A/N: Welp, I'm a liar for saying this would be on monthly updates and then falling off the face of the earth for two months. Haha. I'm back now though! And as an apology, chapter 5 will also be up by Sunday.
No Tia in this chapter. It's a blast from the past-Fisk's and Wesley's past, to be precise!
Enjoy!
Wilson Fisk and James Wesley weren't all that close throughout most of elementary school. They lived in the same neighborhood, went to the same school, and were in the same class for most of the years they were there, but other than the occasional nod or 'hello' as they passed each other in the hallway, they didn't usually associate. Wesley had the kind of charisma that allowed him to ingratiate himself into just about any social group he wanted, while Wilson was an awkward child, timid as he was under the oppressive thumb of his abusive father.
Middle school marked the beginning of change.
Wesley placed his school bag down quietly next to the desk he'd been assigned next to the window, unlike the majority of his classmates who seemed to make it their goal in life to make as much noise as possible. Looking around, he spotted one of the only exceptions he knew of; a familiar face, seated beside him. With a curious look, he saw that the boy appeared to be trying to organize all the different writing utensils into different compartments in his pencil case. However, seeing as Wesley was seated right next to him, he could see that the boy had already organized everything and was just trying to look busy so others wouldn't approach him. Suppressing an uncivilized snort, Wesley propped his chin up on his fist and raised an eyebrow.
"I don't think they're going to get any neater than you've already got them, Fisk," the bespectacled boy said dryly.
Wilson's head shot up, a guilty look on his face as though he'd been caught doing something bad. His ears reddened in embarrassment before he quickly zipped the pencil case shut, stashing it away in his desk. He mumbled what sounded like an apology, causing Wesley's other eyebrow to shoot up to join the first.
"Don't apologize to me, Fisk. You don't owe me anything."
Wilson shot him a sideways glance, before giving him a small, tentative smile. He looked like he was about to apologize again, but stopped himself, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly.
Wesley gave him a vague smile.
"You know what? I'm starting to get annoyed with all these loudmouths," he said, glancing around the class full of twelve-year-olds that were all talking to each in volumes just shy of shouting. He looked back at Wilson, the quiet loner who had been marked as a 'loser' by the other children due to his painfully shy and awkward nature. Wesley didn't care about labels, though. He took people as they were, and damn what anyone else had to say about it. He was a people person, through-and-through. It was how he could tolerate, let alone befriend, so many people. Other children, especially preteens as they were now, tended to grate on his nerves a bit, however.
Wesley stuck out his hand to Wilson. "Let's be friends."
Wilson seemed surprised, but more than that, he seemed intimidated by Wesley's assertiveness.
"Uh...no offense, but...why?" he asked quietly. Poor kid had a bit of a girly voice yet, Wesley noted.
Wesley gave him a look that read, 'seriously?'
"Well, we've certainly known each other long enough to be friends, but other than that, we don't really know each other, and I think you'd be interesting to get to know," Wesley rambled off. "You're quiet, so I never know what you're thinking, unlike everyone else. We live in the same neighborhood, so it'll be convenient if we ever want to hang out. And...well...I don't know." Wesley shrugged, stretching his hand out a little further. "Just shake my damn hand, Fisk. Stop being so difficult and let's be goddamn friends."
Wilson hesitated, but gave him that tentative smile again. His cheeks, which were still chubby with baby fat, dimpled slightly at the movement.
"Okay," he said, grabbing Wesley's hand and giving it a firm shake.
Wesley grinned.
"About time, Fisk."
Little did he know, that action had sealed his fate.
-o-
It hadn't taken very long for Wesley to realize that there was something sinister going on in the Fisk household.
Wesley was a bright child, very observant and capable of making connections between things that the majority of people wouldn't be able to. It was part of what made him so socially adept. The only reason that he hadn't noticed during elementary school was because he had never looked at Wilson Fisk long enough to see the bruises that sometimes peeked out from beneath the edges of his shirt sleeves or collar. Wilson Fisk had that kind of aura about him; one that kept you from looking at him for too long. He was very good at blending in, and for the longest time, he'd wanted to. If he was completely ordinary, no one would take an interest in him. From what his father had shown him, when people took an interest in you, it was never a good thing. It was why he'd been so wary of Wesley's friendship at first. Wesley could be a very forceful person when he wanted to be, though, and he had ingratiated himself into Wilson's life to the point of no return. It was a miracle his father hadn't shown his only friend his darker side up to that point.
Wilson's father had dived into the bottle and never come up, ever since he lost the election. Wilson himself had begun to have troubles not just with his father's abusive behavior, but also with bullies. And despite that Wesley was always there for him, he was loathe to drag the boy into his problems. Sure, he knew that there was no way the other boy couldn't have noticed the extra bruises, the way his eyes always darted about, making note of possible escape routes, but he didn't want his friend to get hurt if he could help it.
Wesley, on the other hand, had noticed something that even Wilson hadn't about himself.
Wilson was about to reach his breaking point.
He could tell from the way that when certain topics came up in conversation, ones that could be linked back to his father, the boy's fists clenched so hard they shook and left half-moon markings in his palms when they finally relaxed.
So when one day, Wilson came to school and was acting strangely aloof, Wesley was, of course, concerned.
Wesley watched silently over his friend, who seemed to be attempting to sever ties with him without saying as much, for the next several days. On the sixth day of his friend's odd behavior, he decided to visit him at his home. He hesitated, but eventually decided to go over after supper. Usually at that time, Wilson's father would be out at the bar, so there would be notably less tension in the house as he and his mother wouldn't be walking on eggshells around the perpetually angry man. When Wesley arrived at the house, though, he hesitated again. Wilson had made it very clear that he didn't like Wesley visiting without prior notice, he'd figured due to his father's temper. Wesley was so deep in thought that he almost didn't notice when the garage door opened. Instinctively, Wesley hid behind the bushes by the Fisks' fence as the family car pulled out of the driveway.
Family car? Wait, so Mr. Fisk hadn't taken it to the bar? He squinted in the dark, barely making out the figures of Mrs. Fisk in the driver's seat, Wilson sitting in the passenger seat beside her. Where were they going? Wesley knew for a fact that they never went anywhere in the evening, ever, because Mr. Fisk never came home from the bar at the same time, sometimes getting kicked out early due to lack of funds, and if nobody was home when he got there, he would hunt them down and skin them.
The more he thought about that, the more he realized the angry man probably would actually do just that.
Shaking his head of the chilling thought, Wesley followed after the blazing red taillights as the car drove slowly down the gravel back lane, trying to stick to the shadows. He felt like he was doing something wrong, following the Fisks like this, but he couldn't help his curiosity over the current situation. As he jogged along, keeping far enough away that he could just barely keep the distant taillights within view, he wondered where Mr. Fisk was that they were feeling bold enough to defy him so openly.
Eventually, he arrived by the river. In the distance, he could see Mrs. Fisk and her son taking a large garbage bag out of their trunk, both of them carrying it between them to the end of the pier. They heaved it back and forth, gaining momentum until they threw it out as far as they could into the river. The whole scene just struck Wesley as being...wrong.
After all, when do normal people ever throw garbage bags into the river after dark?
Making up his mind, Wesley turned and ran back the way he'd come as fast as he could, hoping to make it back to the Fisks' house before they did.
There was something he needed to check.
-o-
Wesley pressed his sleeve to his face as he stared into the open garbage bag, horrified and gagging at the smell of decaying flesh.
An arm stared back at him, one with a familiar tattoo on the bicep.
Mr. Fisk's arm. Wilson's father's arm.
Hastily, he retied the bag, fleeing up the stairs from the basement. Rather than head for the door, however, he headed straight for Wilson's bedroom, even as he heard the family car pull into the garage and shut off, the slamming of doors echoing from first the car and then the side door that joined the house to the garage. Wesley's hands were shaking, but he glared at them, clenching them into fists as he sat at his friend's desk.
When Wilson entered the room, flipping on the light, he startled at seeing Wesley sitting there. Nervous from the fact that they had just dumped part of his father's body in the river, worried that somehow the boy had seen them and was here to (rightly) accuse him of murder, Wilson unconsciously took a step back, pressing his back against the doorframe as he tugged at his fingers nervously.
"Wesley, what are you doing here?" Wilson asked, the nervousness seeping into his voice.
Wesley's face was unreadable as he stared at Wilson. He had always had a good poker face, even as a young child. It unnerved his parents sometimes, but it was very useful at times.
"I know about your dad," he said.
It was like he had struck Wilson in the gut.
Well, there went his only friend, he supposed. And now he was going to go to jail, on top of that...
"I'm not going to tell anyone."
Wilson stared at him, wide-eyed.
"But...why?" Wilson asked, immediately regretting the question. His mother always told him not to look a gift horse in the mouth, but here he was, questioning his friend's motives for keeping the one secret that would decide the course of the rest of his life-as a free man with the ability to change the world as they knew it, or as a caged man locked in a den of thieves and murderers. People just like him, his mind whispered, the guilt hitting him anew. Then he remembered the terrible man his father had been, and how he would have eventually killed his mother if he hadn't stopped him. Stopped his heart, that is.
Wesley's eyes were older than they should have been as he stared Wilson down.
"Because I know what kind of man your father was," he said, "and because I know what kind of man you could be."
Wilson almost didn't want to ask, but he found himself saying quietly, almost no louder than a whisper,
"And what kind of man might that be?"
Wesley gave him an appraising look.
"The kind of man that does what needs to be done, rather than what people may believe to be right."
