Hello! Hopefully the formatting is behaving, if not, sorry about that. This is a quick two chapter story I thought of a few weeks ago and wrote down. Enjoy!
Police sirens, car horns, chattering of people, distant screams, the barking of dogs. Even at 3 AM, the city never sleeps, hence the well known nickname. Wes lets out a heavy breath, running his fingers through his dark curly hair. Most people figure the graveyard shift hours at the hospital is the worst part about being the new nurse, but when one is a nurse in a place like Hell's Kitchen, some of the people that drag themselves through the doors are worse than the hours.
While Wes constantly helps the unfortunate souls who have fallen victim to the unforgiving city, he also has to offer aid to those inflicting pain. The mere thought makes his blood boil, but he knew when he decided to go into the medical field, it would have it's cons (no pun intended). You can't save everybody and you have to help the people that don't deserve saving.
The rise of the Devil of Hell's Kitchen has brought more people into the hospital, more people undeserving of being helped, but it does comfort Wes to a certain extent to know the murders, rapist, and thieves he patches up on a daily are going to rot in prison for a few months or so. It's not permanent, but it pushes back the temptation to stab some of these people with the needle he's stitching them with.
A hideous, stray checkered cat perched on a trashcan hisses at Wes as he walks by then darts under a large stack of crates. This city is ugly. It's dark, cold, and merciless. At first, it puzzled his family why Wes wanted to live in such an awful city. That was until they came and visited him one day. This city needs people like Wes who are willing to save the innocent, even if it means including the guilty. For the longest time, Wes figured he was alone. No one in Hell's Kitchen possess any ounce of faith in the city, and understandably so. That was until the Devil of Hell's Kitchen made his first appearance. Suddenly, Wes discovered that he is not alone and that maybe this city is worth fighting for so after completing his final year of nursing school, Wes didn't return to his home state, Georgia. He instead remained in New York to put his superb medical skills to good use. An impressive recommendation given to him by a beloved professor landed Wes with a job in Metro General Hospital.
The job has been great. Despite the tiring hours which leave Wes with the ever present feeling of never getting enough sleep, Wes has never learned so much in such a short amount of time. He treks along sluggishly, blinking hard in effort to wake himself up. Only a few blocks more Wes encourages himself Only a few blocks more before you can get in bed. When he gets to his small apartment, Wes is going to collapse on his bed and sleep like a dead man for a few hours before finally peeling himself up for a much needed shower. He'll eat, then take care of the other small mundane task around his apartment and probably take another nap before heading back for his- SLAM!
Leaping back in shock, any previous fogginess ripped away from him, Wes quickly recovers and finds himself running to the side of the body which fell from the rooftop of the business building next to him. Shaking the man's broad shoulder in attempt to alert him, Wes asks the battered man:
"Sir, are you okay?" It always seems like a silly question, especially in a case like this when the man is clearly not okay, but it is really meant to check for consciousness.
After receiving no response, Wes instantly snaps into nurse mode, first checking to see if the barely conscious man has a pulse. When he finds it, Wes speedily inventories the expansive wounds and bruises littering the man's face and body. The most obvious and most direct threat is the huge slash mark, stretching down the man's chest. The wound is no shallow paper cut. It is several inches deep, starting a little below the man's shoulder, stretching across his ribcage, ending at the top his stomach. The blade used to inflict this must have been one hell of a weapon considering the man is wearing a thick bullet proof vest, which in itself is strange. Somehow this man sustained a knife wound in what clearly was originally intended to be gunfight.
Wes pulls his jacket off, soaking up the blood pooling around the gash then reaches into his back jean pocket for his phone. Leaving one hand pressed against the man's chest in attempt to clot the blood, he begins to dial 911, but before Wes can bring the phone up to his ear, a powerful hand yanks his arm down, sending his phone clattering against the concrete. Before Wes could get an opportunity to retrieve his phone from the road, a car ran over it, flattening the phone.
"No hospitals," A gravely voice demands.
Normally, Wes would be bothered by the destitution of his phone- he's fresh out of college with limited money, but the man's reason distracts him from any irritation. He stares in bewilderment at the now clearly alert man sprawled out against the cement.
"Are you crazy?" Wes questions, attempting to keep the man pinned to the ground with his hands. "You need medical attention."
The man exhibits his superior strength by easily brushing aside Wes' hands despite the amount of force Wes pressed into the man's chest to prevent him from moving.
"I'm fine," He states with no room for argument.
In order to further prove his point, the man stumbles to his feet, but nearly crashes back to the ground until Wes leaps up and catches the man's chest. For a moment, Wes staggers under the weight of the muscular man. The twenty five year old nurse is much stronger than he appears despite being classified under the average size at a height of 5'10. But this guy ended up being much heavier than Wes originally intended. By the looks of him, Wes guesses it's due to his heavy muscle mass- there is hardly an ounce of fat on this man's body.
"You don't look fine," Wes raises his eyebrows at the man once steadying him.
"I'm not going to a hospital," The man repeats in his deep, threatening voice.
"Fine. But, since I can't call an ambulance now," His brown eyes momentarily cut toward the shattered phone in the street. "And the walk to Metro General is too long, at least let me take you to my apartment and patch you up."
"Trust me, kid, you don't want me in your apartment," The man warns him grimly.
Wes lets out a bitter short laugh. "You ever seen some of the shit bags that get dragged into Metro General?"
This time, it was the man's turn to chuckle darkly.
"You have no idea."
"Listen, you're going to bleed out before you make it halfway through the city," Wes snaps sharply. "Just let me help you, dammit!"
The man's shoulder's drop in defeat. He is exhausted and holds no energy to further argue with the twenty five year old.
"You're not going to let this go, are you?"
"It wasn't a question."
The man sighs heavily, glancing around the street.
"Alright, fine, kid. I'll let you play doctor."
Wes rolls his eyes but nevertheless, leads the man to his apartment. What am I doing? He vaguely thinks to himself. This isn't the first time Wes offers medical attention to someone inside his apartment, but it's usually small things like wrapping up Dianna's, the single mom who lives on the second floor, son's sprained wrist or giving Ben, the old war veteran who lives three doors down from Wes, five stitches on his leg after he caught the sharp end of an old dresser. Bringing someone from off the street into his apartment is unfamiliar waters, but something inside of Wes urges him to help this strange man. Hopefully that urge is to help this man and not run from him. Wes let's out a heavy breath at the thought as he and the man trek to Wes' rundown apartment, the battered man's arm slung across Wes' shoulders in order to support himself.
Neither of the men speak for the journey to the apartment complex. Both of them are heavily concentrated on walking with their new obstacles- Wes with the heavy man leaning part of his weight on him, and the man with his fresh injuries. After a few minutes and some tricky maneuvering up the stairs ("You fell from the roof of a building- are you sure you can make it up four flights of stairs?"), Wes unlocks the door to his apartment, the man following close behind.
"Go to the couch," Wes instructs the man as he turns to collect his medical supplies. "Strip off the vest and your shirt- I'm going to stitch up your chest first."
The man does as he's told. By the time he is done, Wes has laid out his small collection of medical supplies on the coffee table in front of the couch and snapped a pair of gloves on. His "first aid kit" is a bit more extensive than the classic first aid kits due to requirements for various college classes and gifts from family and friends. When living in a place like Hell's Kitchen, a well supplied first aid kit is quite useful.
"Quite the collection you've got here," The man notes as Wes begins to clean the large open wound on his chest.
"Studying to be a nurse in college has it perks," Wes responds, his eyes never leaving the gash.
"You still in college?" The man asks, eyeing Wes in attempt to guess his age.
"Just graduated. I've started working at Metro General a few months ago, hence the first aid kit on steroids," Wes vaguely gestured to the medical supplies laid out across the table.
Once giving the man a small amount of anastasia, just enough to lessen the pain (Wes doesn't mean to be stingy, he just doesn't have very much- it's a miracle he has any at all), he reaches for his needle and the stitches then sets to work. The man occasionally let's out a small noise of pain, but remains motionless while Wes works.
"I'm Wes, what's your name?" Wes asks as he beings to finish up the stitches.
"Frank," The man responds gruffly.
"Frank Castle? As in the Punisher, right?" Wes clarifies as he pulls the thread through Frank's skin.
When the man first fell off the rooftop in front of him, Wes did not recognize him. It was when the two finally reached the apartment building with adequate lighting did Wes get a proper look at the man.
"Yeah," Frank responds honestly, scanning Wes's face for a reaction that never comes.
The news doesn't phase Wes, his concentration never waivers, his hands don't even as much as shake. It was as if Frank just confirmed that the sky is blue.
"You don't seem to care," The military man notes as Wes snips off the end of the stitches.
Wes simply shrugs in response as he pulls the bandages off the coffee table and begins to properly wrap Frank's fresh stitches.
"There are some people in this world who deserve to be killed when locking them up just isn't quiet enough."
Frank snorts quietly.
"Pretty ironic coming from the man in a field dedicated to saving people."
"So I've been told," Wes responds darkly, his attention moving from Frank's chest to the deep slash mark above his eyebrow. Wes shakes his head, cleaning out the cut and continues. "Ever since the Devil of Hell's Kitchen has began his work, I've been getting a lot more beat up criminals that I'm required to fix up. It's kind of nice that these people are handcuffed to the bed so it means they're going to prison once I'm done, but I can't seem to shut this little voice in the back of my head off which keeps nagging to me that this awful person in front of me will be out of prison in a few months and back on the street doing the same damn thing. There are some nights that I want to overdose some of those people on pain meds. Something suttle that could be written off as a common mistake. It's not like anyone would miss them anyways. People can make whatever arguments against you that they want about killing being wrong, but there is no denying that your method is effective."
Wes continues to work on Frank's face then moves down to his arms, surveying his hands for broken knuckles and fingers. Glancing around the fairly empty apartment, Frank's eyes land on a picture of Wes with his arm slung around an identical copy of himself with a buzz cut and military uniform in a small wooden picture frame.
"Your brother?" Frank asks, jerking his head toward the picture frame behind Wes.
Wes turns for a moment, spotting the picture, his face softening slightly.
"Yeah."
"Older or younger?"
"Technique older by two minutes. That's my identical twin brother Smith."
Frank's head cocks slightly for a minute. Something sounds familiar about those two names.
"Smith and . . ." He trails off.
"Wesson," Wes finishes. "My real name is Wesson."
"Smith and Wesson," Frank chuckles. "As in the gun company?"
"As in the gun company," Wes nods his head in confirmation with a small grin. "My family is from south Georgia. When my mom found out she was having twin boys, it was an opportunity she could not pass up on."
"You don't have a southern accent," Frank notes.
"No, I lost mine when I came to New York. I've always been susceptible to other people's accents. We traveled to Ireland for two weeks when I was in high school and I came back with an Irish accent for a solid three days. If I were to get around my family again, then you'd hear it."
"What branch of the military is Smith in?" Frank asks.
"Special Forces. He wants to be a Green Beret. What branch were you in?"
"Marines. Green Berets… Those are some tough motherfuckers."
"Yeah," Wes laughs, thinking fondly of his twin brother. "He's always had the mindset of 'if it was easy, everyone would do it'."
"That's a good mindset to have when going through Green Beret Training."
"So he's been told. Between that mind set and being too stubborn to quit, Smith will be fine."
"Hopefully that's the only way he uses his stubbornness."
"I hope so too… Those officers will have a field day with him if he doesn't."
"There was this one guy in my battalion, he was from Texas and he dipped, a lot. Our uh commander found his can and made him do push ups, except every time he went down, he had to eat a mouthful of his dip until the can was empty. After that, he couldn't stand the spearmint flavored dip, so he started dipping something else. He probably ate 12 cans of dip before he finally stopped dipping," Frank laughs, recalling the stubborn Texan and his multiple cans of dip.
"Smith used to dip, but he ended up quitting before going into basic training because of stories like that."
"Smart man," Frank glances around the room once more and spots a picture of an older man framed by various metals and military decorations. "That your old man?" He asks, jerking his head toward the frame.
Wes glances toward the picture in question.
"Yeah," he responds quietly, wrapping Frank's knuckles.
The military man frowns at the quiet response.
"Didn't get along?" Frank guesses.
"No, no we were actually really close," Wes reaches down his shirt and pulls up a metal chain with silver dog tags. "He was killed in action a few months back in Afghanistan."
"I'm sorry."
Wes shrugs, looking down at the couch.
"Thanks. His death activated this… Intensity inside of Smith. He's already stubborn as hell, but when dad died, he knew that he was going to become a Green Beret, the best he can be, and nobody can stop him."
"So if that's what made your brother want to join the military, what made you want to become a nurse?"
Wes finishes wrapping Frank's hand, the last of Frank's injuries then quietly sits on the couch for a moment.
"I was visiting my friend Eric who lives in New York a few years back and we were walking back to his place one night when these guys came out of this alley and started beating the shit out of us and stole all of our stuff. After they mugged us, they started to leave and then one of them without warning pulled out a gun and shot Eric in the stomach. The cowards fucking ran and I was left there to watch my best friend bleed out," By this point, in spite of himself, tears began flowing down Wes' checks. "I tried to stop the bleeding, but there was nothing I could do, I didn't know what to do. By the time someone else found us and called an ambulance, Eric was dead and I was left there, covered in his blood," Wes takes a shaky breath, wiping his cheeks. "I never wanted to be in the position of not knowing how to help someone in need, helping people like Eric. He was really smart… He used to live in Georgia, that's how I knew him, but he always one of the top people of our class. He wanted to study to be aerospace engineer. And he was really good at football- hell any sport really," Wes looks down, smiling bitterly. "Geeze, I'm bawling like baby."
"You watched your best friend die," Frank points out. "The fact that you used his death to motivate you to help others instead of being bitter says a lot about your character."
"Good things I hope," Wes jokes in attempt to lighten the mode.
"Better things than can be thought of me," Frank chuckles darkly. "Then again, that's not really saying much."
Wes doesn't respond, staring at the picture of his dad. It's been awhile since he's talked about Eric. Out of all people to finally open up about his dead friend, Wes has no idea why he chooses a stranger who kills criminals. Though he considers asking Frank his story and motivation, between the trial and various newspaper articles, Wes had gathered the events which led to the creation of the "Punisher". It seemed interesting to Wes, the contrast between the two men. Both suffered influential losses in their lives. One became a deadly avenger driven on a path of revenge and desire to prevent this tragedy from happening to anyone else and the other became a source of unbiased help, determined to save lives so no one would ever experience the pain of losing someone they love.
"Do you need somewhere to sleep?" Wes offers.
Punisher or not, Wes will continue to help Frank. Partly because in a weird way, it's the right thing to do, and partly because, though his methods are questionable, he believes in the intention.
"No," Frank begins to stand. "I've already been here too long."
The military man heads toward the door, then turns before reaching for the door handle.
"Thank you, Wes."
Wes smiles at the man.
"No problem. If you need medical attention, you know where my apartment is. If I'm not home yet, the locks suck so you can let yourself in until I get here. If it's really bad, call Metro General and ask to speak to me."
Frank nods, then walks out the door of Wes's apartment. Wes didn't necessarily want Frank to go, not in his current condition, but he knows that Frank is too stubborn to stay. The nurse sighs to himself, praying that Frank would come back to him in time for Wes to help him. Though he refuses to admit it, it may be better for Wes if he never saw Frank again. The young nurse is playing with fire by helping Frank Castle, but Wes holds no intentions of stopping any time soon, even if he is burned by the flame.