Black Lives Matter. I hope everyone is still donating, signing petitions, listening, learning, and having difficult conversations with families/friends/coworkers. This isn't a trend - it's people's lives, and we cannot stop fighting for them. Big shoutout for LGBTQ+ lives as well - you are all so wonderful and bright and unique and amazing, and I love and support every one of you.
Onto the chapter! Sorry it's been a while - I hit a bit of a slump, but I think I'm pulling out of it. Thanks to the people who review my story, it really does mean the world to me and gives me the motivation and confidence to keep writing! I'm not ashamed to admit that a little validation from anonymous strangers on the internet goes a long way in terms of my confidence..
Enjoy the chapter!
Puzzles and Mysteries
Jessica is hunched over her desk, elbows leaning on the marked wood, staring down at her laptop screen. The whiskey glass in her hand is slowly emptying, lifting to her lips every thirty seconds or so, and the bottle she's topping it up with is within reach on the side of the desk. She's working on the last of the four cases she had lost all the evidence for during the Battle of New York, as the media has taken to calling it, and honestly she doesn't feel that confident that she's ever going to finish it. She might have accidentally been a little obvious in her evidence-gathering before the attack and given the cheating husband a cocky wave when he caught her taking pictures, and now he seems to have stopped the affair she was about to nail him with altogether. Her client is not happy, and has been positively offensive in her demands for evidence over the last couple weeks.
As for the other three cases, though, Jessica had managed to work up sufficient evidence to satisfy - though belatedly - her clients enough that she got three healthy wads of cash for her efforts. Said cash has gone towards her consistent alcohol shelf, and a new front door.
"Mrs Harper?"
Jessica swallows her mouthful of whiskey and sniffs loudly into the phone, her face scrunching in anguish. "Yeah?" she asks, her voice choked.
"I've searched through our database, and I can't find any profiles that match your husband's name, age, location, and occupation," the woman says.
Jessica grits her teeth, glaring down into her lap for a moment. "Are you sure?" she bites out, struggling to maintain the distressed-wife persona.
"Yeah, I'm sure. I looked real hard, sweetie. If I was anyone else, I'd say that maybe it's just that he isn't actually cheating on you - but I've had my fair share of douchebags like him, and you just gotta trust your gut, okay?" the woman says empathetically.
Jessica's lip curls at her tone. "Can't I send in a picture of him or something and you can check it against your-"
"Oh, honey, I'm sorry, but I really couldn't. I've already taken a huge risk searching our databases for his information. If I got caught, I'd get fired, and I really can't afford that right now."
Jessica sighs frustratedly into the phone. "Fine," she grunts, and she pulls the phone away from her ear to hang up the call and toss it onto her desk.
It hits the wood with a small clatter, drawing the man's attention from her doorway. Jessica avoids his gaze and lifts her glass to her lips, tossing back another swallow of whiskey. She ducks her head back down to her laptop and continues to scroll through Mr Harper's social media profiles in search of any suspicious comments or likes.
"That don't sound too ethical, what you're doin'," the man at her door says, his pale-blue boiler suit covered in oil and paint. His skin is slick with a thin layer of sweat, his hair greased back out of his face, and his hands are busy with tools.
"Yeah?" Jessica retorts boredly. "Well, that door doesn't look too straight."
The man scowls, almost pouting, and turns back to the new door he's installing for her. She's getting one like she had in her old apartment, with the glass window reading "Alias Investigations" in the gold writing, and it feels good to have some kind of normalcy in this new place. Since she moved in two weeks ago, she's had Malcolm wandering in and around like a lost puppy, Trish begging to come round and see the place, no new clients walking in off the street, and a text-happy Stark making her phone buzz every other day - the new door feels like the first step on the path of going back to how things were before the alien attack, and she's very eager to reach that destination.
While she isn't really that annoyed by Malcolm and his senseless wanderings, she knows that she would rather Trish took a step back again and left her to deal with everything in the privacy of her own whiskey bottle, and she knows that she'd really rather Stark stop texting her the most nonchalant, trivial things every other day, even though she never replies and shows no indication of wanting or enjoying the texts. The worst thing is that the longer the two of them persist, the guiltier she starts to feel - and she hates that because she shouldn't feel guilty when they're the ones insisting on the contact that they know she doesn't reciprocate or appreciate.
"Hey, Jessica, there's a man in your apartment," Malcolm's slurred voice trudges through the open door. A moment later, the young man leans - seemingly unintentionally - against the wall in the hallway and peers into her apartment.
"Thanks, Malcolm. I hadn't noticed," she intones, taking another drink.
"What's he doing?"
Jessica glances at the man's back as he tightens the hinges on the doorframe before looking back to Malcolm, wondering where exactly he's trying to settle his own gaze when his eyes are rolling so aimlessly. "Putting in a new door," she replies. "You should go lie down, Malcolm."
Malcolm's forehead furrows gently. "Is he Tony?" he slurs.
Jessica's face scrunches with exasperation. Malcolm has really fixated on who "Tony" is after Stark had messaged her that night they first met, having hacked her phone and put himself in her contact list. She's lost track of the amount of times she's been asked "Who's Tony?" or "Was that Tony?" and it's really starting to piss her off. She'd been wary of his insistent curiosity at first, but now she thinks it might just be Malcolm trying in his drugged-up mind to connect with Jessica and form some kind of friendship. She just wishes he'd fixate on something else when she's trying so hard to repress the time she spent around those nerds.
"No," Jessica responds, adopting a firmer tone. "Go to bed, Malcolm. Sleep it off."
Malcolm nods dazedly. "Okay," he mumbles, slowly turning himself around to stumble towards his door.
Jessica leans her head to see the door better, realising that it's hanging open and Malcolm must have come out of his apartment to come ask her who the man was in hers. She frowns at his nosiness, wondering - not for the first time - whether his curiosity is malicious in any way; but he genuinely just seems like a decent young guy who's had some shitty luck and wound up in a shitty situation. It's hard not to feel some ounce of concern for the kid, and she's already had to stop herself from reenacting her attempts to help Trish with her addiction, knowing it's not her place, or something she even really wants to do.
"I, uh- I know a guy who makes pretty solid locks for a good price," the man at her door says quietly, looking over his shoulder at her.
Jessica tries not to smirk. "He's harmless."
"I'm sure there are people in this building who aren't," he retorts gloomily.
Jessica lifts her bottle to pour another glass of whiskey. "There are," she shrugs. The bottle thuds dully against the wood when she puts it back down, her fingers moving to curl around her glass again, and she looks up at the man's silence to catch him watching her warily. "Just finish the door, man," she mutters, rolling her eyes as she lifts her glass to her mouth.
She stares at the picture of the cheating husband, Rick Harper, on her laptop screen, swallowing the whiskey with a twinge of a grimace. Rick's social media presence has decreased significantly since Jessica was stupid enough to give him that cocky wave, and his wife had reported that there were no incriminating messages on his phone when she'd managed to look through it one day. Jessica has staked out his office building for three random days and he has never slunk off to go meet anyone, nor has he been leaving home earlier than usual or returning later than usual. In fact, it seems as though he is spending as much time with his wife as he can and as much time in work as he can. He doesn't use his work computer to message anyone, doesn't seem to have a secret phone, doesn't look like he uses his office phone to call anyone, but his wife is convinced that he's still actively cheating, so Jessica has to keep investigating.
Sighing to herself, Jessica picks her phone up again and goes into her call history, selecting the number she recognises as Mrs Harper's. The woman picks up almost instantly.
"Hello? Jones?" she asks quickly.
"Hi, yeah," Jessica mutters. "What time is your husband gonna be at his work tomorrow?"
"I thought you'd already watched him while he was at work? What happened with the dating apps?"
Jessica rolls her eyes, removing her fingers from her whiskey glass to rub at her jaw. "I didn't get anywhere with the apps - if he had a profile before, he's eradicated it now. I think tailing him and waiting for him to slip up is gonna be the best option, at this point."
The woman sighs harshly. "If you have ruined my chance to shove proof in that smug bastard's face-"
"Enough with the threatening, alright?" Jessica cuts in, face scrunching with bored irritation. "It's not my fault that aliens decided to attack the city and blow up my building." Although, it is her fault that she got cocky and alerted Rick, but she has kept that piece of information to herself for obvious reasons. "Just tell me when he's going into work tomorrow."
"Fine," Mrs Harper bites out. "He's going in for, uh, eight o'clock, I think."
"Great, thanks," Jessica replies dully. "I'll let you know if I find anything."
She hangs up before the woman can make any more threats. While she's not confident that she can actually finish this case, she knows that her life will be a whole lot less miserable if she can get pissy Mrs Harper out of it. Spending the day watching Rick tomorrow will be worth it in the end if she manages to give Mrs Harper some kind of evidence.
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Jessica wakes up the next morning to her phone buzzing, the screen lighting up in front of her face. She lets out a groan and slaps at the screen to stop the alarm with one hand, while the other lifts to press into her eyes. For a moment, she almost considers turning over and going back to sleep, but she remembers Mrs Harper's infuriating nagging and pathetic threats and ultimately decides her quality of life will be much improved if she forces herself to get up and out of bed.
She eyes the screen for any notifications and, for the first time since he hacked into her phone two weeks ago, notices an absence of texts from Stark. He usually texts every other day, making some comment about the weather or telling her what he's eaten for breakfast or asking what she's eaten for breakfast or asking about the fairing of the private investigation industry, but she realises that he was actually due to send a text yesterday, and he didn't - and still hasn't. Her eyes narrow at her phone, wondering what might have caused the lapse in routine for the billionaire, and then tuts to herself and untangles from the sheets to get out of bed. She hasn't responded to any of his texts since the conversation they had when she realised he'd hacked her phone - maybe the great Tony Stark just realised he has better things to do with his time than text an unresponsive, alcoholic asshole every other day for two weeks.
She gets changed into jeans and a white t-shirt, slipping her leather jacket on top and packing her camera and flask of whiskey into her satchel to hang on her shoulder. She allows a small smile and sliver of sentiment when she closes and locks her new door, eyeing the golden lettering on the window with something that might be fondness, before turning to walk down the hall to the elevator.
She's a couple of doors down past Malcolm's when it opens, and she glances over her shoulder to see him pulling his jacket closer around him as he shuffles down the hall after her. "You're up early," she tosses over her shoulder at him.
"What?" he mumbles, his eyes still heavy with sleep and, presumably, drugs.
Jessica rolls her eyes and enters the elevator, holding the door open for him as he stumbles hurriedly after her.
"Thanks," he sighs, glancing at her almost apprehensively.
"You alright?" she intones, quirking an eyebrow at him.
He exhales shakily, rubbing his hands together. "Yeah, why?" he frowns.
Jessica shakes her head and looks to the doors, waiting for them to open up in the lobby. "Don't think I've ever seen you up this early."
"You often up at this time?" he counters.
Jessica tilts her head appreciatively, nearly taken aback by the sudden hint of a personality - usually he's so high he's just vague, confused, mumbled sentences. "Fair point," she smirks. She glances at him when the doors slide open, noting the reluctant curiosity on his face, waiting for him to ask what she's doing up at this time; but he doesn't say anything, and she walks out of the elevator. "See you later, Malcolm," she says.
She makes her way through the city to an apartment building by Rick's office tower and heads to the vantage point on the fire escape. Taking out her phone, she glances first at the time and then at the blank space where there's still a lack of text notifications, refusing to let herself think any further on the subject than the acknowledgement of the continued absence. Rick's office is still dark, so he hasn't arrived at work yet - Jessica's just going to have to wait for him to show up and try not to fall asleep in the meantime.
Twenty minutes pass before she spots him getting out of his taxi and sauntering towards the doors to his office building. The cautious glance he throws over his shoulder makes her smirk, and she pulls her camera out of her satchel and turns it on. Her gaze switches to the windows of his office when he disappears into the building and she waits patiently until his lights turn on and he closes the door behind him. She lifts the camera to her face, peering through the view finder, and watches him as he hangs up his jacket and wanders to his desk.
And, for the first time since she's watched him, he doesn't stand in the way when he signs in to his computer, typing out his password on the keyboard that he has left so helpfully within her sight. She zooms in on his fingers, watching the keys he taps, thanking whatever gods might exist that he types with a single finger on each hand and not very quickly.
"Sullivan spring 202," Jessica mutters, eyes narrowing as she pulls her face away from the camera. She tilts her head, an amused smirk stretching into her cheeks, glancing at the street name signs on the corner. "That is your password? Seriously?"
But something occurs to her. If he's willing to use the street names his office building sits on for his password, and the street names put together could almost be taken as an actual name without much confusion, maybe he's listed himself somewhere as a man called Sullivan Spring. Surely that isn't too much of a stretch, to wonder if he's used those names as an alias? She had already suspected he'd decided to list himself under a false name to avoid detection when he knew she was onto him and he no longer existed on any dating apps.
She files the idea away for investigation later, deciding to continue with her original plan of tailing him throughout his work day today just in case he slips up again. It's maybe been so long that he's starting to relax, and he might give her an even easier opportunity to catch him in the act. If not, maybe she'll break into his office and get into his computer now that she knows his password.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
Of course, since nothing goes simply for Jessica in her mess of a life, Rick Harper doesn't slip up at all during his day, and when she receives a text from Mrs Harper confirming that he didn't stop off anywhere on his way home, Jessica resigns herself to searching online for a Sullivan Spring.
She sighs at the text on her phone and slips it back into her pocket, lifting her head as the elevator doors slide open on her floor. Instantly, she notices a man at her door, standing so straight it must be painful, his head unmoving as he stares at her window. Jessica falters for a moment, watching him with a slight furrow in her brow, subconsciously clenching her fingers into a fist.
When she starts to walk down the hallway, he still doesn't turn at the noise. But he knocks on her door as if she's in her apartment. She isn't sure how long he's been waiting for, knocking and receiving no answer, but it's clearly been long enough for Malcolm to open his door and stare out at the man unblinkingly. The whole scene makes Jessica tense and uneasy, her shoulders stiffening when the whispers start to crawl over the skin on the back of her neck. Something really doesn't feel right.
Malcolm finally turns to look at her when she approaches his door, face scrunching in that strange curiosity, his mouth opening to speak, but she cuts him off before he can ask that infuriating question again. "No, Malcolm," she intones. His frown deepens, but his mouth shuts, and she looks to the man at her door again. "Can I help you?" she asks.
It seems as though he has to make some amount of effort to turn his head away from her door and look at her over his shoulder. "Are you Jessica Jones?" he asks stiffly.
Jessica's eyes narrow. "Who's asking?"
The man blinks. "I have a job for Jessica Jones. I need to speak to Jessica Jones."
Jessica's mouth twists with her confused wariness. "Okay," she says, glancing at Malcolm and jerking her head to silently order him back in his own apartment.
When he does, she reaches into her jacket pocket for her keys and steps towards the door, keeping her potential client in her peripherals when he moves out of the way to let her in. She unlocks the door and pushes it open, leaving it that way as a silent invitation to the man. His footsteps shuffle in behind her while she walks to her desk, dropping her satchel to the floor and slumping down into her chair.
The man is still hovering at her door, his fingers grasping the handle. "You're Jessica Jones?" he asks.
Jessica gives him a look. "What gave it away?" When he doesn't respond or react in any way, she rolls her eyes. "Yeah, I'm Jessica Jones. What's the job?"
He nods to himself and closes her door before trudging over to the chair on the other side of her desk. "Are you a part of the Avengers?" he asks.
Jessica's face scrunches with indignation instantly. "What are you, some undercover reporter trying to get a hot scoop?" she snaps. "How many times do I have to tell you people that I'm not a part of that goddamn team? You can get the hell out of my office if you're just gonna ask stupid questions."
The man blinks, his head tilting slightly. "Sorry. I just had to make sure."
Jessica allows her confusion to contort her face, shaking her head. "Whatever. Do you have a job or not?"
The man reaches a hand out to touch the back of the chair in front of him, but he doesn't sit down. "I want you to find dirt on Tony Stark," he says plainly.
Jessica blinks. She watches him for a moment, trying to find a motive in his eyes, but comes up blank. The chair creaks a little when she leans back, crossing her legs at her ankles, licking her lips to stall while she thinks of how to respond. She is suddenly hyper-aware of her phone in her pocket, where she still hasn't seen a notification of a text from the billionaire.
"Haven't the tabloids found enough over the years?" she asks finally.
The man's face twitches. "I need dirt on Tony Stark. Something other people don't know about."
Jessica pulls her lip into her mouth and scrapes her teeth along it, leaning forward in her chair again to reach down to her satchel and pull her flask of whiskey out. The lid scrapes noisily against the bottle as she unscrews it, looking up at the man again. "He do something to you?"
"Do you need that kind of information to be able to do the job?" he counters.
Jessica gives him an empty smirk, lifting the flask to her lips to take a sip. She tilts her head at him when she swallows. "Not usually," she shrugs concedingly. "But I've never had a job investigating a public figure of his standing before, so."
"I'll pay you. Good money."
"Yeah, I'd expect so," she replies, taking another sip. He meets her gaze steadily and firmly, and she knows she won't get an answer out of him. "What kind of dirt are we talking about, here?" she intones.
The man shrugs. "Anything that could damage his reputation."
She quirks an eyebrow. "Isn't that ambiguous enough as it is?"
"They're making him out to be a hero," the man says tightly. His face stiffens a little with tension. "Are you one of them or not?"
Jessica tries to dampen the glare in her eyes. "I already told you, I'm not with them."
"So, is there a more personal reason you don't want to do this or-"
"Okay, alright, take it easy," she mutters, rolling her eyes. "Suspicion comes with the job. What kind of timeframe are you looking at?"
The man's posture relaxes somewhat. "I'll come back here this time next week and see what you have to offer."
Jessica stares at him for a moment. "Alright. You wanna give me your name and phone number so I can-"
"I can't," he says, his eye twitching. Jessica tries not to frown suspiciously. "Just find out what you can and I'll come back next week to see how far you've got."
She leans back in her chair again, her whiskey flask forgotten momentarily. She takes a breath and then shrugs a shoulder again. "Alright, I guess I'll see you next week, then. I'll set you up on a normal contract just-"
"I'd rather not have any paperwork tying me to this," he cuts in, taking his hand off the chair. "But I can assure you, you'll be paid more than your normal contract charges."
Jessica stares at him. She supposes it makes sense when he's going after a giant like Stark. "Fine. I'll see what I can find out."
He gives her a stiff nod and then turns and walks to her door, swiftly exiting the apartment.
Jessica sits there, staring at the door, her forehead slowly pulling downwards in unsettled confusion. She lifts a hand to rub at the back of her neck, rolling her shoulders as if the movement will push the whispers away. Then she makes a decision.
Moving quickly, she screws the lid back on her flask and drops it into her satchel again. She pulls the strap of her satchel over her shoulder and marches through to her bedroom, tossing it and her jacket onto her bed before moving to her wardrobe. She drags out an oversized hooded jumper and a different jacket, pulling them onto her body quickly and pulling her hood up, tucking her hair into the jumper. She snatches up her satchel again and pulls it across her torso, walking over to her bedroom window to slide it open and peer down at the street.
She spots her new client leaving the building and turning left, starting to walk down the street. She double checks underneath her window and to the right, making sure there aren't any nearby witnesses, and then she vaults out of her window to plummet down to the sidewalk below. Her boots slap against the ground and she ducks her face under her hood, burying her hands in her jacket pockets, waiting as she walks forward a few steps before she risks a glance. He doesn't seem to have clocked her.
She follows him through the city, realising after a few blocks that he doesn't seem at all worried that someone might be following him; but she keeps her head ducked and stays a distance away just in case. They walk for about twenty minutes before he moves off the sidewalk to enter an apartment building, and he's so oblivious that she's able to sneak in after him, follow him up the stairs, and watch at the corner to see which apartment he goes into.
She works out what side of the building she needs to get eyes on and gets back out onto the street, finding a nearby fire escape to jump up to. She settles in, pulling her camera out of her satchel, and starts to peer in through his windows. When she finds him, he's on the phone to someone, speaking stiffly, and she takes the opportunity to snap a few pictures. He finishes the call after a moment, heads into his kitchen to make some dinner, and then settles onto his couch in the living room to watch TV.
Jessica lowers her camera to frown over at his apartment, eyes narrowing slightly. It's not as though the man has an air of someone who has been betrayed or degraded at the hands of Stark, nor has he gone to meet with any accomplices after seeing her. Maybe the person on the other end of the phone call was who told him he "couldn't" give her any contact details, but there's no way to tell at the moment. She pulls out her flask of whiskey and unscrews the top again, letting a deep sigh tumble out of her lips at the realisation that she'll likely be spending the night watching this guy to see if he gives her any clues about his motivation for finding dirt on Stark.
And so, sitting cramped on the metal fire escape with nothing but her whiskey to keep her warm, Jessica sits and watches her new client. She watches him watch TV for hours, and then she watches him go round his apartment and turn all the lights off before retreating into his bedroom. But just because he's gone into that room doesn't mean he won't get up to anything shady in the middle of the night, so she leans back against the railing and keeps herself awake.
When she slips her phone out of her pocket, she looks again at the lack of notifications and allows a miniscule frown. It's not like she misses Stark's random messages; she just isn't sure whether his silence is an indication that something has gone wrong, that he's in trouble in some way, and it doesn't help that there's some random guy looking for dirt on him.
But she didn't go on her phone to get distracted by Stark, so she goes into the App Store and downloads the most popular dating app, taking a moment to consider what Rick Harper's type is before she uses stock images and lies to build a profile for herself. She makes sure to send plenty of glances at her new client's apartment while she works on her other case, just in case he springs out of bed while she's not looking. The profile made and passably authentic, Jessica goes about setting a range of filters to try and narrow her matches down to what Rick's profile will feature - and then comes the arduous process of flicking through the hundreds of men on the app to try and find Rick.
It's really no wonder that she ends up drifting off two hours later, her head leaning back against the metal railing of the fire escape.
"Jessica!"
She flinches awake, eyes wide and panicked, lungs straining to suck in air and expel it in heavy bursts. Her neck twinges when she throws her head back and forth to look around her, scouring the darkness for a sign of the pale face that haunts her, the harsh echo of his voice slowly ebbing away in the walls of her mind. Nothing gets her heart hammering so painfully and erratically like the threat of his voice and its power.
But he's not here. He's dead. And she tells herself this over and over and over again, endeavouring to regain some kind of control and rhythm in her breathing.
"Main Street. Birch Street."
She lets out a shaky sigh, leaning her head back with a thump against the railing again.
"Higgins Drive. Cobalt Lane."
Her heart gradually slows, thumping at a softer pace, and the world around her seems to come back into focus, her eyes and ears feeling more clear after being so hazy in her panic.
"Shit," she hisses softly, closing her eyes and clenching her jaw. She unwraps her hand from around the railing behind her when she realises she'd clutched it in her fear.
He's gone and she doesn't need to worry about him anymore.
She takes a deep breath and opens her eyes again, turning to look over at her mysterious client's apartment. Nothing appears any different, but a glance at her phone tells her that she might have been dozing for a couple of hours, so she could have missed something.
It's getting close to 5am, and she notices again that Stark hasn't texted her. She licks her lips and stretches her legs out in front of her, unlocking her phone to open up their conversation in her messages. Most texts he's sent have come around 6am, so she figures he'll probably be awake by now, or nearly there.
She brings up the keyboard. "Hey, it's Jones. You at the Tower?" she types. And she hits send.