteen-year-old kid.”
“I can help people.” Spider-Man replied, barely a whisper. He backed away from Frank, slowly.
“Like hell you can. But you ain’t gonna help yourself when you’re pulling this shit. If I hadn’t distracted that prick, where would you be right now?”
“I had it covered.”
“Bullshit!” Frank yelled, “You’d be on the ground! Where he is! That’s what you want, kid? You want your brains blown out all over the pavement of this filthy fuckin’ alley? You wanna be dead before you’ve even had the chance to live?”
Frank closed the distance between the two of them, so much that he was just yelling in Spider-Man’s face. And Spider-Man? There was no fight left in him. This was not the kid Frank met the other night, still pleased with himself from capturing a load of bad guys. This was a fourteen-year-old who’d just stared down the barrel of a gun, then had the fucking Punisher screaming at him relentlessly.
Spider-Man backed away from Frank again, quicker this time. His head twitches from side to side frantically before his gaze landed on the assault rifle that was hanging loosely at Frank’s side and he fell backwards against a wall, bringing his knees up to his chest and burying his head in his hands.
Frank sighed and his gaze softened. He spoke a lot quieter this time.
“Look, kid-” he began
“I don’t even know you!” Spider-Man spat exhaustedly.
“I know. I just want you safe.”
“Why? I don’t know you!” the kid repeated, trying to stand up. Frank grabs his arm and yanks him to his feet.
“It doesn’t matter, kid. Right now we both want the same thing.”
“I just want to go home.”
“Let’s get you home then.”
“You’re not finding out where I live.”
“I’m gonna be honest, kid, I’m pretty sure I already know.”
“You’ve been stalking me?”
“Eh. I’ve been keeping track of you. Look, I don’t know your apartment number or anything like that yet, but I know where you seem to start off most of your little patrols of the neighbourhood. How ‘bout I help you get there and then we part ways for the night?”
Spider-Man was still in shock, and the idea that the Punisher knew which block he lives on didn’t help with that. Still, he nodded slowly and allowed Frank to begin escorting him out of the alley.
“What about him?” Spider-Man asked, gesturing towards the mugger they were leaving splayed out on the ground in the alley.
The two of them stared at the man, then at each other, and then Frank walked back into the alley, slung the man over his shoulder and dumped him unceremoniously into the aforementioned dumpster, also removing the knife that had ended up in there earlier.
“Don’t you worry about him. I’ll come back to sort him out.”
“You’re not gonna-”
“No, kid. I’m not gonna kill him.” Probably.
Spider-Man, now satisfied, began walking slowly back towards his home. He was still breathing strangely, but his breaths had slowed and become more regular. By the time they reached his block, Frank was confident enough that he could make it back to his place safely.
“Y’know, this conversation isn’t over, kid.”
“Eh. Will it ever be?”
Frank sighed. He’d been a stubborn kid too.
“Uh, Mr… Punisher? Sir?”
“Frank.”
“Oh.”
Spider-Man had already known Frank’s name, but he hadn’t expected to use it.
“What’d you wanna say, kid?”
“Uh. Thanks, I guess. For not killing the mugger.”
“Hm.” Frank was still considering it, but it was becoming decreasingly likely.
“And for walking me home. I mean, it was kinda your fault I was too stressed out to do anything in the first place so I dunno if-”
“All good, kid.” Frank sniffed, thinking. “Sorry for yelling at you, it probably wasn’t the best time.”
Spider-Man laughed.
“Yeah.”
Silence. Slightly awkward, but neither of them care.
“Tell you what, Frank,” Spider-Man finally spoke, “If you wanna have a chat about… this, then I guess I’m free tomorrow.”
“No homework then?”
“Don’t push it, Frankie. Just hang around the area. I’ll find you, OK?”
Frank reeled a little at the nickname. He thought of Billy Russo and betrayal, of trust and loss and the carousel, but the kid’s squeaky voice yanked him back into reality.
“Frank?”
“Yeah. OK, kid. Try not to get shot in the meantime.”
Spider-Man jumped up onto the wall of a building nearby and started crawling up it and around the corner.
“Yeah, yeah.”
“I wasn’t joking!” Frank calls after him, unable to make out the kid’s response. He was pretty sure there was some profanity involved.