( for calltoaction. ) i'll keep the wolf from the door.

[profanemouth]

the strength of a family
like the strength of an army
is in its loyalty to each other.

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[profanemouth]

[ She's drunk. Shit-faced drunk, inebriated, all of it. Not drunk enough to make her completely stupid--she can manage that just fine on her own, thank you. It's the fifth day she's had her phone off and it's been even longer than that since Matt's been gone, and it's easier this way--dealing with the empty space of her apartment without him there, with the deaths of everyone around her. She can't help but feel responsible for it, the way she feels responsible for her mother and father and other brother.

I understand you more than anyone, his voice says. She drinks until she can't hear him, can't see him. Drinks until she's languid enough to let a guy at the bar pick her up and fuck her hard enough to forget his soft touches on her skin, to forget the realization in her gut that Matt wasn't coming back up at Midland.

It doesn't feel good. It never does. At least she's got enough in her system to enjoy the weightless feeling after the guy finishes, the rush of endorphins in her veins to lie there. She waits until he's snoring loud beside her to grab her jeans and sweatshirt and jacket, sliding on her boots with surprising finesse as she jumps out of the window and heads home.

Jessica is sore and aching by the time the elevator dings to her floor, grateful Malcolm isn't out here to pester her. She ambles into her apartment, not even bothering with the light-switch and opting to navigate in the early dawn light. The fridge slings open and she takes out her Jack Daniels to swig straight from the bottle.

An exhale escapes when she drinks a good amount, the burn just enough. She notices the figure on her couch just as the bottle clinks against the counter as she sets it down, and something like a scream escapes, the bottle breaking as she slams it down. ]

Listen, asshole, I'm so not in the goddamn mood for this tonight, alright-- [She's drunk, punch-drunk and scrappy, and she sways as she heads toward the figure, holding the bottle shard in her hand tight enough to cut. Her beeline comes to a halt when she makes out the face of the figure in the light of the early dawn. ]

Matt? Matt? [Blink. She can't believe it. The glass shard's set aside, and her good hand goes out to touch his hair. This is real, this is real.

When she's assured this is palpable, she feels the anger rising in her chest. Anger is easier than hurting, letting herself hurt.] You're dead. I watched you die, okay. What the fuck is this?

[calltoaction]

[ Nothing had survived Midland. His suit had been one of the only things, outside of Elektra, that had helped to get him out of there alive. He doesn't remember being drug from the rubble by grasping and bleeding hands with broken nails. He doesn't remember the words bitten out in viciousness tinged with remorse. Not fully, at least.

He gets it in flashes when he's asleep or when the pain is dulled enough to let him sleep. You don't get to die on me, Matthew. Not after they somehow survived the impossible. If that was the case, why isn't she here? Left. Again. Why did he expect anything different? Why did he stay when he heard the hurt and betrayal in his sister's voice?

It's taken everything he's got in him to get up from the bed at St. Agnes and make it here. Honestly, he shouldn't have come, he's not in the best shape for it. Definitely not if she's going to put him through a wall. There are some differences to the place, though. It's changed. There's paint for one. Huh.

He doesn't say anything at first, what is there to say? Besides, staying on the couch is the better way to ensure he doesn't get shoved. He can smell the blood before she makes it over to him, dripping down her palm, and tilts his face up, bruised and swollen as it is, and nods. ] It's me.

[ Her heartbeat spikes: anger. It's palpable in the sound of it, the way her skin heats up, and the air around her vibrates with it. ] You watched a building blow up and collapse on me. I---I'm not sure how but I didn't die. I woke up in St. Agnes.

[profanemouth]

[ She considers punching him, shoving him on the ground--but she holds back. In spite of the anger, she feels something that must be happiness swell within her at the sight of him. He's palpable, real, and she simply reaches her unblemished hand to touch him gently on the shoulder. ]

She brought you there, didn't she? [ Jessica doesn't know Elektra, but knows enough of what Matt's told her, in their days in college and beyond. ] Listen, Matty. I'm going to get you cleaned up and--I have some of your old clothes.

[ A huff of a laugh escapes. She cleans off her hand in the sink, quickly. It'll heal on its own in the next few hours, no harm done. ] I know you hate being my damsel, but I think you should stay in my bed and you look like you won't be able to get there.

[calltoaction]

[ He's glad, honestly, that she doesn't decide to punch him. He's pretty sure he wouldn't handle that well in the least. When she lays a hand on his shoulder, his eyes slide shut, almost like he could collapse in relief at the touch. ]

I think so. I don't know for sure. [ He was kind of in a coma for a little while there, he's pretty sure. [ He nods when she mentions getting him cleaned up and into some of his old clothes. It sounds like a relief, honestly. He's tired of St. Agnes and whatever not!relationship he has with his mother. ]

I think I won't complain much about being the damsel this time. I barely managed getting here. [ A beat. ] Is your hand okay?