Jessica stared blankly at the piles, stacks, of paper on her desk. The Hogarth, Chao and Benowitz letterhead featured heavily, and wow. She'd never been particularly interested in arson, but Trish was always saying it was important to try new things. She patted her pockets, then wrenched open the desk drawers, finding all of them suspiciously free of lighters. Not even matches.

She flung herself into her chair and glared at the other occupant of the office. "What the hell?"

"Not hell," Malcolm, the filthy Zippo thief, denied. "Purgatory, maybe. They're from Jeri Hogarth, mostly about insurance and retainers."

"I don't need insurance."

"Right, because you're known for your careful restraint and sense of civic responsibility and not - for example - for 'accosting the plaintiff without provocation, tearing her stole in half, damages being sought for fifty thousand dollars?'"

If Malcolm rolled his eyes any harder, he'd probably sprain something. Jessica had to admire the technique, though, which meant she sounded more sulky than angry when she replied. "It was one tiny rip. You couldn't even see it."

"You used it to tie two car thieves to a street light. To the top of the street light. I don't think that's going to fly, boss."

"Don't call me that," she snapped. Because there was a long, long way between edging her way back into the world and being responsible for another human being. She'd tried it. She didn't like it. Trish was enough. Trish was way more than enough.

"I'm calling you that," Malcolm said patiently, and just a little smugly, "because I'm on the payroll."

"I can't pay you. I barely pay me."

"Look in ... yeah, this stack." Some shuffling later and Malcolm handed her a slightly different set of documents, ones with Rand letterheads.

Apparently Rand Enterprises had recently hired one Malcolm Ducasse as a part-time 'consultant.' Included below the obscenely high salary offer, there was a congratulatory letter and an invitation - plus one - to the next social. "Iron Ass, I'm going to fu-"

"Uh." Malcolm coughed and nodded to the door. "I think you have a client?"

She could understand the trailing note of a question; sometimes she couldn't believe it either.

In the door pane was the silhouette of a short-ish figure, moving as if they were shifting their weight from side to side. Undecided. Stay or leave.

"Yeah, I think I have really indecisive Girl Scouts calling," she said, without moving to open the door. "And I don't want any cookies. Unless they have the mint ones," she added, more quietly.

She was mildly surprised when the silhouette finally came down on the side of stay, and the door opened a crack after a quiet knock. A tousled head peered around the edge, followed by the rest of a completely generic high schooler as he sidled into her office. Fifteen or sixteen, she guessed. Probably not carrying thin mints.

Dammit.

He raised a hand and gave a little wave. "Uh. Hi."

"Shouldn't you be in school?" She made a shooing motion. "Go to school. Wait. Crap. Are you missing? Do you need an adult? Because you are so not in the right place, kid."

"No, I have a lot of adults. And school's out. But I need to find someone. Someones, I guess. Something? My friend said you found people."

"I'm Malcolm," Malcolm said, stepping forward with an encouraging smile. "What's your name?"

"Peter. Peter Par- Uh. Partner. My friend calls me Pard?" He winced and shook his head in horror.

Jessica huffed a laugh despite herself; it felt like rusty pipes shaking. Christ. "And does your friend have a bad fake name too?"

Peter grinned a little wider than her comment warranted; inside joke, she guessed. "He's having whole other name issues. Look, just say if you can't help. I'll figure something out."

"You haven't told us what you need help with yet," Malcolm pointed out. "Who are you looking for?"

"Stop encouraging him, he's twelve - he can't hire us. Me," she added, but not quickly enough, given Malcolm's smirk. "Fu-dge."

"I'm eighteen and I have money," Peter said. "And also cable," he added, helpfully.

"Eighteen." Jessica smirked. "You want to try again?"

"Sure," he agreed, smile fading a touch. "It doesn't matter how old I am, I have money."

Something had surfaced briefly as the smile fell away. Something that didn't quite fit with the awkward kid she'd seen so far. And now - after meeting Matt (God dammit, Matt,) and to a lesser extent Danny - she recognized it for what it was: someone living a life that wasn't really theirs, hiding behind a bad suit and half-slipped tie. Or rumpled sweatshirt and scuffed sneakers. Whatever.

Luke, not so much; no double life for him. Or her. They were what they were, take them or leave them.

Leave them, for preference, in her case.

It was perversely tempting to push a little, see how much of whoever he really was she could dig out. But, whatever else he was, he was still a kid and that, right there, was her line.

"How much money?" She asked instead.

"Probably not enough, but I can - I can get more. Do you take installments?"

"You haven't even given me your real name, Pard. Why should I trust you to pay up?" She shook her head as the color rose in his cheeks.

"Start at the beginning," Malcolm suggested. "There's no charge for a consultancy." He eyed the stacks of paper. "Yet."

Peter nodded jerkily, nerves returning. "So I have a friend. A different friend. And they can … kind of. Do stuff."

"Are you seriously trying the "asking for a friend" approach right now?" Jessica gestured around them. "Standing in a detective's office? Talking to an actual PI?"

"What? No! This isn't me." Peter huffed and scrubbed at the back of his neck. "Okay. So, my friend, all she does is, like, mimicking. She can sound like birds and - and telephones and, like, everyone on the TV. It's really neat.

"But then a few hours ago, these suits showed up and said they're taking her away, because of the Accords, which, she's ten. She got scared, she didn't want to go, so this other guy stopped them taking her, and now it's a thing, but you don't have to worry about that. He, uh. He can worry about that. Later.

"Anyway, then these other guys showed up, and one of them's making the ground shake like it was a few weeks ago. And one of them's so fast, it's amazing." He grinned, eyes shining with a little more excitement than Jessica could honestly say she was comfortable with. Freaking kids, man. "It's totally crazy, but it's amazing, you know? And they say they'll protect her from the suits, because she's-"

"Ten," Jessica repeated, feeling her fists clench.

"I know, right? Freaking ten." Peter shook his head, echoing her disbelief. "But then the suits start fighting the new guys, so the first guy grabs Ellie - Elle Iwamura, that's my friend - and gets, like…" Peter mimed a quarterback throw. "Gets them both out of there. So now he's watching her, and I'm trying to find the people who said they'd help her, because … I don't know what else to do."

Jessica slowly unclenched her fists, and cast a look at Malcolm. He stopped scribbling notes, expression almost nauseated.

"The girl," she said. "Where are her parents?"

"Yeah, she, uh. She was in the shelter up on a hundred and first? She's been there a couple weeks. They're trying to find her a foster family, but..."

But. Yeah. Jessica knew the wealth of bureaucracy covered by that word. It was bad enough before the Incidents, but after them - when people needed help more than ever - it was so much worse.

"And your parents?"

"I live with my aunt," Peter said, like it was a rote habit, and then winced again as he realized he'd given her more information than he probably ever wanted to.

"So we have Peter Par-something, fifteen or sixteen, lives with his aunt, probably in Queens." She tilted her head with a hard smile. "You want to tell me your real name now, or go ahead and inconvenience me while I Google for five whole seconds?"

He looked more spooked than concerned. "How'd you know it's Queens?"

"With that accent, you're seriously asking how I know you're from Queens?"

"I don't have an accent," he muttered. "Fine, it's Peter Parker. You going to help?"

"At least fifty percent of what you told me is bullshit, so normally I'd show your ass the door. But I do believe a kid's in trouble, and that the cops probably can't take this one, so I'll look into it. But if you lied about anything that gets me or mine hurt, you'll wish the quakes had buried you. We clear? Got anything else to add?"

He shook his head, practically vibrating with honest good intentions. "No, ma'am."

Jessica winced as Malcolm choked on a laugh. "Ma'am? Christ, kid. Jessica's fine."

Peter nodded, beginning to back towards the door. "So what can I do?"

"Give Malcolm a contact number and Ellie's details, and go back to your aunt. When I find something, I'll call. Then we can talk fees."

-o o-

"What do you think?" Malcolm asked, once the door had closed behind their reluctantly benched client.

"I think I want a drink." Jessica stared at the half-empty bottle on her desk, but didn't reach for it. She glanced up instead. "What do you think?"

"I think I'm going to be filling out a whole lot of paperwork, because you're going to ditch it so you can get out there and get some answers."

She pushed back her chair and stood. "I knew there was a reason I hired you."

-o o-

"Ms Jessica Jones, to what to I owe the honor?" Three in the afternoon and half-empty bottle of beer in front of him, Nelson smiled up from his bar stool. Ripped pieces of the label were scattered over the small sheaf of papers he'd been reading through when Jessica had arrived.

His eyes narrowed. "Wait, business or social?"

"Social." Jessica dropped onto the stool next to him, then nodded to the bottle and held up two fingers when the bartender looked her way questioningly.

Nelson looked wary. "Your lips say 'social' but your eyes say 'plausible deniability.' Tell me I'm not being set up as an alibi."

"You know your suit is probably worth more than this bar, right?"

"You're being defamed, Josie." Nelson said, as he relieved the woman of the fresh beers. "If you need representation, I know a great lawyer. No win no fee."

Josie shook her head in silent, but indulgent, judgement, and headed back down the bar.

Jessica shrugged and swigged back her beer. "I'm just saying, weird place to find you. Shouldn't you be crushing people from Jeri's ivory tower?"

"Are you kidding? This is the best office I ever had. I practically lived here, me and Matt-" He swallowed and went on, light tone forced. "Me and Matt, we used to come here to study and hustle pool. That should probably have been my first clue, in retrospect, but hey, we're not here to talk about me. Which is a shame, because you're missing out on-"

"Tell me about the Sokovia Accords," she interrupted, before Nelson could start telling her about his missed opportunities in the cured meats industry.

"Not really my area," he said, derailed. "I checked they didn't apply to our mutual friend and left it there. I'm pretty sure you don't have anything to worry about either, unless you're planning to get involved in international conflicts or peacekeeping efforts." His eyes widened in only half-joking horror. "You're not planning to get involved in international conflicts or peacekeeping efforts? Please say no."

"The Accords don't apply to kids, though. Right?"

The snap as Nelson shifted from class clown to thousand-dollar lawyer was almost audible. She wondered how many prosecutors that flip had blind-sided. Not that many, she decided. Word would get around. Fast.

"This involves minors?" He reached for the cell phone at his elbow. "I'm going to need a lot more information. How officially are you asking? We should go to the office, I can get-"

"Relax, Nelson. I'm not expecting you and your intrepid team of interns to leap into action." She drained the rest of her beer, absently wiped her mouth on the back of her hand. "Some suits tried to take a kid, they claimed they were acting under the authority of the Accords. I don't know the fine print and I don't know anyone who does. You have any plans tonight, Nelson?"

His shoulders relaxed; he shrugged. "Apparently I do now."

She shifted, intending to leave, then wavered. "So. Uh. You okay, or whatever?"

Nelson blinked, then slowly grinned.

"Look, it's a question. Don't make it a thing." She scowled. "Okay, I'm going."

He held up a hand. "We're okay. Me and Karen. We're looking after each other. She thinks - she thinks maybe he made it out. If anyone could have, I guess."

"He didn't want to," Jessica said flatly, before thinking how that would sound.

Nelson's expression didn't change. "Yeah, we got that. " He cleared his throat; the grin died, but it had never been very vibrant to start with. "And I know how it must have looked. That we weren't there for him. Didn't care."

She shook her head, but he went on before she could attempt her fairly weak denial - or to express how much she did not want to hear this.

"Matt wasn't like you and Cage, or that other guy. Rand? He wasn't in control of it. Not completely." Nelson's expression twisted, landing somewhere between resignation and guilt. "Sometimes I'm pretty sure he didn't even want to be out there. And sometimes he wanted it way too much. He was..."

Jessica raised an eyebrow. "An addict?" She finished, doubtfully. Didn't quite match the man she'd met.

"No. Yes. Maybe. Or conditioned." Guilt turned to discomfort. "Somehow. I don't know. Is that even a thing? Anyway, it turns out there's a hell of a fine line between supporting and enabling, and damned if we - I - could find it. But we cared. You have no idea how much we cared."

"Maybe you should give him more credit. Seemed like he was making all his own choices to me."

Nelson wasn't listening, wasn't even looking at her anymore, just down at his nearly empty bottle; confessing into his beer. "Karen told me, after he'd told her who he was, that he'd said a long time ago that he needed her. Us. He said he couldn't take one more step alone.

"So we thought, we hoped, if he was alone, if he didn't have us, maybe … maybe he'd stop. And he did. And then as soon as we were back in his life, the moment we relaxed, we lost him." He looked up, dry-eyed and expression closing in on sardonic. "The devout Catholic committed suicide by ninja. So tell me again he made all his own choices."

If he'd been all weepy, she might have walked away right there with some muttered, horrifically awkward attempt at consolation, but he was angry now, and angry was a language she spoke. "He wanted out," she said, after a beat. "At the start. He said he had people to protect, and I talked him into fighting with us. I'm not going to apologize," she added, scowling defiantly. "I didn't make him stay behind."

The anger banked abruptly, Nelson's expression cleared into something like concern. He shook his head, faint smile returning before she could take offense at his - what? Pity?

"You know what? Matt, magnificent asshole that he was, loved Karen and he loved me - probably more than he loved anyone. Who wasn't an old college girlfriend, literally risen from the pits of hell. And that still wasn't enough to cut through whatever bullshit ideology that old man put in him when he was a kid, or his own-" Nelson paused, searching for a word, before finally settling on, "-convictions. So, I hate to break it to you, but you didn't talk him into a damn thing he wasn't already intending to do, and no one could have dragged him out of there if he didn't want to go. There's nothing to apologize for."

Or feel guilty about. Or second guess. He was letting her off the hook and she had no idea how to feel about that, except maybe he was letting himself off the hook just a little as well, and maybe that was okay. She mustered a smile. "Rested your case yet, counselor? I got places to be."

He waved a hand to dismiss her. "Get out of here, Jones. The Accords and I need some alone time."

Jessica's comment about Peter's accent is a total homage to the comics, where a tailor to costumed customers makes a very similar observation. Kind of couldn't resist, but not claiming it as my own!