Chapter 8
Morales froze in the doorway, staring at the monochrome figure hunched over on the couch. But only for a moment. Her features smoothed into a detached, professional look, and she followed in behind May. A duffle bag was slung over her shoulder, and clutched in her hand.
Peter could only assume it was full of medical equipment, and his suspicions were confirmed when she put it on the carpeted floor, unzipping it to reveal a mass of tools and white gauze.
Morales looked over Noir, grimacing. He was curled up on himself, covered in black. "This isn't going to work. I can't see anything. Get him lying down."
Peter stared at her. He couldn't just... make Noir do anything. Noir was already afraid.
She looked at him, frowning further. "Do it!"
"Oh! He doesn't... um..."
"If you can't help, then back off. ¿Comprendes?" Morales snapped back.
Peter hesitated, then stood up, dropping his outstretched arm, backing away from Noir. He couldn't help him.
As Peter moved, Noir began to shake harder, his breath coming out in gasps. His chest was heaving, and more black began to leak out through the, already soaked, shirt. His left arm tucked around his body, trying to press against his ribs.
Morales grabbed his arm, pulling it back down to its side. Careful, but firm. "No, no, don't do that sweetie. Come on, keep it here." She turned to May. "Has he done this before?"
"Yes. The minute Peter left." May said briskly, not missing a beat.
Morales muttered something under her breath, then sighed. "Alright then. Peter, make him lie down."
"I-"
May put a hand on his shoulder. "Peter, please, just try." She looked a hell of a lot calmer than Peter felt, that was for sure. But he didn't really have a choice now, did he?
Peter swallowed, then approached Noir again. Noir's breathing calmed slightly, his shaking diminished, but he looked more rigid than ever before. Every muscle in his body was tensed, ready to fight or run or something.
"Noir, can you lay down for me, please? Morales needs to look you over, okay?" Peter made his voice soft, quiet.
Noir tilted his head slightly, looking at the couch cushions, but didn't move.
"Noir. Lay down, okay? On the couch."
"... I'll... get blood... on..." Noir said a word with each raspy breath.
"Oh I don't care about that." May waved her hand, behind Peter somewhere. "Just lie down, alright?"
Noir slowly twisted and shifted his body, sliding himself down to lay on the couch. His legs were too long, and stuck out over the end by a few inches.
It would have been cute, Peter reflected, if only the situation was different. Well, not cute. Funny, funny was the word he had been thinking of. Of course.
Noir was panting from the effort of moving, his right arm now cradled against the back of the couch. His left, his working arm, was towards the rest of them.
So he could fight them if he had to.
Peter knew he would do the same thing, but it hurt in a way he hadn't expected nonetheless.
Morales had snapped on gloves at some point, and was now pulling out a pair of scissors.
"We need to cut him out of that outfit. The wounds will clot with it attached, and it's not sanitary."
Noir's costume front was a mess, sliced edges vanishing in with the black blood that bloomed across his skin. Peter couldn't tell where the shirt ended and the injuries began.
As Rio moved to cut through the cloth, Noir jerked up, hand flailing out to try to punch her. It would have landed, too, but she managed to dodge it in time. Instinct probably, an immediate reaction from her job. All three of them had to dodge punches to help people. Except, of course, she never threw one. Morales carefully put down the scissors, pulling out a syringe, and a bottle of something liquid. Drugs.
"Peter, hold him down." She was filling up the syringe.
"What? No!"
Morales turned to glare at Peter, dark eyes flashing. "Look. At the hospital, we can sedate people normally. But since you're not taking him to a hospital, I have to make do. So hold him still, or else I won't be able to help him." Her voice went a touch lower, a bit sadder. "I refuse to let anyone suffer when I can do something about it."
Peter couldn't look her in the eyes. She was right, of course she was right, but... but Noir would feel so betrayed.
Well, he was already terrified of Peter. What did it matter if he was more scared, if it meant he would be alive and be safe? Justifying felt wrong to him, left a bitter taste in his mouth, but he dealt as best as he could, gritting his teeth and praying for forgiveness as he violated Noir's trust once more.
Peter reached out, placing one hand on Noir's upper chest, the other at his bicep, holding him down.
The reaction was immediate.
Noir began thrashing, letting out a choking, inhuman howl as he tried to throw himself out of Peter's firm grip. His legs were kicking up, kneeing Peter hard in the back, and the nails of his left hand were gouging cuts into Peter's arm. Trying desperately to get the hands off of.
Peter didn't budge.
Noir's entire body was writhing, save for his upper left arm, which was perfectly stationary as Morales inserted the needle, pushing down the plunger.
Noir's fight slowly drained out of him, try as he might to keep it alive. His eyes were darting around, but completely unseeing, too panicked for his brain to process anything other than to get away. Peter slowly sat back, releasing his hold on Noir, and with it a breath that he hadn't realized he'd been holding.
Morales let out a heavy breath as well, putting away the needle and bottle.
"Dios ayudarte."
Peter heard Aunt May shuffling around behind him as Morales spoke.
Peter's May, when she was nervous, would clean things. Anything and everything. After Uncle Ben had died, she'd cleaned the house obsessively for weeks. Panic every time she found a speck of dirt. Peter remembered walking into the house one day, and seen her ripping the wallpaper down. There was a stain, she had said. It was just the pattern of the wallpaper, really, but Peter hadn't said anything. She ended up putting the wallpaper back up anyway. After she had scrubbed every inch of it by hand. This Aunt May, he figured, would probably be off doing something similar. He hadn't really been expecting her to still be there. But, when he turned around, there she was, looking a little pale but stoic as ever.
She went over to kneel by Noir's head, petting his hair and whispering to him. Offering the comfort she could. She could not know how important that was, those touches and those soft words. Maybe they were everything, or maybe they meant nothing to Noir. Perhaps he could not even hear her.
But she did it anyway.
Peter looked away. He felt like he was intruding on that moment, disturbing it with his sight and his awareness of it. Dirtying the moment with himself. It was too pure, too... too Aunt May of a thing to see. That moment, that comfort, was for Noir and Noir alone.
Morales was cutting through Noir's shirt with practiced ease, carefully avoiding making any contact with injury. How she was able to do that, Peter presumed, was more instinct than awareness, since the whole thing just looked like one, massive injury to him.
Morales peeled the pieces away carefully. Noir moaned out as one strip was pulled out of a wound, while May shushed him gently. Morales murmured "Lo siento, lo siento," continuing her ministrations as carefully as she could. Her gloves were covered in black.
Finally, she removed the last few scraps, revealing the bloody mess that had been Noir's chest and abdomen.
She handed Peter one of the wet cloths he had gotten earlier, and he took it automatically. He wiped away at the blood, the inky, sticky black slowly transforming away into too pale white skin. As Peter saw more and more of the actual damage inflicted, he felt more and more distressed, more and more furious that he had let that bastard in the warehouse live.
There were bruises, deep grays and blacks that spread across Noir's chest in swathes of dark. A large on across the center of his chest looked suspiciously like a bootprint, the heel having punctured through his skin, which was slowly leaking black. His entire right arm was mottled, shades bursting across it in a horrifying manner, clearly broken in the upper arm. The worst part, though, were the cuts. It looked like someone had taken a butcher knife to Noir's upper body. Actually, that was probably what had happened, Peter realized with a grimace. Some of the cuts were nearly invisible, thin lines that barely bled, while others were deep gashes, steadily seeping blood out as fast as Peter could wipe it.
Suddenly, Noir's stillness didn't feel so relieving, Peter's gratefulness that Noir could finally relax vanishing in an instant. The only sign Noir was even still alive was the uneven, jagged raise of his ribcage as he breathed. And that could stop at any moment.
He was going to die. Oh no, no, no, he was going to die and Peter couldn't do a single thing. He was going to die. Noir was going to die. He was going-
Morales scoffed, professionalism instantly switching to bold arrogance. "Excuse me? I am Rio Morales. I know what I'm doing, thank you very much."
Peter blinked. He hadn't realized he'd been talking out loud. Morales looked at him, all picture perfect confidence, eyebrow raised, fresh pair of gloves on, head cocked slightly condescendingly.
It was an act, Peter recognized instantly, a show she must have had to put on for worried patients and family alike before. But still, it was comforting. Of course she knew what to do. It was her job. It quelled his concerns. Very, very slightly.
But it was enough.
Morales pulled out a suture kit. Peter recognized it instantly, having had to stitch himself up more than a few times. Although he figured she could do a far better job than he ever could. And he was right, of course.
She was able to stitch up the worst cuts pretty quickly, although she had to keep stopping so Peter could wipe away the blood. After fixing up the third one, a long cut that stretched up almost the entirety of left Noir's side, May informed them that Noir was starting to come out of it. So, Morales re-dosed him, and kept going with militant efficiency. Stitch it up, move on, wrap it afterwards.
Peter was fine with everything until Morales picked up Noir's arm. His right arm. The arm that was broken, and swollen, and bruised and twisted and... Peter looked away, staring at the wall and trying not to be sick. He was trying to separate Noir the man from the injured victim in front of him. It was difficult, and not really working. At least Noir was drugged up, he shouldn't feel too much pain.
When Morales snapped it into place, Noir screamed.
-------
Peter sat on the porch swing, watching a cat perched on top of Aunt May's car.
He felt his spidey sense go off, but it had been sending alerts at him all day. He didn't turn, keeping his eye on said cat. He knew the minute he looked away, it would be gone. Morales slipped next to him, gracefully taking a seat and looking over at it as well.
"He'll pull through." She said, "It's just making sure nothing gets infected and it all heals right."
Peter didn't respond.
"I want to check him for a concussion, but on the sedative I won't be able to get a good reading. Tomorrow I can, probably. If he's lucid by then."
Peter turned slightly towards her, keeping his eyes riveted. "Are you staying the night?"
Morales sighed. "Yes, I suppose I should. I already called the hospital, took a sick day. I need to call my husband. I don't- I don't know what to tell him. What could I say?"
"The truth?"
She let out a chuckle, but it sounded a touch breathy. "How do I even begin to explain all of this." It wasn't a question, not really. "He'd have questions, and I can't answer them." She shook her head. "Not the first time patient confidentiality's ever been a problem, won't be the last."
They sat in silence for a little bit, until Peter worked up the nerve to speak. "I'm... I'm sorry you're in this situation, Mrs. Morales."
He turned to face her, and was surprised by how tired she looked. Still full of life. Still moving. But so, so tired. "Oh, please, call me Rio. After all ... este" She waved her hand behind her, "I say we are... uh..." She fell silent for a minute, eyebrows furrowing. "Conocidos? A, ah, acquaintances. ¿Sabés?"
"Yeah. Acquaintances." Peter nodded. "By the end of this, we're going to be besties."
Morales - no, Rio - laughed, a booming, joyous thing, and Peter felt the edges of his mouth curl up into a smile.
Huh. He hadn't smiled since this whole mess started. But sitting here with Rio, that had done it. He looked back towards the car, but the cat was gone.
That didn't matter. He had found better company.
"Oh, I need to patch your arm up, too. He clawed you up." Rio said suddenly.
"It'll heal."
"I don't care. I'll patch it up for you right now, okay?"
Peter didn't dare argue.
And when he eventually went back inside, gauze on his arm, where Noir was fast asleep on the couch, wrapped in white bandages that were spotted with black, arm in a rigid splint, broken and bruised but no longer dying, Peter knew that it would all be okay.
Eventually.