Wesley has long since given up on getting what he wants. He has committed himself instead to getting other people what they want, which is more lucrative in the long run.

He has seen Fisk grow to be powerful, he has watched him in the process of refining himself. Some of the traits which Wesley had taken for baseline awkwardness at being completely untutored -- all things considered, wholly out of his depth, everywhere -- were clearly there to stay, and they had both made their peace with that. But Fisk has grown more self-assured, he is a man who is at home in his body even if only as a passing guest. Minor discrepancies have been taken care of; with the exception of his temper, his flaws have abated. Wesley has had a hand in polishing away minor flaws and presenting the final result to the public. Skimming out the dross, letting the chaff burn.

Wesley has come to admire this man; this is the unfortunate truth he faces down every morning when he rises and dresses himself, every night when he retires to bed. Everything that once irritated him about being employed by a volatile, resentful gorilla of a man, a common gangster with delusions of philanthropic intent, has melted away. Worse, Wesley believes in this man. Fisk says he loves this city, and Wesley believes him. Wesley has fallen for a line.

He has arranged a last-minute reservation for two, with a waiter who knows the importance of discretion and a table far from the door where they won't be disturbed. (Along with a rider of other small considerations as long as his arm, but that's the cost of doing business with someone as rigidly particular as Wilson Fisk.) The occasion is a sensitive one, requiring greater tact than usual -- and this thing was achieved in a string of uncomfortably roundabout phone calls to increasingly alarmed strangers, and by the time they'd finally come to terms, the ice in his glass had melted completely.

James takes a swig anyway and rolls it around in his mouth, self-conscious of it as distasteful. He hasn't even taken his tie off, but he lies in bed on overpriced sheets with a laptop in front of him gently irradiating his thigh and a glass of watery liquor sweating against his hand. Somewhere his employer is sleeping comfortably. James Wesley is wide awake.

The best he can do for him now is to do his job. Make some phone calls, break a few kneecaps, select some truly excellent vintage of wine to commemorate some inane anniversary. (Fisk must be pleased having remembrances to keep track of that aren't instances of brutality.) Exert pressure in the right places, see that all impediments to his employer's blissful happiness and financial success are wiped from the face of the earth. Twist some arms.

He will never touch him again; he will never be with him again; he's not sure he was ever with him in the first place. Wesley is no longer anything more to him than an old stopgap measure, a makeshift solution to an ongoing problem that's no longer ongoing. It was never this that he needed -- there are those who have described James as reptilian, and they're not wrong. He's arrogant and overeducated and ungentle. Vanessa is a good woman, cool and brisk and humane; she is nearing fifty and she is very beautiful. She handles their mutual friend with extraordinary delicacy, and isn't that just a kick in the fucking teeth.

She's good for him. The closest Wesley gets to that is being good at his job.

Wesley is pleased when Fisk is pleased; his well-being is tethered directly to his employer's. When Fisk goes under he will go down with him, all the way down. Until then he is a good right hand, he makes himself indispensable and it is almost as good to be needed as wanted. Some of his ways of making himself necessary have been dishonest -- but love is dishonest, love is impatient, and in Wesley's experience it's usually cruel. There is nothing especially uplifting about it when it's coming from an undisputed asshole.

He can't bring himself to move. He needs to shut his screen and give up on productivity for tonight, to put his phone on to charge and go the fuck to bed. He doesn't even remember what he came to bed to do, what it was he couldn't do at a desk -- if he meant to check on his stocks or search for amusing pictures of cats, or what justifies getting this maudlin before 4 AM over something he knew he'd never actually have.

He can't lie here all night, sweating through his shirt and seething in frustrated desire. He needs to undress; he can't sleep in these clothes knowing who paid for them. There's nothing left that can be meaningfully planned for at this hour -- and sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof, or something like that. He needs to brush his teeth and shave, to shower and jerk off with his right hand balled into a fist against his mouth, remembering -- words, something, a touch, something, a perfect crumb of memory to serve like an anchor.

He needs to take a pill and sleep without dreaming. He's got work to do in the morning.