I originally wrote this for a friend on tumblr. I'm going ahead and moving my fics over here before they get purged at the whims of the tumblr staff. This is set before the beginning of season one, but after Jessica escapes Killgrave. Can be read as Jess/Trish if you want. Originally posted on my blog sneezehq.

Turns out that waking up to the pale sunlight shining in your face is a lot less romantic when you have a hangover. The rays of light are like needles stabbing into the back of Jessica's eye sockets and boring into her skull. Groaning, she rolls onto her side and pulls a pillow over her head to block out the light. Between her pounding head and churning stomach, Jessica can already tell that today is going to be a shitty day.

How much did she have to drink last night, anyway? Definitely not as much as usual, so why does she feel so crappy? Headache, upset stomach, and … her throat is sore, sinuses congested and blocked. Her entire head feels stuffed with cotton, and she's forced to breathe through her mouth if she wants enough air. Wonderful. These aren't the usual hangover symptoms-which means that she's sick.

Warily, Jessica snakes a hand out of bed to grab her phone. It's dead. She must have forgotten to plug it in again last night. Groaning, she plugs it in and makes her way to the kitchen.

The clock on the microwave reads 1:35, and Jessica groans again, running a hand through her hair and rubbing her eyes wearily. She should probably actually try to get some work done today, so she grabs a bottle of vodka and her laptop, seating herself at the table. Alcohol kills germs, plus you're supposed to drink fluids when you're sick, and alcohol counts as a fluid, right? A voice in the back of her mind that sounds suspiciously like Trish scolds her.

Taking a gulp of vodka, Jessica opens her email and pulls up the file for her latest case. The vodka burns it's way down her sensitive throat, but she forces herself to swallow anyway. A couple more gulps and she's adjusted to the pain.

She clicks through the details of the file, scowling. Just a pair of rich parents worried about whether the guy that their daughter was dating was up to their standards. "He seems to have a suspicious background, and untrustworthy friends." This whole thing is just a massive waste of time, but at least it pays well.

With a little bit of searching and minimal effort on her part, Jessica manages to find the guy's address. She hastily grabs the nearest piece of paper-a bill, from the looks of it-and scribbles it down, pausing to cough harshly into her elbow. Each cough tears through her throat and leaves it raw and stinging, and she can feel the unwelcome sensation of congestion building in her lungs with each breath. Perfect. Just perfect.

Upon leaving the apartment after hastily throwing a couple of things in a bag, it doesn't take her long to find the guy's apartment-and to locate a conveniently placed fire escape across from the apartment, perfect for observation. Jessica muffles a few more coughs into her arm and wipes her nose on her sleeve.

Ricky Martin. 23 years old, works at a local bakery and attended community college nearby. No wonder the girl's parents don't want them to date, Jessica muses, taking another slug from the bottle of vodka she'd brought along. Because what is a stakeout without any alcohol?

Well, despite the girlfriend's parents' concerns and several hours of observing him, Jessica has yet to come up with any dirt on this dude. It's becoming more and more difficult to keep her eyes open, and her entire body feels heavy with fatigue. Sighing, she decides that now is as good of a time as any to call it quits, with or without evidence. The parents are just going to have to accept that their daughter is going to date who she wants.

Jessica would tell them that herself, but that's not going to get her paid.

Gripping the railing of the rickety old staircase tightly, Jessica hauls herself clumsily to her feet. Her fingers leave little dents in the metal. Immediately after standing up, her head swims and she feels herself swaying on her feet, but it's manageable until she makes the mistake of glancing over the railing. The third story suddenly seems much higher off the ground, and the dizziness increases tenfold. Jessica sinks to her knees, closing her eyes and burying her face in her knees in an attempt to regain equilibrium.

She doesn't recall picking up the phone or dialing anyone, but all of a sudden Trish's worried face is looming in her vision. She appears to be saying something, but Jessica can't make out the words to save her life. Trish suddenly pulls her to her feet, and the world tilts dangerously sideways. Jessica barely musters the energy to groan weakly before everything goes black.

It doesn't feel like she's slept for that long, but the next time Jessica wakes, she's in a room in Trish's fancy apartment. She opens her eyes gingerly and sits up slowly. Her body still doesn't feel completely better, but it's a big improvement from before.

Speaking of Trish-her ex-best friend is slumped in a chair across the Jessica's bedside. At the sound of the covers rustling, her blonde head jerks up and her eyes shoot open. There are dark shadows under her eyes and her hair is a mess, light strands scattered everywhere like an avant-garde bird's nest. Jessica feels a pang of guilt at her haggard appearance.

"You feeling any better?" Trish asks hoarsely, her voice small. There's a tiny sliver of hope in her expression, and Jessica's stomach twists at the thought of crushing it.

"Much better. Thanks," Jessica replies awkwardly, staring intently at the bedsheets. It's like they're strangers meeting for the first time again. "I should get going," she announces, throwing the covers off and swinging her legs over the side of the bed. No use wasting any more of Trish's time than she has to.

"Jess, wait! You're not completely better, you should stay here and rest. You passed out before!"

"I'm okay now," she insists, not meeting Trish's gaze. She's out of the room and down the hall before Trish can even move to come after her. Trish finally catches up to her when she's about to leap off the balcony.

"Jessica, please wait! I'm worried about you!"

She doesn't turn around. "I'm sorry. I wish things were different." Trish doesn't manage to say anything else before she jumps.

In half a minute she's heading back to her apartment. Sick or well, she's got a case to work on.

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