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The first thing she notices is how cold she is. There's a chill in her bones that almost freezes her in place completely.
She's not sure if it's from the actual cold, or the sight of Trish kissing him. Or if she's just.... stuck. He told her to stop, so she did.
"Don't move, don't move, don'tmove."
She watches in agony, (burning, screaming agony, "I'm sorry I'm sorry I'msorry") as he makes a show of it. An exaggerated display; like a puppeteer performing the show of his life.
He does it to hurt her, to wound her. Rip her open and watch her fucking bleed out.
And it does, because she's suppose to protect Trish. That's her fucking job.
Then he pulls back, his mouth open, his eyes a look of shock and surprised and disbelief. She knows it works then, and she can't help be thankful that his attention is on her now.
As much as it makes her want to throw up, his attention on her is good.
"Oh god, it's true isn't it?" His voice is a hush of air in the quiet night. It stabs her deep, a twisted knife in her gut. She watches his mind work, clearly trying to sort through if this was a trick. "You would let me..." He turns to Trish, and his hands wave slightly to her. "Take your beloved sister?" He finishes, his tone soft and breathless.
"My god," he lets out a tiny half-laugh, and his shoes click on the pavement as steps towards her. (Expensive, they probably cost more than her apartment.) "It's true, isn't it? It's finally over."
"You're finally mine now," he continues, his hands moving in quick movements. He's always used his hands (so gentle, so perfect, they felt so--stop. Not fucking now damnit.) to emphasize what he says. "No more fighting, no more of these ugly displays."
"Don't move."
The closer he gets, the stronger that smell becomes. His favorite colonge. Lemon and spices. She's never noticed how well it suits him. Sharp and sour . She hates it.
He's in front of her now, his breaths coming out in sharp puffs. His fingers twitch, and she notices the little tick in his eyes as they move across her face. She notices the way he seems to reach for her without touching her. Without reaching for her. He still can't believe it, she knows that, and she hates that she knows him so well.
"Okay," he starts, and his head tilts down. Another tick. A condensing tick. One he does to make her feel inferior. Make him seem bigger, more threatening, and maybe it works, she's not sure. She's so fucking terrified right now that all she can't think is don't move.
"After a while," his voice raises just a margin, eagerness coloring his tone. (He's excited. Overjoyed.) "However long it takes." She wonders if he really means that. She wonders if he would be willing to be that patient with her.
"I know," he bends slightly, (was he always this expressive?) punctuating the word 'know' with his body. "I know, you will feel what I feel." He moves up and down, his shoes tap against the pavement. One scuffs the cement as he takes a half step forward.
And then--
"Let's start with a smile."
She twists her face automatically, she wants to smile. She wants to, she wants to, she wants to. She can feel how unnatural it feels to do this. A sick twist in her gut makes her want to throw up.
"Keep smiling. Smile, smile, smile."
He laughs, another wheezing sound. Like a car engine that won't quite start.
She notices how white his teeth are, how pink his tounge is. How his lips pull back to show them when he smiles. How his brown eyes spark with joy and adoration, the lines at the corners, the dimples on his cheeks deepening with a grin. His eyebrows crinkle slightly, drawing together minimally.
He reaches out, his hand hovering near her face. Smile smile smile. Don't move, don't move, don't move. It falls down to his side, and he leans forward.
But then--there's that undertone of expensive soaps, she's never noticed before. It's a dark smell, more suffocating than the lemons and spices. She is suffocating in him and how close he is. She can't name it.
"Kill him. Kill him now. Don't move."
She's never noticed how hard it is for her to obey. The desire is too tempting, so tempting.
"Not yet. Not fucking yet. Wait."
His mouth brushes her hair, his voice low, accent smooth on his mouth. His breath stirs a few strands as he speaks. It's warm against her cheek, and she catches the faint wiff of whatever he last ate. (Chinese? Italian? Maybe it's greek. She doesn't know.)
Her heart is pounding in her ears, blood roaring so loud she almost misses the order.
"Tell me you love me."
Not yet.
He pulls back, and she watches his eyes for a moment before--
She moves, tilting just slightly to look at Trish. Her sister. The love of her life. The one thing that keeps her going.
"I love you." She says, loud enough, and somehow her voice is steady. She watches Trish's face for a brief moment, the slight look of relief is enough to tell Jessica that she understood.
Her eyes snap back to Kilgrave. She watches his face change. The slow realization. His smile dims slightly, his eyes flash with a mixture of emotions. Horror, fear, confusion. (So expressive, how had she never noticed?)
"Now."
She moves, the cold chill in her body vanishing as adrenaline pulses through her veins. Her heart thumps in her chest, pounding loud in her ears.
Her fingers grasp his jaw. She can feel bones under his skin, sharp and hard (--but a little too much pressure and--) under her fingers. His stubble is scratchy, her fingers flex against it, and it itches her skin.
His skin is warm against her cold fingers. The brief heat the adrenaline brought is fading.
His face is begging. She's never seen that look before on him. Not even when she beat the daylights out of him in the containment room.
This is pure begging.
It suits him. A child begging for his toy back. A child begging not to be punished for all the awful shit he did.
She notices the sharpness of his jaw under her palm. The way it fits in her hands. It's perfect, and her fingers flex again, and she can feel the crack of bones.
He lets out a muffled sound, an attempt to speak, or scream in agony, she almost wants to hear it. She almost wants to let him scream in agony as she slowly crushes his jaw.
She smiles, just to taunt him. She twists her mouth into something of a smirk.
"Smile." She says, her eyes narrow.
He always loved her smile after all.
She catches the look of incomprehension on his face. A look of why would you do this?
She reaches out, pulls his body just a bit closer to reach around him. Her fingers cup his neck, squeeze his jaw. More bones crack. They shatter like glass beneath her fingers and it sounds so good.
In that brief moment, she thinks about cracking his jaw. Shattering under her hand. Ripping his throat out. Making him suffer like she has for a fucking year.
Trish's words ring loud in her ears though. "As long as he has your attention, he won't stop."
She squeezes again, minimally this time, enough to put pressure on whatever bones that she's broken already.
She can't risk it.
Her other fingers brush his hair, fine silky strands that feel so soft under her fingers. He always loved his hair being tugged at, always told her to pull a bit.
Her fingers close around a few strands, grasping the short hairs at the back of his neck.
She tugs.
Time slows, just as it did when she killed Reva. Just as it did when Hope died. Just as it always does when someone dies.
And for once she welcomes the slowness. She welcomes the sluggish movement. She embraces it.
It's in those few seconds she is finally living again.
She flicks her hands, twists his neck. There's a sharp cracking pop that rings and sounds so beautiful in her ears. He lets out a brief muffled sound, and the heat is completely gone from her bones and rapidly fading from Kilgrave's body already.
His body hits the ground with a hallow thump. She stares, studies the angle of his neck, the way his feet rest, and slowly, she bends down.
She crouches beside him, her fingers feeling the mess of nerves and tendons and bone along his neck.
No pulse. Nothing.
It at this realization, this finality does it hurt. It hurt when he first died, yes. In some twisted, sick way it hurt that she grieved for him, because in her mind, she had loved him once.
But that was all him. All of it. She knows that now.
So why does it hurt? It's a different hurt, a sense of loss rips her apart because--
What does she do now? Does she just, go back to everything how it was before? No. She can't. She'll never be Jessica Jones, hero of Hell's Kitchen.
But she can try. She can try her damnest to do better. In her own way, and maybe, maybe she can trick herself eventually.
She just hopes that this isn't the start of something different.