Jessica swayed as she walked, feet shuffling loosely against the pavement bottle of whiskey in her hands as she made her way down familiar streets. It was supposed to be better, god damn it. She'd done it, she killed him, she was finally free, or was supposed to be, or whatever, and it was supposed to be better, it was supposed to be better, it was supposed to be better. But it wasn't and god, it was like she couldn't even look people in the goddamn face anymore. She'd killed a man. Killed a man of her own free will and not of anyone's goddamn want and it didn't matter that it was to save people from the devil himself. She'd killed a man. And it didn't matter it was her or him. She'd killed a man, and Trish was there.
And Trish, god, Trish. Watching him shove his tongue down her throat, watching her shove her tongue down his, watching her want to, and it made her sick, god, so fucking sick it was like a worm eating away at her insides. She swallowed the thought of the word each time, but it came unbidden anyway. Jealousy. Because she tried. She tried. She did everything in her power to forget. To forget. To wipe the memory from her brain but it was searing in there like a goddamn brand. And that made her sick too. But not sick enough. And the memory, for all the alcohol, didn't dull enough. It just wouldn't go away. And everything was so fucking hard. So hard.
The bow of her back. The sight of her hair mussed. The hold of her fingers on her arm. Her skin, her skin, god her skin.
Before Jessica realized it, she'd emptied her bottle, her third of the night, and found herself on the far side of Trish's building, the spot where she could jump up, fly up, and knock on Trish's glass door. It was supposed to be better now. Everything was supposed to go away. That's what was supposed to happen, even if Jessica had never really harbored any beliefs that killing a man would release her from this miserable hell of a life, she wanted to hope. She had wanted to hope. She had hoped. Hoped the guilt and disgust gnawing away at her would lessen. Hoped she'd be able to look at herself in the mirror again. Hoped she'd be able to look at Trish again. But it didn't work like that.
The way she gasped. The way she begged. The way she had wanted, wanted, wanted.
And the way Jessica had wanted. The way Kilgrave had wanted. The way Jessica wants.
She jumped, flew, kind of, and found herself outside the glass. There was Trish, and it came back full force. Had this been how she had been sitting that night? That night before Jessica had come to her? That night before she had known? That night they had fucked?
The scent of her arousal. The taste of her sweat. Jessica's name on her lips. Her lips.
Jessica blinked away the thought, wanted to punch it out of her own skull. She looked in on Trish, sitting on her couch, red wine in her hand, bottle on the table. She was furrowing her brow and god, Jessica could just hear Dorothy's goddamn admonishment ringing in her ears like the fucking woman was there next to her. She watched as Trish lifted her brow and rubbed at the creases. Maybe Trish had heard that she-devil as well. Jessica chuckled. Trish took a sip of her wine.
The wine in her hand. The touch of her fingertips. The bruise on her wrist. Jessica's bruise. Jessica's doing. Jessica's want.
Jessica mimicked the motion on her forehead. She was furious. She was furious and stupid and so many, many things all rolled into one and the alcohol had always helped but tonight, tonight the universe came rushing to meet her and the world crashed down and everything that was his want was gone. Jessica was left with herself and the memories of wants that were not hers but were, weren't, god they were.
She raised her fist and knocked on the glass. The door shattered, and Jessica looked at her hand like it had betrayed her. "Fuck, Jessica!" Trish said, having jumped at the sound, the shock. She looked maybe like she had seen a ghost. Jessica considered a moment. Maybe she looked like she'd just vomited. Maybe Trish felt as sick as she felt. Maybe Trish was flooded with the memory like she was. Maybe Trish wanted like she wanted. She took a step over the threshold of the doorway and her boots crunched on the broken glass. Trish looked at her. Jessica looked back.
"We never talk about it," She slurred, waving her hand through the air, bottle slipping from her grip and thudding dully on the floor next to her feet. At least she hadn't broken anything. "We never talk about it," she repeated, prompted by Trish's silence. And the look on her face, god, Jessica was too drunk to figure out what the fuck it meant but it felt like this conversation had been on the tip of her tongue for forever and she wanted it out of her, she wanted it out of her, god, she wanted.
"Go home, Jessica," Trish said coolly, raising her hands in front of herself. "You're drunk."
And god, fuck, she was, but what did that matter? What did any of it matter? She'd just killed a man. She had killed him and, "It was supposed to get easier," She mumbled, stepping further into the room. Trish didn't back away.
"You're drunk," She repeated, like it was a defense, sharp. And maybe Trish didn't want to talk about it at all. Maybe she didn't want to think about it. Maybe now, this time, with Jessica's want and Jessica's will, and Jessica's intention it was more frightening than it had been before.
"We never talk about it," Jessica said again, stepping even closer. Close enough to smell lingering perfume. She could even see Trish's jaw clench, could see her shiver and strengthen her stance, as though her strength could ever compare.
"No," Trish seethed, eyes bright and angry in the light of her apartment. "We don't because you never talk to me unless you need something."
"I need something," Jessica said, and her breath moved the strands of Trish's hair closes to her face.
This, apparently, was more frightening a thing than Jessica's advance, because Trish quickly receded from her and Jessica had to fight to let her go, the memory of grabbing Trish's arm flashing in her mind angry and unwanted. Her life replaying itself in her head. His want replaying itself in her head. Only there was no more his want, only her own. Only her own.
"Trish," she said, and hadn't they lived this life before?
"Jess," Trish said, her back to her and her arms wrapping around her torso. "Jess, don't."
And god, it was the same, it was the same as that night, it was the same as everything, but it was so different, it was all supposed to be different. Trish turned around and Jessica could see it again, the same as she saw it that night, that night before everything was supposed to be different, the fear. The fear. She nodded her head and the world spun. She stumbled before righting herself. Trish hadn't moved.
"It isn't real, Jessica," Trish said quietly. "It wasn't real because it wasn't you."
The words burned through her more than the memory, god, the memory of the way she had felt, the way she had clenched around her, the way she had begged and writhed and gasped out Jessica's name like it was the only word in the world worth saying. Like Jessica was the only person in the world worth wanting and now, now that it was Jessica's want, it wasn't enough. Things were supposed to get better.
"It's real," Jessica managed. And the words came despite everything. She'd already told Trish she loved her and now here she was, drunker than she'd probably ever been, and now it was only her want and her lack of want but it felt just as confusing. Felt just like she couldn't help saying it. Felt like she had no choice but to say it because if she didn't talk about it now she'd die. If they never talked about it, everything, everything would be pointless, and it didn't matter, none of it mattered, but things were supposed to be different and now she was a killer of her own want and she wanted, she wanted, she wanted.
"It never was, Jess," Trish said, taking a tentative step towards her. "It was him, it was always him and I know that, and it's okay and—"
"It's not fucking okay, Trish," Jessica spat. And the anger came easily to hide all the hurt welling up through her. "It's not fucking okay because it's real."
Trish shook her head and she looked beautiful in her sadness. "No," she answered. "No, because it wasn't you. It isn't real, it isn't. You're just confused and—"
"I'm not confused, okay?" Jess said angrily. "I know I'm not confused because I fucking killed him, okay? And I've been, whatever, free, from his mind control bull shit for a fucking year, but that doesn't stop me from fucking thinking about it. Every fucking time I look at you. And he's gone, Trish, he's finally gone. But the fucking want, okay? is still there."
And Trish just looked at her, but she'd said it. She'd said it. The want, her want, it hadn't gone away, and it had been there before him and here it was now after and it was too late to ignore it because Jessica knew, Jessica knew, that it was Trish's want as well. Jessica had known. Jessica had always known. And the want she had hoped would go away in her tidal wave of self-hatred and disgust hadn't. It had intensified, the one memory of the one thing she had wanted and never wanted to do, and it was just as confusing as before and she hated it, hated the want, hated herself, and those taunting words, I love you, rang in her ears along with the moans because she was supposed to die. She was supposed to die or go to jail or end up someplace far away and she was never supposed to see Trish again but here she was anyway.
Jessica's fury couldn't hide her tears. And Trish, god, Trish just stepped forward and wiped them away. She was gentle with her. She was always too gentle, and Jessica wanted to cry out her love, wanted to sob into her, wanted to finally let go an be weak. Instead, she just looked at Trish. There had been enough weakness lately for an entire lifetime and just because Jessica's lack of control had reared its ugly head didn't mean the absolute pain of Trish's denial would ream a confession out of her. Would make her cry. Would make her love easily. Trish was always too good, too beautiful, too gentle; Jessica could smell her perfume, could see the way the light played off the blonde of her hair, could see the pink of her lips and the memory, the memory, the memory.
"Come on," Trish said, and her voice was gentle, too gentle, and this was the version of that night before all of this that Jessica hadn't lived. "Let's get you to bed."
It didn't sound like an invitation, but what could Jessica expect. Even if it had been Kilgrave's want at the time, it was still Jessica's body, and Jessica's hand, Jessica's lips. Trish, who had believed her, who had understood, who had done everything with all her money to help, she still couldn't erase that it had been Jessica who had raped her. Or wanted to. Or would have.
"You're drunk," Trish said lightly, her hand soft in Jessica's palm "You'll forget about all this in the morning."
But in the morning, Jessica knew her want would still be there. Her memory would still be there. And even if she didn't remember this conversation, she would know that the only reason she would have showed up at Trish's door was to have it. And the memory of the night he had sent Jessica to Trish and before now, now when everything was supposed to be different but wasn't, it would burn its way through her body on her loneliest nights and it would eat away at the pit of her stomach, her want. Her want all this time and for all these years and how, more than anything, she wanted it to be different, but that had been stolen from her. The sight of Trish, the sound of her, the feel of her, the want, tainted forever. She had wanted it, god how she had wanted it, god how she wanted it still.
But more than anything, she had wanted it to be different.
