The awareness bleeds in slowly, and Jamie knows something's wrong.
She's been used to this since— since Ozzi was born. On and off, sure, or she'd never get through the day, but three years as a timeframe feels about right. Every morning, Jamie Drewick wakes up and for a split second, just one, right before she can extend her senses and run her tongue over her teeth and make sure she isn't somewhere she isn't supposed to be, she feels the panic. The panic that tells her she has to get up. The panic that tells her it's time, she has to run, right now, that nowhere is safe.
Each morning, right before Jamie Drewick opens her eyes, she makes the decision to stay.
Today's different.
She goes through the motions. It's like driving, in a way, your body adapting to its muscle memories more than you're aware of doing anything actionable. She walks into the kitchen and puts on the coffee. She covers up a yawn, takes down a box of cereal from the top shelf, and sets down a bowl and spoon. Halfway through it all, her son walks in like clockwork, still in skeleton tux pyjamas and intent on watching morning cartoons with his favorite stuffed monkey. She kisses him good morning on his forehead, bings him a glass of water, and leaves him to it for the next twenty minutes.
Like every morning, Jamie Drewick takes a shower. She brushes her teeth in the stall, squinting bleary-eyed down at her feet as foam and mint and water sluice down the drain. Mentally, she thinks about the things to do for the day: take the chicken out of the freezer, make sure Ozzi has his book bag, and check that Interpol finally forwarded the information they need on the Patriarca family in time for work tomorrow. By the time she's got her bathrobe on and blinking at herself in the fogged-up mirror, things feel... off. Things feel different. There's this feeling that she's not wholly here. She looks at her hands but they don't feel like her hands.
It's disconcerting.
Reaching out, she wipes away the condensation from the glass with the flat of her palm. Read the terrain first: freak out and try and make sense of it later. Adapt or die. So she blinks at herself a few times. Her hair is shorter than she remembers, and a little lighter — which is not right and weird, but her life has seen weirder. Boyo's older too, older than she's ever seen him, but that feels like it'll be fun, the love is still there, he's still hers. She leans in closer to the mirror and pulls a few faces, opening her mouth, poking out her tongue, trying to smile. That's the weird thing. She still looks like herself, but none of this is— right.
"At least it's not skrulls."
She clears her throat. Because her voice sounds off too, a mix of a mild English accent and a too-American way with words. She leans in closer, and Jamie-Jessica-Jamie struggles briefly, lashes out in a panic against herself and knocks over a series of candles on the bathroom countertop. They clatter to the ground, making the panic soar again, her heartbeat so loud she can hear it in her ears. Her right hand is shaking, but not her left.
For a while, all she does is stare. At her reflection, at the candles, at her own hands, at herself that isn't herself. Or is? Or always was?
"Don't worry," she says to her reflection. "Do you hear me? Trust me. I'm a fucking Avenger. I'm an Agent of SHIELD and I was trained by Hydra. And Nick Fury. Trust me. I was made for this. I'm not going to let you down, so just calm down."
That voice in the back of her head, the one that she'd normally call her conscience, speaks quietly. Tense but not afraid, just— cautious. Worried, as always, even when she pretends she isn't.
Even Ozzi?
"Especially Ozzi," she says, again, to her reflection.
It takes a while, maybe ten minutes, but her hand stops shaking. In the mirror, Jamie-Jessica-Jamie smiles.
This morning, now that she's opened her eyes, Jessica Drew makes the decision to stay.
"I don't know about you," she tells her reflection, "But I want the world's largest breakfast burrito."
Jamie finds it difficult to argue with preferences like that. For now.
She's been used to this since— since Ozzi was born. On and off, sure, or she'd never get through the day, but three years as a timeframe feels about right. Every morning, Jamie Drewick wakes up and for a split second, just one, right before she can extend her senses and run her tongue over her teeth and make sure she isn't somewhere she isn't supposed to be, she feels the panic. The panic that tells her she has to get up. The panic that tells her it's time, she has to run, right now, that nowhere is safe.
Each morning, right before Jamie Drewick opens her eyes, she makes the decision to stay.
Today's different.
She goes through the motions. It's like driving, in a way, your body adapting to its muscle memories more than you're aware of doing anything actionable. She walks into the kitchen and puts on the coffee. She covers up a yawn, takes down a box of cereal from the top shelf, and sets down a bowl and spoon. Halfway through it all, her son walks in like clockwork, still in skeleton tux pyjamas and intent on watching morning cartoons with his favorite stuffed monkey. She kisses him good morning on his forehead, bings him a glass of water, and leaves him to it for the next twenty minutes.
Like every morning, Jamie Drewick takes a shower. She brushes her teeth in the stall, squinting bleary-eyed down at her feet as foam and mint and water sluice down the drain. Mentally, she thinks about the things to do for the day: take the chicken out of the freezer, make sure Ozzi has his book bag, and check that Interpol finally forwarded the information they need on the Patriarca family in time for work tomorrow. By the time she's got her bathrobe on and blinking at herself in the fogged-up mirror, things feel... off. Things feel different. There's this feeling that she's not wholly here. She looks at her hands but they don't feel like her hands.
It's disconcerting.
Reaching out, she wipes away the condensation from the glass with the flat of her palm. Read the terrain first: freak out and try and make sense of it later. Adapt or die. So she blinks at herself a few times. Her hair is shorter than she remembers, and a little lighter — which is not right and weird, but her life has seen weirder. Boyo's older too, older than she's ever seen him, but that feels like it'll be fun, the love is still there, he's still hers. She leans in closer to the mirror and pulls a few faces, opening her mouth, poking out her tongue, trying to smile. That's the weird thing. She still looks like herself, but none of this is— right.
"At least it's not skrulls."
She clears her throat. Because her voice sounds off too, a mix of a mild English accent and a too-American way with words. She leans in closer, and Jamie-Jessica-Jamie struggles briefly, lashes out in a panic against herself and knocks over a series of candles on the bathroom countertop. They clatter to the ground, making the panic soar again, her heartbeat so loud she can hear it in her ears. Her right hand is shaking, but not her left.
For a while, all she does is stare. At her reflection, at the candles, at her own hands, at herself that isn't herself. Or is? Or always was?
"Don't worry," she says to her reflection. "Do you hear me? Trust me. I'm a fucking Avenger. I'm an Agent of SHIELD and I was trained by Hydra. And Nick Fury. Trust me. I was made for this. I'm not going to let you down, so just calm down."
That voice in the back of her head, the one that she'd normally call her conscience, speaks quietly. Tense but not afraid, just— cautious. Worried, as always, even when she pretends she isn't.
Even Ozzi?
"Especially Ozzi," she says, again, to her reflection.
It takes a while, maybe ten minutes, but her hand stops shaking. In the mirror, Jamie-Jessica-Jamie smiles.
This morning, now that she's opened her eyes, Jessica Drew makes the decision to stay.
"I don't know about you," she tells her reflection, "But I want the world's largest breakfast burrito."
Jamie finds it difficult to argue with preferences like that. For now.