Chapter 11
Trish left Kilgrave where he lay on the floor, and strode purposefully into the living room. Jessica paced, arms held close to her like she might shatter herself if she didn't hold on. Malcolm sat on the couch, chin in his hands. His gaze flickered up to Trish as she entered. It was pleading, uncertain.
"Jessica," Trish said. She made herself be firm instead of gentle, knowing that Jessica was at the point where she wouldn't respond to niceness. "Jessica, stop for a second."
Jessica waved her off. It was a sharp, cutting motion. Trish's heart sank.
"What happened?" she tried again. "I need the details."
Malcolm spoke up in Jessica's stead. "We were trying to work on the case," he explained. "I told him to go make tea to get him out of the room so me and Jessica could talk. We were trying to discuss the drug. You know about it, right?"
Jessica had mentioned it, yes. "The memory loss one," Trish acknowledged. Malcolm nodded.
"I had a bit of a theory," he said. "He, uh. He doesn't remember anything about being Kilgrave, right? Could it be possible that that's a result of a different strain of the drug, or an earlier version of it?"
Icy terror rushed its way through Trish's veins. Jess seemed to pace just a little bit faster. "Oh."
Malcolm nodded again, more gravely. "Yeah. Exactly. And didn't some of Jessica's clients mention having entirely different, conflicting stories about the same victim, the same situation? Even his whole backstory could just be…" Malcolm trailed off, glancing to Jessica, and cleared his throat. "So I wanted to talk about that, with Jessica. Alone, for obvious reasons. Um. So we sent him out. And everything was fine, completely, for a while. And then we heard a glass break. We went to go look, and we saw him throw one of the mugs, and, uh, Jessica stopped him."
"He would have kept going," Jessica muttered, almost inaudible over the sound of her boots on the floor. "I had to practically rip one of the mugs out of his hand, and I had to push him." Without warning, she stopped cold, doing an odd swaying that had Trish's chest twinging with worry. "He pushed back, Trish," Jessica continued, very quietly. "He's never done that before."
"Or even been violent at all," Malcolm added. "It's...it lends itself a little more to my theory."
Trish stared at him. "What do you mean?"
Malcolm took a breath. "The drug wears off eventually, doesn't it?" he ventured at last.
Trish found that her hands were shaking a little, and her muscles had locked. She didn't even truly start to process the horror that Malcolm's implication had ignited in her for several long moments. "You aren't saying what I think you're saying," she tried.
Malcolm nodded, slowly, just once.
The breath escaped her, all at once. She had to fight to regain her composure. "We have to ask him," she said. "If he's remembering, we have to know. Now."
"What makes you think he'll tell the truth?" Jessica asked. Bitterness soured her voice.
Trish shook her head, for a lack of anything else.
"What did he say happened?" she said. "All he would tell me was that he got upset."
Jessica closed her eyes, bit her lip hard enough to whiten it. "One of the first things he said to me was that he'd had a 'bad thought,'" she revealed.
Trish swallowed, fear spiking through her anew. "Oh."
"That sounds like remembering," Malcolm pointed out.
"He was angry or freaked out about that, then, probably," Trish deduced. "Whatever thought or memory he had. And he reacted."
"Fine, okay," Jessica said, throwing her hands up, "so he's not a raging psychopath yet. Good for him. I still don't trust him."
"I didn't say we should," Trish defended. "I don't intend to."
"Breaking glass and hurting yourself in the process is still an extreme reaction," Malcolm said. "That kind of suggests some major anger issues, if nothing else. From what I've seen, that's sort of new, for the most part. He's been visibly angry in the past, but not to the point where I would have expected him to start breaking things."
Trish nodded. She took a deep breath, tried to maintain her calm. "So we're seeing a few signs that Malcolm's theory could be right. Or at the very least, that something is going on."
"So, what, we ask him and hope he doesn't lie?" Jessica snarked. "Sounds fucking fantastic."
Trish sighed. "I don't know what we do."
The Doctor realized he'd fallen asleep, and immediately sat up, opening his eyes to the light of late morning. It took a long moment to orient himself, and remember why exactly he was sitting on the bathroom floor. The second the memories reordered themselves, he sighed and slumped against the wall.
Right. The glass.
Besides his own harsh breathing, leftover from his already-forgotten blur of a dream and his sudden awakening, the apartment was quiet. He strained to listen for some kind of life, but heard nothing but the sounds of the city outside. No footsteps, no conversation. They'd left him, and gone...somewhere. The apartment rang with the silence, a constant painful tinnitus that shook through the Doctor's bones in the most unpleasant way.
Probably to talk again, he thought, bitterly. There's something they don't want me to know.
The silence, however, was far worse than the whispering had been.
The thoughts itched at him, but he was forced to push it aside and move on. There was nothing to do about it at the moment. He could have a look around the apartment later, see if he could turn anything up. For the moment, however, he couldn't do much more than sit. Despite the rest his body had forced on him, he didn't feel all that much better. A little less hollow, but still hungry. Still woozy and foggy and irritable.
He calculated that he'd gotten a few solid hours in, but not a full night's rest. Not what he really needed. Well, maybe that was fine. He just needed enough to keep going. He could collapse for a full day, if he wanted to, once this was all done. His own bed in the TARDIS, a nice healing coma...but not now. Later. Soon.
He took stock of the rest of his body - his stomach still growled, and his head still hurt, and he was still dizzy. He ached all over from his night spent on the floor. More than just that, though, all of his tiny little cuts stung mightily, insistently. His once-white bandages were turning gray and brown from their time on Jessica's dirty floor. His hair hung limp in his face. He noticed a smell - not just the leftover tang of Time Lord blood from the night before, but dried sweat. His own.
I need a shower.
That would make things much better. He very nearly perked up at the thought, sat up just the tiniest bit straighter. However, when he looked to the shower, it seemed...very far away. And tall. He'd have to stand, and move. He could sit in the shower, but he'd have to get up again.
He drooped again as reality sunk in. But it would get him going, wouldn't it? Once he was up and moving, maybe he'd feel a little better. Maybe once he was clean he'd feel more like himself.
Before he even properly stood, his feet were screaming. But he made it upright somehow, through whatever adrenaline remained from earlier. Made it to the sink, somehow, leaned on it, stared at himself in the mirror. His hair was dampened with a grotesque amount of grease. His own eyes stared back at him, dull, bagged despite his rest. He looked pale, paler than he'd thought. Thin, and tired, and miserable. He passed a shaky hand over his face and noticed the scruff that he had at last become too weak to prevent from growing.
He forced away the dark thoughts he didn't want to deal with, and moved on.
It felt like fire on his feet again as he shuffled to the shower. Dizziness overwhelmed him and the room tilted sideways; he leaned heavily against the wall and tried to see straight. Oh, that wasn't good. He'd thought that he maybe was a little less...but that didn't bear thinking about, not now.
He fumbled for the shower knob, blindly turned it until the water was less frigid, and took at least ten terrible minutes to undress himself before stepping in.
He ended up sat down on the floor, letting the water stream over him and soak his bandages. He didn't shampoo, relying only on the thin bar of Jessica's soap to clean himself. He burned, sharp and horrible, and it only got worse when he finally shed the soggy bandages and bared his injuries. But the shower filled the silence, and he let it, for a good thirty minutes until the water went cold, and to avoid hypothermia he had to shut it off.
He sat and shivered for an unspeakable amount of time. It took another thirty minutes for him to gather enough strength to stand again and clamber into the clothes he'd been given. He didn't even bother drying off; the clothing soaked up most of the water. He was left damp and cold, but he hardly noticed. He sat again in his ruined, painful nest in the corner and mindlessly smeared the very last of the antibacterial gel over his feet and hands. Then he bandaged himself up again and sat there, shuddering, entirely too aware of the renewed quiet.
Pull yourself together, he ordered himself. This is your own fault. You have to deal with it. There is not another option. He had terrified Jessica, after swearing to help her. Feeling that he would fall asleep again if he laid down, the Doctor remained as upright as possible. He laid his head instead against the freezing wall and grit his teeth. You've gone through worse, anyhow, he thought. This is nothing. You have taken care of yourself so far, and you will continue to do so. There is not another option.
The apartment was so very quiet. And he didn't know what to do. If he only hurt her more when he tried to help, what was he supposed to do? He couldn't not help her, he couldn't...but he apparently couldn't do any good trying to help her, either. Restlessness poked at him, but there was nothing to be done. He couldn't leave, not if he was trying to help Jessica, not unless he was prepared to deal with the guilt that would come with his departure. He couldn't do anything.
You will not run from this. You've run enough. You have to fix this. There is not another option.
But how could he fix it, or anything, when he kept shattering everything he touched? Whether it was by accident or on purpose.
He wanted tea. He wanted a warmer blanket and a more comfortable bed and someone to card their hand through his hair and say nice things to him. He wanted red hair and a sharp mouth, "oi"s and "spaceman"s every other minute. He wanted nagging and ranting and demands and laughter and amazement and kindness.
He hardly had enough energy left to keep his eyes open, but he somehow had enough to feel a pang of grief, powerful enough to make him fight for air.
There is not another option, he reminded himself. You don't have anything but this right now.
The Doctor made himself forget Donna's hands closing reassuringly over his, and turned his attention instead to the unlocking of the front door.
He hoped it wasn't Jessica. It was her apartment, so maybe this was a bad thought, but he desperately hoped that it was anyone, anyone other than her. If it was Jessica, what would he say? What was he supposed to say?
Heels clicked into the living room; Trish, then. He relaxed, let his eyelids drift shut for the barest of seconds. He listened to her enter the kitchen, rattle something, clang something metal, pour water...tea? The kettle whistled not ten minutes later, and his mouth twitched in a parody of happiness. Someone had heard his wishes, somewhere.
His eyes had closed again, he realized, almost lulling him back to sleep, as Trish harshly whispered, "Hey," and they flew open. They didn't focus for a long minute, but when they did they found her standing hesitantly in the doorway, clutching a chipped mug of tea like a lifeline, apprehension apparent on her face.
"Let's talk," Trish said. She nervously licked her lips, took a breath, adjusted her grip on the mug, and awkwardly sat herself down on the floor across from him. It was probably wet, but she hardly seemed to notice, the only acknowledgement being the slight wrinkling of her nose. The Doctor accepted the mug as she offered it to him, only to bring it close and clutch it to his chest. Its heat cut through the damp of the shirt, and the scent wafting up to him cleared his head just slightly.
He couldn't help but feel sort of touched by the gesture. He meant to thank her, but what came out instead was "where's Jessica?"
Trish bit her lip again. "She left," she sighed, "early this morning. I think she needed some space, some room to think." She began picking at the fabric of her pants, as intently as if there was nothing else in the world.
The Doctor swallowed. "Right."
Trish sighed again. "I need you to be honest with me," she said. "Completely."
Well. That wasn't something he could probably do. The Doctor took a sip of the tea, feeling the burn on his tongue. "Okay," he said.
Trish nodded once, seeming to gather herself, then stared him directly in the eye. "Jessica told me that when she asked you about the glass, you told her you'd had a 'bad thought.'" She paused. The Doctor got the impression she was wondering if she'd regret what she was about to say. "Was that thought a memory?" she finished, much more quietly.
At first, yes. Where was she going with this? Hesitantly, the Doctor nodded. He very nearly startled in surprise as she suddenly paled, her eyes fluttering closed.
She took a shuddering breath, as if rousing herself, and opened them again. "Okay," she said. "Okay."
The Doctor searched for words, and for some kind of meaning in hers. The fogginess of earlier had begun its return not along ago, slow and heavy, and he struggled to keep focused. He tightened his grip on the mug. It threatened to burn his skin, even through the new bandages. It felt terribly like he'd just made a horrible mistake. "I just," he tried to explain. "I lost all my control, here. I needed some back."
Trish nodded, the muscles in her jaw working. Her eyes locked on the mug in his hands, and the way he was holding it, and they widened marginally. Without a work, she pulled it away from him, and he let her. His hands were left to clench in his lap. Although they protested the motion, he couldn't stop them. They needed something to do.
"I don't know where Jessica went," Trish revealed, quietly. "She didn't tell me. I wanted to give her space. I'm going to call her, try to get her to come back, okay? We need to talk. About the drug, and...and you."
He felt as if he was on the brink of understanding, but the epiphany wouldn't come to him. He pressed his palms together, trying to think clearly. He felt himself shaking, too much to hide.
It was time to go. It was long since time to go.
But he couldn't. Not without leaving broken, terrified humans in his wake.
He didn't want to do that anymore.
Trish forced Kilgrave out to the couch, telling him that if he wanted to help he should start by getting out of the way, and handing him a towel to dry himself off from his attempt at a shower. She threw a couple of others on the floor to dry it, and did her best to make things more presentable.
She tidied up the apartment as much as she could without digging into any of Jess' personal things. She did all the dishes and, feeling productive and restless, scrubbed the counters and put all the stray items on them away. She dug Jessica's dusty, shitty vacuum out of the closet and vacuumed every bit of carpet in the house. It rattled and threatened to break down several times, but it never stopped her from working. Kilgrave, curled up on the couch, looked like he might speak up and offer to help at any minute, but he didn't.
She took a couple of calls on what had once been Kilgrave's phone, but neither were new cases; simply already-taken clients who had called after finding themselves unable to get in touch with Jessica. Trish ached with worry at this revelation. She had a few ideas of where Jess could be, but she couldn't know anything for sure, and she wasn't about to go on a manhunt. She understood that Jessica needed space, right now. That didn't mean she wasn't still wildly concerned, but she could restrain herself for a little while, at least.
Trish sat at Jessica's desk, hands folded in her lap, white-knuckled, trying to tame her breathing into something calmer. Kilgrave was awake, still, somehow, sitting utterly still and staring at the wall. The apartment was silent but for her harsh breathing. She eventually propped her head up on the desk with one hand, feeling drained and drawn tight with anxiety. She couldn't stop thinking, she couldn't shut her brain off or turn it away from the thoughts it so eagerly returned to. She closed her eyes, attempted one of the meditations a counselor had once taught her. She felt ridiculous, but after a while she managed to calm herself enough to dip into the lightest sleep, a restless, fitful nap, half lying on Jessica's desk. She hadn't even realized she'd fallen into a doze until the desk vibrated underneath her head, and she jerked confusedly upright.
Her phone. Not Kilgrave's phone, but hers. She snatched at it, with hands that definitely were not shaking, and almost fell out of her chair upon seeing the caller ID. Jessica. Finally. She could feel Kilgrave's eyes on her.
"Is everything okay?" she blurted as soon as she'd picked up.
A sigh. "I'm fine," Jessica grouched. She sounded only slightly better than she had when she'd left, but the small difference gave Trish a world of relief. "Where are you?"
"Your place." Trish paused, chewed on her lip as Jessica went quiet. "I cleaned things up a little bit for you."
On the other end, Trish could hear Jessica breathing, slightly too hard, and the sound of traffic and horns and people. "What about Kilgrave?"
Trish glanced at him. He looked back at her, his face reading 'concerned,' but his eyes dull.
"He's fine. We had a talk earlier." She checked the time. It was nearing eight o'clock. How had it gotten so late? The apartment was slowly getting dark. "He, uh. He said yes."
Jessica didn't say a word. Trish would have wondered if the call had been dropped, if she hadn't been able to hear the city humming in the background.
"Meaning he remembered something," Jessica deduced, with a voice like gravel.
"Yeah," Trish breathed. "I'm...we didn't talk about it a whole lot, but yeah. That's what he said. That's what it's...sounding like."
More silence. Then Jessica said, "Let's just...he still doesn't have his powers, those shouldn't miraculously return even if he does go back to being himself. We have bigger problems. Or almost bigger."
Trish's heart about stopped. She straightened up, blinked, pressed a hand onto the desk. "What do you mean?"
"I'm on my way over." The line clicked dead, and Trish was left to clutch her phone in the silence of the apartment once more.
The world returned slowly, like the uncertain adjustment of television antennas to retrieve a picture from static and darkness. The chill of the bathroom, leftover on his skin despite his best efforts, had been replaced with a fuzzy, sleepy warmth that reminded him of late, fire-lit nights in the library, and piles of blankets over cozy, cheerful figures in the console room.
He'd fallen asleep. At some point after Jessica had called, he'd lost focus and drifted off.
He wanted to feel relief, or anger, or frustration, or disappointment, or anything at all, but he didn't. Maybe that was a good thing.
Words floated into focus. "Still no leads. It's all the same thing, except now we can see it happening. Nobody even cares."
"I'm surprised they didn't come after you."
"Too risky." Jessica's voice. "There's not just me involved, they must know that. If they were going to drug me with whatever it is, they'd have to get you, Malcolm, all the clients...Luke, too. It's easier just to make one man disappear and leave us scrambling than try to wipe several people's minds of the whole ordeal."
That sounded important.
"But surely that only helps us?" That was Trish. "Now we can keep an eye on the situation, figure out how this drug works. Maybe we can reel the people affected in, do some tests, make some kind of cure or something. We can at least speed up the process, before it's too late."
"Where are we going to find a lab to do that?"
He tried to open his eyes, found them heavy and noncompliant at first. With a brief struggle, though, he began to twitch, become minutely more aware, and forced them open. Even just the slightest extra bit of sleep had dragged him down.
The conversation halted abruptly. He looked over to find both Jessica and Trish eyeing him warily, as if expecting him to explode on them. He felt that maybe that was a little unwarranted, but, well...he wasn't exactly sure of what to make of himself at the moment. And he'd said something at some point that had rattled the two of them - that was clear, even if he couldn't quite pinpoint what exactly was going on.
He propped himself up and rubbed at his eyes. "What's happening?"
The women exchanged a look, before Jessica, with gritted teeth and a resolve to push past whatever it was that was troubling her, gave in. "One of my kidnapping clients was taken. He only talked to one other person about taking the case to us, and that person has evidently been drugged and doesn't seem to give a shit about his friend's disappearance."
The Doctor pushed away any of his feelings about his own situation, and considered the new development. "Well," he said again. "That's rather concerning. I assume you've already tried to talk to this man, with less than ideal results."
"He didn't see what the big deal was," Jessica flatly replied. "Of fucking course he didn't."
"I heard something about analyzing the drug? A lab?" There was the TARDIS, of course, which could churn out an answer about the substance in a matter of minutes, but obviously that wasn't a route that he could take at the present moment. The Doctor unhappily eyed the sensor around his ankle, but tried to do so in a way that didn't look like he was unhappily eyeing it. And he remembered, in a sudden burst of inspiration, slender brown hands winding bandages around his wrists after she removed the ropes. "What about that nurse friend of yours? She works at a hospital, yeah? She'd have access to some kind of lab, wouldn't she?"
Jessica was already taking out her phone, her face settling into nothing but focus as she stepped into the hallway. The Doctor quickly discovered, even as she left, that the initial energy that had flooded him upon his waking was quickly draining away. Although he was feeling a bit better for the nap (and beginning to feel a bit guiltily relieved that Trish hadn't woken him earlier), it couldn't make up for ages of deprivation.
Trish leaned against the desk, watching him guardedly. "Are you feeling any better?"
"I wasn't feeling bad," he countered. It didn't sound as strong aloud as it had in his head.
Her lips twisted. "I'll take that as a no, then."
He thought about firing back, but, remembering Trish's fear, still sensing it lingering around her, held his tongue. Instead, he shrugged off the thin, slowly-drying towel from his shoulders, and offered Trish what felt like a very tremulous smile.
"I understand it's hard to be nice to me," he said. He could see Trish's throat work as he paused. "Maybe you shouldn't be. But thank you for trying."
She nodded once, stiffly, hardly noticeable, before fleeing the room and leaving the Doctor alone once more.
Thank you all for reading! Please continue to send me your thoughts, I look forward to hearing from you all! :)