Chapter Text
It starts with a drink. These kinds of stories always do, especially when said drink is top shelf Colonel E.H Taylor Amaranth whiskey, which Jessica had happened to score as a thank you gift from a wealthy client with cash to burn once Alias Investigations had gotten to the bottom of his business partner’s embezzlement scheme. If there’s one good thing that came out of playing superhero (other than, you know, saving the city from some ancient-immortal-foot-cult), it’s a steady stream of clientele, that has since been paying her rent and stocking her cabinets.
It’s been an… interesting past couple of months. “Interesting” is putting it lightly -- it’s managed to be tragic, fucked, and so bizarre it borderlines on hilarious when Jessica downs half a bottle.
Feels like she’s been taking one fuck you! after another.
Hey, fuck you, you caught the attention of a mind-controlling sociopath who just so happens to love you in yellow!
Fuck you again, time to get wrapped up in a ragtag group of bootleg Avengers to fight a super-secret-immortal-magic-squad that for some reason isn’t a practical joke!
Hey, remember that guy? The one you really liked, Stirling? Fuck you, what if you just stumbled on his dead body?
Hey, remember the mom you thought you lost? She’s alive, but not for long, because your adoptive sister’s totally going to take her out. Then she’s going to the Raft, because why not? Fuck you again!
And to that, Jessica says a big fuck you back, to Kilgrave, to the universe, to the stupid hand-foot-whatever gods, and any other sinister forces lurking in Hell’s Kitchen that she’s had the honor of encountering. But life goes on, and so does petty crime, jealous spouses, and awfully concerned parents, which is why Jessica is still employed as a private investigator.
She cracks her knuckles as she stands on her tip-toes to reach the stale Cheez-its in the back of her pantry, and groans internally at the thought of having to buy more groceries. She brings the box back to her desk, where her research on her latest assignment is haphazardly strewn across her workspace and spilling onto the floor below. Folders stacked upon folders of articles and medical reports and other shit she’s meticulously highlighted, pictures and post its, and she settles back into her work as her fingers pound her keyboard. Jessica takes another swig from the bottle, and welcomes the burn at the back of her throat. She only notices the slight blur from her screen and a strange warmth in her stomach when she reaches for the folder on the far side of her desk.
She isn’t drunk. It’s not even one, for god sake, and even Jessica has standards. Of course, she tailored her standards to bottom shelf liquor and cheap beer, not Colonel E.H Taylor Amaranth. Maybe it’s that familiar buzz that leads her to answer the door, whereas on other Sundays any visitor would be kicked to the curb, because it’s her damn day off. Jessica blinks as the knocking on the door becomes slightly more rapid, and placing the whiskey bottle back onto her desk, she rises from her seat and makes her way to the door, opening it a bit harder than she meant to, the gravity of her swing nearly creating a draft in front of her and her guest.
“Son of a bitch,” she growls, because this is not what she needed on her Sunday afternoon.
It’s Matthew Murdock. Jessica purses his lips as she looks him up and down. Was she a bit jaded that he hadn’t bothered to reach out after, you know, getting nearly smashed to death by a building and being presumed dead? Maybe, not that she would admit it. Jessica feels a pang in her chest as she remembers, the cold nipping at her jacket as she stood outside Midland Circle as it fell into ruin, unblinking as she watched the massive structure fall, crumble, with no survivors. Until Devil Boy decided to take a page out of Elektra’s book and rise from the dead (well, almost dead), and up and continue his practice like nothing had happened, like Jessica didn’t see him die in front of her.
Jessica swallows hard. He looks… good. Well-dressed, unlike Jessica clad in sweats and an oversized t-shirt. Suit pressed and clean, hair combed, a little stubble outlining his firm jawline as he gives her a wry smile. He certainly doesn’t look like a man who was crushed to death by a Stark-tower-esque building, or a man who got his ass kicked after simping for a fucking zombie. He looks like a fucking lawyer.
“Jessica,” he says, his voice warm and comforting, but to Jess sends a shiver up her spine. “It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”
Jessica shifts her weight from one side to another, the comforting buzz of her whiskey dissipated by her burst of adrenaline. She’s glad he can’t see the shock and remanence building behind her eyes, but knowing this motherfucker, he could probably smell it or something. She finds her words, because no man will ever leave Jessica Jones speechless, never again.
“Yeah, I guess.”
“You’ve been doing well, I hope?”
Jessica bites the inside of her cheek. “What’s it to you?” She hopes her voice is as deadpanned as she meant it to sound.
Murdock scratches the back of his head. “Can I come in?”
Jessica snorts. “You got a warrant, attorney?”
Matt exhales. “Listen, I know this is… weird. But you’re the best there is, right? I need your help. I think you’ll be interested, if you hear me out.”
Jess glances back at her desk, itching for the whiskey which now seems so far away. “You can schedule an appointment. I don’t do house calls. It’s Sunday, anyways, shouldn’t you be in church or something right now?”
Murdock sounds exasperated. “Please. Just a few minutes. You can kick me out, but hear what I have to say.”
Tilting her head at the ceiling and sighing deeply, Jessica takes a few steps back, allowing Matt to fill the doorway. “Whatever. Don’t touch any of my shit.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Murdock replies, making his way to the couch and finding a seat, brushing off his suit. After closing the door behind him, Jess goes to grab the bottle. She almost misses Matt’s smirk over her deep swig.
“What’re you drinking? Smells expensive.”
Jessica wrinkles her nose. “Ew. Weird. It is expensive, mind you. I’m not sharing.” She sits next to him on the other side of the couch, cross-legged and facing him. “Okay, go.”
Murdock clears his throat. “First, um, I want to say sorry, about what happened at --”
“Don’t care,” Jessica interrupts.
He furrows his brow. “You didn’t even hear what I had to --”
“Are you blind and deaf? I said I don’t care. Why are you here?”
Silence for one beat, then two. Although she knows logically he can’t see her face, Jessica can’t help but look away from his fixed gaze, as if he’s scrutinizing her, somehow. Finally, Matt speaks again. “It’s about a case.”
“I’m not a lawyer.”
“I know,” Murdock replies. “But I need evidence, an you’re the only detective I trust to get it.”
She knows she shouldn’t be getting involved. That Murdock was bad news, and the last time she fraternized with him, she ended up throwing punches at a death cult complete with wizards, magic, and whatever the fuck “chi” means. But he saw through her weakness, intentionally or not -- her need to crack a case, to solve a puzzle. Maybe it’s pride, or maybe its curiosity, but Jessica can’t help but be intrigued. The words escape her lips before she can stop them.
“Give me the rundown.”
For the first time in their meeting, Murdock seems genuinely relieved. He leans back, his head touching the worn faux leather of Jess’s couch, and clasps his hands together.
“Man is facing heavy charges for the kidnapping of his neighbor’s kid. Something… isn’t adding up. And if I don’t figure out why, this man goes away for the rest of his life and that girl doesn’t come home.”
Jessica frowns as she takes another swig of her whiskey. “How long as she been missing?”
Murdock grimaces. “Seventeen days.”
Jessica feels a pang in her chest. “Murdock… you know that after seventy-two hours…”
Murdock nods. “I know. But something is telling me that this guy is telling the truth. And if he is, that this girl is out there somewhere.”
“Something telling you isn’t going to hold up in court. You know that, even with your weird mind reading powers.”
“Exactly,” Murdock says. “Listen. I can… tell when someone’s lying. For the most part. And this man is caught up in one hell of a shitstorm unless I can prove that I’m right. That’s where you come in. This isn’t… ordinary. And you’re the only one I know who’s an expert in solving mysteries, especially… abnormal ones.”
Jessica finishes her bottle, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. “You’re telling me, this isn’t normal? Because if I have to deal with some hand cult again --”
“It’s not that,” Murdock interrupts. “But… I’m never wrong.”
Jessica snorts. “Wow, so humble.”
“Okay, I’ll reframe. I’m usually right. And the only way we figure out where the hell this girl went is to figure out what happened to the man everyone thinks took her.”
…
An hour later, and Matt’s mouth feels dry as sandpaper after telling Jessica everything he knew. He can see why she is a private investigator. She asked questions about everything, questions about her questions, and from the rapid click of her keyboard, Matt could tell her notes looked more like a thesis than bullet points.
Seeing her was… complicated. They worked well together, or, as well as their two personalities could when taking down the Hand. But despite his keen senses, something was always… askew about Jones, from the way heat seemed to radiate off her body like a furnace, the way her heart picked up its pace at random words and noises, and of course, the elephant in the room -- her uncanny ability to throw a man three times her size through a concrete wall. Truth be told, he could hear his own heartbeat pound faster as he stood in front of her door. It’s… awkward after Midland Circle, and as much as he wanted to apologize for pulling an Easter Sunday and practically rising from the dead, Jones told him that she didn’t want to hear it. Contrary to her heartbeat.
“Okay,” Jessica breathes. “So, neighbor was spotted on home security footage leading the girl down the street in the middle of the night. His alibi has him at home in bed, with his wife to confirm, but no one else. Search history wiped, scratches and fingernail marks on his wrist and bicep…the… girl’s diary in his bedroom? Murdock, from what you’re telling me, there’s more than enough evidence to at least hold this guy.”
Yeah. The outlook is… bleak, and Matt knows it. But his senses don’t lie, and as much as his confidence has been wavering as of late, he’s made it this far by trusting his judgment.
“I know,” Matt says, cracking his knuckles. “But this man is telling me the truth, and if that’s the truth, the girl is alive.”
He hears Jones slam a glass down on a side table. “Your internal polygraph isn’t foolproof. This is real life, not some opportunity to play hero.”
“Just…” Matt’s grip on his cane grows tighter as he tries to level his breathing. “Can we just try? If we find the girl, we’ll know. You can find a missing kid. You’re supposed to be good at this.”
“Ah, hell,” Jessica mutters. Matt can hear her breath escape her lungs, and as a can cracks open, a new small wrinkles his nose.
“Want a beer?” she asks him.
“No," he says. "But I want you.” He feels her heart jump, only slightly, in a if-you-blink-you’ll-miss-it sort of way as she takes a heavy sip.
“Fine,” Jessica says. “Give me the night to do some digging on this dude, and this girl, and you… you do some lawyer shit or something, and we reconvene.”
“Thank you,” Murdock exhales. “Thank you, Jessica.”
“Don’t thank me yet,” she replies, and he can hear her shuffling back to her desk, slamming the beer next to her computer. “Thank me when I crack this case.” Matt can’t help but smile internally as her keyboard click-clacks away, her breathing even and steady.
…
“How’re you doing, Mr. Cartwright?” It’s Foggy, sitting across from their client and quickly glancing through the stack of papers in the ever-growing manilla folder in front of them.
Murdock can barely hear his partner over the pounding of Kevin Cartwright’s heart.
“Uh… like usual, I guess,” Kevin replies, voice shaking. “But I… I still don’t know what else to say. I was in my house that night. Eleanor can testify to that!”
“And Eleanor will certainly be called to the stand,” Matt interjects. “But we must be very sure. You are certain you were in your bed the night Marie disappeared? Go downstairs for any reason? Any history of sleepwalking?”
Matt can sense Kevin frantically shaking his head, the sound of his hair brushing against his cheeks. “I went to bed early and was out the whole night. I’ve never sleepwalked in my life.” There it was again. The truth, that Murdock could hear, smell, sense from this man, who wholeheartedly believes that he never left his bed that night.
When he told Foggy he wanted to take Cartwright’s case, Nelson was understandably confused.
“Matt, they have a video. Dude had her fucking diary. He’s a creep, and I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but we don’t need to be aggressively chasing clientele right now.”
But despite all they’ve been through, Foggy was his ride or die, and for that, Murdock couldn’t be more grateful. It’s how the two of them found themselves across from a man the country has condemned.
“Listen, Kevin,” Foggy starts, “if there’s something you’re hiding, you have to --”
“I’m not hiding anything!” Murdock can tell from his shallow breathing that Kevin is nearly in hysterics at the thought, and as Foggy’s lips part to speak again, Matt gently kicks his shin under the table. He can feel Foggy’s eyes on him, but he cedes nevertheless.
“We believe you. We’re just trying to figure out how you got on that camera. How the diary ended up in your bedroom.”
Kevin takes a straggled breath. “I don’t… know. I would never hurt a kid. And I would never -- that’s perverted -- I…” He sighs deeply. “This is hopeless. I’m never going to get out of this.”
Murdock could smell the blood on her face as she glares at him incredulously.
“Oh, because she’ll foot the bill?”
Matt shrugs. “Yeah. And, I’m a Catholic, I have a soft spot for hopeless causes.”
Murdock takes a breath. “Well, you’re going to try.”
…
Jessica squints at her computer, glancing up for a moment at the 54 tabs she has pulled on her screen. From what she’s found so far, Kevin Cartwright seemed pretty normal. Restaurant manager. Wife of seven years, no children, two rescue dogs. No criminal record. Minor hospitalizations -- appendix surgery nine years back, a broken kneecap four. Won some writing award in high school. Nothing special in terms of assets, lineage, mental or physical diagnoses… a normal man, living a relatively normal life, until now.
But if Jessica’s learned anything from her years as a private-investigator-reluctant-superhero hybrid, if you only find normal, you’re not looking hard enough. When her cellphone begins to buzz, she picks it up immediately, tucking the phone under her cheek as she continues to type.
“Hello?”
“Jessica? It’s Matt. Murdock.”
“Since when did you have my number?”
“Since earlier today…you don’t remember? How much have you had to drink?”
Jessica rolls her eyes. “Not enough for this conversation. Listen, I’m balls deep in research right now about your client, and I don’t have much time for your smalltalk, as much as I’m sure you miss the sound of my voice.”
She can hear Murdock chuckle on the other end of the line. “I appreciate what you’re doing,” he says. “It means a --”
“Do you have something to say, or did you just call to kiss my ass?” Jessica winces. Even for her, that was bitter, and she grits her teeth as she waits for him to respond. “Sorry, I --”
“No worries.” Matt’s voice is breezy on the other end of the line. “Just wanted to let you know I just talked to him. Guy’s a mess. No sleepwalking history. Swears to go that he never left his bed.”
“Kay,” Jessica replies. “Figured as much. I’ll need to search his house.”
“Uh, I don’t know if --”
“This isn’t going to work if you don’t let me investigate. I’d also like the girl’s diary.”
Matt sighs. “That’s evidence, it’s --”
“Wow, evidence! It’s almost like that’s crucial for solving a case!”
“Okay,” Matt groans, and Jessica can hear the buzz of the city in the background, folks hailing taxis and blaring their horns. “I’m pretty sure I can get you in the house. The diary… that’s going to be tricky.”
“At least it’s a start,” Jessica replies. “Talk to the wife and bring me over. Figure out how to get me that diary. Pull some lawyer shit, I don’t know.”
She can hear Murdock chuckle. “Alright. I’ll get right to work on that lawyer shit. In the meantime… just do what you do best. If all goes to plan, this girl comes home. No feats of heroism involved, promise.”
He chuckles on the other end of the line, but Jessica feels her heart seize in her chest and legs turn to jelly. “Mmhmm,” she makes out. “Get back to me tomorrow, kay?”
“What’s up? His voice is suddenly laced with concern, as Jessica stumbles to her kitchen table and pushes her palms against its surface, using its weight to keep her up. “You okay, Jessica?”
“Fine,” she says, and she can feel her pulse in her fingertips. “I have to go. Talk tomorrow.” She exhales and her phone falls from her cheek, cracking against the table, but Jessica hardly hears it. Her numb fingers scramble to hang up the call, before lacing both of her hands in her air and squeezing her scalp, as if the pressure would give her some sort of relief.
Stupid. This is so stupid.
As she stumbles towards her liquor cabinet, a low and sultry voice drums in the back of her mind. Stupid voice. A voice Jessica said fuck you to, many months ago, and whose voice has no fucking right making its appearance in her head. Stupid voice. Stupid words.
A scoff, and a chuckle. “Here I am, just… debating where to eat, and BAM…”
Jessica nearly tears the cabinet door off of its hinges as she swings it open.
“...there you are…”
She finds what she’s looking for, and hastily unscrews its top.
“Performing… feats of heroism!”
She chokes on the scotch, drops flying from her mouth and staining her lips as she tries to take a breath. This is fucking dumb, because Kilgrave is dead, and words that he said to her years ago should not be driving her to the brink. She takes another swig from the bottle, downs it easily this time, and recites her mantra.
“Main Street, Birch Street, Higgins Drive, Cobalt Lane. Main Street, Birch Street, Higgins Drive, Cobalt Lane.” Fucking stupid. Fucking…
“Main Street, Birch Street, Higgins Drive, Cobalt Lane. Main Street, Birch Street, Higgins Drive, Cobalt Lane.” Jessica exhales deeply and slaps a sweaty hand to her bleary eyes, taking another breath in as she wills her extremities to stop trembling.
Fuck Kilgrave. Or fuck me, for letting these benign, stupid words drill a hole this large in my fucking head.
She comes down from her panic gradually, gripping the edge of the table in case the world decided to collapse in front of her yet again. It pisses her the fuck off that things like that -- stupid things like that -- trigger her. The word trigger itself makes her cringe. Sets her off. That’s better. It pisses her off that simple phrases, certain names, hell, the color purple can send her into a frenzy when she’s having a bad day. When full feeling returns to her arms and legs, Jessica trusts her ability to carry herself back to her desk, once more sitting in front of her keyboard and taking a breath. Kilgrave be damned. Fear be damned.
Take a drink, take a breath, and get back to work.
Because Murdock is right. She is good at this. And try as they might, no one can take that from her.
…
“This is it?”
“Yup,” Murdock responds. “Eleanor Cartwright was more than willing to let you in, as soon as I told her you could be trusted.”
“Wow,” Jessica responds, and Matt can almost feel the sarcasm dripping from her lips. “High praise, trusted by Matthew Murdock.”
The two make their way to the front door, and Matt has to pick up the pace to their doorstep as Jessica struts ahead. She knocks on the door, once, twice, and almost as if she was waiting for their arrival, Eleanor Cartwright swings the door open.
Eleanor Cartwright was a frazzled, animated woman, and Matt is immediately away of the hammer of her heartbeat, the small wave of electricity wafting from her curly hair, the sweat under her armpits. She’s stressed, and damn, Matt can’t blame her. The fact that she still wanted to be in her house surprised him, even after it was cleared by the initial search and seizure. The Cartwrights were arguably one of the most hated couples in Hell’s Kitchen, hell, even America if this story hits the national media. The smell of old spray paint wafting from the garage told Matt that the house had already been vandalized.
“Mr. Murdock,” she gasps, voice characteristically trembling. “Thank you for coming by. This must be Miss Jones?”
Matt goes to answer, when Jessica interrupts him, clearing her throat. “Jessica, ma’am. Alias Investigations.”
Eleanor’s voice softens, and Matt can feel Jessica stiffen next to him as Eleanor goes to shake her hand. “Thank you, Miss Jones. I heard you were the best. I appreciate your help.”
“Mmhmm,” Jessica mumbles. “Can we come in? I would like to do a sweep of your house, but I’d also like to ask you a few questions, if that’s alright.”
Matt can sense Eleanor nodding furiously, as she steps back from the doorway and the two see themselves inside. He pauses for a moment, taking in the new environment, before a sharp tug at his suit jacket pulls him to be seated on a sofa. He feels the couch sink next to him as another person sits. Jones. A warm, fluffy presence brushes against his leg, as a large dog lays down at their feet, next to the sofa. Matt tries to drown out its panting as it rolls over on its back.
“Alright,” Jessica says. “I already know the low down, so I’m not going to be asking you all of those questions again. I’m sure you’re tired of it. I need to know something. Anything… strange with Kevin as of lately, before Marie’s disappearance? Changes in demeanor, mood shifts, unexplained absences?” Her voice is calm, and in a strange way, almost soothing.
Eleanor pauses. “No… I don’t think so. He may have been a little quieter than usual, but I didn’t think anything of it. He was a little stressed with work… you know… the restaurant business is tricky.” At baseline, an even heartbeat, uncharacteristic of a liar.
“Alright,” Jessica responds. “Any interactions with Marie prior to her disappearance?”
“She… Marie loves our dogs. Sometimes she would come over and ask to play with them in the backyard. We always let her. Other than that, not really… I mean, we’d see her in passing, but we’re neighbors!”
“Right. That night, when Marie disappeared, any drugs or alcohol?”
“We had a glass of wine at dinner,” Eleanor responds. “We usually do. Red wine. Nothing unusual. It was a pretty average night. We watched some TV, took the dogs on their evening walk, got ready for bed… that’s it, Detective Jones.”
“Okay,” Jessica says, moving to rise from the couch. “If it’s alright with you, Mrs. Cartwright, I’d like to look around your home, particularly your bedroom and bathroom.”
Matt rises to go with her as Eleanor nods eagerly. “Anything you need. I don’t…”
Eleanor pauses, and Matt tilts his head at the sudden disturbance in the room. The rapid but even patter of her heart increases in speed and sound, as Eleanor takes a shaky breath. Jessica moves to leave the room. Matt puts out an arm to stop her.
“What was that, Mrs. Cartwright?”
“Hm?”
“You were going to say something?”
“No, no,” Matt can feel Eleanor shake her head. “Just lost in thought.”
Matt pauses. “Right. If that’s the case, Detective Jones and I will be heading upstairs.”
…
As the two scour through Kevin Cartwright’s belongings, Matt stifles a groan as he throws a pair of dirty socks to the side, coughing. “Do we really need to go through all of his clothes? I don’t think a pair of socks is going to solve this case.”
He can hear Jessica painstakingly comb through Kevin’s draws, unfolding shirts and jeans, searching their pockets. “If all I have to go off of is his house, then we’re going to make use of it. We’re going through his bathroom next. You never know what you’ll find, especially where people take a shit. Notorious for hiding secrets."
“That’s… gross.”
“Gross, but true," Jessica replies. "One time I proved some lady’s dick of a husband was a cheater by unclogging their shower drain and picking out some long blonde hairs. Lady was a redhead.”
“I trust your judgment,” Matt says, throwing a dirty pair of jeans to the side and wrinkling his nose. “At least I think I do.”
They work in silence for a few moments, rifting through Kevin's belongings. Matt admires her concentration, because even at the simplest pair of khakis and underwear, Matt can basically hear Jessica's wheels turning as she works to put together some sort of evidence, some sort of connection. As willing as he was to get his hands dirty, Matt wasn't the type to sift through someone's literal dirty laundry in hopes of finding some type of clue. Guess that's why he hired her. He can feel her energy as she works. He can feel her...looking at him. Studying. Thinking, as if she wants to ask him...
“How’d you do it?” Jessica’s voice is suddenly quizzical, and Matt notes the sudden but subtle jump in her pulse. “How did you survive Midland Circle? I know it’s not really my business, but I’m awful curious why your suicide mission didn’t see its end.”
A massive pit forms nearly instantly in Matt’s stomach. Midland Circle. Where he was never supposed to make it out alive. Where he meant to go out, out with Elektra under that rubble, and somehow survived. Barely, but somehow, when he woke up with his senses fucked and his body ravaged. He honestly doesn’t have much of an answer.
“I…I’m not sure. Guess I just got lucky.” It's the truth. Once he woke up in that bed, other than his pounding headache and broken bones, his mind was overcome by not just fear, but... an awful sense of confusion, over something that shouldn't be.
“Or maybe,” Jessica drawls, “your immortal vampire bride dragged you to the surface, in a final act of true love. Good on her. The self-sacrificial bullshit gets stale after awhile.” There is a hard bite to her tone that you certainly don’t need super senses to pick up on. Anger blossoms in his chest at Elektra’s mention, because Jessica had no right to bring that up, no right at all. He hardly notices the thud of Kevin’s dress shoes against the wall as Jessica tosses them aside perhaps a bit harder than she meant to.
“For someone who claimed not to care,” Matt hisses, “you sure seem to care a whole fucking lot.” His mind flashes back to that night, when he cupped Elektra's face as the world caved in around them, felt her breath on his cheek before he kissed her. That was his moment, his and Elektra's, and he'll be damned if he lets Jessica fucking Jones of all people scrutinize that.
Jessica's response is instant and bitter. “I never said I cared. I said I was curious. But maybe I shouldn’t be, because after being introduced to your buddy’s dumb magic resurrection cult, anything’s fair game.”
His own heartbeat is pounding in his chest, because when he recruited Jessica Jones, he certainly did not recruit her bitter attitude and inability to be at least somewhat fucking sensitive.
“Yup,” Matt retorts, popping the p. “Not sure you’re the one to talk about dumb magic, with your history.” Part of him feels agitated and trigger happy to shut her down...the other feels reluctant, as if he's walking into some dangerous territory that he couldn't talk himself out of.
She stalls, and a dark side of Matt smirks, because she can dish it out, but God knows if she can take it in. He can hear a small tear of fabric as a shirt rips between her fingertips, before Jessica tosses it aside once more, torn shirt landing in a heap with the others.
“I’m less interested in your dumb magic. More curious as to why the fuck you would stay behind with dead girl walking when you knew you had an out. How romantic.” The sarcasm in her tone hits him hard, even though he's heard it countless times already.
“Right,” Matt says, fire burning in his chest. “Because you have such a great take on romance, you and Kilgrave, right?”
It’s as if on cue, Matt could hear a pin drop in the room as Jessica falls deathly quiet for one beat, then two. Silence, save for the drumming of her heart, which despite her icy exterior, she can’t hide, not from him. After a moment or two, he can hear Jessica take a shaky breath. When she speaks to him again, her voice holds no malice. It holds… nothing, except for making a smidge of fear and something else Matt cannot place.
“Right. Let’s stay focused. Marie. Finding Marie.” She lets out a straggled cough, before returning to the task at hand, rummaging through Kevin Cartwright’s clothes.
The anger boiling in his belly has been snuffed, as Matt softly nods and returns to the hamper. Moments ago, the air felt electric, with their words flying back and forth, dueling with hissed voices and charged words. Now it just felt… cold. As Matt returns to sifting through the hamper, Jessica's sudden silence nearly feels worse than her venom.
If he listens closely, Matt swears he can hear her shake.