Work Text:
Choose Mercy Over Blame
"We're out of our league, Nate. Every one of Moreau's men has innocent blood on their hands, every one of ‘em," he says, begging Nate to understand, because he lives with the shame and the horror and the guilt of those actions every damn day and if he has to lay out his actions, he's not sure he'd survive it. "Every one of ’em... are worse than me. You think you know what I've done? The worst thing I ever did in my entire life I did for Damien Moreau. And I- I'll never be clean of that," he finishes and has to fight to keep the shake out of his voice. It's bad enough that he's been forced to air the worst part of himself. He can't let himself break, because he doesn't deserve that. Doesn't deserve anything but their scorn and condemnation, but he's hoping that maybe, just maybe, they'll choose mercy over blame. They'll let him keep the dark pit inside of himself covered, because if he has to rip it open again, he's not sure what the man on the other side of the act will be like.
"What did you do?" Parker asks, softly and he can't get hold of his emotions enough to get a read on her voice. Out of all of them, she's the only one who would ask. The only one who could, right here and right now. They've all earned the right but Parker is like him, the other side of his coin.
It costs him more than he'll ever admit to turn his face towards her. He's never been a coward but seeing disgust or hate or doubt on her face might just break him and he's not ready for that. The team, the jobs they're doing are good , clean, in a way that gives him hope for his tattered and worn soul. Gives him hope not for redemption, because with the amount of blood he has spilled, he's far beyond that and has made an uneasy peace with the fact, but that maybe, he can nudge the balance back towards good, just a little. Just enough that he can maybe stop hating himself quite as much. Help people rather than hurting them. Build something rather than tearing things down all of the time. He feels like he was the one, drowning in the pool, because his chest is burning and there's a lump in his throat that he has to swallow past, once, twice, before he can speak.
"Don't ask me that, Parker," he says and tries to put his usual growl in the words, knowing he's failing, but it's enough, maybe, to keep the shake out of his voice. Enough to shield just how much this little confession is costing him.
Her eyes are suspiciously shiny and he can't help but soften his tone, moderate it to something almost gentle. It's a harsh contrast to his words, to the pain and guilt he can feel on his face. He keeps his hands down by his sides, tucked into his jean pockets, because he's shaking and if any of them ask if he's okay, he's going to snap and he doesn't deserve the luxury of breaking down. He's not the victim of this piece, as much as his acts haunt him, because he'd known exactly what Damien Moreau was and what the bastard would expect going in and still chosen to join his crew. He'll own the things he did in the man's service, even if it's like hanging on to broken glass with his clenched fists and making himself bleed. It doesn't matter that he'd been younger and fresh off a job for a PMC that still makes acid rise in his throat when he thinks about it and Damien fucking Moreau had taken advantage of that fact. It doesn't matter that he'd been beat three ways to hell and Damien Moreau had offered him a safe place to recover. I knew what he was and what he'd expect from me, he thinks and blinks against the burn in his eyes. There's a difference between only having bad choices and having no choices at all and he's still not quite sure exactly where joining Damien Moreau falls on that spectrum.
"Because if you ask me that," he says and the look on her face breaks something inside of him, lets the pain and guilt and shame peek out and as much as he wants to hide, he can't, not when she's looking at him like that, like a glass that's been dropped but hasn't shattered yet. "I'm going to tell you," he continues, voice even softer, because it's the only way he can get the words out. "So, please don't ask me that," he finishes and throws himself entirely on her mercy, braced for the blow he hopes isn't coming.
She nods, eyes filled with tears and he returns the gesture, the damn painful ache in his chest easing just a little when she gives him grace, lets him keep the dark and dirty and foul things he's done inside. It's mercy, when he's pretty sure he doesn't deserve any, and he loves her for that.
Sophie says something and he barely takes in the words, because he's too busy feeling relief, too busy accepting this little spot of grace that Parker has given him. The team feels fragile and he'll have to find a way to fix that but right now they're going after a monster and Eliot knows this job will probably cost him more than he wants to pay, but that's okay, because as long as the rest of them make it out safe he can live with that. He's used to carving off slices of his soul to get a job done, used to turning off his feelings to let himself fall into the old patterns, the ones that only end in blood and death.
It's a price he can live with, for them, because they choose mercy over blame and he'll bleed himself dry so they don't have to make the same choice again.