Enjoy!
Two weeks later, Wes trudges up to his apartment, shivering fiercely from the freezing rain. The walk from Metro General is not long, but in the bone chilling rain, the walk is tortuous and extended by two miles.
The nurse's hands shake uncontrollably as he attempts to find the keyhole. After a solid minute of struggling, Wes manages to unlock the door. He flicks the light on, then nearly crashes back into the hall at the sight of a person hunched over on his couch. Quickly jumping to his feet, Wes yanks his door shut as he realizes the man on his couch is a wanted criminal.
"Frank?" Wes calls quietly into his living room, rounding the couch to survey the injured man.
Frank grunts in response, holding his side. Clearly, Frank has not been in the apartment long as he is shivering almost just as hard as Wes despite his valiant attempts to hide it.
"Did I scare you?" He chuckles with a slight wince.
Wes, ignoring the man's jaring, looks down where blood dripped from between Frank's fingers. Without a word, Wes pulls down the man's hand and pulls up his shirt, investigating the wound. He snaps into nurse mood, receiving the medical supplies, swiftly cutting away Frank's shirt and began stitching the wound with careful fingers. Frank leans back against the couch as Wes works, feeling the ache of his muscles, and his skin tighten from the cold. The apartment looks no different than it did two weeks ago. Same pictures on the wall, probably the same plates in the sink if Frank had to guess, same spread of various books now pushed off the coffee table to the floor. In order to protect Wes from the cross fire of the one man war Frank is waging, he will have to play this very carefully. It's no secret that Frank continues to gain powerful enemies, but the alliance between Frank and Wes must remain as quiet as possible. Frank refuses to let Wes get hurt.
Wes presses the final piece of tape against the thick bandage on Frank's side.
"I tried to layer the gauze on pretty thick to try to protect your side. How's your chest healing?" Wes scans over his handiwork, nodding his head in approval. "Good, you're keeping them clean. They dissolve so you don't have to worry about taking them out."
Frank nods his head, rubbing his face sleepily. He glances over at his shirt, soaked with water and blood and cut in half with a frown. Wes follows the man's gaze then walks back to his bedroom, reappearing a few moments later with a large dark colored shirt.
"Here's something dry. It should fit you," Wes holds the shirt out to Frank.
"Thanks," Frank responds gruffly, pulling the shirt over his head. "That rain's a bitch."
"You're telling me," Wes rolls his eyes, a shiver tearing through his body.
Oh yeah, I'm still soaking wet, Wes recalls. Whenever he goes into "nurse mood", the rest of the world melts around him. It tends to make him forget things such as being hungry or needing to use the bathroom. Wes excuses himself, quickly changing into a pair of warm sweatpants and a dry t-shirt. He walks back into his living room to find Frank standing in the kitchen brewing himself… Coffee?
"You know it's three o'clock in the morning, right?" Wes questions the man.
Frank shrugs, pressing a button then the grind of the coffee beans begins.
"So?"
"Do you plan on sleeping?"
"Not necessarily," The military man responds darkly.
"Why not?" Wes frowns, leaning against the counter.
"I never can sleep," Frank admits quietly.
"Nightmares?" Wes asks.
Frank nods, staring dully at the window covered by blinds. A flash of lightning illuminates the living room for a moment.
"You're not planning on going back out there, are you?" Wes doesn't even know why he bothers to ask, of course Frank is going back out there.
"Yeah."
"Why?"
"Because if I don't, who's going to stop those shit bags? Red? He hasn't proved to be very effective these days."
Wes sighs, running a hand through his curly hair. There really is no point in arguing. What authority does Wes have over Frank? None. Frank pours a cup of coffee, then takes a sip, drinking it black. Wes pulls himself onto his counter top, leaning his head back against the cabinets.
"I didn't think you'd come back," Wes admits.
"You won't be seeing much of me," Frank tells him. "I'm trying to keep you out of the cross fire. The more time I spend here, the higher that risk becomes."
"So I guess I shouldn't try to convince you to at least sleep here because it's basically sleeting outside then?" Wes half heartedly jokes.
Frank downs the rest of his coffee, rinses out the mug then places it back in the cabinet he found it in. Wes sighs heavily, watching at the man gathers his weapons and straps his gear back on.
"Thanks for the coffee and the stitches."
Frank goes to open the door then Wes calls out to him.
"Frank?"
He turns at the sound of his name.
"Be careful. Please."
"You too, kid," Frank responds then walks out the apartment door.
Since it's three o'clock in the morning, Frank doesn't necessarily have to worry about stealth around Wes's neighbors, but he grabs his black baseball cap from his bag and pulls it down to cover his face. Wes is a good kid and Frank is going to make damn sure that nothing will happen to him.
Frank's visits to Wes's apartments remained fairly sporadic. A week and a half later, Wes finds Frank sitting on his couch with a dislocated shoulder and a bullet lodged deep into the limb. Three weeks after the shoulder incident, Wes wraps up Frank's broken knuckles and split open wrist. The worst condition Frank has even came to Wes was with a destroyed face, multiple broken ribs, a few gunshot wounds, and a drill through the foot. With some skillful coaxing, Wes managed to find out that Frank was tortured by one of the Irish mob bosses who is unhappy with Frank's crusade. Despite Wes's protesting, Frank refuses to stay in Wes's apartment once Wes finishes whichever medical procedure. One of these days, Wes knows he's going to flip on the news and see Frank Castle's death plastered all over Hell's Kitchen. He fears for that day.
The freezing hail tore into Frank's skin, leaving red dots littering Frank's exposed face and hands. Finding a place to stay has not proven to be easy and New York's painful weather was not helping matters. In the back of his mind, Frank knew exactly where he can go, but he refused to address the idea. You could be gone before Wes wakes up the voice urged. I'm not hurt, it's not worth the risk, Frank growled back. As tempting as it is to go to Wes's apartment in order to escape from the hellish (no pun intended) ice, Frank refused to put the twenty five year old's life in any further danger. His breath burned his lungs, his face stung harshly. Personally, Frank prefered the heat over the cold, but his wife enjoyed the northern winters for some odd reason. He sat down for a moment on a bench, wrapping his arms around himself in a poor attempts to retain body heat. Frank rearranged his gear in order to operate as a windbreaker then stood once more to continue his hunt for shelter only to find that hit boots are frozen to the ground.
A long string of curse words and chipping of ice later, Frank freed himself, sighing heavily to himself at his realization. I'm going to literally freeze to death if I try to sleep out here. He glanced in the direction of Wes's apartment. It doesn't appear that any of the mobsters know of Wes's existence… Giving into temptation, Frank turned around, and heads for the direction of Wes's apartment.
By the time Frank gets to the apartment, he knew Wes was home. His bedroom door was closed, a soggy jacket hung by the front door. Frank silently entered the apartment, determined to make his presence unknown and gently set his stuff down. Once hunting down some blankets, Frank pulled off his boots and collapsed onto Wes's couch, happily basking in the warm air.
Sleep came surprisingly easy to him and for the first time in months, Frank slept soundly through the night without a single nightmare to haunt him.
Wes rubs his face fluffing up his hair. Despite it being past noon, he is just now waking up. It's part of the odd hour shifts that will hopefully be ending soon. He walks into his kitchen to make a cup of coffee when a thick pile of paper lying on the counter catches his attention. Wes nearly chokes on his own spit when he realizes the stack is a huge wad of money- five grand to be exact.
Where did this come from?! Wes wonders in amazement, then he notices a familiar, already washed mug, in the kitchen sink. Frank.
He thought he'd been careful. He thought he'd watched close enough. But he thought wrong. And soon, Wes will be paying the price for Frank's mistakes. No. Frank sharply cut himself off. Wes will not fall victim to this bastard mob boss. In three months, only three months of Wes knowing Frank, Frank would have to force him out of his current life. Hell's Kitchen is no longer safe for Wesson Harper because of Frank Castle. Frank shoved through the huge numbers of sidewalk dwellers, keeping his head low. After discovering the mob boss's next target, Frank pulled a few strings in order to insure that Wes would be able to make a hast, clean escape. He quickly sprinted up the stairs of Wes's apartment, nearly taking down the door to Wes's apartment and nearly giving the twenty five year old a heart attack.
"Jesus, Frank!" Wes exclaimed, gripping his chest at the man's sudden entrance.
He reached down to pick up the now shattered plate on the ground, put Frank quickly shoved the younger man into his bedroom.
"You have to leave Hell's Kitchen now. Permanently."
"W-what?" Wes stutterd. "What do you mean?"
"I mean I fucked up and painted a target on your back. There's a car waiting behind your apartment. You need to leave Hell's Kitchen."
"Leave?" Wes questioned. "I-I can't! I don't have anywhere to go!"
Frank shoved a huge wad of money into Wes's hand and grabbed a duffle from Wes's closet, tossing the bag at the nurse's chest.
"You have to or they will kill you. I promised myself I wouldn't let anything happen to you after you've helped me so much and I don't plan to go back on that promise. You have to leave."
Wes, hearing the intensity in Frank's voice nodded his head slowly and begins throwing belongings into the back. He refused to think about where he will go from here and attempted to block the crippling fear by focusing on packing. In a few minutes, Wes has packed the essentials along with a few close, personal items.
The two quickly departed from Wes's apartment, Frank leading Wes to the car.
"Here," Frank handed Wes the car keys. " I'm going to draw some attention out front to buy you some time. Drive and don't look back, okay?" Wes nodded, terror etched onto his face. Frank sighed, and offered a sad smile to Wes. "I'm sorry. Take care of yourself kid," Then Frank ducked out of the apartment complex and spotted the car of the mobsters sent to kill Wes.
He ran at the car, firing at the tires and the two men in the car. The men spot him quickly, ducking out of their car, pulling out their own guns, and fired at Frank. Frank quickly ducked behind one of the cement poles holding up the parking garage. He twisted around the barrier, firing at the men once more. One man fell to the ground, a bullet lodged into his brain while the other ducked behind a nearby car. The two fired at each other for a moment, one bullet catching Frank's shoulder, one bullet catching the man's knee. The man cried out, dropping to the ground. Frank took the opportunity to rush the man, a bullet going through his hand, the gun clattering across the parking deck floor. Frank crushed the man's wrist under his boot, the man screamed in agony then he began to laugh bitterly.
"You're too late," The man spat.
Frank squinted his eyes at the man, then connected the puzzle pieces. He quickly fired a bullet into the man's skull then sprinted to the side of the parking garage Wes is on.
Wes fumbled with the car keys for a moment then pulls the driver side door open, quickly throwing his duffle bag into the car. He's about to step in when the cool metal of the barrel of a gun is pressed against his head.
"Step away from the car," A voice from behind Wes demanded.
Wes, his shaking hands in the air, took a step away from the car, his head racing. I don't want to die the twenty five year old vaguely thought to himself. He squeezed his eyes shut, waiting for the man to pull the trigger.
"NO!" Wes heard Frank yell along with the pounding of boots, but he was too late.
Smith, Mom, Dad, I love you Wes desperately prayed, a lump forming in his throat, then the man pulled the trigger and Wes's body collapsed to the ground with a sickening thud. Frank yanked his gun up, the bullet leaving his gun right as the man shot Wes. The man fell backwards, but Frank only heard Wes's body hit the ground.
No the military man begged, gently flipping the younger man over, praying by some miracle Wes survived a shot to the head and is alive but he knew Wes was dead. He didn't deserve this. The Punisher raised to his feet, fist clenched tightly, arms shaking with rage, jaw clenched. His finger twitched, the motion of pulling a trigger. The man responsible for Wes's death with feel the wrath of the Punisher.
Wes Harper, the twenty five year old nurse from Georgia. Wes Harper, the twin brother of Smith Harper and together they are Smith and Wesson. Wes Harper, one of the only people in this city who had faith in Hell's Kitchen. Wes Harper, the man with an overwhelming desire to help people. Wes Harper, the man who strived to prevent any other person from suffering the pain he suffered. Wes Harper, the nurse who provides free medical attention to his neighbors too poor to afford hospital bills. Wes Harper, an innocent, young man who did not deserve to die.
Frank Castle became the Punisher for people like Wes Harper.
Thank you for reading! Please let me know what you think! In case anyone was curious, at first, this wasn't going to be this long. I was going to end this after the first chapter with this as the last paragraph:
Frank nods, then walks out the door, never to be seen in person by Wes again.
Wes remembers when he saw the fiery death of Frank Castle plastered on the front page of the news. His hands shook slightly, a knot forming in his throat. The media painted it as a relief to the people of Hell's Kitchen, telling the New Yorkers that they could sleep easy at night again once more, but what they failed to recognize is the spike in crime since criminals most deadly and direct threat was now dead. Perhaps the people who lost all faith in Hell's Kitchen are right. Maybe this city is unsaveable. Maybe this city isn't worth it.
Clearly, I decided against it. Instead of "killing" Frank, I decided to kill Wes instead. Almost made myself cry while writing Wes dying. Hope you enjoyed it!