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daredevilkink2015-06-01 05:48 pm
ddk_mod) wrote in daredevilkink2015-06-01 05:48 pm
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Prompt Post #3
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[Fill] "Bad news (like a suckerpunch) - (4/?) - Re: Matt/Wesley - Good!Wesley, Undercover
(Anonymous) 2015-06-17 09:58 pm (UTC)(link)For a long moment it almost didn't make sense. That is until he realized that the fingers of his left hand were fisted vicious-tight in the cuff of her jacket. Giving him leverage as he hissed through his teeth. Fighting the softness that threatened to pull him under as her long hair rippled above him like a banner.
Her chapped lips were making sounds. Meaningless and unimportant into the phone. Nearly overwhelming that of distant helicopters blurring into the dark of a midnight-still that seemed to have caught both of them by surprise.
He choked on a laugh, gargling a sudden sheath of red as it trickled down the point of his chin. Waxing poetic? He must be worse off that he'd thought. Self-indulgence had never been of any particular use to him. He had his vices, like anyone. Good food. Better wine. The satin-touch of a luxuriously high thread-count and a tailored suit that fit comfortably over him like a second skin. But unlike most, he was aware of them. And thus, did not allow them to rule him.
He watched the phone drop, the motion slow and blurred when she caught him looking. Guilt and uncertainty were swirling in the forefront – rising with the strength of an unwilling epiphany. But for some reason, just as soon as he focused on them, those same eyes went dead. Blind. Superimposed with dark circular glasses and two day old stubble that warped along the edges of her face. Becoming something – no - someone else entirely.
Murdock?
Intriguing.
Unsurprisingly that was the last thought he had for a long, long time.
_________________________________________
a/n: this was originally going to be the end of this prompt, but yeah, not so much. Definitely more to tell that will thankfully be more in line with the Matt/Wesley part of the prompt, so yay for that! Thank you to everyone who has commented thus far, your comments seriously churn my butter, if you feel me.
Re: [Fill] "Bad news (like a suckerpunch) - (4/?) - Re: Matt/Wesley - Good!Wesley, Undercover
(Anonymous) 2015-06-18 04:29 am (UTC)(link)Re: [Fill] "Bad news (like a suckerpunch) - (4/?) - Re: Matt/Wesley - Good!Wesley, Undercover
(Anonymous) 2015-06-18 05:02 am (UTC)(link)Re: [Fill] "Bad news (like a suckerpunch) - (4/?) - Re: Matt/Wesley - Good!Wesley, Undercover
(Anonymous) 2015-06-18 05:16 am (UTC)(link)Also, any chance of this ending up on AO3? *fingers crossed*
Re: [Fill] "Bad news (like a suckerpunch) - (4/?) - Re: Matt/Wesley - Good!Wesley, Undercover
(Anonymous) 2015-06-18 05:42 am (UTC)(link)Link: http://archiveofourown.org/works/4142127?view_full_work=true
[Fill] "Bad news (like a suckerpunch) - (5/?) - Re: Matt/Wesley - Good!Wesley, Undercover
(Anonymous) 2015-06-27 10:44 pm (UTC)(link)He woke to a changed landscape.
To a new scar.
Rigidly controlled bedrest.
And nurses that meant business.
He woke to Fisk in jail.
To an operation in tatters.
Leland six feet under - most of their financials gone with him.
And rigidly controlled bed-rest.
He woke to Ulrich having been found dead in his home.
To Vanessa safely absconded somewhere in Southern France.
Skin knitting with the help of three staples on both his front and his back
And Page, Murdock and Nelson alive and well.
Typical.
He slept for most of the first week. Enjoying the weightless nothing that entered his system periodically. Taking away the pain still spidering out from his chest in throbbing aches of slow-healing muscle as the nurses came and went with their needles and quiet tuts.
And while the walls of his very private, very expensive hospital room didn't immediately talk, he learned the layout of his new reality remarkably quickly. Charming the nurses and putting up with the mockery of a routine police visit. Teasing their strings long before the puppets knew they were dancing to his tune. Quietly adjusting the tallies and legers in his head as both of them – a bored desk Sargent looking to make a mark and a tired looking Lieutenant and mother of five – were added to the payroll.
He arranged for a bouquet of flowers – Jade Vine and Parrot's Beak – to be sent to Madam Gao's last known address, purely for the courtesy. Determined to keep a semblance of communication open between them. His sources turned up nothing in regards to her location other than back alley gossip about a run in with the Man in the Mask and a near miss on both sides. He heard nothing in return, but expected as much. Content with knowing the woman would have gotten the message at the very least.
In the end, his near miss didn't even make the papers. After all, why would it? He was just another innocent victim of an unsympathetic city. A mugging gone wrong wasn't worthy of note in the scheme of things. Even if said victim had been ushered into seclusion and offered what was perhaps the best medical treatment anyone in this side of the world could ask for. No questions asked. The nurses not affiliated with S.H.I.E.L.D merely gossiped about money talking - joking about being named in his will or expecting to be swept off their feet in a Lifetime Channel style romance any moment. Ribbing each other good naturedly as they changed his dressings and gave him the running highlights from the newspapers he'd already skimmed that morning.
In truth, his appearance barely caused a ripple.
He found the bullet S.H.I.E.L.D dug out of him in the middle of a box of expensive Swedish chocolates. A hand selected mix of all his favourites, sent to his hospital room not long after he stabilized. He kept it in the breast pocket of his hospital gown as a reminder. Ever the dutiful chastised child.
The only other thing to arrive was an obnoxious bundle of pink roses half a week after he woke up. His nurses thought it was hilarious, saddling him with one of the pushy older ladies when she brought them in. Burbling about secret admirers and special some ones. Clearly transported by the gesture until he traded his wrinkled nose for an embarrassed smile and offered her one with a clumsy flourish - his weakened side hinging the movement.
He breathed a sigh of relief when she finally left, blushing and tittering. Waving the floral monstrosity out the door like a banner, no doubt eager to show it off to the rest of the floor.
The offending bouquet was bright and so grossly inappropriate he was certain they were delivered to the wrong room until he read the tag.
"There wasn't a card for: "You are a giant dickhead, but I am weirdly annoyed and grateful you aren't dead. So, here you go. - K. Page."
He ended up laughing so hard he pulled a staple and half the floor of nurses came running.
It seemed as though Miss. Page was putting him through a lot of firsts lately.
He considered asking her for coffee, if only to see what color her face would turn. But didn't. Instead he sent a modest bundle of white and peach roses to the office on her birthday and enjoyed the three days of sarcasm and pouting jealousy of one Franklin Nelson - who was clearly infatuated - via the wiretap he placed when the firm first appeared on their radar.
The amusement it garnered him seemed a fair trade.
There was only so much he could do from a hospital bed, but he did what he could.
It gave him time to demolish and rebuild the system he'd already constructed months ago. Contingency plans he'd adjusted and rearranged in his mind between phone calls and the rare, quiet evening when Fisk had had no need of him. Allowing the empire they'd built together to stand on its own and stretch it's legs. Elegant, if not imperfect.
Whatever downtime he had when the hours slipped past – blinking through the blur of exhaustion and drugs - he spent planning his next move. Fisk's next move. Because despite all evidence to the contrary, nothing had actually changed. His cover had been protected. He was still in the game. S.H.I.E.L.D – or the agency formerly known as S.H.I.E.L.D, would have never left him here otherwise.
He slept more than he was used to, but he was able to justify it by repeating the same thing his nurses did when they caught him in the dark, squinting at his laptop long after hours. Telling himself that his body needed to heal and sleep was the best thing for it. It felt wasteful, like an indulgence. Like a bad habit he could easily allow himself to fall head long into. But for the sake of not making waves, he managed to find a happy medium. Placating the nurses and his physical therapists while still exhuming that was left of Fisk's operation from the dust of public opinion.
He healed slower than the last time and pretended not to notice.
Fisk appeared sallow-pale. Washed out and haunted in his prison-whites when he came to visit almost two months later – less than half a week after his own discharge from the hospital. He'd spoken to the man half a dozen times on the phone in the meantime – making vague plans and inquiring after business - but none of that compared to finally seeing him again. A hulking mess of contradictory behavior versus appearance behind three inches of standard prison plexi-glass.
The picture the difference painted was stark. Fisk was a mere shadow of his former austere, quiet violence. But the man smiled warmly all the same. Genuinely pleased to see him as he waited obediently for the trio of prison guards to take off his cuffs. Thanking them by name as he picked up the telephone. Ushering themselves out with a final, affirming nod and a reminder that they had less than thirty minutes.
His own receiver was already warm against his ear. Promptly over-eager and firmly in character as Fisk shifted in his seat, pulling a stressing creak from the ugly orange plastic as their eyes settled and a semblance of normalcy entered his world again.
"It's good to see you, Wesley," Fisk rasped, shoulders shrugging, as if to shake the ghost of a suit straight. The man's eyes were cold, hardened into a shade that was closest to steel-grey as the clock on the wall tick-ticked. Fingers twitching, like the tips were still yearning to run over the pads of his usual cuff-links – a nervous tick, perhaps.
"And you, sir," he returned, adjusting his glasses against the glare of the buzzing fluorescents. Smooth and stream-lined, just like old times as he ran a hand down the crisp line of his tailored slacks.
That one, simple sentence was enough to send the good moments rippling. Re-living it a second time around as he allowed his brain to operate on auto-pilot. Feeling the muscles shape and flex around the words as moments where he'd almost forgotten it was a mission – not a reality – not his reality washed over him like water lapping at a distant shore. Moments where the line between asset and would-be friend had blurred. Twisting and turning until – before the Man in the Mask, before Karen Page, Matt Murdock, Ulrich and Nelson - he wasn't sure if there was even a right side to be on anymore.
He pulled himself back like whip-lash. Thoughts dangerous.
"May I say it's good to hear your voice in person again, sir?"
The worst part was it wasn't a lie.
Not even a little bit.
He quietly saw to the transfer of Fisk to more respectable accommodations within the prison system. Seeding his cell block with sympathetic second chancers whose general answer to the command: jump was how high? After their bank accounts had been appropriately seeded for their services.
He took it upon himself to hire two companions for Fisk's mother and moved her once again. This time to a sea-side villa whose caretakers spoke excellent English and doted upon her accordingly. He began calling her once a week just to listen to her chatter. It was surprisingly therapeutic. She called him a good boy and he reminded himself why he was supposed to hate people.
It didn't work, but then again, he had a mother, a grandmother, even a great grandmother once. And apparently there were some universal constructs that remained constant regardless of time and circumstance. And apparently, sweet-natured old ladies with maternal instincts the size of an aircraft carrier were one of them.
He started to rebuild Fisk's empire from the ground up. Cutting all the fat and starting over. Taking a new approach as the city began to move on. Latching itself to another fresh scandal involving banks, embezzlement and a very miffed trophy mistress with nothing to lose.
Surprisingly little changed.
Reference:
* Parrots Beak (Lotus berthelotii): Classified as exceedingly rare since 1884, the Parrot's Beak flower is believed to be extinct in the wild, though some individuals believe it may still be alive. The plant is native to the Canary Islands and is believed to have been originally pollinated by sunbirds which have long gone extinct.
* The Jade Vine (Strongylodon macrobotrys): known for its spectacular blue-green, claw-shaped flowers, produces a hanging inflorescence of color seldom seen in any other flower. The flower is pollinated by bats which will hang upside down to drink the nectar. These rare flowers are now hardly seen in the wild and are believed to be threatened by the deforestation of their natural habitat in the Philippines.
* White roses: meaning, amongst other things, "remembrance." So, in sending white roses to Karen, Wesley is sending a dual message of: 'I remember what you did for me and I am acknowledging it,' but also 'remember why you did it and keep your mouth shut for both our sakes'.
* Peach roses: meaning, amongst other things, "gratitude, thankfulness, and sincerity." So, in sending peach colored roses to Karen, Wesley is also thanking her for her trust and choice to save his life.
[Fill] "Bad news (like a suckerpunch) - (6/?) - Re: Matt/Wesley - Good!Wesley, Undercover
(Anonymous) 2015-07-09 01:36 am (UTC)(link)He managed to avoid Nelson and Murdock for almost three months before circumstances hastened the inevitable and he found himself braving the spider-infested stairways and run through carpets in order to pay the ramshackle firm a visit. He didn't call ahead. Instead, he merely ordered a car and pulled up at a prompt 10:45am. Late enough that Nelson and Murdock were already committed to a full days work and early enough that they couldn't cite lunch as an excuse not to meet with him.
It was a risk. He knew that. Even without Miss. Page's involvement, the lasting media attention that had been focused on him along with Fisk's arrest had been intense.
He'd taken on the lions share himself. Damage control. Having gone on record that he had no idea his former employer had been involved in any of the charges that had been brought against him, and instead, had an undying faith in the message behind Fisk's life work and his desire to see it made a reality. Publically cutting ties from all of Fisk's known affiliations in order to re-shape the company to focus on charity work and the renewal of Hell's Kitchens' infrastructure and social support networks.
And that was what the new company was about.
At least, on the surface.
His approval ratings were at 75% and counting and the company was already turning profits in all sectors. He had personally seen to it that 35% of the most at risk homeless and domestic violence shelters were appropriately funded and saved from the municipal chopping block. But he was more than aware of the scrutiny he was under. Now more than ever the focus had to be on details – the choreography of the dance rather than the background set. He was more than aware of what was hanging in the balance.
The off-centre throb in his chest was reminder enough of that.
It was a calculated risk, but a risk none the less. There were variables to be sure. Allowances and contingences that had to be made to take into account the complexities of human behavior. Emotional outbursts, illogical flares that edged towards suicidal dramatics and overarching stupidity that most people tended to display if the right buttons were pushed at the wrong time.
Still, given the fact that he preferred to court his affairs pragmatically, if not directly, the fact that Nelson and Murdock were still of some use to him was merely an unexpected bonus as far as he was concerned.
It would be a lie to say he didn't enjoy the emotions that spilled over as he walked confidently into the room. Miss. Page dropped a stack of files with a loud thud. Nelson jerked, upsetting his coffee so that it splattered down his cheap bargain-bin trousers -cussing out a blue streak that made even his eyebrow raise. But Murdock? He was already looking. Sightless eyes fixed on his face. Fingers clenched like the cane in his hand had the ability to be strangled.
He basked internally, smirking. Glad to see he'd made such a lasting impression.
"Good morning gentlemen, Miss Page," he greeted, smoothing his tie but making no move to extend his hand to shake. Knowing the gesture wouldn't be returned as he took another handful of steps into the room and closed the door behind him.
"What…what are you doing here? I thought you were supposed to be in the hospital?" Karen started, accusing like there was some remote possibility that she'd shot a blank and he didn't have a knot of scar tissue across the front of his chest that was already aching for two days without sleep and a lack of diligence when it came to his exercises.
"Hospital?" Murdock questioned, head cocking. As if by sense alone the man might be able to locate the injury and make his own assumptions.
"Ah yes. Um. It was in the papers. You didn't know?" Karen backpedaled, eyes flickering and growingly pleading as Nelson rolled his eyes, clearly about to say something about how naturally the man hadn't. Being as though, as far as he was aware, the local papers were still not willing to translate their headlines into braille.
But it was Murdock's expression he was interested in.
His face was intriguingly focused.
Like the man was listening to something only he could hear.
Something half formed – an assumption without basis – swirled in the back of his mind.
It was almost like-
"It all sounds a lot more exciting than it actually was, I assure you," he returned smoothly, filing away the thought for future consideration as he inhaled, indulgent. Catching the hint of old coffee, fading perfume and some sort of pesticide paramount in the air as a small fan ruffled the papers on Miss. Page's desk.
"I admit to being a bit careless, I am afraid. I dismissed my protection detail for the evening. As you might be aware – as I told the media in my statement during my hospital stay – I was beginning to have serious doubts about the manner in which my employer was going about achieving his goals for the city," he stated, smile never wavering an inch as an irritated glint entered Miss. Page's glance.
"I wanted some space to consider my options. You must understand my situation. To betray not only my employer, but my friend, whom I deeply respected, and watch his dreams for the city be consumed by the dangerous path he was taking. Or keep the status quo and hope the issue could be resolved in another, less public manner. Needless to say, I wasn't paying attention. After that, the story is rather mundane really. After all, what is one more mugging in a city already suffocating in crime?" he murmured, seeing a grudging sort of acceptance enter Nelson's eyes as the larger man sized him up, shaking his head.
"A mugging, huh? How ironic," Nelson drawled, one hand finding its way to his pocket – a nervous gesture meant to show nonchalance but only highlighting the target's unease. "Streets are just not safe these days if a scumbag like that can't be caught."
The accusation and threat was thinly veiled. But highly amusing. Reminding him of a lion cub attempting to roar but only ending up mewling – screechy and young - as its elders chuff with indulgent laughter.
"Is there a point to your visit, Mr. Wesley?" Murdock broke in. The use of his name almost took him off guard as it fell from the man's tongue with almost taciturn ease. Making him wonder if he could coax it out another way - whimpering and wrecked. Would Matt sing for him? Would his lips caress his name like they did at Sunday Service? Teasing the plush of them against his rosary? Would-
He shifted, a slight tell to the left as his cock firmed up against the zipper of his trousers. It was subtle and mostly hidden. But the man's nostril's flared all the same.
Curious.
The corner of his lip quirked when Murdock's Adam's apple bobbed. Nervous? No. It wasn't as simple as that. It was more complex. Complicated. Like everything about Murdock, it would be true to the man, himself. Unique. Challenging. He did like a challenge.
"Yes, of course," he purred, flashing his teeth in a smile as Miss. Page stared at him, worry clear. "As amusing as this conversation is, I didn't stop by just to catch up. I am here on business."
"Business?" Nelson repeated, long hair curtaining over his face as he glanced over at him like whip-lash. Like he couldn't quite believe what he was hearing. "After everything that happened on the news? What leaked about Fisk and your...uh, business? No offence, but what makes you think we want anything to do with you?"
The recycled air was stuffy and stale, enough to make the tips of his collar uncomfortably damp as a light sweat sheened across his throat. Business must really be bad if they couldn't afford to run even the dilapidated little window unit opposite Miss. Page's desk. Perfect.
"Well, first, because you by proxy are affiliated to my employers 'business' as you put it," he pointed out, making a show of checking his watch as the second hand tick-tick-ticked – it's rhythm comforting and symbiotic – as a muscle in Murdock's jaw twitched.
"Secondly, my employer is no longer in direct control of his company nor the direction it is taking. I am sure you've been keeping abreast of the changes I've been making?" he continued, polished and more amused by the second as he fixed Karen with his full attention and enjoyed the colors that rose up in response.
"I am ensuring my employer's initial wishes for this city and its betterment continue. This time for the benefit the city itself, solely. I am attempting to give Wilson Fisk and his holdings a fresh start. Under my guidance and control, of course."
"Of course," Murdock parroted, not even hiding his sarcasm as his partner blew out a long breath between his teeth.
"Great, so what? We trade the shark for the crocodile, is that it?" Nelson muttered, running a hand through his hair as he looked over at his partner with a torn expression the man certainly couldn't see. "Awesome."
"There were no legally binding documents drafted during that exchange," Murdock pointed out, taking a firm step forward. A calculated play based in a more subtle form of behavior. Aggression and warning through a seemingly passive action. It might have even worked, had he been anyone else. "Nothing to prove that we owe you loyalty nor due process in any future endeavors."
"No, but it would be rather rude," he returned, smiling again. This time nearly half way genuine. He seemed to be doing a lot of that lately. Almost smiling. He wrinkled his nose, unsure of if it was distaste he was feeling or conflict regarding the same.
"Naturally," he started, lengthening the natural pause until Nelson gained another frown line. "If you were to refund the cheque my employer wrote for your business in full, I will reluctantly take my business elsewhere. I was greatly impressed with your dedication and integrity in our past dealings. However, perhaps it is for the better, hmm? I am sure there are other half-starved lawyers in this city that might be more receptive to my proposal," he finished, smirking. Knowing full well that the residuals of the cheque were the only thing keeping the lights on.
Murdock's knuckles cracked.
"Though, word to the wise, you might want to consider turning your air conditioner on once and a while," he hummed, tugging on his collar for emphasis as the oppressive, smoggy heat seemed to condense like tension around them. "Your next prospective client might not be as…understanding of your financial situation as I am."
He could practically feel the litany of unspoken curses that hazed through the air around his head. The moment felt more like a true victory than anything in his life had for a startlingly long time. It was honesty, of a jaded sort.
"However," he started, timing the moment perfectly. Cutting Murdock off cleanly as he shrugged his shoulders and indicated to the briefcase in his hand. "If you are refusing purely on moral grounds, I can assure you that the case…or should I say, cases - because there are a fair few - are right up your alley?"
Miss. Page blinked.
Nelson's mouth dropped open.
But Murdock, for his part, simply stood – unmoving.
"My employer's previous methods were misguided. You and I know that is not up for debate. However, I can assure you I am not vulnerable to the same pit falls. You may disagree with my past associations, but not the progress of today," he shared, unclipping his briefcase and fishing out a UBS drive, silently handing it to Miss. Page.
"I came prepared to give you full transparency - which is what you will find on that drive. Consider it a measure of trust, made in good faith or whatever you need to come to a decision about our business relationship," he explained, gauging the mood of the room as Miss. Page turned the drive over and over in her narrow little hand. He blinked and in the backwash of neurons and cones, he saw them stained red again, smeared up to the elbows in his own red. Jarring and-
"There is no such thing as erasing the past," he pressed on, forcing himself to look away, forcing himself to switch his attention from Nelson to Murdock in turn. Unsettled as the ghost of the same taste threatened to rise in his throat. Distantly he recognized the sensation for what it was. Post trauma. Fledging PTSD. The beginnings of a possible panic attack. Embarrassing.
"But one can strive to overcome it. And to better one's self in the process," he shared, pushing through it "And that is why I am here."
"The people I want you to represent need your help quite badly. They cannot afford adequate council so I am providing it. I can assure you the cheque will, once again, be more than generous. And, who knows, perhaps the amount will even be enough for you to afford turning on the air conditioner once and a while. That is, after you've paid off a half year of rent with one cheque."
Miss. Page nearly dropped the flash drive.
The silence was pregnant.
Cut-throat with possibility.
All that was left to do was sweeten the deal. Provide that extra reel of assurance as he watched Murdock's tongue slick across his lower lip. Lost in thought and thinking to the beat he was grinding with the tip of his cane - boring through the grimy carpet every other breath.
"You wanted a chance to make this city a better place did you not, gentlemen? On this, I think we are of one mind. Because despite what you might think, that's all I want. I want to run a business and for Hell's Kitchen to profit from it. Working together gets us what we both want. Now, let's get started, shall we?"
[Fill] "Bad news (like a suckerpunch) - (7/?) - Re: Matt/Wesley - Good!Wesley, Undercover
(Anonymous) 2015-07-09 01:37 am (UTC)(link)In the end, it was even true.
They both ended up getting what they wanted.
Somehow Murdock even met his gaze when he looked up from where Nelson and Miss. Page were huddled over the documents. Watching those strong, tapered fingers skim across the beaded dots of the braille copy he'd brought especially for that purpose. Filing away the reaction they'd gotten from the man when he'd handled the thick sheath over along with a copy of the case files and proposals he'd made for the others.
'Nothing if not thorough, aren't you Wesley?' A dark voice whispered. Like Fisk, but only deeper. Baser. Like it'd come from within, but rang through his ears wearing an imposter's skin. Fisk never whispered. That kind of subtly was lost on him. Even when he spook softly, like he did to Vanessa, it was still a muted cry of rage and distaste. Lessened only for the love and affection he bore her, and that she displayed in turn.
His mother used to whisper.
She used to tell him to run.
To use his head.
To play it smart.
To set an example.
To twist the hand that slaps you and snap it clean off the moment their guard was down.
Progress ended up arriving hours later. He'd had to cancel more than a few meetings. But all of it was worth it when Murdock slipped off his glasses - fingers flexing and tired as he looked over at him. Waiting until the others nodded, murmuring their assent in hitching whispers before he spoke.
"We'll take the first case on a trial basis, Mr. Wesley. Once we have a ruling on that we will reassess and contact you in regards to our company taking on the rest. Is that fair?"
He simply smiled - the expression fractionally closer to meeting his eyes this time around.
Some people might call that progress.
But he wasn't one of them.
Re: [Fill] "Bad news (like a suckerpunch) - (7/?) - Re: Matt/Wesley - Good!Wesley, Undercover
(Anonymous) 2015-07-09 04:57 am (UTC)(link)Re: [Fill] "Bad news (like a suckerpunch) - (7/?) - Re: Matt/Wesley - Good!Wesley, Undercover
(Anonymous) 2015-07-09 05:43 am (UTC)(link)Re: [Fill] "Bad news (like a suckerpunch) - (7/?) - Re: Matt/Wesley - Good!Wesley, Undercover
(Anonymous) 2015-07-09 02:11 pm (UTC)(link)Re: [Fill] "Bad news (like a suckerpunch) - (7/?) - Re: Matt/Wesley - Good!Wesley, Undercover
(Anonymous) 2015-07-10 05:30 am (UTC)(link)I kind of thought people had given it up. So far to see there is still interest. I have the next couple of chapters mapped out so I know where I want this puppy to go. I am wrapping up my other wip fills so I hope to get more updates up soon for this one on the regular!
Re: [Fill] "Bad news (like a suckerpunch) - (7/?) - Re: Matt/Wesley - Good!Wesley, Undercover
(Anonymous) 2015-07-25 07:38 am (UTC)(link)I loved the nonexistent conversations had with the judicious use of floral arrangements. It was perfect. ;-)
I do wonder how this will play out. Because clearly Fisk thinks that Wesley is still his man and Wesley is presenting Matt with above board cases where he could do some tangible good, though, I doubt Daredevil will not be too far behind snooping (beating answers out of people).
I am looking forward to your next installment! Thanks for sharing this lovely fill!