Chapter Text
It’s him or me, you have to decide.
Please don’t…
I’ll count to three.
Put the gun down.
When Jason came back to life he did so choking on a scream and stale air and maggots.
One.
Don’t.
When Jason came back to his mind he did so choking on lazarus water.
Two.
NO!
When Jason came to in the ruins of a building he did so choking on dust and ash and his own blood.
Thr-
Choking, choking, choking.
You managed to find a way to win… and everybody still loses!
Jason woke up when he hit the floor. It took him several moments to sift through the cotton between his memories, to remember where he was and what had happened.
Jessica. Archives. Gunfire. Dart in the arm. Some lady's couch.
Someone's hands were on his shoulders, pulling him off the plush carpet. He recognized those hands, instinct pulled him away anyways — there was still too much cotton in his head to operate on conscious thought.
Choking, choking, choking.
"Jason," Art said. Had been saying. "Kid, relax, it's fine."
Jason jerked away again but Art's hands followed him, a firm grip on his shoulders that guided him up until he was sitting against the front of the couch.
"Oh, my god" Jason groaned. "Fuck off for a second."
Art’s hands didn’t disappear, though. He held on for several more moments, squeezed Jason’s shoulders once, before finally pulling away.
“I’ll get you a glass of water,” he said and his voice was too soft and Jason’s head was still spinning but he cracked his eyes open to watch Art’s back disappear into the kitchen. Several cupboards creaked open and closed.
“Kitchen sink isn’t working,” Art grumbled as he exited the kitchen and started down the hallway, a small, blue plastic cup in hand. It was a gentle sight. The old man and the small cup shuffling down the hallway.
Jason jolted at the sound of choking to his left, and huffed a laugh when he found it was only Luke snoring. Luke, with his head thrown backwards, mouth agape. Jason was pretty sure most people didn’t actually swallow spiders in their sleep, but Luke might just be the exception.
The faucet in the bathroom was running. Jason could vaguely hear Art’s continued grumbling, now about how the water wouldn’t progress past lukewarm.
He could stay. He could pull himself up onto the couch and wait for a probably warm glass of water. He might have, if it wasn’t for the inkling of a memory in the back of his mind.
Where the hell are your parents, kid?
Dead.
Jason squeezed his eyes shut. He hadn’t revealed any secret identities, hadn’t told anyone anything particularly crucial but christ, he was pretty sure he’d told Art half a sob story.
All of Batman’s lecturing, all of the League’s anti-interrogation training, and no one had ever taught him how to keep from sharing his childhood trauma with someone he trusted. What a bunch of bullshit.
Jason was out the kitchen window in the blink of an eye. He clambered up the fire escape in record time, reaching the roof so fast his head spun and he couldn’t even remember if he’d closed the damn window.
“Concussion, dumbass,” he whispered, crouching down so he wouldn’t actually hit the dirt, static eating away at his peripheral vision. Jason closed his eyes and took slow, deliberate breaths in through his nose and out through his mouth and tried not to think about the man who’d taught him the pattern.
His head hurt too much to think about that.
The trip back down the fire escape was much slower and quieter. He couldn’t remember which floor he’d fled and so he crept past each one, just in case. The extra care was unnecessary, though. Art’s shouting was audible from three floors away.
“God dammit. I turn my back for two minutes and the little fucker goes out the fuckin’ window?”
“We’ll find him,” a woman said, much quieter. Jason brushed his fingers across the butterfly stitches at his temple, the memory of gentle, practiced hands coming and going too fast to hold any substance.
They moved away from the window and Jason hurried the rest of the way down to the steet, his feet hitting the pavement with a bit too much force.
Mom OD’d a few times before that.
Where’s your dad in all this, huh?
Jail. Wasn't a bad guy, just had a bad life.
Jason was going to hurl. He started walking, shaking out his hands like he could physically banish the memories. Like he could physically flick away the embarrassment painting the tips of his ears red.
He’d intended on going home, subconsciously. But he found, very suddenly, that he couldn’t stand the idea of being alone. Not with Catherine and Willis. Not with Jeff and his tire boosting scheme and filthy warehouse.
Not with Bruce.
So, like the loser he was — had always been — Jason ducked into the first library he found.
It was a decent size and clearly hadn’t been renovated in a couple of decades. If Jason tried hard enough, he could pretend he was thirteen years old again. He could pretend he’d taken the bus into the city after school to go see his favorite librarian.
Bruce would be mad at him, he knew it. He’d always hated it when Jason deviated from a plan, even one so inconsequential as what time he’d be home after school.
It was worth it, though, if it meant he could see Miss Jane. It was worth it if it meant he could walk alone, as himself — no costume — along the familiar streets.
“Can I help you, hun?”
Jason jolted, a little, at the voice. Miss Jane didn’t sound like that.
He opened his eyes and turned towards the voice. An older woman smiled a concerned smile from behind the front desk of a library that did not belong to him.
Jason ran his hand through his hair in an attempt to smooth it down into something more presentable as he approached the greying woman. A glance at his reflection in the front window made it clear he hadn't been successful.
At least there wasn't any blood on his face.
“Hi,” he said, leaning on the counter and smiling sweetly, “I need a library card.”
Claire kicked him out around five in the morning, insisting he go home and get some sleep. It was quite rude, then, when she called barely two hours later. Matt felt like he'd only just laid down, like his head had barely touched his pillow, when his phone rang.
"Claire. Claire. Claire," his phone said, and Matt slapped a hand around aimlessly, trying to find it without moving the rest of his body.
"You told me to go home," he said, when he finally found it tucked underneath a pillow.
"He's gone."
Matt sat up abruptly, his pillow hit the floor with a dull thud. "What do you mean he's gone?"
"He woke up, Art went to get him some water and when he got back, the kid was gone. The window was wide open, so that's gotta be how he left. I'm surprised he didn't fall to his death." Claire didn’t sound surprised, though. She didn’t sound impressed, either.
"Okay," Matt said, trying not to dwell on that concept too much. "Shit."
He dragged himself out of bed. He needed pants — well, he needed a shower and to change his shirt and to sleep for fifteen hours. But, mostly, he needed pants.
Matt's feet took a well-known path without him even thinking about it. Perpendicular from the side of the bed, five steps. Sidestep to avoid the couch. Slight turn to the left, run his left hand along the back of the couch — once a necessity but now an unconscious habit. Stop at the end of the couch, turn ninety degrees to the right.
There was no door on his closet — no need to tuck things away when he couldn't see them anyways — and he dragged his fingertips across the different fabrics. He could feel the tags, if he wanted, could read the braille that would tell him what was on each hanger. Sometimes, though, Matt just went by touch.
He stopped at a pair of soft jeans, something familiar and comfortable, and then he left.
Matt’s feet knew the path to Claire’s apartment without thinking about it. He didn’t need the white cane to tell him where the light posts were or when to pause at an intersection, but he used it anyway.
He went inside the building and up the stairs, not up the fire escape. He was Matt Murdock, civilian lawyer, not Daredevil. Blind civilian lawyers used the stairs.
It was an unconscious habit, the listening. Most of the time he couldn’t help it, it took a real concerted effort to tune out most of the world at any given moment. He could hear what was going on in every apartment in Claire’s building, if he wanted to. If he lost focus.
“I don’t know what I’m doing,” Art said, and Matt hadn’t meant to overhear it but he had and the old man’s voice was so raw and soft that Matt stopped in his tracks in the stairwell.
Claire laughed, “I don’t think it’s possible to know what you’re doing right now. It’s a wild situation.”
“Sure, sure.” Neither of them said anything for several long minutes and Matt almost continued on, almost showed up at Claire’s door to save them from that silence, when Art said, “I never wanted kids.”
“Oh,” Claire said gently, knowingly. Because that was it, wasn’t it? That was the root of it all. The kid. The one they had jokingly called Art’s kid all these months.
“I was married, once,” Art continued and, if Matt focused, he could hear the scrape of Art’s calloused hands rubbing together. “She wanted a family, but I knew I’d never be any good with all that. She thought she could change my mind.”
There was a bone deep sorrow in his voice as he told it. A hushed tone, like it was a secret. And Art had only just met Claire, but Matt understood. She was someone that just made you want to come clean.
“There’s nothing wrong with not wanting kids, Art.”
Art sighed, a sharp puff of air. “Course there isn’t, but she sure wasted her life trying to change my mind.”
Silence crept in again and this time Matt pushed forward, desperate to change the course of their conversation.
“Anyway,” Art huffed, “that was thirty years ago.”
Claire laughed again, this time it was a small sound. “Life has a way of dropping things into your lap, things you don’t want but are technically equipped to deal with. To help with.” Matt knocked on Claire’s door and she laughed for real. “Speak of the devil.”
Jessica Jones would never say it out loud, would never, ever admit it, but when she was upset, she went to Trish. In order to do that she would have to admit she was upset and that was something she held close to her chest regardless of how deeply it cut into her.
She was, though. Upset. The mystery of it was almost unbearable, but the whole thing with the kid reeked of tragedy. Jessica couldn’t shake the image of a child soldier any more than she could shake that of the kid passed out on the couch.
So, with too much on her mind and an uncomfortable, directionless longing in her chest, Jessica left Claire’s apartment and hailed a cab.
She had her own apartment, of course. A place to call home. A place to store her few measly possessions — a pair of boots, two jackets, her extra jeans, and a handful of shirts. Jessica Jones had never been sentimental.
Or, maybe, she had been, once. Before an argument and a car accident and—
Jessica Jones was not sentimental. She had the key to Trish’s apartment on her key ring for convenience. Trish had an extensive bar and a wine rack. Trish’s shit came in glass bottles with years printed on the label in fancy lettering.
Jessica couldn’t remember the last time she’d bought anything that didn’t come in plastic.
So, she went to Trish’s, not for the familiar comfort of an almost-sister, not because they had, for all intents and purposes, grown up together. Not because Trish knew a thing or two about having a troubled past.
She went for the alcohol.
It was early, Jessica realized as she dropped onto a stool at Trish’s kitchen island, pulling the cork out of a half-full wine bottle with her teeth as she did. Trish was an early-riser, always had been. Where before it was casting calls and filming It’s Patsy at the crack of dawn, these days it was pilates and private trainers and half marathons before noon.
Jessica rolled her eyes at the very idea.
It was early, then, because after a few minutes, Trish emerged from her bedroom wearing a blue silk pajama set and rubbing her eyes.
“Jess?” she yawned. When she looked like this, without her makeup and hair done, without her walls up, she looked like Patsy. Patsy, the child actor sensation. Patsy, winner of both a Teen Choice Award and a People’s Choice Award.
Patsy, the bread-winner. Patsy, hiding bruises with makeup and popping pills to handle it all.
“Present,” Jessica said, taking a swig. She made a face, eyeing the bottle. “This tastes like shit.”
“It’s five-hundred a bottle,” Trish said, crossing her arms. And there she was. Trish. Headstrong and defensive. Not a little girl under her mommy’s thumb, anymore.
Jessica pretended to read the label, eyebrows raised. “Then it should taste better.”
“What’re you doing here?” Trish slid into the stool next to her, leaning her cheek onto her folded arms. It was a gentle tactic, appear sleepy and slightly uninterested to get under Jessica’s defenses.
Jessica held up the bottle of wine instead. “Is it not obvious?”
“Jess—”
“No thanks.”
“Okay, fine.” Trish sat up straight. “I’ll just tell you about what I’m working on right now.”
“On your radio show? Where you’re supposed to be discussing what color of curtains are “in” this season?”
Trish ignored her. “The mayor is under a lot of pressure right now because he hired a company to finally deal with a lot of abandoned buildings.”
“Sure,” Jessica said, only half paying attention. She drank more, trying to chase away the haunting image of a kid all alone on the streets. Sure, Dorothy had been a terrible adoptive mother, but Jessica had gotten Trish out of it. Had had a roof over her head.
“Do you know why people are mad?”
Jessica took another swig, set the bottle down too hard, said, “Enlighten me.”
“A whole city of construction companies, and this guy goes and hires a Russian mobster. Not to mention this guy, Taras Vasiliev, is under investigation for tax fraud, but yeah, sure, that’s who the city should be hiring for this huge contract.”
“Corruption? In my New York City? No way,” Jessica mumbled. Maybe the wine was off. She couldn’t remember how long a bottle could be open before it went bad — her incredible metabolism and stellar work ethic eliminated the problem of leftover wine.
“And my stupid little talk show—” Trish said pointedly.
“I never called it little.”
“—has a source, someone who worked there. They tried to hide Vasiliev’s involvement with the company to avoid the backlash, but my guy has tax documents, things he was told to destroy. Things no one else has that prove Vasiliev is involved with McKenzie Construction.”
Trish smiled, her shoulders were back and her eyes were hungry. She always got this way, when she felt like she’d won a game. Whether it was Monopoly or investigating a demo company.
“Demolition, not construction,” Jessica said automatically, still staring mindlessly at the bottle of wine. She froze. “Oh, shit.”
Jessica downed the rest of the wine with a sour face and shoved away from the counter.
“Happy to be of service? I guess?” Trish called as Jessica left.
Taras Vasiliev. It wasn’t the whole picture, but it was a start. Jessica had a piece of paper in her back pocket, a piece of paper that meta mercenaries had tried to kill her over.
A piece of paper that said McKenzie Demolition and was otherwise mostly redacted outside of brief mention of another company. Another company that was sure to be a shell, another diversion, something she was preparing herself to deal with.
Jessica had been willing to pull that thread until she found a name but now, here it was, dropped into her lap. No more chasing ghosts, Jessica had a real target, now.
Luke Cage was a heavy sleeper, always had been. Pops used to say he was lucky he was invincible, otherwise all someone would have to do was walk into his bedroom and shoot him in the head. Not even the gunshot would wake him up.
Luke supposed Pops had been right, when he woke up to a midday beam of sunlight in his eyes. Immediately, he noticed the empty couch and chair. For a moment the image from the night before was superimposed over the present.
For a moment, Luke could see Art with Jason’s hand clasped in his own.
Luke shook his head, pushing himself out of the armchair with a soft groan. He was too old to be sleeping in chairs.
“Claire?” he called, voice thick with sleep.
“Claire?” he called again, shuffling through the apartment. The kitchen was empty. He peaked into Claire’s bedroom, also empty.
“Guys?” he whispered, even though it had become abundantly clear that he was alone in the apartment. Luke planted his hands on his hips and frowned.