Prompt Post #3

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Comments

Matt/Wesley - Good!Wesley, Undercover

[(Anonymous)]

When S.H.I.E.L.D. come to Agent Wesley about an undercover job in Hell's City, he thinks it'll be quick and easy. The kind of in and out he's used to. But it's not, because Wilson Fisk is so much worse than anyone ever thought. Now he's stuck as Fisk's right hand and in far too deep to quit.

Only, between Daredevil fucking with his plans and Karen Page sticking her nose in where it doesn't belong, Wesley is scrambling to protect innocents and bring Fisk down before Hell's Kitchen becomes a war zone...again.

Extra points for Wesley's meeting with Karen being about trying to scare her off for her own safety but she shoots him (non-fatally this time) anyway.

Re: Matt/Wesley - Good!Wesley, Undercover

[(Anonymous)]

THE UNIVERSE FOR THIS.

Re: Matt/Wesley - Good!Wesley, Undercover

[(Anonymous)]

Oh my god please, this

Re: Matt/Wesley - Good!Wesley, Undercover

[(Anonymous)]

My kingdom for this AU

Re: Matt/Wesley - Good!Wesley, Undercover

[(Anonymous)]

I started on something for this and am basically too invested to stop but I don't know if I can squeeze in any Matt/Wesley...like maybe a hint of it. Is this okay with the op?

Re: Matt/Wesley - Good!Wesley, Undercover

[(Anonymous)]

OP here. I'm cool with hints or just like the possibility of a relationship between them in the future. If you can't fit it in though, I'm also good with gen-fic. :)

Re: Matt/Wesley - Good!Wesley, Undercover

[(Anonymous)]

author anon here: Good, I managed to get pre-slashy/future hints so I am happy you are cool with the whole goodie basket. I am almost done and hope to have the first part up tomorrow (sunday) at the very least. It is such an excellent prompt, it ate my brain!

[FILL] He Who Fights Monsters 1/? (Re: Matt/Wesley - Good!Wesley, Undercover)

[(Anonymous)]

Not the above writer!anon but this prompt also grabbed me and wouldn't let go. So here goes! I'm afraid the first part is a lot of exposition.

---

He figures it out in between Fisk’s threats, and finally convinces himself to believe it in between punches.

The vigilante is Matthew Murdock.

From the moment the man in the mask had begun to speak, Wesley could feel something tickling in his memory. The voice had a unique timbre to it, and he knew he had heard it somewhere before. He cycled back through his memory, paying far less attention than he should have to the mental state of his employer in his need to remember. He was good at this, he was trained for this, recognising faces and voices were part of what kept deep cover agents alive, and he’d survived too many missions to fail here and now.

“You killed her just to get my attention?“

And then it clicked.

“Ladies and gentleman of the jury, may I please have your attention?”

It can’t, but it has to be him, with every new sentence that is exchanged between the Vigilante and Fisk, Wesley finds himself more and more sure that it’s Murdock’s voice he is hearing. Is it possible that the vigilante’s real world persona was a blind defense attorney? Matt Murdock certainly has the bleeding heart to justify this sort of behaviour, but the vigilante’s combat skills are far beyond the capabilities of a blind man.

Yet isn’t it telling, that the man’s mask only covers the top half of his face? What sort of fighter would willingly handicap themselves by making it next to impossible to see their surroundings? Especially when they’re fighting at night?

Wesley watches as the vigilante groans and collapses to the floor, helpless in the face of Fisk’s violence. He tries to see the man’s face, but only the vigilante’s back is to Wesley as he struggles to get back on his feet.

If the vigilante is blind then there is no way he’ll be able to hide the fact when facing an opponent, not unless he covers his eyes.

It’s not impossible, Matthew Murdock might have some sort of superhuman skill, the exact sort of gift that has earned many a flag on SHIELD’s index, and makes possible flying Gods with magic hammers and men who turns into a green giants when they got angry. Wesley has seen far too many unexplained things in his career to dismiss anything as impossible.

“Wesley.”

Fisk’s summons pulls him from his thoughts, and he obediently loads and raises the gun hanging from his hand. For a second, he imagines turning it on Fisk. But that is the least practical solution to his current problem, especially when Francis is still standing on guard at his side.

Wesley looks at the bloody and broken mess that is Matthew Murdock, regretting the fact that he now has to destroy what could have been his best chance at bringing an end to this pretense. It is such a shame that he only figured out the truth minutes ago. If he’d known earlier, all of this could have been avoided, because he’d much rather aid the man who is trying to take down Fisk and his operation.

He takes careful aim, and notes the way Murdock’s fingers curl around a broken stick of wood.

Clever man, he thinks with a grin he does not show.

Murdock whirls back, flinging his only weapon at Wesley’s wrist with alarming precision. When Wesley’s gun goes off, the bullet hits nothing but concrete.

The vigilante picks himself up from the floor and Wesley steps forward, aiming and firing with brisk movements. Somehow, not a single shot hits its mark, and the man throws himself out the window that shatters on impact.

There’s the sound of a distant splash, and Wesley makes it to the window just in time to see the water darken and swirl around a human shape.

Wesley’s always played at being an average shot, and Murdock is a very lucky person.

But it really is easy to escape when the person shooting at you is missing on purpose.

-

He sends his men out to do their search. It’s an hour before he’s assured that the vigilante has successfully gotten away, and another thirty minutes before he gives up on supervision and leaves them with instructions to call him if they find any trace of the man in the mask.

Also, if the vigilante is hiding in a building, do not move in without his express permission.

With his business handled, Wesley sets off by himself for the address of Matthew Murdock’s apartment. He leaves the radio off as he drives through Hell’s Kitchen’s streets, pondering the chances of finding the man alive in his own home. It’s entirely possible that he’s unconscious in a dumpster somewhere, or maybe found refuge with an ally.

The Devil of Hell’s Kitchen, the papers call him. Matthew Murdock being the vigilante would explain his sudden 180 in deciding to accept the case Wesley had offered, especially after spending the entire meeting being about as friendly as a very angry cat. And it would also explain why the vigilante had decided to intervene to protect a juror, and why John Healy had been found dead barely 24 hours after his not guilty verdict was announced. It would also explain why the vigilante had grown so attached to that one tenement, and Mrs. Elena Cardenas in particular – out of the dozens of victims who had died as a result of Fisk’s (and admittedly, Wesley’s) manipulations.

The more Wesley thinks about Matthew Murdock’s connections to their problem situations, the more he is convinced that he guessed correctly.

Hell’s Kitchen is only so big, and it doesn’t take long at all for Wesley to pull up outside Murdock’s apartment. Unsurprisingly, it is not one of the run down or shady apartment blocks that Fisk loathes and seeks to remove from the area with a burning passion, but a clean and well-kept building that houses respectable people. It is also far from what a fresh law school graduate from Murdock’s background should be able to afford. If Wesley didn’t know of the sizable fortune Jack Murdock had left for his son, he might have come to very different conclusions about Matthew Murdock and the nature of his practice.

Wesley parks his car off the street and pulls a well-stocked bag of medical supplies from the trunk of the car. Considering the types of emergencies that are regular in their line of work, these bags are standard supply for each of their vehicles. The irony of using Fisk’s equipment to save one of his biggest enemies does not escape Wesley as he walks up the concrete steps and pushes through the unlocked building door.

After a short ride in a rickety elevator and an even shorter walk down a hallway, he stands in front of Murdock’s front door. Wesley gives it three short sharp knocks before points his ear forward, listening for any sound from within. All he hears silence, and Wesley looks down at the door handle, wondering if he should just pick the lock, or if the vigilante is inside and planning an ambush.

The risk of someone turning up and catching him is not worth it. He turns and goes for the roof access door.

The sounds of the city hit him almost instantly when he gets onto the roof, along with a blast of fresh air. Wesley nearly laughs when he sees the second entrance to the penthouse, and the dark stain of what might very well be blood near the handle.

He crosses the roof quickly, and very nearly knocks a second time before he notices the door is ajar. He runs his finger through one of the dark smudges. Raising it into the light, he sees red. Wesley rubs his fingers, and the stickiness confirms that it most definitely is blood.

The thrill of knowing he is right doesn’t quite cover the knowledge of the danger he’s putting himself in. Wesley’s heart thumps a little faster in his chest, and he mentally steels himself for whatever comes next. The vigilante, he knows, has no reason to trust him, and, if Wesley is being fair, will most likely attack him on sight. Even if he knows that the man is seriously wounded and most likely would lose any physical altercation he tries to start, it still doesn’t discount that Wesley has no idea what he is really walking into.

If there is a gun pointed in this direction, it can very well be all over.

Taking a slow breath, he knocks lightly.

Re: [FILL] He Who Fights Monsters 1b/? (Re: Matt/Wesley - Good!Wesley, Undercover)

[(Anonymous)]

“Hello? Mr. Murdock?”

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.

[FILL] He Who Fights Monsters 1c/? (Re: Matt/Wesley - Good!Wesley, Undercover)

[(Anonymous)]

“Matt!”

The voice of Foggy Nelson rings outside the door, and Wesley closes his eyes, groaning internally. He is still stuck half way to the couch with an armful of unconscious vigilante.

“Come on, Matt.”

In his arms, Murdock begins to stir, and Wesley glances down in alarm, before glancing back at the door.

“I need to talk to you, Matt.”

Murdock twitches, and murmurs something incoherent. Wesley tightens his grip, gritting his teeth as he renews his efforts to move the man toward the couch. His movements are forced to be slow, to reduce the amount of sound they make.

“We need to keep going Matt.”

Outside, Nelson’s voice had taken on a hoarse, teary edge, and Wesley doesn’t let himself think about what may have driven Murdock’s best friend to be so drunk as to and turn up at Murdock’s apartment this late in the evening.

“We gotta nail that bastard to the wall.”

They’re almost at the couch, and if Wesley could just unload Murdock onto it…

“We gotta make him pay… for Elena… for everything.”

Wesley’s heart skips a beat, Nelson’s words stopping him in his tracks. He remembers making the necessary arrangements – the photo of the old lady he had prepared, along with the two thousand dollar offering of cash, the rotted teeth and stinking breath of the man who grinned as he took the money. The words of the newspaper that announced her death…

“Matt! Open the door!”

This is a bad idea, Wesley recognises as much, even if Murdock believes Wesley is who he says he is, it still doesn’t take away any of Wesley’s sins. He had arranged for the death of Elena Cardenas and countless others. Personally saw to the destruction of lives and livelihoods, what makes him think that he will be treated with anything but disgust and hatred?

The loud thumps sound again, and Murdock lurches from Wesley’s arms. Surprised, Wesley stumbles backwards and falls to the floor, losing his grip on Murdock who crumples to the ground without support.

Outside the door, there is silence.

There is no way Nelson wouldn’t have heard that. Wesley curses internally and stares as Murdock curls in on himself, moaning in pain.

“Matt?”

He turns to the door in an instant, desperately trying to think of a plan. There is no way he can open the door, one look at either him or Murdock and Nelson will undoubtedly flip.

“Are you okay in there? Matt?”

Which means he needs to make Nelson willingly go away. Murdock wouldn’t have taken it with him to the warehouse. Where is Murdock keeping his cell phone?

Nelson is now rattling the door handle, and Wesley wastes no time scrambling to his feet and scanning the room, it’s dark, but he can’t see anything remotely shaped like a phone.

“Matt!”

What he does see is the half open door to the roof, and his heart almost stops before he is dashing for the staircase, taking the steps two at a time. He makes it to the door just as the other door across the roof is twisting open, and Wesley yanks the door closed, holding it back at the last second so it clicks instead of slamming shut.

He twists the lock just as approaching footsteps sound from beyond the door, and Wesley backs away with a silent prayer that Nelson won’t notice the blood on the handle. He hops over the railing to speed his way downstairs. They are both fucked unless Wesley finds a way to get Nelson out of here.

As loud knocking commences, Wesley makes his way to the bedroom, heaving a sigh of relief when he sees the small black square of a cell phone resting on the bedside table. A second later Wesley has it in his hand, grinning in victory when he gets past the lock screen without trouble. He finds Nelson’s contact details and shoots off a text message.

Foggy where are you?

The loud banging stops abruptly, and Wesley holds his breath as he waits for the response. With slow, silent steps, he makes his way back to the living room, looking up at the roof access door, then back to the phone in his hand as it vibrates with a new message.

Matt?? In at ur laece I thnk someome broke in.

Wesley lets out a soft breath, and glances over to Murdock, who is curled on the floor and seems to have passed out again.

Did someone break the locks? I’ll be right back

This time, the reply comes much faster.

No I heard a crsssj

What?

was a crash

Wesley leans against the wall, and slides down to the floor, exhausted. What would explain the sound Nelson heard?

Oh that’s probably the fridge

Fridge?

Yeah it makes this big thunk sound when the cooling cycle stops. I think I need to get it fixed.

I though theres someome insifw

The doors are still locked, right?

Yeah

Then it’s probably the fridge. Look, why don’t you go home, Foggy? We’ll talk tomorrow?

Wher r u Matt

I’m still at a bar, was going to ask you for drinks but I think I’ll go home soon

Oho k, see you tomrw

With a sigh of relief, Wesley lets his hand fall into his lap, the phone in his hand finally silent.

Across the room, Murdock hasn’t so much as stirred, and Wesley climbs back to his feet, tucking the phone into his pocket as he moves. He walks around the furniture, and crouches down next to Murdock, pressing a hand to his throat.

Murdock’s pulse is weak, but it’s still there. Relieved, Wesley reaches to lift the man, and drags him for the final stretch onto the couch. Then, he goes to fetch the medical bag, reaching for the light switch as he passes.

Click. Nothing happens.

Disbelieving, Wesley looks up at the light and tries a few more times.

Of course, a blind man wouldn’t have any use for light. The bulb is either non-existent or busted.

Wesley sighs, and returns to the couch, staring down at the unconscious vigilante for a long moment before he goes to pull off the black hood.

Matthew Murdock’s head lolls limply on the armrest, his face exactly as Wesley remembers, only with more grime and bloody cuts.

“You’d better be grateful about this tomorrow morning.”

Re: [FILL] He Who Fights Monsters 1c/? (Re: Matt/Wesley - Good!Wesley, Undercover)

[(Anonymous)]

soon to be second filler here (from the convo for op anon above): this is amazeballs. I am on the edge of my seat for more!

Re: [FILL] He Who Fights Monsters 1c/? (Re: Matt/Wesley - Good!Wesley, Undercover)

[(Anonymous)]

Okay, totally loved Wesley talking Matt down like he's trying to soothe a wild animal. Can't wait for the next part! :D

Re: [FILL] He Who Fights Monsters 1c/? (Re: Matt/Wesley - Good!Wesley, Undercover)

[(Anonymous)]

Loving this, can't wait for the next bit!

Re: [FILL] He Who Fights Monsters 1c/? (Re: Matt/Wesley - Good!Wesley, Undercover)

[(Anonymous)]

OP here. Omg, this is awesome! I can't wait for more! XD

[FILL] He Who Fights Monsters 2a/? (Re: Matt/Wesley - Good!Wesley, Undercover)

[(Anonymous)]

There were supposed to be italics up there, but I completely forgot about html, hah. Also, this fill is eating my brain, so please have some more.

---

Matt wakes up thinking he’s drowned, memories of violence, of flame, of ringing gunshots, burning human flesh, the shocking cold of fetid water all dancing at the edges of his consciousness. He wakes gasping for breath, swallowing back a whimper as almost every part of his body flares with pain.

His senses reach out, painting an image of his surroundings with the coppery tang of blood mingled with disinfectant, coffee with milk and one sugar, the light rustle of a fine cotton shirt, the friction of skin against glass, the too familiar tick of an expensive watch…

“Mr Murdock, I see you’re back among the living.”

The sound of the smooth voice has Matt’s heart seizing in fear. His memory returns in fragments, but he remembers with startling clarity his despair the moment he recognised the man looming outside was the same man who had tried to kill him earlier that night. That moment of terror and self-loathing, knowing it was his own arrogance and stupidity that had led him to this point, and the fear that came with understanding he had doomed his friends and everyone he cares about.

He would have ran, would have went for his phone, would have done something, if it hadn’t taken every ounce of his strength just to remain upright.

Wesley, lounged on the sofa chair across from Matt, stands up and walks towards him. Matt tenses, relaxing slightly only when Wesley walks right past him to the kitchen counter.

Gritting his teeth, Matt pushes himself upright, ignoring the sharp stabs of pain his body responds with in protest. The blanket covering him falls to his lap as he struggles, and after too long, he is finally sitting up, his breathing laboured from what should have been an easy task.

Wesley, who had simply stood back and watched while he fought his way up, tries to hand him some bitter smelling pills and a glass of water.

Matt ignores the proffered hand, instinct telling him not to trust the man in front of him. Wesley should not be here, if Matt had just been more careful, if he’d just stopped and taken a moment to think before throwing himself into that warehouse, they would not be here.

“It’s an analgesic,” Wesley says, “I’d take it if I were you.”

Matt hesitates, mentally taking stock of his injuries, each bruise and hurt he can feel. Someone had patched him up during the night, and they’d been thorough about it, knew what they were doing. Yet Matt couldn’t find it in himself to feel grateful to the criminal standing in front of him.

“If I had wanted to kill you, Mr. Mudock, I wouldn’t wait until morning to do it with pills."

Matt almost wants to refuse out of pure spite before another spasm of pain changes his mind. He takes the glass of water and the pills when they’re pressed into his hand, but holds onto them, ignoring his burning thirst. The pills can still be laced with something, maybe to lower his inhibitions and make him more agreeable, open to interrogation. Or something worse.

Wesley, who doesn't seem to actually care whether Matt actually takes the pills, settles back into the sofa. “Want some brunch?” Wesley says, annoyingly at home in Matt’s apartment.

“You haven’t killed me,” Matt says instead of answering, his voice hoarse. He holds tightly onto the glass, thinking it can be a weapon if necessary.

“No,” Wesley responds, his tone almost whimsical. “How much of last night do you remember?”

“All of it,” Matt says and immediately realises that’s not true, “Most of it.”

He wants to ask about Foggy, and his vague memories of his best friend’s screaming voice, but the idea of discussing anything about Foggy with this man feels wrong.

“What about your best friend turning up outside the front door demanding to see you?”

Matt tenses, raising his head to face Wesley, his ears tuned to the man’s heartbeat. There hadn’t been so much as a single flutter when he said those words.

That’s what he was doing last night, Matt recalls, listening to Wesley’s heartbeat, waiting to hear a lie. But everything he said had rung true, his promises of meaning no harm, his need of help. It’s what had finally made him let down his guard.

“I convinced him to leave, eventually,” Wesley says when Matt does not respond, and the tone of his voice suggests there is much more to the story.

“If you hurt him…”

“Though you might want to act like you were at a bar late last night, and… now you’re absent from work due to your hangover. Oh, and I also told him your fridge needs fixing.”
The threat Matt prepared dissolves into bewilderment with every word Wesley says. Matt opens his mouth, and then closes it again. “How did you…?”'

“Texting,” Wesley says, shifting and fishing a cell phone – Matt’s cell phone, from his pants pocket. “Since Mr. Nelson didn’t immediately call the police I assume you do regularly make use of speech-to-text software.”

Wesley places the phone on the armrest, and Matt’s breath hitches, realising with cold certainty that the man would have gone through and made note of every one of his contacts, read every recorded conversation. Claire, Father Lantom, Wesley would know of every one of them, and if he leaves, he takes that knowledge with him.

Something must show in his expression, because Wesley chuckles, his voice low.

“And this is the part where I reiterate, again, that I have no intention of harming you or your friends.”

Matt reminds himself to breathe, taking long, measured breaths to bring his racing heart back under control. He needs nothing more than to get rid of the man currently in front of him.

“What do you want?”

Matt mentally cycles through the possibilities, and not a single one is reassuring. Is it blackmail? Does he want to recruit him, perhaps? Make him Fisk’s new attack dog? Or does he want them to take on more cases, work defence for another one of Fisk’s enforcers?

“What do you know about SHIELD, Mr Murdock?”

The non-sequitur throws Matt completely, and he sits there, silent for a long time as he tries to come up with a reason for this question. His ears tell him Wesley’s heartbeat has quickened, that this question is serious, but Matt can’t figure out why.

“It’s a now defunct global intelligence agency?” Matt says, deciding to play along, “They were infiltrated by HYDRA and nearly murdered millions of people before Steve Rogers stopped them.”

Wesley is silent, and, Matt notes with interest the sudden ragged edge of his breathing.

“That’s right,” Wesley says eventually, his fingers tapping a nervous rhythm against his leg. He takes a quiet breath, and his only heartbeat only quickens instead of calms.

[FILL] He Who Fights Monsters 3a/? (Re: Matt/Wesley - Good!Wesley, Undercover)

[(Anonymous)]

Anon has no idea what she's doing, 8000 words later and almost nothing has happened. Any and all criticisms are appreciated.

Also, warnings for canon level Claire/Matt in this chapter.

---

Wesley makes it through the afternoon on coffee and adrenaline alone, prioritising a shower and a change of clothes before getting to work finalising arrangements for the gala that night. Despite his effort to focus on his tasks at hand, his thoughts repeatedly drift to the injured man he left behind.

He’d taken an enormous risk, telling Matthew Murdock the truth about who he is, and Wesley knows with cold certainty that he’s equipped the man with the power to destroy him. Fisk may see him as a friend and a confidante, but only a seed of doubt is needed to dismantle that trust. He’s relied on that fact enough times in his career to know that even the strongest bonds can be shattered with the mere implication of betrayal.

But at the same time, Wesley knows that Murdock is a risk worth taking. A third party, dangerous, incorruptible, no one he’s encountered so far has demonstrated Murdock’s dedication or skill in disrupting this existing status quo. He has the exact amount of mystery, volatility, and blind idealism for the type of misdirection Wesley needs to dismantle Fisk’s empire from within. Murdock will be the perfect scapegoat, a distraction even more effective than the beautiful Vanessa Marianna, while Fisk’s support structure is pulled out from under him.

Indulgence, Wesley finds, be it in sins or virtues, is always what leads people to willingly walk themselves over the cliff. His bribes need only be the promise of something previously thought unattainable, and it rarely mattered whether what is offered is an opportunity or even a person. In the end, it’s only a matter of knowing what gives Murdock that same rush of pleasure most receive from gaining large sums of money. Idealistic men like are not any less predictable than those motivated by greed.

When Wesley is practicing tying bow ties on Francis, he asks Wesley what’s on his mind. Wesley just smiles, and assures him that he’s just concerned about arrangements for the gala. The knot is complicated, and it’s very different doing it for someone else compared to doing it for yourself.

At 4pm sharp, he turns up outside Fisk’s penthouse, and his hands are steady as he prepares Fisk’s bow tie, even if it’s a little hard to remember the moves he just practiced. Leland, as usual, has found another thing to complain about, and Wesley stays silent as Fisk reassures his partner that Vanessa’s continued existence is necessary.

He makes comments when the situation calls for it, and thinks that no one notices the fact he had spent the entire night awake in the apartment of the vigilante they’re trying so hard to kill.

If things go well, he’ll be in bed by midnight, and he thinks it won’t be too hard to hold out until then.

-

At midnight Wesley is staring blankly at a hospital wall, wondering what else can go wrong.

Of all the things to nearly bring an end to Fisk’s life, poisoned champagne had not been on the top of Wesley’s list.

If Vanessa dies, Fisk will tear apart Hell’s Kitchen looking for the people who hurt her.

If Vanessa survives, Fisk will still tear apart Hell’s Kitchen looking for the people who hurt her.

A lot of people are now going to get hurt in the crossfire, all because some idiot was stupid enough to attempt an assassination. Wesley wonders if it wouldn’t have been better if he had followed his whims and drank the champagne too. What a waste of good wine.

He passes time by conversing with Leland, and when his patience runs out he chats with Francis, confirming and reconfirming the security measures they have in place to prevent another attack from happening. Francis’ eyes are worried when he looks at Wesley, and Wesley pretends he doesn’t notice.

The night drags on into morning, and in between cafeteria food and his… something cup of coffee Wesley hides his shaking hands and stays beside Fisk who drowns in his quiet devastation. Wesley reassures concerned parties through phone call and through text, keeping tabs on the police investigation and their private sources for any hint of the attacker’s identity, Leland leaves with his instructions to speak to Gao.

Wesley should go himself, but Fisk needs him at his side.

Mid-morning, he sends Murdock a text asking him if he’d like Wesley to send someone to take care of his wounds.

As expected, he gets no reply.

[FILL] He Who Fights Monsters 4a/? (Re: Matt/Wesley - Good!Wesley, Undercover)

[(Anonymous)]

Last chapter before anon has to leave for a week-long trip, hopefully will be back with more plot bunnies. I have to admit I am making everything up as I go. Your responses give me strength, anons. :'D

---

She’ll be just the incentive Murdock needs to make the right decision, Wesley thinks as he observes the unconscious form of Karen Page. He doesn’t even have any plans to hurt her. Terrify her, certainly, and threaten everyone she cares about also. But she’ll walk away from this, shaken, but physically unharmed. Even if she says no to his proposal, which in itself is highly unlikely given his experience with these things, there will still be Murdock to convince her.


Page wakes with a gasp, and Wesley steps from the shadows.


The stage is already set. A dark abandoned warehouse, a single table bridging the space between two plastic chairs. Wesley helps her to sit comfortably, before he takes his position across the table.


“You know, funny story, after the Union Allied article I enquired as to whether you needed further attention.


To start, they should understand exactly how they ended up exactly where they are.

“You were supposed to go away, Ms. Page. Fade back to... wherever it is people like you fade.”


Murdock needs time to get here, so Wesley stalls with whatever topic that comes into his head. He opens with talk of destiny and progresses to discussing how much he dislikes this city. Then he talks about Fisk’s misguided convictions, and wonders how long this is going to take.


“Frankly, I was surprised she remembered you…”


Fatigue from too many hours spent awake wears at his patience and his tact, and with it he makes missteps, reveals perhaps too much. Even with his impaired state he can see the gears ticking in Page’s head, the way her gaze darts repeatedly to the gun he’s probably placed a little too close to her. But as resourceful and determined she is, Page is ultimately weak.


“I’m not here to kill you Ms. Page, I’m here to offer you a job.”


She’s resistant, and regards him with the exact same look of utter loathing he’s seen on a hundred other faces. Once upon a time an expression like hers would have sparked trepidation, sent him spiralling into familiar self-loathing. Now, he feels something akin to satisfaction, and a sense of disgust that is no longer directed purely inwards.


“But you won’t be the first to die, Ms. Page, no…”


It’s the usual song and dance, back them into a corner then throw them a lifeline. The start is always less about convincing them than making sure they’re pushed to the cliff’s very edge and understand completely just how far they have to fall. By the time he’s done, she’ll see that saying yes is her only option.


His phone begins to ring and Wesley’s attention turns, Page lunges forward, and he freezes reaching into his suit.


Page is back in her seat, gun pointed at Wesley. She’s shaking, her terror clear with every gasping breath. Wesley’s phone rings and rings.


This unexpected reversal has Wesley mentally cycling through every mistake he’s made, every omission that’s led him to this point. Force of habit, perhaps, but first, he’s knows he’s gravely underestimated Karen Page. Second-


“Do you really think I would put a loaded gun on the table where you can reach it?”
He bluffs, because in his panic and exhaustion the first thing that comes to mind is protecting his pride, and before the words are out of his mouth he knows it’s the wrong thing to say. You don’t goad someone when they’re emotionally high-strung and holding a loaded gun.


“I don’t know,” Karen says. There’s a grin twisting her lips like she can already taste her victory.


Page cocks the gun and Wesley thinks that he should feel more strongly about dying.

The emotion that washes over him is not fear but relief, and he doesn’t understand why he almost hopes that Murdock doesn’t show. He stares at her, then the gun, more curious than he is anxious about the way things have turned out.


“Do you really think this is the first time I’ve shot one?”


Past tense, that is not good.


The air shatters with the sound of a gunshot, and Wesley falls back in his chair, his chest exploding with pain. It hurts, it hurts much more than he remembers, more than Moscow, or Dublin, or Taipei. The world blurs, and then there’s the sound of something striking flesh.


Page screams, metal clatters to the floor.


It’s hard to breathe.


Wesley lifts his head, blinking as he takes in the black in black who is standing across from a terrified Karen Page. The vigilante is here.


“It’s you,” Page says, hysteria lining her voice. She scrambles up from the chair and backs away.


You took your time, Wesley wants to say. My hero, some manic part of him also offers. But something shifts in his chest and it’s all he can do to not scream.


“Go,” Matt commands, his head turned toward Wesley. The tension in his body language tells Wesley he also did not expect Page to go as far as she did. Does he actually care? Wesley is almost certain he’s imagining the worry that underlined Murdock’s last word.


He’s probably worried about Page. That makes more sense.


Wesley watches with detached interest as Page stares at him, then at Murdock, eyes wide. “What about him? What are we going to do?”


“You need to leave, right now,” Murdock says through gritted teeth, stepping towards her, “I’ll take care of this.”


“How?”


Wesley would laugh if he could. The girl is terrified, and the reality of what she’s probably just done is only just sinking in, but she is still as tenacious as ever.


“He knows,” Karen continues, “He knows I went to see Fisk’s mother. He’ll hurt my friends.”


Maybe karma does exist after all, Wesley thinks, his thoughts tarting to drift, he’s going to die here, in this chair, with Page and Murdock standing over him.

[FILL] He Who Fights Monsters 4b/? (Re: Matt/Wesley - Good!Wesley, Undercover)

[(Anonymous)]

The air tastes like gunpowder, and Matt’s ears are filled with the sound of Wesley’s rattling breaths.

“I’ll make sure he says nothing,” Matt says, his patience running thin. With every second Karen stays in this room, Wesley is closer to bleeding out. He needs to provide first aid, but not with her watching.

“How can you know for sure?”

“I do,” Matt growls, then shouts, “Go!”

His anger finally seems to shake Karen, and she backs away one step before she’s running for her bag and away from the scene, her heels clacking against concrete.

In a few steps, Matt is in front of Wesley, and he takes his shoulders and begins to lower him to the ground.

Wesley’s body tenses, his breath hitching with the pain, and his head turns toward Matt, following his movements as Matt reaches inside his suit jacket for Wesley’s phone. The smell of copper is overpowering, but he can still capture the lingering scent of Wesley’s cologne. Black pepper and sandalwood, rose and cinnamon, something far more unique an identifier than his watch, and a detail he had never mentioned with the feeling it’s too intimate.

With his free hand, Matt presses down on Wesley’s wound. The sudden pressure makes Wesley’s legs scrabble against the concrete, and his mouth falls open in a silent gasp.

Only two days, and their roles are reversed. Now Matt kneels above an injured Wesley, holding his phone and his secrets in his hand. Matt dials 911 with the keen awareness of the opportunity he has in his hand, and tells their address to the operator on the line.

“The ambulance is on its way,” Matt says when he ends the call, dropping the phone to the floor and immediately putting his weight against Wesley’s wound. Wesley bucks uselessly against the pain.

“She’s going to panic,” Wesley says, breathless, when the worst of it subsides.

“I’ll find her later.”

“You… you need to control them, your friends.”

Control? Matt’s head turns toward him, but he doesn’t say anything. Everything is spinning out of control. Right now he can barely keep his own identity a secret, how is he possibly supposed to keep track of what all of his friends are doing?

“If Ben Urich tries to publish,” Wesley continues, his voice weak, “Fisk will know.”

“He won’t, he knows how dangerous it is.”

Wesley laughs, and it ends in a grimace. “Are you sure? Like he understood… the risk of going to visit Fisk’s mother?”

“I’ll talk to them. Now shut up, Wesley.”

Wesley’s head lolls against the concrete, his eyes slipping closed.

“Stay awake,” Matt snaps.

He’ll figure this out, make them leave the city if he has to. Claire could be right about telling Foggy his identity, if they know who he is, then they will take him seriously. He will take losing friendships any day over Foggy and Karen losing their lives.

The red in Wesley’s shirt is still spreading. Matt doesn’t know when the ambulance will get here, but he prays it won’t be much longer.

“You have… two choices,” Wesley says suddenly, his eyes on Matt. “Kill me, or hurt me.”

Matt freezes. “What?”

“If… I live,” Wesley says, his gaze drifting away from Matt towards the ceiling, “I will tell them.”

If Wesley had kept his knowledge a secret for just one day it would have been enough for Matt to warn them, but that’s not who James Wesley is. He is a man who has to make sure everyone only dances to his tune.

“Lie to them, you’re good at that, aren’t you?”

“They’ll know,” Wesley says, blinking slowly, “And it’ll be worse.”

How would they know? Matt wants to ask, Wesley is the one who controls the information, isn’t he? But Matt doesn’t know the details, he knows nothing about how their organisation works, what information they take for granted, if someone has been tracking Wesley’s car and his phone all this time.

“I don’t believe you,” Matt says quietly, “Tell them it’s Fisk’s rival, that they took you by surprise. You never saw their faces.”

“And the only thing they did… was shoot me in the chest?”

Matt opens his mouth for a retort, and closes it when he realises what Wesley is saying is true.

“So if I hurt you, you’ll lie for her?”

“Maybe,” Wesley says again with the slightest of smirks, voice barely a whisper, “Do a thorough job and I can claim I don’t remember.”

He’s serious, Matt realises with sudden clarity. He wants Matt to beat him, injure him worse than he already is.

“I could kill you.” By accident.

“Even better, I’ll be out of your hair.”

Matt finds none of this funny. He stays there, frozen, listening for the sound of sirens that still don’t come.

“I’m not going to hit you.”

“Do you have a better idea?” Wesley says, “Or do you want to get this over with?”

He thinks about Foggy, imagines his body broken and torn. Karen, eyes wide and unseeing, her lips blue. Claire, bruised and mangled, her hair matted with blood and dirt.

Matt’s hands clench into fists.

-

It’d be so easy, he realises in the moment his fist strikes flesh. If he uses just a little more force, if the ambulance takes that much longer, Wesley will die.

And his identity will be safe again. Karen, Foggy, Ben, they might all be safe.

Wesley loses consciousness after the second punch, and then it’s like hitting a ragdoll.

Matt only stops when he hears the sirens, and he falls to his knees, hands grabbing at Wesley’s chest, trying to staunch the free flow of blood. There’s water dripping from his eyes but he blinks them away.

Matt slips away just as the paramedics enter, focusing on Wesley’s breathing, his weakening pulse. Distance transforms both into silence.

[FILL] He Who Fights Monsters 4c/? (Re: Matt/Wesley - Good!Wesley, Undercover)

[(Anonymous)]

“Were you really going to kill him?”

He finds Karen standing in her own apartment, filling a glass from the kitchen sink. Her hair is dripping water onto the floor, and she smells like shampoo and lavender soap. When she hears Matt’s voice, she starts so hard she almost drops the glass.

Karen whirls around, her fingers white and her eyes like saucers. When she sees it’s the vigilante, she closes her eyes and sighs.

“You nearly scared the shit out of me,” Karen says

Matt just stands there, still hurting from the night’s combat and the chaos that followed.

“Sorry.”

Karen looks away, then back towards him, and her heart doesn’t stop racing.

“Were you going to kill him?” Matt asks again.

Karen blinks.

“Yes,” she whispers, “He was the only one who knew, if he died, we could be safe.”

If he had been a second too late Wesley would be dead, Matt thinks. But he’s long past the point of being able to identify what his feelings are. Every part of him is aching, both his old wounds and the new. He’s torn his stiches again, he knows, but the only two people who he knows has the skill to fix him are both gone.

“Is he…?” Karen whispers.

“I don’t know,” he says softly.

Karen is capable of murder, he also realises, her heartbeat hadn't so much as fluttered.

“What… what did you do?”

His fingers twitch, his hands are still covered with Wesley’s blood, and the coppery scent is suffocating. He’d beaten him, hurt a man who couldn’t fight back. There’d been the faint crack of bone.

“I… roughed him up a bit, Fisk will think he was attacked by his rivals.”

“But he knows-”

“He won’t say anything, not if you don’t.”

Karen freezes, and she stares at him, uncomprehending.

“What are you saying?”

“You can’t go public with this story.”

“So… we’re just going to bend to them?” Karen’s voice rises, “The public deserves to know.”

“There are other ways,” Matt says, unable to keep the exhaustion from his voice. “Fisk’s dirty laundry goes far beyond this one case. But do this, and you paint on target on everyone’s back. You need to ask yourself, is this one piece of truth worth the price of your own life?”

Karen stands stiffly, her eyes wild.

“Is it worth Mr. Urich’s?” Matt presses, wanting, needing Karen to understand what she’s putting at risk, “Mr. Nelson’s?”

Karen reaches for the wall, and her knees crumple from under her. She slowly slides onto the floor, curling in on herself.

“I can’t believe this,” she whispers, staring blankly as she brushes her hair from her face with a shaking hand. “We’re just going to… let them do this to us?”

“We don’t have a choice,” Matt says, curling and uncurling his fingers, ignoring the way the drying blood makes them stiff and stick together, “It’s why I wear this mask.”

He itches to reach out and comfort Karen, but with Wesley’s blood on his hands, the only thing he can allow himself to do is to turn and walk away. He leaves her sobbing on her kitchen floor, and thinks that Matthew Murdock might not be a better friend compared to the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen.

-

When he finally stumbles home, it’s twilight, and Matt strips off his torn clothing, wincing as his cuts and sore muscles make protest. He drops the destroyed clothing onto the floor and makes a beeline for the shower.

Under the hot spray, he scrubs the blood from his skin, and both his and Wesley’s blood mingles together as it slips down the drain. He doesn’t understand why he is so affected. Wesley is as bad as any other goon he’s beaten in alleyway, worse, given that his version of corruption is much more insidious than the raw violence administered by street thugs.

Why are his hands shaking?

Matt never expected the situation in the warehouse to turn out as it did. Wesley is supposed to be a pretentious paper-pusher, a coward, a man who flaunts his ill-gotten gains through designer suits and dresses himself up to be a much better man than what he is.

Yet the coward, the man bleeding out on a warehouse floor and in agonising pain, he all but begged for Matt to make things worse for him, risking death just so Karen, Foggy and Ben might have a chance to survive this.

And Matt had done it, he’d beaten a helpless man to save himself. What does that say about him? The lines he’s prepared to cross? And what does it say about Wesley that he can so easily push Matt over that edge?

James Wesley is dangerous, Matt has never stopped being aware of the fact. But at the same time, he wonders if his preconceptions of the man are almost entirely wrong.

Matt doesn’t know him, he never did know James Wesley beyond the shallow conclusions he’d reached after that first meeting. And he’d stubbornly clung to them in all the weeks that followed.

James Wesley was a SHIELD agent, had once been a man who fought to protect innocent people. Even if he’s no longer the man he’s meant to be, his motivations are far more complicated than Matthew knows, his morals without a place within the black and white dichotomy Matt has allowed himself to embrace. Matt had blinded himself in his need to believe that things can be simple, that the lines of good and bad would never be blurred.

He stands under the shower until the water turns cold, and in that time, Matt realises one thing.

He wants Wesley to live.

[Fill] "Bad news (like a suckerpunch) - (1/?) - Re: Matt/Wesley - Good!Wesley, Undercover

[(Anonymous)]

*original author anon from initial comments with the op here, sorry for the wait but I am so glad the first filler has graced us with their awesome fill in progress. Once again this was an amazing prompt, so thank you for that!
_________________________________________

“Do you really think I would put a loaded gun on the table where you could reach it?”

The answer was yes, apparently.

And while the searing burn in his chest certainly wasn’t pleasant - about as invigorating as the last time, right thigh, left shoulder, during an op gone sideways in Prussia - it did put more than a few things into perspective.

Namely that he had seriously misjudged one Miss Karen Page. And secondly, that he might actually not be able to talk his way out of this one before he bled out.

Fascinating. He always thought he’d die on the job. For the cause. He was prepared for it. Counted on it, if he was being honest with himself - which he always was. But being clipped by a fledgling secretary moonlighting as a wannabe crusader of truth and righteousness just wasn’t what he’d pictured.

Hubris. A voice whispered, sounding distressingly similar to Agent Romanoff. Willful self-confidence. A rookie mistake. Pride before the fall, remember? I taught you better than this, James. You threatened her. You threatened all of them. You thought she would fold. Like the others. But she was different, wasn’t she? You wounded her, but then you threatened her brood. And what happens when you turn your back on a wounded animal, hmm? It fights back. You deserve this, James. You got sloppy. People like us? We don’t have that luxury. Distraction? Carelessness? It gets you killed. You’ve been under too long, Agent. You should have asked for extraction – reached out – why didn’t you-

His head lolled, shaking it off as the echoes reseeded and a fresh trickle of his own red sluiced through his fingers. Watching her watch him as she trembled, finger on the trigger, a hair’s breath from ending it as the barrel of the gun quivered with her.

The shot had missed his lung.

Barely.

But in passing through, it nicked something else. An artery no doubt. Something people who weren’t part of S.H.E.I.L.D might call beginners luck. He sucked in a shallow breath, then another, ignoring the strangled whimper as the sniffling tang of tears wafted from the other side of the table.

He cocked his head, gaze turned inward as he tried to pin it down. There was something wrong – immediate - something he really should be getting out his phone and calling someone about. Only right now he was staring into the face of a child, horrified by what she’d done, but with hate burning high in her eyes.

He didn’t blame her. Much.

Sometimes when you go undercover, you go too far. You forget where the lines are. That’s why they’d called him. That’s why they’d needed him. A man who knew where the lines were, but could still stand to look at himself in the mirror in the morning if circumstances dictated that those lines be crossed. And they had. Repeatedly. But S.H.I.E.L.D still hadn’t pulled him. Even when the fallout from Mrs. Cardenas death had lured out the thus far unidentified ‘Man in the Mask’. Just like he knew they wouldn’t. He’d barely heard a word from his handler since he’d gone to ground in Fisk’s operation and that was how he liked it.

Hell’s Kitchen needed more than tough love if it was going to pull itself out of the gutter.

In the scheme of things, his presence here would barely cause a ripple.

If he lived past today, that is.

Re: [Fill] "Bad news (like a suckerpunch) - (1/?) - Re: Matt/Wesley - Good!Wesley, Undercover

[(Anonymous)]

O.o A second fill! Awesome!

[Fill] "Bad news (like a suckerpunch) - (2/?) - Re: Matt/Wesley - Good!Wesley, Undercover

[(Anonymous)]

“I believe you have erred quite seriously, Miss Page,” he remarked softly, pointedly not looking as her finger tightened around the trigger reflexively. Choosing to remain as unthreatening as possible as he breathed through the pain. Watching the crimson-iron of blood surge, leaking between the gaps in his fingers as his phone started ringing again.

Fisk.

He didn’t have to see it to know.

He always answered his phone for Fisk.

Always.

Wilson would be worried.

Which was unfortunate considering the man had the coping skills of a teaspoon.

“Yeah?” She returned, breathing like she was the one with the bullet in her as the gun steadied itself in fractions. Point blank range. One bullet less than a full clip. Overkill. “How do you figure that?”

“The answer is right in front of you,” he returned, magnanimous as his free hand swept out, as if to encompass the room at large and all the shadowed players it might have contained any other day. “Because while your aim is impeccable for someone who wishes to gather information, unfortunately for the both of us, you shot the wrong man.”

Her snort was waspish and unlady-like as she adjusted her grip on the gun. He liked it immediately. Spirited, as Fisk would say.

“Pretty sure I didn’t,” she shot back. “You’re the guy running around kidnapping people. Threatening people. You work for Fisk! I’m right, aren’t I? How can anyone trust a word that comes out of your-”

“You think I am a bad man?” he cut in, smooth and neat, just the way he liked as her lips fish-tailed. Indignant. “And what, that you’re the good? Am I right? The protagonist to my antagonist? Black and White? Yin and Yang?”

His lip curled, waiting until he had her undivided attention before sneering disdainfully. Meaning every second of it as he used the moment to teach as well as tell. To show her through her own example how monumentally foolish she was. How foolish all of them were. Nelson. Murdock. Urich. Every single of one them. Their idea of justice was nothing more than an infectious disease set to harm everyone and everything around them.

Like a farmer trying to save a single plant when the entire field was withering.

“Right and wrong. Good and evil? I’ll start taking you seriously when you start using something other than words regurgitated from romantic paperbacks and children’s movies,” he replied scathingly, forcing his fingers to tighten another fraction around the wound. Using the fission of pain to his advantage as he arched up, biting down on a groan he didn’t need to fake for effect.

“They are points of view, Miss. Page. Directions in course that often get you to the same destination. Fairy tales. Fiction. Nothing more. Instead, ask me a real question,” he posed, head buzzing as he forced his eyes to focus. Ignoring the judgement in her eyes in favor of trying to make her understand. She had to at least try, he could get her halfway there, and then the rest would be up to her.

“A real question?” she started, voice breaking. “I don’t-”

“Ask me how much it costs? Who do you have to know? Who you can save versus who you can’t? How can the scales be weighed back in your favor? The real fight is keeping the world balanced, Miss. Page. Something that you and your…friends have been making very difficult for me of late.”

Self-satisfaction blossomed across her expression for a quick half second. “So this is what you do? What you’re doing, with Fisk? You call that keeping a balance?!” she charged, jerking the gun at him violently like it was an extension of her point.

He regretted the nod he gave almost immediately. Head throbbing. Wanting more than anything to reach into his jacket and press the mute on his phone as the ringing started up again.

“Dissonant harmony,” he expanded, smirk looping. “Like the old saying of keeping your friends close, but your enemies closer, I have control Miss. Page. In keeping Fisk close, he is within my ability to crumble. The game I am playing is a dangerous one, but it has a beginning, a middle and an end. There is structure. And an end game. But you? You’re a child trying to reach the finish line with half the board missing.”

“You see, Fisk believes he found me,” he continued, speaking between the rings of his phone as he gestured towards his inner pocket. “That he gave my...skills...the opportunity to flourish, when really, I gave him the chance to use his. Fisk had a choice when all this started. The choice to be the greater good or the necessary evil.”

“Necessary?” she repeated, incredulous. Voice stark as the building shifted. Offending his ears with the impotent whine of rusting steel and three decade old hinges.

“Yes, Miss. Page. Have you seen Hell’s Kitchen lately? Of course you have. You out of all people know the dangers that lurk in its dark corners. People need to be shown the face of corruption to believe it. To truly enact change. Fisk could have succeeded in doing that through pursuing good. Only, he didn't. He chose the opposite balance and now, through that...through that failure, he will show them evil's face and the same conclusion will be reached.”

Her mouth opened, jaw flexing like she was about to throw his words back at him before he cut her off. Clean and without regret as her lips firmed in a hard line of naked, bloodless skin.

“I am the scalpel in a city full of blunt instruments, Miss. Page. The people around you? That your firm defends? That pass you on the street? They are dangerous, filthy animals and you know it. Often doing far more harm than they do good. My organization understands that, and we learned a long time ago to use that to our advantage.”

She swallowed hard, delicate throat bobbing. Feeling his attention stutter as he amused himself with how easy it would be to reach over and snap it.

“Your organization,” she echoed, seizing on the word like a drowning man to a life raft. Trying to regain a semblance of control over the conversation as she all but fell into the bait he’d set out. Marveling at how the truth - more or less – after all these years of secrets and hiding was tumbling forth so freely. “There are more of you?”

The corner of his lip quirked, answer enough as the gun shivered in her grip.

“Who? Who do you work for?” she managed, finger back on the trigger. Giving him the distinct impression that if she didn’t like his answer he’d find himself very uncomfortable indeed.

“I am an agent of S.H.I.E.L.D, Miss Page. I believe you’ve heard of us?”

Re: [Fill] "Bad news (like a suckerpunch) - (2/?) - Re: Matt/Wesley - Good!Wesley, Undercover

[(Anonymous)]

I am flipping the fuck out!! I need more!

Re: [Fill] "Bad news (like a suckerpunch) - (2/?) - Re: Matt/Wesley - Good!Wesley, Undercover

[(Anonymous)]

SCREAMING i love this i can't wait to read more!

Re: [Fill] "Bad news (like a suckerpunch) - (2/?) - Re: Matt/Wesley - Good!Wesley, Undercover

[(Anonymous)]

OP here. Omg *vibrates* I adore both of these fills already. You two are amazing! I can't wait for more from both of you. XD