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When young Patricia Walker first realized that most little girls didn’t have a life like hers, isolation planted its poisonous roots.
They grew as it became apparent that other little girls didn’t have to worry about their image being subjected to the judgement of millions.
They didn’t have an entire PR team dictating their every little move, word, thought.
They didn’t have a full time career that they were quickly starting to resent.
They didn’t have a mother as a boss, coach, and pimp. Nor a judge, jury and executioner.
Where they got bedtime stories, she got scripts.
Where they got hugs and kisses she got bruises and cuts.
Where they got handmade lunches, she got celery and diet pills.
As the differences became more and more prominent, the more she dissociated. The more she was convinced that the kind relationships she portrayed on television didn't really exist.
She learned to walk and talk like the other girls, being normal her greatest role.
It was only then that she thought she might just be in the perfect profession.
No, other little girls’ heads were filled with sugar and spice and everything nice.
That is, except for one.
When Patsy Walker first met Jessica Jones, she admittedly hadn’t given much thought to the pale, gothic girl she sometimes saw in passing. Even when she was lying broken in a hospital bed, the sole survivor of her entire family, Patsy’s only thought had been about how Jessica was going to impose on her own life. Sure, her image needed a little cleaning, but adopting someone ? Adopting her ? Was her mom serious ?
The first time Patsy is introduced to Jessica Jones, she is crying.
The next time Trish sees her cry, her hands are covered in someone else's blood.
When Patsy Walker first discovered the magic properties of alcohol, she saw no way back, and sure as hell didn’t want one.
Under the haze of alcohol, she finally began to find her life tolerable. She started befriending her fellow starlets, and consequently other substances. Every interaction was astonishingly shallow and so darkly amusing that it became just as addicting as the hooch. She’d talk about the same trivial bullshit for hours, feign passion just to see it matched by her acting competitor.
She found it just as hard to contain her laughter as it was to suppress the need to violently throw up the dangerous concoctions in her stomach.
So she held everything in.
Until she got home that is. As soon as she passed the threshold of Jess’s bedroom, there was no stopping the tide of hysterical laughter. Of vomit. And then tearful laughter, so bitterly biting that even Jessica Jones winced.
Jessica was not happy about these nights.
She remarked baitingly and threw glances from the corners of her eyes, but never ever lectured.
Jess never once raised her voice, and made sure her mother didn’t either.
For a countless number of nights, Jessica played nurse and bodyguard. She had always been a paradox of hard and soft. Hard on everyone, soft on Trish.
Manning her bedroom door and tending to the mess that was Patsy, she flickered back and forth at a moment's notice.
Trish found herself drinking harder in anticipation of the softness. Of Jess holding her hair back as she emptied her stomach of jager and bile. The small circles she’d rub into her bare skin.
That minimal physical contact making her feel infinitely more warm than the alcohol ever did.
When Trish discovered her attraction to her best friend is much harder to pinpoint. She supposes it had been there from the beginning, and only grown stronger. Seemingly only potent to her.
She remembered the itchy palms when Jess would carelessly strip on arriving home from school.
The quickened breaths when Jess would stand toe to toe with men twice her size, a smirk on her lips and a deceivingly innocent tilt of the head.
The thigh squeezing and the mysterious thirst she would get watching as Jess inevitably fought these men, the brute strength displayed in cutting them down with increasing speed. The arousal that thrummed through her was only hidden by years and years of practice.
Trish could admit that she had a thing for Jess’s hard side.
Trish couldn’t quite admit that she began to favor wine for the sole purpose of disguising her almost perpetual blush.
When Trish Walker first realized that she was in love with her best friend, it was after Jess took it upon herself to drink every single drop of alcohol in her apartment.
“Just cuz’ I don’t want you drinking it, doesn't mean I’m gonna let it go to waste”,
she slurred slightly, pointing a bottle of vodka slightly to the left of Trish. Satisfied that Trish was gonna stop arguing with her, she continued to drain bottle after bottle, all while pointedly staring Trish in the eyes. Trish couldn’t quite meet her gaze, but there was this strangely pleasant tightness in her chest and throat.
Then there was music playing from somewhere and she invited Trish to her one woman party as if they don’t live there together. As Jess got progressively more drunk, her dancing was reduced to elaborate eyebrow movements and tripping over absolutely nothing. Trish was only under the influence of her best friend, but she felt high as a kite. Trish found herself laughing like never before. She felt weightless and full of adrenaline, all her nerves released in the loud, harsh barks of laughter that only Jess could prompt.
Jess passed out on top of the Trish’s sheets that night, an empty bottle of scotch clutched to her chest. She’s a badass superhero with nerves of steel and all Trish could think about is how cute she looked when she slept. With her red lips pouting in determination, Trish liked to think that she was off fighting bad guys in her dreams.
She spent half the night staring at Jess, fantasizing and wishing. The meaning behind this gesture over her other countless acts of heroism, prompted a warmth in Trish’s chest. It was methodically unconventional, reckless, and just so like Jess to disguise her concern like this. If asked about her motivations for this little stunt, she’d most likely claim that she’s some kind of selfish drunk mooching off her rich best friend.
There was a stain on her expensive comforter, and raven hair tickled her nose as it splayed out across her designer pillows. And she wouldn’t have it any other way. The steady breaths of the only person she trusted lulled her to sleep. She felt more safe, content and the happy than she ever thought possible.
There is nothing growing inside her but inexplicable warmth.
Trish thought that maybe this is what love feels like.
Needless to say, Trish stopped drinking.
Jess didn’t.
For once, her hero needed her help, and she felt more powerless than ever.
To hear those three words out of Jessica’s mouth was all Trish ever wanted.
When she first does, it leaves an empty hole in her chest. She is stripped of words, of breath. The world stops turning and goes faster than ever before in the next second.
Any joy she could have felt was immediately clouded by the crippling fear that she could possibly never have the chance to say it back.
When she hears those words again, they are followed by the sickening crack of a neck.
A grown up Trish Walker decides that everything was undoubtedly worth it.