Luke rubbed his forehead — on the one hand, okay, he got it. And he felt sickly ashamed of the parade of women Jessica must have seen come through here, never mind that she had been violating his privacy somewhat. He wondered. How many? In both senses — how many women had he taken to his bed, how many times had Jessica seen? Faces with loosely attached names flickered through his head. All a blur, now. The only face he could see clearly was Jessica’s.
“If I’d met you first,” he said, hearing the abject misery in his voice and wishing he had learned, somewhere along the way, how to keep his emotions off his face when he needed to. “Jessica, I know this doesn’t change anything, and it sure doesn’t make me a better guy, but they meant nothing,” he said, barely hearing her tell him she wanted to be a part of his life, know the ‘but’ was coming, knowing he’d managed to screw this up before he’d even met Jessica. When this train wreck was done, he was going to have to find something to punch, something that could take it. He ached.
Couldn’t meet Jessica’s eyes.
The picture of Reva was gone. He’d told her that.
Suddenly, Jessica’s entire body language changed. Luke looked up at her, the whites of her eyes showing all the way around. He’d seen her freaked out before, but this was something different.
“Jessica?” he said, in a bar that was suddenly much too silent, as if it had drawn in breath.
And then the world went white.
Luke couldn’t even begin to process what he was seeing, feeling, hearing. Maybe he couldn’t hear anything at all; his first real awareness was of a high itched ringing that he couldn’t shake. He couldn’t tell if he was inside or outside, but he was very aware that there was a more-or-less intact wall weighing him down. For a moment or two, disorientation stopped him from gathering his wits enough to push it off, but he managed, getting first to his hands and knees, and then to his feet.
Oh, God. Sweet merciful God, Jessica was out here, somewhere. Among the flames and smoke and rubble. He tried to call out, but if the shout passed his lips, he couldn’t hear it over the ringing.
The bar was gone; most of the block was gone. Thank God the bar was closed, but he doubted the building was empty. He needed to start sifting through the rubble, but couldn’t. He couldn’t, until he found Jessica. No matter how selfish that was. No matter that she could survive almost as surely as Luke had. He had to see her.
The ringing in his ears was subsiding, but the smoke was getting thicker. Still, at least he could hear, now.
“Jessica!” he called. “Jessica! Jessica, where are you?”
He found her crushed and half-buried, pressed against the damaged wall of the next building, and threw up a prayer of thanks as he started pulling the rubble away.
“Jessica, please, be okay,” he said, realizing with a jolt that she was strong, but not bulletproof. “Jessica, baby, talk to me. Talk to me, tell me you’re okay.”
In the briefest of moments, Jessica Jones was 14 years old again.
Watching, paralyzed in the back seat as certain death barreled down on her, caused by a distraction she had provided. There was shouting that sounded like her name. “Jessica! Jessica!” she remembered her parents chiding, their voices harsh and eyes turned towards her. And then the world went white.
There was fire and thick smoke, rubble and metal, and as she laid in the darkness of her mind, she forgot everything about why she had come, why she had been here. The entirety of Jessica Jones’s life had been one inescapable car crash, as if she’d never come out of that coma in the first place. Maybe she’d always been dead- sure felt like it now.
There was that voice again, calling for her. But it wasn’t her parents this time. Jessica struggled against the grasp of unconsciousness, her head throbbing and her ears ringing with a shrieking pain. Her chest was constricted by sheets of rock and drywall. One rib was caved in, gently caressing the underside of her smoke-filled lungs. Blood dripped down her brow, and she couldn’t will herself to open her eyes, afraid she’d see the dead bodies of her family in the street outside.
In an instant, the rubble trapping her was tossed aside, and Jessica drew in a hasty, smoky breath. She coughed, and the pain was enough to throw her eyes open, met with the sight of a bright orange glow encasing the world. Her eyes struggled to focus on Luke’s face above her, as he spoke with a radio hall reverb and moved in multiple dimensions in her vision. This had to be a concussion at best.
“….fuck,” she coughed, struggling to sit up. She roared in agony, clutching the tender spot on her side, her head reeling and her stomach threatening to turn at any moment. Anything Jessica had planned to say to Luke was beaten out of her by the sudden explosion that set the bar ablaze. All that alcohol probably helped fuel the fire, and for a moment, the alcoholic wondered if she herself would immolate if she remained near the flames too long.
“Shit, Luke,” she panted heavily, trying to stand and failing at first. With her free hand, she clutched the man’s shoulder for support. “You… you okay? We have to get…. out of here.”
The pocket watch sits neatly in Kilgrave’s hand, a luxury that the man didn’t particularly require and yet an air of sophistication surrounding the antiquated timepiece had drawn him in - it had been purchased legally ( he wasn’t a common thug ) despite the shopkeeper’s dismay, shattered glass littering the floor amidst laboured groans of non-consensual self-imposed agony. Crimson droplets pool over the fractured segments, the villain stepping over the elderly man to plop a wad of bills onto the counter before slipping out of the quaint establishment. Four heavily set men dressed in black suits linger outside, severe expressions intact while awaiting for their patron to grace them with his presence, the not so distant echo of the blast lingering in the hellish atmosphere.
A malevolent grin twitches over thin lips with a sly mutter of “perfect timing,” the small entourage making the slow journey around the block - two walking ahead of the man as two securely drift behind. There’s sheer panic in the air, screams of confusion and alarm all intermingling into a heady mess as several people run in the opposite direction of the spreading fire, its smouldering prominence increasingly exacerbating. Kilgrave was feeling somewhat frisky, taking in a deep breath to appreciate the ashen surroundings, each of his steps seemingly coalescing with each abrupt shudder of the pocketed timepiece’s elongated hand. The full splendor of the blaze finally comes into view, the Englishman’s visage erupting in manic ecstasy, his gait slowing further to keep a safe distance regardless of just how keen he was to get closer and admire his handiwork.
Weeks of observation and planning had gone into this, patterns picked up on regarding Luke’s movements, ensuring he would be present for the little debacle. Of course Kilgrave had had a little external help, a deal having been struck with a seedy organisation who had the means of making the most troublesome of nuisances disappear. Dark leather nudges at a piece of discarded and insignificant rubble, toying with the detritus before the heel of the villain’s shoe suddenly stamps it into the ground, beady eyes lifting to take in the two cowering and shaken figures in their struggle for survival. “Well well well. If it isn’t Hell’s Kitchen’s favourite power couple.”
Slender hands slip into purple pockets, the rounded formation of his pale chin raising to stare at the pair head-on, his voice elevating as it drips with sarcasm. “The bulletproof man and the bitch. Someone call the paparazzi, this is a sight for sore eyes.“ There’s the vaguest hint of guilt threatening to broil within the pit of his stomach, the staggering steps of Jessica’s slender form beginning to weigh on his conscious. But Kilgrave’s demeanour hardens, contemplating the manner in which the two gifted individuals had fled together, the Englishman’s efforts in ensuring the woman’s escape from Hart Island having been utterly disregarded. His Jewel is better than this, her sorry state infuriating the lofty man. “Stop snivelling, get up. And you...” His line of vision shoots across to the hulking man, pointedly making eye contact. “Don’t move a muscle.”
