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coprime_writes) wrote2026-03-10 06:00 am
coprime_writes) wrote2026-03-10 06:00 am
Entry tags:
Daredevil (TV): Rosa pratincola (Fisk/Wesley)
Title: Rosa pratincola
Author:coprime
Fandom: Daredevil (TV)
Relationship: James Wesley/Wilson Fisk
Rating / Word Count: PG-13 / 1,431 words
Warnings: Allusions to parental abuse and murder.
Disclaimer: Daredevil belongs to Netflix, Marvel, and/or Disney.
Summary: Wilson Fisk is biding his time during his exile to the heart of the Corn Belt after the death of his father. The people there are beneath him, dull and witless, but perhaps there's one boy with merit—a flower amidst the chaff.
Notes: For![[archiveofourown.org profile]](https://p2.dreamwidth.org/b164c54b26e4/-/archiveofourown.org/favicon.ico)
inkforhumanhands, as thank you for his writing tracker spreadsheet. The wild (prairie) rose, or Rosa pratincola, is the state flower of Iowa.
Please right click and choose "Save As".
Length: 11:03
~Rosa pratincola~
Iowa was exactly what Wilson expected—vast fields, empty in the late winter as they waited on the planting season, and his nearest neighbor miles away. His mother had moved them out here, away from the city, to join his Aunt Jeannie and Uncle Peter on their farm after the untimely death of her husband. He'd been put to work after school preparing an abandoned field for planting, clearing the land of rocks before spring came. It was cold work, and dirty, but his aunt and uncle had reservations about him. Eyed him askance, judging and waiting, whenever his mother talked about New York, as if a mere mention of his former home would cause him to—
They rarely talked about anything before Iowa.
Wilson let Jeannie and Peter shove the Sisyphean task of clearing rocks onto him without—much—complaint because he knew coming here was his mother's way of protecting him, like he had protected her. She fussed over him when he returned to the farmhouse after an afternoon of hard labor, putting hydrogen peroxide on his hands where stones and dried grass had sliced them and kissing the top of his head and telling him how good he was for her. Jeannie and Peter avoided him as best they could, and Wilson did likewise. He didn't need their favor, or to appease their fright. He'd survive these years, and he'd go back to his city. He could make things better still for his mother—set her up in a nice apartment where no one would dare hit her or pity her. He couldn't do anything about the looks his aunt and uncle shot her, not without making trouble for his mother, but once he was grown—an adult—then things would be different.
He could make them different.
But in the meantime, Iowa had nothing of value for him—it was merely a waypoint until he could leave for better.
Upon returning from school, he ate the two-egg, plain omelette his mother prepared for him then made his way to the barren field for his task of clearing rocks until dinner time. He left his coat behind; his mother couldn't afford him a new one if he ripped it beyond repair. And, even with the wind zipping across the plain, he'd be warm soon enough. He'd been gifted a wheelbarrow and a trowel as his only tools, and he wheeled them by the chicken coop, past the barn and its ever-growing pile of rocks—a monument to his continual labors—and across a field of dried corn stalks until he reached his destination.
Then he set to. Kneeling in the dirt, digging his trowel in, unearthing rock after rock after rock. Small ones about the size of the tip of his thumb to larger ones as big as his head. He was working on particularly troublesome stone, a bead of sweat rolling down his back as he attempted to dig under the stone enough so that the earth would release it, when he spied the person walking along the road. That happened occasionally: people needing to make their way into town and unable to drive so walking it was. And when it happened they often decided they might as well pass by the Miller farm—see if they could get a look at Jeannie's sister and her boy, gawk at the strangers come to their corner of Iowa—as they traveled. Wilson ignored them. Let them look their fill; they were nothing more than pigweed to him, ugly and intrusive. He'd be gone soon enough, and they'd still be stuck in this podunk piece of nowhere.
Dirt—dry, tenuously frozen in place by winter's clime—crunched underfoot as the person left the road and came to where Wilson was. Their shadow fell across the rock he was attempting to loose. Wilson glared up at the intruder to his work.
Ah. This was not the usual adult come to rubberneck, but a boy. One of his schoolmates, a grade below him. Jimmy, Wilson thought he remembered. Jimmy was dressed for the cold, in a patched woolen coat, neatly buttoned up, his hands shoved into his pockets. His cheeks and nose were lightly pink from the wind, but his hair stayed smartly in place, held by pomade. It made Wilson feel underdressed in his sweaty undershirt with its ground-in patches of dirt, so he stood.
That was better. He was three inches taller than Jimmy.
Jimmy stared at the trowel in Wilson's hand. "That tool is inadequate for your current task. Why don't you have a shovel?"
"Because Aunt Jeannie won't give me one."
"Why?"
Wilson bristled, his fingers gripping the trowel handle tighter. Who was Jimmy to ask him so many questions. At least the others had the sense to spectate from a distance. He could make Jimmy—a boy, a nothing boy like this nothing town—regret his impertinence in questioning Wilson.
"Because she worries what I could do with a bigger blade," he threatened.
Jimmy looked up at that. He met Wilson's eyes—straightforward and unflinching. The wind whistled between them. "Then she's a fool. She hinders you in an erroneous belief that doing so makes you less dangerous. But I know better than that."
"Oh?" Wilson smiled, a thin veneer of civility as he re-assessed Jimmy. If—and wasn't that a potent question, if—he might be different from the others. Not a weed trying to choke him and hold him back, but something else. Possibly something dangerous. "And what is it you think you know?"
"I know many things." Jimmy cocked his head as he thought, birdlike. "I know you're strong, strong enough it doesn't matter how others attempt to hinder you. I know you don't belong here. You belong somewhere bigger. Better. And"—Jimmy paused for effect then resumed—"I know you killed your father."
"That's a lot to know." Wilson didn't think he could get away with killing Jimmy, not so soon after moving to town, but that didn't mean he couldn't scare him into keeping what he knew to himself. Wilson began to raise his trowel.
Jimmy failed to look afraid. Keeping his gaze steady, he said, "If your father was anything like mine, then you did the right thing killing him." Jimmy's attention shifted to Wilson's hand, currently stayed with the tip of the trowel pointing at Jimmy's knees. "You don't need to threaten me. I'm on your side."
Wilson considered. It was true that Jimmy's words hadn't held threats, either overt or insinuated. Had, in fact, been complimentary—calling him strong, that he was destined for greater things than Iowa's farmland. At Wilson's continued silence, Jimmy faltered. His eyes darted to the ground, his pink cheeks turned ruddier, and he began to bore a hole in the dirt with a nervous toe.
Well. Was that what this was. Jimmy wasn't a danger to him but an opportunity. A gift. A prairie rose like as he saw on the embroidery his mother worked at night. She sold her finished pieces of roses and goldfinches for a bit of extra income, but Wilson would not sell such a beautiful present.
Wilson's smile turned genuine. His eyes crinkled at the corners, at the brass of this...bold yet shy boy in front of him. Here was someone from Iowa with worth, who could similarly see beyond these fallow fields and this moribund town. Wilson stabbed his trowel into the earth and wiped his hands off on his jeans. To rid himself of the dirt and, also, the sweat which had begun to gather on his palms at Jimmy's declaration of solidarity.
"Then you're smarter than everyone else here." Wilson held out a hand. "And what I know...what I know, Jimmy, is that together we're going to be unstoppable."
Taking the handshake, Wilson's new partner said, "I prefer James." His hand was smaller than Wilson's—most people's were—but his grip matched. "Not that anyone uses it," he muttered.
Wilson nodded. "James is a good name. Biblical. Powerful."
Jimmy—James blushed further, cheeks darkening to the deep petal-pink of his mother's embroidered blossoms.
"Now. Let's decide what should be done about your father."
James smiled. "I was hoping you'd say that."
To the rest of this town, James was an unassuming shrub, someone easily overlooked, but now Wilson saw his thorns and his flower. The thorns others would learn of in due time, with James's father first in line, but the flower Wilson planned to keep as his alone.
His perfect wild rose.
Author:
coprimeFandom: Daredevil (TV)
Relationship: James Wesley/Wilson Fisk
Rating / Word Count: PG-13 / 1,431 words
Warnings: Allusions to parental abuse and murder.
Disclaimer: Daredevil belongs to Netflix, Marvel, and/or Disney.
Summary: Wilson Fisk is biding his time during his exile to the heart of the Corn Belt after the death of his father. The people there are beneath him, dull and witless, but perhaps there's one boy with merit—a flower amidst the chaff.
Notes: For
Click here for podfic version.
Download: MP3 (10.6MB) | (Alternate DL)Please right click and choose "Save As".
Length: 11:03
~Rosa pratincola~
Iowa was exactly what Wilson expected—vast fields, empty in the late winter as they waited on the planting season, and his nearest neighbor miles away. His mother had moved them out here, away from the city, to join his Aunt Jeannie and Uncle Peter on their farm after the untimely death of her husband. He'd been put to work after school preparing an abandoned field for planting, clearing the land of rocks before spring came. It was cold work, and dirty, but his aunt and uncle had reservations about him. Eyed him askance, judging and waiting, whenever his mother talked about New York, as if a mere mention of his former home would cause him to—
They rarely talked about anything before Iowa.
Wilson let Jeannie and Peter shove the Sisyphean task of clearing rocks onto him without—much—complaint because he knew coming here was his mother's way of protecting him, like he had protected her. She fussed over him when he returned to the farmhouse after an afternoon of hard labor, putting hydrogen peroxide on his hands where stones and dried grass had sliced them and kissing the top of his head and telling him how good he was for her. Jeannie and Peter avoided him as best they could, and Wilson did likewise. He didn't need their favor, or to appease their fright. He'd survive these years, and he'd go back to his city. He could make things better still for his mother—set her up in a nice apartment where no one would dare hit her or pity her. He couldn't do anything about the looks his aunt and uncle shot her, not without making trouble for his mother, but once he was grown—an adult—then things would be different.
He could make them different.
But in the meantime, Iowa had nothing of value for him—it was merely a waypoint until he could leave for better.
Upon returning from school, he ate the two-egg, plain omelette his mother prepared for him then made his way to the barren field for his task of clearing rocks until dinner time. He left his coat behind; his mother couldn't afford him a new one if he ripped it beyond repair. And, even with the wind zipping across the plain, he'd be warm soon enough. He'd been gifted a wheelbarrow and a trowel as his only tools, and he wheeled them by the chicken coop, past the barn and its ever-growing pile of rocks—a monument to his continual labors—and across a field of dried corn stalks until he reached his destination.
Then he set to. Kneeling in the dirt, digging his trowel in, unearthing rock after rock after rock. Small ones about the size of the tip of his thumb to larger ones as big as his head. He was working on particularly troublesome stone, a bead of sweat rolling down his back as he attempted to dig under the stone enough so that the earth would release it, when he spied the person walking along the road. That happened occasionally: people needing to make their way into town and unable to drive so walking it was. And when it happened they often decided they might as well pass by the Miller farm—see if they could get a look at Jeannie's sister and her boy, gawk at the strangers come to their corner of Iowa—as they traveled. Wilson ignored them. Let them look their fill; they were nothing more than pigweed to him, ugly and intrusive. He'd be gone soon enough, and they'd still be stuck in this podunk piece of nowhere.
Dirt—dry, tenuously frozen in place by winter's clime—crunched underfoot as the person left the road and came to where Wilson was. Their shadow fell across the rock he was attempting to loose. Wilson glared up at the intruder to his work.
Ah. This was not the usual adult come to rubberneck, but a boy. One of his schoolmates, a grade below him. Jimmy, Wilson thought he remembered. Jimmy was dressed for the cold, in a patched woolen coat, neatly buttoned up, his hands shoved into his pockets. His cheeks and nose were lightly pink from the wind, but his hair stayed smartly in place, held by pomade. It made Wilson feel underdressed in his sweaty undershirt with its ground-in patches of dirt, so he stood.
That was better. He was three inches taller than Jimmy.
Jimmy stared at the trowel in Wilson's hand. "That tool is inadequate for your current task. Why don't you have a shovel?"
"Because Aunt Jeannie won't give me one."
"Why?"
Wilson bristled, his fingers gripping the trowel handle tighter. Who was Jimmy to ask him so many questions. At least the others had the sense to spectate from a distance. He could make Jimmy—a boy, a nothing boy like this nothing town—regret his impertinence in questioning Wilson.
"Because she worries what I could do with a bigger blade," he threatened.
Jimmy looked up at that. He met Wilson's eyes—straightforward and unflinching. The wind whistled between them. "Then she's a fool. She hinders you in an erroneous belief that doing so makes you less dangerous. But I know better than that."
"Oh?" Wilson smiled, a thin veneer of civility as he re-assessed Jimmy. If—and wasn't that a potent question, if—he might be different from the others. Not a weed trying to choke him and hold him back, but something else. Possibly something dangerous. "And what is it you think you know?"
"I know many things." Jimmy cocked his head as he thought, birdlike. "I know you're strong, strong enough it doesn't matter how others attempt to hinder you. I know you don't belong here. You belong somewhere bigger. Better. And"—Jimmy paused for effect then resumed—"I know you killed your father."
"That's a lot to know." Wilson didn't think he could get away with killing Jimmy, not so soon after moving to town, but that didn't mean he couldn't scare him into keeping what he knew to himself. Wilson began to raise his trowel.
Jimmy failed to look afraid. Keeping his gaze steady, he said, "If your father was anything like mine, then you did the right thing killing him." Jimmy's attention shifted to Wilson's hand, currently stayed with the tip of the trowel pointing at Jimmy's knees. "You don't need to threaten me. I'm on your side."
Wilson considered. It was true that Jimmy's words hadn't held threats, either overt or insinuated. Had, in fact, been complimentary—calling him strong, that he was destined for greater things than Iowa's farmland. At Wilson's continued silence, Jimmy faltered. His eyes darted to the ground, his pink cheeks turned ruddier, and he began to bore a hole in the dirt with a nervous toe.
Well. Was that what this was. Jimmy wasn't a danger to him but an opportunity. A gift. A prairie rose like as he saw on the embroidery his mother worked at night. She sold her finished pieces of roses and goldfinches for a bit of extra income, but Wilson would not sell such a beautiful present.
Wilson's smile turned genuine. His eyes crinkled at the corners, at the brass of this...bold yet shy boy in front of him. Here was someone from Iowa with worth, who could similarly see beyond these fallow fields and this moribund town. Wilson stabbed his trowel into the earth and wiped his hands off on his jeans. To rid himself of the dirt and, also, the sweat which had begun to gather on his palms at Jimmy's declaration of solidarity.
"Then you're smarter than everyone else here." Wilson held out a hand. "And what I know...what I know, Jimmy, is that together we're going to be unstoppable."
Taking the handshake, Wilson's new partner said, "I prefer James." His hand was smaller than Wilson's—most people's were—but his grip matched. "Not that anyone uses it," he muttered.
Wilson nodded. "James is a good name. Biblical. Powerful."
Jimmy—James blushed further, cheeks darkening to the deep petal-pink of his mother's embroidered blossoms.
"Now. Let's decide what should be done about your father."
James smiled. "I was hoping you'd say that."
To the rest of this town, James was an unassuming shrub, someone easily overlooked, but now Wilson saw his thorns and his flower. The thorns others would learn of in due time, with James's father first in line, but the flower Wilson planned to keep as his alone.
His perfect wild rose.