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“Kid, you have gotta be fuckin’ kidding me,” Frank says. Peter saunters into the top-secret apartment's window, pretending like the massive duffel bag he's carrying isn't an omen of grave misfortune.
“So, hey,”
“No,” Frank says without looking up from the gun that he's cleaning.
“Just one question,”
“Absolutely the fuck not.”
Peter looks at Frank. “Do you remember when you shot me-”
“Stop bringing that up!” Frank snaps, finally looking up.
“-and I was technically dead-”
“Jesus Christ.”
“-and how the hospital system figured out how to bill Spider-Man so now I owe Iike, 9.2 million dollars-”
“Fucking God, fine.” Frank slams his gun down on the table, glaring at Peter.
Peter pretends to look remorseful for about one second. “Great, thanks! Matt said all the information is on this hard drive.” he tosses it on to the table and reshoulders the dufflebag. “I've gotta go see Jean this weekend, see how she's doing at the new place.”
“How do you know where she is?” Frank asks in disbelief. He's been hunting her down for the last 6 months and she keeps slipping out of his grasp.
“She sent a carrier pigeon.”
“Alright, smartass, forget I asked.”
Peter neglects to tell Frank that Jean did, in fact, send a carrier pigeon. She mind hopped between birds, making them transfer a piece of paper with an address scribbed on it like a fucked up game of pigeon telephone.
“I'll be back in three days, don't kill anyone,” Peter says. “And if you get bored, go beat Kingpin's ass. He's been pissing me off lately.”
Frank waves him off. “Why does your little trip mean I have to babysit New York anyway?”
“Do you want it to just be Matt? Hell's Kitchen is gonna look like the good part of town.” Peter begins looking through Frank's cabinets. A lot of unlabeled cans. And beans. Unlabeled beans?
“He protects 30 people, I gotta do all of New York. What kinda bullshit is that?”
“He sticks to his neighborhood, I stick to mine,” Peter replies without a shrug.
“Hell's Kitchen isn't even a neighborhood, its two fuckin blocks,” Frank grumbles. “Fat lotta good he does.”
“I thought you didn't think about him,” Peter says with an eyebrow raise.
Frank pretends to be cleaning his table. “I don't think about him. I just know things.”
“Uh-huh. Anyway, have fun, but not too much fun,” Peter calls as he webs out of the apartment.
Frank flips him off as Peter soars away. His laughter echoes across the skyscrapers as he webswings into the distance.