as cuddly as a cactus, as charming as an eel.

[underachievement]

WHO: Jessica Jones
WHERE: House 6, House 60, and the road to and from
WHEN: December
OPEN TO: House residents, neighbors and passersby, OTA for starter requests
WARNINGS: Alcoholism, character death mention.

---

6. Jess pauses outside the home, boot soles sunken into an inch or two of snow despite the path's recent shovelling. She figures she's only ever stumbled up this porch after nightfall, ignored the faded number plaque veiled as it was under shadow. That's not a satisfying answer to her rudimentary question of "what the hell," however, so she must not be directing it at herself. Did Frank pick 6 on purpose? Jess scoffs, not him or at herself or at the house, but at the fact that she's even wondering. If he did, who cares. It's been six goddamn months since he made that call. The reason for which it was made has ceased to matter or she wouldn't be willing to haul her box of crap in as she's doing right now.

She trudges up and in, gravitating towards the living room chair she's prone to pass out in. She sets her box down in it, then offloads the red bag slung over her shoulder on top of it. The box has no lid and is stuffed with clothes; the top layer fades from white to damp blue as the snow melts in the house's eager warmth and abundant light. Sighing, she bellows hot breath from her cheeks onto her bare fingertips. Fingerless gloves could get her through most New York winters but she's finding out that a cold snap in the woods is exponentially less willing to compromise.

Survival on her own is doable, provided she blacks out drinking every day to distract from the misery. Aside from services, favours and good turns deserving of another, none of which she's willing to provide, Jess hasn't worked out the currency around here, nor the booze situation half the time. Tripling down on her drinking problem doesn't seem tenable, as per the law of the conservation of matter. And there's her health to think about, she'd suppose. Instead she thinks about her death, the one she went through already, and how pointless and selfish it was. Freezing herself into a sad Little Match Girl mummy clutching an empty bottle isn't exactly an improvement.

She mills around the house long enough to warm up a bit before heading back out for her second and last round of personal effects (moonshine and a bunch of chocolate bars). Interrupt her at any point during her journey, or come around House #6 later in the day and greet its temporary new occupant.

[ HMU for a closed starter set elsewhere, such as the bunker, the daily lunch or swapping books at the school. ]

Comments

[oorah]

Frank comes around in a good five minutes time, wearing his ugly teal hoodie and jeans for his stint as mom and housewife. He passes her one of the mugs held by the handles in one of his massive hands and goes to sit on the edge of the couch nearest her that Patti has been keeping warm. The kitten cranes its neck to watch him, like she's considering coming over but isn't sure if the floor is lava or not. His heavy frame sinks into the sofa as he realizes he hasn't sat down all day, closing his eyes for a brief moment with his cup held on his knee. Going through his mind is her talking smack about his beard to Kamala, one side of his mouth hitching up as he slowly draws his cup in to blow across the hot surface of perfect coffee. Good choice, he thinks but again, doesn't say.

[underachievement]

The dogs nudge and sniff at her legs, finally causing her to relent and give them some attention. They're roommates now, and they were here first; she can no longer pretend they exist in different worlds and that carelessly crossing the two will hasten the decay of both. She pulls off her gloves to pets their heads and scrubs behind their ears with numb fingertips, then leaves them high and dry to take her mug in both hands.

She blows steam from the coffee's surface as Frank settles very much like a house, heavy and immoveable. It's probably not the busload of dogs that's tired him out so much, but that can't help. One small contribution she can make to the house, as long as she's a drain on its resources and residents, is caring for the dogs too, feeding them probably, on top of begrudgingly acknowledging them, and she hadn't considered that before now. She was preoccupied with the shame of sharing space with a teenager, as an active and unrepentant alcoholic. (Who now plans to do most of her drinking in the bunker, ostensibly "on duty.")

"I assume my shit's upstairs," Jess drones at him, sipping her coffee and searing away the stale swig of whiskey she took before undertaking the walk here.

[oorah]

If he notices her finally paying the dogs due attention, he says nothing, even when Bruno hops up on his other side to snuggle in. He wraps his arm over his own chest so he can run his finger along that weird crocodillic nose. Jessica's words get him to turn his head towards her, slowly parsing their meaning though it was hardly a complicated inquiry. "No, uh. Just down the hall." He inclines his crooked nose towards the master before finally taking a well-deserved sip.

[underachievement]

The layouts of these houses never fail to astonish her in how baffling they are. One bathroom for each floor at the inn, kitchens closed off in the back of the house, master bedrooms on the ground floor. The overabundance of walls and doors do direct and keep do heat in like a son-of-a-bitch and she's come to treasure that inversely to the lowering temperature.

"'Kay. Well, I'm tired and I smell like ass under this sweater." It's been too cold to bathe or get a good night's sleep. The rosy flush from hoofing it outside might be concealing the sunken bags under her eyes or it may be complementing them. She couldn't tell if she had a mirror. She doesn't notice those things about herself anymore. "I'll probably skip dinner." And skip sitting down for it with him and Kamala, surrounded by mutts, family-like. If that's how they do it. She's happy to not know for another day.

[oorah]

She looks tired, but he's sure he does, too. He's been staying up practically every night knitting for an army. He flexes his wrists, they ache but he's not about to complain if that's the only thing he has to do for these people. Like he told Kamala, he's slacking off here - hard. While Frank had specifically gotten dinner together so they could all three eat it as a unit, he can get why it's not the easiest thing for her. Family meals still have the potential to fuck him up for obvious reasons, too, so he's not about to try to convince her to do anything else. "Okay. You rest up, we'll save you a plate." He'll be up again tonight, knitting and being a general nuisance, so he'll probably be around whenever she wakes from her nap anyway. Though he looks like he can't move from the couch at least until he finishes his coffee anyway.

[underachievement]

Considering the state he's in, she wasn't anticipating a fight. Must have been girding herself for something, though, to relax and rest her head to the back of the chair. They can get started on this navigating this weird new dance around each other tomorrow morning. Afternoon or evening, ideally, if Jess can sneak out before anyone's noticed she's conscious.

"And you're sure Kamala's fine with this," Jess double or triple checks, her head lolling his way and her coffee perched on the chair's arm, her fingers laced through the handle.

[oorah]

"Fine with it?" That gets as close to a dirty look as he can muster, mostly he just wonders how she gets these ideas in her head. "Kam's the one who wants you here."

He meant to say 'the most' or something to that effect, but sometimes he just can't take it anymore. One minute she's asking him to stay over because she's lonely and another she acts like it's some big chore to hang out with him. He knows that's just Jess, but he's tired and he already feels guilty for the way that sounded anyway, thanks for asking.

"We both do, sorry. Haven't been... sleeping." That's a good excuse, right? He's just going to shut his eyes a minute, that will totally rejuvenate him.

[underachievement]

She's the chore but he's committed as ever to not seeing that. Nonetheless, Jess appreciates him trying. Perhaps over winter she'll stumble upon a way to make him sick enough of her to not want her around. Actively looking for it has fallen off her priority list. She's wrung out from the search, a year or more of fruitless labour. Here they are, when they should be strangers. She's switching to asshole autopilot, relying on old and trusted self-defense mechanisms, out pure self-preservation. Not that she'll admit it.

"It's fine." It's actually better than fine, a little smirk chipped into her mouth. "I kind of like it when you're a dick." It proves he knows who he's dealing with. It didn't used to feel so similar to a sign of affection but that's just what happens when you've known someone a long time. Jess has a deeper pull of her coffee, shutting her eyes as the warmth seeping through her defies the caffeine failing to keep her awake. Another good few gulps, so she doesn't fall asleep in the bath, and then Jess will haul her stuff down the hall and get to washing away the layers of stale sweat and dead skin.

[oorah]

He rubs at his eyes and looks over at her. Why is she smiling? Why can't she ever smile like that when he does something nice for her?

"I'll keep that in mind," he says, tone as impossibly dry as it is exhausted. It probably won't change anything, but he'd be lying if he said he didn't like making her smile like that. His free hand flops against the arm of her chair as he cranes back his neck to look her in the eye just about the laziest way he can. "Don't be surprised if Kamala doesn't like you skipping dinner." She's been looking forward to this all week.

[underachievement]

Damn. Jess hoped not picking a date would hinder any anticipating, his or Kamala's. She sent him a heads up over the network before her first trudge over and that was it. No one was supposed to have the time to make a big deal out of it but she should know better than to assume she's a step ahead of Kamala's indomitable enthusiasm.

"I'll survive." With the coffee melting ice from her tone and the two of them languidly filling their chairs, they must look cozier than she'll let them feel. She could be content to rest there, unmoving until Kamala comes in the door, but then she'll never get out of dinner. Possibly, she can adequately handle dozing off in the living room like an old married couple in a Pixar movie, but she can't keep the apathy up for a whole meal, not in the state she's in. With a bracing breath and a last gulp of coffee, Jess starts to push herself to her feet.

The mug is put aside on the coffee table, then her belongings grabbed up from the ground. "See you in a few hours then. Or..." The mildest shrug. "Tomorrow." Whenever their ships go from passing to wrecking. Night, morning, whatever.

[oorah]

He straightens up a little, but doesn't move from his slump further than that. Frank looks over the back of the couch to nod at her lazily as she goes. Maybe there's a soft grunt of acknowledgment as she recedes into the master bedroom. Maybe he'll get a quick nap in before Kamala comes home, too.