Two weeks previously
Kilgrave was dead now. This time for real.
Jessica knew that, of course. She had been the one to make it happen. She had felt the snap of his vertebrae against her hands, had watched the light in his eyes dim out into a blank mannequin's stare as his body's functioning stopped. She had read over the coroner's report, had personally insured that his remains were cremated and buried not merely six but fifteen feet deep, just to insure they never managed to somehow make their way back up to the earth's surface again.
Most people seemed to feel that this should make Jessica feel satisfied, even proud. They called her a hero, as though she were somehow better than others, more than human. Technically speaking, she was more than human, if only by virtue of the fluke of being strong enough to kill a man with a touch, and lucky enough to have become immune to Kilgrave's command.
But Jessica Jones, a hero? Jessica Jones, better than others?
People were deluded. People simply couldn't see the truth of the shitshow, the walking infection inside that she really was.
Anyone would have ended Kilgrave, if they could have, she had told Trish and Malcolm, and anyone else who even vaguely implied something positive about what she had done. It doesn't mean anything that it was me. It isn't worth talking about, so shut up about it. Shut up, period.
Of course, Trish hadn't listened. Trish being Trish, she wanted to bubble over with pride of her, to emphasize to Jessica how very heroic and brave and strong she believed her to be, whether Jessica wanted to hear it or not.
"But it wasn't just anyone, Jessica, it was you. You, and that does mean something, it does matter. It does make you a hero. Just think, Kilgrave can never hurt anyone ever again. People are free of him. You're free of him, Jessica."
She said that, but as earnest and well-meaning as Trish was, it wasn't true. Jessica wasn't free of Kilgrave, not in the ways that counted. She could still see him at the edges of every crowd, lingering in any shadows nearby, a starring presence in all her dreams. He still hurt her every bit as deeply in her memories, in her thoughts, in every time she saw someone wearing purple or speaking in a British accent. She still felt the pain he had forced on her every time she flinched or lashed out against an unexpected touch, every time she forced her emotions into numbness with another day of drinking.
And he was still hurting others too. Jessica knew it was true, no matter what Trish said, because how could he not be? She knew it, each time she remembered the pure disgust and hatred in Luke's eyes when he looked at her and knew the same hands he had held in his had been used to murder his wife. She knew it when she remembered the devastated grief in Robyn's eyes and the shame and anguish of withdrawal in Malcolm's. She knew it when she remembered Trish, agonizing in futile efforts of suicide, eyes glittering in fear or forced passion. And she knew it when she looked at each of them now, seeing his memory active and alive in their memory and instinctive responses.
He was still hurting people every day. And although his body may be dead, he was still alive in each of their memories. Worse, he was still alive in Jessica, in the things she had done and person she had been forced to become.
88
Jessica had wanted Kilgrave dead.
Anyone who realized who he was, who wasn't currently under his spell, would want that. He was a monster, a force of unbridled power that was almost always harnessed strictly for his own amusement, usually in the direction of someone else's destruction or abuse. Any person with any sort of human empathy, or even one solely interested in maintaining their own personal control of their choices and their life, would want a person like that to be taken permanently out of the picture.
Jessica wanted Kilgrave dead, but she hadn't wanted to be a killer herself. Not again. Not even towards him. And she hadn't thought far ahead enough to realize that once Kilgrave's death was a fact rather than a goal, she herself would have no real purpose left in her own life.
It wasn't that she was suicidal, exactly. Jessica knew the difference. How could she avoid wanting the release of death, when she had been his puppet, his favorite toy, for so long? How could she not long for death, for anything that would release her from the torment of eight long months in Kilgrave's captivity?
Eight months of smiling, each time he commanded. Eight months of dressing herself in Kilgrave's purple dresses, eating his favorite foods and showing delight at each unwanted gesture he lavished on her, touching him and being touched by him as though she desired nothing more. Eight months of screaming and raging and weeping deep down inside, even as she smiled and giggled and caressed on the outside.
Of course, she had wanted then to die. It seemed the only way to bring her suffering to an end. She had gone so far as to stand on the edge of the building twenty stories up, gathering the energy to jump without making any attempt to control the fall. Even after Kilgrave, as she still reeled from panic at each small flicker of memory triggered each day by ordinary people or things, Jessica drowned herself in alcohol and threw herself into dangerous situations without regard for the danger and damage it might bring her. Even when she was no longer actively suicidal, Jessica had become accustomed to a passive lack of caring about herself or her life.
Kilgrave's return had changed that, had sharpened her focus and spiked her adrenaline so Jessica felt more alive than she had in years, even as she felt herself and her friends to be greatly endangered by his presence. As much as she hated him and everything he did to ruin people's lives, she couldn't deny that fighting against his, dedicating herself to stopping him, gave her a purpose for each day, even each hour. Kilgrave gave Jessica a reason to keep going, to fight through one more day to right his wrongs and stop him from hurting anyone as badly as he had hurt others.
As badly as he had hurt her.
But now that she had succeeded, she felt no sense of victory, no pride or even relief. All Jessica felt was an empty disconnectedness, a feeling of having nowhere left to turn.
She hadn't quite let herself understand that although killing Kilgrave was saving others, it was still destroying a life. She hadn't let herself realize that just because he was gone, nothing about who she was now, who he had made her become and the things he had made her do would change.
She had still killed Reva Cage. She had still been unsuccessful in keeping hundreds of innocent people from being hurt, simply by being unfortunate enough to be somehow connected to Jessica. And now, no matter how much it was needed, she had still killed another human being. Her hand was forever stained with another person's blood.
Jessica hadn't realized that when she killed Kilgrave, she had also done away with the last tiny piece of herself that still clung to the idea that she could do more good than bad in the world. Now Jessica was sure of it- all she was good for now was destruction.
88
The first few days after Kilgrave's second and final death, after she had been released of all charges and declared free to go, Jessica did absolutely nothing but go home and throw herself, still fully clothed, into bed.
For several more days, her life became a slog of minimal activity as she let her exhausted body catch up with all the stress, exertion, and severe sleep deprivation she had endured over the past several weeks. She slept, waking up only to drink what was left in the apartment, pee, and climb back in bed. She turned off her cell and let all calls coming to the office number go to voicemail; even the thought of actually speaking to someone was enough to give her a migraine that made opening her eyes seem akin to lighting her hair on fire.
She wasn't completely alone during this, as little as she might have acknowledged the fact. Malcolm and Trish both had keys to her place, and she occasionally heard the low murmur of Malcolm's voice as he answered calls and the clatter of laptop keys as he made notes or put in appointments, hopefully for dates far into the future. She was dimly aware of Trish sitting on the edge of the bed and smoothing her hair a few times, and she was pretty sure she didn't imagine her kissing her forehead like she was some kind of invalid child on one occasion. Each time she woke up there was a class of water and some sort of pill that Jessica assumed to be Tylenol on her nightstand, and twice there was a plate with a cluster of grapes and a turkey and tomato sandwich that had definitely not originated from her own kitchen.
She had mostly ignored the food, unable to manage more than a couple of bites, but sipped the water with the pills before heading straight for her booze supply. On the second day Jessica was coherent enough to vaguely note her the apartment looked cleaner; her bet was that it was Malcolm rather than Trish who had straightened things up. Trish might bitch about her sloppiness and hygiene, but she was one to talk, since the woman paid for someone to clean her own apartment.
She didn't speak to or acknowledge Malcolm or Trish, the few times she was awake enough in those first few days to know they were nearby. She would have spoken to Luke, but unsurprisingly, he didn't turn up.
She hadn't expected him to talk to want to talk to her again, let alone see her. Although Jessica knew she deserved Luke's silence, deserved far more than that from him, it didn't make it any less painful to experience. She had hurt him deeply, betrayed him in her own choice of keeping silent on how large a role she played in his grief, and her involvement with him had caused Kilgrave to target him. Because of Jessica, he had lost his wife, his bar, and had nearly killed someone. Because of Jessica, he had ended up with complications because of being shot in the head against skin that would not give way to the bullet.
No, she couldn't fault Luke for not checking in with her after everything. But this didn't stop her from longing for him to show this degree of combined grace and masochism, for one last effort at redemption in his eyes. She couldn't help but ache for the chance to see him look at her once more with respect and admiration overshadowing even his desire for her in his eyes. She couldn't help but feel her skin prickle with the memory of how he had touched her like she was someone worth being gentle with, even the roughness of their sexual actions and witnessing the enormity of her physical strength.
She wanted back the feeling she had around Luke, of being acknowledged for her strength even as she was made to feel safe and small and held. She wanted what she had dared to hope to have with him, even as she knew damn well it was far beyond her abilities to hold onto, and even further beyond what she deserved.
But Jessica had lost so much now that it seemed far easier to deaden herself against any sort of wanting. Life would be easier, if not better, if she could simply forget any sort of feelings or ambitions at all.
That was what alcohol was supposed to do for her. But somehow, even that wasn't as steady a protective source as it should be.
Fuck.
88
"All right, Jess. No one's asking you to shine, but it's about time you rise."
Jessica's face scrunched up as though in effort to avoid strong rays of sunlight, although her bedroom remained dark, and her face was pressed firmly against her pillow, blocking out whatever small slits of light might come in through her blinds. She didn't respond to the voice addressing her, in hopes that if she ignored it, it would shut up and go away.
No such luck. Trish Walker was nothing if not persistent. It was one of the most annoying traits she had inherited from her mother Dorothy.
"You've had three days to sleep and ignore the world. Time's up."
"Fuck off," Jessica grunted, her voice muffled in the pillow, but Trish knew her well enough to have a good guess at her words, even if they weren't intelligible.
"Sorry, my sex life can wait until my sister's life-life resumes," she said briskly. "Up, Jessica. You've had your time and space."
"And I want more," Jessica mumbled, burrowing further under the blankets.
She was rudely ripped out of his comforting cocoon when Trish snatched her blanket off her, leaving Jessica exposed to the other woman's eyes and somewhat cold in her sweaty t-shirt and underwear. When Jessica squawked in an affronted and rather undignified manner, slapping out blindly in what she assumed to be Trish's direction, Trish continued to speak over her wordless protest.
"Malcolm says you've had dozens of calls. Calls from people you could help, Jessica. People who need you. People who see all the potential you have to offer to the world. I'm not saying you have to start in on that immediately, but you need to start functioning again. Even if it's in zombie mode for a while. And that starts with getting your ass out of bed, taking a shower, and putting on real clothes."
"I didn't ask your opinion," Jessica growled, turning her face against the pillow and squinting at Trish with some resentment. "I'm not telling you what to do, so stop shoving your bullshit theories on my life and what I should be doing with it at me."
"Was that a "thanks for caring enough to look out for me, Trish, you are the best friend ever and I love you?" Trish rephrased in a wildly different interpretation of Jessica's actual intended message, smirking. "Right, glad you agree. Love you too, Jess."
She snatched the pillow out from under Jessica's head- or rather, attempted to. Jessica's hands latched on, forcefully enough that when Trish also pulled, the pillow ripped in half, sending feathers flying into the air. Trish snickered, shaking her head as Jessica pointed an accusing finger at her.
"What the hell, what am I supposed to sleep on now?!"
"Please, I've seen you pass out on top of a bag of trash in an alley," Trish reminded her, still smirking. "I'll get you another damn pillow, but deal is you have to go to the store with me to pick it out."
"No," was Jessica's decisive response as she rolled back onto her stomach and buried her face in folded arms.
Trish sat beside her and began to tap her fingers in a light but rather annoying manner on her back, as though she were typing a letter onto Jessica's skin.
"Time to rejoin the world, Jess. Come on, I'll provide sunglasses and sunscreen if you think the sun's rays may send you into shock."
"I prefer the vampire lifestyle," Jessica retorted, still not lifting her head. "Especially the part about hanging out sleeping in coffins all day where you can be apart from the rest of the world. Time to rejoin the world…fuck, Trish, do you not see that I'm feeling pretty damn antisocial?"
"You're always pretty damn antisocial," Trish shot back, the tapping on her back slowing but not stopping. "Doesn't mean you have to become a hermit or recluse."
When Jessica didn't answer her, Trish's hands stilled, giving light pressure against Jessica's back instead. Although Jessica didn't acknowledge this, the touch was comforting, grounding in a way that Trish's presence often could be for her.
"Jess…you know I'm only making you do this because I care," Trish said more quietly, and with enough sincerity that Jessica's stomach squirmed. Earnest Trish was hard to say no to, almost as much as crying Trish. "If I thought it was helping you, I would let you stay holed up here for as long as you wanted or needed. But I don't think it is helping you, Jess. I don't think this is what you need anymore, and I don't think it's healthy."
"Was something about my lifestyle healthy at any point?" Jessica pointed out, exhaling. "Sorry if I'm not the Herbal Essence, essential oils, yoga model health freak that you are, Trish. You are, so why don't you go do your healthy you thing and leave me the hell alone?"
Trish went silent for a long several moments. Jessica could almost feel her gaze burning into the back of her head, and her skin began to prickle with discomfort. She was about to turn her head, to give in just enough to get to a sitting position on the bed, when Trish spoke, her voice small and hurting.
"You're killing yourself like this, Jessica. Is that…is that really what you want? What you're trying to do?"
It wasn't, not exactly. But it wasn't exactly Jessica's number one aspiration to take care of herself either, or to make any effort of rebuilding her life into something with purpose again.
She didn't have the energy, let alone the words, to try to explain this to Trish; she wasn't sure she completely understood the difference herself. So she stayed silent, even as she sensed Trish's distress amplify with her lack of response.
"Jessica," Trish repeated, softly at first, then more forcefully. "Jessica Jones, sit up, now. Sit up and look at me."
It was the fear behind her words rather than their commanding tone that made Jessica obey. Slowly she rolled over and with muscles aching from limited use, pushed herself up so she was sitting and facing Trish. Trish reached out a manicured hand, cupping Jessica's face in hers. Compared to the Jessica's own callused palms, Trish's skin felt cool to the touch and impossibly soft. She used her other hand to brush Jessica's hair back from her face, leaning close until Jessica could not avoid looking her in the eye.
"You deserve to be here," she said softly but fiercely. "I don't care what anyone says about you or what your inner demons are telling you. You have only done what you had to do and what you felt was right. You never hurt anyone on purpose, and you've helped a hell of a lot of people. Saved them, Jessica. And if you're judging yourself because of what Kilgrave did, or because of what you had to do to him-" she shook her head, swallowing as her eyes clouded over, full of her own pained memories. "You did what no one else could, Jessica. You did what was right."
Jessica's throat pulsed, and she swallowed painfully, her eyes shutting against the other woman's words.
"Trish," she whispered, her voice raw, raspy, but even though she didn't open her eyes, she could feel the force with which Trish shook her head, refusing to allow her to continue.
"No, Jessica, you listen to me. Shut your mouth and open your ears and eyes. Look at me."
Slowly, reluctantly, Jessica obeyed, her dark, shadowed gaze coming to rest on the bright blue fire of Trish's. Trish's hands on her shoulders were a heavy weight, and yet they felt less of a burden, more of an anchor.
"You kept us safe," Trish said with emphasis, giving her a brief squeeze with every other word. "You did everything within your power to keep us safe. And because of you, we are now. Because of you, we have our lives back, under our own control- our control, not his. You took your own life back, Jessica, and there is nothing wrong about that. Nothing."
"Did I, though?" Jessica said, the words brittle. "Is my life still really mine? Do you think I feel in control, Trish? Is my life really how it was, before I took it back? Is your life?"
She was speaking faster now, more aggression in her tone as her words built momentum.
"Tell me, Trish, are you still the same girl who never got choked out by her brain-controlled lover? Who doesn't feel she has to lock herself up in her home behind six dead bolts and doormen and learning Asian self defense moves, just in case someone wants her dead? Are you the same girl that Kilgrave whose tongue never jabbed its way down Kilgrave's throat?"
"Jessica," Trish said quietly, her grip gentling, but Jessica was unable to stop herself, didn't even hear her words. She was lost in them, lost in the rush of her own cynical, despairing flood of thought.
"Is Ruben the same guy who had a beating heart? What about his sister Robin? Is Malcolm still the same guy who would never take dope, let alone get an addiction to it? Hey, is Hope and her entire family still walking around among the living these days? And what about L-"
Jessica choked on the name rising to the tip of her tongue, actually gagging against the effort of speaking Luke's name. She knew from speaking to Claire Temple that he was okay; he had not been permanently damaged by his seizures or the direct shot to the face. Still, unexpected memories of his large body, helpless and twitching uncontrollably or all too motionless from what she had done to him, sometimes rose up and overwhelmed her with guilt, grief, and pain at what she had done to him, of what the ultimate outcome could have been. A sob burst from her throat unchecked, and Jessica's head bowed, her narrow shoulders trembling with the effort of suppressing more. She lifted her fist to press it roughly against her mouth, eyes closing once more as her body fought her emotions.
Luke could have died, because of her. Surely he knew this; it could very well be the reason he had not spoken to her since. Who would speak to the person who had almost killed them?
When a gentle hand took hold of hers, entwining cool fingers through hers, Jessica didn't make the effort to pull them away. Trish's voice was pitched low and gentle, and she was leaned close enough to Jessica's ear that she could feel the vibration of her speaking against her skin.
"You're not the same," she acknowledged, squeezing Jessica's fingers tightly in her own. "But that doesn't mean you're worse for it, or that you aren't acceptable as you are. Being changed, even being damaged, is not your fault, and it doesn't make you wrong. You are needed in this world, Jessica."
She paused, and Jessica heard her swallow heavily, her voice dropping lower.
"I need you. I need you to be here in this world."
Trish didn't say to her that she loved her. It wasn't a word that passed often or casually past her lips, and for Jessica, it had happened only one, and only in coded form. But Jessica could hear the sentiment in her voice, in the strength in her grip and the intensity emanating from her close positioning. There was a need in Trish that she didn't give voice to, a urgency for Jessica to understand and accept what she was trying to convey to her.
Jessica could never understand how someone like Trish could truly think she was better off to have someone like Jessica in her life. But Trish believed it, would accept nothing else, and so Jessica bit down her lip, her breath coming out in a ragged exhalation through her nose, and blinked against the tears threatening to spill over. When she finally jerked her head just once in a rough semblance of a nod, Trish let out a small, relieved sigh, squeezing her hand again before letting go of Jessica and getting to her feet.
"Come on, Jess. Time to get up and join the living."