Here's the thing. The horrible, stupid, fucked up thing about Peter Parker (well, at least, one among the many, many issues that that kid has): He is a (semi) functional teenager.

This means two things that are very, very important.

First. He goes to sleep at some godforsaken hour like 2 am without needing a drop of caffeine. That's the teenager part.

Second. He wakes up at some godforsaken hour like 6 am without needing a drop of caffeine. That's the functional part.

You can see how this might be an issue for one Ms. Jessica Jones who is neither functional nor a teenager. By the time that it's midnight, she's so drunk that she's out before the clock strikes 1 am.

Except, as of this specific moment, at this specific time, she can't get rip-roaring drunk because Matt fucking Murdock left his kid behind and Tony fucking Stark also conveniently was at a week-long business conference in Beijing, and somehow they assumed that the next best option was Jessica.

She has no idea how they reached this conclusion, but it's not a smart conclusion and she has no choice but to conclude that they are two idiots.

But this? This is it.

Peter wakes with the sun.

Okay, let her rephrase in a way that doesn't sound so freakishly golden boy.

He does yoga at 6 am.

Nope. Still freakish.

No matter how many times she blinks and checks again each time, there's Peter, in his purple and white Hawkeye pyjamas and with messed up bedhead, hair curling against his earlobe and still somehow glowing like a fucking nightlight.

"Go to sleep, kid," Jessica groaned, squinting at Peter from her spot on the sofa. Peter attempted to sleep on the sofa but was forced to concede when Jessica picked him up and forcibly put him on the bed with a grumble of if Murdock thinks that you so much as lost one second of your precious sleep, you're going to have to deal with him mother henning for a week.

Peter had conceded with a shudder and a sleepy, thank you, Ms. Jones. Jessica sharply told him not to call her that, and, little piece of shit that he was, Peter had mumbled, okay. Sorry, Ms. Jones."Good morning, Ms. Jones," Peter says brightly, evidently not understanding the definition of go to sleep.

Jessica buries her face in her pillow and lets out the single most draw out fuck that she can manage with such little sleep.

"Would you like to join me?" Peter asks.

Jessica, somehow, is still drawing out the fuck and therefore is not available to reply to him.

"I know that you kind of look down on yoga, but it's nice," Peter says.

"Do you exist?" Jessica asks her pillow while Peter smoothly transitions into his next pose, "Or are you just some elaborate AI that Stark made to represent the perfect pinnacle of what humanity could have been?"

"Sorry to say, Ms. Jones, I still bleed," Peter peers at her for a moment, and then says with a firm finality, "Go take the bed, Ms. Jones. I wouldn't want you to be tired all day."

Jessica wants to snark something at him, but Peter is still young and bright and weirdly innocent despite almost dying more times than they can count, so she just shakes her head, "Already up," she mumbles. Her anger dissipates, leaving behind an empty feeling in her chest.

Peter cocks his head to the side at her, curious, as though he's thinking very hard about something, and then he asks, "Do you like blueberries?"

Jessica squints, "Why?"

Peter moves into some warrior position, "For breakfast, of course."

Jessica laughs humorlessly, "Blueberries are fucking expensive, kid."

"Mr. Stark gives me an allowance," Peter answers promptly, "I usually use it to buy groceries, anyway."

"Jesus fucking..."

"Don't take the name of the lord in vain."

"You're not fucking serious."

"Dead."

"I have said so much shit and this is where you..."

"This is where I draw the line," there's something crackling in Peter's voice now, in the back of his throat like milk over Rice Krispies. "Thank you for your consideration, Ms. Jones."

There's something brittle to his voice, something hard and distant and yet, all the same, a bit too close to home, so Jessica leaves it. "Yeah," she watches him slide into a kneeling position, "I think... I think that I like blueberries," she tries not to remember Kilgrave's delighted face, you like blueberries? Let's go eat some! and focuses on Peter's breath instead, "I dunno."

Peter smiles at her, and then says, "Why don't you get dressed? We can go buy some blueberries together."

Jessica puts up a good fight, but in the end, Peter is far too stubborn and Jessica is too tired to argue anyway. The fresh air is supposed to do her good, but she doesn't think that the authors of those meditative books or whatever took into account the busy streets of New York, with the smell of cigarette smoke clinging to the air like pollen on a bee and the constant thud of bodies slamming against your shoulders.

Peter buys Jessica some blueberries and yogurt, and after a long, one-sided conversation with Jessica, he opts to buy some basil tea as well.

"We're going to make blueberry pancakes," Peter tells her as they go back into the apartment.

This is fucked up, Jessica things. Making blueberry pancakes in this apartment like some happy family on TV despite the hole in the wall and the blood on the carpet? But it's been a while since she's last had pancakes, so Jessica shrugs and says, "Whatever," like some dumb teenager.

Peter seems satisfied by this, though, so he hands her some blueberries and guides her smoothly through a recipe that he's long since memorized by heart.

"Pancakes and basil tea," Peter sets a mug and a plate in front of her, "A nice breakfast."

"Some beer would be nice," Jessica answers.

"I'm not going to make you a martini," Peter frowns, "You need to look after yourself, Ms. Jones."

Jessica shrugs, and Peter sighs, but doesn't pick a fight. He generously butters his own pancakes before devouring them in a fashion that almost contests Jessica's. (Almost, but no dice. She is a black hole for food.)

"So what's the plan for today?" Jessica asks, leaning back and crossing her arms over her chest, "I don't need to take you to see some rom-com, do I?"

She doesn't have anything against romcoms, she really doesn't. Except that she kind of does, because seeing people so happy and fake like that is stupid and dumb. Someone else can't make you that happy, Jessica thinks, something angry and broken scratching against her ribcage.

"That would be nice," Peter hums, "But no. We're going to make a blanket fort, then we're going to watch a movie in our blanket fort."

Jessica gnaws her nails, "That's it?"

"Well," Peter shifts, almost shyly, "If you want to, I mean. You don't have to, of course."

"No, that's..." Jessica inhales. Exhales. Shrugs. "It sounds okay."

It sounds nice.

Peter beams at her and asks if she wants another cup of tea.