Mr. Castle is right.

It goes against everything May taught him and it makes Peter's stomach twist to admit it, but Mr. Castle's right. Or at the very least, he's not wrong. Gargan's not going to be satisfied until Peter's dead, and every day Peter spends running from him is a day he's not saving people as Spider-Man. Mr. Castle paints a picture as black and white as the skull on his vest that depicts Peter's "choice" of letting innocents die or letting criminals die, but try as he might, Peter can't figure out how to dismantle it.

He's not sure if it's selfish of him to want to keep Gargan out of prison so his identity stays out with him because having Gargan free to roam the streets isn't a much better option. The lack of a solution that isn't Mr. Castle's makes him want to bury his face in a pillow and scream. What frustrates him even further is how Mr. Castle knows he has him beat, and he just sits there and drives with the radio playing softly and occasionally nodding his head to the music, completely unfazed by the fact that Peter hasn't spoken to him in hours.

Peter considers refusing again when Mr. Castle stops to pick up another sandwich for him, though his stomach is quick to remind him that a can of Coke is all he's had in the past day. If nothing else, at least Mr. Castle's not patronizing. He gets Peter's order in the form of yes or no questions and accepts Peter's nods as responses without telling him to speak up. And when he later pulls into an electronics store parking lot, he doesn't make Peter ask him what he's doing. He just says that he's picking up a new burner and that he won't be long before leaving the car without a second glance behind him to make sure Peter stays put. Like he doesn't have any doubt that that's what Peter will do.

(He's right again.)

The sky is dark and his sandwich is gone by the time Mr. Castle settles on a motel. This part of Queens looks familiar; come to think of it, Peter's pretty sure that he'd stopped a mugging a few alleys over. But it had all seemed friendlier when he was swinging. Now, on the ground, he has to try not to jump at every shadow that moves in the corner of his eye and he finds himself sticking closer to Mr. Castle than he'd like to on their short walk from the car to the motel room.

The first thing Mr. Castle does after locking the door behind him is open his phone contacts and start putting in numbers, so Peter takes the opportunity to move to the small couch against the wall furthest away from him. The distance is almost twice as much as the last motel, the room as a whole considerably bigger. There's even a small TV on the dresser across from the beds and the air is far more breathable compared to the staleness that hung in the previous motel.

Mr. Castle drops his duffle off his shoulder and onto the bed, setting his phone down next to it to rifle through the bag. He pulls out a folded bundle of clothes and doesn't even glance over at Peter when he speaks.

"I'm gonna shower," he states as he strides to the bathroom. Peter follows him with his eyes until the door clicks closed.

The clock between the beds reads 7:43 PM. AKA, night two. And tomorrow will be day two, a benchmark which Mr. Castle had anticipated and one that Peter had deemed impossible upon first hearing it. Slowly, Peter pries up his shirt to peer down at the black stitches that mar his skin below his ribs. He experimentally runs his finger over the wound; it doesn't hurt at the contact and the skin looks fused together for the most part, but there's still a distinct cut in it that makes him see the logic in waiting an extra day before removing the stitches. The state of the wound solidifies just how long it's been.

He's missed school for Spider-Man once before, but never a whole day of it. If Ned isn't worried yet, he'll be beyond worried by tomorrow. Maybe MJ will even admit to being concerned for him if Ned doesn't cover for him well enough. Which he probably won't, because it's Ned. And as the week goes on… Peter swallows. The thought is kind of funny, all things considered, but he can't help but dwell on how much homework he's going to have to make up. Take AP classes, they said. It'll save you money in college, they said.

Shit, nevermind homework, where is he going to live? The thought of his apartment without May makes him pinch his eyes closed and shake his head to push back the burning behind them. Peter fumbles for his pocket and pulls out his letter to Ned with shaky hands. He doesn't know if Mr. Castle actually stopped at the post office earlier, but Peter thinks he'd be hard-pressed to do it now if he hasn't already. He takes a deep breath through his nose and stares at the letter. "One problem at a time, right?" he murmurs. Most urgent first. Exhibit A: how to get Gargan to not spill the beans.

Money might work, but Peter knows that would only suffice for so long before Gargan upped the price to something unaffordable. Also, providing a gang leader with cash to fuel his criminal acts? No bueno.

Peter bites back his lip. Gargan has something on him. Maybe he needs to return the favor. There has to be something on Gargan that Peter can use to hold over his head to even out the scales. Or maybe something on someone close to Gargan, like a brother who has yet to get apprehended with a similar nasty criminal record. If Karen were here he could just ask her, or if he just had Ned's number he could use his Guy in the Chair to check if-

Wait. Peter's head snaps up to look at Mr. Castle's burner, sitting beside the duffle on the bed.

The shower's running strong and Peter doesn't know if he'll get a chance like this again. He jumps to his feet and picks up the burner from the bed and opens the contacts. There are five numbers in there, two of which Peter recognizes to be Curtis' and his own burner. The other three he's never seen before, but he's willing to bet that one of them belongs to David. One in three isn't great odds, but not bad either.

Besides, David had been willing to go against Mr. Castle's orders for Peter before. It wouldn't be a stretch to say he'd do it again. Peter punches the first of the three phone numbers in his own burner and dials.

Please be David, please be David…

"Nelson, Murdock and Page, may I help you?"

It suddenly occurs to Peter that he never got David's last name. It's a woman's voice, but this could be David's work phone. "Uh, hi. Is David there?"

"Um, we don't have any Davids here." Peter presses his lips in a tight line. Typical Parker Luck. Still, curiosity about just what kind of business Mr. Castle deemed important enough to have a direct line to keeps him from hanging up. "Are you looking for a client? There aren't any Davids in the office right now, but- "

"Client?" Peter echoes, more out of hope for her to expand than any real confusion.

"I think you have the wrong number," she says, not unkindly. "This is a law firm."

"Oh," Peter breathes. He's not sure what to make of that. "Sorry for taking your time, Miss. Have a good night."

"Oh, no harm done. You too." With that, a click comes from the receiver and the line goes dead.

Why does Mr. Castle have a law firm's number? Peter doesn't get the impression that he cares about the law or the consequences that come from breaking it. But he doesn't have the time to think about it now, so Peter types out the second number and hopes. Fifty-fifty is a more comfortable chance.

Peter gets up and starts pacing as the phone dials, trying and failing to quell his nerves as the third ring turns into the fourth.

"Hello?"

Peter lets out a sigh of relief. "David?"

"Wait, Peter?" David says, a different note to his voice. "What's wrong? Where's Frank?"

"It's fine, there's nothing-" Peter breaks off with a frown. "I didn't tell you my name."

"Oh," David says as if he had just remembered that too. "Yeah, Frank called with a status update in the morning. Are you guys okay?"

Peter holds back a huff, and he's not sure why he's surprised. The fact that Mr. Castle just handed over his name without even asking him, without even telling him, doesn't make it any better. Peter had told him that in what he'd apparently been wrong to assume was confidence, when he was at his most vulnerable, and Mr. Castle had just… Peter clenches his jaw. A logical voice argues that Mr. Castle had always implied that information like that would go to David and that David had made it clear that his identity would remain a secret, but it's drowned out by the flare of indignation in his chest. What else had Mr. Castle told him? Did Mr. Castle feel free to share that Peter had broken down and cried in his arms like a child too?

"We're okay," Peter remembers to say. "I just- Could you do something for me?"

"Uh, depends." There's wariness in David's tone.

"You're like, a Guy in the Chair, right? And you're already looking into Gargan? Do you think you could find out if he has a brother, or- or someone close to him that has a warrant out for them or something?"

David is silent for a moment too long. "Are you talking blackmail? Are you gonna threaten to- to put this hypothetical person away? "

"I mean- Yes?"

David takes a deep breath that Peter knows to be the precursor for the distinctly adult I am about to try to explain something to you that your teenage mind probably won't comprehend spiel. "Peter, these are dangerous people, and they've been playing this game for a lot longer than you have. Trying to get on their level will just- Did Frank agree to this?"

"You said killing wasn't your answer to every problem. That's what Mr. Castle wants to do," Peter counters, tactfully avoiding the question. David clicks his tongue and draws in a breath, so Peter barrels on before he can voice his refusal. "Can you at least look? See if there's anything to work with? Please?"

The silence between them is heavy and Peter can't stop himself from fidgeting as he waits for his verdict. "Sure. Sure, I'll look. But no promises." Before Peter can get out a thanks, David asks, "How are you holding up?"

Peter's stomach sinks. He doesn't want to have this conversation now, let alone with David. "I dunno. Fine."

David hums. "Yeah, I figured. Listen, if you wanna talk-"

"Thanks, but I don't-"

"Hey, that's fine too," David interrupts. "Just… know that Frank won't shut you down if you change your mind. He understands what you're going through—probably better than anyone-"

Peter's grateful for the excuse when the water in the bathroom turns off. "Hey, I gotta go. Talk to you later." He shuts the phone without giving David a chance to continue.

He carefully places Mr. Castle's burner next to the duffle in the exact same position before he returns to the couch and sits back down. His hand absentmindedly reaches for his web-shooter on his opposite wrist and removes it purely out of routine, so he might as well look it over and make it seem like he's been doing something by the time Mr. Castle comes out.

His web cartridges are both halfway to empty—he'll have to conserve them until he finds a way to get more web fluid. The splint makes inspecting them uncomfortably difficult, but Peter only has himself to blame for that one. He tries to keep his attention on his web-shooters, but David's words ring in his head without his permission. He understands what you're going through—probably better than anyone. Peter remembers hearing about what Frank lost when the news outlets were covering the Castle trial. It was the only time May looked conflicted about her stance that he should go to prison.

Peter shakes his head and buries his focus in his web-shooters.

Frank half expects to find Peter with his back toward him and lying on the bed when he opens the bathroom door because it seems like just the kind of thing the kid would do with the mood he's in. The shunning act isn't cute, but in any case, it's better than violence and he doesn't see the point in confronting Peter about it as long as he has the kid's cooperation where it counts.

Instead, Peter's planted himself between the two cushions on the couch and is fiddling with his web-shooters. Frank's first thought is that it's an avoidance tactic, but the way Peter's tongue pokes through his lips in concentration and the quiet grunts he makes as he turns them over, pieces them apart and reassembles them implies that there's something to improve upon that Frank can't begin to guess at. And he actually peers up at Frank when he nears, even meets his eyes for a couple seconds before going back to his task. It's not enough to convince Frank that Peter's given up his act, but it's something. Regardless, making sure your weapon's in working condition is a habit that's good to get into and reminds Frank of just how long the kid's been at this.

So Frank pulls out his own guns and begins cleaning them, letting his mind wander while his hands work from muscle memory. If he recalls correctly, the first he heard of Spider-Man was from a brief news segment he caught in a bar about eight months ago. He came on the scene around the same time as some of the other Manhattan-based vigilantes, maybe a year or two after Red paved the way. The thought that this kid has just as much experience as some of those other solo acts that decide to tackle the criminal underworld gives Frank pause.

Frank's not even sure Peter knows how many times he's gotten shot at by now. Yet he still froze up when that shitbag pressed a gun to his head back at the gas station, even when he had a window to disarm him. Maybe it wasn't nerves keeping him from acting; shit, maybe the kid straight-up didn't know how. Winging it has enabled him to survive this long, but there are some things you just can't learn in the field.

Frank frowns, considering the pistol in his hand. Amy got it down quick enough. Hell, she even applied it, too. He clears his throat. "Hey, Pete."

Peter glances up from tinkering with his web-shooter, the movement just jarring enough to let Frank know that he was engrossed to the point of letting himself get startled. His eyes flick from Frank's face to the pistol gripped in his hand, and he relaxes by the tiniest amount when Frank sets his gun down on the desk in front of him.

"Come over here," Frank says with a beckoning jerk of his head.

Peter doesn't move at first. He winds his web-shooter in between his fingers as if he's debating whether or not he should listen. Turns out Frank's assessment was correct and he really can't maintain it for long, because it's not long before the kid gets to his feet and walks closer before lingering a meter or so away from where Frank sits. Peter carefully follows his hand with his eyes when Frank reaches for his gun again, though he doesn't back away when Frank stands to meet him.

"This is a Kimber," Frank says, slowly turning the gun over in his hands. "Same one they gave me in the marines. They're hard to come by, so it's not the kind you had on you at the gas station. But it'll do for this."

Peter takes a sharp breath. "I don't want to know how to sh-"

"Yeah, I got that part," Frank cuts him off with a scoff. He knows better than to waste his time trying to teach someone who doesn't want to learn. Frank releases the magazine to replace it with an empty clip and sets it aside before pulling back the slide and ejecting the cartridge in the chamber. He returns the slide and refocuses on Peter, who's looking increasingly confused. "They never teach you how to disarm someone in superhero school? You had a window that you didn't take. You know what that means?" He points the gun at Peter's forehead and pulls the trigger. He doesn't miss how the kid flinches when the hammer clicks.

"I, um, usually use my webs to disarm. I saw the window too, I just…" He trails off, pressing his lips together and dropping his gaze.

Frank figured as much. "Now you know you're not always gonna have your webs, right?" He takes a small step back and raises his arm with his elbow bent, pointing his Kimber square at Peter's chest. "Hey. Someone's got a gun on you. What do you do about it?"

Peter shifts his weight from foot to foot once understanding crosses his face as he realizes where this is going. For a moment it seems like he's gonna walk off, but then he removes his web-shooters from his wrists and gets them to fold up before shoving them in his pocket. He takes a minute to study Frank's stance with a critical gaze, and maybe he actually knows what he's looking for. Then his eyes drop to Frank's legs and his balance goes to his heels, telegraphing even worse than Amy had. It might be a good move if Frank wasn't already planning how to counter it.

Beginner's course it is, then. Frank straightens and drops his arm at his side. "That's not gonna work. You get me to the ground while my gun's still on me, you're dead. Remember you don't have your mask on. If you look where you're going to strike, I can see that. Here." Frank returns his arm to its previous position and reaches out with his other hand to grab the kid's forearm. Peter stiffens at his touch, though he allows Frank to guide his hand—which seems to have completely healed from his burns last night—to the gun and demonstrate pushing it away without resistance. "First thing's first: you wanna get the gun pointed away from you. Offline, right? Don't get any closer than you have to. Show me."

Peter hesitates, but at Frank's prompting nod he's quick to dart forward and shove the gun away, his grip firm on the barrel. He gives Frank a questioning look as he holds his pose.

"Good. Now go for the wrist." This time, the kid extends his arm in advance for Frank to get a hold of to direct it to the outside of Frank's wrist. "Doesn't matter how much super strength you got, joints are still weak. You get control of them, you can get control of the weapon. Get underneath—" Frank presses the back of Peter's hand to his arm "—get control, and twist away. Use your legs, not your arms. You got that?"

Peter's tongue flicks across his lips before he nods. "Think so."

"Mmm. Show me."

Frank releases the kid and lets him back up a few paces as he assumes his earlier offensive stance. Peter takes a quick breath and eyes the gun for a moment before switching his gaze to Frank's face. At least something stuck. Frank gives him a nod of approval and less than a second later, Peter lunges. And shit, the kid's fast when he wants to be. The gun's out of his hand so quickly that Frank's not sure he could've countered it if he wanted to.

Peter's standing there, gawking at the gun in his hand as he gives a quiet huff with the corner of his mouth quirked upward.

"Attaboy. Look at that," Frank calls, and amazingly, that's all it takes to get the grin to spread. It's small, but it makes the corner of Peter's eyes crinkle in an expression he's never seen on the kid before and he's startled to find that a part of him doesn't want it to leave. "You see that, Pete? Just like that. Boom."

"That's actually kinda easy," Peter marvels as he turns the gun over in his hands. The grin is still there when he looks up to meet Frank's eyes.

"Hey, don't get cocky," Frank warns, and Peter schools his face back to neutral in an overexaggerated way that lets Frank know he's still playing. But they're not finished and Peter's not going to like what comes next, so it's as good of a time as any to get back on track. Frank clears his throat and brings his tone back to serious. "You're not done yet. You just took a weapon off somebody who was gonna use it on you. You don't give them the chance to try it again."

Any trace of the smile vanishes. Peter tenses as he pieces together exactly where Frank's heading with this. He gives a tiny shake of his head and steps back, lowering the gun to his side.

Frank doesn't relent. "If they're ready to use it on you, you gotta be ready to use it on them. You want to stay alive out there, this is something you gotta understand. Show me that you understand."

Amy had got it. Not right away, but she got it. Looking at him now, Frank can't begin to guess whether or not Peter's going to pull the trigger. The kid swallows and his hands tighten around the Kimber, his shifting balance reflecting his indecision. His finger taps next to the trigger for a few seconds before he stills and decisively rolls his shoulders back. Peter looks up at him and Frank waits for the click. Peter raises the gun-

-and releases the magazine in a single fluid motion, perfectly copying Frank's actions from earlier. He tosses the magazine on the bed and the gun back on the couch.

Just like that, Frank's back on the roof. Grotto's bound at his feet and Red has the gun taped to his hand. The look on Red's face before he shot the chain is almost identical to the one Peter wears now. The way he raises his chin and the unwavering stare is all Red, and Frank bets the defiance in his eyes is exactly what's under Red's mask. Frank purses his lips and lets out a low hum. If the kid wants to take door number three, then Frank will oblige. He snatches a handgun off the side table and takes aim at Peter's head.

"Bang. Spider-Man's dead."

The kid's eyes go wide and his jaw drops. "That's not- That's cheating." There's actual indignation in his voice.

"Cheating?" Frank huffs and he has to look away for a moment to shake his head before going back to Peter. "You think the guys trying to shoot at you are gonna play fair?"

"But I saw that gun," Peter says—Christ, almost whines. "It's not like I wasn't paying attention. I wouldn't have just left a pile of guns sitting next to an actual bad guy, Mr. Castle."

An actual bad guy. Frank wonders if Peter's realized that his mind's made up. "Yeah? Then what would you have done?"

Peter opens his mouth, then promptly closes it. "Knocked them out?"

"Uh-huh. You done that before? Hand-to-hand?"

Peter reaches his hand across his body to rub at his arm. "I mean, you just hit them hard on the head, right?"

Jesus Christ. "Can't believe this kid," Frank mutters under his breath, remembering Peter's enhanced hearing a moment too late. It's nothing short of a miracle that the idiot's not dead already.

Peter scoffs as Frank collects his Kimber and the magazine from the furniture, then fetches a new cartridge to reload it. The kid takes a breath, then lets it out as he maneuvers around Frank to better meet his eyes. "I can learn," he says, cocking his head to the side and raising his eyebrows the slightest amount.

Frank shakes his head and brushes him off with a huff. Figures. The second the kid realizes he can get something from him, he has no problem being friendly.

"Teach a man to fish, right?" Peter prods, and Frank can feel the kid hovering behind him as he pockets his Kimber and puts away the rest of his guns from the side table.

He pauses to give the kid a look. "You want a demonstration?"

Peter scowls and Frank has to withhold a chuckle that he knows Peter wouldn't take kindly to. Still, the kid keeps a loose follow behind him as Frank crosses the floor to flip off the light, dimming the room with only the lamp between the beds allowing him to see. Confusion moves across Peter's face as Frank picks up his phone and moves his duffle from the bed to the floor before lying back on top of the quilt, swiftly transferring his Kimber under the pillow in the same motion. He bends his elbow behind his head to prop up the pillow with his forearm, but he only barely closes his eyes before Peter speaks.

"It's only eight-thirty."

Frank doesn't open his eyes. "Mm-hmm."

Peter's silent for a moment and Frank almost fools himself into thinking it's going to last. "Mr. Castle?"

Frank half-succeeds in suppressing a sigh. "I'm risin' early."

"What for?" Peter asks, instantly suspicious.

"Recon. Info-gathering. See what I can dig up." And maybe eliminate some of the adversary if he's lucky. "I'd appreciate it if you tried to get some sleep."

"Oh," Peter mumbles, pacified. There's a creaking from the other bed and rustling of sheets as Peter gets settled. The click of the lamp turning off follows and Frank stops himself mid-motion from turning it back on. Sleeping in the dark is riskier, but if Peter's senses really are as enhanced as he claims, Frank can understand why he wants it. Frank sinks back into the pillow. He can acclimate.

If he's able to be productive enough for the next few days, he wouldn't have to acclimate for long. The sooner he can get Peter to Red, the better off Peter will be. It's the step before that'll be the real trick.

The mattress squeaks and the sheets swish from the other bed. Frank waits for the noise to stop before he lets out a slow breath and focuses on emptying his mind.

He's almost able to hear Maria calling to him when more creaking whisks her away. Frank doesn't know why it bothers him when he's made do with gunfire and distant shouts in the background before, so he redoubles his efforts. Almost succeeds too, but then a long exhale comes from where Peter lays.

"You comfy yet?"

"Sorry," Peter whispers, and Frank can't decide what's off about his voice until a quiet sniffle comes after. "Hey, do you- Can I turn on the TV? I'll keep the volume low."

Frank might agree to it if the flashing screen wouldn't be such an attention-grabber through the curtains. "No."

"Please?"

He wonders if please ever worked with his aunt and uncle, or any other adult Peter's ever talked to. "No."

Peter doesn't respond immediately. When he does, Frank has to strain to hear it. "May liked to watch TV after I went to bed."

Something heavy settles over Frank's chest. He runs a hand down his face and sighs before reaching over and turning on the lamp. Peter's straightened out under the blankets of the other bed, the covers pulled up to his chin. His bloodshot eyes squint at the sudden light and follow Frank warily as he pushes himself up and moves to the couch. Better to tackle this early than to let it fester.

"We gonna keep whispering like we're at a little girls' sleepover or are we gonna have a conversation?" Frank shoots the kid a pointed look once he sits back on the cushion. "Hmm?"

Peter works his lips for a moment and can't meet Frank's eyes. So Frank inches closer to the armrest and nods firmly at the empty cushion next to him. It's a gamble, but in the end it pays off. Peter pushes back the blankets and pads over to the couch, proceeding to sit squarely in the center of his cushion and clasp his hands in between his thighs. He doesn't say anything right away, though Frank knows he can wait this one out.

His shoulders drop and a puff of air escapes his nose as the kid folds. "My uncle died because I didn't stop the person that killed him," Peter says after a beat. "And so I decided to stop the bad guys first, you know? Because if I didn't, and I could, it'd be on me."

Frank got hints of it before, but he has confirmation now. Guilt. It's the first thing that's not Red. Red would never admit it, yet Frank can see that at least part of the reason he does what he does is that he just wants to hit somebody. Right then, something clicks. Peter's not like them. He doesn't care about retribution. And Frank's initial read was off too—he doesn't swing around in his fancy suit for the glory or to flaunt his powers either. He just doesn't want people to go through what he went through.

Frank's seen child soldiers before. Frank's personally known soldiers that weren't done growing up yet. Kids that were still naïve enough to think that they alone could turn the tide of war. They all ended up one of two ways: broken or dead.

Peter clears his throat. "So- So if I did that- I became Spider-Man, saved people, stopped the bad guys, why… why is May still dead?" The kid's voice does something funny on the last word.

Almost by itself, Frank's arm drapes over the back of the couch above Peter's shoulders. He's not touching the kid, but he closed most of the distance.

"It's not fair," Peter says, staring at his lap. He stiffens a little and risks a look at Frank. "Sorry, I know that sounds real mature, and I didn't mean that what happened to you was—" Frank doesn't mean to tense, but Peter must pick up on it anyway "—nevermind. I dunno." The kid swallows. "Do… Do you get scared, Mr. Castle?"

Frank huffs. The kid sounds like he genuinely doesn't know. "Everyone gets scared, kid."

Peter nods his head in a way that's more considering of Frank's answer than in agreement. His mouth is pressed in a tight line and his eyes are downcast, like he's afraid of what Frank will find in them.

Does he get scared? Lisa had been the last one to ask him that. It was the last night at his home before he was sent overseas for the final time, and Lisa was just starting to understand what he was leaving to do. Frankie hadn't had any doubts that he would come back, didn't even think that marines could feel fear. But Lisa—there was no fooling her. Frank had sat her down on the couch next to him, about as close as Peter is to him now, and he just held her. And she held him until they both passed out, and Frank doesn't know if he could've walked out the door that morning if Lisa hadn't stayed asleep.

Frank pulls his arm back from above Peter's shoulders and keeps it at his side before he can change his mind.

"It's not gonna be easy. Your life before this? You're never gonna get that back." Frank softens his tone to lessen the sting of his words because he knows that anything less than the truth won't do shit. "And it's not gonna stop hurting. Not for good. But you've got an after. I've got a guy who's gonna set you up. Fix this whole mess with you and the police and get you right back in your school."

"Curtis?" Peter asks as if he can't imagine Frank having more than one guy in his corner.

Frank scoffs. "Matt Murdock. Lawyer in Hell's Kitchen."

A small line appears in the middle of Peter's brow. "Murdock?" he repeats. "You know a lawyer?"

"Did my trial."

"I followed your trial." The pauses between Peter's responses are getting longer and longer. "I wouldn't think your lawyers like you all that much."

That's fair, given how Frank ended it. He nods, conceding to Peter's point. "He's not gonna help you for me, kid. He takes cases pro-bono, but he's good."

"Okay."

It's just a simple okay, complete acceptance with no skepticism added. Either Peter's wearing out faster than he thought, or something's shifted. Whatever it is, Peter's efforts to carry on the conversation seem to be waning as he sinks further and further back into the couch.

"He's not gonna put me in foster care, is he?" he finally asks. The trepidation in his voice is hard to miss, almost masking the exhaustion.

"Nah. He'll work something out for you. Make sure you can keep Spider-Man, too."

Peter grunts in acknowledgment, then doesn't say anything for long enough that Frank's momentarily convinced he nodded off. "Can you bring my letter to Ned t'morrow? I wrote his address on the back." The request comes out a mumble.

And right there's another piece of the puzzle. It'd be easy for David—hell, even Frank—to figure out where Ned goes to school with his full name and address, and by association, where Peter goes to school. They'd have the kid's last name in the bag by that point. Then would come his age, apartment, and everything else he's not willing to tell them. It'd be the easy play, the smart play, so Frank's not entirely sure why he resolves to drop it off without a second glance at it.

"Yeah, he'll get it."

Peter makes a noise that Frank decides to interpret as an appreciative hum. Then the kid's breaths start to slow and he turns to his side as he starts to slump against the back of the couch.

"Hey, not here," Frank grunts, repositioning himself to get a grip on Peter's shoulders. He goes to stand and pulls Peter up with him, an action that prompts a sharp breath and gets the kid's head to bob back up. Steering Peter to the bed proves less of a challenge and all he needs is a nudge before he's down on the pillow. Frank draws the blankets back over him and takes a minute to assure himself that Peter's really out.

Peter hadn't seemed this small when Frank first saw him at the gang's headquarters. Somehow, this is the same kid who was running out of buildings with children in his arms and webbing up armed criminals while cracking jokes. Whether Spider-Man's bravado was a facade or not, there's no trace left of it now.

Frank should've shot those last two bastards while he had the chance.

He fishes his handgun out from under the pillow and double-checks that Peter's burner is on the nightstand. Quietly, Frank sets the Kimber down next to it. The kid probably wouldn't use it, even if he needed to, so Frank can admit to himself that arming him is more for his peace of mind than anything else. Frank pockets the folded note on the table with an address scrawled on the back before he takes a second to memorize the path to the door. Keeping his movements silent, he picks up his duffle and turns off the lamp. He hadn't been lying when he told Peter that he intended to leave in the morning to gather more intel on the gang, but he'd be hard-pressed to sleep now.

And he doesn't need to deal with the bullshit the kid would start if he sees the number of guns Frank packs in his duffle.

With light footsteps, Frank heads for the door.