@profanemouth
IF THERE WERE SUCH A THING AS A PERSONAL HELL, HIS WOULD BE AN IRISH BAR. of course, it's just the type of shithole that jessica jones frequents: cheap booze, shitty music, questionable looking toilets and even more questionable looking patrons. with no windows to the outside world, it's a vortex of time too; without his watch, he'd be unable to discern if it were day or night. however, it's a neutral environment; taking jones to his place would be laying himself too bare and likewise for jones taking him to wherever it is she operates, too.
so, here they are. believe it or not, he can compromise.
when their bartender sets two glasses of jameson before them, shoving a wad of bills his way before jones can get in on it. the bridge of his nose stings with every inhale he takes, and their old-school bartender spares him a look that lasts a moment too long. he hasn't looked at himself in the mirror, but judging from how much his nose hurts even after he'd haphazardly reset the bone, he must look like shit, with his eyes aching as harsh blackened bruises splotch his eyes and nose. no amount of bandaids or shitty fluorescent lighting could mask how horrible he looks, thanks to jones' heavy hand. worst of all, jones hadn't broken a sweat, hadn't exerted anything at all.
broad shoulders hunched over the bar, he nurses the cloudy glass of jameson in his hand.
❝ glad we could sit down, have a conversation. ❞ he's as good at this as she is; granted, this is one fucking hell of a weird olive branch. he kicks back his drink, jaw tensing as it burns its way down, ❝ - look, i'll cut to the chase, alright ? i got information you need. you got information i need. clearly. ❞
