Rain had a distinct smell, it always had secretly, but it was a lot clearer nowadays. Just as blood burned in its own way--more so now than ever, though. Concussions screamed now, much more than the gentle throb of before. The world seemed to spin on its own strange axis, and the slightest things could disrupt that. However, everyone had their own world, axis, agenda. For that specific reason nobody helped Peter. Not now, not ever. Not in his New York, anyway. People often had a tragic tendency to die on the street in his reality, like the textbooks show us--hunger, debt, sickness all catching up with those that couldn't afford to keep it away. Gun fights and gangs took lives on the daily (something Peter knew intimately). Criminals reprimanded in incomprehensible ways. War was still looming overhead as well as a ghost of the past, grey and thick. Minorities always at risk, do-gooders few and far between if at all existent beyond one. It was The Great Depression after all, it wasn't christened as something all singing, all dancing with bells on for some reason or another. Therefore, a body among others would never make headlines, right? But...maybe "the spider-man" disappearing one day would stir something. Who's to know. This wasn't going to be a 'good Samaritan' story. Real life never is.
When Peter Benjamin lost his uncle, things soon began to unravel. His life became his old one, memories faded like the money from Bar Mitzvah cheques could dwindle when a family got desperate. Everything became old, fragile. His Aunt May, his parents grave, his memories and now his name, his...everything was becoming old, becoming further and further from what new life he'd built himself as Noir. Overwhelmingly now than ever before every hit felt like failure, every scar was a warning. He almost liked it. Almost; truly, what he craved was adrenaline. Nothing hurt on that high, mentally or physically. The falls that make his chest burn, ribs spike and head spin almost felt like a reward. It taught him things words, classes never could. But failure was still the ultimate defeat. Not death, not arrested, not the past catching up. Just failure. Failure in what? Peter wasn't certain, to be wholly honest. Maybe it was the looming consequences of failure to save people, to save the ones he couldn't before--Urich, Uncle Benjamin, his eema, his abba.
In a world where communication was stiff, letters and newspapers were the be-all and end-all of everything. Therefore, in his trench coat, he kept four letters as of late; one for his Aunt May explaining it all, one for the spiders his...family, one for the other Aunt May--the woman who he'd quickly trusted more than anyone else, and finally one for the papers, for the public to consume at their own desire after his departure. Noir knew how to play his crowd, its what kept him in all three of his jobs. His jobs...reporter, household gumshoe, vigilante. Some would say jack of all trades, master of none some would say. Peter preferred dedicated.
Tired. Noir was always tired. It came with how much he pushed himself vs how little he truly took care of himself. Today especially so. Last night was long, extreme and bloody. In hindsight it was painful and stupid. But it felt worthwhile. Everything would be better once he got back home, took his phone off charge and actually ate. Eating always helped the seemingly constant pain in his torso from one thing or another. Maybe it'd be smarter if he fed Calloway and had a shower first, before the boiler stopped cooperating again. Showers stung and they were loud, but they were hygienic and one of his few luxuries.
After sorting the formalities; adding things to the board on the wall, feeding Calloway, washing the few dishes he had and then running the water, Peter soon found himself stood under the barely tall enough shower head, water raining down. It was loud, it burned his hands, his face, his side, but it was familiar. It gave space to think. Maybe the boy shouldn't think, in retrospect. Last night replayed on a loop, over and over. Gunshots, shouting, the smell of alcohol, young women crying, anger...so much anger. It was always anger deep down, wasn't it? Spite and anger was always the best fuel. He nearly died last night..and the night before, and the one prior to that, but he just hadn't stopped to think.
Life should always come with a warning, in-advance caution tape, because things had a tendency to be inconvenient. Like now, for example. Something as small as a bottle of shampoo falling can have drastic consequences. An uneasy domino affect, one could say. The thud was enough to startle Peter, to jerk is guilty conscience from the loop, from the analysis and back to reality. A reality in which Noir was jerking his head from under the water spray, head whipping round with a spike of anxiety. So much anxiety it almost hurt. The fact he couldn't see didn't help. Of course he couldn't damn well see, he didn't have his glasses on. He was..vulnerable. Truly, he'd always been vulnerable, but even now, after making out the shape of the shampoo bottle on the ground he just...began to cry. Something he'd needed to do for days.
He was exhausted (despite passing out still fully dressed and not cleaned up on the couch the night previous), he was hungry (despite eating that morning), and he was incomparably anxious. Simply, he was frozen to the spot he stood, body shaking with every hiccup. Noir had seen something like this as a child, he could remember; he was young, she'd had a few words with Uncle Benjamin, and then, completely accidentally, she'd dropped a pan. That was one of the only times he'd ever seen his hero cry--he was sent outside very quickly after that, but he'd asked Davies' mom later. she said that's what the war did to good men.
Peter just...let himself cry eventually. There was nothing that could stop it anymore. His chest burned and heaved, his broken ribs hurt like something he couldn't describe and his head swam.
Sometimes, we all just need to cry, right? And then, maybe a little less broken, we carry on. Which is what Noir did. In his own little way. In his bed clothes, he sat on the couch, Calloway on his lap, music playing, and eating a candy bar.
It was self growth in a way...even if in a few hours the loop would begin again.