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JESSICA SLAMMED A GUN ONTO THE DESK, making Malcolm jolt. Malcolm's gaze went from the gun under Jessica's grip, trailing to the woman, her face in a permanent scowl. Blood seeped out of her hairline.
"Jessica -- " Malcolm began, his eyes widened as he stood up, walking around the desk quickly, reaching up to her wound.
Jessica let out a huff as Malcolm fussed over her. "I'm fine."
"The only thing fine about you is the fine you're gonna pay for denting my desk," Malcolm lifted a part of Jessica's hair away. "Who was idiotic enough to give you a gun?"
"The idiotic person who tried to shoot at me."
Malcolm arched an eyebrow. "Bad case?"
Jessica let out a sigh, hiking up onto the desk, tucking a knee underneath herself. "Bad day."
Malcolm pulled out a first aid kit and set to work. Jessica may be able to heal, but she didn't heal fast enough before an infection managed to make its way into her system. Malcolm talked as he worked. "Which one shot you?"
"Both. The brothers were working together." Jessica winced, moving away instinctively as the rubbing alcohol seared against her skin.
Malcolm gave her a look. She huffed, moving closer to him and giving him more area to work with.
"Well," he shot her a reassuring smile which he knew she hated, "it could be worse."
Instead of her usual snark, Jessica's fury faded, her frown dissipating. Her eyes were blank, Jessica's voice going soft.
"Yeah," she said, "At least our bodies aren't floating in a pond."
You would think that uncovering the body of Captain America was the worst part. A symbol of freedom and unity's brains dashed across the surface of some pond was bad, but it was nothing compared to the funeral.
All the capes were there. All of them; from the A-listers like Iron Man, to the Z-ones like Cloak and Dagger. If the late Captain America was anything, it would be connected.
Jessica went on a date with him once.
Captain freakin' America, the golden boy himself, on a date with some low-life P.I. wanting some company and booze.
Jessica knew it from the second he came through those doors of that swanky restaurant -- his head held high, a smile plastered on his face --
She knew she didn't deserve him.
Steve Rogers deserved a lot in his long ass life. Being frozen in ice for a bunch of years and being thrust back into an age of technology and still decided to be good -- to choose good -- that racked up a ton of good karma in his life. Good women, good men, good life.
What he didn't deserve was the hundreds of cameras taking shots of his goddamn corpse while his people mourned.
Jessica didn't know what overcame her that day -- but after a good ten seconds of dealing with the flashes of cameras going off at breakneck-speed, she did it. She lost her temper.
She didn't even scream. All she did was go up to one of the cameramen, took his camera, and shattered it with a clench of her fist. Shot them the darkest look, and they scurried off like cockroaches.
She made a promise to herself to never do anything drastic to thrust her back into the public spotlight. She just broke that promise.
Worth it.
A man with shoulder length brown hair gave her a look, his steely eyes red. He gave her a tiny nod.
She knew what it meant.
Thank you.
So fucking worth it.
A woman with shoulder length blonde hair was standing by the coffin. She wore all black. Her head was held high. Just like him -- strong.
The man next to her, however, was falling apart.
The man with dark skin could barely stand up, sobs wracking his body and sending him falling to the ground. The king, T'Challa came up to the man, wrapping his thick arms around him, holding him up. The man leaned into her, burying his head in his shoulder.
She could hear his wails from here.
It was like Luke said: bullets didn't hurt as much as the people taking them.
Jessica walked up to the coffin, standing next to the woman. Jessica cast a sidelong glance at her, before her gaze flickered back to the man in front of her.
His blonde hair was cleaned of blood. On TV, they kept showing this one picture of his hair stained red. Jessica wished that she didn't have that picture seared to the surface of her brain.
Jessica looked away. She was always bad at these things.
"Thank you," the woman said, and it took a moment for Jessica to realize that she's talking to her. "For the reporters."
"No problem," Jessica replied, tucking her hands into her pockets. It felt awkward without having a cigarette or a bottle between her fingers.
She promised that she would try to quit. For Luke.
"You knew Captain America?"
"I knew Steve," Jessica fiddled with the edge of her pocket, her fingers picking at the seam. "He hired me as his P.I.," she let out a snort before adding, "He still owes me waffles."
The woman let out a short laugh, turning to Jessica. Jessica watched her slowly. Bags under her eyes. Her eyes were half-lidded, as if trying to fight off fatigue. Tired.
"Sharon Carter," she held a hand out and Jessica took it, shaking her hand.
"Jones. Jessica Jones." Sharon's eyes widened.
"Wait you're not the Alias Investigations' Jessica Jones, are you?"
Jessica's eyes narrowed, her expression quizzical. "I am. Why'd you ask?"
"Because," Sharon's gaze locked with hers. "I was just about to drop by."
