Megan🐉

20 | she/they/he| autistic ♾️ dms and asks are always open

[save-us-a-seat]

how it feels to write bloodymary while they are in entirely different universes and one guy saved the whole entire evrything and lives with his alien spider friend guy and the other turned into a blood fish tree and a bunch of the stars are dead

[cat-the-comet]

devastating: artist who has not practiced fundamentals enough to execute high concept idea eats shit

[ninaneeds2go]

I’m pretty sure this is really old but I love bloodymary

[harkthorn]

Crested pigeon sketch

-3426

[chilewithcarnage]

[ponyosweets]

Old Wounds | B.P

Summary: It's been years since you last saw Dex; last you heard, he was working for the FBI. But what happens when the newfound vigilante stumbles to your apartment in dire need of help?

Warnings: Female!Reader, canon violence and death, medical inaccuracies (I'm not a nurse), angst, DDBA Dex, friends-to-lovers, old friends, old North Star reader, obsessive/possessive behaviour from Dex (of course, he's a certified lover boy), past substance abuse from Reader, old military friends. Author Notes: This is my first fanfic. EVER. So please bear with me as I navigate how to do the whole 'you' and Y/N sort of stuff. I'll try to avoid Y/N in any of my writing, but please feel free to give me some constructive criticism! Thank you <3

W.C: 4464 (Oops). Semi-proofread.

Benjamin 'Dex' Poindexter was the type of guy you'd have to keep an eye on - he was tactical, precise, dangerously precise. Your time as a medic in the US Army showed you as much. Both in the same Unit, he was a sniper, you were a nurse; young and stupid, thinking the military was the best way to get your life on track after a quick stint in rehab, you came to enjoy working alongside Dex.

You'd both sit up past midnight, at whatever makeshift camp you were at that week, a shitty cup of coffee in a furmous between you both, and talk - primarily you'd talk, he'd listen. You told him about your past, your struggles with substances in college, when you felt as if life wasn't important anymore, you spoke about your home in New York, your family, friends - you spoke about anything and everything.

Sometimes he'd talk. About his day; the good, the bad. He'd tell you things, and you'd listen - you didn't judge or blame him for the things he felt or did. You learned he was an orphan, born in Portsmouth, New Hampshire, raised in the Lyndhurst Home for Boys; you learned he liked baseball and was damn good at it too, though that didn't come as much of a surprise.

What you didn't know was that he'd only told you half of what he felt, what he thought - truthfully, he skated on the line between lies, hoping not to scare you away.

Dex was calculating, smart, and a damn good shot, so it didn't come as a surprise that he joined the FBI soon after you had been discharged from the military to continue medical school. An old friend told you Dex left the army not long after you, and as much as you wanted to keep in contact, you didn't. You weren't sure why. Maybe you were too busy with medical school, or wanted to put that time behind you, wanting to start fresh.

Not long ago, a year or so, you finally became a fully-pledged nurse at Metro-General in your hometown of Hell's Kitchen. The hours were gruelling, and the uprising of crime in the city didn't help either.

The last you heard of Dex was that he was fired from the FBI, then got reinstated, then became a killer and went to prison for his crimes. You wanted to attend the hearing, you really did, but a part of you couldn't come to terms with the fact that the man sitting in the court, scars along his cheeks, was the same man you served with all those years ago, the same man you shared coffee with and laughed with.

He changed.

Little did you know, he's been watching. The whole time. When you left the military, he was the one who got you the job opportunity at Metro-General. When he joined the FBI, it only fueled his ability to watch you. He could see your files, where you live, when you moved, whether you ever reported crimes, or whether your name ever came up in a medical malpractice suit. It never did.

And that was how he was able to stumble through the streets, navigating back alleys until Dex reached the familiar, worn red brick, walk-up apartment buildings, light coming from the third-floor windows - your apartment. The fire escape on the side was perfect for him to climb if he could get onto the graffiti-covered community dumpster.

His hand was tucked against his side, pressing an intensely burning gunshot wound just below his rib, the navy blue mask damp from sweat and rain that had fallen earlier. The darkness of Hell's Kitchen allowed Dex to slip by undetected, that was, until he was finally able to climb up the fire escape, only to slump down on the metal with a clang.

You paused the TV, the remote suspended in the air as you stared at the blank screen, trying to tell where the sound came from. Maybe it was just the cat that belonged to the downstairs neighbours, looking for food again.

Dropping the remote on the coffee table, you stand up, slip on a pair of fleece-lined slippers and pick up the cat treats you kept in the kitchen, despite not having a cat. But you liked the furbal named Whiskers.

You unlocked the latch to the fire escape window, shoving it open, and you swung your legs over the ledge; Hell's Kitchen was cold tonight, making you regret only coming out in grey sweatpants and a white cami top. The quicker you feed Whisker's, the quicker you can go back inside.

"Psst, here, girl" You whispered down the stairwell, expecting the fluffy-furred, grey cat. Instead, you got the crumpled, half-lifeless body of newfound Vigilante - Bullseye, or who you know better as Dex.

The treat bag dropped to the metal grate, spilling over with little clanging, and you don't know what possessed you to do it, but you rushed over to him, gripping the railing as you pressed two fingers to the side of his neck to make sure he still had a pulse.

Thump, thump, thump.

He's still alive. Thank god. Thank god.

"D-dex?" You lifted his head up, and his eyes fluttered slightly, but remained closed. "Jesus"

Maybe it was adrenaline, or fear that the AVTF would find him here and execute him right on your fire escape, but you were able to haul him up, his arm around your shoulder, blood soaking your side as you tried your damn best to guide this heavy unit of a man through the tight space without accidentally pushing him over the edge.

Finally reaching your window, you looked between Dex and the window.

"Dex?" You shook him slightly to see if he would be able to climb in, but all he did was grumble. With a sigh, you gauged the drop from the window to your living room floor, deciding it'll be good enough, but definitely hurt - you shoved him through.

Dex tumbled through the window, his long legs knocking trinkets off the table pushed up beside the two windows as he landed on his stomach with a groan.

"What the fuck..." He muttered, rolling onto his back. You stepped under the window frame, back into the apartment, and quickly dropped to your knees beside him.

"I'm so sorry, you...you slipped" You cringed. Lying to a deadly marksman and vigilante probably wasn't the best idea, but from his state right now, he doesn't look like he could do much.

"Slipped?" His voice was hoarse, deflated, and confused, but his eyes had finally drifted open, glancing around until they landed on you, and you swear you saw those brown orbs soften.

"Yup, now get up, you're getting blood on my carpet" Slipping your hand behind his neck, hovering over him as you carefully lifted him up enough so that you could move him to the side, leaning against the side of the couch, a string of grumbles and huffs coming from his mouth.

Once he seemed semi-conscious and coherent, you reached for his mask, pulling it off - he looked older, of course, he was. Creases in his skin, dried blood from his nose, sticking to my lips, a deep scar cut across his cheek, his hair was longer, sticking to his forehead, and lighter strands across his temple.

Subconsciously, your hand drifted up until it pressed against the scar. You could remember his more baby-face, the softer features, the gentle eyes he used to have. Dex let out a huff, tilting his head to the side like your touch was scolding him.

"What happened to you?" Your voice trembled as you really, really, took him in; the navy blue tactical suit damp with his own blood, maybe someone else's too.

Dex sucked in a breath, wincing as he pulled at his side, teeth clenched so that you swore he was going to chip them, and when he smirks slightly, you could see the blood staining his teeth.

"I'm a wanted man, baby, can't go through life unscaved for longer than a week" He huffs out a weak laugh.

Baby? That was new, but you were blaming it on him being delirious from blood loss.

"And you come to my apartment? How did you even know where I lived, Dex?" You asked a question, you probably wish you didn't. That smirk, God, that stupid smirk widened.

"I know everything. I observe" He muttered, dark brown eyes narrowing ever so slightly towards you, and it should have scared you, his words, that look. Oh, that look.

You didn't give him the satisfaction of giving him a response; instead, you sighed, shaking your head. This was not how you thought your Tuesday was going to go.

"I needed...I needed somewhere safe, somewhere I knew was safe to go to..." He contiuned after the silence became too deafening to stand. "The AVTF is crawling around every corner, every shadow; they have eyes everywhere. Nowhere is safe"

"Yeah, well, that's what happens when bad men get put in charge of a city" You uttered under your breath as you knew Dex's story, you knew he had helped Fisk get that control - maybe not intentionally, maybe not out of the greatness of his heart, but he did it.

Dex was quiet for a moment, mulling over your words. He knew he wasn't a good person; he was far from a saint in the eyes of any God, in the eyes of the law, in the eyes of the people, but that wasn't going to stop him from trying to make amends. To be good.

"Come on, let's get you fixed up" With a huff, you placed your hands under his armpits, pulling him up to stand. He was unsteady on his feet, boots dragging, leaving black scuff marks in the birch coloured laminate flooring you had just cleaned the other night.

Dex protested at first, trying his best not to lean his whole weight into you, but that proved difficult the closer you got to your bathroom. Once inside, you dropped him unceremoniously on the closed toilet seat with a groan, his hand still clutched at his side.

You rummaged through your bathroom cabinets, sure there was a first aid kit lying around somewhere, and surely you found it. An old bag with the first aid cross on the front, the dark green fabric worn over time, filled with gauze, medical tape, antiseptic sprays, wipes, and butterfly stitches - you doubt they'd work on his wound, so it was a good thing you had a surgical needle and thread still in its vacuum-sealed packet.

Turning back to him, you drop onto your knees in front of Dex, pushing his knees apart so you can get a little closer look.

"I'm gonna have to take your shirt off" You started, and were already reaching out to his utility belt, but his hand that wasn't pressing to his side shot out in a deathly grip on your wrist. Your eyes shot up to his, and you saw...hesitation. He was nervous. Army Sniper Dex, Special Agent Poindexter, was nervous.

"You came to me for help...so let me help"

He stared at you, those chocolate brown eyes, exhausted and seen way too much shit for one person to handle. His grip loosened ever so slightly, his throat bobbing as he took a deep swallow of his pride.

Finally, you were able to undo his utility belt that had knife pouches all along the side and back. You dropped it on the floor beside his boot, then you moved to his bloodied compression shirt, untucking it from his cargo pants, carefully lifting it up.

Dex flinches, scrutching his face up at the feel of the threads moving against the wound, and you did too at the sheer sight of it. A long, swollen gash, blood seeping out now that it didn't have that tiny bit of compression from the shirt holding it back. It didn't look good.

"Jesus Christ, Dex" You whispered out, biting your lip to stop yourself from scolding him about improper care of himself, or to scold him about everything. About becoming one of Fisk's goons, for killing on his behalf, for going off the rails and killing that lawyer, and now, trying to do the good thing in his own twisted way.

"Tell it to me straight, Doc. How bad is it?" He grumbled, that stupid smirk on his face like this was entertaining to him, that this was the highlight of his day - maybe it was.

"Well, you've been prettier. It looks like the bullet grazed you mostly, but you're going to need stitches" You mumbled, examining the wound the best you could under the orange hue of the bathroom light.

"I can stitch it, but it won't look the best. I'd suggest a hospital, but a wanted fugitive walking into a hospital sounds like the start to a bad joke" You muttered jokingly.

He huffed out a deep, low chuckle, which was followed by a cough, blood splattering down his chin from where he must have bitten his tongue or knocked a tooth loose. Dex's smirk remained, a little sigh escaping him, and his shoulders relaxed slightly despite the pain.

It was refreshing to him to see you crack jokes in a situation he wasn't sure you'd accept. If anything, Dex thought you'd kick him to the curb, leave him to die; he wouldn't have blamed you if you did. But that's also what he liked about you - you were kind, understanding, you sympathised even with those deemed unforgivable - like him.

"I don't care how it looks, I'd just rather not die on your bathroom floor. Wouldn't want you having to dump my body somewhere"

You rolled your eyes heavily. What an idiot, you thought. He always did have that idiot-charm to him.

Rummaging through the kit, you pulled out some gauze and antiseptic spray, setting them out beside you. He watched with those calculating eyes; he watched how organised you were, how calm you were under a dire situation such as this. He liked that about you, he liked a lot of things about you, things you didn't even notice you do - from the picking at your nails when you're nervous, to the constant inability to be unkind. To him, you were a Saint graced upon earth from the stars.

You pressed the gauze against his side to calm the bleeding, his hand twitching against his knee, wanting to reach out and squeeze something to ease the pain. Taking the needle and thread from the kit, you began threading it whilst Dex held the gauze for you, the fabric quickly staining red, but the bleeding seemed to be lessening.

Once the thread was done, you sat back up on your knees between his legs, resting an elbow on his thigh that made his eyes dart to the bare skin he was only just noticing. The white cami top hung low on your chest, your collarbone defined, hair drifting around your sun-kissed shoulders.

His eyes drifted lower, and to the blood, stained at your side. His blood, and a twisted, cruel thought popped in his brain - this was his way of branding you as his own, you had his blood on your hands, your clothes, and blood doesn't wash out easily, he knew that better than anyone, so it's going to stay. He's going to stay, even if not physically, Dex would be there as a reminder.

"Dex" You snapped your fingers in front of his face, his zoned-out gaze flicking back to you. "I asked if you're ready" You held up the needle and thread.

"Y-yeah. Yeah" Dex muttered, tearing his gaze away from you for the first time since he entered your apartment, and you swear you can see the tiniest, faintest blush on his cheeks.

With a firm nod, you pinched the skin together, earning a rough grunt from Dex, but you ignored it, diving in and carefully stitching and looping.

Your fingers shook with each pull and tug until you reached the end of the gash, further towards his back. He sat up for you, leaning over with his elbow resting on his knee, tilted to one side to give you room, but you felt crowded, not in a bad way.

He was close, too close, the smell of copper and iron on his skin, rainwater and dirt clinging to his clothes.

He was tired, really tired, and not just from his wounds and blood loss; he was tired of life, tired of the never-ending screaming thoughts in his mind that tell him he's useless, that he has to do bad things to feel sane, he was tired of running.

"You okay?" You asked softly, finally cutting off the end of the stitching, unpackaging a fresh gauze, resting it over the wound and securing it with medical tape. You could sense his mind was somewhere else entirely. He let out a gruff sigh, that smirk no longer written on his face.

"I'm gonna need somewhere to lay low for a while" He gruffly said, no joke or hint of banter in his tone. No, he was deadly serious. You glared up at him with annoyed eyes.

"And you decided on here? Jesus, Dex, this is the first time I've seen you in years, and you're asking me to hold up a wanted fugitive in my apartment?" Scoffing, you stood up, but something stopped you from moving any further - Dex. His grip on your wrist is tighter this time.

"You're the only one I can trust! I can't-I don't trust anyone else in this god-forsaken city" Those eyes of a killer, of a cold-blooded assassin, were gentle, almost puppy-dog like. He was lost, he was truly lost.

"And what if the AVTF come looking for you here? Am I supposed to hide you under my bed like a teenage girl hiding her boyfriend she snuck into the house?" You mocked, trying to make him see how ridiculous that request was.

"They won't know I'm here. They won't. I-I made sure, when I worked for the FBI, that I scrubbed your name out of all my files"

Files?

"Why was I in your files?" You questioned, arms folding against your chest, and that made him cringe, his eyes closing for a split second, deciding whether he should just throw himself out the window now or later, though he wasn't sure he'd fit through the tiny bathroom window. "You...you were in a couple of files, some psychiatric shit, that's all." He muttered, averting his gaze, but his grip stayed heavy on your wrist, long fingers drifting down to feel along your pulse. You didn't say anything; your silence was enough for him to know you wanted more than just 'psychiatric shit'.

"I had to have weekly evals at the FBI, to make sure I wasn't going to go postal. Sometimes, your name was mentioned in passing, but I only ever referred to you as your surname, and no offence, your last name isn't exactly unique"

You rolled your eyes for what felt like the millionth time tonight.

"Okay, first off, I didn't ask to have a simple surname. I can't help that my mother decided to keep her maiden name, and second off, what was said in these sessions for you to even bring me up in the first place? We hadn't spoken in a year when you were in the FBI"

His fingers drifted further down, until the calloused skin brushed against your palm in a simple circular motion.

"You have to understand something...I'm not normal, I never have been. I've always had a sick way of thinking. I need structure and routine to keep myself afloat; that's why I joined the military. I enjoyed its rugged schedule and discipline, but there was always something missing. A reason to be good" He scoffed at his own words, not believing that he was about to pour his heart out, to show the real him.

"I needed guidance, something to realign my corrupt moral compass, and you were there - kind, full of sympathy and empathy, and I wanted that. I wanted to be like you, but I wanted to experience you at the same time. I wanted your sympathy, I wanted your empathy, I wanted your kindness and understanding"

"D-did I not give you that?" You mumbled. Reflecting back on your time in the army with him, Dex was the only one you ever truly cared about, ever took time out of your busy day to see him.

"No, you did. God, you did" He came to rest his forehead on your navel, the sweat damp against your stomach. "You were...my North Star. My guiding light in the chaotic darkness of my mind."

North Star? You had no idea what that meant, but to him, it was clearly important.

Swallowing the heavy lump resting in your throat, your hand that wasn't trapped in his grip, came to rest on his shoulder, wishing you could look him in the eye, but he refused to lift his head.

"And then you left. Why did you leave me? I thought that out of everyone, you wouldn't abandon me, but you did. You left me" For a moment, he seemed angry, shaking you gently, but just as quickly as it came, it went. He released a steady breath.

"I-"

"No. It wasn't your fault. You didn't mean to, you didn't understand - I know that now. But I didn't then, I was so mad at you for leaving, I wanted to look for you, hunt you down and lock you away so no one could ever take you away from me again" His words should scare you, should make you pull away and demand him to leave, throw him to the dogs.

You didn't. You can't.

"Then I did find you, when I left the army, I found out you were here, in Hell's Kitchen, but I couldn't...bring myself to face you. Not like this. So I watched you from afar, your schedule became mine, and although we were living different lives, I needed...you close to me just so I could function."

"You were stalking me?"

He flinched at the word.

"I wasn't...stalking you, although I can see how it could have come across that way. I just...I needed you, I still do. My life has crumbled apart, and I've lost everything and everyone I've ever formed a friendship with - all except you. I understand if you hate me for all the things I've done, but all I'm asking is for that sympathy" When Dex finally lifted his head, meeting your gaze, you saw the glossy eyes, threatening to spill the tears he was trying so hard to keep back.

Oh, this wasn’t Bullseye, this wasn’t the killer feared by everyone in New York. No. This was just Dex, mentally unstable, manipulated Dex, who was never taught how to be like other children. This was your Dex.

"I don't hate you, Dex. Believe me, I tried...but I couldn't. I just couldn't. I don't know why you need me so bad, or this North Star crap, but I-I'm willing to learn" His eyes widened slightly, shoulders dropping like a heavy weight had finally been lifted. Dex's hand, which was covered in dried blood, came to rest on your hip.

"You are?" His voice trembled, fingers digging into my hip gently to not hurt you. He would never. Even if you ripped his heart out and stomped all over it, he could never hurt you.

"I am, but don't make me regret this, Dex. I'm helping you because...because I care about you"

"I care about you too" Dex quickly said, standing to his full, imposing height, making you tilt your head back to look up at him, his hands coming to rest on either side of your neck, large enough they almost engulf it.

"I care about you so fucking much. I'd die for you. I'd kill for you, you say the word-"

"Dex" You snapped him out of his rambling "I don't want you to kill anyone for me" A soft laugh expelled from your mouth, gazing up at him, your own hand finding perch on his chest, listening to his heart thudding beneath your palm.

"But I would. I'll do anything for you, just to see you smile, to make you happy-" He suddenly coughed, groaning as he held a hand over his freshly stitched wound, clearly tugging on the thread in his haste to prove just how much he cared for you.

"Alright, easy big guy, keep those words of devotion for when you get better" You giggled, resting your hands on his torso, keeping him upright. He let out a rough hum, resting his forehead on your shoulder, brushing his nose along the side of your neck, taking in the gentle scent of your coconut shampoo and floral detergent.

With the mixture of losing a lot of blood and the subtle signs of him getting a cold from the rain, it was clearly his bedtime. Hands steady on his torso, you began to guide him out of the bathroom, down the hallway, which was way too small for both of you, until you reached your bedroom.

Nudging open the door with the tip of your foot, you pulled Dex inside the semi-messy room; sage green walls covered in art pieces, and shelves with a mix of photo frames and little decorations. Your bed was already made, and you flopped Dex down onto the clean sheets, not minding if he got a bit of blood and dirt on them

Dex attempts to lift his head to look at you, but ultimately fails, flopping it back down on the pillows that were remarkably comfortable.

"Just lie down, and get some rest" You instructed in that stern tone Dex knew not to mess with. You reached for his combat boots, unlacing them and yanking them off, tumbling to the ground with a thud. He huffed out in exhaustion, unable to even look at you properly, only staring up at the ceiling with half-lidded eyes.

"Will you be here when I wake up?" He whispered. You grabbed the blanket from the end of the bed, dragging it over his wrecked body. You could only nod, coming to sit on the edge beside him, resting a hand on his chest.

"Of course"

And with that, Dex's eyes fluttered closed, the last image being your soft face under the orange hue of the bedside lamp, in the softness of your bed, surrounded by your warmth and scent.

[sailermoon]

this is how new yorkers @ mamdani

[crackinwise]

I want a silly Chreon situation where Leon is one of those guys that wakes up from anesthesia really out of it, specifically like that one guy that tried to hit on his own wife.

So, like, a loopy Leon seeing Chris when he wakes up and going "Oh damn, you're handsome. And ripped. You wanna go out sometime?"

And Chris would have to keep from laughing enough to say, "Leon, I'm already your husband."

"You're... MY husband? No shit?" Chris points out their matching rings. "That's awesome."

[monsieurenjlolras]

you've heard of "quiet quitting," now I'd like to introduce you to the next level, The French Work Ethic:

Do exactly what you're paid for and nothing more

Absolutely refuse to be available to contact when you're off the clock

Never prioritize work over your own health, wellbeing, or family because that would be insane, it's just a job.

Have a little glass of wine

Take as long as you feel like for lunch

Deeply understand that work doesn't matter

Make sure your boss knows they're always your second priority ❤️

[a-grim-thin-hope]

i do not "get good," i do not "keep practicing," i do not "take a break," i do not "level up," i CRASH OUT. and if i don't beat the boss first try with an absolutely terrible strategy then i KILL MYSELF

[marscrassss]

Every time I read a fic where one character cleans another's wounds with alcohol or hydrogen peroxide instead of sterile saline or water and soap I get so concerned.

[notgaybuckybarnes]

DAREDEVIL: BORN AGAIN 2.04 "Gloves Off"

[bellaxgiornata]

One Good Deed 4:| It's Starting to Cave

Pairing: Benjamin Poindexter x fem!Reader Word Count: 5.5k [Series Masterlist] [Dex Fic Masterlist]

Warnings/tags: 18+; domestic abuse, violence, set during DDBA, eventual smut, hurt/comfort, angst, stalker/suicidal ideation!Dex, dark themes, dead dove do not eat

a/n: This is currently my favorite part of this entire series so far. I think this is where I became obsessed with them myself. Feedback and reblogs are always appreciated!

series tag list: @awesome-badass-cafeteria-sauce @snowwythegloww @skollinghunter @let-it-go-and-live-again @starlitflora @sunshine-daydreams0809 @scarredtarts @paracosmic-murdock @catsintophats5 @mewmew222 @im-not-very-good-at-nothing @strangeindividual02 @jheelam-23-08 @bitch-spaghetti-o

Something wasn’t right.

It was almost ten in the morning on a Tuesday and you still hadn’t opened your bedroom curtains or raised any of the blinds in your apartment. Dex had been positioned across the street from your place since six this morning watching over you like he always did. Except he hadn’t seen you leave your apartment building and head to The Little Crow before going into work today. He hadn’t seen any proof that you were even inside of your apartment right now.

You’d gone off your routine. You weren't following your schedule. The schedule that Dex had meticulously studied and memorized for the past month that he’d been protecting you. 

Something wasn’t right. 

Dex had spent last night tailing Murdock around the city, curiously still attempting to piece together whatever it was that he and Page were planning to do to thwart Fisk and his task force. Which meant that Dex had no idea what you'd done after you'd finished eating the dinner you’d made after work. He’d left you when you’d started to clean your dishes in order to stalk Hell’s Kitchen for a while, taking out whatever AVTF members he ran into to keep them from harming innocent people. Because that’s what a good guy would’ve done. 

Dex assumed that you'd stayed in and watched one of those boring, predictable dramas on television that you liked, or that you'd curled up and read a book before you’d gone to bed. But what if you’d gone out last night? What if the AVTF had picked you up for being out past curfew? Or with your past history of relationships, what if you’d managed to end up on an evening date with a serial killer? Or maybe someone burglarized your apartment and assaulted you in the process while you’d been home without his protection. Was it possible that you’d had some sort of health emergency and wound up being transported to the hospital by an ambulance?

What’d happened to you while he was gone?

Sitting on the floor of the vacant apartment with the scope still held to his eye, he continued staring at your dark gray bedroom curtains. That’s when he felt it start. That infuriating buzzing inside of his head. That scratch scratch scratch in the back of his skull that he could not stand. Every noise outside of his head abruptly shifted to static as he felt his thoughts beginning to spiral over your safety. 

Something wasn’t right, you should’ve left for work this morning.

With his hand tightening around his scope, he roughly lowered it down to his lap as an aggravated exhale blew past his lips. He could feel his frustration rising, anger beginning to uncurl itself like a venomous snake inside of his chest. He couldn’t just sit here staring at your curtains. You might’ve been taken from him. You might’ve been hurt. You might need his help. 

The memory of Julie’s discolored and lifeless face unwelcomely flashed through his mind, the image forcing him to recall the way he’d discovered her when he’d failed to keep her safe. Frozen in a freezer. Dead. Nothing more than a hunk of meat. Running a hand across his forehead as his rage continued to mount, his fingers slipped into the cropped strands of his hair.

Julie’s face in his mind suddenly morphed into yours–lifeless, stiff, unnatural–and he gripped a fistful of his hair before furiously pulling at the strands. A low, dangerous noise rumbled in the back of his throat, pain stinging at the place on his scalp where he was tugging at his hair.

That wouldn’t happen to you, you were a good person. You were his One Good Deed. You would not die. Not while Dex was alive. Not while he was keeping you safe. He needed you to keep the scales balanced, to keep him on the right path and not let Fisk win.

He needed you.

A sharp snap abruptly cut through all the noise inside of his head as if something had split in two. Everything quieted in an instant, the tumultuous swarm of bees suddenly silencing as clarity washed over Dex. Releasing the grip on his hair, he calmly began to rise up onto his feet. Dex knew what needed to be done now. There was no other choice. 

He would go to your apartment. He would knock on your door. He would make sure you were inside and still safe. Breathing and alive.

And if you weren’t? Well, then there’d certainly be a lot less people breathing in New York City.

Drifting awake once more, the first thing you noticed was how much everything hurt. 

Each of your muscles felt stiff and achy, and the headache you’d fallen asleep with after calling in sick to work hadn’t vanished when you'd dozed off again. Your nose was still congested and stuffy, and it made a little whistling sound every time you attempted to breathe through it. With your mind sluggishly returning to you, you gradually grew painfully aware of the fact that your throat hurt even more than it had earlier when your alarm had first woken you. Trying to swallow down what little saliva was left in your dry mouth, you started to think that was its own form of torture. 

Staring through the darkness filling your bedroom, you focused on the door of your closet across the room. Through your groggy, sleep-addled brain you wondered what had pulled you out of the reprieve sleep had temporarily offered until you heard it. Three evenly spaced knocks coming from across your apartment and signaling that someone was at your door. 

Your eyelids gradually fell shut at the noise before you turned and buried your face into your pillow, an agonizing groan coming out muffled against the fabric. The last thing you felt like doing today was getting out of bed. You'd already called Ellison and told him that you weren't coming into the office today when you'd woken with a fever of one hundred and one, so you knew that your visitor wasn't anyone from The Bulletin.

So why was someone at your apartment this morning?

It had to be someone who’d gotten the wrong apartment number. You weren’t expecting visitors. That was the only logical explanation for the knocking. Deciding to assume that whoever was at your door wasn’t important, you snuggled deeper beneath your covers as a chill shot through you. Whoever was out there would eventually go away when you didn’t answer. If it happened to somehow be any of your friends, they would call or send you a text. 

But just as you’d begun to feel your aching body eagerly settle back into the mattress for more sleep, you heard two more knocks coming from the other room. This time they sounded urgent and panicked. A frown slid onto your face where it was buried against your pillow, but it wasn’t until you heard your own name come muffled through the door that your eyes flew wide open.

If they were calling your name, whoever was out there wasn’t someone who’d just gotten the wrong apartment. Unburying your face from your pillow, your brows knitted together in confusion. For some reason you were certain that you knew that voice. It sounded oddly familiar as you squinted at the closet doors trying to will a name to the forefront of your mind. But you couldn’t quite place it. 

Whoever they were, they called your name through the door again, and that's when you realized that you’d have to leave the comfortable confines of your bed and go see who was out in the hall. Reluctantly throwing your comforter off of yourself, another chill hit you when you lost the extra layers. Shivering uncontrollably from the fever burning through you, you hugged your arms around yourself in an attempt to keep warm before forcing yourself out of bed as another round of knocks echoed through your apartment. 

You padded barefoot out of your bedroom and through your living room towards the door, maneuvering around your sofa with your arms tightly wound around yourself in a useless attempt to stop the shivering. Unfortunately, your fever hadn’t magically broken when you’d been sleeping. But besides a bottle of Tylenol, you didn’t exactly have anything to help with your cold. It wasn’t like you could afford to keep cold medicine around when buying groceries and paying rent was already enough of a struggle. 

Once you’d finally shuffled your way miserably to your door, you leaned forward just enough to look through the peephole. Breath catching in the back of your very sore throat, you instantly recognized Dex, the man who’d helped you a month ago with your abusive ex-boyfriend. The second you saw him distorted through the lens, you tensed as you watched him on the other side of your door, wondering why he’d returned to your apartment.

Somewhere through the exhaustion and fever you felt panic flare through your body. At first you considered not opening the door, automatically assuming his intentions were bad–like most men you’d encountered in your life. But then you tried to rationalize his visit through your racing, feverish thoughts. Maybe he’d been keeping an eye on your ex to make sure he’d really left you alone–which he had been so far. But maybe Dex had returned because he’d discovered a reason to believe that your ex was going to come after you. Maybe Dex had reappeared to warn you about something he’d learned that your ex was planning to do?

Deciding to see for yourself what had brought him back to you, you began unlatching the deadbolt before unlocking your door. Swinging it open, you caught the way Dex went completely stiff at the sight of you, his eyes rapidly scanning over you from head to toe as if he was analyzing every inch. Wrapping your arms back around your chest, your fingers anxiously curled around the fabric of your sweatshirt.

“Dex?” you hoarsely croaked out. “What’re you doing here?”

His gaze snapped back up to your face once you’d spoken, his hazel eyes narrowing at you. The second they met yours, you remembered that calculating, penetrating stare of his. The one you weren’t certain whether or not you should feel unsettled by.

“You didn’t go into work today,” he answered. “I wanted to make sure you were alright.”

“Yeah,” you began, “I didn’t go in because I’m sick and–”

Stopping mid-sentence, it gradually clicked in your mind like a key turning in a lock. Lips still parted with what you’d been about to say, you stood there staring at Dex who was standing oddly rigid in your hallway. He shouldn’t know that. He shouldn’t know that you hadn’t gone into work today because Dex didn’t work at The Bulletin. You hadn’t spoken to him in a month, either. Not since the night he’d helped you with your ex and you’d invited him in for a couple of hours as a thank you for his help.

He shouldn’t have known that you hadn’t gone into work today. 

Feeling an all too familiar wave of fear rush through you, you threw your hand out and grabbed onto your door. But just as you’d started to slam it shut in his face, trying to put something solid between you both, Dex slid a single foot forward in front of it. When the door hit the tip of his boot, it prevented you from managing to close it very far. 

“How do you know that?” you demanded, voice quivering. “How–how did you know I didn’t go into work?”

Dex’s tongue darted out between his lips, licking them in either a nervous or frustrated gesture. You couldn’t quite decipher which it was since his emotions were always just a little too difficult to read. As your fingers tightened around your door, your nails digging into the surface of it, you felt sweat begin to dampen your palms. You already feared whatever answer he’d give you. 

But instead of responding to your question, Dex slowly raised both of his hands up in the air, palms facing towards you in a gesture that claimed he meant no harm. The same thing he’d done when you’d first ran into him on the street. But he didn’t move his foot, his boot still wedged against the bottom of your door and blocking you from shutting it on him so you could safely hide inside your apartment. 

“I don’t want to hurt you,” Dex assured you, hands still placatingly raised. “I want the exact opposite.”

“Wh–what’s that supposed to mean?” you nervously stammered.

Your heart was frantically pounding away, fear coursing through your veins like ice water. Here you were spending the past few weeks going about your life thinking that this guy had helped you–had saved you from your ex. You thought that you’d finally freed yourself from the men who wanted to hurt you in your life, and you’d told yourself you’d stay away from any more of them in the future. Yet here you were, having attracted yet another dangerous man. 

Why did this keep happening to you?

“It means I’ve been trying to keep an eye on you,” Dex answered, hands still raised in the air. “After what you told me that night when you invited me in, I thought you might need someone looking out for you. Keeping you safe.”

“I don’t,” you quickly shot back. 

Dex pulled a face, his head tipping contemplatively from side to side like he didn’t believe that. Ever so slowly, as if he was trying not to startle you further, he slowly lowered his hands back to his sides. You swore you could feel your pulse battering away behind your eyes with how hard your heart was beating, your fever and chills completely forgotten at the moment.

“You kind of do,” he disagreed. “You attract the wrong attention. And I get it, me showing up at  your door all of these weeks later? You’re scared. I can see that. But I’m not trying to scare you.”

You attempted to swallow the fear balled up in the back of your throat, but your tongue refused to work properly. It sat thick and heavy in your mouth, your breath coming in quicker as another feverish shiver that you barely noticed racked its way through your body. 

“I won’t come any closer,” Dex promised, speaking slowly and calmly. “I promise that I won’t come into your apartment. I don’t want to hurt you, I just wanted to make sure that you were safe. I–I was worried when you hadn’t left for work this morning.”

“So you’ve been watching me?” you asked, the last word breaking as it left your lips. “This whole time?”

He pursed his lips, fighting back what almost looked like a grimace. As you inhaled a quivering breath, your knees began to tremble and shake as you stood holding onto the door. That look on his face said everything.

“It’s–it’s not what you think,” he told you. “Can you just–just let me explain? I will step back into the hallway and give you some space if you just–just promise you won’t slam the door on me the second I do.”

Teeth sinking into the inside of your cheek, you considered the offer. You could agree and shut the door on him anyway, safely locking yourself inside of your apartment the second he moved back far enough. But what would you do after that? If it pissed him off and he wanted to attack you, he’d probably find a way to break your door down. What if he succeeded before you could call the police and they arrived? Assuming they even did show up.

Or you could agree to hear him out. Actually listen to whatever his explanation was. You certainly didn’t like learning that he’d been watching you for weeks, but if that was the case, why hadn’t he done something to hurt you already? If that was his intention with you, he’d probably had multiple opportunities already. But he kept saying that’s not what he wanted, so maybe it really wasn’t. But if he wasn’t keeping tabs on you for nefarious reasons, then what other reasons could there have been?

With a single, slow nod of your head, you cautiously agreed to his terms. A small, hesitant smile slipped onto Dex’s face before he slid his foot away from your door, no longer blocking its path to close. You kept your death grip on it though, eyes tracking the two long strides he took backwards until he was no longer crowding your space. 

“You seem like a good person,” Dex continued, his words coming in a rush as if he needed to explain himself before you changed your mind. “Admittedly, I was keeping an eye on you because I didn’t want to see anything happen to you again. I was trying to keep you safe. But the more I’ve been watching you, the more I started to see how similar we are. And now that you already know that I'm still…hanging around, I was thinking that maybe you could help me. Because I could–could really use someone like you right now.”

Eyes growing wide in fear, you shrank against your apartment door as if you could somehow disappear inside of it. He could use someone like you? What was that supposed to even mean?

“What?” you asked, the word barely audible.

Dex shifted his weight on his feet, hands curling and uncurling at his sides in frustration as if he was struggling to find the right words. But the second he caught the way your eyes had darted down to his fists, he left his hands open at his sides.

“Nothing like that,” he assured you. “I just meant that I could use someone to talk to, someone to–to help make sense of what’s going on in my head. And you,” he continued, trying to keep his voice even but you could hear the strain, “you’ve been manipulated by people who want to use you. Mistreated by people you trusted.” 

Shoulders tensing as you listened to him, you knew what he was talking about–your past relationships. The long list of violent lovers who’d hurt you. You’d hinted at your past to him that night a few weeks ago when you’d invited him in for pizza and beer. 

He carefully raised his right hand, lightly tapping his fingers against his chest. “I understand what that’s like,” he explained. “I was manipulated by someone I thought I could trust, too. And now I’m–I’m trying to walk a different path. But I could use help.”

“Help?” you repeated in disbelief. “Like a–a friend?”

“Yes,” he earnestly replied, nodding his head. “A friend. Just someone to talk to. Someone who could give advice. And in return I can–can keep an eye on you. Make sure no asshole ever hurts you again. Or that the AVTF don’t bother you.” 

With how damp your palms had become, you could feel your hand slowly sliding down the edge of your door. What sort of a deal was that? 

“You mean you'd keep watching me?” you clarified.

A thought abruptly struck you and you tore your attention away from him, glancing back into your apartment. Your gaze jumped from one piece of furniture to another, as if something out of place would present itself to you. How had he been watching you these past few weeks?

“Did you put cameras in my apartment?” you questioned, head darting back in his direction.

“No,” he answered. “No, nothing like that. I just–there's an unrented apartment in a building directly across the street from yours. I've just been…watching you sometimes from there,” he reluctantly admitted. “Only when your windows aren't covered.”

Staring anxiously back at him, you could feel the hair on the back of your neck prickling, not entirely sure what to make of that. On the one hand, it made you uncomfortable and uneasy knowing you'd been watched for weeks without your knowledge or consent. On the other hand, he'd supposedly been doing it to keep you safe. Maybe his watching you had been the reason that your ex-boyfriend had never turned up at your door. 

And he had told you weeks ago that he used to work for the FBI. He’d also said that he was a vigilante, one of those ones helping the people in the city. Fighting back against all the insanity Fisk had thrown at New York City after he'd taken his position as Mayor. Maybe this was just how he operated? It wasn’t as if you'd personally met any other vigilantes before, you didn’t know what was considered normal or not normal by their standards of operation. 

Maybe this was how his alter-ego kept people safe? Checking in on them? Watching them?

“Are you really a vigilante?” you hesitantly questioned. “One of the ones fighting Fisk and his task force? Like you told me that night? Or…was that a lie?”

One of those rare, genuine smiles crept its way slowly across his lips. It lessened that shrewd look which always seemed to linger in his eyes, warming them only the slightest bit. You felt your fear marginally lessen at the sight of it. 

“I am fighting against Fisk and the task force,” he confirmed. “That wasn’t a lie. I am…trying to help.” 

He paused for a moment, his eyes once more running over where you stood practically using the door to keep you upright. They moved slower now than when you’d first answered your door as he maintained his distance in the middle of the hallway. 

Your teeth sunk into the tip of your tongue at his scrutiny, already imagining how you probably appeared right now. The color of your skin was off, you’d caught that in the mirror earlier this morning when you’d gone to get your thermometer, and you were bundled up in sweatpants and a sweatshirt despite the fact that it was the middle of summer. You looked tired, feverish, and awful, and you knew it. 

“Speaking of which,” Dex continued carefully, “you look like you could use some help. You said you’re sick, have you taken any medicine?”

Your face immediately contorted into a look of disbelief. That was not the question you were expecting from him. Especially not after him having just admitted to stalking you. But for some unexplainable reason, you found yourself answering him instead of slamming the door in his face. 

“I only have Tylenol,” you said. “Can’t afford all the other stuff. But I’m fine. It’s just a cold.”

He fell quiet after that, his expression shifting to something almost blank. Something uneasy twisted in your stomach beneath his weighty stare before you straightened up in your doorway, visibly shuddering from your fever. As if he sensed your unease, he spoke before you had a chance to say something.

“You should be resting,” he told you. “Not standing here talking to me. Just…can you keep in mind what I said? Think about it?”

There was something oddly vulnerable in the way he’d asked you that, something you hadn’t caught in any of your other interactions with him. Something that sounded almost desperate. Maybe it was because you were quite literally burning up, or maybe it was the earnest look on his face, but you gave him a single, nervous nod. Satisfied with your response, Dex raised his hands placatingly in the air again before he started to slowly back away from you, making his way down the hall and towards the elevator without another word.

Still completely confused, you abruptly shut and locked your apartment door. 

Three consistent, uniform knocks caused you to startle awake on the sofa, your eyes abruptly darting open. Your gaze immediately landed on your television across the room, and you noticed just how shadowed your apartment was with how late the day had grown. It didn't help that you also hadn’t opened the blinds today other than the tiny crack of light you’d given your plants in the kitchen, still feeling rather uncertain about the possibility of Dex being across the street watching you. 

Blinking a few times at the black screen of your television, it took your mind a few seconds to fully return to you after how deeply asleep you'd just been. When Dex had left your apartment this morning, you’d shuffled back to your bedroom and passed back out again in your bed–something you assumed was only possible because of how incredibly ill you were considering the interaction you’d had with him. But then you’d woken a couple of hours later to some Door Dash delivery person at your door with food, which had completely confused you since you hadn’t been conscious and capable of ordering anything.

Apparently, Dex had ordered you lunch. Your favorite panini from a deli that you often ordered lunch from while you were at work. If you hadn’t been starving when it’d been delivered, you might have stopped long enough to think about how incredibly strange it was that he’d known that before you’d devoured the entire thing. But with how sick you were, you’d just taken more Tylenol and passed back out on your couch buried under your soft blue blanket, not taking the time to give it any further thought with how bad your head was throbbing.

But those three distinct knocks that’d just woken you were quickly becoming familiar to you now. It meant Dex had returned.

You were still undecided on how to feel about the entire situation. You kept telling yourself it was the fever that had you questioning your response to his actions, because part of you had started to believe that he truly meant it when he said that he wouldn't hurt you. Why else would he have sent you lunch? Not even the men you'd dated in the past had been that kind to you before. 

And he was one of the vigilantes in New York City.

Maybe you needed to give him the benefit of the doubt. Maybe you were looking at it all wrong. Maybe he was just trying to look out for you. And truthfully, you’d never had that before.

Wrapping your blanket around your shoulders, you pushed yourself up from the couch, ignoring the protest of your muscles as you made your way over to your apartment door. Leaning forward so that you could look through the peephole, you expected to see Dex standing on the other side since you’d recognized his knocking. Except he wasn't standing there. Instead, you were met with the sight of a balloon gently swaying back and forth in the hall, the words “Get Well Soon” written in vibrant letters across it.

Stepping back from your door, you stared at the deadbolt completely dumbfounded for a few very long seconds. Ultimately letting your curiosity win out in the end, especially since you hadn't seen Dex outside of your door, you kept your blanket wrapped around yourself with one hand before undoing all of your locks with the other.

Hesitantly pulling open the door, you were greeted with the sight of two grocery bags on the ground. Beside the bags sat a plush, gray teddy bear with a cute face and the string of the balloon wrapped lightly around its fuzzy, white midsection.

“Did he…?” you whispered to yourself.

Your eyes darted up and down the hallway, but there was no sign of anyone else. Dex must have set everything down and left after he'd knocked, trying to give you some space while attempting not to scare you further. You assumed that's why he’d had the Door Dasher deliver you the food earlier instead of himself. 

Crouching partially down while keeping yourself wrapped in the blanket, you picked up the bags and the bear before turning around and bringing them back into your apartment. You paused long enough to awkwardly lock the door with your hands full before carrying everything into your kitchen. Setting the bear down on the counter, you met its sightless stare, trying to imagine Dex at the store choosing it for you. 

With a shake of your head, your attention shifted over to the two grocery bags next. Cautiously sticking your hands inside of one, you began to pull the items out of the plastic bag one by one, setting them down onto the counter beside the little teddy bear. That’s when you realized Dex must've gone to the store and bought you nearly every type of cold medicine that he could find. 

Shock washed through you in waves as you pulled out a pack of Alka-Seltzer tablets, three different bags of cough drops, daytime and nighttime cold medicine pills, a package with cough syrup, and another bottle of Tylenol. Glancing over at the second bag, you could see that it held even more various types of cold medicine along with a few bottles of different Gatorade flavors.

Your mouth fell open as you stared at everything on your kitchen counter, impressed and somewhat touched by how thorough he'd been. Gaze drifting up towards the balloon, you watched it innocently swaying just beneath your ceiling. Dex must have spent a fortune buying all of this on top of having already bought you lunch. Despite the fear you’d initially felt when he’d stopped by earlier, you were surprised at how oddly moved you’d felt that he’d even gone through this much effort for you. Nobody ever had done something like this for you before.

Overcome with a surprising sense of gratitude that stunned even yourself, you turned around and pulled open your junk drawer in the kitchen. Rummaging through it, you pulled out a large pad of green post-it notes and a black permanent marker. You peeled off a single post-it from the pad and flipped it over before quickly scribbling two words neatly onto the paper–’thank you.’ 

Picking up your little note, you stepped over towards your kitchen sink and leaned forward, sticking the note onto your window where the blinds were partially drawn up. You didn’t know if Dex would see the message or if he was even still across the street, and you weren’t entirely certain how you felt about him at the moment, either. But he’d gone out of his way to take care of you while you were sick, and he’d respected the boundary he’d set in place earlier of not coming into your apartment. He was at least trying not to frighten you.

Focusing back on the myriad of cold medicine choices now spread out over your counter, you opened a package of one of the daytime pills and took them dry. Afterwards, you shuffled past your kitchen counter and tried to convince yourself that you should finally take a shower. As you passed by your couch, you reluctantly unwrapped the blanket from around your shoulders and tossed it over the armrest before continuing towards your bathroom.

You showered fast in very warm water that quickly filled your little bathroom with steam. The steam had helped with your congested sinuses, but you were shivering uncontrollably when you finally got out. Drying off in a rush, you'd gotten dressed in another pair of sweatpants and a sweatshirt as fast as your tired limbs could manage. Then you’d dragged your shivering self out of the bathroom and back towards your living room, deciding that you’d try to find something to watch on television for a bit since you’d already spent the whole day sleeping.

But just as you’d been about to sit down on your couch and get comfortable beneath your blanket again, something out of the corner of your eye caught your attention. Looking over towards your apartment door, you spotted a folded up sheet of paper on the floor. It looked as if someone had slipped it underneath it. 

Head tilting curiously to the side, you slowly stepped around your couch and padded over towards the paper lying harmlessly on the ground. It definitely hadn’t been there when you’d gone to answer the door a half an hour ago and found the bear and bags of medicine. Someone must have slipped it under your door when you were in the shower.

Bending down, you carefully plucked the paper from off the floor with two fingers before straightening back up. Not certain what to expect, you carefully unfolded the sheet, but you were simply met with three neatly handwritten sentences.

Eyes sweeping over the two lines of his message once more, you felt the corner of your lips twitch upwards.

You’re welcome.

I ordered you ramen from that place you like. Should be delivered at 6. 

[lights-on-the-ridge]

a little something for @deusexgirlfriend based on their wonderful Dex piece, Digital Bath🫶

[deusexgirlfriend]

DIRGE [EP] ☆ ~4.5k ben poindexter x gender neutral, journalist!reader

ao3 ☆ part 1 ☆ part 2

summary: after publishing a passive-aggressive article about the avtf's aggression, you've been on the municipal government's (read: fisk's) shit list. your editor at the daily bugle tells you writing a series about the "unfortunate" task force killings will prove that you're unbiased and in support of the mayor. she thinks she’s doing you a solid with this assignment. you think it's her way of driving you insane. an avid reader of yours totally gets it.

warnings! written depictions of snuff films, stalker!dex

You open your messages on autopilot, more muscle memory than intention.

The last exchange stares back at you. His words. Yours. The photos. The confessions. The way you told him you weren't sure if you'd feel anything if you saw him in person.

You throw your phone across the room. It hits the leg of your dining table before sliding lamely to the right. You press the heels of your palms to your eyes. 

You want to go back in time to the first video and delete it, block him, run to the FBI, do anything other than what you did—which was everything. Saving fucked up videos and responding to the nicer texts, then all texts, and leaving your lights on outdoors.

You type before you can stop yourself.

you live here?

The response comes in four seconds.

Took you long enough.

Your stomach turns inside out.

so you knew i’d find out someday Of course. You’re a journalist. You investigate. why didn’t you just tell me Where’s the fun in that?

You stare at the screen. Your vision blurs at the edges. You’re not sure if you’re going to cry or laugh or vomit. None of those feel like the right option. Something colder settles in your chest instead, waiting to thaw out.

you were in the stairwell and you??? let me walk past you?

You looked like you needed to get to your apartment.You did a good job hiding your fear.Your breathing was a little fast but your hands were steady. Most people would have run. You walked.

thats not a compliment I mean it like one.

You laugh. Maybe you cry a little. Your phone buzzes again.

You’re not going to call the police.

It's not a question.

how do you know that i could be on the line right now with them Because neither of us does what we’re supposed to do.

You close your eyes.

then what are we supposed to do You’re supposed to be reporting me. I should be turning myself in. But here we are. yeah here we are

A pause. Then:

Did you eat today?

The question is so mundane, so normal, that it cracks something open in your chest. You think about how you were planning on going grocery shopping. Now, groceries feel juvenile.

fuck off There's a bodega on the corner. It’s still open. You should go. are you fucking kidding me No.

Another pause. Then:

It’s the same song and dance. I keep telling you that I won’t you and I mean it. But I can’t make you believe me. That’s for you to work on. you showed up at my building I live here. you showed up in the stairwell I was just getting the cat. You saw that. no you knew i was coming home Yes. You come home between 6:15 and 6:30 on weekdays. You were late today and I was starting to get worried. But I'm being honest. I was only getting the cat. I wasn't coming to your door. you were WORRIED Yes. about ME Yes.

You press your phone against your thigh and stare at the wall. You turn the phone over.

yuore fucking insane Probably. youre a serial killer I’m working on it. One good deed at a time. are you sure you’re working on that They were bad people who would have kept hurting others if I hadn't stopped them. you can’t play judge jury and executioner tony or whoever the fuck you are Whose call is it? The same cops that keep killing? Do you think the system is flawless enough to catch and punish them all?

You don't have an answer for that.

thats not the point Then what’s “the point”?

You type. Delete. Type. Delete. Your thumbs hover over the keyboard.

the point is that im supposed to be a good person You are. yeah and i'm texting a killer like you know what the pinnacle of morality is You’re just texting with someone who understands you.

You don’t respond. The text bubble glares up at you. It’s pushed up by a new message.

A photo of Mr. Meowgi. The gray tabby is curled up on what looks like a gray couch—Tony's couch, you think, the one stationed in 4C. The cat’s eyes are closed. His little bowtie is crooked. One paw is draped over his face like he’s embarrassed to be photographed.

From this morning. He was clingy before I gave him back to my neighbor. I think he knew something was going to change today. what You know now. It changes things. does it For you? Yes. For me? No. I’ve known. Like how I know  you’re relieved when I send you those videos, even if you hate yourself for it.

Your throat closes.

you don’t know that I do, because I feel it from you.

You press both hands over your face. Your breathing is turning shallow and your heart is a caged animal rattling bone bars.

You’re the only city journalist who writes properly. my editor killed that stuff. No, you killed it. You chose to stay quiet. You moved to human interest when she asked. You can fight to write about what you want again. what was i supposed to do What you’re doing right now. this isnt journalism It's connection.

You stare at the word.

it’s manipulation genius

The text itself is feeble. You read it back to yourself and hear the high, reedy whine. You’re pathetic.

Manipulation is dishonest. We’ve both been honest about what we want. you don’t know whati want You can tell me.

You hesitate. Your thumb hovers.

You’ve been two people all this time: the normal, human being that goes to work, and the idiot that keeps crawling back to a cell phone in the dark. Dishonesty here only splits the idiot in half: one upholds a lie, and one you keep even closer to yourself.

You might as well be real here.

to hate you You’re saying that like you don’t already. no Why not? i don't know I think you do. i don't Then let me try to help. stop talking to me I’m just going to ask you to think of some things. I’m not coming to your place.

You rub your forehead.

fine

He types for a long time. Just as you think he’s going to stop, the message comes.

Think about every person the Task Force hurt, and every badge they hid behind while they did it. Now think about the way they died. No chances to hurt anyone else. That’s good. That’s real change, isn’t it?

You think about it.

Do you really feel bad for them? no Ok Do you feel bad for yourself? yes Why? because i’m still talking to you and i don't want to stop. That’s not something to feel bad about. then what is it You appreciating honesty. I keep saying it. Now, you’re seeing it.

Your phone is warm in your hand.

you looked normal I am normal. Mostly. you smiled at me I was being friendly.

Your heart is warm in your chest. Spring thaw. Summer birds flying home.

what song were you whistling Vienna. It seemed appropriate. why “Vienna waits for you.” You’re still waiting for something that’s never going to come. You can’t wait for permission to feel or do things. Just reach out and grab it. i assume you want me to follow through You’re already there. You just haven’t admitted it yet. admitted what? That you’re glad I’m doing this.

Your phone buzzes one last time.

Goodnight. Leave the lights on. I like seeing them from up here.

You don’t turn them off.

You sit on the floor for a long time.

And then, finally, you type:

goodnight tony

The response is immediate.

Sweet dreams, Cronkite.

☆☆☆☆☆

You don’t sleep well that night. For once, it isn’t the videos keeping you awake.

It’s the four feet of plaster and joists and subfloor that separate your apartment from Bullseye’s. You stare up at the water stain in the corner and listen for something.

You get nothing. No footsteps. No radio. No typical annoying upstairs neighbor attitude at all.

But you know he’s up there.

Your phone lies on the bed like you, back down and face up. It’s stupid to keep it like this, because one notification would light up the room.

It’s fine. Your newest photo album can always use some new pictures.

☆ SATURDAY ☆

The knock comes at 8:14 AM.

You sit up so fast the blood drains from your head, leaving you dizzy. A knock at this hour on a Saturday can only be one person. Your friends know you’re usually too busy for that.

You tug a loose sweatshirt over your head before crossing the cold floorboards and tugging the door open a crack. The chain is still on.

Standing there with one hand shoved in the pocket of his dark jeans and the other holding a foil-covered plate like an offering, is Bullseye. Tony. Whoever he really is. The hallway window’s light glides across the line of his jaw and makes his brown-blond hair look like fine gold threads.

“Morning,” he says. His voice has warmth that doesn't match the cold things you know about him. There’s also a hollowness in it, but it can be easily passed off as fatigue. “You’re hard to wake up. I came here an hour ago.”

You shift your weight, leaning against your own doorframe to mirror him. The wood is solid and cool against your shoulder blade. “I was sleeping.”

“I don’t doubt that you needed the rest.” He holds the plate up a little higher. The foil crinkles. “I had some leftover pancake batter. Can I come in?”

You don’t know what possesses you to slide the chain free and step aside. All you know is that he walks in like he's done it a hundred times. Maybe he has on the days you stayed out late for drinks or to finish an article at the office.

The apartment feels different with another body in it. The air is syrupy and warm with a weight here that grounds you in the here and now. For the first time in days, you feel no compulsion to look at your phone.

Bullseye sets the plate on your kitchen counter with a soft thunk and pulls back the foil with a flourish. A small stack of golden brown pancakes. There’s maple syrup in a small glass ramekin and a slice of butter already melting into a glossy pool at the top.

You watch him move through your kitchen. He doesn't hesitate. He opens your drawers with the easy familiarity of a roommate. Silverware clinks. He finds your forks in the left one, your good cloth napkins in the second drawer down.

“How do you know where I keep my forks?”

He glances over his shoulder and a slow smile widens his mouth, crinkling the corners of his eyes. “You have a thing about organization. Left drawer’s utensils. Right’s the junk and tools.”

Your face must speak for you—shock, violation, a strange thrill—because he continues as he sets the table.

“I watched you make pasta once. About three weeks ago. The right drawer had a can opener, and the left had a fork.”

You don't know what to say to that. Your throat feels too tight to even gasp. So you sit down at your small table. He sets the plate in front of you, perfectly centered, and pours a glass of orange juice from your fridge. 

"Sit," you say. It comes out softer than you intended.

He pulls out the chair across from you and sits. Folds his hands on the table. His knuckles are clean, unmarked. He just watches you eat.

The pancakes are perfect. Fluffy, almost cloud-like, with slightly crisp edges. The syrup is the real kind of maple and it soaks into each bite. It’s everything you like.

Again, your poker face is awful. He reads the question forming on your tongue before you can ask it.

"You have maple syrup in your cabinet. The expensive Canadian. You keep your butter on the counter in a little crock so it’s always spreadable.”

You eat in silence for a while, the only sound is the scrape of your fork on the ceramic plate. He doesn't talk.

Your voice feels throaty from sleep and syrup, so you clear your throat. “You could have… texted.”

"I wanted to see you."

You set your fork down. It makes a small, sharp sound against the plate.

“You can’t just show up at my door. Or with pancakes.” You sip the juice. “Especially with pancakes.”

"Why not?"

“Because it’s… weird.”

"Probably," he tilts his head just slightly, like a dog hearing a strange noise. "But you didn't tell me to leave."

You look at him. He is watching you with those brown eyes, almost warm, almost patient, but you know what lives behind that patience. You know what those hands have done. And still, you don't tell him to leave.

"You're not going to hurt me," you say. It’s not a question. It’s a fact you’ve decided to believe.

"No."

“Or anyone in this building?”

"Not unless they’re Task Force." He corrects. He looks away for a moment before returning to meet your eyes. “And I’ll bring you breakfast every day. If you want that."

You pick up your fork. The handle is still warm.

"Okay," you say.

☆ SUNDAY ☆

He knocks on your door an hour later this time. 9:15. You’ve been up for forty-five minutes, pacing.

You open it wearing embarrassingly plain clothes: a wrinkled t-shirt and sweats with a small hole in the knee. He is holding a brown paper grocery bag, the top folded down neatly.

"French toast," he says. "Brioche.”

You feel your brows knit before you can stop them. “You brought groceries?”

“Yeah.” He stands at the threshold, a patient sentinel, until you step aside again, and he cuts a direct path to your kitchen. He sets the bag on your counter with a decisive thump. “You’re understocked.”

"I don't really bake."

“You don’t really cook, either.” Bullseye—should you be calling him Tony now?—starts pulling things out: a loaf of brioche wrapped in wax paper, an egg carton, a plastic container of strawberries, a small bottle of cinnamon powder. “You’ve been eating takeout and whatever you grab from the bodega. You haven't used your stove much lately.”

Heat crawls up your neck. "How do you know that?"

He glances at you, then at the stovetop. “The dust.”

He’s not wrong. Your heart is a dull, insistent thud. “So is this a thing?”

Tony stops. He has a carton of eggs in one hand, a whisk in the other. He turns to face you. The morning light is behind him, pouring through your window, casting his face in shadow so you can only see the outline of his jaw, the glint of one eye.

“Because you need someone to take care of you,” he says. His voice is quiet, stripped of its usual pleasant veneer. “And I’m the only one who's going to do it.”

The words hang in the air, heavy and impossible. You walk to the counter. Pick up the small jar of cinnamon he brought. Unscrew the lid and smell it—sharp, sweet, familiar, like the holidays of a childhood you barely remember.

“You should get nutmeg too,” you say. “It’s better with nutmeg.”

His smile changes his whole face.

☆ MONDAY ☆

The knock comes at 6:47 AM. Not in a dream, but on your door.

You open it in your pajamas with no embarrassment this time. 

Tony’s holding a white paper bag with the top folded shut. A grease stain blooms through the side.

“For work.”

You blink. Your eyelids feel like they’ve been glued shut, and are only now coming apart. “What?”

“I got you your usual bagel.” Tony holds the bag out. “You have to sit in on a city council meeting today, so I figured I’d save you some time.”

“How do you know about that?”

“Two days ago you said Adriana is going to kill me if I don't go.”

You stare at him. You can feel the cold hallway air chilling your bare ankles. “You remember everything, don’t you?”

“I pay attention.” He presses the warm bag into your hands. The paper is warm, almost hot, from the food inside. The smell of the toasted bagel wafts up, which reminds your stomach that it hasn’t eaten all night. “Don’t let it get too cold.”

"You're getting me breakfast sandwiches now?" You look down at the bag.

“Every day.” He steps backward. “If you want.” He turns and walks toward the stairwell, a shadow against the hallway’s window.

“Tony?” you call. Your voice echoes slightly.

He looks back. His face is unreadable from this distance.

“Thank you.”

His smile is small, but you can feel it. “Have a nice day.”

☆☆☆☆☆

Tuesday. Another paper bag. Another breakfast sandwich situation. This time on a flaky croissant that breaks off into buttery crumbs on the first bite.

Wednesday. A Danish pastry, stuffed with a beautiful herbed cheese.

Thursday. There’s a note tucked under your front door, written on a torn piece of notebook paper in neat, economical handwriting: *You're running low on coffee beans. I left a fresh bag on your counter. Don't argue.*

You walk to your kitchen. There’s a bag of coffee on your counter. The good kind. The expensive kind. A single-origin Ethiopian, the kind you only buy when you get a fat freelance check.

You make a pot using your old French press. The grounds bloom and release a rich, blueberry-tinged aroma. You drink it black to appreciate the flavor of it. 

You think about him the whole time

☆ FRIDAY ☆

I have something different in mind tonight. what A restaurant, 8 PM. you want to take me to dinner?? I’ve made you six breakfasts. This is the next step, if you want to take it.

You stare at the screen until the letters blur. The phone feels hot in your hand.

where. I'll text you the address. It's a little upscale, so you should wear something nice.

You set your phone down on the kitchen counter. Pick it up. Set it down again. The counter is clean now. You wiped it down yesterday.

A week ago, you would have argued with yourself. Would have listed all the reasons this was wrong, dangerous, insane, in one of your bullet-pointed lists in your head. Pace your apartment and talk yourself out of it, and then talk yourself back in out of curiosity.

You don’t do any of that now.

The cycle has stopped sometime in the last few days. You weren’t sure when. Maybe over the French toast, or the warm bagel, or when you looked up at his dark, second-floor window and didn't feel fear anymore, just a strange, hollow ache.

You don’t do any of that now.

The cycle has stopped sometime in the last few days. You weren’t sure when. Maybe over the French toast, or the warm bagel, or when you looked up at his dark, second-floor window and didn't feel fear anymore, just a strange, hollow ache.

You think about the videos again. The grainy, terrible quality. The way you watched them over and over, dissecting every frame, taking notes in the dark. The way you felt when Lieutenant Voss died on screen—that small, quiet satisfaction that you used to hate yourself for. The badge numbers you’ve seen. The commendations for bravery you’ve read in old PDFs that never, not once, mention the names of the civilians they'd hurt.

And Tony.

Your morals don’t have to fight anymore. They’ve found an alignment, like two tectonic plates grinding together to form a new, unstable ground. He does what he does. You feel what you feel. Neither of you is going to change.

okay Good. I'll pick you up at 7:30. u have a car? No. But the restaurant is within walking distance. I can call a cab if you’d rather take one. dw i can walk

He comes to your apartment at 7:28.

When you open the door, he looks at you. His eyes travel from your shoes to your face, slowly. He’s wearing a dark jacket over a black button-down shirt. No tie, with the top button undone, revealing the hollow of his throat.

"You look nice," he says. His voice is low. You’re in black. You feel like you’re going to a very nice funeral.

"So do you." You say

He smiles and offers you his arm. His elbow is right there, the simple hinge of bone and muscle under fabric.

You take it.

☆☆☆☆☆

The restaurant is Italian. It’s simple and polished from the outside, a perfect red awning and a vintage sign. Inside, it’s all low, gold light with the smell of garlic and simmering tomatoes. It’s the kind of place where the wine list is longer than the menu.

He’s reserved a table in the back. A corner booth upholstered in dark red leather. Perfect sightlines to the door, the kitchen, the windows, you realize. He can see everyone, and no one can sneak up behind him.

“Looks like you planned this,” you say, sliding into the booth. The leather is cool and smooth under your palms. “How long?”

“Since Tuesday.” He sits across from you, his knees almost touching yours under the small table. He picks up the wine list. “I hoped you’d say yes.”

"What if I said no?"

He looks at you over the top of the list. His brown eyes are serious.

“Then I would’ve cancelled the reservation and made you breakfast until you said yes to something else.”

You laugh. You can't help it. It bubbles up out of your chest, unexpected and bright.

“Tony.”

“Yeah?”

"We—this can’t be normal.” You gesture between you, at the candle flickering on the table, at the beautiful room. “Can it?”

“Probably not.” He sets the wine list down. Leans forward, his elbows on the table. His voice drops, not only for the act of intimacy, but to make sure nobody eavesdrops. "But you see me. The real me. Not the mask. And you get me. You know how to… be around me.”

"That doesn't make this normal."

He reaches across the table. His fingers find yours. They’re warm, slightly calloused. His hand covers yours completely. “But it’s real for me.”

You look down at your hands. His fingers intertwine with yours. His skin is warm. The candlelight makes the veins in his wrist look like rivers on a map.

Dinner is three hours.

You talk about anything. Everything. Maybe nothing, because it floats out of you like it’s all unimportant. The food is incredible—a silky handmade pasta with a deep red wine that makes your head feel light. He orders for you without asking, and everything he chooses is perfect, down to way the olive oil drizzled over the bread.

At some point, you stop thinking about the videos.

Or the body count.

At some point, you stop thinking about anything but the way he looks at you across the table. The candlelight carves shadows into his face. His thumb traces small circles on the back of your hand.

“Walk with me?” he asks after dinner, after the check is paid, after the his last sip of espresso.

You walk.

The city is cooler tonight, spring stepping in and out like it’s a shy houseguest. The streets are glossy and the air smells like wet asphalt and car exhaust. There must have been a mist of rain while you were dining. 

Tony’s shoulder brushes yours with every other step. You don’t reach for his hand here yet.

“You’re quiet,” he says.

“I’m thinking.”

He laughs a little. “What about now?”

You stop walking. The sidewalk is cracked under your feet. A stubborn weed pushes up through the concrete. He stops too.

The streetlight above you casts a cone of yellow light down onto both of you, illuminating the imperfections in his skin: the scar that cuts across his cheek, and the one above his eyebrow.

“I can’t leave,” you say.

He goes still. “Leave what?”

“This.” The words come out before you can stop them, tumbling over each other. "I've been telling myself for weeks that I could walk away. Block your number. Move to a different building. Call… someone and let them handle it. Call the police, like a normal person."

“But?” He’s not smiling.

“But I can’t.” Your voice cracks. The sound of it is ugly. “And I don’t want to.” Your voice climbs as you speak, turning everything into a desperate question. “I watched the videos,” you continue. “All of them. Multiple times. I took the notes, and I wrote the articles Adriana wanted me to write, and I filed them. But then I go home and I sit in the dark, in that tiny apartment, and I think about you.”

Something inside him seems to move, because he starts breathing again. “Hey—”

“I’m in too deep.” You laugh. It’s wet, hysterical, and you wipe your nose with the back of your hand. "I've been in it for weeks. Maybe since the first video? Fuck, but I don’t care anymore. I don’t care about what you’ve done, and I don’t care what anyone else would think if they knew. I can live with it.”

You look at him. His face is unreadable, a mask of stillness in the yellow light. The silence it taut between you.

Then he steps forward. His hand comes up slowly to brush your cheek. The pad of his thumb just grazes your cheekbone. His touch is impossibly light. A cheesy thought, you know, but the contrast of all the violence he’s enacted only emphasizes it.

“You have no idea how long I’ve waited to hear you say that,” he murmurs.

You smile despite yourself. You feel the warm tears cut tracks down your cold skin. “Don’t make it weird.”

He laughs. A real one, not the short puffs he’s been doing when you amuse him. You love how his skin folds around his eyes.

He leans in. You can smell his laundry detergent and underneath it, the faint scent of a woody aftershave.

You close your eyes.

The kiss never comes. Instead, his forehead meets yours. The skin is so comfortably warm. His breath meets yours when he sighs.

“Thank you,” he says.

You open your eyes to look into his.

Brown. Entirely focused on you, with his pupils blown as wide as humanly possible, black swallowing the brown. You’re sure yours look the same. “For what?”

He pulls back just far enough to see your whole face. His hand slides down to hold your shoulder.

“For everything.”

[FIN.]

a/n: hashtag cockblocked. the song for this part can be found here. once again i'm very sorry if you asked for a tag and didn't get one >_< this system stresses me OUT i'll type the exact username and it still won't let me tag sometimes. evil evil evil. this is kinda short in my eyes because it was supposed to be with part 2. but whatever. if i'm not happy with something i'll never be happy with it, so i put this out anyway.

while this is my end for dex and his journo, if you'd like to see them in another situation i'm happy to revisit them upon request :) i got more dex codependency coming out slowly with reach out, touch faith, so look out for that! if you'd like to be added to rotf's taglist you can reply under any rotf post for a tag :3 thank you once again for every awesome comment and kind reblog!! all your love really helped stick with this even when it felt super hard to write :D

taglist: @homiesexuallaj @mioslittleworld @myshaylaaa @lanadelreykt @youlikefanficdontyousquidward @m4n-eat3r @alastorhazbin666-blog @prawnst4r @mariayjws5 @miriamnox @stop-stealing-the-good-usernames @s4ngel @justmylifeme @douazz @merendis @were-wright-on-time @perilous-pasta @marytvirgin @perpetualneckpain @im-not-very-good-at-nothing @nbhrhn

[upthelinetodeath]

Not arguing with a man w big brown eyes. whatever u say beautiful

[mcrdvcks]

bad idea

summary: You wake up one night to a familiar knocking on your window. word count: 4.4k+ pairing: dex poindexter x fem!reader notes: everyone say "thank you karen page" for giving us this absolute treasure of a scene, because damn i think about it every. single. day. i even thought about it during my biology midterm... and when i'm driving... and when i go to sleep at night... is it too much to ask for dex to look at me like this??? i need this absolute bottom of a man warnings/tags: no use of y/n, gun (is that a sufficient warning?), implied that you and dex used to date, dex is an absolute simp, this man gets on his knees for you yes yes yes, kissing, pet name (use of baby), implied that this takes place after dex gets out of prison

The first sound is so small you almost convince yourself it’s part of a dream, something your brain made up to justify the way you’ve been sleeping with one ear open. You don’t get the luxury of pretending for long, because it comes again—soft, deliberate, and it’s definitely not a branch scraping glass or a neighbor’s door slamming downstairs. It’s a tap that knows exactly where your window is, exactly how much pressure to use, and exactly how to wake you without waking the whole building.

You sit up without thinking and the sheet slides off your shoulder. The room is dark enough that you can’t make out much beyond the vague shape of your dresser and the line of the curtain, but you don’t need a clear view to find what your hand is looking for. Your fingers go into the bedside table drawer, curl around the grip, and pull the gun free with the quiet familiarity of practice. You stand, bare feet on cold floorboards, and the chill climbs up your legs like the apartment is trying to warn you.

The hallway is narrow and familiar, and you’ve walked it a thousand times, but tonight it feels like a corridor in someone else’s life. You keep the gun up, not waving it around, not shaking, just steady, and you listen with everything you’ve got. There’s no heavy breathing, no footsteps scuffing. That’s what makes your stomach tighten, because a drunk would stumble, a thief would rush, and a normal person would knock at your door.

The living room opens up around you, a patchwork of darker shadows where your furniture sits. The window by the fire escape is cracked open by a few inches, the curtain pushed aside like a hand slid it back and held it there. The air coming in is colder than the air in your apartment, and it carries the faint scent of city grime and rain. You take one more step in, muzzle tracking toward the window, and then you see him in the corner where the light from the street doesn’t quite reach.

He’s standing with his back close to the wall, like he chose a spot that gives him the whole room and keeps him out of the line of sight from anyone walking past outside. He’s dressed dark, of course, and he’s not moving like he’s trying to spook you. He’s still in that unsettling way that makes it feel like the apartment belongs to him now, like he’s been there longer than you have and he’s just waiting for you to catch up.

“Step into the light,” you say, and your voice comes out flat, the way it does when you’re forcing yourself not to feel something first.

He exhales, slow, and the sound is quiet but familiar enough to pull at something inside your chest. Then he shifts, and you get a glimpse of his face as he moves just enough that the streetlight catches the curve of his cheek and the pale line of his mouth. The light shows the tension in his jaw before it fades again as he settles back into shadow.

A pause, and then a voice from the darkest part of your living room, low and steady like he’s been standing there listening to you breathe. “You still sleep with it that close.”

Your grip tightens before you can help it. Your aim doesn’t wobble, but everything in you goes hot and cold at the same time, because you know that voice, you know the cadence, you know the way he makes the simplest sentence sound like he’s filing it into place. You take another step forward without meaning to, then stop yourself before you get too close. “What are you doing in my apartment, Dex?”

He says your name, and he says it like he’s allowed to, like he hasn’t earned the right to have it in his mouth. It hits you anyway, because your body is stupid and memory is worse, and there’s something about hearing him say it that makes your grip tighten on the gun until your knuckles ache. “I needed to see you,” he says.

“That’s not an answer.”

His shoulders lift a fraction, not quite a shrug. “It’s the only one I have.”

You keep the muzzle steady, aimed center mass, the way you were taught, the way you taught yourself when no one else was around to correct your stance. “How did you get in?”

He glances at the window. “You already know.”

“I want to hear you say it,” you tell him.

He shifts again, and this time he steps out far enough that you can actually see him. The light catches more of him now: the shape of his shoulders under the jacket, the tired set to his eyes, the faint shadow of bruising that’s either healing or never fully fades when a body’s been through too much. He looks leaner than you remember, like prison carved away whatever softness he had left, and he looks too controlled for someone who just climbed up to your window in the middle of the night.

“I came up the fire escape,” he says, and then his eyes flick down for a second, to the gun, and back to your face. “You didn’t change the latch.”

Your pulse jumps, not because he’s wrong, but because you hate that he knows. You hate that he’s cataloging details like he’s always done, like he can’t help it, like your life is a pattern and he’s already traced the lines. “You could’ve knocked,” you say.

He gives you a look that’s almost dry, almost amused, and it doesn’t belong on his face after everything. “Would you have opened the door?”

You don’t answer that, because the truth is complicated and ugly and it doesn’t deserve to be spoken out loud with a gun between you. “What happened?” you ask instead, because something had to have pushed him here. “Did someone follow you? Is this some kind of—” You cut yourself off before you say trap, because saying it gives it more shape than you want to hold in your head.

He shakes his head. “No one followed me.”

“Then why are you here?” you repeat, and you keep your voice sharp enough to cut. “Why now?”

His mouth opens like he’s going to say something, then closes again. For a second he looks almost… careful, like he’s choosing words in the same way someone chooses where to step on thin ice.

“I got out,” he says finally, and his voice stays quiet, but there’s a roughness under it that wasn’t there before. “And the first night I was out, I didn’t come here. I didn’t come anywhere near you. I went somewhere else and I sat there until morning, because I told myself if I made it through one night, I could make it through the next.”

You don’t let yourself soften at the sound of him trying. You keep the gun up, because you remember the things he’s done and you remember how quickly trying can turn into something else when it’s Dex Poindexter doing it.

“How many nights did you make it through?” you ask.

His gaze holds yours, steady as the muzzle pointed at him. “Not enough.”

Your breath comes out harsh. “So you decided to break into my apartment.”

He doesn’t flinch. “I decided to see you.”

“You don’t get to decide things for me anymore.”

His expression shifts at that, something tightening behind his eyes like he’s swallowing down a reaction. “I’m not asking for permission,” he says, and then he adds, almost softer, “I’m here. That’s all.”

“That’s not all,” you snap, and the gun wavers a fraction before you force it steady again. “You don’t show up like this and pretend it’s nothing. You don’t get to stand in my living room like you didn’t—”

The words knot in your throat and refuse to come out, and Dex watches you with that awful focus that makes you feel seen in a way you never asked for.

He takes one step closer.

“Stop,” you say immediately.

He stops, but the fact that he moved at all sends heat crawling under your skin. He’s closer now, close enough that you can see the faint scar on his cheek you don’t remember from before, close enough that you can see how his pupils look too wide in the low light. His hands hang at his sides, relaxed but not casual, and he keeps them visible like he knows you’ll put a bullet in him if you have to.

“You’re shaking,” he says.

“I’m not,” you lie, and it’s stupid because he’s right. The tremor is small, but it’s there.

His mouth twitches. “You used to shake when you were angry.”

“Don’t,” you warn him.

He doesn’t stop, because Dex has never been good at stopping once he’s latched onto a thread. “And you used to hate it when I noticed,” he continues, and his voice is almost gentle now, like he’s trying to smooth something over with tone alone. “But you always let me.”

“I don’t let you do anything,” you say, and you lift the gun a fraction higher, aiming for his head this time because you want him to understand you mean it. “Take one more step and I’ll put you down.”

He looks at the gun, then back at you, and then he does the most infuriating thing he could do: he steps forward anyway, slow and deliberate, like he’s approaching an altar instead of a weapon. You don’t move, because you refuse to give ground in your own home, and the next second the barrel meets his forehead with a soft, undeniable bump.

He doesn’t jerk away, he doesn’t blink fast, he just leans in until the pressure is firm, and you feel it through the gun, through your arm,, straight into your chest. “There,” he says, voice low. “That’s better.”

Your stomach flips, half disgust and half something you don’t want to name. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

He breathes out through his nose, and you can feel it in the space between you. “A lot.”

“Back up,” you order, but he doesn’t move an inch. Your grip tightens again. “Dex.”

His eyes stay on yours, and there’s something in them that’s so naked it makes your throat go tight. It’s not a plea, not exactly, and it’s not a threat. It’s need in its purest form, stripped of all the lies he usually wraps around it.

You hold the gun steady even though your arm is starting to ache, and you hate that he can stand there with the barrel pressed into his skin like it’s a point of contact instead of a warning. He stays close enough that you can see the faint sheen of sweat at his hairline, close enough that you can feel his breath when he exhales, and he doesn’t do the decent thing and back away.

“On your knees,” you say, and you make your voice mean it.

For a beat he doesn’t move, not because he’s refusing, but because he’s watching you like he’s memorizing the exact set of your mouth, the angle of your wrist, the way you’re not stepping back. Then he nods once, slow, and he lowers himself like he’s trying not to startle a wild animal. His knees touch the floor with a quiet sound that makes your stomach twist, because the sight of him down there is wrong in a way that feels too right, and his hands lift up beside his head with his palms open.

“Like this?” he asks, and the question comes out calm, almost polite.

“Don’t talk to me like you’re doing me a favor,” you say, and you keep the muzzle angled down at him, not because you’re easing up, but because the geometry changes when he kneels. “You don’t get to play nice now.”

His eyes flicker, and something tight pulls at the corner of his mouth like he wants to smile and doesn’t trust himself to. “I’m not playing,” he says. “I’m doing what you said.”

“Good,” you tell him, because you need something solid to hang onto. “Stay there.”

He stays there, hands still up, shoulders squared even on his knees like posture is another kind of armor. The streetlight catches his face better now, carving shadows under his cheekbones and making his eyes look even darker, and you hate how familiar he still is. He looks at the gun, then at you, and he doesn’t look away from either like he’s proving he can take it.

“You shouldn’t be here,” you say. “You shouldn’t even know where I live anymore.”

“I didn’t forget,” he answers, and he says it like it’s a simple fact instead of a confession. “I missed you.”

You swallow and your throat aches, because you can hear the old softness threaded through the words and you don’t want it. You don’t want the version of him that sounded like that when he was in your bed, when he’d tuck himself behind you and pretend the world couldn’t touch him if he had you in his arms.

“Don’t,” you say again, and this time it comes out quieter than you meant it to.

His gaze lifts to your face and he holds it like he’s holding onto a ledge. “I missed you, baby,” he repeats, and he doesn’t push the nickname like a knife. He says it the way he used to say it when you’d fall asleep mid-sentence, the way he’d say it when he was trying to be gentle.

Your breathing shifts, shallow for a second before you force it back into something steadier, and the gun stays in your hand even though your fingers tighten around it like you’re afraid it will disappear if you loosen your grip. “You don’t get to just show up,” you tell him. “Not after everything.”

He doesn’t argue, and the lack of fight is almost worse than if he’d tried. His shoulders rise and fall with one slow breath, and his hands stay up where you can see them. “I know.”

“You don’t get to stand in my living room and look at me like that,” you add, because anger is easier than the other thing pressing up behind your ribs. “You don’t get to say you missed me like it means something.”

His throat works like he’s swallowing down something sharp. “It means something to me,” he says, and he says it like he hates himself for it. “I’m not asking you to forgive me.”

“You should be,” you say. “If you had any sense left, you’d be begging.”

His mouth opens, then closes, and for a second he looks almost like he wants to laugh and can’t find the sound. “Do you want me to beg?” he asks, and his voice stays even, but there’s a tremor under it that makes your teeth clench. “If you tell me to beg, I will.”

Your hand trembles just enough that you feel it in your wrist, and you hate that he notices because he always notices. His eyes flick to your hand, then back to your face, and the intensity in his stare doesn’t change, but his posture does. It’s small, careful, and it makes your skin prickle, because his hands lower a little from beside his head to hover closer to his shoulders like he’s testing whether you’ll stop him.

“Hands up,” you order immediately.

He freezes with his hands halfway down, and he lifts them again without complaint. “Okay,” he says, soft.

You take a breath that scrapes, and you try to keep your voice sharp enough to protect you. “You think you can come back and act like this,” you say. “You think you can walk right into my life and—what? Remind me of how it felt? That’s your plan?”

“I don’t have a plan,” he says, and his eyes flicker with something that looks like frustration, not at you, but at himself. “If I had a plan, I wouldn’t be here.”

“That’s the first smart thing you’ve said all night,” you mutter.

He shifts his weight slightly on his knees, the motion controlled, and the gun tracks him on instinct. He notices that too, of course, and his gaze drops to the muzzle for half a second like he’s checking where it is, like he’s measuring distance in his head the way he measures everything. When his eyes lift again, they’re too steady, too direct. “You’re still holding it like you mean it,” he says.

“I do mean it.”

“I know,” he replies, and he sounds almost relieved by that. “That’s why I came.”

Your jaw tightens. “What do you mean?”

He doesn’t move his hands, but his fingers flex once like he’s fighting the urge to reach. “You don’t lie to yourself,” he says. “You never did.”

“That’s not a compliment,” you tell him.

“I wasn’t trying to compliment you,” he says, and then he adds, quieter, like it costs him to say it out loud, “I needed something real.”

You stare at him, and the room feels too small for the two of you, because he’s taking up all the air with that gaze and you’re letting him. The gun is still there between you, still a line you can draw any time you want, but your arm is tired and your hand is shaking just a little, and you’re furious that he can make you feel anything other than disgust.

“Get up,” you say, and your voice is steady again because you force it to be. “Slow.”

He watches your face like he’s waiting for you to change your mind, and then he rises in the same careful way he knelt, one measured movement at a time. His hands stay up for a moment even when he’s standing, palms open beside his head, and the sight is almost absurdly intimate, like you’re the one holding him in place with nothing but a word.

When he’s upright, you lower the gun just enough that it’s not pressed against him anymore, but you don’t put it down. It stays in your hand, pointed between you, not quite aimed at his heart now but still close enough that he understands what it means. He steps closer anyway, not quickly, not like he’s trying to take it from you, but like he’s following a gravity he can’t resist.

“Stop right there,” you say, even though you don’t move back.

He stops, so close that your breath hits him you exhale. His hands are still raised, and you notice the tension in his forearms, the way he’s holding himself back on purpose. His eyes flick to your mouth and back up, and the movement is so fast you almost miss it, but you don’t. You never used to miss it.

“This doesn’t fix anything,” you say, and it comes out harsh, like you can say it hard enough to make it true.

“I know,” he answers immediately, and the speed of it makes your throat tighten because he isn’t pretending. “I’m not here because I think it fixes it.”

“Then why are you here,” you demand, “if you’re not here to fix it?”

His voice drops, and it’s barely above a breath. “Because I couldn’t stand not knowing if you’d look at me.”

Your fingers curl tighter around the grip. “You’re looking at me right now.”

He shakes his head once, tiny. “You’re looking back,” he says.

You hate the way your body reacts to that, the way heat crawls under your skin like an old reflex waking up. You hate that you want to slap him and kiss him in the same breath, and you hate most of all that he’s watching you like he can see every ugly thought as it passes through you.

“Don’t,” you whisper, and you don’t even know what you mean by it, because it’s too late for a dozen different kinds of don’t.

He holds still like you’ve pinned him there with your voice, and then he leans forward just enough that his forehead almost brushes the gun again. He doesn’t touch it this time, like he’s learned the boundary you’re actually holding, and he stays in the thin space you allow. “Tell me no,” he says, and his voice is steady even when his eyes aren’t. “Tell me no and I’ll go.”

You stare at him, and the word sits in your mouth like a coin you can’t swallow. You could say it—you should say it, but you don’t.

Dex’s breath stutters once, like he felt your silence land. His hands are still above his head, still open, and for a moment the two of you just stand there with the gun between you and the air too thick to breathe. Then you step in, because you’re tired of being the only one pretending you aren’t about to do something you’ll regret.

You kiss him.

It isn’t gentle, and it isn’t sweet, and it isn’t anything like an apology. It’s hot and angry and familiar in the worst way, like your mouth already knows his and your body already remembers the shape of him. His hands stay up for one strangled second like he doesn’t believe he’s allowed, like he’s waiting for you to shove him away, and that pause makes your pulse kick hard.

“Don’t—” you start, pulling back just enough for the words to hit his mouth, but you can’t finish because he swallows the rest of it when you kiss him again.

“I’m not,” he murmurs against you, and it’s breath and sound, barely a sentence. “I’m not.”

His restraint breaks in slow motion. One hand lowers first, hovering near your waist without touching, and he waits like he’s asking permission without using words. When you don’t flinch, his palm settles against you, warm and firm, and the contact sends a sharp shiver through you that makes you hate yourself.

Your other hand is still holding the gun, angled down now, forgotten and not forgotten at the same time, because you can feel its weight even as you drag your free hand up his chest. Your fingers catch on his jacket, then slide up to his collar, and when you fist the fabric there his breath turns rough.

Dex makes a sound that he tries to swallow, and his other hand comes down to your side, then your back, pressing you closer. He doesn’t force you, he just follows the contact like he’s starving for it, like he’s been holding himself together with rules and silence and the idea of you, and now you’re here and his hands don’t know how to be anything except reverent and desperate at the same time.

You break the kiss long enough to glare at him, your mouth still close to his. “This isn’t—”

“I know,” he says again, and his eyes flick to your lips like he can’t stop himself. “I know.”

“Say it like you mean it,” you challenge, because you need something that hurts more than this does.

He nods once, and his voice comes out rougher. “It doesn’t fix anything,” he repeats, and there’s no argument in him, no illusion. “It just… makes it quiet.”

Your chest tightens at that, and you should step back, you should put the gun away, you should make him leave, you should do a hundred sensible things. Instead you kiss him again, slower this time, and he sinks into it like he’s been waiting for permission to breathe.

His hand slides up to your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek with the kind of careful touch that makes your stomach flip because it’s so gentle it feels wrong coming from him. Your fingers tighten in his collar, and you feel the tremor in him when you do, like he’s trying to hold himself to a line he’s drawn and you’re daring him to cross it.

“Look at me,” you say, because you want to see if he’s still there in his own eyes.

He does, immediately, and he doesn’t pretend to be anything other than what he is. “I’m looking,” he says, and his voice is low, steady, too intimate for the middle of your living room with your gun still in your hand.

You don’t answer with words. You answer by pulling him back into your mouth, and his hand tightens at your waist like he’s anchoring himself, like you’re the only thing keeping him from floating apart.

When the kiss deepens again, it’s messy in the way you remember, not because it’s out of control but because it’s full of everything you haven’t said. His hands roam—your side, your back, up to the base of your neck where his fingers curl like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go—and he keeps checking you with tiny pauses, tiny hesitations, like he’s still waiting for you to push him away and he’s bracing for it even as he kisses you like he can’t live without it.

You don’t push him away; you keep him close, gun still hanging loose in your hand and angled toward the floor, because you haven’t decided what any of this means and you’re not going to lie and pretend you have.

Dex stays pressed to you like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he blinks, and when he kisses you again it’s slower, heavier, like he’s trying to memorize the shape of your mouth. He pulls back just enough to breathe, his forehead hovering near yours, and his eyes search your face like he’s bracing for the part where you tell him to leave. “Tell me to go,” he murmurs, voice rough, like it hurts to offer you the out.

You swallow, your grip on his collar tightening, and the words come out low and sharp like you’re daring him to believe you. “Don’t go.”

For a second he looks stunned in a way you almost never see on him, and then something in him gives with a quiet, relieved exhale. His hands tighten at your waist like he’s anchoring himself, and he kisses you again like he’s starving, like he’s been holding back for days and you just cut the last thread.

“Thank you, baby,” he breathes against your mouth, the nickname soft enough to make your chest ache. “I missed you.”

extra notes: one, i'm thinking of making a dex taglist, so if you want to be added, let me know! (here or on my taglist post). secondly, writing that last line made me realize that dex is the kind of guy that would ask to go down on you and say thank you when you let him... yeah

everything: @clxt-lamb1 @person-005 @bookoffracturedescapes @macbaetwo @demiebarnes