JESSICA. / JONES.

❝  you’ve got yourself a deal.  ❞  and so she slides a second glass over towards the super-soldier.  ❝  you good with whiskey? i don’t have much other fancy shit. might have some vodka left— shit, no, drank that, too.  ❞  thus the bottle of whiskey finds its way passed between them. her head tilts back and she drinks a moment, then proceeds to palm the chipped glass in her hand. she stares into the liquor for a moment, then puffs out a sigh.  ❝  it fucking sucks, i’ll tell you that much. won’t make it sound pretty for you. i broke a fucking sink when i first found out. threw my foster mom into a wall. feels like — you’ve got to walk on eggshells the rest of you life, cuz everyone else is too fucking fragile. it’s sort of like — riding a bike again. some shit like that. i’m sure there’s a better analogy, but that’s the one you’re gonna get. what i mean is. you’ve gotta teach yourself your new limits. it’ll come with time. sometimes i fuck up still, but. not nearly as much as before.  ❞

❝  sure, kiddo, i can get behind that  ❞  though her trained eyes miss not the blotches of crimson which adorn the flannel. shes memorizing the splatter work, piecing together the sort of weapon used, if any. discerning the degree of force exhausted. then a moment later — the clothing erupts into flames. jessica’s calculating expression does not change, though she does reach for a bloodied shirt of her own and tears it down the middle, adding kindle to the garbage fire. she hesitates a moment, fists finding jacket pockets, then inclines her head towards the male.  ❝  — consider them forgotten. you feel better, kid?  ❞

❝  and you’ll still be a douche,  ❞  drawls she with a crack of her knuckles. scarlett crevices in her knuckles betray the bravado in her levelled gaze — as does the breath hissed from clenched teeth. she wants to hit him again, naturally. the chance to punch a god isn’t one often granted. but — shots. she needs shots first. booze. liquid fire in her veins to stifle the uproar of pain splintering her fist.  ❝  ──   too good. right. bet that’s what you tell the ladies before you take ‘em to bed too, huh? then what do they say?  ‘not good enough?’  ❞  sure, she’s an asshole. sue her.  ❝  you’ll need to get at least another five drinks in me before you can convince you’re too good. up for the challenge, god of thunder? ❞

her shoulders roll back as silhouettes begin to fade, jessica now clambering out of the vehicle and motioning for this elusive stranger to do the same.   ❝  ─── look. we can swap interrogations later, whatever the fuck will make you feel better. but our tail’s gonna get away if we just sit here bickering. so. i’m gonna go tail the fuckers, and you’ve got three seconds to decide if you’re gonna get in my way.  ❞

「   57 ⋮  →  ❝  i’m not crying. ❞   」

「   108 ⋮  →  ❝  who the hell uses a flamethrower to cook?! ❞   」

❝  there’s absolutely no fucking reason why burning one briefcase requires more than one person, hill.  you can i both know you could’ve burnt this by yourself, saved your time coming down here, and this obviously unpleasant fucking conversation. so whats the catch?  ❞  because there’s always a catch, isn’t there?  ❝  you risked having this ‘real fucking sensitive information’ exposed just by bringing it over here. it’s not that sensitive. or you would’ve taken care of it yourself. or asked your little fuck friend to take care of it for you,  ❞   that’s a reference to natasha romanoff, obviously.  ❝  — so you needed an excuse — a bullshit one at that — to haul ass to my office. why? what’s really in the briefcase, hill? something you wanna get my prints on so you can frame me for shit later?  ❞  that’s a likely contender.  ❝  — or. let’s see. is it a bomb? this a fucking kill order?  ❞  regardless of the briefcase’s contents, jessica jones is certain of two things : 1) maria hill is a dirty liar because that sort of sensitive material does not currently exist in her hand and is not currently being offered to jessica, and 2) maria hill is a terrible, dirty liar at that, trying to con jessica either into death or into some other thing she really doesn’t want to do.  ❝  — why don’t you just tell me what the fuck’s really going on. practice honesty for a fucking change  ──   if youre even capable of that shit.  ❞  

                                   their assailant, needless to say, does not look terrified. why would he, when the duo are truly a sight to behold? melodie, in her petite stature, tongue prodding from her lips, and jessica, tall but lanky, looking like she’s never lifted a weight in her entire life ─── she hasn’t. but luckily, she doesn’t need to.   ❝   asshole,  ❞   comes her brilliant quip instead, as the investigator’s hand coils into a tight fist, no accuracy to the stature, but jessica cares little for martial arts or perfectly-placed thumbs  (  she should, though. she really should  )   ——— too little too late, because her knuckles are now connecting with cartilage, a resounding CRACK echoing from the shatter of the man’s nose. SCARLETT peppers to the surface of her battered flesh, a small price to pay for putting a misogynistic shithead in his place — and jessica pays little heed to the pain in her fist as it swelters and pulsates. instead, her hand finds the pocket of her leather jacket as the makes a point to veer back out towards the bustling street.   ❝  you okay, kiddo?  ❞   she arches a brow in query, perhaps the subtlest semblance of concern stitching into her brows, worrying into crevices by her mouth.  ❝   people suck, huh? i can’t remember what the fuck we were even doing before all this.  ❞ 

 ❝  lysander?  ❞ a moment later she’s standing, tugging her door open and gesturing for the boy to come inside — one brow cocks at the sight of the flowers  (  she’s lost count of the times she’s repeatedly insisted he need not come bearing gifts. that jessica doesnt need them. that he must take care of himself  )  — but beckons him to her office nonetheless.  ❝  ───  shit. i lost track of time. hang on. i’ll call us takeout now —  ❞  perhaps she’s almost rambling as she bustles around the office, trying desperately to track a phone she knows she cannot call, for the battery is drained. she finds it under an empty back of chips, tosses the wrappers on the floor, plugs her phone in, and waits.  ❝  ──  what’re we having today, kiddo? you in the mood for anything specific, huh, kid? how’s your week been?  ❞

── well. jessica can’t say she doesn’t relate. sometimes a person’s just gotta curse at the top of their fucking lungs. get it all out. she gets it. but — that doesn’t mean she knows how to appropriately react — social settings are not her forte — so in lieu of standing about in an awkward silence, she drags herself to her kitchen, tosses a cabinet open, and reaches for a bottle of whiskey, then proceeds to pour herself a glass. she palms it for a moment, gazing into the amber abyss, tilts her head back, and chugs a long swig. something to do — something to hold — something to feel — it’s all about DISTRACTIONS with jessica, isn’t it?  ❝  you want a drink?  ❞ speaking of distractions. should she offer to talk it through with him? perhaps. but will she? ─── probably not. ❝  or. uh. sometimes i’ll go and punch the hell out of some cars, trees, assholes in the street. that kinda shit. you wanna try?   ❞

❝  — let’s get the fuck out of here,  ❞  she had offered in response, guiding them to the nearby subway station to await the next train — upon which they now find themselves. her groan is loud, trident, DISRUPTIVE as jessica’s head reclines onto a subway car window, then lolls sideways to fix a glance onto kamile.  ❝  the kid better fucking live,  ❞ drawls the investigator, who’s now deciding she really, desperately needs a drink.  ❝  — guess the party was a bust, though. should’ve expected as much. teenagers are always fucking around in dangerous shit like that. no care for their lives.  ❞ is she one to talk? whatever.  ❝  ───  good job tonight, though. you wanna come back to alias and we can lay out the case facts? see if we’re missing something?  ❞

❝  — uh. no?  ❞   knuckles pop with a resonating CRACK. then another. another. jessica settles at her desk, lounging in the seat of her office, legs propped up onto the hardwood tabletop, one crossed atop the other. she shifts her gaze around the room, then pointedly rakes it up maria’s own frame. inspecting. learning. she does nothing to mask her SUSPICION, broken glass of a sharp gaze marring her otherwise neutral expression. pursed lips part into a little scowl — inwardly she’s hoping, praying to a god in which she doesn’t believe, that maria hill won’t break down and cry in this office  (  again  ) .   ❝  you’re probably getting rid of some shield evidence or whatever shield agent bullshit. i want no part in your shady ass organization. set shit on fire by yourself, you seem competent enough — well. sometimes. but you don’t need my help. or get one of your brown nosing agents to do it, they’ve got their heads shoved so far up your ass anyways.  ❞

which explains the handcuffs. and the fact that jessica’s cheek is pressed up against the door of a police vehicle, heavily rolling her eyes at their deplorable attempts to keep her detained. as though a meagre scrap of metal could contain a woman with super strength. dark is the glare that settles into her eyes, jessica pointedly kicking the shin of a guard who comes — a little too close for her liking.  ❝  ───  personal space, asshole!  ❞ the insult is snarled in warning, almost feral, before the woman shifts her gaze to mary jane.  ❝  you sure seem to run your mouth a lot. any chance you can use that to get us out of here? i’m no lawyer, but when some douche tells you he wants to take you for a spin in the back alleyway, that douche deserves to be punched in the face. fucking cops have got their heads shoved way too far up their own asses to realize that shit.  ❞  and, well. if she snaps the cuffs now? she’s resisting arrest. normally — jessica would have no qualms, but to drag mary jane down with her, as an accomplice? ( this is why she’s better off alone. push everyone away. and she’s trying, oh, she’s trying, but some people — trish, mary jane, to name a couple — just won’t let her go ).

❝  — now we’re talking.  ❞  calloused hands, worn from punches thrown and glass shattered and skin scrubbed raw, thrust into the pockets of her leather jacket as jessica strides forward. her eyes, always calculating, always learning, flicker in a blatant display of examining the constantine, capturing details and committing them to memory   ──    just in case.  ❝   ───  so you wanna tell me what the fuck we’re about to set on fire, first? and if i’m liable to go to prison because of it?   ❞

❝ ──────   it’s just some dumb case i’m working. i think the guy’s caught on. so i digitized all the shit i’ve been working on and now i’m gonna go outside and set it all on fire. ❞

❝  ─── you heard the girl, shithead. if you wanna fucking go, you’ll be dealing with me.  ❞