Chapter Text
“And the award goes to Patsy Walker for Patsy Walker!”
Jessica watches Trish walk up to the stage to accept her award on the huge tv in Trish's apartment.
(Jessica also lives there, technically, but only ever calls it Trish's apartment.)
Jessica is sitting on the couch with two fingers of bourbon in a glass that cost probably as much as her wardrobe. It's easy to come by booze and pretty much anything if you're underage when your roommate is a child star. For free to boot.
The audio is on, but Jessica isn't listening to Trish's acceptance speech. She's undoubtedly thanking all her obsessive fans that voted for Patsy Walker.
Trish told Jessica she wasn't going to use tonight, but Jessica isn't with her to make sure. Trish is going to the ceremony with some dumb, hot starlet. Some sort of PR move to make Trish Walker seem desirable and grown up. Jessica doesn't really know. Trish mentioned she had a date for the teen something something whatever awards and Jessica stopped listening and immediately started researching him.
Trish can't keep hanging out with bad news guys for great PR.
She's scrutinizing Trish's mouth and eyes, still not listening to what she’s saying; perfectly enunciated words from years of acting classes, dialect coaches, and an overbearing stage mom. Fuck, Trish. You said you wouldn't.
No one would be able to tell that Trish is high, and probably at least a little drunk. She can, though. Trish’s eyes (slightly out of focus and dilated) and the way she takes longer to shape her mouth to enunciate give her away.
Jessica passes out, curled up on the couch with another half a bottle of whiskey.
She is woken up abruptly by a slamming door, a low murmuring voice, and Trish’s melodic, yet stilted, laughter. She sits up and looks over the back of the couch. Trish is with what’s-his-name, and he’s touching Trish way too much. Trish stumbles in on too tall heels, made even more wobbly by the crap she’s taken.
“Nice night for a bender.”
Trish and pretty boy are both startled and look up. She props herself up on pretty boy and squints in the darkness towards Jessica’s voice.
Trish eventually slurs out, “Jessssssssss!”
Trish pushes off of her awards show date who is holding Trish up. He looks in the same state as Trish, if not worse. Without anyone propping her up, Trish staggers briefly before falling into her kitchen table. Shards of glass fly across the floor as a vase on the table hits the floor.
“Ooops! Feeling a little clumsy this evening,” Trish apologizes, still slumped over and giggling.
Jessica stands up and walks into the kitchen. Not again, Trish.
“That’s okay, babe,” the dumb guy is back, leaning heavily on the table and looking like an asshole, “It’s not a party until someone breaks a glass. Opa!” He staggers his way forward and grabs a glass from the table and smashes it on the ground.
“Well, I think the party is over, machismo,” Jessica emphasizes, tone flat. She marches over, ignoring the glass that is embedding in her feet.
Meathead starts lewdly running his hands up and down Trish’s sides while looking into Jessica’s eyes, “No need to get jealous, baby, there’s enough Chad for everyone.” his voice is low, and it’s disgusting.
Jessica makes a rough noise and grabs his arm. She squeezes it quickly and tightly so that he twists away from Trish. He yelps, “Hey! Ow!”
She twists his arm, grabbing his opposite shoulder, and slams him into the wall face first. Probably using more strength than necessary. Sue me.
“I said party’s over, Chad,” Jessica barks. Jessica marches him to the front door as he struggles weakly, opens it and shoves him out.
He looks at Jessica wide-eyed and shocked, “How did you—”
“Pilates,” She slams the door in his face with a loud bang.
He quickly starts banging on the door, yelling loud enough to be heard through the thick wood. She rolls her eyes, and heads back to the doorway picking up his tacky, trendy shoes from the foyer and roughly opening the door.
“What about my-” Dummy starts to open his mouth, but Jessica cuts him off again. She whips his shoes at his face one at a time, and they make a satisfying sound when they connect.
“Don’t call us, we’ll call you.”
The lock on the door clicks, and she turns back to the kitchen. She feels a sting from the glass again and bloody footprints now litter Trish’s pristine foyer. She’ll fix it later.
When she enters the kitchen again, Jessica can’t find Trish. Fuck, where can you even hide in an open-concept apartment! She hears glass moving on the floor and walks around the table. Jessica sees Trish, now on way to the floor with an arm half slung over the seat of a kitchen chair to keep her upright. Trish shuffles, tries to stand, but her heels can’t get traction on the glass strewn floor.Her head lolls from side to side and her feet slide aimlessly on ground. There are small cuts on her legs and feet.
She grabs the bag of dumb guy’s drugs off the kitchen table and stuffs it in her pants’ pocket. Jessica crouches down next to Trish, and gently pushes her blonde hair out of her face. “It would almost be funny if it wasn’t so damn sad, Trish,” Jess says, quietly. She’s not sure if Trish can even hear her.
Trish rolls her head towards Jessica, her hair falls back in her face. “S’not my fault you hate all my boyfriends,” Trish retorts. Her speech is even, if slurred.
Jessica huffs, smoothing her hair back again. “It’s not my fault you date rocks with hair.”
Trish laughs way too hard at this, a breathy drunken giggle. “You mean, it’s not my fault that PR sets me up with rocks with hair.”
Almost defensively, Trish turns away from her and brings her arms in, but slips off the chair and falls completely on the floor. Trish’s limbs fold awkwardly beneath her, glass digging into her long legs.
Jessica slips one arm beneath Trish’s legs and cradles Trish’s head in the crook of her elbow. She slowly lifts Trish up, careful not to jostle her. Most of the glass doesn’t stick, and slips back to the ground. Jessica knows that Trish is about thirty minutes from puking for the rest of the night. Morning. Whatever time it is.
“Lift with your knees, Jess,” Trish mumbles into her shoulder, and Jess can feel her smirk at her own joke.
Blood from Trish’s legs drips down onto Jessica’s arm. Jessica rolls her eyes, “Let’s leave the sarcastic wit to me. You’re not as funny as you think you are.”
There’s a few more noncommittal noises from her, but nothing substantial. It doesn’t take a long time before Trish is completely passed out and softly snoring into Jessica’s chest. Jessica walks down the hall and turns the corner into Trish’s absurdly large washroom, sliding into the room sideways and gingerly avoiding Trish’s head from hitting the door jamb.
Jessica sets Trish down softly, but Trish still doesn’t rouse. The toilet seat makes a clunk as it smacks against the tank and Trish’s eyes shoot open, unfocused. She digs the drugs out of her pocket, holding it up to her face to have a look. Tablets, probably ecstasy? She huffs, and Trish’s gaze swivels up to her face. The pills make little plinking noises as they hit the water.
“Hey! Those are mine,” Trish whines. She extends her arm weakly grabbing at the air in an attempt to stop her.
“Oops. Oh, well.”
She flushes the toilet and steps in front of the sink. Jessica opens the mirrored medicine cabinet and retrieves the first aid kit from the bottom shelf. Frustrated, she shuts the cabinet too forcefully, and the mirror cracks. A piece falls into the sink, causing Trish to snap her eyes open again.
“Jess, why’re you mad at me?” Trish whines again.
Jessica ignores her and flops down on the tile. She sits cross legged in front of Trish and drapes Trish’s leg over her lap, popping open the first aid kit with a snap. She grabs some alcohol wipes and tweezers, leaving the first aid kit open on the floor next to her.
“Jessssssssss,” Trish repeats.
There’s still a touch of a whine to her voice, but Jess shushes her. She begins removing the shards of glass from Trish’s leg with the tweezers and disinfecting the cuts. Trish is so high she doesn’t even notice the pain or seem to feel any discomfort.
“Jess,” Trish sing-songs, still trying to capture the attention of her roommate-cum-doctor.
Jessica doesn’t lift her head, but raises her eyes to give Trish a silent, stern look.
Trish ducks her head to get into Jessica’s line of sight again, “Jesssssss. C’mon,” she whines one last time.
It wouldn’t work normally, but Jessica’s gaze flickers back up to her and Trish gives her the 1000 watt smile that makes Jessica’s stomach do somersaults. That looks she gets when Trish wants to save the world.
(When Trish wants to save Jess.)
Jessica clears her throat and tries to hide the effect of Trish’s smile. It’s almost natural to harden her expression again, “You know why, Trish.”
“Jess, it’s just a bit of fun! Everybody does it.”
Jessica finishes placing bandaids on her cuts and gets up. “Oh my god, I think you’re becoming a rock with hair,” Jessica quips. She’s mad, certainly, but she can wait until Trish isn’t half passed out on her bathroom floor to talk with her about it.
She goes to the kitchen to get a glass of water for Trish. When she returns she sees Trish hunched over the toilet, trembling and retching. Jessica walks across the room and sits on the bathtub’s edge next to Trish, holding back her hair. With her other hand she rubs Trish’s back soothingly. At least Jessica thinks this is what would be soothing: they don’t ever touch like this when they’re sober or out of trouble.
When Trish is finished, Jessica smooths her hair down her back and hands her the water. Trish leans on the toilet and accepts the drink. She wipes her mouth with the base of her thumb, still holding the glass and slops water all over herself in the process. Trish takes a large gulp and makes a humming noise.
Jessica isn’t rubbing Trish’s back anymore and it feels wrong. She just wants to comfort her friend and help her stop hurting herself. Jessica doesn’t know what to do or why she’s still here, so she wraps her arms tightly around her torso.
“Hmm, Jess. Thank you. You are sweet and kind,” Trish murmurs, head resting on the toilet seat. She snorts at her own joke, “Actually you are sarcastic and grumpy, but you’re here for me.”
“Gee thanks, Trish.” Jessica stands up and moves to help Trish up.
“Noooooo. I want to stay. The floor is cold. and I might be sick again,” Trish moans while anchoring herself to the ground.
Almost on cue, Trish starts retching into the toilet again. Jessica takes her place on the tub’s edge again and holds Trish’s hair back. She lightly strokes Trish’s hair instead of her back this time.
“That feels nice,” Trish says while reaching out for Jessica’s knee. She squeezes it and rests her hand there. Jessica tenses, afraid to lean into the touch.
Trish’s eyes are closed and she’s resting her head in the crook of her arm atop the toilet seat. “Thank you,” Trish says quietly.
“I love you,” she says even more quietly.
Jessica pretends not to hear, but relaxes her leg. She keeps stroking Trish’s hair until she falls asleep slumped over the toilet seat.
When Trish wakes up she feels like a bag of shit. Jessica will say later that day that she looks like two bags of shit.
She is disoriented from waking up on the floor of her bathroom, but there is a pillow under her head and a blanket tucked around her sides. She doesn’t remember anything after being offered three pills with a flute of champagne in the limo en route to the awards show.
Trish sits up too fast and is hit by a wave of nausea. She sits back, steadies herself, closes her eyes, and props herself up against the tub. Trish holds her face and wills herself not to puke.
The moment passes and her eyes snap open at the sound of a snore on her left. Trish turns to see Jessica asleep in the tub with a pillow and blanket, head cocked at an angle that cannot be comfortable. Jessica’s feet are resting on the edge of the bath, her body too long to fit in the tub.
Trish notices the bottoms of Jessica’s feet; covered in cuts and dried blood. Trish removes the blanket that’s tangled around her legs and notices the band aids carefully placed on her own legs.
“Oh no,” Trish utters to herself. She stands and turns to face Jessica, and touches her calf lightly.
You stayed here all night, Trish thinks. Her throat feels swollen at the thought.
“I don’t deserve you,” Trish whispers. She turns to the door and heads to the kitchen to start cooking breakfast.
Trish doesn’t know whether she won, but she doesn’t really care. Jessica feels better than winning.
Jessica cracks one eye open to see if Trish has fully left the bathroom. She closes her eye and falls back asleep.