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Jessica doesn't intend to give up drinking, and if anyone had gently suggested that she do it, especially in the wake of her mother's second death (the real one), they'd have received detailed directions to hell.
Just the same, it happens, day by day, almost by accident. At first she blames it on the kid; hanging out at Oscar's place is a hell of a lot less depressing than brooding at home, and hangovers and small children don't mix. It doesn't happen all at once, but constant company turns out to be a tolerable substitute for alcohol, distraction-wise--not that she'd ever say it out loud. Doesn't improve her personality, but saves her some money, anyway.
The opportunity to pick up the habit again falls in her lap, or tackles her at full speed, when Oscar comes into some money and packs up for the suburbs. She promises to text or e-mail the kid, maybe even call sometime, but they all know she'll never see him again. Or his father.
Even then, she doesn't drink. She goes back to work, takes on case after case, diving deep into other people's superficial problems with easy solutions, collecting her fees and moving on to the next one, and it feels good for a change. Malcolm even comes back, part-time, after doing some shady shit he won't talk about. She could push it, but she doesn't, and things go back to a state that could almost be described as normal.
Except--something's missing.
Someone.
But things can't ever go back to "normal" with Trish, whatever that means, so Jessica keeps ignoring her calls and texts and emails until they stop coming. Her phone stops buzzing around the same time that people start talking about a hot girl dressed up like a superhero who's taking down purse-snatchers or rescuing cats from trees or stopping girls from being roofied, or whatever.
Trish got what she always wanted, she supposes. She's a real hero: gives a shit and does something about it. "Good for her," she mutters, but the words stick in her throat.
For the first time in four months, she wants a drink. Really wants it, can already feel the bourbon burning a hole in the back of her throat. She wants to keep at it until she runs out, then reload and start over.
Fuck it, she thinks. She's not being graded, she doesn't have to go find a group to spill her guts and cry about a relapse or whatever. She didn't even give it up on purpose.
All work and no booze makes Jessica a dull girl, right?
Right.
Her paltry remaining supply isn't going to get her very far, so she pulls on last night's clothes and makes it halfway to the corner store before she remembers that she doesn't have any cash. The nearest bank's three blocks away. She growls in frustration, scaring a couple of passers-by, and abruptly changes course.
There's a line two miles long for the ATM, so she heads inside.
She doesn't notice the guys with the ski masks until it's too late.
"Down on the ground," one of them yells, waving a gun in her direction. The other patrons comply without being asked twice, but Jessica's already annoyed; she should be drooling into her pillow with an empty bottle in hand, not defending hostages. Really, who even cares if they rob the bank? It's all insured and the bank's the biggest crook of them all.
She sighs heavily and throws the nearest ski-mask guy into a wall before he even has a chance to protest.
"Just don't hurt anybody," she tells the one with his gun trained on the teller, "then give me a fucking $20 so I can get on with my day, and in exchange I won't punch you into next Tuesday. Deal?"
And goddamnit, it's actually working--as in, she's got her $20 in hand, no one's hurt except the guy she pushed, and the four of them are almost out the door with their loot--when who crashes in to save the day but a former child star in a Halloween costume, way out of her depth as usual.
Who else?
Trish stands there, hands on her hips, sternly warning the ski masks to drop everything and put their hands up, or else.
The role she was born to play.
"We already made a deal," says one of the guys, pointing at Jessica, who'd managed to escape Trish's notice. "That one said she wouldn't get in our way, so move it."
Trish glances at her and seems to be thrown off-balance for about half a second. "I'm not with her," Trish says, and Jessica almost laughs. "You don't have a deal with me."
He snorts and tries to push past her.
Jessica could've told him that was a mistake.
Of course, she also could've told him that the superhero thwarting his robbery is "It's Patsy" (or, hell, "Trish Talk") herself, cosplaying as Catwoman, pretending she hasn't done worse things than these morons could ever dream of.
But whatever, let Trish get off on her alleged altruism, that's not Jessica's business anymore. Ten more minutes of this crap, tops, and then it's off to blow her $20 and get the party started. Hell, maybe she won't even wait until she gets home; paper bags were invented for a reason. Then things'll really be back to normal, or as normal as they're ever going to get.
Trish takes down the would-be thieves with ease and tosses the bag of cash back to the teller. When she turns to Jessica, she manages to look exhilarated and smug at the same time. She's just opened her mouth to speak when the sirens start.
It feels like Jessica blinks and she's gone, but that's probably not how it happened. Maybe it was a long blink. She stuffs her $20 in her pocket and books it to the corner store.
She already knows she's not going to get off that easy, so she doesn't pretend to be surprised when she finds Trish waiting for her at home. "You're trespassing."
"So get a restraining order," Trish says. She's back in her normal clothes, lounging around Jessica's place like nothing's changed. "Or throw me out. I won't even put up a fight. But I know you want to talk to me."
"Shouldn't you be out patrolling the neighborhood or listening to a police scanner or something? Isn't that how you people spend your nights?"
"So you've heard about me." Trish examines her fingernails. "I wondered."
"Sure," Jessica says. "Our own friendly neighborhood Catwoman. More Halle Berry than Michelle Pfeiffer."
"I'm not that friendly," she snaps.
"That's right, you're capable of murder. I remember."
She'd expected more of a reaction, but Trish just nods at the bottle in her hand and says, "Thought you'd given it up." Fucking Malcolm. She makes a note to fire him again.
"Yeah, well, quitters never win." She gestures at the door. "On that note, get out. I've got plans."
Trish shakes her head, as if she has any right to be disappointed in anything Jessica does, ever again. "You know I didn't do it to hurt you. I did it to save you. If the police had gotten there first, you'd be dead. Hell, even if you'd gotten away, who knows what she would've done, eventually?"
She must have been preparing for this argument for months. Jessica remembers some of it from the texts and voicemails she deleted. "I could have--"
"No," Trish says. "Not your fantasy. You know exactly how it would have played out for real."
She rolls her eyes. "You want to talk about fantasies? Tell me, did you actually walk into a sex shop to buy that costume, or did you have it delivered?"
Jessica was kind of hoping she'd be so offended that she'd storm out, but instead Trish bursts out laughing.
She sighs. "Look, can we do this another time? Or never? I've had a shitty day, and I just want to be alone. So get out."
"Doesn't sound like a great idea, Jess." Before she can even formulate a rebuttal, the bottle's in Trish's hand. One of these days Jessica has got to stop being surprised that Trish has new, annoying abilities.
"What if I say I forgive you? Will you leave?"
Trish considers the question. "No, because you wouldn't mean it." She finds a glass, fills it, and holds it out like a peace offering. "And I actually don't need your forgiveness. Not anymore."
Jessica ignores the glass in Trish's hand and retrieves the bottle. Trish looks a little wounded. Good. "Then what can I say to end this so I can get on with my night?"
She pauses. "Just say you understand, and you don't hate me."
"And that's not forgiveness?"
"Not if you don't want it to be."
Jessica takes a long swig. "You said you didn't want me to lie."
"But you do understand, even though you keep pretending not to, and you obviously don't hate me."
Trish is uncomfortably close, all of a sudden, but Jessica stands her ground. "You sure about that?"
"You could've thrown me out if you really wanted to. You could do it right now." When Jessica doesn't move, Trish smiles like she's won. "See?" She's practically purring.
"I'm tired," she says. "Like I said, I've had a shitty day. Got stuck in a bank during a robbery, ran into you."
"I'm not leaving until you say it and mean it."
"Then enjoy watching me drink until I'm physically unable to keep at it," she says, sitting down to put some distance between them. "I'm done talking."
True to her word, Trish sits on the edge of her bed and watches her as she drains one bottle after another. Doing it with a silent audience is a little unnerving, but not enough to stop.
When she finally finishes the last one, she mutters "Go away" into her pillow before pretending to pass out, facedown.
She stays still long enough that she eventually does fall asleep, and when she wakes up in the middle of the night, Trish is still there. She's curled up beside Jessica, an arm slung around her waist, too close for comfort, because this isn't how it's supposed to be, not anymore. But she is tired, so fucking tired, so she just goes back to sleep.
In the morning, Trish is even closer, lips pressed against the back of her neck, holding her even tighter, as if she has any right to crawl into Jessica's bed like nothing happened, to be here, to touch her, ever again. Sister, best friend, lover; the lines might have blurred in the past, but none of those terms apply to them anymore. Jessica could fight, yell, throw her out, if she wanted to.
Instead, she closes her eyes, and when she opens them seconds, minutes, hours later, she's alone.
Just like she wanted.
Right?
Later, she finds a note: "Out protecting the neighborhood. Find me when you're ready."
She crumples it up and throws it in the general direction of her wastebasket. As if things could ever go back to the way they were, as if she could ever forget.
But turnabout is fair play, so after a while, she lets herself into Trish's place and waits.
It takes a couple of hours, but Trish eventually bursts in, flushed and only slightly worse for wear, her ridiculous costume stuffed into her purse. When she notices Jessica, her face breaks into a smile, and Jessica promptly forgets the angry speech she'd planned.
"You're trespassing," Trish says.
"You invited me. Big difference."
"Oh, right." Trish hangs her purse on the doorknob and sits next to Jessica on the couch. "So did you come all the way here to tell me to fuck off, or what?"
"Look, I'm here, okay? It's a big step."
Trish throws her arms around Jessica, who doesn't hug her back. "I'm so sorry."
"I know," she says into Trish's shoulder. "I read the text messages."
"You don't have to tell me that things can never go back to the way they were," Trish says, pulling away. "I'm a different person now, and I'm sure you are, too." She hesitates. "But maybe, if you want, we could get to know each other as we are now."
Trish reaches for her hand.
She could pull away, walk out the door, never come back, if she wanted to.
But she doesn't.
Maybe that's a start.