Nearly every night, Jessica saw him again. It was bad enough in the day; the simplest thing, from the smell of someone's cologne passing certain restaurants, a sudden touch or unexpected movement nearby, could trigger a memory that would catapult her back in time, again at the mercy of Kilgrave's whim and will. Suddenly she could see him and hear him, no matter the reality of her actual surroundings, as vivid and convincing as the rapid beating of her own heart.
"I'll never really leave you, Jessica," he had told her once. "No matter what you might try to do to break away, you will never be able. Even if you managed, I've made my way inside you now, forever. I'm a part of you now."
More than anything, Jessica feared that this was true. Sometimes there seemed no other reasonable explanation for why with so much distance and time between them, he could in moments seem only finger tip length away from her.
Still, as bad as the flashbacks were, she preferred them over the nightmares. At least with the visions in the day time, she sometimes could gain control enough to realize what was happening, to be able to stutter out the stupid, overrated therapist's little chant of street names or reach for the closest bottle to drown it all out. She had no control of her dreams, and she had no way of blocking them from happening.
There were the usual ones, the standards, if they could be considered such a thing; replays of Kilgrave commanding her to dress, using her as his personal mannequin or life size doll, putting words in her mouth and a smile on her lips. His body over hers, every part of his bare skin in contact with hers, and wanting so badly to stop him, wanting to say no, but frozen inside herself, unable to show any sign of her rage and disgust, of her shame of her own victimhood. Her hatred of herself for her feelings of actual pleasure, even as she knew they were merely due to his command.
There were the even more horrific dreams of the times he hurt her, or used her to hurt overs. The worst of it being Reva, the blank look that came over her face, the emptying out of her personhood in the moment that death came. The force of her body flying backward, weightless, so easy for Jessica to harm. The crack of her sternum as bones broke , the feel of them giving beneath Jessica's fist, and the appalling lack of physical damage to Jessica herself. The knowledge that she, once daring to imagine she could be a hero, had now become a murderer.
And now there were new dreams, every bit as bad. Now there were dreams of Hope, wasting away in prison, hardened and haggard and scarred, without any of the bright future and innocence she had once possessed. There was Malcolm, floundering and purposeless, gradually falling back into drugs until the final, fatal overdose.
But the worst of it was Kilgrave. Not what he was doing to her, but what Jessica had done to him.
She saw herself hurting him, hitting him, knowing full well of the pain she was causing him and enjoying it, relishing that she, for once, held power over him. She had known, in the cell she had abandoned him to, how little it would take to kill him. She had known, and for a moment, she had been ready to go through with it. She had been ready to kill again- this time, of her own free will.
She saw the aftermath of her departure, all the possibilities of what she and Trish had left him to. Kilgrave, shouting in vain, with no one to hear his commands, his rages, or his pleas. Kilgrave clawing at the barriers of his prison, bounding at the see through walls, and yielding nothing for his frantic efforts but bruised knuckles and toes, bleeding fingers and broken nails. Kilgrave commanding the walls to break, trying to break apart the bench bolted into the floor to use as a battering ram against them. Kilgrave cupping his hands to drink the water lining the floor of his cell, cheeks sunken, disheveled and dirty with the passage of time. Kilgrave tearing at his own clothing, his own skin, biting at the fabric of his shirt in desperate effort to obtain some sort of nutrition. Kilgrave delirious, suffering as his imprisonment stretched on. Kilgrave too weak to move, shivering on the sodden floor. Kilgrave, dying.
Leaving him, Jessica realized then, had been torture, just as he had tortured her, just as he had tortured others. It should feel satisfying, like a fit ending to a life that surely didn't deserve to continue.
Then why did she wake up trembling, every time, panting and sweating, dangerously close to tears?
88
It wasn't the first time that Jessica had dreamed of Kilgrave's death. But this time, she woke up lacking her usual disorientation and terror, her usual panicked clash of thought. This time, though breathless and anxious, Jessica felt a hollowness in her chest rather than an overdrive of emotion. Because this time, though she couldn't have explained why, she felt was actually true.
She didn't check the news in the United States. She couldn't be sure that it would have been a headline, even if she had. It was possible that if Kilgrave was indeed dead, his body hadn't been discovered, might not be for weeks or months, even years. She had chosen the location of his imprisonment carefully enough for this to be possible. She had no way of knowing, truly knowing, whether her feeling was anything more than just a feeling. But it remained, heavy and insistent, almost a physical presence weighting her down.
What did that mean, if Kilgrave really was finally dead?
She sat up in bed, her breath still just a little too shallow and quick to be normal, the hairs of her pale skin standing up with the chilled feeling of her body. Her throat felt raw, certain to hurt if she had spoken, and in spite of the coldness of her body, her face felt strangely heated. She sat, the stupid street mantra far from her thoughts, and startled when her bedroom door eased open a crack, with on blue eye visible through the opening.
"It's me, Jess," Trish said softly, still hovering at the door without yet pushing it open further. "Trish."
When Jessica didn't answer, she opened the door, slowly, carefully, as though taking pains not to make any unnecessary noises or fast movements. Likely, that was exactly the case. Trish wasn't going to forget any time soon the times she hadn't been quite so cautious about coming towards Jessica without ample warning. Jessica's instinctive hitting out had sent her to the ground or across the room on more than one occasion, and she couldn't be eager to have any repeats.
Seeing that Jessica was sitting up, not in hyperventilation mode, and her open eyes appeared oriented to the present, if somewhat distant in focus, Trish's shoulders relaxed slightly, and some of the anxiety, but none of the concern, left her eyes. She eased herself fully into the room, but made no move yet to approach the other woman.
"You okay, Jess? You were screaming out in your sleep."
So that explained why her throat hurt. Fuck. Jessica wasn't about to ask what it was she had said, and she hoped Trish wasn't going to volunteer.
Jessica nodded tightly, feeling a muscle pull in her neck. She covered a flinch, keeping her face stony, but Trish knew her better by then, enough to possibly see. She suspected as much when the blonde took one step, then another in her direction, eventually easing herself to sit beside Jessica on the bed. The whole time she kept her eyes on Jessica's, waiting for her to react negatively, and even when it became clear that Jessica was not going to, she kept just enough distance between them on the bed to allow Jessica some space.
She really had learned her lessons on Jessica Jones very well, harsh as they might have been.
"Okay," Trish responded to Jessica's nod, gently accepting the answer she had received, although Jessica knew she didn't, couldn't believe her. "I'm going to sit here anyway, though. If that's okay."
She didn't say anything else, or demand any kind of further response from Jessica. She just sat with her, not making an attempt to touch, asking and expecting nothing from her. This was the only thing that Jessica could have tolerated, the only thing that would help, and she found herself calming slowly, her breathing beginning to ease out closer in rhythm to Trish's over time.
When several minutes had passed, Trish finally broke the silence between them, her voice quiet, a suggestion rather than a request.
"You can tell me about the dreams, if you want to. I've never asked before, Jess, but it could help to say it out loud."
Jessica's jaw flexed as she shook her head, brief, but definite. To speak her visions, her memories aloud, was to make them real all over again, alive in the moment and vivid in her heart. That was something that none of the stupid fucking therapists Trish had advocated for over and over again, and even Trish herself, never seemed to get. Talking, whatever they said to the contrary, absolutely did make it all worse.
"Okay," Trish nodded, accepting her answer, though she did sigh briefly. "Okay."
Silence stretched for several more minutes, and then Trish shifted slightly on the bed, just a little closer to Jessica than before.
"I hate that you still go through this, Jess, that's all. I just wish there was a way for it to stop. I know you're not interested in therapy, or medication-"
"Yes, you do," Jessica cut her off, holding up a hand as though in shielding of the rejected words. "So save your breath, I know your speech and you know mine."
"I get it," Trish nodded, "I do. I just…Jess, I just want things to be better for you. We're in a new place, with a new life, and we're both safe now. I want you to be able to really have the rest and the peace that you deserve."
Jessica laughed sharply, the noise jagging at her raw throat, but coming out all the same. Before she could check herself, she snapped, "Like I deserve? You actually think I deserve peace?"
Trish blinked, her eyes going wide and earnest as she leaned in slightly, catching Jessica's.
"Yes, of course, Jess. Of course you do. After everything you've been through, and everything you've done-"
"I caused my entire family to die, Trish," Jessica interrupted, her voice growing louder, more intense with every few words. "I put you and anyone else who gave a damn about me in danger and exposed them to torture, just for knowing me. I failed at being a hero before I'd hardly started. I ruined more people's lives than I helped them. I dedicate myself to getting wasted more than anything that actually adds to anything or anyone in this world. I killed a woman, and then fucked her grieving husband when I fucking knew who he was, the whole fucking time. I tortured a human being," and her voice dropped in pitch then, cracking, but still she couldn't stop, she couldn't keep the words from pouring forth. "I tortured him, and I left him to die a long, painful death alone. What exactly have I done to deserve peace, Trish?"
She could feel her breath catch, ragged and harsh in her roughened throat, and a hot coiling of self-hatred bubbled in her gut when tears stung her eyes. Still, however much she loathed herself for giving in to their presence, they did provide a blurred, unreal haze to her vision, and that was almost something to be glad for. She couldn't see Trish now, didn't want to see her. Still, she sensed her shifting closer still, tensed in anticipation and automatic near recoil as Trish closed her arms around her, drawing Jessica close to her chest.
Jessica made an attempt to push herself back from her, but it was half hearted at best, and Trish was determined. The other woman tightened her arms around her, one hand moving to exert light pressure against Jessica's head, guiding it down to her shoulder. The other rested in the center of her back, pressing her against her until Jessica could feel the steady beat of Trish's heart against the wild gallop of her own.
It was weakness, undeserved, unwanted weakness, but Jessica let Trish hold her, let her head fall against the plane of her shoulder, let her eyes close and her arms stay limp in her embrace. She stayed, biting down on the inside of her cheeks, but this effort didn't stop tears from seeping beneath her eyes' tightly screwed lids.
"You did the right thing, Jessica," Trish said, quiet but firm, sounding utterly convinced of her own words. "There is not anything else you could have done that would have worked. You tried other ways, and every one of them was dangerous to you and everyone else. No matter what you tell yourself or what you think about yourself, you are a hero, Jessica Jones. That's the truth. You've always been a hero to me, and now you're a hero to so many more. You stopped him, Jessica. No one else, you. You saved countless people from being used and abused and murdered by him. It was the right thing to do. You were the only one who could do it, and you just did what you had to do."
With every word she stroked a hand over Jessica's prominent spine, carding her fingers through her tangled hair partly in effort to soothe, partly to tame it into something resembling neatness. She held her, pressing her cheek against the side of Jessica's head, and again, then again, she told her that she had been right.
Then why the fuck didn't it feel right? Why did she feel so fucking wrong?