Chapter 11
Peter was staring. He knew he was, he knew courtesy dictated that he look away. Noir was a private guy. In all their time, he’d never seen the man without his coat on. Or his mask off, actually, now that Peter thought about it.
Yet, here Noir was, injured, bandaged, practically comatose. Defenseless. Vulnerable. And Peter was afraid to take his eyes off of Noir for a second.
Peter was afraid that if he looked away, Noir would be gone. Not even dead, but just… gone. He knew that Noir could find the transporter if he could stand, and knew that the minute he could he would be searching for it. He also knew that, despite Noir’s injuries, he was one of them. A spider-person. And they weren’t known for staying down long. And if Noir returned to his dimension, in this state, he would die. There was no question.
A darker, more twisted version of him wondered if Noir was faking his weakness, to make a run for it when his guard was down. Peter knew that he would, if the situation was reversed.
The minute he thought it, Peter felt guilty. Noir wasn’t like him. Noir was a good person, a good Spiderman. Peter… well, he wasn’t exactly the best fit for the job. Hell, he’s not even fit for anything.
But still, Noir would fight to go home. It was just a matter of time. And Peter, God, he’d be the one responsible for keeping him here.
It felt wrong, the idea of keeping Noir here against his will. Peter knew hiding the transporter was to help Noir, keep him alive and help him recover from his injuries. But to Noir, it would just be another stint of captivity. Peter was just another person trying to keep him trapped, keep him caged. When Peter thought of it like that, it made him feel sick. He wanted Noir alive, hell, needed him alive, but he didn’t want to hurt him.
That was the last thing Peter wanted.
Still, it wasn’t like Peter was unused to hurting people. He had always tried to take down the bad guys with minimal damage. Sometimes, he’d underestimate them and end up getting a beat down. But that was always better than being excessive. Despite what J. Jonah Jameson claimed, he wasn’t extremist. He tried to bring people down as quickly, as painlessly, as possible. He never wanted to cause anyone pain, unless it was necessary to stop them.
Of course, he couldn’t really claim that. Not anymore. Not after what he had done to the Nazi. Peter knew, he knew he had been trying to kill the man. Had been trying to destroy him. If it hadn’t been for Noir, he would have.
Peter could tell himself that he was doing it for Noir, to protect or avenge Noir, but he knew that was a lie. Peter had nearly killed a man because he had hesitated in the act of killing. If Noir hadn’t made a noise, if Noir was still out of it, Peter might have done it. He wasn’t sure why he had stopped. Noir would have seen the body. Peter would still have the blood on his hands. He hadn’t stopped because Noir would know the man was dead, he had stopped because he was afraid of what he would lose if he did kill him.
Peter had lost a lot, over the years. Uncle Ben, Aunt May, MJ… they had all left, and taken pieces of him with them. Uncle Ben had taken his youth, catching it in his dying words, begging for Peter to be responsible, to be great. Peter couldn’t be a kid, not after that. Aunt May, lovely Aunt May, she had slipped away, gripping his comfort in her too-cold hands. Peter had gotten lax, gotten cozy in his life. Superhero, family, lover, he had it all in the bag. And then Aunt May was in the ground next to Uncle Ben and Peter could never fully relax again. He was always looking, always watching, never really fully letting his guard down. Who would be next to die. How could he cheat death for them the way he could for himself. Questions he asked, and questions he never learned how to answer.
And MJ… god, MJ had taken so much. It was a wonder Peter had anything left at all. She had taken his trust, dropping it in his lap with a pen to sign his name. She had taken his people, the last person he truly cared about, when she handed him back her ring and told him to keep it. She had taken his hope, the hope that he would ever find anyone again. Anyone to connect to, anyone to trust in or care about or love. He had lost everything.
Everything except his mask. That was the one thing Peter still had. That mask meant that every day, when he went out there, people trusted him, had hope in him, got to relax and have their youth because of him. He was the thing standing between them and the bad guy of the week, and they knew that they could believe in him to save them without becoming like the people he was fighting.
And he had been about to throw that away over a Nazi. Peter had nearly decimated his entire moral compass over a fucking Nazi.
Never, in all his years of being Spiderman, had he ever killed. Peter knew that if he had finished off the man, he would have had to give up being Spiderman. He couldn’t keep helping others, being a hero, if he took a life.
Peter was suddenly, insurmountably grateful that he had stopped, that he hadn’t thrown that last punch. That he hadn’t killed him. That he hadn’t ended someone’s life. A human being. He knew there was no coming back from that.
Peter sighed, rubbing between his eyes. This whole situation was 100 shades of terrible. He looked back up at Noir, only sign of being alive in the unsteady rise and fall of his chest, and reminded himself…
He should have gotten there sooner.