The only change

Jessica had never thought past what would happen, once Kilgrave was dead.

It had been her only goal, each day's entire focus, for so long that she had developed a sort of tunnel vision. It was not just a goal, but an obsession. Hunting down Kilgrave, getting vengeance not just for herself, but for every person he had harmed, was not just Jessica's daily actions, but the mission around which she revolved her life.

It had never occurred to her that when that day came at last, she would not know how to fill up all the thoughts that had once been fixed on him, all the time and energy expended on keeping enough distance to avoid his possible forced influence of her and also on hunting him down. She had not realized that just because Kilgrave was gone, all the feelings he had stirred up within her would not go with him, now that there was nothing tangible to direct them towards.

Most of all, Jessica had assumed that with Kilgrave's death, she would no longer be afraid. How startling, how downright fucking infuriating it was to find out that she was wrong.

Even with Kilgrave dead, it wasn't like life was bliss. There was still the aftermath of the ruins he had left in his wake, the people he had murdered or damaged permanently with his interference in their lives, the legal difficulties his death had dragged Jessica into. Even without these practicalities, there was the fact that he had been far from the only criminal of some magnitude within the city. New villains were always on the rise, ready to step forward and make themselves known within the public eye, and whether or not they were anywhere near as damaging as Kilgrave had been, it remained the case that crime would always continue, would always need people stronger than its victims to step up and correct it. If Jessica chose, there was more than enough going on in her own block that she could address, plenty of other victims she could help or even save.

But none of it felt the same, none of it even felt real, let alone gave her the same urgent drive to DO something that Kilgrave had. She had put all her mental, emotional, and physical strength forward into stopping him for so long that now that the chase was over, and Kilgrave was dead at last, Jessica couldn't quite believe or feel the effects of her success.

"You did it, Jess," Trish told her on more than a few occasions, sometimes with a bracing clap on the back or gentle shake of her arm for emphasis. "He can never hurt or control another person again. I'm so proud of you."

She knew better than to ask Jessica if she was proud of herself. She had known Jessica long enough by now that she understood without Jessica having to say so that the answer was no. How could she be proud of herself, how could she celebrate his death as a personal victory, when it was made hollow by all the death, pain, and destruction it had left in its wake? Hope Schlottman's family, Robin's twin brother, Pam, Reva, they only made a short and recent list of all the people she could not save- people she had in fact had a hand in murdering, however closely or distantly in degree.

He couldn't hurt anyone physically. But there was so much emotional ruin continuing on, and what could Jessica tell herself to make that something to be proud of?

He couldn't hurt her. He had no control of her, could not force her to harm another person. For the rest of her life, Jessica could live knowing her actions were her own entirely.

Then why did she still jump at sudden noises or shadows, still feel her heart pound at the sound of a knock on her newly repaired door? Why did she still flinch away from unexpected touches, wake up sweating and shaking from dreams so vivid she could still feel the heat and pressure of Kilgrave's weight against her skin? Why did the agonized faces of the dead still haunt her in the night, and why did she need the steadying impact of alcohol to be able to sleep, to be able to forget for just a few minutes?

Why was she still so fucking afraid?

She didn't talk about any of it, not even when Malcolm or Trish pressed her to. Both seemed convinced that talking about feelings or "trauma," as Trish insisted on calling it all, was some sort of magical cure, that all you had to do was name things out loud to make them lose their "power." But Jessica knew without having to try it for herself that they were full of shit. How could it feel better to talk about something that made her heart feel like it was breaking into sharp, splintered fragments to even think about? And what the fuck was wrong with her anyway, that getting rid of the problem didn't do one damn thing about the fear and stress it had caused?

"PTSD doesn't work like that, Jess," Trish had told her, the one time Jessica had haltingly attempted to explain her frustration, without actually saying the trigger words of any specific names or even putting a label on the feelings she was describing. "Your brain and even the functioning of your body has been changed. You can't just expect it to change back on its own."

She had offered to pay for Jessica to go to therapy, yet again, enough times that Jessica had snapped at her, even as she wondered just how crazy she must seem to Trish for her to be so persistent. Trish had an answer ready even for that particular accusation.

"You're not crazy, Jessica, no one knows that better than me. Abrasive, yes, impulsive and capable of self destruction, also yes, and stubborn, frustrating, and self-sacrificing to the point of stupidity, all yeses too. But you aren't crazy, and whatever you're telling yourself in that hard head of yours, you're not weak either. Being afraid, having some mental debris from what you've gone through, it doesn't make you weak, and it doesn't take away from the bravery or heroism you've shown. I don't care if you blow that off a thousand times when I say it, because it's still true. You're still a hero, no matter what goes on in your head."

She said it, but Jessica never could believe it. How could she, even coming from someone who had been more honest with her than anyone else ever had?

Trish had asked her to move back into her new apartment with her. Jessica still hadn't accepted, but more often than not, she found herself falling asleep over there, sometimes even while she was sober. It felt safer, somehow, to sleep with Trish nearby. Trish still picked up empty beer bottles and covered her up with a blanket on the nights that Jessica drank herself unconscious, still lectured her in the morning about taking better care of herself even as she put aspirin and a glass of water in front of her for her hangovers. She still dragged her out of the house on the days Jessica wanted nothing more than to stay locked inside, inventing flimsy reasons she needed her presence and refusing to accept Jessica's half hearted and irritable protests. She still called her name on the nights Jessica's cries woke her from her own sleep, keeping prudent distance until Jessica's flailing stopped, and she still came to her side and held her after, pretending not to see if tears slipped out.

And even on the worst days, the days when Jessica's mouth and moods took over and lashed out against all the people who deserved it least, Trish held her own, waiting for the shift to calmer ground. She still told her, even then, that one day, things would change for Jessica, that one day they would be easier, even if they weren't really okay. She still told her that she loved her.

It was hard for Jessica to believe that she was right, about change. It seemed to her that everything was the same, and always would be, except for one thing. Sometimes now, when Trish told her that she loved her, Jessica could say it back.