"Morning, Joe," Foggy said cheerfully to the man standing behind the counter of his favorite newsstand, the one he visited every day on his way to the office.

"Morning, Mr. Nelson," Joe said, handing over Foggy's usual copy of the New York Times, New York Bulletin and Daily Bugle. Although lately he was regretting giving the last one his money.

The Daily Bugle seemed to be running a different crackpot superhero expose every day. Two on Sundays. So far, they had theorized that Daredevil was a disgraced priest, a former officer of the NYPD out to expose corruption and make the police look foolish, and, unbelievably, an actual demon. That suited Foggy just fine. So long as none of the headlines said "Daredevil is Blind Lawyer" he'd allow them to keep on saying whatever they wanted.

Today's headline was not about Daredevil. But it still made him sit down on a nearby bench, eager to read the details of the story immediately.

"PRIVATE INVESTIGATOR IN MIND CONTROL PLOT!" it read, and it detailed the story of how a local PI had become embroiled in the case of Hope Shlottman, infamous murderer of her parents who was supposed to stand trial but had instead recently been released and killed herself. Foggy had been following the story with some interest. The girl's claims of innocence, that the murders she committed were the result of mind control, were outlandish and the papers had been running stories on the girl every day. Her release had been a complete surprise, with protesters even showing up in front of the DA's office, demanding answers that couldn't be provided. The DA mysteriously couldn't remember why he thought signing Hope's release papers was a good idea, which lent credence to her mind control claims.

Matt said that Foggy was ridiculous for being so interested. He was convinced that Hope Shlottman was simply troubled or mentally ill. But Foggy couldn't help but believe her. After all, he was best friends with a guy with supersenses and his girlfriend turned green when she was angry, so was mind control really so hard to believe? He'd heard rumours from Brett about strange things happening in his precinct. And he could feel a rising anxiety in the atmosphere of Hell's Kitchen as more and more stories of "gifted" individuals, of strange cocoons turning ordinary people into alien monsters and of plots to attack vigilantes or have them arrested, began to circulate in the papers. He couldn't help but worry. He was close to too many people with secrets to protect, with abilities that they couldn't always control, not to.

And now, as he soaked in every detail of the latest article, he realized that maybe he needed to add one more person to that list. Because the PI at the center of the day's story in the Bugle was Jessica Jones, and he knew her. He could remember the first time he met her vividly, despite having been extremely drunk at the time.

"Another!" Foggy said, tapping the counter with his fingers to signal Josie to pour him another round, his head lowered so that his forehead was almost resting on the bar.

"Go home, kid", Josie told him.

"C'mon, Josie," Foggy said. "Just one more. Isn't your job to get people drunk?"

"Yeah, well this is the fourth night in a row you've been in here. Don't you have ambulances to chase?" Josie asked him, but she poured him another whiskey anyway.

"Ha!", Foggy said bitterly, "I don't chase ambulances. I just bribe cops."

"You!" Josie suddenly yelled, pointing towards the door. "Out!"

Foggy turned, almost falling off his stool as his entirely body tilted to the side to complete the motion. He'd never heard Josie kick a customer out before. And he knew that some of them had given her a reason to.

He was surprised to see a woman in the doorway in a leather jacket and jeans, with jet black hair that fell to her shoulders. She was wearing sunglasses. The outfit was clearly designed to make her look tough, but it was the scowl on her face that really completed the picture. She looked disgusted and offended by Josie's anger.

"Are you kidding me?" the woman asked. "Lady, you've got a half-dozen customers in this place right now who've got outstanding warrants. Are you really gonna deny me a drink?"

She sauntered over to the bar, oblivious to the way that the eyes of several men in the bar tracked her movement, and sat down on the stool next to Foggy. "Bourbon, the cheapest you've got," she said, and Josie dutifully poured it, despite her hesitance.

"Those boys may have troubles, but they don't bring them here. You owe me for busting the place up last time," Josie told the woman.

"Put it on my tab," came the reply. "What are you looking at?" she asked Foggy, who hadn't noticed that he was staring.

"Nothing," Foggy told her. "Just... I've never seen Josie do that before. You don't look like that much trouble."

"Oh, trust me, I am. A whole world of it," the woman said. "What's your name?" she asked.

"Foggy Nelson," he said, tapping the bar again.

"I thought you said just one more?" Josie asked.

"When is it ever just one more in a bar?" the woman asked, indicating that she needed another as well.

"Damn right," Foggy said. "What's your name?"

"Jones," she replied. "Jessica Jones." She held out her hand, and Foggy shook it.

"Nice to meet you," Foggy told her. "I've never seen you in here before."

"I'm new to the neighborhood," Jessica said.

"Did you really trash this place last time?" Foggy asked.

"I didn't mean to. It just kinda happens around me," she told him.

"Sounds lonely," he said.

"I'm in a bar drinking alone, aren't I?" she replied.

"That's very true," he agreed. "You'd have to be pretty lonely to do that."

Jessica raised her glass in a toast, and Foggy raised his too.

It turned out to be the beginning of a sad, strange friendship.

For a couple of weeks, they would sit next to one another in the bar and commiserate with one another over their shared sense of loneliness and disconnection. Jessica would come in extremely late towards closing time, which she told Foggy was an occupational habit when he inquired. She shared stories with him about her struggling PI business, and stories about the various residents of Hell's Kitchens' sexual fetishes and scandals. He told her stories about the history of the neighborhood and it's mob connections going back to when he was a kid. He didn't bring up Fisk, or Matt, or the fact that he was a lawyer. Those things still hurt too much to think about.

After Fisk's arrest, after everything began to go back to normal with Matt, Foggy didn't find himself alone all that often in Josie's anymore. And Jessica never seemed to be there when he was. He never questioned what happened to her. They had clearly met each other at a bad time. He assumed that she, just like him, had simply moved on to better things. Or at least, he hoped, a better bar.

"I wouldn't if I were you," a red-headed woman yelled at him as he walked up the steps to the building he knew housed Alias Investigations, Jessica's business. She was clearly a resident of the building, and the lawyer in him briefly considered the half-dozen different bylaws he knew that a private business operating in a residential apartment disregarded. Considering what he knew about Jessica Jones, it didn't surprise him.

"Wouldn't what?" he asked, curious.

"Get involved with Jessica Jones. She's dangerous," the person told him with a sneer.

"Maybe I'm dangerous," Foggy told her in reply. She just laughed. Foggy was a little offended at that. "Didn't anyone ever tell you not to judge a book by it's cover?"

"Good luck," the woman told him as he walked past her and into the building.

Even in the hallway he could hear Jessica conversing with someone on the phone. When he got to her apartment he realized why. There was a giant open panel in her doorway where clearly a glass window had once been. He didn't have to knock because Jessica could see him. She finished her conversation and regarded him suspiciously, leaned back in her chair with her feet thrown up on the desk.

"Stormy right?" she asked. "Or Windy? Something with weather, I know that much."

"Foggy," he informed her, pushing the door open. It wasn't locked, or even closed properly. "You know this city is dangerous right?"

"Well I'm assuming you're here because you read the papers, so do you really think I care?" she asked. "Drink?" she waved a bottle of whiskey at him with one hand.

"No," he said, "I'm not really doing the day drinking thing anymore, fortunately."

"Must be nice," she said and poured herself a glass.

"So," he asked. "Mind control?"

"Yep," she said. "Do you believe it?"

"I've encountered stranger things lately," he told her.

"The world is a strange, disturbing place. That's for sure," she said. "Is that all you came here to ask me?"

He sighed, and pulled out his wallet, removing a business card and placing it on the desk.

"Nelson and Murdock?" she asked, looking at it. "Yeah, I've seen your ads on bus benches. That's you?"

"Yep," he said. "Just thought I'd let you know that. So that the next time you get involved in something that you don't think people will believe, you know someone you can turn to. I noticed that you went to Jeryn Hogarth about the Shlottman case, and retained her yourself. I figured you might like to know that you don't always have to swim with the sharks to survive. Or drown in legal bills. I also was hoping to get your rates. I may have some cases where we could use your help."

"PI use me? Or superhero use me? Because I'm getting a lot of pretty out there requests these days," she told him.

"Why don't I say PI use you," Foggy told her. "And we can go from there."

"Keep talking," she told him.

So he did, and he even accepted the drink she poured him despite his initial protestations. Because he realized that Jessica Jones wasn't someone who should really be left to drink alone. And because he was beginning to realize that sometimes just being there was it's own superpower.