Sadly, his hearing was far more attune thanks to both a migraine, and his prolonged exposure to being Chat Noir. Having a quiet day to yourself and drinking yourself stupid once or twice a year was all he ever did. Seeing as the only parent he felt ever gave two shits about him abandoned him, he had his reasons for it. Considering the other tried to murder him. And was confirmed dead by his own hands.
He glanced at the water bottle, then at her, and the sheer animosity in his eyes was evidence enough that her little jab had not gone unnoticed, “Right. I forgot, I’m not. Thank you for fucking reminding me,” he didn’t even take the bottle, standing up and pushing back his chair. When she asked if he wanted her to leave, half of him wanted to scream for her to simply fuck off into traffic. How dare she come into his home, talk to him like this, treat him like some sort of stupid child when he knew her own little secret. He felt her judgmental bias to the fact he had his own way of grieving for his mother’s - disappearance? Death? - was more than slightly annoying. It was insulting.
The other half didn’t want to be alone. He clucked his tongue before walking with that modelesque grace toward the window and away from her, “Aside from you stopping by to belittle and silently glare at me, what exactly were you planning on doing, anyway. I’m not a slob, I don’t need a nurse,” he narrowed his eyes angrily at her, then sat on his bench. Aside from his desk, the place was spotless, even if a little lived in. He’d cleaned up, he’d shown he could be an adult, but he was ... He leaned against the glass and let out a breath.
“I don’t care what you told yourself your reason was, to be frank,” he stared out the window, “Considering instead of seeking out attention or...” he paused, he had had his own vice for a while, one in which only he and Gorilla had known about, but he had been extremely careful not to let anyone know, even the extremely prying eyes of the press and neighbors. He shook his head, “I kept this away from those it might hurt. I thought I was being a nice guy, apparently I’m not, my bad,” half of why he’d even locked himself away was because he knew what addiction was, and he’d been respecting that she was in remission for her addiction and she just threw herself in to sass and snark at him for it.
Though what did she know about Adrien Agreste, really? She saw the mask just like every one else did. She may think she understood him, but she only understood what he let her see. There was a deeper, darker side of him that she’d never be able to stomach, mostly because he couldn’t stomach it himself.
He let out a low grunt and put his chin and mouth in his hands to stare out across the semi-dark front yard, “... I’m thinking of moving.” As much as he loved protecting Paris, fuck if it needed him anymore. No one did. He was pretty sure he was just a comedic relief as Chat Noir, and now some sort of pitiful fixer-upper-project.
He suddenly shook his head, “I don’t know, just... Whatever.”
Now wasn’t the time to start looking for reasons to be pissed off. Unlike usual, he had enough control over proper thought that he didn’t react in his rage toward others under the influence. In fact, it calmed that rage he normally had, saving the wall from another replaster because frankly he was sick of refinishing this single room over and over again. Maybe he should actually use the damn gym he had under the house. At least then he could destroy cheap equipment and replace it without weird people in his home.
