daredevilkink | Prompt Post #5

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"You can't leave. This is your home."

"No it's not. This is just the place I work."

Immediately thought of Wesley and Hell's Kitchen

Man it would absolutely break my heart if Karen said that to the boys ...

I thought of Wesley, too. Ultimately hopeful angst ensued.

AU where Wesley didn't die; instead, Fisk did.

________________

“What are you doing?”

Wesley looks up from his methodic folding, the organized chaos of his clothes laid on the dining room table. Francis stands in the doorway, head slightly tilted – how does this man manage to always look so much like a confused dog? – watching the motion of Wesley’s hands.

“I’m packing,” Wesley says simply. There’s more to it, of course. If Francis looked, he would see Wesley’s red-rimmed eyes and slightly shaking hands, but Francis never looks, and, for once, Wesley’s glad of it.

“Why?” Francis asks, as confused as ever. Wesley wants him gone; there’s no reason for him to be here anymore. Certainly, it was his house, too, at one point – Fisk made it so, ordered Francis to live with Wesley to watch over him at all times, once it became clear that the masked man was targeting Fisk’s organization specifically. It’s not Francis’s house anymore, though, not since Fisk…

“Why do you think?” Wesley asks icily. His expression is composed, as always, even though it feels curiously like he’s collapsing from the inside out. He closes his suitcase with a ringing finality, hoping that Francis will give up and go…wherever it is he has to go.

True to form, Francis (obtuse, stubborn, irritating Francis) does not give up, nor does he go.

“You can’t leave,” he says. “This is your home.”

“No, it’s not,” Wesley replies bitterly. “It’s just the place where I worked.” The past tense burns on Wesley’s tongue, but it would be foolish to flinch over it. His job’s done; he failed. He failed. He sets both hands on the table, palms down, to keep them from shaking. It also turns him away from Francis, gives him a chance to compose himself.

Because he’s looking down and away, he doesn’t see the anger flash in Francis’s eyes, doesn’t see him cross the room in three quick strides. Wesley just barely has time to look up before Francis has grabbed both of his shoulders, flipping him around, shoving him hard against the edge of the table.

“You fucking coward,” Francis snarls; he’s not as tall as Wesley, but he’s much stronger, and Wesley can’t break his grip. “Just because Fisk’s dead doesn’t mean you can just leave. Don’t you mean to finish what he started? Everything he worked for is going to shit and you’re sitting by doing nothing. Did you even care about him at all?”

Wesley feels something inside him snap. He snarls, forcing his heel down hard on Francis’s instep. Francis yelps in pain and surprise and Wesley takes his chance to wriggle out of his bodyguard’s hold. He forces Francis backwards, his hand around his bodyguard’s throat. Even in his anger, he feels curiously disconnected, like there’s a part of him watching the struggle dispassionately from outside his body. This part wonders distantly if this rage, this power, is how it felt to be Fisk. It feels good.

Wesley pins Francis against the wall, his hand still closed around Francis’s neck. Wesley can see the shock in Francis’s eyes and it gives him a dark satisfaction. He leans in and down, trapping Francis against the wall.

“Never say that again,” Wesley hisses, digging his fingers in hard before letting go and stumbling backwards. His ragged breathing matches Francis’s gasps, and he feels dirty on a level he doesn’t understand, but he finds it within himself to straighten his tie and fix his glasses, as though his little…outburst…had never happened.

“Jesus,” Francis manages, leaning back against the wall. “Didn’t know you had that in you.”

He pauses, glancing at Wesley as though trying to work something out. Wesley watches him in silence. Eventually, Francis speaks again, quieter this time.

“He really meant that much to you?”

Wesley considers a moment before replying. “Wilson Fisk was the only good thing this wreck of a city has ever produced. There’s nothing for me here now that he’s…gone.” He still can’t bring himself to say it; he’s weak, and he should hate Fisk for making him this way, but he is – was – the one person Wesley could never hate.

“What about Ms. Marianna?” Francis asks, carefully, curiously. “Fisk would have wanted…he would have liked to know she was in good hands.”

Wesley laughs. “Vanessa doesn’t need me. Not in the same way Fisk did.”

“Yeah, but…sure, maybe she doesn’t need you like he did, but she could use someone who understands what she’s going through.” Francis rubs the bruises that are already forming on his neck. “That’s actually why I showed up here. She asked me to find you. She wants to see you, just to talk about…I mean, there wasn’t a funeral, and she wants…well, she loved him, you know, and when you love someone and they die…it’s good to talk about them.”

Normally, Wesley would be frustrated with Francis’s hesitation, but Francis’s words give him pause. Francis isn’t lying, that much is clear, and to think that Vanessa had actually asked for him, to think, even for a moment, that he’s still needed…it’s enough to make him regret packing the suitcase, at least for now.

He breathes in and out heavily, taking a moment to consider, to look at his suitcase, at Francis’s bruises, to feel the crushing emptiness that lies somewhere in the middle of his chest. Wesley is not a kind man, not a considerate man…but he can love. He can feel. He can care. It surprises him to realize that he does care about Vanessa, that he cares that she’s hurting in the same way he is. Fisk loved her, Wesley knows, and perhaps Wesley did too, if only because she made Fisk happy in a way that Wesley could never manage. At last, he nods, meeting Francis’s eyes.

“I’ll go with you,” he says, and Francis smiles hugely. “But the suitcase stays packed,” he adds.

“A compromise,” Francis agrees. “Very smart.” He moves towards the door, looking back over his shoulder at Wesley. “Well, come on! You’re needed.”

Wesley manages the shadow of a smile at Francis’s word choice. You’re needed. How often had he heard those words from another mouth? It hurts somewhere deep, but it’s strangely comforting, too. He takes a moment to straighten his glasses, out of habit, before following Francis out the door and onto the bustling New York sidewalk. The city feels oppressive, dirty; it tells Wesley to leave.

I can’t, he reminds himself. Not quite yet. I’m still needed.

And, for the moment, that is enough.

*CHOKES ON MY OWN HEART* OH GOD. OH GOSH. GOODNESS GRACIOUS, YES. Wesley. ;______;

Ouch. My heart!
This is so well written ...

it's a lovely fill anon<3

Prompt Post #5

Gen or Any/Any - dialogue prompt

Re: Gen or Any/Any - dialogue prompt

Re: Gen or Any/Any - dialogue prompt

[Fill] Needed

Re: [Fill] Needed

Re: [Fill] Needed

Re: [Fill] Needed