This box needs a guard. — No. Rory, no. Don’t even think about it. — She’ll be all alone. — She won’t feel it. — You bet she won’t! — 2,000 years, Rory. You won’t even sleep, you’d be conscious every second. It would drive you mad. — Will she be safer if I stay? Look me in the eye and tell me she wouldn’t be safer. — Yes. Obviously. — Then how could I leave her?
⋆. 𐙚 ˚ Summary: After a bad fight with the AVTF, Dex looks to your apartment for help. He knows you work for the FBI, and that you're on his case, but can a man do when he's bleeding out? And you, curious despite your adherence to duty, help him out. Your lives begin to bleed together until they can't anymore, and you two meet in the middle. Though, it's not what either of you expect.
⋆. 𐙚 ˚ WC: 3.5k
⋆. 𐙚 ˚ Warnings: GN!reader, FBIAgent!Reader, Gun violence, mentions of death, brief descriptions of dead bodies, Blood and Violence, implied stalking, cocky Dex as usual, power play dynamic, enemies to lovers.
⋆. 𐙚 ˚ A/N: I've broken paragraphs up for easier reading <3. I'm so so happy I can finally post this!! Exams have been fucking me over lowk. Anyway, third chapter and a one-shot coming soon my loves! This fic is also posted on my Ao3!
Your nose wrinkled at the smell of copper. It stuck to your hair, your clothing from last night, and most damning of all—Poindexter. Where was he?
You shot awake, hands scrambling for purchase on the edge of the bathtub. White and unbearably sterile, the small space felt lonely without Dex's presence. You glanced around, taking in the blood that smeared into the linoleum floors. The once pearly-white porcelain of the tub. The shower curtains were still halfway off the hook. Slowly, you got out of the tub with aching bones, your phone ringing in the foyer where you'd dropped it in your encounter with him. Bullseye—Poindexter—Dex? The thought of using that name with such casualness made your stomach churn. But you had touched him. You had seen, in his eyes, he was nothing more but a man. Human. Your hand reached down to your back pocket, and a sharp curse tore out of your hoarse throat.
Of course the bastard took it back.
Again, your phone rang, and it vibrated on the floor hitting the baseboard every so often. You rushed to the foyer as fast as you could, your legs buzzing from falling asleep in such an odd position. You crouched to pick up the call, leaning up to the wall for proper balance. There was labored breathing on the other end—wheezy and old—your Director. You instinctively straightened out, even if he was on the other line, oblivious to your current condition. Everywhere stunk like city smog, no thanks to the broken window. Flimsy duct tape had been placed over it by Dex.
"Mornin' Starfall, there was a massacre at the new rendezvous," your Director informed, coughing hard. You ran your tongue over your teeth, holding back an I know. "You oughta get here soon as you can. Shit's all fucked. Fisk's on our asses again—thinkin' of askin' the CIA for help."
Your brows scrunched, and you ran a hand over your face, stifling a yawn. "CIA? Fuck does Fisk want CIA for? This case is ours. Governor McCaffery made sure of that."
"I got a meeting with Mrs. Fisk 'bout it. She's way more reasonable, lemme tell ya."
"Hmm."
Your Director sighed heavily on the other end, and you could picture the way he shook his head with disappointment. It wasn't the first time Fisk's gotten himself involved with the Feds. Wasn't the first time he made quick work of them, bending them to his will. You only hoped the mayor didn't have that in mind. You'd already weighed your options. Accept corrupt, blood-soaked money, or a cheap pay at Bel Aire Diner. You wondered if Fisk had a profile on you, as you did him. Your jaw clenched with irritation, words laced with restrained bite.
"I'll be there soon as I can. Tell Forensics not to touch anything, for the love of Christ."
"Tried. Didn't work. Fisk sent Cashman here to 'oversee the operations.'"
You pinched the bridge of your nose with a scoff. "Right, 'cause apparently years of training and experience isn't enough."
"Not for the mayor, no."
"Fucking-A. Okay, see you soon."
"Drive fast. I'll tell forensics to leave a few bodies untouched."
Your Director hung the phone up, yet you held the phone to your ear longer than necessary, as if waiting for another voice to come on. His. Anger coiled in your gut like the string of a violin tuning itself. Loosening. Tightening. You flexed your fist, balled it up, and held your breath, listening to the cry of Manhattan outside. Cars. People. Oblivious people. The longer Dex stayed in the public, the more chances innocent people had to die. His M.O. might've changed, but you remembered the photos. The attack on The Bulletin. That rage spread upward like wildfire.
Piece of shit.
You chucked your phone across the foyer into the messy living room, the device just barely landing on the couch facing the TV. Nose flaring, fists balling up again, you marched back into the bathroom to wash off everything. You peeled off your dress shirt and slacks, the fabric sliding off of you like dead weight. As you stepped into the shower, you kicked the shower curtain over the edge. You had no time to fix it. You turned each faucet the same direction, patience wearing thin. Lukewarm turned to hot, then to boiling. Maroon streaks dribbled down the walls of the bathtub and circled around your feet, falling into the drain. Shower water sprayed onto the dirty tiles and your soiled clothing. You closed your eyes, exhausted from washing your hair.
The case. AVTF. Fisk. The case.
Failure. AVTF. Failure.
Gone.
The words wouldn't stop repeating. Taunting. You rinsed your face under the water, placing your hands over your face as you sighed into your calloused, open palms. This was rotten work. You wished you never got transferred to the New York unit. You missed Quantico, visiting the sea when life got too overwhelming. Water clung to your lashes as you bat them, and you encircled a hand around your wrist. You replayed Dex's words, the question that threw you off kilter—lingered like the plague, waiting to infect.
"I didn't need saving. Do you?"
Maybe you did need saving. Not from him. Something more pathetic—hopeless.
𖣠
You adjusted the wallet in your back pocket, shoes causing the puddles in the road to splash. The ride on the subway couldn't rush away the stress you were under, the scrunch of your brows permanent. The debrief on the subway only worsened your migraine. A whole rack of bodies was left by Bullseye. You weren't surprised he'd only sustained a bullet wound. You took in the crime scene, the warehouse swarming with AVTF and FBI. You approached your team with a tight smile, your gaze shifting every now and then to officer Powell, who was speaking with a forensics officer. Well. Insulting a forensics officer. You wondered how it'd play out if Dex killed him in broad daylight. A necessary evil.
You froze at the thought, blinking hard to dislodge and forget it. The youngest agent, Darren, spoke up, frustrated. He had a busted lip and an odd quiver in his voice.
"Bullseye's the attacker, I mean. If we could just nab him already—"
"Then what?" You asked, crossing your arms. The agent beside him, Xiomara, turned her attention back to Darren. You threw your hands up in indignation. "That won't fix anything, Darren. He broke out once. He can do it again."
Darren pursed his lips and gestured his hands around, his voice rising. "Poindexter goes to the prison and stays in solitary confinement. It sends a message. Problem solved."
You huffed out a fake laugh. "Huh. If you've got such a brain, why aren't you team leader?"
"Oh fuck you. I was stationed here before you!"
"And I've been in the Bureau longer than you."
Xiomara tutted her lips, annoyed by the bantering. "¡Ay! C'mon Starfall, Fisk's killing us. If he brings in the CIA—"
"Don't call me Starfall, Xiomara," you cut in, interrupting her. "I never gave you that permission."
Xiomara's jaw went slack, startled by the bitterness in your words. She clutched her cross necklace and leaned closer, a gentle hand resting on your bicep. "Are you okay? You sound stressed, hun."
The question threw you off. The slow, almost maternal way Xiomara asked made you sick, and the 3 hours of sleep you got crashed down on you. Nonetheless, you nodded, forcing a lie out from between your teeth. You wanted to throw up last night's coffee. "Course I am. I feel great."
You could almost hear the intentional, mocking stretch of each syllable in your ear from Dex's voice. "Do you?"
Your eyes flicked down to her knuckles, bruised and red, then back to Darren's black eye. You slipped out of Xiomara's hold and swallowed a scoff. You didn't come here to be read. You fixed your posture and relaxed your facial muscles. Xiomara stepped away, though she still had questions. You clapped your hands before she could talk, and pointed at the warehouse.
"Alright, let's get some work done."
The duo fell into step behind you while you shoved past the AVTF officer blocking your way. You wanted to see the carnage in-person. The bodies. The precise anger. You wanted to find what so desperately compelled Dex to be who he was. The putrid stink of death had never bothered you as much as you thought it would. You reached for the recording device clipped onto your belt next to your badge, the soles of your shoes a hair too close to the paled fingers of victim no. 13, or that's at least what forensics labeled the guy as. An apple core had pierced through his eye, his AVTF helmet askew on his head.
Blood misted into the concrete, suggesting Dex had killed the officer from afar. Around victim no. 13 was a careful selection of the most brutal kills. The one that stuck out to you was the officer practically pebbled to death by broken brick, finished off with a pipe to the mouth, their jaw at an unnatural angle from the force of the shove. The sound of cursing and gagging chased your mind back to the present. You clutched the recorder in your hands tighter and crouched down in front of victim no. 13, balancing on the balls of your feet.
"A fuckin' apple core, now I've seen it all," Darren croaked out, actively pinching his nose from the smell. "How aren't you gaggin' from the smell?"
"Experience, Darren. Take notes."
One finger clicked the recorder on as you counted down from three. You brought the recorder close to your lips and sighed.
"Starfall reporting. It's October sixteenth, 2027. Lots of blood all around—huge massacre as usual when it comes to Bullseye. The attack occurred an estimated ten hours ago given the state of the bodies." You poked at the apple core slowly, with a pen that'd been in your pocket, amused. "Mr. Poindexter has a funny sense of humor, usin' an apple."
A joke entered your mind, tumbling out in a bored voice.
"He should've eaten more apples."
You hadn't meant to say that out loud.
Static silence droned into the recording, an awkward scoff leaving you when you realized no one laughed. Darren and Xiomara shared a look. You pulled yourself back up and went up the stairs, noting the blood streaking down each step. Dust collected on the steps from constant friction. Your team behind you had their notepads out, pencils moving fast as you continued your verbal observations. Darren got pulled away by the tech analyst, while Xiomara trailed behind you with a frown, mumbling prayers. She got queasy around the dead.
"Same M.O., same brutality. Nothing much to add here in comparison with the other crime scenes. We found large shipments of firepower meant for the AVTF to use for training and combat purposes. I figure Poindexter wanted to take his own shot at the Northern Star sinking. Daredevil's set a trend among the vigilantes lately to wreck anything Fisk associated."
You paused, a smile pulling at your lips. Good. Xiomara made eye contact with you, her lazy note-taking halted while she tried to form a profile of you. A forensics officer cut between you both, and you let out a breath you'd been holding. Another set of stairs and the floor offered more bodies. Fresher and with a baton impaling one guy's head. His mouth was open, mid-scream, his body thrown into an uncomfortable angle with a deployed taser next to his leg.
Having nothing new to add, you signed off on the recording and attached the device back onto your hip. You approached Xiomara and positioned yourself next to her. She still murmured about redemption. About heaven for the damned. Darren hurried back to complete the triangle.
Darren started, clearing his throat, "Our tech analyst's already trying to find more details on Bullseye. Where he lives, if he works anywhere, fake passports, the usual."
"Our tech analyst should try harder," Xiomara grumbled, covering her knuckles with her other hand. "He's a wanted fugitive with distinctive scars. It can't be that hard to find him."
You nodded, dipping your head slightly as you thought of what to add to the conversation. Poindexter was a complicated man. His kills—the sprees—it was a performance. You'd heard word on the street about Bullseye sympathizers. You'd joined the forum the second you were assigned to the case, but you never cared to contribute. Your eyes drifted from the gray flooring to the broken window, Buck Cashman right in your view. He looked at you with suspicion, hiding it behind a smile that never reached his eyes.
Feigning friendliness, you waved 'hello,' matching his stare with one of your own. Buck pivoted after a minute, going to his car a block down. The tension in your chest loosened, calloused fingers tracing the goosebumps forming on your skin. You blinked, the scent of concrete floating back into focus. Your voice caught up to the conversation before your brain did.
"Director say anything about if we catch him?"
"Turned over to our best interrogator and we pray for the best," Darren sighed out, ruffling his hair. "We'll be off the case."
"Poindexter isn't gonna answer to that guy," you commented. "He's specific 'bout who he wants."
Xiomara waved you and Darren off. "Gosh, I'd be euphoric if he even states his name."
That got all three of you chuckling, a small smile on your face. It didn't have to be that way. You could get answers. You could go back to Quantico after that, fuck if you care if Poindexter wasted away in prison. You wrapped your arms around Xiomara and Darren's shoulders, giving them a good squeeze before bringing them in closer to whisper.
"If we catch him, I'll pull rank so we get to interrogate the bastard."
Xiomara's face screwed up. Rank was a last measure; a desperate tether to having control. Daren beamed however, and wiggled out of your grasp at the same time Xiomara did. He barreled questions at you with the excitement of an amateur at their first job and you patted the younger man's back. Xiomara scrambled for words, a breathless laugh leaving her.
"Why? Fisk'll stay on our backs if we don't get reassigned."
"You're kiddin' right? We'd get paid so much more," Darren exclaimed to Xiomara, already hopping around like he'd gotten the aforementioned pay raise.
Xiomara rolled her eyes and a glare settled onto her face. She gave you a side glance and pulled Darren away, gritting out curses and arguments that it was 'downright reckless.' That they didn't even know how to catch him. You pocketed your hands into your FBI windbreaker, smirking, making a mental note to stop by the film store later. You were running low on cassette tapes.
𖣠
The sun dragged downward like the bags of groceries and empty tapes in your hands. Your work bag added extra bulk you didn't want. It was only a few miles more from the store to your apartment. Bel Aire was nearby, you thought. I should stop for dinner. You hadn't eaten in the last eight hours, consumed by processing photos and driving to different homes to deliver condolences for people you gave no shits about. The stench of the warehouse lingered in your nose like cocaine.
You tried to weasel your hand through the loops of each shopping bag to open the door. A kind man approached, holding the door open. You didn't see his face. You stumbled into the familiar eatery and threw an insincere thanks at him, not even caring to properly give him a kind smile. The smell of coffee and greasy late-night food elicited a growl from your stomach.
Settling down in your spot by the door, you placed the shopping bags into the space beside you, some of them under the table next to your feet. A waitress—couldn't have been older than twenty—came up to the booth to take your order. She grinned, flashing her teeth as her pen clicked on her notepad.
"Good evenin', what can I get you today? Any drinks or appetizers to start?"
"Just the steak, please."
"How would ya want the steak done?"
"Whatever's best."
The waitress hummed, pressing her lips together. She scribbled the request down on top of a mess of orders. "What sides would ya like?"
"I'll take potato wedges. I understand you're closing down for the night soon?"
"At two A.M., yes. What drink would ya like?"
"Just a—"
"A coffee," Dex purred, sliding into the booth seat across of yours. He grinned up at the waitress, ignoring the guffawed expression on your face. "Black. Make it two."
The waitress blinked a few times, subconsciously shifting to the stand at your side, putting as much distance as she could between herself and Dex. That made you smirk, seeing how Dex's carefully executed civilian facade faltered for a half-second. The darkness in the hood of his eyes—frustration. The waitress wiped her nose and cleared her throat.
"Would ya like anything else, sir?"
This time, you cut Dex off.
"He'll take an omelette."
Dex perked up and leaned forward, wanting to change his order. He'd tried the omelette last night—it sucked. The waitress now stood closer to Dex than you.
"Oh—are you changing—?"
You frowned at the waitress and Dex, the roughness in your voice surfacing. "The omelette."
The waitress nodded and murmured the usual spiel about your food being out in a minute. She tucked her notepad back into her apron and rushed off, her fingers tapping her pen anxiously. You crossed your arms and leaned back, your teeth grinding together so hard you thought you'd taste bone dust. Dex removed the baseball cap on his head with a psychotic grin on his face.
"That's no way to treat a waitress, Starfall."
"Don't call me that." you hissed, pushing your back off the wall of the booth seat. "You've got nerve showing up here right now. When I finally get a fucking second to eat."
Dex shrugged, pouting a bit now. "I held the door open for you."
You paused, replaying the interaction you two supposedly had fifteen minutes ago. The hands laid flat on the table in faux surrender looked the same as the ones that had wrapped around the door handle. Piero Piccioni's Easy Lovers played softly throughout the diner while you observed Dex, adding to the profile in your head. In the kitchen, the cooks spoke in all sorts of accents, and the city outside waned into the honey light of the lamp-post. Dex continued to let his eyes wander over the curves of your face; the slope of your nose. He landed on the shape of your eyes, watching the way your irises flit side to side, conflicted.
"Are you stalking me, Poindexter?"
The question hung in the air, heavy and electrifying. Dex shook his head, the seriousness in his voice almost convincing you that this run-in was nothing more than coincidence. That him showing up was just some funny move orchestrated by the universe.
"'M scouting."
You raised a brow, uncrossing your arms to unwrap your utensils from the carefully folded napkins. "What for? New targets?"
Dex just smiled again, and directed his attention to the waitress. The young woman placed down the food, then the two coffees along with a few creamer cups and packets of sugar. Dex nodded at her and winked, the word thanks slipping from his lips like smooth butter. You recoiled into yourself, trying to ignore the admiration simmering in your gut at how easily he slid into the role of normalcy. Your stomach ached from the emptiness now, and you picked up your knife and fork to dig into your steak. Dex prepared his coffee the way you liked to drink it. The both of you enjoyed the silence of the diner now, and you hummed in delight, earning a head tilt from Dex.
"Their steak really that good, or are you just hungry?"
"Gosh," you exclaimed, setting the knife down to lap up the excess juice on your lip. "Shit—both. It's amazing."
"I see," Dex commented monotonously.
"That's all you have to say? No 'Ooh, it does look tasty'?"
He took a sip of his coffee and set it down next to the napkins, his fingers poking at the knife on the plate to grasp it. As if he were bored, Dex exasperatedly sighed and looked right at you. His eyebrows rose, crows feet creasing in the corners of his eyes.
"Ooh, it does look tasty."
You shift the knife away from his hand.
"Fucking weirdo."
"Gee, thanks, pal."
You accusingly pointed the fork in your hand at Dex's face, your voice clipped.
"I'm not your 'pal,' Dex."
"Dex?" He repeated, feigning surprise. "That's new."
"It's easier than Poindexter. Less syllables. I waste less of my breath."
