580/Family Reunion

Family Reunion
Date of Scene:	23 May 2017
Location:	New York City
Synopsis:	Indiana Jones shows up at Alias Investigations to connect with his great-granddaughter, one Jessica Jones.
Cast of Characters:	Jessica Jones, Indiana Jones

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Jessica Jones has posed:
"The car in your name?"

Jessica Jones, PI, sits behind her desk with her feet on it. She leans back in her seat, her eyes half-lidded. A cell phone is pressed to her ear. A half-open bottle of Wild Turkey whiskey is near one foot. A glass with some of that amber liquid is in her other hand. She listens for a moment, then explains,

"Because, Mrs. Anderson, if the car isn't in your name than it's not legal to just 'put one of those GPS thingies' on it. Now if you want me to find out if your husband is cheating, I can do that, but it's not going to be that simple."

Or that cheap.

The woman blathers on. She rolls her eyes.

"Two hundred an hour, plus expenses..."

She holds the phone away from her ear and grimaces as the woman shouts, then brings it back smoothly.

"Yep, you do that. Good luck with that. Uh huh. Uh huh. Uh huh. Yeah, we're now in the part of the conversation where you're wasting my time."

She hangs up and tosses the phone on the desk with a clatter, and then drains the whiskey, closing her eyes. The door to Alias is unlocked, it's business hours, but she apparently doesn't give half a damn whether a potential client catches this oh-so-professional behavior in action. She is dressed in ratty jeans that look like they could really use a wash, and a blue and black plaid button-up shirt over a black tank top. These, at least, look clean. A black leather jacket is slung over the back of the chair where she is currently lounging. Upstairs, some couple is screaming at the top of its lungs. In the hallway, lights flicker, bulbs badly in need of a replacement.

Just another Tuesday at 485 W. 46th Street.

Indiana Jones has posed:
Through the frosted glass that makes up the upper half of the door to Alias Investigations, a shadowed profile slowly starts to come into focus. Starting as a blur, as whomever approaches gets closer the shadow takes on more shape and definition, until the outline of a tall person in a fedora comes completely into focus.

There is a slight pause before the doorknob rattles and the door starts to open, even as the man entering raps on the doorjamb.

"Hello? I'm looking for Ms. Jones. Ms. Jessica Jones?"

The tall man enters into the room fully, closing the door behind him. Dressed in khaki pants, a rugged button down cream colored shirt and a old worn leather jacket, Indiana Jones stands by the entrance of the door as he pushed the brim of his hat up away from his eyes as he looks towards Jessica. "I'm not interrupting anything, am I?

Jessica Jones has posed:
"You've found her. No, you're not interrupting."

Jessica does swing her feet off the desk. She eyes the whiskey bottle, then eyes the man in the hat, as if weighing how offended he might be by it. She grimaces faintly, plucks it up, and puts it on the bookshelf behind a stack of books. There. Dealt with. She reaches into her desk, pulls out a yellow legal pad, and tosses it onto the desk. She pulls out a pen. Tests it for ink. Scribble scribble.

Dead.

She tosses that into the trash and grabs for another. Scribble scribble scribble.

She gets a little squirt of ink and then...also dead.

Rolling her eyes, she reaches for a third and tests that one. When that one proves to be a bust she just throws it down in aggravation and decides she didn't need a damn pen anyway.

"Welcome to Alias Investigations. how can I help?" she asks, leaning back and folding her arms as if she hadn't just gone through this entire rigamarole at all. Her eyes are remarkably clear and attentive for someone who has put away as much of that bottle as she has, though she certainly smells of it.

Indiana Jones has posed:
Indy removes his hat, using his fingers to comb through his hair before placing it back onto his head and adjusting it. "Well, I'm not sure if you can help me, or if I can help you. I need to ask you a couple of questions, if you don't mind? They might be...uh...a little awkward."

He walks further into the room, stopping in front of the desk, and motioning towards the bottle she just put away with a nod of his head , "You might actually want to keep that out, and if you got another glass I wouldn't object to a belt of that myself. Might make what I am about to say easier for the both of us."

He slides into one of the chairs, leaning back and tossing his arm over the back of the seat, "I guess I will just cut to the chase...were your parents Brain and Alisa Jones? I just want to make sure I have the right person."

Jessica Jones has posed:
When he says he might be able to help her, something deeply incredulous passes over her face, and her eyes narrow faintly, as if she suspects he's some sort of salesman.

When he asks for some of her whiskey, though, he actually gets a fleeting, incredulous, but also somewhat pleased smirk. It doesn't stay long, but it's there. She brings the bottle back out, and then wanders into the kitchen for another glass. She thumps it down on the desk...

Just in time for him to ask if her parents were Brian and Alisa Jones.

Her expression closes right off, which might be answer enough. Her body language is stiff, wary. The suspicion returns, redoubled. She pours the whiskey for both of them and shoves his over to him. Despite this rough and amateurish desktop bartending, none spills.

She takes a long pull off hers. And that's when he finally gets:

"What are you? An insurance adjuster? Debt collector? Estate's settled as far as I know. Has been for years."

Indiana Jones has posed:
"None of the above, Ms Jones." says Indy, taking the glass of whiskey from the desk and slamming it back like a shot. "I know this is going to be hard to believe, but, well, I'm your great grandfather."

He knows how ridiculous that sounds, holding up a hand with his palm out in a sign of surrender, "Now I know that sounds like a bunch of horseshit. I wouldn't believe me if I were you either, but its the facts. You and you fancy computer things can likely dig all this up on ancestry.com or something equally as ridiculous."

He doesn't ask, he just reaches over the desk and takes the bottle, refilling his glass and waiting to refill hers. "My name is Indian...Henry. Henry Jones Jr, but most people call me Indiana...yes, THAT Indiana Jones."

Jessica Jones has posed:
Her expression doesn't change much as he drops his bomb. There's a slight 'are you serious?' upcurl of her left lip and eyebrow as he tells her she can look it up on //Ancestry.com// of all things. Clearly in her professional opinion that is not the right tool for the task.

But she does produce a laptop from a desk drawer. She fires it up. She taps on a few keys. "You know," she says, conversationally, "I once spent a month chasing a guy whose wife swore up and down he was this dude Rick Jones-- no relation, of course, because there are only 98,000 people in New York City alone with the last name of Jones. And you would have sworn it was him, because he was fucking crazy. Got himself plastic surgery to look just like the guy, read his book till he had it memorized, went around screaming that the Skrulls or whatever were after him, real nuthouse. Found him. A week later, his wife is pretending to be me. It was a real trip."

She clicks her mouse a few times and says, "So sure, I'll do the public records search that can draw the paper trail between my father and you. I'm going to need you to tell me something only Indiana Jones-- would know."

She smiles thinly. "And since we don't have any warm, fuzzy family memories to draw on, I guess that's gonna need to be your SSN."

She lets her fingers hover over the keys, and arches dark eyebrows expectently.

Indiana Jones has posed:
Indy slams back another shot of the whiskey, and smirks. "Yeah, I wouldn't believe me either. It's not every day that some guy walks through your front door, telling you not only is he your great grandfather, but that he is some guy that should have died 75 years ago, but only looks 40. But hell, it's a crazy world we live in now a days with aliens and mutants and all sorts of strange phenomena going on these days."

He takes the bottle and pours a third glass, "Anyway, my social security number is 574-79-0167. Middle name is Walton. My son's name was Henry Walton Jones the third, but he went by Henery Williams. He was your dad's father. His social security number was 626-12-1352."

Jessica Jones has posed:
Her fingers fly over the keys; her mouse clicks to open more windows. When he gives up extra information, some of the suspicion fades a little bit. Her features fall into a small frown. Her eyes fly quickly to his for a moment, then she frowns down at her screens.

"Huh," she says at last.

This apparently calls for another bottle. She closes the laptop and goes to get one. She pours herself another, then waves it in his direction in a form of offering. It is a gesture that says that perhaps he earned himself less of a hard time than she might have otherwise given him by starting the ritual of shared drinking.

Nevertheless, a host of conflicting emotions clouds her face, until all emotion disappears. Except, perhaps, for this slight tightness around her mouth and jaw, a sort of understated seething that translates even through the hard smirk she gives him, an expression that makes a stab at levity and rather somewhat misses. She believes him, first hurdle achieved.

This is the second.

"So. Grandpa." She ain't doin' all the greats, she's not even.

"What brings you here? I mean. You didn't exactly show up for...hmm, let's see." She ticks them off on her fingers. "Accident, coma, adoption-by-narcissistic abusive psychopath that you apparently had the public records to have stopped right in its tracks, high school graduation, though I'll grant you that one was boring as fuck, or that time a few months ago where I got tried in the court of public opinion."

The last on that list is pretty recent; it was for snapping some guy's neck at the docks after he used said 'strange phenomenon' to force a bunch of people to fight one another to the death. The court of public opinion is still divided on the matter of 'Jessica Jones, murderer' and 'Jessica Jones, hero to the people,' but the State of New York seems to have fallen down on the side of, 'Jessica Jones, can't be charged with anything' side of the equation.

Of course, Indiana Jones might well recognize the tone. It perhaps does not sound too terribly far, in cadence or delivery, from the sorts of seething accusations Henry Jones, Senior once received for his failures in the parenting department. And if there are probably a dozen and a half reasons why this critique isn't even close to being fair...

Well, it probably demonstrates an ancestral apple that's comfortably near the tree, too.

Indiana Jones has posed:
Tipping his glass in return he takes a sip from this glass instead of shooting it down his throat.

He takes a deep breath and sighs, "Yeah, about that...I, uh...well. I could tell you that I was in hiding, since as far as I can tell I am immortal after drinking from the holy grail, and walking around at 125 wasn't exactly something people did up until recently. I could tell you I was in mourning, since I lost my wife. I could tell you I was in the depths of Madripoor trying to find myself again and relive my glory days...but none of that matters because I really don't have an excuse. Nothing will make up for the shit that you went through that I wasn't there for. I have to own that, and I of all people should have known better.

He takes the glass in his hand and drinks a bit more of the amber liquid, "So, I know it isn't worth the spit it would take to shine my shoes, but I'm sorry for not being there for you then, but I am here now."

Jessica Jones has posed:
Of all the answers she expected, simply taking responsibility and apologizing...a full, complete, no-bullshit apology...

Wasn't it.

In fact she stares at him like she doesn't even know what to //do// with that. She had been gearing up for a fight. And suddenly there's no fight to be had. She opens her mouth. She closes her mouth.

She grabs her whiskey. She tosses the whole thing down in one gulp, but this time she doesn't reach for another. She simply holds the glass that's now as empty as her sails of outrage.

"Sorry about your loss," she mutters at last, clearly, finally, feeling like...well. A bit of an asshole.

She swallows visibly and looks down at the desk, another wave of conflicting emotion passing over her face, twisting it into something a little pained, a little uncertain. The next admission clearly doesn't come easy. But...it does come.

"I guess I'm more glad that I'm not the only one of our-Jones' kicking around than I am pissed off, anyway."

Indiana Jones has posed:
Pushing the fedora up higher on his forehead, Indiana gives her a little nod and a weak smile. "Technically, as far as I know anyway, there are three of us. My dad, you're great, great grandfather, is still out there somewhere. I don't know where. Lost track of him a while back when he went on one of his adventures, and I haven't seen him since. I don't know if the magic of the grail ran its course, or if he just hasn't reached out. I wouldn't put it past him...old habits."

He drains the last of the amber liquid from the glass, setting it onto the desk next to the bottle. "You know, you're taking this whole thing remarkably well. I mean, you barely batted an eye when I told you I was 125. But in these times I guess that isn't as hard a pill to swallow as it was back in the 30's. Either than, or maybe it is just the Jones' family has so much experience in weird that it rolls off our backs like water off a duck's ass."

Jessica Jones has posed:
She cocks her head with interest as he describes yet another immortal or immortal-esque relative from farther back in the family tree. "Huh," she says again, but softly. Again, as if she's not sure how to feel about it, but as if underneath all the guardedness there's some reaction that is, in general, more positive than negative.

The PI finally puts the empty glass down, and now, as he says she's taking it well, she allows a wry smile to pass over her face. It stays a little longer than the previous smirk. Not //terribly// long, but longer.

"A little from Column A, a lot from Column B, I guess," she says, the expression filtering right into the tone.

But rather than elaborate on all the reasons why '125 years old' just doesn't really phase her, she switches gears.

"So...what's your plan then? Are you sticking around New York for awhile?"

Indiana Jones has posed:
"The foreseeable future." says Indy with a shrug of his shoulder, drumming his fingers on the desktop. "At least I'm thinking I may set up a base camp here. While I was in Madripoor I made a contact within SHIELD that I may go assist every now and again if she needs the help. Turns out we are in the same line of work. There isn't much call for an archeologist like me in New York City, not unless I end up teaching again anyway."

"That, and i'll be around if ya need me. You know, assuming you want that."

He removes the fedora from his head, combing his fingers through his hair before replacing it once again and squaring it off, "At the very least I'll be around for a few weeks. I haven't been here in decades, so it will be interesting to see how things have changed. I hear they cleaned up Times Square."

Jessica Jones has posed:
SHIELD maybe surprises her more than the age does; a flicker of it passes over her features. But...in the end, she takes that much, too, in stride.

Instead, she watches him get up, gear up to go. Her face is expressionless for a few moments more as he says he'll be around, makes his quip about Times Square.

And then...lips twitch.

"You wanna leave a phone number and take one, old man, or is that too high-tech for you?"

It's more sass. But...there's a //bit// of warmth to it, a //bit// of humor, instead of an edge.

It's the closest he's probably going to get to her admitting something so vulnerable as 'yes, actually, I probably do want that.' Say that, and reveal weakness? Screw that.

But she does bring out her phone and lift those dark eyebrows again, ready to record his number. Ready to text him her own, too.

Indiana Jones has posed:
Indiana Jones smirks, "Old. You don't know the half of it. It ain't the years, it's the mileage and i'll be damned if I haven't seen more than my fair share of those."

He reaches into the inside pocket of his leather jacket and produces a flip phone. Flipping it open he squints down at the screen, and with a hint of a grumble he reaches back into his pocket and produces his reading glasses.

He slips them on his nose and mutters, "You know, you would have thought that the cup of Christ would fix my eyesight as well, but of course not. Leaves me with the same old astigmatism i've always had." He glances up at Jessica and smirks, "Aint that just the way of it all?"

He hits a couple of buttons on the phone and rattles off the number, waiting to type in hers when it is given.

Numbers exchanged, he stands from the chair. "I should probably let you get back to work."