Chapter Text
It feels...silly that in his line of work, this is the sort of thing that makes him the jumpiest--and, strangely, the guiltiest. He supposes it’s its own kind of vice, albeit one that keeps him clearheaded. Peter is at the druggist’s, arms full of bottles and tins. He steps up to the counter and places his bounty down one piece at a time: Rosebud Salve, cold cream, sweet-smelling pomade, and a smoky, glass bottle of ladies’ perfume with something called “neroli" in it. The writing on the label is all in Spanish, but he recognizes the drawing on the front as orange blossoms.
He hoped he had not lingered too long at the cosmetics display. The druggist was staring at him. Oh! He shook his head as if to clear it and slid the last item, a bottle of talcum powder, over the counter. This druggist must be new: Peter’s never seen him before.
Peter appreciates that he keeps quiet. No need to spin any stories about a girlfriend this time. He slides over some money as the druggist wraps everything in paper and as they catch each other’s eyes, all the man does is nod.
“Thank you,” says Peter, and he is out the door.
That night, Peter tumbles into his apartment from the fire escape and stops his momentum by grasping the back of a chair in the kitchen. He slows his breath until he stops shuddering. It takes a few minutes before he’s returned to himself. Then he can walk across the kitchen, shut the window, and close the curtains. It is about three in the morning, by his watch. He takes off his boots and puts them by the window. He peels off his blood-and-rain-slick outer layers and hangs some on the coatrack to be dealt with later. Others go straight into the washtub. He laughs to himself that no visitors have ever thought to question why his coatrack is permanently set up by the fucking window.
He heats a little water, then pads over to the bathroom, wool socks dry and quiet against the floor. It’s then that he remembers the twinge in his chest, and he reaches up his shirt and peels off the bandages he uses to bind.
The bathroom practically gleams compared to the rest of the walk-up. The water he’s prepared isn’t enough for a bath, but he strips out of his dry underthings, steps into the tub, and carefully rubs himself down with a wet washcloth. There’s enough water left to quickly rinse his hair, and for that, he is grateful. He towels off, gingerly avoiding wounds that his body is slower to knit back together.
He twists open the tin of salve and rubs it into hard calluses and his rough nails. As he rubs it into his split lip, he winces and knows the pain will be worth it. The smell is comfortingly familiar. He dots cold cream onto his face and rubs it in. He liked to think it could smooth the scar tissue left behind by his...night shifts. He thinks about using it to shave, but doesn’t want-- or need--to tear up his skin any further. He detangles his hair: first with his fingers, then with a stiff, metal comb.
Finally, he sprays a little perfume into the air and leans forward, into the cloud. It smells...delicious. Like Florida Water, but, perhaps, a little more acidic. It has a kind of bitterness he likes and it's certainly less flowery. He sprays it twice, under each ear.
He hangs his bandages over the door to dry and puts his underclothes back on feeling altogether like a new man. Like, he assumes, a man with some semblance of control or normalcy in his life would feel. This is how he sleeps.