summary: you can’t seem to remember why you’re here, all bruised and dirty. But you do know one thing.
Your dad was right.
Something changed.
And you did make a new friend after all.
author notes: Hey guys! I am hoping y'all love this first prologue. I know that Apollo is supposed to be a teen in the books/show, but in my version I wanted him to be a little bit older, like mid-20s! The actor that I had imagined was Sam Cliffian, his look in the second movie of The Hunger Games! I also did some research on how some campers get to camp, and I think I wrote a little less action because I still don't know how to write scenes like that. The end might seem rushed but other than that I hope you like it! I’m also so bad at summarizing a chapter. 😬
Tumlow, Missouri
In the middle of Missouri, there is a town known for one thing: runaway cases. Kids trying to escape into a world where they have freedom, instead of going house to house and being bonded by the law. These kids don't even get to experience the full effect of being in a family. Yes, they temporarily feel comfort and love, but just not enough to make their heart beat. They are just at a foster home for a certain amount of time, and once they get comfortable. They are ripped away from their "comfort".
Y/n's comfort never meant anything to her till now.
"Ugh~" You move around on the bed that your temporary foster parents have. You turn to one side and groan again; you use your elbow, bringing it up and pulling it back hard. The bed groans from your intrusions; the springs pop when you move a certain way. The springs feel like needles piercing your side. Hitting the bed for a good amount of time, you stop before your fosters wake up, asking questions you don't want to answer. You want this bed fluffy, but the bed is hard as stone. You roll to one side, then the other, still trying to find some comfort from this bed, but can't find any.
The sensation is so unbearable that you finally decide to sit up and let out a frustrated sigh. You let out an exhale so sharp, you're scared that it was too loud. You bring your hands up to your face, pushing away the strands that lay on your forehead. The thin layer of cool sweat sits on your skin from the exercise of shifting for so long.
You drag your hands back down your face, over your cheeks, and finally your eyes adjust to the darkness of the room. Your foster parents were kind enough to leave a night light in the room for you, since they heard from your case workers that you were scared of the dark. You turn to look at it to your left; it's a fairy, Tinkerbell.
Tinkerbell is spinning, slowly and smoothly, around and around on the small platform above the warm light. Her plastic green dress is shimmering with glitter; the warm light grants her a nice glow, and her wings slowly flutter behind her. She's plugged into the wall, but that doesn't stop you from getting up and going towards her.
You're like a moth drawn to a speck of light, your feet padding on the floor. Your blanket drags across the carpeted floor, like a cape of protection against the darkness surrounding the journey ahead.
You smile a little, loving the warmth that she gives off. Remembering the meaning of Tinkerbell's name, you smile a bit harder. You eventually sit down right beside the outlet. Just admiring the way she spins.
You reach out with your index finger and touch her wings softly. The heated plastic gives a nice touch to your cool finger. You move your finger back and forth, feeling the ridges of her wings.
You are glad that she is here with you. Seeing her here in a place you only knew for a few weeks. She is the closest thing you get to comfort.
During these past few weeks, you haven't heard from your dad. He had stopped visiting in your dreams and talking to you. You thought maybe he had grown tired of you from your conversations and multitasking to take care of you.
You never know how he does it.
How can he visit you in your dreams?
Why can he not come up to you in person?
Is he even alive? Is he even real?
Is this just some sort of mind play that you use to comfort yourself in times when you are desperate for comfort?
So many thoughts for your 12-year-old self. Your father always said you were the only one to ask so many questions.
The last time he came to you in a dream was months ago, before your birthday.
He had told you things were about to change for good. Saying he would see her real soon.
Your mind goes back to that exact dream; you even remember his smell. The dream was so vivid you thought you could even touch him. Maybe you could. But it's been so long.
He had said his name was Apollo; he had finally revealed his name to you. You swore you had heard that name before somewhere, but your mind always went blank. You had felt a little bit closer to your dad.
"I love you, y/n, including that bright smile of yours. You glow like Tinkerbell." Apollo had murmured, lifting his calloused hand to your chubby face. He playfully pinched your cheek, making it a tad rosier than it already was.
In your dream, the two of you are sitting on top of a hill. A tree sits behind you; a willow tree is what your dad had explained. Your back feels the rough ridges of the bark; you see the willow's leaves move back and forth from the gentle breeze that passes through. The sun rays peek in between the gaps, making it lighter in the cave-like tree. Your dad sits right beside you, legs crisscrossed like you.
You swat at his hand, embarrassed that he still treated you like a baby. "Come on, Dad, I am not a baby anymore." You pouted, crossing your arms against your chest; you scooted deeper into the tree. The tangled roots and grass created a pleasant cushion beneath you.
You knew you were still young, but you could make big-girl decisions…right?
"Oh, not a baby?" Apollo changed his facial expression to a more exaggerated seriousness. His eyes narrowed playfully as he crossed his arms and turned toward you.
"Oh yeah, my Tinkerbell is all grown up now. She can make her own decisions, yeah?" Apollo rolls his eyes dramatically, lifting his hand in a theatrical gesture. "Alright then, bell. If you can tell me what it means to get credit right now, then I will consider you an adult." Apollo looks at you and gives you a challenging smile. He leans down towards you and waits for your answer.
You stared at him with wide eyes, scrambling for answers. You uncrossed your arms. "Well, you get credit by doing go-good uh~." You avoided his gaze, scratching mindlessly at your head. "Good deeds. Yeah! By doing good deeds!" You exclaimed proudly, turning towards him, "Just like the video games I play! You know? Like Animal Crossing!"
You were so confident in your answer that you didn't realize that your dad was holding back a laugh. His lips were trembling, trying to contain what he didn't want to release.
"Hey! This is not funny, Dad. I know I got it right. Everyone says Animal Crossing is the key to adulthood." You crossed your arms again, cheeks burning with embarrassment. You leaned back against the rough bark and stared out into the hill-country landscape, trying to hide your flushed face.
Apollo finally let the laugh escape. His eyes watered as he tried to catch his breath, chest heaving, one hand over his chest, trying to compose himself. "Oh, Bell!" He wheezed, leaning back against the tree and reaching out to wrap his arms around you.
"Dad!" You shouted, covering your face with your hands as you tried to wiggle away from him.
"Oh~ I'm sorry, Tinkerbell," he chuckled, still shaking with laughter. "You were just so funny! I loved that thought of yours!" Apollo opened his eyes and quickly slipped an arm around your shoulders, pulling you close. You didn't protest this time, letting your head rest on his shoulders. His laughter softened, but the warmth of it remained.
You knew your answer was wrong, but you still stood by the idea that you were old enough to make your own decisions.
"Y/n, let me be frank with you." He moved his hand up to your shoulder, rubbing gently back and forth. "You will always be my baby. You will always be my Tinkerbell. I can't have you growing up on me too fast." He uttered with such a soft voice that the gentle breeze almost carried it away. He started to stroke your long hair.
"Just because your birthday is around the corner does not mean things will rapidly change for you. We need to take time in the present." Apollo pulled you slightly out of his embrace and gently held your chin between his fingers.
You looked into his blue eyes; his stare was serious but still held a gentle glow you had grown to love. His blond hair rustled in the wind, making you want to reach up and yank it. He held your gaze for a long moment, trying to be a serious parent.
Apollo knew what was coming. He wanted to prepare you. He didn't want this to change who you were. You're his baby; he couldn't hurt you, but he has to. Apollo must keep you safe.
'Maybe this is her growing up,' he thought. 'Close to adulthood, but yet so far.'
"Don't go wishing you were older," He murmured, "Or you'll reap what you sow." He brushed his thumb on your chin, steadying himself before the conversation took a turn he wasn't ready for.
"Sometimes making big-girl decisions takes a toll on you, Bell. I don't want you carrying that yet." Apollo leaned forward and pressed a kiss to your forehead. You smiled softly at the gesture.
"Yeah? You agree?" He asked, pulling back to look at you, waiting for your response.
You gave him a nod, words caught on your tongue. "I agree with you, Dad. No big-girl decisions just yet." You gave him a playful look, smiling at him.
"Okay, Tink, I believe you." He nodded, accepting your answer. He looked out over the fields stretching beyond the hill, shaking his head slightly as he searched for his next words.
"Y/n," Apollo looked down, messing with his fingers. "Since your birthday is coming up, I wanted to gift you something." He took something out from behind his back. You don't even know how, but he did.
'This is a dream after all.' You thought
Apollo pulled out a journal. You looked at him, confused. "How did you even get that here?" You said, pointing at it. The journal itself was leather-bound; on the front cover, there was a sun with 21 rays in the bottom right corner. It was dark brown; the paper had a yellowish type of color but mostly looked white.
"Dreams have a funny way of being spontaneous, y/n." He looks at her, his eyes now shadowed.
Shadowed with what? You don't have a clue.
"This," He holds it up towards her, "is a journal that fills itself with your dreams and visions," Apollo murmured at the end of his sentence. You don't question the last part; actually, you don't question anything.
"How does that work? Do I need to give it a piece of my hair?" You asked, grabbing the journal and sweeping through it. You touch the paper lightly, feeling the smooth layer underneath. "Are you some type of warlock? I heard other people at the home say warlocks exist." You say, looking up at him with bright eyes.
Apollo softly grins at you. His smile is crooked but somehow still looks natural on his face. But his eyes still held that look of something bothering him. You want to ask, but he usually avoids telling you anything about how he feels.
"No, no, none of that, Tinkerbell." Apollo grabbed the journal back. "With this journal, it will jot down every dream that you have, dreams that feel a little too real," Apollo answered, messing with the cover.
"This journal has to be shut the night before you go to bed, and after you wake, you will see what you have dreamt. Leaving it open at night is not an option." He looked at you with seriousness. You immediately nodded your head and grabbed the journal again.
"Whatever dreams you have, no one will understand. Only you can see the words that will be marked." Apollo tapped his fingers against the journal, making an emphasis on his words. "I won't be able to see it, but being your father, you can talk to me about it. When you don't understand, I will be there." He stared at you intently, his gaze never wavering.
You looked at him with the same stare. You are confused, but at the same time you understand him and trust him.
"Thank you, Dad!" You jump up from your spot and bring your arms around his neck. You bury your face in the gap between his shoulder and neck, trying to burn this moment into your mind and senses. He reciprocated the hug. His arms wrapped around your childlike figure. His warmth and cinnamon scent flooded your senses.
Your dreams had never been easy to remember, so you told your dad about them. Some ended up coming true like in the movies, and some ended up not making sense.
There was one time when a mean girl had fallen down a mud pile at the homes; earlier, she had been bullying other children there, including you. When you dreamt it at night, you thought none of it, but the next two days it happened. It was weird; things like that never happened until recently.
So having this journal gifted by your dad made everything easier.
"If I need you, Dad, I will call for you." You pull away from the embrace and look at him. Your smile is big enough to light up a whole forest.
"And I will always answer you, Tinkerbell." Apollo gave a kiss to your forehead and patted your back. You go back to your spot and pull the journal close to your chest.
"Tinkerbell." Apollo pauses; you see his smile drop to a frown. "Things are about to change." He looks at you, his hand gripping your shoulder firmly.
"Things that you will not understand at first, but you will learn eventually." You look at him with even more confusion than before. "Dad, what are you talking about? Is it a new home? Are they keeping me til im 18?" You grab the hand that's on your shoulder and hold it.
You desperately try to make sense of what is happening here.
'What does he mean?' Your eyebrows furrowed
"Dad, why don't you just come here and take me in?" You uttered. You don't want things to change this quickly; you just got here.
'Why doesn't he just come down here and take me with him?' You sadly thought.
"You know I can't, Bell. But for what's coming, you are going to love it." Apollo said, taking your hand more firmly in his hold. However, you didn't like this, so you pulled your hand right back. Feeling angrier and more betrayed, you stood up, gripping the journal tightly in your hand.
Your eyebrows furrowed even more with confusion; you started to pace back and forth. "You will make new friends, learn more about me, and ev-even learn more about yourself." Apollo desperately tried to make you better understand the situation that you are in. He didn't want to see you sad; he didn't mean to dampen the mood. But he had to tell you beforehand what's gonna happen in the days to come.
"No, y-you can't do that! I won't go!" You had yelled, pointing a finger at his seated figure. "You-you…" You stop pacing. You look at him with tears in your eyes; your hands are trembling with anger and fear.
Anger that your dad is not fully explaining this to you. Why would he put you in a situation that you know nothing about? A situation that he has already been through- at least that's what it feels like.
Scared that you will see things that you don't want to see. Things you don't want to experience.
You had already experienced going to different foster homes, having to restart relationships. You have a feeling this will be worse. Worse than being in that terrible stone bed.
"Daddy, please don't make me go," you plead, letting out a sob, your tears now fully falling down your face. "Please, you don't understand, s-something b-bad is gonna hap-happen!" Your hands end up in your hair, tugging at your strands, frustrated. Your chest is heaving; your breathing has rapidly become erratic. You beg like a toddler not wanting to go to sleep.
"No, my love, you have to understand." Apollo stands on his legs. He goes to hold you again, but you move away fast. "This needs to be done for your safety. For you to finally see the family you deserve, the friends you always wanted."
Apollo tried to make you listen, but you would not let up.
"Dad, please!" You shake your head; you feel your dad grab you by the shoulders. "Listen, Tinkerbell, this is for your own good. I will be there, always." Apollo promises, his eyes telling the truth.
He doesn't like seeing you like this; he hates when his children cry.
"Y/n, don't cry. Everything will turn out great in the end. I promise." Apollo kisses your forehead once or twice and pulls you into his embrace. You sob softly into his shoulder, trying to compose yourself.
You feel the dream starting to end, the surrounding land going fuzzy. You stop smelling the cinnamon scent that your dad gives off. "Dad, I- I love you. Please don't leave me!" You dig your head deeper into him, trying to feel him one last time.
"I will see you soon, my Tinkerbell." Apollo declared, pulling your face from his shoulder and looking into your eyes. "I promise you."
You feel his touch getting lighter and lighter. You take one last look at his face, his eyes, his hair.
You nod your head. Having no more words, you close your eyes and accept what is to come.
After that night, you woke with dried tears on your cheeks. You could still feel the breeze from the fields, the warmth of the sun, and your dad. You go to turn on the lights beside you, but stop. There is a journal, the one from the dream.
'How is it here?' You gasp lightly and sit up to look at it.
It is the same design as it was in the dream.
The same yellow-white pages.
The same sun; even the leather is the same.
"No fucking way!"
A choked gasp echoes through the room you're in.
You open your eyes, blinking hard; your eyes try to adjust to the dimly lit room. You let out a groan of pain when you shift. The bed feels like the stone bed that you had a few days ago.
Your back feels the sting of cuts and dried-up blood. You feel your legs sore and burning. You try to lift your head, but your neck stops you. "~ugh~" The pain in your neck is unbearable, so you lie back down.
You lift your hands instead and see a bit of dried blood left. Your left hand is warped; your nails have dirt under them. The sensation is not very pleasant; you left out a hoof.
You don't remember having these scratches. Or any of these pains.
"Where am I?" You softly rasp, your voice sounding like it went through hell. You try to look around you and make sense of where you're at.
You see, to your left, more cots; most are empty and white. Further down, you see a wall with all types of medicine, wraps, hospital tools, and even a jar filled with yellow squares. In front of the cases, there sits a desk with paper files, big piles of them. There are jars of suckers and grandma candy.
A lamp is turned on, lighting up what the nurse had left open. You can't see what it says, but it looks recent, like someone new came in here.
'Maybe me'
You see that its night time; you try to find a clock but don't see it to your left. So you prepare yourself to turn right and give even more pain to yourself. With a low, pained exhale, you turn slowly and see the door to this building, and to the right of the door there is a clock. You lift yourself with your elbows, which somehow have dirt caked on them too.
With a squint, you see that it is midnight. You let out a huff and fall back into the bed.
You try to remember how you got here. However, while you are trying to think of an answer, you hear someone. A sigh is let out to your right. How did you not see him?
You turned your head sharply to the right. You saw a boy.
Maybe the same age as you.
And he was already staring right back, sitting up against his propped pillows.
The boy had curls that were matted together, sticking up in random directions, as if he'd been in a fight. 'He might as well have been'. His hair was brown and dirty; his face had a cut going from the top of his cheekbone to his nose. His face was smudged with dirt, and he had a bruise blooming above his left eyebrow. You felt bad for him, but at the same time.
"He looks like shit." You had rasped out accidentally.
His response wasn't immediate, but he didn't seem offended. He gave a small smile, careful not to disturb his cut even more. He seemed a little nervous. However, with the first words you gave him all night, he felt a bit more comfortable.
Your eyes widened. You tried to sit up and explain yourself, but he beat you to it.
"Oh, I'm not the only shit-looking person here."
Relief washed over you, mixed with uncertainty. You tried to sit up again to get a better look at him. "I'm-I'm really sorry, it's just," a pained inhale stopped the next words from coming out of your mouth. You grab at your side and touch it lightly, hissing through your teeth as your eyes squeeze shut.
"Hey-hey," He sits up as well, "ar-are you okay?" He whispered loudly, then winced. Despite being in pain, he moved his legs over the bed to look at you better. His left hand reached out; you noticed through squinted eyes that he had his hand wrapped just like yours.
"No, no~" You pushed through the pain and propped yourself against the pillows. Your face was flushed now with pain and embarrassment. "No, I mean, yes, I'm fine. Just sore, I guess." You still held on to your side carefully.
"I'm fine, really." You shook your head and turned fully toward him. "You should be worried about yourself. Your arms look like you got scratched by a cat."
He looked down at his arms; his smile turned weary. "No, it's good, just a… few scratches." He looked back up, eyes bright with relief.
"I'm… I'm glad you're awake. That's… good." He stopped himself, eyes widening. "I mean, not good because you're in pain, good because you're not dead." He stammers.
If his eye could widen more, you'd be concerned. His hands came up, shaking back and forth, as he tried to fix his wording. "I-I mean…"
You let out a weak laugh. Your chest hurt, so you slowly stopped.
He lowered his hands and gave you a small grin, fidgeting with his wrapping.
Now that you really looked at him, you saw he was still in the clothes he'd been brought in. Torn, dirt-covered, ripped enough to show an undershirt with even more scratches. Yours are probably no better.
You exhaled softly, adjusting your spot. A smile grew, one of trust. "I know what you mean." You met his brown eyes. "I'm glad you're awake too…and not dead."
He chuckled and stopped fidgeting. He turned his head, looking around the room.
You mirrored him. "Do-do you know where we're at?" You asked, looking out into one of the windows across from you.
Moonlight shines through the blinds, outlining the trees surrounding the cabin. You hear the locusts singing into the night, obnoxious but also comforting.
You turned back to him and found him already looking at you. Uncertain, his cheeks tinted red. He quickly looked away, his eyes darting for something else to focus on.
"I-um- someone had told me what it was when I first got here," He said, staring down at his hands again. "But I was going in and out."
You turn away again. "Oh, well… do you remember some of it?" You asked gently. You look out the window again, fidgeting with the blanket over your legs. You tried to remember how you got here, but everything was fuzzy.
Silence settled for a few seconds, both of y'all searching for answers.
"I think…he had said something about a camp?" He stopped fidgeting. "He said that it's safe here, I- I um…" he looked back up at you. "Do you remember much? After that, I just remember being brought in here, see-"
He cut himself off. "Seeing nothing else? Yeah! Nothing after that. My head is just all over the place." He stammered, rolling his eyes playfully.
You narrowed your eyes. You sensed he was lying, but didn't question it. You didn't want to ruin a potential friendship.
"Hm, okay. I trust you." You stated, nodding your head. You pulled the blanket higher as cold air brushed your skin. Your hair fell over your face, blocking your peripheral.
"I don't remember much." You admitted, fidgeting more. "I just remember being at home…which I'm guessing was a few days ago."
You felt his burning into the side of your head. "I don't even remember arriving here. At a camp of all things." You lift your head, looking around in emphasis. Mumbling, you pouted and looked back at him. He gave you another reassuring grin.
His eyes held a warmth that you'd seen before. You struggled to remember, but you didn't have a clue.
"I'm sorry that you went through whatever you went through." You muttered, "It must have been hard remembering all that; I can't imagine trying to rack my brain for answers."
You looked back at his hand and stared at the same warping.
'Twins,' you had thought.
"Thank you…and I'm sorry too." He gulped, trying to calm himself. Trying not to explode and tell you what he'd seen earlier. "Not remembering can be comforting, but sometimes we have to face things." He avoided your stare, turning back toward the opposite wall. He leaned back into his bed again, getting comfortable.
"Yeah…" you sighed. "We do." You did the same, laying back down. You gently tried to put pressure on your back, but it still hurt. Your breathing grew heavy, but you pushed through.
You lay with your arms on your chest, staring at the wooden ceiling. You turned once again to look at him; he was still staring at the wall.
"So umm…I-uh realized I never got your name." You announced softly, "My name is y/n…if you wanted to know." Your fingers start tapping on your chest, a way to comfort yourself. You worried you were too bold.
He didn't respond at first. You started to turn back toward the ceiling when he finally spoke.
"Y/n~" he tested it on his lips. You quickly turned your head. "Umm, my name is Buck Ryker." He finally turned back towards you, voice soft.
"Buck Ryker." You tested it too. It fell easily from your lips. You smiled. "Is Ryker your last name or middle?" You shifted to lie on your side, grimacing but biting back a sound. You tucked your right hand under your head.
You saw Buck grimace with you, turning to his side as well. "Ryker is my middle name…Fleetman is my last." His crooked smile made him look adorable.
'Umm, what? Random thought…you barely met this boy.' You scolded yourself. 'Damn twelve-year-old mind.'
"Mmm, nice to know. My last name is Ellis," you continued. "I don't see it as very fitting, but it was my mom's last name."
Buck furrowed his eyebrows, wanting to ask about your mom, but decided against it. "I think it fits," he said with a grin. "At least it isn't as long as mine. My mom decided to name me after a baseball player."
Your smile grew. "How many games did he win for you to earn such a name?"
"…he hasn't won any," Buck said seriously.
You giggled, eyes shutting in contentment. "Oh wow…you poor thing!"
After your giggle fit, you sighed. "I think we are going to be matching, Ryker…" You nodded towards his left hand. He looked down, then held it up.
"I guess we are." He smiled at you and pulled it back.
Your eyes grew heavy. You sank deeper into your pillows. You opened your eyes again to see Buck fighting sleep.
You softly hum, "Buck…" you whispered
He opened his eyes slowly. "Yes…"
"Do you think tomorrow will be…" You paused, searching for the right word, your eyes shutting. "Better?"
Rustling sounded from his cot. "I think so…I hope so, y/n." Buck finally shut his eyes too, letting sleep take over his exhausted body. His breathing slowed.
"I hope so too…" You whisper, sleep taking over you.
Buck
Buck honestly didn't remember much from the fight; everything had blurred together, but he knew one thing for certain.
You.
Walking- more like dragging- Buck saw a cabin coming into view. His vision flickered in and out, but he knew he was inside now.
He saw the wall of medical supplies and jars of grandma candies. He saw the warm overhead lamps on and saw the rows of empty cots.
Except one.
A girl was lying down, still like a statue. The closer that he got to her, the more he realized he was being placed right beside her.
He felt blood running down his cheek onto the floor; he felt his right arm burn like hell. "Ugh…pl-please let me go." He groaned, letting out a sad plea.
"Don't worry, bud, we're almost there." The man dragging him assured.
Buck felt himself being dropped down onto the cot, the bed being firm and unforgiving.
"Lee, he needs…" The rest fades out; Buck turned his head to the left. His eyes blinked slowly, fighting the pull of unconsciousness.
He kept looking at her.
He sees that her chest rises and falls. Her hands were bruised and dirty. Her lip was swollen and turning yellow. Her hair looked like it hadn't been brushed for days, but Buck didn't mind.
Somehow, in his foggy mind, she was a light, bright, and warm in this cabin-like med-bay.
His light.
He felt it in his bones that he was supposed to be right here, beside her, despite being injured.
"Pretty…" he had murmured before passing out.
The people in the med bay turned toward him.
"Did he say something?" Lee asked, raising an eyebrow.
Summary: Basically an outline of what this story is about and how the boys are with y/n. And a look into Apollo's parenting (sort of)
Word count: 1,862
Author's note: I really hope you guys like this! Tell me if there are inaccuracies in this, cause i wanna be on point with the show.
Y/n has been at Camp Half-Blood ever since she was 12. She comes to camp every summer; after that, she became an all-year-rounder two years ago. She is the same age as Luke Castellan (19 in the first season and first book)
Her friend Buck had the same kind of story, but with Buck, he had to wait a little while for him to be claimed, maybe a year after he arrived early. He always felt like he was behind on getting claimed by his father; he grew insecure. His thoughts always brought him down, and his confidence was low. He felt unwanted. Y/n would always assure him that he was going to get claimed soon. She would always remind him that she was his and that Buck was hers.
(Hephaestus is dramatic with his claims, in my opinion) During that year, there had an activity where Buck and other kids had to overcome hard obstacles by passing or avoiding getting hit with fiery hammers and stones. When he noticed someone the same age as him miss a step and was about to get hit with flying traps about to squeeze him to death.
He quickly acted fast and heard the counselors trying to stop him, but he ignored them and ran fast over to the little boy. He got on the bridge, the hammers quickly falling from their spots on the top, swinging with scorching hot metal. "He-Hey, move! Go," He yells, waving his hand. The kid stands there frozen, and suddenly feels a heavy chest hit his back. Buck quickly jumps off the bridge to the side and avoids the hammers, barley, all of a sudden, Buck feels his right arm burn, and he yells out. He landed on his back with the kid's weight on his chest, his breath coming out in wheezes.
The counselors quickly helped him to Apollo's med-wing and stopped the activity for the day. Later that night, when he was left alone with his thoughts, his father had claimed him, Hephaestus.
When Y/n was claimed by Apollo, it happened very quickly; it had barely been three weeks. Y/ns was dramatic as well, but not with the dangers of fire. She was acknowledged as having the sun with 21 rays above her head, a golden glow forming around her. Her dyed hair was glowing gold. She heard Apollo's voice over the winds whispering of being his girl. His Tinkerbell.
Now she is 19 and part of the camp counselors' group for the Apollo cabin. Buck is a senior counselor now for his cabin and his siblings. He brags to Y/n about being a "higher" ranking than her; she always swats his head.
She is very close to her father (all his children are, but with her especially) ((I'm trying to fix my daddy issues here )
Her relationship with her father has been very close since she was a baby. He had gifted her a charm bracelet that plays protective melodies when she was a toddler, so she didn't have to go through nightmares alone.
Her father, Apollo, tried to be there for her, but he had obviously needed to go do his godly duties. He would visit her in dreams and spend hours (seconds to her) talking to her, catching her up on what she was missing up in Olympus. He would also help her train and leave her tips on how to fight with arrows and daggers. Apollo later gifted Y/n a dagger when she accomplished a certain thing in camp (help defend her siblings?). Her dagger also had the ability to temporarily blind monsters with the sunlight.
He was always there as a father, always comforting her, guiding her and comforting her.
When Luke came into the picture, it was two years or so after these two events. We all know what happened to him and Annabeth.
During the first year or so of being there, he was introduced to the best friends of camp. Y/n, daughter of Apollo, and Buck "Ryker," son of Hephaestus.
He quickly charmed his way into Y/n's life. Then later on that day, he met Buck; Buck was iffy about Luke. His protective manner over Y/n was increasing; he did not want someone new brought into his relationship with Y/n. However, after a few conversations over dinner, he got to know Luke a little and trusted him. Luke also liked getting to know Buck; he thought of him as a loyal dog to Y/n. Always seeing Buck and Y/n together and doing camp stuff together, even having the same activities together. (He doesn't know how they get away with it)
Luke thought, "Why not try to make new friends, maybe get to know the favorite daughter of Apollo," and that he did. So after their one-day meet, Luke hopped on the train of following y/n around camp. He saw how she was very warm, typical; he also liked how she was easy to talk to about a lot of things. He was always bothered by the fact that Buck would come around during their more intimate conversations. Every time Luke tries to charm Y/n even more, Buck somehow knows it's happening and comes right along. Telling them all about what's happening in his family cabin. Luke would groan internally, and Y/n would look at him and give him a smile. Lightly rubbing his back. Knowing that Luke was a little annoyed.
He loved when she would touch him. Sometimes the touches would come at random; Y/n was just a touchy person.
He would also love the fact that Y/n later became his partner in crime when handling the campers. ( I love the fact that Luke is sort of a parental figure in my head) They are basically like the father and mother figures that these kids need. Plus Buck.
Y/n thought of both Buck and Luke as her partners in babysitting during the summer rounds. She loved them the most. She would always be seen with both of them or one of them each day. On the rare occasion, she would be seen alone, but everyone knows what that means. They know not to bother her.
Both of them tried one day of asking her what was wrong, but she would dreadfully scream at them to get away and leave her alone. Sometimes she would shake her head and say the popular "leave me alone" and walk away to do her duties, trying to clear her head with the camp lessons and activities.
When Y/n is seen like this, she usually has dreams the night before. Terrible ones, some being terrible prophecies or nightmares that haunt her for the rest of the day.
She tried to find comfort in her father, but sometimes Apollo would not reply to her for days afterward. That's why she now tries to clear her mind and help her siblings and campers.
On these occasions, Buck and Luke come together to help her out for the night and make her talk to them. Y/n is always talking to them about talking out their feelings with her, so why not repay her the same action?
Buck and Luke love her so much that the tension in their friendship grows; they do end up fighting sometimes with each other. Forgetting that they themselves are best friends. They are blinded by their crushes on her; Y/n is way too obvious in their actions sometimes.
Buck is known to make gifts for her and her siblings, and the rest of camp. But mostly her. He is very loyal to her, since their trauma. Always standing with her word and with what she does.
He gifts her stuff that she can use for herself, lights that she can put on her bunk, stuff she can carry around to make things easier on her.
Buck loves her for hearing him and helping him with his emotions and always helping him with his injuries.
He loves many things about her. Which we will know later.
With Luke, we already know he loves when Y/n touches him (bro loves physical affection)
Luke is known to yearn for Y/n; he is not on the same level as Buck.
Luke loves it when she comes over to him and starts to ramble, talking about her day or what her siblings did or what Buck did :|. He always loves the smile that adorns her face.
He loves spending time with her even if it's for 5 mins.
He loves giving her his snacks that he sneaks when he starts to get annoyed with the same food at camp.
Both Buck and Luke do not know what to do with their feelings; they always seem to just let them out sometimes. With Luke, his emotions or thoughts get too much, and he has to remind himself that now is not the right time. On the other hand, Buck is loud and proud about his love for Y/n. He wears his feelings and emotions about her on his shoulders.
Y/n loves her friends, always liking the fact that she has kept them for so long. She wasn't very likable in school; she always found it hard to make friends.
She doesn't want to mess this friendship up with both of them.
So she keeps her feelings down, trying not to explode and tell them that her feelings are going haywire.
She finds a way to vent them.
With her father, Apollo.
Now she always tells him after the summer is over because when she defects, she doesn't want to accidentally tell her siblings and later find out they babbled to people about her situation.
Apollo was very protective of her when it came to her talking about the two boys that she had mixed feelings about. He would always try to give advice, but sometimes that advice would be too chaotic for her.
He would sometimes make weird faces every time she would bring up what one of her boys did. Not liking what they did, she is still a baby to him. Even though she is 15.
She loves her father a lot, so she doesn't say anything; it's typical father stuff.
He would also sometimes get mad at the influence that Y/n had around her. Not liking the way some other campers would teach stuff.
But he treasures her too much to say anything; sometimes he would give her advice leisurely, so he is not bold or fast with his comments.
Y/n treasures her loved ones very much.
She just hopes this stays in a loop of fun and summer heat.
But what happens when she gets older and starts to get darker nightmares and prophecies and starts to feel like something is coming to camp?
Will she be able to balance her recurring nightmares and keep her feelings at bay? Or end up tilting the balance on her scale, ending up with a dark conscience going into a dark space of never-ending telepathic messages from something that is familiar but also strange.
summary: Reader and her friends have been here for a good number of years. During these years, she has grown close with them, oblivious to the fact that they really like her (more than friends).
Guided by her father Apollo, Y/n finds herself at a camp where there are such things as centaurs, menaturs, and all other uars. Things she finds hard to believe, even though she has been talking to her father since she was 5. There she meets a boy named Buck Ryker Fleetman, a boy arriving on the same day as her, going through some of the same similar events. Both are now trauma-bonded and have been best friends since. Buck holds the title of knowing Y/n longer than Luke has, rubbing it in his face.
Two years later, new people arrive: Luke Castellan and Annabeth Chase. Luke had kept to himself most of the time, but one day he decided that he wanted to meet Y/n and be closer to her. So he did just that and entered into the infamous trio of camp. Now, being 19 years old, they all have something happening. The three are now head counselors and have a full schedule. They barely have any time to breathe, let alone talk.
But as these days progress, y/n has been suffering from nightmares that claim her sleep, prophecies that have haunted her since being young. With this new strain of stress and the weight of being a head counselor, can she balance this on one scale, or does she risk ending up on one end with the loss of her loved ones?
playlist-
~Pool by Samia~
~400 Lux by Lorde~
~Puppy Love by Paul Anka~
~How Deep is Your Love by Mitski (cover)~
~You Are My Destiny by Paul Anka~
~500 Miles by Peter, Paul and Mary~
chapters:
headcon of story
prolouge
chapter one
Dividers by @strangergraphics
Writing a story cause i was motivated. Hope you like it. Its 12am right now i will do the playlist for this story later and the title. Hope you like the headcon!
: ̗̀➛ Summary: Having history with Bullseye might seem dangerous, but it’s not that bad. After all, he doesn’t remember you. However after a few “coincidental” encounters with him, you realize that he might remember more than you think.
AKA: Your ex-boyfriend, Dex, doesn’t remember dating you and finds himself drawn to you.
: ̗̀➛ Word Count: 19.3k
Warnings/Tags: Amnesia, lovers to kinda enemies to reluctant friends to lovers, reader is very conflicted on how to deal with Dex, the most unintentional intentional stalking ever, canon typical violence (heavy emphasis on this), some events of the show may happen sooner/later depending on how I need them to occur for plot reasons, eventual happy ending, don't be surprised by grammatical errors I proofread this at 3 AM
: ̗̀➛ A/N: Hiiii I’m back and writing for a new character, so forgive me if anything seems ooc. I gotta find my footing. Anywayy enjoy :)!
Masterlist
Mayor Almost Killed After Bullseye Escapes Prison
You blink slowly at the headline, wondering if the headache you had earlier that day was causing hallucinations. Clicking on the article proved that no, you are not hallucinating and Benjamin Poindexter was somehow on the street again.
Not that you are going to do anything about it. That ship has sailed, and you are okay leaving that ship—or more accurately, shipwreck—behind.
You reread the headline with a sense of detachment, only really noting that the caption says he used his teeth as projectiles to escape. You almost laughed at the sheer absurdity of it, but the reality of the situation stifled any real amusement.
You put your phone away, rubbing your temples before attempting to move on with your day.
The keyword being “attempting.”
It feels as though it had been ages since you last saw him, mostly because it has been. While it was true that it had been years, and you should’ve moved on long ago, the reality was more complicated.
No matter how much you tried to differentiate them, Dex and Bullseye, you could never entirely let go of him, any version of him. You didn’t dare to scroll back too far in your photos, and you couldn’t bring yourself to delete them. It was a twisted longing you held for a time that was long gone.
So maybe saying you’ve “moved on” is a bit of a stretch, but you haven’t actively sought him out. Part of you fears that he may look at you like a stranger, and you don’t know if your heart can take that.
So, as a result, you've kept your distance.
You didn’t try to visit him, but you thought about it. After hearing of the incident with Fisk and Daredevil, the real Daredevil, you wanted to.
You wanted to check on him the second it happened. You wanted to ask him what he had been thinking.
However, you never got the opportunity.
Sure, you had loved him. You had loved him so much that somehow his name still lingers on your tongue despite the fact he no longer knows yours.
But he killed so many people, so many good people. You did not know all of the intricate details of his life; you still don’t. Sometimes you wonder if carries guilt for those he wronged, or if he can even remember them. You certainly did. You could barely bring yourself to look Seema in the eye after he killed Ray.
You mourned Dex, yes, but you felt awful about it. The people who knew your history with him never directly asked, but you could see the question in their eyes. How? How did you love somebody like that?
It was so easy back then, back when he loved you. You wanted to believe it wasn’t all fake. You aren’t sure if it’s possible for somebody to pretend to love a person the way he loved you.
Being realistic though? You have no idea. You never got that closure, and it’s too late to get it. You can’t delude yourself into thinking that Dex loved you without faults or even understand the true scope of his adoration.
It was painful, so, so painful. It was an agonizing ache that you could never find a remedy for. The only remedy was him, but he couldn’t be both the solution and the problem.
Years have gone by and you still haven’t seen him in person. Sometimes you catch yourself staring at the blurry photos that you so rarely get to see. Now, they’re more common, courtesy of his time as Bullseye. However back then, he wasn’t making headlines inside a prison cell.
You exhale, grabbing your keys before exiting your apartment. You lock the door behind you apathetically, staring blankly through the door knob.
Ever since he killed Foggy Nelson, he had been haunting you, metaphorically speaking, of course. You went from not hearing a peep from him (not that he’d contact you anyway) to hearing him kill at least a dozen people in a single night.
You miss the peace his silence brought.
Him killing Foggy reminded you of that pain his presence brings, and after his recent failed attempt on Fisk?
You might have to block the word “Bullseye” from your phone.
Sad thing is, for a split second you found yourself rooting for him. You loathe him for what he’s done, but if he had succeeded in killing Fisk?
Well, that death certainly wouldn’t be on your conscience.
You're thrown out of your thoughts by your phone vibrating. Checking the caller ID, you frown at the unfamiliar number. Clearing your throat, you answer the call.
“Hello?” You greet cautiously.
“Hi.” A woman responds, her voice is unfamiliar. She confirms your identity, simply asking your name.
Hesitantly you nod, “Yes.” You sound more confident than you feel, “May I ask who this is?”
She releases an exhale, “I… We haven’t met. I believe you met Matt recently, right?”
You nod slowly, “That's correct.” You shift uncomfortably. You weren’t sure if it was a good sign that one of Matt’s friends is calling you.
After all, the circumstances you met him were… less than ideal.
“I’m Karen. I’m a friend of his.” She introduces. You nod slowly, and the name sounds familiar. Matt talked about her briefly, back when explaining his history with Nelson, Murdock, and Page.
“He has mentioned you.” You stop walking. “Is everything okay?” You frown.
Karen is silent for a moment. “You see the news last night?”
You inhale sharply, not caring if it was audible. Would Matt tell her about your past relation with Bullseye? You don’t think he would with strangers, but you aren’t sure with Karen. “With Fisk?” Your mouth feels dry.
“Yeah,” she whispers, “yeah, did you hear about Matt?”
You get the sense that something is wrong. “No… I didn’t—” you swallow, “I never read the article. I just saw the headlines.” You grimace.
“Oh,” Karen doesn’t sound surprised, only fueling your theory that Matt told her your history with Bullseye. “Well, he was there that night, at the gala.” She begins, and you feel your stomach churn in anticipation.
“Shit, is he okay?” Just your luck for Matt and Bullseye to both be trouble.
“He’s alright now.” Karen reassured you, “But last night he was the one who took the bullet meant for Fisk.” She sounds (reasonably) upset about this.
Your jaw drops slightly, and you take a moment to recompose yourself before speaking again. You had assumed that something must have happened for Bullseye to miss his target. “He what? Why would he do that?”
There’s a few things you know about Matt. One of which is his longstanding history with Fisk, not to mention, his hatred of Bullseye. You two are similar in that regard. Thus, it begs the question of why the hell he’d not only let Bullseye shoot him, but save Fisk.
“I…” Karen seems to be thinking about the right thing to say. “You’d have to ask him that yourself. Part of me wants to ask him too.” She huffs softly.
You hum, “Yeah,” you reply lamely, “I can’t imagine why he’d do something like that.”
“It’s Matt.” She replies, as if that’s enough of an explanation.
The two of you are silent for a moment, and you wait for the inevitable change in topic. You know where this is going. You know Karen was friends with Foggy, so it makes sense she has questions about you.
“I was wondering if we could meet, later tonight maybe? If you’re available.” She asks, and she sounds friendly enough. You imagine the invasive questions will come later.
“Sure.” You reply dryly, “You have a place in mind?”
“Yeah, I can text you the address.” She sounds just as enthusiastic as you do. “I…” She starts slowly, “I’m sorry about all of this.”
You shake your head, offering a small smile she cannot see, “It isn’t your fault.”
She remains silent for a beat, “Well, I’ll see you later then,” she says your name. You bid her goodbye before hanging up. You slowly put your phone away, taking a deep breath.
Matt has always had an interest in your history with Bullseye. He never pushed you, but you could see that he wanted to. You don’t blame him, after all, Bullseye killed his best friend.
It only makes sense that Karen would share that curiosity. You don’t blame her either, but you are so tired of being tied to him.
You walk into the diner just across the street from your building. You weren’t planning on getting breakfast, but after the sequence of events of the past hour?
It’s probably a good idea to prepare for the day.
You frown, looking at the boarded up windows of the address Karen gave you. It reads "Josie’s" in bolded letters. You haven’t been there yourself, but you knew of it. It’s where Foggy died.
You never really knew much about Foggy. Matt doesn't like to talk about him much. The only time he ever talked about him, he told you that Foggy would've liked you. He didn't elaborate as to why, and you didn't want to push him. He never mentioned it again.
You look around the building to see if anybody is nearby, and jump slightly when the door swings open. You stare at the woman for a moment, and you recognize her. You look each other up and down appraisingly. Her stare is less judgmental, and more asserting, as if trying to see whether you’re a threat.
“Hello,” you smile disarmingly, “Karen, was it?”
She attempts to mirror your smile, “Yeah,” she steps aside for you to enter. You watch as she closes and locks the door behind you.
She goes to take a seat at the bar. You follow slowly, still standing. The two of you don’t talk for a moment. “I’m assuming you’ve talked with Matt?” You begin the conversation. You won’t be the one to bring him up.
She huffs, “Not as much.” She sounds bitter about it. You nod slowly, taking the seat next to her. You both stare blankly ahead. “I… I had a couple questions I was hoping you could answer.” She begins.
You look to her, and she seems apologetic, but not enough to stop. You nod slowly, “I figured.” You tap your fingers idly. “If it’s about Bullseye. I really don't know anything.”
She furrows her brows in disbelief, “Nothing?” She turns to face you, “Forgive me, but I find that hard to believe.” Her words weren’t unkind, just honest.
You look at her for a moment before taking a deep breath. “I haven’t known him for years.” You tell her. “Sometimes I wonder if I knew him at all.”
She is silent at that, and it almost feels pitiful. She waits a minute before asking her next question, “When was the last time you saw him?”
You scoff, “I… I don’t know. That night Fisk got married maybe?” You look to her, “I haven’t exactly wanted to see him.”
She seems to understand that, nodding slowly, “Well, I can’t say I blame you.”
You smile wryly, not having a response for that.
“Has he attempted to contact you in the past? After he went to prison?” She asks, leaning closer to you.
You chuckle, “No,” you shake your head, “he won’t.”
She narrows her eyes, frowning, “How can you be so sure?”
You blink at her, and her intrigue is obvious. You haven’t even told Matt why Bullseye will never contact you. He just knows that you are oddly certain that he never will. It’s not that you like hiding it. It’s simply not something you bring up or find joy in discussing. It hurts less that way.
“He doesn’t know who I am.” You reveal. Karen stares at you, silently prompting you to continue. “After that night, I think during their fight Fisk slammed his head into a wall… or something like that.” You shrug, crossing your arms.
“I was informed he had some type of amnesia. He doesn’t know who I am.” You lean against the counter, a spark of wry amusement shoots through you seeing Karen’s astonished expression. “It’s not the worst ending I could’ve gotten, I suppose. I could be dead.”
“Wait, wait, wait,” Karen holds her hands up, “he forgot you? Everything about you?”
You purse your lips, “I guess. I think he forgot some others too. I’m not sure who. They didn’t really let me ask too many questions.” You clench your jaw.
“Do you think there’s a possibility he does remember you?” She asks hesitantly.
You chuckle, “I… I really don’t know. They said there was a possibility that he’d remember over time, but not to count on it. He hasn’t ever looked for me, so I’d say that the chances are pretty slim at this point.”
Karen takes time to process your answer, and you prop your elbow on the table to lean on. “I am sorry you went through that.” Her words are spoken carefully.
You give her a small smile, “It is what it is. It’s probably for the best. I’m not exactly his biggest fan, and I know you aren’t either.”
She lets out a humorless huff at your comment, “That’s one way to put it.”
Your smile falls, “I’m sorry too. I know he has caused… irreparable damage.”
She nods slowly, “It’s not your fault.” She gives you a grateful yet resolute smile.
You aren’t sure how to respond to that, so you settle for a nod. Neither of you are “okay” with anything that has occurred, but you have each learned to accept the circumstances.
“Did Matt tell you?” You ask.
She tilts her head slightly, “Which part?”
“My…” you nod to her slightly, “My history with...” You trail off. The words are barely audible, but you know she heard them.
She purses her lips, something akin to guilt filling her eyes, “Something like that…” She says, and she doesn’t elaborate.
You hum noncommittally, “I figured. I don’t blame him for that.” You swallow, “You think that he’d tell anybody else?” You look towards her dubiously.
She sits up straighter, “No, no. Matt wouldn’t do that.” She vehemently shakes her head. “I may not always understand the choices he makes, but I know he wouldn’t reveal something that personal with other people.”
You nod slowly.
As if sensing your disbelief, she tacks on another statement: “He wouldn’t reveal anything that could put you in danger.”
You give her a weak smile. “You talk to him yet?”
She shakes her head, “Not yet.” She pauses for a moment, “Probably later though. There’s a lot we need to discuss.”
You chuckle, “You and me both.”
The two of you sit in silence for a moment, and it’s less awkward than the initial introduction. You find yourself relaxing a bit. “Do you think he could remember?”
Karen frowns contemplatively at the question, “Maybe." She doesn’t sound hopeful at the prospect. “Do you want him to?”
You chuckle, “Maybe once.”
“But not anymore?” She prompts softly.
You shake your head, “No,” you match her softness, “not anymore.”
You felt lighter after talking with Karen.
It was… nice. Something about the way that she handled the whole ordeal made you think that, on some level, she understood. She didn’t hate Bullseye any less, but she understood your pain.
The two of you agreed to meet more often, and not due to your mutual friend getting shot by your ex-boyfriend.
The weeks continued on as expected, and slowly dragged into months. As time went on, Fisk began to take more drastic action to “help make New York safer.” You scoffed each time that man made a new headline.
The ones that truly interested you were the vigilante headlines. The Anti Vigilante Task Force continued to see a lot of push back from heroes like Daredevil. Occasionally, you saw that even the Punisher and Spider-Man would aid in the fight against them.
The vigilantes were a strange topic for you.
Working in Hell’s Kitchen for as long as you have, you’ve developed a fondness for its resident hero. You haven’t encountered him before, but Karen has told you about him.
You harbor substantial respect for him. You had followed him briefly in his earlier days, and held a passing interest. However, you never researched him thoroughly.
Not until Dex, at least.
You had only found out after the whole ordeal that he had been masquerading as the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen himself.
Somebody who had followed more closely might’ve realized that something was wrong when “Daredevil” started murdering people. You thought your lifestyle to be so distant from the chaos back then that you hadn’t truly thought about it.
After all, it’s not like your (at the time) boyfriend going around killing people in Daredevil’s suit sounds like a reasonable conclusion. Absurd didn’t even begin to describe it.
After the whole Dex situation, you had done more research. Now, you’d even dare to say that you’re a fan of Daredevil, the real one.
So meeting him in person is both exciting and terrifying.
“Hi.” You greet lamely, frozen in your spot staring at Daredevil himself standing in your apartment. “Is… there something you need?” You feel your heart sink at the idea that he may think you are still connected to Dex. You desperately hope that’s not why he’s here.
“No,” his voice sounds rough, and you can’t tell if it’s intentional for his identity, or if he normally sounds like that. “I came to check on you.”
You furrow your eyebrows, “On… me.” You slowly point to yourself.
“Yeah,” Daredevil sounds vaguely amused, like he’s in on a joke you’re not. He doesn’t smile though.
“Is this something I should be worried about?” You sigh.
“Just keep an eye out.” Daredevil continues, not helping you at all.
“Are we talking police? Task force? General criminals?” You cross your arms, narrowing your eyes at Daredevil. You feel your heart start to speed up.
“The first two most likely.” He responds.
Your lips part, surprised, “I haven’t committed any crimes, and I’m not doing anything vigilante-like.”
“They don’t care about that.” Daredevil shakes his head.
“Then what about me do they care about?” You ask incredulously.
Daredevil is silent for a moment, “You know Murdock?”
Your blink, surprised, “I… Yeah, but I haven’t seen much of him recently.”
Daredevils looks at you expectantly, “They might come for you to get to him.”
“I don't know where he is though.”
“That doesn’t matter to them.”
You both stare at each other for a long moment, “Do you know where he is?” You ask, and you can tell Daredevil didn’t expect that question. “You— I don’t know if it would be better for me to know where he is, but if you know, could you tell me whether he is okay?”
Daredevil stares at you, and you see his sharp posture soften ever so slightly. “He’s alright.”
You give Daredevil a small smile, “That’s good… What about Karen too? I imagine you paid her a visit as well.”
Daredevil lips twitch minutely as if you said something humorous, “She’s doing well.”
“Good.” You nod, “If you see them again, could you tell them I’m available if they need help and wish them well?”
Daredevil nods slowly, pacing around your apartment. “I can’t be everywhere at once,” he stops before your window, “but if you ever feel that something is off, call Murdock, he can contact me.”
Good to know that Matt has Daredevil on speed dial, as crazy as that sounds.
“I will, thanks Daredevil.” You smile at the vigilante. He offers another nod to you.
“And for the future,” he grabs the sill, “you might want to lock your windows.” He smirks, lightly tapping the glass, and leaping out before you get the chance to respond.
You are left standing in your apartment excited, terrified, and confused in that order. It’s not every day a vigilante pays you a visit in your home, so the rush of excitement is expected.
Then comes the dread.
As cool as Daredevil is, him paying your apartment is a bad omen. What could you possibly do against the police? Call Daredevil and pray that he finds you before you get stuffed into one of their tanks and “vanish under mysterious circumstances?”
The confusion is more akin to general shock than anything. How does Daredevil know where you live? How does Matt know Daredevil? Did Matt tell Daredevil to go look for you?
All of these are questions won’t get answered, at least not anytime soon.
You debated contacting Matt to ask what just happened, but ultimately settled for a single text.
Please don’t die.
He doesn't instantly respond, but you don’t expect that from him. You walk over to the window Daredevil exited through, locking it.
Perhaps it’s best to listen to the vigilantes advice.
Outside of locking your window (thanks to Daredevil), your routine didn’t change. Sure, your paranoia may have spiked through the roof, but you’d rather be paranoid than dead.
It was only a few days later when you almost called Matt for the first time. In fact, you had half-hysterically wondered if Daredevil truly was a bad omen and you were cursed.
You had gone to your normal coffee shop before heading off to work. The same coffee shop you’ve gone to for nearly a decade now. You had changed nothing in that routine. Stepping inside, you smile at the barista who greeted you by name and confirmed your regular order.
It was, by all accounts, an average morning.
And right now with New York’s current condition? Average was perfect. You had stepped aside to wait for your order, scrolling to see the recent news. A few task force busts, nothing to write home about. When they called your name, you walked up, thanking the barista before turning around to leave, taking a slow sip of your drink.
Then you froze.
You wish time had frozen or slowed down like in the movies because you needed at least one minute to process what you are seeing. Your drink went forgotten in your hand as you openly stare at Bullseye walking into the coffee shop.
Against your will, you note his appearance. He looks good, something you begrudgingly admit. He isn’t in his suit, but you can practically see a danger warning over his head. Noting the scar on his face, you find yourself unable to look away for what feels like an eternity but what is realistically less than ten seconds.
Dex had always been observant though.
As if sensing your gaze, his eyes meets yours.
You think your heart may combust from the sheer speed it pounds against your ribcage. He doesn’t outwardly react when he looks at you. There’s no softening in his eyes. His posture remains casual, but not in a friendly way. His face remains unchanged.
In his eyes, you’re just another stranger who might’ve recognized him as Bullseye.
It’s that realization that allows you to tear your eyes away from him; the action feels long and laborious.
You don’t immediately fumble for your phone. Part of you wants the reassurance that somebody could protect you if Bullseye decided that you looked at him the wrong way. You can only imagine how he interpreted your stare.
With measured steps, you make your way to exit the shop. The glaring issue being that you need to pass him to do so. You make a deliberate point to not make eye contact.
As you get closer, you realize with a horrifying twist in your gut that he is still looking at you. Not directly, but in the same way you’re still looking at him. It’s more of an awareness of his surroundings rather than blatantly staring. He looks straight ahead, but you can tell his focus is on you.
You try not to relish the fact you can somewhat read him. You shouldn’t be surprised that his mannerisms never changed.
His awareness doesn’t necessarily feel dangerous in nature, but you aren’t willing to try and deduce exactly what he is thinking about.
As you get closer to him, your heart begin to thump in your ears, quick and frantic. You try not to seem too hasty to escape him, for the last thing you want is his attention. The chances he’d take notice of you in more than a passing interest are low, but you aren’t willing to give him material to work with.
You open the door, and it chimes on your way out. The sound doesn’t seem as friendly as it usually does. When it closes behind you, you let out a shaky exhale before walking to your job.
On the way there, you debate whether you should contact Daredevil via Matt. Is this beneath Daredevil’s focus? He has bigger things to focus on, not you panicking over seeing your killer ex-boyfriend who doesn’t remember you.
Additionally, Bullseye didn’t even do anything. Sure, he stared at you, but you had technically been staring first—not that you're defending him. He is certainly dangerous, that you would not dispute, but his eyes didn’t light up with recognition upon seeing you.
You still weren’t sure how to feel about that, but you won’t deny that it feels safer that way. As the day continued, you didn’t hear about Bullseye killing anybody in a coffee shop and took that as a good sign.
In the end, you don’t contact Matt.
Part of it is, ironically, fear. You don’t want to risk Matt being put in more danger by making him contact Daredevil, and you don’t want to contact Daredevil over you overthinking.
Besides, he’s bound to run into Bullseye eventually. They certainly know one another. You doubt asking Daredevil to harass Bullseye over coffee is a productive use of anybody’s time, so you don't.
You avoid your normal coffee shop for a few days after your anticlimactic reunion. However, you eventually cave and go back because you miss the coffee, and you tell yourself that’s definitely the only reason.
The first day you return there, you swing your head over your shoulder every five seconds. The barista making your drink gives you a mildly concerned glance when they hand it to you.
You attempt to reassure them with a smile, but it feels more similar to a grimace.
The following days start out similar, but you eventually settle back into your normal routine. It becomes evident about a week later that your chance encounter with Bullseye was simply that: a chance encounter.
Of course, after settling down, fate throws a curveball at you and sends you into a panic. That curveball is him showing up to the coffee shop again.
You’re caught off guard, but much more prepared than you were the intial encounter (if you could even call it that). You don’t stare at him, for one. In fact, you don’t dare to breath in his direction. And what do you do in order to avoid looking at the man who you once loved, the man who is now a killer, served time in prison, and no longer remembers your face?
You stare blankly at the barista making your drink, or more accurately, through them.
“Could I have a black coffee?” You pretend you don’t hear his words. He doesn’t sound different. He sounds relaxed—well, maybe relaxed isn’t the word, self-assured would be more accurate.
You don’t entirely listen to the rest of his order. You try not to feel bothered by additional evidence that parts of him haven’t changed. First the mannerisms, now his taste.
You kind of hate it.
You only start giving your attention to him again when he begins to head in your direction. You cross your arms and avoid his eyes, hoping your closed-off body languages discourages conversation. You pray that maybe he’d sit down and wait for his name to be called. Instead, he decides to wait for his coffee while standing, just like you.
Great.
You tell yourself not to make any sudden movements, and then toss the irrational thought aside. Just act normal. It shouldn’t be difficult, it’s not like he should mean anything to you anymore.
You notice him shift offhandedly in your peripherals. He changes his stance, taking his hands out of his pockets. You wait to see if he does anything else. He doesn’t.
It’s odd.
You don’t feel the weight of his stare on you, but you are feel the prickling sensation of being judged.
A minute of silence passes by before you can’t take it anymore. You pull out your phone, not to use, but to appear distracted. You debate opening Matt’s contact. Once was a coincidence, twice could be the start of a patten. You shift apprehensively on your feet.
Then you make the mistake of looking up.
Your eyes find him, and you take in how normal he looks for a moment. If you didn’t know better, you’d think he was another stranger starting his day with a cup of coffee.
Of course, since he’s not a normal stranger, he turns his attention to meet your eyes. Instead of being across a room, this time you two are less ten feet apart.
Part of you wonders if he was waiting for you to make eye contact.
Once again, neither of you saying anything. However, unlike last time, you see his face shift minutely. Last time, he was indifferent.
This time, he is contemplative.
You don’t have to think about what he is pondering. Most likely, he’s trying to figure out how (or if) he recognizes you. You don’t expect him to remember you from all those years ago, but he could remember you from that initial encounter getting coffee.
The exchange could barely be called an exchange, but Dex had always been observant like that.
Then, as if finishing his assessment of you, he reacts. His head dips down slightly. It could be a nod of acknowledgement to test the waters, but it could simply be a shift in posture.
For your sanity, you choose to believe it’s the latter.
Also for your sanity, you pretend you don’t see the gesture.
Hearing your name called for your drink could truly be considered a blessing. You immediately break eye contact with him before grabbing your drink and leaving. You’re offhandedly note that you were moving fast, almost suspiciously so, but you can’t bring yourself to care too much.
Your encounter with him felt noticeably worse the second time around, and not just because he was physically closer.
You left with a sense of forboding that something about that second encounter was what sealed your fate. Why?
Because third time around, he spoke to you.
You had been more prepared the third time, but hearing his voice directed at you?
You wanted to yell at him for forgetting everything you went through. You wanted to stare so intensely at his face that he would be incapable of forgetting you ever again. You wanted to burden him with the same pain you endured for far too long. You wanted to discover every difference between him and the man you knew. You wanted to ignore him and pretend that you’ve never heard the name “Bullseye.”
“The coffee is good, isn’t it?”
You slowly turn to face him, only to find he is already looking at you. Once your eyes narrow on him, he turns his head to face you.
“Yep.” You keep your reply short, detached.
He nods, his lips twitching microscopically as if he found your monosyllabic response amusing. You frown slightly, and you find yourself theorizing what he could possibly be thinking about. He probably thinks that you know that he’s Bullseye and is enjoying tormenting you.
Technically, not wrong.
“Have you tried their pastries here?” He continues, and you take a deep breath.
“Once or twice.” With him.
He turns his body to face you, rather than just his head. “And? Find them any good?”
It’s nigh impossible to avoid looking at him now, “Yeah, passable.”
His smirk widens, “Such high praise.” He drawls sarcastically.
You give him an unimpressed look, not deigning to respond.
You can see the gears turning in his head, trying to figure out if you’re usually this standoffish or if you just really hate him.
Thankfully, before he could come to a conclusion, your name was called. Grabbing your drink, you turn around and face him. His face is frustratingly blank. You see his eyes flicker to the coffee cup in your hands before meeting your eyes again.
You’re the first one to break eye contact, not bothering with goodbyes. You suppress the desire to look at him when you exit.
At this point, you should’ve said something to Matt, even Karen. You also should’ve stopped going to that coffee shop. It’d solve all of your issues. Plus, you got what you wanted. You now have confirmation that Dex no longer remembers you. You know that he just sees you as an apprehensive stranger at the coffee shop you both frequent in early mornings. You have your answers.
But you don’t stop going to the coffee shop.
You justified it by telling yourself if he wanted to hurt you or anybody in that shop by now, he would’ve done so already. Bullseye showing up to the same coffee shop, while terrifying, changes nothing. It’s something normal, and you remember how much Dex craved normalcy.
Part of you wonders if he still unconsciously wants that, even after his life has gone to shit.
“Hello,” you smile at the barista. Usually you follow a script when it comes to this shop: greet each other, confirm your usual order, you pay, and you thank the barista. Occasionally there is some small talk thrown in there, but aside from that, there is little deviation.
“Oh, hey, your friend already ordered for you.” She smiles at you, and you can see a teasing glint in her eyes.
You blink, “What?”
She turns her head over to the pickup counter, and you follow her gaze.
You sigh, of course.
“We aren’t friends. I barely know the guy.” You tell the barista, pulling your card out.
She purses her lips, “Uh,” she looks between the two of you, “he already paid for you.”
“I don’t want anything from him.”
She nods slowly, “I can ‘forget his order’ if you want.” She winks at you, and you have never felt more grateful.
You smile at her, “That’d be great.” Your smile grows as an idea pops into your head, “Actually, today can I get the vanilla latte?”
She smiles, “Something different?”
You chuckle, “Yeah,” you pay for the drink, apologizing for your “friend” inconveniencing her, but she waves it off casually.
Standing in your normal spot, you can tell he is watching you. You can also tell that he is attempting to hide that fact.
“Was the order wrong?”
You look at him in the corner of your eye, “Yeah,” you lie, he got your order right, but telling him that would not help you.
He tilts his head slightly, as if trying to understand how he got it wrong. He releases a quiet huff, offering a fake smile. “I’ll remember for next time then.”
You give him a placating smile, “Don’t worry about it. I order differently based on how I’m feeling.”
He hums in understanding, slowly nodding. “Do you?”
“Yep.”
“So what mood is the vanilla latte?”
“My current one.” You reply dryly.
His eyes light up intrigued and mildly amused by your answer, and you get the distinct impression that your attempts at being aloof have had the opposite effect you desired. For a moment, you think he gets the hint and stops talking. It makes you wonder, was he always this talkative with new people?
When you met, he wasn’t exactly forward. There was never really one instance where either of you had to explicitly start conversations like this. It was continued exposure over time, and so it didn’t feel as forced when your relationship had progressed.
“Black coffee and a blueberry muffin for Tony.” The barista calls out.
You furrow your eyebrows as he walks to the counter to pick up the coffee. Who the hell is Tony?
When he turns around, he blinks twice at you, “Something wrong?” He feigns innocence.
“No.” You grumble, and he goes to grab a few napkins. It was wishful thinking for that to be the end of the conversation.
“If you say so,” he sounds way too pleased for your liking. He breaks a piece off the muffin, taking a bite. You see his eyebrows shoot up slightly, “You were right, their pastries are passable.” He mocks your words from your last encounter.
You nod slowly, watching cautiously as he breaks off another piece. Neither of you say anything, and you find yourself wishing, once again, that he’d leave.
He breaks a bigger chunk off the muffin, and you cross your arms, avoiding his eyes.
“Want some?” He offers.
Why? Why does this happen to you? You turn to him, and his hand is holding the piece of the muffin. It’s a good chunk of it too.
He must sense your hesitation because he gives you what he must interpret as an appeasing smile, “It’s not poisoned if that’s what you’re worried about.” He doesn’t move, still offering the piece to you.
“It’s not.” You reply honestly. Poison doesn’t seem to be Bullseye’s style. “I’m not hungry anyway.”
He doesn’t immediately retract the offer, “Hm, breakfast already?”
“Yeah,” you lie.
The two of you stare at each other, and you have a hunch that you each know the other is full of shit.
“Suit yourself,” he shrugs, and you watch as he opens the napkin and places the piece onto it. His eyes flicker up to you, and you raise an eyebrow.
“What are you doing?” You find yourself asking before considering whether it’s actually a good idea.
“If breakfast wasn’t enough.” He takes a slow sip of his coffee, tapping the counter the napkin rested on, pushing it closer to you. You furrow your eyebrows, watching as he simply leaves. You don’t hold back your dumbfounded stare as he exits the shop, and you catch the smug vestige of a smirk on his face.
What the hell?
It took three more visits before you caved and accepted his offerings. You still eyed it as if it would explode in your hands, but he didn’t seem to take offense to it.
The next time after that, he orders two muffins.
You aren’t fazed anymore, and that’s how you know you’re past the point of no return. Upon entering the shop, he offers the muffin to you like it’s routine. You raise an eyebrow, walking over and taking the proffered bag, looking inside, “Coffee cake?” You’re surprised he chose something different.
He shrugs, “It looked good.” You had to agree with him, it looked divine.
You pick off a small piece, and your eyebrows shoot up. It was good. You turn to him, not shocked to see him staring intently at your reaction. “Good pick.”
You can see him carry himself lighter at your comment, as if being told that he made a good pick satisfied him.
“Figured you would like it.” He comments casually.
You raise an eyebrow, “Why is that?”
He smiles conspiratorially, shrugging, “Just a hunch.”
Frowning at the vague answer, you take another piece of the muffin. You notice him staring at it. “Want a piece?” The words leave your mouth before you have a chance to reevaluate how smart of an idea they are.
His eyes crinkle in a way that makes you feel like he somehow planned this moment. Which is kind of insane, but it’s too late to rescind the offer.
It’s not like he could plan for you to specifically offer him food anyway.
“Sure,” He replies, and you break of a piece before looking for napkins. You frown when you notice that they’re out. Dex watches your eyes scan the shop for a minute before he interrupts, “I’ll survive without the napkin.” You can hear the smile in his tone.
You blink at him before looking down at his hand. Then, you reach over to place the piece onto it. Your hands inevitably meet with your fingers lightly grazing his palm, attempting to keep the crumbs from spilling all over the table.
When he takes a bite, he hums contently. “It’s good,” he declares, “just like you said.”
Your heart speeds up, “Right,” you reply, attempting to mask your breathlessness.
In order to escape the awkward silence, you tell him you’re going to order your coffee. He nods, and you make your way to the front, ordering your regular drink.
It was surprisingly empty this morning, so your drink was ready by the time you finished your quick conversation with the barista.
When you return to him, you grab the leftover muffin you didn’t finish. “Thanks for the muffin.” You don’t offer to pay him back, and you internally berate yourself for feeling slightly bad about that.
He smiles at you, and it looks like the most genuine smile he has given you in a long time. “Of course.”
You offer a tentative smile before walking out the shop. You don’t turn around, but you know he is watching you because despite everything it’s still him.
The routine becomes concerningly normal.
He would wait for you at the coffee shop, and would buy you some pastry because “he insists.”
You stopped declining that long ago, and you were beginning to appreciate having a meal before going to work, not that you would admit this to him.
You didn’t contact Matt or Karen, and at this point you can’t really make an excuse for not doing so. Bullseye is dangerous. Bullseye killed Foggy. These are all simply facts.
Yet you don’t contact Matt. You don’t tell Bullseye that you are aware of who he is. You don’t tell him to leave you alone either. At this point, you’re digging your own grave, and part of you wonders if it’s only a matter of time before you must lie in it.
Morbidly, you wonder who will the honor of putting you out of your misery: Bullseye or Fisk?
It’s a few weeks after this odd routine has begun where you start to realize just how much you fucked up by interacting with him again.
Your favorite diner was supposed to be something that was exclusively yours. You may have introduced it to Dex a few times in the past, but it was your favorite before him and your favorite after him. You weren’t going to let your abysmal relationship tarnish the sanctity of this place for you.
It wasn’t truly anything that special, another diner in New York. The food was satisfactory. Sometimes you convinced yourself that it was even good, but you suspected that was due to nostalgia more than anything. The prices were reasonable. The ambiance had nothing unique that made it shine above the rest.
So, just like the coffee shop, you’re left wondering why the hell Benjamin Poindexter was walking in here like it was a routine of his. You were sitting in one of the booths, and you held the menu up to your face to cover the fact that you were blatantly staring because what the fuck?
Either you have the worst luck in the universe and he keeps showing up in places that are supposed to be safe for you... or he is stalking you.
Both options are a nightmare for you.
You don’t hear what he orders, but you find yourself attempting to listen anyway. Usually, he has a sixth-sense for when you’re in the area. He would always find you first whenever you arrive at the coffee shop every morning.
The fact that he hasn’t turned once to see you leads you to believe that you might just have the worst luck in New York, and that’s saying a lot.
You watch him pull out a phone before bringing it up to his ear. You can barely hear the conversation, but you do catch two details.
One: he said the name “Frank Castle.”
Two: he said, in the most apathetic tone imaginable, that he “has a gun.”
This becomes an issue when you scan the restaurant and don’t see Frank Castle or a gun in sight.
Now, perhaps at this point you should’ve approached him. Maybe even left because perhaps Frank Castle is on his way, and while Karen has spoken somewhat fondly of him, you aren’t exactly frothing at the mouth to meet him.
You do none of that, and simply watch as Bullseye chugs a milkshake in a display that leaves you equally impressed and mortified. That’s when the sirens start to ring across the street. It appears he notices this too because you see him put his gloves on.
Yep, that is your sign to get out of here.
You didn’t get your finish your meal, but you also don’t want to get involved with any task force activity. You grab all your personal belongings before heading towards the door.
“Get back inside now!”
You narrow your eyes as the agent points his rifle at you, forcing you back into the building. You didn’t even step outside the doorframe yet.
You hold your hands up in surrender, but you don’t feel scared so much as frustrated.
You watch as one of the agents continues to point their rifle at you as the others search the building. Do they seriously think you’re part of the problem here?
“Clear…” The last agent echoes the sentiment the last five have said.
Then they make a mistake.
“Hey, Milkshake.” That agent calls Bullseye out. He doesn’t immediately turn to him, but when he does, his hands are held up, straw in mouth.
You didn’t even see him load the straw with anything, and you were watching him for a while. You watch in horror as he shoots a toothpick into the agent’s eye. He whips around, pulling his mask on, and grabs the utensils next to him and launching them to the three agents near you. For a split second—after the forks find their target—his eyes land on you.
Somehow, despite the fact that he is about to be shot at, his stare lingers on you. However, it’s not for long, and he takes two more forks before launching it toward a booth. The utensils (somehow) avoid the innocent bystander before situating themselves into the eye of one agent and the neck of another.
At this point, the task force agents recompose themself before shooting towards Bullseye. You wince at the sound of gunfire, ducking behind one of the booths as bullets fly over the counter he was at.
You don’t have a clear view of Bullseye anymore, but you hear the distant cry of another agent. You can hazard a guess as to what that means.
Eventually, the gunfire slows to a stop, but you don’t dare to stand up. You hear Bullseye talk to one of the customers, something about bringing his dog into the restaurant and how that is unsanitary.
You take this opportunity to open your phone, and you pull up Matt’s contact. Just as you are about to send a message to him telling him that Bullseye is at Bel Aire Diner, you realize the light above you becomes obscured. You look up, noting that he isn’t wearing his mask anymore.
“What are you doing?” He looms over you, raising an eyebrow. He seems genuinely confused.
“Trying not to get shot.” You retort, gradually standing up.
“I meant before that.” He grabs a ketchup bottle off the booth you hid behind.
“Eating?”
“Oh.”
The two of you stare at each other for a long moment.
“Did I ruin the meal?”
“What do you think?”
He has the decency to look chastised. It doesn’t last long, “I didn’t know you’d be here.” He sounds genuinely surprised, “Do you come here often?”
You cross your arms, “That's your first question?” You ask incredulously. “I don’t see how that’s any of your business.”
He doesn’t appear deterred by your words, “I’ve never…” He muses to himself, and you can see him attempting to figure out how you managed to get here.
He frowns, furrowing his eyebrows at you, “You…” The emotion behind the words is indecipherable. He pauses for a long moment before abruptly turning to stare at the fallen agents he killed less than a minute ago. The bewilderment on his face is evident, and you doubt it's from the task force. You wait for him to finish his sentence, but he doesn’t, not immediately. He stares at the agents, the floor, the booth, and then you.
“What were you thinking?”
What?
He sounds upset, genuinely upset. The shift from from mild exasperation to fury has your head spinning. “What?” You say your question out loud.
“You— Why would—” He looks at your befuddled expression, and it's like he has so many questions that he can't figure out which one to ask first.
You raise an eyebrow, “Why what?” You ask nonplussed.
The sound of sirens catch both of your attention. You both look at each other, and you open your mouth to speak, but he bolts out on you.
Eyes wide, you turn to survey the scene before feeling sick at the sight of dead bodies and looking away. For once, you weren’t the only trying to avoid him. Bullseye walked out on you.
As if this day couldn't get any weirder.
I think I messed up.
You tap your finger idly against your phone, staring at the message before pressing the send button.
It has been a few days since Bullseye killed the task force agents at the diner. You hadn’t seen him since, and that in itself was unsettling. When you entered the coffee shop the day after the incident, he wasn’t there. Even the barista commented on it. You scoffed, as if you knew where he was.
Your phone starts ringing, startling you. You sit up straighter on your couch, answering it. “Hey.”
“Hey,” Matt greets, and you can hear the tension in his voice, “are you okay?”
You let out a huff of air, “I’m fine right now.”
“Good,” he pauses, “good… Did something happen?”
You hesitate, but it’s too late to tell Matt to ignore you. You swallow, “You know that diner? The one that Bullseye killed those task force guys in?”
Matt is silent for a moment, “Yes.” He sounds even more tense. “Did he recognize you?”
You smack your lips, “About that…”
Matt says your name, disgruntled.
“He doesn’t recognize me from then.” You assure him. “I— He recognizes me from somewhere else.”
Matt curses and you grimace, “Damn it. Why— Why didn’t you say anything sooner?”
You shake your head, “I don’t know. I thought that—” you swallowed, “I didn’t think he’d notice me.”
“How’d you meet him?” Matt asks, ignoring your excuses.
You blink, “He began going to the coffee shop I go to every morning.”
Matt curses again, “This is the kind of stuff you tell me. You should’ve told me the second you saw him the first time.”
You know. “I know.” You whisper.
“He didn’t hurt you?”
“No.”
“Did he talk to you?”
You hesitate. Matt says your name again.
“Yes,” you shut your eyes.
“What did he say?”
You shrug, “I don’t know. We talked about coffee.”
“Coffee.” Matt scoffs. “You two talk about the weather too?” He comments sarcastically.
You narrow your eyes, “Want me to ask him next time?”
Matt says your name again, a warning. “Don’t. Don’t go back there to the diner or coffee shop or wherever you saw him for the first time.”
You pause, contemplative, “Okay…”
“I’m serious.”
“I know. I won’t.”
Matt is silent for a moment, deciding whether or not to believe you. “If you see him, let me know immediately.” He exhales. “I find it difficult to believe you seeing him is a coincidence.”
“Me too.” You reply honestly.
“I need your word that you’ll call me.”
You sigh, “Fine. I promise I won’t go looking for him, and if I see him I’ll call you.”
Matt exhales, “Thank you.” He doesn’t sound angry anymore, merely weary. “I’m sorry you had to get involved in this.”
You sigh, “It’s not your fault.” You reply sincerely, albeit slightly bitter. He doesn’t respond to that, so you continue. “Have a good night, Matt.”
“You too.” He says, and you hang up.
Groaning, you flop onto the armrest of your couch, flattening your face against the cushions. You try and ignore the emotion in your chest, the one you refuse to label as disappointment because you should be relieved. Matt knows your dilemma now, and Daredevil will know soon enough. You shouldn’t have to worry about a diner incident ever occurring again.
It apears that you’ll have to go back to your breakfast-less lifestyle once again it seems.
The following morning you forced yourself to walk past the coffee shop, and look away from their windows. He hadn’t been showing up at the shop either way, so no point in trying to search for someone who isn’t there.
Your life returned to something that that resembled a routine. You would wake up, go get coffee, go to work, eat, and come home. The routine should’ve been sufficient. However, something had undeniably shifted. No matter how resentful you were over Dex, seeing him—a version of him at least—stirred up feelings that you hadn’t had in years.
Part of you was angry at him because now those wounds feel fresh. All the progress you thought you made getting over him turned to dust in a couple weeks, regressing to a state of longing for something that you know you’ll never have again.
You grab your keys, giving your apartment one last look over before opening the door. Your eyes widen at the sight of a delivery guy at your doorstep.
He says your name and you furrow your brows.
“I didn’t order anything.” You look at the bag in his hands, it’s from a bagel place down the street that you used to go to for breakfast.
The guy shrugs, “Well, it has your name on it.” He turns the label for you to read.
You eye the bag dubiously, “I don’t have any cash.”
“Tipped through the app,” he responds, “so do you want it or not?”
Tentatively, you reach your hand out to grab the bag. You look inside, and it’s fresh. Your stomach rumbles at the sight. “Thanks?” You thank the man, but he doesn’t appear to care about your gratitude, seeing as he left the second you grabbed the bag.
You smell the bagels, and you have a suspicion who sent them.
It’s not like you have a way you have to contact Bullseye. What would you even say? “Sorry if I offended you at the diner after you killed a bunch of people, no idea what I did. Thanks for the bagel!”
You take the bag with you, exiting your building as you pull out your phone.
I think he sent me food.
You take a bite of the bagel, waiting for Matt’s response.
Matt calls you again.
“What did you do?” He sounds drained.
You make an offended noise, “What makes you think this is my fault?”
“Have you been in contact with him recently?” Matt wastes no time asking questions.
“No,” you scoff, “I told you I’d contact you if I saw him.”
“Right,” Matt replies, evidently skeptical. “Did you toss out the food?”
You look at the half-eaten bagel in your hands, “Yeah,” you lie. Now probably isn’t a good time to tell him about the muffins you’ve shared with Bullseye.
Matt sighs, “He might’ve tampered with it.”
“I figured if he wanted me dead he’d shoot me.” You respond wryly.
Matt huffs sardonically, “You’ll only encourage him.”
“Has Daredevil talked to him recently?”
Matt pauses, “Maybe, why?”
“Then can you tell Daredevil to tell Bullseye that while I appreciate the food, he has to knock it off. I can't exactly contact him and tell him to stop.”
Matt goes silent, not finding your request as humorous as you do. “Next time, toss out the food.” He pauses, and you hear some distant rustling on his side of the call. “You aren’t actively in danger right? I’m sorry, I have to go.”
“I’m alright. Go do what you need to do.” You smile, finishing the bagel.
You bid each other goodbye before hanging up, and you go to work as if nothing happened. Part of you wonders if Matt took you serious and will actually tell Daredevil to pass your message along. Matt was right telling you that you shouldn't accept the food Bullseye was “anonymously” ordering for you. You are aware that it’s a bad idea.
But it was nice to have someone who cared like that.
You hadn’t had that in a long time, and perhaps Bullseye was using that to his advantage to manipulate you. Because at the end of the day, you know he isn’t doing it out of the kindness of his heart. You aren’t that blind.
On your walk home, you pick up takeout from whatever is nearby, too tired to cook. You grimace at the sight of the task force across the street. Rushing into your building, you take the elevator up. You fumble for your keys, frustrated at the low lighting in the hallway. It’s been broken for years, and it makes it difficult to see where you’re looking at night with the constant flickering.
Entering your apartment, you take your shoes off before closing the door and locking it. You take a few steps into your apartment before releasing an undignified gasp and jolting.
“Shit,” you gasp, “what are you doing here?” You place the takeout onto the kitchen counter, never taking your eyes off of Bullseye. He has the mask off, but he is still wearing the costume. He is sitting on the corner of your couch as if this is normal.
“I wanted to see you.” His voice isn’t loud, yet it carries across the room.
“So you broke into my apartment?” You scoff, subtly reaching for your phone behind the counter.
“Yeah,” he replies, tone low and unbothered. Then, as if he knows what you're attempting to do, continues, “Without Daredevil, preferably.”
You pause, grip tightening around your phone, “Why would Daredevil be here?”
He turns to face you, “I don’t know. You tell me.”
You go silent at that, placing your phone atop of the counter for him to see, pushing it away. His eyes never leave your face. “What do you want then?”
He imperceptibly shakes his head, “I said I wanted to see you—”
“Bullshit.” You cut him off scathingly, “You’ve been seeing me at the coffee shop for weeks. You show up at the diner I go to. You have breakfast delivered—”
He raises an eyebrow, “—I thought you liked that place?”
“That’s not the point, Dex.” You raise your hands up wildly.
He readjusts in his seat, going silent at your words. “I wasn’t sure I was ever going to hear you say my name.” He says hoarsely.
You blink, taken aback. “How did you know I knew your name?” You narrow your eyes at him defensively.
“You made eye contact with me that… first time we met.” He rolls a coin over his knuckles casually.
You scowl at him, “Okay? Doesn’t mean I know your name.”
“You made a face when the barista said my name was ‘Tony.’” Dex tilts his head at you.
You shrug, “You don’t look like a ‘Tony.’ None of this is actual evidence.”
“You weren’t surprised to see me in the suit.” He looks down, a small smirk on his face.
You click your tongue, “Okay,” you admit, “fine. Maybe I recognized you online.”
He chuckles, “Online, huh?” He asks distantly.
You roll your eyes, “If this is what you came to talk to me about, then I’m gonna have to ask you to leave.” You cross your arms.
Dex blinks, setting the coin down, “Come back to the coffee shop.”
You snort, “Absolutely not.”
“Please,” he doesn’t quite yell, but the volume startles you.
“Please,” he swallows, and you watch him attempt to get his breathing under control, “we can pretend this never happened. I’ll pretend that you don’t know who I am.” He clenches his jaw. “Just please come back there. I need—” he falters, “I want to see you again… in the mornings.” His eyes train on you, “Every morning.”
Oh, this is not healthy.
“Dex…” You shakily inhale. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
He inhales sharply, eyes going towards you. “Did Daredevil tell you that too?”
You furrow your brows, “What does Daredevil have to do with this?”
His eyes narrow, “He did, didn’t he?” He laughs lowly, and you aren’t sure whether you’re supposed to answer that.
You grit your teeth, “Maybe he did, maybe he didn’t.” you shrug. Matt did tell you, multiple times, that this was a terrible idea, but that is not Dex’s business or problem. You take a deep breath, steeling yourself for what you’re about to do. It’s best that you end… whatever this is with Dex anyway. You’re getting too emotionally invested in something you shouldn’t, and you know you will get burned if you allow this to persist.
“And you’re just going to do what he says?” He scoffs.
“Again, I don’t see why that should matter to you.” You narrow your eyes, loosely gesturing to him.
“It shouldn’t, should it?”
“No, it shouldn’t.”
Dex’s jaw ticks, and for a moment you remember who you’re talking to. You take a step back, and he inhales deeply.
“Don’t— Don’t do that.” He sounds pained and aggravated.
“Do what?” You hold your hands up in mock surrender.
“Act like you’re afraid.” He spits out the word as if it disgusts him.
“You come into my apartment at night telling me to meet with you against my will all while wearing your suit.” You spit out the final word disdainfully.
He shakes his head, standing up, “I would never hurt you. You know this.”
“No,” you raise your hands up, “I don’t. Not anymore at least.”
He doesn’t have a response for that. He says your name quietly.
“You should leave, Dex. I’m going to call Daredevil.” You warn him, turning to face him.
He clasps his hands, his leg bouncing lightly as he turns to face the ground. You wait for him to make eye contact. When he does, he looks distraught.
He doesn’t say anything as he makes his way to the window Daredevil used. He stops before leisurely turning around, “You might want to lock your windows next time.”
“Don’t pretend like you weren’t happy that you could climb in.” You retort disapprovingly.
He tilts his head slightly, a wry expression on his face. He pulls the mask back on, and you turn around.
“I wouldn’t want other people climbing up to meet you too.” He replies, and when you turn to look at him, he is gone.
You rub your temples, unsure whether to cry or scream.
Your eyes burn, the low lighting combined with the vivid colors straining them. You aren’t even sure what’s happening on the TV anymore. You had played a series to distract yourself, but now your eyes hurt and you were stressed.
You weren’t bluffing when you warned Dex. You did call Daredevil—well, you called Matt who called Daredevil who…
Point is, Matt told you to expect Daredevil to check on you. Perhaps if you felt better, you’d make yourself look more presentable for the elusive vigilante. However, you couldn’t really bring yourself to care at this point. Matt hadn’t really given you a time, so you had settled yourself onto your couch with the intention of waiting until he popped in.
Half an hour passed, then an hour, then two hours, then three, and now it was two in the morning.
If this happens again, you’re asking Matt for a better time estimate.
You’re resting your eyes when you hear the faint knocking on your window. Blinking the sleepiness away, you watch as Daredevil lets himself in.
“Hey,” he greets, and you frown at him.
“It’s late.”
“I know.” He holds his hands up placatingly “I’m sorry.” He does sound apologetic.
You prop yourself onto the armrest, “How much did Matt tell you?”
“All of it.”
“All of it?” You repeat incredulously.
“The more I know, the better I can help you.” He justifies.
“So you know about…” You mimic a throwing motion with an airy whistle and eyebrows raised.
He doesn’t immediately respond, “Yeah,” he responds dryly, “I know about him.”
What the hell, Matt? First Karen, now Daredevil?
“Great.” You respond sarcastically.
Daredevil ignores you comment, looking you up and down, “You said Bullseye visited you?”
“Yeah,” you nod, crossing your arms, “climbed in through the window.” You gesture to the window he entered through
Daredevil frowns slightly, “He know I’m here?”
You shrug, rubbing your eyes, “I don’t know.”
Daredevil nods slowly, “Then it might be for the best that you don’t stay here, at least until the city is safer.”
That wakes you up, “What? Where would I go?”
Daredevil is silent for a moment, “You could stay with Murdock and Page.”
You frown, “Have you even asked them?”
“Yes, they’re alright with you staying.”
Your expression doesn’t change, and Daredevil notices this. “If you don’t leave, Bullseye will keep coming back.”
“What if he finds me and puts Karen and Matt in danger?” You rub your temples, shaking your head at the idea.
“He won’t—”
“How can you be certain?” You whisper, placing your hands on your lap and examining them.
Daredevil doesn’t say anything, and you feel uneasy by his silence. Then you hear his suit rustle lightly, and you look up to see what he is doing.
“You have to be kidding me…” You rub your eyes more intensely, maybe you’re still asleep?
“I’m afraid not.” He offers a remorseful smile, “And before you ask, yes, I am actually blind. I have a method that helps me see.”
Your wide eyes look him up and down, “This whole time…” You trail off, speechless.
He purses his lips, “I’m sorry about lying. I just need you to trust me when I say Bullseye is dangerous, and the safest thing you can do is stay somewhere else right now.”
You barely even process his words, still trying to connect the dots of Matt being Daredevil. Then you reach a sinking realization. “Wait,” you whip your head towards him.
“When we met… You bumped into me.” You recount the events, “This was after Foggy’s death…” You furrow your eyebrows, and now you don’t even know if he can see the action. “You did that intentionally, didn’t you?” You whisper.
Matt doesn’t interrupt.
“You… You befriended me because I knew Dex.” You narrow your eyes at Matt, betrayed. “How did you find out?” When Matt doesn’t immediately respond, you steel your tone, “How, Matt?”
He swallows, “Karen found out when we were… digging into his history.”
You scoff, “Unbelievable,” you mutter, standing up and pacing around your couch. “So all of this… Was this just a way to try and get me to talk about Dex?”
“No, God, no.” Matt interjects, holding his hands up as if the idea is preposterous. “At first, maybe we wanted information, but… but it became clear you were kept in the dark.”
You fight down the tears, “So it was pity?”
Matt places his hands on his hips, turning his gaze to face the ground, “It was understanding. We know what loss like that feels like.” He sighs. “I… I’m sorry for never telling you, but Karen and I, we didn’t befriend because of Dex. If that was the sole reason, then it wouldn’t have lasted. We befriended you because we liked you and thought you would like to know people who could understand what you were going through.” Matt gestures to himself.
Your heart pounds in your chest, and you bite your tongue to keep the tears from falling. “I… That doesn’t—” Matt suddenly tilts his head toward your window, “You lied to me—”
“Get down!”
Matt tackles you, and you both fall limply on the ground. You cover your head instinctively before looking up and seeing a knife where Matt’s shoulder would’ve been.
You and Matt, who already put his helmet back on, turn to your window. Bullseye narrows his eyes at the two of you on the ground. He lazily uses the window to hold his weight, one hand hidden from view and the other holding the bottom jamb to keep it open.
“Was I interrupting something?” Bullseye asks, looks between the two of you, eyes narrowing on Matt.
“Why are you here?” You mutter to yourself, using your couch as cover as Matt stands up, ready to fight. You take a peek to see where he is.
“Just needed to confirm something, that’s all.” He ignores Matt, focusing on you.
“Confirm what?” You ask, and Matt looms over you. Trying to shield you from Bullseye’s view.
“That you were talking to Daredevil.”
You straighten your posture against the back of the couch, “You’re attacking him because I’m talking to him?” You ask, befuddled.
“That among plenty of other reasons he has given.”
You look to Matt, who looks unfazed by this. He isn’t jumping to brawl with Bullseye, and you can see the uneasy combination of caution and restlessness in his stance.
“So why attack me too? Thought you said you wouldn't hurt me—” You scoff.
“—I wouldn’t.” Dex interrupts before you can finish the sentence.
“Then why are you throwing knives in my apartment?”
“They would never hit you.” He sounds offended that you even asked.
“How can you be sure?”
You sneak a glance, noting Dex’s bewildered expression. “I’m sure—”
“Are you two done yet?” Matt interrupts. You both turn your focuses to Daredevil.
Dex grimaces, disgruntled, as if only now remembering that Daredevil was witnessing this.
“No.” Both you and Dex chorus. You stand up, using the couch to push yourself off the ground. Matt moves to try and hide you again, and you glare at him. “I’m still mad at you.” You point a finger to his chest.
He tilts his head as if to say “Really, we’re doing this now?”
You rub your face, exasperated. “Fuck", you curse to yourself, but you know Dex and Matt heard you, “could you both just leave?” You gesture to the door, knowing full well that neither of them have ever used it.
Neither of them move. Matt vaguely looks in Dex’s direction, and Dex furrows his eyebrows, eyes flitting between Matt and you. The sentiment seems obvious on both ends: There’s no way I’m leaving you with that guy.
When it becomes clear that no progress will be made, you grab one of your jackets laying around, snatching your keys off the counter. Neither of them say anything, so you break the tense silence. “I would ask you don’t fight in here, but if you insist, then you both are paying for repairs and anything you break.” You slip your shoes on. “I’m heading out.”
“At this time?” Dex looks like he is about to follow, and he tilts his head slightly.
“Well, I’m clearly not sleeping tonight.” You pointedly glare at them both.
Matt calls your name, a final attempt to get you to return to him. Dex’s eyes don’t leave your own. You both stare at each other for a moment. You swallow, attempting to calm your racing heart. He doesn’t react, and you’re unable to read the expression in his eyes. Turning back to the door, you open it before slamming it shut.
You don’t break your stride as you make your way to the elevator. Once inside, you lean against the walls, closing your eyes and running a hand over your face.
You’re so tired of this. You should’ve just ignored Dex and never looked back. Now, Daredevil… Matt is involved.
Of course, Matt and Karen are a whole other issue.
You decide to make your way to the twenty-four hour diner across the street. You see a group people yelling at each other and try ignore them as you pass by. Thankfully, they don’t pay you any mind.
“Rough night?” The waitress at the counter asks as you sit down on one of the stools. You prop your elbow onto the table, resting your chin on your hand.
“You have no idea.” She snorts softly, sliding a menu to you. You take a moment to shut your eyes, the bright artificial light exacerbating the exhaustion you already feel.
You don’t feel hungry. You can’t feel hungry after everything that just happened, so you order some tea in an attempt to decompress.
You tap your finger idly against the counter, turning to the window. You frown, watching as a man is shoved against the glass, his hands pinned against it. Their yells are muffled from outside, and you turn away from them. The waitress brings the tea and you thank her.
You pull your phone out, and are slightly surprised to see zero notifications. Taking a slow sip of your tea, you search up the Bulletin’s recent headlines.
Unsurprisingly, a lot of them are about Fisk.
The remaining ones are about the task force or the vigilantes of New York. You scroll past them, and your thumb pauses when you see Bullseye mentioned.
You cannot escape him. You sigh, shutting your phone off and placing it on the counter.
“Everybody out.”
You whip your head around to see a line of task force agents entering the diner. You toss an alarmed look to the waitress, who looks just as confused as you do.
“We heard reports of vigilante activity in the area, so we're going door to door to see where they may be hiding.” He walks over to the waitress. Her eye twitches, but she doesn’t say anything.
Two other agents strut around the diner as if they own the place, and you bite your tongue to keep yourself from saying anything stupid. They make a couple rounds and just as you think they’re about to leave, the main one stops next to you. You make a point to sip your tea and avoid his eye.
“Do I recognize you from somewhere, ma’am?” He rests his hand on his pistol. You look at him from the corner of your eye.
“Don’t believe so.” You reply curtly, taking another sip.
He situates himself on the stool next to you to get a clearer view, “No… No I think I recognize ya from somewhere.”
Your hands clench around your mug, “You must be mistaken.” Your eyes flicker to your phone.
“Erickson!” The agent calls out without turning away from you. “Come take a look, doesn’t she look like one of the people we were informed Murdock runs with?”
Another agent walks over, Erickson you presume, narrowing his eyes at you. You casually rest your hand on your phone. “She does,” he notes thoughtfully. Your hands clench the mug so tightly that they shake.
Unceremoniously, you’re slammed onto the counter, and you gasp in pain. “Ma’am you’re under arrest for aiding a vigilante.” You stare at your phone on the counter as they cuff your hands behind your back.
They don’t read your rights as they grab your shirt, forcing you to stand up. One of the agents points their gun at you as the other two escort you to the truck outside.
Just as they’re about to shove you into the truck, they grab some goggles before roughly placing them on your head.
“I’d try catching some sleep on the ride there.” One of the agents whispers into your ear, you shiver in disgust. “The… others can get very noisy.”
You turn roughly towards where his voice was, glaring at him through the mask. “You guys won’t keep getting way with this.” You whisper back to him.
He chuckles lowly, pushing you into the back of the truck and slamming the door closed. You lurch forward as the armored tank starts to move.
Any attempts to figure out where you are going are lost. You are slammed against the walls of the tank more times than you’d prefer. You eventually find a corner, crouching down and remaining there for the rest of the ride.
Your only hope is that Matt finds you.
Your phone was left in the diner, and you don’t know if he’d ever track it—if he can track it. Hell, you don’t even know if the agents took it.
So you must have faith that Matt will realize something happened to you, and will come searching for you.
As the tank slows to a stop, you wobble slightly. You hear the back doors open, and blotches of color fill your vision.
“Out, let’s go.” A stern voice commands you, and you can’t tell if it’s the same guy who stuffed you in here. When you stand up, he clicks his tongue impatiently.
Firmly, he grabs your shoulder, squeezing it as he guides you. You remain quiet, attempting to focus on what little you can see. Distantly, you can hear the soft patter of rain outside.
He takes you through multiple twists and turns, giving no warning before roughly shoving you. Eventually, you slow to a stop and you feel the agent let up on your shoulder a little. You hear him search for something before a confirmation sound rings, and he squeezes your arm once again.
You hear sniffling, sobs, and yells echo across the new room you enter. Must be spacious. The agent guides you and you hear some people yell at him as you pass by. He stops, removing the goggles from your head. You wince at the bright light, and he shoves you into a cell.
Upon further examination, “cage” would be accurate.
“Don’t bother calling for help. Nobody can help you here.” He slams the gate closed and gestures for your hands. Begrudgingly, you stand up, turning your back to the gate. He grabs your wrist before removing the cuffs.
You grab the bars, pressing yourself against the cage to try and get a better view of your surroundings. There’s dozens of other cages identical to your own. Some are lined up in your row while others are on the opposite side.
You let out a long breath, slowly falling to the ground. Some of the other prisoners yell and attempt to spit at the task force agents, but they get ignored.
Judging by the states of some of them, they’ve been kept here for a while. You can only imagine how long you could be here for.
In fact, you realize morbidly, you could die here. Death seemed like such a distant concept mere hours ago, but now you aren’t so sure.
As hours passed, you didn’t see any new additions to the empty cell on your left, nor did you see any task force agents return after sticking you in your cell. Your hands clench around the cool metal of the bars.
Slowly, the other prisoners begin to fall asleep for the night. By this point, it's probably morning, but their sense of time is likely screwed up. The yells become less frequent, and the people pacing their cages began to settle down.
You examine the floor beneath you, leaning your head against the bars of the cage. It’s uncomfortable at best. For a while, you stare blankly at the floor beneath you. You aren’t sure how much time passed exactly, but it felt like hours before you fell asleep despite your prior exhaustion.
You jolted awake the next morning. Blinking rapidly as one of the agents banged his rifle against the bars of your cage.
“We have a few questions for you.” He holds up the goggles tauntingly.
Do you? You want to ask, but you settle for glaring at them instead. They gesture for you to put slot your hands through the bars, and you slowly comply.
When they unlock your cell, they situate the goggles over your face. You blink, adjusting to the disorienting view. “Move it,” one grunts, shoving you forward. One of the guards keeps an arm on you, guiding you around the vicinity.
The walk is shorter than yesterdays. Upon reaching your new destination, they open a door and push you in. You hear it close behind you, and they remove your blindfold.
Two of the agents make their way behind you, and you turn to watch them leave. If you had to guess, they’re standing watch in case you could escape.
“Sit.” A man across the table orders you. You turn to face him for the first time. You blink, looking him up and down. He is dressed professionally with a suit and tie, nothing like the task force guys. You narrow your eyes at him, and he looks unimpressed. “I won’t ask again.”
Hesitantly, you take a seat across him. “What do you want?” You ask, voice rough from disuse.
“I have been informed of your prior exposure to vigilantes.” He opens a manila folder, and you can see a file of yourself inside. He shifts, holding it out of your view. “Namely Daredevil.” He taps the pages lightly, “However, I did some more digging.”
He takes a photo out of the folder, “That’s you, isn’t it?” He slides it across the table. You don’t have to look at it to know what it is.
You clench your jaw, “How did you get this?”
The man shrugs, “It was easy enough.” He replies mildly, “Answer my question.”
You glare at him, refusing to look down at the photo of you and Dex. It was one of the first ones you had posted on social media long ago. You’d taken them down the night Dex went to prison the first time.
The man doesn’t appear deterred by your defiance, “That,” he points to a photo, “That is Benjamin Poindexter, otherwise known as 'Bullseye,' correct?”
You follow his hand to the photo before looking to him. What do you think? You don’t say anything.
“Your relations with Matthew Murdock and Benjamin Poindexter are well known by this point.” He continues. “When did you meet Poindexter?”
You glare at the man, not saying anything. He waits for an answer, hands folded on the table.
Then he slaps you.
He did not hold back, and you gasp at how it makes your head spin. You look towards him, aghast. “I will not ask again.”
You readjust yourself, “Go to hell.”
His eyes narrow slightly before slapping you again, even harder than last time. This time you can taste blood fill your mouth. You raised your cuffed hands to wipe it.
He adjusts his tie, waiting patiently, “I am not here to play games. Nobody will find you here, that is, if they’re even looking for you.” He sighs, “Answer my questions, it will make our lives easier.” He taps the photo again, “When did you meet?”
“… A few years ago.” You wipe the blood escaping your mouth, holding back a wince.
“How many exactly?”
“I don’t know.” You huff, “Like nine?”
He hums, “What was your relationship with Poindexter?”
“We were friends.” You lie.
The man pauses, giving you a long look. “And when did you meet Murdock?”
“A little over a year ago.” You still feel the sting of his hand against your skin.
“Did you aid Benjamin Poindexter in any of his crimes?” He leans forward, putting his weight on the table.
“No.” You reply truthfully.
He tilts his head, “When was the last time you two had communication?”
Yesterday. “Haven’t seen him since he went to prison after impersonating Daredevil.”
“So you knew him before that.” He muses. It’s not a question, so you don’t respond. “Tell me, did you suspect that he’d go down a path like this?”
You furrow your eyebrows, “How would I know? I’m not his psychiatrist.”
“Don’t get smart with me.” He shakes his head, unamused. “Now, about Murdock, did you ever aid his crimes?”
“What crimes?” You play dumb.
His lips twitch, and he leans back. “Don’t play dumb. We both know who he is.”
You place your hands onto the table, “I don’t, actually.”
The man narrows his eyes at you in disbelief, “Do you know where he or Daredevil is now?”
“No.” You wince.
“What about Bullseye?”
You scoff, “I said I haven’t seen him in years. How would I know where he is?”
“If you two were ‘friends,’” he does air quotes, “why had he never attempted to reestablish contact?”
You shrug, “I don’t know. He’s probably too busy being Bullseye to care.”
He narrows his eyes, “You see, I don’t believe you.”
Your mouth dries, “Well, then I don’t know what to tell you.” You shrug. “You’re better off asking him yourself.”
He looks at you before letting out a long sigh. “Let me be clear here when I say that you’re merely a piece in this puzzle. I truly do not care about your past relationship with Bullseye or Murdock.” He stands up, “All I care about is getting answers to their whereabouts.” You glare at him as he maneuvers himself around the table before grabbing your head and slamming it down onto the metal table.
You can’t hold back the cry of pain your release. He continues to pin your head down to the table, “With how many connections you have, you’re lucky that I want answers from you and not your death.” He releases your head, and you watch him knock on the door behind you out of the corner of your eye.
“Take her back. We got what we needed.” He tells the agent. He looks unmoved by your state, abruptly blindfolding you again and dragging you out.
When you make it back to your cell, you glare at him through the mask. His grip was so tight that you wouldn’t be surprised if he bruised your arm. Before he leaves, you meet his eyes. He seems amused by your suffering. “This is funny to you?” You whisper, sneering at him.
He sneers at your question, and you take a moment to memorize his face. He raises the keys in front of your face, outside the bars, jingling them. You keep your face purposefully blank, unwilling to give him the reaction he desires. When he leaves, you can hear his quiet chuckles.
Once alone, you slowly lay yourself on the ground, using your arm as a pillow. You attempt to keep your breathing steady as tears well up against your will. Your soft sobs go unheard, the cacophony of the other prisoners drowning out your sorrow.
You don’t think it would matter anyway. You wipe the tears, attempting to close your eyes once more.
Your lip trembles as you rub your eyes. It is freezing here. The sound of distant gunshots make you flinch, yet you aren’t surprised to hear them. The sounds of chaos had become normal in the past couple days.
At least you think it has been a couple days. It’s hard to gauge time without a clock or the sun.
You hadn’t been pulled out to be interrogated since the first morning. It was a small mercy, but one you were grateful for, nonetheless. Not that these monsters deserved your gratitude. However, the lack of action does make you a bit antsy.
Part of you hopes something… someone worse will come for them. You think if Frank Castle were to walk in you might just start cheering. After all, who knows how many victims the task force has unreasonably taken and killed?
You sigh, finishing the last of the water they provided. The gunshots haven’t quieted down yet, and you can only hope they aren't murdering an innocent prisoner.
Then, you realize with growing despair, that they are getting closer.
You turn to face the exit of this nightmare, expecting some task force guy to storm through angrily. Perhaps he would be yelling, dragging out some of the other prisoners, hopefully not you again. You move towards the back of your cell.
Then the door slams open, and every single prisoner, including you, turns their attention as a task force agent stumbles over himself. He raises his rifle to shoot the perpetrator, but before he can get a shot off he crumples to the ground, blood splattering from the wound directly on his forehead.
Well, that's not Matt.
You hear some prisoners cry out for help, and you move toward the front of your cell. Gripping the bars, you watch as the killer steps into view.
Your mouth parts in surprise, what is he doing here?
Bullseye looks to the cells on the left side first, evidently searching for something or someone. He ignores their pleas, and you see one of the prisoners reach out to him, begging him to set them free. He doesn’t linger on them. He strolls over to the right side, your side. He passes each cage leisurely, scanning left and right.
Then his gaze lands on you. You two stare at each other for a long moment before he approaches your cell.
“What are you doing here?” You rasp, narrowing your eyes at him. You clear your throat after speaking.
He tilts his head, “Helping you?”
You’re too tired to hide your startled expression, “I thought you were mad at me.” The words feel ridiculous the second they leave your mouth.
Despite the fact the mask covers most of his face, you can see the genuine befuddlement on his face. “And so you… you thought I’d leave you here?” His words are quieter.
You swallow, watching as he grabs the bars of your cell, testing their strength, “You seemed pretty upset when you saw me talking with Daredevil.”
He laughs, dumbfounded, never looking away from you. “So you thought I’d leave you to die?” His eyes are narrowed on you as if trying to figure out how you possibly conceived such an outrageous concept.
“I don’t know!” You whisper-yell, and the cell door swings open. “And I’m not dead yet.” You use the bars to help push yourself off the ground.
Bullseye watches as you slowly walk out of the cell. In the corner of your eye, you see the familiar task force vest. You open your mouth to warn him, “Dex—”
He throws a knife behind him without looking, and it bounces off another prisoner’s cell causing them to let out a scream before hitting the task force guard in the eye, knocking him to the ground. Your eyes widen, looking to Bullseye, lips parted in surprise.
“Is he even alive?” You ask, dismayed, looking toward the fallen guard.
“Does it really matter?” Bullseye responds, unperturbed.
You whip your head towards him, appalled. You hate the task force, but you aren’t sure if you can condone murder. Perhaps you were bluffing slightly earlier when you hoped for Frank Castle's appearance.
He crumbles under your stare slightly, “He’ll live.”
“You hit him in the eye.”
“Yeah?” He straightens himself, “He’ll live.” He loosely waves a hand in the guards direction.
You scoff, “What about the guy you shot when entering?”
Bullseye shrugs.
“Oh, so it’s like that?” You mock his shrug, pushing past him. He slowly trails behind you.
Dex chuckles lowly, “I can see why you and Daredevil get along.”
“Ah, you are still mad about that.” You can hear the strain in your voice.
“Hm,” he hums, not exactly disagreeing, “but I wasn’t going to leave you to die.” His voice turns more severe, catching your attention. You pause your stride.
Turning to face him, the retort dies on your tongue, not because of the words themself, but because of his delivery.
Despite the blood covering his suit, the countless weapons strewn across his body, and the many years that have passed, he still looks at you like Dex used to.
He looks like Dex. The words loop in your head. You stare at him, dazed. He looks like the Dex you once loved with all your heart. He is still looking at you like he holds the weight of the memories that you’ve solely beared for years.
“I…” You trail off, before shaking your head and dismissing the thoughts. “Thank you.” Your voice comes out smaller than intended. He continues to stare at you for a long moment before walking past you. “Where are you gonna go now?” You ask.
He pauses, looking towards you, then the exit, then back at you. “I thought we were leaving?” Dex sounds confused. You look towards the cells of the other prisoners, and you can see the imprint of a frown against his mask.
“We can’t just leave them here.” You gesture to them, and you hear a prisoner behind you frantically agree.
“I came here for you.” At your disapproving face, he hesitates. Neither of you seem to budge. Then, his shoulder fall slightly, and you know you’ve won.
You make your way over to him, and you grab his arm, catching him by surprise judging by the way his eyes widen faintly. “Come on, faster we do it, faster we leave.”
Dex looks between your hand and your face. Then, resigned, he allows you to pull him back to the cells. The two of you make your way around the room, breaking the locks off each cage. When you break the last one off, you turn to face him. You're unsurprised when you notice he’s already looking at you.
“We’re leaving.” He decides, grabbing your arm similar to the way you grabbed his earlier. It wasn’t rough, but it was firm in a way that told you he wasn’t going to be swayed anymore.
“How are they gonna escape?” You ask as he pulls you past the now empty cages. You note that some of the prisoners give him a wary look, and you don’t necessarily blame them.
Dex looks exasperated, but you can hear the hint of fondness in his voice. “We just broke them out. They can figure out the rest. I told you, I didn’t come here for them.”
“Yeah, but—”
You yelp in surprise as a billy club hits Dex in the chest, causing him to stumble and reach for his knives. Your eyes widen in recognition, “Daredevil?” You call out, watching as Matt emerges from the darkness shrouding the exit.
“Let her go.” Matt demands evenly.
Dex narrows his eyes at Matt, and you look between the two of them. “I didn’t take her.” He straightens himself, attempting to put himself between you and Matt, “I imagine the blame for that falls to you.” Dex grits out.
Matt scoffs, “Don’t try and act like you’re innocent.”
Dex clenches his fist, reaching into his belt, and you look between him and Matt. This was just what was needed. “Can we not do this here? There’s over a dozen hostages that don’t have a way out.” Matt doesn’t ease up, and Dex doesn’t either. “Do you have a way to help them?” You ask Matt.
He is silent for a moment, “We can figure a way out.”
“Alright,” you turn to Dex, “you said you came here for me. Does that mean you figured a way out?”
“Yeah,” he sneers, “for us.” He says slowly.
The conversation is interrupted as another guard comes running out, gun in hand. The three of you turn to face him. Instantly recognizing his face, you grimace, catching Dex’s attention.
“You know him?”
“Regrettably.” You absentmindedly rub the bruises he left behind, Dex’s eyes narrow on your arms before snapping towards the agent.
Matt, as if somehow sensing where this was about to go, extends his billy club, intercepting directly with one of Dex’s knives. You watch as it clatters to the ground, frowning. Then, you turn your attention back towards the agent.
Oh.
The agent collapses on the ground, one of Dex’s knives lodged into his temple. When you turn to Dex, there is not a single bit of remorse in his eyes. In fact, he turns to you as if waiting for approval. Matt curses on your left, and Dex’s posture loosens with a smugness that makes you wonder if he killed that agent for you, to aggravate Matt, or because he enjoyed it.
Probably all three.
“Back up is arriving.” Matt tilts his head slightly towards the door, and you wonder how he could possibly know that. He goes quiet for a moment, “We have to leave now if we want a chance.” He pointedly ignores Dex.
“Alright.” You nod, turning to Dex. He looks suspiciously apathetic to the development that has occurred. “Thanks for breaking me out.” You offer him a grateful smile. For once, it's genuine.
He stares at you for a moment, not giving a response before looking towards Daredevil. “Go.” Matt commands. Dex narrows his eyes at him.
“I’ll see you soon.” He mutters. He doesn’t move to leave, and you give him a confused look.
“C’mon,” Matt’s voice softens ever so slightly, grabbing your shoulder and turning you away from Dex. You give Dex one last look over your shoulder, and to your surprise he winks at you, a small smirk on his face.
You get a sinking feeling he is planning something, and not anything good.
Matt guides you to the rest of the prisoners, “Move!” He points to the exit, and the group scurries to follow his instructions. You turn to Matt before falling in line behind the last prisoner. They whisper to each other, and you can hear some people sobbing in relief that Daredevil has arrived.
Matt escorts them through the hallway, and you stay close to him the whole time. You turn around, frowning when you see an agent moving to get up, their radio seems to be on the fritz. You nudge Matt slightly, and he turns to face you. You nod your head over to the agent, and he returns the nod before making his way over to the floored man. He grabs the two-way radio, holding it up to speak.
“Fisk has people in here,” he puffs, “not just vigilantes. I’m bringing them out now.” He tells the radio before putting it down and raising his hand. “Follow me.” He orders. Matt guides you through another hallway before reaching a wooden door, he slides it open.
“Go,” he huffs repeatedly, and you can see that the door leads outside. He ushers them through, and you hear the familiar wail of sirens. Then, without warning, he freezes, “Down! Everybody, down!” He yells out, and all of you hit the deck.
You gasp as bullets rain over your head. You attempt to locate Matt, but between the low lighting and crowd of people, it’s a lost cause. You press your body against one of the crates that are shielding you from the bullets, heart pounding.
You hear Matt yell something inaudible before a knife lodges itself near your hand. You jolt, about to scream for Daredevil when you get a closer look at the knife. It reads the words: “OVER HERE.”
You try and retrace the trajectory of where it came from, and look up to see Bullseye waiting just inside the doorframe you exited. The way he has positioned himself makes it impossible for any of the task force agents to see him, or really, anybody who isn’t you. He tilts his head, giving a casual nod.
You scowl at him, grabbing the knife, and scanning the area. When you find a break in the gunfire, you crouch and run back inside. Upon reentering, you straighten yourself. “What are you doing? When you said ‘see you soon’ I didn’t think this is what you meant.”
He looks you up and down, “I did tell you that I was only here for you.” He shrugs, “Your fault you thought I’d actually leave.”
“Daredevil has it handled, I would’ve been fine.” You cross your arms, pushing him more in the building, paranoid that the task force or Matt would spot you two.
Dex nods slowly, “Yeah, being shot at sounds like he has it ‘handled’ to me.” You see his eyes narrow slightly. “We should go before he can stop us.”
“Are you serious?”
“Do you want to go back out there?”
You don’t have an answer for that, and he nods as if he knew you wouldn’t. “He’ll be fine.”
“He’s going to think I went missing.” You snap at him.
Dex says your name and you pause, “He probably already knows I’m here. If he wanted to stop us from leaving, he would try to.” His voice goes quieter, “I had to— I wanted to make sure you’re okay. All of the task force is focused on him right now. There are other exits we can take while they’re distracted.”
You cross your arms, feeling the exhaustion of the past two days catch up to you. “Fine,” you acquiesce, “but if anything goes wrong, you get to be the one to explain it to him.”
Dex huffs, but doesn’t disagree, “Yeah, I’ll be sure to mention it the next time we meet.” He starts walking down the hallway you came from, you follow him side-by-side.
Neither of you speak for a few minutes, but he, surprisingly, breaks the silence. “About the other night,” he begins, catching your attention, “I didn’t mean for it to go down like that.”
You raise an eyebrow, “Then how did you intend for it to go down?”
Dex doesn’t respond immediately, and you follow him up a set of stairs. “I… don’t know.” He replies measuredly. “I just…” he grunts, “I couldn’t stand seeing you with him.” He replies honestly, shaking his head. The two of you make it through another set of doors.
You process the information, grabbing the railing of another staircase. You descend downward, and when you reach the bottom you turn to him “You knew Daredevil was gonna show, didn’t you?” You ask, walking side-by-side with Dex.
He turns to face you, removing the mask off his face, and you catch yourself staring. “I suspected.” He shrugs.
You hum, “Is that why—”
“If you still want to talk about Daredevil, we can turn around.” Dex interjects sarcastically, tossing a glance behind you both.
Your eyebrows raise, and you let out a startled breath. “Huh,” you muse, pausing to turn around, causing Dex to stop too, “alright, well seeing as that was the original plan. I’ll see you later then, and not later as in five minutes—” You ramble, bluffing. You don’t get very far before Dex stops you, grabbing you by the waist and pulling you closer. You stagger over yourself, your hands falling to his shoulders.
You look at his eyes, scanning his face. Dex mimics the action, looking over your face. You can’t tell if he is examining you for injuries, or if he is trying to commit this moment to memory. Perhaps both. Your breath hitches at his intense gaze.
“I’m filthy.” You whisper, shivering as his hands come up hesitantly to touch your cheek, as if he is waiting for you to deny him the pleasure. Perhaps the nights spent caged made you delusional because you physically lean in, and he follows the motion.
He chuckles quietly, the sound for your ears alone, “And you think I’d care?” He whispers back.
You smirk softly, “Fair enough.” You laugh, and he leans closer to you, as if drawn in by the sound of your joy. Neither of you say anything before meeting each other halfway.
His shoulders drop instantly, and his hands pull you closer as if he physically cannot let go of you. You smile through the kiss, and you feel him mirror the action. His lips move with yours as if they can predict your every action and match it perfectly, as if he has done it a million times before. He kisses you with a desire that you haven’t felt in years. It is both the most heavenly and agonizing experience all at once, to be readily given what you’ve wanted for all this time. Slowly, you pull away to catch your breath. Dex doesn’t move, and when you open your eyes, his are still closed.
You let the moment linger before breaking the silence, it felt too familiar to not say anything. “You know who I am, don’t you?” You croak.
His eyes flutter open, flickering down to his lips before meeting your eyes again. “Hm?” He hums blissfully.
You chuckle softly to hide how exposed you feel at the question, lightly tapping your fingers across his chest, “You do, right?” You ask again.
He swallows, and you can see his throat move with the action. Then he says your name tenderly, reverently. “I’ve remembered for a while now.”
That surprises you, “Have you?” You ask, raising a hand up to his chin, gently brushing your fingers against the scarred skin.
He nods slowly, leaning into the touch. “Back at the diner.” Your lips part, and he blinks, patiently waiting your response.
“That’s when you remembered me?” You raise an eyebrow, and his hand idly rubs circles against your skin.
“You sound surprised.” He notes, clearly attempting (and failing) to bite back a smile.
“Forgive me, but you had walked into the diner, killed like ten task force agents, then asked if my meal was ruined.”
“Was it?” He sounds way more proud about murder than he has any right to. “You never did give a clear answer to my question.” He muses, thoughtful.
“Yeah,” you huff, “because I was upset at the crime scene I was witnessing.” You emphasize your point by pushing your index finger against his chest.
“Well, I gathered that.” Dex responds dryly. “I didn’t actually know you were there until it was too late.”
You raise an eyebrow, “I find that hard to believe. You just coincidentally visited the same diner I frequented?”
“I don’t know ‘bout a coincidence.” Dex shakes his head, “I… I think some part of me knew you liked that place.” His voice wavers a bit.
“So you visited it often because it reminded you of the life you couldn’t remember?” Your voice is solemn.
“…Yeah.” He whispers, almost vulnerable.
You frown, lip trembling, and your next question is filled years of pent up sorrow and fury, “You remember me, truly?” Your voice trembles, unable to meet his eyes as you ask him to reconfirm everything he just told you. “I don’t mean the coffee shop, the diner, or even the nights you visited me.” You feel the tears begin to well up in your eyes. Dex freezes the moment he notices them. “I mean before all of that.”
Dex waits for you to look up, and you blink the tears away. “I remember,” he begins slowly, “you told me that you didn’t like it when I vanished on those nights. You told me you were afraid that, with how Daredevil—how I—was acting back then, that I’d get killed.” He takes a deep breath, “I remember I told you that I’d make sure that you knew I was alive.” He smiles wistfully.
“If you forgot to eat dinner, I’d order Italian from that one place you liked down the street of our apartment.” You let out a quiet sob, “I remember that one time, you had a bad day coming home from work.” He inhales, “Fisk told me to go…” he shakes his head, “That part isn’t important, but all I remember is you telling me that you wanted me to come home that night.” He shakes his head slowly, “I remember you saying that so… so vividly. When I came home, you greeted me with the biggest smile, and for a moment I could forget everything else that wasn’t you.” Tears are openly running down your face, yet Dex doesn’t stop.
“I remember during the confrontation, before I forgot,” his eyes look from the ground up to yours, “before Fisk broke my spine, I thought back to what you said. That you wanted me to come home.” He blinks a few times, “All— All I could think about was the fact that I wouldn’t be coming home that night, and you wouldn’t know why. I would never be able to tell you myself.” You don’t bother holding back the sobs that wrack your body. “And I… I couldn’t help but hate myself in that moment. I hated him too. I was so upset that Fisk stole my chance to explain myself.”
You take in a deep breath, your chest shuddering, “And when I woke up, something was missing. I couldn’t remember you, but you haunted my life for years.” He admits, chuckling softly, but the sound is more troubled than anything. “Sometimes I could remember bits of what it felt like to be loved by you, but I could never remember your face. Not— Not until much later.”
“Dex…” You warble.
“Do you believe me?” You don’t get a chance to respond, “Please believe me. I…” His breathing begins to quicken, “I don’t know how else to…” he trails off, and you take the opportunity to pull him closer, wrapping your arms around his neck.
He falls into your chest, and you can feel his heartbeat fluttering underneath your fingertips. “I believe you, Dex.” You sniffle.
His glassy eyes meet your own, swollen and red from tears. “I never wanted to leave you. I never wanted—needed anybody as much as I need you.” He admits, and the words spill out. He licks his lips, meeting your eyes, desperation evident. “Finding you again was like taking a breath of air after drowning for so long.” He takes a deep breath, “I love you. I need you.”
You melt onto him, and Dex basks in your presence. Perhaps his words may be concerning, but part of you resonates with him. “I missed you so much.” You whisper. “Do you have any idea how much I missed you?” You ask. He blinks, and you continue: “All these years, I... hated that you left me with this burden where I remembered everything, but you lived on as if I didn’t exist.” Dex's eye twitches, but he doesn’t interrupt you.
“I was hoping that if I pretended you weren’t apart of my life, I could eventually convince myself that it was true.” You trace your fingers along his shoulders, and you watch him look down. “All these years, despite the fact that you had forgotten me, I could not erase my memory of you.” You laugh, wiping a few stray tears. “Life is cruel, isn't it?”
“Do you still wish you could forget?” He asks, meeting your eyes. His hands shake slightly in anticipation, and his breathing is unnaturally still.
“No,” you admit truthfully. “Not anymore, at least.” Dex exhales in relief at your words.
“I’m… I’m really sorry that you went through that.” The apology is clunky and pathetic—laughable even. You let out a tearful snort at it.
But it’s Dex, it’s so purely Dex that it hurts because you know he means it. He recounted memories of you as if they happened yesterday and told you he needs you.
He must see how unimpressed you are, “I know that doesn’t sound like much…”
“It doesn’t.” You quip coolly, and he winces slightly. “But I know you mean it.” You whisper softly. He exhales, and you feel his chest rise and fall. “I missed you.” You repeat the words, quiet, vulnerable, a confession in their own right.
He doesn’t say anything this time, as if afraid of saying something would mess everything up. Instead, he holds you tighter.
Neither of you let go and when you part, his eyes dilate upon looking at your face again, and no more words needed to be said.
A few days later, you were resting on the couch, his arm around you. You are scrolling through some articles before pausing and turning to Dex. He watches as you furrow your eyebrows at him.
“Did you ever tell Daredevil I was okay?” You ask.
He blinks once, “No,” he shakes his head slightly, “we don’t exactly talk if it can be helped.”
You frown, “So… You think he thinks I’m missing?”
Dex adjusts slightly as you lean closer to him, “I think he knows you left with me.”
You raise an eyebrow at Dex, “How could you possibly know that if you haven’t talked with him?”
“Call it intuition.” He smiles.
“Alright...” You blink at his cryptic response, “I’ll text him.”
Hey, just checking in, hope everyone is doing well. Wanted to let you know I got out of the whole Red Hook situation and am not missing.
“You think he’ll be mad?” You muse aloud. “Actually, he can’t be too mad at me. I’m still upset about how he went about meeting me.”
“If it was me, I would’ve just cut him off.” Dex comments helpfully.
“Of course you’d say that.” You deadpan before standing up, “You think he’ll be upset that we’re…” you gesture between you both.
Dex shrugs, frustratingly indifferent to the whole situation. “Probably.”
You hold your hand up to your mouth, contemplative. “How do I even tell him that?”
Dex is about to say something when your phone vibrates. Usually Matt prefers to talk on the phone rather than texting, so the fact that he texted you says a lot.
“What’d he say?” Dex asks, not bothering to hide his curiosity.
“Uh…” You trail off as you read his response.
Matt: I’m aware you left with Dex.
I’m sorry for not telling you sooner.
Matt: It’s fine. However, for future reference, you might want to wait until you’re home for conversations like that.
Like what?
Matt: Ask him.
“I think he’s mad.” You conclude. “He told me that I might ‘want to wait until I’m home for conversations like that.’” You turn to Dex, “He neglects to mention what ‘that’ is referring to.”
Dex slowly nods, his lips twitching in amusement, “Anything else?”
“He told me to ask you about it.” You put the phone down, “Do you know what he is talking about?”
Dex clicks his tongue, “He probably heard us.”
You blink slowly, “What do you mean?”
He raises an eyebrow, “Did he not tell you?”
You furrow your eyebrows, “Tell me what..?”
“He has super-hearing.” Dex explains slowly.
“What?” You stare at him blankly.
“He really didn’t tell you?”
“Clearly not.” You laugh, dazed. “…So you’re saying he heard our entire conversation?”
“Probably.” Dex doesn’t sound surprised by this world-shattering realization for you.
You stare at him for a long moment, and he watches as you silently settle yourself next to him. “I don’t think I can ever speak to him again.” You declare, appalled by this new information.
Dex’s eyes crinkle in amusement, “That doesn’t sound so bad.”
You chuckle, “Yep, it’s only us now.” You joke.
Dex nods solemnly, “Only us.”
You smile, snickering softly, and he smiles back at you. When you stop, you raise an eyebrow, “You aren’t joking, are you?” You ask astutely.
Dex’s smile grows in response.
: ̗̀➛ A/N: Matt being forced to listen when you and Dex finally reunite for real: “Please, God, make it stop.”
Yayyy I finished a fic!!! Anywayyyy, "I’m back" is a bit of a stretch but guess who just finished DDBA? Seeing Dex on screen sparked some motivation for me. Yes, you can expect more of him from me in the future, so lmk if you’d want to be on a taglist for him/fill out the taglist form. In fact, I’d also be willing to write for Matt too… so there’s that. Also, don't mistake Matt and Karen's inital treatment/intentions toward us in this fic being me hating on them, I love them both dearly.
Anyway, yes I will be actually answering asks again. I know I said on like four separate occasions I’d do that, but I MEAN it this time, look I even posted a fic :D! I’ll be trying to catch up on old asks for the next few days, but feel free to leave stuff in my inbox! I'd love to hear any of your thoughts on this :)
I also know I said “here’s some fics I have planned or whatever” and this was NOT one of them. I am still going to write those fics, but uh… just accept that whatever gets posted is purely based on motivation lmao. So I guess shoutout to Dex for getting me through a couple month long fic slump and making me write for Marvel for the first time in ages? I hope he wasn’t too ooc. I know I wrote him to be pretty tame in comparison to some of the stuff I’ve seen, and I say that knowing he stalked us and killed people for us in this fic lol.
I’ll try to crank some more fics out soon. They’ll probably be a mix of Dex and Batfam characters idk, maybe even a Bucky fic if I’m feeling it.
Okay this is getting WAY too long, I hope you all enjoyed the fic :D, lmk if you guys liked it cause I am absolutely willing to write for Dex if that’s what the people want!
Marvel Taglist: @newangelle @bookoffracturedescapes @libbi5001 @iwachansupremacy @flatpancake97
General Taglist: @thefallingvines @Irene32 @average-mitski-fan @r-4-y-v-3-n @code-ghost-cc @wisefuncherryblossom @noble-17 @akanu819 @lyuuu88 @lizbix @panicked-sapphic @Shark01 @arabellas-barbarella-swimsuit12 @rainbowstar @sowhatifimslow @moony00lightstar @zinajo @tokyocherries @slut4hotppl @contstant0crisis @multi-fandomreaderwriter @katsulee @jass-xoxo @century-eggg
Want to be added to one of my taglists? Fill out the form here or leave a comment asking to be added under my MCU Masterlist post :)!
summary: After spending years overseas with Doctors Without Borders, you finally come back home to Hell's Kitchen. When you meet a guy named Benjamin, you think things are finally going back to normal... except apparently your friends seem to know him, and not in a good way.
warnings/tags: no use of y/n, dex stalks you, fake identity/persona, violence, matt is an older brother figure to you, you and matt grew up in the orphanage together, matt is very overprotective of you (like suffocating really), ptsd/trauma (from doctors w/o borders), problems with eating, nightmares, you're a professor (and a doctor), did i mention dex stalks you?, matt and dex rivalry, slow burn (i absolutely mean that, like it's bad), dex is kinda obsessed with you (duh), dex only listens to you!, karen and foggy, angst, some fluff, light violence, takes place sometime after dd s3 and before ddba s1 but isn't really "canon" to ddba s1, more specific tags with each chapter!
notes: i had an idea when ddba s2 was on our screens every tuesday about dex becoming obsessed with matt's "sister" since he never had seen you before. then it became a full fleged slow burn series (no like slow burn, i don't think they kiss until like chapter 14 y'all) with all of the great qualities of dex - stalking, manipulating, obsession, and more! this is my baby, the only thing i was able to write for months, and i hope people love it as much as i do <3
(01, 01) - homam
(ho-mam'), (ζ) Pegasi, "the lucky star of the hero, or the whisperer."
(01, 02) - dabih
(dā'-be), (β) Capricorni, "the lucky one of the slaughterers," or "the slayer's lucky star."
(01, 03) - alula
(ah-loo'-lah), (ξ¹ and ξ²) Ursae Majoris, "the first leap, or the beginning of a journey."
(01, 04) - nashira
nashira, (γ) Capricorni, "the fortunate one, or the bringer of good tidings."
(01, 05) - algol
(al-gol'), (β) Persei, “the demon star,” or “the ghoul.”
(01, 06) - al rescha
(al resh'-ah), (α) Piscium, “the cord, the knot, or the binding rope.”
(01, 07) - sheraton
(sher-a-tan'), (β) Arietis, "a sign," or "the two signs."
(01, 08) - almach
(al'-mak), (γ) Andromedae, “the lynx, or the star at the turning of the chain.”
(01, 09) - alhena
(al-hee'-nah), (γ) Geminorum, “the brand, the mark, or the star of recognition.”
(01, 10) - sadalachbia
(sad-al-ak'-bee-ah), (γ) Aquarii, “the lucky star of hidden things."
(01, 11) - vega
(ve-ga), (α) Lyrae, “the swooping eagle, or the falling star.”
(01, 12) - zubenelgenubi
(zoo-ben-el-jeh-noo'-bee), (α) Librae, “the star of the false balance.”
(01, 13) - alphard
(al'-fard), (α) Hydrae, “the solitary one, or the star of growth in loneliness.”
(01, 14) - mebsuta
(meb-soo'-tah), (ε) Geminorum, “the outstretched paw, or the star of tenderness.”
(01, 15) - polaris
(poh-lair'-iss), (α) Ursae Minoris, “the North Star, or the star of guidance.”
series taglist: comment/send an ask to be added! if you're already in my dex/main taglist, you'll automatically be tagged in the series :)
“Okay. Are you ready, Dex?”
“Um…yeah.” It was him. Young, unsure. Scared.
“Good. Now, tell me what we were talking about.”
A pause. The table creaked. “We were…we were talking about the ‘North Star’.”
“That’s right. And what were we saying about the ‘North Star’?”
“That it’s…good. For me. To have one, I mean.”
Mercer hummed in agreement. “Sometimes people need something outside themselves, Dex. A person. A purpose. Something to look toward when everything else feels unstable. Something that makes us feel seen.”
benjamin poindexter does not believe in fate. he believes in structure, routine, and predictability. but then, he meets you. his new next door neighbor.
warnings: 18+ (mdni!), DEAD DOVE: DO NOT EAT, eventual smut, this fic includes stalking, obsessive behavior, invasion of privacy, unhealthy attachment, emotional manipulation, coercive behavior, possessiveness, abusive relationship dynamics, trauma, mental health conditions, violence, canon-typical Daredevil/DDBA violence, references to psychiatric institutionalization, sexual themes, and explicit sexual content. North Star also explores the progression of a relationship that becomes increasingly toxic and abusive over time.
PLEASE NOTE: this is a dark romance and is NOT intended to portray a healthy relationship.
“Okay. Are you ready, Dex?”
“Um…yeah.” It was him. Young, unsure. Scared.
“Good. Now, tell me what we were talking about.”
A pause. The table creaked. “We were…we were talking about the ‘North Star’.”
“That’s right. And what were we saying about the ‘North Star’?”
“That it’s…good. For me. To have one, I mean.”
Mercer hummed in agreement. “Sometimes people need something outside themselves, Dex. A person. A purpose. Something to look toward when everything else feels unstable. Something that makes us feel seen.”
benjamin poindexter does not believe in fate. he believes in structure, routine, and predictability. but then, he meets you. his new next door neighbor.
warnings: 18+ (mdni!), DEAD DOVE: DO NOT EAT, eventual smut, this fic includes stalking, obsessive behavior, invasion of privacy, unhealthy attachment, emotional manipulation, coercive behavior, possessiveness, abusive relationship dynamics, trauma, mental health conditions, violence, canon-typical Daredevil/DDBA violence, references to psychiatric institutionalization, sexual themes, and explicit sexual content. North Star also explores the progression of a relationship that becomes increasingly toxic and abusive over time.
PLEASE NOTE: this is a dark romance and is NOT intended to portray a healthy relationship.
Summary: In the hours that follow your first night together, Dex tries to silence the echo of your voice by clinging desperately to his routine, while you stumble upon a bloodied stranger in an alley. When Dex finally stops running and asks you out for coffee, the conversation drifts into the darkest secrets you both share. But Fisk, now reading Dex's psychiatric files, has already decided that you are an obstacle to be eliminated.
Dex x disturbed Fem!reader! Stalker.
Warning: 18+! Slow burn, manipulation, sexual abuse (past experience, not current!), Dex and reader being incredibly soft together, lots of adoration. Matt Murdock appearance! Use of weapons! Blood! Violence! Reader stalks Dex again. This chapter is based on Daredevil 3x05.
Words: 11.5k
Note: Hiii! I'm so sorry for not updating the story these past few days—I had my graduation at last! YEEEPII. Now I really do have plenty of free time to keep going with the story. I have to say I've enjoyed writing this chapter so much—I absolutely loved the dynamic, so I hope you enjoy reading it too! And by the way, my inbox is open, so if you want to ask me anything about the fanfic or just share your thoughts, you're more than welcome! (´ε｀ )
Here the previous chapter!
The first light of dawn slipped through the window, thin and amber, around seven in the morning. Dex blinked, disoriented. The ceiling was not his. The pillow did not smell of him. And the warmth pressed against his back, the gentle weight of two arms draped over his waist, jolted him back to reality in an instant.
He lay perfectly still, holding his breath. It had been years since he had slept so deeply, and now, upon waking, the only thing he felt was panic. Panic at having allowed himself to be so vulnerable. At having asked for an embrace in the darkness like a frightened child. What the hell had he been thinking? He did not do things like that.
He had no idea what he was supposed to do now. Wake you? Wait for you to open your eyes? Say something? What? Good morning? Was that alright? Thank you for not running away?
Slowly, he turned his head, watching you out of the corner of his eye. You were sleeping with your lips slightly parted, your hair a mess against the pillow. He shifted carefully, careful not to touch your hands, and the movement made your arms slip gently from his waist. And he stayed there, watching you; he did not know for how long. He was not looking at you with the cold, calculating intensity he reserved for targets or subjects. This was something softer, clumsier.
His first instinct was to leave without a sound. It was what he always did. But as he sat on the edge of the bed, his eyes swept over the apartment and landed on last night's cups still on the table, the blanket on the sofa crumpled into a ball, a couple of cushions out of place. He frowned. This was disorder. And disorder unsettled him, badly.
So he rose, dressed in the same clothes he had worn the night before—he was irritated to find his shirt hopelessly wrinkled—and began to move through the apartment in complete silence. He gathered the cups, washed them, placed them upside down on the drying rack with an almost pathological symmetry. He straightened the sofa cushions, folding the blanket with military precision over the armrest. He wiped down the countertop. Each gesture was a way to soothe himself, to regain control. To prove to himself that he was still functional, useful, still capable of maintaining order even when his head was chaos.
Once the apartment was spotless, he found a pen in one of the drawers and tore a sheet from the notepad beside the phone. He wrote four lines. He left the note propped against the coffeemaker and stepped out, pulling the door shut behind him with a click so soft it was barely there.
Out in the hallway, he stood frozen for a moment, his hand still resting on the doorknob. He did not want to leave. That was the worst of it. This time, he wanted to stay. And that was so new, so strange, that it terrified him far more than any ambush.
So he did what he always did when something terrified him: he fled. He took the stairs two at a time, burst out onto the street, and breathed in the cold morning air as though he had just escaped something. He had no idea what to do. His mind was blank, unable to decide what to think. Had it been right to leave? Should he have stayed? What if you were angry about it?
He had not even eaten breakfast; the thought had not crossed his mind. He needed time. But as always, he had to stick to the routine, and that meant going back to his own apartment. So he walked, heedless of the weather or the hour. Everything had to follow its own order. His order.
He reached his building, but he did not go to the kitchen. No. If he was going to restart the routine, he had to begin at the very beginning.
With his bed.
He went into the bedroom, undressed, folded his clothes with care, placed them on his desk, and climbed into bed, pulling the covers up.
He did not sleep. He simply stared at the ceiling in a heavy, uncomfortable silence.
The whole time.
The alarm went off at eight o'clock sharp. A shrill, metallic beep that shattered the silence of the apartment. Dex silenced it with a slap, never taking his eyes off the ceiling. He stayed still a moment longer, savouring the emptiness. Then, with the precision of a machine clicking into gear, he rose from the bed and began the usual choreography. First, he went to the bathroom, stripping off the last of his clothes and turning on the tap.
The water streamed down his powerful, muscular back, all the way to his feet. He braced his hands against the tiles and let the water pound the nape of his neck. He ran a hand over his abdomen, as though he could feel something inside—a dull ache, a deep unease. It was as if his stomach were throbbing over and over. Perhaps he was nervous. He had not taken his pills yet.
He shut off the tap with a sharp twist and stood still for a moment, water dripping from the ends of his hair. Then he dried himself with a towel and planted himself in front of the fogged mirror.
The steam slowly cleared, and his reflection surfaced from the mist like a ghost—just a faceless silhouette at first. With the same towel, he began wiping the glass, from top to bottom.
And then, in an instant, between one pass of the towel and the next, your reflection appeared before him.
He startled violently. He blinked and stumbled backward without meaning to, slamming into the rack that held a spare towel and sending it clattering to the floor. His gaze shot to the mess, then back to the mirror.
The glass was completely clear now. And there was nothing there but his own face.
Dex blinked, terrified.
His hand gripped the edge of the sink so hard his knuckles went white. His heart hammered against his ribs like a trapped animal. He squeezed his eyes shut, counting to three, and opened them again.
Nothing had changed. His own face still stared back. But he could have sworn he had seen your face there for a couple of seconds.
It was not real. He knew that. It was his head, his goddamn head, playing tricks on him again. Like the buzzing of flies that sometimes filled his ears. Like the voice of his dead therapist, the one he still heard in moments of crisis.
He turned away from the mirror with a sharp movement and finished dressing without looking back. A spotless white shirt, buttoned from the bottom up. A dark suit, left open, and shoes that reflected the lamplight like a mirror. Once dressed, his eyes drifted for a moment to the bottle of pills.
Normally, he took one with breakfast, lunch, or dinner to stabilise himself better in his daily life. So he grabbed a pill, popped it into his mouth without water, and swallowed it dry. He stood still, hands resting on the countertop, waiting for the churning in his stomach to subside. It did not. He simply stopped paying attention to it.
Then he went to the kitchen, turned on the coffeemaker, and waited on his feet, arms crossed, watching the dark liquid begin to drip. Decaf. Always decaf. Caffeine made him jittery, and he was already jittery enough without chemical help.
He slid his hand toward a newspaper lying on the counter and brought it over to the table. He had exactly fifteen minutes to read it while he drank his coffee. He sat down, back ramrod straight, and opened the paper with careful hands.
It was nothing more than another story about Fisk's transfer. As before, the press had wasted no time criticising and dissecting the decision. The paper tore into the FBI officers, mocking their lack of judgement and competence.
What most people did not know was that the bulk of the FBI was being manipulated, both by Fisk and by Hattley.
Dex was on that same path, still in the process of being drawn in. He knew, absolutely, that he should not trust Fisk. Of course not. Who would? The man was dangerous, playing his part as the helpless prisoner to perfection. And yet, despite everything, a few of his words had lodged themselves firmly in Dex's mind. Especially the moment Fisk had told him he valued his work, that he had been extraordinarily brave during the assault on the convoy.
The article also mentioned the hotel—the staggering sum it cost to keep Fisk in a luxury penthouse—and the outrage of ordinary citizens who watched a criminal receive five-star treatment while the agents who had died in the convoy attack barely earned a single line of tribute buried on page twelve.
Dex simply tightened his jaw. He might not feel that strange thing called empathy for them, but he knew it was wrong to give a man like him more weight in the story than the colleagues who had fallen.
He drank his coffee, his eyes fixed on the words of the newspaper, until a glance at his watch told him time had run out. He returned to the kitchen, washed the cup, and set it upside down in the exact same position as the other one. He pulled on his jacket, and was almost out the door when a photograph caught his eye.
It was from his time at the Brooklyn Suicide Prevention Center.
After his therapist's death, Dex had been left without any figure of attachment. Mercer had taught him to build a life on what she called "the pillars of order": a clean physical space, a disciplined vocation, and a rigid structure to keep him stable. Thanks to the cassette tapes she had left him, he could still summon her voice. It helped him, truly, whenever he was overwhelmed or on the verge of breaking.
He had followed her advice: enlisted in the army, sharpened his aim and his affinity for weapons. Later, he had found work at the Brooklyn Suicide Prevention Center.
His gaze drifted to one corner of the photograph. There she was. Julie. His "Northern Star." His "North Star." The one he had always stalked. The one you knew about.
Julie had been his coworker, and she was everything he was not: warm, sweet, genuinely interested in helping others. Dex had fallen for her almost immediately—or at least developed a fixation, an obsession, that he had always mistaken for love.
In front of Julie, Dex pretended to be an exemplary colleague. He showed interest in the cases, listened attentively, acted like someone who genuinely wanted to help. But when Julie wasn't around, his true nature came to light. Once, a young man called the helpline explaining that his abusive stepfather was making his life impossible and that he was considering ending his own life. Dex's advice wasn't to seek help or to report his abuser; it was direct and brutal:
"You have a weapon. Fine, use it. But why turn it on yourself? It's not worth it. If the bastard stepfather is making your life hell, why not use it on him?" He even gave advice on whatever weapon the kid had, offering his own critique. "A Glock 17? That's a good pistol. Reliable, accurate... seventeen rounds in the magazine. Lightweight, the frame is polymer, not metal. Your hand won't get tired. Plus, the Safe Action system makes it very safe: three internal automatic safeties. It won't go off on its own. And the recoil is low. If you squeeze the trigger right... it won't miss." He very nearly convinced the young man to murder his own stepfather. If Julie hadn't intervened, the kid probably would have ended his stepfather's life, feeding Dex's coldness in the process.
He didn't see any contradiction in his own behaviour. To him, that advice was perfectly reasonable: eliminate the threat rather than surrender to it. It was the same logic he applied to his own life. He didn't understand why it was wrong, and he only held himself back when Julie was around, because he knew she wouldn't approve.
Julie never got to know this side of Dex. To her, he was a kind coworker, maybe a little strange, but harmless. Dex, for his part, began to follow her, to memorise her routines, to watch her without being seen. The suicide prevention centre thus became the stage for his first major stalking. It was there that he learned to feign normalcy while hiding his darkness—a skill he would later perfect at the FBI, passing unnoticed (though everyone there still saw him as a weirdo).
He smiled at the photograph, just a little, staring at Julie's silhouette for a moment before opening the door and stepping out of his apartment.
The light from your bedroom window flooded the room, the morning sun blinding you. Your eyes squeezed shut, and you buried your face into the pillow, groaning in protest. Slowly, your hand reached out, searching for the warm body beside you, but there was nothing there.
You turned your head, opening your eyes and confirming that, indeed, no one was beside you.
You sat up, the blanket sliding over your t-shirt, your face still drowsy. What time was it?
You looked at the clock: ten in the morning.
Your gaze swept the room. Dex's clothes were gone, and there was no sign that he was still somewhere in your apartment. You slid out of bed, your feet shuffling across the floor as you rubbed your face.
When you reached the living room, you frowned.
The room had changed—well, not that much. But everything was noticeably tidier. The blanket, for instance, was folded and neatly arranged among the cushions. The cups the two of you had drunk from had been washed and left upside down in the same position on the drying rack. Dex had definitely done all this.
You walked over to the counter, spotting the folded note, and carefully opened it.
"I tidied up a bit. Hope you don't mind. Thanks for letting me stay. —D."
Your heart gave a little flutter, and you smiled. Even though he had gotten up without you, without saying goodbye, he had at least left you that note. Plus, he had left the apartment tidier (though in your opinion, it hadn't been necessary) and the coffeemaker ready.
You grabbed the same cup from yesterday, this time filling it with coffee, and drank it in a profoundly awkward silence that filled the entire room. Truth be told, since you weren't working, you could go out for a while, right? You could at least keep yourself busy with practical things.
So, by mid-morning, you left your apartment. The wind outside slapped your face.
The streets of Hell's Kitchen carried on as usual—cars passing by, the smell of a nearby bakery... You walked at your own pace, hands tucked into the pockets of your jacket, in the full grip of autumn.
As you turned a corner, the sound of sirens caught your attention. An FBI car was parked next to an apartment building. It wasn't all that strange—in fact, it was fairly normal for these streets—but the tense posture of the agents caught your eye. They moved with their hands resting on their weapons, as if something deeply dangerous lurked inside that building.
Right next to you, in the alleyway, you began to hear footsteps on the fire escape—the metallic clang gave it away. You looked over and noticed a man climbing down with difficulty, limping, as if he were badly hurt.
The poor guy was so exhausted that when he finally jumped to the ground, he had to brace himself against the wall just to keep from collapsing.
He propped himself against a dumpster, sliding down until he reached the ground, one hand pressed to his side, hissing and breathing with obvious difficulty.
You looked around twice. Should you... help him? you wondered. I mean, you were literally right next to him, but was it the right thing to do? What if he rejected you with disdain? Maybe you shouldn't get involved—who knew what kind of trouble you'd be walking into.
Nonsense! You were far too bored doing nothing; you needed action, to be useful. And this man was the salvation of your aimlessness.
You began to approach cautiously, just close enough for him to see you.
"Hey, are you okay?" you asked. The man looked up, and you realized that, no, he was definitely not okay. His face was covered in wounds.
God! What kind of question was that? Of course he's not okay! He's bleeding out like a ketchup bottle.
Great start.
"Okay, my bad... Sorry," you said, laughing a little nervously, eyeing his hand. "You don't look good, honestly."
You squinted as you studied him. His face was... familiar, somehow. You felt like you'd seen him somewhere before, but you couldn't place him—at least not yet.
He, on the other hand, seemed to have recognised you. He just wasn't speaking, hesitating instead. What could he even say to you right now?
Slowly, you knelt down, looking at him. "Listen... maybe you don't want help, and I completely understand that, really. But if you stay here, that wound's probably going to get infected and cause you a world of pain, which I'm sure you don't want. So... how about I take you back to my place? And I won't ask any questions, I promise, if that's what you want." You raised your hands in surrender.
He let out a soft sigh. "Is your apartment far...?" he managed to ask.
You nodded. "A few minutes from here." Your hand brushed his greenish jacket. "May I?"
"No, no, wait. Better not," he said, getting to his feet on his own, hissing in pain. "It's better if we act normal..."
"You're literally dripping blood," you replied.
"People have seen worse things. I doubt anyone's going to stop and ask," he answered with a touch of humour, laughing despite the pain.
You stared at him for a few seconds, brow furrowed, until finally, you shrugged. "Fine. Have it your way. Let's go." You gestured with your head.
You walked in silence through the streets of Hell's Kitchen, passing coffee shops and fruit stands with the same naturalness as two strangers sharing a pavement. Except one of you was utterly wrecked.
He walked beside you, jaw clenched, breathing controlled. He didn't complain, but every few steps his hand drifted back to his side, pressing the wound as if sheer willpower could contain the pain. It was admirable. And completely stupid.
"Did you get in a fight with a shredder or something?" you asked, without looking away from the path ahead, your tone light and not really expecting an answer.
"Something like that." His voice was hoarse, but not hostile. He even managed something close to a smile. "It was a very big shredder..."
You snorted. At least he had a sense of humour.
When you reached your building, you moved ahead to open the door for him. He hesitated a moment, as if stepping into unknown territory, then followed you up the stairs. He climbed the steps one by one, without complaint, though his breathing grew more ragged with each flight.
When the two of you finally entered your apartment, you shut the door gently and guided him to the sofa.
"Sit down," you said, in a softer tone than you'd intended. "I'm not going to ask you anything, but I am going to patch you up. And I won't take no for an answer..."
He gave a tired smile.
"You're very persuasive."
"Well, I'm a forensic scientist," you admitted. "I'm used to dealing with shattered bodies that can't complain. So..." You moved closer to him, setting the first-aid kit on the table, and knelt in front of him.
"Take off your jacket," you added.
"Shouldn't we have dinner first?" he murmured, his voice a thread of pain.
"Very funny... but take it off, seriously. Or I'll do it for you."
He obeyed, with slow, pained movements. When the jacket fell to the floor, you saw what it had been hiding. The black t-shirt underneath was soaked in blood, and a deep gash ran across his ribs. It wasn't fatal, but it was bad enough to need stitches.
Stitches you couldn't give him.
"Okay... uh... when I offered to help, I didn't exactly mean stitching you up, honestly," you pressed your lips together, looking up at him. You could see his face up close, the bruise on his cheek. "I'm going to disinfect the wound, so fair warning... it's going to hurt."
You sighed and soaked a piece of gauze in hydrogen peroxide. When the liquid touched the wound, he hissed through his teeth but didn't pull away. His hands gripped the edge of the sofa so tightly his knuckles went white, and he tried to stifle a groan. It didn't work.
"Sorry, sorry..." you whispered, moving the cotton around his abdomen. "Do you think if I bandage the wound... it'll hold until you get wherever you're trying to go?"
He shook his head. "You have to stitch it," he insisted.
You sighed again, and finally, you had to nod. You went to your bedroom for a few seconds to get a needle and thread, and returned to him.
You looked at him for a moment, the needle between your fingers. "Are you sure?" you asked.
And he nodded without hesitation, eyes closed.
You stayed quiet for a while, and with care, you drove the needle into his skin, threading it through. You heard a soft groan from him at the sharpness of it.
As you repeated the motion, you wanted to ask him something—though, as you'd said earlier, you'd promised not to ask any questions.
"Hey..." you began.
He hummed in response, looking down at you.
"I know I said I wouldn't ask questions, but I have to say I'm curious... have we seen each other before?" you asked, pausing to look up, studying him.
There was a brief silence between you, and you began to frown, slowly.
"Maybe," he replied, his gaze unfocused.
You hummed in response. "That's not an answer. So... I'll take it as a yes."
"We met at the Fisk protest, at the hotel..." he finally said, and you kept stitching the wound. "You helped me with the elevator. Remember?"
You bit your lip, trying to recall, until your mouth fell open. "...Oh! So it was you. What a joy to see you again, then," you said, with a hint of irony.
"Yeah, well." He slid his gaze to another part of the room, frowning now and then, as if he were concentrating on something else.
"So, another accident on the stairs?" you asked, with a touch of sarcasm. This man definitely hadn't just fallen down some steps; he looked like he'd climbed into a cage with jaguars.
He snorted a little, but looked exhausted, almost sorry for what had happened. "Something like that," he said, staring at your distant window.
You finished stitching the wound and applied more gauze around it, trying to clean up the fresh blood. Then you pressed a white patch over it, just to be safe.
He pulled his t-shirt down slowly, in silence. He stayed there a few seconds, his gaze lost on the window, as if mentally calculating how much time he could allow himself to rest before leaving. Then, he pushed himself up from the sofa with a stifled groan, one hand going to his freshly bandaged side. He stayed like that for several minutes.
"You should rest," you advised.
He shook his head gently, rising from there and starting to walk, wobbling a little.
You frowned. "Where do you think you're going?" you asked.
"I have to go... I can't stay here long," he said, without looking at you. "Really, I value your... empathy." He let the word slip as if it cost him to admit he hadn't seen that in you. "But I can't stay. Besides, if I stayed here, I'd bring you trouble."
You rose to your feet, watching him. He was pulling on his oversized greenish jacket, covering his t-shirt and, above all, his wounds.
"Thank you, for everything. I owe you quite a lot... I promise I'll repay you in the future."
"It's nothing," you waved a hand, vaguely. "Are you sure you don't want to stay?"
He shook his head again. "I have to see someone," he said, naming no one.
He headed toward the door, before looking back at you. "If... anyone asks, you haven't seen me. You don't know me, you don't know who I am or what I was doing in that alley. The people looking for me aren't very kind to those who help me..."
You blinked a couple of times, then nodded. "Alright... I won't say a word to anyone."
He gave you a brief smile, and stepped out of your apartment, disappearing from sight.
You were curious to know who he really was; however, you were certain that if you asked for his name, he'd dodge the question—that's exactly why you didn't ask. But the curiosity burned... You wouldn't tell anyone (at least for now), because if you did, it would backfire on you. You'd be implicating yourself as an accomplice, and besides, being suspended, it wouldn't be seen as a heroic act—quite the opposite. It would be a disgrace to the FBI and you'd probably be fired.
So, just as that man had said, you wouldn't tell a soul.
You stayed in your apartment for several more minutes, alone with the hum of the refrigerator accompanying you in that deep silence. With nothing to do, you felt that familiar itch. That need.
That need to see Dex again.
It had only been a few hours, but you wanted to see him, again. It wasn't rational. It was something more primitive—a compass that always pointed toward him. You knew that at this hour, if he was following his routine, he'd be running the streets near the hotel, perhaps following Julie, perhaps just clearing his head. You hadn't dressed for spying, but that had never stopped you before. A light jacket, the hood over your hair, and you stepped out onto the street.
The fresh air slapped your cheeks again. You walked unhurriedly, hands in your pockets, until you reached the route Dex usually took. You'd memorised it long ago, just as you'd memorised everything else.
And there he was.
In the distance, his unmistakable silhouette. The straight back, the steady stride, the measured breathing. He wore a dark sweatshirt and track pants, jogging a few metres ahead of you, focused.
You smiled to yourself and began to follow him, at his back.
It wasn't hard. Dex was focused on something—or rather, on someone—else. Julie was jogging a few metres ahead of him, oblivious to it all, and he followed her with the same devotion with which you followed him. A chain of watchers. Three links. You, Dex, and Julie. Like that pizza night, but in broad daylight.
You'd been following him for several minutes now, keeping your distance, concealing yourself with the same skill you'd perfected over the years. But something had changed. You were no longer invisible to him.
Not anymore.
Dex stopped.
He didn't slow down. He stopped dead, his feet planted on the asphalt, his back still turned to you. Julie kept running, just now pausing under a bridge where a homeless man sat. She seemed to be giving him some money, or maybe food, but Dex didn't move. His head turned slightly—just enough for you to see his profile.
"Can you stop following me?"
Dex turned around fully. His eyes found you instantly, with that inhuman precision that defined him. He seemed... resigned, as if he'd been waiting a while for you to show your face.
You froze. Your first impulse was to deny it, to make an excuse, to pretend you were there by chance. But Dex's expression told you it wouldn't do any good. He knew.
"I wasn't following you... I don't know what you're talking about," you looked around, lying anyway.
He raised an eyebrow, slightly. "Yeah, sure. And I'm the President of the United States..."
"You could be... or at least one of those presidential bodyguards," you wiggled your fingers toward him, dramatically. "You've got good aim."
His face was a mask of discomfort, and he shook his head. "That's not funny..." he ran his hands over his face, then turned away for a few seconds, not wanting to lose sight of Julie.
"I just wanted to see you," you shrugged, as if it were the most natural phrase in the world.
"You saw me last night..." His voice came out rougher than he probably intended. "And this morning... well, no. Not this morning. I left before you..." He cut himself off, as if he'd just realised he was about to admit something. He lowered his gaze. "Did you read the note?"
You nodded.
"Did it bother you?" he asked again.
And you shook your head.
He nodded to himself. His hands slowly drifted toward his own pockets, as if he didn't know what to do with them.
"Why do you follow me? I mean... you already know everything. You've seen me... and you've been with me. Why do you need to...?"
"Because I like it," you interrupted, with the same naturalness you'd use to say you liked the colour of the morning sky. "I like everything... about you," you added, with something that might have been interpreted as... shyness? As if in front of him, it cost you to say it.
Dex looked at you, in silence, and then let out a short sigh, relaxing his shoulders.
He took a brief step toward you. "No... you don't have to follow me. You can walk beside me. If you want."
You stood there a few seconds, looking at him. "Oh, really?"
And he nodded, determined. You fell in beside him, at his side, without quite touching him. Dex looked forward again, watching Julie for a few seconds; she was still with that homeless man.
"Are we going to follow her?" you asked.
He stayed quiet for several seconds, until he managed to answer. "No." You turned your head toward him, and then he added, "I've had enough for today..." and shifted his gaze toward you.
You laced your own fingers together, swaying your hands alongside your arms as you looked at them.
"There's a coffee shop nearby... do you... want to go?" he asked, looking at you. You simply nodded, your lips curving downward into a smile.
He started walking at an unhurried pace, and you followed. He didn't speak to you, but he seemed to be enjoying the shared silence. You zipped up your black hoodie, pulling the hood off as you kept walking beside him.
Eventually, you reached the nearby coffee shop. It was a surprisingly warm place inside, considering it sat in the middle of a cold, grey street. Ceiling lamps decorated with plants illuminated everything, casting orange highlights on your faces. You followed in his footsteps, at his back, as he headed to the counter.
He tossed a bill onto the counter. "I'll have a decaf... and whatever she wants," he announced. You tilted your head toward the barista, giving him a little smile.
"I'll have a cappuccino, please."
The barista nodded at the order, turning his back to start preparing them. Dex turned around, too, looking at you, and opened his mouth, letting it out without any context whatsoever.
"I want you to know... I'm not interested in Julie. Not sexually," he blinked a few seconds, uncomfortable with the word. "At least, not in that way," he added. It seemed like he wanted to make sure there were no misunderstandings between you, though the funny thing was that you hadn't even asked.
You frowned, slightly bewildered by the sudden change of subject. "...Okaaay...?" you laughed a little at his words. "I appreciate your honesty, but... I didn't ask. Doesn't it feel weird to just blurt that out like that?" you asked, laughing sweetly.
He let out a shaky sigh, slightly embarrassed by his own words.
Shit.
"No, no, no..." Dex raised a hand, waving it slightly as if trying to erase his own words from the air. "I didn't say it right. Or I did say it right, but it wasn't the right moment. I mean... I didn't mean to just blurt it out like that. It's just that..." He pinched the bridge of his nose, a gesture you'd seen on him far too many times. "Last night we were talking about her, and you asked me if she was a great girl to me, and I said yes, and it's true, she is, but not in that sense. It's more in the sense that..." He paused, searching for the words. "I admire her. That's it. I admire her."
He fell silent for several seconds, watching you, trying to read your expression. "Sorry, I'm... getting nervous," he let out a short laugh.
You smiled at him. "Don't worry, it's actually kind of cute to see you like this, honestly..." you said, with charm.
He fell silent again, and swallowed, frozen. He could feel his cheeks heating up for a few seconds. Luckily for him, the barista arrived right then with your orders, giving him an excuse to turn away from your gaze and grab the two cups.
"You're not mad... right?" he asked, holding your cappuccino out to you.
"No, not at all. Why would I be?" you replied, wrapping both hands around your cappuccino, feeling the warmth of the cup between your fingers.
He didn't answer your question; instead, he started walking toward the most isolated table, as far away as possible so the two of you would have your own space. You sat facing each other, studying one another.
You sipped your cappuccino softly, watching him. He, on the other hand, only looked at you now and then, out of nerves.
"So..." you began, holding your cup. "Had you already been inside my apartment?" you asked directly, this time without any context whatsoever.
"W-what?" He looked at you.
"Last night, when you came to my apartment. I never mentioned it, as far as I remember..." you traced a finger along the table, playing with the wood grain. "That means you must have been inside before, when I wasn't there. Were you stalking me?" you added, with a smile. For you, being stalked by him didn't bother you in the slightest; on the contrary, you loved it, because it meant you'd caught his attention.
"No, no... I wasn't stalking you," he shook his head, drinking a little of his coffee. "Though... I know it might look that way, but no."
You hummed, not quite believing him.
"After the thing with the magazine... I didn't know if you were a threat... if you worked for someone or if you were trying to toy with me." He looked up, meeting your eyes directly, with an intensity that wasn't aggressive, but rather something vulnerable. "I had... I had to make sure. So yeah. I went into your apartment... I'm sorry."
You simply smiled, not averting your gaze. "You don't have to apologise. It's okay. No problem..."
"It doesn't bother you?" he asked, brow furrowed, incredulous.
"No, not at all... It means you wanted to get to know me," you smiled, and then added, "Besides... I like that it's you watching me, for once."
Dex blinked, processing your words. Then, without warning, he let out a soft, shaky sigh.
"And what were you able to see in my apartment?" you placed both hands on the table, resting your cheeks on them, full of curiosity and attention on him.
"Are you interested?"
And you hummed in reply.
He swallowed, sliding his hand across the table in a nervous gesture.
"Well... uh... I took a look at your books," he fidgeted with his hand. "I didn't understand half of what was in them... but the pictures were very interesting. Most of them, I think, were kind of explicit."
"Like the lobotomy picture? You know, when they push the trephine through the patient's eye socket," you gestured with your hands, explaining it to him. He nodded, intrigued by your way of expressing yourself. You smiled for a few seconds and went on explaining. "Lobotomy was performed to try to 'cure' or control severe psychiatric disorders... like schizophrenia, deep depression, and extreme anxiety, back when there were very few effective pharmacological treatments. But... far from curing them, ablation of the frontal lobes usually caused irreversible brain damage. The patients who underwent it often suffered severe apathy, drastic personality changes, loss of decision-making capacity, and in many cases, ended up in a vegetative state or died..."
As you explained with interest and enthusiasm, Dex watched you this time with more enchantment, fascinated by the subjects you knew—he seemed to melt just listening to you talk about them.
"If I remember correctly, it stopped being performed on a widespread basis in the 1950s, because they started developing antipsychotic and antidepressant medications... Today it's considered one of the most brutal and raw practices in history. Did you know that?" you asked him. He shook his head definitively.
"You're... very intelligent. In those concepts, anyway. I... wouldn't know," he admitted, looking at you, still spellbound. "What other horrible medicines do you know about?" he asked, curiously.
You smiled again, delighted. "There were medicines with mercury, years ago... They used it to fight syphilis and other infections back then. But as you can imagine, mercury isn't exactly a friendly substance for the human body... So... it destroyed patients' nervous systems, they lost their teeth, got ulcers, dementia, organ failure, and sometimes even death, from poisoning."
He was smiling sideways, listening to you. "Have you always been interested in medicine?"
You fell silent for a few seconds, your hands still wrapped around the cappuccino. It was a simple question, but the answer wasn't—especially not the main reason behind it. Dex noticed immediately and squinted for a few seconds, a little regretful. "Sorry... did I overstep? I shouldn't have asked, it's—"
"No, no, it's fine," you tried to soothe him, with a slight smile, which relaxed him a little. "I've always liked understanding how things work... The human body is fragile. It breaks easily, psychologically as well as physically. It's truly fascinating... Every bone, every organ, every tissue in the body... it has a function. And when something fails, you can figure it out." You paused, fiddling with the rim of your cup. "As a child, I didn't have much control over my life, because of my parents. Like I told you last night, my father was a shitty abuser, and my mother was too deranged to understand that the pain he caused her was love."
You looked up for a few seconds, watching him, and then glanced around the coffee shop. There weren't many people in your area, but either way, with a slight smile, you lowered your voice, looking at him.
"Do you want to know something?" you asked. "Do you want to know the real reason I became interested in this?" You pointed a finger, swirling it around.
He nodded, listening. "Alright, I'll tell you." You licked your lips, lacing your own fingers together, studying him. "Like I said before, my father beat us both... It was exhausting. The days went by and I was filled with this feeling of resentment and hatred toward him."
"I wanted him to die," you added. Dex, who was just taking a sip of his coffee, froze with the cup against his lips, staring at you, as if that had surprised him for a few seconds—or intrigued him.
"I didn't care how. I wanted him to die any way possible: an overdose, an accident, murder, even suicide." You took a sip of your cappuccino, so your throat wouldn't go dry. "And one day, I asked myself... if no one else is going to stop him, why not me?" you said, matter-of-factly. "So I decided... to kill him." Your voice sharpened into something serious, and then you looked at him.
"It was very easy. All I had to do was wait until he fell asleep on the sofa. I grabbed a knife..." Your hand drifted to your own neck, and with your thumb, you traced a line. "And I slit his throat."
Dex set his coffee down on the table, processing your words, and asked, "How did you feel?" Not with morbid curiosity (or maybe a little), but with genuine curiosity. He wanted to understand you better.
"I felt... that I did the right thing. I don't regret what I did. And if you asked me whether I'd do it again... the answer would be yes," you said, looking at him.
He nodded slowly, without looking away. He didn't say anything for a few seconds, and then murmured, "Then you did the right thing." It wasn't an opinion; it was an affirmation of your decision. You smiled again at that. Then, he added, "And now? Would you kill again?" It wasn't a challenge, but a genuine curiosity. He wanted to know how far your darkness reached.
"Yes. If I had to, I would," you admitted, looking at him. He smiled again, off to one side, satisfied with that answer.
"You know... I used to kill when I was little, too. Well, not people, of course... it was animals," he confessed, and you tilted your head to one side.
"Oh, really?" And he hummed, taking another sip of coffee.
"They were street animals... you know, weasels, some ducks, cats..." he toyed with the rim of his cup. "At first I felt sorry for it, but then... I liked it. It was an incredible sensation," he looked at you. "Though my therapist didn't agree," he added, with a short laugh.
You laughed a little with him, and he added, "I even skinned a chicken once..." he said it with a hint of pride, for your benefit.
And then, without warning, after a pause, he opened his mouth and let out a guttural, high-pitched noise—a clumsy imitation of a chicken's clucking. Literally. And the best part was that he did it so well that even he surprised himself. It wasn't an exaggerated noise; more like a raspy "CRŌ-CRŌ," as if he were trying to remember how chickens sounded in the old farm movies.
There was a silence between the two of you, your smile vanishing entirely at the sound. What the hell had just happened? Had you just witnessed Dex imitate a chicken?
The poor man was staring at you, and when you didn't laugh, he grew embarrassed and began to laugh at himself, resting his elbows on the table and covering his face with both hands, hiding his flushed cheeks. "Oh, god.."
You pressed your lips together, suppressing a laugh. But you just couldn't help it—he was too funny like this. And you laughed at it, covering your mouth. It was possibly one of the few times you'd laughed for real, and at something so ridiculous, no less.
Dex looked up after a few seconds, and seeing you laugh, began to follow your laughter, laughing with you as he let the embarrassment fade.
"Did you just... imitate a chicken?" you asked, holding back laughter, speaking in gasps because of how funny it was to you.
Dex nodded. "Yeah... that's what it sounded like. More or less."
"I think the sound's deeper..." you laughed in between. "More barnyard." And without warning, you went along with it, doing your own imitation of that chicken. "CRŌ–CRŌ."
Now it was Dex who fell silent, though not seriously. On the contrary, he was mesmerised. He laughed a little, and shook his head. "I have to say, mine is definitely better," he said, without remorse.
You opened your mouth, pretending to be offended. "Excuse me? Yours sounded like a run-over hen. Mine is so much better."
He shook his head again, taking a sip of his coffee. "No."
You narrowed your eyes, displeased with his answer, and listened to his next question. "And what happened next?"
"Well, my mother abandoned me later... and I was put in psychiatric centres or reformatories. Nobody took me in, so I lived there until I was eighteen."
He blinked, and nodded. "I was also... well, in an orphanage, in my case," he admitted, opening up to you. "Until I was eighteen, and then I enlisted."
You frowned for a few seconds. "What... happened to your parents?" Curious.
"They died," he mentioned. "I don't really remember how... but I imagine they passed away in an accident," he looked at you.
"Oh... I'm sorry about your parents," you said, looking at him. Your hand moved softly toward his, without quite touching.
Dex looked at your hand for a few seconds. "It's okay... Either way, it's not like they were very pleasant, to say the least. My childhood was shit, in general," he added, without remorse.
"Do you think they deserved to die?" you asked, directly.
He sighed. "I feel like they abandoned me, honestly. But... yeah, I'd say they deserved to die," he admitted, looking at you.
You smiled a little, without moving your hand.
"They sent me to the orphanage after that. I was there for quite a while. Didn't make any friends, but I passed the time playing baseball with the other kids. The only person I was really close to was my coach. He said I was pretty good at hitting the ball." He smiled at the memory. "But sometimes he wouldn't let me play enough... He told me I had to let the other kids have a turn, but why? I was the best one on the team. It made no sense to bench me. It made me feel useless, not being able to do anything. And in a moment of rage, I threw the ball at him, and well... I killed him." He blinked, letting the last words drop as if they meant nothing.
You stayed quiet for a few seconds, then tilted your head softly, studying him.
"That man clearly didn't understand your talent for the sport. You were right to strike him down..." you replied, trying to justify his act, your eyes gleaming. He simply laughed a little.
"Then I met my therapist, Doctor Mercer... She helped me a lot," he added. "Sadly, she passed away from her illness. I felt so much rage..." he sighed at the abandonment of his therapist. "After that, like I said, I joined the army for a few years, and then I signed up for the suicide prevention group," he added. "And that's where I met Julie."
You rested a hand on your cheek, humming as you listened to him.
"You know the rest. I've been watching her since the day I met her. But... like... like I said before, I'm not interested in her that way... sexually," he commented, that uncomfortable word making him reach for his coffee cup.
You smiled, and asked directly. "Have you ever had sex?"
The question caught him off guard, and he choked slightly on his coffee. He wiped the corner of his lips with the back of his hand and stared at you, his eyes slightly wider than normal.
"Excuse me?"
"It's a simple question," you said, without erasing your smile. "Yes... or no?"
He fell silent for a few seconds. His fingers drummed on the table. Finally, he shook his head.
"No. Not... in the strictest sense." He paused. "I've had... opportunities. But I didn't..." He shook his head again. "No."
You knew it. A virgin.
"Why?"
"Because I'm not interested, I think. At least not right now." He looked directly at you. "I didn't... I didn't feel anything. And without that, it's..." He ran a hand over the back of his neck. "I don't know. It's strange. It's like my body and my head are two completely separate things. And sex is..." He grimaced. "...complicated."
Dex averted his gaze, his fingers still drumming on the table. Then, his voice even lower, he added:
"There was this one time... a woman. From the FBI." He swallowed. "We were colleagues, I guess. But her way of expressing herself was different. She'd touch my arm sometimes, let her hand brush against my... chest. I thought it was normal at first, but I wasn't really comfortable with it. I tried to tell her so many times... pushing her away or saying I didn't like it, but she never listened. One day, I remember she called me for a meeting, said everyone would be there. I believed her at the time, in those early years. And when I showed up... she took me into a small room and started undoing my belt. She touched me. She tried to... you know. And I didn't... I didn't want it. I told her, but she didn't listen."
He looked up at you, and for an instant, you saw something in his eyes that you had never seen before: fear, or something broken.
"I left. I just... got up and left. And she insulted me, called me a faggot, a freak, an abnormal, said I didn't know what I was missing." Dex shrugged, as if to downplay it, but his voice betrayed him. "I've never told anyone at work. I haven't even... well, reported it or told Hattley."
You fell silent, processing his words. Then, with an almost clinical calm, you asked:
"What's her name?"
Dex looked at you, bewildered.
"Why?"
"Because no one gets to hurt you and just walk away like it's nothing." Your voice turned cold for a few moments. "Tell me her name. I'll take care of her."
He blinked, his eyes fixed on you, and shook his head softly.
"No, no. I don't want you to do anything. I just... wanted you to know," he said, his fingers drumming on the table. "It's the first time I've ever told anyone... I don't want you to end up... doing something stupid."
"I don't see it as stupid," you replied, with a smile that didn't reach your eyes. "It would be justice, don't you think?"
It was the very same thought Dex had once had, back when he was on the phone with that young man. Even if a part of him wanted the woman who abused him dead, it would bring more trouble. And he didn't want you to do it, for your own sake.
He shook his head again. "No. I don't want you getting into trouble because of me. You've already got enough with the suspension..."
You frowned, scoffing. "I don't care about the suspension anymore."
"Well, I do." His voice came out harsher than he probably intended. You fell silent, watching him. "I'm not going to let you ruin your career over something that happened years ago. I've already gotten over it."
You pressed your lips together, doubtful. If you were him, you'd end that woman's life, honestly. But you respected his limits, or the ones he was forbidding you to cross.
"Alright... I won't do anything you don't want me to," you said.
Dex squinted for a few seconds, as if he couldn't quite believe you were capable of respecting his boundaries without questioning them.
"Do you mean it?"
You nodded, looking at him. "I won't do anything you don't want me to," you repeated. "But believe me... I would do anything for you," you admitted, serious.
He nodded to himself, and his shoulders relaxed a little. Slowly, his hand moved toward yours, the one resting on the table. He touched the back of your hand with his thumb. You gently turned your hand and laced your fingers through his, without saying a word. He didn't pull away; on the contrary, he squeezed your hand a little, still stroking it. And you stayed like that, in silence.
After a while, he glanced at his wristwatch, breaking the silence. "I should get back to the hotel..." His voice sounded more like a lament than a farewell.
You nodded, without pulling your hand away. You knew he had to go back there at some point; after all, he was still "working."
"Fisk will be waiting," he added, as if he needed to justify it. "And Lim can't cover my shift all day."
"I know." And it was true. There was no reproach in your voice.
Dex squeezed your fingers for an instant, then gently withdrew his hand.
"Would you... would you like me to walk you home?" he asked finally.
You smiled for a few brief seconds. "That won't be necessary... but thank you." After several seconds, seeing he was about to leave, you remembered something. "Oh, wait. I can give you my number, if you want. That way we can talk whenever." You grabbed your phone, offering it to him.
He stood frozen for several seconds, his gaze dropping to the phone. He took it firmly and typed your number into his own cellphone. "I will... thank you," he said, then handed the phone back to you. He stood, adjusting his jacket with that mechanical gesture of his. "See you around. I hope to see you again."
"Me too," you replied, watching him from your seat.
You watched Dex leave, disappearing among the crowd on the street. And with that, you were alone once more. You drank the last few sips of your cappuccino, now completely cold, and then left yourself.
You watched Dex leave, disappearing among the crowd on the street. And so you were alone again. You drank the last few sips of your cappuccino, now completely cold, and then left yourself.
Your hands were tucked into the pockets of your hoodie, smiling inwardly at that warm conversation, paying no attention to your surroundings.
You didn't even notice that someone was watching you from a distance.
Someone with bad intentions.
That afternoon, at the hotel, Fisk was reading reports at his table. But not just any reports.
Dex's files.
Donovan, under Fisk's orders, had delivered several reports on Dex—on his private and psychological life. Fisk had been reading all those files, all that data, while you and Dex were sitting together in that coffee shop.
In his mind, he envisioned the whole story from Dex's childhood, watching the catastrophes of his life unfold as if he were there. The accident of his coach, Doctor Mercer, the drawings, the tapes, Julie, the suicide prevention center... All of it, with Fisk observing. He even imagined how Dex stalked Julie. It was like a drama, a play in black and white.
He snapped back to reality, simply looking at a photo one of his operatives had taken: Dex behind Julie, pursuing her as she ran, just like this morning. Only you, exactly, did not appear in that picture.
"If you don't mind my asking, Mr. Fisk... uh... you don't need to go into detail," Donovan began, "but what's all this about?"
Fisk rose, clasping his hands behind his back. "Right now, I am New York's scapegoat. There are protesters on the street screaming for me to be put back behind bars..." He paused. "And that's nothing more than a nuisance to my plan. Fortunately, it's very easy to distract people." He went on. "Which is why the solution to my problem is very simple..." He glanced at another photograph. "The city needs another villain," he confessed, sliding his hand over the photos, and among them, he revealed a new one.
It was you, this time, with Dex, in that coffee shop. Two specific moments: one where you were both laughing (probably at that ridiculous chicken imitation), and the other where your hands were intertwined. Out of context, someone might think something else, but for Fisk, it was enough to know that you were an obstacle to his plan. For Dex.
He slid another photo across the table—a shot of you walking toward your building. Fisk observed you through the photo with cold detachment, choosing the best course of action to continue his plan.
"But first... I need to get rid of the people who ruin my plan. Who distract..." He raised the photograph of you, showing it to Donovan. "And I would like it to be done as soon as possible. I would not want to... waste the valuable time I have," he added, and sat back down.
Donovan's face froze, staring at Fisk for a few seconds before looking at the photo.
You were in big trouble...
Just below the hotel, in the restaurant, Dex was seated at the bar, dissociating. Toying with a coin between his fingers.
He was thinking about everything that had happened today; this time he didn't feel so overwhelmed. On the contrary, he felt good. Calm, as if a weight had been lifted from him. And the best part was that now he had your contact, and he wanted to see you again as soon as he could.
He could barely believe it himself—that he'd be capable of meeting someone like him, someone who understood him.
"Would you like something to drink?" That question made him blink, returning to the world. He turned his head, and his eyes widened slightly.
It was Julie. Wait, what?
She was looking at him with that same charming smile as always, and all he could do was open his mouth, unable to answer her. Finally, he laughed. "I think you need more time... I'll bring you some water if you like."
Dex turned his head away, not quite believing that the woman speaking to him now was actually Julie.
She tilted her head gently, smiling at him. "This might sound strange, but... did you work at the Brooklyn Suicide Prevention Center?" she asked, watching him.
He looked at her again and stammered until he managed to answer. "Y-yeah, yes... I did. It was... a stressful job."
Julie laughed a little. "You bet..." and she extended her hand toward him. "I guess you don't remember me... I'm Julie."
He stared at her for a few seconds before lowering his gaze to her outstretched hand. "Dex," he reacted, reciprocating by extending his own hand and giving hers a slight squeeze. "And... of course I remember you."
"What a coincidence, right?" she laughed.
"No... we happened to coincide."
"Well... today's my first day at the hotel. They offered me double what I was making at my other job if I started right away. And honestly, I didn't need much convincing." She smiled again. "What about you? Are you staying at the hotel?" she asked him.
"No, no way... I live here... in New York—I mean, uh... no, at the hotel." The words got tangled in his mouth, embarrassing him, but it drew a laugh from Julie.
Oh, God.
"The FBI has an office upstairs," Dex added. "We're guarding... Wilson Fisk."
Julie looked him up and down, somewhat intrigued by his job, and she spoke with an enchanting voice. "A federal agent..."
He gave a lopsided smile, as if flattered by her charm.
Suddenly, a distant voice interrupted the moment, probably a customer. Julie tilted her head toward a woman's table before looking back at him. "I have to go take care of that table or they'll fire me on my first day..." she said, with a touch of humor. She was about to leave, but Dex's question stopped her.
"When does your shift end?"
She turned back, looking at him. "In an hour," she said, and added, "Would you like to meet up afterward? So we can chat..."
He hesitated to answer. If Dex were a believer, he would definitely be kissing God's feet right now, because holy hell, he was having a lot of luck today. "Yeah... uh... yeah, I'd love to."
And so he stayed another hour, all just to spend a little more time with her.
Now the two of them were sitting at a table, drinking wine. Julie was smiling at the conversation they were having. "That's my favorite route, too!" she said. "There's nothing better than running along the west river." She added, and Dex smiled.
"Between your running routes... and the new job, you could say you're stalking me," he laughed.
How ironic.
"Whoa! You caught me," she played along, laughing.
"Tell me... why didn't you stick with social work?" he asked.
She set her glass down on the table, thoughtful. "Well... the truth is, I wanted to be a dancer, and I made it... It went really well, until I tore my knee for... the second time," she added, with regret.
"Oh... I'm sorry. That must've been really hard... but it's admirable that you tried," he managed to say, trying to cheer her up.
"It's just... I didn't have a Plan B. My parents were wrong when they told me I could be whatever I wanted." She shrugged.
"Even if it didn't work out... it must've been nice to hear that..." There was a brief pause. "My... my parents never told me things like that..." he added.
"I don't think you needed it... You've gotten by just fine on your own." That answer of hers made his face light up with the same enchantment he'd had at your words. Only now, it was directed at Julie.
They both laughed together, nervous and a little clumsy. Suddenly, Julie leaned forward, curious. "So... what's it like... working for Wilson Fisk?"
He shook his head. "I don't... I don't work for him... I work for the Federal Government."
"It must be... really scary being so close to someone like him," she said, with a touch of pity.
He scoffed. "I don't have a choice. It's my job."
After a pause, she added, "Do you think someone like that deserves a second chance?"
Without hesitation, he answered. "You worked three years in suicide prevention... You should know better than anyone." He spoke without seeing the consequences.
She frowned. "How do you know I worked there three years? You were only there for one."
Shit.
Dex opened his mouth, trying to control himself. His hand drummed softly on the table. "You... you mentioned it earlier, you quit for ballet..."
"I don't remember mentioning that... specifically ballet," she replied, a little frightened.
"I guess... I just assumed," he tried to justify.
Julie looked at him for a few seconds, then gave a smile that didn't reach her eyes. She was uncomfortable.
"I should probably go... It's late. And I need to rest."
"Are you standing me up?" he asked, not quite believing it, smiling nervously.
"No, no! Not at all. It's just... I have to feed my dog," she mentioned, gathering her things.
"You don't have a dog," his expression shifted to something colder as he looked at her.
She turned her head, more frightened than before. "How do you know that?"
Neither of them moved after that revelation. Until Julie stood up quickly.
"Julie, Julie, wait." He tried to grab her. "You're misunderstanding... Let me buy you dinner, let's take a walk and I'll explain it, really..."
She tossed a bill onto the table. "I'll buy," she said, turning away again. But this time, Dex grabbed her arm, with some force, stopping her.
"Julie." He looked at her. "You're very special to me."
"Let go of me, Dex..."
"Please..."
"I said let go of me!" she repeated, her voice loud, wrenching her arm free from his grip, and she left quickly.
The people in the restaurant were stunned by the scene, some staring at Dex, others simply ignoring it. Meanwhile, inside Dex's head, he was starting to get nervous, agitated. Those flies buzzed back and forth, over and over, and he couldn't control it.
He had ruined his own chance.
Night fell over your apartment. Your bedroom was lit by the orange glow of the lamp on your desk. You had been reading a new book you'd picked up at a nearby bookstore—it was about strange diseases and how they formed in the body... You still remember the look on the shop assistant's face when she saw what book you were carrying, as if you were some kind of weirdo. And the truth was, you were.
Your fingers slid over the pages, studying the images with attention and fascination. Someday, you were interested in possibly conducting some kind of experiment like that. Though you doubted you'd ever pull it off.
At some point, you felt the urge to drink something, so you slid your chair across the floor to stand up. Your bare feet padded silently as you walked into the kitchen. You grabbed a glass and filled it with water, drinking it slowly.
You held the glass away for a few seconds, looking at it for no apparent reason. But then you frowned as you noticed something reddish pointing at it, like a laser, right next to your cheek.
It took you a moment to realize it wasn't just a simple laser.
Your eyes flew open and you dropped the glass just before a shot rang out from somewhere. Your window shattered from the bullet, and the glass in your hand exploded, its fragments spraying against your face, cutting your cheek and chin.
You ducked behind the counter, your heart racing. Your hand reached out blindly, trying to find something on top of the counter, but another shot sounded right beside you, making you startle again.
You slid across the floor, opened the utensil drawer, and grabbed a sharp knife. Out of the corner of your eye, you glanced at the shattered window, revealing a sniper in the building opposite.
"Shit..." you muttered under your breath, trying to spot an exit. On the other side was your bedroom; you could make it back there, but you'd need a lot of luck to get there unscathed. You braced yourself, ready to run.
Your feet sprang into action, dashing toward the bedroom, but another shot rang out—one that went straight into your arm. You screamed in pain, pressing your hand against the wound, feeling the blood run through your fingers. You gritted your teeth and kept moving toward your bedroom.
Quickly, you yanked open the closet door, shut yourself inside, and waited to see what would happen, the knife clutched in your hand.
You tried to stifle your cries from the intense pain the bullet was causing in your skin. You could feel tears sliding down your face, mingling with sweat.
And suddenly, you heard footsteps. First, the sound of glass—probably the window being completely smashed. Then someone entering, walking slowly.
You waited for the right moment to attack when he came close, wanting to see who had attacked you. But the night was long, and luck was not on your side.
Something started buzzing in your pocket.
You squeezed your eyes shut, your hand trembling. You felt around to see what it was, and it was nothing other than your own phone.
It was Dex. Calling you.
"Not now..." you whispered to yourself, not answering. You didn't know whether to hang up, because then he might think you didn't want to talk to him, which was a lie. You did want to, just not right now.
You cracked open the closet door, tossed the phone onto the bed, where it let out a soft buzz before going silent.
The footsteps you'd heard earlier changed direction, moving cautiously toward your bedroom. You held your position, waiting.
Again, another insistent buzz. Dex was calling you again, impatient. What did he want?
The good thing was that it drew the attention of that suspicious person, who moved closer to your bedroom. And through the sliver of light from your closet, you could make out his silhouette. It was a man, wearing almost military-style clothes, but not like a cop—more like a street thug. He was pointing a pistol everywhere as he moved, until he reached your phone.
He stared at it for several seconds, and without hesitation, he declined the call, which only pissed you off.
With a kick, you burst out of the closet, hurling yourself at him. You slashed the knife toward his torso, trying to cut him, but he recoiled quickly. Instead, he seized your face and slammed it hard against the closet, sending blood pouring from your nose. You fell to the floor in agony, trying not to move your left arm because of the bullet lodged there, but it was impossible.
He laughed a little at the state you were in and began reloading his pistol, aiming it at you.
With your other arm, you grabbed the knife and drove it into his leg, making him let out a groan and fire a shot into the floor by accident.
"You bitch!" he spat through clenched teeth, the knife still buried in his leg. You scrambled to your feet quickly, limping as you tried to escape his grasp.
But he caught up with you. His hand seized your ankle and yanked hard, sending you crashing face-first into the floor. The impact tore a grunt from your throat. You rolled over, kicking, struggling, as he tried to pin you down with his weight.
You managed to reach the handle of the knife still jutting from his leg. You pulled it free with a sharp jerk, drawing a sharp hiss from between his teeth. The blade came out smeared in dark red, and without a second thought, you raised it to bury it in his chest.
He saw it coming. His fist slammed into your stomach, just below the sternum. The air fled your lungs; you spat saliva and blood, doubling over yourself, but you didn't fall.
With a growl, you lunged forward and drove the knife into his side. The man's eyes flew wide, a wet gurgle escaping his throat. He staggered back and dropped to his knees. He ground his teeth, spitting up a gush of blood, but he didn't get up again.
You rose as best you could, panting, the knife still in your hand, ready to finish him off—and you did. You stabbed him again, over and over, gasping, broken, as the blood splattered across your face.
"Die!" you shouted, your voice shattered, driving the blade deeper and deeper. But then a figure seized your hand with force, stopping your movements cold.
"Hey, hey. Enough." A raspy voice spoke. You spun around, the weapon raised, and you saw him. There he was. The stranger in black. The same figure who had been tailing you, the same compact silhouette that had appeared in your apartment. His face was hidden behind a black mask. You couldn't see his eyes, but you knew he was staring at you.
"That's enough," he repeated.
"And who the hell are you?" you demanded, raising the bloodied knife toward him. Your vision was slowly blurring. Finally, without any answer from him, you lunged at him.
The knife carved a swift arc toward his chest, but the stranger moved with impossible fluidity. He dodged the slash effortlessly, twisting his torso just enough for the blade to graze his clothes without cutting him. He took a step back, raising his hands, palms open.
"I don't want to hurt you..." he said. "I'm just trying to help."
"I don't need your help!" you screamed, and attacked again.
This time, he caught your wrist in midair. His fingers were like a vise, but they didn't squeeze. They only held you. He pulled you toward him and, with a sharp movement, disarmed you with ease. The knife clattered to the floor, beyond your reach, and you tried to struggle, already drained of strength. You punched his chest with your fist, once, twice, three times. He didn't even flinch. Your breathing was a reedy whistle, your body at its absolute limit, but you refused to give up.
"Let go of me, goddammit!"
He released you, and you pitched forward as your body gave out. The man caught your shoulders, trying to steady you. "You're not okay..."
"I'm fine... I don't need your... fucking help..." you said, your words ragged, strengthless. You were definitely not fine; your head was spinning relentlessly, your vision was failing. Blood was dripping from your nose onto your lips, your face was cut, and that bullet in your arm had surely cost you a great deal of blood. You simply didn't want to feel weak.
But your knees gave way, and you crumpled to the floor. By some stroke of luck—thank God—the man caught you before your skull hit the ground.
"You're so stubborn..." he murmured. Slowly, he slid one arm under your knees and another beneath your back, lifting you carefully against his chest.
You had no idea where that figure was taking you, but at times, your fading consciousness caught fragments of words.
«Who is she?» asked a woman's voice, stern.
«Someone who helped me once... I'm returning the favor,» he replied. «She needs help now.»
You suddenly felt cold hands on your face, and a damp cloth.
The woman stared at you for a moment. «Leave her here... I'll take care of it. And go, before she recognizes you.»
He nodded, looking at you one last time, without his mask this time, before turning away and disappearing from that unknown room.
What was happening? Where were you? Who were these people?
Your questions went unanswered, because in the end, you closed your eyes one final time. Your body lay still and relaxed, letting unconsciousness claim you. Letting you, at last, breathe.
Pairing: Call of Duty, TBI!Johnny x f!Reader | Rating: T
Tags/Content Warnings: Medical inaccuracies, depression, angst, slow-burn, hurt/comfort
Summary: A soldier suffering from a traumatic brain injury will need to relearn everything from locomotion to language to emotional regulation. Fortunately, there's a cute volunteer at his rehab facility who visits every week to read him poems and help him remember why the struggle is worth it.
Read on AO3 here, or navigate to the chapters below:
Prologue
Week One
Week Two
Week Three
Week Four
Week Five
Week Six
Week Seven
Week Eight
Week Nine
Week Ten
Week Eleven
Week Twelve
Week Thirteen
Week Fourteen
Week Fifteen
Week Sixteen
Week Seventeen
Week Eighteen
Week Nineteen
Week Twenty
Week Twenty-One
Week Twenty-Two
Week Twenty-Three
Week Twenty-Four
Week Twenty-Five
Week Twenty-Six
Dedicated to @youarehereyouaresafe, lover of all things Johnny and most beloved of friends.
Note: This is a little slower-paced and angstier than my other fics, plus some people might not like the heavy poetry. Totally understand if some of my usual readers pass on this one - it's not my best work, but I've had it planned since November and I had to get it out of my head. I have the first third of the story done, so you'll see a bunch of chapters go up at once and then probably won't hear from me for a while. Thank you so much for reading <3
Reader is a lower ranking soldier, who unfortunately gets placed in the same room as the deadly Ghost after an unfortunate fire. Chaos ensue.
pairings: Female!reader x Lt Ghost, implied that reader has a crush on Soap
Notes: You can read in any order though I’d recommend at least reading ch1 first, platonic or romantic, up to you :)
୨✧୧ Odd habits Reader is a lower-ranking soldier who, after an unfortunate fire, is forced to share rooms with Lieutenant Ghost of all people. Unfortunately for reader, they’re only coping mechanism is balling their eyes out every night and Ghost has a keener eye than most. (lfluff, humour, protective ghost, )
୨✧୧ Gummy Bears Your friends dont believe that your roommate is Simon Riley himself, the ghost. So, they force you to go over to the lieutenant and ask a stupid question. That is until you realise his sergeant is also there too. (Soap Mactavish, teasing)
୨✧୧ First missions Ghost knows how hard it can be to prove yourself in the military, so he asks you for a ‘favour’ in which you go undercover on a mission with him team. He meant to just help you in exchange for scaring you all the time, but he finds something far more interesting instead. (141, canon-typical violence, fluff, teasing)
୨✧୧ Using his rank to your advantage
୨✧୧ Dreams and Desires Ghost finds out you tend to have pretty vivid dreams and asks you about them regularly, intrigued. It’s only when he teases you about having one about Soap that things get really interesting though. (Implied crush on Soap)
୨✧୧ A Favour While on a short trip to town, some creep hits on you, making you uncomfortable. you don't have anyone to walk back with you to the bus, but thankfully you still have a favour from Ghost waiting to be used. (protective!ghost, eventual fluff)
୨✧୧ Cookin’ for two You decide to cook a steak using the portable stove your friend got you, when Ghost is supposed to be busy. That is until he comes angrily talking over the phone, and you know damn well what you're doing breaks many regulations. (Teasing, fluff,)
୨✧୧ The 3 times Ghost looked after you and the one chance you got to do the same for him As much as Ghost wants to pretend you dont plague his mind, he finds himself drawn to making sure you're okay. Of course he'd never let you reciprocate it.. unless he hadn't even realised himself. (protective!ghost,fluff, sleeping together, teasing)
୨✧୧ Rumours your friends have distanced themselves with you after some baseless rumours surface, leaving you to come to Ghost instead. Luckily for you, he has a solution. (protectiveness, teasing, rumours)
୨✧୧ 'Girl Problems' When you dont show up to Soap's training sessions on time, he asks Ghosts where you've been. Turns out you've been having a pretty rough day, and luckily you have a grumpy roommate to help ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚
୨✧୧ 'Behind the mask' You didn't expect Ghost to be any younger than forty, but clearly your estimation is way off when you accidentally walk in on him after a shower. (Romance) ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚
୨✧୧ 'Restless' Nightmares plague the two of you, luckily you have the other to help you through it. Reader ver Ghost Ver
୨✧୧ How to ragebait your lieutenant Ghost always gives you good advice, but sometimes tou really are too tired (and stubborn) to listen
୨✧୧ Bonfire Night November 5th has finally arrived and you are desperate to see the fireworks with Ghost. The team agree, and you all go together, finding out a lot more than their favourite pastries.
୨✧୧ Military Ball (NEW CHAPTER) Due to a successful agreement with America, a ball will be hosted to honour a tradition of theirs. You ranks are invited to an ‘after party’ but rumours are going around again, and you start to believe their words.
୨✧୧ A Healthy Dose Of Riley Eases the Heart You both go on deployment at similar times, leaving you far from him for the longest time yet. When you come back, you end up very ill, thankfully Simon comes back earlier than expected. (cw vomiting, grief, implied ptsd, hurt and lots of comfort) ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚
୨✧୧ Rough week (request) (romance, fluff, reader beats up a guy)
୨✧୧ Dad? (Request) (fluff,platonic,141, teasing) You accidentally call Price dad after being teased about your dynamic for so long.
୨✧୧ Through blood and insecurities (romance, fluff, reassurance, hurt/comfort) Ghost comes back injured from a mission, leaving you with a whirl of conflicting thoughts over how to help him and whether you really hold an important place in his life.
୨✧୧ A Small Surprise (price + gaz focus) You’ve been helping Price out for a while with small little things but as easter break comes around and everyone leaves, you’re alone. Especially when Simon goes on a mission too. Luckily, he’s got plenty of jobs for you to do, and a credit card to spoil you with
୨✧୧ A Diet? (fluff, humour, teasing, tf141) After your recent blood test Ghost decides you need a serious readjustment to your eating habits. Unfortunately for him, you wont go down without a fight.
୨✧୧ The Second Lieutenant (angst, injuries/abuse, medical procedures (stitches). You’re sent on a course to complete a new training. Of all the partners to get, your hates your guts which you believe is for no logical reason. Little do you know who his father is, or rather, who his father doesnt like
The Second Lieutenant Part Two
Note: despite some chapters being romance focused, i still plan to make equally as platonic chapters !
Taglist: open
Support my work and buy me a coffee! (i’m fighting for my life updating during exam szn)
prison was never going to stop Dex from finding you again.
I Can See You | @/sun-hashira
you should’ve known Dex would have unusual ways of keeping an eye on you.
what he holds when he holds you | @thefateofelia
kiss it better | @lvely-prose
everyone knew dex was an unstable man incapable of being alone. which was why you stayed by his side, guiding him like he needed—his north star.
the push and pull | @strangelure
Drabble | @killshotx
The first time Dex sees you fall apart, he doesn’t handle it well.
the whetstone | @/killshotx
Dex kills someone for you. You deal with it.
Obsessive/inexperienced Dex | @nneoww
To Love Me Is To Suffer Me, pt 2 | @whorrorbellee
Dex takes a liking to the regular at the diner, after a couple of weeks he decides to follow them home.
Polaris : Masterlist | @weneesworld
Polaris explores the fragile line between comfort and control—between being seen and being kept. At its core, the story follows two people shaped by instability, drawn together not by something healthy, but by something familiar. In a situation where escape is blurred and dependence becomes inevitable, attachment begins to form—quietly, persistently, dangerously. When love is built on fear, need, and recognition… is it still love—or just survival dressed as something softer?
Dex Hates the Technology in Your Apartment | @bellaxgiornata
walk him like a dog | @imsarawoods
“Meet”-Cute | @honeymeringue
You meet a cute stranger on your walk home.
New Girl | @/honeymeringue
The New York FBI office needs an immediate cyber agent transfer, and that just so happens to be you. You meet a handsome agent who shows you around the office.
Bandages and Green Tea | @awesome-badass-cafeteria-sauce
Dex is mid-spiral when he gets a visit from his kind neighbour.
Ben Poindexter/Bullseye/Dex Headcanons | @ms-nesbit
SERIES - four counts | @i00que
benjamin isn't a man who stumbles, not anymore. but, when his north star is so close he stumbles, shin smacking into a book cart that sends him sprawling, and there you are above him, shocked and worried for the clumsy man on the floor whose looking at you like you hung the stars.
Your cat doesn’t like him | @sweetjellytea
your cat isn't a big fan of you bringing dex around the apartment
benjamin poindexter x reader | @/sweetjellytea
back to the old house — miniseries masterlist | @/sweetjellytea
a chance meeting on a flight and sharing headphones with a stranger somehow leads to building your (fairly unusual) lives around one another. or, a series of connected oneshots that follow your atypical relationship with dex
hitting on older!ddba!dex at the bar | @poindexeye
HER, pt 2 | @ladybirdswritings
being the little sister to karen page has its downsides. when dex’s bullet finds the wrong girl, so does his obsession.
Behind the Mask. | @dazened
You’re the only person on a corrupt task force who knows the “Daredevil” they’re hunting is actually your co-worker, Special Agent Poindexter. But between the embedded corruption and the way Dex looks at you, you’re starting to realize you’d rather be on the wrong side of the law with him.
❝luke 10:30❞, pt 2 | @devilfic
“You’re standing in your nightclothes in the dark, crying over spilled fucking milk, with a fridge full of food and a dinner going cold upstairs. Dex could think of worse things to cry about in this city. For the first time since the money had changed hands, he kinda gets why your ex paid him to kill you.”
Kiss It Better | @paniniimpressed
After witnessing something you weren’t supposed to, there’s a price on your head. It would be easy for the excellent marksman to finish the job, but something about you makes him reconsider.
a bad man | @eu-nicola
you hated him and you hated what he had done but that didn't even stop you from doing what you wanted deep down
Turn me on | @dontyouworrydaddy
Jealous Type | @/dontyouworrydaddy
When you and your boyfriend went to the bar, he couldn’t help but notice someone staring at you causing him to be a little Jealous.
Fbi!dex jealous hc | @monguideetoile
On a visit to your local supermarket with your boyfriend Dex you noticed a young cashier looking at you and smirking flirtatiously your way. You usually were a more reserved but also polite person so you smiled back due pure kindness towards another human being. What you didn’t notice was how your boyfriend was stiffening up beside you as he saw how that cashier was eyeing you. Pure jealousy flowing through Dex made him definitely more protective who lurks at his star from that situation onwards.
Benjamin Poindexter x Psychologist reader | @reidluvr9
You worked as a prison psychologist, you were face to face with the worst criminals of New York every day, but was it scary? Yes. It was. But somehow the thrill of it all overruled the feeling of fear. The information you got, stored, gave away. Since your friend Foggy Nelson died you decided to seek out his killer, Benjamin Poindexter. To what end? You didn't know yet. All you knew was that you had to meet him. What you didn't know when you took the job was that it would make your life a whole lot messier. Your friendships were at stake, your life, your morals. Would you give it all up? For a certain criminal?
Training | @deerfawnn
dex teaches you how to throw knives.
𝙈𝙮 𝘿𝙧𝙪𝙜 𝙄𝙨 𝙈𝙮 𝘽𝙖𝙗𝙮. | @brunchable
Imagine | @/spaceyaemonds
the devil of hell’s kitchen saves your life. or, at least he looks like him.
DARLING! GUESS WHO’S BACK FROM JAIL! | @/thefateofelia
a woman grapples with the aftermath of her lover’s sudden departure and imprisonment.as she tries to rebuild her life with the help of a therapist and a safe new romantic interest, she experiences increasingly disturbing signs.
summary: prison was never going to stop Dex from finding you again.
who: Benjamin "Dex" Poindexter/Bullseye x Female!Murdock Reader
word count: 2.9k (i got carried away)
warnings: soulmate au, mentions of blood, injuries, break-in, imprisonment, emotional tension, and obsessive themes. If I have missed any please let me know!
part 1 of the "Glitch" Series
next chapter: I Can See You
divider by: @uzmacchiato
“Wherever you stray, I follow…” — Willow by Taylor Swift
It was the uncomfortable pain in your shoulder that woke you from your restful sleep.
A pain that was no longer sharp, not like it was that night, but one that still lingers as a pinching, persistent ache that settles deep in your shoulder on cold and wet nights like tonight.
Rolling onto your back, you lie there for a moment, staring at the ceiling and breathing through the pain as you gently massage three fingers against the ache, hoping it will pass and you won’t have to leave the coziness of your warm bed.
Feeling the rough scar beneath your fingers, you lie there trying to ignore the memories of how you got it, but when the sirens pass your apartment building, you find yourself slipping back into your memories of that day.
The day your life changed forever.
You, Foggy, and Karen had just left Josie’s Bar to check on Cafaro when the loud crack of a gunshot filled the air and pain hits you from behind. It rips through your right shoulder, taking your breath away before you fully understand what’s happened, as the force of it sends you stumbling forward.
But what made you stiffen was the blood splatter on Karen’s face as you realised that the bullet had exited your shoulder and hit Foggy, who had collapsed onto the ground as people around you screamed in horror, and for a few seconds you froze in pain and panic before adrenaline kicked in and you were moving before your mind caught up.
Yelling for someone to call an ambulance, you press your hands firmly against Foggy’s wound, willing your powers to stop healing you and to heal Foggy.
To keep him breathing, and to keep him stable. To keep him with you.
You were so lost in your panic that you didn’t even notice when Karen put her hands against your shoulder until she pressed down hard enough to make you gasp in pain as she tried to keep as much of your blood where it should be.
“Stay with me.” Her voice broke as each word filled with more panic. “Both of you, please.”
But you don’t answer. You can’t.
Not when you're forcing everything you have into Foggy. Not when you can hear your brother fighting on the roof of Josie’s Bar, knowing that he’s listening to Foggy’s heartbeat, to your blood dripping onto the street.
With your body begging to heal the hole in your shoulder, your vision blurs as you push through the pain, putting everything you have into Foggy. You hadn’t even realised that you'd been repeating the same things over and over.
“Keep breathing. Just keep breathing. Stay with me.”
But the strain keeps building, becoming sharper with each passing moment, when a heavy impact lands behind you three. Your breath catches as your powers flicker for just a moment as you silently pray that you won’t lose them both tonight. Not Foggy and Matt.
Not your brothers.
Breathing deeply, you steady your hands, channel your powers, and check that Foggy is still breathing as the paramedics that have just arrived rush to help before you turn your head and let out a sigh of relief.
Not Matt.
You slouch into Karen's waiting arms, your pain finally catching up with you as you fully turn to look at Benjamin Poindexter on the ground, barely conscious, and as you make eye contact, it happens.
The pleasant burning feeling on your left collarbone. The sign you've been waiting nearly your whole life for.
The sign that you have met your soulmate.
And yours has just shot you.
Breathing deeply, you push the memory out of your mind, reminding yourself that you’re in your apartment tucked away in your warm bed and not bleeding in the arms of your friend.
But the ache is still there, still pinching, and you realise that no amount of gentle rubbing is going to relieve it tonight. Sighing you toss your covers back, slide your feet into your soft slippers to make your way to your kitchen, where you last put the pain relief balm.
Slowly you push yourself to stand, your aching shoulder throbbing in protest as you put on your fluffy robe, fingers brushing against the scar, and take a deep breath.
Checking your clock that reads 1:44 AM, you tighten the robe and step into the hallway.
The apartment is pitch black except as you make your way towards the kitchen, you don’t bother turning on any lights, using the moonlight to help lead you to the balm left on the center island.
Opening it, you gently massage the soothing gel onto your scar, letting out a sigh of relief as you feel it take effect. Placing the lid back on the tin and tucking it into your robe's pocket, you turn back towards the bedroom when the sound of fabrics moving against each other comes from the darkness of the living room.
Slowly you grab a knife from the wooden block and move carefully towards the sound, slippers gently slapping against the wooden floors. Keeping your breathing as quiet as possible, you slowly crept around the corner and quickly flicked the lamp on, flinching at the brightness and nearly dropping the knife when you saw who was sitting on the sofa.
Benjamin Poindexter was supposed to be imprisoned and serving multiple life sentences. Not casually sitting on your new sofa.
Blood darkening the side of his shirt as one of his hands pressed tightly against it, though a slow trickle of blood slips through his fingers. His head lifts the second the light turns on, and for a moment he doesn’t move; he just stares at you with a look in his eyes that you can’t quite place.
For a few seconds, neither of you speak. You just look at him, cataloguing everything that has changed since you last saw him. He’s bigger and bulkier than before, as if he had nothing to do in prison except gain more muscles. You ignore how it makes your heart stutter.
Dex’s eyes flicker briefly towards the knife clutched in your hand, and a smirk appears on his face as he looks you in the eyes. “Are you going to use that?” he asks quietly.
“Why are you here?” Your voice comes out stronger than you expected. “What do you want?”
Soulmate or not, this is still the man who shot you.
Dex’s eyes lower briefly to the blood staining his side. His hand still tightly clutching the wound. “I needed help.”
Then his eyes lift back to yours. “And I wanted to see you.”
Something tightens in your chest because part of you understands exactly what he means.
For a moment you stay where you are, knife still low at your side, eyes flickering once again towards the blood dripping from his hand and staining your sofa.
“You’re staining my sofa,” you say, placing the knife on the shelf, hands more steady than you feel.
Dex tilts his head, eyebrows twitching in confusion. “What?”
“My sofa is brand new, and you’re ruining it.”
“Oh,” he says, finally noticing his blood soaking the cushions. “So I am.”
You exhale slowly, feeling the last bit of adrenaline leave your body. When your brother told you this morning he was going to see Dex in prison, this wasn’t how you expected your night to go.
“Let me see it,” you say.
Dex stills at your words, his hand moving to his ribs, his eyes slightly hopeful.
“Your injury,” you sharply say, face flushing red. “Not that.”
His eyes stay on you for a second before he slowly moves his hands away from his body. Blood immediately gushes through the tear in his shirt, a stab wound from what you could see and probably a few hours old.
You swear softly under your breath. “You should be at a hospital, especially with those face wounds as well.”
“No.” His answer was quick but certain. “Just you, only you.”
You don’t bother arguing as you step closer, removing your robe and setting it below you on the coffee table. He looks worse up close, pale even in the light of your warm lightbulb, and the left side of his face was bruised.
But his eyes never left you, slowly roaming up and down, taking in your light blue PJs, and smirking at your fluffy cow slippers.
“What?” you ask, reaching for the box of medical supplies you kept in the ottoman. Usually you would have used your powers, but tonight you were too tired and drained from helping out at the back-alley clinic your boss ran.
“Fluffy cow slippers?” His amusement was clear in his voice.
“Shut up,” you say, putting all your supplies on the table beside you. “They were a gift from Karen, and they’re very comfortable.”
Dex snorted. “Sure.”
“Are you armed?” you ask, pulling on gloves and sliding to your knees.
“Yes.” He said, spreading his legs to give you more room.
“… Are you planning on using it?” You ask, facing your supplies.
“No.” His answer was quick and certain again. “Not on you, never on you.”
Again. You couldn’t help but think.
“You’re nervous,” Dex says quietly, still watching you, and you begin to wonder if he’s even blinked.
You snort at that. “You broke into my apartment in the middle of the night and are now bleeding all over my sofa.”
“You’re still helping me.” He says like this means something.
You refuse to answer that as you reach for his shirt because deep down it does.
“Lean forwards.” You say quietly.
Dex obeys immediately and you lift his shirt. The movement exposing his defined muscles, and a few inches above the wound in black letters was your name. Unblemished, like he had done everything to protect it.
You freeze slightly at the sight of it, feeling the rush of emotions that happened every time you thought about him. Shaking the feelings away, you grabbed the disinfectant and soaked a gauze.
Silence settled between you as you dabbed at the wound, soaking up as much blood as you could before grabbing a fresh gauze.
“You didn’t come to see me,” he whispered breaking the silence, his eyes leaving you and going towards his blood-soaked hand.
“Don’t,” you say quietly, pressing the alcohol-soaked gauze harder against the wound than intended.
Dex barely reacts as his eyes move back to you. “Don’t what?”
“Talk like this changes anything.” You whisper, grabbing a new gauze to wipe away the remaining blood.
And for the first time since you walked into the living room, something shifts in his expression. Not anger, not hatred, but something you didn’t expect to see on him.
Hurt.
“I was in prison,” Dex continues quietly. “You knew, but you never came.”
You still at his words because what was there to say? For months you’ve refused to talk about what happened that night, focusing on your family and pushing every thought or feeling about him away.
For months you’ve kept your bond with him to yourself despite how much you wanted to cry and rant to someone about it without being judged or scorned.
You force yourself to keep working, fingers steady despite the sudden tightness in your chest. “Yes,” you say evenly. “I knew.”
The quiet is heavy as it fills the room before you clear your throat, reaching for the needle and thread in the kit. “You need stitches.”
“Sit up properly if you can,” you instruct, pulling all the necessary items closer to you.
Dex watches you for a second longer before pushing himself upright from the cushions, his jaw as he straightens himself up.
“Take the shirt off.” You say, preparing everything that you needed to stitch him up.
Dex drops the blood-soaked fabric onto the table behind you, exposing the full extent of the wound. The weapon grazed more than it pierced, but it still tore enough flesh to make a mess of his side.
Wiping the surrounding area with a fresh gauze, you gently rubbed some numbing cream around the wound and threaded the needle while waiting for it to dry.
“This is going to hurt.” You say, leaning closer towards him.
Dex goes still at your words, his attention once again focused fully on you.
You try to ignore his eyes on you, focusing completely on stitching the wound perfectly and not on how close he was now that you’re kneeling between his legs and leaning against him to get better access to the wound.
“You should’ve had this cleaned hours ago,” you mutter nearly halfway done.
“I was busy.” He answers as his hand gently brushes against your shoulder.
“With?” You ask, eyes still not leaving the wound but not shrugging his hand away.
His eyes scan your face. “Finding you.”
Your hand slips slightly. Not enough to hurt him, but enough for him to notice.
“You already knew where I lived.”
“I wanted to see you.”
There’s that sentence again. So honest, like there was nothing else more important.
Silence settles between you again, broken only by the quiet rattle of paper as you open fresh gauzes and the sound of rain against the windows. Focusing once again on your task, you quickly lose yourself in what is familiar.
Then Dex quietly says, “I couldn’t stop thinking about you.”
You tie off the last stitch before grabbing more gauze and soaking it in antiseptic alcohol. “Most prisoners send a letter.”
“I didn't think you’d like letters from me.”
You couldn’t stop your quiet snort.
“Did you think about me?” he says quietly after a while. Hand tightening on your shoulder like the answer to this question could hurt him more than his wound.
You press the gauze against the stitches, cleaning them and the surrounding area. “You were all over the news, quite hard to miss.”
“That’s not what I meant.” He says cupping your face and forcing you to look at him.
His face is blank, but his eyes are looking at you like he’s already decided you belong in his life.
And maybe you did. But it causes that familiar complicated feeling to twist in your chest.
“You shot me,” you say softly before you can stop yourself. “I waited years for you, and you shot me.”
Your confession settles heavily between you, and for the second time that night, Dex looks away.
“I know.” He says his face filled with something you couldn’t place—guilt, maybe.
The apartment smells faintly of antiseptic, rain, and blood. Outside the storm gets stronger.
Inside the living room, neither of you move.
“You’ll live,” you say, taking off your gloves.
Dex looks down at the neat line of stitches crossing his side before his gaze drifts back to you. “I know.”
Standing up, you move all the soiled items aside so that you can toss them in the kitchen bin. “You should go before the numbing wears off.”
Moving back to the table, you pack up the remaining medical items, making a mental note to restock and place them back in the ottoman.
Leaning down to grab your robe, your breath catches as Dex reaches out his hand, gently grabbing your wrist, his thumb gently pressing against your pulse.
“You’re shaking,” he says quietly.
“I’m tired.” You say, making no move to pull away.
“You’re drained.” He states.
You almost deny it. But what would be the point? He noticed everything else about you tonight.
“I’ve had a long night,” you remind him.
“And you still helped me.” He states like this means something.
Before you could reply, Dex’s gaze drops to your shoulder. To the scar barely hidden by your shirt. His expression shifts into the same look as earlier.
“I didn’t mean to hit you,” he says honestly. “You moved in front of him so quickly I didn’t have time to stop.”
You look away at his admission, part of you wanting to believe him while the other part wants to shoot him to make it even.
Rain hits the windows harder as you begin to feel it again, that persistent and wanting pull between you becoming tighter the longer he stays.
“You need to leave,” you say quietly.
Dex looks at you for a long second. “Why didn’t you come to see me?”
The question hit you like a punch to the gut. Months of knowing exactly who he was to you, and you’d done nothing.
No visits. No letters. Nothing except pretend the name on your skin didn’t exist.
“I was in prison,” Dex continues quietly. “You knew where I was.”
You couldn’t force yourself to hold his gaze. Not when you knew what he was really asking. Why didn’t you come? Why didn’t you choose me?
But you can’t answer that. Not honestly. Not when the truth was that every day you wanted to see him, to betray your friends and your family just to get a day with him.
“You need to leave.” You say, instead of spilling the truth, pulling your wrist out of his grip.
For a second, you think he might argue. His stare fixed so intensely on you that you almost cave and spill the truth.
Then he stands, pulling his shirt back over his head, and makes his way towards the window. Pushing it open wider, as storm blows cold air and rain into the living room as he tosses one leg out before he pauses and turns to look back at you again.
“I’m going to see you again.” He states.
Then he disappears into the night, and you’re left standing alone in your living room.
Your fingers slowly brush his name on your skin, and you can’t stop the feeling of wanting to see him again.
A/N: This is my first one-shot written so feedback is welcome!
romaincrisis
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