#* jessica.

“- hey! do you not know how to answer your phone?” is almost lost over the whir of wind as jessica jumps onto the ledge of the roof beside matt, camera in hand and bag in the other. she sits down in the space beside him, lets her legs hang off the edge. thinks to hand him the camera but thinks better of it. instead, she unsheathes a cheap bottle of red wine she’d intended to bring home, still wrapped in a brown bag from the bodega, along with a new cork screw.

jessica’s grip tightens on the hand entwined in hers – not hard enough to break bone or even hurt him, easy as it would be, but it’s a warning, nonetheless. even as she seems powerless to stop their migration from the bar to the dance floor. thankfully, this isn’t josie’s – it’s some shitty little overpriced college bar, but it means tonight’s throwback night which means the dj’s abusing the same joan jett on repeat. 

it doesn’t take long to reach trish’s place.  thinks of finding her overdosed,  passed out on the floor  --  dead  --  and as much as she vehemently hates her right now,  or so she thinks  --  as much as the idea of her is poisoned,  jessica knows she couldn’t bare the thought.  the door is kicked open with her foot when it doesn’t budge,  and alarms from the armed security system ring loud as she searches for trish wildly. 

“trish!”  she searches,  searches,  until she finds her on the floor behind the kitchen counter.  her heart catches at the sight of her  --  the first time seeing her,  for all these months since--since then.  she can feel the ghost of alisa’s blood on her cheeks, all over her hands,  the cold of gunmetal between her all too steady fingers--

jessica bends.  doesn’t touch. 

“trish,”  she says again.  gets a look at her,  inhales sharply because she knows she has a fever, has that glass-eyed look to her and doesn't know if she's using, and hates the idea of all of it.   “jesus  --  you need to go to a hospital.”