Frank knows what shock looks like when he sees it.

He'd seen more than his fair share of it during his time in the marines, especially early on with the soldiers who weren't ready for the real shit of war. Their eyes would get wide, pupils growing to take in everything and nothing at once. Orders would take longer to process if they processed at all. They'd freeze if it wasn't fight or flight, and the ones that froze didn't last long on the battlefield.

Frank didn't expect Spider-Man to be a freezer. Scratch that; Frank didn't expect him to go into shock at all. The kid's clearly been through some shit before and he held himself together when Frank gunned down the gang when they first met. There're even fewer bodies this time. Maybe it's the brutality or the fact that he's out of his mask, or maybe he just couldn't handle it after everything that built up to the attack. Whatever the reason, Peter's never been this quiet and his hands aren't supposed to tremble like that. He's staring blankly out the windshield, taking in rapid breaths through his nose and wincing whenever his chest expands too much. He looks to be on the verge of shutting down if Frank doesn't do anything about it.

Damn kid should've stayed in the bathroom.

Frank reaches for the radio and turns it on, making an effort to distract the kid. "I need you to talk to me, Pete," he says, risking taking his eyes off the road.

Peter doesn't talk. He just leans forward as a muscle pops in his jaw. Frank waits a few beats, but the kid remains silent. Shit.

"Hey, Peter—look at me, kid."

Peter's head barely moves, though his eyes flicker over to meet Frank's face. It's a moment delayed, but he's responsive, so Frank's not complaining.

"You gotta say something, kid. I'm pullin' over if you don't say something." Frank's not sure what he'd do if it came to that. Luckily, it's not something he has to ponder.

"You didn't have to d-do that," Peter bites out after a deep breath, a tremor in his voice. "He was unarmed. He was on the- on the ground and he wasn't gonna chase a-after us. You didn't have to- to kill him."

It's Frank's turn to go silent. It's more of a mouthful than he was expecting, and he can't say he never expected Peter to try to bring it up. But now—attempting to pick an argument with the one guy trying to help him while he barely has a hold on himself—Frank's not sure if he should be exasperated or impressed. Red would be proud; it's the exact kind of shit he would pull.

Peter's still staring at him, so Frank spares the kid a measured look. Peter knows who he's talking to. He knows what Frank is. The only thing Frank would change is the fact that the kid had to see it. Frank would be lying if he said he didn't consider the possibility that they could be tracked to the store, but it would confirm if there was a hit out for his van, something he'd much rather find out under his own terms. Must be a pretty big one too, considering how quickly they converged on him. And with the information he got from the shitbag who thought he could hold the kid at gunpoint, hindsight changed nothing.

Peter's not ready to hear it, but the fact that Gargan told his men that he wants the kid, not Spider-Man, is a game-changer. Gargan's keeping his identity for himself. Which means that either Gargan's an idiot, or he knows that knowledge is power, and that he doesn't have power if everyone has said knowledge. What Gargan plans to do with it, Frank's less sure, especially since he wants Peter alive. Blackmail, maybe. Maybe he wants to keep Spider-Man's identity secret so none of the kid's other enemies could get to him first, giving him the satisfaction of killing Peter himself. Frank doesn't like not knowing.

He does know that the hit on his van means it would be stupid to go back to their warehouse. He's made himself learn where the traffic cameras are, and there's no way he's getting back without giving away their position.

A sniffle from his right cuts off his train of thought. Peter's arms are crossed, his hands clutched tight to each opposite bicep to the point where his splint digging into his arm had to be painful. His back is hunched, and his breathing is slow and measured, too deliberate. He's all keyed up and Frank can't say what'll happen if he's forced to stay that way.

So he makes a call and changes course onto a side street. Peter stiffens in his seat and twists around to stare back out the window, a sharp breath escaping him as he tries to follow the movement.

"No, no, no," Peter protests, pressing his hand flat against the window before turning back to Frank with wide eyes. "You have to go back, my suit's back there, and my web-shooters- I can't lose them- please, you can't make me leave them-" Peter reaches out to pull at Frank's wrist. His palm is cold and clammy.

"Hey, hey!" Frank snaps as he swats at Peter's hand, because Christ, he's driving and the kid should know better. But when Peter jumps and retracts his arm like he's been burned, Frank can't help but feel a modicum of guilt. Frank takes a long breath as he reaffirms his grip on the wheel, making sure to soften his voice. "You'll get your suit. But those guys after you? They've got an eye out for my van, and there's traffic cams on the way back. You want them to track us down again? Is that what you want?"

Peter looks away and shakes his head, biting back his lip when it starts quivering.

Frank pretends not to notice. "We're going to a motel. It's not far. You're gonna go to the front desk and buy us a room. Can you do that?"

He gets a single nod as a response. The kid's clammed up again, so he'll take what he can get.

Frank presses on the gas and drives on.

The déjà vu that comes as Frank walks in the motel room, kid in tow, is almost overwhelming. This place is seedier, with torn curtains and scuff marks on the corner of the dresser, but at least he doesn't have a bullet in his ass this time. Frank drops his duffle on the bed closest to the door before closing it behind him, noting Peter wavering in the center of the room on the edge of his vision.

The kid's still pale and shaky, scanning the room up and down with darting eyes. His arms are folded tight in front of him to form a barrier. He's fidgeting, shifting his weight from foot to foot as if standing still proves a challenge. He only relaxes a miniscule amount after he peers out the window for a couple of seconds and must come to the conclusion that there's no one outside.

Frank unzips the duffle, pulling out some of the clothes he bought for Peter last night and tossing it in the kid's direction. "Go take a shower," he says at Peter's puzzled glance between him and the clothes.

Peter's brow only grows tighter as he looks Frank over, his gaze settling on his bloodied face. "Uh, you can have it first, if you- if you want."

Frank huffs. He doesn't doubt that he has to wash up more than the kid does, but Peter needs to settle down. To take time to breathe without looking over his shoulder and let the adrenaline rush subside.

"Go take a shower," Frank repeats as he moves to the old sleeper sofa crammed in the corner. He sits back with a long exhale through his nose, tilting his head back against the cushions as he closes his eyes to emphasize the end of the conversation. It's not long before he hears the creaking of the bathroom door.

It's only after the click of the lock that he leans forward and runs his hands down his face. "Goddamnit," he hisses under his breath. Frank doesn't know what point he ended up harboring gang-targeted teens, but he's sure that both he and Peter don't want this to last as long as Amy's stay with him did. Frank gets the sense that Peter can't handle this life, not for long. Unlike Amy, the kid's used to routine, to stability—waking up at the same time every day for school, seeing his friends, homework, and Spider-Man when he gets home. Hell, this kid probably still had a curfew. Take away all that and add the grief of losing someone, who for all intents and purposes, was his mother… If they keep this up, it's not a question of if he'll snap. It's a question of when.

He never thought he'd be wishing for the simplicity of Amy's situation, because the Spider-Man factor adds a whole other layer of shit Frank isn't sure how to deal with.

Frank pulls his burner from his pocket once the spray of the showerhead sounds from behind the bathroom door. He goes to David's number and dials it, tapping his finger against the seat as he waits for him to pick up.

"Frank?" David answers on the fourth ring, his voice heavy to the point where Frank wouldn't be surprised if he had just woken up.

He cuts right to the chase. "His name's Peter."

"Wait, how- Did-" A brief rustling comes from the receiver, rustling that Frank hopes isn't the sound of him getting out of bed. "And he told you this?"

Frank scoffs at David's unspoken question. "Yeah, he told me. Told me a lot, actually. His aunt and uncle raised him, and his uncle got shot about a year ago. You were right about his parents being out of the picture, but he won't admit it. That enough to get his last name?"

"Uh, yeah. Should be." A beat, then, "I'm surprised he didn't just tell you at this point."

"He might. Had a busy morning. I took 'im to the convenience store to grab breakfast and some of Gargan's men tracked the van. Found out from one of 'em that Gargan wants Peter alive."

There's a brief silence as David pieces it all together. "So where are you now?"

"A motel. Kid's in the shower." Frank doesn't tell him where and David's smart enough not to ask.

David takes a deep breath. "Just so we're on the same page—" David lowers his voice to a whisper, letting Frank know his wife or kids must be nearby "—Spider-Man is an orphan who's being hunted down by an entire gang. Oh, and you're getting a different car."

"Sounds about right."

David chuckles humorlessly. "How are we- I mean, we can't keep him."

Frank's aware of this much. But it'd be nice if the alternatives were more obvious. "We can't send him home. He can't fend for himself, not now. And if Social Services aren't trying to deal with him now, they will."

"We could take him to the police. As Peter, not Spider-Man," David quickly clarifies. "They could protect him and, you know, do their jobs."

Frank snorts. "And how's the kid supposed to explain he's got a gang after him? 'Sides, they'd funnel him into the system, you know it. Even if we pretend that it's not even more shitty for teenagers, he'd be lucky to land a foster home in NYC. He's got a school and a life here, and he's goddamn Spider-Man." He can't imagine Peter willingly staying in a suburb like this, away from buildings to swing from and people to help. And he couldn't ship him off to Florida to live his life without a price on his head like he did with Amy. It'd be like trying to pry Red away from Hell's Kitchen—his lifeblood is that city. Frank frowns, toying with an idea in his head when David speaks up.

"Well, we can't send him to school without Social Services being notified or risking Gargan getting to him. You sure the kid doesn't have anyone? A family friend, maybe?"

"No one that he wouldn't put in danger by going to," Frank says. It what the kid insists on, at least. "I've got something. He stays with me until he's healed up and I've killed every bastard that knows his identity. Then I'm gonna make a call—I know a guy that can help him." After all, an orphan vigilante kid? It'd tug at Red's Catholic side and his Daredevil side. He wouldn't be able to resist.

David makes a noise that sounds like the beginnings of a protest before he cuts himself off. "Sounds like a plan, then. I've got nothing better, at least."

A plan. Frank can work with a plan. "Hey, David," he pauses a moment to make sure the man's listening, "the sooner you get me the names of Gargan's guys and where they're gonna be, the better. You find them before you focus on Peter."

"Yeah, yeah. I'm on it," David affirms.

Frank ends the call and stuffs the phone back in his pocket. If he's lucky, Gargan'll continue keeping Peter's identity to himself and make Frank's job a whole lot easier. But even if that plays out, it won't fix however Gargan found out in the first place. He remembers Peter saying he has a few guesses on that front. Frank'll start there.

Of course, getting the kid to open up will probably prove easier if Frank doesn't look like he stumbled out of a horror movie. He goes to the sink outside the bathroom and runs a rag under the faucet, wiping it down his face and checking it in the mirror after wringing out orange-tinted water in the sink. He dabs around the cut on his cheek after he cleans up the outside of his face. The rag's no longer white by the time he's done. He tosses it in the trash just as the shower turns off.

Frank makes his way back to the couch and takes a seat, running over what he knows in his mind to better catch contradictions as he waits for the kid. It's not long before the bathroom door squeaks open.

The shirt and sweatpants hang loose around Peter's frame. His hair is wet and curly without product, it's water-induced darker color making his face seem even paler. But his posture isn't rigid and his steps are casual, not cautious, so Frank thinks he can handle the coming conversation. Frank angles his body toward the bed, folding his hands together and resting his elbows on his thighs.

"Sit down," he orders.

He expects Peter to take the bed across from him, so he's a bit thrown off when Peter heads to the couch and lowers himself on the cushion next to Frank's. He turns and looks up at Frank with round, slightly bloodshot eyes, then glances over at the bed and shrinks a little when he processes the missed cue. But the kid commits to it a second later, shifting to make himself comfortable. Frank can smell the scent of the cheap motel shampoo clinging to his hair.

Frank readjusts himself to face the kid. "I need you to tell me how Gargan found out who you are."

Something flashes across Peter's face, an expression so quick that Frank can't make it out. "I told you, I don't know." He's not meeting Frank's eyes when he speaks.

"You told me you weren't a hundred percent," Frank corrects. "I need to know the other ninety-nine."

"It's more like eighty-two," Peter mumbles.

"Good enough odds for me."

"I mean, it's hard to know for sure. Maybe one of his guys was walking by my school and he recognized my voice."

Frank begins to get the feeling that it's a bit higher than eighty-two. "Tell me how he found out, kid."

"Or what? You'll break my ribs too?"

The words seem to slip out of Peter's mouth, because his eyes go wide and his jaw clenches tight a moment after. He takes a sharp breath through his teeth as if he's about to speak, maybe to take it back, then doesn't. Instead, after a moment of consideration, he looks up and meets Frank's eyes. His stare wavers a little, but he manages to maintain it, letting his words stand. Frank withholds a huff. The wonders a shower can do for frayed nerves.

"You wanna know what I think?" Frank begins quietly. "I think that it's real funny Gargan got out of prison to hunt you down not long after you sent in the guy who knows your identity."

Frank hits his mark. Peter's gonna need a better poker face if he wants to keep this hero shit up, because the way his breath catches in his throat and the flicker of his eyes give him away. There's a glint of betrayal in them when he looks back, as if that was something Frank's not allowed to put together. "He wouldn't," the kid insists, too forcefully. "I saved his life, okay? Right after he tried to kill me, I ran after him and I- I pulled him out of a fire. A fire that he put himself in, one I risked my life to-" Peter breaks off and shakes his head. "He wouldn't."

Christ. Even Red's not that naïve. Frank's got no idea how he managed to survive nearly a year pissing off dangerous people as Spider-Man, because that's the kind of mindset that gets you killed. There is no code of honor or sense of gratitude with the scum Peter's clearly still learning how to deal with. The sooner the kid gets that through his head, the longer his life expectancy is gonna be.

"I mean, if he did it's because they tortured it out of him or something," Peter continues in a strained voice. "He wouldn't have just told them."

Frank's silence is effective enough.

All at once, Peter's shoulders sag and his head dips down. His mouth forms the shape of words Frank's not privy to as his eyes squeeze shut. A shudder travels down his spine from his shoulders while a shaky breath escapes his chest. For a second Frank thinks he's going to break down again, but the kid manages to catch himself and suck in a slow breath. He still needs more time—that much is clear.

Frank clears his throat and pushes himself to his feet. "I'm going out," he tells the kid, double-checking that his gun is still in the waistband of his pants. "I'll be back with your suit." And with his vest and the guns he left at the warehouse, but Peter doesn't need a reminder.

Peter tenses and swiftly stands to meet him. "You- You're just gonna lea-" He cuts himself off and swallows. "How long will you be gone?"

The poorly concealed anxiety on his face confirms that what he's really asking is at what time does your absence mean that you're dead? The reproach toward Frank completely vanishes from Peter's expression at the prospect of being stuck alone, another reminder of his desperation that does something funny to Frank's chest. A quick glance at the digital alarm clock on the nightstand between the beds tells him it's 9:43 AM. He reaches into his pocket for his burner and passes it over to the kid, who hesitates a moment before accepting it with a good deal of wariness and confusion.

"I'm not back before two or if shit goes down, you dial the second number in there. His name's Curtis, and you brief him on what's going on. He asks, you answer. None of this secret identity bullshit. Not then. Yeah?"

Peter's brow furrows at secret identity bullshit but he has enough common sense to nod his assent. Some of the distress leaves his face as he transfers the phone from hand to hand.

"He asks you to prove you know me, you tell him his goat's name was Cassius." Curt would be more than pissed at getting dragged back in with Frank, but Frank knows he couldn't refuse a child begging for his help. And he's better than David as a last-resort. David wouldn't risk leaving his kids for Peter, something Frank finds himself unable to fault him for.

Peter's head snaps up. "You're friends with a goatkeeper?"

Frank lets out a short huff at that thought, the corner of his mouth twitching upward. Out of all things, this is what prompts the first spark of childlike interest in Peter's eyes that Frank thought the kid was no longer capable of. For a millisecond there's excitement in the kid's expression before everything else weighing down on him washes it away. Probably for the best, because Frank can't imagine him liking what he has to say next.

Frank reaches for his handgun and holds it out to Peter by the barrel. "You know how to use this?"

Peter's face darkens. "I wouldn't even if I did."

"Mmm. It's loaded. Safety off, safety on," he says, flipping the switch in demonstration. When it's clear that Peter's not going to take it, Frank heads to the door and places the weapon on the nightstand on the way.

It's when Frank already has his hand on the doorknob that Peter decides to speak up. "Um, Mr. Castle?" he begins, picking at the edge of the sofa. It's in a tone Frank recognizes, one he hadn't heard in a good while. The distinctly childlike I'm gonna ask you to do something for me and please don't say no. Frank pauses by the door and waits.

"Do you think you could get an envelope? And some stamps?"

Frank turns back to the kid with narrowed eyes.

"It's just- I want to send a letter to my friend. Let him know I'm not dead, you know? So he doesn't worry." Frank's face must give away how he feels about that, because Peter quickly follows it up with, "I wouldn't sign the letter or give too much away. And I know not to have a return address. But I- I really want to talk to him, and I can't do that, so I thought…" Peter trails off, his face falling as he studies Frank's.

Frank has half a mind to refuse. If it's intercepted, Peter's friend—Ned, he's willing to bet—would be on the radar of dangerous people if he's not already. Not to mention that Frank doesn't know anything about this kid. His only assurance that Ned won't go to the police is Peter's. But Peter clearly thought this over, and credit where credit's due, it's the safest possible way even Frank can think of to contact his friend. Moreover, he knows what keeping Peter isolated, with Frank as the only person he has contact with, can do to the kid.

"Yeah. Sure, kid."

"Thank you," he almost whispers as Frank walks out the door. It's the first genuine thanks he ever got out of the kid.

He hopes it's not the first of many.