Frank's not sure what wakes him, but his first instinct after pushing off the tendrils of Maria in his dream is to look for the kid.

He rolls over in a sharp movement, his training snapping his mind awake almost instantly. He blinks his eyes to adjust them and shoots to a sitting position when all he can make out on the couch is a rumpled blanket and stacked pillows. Frank does a quick scan of the warehouse, but Spider-Man's nowhere to be seen.

"Dammit," he growls to himself, pounding a fist against the metal of his cot. He shouldn't have trusted the kid. He'd considered giving him another dose of the sedative once he dozed off, but decided against it based on the fact that the kid was vehemently opposed to it and Frank was under the impression that they had come to an understanding, that he had talked at least enough sense into the kid to have him not run off.

He gets to his feet, reminding himself that he needs to check the ceiling with this one as he takes the gun from under his pillow. He doesn't intend on firing it, but Spider-Man doesn't need to know that. "Kid!" he barks, using his I'll go easy on you if you come back now voice. When no response comes, Frank mutters a curse and strides to the door, grabbing his duffle on the way to find it…

Still locked.

Frank furrows his brow and looks to the single window by the back wall that doesn't open, surprised to find the glass panes intact. He sweeps the room again, his gaze drifting to a light glowing from under the bathroom door that he failed to notice before.

He shoves his gun back in his belt and makes his way to the corner bathroom, keeping his footsteps light at first before deciding to discard stealth and announce his appearance. As he gets closer, his gait falters when he swears he hears a strangled sob.

Frank slows to a stop by the door and raps on it twice. "Hey, kid. You good in there?" He thinks that he already knows the answer, but he waits for confirmation.

"Go away," the kid snarls, pounding on the door with a force that makes it shudder.

Frank straightens. There it is. Frank no longer posed an immediate threat, forcing the fight-or-flight to subside. So the storm finally hit. Frank debates going back to bed and letting Spider-Man's grief over his aunt play itself out, but his gut tells him that that's not the right call. So he knocks again, harder this time, and says, "Open up, kid."

"LEAVE ME ALONE!" the kid shouts, and Frank hears something inside the bathroom shatter.

Frank immediately tries the doorknob, but it won't budge. "Open the goddamn door." It's an order this time.

Instead of a reply, all he hears is a second sound of shattering on the floor.

"Okay," Frank mutters. He pulls out his gun and stares under the door, using the shadow in the light to guess where the kid is standing. Then he aims at the lock and pulls the trigger, kicking in the door the moment following the gunshot and the kid's yelp.

There's a long overhead light on the high ceiling, but it's the bulb above the sink and the mirror that catches his attention. There's a single lit bulb and two slots to its left where bulbs should be. But they weren't screwed out of their sockets; they were ripped. Thin, curved glass pieces coated the tile floor, sharp enough that they'd probably make Frank halt outside the door if it weren't for his combat boots that war taught him he could rarely sleep without. The wall—the concrete wall—has cracks concentrated around a small crater that looked to be from a punch.

Then there's Spider-Man himself. He's barefoot and perched on the top part of the toilet in the corner of the bathroom, his spine straight along the corner and his fingers pressed against two adjacent walls. In one hand, blood gathers on his knuckles and his middle finger is angled awkwardly to the side. When he moves his hands to secure his position, Frank sees that his palm and finger pads are red and burnt. Probably from grabbing hot light bulbs and shattering them on the floor, the dumbass.

His face is the worst of all. There's bags under his eyes and his lips are curled back in a grimace. His eyes are red and misty, all welled up with water and somehow managing to keep it from falling. His hair is bedraggled and his face is pink, and he gives Frank the most anguished look in the world while at the same time challenging Frank to say a word.

For once in his life, Frank almost reconsiders his mission and walks away. Almost. The kid's face scrunches up when Frank pockets his gun and steps fully into the bathroom, glass crunching under his boots. "Shit, kid," he muses, taking in the room. "You done?"

Spider-Man lunges forward and grabs the third and final light. Frank hears it beginning to crack in his hand before he smashes it on the floor. "I said go away!" he cries, scrambling higher up the wall.

"You tryin' to make a minefield or a mess?" Frank says, scuffing the glass shards with the steel-toed end of his shoe. "Now get down from there."

The kid just heaves a breath, staring down at him defiantly as he inches higher.

"Cute," he comments with a raised brow. "Yeah, you showed me, didn't you? I bet your burnt hands and broken finger feel real great."

"Shut up," the kid grits out. "You don't understand. She- May is- was-" The kid cuts himself off with a yell and swings his fist to the side, slamming it against the mirror. He keens and crouches down back to the top of the toilet tank as large sections of the mirror fall out into the sink and onto the tiles.

"I think I get it, kid," Frank says. He means it, too. He takes a slow step toward the kid and the kid shoots back up. He darts out a hand and sticks his fingers against what remains of the mirror to pry off a pointed shard, gripping it in his burnt palm in a way that has to be painful. His wince confirms it as he angles the sharp edge to Frank.

"I told you to leave."

Frank pauses for a moment before taking another gradual step forward. The kid brandishes the shard in front of Frank's face like a dagger.

"I will use this, I swear!"

"Okay," Frank acknowledges, taking another step closer to him.

The kid thrusts the shard forward. "I mean it. I will use this!"

Frank locks his eyes on the kid's, giving him a slow nod as he advances by another step. "I'm sure you will."

He's in range of a cut to the cheek now, a good gash to the nose, even one to the throat that could finish him off. Spider-Man pushes back his shoulder and bends his elbow by the tiniest amount, just enough to keep Frank out of his reach. That tells Frank more than anything that comes out of his mouth. "Don't take a single step closer, I'm warning you."

"Yeah. Okay. Whatever you want, kid," Frank says, softening his tone. He takes another step.

The kid shakes his head rapidly, his brow growing tight. "STOP."

Just as Frank is mid-step, the kid's arm flies forward and the sharp edge of a mirror is being pressed against Frank's throat. He freezes in his tracks and slowly opens his palms at his side, letting the kid know he's the one in control. He doesn't move his gaze away from the kid's, though. Stares him dead in the eyes as his expression shifts and waits to see what stares back at him.

Spider-Man swallows. It looks painful. "This is your last chance to leave."

"Okay," Frank says, his voice almost a whisper. Keeping his movements slow, he begins to drift his hand up and forward, closer and closer to Spider-Man's own without looking away from his eyes.

The kid breaks eye contact first. His gaze wavers between Frank's stare and his incoming hand, and the mirror shard starts to tremble against Frank's neck. Frank pauses when his hand is barely an inch away from the kid's, close enough to strike and disarm him before the kid would know what hit him. But despite everything, the kid hasn't hurt him yet, and Frank can see in his eyes that he's debating whether or not he should. A sudden movement would undoubtedly set him off and they'd be back to square one. So Frank lightly brushes the back of the kid's hand with his own. The makeshift dagger remains pressed against his neck and the kid goes still. There's a conflict raging in his eyes, though Frank's throat is still in one piece.

"That's it," Frank breathes. He gradually curls his fingers over the fist the kid formed until he manages to get an equal grip on the piece of mirror. "That's it." The kid's breathing heavily now, his chest shaking as it expands. Frank gives his clenched forefinger an experimental nudge away from the shard, and even though the kid takes a sharp inhale through his nose, he allows Frank to loosen his hold on the weapon.

"There we go," Frank encourages, his voice barely above a whisper. After a bit of slow, careful prying at his fingers, the kid's hand is empty. Frank lowers his own now-armed hand to the ground and opens it, letting the shard clatter to the floor. Spider-Man follows the movement of the shard with his head, which hangs against his chest when the shard hits the floor.

Frank extends his hand again just as slowly, lightly wrapping his fingers around the kid's wrist. He takes note of the kid's bare feet and the glass strewn across the floor before he moves his arm across the back of the kid's shoulders. Spider-Man loosens his legs and extends them out in front of him as far as the top of the toilet will allow, creating a gap under his previously tightly-bent knees.

It's as good as an invitation for Frank. He reaches under his knees and hoists him up, feeling the kid's body shivering against his chest as he carries him out of the bathroom and flips the ceiling light off. He maneuvers through the dimly lit room and drops the kid off on the couch, but instead of moving back to his own cot, he sits down next to him. Spider-Man sniffs and says nothing. Frank places his hand on the kid's back and pulls him closer until he's half sitting on Frank's lap with Frank supporting most of his weight. Frank moves his hand up to the back of the kid's neck and pushes his head until his chin's resting on Frank's shoulder. The kid's like putty, letting Frank maneuver him without an ounce of resistance.

"Go on, kid," he says. "Let it out."

Just like that, the kid breaks in his arms. As if he was waiting for permission. A violent shudder courses through his body as he clings his arms around Frank, letting out a noise that starts as a yelp and warps into a caterwaul as his broken hand and burnt palms chafe against Frank's shirt. Frank rubs his back and shushes him as he whimpers and wails and tries to keep the kid from falling apart.

"Okay, okay, okay," Frank murmurs. He brings his hand to the base of the kid's head to secure it while pressing circles with his other hand in between his shoulders. He makes the motion slow and repetitive, hoping a pattern would calm the kid down.

"Sh-She took c-c-care of me," he sputters after struggling to catch his breath. "It's just been- been her n' me. Ever since my- my uncle died about a y-year ago. I saw him d-die too. He- He got shot and I coulda- I coulda stopped it. But I didn't. They r-rai- raised me and now-" He breaks off, making a strangled noise and swallowing frantically. "-I got them b-both killed. May-"

"Don't give me that bullshit," Frank growls. He places his hands on the kid's shoulders and pushes him back until he can meet his eyes. The kid's lip is quivering and whenever he blinks it's like opening a floodgate. He's looking anywhere but at Frank. "Hey. Look at me."

The kid glances up at him for a moment before looking back down. Frank returns his hand to the back of his neck and angles back the kid's head. "Look at me."

He drags up his gaze to meet Frank's eyes.

"I was there. Your aunt's death is not your fault." Frank says it like an order, but still feels him softly shake his head and let out a sob. "No. You're going to say it. Say your aunt's death isn't your fault."

"Your aunt's death isn't your fault," the kid says verbatim, somehow managing to be a little shit between his tears.

"No. You're not allowed to be a smartass right now. Say your aunt's death isn't your fault."

The first thing the kid does is drop his stare again, so Frank lowers his head to get his eyes back on him. "My aunt's de- My aunt's death is not…" He trails off, working his jaw. Frank bounces his leg, spurring the kid back into action. "My aunt's death is not my- Her death isn't my f…" He takes a shuddering breath.

"Okay," Frank says, drawing Spider-Man's forehead into the crook of his neck. "We'll get there." He lets the kid cry into his shirt for now and tries not to think about how utterly desperate Spider-Man must be to be okay with using Frank as a source of solace. But Frank's not new to this; Lisa and Frankie had their share of tears, and Amy wasn't exactly stable either back when they were stuck together. Spider-Man's a kid too, and Frank knows how to deal with those.

Frank softly hushes him again as he brings his hand up through the kid's hair. He strokes over the brown tangles, pausing to gauge his reaction and determine if he's crossed a line. But the kid just leans into his touch, a silent request. So Frank continues, lightly running his fingers over the kid's scalp. His almost immediate response is the same as Lisa and Frankie's. The tension starts to drain out of him and he starts to grow heavy and languid, beginning a slow descent into calm. It's rare that Frank's willing to provide this level of comfort, but this kid more than needs it.

This child.

It takes ten minutes of tears and shaky breaths for the kid to finally get a loose hold of himself again. Or maybe he is just exhausting himself, Frank's not sure. Frank's grateful either way, as he can finally pry his tired fingers from the kid's head and move on. The kid shifts and all of a sudden he mumbles, "I'm Peter."

He doesn't give a last name and Frank doesn't ask for one. Save for the occasional shudders and gasps and the hiccups he seems to have developed, Peter's almost back to somewhat composed. It must be around six in the morning now, since the limited light coming through the far window was enough to allow Frank to properly survey the room and judge the numbness and streaks of wet on Peter's face.

"I'm gonna take a look at your hands now, Peter," Frank decides, dragging the first aid kit closer to him with his foot as Peter scoots back to his own cushion. Peter drops his arms and folds his hands inside his lap, hiding his damaged palms.

"I- I think they'll heal by themselves," Peter sniffles, but doesn't protest when Frank grabs him by the wrist and turns his hand over. The skin is red and angry on almost his entire palm, peeling off in some places.

"It'll get infected if you leave it like this. There's some burn ointment or something in here. Other hand," he says pointedly, staring at Peter's broken hand with a raised brow. Peter holds out his hand with a wince. Frank carefully turns it over to inspect it. His finger's clearly dislocated and there's a bump under his skin where there shouldn't be. "Yeah, I'm gonna need to set that. Which means I'll be poking at it for a while. So." Frank opens the first aid kit and shuffles around until he's able to find David's Midazolam bottle. He sucks up about half the dose as the last two times with the syringe and flicks the base of the needle before turning back to Peter.

"Is that Codeine?" Peter wonders, apprehensive.

Frank shakes his head. "It's the other stuff."

Frank waits for the fight, but Peter's fresh out. Peter just wavers for a moment before silently holding his arm out to Frank and looking away. Frank takes the opportunity for what it is and administers the injection. "Can you look at my ankle too?" Peter asks quietly once Frank finishes, rubbing at his arm. "I think it's sprained. It hurts more now."

"That's what happens when you walk on it," Frank says, because the kid deserves that one.

Peter seems to acknowledge this when he drops his chin to his chest. Frank fishes out the burn ointment and opens it before passing it to Peter, letting the kid manage that while he grabs his calf and props it up on his lap. He pushes back the pant leg and is relieved to find the stitches still intact, then moves his attention down to the ankle. It's more swollen than before and hot to the touch, but there's not a lot Frank can do for it beyond telling Peter to keep off of it. Peter gives a tiny cough and asks, "What happens now?"

Frank looks up at him from his ankle. The kid's doe-eyes are wide and earnest, his chin tucked in and his head ducked down, making himself smaller when he meets Frank's eyes. His voice holds no trace of scorn or a challenge. It reminds Frank of a scared soldier turning to his Sergeant for orders. Peter's looking for instructions, for something to follow blindly, because he won't dare think too hard about what to do himself. Frank bends over to pull out two small strips of Velcro and a splint as he thinks about his answer.

"I'm gonna fix you up. Then you're gonna stay here for however long it takes for you to get back on your feet. Okay?"

Peter nods and returns his foot to the floor but looks far from satisfied. The response is a bit slower than normal, letting Frank know the sedative is kicking in but he still can't start yet.

"And while you're doin' that, I'm gonna make sure there's no more guys out there who know your identity and want you dead."

Peter raises his head to nod, but pauses mid-motion as his mouth twists to a frown. "I… I don't think I can let you kill people."

Frank snorts despite himself. The kid doesn't look like he could stop anyone from doing anything. But more than that, another red-clad vigilante came to his mind. It's like talking to a mini Red, only with a few less walls and without a stick up his ass. And if this kid's anything like Red, he'd see sitting by as Frank kills people the same as killing them himself. "You got a better idea?" he challenges.

Peter looks away and works his jaw for a moment. "I don' wan' you to kill anyone for me."

"Not killing them for you. Guys who know you're a kid and want to murder you anyway don't deserve to be walking. It's not you." That isn't entirely true.

Peter's eyes start to drift closed before he gives himself a small shake and swallows. "'M not… dunno what to do. I wanna go ba' to school, but I don'." His head begins to fall back against the cushion, but he quickly straightens himself. "Gotta friend. Ned. He… don' wan' 'im to get hur'. 'N MJ."

"I'll make sure they stay safe," Frank says. He's gonna need their full names or Peter's full name to find them in order to do that, but asking him in this state isn't fair to him.

Peter gives an approving nod that wobbles his entire body. He blinks rapidly and rubs at his eyes.

Frank lets out a small sigh. "Stop fighting it, kid. I'm not starting 'til you're out."

Peter doesn't respond immediately, so Frank puts a hand on his shoulder and pushes him back into the cushions. He doesn't resist, but his eyes are still open by the time his head hits the pillow. "'M scared," he mumbles into the pillow.

"Go to sleep, Pete," Frank orders.

Peter nestles into the pillow for a moment before he stills and his eyelids droop closed. When Frank takes his broken hand and carefully runs his fingers over it to feel for the break, he doesn't move. First thing's first, he's going to have to pop the finger back into place. He holds the hand steady with one hand and wraps his fingers around Peter's with the other. Once it's all secure, he wrenches the finger back into alignment.

Peter jerks and kicks out with a yelp that devolves into a series of whimpers. He opens his eyes and tries to pull his hand away, but Frank had made sure to grab a tight hold of his wrist. "Shh, shh, shh," Frank says. "Back to sleep, okay? Back to sleep."

It works. The kid goes limp again and his eyes fall closed. His face twitches when Frank presses harder against the unnatural bend in his finger, but he doesn't wake. "Okay," Frank murmurs. He begins to shift the bone back into place, clutching Peter's forearm between his elbows to keep him from moving it. Peter starts whining and squirming, but he gives up after a minute to weakly snivel.

"I know, I know," Frank grunts. He lets out a huff of relief once he manages to get everything aligned. He assembles the splint soon after, keeping Peter's finger stiff and in place. Once he deems it good enough, he folds the kid's arm and rests his hand on his chest, pausing to check that the stitches below his ribs still held. He is healing fast, which is something of a silver lining.

Frank gets to his feet and grabs the rumpled blanket to rest it on top of him. Peter rolls to his side and lets out a soft hum, inadvertently making the blanket slide off of him as his eyes remain half-lidded. Frank sighs and gives a tiny shake of his head. He bends down and tucks the blanket in between the cushions and the couch to ensure that the kid couldn't kick it off and finds himself folding it around his shoulders before he even realizes what he's doing.

As he turns back to his own cot, a soft, slurred, "Th'nks, Ben," sounds from behind him. Frank doesn't have to think long about who Ben is. Frank gives a small huff; looks like they're both wishing for someone else.

He briefly considers the kid's mess in the bathroom that he needs to clean up, but decides against it in favor of catching a few more hours of sleep. He could clean up the glass and mirror in the late morning, and he'd probably wake before Peter anyway. The kid's body would have to work on overdrive to heal him and flush out all of the drugs, so Frank bet that he'd be out for a while.

At least one of them would get a restful sleep.