[ 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}
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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. ]