She can’t do this alone. If she’s going to do it at all – Snart’s stupid goddamn book keeps harping on about a support system.
And Trish, Christ, Trish can’t do it alone. Bruce was right, Jessica’s been taking her shit out on her and her alone for far too long.
So, despite the fact that things are shakier between them than ever, Jessica sends Natasha a text message.
(✉ → nat): actully, i do ened soemthing(✉ → nat): meet me uptwon? say 3?
She sends the address to one of Trish’s favorite coffee spots. Natasha replies simply. ‘I’ll be there.’
Jessica’s stomach is in knots before they even walk inside. She hasn’t told Trish why they’re there either, and her sister keeps trying to guess.
“Are you pregnant?” she asks, tone cool. (She’s still not happy about the Registration.)
“Christ, no,” Jessica says, as the barista slides them their drinks. “I just – there’s someone I want you to meet.”
Trish’s eyebrows shoot up. “A guy?”
“You’re terrible at this.”
“A girl then?”
“Trish…” Jessica sighs, sipping her scalding coffee. Trish tuts in disapproval when she winces at the burn, but says nothing. They take a seat at a corner table, and Jessica spends the next few minutes pretending she’s deaf.
The door chimes as Natasha walks in, and the whole cafe turns their head. Probably would, even if she wasn’t one of the only Avengers to sign the thing. The redhead’s eyes narrow as she spots Jessica and Trish. She walks over with a pensive expression, but doesn’t sit.
“Jessica,” she says flatly, her tone no warmer than it has been the last few days. Her eyes slide over to Trish. There’s a flicker of recognition between both of them.
Jessica nods. Takes a sip of coffee to steel herself, almost out of habit. It doesn’t work as well as whiskey. (Christ, that’s why they’re here, she remembers painfully.)
“Trish, Natasha. Black Widow, Avenger, and the one I punched in the face,” she says, flippantly. Both of them give her a look, but it just spurs her on. “Natasha, this is Trish. Former pre-teen popstar, current #1 radio talk show host. My sister,” she adds, a tiny smile flickering across her face.
“TV star,” Trish corrects. She holds out a hand, and Natasha takes it. They’re both careful, cool, collected. Essentially everything Jessica isn’t.
“I heard your interview with Steve,” Natasha says. “It was good. Fair.”
Trish nods “Thank you. He told his story, I was just there to make sure it was heard. Please, sit.” She pushes out a chair. “I’d love to hear yours sometime, if you’d be willing.”
Natasha hesitates, but only a second. “Maybe someday,” she replies simply. Her gaze turns to Jessica. “I assume you didn’t bring us here to set up an interview”
Jessica shakes her head. “Not exactly. Good for the ratings though,” she adds with a look at Trish. Her sister isn’t having it. The look on her face clearly screams get on with it, Jess.
She sighs. Toys with her cup. Looks everywhere but at the two of them. She feels so small in comparison to the two of them, wilting under their increasingly impatient gazes, and Christ she just wants one goddamn drink to make this easier, maybe two, or three, or a bottle –
“I’m an alcoholic,” she says finally. No matter how many times she says it, it’s always a struggle. Always feels like a dam is bursting in her chest. “Natasha made that pretty clear the other night,” she says, glancing up at her. Natasha’s face is stoney, but softer around the edges than usual. Even with the fading bruise on her jaw. Trish’s face is crestfallen.
Both look a little disappointed. A little hesitant. A little proud.
“You’re both pissed at me, I know that,” Jessica says, the word tumbling out of her mouth now. Her grip on the coffee cup is reaching dangerous levels. “And yeah, you have every right to be. I don’t – I shouldn’t ask for it, but I can’t – I can’t do it alone,” she says finally.
Trish places a hand over hers. Maybe the only person in the world who can make that gesture seem comforting.
Natasha is studying her intently. “You’re serious about this?” she asks.
Jessica shrugs. “I don’t know,” she says, because there’s no point in not being honest. Not with these two. “That’s… That’s why I wanted you two to meet,” she says, biting her lip. She sighs, then barrels on. “Trish, you know me best. And Natasha, you don’t let me get away with my shit. So I thought, I don’t know, between the goddamn two of you, maybe – maybe we can figure something out.”
She doesn’t know what else to say, so she just raises the coffee to her lips again. It still doesn’t help the way whiskey would.
They’re both staring at her. Looking for something. But she has nothing left to give.
Finally, Trish turns to Natasha. “She trusts you, and that’s enough for me,” she says. “And she’s the most important person in the world to me, so I’m in this. With or without you. But it might be easier with.”
Natasha nods. “It won’t be easy,” she says, a hint of warning in her tone.
Trish laughs. “Never is, with her.”
Natasha actually smiles at that. “Good point.”
“I’m still here,” Jessica says, slumping in her chair.
“We know,” Trish says, teasing lightly. Jessica isn’t sure if she wants to hug her or kick her under the table. She turns to Natasha. “Welcome to Team Get Jessica Jones Sober,” she says warmly.
“I’ve joined worse teams,” Natasha muses. She stands, goes to order her own coffee. “We’ll talk options when I return,” she promises.
Jessica regrets this already.
She’s supposed to be hopeful, she knows that. But the idea of disappointing both of them simultaneously is already making her itch for a bottle. Might as well give in to the inevitable. She wants to run from the cafe, and down an entire bar’s worth.
“I’m proud of you,” Trish says, pulling her out of her fantasy. Jessica scoffs. “I mean it. That’s hard to do, I know,” she says pointedly.
Jessica just shrugs, picks at the cardboard sleeve on her cup.
“I was right, by the way,” Trish adds, sipping her own. “It was a girl.”
“You’re terrible.”
“And you love it,” Trish says. Her eyes flick to Natasha at the counter. “I like her,” she adds.
“Knew you would,” Jessica breathes. “Just had a feeling.”
a ‘drabble’ where jessica tries to save wanda from a fatal situation and ends up dying in the process:
Jessica shouldn’t even be here. But after what happened with Pietro and Trish, she decided she needed to face the asshole twins face to face. There were rumors that they’d fled the city, left the Avengers Tower far behind. No one knew where they had gone.
But she wasn’t a P.I. for nothing.
It took some doing, some less-than-legal activities, but she tracked Wanda’s cell phone signal to Chicago. Since she had $500 dollars that neither Trish nor Bruce would take (assholes), she’d bought a plane ticket.
She’s been following them for a few days. They’re good at this, but she’s better. She almost loses them a couple of times, but she always manages to track them down. She’s a woman obsessed, even if she isn’t sure what the hell she’s going to say when she finally corners them.
She tracks them to an abandoned house on the edge of the city. There’s a dozen of them in Chicago, the less run-down ones taken up by squatters, but Wanda and Pietro apparently aren’t picky. She doesn’t get it. They’re goddamn Avengers, they could get a fucking hotel for free if they used that card. But it would defeat the purpose of staying under the radar.
She watches from a rooftop across the street as Pietro zips out. Probably to go scrounge up some food, or maybe some new clothes. His are looking ratty these days. Her eyes flick back to the broken windows across the street, where she can see Wanda’s shock of red hair. She’s staring down at her cell phone almost longingly, a forlorn look in her eye. She finally tosses it aside, lays down on a moldy mattress in the corner.
The armored truck pulls up ten minutes later.
Jessica’s breath catches in her throat. She glances in the direction Pietro disappeared in, but there’s no silver blur racing back. “Shit,” she mutters, as men pile out of the truck. There’s an octopus signature on their armbands, and they’re clad in full body armor.
Not that it’ll save them from what Wanda can do.
She hesitates, hands gripping the rooftop ledge tightly. She can take care of her goddamn self, she thinks ruefully. But there’s dozens of them, and when a second truck pulls up, Jessica’s heart leaps to her throat.
“Goddammit,” she mutters, making her way to the side and jumping into the alleyway. She lands softly enough that they don’t hear her, she’s always better at jumping down than up. She watches them from behind a dumpster, as they approach the door.
They kick it in, and things happen quickly. The agents stream into the building. Upstairs, Wanda appears in the window again. Even from here, Jessica can see the fear in her eyes. The hesitance as she stares at her hands.
She bolts out of the alleyway, heading straight for the building. The drivers yell, reach for the door handles and their guns, but she’s fast. Not as fast as Pietro, but fast enough to prevent the first one from getting out, to slam his hand in the door and then rip it off. She drags him out, and one good punch leaves him limp in her hands. The second driver grabs her from behind. She twists, cocks an elbow against his eye, then whips around to punch him, too.
When she left, she thought Pietro would be the only to feel her fists.
She races into the building. The men are upstairs, and she can hear screams and shouts and gunfire. She takes the stairs two at a time, skipping the ones that look too broken to hold her weight. When she gets to the room, Wanda’s hands and eyes are glowing red, and it freezes her for a moment.
Minds aren’t something you can goddamn play with! But Wanda doesn’t look like she’s playing right now. Even as more agents fall to their knees, clutching their skulls and wailing with agony, more stream forward. She grabs the nearest one, throws him backward, out of the room, against the wall. He yells, and they notice her.
Wanda’s eyes meet her for a moment, The red fades from her irises minutely. Jessica doesn’t have to be a mind reader to know she’s wondering what the hell Jessica Jones is doing here.
Jessica doesn’t know either. But she doesn’t waste anymore time.
A handful of agents turn their guns on her. They fire, but she ducks, lunging forward. She kicks the feet out of one, imitating what Nyssa did to her, slams her fist against his skull hard enough to feel it rattle against his helmet. There are bright waves of crimson flying everywhere, scorching the walls, and more agents are on their knees. Jessica slams one upside the head, if only to make the screaming stop.
There’s too many of them. Outside, she can hear another truck arrive, more boots on the stairs. They want these twins, and as much as she (sometimes) hates them, Jessica isn’t about to let that happen. The room is chaos incarnate, a whirlwind of fists and gunfire and scarlet jolts of goddamn magic.
They swarm her. She punches, kicks, tries to twist away. One of them jabs their gun against her head, her knees buckle, and then they’re dragging her up.
“Stop! Or we kill your friend here,” a voice calls from behind her. The room stills. Wanda keeps her hands up, but the red glow fades from her fingertips. Men are still wailing. Jessica struggles, but her head swims, and there’s got to be five pairs of hands on her.
“She’s not my friend,” Jessica hisses, still squirming. She can’t break free, even with all her strength.
Wanda’s eyes are wide with panic and confusion. “Let her go,” she says slowly, taking a step forward.
The men tighten their grip.
“Absolutely,” the man says again. He steps forward to meet Wanda, gun still in hand. “As soon as you come with us. Quietly, if you please.” His voice is sickly sweet.
Wanda’s eyes narrow. “You’ll kill her anyway,” she says. Jessica’s heart thuds against her rib cage, not at the thought of dying, but because she knows Wanda has read his mind again. No one deserves that. Do they?
The man glances back at her. Jessica glares at him, wishes she had the energy to spit in his face. “She might prove useful,” he says. Then he lifts his gun, points it square in her face. “Your choice, Wanda.”
Jessica stares at the barrel of the gun, then up to Wanda’s gaze. Her eyes are bright red again, it sends a chill through her. She can see the thoughts whirling in Wanda’s eyes though. That hesitance. Time slows down for a moment. The wind whistles through the broken window, the one she’d been watching Wanda from. And that’s when she sees the silver blur on the horizon. Wanda’s back is to the window, she doesn’t know, doesn’t realize. But Jessica sees an out. For Wanda, anyway.
“Don’t do it!” she yells suddenly, struggling again. The men have to readjust her grip. “Goddammit, Wanda, don’t you fucking dare!” she screams. She scoffs at the men. “You goddamn morons,” she seethes. Her eyes flick to Wanda’s again. ”That mind-reader would never sacrifice herself for a piece of shit like me.”
Hopefully, Wanda gets the message. Jessica clenches her jaw, then thinks one thought, loud and clear. The window. Pietro’s outside. Get out, while they’re distracted.
Wanda shakes her head. Jessica thinks it louder. Get out before they take you and your goddamn brother. Do it for him.
“Is that a no, Ms. Maximoff?” the agent asks. He walks forward, presses the gun against her throat. At least it will be quick.
Wanda hesitates, then lowers her hands. “Thank you,” she says, and a look of confusion crosses the agent’s mind. But Jessica feels relief surge through her. “Do what you must. But you will never touch me or my brother again.”
And then she’s gone. She leaps from the window – Jessica just has time to see the silver blur catch her, and then there’s a shot.
ღ - for jessica to express verbal affection for trish:
Set pre-show, post-Kilgrave, pre-RP
It’s been four months.
She’s not spending every day in bed anymore. That’s a plus. The downside according to Trish anyway, is she’s now spending most nights in various dive bars. She was no stranger to drinking, but before it was something she flirted with. Now she’s fallen head over heels.
Trish doesn’t approve. Says she’ll wake the neighbors if she keeps coming home like this. So tonight, Jessica leaps to the balcony instead.
Her sister is on the other side of the glass, pacing. Phone in hand. “Stop texting me,” Jessica calls through the glass. “I’m right here.”
Trish jumps at the sudden sound, then shoots her a glare. She opens the door, drags Jessica inside and pulls her into a hug. “I was calling, actually,” she says, glaring again when she pulls away. “I was worried, Jess. What if –”
“I’m fine,” Jessica snaps. Less at the concern and more at the unfinished sentence.
“You don’t look fine,” Trish replies, crossing her arms. Jessica just scoffs, walks over to the cupboards. She pulls out a bag of popcorn, opens the microwave. She can feel Trish hovering behind her.
“Where were you?” her sister asks, and Jessica sighs.
“Out,” she says, slamming the microwave door shut just a little too hard. She turns just in time to see Trish flinch.
The ever-more-familiar guilt flashes through her. In a matter of seconds, the fight fades out of her. She’s angry, so angry all the time, but not at Trish. It’s not her fault.
(This is where the goddamn shrink would remind her that it’s not Jessica’s fault either. Jessica can never look her in the eye when she says that.)
“I’m sorry,” she says quietly. She says that so often now. Whispers it in the middle of the night when she wakes up, says it to Trish over and over, even when her sister has no idea what she’s apologizing for. Everything, nothing, anything, anything to lessen the weight on her chest – it never helps.
Drinking does, some.
Not enough.
Trish shakes her head, leans on the counter between them. “It’s okay, Jess.”
“It’s not,” Jessica insists. The microwave goes off behind her, but she ignores it, steps towards Trish instead, crossing around the other side of the counter. “I’m just – I’m – Sorry,” she says again, breathing out slowly.
Trish just nods this time. Then she walks over, pulls the popcorn from the microwave, dumps it into a bowl. Jessica would’ve eaten it straight from the bag, but Trish likes it better this way. “You going to bed, or you wanna watch something?” she asks, which is her subtle way of asking if Jessica actually plans on sleeping tonight. Or trying to.
Jessica goes to the couch, flicks on the TV instead of answering. “Clue’s on,” she says, collapsing onto the cushions. She puts her feet on the coffee table, shoes still on.
“Gotta love Tim Curry,” Trish quips. She sits down beside her, and for the next hour, they don’t have to talk at all.
She doesn’t plan on it, doesn’t even realize she’s fallen asleep with her hand in the popcorn bowl until Trish is gently pulling it away. She sets the bowl aside, then slowly takes off Jessica’s shoes, moves her legs to the couch, and tosses a blanket over her. Jessica stays still, half-asleep. Trish knows better than to turn the TV off, even when she walks off towards her own room.
“Hey Trish,” Jessica calls, and she hears Trish’s footsteps pause.
“Yeah, Jess?”
“Thanks,” Jessica mumbles. “I – yeah.” It’s as close as she gets to I love you, especially these days.
She’s not even sure Trish has heard her at first, but then Trish sighs lightly. A happy sigh.
“Love you, too,” Trish calls out, her voice soft and gentle. “Night, Jess.”
“Night,” she replies. And she sleeps, through the rest of the night and well into the next day. She actually washes the popcorn bowl when she wakes up, despite the pounding hangover. She can’t say it, not really. But she can do this much.
♥ - for jessica to express physical affection to snart:
[bc sushi is a goddamn snek]
After she signs the Registration Act, Jessica Jones gets fantastically plastered.
Like, four bars plastered. (And she only gets kicked out of the last two.)
Then, she decides it’s a good idea to roof hop. Again, and again, landing roughly and picking herself up each time, until she reaches the safehouse. The one where she and Mick and Snart had their little meeting before the heist.
She doesn’t bother knocking, just snaps the lock with a quick flick of her wrist and stumbles inside.
Snart is bent over a new set of blueprints. He turns around slowly at the sight of her, eyes narrowed in hatred. “Jones,” he drawls. “What a pleasant surprise.”
“I hate you,” Jessica slurs, walking over to him. (In a less than straight line.)
He tenses as she approaches. His jaw is a spectacular purple, blossoming into an impressive bruise. “So you’ve said,” he replies. “Still not reading that book I gave you?” he asks, eyebrow raised.
She stops in front of him. “No. Shut up,” she snaps. She’s beyond clever comebacks at this point.
He sighs. “Then what do you want? Come to finish the job?” he asks, as if he doesn’t have a care in the world. His hands are at his sides, but she sees his hands clench into fists. He won’t swing first, that’s not his style, she knows that.
And besides, that’s not why she’s here.
She shakes her head. “I told you. That’s not me,” she says. Then she grabs him, pulls him into a rough hug. “You made me realize some shit. So thanks,” she hisses, releasing him after a moment.
She turns on her heel, stumbles back the way she came. “You tell anyone about this, and I’ll shove your cold-gun so far up your ass you’ll be spitting icicles,” she calls as the door bangs behind her.
She isn’t hiding anymore. And she knows there will be fallout -- in the form of one very pissed off blonde sister. But still. It almost feels good to be honest.
☔: jessica’s reaction to opening their front door and seeing lori drenched in rain:
The knock is so small she can barely hear it over the goddamn thunderstorm outside. It’s a damn good thing she never sleeps.
She walks towards her door slowly, reminding herself that the days of Kilgrave sending her clients are long over. Still, she pauses when she reaches the warped wood, listening through the cardboard she has instead of a window. He’s dead. You killed him, Jones, get a goddamn grip,
Breathing heavy, she opens the door – and her stomach drops.
“Chatty girl,” she says, running her eyes up and down Lori. She’s drenched, and not the kind that’d come from walking from a cab to her building. The kind of soaked that takes hours to seep into your skin, her hair hanging in dripping strings around her face. But it’s nothing compared to the look in her eye.
Lost. She’d known it the first time they’d met, when Lori started rambling about meds and needing them, but not wanting them. Had known it when she passed the girl on the street, saw her sitting alone, as if she had nowhere to go. And she knew it now. Only somebody lost would show up on her doorstep.
Lori held her gaze for a moment, then her eyes fell to the floor. “Sorry, I can go –”
“Christ, get in here,” Jessica said, pulling her inside. She jammed the door into place, steered Lori to her couch. “Sit,” she said, like someone would say to a dog. Like Kilgrave would say to a person. She brushed the thought away, snatched the bottle off her desk while she headed for the bathroom.
She returned with a ratty towel, tossed it to the dark-haired girl who had listened to her, and was sitting shivering on her couch. “I got your couch w-wet,” she stammered, teeth chattering.
Jessica shook her head. “Trust me, it’s seen worse,” she said. Thunder clapped outside, sent a sliver of panic through both of them, though Lori flinched more than Jessica.
She hesitated, then moved to sit beside the girl, elbows resting on her knees. “You want a drink or something? You seem pretty goddamn riled up,” she said. Lori shook her head, just absentmindedly patted her hair down.
“You gonna talk about it?” Jessica asked. She didn’t say want.
“My dad --” Lori started, then bit her lip. “He just -- we had a fight about -- I don’t know. Everything. Me, and this Act thing, and just -- just everything.” Her eyes flicked to Jessica’s, so dark and swimming with unshed tears that could easily be mistaken for rain drops. There was an unspoken question there, lurking, a tremble in her lips just barely holding the words in.
“You can stay here,” Jessica said. “Take the bed, this futon sucks,” she said, getting up to make sure there were actual blankets on her bed. She hovered in the door frame, glancing down the hall, then looked back at the girl. “And don’t bother fighting me on this. I’m goddamn stubborn, in case you haven’t realized.”
Lori’s mouth opened, then shut again. She nodded once.
“Come on, shower’s this way,” Jessica said, motioning for her to follow.
Lori padded after her, towards the bathroom. Jessica wrenched the hot water on, let it run a minute because her shower was ten kinds of shit. She turned to leave, then paused, her hand on the one door in her apartment that actually managed to stay on its hinges.
“I’m not gonna say don’t let it get to you,” she said, to the floor instead of meeting Lori’s eyes. “Because it will. Shit like this, it finds a way to get under your skin, bury in deep. The best -- the only thing you can do is try to keep it from being the only voice in your head,” she said, her voice low. She finally glanced back up. “Remember your voice, okay? What you think, and what you feel. And hold onto that.”
She tapped the door frame twice with her hand, then headed back to the futon. She stretched out across it, stared up at her ceiling, and tried to pretend she couldn’t hear the soft cries over the sound of running water.
I WONT MAKE A MESS OUT OF THIS OR WHATEVER IT IS THE LAST ONE ON THE LIST FOR BRUCE XOXOXOO
a ‘drabble’ where jessica tries to save bROOSE from a fatal situation and ends up dying in the process:
it’s not a drabble who am i kidding, here’s a readmore. @cvpedcrusader
It’s just another sleepless night for her. Which means sitting on a fire escape with a full flask and her camera. She hasn’t slept since the Snart Sibling Debacle, not for more than a few minutes. Every time she closes her eyes, she sees Lisa’s bloody feet, the crushing look of pain in Snart’s eyes.
When the strange looking car pulls up, she starts snapping pictures immediately, because what the fuck is that? But as soon as he steps out of it, she stops, breath caught in her throat. She shoves the camera into her bag, slips it off her shoulder, and leans on the bars to get a better look.
She’s never seen him in the cape before.
Bruce – goddamn Batman – doesn’t notice her. He parks the car in a shadowy alleyway, and makes his way to a warehouse a ways down the street. Stalks around the edge of it. Limping slightly – what the hell? When did that happen?
She hasn’t texted him in days. Not since she asked for money for Trish’s window. Every day she looks at her phone, and her fingers ache to send him something, anything, but nothing is all she has to offer. Apparently, she’s missed a lot.
She sees the broken window before he does, but she’s not surprised when he hauls his way through it. With some difficulty – it’s his knee, she can tell that even from here. She watches the goddamn cape disappear through the window, and she’s moving before she can stop herself. Hauling herself over the fire escape railing, jumping to the ground.
She lands easier than she normally does, wastes no time in getting to the warehouse where she saw Bruce – Batman – disappear into. She finds the same broken window and scrambles inside, as quietly as she can.
There’s a dull murmur of voices. She’s hidden behind a couple of large crates, and she crouches down, uses the shadows to hide her while she peers around the corner.
The warehouse is huge, ringed by a catwalk, and in the center, a group of men are chatting. Over a dozen of them, guns gripped casually, hanging by their sides. They’re gangsters or mobsters, she can never tell the difference. Either way, everything about them screams bad news.
She wants to run, wants to get out of here, before they see her. But her eyes dart around the warehouse. She doesn’t see him, not right away, but there’s a dark spot in the corner of the catwalk across the room that catches her eye.
Bruce is staring right at her. Even behind the goddamn mask, the cowl, she can see the panic in his eyes. He’s mouthing something to her, but he’s too far away. She inches forward, and he holds up a hand to stop her. He slips forward instead, moving like a shadow, like a snake, more gracefully than his knee should allow. ‘Go’ he’s mouthing to her, and for a second, she thinks about actually listening to him for once.
But then one of the men lets out a yell.
“Up there!” he screams. And suddenly all the guns are pointed directly at Bruce. There’s a split second before they start firing, before the warehouse erupts into chaos and gunfire, mobsters running in every direction, streaming for the catwalk, for Bruce.
Because of her. “Shit,” she mutters, barely able to hear herself over the bang of gunshots. Sparks are flying as bullets hit the wall, her eyes dart back to where he was, but he’s already gone. She can’t see him, can’t tell if he’s been hit, or if he’s run, or if he’s okay, or if he’s not. The men are running in every direction, shouting “Find him!” and cursing in a way that impresses even her.
She could still get out. The wind whistles through the broken window behind her, the only sound that doesn’t make her heart race. But something is holding her here.
No, not something. She’s not goddamn Kilgrave.
Someone.
“Goddammit,” she hisses to herself. And then she’s running, running straight for the nearest mobster. He lets out a yell, points the gun at her, but she has him tackled to the ground before he can get a shot off. The gun clatters to the floor a few feet away. He tries to throw her off, but she’s stronger than him, stronger than all of these assholes put together. She grabs his head with both hands, slams it hard into the concrete floor. He goes limp, and she scrambles to her feet.
A bullet whizzes past her, inches from her arm. She punches the next mobster in the jaw, sends him sprawling, and then there’s four of them on her. She remembers what Nyssa said, about thinking before acting, about anticipating your opponents move before they make them. These men aren’t hard to read, and they aren’t nearly as fast as Nyssa. She dodges their blows, swipes at their guns. One of them shoves a barrel into her back, and she whips around, catching him with her elbow. He grunts, stumbles back, and she lunges at him, grabbing the gun and crushing it.
She doesn’t know where Bruce is, and a part of her doesn’t care. She’s winning, and riding the high of this. The adrenaline pumping through her veins as more of them come at her, trying to grab her. She breaks their hold easily, sends them flying across the warehouse. One of them hits the wall, but his gun is still in his hand. He fires a shot – it grazes her arm, and the pain is incredible, a burning sensation tearing through her like Mick’s flames. It’s enough to halt her for a moment, and then one of the men grabs her burned arm, and she cries out, falls to her knees as he twists it. There’s a gun against her temple and then –
A shadow. The fluttering sound of a cape, and then the man is laying on the ground in front of her. She looks up, sees Bruce staring down at her. It might be the pain, but she swears he’s smiling.
He holds out a hand, and she takes it, hauling herself up using him as leverage. They’re back to back now, and it strikes her again how much like Luke he is. But Bruce doesn’t have bulletproof skin, and the remaining mobsters have tight grips on their guns, jabbing them forward as they circle her and Bruce.
“You shouldn’t be here, Jones,” Bruce hisses, his voice low and gravelly.
“No shit,” she pants. She can feel the sigh more than hear it. “Deal with it, batboy,” she says, and then she jumps forward, grabs the first man she can by the collar and throws him into another gangster.
It’s a blur from there, a flurry of fists and guns and bullets. Out of the corner of her eye she can see Bruce, like a goddamn ninja, sweeping the feet out from underneath a mobster, jabbing a fist into his throat. She likes his style, is almost mesmerized by it for a moment. They’re winning, together, taking down every man who comes at them. The circle thins, then breaks, and for a second, she thinks they can get out of this. And then –
Another gunshot. From farther away. She turns slowly, despite the burning in her chest, the way there’s suddenly not enough air. She sees him, the man half-slumped against the wall, holding his smoking gun with a look of deranged pleasure, his eyes wild with glee.
Bruce runs towards him. Which is good, because all she can do is fall forward, landing hard on the concrete floor. It’s cold, and she shivers, even as the burn spreads through her torso. She can feel the floor growing wet and sticky, blood pooling underneath her. Her blood.
Everything goes black for a moment. Maybe longer. The next thing she knows, Bruce is back, cradling her head in his lap. There’s no gunfire, only pained moaning from a few mobsters who haven’t lost consciousness yet. She’s on her back now, and she can see it. The bullet wound in her chest.
She laughs, feels blood trickle down her lips. Bruce is mumbling something, she can’t understand it, but she can hear the cracks in his voice. She cranes her head back to look at him, still wearing his goddamn mask.
“C-Claire’s going to kill me for this one,” she chokes out. She’s smiling, even now, even as she has to fight to keep her eyelids open. They’re so heavy, and she’s so tired, and he’s so warm. She reaches up, and his hand finds hers, but she shakes her head.
“Take your goddamn mask off,” she whispers breathlessly, sucking in air that doesn’t seem to reach her lungs. A bullet hole will do that.
He rips the cowl off with one hand, tosses it aside. “Dammit, Jones,” he says, and she can hear him now, can see the worry and the fear in those startling blue eyes. “What were you thinking?”
Her lips twitch at the question. A dozen snarky, sarcastic replies race through her mind, which for once, isn’t full of memories of Kilgrave, or Luke, or Reva, or Ruben, or any of the terrible things she’s ever done. Things she’s never had a chance to tell him.
All she can think of, all she can remember, is their date. The way it felt putting on a dress because she wanted to, his stupid tie, the feeling of his hand holding hers. Strong and safe and comforting, not desperately like his grip is now. She remembers wanting to do things right.
There’s sweat and tears on his face, grimy from the mask and the fight. She takes in every detail. If this is the last thing she has to see, she’s not going to complain.
“What were you thinking?” he asks again, his free hand on the side of her face. She leans into his touch instead of pulling away.
Her eyes close, and she’s pissed. She wants to keep looking at him, knows it for certain now. She wants him, she doesn’t care how selfish it is, or what a shitty person it makes her. She knows now. She wants that goddamn future.
a drabble where jessica sacrifices herself for kitty:
Jessica stared down at her phone. Picked it up. Set it down immediately, trading it for the whiskey bottle. Dammit. She wasn’t a goddamn teenager, this should be easy.
Her conversation with Illyana was open on her phone. Memories of their nights together were swirling in her head, the blonde’s hands twisting in her sheets, her soft lips against Jessica’s neck. The way Illyana felt like clay in her hands, following her every move, letting her take total control.
‘Feels good doesn’t it? Being in control?’
She reached out, swiped to another conversation. Kitty’s. The hurt magnified by her misspellings and drunken ramblings. Christ, was this what it was like reading one of her texts?
‘Love will kill you a hell of a lot faster than any desert or animal. And it’ll trick you into thinking you want it. Just… Just be careful.’
What she’d said to Kitty on the roof had proven all too true. But somehow, she was the one paying the price for it.
She took another long swig of whiskey, letting the burn remind her that she was human still. Despite everything she’d done, despite everything she wanted to do. She was still human.
Sighing irritably, she set the whiskey aside. Picked up her phone again.
“i cnt see u again. sorry.”
That’s all she wrote before hitting send. But hopefully, it was enough to get the message across. To make things goddamn right. She’d give up whatever this thing is she has with Illyana, this wonderful, soothing power she’s found in the lithe, blonde Russian between her sheets. She’d do that for Kitty, or at least she’d try.
u sent me two so i'm sending u two too. 📫 🔪 (natasha)
📫 for a letter my muse would write about yours to a third party:
Hey Robin Hood (aka the best goddamn avenger),
sorry, couldn’t resist. Im supposed to be writing a letter as part of my community service bullshit. this probation officer is convinced you’re one of the assholes i beat up in a bar. (long story.) they cant force me to apologize to those dickheads, but if I dont write a letter to someone, they’ll be pissed. so congrats, you’re getting the one letter I’ve ever written in my life
natasha came over the other night. she told me a little bit about what happened. about what you two had to do, when you got the shit kicked out of you. (no offense. i get the shit kicked out of me too.)
she was… not as bad as you, physically. and Im the last person who should talk about feelings or whatever. but. I dont know. you know her better than I do.
I dont think she’s okay. or if she is right now, she wont be. I’ve been there. [FURIOUSLY SCRIBBLED OUT] just trust me.
I dont know what you two having going on. natasha hasnt said much, shocker. but I do know that no one is closer to her than you are. and I probably dont even have to ask, but keep an eye on her, okay? she’s gonna need it, whether she likes it or not.
she said you knew spy-shit too, so like, burn this letter after reading it like it’s some confidential shit.
pizzas on me next time,
– jj
& 🔪 for the eulogy my muse would give for yours:
It was the second time she’d broken into a morgue. It was getting to be a bad habit.
But she wasn’t sure she could handle a funeral. If they even let her come – Pietro would be there, and he’d made it goddamn clear that she wasn’t going to get anywhere close to where he and sister were. Even for something like this.
She brushed broken glass off her jacket, and flicked one light on. She didn’t want to attract attention, but it wasn’t like morgues were heavily guarded this time of night. Not even when an Avenger was lying on one of their tables.
All the bodies were tucked away in the refrigerated units along the wall. She walked among them, eyes scanning the tags hanging off the handles. It didn’t take her long to find the name she wanted.
Romanoff, Natasha.
It wasn’t just about the funeral. Being here. Jessica needed to see it for herself. She wouldn’t trust it, wouldn’t believe it was even possible. How could Natasha be dead?
She’d heard snippets about it on the news – it was everywhere, and it had only been a few days. Every headline. Natasha stared back at her from every front page, but Jessica couldn’t bring herself to read about it. She’d walked the streets in a daze, drunker than ever, and finally, she had come here.
The metal handle was icy cold under her fingers. Her insides twisted unpleasantly. Luckily there was nothing but cheap whiskey in her stomach. Taking a deep, steeling breath, she wrenched the door open and slid the table out.
She was covered by a sheet. Jessica could see the lump of a tag wrapped around her toe, her eyes trailed up slowly from there. The face was just a vague impression beneath the sheet. Her hand shook as she reached for it. She pulled it down a fraction of an inch. Enough to see bright red hair.
Nausea overwhelmed her, sudden and violent. She stopped, clasping her free hand over her mouth. “Birch Street,” she whispered, the word muffled. She pulled the sheet down further. “Higgins Drive.” Past the hair. Past her eyes. “Cobalt…” Past her chin, down to her neck.
She didn’t need to see further. It was her.
The only thing keeping her from screaming was biting down on her finger. So hard she felt a sharp jab of pain, tasted blood. It didn’t help the nausea, her stomach was revolting. Fighting hard to eject the three bottles she’d forced down her throat in the last few hours. She forced herself to breathe deeply through her nose, pulling in the cold, antiseptic chemical scent of the morgue.
She forced herself to not look away. Even as it became harder and harder to breathe. She forced herself to look, wanted to burn this image into her skull. Because it was real, it was happening, and there was nothing she could do about it. But she couldn’t deny it anymore, either.
Minutes passed. She wasn’t sure how long. It could’ve been hours for all she knew, her mind was too far gone, too busy processing this unbelievable idea. That Natasha could actually be dead. That she was human after all.
“I’m sorry,” she said finally. Her voice was ragged, heavy and thick with emotion and alcohol. “Sorry. Jesus, I never – I never thought you’d die before me.” She gripped the table tightly to steady herself.
She should say something. That’s what people did. No one gave a shit what she thought, but Natasha had thought she was worth listening to. She owed her something. An attempt at least.
“Thanks,” she said, so quietly she could barely hear herself. “I don’t know if I ever said it before. But thank you. For – for buying me that first goddamn drink. For putting up with every shitty drunk text I ever sent you. For listening to shit I couldn’t say to anyone else.”
She stopped, inhaling sharply. “You were a hero. To the world, even if you weren’t to yourself. They say everyone’s born a hero, but life will push you over the edge until you’re the villain. And you knew that. But you did what you had to do anyway. I think that’s what a hero is. Someone who does what they have to, instead of what they want. No matter the consequences.”
Tears rolled down her cheek and she didn’t bother trying to fight them. Her eyes burned as badly as her throat. She pulled out her flask, took a long swig to push away the lump in her throat. The tears crawled across her cheek when she tilted her head back.
She wiped a hand across her mouth, over her eyes, and stared back down at Natasha. “You never did make out with me, you goddamn tease,” she said, inching closer to Natasha. She leaned up, pressed her lips against Natsha’s forehead. Her skin was cold. “But that’s okay,” she whispered, pulling back.
Then she pushed the table back in. Slammed the door shut and ran, back out the broken window, back down the back alleys until she found a rooftop to jump to. She landed hard on the concrete and didn’t get up. Just laid there in a crumpled ball, feeling ragged and ruined and knowing it should’ve been her on that slab.
