[no one has ever accused Serge of being detached; that is not his style. in his profession it is always better to walk away and yet. and yet. the lesson, it never seems to stick.
he's not convinced that Jessica is coming-- she has given no indication one way or another-- and so the vibration of the phone in his slack hand startles Serge from the light sleep he'd fallen back into. he rubs a hand over his head as he reads the screen with one eye and tosses it onto the messy bed, pushing himself upright.
there are certain features that one looks for in hidey-holes when one is constantly meandering between the borders of ex-con and current-con; ground floor locations, for one, no close neighbors, just to minimize damage, and of course, very good ventilation. which means that this place looks very much like the handful of other locations that he has had or will have-- with the exception of those small apartments where Matthieu and his look-alikes reside.
Serge grabs a cigarette from his nightstand and lights it before he pushes himself into the muted flower pattern of a silky robe; he belts it over his boxers.
there are a few locks on the door that are dragged open before Serge sticks his head into the night. the overpass nearby is muted at this hour and the overhead lights are the ugly orange that saves money.] Merde, [he hisses around the cigarette in his teeth at the bite of the wind,] did you walk? The cabs run all night long, if you did not know. [The door is opened far enough for her to come inside.]
[ obviously rhetorical. like the trains, there are far fewer cabs at this hour. the ones that passed her by already had passengers. calling for her own from dispatch might have wasted as much time as it saved her, and she's walked farther distances in worse weather.
besides, this way she gets to make him squirm with her cold hands.
stepping inside, she takes in the apartment. cheap and warm, open and unkempt. no pretension. she likes it, though she's not about to tell him. ]
I'll take a drink. [ she presumes he'd rather get her one than have her scrounge it up on her own. in the meantime, she slips her scarf over her head and her jacket down her arms. they'd look at home anywhere in here; she drapes them carelessly over the arm of the nearest chair. ]
[there are things that she won't have to snoop to see, chemistry sets and weapons; Serge isn't worried about those. Paper things-- documents, identifications-- those things are locked away and he doesn't think that her strength will do much to against his safes. he is a demolition expert, after all. he knows the rating of such things.] Spoken like a true guest. [but Serge's face cracks around a sleepy smile and he closes the door behind her before shuffling toward the kitchen. a trail of smoke follows him.
'unkempt' is a kind description of the mess, ah, but he is a creative. a few bottles on the counter are clinked around and two mason jars are pulled off an open shelf. a loose few-fingers worth of amber liquid are poured between them and he slides one over the counter toward her.] Bienvenue, [he says, sweeping an arm around to encompass the space.] Is it everything you hoped for?
[ she may have several reservations about the weapons but she locks them all up like he does his passports. he told her that first night that he runs guns. the shame is on her for continuing their association.
does he keep her in his contacts for the same reasons? that she brings danger on herself, relative to which the risk they pose each other is negligible. neither can be accused of getting in over their head. there's no need to protect one another from themselves.
he doesn't strike her as that pragmatically calculating. rather, he does, but that's not where it ends with him.
god, she needs that drink. her boots scuff the floor as she crosses to the counter. Jess hunches forward, settled on her elbows, and cradles the mason jar in her hands. ] More chemistry than I expected. Where were you when I needed sufentanil. [ An extremely potent analgesic.
she lifts her makeshift glass and starts to drink, gradually tipping it and craning her neck back as it's drained by a third. ]
[he watches her drink and his eyebrows raise, but it's not for the way she puts the liquor back. he's seen her drink before; he cannot be accused of much better.] Sufentanil? [he clicks his tongue and takes one last dragging inhale before crushing the cigarette out in a nearby ashtray.] That is some heavy shit. [and he knows what he is talking about.
a mouthful of his own drink is taken and Serge sinks a hip against the counter. it is not polite to ask her why but he considers it anyway.
perhaps he keeps her contact because she's just as fucked up as he is. they both wear it on their sleeves. does it need to be more complicated than that?]
[ she wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, having not yet removed her fingerless gloves. then Jess pushes herself up, straightening to a mild slouch. her free hand remains braced to the table, supporting her lazy lean. ]
Shuts down a mindfuck. [ she concedes, with a quirk of her head, ] Of a kind. [ the virally communicated kind. she doesn't know how Mesmer or other supes like him do their thing and she's sure as hell not looking to find out. the information is probably useless, hence her willingness to share it. and if it's not? that's fine by her too. for whatever misgivings she has about Frenchie, he definitely doesn't deserve to be invaded and undone like that. ]
Bah oui. [he snorts.] Enough would shut down a horse too, hein? [another drink for himself. he's read the news stories, who in New York has not. 'assisted suicide.' Serge wonders-- he has seen the blood on her ceiling, after all.]
You could break it down, [it's a murmur, his mind spinning down the path Jessica has laid out for a moment, shutting down a mindfuck,] the thiophene, non, or up the lidocaine? [it must be the analgesic that does it. he takes another drink before he realizes that he's talking to himself and shrugs.] It is good indeed, if you want to drown on dry land.
Did she have swipe text?
[he raises his eyebrows.] The woman. With the phone.
[ her gaze is lifted from her glass to him as he thinks aloud. once there, it drifts from his eyes, his mouth, down his throat, though that doesn't stop her from listening. another piece of him is given shape as he puzzles out something on his own. his shrug shifts the light that spills on his silk robe and her eyes move to his. ]
She had earphones in. I think she was changing songs. [ As gracefully as he changes topics. Jess listlessly mocks up the essence of a shrug with a brief, flat-lipped frown. ] It was cute, so sue me.
[she gives you hope. it should not have been giving as flippantly as it had, certainly, handed to her in wry letters-- but it remains true. a small thing, good because it is, all by itself. easy to forget that such things exist.
for a very brief second he lets himself consider the 'what if', that if he had met Jessica before everything that had happened with Mallory had happened... Madame might have liked her. Butcher, too.
ah, no use wasting time on such thoughts. Jessica looks like a wraith in the low lighting of the kitchen. an avenging New York angel. Serge shakes his head and finishes his drink.] Do you want to sleep?
[ In the short silence she expected to be given more grief by him, Jess finishes her own drink. it sears her throat as it goes, the first swallow hissing like the head of a snake, and the rest pleasantly warm along its path. ]
You gonna sleep with me? [ The base of the mason jar scrapes against the counter as she slides it from her, in no particular direction. ]
[he assumes she's asking about sex-- it is par for their general course. and he knows she's just come from the bed of someone else so Serge wonders if what she's really asking is if he cares that she's just crawled out of some nameless guy's bed.
he doesn't. not really.] Oui, [he says, a crooked smile splitting his face for a moment,] the couch, it is very uncomfortable to spend the night on.
[if she's going to ask let her ask. if she's not then she has her answer.]
[ at this point, she's asking about either: sex or sleep. it never crosses her mind that he might give a shit that she already had sex once tonight. ]
Good. [ with a tired grin, she looks down at her hands as she strips off a fingerless glove. one, then the other. her hips moor her to the counter's edge. as they push off and her weight is redistributed between her feet, she keeps a safe grip on the table. it falls away, fingers slipping off last, as she ambles toward the bed. she unbuttons her jeans, intending to get them, her socks and her boots out of the way all at once, as soon as her ass hits the mattress. ]
[Serge follows her without comment, marking the small sway in her steps as she releases her grip on his crowded little table and makes her way across the dim, unfamiliar space. When Jessica sits on one side of the bed he moves to the other and collapses back onto it, stretching out before lacing his hands under his head and turning enough to watch her strip down. her hips make sharp edges in the light through the high windows.] We are starting to make a habit of this.
[ her pants are shoved down her legs and shucked off with her shoes. she shifts further back onto the mattress, pulling her feet up off the floor. Jess turns at the waist to see how he's settled in. right as he notes that this is becoming a regular arrangement for them, she's envisioning him reclining on her bed. the outlines of him match up closely with that memory. maybe it's deja vu. maybe she's just drunk. ]
A bad one. [ she plucks at the silk belt lain slack across his waist, the ties slipping apart. the robe is pushed open, her hand sliding up under it, palm to his chest. she eases herself down along him, lying half on top of him and half at his side. Jess noses at the line of his jaw, stubble raking her lips. ]
You are a pessimist, ma mie. [the old nickname slips out with the murmur as his lids close with the slip of her face along his. he doesn't try to take it back or point it out, either. it's just what is. his closest arm moves so that he can card fingers through the thick hair at the base of her neck.] Or do you just think if you say it, that it will come true?
[because they might not be actively good for each other, but there are worse things than this, surely?]
[ she minds the endearment less than she did before, less than she may one day pretend to again. it’s leagues apart from “love” or “pet” and she has no associations for it beyond him. besides, the “little prince” she threw at him is far worse, and she won’t be retiring it after one use. ]
The former. [ Jess muses without wasting much actual thought on it. neither option is entirely accurate.
there are no “what ifs” for her to ponder. if she met Frenchie before Kilgrave, she would have written him off as a mistake as soon as his drug habit or criminal leanings came to light. and if it hadn’t by the time she was abducted, all the worse for him. he’d be dead, like Ruben, like Luke very nearly was. with her tormentor truly, irrevocably dead, this time around what lies ahead may not be so morbid. but she can still hear the snap of his neck in her dreams; she’s not ready to bank on that. ]
What are you? [ A lingering kiss to his throat, then she relaxed against him with a long withheld sigh. mumbling, ] Only smug assholes say realist.
Mm well I cannot deny that I am certainly a smug asshole, [he murmurs, smiling toward the ceiling and letting his fingers run from her hair to her shoulder and down her arm as Jessica settles against him. it is a nice place to be.] But non. I am an existentialist. "Tout a été compris, sauf comment vivre." [he clucks his tongue.] "Everything has been figured out, except how to live."
[she knows about the drugs, about the mafia, about the guns. but how would her scales have tipped to have a supe-killer on her side against Kilgrave? a team of them? all that Jessica knows is that he was hired to hurt her-- Serge does not think that she has found the right information on him, the information that would have told her the truth. if she knew that...
she'll learn, eventually, if they continue this. serge does not like to think about it. about what will happen when she does. he should tell her, but they but continue to say that this is nothing, this thing.]
[ eventually is drawing nearer and nearer. she'd have gotten to it already if she could keep a steady pace. instead, she stops and starts, stumbles and sprints. tonight might end up as the night she abandons any hope of reversing course.
liquor has her languid from head to toe, her maelstrom of thoughts calmed to gently swirling eddies. her last reserves of energy flow invisibly beneath the surface. she could lie her for hours as easily as she could sit up climb on top of him. Jess decides she is content as she is, declines the effort of any further choices. the two of them can fuck in the morning. ]
Hell is other people. [ That's the only Sartre quote she remembers from a lifetime ago. its origin, an intro to philosophy class or an ex-boyfriend's off-broadway show, is lost to her. ]
[his eyebrows jump up; he did not expect her to know Sarte.] Ah. I think Monsieur Sarte would have liked you. You do not even try to make yourself happy. [it is more an observation of habits than any sort of insult-- Jessica is obvious enough about it. he has not pried.
his fingers rub back and forth against her elbow as a yawn splits his lips. this is too comfortable for what they are but they have been this way from the beginning, have they not? even when they are fighting there is something too easy in it.] I have bacon, [he says, his voice a murmur as he lets his eyes close.]
[ an astute observation, phrased less judgmentally than she usually gets it. she doubts JP's admiration would have been mutual. philosophers are so up their own asses. besides, the world is miserable enough without a No Exit sequel imparting the wisdom "hell is yourself, too."
Jess shuts her eyes, the blackness behind them swaying imperceptibly. at the random mention of bacon, her lip twitches, the closest her body can muster to a chuckle. ]
Oh la la. [ sinking into sleep, she can't come up with anything cleverer or more relevant than that. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
thanks for the de-salting
he's not convinced that Jessica is coming-- she has given no indication one way or another-- and so the vibration of the phone in his slack hand startles Serge from the light sleep he'd fallen back into. he rubs a hand over his head as he reads the screen with one eye and tosses it onto the messy bed, pushing himself upright.
there are certain features that one looks for in hidey-holes when one is constantly meandering between the borders of ex-con and current-con; ground floor locations, for one, no close neighbors, just to minimize damage, and of course, very good ventilation. which means that this place looks very much like the handful of other locations that he has had or will have-- with the exception of those small apartments where Matthieu and his look-alikes reside.
Serge grabs a cigarette from his nightstand and lights it before he pushes himself into the muted flower pattern of a silky robe; he belts it over his boxers.
there are a few locks on the door that are dragged open before Serge sticks his head into the night. the overpass nearby is muted at this hour and the overhead lights are the ugly orange that saves money.] Merde, [he hisses around the cigarette in his teeth at the bite of the wind,] did you walk? The cabs run all night long, if you did not know. [The door is opened far enough for her to come inside.]
anytime
[ obviously rhetorical. like the trains, there are far fewer cabs at this hour. the ones that passed her by already had passengers. calling for her own from dispatch might have wasted as much time as it saved her, and she's walked farther distances in worse weather.
besides, this way she gets to make him squirm with her cold hands.
stepping inside, she takes in the apartment. cheap and warm, open and unkempt. no pretension. she likes it, though she's not about to tell him. ]
I'll take a drink. [ she presumes he'd rather get her one than have her scrounge it up on her own. in the meantime, she slips her scarf over her head and her jacket down her arms. they'd look at home anywhere in here; she drapes them carelessly over the arm of the nearest chair. ]
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'unkempt' is a kind description of the mess, ah, but he is a creative. a few bottles on the counter are clinked around and two mason jars are pulled off an open shelf. a loose few-fingers worth of amber liquid are poured between them and he slides one over the counter toward her.] Bienvenue, [he says, sweeping an arm around to encompass the space.] Is it everything you hoped for?
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does he keep her in his contacts for the same reasons? that she brings danger on herself, relative to which the risk they pose each other is negligible. neither can be accused of getting in over their head. there's no need to protect one another from themselves.
he doesn't strike her as that pragmatically calculating. rather, he does, but that's not where it ends with him.
god, she needs that drink. her boots scuff the floor as she crosses to the counter. Jess hunches forward, settled on her elbows, and cradles the mason jar in her hands. ] More chemistry than I expected. Where were you when I needed sufentanil. [ An extremely potent analgesic.
she lifts her makeshift glass and starts to drink, gradually tipping it and craning her neck back as it's drained by a third. ]
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a mouthful of his own drink is taken and Serge sinks a hip against the counter. it is not polite to ask her why but he considers it anyway.
perhaps he keeps her contact because she's just as fucked up as he is. they both wear it on their sleeves. does it need to be more complicated than that?]
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[ she wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, having not yet removed her fingerless gloves. then Jess pushes herself up, straightening to a mild slouch. her free hand remains braced to the table, supporting her lazy lean. ]
Shuts down a mindfuck. [ she concedes, with a quirk of her head, ] Of a kind. [ the virally communicated kind. she doesn't know how Mesmer or other supes like him do their thing and she's sure as hell not looking to find out. the information is probably useless, hence her willingness to share it. and if it's not? that's fine by her too. for whatever misgivings she has about Frenchie, he definitely doesn't deserve to be invaded and undone like that. ]
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You could break it down, [it's a murmur, his mind spinning down the path Jessica has laid out for a moment, shutting down a mindfuck,] the thiophene, non, or up the lidocaine? [it must be the analgesic that does it. he takes another drink before he realizes that he's talking to himself and shrugs.] It is good indeed, if you want to drown on dry land.
Did she have swipe text?
[he raises his eyebrows.] The woman. With the phone.
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She had earphones in. I think she was changing songs. [ As gracefully as he changes topics. Jess listlessly mocks up the essence of a shrug with a brief, flat-lipped frown. ] It was cute, so sue me.
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for a very brief second he lets himself consider the 'what if', that if he had met Jessica before everything that had happened with Mallory had happened... Madame might have liked her. Butcher, too.
ah, no use wasting time on such thoughts. Jessica looks like a wraith in the low lighting of the kitchen. an avenging New York angel. Serge shakes his head and finishes his drink.] Do you want to sleep?
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You gonna sleep with me? [ The base of the mason jar scrapes against the counter as she slides it from her, in no particular direction. ]
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he doesn't. not really.] Oui, [he says, a crooked smile splitting his face for a moment,] the couch, it is very uncomfortable to spend the night on.
[if she's going to ask let her ask. if she's not then she has her answer.]
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Good. [ with a tired grin, she looks down at her hands as she strips off a fingerless glove. one, then the other. her hips moor her to the counter's edge. as they push off and her weight is redistributed between her feet, she keeps a safe grip on the table. it falls away, fingers slipping off last, as she ambles toward the bed. she unbuttons her jeans, intending to get them, her socks and her boots out of the way all at once, as soon as her ass hits the mattress. ]
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A bad one. [ she plucks at the silk belt lain slack across his waist, the ties slipping apart. the robe is pushed open, her hand sliding up under it, palm to his chest. she eases herself down along him, lying half on top of him and half at his side. Jess noses at the line of his jaw, stubble raking her lips. ]
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[because they might not be actively good for each other, but there are worse things than this, surely?]
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The former. [ Jess muses without wasting much actual thought on it. neither option is entirely accurate.
there are no “what ifs” for her to ponder. if she met Frenchie before Kilgrave, she would have written him off as a mistake as soon as his drug habit or criminal leanings came to light. and if it hadn’t by the time she was abducted, all the worse for him. he’d be dead, like Ruben, like Luke very nearly was. with her tormentor truly, irrevocably dead, this time around what lies ahead may not be so morbid. but she can still hear the snap of his neck in her dreams; she’s not ready to bank on that. ]
What are you? [ A lingering kiss to his throat, then she relaxed against him with a long withheld sigh. mumbling, ] Only smug assholes say realist.
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[she knows about the drugs, about the mafia, about the guns. but how would her scales have tipped to have a supe-killer on her side against Kilgrave? a team of them? all that Jessica knows is that he was hired to hurt her-- Serge does not think that she has found the right information on him, the information that would have told her the truth. if she knew that...
she'll learn, eventually, if they continue this. serge does not like to think about it. about what will happen when she does. he should tell her, but they but continue to say that this is nothing, this thing.]
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liquor has her languid from head to toe, her maelstrom of thoughts calmed to gently swirling eddies. her last reserves of energy flow invisibly beneath the surface. she could lie her for hours as easily as she could sit up climb on top of him. Jess decides she is content as she is, declines the effort of any further choices. the two of them can fuck in the morning. ]
Hell is other people. [ That's the only Sartre quote she remembers from a lifetime ago. its origin, an intro to philosophy class or an ex-boyfriend's off-broadway show, is lost to her. ]
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his fingers rub back and forth against her elbow as a yawn splits his lips. this is too comfortable for what they are but they have been this way from the beginning, have they not? even when they are fighting there is something too easy in it.] I have bacon, [he says, his voice a murmur as he lets his eyes close.]
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Jess shuts her eyes, the blackness behind them swaying imperceptibly. at the random mention of bacon, her lip twitches, the closest her body can muster to a chuckle. ]
Oh la la. [ sinking into sleep, she can't come up with anything cleverer or more relevant than that. ]