Dex only ever had the best intentions with you. What happens when he appeals to your darker nature?
All the Angels and Their Halos
You think someone has been following you. You were right.
Brass Knuckles
You are not the only person hunting Anti-Vigilante Task Force. Luckily, your “competition” is Benjamin Poindexter.
Break a Heart, Make a Monster
Meeting Dex for the first time in two years doesn’t go as planned.
Art for Art’s Sake
Dex has a growing obsession with his neighbor. Little did he know, the feeling is mutual.
Bubbles
Dex is starting to learn that his sweet girl is much more capable of taking care of herself than he realized.
The Heart is a Muscle
Benjamin Poindexter was hired to eliminate you, a former Red Room Widow. Unfortunately, he keeps putting it off because he likes going on dates with you a little too much.
No Absolution
Mr. Charles assigns Benjamin Poindexter a new partner: a super soldier who may not be over her ex. Too bad Dex has never been good at sharing, and he’s determined to make her forget anyone ever touched her before him.
Can I Be Close To You?
Benjamin Poindexter confesses that he has been obsessively fantasizing about a domestic future with you.
Summary : Dex has a growing obsession with his neighbor. Little did he know, the feeling is mutual.
Pairing : DDBA! Benjamin Poindexter x Neighbor! reader (she/her)
Warnings/tags : Reader is a tattoo artist and has non-specific tattoos, Dex gets tattooed, sexual themes, nudity, Freak4Freak/stalker x stalker, alcohol and cannabis use, suggestive content, pain kink, obsessive/possessive behavior, morally ambiguous reader, references to murder, depiction of a panic attack, reader mentioned to be a daughter of a crime boss. Both reader and Dex take turns in being pathetic for each other, Dex commits some violent shit in your name, cursing (let me know if I missed anything!)
Word Count : 13.7k
Requested by : Anon
Notes : I think this is my favourite dark fic i have written with any character ever. Enjoy!
He was lying. And you knew he was lying.
You clocked that before he even spoke.
You’d just gotten back from the studio the day you met him. Your feet were aching, shoulders tight, the faint buzz of tattoo machines still ringing in your ears. The plastic bag full of groceries you just picked up dug into your fingers as you fished for your keys, climbing up the stairs.
That’s when you noticed the new guy moving into the apartment next to yours.
Moving might be an exaggeration. He had barely anything with him— just a duffel bag and a backpack like he hadn’t had a life before this at all.
“You new here?” you asked when you got to the top of the stairs.
He turned, and there it was.
You recognised him instantly.
Benjamin Poindexter.
Bullseye.
You didn’t know him personally, but you’d seen him enough times, in enough places. You saw him on screens, from news clips, in courtroom sketches on social media. After all, you kept tabs on a lot of dangerous people in NYC. Out of habit, more than anything, really.
Your expression didn’t change, though. You just shifted your groceries slightly higher on your hip.
“Yeah, I just moved in.” Then, after the tiniest pause, he introduced himself. “I’m Tony.”
A lie.
You almost laughed at how mundane Tony sounded. Still, you didn’t call him out.
You weren’t a snitch, and never had been. After all, grew up around men who made him look almost… refined. Your father would always tell you there were honour amongst thieves.
In this case, murderers.
Still, you’d learn early how to mind your business and survive.
And besides… You’d heard what he’d been doing.
He’d been hunting Anti-vigilante task force agents, dropping them on the streets one by one.
You didn’t lose sleep over that.
So you pushed off the walls by the staircase, stepping a little closer like this was just a normal introduction. “Welcome to the building, Tony.”
His eyes were still on you. There was a sparkle there, as if interest formed before he could stop it.
You pretended not to notice, especially because your arm was starting to hurt.
“Hold on—” you muttered, shifting your grocery bag to the floor and digging through it. “Here.”
You pulled out an extra roll of paper towels and held it out to him.
He blinked, like that hadn’t been part of the script.
“For the pipes,” you said, pushing it into his hand when he didn’t take it fast enough. “They’re shit. They’ll leak, clog, make your life miserable. You’ll want backup.”
“Thanks,” he said as he took it, still looking at you, still so… focused.
You grabbed your groceries again, already turning back to your door.
“Don’t mention it,” you said, slipping your key into the lock. “And if you die in a pipe-related accident, I’ll tell management I warned you.”
“Very reassuring,” he said.
“Tell me about it.”
You pushed your door open, stopping just long enough to glance back at him. “Try not to flood the place, Tony.”
Then you slipped inside, leaving him in the hallway with a fake name, a paper towel roll, and a seed of obsession watered by conversation.
Like ivy finding its first crack in a wall, he knew it was going to grow.
—
A week passed before anything more than that happened.
Not that he didn’t notice you.
He did. Fuck, he did.
He noticed you every time your door opened. He logged every time your footsteps hit the hallway. He listened every time your laugh carried faintly through the thin, terrible pipes you’d warned him about.
But the interactions were small and contained.
You’d nod when you crossed paths. You’d say a quick “morning” on your way out of the apartment. Once, you smiled sweetly when you both reached the stairwell at the same time and you gestured for him to go first.
He didn’t.
“After you,” he said.
You raised an eyebrow. “Wow. A gentleman.”
That was it. Still, he thought about it longer than he should have.
Then, one morning, you stepped out into the hallway, to spot the other neighbour who lived on this floor. She was a lovely elderly woman, and she definitely loved you. She’d call you the “granddaughter she never had,” then proceeded to try and try to get you on a date with literally any guy she knew. She introduced you to the landlord’s son, the electrician, and even her own grandsons.
Her apartment door was propped open, and she stood there, gently ushering her cat into the hallway to stretch its legs.
“Well, look who it is,” she said the second she saw you.
“Good morning,” you greeted sweetly, passing her a brown bag with a mint chocolate chip cookie in it.
Her face lit up like you’d handed her gold. “Oh, you angel. I told you, you don’t have to keep doing this.”
“I know,” you said, smiling. “I want to.”
The cat stretched toward you immediately, paws reaching, and you obliged, scratching under its chin. It purred loud enough to echo. As you picked her up and cuddled your little furry friend in your arms, you coddled her and whispered a little “Hi, baby. When do I get to cat sit you again, huh?”
That’s when another door clicked open.
You didn’t need to look to know who it was.
Dex stepped out into the hallway, pausing when he saw the little scene in front of him. His eyes landed on you first, then flicked to the older woman, then back again.
She followed your glance and her face lit up.
“Oh! Perfect timing,” she said, waving him closer. “Come here, come here.”
He stepped closer like he wasn’t in a rush to be anywhere else.
“Tony, this…,” she said proudly, gesturing toward you, “is the pretty girl I was telling you about. She always brings me cookies.” She leaned in slightly, lowering her voice like it was a secret. “She is an excellent baker.”
You let out a quiet laugh, shaking your head. “We’ve met.”
The cat wriggled happily, and you set her down, watching it immediately circle your legs again. You turned slightly toward him, tilting your head. “Are you a cat person, Tony?”
He shrugged. “Sure.”
What kind of answer was sure? Did he just see that you seemed like a cat person, and decided he simply would be, too?
The cat brushed against his leg, and he glanced down at her like he was trying to figure out the correct response.
It was slightly stiff, but you could tell that he was trying.
It was… weirdly cute.
“Anyway,” you shook your head, smiling despite yourself. “I need to go to work. I’ve got a client who wants a full sleeve done in one session and I really need to tell him it’s not happening.”
“You work all the time!” Your neighbour said, scandalised.
You scoffed fondly. “Oh my god.”
“It’s true,” she insisted, looking between the two of you like this was critical evidence in her case. “She’s never around long enough to meet anyone nice.”
You rolled your eyes, but turned away to go. If you let her, she’d keep you here all day and talk about all the nice boys your age she met in church. “I gotta go now,” you said, “I’ll come by later.”
You headed toward the stairs.
A second later, you heard footsteps behind you.
Of course, Dex was going out, too.
You didn’t slow down, but you didn’t speed up either.
“Pretty girl?” he said from a step above you, almost amused
You groaned under your breath. “Don’t start.”
He shrugged, completely unbothered as you let him catch up. “She’s not wrong, though.”
You almost missed a step.
“Wow,” you said, recovering quickly. “You’re laying it on thick this morning.”
You reached the bottom of the stairs, past the mailboxes. He followed, falling into step beside you.
“Don’t tell anyone,” you said abruptly.
He glanced at you. “About?”
You leaned in just slightly, lowering your voice. “The cookies?”
“Yeah?”
“They’re from the supermarket.”
He went quiet, before letting out a short chuckle, shaking his head. “So you lied.”
You nudged at him immediately. “I never said I made them. She just assumed.”
“And you never corrected her,” he pointed out.
“It makes her happy,” you said, shrugging. “She likes the idea of it. I’m not ruining that over a 3 dollar box of cookies.”
He watched you for a second longer than necessary. There it was again, that focus. That sharp, almost unsettling attention.
Softer, he said, “Fair enough.”
You crossed your arms lightly, smirking. “What? You’ve never bent the truth before?”
For a split second you could see his brain buffer, but it was gone just as quickly. “Maybe once or twice,” he said.
You huffed. “Right.”
Internally, you almost laughed. Talk about lying.
Outwardly, though, you just shook your head, nudging the door open to head your separate ways.
“I hope my secret’s safe with you,” you said, stepping out onto the pavement.
“Of course,” he replied.
You started walking, then glanced back at him once. “And if she asks, I spent hours baking them.”
The last thing you saw before turning was his smile.
He stayed there for a second, watching you go.
That day, he debated following you to your workplace instead of killing the two Task Force agents he knew were going to be by the bridge.
—
A week later, you found yourself in the basement, doing your weekly rounds of laundry. It smelled like detergent, damp concrete, and rust.
You were crouched in front of one of the machines, shoving a stubborn pile of clothes deeper into the drum with your forearm, when the door creaked open behind you.
Then, you heard footsteps. You didn’t have to turn to know who it was.
“Hi, Tony,” you greeted with a small smile. But as you got up, you winced a little.
“You okay, pretty girl?” He asked, eyebrows raised.
Oh, so it was a nickname now?
You waved it off immediately, rolling your shoulders like that would fix it. “Yeah, yeah. Just…” you paused, stretching, “—work is trying to kill me. I’ve been hunched over a chair all day today.”
His eyes flicked over you as he put his basket down on the table. “What’s work?”
You snorted, grabbing your laundry basket and setting it on top of the machine. “Ink,” you said, glancing over your shoulder at him. “I work at a studio a few blocks over.”
He nodded like that was new information.
It wasn’t.
He knew your route down to the minute. He knew what time you left, what time you got back, which days you tend to stay late. He knew which shop you stopped at when you were too tired to cook.
You, on the other hand, just kept talking.
“Actually—” you turned a little, hooking your thumb under the hem of your shorts, tugging it up just enough to expose a small piece of ink on your upper thigh. “See this?”
His eyes dropped instantly to a small design, a little uneven if you looked closely, lines not quite as confident as your newer work, shading a touch inconsistent.
But it was… cute. Especially on you, Dex thought. It was definitely on theme with the other tattoos you had down your arms and legs.
“I did that,” you explained. “I don’t usually tattoo myself, but it was studio policy. Had to do it to get from apprentice to artist.”
“I like it,” Dex said, and for once, he was honest.
You glanced down at it fondly. “It’s a little wonky, but… yeah. It’s part of me now.”
He didn’t answer right away.
He was still looking, and not just at the tattoo.
He was looking at the way it curved with your skin. The way your fingers rested just above it. He was thinking about how you didn’t think twice about showing him something that permanent, that close, that personal.
He briefly wondered what you would do if he hooked his finger on your shorts, maybe dragging it higher…
You dropped your shorts back into place, completely unaware of the direction his thoughts had taken.
“You got any?” you asked, nodding toward him.
“No,” he answered.
You hummed, tilting your head like you were considering him from a new angle. “Would you ever get one?”
He almost said no again.
Tattoos were permanent. Identifiable. Stupid, for someone like him and his… line of work.
“You’d be a hell of a canvas,” you added, like that might sweeten the deal.
And just like that he said, “Yes.”
It was pathetic, really, how quickly he folded. All he could think about was how you’d be doing it, how you’d be marking him, how you’d be the one sitting him on a chair telling him to sit still, how you’d tell him he was taking such a good job resisting the pain when he would like it simply because it was you who was hurting him.
You blinked, then broke into a smile like that was the exact answer you wanted. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
You nodded, like you’d already figured out the logistics in your head. “If you ever want one, you don’t have to go to the studio. I’ve got a setup in my apartment. It’s nothing crazy, just for friends and stuff. People who don’t want to pay the upcharge or deal with the whole… environment.”
His eyes flicked up to your face again.
“Noted,” he said.
You smiled, satisfied, turning back to your machine as it started its cycle. “I give a mean tattoo, Tony. You’d be in safe hands.”
He believed that.
You leaned back against the machine, folding your arms loosely. “So what do you do for work?”
You loved watching him squirm, even if his body language didn’t necessarily show it. His eyes darted a little, and you learned that it was as close as he got to a tell.
“Freelance,” he answered abruptly.
You raised an eyebrow slowly. “Uh huh.”
Still, you didn’t push. You didn’t call him out.
“Must be nice,” you said lightly. “Flexible hours and all that.”
He gave a vague shrug, but his attention had already drifted back to you, and to the ink peeking out from under your sleeves, continuing lines at your arm. He decided that you’d definitely have more hidden under your shirt.
He wondered how far it all went, how much of you was marked.
What it would look like if he could get you alone, without the distraction of clothing. He would trace every line, every curve, every piece of art embedded in your skin with his tongue, tasting and—
“Earth to Tony.”
He blinked. You were looking at him, amused.
“You just completely checked out,” you said. “I was saying, don’t overload that machine. It’ll make a noise so loud Mr. Ramirez from across the street is gonna file a noise complaint.”
“Right.” He nodded. Then, almost to himself, he added. “I was listening.”
You smiled, unconvinced but not pressing it. “Sure you were.”
The machines hummed between you, filling the silence.
For a second, neither of you moved.
“Well,” you finally pushed off the machine, grabbing your basket. “Have fun doing laundry, Tony.”
And just like that, you were gone.
—
You got so used to Dex being your next door neighbour that you almost forgot he was a convicted murderer.
After all, it was hard to even believe that when your interactions with him were so… wholesome.
You’d be halfway down the stairs, keys between your fingers, already running through your day in your head when you’d hear his door click open above you.
“Morning, Tony,” you’d call, not even looking back.
“Morning, pretty girl.”
That was it, at first. Eventually it became…
“Running late?” he asked one day, watching you juggle your bag and a half-zipped jacket.
“Shut up, Tony,” you shot back, hopping the last step. You were amused though, and pleased that he even gave you any attention at all.
He smiled.
A few days later, he “accidentally” ran into you on your way back, after the sun had dropped. You were tired, shoulders slumped, ink smudged faintly along the side of your wrist.
“Long day?” he asked.
You huffed, digging your key into the lock. “This girl wanted a tattoo of her boyfriend’s name. Bad idea.”
He laughed, cherishing every little interaction he had with you.
Some days, you’d offer him a bottle of water when the building’s pipes went weird again. He’d hold the door open when your hands were full. He'd give you salt when you ran out. He even helped you babysit your mutual neighbour’s cat once.
And then one night, it changed.
You got back late. Later than usual.
Thank god you were back, though. Dex was a few seconds away from breaking and entering into your shop to make sure no one had hurt you.
Still, your feet hurt, your back hurt, your patience was hanging by a thread. The second you stepped into your apartment you made a beeline for the window.
You shoved it open, letting the cool air hit your face, dragging in a breath like you hadn’t taken one all day. The city hummed below with distant traffic, music bleeding faintly from somewhere down the block.
You climbed out onto the fire escape without thinking about it. You’d done it a hundred times before.
You sat there with a beer, legs stretched out, back against the brick, letting the noise settle your brain.
Tonight was no different.
At least, it wasn’t supposed to be.
Little did you know, Dex had been watching you for a good five minutes.
And because he just really wanted to sit with you, he eventually pushed his own window open and stepped up to his own fire escape.
You didn’t look over right away.
He moved across the narrow divider between your sides (there was barely a gap at all), and that’s when your head tilted, just slightly.
“Y’know,” you said casually, “most people use the front door.”
Dex paused before stepping fully onto your side.
“Didn’t feel like it,” he replied.
You let out a small huff of a laugh out.
You lifted the bottle in your hand slightly. “Beer?” you offered to share.
Dex stared at you for half a second too long.
That was it? You let him into your space, just like that?
“Take it or don’t,” you said lightly. “But if you murder me, I’m gonna be really annoyed I wasted good beer on you.”
That almost made him laugh.
He took the bottle, and stiffened as your fingers brushed his for a second. “You trust me?”
You shrugged, settling back into your spot like the moment had already passed. “I figured if you were gonna kill me, you would probably be sneakier.”
He took a swig of the bottle. You were right, it was good beer.
“I might just be bad at it,” he said.
“Yeah,” you snorted knowingly. “You look real incompetent.”
Silence settled for a second, but not an awkward one.
You took the bottle from him and sipped, glancing sideways at him.
“So,” you said. “you always break into people’s fire escapes, or am I special?”
Dex leaned back against the brick. “Special,” he decided.
You hummed, clearly pleased with that answer. “Thought so.”
The conversation drifted after that. You talked about a client who tapped out halfway through a tattoo and blamed you for it. You complained about the landlord again. You pointed out which windows belonged to which neighbours, offering little pieces of your world like they didn’t matter.
Dex listened, of course. He logged everything. But for once, he didn’t feel like he was gathering intel.
He felt like he was… sitting. With you.
At some point, you laughed head tipping back again, and it echoed out into his skull and gripped his heart like a vice.
He only really snapped out of his little trance when you asked, “Same time tomorrow, Tony?”
—
It became a habit.
You’d sit cross-legged or stretched out along the fire escape. Dex would cross over, and then you'd pass bottles back and forth, talking about nothing and everything all at once. Work stories, complaints about neighbours, stupid observations about people on the street below. Easy things, safe things.
Dex told you just enough to keep it believable.
You didn’t push, not even when you smelled the lingering iron scent of blood on him.
Still, you’d bump your foot against his when you laughed. You’d steal his drink the way he stole yours. Sometimes you’d talk over each other, then both stop, then both say “you go first” at the same time and laugh about it like idiots.
It was dangerously normal.
Occasionally, though, you weren’t as upbeat as you usually were. Those nights, Dex tended to pry a bit more. He needed to know what was wrong with his pretty girl, and who was responsible for you being in a mood, right?
“You’re quiet today.” Dex said once.
You glanced at him, a little surprised, like you hadn’t realised it yourself. Then you gave a small shrug, curling your fingers tighter around your beer.
In the end, you just shook your head. “Wow. Okay.”
You nudged his foot lightly with yours, a habit by now, but there was less energy behind it than usual.
“…It’s stupid,” you added after a second.
Dex just waited for an answer.
You exhaled, tipping your head back before finally giving in. “I did this back-of-the-hand tattoo today,” you explained. “Like, really intricate. It was of a sun with fine lines, proper detail, the whole thing.”
As you talked, a little life came back into your tone, the way it always did when you spoke about your work.
“I genuinely think it’s one of my best pieces,” you went on, glancing at him briefly. “Especially for that placement. Hands are tricky as hell.”
Then your tone dipped again.
“Guy ran out and didn’t pay.”
Dex tilted his head, but didn’t interrupt.
You rolled your eyes, but it didn’t quite land as playful. “Honestly? I don’t even care about the money anymore.” You picked at the label on your bottle, peeling it slowly. “I just wanted a photo of it. It was my art, you know? But he won’t even return my calls.”
His fingers tapped once, lightly, against the glass bottle in his hand. He was thinking of every scenario, how he could handle this, when, and how he was going to tell you about it. He needed a plan.
“Does he have a name?” he asked.
You blinked, looking over at him. “Yeah,” you said, a little confused by how direct that was. “Jack Hargrove, I think. That’s what he signed in the form, why?”
Dex nodded once. “Okay.”
That was it, no more questions asked.
—
And then… there were the nights you got high.
Those were his favourite.
You had already grown into his favourite person by then, but when you were giggly and mumbly? He found you fucking adorable.
You’d show up already a little floaty, or you’d pull out a blunt halfway through the night like it was nothing.
The first time you did it, you asked, “Hey.” You nudging his arm lightly. “You smoke?”
Dex didn’t even hesitate before answering. “No.”
You blinked at him once. Slowly, your eyes narrowed just a little, almost amused.
“Wow,” you said, dragging the word out slightly. “That was fast.”
“I don’t,” he repeated.
You snorted, shoulders shaking as you leaned back against the wall, bringing your hand up to cover your mouth like you were trying (and failing) to contain it.
“Alright, officer,” you said, wondering how much you can bring up about his past without him being suspicious. “or is it… agent?”
Dex’s head turned toward you so quickly it almost hurt him. “What?”
You were already grinning, wide and lazy, eyes bright with mischief, ready with a lie to soften your statement.
“You just hit me with the most federal ‘no’ I’ve ever heard in my life,” you quickly backtracked, knowing you had just put him on high alert. “Like, no hesitation, no curiosity, no ‘what is it?’ Just… no.”
He stared at you.
You pointed at him with the blunt, still smiling. “That’s fed behaviour.”
“I’m not a cop.”
“Mhm,” you hummed, playfully.
After a while, you leaned a little closer, squinting at him like you were inspecting something. “Yeah,” you teased, trying to push little buttons. “You’d hate paperwork too much.”
Dex almost frowned. “You’re making a lot of assumptions.”
“And you’re being very defensive for someone who’s definitely never been a fed,” you shot back lightly.
There was a good five-second pause before you grinned again, gentler this time.
“Relax,” you added, nudging his arm again. “I’m kidding.”
It wasn’t entirely a lie. You did enjoy toying with him.
Dex let out a deep breath, tension he hadn’t even acknowledged easing just slightly.
“I just don’t smoke,” he said.
You hummed to yourself, satisfied, and brought the blunt to your lips instead.
“Suit yourself, officer,” you murmured, the tease slipping back in just enough to make it light again.
The flame flickered briefly as you lit it, casting a warm glow over your face before fading. You inhaled slowly, like you’d done it a hundred times before.
Dex watched the way you exhaled, smoke curling into the night air. He watched the way your shoulders dropped, tension leaving you in real time.
“Okay,” you sighed, settling back against the brick, your knee bumping his again. “Now I’m fun.”
Dex didn’t look away. “You’re already fun,” he’d mumble under his breath.
Still. The more you smoked around him, the more he got used to it.
He already adored you before, but something about the cute string of laughter you only got when you were high would make his heart melt.
The way you shifted closer without thinking, your knee bumping lightly against his. The way you leaned back, head tilting until it rested briefly against the wall, eyes half-lidded but still bright.
Most times, you’d just trip over your sentences.
“You ever just…” you started, then stopped, laughing under your breath. “No, wait, that’s stupid.”
“What?” he asked before he could stop himself.
You turned your head toward him slowly, like it took effort, eyes landing on his face and staying there.
You didn’t sound intimidated. You sounded delighted.
“Am I?” he said.
“Yeah,” you nodded, completely serious for half a second before it slipped again. “But it’s okay. I like it.”
Your words would drift in and out, sometimes making perfect sense, other times, it meant nothing. You’d laugh at things he didn’t understand. You’d drift from one thing to another. Childhood stories that didn’t sound like childhood stories. You'd say things that sounded like names you never explained. You’d mention places that didn’t quite exist in any way he could trace.
Sometimes you’d say things that should have sounded serious, but you said them with a smile, with a laugh, like they didn’t weigh anything at all. You once even said something about sleeping next to a sawed-off shotgun when you were twelve “just in case.”
In case of what?
Dex couldn’t find anything abnormal about your day to day life, no matter how much he dug or how many times he followed you, so he assumed it didn’t mean anything.
Every now and then, you'd let him tuck you in bed. Tonight was one of those nights.
You blinked slowly, looking at him like you were trying to say something important.
“Tony,” you murmured.
He leaned in slightly without thinking. “Yeah?”
You smiled, soft and sleepy. “You’re… nice.”
The word came out like it surprised even you. Then you giggled again, like the effort was too much.
He didn’t correct you. He just watched as your eyes drifted shut for a second too long.
Dex stood before you could even try. You didn’t protest when he guided you up.
You didn’t question it when he helped you through your window, one hand steady at your arm, the other hovering just in case.
Inside, your apartment was dim and warm.
You barely made it to the bed before sinking into it, still half-laughing at something only you understood.
Dex pulled the blanket over you as you shifted slightly, face turning into the pillow.
“Night,” you mumbled.
He stayed there for a second, looking at you. At how soft you looked like this. How open. How completely unguarded.
But then… your eyes opened up again just a little. You traced the scar on his cheek gently.
“You don’t have to worry,” you mumbled. Your voice was different. Not quite giggly, but clear as day. “I’m not on anyone’s side anymore.”
—
That night, he left your apartment without a sound.
He came back over the fire escape, slipped through his own window, and closed it behind him like he had done many times before.
Dex moved straight to his laptop, already pulling it open, fingers moving before the screen fully lit up.
Not on anyone’s side anymore? That was a red flag, right?
He immediately looked up databases, records, everything.
He checked for you— your address, previous work history, licenses, financial trail.
He found nothing.
He refined his search. He tried running deeper pulls. He cross-referenced. He even systems.
Still… Nothing. No childhood records, no school registrations, no medical history.
No digital footprint worth anything. No tickets, no fines, no traces.
It wasn’t just clean, It was impossible.
Dex leaned back slowly, eyes still locked on the screen like something might appear if he stared long enough.
His jaw tightened slightly.
Because now those moments replayed differently.
The way you talked, the things you said, the way you never explained anything fully, the way you didn’t ask questions.
You weren’t just a tattoo artist with a strange past.
You had no past at all.
He stared at the blank screen again. “Who are you?”
—
The next couple of nights were normal. It wasn’t until Thursday that things began to unravel.
That night, you weren’t at your fire escape.
Most people would ignore it, maybe even justify it with she’s just busy, she’s just tired, it’s just one night.
Dex didn’t believe in just one night. Not with you.
You were consistent, and that made patterns easy. You came home at the same time, your lights turned on within minutes, your window slid open not long after that. Sometimes you were early. Sometimes a little late. But you always showed up.
So when he stepped out onto the fire escape and your window stayed dark, he immediately started running all the scenarios in his mind.
He stood there, one hand resting against the brick, eyes fixed on the blank glass like it might change if he waited long enough.
Still, nothing.
He told himself to leave after ten minutes. He didn’t.
He stayed longer than that, longer than he would’ve for anyone else, eyes flicking to your window every few seconds like it was a reflex he couldn’t shut off.
When he eventually he went back inside, the feeling didn’t go with him.
—
The next day he confirmed you weren’t at work.
At first, he was confused when you didn’t get out of your door at all. Then, he thought you might’ve gone extra early.
So he did what he did best— he went to your studio.
From across the street, he saw that your workstation was empty. No setup. No sketches. No you leaning over someone’s arm with that focused look you got when you were working.
Nothing.
By the time he got back to the building, he made a beeline straight to your door.
Dex didn’t knock, or call. He didn’t do things halfway.
He broke in, lock giving up in seconds. He slipped inside without a sound.
Your apartment felt… wrong.
Not messy or disturbed. Everything was where it should be. Your shoes were by the door, your jacket thrown over the back of a chair, a glass left on the counter like you’d meant to come back to it.
But it felt… stale. Like you hadn’t opened the window all day and all night.
Dex moved through it quickly, eyes scanning every corner, mind already working through possibilities.
Nothing in the living room. Nothing in the kitchen.
Then, he heard a faint sound from down the hall,
He stopped immediately. He heard a shallow inhale, followed by another, and another, like whoever it was couldn’t catch up with their own lungs.
Dex followed the sound to the bathroom. The door was barely closed, just enough to muffle the sound.
He pushed it open.
You were on the floor, folded into the corner like you were trying to disappear into it.
Your knees were pulled tight to your chest, arms wrapped around them so hard your knuckles had gone white. Your head was tipped forward, forehead almost pressed to your arms, your entire body shaking in violent, uncontrollable tremors.
You were breathing too fast, each inhale breaking halfway through, like your lungs were locking up on you. Your chest heaved, but it wasn’t enough. Nothing was enough.
Your eyes were wide, unfocused, glassy with panic, like you weren’t fully there anymore.
For a second, you didn’t even recognise him.
When you did, you shrank even more, as if you were embarrassed to be found.
“Hey…” he pushed the door away, “hey, I’m here now.”
You looked up at him through glassy lashes, dead silent for a second.
“H-he’s here,” the words tore out of you eventually. “He’s here, he’s in town! I saw him-I saw him—”
Dex dropped in front of you, one knee hitting the tile hard, but his focus never left your face.
“Look at me,” he said, cutting through the chaos. “Tell me what happened.”
Your gaze flickered, struggled, then caught on his.
“One of my dad’s friends—” you choked, your breath hitching so hard it made your whole body jerk, “His old friends, he found me, he found me—”
Your hands went to your hair, fingers tangling, pulling just enough to hurt, like you needed a physical sensation to hold onto.
“He’s gonna tell him,” you rushed, the words tumbling over each other faster and faster, spiralling, “he’s gonna tell my dad and he’s gonna… he’s gonna get me, he’s gonna—fuck—fuck!”
Your breathing broke completely after that, a choking inhale one right after another.
Your body folded tighter in on itself like it was trying to shut everything out.
Dex grabbed your wrist. “You need to tell me who you saw and where you saw him,” he insisted, “I can’t help otherwise.”
You stared at him, chest heaving, like you were trying to force your body to cooperate.
“Marko,” you whispered, the name barely making it out. “Marko Kovač.”
Your breath hitched again, but you pushed through it, words spilling out uneven and desperate.
“I saw him on E-Eighth and 23rd, outside that liquor store with the broken sign… he was just standing there and he looked right at me, like he knew, like he recognised me—”
Your grip tightened on his sleeve without you even realising.
Just like that, he stood up like there wasn’t time to waste.
Your hand shot out, grabbing his sleeve before he could step away, fingers clutching hard, desperate.
“Don’t…” your voice broke so badly it barely sounded like you. “Don’t leave me, please—”
Dex stopped and looked down at you. He looked at the way you were shaking. He looked at the tears you didn’t even seem to notice. At how completely, utterly terrified you were.
You, who laughed at everything, who teased him, who sat on that fire escape like nothing could touch you…
You were breaking.
And you were asking him to stay, but it didn’t change what needed to happen.
“I’ll be right back,” he said, quieter now. “Okay? Stay here.”
Your grip didn’t loosen right away. Your fingers trembled too much.
“Okay,” you whispered finally, as he gently pulled free.
Because at the end of the day, you trusted him.
—
It took a while before you could even move.
For a long time, you just stayed there on the bathroom floor, curled into yourself, your breath still catching every few seconds like your body hadn’t quite figured out how to come down yet.
But slowly, it eased.
Not gone. Not even close.
But Dex being there, telling you that he’d help, it was enough that your fingers stopped shaking so violently. Enough that you could uncurl your arms without feeling like everything would fall apart if you did.
You wiped at your face with the heel of your hand, dragging in a shaky breath that actually finished this time.
In.
Out.
It was still uneven, but it was better.
“Okay,” you whispered to no one, voice hoarse.
When you moved, every motion felt heavy, like your body wasn’t fully yours yet. You pushed yourself up using the edge of the tub, legs unsteady, breath catching again when the room tilted slightly.
You waited it out. Then you made yourself keep going.
You washed your face with cold water over and over until your skin stung and your reflection looked less… broken.
It didn’t fully work, but it helped.
You pulled your favourite hoodie on like armour. You tugged the sleeves down over your hands, fingers disappearing into the fabric, as if you could hide in it.
Then you made it to the couch.
You curled up in the corner, knees tucked in again, but looser this time.
He said he’d be back.
So now, all you could do was wait.
—
The door clicked open so quietly it almost blended into the hum of your apartment, but you still heard it. You didn’t even question how he got the keys.
You didn’t move right away. You were still curled into the corner of the couch, hoodie pulled over your head, sleeves covering your hands, your body folded in on itself like you hadn’t fully decided it was safe to exist again.
You looked up as he stepped into the living room.
Dex stood there like nothing had happened. Like he hadn’t left you shaking on the bathroom floor, like he hadn’t disappeared into the night with a name and a purpose.
“Hey,” he said casually, like he’d only gone out to grab dinner.
Your throat felt a little tight, but not from fear. Not anymore. “Hi, Tony.”
You watched his mouth twitch at that, like the name amused him now instead of hiding him.
Your eyes dropped to his sleeves and saw blood.
It was dried now, but you could tell it soaked into the cotton blend near his wrists and forearms. It was subtle. If you hadn’t seen blood on fabric before, you might have chalked it up to a stain.
Your gaze lingered a second longer than it should have. He followed it.
Then, almost like it didn’t matter, he lifted the plastic bag in his other hand slightly. “I got Chinese.”
Your lips curled up faintly.
He didn’t ask where anything was. He set the bag down, pulled containers out, found plates in your kitchen as if he’d done it a hundred times before. The fragrant smell filled the room and it felt almost surreal layered over the reality of him standing there with blood on his clothes.
You pushed yourself up slowly, legs still a little heavy, and drifted closer.
“Did you—” you started, then stopped yourself.
You were going to ask. You wondered, distantly, how long it had taken. If Marko had recognised him. If he had time to understand why he was dying, or if it had been quick and efficient, like everything Dex did.
You wondered where the body was.
The Hudson, maybe, weighed down. Or maybe somewhere no one would ever think to look. Dex didn’t seem like the kind of man who left loose ends.
Maybe he wanted someone to find the body, maybe as a deceleration of loyalty to you.
You decided against asking.
He glanced at you anyway, oblivious.
“I got your favorite,” he added instead, nudging a container toward you as he sat down.
You blinked at that. “You don’t know my favorite.”
“I do.”
You opened the container. He could tell by your smile that he was right.
You huffed out a small laugh, shaking your head as you scooted beside him.
“You’re welcome,” he said.
You bumped your shoulder lightly into his as you settled in. He didn’t move away. If anything, he leaned into it just enough that you noticed.
You picked up your chopsticks, pausing for a second before actually eating. Your hands weren’t shaking anymore. That alone said everything.
“You don’t have to worry about him anymore,” Dex said.
You went still for half a heartbeat. Then you nodded. “Okay.”
You wondered again, briefly, if Marko had been scared. Then you took a bite of your food.
“Good?” Dex asked, watching you a little too closely.
You chewed, swallowed, then nodded again. “Yeah. Really good.”
He relaxed. It was as if he had been waiting for that exact reaction and didn’t quite know why.
And just like that, the moment settled into comfortable silence.
You leaned back into the couch, letting your shoulder brush his arm this time.
Your body felt different now. Not wired with panic anymore, not collapsing in on itself.
Against all odds, you felt safer because he was here.
Dex turned his head slightly, after finishing his meal. “Who was he?”
You knew what he meant. You nudged your food around with your chopsticks, eyes dropping. “My dad’s friend.”
You said it very flatly.
“Your dad has… very armed friends.”
You couldn’t hold back a scoff. You shook your head, unable to hide your cynical amusement. “Yeah,” you said. You hesitated, before reluctantly adding, “He was the one who armed them.”
That got his full attention. “Oh?”
Well, fuck.
You were assuming he killed a man for you. What more did you really have to hide?
“Ugh,” You exhaled, dragging a hand up over your face before letting it drop. “He was—is- an arms dealer.”
You leaned back further into the couch, head tipping slightly against the cushion as you stared at nothing in particular. “I ran away when I was eighteen,” you continued. “Just as he was starting to talk about how his empire was one day all going to be mine.”
You let out a small, humourless huff. “Guess I wasn’t into the whole… family business.”
You never really had a problem with what he did, it was just the world you grew up in. You learned early not to judge it. To each their own and all that shit. Survival didn’t leave much room for morals anyway.
But you didn’t love it.
You could do it. You would do it, if you had to. That part of you was there, shaped and grown exactly the way your dad intended.
Violence didn’t scare you.
You understood it, the same way you understood how to hold a pencil or steady a glock in your hand. If you were out in a situation where it could arise, you wouldn’t hesitate to dish it out. Even your mother considered you trigger-happy.
Still… it was never what you wanted.
You just wanted to draw.
And sometimes, that made you feel… pathetic.
Because the voice your dad left behind in your head never let it be simple. In your nightmares, he’d call you selfish and weak. He’d say that all you cared about was your own need for self-fulfillment. While everyone else carried the family legacy, you were chasing something as small and useless as art for art’s sake.
Safe to say, he wasn’t exactly a good father.
Not when he shoved a gun into your small hands at seven years old and told you to stop shaking and kill the son of a bitch already. Not when he pressed the barrel one to your head at thirteen because you were sketching during one of his “important meetings,” telling you that if you were going to survive in this family, you needed to learn what deserved your attention.
He called it tough love. He was preparing you for a bright future.
And maybe it worked, a little.
Because you didn’t run from violence. You just… didn’t actively seek it.
Dex didn’t interrupt. He just listened.
“He’s still looking for me,” you added, looking down. “Or was. I don’t know. I stopped checking.”
You lifted your shoulders in a small shrug. It looked casual, but there was a tired smile behind it. For a second, Dex wondered how much time you had really spent on the run.
“I just want to draw,” you finished, looking down at what was left of your food. Suddenly, your appetite vanished.
To Dex, everything made sense.
To him, it explained the missing pieces, your lack of records, your offhand comments, the way you never asked questions you should have asked.
He studied you for a second before asking, “You left all of that behind?”
After all, as an FBI agent, he’d seen heirs fight over an empire far less than what he could gather was your father’s. He’d seen people kill their own brothers over a small-town drug operation.
You managed a chuckle. “I could’ve been filthy rich,” you paused for a second. “But I don’t like paperwork.”
For a second, he just stared at you.
Then… he laughed.
It wasn’t loud, but it was real. It sounded abrupt and rough, like the sound surprised him. You glanced at him, a smile tugging at your lips in response.
Out of all people, he made you feel like you had normalcy.
You were just on your couch, eating takeout, laughing about paperwork… while a speck of his sleeve was still dark red.
You wondered, again, how it happened. What it looked like. If he’d been thinking about you while he did it.
The thought didn’t make your stomach turn. Instead, you felt more at peace knowing he had done it.
That Marko was gone.
That wasn’t coming to drag you back.
You nudged his arm lightly with yours. “Hey, Tony?”
“Yeah?”
“Come back when you’ve got time.”
He watched you, waiting.
“Think about what you want, and I’ll give you that tattoo,” you said, a warm smile forming. “It’s free,” you added. “As a thank you for helping with Marko.”
Dex held your gaze for a long second. Whatever he was looking for, he found it.
“Okay,” he said.
—
A couple of days later, he showed up at your door on your day off.
You let him in without a second thought.
“So,” you said, stretching your arms over your head as you turned toward your setup, “today’s the day. What are we doing?”
Dex stepped inside, eyes looking to the couch, now covered with extra fabric, the neatly arranged tools, the small table you’d set up.
“I don’t know what,” he said after a second.“But I know where.”
“Alright, Tony,” you nodded, grabbing a pair of gloves and snapping them lightly against your wrist. “Show me where you want it. We’ll figure the rest out together.”
He didn’t hesitate before he took his jacket off and reached for the hem of his shirt. He pulled it off in one smooth motion.
And… Jesus.
You knew he was built. You weren’t blind. You’d seen the way his shirts fit, the way he carried himself, the way fabric would ride up his stomach on the fire escape.
But this was different.
You could see his defined muscle, veins underneath, broad shoulders. His body didn’t just look trained. He looked like a biblical carving made by the hands of Michaelangelo himself. It was unfair really, especially when he had the face of a Caravaggio angel. Scars scattered here and there, some small, some not. Every inch of him looked… precise.
Your brain very helpfully went: oh my fucking god.
Then, you snapped your head back in the game before the heat between your legs could derail your train of thought.
And yeah. It almost did.
“Wow,” you said, casual, like it hadn’t hit you at all. “You’ve been hiding all that under those boring shirts on purpose, or…?”
He didn’t answer.
But you saw thoughts stalling behind his eyes, almost like a glitch. Soon, the faintest flush crept up the tips of his ears, just barely pink against his skin. His shoulders shifted, like he didn’t quite know where to put himself under your watch.
Dex, who could look someone in the eye without blinking while deciding whether they lived or died…didn’t know what to do with a compliment.
How adorable, you thought.
You just smiled. It was flirty, but it didn’t faze you nearly as much as it did to him.
Instead of acknowledging that, he turned slightly, presenting his back to you.
“See the scar?” he said.
You knew what it was, the raised skin that went from the bottom of his neck to right above the waistband of his trousers.
You knew about the experimental operation, the spinal damage— the whole story. But you didn’t say that.
You stepped closer instead, fingers hovering just above his skin. You weren’t quite touching yet, just tracing the air along the line of it.
“Surgery?” you asked casually.
“Yeah.”
You hummed, stepping around him to get a better angle. “You want to cover it, or… work with it?”
He considered for a second, but didn't seem to come to a conclusion “It’s up to you,” he said.
“Dangerous thing to say to an artist,” you murmured.
Dex managed a shrug anyway.
You gestured toward the couch. “Lay down. Face down.”
He did, no questions asked. You made sure the surface was clean with a fresh sheet, and then you got to work with a sharpie.
Dex could heat the scratch of your marker against his skin as you started sketching directly onto him, your hand steady, movements confident. You worked instinctively, letting the shape of the scar guide you.
Dex didn’t even move once.
You leaned back after a while, head tilting as you assessed it.
“Hold on,” you said. “I need a better angle.” You hesitated just a fraction before adding, “Mind if I climb up?”
After all, your couch wasn’t exactly a tattoo chair. Or a bed you could just go around. You had limitations, and you just had to work with it.
“Go on.”
So you did.
You swung a leg over, settling carefully against him, straddling his ass just enough to get the position you needed.
You ignored the way your stomach flipped.
You should be focused, professional. Mostly.
You adjusted slightly, bracing one hand against the back of the couch as you leaned forward to refine the lines. Your other hand moved with purpose, sketching, correcting, building lines that felt right.
It didn’t take long before you finished the initial sketch.
You pulled back again, grabbing your phone.
“Don’t move,” you said, already snapping a photo.
Then you climbed off him, stepping around to his side and holding the screen out.
“Alright,” you said. “What do you think?”
Dex pushed himself up just enough to look.
Oh. Wow.
You had drawn simple ivy vines winding up his spine, starting low and growing upward. It curled, twisted, and wrapped around the scar like it belonged there. Like it had always been part of it. Like life had taken root in a broken part of him and made it… beautiful.
Dex stared at it for a long second.
“It looks like it’s growing out of it,” he said quietly.
You nodded, watching his reaction. “That’s the idea.”
He looked at it again, then at your fingers, purple from the ink on the sharpie.
If he agreed, if he said yes to this, you would be part of him forever. He couldn’t imagine a better feeling than that, so he said, “It’s beautiful.”
Your lips curved up into a pleased smile. “Let’s prep you, then.”
—
You settled into your rhythm quickly after you put your gloves on. As the machine buzzed to life, you leaned over him.
“Alright,” you warned, steadying your hand against his back. “Let me know if it’s too much.”
The needle touched down.
Most people flinched. Some needed a second to adjust.
Dex didn’t.
If anything… Dex pressed into it.
Your eyes looked up for a second, then back down to your work.
He seemed to be chasing the pain. Interesting.
You dragged the line a little longer this time. Your voice was right there, focused on the task at hand when you said. “Your skin’s taking this really nicely.”
His breath hitched, and from the needle.
From how it felt.
Dex clenched his jaw shut immediately, forcing the reaction down, forcing his body still. The next needle drag came slower, more deliberate, and it pulled a pleasure out of him that he wasn’t prepared for.
It burned. It lingered. It made his spine feel too sensitive, like every nerve was suddenly awake and paying attention.
And he… liked it. He liked it a little too much. The fact that you were the one doing it to him made it worse.
His fingers curled into the couch as he swallowed hard.
Focus, Dex.
He tried to file it away, treat it like any other sensation, but then your gloved thumb brushed close to the fresh ink, grounding him just enough to make the next sting hit harder.
“Stay like that,” you said, encouraging him. “You’re doing really good.”
That… fuck. That made it so much worse.
Because now he wasn’t just chasing the pain.
He was chasing the reward: your praise and approval.
His body reacted before he could stop it, a sound clawing up his throat. He crushed it down.
But the next line came. And the next. Each one was slow and intentional, as if you were making sure he felt it.
“You’re sitting so well for me.”
For you.
The words tangled with the sensation, twisting it into the same vine he couldn’t separate anymore.
Dex’s grip tightened again, knuckles paling as another line burned up his spine, and this time, the sound almost slipped. It manifested in a small, strained breath that edged too close to a whine before he cut it off.
But you kept talking like you had no idea what you were doing to him.
“Most people don’t handle this like you are,” you said, dragging another line. “You’re taking it really well”
His breath broke again, quieter this time, but worse, because it didn’t fully go away when he tried to control it.
He wasn’t just enduring it. He was waiting for it, anticipating the next drag of the needle, the next burn, the next excuse for you to praise him like that.
“Looks so fucking good on you.”
Oh, that one went straight through him.
He choked it down so fast it hurt, throat tightening, breath uneven no matter how hard he tried to fix it.
Honestly, it was pathetic, the amount of moans and lewd whines he had to swallow simply because he was being marked by you.
Still, he wanted more.
—
The machine finally fell silent after what felt like hours, the buzz fading into nothing but the sound of both your breathing.
You leaned back slightly, flexing your fingers before grabbing a clean cloth and wiping gently over his back, clearing away the excess ink and plasma. The design came into full view: dark, clean lines curling up along his spine, wrapping around the scar like it had always belonged there.
“Good canvas,” you murmured, almost to yourself.
Dex didn’t respond right away. He was too busy feeling the absence of the needle, the strange numbness where the sensation had been, his body still humming.
“You didn’t even twitch,” you added, a little louder this time, clearly impressed as you reached for the wrap. You stepped aside, clearing a path to the full-length mirror at the corner of the living room, “it’s even more impressive that it’s your first tattoo.”
He pushed himself up from the couch, rolling his shoulders once before stepping toward the mirror.
And then he saw it.
The ivy climbed his spine in delicate, elegant lines, twisting around the scar instead of hiding it.
For a moment, he just stared. The scar looked… pretty. Pretty like a dewdrop from a leaf at dusk. Pretty like the sky’s reflection in the water at dawn. Pretty like you.
“You wear it well,” you said casually behind him, like it wasn’t a big deal, like you hadn’t just permanently changed the way he saw himself.
His fingers hovered near it, not really touching.
“Thank you, pretty girl.” he said, smaller than usual. The usual teasing edge with that nickname was dulled. He said it almost reverently.
You smiled a little at that, already focused on your next task as you stepped closer again. “Hold still.”
You smoothed the second skin carefully over the tattoo, pressing it down along his back with practiced hands.
“This’ll stay on for like a day or two,” you explained, your tone shifting into professional. “It’s basically a clear bandage. It keeps everything clean, helps it heal faster. You can shower with it, move around, whatever. Just… don’t mess with it.”
You stepped back, giving it a quick once-over to make sure it was sealed properly.
“After you take it off, wash it gently, no harsh soaps,” you continued, ticking a mental list off like muscle memory. “And don’t forget to moisturize.” You paused, then snapped your fingers lightly. “Oh, cocoa butter. That’s what I use.” You turned toward the hallway. “I’ve got a shit ton in my bedroom, let me grab you some.”
And just like that, you disappeared.
Dex was left standing alone in your living room.
For a second, he didn’t move.
Then he shifted, awkward in a way he never was anywhere else, glancing around the space like he wasn’t entirely sure what to do with himself without you there to anchor his attention.
His eyes drifted to the couch and the table.
And then he saw it.
A sketchbook, sitting on the coffee table. It had a plain black cardboard for a cover, but even the edges were worn.
He would bet good money that you laid your mind out there. That the sketches you drew were part of you, that it would give him an insight to how you thought, how you felt, who you are.
He stared at it for a moment.
Looking wouldn’t hurt… right?
He sat down on the couch again, slower this time. The couch dipped beneath him, still warm from where he’d been lying earlier, and for a second he just stared at the sketchbook he’d just picked up his hands.
It felt like something he wasn’t supposed to touch. That thought didn’t stop him.
His thumb dragged along the edge of the cover before he opened it, the paper giving that worn sound that only came from books that were handled often.
The first pages were exactly what they should’ve been.
They were professional.
It was a string of roses meant to wrap naturally along muscle, thorns placed intentionally. The notes on the margin said the name of the client and the placement: forearm. He could practically feel where the needle would drag just by looking at the line weight. The shading was subtle but deliberate, gradients that would settle into skin instead of sitting on top of it.
Next page was a skull, split clean down the middle, like it had been cut open and arranged. Inside, instead of emptiness, there were peonies blooming out from the cavity, stems threading through bone like they’d grown there.
He turned the page.
This was a serpent coiled around a dagger, its body twisting. The scales overlapped in tight, careful patterns, each one slightly varied, like you actually understood what repetition was supposed to look like.
There were smaller pieces too; Fine-line constellations, minimalist script, coordinates. There were notes scribbled in the margins from placement ideas, sizing, reminders to adjust line thickness for certain skin types.
He flipped another page. Then another.
He saw a dragon stretched across two sheets, body flowing in a way that made it feel like it would move if you looked too long. A pair of hands reaching toward each other, fingers just barely missing contact. A moth with wings patterned like stained glass.
And then, somewhere in the middle of turning another page, that changed.
The lines loosened. The structure wavered. It felt personal, and the notes disappeared. You weren’t drawing to a prompt anymore; this was art for art’s sake— the view from your window sill, the cat from across the hall, the plants near the flower shop down the street.
The next page was a figure, a woman.
She was reclined on a chaise, her weight settled into one hip, body angled in a way that emphasized curve without exaggerating it. These were a little stylised, vintage sailor-inspired style tattoo.
She had high-waisted shorts hugging her hips, a tied cropped top slipping off one shoulder, exposing more skin than necessary, Her hair was pinned up, a few strands falling loose like they hadn’t been corrected.
Dex’s eyes lingered longer than they should have.
He turned the page to see the same figure in a different pose.
She was this time, one knee pulled up slightly, fingers hooked into the waistband of her shorts absentmindedly.
Her head was tilted seductively, and that smile….
He flipped again.
This time, she was one leaning back, arms braced behind her, chest lifted just slightly, the fabric of her shirt stretched in a way that felt… intentional, even if the pose wasn’t.
Oh.
He had suspected it on the first figure, but this one confirmed it.
That smile.
He knew that smile.
He’d seen it across from him on the fire escape, half-hidden behind a beer bottle. He’d seen it when you teased him, when you pushed just enough, when you knew something and didn’t say it.
He’d know it anywhere.
“…fuck.”
You were undoubtedly the reference to all these sailor girls.
Every page after that only confirmed it.
You, over and over again, translated through your own hand. The way you saw yourself. The way you chose to present yourself.
It only got more and more explicit and intimate as he flipped the pages, comfortable being looked at by your own eyes, leaving less and less for the imagination as he saw another page of you bent over—
Fuck, even his thick tactical trousers can’t hide his physical reaction right now.
He could imagine you sitting right here, in this exact spot, probably topless. The sketchbook would be balanced against your thigh, pencil moving in steady strokes. He imagined you glancing up at a mirror before putting it down on paper.
Dex wasn’t gonna lie to himself— he’s thought about you like this way too many times.
It would happen after long, stressful nights, alone, replaying the way you leaned into him, the way your voice dropped when you teased him, the way your knee bumped his.
He’d go into the bathroom for a hot shower, fist around himself as he thought about you. How you’d look under him, how you’d react to his touch, how you’d sound if only you’d let him…
His jaw clenched as heat crept up the back of his neck. His grip on the page shifted, fingers pressing harder like he needed something physical.
There was something about seeing it, about knowing you had made this, that made it worse. He felt possessive, in a way he didn’t bother examining.
He wanted this page. He needed it. He would at least something other than his own imagination to help.
He shouldn’t do it, but when has shouldn’t ever stopped him?
He tore the page, not even caring that the paper crinkled way too loudly in your otherwise silent apartment.
He just held it there, fingers tightening around the paper like it might be taken from him if he didn’t.
But then…
The page underneath caught his eye.
“…oh.”
That… wasn’t you.
It wasn’t your pinup sketches, not a personal drawing, not even a client drawing.
It was…. him.
Dex leaned forward slightly without realizing he was doing it, eyes narrowing as they traced over the lines.
It wasn’t stylized. It was accurate, down to the placement of his scars and the faint lines on the forehead. It looked like he was doing laundry.
You… had been drawing him?
Then, he turned the page again. That was when his heart dropped.
It was him again, but not Tony.
You had drawn Bullseye, mask on and everything.
His grip on the torn page tightened.
He flipped and another one.
It was him again, on a rooftop, rifle braced, body aligned with the shot. The environment was barely sketched in, just enough to ground it, but the focus was entirely on him.
He remembered that night. He had been tracking Task Force for hours.
He flipped again.
It was him, mid-step, tracking through a crowd, head slightly dipped.
Another.
Him throwing a knife between his fingers, captured right before release.
He flipped faster.
Page after page after page, all him. From different angles, different nights, different moments.
Some of them were rough sketches, quick captures like you hadn’t had time to refine them. Others fully rendered, detailed down to the smallest nuance.
There were dozens of these, enough to go back months.
You knew.
All this time, you were aware of him, what he had done, what he was capable of.
Dex let out a deep breath.
He realised now, what this meant.
He had been following you in broad daylight, keeping track of your habits, your pattern, your days.
But he hadn’t accounted for your nights.
So you must’ve been watching him then.
All those times he was doing his self-appointed mission, thinking he was alone in it… he wasn’t.
You had been there, too. Another presence just outside his line of sight. Watching him the same way he watched you.
He wasn’t creeped out; it would be hypocritical.
He was in awe. He was amazed that his pretty girl was capable of this. Perhaps he shouldn’t be— daughter of a crime boss and all— but if anything, it only made him fall deeper in love with you, if that was even possible.
All this time, the obsession was mutual.
And then, he heard footsteps approaching.
He didn’t move. He didn’t close the sketchbook, didn’t hide the torn page still in his hand.
He just sat there, surrounded by the evidence of crossing a line. He had a feeling you wouldn’t mind, though.
The hallway creaked faintly.
“Ah,” you said, setting down the tub of cocoa butter. “You found it.”
Dex stood up slowly. He didn’t rush you, didn't corner you right away. If anything, he was taking you in slowly. His eyes were locked on you like he was seeing you properly for the first time.
He set the sketchbook down.
“How long?” he asked again, like the answer mattered more now that he knew there was one. “How long have you known?”
“From the start.” You said it like it was obvious. Like it had never been a secret. Like you were almost surprised he had to ask.
“I might be pretty,” you added with an easy shrug, “but I’m not stupid, Dex.”
Dex.
Not Tony.
He lit up.
It was visceral, that switch up. He loved hearing his name from your mouth as if it belonged there.
A breath left him, almost a laugh, but rougher. His head tilted slightly, eyes narrowing just enough to study you again.
“My girl’s been watching me,” he murmured, more to himself than to you, the corner of his mouth twitching upward.
You huffed a laugh, suddenly shy. You weren’t expecting a confrontation, at least not today. “Oh, don’t start,” you said, but there was no real resistance in it.
He took a step closer.
“Following me,” he continued, piecing it together out loud now, realising just how much you had stolen from his playbook. “Watching my routes. Studying my patterns .”
He took another step, and you stayed where you were, wanting him to come closer.
“And I didn’t even notice.” He almost sounded impressed.
You tilted your head slightly, crossing your arms. “Yeah,” you said. “Didn’t think you’d mind.”
Dex let out a quiet breath through his nose, something almost like a laugh, but heavier.
“Mind?” he echoed, head tipping.
You held his eyes and didn’t back down, as he stepped in front of you.
“If you didn’t like it,” you shot back, “you wouldn’t be standing this close.”
You were right.
His hand came up firmly as it found your wrist, fingers curling around it gently.
“And you let me follow you,” he said under his breath.
Of course you knew. Denying it now would just be an insult to everyone involved.
“Seems rude to stop you having so much… fun,” you said.
Fuck, you were something, were you?
Dex moved, closing the last of the distance between you. He pushed, just a bit, backing you up against the wall. He didn’t do it harshly, but his movements were certain, like there was no version of this where you weren’t right here.
His other hand braced beside your head, boxing you in without forcing you.
For a second, he just looked at you, and not as the neighbor. Not as the girl on the fire escape.
You.
The one who knew about him all along. The one who watched him. The one who kept up with him.
“Admit it,” you said, breathing just slightly uneven now, “You like that I was watching you.”
His eyes dropped to your mouth for a fraction of a second before lifting again. He was still trying to wrap his mind around how you knew who he was, and you still—what? Invited him in? Sat next to him? Drank with him?”
“Yeah,” he said, no hesitation. “I do.”
You bit your lip as if you’d been waiting for him to say it.
“What else did you see?” he asked, beads of sweat trickling down his bare chest.
You raised an eyebrow, feigning innocence, “What are you worried I saw?”
“Jesus,” he said, shaking his head. His mind was still tripping, even with his newfound confidence. “You’re—”
He didn’t finish it.
Your hand came up, fingers hooking lightly at his belt loop, pulling him just a fraction closer.
You leaned in closer, your lips just barely brushing near his, your voice conspiratorial. “I can hear it, you know,”
He froze.
“I love it when my name when you’re touching yourself, Dex,” you continued, tone playful. “Music to my fucking ears.”
His hand tightened at your waist, pulling himself flush against you, any space between you gone in an instant.
This was it.
This was all he ever wanted.
But it was you he was talking about, and what kind of man would he be it he just let his girl do all the work in the relationship?
“You talk too much,” he said, and that was the last thing either of you said before he kissed you.
It was hungry.
Like he had been thinking about it for too long. Like he already knew what it would feel like, had imagined it enough times that when it finally happened, his body just followed instinct.
You made a small, surprised whine, but you didn’t pull away. If anything, you leaned into him harder, your hands coming up immediately, gripping his shoulders before sliding higher, fingers tangling into his hair and holding him there.
He gasped against your mouthlike feeling you pull him closer snapped whatever control he had left clean in half.
His hands explored, one firm at your waist, while the other came up to your chin, gripping harshly as he tilted your head, deepening the kiss.
It turned messy fast.
It started with breath breaking between movements, teeth catching his bottom lip for a second, neither of you slowing down long enough to make it neat. There was nothing careful about it, nothing rehearsed, just the way you liked it.
You felt him everywhere, from the press of his chest against yours to his grip tightening and loosening like he was testing his limit.
Your fingers tightened in his hair, tugging just enough to get a reaction in the form of a low, reverberating groan.
When you caught your breath, you smiled, “Took you long enough.”
“Shut the fuck up,” he bit out immediately, as if every second your lips weren’t on him, the world was falling apart.
That almost made you laugh, but it dissolved the second he kissed you again, harder this time, like he didn’t like the break, like he was making up for it.
Your hands slid from his hair to his neck, fingers curling there, holding him in place, keeping him exactly where you wanted him.
And he let you.
Dex, who controlled everything, let you pull him, let you guide him just as much as he guided you.
Your back was pressed more firmly into the wall as he leaned into you, his body feeling inescapable in the best way.
Your fingers dragged slightly along the back of his neck, and he reacted again, his breath hitching, his grip tightening as he toyed with the hem of your shirt, palm splayed against your skin now.
He broke the kiss, but only just.
His lips lingered a fraction too long before pulling back, like he wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to stop. His breath was uneven, his forehead against yours.
For a second, neither of you moved.
His eyes dropped to your mouth, like he couldn’t help it, like he was already thinking about doing it again.
Then they flicked back up to yours, darker now, heavier with a primal lust that hadn’t been there before… or maybe had, just buried under a mask he wasn’t bothering with anymore.
“Does my pretty girl want me fuck her stupid?” he whispered, so condescending it bordered on arrogance.
He knew the answer immediately when you pressed your legs together, desperate for any form of friction, but he wanted to make you say it anyway.
Your throat felt tight, eyes in a haze as you followed the trail of spit that still connected your mouth to his.
You nodded. And it was pathetic, desperate, and eager.
Unable to form words? Aw, how adorable.
“Yeah,” he breathed, almost to himself, like he was locking it in. “That’s what I thought.”
—
Morning came slowly.
The distant buzz of the city filtered in through the cracked window, light spilling in thin, golden strips across the room, catching on empty bottles, painting colours on your walls.
Dex woke to your touch.
You were so gentle this time, so different from the way you’d had them on him the night before. Now they moved carefully across his back, fingers gliding over his skin spreading cocoa butter along the fresh ink.
His eyes opened, blinking against the light as he shifted under you, enough to register where he was.
Your bed, your sheets, your room.
You were behind him, straddling the backs of his thighs, completely focused on his ink like nothing else in the world mattered.
Your hair was a little messy, falling forward over your shoulder as you leaned in. Your hands moved in careful strokes along the length of his spine, following every curve of the ivy you’d etched into him.
His teeth tightened slightly, a small exhale slipping out before he could stop it.
You noticed.
“Morning,” you greeted, not even looking up at first.
The second skin had peeled off sometime in the night from the overly strenuous activity he had called sex, and you’d made good on your promise to take care of it after.
You even reassured him that after it healed, you’d touch it up if needed.
Your fingers traced just along the edge of the tattoo, careful around the more irritated areas like you were memorising it all over again.
Like you were memorising him.
“That didn’t exactly last long,” you added, a hint of amusement slipping into your voice now.
Dex huffed out a laugh. “You said a day or two.”
You finally glanced down at him, lifting an eyebrow. “I didn’t account for you… being like that.”
He shifted slightly under you again, trying to decide whether to sit up or stay exactly where he was.
He let his head drop back against the pillow briefly, eyes half-lidding as your hands moved up his spine again one last time.
You kissed his shoulder, whispering close to his ear, “all done.”
At that, Dex shifted slightly beneath you, then pushed himself up onto his forearms, rolling his shoulders once to stretch.
He looked at you, at how cute you looked in the afterglow, wondering how he could possibly have underestimated his sweet girl.
That’s when he remembered.
“Oh,” he said, like it annoyed him he’d nearly forgotten in all the chaos of last night. “I got something for you.”
You blinked, still docile from the intimacy of the morning. “Yeah?”
“Can you grab my jacket?” He asked.
You frowned a little at that, head tilting. “Your jacket?”
“It’s in the living room.”
Weird request.
“…Okay?” you said slowly, sliding off the bed.
You didn't even bother covering up.
Why would you?
It was your apartment, your space. And after last night… please.
You stretched slightly as you walked out, feeling his eyes on you before you even turned.
You glanced over your shoulder, catching his unashamed drag of his gaze down your back, your hips, the curve of your ass.
You clicked your tongue. “Perv.”
There was no bite to it.
Dex didn’t even try to deny it. If anything, he smiled like he liked being called that by you.
You grabbed his jacket from the chair, and returned a second later, tossing it onto the bed without ceremony.
“There,” you said, climbing back up, settling beside him again.
He was already reaching into the pocket, pulling a small piece of fabric out.
Leather.
At least, that’s what you thought.
“What’s that?” you asked, leaning in.
Instead of answering, he held it out to you.
You reached out, your fingers brushing the surface before your eyes assessed it properly.
Oh.
Oh.
“That’s…” you gasped in disbelief.
It was the exact sun you had tattooed on the back of Jack Hargrove’s hands.
You traced the familiar details, the tiny imperfections that you knew because you had put them there.
Your fingers pinched it as your brain caught up with what you were holding.
Human leather.
You should be appalled. You should be horrified. You should be scared of him. You should feel sick to your stomach.
Instead, all you could think about was how this was the most romantic thing anyone has ever done for me.
“…Dex,” you breathed, your voice reverent.
He watched you closely, watching you figuring out the implications in real time.
Not just that he killed him, but just how far he went.
He tracked him down, took his hand, skinned it, and preserved it. Just for you.
You turned it slightly under the light again, your thumb brushing over the ink.
Dex shifted a little beside you, like the silence had stretched long enough for him to fill it.
“I’m sorry it took so long,” he said.
You glanced up at him. That was not what you expected.
His expression didn’t change much, but there was the faintest edge of something almost… earnest there. Mild frustration, maybe. Not at you, but at the process.
“Making it was harder than I thought it would be,” he added, like he was explaining a minor inconvenience.
For a second, your brain just… stalled.
Then you laughed in disbelief. Not because you were afraid, but because you were delighted.
“You’re unbelievable,” you said, shaking your head, still smiling as you looked back down at it.
Dex watched you carefully, like he was checking whether that was the correct response. “I wasn’t sure if you’d like it.”
“Dex,” you said, smiling at him incredulously, “you literally took the time to make me art out of someone who pissed me off. Of course I love it.”
Instantly, his shoulder dropped in relief.
You leaned in without thinking, pressing a kiss to his cheek, right over the scar, lingering just long enough to feel his cheeks pull a smile.
When you pulled back, your hand was already reaching to take the leather properly, to keep it. Maybe you’d even frame it.
But he pulled it back just out of reach, teasing you.
You blinked at him, your mouth pulling into the most adorable pout he’d ever seen. “Hey,” you huffed.
He watched you for a second, clearly enjoying it. His eyes switched between your face and your mouth like he was deciding a game.
“I’ll give it to you,” he said casually. “if you promise me something.”
Your eyes narrowed slightly, but there was a smile tugging at your lips. “Oh, you’re negotiating now?”
He tilted his head just a fraction. “Tattoo me,” he said. “One of those pinups.”
Oh.
You knew which ones he meant.
You shook your head, laughing under your breath, but your eyes gave you away completely. “I thought you’d never ask.”
That was all he needed.
He leaned in again, closing the space between you, his mouth finding yours as he laid the leather on your bare thighs.
And this time, kissing him felt different. It felt like he was yours.
It felt so right in the way only things that were deeply wrong and perfectly matched could feel.
When you pulled back, you already knew he was going to be your favourite canvas.
───── · Months have passed since the last time Dex took his back pain pills, and you decide to address it during a calm and completely normal sunday morning.
What Dex does with his life simply couldn't interest you enough.
As long as he kept paying the bills and avoiding bringing any problems directly to the apartment, you were content living under the same roof as him.
However, you can't help but feel just a little bit worried when one morning you check the pill cabinet in the bathroom and notice that the pills prescribed for his chronic back pain haven't been opened.
He's supposed to be taking them every morning, to begin with, but the lid is tightly closed, and the container is in the same place where you put it a long time ago.
Maybe he hasn't finished the ones he keeps on the nightstand, you tell yourself mentally as you give the container a little shake.
Either way, you'll keep an eye on him to confirm your hypothesis.
A few days later, you have enough evidence to confirm that you're right.
You've contemplated his morning routine, carefully observing his every move, and that's when you bear in mind the tiny grimace he makes every time he bends down, how his lower lip twitches almost inevitably as he twists his torso, the soft grunt that escapes his lips unbidden when he gets up from the ground after his push-ups.
You were evaluating various factors, one of which was that it might be related to his age, but for him, these are definitely not age-related problems. When he was still taking his medication, he moved with impressive and precise movements, demonstrating years of training and dedication in his incredible feats.
So seeing him trying to act as if he still has the same capacity indicates that something bad is going on with him, more than usual, and if he smiles right after those grimaces to replace them and act like nothing happened, softening his expressions and returning to his causal attitude, then he's an idiot for thinking that you wouldn't notice.
And by the time Sunday arrives, you'll have already moved beyond the stage of pretending.
The morning unfolds with a comfortable, domestic calm that almost makes you doubt yourself and put the matter off.
The warm, cozy sunlight floods every corner of the apartment, illuminating the edges of all the furniture and creating a pleasant feeling as you both have breakfast facing each other at the small table.
Dex finishes eating first, placing his utensils vertically on his plate, ready to get up and start cleaning everything, but you silently stop him by placing the painkillers on the table, right next to your soon-to-be-forgotten plate of food.
The blond man stops, raising an eyebrow, his eyes glancing at the container, then back at you, who appear impassive but your eyes don't even bother to hide the glint of irritation.
“Would you be so kind to explain why you haven't taken them?” you begin with a voice deceptively passive. Your fingers slide toward the small bottle on the table, tapping the lid a few times, the hollow sound filling the silence between you.
Dex's hesitation says it all.
His eyes flick briefly towards the bottle, then avert, and you can see the moment he understands where this is going. His posture shifts slightly, and his expression turns bored, already aware how senseless this will become.
He exhales through his nose. “Don't need them,” muttering disinterestedly.
You let out a dry snort. “You know damn well you do,” you retort, letting your irritation show and then lean slightly forward, squinting as you study him, “you think I haven't noticed how you're having trouble moving?”
Your voice begins to gain weight, “You're in pain, Dex, I know you,” you declare.
A faint, uneven smile plays at the corner of his lips, so characteristic, never quite reaching his eyes and his gaze is penetrating, assessing you.
“I can function,” he says lightly, then continues, “which is enough.”
You stare at him for a second, incredulous, frustration beginning to intensify in your chest. “That's not the point,” you snap softly, each one of your words tinged with bitterness. “It's not about whether you can keep functioning or not. It's about you refusing to take the medication that would literally help you with one of your many problems.”
There's a brief pause, just long enough for the next words to sound heavier as they're spoken. “We had an agreement,” you continue. “I let you stop taking the pills for your other issues—even though you clearly need them too—because, for some reason, you hate the idea of feeling good.”
“Take the ones for your back. That was it, the bare minimum,” you add after a few seconds, letting a long sigh lower your annoyance by two tones.
But Dex has started abruptly laughing before you finish speaking. “Wait,” he manages between breaths. “You let me?” He repeats the word like it's absurd, his eyes locking onto yours with something dark settling behind them. “Who do you think you are, hm?” he asks, the humor still there as the laughter fades, but the edge remains. “Those pills don't help.”
There's a beat before he adds, far more cutting, “maybe if you stop to think for a second and consider that I actually deserve it…” his gaze doesn't waver, “you’d understand that you don’t get a say in this.”
You shake your head immediately, not caring about a single thing he just said, “that’s some fucked-up justification so you don’t have to deal with the fact that you could feel better and you’re choosing not to.”
His eyes narrow. “Or,” he says, his voice dipping just slightly, “it’s none of your business.”
There it is.
You lean forward. “It became my business when I started watching you wince every time you bend over.”
Dex murmurs something under his breath that you can't read on his lips, leaning back in his chair in an exhausted manner before speaking again.
“I don’t understand why you’re suddenly so interested in this now, or why you feel that itching need of yours to meddle in my business instead of minding your own.”
You both glare at each other defiantly, letting the tension build just enough to suffocate you.
“So what? You expect me to just ignore it?”
“I expect you to stay in your lane.” he bites back.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” you snap, “I didn’t realize basic concern required permission, forgive me for that.”
Dex rolls his eyes, the motion exaggerated enough to be insulting, before letting out a half-hearted laugh that doesn’t carry any real humor. “This revolves around my boundaries,” he says, like that should end the conversation and as if he's not sounding like a total fraud.
That right there is what makes you laugh.
It spills out of you before you can stop it, fully incredulous, the idea itself is too ridiculous to process and you shake your head again, staring at him trying to reconcile the hypocrisy standing right in front of you.
“Don't start talking about boundaries, that's the last fucking thing you respect. Don't be a hypocrite. You’ve got enough going on being a psychopath in pain.”
With that, his gaze is breaking away from yours, dropping down to the plate in front of him as his fingers hover near the cutlery, and when he finally speaks, his voice is lower, stripped of the earlier bitterness. “Well then,” he mutters almost to himself, “it’s my body.”
“And you treat it like you deserve to suffer,” you say without thinking. Obviously, he deserves to suffer for several reasons, but you’re too upset to question why he shouldn’t.
Dex’s jaw tightens at your words. “You don’t get it.”
“Then explain it.”
“I don’t owe you that.”
“Oh my god,” you say, dragging a hand down your face. “You’re impossible.”
“Yeah?” he asks defiantly. “So what are you right now?” He starts pushing and doesn’t stop. “Oh wait, I know now, you’re just a kid sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong.”
Nothing annoys you more than when he brings up the age card.
Now completely pissed, you get up from your chair, grabbing the pills with you, and walk towards him as he looks at you totally unbothered.
“Take them.” You begin, unscrewing the cap, and Dex looks at the bottle, his expression now changing. You can see him internally fighting the fact that he's disobeying.
“No,” the refusal is immediate.
“Open your mouth,” you order.
“No.”
When you manage to open the container, he moves swiftly, his hand closing around your left wrist with a precise movement, stopping you before you can do anything else.
“Let go of me,” you snap, trying to wriggle free from his grip because he’s already tightening it, his steely hold hardening on your skin.
“Drop it.”
“No!” you shoot back, your frustration boiling all over you now, your eyes traveling anxiously from his face to your trapped wrist, and you hiss at the pressure that has now turned into pain. The veins in his hands are becoming more prominent, and now he’s really squeezing, his fingers digging in as deep as they can.
“Drop. it.”
You clench your jaw, loosening your grip on the bottle lid to grab the wrist of his hand that is still gripping you.
“You’re hurting me,” comes out as a warning, but he doesn’t let go, and you’re already getting desperate. “If you don’t let go right now, I’ll slap the shit out of you,” you say through gritted teeth, and the little shit has the decency to smile, pulling your wrist closer so you can lean in.
“I’d like to see you try,” he whispers with a hungry grin, and you can see the adrenaline blooming in his eyes.
That's the last straw, and you quickly raise your hand, making a fist, and then punch him hard right in the nose, causing his face to tilt and him to gasp before laughing hoarsely, which infuriates you even more.
“Is that all you—” you don't let him finish because you punch him again in the same way, but harder, this time drawing blood from his nostril, and he glares at you, then he's quickly releasing his grip on your left hand then he's pushing you roughly and the pill bottle falls to the floor. His shove sends you sprawling too, and he leaps from his chair swiftly.
Before you can stand, Dex snatches the fork from his plate with a sadistic grin, and before you can even blink, he hurls it at you, making you gasp in surprise as it pierces your clothing, right at your side in the same height where your ribs are located. The fork pierces the floor, and as you try to get up again he's menacingly approaching, but you simply can't get up because he's pinned you to the ground with the fork and the fabric of your clothes.
“Fuck you!” you spit loudly and he's looming over you while you can solely writhe and complain and kick your legs. Dex is now straddling your hips, his weight pressing down hard as he settles onto your thighs and you mentally curse endlessly the day adamantium was created. His robust anatomy is forcing you to puff a breath while there are muscular—heavy—thighs holding you in place as you try to hit him again.
Unfortunately, with his left hand he grabs both of your wrists, yanking them down over your stomach and in his free hand, he holds the container you didn't even see when he grabbed it. He leans over and shakes it in front of you like it's a treat, trying to get your attention, grinning like a maniac as he mocks you.
“You're so keen for me to take these, maybe you're the one who really wants them,” he says hoarsely, eagerness shinning wild in his dilated pupils. Your eyes widen at his words as you realize his intentions. He releases your wrists and he uses that same hand to keep you quiet now, placing it over your mouth as you start to curse him.
You jerk again under his weight, landing with both hands weak blows on his chest, face, and throat as you watch terrified as he tries to open the bottle with one hand, your screams coming out as useless mumbles against his palm.
“Stop—stop” he starts, but it comes out half-laughing, half-breathless. He’s enjoying this way too much, and the constant attempts to hit him are useless, so your defense now is to bite.
Your teeth sink into the fleshy joint between his thumb and his index finger, digging deep into the flesh, and Dex frowns, enduring the shooting pain, breathing deeply as he's snorting at how good it hurts and he's just sick in the head and finally, the container is open, then he's trying to pull the hand you’re biting away, hissing because your teeth are pulling at the fresh-bitten skin there, Dex starts grinning once again when it is free, now the wounded hand is wrapping tightly around your neck, keeping your head still and defending himself against your mouth.
“What is wrong with you?!” you pant with a raw voice as he tilts the container and painkillers start to fall onto your face while he laughs at you, there are some pills landing on your lips but not going into your mouth. Then he gets rid of the bottle by throwing it behind him, the remaining pills scattering on the floor.
“You are wrong what's wrong with me,” he shoots back after making that mess, and you quickly realize you have your hands free now so your brain is working fast, your eyes are flickering down at where he's sitting and before he can completely process what you're going to do, your fist abruptly moves down with malicious intent, but with his sane hand he grips your wrist to stop you in a blink.
But you still have one hand free, and it moves quickly, landing hard on his crotch and he groans from the sharp, stabbing pain that spreads through his body. You basically crushed his dick with your fist, and he falters, falling to the side, bringing both hands to his crotch, freeing your neck and his movements causes his thigh to dislodge the fork from the floor, and you roll to the side to escape the prison of his thighs, you take the fork with you as you crawl, intending to grab one of the pills from the floor or just fucking escape from him, but he's on you again.
Moving quickly, his hand—still raw from your teeth—grabs the back of your shirt stealing a breathy little“fuck” out of your mouth while he's pulling you backwards making you collide with him hard, your spine hitting his chest, and his forearm tightens around your throat when your body is flush against his, choking you as you squrm.
You cough on top of him as he's putting you in a very painful headlock.
“You need to stop moving!,” he rasps behind you.
“You need to fucking die!” you shout with nothing but hate, choking around the words and with the fork in your hand you blindly begin searching for his torso beneath you as he presses his forearm harder against your vulnerable neck, so in a few words, you don't know where you're aiming right now, and you end up going lower than you intended.
And he doesn't have time to react; he only feels the painful pressure against the side of his buttock.
Poor Dex.
You've buried the fork right there, piercing the fabric of his sweatpants, and he lets out a harsh grunt, flinching when you sink it roughly, penetrating meaty flesh.
“My ass? Really!?”
He doesn’t even sound hurt; he sounds like you betrayed him by stabbing him in the ass and as you twist in his hold, it gets harder and harder to breathe, but he doesn’t let go.
Dex looks down on his side, staring at the fork embedded in the side of his buttcheek and can’t help but laugh, breathless, a little unhinged like this is the funniest thing that’s happened to him all week. Then his forearm tightens around your neck again, and you start hitting it, scratching him to get free, then your arms rise stretching them impossibly until they’re level with his face, and you hear a dull thud coming from Dex who presses his head to the ground so you can’t reach it, and his hand reaches your nose and mouth, covering them with the intention of putting you to sleep; such a disgusting combo.
However, your hands still fight, managing to bury themselves in his hair when he leans forward slightly, and you pull as hard as you can.
He's choking you while you pull at his hair, making his scalp hurt, and you both stay like that for a few seconds until you start to give in. So just as Dex feels you relax against his body, he confidently loosens his grip, freeing you with a sigh.
But luckily for him, you successfully lied.
You regain your strength, trying to pull yourself up from his torso, but he pulls you back down with a firm hand on your waist.
“Benjamin let go!” you groan and try to get up again, but he pulls you back down, sitting you on his hips and stealing a deep gasp from him. You move your hand, finding the fork embedded in his ass, and you twist it, burying it impossibly deeper, and you feel him tremble beneath you, hissing,
“Don’t call me that.” he mutters through gritted teeth, delivering a sharp blow between your shoulder blades that knocks the wind out of you and leaves you weak.
And finally, finally, you collapse, your back falling onto his chest once more, gasping for breath, and Dex lets his head fall to the floor, lips parted as he pants with his eyes closed.
Sore and exhausted, the back pain was really getting to him.
“You're the worst thing that has ever happened to me,” you start after a while, your voice hoarse, feeling his rapid heartbeat on your back.
Then as if you haven't gone through enough, you hear him giggle; he’s let his guard down.
“You’re welco—” he doesn’t finish because a bitter taste hits his mouth and his eyes widen as he realizes you’ve blindly shoved a pill down his throat while he was speaking.
It gets stuck and he starts coughing, choking because of it and you hope he finally dies.
For the record, it's obvious he was holding back; if I had written it correctly he wouldn't have let reader land the first blow on his nose... Obvious masochistic undertones coming from him starting there.
───── · one-shots focused on random situations that arise between you, and your lunatic roomie, dex
tags: gn reader | sfw content | crack fics | age gap | alternative universe
Note ; no reading order required
Aiming the highest score · 1,571 words
He unexpectedly becomes obsessed with a method in which he adds points to his “good deeds.”
Ashes on freckles · 2,297 words
In a world where people offer to light your cigarette, he offers to ash it.
Heartwarming cold · 2,402 words
After completely falling in love with the banana milkshake you made, Dex starts doing everything he can to get you to make him more.
Little sour torture · 1,633 words
Of all the bad decisions you made last month, eating Dex's gummies was the worst, and he makes that very clear.
Medical noncompliance · 3,094 words
Months have passed since the last time Dex took his back pain pills, and you decide to address it during a calm and completely normal sunday morning.
Spiraling blue yarn · 4,249 words
Tired of being watched by him no matter where you go, you confront him to demand basic respect for your boundaries and tell him to find anything else to do, and he obeys.
The parasite's tenderness · 3,808
His body begins to deteriorate without warning because of an unnamed sickness eroding him from the inside. . . As the weeks go by and Dex slowly loses himself, taking care of him turns into a necessity, because some things learn to survive by becoming indispensable.
What's your count
It's a simple question, something to keep the conversation going.
Extra info. . .
𖣠 · total words ; 19,054
𖣠 · series tag ; additional thoughts, questions, etc
i know everyone says they hate being online and i understand why and i get it and its bad and everything but (whispering like i'm at a sleepover) i actually really like being online
Some of our favorite quotes from Artemis ii so far:
"Copy. Moon joy."
"I have two Microsoft Outlooks, and neither one of those are working."
"Houston, if you could give me about 20 new superlatives in the mission summary for tomorrow that will help out my vocabulary a little bit, that would be great. Thank you."
“If you’ve ever seen the top of the spotlight of the top of the Luxor at night in Vegas, this looks like what it wants to be when it grows up.”
"To all of you down there on Earth... we love you, from the moon. See you on the other side."
"We just went sci fi.
"It is so great to see Earth again. To Asia, Africa, and Oceania: we are looking back at you. We hear you can look up and see the moon right now. We see you too."
"We will always choose Earth. We will always choose each other."
“It’s a bright spot on the moon, and we would like to call it Carroll.” (The name of Commander Reid Wiseman's late wife)
"Amaze amaze amaze."
"I said that we do not leave Earth, but we choose it. And that is true."
"Christina has been sleeping head down in the middle of the vehicle, kind of like a bat"
"It's really fun to be floatin' around, it just makes me feel like a little kid."
"Trust us, you look amazing, you look beautiful."
"'Homo Sapiens' is all of us, no matter where you're from or what you look like. We're all one people."
"We're going to power cycle the toilet from the ground."
"I'm proud to call myself the Space Plumber."
"We were all eagerly awaiting the chorus." (After Mission Control cut off Pink Pony Club early when waking up the crew)
"Copy heart. Copy bracelet." (In response to Wiseman giving his daughters heart hands and showing them the bracelets they made him that he was wearing)
“Welcome back. We are still here. They are in space.”
"Copy. Bubble wrap nominal."
"We have rediscovered the chocolate snacks."
“The truth is, the moon really is its own body in the universe. It's not just a poster in the sky that goes by, it is a real place."
“We will build ships. We will visit again. We will construct science outposts. We will drive rovers, we will do radio astronomy.”
"I've seen a lot of new perspectives, but my perspective has not changed because I launched with the perspective that there is enough for all." (After being asked if they had a new view on humankind.)
"On behalf of all Canadians, we wanted some reassurances of your preferences for maple syrup over Nutella on your pancakes."
"And we have a great view of the moon out window 2. Looks a little smaller than yesterday." (Reid), "Guess we'll have to go back :)" (Mission Control).
Summary: it’s embarrassing enough being seen for food poisoning in your place of work before the attending on shift decides to make you his priority for the night.
Warnings: food poisoning mentions and all that involves, lightly researched medical things, mentions of alcohol, he wears his camo pants in this bc I say he does
Author’s note: Ahh this is my first fic in forever and my first fic for the Pitt at alllll 🥹 inspired by my own unfortunate bout last weekend and my undying love for Jack (it wouldn’t have been so miserable if I had him to take care of me, I’m sure of it). Happy night shift to my fellow Hatosy hoes <3
——
As a doctor, you really should’ve known better.
That’s the thought repeating in your head as you slouch, back pressed against the wall in front of your toilet, contemplating dragging a pillow and a quilt into your bathroom for the night.
Your watch tells you it’s just past 1am now, meaning you’d only had a few hours of blissful, much-needed sleep before you’d woken with nausea, half of your stomach in your throat and the other tied up in knots.
Only as you sit on your flowered bath mat, squinting in the fluorescent light of your bathroom, contemplating another round of your head in the toilet, do you realize that your meal prep had maybe been a bit too far gone.
You’re no stranger to food poisoning — having and treating — and you know you could knock this out with Pepto, fluids and a BRAT diet in 36 hours flat.
But you don’t have 36 hours. You’re back at the Pitt in — you check your watch — five and a half hours.
You dig your phone out of your bedsheets once you’ve decided it’s safe to stand up and stagger back to your bedroom, pulling up your text thread with Mateo while you brush your teeth.
If I come in rn can someone see me for food poisoning
You weren’t holding your breath for an immediate reply, knowing how it can get on night shift, especially after the mess you left them all with at handoff. You had almost felt guilty as you left.
Almost.
But you’re pleasantly surprised when he responds immediately.
NOOOO!!!
Ya come on in, we’re super dead
(✊🪵)
—
You’d texted Mateo like he’d told you to after you checked in at Chairs, the night shift receptionist letting you know he’d tell them there was a VIP out here waiting. But you’d waved him off, albeit queasily, taking comfort in the relative emptiness of the waiting room at this time of night, hoping it won’t be too long without the fast pass.
“Now why am I seeing one of our R2s out here in Chairs?”
You open your eyes, realizing they’d closed as you tipped your head back against the wall for a moment.
Dr. Jack Abbot came through the ED’s main entrance at one point, back from a phone call or a break if you had to guess.
He looks at the receptionist like ‘what gives?’ but it’s all in jest, his smile far too sunny for the darkness of the hour as he turns his attention to you.
That the hottest doctor on either shift at the Pitt might be seeing you in the worst state of your life had never occurred to you on your way over here tonight, but you realize that might’ve been hard to do in between the deep breathing out of the open window and several almost pull-overs you had to do.
Because as Dr. Abbot, in all of his camo-panted glory, makes his way over to you, you’re struck by the fact that even in your weakened state, he’s still absolutely undeniable.
Maybe even more so.
“Dr. Abbot,” you greet.
“What’s going on?” he says, slowing his pace as he nears. You sit up straighter as he immediately begins assessing, feeling a bit exposed under his gaze in your haphazard outfit. You must look as bad as you feel, because you clock the moment his face falls.
You wince, hating every second of this, but realizing you want this over with so quickly that you can no longer care. “Food poisoning. Pretty sure.”
“Yikes, doc,” he says softly, crossing his arms. “Did you tell anyone you were coming in?”
“I texted Mateo.”
“I’m sure he just got pulled into something. Come on,” he nods toward the doors, then looks you over. “You good to come back?”
You mull it over, glancing at the bathroom in Chairs. Abbot follows your gaze, then nods again. He pats your shoulder as he makes his own way to the doors.
“Take your time and then come on back. I’ll order some Zofran.”
—
“So stupid. I didn’t even think how old it was,” you sigh to Mateo, finally seated on an examination bed while he does your vitals.
Mateo nods toward your crossed legs, which you unwind so he can get an accurate blood pressure reading.
He slips the cuff off your arm with a sympathetic smile, and you pull your sleeve back down. “Hey, at least you got the day off now. Can start that zombie show I was telling you about.”
You shake your head. “Not likely. You’ll see me at handoff.”
Mateo scoffs, looking at the clock on the wall. “In four hours? You gonna sleep here?”
You just give him a look, but you thought about it on your way here.
“Alright,” he says, finishing up your chart. “You good? Barf bag? I’ll be back with your Tylenol.”
You shake your head, lying back with your feet propped up on the bed. “Nothing left. I hope.”
“Noted. Someone will be by soonish,” he says. Then a knock on the wall beside your bed comes, and Mateo smirks at you as he opens the curtain. “Or right now.”
Dr. Abbot’s back, nodding his head at Mateo to make way in front of the monitor so he can swipe in.
“How’re we doing in here, Dr. Y/l/n? Zofran kicked in?”
You give a meager thumbs up. “Hoping it will soon.”
“Vitals are good,” Mateo says to him. “She is running a fever, though — I was about to run for some acetaminophen.”
“I brought some just in case. I’ve got her from here,” Jack says, his voice softer, directed to Mateo. “You can go check on your other patients, yeah?”
“For sure. Feel better, Y/n,” Mateo says, and you hear the curtain close again.
You lift your arm off of your eyes, blinking under more fluorescent lighting, squinting slightly as Jack makes his way over, a cup of water and a portion of Tylenol in either hand. “Think you’ll keep it down?”
You push up slightly, taking the cup of tablets, throwing them back and trading it for the cup of water, deciding the risk is worth the mitigation of the chills and aches that have begun to set in.
He takes both cups from you, and you lie back again immediately while he throws them out. “We’re gonna find out.”
“That’s the spirit,” he laughs, and you feel your own lips quirk. “I like it. Alright, I know you just wanted your Zofran, but can I bother you for an abdominal exam?”
You look down at the thick sweatshirt you fell asleep in, realizing you’re wearing absolutely nothing beneath it. “Um.”
Jack’s paused near the gloves. “Walsh is wrapped up, but I’ll ask Ellis to come in.”
“No, no,” you say. You’re a doctor, one who’s on shift in a few hours, and you can handle an attending seeing your midsection. And touching it. “You’re fine.”
“Sure?”
“Sure.”
He nods, satisfied only after your outright consent, and snaps a pair of gloves on — size large, you hate that you can’t help but notice.
You lift your sweatshirt up once he’s at your bedside before you can think too much about it, and he clears his throat.
“Let me know if anything’s tender.”
You feel the warmth of Jack’s hands through his gloves as he works his way through the quadrants with precision, pressing gently into your stomach.
With his focus trained on the exam and your own mind needing a distraction, you notice things — how his freckled arms flex periodically against the sleeves of his scrub top, the collar of the heather gray crewneck he’s wearing today preventing any good look at his chest, the way he has his badge reel clipped to his pants instead of his breast pocket.
The band you know to be graphite that he still wears on his left hand, the imprint visible through the glove.
It’s such an easy exam. Just to rule anything out. You’ve done them hundreds of times — he’s probably in the thousands.
“A med student could’ve done this,” you say, casting your eyes away from where they’d been fixated on the pale underside of his further arm, the muscle jumping as he pressed down. “You don’t have to be here.”
“We’re mid-rotation. They aren’t exactly fighting over food poisoning on the board at this point, even if it’s their favorite resident,” he says, like it means nothing. “We’re slow. Why wouldn’t I take care of one of our own?”
He holds your gaze in case you have an answer, and you don’t.
But Jack bails you out. “Do you know what it was?”
“Dinner,” you answer. “Meal prep from Monday.”
“C’mon, Monday? You know better,” he says, his tone teasing. “What time did you eat?”
“Right after shift, like eight?” you try to remember. But it’s hard to once his hands move to the lower quadrants of your abdomen, and his gloved fingertips skim the waistline of your sleep shorts. “I can’t even remember.”
“Yeah, you kinda sleepwalked out of here,” he comments, with no fanfare.
You watch his side profile, wondering at what point Jack Abbot started noticing you at handoff the way you’ve always noticed him.
He looks up. “Nothing’s tender? No pain?”
“No,” you breathe, realizing that the warmth of his hands, however brief, pressing into your stomach over and over again has created about the most relief you’ve had since you woke up.
“Good,” he says, his thumbs tucking under the bottom of your sweatshirt and pulling it back down for you. He tugs it snugly over the waistband of your shorts, covering you more than you were even when you initially laid back, his thumbs brushing your sides. “Any other symptoms?”
You shake your head, then pause. “Not gonna run me through the list?”
He smiles, and it occurs to you that it’s slightly weird to see him in the in-between, the throes of night shift.
Not bright-eyed, a breath of fresh air greeting you after a hard day at 7pm. Or on the flip side, a more somber sight to see first thing in the morning, his shadow grown in and his hair tousled. He’s settled, but not exhausted. It’s comforting.
“We could get real comfortable if you’d like, Dr. Y/l/n. But I trust that you know the symptoms I’d be worried about and would tell me if you had them.”
Your eyes meet, your heart stuttering slightly at his praise. You’d worked hard and earned everything you’d achieved, but it was no secret that the ED could feel thankless, and receiving affirmation from a doctor you admire was always a lift.
“I’ll let it slide, Dr. Abbot,” you say. “Diagnosis and treatment plan?”
“Well your fever’s definitely higher than I’d like for food poisoning,” he says, snapping his gloves into the trash. He puts his hands on his hips, cocking his head to the side. He looks thoughtful, “But I’m guessing everything is mostly out of your system at this point. Or hopefully… nearly there.”
You don’t swing your shifts very often, and you’ve only picked up a handful of swaps to night shift since coming to the Pitt as an intern last year.
Which means you really only cross paths with Jack at handoffs, Robby’s barbecues and street team. You detest that one of your few, extended, non-patient-related (yourself excluded) conversations with the man is about your vomiting schedule.
But you’ve watched and learned quality patient care from Dr. Abbot countless times, as he stayed over, showed up early, came in on his off days or during his SWAT shifts — to be the receiver of it is another feeling entirely.
“You know the drill. Rest, lots of fluids. The blandest food possible once you think you can stomach it. Rice, bananas, toast — nothing fun on it. Do you have any of that on hand?”
“Uh,” you wonder aloud, squinting at the mental image of your pantry. Neglected and bare, conditions conducive to the reason you landed in here tonight.
He takes your silence for what it is.
“DoorDash it then, will ya?” he asks, exasperated. “Some electrolytes, too. And Sprite. I don’t think we’re supposed to recommend that, but that’s my old favorite.”
“Alright moneybags,” you laugh, finally sitting up. “I’ll just pay some insanely high delivery fee on Sprite, then, since you say so.”
“I’ll pay for it,” he murmurs, not even looking up over the monitor while he taps your notes in. “Bill me at our next handoff. And I didn’t hear you telling Mateo you think you’re working today, right?”
Your brain has fallen a step behind in this conversation, your feet ceasing their dangling over the side of the bed as you sit frozen.
“Dr. Y/l/n?” he asks, still at the monitor.
“Well, I was — with the Zofran and everything I figured I’d be okay. That’s why I came in tonight instead of just riding it out, so I’d be good for work today,” you explain, rubbing your forehead. Your argument feels weak even to your own ears, but you feel a commitment to the Pitt, especially presently being here.
“You’re no good to anyone who comes in here while you’re sleep-deprived, dehydrated and running a fever,” Jack says, his eyes scanning your face. “You’re actually the opposite. You know that.”
The warmth you felt at his praise only moments ago evaporates at his chastisement, even if you know he’s right.
“Hey. You know that,” he says again. “Yeah?”
You nod. “Yeah.”
“Take a day. Two if you need it. I’ll stay over and help Robby and the day shift get settled,” he says. “You leave him to me.”
It’s a joke if there ever was one, and he seems pleased when you laugh at the idea of Robby giving you a hard time over a few sick days.
You concede. “At least it’s quieter in here now. Which — I’m shocked, by the way.”
“Why? ‘Cause you guys left us such a mess?” Jack quips, logging out of the computer, sliding the curtain open and waiting for you.
“Honestly, yeah. We did,” you say, grabbing your belt bag off of the chair by the bed.
“Well, that’s what we do on nights. Clean up the mess you all leave behind,” he says, reaching for the strap of your bag, draping it over your head and letting you slip an arm through it and letting it rest on your shoulder. “You should try it sometime.”
In another world, where your Zofran and Tylenol had done their jobs already, and you weren’t completely disarmed by the comfort you felt from having the night shift attending put his hands all over you and then offer to pay for your remedies like it would be foolish of him not to, you might find the wherewithal to engage — to flirt back.
Because even your exhausted brain can put together the fact that Jack Abbot is flirting with you. In your sleep shorts, and your problematic sweatshirt. With your four hours of sleep. While you talked about your vomiting habits.
“I’ll have to take your word for it,” you say. “I like my normal sleep schedule too much.”
His head cocks in that way you’ve noticed it does, his grin twitching.
“And yet here you are.”
—
“She lives.”
Two days later, you grace the Pitt with your presence once again, feeling your cheeks warm as Mateo tucks his tablet under his arm to slowly applaud your entrance.
“You say that like you didn’t text me for an update a million times,” you answer, rolling your eyes as he falls into step beside you on your walk to the board.
“My attending was all over me about it,” he says quietly.
You’re feeling good to be back at work, done wasting away in bed and ready to jump back in, but your brain is groggy — slow to catch up to what he’s implying.
When you do, you turn to him, and he’s grinning, looking like he’s bursting at the seams.
“Oh?” you try.
“Did you know that man had never used DoorDash in his life until a few days ago? I had to help him,” Mateo says, leaning closer, his voice dropping a few decibels. “It was… adorable.”
You knew when leaving the ED the other night you’d never be taking Jack up on his offer.
You didn’t realize he knew it too, however, until the delivery driver had shown up at your door later that morning holding three grocery bags bursting with food and drinks, shaking your hand and thanking you profusely for the generous tip you gave on the app.
You briefly thought you might need to walk back into the Pitt and tell them your food poisoning was definitely an infection that was presenting as hallucinations as you stood in your doorway, arms suddenly full of groceries.
You wondered for only a minute who your angel was, but the six-pack of Sprite had been a dead giveaway.
“I was wondering how he’d gotten my address,” you said. “Doesn’t seem like the type to skim it off my file.”
Mateo cocks his head, and his grin is becoming a bit too much for you at 6:45 in the morning.
“He was this close,” he says, pinching two fingers together. “Seriously.”
You shake your head, tossing your braid over your shoulder as you make your way to the locker rooms. “I should go drop my stuff.”
“Mhm,” he says. “You do that. You’re so busy. Here 15 minutes early and everything.”
“Bye Teo,” you say with finality, beelining it to the lockers before anyone else who’d witnessed you a few nights ago stopped you to chat.
A few night shift nurses ask you how you’ve been feeling near the lockers while you put your stuff away and slip your fleece jacket on, affixing your badge reel and checking the whisps falling out of your braid are doing so in just the way you want, but you’re lucky you don’t cross paths with anyone else that had witnessed your plight.
Until you emerge moments later to find Jack Abbot, arms crossed and waiting against the wall across the lockers, a respectable distance away, but no doubt with his eyes trained on the door.
He smiles, post-shift tired. “Thought I saw my favorite patient.”
Feeling well enough to play ball, finally, and frankly having milled over the next time you’d see Jack in your head through two straight days of rom-coms, you take the opportunity you’ve been waiting for.
“I thought I saw my favorite attending, too, but Robby must not be in yet.”
Thoroughly pleased when his mouth drops open slightly, you aren’t surprised when he trails behind you while you walk to your preferred charting station.
“I was gonna ask how you’re feeling, but it seems there might be a cognitive exam in order,” he says in reply, leaning comfortably over the desk as you sit down, sliding your badge through the scanner. You watch the line of his shoulders as he stretches tiredly.
“Better,” you say sincerely, unable to shake the mental picture. Jack asking Mateo for help with DoorDash in the lulls of night shift, using whatever extra time he could find to schedule something thoughtful for you to wake up to. “You didn’t have to send all of that.”
He shrugs. “Wanted to. Figured you were gonna crash as soon as you got home, and going to the store when you’re sick is the worst.”
You shake your head, your smile stubborn. “Way too much Sprite.”
His lips pull up to one side. “But it helped, didn’t it?”
You roll your eyes, asking him how night shift was and enjoying the way he prattles on while you settle back in.
“Did you wanna do your handoff now?” you ask, standing up again, grabbing the tablet off the charger by on your station.
“Oh, I already handed over to Santos,” he says, still making no move to leave your station, when you figured that had been the entire reason he was here. Or at least part of it.
Some of it.
“Oh,” you say. Sweeping your eyes around the ED — it’s still relatively early and things seem, for now, to be on the rarer, quieter side.
You lean against your desk, looking at him expectantly.
“How have you been though?” he asks. “Really. That wasn’t a tiny fever.”
“Good,” you say, sensing his worry. “I promise. It broke later that day. Everything… else subsided by yesterday morning, thank god. All the stuff you sent really, really helped. So thank you.”
“I’m glad. You gotta be more careful,” he says, tapping his fingers on the desk. “You know. Brush up on your food safety education.”
You sigh, wincing. “I know, it was stupid. Just exhausted and wasn’t thinking.”
He nods, considering. “Next time you’re too tired, let me know.”
You come around, leaning against the desk next to him. You think you see Mateo paused at the front door out of the corner of your eye, but you can’t be sure, because you’re too focused on the furrow in Jack’s brow as he looks down at you.
“What are you gonna do, send me dinner this time?”
“No. I’m gonna make you dinner,” he suggests, like it’s casual. But his eyes flit across your face quickly, assessing. “At my place.”
Your lips quirk up.
“Again,” he adds, nodding, but not fast enough to hide that his cheeks are tinged pink. Christ, he’s nervous. Your stomach kicks, in the best way this time, realizing that you are making Jack Abbot nervous. “Educational purposes.”
You hum, nodding your head, too. “And this is a teaching hospital.”
“It is,” he nods. “So, what do you say?”
For all of his confidence, the way he commands a trauma bay in a crisis, runs a new pool of med students like a combat unit, wrangles an unruly pod of frat boys here to watch a buddy’s stomach get pumped, you feel another thrill zip down your spine at his sought reassurances.
He wants to hear you say it. Just like with your exam.
Jack needs a yes.
“That sounds great,” you finally say.
“Yeah?” he asks, his grin growing.
You can’t help it, yours matching, “Yeah.”
He smiles wider, hiking his backpack up higher on his shoulders, and you swear it’s like his chest puffs out just a touch.
“Alright. You gonna give me your number now, or do I have to beg Mateo for that, too?”
—
A week later — only exactly as long as it took for schedules to align and your stomach to settle (Jack’s insistence, not yours) — you’re sat at his kitchen island, watching him chop vegetables with a tea towel thrown over his shoulder.
His home is cozy, a German shepherd named Ruby curled up underneath your feet.
He hasn’t told you what’s he’s making yet, but you can piece together it doesn’t contain anything that had triggered you last week, which you find sweet.
Jack watches you get up, glancing at your water glass to see if it needs refilled, whatever story he’d been telling about Shen and an ortho consult from Park gone awry dying on his lips, his knife pausing, but his lips quirking up as you circle the island nearer to him.
“What do you need, sweetheart? Wanna open a bottle?”
“No. Well — yes,” you say, your hand closing softly over his, the knife resting on the cutting board immediately, his body making space for you between himself and the island while he wipes off his hands. “Just not yet.”
“No?” Jack says, eyes glinting.
This close, you look up at him, your hand flattening to his chest, right over his heart. He’d put on a blue button-down for you, the material soft beneath your touch. He’s still so warm.
“Hi,” you say lamely, your confidence run out.
“You feelin’ me up, doc?”
Your hand slides from his chest down to his stomach, pressing lightly with the pads of your fingers. “You had your turn.”
Jack’s smile is knowing, like he could tell you were squirming on that exam table for more reasons than one but didn’t know for sure until now. Any embarrassment you might feel is assuaged by the fact that you can tell the exchange had had a similar effect on him, confirmed by his next statement.
“I’m gonna need a few more.”
“We’ll see,” you answer, tilting your head with mischief.
“Here I thought I was being a gentleman, waiting until after dinner,” he all but whispers.
“For wine?” you tease.
“You…” he laughs. His hands find your face, and as he leans in, you know you’ll look back one day and think that it was all worth it.
Maybe it’s nerves, your heart stuttering at how strongly you already feel — but you don’t know why you say it, practically whispering against his lips, he’s so close at this point. “I can’t believe the first time you hit on me was when I was literally in the middle of food poisoning.”
But he shakes his head.
“First time you noticed,” he corrects.
His lips meet yours briefly, and he pulls back, his eyes searching for your reaction to that, and he smiles.
Then he kisses your cheek, your nose, your forehead, the top of your head.
It’s like you’re frozen — but so, so warm in his arms.
Jack leans back, his thumbs stroking your cheeks, eyes locked to yours so there’s no mistake, and murmurs, “I’m gonna take such good care of you.”
Hear me out: Pope Cody meeting the love of his life robbing a bank she works at. He becomes obsessed with her, wiping her tears out of her eyes when she starts crying, talking her through the combination of the safe, later stalking her…
snowghoul
2087
prguitarman
titsay
jbbartram-illu
