Warning: Swearing.
She'd like to drink herself into oblivion.
To pick up whiskey and drink and drink and drink until there's nothing left to drink, then she'll pick up her jacket and head over to the sleaziest bar she can find. Or, at least, the cheapest.
She downs one bottle. Then two. The phone rings. She ignores it.
Jessica downs a bit more, then starts to cry, and wonders when the fuck she became so attached.
The phone rings a bit more, and she pulls it off to let it hang off the desk, tapping against the wood as it swings like a pendulum.
The knocks come a few seconds later, impatient and quick, then before she can shout something like fuck off, Trish bursts in, Malcolm in tow. "Jessica?" Trish stares at the empty bottles on her desk, features twisting in horror before she groans, "Oh, Jess..."
"Fuck off," Jessica mumbles, but she's still crying so the effect is kind of ruined.
Malcolm moves over to take away her bottles, ignoring Jessica's protests as he starts to pour everything down the drain, muttering under his breath, "I should have done this ages ago," as Trish moves over to pull Jessica into a sort of hug type situation, which is awkward and weird and sort of nice, though she'd never admit it.
"Jess, how are you..." Trish stares at the empty bottles and sort of sighs, like, right, stupid question, and then she smooths Jessica's hair from her face and cups her cheek as she asked softly, "You know that you can come to us, right?"
"Of course she doesn't." Malcolm smashes one of the bottles into Jessica's trash can and glares at it. "She never seems to understand that there are people who are here for her. That's what defines Jessica, being lonely." He kicks her trash can, before dropping down into a crouch next to her and sighing, "Can we change that?"
Trish stares at Malcolm, like she wants to chide him but can't find a lie in his words, and she sighs, "Of course we will," voice firm and sure and stubborn but also tired and weary and Jessica knows that it's her fault for being such a mess.
No. Fuck this. She knows she's a mess, and they know that she's a mess, but she doesn't want them to be here when she's crying like this.
"Fuck off," She repeats, but her voice cracks again in the middle, and the next thing Jessica knows, Trish is gently pulling the whiskey from her hands as she wraps an arm around Jessica's shoulders and presses her forehead against Jessica's shoulder.
"Do you want us to?" She asks, gentle and serious and harsh and so Trish, all at the same time.
Jessica wants to scream. To throw something and to shout and to throw Trish and Malcolm away and to run to the edge of the roof and sit there and think about how easy it would be to fall but never be dumb enough to do it.
Instead she turns her head, smells Trish's hair with her fancy shampoo and conditioners, and admits roughly, voice gaining back a bit of her harsh edge as she grounds out a tight, "I don't know."
Trish runs her fingers through Jessica's hair, soft and gentle and slow. "We'll figure it out, okay?" She asks quietly.
"I did figure it out," Jessica's laugh is just a tad hysterical, "Until you poured my solution down the drain. Literally."
"It was for your own good, Jessica." Malcolm says. Good, sweet, Malcolm, who's honestly too good to be with someone as dark and screwed up as Jessica. "You're going to get over this, I swear."
Jessica makes a half sobbing sound in Trish's hair, too drunk to really keep her dignity properly. "Since when do we get over anything?"
She sees Malcolm run his fingers over his wrists, where he used to inject his drugs, and she thinks, no, this isn't fair.
"You're doing fantastic with getting over it." She sounds so lame, so dumb, but she wants him to get that it's her that's the mess, not him, but instead her next words come out wistful instead of comforting, "I wish I could be as good as you."
Malcolm smiles bitterly at her, "I get hurt more this way."
Jessica cries into Trish's shoulder and says, "He was as good as you. He just wanted to help. He loved her even though she tried to kill him, the idiot."
Trish pats her back and murmurs something into her ear, but Jessica is too drunk and sad and broken to care.
My greatest weakness, she thinks as she falls asleep with Trish's hand running through her hair and Malcolm's soft, worried voice going in one ear and out the next, is that I gave a damn.
She wishes she hadn't cared about the stupid guy in his dumb suit.
