He throws his voice forward, modulating his tone to his best version of polite ‘I mean no harm’.
Again, he is greeted with silence, and Wesley carefully nudges the door open. He considers his gun, loaded with a fresh clip and still sitting in its holster, but decides against reaching for it. Going in waving a weapon is inviting trouble, especially if there’s more than one person inside.
“I’m just here to talk,” he tries, when the door fully opens, revealing the dark interior of the apartment below.
Big industrial windows line the walls, letting in light from the street outside. Despite this, Wesley can only see as much as a couch and a pair of sofa chairs before the apartment fades into darkness. He cranes his ear, and again there is only silence. Cautious, Wesley starts forward, reaching for the railing as he begins to descend the stairs into the room proper.
His hand touches something sticky again, and he doesn’t have to look to know it’s more blood. Wesley can almost imagine the way Matthew Murdock must have stumbled back into his home, barely able to stay upright with the pain of his injuries. It’s a miracle he even made it this far.
“If I was looking to harm you, Mr. Murdock, I wouldn’t be standing here alone,” he says. It’s a risk, telling Murdock the fact, and though it’s up to the man whether he wants to believe him, Wesley hopes it will buy him at least enough trust to not be attacked at the first opportunity.
The floorboards at the bottom of the stairs, Wesley notes, are broken. He stands on the last step, considering the weight and angle of the force that would have been involved, before carefully stepping around the damage. A sliding door, with its glass panels broken, lies against one wall, as does a white cane.
Part of Murdock’s disguise? Or just to complete the image of a blind man?
Wesley lets out a breath, reconsidering the wisdom of this decision. If Fisk finds out… no, there is no use second-guessing himself, he’s already here, and it’s far too late to back out of his decision.
“Mr. Murdock?”
Wesley’s fingers toy with the straps of the medical bag. By now, his eyes have better adjusted to the light, and he can make out the dark shape of the man hidden in the shadows on his left, can feel the weight of Murdock’s gaze upon him.
“Look, I brought medical supplies,” Wesley says with a sigh, lifting the bag in demonstration, “would you like my help?”
Murdock says nothing, even though his gaze behind that mask does not waver. Wesley can guess at what he must be thinking. The act is up, of course. If Wesley has told Fisk that means all of his friends are now in grave danger, his worst fear come true. Does he have the strength or the energy to get to them in time? No. But he can still try to call them and tell them to get out. That is, if he can even get to his phone, which is unlikely, at least not without somehow taking Wesley out first.
He stands there in increasing impatience, feeling almost able to hear the useless train of thought currently working its way through Murdock’s brain. Wesley purses his lips, resisting the urge to roll his eyes.
“You can try to take me out, but I assure you that in your condition your chances of success are none,” he starts, anticipating Murdock’s questions, “I know you’re the vigilante. I recognised your voice and missed those shots on purpose to let you get away. Your friends are safe, and Fisk does not know who you are, yet. And the reason for that is because I need your help. Though right now, Mr. Murdock, it looks like you also need mine.”
Wesley holds up the bag of medical supplies a second time, hoping to hammer home his point so they can stop wasting each other’s time. Murdock’s current injuries have to be putting him in immense pain, Wesley knows as much from experience. Murdock can’t be enjoying it.
Yet, Murdock just stands there, staring, apparently unmoved.
Wesley waits, and then sighs.
“I have no plans to hurt you, Mr. Murdock,” he tries again, his voice resigned. “Please, let me help you.”
This time, what Wesley says appears to reassure him, and Murdock visibly relaxes. Then, he starts to tip over.
Wesley lunges forward, the bag falling to the floor with a thump as he barely catches Murdock in time. The man’s unexpected dead weight almost takes Wesley down with him.
Then, he stands there, feeling absolutely absurd with Murdock unconscious weight on his shoulder, and regretting not changing out of his suit that is most likely ruined with all the blood now soaking into it.
It strikes him that somewhere along the way, he’s become used to standing back while others take care of the dirty grunt work.
Wesley takes a deep breath, and starts dragging Matthew Murdock, the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen, towards the couch.
Which is when someone starts banging on the front door.
Re: [FILL] He Who Fights Monsters 1b/? (Re: Matt/Wesley - Good!Wesley, Undercover)
He throws his voice forward, modulating his tone to his best version of polite ‘I mean no harm’.
Again, he is greeted with silence, and Wesley carefully nudges the door open. He considers his gun, loaded with a fresh clip and still sitting in its holster, but decides against reaching for it. Going in waving a weapon is inviting trouble, especially if there’s more than one person inside.
“I’m just here to talk,” he tries, when the door fully opens, revealing the dark interior of the apartment below.
Big industrial windows line the walls, letting in light from the street outside. Despite this, Wesley can only see as much as a couch and a pair of sofa chairs before the apartment fades into darkness. He cranes his ear, and again there is only silence. Cautious, Wesley starts forward, reaching for the railing as he begins to descend the stairs into the room proper.
His hand touches something sticky again, and he doesn’t have to look to know it’s more blood. Wesley can almost imagine the way Matthew Murdock must have stumbled back into his home, barely able to stay upright with the pain of his injuries. It’s a miracle he even made it this far.
“If I was looking to harm you, Mr. Murdock, I wouldn’t be standing here alone,” he says. It’s a risk, telling Murdock the fact, and though it’s up to the man whether he wants to believe him, Wesley hopes it will buy him at least enough trust to not be attacked at the first opportunity.
The floorboards at the bottom of the stairs, Wesley notes, are broken. He stands on the last step, considering the weight and angle of the force that would have been involved, before carefully stepping around the damage. A sliding door, with its glass panels broken, lies against one wall, as does a white cane.
Part of Murdock’s disguise? Or just to complete the image of a blind man?
Wesley lets out a breath, reconsidering the wisdom of this decision. If Fisk finds out… no, there is no use second-guessing himself, he’s already here, and it’s far too late to back out of his decision.
“Mr. Murdock?”
Wesley’s fingers toy with the straps of the medical bag. By now, his eyes have better adjusted to the light, and he can make out the dark shape of the man hidden in the shadows on his left, can feel the weight of Murdock’s gaze upon him.
“Look, I brought medical supplies,” Wesley says with a sigh, lifting the bag in demonstration, “would you like my help?”
Murdock says nothing, even though his gaze behind that mask does not waver. Wesley can guess at what he must be thinking. The act is up, of course. If Wesley has told Fisk that means all of his friends are now in grave danger, his worst fear come true. Does he have the strength or the energy to get to them in time? No. But he can still try to call them and tell them to get out. That is, if he can even get to his phone, which is unlikely, at least not without somehow taking Wesley out first.
He stands there in increasing impatience, feeling almost able to hear the useless train of thought currently working its way through Murdock’s brain. Wesley purses his lips, resisting the urge to roll his eyes.
“You can try to take me out, but I assure you that in your condition your chances of success are none,” he starts, anticipating Murdock’s questions, “I know you’re the vigilante. I recognised your voice and missed those shots on purpose to let you get away. Your friends are safe, and Fisk does not know who you are, yet. And the reason for that is because I need your help. Though right now, Mr. Murdock, it looks like you also need mine.”
Wesley holds up the bag of medical supplies a second time, hoping to hammer home his point so they can stop wasting each other’s time. Murdock’s current injuries have to be putting him in immense pain, Wesley knows as much from experience. Murdock can’t be enjoying it.
Yet, Murdock just stands there, staring, apparently unmoved.
Wesley waits, and then sighs.
“I have no plans to hurt you, Mr. Murdock,” he tries again, his voice resigned. “Please, let me help you.”
This time, what Wesley says appears to reassure him, and Murdock visibly relaxes. Then, he starts to tip over.
Wesley lunges forward, the bag falling to the floor with a thump as he barely catches Murdock in time. The man’s unexpected dead weight almost takes Wesley down with him.
Then, he stands there, feeling absolutely absurd with Murdock unconscious weight on his shoulder, and regretting not changing out of his suit that is most likely ruined with all the blood now soaking into it.
It strikes him that somewhere along the way, he’s become used to standing back while others take care of the dirty grunt work.
Wesley takes a deep breath, and starts dragging Matthew Murdock, the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen, towards the couch.
Which is when someone starts banging on the front door.