Chapter Text
Thwack! Noir’s axe landed in the dead center of the plywood target. It was wedged in a full inch at the tip of the blade but he removed it without any visible effort. He passed it over to Miles who handled it gingerly, still unsure when handling weapons.
“Just step and throw?” Miles asked, raising the axe over his head.
“Yeah, kid. But you don’t need to use both hands. You’ve got plenty of spider-strength.” He moved Miles’ left arm down and repositioned his thumb more firmly on the axe’s handle. “If you can throw a web, you can throw an axe.”
Miles nodded but spent more than a few seconds analyzing how he normally put one foot in front of another, suddenly unable to step naturally. When he finally released the axe, he did it with a shuffling of feet and too much force in his throw. It hit the target with a loud crunch as the butt of the axe made a large hole through an inch of plywood. Miles wiggled it free with a frown.
“Maybe it’s best to celebrate ‘Throw an Axe Day’ from the sidelines,” he suggested. “As a spectator.”
“Nonsense.” Noir wasn’t going to pass up a chance to share his special interest with his friends. “You’ve just got to ease up on it a bit. Don’t give it all you’ve got.”
Miles gave it another go, still looking like an alien in his own body as he stepped forward. He restrained himself as he threw, but the axe hit the target handle first before falling to the floor with a clatter.
Noir smiled beneath his mask as he encouraged Miles to throw it just one more time, then one more time again. He didn’t mind patiently waiting through the teen’s cycle of frustration and conviction. He’d feared, after reading the Knife Rules, that his teammates would shy completely away from knives; instead, they had invited him on a blade-themed outing.
He didn't know much that could improve this moment, aside perhaps Matt joining them. Noir wiggled his fingertips, reliving the sensation of walking hand-in-hand with his best friend. His heartbeat picked up as he remembered the gentle rasp of Matt’s voice, so close to his ear. If he relaxed and focused inward, he could practically hear him as he said...
“Noir?” Miles interrupted.
“Uh, yeah?” Noir said, broken from his reverie.
“I said, ‘It’s time to go.’ Our hour is up, man.”
“Oh, right.” Noir glanced around to find his friends making their way to the door. “I expect I’ll see you at the next shindig.” He reached for his universe-hopping device but was stopped by Miles’ hand on his wrist.
“Party’s not over yet!” Miles seemed nervous, but excited as well. “We’re headed to Aunt May’s for enchiladas. Wade’s there now, cooking. Said he was going to treat us with ‘the family dining experience,’ whatever that means.”
“It means that he’s gonna wear curlers and a housecoat!” Beter shouted from the doorway. “C’mon! Let’s go eat!”
***
Upon entering May’s home, Noir was surprised to see a collection of shiny paper bags and wrapped parcels sitting on her coffee table. “What’s the occasion?” he asked, toying with a curl of ribbon hanging off a box.
Miles looked nervously at his friends who simply shrugged back. “They’re presents for... for Throw an Axe day. And, um... they’re for you.”
May ushered a stunned Noir to the middle of the couch. “Seat of honor,” she said sweetly before placing a box in his arms. “This one’s from me.”
Noir, curious and still a bit confused, found the edge of the wrapping paper and began picking at the tape.
“C’mon, kiddo,” May said good naturedly. “Open it with gusto! What’s the point of all those knives you carry if you aren’t going to use them?”
Noir felt a pulse of warmth radiate from his shoulder blades and into his chest. Maybe gifts were customary for this holiday, but it felt like he was about to be given something immeasurably precious. He pulled out a 6 inch utility knife that he had mentally cataloged as ideal for paper and twine and made quick work of the wrapping paper to reveal a box with the photo of a sharpening block printed on all sides.
“Felt like an appropriate way to celebrate the holiday,” said May. “You don’t suppose you’d get use out of it, do you?” she teased.
Noir gripped the box tighter. “I’ll use it every day,” he said with conviction.
Beter cleared his throat. “I, um, didn’t get a chance to wrap them, but...” He reached behind the couch and produced a life size bust of Deadpool, kitchen knives of all sorts and sizes protruding from it at random angles. “I may have been a terrible businessman, but if only one good thing came out of TGISpideys, it’s the officially licensed Spider-man deluxe kitchen knife set.”
Noir reluctantly put down the sharpening stone to reach for the morbid knife block. “It’s beautiful,’ he gulped.
“Just like me!” Wade called from inside the kitchen.
Beter rolled his eyes but muttered, “It’s true,” under his breath before adding, “Just make sure to hand wash them, so the red and blue enamel doesn’t chip.”
“They’re red and blue?” Noir asked, searching them for any indication of color beyond shades of gray. Before he could fully process the gift, Peni was in front of him with a miniature gift bag. He took it with a smile that he hoped she could read through the mask, too stunned by his friends’ generosity to speak. He pulled out a metallic tube the size of a pen, turning it over in his hands, looking for its purpose.
“It’s a precision laser knife,” Peni said, indicating a small rubber button on its side. “Clicking that will activate the pulsing blade.”
Before Noir could test it out, Ham was in his space, pulling an enormous butcher knife from the depths of a previously imperceptible pocket. He laid it across Noir’s lap, like a knight prostrating himself before a king. “This knife has been in the Porker family for generations,” he said reverently before lifting his head and winking.
As Noir studied the way the knife caught the light, Gwen stepped forward, holding a small gift dwarfed by a large bow. Noir leaned the butcher knife against the coffee table and gratefully took the present. Inside the comic strip wrapping paper was a thin, tear-shaped piece of metal.
“So, I don’t have any knives,” Gwen said, “But I do have bandmates with guitar picks. And I sharpened it and drew a spider on it, so that’s cool.” She shrugged and smiled nervously before grabbing Miles by the arm and shoving him forward. “It’s your turn.”
Miles picked up a small gift box from the table. “I don’t know if you’ll think this is cool or dumb...” He dragged his fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck sheepishly.
Noir opened the box to find a small, metallic tool.
“I don’t know if they have these where you come from, maybe you guys use scissors or something...” rambled Miles, “But these are nail clippers, and the cool thing about them is they have...” Miles reached over and flicked open the emery board, “A hidden knife!”
Noir gasped in astonishment, thoroughly amused by the hygiene tool. He fiddled with it for a few seconds before realizing that the whole room was quietly focused on his moment of pleasure.
“So... does it help?” Peni asked.
“Help what?” Noir asked.
“Help you feel less empty?”
Noir was more than a little confused. He felt like he’d missed another one of those social cues that evaded him. He mentally scanned the last few minutes for anything that he might have possibly missed, any faux pas that he might have committed, when he realized that he hadn’t thanked anyone for their gifts. “Thank you?” he hazarded.
“Of course,” said Beter with compassion on his face. “And you never have to tell us what happened, we’ve all got trauma, you know... We’re just sorry it took us so long to understand.”
Noir nodded, sensing a break in Beter’s words, but still not comprehending what he was talking about.
“We all have ways to cope,” said Gwen, patting him on his hand. “Sometimes, when I think about Peter, my Peter, I just let loose on the drums until all the frustration and pain find their way out of me. I’m sorry if I made you feel like your way of coping was wrong.”
“Yeah,” said Miles, from his perch on the armrest. “It’s like that for me with art.”
“And we’re sorry for whatever horrible, unspeakable moment scared you forever into needing knives to fill your chasm of emptiness,” Ham said dramatically. “Hopefully our few tokens will make things a little better, buddy.”
Suddenly, it clicked. Noir came to the startling realization that his friends had misinterpreted his Knife Rule. They had taken it figuratively and felt responsible for cheering him up, despite the fact that he was currently the happiest he’d ever been.
He mentally withdrew from the scene around him, friends eagerly awaiting confirmation that they had healed him, as he tried to process what to do next. He hated explaining himself and his misunderstandings to his friends; he’d rather stay quiet and preserve his mysterious aura. They’d gone and made something very simple, his passion for knives, into something unnecessarily heavy and emotional. What would they do if he shattered their interpretation of the situation? How would they feel if he came out and admitted that he simply thought knives were really cool?
An angel materialized on his shoulder, dressed in a white version of his suit, feathered wings tickling his chin. “You should tell them, Noir. They’re your friends and they always say that they want the truth from each other.”
Noir opened his mouth to speak but was interrupted by a scaly demon on his opposite side. “Are you joking? They always ask for the truth, but they don’t really mean it. They let you down everytime you’re honest with them.”
“They’re doing their best,” the angel protested. “They’re not just your friends, they’re your family.”
“But...” said the devil slyly, dragging his forked tail along Noir’s collar, “If you tell them the truth, they might take the knives back.”
The little angel clenched his tiny fists and lifted his chin to look Noir in his eyes. “Noir. Lie like your life depends on it,” he said firmly.
Noir became aware of the minute movement around him, the fidgeting and twitching of friends awaiting an answer. How long had they been willing to wait on him? He cleared his throat. “I want to thank you all for your generous gifts. I think I could overcome my trauma, someday... with many more knives.”
A loud sob came from the kitchen doorway. Wade was wiping invisible tears from his masked eyes. “This is so beautiful. Weapons bringing everyone together. Problems solved through material possessions. Trauma work without a licensed therapist in sight. Makes me fuzzy in my navel.”
He snapped out of his dramatic pose and produced a tray of enchiladas smothered in green sauce. “Who wants to eat?!” He shoveled a pile of food on a tray and shoved it in Noir’s hands. “First din-din and then we can go beat up some baddies and steal their knives!”
And so it was that the Spiders spent the rest of their evening hunting gangs, getting stabbed, and stealing knives. Noir almost felt bad about it. Almost.