Chapter Text
Peter meets the infamous Punisher at Grandma Nelson's restaurant over a piece of peach pie.
It’s an accident really.
He likes Foggy, and he likes Foggy’s grandmother, but Grandma Nelson's cheesecake? Now that he loves.
Peter is just dropping by for a piece of his guilty pleasure when he spots Daredevil sitting in a corner booth with someone other than Foggy or Karen. Matt's body language is relaxed, but a bit resigned when he slides a manila folder across the table. Peter ends his chat with Foggy at the bar and wanders over to say hello.
Matt actually jumps, somehow so wrapped in his conversation with the mysterious stranger that he doesn't even notice Peter entering the restaurant. They both glance up at the young man, Matt with his mouth parted in an almost guilty 'O,’ and his friend scowling up at Peter as he hunched over a slice of Grandma Nelson's famous peach pie.
Underneath the bulky leather jacket, Peter catches a flash of a bleached skull on the man's shirt.
"Ah, Peter." Matt says awkwardly. "How are you?"
"Great, just dropping by for food. Who's this guy?" Peter grins down at them as the man flips open the folder Matt had slid over to him.
Murdock looks a little pained when he introduces, "this is Frank, Frank Castle. He's an...acquaintance. Frank, this is Peter Parker, the nice young man I told you about before. Peter, we're just about done, so-"
"Wait, Frank Castle as in The Punisher Frank, or random civilian Frank?" Peter squints down at Matt's carefully expressionless face. Frank takes another casual bite of his pie and shakes a stack of photos out of a plastic evidence bag. Matt sighs, annoyed as he says, "can't you wait a few minutes before tearing into your present?"
Frank ignores him and spreads the pictures. Peter glances down and feels his jaw drop.
"You take photos of the thugs you kill as souvenirs?" Peter asks incredulously, "is that a picture of a severed hand under that pile of corpse shots?"
Frank takes a sip of his tea before rolling his eyes. "No, the police took those, ya little idiot. I didn't kill these pieces of garbage. This is the aftermath of a Mexican cartel gang war. I got 'em off of Red here after he lost a game of poker to me."
"I thought you said you guys weren't friends, Matt." Peter grins.
"We're not." Daredevil says firmly. "Frank and I do not have the same ideals when it comes to keeping Hell's Kitchen safe."
"Well, I get the job done, don't I? Not to mention, I saved your fucking ass a few times."
"Yes, and every time bodies end up in the morgue when you're in a generous 'helping' mood."
Peter drops down opposite the two bickering men, grinning.
"Pshh, you're just mad you lost."
"Gloating about winning a poker game against a blind man, Frank?” Matt cocks his head to the side, shades flashing in the afternoon sun.
"You just keep milking that disability thing, Murdock. Works wonders on the ladies, but you need to try harder with me." Frank drains his cup with a grimace, and slams the china down on the table, making Peter jump.
"Oh yeah? Why's that?" Matt raises his eyebrow, sipping calmly at his coffee.
"Because I know you're not just some helpless disabled altar boy, Red. Gave me a fucking concussion the first time we crossed paths." He rubs a hand over his stubbled jaw at the memory. "Couldn't even tell you were blind as a bat when you punched me in the face."
"Oh stop it, Castle. You're making me blush."
"It's like watching an old married couple," Peter calls out to Foggy, laughing.
"Tell me about it," Foggy grins, balancing three beers and an orange soda on a tray. He settles down at their table after ruffling Matt's hair with a fond hand. "Every Thursday afternoon. Never fails to show up, the both of them, always bickering like third-grade girls at the booth in the corner. Frank with his black tea and slice o’ peach pie, and Matty, sipping Gram’s crappy coffee like a prim and proper lady."
"I like it better when your grandmother is runnin' this shit joint." Frank mutters, ignoring Foggy's attempt at a friendly bro fist bump. Matt laughs and grabs a beer.
"Hey, you're a minor, kid. Grubby lil' paws off the booze." The Punisher slaps the back of Peter's hand when the teenager reaches for a beer without thinking. Foggy shoves the insultingly cheerful orange soda toward him.
"Oh, come on! I'm 20!" Peter whines, rubbing at the sting and scowling at the three smug faces across the table from him.
"Yeah, so basically a kid.” Matt says with an innocent smile, elbowing Frank in the side. Then he sighs and says sadly, “that seems to be the only thing we'll ever agree upon, Frank."
Frank rolls his eyes and mutters, “drama queen.”
“Jackass,” Matt returns sweetly without missing a beat.
“Well, I’ve gotta head out, drug lords to decapitate, mafia members to drown in a vat of acid, etc. See you around the rooftops, Red.” Frank says when he drains his beer. The Punisher stands, throwing his leather jacket over one broad shoulder. "Kid," he inclines his head toward Peter before heading toward the door after dropping a wad of cash on the table. Foggy shrugs and mouths “at least the bastard’s a generous tipper” to Peter.
“Frank, no more killing please. I’m serious this time.” Matt calls out after him.
“Yup, like the forty-three other times you’ve preached that gospel bullshit before, Saint Matthew. I got you, loud and clear. Catch you next week, Red.” He gives a casual two-finger salute without turning back.
“Wow.” Peter says into the ensuing silence.
“You don’t want to get involved with the likes of him, Peter.” Matt says firmly, his lips drawn down in a stern frown.
“Forty-three times? Are you guys secretly together? This whole stable lunch date thing is weirdly domestic,” Peter points out suspiciously, flipping through the menu for Grandma Nelson’s famous cheesecake. “Kinda like Professor X and Magneto’s chess sessions, come to think of it.”
"No, we're not. Peter, I'm serious." Matt's still frowning.
Peter chews on his straw before taking a sip of the orange soda Foggy had gotten him (not a kid, Nelson!). “I know, I know. Don't worry so much. I’m probably never gonna see the guy again, Matt.”
Three days later, Peter opens his front door to find Frank Castle soaking wet and dripping blood onto his ugly welcome mat. The side of his face is badly burned and Peter spies bullet holes in his jacket, jeans and basically everywhere in sight. He’s got a gun clutched loosely in one hand, but Peter thinks the guy probably doesn’t have enough energy in his body to pull the trigger.
"Oh my God. I got you! I got you, you're safe!" Peter shouts as Frank lists dangerously sideways on his front porch, the weapon clacking to the ground. He manages to drag the nearly unconscious man onto the living room couch before Frank's legs finally give up working all together. He's the only one home at the moment, and Peter has no idea what to do.
"Don't you dare call Matt fucking girl scout Murdock." Frank squeezes out, one wet hand catching the boy's wrist and making Peter jump.
"What am I supposed to do then?! You need the hospital! Oh God, you're like a punctured bean bag right now." He shouts, trying to ignore the thick smear of blood Frank leaves on his skin.
"No hospitals either. I just...just stitch me up...and take out the...shrapnel in my arm. I'll be fine…nothing broken…this time..." He grunts, jerking a hand at his blood soaked shirt.
"Jesus, you're so diehard, you pig-headed moron." Peter mutters under his breath, nearly slipping on the wet blood in his hurry to fetch the first-aid kit. "Stain is gonna be a bitch to remove from the cushions."
It takes him an hour to finally stitch the Punisher back together, and stop the bleeding. Peter thinks he's probably done a pretty good job, since Frank hasn't passed out yet (holding on with sheer stubbornness), and that he's still got a healthy (probably a bit of exaggeration there since Frank's the color of spoiled milk) amount of blood left in his body.
“Thanks.” Frank says, eyes averted and voice soft for once. “You’re a good kid.”
Peter sets the bloodied roll of gauze on the coffee table and finally allows his body to relax. “I don’t know about that, but at least you’re no longer spilling precious lifeblood onto my extremely cheap carpet, so yay for that.”
“Sorry about the carpet.” He mutters.
“Oh, don’t worry about it. It’s seen worse.” Peter says distractedly, gesturing at one of the curious dogs who'd wandered over to Frank's knee. "Bucky's puppies were pretty wild before they got properly potty-trained."
"Hey, don't talk about 'em like that... Dogs...they're loyal...you give them a little affection and they...they give you their entire heart." The bleeding man on his couch reaches out a hand and clicks his tongue. Peter is surprised to see Gawain trot over and press his nose into Frank's palm.
"Hey, boy." His lopsided smile is smeared red with blood when he scratches behind Gawain's ear.
"Alright, big guy. Time for your happy pills." Peter holds up his hands, painkillers in one and a glass of water in the other.
"I don't need 'em.” He grunts.
"You're barely keeping your eyes open as it is, Frank." Peter sighs, frustrated with the man's sheer stubborn will to push everyone away. The Punisher ignores him and keeps running gun-calloused fingers through Gawain's fur.
An idea occurs to him suddenly. Peter turns and blasts a loud whistle at the front door.
Frank looks up when the first dog comes wriggling through the doggy door, tail wagging and tongue lolling.
"Hey, Lance. This is our new buddy Frank. He's hurt, and I kinda need you guys to keep an eye on him, alright? Make sure the big bloodthirsty lug is safe, so he can take a much-needed nap." He grins down at the German Shepherd Bucky had named Lancelot. Lance barks happily up at him, tail wagging harder.
Frank smirks tiredly, "Cute, kid. Not gonna work. I ain't bitin'."
The dogs jump up on the couch and curl protectively around him like a furry blanket, and as much as Frank bitch and complain, he's smiling slightly (delirious from the blood loss most likely) as he tickles Percy under the chin.
"Let's do this again," Peter says, trying to keep his smile hidden, his palms open. "Time for your happy pills, big guy."
Frank eyes him for a long second before heaving a sigh and muttering something unintelligible under his breath. Peter just keeps grinning.
"Fine, you insistent little shit." He finally caves, reaching for the pain medication in Peter's hand.
As he expects, Frank swallows the pills dry.
“No water. Tough badass through and through, huh?” Peter mutters to himself as the man finally closes his eyes and allows himself to relax, one hand on Percy's head. He grabs a blanket and gently drapes it over the man’s legs before settling down on the other end of the couch with a book.
Playing Switzerland between the hero community and the villains, and stitching up violent bleeding sociopaths with a crippling weakness for canine cuteness.
Apparently this is Peter Parker's life now.
He's on chapter six when the front door clicks open and Bucky wanders in with Bob and Lester, their arms full of grocery bags.
"He's bleeding all over the carpet." Bucky tells him, dropping down next to Peter and tossing him an apple from their bag. The dogs glance briefly over at their true master, but when Frank winces and shifts slightly in his sleep, they tuck their bodies up against him again.
"Yup." Peter replies, not glancing up from his book.
"Neat stitches, kid." Lester approves as he wanders over for a quick glance at their unconscious visitor. "Oh, and he's bleeding on the carpet."
"Thanks, Bucky already told me, Les." Peter says absently, biting into the fruit.
"He's on the news right now." Lester prods at Frank's less bruised cheek before Peter can stop him. The man frowns but does not wake.
"Quit it!" Peter smacks the bald marksman with his hardcover novel, trying to shoo him away. “What do you mean he’s on the news right now?"
"We saw the report on a TV at the gas station." Bucky says, his voice pitched low as he flicks out a pocket knife and slices off a sliver of apple. “The Punisher took out an entire Mexican cartel group tonight. Blew up a good chunk of Hell’s Kitchen."
"Oh, damn." Peter's jaw drops.
“Yeah, homicidal asshole." Lester says. "But, I'm grudgingly impressed he made it out here without dying along the way."
"My dogs like him," Bucky points out.
"Your dogs like anything that breathes," Lester rebuffs. "They're useless as guard dogs."
Bucky shrugs, "they don't seem to like you very much." Lester scowls and tosses an orange peel at him.
“Frank likes the dogs back. I think probably more than he will like any of us." Peter says, peering at the sleeping man. "The most important thing is, he's severely injured right now and needs to heal. Nobody poke at him. I'll call Matt tomorrow morning."
"Tomorrow? Shit, Steve's coming over in an hour." Bucky mutters, running a hand through his hair and bouncing his apple core casually against the bullseye tattoo on Lester's forehead. "Change of plans. I'll think of something else to distract him."
"Thanks." Peter tells him gratefully. Bucky grunts, gathers his loose hair in a messy tail and jumps over the back of the couch with feline grace, dodging Lester's half-ass attempt to hit him with a throw pillow.
"Alright, go back to your book, kid. Bob says dinner's in an hour." Bucky calls over his shoulder before slipping out the door with his black hoodie.
"Remember the good ol' times when none of us were rubbing dicks with superheroes? I miss that." Lester says into the silence.
"You're one to talk. Bffs with Hawkeye, remember?" Peter tosses his apple core at the back of Lester's head.
He misses.
Peter blames the lack of a bullseye on the back.