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This wasn't happening.
With the amount of black the man insisted on wearing, it would be easy to miss the growing bloodstains if you didn't know better.
You knew better.
This wasn't happening.
You weren't a superhero. You were just unlucky enough to stumble right into the center of the Spider-Gang and their interdimensional problem, and lucky enough to get saved - a few times - by the shadow-clad gentleman from the 30s.
And you couldn't even return the favor when it counted.
With the harsh and crippling fisticuffs-style Noir fought with - trenchcoat swirling as he dodged blows like a lunatic - it was easy to think that he was invincible, beyond the plane of the battlefield, somehow. Beyond the devastatingly accurate bullet fired between his ribs from the muzzle of Kingpin's pistol - except, of course, not.
His breath came shallow and you held his head in your lap, scared and helpless and too far from the others to guarantee quick help, but too close to risk alerting the villains to your presence with your yells for aid.
He, for his part, had done his best to stand, even slipping and cracking his head on the ground at one point (much to your horror and guilt), huffing and grunting with effort the entire time before his strength finally left him. You hadn't seen much in your time alive, but the sight of such a stubborn man rendered limp and barely-moving by a single blow left you cold all over.
But he was talking. Thank goodness he was talking. Some of his tangents felt lined with the barest traces of delirium. They ranged from 'I have got to get my hands on that cube again. Have you seen that thing? All the colors...' to 'I wasn't going to say so, but you've got the brightest eyes. Stunners, those eyes. Heartbreakers... a shame mine's already been.'
It was enough to break your own heart.
"Can't very well pretend I've been the most optimistic man alive," Noir murmured after a worrying few minutes of near-silence, hand tightening around yours, head tipped up toward the sky. "But I've gotta say that having a dame like you with me before the kiss-off... well, it's not the worst way to go."
You shook your head. With the motion, tears you hadn't noticed forming came splashing down onto his goggles, soaking his mask.
"You're not doing this to me, Mister I-Punch-Nazis-for-Fun, you are not giving up right now or I will kick you into next Thursday, do you hear me?"
"Loud and clear," he replied, and had you not had his blood smeared on your palms, you would have thought that he was entirely fine. His voice, low and sonorous as per usual, gave little away concerning his current state. "Though the concussion and rapid blood loss are putting a bit of a damper on those plans."
You could have slapped him. Of all the times to be an absolute edgelord, he could not have held out for this one? You could feel desperation pulling at your heart, the knowledge that you weren't strong enough to carry him anywhere useful making you feel sick.
"Come on," you all but begged. "Come on, you have to try to get up, for the others. For me. You have to get through this so that I can take you out somewhere nice and tell you exactly what I think of you and your stupid, wonderful self. So I can miss you when you go and you can keep on helping people - Peter, please."
At your words, Noir stilled beneath your hands. A spike of panic ran through you - not like this, not yet, no - until he drew his next breath. Labored, and shaky, and a little disbelieving.
"... God." And again, louder. "God. You're really pushing to keep me around, aren't ya. You..." It could have been a laugh that he huffed out through his nose, but you could never be sure. "You play for keeps."
"I really do, don't I?" It could have been a smile that tugged at your mouth, but he could never be sure. "But I'm serious. You get patched up, we go on the fastest date ever, and everything's cool. Does that sound okay?"
"Aces." Was that a tinge of hesitation coloring his tone, even as he lay bleeding? "That sounds pretty... pretty swell."
A sigh left the masked man, and he sounded a curious and fond sort of defeated. "Seems death will have to wait to have her dance with me."
The relief that colored your face was tangible, and you let yourself squeeze his hand reassuringly.
"'Attaboy, Noir," you praised him.
As if the world had suddenly decided it felt merciful - or as if it was bending to Noir's newly replenished iron will - in the next instant you could hear the familiar thwip of webs and hear Miles' panicked hang on, man, we're coming!
As the rest of the gang followed hot on Miles' heels, you could feel Noir gently squeezing your hand back.