All rights for Jessica Jones are Marvel's and Netflix's. I own nothing.

AN: David's apparent involvement in series 2 made me decide to finally start the series 1 rewatch I've been planning for the past couple of months. Today I watched episodes 8-9 and that just sort of happened.

"Mummy! Please, mummy..." He cried, looking at his parents pleadingly. They were standing by the machine they had just connected him to, staring at him blankly, as though they had no idea who he was. Their skin was nearly as white as their lab coats. "Please, mummy-"

"Be quiet now, Kevin," His father ordered, his eyes following his son's frantic movement as he attempted to break free from the ropes tying him, "And stay still. We can't have you ruining this by moving around."

Hot, salty tears running down his cheeks, he turned his head to look at his mother. She was always kinder to him than his father. More compassionate, more caring. "Please, mummy," He sobbed, "I'm scared."

But his mother just stared back at him blankly while setting the machine. "Stay still, Kevin," She said. She sounded as though she had no soul, no life of her own. "It will all be over very soon."

"You don't see Eric crying when he goes in the sin bin, do you?" His father scolded, looking down at him disapprovingly.

"Mummy, it hurts," He whispered, in one last ditch attempt at making it stop.

But his mother wasn't listening. He turned to look at his father, but he didn't care, either. In fact, he was smiling, his face showing emotion for the first time in what felt to him like forever.

"Good," He said with satisfaction. "Something might just come out of you after all."

With that he switched the machine on.

He woke up screaming.

For a long moment, he couldn't understand where he was. Nothing seemed familiar. It was dark outside and there was no one in the room but him. Maybe that machine killed him and finally made it all go away.

Slowly, he started shaking. Before he knew what was happening, he was curled in his bed, under the unfamiliar blanket, crying quietly as the memories flooded his mind. His mother and father, looking at him as they forced him to do another test; holding him down as they took blood or cerebral fluid; hooking him to another machine for whatever they needed. It was all real, and completely alive in his memory.

If only his mother would come in now and hold him like they do in all those shows he watched on the telly! If they were in a show like that, she would have hugged him and comforted him, and promised she wouldn't let anyone hurt him, whatever happens. Then she would have brought him biscuits and tea, or warm milk, and maybe read him a story until he fell asleep. When he did, she would have given him a kiss and whispered to him, "Sweet dreams".

But they weren't in a television show. And he was alone.

He couldn't bear to be alone.

Quickly wiping his tears off, he sat up in his bed and turned the lights on. Seeing the furniture around, he slowly remembered where he was. That family had taken him in after he saw their fancy car and decided they would be the ones to take care of him now. He had no other choice anyway; if he hadn't ordered them, he'd have been dead by now. That way, at least he had food, and shelter, and anything he needed.

Wearing their own son's pyjamas, he got out of the bed and walked out of the room. The first person he finds will be the one to stay with him tonight. Maybe the night after that, too. And if he has to wake someone up, he would. So long as he's not alone. He couldn't bear the thought.

But he didn't have to.

He'd never have to be alone again, and he never will be.