Warnings: Kinda dark? Stalking, obsessive behaviors, toxic courting methods and relationships, Dex being...a fucking freak, reader matches that freak though, there will be smut but not yet,
Author's Note: So this starts in Season 3 of DD then will follow DDBA. It also takes place within the False God universe but that definitely doesn't need to be read to read this. Anyway, this story is already up to 15k so you're in for it. Shoutout to @loveroftoomanyfandoms for letting me shout ideas at her.
Series Masterlist | Talk to Me! | AO3
"So you —what? Train superheroes?"
The former Avenger hums to herself, trying to figure out an excuse to get the ex-widow out of her hair. Natasha dropped her off a few days ago, saying something about getting her out of the Red Room and into the real world. Asked for help, then disappeared like Natasha Romanoff does best.
"That why Spider-Man comes by and asks for advice?" The ex-widow prods, brow raised as she drops onto the couch with a huff. "I don't need to be trained —,"
"Good," she interrupts, turning to her fully. "Because I'm not training you. I'm de-programming you, and you're making it really fucking hard to help you."
"I don't need help," the widow snaps back, narrowing her eyes.
"We all need help," Matt Murdock states as he walks into the apartment. He presses a kiss to the Avenger's hair before removing his suit jacket. "She just happens to be the best at what she does."
"Why couldn't Romanoff do it?"
"Because Nat has bigger shit to deal with than you."
The ex-widow scoffs, then pushes herself off the couch. "Whatever —I don't need your help. Not yours, not Romanoff's. No one's."
"You walk out that door, and I can't promise you won't get killed," the Avenger warns, but she doesn't make a move to stop the widow.
The truth is that the Avenger doesn't necessarily want to help her; she's retired for a goddamn reason and a former Red Room assassin needing a babysitter is the least of her concerns. Matt puts a hand on her shoulder though, giving her that same look he has when he wants to do the right thing.
"Our door is open if you need us," he promises the widow.
"I won't need either of you," she spits, grabbing her go bag and storming out of the apartment.
Matt and the Avenger stare at the empty door way, then she looks at him.
"You know better," she says, crossing her arms. "Don't look at her like that."
"I can't even see her —,"
"You know better than to feed strays," she reminds him plainly. "They'll come back."
*****
She pulls her hood up, covering her face from the crowded street and the rain that's pouring down. Her go bag is slung over her shoulder, and she carries three sets of clothing, a couple thousand bucks in cash, some toiletries, and a journal. That's all she has to her name, and that's all she needs right now.
The city moves around her in waves of noise —car horns, chatter spilling out of bars, shoes against wet pavement. Hell's Kitchen smells like rain, cigarette smoke, and hot garbage baking somewhere beneath the sidewalks. She keeps walking, hands shoved into the pockets of her hoodie as cold rain soaks through the fabric.
The former Avenger's apartment is already several blocks behind her, but the conversation still lingers in the back of her mind.
I'm de-programming you.
The widow scoffs quietly to herself. De-programming her, like she's broken or brainwashed.
People always say things like that when they realize who or what she is. They look at her like she's some abused animal that escaped its cage. Like she should be grateful to be saved. None of them ever understand that the Red Room didn't ruin her.
It fixed her.
A taxi speeds past and splashes dirty water across the legs of her jeans. She barely notices; cold stopped bothering her years ago, somewhere between Siberian winters and freezing showers. Hunger doesn't bother her much either, though the ache in her stomach is becoming harder to ignore.
She pauses at the crosswalk, automatically scanning her surroundings. Fire escapes. Alley access. Rooftop lines and crowded streets. It's all habit and training and survival.
A man across the street lets his eyes linger on her a second too long. She meets his stare without expression until he finally looks away, uncomfortable.
Good.
The rain starts coming down harder as she crosses the street toward a tiny cafe tucked between a laundromat and a liquor store. The neon sign in the window flickers weakly, lighting up the otherwise grey streets. Warm light spills through the glass, silhouettes moving inside.
Crowded space can be dangerous —not enough exits. Too many hands. Too many variables. But they can also be easy places to disappear, and that's what she needs right now.
A bell chimes overhead as she steps inside. Warmth hit her immediately, along with the smell of espresso, sugar and damp clothing. The cafe is cramped and noisy, conversations overlapping just enough to blend together. Students crowd around laptops near the windows while a tired mother bounces a crying toddler on her hip near the door. A couple in the corner argue quietly over untouched drinks.
Normal people. Civilians. Possible distractions or victims or collateral.
She steps toward the counter, shaking rainwater from her sleeves as her eyes drift lazily across the room. Standing near the pick up counter is a man that…at first glance, isn't all that remarkable. Blonde hair, cropped short and professional. Expensive suit with that fed posture that would have been obvious even if he wasn't wearing his FBI assigned windbreaker. He's attractive in that clean-cut, military sort of way that civilians trust instinctively.
The letters on his jacket do catch her attention, but what she really picks up on is the control. Every movement he makes feels measured too carefully, like relaxing is something he tried to learn from observation instead of instinct. He stands rigidly still, hands folded behind his back, gaze fixed ahead while he waits.
Most people would shift their weight unconsciously, or tap their foot. Check their phones.
He doesn't.
Only his thumb moves, pressing against the side of his finger before repeating the motion again several seconds later. A pattern; something small enough that most people wouldn't notice. But the widow notices.
Compulsion, she realizes immediately.
Her eyes narrow slightly as she watches him. There's tension buried beneath the stillness, tightly leashed and dangerous. The kind of tension she recognizes in trained killers and deeply unstable people. Usually both.
His coffee order is called, and he steps forward instantly. Precise movements, controlled in a way that feels almost mechanical.
She moves before she fully decides to.
She cuts across the cafe at the exact wrong angle and slams her shoulder into him hard enough to jostle the drink in his hand. The reaction is immediate and far more telling than she expected. His fingers clamp around the paper cup with a crushing force, the lid snapping loose before the entire thing caves inward beneath his grip. Hot coffee splashes over his hand and onto the floor between them.
For half a second, every muscle in his body locks.
His jaw clenches visibly. His breathing is hitched. And something genuinely ugly flashes across his face —not embarrassment or irritation, but pure instinctive rage, sharp enough to make anyone who sees the interaction nervous. It's the kind of expression she's seen right before someone puts a knife through another person's throat.
Interesting.
Then —it vanishes. The control slams back into place so quickly it's almost impressive.
"Sorry," she says flatly, though she doesn't actually sound apologetic.
The man stares at her for a beat too long. Up close, he’s more attractive than she first realized. Blonde hair perfectly in place despite the rain outside, FBI windbreaker zipped halfway over an expensive dress shirt, sharp features pulled tight with tension he clearly spends every waking second trying to control. Most people carried stress in their shoulders or jaw. His seemed woven through his entire body, stretched tight beneath carefully practiced composure.
Any normal person would look at him and find it entirely unappealing. Unfortunately, she's not a normal person.
Instead, she finds herself noticing his hands. The dangerous sort of restrait sitting just beneath his skin.
"It's fine," he replies automatically.
It's not fine, and anyone can see that.
The widow's gaze drifts downward briefly. His hand flexes once at his side like he's resisting the urge to crush something else now that the cup is gone. Coffee drips from his knuckles, which are red and angry from the heat, onto the tile floor while several nearby customers pretend very hard not to stare.
She thinks, briefly, he could put those hands on her if he wanted.
He clearly thinks the people watching them are a bigger problem, since the tension in his shoulders only tightens.
Most people react to public embarrassment with awkwardness or anger. But this feels different. The disruption itself appears to bother him more than the actual spill. Like the interruption to whatever routine he keeps is physically grating against his nerves.
She watches him for another second before speaking again.
"Let me buy you another one."
That gets a better, more human reaction. It's small, but she catches it immediately —the slight narrowing then widening of his eyes, the faint hesitation before he answers. Genuine surprise. As if he honestly didn't expect the interaction to continue after the apology. Most people neearby are already carefully avoiding eye contact, slipping back into conversations and laptops now that the moment has passed.
No one wants to engage with the visibly strange man in the FBI jacket. The widow gets it; there's something deeply off about him. Something underneath the practiced professionalism that people can sense instinctively even if they can't identify it.
"You don't have to do that," he says after a moment.
"I know."
That seems to throw his balance off more. His brow furrows almost imperceptibly, like he's trying to determine if she's serious or mocking him. She isn't —well, not entirely, at least.
Without waiting for him to answer again, she steps around the spilled coffee and moves back toward the counter. There's a brief pause behind here, where she can practically feel him debating with himself. Follow or leave?
Then she hears measured footsteps following after her. There he is.
She orders another black coffee for him and the cheapest pastry in the display case for herself. When she glances sideways, he’s standing beside her with that same unnaturally rigid posture, hands now hanging carefully empty at his sides like he doesn’t entirely trust himself with another cup yet. “You work for the FBI,” she says casually.
His attention snaps toward her immediately, sharp and focused enough to feel almost dangerous. “How did you know that?”
She nods once toward the windbreaker. “The giant yellow letters were a clue.”
For the first time since she bumped into him, something that almost resembles embarrassment crosses his face. It disappears quickly, replaced by that same stiff composure.
Right. Not good socially.
The widow feels amusement curl low in her chest as she leans one hip against the counter beside him. Up close, she can practically see the effort it takes for him to maintain eye contact without overdoing it. Everything about him feels calculated —how long he looks at her, where he places his hands, the exact straightness of his posture. Like he learned how people are supposed to behave from a manual instead of experience.
"And the posture,” she adds. “You stand like someone taught you how to get shot at.”
His eyes narrow slightly at that. Not offended. Assessing.
“You notice a lot,” he says carefully.
“I was trained to.”
The answer slips out easily, automatic enough that she almost regrets it. Almost. His expression changes slightly at the wording. Interest now. Curiosity. The kind that sharpens rather than softens.
Dangerous man, she thinks. The realization settles pleasantly in her chest.
The barista calls their drinks, sliding the fresh coffee across the counter. The man reaches for his carefully this time, fingers visibly deliberate around the cup like he’s compensating for the earlier loss of control. She watches him do it openly, and judging by the tension suddenly pulling across his shoulders, he notices. Cute.
“You always stare at strangers this much?” He asks.
There’s no real bite behind the question. Mostly confusion.
The widow wraps both hands around her own coffee, pretending to think about it. "Only the ones I want to understand."
The reaction is immediate despite how hard he tries to suppress it. His spine goes even straighter somehow, jaw tightening slightly as his gaze flicks away from her for half a second before snapping back. The tension crawling beneath his skin sharpens instantly, visible now in the rigid set of his shoulders and the careful way he controls his breathing.
He genuinely has no idea what to do with flirting. And worse —he’s trying very hard to handle it correctly.
The widow bites back a smile behind the rim of her coffee cup. Most men reacted to attention predictably. Smirks. Confidence. Ego.This man reacts like she handed him a live grenade.
“What’s your name?” He asks after a moment, voice carefully neutral.
There’s something too precise about the timing of the question, like he waited exactly long enough that it would seem normal to ask. The widow considers lying automatically. Old instinct. Instead, she reaches into the pocket of her hoodie and pulls out a receipt along with a pen she stole from the counter earlier. She scribbles a number down quickly before sliding it across the counter toward him. Her name is underlined underneath it.
It’s a cheap prepaid phone she picked up three days ago with cash. Untraceable unless you knew exactly what you were doing.
Something tells her he probably does.
“You give your number to every federal agent you meet?” He asks, then he says her name like he's trying to burn it into his tongue.
“No,” she replies lightly. “Just the weird ones."
For the first time since she walked into the café, she sees him lose composure completely. Not dramatically —not enough for anyone else in the room to notice. But she notices. His fingers stop moving entirely against the coffee cup. His breathing stalls for one second too long. Something dark and intent flashes behind his eyes before he forces it back down beneath practiced control.
The widow pushes herself off the counter, pulling her hood back up over her hair. “Try not to crush this coffee too,” she says as she steps backward toward the door.
The widow feels his attention between her shoulder blades even after the bell above the café door rings shut behind her. It's not casually watching her walk away; it's locked on her. Possessiveness, she realizes immediately.
And for the first time in days, she finds herself smiling.
*****
There's something…off about this girl. Dex isn't sure what is it, but she's different.
He noticed it immediately in the coffee shop. Most people move carelessly. They waste motion and movement without realizing —shifting their weight, turning their backs to exits without thinking twice about it. They drift through space, vulnerable and unaware.
She doesn't. Everything she does looks intentional and under control. Like every movement has already been considered before it happens. Even now, half a block away with the rifle scope pressed to his eye, he can see it clearly.
The motel she checked into is disgusting. A flickering vacancy sign with missing bulbs is what greets her as she pulls open the door to the lobby. The room they give her —214 —has water stains on the window seals and thin curtains yellowed with cigarette smoke. It's the kind of place cops only visit when somebody overdoses or gets murdered. She paid cash at the front without question while the clerk openly leered at her the entire time.
She noticed. And Dex knows she noticed because her hand twitched once near the pocket of her hoodie before relaxing again. Most woman traveling alone react nervously to attention like that; they avoid eye contact. They move faster, they look uncomfortable.
She looked…bored.
Everything she does feels wrong in ways Dex can't quite understand yet, and he hates not understanding things.
Inside room 214, she drops the go bag onto the bed before beginning a methodical sweet of the motel room itself. Bathroom first, then under the bed, then the windows, the adjoining door.
It's efficient, fast and professional.
Dex adjusts the focus slightly, watching more carefully now. Maybe she's military —but no, that doesn't make sense. It's something sharper than that. Soldiers carry tension differently, even the disciplined ones like him. They're heavy with it, loud beneath the surface. Her movements are quieter somehow; cleaner. Like the violence fits naturally against her bones instead of being learned.
His jaw tightens slightly.
The phone number she gave him sits folded nearly inside his jacket pocket. He's taken it out and looked it over several times since this morning. Debated calling her; decided to wait until he saw her again under his own conditions.
No one flirts with him. Not after they talk to him for a little while, at least. Not genuinely. The last person who did was Julie and that…went as well as it could have, given his habits.
Women speak to him because they're being polite or because they want something. Coworkers tolerate him carefully. Strangers avoid him once conversations stretch too long and they start noticing the cracks —the stiffness, the eye contact, the pauses where he has to manually think through the correct response before speaking.
He's learned how to mask most of it. Usually.
But she looked directly at him in that cafe like she saw every strange, badly assembled piece underneath and liked it for some reason.
Just the weird ones.
The memory loops both pleasantly and unpleasantly through his head. Dex is not weird; he is the best at his job, and he's precise. There's a difference. People just don't understand that.
Dex shifts slightly against the floor of the abandoned apartment building, eyes never leaving the motel window. Rain taps softly against broken class nearby while the traffic hums several stories below him. But Room 214 remains brightly lit against the dark street outside.
Inside the room, she unzips her bag and begins removing her belongings one piece at a time. Three sets of clothes. Toiletires. A worn journal with frayed corners. There's no laptop or charger, no make up bag. No unnecessary items at all.
No life, it seems. And that bothers him. People carry evidence of themselves everywhree. Souvenirs, clutter, personal attachments. She owns less than some people carry in a gym bag.
Who the hell are you?
The thought hits fast and sharp enough that his fingers tighten unconciously against the rifle stock beside him. Then she reaches for the hem of her hoodie.
Dex stills completely as she pulls the sweat shirt over her head in one smooth motion, before tossing it onto the bed behind her. The motel curtains remain open, the cheap lamplight spilling across the room and onto the wet street below.
Heat curls low in his stomach before he can suppress it. She turns away briefly, reaching down to unbutton her jeans next, and Dex feels his pulse kick hard against his throat. The curtains are still open.
Most people close them automatically when entering a new room. Most people close them the moment they decide to change. Privacy is instinctive, especially in seedy places like this. But she moves around the motel room without any apparent concern at all, stepping out of her jeans and tossing them carelessly beside the bed.
She wanders through the room now in just her bra and underwear —too lacy to be practical, but Dex isn't necessarily complaining. He watches the smooth, deliberate confidence in her movements, and feels tension pull tightly through his chest again.
She's not nervous, or uncomfortable. There's no insecurity lacing her behavior like some women have when they see themselves naked. It's like she's fully aware of how attractive she is and stopped caring a long time ago what someone might do about it.
The thought settles heavily in his mind.
She flirted with him in the cafe. Gave him her number. And now Dex is imagining her looking at him the exact same way she did earlier —amused, sharp-eyed. Like she found his awkwardness entertaining instead of offputting. But he's imagining her as she is now —half naked, looking at him with those eyes.
His grip tightens slightly against the rifle again.
An interesting girl. Pretty. Weird. The kind that doesn't get nervous around dangerous men —around him.
Inside the room, she disappears briefly into the bathroom before returning in an oversized shrt and shorts. She climbs onto the motel bed with her journal in hand —a pen from the cafe in the other —and crosses her legs beneath her as she writes slowly.
Dex watches her for several minutes like this —whatever routine she's establishing in this motel room, he memorizes until she finally shuts off the lamp beside the bed. Even in the dark room, he can see her settle into the blankets.
Realization settles into place gradually, calm and absolute.
Dex needs to know everything about her.
*****
She doesn't make it easy for him.
For the last two weeks, she's changed her routine constantly just to see what he'll do. Mostly because he never called.
Some nights she stays out until two in the morning, wandering through Hell's Kitchen with no destination in mind, cutting through crowded bars and empty alleyways alike. Other nights, she's back in the motel before nine with the lights off early, curtains wide open. Some mornings she goes back to the cafe where they met but some days she picks a diner three neighborhoods over. Other days she disappears into bookstores, laudromats, corner stores —anywhere random enough to break a pattern before one can form.
And yet…he's always there.
Not close enough for civilians to notice, but close enough for her.
A figure lingering too long across the street. A parked car that appears twice in the same neighborhood. The faint prickle crawling up the back of her neck right before she catches a glimpse of that jawline in the reflection of a store window.
He's good; better than she expected.
And on the days she does return to the cafe, he's already there waiting near the pick up counter with two coffees in his hands like it's the most natural thing in the world. One black. One caramel macchiato with too much caramel and oat milk.
The first time it happened, she almost laughed. The second time, she takes the cup from his hand before sliding into the seat across from him. He watches her carefully the entire time, posture stiff beneath the FBI windbreaker stretched over his dress shirt like he’s trying very hard to appear relaxed and failing miserably.
It's cute, in the way that only an ex-widow could find someone stalking her cute.
She takes a sip of the coffee, then tilts her head slightly. “You memorized my order.”
Dex’s gaze flicks away for half a second before returning to her face. “It’s not complicated.”
“No,” she agrees lightly, “but it is a little weird."
The tension that immediately crawls into his shoulders is so visible she almost smiles into the cup.
Most people would deny it. Laugh it off. Dex just sits there looking painfully aware that she noticed something abnormal about him and doesn’t seem sure whether that’s good or bad. The widow leans back in her chair slowly, dragging the moment out on purpose.
“If you’re going to memorize my coffee order,” she says casually, “the least you could do is actually call me.”
His entire body stills; not dramatically. No one else in the café would notice it. But she does. His fingers stop moving against the cardboard sleeve around his drink. His jaw tightens slightly. Something flickers behind his eyes so quickly it almost disappears before she can identify it. Nervousness maybe, or excitement.
Probably both.
“I didn’t think you actually wanted me to,” he admits carefully.
The answer surprises her enough that she laughs softly under her breath. So he's intense and professional, but wildly insecure. Interesting.
The widow studies him openly for another second before taking another sip of coffee. “That's stupid of you to think. I gave you my number, didn't I?"
Dex looks at her like he’s trying to solve a puzzle he doesn’t entirely understand yet. Honestly, watching him attempt normal flirting might be the funniest thing she’s experienced since Romanoff dropped her off to be fixed.
Today, though, the widow sits near the back of a nearly empty diner with a cup of terrible coffes in her hands. It's still raining —it's been raining every other day it feels like —and neon lights paint the wet street in blurry streaks of red and blue. The waitress refills her mug without asking, and the widow nods absently in thanks before glancing toward the reflection in the class beside her.
There he is. Half a block down, same dark sedan from Tuesday.
A smile threatens at the corner of her mouth before she suppresses it behind the rim of her coffee cup.
Most people are terrible at surveillance because they get impatient. They follow too closely or watch too hard. They want immediate gratification instead of consistency. Dex, however, has discipline. He rotates positions. He changes clothes. He alters timing.
He's done this before.
She's a little hurt that she's not his first.
But he can't stop watching her, which makes it a little better.
The widow shifts slightly in the diner booth, crossing one lef over the other as she watches his reflection indirectly through the rain-streaked glass. Right on cue, the silhouette inside the sedan stills,
There you are.
Warm amusement curls low in her chest. This? This is flirting to her. Not flowers or awkward dinner dates or whatever normal people might do. This —testing him. Pulling him around the city to see how long he can keep up before making a mistake.
So far, he hasn't. And that's the fun part.
Most men disappoint quickly; they posture. They overestimate themselve. They get sloppy once attraction enters the equation. But Dex? Dex gets sharper.
The waitress drops the check onto the table, and the widow finally slides out of the booth. She leaves cash beneath the mug, before stepping back out into the damp evening air. Tonight feels like an early night —last Thursday, she stayed out until three, drinking at Josie's.
She doesn't look at the sedan again; she doesn't need to. Within thirty seconds, she hears the quiet ignition of the engine behind her. To keep him on his toes, the widow cuts down a side street next, changing direction abruptly enough that most followers would hestitate before committing, but Dex doesn't. The car continues straight instead of turning after her immediately.
Smart man. He's learning —or, at least, he's trying to.
She takes the stars up to the elevated train platform two blocks later and waits near the edge as people crowd around her in damp coats and business attire. The arriving train screams against the tracks loud enough to drown out conversation completely.
At the last possible second, she steps through the doors just before they close. Most followers would miss that intentionally timed entry —but Dex doesn't. He doesn't seem to miss anything.
She catches sight of him boarding two cars down through the reflection in the murky subway window. Baseball cap pulled low. Different jacket, different pants. But same rigid posture.
The widow bites back another smile. Honestly, she's starting to enjoy herself.
She leans back against the subway seat and pretends not to notice him for the rest of the ride. Even when she exits three stops early for no reason other than curiosity. Even when she doubles back through the station once to test whether he'll overcorrect.
He doesn't.
By the time she finally reaches the motel, the city is quieting down around her. She climbs the exteriod stairs slowly, exhaustion dragging pleasantly through her muscles after all her hours wandering the city and playing with her FBI agent. The cheap neon sign buzzes overhead as she unlocks the motel door.
She pauses before stepping inside, feeling his eyes on her from wherever he might be hiding. Then, with a small smirk to herself that she's certain he can see, she steps inside and opens the curtains.
The motel room is dim except for the lamp beside the bed, warm yellow light spilling across stained carpet and peeling wallpaper. She drops her bag near the dresser nefore kicking the door shut behind her, already shrugging out of her jacket as she crosses the room. The familiar feeling of his eyes between her shoulder blades settles something in her.
The widow hides her smile as she disappears into the bathroom, washing the rainwater from her hands and face. When she comes back out, she pulls her hair up out of her face before digging through her bag for cleaner clothes.
One of the many escapades she went on involved a thrift store and new-to-her clothes and shoes. And to the laudromat, to clean those thrifted clothes. Just because she's living in a dingy apartment doesn't mean she's going to be dingy herself.
Honestly, she's impressed by Dex's commitment. Most people would have slipped up eventually. Missed the train, picked the wrong angle, followed too close. But Dex adapts instead; every time she changes something, he adjusts with her like he's learning a language in real time.
It's fun. Dangerous, probably. But definitely fun.
She pulls a new oversized shift over her head before sitting on the edge of the bed, her journal balanced loosely against her knee. The same pen she stole from the cafe twists in her fingers as she starts jotting down the different things she did today —documenting her cat and mouse game with Dex so she can change it tomorrow.
Her phone rings, and her hand goes still. The cheap prepaid phone sits in her hoodie pocket, vibrating against the zipper loud enough to echo through the room.
Unknown number.
A slow smile curls across her mouth before she answers.
"Well," she says lightly, setting her journal on the bed. Then she stands, and moves to stand in front of the open window. "Look at that. He can use a phone."
Silence greets her for hald a second too long. It's not an empty silence though. It's the kind of silence where someone is thinking carefully before speaking.
"How did you know it was me?" He finally asks.
His voice is lower over the phone somehow. Rougher around the edges without the careful posture and eye contact to hold it together. It's not as…masked, she thinks. Like he's not hiding as much because he can hide behind the phone.
Cute.
She leans against the window, peering out into the streets. To him, it probably seems like she's just wistfully staring out the window. But she's looking for him.
"You strike me as the type to overthink phone calls that aren't related to work."
There's another pause. Then he let's out a small, almost breathless chuckle. "You said I should call. I called."
"You did."
Rain streaks down the motel window while she imagines him somewhere nearby —parked car, rooftop, abandoned apartment, who knows? Watching her with that same rigid focus he always has. The thought would frighten someone else; instead, it just makes her feel warm in her chest.
"You also waited eight days," she continues casually, eyes locking onto the apartment building across the street. Come out, come out…,"I was starting to think you didn't like me."
"I like you," he reassures a little too quickly.
She laughs quietly under her breath, and the line goes silent again. He's listening, she thinks. To her laugh, to her breathe.
He definitely likes her. The realization is so unexpectedly endearing that she has to bite back another smile.
"What are you doing?" Dex asks after a moment.
There's something oddly intense about the question. It's not…conversational. It's like he's asking her because he knows what she's doing, and he's testing to see if she'll lie to him. For a moment, she considers it.
"Thinking," she admits, looking back across the street at the different cars parked. None are his.
"About what?"
"Where you are."
The line goes quiet again, and she can practically feel the tension through the phone line.
The widow lets her gaze travel higher this time, past the streetlights and rain-slick fire escapes toward the dark apartment building across the street. Half the windows are blacked out completely. Renovations, maybe. Probably abandoned, more likely. Either way, it's exactly the kind of place she'd pick for surveillance.
And judging by the sudden stillness on the other end of the line, she's getting warmer.
"Where do you think I am?" Dex asks, trying to come off as teasing. It doesn't land.
She leans one shoulder against the motel window frame, phone tucked between her ear and shoulder.
"I think," she says slowly. "You're careful. Too careful to sit in a car where I could spot you."
Another pause stretches between them as her attention roams across the apartment windows again. Searching for something subtle that others wouldn't notice, or would pass off as a trick of the eye. Dex is good, she'll give him that.
She imagines him somewhere across the street, sitting perfectly still while she narrows the city down piece by piece around him. Most people would find all of this unsettling; the stalking, the watching, the implication of it all.
But she mostly finds it fun.
"You've been trying to figure me out," Dex finally concludes.
"Well, yeah." She smiles fainly at the dark windows across from her. "That's usually what people do when they're interested in someone."
The statement hits him hard, clearly, because his breath hitches loud enough to be picked up by the receiver. Her eyes catch briefly on movement on the top floor of the apartment building. Tiny, barely there. A subtle shift where there shouldn't be one.
There you are.
"I could just tell you where I am," Dex offers after a moment, voice quieter now.
"But then I'd stop looking, and the game would be over," she pouts, looking directly into the window that she thinks he's in. "And I love a game, Agent Poindexter. Especially when the other player is just as good as I am."
The line goes silent again, but not an empty silence; its a thinking silence. She can practically feel him staring at her through the scoop now, perfectly still somewhere inside that dark apartment building while he dissects every word she says for hidden meaning.
"Who are you?" He finally asks.
The question lands less like flirting and more genuine curiosity.
She smiles faintly against the window, watching the apartment building closely. "That's a little dramatic for a late-night phone call, Dex."
"You know what I mean."
Yeah, she does. Who are you as in Who trained you? What government body do you work for? He's asking why she moves like she's trained. Why she notices things normal people don't. Why she isn't scare of him or what he's been doing for the last two weeks.
Why she feels wrong in the exact same way he does.
The widow lets the silence stretch purposely before answering, one shoulder still resting slightly against the the window frame. Across the street, the apartment building remains dark and still except for the one occasional flicker of movement she catches in the wrong window.
"I thought you were FBI," she teases, grinning up at the window. Showing him she knows. "Can't figure it out?"
Dex exhale softly through the receiver, and she smiles a little wider. He's irritated, or maybe curious. Or maybe both.
"That's not how it works."
"Sure it is," she replies easily. "You follow clues, you build profiles, stare at people through windows."
The silence that follows is heavier this time. She imagines him realizing exactly how much she's noticed over the last two weeks, and the thought sends bright amusement through her stomach. Maybe he's even realizing she's smiling up at him, right now, as they speak.
"Doesn't this bother you?" He asks, timid. Careful. Like he's waiting for her to tell him to fuck off.
A normal person would say yes. This is insane, and you're insane, and this is creepy. But unfortunately, she is not normal. And she finds herself smiling even more.
"I think," she says slowly, standing up straight and looking directly up at where she's almost certain he's hiding. "That if I was bothered, I would have closed the curtains by now."
She can see him now —not literally, but in her mind. Those pretty hazel eyes staring through the scope. Shoulders tight, jaw clenched, trying so hard not to read too deeply into what she's implying while absolutely reading too deeply into it anyway.
"Besides," she continues with a little shrug. "You're too careful to be dangerous to me."
That one lands exactly how she hoped it would. Silence crashes down hard enough that she knows she's hit a nerve —because he doesn't agree with her.
My biggest fear is having sons, raising them to be respectful and support women only for them to turn around and become weak minded misogynistic pricks because of their peers
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