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

God. It's been so goddamn long. Karen sounds just like she had back in that hospital, back when it'd been Frank's own bullshit that made the mess. Now, she sounds just a little too perky to be genuine, and Frank wonders how many calls she's had to take this morning or if she has the slightest sense of what's coming. And since when had it been and Page?

About goddamn time. Frank takes a deep breath, adjusting the burner against his ear as he shifts his hand to get a better grip on the wheel. "Karen."

There's a beat of silence, followed by a rustling and a static that almost covers up the hissed, "Frank?!"

Peter's head snaps up from the passenger seat at the sudden aggressive tone. His hands, which have been slowly turning over themselves in front of the vent, freeze in place. The blood splattered on his cheek looks darker against his pale face, closer to dried. His eyes drop back to his feet as soon as Frank tries to meet them, making it even harder to figure out if the kid's in the same state he was in after the convenience store or if he's just trying to avoid pissing Frank off. When he goes back to warming his hands, the movements are slow and methodical, an obvious attempt to calm himself down. His breathing sounds normal, but the intervals are just too precise to be natural.

Shit. How much of that is Frank's doing? At what point would Curt have shouted at him to cut it out? At least Amy had time away from him to cool down after he had told her off for the shit she pulled in the trailer; Peter had to get right back in the car with him. No wonder the kid's barely holding himself together. If he really has it in his head that the wrong word is going to get him thrown on the street… Frank taps his forefinger against the wheel. That's learned behavior. No normal kid grows up thinking their parents are gonna fucking leave them. Could be why Peter was raised by his aunt and-

"Frank, why are you- Are you in custody? You're not in custody, are you?" Karen rushes out, snapping Frank's focus back to the present. Despite everything, her concern manages to prompt a grin.

"I'm fine, Karen. But this ain't a social call. Murdock there?"

"Hold on a second," she snaps. Her voice isn't as clear through the receiver, almost as if that isn't him she's talking to. "What's going on? Are you hurt?"

"Murdock." Frank takes a sharp turn onto a side street and makes himself ignore Peter's subsequent shaky breath. "Is he there?"

A muffled exchange that he can't quite make out comes from the phone before more rustling and static. Then for a second, it all goes quiet.

"Frank."

Peter tilts his head at the new voice. Responsive is good. Better than he was immediately after the convenience store. Yet Frank has a feeling that everything else will be harder to fix this time around. But first thing's first: "Murdock. I've got something that's right up your alley."

There's a decent pause as Red considers his reply. When he speaks, his tone is even, not betraying a hint of emotion. "Which alley is that?"

Red's real question isn't lost on him. "Just want to talk, Murdock."

"Is it about those people you killed in the warehouse collapse? Or the ones you massacred in that gas station?" he hisses into the phone.

Frank narrows his eyes. Stark mentioned that the NYPD was looking for him during their call, but he hadn't expected both incidents to already have made it into the media. NYPD sure as hell took their time publicizing it last time. Whether they tied the events to him or Red pieced it together himself is a different matter entirely. Hell, maybe Frank's got it all wrong and Red just picked it up from a police scanner with his enhanced shit. "I'm headin' to your side of town. There's a motel on forty-eighth between tenth and eleventh. When can you be there?"

"What's this about?" Red growls. "If you're trying to bring your shit back into Hell's-"

"Not over the phone." Frank takes a breath to continue, but Peter beats him to it.

"You should put it on speaker," the kid mumbles, still staring down at his feet. "It's not safe to- to drive on the phone."

Christ. Did that really come out of his mouth? Are they all hypocrites? Frank turns to the kid with a rebuke that dies on his tongue when Peter automatically shrinks back under his gaze like a dog with its tail between its legs. So Frank resorts to shushing him instead, and Peter's jaw is quick to clamp shut.

"Is someone- Who's with you?" Red demands, a new urgency in his words.

"Not over the phone. When can you be there?"

Red takes his sweet time coming up with a response, almost as if he's trying to give Frank the impression that he'll refuse. But Red knows as well as Frank does that he wouldn't have called unless it's something goddamn important. The ball's in his court now, and Frank can predict Red well enough to know that he can't just leave it. "After one," he finally says. It's later than Frank would've guessed if his previous urgency is anything to go by. Maybe to give him extra time to scout ahead. "What am I walking into, Frank?"

Frank lets out a dry chuckle. "Leave your smartphone behind and come alone."

Frank ends the call before Red has the chance to push him further. Peter frowns a little at the order, but he doesn't ask about it. The biggest reaction the kid gives is nudging the vent to change the direction of the heat. The kid's never been shy about asking questions before, especially those that concern him, but Peter doesn't say a word. Not that Frank would answer; Peter's overwhelmed as is. He doesn't need to hear the government is on his ass too, and considering how the kid sees fit to deal with people who want him out of their way, Frank's not sure if he'll change his mind once Peter settles down.

His silence is the polar opposite from Amy. If she didn't strive to have the last word with a snide remark, she'd move right on from conflicts with a new conversation as if they never happened. Probably something of a survival tactic considering the company she kept. Peter's not as hardened. That much is apparent. Shit, is it an age thing? How many years does Amy have on Peter? The homecoming he talked about could mean anything from late high school to fresh out of middle school. Frank has a feeling that Peter would give him a straight answer if he asked. But the last thing the kid needs right now is questioning, and that's something Red's bound to have a go at anyway.

Frank takes a long breath through his nose. He can't have the kid like this when Red comes. Fear's a good substitute when respect isn't an option, but not from a kid. Never from a kid. Frank clears his throat, fishing for the right words. "Back at the garage—shouldn't have pulled my gun on you, kid. If you thought for a second that I was gonna use it on you, then that's my own damn fault."

Peter's hands go still again, but he doesn't reply.

Frank's not sure what he was expecting. An it's okay wouldn't suffice because they both know damn well that it's not. As far as apologies go, if that even counted as one, Frank knows it's botchy. No wonder Peter doesn't accept it. Still, getting it out there feels like a necessity. The look on Peter's face as Gargan stated he still planned to kill him hadn't matched the expression he wore when facing Frank's anger for long, but the fact that it had been there at all is something Frank can't let stand.

Gargan would've been better off if Peter hadn't shoved him out of the way of his bullet. A quick death like that is far from what he has coming. But Frank can't prioritize that now, not with the kid looking sicker and sicker with every pothole that rattles the car. "How about my talk with Murdock? You get all that?" Frank tries.

Peter just nods.

"He's gonna ask you some questions. I can't promise you he's not gonna ask for your identity. Whatever it is, you gotta be honest with him, you got it?" Not that Peter could get a lie past Red that he wouldn't be able to sniff out.

Peter doesn't nod this time. Just lowers his head a little and swallows as if Frank's not paying enough attention to properly interpret it.

Frank holds back a sigh as he turns his focus back on the road. They've got a ways to go.

Peter's not sure when he decided it, but MJ's definitely the bravest person he knows.

It doesn't matter who she disagrees with or when she disagrees with them—she'd be sure to let anyone know exactly when they're wrong. Whether it's strangers or Peter and Ned, from teachers to fellow students, she'd stare them down and tell them what she thinks in the exact same tone. No matter the situation, what MJ has to say always takes priority over the consequences she could face for saying it.

Now, it's not hard for Peter to imagine exactly how MJ would have talked to Gargan. She'd meet his eyes and say in her own distinct I don't really care what you think but here's how it is and you can't do anything about it tone and tell him that he deserves that scar and whatever else Toomes damaged on that ferry. And she'd keep a cool expression whether Gargan threatened her or not, and reply to any impassioned rant with a flat, "whatever."

And as Mr. Castle leads him up to their new motel room with a hand between his shoulders, MJ would be able to tell him that the last thing she wants to do right now is to relive the past couple of days to a strange lawyer. Then she'd probably follow up with a statistic about how corrupt the American legal system is. How long has he been friends with MJ again? He'd considered telling her about Spider-Man a few times in the last couple of months, but it was never a long internal debate. After all, people have found out about Spider-Man's identity. Mr. Stark, Ned, May, Mr. Castle… they all found out. Peter's never told anybody. And now he's supposed to spill it all to a lawyer he's only about to meet.

Unlike MJ, Peter can't make himself bring the words past his lips. Just like he can't make himself say that there's something wrong with how his heartbeat won't slow down and he can't tell if his Spider Sense is still going off or if it's something else, because there's nothing there no matter how many times he looks over his shoulder. Yet at the same time, he wants to do nothing but sleep until he manages to wake up to May rousing him for school like how it's supposed to be.

"Sit on the bed," Mr. Castle orders as he closes the motel room door behind them. Peter moves to the bed and lowers himself on the edge as Mr. Castle drops his duffle bag at the foot of it. "Hoodie off," he says, turning to the bathroom. "I'm taking out your stitches."

Oh. Peter still has those. Taking them out is probably a good idea, but all he can think of is how Mr. Castle originally said Peter would be staying with him until he's "back on his feet." With his stitches gone, any responsibility Mr. Castle feels about Peter's injuries would be rendered null. Peter knows it's irrational and it doesn't match up with what Mr. Castle said about not leaving, but once he's all healed, that's one less reason for Mr. Castle to keep him around.

Peter presses his mouth in a tight line as he grabs the bottom of the hoodie and pulls it over his head before prying his arms free. The room's a lot colder than he thought. As he scans the room for a distraction, he can't help but notice how the Kimber is missing from the nightstand. Probably because it's still at the other motel. Is Mr. Castle going to go back and get it? Or is that a bad play? Does he even realize he left it? It's the same gun he got from the marines and he's kept it all this time, so it probably means something. Should Peter remind him, or would that just make him more pissed?

The sound of a faucet turning on and off precedes Mr. Castle exiting the bathroom, a folded washcloth clutched in one hand and a paper cup in the other. Peter scoots over to make room as he approaches, but Mr. Castle doesn't sit. Instead, he places the cup on the nightstand as he crouches in front of him and mutters a quiet "Hold still," then reaches the cloth out to Peter's face.

The order doesn't register in time and Peter automatically turns away from the damp, scratchy fabric against his cheek. But the water that trickles down his hairline is surprisingly warm and the cloth moves slowly with the right amount of pressure, so Peter keeps his head steady as Mr. Castle repeatedly runs it down the side of his face. Red and brown stains mar the surface of the washcloth once Mr. Castle sets it down on the nightstand, still far less blood than it had felt like. It felt like he'd been in the blast radius of a water balloon, only- Peter gives his head a small shake and forcibly shifts his focus to Mr. Castle.

He unzips a side pocket of the duffle and rifles around for a bit before pulling out a thin, silver pair of scissors. Peter presses himself as close to the pillows and headboard as he can when Mr. Castle takes a seat beside him. "Right. Let's see it," he says with a nod at Peter's leg.

Peter leans back into the pillows as he maneuvers his leg up to Mr. Castle's lap. Mr. Castle bunches his pant leg around his knee, his eyebrows shooting up as he studies it.

"Goddamn," he breathes. "Never seen shit like that before."

Peter suppresses his momentary flash of panic as he props himself up to peer down at his calf. The stitches look laughably unnecessary. They cover a wound that's barely a scrape, half the size that it was before and what remained is almost completely scarred over. He hadn't had wounds bad enough to require stitches after his last fight with Toomes (at least, he doesn't think they needed stitches), and keeping on long sleeves and pants for a few following days was all he needed to do before they were gone. He's never put much thought into his healing factor, but he's never really gotten hurt enough before he had it to understand its scope.

"You're tellin' me a spider got you this?" Mr. Castle huffs. The scissors' blade is cold against Peter's leg.

Mr. Castle pauses a bit too long for the question to be rhetorical. "I… yeah," Peter mumbles.

Mr. Castle lets out a low hum as he snips the first stitch at the knot and starts to tug it free. It doesn't hurt like Peter expected, but it's not a comfortable sensation either. "Think this'll scar?" Mr. Castle asks as he cuts another thread.

"I…" It's an easy question, so Peter's not sure why he can't summon an answer. MJ would've delivered a dry remark by now, but all Peter can think of is the scar that Gargan pinned on him and the look in his mismatched eyes as he choked him against the pavement not a second after Peter saved him from a bullet. It's not what Toomes did. Toomes went quietly after Peter saved his life. But Peter must've read that wrong too, because he can't think of many other ways Gargan could've found out. Did Toomes tell Gargan about how he crushed him under that building too? Is that why May got killed the way she did in the trap meant for him? Because Toomes wanted him to suffer?

Peter gives a tiny shake of his head. Liz is a good person. She couldn't have turned out like that if Toomes really was that much of a monster. Maybe Gargan threatened her. Then again, that theory had made much more sense when Peter thought that there was no way someone he saved could immediately turn around and start trying to kill him. Peter rubs at his neck, trying to alleviate the pressure of the leg against his throat and the gun in his face-

"Pete. Hey."

Peter snaps his head up. Over half the stitches in his leg are out. When had that happened? Mr. Castle is looking at him with a furrowed brow and his head is angled downward. His eyes don't have any of the hardness they had before.

"Drink that." He nods to the paper cup on the nightstand. "You need to get some fluids in you."

That's probably true. Peter reaches for the cup and takes a sip. He probably needs to eat too, yet he has a feeling nothing solid would stay down for long. He goes to set the cup back down, but something crosses Mr. Castle's face that prompts him to pull it back and force down another sip. It doesn't do much to ease the concern in Mr. Castle's expression, just as bad as the anger in an entirely different way.

"I don't think it'll scar," Peter manages to get out, which must've been the right thing to say if the way Mr. Castle shifts his focus back to his calf is anything to go by. "I haven't gotten anything permanent since I- since I got bit. It's- It's good for the secret identity, n' all."

He fails to keep the bitter note from his tone as Gargan's voice plays itself over in his head. Right. Secret identity. You should be more careful with that. And he's not wrong. An alarming number of names have been added and erased from the list of people who know. He's not sure he could accurately write it out if he tried. It used to be the card he kept closest to his chest, but now the whole deck's spilling out of his grasp, spiraling out of his control with everything else in his life. His identity can be leaked at the whim of a criminal, May's dead, and people keep dying around him-

Peter closes his eyes and takes a quick breath. Pull yourself together, Spider-Man. "Sometimes I wish I didn't have it," he says, forcing nonchalance in his tone. "My healing factor. Once it's gone—" he nods to his leg wound "—it's like, it'll only exist in my head, you know? I could forget where I got it, or how I got it, or-" Peter breaks off. He's caught glimpses of some of Mr. Castle's scars, and he's complaining to him of all people that his wounds heal too well. "Sorry, I- I didn't mean- I bet I sound super ungrateful right now."

Mr. Castle opens his mouth and takes a breath, then oddly enough, closes it and says nothing. His eyes flicker away from the stitches as he works his jaw, then sniffs and snips another thread. Before Peter can decide what just happened, he speaks.

"Left arm, near my elbow. Harder to see now, but it had to be about… hell, ten years ago." Mr. Castle pries out the final stitch and gestures for Peter to lie back.

Peter pulls up his shirt to expose the stitches on his side before he rests his back into the pillows, his brimming curiosity fighting with his brain telling him to keep his mouth shut.

"Me and Lisa—we were walking back from the park. My daughter," Mr. Castle clarifies, pausing to work at the first stitch in Peter's side.

He doesn't seem to notice how Peter freezes or how for a second Peter swears that his heart stops in his chest.

"We're crossing the parking lot, and she's- she's making a game out of it. She's holding her arms out and walking across those parking bumpers, jumping between them like- like the world will end if she touches the ground." Mr. Castle breaks off with a chuckle, shaking his head before he goes to cut a second stitch. "But it's getting dark, see, and the spaces are getting further apart. I tell her to stop, but she's back at it a minute later. Guess it's my own fault for letting it slide."

Peter doesn't dare say a word in the silence that follows as Mr. Castle tugs out a thread.

"Remember that bad feeling you got with the police car?" he asks. Peter doesn't risk doing anymore than nodding, and Mr. Castle continues. "Yeah. I'm ahead of her, I don't even see her, I just- I just know. I don't remember moving—just like that, I'm on the ground, she's on top of me, and my arm hurts like a bitch. Corner of the parking bumper got me on the way down. She's fine, but takes one look at my arm and acts like I'm about to bleed out."

Peter gives him another small nod as Mr. Castle shakes his head and sets the scissors on the comforter.

"She doesn't freak out, though. Grabs me by the hand and pulls me straight home. Says she saw the teacher treat a kid for a scrape, so she- she knows what she's doing. Yeah. Wife opens the door, demands to know what happened, but Lisa just drags me straight past her to the bathroom, all business. She sits me down and the first thing she does is ask me how bad it hurts, from one to five."

Peter can't help a huff at that.

"Mm-hmm. Never seen her so serious before, so I get all grave and say 'Lisa, I think it's a five.' So she's on a mission now. Has to ask where the Band-Aids are, but otherwise could've fooled me that she's done this before. She gets a tissue and cleans up the blood, just… unfazed. A minute later, I've got a- a yellow dinosaur Band-Aid on my arm. You picture that, Pete?"

It's hard not to. Peter fails to hold back a grin, and Mr. Castle meets it with another short laugh.

"Yeah. I have to take it off to clean it proper later, but I put it back on because she… she looks so proud of herself, you know? She tells me to rate it again when she's done, and I tell her there's no pain to rate. 'It's a zero now, Lis. You made it a zero.' And she just…" Mr. Castle trails off. He's facing Peter, the stitches forgotten, but he's not looking at Peter anymore. He's staring past him, watching something that Peter can't see. There are wrinkles at the corner of his eyes that contrast with the way a reflective shine starts to show in them. His mouth starts to move, yet only the beginnings of a word escape before the rest dies in his throat.

"She just glowed, Pete," he finally breathes. "She glowed."

Peter can pinpoint the exact second the spell breaks. The wrinkles vanish from Mr. Castle's expression and his mouth goes slack, leaving behind something Peter's not sure what to name. He straightens and squares his shoulders, a shift subtle enough that Peter isn't sure if he would have been able to pick it out a day ago. Maybe it's a shift he's not supposed to pick out. Peter tries to meet his eyes, but for the first time he can remember, Mr. Castle avoids his gaze.

Mr. Castle rubs at his elbow before picking up the scissors, going back to the stitches like he never set them down in the first place. Peter doesn't think even MJ would know what to say. His brain shouts at him to say something while simultaneously offering him nothing. He knows that he had just witnessed something rare, something that he used to be sure didn't exist, but no combination of words feel adequate or explain the twisting he feels in his chest. Still, he knows something is better than nothing, so he clears his throat and musters up a quiet, "Thank you."

Mr. Castle's grunt isn't a very adequate response either, but in the silence that follows, Peter realizes that his Spider Sense had gone quiet.