A/N: I'm back with a new series! This'll focus on Trish and Jessica's relationship through when they live together. I have no clue how long it'll be or where it'll go, but that's half the fun, isn't it?
I know a lot of this dialogue is from AKA I've Got the Blues, but I needed a jumping off point. It'll be more original after this.
Title from Courtney Summers' excellent book, SOME GIRLS ARE. Because it was too good not to use.
She doesn't want to be here. In this hospital. With her mother, waiting on some charity case they're going to take home to help her image.
God, how fucked up is this? Wandering through a hospital with Dorothy Walker, with bruises on her collarbone and her arms, thank God it's winter so she can wear a turtleneck, and she can't even tell the people who could probably help her?
Dorothy's nails are like talons on Trish's skin, bright red, bloody talons, gripping so hard Trish would have to fight to wrench away. Which is the way Dorothy likes it, she supposes.
Still. She doesn't want to watch while her mother syrups up nurses and doctors for a charity case of a girl like she's some lost puppy. Worse still that it's some girl in her class, which means everyone will be talking about this come Monday.
Not like they haven't already been talking about it, whispering about Jessie Jones's family dying in a horrific car accident, with Jessie the only survivor. Giggling about how she's such a freak, maybe she caused it.
No one likes Jessie. She's the weird girl with long hair who sits in the back of the class and keeps to herself.
But no one much likes Trish, either, she knows. She knows they just want to be friends with Patsy, want their fifteen-minute brush with fame.
Still though. Taking this girl in is going to be high school social suicide.
Dorothy's nails are still digging into Trish's arm, pulling her closer and closer to Jessica's room. And suddenly, Trish can see it clearly-Dorothy dropping them off Monday, Jessica still limping out of the car, Madison and Carly and Amanda gawking at the pair of them.
Trish balks, stopping Dorothy in her tracks just outside the room. "It's not fair. I don't even know her. We just go to the same school, why do I have to do this?"
Dorothy's mouth sets in a thin line. "And I don't want to cover up for a stupid starlet who set a nightclub on fire."
Jesus Christ, not this again. "It was a tablecloth. I don't know how it started."
She does, though. Passed out from a guy buying her drinks, cigarette she was using to look cool still in her hand.
"Because you were passed out," Dorothy hisses.
"It's not the first time that somebody's passed out," Trish scoffs, and she doesn't know if she means herself or her mother after she's had a few too-many late-night drinks.
"And that's the headline of every tabloid. We have got to change the Patsy conversation. Taking in your little friend will be a start." And with that, Dorothy grips her arm again and pulls her into the room.
The wig is killing her.
Trish can't keep scratching at it, but at least it gives her something to do so she doesn't have to stare at her classmate, looking even paler and more fragile than normal.
Jesus. She hadn't expected this. She almost feels a flash of pity for Jessica, for the girl lying in front of her like she's dead.
This is suck a fucking awful idea.
She can hear the Patsy theme song playing behind her, the song that's become her life for years, always in the background no matter how hard she tries to block it out.
"This is torture," Trish says, and she's not sure she's talking about the wig or the effort it's taking not to look at her classmate.
"It's a photo op." Dorothy, glib as always, smoothing down nonexistent flyaways and almost lighting a cigarette before thinking better of it.
"Some photo op. She looks dead."
Shit, she hadn't meant to say that. What if she heard her?
Why does she care if she heard her? Jessica does look dead. It's freaking her out.
"She's awake sometimes. She's just not making new memories yet." Dorothy shuts her makeup compact with a snap and gives her daughter the everything-is-fine-I-absolutely-promise smile.
"Well you can be the one to say 'Welcome back. By the way, your whole family's dead." Trish says, mimicking Dorothy's glib tone from earlier. Never mind that saying the words causes a twinge of guilt in her gut.
She tugs on her hair to distract herself.
"The doctors can tell her that. Will you stop messing with your wig? The doctors will be here any minute."
"It's itchy as hell."
She can feel the argument building between them already, the repercussions for talking back to Dorothy already playing in the back of Trish's head, the excuses she'll tell herself as she's hitting her later.
But before she can slip down too far into that reverie, a sound stops her. Jessica, breathing faintly and wheezily, eyes opening.
"Mom, Look. She's awake."
Trish steps forward hesitantly, like she might do something-what? Touch her? That's stupid.
But then Dorothy shoves her out of the way and takes the spotlight for herself, like she always does, and Trish finds herself wanting to mouth sorry at this girl in front of her.
But she doesn't.
"Hi Jessie." Dorothy's syrupy sweet tone makes Trish want to gag. "I know you must be confused right now, but everything's gonna be okay. Patsy's gonna save you."
But the wig is itchy and Patsy isn't here, just Trish, and she's not capable of saving anyone.
Especially not Jessica Jones.
Especially not herself.