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It's quiet at Farrell's this time of day. Most patrons are at work or called it a long time ago. After leaving Midtown, heading home, and having a ridiculously long shower, Jessica Jones came here, and she hasn't left. Her black slacks, black leather coat (designed for a man), and black shirt seem more her than anything she's worn in an age. Gone are Kilgrave's purple dresses, ridiculous heels, and coiffed hair.
She'd emptied the contents of her stomach some hours ago, and now she's back at it again.
The bartender had, as Jessica requested, left the bottle along with her glass, and she fills it to the brim once again. More than one gentleman had tried his luck with the prickly woman, but none received even a smile. In fact, more than once she'd dissolved into a mess of tears.
And food is most definitely not on the menu.
A black duffle bag rests underneath the table.
*
'Quiet' is exactly what David North is looking for. One of the benefits to being unemployed is there are a very limited number of things to get in the way of an early drink, and after the last few months, he very much needs a drink.
Or thirty.
He's already loosening his collar and tie when he steps inside. David takes somewhat absentminded note of the woman already present on his way to the bar.
At least, until he gets close enough to recognize her face. David stops short and blinks owlishly.
*
Jessica shoots back another whiskey. Memory acts hazy but present as she finishes the latest drink and plucks (rather woozily) the bottle from the table once again. It's possible someone should cut her off. But, this is Hell's Kitchen, no one is going to cut her off as long as she has money. And apparently her apartment is paid for this year.
So Jessica feels flush.
Or she did many drinks ago. Now? She feels numb. Her whiskey haze has her perking up as another fellow enters the bar, and David is given a long stare.
A flicker of recognition enters her gaze, but it's momentary as she, rather angrily, throws the not-yet-empty bottle across the room. While the throw is hardly full-force, the impact of the bottle on the wall is undeniable as it shatters into tiny pieces of glass upon impact and leaves a dent in the wall.
It's possible she doesn't know her own strength.
*
Somehow, David highly doubts that.
Having turned in place to track the bottle's flight, David slowly returns his gaze to Jessica, and for a moment, he's quiet. And then he's gesturing at the bartender, finally breaking his silence. "Another bottle of whatever she's drinking."
Somewhat cautiously, David makes his way towards a seat nearby. "I apologize for staring. I was.. you look…" David gestures at his eyes. "…there."
*
The bartender passes the bottle to David — the cheap whiskey an old standby for those truly looking to just get sloshed. In passing the bottle, however, the man lifts his eyebrows silently questioning whether David should effort and spend time with the drunken woman that has, at least momentarily, taken up residence in the bar. A second glass is also passed to the man. Presumably, he intends not to drink it directly from the bottle.
When David sits near Jessica, her gaze doesn't move. She remains weirdly focused on a single spot on the bar. Until he speaks. Her head snaps in his direction and her eyes, for the first time, meet his. They aren't the distant things they'd been when he'd encountered Jewel. Instead, they're present, broken, and angry.
Her fingers curl around her glass and she stares at the bottle of liquor he's just procured, fully realizing one awful fact: her glass is empty.
Her legs cross at the ankles and she shifts on her stool to eye him easier. "You have me confused with someone else," the edge in her voice prickles with each consonant. "That pick-up line ever work?" she asks sardonically.
*
The bottle doesn't stay in David's hands for long. He reaches over to lightly set it down next to Jessica's glass before he withdraws, offering the bartender a tired smile. "And a glass of bourbon for myself, please."
His attention moves back to Jessica in time to meet her eyes, and David manages to meet them steadily. It's a strange thing, finding a look like that one comforting. But it means she's there. She hadn't been before. He knew it.
"You're probably right," David replies quietly, the corner of his mouth twitching upward into a smile at the question. "No, I can't say that it has."
*
The bottle set next to her glass causes Jessica to perk. Her posture straightens, and the gift of offered liquor seems to have given David temporary status as a friend. Her hands tremble as they greedily work at the lid, turn, turn, turning it to coax it away from her amber respite.
She fills her glass and then turns back to David. "Good." The consonants stick like taffy to teeth. "Because if it had, I'd have to rethink my sex. Fairer," she lifts a finger, "doesn't mean stupid." She stares at the glass of whiskey. "Although men would prefer them that way. Empty. Vapid. Dolls to dress up, take down, and treat like nothing more than plastic. Mind? What mind? There's more to Barbie than her legs, ass, and breasts?" Her lips curve upwards in an ironic smile.
Her head cants to the side as she studies the fluid again. "Fuck 'em. All of em. Each and every one can burn in that goddamned Hell thing in Central Park." She lifts her glass to David as if expecting him to cheers to that.
*
What might be surprising is that David actually does. His drink is delivered just in time for him to reach over, carefully clink his glass to Jessica's, and then bring it up for a swig. Yes, he will drink to that, thank you.
But what is a bar for if not commiserating?
"Too many men out there who see tools," David says lowly, both hands wrapped around his glass as he peers down into it. "Not people, just applications and uses. And it just keeps getting worse."
*
"Here, here!" Jessica calls loudly into the bar — a sound that echoes and sees the bartender disappearing into the back. "Not people. Never people," her nose wrinkles and she leans over the bar to rest her elbow upon its surface and her chin upon her hand.
"The worst are the ones that can get what they want. Without thought," her disgust is palpable. "They take advantage, warp, manipulate, and change them into whatever they want. Whatever Barbie should be." She scowls.
"He didn't think I'd do it," she sneers. "That I didn't have it in me." She brings the whiskey to her lips and takes a long drink, shooting it back with expert ease. "What as asshat."
*
"Here, here!" Jessica calls loudly into the bar — a sound that echoes and sees the bartender disappearing into the back. "Not people. Never people," her nose wrinkles and she leans over the bar to rest her elbow upon its surface and her chin upon her hand.
"The worst are the ones that can get what they want. Without thought," her disgust is palpable. "They take advantage, warp, manipulate, and change them into whatever they want. Whatever Barbie should be." She scowls.
"He didn't think I'd do it," she sneers. "That I didn't have it in me." She brings the whiskey to her lips and takes a long drink, shooting it back with expert ease. "What an asshat."
*
The loud doesn't bother David, nor does the way the bartender retreats to the back. Though he does, after a moment's thought, stand up and lean forward over the bar to retrieve the bottle of bourbon. He will be needing this.
As he refills his glass, David makes a low, rumbling noise of agreement. "Sounds like you showed him the error of his ways," he notes, glancing over and offering her a thin smile. "Good."
*
Blandly, emptily, Jessica observes to her glass rather than David. "I told him to smile and snapped his neck." Following the statement, the whiskey is downed once more. She shifts on the stool, not quite sure what the borrowed friend will think of her admission of manslaughter. "He had it coming. He…" her lips purse "…had it coming." Her jaw tightens. "He didn't deserve to live. Life is a privilege and he had that privilege rescinded."
*
David doesn't even bat an eyelash, though his expression does soften ever so subtly. He remembers what her expression had been when she brought the building down, and things just… make sense.
"Good," David repeats, though he says it more gently this time. A few things roll through his head, things he could say and additional pieces of the puzzle slotting into place… but all he does say is a simple, quiet "I'll buy you another," with a nod towards her rapidly-emptying bottle of whiskey.
*
Jessica's eyes remain fixed on the glass, but she nods at the word good. Right. She swallows hard and her eyebrows draw together sharply, "Fuck it. Fuck him. Fuck all of them." She turns her head to watch David. "Good. I'll need another." And probably another after that. She eyes his bourbon, "You need to drink faster."
She taps on her temple knowingly and eyes him for several beats. Sloppily, languidly, she turns around to watch David, "Ever have someone root around in here?" She taps on her temple again, as if the first taps weren't enough. "Well this asshole didn't root. He told you what to do and you wanted to do it for him." She sneers again. But her expression sinks as her shoulders draw together. Her eyes clamp shut. "I… was supposed.." but she can't finish the thought, instead switching tracks with efficiency only employed by those mostly drunk, "He's dead. And I still hear him. All the time."
*
For a moment there, David was considering pointing out that he can't get drunk, so why drink faster? And then she asks him that and he finds himself in need of another refill. Why is he bothering with the glass? It seems superfluous.
"It wasn't like that but I had…" David takes a turn to tap himself on the temple. "…recently. Not to give commands or — at least, I don't think so. I probably wouldn't remember if they had," he admits with a tight laugh. That's a comforting realization to have. More bourbon.
*
Jessica's fingers tap lightly against her glass and she nods as he finishes his glass. Good. If she has to sit with someone she will not drink alone. "Did they still deserve the privilege of life?" Jessica shakes her head tightly. "Not everyone does. Some people need to be put down." She sniffs sharply, feeling the emotions bubbling once more, but she steels herself, pushing all of those feelings down into some recess of her mind.
"What's your name?" she finally asks.
*
"The telepaths were just following orders. Just children. They deserve a chance," David mumbles into his drink, sounding like he's trying to convince himself almost as much as he is simply answering the question. "The man who gave the order, though… no. He needs to die." That one, he sounds damned certain of. "But I can't find him to make it right."
He blinks hard to try and clear his head before he looks over at her again, offering a wan smile. "David. What's yours?"
*
There's a small nod that follows the remark about the man needing to die. "The telepaths need to be taught then," she states matter-of-factly. "Morals, ethics, great power, blah blah blah — " she rolls her eyes " — more important when you control more than yourself. Or you can." She loses herself to her drink again.
With all of the whiskey being drunk, it's a wonder, she still remembers her name. "Jones," a name Kilgrave never called her. Even 'Jessica' feels tainted. But then, since David has given a first name, she offers hers in turn, "Jessica," she shrugs once. "But call me Jones."
*
"Jones. North, then." One surname for another. It seems fair. Once he's refilled his glass again, David raises it in a salute before throwing it back. "Are you going to be okay to get home? This is not a pick-up line," he adds wryly, waving his hand. "Just. I can get you a cab or something when the place runs out of whiskey."
*
Whether instinctively or in response to David's question, Jessica's arms cross over her chest. Her jaw tightens and her head cants to the side. "I don't have a home anymore. Nowhere is home. Nowhere can be. Not anymore. Not now." But then, as if letting the question ask what it intended, she tacks on, "But I can get back to the apartment where I sleep."
"It's down the block. Hell's Kitchen is where I roost," her lips hitch up on one side, smugly. "It wasn't good enough. We weren't good enough. I…" her chin tucks to her chest and her eyes clamp shut again.
*
"I don't have a home either. A place to sleep, and I'd thought…" David's lips twist to the side and he shakes his head, dismissing the idea before it can take root. No. Another drink to make sure that notion stays buried like it should.
He watches her quietly for a moment before he starts rummaging in his pocket for his wallet. "Come on. Grab a fresh bottle," David says gently. "I'll walk you there."
*
"You'd thought?" Jess doesn't let it go so easily. She smirks, "Come on now, I just confessed to manslaughter. You can say whatever you thought. Bar friends are the besssssst friends…" Again, irony seeps through her tone.
The instructions have her climbing over the bar and grasping another bottle of the ridiculously cheap swill. "It's best because it burns when it goes down."
*
David lays some cash on the counter and hangs his head, letting out a tired laugh. She's got him there. "An old friend has been letting me stay on her couch while I deal with…" Again, he taps his temples. Then he's grabbing the bottle of bourbon for himself as he returns the wallet to his pocket. "…and for a moment there, I got my hopes up."
"It was stupid of me," David says lowly, turning to offer Jessica his arm. "I mean, you've heard my pick-up lines."
*
Jessica hmms as she begins to lead them towards the door. "Hope is only stupid when life is hopeless." She shrugs following this thought. "I doubt your life is hopeless, North." She blinks hard. "You didn't give into the whims of a madman time and time again." Her eyes roll. "You'll find the asshat responsible and go from there."
But as far as his friend is concerned, "People tell me that," she cringes, "women like to talk about those things. You want more than a friendship? Tell her or some garbage. No games. You're too fucking old for games." Pause. "I'm too fucking old for games."