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It's the next morning and Remy Le Beau is afraid of what he might find. He did, however, leave his wallet at Jessica's so as he opens the door quietly it's not without need (he never keeps his money in his wallet. That's ridiculous.). He tries to slink inside, using all of his thief skill (+8) in order not to wake her. Or perhaps his friend, Fred.
The coast seems clear and he pads over quietly towards the backpack sitting by the couch. In and out. Like a cat burglar. With swagger. Never know he was here.
*
The sneaking in isn't a big deal. It seems like no one is there. But the sneaking out… "You're not as quiet as you think you are." Jessica closes the door. Was she behind the door the whole time? What does that even mean.
Oddly, Jess looks put together today. Her faded blue jeans, black long sleeved t-shirt, and brushed dark hair make her look… oddly human. Also weirdly absence is the smell of liquor on her person. "Suddenly decide to become shy?" she arches a wry eyebrow before skulking back to her desk to slump in her chair and put up her feet. "We have a case." Down to work it seems.
*
"I dun tink you even wanna know de answer to dat question," Remy says as he looks up at the ceiling. He doesn't even face her. She mentions the case and he reaches in to his breast pocket for the soft pack and pulls a cigarette out between his lips. He lights it.
"Listenin."
*
"Karolina Dean," Jessica slides open a desk drawer and drops the large police file on the desk with a thud. "Her parents hired a third party to hire me," which she still finds suspect, "to find their daughter. The Deans are, evidently," her eyes roll, "Hollywood elite. Wealthy people. Looks like a picturesque childhood," she reaches into the drawer again and pulls out a pack of smokes. One is put between her lips and lit before she offers the pack to Remy. "They paid a massive advance."
A smirk tugs at her lips. "We also have," she's virtually laughing, "a second case." Her smile grows feline, "J. Jonah Jameson wants us to work with one of his investigative reporters to figure out the identity of… Spider-Man." She begins to cackle. Evidently this is endlessly funny.
*
"Spideh-Man aint done shit but try and help people. We gunna slow play dat one, non?" Remy says as he inhales deeply, scratches his nose, and exhales, still not facing her. "De Dean's got any idea where she might have gone? We headed to California?" He almost makes a joke about the swimming suit already being purchased, but that's not funny.
*
"Not exactly," Jessica's eyes flit to the sides. "I signed an agreement and took the advance. Jameson agreed to pay all of our expenses. So…" her eyes turn up to the ceiling "…I figure we can 'spy for Spider-Man' at the Hell's Kitchen soup kitchen and have Jameson foot the bill." Her lips purse, "We could check to see if we can find Spider-Man in the Children's Hospital and let Jameson make a donation for our time…" Her lips purse. "Also, he's paying us an hourly wage. Way I figure it… it'll be a month before he figures out we have no idea," she lowers her voice, "and no desire, to find and identify Spider-Man. They can't even sue us because if he tried to out us, what is he going to say? That we spent our time feeding homeless people and taking care of sick kids?" Her eyebrows lift, she's given this some thought.
Jessica shakes her head at Remy. "They seem to think she's in the company of mutants here in NYC. So. I figure we need to spend some time in mutant town and try to get leads."
*
Remy nods at the plan for the Spider-Man. He'll follow her lead. The Dean case interests him more. "Dat I can do. Know quite a few people and even have some on de payroll down dere. I'll start on it right away."
*
"Good," Jessica reaches into the file and sets the photo on the desk. "This is what she looks like. The parents seem to think she's malleable. They last saw her waiting for a bus to go volunteer at a summer camp. Disappeared after that. They seem to believe she may be in with a bad crowd. Maybe cultists." She sucks on the inside of her cheek. "Nothing indicates she had a poor childhood. And believe me, I'm aware celebrity kids don't always have it easy."
*
"Cute kid," Remy says as he reaches to touch the photograph and inspects it intently. Then, out of the blue, he asks, "Did you fuck him?" He doesn't raise his head, or even look at her. The question is no different than if he asked about whether or not she was done with the newspaper.
*
"She's sunshine and lollipops," Jessica agrees blandly. "But so was Trish," she can't help that edge of bitterness in her voice. Her head shakes, as if to erase the bad blood caused by her adopted mother. The question causes her eyebrows to raise and her lips to quirk into a smile. "Does it matter?" She trails to the kitchen, and calls as she moves, "There's coffee," she never has anything except whiskey, "want a cup?" And then her tone flattens, "There's even milk."
*
"Din matter till it started matterin'. Now it matters. At least for now it matters," Remy replies, still looking at the picture. "Sure." He takes the picture and sits on the sofa and flicks his cig's ash into the tray. "How ole Trish doin?"
*
"I don't even know what that means," Jessica calls back from the kitchen. A few moments later, she returns with two mugs of coffee — one of which is set in front of Remy, without a coaster. At least some things never change.
"Trish is alright. We haven't talked much," since she got back to reality. "She stopped guarding the hall," she points towards the door. "And she keeps pressuring me to hire her as a receptionist." The comical arch of her eyebrow is rather indicative of how Jessica feels about that. "She needs to find a gig and she'll be happy again." And out of Jessica's hair.
*
"It means answer de fuckin' question," Remy says as he finally makes eye contact with her, looking up from the picture. "Thank you," he says about the coffee and sits back with a groan, thinking about Trish. "I tink she should go back to actin'. She was good and Hollywood loves a good comeback, fo sho. Be a stah wit-out her momma's influence."
*
Jessica's eyes narrow into slits and she watches Remy with vaguely veiled amusement. "Why?" The question is left to hang and is followed up by, "You fuck girls on the regular. Not once have I asked you about your sexploits." There's a pregnant pause as Jessica lifts her cup to her lips and takes a long sip. With a casualness akin to asking Remy to pass the tea, she asks, "Do you want me to?"
As far as Trish is concerned Jess nods. "I agree. If she wants. She should figure out whatever makes her happy apart from Mrs. Walker and pursue it."
*
Remy lets out a long sigh and shakes his head, "I dun wan get into yo bidness. And I ain't gun pry no further. Dat bein' said, I ain't tellin' ya what I want, other than I wanna know if ya did. And you don't even define 'regular'. What de fuck is 'on de regular?'"
*
Jessica's eyebrows draw together sharply as the amusement rather quickly drains from her eyes. "Fuck it. No, I didn't fuck him." Her eyebrows lift, "But it has nothing to do with what you might think. Look, I'm fucking tired of silver-tongued would-be suitors who try to spin some kind of fucking web around me. I'm not some animal to be snared, a fucking treasure, or some frail flower. And I'm not some shining Jewel. I'm just Jessica Jones. Private Investigator. Proprietor of this company. It's the 60s. I don't fucking care who thinks I should or shouldn't spend my time with. I want something, I go for it. Someone wants something from me? They need to just fucking tell me. And then I'll make my own choices."
Her own choices are strangely good for her. And it shows.
*
"Aint everytin' so easy, chere. Tings get complicated. Ain't no one sayin' you a flower, ain't no one sayin' you need to clear who you spend yo time wit wit me. Dint realize I cared till I realize I cared. Just had to know so I could snuff dat out if need be. Dun play like you dun know nuffin."
*
Jessica's arms fold over her chest and she eyes Remy thoughtfully, "Look. Nothing's complicated. Not unless a person makes it complicated. Feelings aren't complicated. We make them complicated. Why do you care? Do you have an actual interest in me? Then tell me." And there is the blunt end of the question. "You, of all people, have to know I have no interest in games. Zero. I…" her eyes turn downwards and the thought is lost somewhere inside her mind.
*
"Dis ain't a game. And I tink I do, but I don't know," Remy replies. "I ain't playin' nothin. It just ain't seem de smartest move to be makin' moves on your roommate. And ain't gun…" He just stops abruptly mid sentence, and reaches for his coffee.
*
"Probably wise," Jessica takes a long puff of her cigarette and blows it out slowly before taking a long drink of her coffee. Her lips curve into a smirk and her fingers curl tightly around the mug. "I'm not letting what happened define me anymore. You told me that. I'm finding a way to press on." And then, almost in a cause and effect way, she states, "I don't flirt. There's no mystery that needs to be resolved. That is me moving passed what happened."
*
"Yeah, now I know I care because you dun pissed me off. Ain't no one piss me off," Remy says as he rubs his head. He opens his eyes, puts his cigarette out and steps up, "I'm gun go get some air, back in a bit, and we can start on Dean. Ah'll start workin' de phones, hittin' up les amis down in MT." He reaches for the coffee, clearly going to bring that with him.
*
"Wait." Jessica stares at Remy a few beats. "How the fuck did I piss you off?" Her nose wrinkles as she tries to run through exactly what she did. "And good. We need to work the contacts and find the kid."
*
"Dis entire time you tink dis shit bout you. Y'always tink dis shit bout you. Dere ain't no give. Ever. Exhaustin," Remy says as he grabs the door. He pauses, waiting for a response. And then it's almost as if he realizes that waiting for a response is just going to be giving into to the game she says she's not playing while playing. And now he's twisted around so bad he can't even think straight. And then he gets pissed because he always chooses broken women and then he slams the door and walks down the steps.
*
Twice Jessica's lips move to snark back. Yet not even she can seem to find the words. The door slams and Jessica stares at it in silence a few beats. Her breath emits in an audible exhale, a near huh before looking down at her coffee. She stomps back to the kitchen, muttering to herself, "Fuck it. I need a drink."