She brings him Chinese food bathed enough grease to qualify as an oil spill, and when she throws the white-boxes onto the table, wearing those awful ripped jeans, she looks like a homeless member of a lesbian biker gang taking up delivery as a side-job. But none of it matters. They'll iron out the details of her wardrobe over time. Plus, her surliness means that this is real. If she was all smiles, he'd be looking for the sniper again.

So when she summons the servants - just to needle him he knows - he offers only a half-barbed quip.

Like him, she always did have a place in heart for strays. One day he'll get her to admit that.

But not right now. Now it's only after they get through the song and dance of "are you trying to drug me "and "no, here let me prove it" that they really settle in. For her, that means slouching like a teenager and attacking her meal with a fork.

He regards her with a mix of horror and fascination. There are so many different nuances to this Jessica, the outfit, the grumpiness, the rage. He wonders how much of this rudeness is because of her misplaced anger at him, and how much is just her natural routine. Did she eat like this with her family too? He bites back a command to have her tell him.

"So," she says after she's shoveled the last forkful of fried rice into her mouth. (She's heartily declined any and all noodles). "If we do this, there are going to be rules."

"I think you've already put down more than a couple restrictions on me, Jessica." He taps his chopsticks against the side of his dish before tucking them under his cloth napkin. (Some concessions had to be made to decency.) "What are a few more."

"First rule. You let them go."

Alva and Laurent look up like startled puppies. It's sickening really, but he doesn't command them to gouge out their eyes. Yet. "And how can I be sure you'll stick around?"

"You can't," she says through gritted teeth, and he gets her subtext loud and clear. We both know that you can control me whenever you want, asshole. "That's part of the fun of this."

'If this is fun, Jessica, smile,' He wants to order. Her pain is etched in the dark bags under her eyes and skittish movements. His poor Jessica, so broken that she'd been convinced he was trying to get her to commit suicide. She's aged five years in the scant months of their separation. Really, he should've found her sooner.

"I'll give them three weeks severance."

"Good." She nods.

But they both know he could hold the whole world hostage if he wanted to. That in fact, he does. But if she's willing to pretend he won't, he's willing too.

Progress.

She barrels forward. "I decide when and where we take cases."

He holds up his hands. "Of course, fine." But then he leans in conspiratorially and adds, "Frankly, you'll be the one doing the moral guiding here, so I think it's better if you set the lessons anyway, hmm?" He purses his lips, raising his eyebrows.

When they used to dine in bed with croissants and freshly churned cream cheeses, this was a face that would always make her laugh. Once without even prompting. Now she just rolls her eyes. Humor is hard for her since he's left, he knows. It's as if all of his painstaking detailed work to bring her back to a happier time has only dredged up her ghosts. He heard her last night, tossing and turning, screaming her brother's name.

Silence falls over the dining room but for the scraping of Alva and Laurent's silverware. He regrets promising not to hurt them already.

"I would ask one thing of you," he says as neutrally as he can, careful not to let his fondness for her show. She can be vicious when she smells blood. And when it comes to her his heart is gushing.

"What?" she asks flatly, staring at her empty plate. Really anywhere but his face.

"One night a week of your time, non-heroing. A chance to help you break out of this fu—"

"No," she hisses. Then she snatches her plate off the table, along with the servant's.

"You don't have to bother with those. That's what sweet Alva and Laurent are for." He reaches for her wrist, but she dodges him before he even makes contact.

This time he flinches, her earlier accusation zinging through his skull.

It's called rape.

No. No it wasn't. His poor Jessica wouldn't know happiness if it bit her in her arse. Which it had once. He had. And she had moaned in pleasure.

She stops in the doorway to the living room. "Rule number two of heroism, Kilgrave. Don't be a prick."

"I thought you said that was rule number one."

"Clearly you didn't get it the first time," she shouts over her shoulder.