Scars Don't Fade

Prologue

Hello blank page my old friend

I've come to stare at you again,

Because an idea slightly creepy

Left it's seeds while I was sleeping[Oooh, kinky];

And the vision that was planted...

Hey, stop that!

Stop what? You mean my soulful crooning?

I mean your caterwauling a Simon & Garfunkle classic. You want to get us sued?

"Caterwauling"? What are you from the Nineteenth Century? And I wouldn't worry about S&G suing you. They're too busy suing each other and, you know, being really old. BT Dubs, how freakin' old are you? You know that no one who reads this kind of stuff will get these references.

Me? How old are you? No, I really mean it. When you showed up in '91 I figured you were in your 20's so that makes us around the same age. But with the time travel and all the off-canon stuff its hard to tell. So really, how old are you? Inquiring minds, ya know.

Oh no. NONONONONO!...Not another retcon of my origin story. You think I don't have enough snakes in my head without you sending me back to the 70's to be bitten by a radioactive Jonathon Winters?

Now who's giving with the ancient references? Just be happy I don't slash you with Rhino.

Shudders. Okay I give. But seriously what's up with this? You've never written a fic before.

Well, my testicularly-countenanced friend, you see I've been trying to write this paranormal romance but I just can't get it off the ground. I've got the set-up and some world-building and I've maneuvered the protagonists together but I just can't get the meet right...

So its just like your real life...

Hey! Well yeah, sort of, lately...

So you came to old DP for advice. Smart. See what you...

Uh, no. You're not the narrator of this little tale. It's from the female perspective.

OOOH female...Whoisit, whoisit? I hope its Psylocke. She's sooo hawt! And a badass with a Katana...and hawt...and...

Sorry, not Psylocke. I don't think you've met.

Some Mary Sue OC. That's lame dude. So you're really just a chick with a crush on the deformed sociopath with a heart of gold which only you can redeem. Ha!

Nope, I'm a dude. And no, I don't have a crush on you. And you're not a sociopath, at least not in canon. You're a schizophrenic with depression, anxiety and PTSD.

Aw, that's about the nicest thing anyone's ever said about me. So who's the chick? Does she have a big rack?

I think I'll just let you find out on your own. But you'll like her, she's a nice girl.

Motherfucker! If it's Big Bertha in all her poundage I swear I'll hunt you down and cut off...

Deadpool, I've always wanted to say this to you, Shaddup!

Now on with the fic.

A/N: All characters, except any OC's I may stick in, belong to Marvel and its parent company (Hail Giant Rodent!), not me. All song lyrics (except where noted) are parodies and not the originals, which are great while mine suck. So you can tell the difference. I don't own anything but ten fingers and a beat up laptop. If I did own Marvel there would be some changes, I tell you. Pink slips flyin' like confetti at Cap's parade. Starting with... oh wait...Hey there Mr. Alonso, Mr. Quesada (Deadpool says you sound tasty btw), Mr. Buckley; Don't change a thing on my account. Love it. I'm available to do novelizations. I could do Thor or Hawkeye. No? Maybe Antman and Wasp. How about Doorman? Still no. Okay then, don't sue me over this lighthearted little exercise in fandom, from which I derive no profit. Hey maybe I could work with you to turn Nick Fury into a transgender Filipino undocumented alien? Already in the works? Figures.

Chapter One

So, this is what rock bottom looks like. I thought I knew. Husband gone, baby gone. Best friend wanted as a enemy of the state. Business in the toilet. But no, it seems if you claw your way beneath the the wretched floor of my life you find this - an after-hours pubic school building being used for self-help groups. Jeez, what am I doing? Do I really think I'll find answers here? If I wanted to step over winos on the stoop I could walk in and out of my apartment building. Or in and out of my office. At least I'm not still sleeping in the office. Now if I can just make rent for both next month.

Oh yeah, that's why I'm here - I'm desperate. I haven't worked steadily for months. When I'm not too depressed to get out of bed in the morning, I'm too hung-over. Damn it I'm a good PI. Its crap work sometimes, but not always. Sometimes, I do some good. And, I'm good at it.

That was enough to get me through the first few months after Luke took our baby and left. Then the world went sideways. Captain Freaking America is a Hydra fascist and Luke is in his Avenger goon squad. Carol is a fugitive, if she's even on the planet. So, I got no way to clear my name and no chance to see my baby. Long story short, I'm screwed. So I'm here with the rest of the losers.

Okay, door number one, Alcoholics Anonymous; door number two, Divorce Support Group. Which do I choose? Maybe the booze is the root of my problems. Hell, it takes a fifth of Kentucky's finest just to get to sleep at night. But without it I'd be a worse mess than I am now. Let's start small. DSG it is.

Wow, is that what I look like? These people look like rejects from The Walking Dead. Two cat ladies; three broke ex-hedge fund execs whose trophy wives have split; a couple of mousy housewives whose hubbies hit their mid-life crisis and opted for a sports car and a former "exotic" dancer. My quick reads of people aren't always 100% but they're usually real close. There's five, no six, guys who've never been married but show up at these things to mack on the sandwiches and coffee and hit on the desperate divorced women.

And who's this in the back with the hoodie pulled over his head hiding his face. I'd say he was hiding out in here to elude the cops but he doesn't seem tense. He seems very relaxed, like he's just taking it all in. Even with the hoodie I can tell he's got a great bod. Glad I can still notice that sort of thing, at least. His bearing has something military about it. Not the stick-up-his-ass cadet type; not the "I am the meanest, deadliest sumbitch in the valley" Marine type. No he's something different. Something more dangerous? So at ease, but he looks like he could be killing a guy in an instant. He's sitting where he has a view of the whole room and all the windows but can't be seen until someone is fully in his view. He's positioned in his chair so that both his hands are free and he can be up in a flash. If that bulge in his hoodie pocket isn't some kind of weapon I'll kiss She-Hulk.

Well, I'm not putting him at my back. I always hated sitting at the front of the class anyway. So, the seat in the back two rows across from Hoodie Guy it is.

Wow, get a load of this guy. He looks like The Rock swiped Mr. Rogers' sweater and ran in here to hold the meeting. He's not Luke big, but big. Maybe I do need this. I keep thinking about Luke like every five seconds. That can't be healthy.

"Alright folks, lets settle in and get started," The Rock booms. That's some deep voice. Not as deep as Luke's but...aw crap. The single guys make their way from the sandwich table near the window and circle up in seats surrounding the cat ladies and housewives. A couple of them look my way but my super death glare warns them off. No, wait, their gazes drifted past me to Hoodie Guy before they scampered off after easy prey. I turn to look at him and catch a glimpse of his face before he turns his head so its obscured by the hood. Does he look like Robert Downey, Jr.? And I just realized RD Jr. looks exactly like Tony Stark. How weird is that?

"For those of you who are new, this is the Divorce Support Group. Anyone looking for the Sex Addiction Support Group, they meet here on Wednesdays."

That draws a titter from the single hyena's club.

"I'm not kidding," says The Rock in a tone that quiets the crowd. "My name is Staggs," he continues in a slightly less intimidating tone. "I got a first name too, but nobody uses it, so just call me Staggs."

"You can call me Betty if I can call you Al," I hear in a low mutter that would reach only as far as my ears. So Hoodie Guy speaks. And makes old musical references.

"Remember, we're all free to express whatever we're feeling here. No judgments. So who's first. A mousy housewife in magenta sweater and brown slacks raises her hand and at a nod from The Rock/Staggs comes to the front to stand at the podium.

"My names Grace and my divorce just became final last month," she says in a high nasal voice that's all Brooklyn.

"Hi, Grace," everyone intones except me and Hoodie Guy.

Okay, this is killing me. I can't figure Hoodie Guy out. He doesn't participate in the group. That's not weird, neither do I. Several others don't either. A couple of the single guys get up and spew a load of bullshit that's supposed to attract the desperate divorcees. One of the hedge fund guys sheds real tears when he talks about only seeing his kids in the summers because his ex is moving to California. One of the cat ladies reports that there's a new man in her life. Of course he works at the animal shelter. I bet he was sent to her house to rescue...

"Probably sent to save your ninety-seven cats, all named Mr. Whiskers."

Holy shit. Did Hoodie Guy read my mind or is he as twisted as I am? Again, I'm the only one who heard it. Was that for my benefit?

At the break I'm ready to hit the door. Listening to the misery of others isn't really helping. It just reminds me of how much I've lost. I go to snag a sandwich. I'm pretty sure I haven't eaten today and Jim Beam on an empty stomach is a recipe for a hangover I don't need in the morning. Hoodie Guy is at the table. This is my chance to get a better look at him. I still can't read his story. I was about 98% right on the others, based on what they've shared so far. But on him I got nothing. I probably would have left in the middle of the first hour but some of his snarky comments were funny. Some were just weird, but entertaining. That doesn't fit with the dark, dangerous image he's projecting.

I make my way to the table and Hoodie guy is deconstructing and reassembling four sandwiches on his plate. He's removing some of the bread and all of the veggies to make a giant quadruple-decker hero. How's he think he's going to fit that thing in his mouth? I grab a turkey sandwich and stuff it in my pocket. I glance at Hoodie Guy before I turn to leave. He's grinning at me. I'm about to give him a side order of bitchy and leave when his face flickers. I mean its just for an instant. I almost missed it but it was there. Oh fuck, oh fuck! This is what I was worried about. It's SHIELD or HYDRA, or maybe they're the same thing now. They're following me. But how? I didn't even know I was coming here until I walked through the door. Doesn't matter; they're SHIELD (or HYDRA), they probably have a psychic monitoring everyone who's ever displayed a superpower. Maybe they placed agents in every room in the building as soon as I stepped over the first wino outside. Either way, I have to go, fast.

I turn and barrel out of the room, knocking over a hedge fund guy along the way. I hear Staggs say something to my back but I don't make out what it is. My mind is racing. Did Luke send them? Is this because of Danni? Are they tailing me, thinking Carol will make contact? What the hell do I do now? I had hoped to stay in the city and lay low until things settled down. Make some kind of peace with Luke so I could see our daughter, then come up with the rest of the plan. Now what? If I run I'll never see Danni again. I probably won't make it either. Where else can a freak like me blend in better than in New York? If I stay there's no way they won't find me again. Hell I have an office address listed in the Yellow Pages. Right now I just have to get away. Tomorrow I can think through the consequences and come up with a new plan. Hopefully.

I'm out the front door now. The wino who was on guard duty seems to have moved on to a new local. Maybe he sensed trouble coming. Maybe he was picked up by HYDRA as part of some inner city beautification program. Rounding up the homeless seems like a logical step for them. I'm on the sidewalk now and I'm running but I don't know where I'm running to. I don't hear footsteps behind me but I'm still afraid to turn around. The last thing I want is to be thrown into a van and taken for a ride.

I was hoping they would just forget about me. I was never much of a superhero anyway. I mean I'm strong, but not like Spiderman strong. I'm pretty fast but not anything special among the cape and spandex crowd. And I can fly, almost, sort of. Yeah, that's it. I duck into an alley and run about half-way down before I turn. No one entering the alley. I turn back to face the one of the buildings. Its about five stories shorter that the one on the other side but still about twenty-five floors. Maybe, if this is a good day. I back up against the far wall and take two quick steps forward. Then I leap. I can feel gravity pulling against me as I rise but an effort of my will pushes against it. Oh crap, I'm going to come up just short. How the hell do Carol and Storm make it look so easy.

I push harder. How? Don't ask me how. With my mind, sort of. I can see edge of the roof in front of me. There's a three foot wall around it. I can just make it. OOOOF! Oow! Oow! Damnfuckshit! Oow! I clip the wall with my shins which helps me stick a perfect ten face-plant onto the tar and cinder roof. Well, I'm not dead and I'm not sliding down the side of the building like a cartoon coyote. And I'm not going for a ride in a SHIELD van. So I guess its a win.

A mental inventory seems to indicate that nothing is broken. The right side of my face feels like the Punisher went after it with a cheese grater and my lip is split, but I'll live. Now I have to figure out what the hell is going on. I can do that, dammit. I'm a private investigator and a good one. Figuring things out is what I do. I have an office with my name on the door and everything. It says, ALIAS INVESTIGATIONS, JESSICA C. JONES-CAGE, PROPRIETOR.