Disclaimer: I don't own the rights to Marvel's "Daredevil", wishful thinking aside.
Authors Note #1: Inspired by a prompt on the Daredevil kink meme which asked for: "Matt/Wesley: Good!Wesley, undercover. Please see previous chapters for a full explanation of the prompt this fic was based on.
Warnings: Adult language, au – no character death, mild crossover with Avengers/AOS, spoilers for the entire first season, blood, injury, violence, angst, drama, mild sexual content.
Bad news (like a suckerpunch)
Chapter Three
He woke to a changed landscape.
To a new scar.
Rigidly controlled bedrest.
And nurses that meant business.
He woke to Fisk in jail.
To an operation in tatters.
Leland six feet under - most of their financials gone with him.
And rigidly controlled bed-rest.
He woke to Ulrich having been found dead in his home.
To Vanessa safely absconded somewhere in Southern France.
Skin knitting with the help of three staples on both his front and his back
And Page, Murdock and Nelson alive and well.
Typical.
He slept for most of the first week. Enjoying the weightless nothing that entered his system periodically. Taking away the pain still spidering out from his chest in throbbing aches of slow-healing muscle as the nurses came and went with their needles and quiet tuts.
And while the walls of his very private, very expensive hospital room didn't immediately talk, he learned the layout of his new reality remarkably quickly. Charming the nurses and putting up with the mockery of a routine police visit. Teasing their strings long before the puppets knew they were dancing to his tune. Quietly adjusting the tallies and legers in his head as both of them – a bored desk Sargent looking to make a mark and a tired looking Lieutenant and mother of five – were added to the payroll.
He arranged for a bouquet of flowers – Jade Vine and Parrot's Beak – to be sent to Madam Gao's last known address, purely for the courtesy. Determined to keep a semblance of communication open between them. His sources turned up nothing in regards to her location other than back alley gossip about a run in with the Man in the Mask and a near miss on both sides. He heard nothing in return, but expected as much. Content with knowing the woman would have gotten the message at the very least.
In the end, his near miss didn't even make the papers. After all, why would it? He was just another innocent victim of an unsympathetic city. A mugging gone wrong wasn't worthy of note in the scheme of things. Even if said victim had been ushered into seclusion and offered what was perhaps the best medical treatment anyone in this side of the world could ask for. No questions asked. The nurses not affiliated with S.H.I.E.L.D merely gossiped about money talking - joking about being named in his will or expecting to be swept off their feet in a Lifetime Channel style romance any moment. Ribbing each other good naturedly as they changed his dressings and gave him the running highlights from the newspapers he'd already skimmed that morning.
In truth, his appearance barely caused a ripple.
He found the bullet S.H.I.E.L.D dug out of him in the middle of a box of expensive Swedish chocolates. A hand selected mix of all his favourites, sent to his hospital room not long after he stabilized. He kept it in the breast pocket of his hospital gown as a reminder. Ever the dutiful chastised child.
The only other thing to arrive was an obnoxious bundle of pink roses half a week after he woke up. His nurses thought it was hilarious, saddling him with one of the pushy older ladies when she brought them in. Burbling about secret admirers and special some ones. Clearly transported by the gesture until he traded his wrinkled nose for an embarrassed smile and offered her one with a clumsy flourish - his weakened side hinging the movement.
He breathed a sigh of relief when she finally left, blushing and tittering. Waving the floral monstrosity out the door like a banner, no doubt eager to show it off to the rest of the floor.
The offending bouquet was bright and so grossly inappropriate he was certain they were delivered to the wrong room until he read the tag.
"There wasn't a card for: "You are a giant dickhead, but I am weirdly annoyed and grateful you aren't dead. So, here you go. - K. Page."
He ended up laughing so hard he pulled a staple and half the floor of nurses came running.
It seemed as though Miss. Page was putting him through a lot of firsts lately.
He considered asking her for coffee, if only to see what color her face would turn. But didn't. Instead he sent a modest bundle of white and peach roses to the office on her birthday and enjoyed the three days of sarcasm and pouting jealousy of one Franklin Nelson - who was clearly infatuated - via the wiretap he placed when the firm first appeared on their radar.
The amusement it garnered him seemed a fair trade.
There was only so much he could do from a hospital bed, but he did what he could.
It gave him time to demolish and rebuild the system he'd already constructed months ago. Contingency plans he'd adjusted and rearranged in his mind between phone calls and the rare, quiet evening when Fisk had had no need of him. Allowing the empire they'd built together to stand on its own and stretch it's legs. Elegant, if not imperfect.
Whatever downtime he had when the hours slipped past – blinking through the blur of exhaustion and drugs - he spent planning his next move. Fisk's next move. Because despite all evidence to the contrary, nothing had actually changed. His cover had been protected. He was still in the game. S.H.I.E.L.D – or the agency formerly known as S.H.I.E.L.D, would have never left him here otherwise.
He slept more than he was used to, but he was able to justify it by repeating the same thing his nurses did when they caught him in the dark, squinting at his laptop long after hours. Telling himself that his body needed to heal and sleep was the best thing for it. It felt wasteful, like an indulgence. Like a bad habit he could easily allow himself to fall head long into. But for the sake of not making waves, he managed to find a happy medium. Placating the nurses and his physical therapists while still exhuming that was left of Fisk's operation from the dust of public opinion.
He healed slower than the last time and pretended not to notice.
Fisk appeared sallow-pale. Washed out and haunted in his prison-whites when he came to visit almost two months later – less than half a week after his own discharge from the hospital. He'd spoken to the man half a dozen times on the phone in the meantime – making vague plans and inquiring after business - but none of that compared to finally seeing him again. A hulking mess of contradictory behavior versus appearance behind three inches of standard prison plexi-glass.
The picture the difference painted was stark. Fisk was a mere shadow of his former austere, quiet violence. But the man smiled warmly all the same. Genuinely pleased to see him as he waited obediently for the trio of prison guards to take off his cuffs. Thanking them by name as he picked up the telephone. Ushering themselves out with a final, affirming nod and a reminder that they had less than thirty minutes.
His own receiver was already warm against his ear. Promptly over-eager and firmly in character as Fisk shifted in his seat, pulling a stressing creak from the ugly orange plastic as their eyes settled and a semblance of normalcy entered his world again.
"It's good to see you, Wesley," Fisk rasped, shoulders shrugging, as if to shake the ghost of a suit straight. The man's eyes were cold, hardened into a shade that was closest to steel-grey as the clock on the wall tick-ticked. Fingers twitching, like the tips were still yearning to run over the pads of his usual cuff-links – a nervous tick, perhaps.
"And you, sir," he returned, adjusting his glasses against the glare of the buzzing fluorescents. Smooth and stream-lined, just like old times as he ran a hand down the crisp line of his tailored slacks.
That one, simple sentence was enough to send the good moments rippling. Re-living it a second time around as he allowed his brain to operate on auto-pilot. Feeling the muscles shape and flex around the words as moments where he'd almost forgotten it was a mission – not a reality – not his reality washed over him like water lapping at a distant shore. Moments where the line between asset and would-be friend had blurred. Twisting and turning until – before the Man in the Mask, before Karen Page, Matt Murdock, Ulrich and Nelson - he wasn't sure if there was even a right side to be on anymore.
He pulled himself back like whip-lash. Thoughts dangerous.
"May I say it's good to hear your voice in person again, sir?"
The worst part was it wasn't a lie.
Not even a little bit.
He quietly saw to the transfer of Fisk to more respectable accommodations within the prison system. Seeding his cell block with sympathetic second chancers whose general answer to the command: jump was how high? After their bank accounts had been appropriately seeded for their services.
He took it upon himself to hire two companions for Fisk's mother and moved her once again. This time to a sea-side villa whose caretakers spoke excellent English and doted upon her accordingly. He began calling her once a week just to listen to her chatter. It was surprisingly therapeutic. She called him a good boy and he reminded himself why he was supposed to hate people.
It didn't work, but then again, he had a mother, a grandmother, even a great grandmother once. And apparently there were some universal constructs that remained constant regardless of time and circumstance. And apparently, sweet-natured old ladies with maternal instincts the size of an aircraft carrier were one of them.
He started to rebuild Fisk's empire from the ground up. Cutting all the fat and starting over. Taking a new approach as the city began to move on. Latching itself to another fresh scandal involving banks, embezzlement and a very miffed trophy mistress with nothing to lose.
Surprisingly little changed.
A/N #2: Thank you for reading. Reviews and constructive critiquing are love! – There will be more to come, stay tuned.
Reference:
* Parrots Beak (Lotus berthelotii): Classified as exceedingly rare since 1884, the Parrot's Beak flower is believed to be extinct in the wild, though some individuals believe it may still be alive. The plant is native to the Canary Islands and is believed to have been originally pollinated by sunbirds which have long gone extinct.
* The Jade Vine (Strongylodon macrobotrys): known for its spectacular blue-green, claw-shaped flowers, produces a hanging inflorescence of color seldom seen in any other flower. The flower is pollinated by bats which will hang upside down to drink the nectar. These rare flowers are now hardly seen in the wild and are believed to be threatened by the deforestation of their natural habitat in the Philippines.
* White roses: meaning, amongst other things, "remembrance." So, in sending white roses to Karen, Wesley is sending a dual message of: 'I remember what you did for me and I am acknowledging it,' but also 'remember why you did it and keep your mouth shut for both our sakes'.
* Peach roses: meaning, amongst other things, "gratitude, thankfulness, and sincerity." So, in sending peach colored roses to Karen, Wesley is also thanking her for her trust and choice to save his life.