It'd been a hell of a long time since they'd had a proper conversation. So long that it compelled Jessica to go looking for him. Too long. She had a lot of time to herself these days; a lot of time to think. About nothing, about everything, about the present, about the future. Moving in and out of the tangles of her own mind seldom ever worked out for her--Jessica grew sick of herself eventually. Of all that weaving.
When she needed to clear her head, she fought. Trouble wasn't hard to find, not in those dark corridors. Sometimes it was right there for everyone to see, destroying buildings and lives and showing the (new) world that it adapted just fine. Tonight some superpowered vagrants attacked a small quadrant. It hadn't been enough to ease her mind. Jessica took the drink the bartender gave her, silently tipped her glass toward Nick and his ugly furball, and drank, took the heat going down.
Holding the glass between her palms, she licked the liquor off the bruised corner of her mouth and stared into the liquid. She didn't talk for a long time. The realization hit her eons ago, how far she and Nick had drifted from each other. It pissed her off, saddened her, broke her heart. She'd resolved to settle this with a straightforward apology, maybe a round of shots. No bullshit. But if the ache in her chest had anything to say about it (and it did, in the form of tears that she diligently fought down), it wasn't going to work out that way. Go fucking figure. Jessica lifted her gaze, looked Nick over sidelong.
"You're looking well," she finally spoke, her feelings wrapped up in a guise of sarcasm.