[if someone could please shoot him for the umpteenth awful and somehow unqualified interviewee in the past three hours it would be greatly appreciated is his only thought as someone who he can only mentally consider a grown up wednesday addams — okay so maybe she's not sporting the braids and that lipstick is decidely not the kind of makeup that wednesday might be caught in, but she's got the dark as night hair and she's so pale she could give the moon a run for its money. so as is so often the case with mick, once a snap judgment born of just a two second distracted glance comes to mind, it sticks in the worst kind of ways.

at least until he hears her voice. they know each other. or at least he knows her: jessica jones. dick tracy. his hired muscle in his old bar what seems like forever ago. but the greeting received isn't really one of someone who's already worked with him for months. please don't mind the irritated grumble in his voice as he responds. it's just that it would be real great if the city could just tell him who's gonna remember him and who isn't. it'd make meetings like this a hell of a lot less awkward.]

Well, you're sitting in it so it's a little late for that now isn't it, Jones. I'd ask you to try that again, but I know better.