Five Times Trish said I love you (and one time Jessica did)
1. Diet pills
"What the hell are these, Trish?"
Jessica's voice was not loud, nor was it angry or forceful in tone, but there was a low intensity to it that demanded answers- truthful ones. Her lips pressed into a firm line, she watched the girl that the world now regarded as her adoptive sister with narrowed dark eyes.
Trish bit her overly lipsticked lips, her eyes shifting to the side, avoiding meeting the taller girl's. Although she was not wearing her notoriously itchy red wig, she reached up with unconscious habit to scratch at her scalp. She was known to most of the world not as the adoptive sister of nobody Jessica Jones, but rather as beloved teenaged actress and superstar Patsy Walker. But whatever mediocre acting talents she might possess, she had never been able fool Jessica in her efforts at lies.
Shifting her weight again, she reached out to take hold of the wooden post of the kitchen chair beside her, seeming to need its solid weight under her hand to steady herself before she could respond to the other girl.
"What's what?" Trish tried, going for the option of feigned ignorance of the prescription bottle cupped in Jessica's hand. "If you've got something, Jess, you better be quiet about it, Mom might be home any minute."
Jessica had neither the time nor the patience for this kind of answer. She had never been the kind of girl for subtlety and tact, and being fifteen and enduring the hell she had gone through in the past year had shortened her patience for bullshit that much further. Within a few short months, Jessica had survived a serious accident that killed both her parents and her brother, developed confusing and sometimes scary abilities of supernatural strength, and been adopted by the bitchy and outright abusive stage mother of the most famous teenager in America not out of compassion, but purely as a publicity move. Naturally, this had created some trust and abandonment issues, and having the one person in her life she sort of trusted attempt to snow her did nothing but push her closer to another of her newfound issues- anger that was sometimes far too close to the surface and far too dangerous to really let take over.
"First off, your mother won't be back any time soon, she never is when she's meeting up with some asshole she thinks wants to eye fuck you enough to put you in his movie. And as for these, what's WHAT are the fucking white, oblong objects in a fucking prescription bottle I'm holding right here, at eye level, in my hand," Jessica said slowly and distinctly, rattling the bottle for added sound effects and emphasis. "Also known as pills. Pills that don't actually happen to have a label on the bottle. What the hell are these, and what are they doing in your sock drawer?"
"You were borrowing my socks again?" Trish's chin jerked up, her narrow shoulders drawing up as she attempted to inject outrage into her voice. It didn't work; Jessica could see the apprehension in her eyes, the way her face didn't quite match up with her voice. "What the hell, Jess, do your damn laundry for a change instead of mooching off my shit!"
"I wear my own socks and your mom makes bitchy comments about them having holes at the toes or asks me if they were having a sale at the dollar store. I don't wear socks, and you complain my feet stink," Jessica muttered, rolling her eyes. "How the hell am I supposed to win against the two of you and your obsession with the state of feet?"
Realizing she had momentarily allowed Trish to distract her from her intended confrontation, she stiffened, hardening her tone and expression.
"Not the point, Trish. You know damn well what these are, don't do the denial thing. That's your mother's job."
She knew it was a low blow from the way Trish's eyes widened, hurt actually visibly shrinking her posture. Any comparison of her mother to herself was pretty cruel, but at least she'd gotten her attention. Uncomfortable and somewhat guilty even so, Jessica shifted her weight, her voice dropping slightly as she continued.
"What are these, Trish? Where did you get them, and how many have you taken already?"
Trish's lower lip sucked in between her teeth again, and she bit down, turning her face partly out of Jessica's view. She hunched her shoulders, tossing her long blonde hair over her shoulder as though in defiance, but her effort at making her voice match the gesture was unsuccessful, her words shaking audibly.
"They're…I didn't get them from anyone, okay, Jessica? And they're not DRUGS. They're just…like, pills. Like…for health."
"Look, I believe in miracles and all," Jessica deadpanned.
As a visual aid, she reached out for the closet object, which just happened to be the back post of chair that Trish was still holding onto, and broke it off with a single grasp of her hand, leaving it detached from the chair in Trish's fist. Nodding towards the now broken chair, Jessica continued, "I'm living proof of that shit. But I don't believe in the kind of miracle of little white pills appearing in your room, bottle and all, without anyone or anything putting them there or giving them to you to put there. And your mother has you on every exercise program and physical therapist and masseuse and nutritionist and dermatologist and whatever the hell else possible, don't give me that about those being pills you need for health, especially when they don't actually have a name or label on them. Those are drugs, Trish."
"They aren't drugs!" Trish snapped, her voice rising as her chin jerked up defiantly. She looked very different then from the manically grinning Patsy she played on TV, the submissive daughter she played for her mother- she looked like the rebellious teenager that she should have been all along. "They're just diet pills, okay, they're not DRUGS!"
A long, heavy silence stretched between the girls. Jessica saw Trish's cheeks twitch, her eyes shift down to the floor, and she knew that she was struggling not to cry. Her stomach heavy, her anger hot but controlled in her chest, Jessica breathed out, forcing her hands to relax at her sides when all she wanted then was to lash out at anything that could break.
"Your mother gave them to you, didn't she?" she said finally, her words quiet. "She told you to take them. And you have, haven't you? You've already taken some."
Trish didn't answer out loud, but Jessica saw the faint, shamed incline of her head into a nod, and she saw the first two tears slip down her cheeks.
"She'll know if I don't, Jessica, you don't get it," Trish whispered, two more tears joining the first. "I know she can't make me throw up if I don't let her, I know you said you wouldn't let her, I know you said she can't do anything. But you're not always there, Jessica, you don't always hear what she says or see how she looks at me or grabs the fat on my stomach-"
"What fucking fat, Trish?" Jessica burst out with, needing to vent her anger then at someone, even if it wasn't Trish she was so furious with at all. "You're a fucking size one, what the hell does she want to do, have you play Patsy's skeleton? Is Halloween coming faster than usual this year? Tell her to fuck off! Tell me and I'll tell her where she can fuck off to!"
"You don't understand, Jess," Trish sniffled, wiping at her face, but with each effort to stop her crying, more tears came. "I know I can tell her to stop it, I know I can tell you, but…but sometimes…sometimes I just think, what if she's right? What if I really am ugly, what if I really am fat, what if all she's doing is looking out for me? What if she's just doing what she has to do so I keep my job?"
Jessica stared at Trish, at a loss as to how to respond. Trish was still only fourteen, and most who looked at her would see only Patsy, the girl who had been famous before she hardly knew what famous was, the girl who was seen as having more privilege or fame than any other child her age. Trish had been to so many places most girls her age would never go, had met so many people, but she was still, in some ways, more innocent and vulnerable than Jessica could ever remember being herself.
She had promised Trish once that she would not protect her. She had never been able to keep that promise. How could she, when she saw the hurting look in her eyes?
"She's wrong," Jessica told her, forcing back all the bitter, vicious words against Dorothy Walker that were battling to come forward out of her mouth. "She's wrong, Trish. Your mother is wrong. Your mother is wrong, and crazy, and selfish, and jealous of you for being younger and smarter and way more hot than she ever was or ever will be, even when you're still jailbait and barely fill a training bra."
"Hey! I do not wear a training bra-" Trish started, indignant, but Jessica waved this off, steering her back to the part that was actually important, the part she was determined to drive through Trish's head.
"She's wrong, and you can't for one second let her brainwash you into thinking she isn't. Anyone with working eyes can see she's wrong, Trish, and I know you have mirrors." She paused, rolling her eyes, and shrugged one shoulder, her lips quirking up into a half smile.
"Why do you think all the producers picked you over everyone else for that stupid show of yours, anyway? It wasn't because you're such an awesome actress, believe me. It's because you're fucking beautiful, Trish."
Trish was still silent, not really answering her, and her eyes were still damp with unshed tears. She took several breaths, seeming to be thinking through what Jessica had said, and her lips quivered into an uncertain smile. Jessica hesitated, her discomfort at the girl's emotion creasing her forehead. She knew that she was probably supposed to say something else, do something to show comfort or support, but one thing she had never been great with was the emotional things, even before it had become necessary to block out as much emotion and personal connection from her life as was possible.
Still, she couldn't shake the nagging feeling that she was supposed to be doing something, anything for Trish, so she reached out a hand awkwardly, resting it on Trish's shoulder, and gave it a light pat. That was all it took for Trish's arms to come forward, pulling her against her tightly into a hug that seemed to wrap almost every part of the girl around Jessica's frame.
Jessica froze, her arms locked down at her sides by Trish's grasp. She couldn't have moved even if she wanted to. Hugging was not something she did, not anymore, and the confusion and anxiety that pressed against her chest made her lose all words. She endured the hug in silence, very much aware of the smell of Trish's hair against her cheek, the feeling of her body close to her own.
How long had it been since anyone had touched her like this? How long had it been since she would have even thought of letting them?
"Thank you, Jess," Trish whispered, her voice still cracked, but not as broken as before. Her face was pressed into Jessica's shoulder, uncomfortably close to the bare skin of her neck. "You're the only one who really cares."
"Oh, shut up," Jessica managed, her voice strained even to her own ears. "You have a billion fans who would go berserk to get to spend five seconds with you."
"No," Trish said more firmly, lifting up her head and looking into Jessica's face with a final sniff. "That doesn't count. You're the only one who REALLY cares. The only one who's there, the one that actually knows me, and still gives a damn."
She hesitated, biting her lip again, before saying quietly, "I love you, Jess. For being that for me."
Jessica felt the words hit her like a blow, straight in the heart. She almost doubled over from the emotional impact of it, hearing the words no one but her parents had ever spoken- the words she had thought she would never hear again.
The words she hadn't wanted to hear again. Because if she did- if someone loved her- how long would it be before they too were gone?
"Shut up," she said roughly, the words coming out before she could stop them. "Just….just shut up. Get yourself together, I don't have time for this."
She brushed past Trish hurriedly, head down, making her way with long strides down the hallway to her own room. She didn't look back to see the hurt on the other girl's face, nor to hear any protests or calls she might make to her. It wasn't until she was safe in her room, door closed and locked, that she realized the bottle of pills in her hand had been crushed into her fist, remnants of pill nothing but powder in her hand, the plastic of the bottle cutting into her palm.
