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It's been a little bit since he's been here. It feels as much as a home of anything or anywhere else for the moment after he spent a month or more looking for Jessica and after he found her they came back and drank until he couldn't take it anymore. He went to France for a few weeks doing heavens knows what. Now he comes and goes, stays some nights and stays gone others.
After opening the door, he is inspecting the office as if he's there for the first time. And he doesn't smell drunk.
*
There's oddity in the office, mostly because, for the first time in ages, the door isn't broken. Trish hired someone to do it while Jessica was out, much to Jones's chagrin. Despite this, Remy found the door unlocked. So much for security. With her head resting on the desk, Jones seems out for the count. The fingers of her right hand curl around an empty whiskey bottle.
The noise causes her to stir, and rather instinctively, around whatever hangover she's nursing, she throws the empty bottle towards the door. She blinks hard after releasing the bottle, and then with squinty eyes she stares at him. "Sister fixed the door," she glowers. Maybe she liked it better broken?
*
"She a fine girl, yo sister." Remy reaches for the bottle, and assuming she lets him have it, he turns it to inspect. As he gets closer, she'll no doubt smell the perfume that's been left upon his skin. Well, that is if all of her senses still are working properly. Rather than take a swig, though, Remy places the bottle upon one of the book shelves. "Y'remember dat first day when I come over he-ah? We both got messed up, had breakfast and drove to Nawlins. Seems like a long time ago, non?"
*
The faint smell of perfume followed by the nearly fond words prompt Jessica's eyebrows to lift sceptically. Her head cants to the side and she frowns. "It was a long time ago," she replies blandly. "I went to hell and back. Twice." Once figuratively, mind. Once literally. "That fucking counts as a long fucking time. What the hell are you playing at?" Her eyebrows draw together sharply.
She peels herself from the seat and treads over to the shelf where the bottle had been put. She picks it up and opens the lid with her teeth. A glance is given to the empty glass on the desk and she skips any traces of propriety, opting to take a swig directly from the bottle.
*
When Jessica takes a swig from the bottle, Remy pivots to put himself right in front of her. He lets her take the drink, but then holds out his hand towards her as if to ask for the bottle. "Jess, you and me ain't doin' ourselves no favas. We be wallowin', chere. We gotta pull ourselves out of this shit, ratha den feedin' into it wit each otha."
*
Jessica pulls the bottle closer to her and sputters. "Fuck you. Pull yourself out of this shit then and forget the fuck about me. I'm fine." Clearly. "This shit," her eyes flit towards the bottle, "is the only reason to get up in the morning. Feeling nothing is the only way to fucking get through the shit that is this life. Christ."
*
"Y'aint fine, and you know it. Y'wanna throw me out, I'll go. But I aint gonna forget ya and I aint gonna just give in. I aint no doctor, but yer in a bad way, mademoiselle." Gambit takes a step back. He can't physically force her to do anything. She could kill him in a heartbreat. But it's only one step and he doesn't move any farther back. His odd eyes fix on her.
*
"I'm fine enough," Jessica replies blandly. "'Sides, what's even the point? This," again her gaze turns towards the bottle, "is what's worth it." She swallows hard. "You have your way, I have mine." Her gaze weighs heavily on him. "And right now? Watching the world go up in smoke is easier with something to take the edge off."
*
"Easy way often time de worst way. You and I both know dat, chere," Gambit replies. It occurs to him that without Jessica, he doesn't really have anyone left. He can't go home. Raven and the Brotherhood are such zealots that emotional connections are fleeting for a reason. Bel is dead.
Jessica is really all he's got left.
And he realizes he either has to decide to just leave, follow her down into the hole, or just stay pat.
"De point is I don't want to see what happened swallow you alive."
*
"That would presume I'm still alive," Jessica mutters sullenly. The bottle isn't forfeited, but it is returned to the shelf and she crosses her arms over her chest. "Look," she says pointedly, "I never really felt like a hero. I was never shiny like the guy with the shield, fantastic like those dopes in the blue suits, or amazing like that creepy arachnid menace. Even flight," she rocks her hand uncertainly. "But I can cause damage. I caused damage. And the way he — " she actually shudders and breaks the thought.
Her eyes narrow as her arms once more defiantly cross over her chest, "And I can again. We all have weak spots. Some are just easier to exploit than others." Pensively, her eyes turn down to the floor, "Staying here and drinking this, in a fucked up way, keeps other people safe. Including Trish."
*
"He's dead, chere. He's dead and h'aint comin' back," Gambit replies, but he sighs. "I'm sorry, cherie. I'm sorry I din get to ya sooner. We tried. We searched everywhere." Once she shudders, he takes a step forward as if he's about to give her a hug, but he stops abruptly as she gets defiant again. "Let's get one thing straight, chou."
"The guy with the shield is a pussy."
*
It's strangely easy to melt the defence with those words. He's dead. Jessica's arms fall to her sides. She takes a single step forward and then softly admits something she hasn't voiced. "I hear him. He may be gone, but I hear him. Everywhere. Telling me to smile. Telling me to straighten. telling me purple is my colour. That I should put on the dress." And then coldly, she adds, "That I should take it off. All. The. Fucking. Time."
*
Remy moves closer to her and wraps his arms around her. "Ahm so sorry, Jessica. Ahm so sorry I din get dere sooner. Dat fucker in hell where he belong. He can't ever hurt you again." Pause. "Sides, anyone who know anyting know dat your color be black."
*
Jessica actually returns the hug — a small miracle by any standard. "It's not… he was hard to follow. Hard to fight. Hard to resist." Her lips turn down. "I hate him. I hate everything he was.And I hate that he swims around in there. The whiskey helps. Day drinking is both a hobby and a lifeskill." And she finally manages, "It's not your fault. We should've finished him in New Orleans."
*
"Can't do nothin' bout dat now, love. Can't do nothin' bout dat at all other dan carry on, cause if we don't he wins. And den Bel died for nuthin," Remy replies as he squeezes her softly. "If you need to drink, you drink. But I ain't. Someone needs to watch you and be sure y'aiight. If dats how I can help ya, dats what Imma do."
*
A long-laboured sign follows the observation. "Fine. I'll drink. You do what you need to." Her eyes flit towards the bottle and then back to Remy, "And I'll try to cut back." Definitely not a quitting plan, but one that seems to acknowledge the amount she's been consuming as of late. "Besides, sometimes it's good to have my wits about me. Sometimes."
*
Remy nods toward the door and puts his arm around Jess, "Come on, girl. Let's go get some breakfast. I just ripped off some shit head and dat bacon aint gonna eat itself." He snickers. "We both know I'm de wits bout dis operation, course."
*
"Clearly," Jessica replies dryly. "You're the brains in pretty much all operations." She manages a stitch of a smile. "It better be greasy bacon."