Hogarth flexed her hand around a scar, a scar that tugged oddly at the creases of her palm. Reminding her of the few moments during which she'd lost complete control over her life. Her hand still retained the sense memory of desperate grasps, slipping through blood, unable to grip the doorknob and escape as her slow motion death sentence was carried out. Loss of control, like the knife singing hot inside the flesh of her hand, the muscles of her hands flexing around the blade. Loss of control, like the silent scream she saw in Wendy's eyes as she carried out Kilgrave's orders.
Hogarth flexed her hand, and it ached. She wondered if the rest of her life might be less painful without the limb. She briskly picked up her briefcase and tried to clear her head before her next meeting.
That night, Hogarth sat up gradually after a night terror. It had been the same deal for the entire week. Her body would freeze up, while her mind woke to stinging alertness, her eyes open and swinging wildly. Scanning the room for Kilgrave, even though the bastard was already dead.
Hogarth hyperventilated and went through the paces of unfreezing her fingertips, her toes, her hands, and eventually her limbs. She hadn't gotten a full night of sleep since Wendy's death, since Kilgrave had grasped her mind in the palm of his hand and squeezed.
Instead, she had been snatching exhaustion-fueled naps at the office, instructing her temp secretaries to awaken her 10 minutes before each appointment. She needed sleep. It was affecting her business.
What she really needed was to talk to someone about this. She rolled around in the chilly sheets, her legs getting tangled up. Who to talk to? Only a few were wrecked enough to know about Kilgrave's existence - to know the lingering emotional torture of his reach. Plenty of police, hospital workers, and various innocent bystanders. But not a single therapist amongst them. Hogarth knew. She had examined each of their profiles casually over lunch, wondering if she could squeeze out some mental healthcare from these lemons. No dice.
Hogarth fumbled for her cell phone in the dark. She was shaking so hard, she fought to regain control over her hands. Regain her fine motor skills. She often wondered if during those few moments under Kilgrave's power - what if she had just gotten ahold of a single finger or twitched some small, insignificant muscle near her lips? Would she have been able to break the spell, regain control over her body, and stop the entire chain of events? Murder Kilgrave herself and prevent Wendy from dying? Protect herself from crawling through her own blood, slipping through her former home, and screaming through every cut? But no, force majeure, the hands of Kilgrave's victims had been forced by a strength greater than their own, greater than normal human capabilities.
Shivering, Hogarth slid her fingers over her smartphone, until she landed on Jessica's contact. She gritted her teeth - hating to ask for help. But Jessica was the only one who knew what she was going through - the only one who had been so thoroughly gutted by Kilgrave and had lived to tell the tale. Not only had Jessica lived, but she had forged a legacy that all of NYC currently celebrated. Jessica was the strongest person she knew in this situation, the strongest person she knew hands down. And Hogarth thoroughly respected strength.
She stared at the phone number for a moment longer and called. It was late, but the phone only rang for half a tone before she heard Jessica's perfunctory greeting.
"Yeah?"
Hogarth hesitated and her brow creased. She hated hesitation. "How are my chances?" she replied tersely.
"What?" Jessica demanded.
"Just being glib. Are you at your office?"
She heard the telltale squeak of Jessica's leather office chair. "Yeah, find me a case?"
For one of the few times in her life, Hogarth didn't know how to say what she wanted. To demand what she wanted. She hated being at a loss for words. "No, no case," she bit out. "I need that favor."
The chair squeaked again, and she heard Jessica swallow something loudly. The sound of a bottle being set down on wood. "Okay, boss. Who do I need to rough up?"
Hogarth permitted the slightest curl of a smile. "No one. Quit flexing your muscles Jones. I'll be over in half an hour."