who: Clint & Jessica where: The Hawkeye Abode when: Not long after his party what: Alcoholism and vulgarity - the ingredients of a beautiful friendship
Don't expect anything fancy, Barton. Jessica brought the cheap shit.
Yes. Cheap shit that was still artistically bottled in some kind of elaborately shaped mosaically stained glass. Meant to be 'tasteful.' Jessica considered it 'fucking hideous' like most 'tasteful' things around this poison-infested place. It was all she could afford, it was all she wanted to afford - all those dipshits with their rainbow-colored hair and unnatural eyelashes that went on for miles could keep their swanky, expensive booze medication and leave her to stuff on the bottom of the 'most desirable liquors' list. It didn't need to taste good, it just needed to do its job of filling her veins with comforting buzz, a warmth that felt equivalent to a hug she so desperately needed but so vehemently denied. It could burn her mouth, sear its way down her throat and make her gag and it'd still be the best thing in the entire goddamn world, because it would make her numb.
Nowadays Jessica didn't think much about taste. It stopped leaving that tingly, blech feeling in her mouth. It was water. A necessity her every cell in her body craved and if she couldn't get a drop, she could swear her body would shrivel and die. The bottle was her best friend, a loyal ally, her greatest confidant - next to one or two souls that traversed Capitol streets anyway. A few select she actually gave a damn about.
And if she gave a damn, that meant sharing the goods. Sharing goods with Clint, who could, with all his goddamn victor status, get whatever the hell he pleased. Or probably already had his drink of choice within the confines of his home. Something was up, she wouldn't bother turning to the propaganda that was 'the news' because it was horseshit, it would always be horseshit, and wanted to hear whatever was up from him. It was why she actually stepped out of the little room she hid in, braced herself for public viewing - she stuck out like a sore thumb from the extravagantly dressed, with wrinkled pants and a ratchet tank-top and over-sized sweatshirt that hooded her head. Bottle in her hand for all of Panem (or just these assholes) to see, and it started out full when she began her on-foot trek to Clint's.
It wasn't as full by the time she got there but, hey, she didn't fucking drink it all, alright?
Knuckles rapped against the door a couple times, and instead of loudly vocalizing her presence, she opted to lean against the door frame and unscrew the top of the bottle for another swig. Barton was expecting her, he'd open up sometime.
Clint knew the clomp of Jess's footsteps a mile away, and he was up and at the door in seconds. She was mid-swig when he opened the door, and a wide grin broke over his face at the sight of her, and he pulled the door wide. "Save any for me, Jones?" he joked, locking the door twice behind her. Then, as he sprawled out on the couch, he added, "I got the next bottle. Just didn't have anything here. Got cleaned out before the party and Scott's been hovering over my shoulder making his damn dadface at me. 'Sbeen a fuckin' bad week."
Still, Jess had been generous enough to bring it, so he reached out for the bottle instead of trying to take it from her, asking her to offer it. "Bad week" was about the understatement of the century, but Clint felt like dealing in understatement tonight. He'd felt too much over the past couple of weeks, and he was exhausted by it. But it was safe to be numb with Jess, since numbness seemed to be a pretty essential part of her worldview.
For a half a second, Clint almost wanted to ask if she'd seen the anniversary special on TV. Every goddamn thing was televised in the Capitol, not that he watched most of the stuff himself. But he steered away from that quickly. He didn't have to talk about it, so why would he? It was only going to be over when he figured out how to shut up about it, so when she finally handed over the bottle, Clint just gulped it down, working to catch up with her. His face twisted a little at the taste -- he'd been spoiled by good booze, lately -- but god the burn felt good.
He passed it back -- no point in breaking out something as fancy as cups when it was just him and Jess -- and sighed, deep and relieved. "It's so fucking good to see you."
As a rule of thumb, Jessica didn't smile. Not really. Mostly had to do with the purple-obsessed fucktard that demanded the widening of her mouth on a daily basis - she should have just snatched a knife and cut into her cheeks to make it permanent. Her smiles were fake, oozed mockery, were rarely ever genuine but sometimes, sometimes there was a ghost of one. A light tug of her lips into something crooked. Closer to smirk, but these were a little more good humored and less 'you're a piece of shit but watch me bat my lashes at you anyway, dipshit.'
"Bad week because someone cleaned out your fucking stash?" An eyebrow quirked, the bottle generously surrendered. Nah, that probably wasn't it - too much of 'woe, first world problems' for Clint. Pulling the sweatshirt's cowl from her head, revealing that disheveled mess of inky black hair, Jessica snatched her bottle back and settled on the couch with him. Sloppily, in her own lackadaisical way. She was a mess, inside and outside, embraced it whole-heartedly and concerns were met with the rise of both her middle fingers. "Thanks for the sappy greeting, but what kind of 'bad week' shit are we drinking too, exactly? And what, did your buddies stage an 'intervention' for you?" Cue the air quotes. Cue also the exaggerated roll of her eyes.
Something was up though, she smelled it on him. Could also be that scent of that godawful facial semen he liked to cake onto his face (knowing Clint, also likely) as some kind of 'moisturizer' but she'd known about the party. That massive, televised thing that had enough people to stir a pot of shit. Jessica hadn't watched, mind you. All the bullcrap they broadcasted was some brainwashing propaganda horseshit that wanted to make her throw things.
Heavy things, that did a lot of damage, into someone's face.
But she couldn't.
Hence those two gulps of crap liquor, down the hatch, right before she passed it back to him.
Jessica goddamn Jones. Always cutting through his bullshit. She knew about the party. They'd done plenty of drinking over it in the past month or so, when he'd finally told her about it. She knew it had been a bad week. But she was also blunt enough to see through the nonchalant smokescreen he'd been ineffectively trying to throw up. He wasn't fooling her one iota. Never could.
He grabbed the neck of the bottle and took another deep pull, shutting his eyes briefly. He passed it back, settled against the arm of the couch, his legs sprawling out, feet just short of her body. "Natasha," he murmured, and he didn't meant for her name to come out heavy, but it did. "She decided I was drinking too much. Helped me get rid of it all, right before the party. I told her I'd try to stay off it for a couple weeks." He chuckled darkly. Promises, promises. He didn't like breaking his word, especially not to her. But then...
"She decided we shouldn't talk for a while. Not because of the drinking. I think. Just. You know. I don't know. Distance, or some shit. Anyway. She told me goodbye, so I guess that friendship's over." He shrugged and took another long, long gulp, and surrendered the bottle back. "Cheers."
Nope. Couldn't fool her. Jessica had a keen sense for sniffing out bullshit and this was it - and not his baby batter moisturizer, which she was sure consisted of a money-grubbing whackjob who blew his load in a bottle and sold it. Protein was good for the skin?
But when he said Natasha, well. That's when it all sort of clicked in her head, and she knew the motherload baggage he had about that one. It came with a lot of guilt, but that's what Clint got for trying to save every fucking parcel of damaged goods he came across. Jessica listened, lips pursed, letting him talk and not really knowing what to say. Her advice was shit, she knew what that particular set of tits and ass meant to Clint, it wasn't her area of expertise (not that she had one, other than inappropriate vulgarity). But, ah. Fuck.
She'd give it a try.
"Okay, drama queen, your friendship's not over," she snorted, the alcoholic ambrosia back into her clutches. "So you had a fight. Shit happens. We've had fights - we're still obviously talking, and now your spit's all over my booze and I'm alright with that because I don't want to shove my foot up your ass on a regular fucking basis." There was a pause so she could get a drink in. Or two. Then wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, swung her leg up on the couch and stretched it over his. A gesture of comfort, in her own way. "You two will make up, then fight again. Wash, rinse, repeat."
Optimism or realism? Jess would argue realism. Connections with other people were never smooth sailing. Theirs wasn't. Except Clint was head-over-heels and stupidly smitten with the one in question, so theirs would always have that extra touch of complicated that would be hard to ever wash off. Like a stubborn stain on your favorite pair of jeans.