X-MEN '97 1.01 "TO ME, MY X-MEN"
✶
V.
FIRST CLASS
PICTURE THIS: Juliet in her childhood. Before Ezra, before Dominik, before the Saviours, before her powers. Until she reaches high school and realises the sharp points of its attached, adolescent cruelties, it does not occur to her how little she grew up with. Her world was simple and small, and something that even her mother could describe when her English was still as newborn as her children. Arden, Ji-Ae. Sunday afternoons above the dry-cleaning store. The steady sound of the sewing machine, its hum warm and low like life. The iron and its pillars of steam, pluming through the upstairs apartment—a silk scarf dancing in the wind. Arden's laughter just the same.
It wasn't until Juliet's first sleepover in freshman year when she experienced for the first time what it must've been like to live in a real house—with an attic and basement, grass in the backyard, an ice-machine built into the refrigerator—that it dawned upon her she had lived a life without. Ji-Ae had been an illusionist in her own right, a self-taught stage magician with the unique ability to hide her ailing financial situation from her family. With smoke and mirrors, shadow and timing, she made away with the anxiety of overdue rent, food stamps, and second-hand clothes; it was all in the distraction.
Ezra, conversely, grew up with distractions he'd been forced to make on his own. He went through phases, media to media and interest to interest like a never-ending scarf trick pulled from the sleeve of his loneliness, but at some point settled on superheroes: Superman first, then the rest of the Justice League. Ever the gifted-and-talented kid, he was a skilled drawer since he was young, and so the walls of his childhood bedroom were plastered corner-to-corner with dozens of sketches of his favourite heroes, all immortalised in various states of motion.
Childishly, he thought if he loved them enough they might come to life, might save him—from his father's indifference, perhaps, or his mother's favouritism. In retrospect, these were non-events, ultimately inconsequential, of emergency equal or lesser than a cat stuck high in the branches of a tree. What he really needed to be saved from did not lie in his past; it was in his present, his future, the rest of his life. When it came to the car crash, none of his heroes had come to rescue him, no, not Superman or Batman or Wonder Woman. Not even Ezra's all-time favourite, Green Lantern. Not one Justice Leaguer could spare a moment from their poorly-written comic runs to lend him a hand. Hal Jordan, in all his bright, green glory, did not show up to save the day, did not materialise when he was needed most; did not battle the fire or the smoke or the acrid smell of burnt flesh, the shattered glass that shone like night stars upon the bitumen.
The one to pull Ezra's body from the wreckage had been Juliet, and as far as she was concerned she was no hero. She had wanted to be, once, long before the Saviours had even entered the picture—unfortunately, this was a truth she could not deny and something that Ezra would ever, ever, ever, let her live down.
Juliet did not have her roommate's upscale rearing, his spacious-in-comparison home or his two dogs and cat, singular. She certainly did not have his stacks-upon-stacks of comic books, or his collection of limited-edition action figures (even if his parents had only bought them so he would spend more time in his room and less around them.) But she did have a television, as old and as second-hand as it was, and it did have access to local news channels. Juliet was fourteen when it all went down, what Arden jokingly used to call the worst thing that ever happened to her sister's personality: the mutant superhero Cyclops, aka Scott Summers, leader of the X-Men and Juliet's first, truest love.
Truest love. Arden heard his voice once during a rare interview he had given on a morning news broadcast; those six minutes were all she needed to mock Juliet for the rest of her life. Between I love you too, Juli and Juliet and Cyclops sitting in a tree—K-I-S-S-I-N-G, Juliet would not find herself free of the jokes for at least two years. Having interests, Juliet soon found, was a careful balance between being ashamed of them and being proud. Ultimately, it did not matter, because the moment she was made aware of Scott Summers' existence, she mastered the incredible ability to find a way to bring him up in any and every conversation ever.
Did it matter that Juliet had never spoken to him in her entire life? No. Did it matter that she had only ever admired him from afar, through shaky videos filmed through phone cameras or news segments that couldn't decide whether the heroically-inclined students of Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters were a saving grace or a rising threat? No. Did it matter that, at fourteen years old, Juliet belonged entirely to someone who had no idea she existed? No—for a third, final, emphatic time. All Juliet had of Scott Summers was an A3 poster she kept pinned on the wall opposite her bed in the back room downstairs.
It had been manufactured during a brief period of time when the public's attitude towards mutants, particularly of the Xavier-trained variety, had been positive. Positive enough, at least, to motivate corporations to promote and support the X-Men, at least in a way that could be bought and sold: toys and t-shirts and other such miscellaneous collectibles. There was even talk of creating a Mutant Pride Day, if not to be celebrated nation-wide then at least in the state of New York, where Xavier's school was based and where its students called home. Juliet, who knew what she was even then—she had just been too afraid to say it—had tried not to get her hopes up.
It was a smart decision. Blink-and-you'll miss it, the X-Men were ushered out of the spotlight and back behind the gates of their Salem campus. All other mutants, both out and still-hidden, disappeared again into themselves, back into their cities, their lives, and their fear.
Though Juliet understood it now, back then she had been too young to truly comprehend the socio-political climate around her—and others like her—existence. She simply counted herself lucky to have bought a Cyclops poster before it transpired. It swiftly became her most prized possession, bright and shiny even when the gloss began to fade. Dominik when he became relevant had seemed perfect, but it always came back to Cyclops: his handsomeness, his honour, his heroism. While Juliet saw herself as nothing more than a collection of facets and facades, merely reflective surfaces for others to use to observe themselves, she had to believe that Scott, with his ruby-quartz gaze, would see things differently. (Would see her differently.) She had watched him work, studied his strategy and his style. He could make of her a mirrorball, reflecting not just himself upon her surface but his light, too. Oh, how Juliet wanted to be illuminated. How Juliet wanted to be beautiful.
Maybe she was delusional. But could you blame her? Scott was perfect, in all the ways Juliet would never be. He was the quintessential X-Man, clean-cut and American, well-behaved and beautiful. Smart. Strong. Mutant and, as far as Juliet was aware, proud. Juliet's admiration, like her imagination, knew no bounds; her affinity did not stop with the X-Men's leader. From Scott it only grew. To his first teammates, Marvel Girl, Angel, Beast, and Iceman, to all those who came after. Colossus, Nightcrawler, Banshee and Storm. Names and words that grew into a language Juliet used to describe her want, her secret desperation for connection and never-ending desire to fit in. What she would have given to have one day found Charles Xavier himself on her doorstep, Professor X in the flesh. What she would have given to hear him tell her she was special—she was wanted.
All this to say: Juliet Young had not always hated heroes. She wore her spite like a piece of clothing, a garment woven bitterly from a thousand tiny threads—Dominik, the Saviours, her sister. Let's say it's a cardigan, dyed the elusive, overcast colour of memory. Let's say she wears it every other day. Let's say it's her favourite. Let's say she's found a home in her hatred. Let's say that it's a little worn out, that it's seen better days, that a hole or two has burrowed its way between the alternating stitches of knit and perl. Let's say that these holes, as small as they are, as practically and functionally unnoticeable, were not made by the passage of time or a change in sentiment or a feeling of forgiveness towards the capes and masks who beat Juliet senseless and left her broken, bleeding out in the alley.
Let's say that it was love.
Let's say that it was Ezra Savage's.
Not his love for Juliet specifically, but for everything else. For winter, even though he complained relentlessly about the cold. For Frank Ocean. For cats, even though every feline he met seemed to have it out for him and hate him, to an almost obsessive degree. For his caramel coffee frappuccinos, even though their closest Starbucks (three blocks down) kept upping the prices. For Hal Jordan and the rest of the Green Lantern Corps, even though they had not saved him, not made themselves real, when he needed them most.
Juliet was the telepath, yes, but her best friend did something to her brain sometimes that made her want to live life again. It was the Ezras and the Peters, the beautiful people you knew and the beautiful people you didn't, that made the whole fucking mess of it worthwhile. Juliet could claim she was an isolationist as much as she liked—it did not matter. It comforted no-one but herself. How many times had he saved her? On purpose, by accident? How many stupid jokes had he made, how many cups of tea? Those little acts of service, acts of saving. Inch by inch, bringing her back from the edge. Juliet thought first of the camera he had bought her. Before the camera, it had been a Studio Ghibli sandwich press, the sight of which made her smile for the first time in days. Before that, a custom-made collar for Monty.
And before that? A Cyclops action figure—mint-condition, still in the box.
She had saved him, yes, but Ezra had saved her too, so often and so selflessly it was incomparable. Somehow, she had to even the score.
What would life be without Ezra Savage?
This was not the question Juliet had to be asking.
What would Ezra Savage be without his knees?
There it was.
Juliet sat opposite Wesley in the car, the carry tube containing Fisk's painting balanced on her lap. She said nothing as she slipped into the vehicle, and neither did Wesley. A silent observer, he only stared, his eyes a pale, icy blue. Cold and unflinching.
"So, Juliet. How has your week been?"
"Good," Juliet said, reflexively. Then, with perhaps a bit more snark than was appropriate, she added: "Busy—very busy. It was busy before this little tête-à-tête, and it'll be busy after. So can we get to the point? Please and thank you."
Wesley lifted an eyebrow. She must've sounded like a little kid, impatient and bratty, but he wasn't doing much better—what, with the car and the name-dropping, the glasses and the slicked-back hair, he was B-list villain material. "Eager?"
"To get this over and done with, yeah."
Wesley made a noncommittal noise, a sound that fell somewhere between a scoff and a sigh. "My apologies. Let us begin, then."
"Let's. What do you what?"
"What does my employer want, you mean?"
"Yes, your employer. Kingpin." Juliet said the word with such indifference Wesley looked genuinely taken aback. Juliet simply smiled. "I'm sorry, did I misspeak? Does he have a formal title now?"
"No, Kingpin is just fine."
"Well, that's his name. If I say it into a mirror three times, does he appear? We can try that, if you'd like. Might be the easiest prison break in history."
Wesley made that noise again—this time, it was more definitively on the scoff end of the spectrum. "You would do well to conduct yourself with more... maturity."
"Would I? When you say maturity, do you just mean I should act more intimidated?" Juliet tilted her head to the side ever so slightly. "Scared? Because Wilson Fisk—" Again, Juliet spoke carelessly, even if her choice of words was anything but, "is not the Boogeyman. And fear is for children. I am not a child."
"I know."
"You do, huh?"
"Yes, I know. I know precisely who and what you are."
"Terrifying."
"I wouldn't be so combative if I were you, Juliet."
It was Juliet's turn to scoff. She did, leaning back in her seat and crossing her arms over her chest. "I know you know what my name is. It was jarring the first time but I've had that name my entire life. Hearing it from the mouth of a stranger, however menacing and all-knowing he's trying to make himself seem, is not nearly enough to faze me."
"No?" Wesley smiled. Again, no mirth, no warmth. Juliet had to admit, it was a little off-putting.
But only a little.
"No." Juliet smiled in return. Fight unsettling-fire with unsettling-fire, she supposed. "Juliet this, Juliet that. You sound like my mother."
"Yes, your mother. 지애." Ji-Ae.
Cute. Juliet slewed a laugh between her teeth. "Congratulations, you speak more Korean than I do."
"Multilingualism—in a job like mine? It comes with the territory." That smile again. Juliet felt her own expression begin to crack, hairline fractures threading fast and thin in the foundations of her facade. "New York is a big city. So many languages, so many cultures—so many people."
Juliet merely stared. "I feel like I've opened a conversational can of worms here."
"So many people," Wesley repeated. "How easy it would be for someone to disappear amongst them."
"What a lovely threat. I love how thinly-veiled it was." Juliet managed an eye roll. "My mother is in no danger."
"One person amidst eight million—"
"Your attempt to scare and intimidate me is a dead horse. Stop beating it."
"—One person, oh, it would be so easy. Two people, even."
Now, that made Juliet laugh. Real and genuine. "My own safety is of no concern to me."
"Not yours," Wesley said sharply, "but what about your partner's?"
Silence.
"That's what I thought." The expression upon Wesley's face was pure, unadulterated satisfaction. "I know you, Juliet Young, and I know Ezra Savage. I know his family—his father, the psychiatrist. His mother, the nurse. His brother and of course, his sister. Even if she is no longer with us."
"You did your homework, then. Am I meant to be scared?"
"It would be so easy to make it look like an accident. Even easier, with his history, to make it look like an overdose."
Juliet's mouth went dry. "You wouldn't." It was a childish thing to say, impetuous, and yet she could not stop the words as they tumbled off her tongue. "You—"
"—can, would, and will. Without a second thought."
"I—"
"I know what you are, Miss Young. I know what you do. You create—from nothing, or from what already exists, it makes no difference to you. You see the world, and then you paint it in your vision. You make it reality. I, and by extension my employer, do the same."
She had nothing to say. Nothing at all.
"There's something about creation, isn't there?" Wesley's voice was quiet, contemplative. But Juliet was an expert in illusion, and she knew this to be nothing more than a trick of the light—underneath the surface was a cruelty, subtle but sharp. "I am not much of a creative, I fear. I am much better with my words than I'll ever be with paint, pencil, or clay. But I can paint a picture almost as well as you—let me tell you about it. First, we have a teenage boy. Eighteen, nineteen. He was a good kid growing up. Lonely, maybe, but good. Gifted. Talented. From day one he had the world on his shoulders, all this pressure from his peers, his teachers, even his own family. When he gets to college, he just breaks. He blows off classes to party. He goes home with girls instead of studying. Everything that could've been his starts stacking up against him, and before you know it, he's searching for the exit. With the bottle, first. Then, something a little stronger."
"Stop."
"I am not finished." Wesley said. You could have mistaken the softness in his voice for kindness. Really, it was a kind of poison. Slow. Paralysing. Juliet could not move. "Our friend starts with the usual stuff. Weed. Maybe he buys a vape, maybe he buys five. He tries acid tabs at a party, then pills. It's not enough. Nothing is ever enough. But what he does have, it's a slippery slope. Eventually, he turns to the needle."
"Stop. Stop talking."
"He turns to the needle, and then he's as good as dead. He stops answering calls. His parents don't recognise him anymore. He disappears entirely—he never becomes anything more than the baby photos hanging on the walls of his childhood home in the Upper East Side. And it'll be all your fault." Wesley paused, perhaps for effect. "Should I get started on your mother, Juliet? Or your grandmother? There are a thousand pictures I could paint with those two. But perhaps you are already familiar with the inescapable tragedy of immigrants."
Immigrants. The word was a weapon, one Wesley didn't even need to wield. A knife, Juliet took it all on her own—turned it inwards and twisted the hilt. "What the fuck do you want?"
"I want you to listen." Wesley leaned back in his seat, mirroring the other's body language—draping one leg over the other and letting his hands sit atop his knee.
Juliet, unable to meet his gaze, turned her head to look outside the window. The car had not moved an inch; they were still on her street, still outside her apartment. (Her and Ezra's apartment.) "Then I'm listening."
"Good." He seemed genuinely pleased. "I want you to be forgiving, too. I understand all that I have said might distress you, or bias you towards myself and whom I represent. But it's all hypothetical, I assure you."
"Hypothetical. Right." Juliet stared for a long, silent moment, then offered Wesley the carry tube. "I'm capable of forgiveness as long as you are."
Wesley took the tube with a small, dry smile. "Thank you. Mr. Fisk will be glad to have this back in his possession. His collection has felt incomplete without it."
"Oh, I'm sure. Pass my regards on to him. And my apologies."
Regards and apologies—Wesley motioned vaguely, as if to wave both away. Considering Juliet had not meant a word she'd said, perhaps he was right to. "Now, let us talk. What is your price?"
"My price for what?"
"Your work. Your service." Wesley paused, his expression unreadable once more. "Your loyalty, even."
"My loyalty can't be bought. I can't be bought."
"Everybody has a price."
"Not me."
"I highly doubt that." Wesley adjusted his glasses. "Now, I'll admit—I've never worked with someone quite as young as you before. I'm not familiar with your demographic. What do you want?"
Juliet scoffed. "What could you possibly give me that I can't get on my own? I'm not in this business for pocket money."
"Wilson Fisk has almost infinite resources at his disposal."
"And yet none of them are getting him out of prison anytime soon, are they?" Juliet arched a brow. "Oh, god. You're not asking me to break him out of the Raft, are you? Because you can threaten me, it won't change my mind. I am not fucking with the Raft." Though, Juliet thought with a small smile, she wouldn't mind the challenge.
"That won't be necessary."
"Then what is? Spit it out."
"Wilson Fisk's sudden departure has left... well, a void. I am assembling a number of—let's call you contractors—to enforce his values and protect his territory in his absence."
"And you want me?" Juliet was disbelieving. "Maybe you're the one who needs pocket money if I'm the only person you can afford. You're scraping the bottom of the barrel here, my guy."
"I disagree."
"Do you? Because I'm down to make a charitable donation to Fisk Enterprises as long as I can get a tax write-off for it."
"Drop the adolescent wit for a moment, please. It's exhausting."
"Sorry, sir."
"Just James is fine. Anyway—as I was saying. You would be working to further Kingpin's interests while he is away. This would involve patrolling his territories, protecting his property—escorting cargo and people of interest. You would be working with some of New York's best. Or, worst," Wesley smiled, "depending on whom you ask. Tombstone, Hammerhead, Madame Masque, Diamondback."
"Swell. I love networking opportunities. I love name-dropping even more."
"You would also be working with Taskmaster. I understand you two have history together."
"Not a history that necessitates you saying it like that. Does Fisk pay you extra to be so corny?"
Wesley dismissed that comment. (...which was fair. Juliet had said wittier.) "Anthony spoke very highly of you. I have met many of his pupils, and not one of them has he respected as much as he respects you."
"Okay? So I was a teacher's pet. How does that make me qualified for this?"
"A recommendation from a man like Taskmaster goes a long way. Even Tombstone had good things to say about you—spiteful, perhaps, but ultimately good. I am aware you crossed paths with him a few months ago. He agreed to put any ill feelings he might have towards you aside, if you choose to join him and the others."
"Right. What's the pay like?"
"Competitive." Wesley procured a manilla folder from what might as well have been nowhere, offering it to Juliet with a pleased smile. "You would be paid a base weekly rate, then additional bonuses for any extra assignments you might undertake on Wilson Fisk's behalf."
"You don't have to keep saying his full name. I know what it is." Juliet huffed, opening the folder to find a contract. She scanned over the fine print, the space between her eyebrows creasing as she drew them together. "This is all very impressive. I can almost believe it's legitimate."
"Loyalty is priceless at a time like this. I'm sure you can feel it, Juliet—I'm under the impression you can feel everything. But this... it's tangible. The city is holding its breath. These next few months could make or break everything."
"Mhm."
"They could make or break you. You're a small fish in a big pond. Wouldn't you like to be more? If Kingpin can do anything for you, it's more."
Juliet felt her phone buzz in her pocket. Not even acknowledging Wesley, she pulled out her phone to read the messages that had cropped up on her lock screen.
EZRA: waited what felt like a safe amount of time before texting u
EZRA: i really hope ur notifications are turned off on ur phone. the sound at least
EZRA: how embarrassing would it be if it was just buzzing in the middle of ur super important conversation. buzz buzz buzz
EZRA: 🐝 🐝 🐝 🐝 🐝 🐝 🐝 🐝 🐝 🐝 🐝 🐝 🐝 🐝🐝🐝🐝🐝🐝🐝🐝🐝
EZRA: i've calmed down a little. since u took one for the team with that guy, i will make dinner for us tonight 🙏🏻
"Can that wait?"
"Nope." Juliet's gaze didn't stray from the screen, not for a moment. She just watched the small typing thought-bubble on Ezra's side of the conversation, knuckles whitening as she gripped her phone tighter. "Just a second."
EZRA: umm it will be a white dinner though because idk how to make bulgogi and i don't want to butcher it. sorry, korea! sorry, juliet's mom!
JULIET: my mom will NEVER forgive you actually
EZRA: OH THANK GOD YOU'RE NOT DEAD
EZRA: 🇰🇷 🇰🇷 🇰🇷 🥳 🎉 ‼️
EZRA: if he tries to shoot your kneecaps, shoot his first
With what gun? Juliet thought, like that was the only thing wrong with Ezra's advice.
JULIET: i will definitely do that. and i'm sure it will definitely work
JULIET: thanks for the tip 🤗
EZRA: you're welcome 🫂 what's he saying?
JULIET: he wants me to work for kingpin.
EZRA: oh shi
EZRA: t
EZRA: shit*
JULIET: yeah.
JULIET: do you think i should do it?
JULIET: he may or may not have threatened you, my mom, and my grandmother.
EZRA: maybe he's bullshitting
JULIET: maybe he isn't.
JULIET: i want you to be safe, ezra.
The typing bubble disappeared for a painfully long moment. Juliet was acutely aware of Wesley's gaze, fixed directly upon her face. She didn't dare look up.
EZRA: i don't know what to say to that
EZRA: i want to say i'll be fine and that i can protect myself, but we both know i can't
EZRA: i need you, obviously. but i want you to be safe too
EZRA: and free.
EZRA: what if it's like last time?
JULIET: nothing could be as bad as last time. he can't be worse than dominik.
EZRA: 🧐🧐
EZRA: weeeellllllllll
EZRA: look, jules. just do what you think is right
EZRA: i'll support you no matter what.
That was a sweet sentiment, but ultimately a useless one. She didn't need support, she needed someone to tell her what to do. Juliet finally put down her phone. Looking up with a sigh, she met Wesley's stare. "What?" she asked coolly, innocently, laying the contract over her lap.
"Are you finished?"
"Yes." She laced her fingers together. "What did Taskmaster say about me, exactly?"
Wesley arched an eyebrow. "He said you were a skilled fighter. Fast and agile. You know how to listen to instructions, but you know how to lead, too."
That was sweet of him. "Did he tell you I'm the only person he's never been able to copy?"
Wesley fell quiet. Not out of shock, not completely—it was curiosity that silenced him more than anything else. "No, he did not."
"He should've. There's no-one like me."
"That is why we want you. By all accounts, you are exceptional."
Exceptional. Juliet thought of Peter Parker, then, of his words just hours earlier. You, mediocre? You seem anything but. It was laughable, so much so that Juliet was practically forced to muffle herself, suppress the sound from her lips at the risk of seeming insane. She had never been exceptional, no, not once in her life. Taskmaster had been the outlier; having spent years studying the likes of the Avengers, the Defenders, all the other -ers, he had not expected Juliet to be the subject that brought him to a standstill. Perhaps she should have been flattered that the Tony Masters could not imitate her. But to Juliet, it wasn't that he lacked the skill to copy her; it was that she possessed nothing worth copying. What could be re-contextualised into a compliment by others—in this case, Kingpin and his posse—spoke only to Juliet as a reminder that no matter where she went, she would always be the odd one out. Always invisible and yet, always exposed.
Even the X-Men, that clown show circus, had not wanted her. And whatever Dominik had seen in her, he saw just as easily in someone else. In Arden.
Heroes. Juliet Young had not always hated them. Sitting in James Wesley's car, however, sitting in her spite and her loneliness, it was easy to remember why.
"Do you have a pen?"
Ezra lingered at the forefront of her mind. Not him, or his knees, his jokes or his idiosyncrasies—instead, his damage. The car, the crash. What had heroes, super or otherwise, real or in fiction, ever done for him? They would not save him. They would not protect him, nor her mother, nor anyone else Juliet had ever loved. Only she could.
When Wesley takes a fountain pen from inside his blazer and offers it to Juliet with a smile, she hesitates for only a moment.
Then, she signs her name.
"You made the right choice," Wesley said. He took back both the pen and the paper, his smile only growing. In kind, Juliet's face was flat—expressionless. A canvas, blank for the paint.
"When do I start?"
"I'll have to convene with Wilson to determine where exactly we want you. You shouldn't be waiting too long—I would say a few days at most, before we contact you with your first assignment."
"Perfect."
"I'm glad we came to an agreement. I promise you, you won't regret working with us."
"Of course." Juliet turned to exit the vehicle, then stopped. "Before I go..."
"Yes?" Wesley was too preoccupied praising himself for his good work to notice the smirk that was twitching at the corner of Juliet's lips. "What is it?"
"I wanted to clarify something."
"Clarify away, Miss Young."
"You were right, about how I work. I see and I create. But I think you've placed too much importance on that second part—the end product. To do what I do, first and foremost I need to observe. And while you were talking, while you were making your little threats and your cute, pointed comments, that's exactly what I've been doing. Observing. Would you like to know what I've seen?"
Wesley said nothing. Juliet sought to fill the silence.
He was a man who lived his life in order—symmetry incarnate, there was not an inch of him that was out of place. His hair was neat, the haircut well-kept and his face was clean-shaven. His choice of glasses (simple, dark frames) did not add nor detract from the generic appeal of his face. His suit was tailored expertly and exact. This told Juliet everything she needed to know about his mind; and his mind, when she touched it, told her everything else.
She could appreciate how he organised his thoughts; she had definitely seen worse. "You're Wilson Fisk's lawyer and you have been for almost a decade. You are also his greatest strength. His confidant... his friend, even. I'm pleasantly surprised. Not to speak ill of the big man, but I was under the impression he didn't have friends. Friends make you weak, especially in our line of work. And you, James Welch Wesley, are as much Fisk's greatest strength as you are his greatest weakness."
"What makes you say that?"
"You know everything about him. And now, so do I."
As the man opened his mouth to respond, Juliet shushed him. "Hush, I'm not done. You know him, and so do I. I know his wife, Vanessa Marianna. I know his infant son, Richard. I know that Vanessa and Richard live on West 42nd Street. I know that you would be a dead man if anything happened to them and Fisk, for whatever reason, suspected you had something to do with it."
"Juliet—"
"I'm. Not. Done." Juliet's tone was drawn thin, quiet, and sharp. Just like one of her psionic knives. "You know so many secrets, James. Perhaps Fisk thought they would be safe with you. Perhaps he was right. But they will not be safe with me. Mass murder, torture, conspiracy... a girl could have a field day with this. And a man could have multiple life sentences." Enunciating those last few words, she cocked her head to the side. Her smile was small but triumphant. "Next time you think about threatening my partner or my family, remember the burden of the knowledge we both share. And remember—there is no-one like me. And there is no-one who can fuck you and your precious little Kingpin up like I can."
Juliet was out of the car and up the steps to her building before Wesley could respond. It wasn't until after dinner—of which did end up being Korean, with Ezra's assistance and Juliet's strict supervision—and after Juliet's explanation of all that had transpired in the car did she receive any follow-up. She was doing the dishes when her phone started to ring; today was National Unknown Number Day, apparently.
With soapy fingers she wedged her phone between her ear and her shoulder. "Juliet speaking."
"Juliet, this is James Wesley."
Ezra materialised in periphery, holding a displeased Monty close to his chest. His shirt caught Juliet's attention first—it was a deep emerald green, the Green Lantern logo printed on the front, right over his heart. With one hand, Ezra gestured to her phone and mouthed: who is it?
James Wesley, Juliet mouthed back.
Ezra put Monty down, much to the cat's relief. Not that fucking guy again.
I know, right? "What do you want, James?"
"I meant to ask you earlier if you had heard anything about a drug called M."
"Just M? No." Juliet adjusted her phone. "Ezra, have you heard anything about a drug called M?"
"Methamphetamine?" Ezra offered.
"Methamphetamine?" Juliet repeated to Wesley.
"No, not methamphetamine. Just M."
"Then... no. Do you want me to keep an eye out for it?"
"Yes. If you hear anything, contact me immediately at this number."
"Yessir."
"Otherwise, I'll reach out to you when everything's sorted on our end. Enjoy the rest of your week."
"Yessir."
The line clicked dead. Ezra made a face. "I thought I was the only person you called sir."
"And I thought you didn't like it." Juliet put away her phone and returned to the dishes.
"I don't. But I like feeling special."
"Cry me a river."
"Should I be worried?"
"About?"
"Everything."
"You'd be worried regardless."
"Yeah, but you know what I mean."
"I think you'll be fine. I think we'll both be fine."
"Are you just saying that?"
Juliet snorted, "Would it be funny if I said yes? Or just mean?"
"A solid mix of both."
"Figures. Forget about Kingpin, Ezra. Focus on the good things instead. We still have our knees and we're about to make a shit ton of money. Silver linings."
"Silver linings." Ezra watched Juliet for a long moment. It could've been one minute, or five—she pretended not to notice. "Do you want help with the dishes?"
"No, I think I'll be okay."
"Thank god. I hate doing the dishes."
"Yeah, I know." Juliet rolled her eyes, flicking a few drops of dishwater his way. He dodged them with the grace of a two-year-old. "Don't thank God, thank me instead."
"Thank you, Juliet. You're my hero."
Juliet huffed at his wording, but said nothing of it. "Okay, go away now."
So he did, leaving Juliet alone in the kitchen with nothing but her thoughts to keep her company. When she finishes her task, she dries her hands, makes herself a cup of tea, and heads back to her bedroom.
On the wall behind her armchair hangs her Cyclops poster—heavily creased, faded with time. Juliet doesn't bother to turn on the lights. Instead, she sits with the night. In the dark Scott's gaze, bright red and blinding, illuminates nothing. It becomes nothing.
In the dark, so does she.
✶
AUTHOR'S NOTE
i have to contribute this towards the emotional, spiritual melting pot that is juliet and ezra's dynamic:
"this" being a photo of paramore's hayley williams and taylor york. if you know you know.
hi everyone 🫂 first of all i want to apologise for how long it took for this chapter to be written and then published. believe it or not, it's been an entire year since i last wrote for this fic. for the rest of 2023, i'm hoping to be much more consistent. my life has changed so much since my last update, and only now do i feel like i have the time, energy and ability to write for this story again. if you're back here after the year-long break, thank you so, so much. i can't tell you how much your support means to me.
onto some notes about the story itself, as well as this chapter specifically. in past updates, i have specified that juliet and ezra's relationship is strictly platonic. sorry everyone, i was lying 🤗 🤗 i believe that platonic friendships can 100% exist between men and women, however in the interim between this chapter and the last, i have had Many A Discovery and have decided that juliet and ezra's friendship is a lot more ambiguous than i've previously depicted it to be.
i would not classify ezra as a love interest for juliet, nor a romantic rival for peter; i think there is just something inherently romantic about some friendships, and the nature of both ezra and juliet's trauma has made them somewhat incapable of differentiating between platonic and romantic feelings. i think i'm a little in love with all of my friends—think of their relationship this way. there's so much love between them, and they don't know what all of it means.
on the characters that made guest appearances (? guest mentions might be a better word?) in this chapter: first we have scott summers, my love, my life. in NOW YOU SEE ME continuity, the x-men have been around for maybe ten years (give or take) and key members of the team are "out" and proud; namely, scott summers, and jean grey. i did not want the x-men to be a massive part of this fic.
instead, their main purpose is to contribute to the mutant-centric worldbuilding in the fic's canon. there is no way of really knowing this from the chapter, so i apologise for only giving context in the author's notes, but scott (in this version of things) was outed as a mutant, hence why his civilian identity (if we can even call it that) is known to the public, and known to juliet.
like the comics, this story's sense of time is based on the "sliding timescale". in this sliding timescale, the x-men will always have formed ten or so years before the events of this story; the fantastic four will always have formed four years before the events of this story; and peter will always have been bitten by the radioactive spider four years before the events of this story. scott is only a few years older than juliet and peter; i considered, briefly, that he might be a genuine romantic interest for juliet. but that would involve me actually having to write the x-men (that's a no from me ❌‼️) and the idea of peter parker being the same age as the first class of x-men gives me the ick.
we will explore the role mutants play in NYSM's world in future chapters, especially in relation to the saviours (who will make an appearance as a team next chapter!) i will also explain why juliet was never enrolled in xavier's school, despite the fact she is a near-omega level mutant. we might have to suspend our disbelief for that one 🤓 🤓
as for the other guest appearance, james wesley: i combined james wesley and wesley welch from the comics to create this portrayal. i was initially aiming for his character to be creepy, but then i decided it was funnier if he was just a guy trying to get things done. so that's what he is. just some guy. he's already sick of juliet (and by extension ezra) but i love babygirlifying men, so the duo will eventually grow on him. whether they will grow on kingpin himself is a whole other question, but we'll cross that narrative bridge when we get to it. wesley is also like. a millennial. early thirties. 😭😭 i thought it was funny.
taskmaster was also meant to be a bigger part of it but i noped out because the chapter was already getting too long. tony will make it in here at some point 💪🫵 TRUST!
i hope you guys enjoyed this chapter. i know not a lot happened, and i know it's not my best writing, but i thought it was more important to write it than worry about whether it was perfect or not (juliet young core.) i left a lot of juliet's feelings and reactions, especially to her conversation with wesley, implicit. i hope it didn't make me seem lazy or incompetent as a writer 🥶 i just felt that her initial internal monologue about heroes / ezra contextualised her feelings enough to make any description on my part redundant. also, sorry for actually using emojis *in* the chapter. i debated not doing that, but then i decided it was funny. ezra is THEE emoji merchant. and he's so fucking white too i love it 😭😭
regardless, i would love to hear your thoughts. please comment and vote, if you'd like! i appreciate every bit of support i receive. thank you guys so much again. i hope you're all doing well. it's good to be back. i missed juliet, and i missed her story even more.
this chapter is dedicated to elfaouly, sweetjawregui, soulofstaars, pelides, and neplutos. you guys have been so supportive over the last... forever, but especially the past twelve months. this chapter would not exist without you! PETERJULIET SEND THEIR THANKS! 🫂🤍🕸️🎧🪩💌🪟🏛️📸🕷️‼️‼️‼️‼️‼️‼️
as per usual... if you see a typo. no you didn't 🤭