#ailourosa

it’s  been  long  enough that the adrenaline has seeped out of her system.  they’ve done the thing with the cops where they answer questions  (  vague  ;  in jessica’s case disrespectful  ).  fatigue is heavy in her limbs along with a strange, intangible sense of  mourning  for that fucking idiot in the devil costume with his self-righteous pandering.  

he’s  dead. 

they’ve won the battle but it never comes without a price.  

&  so she finds herself at trish’s side, going in trish’s front door because her apartment is still a crime scene  ;  blood  & viscous  &  brain.  it’s an excuse because she knows that she  almost                   

❛  hey, trish?  ❜

she almost lost trish, she almost lost  everything  she has left, almost didn’t make it back.  her fingers loop around trish’s wrist when they get inside.  &  even she’s all impulse, the decision rooted in leaden limbs  &  an honesty born of threadbare inhibitions, not enough sleep, too much to drink....  

what u think tho / @ailourosa.

❛            do  we  have  to do this today?  ❜  the door screams on its hinges, misshapen edges catching on the frame.  the old wood is worn, warped, pushed too many times at a crooked angle  &  too weary to endure the  FORCE  of jessica’s temper.  when it slams against the jamb, it creaks back open again.  

by then, long, impatient strides have already taken her to her desk, to the bottom drawer for her bottom shelf liquor.  

she wraps a hand around the cap and twists.  

she can’t do it, can’t look into the hopeful upturn of trish’s chin  &  those wide, trusting eyes when she still sees the red gush of hope’s death pouring out into her hands, when she  knows  that kilgrave’s demise doesn’t exonerate her even if she doesn’t have to fear looking around the corner anymore. 

she can’t hear the breath of the word  hero  when she’s still struggling just to get out of bed in the morning.  

he can’t place her face, not with the adrenaline flooding him and his trigger finger itching, but he knows he’s seen it somewhere       she’s probably seen his too, he’s a little hard to miss.

/stares @

                  hope tiptoes silently upon the hardwood cold floors of trish’s place, hoping not to awaken the blond asleep on the couch. worry etches upon her face even in sleep -––– hope knows that jessica is the source. she feels it too, and wonders where that superhero is right now. if she is saving the world or destroying herself. ( somedays, they look the same. ) hope doesn’t spend much time with trish alone, and she wonders if the other woman noticed. she’s sure she has. something unsettles her about trish walker -–– maybe because the woman feels so good, so stable. there was a prickling of violet pulling her chin, hope knows, but she doesn’t regard the woman as a survivor of kilgrave like jessica or malcolm or the others. she knows the woman has her own demons ; maybe a part of her is foolishly jealous, wishing that her own demons could still just be her own. she feels too out of control with the strangers hiding in her mind nowadays.

                  she crouches, level now with with trish, eyes narrowing to look better in the dimming light at the woman napping. a hand reaches out and she brushes at her hair, noting how much more golden even the strands seem upon her head rather than hope’s own. she thinks of dyeing it -–– hot pink. no, aqua blue. or maybe just auburn. something that would make it so she would feel less aware of the fact that people on the streets might recognize her. but a part of her likes her blonde hair. a part of her likes that she, at least with her hair, feels some superficial bond with trish walker.

                  ❛     sometimes at night, i can’t picture                   my mom or dad anymore. it’s getting                   harder to ; they’re blurring. or i just                   see their blood from when i -–– but.                   your face comes through. instantly. i                   can picture me standing next to you                  and pretend that in another world                  maybe you are my mom, and jessica is                  too, and that i never did such awful                  things to a torn family and they were                  strangers who destroyed themselves                  without my hand in it. i’m too old for                  fairytales, right ? but still, it feels                  nice to think of it before the night-                 mares come for me.       ❜

                  a sigh comes through and hope pulls the blanket up higher on trish, sitting on the ground and leaning her head on the couch. she closes her eyes, and wonders what the other blonde would think if she woke up to hope like this, so close. hope’s hand stays on trish’s arm, and in the connection she can feel the other woman’s heartbeat. she stays her hand there like a lifeline.

❛                 please,   ❜  lexa motions  to the space across from her in a clean, unattached motion.  her glasses sit on the opposite side of her keyboard with her pen.  she  plucks  it up, slaps a slab of looseleaf paper down in front of her.  her brows lift in the kind of  appraising  way that suggests she’s waiting for the other woman to start.  ❛   have a seat  &  we can begin, ms. walker.   ❜