GODDAMMIT

“Better than it was when I struck out on my own, put it that way.” Matt had always been a man defined by his morality. His beliefs were strong in every regard, in every situation, and they were what spurred him on to action. What prevented him from acting too rashly, though, was the presence of other people, people that he trusted, people that loved him keeping him back from making things worse. When Nelson and Murdock was still knocking around, Foggy had acted as that for him, and now, it was the other lawyers at the district attorney’s office that were keeping him in line, at least when it came to his work.

Jessica didn’t seem to need that around her. She worked perfectly self sufficiently (or perhaps not perfectly, but closer than Matt had ever been able to manage). He wondered if she had people, people that served as something like his colleagues did, in her personal life. He imagined that she did, at least from the way she talked about this Panel associate. Her heart pounded just a little harder, affection clear to read from it. One good thing about Matt’s abilities - and a thorn as well, he supposed - was that he was never left in the dark about what people were feeling, at least not entirely, at least not when they were feeling things that their body could demonstrate easily. Twisted emotions, after all, were much harder to demonstrate and comprehend.

“It better be made of gold or platinum, if you’re feeling adventurous.” She mentioned the Panel employee again, this time calling her a friend rather than an acquaintance or someone she had just met. Matt almost smirked at that, but managed to hold himself back. Jessica wore herself down slowly, but it was inevitable that she would open up her heart again. Despite what she thought, she had enough of it in her chest. “By ‘worked out alright,’ do you mean you haven’t killed each other yet? I’m shocked that you can play nice, honestly.” Every word was teasing, even smooth. It was awkward only because of the tension between them, the story there. “Yeah. More someones than I’ve ever had. I’m alright.”

Checking in on each other was what they had done those months ago, after all, why they had made excuses to turn up at each other’s doors and hang out on the sofa, eating Thai food and watching reruns of Judge Judy, because of course that was the only thing that played on daytime television. Back in the day when Matt worked for himself, rather than a nine to five. “They didn’t even know I was blind until the interview,” Matt said. “My teachers went mad trying to get me to work it into the application. I didn’t really see what it had to do with a passion for law, mind you, besides bad puns about justice being blind.” Again, Matt felt the overwhelming desire to roll his eyes, but couldn’t. Such were the ways of the world. “Cleanliness also takes up way too much time, and that is in short supply right now,” Matt said, pushing a large stack of paper off his coffee table onto the floor as evidence. “When they said working for the D.A was going to suck all the life out of my body, I thought they were being dramatic. They weren’t.” Maybe they were even understating what it was really like.

Jessica was surprised by the answer, the quickness of it, the undeniable sincerity in his tone. He’d never struck her as a person who relied on anyone else, even with his ‘disability.’ He’d always seemed like her, consistently, constantly alone. Why the hell did he come hang out with her goddamn cat?

She probably knew the answer to that, honestly. She just wasn’t thinking about it too hard. The thing with her and Matt -- it had never become real. It had always been just an inch away, out of their grasp. And that meant she could keep denying it, but a part of her didn’t want to. A part of her wanted to do something about it, even now. But what? “Only you would be happier in a nine to five,” she said, instead of anything serious, shaking her head and forcing a smirk he couldn’t even see. He had this way of making her feel a little bit backwards, twisted -- more than she already was anyway.

“Don’t push your luck, Murdock,” she shot back. Talking about Sharon, it felt a little strange. Like she had something to prove, like she wanted to show him she could be a functioning human being. After all, he’d seen her on a lot of binges. Sat on her couch while she was nursing a hangover, making quips at her expense, but sliding a glass of water her way regardless. Christ, things were almost simple then. Or maybe they weren’t, and that was just her memory lying to her. It wouldn’t be the first time that happened. “Way to set the bar high,” she said, her smirk more genuine now, rolling her eyes just because she knew it’d annoy him to hear. “I am capable on occasion. I just don’t indulge in it very often, don’t wanna spoil people,” she said. Her smirk softened around the edges, and she felt something like relief wash through her. “Good,” she said, nodding once. “That’s... that’s good.” She bit her lip, tapping her fingers along the articles about Doom in her hands. “Anyone special?” she asked, as lightly as she could. 

Inside, Jessica shoved some plates to the side and dumped the articles onto the table. She never got tired of looking at this place, the starkness of it. He didn’t bother decorating, why would he? It was a lot like her place, except she didn’t have blindness as an excuse. The only real thing of note, besides the goddamn billboard, was the green trunk in the corner. She’d never asked what was inside, but she didn’t have to. She was a P.I., she could put two and two together. “Fuck that,” she said, the shadow of a laugh on her breath. “Dorothy was like that -- Trish’s mom. Wanted me to talk about being a goddamn orphan on my application. I told her to shove it. Never saw the point in commodifying tragedy,” she said, spreading the articles out across the table. Refocusing. This wasn’t just the most awkward social visit ever -- they had shit to do. 

The party wasn’t great. Even if Bucky had been his old self again, the good time guy that was always down for more than a few pints, dancing with every girl in the room, he would’ve said that the whole thing had a strange air to it, like most of the partygoers were just waiting for shit to hit the fan. He knew what that was like, after all. It seemed as if, throughout the course of his life, every time his feet found something sturdy to stand upon, it was yanked out from underneath him, cracked and strained, even if it seemed impossible.

“Friend of a friend,” Bucky repeated, a small smirk of amusement coming onto his face. “Sounds like you’re close to him,” he deadpanned. The city did seem to have gone crazy for Doom recently, from the street name changes to the museums in his honour, the statue in Central Park that grimaced down at the passersby. “I never did such a thing. He broke up his marriage long before he shipped out, I just put the final nail in the coffin, really.” Dugan’s divorce had proven what the rest of the guys, except maybe Steve (optimistic bastard), already knew - war wasn’t meant for men with families. “Doesn’t feel much like freedom sometimes.” Especially with the fact that he was on the run, constantly looking over his shoulder. “Maybe one in a thousand?” Bucky suggested, not bothering to run the numbers in his head. He’d gotten rusty since the scopes started to auto-calibrate. “Nah, don’t be sorry. I’m the one who makes things weird. Don’t even know what’s going on in here,” Bucky said, tapping the side of his head. “Can’t make things awkward with a ghost, Jessica.”

She wouldn’t have been at this party unless she needed the distraction. Even with the smell of liquor thick in the air, making her throat burn and ache, even with the threat of Doom’s ever-looming presence on the horizon, even with the tension in the air -- it was better than being alone in her apartment. Thinking about all the ghosts that could show up there, all the ways life and death were backwards. Bucky, he was an example of that, too. But maybe because she hadn’t known him before, maybe because she didn’t give a shit about his past or he about hers, it was easier to swallow. 

“’Bout as close as I get to anyone, really,” she replied instantly. She looked around the party, seeing mostly strangers, but every now and then a familiar face popped up in the crowd. Tony, with Pepper on his arm, looking happier than he ever did in her memories. Nat and Clint -- it was over a year since she’d said anything to them. Gwen, who wasn’t her shadow anymore, but had found her own life in this new reality. Jason, who hadn’t been the same since the Skrulls -- or maybe was just more like himself. Matt, their almost-something, not-quite something just a little too much for either of them to deal with up close and personal. And Sharon, who she hadn’t spoken to in two weeks now. They were like grains of sand, slipping through her fingers. Like ash falling from the sky. (Her mother’s ashes -- they weren’t real. Who was in that box? Who had put them there?) “It’s better that way,” she finished. He’d understand. He was the same way. 

Oh she had told him alright. Lobo just had a selective memory. He made a face as if he was trying to remember. “Did you? Oh yeah, that’s right! You told me you love ‘em.” He smirked. “Maybe if you weren’t tryin’–unsuccessfully–to knock my head in I might’ve remembered more. I just remember you tuckin’ tail and runnin’. And fightin’ like a girl.” He would never admit it to her, but she did pack a wallop. After fighting with her, Lobo had alternated between being pissed about it and being mildly turned on. “Somehow I’m not surprised to hear any of that.” Like he had really expected her to take him up on the offer. “Your loss, honey.”

If the demons were smart enough to approach him, Lobo would certainly have considered the offer. But he was having too much fun wiping them out anyway. “They’re also about as lame as you can get. And considering humans are the competition, that’s sayin’ somethin’.” It seemed they actually agreed on the way the people at the party were acting, amazingly. Lobo gave her a smug look. “Glad you’re admittin’ they’re actin’ stupid. Wish I could find a drink here that’s fuckin’ strong enough to drown all this crap out, but Earther drinks are too damn weak. Haven’t been able to get drunk since I got to this damn city.” He frowned and crossed his arms. What good was a party if he could not really enjoy it?

Why did every goddamn asshole feel the need to irritate her? Was she just a magnet for the superbly annoying and immensely stupid? She refused to acknowledge his statement, maybe temporary deafness would get the point across,  “Maybe that’s because I am a goddamn girl,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Really, if we’re gonna start slinging grade-school insults here, I’m out. But for the record, I wasn’t running from you, and I did knock your head against the wall. Threw the rest of you along with it,” she said, smirking. “I think I’ll find a way to live.” Though at this point, it’d been so goddamn long, she almost considered it. Maybe her sessions with Grey were doing something, because even her self-esteem wasn’t low enough to actually go through with it.

They had been so many things to each other at one point or the other, besides what would arguably be the most simple thing to define entirely. Matt had been her lawyer in the beginning, but that was only after he had assisted her in a bar fight that she had caused, had jumped down to enter a fight that wasn’t his own. Breaking up fights like that, petty squabbles caused by alcohol, wasn’t typically in the Devil’s jurisdiction, but his exception had paid off. There had been more to the story, as there was with everything else, and Jessica was a story that just kept changing. Devil, lawyer, friend, maybe something, client, stranger, acquaintance. What could he use to describe what was sitting in between them now?

Matt had always been good at words. He had relied on them as a child, when his fists would earn him nothing other than a detention or the nuns whacking the back of his head, and he relied on them in his day job. Lying for years at a time about his identity meant making people believe what he was saying, but more than that, it meant making them want to believe what he was saying.

“I try to keep a relatively normal profile in my day job, yes.” That, and she knew it, was as much bullshit as he had ever conjured. Matt had never not been subversive. He was constantly fighting back, changing the status quo, and the D.A’s office was no different than anywhere else had been. Matt couldn’t count on both hands the times his boss had sighed, shook his head and called him ‘a crazy son of a bitch,’ but his risks, by and large, paid off. That was the only reason he was still employed. “Professional is a good idea, all things considered. Avoids complications, right? New York has enough of those right now.”

The unspoken went that they both had enough complications in their lives. Jessica had stood in front of him in that gym and brought up his relationship with Elektra. Matt had spoken the truth then. He knew that she was looking for comfort, some reaffirmation, but instead Matt had felt something break in between them instead. Trust was something that was imperative to him, mostly because now he had so few trusting him. He was in love with Elektra Natchios, always had been and always would be, but that didn’t mean his heart hadn’t been open to something else. “I like making those from time to time,” he deadpanned. “Yeah? Who do you have on side?”

Matt wanted, then, to roll his eyes. He settled instead for tapping his cane just a little harder against the pavement, enjoying the sound of it reverberating. It was the sound of the city, after all, which for all of its confusion and deafening noise in the beginning was now as comforting as a blanket around his shoulders. “I got into law school with this charisma,” he replied, a smirk forming. “Yeah, good luck doing that while I’m still breathing.” When they got back to his apartment, Matt made his way to the kitchen. “I’d apologise for the mess,” he said, “but I know you don’t really give a shit, and I can’t see it, so we’re golden, right?”

Jessica arched a brow, a smirk playing on her lips despite the fact the tension was so thick she could taste it. “How’s that working out for you?” she asked, the sarcasm clear. It almost disappointed her to hear him agree with her -- maybe because she was so used to him pushing back. He had pushed her, but never too fast, never too far. Maybe that’s why it fell apart. Maybe sometimes you needed to push, before you could think too much. 

That’s what always happened to her. Her thoughts were spirals, curling in on themselves, twisting like snakes and writhing until they constricted logic and cut off her airflow. She couldn’t escape her own mind, she knew that intimately. Her body and brain had been a literal prison cell, and even with the jailer dead, she was still locked inside. Things were definitely complicated enough, she’d known that from the day she met him. And still, she was standing here just like that day in Fogwell’s, a part of her hoping that Matt would keep making them complicated. Just to see where that road would lead.

Now it was a road not taken. Because some truths were too hard to face it seemed, even for her. Sometimes she chose to keep denying, because doing something might hurt worse. It was hard to remember now, standing in front of him, why she’d made that choice. But maybe unfinished business was something they’d always have in common, something that would always stand between them.

Or maybe they’d find some way around it. She didn’t know. She was trying not to overthink it. “Your medal’s in the mail,” she quipped, actually smirking this time. It still came so easily with him, even when it shouldn’t have. “A friend, believe it or not,” she said, running a hand through her hair. “She works at the Panel, we met there. Got partnered up, which was not my idea, but... worked out all right in the end.” She paused a second. “And you, now. Since you’ve already agreed to prosecute if I get the evidence.” Another pause, even more strained than the last. She bit her lip. “You got someone on your side these days?” 

In retrospect, it had probably been a terrible idea given Carol’s own past indiscretions (for lack of a better term, and it was definitely one that was easier to swallow) to become friends with Jessica Jones. It had been at a low point for both of them, Carol still reeling from Mar-Vell’s loss, and then Helen and Tracy’s soon afterwards. Grief had gripped her, had pushed her closer and closer to the bottle, and while she had avoided being taken by it completely, she knew that was a slippery slope. Now that Jessica was sober - or at least trying to be - things were easier to justify, and she could instead appreciate the time she spent with her friend without trying to psychoanalyse both of their bad decisions.

Not all battles were physical. Not all villains could be combated by punching them in the face, or a well timed blast to the stomach. Carol knew that well, and Jessica was one of the few that truly understood it. Kilgrave was dead, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t still here in every way that mattered, the same way as Carol’s experiences continued to haunt her, remaining in the back of her mind. The one thing that she had to rely on was the fact that if anything went wrong, she could always return to the stars where she was sure she belonged. Now, that had been taken from her, and Carol would be lying if she said she wasn’t feeling desperately claustrophobic.

“Not good ones,” Carol argued. She had ‘Carol moments,’ phases that took her completely for a few weeks before they were forgotten. The Atkins diet had been one of them. Although now Carol could appreciate the fact that carbs were not the enemy, she was still at least semi-health conscious. “No it’s not,” Carol said, making a point to squint her eyes, turn her head to the side as she looked at Jessica’s face. “Your normal is resting bitch face, but this is pensive bitch face.” Few things shook Carol, few things made her pause for a moment, but being proven wrong (again) was definitely one of them. “Did you get out okay?” Carol asked, a little softer than usual. “Oh, no. I passed on the patrol baton to Tony. He’s having one of his nights, so he needed something to do. Saving kittens from trees suits him!”

They used to meet up in bars. Mostly impromptu, neither of them had their shit together enough to actually make plans in advance, but when one of them had enough shit for one day, they met up and drank it away. Until they could barely see straight, let alone think about everything that sucked. That was how they dealt with it -- and now of course, it was entirely off the table. Jessica had given Carol the bare-bones explanation for her sobriety, and Carol knew better than to make a big deal out of it, but she couldn’t help but wish for the days when they could just pour themselves down the drain. 

“Don’t start with that again,” Jessica groaned, shaking her head. Carol had talked her ear off about Atkins once upon a time, which was not a conversation Jessica wanted to repeat. There was only so far her fondness could take her past irritation, even for someone she considered a friend. (She hadn’t even let Trish go off about diets, honestly.) 

When new recruits came into SHIELD Academy, they did so with many misconceptions that had to be addressed within the first few days. Sharon was the agent put in charge of training those that came in, and when she stood in front of them, the first thing she said was not that espionage and emotions couldn’t go together. What she said instead was that being an agent, fighting for the world at large even when they didn’t know who you were or what your name was, required courage. It required bravery, and determination. All of those things were borne out of knowing that what you were fighting for was something that was good and just. You needed to have faith, you needed to believe in what you were doing.

Passion was what had spurred Sharon and many other junior agents on, but she knew that as they rose through the ranks, they would face other challenges. They would have missions that would make the hairs on the back of their necks stand on end. They would go against everything they set out to do, but they would do it because they had orders, and they knew that ultimately, it would lead to something good. Like growing up, everything would be flipped on its head, the truth would be revealed, and they would discover that even in the truth, there were dark corners.

This was something in between. Emotion, passion, was a driver, but the real reason they were here wasn’t because they wanted to be, it was because they needed to be. Jessica needed to fill in that time, needed to get those answers, needed to chase down the people that had made her into what she was, at least physically. Her body had been someone else’s for so long that she needed to get it back entirely, not only partly. “If I wanted to say you were being a bitch, I’d say you were being a bitch,” Sharon said, “bitch.” She nodded, meeting Jessica’s gaze as if to agree with what she knew her friend was thinking. “On my good days. Actually – yeah. I do.”

Jessica was a PI, she was well adept at crossing boundaries and not trusting what was presented on the surface. For that reason, Sharon was not hesitant to follow her through, trusted in her judgement, especially when Peanut was backing up everything that she was doing with fact. “Evil scientists are still people,” Sharon said, turning to look at the photographs sitting on the mantelpiece, detailing a family life that people like this didn’t deserve to have. The thump knocked through the room, and Sharon turned to look at Jessica.

“Don’t rush,” she said in a hushed voice. “We need to think logically. Something could’ve fallen over down there, but someone could also be in the house that Peanut couldn’t pick up.” True to form, the holograph that emerged from the watch revealed that there was something blocking the signal in between the floorboards and whatever was below. “I’m guessing Evil Scientist guy wouldn’t have some stairs down, so we need to look for a secret entrance.” Sharon lowered herself down to the ground, waiting until she felt a light air current against her cheek. “Check the west facing wall,” she said to Jessica.

Being a P.I. was not a glamorous job. She did it precisely because it wasn’t glamorous. It was dirty and disgusting, and she understood how the underbelly of the city thought and worked and behaved, because hell, she was one of them. She was never afraid of sticking her hands into the muck, or her nose where it might not belong before -- but this time, she was. This time, there was a pulsing, primal sort of fear in her bones. Just like when she went into her mindscape and she saw that creature, that thing, that memory -- she was sure of it now. It had to be, but what did it mean? 

There was a difference, between being brave and not giving a shit. Jessica fell firmly into the latter. She could do her job because she didn’t let herself get attached to cases, didn’t let them get personal. But that had flown out the window now, and it felt like everything she knew about investigating, about following a lead, about getting an answer was gone, too. Normally, at this point in a case, when the lead became solid, when it became real, she was a little excited. Because hey, answers meant a paycheck, paychecks meant booze. But everything was different with this case.

“Fair enough,” she said, trying to smirk at Sharon. But she couldn’t quite get her lips to twist the right way -- she probably just looked seasick. That was part of why they liked each other, after all. There was no bullshit between them, not for long anyway. They didn’t need to pretend, at least not when the sky was dark enough to cover them in shadow. “Shocker,” she quipped, successfully managing to roll her eyes at least. 

But inside the house, with the moon (or fake-moon, whatever) casting long shadows everywhere, any trace of levity was gone. It felt like there was a brick in her stomach, inching its way up her throat. And the closer they got to The Answer, the more she felt like throwing up. She swallowed down hard, and made a face. “If you say so,” she said, picking up one of the photos. It was a landscape, a theme park, but a small one. It was familiar -- she knew that place. Playland. “My family used to go here in the summers. Before the accident,” she whispered, brows furrowed. But she didn’t have time to think about it, not after that noise from the basement. 

“If they are here, that’s more reason to hurry the hell up,” she hissed back, moving from living room to kitchen. But the only door led outside, to the backyard. She could see a fire pit outside, freshly used by the looks of it. There were dishes in the sink. Someone -- Malus, presumably -- actually lived here. Like a real person. He cooked and he ate, but now, it seemed like he had run. Maybe Ambrose had tipped him off in time. Jessica abandoned the kitchen, came back to see Sharon on the ground. She was confused, but she listened -- a real symbol of progress for her honestly -- and moved to the wall. “This west?” she asked, tapping along until she came to a bookshelf. She studied it for a second, couldn’t figure out why it caught her attention until she looked down and saw scratch marks on the floor. “Sharon,” she said, nodding to them. She stood in front, grabbed the sides, and pulled forward. The bookcase swung open, revealing a hole, and a set of stairs going down. “Very evil scientist. Gotta love a cliche,” she scoffed. 

She didn’t hesitate, because if she did, she never would’ve moved. The fear, which until now had just been a dull murmur in the back of her mind was screaming now. But she went down, using her phone as a flashlight. It seemed like a normal basement, all things considered. But on the far wall, there was a barricaded door. Jessica glanced back at Sharon, then reached up, yanked the levers back. The door opened with a hiss, and she pulled it open. It weighed a ton, even with her strength it was slow-going. 

“This... isn’t what I expected,” she said. A quick swing with her flashlight showed it was empty, and her fingers fumbled until she found a light switch. A warm light filled the room, and it was a weird sight. There was a vanity in one corner, two or three wigs sitting on foam heads, a smattering of make-up and jewelry. There was even a wilted flower in a vase. The room was lined with even more goddamn bookshelves, the titles ranging from fiction to hardcore mathematics. “That’s what I goddamn expected.” In the center of the room was a hospital bed, one that could be raised or lowered. A table with wheels sat beside it, piled high with pill bottles, little syringes full of -- something. But the truly terrifying part was the restraints, for wrists and ankles, attached to either end of it. Jessica stepped further inside, eyes wide, mouth open. “What the hell is this?” she asked. “It’s like the worst goddamn motel room in the freakin’ world. And...” 

Her heart stopped. It must have, because for a second, she swore she felt herself leave her body, die inside and float above. But she didn’t really die, because she was moving forward, to that vanity, her reflection showing her just how terrified she was, how badly she was hiding it. There was a single picture frame on the vanity, just one. She picked it up, and a wave of emotion unlike anything she ever felt hit her, overwhelmed her, took her under and she wished she could just let the current drag her down. “That’s me,” she said, nodding down to it. “Me and my brother, when we were kids. That’s Phil.” When he was alive, more than just ashes sitting in the corner of her closet. Her hands shook so violently she dropped the picture, and stumbled back from the shattering glass. “What the fuck,” she breathed. “This is -- How did he get this? I don’t even -- how goddamn screwed up is this Malus guy?”

“Karl isn’t screwed up,” came a harsh voice. Jessica looked up, saw something move in the reflection of the mirror and she whipped around. There was a woman standing in the doorway, just standing there. She looked as angry as Jessica felt, and for a second they just glared at each other. And then the woman held up a hand. “Sorry,” she said. “This isn’t how I wanted you to find out, Jessie. This isn’t how I wanted it at all.”

“Who are you?” Jessica demanded, stepping in front of Sharon. “Where’s Malus?” 

“He’s gone,” the woman answered. “Ambrose called. I told him to go. But I stayed. I had to see you, even just once.” Something strange flashed across her face, something Jessica couldn’t understand -- especially why it seemed so familiar.

“Who are you?” she asked again, reaching back to find Sharon’s hand. She’d learned, not all touch had to hurt. Sometimes, it could help you stand your ground. 

A few years ago, Hill or Fury would have been in Sharon’s ear telling her to get the hell out of dodge, and she would have listened to them. She would have disappeared into the crowd, pulled a coat off the racks to hide herself behind, and returned to a safehouse to regroup before going back undercover. Now, though, she could actually do what she had always wanted to do back then - she could stand and fight. Sometimes that didn’t mean a simple fight like punching a bad guy in the face, sometimes it meant speaking up when the party was swelling to a crescendo, and Sharon wasn’t afraid to do just that.

Seconds after she finished attempting - and failing - to give a speech that inspired people to accept each other and calm the hell down, Sharon turned to look for Doom. True to form, the man had left the party, and if that didn’t say something about his motivations in regard to this reveal then nothing did.

Across the crowd, she met Jessica’s eyes, and that was when she realised the group that was forming around her friend. Her immediate response was to go in there and break the nose of the guy that had grabbed her arm, but she knew that she was in a position of power, and people would be looking to her. Instead of getting blood on her seriously expensive dress, Sharon pushed her way into the crowd, deliberately banging her shoulders against them as she walked in.

“Okay!” Sharon shouted, as loud as she could manage. “Let’s review here, shall we?” She turned around to look at the crowd. “Mason Jeffries, you’re currently in possession of at least three different types of illegal recreational drugs, and I doubt you were planning on keeping them to yourself tonight. Madison Bailey, how’s parole? Does anyone want me to continue?” The crowd began to gradually dim down, and Sharon looked over at Jessica for a split second. “She’s not the only one out of you who isn’t helping, so how about you break this up before I get out my badge?”

Run, run, run. The voice in the back of her mind, the one that never shut up even when she goddamn wished it would, was screaming at her now. Just that one word, over and over. Run, run, run. But where the hell was she supposed to run? Was she supposed to start swinging at these goddamn people, push them and shove them until she could leap out the goddamn window Bucky had pointed out earlier? 

Panic always made her brain go fuzzy, like static on a bad TV, and the only thing that came through was that voice. That, and the sight of Sharon. Jean was going to have a goddamn field day -- Jessica was actually reaching the hell out for help when she needed it. Christ, who the hell was she? 

She inhaled sharply when Sharon’s shout cut through the crowd. She’d expected something, but she didn’t expect this. (That was Sharon in a nutshell, really.) This was a side of her Jessica had never seen, that strict professional, the cutthroat spy who knew everyone’s goddamn secrets with a single glance. (Seemingly, anyway.) 

The people she singled out turned red, looked more furious than ever -- but they backed off. Jessica just stood still, listening to the chaos still going on in other corners of the room, corners where Sharon wasn’t. She felt the guilt then, the selfishness of it reminding her why she usually just dealt with these things alone -- there were better people Sharon could’ve helped, better fights to fight. Jessica hadn’t even spoken to her for almost two weeks now, but Sharon didn’t hesitate to jump in when she needed it. And that... that shook her, and she couldn’t quite say why. 

“You went bad cop on them? Really?” she muttered, because of course she did. She wasn’t capable of acting like a normal human being, ever. Her heart was still pounding, her pulse in her ears as the crowd moved away from her, but at least she could breathe a little easier. And then the first man, the one who grabbed her, the ‘Madison’ Sharon had pointed out walked past her.

“This isn’t over, bitch,” he whispered in a low voice, too quiet for anyone else to hear. He started to move past her, deliberately knocking into her shoulder. She could see the move coming before he did it, so she braced herself, made sure it hurt him a hell of a lot more than it hurt her. 

Bucky had met with someone just like him, once. It had been where the money was khernys done, or both. there were other days,  - Czechoslovakia, he thinks, long before it split into two states. It was his third break from the Soviets, and there was something different about this one, someone different. Whoever she had been, they had taken her from him, and he had taken himself from them. He had hidden for two weeks. He couldn’t remember ever thinking anything. To him, his mind in that time had been a blank slate, acting entirely on instinct, on impulse. He had met another girl, though, one with blonde hair pulled back into a greasy ponytail. Her hands had been shaking as she took his order at the coffee stop. Her name was Ivana, and she was Vasily Karpov’s daughter.

His mind had been blank. He had acted entirely on instinct, on impulse. When she came back with his coffee and biscuits, he had stood up and put a gun to her head. The cafe had emptied. No one came to her rescue until the cops circled the cafe. Bucky had been intending to kill her for nothing but what she was, who she was related to, and then she had said, ‘Do it. I don’t have a home anymore.’

The ironic thing - the depressing thing - was that when a target asked him to do it, when they stopped begging and crying, Bucky hesitated. Ivana was not crying. She was not even shaking anymore. She was determined, was staring him down, and he had dropped the gun. He had left without more blood on his hands, and he had thought about home. He had realised he didn’t even know what that was anymore.

Jessica, at least, knew that New York was where home was. Europe, though, felt more like home than anything else. James Barnes was born in America, was a part of its history, but Moscow owned him. It always had. “Ha ha,” Bucky deadpanned, knowing rightly that there was no side in those photographs. “I don’t blame them. I brought down SHIELD on them, killed a lot of good people. Hurt Steve’s friends, too. If I was in their place, I’d want me in a cell. Maybe worse.”

Heroes didn’t get vengeance, though. Or they weren’t supposed to. They weren’t supposed to fight for revenge, out of anger. They were supposed to be better than normal people, they were supposed to be gods. “You questioning whether I can throw a punch? I’m offended. Metal arm or no, I can break a nose in a second.” Superstrength or no, too. Bucky had always been a scrapper, a fighter in more ways than one.

“Oh yeah? What would I put on my card? ‘Has seventy years’ experience being the world’s greatest assassin’? Putting myself on the map would just come with complications, even if I changed up my name.” The Avengers were everywhere, had friends in high and low places. the chances of running into one of them were high. Mercenary work was something else, something shady in ways they weren’t, and odd jobs here and there never asked many questions. “First place they expected me to go was back to America. They always overestimated patriotism. It wasn’t for my country that I fought.” It had been for the people in that country, and they were all dead. “In the Iron Curtain states, I had friends. Or at least contacts. Safehouses of my own making. I knew the languages, could blend in. Easier than coming back here, where everything’s blasted up on a screen.”

Old school espionage tactics still had their place. Bucky had always been more of a soldier than a spy, but he could more than pass himself. after all, he had trained some of the best, had been an instrumental part of their lessons. He hated himself for that now. “Still isn’t,” Bucky said. He wasn’t sure how much of Steve’s actions had been publicised. After all, few took the same interest that Bucky had for the past four years. He had known Steve was on his trail, had allowed him to get close. It almost felt like a game, sometimes. “I was the good guy, when we met. Straight A student, best little swot in the class. Never even jaywalked without permission from my ma. Steve Rogers turned me into this.” Or whatever he had been before. Bucky knew that at least before the war, he had liked himself. Bucky looked at her for a long moment, half expecting irritation or even anger to flash across her eyes. There was nothing, though. She was controlled, calm. “I don’t get to say it’s a bad idea?” Bucky suggested instead. He knew what it felt like to claim back himself, even in wording. “Yeah. Yeah, that’s what makes it different. I – I take from people. I have to. Taking from each other when we’re nothing … doesn’t take math to figure that one out.”

He hadn’t put his jacket back on. She could see where the metal met skin, the scars it left behind. Like he was Frankenstein’s monster, all stitched up, and not necessarily the right way. She was like that, too. A patchwork of shitty coping mechanisms and bad memories. Life had ripped them apart and left them to put the pieces back together, but once something broke in you like that -- well, some things couldn’t be fixed. The pieces didn’t fit together anymore, too much was lost in the act of breaking, and there would always be scar tissue. Tougher than normal skin, but uglier. More painful. You came into the world so untouched, skin flawlessly smooth, but life saw to that. Over and over. 

Or maybe that was just for people like them. Maybe they were just too goddamn unlucky, or maybe they were just freakin’ destined for misery. She didn’t believe in fate, but she did believe some people were screwed right from the start. She and Bucky -- they were like that. Someone more noble and more stupid might’ve thought that was the price, that the world made them bleed so other people, good people, didn’t have. But that was bullshit, too. Good people died all the goddamn time, the blood on her hands belonged to the best people -- and she was still here.

So was he. Maybe he didn’t want to be here, but she couldn’t blame him for that. She felt the same goddamn way. He didn’t feel like he had a home, but he came back to face his past. And maybe part of that was to see if there was still a home to be made here. Some shadow of the life he’d had before. 

Maybe she was just goddamn projecting. 

She was quiet for a moment. “I know what I’m supposed to say,” she whispered finally, after a long beat of solemn silence. “I’m supposed to tell you that it wasn’t you who did that. That you didn’t have a choice, and it’s not your fault. But it feels like you,” she said, glancing down at her hands. She remembered the sight of Ruben’s blood, Reva’s blood, caked along her knuckles. Even after it was gone, she kept scrubbing, scrubbed until her skin was raw and red. But it didn’t help, she never really felt clean of it. “It’s your hands. And your face. And your memory. I wanna say it wasn’t your goddamn fault, but --” She glanced up at him now. “You wouldn’t believe me anyway, right?” 

If I was in their place, I’d want me in a cell. Maybe worse. He could hide behind the maybe all he wanted, but she saw through the smokescreen. Flag Waver and his friends, Tony, Nat, Clint -- they weren’t vengeful. They wouldn’t want ‘worse’ for Bucky. But he did. It was eating away at him, the way it had been eating away at her for years, like a parasite in their minds, gnawing at everything that mattered until there was nothing but dust and ash and bad memories. 

“Yours specifically?” she asked, arching a brow. The shadow of a smirk played on her lips. “I wasn’t, but now I want hard evidence. Proof that arm’s as good as you say it is,” she quipped. “Pretty sure I could take you down if I wanted to.”

A harsh, bitter laugh escaped her lips. “Yeah, all right smartass. I get your point,” she said, shaking her head. She leaned back on the couch, shrugging. “Still. You ever get bored, want something to do... I’ve got more cases than I know what to do with half the time. We can call you an ‘outside consultant.’” She had dated Tony Stark for a few months there, she knew some goddamn business lingo. 

She turned her head towards him, still resting on the back of the couch. “So what did you fight for?” she asked, because it was the obvious question. But she had a feeling she knew the answer. She could see it in his eye, the way he avoided talking about Flag Waver for too long -- like he was a memory too precious to share or talk about. She had some like that. “Yeah, America’s goddamn screen-obsessed and overly commercialized. You pick up anything else from being blasted into the future?” she quipped, smirking lightly at him. It was a pragmatic choice, but maybe -- maybe he just hadn’t been ready to face the scattered remains of his past just yet. Did that mean he was now? Or...?

This time, her laugh was a little bit softer. Not much, and there wasn’t much energy to carry it past her lips, but a little bit. “It’s weird,” she said finally. “Imagining you as the innocent one.” Because one blackened soul could always spot another. There was no denying the guilt that clung to both of them, like an extra shadow, constantly following on their heels. Even now, it was creeping closer.  “He was good. To my sister, when she... Doesn’t matter,” she said, shaking her head. “I can see how he’d change a person, that’s all. He gives a hell of a speech.” 

Jean had her fair experience with repressed memories herself, though they weren’t often concerned with her personal life. Any of the traumas that she had faced there, the people that she had lost including herself, were firmly front and centre in her mind, remind her each and every day about how she couldn’t return to who she had been no matter what she tried. The memories that were deep in her subconscious, hiding in the shadows, were protective mechanisms more than anything, the mind’s way of protecting itself. The Phoenix had shown Jean the universe, had presented her with situations that no human mind could truly comprehend, and so many of the things that she had seen were lost on her.

Gradually, Jean had been exploring her mindscape, beginning with her own issues, gaining autonomy and authority over them. Now, she was moving on to unlocking more of her past, delving deeper and deeper into her psyche. She knew the time would come when she would need Emma’s assistance - as much as she was loathe to say it, she knew that the other woman was the more highly trained telepath, and extremely good at what she did so long as she used it for the right reasons - but for now, she was confident in herself and her abilities for the first time in a long time. It provided her the security that her physical powers could not, and that in itself was empowering.

Jessica was going through a similar situation, and Jean was eager to help her in any way that she could. “Memories like these are the ones that prevent sleep, cause nightmares, make people depressed when otherwise their lives seem to be going to plan,” Jean said. “They can be frustrating to approach, especially if you don’t even remember what it is you’re supposed to be recalling, but this is the benefit of a mindscape. It shows you things up front and centre, in ways you can’t ignore.”

Of course, when it was impossible to ignore something, that meant that the only choice you had was to face it. Jessica continued to say that she was more than capable of handling it, that she had it covered, but Jean was reluctant to believe it. The woman standing in front of her had more strength than she knew, but there was also pushing someone too far too fast, and Jean had never expected this memory to just be there, for them to stumble across it.

“At least you can take comfort in the fact that you didn’t actively suppress this memory,” Jean said. “Your mind couldn’t cope with what happened here, and so it blocked these days out to protect you. The case must’ve drawn it back up to the surface. Normally, it takes several more sessions and a lot more practice to get this far down into the subconscious.” Twenty days missing. Jean took a sharp inhale of breath, remembering how she had felt when she woke up and Scott told her that she had missed three years, that she had been dead - again. That she had lost him in all the ways that mattered when as far as she could remember, they had been golden. “We don’t need to figure it out today, Jessica. Whatever you feel comfortable with we will do, but don’t push yourself too-”

The figure cut both of their arguments off. Jean could almost feel it moving across the room, the wind that passed through it, the cold air that chilled her to the bone to see it, like witnessing a ghost moving through gravestones. Jean closed her eyes, spread her hands out and transported them back, panting, to the floor of her office. “Hey,” Jean said, purposefully keeping her own voice calm, even, “hey, I can help you calm down. Just take my hand, Jessica. We will calm you down, and we can work this out together, okay?”

“And here I thought that was just my habit of having energy drinks for dinner,” she muttered, jaw clenched tight. This hallway, this building, this not quite a memory -- it terrified her. Chilled her right to her core. (Did she even have a core? Or was the rest of her insides just like this place? Barren, empty, a black hole.) She didn’t like being afraid. For eight months, she’d been terrified every second. She’d never said that to anyone, but Jean, just by being here, she must’ve felt it. The fear whistling through the wind, like that shiver along the back of your spine. Eight months of fearing what he’d make her do next, until the pinnacle of the nightmare finally made her snap. 

Now, for the first time, she noticed the crack, the fault line running along the ground. It always seemed to be in front of her, no matter what direction she turned. Like a scar. A wound, scabbed over but not healed, just a blackness that ran down who knew how far. Did it ever end? Or could she follow it forever? 

“Frustrating doesn’t really cover it,” she said, forcing herself to take a breath. She wondered if the street names would work here, or if it would somehow conjure that home, if it would make things worse. She avoided it. (Would that work? Was she in control here? It sure as hell didn’t feel like it, she could hardly think straight, couldn’t remember all Jean had already told her about this process.) “Hard to ignore a flashing goddamn hallway, yeah,” she said. In a way, it was comforting. Opening the doors, it simplified your options. Keep denying, or do something about it.

She was trying to do something now. God, she was trying so hard -- but this place, this wasteland almost as dark as what was apparently beyond the city borders, it didn’t reflect that. There was no light here. There was no hope. But maybe there were answers. 

Jessica nodded once. “Or someone made me forget,” she whispered. If IGH could give her superstrength, if they could steal her for twenty days and have no one notice -- if they could experiment on Mutants and soldiers, what couldn’t they do? Hell, if the building wasn’t so run down, she might’ve assumed they had something to do with goddamn hell-dimension. “Guess I’m just a quick learner,” she muttered. She and Jean both opened their mouths, to say more, argue more, but then --

Then that figure was rushing towards her, and Jessica felt that old, primal fear well up in her chest. The kind that makes you scream before you even know you’re afraid. Her hands were shaking -- or maybe everything was shaking. She didn’t know. She didn’t know anything except fear. Terror was purifying in a way, it wiped everything else out. No anguish, no guilt, no whispers of shame -- just horror. Panic gripped her heart tight, squeezed it until her whole world shrank down to a dark, shadowy dread. There was a ghost story her mother had told her once, an urban legend about how you shiver when someone walks over your grave. This felt like someone was dragging her into the grave, piling the dirt on top of her. It filled her lungs, she couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. She was screaming, and she didn’t know if she was saying anything intelligible anymore, or if she was just roaring like the creature coming towards her. Scream and shake and scream. That’s all she could do. That’s all she was. She didn’t have a body, she didn’t have a mind -- she had fear. 

She was still screaming when she realized how warm the air felt. Her eyes shot open and she was back in Jean’s office, her throat raw and her heart pounding and she stopped screaming only because she was out of breath. Gasping, her chest heaved, and her whole body was trembling. She jolted back from Jean’s outstretched hand, too fast -- she slipped off the couch, fell hard onto the floor. But the shock knocked her back into reality, and she froze. She blinked, stared down at her arm. There was no IV. There were no scratch marks from that creature. “No,” she said finally. “No, don’t -- don’t touch me. I’m fine, I just -- I need....” But she trailed off, because really, what the hell did she know about what she needed. Instead she just stared up at Jean, chest still heaving. “What the hell was that thing?” she asked finally. “Was that -- a memory, or just some screwed up hallucination? Did I... Did I make that thing?” 

It was strange in many ways to have someone that understood what he had gone through. Others were empathetic, compassionate, but there was something to be said about having a person that had been through basically what you had, who knew what that amount of manipulation felt like, who didn’t feel safe in their own bones, who looked down at their hands and saw blood that they hadn’t chose to put there (and some that they had). Bucky wouldn’t go so far as to say friend, but it was veering that way, and standing beside her at the party felt a lot more comfortable than standing by the bar, drinking all night and not feeling the slightest bit tipsy.

“You here on a job?” Bucky asked, watching as her gaze went to the president, hearing the snap. “Might’ve been. Honestly, I can’t remember. All I remember is the fallout.” Bucky shrugged, hearing the softness in her voice. “Eh, he needed some freedom anyway. At least, that’s what he said. We had one hell of a year.” Bucky remembered half the way in, how Dum-Dum had turned to him and said he knew who Bucky had left with. Bucky remembered laughing off the fear, taking back the rest of the pint of beer. Wordlessly, they had agreed never to speak of it. “Mapped out every escape point in the place,” Bucky said. “Nervous tic, I guess, or training still bleeding through. Elevator to roof. A jump’s possible from that window, but not that one.”

He was… unexpected. Had been ever since he surprised her on her birthday, a night she usually tried to both ignore and subsequently forget. He’d approached her then, purely by chance it seemed (the paranoid part of her brain questioned that, but she’d chosen the bar at random, it couldn’t be anything but chance). It was unexpected, wanting to remember her birthday, not feeling paranoid about him or his questions. Then he showed up at her house, and they’d spent a night together doing nothing but talking. Also unexpected, particularly for her. No booze, no sex, just… talking. And here they were again.

A long, long time ago Carol had met Jessica Jones over a few too many shots of whiskey. It was in a bar that she couldn’t remember the name, mainly due to the aforementioned whiskey, and it was mere days after her breakup with Frank. They had bonded over the fact that men were typically dickheads, and as the night progressed, they found out they had more than that universal truth in common. Carol actually had someone that could compete against her in an arm wrestle, and with that, a friendship was formed.

Things were a lot more complicated now, and if they had met last week, Carol doubted that they would’ve been as close. Trust was something that was in short supply, something that was a weakness as much as a strength, and with Doom betraying the trust of dozens of people only a few nights before, it was something most were kicking themselves for. Carol wasn’t exactly an exception to that rule, and that meant that she needed a distraction. More specifically, Jessica’s insanely caffeinated coffee. It tasted like the underside of a boot, but it got the job done better than most.

“You don’t have any food in your fridge,” Carol commented, leaning on the door for a moment before giving up with a sigh. “As per usual. Remind me how you haven’t starved to death, yet?” It was a very real concern considering how quickly they burned through food, or maybe that was just Carol. She did have energy blasting fingers, after all. “You have that look on your face again,” she pointed out. “New case grinding your gears, or is it just Doom that has you wanting to punch something? Demons are always an option for fist fodder, remember!”

Drinking hadn’t been all bad, right? After all, if she hadn’t been kicked out of one bar and forced to find a new one, she wouldn’t have met Carol Danvers that night. She definitely wouldn’t have started a goddamn conversation with her, or got wasted enough to agree to an arm wrestle -- which turned out to be much more evenly matched than either of them expected. 

It was a weird goddamn thing, but hesitant as she always was to admit she had friends, there was really no denying it. Carol laughed at the same shit she did, cursed like a sailor, and even if she was America’s Freakin’ Sweetheart and Superfreak Extraordinaire -- they got along. Plus, very few other people dared to drink the coffee she made, and if she always had to finish every pot alone, she’d get caffeine poisoning. 

Jessica was slumped forward on her desk, a mug in front of her now, trying to remember why drinking wasn’t an option anymore. It was hard when Doom’s party had blown up only a few nights before, and -- oh yeah, the little world-shattering revelation that her mother was out there somewhere. She wanted a drink, and if she were alone, she’d probably already be looking for an open bar. Carol was bored, it was a symbiotic combination. 

They both knew the only reason she hadn’t starved to death was because Trish and Malcolm used to keep her fridge stocked despite her protests. But neither of them were around anymore. “Whiskey has calories,” she murmured, not bothering to pick her head up from where her chin rested on folded arms. Her eyes flashed and flicked towards Carol’s for a moment, before she looked away, leaning back in her chair. “This is just my face,” she insisted. “I’m goddamn tired of demons,” she said, shaking her head. “I should punch Doom in his throat though. Asshole almost got me crucified at his little get together.” She sighed, and looked over at Carol again. “Surprised you don’t have better things to do. No heroic deeds to be done tonight?” 

“Hell no, I’d rather be dead, or this guy’s girlfriend. I’m a mechanic, I own my own shop and if I ever get the chance I’d be more than happy to punch Jameson in the face.” She chuckles and smiles, all sharp and all teeth. Dinah is fully aware that the speech she just gave did nothing to deter her unwanted follower, and she can practically feel the white hot anger buzzing just underneath her skin, in the muscles of her throat. She’s about to throw him through at least several tables, but before she gets the chance the other woman in motion, wrenching his arm behind his back and demanding that he walk away–it’s honestly the second most beautiful thing Dinah’s seen this evening, and it would have been the first if her date had been anyone but Laura. 

She watches as he does what he’s told, she’s sure mostly in an effort to keep his hand attached to his wrist, grins viciously. “Thank you for that–and honestly he should be thanking you for that, because I was about three seconds away from popping his eardrums like last year’s birthday balloons.” She rolls her eyes and sighs exasperatedly, but she feels some of the tension that she was holding start to dissipate–particularly at the invitation to hit up the wings with her. She’s not afraid of that jerk making a return or anything, but she’s had about enough of the antics of men for one evening. “I’d like nothing more, honestly. This whole damn thing had better turn up something worth while, or I’m throwing in the towel in favor of that diner a couple blocks away. And or starting a fight–which ever comes first really.” 

Jessica smirked. It was exactly the same sort of answer she would’ve given -- had given once, when Trish suggested she ‘try out’ reporting. She’d never been good at finding a steady job, not until she decided to employ herself anyway. “Please let me know before you do. I want to take the picture. Put him on the front page for once, crying like the little man-baby he is,” she said, glancing over at the woman. She was all angles, sharp and punctuated, her teeth more like a wolf’s grin than a pretty woman’s smile -- and Jessica liked it. A lot. 

Bruce was very proud of his unimpressed look. It had taken him several solid decades of nonsense to master, more work had gone into it than any of his degrees, and he leveled it on Jessica now with a certain degree of satisfaction. “What a delightful image.” His voice was completely devoid of emotion. If she’d been goading him, he wasn’t about to give her the satisfaction of a reaction. “They’re okay, if you get them laminated.” His were probably languishing in storage somewhere. He hadn’t really bothered to keep track.

He shrugged. “Most of my work was on ‘teeny-tiny, but still observable and vaguely logical,’ not ‘functionally invisible, mostly theoretical, and mostly irrational.’ Sorry.” He grimaced, a moment after the automatic apology, but didn’t say anything more about it. He didn’t need to get sucked into another round of saying that he was sorry for the last time he’d apologized. “There’s a couple people I’d normally ask about that sort of thing…and none of them are in New York, so they might as well not exist.” Very inconvenient, the whole situation. He had to agree with her there - if he could count on the Doctor swooping in and saving the day, this whole situation would be much more bearable.

Jessica was a little disappointed at how composed he stayed -- she was hoping for a stammer or a blush or something. But then again, he did hang out with Stark, he’d probably heard worse. “That’s me,” she said, smirking regardless. “I’m all about delightful images. Full of them. Basically my stock and trade.” The sarcasm was so thick in her voice she was surprised it didn’t get stuck in her throat, but she was an old hat at this. “Think I’ll just borrow yours if I need to,” she quipped. “Not much of an interior decorator in the first place. Shocking, I know.” 

“He could be jealous,” Kara offered. 

A lot of problems on Earth circled back to personal or public wealth. It was a shame. This planet could’ve been approaching a golden age by now if it distributed its resources fairly. “Doom has all this money to burn, while Mr. Jameson just runs a little rag in a failing industry.” Kara glanced at the food again as casually as she could, anxious to cover her slip. Her bias—defensiveness—over the Daily Star was showing. “Could be just a Jameson thing,” said Kara, a bit irked. Mr. Taylor was a great man, and always expected journalistic integrity from his employees. He even held himself accountable, which Kara gathered was rare in the media. “Some people are just forever resentful over what they don’t have, that’s all.”

Jessica actually stopped for a minute, turning that thought over. Then she laughed, a rough, harsh kind of sound. “That would be goddamn hysterical,” she muttered, shaking her head. “All those articles about shitty superfreaks and ripping Spiderboy a new one, because he’s jealous. Christ. Wouldn’t put it past him, honestly,” she said, tapping her fingers along her camera.

Matt could sense the curiosity seeping through the silence that settled between them for a second, knew that Jessica was consciously holding herself back from asking questions. That in itself was surprising enough, considering the fact that the first time they met Jessica had pulled no punches, had questioned everything about Matt, had stripped him down to the very basics of him and came within centimetres of figuring out his secret on her own. To be holding back now, that suggested that they were less than they were as strangers. Was that the case, or was Matt simply reading too much into it? There was every chance that she was simply respecting his privacy, something that he had earned after she cut them off whatever they were, but that was beside the point, and something he considered extremely unlikely.

“This isn’t the same kind of shit,” Matt argued, though he wasn’t entirely sure of the point himself. Usually when he came to the table he had all of his points thoroughly researched, any alternative argument combated in his own mind. With Jessica, he couldn’t plot out the course of the conversation. He had never been able to. “This is to do with work, the day job. It’s a different thing entirely. It’s …” Impersonal. The exact opposite of what they once had been. Matt cleared his throat, swallowed thickly, did anything to avoid having to continue speaking. “Oh, so you’d charge me? For helping to put guilty people away?” A small smirk came onto his face. “That’s cold, Jessica.”

He knew all about the strength that she had, probably knew more than she truly knew herself. Jessica knew what she could do up until the point when she had stopped trying to be a hero, or stopped pushing herself to discover the limits of her abilities. Matt could sense the potential in her muscles, could hear how they strained against each other like a coiled spring just about to pop into action. “I don’t know. Stopped asking questions at the doctor when I was about ten. Figured it was better off not knowing.” He already had the diagnosis, after all, knew it himself. He wasn’t going to get better. Hearing the explicit details of what had happened to him wasn’t something Jack was eager to allow to continue, and Matt had agreed. Back then, he hadn’t been as fearless as he was now. “A bigger difference than I was in a tiny office by myself, anyway.” With Foggy, it had been a different story. Things had changed. It was time Matt changed too.

“A lot of people do give a shit, though. We give a shit, and there are others like us out there.” Jessica had always been pessimistic, and around her, Matt almost seemed like the optimist. Wonders truly never ceased. “Thanks. That – that doesn’t mean nothing.” Trusting him to join in her crusade for answers meant something, but he wasn’t sure what it was exactly. Matt nodded once, and then pushed the door to the library open, holding it for Jessica. “You know the way,” he said, stepping out after her.

It’d been almost easy before. When she could pretend she just wanted to know about him because he, by necessity, had known so much about her. When she could blame ‘professional curiosity’ and pretend that the four A.M. phone calls they shared were just accidental. She had done her best to ignore the almost-something, more than something building between them, because if she acknowledged it, she’d have to admit he meant something to her. And that never turned out well for anyone. She could handle a stranger’s secret, did it for a goddamn paycheck, but someone who mattered? That was where things got messy.

But Matt wasn’t a stranger, or her lawyer anymore, or a client. She didn’t know what to call him, didn’t know how she was supposed to behave. She’d never done well with exes, had too few experience with the concept -- and were they even exes? If nothing was ever official, where did that leave them? It certainly didn’t make shit less complicated. All she could do now was hold her breath, follow his lead. The blind leading the goddamn blind once more. 

“Oh, so you’re only okay butting into someone else’s shit when you’re wearing a gimp suit?” she asked, smirking lightly. “Come to think of it, you were pretty okay with jumping into my fight that first night.” It was strange to think that was how she first met him. That she’d seen the devil before the alter boy, but she usually did things in the wrong order. Like she was born backwards. “It’s different, yeah,” she said, letting them both off the hook, avoiding the unspoken tension lingering in the air. “Girl’s gotta eat,” she shrugged, though honestly, she had a lot more cash now that she wasn’t lining every bartender’s pockets in Hell’s Kitchen. “Besides, it’s more professional that way, right?” Easier to navigate for sure, but -- was that what he wanted out of this? 

What the hell did she want out of this? Jessica didn’t goddamn know anymore, and she hated that feeling. It was too much like those first few weeks after Kilgrave, when her mind and body didn’t know how to function on their own, when everything felt like an assault on her senses because the fog in her mind had finally cleared. When she finally got a grip on herself, she was different. She was more impulsive than ever, clung stubbornly to any decision she made, figured out what she wanted as soon as she could, because that limbo was terrifying. It was still terrifying. “Probably a smart move,” she said softly, thinking about all the things she hadn’t wanted to know. IGH was at the top of that list, but she was in too deep now. She couldn’t turn back, even if she wanted to. Her relationship (or what the hell ever) was up in the air, but she knew that she wanted to know this much. That she needed answers at least in this part of her life -- maybe because the answers in the rest of her life were impossible to find. “Sometimes working alone isn’t the most effective,” she agreed, a little begrudgingly. The IGH case wouldn’t have even gotten off the ground without Sharon, and now she was turning to Matt, too. Maybe they were both starting to realize that being alone wasn’t always the answer. 

Jean had brought other people into her mindscape since conquering it herself. It was a valuable teaching tool, and she had long since managed to craft psychic barriers to hide her deepest secrets from view, especially if it were students she was bringing in. One of the youngest students in the Institute, Ying, was a relatively powerful psi, but the damage that she had caused was disproportionate to her potential power level. The reason for that was simple - the young girl was absolutely terrified, and launching out at anyone around her because of that. Jean had sat down with her, had passed over a cup of tea, had touched her hand, and had brought her into a watered down version of her mindscape.

Although there had been no burning flesh, no people with wide, uncanny grins and blank stares, there had still been the fire. Jean could never escape that, at least not entirely. Ying had looked around, wide eyed, and had turned to Jean with the summation that she was standing in the middle of hell. As far as Jean was concerned, though, Jessica’s mindscape was far closer to that description.

At least in Jean’s mindscape there was colour. There was hot heat licking at her face, yes, but there was something there that was alive, something that was life incarnate, something that would never die. Jessica’s mindscape was as far away from the eternal flame as a person could get. It was cold, it was empty, it was surrounded by nothing but whispers of other people or dying friends, and that was the terrifying thing. The only person that was alive in the entire landscape was Jean, and she was an intruder. The purple mist almost seemed to laugh at her, wrapped itself around her legs in an attempt to quell the flames. It was as if the entire place was attempting to reject her, push her out, get rid of the potential of help before it threatened the norm.

Jessica’s mind was strong. Jean had known that a long time before, had recognised it when she heard the story of Kilgrave for the first time. No one fought back against mind control successfully enough, bluffed well enough, to get through and kill the person holding the reins. Now, it was strong in fighting back against people who wanted to help as well as hurt. Jean figured she should have predicted that much, should have seen it coming. Going into mindscapes meant being prepared for the unexpected, but maybe she had been neglecting the expected as a result.

Jean stepped forward, inclined to tell Jessica to be careful, but they were in her own mind. There was nothing here that could hurt her, at least not physically. Psychologically, they could work on. Jean allowed her to move, didn’t interfere in the slightest, though she did furrow her eyebrows as she read the name at the same time as Jessica did. “This building holds some kind of meaning for you?” Jean asked, though that much was obvious from Jessica’s reverence in approaching it. “Perhaps there’s nothing there now, but we aren’t looking at the present day. We are looking at a memory.”

This time, Jean’s suspicions were confirmed within moments. They stepped into the warehouse, and Jean glanced around at the walls of the building. Her flames did not reflect off the walls, didn’t glint off the medical instruments scattered around on carts pulled to the corner. It was as if they were nothing but paper dolls walking into a scene, and that much was an apt description. “It’s a repressed memory,” Jean said. “We’ve gone into your subconscious somehow. Sometimes that happens, especially if it’s in your recent thoughts. Have you been looking into IGH extensively recently?” Jean could hear the footsteps coming, could sense the anxiety rolling off Jessica in waves. “We don’t need to go this far on the first session,” Jean said quickly, stepping in front of the corner. “We can leave at any stage, Jessica. You are in control here, not the memory. You are more than what happened to you.”

Was this what her mind was like? She joked (darkly) about it being a mess, a black hole, a storm -- she never ran out of metaphors. But she hadn’t expected it to be this empty. Barren, without another soul in sight. Just Malcolm, bleeding out, and blurry figures in the windows. Whispers down every alley, shadows that never seemed to really take any kind of shape.

Christ, how messed up was she? Jean’s mindscape had felt like another world, but a vibrant one. Life, people -- even the fire. There was substance to Jean’s mind, but Jessica’s felt more like stepping into a place that was long-since condemned. The sort of place that should’ve been abandoned, torn down and replaced with a strip mall, but somehow kept standing. Even the buildings surrounding her looked washed out, the bricks dull, the sidewalk below her cracked and full of glass that crunched under her feet. 

She knew he would be here. I’ll always be here, Jessica -- was that just in her head, or did Jean hear it too? She wasn’t even trying to figure it out anymore, wasn’t trying to understand how this was supposed to help. She thought she could prepare, that she’d be ready, that the worst had already happened, but now she was drowning in her own goddamn subconscious. As she thought it, she noticed the sound of water. Distant, but distinct. The sound of waves hitting a dock, and she was sure if she ran far enough, she’d find that, too. Would Kilgrave be there? Body twisted, neck backwards -- or would she find him intact, stroking Trish while she stood by and just watched? 

Old wounds. That was all there was left here. Old wounds and scar tissue, and strange, flickering memories. The IGH building proved that much. “A memory,” she repeated, jaw clenched so tight she was surprised the words made it out intact and not in shreds. “A shitty goddamn memory.” She wasn’t sure, couldn’t actually remember, but she knew it was true.

The flickering scene inside was making her nauseous, but she didn’t want to leave just yet. She took another step inside, even as the floor changed beneath her feet. “Great,” she deadpanned. “That’s what I needed. More goddamn repression.” She bit her lip, and kept going, following the same path down the halls as she had during her investigation in the present day. But each step she took cemented the building in the past. At least it was brighter that way, but she wasn’t sure she’d like what she could see now. “It’s for a case,” she said, glancing back at Jean. “My case. There’s twenty days missing from my medical record, twenty days after the crash.” Outside, she could hear screeching tires, the smell of burning rubber flitted through the air. She swallowed it down, kept pressing forward. But Jean stopped her, stepped in front as they reached the corner. “I’ve been trying to figure out what happened. What IGH is, if they -- made me like this,” she said, gesturing to herself. Whatever Jean said, she was wrong. Jessica was exactly what happened to her, what other people had made her. First IGH and then Kilgrave. But not anymore. “If I’m in control, then I want to know what’s around that corner,” she said, pointing, a dangerous edge to her voice. “I’m this close to finding something, a real lead, and I’m not going to stop just because --”

She didn’t get a chance to finish the sentence. A figure, more solid and alive than anything else so far, came flying around, moving past Jean like she wasn’t even there. It was headed for Jessica, hands outstretched. More like claws, mangled and burned like the rest of the Thing’s flesh. Jessica gasped, stepped backwards, and fell, entangled in -- an IV line? It was connected to her, and she couldn’t take it out, and the Thing was still lunging for her, even as shadowy figures with white-gloved hands held it back. Jessica crawled back as best she could, clawing at the IV, heart pounding so hard in her chest she thought she might throw up. Despite everything she just said, the fear overtook her. “Get me out!” she screamed. “Grey, get me out of here!”