Smoke and Mirrors

Summary: Quentin Beck is not dying on Spider-Man's watch. [ Spider-Man: Far From Home spoilers ]

Rating: T

Notes: First: anything medical written here is, obviously, not accurate. Second: I LOVED FFH, save for Quentin's death. That felt incredibly OOC for Peter to just stand by and watch him die - he ran into flames for Vulture, and couldn't even be bothered to bend down to make sure Mysterio was really dead? It didn't sit right with me. It also sort of proved that Vulture only lived in the first movie because he was Liz's dad, which is disappointing. I love heroes that help the villains; to me, that's the truest sign of a hero. Third: I wrote this in five and a half hours the night I got home from the movies. I was in a total frenzy, fixing the ending! Hope you like it. Please leave a review if you can!

Disclaimer: Y'know what? I don't own anything Marvel, but Mysterio is alive and I'm hijacking canon.

Oh, no.

Peter recognized the weak, wheezy rattle of air from the mess of a man below him - it was a bit hard to forget, etched forever into his ears when Tony drew his last breath on the battlefield. After that moment, Peter hadn't ever wanted to hear the sound again - much less from someone dying before him.

"Beck - hey, Beck!" He was on his knees immediately, hands gently placed on the man's chest. He could feel Beck's trembling breaths under his palms, as well as the stuttering beat of his heart. Blood was seeping through a particularly large bullet hole, staining Peter's fingertips. "Hang on…"

Standing up abruptly, the teen bit down on his lip. He uneasily eyed the prone body before him, catching Beck's gaze. The man's eyes were wide and almost unsure, but Peter just couldn't shake the suspicion from his mind. Even with the visual of literal blood on his hands, he didn't quite trust reality yet. This was Mysterio's thing, wasn't it? He'd deceived and tricked his way to this point, so who could say this wasn't another ruse?

Narrowing his eyes, Peter shifted his attention to the highly-advanced piece of technology just casually sitting on his face. "E.D.I.T.H., is this real?" he asked, his voice sounding weary.

E.D.I.T.H.'s answer was immediate: "All illusions are down, Peter."

Shit. A cold feeling fell into Peter's stomach, the reality of how little time Beck had left dawning on him. This wasn't another one of his ploys - the man was seriously injured and about to die. Sure, the teen hadn't been the one to shoot him, but Peter would never forgive himself if he did nothing.

That just wasn't who Spider-Man… hell, wasn't who Peter Parker was. No part of him wanted to see this happen; Beck was evil and definitely crazy, but that didn't mean he deserved to bleed out here.

Peter swallowed hard, kneeling down beside him again. "It's - it's not an illusion. You're really dying," he murmured.

"N-no sh-shit," Beck replied, letting out a half-hearted hiss that was probably intended to be a laugh.

Ignoring his quip, Peter immediately went into a practical state of mind; he analyzed the damage and severity, noting the two entry bullet holes and only one matching exit hole. One bullet had struck Beck's abdomen and went clean through, but another had lodged itself into his chest. Peter wasn't an anatomy expert, but the bullet seemed to be around Beck's heart - not exactly upon it (hence why he hadn't died instantly), but close.

The bullet surely couldn't stay there, but Peter wasn't sure if he had the skills to remove it. He made eye contact again with Beck, noting the way his eyes weren't focusing and seemed dilated. That… definitely wasn't good. But it wasn't until those eyes started to close that Peter snapped into action.

"Hey, hey - Beck, you can't fall asleep, okay? You really, really can't fall asleep here. You're gonna die if you do." It was stating the obvious, and Beck's expression told him that, but Peter couldn't help but ramble when he was anxious. "Sorry, um, guess you already figured that - a-anyway, I need you to roll over slightly, so you're lying on your back. Can you do that?"

Beck stared at him like he had two heads. Blinking a few times, the man tried to respond, but all that came out of his mouth was a hoarse cough. A spurt of blood burst from his cracked lips, trailing down his chin onto the floor below. Though Peter had seen much, much worse in battle, his stomach churned at the sight.

"Okay, um, I can do it for you, then. Ready?" The teen once more placed his hands on Beck's body, absentmindedly noting how much the man was trembling. Counting to three, Peter pushed him gently, ignoring the weak resistance Beck's muscles put up to the movement. Soon, Beck was on his back, coughing again and shaking even more violently.

The color was draining from Beck's face fast, his eyes starting to droop again. Desperately, Peter tapped at his web-slinger; it looked empty, but there always seemed to be a little extra when he needed it…

There! As luck would have it, the slinger produced a little shot of webbing - it definitely wasn't enough to swing Spider-Man from building to building, but it would make a nice bandage for the time being.

Balling up the web, Peter hovered it over Beck's abdomen wound. "This is going to hurt," he warned, and pressed it down into the hole. Beck's whole body tensed and a weak groan passed through his lips, but he couldn't fight it. His breath came in short bursts, a deadly glare settling onto his face.

"Hey, I didn't shoot you," Peter couldn't help reminding him, breaking eye contact for now. His heart did twist at how pained Beck looked and sounded, but it wasn't as if he was trying to hurt him further.

He dabbed lightly at the wound with the web some more, eventually securing it in place as he focused on the bigger bullet hole.

What now? Peter mused, suddenly hesitating to make his next move. He knew Beck only had minutes to be stabilized, but what if Peter just hurt him further - or even killed him?

"E.D.I.T.H., any ideas on what else I can do for him?" The teen asked, nearing desperation.

The A.I. in his glasses took a moment before replying, seemingly searching through its database. "In medical emergencies, keeping the patient calm is critical. Make sure to sterilize all tools used, as well."

Helpful advice, but not what he needed at the moment. Scrubbing his hands down his face, the teen let out a frustrated groan and turned to the communication device built into his suit. Perhaps a human could answer him more directly in this situation. "Happy, are you there? Can you hear me? Are my friends okay?"

"I'm here - what's up, Peter?" Happy didn't sound… well, happy, but he clearly wasn't in peril. "Your friends are all just fine - have you taken care of Beck?"

"Yeah, about that…" Peter glanced again at the nearly-dead supervillain in front of him. "He's - incapacited, but wounded. I didn't hurt him- the drones accidentally shot him."

Happy paused for a minute, then replied, "How bad is it?"

"I think… no, I know he needs a doctor, or some kind of serious medical attention - one of the bullets is still in his chest, and I don't know what to do, Happy!" Screwing his eyes shut and shaking his head, he added quietly, "I'm not the right person for this."

"Calm down, kid. If there's anything I can say about you... it's that in cases like this, even if you aren't the right person, you try your best to become that person, if it's necessary. Tony saw that, too." Despite himself, Peter's felt his cheeks grow hot; it seemed the very notion of being praised by Happy - and by extension, Mr. Stark - still made him a bit embarrassed.

"Th-thank you, Happy. But he really needs a doctor," Peter insisted.

"Well, duh. We'll be there as soon as we can with EMTs - but until then, you need to get the bullet out. It'll be a big help. Can you try to do that?"

Peter immediately wanted to protest, but he knew there was hardly a choice here; if Beck stood any chance of living, it was in Peter's hands right now. At the very least, he could attempt it.

"Y-yeah, I'll… I'll give it my best shot," he promised.

"Great. We'll see you soon then, Peter. Good luck."

Peter took a deep, shaky breath, not unlike Beck's half-dead wheeze from before. But unlike Beck, Peter felt invigorated - terrified and anxious as all hell, yeah, but invigorated too. Happy held faith in him, as did Mr. Stark.

"Beck?" Peter whispered, seeing the man's eyes raise a little to meet his gaze. The light in those eyes was starting to fade away, so Peter once more set himself into action.

"E.D.I.T.H., what can I use here for a tool?"

The A.I. located several pieces of metal from drones, highlighting them before his eyes. Murmuring his thanks, Peter gathered up the indicated scraps and broke off a particularly long piece of wire. Bending the wire in half, he shaped it into the most half-assed set of tweezers he'd ever seen - but it was all he had to work with, unfortunately.

"Now, I gotta sterilize it…?" Peter questioned, looking around helplessly.

"Autoclaving is the most common form of sterilization for surgical tools."

"Wh- autoclave?" He'd only heard that word once before, as the title of a song by some indie band. How was that going to help?

"To autoclave is to saturate steam under high pressure," E.D.I.T.H. clarified.

That doesn't help at all! Peter thought frustratedly, looking around for something else.

The A.I. must have noted his dissatisfaction, for it added after a minute, "In less-than-ideal circumstances, extremely high temperatures may be used to sterilize tools. It can't be guaranteed one-hundred-percent sterile, however."

"I'll take my chances. Thanks, E.D.I.T.H.," Peter replied, turning to the small fires on the floor surrounding them. Dipping the tip of the tweezers into the flames, he watched with awe as the metal glowed bright red. Once it seemed like enough time had passed in the fire, Peter pulled the tweezers out and focused his attention back to his almost-dead charge.

Beck noticed the tool in his hands, quirking a brow and weakly coughing again. "C-creative weapon," he mused, bloody lips curling to a slight smirk. "You gonna f-finish me off, then?"

"Something like that," Peter replied, taking a few deep breaths to prepare himself. "I'm, um… I'm sorry about this, in advance."

"For wh-what-"

As soon as Peter delicately touched the tweezers to the entrance of the wound, Beck's voice cut out into a long, painful scream.

Beck watched Peter talk to a voice in his suit (apparently named Happy) with passive curiosity and a bit of misplaced admiration. The kid's voice dissolved into light buzzing noise - definitely a side effect of dying, Beck concluded, but kind of annoying nonetheless. It wasn't as if he wanted to hear Peter's boastful retelling of their battle, of Beck's loss and death, but he would've appreciated being somewhat in the loop.

Still, it wasn't like his body would let him concentrate on things for too much longer, anyway. The pain in his chest was making it difficult to breathe, and he could definitely feel a pull on his consciousness; it begged him to surrender, to rest his aching body… but he couldn't just yet. He'd already sent his messages to his team, after all, and though he knew he would die here, there was still a desire to see as much of his heroic sacrifice play itself out while he could.

He wanted nothing more than to watch Peter's face dissolve into horror as the benevolent Mysterio revealed his identity to the world, but martyrs don't live to see the fruits of their labor. It was sad, really - quite tragic he had to die in such a pathetic way, but he assured himself that legends never truly die. The thought was oddly comforting; as long as someone remembered him, he'd always be alive in some way.

The public was almost too easy to manipulate and control; if he could fool Nick Fury of all people, Beck was certain the rest of the world would never know the truth behind Mysterio.

And if he had to die to keep that secret, to claim his own glory and paint Spider-Man as a villain, well… in a sense, it would be worth it.

Still, if only this wasn't so painful. If only it wasn't so hard to concentrate, to listen, to breathe. Air shuddered in Beck's chest as he coughed, tasting copper in the back of his throat and feeling something slimy slither down his chin. Grimacing with disgust, he attempted to lift an arm to wipe his mouth, but couldn't even manage that.

Black dots spotted his vision and even the buzzing around him began to fade out. Shit. It was actually happening now, and he could no longer fight it; eyelids drooping, he began to answer to his body's call, surrendering his mind to the darkness.

"Beck?"

His name was called, unexpectedly yanking him from death's grip. His half-lidded eyes flitted over towards the source of the noise, watching Parker's expression melt into uneasiness. The kid held something metal in his hand and was leaning over Beck's broken body.

It shouldn't have been difficult to figure out what was going to happen, but Beck wasn't coherent enough to think. Another cough racked through him, the world's sounds tuning in and out. He was able to barely register his own voice saying the phrases 'creative weapon,' and 'finish me off,' so he must have given as snarky a reply as he could.

But amidst the eerie silence of the world, he could clearly hear Parker's words: "I'm, uh… I'm sorry about this, in advance." He sounded genuinely remorseful - but what he was apologizing for, Beck couldn't even begin to wonder.

"For wh-what-" he began to ask, and his surroundings suddenly exploded into blaringly loud noises, blindingly hot burning, and a near-incomprehensible sense of raw agony.

Someone was yelling, he noted instantly. Someone was screaming in his ear louder than he'd ever experienced. A thousand rock concerts, gunshots, and bomb detonations all mixed together couldn't hold a damn candle to this shrill howling. It wasn't until he felt his throat aching and more blood clotting up into his mouth that he realized he was the one screaming.

A fire had been lit in his stomach, spreading across his chest and through his system. Everything was burning, oh god why were things so hot? Had Spider-Man dumped him into an incinerator, watching gleefully as his flesh melted off his bones? Why was he burning from the inside out?!

And then the pain hit him, churning with the piercing heat to create a truly torturous sensation. That must be it, he thought, someone's torturing me. That brat must have given him to Fury to be tortured within an inch of his life or even beyond that…

His back tried to arch, but something blocked him from moving upwards. Another something was opening his chest up, as though turning his bones inside out and stretching him out. He wanted to turn, wanted to wrench himself away from the source of agony, but couldn't even move. So he lied there, immobilized and helpless, and began to beg.

Please - please, stop. It hurts! Please, at least kill me! Please, God, end it! Please! It hurts! He heard some of those words pass through his lips and others bounce around his mind. The world was bright white around him and he could see absolutely nothing and - and it was terrifying.

Whatever was causing this, he needed it to stop, or to kill him, or whatever would cease the torment seizing his every vein.

"Please," he heard himself whisper.

"I- I can't stop, I'm sorry," a voice sounded, but that only made more pleads - and blood - leave his mouth. Sobs racked through his body, only making everything, but he couldn't help it - he could handle dying, but absolutely could not take this level of pain.

Pathetic. His mind hissed at him, as if he wasn't already well aware of his own pitifulness. Mysterio was supposed to be a grand hero, save the day, rid the world of evil - but what was he now but a sniveling child, writhing on the floor praying for relief?

He felt so terribly exposed, a cautionary tale of how to be bested by your own weapons. If he hadn't been so stupid and ignored the warnings - if he had only stepped a few feet back, away from the bullets…

He was beyond thinking more critically than that. Regret formed quickly and dissipated just as fast; his focus was entirely on his body's signals, on how to stop all that was currently going wrong.

But on a visceral level, Beck knew he wasn't in control anymore. Those terrifying thoughts spiraled through him endlessly, echoing in every corner of his conscious mind:

You're not in control. Your illusions are all used up. There's no more smoke and mirrors. This is you, and you have no control over anything here.

Peter's heart wrenched the moment Beck started yelling. He didn't like the guy, that much was obvious, but the amount of suffering going through the man's injured body was just downright awful.

The moment the still-hot metal tips touched the bullet wound, Beck's body seized up like it had before when Peter had webbed the smaller hole - except this time, everything was dialed up to eleven. Beck was clearly beyond realizing Peter was trying to help him, but it still wasn't something that anyone would want to go through unless absolutely necessary.

And it happened to be the only thing keeping Beck alive right now - a moment ago, he'd been fading away, but Peter's attempt at bullet retrieval seemed to kick his adrenaline into gear and fight off the supposed threat.

Beck screamed and screamed, so loud and so raw that Peter feared someone would hear and try to investigate. Not that it mattered much - the only thing the teen could focus on at the moment was getting the stupid bullet out.

He couldn't focus on when Happy was arriving, on any of his friends, or even on MJ - all he could think of was saving Beck's life.

Every part of him hated death - absolutely despised that it took Mr. Stark from him. Peter couldn't stand the simple fact that, even as Spider-Man, he couldn't save everyone.

But he had to goddamn try his best to save as many people as he could. Briefly, he thought of the beach fight so long ago, and how he'd stupidly run into flames to save Liz's dad. He hadn't even been thinking clearly, it was a natural reaction to seeing someone put in danger. The same principles applied here; no one was dying on Peter's watch.

It appeared he was too lost in his thoughts; his angle with his tool was a bit off, making him accidentally rub metal over some muscle tissue. Beck howled louder and Peter froze, immediately taking the tweezers out.

"S-sorry!" he whispered, pushing away any irrelevant thoughts. This time, he'd be more careful and focused.

The hole was deep, but his makeshift tweezers seemed long enough. He pushed them again into the bloody crevice, inching his way through the wound until he finally scraped against a hard surface. Recognizing it as the bullet, he used the tool to feel along the edge of the object and tried not to focus on Beck's whimpers. His heart thrummed against his ribcage as he gently clamped the metal edges around the bullet, giving a slight tug.

Beck jerked against the motion, hissing in protest. Biting his lip, Peter murmured more apologies as he began to dislodge the bullet. It was slow going, and Peter was careful as he pulled it out of the hole, holding his breath so his hands wouldn't shake. Eventually, though, his struggles paid off; the bullet finally showed its ugly head and Peter was able to extract it quickly after that.

"Yes! There!" he announced, letting out a long breath. Beck let out one to match, his chest heaving from the enduring effort. "It's over! We're good, I got it!" The teen exclaimed, perhaps a bit too excitedly. Beck's listless eyes caught Peter's, gaze too clouded with pain to allow him a coherent response. But the man did nod slightly, his head going limp and lolling to the side.

Peter thought for an alarming moment that he'd died, but then he heard steady breaths leaving Beck's lips. It wasn't the same kind of death rattle he'd heard before - not like Tony's, he couldn't help but think - but the regular breathing pattern of an unconscious human. He still looked too pale for Peter's liking, blood and grime covering his face, but at least he was alive.

Sitting back on his knees, Peter ran a hand through his own sweaty hair. He'd actually done it - he'd manually taken a bullet out of a man's chest.

He couldn't wait to tell Ned.

A hushed voice dragged Beck from the depths of nothingness, as well as the sensation of his body being shifted around. There was a gentle humming in the air, as well as the rhythmic rumbling of movement underneath him. He couldn't even begin to wonder what was happening or where he was, but he didn't hurt anymore - for that, he was truly grateful.

After that hellish experience, he hadn't wanted to wake up again. His mind had been completely comfortable in darkness, his body thriving in unconsciousness as he slowly recovered from the ordeal. But for some reason, that one voice had forced his senses awake, forced him to come back to reality slowly but surely.

Though his mind heavily protested, his eyes eventually cracked open. The world was blinding, but not like it had been before - he was able to see shapes and colors and, as he focused more on his surroundings, he noted a single person sitting by him. The red and blue shades were unmistakable, even with his vision still being quite blurry. A groan left his lips as he tried to greet the kid, unsure of how to even go about a conversation now.

What could he even say to Peter at this point - what hadn't already been said by his actions alone? How did he even begin to confront the teenager that he'd tried to murder?

Peter noticed his blinking eyes almost immediately, sitting up. "Oh! Mysterio- I mean, Mr. Beck, or… well, whatever - you're okay! I'm… actually glad." He let out a sigh of relief, a small smile crossing his face. "Like, don't get me wrong - what you did was still a huge dick move, but… I didn't think you deserved to die…"

Beck understood then, based on Peter's nervousness and the context of his words - as well as a few pained memories - that he now owed his life to this boy. The thought felt like a stone in his stomach, guilt at his previous actions clouding his mind.

"You… you saved me," he whispered, voice still a bit hoarse (from the screaming, he imagined).

Peter sheepishly chuckled, shaking his head. "No, um… all I did was keep you alive. I guess that sounds like I saved you, but… the docs here really did."

Moving his head around slightly, Beck took note of the bandages wrapped around his chest and stomach, and the IV hooked up to the crook of his arm. He then noticed the white walls around them, the soft surface below him, and the bright night sky outside a nearby window. "Where… is 'here', Peter?"

"Oh, it's sorta… like a helicarrier, I guess? Not quite, but almost. The Avengers used one of those to relocate Mr. Loki after he attacked New York, but um… from what I hear, I don't think that worked very well." Hastily, Peter added, "There are doctors on board checking your vitals, giving you fluids and painkillers, and all that. You should thank them - they're the ones who technically saved your life."

He wasn't exactly planning on thanking anyone, but Beck kept that comment to himself. "I don't care for technicalities, kid…" he muttered. "What I want to know is… why did you try so hard to help me?"

It was fuzzy, but beyond all the pain and burning and screaming, Beck did recall the boy crying out in triumph when the bullet had been removed. It must have taken a lot of effort and care to do - especially considering how close Beck had been to death. Doctors were one thing with their oaths, but Peter had absolutely no reason to help him - in fact, the kid would probably be more justified in leaving him to die.

Peter paused before replying, really thinking over his words. "Look, it's just... someone's gotta look out for the bad guys - might as well be the heroes."

"That's not what Iron Man would have done," Beck pointed out, and they both knew it was the truth.

A slight, visible flinch passed through Peter at the mention of his mentor. Still, the teen forced away any discomfort and continued, "Maybe, maybe not. But I'm not Iron Man."

"Then what's the deal - what's your reason behind it? I'm not an idiot, Peter - I know an illusion when I see one." Not his literal projections, of course, but there had to be an ulterior motive here at play. People don't save others' lives unless they want something in return - that was just how the world worked. The kid could be expecting payment, or handing him over to SHIELD to be tortured further or something - honestly, the possibilities were endless.

Peter frowned. "It's too bad you think that way, Beck. But there's really no smoke and mirrors here - that's your thing, not mine. For me, helping people is a reflex; there doesn't need to be a 'reason'. I just didn't want you to die."

The man looked at him quizzically, unable to fathom the sentiment. He'd wanted to create fake threats with real damage, after all - casualties were never of concern to him. Peter's philosophy didn't make any sense to him, and Beck doubted he'd ever truly understand.

Ultimately, that seemed to be the obvious difference between a pretend hero and a real one.

"Are you in pain still?" Peter asked, breaking off his thoughts.

The man shook his head, attempting to sit up to get a better look at everything - only to be stopped by Peter's hand.

"Don't try to sit up just yet, or move too much," the teen warned. "You almost died, remember?"

Dryly, Beck replied, "Yeah, I remember." How could he forget? On cue, the memories all coursed through his mind in quick flashes - the drones, the fight, the bullets, the pain…

And… the messages… !

Of course his mind couldn't just conveniently forget them. Of course he had to recall, with painstaking detail, every word he'd said on camera and sent to his coworkers. It would be so convenient if the truth escaped him, and he could guiltlessly watch the news days later and witness Peter's life fall apart.

But… Mysterio didn't die, so Spider-Man wouldn't be de-masked.

"Listen, Peter - I have to talk to my associates," Beck began, knowing it sounded suspicious. The look on the teen's face also reflected as such, but the man continued, "Before our fight, I… sent them something. This something puts your friends, your family, everyone you know in danger. It puts your life in danger."

"What kind of… danger?" Peter asked.

"It was… supposed to be Mysterio's final sacrifice - to make you out to be the bad guy, and reveal who you are."

The boy's eyes widened, anger showing through his disbelief. "Wh- why would you-!?"

Beck shrugged lightly. "Because I'm a bad loser?" He knew bitterness and envy had fueled him for years, the hatred for Tony Stark - and everything his company stood for - being a driving force behind his actions. The sheer desire to see himself acknowledged as a hero was overwhelming, and he didn't care about the lengths he'd go through to get it. And as much as he didn't want to admit it, part of him had despised this boy for being Stark's little protege before they'd even met.

Peter huffed in irritation, standing up and handing what looked like a burner phone over to him. "Fix this," he said, his tone sounding almost like a command - and hell, Beck wasn't about to disobey.

"I will," he promised, lifting a trembling hand to dial the numbers.

Crossing his arms, Peter leaned against the wall with a skeptical look. "You'll really call it off? Just like that?"

A slight smile tugged at Beck's lips. "Yes. Just like that."

"Why? No offense, but that's super suspicious, coming from you."

Beck was almost touched at being overestimated in this situation. He hummed in thought, pressing the phone to his ear. "I'm all out of smoke and mirrors, kid," he murmured. "Besides, you said it yourself - there doesn't need to be a reason."