Chapter 39:
[Wilson Fisk POV]
[Fisk Tower, New York City]
[Office.] I stride confidently away from the lifeless body lying on the floor, my fists drenched in crimson. Wesley, my loyal associate, promptly approaches me, handing me a damp towel to meticulously cleanse my hands. As I rid myself of the bloodstains, I casually remark, "It appears that the individual who dared to lay a hand on Vanessa was nothing but a lowly street rat, desperate for a quick payday." Wesley fixes his gaze upon me, his eyes filled with a mixture of respect and apprehension. He understands the power I hold and the calculated precision with which I navigate the world. Aware of my capabilities and the depth of my influence, he knows better than to question my actions or delve into the darker corners of my affairs. His unwavering loyalty is both a testament to his unwavering trust in my vision and a reminder of the consequences that await those who dare to challenge me.
"Where do we stand on the operation?" I inquire, my voice carrying a tone of authority and expectation. The question lingers in the air, the weight of its importance evident in the furrowed brows and attentive postures of my subordinates. With a quick glance around the room, I wait for the updates that will determine the success or failure of our meticulously planned endeavor. In this critical moment, I rely on Wesley and the rest of my trusted team to provide the necessary information that will allow me to steer our collective efforts toward achieving our shared goals.
"Right on track," Wesley assures me, his voice brimming with confidence. "We're precisely where we need to be, just awaiting Zemo's execution of his assigned role." His words resonate with a sense of assurance, indicating that our carefully orchestrated plan is progressing as intended. The mention of Zemo's involvement brings to mind the value of strategic partnerships and the importance of relying on individuals who possess unique skills and resources. I observe the gravity etched upon Westly's countenance, a telltale sign that there is more to be revealed. My curiosity piqued, I firmly command, "Don't withhold anything, Wesley. Speak your mind." The weight of my words hangs in the air, demanding his unfiltered honesty. A sigh escapes Westly's lips, a mixture of concern and frustration coloring his exhale. "I have my reservations about Zemo," he confesses, his voice laced with caution. "I sense a lack of trust in his actions and words. It's as if he sees you as nothing more than a means to an end, devoid of the respect or fear that your position commands."
His candid admission resonates within me, stirring a surge of both annoyance and appreciation for Westly's astuteness. The revelation presents a potential crack in the foundation of our meticulously crafted alliance. The success of our enterprise hinges on trust and unwavering loyalty, both of which I have meticulously cultivated throughout my rise to power. As I process this newfound information, I weigh the implications carefully. In this world of calculated moves and intricate power dynamics, any sign of weakness or betrayal must be dealt with swiftly and decisively. I contemplate the actions required to ensure our mutual interests remain protected, aware that the delicate balance of power demands constant vigilance. At this moment, I realize that our meticulously crafted plan extends beyond the realm of mere strategy. It demands an intricate understanding of the motivations and allegiances of those within our ranks. With this unsettling revelation about Zemo, I am reminded of the inherent challenges in maintaining absolute control and loyalty, even amongst those who appear to be reliable allies.
[Steve Rogers POV]
[Days Later, SHIELD Psychiatric Center, New York City]
[Visitors Area.] I enter the psychiatric center, making my way to the visitor's area. My eyes scan the surroundings, taking in the sterile white walls and the hushed murmurs that permeate the air. Determined, I make my way through the corridors, following the signs that lead me to the visitor's area. The visitor's area is a modest space, with rows of chairs neatly arranged and a large window allowing a glimpse of sunlight to filter in. I take a deep breath, my heart pounding in my chest, as I search the room for a familiar face. And there he is. Bucky sits quietly in one of the chairs, his gaze fixed on some distant point.
As I reach his side, a mix of relief and concern washes over me. I take a seat across from him. We exchange a brief glance but remain silent. Studying him closely, I observe that he appears slightly better than when I last saw him in Berlin. There is a noticeable change in his complexion, as he now possesses a healthier and more vibrant color. At this moment, I am grateful for the opportunity to be here to offer support to someone who has been through so much. Though the road ahead may be difficult, I am determined to stand by Bucky's side to help him find his way back to the person he once was or at least as close to it as possible.
"How are you doing, Buck?" I ask gently, hoping to break the ice that lingers between us. I watch as he lifts his shoulders, a subtle movement that conveys a complex range of emotions. The weariness in his eyes is palpable, yet there is a flicker of resilience that refuses to be extinguished. "Getting by," he replies, his voice laced with a quiet strength that speaks of the battles he has fought and the challenges he continues to face. It's a response that holds a hint of resignation. I pause for a moment, taking in his words and recognizing the weight they carry. It's a reminder of the arduous journey he's been on, the demons he's confronted, and the progress he's made. I offer him a nod of understanding.
Bucky's path to healing and regaining a sense of well-being is marked by numerous obstacles and significant effort. It's not a quick or easy process but rather a gradual and arduous journey. The wounds he carries, both physical and emotional, run deep, and addressing them requires time, patience, and resilience. Recovery entails confronting and working through the traumas and inner demons that have haunted Bucky for so long. It involves unraveling the complex layers of his past experiences and finding ways to reconcile with the pain and guilt he carries. Each step forward may be accompanied by setbacks and moments of doubt as he navigates through the labyrinth of his own mind.
The road to recovery also demands unwavering support from those around him, those who are committed to standing by his side through thick and thin. It requires a network of compassionate professionals, friends, and loved ones who can provide the necessary guidance, understanding, and encouragement. They offer a lifeline during the most challenging times, reminding Bucky that he is not alone in his struggle. Additionally, the journey of recovery often involves learning new coping mechanisms, developing healthier habits, and building a stronger sense of self. Bucky must confront his past actions, confront the consequences of his actions, and strive to make amends while forging a new path forward.
After an hour, the time comes for me to depart. "Same time next week?" Bucky asks, hopeful for our next meeting. I offer a nod, assuring him, "Yeah, I'll be here. I'm with you to the end of the line, buddy." With those words, I reaffirm my unwavering commitment to stand by his side throughout his recovery journey. It's a pledge of loyalty and support, promising that I will continue to be there for him, no matter how long or challenging the road ahead may be. As I approach the exit, Bucky stops me with a question about Nat. "The redhead. How's she doing?" he inquires, showing a glimmer of curiosity. Surprised, I respond, "You remember her?" Bucky shakes his head, his memory still fragmented, and admits, "No, but she seems familiar. Do we know each other?" Pausing for a moment, I gather my thoughts and reply, "You were her partner, from what I understand." I try to provide him with a glimpse of their shared history, hoping it may trigger some recollection or connection in his mind.
He closes his eyes, attempting to coax his memory to resurface. Sensing his frustration, I offer comforting reassurance. "Don't stress it. It'll come to you eventually. And even if it doesn't, you have the opportunity to create new memories," I say to Bucky, emphasizing that his past doesn't solely define him. I encourage him to embrace the present and the possibility of forging new connections and experiences, regardless of what his recollection may or may not unveil. It's a reminder that one's identity isn't solely reliant on the past but can also be shaped by the present and future.
[Outside.] Exiting the psychiatric center, I spot Natasha waiting for me outside the building. She leans casually against her car, her arms crossed over her chest. Her presence immediately captures my attention. "Wait long?" I inquire, closing the distance between us as I walk toward Natasha. She rocks her head from side to side, a hint of a smile playing on her lips. "No, I just got here," she replies, indicating that her arrival coincided with my exit from the psychiatric center. Natasha peers at the building, her gaze lingering on its facade. "How's he doing?" she asks, her voice carrying a mixture of concern and hope. Feeling the weight of the question, I instinctively scratch the back of my neck before answering. "It's a slow process, but he's making progress," I respond, acknowledging the challenges that Bucky faces on his path to recovery. As I convey this update, Natasha nods in approval, acknowledging the significance of any improvement and expressing her support for his journey. It's a silent affirmation.
[Car.] The two of us enter the car, seeking a moment of respite from the weight of our concerns. I settle into the seat, find a comfortable position, and break the silence. "He asks about you," I reveal, my voice carrying a sense of anticipation. Adjusting the rearview mirror, I catch Natasha freezing for a brief moment, her expression betraying a mix of curiosity and guardedness. "What does he say?" she inquires, her voice tinged with a hint of vulnerability. Taking a deep breath, I respond honestly, "He mentions that you seem familiar to him. That's all." I pause for a moment, allowing my words to sink in. "You can talk to him. It might trigger another memory," I suggest, hopeful that their interaction may lead to a breakthrough in Bucky's fragmented recollections. However, Natasha shakes her head in a decisive manner. "No," she states firmly. Her words carry a sense of finality as if she has come to a definitive conclusion. "Even if it did, it wouldn't be anything meaningful. We weren't friends," she admits, a touch of regret laced within her voice.
[Jessica Jones POV]
I enter my apartment, my steps marked by a slight limp, a lingering reminder of the battles I've fought. Making my way toward the bathroom, I flip the switch, illuminating the room in a soft glow. The familiar sound of the light switch echoes in the stillness of the space as if signaling my return to a place of solitude and refuge. Hunched over the sink, I release a mouthful of blood, its metallic taste lingering on my tongue. The sight of the crimson stain mixing with the water sends a surge of frustration and weariness through me. Every fiber of my being throbs with pain, a constant reminder of the physical toll that comes with my line of work.
Feeling the weight of exhaustion and pain, I allow my body to sink down the bathroom wall, my muscles protesting as I slide into a seated position on the cool tile floor. The hardness of the surface brings a slight relief, grounding me in the present moment. With a heavy sigh, I lean back, closing my eyes for a brief respite from the outside world.
"What the hell was I thinking, getting myself involved?" I mutter, frustration and self-doubt coloring my words. The weight of my actions and the consequences they bring bear down on me heavily. Doubts and regrets swirl in my mind, questioning my own identity and the choices I've made. The label of a hero feels foreign and undeserved as if I've mistakenly wandered into a role that doesn't belong to me. In this moment of vulnerability, I confront the harsh reality that being a hero isn't always what it's cracked up to be, and I question my own abilities and worth.
Despite the challenging outcome and my doubts, a glimmer of something stronger than fear or doubt emerges within me. It's a sense of dauntlessness, a deep-rooted conviction that doing the right thing is worth the struggle and sacrifice. In the face of adversity, I find solace in knowing that I made a stand, even if it didn't go as planned. The feeling of righteousness, of aligning my actions with my own moral compass, washes over me like a wave, empowering me to continue pushing forward despite the odds. It's in these moments that I recognize the indomitable spirit within, reminding me that being a hero isn't about perfection or guaranteeing success but rather about never giving up on what I believe is right.
With a weakened effort, I reach into my pocket, fingers trembling as I grasp my phone. A conflicted part of me resists the idea of reaching out for help, stubbornly clinging to my independent nature. However, the sight of blood escaping from places it shouldn't and realizing my vulnerability leaves me with little choice. Reluctantly, I accept that calling for assistance is the only logical option. The weight of the situation settles heavily on my shoulders as I tap the familiar numbers, my hand shaking with a mix of apprehension and relief. Each digit pressed reinforces the reality of my current state, reminding me of my limitations and the importance of relying on others when necessary. At this moment, the necessity of seeking help overrides any pride or reservations that may linger within me. The last thing I remember before slipping into unconsciousness is hearing Murdock's voice.
[Matt Murdock POV]
I stride purposefully into Jones's apartment, my heightened senses picking up on the distinct metallic scent of blood that permeates the air. It hits me like a punch to the senses. Following the distinct smell of blood, I trace its source to the bathroom. As I enter, my heart sinks at the sight that unfolds before me. There, on the cold tile floor, lies Jessica Jones, her body marked with the evidence of a fierce and brutal encounter. The wounds mar her skin, serving as a grim testament to the violence she has endured. Kneeling down beside her, my gloved hands hover over her injured form, my heightened senses taking in the extent of her injuries. The sight of the wounds is jarring, and I can feel anger and concern intertwine within me. But now is not the time for emotional turmoil; it's a time for action.
With careful precision, I assess the severity of her injuries, noting the deep gashes and bruises that mar her body. The smell of her blood is a stark reminder of the urgency with which I must act. I reach for my medical kit, its contents meticulously organized for moments like these. Gently, I begin to clean and dress her wounds, employing the skills honed through years of training. As I work, my touch is gentle yet firm, my heightened senses allowing me to detect any signs of internal injuries or hidden dangers.
Once I finish tending to Jessica's wounds, ensuring they are properly cleaned and dressed, I carefully lift her into my arms, mindful of her injuries. Her weight rests against me as I carry her out of the bathroom and into the living room. With gentle precision, I lower her onto the sofa, arranging pillows and cushions to provide her with as much comfort as possible. The soft fabric cradles her body, offering a small respite from the pain and trauma she has endured. As I step back to assess her condition, concern etches across my face. Her breathing is steady, a reassuring sign amidst the chaos. I remain vigilant, monitoring her closely, ready to intervene at the first sign of distress.
After an hour of rest, Jessica stirs awake suddenly, her movement causing her to wince in pain and inadvertently tear one of her stitches. The sharp exclamation escapes her lips, and her eyes dart around the room until they land on me. Confusion and curiosity fill her voice as she speaks, "Ah! Murdock? What are you doing here?" I approach her swiftly, concern etched on my face. "Take it easy, Jones," I say calmly, trying to alleviate her distress, "I found you injured in your bathroom. You were bleeding out."
Understanding Jessica's discomfort and the urgency to address the torn stitch, I swiftly retrieve the med kit once again, reopening it to access the necessary supplies. Carefully, I approach her and begin the process of reworking the damaged stitch. I cleanse the area surrounding the torn stitch, ensuring it is free from any potential contaminants. Using a sterile needle and thread, I carefully align the edges of the wound and delicately begin the process of suturing, rejoining the skin to promote proper healing. Throughout the procedure, I maintain a calm and reassuring presence, providing gentle explanations of each step I take. I remain mindful of Jessica's comfort, adjusting my movements to minimize any discomfort she may experience. Once the torn stitch is repaired, I secure it in place with a careful knot, ensuring its stability. I then clean the area once more and apply a fresh dressing to protect the wound. "Alright, that should do it," I say, my voice gentle but confident, "Take it easy for now."
"What's happened?" I ask, a deep curiosity driving my desire to understand the events that have led to this outcome. I want to grasp the circumstances that have brought us to this moment, seeking clarity in the face of the unknown. Jones lets out a weary sigh, her voice carrying the weight of exhaustion and the burdens of her experiences. "Long story short," she starts, "I was working on a case. Unfortunately, things escalated quickly and violently." The brevity of her explanation hints at the depth of the challenges she faced and the dangerous turns that unfolded along her investigative journey. It's a reminder of the unpredictable nature of the work she does, where a seemingly routine case can spiral into chaos in an instant. I offer a nod of understanding. "At least it ended in my favor," Jones finishes without diving into details. The room falls into silence, the weight of the unspoken conversation lingering in the air. Jones's weariness overtakes her, and she drifts back into sleep. I watch over her for a moment, a sense of protectiveness welling within me.
With a sigh, I ready myself to leave Jones's apartment. Just as I get up from the chair, Jones reaches out a hand and pins me by the jacket, her eyes pleading. "Please stay. I don't want to be alone," she voices, her voice filled with vulnerability and a desperate need for companionship. I hesitate momentarily, feeling the weight of her words and the depth of her emotions. The sense of duty and empathy washes over me, and I sit back down, unable to deny her request. "Okay," I say softly, my voice filled with reassurance, "I won't go anywhere until morning." The relief in her eyes is palpable, and a small smile tugs at the corners of her lips. It's a simple act of staying by her side, offering her comfort and support during a difficult time. I understand the significance of my presence, providing a sense of safety and solace in the midst of her pain and uncertainty. I settle back into the chair, making myself comfortable, knowing that my commitment to stay will bring her a measure of peace. We sit in silence for a while, the weight of the room gradually easing as a sense of companionship fills the space. Occasionally, Jones steals glances in my direction, a mix of gratitude and vulnerability in her eyes. It's in these quiet moments that our connection strengthens, as unspoken words convey a shared understanding and a willingness to be there for each other.
As the night progresses, I remain vigilant, keeping watch over Jones, ensuring her well-being is prioritized. Occasionally, she breaks the silence with whispered questions or hesitant confessions, and I respond with gentle reassurance and understanding. Our conversations, though brief and sporadic, create a sense of intimacy and trust, forging a bond between us that transcends the circumstances that brought us together. The hours pass slowly, but the quietude of the apartment provides a calm and serene atmosphere. Jones eventually drifts into a fitful sleep, her breathing steady and even. I maintain my vigilance, keeping a watchful eye on her, ready to offer comfort or assistance should the need arise. As the first rays of morning light filter through the window, a sense of relief washes over me. Jones stirs awake, her eyes searching the room until they land on me. A soft smile spreads across her face, gratitude evident in her gaze. "Thank you for staying," she says, her voice filled with genuine appreciation. I return the smile, "You're welcome. I'll be here as long as you need me."
Via my enhanced senses, I note with surprise that Jones's injuries are completely healed. It appears to be a byproduct of her META powers, which allow her body to regenerate at an accelerated rate. Despite my awareness of her healed wounds, I chose to play dumb, not wanting to intrude on her personal abilities. Instead, I suggest that she should have a doctor check her wounds, emphasizing the limitations of my abilities as a blind man. "Jones, it's remarkable how quickly your injuries have healed. It might still be a good idea to have a doctor examine you, just to be thorough," I say, my tone carefully neutral. I want to respect her autonomy and provide her with an option that allows her to make her own decisions regarding her health. A smile tugs at the corners of her lips, and her voice holds a hint of amusement as she responds, "No need, Murdock. I'm five by five." Her words carry a sense of confidence and assurance, indicating that she feels completely fine and in control of her well-being.
I can't help but chuckle softly at her response, appreciating her self-assuredness. "Well, if you're sure, Jones," I reply, my voice laced with a touch of playful skepticism. I respect her decision and trust that she knows her own body and abilities best. At that moment, our exchange becomes a lighthearted acknowledgment of the unique strengths and capabilities that each of us possesses. It's a reminder that even though my skills as a blind vigilante have their limits, Jones's META powers grant her a remarkable resilience and healing ability that surpasses conventional medical understanding.
Jones arches a brow, her curiosity piqued. "Speaking of which, how does a blind man know how to stitch?" Her question catches me off guard, and I find myself momentarily at a loss for words. Realizing that I've walked right into it, I quickly gather my thoughts and offer an explanation. "Uhh," I begin, trying to find the right words to convey my unconventional skill, "It's actually a perk I picked up from my upbringing. I was raised by a single dad who happened to be a boxer." I pause briefly, hoping that my explanation will satisfy her curiosity. Jones's expression shifts, a mix of surprise and amusement crossing her features. She nods as if processing the information. "Well, that explains it," she responds, a hint of a smile playing at the corners of her lips. It's clear that she finds the connection between my unconventional skill set and my upbringing intriguing. I can't help but smile back, relieved that my explanation seems to have sufficed. It's in moments like these that our individual backgrounds and unique experiences merge, offering a glimpse into the diverse paths that have shaped us.