If someone came into her own personal space and decided to clear out her stash of poison, Jessica was sure her fist would be so far up their ass she'd be doing spirit fingers out of their mouth. Most knew that already. Most let her be. Not like she had an image to uphold - she wasn't a victor, wan't anyone important. Just another one of society's turds someone failed to flush away.
"Broke my record of longest nap," she contributed with a shrug. Once the bottle came back into her possession she craned back her neck, tilted the bottle and guzzled - right down to the last drop, sorry Clint. Hell, she even shook it a bit to make sure she got the very last of rivulet before the bottom was as dry as a dessert, and then let the glass roll away on his floor. "Same goes for my push up record. My life's just fucking exciting, isn't it?"
Sarcasm.
In truth, paranoia was a crippling thing. Stepping out in the open too look brought a gargantuan weight of stress about being watched. About someone, that someone, recognizing her from the crowd and hearing that long, drawn out Jeeeeeeeeeeessicaaaaa pierce through her ears. Indoors she remained. Sleeping, eating, training her liver to the point of invincibility, and working on her biceps and abs as a form of some kind of mindless exercise.