Seventeen

M: Noir rubbed his hand over his face as he rode the elevator back up to Peter's floor, brown bag in hand. He had picked up the medicine, and grabbed some basics while he was out - the orange Gatorade that Peter liked, a thing of crackers... things to take his time up so that Peter could have his space. Noir checked his watch for the hundredth time, noting that it had been exactly 60 minutes. He wanted to let Peter be alone as long as he needed, but the fear that Peter would be hurt kept galvanizing him to hurry up and make sure he's okay.

The doors slid open, and Noir tried to walk as slowly as possible, giving Peter those few extra moments even as he felt concern rising up inside him. He did not have the right to be anxious for him, after all.

Still, Noir was relieved when he reached the door, fishing out his- no, Peter's key- and unlocking it. When he opened the door, his heart dropped out of his chest.

Peter was gone.

R: Panic filled him and he was quick to come inside, locking the door behind him. Where did Peter go? Instinctively he rushed to the bathroom, flipping the lights on though there was terror in him that once he entered the room he'd see Peter... no. He wasn't there. He moved back to the living room, the window still closed and locked, the television on. He looked down, the plate of food was eaten and the drink was half gone.

Peter would...not when he did something to actually take care of himself. Especially when it involved Noir's help

Setting the supplies on the table, noir waited a moment before heading down the hall. The bedroom door was ajar

He pushed it open slightly. There, was the wheelchair beside the bed, and a figure on the bed. Peter lay curled up on his side, eyes closed and mouth slightly agape as he breathed softly, the rise and fall of his chest causing the fear in him to dissipate

Safe. Peter was safe

M: Noir took half a step into their bedroom, then stopped. This wasn't his space, it wasn't their. It was Peter's. Noir didn't have the right to be there. He stepped back, leaving the door slightly open so he could hear if Peter fell or woke up. He walked back to the couch, placing his acquired goods on the table and taking out the medicine.

He was about to leave it on the table, along with the drink and the snacks, when he hesitated. Peter... wasn't in good shape. He was injured, and had been borderline suicidal for the past few months. Grimacing, knowing Peter would probably hate him for it, Noir placed the medicine inside a tall cupboard, where they kept the glasses.

Peter couldn't reach it from his wheelchair.

M: He didn't want to wake Peter. He was too weak, he needed sleep to recover. So, Noir let him be, instead cleaning up the empty plate and then wandering around aimlessly.

It was funny, how much everything looked the same, but still so different.

R: The photos of them were still up, pictures of noir still hung up on the wall. He looked at them, let his fingers touch over them, tracing over Peter's smiling face in them. Pictures of them and the kids, of he and Peter, even a few candid photos peter took of noir on his phone. He and noir bickered about peter having them printed, the detective embarrassed and Peter enamored. Noir looked at it. It was him without the mask, his head in Peter's lap and asleep, glasses skewed. Peters face could be seen from the side of the picture, grinning madly and looking in love

So much has changed

As he went through the pictures, the memories, he was led back to the living room. He sat in the wooden chair, uncomfortable and stiff as he watched the television drone on. Eventually, after several long hours, noir felt himself begin to nod off

He glanced at the television, and then the hall. No sound from Peter came, no signs of him waking.

Noir got up and moved to the couch, he did so slowly and hesitantly, just like he had walked through the hospital room with Peter. It felt like the room hand landmines and one wrong step would force him to scramble out the door

Taking his spot on the couch, his old spot, he blinked. It felt...normal. it felt familiar. And for a moment, if he pretended, he could pretend Peter was sitting beside him just like in the picture.

The detective leaned back, head resting against the armrest of the couch, the fabric soft and cool. He remembered helping Peter pick it out, peter liking the color, noir liking the dark burgundy color. He let himself watch TV for a bit longer, starting to doze. But he made sure, even in his tired state, to not touch Peter's part of the couch

M: Noir couldn't cross that line. Not physically, not mentally. He could sit here all he wanted, pretending that he had never been gone, but it was so, so painfully clear that he had been. If he reached across, and touched that spot, it would destroy any security that Peter felt he still had.

Noir was already controlling Peter's medicine, his movements, so much of his life. He could not steal these last few places of freedom that Peter had managed to retain.

Noir promised himself the moment Peter stirred, he would move off the couch, off of the spot that used to be his, and go back to being a silent bystander in Peter's life, only interfering to keep him alive.

Noir closed his eyes, leaning his head against the back of the couch, letting his mind slip into his imagination, where he had never had to leave, and Peter was next to him, probably sneaking photos of him and trying not to laugh. It was so wonderfully painful, to pretend that Peter was still with him. It hurt to think about, but Noir deserved to suffer with his thoughts of joy.

R: He didn't expect to doze off. To let himself succumb to sleep when he told himself he was just resting his body, not his eyes. But it was hard, when he was back in his old spot, in his old home. For the first time in months noir was in a place unlike the dingy motels or outside on the streets or curled away on a rooftop. He was somewhere soft, and clean, and he slept

It took several hours for Peter to wake, throat parched and hurting. Hr fumbled, a hand reaching out trying to feel for a glass of water only for his sleep addled mind to remember he left his drink in the living room. "Shit," he grumbled, eyes still mostly shut. He rolled his way around the bed, his body sore but not in as intense of pain as before as he eased himself into the wheelchair. He was still sleepy, his direction a bit off

It was like when a person still basically asleep fumbled down a hallway knocking into things

His wheel hit the wall once and bumped into the table. He swore both times and got to the living room and stopped

Noir was laying on the couch - well, laying was the wrong word. More so curled up. He was at an awkward angle, head resting against the arm rest, legs on the floor he looked uncomfortable. Peter almost winced at the sight of the angle his neck was at.

He rolled a bit closer. Noir lay without his mask, glasses skewed and hair messy across his forehead. His eyes had dark bags and he had a few more scars than Peter remembered. He still slept with his mouth open slightly, breathing soft.

And Peter looked. He wasn't touching his side of the couch. The couch was not small, but not large either. It was a decent sized one, though, laying down with both of them taking up space required some finagling. But noir lay curled up on his side of the couch, the tall man hunched increasingly small. He doesn't want to touch my spot peter thought. And then he looked at the table covered in things, items he used to have noir pick up frequently from the corner store down the block.

M: Peter could throw a fit. Right now, if he wanted. He had the upper hand here, could force Noir to leave through sheer anger and willpower. He could get rid of Noir, right now, and be alone again. Like he wanted.

But no, it wasn't what he wanted really now, was it?

The idea of waking Noir up, when he was so clearly exhausted, made Peter feel uncomfortable, feel wrong. Despite everything, the man sleeping there was the same man he had loved for so long. And he couldn't be alone.

Peter knew that if Noir left, he would probably kill himself. Whether on purpose or on the job, Peter didn't know, but he did know that he didn't want to be alone.

He wanted Noir.

And Noir was alive, here, sleeping on the couch just like he always did - well, not exactly, since normally Noir was sprawled all over Peter, but it was still the same man, still the same couch.

The only thing that had changed, really, was Peter himself.

He was the one who had spiraled. Noir, no, Noir had vanished into the mist and reappeared as the exact same man as he had been before. Noir hadn't changed. But Peter... he had been destroyed, torn himself apart trying to find a reason to live without Noir by his side. Noir had left and come back and what... expected it all to be the same? It wasn't the same, it could never be the same again.

Peter was broken, literally and figuratively. All it would take is a moment of weakness for him to be destroyed.

So, Peter didn't wake up Noir, at least not now. Instead he wheeled himself over to his side of the couch, popped himself into his spot, and grabbed a cracker. He could kick Noir out later. It was rude to wake someone up just to yell at them

R: Peter sits pressed against the arm rest, leaving a gap between he and Noir. Noir lays there, sleeping, the soft sound of his breathing so familiar. If not for the pain in his body, for the way Noir's body did not touch his not sprawled out like he used to, Peter could have fooled himself into thinking things were normal

He watches the television, tries to ignore the warmth radiating off Noir, the man always running hot like a furnace. He tries to ignore the breathing, rhythmic and calming, he tries to focus on the sound of the television, of the nature documentary playing about sea animals and whales. He just snuggles back into the cushion, tries to keep his eyes off the man next to him and on the tv screen

After a little while longer, he hears Noir stir, the man beside him letting out a soft breath and Peter couldn't help himself but glance over. Watch the way Noir's eyes scrunched a little tighter closed, brows furrowing for a moment before his dark lashes fluttered, his grey pupils being revealed as he opened his eyes slowly. Peter watched as Noir curled up a bit more, face pressing into the cushion before he stretched slightly, the soft popping sound of aching joints as he shifted and breathed. This was how Peter remembered waking up with him, the way he stretched like a cat Peter had said once, laughing as he teased his boyfriend

Peter's breath hitches and he stares ahead at the television as if it is the most important thing he's ever seen, anything except the thoughts of he and Noir and what they had lost

M: Noir slowly opened his eyes, reveling in the soft familiarity of the couch cushion. He hadn't slept on something so comfortable in so long, it was like coming home. Noir turned his head to the side, and saw Peter sitting beside him, watching one of those nature docs that he claimed to hate but kept watching anyway.
Wait.

Peter. He was-

Noir practically leapt to his feet, moving several steps away from Peter.
"I-" He snapped his mouth closed, feeling his face heat up in shame.
He hadn't meant to fall asleep, hadn't meant to stay there after Peter had woken up. All he'd wanted was to pretend it was okay for a minute and now Peter was looking away from the documentary and at him and he didn't know what to say.

Peter shrugged, a slight movement that still pulled on his bandages. He didn't look too upset, although Noir knew that Peter could absolutely destroy him if he wanted to. And, Noir acknowledged, he would let Peter do it. He deserved it.

"I don't use that side of the couch, anyway."

R: Noir blinked, before saying, "I'm sorry, Peter. I didn't mean to... I'll go over to the chair and-"

"Look, you need to sleep somewhere, right? And since you're sure as hell not staying in the bedroom, so the couch is fair game." Peter's mouth twitched up slightly, "And I can't really move around if you're blocking the floor."

R: Was...was Peter joking with him? Noir blinked a few times, not quite sure how to react or how to respond. He decides not to push it though, not to ask cause the last thing he needed was to make Peter any more annoyed with him

He sits up, pushing himself a little closer to his side of the couch, though Peter doesn't really seem to care, eyes focused on the screen. Noir steals little glances at him before looking at the Tv, trying to pretend that he didn't feel a horrible sense of awkward tension, even if Peter was acting so calm and collected

He felt like he should tell him, tell him why he left, tell him every little thought running through his mind and how he was sorry and apologize and just - it was selfish to want that right now. When Peter was so relaxed and looked so much more unburdened than he had before. He couldn't ruin that, not right now. So instead he keeps his mouth shut, his teeth grinding a bit and he stares at the documentary

R: Noir stares blankly at the screen, trying and failing not to watch Peter out of his peripherals. Eventually, Peter stretches. "Well, that was fun."

"Huh?" Noir focused on the screen, and found it running through credits. He hadn't even noticed it had ended.

Noir nodded silently, then checked his watch device. "It's getting late."
"It's only..." Peter checked, too. "Oh, yeah, no, you're right. Guess I'm supposed to head off to sleep now?"

Noir hesitated, feeling his face slowly turn gray. Peter and he were talking, talking normally. It was like before, if Noir ignored the distance between them.

He doubted it would stay this casual once he laid down some of the ground rules that the doctor and given him.

"Peter, you need to have your, um, bandages changed. And, uh," Noir's face went even darker gray, "you'll need to... shower, too."

R: Peter stared at Noir, eyes growing wide and for a moment he almost didnt pay any heed to what Noir was saying because Noir"s face was coloring grey. Pale grey skin and a dark grey flush, Peter forgot how much he missed that

And then the reality of what Noir had just said kicked in

"I- wait what?"

The prospect of having Noir near him let alone touch him was something that had him almost bristling. He didn't want noir close, just the distance between them currently almost had him at his limits

It wasn't like it wasn't snt anything Noir hadn't seen before but "No. Nah. Nope." Peter shakes his head. "No way. I can do this on my own. I do not need you or your help." He says, pushing himself back into the wheelchair

Peter shook his head beginning to wheel himself down the hall to the bathroom. Fuck that. Noir wasn't going to come near him let alone help him with this. Not when he helped cause this. Fuck that.

But halfway down the hall, Peter had to pause and he held the aching in his side. His ribs hurt and he suddenly felt queasy. Godammit. "Alright," he yelled back, Noir sitting upright as Peter shouted. "Cmon. But no funny business, Noir. Seriously. I'll kick your ass."

M: Noir immediately scampered around, gathering up the bandages and equipment the doctor had given to him, and some of the extra stuff he had picked up at the store. Nicer things that would make Peter more comfortable, like red and blue bandages to make him laugh.

Noir also took down the bottle of pills, making a mental note to give a couple to Peter afterwards.

By the time Noir had gotten to the bathroom, Peter was already there, awkwardly leaning over the side of the tub from the tile, fiddling with the water temperature. He glanced to the side at Noir, and then very pointedly did-not-look at Noir, focusing solely on the suddenly difficult task of making water heat up.

"So, Mr. Doctor-Man," Peter asked, a touch sourly, "Which will it be? Shower or bath?"

"I-" Noir hesitated, "I mean, can you stand?"

Peter's eyes flickered down to his legs, then back up, before admitting, quietly, ashamedly, "No."

R: "Alright," Noir says, and Peter flicks the drain closed. While the water begins to fill up the tub, Peter begins to take his shirt off. Noir almost steps in to help but Peter puts a hand up to block him. The detective respects this and takes a step back. He won't crowd

M: As the shirt comes off, more and more of Peter's injuries are shed to Noir's sight. Bruises, yellow and already healing, spread across most of Peter's torso. Marks on his skin from the cuts the doctors had made to reach inside and fix what was broken.

His chest was speckled with red dots of blood, that there hadn't been time to get off.

Peter grunted from the exertion of removing his shirt, and one hand gripped the handrest of his wheelchair as he curled into himself slightly, trying to regain his bearing.
He had done this. Noir had done this to Peter. Noir looked down at his own hands, and realized they were shaking.

He clenched his hands, then opened them again. Peter needed his help right now, he couldn't be off moping or getting worked up. He didn't have the right to be upset.

Peter slid off his shoes, and socks, and then he was glancing up at Noir, nervous, hands on his waistband.

R: Peter slid the last of his clothing off, it being a little awkward as he tried not to get up but it took some finessing

He put a towel over his crotch and he felt awkward and his cheeks were hot. He had to take some of the bandages off before he got in

His healing allowed the cuts to begin to heal, stitching together slowly but surely. Nothing like the angry slits they were just the day prior. He came to the conclusion that he'd just have to be careful with them when he got into the tub. Soap in cuts? Stung like a bitch

Peter slipped into the tub - more so, he sat on the side and had to keep himself from plopping into the water - he turned the water off and put a washcloth over himself. He looked up. Noir was still looking away. He coughed awkwardly. "You can uh, turn around now. I'm gonna probably need help getting out and getting new bandages on."

M: Noir slowly turned back around towards Peter, keeping his gaze off on the side of the wall.

After a moment, he let his gaze move to Peter, still keeping his eyes resolutely fixed on the upper third of Peter's chest and face.

Peter reached out, fumbling with a second washcloth and the bottle of soap. After a few moments of slippery, uncoordinated struggling, Noir offered, "Let me?"

Peter stopped, and looked up sharply at noir.
"Sorry, forget I said anything." Crossing boundaries yet again, it seemed that was noir's new favorite pastime, now, wasn't it.

Peter sighed, and then held out the bottle. "Just remove the lid, okay? That's all."

R: Noir took the bottle making sure their hands did not touch. He was already breaking so many rules with Peter, touching him would break this little bit of safety that remained in between them

Peter sloshes around the water, he washes off dirt and grime and blood and there's a few areas he rubs thinking it is brown stains of mud or filth only to realize it's the yellowing brown of an old bruise or he runs the wash cloth a bit too hard over a tender cut

Noir sits and has his hands on his thighs, rubbing his hands up and down his legs just as he did in the hospital

He wants to say something desperately, but that was on skill Noir honed with his detective work. Sit down and shut up.

It's almost laughable really. Noir busts some of the biggest crime cases in his Universe yet he cant even use all those detective skills to figure out how to tell Peter he's sorry

R: Peter tries to reach his back but it hurts and he can't and he thinks about just saying fuck it and getting out. But then that would mean having to repeat this process again and sooner. Shit.

"Noir, gimme a hand," Peter says and the detective startles out of his little trance

Peter turns around and holds out the wash cloth. "Back." He simply says and leans forward, his back exposes and his knees pulled up to his chest. "Oh, ya of course." Noir says taking the cloth and getting to his knees.

He has no small sense of trepidation. He doesnt want to touch Peter. He does but he doesn't. He knows this is what pete takes for but it still felt dangerous and unsafe. Still, he took a breath, trying to keep his hand from shaking as he pressed the cloth to Peter's back and began running it in circles across pale mottled skin

Peter closes his eyes and tries not to sigh. He wrists his arms on his knees, his chin on top of his arms as he leans forward and let's Noir wash. It's only been 2 days (well, 2 and a half, as it was currently 3:45 in the morning but who cares about technicalities?) And Peter was obviously still angry. But he was also filled with this stupid sense of regret that he shouldn't have. That should all be Noir

Noir faked his fucking death, he watched Peter hurt and cry and get beaten, watched him sit in his own blood and sick, and when he finally, finally was about to get what he wanted - did he ever truly want to die? - Noir swoops in and acts like a knight in black armor and Peter the damsel as if he wasn't the one who put him in distress

Peter's blunt nails dig into his arm as he closes his eyes tight. It was all Noir's fault so why did he still worry that the man was uncomfortable, that something happened beyond just them, that Noir was scared, that things were not okay and Noir was trying and he was the one being a pain in the ass?

Because even this kind of fuck up doesn't truly erase almost 5 years of love he tells himself.

M: Noir runs the cloth over, skipping around the slowly-but-surely-healing wounds, trying to be as gentle as possible. Peter's skin, where it wasn't a blooming shade of angry, was pale white.

After all, Peter hadn't been outside unless he was Spider-Man, so it wasn't like he had seen the sun in a long time.

Peter closed his eyes. Like this, he couldn't help but feel pathetic. His fragile body, his weakness. The nails we was digging into his arm weren't even strong enough to twinge.

Peter hated Noir. Hated him in a way that was so close to love that it yanked on his heart, twisting it around Noir and pinning it in place with barbed wire.

He wanted to hurt Noir. He wanted to make him feel miserable.
But he couldn't. Because as much as he -loved- hated Noir, the thought of hurting him made him feel sick.

R: Noir sat there and washed Peter's back and cupped water to let it run down his back and wash the suds off. He rings the cloth out and sets it onto the side of the tub and Peter waits til he moves away to pull the plug. He grabs the towel close by, and wraps it around his shoulders.

He hates that he needs more of Noir’s help especially with the bandages but he just he can't and it's late and now hes so tired

"Bandages," he says, and Noir nods. Peter feels some vaximily of guilt for treating Noir like a stupid dog, one word commands. But noir understands. He knows this side of Peter, used to see it when peter would be bedridden with the flu and that one really bad case of bronchitis. Peter would be snappy and mean and Noir just nodded along as if to say "yes dear"

That's the problem Peter realizes with trying to hate someone you love/d so much. Is there's too many memories. Especially for the two of them

M: Noir places the bandages and ointment on the side of the tub. He uncapped the lid, but hesitated. He seemed to have been doing a lot of that, lately. Hesitating constantly, never wanting to make Peter feel any more violated than he already was.

"Is it okay if I touch you?"

The words were spoken softly, but sounded so incredibly loaded, full of ammo and ready to be fired at a moment's notice

"Go for it."

Peter's voice was quiet, but just as stubborn as ever.

Noir poured some of the antibiotic into his hands, before reaching out and touching Peter's back, right beneath his collarbone, coating across a long, red cut that sliced across his shoulder blade.

M: As Noir worked his way down, Peter curled in more and more into himself, wrapping his arms around and ducking his head down, shoulders hunching up towards his ears.

He wanted Noir to stop touching him, to back off and give more space. But he didn't want to make Noir let to, either.

Noir noticed the way Peter's muscles were tensing under his fingers, and asked, "do you want me to stop, Peter?"
The words were spoken so gently, so sweetly. It filled Peter with some mix of shame and annoyance.

But mostly shame.

" Just stop talking and get it over with, yeah?"

It came out shaky, afraid. Noir didn't have to stop, didn't have to listen to Peter. But maybe he would listen, would get upset, and leave Peter alone again.

The idea of being left here alone, wounds sluggishly bleeding in a red-stained tub, filled Peter with even more anxiety and fear and suddenly Noir was too close and he couldn't breathe and he was coughing and couldn't stop oh god what was happening make it stop

R: "Hey, hey, shhh," Noir was there in a moment. He didn't touch, he knew Peter hated it when he touched him when he was having an anxiety attack. Noir grasped onto touch as an anchor, holding it for dear life as he gulped the watery air like a fish.

Peter, however, hated it. It made him scream and ache and he would get so overloaded and Noir was shushing him softly. Just like Peter taught him to do five years ago. Just be quiet, be present but don't crowd

Noir is sitting by his side, hand on the wheelchair and Peter is gulping for air and bent over shaking like a leaf, and Noir is just quiet as he speaks. "It's aces, Petey, just Jake. You're gonna be okay. Just gimme an ol deep breath and you'll be right as rain."

Peter wants to tell him to shut up, that he's not helping. But then he could kick himself, yell because he forgot how much Noir's stupid 30s slang made him relax. How much the detectives voice made him calm. How much Noir drove away the fear

He sat there and he shook and he coughed and he sucked in air and Noir just kept murmuring soft praises and "atta boy" as Peter did. He clutched at his arms and the arm rests. He breathed harshly and shallow and finally, finally as Noir coaxed him into taking a few last deep breaths. Peter calmed

M: Peter sucked in another breath, letting it out in a shaky exhale.
"I'm fine." He said, answering Noir's unasked question. He wouldn't look Noir in the eye, couldn't, really. Noir knew the right thing to do every time. It didn't matter that he had done so much, had been gone for so long, hand done all that he had done. That didn't change that noir knew him. Knew where to give space, knew how to calm him down and get him back. It also meant he knew where to push. And Noir had pushed him so far past the breaking point by leaving.

"I just about finished. We can skip the last couple, do them later, if you want."

Yeah, Noir always knew.

Peter felt ridiculously grateful, like Noir had granted him something. Peter could have just asked Noir to stop, and he would have. But Noir asking, Noir knowing, what Peter needed... That felt so much more powerful, so much more meaningful.

"Yeah. Not like I really need it anyway, right?" Peter said jokingly, voice uncomfortably tight.

" We just need to bandage it up, and then you can have some pain medicine and get some sleep, okay?"

R: Peter gives a stiff nod and Noir wastes no time getting to work. Peter can dress himself he's sure, he just wants to help him with this. His eyes are still a bit glossy and Noir knows the power of a good cry in bed will help a lot of Pete's pent up emotions

Speaking of, Noir realizes, he doesnt think Peter's been able to cry yet. To be upset. Sure he was out for an hour but still. Peter had been exhausted. He would have been surprised if the man had stayed awake longer than ten minutes after he had left

Noir wraps the bandages around Peter's arm and around his ribs, peter leaning forward slightly and Noir makes a mental note to put something down on the wheelchair for further use so Pete's skin doesn't stick

Tying the last knot he sits back on his heels and surveys his handiwork. He was no doctor, but he was pretty damn good at wrapping someone up  the thought made him a little sick. "I'll bring you to your room and grab you some meds. I'll sleep out out in the couch so just holler if you need me." He says as he wheels Peter to his room

M: Peter nodded. Now that the bandages were all back on, he could feel the press of them against his injuries. Exactly as tight as they were supposed to be, actually.

Peter suddenly wondered, as he was wheeled past the couch, if noir had been practicing. If Noir had been injured off doing whatever the hell he had been doing. If he had been bleeding where he couldn't reach, and had to just deal with it. Peter felt suddenly, immensely concerned for Noir. Had he been hurt?
Wait. Why did Peter care, again? He shouldn't. But the idea of Noir hurting, alone filled him with fear and and sent his heart rate spiking up. Even though it was, ironically, exactly what Noir had done to him.

Noir stopped at the edge of the bedroom threshold, letting go of the wheelchair. "I will get the medicine." He said before vanishing. Not even so much as the toe of his boot crossed over the door frame.

Peter thought about how Noir had been sleeping on the couch, and winced. It was terribly uncomfortable. But the idea of Noir being in here in -their old- his room, made him anxious. He didn't want noir to be uncomfortable, all curled over, but he did not, under any circumstances, want to let noir inside this last sacred space.

R: By the time Noir returns, Peter is still in the same spot where he left him. He didn't even move to grab his clothes from the dresser or to move closer to the bed.

"Peter?" He asks, concerned

Peter just turns his head slow, staring at Noir with wide and conflicted brown eyes and Noir has to stop himself from sucking in a breath. He can see a battle raging in Peter's eyes and he's worried it's one that's not too kind. "Peter?" He asks again. "Ptsd episode?"

Peter just shakes his head, is quiet for a few moments before looking down at his arms and then back at Noir. "Why'd you leave?"

And there it was. The million dollar question