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Chapter Text

“Next stop,” called out Jessica Day as she pressed the elevator button, “the Let’s Get Hammered Woodworking Expo!”

“Whoever came up with that name deserves a raise,” replied Jessica Jones.

Jones had lived in Los Angeles a mere four months and in that time had endured a tetanus shot, a blowout with dire consequences, a dramatic reading of a zombie novel longer than War and Peace, and a cat tea party. She had thought that taking time away from New York, with its alien invasions and plethora of memories, would mean a return to normalcy. Despite possessing superhuman strength and the ability to sort-of fly, she was still not the strangest inhabitant of her loft.

There was Winston Bishop, the guy with the smush-faced cat and blacklight wall mural in his bedroom who was somehow also a cop with a fiancée. Nick Miller, a mystery/zombie novel author and bar-owner, and Reagan Lucas, a smoking-hot pharmaceutical representative, shared the room next to Jones. There were the newlyweds as well, Schmidt (first name unknown) and Cece, who technically had a home of their own, but seemed to view the loft as a continued living space.

Then there was Jessica Day, officially dubbed “Jess” due to the One Name Rule, the petite elementary school principal with a penchant for ballet flats and bangs even chunkier than her glasses. Saving that woman from being plastered by a taxi had changed Jones’ life in ways she could have never predicted. Though Jones retained her leather jacket and ripped jeans, she often found herself without her trademark scowl while in Day’s presence. Day was an aptly-named quirky ray of sunshine, and had she been anyone else, Jones would have gagged at her very existence. Instead, Jones participated in the occasional arts and crafts project and laughed with, not at, Day’s inordinately frequent sing-alongs.

Even Jones’ professional life had improved since the big move. She had gotten her L.A. private investigator license and was renting a cubical at a communal workspace. By sheer dumb luck her sister had a lawyer friend in L.A., and thanks to a personal recommendation from Trish and a professional one from Jeri Hogarth, Jen Walters happily contracted Jones when she was in need of a P.I.

Finally, Jones had a job, a home, actual friends, a decent relationship with her family, and hope for a better tomorrow – none of which mattered when the elevator unexpectedly stopped.

“Oh, come on!” cried Day, repeatedly pressing the call button.

“It’s fine,” said Jones, “I’ll get us out.”

“Wait-wait-wait-wait!”

Tragically, Day's pleading was in vain. Jones had already wrenched the sliding door open, revealing solid concrete.

“Shit,” Jones sighed. “Oh well, onward and upward.” She prepared to jump when Day attempted to block her path.

“Wait, Jessica, stop! We can’t break anything else!”

“What are you talking about?” asked Jones as she came out of her crouch. “We’re stuck. All I have to do is climb out the ceiling, open the closest door, grab you, and boom, we’re free.”

“No booms. We can’t cause anymore property damage or we’ll all be evicted.”

Jones rolled her eyes in disbelief. “How much property damage have you guys caused?”

“I mean, mostly the usual wear and tear,” Day said with a noncommittal tilt of the head, “but the rooftop bathtub incident really put us over the top.”

“That’s,” Jones muttered, shaking her head as memories involving a mime and a hockey stick resurfaced, “not surprising the more I think about it. So, what? We just press the emergency button and wait for help?”

“I mean, yeah?”

“Huh.” Jones glanced about the four walls and leaned against the corner diagonal to Day, arms crossed and waiting for something to happen. “Well… okay. But who knows how long it’ll take someone to” –

“Hello?” said a garbled voice from the elevator speaker.

“Hello!” replied Day in a tone mostly reserved for greeting cute animals. “Hi! The elevator’s stuck.”

“That’s rough, ma’am, those Santa Ana winds have been causing problems all over town. I’m from the fire department and we’ll get some people down there as soon as possible. Tell me, did the elevator just stop or did the doors also open?”

The pair winced at each other.

“I was able to open the doors,” Jones said, “but we’re stuck between floors.”

“Oof,” said the man over the intercom, “that’s not good. If you could do that there could be a bigger mechanical error. It might take a little longer to get you guys out of there.”

“Just do your best,” Day said with a smile that did not reach her eyes.

The fireman sighed. “You two just hang tight. Whatever you do, do not press anymore buttons or try to get out on your own, it’ll just make things harder.”

“Got it,” Jones said, burying her face in her hand.

“Loud and clear!”

“Thank you for understanding.” With that, the comm went dead.

Day turned to glare at Jones, and the woman who very much dressed the part of a delinquent felt she had been called to the principal’s office.

“Thanks, Jessica. Thanks a lot!”

“Sorry!” Jones apologized, exasperated. “How was I supposed to know opening the doors might break it even worse?”

“I told you to just wait! Ugh!” Day slumped against the corner opposite Jones and buried her face in her hand.

“Whatever,” Jones muttered as she leaned against her corner like a hip youth in a 50’s movie. “Let’s just try not to kill each other before help arrives?”

“That works for me.”

With that, Day took out her cell, its ducky case mocking their situation with its cheeriness, and groaned at its lack of service. Jones pulled a plastic flask out of her impressively functional Kate Spade bag and took a swig, earning a look from her fellow prisoner.

“You know,” Day said, “Schmidt says that anyone with a flask over the age of 14 should at least have the dignity to own a metal one.”

“I do own a metal one. This for sneaking into events,” Jones said. “Besides, it’s not like there’s anything else to do.”

“Want to play a game?” Day proposed with the slightest hint of a smile.

“Sure, Jess,” Jones replied, letting her frustrations get the better of her. “I spy with my little eye, something that is gray.”

The smile became a tight, false thing. “It’s the wall, isn’t it?”

“Wow. How did you guess?”

Day stared straight at the concrete. “You could have just said no.”

“Don’t you have something to whittle? Isn’t that the point of this whole dumb expo?”

That did it. It was the “dumb” part that took Day’s dejection and transformed it into indignant rage.

“You know all I have is my finished sculpture,” Day began, picking up steam as she stomped toward Jones. “We were supposed to get free balsa wood when we were one of the first 100 people through the door, but that’s not happening now! And – I’m sorry, dumb? Is it dumb to want to make your own furniture and home decor?!”

Seeing Jess Day angry was like watching the Monty Python rabbit scene for the first time. You had heard about it, but that did not diminish the shock when the little white bunny ripped out a knight’s jugular.

“No,” Jones relented, the combination of screaming and this particular confined space sending her anxiety levels through the roof, “it’s not dumb.”

“Then why did you say that? If you didn’t want to come, then why did you?”

It was the earnestness of the question that made Jones’ chest tighten.

“I didn’t want you to go alone, okay?” Jones threw her arms up in submission, sending drops of whiskey flying. “There? Happy? I didn’t want you to go alone.”

Day stared for what felt like an eternity, lips pursed and eyes squinting, making Jones squirm under the scrutiny. It was the same look Trish used to give her when she had gone too far, and now she had earned it from her roommate.

“I would have rather gone alone than with someone who didn’t want to be there.” With that, Day walked to the other side of the elevator, crossed her arms and stared at the buttons.

Dear shit, Jones silently cursed, wincing as she took another swig from her flask. Jones, what is wrong with you?

She opened her mouth to say something. Something like, “I’m sorry,” or, “I didn’t mean it,” or, God forbid, “I wanted to hang out with you and was willing to endure a woodworking expo if that meant spending time together.” Instead, she clammed up, closed her flask, and stared at the cracked screen of her cell.

Accepting their fate, both women stood in resigned silence, each messing with nonsense on their phones and occasionally checking the time. Either cellphone clocks were liars or what felt like days took a mere hour or so in The Elevator Zone.

Jones was reading an eBook she had not finished since downloading it two years prior when fingers drumming on laminate broke her concentration. She looked up to find Day with her doe eyes wide and fixed on the speaker, holding herself and fidgeting.

“Hey,” Jones said, spooking her companion, “you okay?”

“Hm? Yeah! Yeah, I’m great,” replied Day, a bit too brightly even for her. “So, you ever been stuck in an elevator before?”

A purple haze swept over Jones’ mind. Hands touching where she did not want to be touched left phantom pinpricks on her skin.

“You can get us out,” drawled the forbidden voice, “after we’ve had some fun.”

“No,” she snapped.

Birch Street, Jones began her mental mantra, Higgins Drive, Cobalt Lane. After repeating it thrice, even though her mental fog had cleared, she eyed the doors and ceiling panels. “How serious was that fireman about not messing with the ceiling?”

“Jessica Jones!”

“Right! Serious, real serious. Right.” Jones took a deep breath, disguising it as a groan. She stared through her phone, taking great care not to crush the useless thing, and wished she could be anywhere else. It took a minute, but once she felt Day’s stare she begrudgingly looked up.

“Claustrophobic?” Day asked as she sidled over and attempted to match Jones’ earlier nonchalant lean.

“No. I just can’t stand stopped elevators.”

“That makes sense. It’s okay to not be claustrophobic in this situation and still hate it.”

It was at that moment Jones noticed Day’s pallor and too-wide smile and realized what was happening. “Um, Jess?” she said with the forced calm of a hostage negotiator.

“I mean,” Day continued, her pitch rising, “it’s just a small box in a tight shaft!”

“It’s usually the other way around.”

“And we’re stuck inside with no means of escape!”

It had never occurred to Jones that Day might be claustrophobic. They had ridden the elevator together many times and she had been fine. Guess knowing you’re trapped for God knows how long in a small metal box fucks with the brain.

“Hey! Heeeey,” started Jones, stowing her phone and holding Day by the arms in a vain attempt to anchor the woman, “look at me. It is going to be okay. We are going to be okay.”

“We’re gonna diiiiiie,” Day whined, her eyes filling with tears. “I had so much I wanted to do before I diiiiiied.”

“We are not gonna die, I will not let that happen.” Get her mind off it, Jones, anywhere but here. “Let’s not think about some” – do not say “dumb” – “stupid elevator, tell me about the expo.”

Day looked into Jones’ eyes, slowly regaining control over her breathing, and wiped away a tear that had slipped out.

“How did you even hear about it? What are you looking forward to?” Jones forced a smile as she wracked her brain for any possible questions relating to woodworking or expos. “That thing you made, what was it again?”

At the mention of her art, Day perked up, smiling despite the occasional sniffle. “A cat figurine.”

“That’s cool,” Jones lied, “like Ferguson?”

“No,” chuckled Day, shaking her head as if that was a sweet yet ridiculous suggestion, “not like Ferguson.”

“So, a cat that can breathe?”

“And has more than two braincells to rub together,” Day laughed conspiratorially as she pulled the knick-knack out of her purse. It was simple, a crouching cat with its tail straight in the air. Everything Jones knew about cats came from Winston and she knew even less about sculpture, so it was impossible for her to tell if the thing was supposed to look playful or predatory.

“That’s pretty good,” Jones said. “It’s definitely a cat.”

She could be getting way better feedback by some celebrity whittler right now if I hadn’t broken shit, thought Jones. She turned to stare down the cement wall and muttered, “I never should have opened that damn door.”

“You were trying to help,” Day reminded her. “Besides, I should have guessed that you didn’t really want to go in the first place. If you weren’t trying to keep me company, at least one of us would be free.”

Jones gawked at her friend. “Jessica Day, you are the only person I would even want to go with to a woodworking expo. Would I have fallen asleep a few times during panels? Yes. Would I have made several dick jokes?”

“I’m surprised you’ve held back this long.”

“It’s been hard, Jess.”

“There it is.”

“AND would I have hit up the bar the second we got our free balsa? Definitely!”

“Okay,” replied Day, on her way to being convinced, “you’ve made your point.”

“No,” Jones barreled on, “I don’t think I have.”

What are you doing, Jones?

“My point was that…”

This was it; Jones had boxed herself into an emotional and physical corner. Don’t make me say it, she silently pleaded. Don’t make me say it. Don’t make me say it.

“Thaaaaat?”

Damn it!

“… I wanted to hang out with you, and I didn’t care what we did while we hung out.”

There. She said it. In these sorts of situations she was pretty sure you were supposed to feel a weight lifted off your shoulders, whereas she only felt dread. Making someone care about you was the first step to letting them down, and letting them know you cared just led to a higher fall.

Day, for her part, could not suppress her look of awe. “That’s got to be the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

“Yeah, well,” turning away, Jones’ hand twitched, nearly reaching for her flask on instinct, “nice doesn't come naturally to me, so don’t get used to it.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” replied Day, cheerful and somewhat relieved. “And I want you to know that I – we all like you, and you don’t have to put up walls with us.”

Day began glancing about the elevator and Jones noticed a slight tremble in her hand.

“Or at least, not so many.”

“Yeah, let’s not think about walls,” Jones said, attempting to mimic her most effective former shrink. “Let’s sit down. Just breathe; you’ve been holding it together really well.”

The two got down on the floor, Day sitting crisscross-applesauce and Jones propping her elbow on one knee as her other leg sprawled out.

“See?” Jones said, gesturing about. “It feels bigger when you’re sitting.” She stared as Day hung her head, long brown hair obscuring her face. “Come on, we’ve faced worse than this. Remember fighting those raccoons that stole Schmidt’s sweater?”

The only reply she received was a small nod as Day remained slumped, hands clutched together in her lap.

“Or when that model thought Reagan’s sample pills were Tic Tacs and we had to puppeteer him for Cece’s big photoshoot?” Jones continued. “What about when we had to explain to Winston that putting a hornet’s nest in a guy’s car was not a prank? Or when we filmed that web ad for The Pepperwood Chronicles that took forever to shoot and got, like, twelve views?”

At this, she earned a weak snort. “You rocked that fake moustache.”

“Fake my ass, I skipped a whole week of waxing for that role.”

Throwing her head back, Day choked out a laugh. “Wow! I am… sorry.” She shook her head and gazed at the woman beside her with such remorse that Jones felt stabbed in the heart. “I’m so sorry.”

Whaaaat is happening?

“Uuhhhh, I didn’t actually” –

“No, not that,” Day waved her off. “It’s just… damn it, Jessica! In New York you were fighting aliens and over here you’re fighting raccoons!”

“First of all,” stated Jones, “I didn’t fight aliens, I got some people out of some rubble after aliens destroyed some buildings. It’s not the same. Second, those raccoons put up at least as much fight as the fucking Chitauri.”

Day shrugged, murmuring, “They do have bandit masks and little people hands.”

Jones rubbed her eyes, smudging eyeliner that mere months ago would have pulled double duty as the next morning’s smokey eye. Pep talks were not her forte, but she knew that if she did not get to the heart of this shitshow, things would only get worse.

“Jess, what is really freaking you out?”

With a dejected sigh, Day simply said, “I don’t want you to leave.”

Jones blinked. Clearly, ears were deceiving her. Day did not say that, and even if she did, she did not mean it. She couldn’t.

“What?”

“I’m worried you’ll leave, okay?” With emotional strength that rivaled Jones’ lifting abilities, Day grabbed Jones’ hands, removed them from her shoulders, and held them. “Sooner or later, you’ll realize you could be a real superhero in New York and you’ll leave, and the only time I’ll– we’ll ever see you is on TV.”

Jones’ eyes darted between their hands and Day’s painfully earnest eyes. Something about Jones’ hands, hands covered in near imperceptible scars, held by Day’s with their simple manicure felt… right.

“But I’m happy here?” she finally said.

Since her family’s passing, Jones had not had a home, not really. For some reason, the loft with the oddball cop, the scatter-brained writer, the cool girl, the misplaced married couple, and the manic pixie dream girl, more than anywhere else, felt like home.

“Jess, I’m… I’m happy here,” Jones declared as much to herself as to Day. “Look, it’s crazy, but you guys are” – she struggled to think of a polite adjective – “something else, and I’m actually really glad that I’m dealing with your bullshit and not the bullshit I dealt with back in New York.”

Beaming through a relieved, only slightly nervous laugh, Day said, “You know, it’s funny, when you called to see if the room was still open, I was almost finished making it my craft room” –

“To this day, I find glitter in strange places.”

“– but I’m glad I got you in.”

Jones cocked an eyebrow. “I also help with the rent payments.”

“There’s that too.”

“Your loft is huge.”

“We realized that when Schmidt and Cece moved out.”

“And yet, they’re always around.”

“Anyway,” Day concluded, “I’m just glad you know that our home is your home. I – we” –

That’s the third time she’s done that, Jones observed.

“– we just want you to be happy here.”

They were still holding hands. Well, Day was holding Jones’ hands. Jones had yet to grip Day’s hands with her hands. It dawned on Jones that she had not put this much thought into hand-holding since high school.

What are you doing? Jones’ mind raced. She knew this feeling, she had felt this feeling before, but never for a friend, especially not another woman. This isn’t – you’re not feeling – you’re not –

In that moment Day must have caught herself as her hands relaxed and began a sheepish retreat.

At least, they would have, had Jones not interlocked their fingers.

“I am happy,” she said, holding firm despite extreme trepidation. “Here. With you.”

Day stared on as if a single word would irreparably shatter the moment.

“All of you,” Jones added.

But mostly you, she did not say, you in particular.

They were so close. The moment stretched on as they sat, their fingers intertwined, both unsure of what to do next. The broken elevator, gray laminate walls, and dingy linoleum floor fell away leaving only the two.

KSHRRRRRRRRRR!

The console blared static, drawing every eye in the elevator and disintegrating the mood. Jones was the first to draw back her hands, rising to her feet as the speaker came to life.

“Hello in there,” said the firefighter, “we just got here. You’re going to hear some noises and might feel a little shaking, but that’s normal. Just stay calm and we’ll get you two out of there.”

“My hero,” Jones muttered as she balled her fists into the pockets of her leather jacket.

As she got to her feet, Day straightened her cigarette pants and daisy patterned blouse, noticeably not looking at her roommate.

Way to screw everything up, Jones.

A loud CUH-CHNK came from above them as a fireman carefully lifted up a ceiling panel and waved to the women inside.

“Hello!” he called.

“Hi,” replied Day, waving with considerably less vigor than Jones would expect from her in this sort of situation.

“We’re going to lower a ladder down there and you’re going to climb out one at a time,” the fireman explained. “From there, we’ll help you onto the nearest open floor.”

The only thing stopping Jones from slinging Day over her shoulder and jumping through the hole in the ceiling was the near guaranteed rough landing. At this point, the last thing she needed was to slam into an open elevator frame and drop her precious cargo.

With little drama, the two women were safely evacuated and after thanking the firefighters, made their way down the stairs and to the expo.

Chapter Text

It had been a week since Jessica Jones and Jessica Day had been trapped in an elevator. The irony that they had been on an emotional roller coaster while stuck in place was not lost on either of them, though neither mentioned anything after the fact. After all, they were roommates, and more importantly, they were friends. It was best to pretend nothing of any consequence happened in that liminal box.

Nothing did happen, thought Jones as she took a hearty swig of her beer. As much as she tried to put the incident out of her mind, her thoughts kept drifting back to Day’s hands holding hers, those blue doe eyes full of desperation. We argued, she freaked out, I suck at pep talks, we held hands, big whoop! We’re not in middle school, no one gives a shit about holding hands.

Jones put her face in her hands, in desperate need of a real happy hour. What began as an attempt at a working lunch had been discarded like the cold, uneaten half of her chicken sandwich. In the corner of the food cart pod, Jones sat alone with her laptop, headphones in, staring at a paused YouTube video. She should keep watching it, it was related to a case, but she could not bring herself to click the play button.

That morning, Alias Investigations received its first client that week, a man who was concerned that one of his employees had been hitting on women while on the job. They worked big events, and though their next gig would not be for another month, they just so happened to have worked the Let’s Get Hammered Woodworking Expo, the very same expo the two Jessicas had attended after their elevator fiasco.

“Some people were taking videos of the booths and at panels,” the client had said, “there might be a lead in one of them.”

Jones had to admit the client might be on to something, and after doing cursory research on her target, she went to YouTube. As it turned out, the algorithm was not fond of the term “woodworking”, which was a blessing, as few videos that did not pertain to that particular expo showed up when Jones searched by most recent. She was able to scrub through the videos and scan for her man and planned on doing so throughout her rapidly approaching lunch break.

Winston had recommended a food cart pod near her workshare building and had talked up a truck that sold “Chicago area specialties.” When she deemed the tamale on a bun smothered in chili unappetizing, Jones opted for another truck that sold spicy chicken sandwiches and beer, a combination she always appreciated. After procuring her meal, she sat as far away from other people as possible and started watching more videos.

The fourth on the playlist had Jessica Jones slamming her laptop shut faster than if a nun had walked in on her watching porn. The title read, “What NOT to Say at a Meet & Greet,” and though the woman in the video’s face was mercifully blurred, Jones would recognize that top with its daisy print anywhere.

Dear shit, Jess, she thought, what did you do? Once the pair had gotten to the expo, they took the edge off with a few drinks, then Jones kept her barstool warm while Day went off to a panel on paneling – Or that’s where she said she went – and the two met up afterward for the rest of the festivities.

Jones stared at her laptop, unsure of what to do. A few people stared at her, undoubtably due to the screen slamming. She shifted uncomfortably on her picnic bench and delicately reopened her computer. There were other videos she could watch, so she did. She went through eight more, letting them play out far longer than they needed to. By the time she took another bite of her sandwich it was stone cold, and she chucked it in a trashcan without leaving her seat.

“Three points!” some idiot from her periphery shouted.

Jones rolled her eyes and went back to the tab with Day’s video. She should not watch it. Whatever this was, it had to be embarrassing, and did she not owe it to her friend to respect her privacy? On the other hand, not only was this related to her case, and thus her ability to pay rent, but she and Day had been, for lack of a better word, distant since that day. Much like a suspended elevator, their time in that metal box hung over their heads, and if Jones could gain any clarity on the situation, she needed to do it ASAP.

Before she could talk herself out of it, she chugged her beer, rewound the video to the beginning, and clicked play.

“What’s SAP-pinin’ fam!?” said the lumberjack-inspired hipster on the screen. “It’s ya boy, Tyson, here to pine after some wood!”

Skip. As Jones threw up in her mouth a little, she scrubbed along the video timeline, rewinding to just a bit before Day popped up in the preview.

“This next woman clearly has conflicted feelings about her… work?” Tyson mugged incredulously for the camera, causing Jones’ eyes to nearly roll out of her skull. “Remember, eager beavers, critics are not your therapist, and when presenting your work, stay on target.”

The video cut to someone’s cell phone footage of the expo. A small part of Jones hoped that the woman in the video would not be Jess Day, but some other woman with the same exact outfit and build; however, if the voice in the clip did not prove it was her, her little wooden cat figurine did. Day stood before a middle-aged bearded man – So many beards – whose display showcased a finely crafted wooden menagerie. Jones noted her friend’s body language, unusually rigid as she cupped her cat figurine in the palms of her hands.

“So, when I made this cat,” Day started, “I liked it, like, really liked it, but now I think I screwed it up.”

Shit, she’s drunk. Jones vaguely remembered Day keeping pace with her at the bar until she lied about going to the most boring-sounding panel Jessica Jones had ever heard of. A panel so boring that I would not have fought her on going alone. You always underestimate her brains, Jones, you have to stop doing that.

“Why’s that?” asked the man.

“I’ve never felt like this for another… craft. I’m more into macramé – I’ve always been into macramé – so now I’m like, ‘Whaaaaat?’ but also, ‘This feels right,’ but also also, ‘What if I’m wrong for this,’ you know?”

“Uh, can’t say I do.”

“It’s dumb,” Day rambled, “so dumb, but I’m new to this – to whittling, that is – and I don’t want to screw it up.”

“Well, if you’re new to anything, you’ll make mistakes,” the man said sympathetically, “everyone does.”

“But I made a big mistake. I think. I got lost in the moment, and I screwed it up.”

She, Jones thought, her palms suddenly clammy, she isn’t talking about…

“And you don’t want to just make another cat?”

Day let out a harsh, disbelieving laugh. “There is no other cat.”

“I see.” The man held out his hand and said, “You mind if I take a closer look at it? Thank you. Now what makes this particular cat so darn special?”

Even though her face was blurred, Jones could hear the smile in Day’s voice. “She’s not like any other cat I’ve ever met.”

Jessica Jones’ heart leapt into her throat. She?

“So, she’s a girl cat?”

“She’s… yeah.”

Oh. FUCK.

Day raised her hand to try and snatch the cat figurine away from the professional whittler. “You know what? I’m sorry. I’m really sorry, I’m wasting your time.”

“No, not at all!” The whittler closed his hand around the cat and held it away from her. “Hey, I like this gal. She’s a little rough around the edges, could use a bit more detailing, but there’s a lot of personality in her pose.”

Once Day’s hands dropped in defeat, he held aloft the little cat in his palm. With a twinkle in his eye, he said, “Tell me about that.”

Jones turned up the volume, her eyes locked on the screen.

“Well,” Day started, fidgeting, “she’s a little messy, kinda prickly, sardonic as all get-out.”

She’s not wrong, Jones acquiesced, giving the description a small, noncommittal nod.

“She’s had a rough life, so she has a hard time trusting others. A lot of people think she’s more trouble than she’s worth, but they’re wrong. She’s so strong – not, like, physically – well, actually, yes, physically too, she is insanely strong physically – but emotionally, I mean, but she’s had to be, and I don’t think even she appreciates how strong she is.

“And she doesn’t get close to anyone,” Day continued, “like, ever, so when she actually comes to you, it’s like when it’s raining and the clouds part and you see a perfect sunbeam.”

The man nodded. “Sounds like one special cat.”

“Such a special cat.”

What asshole kept filming this? Jones wondered as she stared at the screen with a lump in her throat.

“It’s just,” Day said, her voice becoming shaky, “she could do so much better – be so much better, and I don’t know if I’m the right… whittler.”

The whittler stared at the cat in his palm and shook his head. “You know what I like about this cat? Everything you just told me, I could have guessed just by looking at it.” He took Day’s hand and gingerly clasped it over the figurine. As he spoke, there was a warm, knowing look in his eyes. “You seem to really understand this cat, really care about her. If I were that cat, I’d be proud to have you for a whittler.”

Day’s hand was freed and she held her figurine to her chest as though it was a alive and in need of warmth. “That’s… that’s so nice. Thank you.” She nodded, and just before she left added, “You’re a master of your craft!”

With a kind wave, the whittler simply replied, “I do what I can!”

He might as well have said, “Go to her,” Jones thought, burying her face in her hands.

The video cut back to Tyson talking to his audience, the transition so jarring it made Jones flinch. “Yikes,” he said, “let’s wish this crazy cat lady good luck in the comments, because she’s gonna need it if she wants to get that pu” –

Jones closed the tab. She should leave. She should book the next ticket to New York, crash on Trish’s couch, and never look back. Jones closed her laptop, packed it away, and left the food cart pod.

***

The loft was unusually quiet as Reagan read her book. She was just getting to the part where the suspected murderer was being interrogated by a Nancy Grace expy when Jess Day plopped on the couch next to her.

“Hey, Reagan,” asked Day, “what do you think of Jessica?”

Reagan looked up from her book, and sensing a conversation on the horizon, marked its page.

“Well,” she replied, “one time we spent three hours together at a bar, ordered five old fashions, and didn’t say a word, so she’s probably my best friend.”

“Yes!” said Day as though she had won a prize. “I knew you were the right person to talk to. So, I might have messed things up between the two of us.”

“Is this about how you got stuck in an elevator before that expo, nearly confessed you have feelings for her, and now how no idea how to talk to her like a normal human being?” Reagan deadpanned.

Day attempted to blink away her shock. “How did you know?”

“I’m bisexual and observant.”

“Should have guessed that.”

Yes, you should have, thought Reagan. “Regardless, what exactly do you need my help with?”

“I just want things to go back to how they were. She probably doesn’t feel for me what I feel for her, and that’s okay” –

“Is it?”

“No! It sucks, obviously, but it’s not like either of us could help that, and I’d rather be her friend than nothing.” There was an uncharacteristic melancholy about Day, a desperation that Reagan had never seen before. “I just don’t want to lose her.”

“Hey, she still lives here, you haven’t lost her,” Reagan gently reminded her. “Have you tried just talking to her? Like, go to a bar, get her a couple of whiskies, and just say, ‘Jessica, you’re amazing, I want to date you, your boobs are so great they convinced me to give boobs a shot.’”

“I can’t say that!”

Reagan only smiled, at least Day no longer looked to be on the brink of tears. “Jess, you cannot keep things inside; I’ve seen you try, you look constipated. Normally, I’d recommend this new experimental drug for that which, and I’m not supposed to say this, gives you the best body high when you take more than the recommended dose, but never mind that. Go out there, find that strongwoman, and tell her how you feel. If you don’t, you’re going to regret it.”

Day sighed. “Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but soon, and for the rest of my life?”

“That you’re quoting Casablanca means you know I’m right.”

Day shook her head. “I’ll think about it. Thanks.”

As Day left the couch, before going back to her book, Reagan called out, “At least get her some mid-shelf bourbon. If she likes you, it’ll be celebratory, if she doesn’t, you can both drink to forget you said anything.”

“I’ll get right on it!”

Reagan watched as Day grabbed her things and bounded out the door. Nobody in this apartment emotes normally, she thought, and went back to her book.

***

The door of the elevator opened and standing before Jones was Jess Day.

“Jessica!” exclaimed Day.

“Jess!” said Jones, equally surprised.

Day gestured to the elevator. “I was just going out.”

“Yeah,” Jones said, “I was just coming in.”

“Timing!” Day neglected to say what sort of timing, just that their comings and goings were, in fact, timing.

“It sure is,” said Jones, raising her eyebrows in a ‘please let this encounter end’ sort of way.

Neither woman had moved when the doors began to close.

“Shit!” Jones said as she held to door for Day to enter. The two switched places, Day practically prancing in with all the nervous energy of an ice-skating deer.

“Thanks,” she said, watching Jones in the hallway.

Jones nodded. “No problem.”

“See you later,” Day called out as the doors closed.

Once the two were separated, Jones released a sigh and knew what she had to do.

A couple of hours later, Jones entered the group’s favorite watering hole, The Griffin, after receiving a text invitation from Day. By now Jones was familiar with The Griffin, despite it having no outdoor sign denoting its name, merely a large neon griffon that Nick constantly insisted was identification enough. Jones was aware that Nick Miller would likely be in his office that whole evening, meaning she and Day would have both privacy and a potential distraction if necessary. Since Jones had helped him with some heavy lifting jobs, he had promised her a dollar off her drinks, and she was always one to heed the siren song of discounted booze.

When Jones walked in, Day was seated in a corner booth. She waved Jones over, and had apparently ordered for both of them already, a vodka cran for her, and a double whiskey neat for Jones, which Day presented like a car showroom model.

“Look at you, ready to go.” It was a rare but good sign when Jones had a modicum of joy in her voice as she did when she took her seat and held her whiskey.

“You’re not hard to order for,” Day gently teased.

“You’re not wrong.” Jones took a swig and asked, “So, how’s school? Did Ashleigh with an ‘I.G.H.’ and Unik with a ‘K.’ work things out?”

“Surprisingly, yes, you’d be impressed at how well the feelings stick works during friendship crisis situations. Any new cases?”

Though Jessica Jones had few possessions, she did possess a good poker face. “One,” replied Jones, holding her whiskey with two hands as though she was shielding a candle from the wind, “but it’s confidential.”

“It would be pretty messed up if it wasn’t,” Day said with a smile, attempting to forcefully inject some levity into the moment. “That’s good though, you deserve more cases.”

“Thanks,” said Jones with the slightest hint of a smile, “and you deserve better behaved students whose parents know how to spell names.”

“Cheers to that!” The who gently clinked glasses and the room felt a little bit lighter. Over a few drinks, the two chatted about the music on the jukebox, things going on in their respective workplaces, and what their friends were doing. Perhaps it was Day’s two vodka crans and Jones’ four whiskies talking, but somehow the two ended up laughing.

“And that is why Bailee is no longer allowed to play with puppets,” Day declared with a mischievous grin.

“That’s a super villain origin story, right there,” Jones said, pointing a finger while holding her glass.

“Ooooor it’s an antihero origin story. Hm? Did you ever think of that?”

“Riiiight,” Jones acquiesced as she took another sip of whiskey number five.

“Hey,” Jones started, the very picture of casualness, “you know how we saw each other earlier, when I was coming to the loft and you were leaving?”

“Yeah?” replied Day.

rolled her eyes at herself and spoke as if she had misplaced a pen that she found behind her ear. “I almost packed a duffel bag and hopped on a flight to New York.”

Day choked on her vodka cran. She grasped for her cocktail napkin, sputtering, and coughing. Once she caught her breath, fire in her eyes and throat, she turned to Jones and choked out, “What?!”

“I didn’t,” Jones defended while trying to put her friend at ease, “but I almost did.”

Day shook her head, her hands searching the air, the forgotten cocktail napkin still clutched. “Why?!”

Though the bar was mostly empty that night, the few patrons who were in attendance stared at the pair.

Jones shrunk in her seat and mumbled, “Because I’m a piece of shit?”

“Nuh-uh,” said Day, going full firm-yet-understanding principal mode, “you are not deflecting with self-deprecation today. Just tell me why, please.”

Yes, Jessica, Jones thought, why would you do something like that? God, you’re an idiot, why didn’t you plan this out?!

“I,” Jones began, “I don’t know.”

It was getting warm in the bar, though that might have been due to Jones’ leather in all seasons look. Now that she had calmed down, Day was scanning her like an emotional Terminator.

“All of a sudden, you were going to pack a bag and go to New York,” she asked, disbelief overshadowing hurt, anger, and confusion, “and you don’t know why?”

Why the fuck did you lead with that? Jones chastised.

“I think I just needed a little time to clear my head, you know?” Jones rationalized. “Things have been moving really fast since I moved here, and I just needed some time away.”

The bar patrons had long since lost interest in the two women in the corner, but Jones still felt watched. Days eyes had fallen to her cocktail, her finger gliding along the condensation on the glass.

“Yeah,” she said with a sigh and a slight smile, “I get that. You have your sister over there, friends you haven’t seen in a while. It’s always nice to reconnect.”

“Yeah,” said Jones, doing everything in her power to not jump on the excuse and wrestle it to the ground, “exactly. You get it.”

“I do.” Day took another sip of her vodka cran, grinned, and added, “Besides, it’s not like you were going to leave without saying goodbye.”

“Of course not!” Jones heartily agreed. While she drank more of her whiskey, she felt Day staring at her more intently than was necessary.

“Jessica?”

“Hm?”

“You weren’t going to leave without saying goodbye, right?”

Jones rolled her eyes as though Day had suggested unicycling to N.Y.C. “Um, no, that would be ridiculous.”

“Uh huh,” she replied before coolly adding, “take off your jacket.”

There was a shift in the room that made Jones’ heart sink.

“Why?” she asked, despite knowing the reason.

“I just want to confirm something,” Day said with faux nonchalance, “take it off.”

“It’s cold in” –

“No, it’s not.”

“I don’t have to” –

“Jones,” stated Day.” “Take. Off. The jacket.”

There were no two ways about it, she had been caught. Shaking her head, Jones made to leave.

“This was a mistake.”

“Not so fast!” said Day as she grabbed Jones by the collar, pulled her back into the booth, and pulled her leather jacket down past her shoulders.

Upon moving into the loft and becoming more comfortable around her roommates, Jessica Jones had developed a tell when she lied. Perhaps it was the change in climate. Perhaps it was that needing to be less emotionally guarded had weakened her defenses. Perhaps it was spending too much time around Nicholas-fucking-Miller who had the same unfortunate tell. Whatever the cause, when Jones told a particularly unnerving lie, she developed a tell that could be hidden by her leather jacket, but exposed by her shirt.

“Sweat back!” declared Day. The tell-tale stain on her heather gray T-shirt was all the evidence needed.

Tugging the jacket away, Jones adjusted it back over her shoulders. She did not have to look over to see the bravado drain from Day’s face as it was replaced by pure hurt.

“Jessica,” she said, “you’re lying. You were going to just leave without saying goodbye?”

Yes, because not only am I a piece of shit, I’m also a coward.

Jones said nothing. Why bother? Nothing could help.

“You were,” Day accused. Pain was the gasoline that stoked the flames of her rage. “You were going to abandon all of us, book it across the country, and you weren’t even going to say goodbye.”

“Jess, it’s not,” Jones stammered, turning to her friend, “okay, it is, but it’s not” –

“Oh my God,” said Day, color rising in her cheeks and bitterness rising in her voice. “I have been beating myself up for a week and you were just going to pack a bag and peace out. That’s it, I’m done.”

Before Jones could reply, Day slid out of the booth and raced out the door.

“Day, wait!” Jones called. “Jess!”

Jones raced out of The Griffin, ignoring the bartender yelling about her tab. She looked around but Day was nowhere to be found. It was dark out and there was traffic on the streets. Though cabs were rarer these days, Jones figured Day could have gotten lucky and caught one.

Jones paced in front of The Griffin, forlornly crying, “Fuuuuuuuck!” This was what she got for finding something good and trying to run away.

She trudged back into the bar and sat at her booth, waving off the angry bar tender. There was a bag Jones had not noticed before in the booth, a reusable tote containing a bottle of Buffalo Trace. Her hands had a light tremor as she gingerly placed the bag back on the booth seat. Jessica Jones shot her whiskey and buried her head in her hands.