Home was a funny, fucked up thing. To Jessica it was the smell of laundry detergent and juice boxes (Phillip's favorite), or the glint of a flask of Wild Turkey wrapped up in a ratty flannel shirt , or the feeling of the grooves in the front cover of her diary, from where she'd carved her name and the words "PRIVATE" onto it with a ball-point pen.

And all that was gone.

Yes, Trish was her best friend. But once you caused a car crash that murdered your whole family you didn't get the luxury of just starting over. Instead you took the little love you got, held onto it so tight and hard your fingers turned into a fist, and then you punched the world in the face. It was the last place anybody would think to look for love, inside a fist.

That had been Jessica's strategy, but as she pushed through the revolving door of Trish's (technically their) apartment building she thought she might need a new one. Only a tap and the doors spun, hurling her out of the cold chaos of the street and into the lobby where the security guard sitting at the desk blinked, then went back to watching his monitors. Jessica sprinted to the elevators. She was moving so fast she couldn't slip on the freshly polished marble floors.

14 texts and Trish hadn't responded to a single one. Kilgrave could have had her right now making her do fuck knew what. When Jessica reached the elevator, she stabbed the up button, bouncing on her heels.

"Come the fuck on."

Above her head the light inched from circle to circle slower than a stalled download bar.

3…2..

Jessica's hands were between the metal doors before it hit one. She leaned into her shoulder, ignoring the ache in her muscles that promised this was a stupid fucking plan.

Ding.

The door opened. Jessica fell inside and again returned to the ritual of pounding the buttons. Although she kept from using her fist. The super for the building was already too well acquainted with the strange "accidents" that seemed to follow her around, and breaking the elevator wouldn't get it there any quicker. Neither would chanting, "Seriously, hurry the fuck up." but Jessica tried it anyway.

Eleven floors, another sprint down a hallway, and three more repetitions of "Please, please, please," later and Jessica was wrenching the key in the lock, yelling, "Trish! Are you there?"

The door gave.

Trish sat at the kitchen counter, perched on one of her stools, pouring over tomorrow's show-notes for Trish Talks. She perked up. "Jessica?"

Jessica hadn't realized how tense she had been until she wasn't anymore. Not just her clenched fists and pursed lips, but her guts. The thought of Kilgrave with Trish made even the nooks and crannies of her body feel like a pulled rubber-band. But he wasn't here. She could feel it.

"Trish." Still, Jessica stayed in the doorframe, right at the edge of the plush carpet Trish had bought, because in her words "Jessica, I swear to God you stomp everywhere. It's too loud." Now Jessica felt light on her feet, dizzy. Her toes twitched inside her winter boots, the only part of her still cold from outside.

Trish raised her eyebrows and twirled her pencil, once, innocuously. "So how was the meeting with your client?"

"Did you meet a man tonight? British. Well-dressed. An asshole."

Trish rolled her eyes, and then her shoulders, straightening, as if to demonstrate that she had been hunched over for the last three hours. Or maybe because she actually had. "No. I've been here all night. Working. Because you asked me to. Why?"

"You didn't answer my texts."

"You know I keep it off when I work." Trish held up her phone. The screen was black.

"Right."

The problem with having an actress for a best friend was that Trish was a great liar. If Kilgrave was controlling her nothing in her body language gave it way. Her posture was perfect, now that she was no longer working, but socializing, and her blonde hair was as shiny and neat as if she had just gotten it blown out.

"Okaaaay," Trish drawled. "You wanna tell me where you were, since you're clearly freaking out. Who's this British guy?"

Jessica dragged herself over to the cabinet, pulling out the bottle of scotch. The good stuff. If she didn't know that Trish loved her, the fact that she never scrimped on their booze budget proved it.

I would know. If he had done something, I would know. I could tell. It's Trish.

Jessica closed the newly installed cabinets with a whomp. The wood, fancy as it was still fractured from the force. Jessica winced.

"Jesus, Jess. That's the second cabinet this year."

Jessica took a swig from the bottle and scotch slipped down her throat, straight to her belly where it mingled with the acidic guilt already festering there. "I'll pay you back."

"We both know you can't. Come on. Sit down and tell me what's going on."

Sighing, Jessica finally joined Trish. Just to be safe, and hating herself for it, Jessica chose the stool on the far end of the counter. It wasn't like Trish could hurt her, if Kilgrave had in fact gotten a hold of her. But better safe than sorry.

"I had a weird client."

Trish shuffled her papers, turning them over, caressing the corner of the page, just the edge of it. She was just asking for a papercut. "Yeah? How so?"

"He has powers."

"Like yours?" Trish clarified gently. Trish was too damn good with people for her own good.

"Yeah, but not," Jessica shook her head, searching for the words to describe what he was. "He can control people… with his voice, I think."

The back of her throat still felt a little dry just remembering the mothy aftertaste of his control. The way he had crowded out everything else. Changed her. "Be polite, Jessica."

"Like a vampire?" Trish smiled patiently. Her years of interviewing celebrities about their exotic pets and dramatic dating lives could make any question sound sane.

"A vampire?"

Trish shrugged, smiling sheepishly. "Factoid left over from that audition I did for The Vampire Hunter. You know persuasion. Compulsion."

"God, you were pissed when you lost that role." The beginnings of a smile cracked at Jessica's tight mouth, and she raised her voice in a breathy imitation of Trish. "I do so look like I could kick ass, damn it. Tell me I can kick ass, Jess."

"I think that's when I bought you the costume." Trish leaned in over the chairs between them, eyebrows waggling as she crooned. "I still have it, if — "

"No," Jessica said. She sounded bitter. Even for her. Back then she'd ditched the idea of being some kind of caped crusader because it was silly, and she'd figure low-grade strength super-power fit low-grade, private detective crimes. She was not a part of the Avengers.

But now… Now, the idea of donning some kind of skimpy costume and pretending to be good rankled for a different reason.

She could still feel his fingers on the back of his hand, so clearly she'd swear she could remember the texture of the whorls of his fingerprints. His touch had been hot and had made her feel hot and slick. Like freshly spilled blood.

"He's not a vampire," Jessica said. "I don't know what he is. I just know he's dangerous, and I've got to find him."

"Slow down. What did he do?"

"He made a man kill himself. Well, tried." Jessica twitched, glancing reflexively back at the cabinet, and the bottle of scotch hidden behind its now cracked facade. But it wouldn't matter how much she drank. It wouldn't change anything. "Just told him to slit his throat and he did. Thankfully, the waiter lacked wrist strength and the knife wasn't sharp so..."

"Jesus, Jess! And you're going looking for this maniac? What if he does that to you?" There was real panic in Trish's voice, which was saying something. Trish hated sounding weak in front of anyone, and since she spoke for a living, she had weird control of her vocal cords.

A shiver rippled across her chest, but she didn't feel cold. The base of her throat radiated warmth, her heart pounded. " Let you go? Oh, sweetheart." Jessica hated pet names. Hated him. But he had tasted... He had tasted like the bottom of the bottle, like passing out, like oblivion, like the things you aren't supposed to be able to look at in the eye, let alone kiss. Funny, she was beginning to think that him controlling her wasn't the problem at all.

It's me controlling myself.

"He can't," she said, but her voice shook.

"Well even if he can't. He can control other people, right? This sounds like more than just a couple of assholes in an alleyway." Trish's fist closed around the pencil, gripping it so tightly that even with her human strength Jessica was beginning to worry it might break.

"Trish, you're the one who wanted me to be a hero." Jessica scooted herself a chair closer and grabbed Trish's hand. When they made contact, Trish's fingers unclenched. Unlike Kilgrave, Trish's skin was warm and dry. Grounding. They always did that for each other.

"Sorry, it's just…" Trish didn't let go, but squeezed Jessica's palm in return. " Just the idea of someone could do that to you, to anyone. It's like Dorthoy and drugs all over again and I — "

"Hey. It's okay," Jessica soothed.

Trish was trembling, her jaw gritted so tight, Jessica was worried she was going to break a tooth.

"You're good. You're okay. Restraining order remember? She's not coming any-fucking-where near you." With that, Jessica stood and brought Trish into a hug fierce enough, Trish would've bitched about super-strength if thinking about abusive mother hadn't gotten her so worked up. Which was unusual. Eyes closed, Jessica whispered into her hair. "Are you sure you didn't see anyone weird?"

Jessica counted Trish's breaths in the silence. She sniffed at her hair, searching for his signature scent. But there was no trace of black leather and vanilla, just Trish's light herbal, floral shampoo.

"No," Trish said.

Jessica exhaled a puff of resignation, allowing herself to melt into Trish's arms. This wasn't like Trish. Usually, Trish would be clamoring to not only start some big mission, but to come along. But if this was Kilgrave's doing, what could she do other than sit and wait for it to wear off? And if it wasn't? The guilt and booze in her stomach seemed to harden, fusing together.

"Are you sure you want to find this guy?" Trish asked in a small voice.

She's just agreeing with what you've said for the past five years. You're not a hero. You're just a girl with a wicked vertical and a talent for turning small-time crooks into your punching bag.

"You know what," Jessica said, too exhausted to lie, "I'm not."