Chapter Text
Wesley 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 his memory. The voice had a unique timbre to it, a specific rhythm and intonation to the speech he knew he had heard somewhere before. He cycled back through his memory, paying far less attention than he should have to the mental state of his employer. Wesley was good at this, he was trained for this, recognizing 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 behavior, but the vigilante’s combat skills are far beyond the capabilities of a blind man.
Yet then, his thoughts turn. 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? 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 the exact way this 'Devil of Hell's Kitchen' has chosen to.
Wesley watches from the sidelines as the vigilante groans and collapses to the floor, helpless in the face of Fisk’s violence. He tries to catch a glimpse of the man’s face, but only the vigilante’s back is to him as he struggles to get back on his feet.
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 giants when they get angry. Wesley has seen far too many unexplained things in his career to dismiss anything as impossible.
“Wesley.”
Fisk’s summons pull 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 than murder him.
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. Glass shatters, and there’s the sound of a distant splash. 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 immediately if they find any trace of the man in the mask.
With his business handled, Wesley sets off by himself toward 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, and this journey will be for nothing.
The Devil of Hell’s Kitchen, the papers call him. Matthew Murdock being the vigilante would explain his sudden one-eighty in deciding to accept the case Wesley had offered, especially after spending the entire meeting being about as friendly toward him as an unpleasantly belligerent 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) machinations.
The more Wesley thinks about 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 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 undoubtedly houses the more respectable people working within the area. 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 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 he points his ear forward, listening for any sound from within.
All he hears is silence, and Wesley looks down at the door handle, wondering if it's safe to pick the lock and chance the possible ambush waiting inside. But despite everything, the hallways is a public space, and the risk of someone turning up and catching him makes the option less appealing. He turns and goes for the roof access door.
The door clicks shut behind him, and the sounds of the city hit him almost instantly alongside 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 already ajar.
Curious, Wesley runs his finger through one of the dark smudges and raises it into the light. 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 counteract 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.
But still, these are not the worst odds Wesley has ever faced. Taking a slow breath, he knocks lightly.
“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.
Wesley stands there in increasing impatience, almost able to hear the useless train of thought currently working its way through Murdock’s brain. He 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.
“Matt!”
The voice of Foggy Nelson rings outside the door, and Wesley closes his eyes, cursing silently. 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. The sound of Murdock's body scraping against the floor feels too loud in the quiet room, and it forces Wesley to slow his movements so they won't be heard.
“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 this apartment so 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 had 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, had 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 one of them 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? He thinks for a second, before an answer comes to him.
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.”