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Jessica watches with an anticipation she'll never admit to feeling as Malcolm reaches across the desk and grabs her ringing phone. She has half a mind to grab his arm and shove it away, to let the answering machine pick up whatever tear-filled cry for help someone will leave this time.
Another part of her wants to rip the damn thing out of his hands and throw it across the room. Wants to hear it shatter into pieces and feel satisfaction in it.
But she doesn't do any of those things.
Instead, she watches him. Trying and more than likely failing to feign disinterest as he presses the talk button and brings the phone to his ear.
“Alias Investigations,” he says, in a calm and professional like tone and she tries not to squirm under his gaze, pretending that hearing him say that doesn't resonate with every part of her.
She tears her eyes away and looks at the broken glass of her door, the giant hole in her wall, and the ruined...everything. Her shithole of an apartment, office, home. She thinks about the fact that Malcolm was doing dishes and almost smiles.
She looks at the door again, then to the bottle on her desk. She grabs it, opens it, and takes a swig. Her eyes are on the door again and she pretends she's not listening to Malcolm talk. Pretends she doesn't care as she leans back in her chair and swings her legs onto the desk with a loud thud.
She takes another drink, eyes on the door, ears on the conversation, thoughts on everything.
Fuck, I need a new window.
She takes a long drink, allowing the booze to fill her cheeks before she swallows, grimacing as she tries to take it all down. She wipes her mouth on the back of her hand and leans forward to put the bottle on the desk.
She tilts her head back and looks at the ceiling. There's mold and wet spots and cracks from being tossed around and from tossing others around. She feels phantom pain when she thinks about how much it hurt when she was thrown into the wall.
I could have something now, she muses to herself. Part of her doesn't even want to acknowledge the fact that there are people calling for her help, but she can't help the way it sparks her heart. The way it warms her chest, though that could be the whiskey. She rolls her eyes.
Not that she didn't have something before. She had a job, a purpose that got her through most nights. But now...it's exactly the same, yet so incredibly different she feels out of her depths. Unsure of how she's suppose to do this now that she has more awareness; that there are people out there who need her more than they ever have.
Need. Now isn't that a scary word?
She looks back at Malcolm and finds him writing on his skin with a pen, phone tucked between his shoulder and ear, nodding as he talks to the person on the phone. She thinks about grabbing him a piece of paper, but doesn't move.
She thinks about them all - Trish and Luke and Malcolm. Wonders how they can be there with her, for her. That she doesn't deserve anything they have to give her, yet she's too selfish to properly cut them off.
She couldn’t do it to Trish when it would've been easiest. Couldn’t do it to Luke even after he found out the truth and Malcolm was either fiercely loyal or a masochistic at heart because there's no reason he should be at her side now that he's on the good side of recovery.
Yet here he is, cleaning her dishes and answering her phone while she glares at the cracks in the ceiling; Trish is one text or phone call away, ready to help no matter how stupid and dangerous it could be. She clenches her jaw.
And Luke...
She's uncertain as to where they stand now. When she came back, he was gone and not one word has been passed between the two since the night she shot him – while both was conscious, anyway. A voice in the back of her mind tells her that he'd come running if she really needed him. That he would help her even if things between them are falling to shit.
She thinks she should let him go, for now.
Faintly, she hears Malcolm hang up the phone. Out of the corner of her eye she sees him put the phone down and stare at her. He doesn't say anything to get her attention, just watches her until it becomes annoying and she can't stop herself from looking over with a glare.
“What?”
“Got a case,” he says simply, holding out his arm to show her the name and address written there. There are a few other things written, but she doesn't care enough to crane her neck to read them. She's positive he'll tell her anyway so what's the point.
“So?”
Malcolm stares at her for a beat. There's something akin to sympathy in his eyes, and a tiredness that makes her want to fidget from guilt, but she doesn't. She just stares right back at him, challenging him even when there's no point or gain.
“A woman needs her abusive boyfriend to get the message that they're done.” he says, and she blinks at him.
She can feel her expression change, softening as she thinks about the woman who had called but she deleted her voice mail after only a second of listening. She wonders if it's the same woman.
“I figured you could use an easy one, and I know you love beating abusive assholes.”
A snarky remark is on the tip of her tongue, and her face scrunches up in annoyance at his words. Wants to tell him to fuck off, to tell him it's a bit too soon, to fumble through some reason why this is a bad idea. But she holds her words back because it's true. Her body aches in every spot possible. Her head is pounding and her fingers are itching for the bottle.
She's not sure if she wants to down it or throw it against the wall. Maybe both.
She looks away from Malcolm and focuses on the broken glass of her door. She traces the edges with her eyes before staring out past it and at the elevator at the end of the hallway.
Could it really be this simple?
She almost laughs at that thought. It would never be simple, ever. But it could help her. She's not good at talking about her feelings or recreational running, and she'd never be caught dead in those hot shorts Malcolm wears or the yoga pants she knows Trish wears, but maybe helping people could be her reliever. Let actions speak the words she can't, even if the bastard is dead.
She reaches out and grabs Malcolm's arm with out a word and reads the blue print a few times, memorizing the name of the woman, where she lives, and the name of the fucker she's going to beat within an inch of his life.
Okay, so she's not going to hurt him much. Though only if the woman is against the idea of bodily harm, if not, then it's free game.
She briefly considers waiting until morning.
She releases his arm, pushing it away and she drops her feet off the desk and sits up, taking in what's on it before standing. She grabs the neck of the bottle and takes a long swig before slamming it down.
“Don't wait up,” are her parting words to Malcolm as she makes her way out and to possibly, and hopefully, the rest of her life.