Pairing: Johnny Storm x Reader
Synopsis: Being the girlfriend of Johnny Storm meant that you are automatically his nephew's godmother.
Genre & warnings: Just sweet domestic fluff, established relationship
Word count: 1.8k | masterlist
a/n: this one is inspired from this post but in the middle of writing I was listening to Echoes by Enhypen and this came out instead.
Sue had called you early that morning, a touch of frantic energy in her voice even though she tried to hide it.
"I’ve got a full day at the Foundation. Think you could come by early today?"
Of course you said yes. You always did.
You showed up with a soft overnight bag slung over your shoulder, hair pulled back in a loose tie, and a familiar comfort in your step as you walked into the Baxter Building. The space already smelled like the faint mix of Sue’s citrus candles and baby powder, and the hum of the building felt like a second home now.
Franklin lit up the moment he saw you, his tiny hands flapping excitedly as he let out a series of happy squeals. You barely had a second to drop your bag before scooping him into your arms, his warm little body melting against you like muscle memory. He had grown so much and you were there to witness it.
“You missed me that much?” you whispered into his soft hair as he babbled nonsense, tiny fingers grabbing at your collar. “I was gone for, like, twelve hours.”
Across the room, Johnny was already there, leaning against the doorway to the kitchen like he’d been waiting for his moment. Coffee in hand, wearing that compression shirt he definitely chose just to be annoying.
"You again?" he said, raising an eyebrow.
You tossed him a look as Franklin nuzzled into your shoulder. “Charmed, aren’t you.”
He didn’t move right away, just took a long sip of his coffee, his eyes tracking your every movement. Then he pushed off the frame and strolled over, already hovering. Already being him.
"You're holding him wrong," he said, casually.
You adjusted your grip by maybe a centimeter. “He’s literally clinging to me like a baby koala. He’s fine.”
Johnny peered closer, dramatic as ever. “Just saying. Wouldn’t want his tiny spine to misalign or whatever.”
You gave him a slow side-eye, shifting Franklin onto your hip. “First of all, that’s a morbid thought. And second, I’m a woman, Johnny. I have maternal instinct. Trust me.”
“Oh, maternal instinct,” he repeated with a grin, circling you now like a shark with a caffeine addiction. “How could I forget? That’s why you were letting him chew on the remote last week, right?”
“That was one time.”
He leaned in close like he had a secret. “Pretty sure it still turns the TV on.”
You narrowed your eyes, refusing to let your smirk win. “Keep it up and I’ll put you in time out.”
“Oh no,” he mock gasped. “Not time out. You wouldn’t dare.”
“I would dare.”
There was a beat where your eyes locked. Franklin squealed between you, but Johnny didn’t look away. Not right away. He was close now. Close enough that you could see the flecks of amber in his eyes under the warm glow of the living room’s lights, close enough to feel the lingering heat radiating off his skin even through your long sleeved blouse.
His smirk pulled into something a little more crooked, more familiar. “You’re all mouth today.”
You raised an eyebrow. “Worried I’m better at it than you?”
He leaned in, lips brushing your cheek first, barely and featherlight, then ghosted toward your mouth with maddening slowness. And then he kissed you.
Not a dramatic kiss. Not one of those kiss-you-against-the-wall kinds he sometimes pulled when it was just the two of you. This one was simple. Barely parted lips. Warm. Easy. A “hi” with no fanfare. Like he kissed you this way every morning, and every morning was quietly spectacular.
You let yourself lean into it, just for a second, before pulling back with a hum. “Hi to you too, I guess.”
He smiled against your skin. “Took you long enough to get here.”
“I was eating breakfast when Sue called,” you said pointedly. “And I couldn't decide what to wear today.”
“You always look nice,” he said quietly, teasing still, but something else was there. Fondness. A thread of something unsaid. “You know that, right?”
You blinked. “Was that... a compliment?”
He took another sip of coffee, turning on his heel. “Don’t get used to it.” Stingy kind of guy he’s being.
“Too late,” you called after him, grinning. “I’m adding it to my journal entry.”
“Let me know when you get to the one called ‘Why Johnny Storm’s Parenting Advice Should Be Ignored.’”
“I already started on that one months ago. It’s titled ‘He Tried to Feed the Baby Gummy Bears.’”
Johnny’s laugh echoed from the kitchen.
The rest of the day was spent in the whirlwind that came with babysitting a very active, very curious 8 month old cosmic baby. Franklin had recently learned how to crawl, and boy, did he take that freedom seriously. He was everywhere. Under chairs. Behind the couch. At one point, you caught him trying to bite the rubber corner guard off the coffee table.
By early evening, you were tired in a way that only chasing a crawling human all day could make you. After dinner prep was done and you’d managed to stop Johnny from feeding Franklin mini marshmallows as a "snack," you brought the little one to his colorful, plush-filled nursery for some quiet playtime.
"Alright, bud," you sighed, flopping gently onto the carpeted floor, surrounded by oversized stuffed animals and rainbow-colored stacking toys. "I’m just going to lie down here for one second. Just one."
You cradled your head on the soft belly of a giant stuffed lion and closed your eyes. You didn't expect sleep. Just a moment. A pause.
You felt the soft thump of baby hands crawling across the carpet.
And then, a warm little head rested beside yours. Franklin's breath puffed softly against your cheek. His tiny fingers found your hand, curling around your pinky.
Your heart ached in the most beautiful way. A slow, quiet ache. You opened your eyes just a sliver and found him lying there, eyes fluttering closed, cuddled up beside you like you like a cute little cat.
You couldn’t move if you wanted to.
So you didn’t.
⌞══════════════════════════════════════════⌝
That’s how Johnny found you.
He paused in the doorway, mid-step, holding a bottle of formula he was meant to bring to you. The late golden light from the windows warmed the room in a hush, catching the softness of your expression even as you slept. Franklin, half on your chest, half on the plushie, still had one hand curled into yours.
Johnny stood still for a long time. He'd seen a lot in his life. Battles, crimes, explosions, chaos, but nothing ever hit him in the ribs quite like this did.
You and Franklin. Safe. Soft. Together.
Something flickered behind his heart. Longing. Gratitude. Love.
He crouched beside you, careful not to wake the baby, and reached out. His hand brushed your shoulder gently.
"Hey," he whispered, fingers warm against your blouse. "Dinner's ready."
You stirred, slow and a little groggy, blinking up at him. "What time is it?"
"Almost seven. Come on, Sleeping Beauty."
⌞══════════════════════════════════════════⌝
Dinner was warm, family style, with the table full of laughter and the soft clinking of cutlery. Sue was bouncing Franklin on her knee, grinning over at you with a fondness that felt like home.
"I don’t know what we’d do without you," she said suddenly, passing you the salad bowl. "Honestly. You’ve been here almost every week for seven months. Franklin adores you."
You flushed. "He’s easy to adore."
Reed looked up from his plate. "You’d make a good mother someday."
The words landed soft, like snow over your skin. Your breath caught.
Johnny didn’t say anything. But you felt his hand slide beneath the table, finding your knee, warm and steady.
You dared a glance at him.
He was already looking at you.
Dinner turned chaotic after that. Franklin smeared mashed potatoes on Reed's sleeve, which then he flicked peas across the table, and soon the baby-parent food fight had escalated to ridiculous proportions. You laughed so hard your sides hurt.
⌞══════════════════════════════════════════⌝
The Baxter Building was finally quiet.
Franklin had long since surrendered to sleep after an enthusiastic food war with his parents that left pasta shells in Sue’s hair and mashed peas clinging to the collar of Reed’s shirt. You and Johnny had slipped away somewhere after that. To shower, to change, to breathe. The usual post chaos ritual.
Now you were curled up on his bed, one of Johnny’s t-shirts hanging soft on you, your legs tucked under his sheets like you belonged there. Because, at this point, you kind of did.
Johnny stood near the window, one hand braced on the sill, the other ruffling damp hair with a towel. City lights flickered against the pane behind him, casting him in silhouette.
“You know,” he said after a long stretch of quiet, “Reed’s right.”
You glanced over, lazy with comfort. “About what? I’m a goddess? I should be rewarded for my patience with Franklin?”
He smiled, just a little. “That you’d make a good mom someday.”
Your breath caught, not because it was the first time you’d heard it, but because this time it was him saying it. Voice low, not teasing. Sincere. Weighty.
You lowered your eyes, nervous suddenly. “That’s… not something people usually say if they’re not thinking long term.”
Johnny shrugged off the towel and finally turned toward you, walking slowly until he reached the edge of the bed. He sat beside you, then leaned back on one arm, watching your face. Watching the way your fingers worried the hem of his t-shirt like it would answer for you.
“I think about it more than I should,” he admitted, quiet now. “Us. What we’d be like… later. When it’s not just babysitting.”
Your gaze met his again. He looked serious, but not in a way that made you want to run. Just the opposite.
He reached over and traced his fingers down your arm, stopping at your hand, interlacing them slowly. It meant something new now.
“You and me,” he said, voice softer than flame. “We’re already one Storm.”
Then he smirked faintly.
“Maybe one and a half.”
You blinked, smiling despite the heat rising to your cheeks. “One and a half Storm?”
He nodded, thumb brushing your knuckles. “You’ve practically moved in, Franklin loves you more than he loves me, and Sue thinks you're a superhero in disguise. Half a Storm now. Just need to make it official someday.”
You leaned in, forehead resting against his. “You keep saying things like that and I might actually cry.”
“I’d catch your tears before they hit the pillow,” he said. “I’m very fast. It's a whole thing.”
You laughed, soft and real.
He kissed you again then with no teasing this time. Just a quiet, grounding kind of kiss. The kind that said yes. yes, I want this. I want you.
And that night, when you finally curled into him under the blankets, his arms around you and your fingers still laced, you thought to yourself.
One and a Half Storm. You liked the sound of that.
summary: the four times Ryland’s students questioned his relationship with you, and the one time they got an answer
word count: 2.7k
warnings/tags: your students play matchmaker and love gossiping, ryland owns a car here, pureee fluff
The first time was what initially caught his students’ attention.
Teenagers, albeit being annoyingly nosy, were also incredibly perceptive. And unfortunately for Ryland, about ten heads snapped up in his direction as he emerged from your classroom five minutes before lunch was going to end.
He held the door open, his body halfway out the threshold, yet still thoroughly engrossed in whatever conversation he was having with you. Even from thirty feet away, his students could see as clear as day that he did not want to leave.
And then, you appeared at the door. You playfully shooed him out, lips turning upwards into a smile, making some witty comment that the kids were too far away to hear. He said something in response, eliciting a small laugh from you as you took yet another step closer, nearly toe to toe with him.
Now, even more kids had their full, undivided attention on you, closely monitoring your little interaction while their food went cold. To them, getting to witness their teachers’ love lives unfurl was infinitely better than eating a stale peanut butter and jelly sandwich.
The most peculiar thing was Ryland’s reaction to your close proximity. His students watched in amazement as their favorite clumsy, shy, nerdy science teacher who often tripped over his own two feet seemed entirely unaffected by the fact that you were a few inches away from his face. In fact, he might have leaned in.
Olivia rubbed her eyes and squinted, not even trying to disguise her blatant staring at this point. Before she could check again, Ryland was already speed walking back to his classroom, no doubt hustling to prepare the science lab he had planned for today before the flood of kids came back from lunch.
She turned back to her classmates, many of which were still watching his retreating figure. Others had their eyes trained on your classroom door, lost in thought.
She started the conversation everyone was itching to have. “So, we all saw that, right?”
A chorus of agreement echoed amongst the small crowd, quickly devolving into hushed gossip and frantic whispers.
“Is it just me, or did Mr. Grace have a little more pep in his step just now?”
“Oh totally— and he definitely didn’t want to leave her classroom.”
“What about her? Did you guys see the smile she gave him?”
“What about the smile he gave her?”
Before the debate could continue, the bell rang, forcing the chatty kids to trudge back to their classes in unanimous disappointment at their conversation getting interrupted. Unbeknownst to you or Ryland, this was only the first of many times this hot topic would be brought up amongst your prying students.
— - — - —
The second time was during a school assembly.
Students and faculty alike were gathered in the multi-purpose room, with the kids sitting to face the stage and the teachers lining the walls of the large room. The principal, an abysmally monotonous man, continued to drone on about rules, regulations, and upcoming events, much to everyone’s disappointment.
Your kids were supposed to be paying attention, but a large number of them had their heads twisted in awkward positions, trying to sneak a glimpse of you and Ryland.
The two of you were standing in the back with less than a foot of distance separating you. Periodically, Ryland would lean down to whisper in your ear, making you giggle at his words. In turn, you’d reach up on your tiptoes to whisper something in response, and he’d nod with a soft smile.
A few teachers nearby shot you looks of disapproval for being disruptive, and you mouthed a quick apology to your peers. Not thirty seconds later though, your head was inadvertently turning back to Ryland, and he did the exact same.
Despite being told off not a minute earlier, the two of you continued to talk in hushed voices, trying to be even more discreet than before. Honestly, you guys might’ve been worse than the children.
James, a particularly rowdy student in Ryland’s class, turned to Sarah, who could easily match Olivia’s smarts in your English class. Both of their watchful eyes never left the two of you at the back of the room. He murmured to her, “I get it’s cramped, but they definitely don’t need to be standing that close.”
“Agreed,” she muttered back.
Olivia wasn’t far, and decided to join in on the conversation. “Mr. Grace is totally blushing every time she reaches up to whisper in his ear.” She had no qualms about exposing her science teacher, which made James and Sarah unexpectedly laugh.
Before they could get out another word, the meanest, crankiest teacher to ever curse Grover Cleveland Middle School with her presence snapped her head towards them, shushing them ten times louder than they were speaking.
“If you three don’t stop talking, it’ll be detention for a week,” she snarled, beady eyes watching them like a hawk.
Regretfully, they clamped their mouths shut, but the three of them, along with everyone else that had been watching you and Ryland, were all thinking the same: you two seemed awfully close, both physically and socially.
— - — - —
The third time took place after school, during the murky month of December.
The San Francisco weather decided to attack the school with an onslaught of rain, making it almost impossible to walk in the open without getting assaulted by vicious pellets of water.
A cluster of students huddled inside the safety of the school building, waiting for their parents to roll up to the front of the campus so they wouldn’t get completely drenched on their way to the car.
Olivia, while looking through the window at the dismal conditions outside, noticed you standing under an overhang alone. You had your coat drawn tight around you, trying to keep the frigid air out and your body heat in, and your eyes periodically wandered to the screen of your phone, like you were waiting for someone. Perhaps someone was coming to pick you up?
Before she could continue that thought, a familiar teacher’s voice snapped her out of her thoughts.
“Hey kiddos,” Ryland waved to the small group as he approached. “Waiting for parents?”
He was met with a series of nods, making him crack a smile. “Alright, make sure you all get home safe, yeah?”
“Yes, Mr. Grace,” some students said in unison.
Ryland chuckled and continued towards the door, raising his hand as a silent goodbye. With his other hand, he carried an umbrella, well prepared for the harsh rain.
Most of her peers looked away as Ryland pushed the door open, but Olivia kept her eyes trained on her teacher. As soon as he stepped outside, he made a beeline for you, already starting to open the umbrella.
He must have called out your name, because you turned to greet him, perking up with a warm smile. An easy conversation flowed between the two of you as he made his way over, but the next part made Olivia’s jaw drop.
Like clockwork, the two of you set off towards the parking lot, sharing the umbrella without missing a beat of your conversation. Ryland’s larger frame made you seem small in comparison, and he was mindful to keep the umbrella lower and slightly more on your side, ensuring you were fully protected from the rain. His left shoulder, on the other hand, started to get slightly wet, but he seemed to pay no mind as he listened to you talk with a genuine smile.
“Guys. Guys!! Look!” was all Olivia managed to say before a horde of students rushed to the window, trying to get a better view of their favorite teachers recreating this classic romance trope.
“Move, I can’t see ‘em!”
“Hey you’re shoving me!”
Then, a collective hush fell over the group, and Olivia craned her head around her peers to get a glimpse at what they were staring at. A small gasp escaped her too.
It was difficult to see due to the far distance and the reduced visibility in the rain, but it was unmistakable. There was Ryland, covering you with the umbrella as you got into the passenger seat of a car. After closing the door behind you, the science teacher walked around the front of the car, got into the driver’s seat, and slowly reversed out of the parking spot.
He wasn’t just walking you to your car. He was driving you home.
The silence lasted a moment longer before the group erupted into excited chatter, each kid trying to talk over the other.
“What the hell was that??”
“He offered her a ride home, obviously! It’s raining hard, so he’s being a gentleman!”
“They seemed so comfortable with each other though, what’s that about?”
“What if they’re dating?”
That last question caught everyone’s attention. Sure, it had definitely crossed everyone’s minds, but most brushed it off. It seemed unfathomable. Could their beloved, klutz of a science teacher really pull someone as gorgeous as you?
“No no,” someone finally cut in. “Mr. Grace wouldn’t have the guts to ask her out in the first place.”
“Yeah,” another chimed in. “Maybe he’s just crushing on her!”
A chorus of awww’s resounded throughout the room, and the debate of your relationship status was momentarily settled.
— - — - —
The fourth time shattered all of their conspiracy theories of Mr. Grace merely pining over their English teacher, because it was clearly something more.
It was finally that time of the year— prom. Most kids stood in clusters with their friends, while other, braver souls worked up the nerve to ask their crush to dance. The low lighting provided a moody atmosphere despite the upbeat party music, and compliments were constantly getting thrown around over dresses, shoes, and hair-dos. A typical middle school dance.
Of course, all school events required supervision, so you and Ryland volunteered to chaperone this year. You guys were standing in the back of the room, looking like you were engaged in normal conversation. You in a modest black dress, Ryland in a simple dress shirt and tie.
What you didn’t know though, were the dozen or so pairs of eyes locked onto your figures from the opposite wall, hidden in shadow and whispering furiously.
“Dude, look at the way he stares at her!”
“He’s so in love.”
“Quit staring so hard, they’ll notice you.”
Meanwhile, you and Ryland were casually chatting away, completely oblivious to your students’ antics.
You sucked in a breath, a little hesitant to bring up something that’s been gnawing away at your mind for the past few months. Ryland, as always, immediately noticed. “What is it?” he asked.
“Oh, I dunno,” you sighed.
He gave you an expectant look, silently questioning if you really thought he wouldn’t notice something’s been bothering you. It was true— no one could read you as easily as Ryland.
“Fine fine,” you smiled, “it’s just… have you noticed our kids acting a little, um,”
“Weird?” he finished with a knowing look.
“Exactly. Recently, if we’ve been talking, I’ll turn away from our conversation and find a handful of students staring at me from across campus. It’s unsettling.” You shuddered just thinking about it.
“I get it,” Ryland agreed while surveying the area. His eyes met the small group of kids that had been staring at you guys, all of whom were now looking at the ceiling, the ground, each other— anywhere other than in your direction. It was painfully obvious. You shared a look with Ryland, both of you shaking your heads before bursting into laughter.
Suddenly, a slow song came on, and you turned to Ryland with a soft smile. He was quick to offer his hand, which you accepted with a mock curtsy. In your little corner, the two of you swayed to the soft melody, lost in your own little world. All that mattered in the moment was the feeling of each other’s arms and the warmth of your shared love.
As you let the rhythm wash over you, you turned to Ryland, voice barely above a whisper. “You think they’re watching?”
“Oh I know they’re watching,” he huffed.
You let out a small giggle, amused by how involved your students were in your relationship. Brushing off the thought, you decided to just let teenagers be teenagers, instead focusing your attention on the way Ryland’s strong hands held your own.
And your students on the other side of the room? They were going ballistic while watching you.
“So he really pulled her? They’re dating?!”
“This is insane.”
“Someone needs to document this.”
“Why are they so cute??”
— - — - —
The school year was finally coming to a close, and everyone agreed they simply couldn’t leave the case of you and Mr. Grace unsettled. After much deliberation amongst the class, they all came to the consensus that today was the day. They were going to get answers out of you guys, whether you liked it or not.
They went to great lengths to corner the two of you. Olivia planted a note in your class, trying her best to mimic Mr. Grace’s handwriting: Meet me in my class after school.
You didn’t think much of the forged note. Ryland often slipped you random things, so you folded it up and tucked the parchment away, packing up to head over to his class like you often did.
In Ryland’s classroom on the other hand, he was wrapping up a lecture on cell anatomy just as the final bell rang. He clapped once, starting to erase the whiteboard. “Alright kiddos, we’ll finish this up tomorro—”
As he turned around, he was more than a little stunned to see his entire class still seated, desks cleared and their full attention bouncing between him and the door.
“Oookay, what’s going on,” he said slowly, trying to follow their gaze. “Did I imagine the bell ringing, or..?”
And then, when you walked in, it all clicked for Ryland. He turned to his students, gaze sweeping over their smug smiles and looks of anticipation.
You gave a little knock to signal your entry, “Hey Ry, you wanted to see...” you trailed off, noticing about thirty kids staring at you when you entered. You slowly made your way to his side, watching the class with a glimmer of amusement in your eyes. “What’ve we got here?”
“This is a set up,” he sighed. Not a question, but an observation. He placed his hands on his hips and tilted his head, unsure of whether to smile or frown, so he opted for shaking his head in disbelief.
As the designated question asker, Olivia raised her hand, and Ryland nodded in confirmation for her to speak. “When did you start dating?”
They expected flustered denial, a poor cover up story, or for you guys to dodge the question completely. But to everyone’s shock, you and Ryland turned to each other simultaneously… and started laughing.
“Wh— What’s so funny?” James asked.
“Yeah, haven't you been trying to hide it this whole year?” another chimed in.
You waved your arms dismissively, shoulders still shaking with laughter. “Well, not exactly.”
Ryland just pinched the bridge of his nose, still in disbelief that his students thought you were dating.
“So, what’s your relationship then?” Olivia asked. Everyone leaned in, awaiting your response.
With a sly smile, you glanced at Ryland, then looked over the group of teens practically about to fall out of their seats in anticipation. “Well,” you started. “Let’s just say… I use my maiden name while teaching.”
Olivia let out a huge gasp, and the others whipped their heads toward her, clearly still confused.
“What?”
“Olivia, what’s that mean?”
Kids were clambering to get her attention, but Olivia just continued to stare at you in shock, and you just gave her a small nod of encouragement. Slowly, you reached to interlock hands with Ryland, and he squeezed your fingers with affection. He turned to give you a helpless smile, like he was silently apologizing for his students’ behavior. You just softly chuckled, choosing to lean your head on his shoulder instead.
“You— she—” Olivia could barely get the words out.
Her peers groaned in frustration, “what is it?!”
Then, you dropped the equivalent of an atomic bomb in the middle of the room— you raised your left hand, flashing a modest diamond ring adorning your finger.
Everyone was stunned, and Olivia confirmed what they were all struggling to believe.
“It means,” she said slowly, “Her last name is Grace.”
a/n: it might be kinda unrealistic for them not to notice your wedding bands but let’s just go along with it... as always, thanks for reading !!
Summary: After believing you have abandoned him, Dex breaks down and falls under Fisk's influence. Trapped in a church, you forge an uneasy alliance with Karen Page to escape and help take down Fisk. But when Fisk's new "Daredevil" attacks the Bulletin, the chaos forces an unexpected reunion in an alleyway, where you must accept that things, from now on, will never be the same.
Dex x disturbed Fem!reader! Stalker.
Warnings: 18+! Strong language. Dex takes center stage in this chapter (or so I think). Lots of angst (sorry). Use of weapons. Blood. A whole lot of awkwardness. Are Dex and the reader even a thing yet, romantically speaking? Who knows. Weird ending.
Words: 11.1 k
Note: Hiii! I know it's literally been a month now, and I'm so sorry for taking so long to upload this chapter (╥﹏╥). I had an exam to get into a vocational training program, and I totally bombed it. So I've spent this whole month working to save up so I can get into a private one instead. I'll have more free time this month (July), so I'm hoping to upload more chapters. Thank you for all the comments you've been leaving on the previous chapters; I love you all so, so much, and thank you for loving this fic. Mwah (´ε｀ )
Here the previous chapter!
From Dex's perspective, things were different inside his head. He had returned to his apartment after the disastrous "dinner" with Julie. He was shattered, the sound of flies buzzing in his skull incessantly, along with a cascade of stray words from every person he had ever known.
(Let go of me, Dex!..I would do anything for you...You're alone...)
He shut his eyes tightly, trying to silence the voices that were consuming him from the inside. He reached for his phone in his pocket, searching for your contact.
He needed you.
That was how he started calling you. On the first attempt, he frowned. Why weren't you answering? What were you doing?
Oh.
What if you were with another man? What if he had frightened you and you had run away? What if you never wanted to see him again, just like Julie? Were you angry with him?
He was growing increasingly agitated. He was on the third call and you still weren't answering. Until, all of a sudden, you hung up.
Well, technically it wasn't you, but for him, from his perspective, you had hung up on him without a word. It was one more reason to know that, indeed, you didn't want to see him. Had he done something wrong?
His breathing grew worse, rapid, panting in disbelief. He threw the phone to the floor, without much force. And he looked back at his apartment, no longer able to hear anything around him. He could only hear voices, telling him the worst things about himself. That he was horrible, that he was alone, that he was nothing to the world.
Finally, in an act of pure rage, he screamed and punched the wall, leaving a faint crack in the plaster. He was a little startled, but not by the pain—rather, by the mess he was making. His knuckles were damaged, smeared with blood, and he tried to wipe it off on his white shirt.
It only made things worse.
His white shirt became stained with blood with every wipe, making him even more agitated. In the end, he unbuttoned his shirt with frantic speed, revealing his bare torso, and went straight to the sink, trying to scrub the stain out with water, but it was impossible; the blood wouldn't come out.
"Shit... shit..." he murmured, terrified.
He stopped trying. What was the point? He couldn't go back now. He felt his heart racing a mile a minute, clenching his fists as his head spun and spun. With force, he grabbed two plates and hurled them against the wall, smashing them with ease.
Then he threw another object, which landed with a dull thud on the floor. He began throwing everything he could see: knives, forks, a frying pan... He even punched a mirror in the living room, shattering it and seeing himself in a thousand broken pieces on the floor.
He grabbed one of the kitchen knives and, with all his might, hurled it at the wall. What he hadn't expected was that it would strike the photograph hanging there. That photo of him and Julie at the "Brooklyn Suicide Prevention Center." Only, the knife had pierced directly through Julie's face, as if it were some kind of omen. He was so overwhelmed that he frantically searched through his belongings for his therapist's cassette tapes, putting the headphones over his ears as he listened, trying to calm himself down.
He collapsed onto the floor, his back against the sofa, staring at nothing as he tried to find some peace.
"Good to see you, Dex. How was your week?" his therapist's voice spoke.
"I'm scared, doctor..."
"Scared? What are you scared of?"
Your eyes slowly opened, the ceiling coming into focus through a blur. The first thing you noticed was a smell, something like wax. A candle was burning somewhere in the room, but what truly made you realize it was that you were not in your apartment. You were not on the street, nor on your kitchen floor, and to top it off, you had nothing in your hands.
When you shifted slightly, you hissed at the pain that shot through your body. Everything hurt: your ribs, your nose (which now had a fresh bandage on it), your cheek, and most of all, your arm. It was bandaged from the shoulder down to the middle of your forearm. But still, you were alive. For now.
You looked around. The ceiling was made of stone, with dark wooden beams crossing overhead. There were windows with semi-colored glass panes. You were lying on an old mattress, a rough, greenish blanket covering your legs. Slowly, your hand went to your wound, and you noticed the clothes you were wearing were not the same ones you'd had on last night. Someone had undressed you and tended to you, putting you in at least an old t-shirt, while your pants remained the same, and you had no shoes. This meant someone knew where you were, or at least, that they had found you. You didn't remember much about the night before.
Your bare feet touched the floor, and a shiver ran down your spine. You didn't trust anyone, least of all the person who had saved you, especially after what had happened. You braced yourself against the wall and started walking slowly toward an orange light that glowed from a nearby room. The closer you got, the more sounds you could hear, until you stopped.
There was someone with their back to you, a hunched figure in a veil, murmuring something under her breath while arranging glass bottles on a table. It was a nun. Did that mean you were in a church? Just what you needed. You couldn't see her face, only her back and her wrinkled hands moving. She didn't look like a threat, but you weren't going to take any chances. You carefully surveyed the room until your eyes landed on a glass bottle on the table. With great care, you started to approach, closing your fingers around the bottle and moving closer to the nun. Your hand began to rise, calculating the aim needed to strike her on the head, holding your breath.
"I wouldn't do that if I were you," she warned.
The nun's voice hit you like a punch. She didn't turn around. She didn't even flinch. She just kept arranging her bottles as if nothing had happened, as if you hadn't just been about to attack her from behind.
"Sit down. You're in no shape to be standing, look at you... you're still trembling," she added, her voice sharp.
You lowered the bottle, staring at her with furrowed brows, unable to believe it. You had so many questions to ask, but the words wouldn't leave your mouth.
The nun turned around, studying you with a neutral expression. She wasn't scared. She took the bottle from your hand and set it down on the table with a soft thud. "Sit down," she repeated, pointing with her chin to a chair. "I'm not going to hurt you. But if you try something like that again, I swear I'll put you out on the street."
When she turned her back, you looked her up and down. Indeed, she was just an ordinary nun. You opened your mouth for a few seconds, on the verge of complaining, but in the end, you gave in, sitting in the chair. You looked like a scolded child after a mother's telling-off.
"Where am I?" you asked, clearing your throat a little.
"Clinton Church." The nun set the bottles down on the table. "And in case you're wondering, yes, you're safe. According to him, for now."
"Him?" you asked, bewildered. "Who is 'him'?"
She fell silent for a moment. "Him," she finally added, as if unwilling to give you too much information.
You slowly opened your mouth, confused. "And that's it?" you said, unable to believe it. After that, she didn't say much, just paced around the room, moving things about.
"How long have I been unconscious?"
"A few hours. It's still the middle of the night." She handed you a glass of water. "Drink. You lost a lot of blood from your arm."
You accepted the glass, murmuring a thank you before drinking slowly.
Suddenly, you blurted out, "And my phone? Was it with me when he brought me?"
She shook her head.
"You didn't have it on you. Just the clothes."
Shit. Your phone had been left in your apartment, on the bed, where you'd thrown it just before attacking the thug. Where Dex had called you.
«Not now...» you remembered murmuring before tossing it away.
And then, the second call. The one the intruder had rejected. Dex had called you twice, maybe more, who knows. And you hadn't answered.
A knot formed in your throat. You had no idea what he must be thinking. You didn't know if he had left you a message. You didn't know if he was okay, if he was worried, if he believed you had abandoned him like Julie, like everyone else.
You needed a phone. You needed to talk to him. But right now, you were trapped in a church, with a nun staring at you as if you were a wounded animal, cut off from the outside world.
"Do you have a phone?" you asked, your voice more urgent than you intended.
She watched you for a few seconds. Then, without a word, she shook her head.
"No. And even if I did, I wouldn't give it to you. You need to rest."
"I don't need rest... I need to talk to someone."
"What you need is to stay put in that chair," she shot back, crossing her arms. "The man who brought you here risked his life to save you. I'm not going to let you throw his effort away because you can't sit still."
You pressed your lips together, somewhat frustrated. But you didn't have the strength to argue. You just bit the inside of your cheek, shaking your head slowly. "Unbelievable..." you murmured.
The nun glanced aside, expressionless. She hadn't heard your mutterings or complaints, but she began to hear the sound of boots, drawing closer and closer to the room.
The same figure from last night appeared, dressed in the same suit with his eyes covered.
"I'll leave you with your visitor," she said dryly, and slowly walked out of the room.
You looked at the figure, narrowing your eyes slightly at him. You got to your feet, slowly, not looking away. The pain in your arm was a constant reminder of how close you had come to dying. And a reminder that this man, whoever he was, had saved you. But he had also stopped you when you were about to finish off the intruder. And that still burned inside you.
"Are you here to lecture me again?" you asked, with bitterness. "Because I'm not in a good mood."
He opened his mouth, emotionless. "I'm glad to see you too. Good morning." He remained standing, a few meters away from you, without invading your space. "I've been to your apartment."
You froze. Your heart lurched.
"And?"
"Let's just say... it seems someone cleaned everything up. The bodies were gone, no traces of blood... not even the broken things. Everything was clean," he added.
"And who would do that?" you asked, frowning.
"What do you think?"
You frowned again. You didn't understand anything, and you had no suspicions, not even about Dex, at least. He, on the other hand, sighed, sounding tired.
"Fisk. It was him," he explained.
"And my phone?" you added. "Was it there?"
He shook his head. "No, unfortunately not. I suspect someone took it, probably one of his people."
Damn. That meant you couldn't contact Dex, at least for now. You couldn't tell him you were alive, that you had no intention of abandoning him, and that no matter what, you were going to find him. And he, meanwhile, was going out of his mind.
"I... I don't understand, why... Why is he after me, then?" You raised your eyes to the masked man. "We've never met face to face. And I haven't done anything, literally. This is ridiculous."
The stranger was silent for a few seconds. Then, in a softer voice, he replied. "I don't think it's a matter of knowing him for him to want to kill you. He does what he wants to people who have never even seen his face. It's possible you did something with someone who matters too much to him. Fisk doesn't tolerate any of his pawns slipping out of his control."
You stared at him for several seconds, still not fully grasping the situation. You hadn't done anything wrong.
"So... I'm asking you, please, to stay here. At least until I can find a solution so that you're out of danger," he added.
"Who do you think you are to tell me what to do?" You shook your head, looking at him.
"It's for your own good. Believe me, if you run out of here, you'll be dead before sunrise... There will be people who want to kill you, or worse." He took a soft step toward you. "Please, I need you to stay," he added.
You narrowed your eyes slightly. In the end, he was right. If you left, you could end up dead, dumped, or wiped off the map. And you wouldn't like that at all. You sighed softly, nodding without looking at him. "Fine... fine... I'll stay," you murmured.
"Thank you..." he said with sincerity. And without another word, he began to walk away, or rather, to move away from you, heading toward another part of the church. You slumped back onto the mattress, staring at the beamed ceiling, pensive.
What was Dex doing right now? You hoped he was okay, and not eating himself alive...
As bad luck would have it, Dex had been paranoid all through the previous night. He didn't sleep well. In fact, he woke up very early, breaking his routine this time. The only way to know if you were still there or not was to go back to your apartment. So he climbed up the fire escape, and the first thing he noticed was that the window was completely open. He entered slowly, surveying the living room with caution.
There was no trace of you.
He wandered through every room, and you were nowhere. Your bed was made, and checking your belongings and closet, he noticed things were missing: clothes, objects, even some books from your shelf... Had you left without telling him anything?
He took a deep breath, a slight twitch in his eye. He didn't like this feeling at all. What had he done wrong for you to abandon him like this?
He pulled out his phone one last time, checked your number, exhaled slowly, and called you again.
He waited... one, two, three, four seconds. No response for the full ten seconds, until...
You hung up.
He saw "call rejected" on his phone and his lips parted slightly in disbelief. He didn't need to know more; with this, he knew you didn't want to see him. That you were scared of him, that you had seen how horrible he was. And even though he had a little faith in you, that you would never leave him, his mind was so broken that it seemed you had abandoned him. He pressed his lips together, his hand trembling with the phone, the voices in his head sounding again, in different distorted tones.
(You see...? You're alone... You need to find your North Star... Doctor, I'm scared... Let go of me, Dex! I told you to let me go! ... You're alone... You're alone... You're alone... You're alone... You're alone... You're alone... You're alone... You're alone... You're alone... You're alone... You're alone... You're alone... You're alone... You're alone... You're alone...)
He closed his eyes, trying to calm himself, pulling at some locks of his hair as if to distract himself from the noise. He had to get out of your apartment as soon as possible, and that's what he did, leaving quickly. He went down the stairs carefully. He was angry, with everything in general, but above all, he was very, very furious with Fisk. He was certain Fisk was behind the whole thing with Julie. It was impossible that she had ended up in the same hotel as him by pure coincidence, and given the conversations they'd had before, it seemed like Fisk was trying to help him, to make him understand that... he was the only one who could understand him.
He headed to the hotel in the morning. He wasn't even on his shift schedule, but it didn't matter now. Who would even notice? He didn't greet anyone; he walked with a blank mind, taking the elevator up to the penthouse.
The first thing he did was go to the surveillance room, sitting in the swivel chair and watching Fisk through the cameras, intently. The only thing was, he hadn't realized there was a female colleague in there with him.
She turned around softly, looking at him with a smile. "Ugh... You look awful... You know you're two hours early, right?" she asked.
Dex blinked, the flies still buzzing in his head. "Yeah... the... neighbors, yeah. They wouldn't let me sleep."
"Again? Damn, just move already! Or take 'em to couples therapy. If they were my neighbors, I'd go over there and give 'em a piece of my mind..."
He didn't hear half of what she said, because he was focused on the cameras, and all he could hear were his own voices.
(Do you think someone like that deserves a second chance...? Your internal compass isn't broken, Dex... It'll be better when you're guided by the North Star... Let go of me, Dex... I told you to let me go! Then follow our plan... A safe space... Would you like to meet up later, to talk? Dex... you're not bad...)
A snap of fingers brought him back to reality, and he looked at the girl. "Umm... Yeah."
"Where were you?" she said with a laugh. "We gotta feed him."
"No, no, I know. I know..." he blinked again, until an idea struck him. "You know what? I'll do it."
His colleague frowned. "You sure? It's not even your shift?" she asked, though she was somewhat grateful for the help.
"No, but... I could really use a decent coffee. Do you mind going down and getting me one?" He looked at her. "I'll take care of the animal."
She set the tray down on the table, smiling at him. "He's all yours."
His colleague headed downstairs, and Dex, meanwhile, taking advantage of being alone, began shutting off all the cameras. So there would be no evidence of what he was about to do. Then he grabbed the tray and headed toward the penthouse doors. He took a deep breath, changing his expression, though he still looked terrible. And he opened the door firmly, staring at Fisk, who was seated at his table.
Fisk was no longer wearing the same blue jumpsuit from previous days; now he wore a suit, a plain white one, with a black shirt underneath.
Dex approached, setting the plate down on the table with a firm thud, looking at him. "I don't know what strings you pulled to hire that waitress, but it was a waste of time..." He placed his hands on the back of another chair. "At Quantico, they taught us counterintelligence. Did you think I'd fall for an amateur trap?" He paused. "Did you get it into your head that she means something to me? Well, it's not true." He shook his head. "She doesn't mean shit to me."
He stepped away from the chair, smiling coldly at him. "You think... just because you've been following me for a few days, you know me? That you've got me figured out?" His smile dropped. "Don't even dream it. You don't know shit about me," he added, with bitterness.
Fisk said nothing about it, just watched him with that neutral expression, and that drove Dex crazy. So much so that he swept the plate off the table in anger. "Say something!" he shouted, the sound of the metal lid spinning echoing in the room.
Fisk opened his mouth, his tone neutral. "When I was a boy... I... crushed my father's skull with a hammer." He paused. "I was twelve years old. I was very small for my age, I had no experience with anything. I'd never danced with a girl, I'd never... stayed out past midnight." He added, "I'd never even left the city, never even taken the subway by myself."
Dex didn't understand what he was explaining, and he frowned, breathing somewhat rapidly.
"Twelve years old... Standing over my father's body. Mortally wounded, watching him." Fisk began to rise, looking at him, while Dex took a step back, a little scared. "That... feeling, that moment..." he paused for a long moment. "I have a sense that it's familiar to you." He started to raise his voice, firmly, as if delivering a political speech. "You were taught to hide behind falsehoods, you turned yourself into someone the world can tolerate. A soldier who does his duty, an FBI marksman, the attentive companion to a good girl..."
"You've ruined what I had with her..." Dex murmured coldly, though deep down, he didn't know if Fisk was referring to you or to Julie.
Fisk, however, continued speaking with a raised voice. "If you had been honest and authentic, no one could have ruined it."
Dex clenched his jaw. "I should have let you die." Fisk took another step. "Don't come any closer..." Dex added again, feeling a tear slowly slide down his cheek, defeated.
"Julie would never have understood you... Not even your colleague," he said, referring to you. "Society, either," he added. "They penalize... people like you... like us."
Dex's eyes widened, a little frightened by that last part, and he slowly shook his head, starting to leave the room, trying not to let Fisk's clear and harsh words get into his head. Fisk didn't stop him; on the contrary, he liked that he was leaving.
It was only a matter of time before he would eventually come back to him.
He returned to the surveillance room, acting as if nothing had happened, but he was more paranoid now, this time with Fisk's voice in his head. And now, with his vision distorted, he saw Fisk's figure in every corner of the room, as if he had multiplied: one above, one on the table, one walking down the hallways...
(She would never have understood you... She would never have understood the real Dex... Society wouldn't either. They penalize... people like you, like us...)
"Dex," his colleague called out, making him blink and snap out of his trance once more. "What?" he replied with annoyance.
She handed him a newspaper, with concern. "They're using you as a scapegoat..." she pointed out.
He slowly took the newspaper. No, impossible.
"I'm sorry, Dex," she added. "It's not fair..." Delicately, she set the coffee he had ordered on the table before walking away.
Dex clenched his jaw, staring at the newspaper. "FBI Investigates One of Its Own."
"They're not doing you justice. It's their way of seeing things," Hattley explained, in an office alongside a supervisor and him.
"I assure you we will investigate everything to the fullest extent," the supervisor spoke, but Dex wasn't listening to them. He was back with the flies in his head, the voices of the two of them echoing around him.
"Consider it a paid vacation," she added, firmly.
"Take whatever time you need to collect your things."
(We've prepared for this... You're going to find a job that requires discipline... You're going to stay on your medication... We're going to learn to change...)
Without a word, Dex handed over his badge and his gun, leaving the office in silence. As he opened the door, people stared at him without shame, the newspaper in their hands, murmuring things about him. He kept walking until he ran into Nadeem, who was visibly nervous. "Do you have a minute...?"
"Uh... Yeah, of course, Dex, go ahead," he replied, before glancing at a woman. "Will you excuse us a moment?"
He sighed, looking at him. "They're going to... They're going to suspend me, Ray. They dare to- to..."
"Hey," he tried to calm him. "First of all, breathe." He looked around, without meeting his eyes yet. "Everything's going to be okay... alright?"
"Then tell me that while looking me in the eye," Dex said, his voice cold.
"Hey— I'm on your side." He met his eyes.
"They can't fire me, man... I need this job." It was clear he was on edge. "Please, you have to do something," he begged.
"I wrote up a good assessment of your conduct during the shootout..." And as Nadeem explained, Dex had drifted off again, the distorted voices filling his head.
(You see how alone you are...? It wasn't your fault... It wasn't your fault... Dex, tell me... What scares you is the emptiness that surrounds you... Do you see how alone you are...?)
He didn't even realize another tear was sliding down his cheek.
"You've got nothing to worry about," Nadeem added, looking at him. "Take care of yourself..."
Ray walked away, leaving him alone.
Now he had no job, no one. He had no protocol, no routine, he wasn't even taking his medication. What was he going to do now?
You spent the morning in the church, not speaking to anyone, literally. The nun was nowhere in sight, nor was the figure who had saved you. You were completely alone. You passed the time by investigating the area, coming across a set of damaged boxing gloves and a punching bag. Then, some vials of medication and dried blood on the floor.
And from there, you saw a staircase. You looked around; no one was stopping you from going up. You began to climb slowly, until you reached a set of huge doors before you. You opened them carefully, the sound echoing terribly, and found yourself facing the intense emptiness of the church. Before you stretched an endless aisle of dark wooden pews, worn smooth by centuries of parishioners. The columns rose like petrified trees toward a ceiling painted with religious motifs now barely visible in the gloom. Candles flickered on the side altars, and a faint, orange light filtered through the stained glass, dyeing the floor in muted colors.
Your footsteps echoed on the wooden floor. You walked toward the main altar, feeling tiny beneath the vaulted ceilings. The figure of a crucified Christ gazed down at you from on high, its arms outstretched in a gesture you couldn't tell was welcome or supplication. You stopped before him. You weren't a believer; truly, you never had been. But today, here, in this silence, you needed to speak to someone who couldn't judge you, even if that someone didn't exist.
Slowly, you sat in one of the front pews, staring at the Christ.
"Is this a punishment?" you asked. "For having been born this way?"
You paused. The silence in the church was so vast you could almost hear your own words echoing back against the stone walls, softly.
"If you're really there... and if you see everything, then you already know what I'm truly like."
Your voice grew low, and you looked at the floor, fidgeting with your hands.
"I'm not a good person... I know that perfectly well. And I don't think I ever will be in some distant future. I've done things that aren't normal to people, and I don't regret any of it. I would do it all again..."
You raised your gaze.
"Sometimes I wonder if I was born broken... or if I just broke so early that there's no way to be put back together. There are people who can change, who can repent, start over. But I don't think that's the case for me. I'm already too far gone... And even if I try to pretend otherwise... I know it wouldn't last long."
You sighed.
"Lately... well, no. I'm sorry. For my entire life, I've felt very, very empty. Truly. It's been like... walking through a dark tunnel, with no end. Where you can't turn back, even if you want to, you can't. I've known people who, even if they were the right people, I've never felt any closeness to them... Possibly because I've never had the ability to feel anything, at least. Not even with Ray..." you murmured. "Despite that, I've tried to feel normal... but it's useless, you know? I'm not succeeding, and it doesn't bother me at all." You shrugged. "It's not that I even care anymore..."
You let your head fall back, staring at the ceiling. "I don't even care about dying anymore... But I'm still alive, despite it all. As if life is preventing me from dying, even though I have nothing left to offer it. And the worst part isn't that... The worst part is that it doesn't even scare me anymore."
You paused again, longer this time. When you spoke again, your voice had lost some of that cutting coldness.
"But there's one person..."
Your tone shifted slightly. It grew lower, more sincere.
"Who is the only thing that makes me doubt all of that. Not because I think I can actually change. But because when I'm close to him, I feel like I can be exactly who I am... Without having to pretend. Without him looking at me like I'm a monster. It's like we share the same darkness. Does that make sense...?"
You lowered your gaze to the floor. Your voice became barely a whisper:
"If there's something I must confess to you now... It's that I would kill for him."
The silence in the church seemed to grow even heavier after those words. You raised your gaze back to the crucifix, with an expression that was tired but resolute.
"I don't say it as a threat, I promise. I say it because it's the truth. It's the only thing that still gives my life any meaning. If someone tries to hurt him... I wouldn't hesitate. And if one day his light goes out... if he decides he no longer wants to keep walking through this tunnel... then I'll have no reason to keep going either."
You paused one more time, almost as if it was hard to continue.
"The thought of him being left alone... that's what truly terrifies me. Because if he breaks too... then all of this will have been for nothing. And I'll have nothing left to stop me from becoming the worst thing I can be," you confessed. "So yes... I would kill and I would die for him. And if there's something after this, I would go after him too, without thinking. Because without him, I have nothing... And without me, neither does he."
You narrowed your eyes a little, gazing at the crucifix. "I guess you let me live for him... Or so I think." You bit the inside of your cheek. "If there's anything else I can ask for... it's that I can see him again. Even if it's just once. Even if it's so he can hate me... I just ask for that."
The silence returned the echo of your words. There was no answer, but you weren't expecting one. You stayed there for a while longer, your hands resting on your lap. In the end, you let out a tired sigh and stood up slowly.
You didn't realize you weren't alone.
The nun was standing in the shadows of the side aisle, partially hidden behind one of the columns. She had been there for several minutes. Long enough to overhear almost your entire conversation with the silence. She hadn't come in with the intention of interrupting you, of course. She had come in because she wanted to understand who you truly were.
And now, she believed she was beginning to.
She watched you in silence as you stood. She made no sound. She just remained there, her hands clasped beneath her habit and an expression that was hard to read. Slowly, she walked away through another door.
After that, several hours passed. At first, you tried to stay still, just as that figure had asked. You sat on one of the pews, staring ahead without focusing on anything in particular. But the stillness was unbearable. Every minute that passed without doing anything made you feel more trapped, more useless.
The nun (Maggie, because she eventually gave you her name) watched you constantly, not all the time, but after seeing you talking to yourself in front of God, she kept a closer eye on you.
You could kill her easily, or so you thought. But if you did, it might complicate things too much.
And at one point, while you were downstairs, you heard a female voice greeting her.
It was Karen.
You couldn't make out everything from where you were, but it seemed like she was trying to find someone, and then have a deep conversation with Maggie.
Suddenly, an idea came to you.
Slowly, you put on your shoes and began to climb the stairs again, cracking the door open slightly to watch them, waiting for the right moment to speak with her.
When she passed near you, you stepped out of the doorway and called to her in a low but clear voice.
"Karen."
She spun around, startled. Seeing you, she narrowed her eyes for a second, recognizing you.
"You..." she said, looking you up and down.
You took a step forward, keeping some distance so as not to frighten her further.
"Hello, Karen..." you said with a small, tired smile. "It's good to see you again."
Karen looked at you cautiously, but without fear. More with that expression of someone trying to fit the pieces together. "Wait... What are you doing here?" she asked, before looking at your wounds. "Are you... okay...?"
You shrugged, not caring much. "I've been better. It's nothing."
She frowned. "I... I don't understand. What happened?"
"To sum it up for you, I was attacked, and someone saved me. It was... a masked man in a black suit, nothing interesting. The thing is... he brought me here, locked me up. But... I'm afraid I don't want to be here much longer." You looked at her.
Karen understood immediately who you were referring to, because, well, she especially knew him. "And why did you come looking for me? We don't even... we barely know each other."
"Well... because I need help. And because you're involved in all this too, aren't you? You were asking me about the shootout and Fisk's transfer the other time. Just like me... Even if for different reasons."
Karen studied you for a few seconds, as you guided her further inside; even so, she had lowered her guard a little. "Explain yourself."
"You want information, don't you? I can give it to you, no problem. Whatever you want. Honestly! I'll answer you without any issue. Even about what you're looking for right now," you said, somewhat desperately. "I can help you... In return, you first have to get me out of here. That's all. After that, when we're done, I'll go my way... and you go yours, and I won't say a word, not a single word about this." You added.
Karen raised an eyebrow. "That's... it? That I get you out of here?"
"That's it," you repeated. "I won't say anything about any of this. I just want to get out of here as soon as possible..."
Karen stared at you, as if trying to read whether you were lying or not. In the end, she let out a short sigh.
"You're direct, at least."
You nodded.
Karen narrowed her eyes for a second, but continued:
"I'm looking for someone. An inmate named Jasper Evans... He's the one who stabbed Fisk in prison. Everyone thinks it was a real attack, but I know Fisk paid him to do it. He did it so they'd move him out of Rikers and put him up in that shitty penthouse..."
You fell silent, processing the information. Fisk's name put you on alert, but Jasper Evans' name meant nothing to you.
"I don't know who that guy is," you admitted with sincerity. "Never heard of him. My bad."
Karen sighed. She couldn't back out now, and she went on. "He's hiding out in a rundown building now. I want to find him and take him to the Bulletin so he can testify. If he talks, we can really screw Fisk."
You were silent for a few seconds, processing the information. Fisk's name always put you on alert, especially now that Dex was getting closer and closer to him.
"Does anyone else know about this?" you asked. "About this?"
"Just... two people, that's all." She didn't go into detail. Then she shook her head. "So how the hell are you going to help me if you don't even know who Jasper Evans is?"
You were silent for a second. You didn't take offense at her tone. In fact, you understood it.
"I don't know," you admitted with sincerity, with a slight shrug. "I have no idea who that guy is or what exactly he did. But that doesn't mean I can't be useful to you."
Karen raised an eyebrow, skeptical.
"Oh, really? Explain."
"I'm a forensic scientist. If we end up finding this Jasper Evans and he needs... persuasion, or if there's evidence to verify... I can help perfectly."
You paused briefly.
"And I can also testify. Tell them what happened to me in my apartment. That someone tried to kill me. That could be useful to you, right? For your Bulletin and maybe to screw Fisk."
Karen studied you in silence for several seconds. She seemed to be weighing whether it was worth the risk to involve you. In the end, she let out a long, weary sigh.
"God... I can't believe I'm doing this," she murmured, running a hand over her face. "You're a real pain in the ass, you know that?"
You nodded, emotionless.
"Okay. Listen carefully. We can't go out the front door. Maggie... she's downstairs, and I highly doubt she'll let us leave without asking questions. At least not you, anyway. Besides, if what you're telling me is true, if the guy in black finds out you left..."
She stopped and looked at you.
"I guess you don't care what he thinks anymore, right?"
"Not at all," you answered without hesitation.
Karen sighed.
"There's a back exit through the sacristy. It's old, but it can be used. The problem is we have to cross part of the building without being seen."
"That's easy. You can walk normally and I'll go behind you. You open the door... and... we're out," you explained.
"Pray we don't get caught," she said, before moving out of there.
You began to follow her down the side aisle, moving away from the main nave. Each step you took echoed a little more than you would have liked on the wooden floor. Your bandaged arm bothered you with every movement, but you ignored it.
Karen, on the other hand, walked with confidence.
You went down some narrow stairs that smelled of pure dampness. At one point, Karen raised a hand for you to stop. She stood still, listening. From downstairs, you could hear slow footsteps and the soft rustle of cloth against the floor.
Maggie.
Karen looked at you over her shoulder and jerked her head toward a side passage. This way.
You slipped into an even narrower corridor, almost in total darkness. You had to walk sideways to keep from brushing the walls. Your heart was beating a little faster than normal, though you felt a rush of adrenaline at the moment; it was like one of those action movies.
Suddenly, Maggie's footsteps drew closer. They were right at the end of the corridor you were about to pass through.
Karen grabbed your good arm and pushed you gently against the wall, pressing herself against it too. You stood completely still, holding your breath. You could hear Maggie approaching. She passed so close you could almost see the shadow of her habit projected on the wall in front of you.
You stayed frozen, watching Karen. Her jaw was clenched, her eyes fixed on the moving shadow. For a second, it seemed like Maggie stopped, as if she had noticed something.
The silence was so thick it almost hurt.
Finally, the footsteps retreated. Maggie continued on her way to another part of the church.
Karen waited a few more seconds before letting go of your arm. She looked at you and whispered, barely audible:
"Jesus... she almost caught us."
You kept moving, faster now. You went down another flight of stairs and reached an old wooden door, half-hidden behind some dusty shelves. Karen pushed it carefully. It creaked a little, but it opened.
The cold night air hit your faces.
You stepped out into the back alley of the church. You were laughing, enjoying the tense moment you'd just been through. Karen closed the door as silently as possible behind you both before continuing to walk with you.
"Good. We're out now..." she said in a low voice. "My car's just a few steps away." She pointed, and you followed her.
You both got into the car as fast as possible, while you laughed quietly at everything that was happening. "This is unbelievable..." you murmured. You were definitely not right in the head to be laughing about it.
Karen started the engine without another word and drove away from the neighborhood with considerably more haste than you expected. For the first few minutes, the silence was thick. The only sound was the engine and the faint rattle of the old car.
Suddenly, Karen spoke without taking her eyes off the road.
"By the way... I saw a story in the Bulletin about the FBI. I didn't read the whole thing, but it talked about an agent who had 'inappropriate conduct.' Something serious, from the looks of it."
You frowned and looked at her.
"Inappropriate conduct?"
Karen nodded her head.
"There's a copy in the back seat, if you want to see it."
You reached back and grabbed the crumpled newspaper. You unfolded it on your lap and looked at the front page.
Your eyes flew open.
You were completely frozen, reading and rereading the headline as if the words would change if you blinked. You felt your stomach tighten. The name that appeared was unmistakable.
Karen glanced at you sideways and frowned at your reaction.
"Do you... know him?" she asked, in a more serious tone.
You didn't answer right away. You just kept staring at the photo that accompanied the story. Dex, in his FBI uniform, literally front and center, probably his intake photo. The headline spoke of suspension and an internal investigation for "inappropriate conduct" during an operation. (You imagined it was about the shootout.)
You felt something tighten hard in your chest.
Your expression slowly shifted to a more serious one.
"Hey, seriously. Is something wrong? Do you know who that is?" Karen asked.
You stayed silent for a few seconds, still looking at Dex's photo on the front page. You felt that tightness in your chest, but you had absolutely no intention of explaining anything to Karen.
"He's nobody," you finally answered, in a drier tone than you intended. You folded the newspaper and placed it back on the rear seat, as if by doing so you could make the story disappear.
Karen raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced.
"'Nobody'?" she repeated, her tone making it clear she wasn't buying that answer. "Because the way you were staring at that photo isn't exactly how someone looks at 'nobody'."
You faced her directly, your expression closed.
"It's none of your business, Karen."
She let out a short scoff, but she didn't seem angry. More like resigned.
"Fine. Understood. You don't want to talk about him. Perfect," she said, turning her eyes back to the road.
She drove in silence for almost a full minute before speaking again, this time in a lower, almost tired tone:
"Look, I have no idea who that guy is to you. And frankly, I don't care right now. But if you're coming with me to that building, I need you to have your head in the game. Not on whatever's going on with him. Understood?"
You didn't answer. You just kept staring out the window, your jaw clenched.
Karen sighed. "Damn..." she murmured.
You made the rest of the journey in silence. The neighborhood you were entering grew darker and more dilapidated. Karen slowed down and parked two streets away from an old brick building. She turned off the headlights but left the engine running for a moment.
"That one there," she said, pointing with her head to the building two doors down. "That's where Jasper Evans is hiding. Or at least where he was the last time I had intel." She pulled out her phone, showing you a photo of him. "That's him."
You nodded slowly.
Without a word, she started gathering her things, opening her wallet to find the necessary cash, and then... a gun.
"You have a gun?" you asked.
Karen shot you a quick look, unsurprised, as if she'd been expecting you to notice. "Yes..." she replied simply, as if it were the most normal thing in the world. "And I'd rather not have to use it, but I'd rather have it just in case."
She was quiet for a moment, studying you.
"This place isn't safe. The people who live here aren't usually very friendly to strangers. If someone tries to screw with us... I'd rather be prepared."
You got out of the car, passing through an alley where there were literally people sprawled on the ground.
You entered the building. The interior was dark, lit only by a few faint lights and candles. There were bottles strewn on the floor and a dense smell of smoke. Several people looked at you with distrust as you passed.
A young man approached you both slowly.
"Are you lost?" he asked, looking you up and down.
Karen put her hands in her pockets and answered calmly:
"If you've got drugs, we're not."
The guy narrowed his eyes.
"You cops?"
Karen shrugged.
"What does it matter? We just want a few grams."
The young man frisked you lightly (without touching too much) and finally nodded.
"That'll be 80 dollars."
Karen pulled out the cash without hesitation and handed it over. Then, lowering her voice, she added:
"And a quiet spot upstairs."
She gave him a few more bills. The guy counted the money, nodded, and handed over a small baggie of cocaine and two pills. "Second floor. Room at the end. Don't bother anyone."
You climbed the stairs in silence. The second floor was even worse than the first: drugged people sprawled on the floor, some moaning, others completely unconscious. The atmosphere was depressing and heavy.
"How depressing..." you murmured without any real pity.
Karen didn't answer. She kept walking, checking every person she saw, until she stopped in front of a man who seemed a little more conscious than the rest. She knelt in front of him and pulled out the baggie of cocaine and the pills.
"If you tell me where Jasper Evans is, I'll give you this," she offered in a low voice.
The man looked at her with suspicion, but before he could answer, a voice sounded from behind you:
"And what the hell do you care where Jasper Evans is?"
You both turned around. It was him. Jasper Evans was standing in the doorway of one of the rooms, looking at you with clear annoyance. He looked weary, with dark semi-circles under his eyes.
"Everybody out," he ordered loudly. "Get out, come on!"
The people on the floor began to get up slowly, dazed, and filed out of the room. Jasper stared at the two of you intently.
"Who are you and what the hell do you want?"
Karen got to her feet slowly, keeping her hands visible. "We just want to talk..." she said calmly. "That's all."
Jasper took a step forward, clearly tense.
At that moment, someone from behind Karen lunged at her and grabbed her by the throat, starting to choke her. Karen reacted quickly, elbowing him hard in the stomach, but the guy didn't completely let go.
Without thinking too much, you stepped closer and punched him in the face as hard as you could. The man let go of Karen and stumbled back, cursing.
Jasper tensed up and took a step toward you, clearly ready to fight.
But then... he appeared.
The same figure in black who had saved you before entered through the broken window at the back of the room. He moved swiftly, flanked Jasper from behind, and immobilized him, wrapping an arm around his neck and pulling him back. Jasper struggled, but the man in black was quicker and stronger.
The fight was brief but violent. Jasper tried to hit him, but received a knee to the stomach that knocked the wind out of him. The man in black shoved him against the wall and held him there.
Karen straightened up, coughing and bringing a hand to her throat, while she looked at you with surprise.
"Get on the ground..." the man in black spoke, but Jasper refused. "I said sit down," he ordered again, firmly. Jasper resisted, trying to struggle. But the man didn't allow it. With a quick and precise move, he threw him to the floor, put him in a hold, and pinned him face down. Jasper tried to get up, but received a dry punch to the face that left him dazed.
The silence that followed was heavy.
You both stared at him, still amazed at the way he had entered. Karen was the first to react. She stepped closer and asked, in a softer tone than usual:
"Are you okay?" Karen asked, toward him.
You turned your head toward her, frowning. The question had struck you as strange. Too concerned for someone who supposedly didn't know him. "Do you know him?" you asked, staring at her fixedly.
Karen shot you a quick look, as if she realized too late what she had said. She opened her mouth to answer but didn't manage to.
In the end, she raised her hands in a gesture of surrender.
"Damn... okay," she said, nervously. "You knew his location, didn't you? I guess you already knew he was here. So... what were you waiting for?"
The masked man didn't answer right away. He kept Jasper pinned against the floor, but turned his head slightly toward Karen.
"That's none of your business," he replied in a low, firm voice.
You, who had been looking from one to the other, frowned.
"Wait a minute... Were you two already in cahoots?" you asked, looking first at Karen and then at the figure in black.
No one answered you.
Without letting go of Jasper, he spoke again. This time his voice was colder:
"First you should explain to me what the hell she's doing here." He gestured toward you with a slight nod of his head.
Karen glanced at you for a second, clearly uncomfortable, and then looked back at Daredevil.
"She's helping me," she said, though it sounded more like an excuse than a real explanation. "She knows things about Fisk. And... she wanted to get out of the church. I wasn't going to leave her there."
Daredevil was silent for a few seconds. The atmosphere grew more tense.
"This isn't a game, Karen. Bringing someone else here... was a mistake." Later, he added, "And I specifically told you not to leave the church."
Karen frowned, but she didn't look down.
"She can help. And she's already here. There's no turning back now."
He bit her lip, not quite believing it. "So what was your plan?"
"We were going to take him to the Bulletin, and her too..." she pointed at you. "We record it, let them testify in front of witnesses, and... that's it," she said, before adding, "Besides, I'm sure my editor will want to hear it in person."
Without further preamble, he grabbed Jasper by the shoulders. "Wake up, Evans," he said, shoving him onto a sofa. "You're in luck. You're going to have a choice. First option: I call the FBI. And Fisk kills you before you can tell them how you got out of prison. Second: you tell this reporter what you did for him, and you get the hell out of Dodge."
"N-no, I can't..." he replied, his nose bleeding.
"Great, first option—..."
"No! If I do that, they'll kill my son!" Evans confessed. He jerked his head toward his son (who was exactly the one who had sold you the drugs). "I left my son without a father and now... he's into this. If I go back to prison, he'll end up sharing a cell with me soon enough, or worse..."
Karen knelt in front of him, serious. "Either Fisk goes back to prison, or a lot of innocent people are going to die. Tell the truth to my newspaper, and we'll let you and your son go far away... If not, I'll publish the article anyway, as if you had talked."
"That would get us both killed..." Evans said, looking at her.
"Your choice."
You stayed back, watching them in silence. For the first time since you had started getting involved in all this, you realized something:
Karen and the man in black could be just as cold and calculating as you. Their hands didn't shake when it came to pressuring someone, even if it meant putting a child in danger. There was no mercy in their eyes. Only purpose.
No one spoke for a few seconds.
Dex, on the other hand, after his suspension, your abandonment, and Julie's, had decayed terribly. He was in his apartment, his eyes swollen and watery, lost. In his right hand, he held a plastic bag, heading toward the table. He sat down slowly, his gaze vacant. He grabbed his medications and dumped them into the bag, then clasped his hands together, staring straight ahead.
The flies returned to his head.
His hand went to his pocket, pulling out his own gun. And suddenly, he heard Julie's voice.
(Brooklyn Suicide Prevention, can I help you? Oh, hello, Dex. Are you going to kill yourself? How are you planning to do it? Do you have a weapon? Don't worry... It's not your fault... It's not your fault... The world doesn't want you... The world doesn't want you... I don't want you... It's not your fault... Don't worry...)
(Do you know where to aim? You see how alone you are... Do you know where to aim?)
He squeezed his eyes shut, was about to pull the trigger until...His phone rang. He dropped the gun immediately, breathing raggedly, tears in his eyes.
He looked at the phone twice before carefully picking it up and holding it to his ear. "Hello..." he spoke, his voice flat.
"My mother passed away while I was in prison..." Fisk spoke. "Among her personal effects, there was a shoebox with my name on it. A kind of memory box... She kept happy memories of my life in it. The gifts I gave her when I was small. Newspaper clippings... And the hammer." He revealed. "The instrument that caused my father's death. I thought at first she had thrown it away... But she was proud of who I was. Of what I had done." He paused briefly. "She... accepted me, without shame. That's exactly what you need. Someone to accept you without shame."
Dex's face changed completely.
And I accept you," Fisk added. "I've sent you a gift... An opportunity to be yourself. And if you take it, unlike the other people in your life, I will never... abandon you." He paused again. "The choice is yours," he said, before hanging up.
And just then, a few seconds later, someone knocked on his door. Dex got up, gun in hand, moving slowly toward the door. Carefully, he placed the gun against it before opening it.
It was Felix.
"The car is waiting for you, sir. Will you come with me, please?"
Dex stared at him for several seconds, the pistol still in his hand. His breathing was still ragged. He looked back, toward the plastic bag full of pills and the gun he had almost used.
Then he looked back at Felix.
And he took a step outside his apartment
....
You were already at the Bulletin with Karen, alongside Evans. The plan was that, after him, you were going to speak freely about your case and give any leads on Fisk.
Elsewhere in the office, far away, were Matt and Foggy. You didn't know they were there, having been with Karen the whole time.
Ellison's office was in semi-darkness, lit only by the glow of computers and a desk lamp. Jasper Evans was sitting in front of the desk, his elbows on his knees and his gaze downcast. He still had traces of dried blood on his nose.Karen was standing off to one side, arms crossed. You were seated in a chair somewhat apart, watching everything in silence.
Ellison, Karen's boss, was pacing back and forth in the office while looking over some papers. "Good," Ellison said, stopping in front of Jasper. "We're going to do this fast and clean. You're going to record your statement. Everything you know about Wilson Fisk and how he paid you to stab him in prison. Once we have your testimony recorded and signed, we'll publish. Understood?"
Jasper nodded weakly, but didn't look up.
Karen glanced at you for a second and then focused back on Jasper."Whenever you're ready," she said to Ellison.
Ellison nodded and activated the recorder on the desk. The small red LED lit up."Start whenever you like, Evans. Tell everything from the beginning."
Jasper opened his mouth to speak...
And then the lights went out.Everything went dark in an instant. The hum of the computers died. The only remaining light was the faint glow from the hallway windows.
Evans frowned."What the hell...?"
You all got to your feet. Something was wrong, very wrong. From the main floor of the Bulletin, you heard a thud, then another. And then... a scream.
Karen immediately started rummaging in her bag for the gun, aiming it at the door.
"Everyone behind me..." she whispered, though you could see her hands were shaking.
"What's going on?" you asked, positioning yourself behind her, just like the others. You stayed like that for several minutes, listening to thuds and screams. And even objects being thrown around. At one point, the door opened, only to reveal Foggy entering, looking somewhat scared himself.
Karen immediately hugged him, worried about him. You all stared at the door in silence, listening as the chaos drew closer. The thuds and screams were nearer now.
You stayed behind Karen, your heart pounding. Something inside you told you this was no coincidence. That whoever was out there... was here for something. Or for someone.
Jasper Evans was completely pale, leaning against the wall. He looked ready to pass out.
Foggy looked at Karen with a serious expression. "We have to get out of here. Now."
But before anyone could answer... The office door opened again.
This time, slowly.
And the figure that entered made the air freeze in the room. Dressed in red, with horns, and grinning with blood around his mouth.
Daredevil.
But he wasn't the same as before. He was different, he seemed... colder. Karen raised the gun again, pointing it directly at him.
"Don't sho—..."
She didn't finish the sentence.
Daredevil, with a quick and precise motion, flicked a pen he was holding in his hand. The object struck Karen's fingers with force, making her drop the gun. She let out a strangled cry of pain.
Foggy, without hesitation, stepped between everyone and launched himself at Daredevil, throwing two quick punches. But the blows barely moved him. Daredevil looked at him for a second... and returned a single brutal punch that sent him flying against the wall. Foggy fell to the floor, dazed and unable to get up.
Before anyone could react, Daredevil grabbed another pen from the desk and threw it with precision. The object embedded itself in Ellison's stomach, who fell backward with a cry of pain, clutching the wound.
You tried to crouch to grab the gun Karen had dropped, but Daredevil was already walking toward you. His presence was so intimidating that you instinctively backed away alongside Karen and Jasper.
He bent down calmly, picked up the gun from the floor without looking at you even once, and straightened up slowly. He aimed the weapon directly at Karen, who stood frozen, her eyes wide.
For a second, it looked like he was going to shoot her. But at the last moment, he shifted the barrel slightly... and fired.
The shot echoed loudly inside the office.
Jasper Evans took the bullet to the head and fell backward instantly, dead before he hit the ground.
The silence that followed was deafening.
Daredevil ejected the magazine from the gun with calm and dropped it to the floor. Then he walked over to Karen, who was still on the floor, staring down at her with that twisted grin.
"Hello, Karen," he said in a calm voice, almost cheerful. "It's good to see you again."
Karen stared at him with a mix of horror and rage, but she couldn't say anything.
Daredevil stood looking at her for a moment longer... until he slowly turned his head toward you.
His eyes locked onto yours through the mask. He said nothing, just watched you. His expression had changed; he wasn't smiling, but rather neutral, or at least that's what you could see through his lips.
The look lasted several seconds, long enough for a shiver to run down your spine.
Then, without another word, he turned and started walking toward the office door, as if he had already finished whatever he had come to do.
You were a little paralyzed. Did you know him from somewhere?
No. That was impossible, wasn't it?
Karen immediately ran out of there in horror, heading somewhere else in the Bulletin, in search of someone. Foggy was still on the floor, dazed. Ellison was losing blood and possibly unconscious. And Evans... well, he was dead.
You were alone.
You looked at the open door. It was your chance to get out as soon as possible, before the FBI and everyone else arrived. You didn't hesitate; you started walking toward the door, ignoring the dead bodies, but something stopped you.
In the distance, you could see Karen, kneeling, perhaps sobbing as she looked at that masked man, who was lying there, absolutely wounded.
You stared at them for a few seconds before heading for the emergency exit. You went down the stairs carefully, until you opened the exterior door, feeling the cold night air.
Now you were free, completely. You could go anywhere you wanted without anyone stopping you.
And the first thing you wanted to do was see Dex. You figured he was at his apartment.
You started walking quickly down the side alley, moving away from the Bulletin.
You didn't get far.
Suddenly, a hand grabbed your arm with brutal force and shoved you against the brick wall. The impact was sharp and painful. Before you could scream, another hand gripped your jaw roughly, forcing you to look up while a body pinned you completely against the wall.
It was him.
The man in red. The same one who had entered the office. Now, he had you immobilized. His fingers were squeezing your jaw tightly, almost painfully, while his other hand pinned your wrist to the brick. You could feel his whole body trembling.
You froze completely; you didn't understand anything. Why was he doing this to you?
Daredevil (Dex) was breathing raggedly behind the mask. He seemed to be at his limit. His fingers on your jaw trembled slightly, as if he were holding himself back from doing something worse. He was watching you with a sick intensity, as if trying to convince himself you were really there.
And suddenly, he said your name. "...it's you?" he murmured, his voice broken. He released your wrist slowly, placing both hands on your cheeks, stroking you with his thumbs, smearing you with blood. "No... you're not a hallucination..."
His thumbs pressed into your cheeks. You could feel his voice breaking, little by little, as if he were holding back the urge to cry.
"No, I don't understand... I thought— that you had left... I thought— I thought you had abandoned me..."
You tried to move, but he pushed you harder against the wall. His breathing became more erratic.
"Don't move," he said, though his voice sounded more like a plea than an order. "Please... don't move."
The silence that followed was thick. The only sounds were his ragged breathing and the distant wail of sirens.
Then, your mind began to connect the pieces, along with those words he was letting out in front of you. It could only be one person, surely.
"Dex...? Is that you?"
The moment you said his name, his whole body tensed as if he'd been stabbed with a knife. His fingers on your jaw froze. For a second, it looked like he was going to break apart completely.
Dex slowly dropped his head until his forehead rested against your shoulder. You could feel the tears falling from beneath the mask, soaking your shirt. His body trembled uncontrollably.
"Yes..." he answered, his voice shattered. "Yes, it's me."
He stayed like that for several seconds, breathing irregularly. He seemed on the verge of total collapse.
"You shouldn't have been there..." he whispered, his voice full of guilt and desperation. "You shouldn't have seen what I did. I... I didn't want you to see me like this."
Your hands went to his suit, caressing him softly, trying to soothe him.
Suddenly, he heard the sirens getting closer. He tensed up again.
"We can't stay here," he said urgently, though his voice was still shaking. "The FBI is going to come. If they find me... if they find you with me..."
He pulled back a little and looked at you with his reddened, desperate eyes.
"Come with me. To my apartment. Please. I'll... I'll explain everything there. But we have to go now."
He didn't wait for an answer. He let go of your cheeks, but grabbed your wrist firmly and started walking, pulling you along. He wasn't treating you with violence anymore, but with an almost sick desperation, as if he feared you'd leave him alone again.
You walked for several minutes, running. And when you arrived at his building, you climbed the fire escape quickly, almost at a run. He opened the window to his apartment and ushered you in first. As soon as he closed the window, he leaned against it, breathing heavily while his mind raced.
The apartment was a disaster. Everything was broken. Dex ran his hands over his face, trembling, and finally removed the mask. Without it, he looked destroyed. His eyes were swollen and full of tears.
He stood there, not daring to come too close, and spoke in a low, broken voice:
"I know you have a lot of questions. And you have every right to hate me right now. But... please, don't leave. Not yet. If you go... I don't know what I'll do."
He looked you directly in the eyes, more vulnerable than you had ever seen him.
"Stay. And let me explain. But first... let me do one thing..."
Suddenly, you saw him pull out one of his old cassette tapes from the shelf. He put the headphones on and pressed play. Though you couldn't hear what the tape was saying, you recognized the calm voice of his therapist.
Without saying a single word to you, Dex went over to the corner where the vacuum cleaner was, plugged it in, and started to clean.
You watched him, bewildered.
You stood there for several minutes, watching him without knowing what to say. Dex vacuumed up the shards of glass from the floor with concentration, moving from one side of the apartment to the other as if in a trance. Every time he found a larger piece of glass, he would bend down, pick it up carefully, and put it in a garbage bag he had taken out. All with an almost ritualistic precision.
He didn't seem angry. Or sad. Or upset.
He seemed... empty.
At one point, he stopped in front of a broken mirror that was still hanging crookedly on the wall. He stood staring at it for several seconds, the vacuum cleaner still in his hand. Then, very carefully, he took it down and set it on the floor to continue cleaning around it.
You kept watching him, growing more and more uncomfortable. The contrast was too sharp. Minutes before, he had been holding you against a wall, trembling and crying, asking you not to leave. And now he was vacuuming his apartment as if nothing had happened.
Dex, realizing you were staring at him, took off one earphone and looked at you over his shoulder. His expression was strangely calm, though his eyes were still red.
"I usually... clean when things get out of control," he said in a low voice, almost like an apology. "It helps me think..."
He was quiet for a second, gripping the vacuum hose tightly. And then he put the earphone back in, continuing.
You sat down gently on the sofa, watching him as you tried to calm yourself after this whole day. Everything he was doing now felt strange, too strange.
In the end, you couldn't take it anymore.
"Dex," you called out, your voice firmer than you expected.
He didn't hear you. Or pretended not to. He kept running the vacuum over the same corner over and over.
You stood up from the sofa and took a step toward him.
"Dex," you repeated, louder this time. "Stop."
This time he heard you. He stopped, though he didn't turn off the vacuum. He took off one earphone and looked at you with a confused expression, as if he didn't understand why you were interrupting him.
"Stop cleaning," you said, looking at him directly. "And take off the headphones, please... I want you to talk to me. For real. Not while you're doing this."
Dex stood still, gripping the vacuum hose tightly. It looked like your request had thrown him off. His fingers tensed around the plastic tube.
"Sorry..." he murmured, setting the vacuum aside before looking at you. You looked at him, and slowly placed your hands on his cheeks, caressing him, before pulling him into an embrace.
At first, Dex went completely rigid. As if he didn't know how to react. His arms remained at his sides for several seconds, trembling. Then, little by little, one of his hands came up and grabbed your clothes tightly, as if he was afraid you might let go. And then the other, sliding beneath your back.
"You have no idea how much I've missed you..." you murmured, feeling a little better.
"What happened to your face?" he asked, pointing to the bandage on your nose and the dressing on your arm.
"Oh, it's nothing," you smiled. "They tried... to attack me, yeah. But I'm fine, I promise," you added, looking at him.
Dex tensed slightly, but he didn't take his hands from your face. "Do you know who it was?" he asked, in a lower tone.
You stared at him for several seconds. You could feel him watching you, waiting for an answer. For a moment, you thought about telling him the truth. Telling him it was Fisk who had sent someone to kill you. But something stopped you.
You looked into his reddened eyes, the way he was still holding you as if he was terrified you would disappear, and you realized this wasn't the right moment. Not after everything that had happened tonight, not when he was so fragile and at the same time so convinced that Fisk was the only thing holding him together. In the end, you shook your head.
"I'm not sure..." you lied. "Everything happened so fast. I just know someone wanted me dead. But I was able to get through it, without any help."
Dex frowned, clearly unsatisfied with that answer, but he didn't press further. He seemed too tired to push harder right now.
"So... did you kill them?"
"Yes," you confirmed. "I killed them. And then I got rid of the bodies."
Dex looked down for a moment, processing what you had told him. His thumbs kept stroking your cheeks gently "I'm sorry I wasn't there..." he murmured, his voice low. "You must have had a really hard time..."
"Pretty much... I couldn't see you all day..." you said. "But now, none of that matters. We're together, aren't we?"
He nodded softly, looking at you.
"What do you say we get rid of this, and go to sleep?" You pointed at the suit. "You must be exhausted, I imagine..." you said, affectionately stroking his cheeks.
Dex looked down at his own hands, as if only now realizing he still had Jasper's blood on them. He frowned slightly, but didn't say anything about it. He just nodded again. "Yeah... let's go."
He pulled away from you slowly and went to the bathroom without saying much more. You heard him turn on the tap and wash his hands for quite a long time. When he came out, he had already taken off the bloodstained suit and was wearing only a clean black t-shirt and short black pants. He still looked tired, but at least seemed a little more present.
You, meanwhile, started to wash your face with a damp cloth, rubbing it over your cheeks, wiping off the dried blood. Then you went to the bedroom, watching him.
When you got into bed, he did the same, though he sat on the edge for a moment, staring at the floor. It seemed like his mind was still far away.
In the end, he lay down beside you, but he didn't touch you. He stayed on his back, staring at the ceiling with his eyes open.
The silence stretched on for several minutes.
This time, you didn't say goodnight to each other. There was something strange between you. Maybe it was just because of this day.
Your head turned toward him, watching him from behind. You looked back at the ceiling, with nothing to say.
Several more seconds passed.
Then, very slowly, Dex turned his body and looked at you. His eyes were bright, though he wasn't crying anymore. He seemed exhausted to the bone. Without a word, he reached out an arm and pulled you toward him clumsily. He pressed you against his chest, wrapping both arms around you. His grip was strong, almost desperate, as he rested his head against your neck.
You were a little surprised by the change, but you didn't pull away. On the contrary. Slowly, one of your hands went up to his hair and the other settled on the nape of his neck, stroking him softly. Dex tensed at first at the contact, but seconds later, he relaxed against you.Little by little, exhaustion overtook you both, finally able to sleep, in peace, together.
Goodluck with your job and I hope everything goes well for you!! ALSO ANOTHER AMAZING ONE. took me 3 days to finish reading it because I'm slumped in my work too lolll. Can't wait for the next one <3
Summary: In the hours that follow your first night together, Dex tries to silence the echo of your voice by clinging desperately to his routine, while you stumble upon a bloodied stranger in an alley. When Dex finally stops running and asks you out for coffee, the conversation drifts into the darkest secrets you both share. But Fisk, now reading Dex's psychiatric files, has already decided that you are an obstacle to be eliminated.
Dex x disturbed Fem!reader! Stalker.
Warning: 18+! Slow burn, manipulation, sexual abuse (past experience, not current!), Dex and reader being incredibly soft together, lots of adoration. Matt Murdock appearance! Use of weapons! Blood! Violence! Reader stalks Dex again. This chapter is based on Daredevil 3x05.
Words: 11.5k
Note: Hiii! I'm so sorry for not updating the story these past few days—I had my graduation at last! YEEEPII. Now I really do have plenty of free time to keep going with the story. I have to say I've enjoyed writing this chapter so much—I absolutely loved the dynamic, so I hope you enjoy reading it too! And by the way, my inbox is open, so if you want to ask me anything about the fanfic or just share your thoughts, you're more than welcome! (´ε｀ )
Here the previous chapter!
The first light of dawn slipped through the window, thin and amber, around seven in the morning. Dex blinked, disoriented. The ceiling was not his. The pillow did not smell of him. And the warmth pressed against his back, the gentle weight of two arms draped over his waist, jolted him back to reality in an instant.
He lay perfectly still, holding his breath. It had been years since he had slept so deeply, and now, upon waking, the only thing he felt was panic. Panic at having allowed himself to be so vulnerable. At having asked for an embrace in the darkness like a frightened child. What the hell had he been thinking? He did not do things like that.
He had no idea what he was supposed to do now. Wake you? Wait for you to open your eyes? Say something? What? Good morning? Was that alright? Thank you for not running away?
Slowly, he turned his head, watching you out of the corner of his eye. You were sleeping with your lips slightly parted, your hair a mess against the pillow. He shifted carefully, careful not to touch your hands, and the movement made your arms slip gently from his waist. And he stayed there, watching you; he did not know for how long. He was not looking at you with the cold, calculating intensity he reserved for targets or subjects. This was something softer, clumsier.
His first instinct was to leave without a sound. It was what he always did. But as he sat on the edge of the bed, his eyes swept over the apartment and landed on last night's cups still on the table, the blanket on the sofa crumpled into a ball, a couple of cushions out of place. He frowned. This was disorder. And disorder unsettled him, badly.
So he rose, dressed in the same clothes he had worn the night before—he was irritated to find his shirt hopelessly wrinkled—and began to move through the apartment in complete silence. He gathered the cups, washed them, placed them upside down on the drying rack with an almost pathological symmetry. He straightened the sofa cushions, folding the blanket with military precision over the armrest. He wiped down the countertop. Each gesture was a way to soothe himself, to regain control. To prove to himself that he was still functional, useful, still capable of maintaining order even when his head was chaos.
Once the apartment was spotless, he found a pen in one of the drawers and tore a sheet from the notepad beside the phone. He wrote four lines. He left the note propped against the coffeemaker and stepped out, pulling the door shut behind him with a click so soft it was barely there.
Out in the hallway, he stood frozen for a moment, his hand still resting on the doorknob. He did not want to leave. That was the worst of it. This time, he wanted to stay. And that was so new, so strange, that it terrified him far more than any ambush.
So he did what he always did when something terrified him: he fled. He took the stairs two at a time, burst out onto the street, and breathed in the cold morning air as though he had just escaped something. He had no idea what to do. His mind was blank, unable to decide what to think. Had it been right to leave? Should he have stayed? What if you were angry about it?
He had not even eaten breakfast; the thought had not crossed his mind. He needed time. But as always, he had to stick to the routine, and that meant going back to his own apartment. So he walked, heedless of the weather or the hour. Everything had to follow its own order. His order.
He reached his building, but he did not go to the kitchen. No. If he was going to restart the routine, he had to begin at the very beginning.
With his bed.
He went into the bedroom, undressed, folded his clothes with care, placed them on his desk, and climbed into bed, pulling the covers up.
He did not sleep. He simply stared at the ceiling in a heavy, uncomfortable silence.
The whole time.
The alarm went off at eight o'clock sharp. A shrill, metallic beep that shattered the silence of the apartment. Dex silenced it with a slap, never taking his eyes off the ceiling. He stayed still a moment longer, savouring the emptiness. Then, with the precision of a machine clicking into gear, he rose from the bed and began the usual choreography. First, he went to the bathroom, stripping off the last of his clothes and turning on the tap.
The water streamed down his powerful, muscular back, all the way to his feet. He braced his hands against the tiles and let the water pound the nape of his neck. He ran a hand over his abdomen, as though he could feel something inside—a dull ache, a deep unease. It was as if his stomach were throbbing over and over. Perhaps he was nervous. He had not taken his pills yet.
He shut off the tap with a sharp twist and stood still for a moment, water dripping from the ends of his hair. Then he dried himself with a towel and planted himself in front of the fogged mirror.
The steam slowly cleared, and his reflection surfaced from the mist like a ghost—just a faceless silhouette at first. With the same towel, he began wiping the glass, from top to bottom.
And then, in an instant, between one pass of the towel and the next, your reflection appeared before him.
He startled violently. He blinked and stumbled backward without meaning to, slamming into the rack that held a spare towel and sending it clattering to the floor. His gaze shot to the mess, then back to the mirror.
The glass was completely clear now. And there was nothing there but his own face.
Dex blinked, terrified.
His hand gripped the edge of the sink so hard his knuckles went white. His heart hammered against his ribs like a trapped animal. He squeezed his eyes shut, counting to three, and opened them again.
Nothing had changed. His own face still stared back. But he could have sworn he had seen your face there for a couple of seconds.
It was not real. He knew that. It was his head, his goddamn head, playing tricks on him again. Like the buzzing of flies that sometimes filled his ears. Like the voice of his dead therapist, the one he still heard in moments of crisis.
He turned away from the mirror with a sharp movement and finished dressing without looking back. A spotless white shirt, buttoned from the bottom up. A dark suit, left open, and shoes that reflected the lamplight like a mirror. Once dressed, his eyes drifted for a moment to the bottle of pills.
Normally, he took one with breakfast, lunch, or dinner to stabilise himself better in his daily life. So he grabbed a pill, popped it into his mouth without water, and swallowed it dry. He stood still, hands resting on the countertop, waiting for the churning in his stomach to subside. It did not. He simply stopped paying attention to it.
Then he went to the kitchen, turned on the coffeemaker, and waited on his feet, arms crossed, watching the dark liquid begin to drip. Decaf. Always decaf. Caffeine made him jittery, and he was already jittery enough without chemical help.
He slid his hand toward a newspaper lying on the counter and brought it over to the table. He had exactly fifteen minutes to read it while he drank his coffee. He sat down, back ramrod straight, and opened the paper with careful hands.
It was nothing more than another story about Fisk's transfer. As before, the press had wasted no time criticising and dissecting the decision. The paper tore into the FBI officers, mocking their lack of judgement and competence.
What most people did not know was that the bulk of the FBI was being manipulated, both by Fisk and by Hattley.
Dex was on that same path, still in the process of being drawn in. He knew, absolutely, that he should not trust Fisk. Of course not. Who would? The man was dangerous, playing his part as the helpless prisoner to perfection. And yet, despite everything, a few of his words had lodged themselves firmly in Dex's mind. Especially the moment Fisk had told him he valued his work, that he had been extraordinarily brave during the assault on the convoy.
The article also mentioned the hotel—the staggering sum it cost to keep Fisk in a luxury penthouse—and the outrage of ordinary citizens who watched a criminal receive five-star treatment while the agents who had died in the convoy attack barely earned a single line of tribute buried on page twelve.
Dex simply tightened his jaw. He might not feel that strange thing called empathy for them, but he knew it was wrong to give a man like him more weight in the story than the colleagues who had fallen.
He drank his coffee, his eyes fixed on the words of the newspaper, until a glance at his watch told him time had run out. He returned to the kitchen, washed the cup, and set it upside down in the exact same position as the other one. He pulled on his jacket, and was almost out the door when a photograph caught his eye.
It was from his time at the Brooklyn Suicide Prevention Center.
After his therapist's death, Dex had been left without any figure of attachment. Mercer had taught him to build a life on what she called "the pillars of order": a clean physical space, a disciplined vocation, and a rigid structure to keep him stable. Thanks to the cassette tapes she had left him, he could still summon her voice. It helped him, truly, whenever he was overwhelmed or on the verge of breaking.
He had followed her advice: enlisted in the army, sharpened his aim and his affinity for weapons. Later, he had found work at the Brooklyn Suicide Prevention Center.
His gaze drifted to one corner of the photograph. There she was. Julie. His "Northern Star." His "North Star." The one he had always stalked. The one you knew about.
Julie had been his coworker, and she was everything he was not: warm, sweet, genuinely interested in helping others. Dex had fallen for her almost immediately—or at least developed a fixation, an obsession, that he had always mistaken for love.
In front of Julie, Dex pretended to be an exemplary colleague. He showed interest in the cases, listened attentively, acted like someone who genuinely wanted to help. But when Julie wasn't around, his true nature came to light. Once, a young man called the helpline explaining that his abusive stepfather was making his life impossible and that he was considering ending his own life. Dex's advice wasn't to seek help or to report his abuser; it was direct and brutal:
"You have a weapon. Fine, use it. But why turn it on yourself? It's not worth it. If the bastard stepfather is making your life hell, why not use it on him?" He even gave advice on whatever weapon the kid had, offering his own critique. "A Glock 17? That's a good pistol. Reliable, accurate... seventeen rounds in the magazine. Lightweight, the frame is polymer, not metal. Your hand won't get tired. Plus, the Safe Action system makes it very safe: three internal automatic safeties. It won't go off on its own. And the recoil is low. If you squeeze the trigger right... it won't miss." He very nearly convinced the young man to murder his own stepfather. If Julie hadn't intervened, the kid probably would have ended his stepfather's life, feeding Dex's coldness in the process.
He didn't see any contradiction in his own behaviour. To him, that advice was perfectly reasonable: eliminate the threat rather than surrender to it. It was the same logic he applied to his own life. He didn't understand why it was wrong, and he only held himself back when Julie was around, because he knew she wouldn't approve.
Julie never got to know this side of Dex. To her, he was a kind coworker, maybe a little strange, but harmless. Dex, for his part, began to follow her, to memorise her routines, to watch her without being seen. The suicide prevention centre thus became the stage for his first major stalking. It was there that he learned to feign normalcy while hiding his darkness—a skill he would later perfect at the FBI, passing unnoticed (though everyone there still saw him as a weirdo).
He smiled at the photograph, just a little, staring at Julie's silhouette for a moment before opening the door and stepping out of his apartment.
The light from your bedroom window flooded the room, the morning sun blinding you. Your eyes squeezed shut, and you buried your face into the pillow, groaning in protest. Slowly, your hand reached out, searching for the warm body beside you, but there was nothing there.
You turned your head, opening your eyes and confirming that, indeed, no one was beside you.
You sat up, the blanket sliding over your t-shirt, your face still drowsy. What time was it?
You looked at the clock: ten in the morning.
Your gaze swept the room. Dex's clothes were gone, and there was no sign that he was still somewhere in your apartment. You slid out of bed, your feet shuffling across the floor as you rubbed your face.
When you reached the living room, you frowned.
The room had changed—well, not that much. But everything was noticeably tidier. The blanket, for instance, was folded and neatly arranged among the cushions. The cups the two of you had drunk from had been washed and left upside down in the same position on the drying rack. Dex had definitely done all this.
You walked over to the counter, spotting the folded note, and carefully opened it.
"I tidied up a bit. Hope you don't mind. Thanks for letting me stay. —D."
Your heart gave a little flutter, and you smiled. Even though he had gotten up without you, without saying goodbye, he had at least left you that note. Plus, he had left the apartment tidier (though in your opinion, it hadn't been necessary) and the coffeemaker ready.
You grabbed the same cup from yesterday, this time filling it with coffee, and drank it in a profoundly awkward silence that filled the entire room. Truth be told, since you weren't working, you could go out for a while, right? You could at least keep yourself busy with practical things.
So, by mid-morning, you left your apartment. The wind outside slapped your face.
The streets of Hell's Kitchen carried on as usual—cars passing by, the smell of a nearby bakery... You walked at your own pace, hands tucked into the pockets of your jacket, in the full grip of autumn.
As you turned a corner, the sound of sirens caught your attention. An FBI car was parked next to an apartment building. It wasn't all that strange—in fact, it was fairly normal for these streets—but the tense posture of the agents caught your eye. They moved with their hands resting on their weapons, as if something deeply dangerous lurked inside that building.
Right next to you, in the alleyway, you began to hear footsteps on the fire escape—the metallic clang gave it away. You looked over and noticed a man climbing down with difficulty, limping, as if he were badly hurt.
The poor guy was so exhausted that when he finally jumped to the ground, he had to brace himself against the wall just to keep from collapsing.
He propped himself against a dumpster, sliding down until he reached the ground, one hand pressed to his side, hissing and breathing with obvious difficulty.
You looked around twice. Should you... help him? you wondered. I mean, you were literally right next to him, but was it the right thing to do? What if he rejected you with disdain? Maybe you shouldn't get involved—who knew what kind of trouble you'd be walking into.
Nonsense! You were far too bored doing nothing; you needed action, to be useful. And this man was the salvation of your aimlessness.
You began to approach cautiously, just close enough for him to see you.
"Hey, are you okay?" you asked. The man looked up, and you realized that, no, he was definitely not okay. His face was covered in wounds.
God! What kind of question was that? Of course he's not okay! He's bleeding out like a ketchup bottle.
Great start.
"Okay, my bad... Sorry," you said, laughing a little nervously, eyeing his hand. "You don't look good, honestly."
You squinted as you studied him. His face was... familiar, somehow. You felt like you'd seen him somewhere before, but you couldn't place him—at least not yet.
He, on the other hand, seemed to have recognised you. He just wasn't speaking, hesitating instead. What could he even say to you right now?
Slowly, you knelt down, looking at him. "Listen... maybe you don't want help, and I completely understand that, really. But if you stay here, that wound's probably going to get infected and cause you a world of pain, which I'm sure you don't want. So... how about I take you back to my place? And I won't ask any questions, I promise, if that's what you want." You raised your hands in surrender.
He let out a soft sigh. "Is your apartment far...?" he managed to ask.
You nodded. "A few minutes from here." Your hand brushed his greenish jacket. "May I?"
"No, no, wait. Better not," he said, getting to his feet on his own, hissing in pain. "It's better if we act normal..."
"You're literally dripping blood," you replied.
"People have seen worse things. I doubt anyone's going to stop and ask," he answered with a touch of humour, laughing despite the pain.
You stared at him for a few seconds, brow furrowed, until finally, you shrugged. "Fine. Have it your way. Let's go." You gestured with your head.
You walked in silence through the streets of Hell's Kitchen, passing coffee shops and fruit stands with the same naturalness as two strangers sharing a pavement. Except one of you was utterly wrecked.
He walked beside you, jaw clenched, breathing controlled. He didn't complain, but every few steps his hand drifted back to his side, pressing the wound as if sheer willpower could contain the pain. It was admirable. And completely stupid.
"Did you get in a fight with a shredder or something?" you asked, without looking away from the path ahead, your tone light and not really expecting an answer.
"Something like that." His voice was hoarse, but not hostile. He even managed something close to a smile. "It was a very big shredder..."
You snorted. At least he had a sense of humour.
When you reached your building, you moved ahead to open the door for him. He hesitated a moment, as if stepping into unknown territory, then followed you up the stairs. He climbed the steps one by one, without complaint, though his breathing grew more ragged with each flight.
When the two of you finally entered your apartment, you shut the door gently and guided him to the sofa.
"Sit down," you said, in a softer tone than you'd intended. "I'm not going to ask you anything, but I am going to patch you up. And I won't take no for an answer..."
He gave a tired smile.
"You're very persuasive."
"Well, I'm a forensic scientist," you admitted. "I'm used to dealing with shattered bodies that can't complain. So..." You moved closer to him, setting the first-aid kit on the table, and knelt in front of him.
"Take off your jacket," you added.
"Shouldn't we have dinner first?" he murmured, his voice a thread of pain.
"Very funny... but take it off, seriously. Or I'll do it for you."
He obeyed, with slow, pained movements. When the jacket fell to the floor, you saw what it had been hiding. The black t-shirt underneath was soaked in blood, and a deep gash ran across his ribs. It wasn't fatal, but it was bad enough to need stitches.
Stitches you couldn't give him.
"Okay... uh... when I offered to help, I didn't exactly mean stitching you up, honestly," you pressed your lips together, looking up at him. You could see his face up close, the bruise on his cheek. "I'm going to disinfect the wound, so fair warning... it's going to hurt."
You sighed and soaked a piece of gauze in hydrogen peroxide. When the liquid touched the wound, he hissed through his teeth but didn't pull away. His hands gripped the edge of the sofa so tightly his knuckles went white, and he tried to stifle a groan. It didn't work.
"Sorry, sorry..." you whispered, moving the cotton around his abdomen. "Do you think if I bandage the wound... it'll hold until you get wherever you're trying to go?"
He shook his head. "You have to stitch it," he insisted.
You sighed again, and finally, you had to nod. You went to your bedroom for a few seconds to get a needle and thread, and returned to him.
You looked at him for a moment, the needle between your fingers. "Are you sure?" you asked.
And he nodded without hesitation, eyes closed.
You stayed quiet for a while, and with care, you drove the needle into his skin, threading it through. You heard a soft groan from him at the sharpness of it.
As you repeated the motion, you wanted to ask him something—though, as you'd said earlier, you'd promised not to ask any questions.
"Hey..." you began.
He hummed in response, looking down at you.
"I know I said I wouldn't ask questions, but I have to say I'm curious... have we seen each other before?" you asked, pausing to look up, studying him.
There was a brief silence between you, and you began to frown, slowly.
"Maybe," he replied, his gaze unfocused.
You hummed in response. "That's not an answer. So... I'll take it as a yes."
"We met at the Fisk protest, at the hotel..." he finally said, and you kept stitching the wound. "You helped me with the elevator. Remember?"
You bit your lip, trying to recall, until your mouth fell open. "...Oh! So it was you. What a joy to see you again, then," you said, with a hint of irony.
"Yeah, well." He slid his gaze to another part of the room, frowning now and then, as if he were concentrating on something else.
"So, another accident on the stairs?" you asked, with a touch of sarcasm. This man definitely hadn't just fallen down some steps; he looked like he'd climbed into a cage with jaguars.
He snorted a little, but looked exhausted, almost sorry for what had happened. "Something like that," he said, staring at your distant window.
You finished stitching the wound and applied more gauze around it, trying to clean up the fresh blood. Then you pressed a white patch over it, just to be safe.
He pulled his t-shirt down slowly, in silence. He stayed there a few seconds, his gaze lost on the window, as if mentally calculating how much time he could allow himself to rest before leaving. Then, he pushed himself up from the sofa with a stifled groan, one hand going to his freshly bandaged side. He stayed like that for several minutes.
"You should rest," you advised.
He shook his head gently, rising from there and starting to walk, wobbling a little.
You frowned. "Where do you think you're going?" you asked.
"I have to go... I can't stay here long," he said, without looking at you. "Really, I value your... empathy." He let the word slip as if it cost him to admit he hadn't seen that in you. "But I can't stay. Besides, if I stayed here, I'd bring you trouble."
You rose to your feet, watching him. He was pulling on his oversized greenish jacket, covering his t-shirt and, above all, his wounds.
"Thank you, for everything. I owe you quite a lot... I promise I'll repay you in the future."
"It's nothing," you waved a hand, vaguely. "Are you sure you don't want to stay?"
He shook his head again. "I have to see someone," he said, naming no one.
He headed toward the door, before looking back at you. "If... anyone asks, you haven't seen me. You don't know me, you don't know who I am or what I was doing in that alley. The people looking for me aren't very kind to those who help me..."
You blinked a couple of times, then nodded. "Alright... I won't say a word to anyone."
He gave you a brief smile, and stepped out of your apartment, disappearing from sight.
You were curious to know who he really was; however, you were certain that if you asked for his name, he'd dodge the question—that's exactly why you didn't ask. But the curiosity burned... You wouldn't tell anyone (at least for now), because if you did, it would backfire on you. You'd be implicating yourself as an accomplice, and besides, being suspended, it wouldn't be seen as a heroic act—quite the opposite. It would be a disgrace to the FBI and you'd probably be fired.
So, just as that man had said, you wouldn't tell a soul.
You stayed in your apartment for several more minutes, alone with the hum of the refrigerator accompanying you in that deep silence. With nothing to do, you felt that familiar itch. That need.
That need to see Dex again.
It had only been a few hours, but you wanted to see him, again. It wasn't rational. It was something more primitive—a compass that always pointed toward him. You knew that at this hour, if he was following his routine, he'd be running the streets near the hotel, perhaps following Julie, perhaps just clearing his head. You hadn't dressed for spying, but that had never stopped you before. A light jacket, the hood over your hair, and you stepped out onto the street.
The fresh air slapped your cheeks again. You walked unhurriedly, hands in your pockets, until you reached the route Dex usually took. You'd memorised it long ago, just as you'd memorised everything else.
And there he was.
In the distance, his unmistakable silhouette. The straight back, the steady stride, the measured breathing. He wore a dark sweatshirt and track pants, jogging a few metres ahead of you, focused.
You smiled to yourself and began to follow him, at his back.
It wasn't hard. Dex was focused on something—or rather, on someone—else. Julie was jogging a few metres ahead of him, oblivious to it all, and he followed her with the same devotion with which you followed him. A chain of watchers. Three links. You, Dex, and Julie. Like that pizza night, but in broad daylight.
You'd been following him for several minutes now, keeping your distance, concealing yourself with the same skill you'd perfected over the years. But something had changed. You were no longer invisible to him.
Not anymore.
Dex stopped.
He didn't slow down. He stopped dead, his feet planted on the asphalt, his back still turned to you. Julie kept running, just now pausing under a bridge where a homeless man sat. She seemed to be giving him some money, or maybe food, but Dex didn't move. His head turned slightly—just enough for you to see his profile.
"Can you stop following me?"
Dex turned around fully. His eyes found you instantly, with that inhuman precision that defined him. He seemed... resigned, as if he'd been waiting a while for you to show your face.
You froze. Your first impulse was to deny it, to make an excuse, to pretend you were there by chance. But Dex's expression told you it wouldn't do any good. He knew.
"I wasn't following you... I don't know what you're talking about," you looked around, lying anyway.
He raised an eyebrow, slightly. "Yeah, sure. And I'm the President of the United States..."
"You could be... or at least one of those presidential bodyguards," you wiggled your fingers toward him, dramatically. "You've got good aim."
His face was a mask of discomfort, and he shook his head. "That's not funny..." he ran his hands over his face, then turned away for a few seconds, not wanting to lose sight of Julie.
"I just wanted to see you," you shrugged, as if it were the most natural phrase in the world.
"You saw me last night..." His voice came out rougher than he probably intended. "And this morning... well, no. Not this morning. I left before you..." He cut himself off, as if he'd just realised he was about to admit something. He lowered his gaze. "Did you read the note?"
You nodded.
"Did it bother you?" he asked again.
And you shook your head.
He nodded to himself. His hands slowly drifted toward his own pockets, as if he didn't know what to do with them.
"Why do you follow me? I mean... you already know everything. You've seen me... and you've been with me. Why do you need to...?"
"Because I like it," you interrupted, with the same naturalness you'd use to say you liked the colour of the morning sky. "I like everything... about you," you added, with something that might have been interpreted as... shyness? As if in front of him, it cost you to say it.
Dex looked at you, in silence, and then let out a short sigh, relaxing his shoulders.
He took a brief step toward you. "No... you don't have to follow me. You can walk beside me. If you want."
You stood there a few seconds, looking at him. "Oh, really?"
And he nodded, determined. You fell in beside him, at his side, without quite touching him. Dex looked forward again, watching Julie for a few seconds; she was still with that homeless man.
"Are we going to follow her?" you asked.
He stayed quiet for several seconds, until he managed to answer. "No." You turned your head toward him, and then he added, "I've had enough for today..." and shifted his gaze toward you.
You laced your own fingers together, swaying your hands alongside your arms as you looked at them.
"There's a coffee shop nearby... do you... want to go?" he asked, looking at you. You simply nodded, your lips curving downward into a smile.
He started walking at an unhurried pace, and you followed. He didn't speak to you, but he seemed to be enjoying the shared silence. You zipped up your black hoodie, pulling the hood off as you kept walking beside him.
Eventually, you reached the nearby coffee shop. It was a surprisingly warm place inside, considering it sat in the middle of a cold, grey street. Ceiling lamps decorated with plants illuminated everything, casting orange highlights on your faces. You followed in his footsteps, at his back, as he headed to the counter.
He tossed a bill onto the counter. "I'll have a decaf... and whatever she wants," he announced. You tilted your head toward the barista, giving him a little smile.
"I'll have a cappuccino, please."
The barista nodded at the order, turning his back to start preparing them. Dex turned around, too, looking at you, and opened his mouth, letting it out without any context whatsoever.
"I want you to know... I'm not interested in Julie. Not sexually," he blinked a few seconds, uncomfortable with the word. "At least, not in that way," he added. It seemed like he wanted to make sure there were no misunderstandings between you, though the funny thing was that you hadn't even asked.
You frowned, slightly bewildered by the sudden change of subject. "...Okaaay...?" you laughed a little at his words. "I appreciate your honesty, but... I didn't ask. Doesn't it feel weird to just blurt that out like that?" you asked, laughing sweetly.
He let out a shaky sigh, slightly embarrassed by his own words.
Shit.
"No, no, no..." Dex raised a hand, waving it slightly as if trying to erase his own words from the air. "I didn't say it right. Or I did say it right, but it wasn't the right moment. I mean... I didn't mean to just blurt it out like that. It's just that..." He pinched the bridge of his nose, a gesture you'd seen on him far too many times. "Last night we were talking about her, and you asked me if she was a great girl to me, and I said yes, and it's true, she is, but not in that sense. It's more in the sense that..." He paused, searching for the words. "I admire her. That's it. I admire her."
He fell silent for several seconds, watching you, trying to read your expression. "Sorry, I'm... getting nervous," he let out a short laugh.
You smiled at him. "Don't worry, it's actually kind of cute to see you like this, honestly..." you said, with charm.
He fell silent again, and swallowed, frozen. He could feel his cheeks heating up for a few seconds. Luckily for him, the barista arrived right then with your orders, giving him an excuse to turn away from your gaze and grab the two cups.
"You're not mad... right?" he asked, holding your cappuccino out to you.
"No, not at all. Why would I be?" you replied, wrapping both hands around your cappuccino, feeling the warmth of the cup between your fingers.
He didn't answer your question; instead, he started walking toward the most isolated table, as far away as possible so the two of you would have your own space. You sat facing each other, studying one another.
You sipped your cappuccino softly, watching him. He, on the other hand, only looked at you now and then, out of nerves.
"So..." you began, holding your cup. "Had you already been inside my apartment?" you asked directly, this time without any context whatsoever.
"W-what?" He looked at you.
"Last night, when you came to my apartment. I never mentioned it, as far as I remember..." you traced a finger along the table, playing with the wood grain. "That means you must have been inside before, when I wasn't there. Were you stalking me?" you added, with a smile. For you, being stalked by him didn't bother you in the slightest; on the contrary, you loved it, because it meant you'd caught his attention.
"No, no... I wasn't stalking you," he shook his head, drinking a little of his coffee. "Though... I know it might look that way, but no."
You hummed, not quite believing him.
"After the thing with the magazine... I didn't know if you were a threat... if you worked for someone or if you were trying to toy with me." He looked up, meeting your eyes directly, with an intensity that wasn't aggressive, but rather something vulnerable. "I had... I had to make sure. So yeah. I went into your apartment... I'm sorry."
You simply smiled, not averting your gaze. "You don't have to apologise. It's okay. No problem..."
"It doesn't bother you?" he asked, brow furrowed, incredulous.
"No, not at all... It means you wanted to get to know me," you smiled, and then added, "Besides... I like that it's you watching me, for once."
Dex blinked, processing your words. Then, without warning, he let out a soft, shaky sigh.
"And what were you able to see in my apartment?" you placed both hands on the table, resting your cheeks on them, full of curiosity and attention on him.
"Are you interested?"
And you hummed in reply.
He swallowed, sliding his hand across the table in a nervous gesture.
"Well... uh... I took a look at your books," he fidgeted with his hand. "I didn't understand half of what was in them... but the pictures were very interesting. Most of them, I think, were kind of explicit."
"Like the lobotomy picture? You know, when they push the trephine through the patient's eye socket," you gestured with your hands, explaining it to him. He nodded, intrigued by your way of expressing yourself. You smiled for a few seconds and went on explaining. "Lobotomy was performed to try to 'cure' or control severe psychiatric disorders... like schizophrenia, deep depression, and extreme anxiety, back when there were very few effective pharmacological treatments. But... far from curing them, ablation of the frontal lobes usually caused irreversible brain damage. The patients who underwent it often suffered severe apathy, drastic personality changes, loss of decision-making capacity, and in many cases, ended up in a vegetative state or died..."
As you explained with interest and enthusiasm, Dex watched you this time with more enchantment, fascinated by the subjects you knew—he seemed to melt just listening to you talk about them.
"If I remember correctly, it stopped being performed on a widespread basis in the 1950s, because they started developing antipsychotic and antidepressant medications... Today it's considered one of the most brutal and raw practices in history. Did you know that?" you asked him. He shook his head definitively.
"You're... very intelligent. In those concepts, anyway. I... wouldn't know," he admitted, looking at you, still spellbound. "What other horrible medicines do you know about?" he asked, curiously.
You smiled again, delighted. "There were medicines with mercury, years ago... They used it to fight syphilis and other infections back then. But as you can imagine, mercury isn't exactly a friendly substance for the human body... So... it destroyed patients' nervous systems, they lost their teeth, got ulcers, dementia, organ failure, and sometimes even death, from poisoning."
He was smiling sideways, listening to you. "Have you always been interested in medicine?"
You fell silent for a few seconds, your hands still wrapped around the cappuccino. It was a simple question, but the answer wasn't—especially not the main reason behind it. Dex noticed immediately and squinted for a few seconds, a little regretful. "Sorry... did I overstep? I shouldn't have asked, it's—"
"No, no, it's fine," you tried to soothe him, with a slight smile, which relaxed him a little. "I've always liked understanding how things work... The human body is fragile. It breaks easily, psychologically as well as physically. It's truly fascinating... Every bone, every organ, every tissue in the body... it has a function. And when something fails, you can figure it out." You paused, fiddling with the rim of your cup. "As a child, I didn't have much control over my life, because of my parents. Like I told you last night, my father was a shitty abuser, and my mother was too deranged to understand that the pain he caused her was love."
You looked up for a few seconds, watching him, and then glanced around the coffee shop. There weren't many people in your area, but either way, with a slight smile, you lowered your voice, looking at him.
"Do you want to know something?" you asked. "Do you want to know the real reason I became interested in this?" You pointed a finger, swirling it around.
He nodded, listening. "Alright, I'll tell you." You licked your lips, lacing your own fingers together, studying him. "Like I said before, my father beat us both... It was exhausting. The days went by and I was filled with this feeling of resentment and hatred toward him."
"I wanted him to die," you added. Dex, who was just taking a sip of his coffee, froze with the cup against his lips, staring at you, as if that had surprised him for a few seconds—or intrigued him.
"I didn't care how. I wanted him to die any way possible: an overdose, an accident, murder, even suicide." You took a sip of your cappuccino, so your throat wouldn't go dry. "And one day, I asked myself... if no one else is going to stop him, why not me?" you said, matter-of-factly. "So I decided... to kill him." Your voice sharpened into something serious, and then you looked at him.
"It was very easy. All I had to do was wait until he fell asleep on the sofa. I grabbed a knife..." Your hand drifted to your own neck, and with your thumb, you traced a line. "And I slit his throat."
Dex set his coffee down on the table, processing your words, and asked, "How did you feel?" Not with morbid curiosity (or maybe a little), but with genuine curiosity. He wanted to understand you better.
"I felt... that I did the right thing. I don't regret what I did. And if you asked me whether I'd do it again... the answer would be yes," you said, looking at him.
He nodded slowly, without looking away. He didn't say anything for a few seconds, and then murmured, "Then you did the right thing." It wasn't an opinion; it was an affirmation of your decision. You smiled again at that. Then, he added, "And now? Would you kill again?" It wasn't a challenge, but a genuine curiosity. He wanted to know how far your darkness reached.
"Yes. If I had to, I would," you admitted, looking at him. He smiled again, off to one side, satisfied with that answer.
"You know... I used to kill when I was little, too. Well, not people, of course... it was animals," he confessed, and you tilted your head to one side.
"Oh, really?" And he hummed, taking another sip of coffee.
"They were street animals... you know, weasels, some ducks, cats..." he toyed with the rim of his cup. "At first I felt sorry for it, but then... I liked it. It was an incredible sensation," he looked at you. "Though my therapist didn't agree," he added, with a short laugh.
You laughed a little with him, and he added, "I even skinned a chicken once..." he said it with a hint of pride, for your benefit.
And then, without warning, after a pause, he opened his mouth and let out a guttural, high-pitched noise—a clumsy imitation of a chicken's clucking. Literally. And the best part was that he did it so well that even he surprised himself. It wasn't an exaggerated noise; more like a raspy "CRŌ-CRŌ," as if he were trying to remember how chickens sounded in the old farm movies.
There was a silence between the two of you, your smile vanishing entirely at the sound. What the hell had just happened? Had you just witnessed Dex imitate a chicken?
The poor man was staring at you, and when you didn't laugh, he grew embarrassed and began to laugh at himself, resting his elbows on the table and covering his face with both hands, hiding his flushed cheeks. "Oh, god.."
You pressed your lips together, suppressing a laugh. But you just couldn't help it—he was too funny like this. And you laughed at it, covering your mouth. It was possibly one of the few times you'd laughed for real, and at something so ridiculous, no less.
Dex looked up after a few seconds, and seeing you laugh, began to follow your laughter, laughing with you as he let the embarrassment fade.
"Did you just... imitate a chicken?" you asked, holding back laughter, speaking in gasps because of how funny it was to you.
Dex nodded. "Yeah... that's what it sounded like. More or less."
"I think the sound's deeper..." you laughed in between. "More barnyard." And without warning, you went along with it, doing your own imitation of that chicken. "CRŌ–CRŌ."
Now it was Dex who fell silent, though not seriously. On the contrary, he was mesmerised. He laughed a little, and shook his head. "I have to say, mine is definitely better," he said, without remorse.
You opened your mouth, pretending to be offended. "Excuse me? Yours sounded like a run-over hen. Mine is so much better."
He shook his head again, taking a sip of his coffee. "No."
You narrowed your eyes, displeased with his answer, and listened to his next question. "And what happened next?"
"Well, my mother abandoned me later... and I was put in psychiatric centres or reformatories. Nobody took me in, so I lived there until I was eighteen."
He blinked, and nodded. "I was also... well, in an orphanage, in my case," he admitted, opening up to you. "Until I was eighteen, and then I enlisted."
You frowned for a few seconds. "What... happened to your parents?" Curious.
"They died," he mentioned. "I don't really remember how... but I imagine they passed away in an accident," he looked at you.
"Oh... I'm sorry about your parents," you said, looking at him. Your hand moved softly toward his, without quite touching.
Dex looked at your hand for a few seconds. "It's okay... Either way, it's not like they were very pleasant, to say the least. My childhood was shit, in general," he added, without remorse.
"Do you think they deserved to die?" you asked, directly.
He sighed. "I feel like they abandoned me, honestly. But... yeah, I'd say they deserved to die," he admitted, looking at you.
You smiled a little, without moving your hand.
"They sent me to the orphanage after that. I was there for quite a while. Didn't make any friends, but I passed the time playing baseball with the other kids. The only person I was really close to was my coach. He said I was pretty good at hitting the ball." He smiled at the memory. "But sometimes he wouldn't let me play enough... He told me I had to let the other kids have a turn, but why? I was the best one on the team. It made no sense to bench me. It made me feel useless, not being able to do anything. And in a moment of rage, I threw the ball at him, and well... I killed him." He blinked, letting the last words drop as if they meant nothing.
You stayed quiet for a few seconds, then tilted your head softly, studying him.
"That man clearly didn't understand your talent for the sport. You were right to strike him down..." you replied, trying to justify his act, your eyes gleaming. He simply laughed a little.
"Then I met my therapist, Doctor Mercer... She helped me a lot," he added. "Sadly, she passed away from her illness. I felt so much rage..." he sighed at the abandonment of his therapist. "After that, like I said, I joined the army for a few years, and then I signed up for the suicide prevention group," he added. "And that's where I met Julie."
You rested a hand on your cheek, humming as you listened to him.
"You know the rest. I've been watching her since the day I met her. But... like... like I said before, I'm not interested in her that way... sexually," he commented, that uncomfortable word making him reach for his coffee cup.
You smiled, and asked directly. "Have you ever had sex?"
The question caught him off guard, and he choked slightly on his coffee. He wiped the corner of his lips with the back of his hand and stared at you, his eyes slightly wider than normal.
"Excuse me?"
"It's a simple question," you said, without erasing your smile. "Yes... or no?"
He fell silent for a few seconds. His fingers drummed on the table. Finally, he shook his head.
"No. Not... in the strictest sense." He paused. "I've had... opportunities. But I didn't..." He shook his head again. "No."
You knew it. A virgin.
"Why?"
"Because I'm not interested, I think. At least not right now." He looked directly at you. "I didn't... I didn't feel anything. And without that, it's..." He ran a hand over the back of his neck. "I don't know. It's strange. It's like my body and my head are two completely separate things. And sex is..." He grimaced. "...complicated."
Dex averted his gaze, his fingers still drumming on the table. Then, his voice even lower, he added:
"There was this one time... a woman. From the FBI." He swallowed. "We were colleagues, I guess. But her way of expressing herself was different. She'd touch my arm sometimes, let her hand brush against my... chest. I thought it was normal at first, but I wasn't really comfortable with it. I tried to tell her so many times... pushing her away or saying I didn't like it, but she never listened. One day, I remember she called me for a meeting, said everyone would be there. I believed her at the time, in those early years. And when I showed up... she took me into a small room and started undoing my belt. She touched me. She tried to... you know. And I didn't... I didn't want it. I told her, but she didn't listen."
He looked up at you, and for an instant, you saw something in his eyes that you had never seen before: fear, or something broken.
"I left. I just... got up and left. And she insulted me, called me a faggot, a freak, an abnormal, said I didn't know what I was missing." Dex shrugged, as if to downplay it, but his voice betrayed him. "I've never told anyone at work. I haven't even... well, reported it or told Hattley."
You fell silent, processing his words. Then, with an almost clinical calm, you asked:
"What's her name?"
Dex looked at you, bewildered.
"Why?"
"Because no one gets to hurt you and just walk away like it's nothing." Your voice turned cold for a few moments. "Tell me her name. I'll take care of her."
He blinked, his eyes fixed on you, and shook his head softly.
"No, no. I don't want you to do anything. I just... wanted you to know," he said, his fingers drumming on the table. "It's the first time I've ever told anyone... I don't want you to end up... doing something stupid."
"I don't see it as stupid," you replied, with a smile that didn't reach your eyes. "It would be justice, don't you think?"
It was the very same thought Dex had once had, back when he was on the phone with that young man. Even if a part of him wanted the woman who abused him dead, it would bring more trouble. And he didn't want you to do it, for your own sake.
He shook his head again. "No. I don't want you getting into trouble because of me. You've already got enough with the suspension..."
You frowned, scoffing. "I don't care about the suspension anymore."
"Well, I do." His voice came out harsher than he probably intended. You fell silent, watching him. "I'm not going to let you ruin your career over something that happened years ago. I've already gotten over it."
You pressed your lips together, doubtful. If you were him, you'd end that woman's life, honestly. But you respected his limits, or the ones he was forbidding you to cross.
"Alright... I won't do anything you don't want me to," you said.
Dex squinted for a few seconds, as if he couldn't quite believe you were capable of respecting his boundaries without questioning them.
"Do you mean it?"
You nodded, looking at him. "I won't do anything you don't want me to," you repeated. "But believe me... I would do anything for you," you admitted, serious.
He nodded to himself, and his shoulders relaxed a little. Slowly, his hand moved toward yours, the one resting on the table. He touched the back of your hand with his thumb. You gently turned your hand and laced your fingers through his, without saying a word. He didn't pull away; on the contrary, he squeezed your hand a little, still stroking it. And you stayed like that, in silence.
After a while, he glanced at his wristwatch, breaking the silence. "I should get back to the hotel..." His voice sounded more like a lament than a farewell.
You nodded, without pulling your hand away. You knew he had to go back there at some point; after all, he was still "working."
"Fisk will be waiting," he added, as if he needed to justify it. "And Lim can't cover my shift all day."
"I know." And it was true. There was no reproach in your voice.
Dex squeezed your fingers for an instant, then gently withdrew his hand.
"Would you... would you like me to walk you home?" he asked finally.
You smiled for a few brief seconds. "That won't be necessary... but thank you." After several seconds, seeing he was about to leave, you remembered something. "Oh, wait. I can give you my number, if you want. That way we can talk whenever." You grabbed your phone, offering it to him.
He stood frozen for several seconds, his gaze dropping to the phone. He took it firmly and typed your number into his own cellphone. "I will... thank you," he said, then handed the phone back to you. He stood, adjusting his jacket with that mechanical gesture of his. "See you around. I hope to see you again."
"Me too," you replied, watching him from your seat.
You watched Dex leave, disappearing among the crowd on the street. And with that, you were alone once more. You drank the last few sips of your cappuccino, now completely cold, and then left yourself.
You watched Dex leave, disappearing among the crowd on the street. And so you were alone again. You drank the last few sips of your cappuccino, now completely cold, and then left yourself.
Your hands were tucked into the pockets of your hoodie, smiling inwardly at that warm conversation, paying no attention to your surroundings.
You didn't even notice that someone was watching you from a distance.
Someone with bad intentions.
That afternoon, at the hotel, Fisk was reading reports at his table. But not just any reports.
Dex's files.
Donovan, under Fisk's orders, had delivered several reports on Dex—on his private and psychological life. Fisk had been reading all those files, all that data, while you and Dex were sitting together in that coffee shop.
In his mind, he envisioned the whole story from Dex's childhood, watching the catastrophes of his life unfold as if he were there. The accident of his coach, Doctor Mercer, the drawings, the tapes, Julie, the suicide prevention center... All of it, with Fisk observing. He even imagined how Dex stalked Julie. It was like a drama, a play in black and white.
He snapped back to reality, simply looking at a photo one of his operatives had taken: Dex behind Julie, pursuing her as she ran, just like this morning. Only you, exactly, did not appear in that picture.
"If you don't mind my asking, Mr. Fisk... uh... you don't need to go into detail," Donovan began, "but what's all this about?"
Fisk rose, clasping his hands behind his back. "Right now, I am New York's scapegoat. There are protesters on the street screaming for me to be put back behind bars..." He paused. "And that's nothing more than a nuisance to my plan. Fortunately, it's very easy to distract people." He went on. "Which is why the solution to my problem is very simple..." He glanced at another photograph. "The city needs another villain," he confessed, sliding his hand over the photos, and among them, he revealed a new one.
It was you, this time, with Dex, in that coffee shop. Two specific moments: one where you were both laughing (probably at that ridiculous chicken imitation), and the other where your hands were intertwined. Out of context, someone might think something else, but for Fisk, it was enough to know that you were an obstacle to his plan. For Dex.
He slid another photo across the table—a shot of you walking toward your building. Fisk observed you through the photo with cold detachment, choosing the best course of action to continue his plan.
"But first... I need to get rid of the people who ruin my plan. Who distract..." He raised the photograph of you, showing it to Donovan. "And I would like it to be done as soon as possible. I would not want to... waste the valuable time I have," he added, and sat back down.
Donovan's face froze, staring at Fisk for a few seconds before looking at the photo.
You were in big trouble...
Just below the hotel, in the restaurant, Dex was seated at the bar, dissociating. Toying with a coin between his fingers.
He was thinking about everything that had happened today; this time he didn't feel so overwhelmed. On the contrary, he felt good. Calm, as if a weight had been lifted from him. And the best part was that now he had your contact, and he wanted to see you again as soon as he could.
He could barely believe it himself—that he'd be capable of meeting someone like him, someone who understood him.
"Would you like something to drink?" That question made him blink, returning to the world. He turned his head, and his eyes widened slightly.
It was Julie. Wait, what?
She was looking at him with that same charming smile as always, and all he could do was open his mouth, unable to answer her. Finally, he laughed. "I think you need more time... I'll bring you some water if you like."
Dex turned his head away, not quite believing that the woman speaking to him now was actually Julie.
She tilted her head gently, smiling at him. "This might sound strange, but... did you work at the Brooklyn Suicide Prevention Center?" she asked, watching him.
He looked at her again and stammered until he managed to answer. "Y-yeah, yes... I did. It was... a stressful job."
Julie laughed a little. "You bet..." and she extended her hand toward him. "I guess you don't remember me... I'm Julie."
He stared at her for a few seconds before lowering his gaze to her outstretched hand. "Dex," he reacted, reciprocating by extending his own hand and giving hers a slight squeeze. "And... of course I remember you."
"What a coincidence, right?" she laughed.
"No... we happened to coincide."
"Well... today's my first day at the hotel. They offered me double what I was making at my other job if I started right away. And honestly, I didn't need much convincing." She smiled again. "What about you? Are you staying at the hotel?" she asked him.
"No, no way... I live here... in New York—I mean, uh... no, at the hotel." The words got tangled in his mouth, embarrassing him, but it drew a laugh from Julie.
Oh, God.
"The FBI has an office upstairs," Dex added. "We're guarding... Wilson Fisk."
Julie looked him up and down, somewhat intrigued by his job, and she spoke with an enchanting voice. "A federal agent..."
He gave a lopsided smile, as if flattered by her charm.
Suddenly, a distant voice interrupted the moment, probably a customer. Julie tilted her head toward a woman's table before looking back at him. "I have to go take care of that table or they'll fire me on my first day..." she said, with a touch of humor. She was about to leave, but Dex's question stopped her.
"When does your shift end?"
She turned back, looking at him. "In an hour," she said, and added, "Would you like to meet up afterward? So we can chat..."
He hesitated to answer. If Dex were a believer, he would definitely be kissing God's feet right now, because holy hell, he was having a lot of luck today. "Yeah... uh... yeah, I'd love to."
And so he stayed another hour, all just to spend a little more time with her.
Now the two of them were sitting at a table, drinking wine. Julie was smiling at the conversation they were having. "That's my favorite route, too!" she said. "There's nothing better than running along the west river." She added, and Dex smiled.
"Between your running routes... and the new job, you could say you're stalking me," he laughed.
How ironic.
"Whoa! You caught me," she played along, laughing.
"Tell me... why didn't you stick with social work?" he asked.
She set her glass down on the table, thoughtful. "Well... the truth is, I wanted to be a dancer, and I made it... It went really well, until I tore my knee for... the second time," she added, with regret.
"Oh... I'm sorry. That must've been really hard... but it's admirable that you tried," he managed to say, trying to cheer her up.
"It's just... I didn't have a Plan B. My parents were wrong when they told me I could be whatever I wanted." She shrugged.
"Even if it didn't work out... it must've been nice to hear that..." There was a brief pause. "My... my parents never told me things like that..." he added.
"I don't think you needed it... You've gotten by just fine on your own." That answer of hers made his face light up with the same enchantment he'd had at your words. Only now, it was directed at Julie.
They both laughed together, nervous and a little clumsy. Suddenly, Julie leaned forward, curious. "So... what's it like... working for Wilson Fisk?"
He shook his head. "I don't... I don't work for him... I work for the Federal Government."
"It must be... really scary being so close to someone like him," she said, with a touch of pity.
He scoffed. "I don't have a choice. It's my job."
After a pause, she added, "Do you think someone like that deserves a second chance?"
Without hesitation, he answered. "You worked three years in suicide prevention... You should know better than anyone." He spoke without seeing the consequences.
She frowned. "How do you know I worked there three years? You were only there for one."
Shit.
Dex opened his mouth, trying to control himself. His hand drummed softly on the table. "You... you mentioned it earlier, you quit for ballet..."
"I don't remember mentioning that... specifically ballet," she replied, a little frightened.
"I guess... I just assumed," he tried to justify.
Julie looked at him for a few seconds, then gave a smile that didn't reach her eyes. She was uncomfortable.
"I should probably go... It's late. And I need to rest."
"Are you standing me up?" he asked, not quite believing it, smiling nervously.
"No, no! Not at all. It's just... I have to feed my dog," she mentioned, gathering her things.
"You don't have a dog," his expression shifted to something colder as he looked at her.
She turned her head, more frightened than before. "How do you know that?"
Neither of them moved after that revelation. Until Julie stood up quickly.
"Julie, Julie, wait." He tried to grab her. "You're misunderstanding... Let me buy you dinner, let's take a walk and I'll explain it, really..."
She tossed a bill onto the table. "I'll buy," she said, turning away again. But this time, Dex grabbed her arm, with some force, stopping her.
"Julie." He looked at her. "You're very special to me."
"Let go of me, Dex..."
"Please..."
"I said let go of me!" she repeated, her voice loud, wrenching her arm free from his grip, and she left quickly.
The people in the restaurant were stunned by the scene, some staring at Dex, others simply ignoring it. Meanwhile, inside Dex's head, he was starting to get nervous, agitated. Those flies buzzed back and forth, over and over, and he couldn't control it.
He had ruined his own chance.
Night fell over your apartment. Your bedroom was lit by the orange glow of the lamp on your desk. You had been reading a new book you'd picked up at a nearby bookstore—it was about strange diseases and how they formed in the body... You still remember the look on the shop assistant's face when she saw what book you were carrying, as if you were some kind of weirdo. And the truth was, you were.
Your fingers slid over the pages, studying the images with attention and fascination. Someday, you were interested in possibly conducting some kind of experiment like that. Though you doubted you'd ever pull it off.
At some point, you felt the urge to drink something, so you slid your chair across the floor to stand up. Your bare feet padded silently as you walked into the kitchen. You grabbed a glass and filled it with water, drinking it slowly.
You held the glass away for a few seconds, looking at it for no apparent reason. But then you frowned as you noticed something reddish pointing at it, like a laser, right next to your cheek.
It took you a moment to realize it wasn't just a simple laser.
Your eyes flew open and you dropped the glass just before a shot rang out from somewhere. Your window shattered from the bullet, and the glass in your hand exploded, its fragments spraying against your face, cutting your cheek and chin.
You ducked behind the counter, your heart racing. Your hand reached out blindly, trying to find something on top of the counter, but another shot sounded right beside you, making you startle again.
You slid across the floor, opened the utensil drawer, and grabbed a sharp knife. Out of the corner of your eye, you glanced at the shattered window, revealing a sniper in the building opposite.
"Shit..." you muttered under your breath, trying to spot an exit. On the other side was your bedroom; you could make it back there, but you'd need a lot of luck to get there unscathed. You braced yourself, ready to run.
Your feet sprang into action, dashing toward the bedroom, but another shot rang out—one that went straight into your arm. You screamed in pain, pressing your hand against the wound, feeling the blood run through your fingers. You gritted your teeth and kept moving toward your bedroom.
Quickly, you yanked open the closet door, shut yourself inside, and waited to see what would happen, the knife clutched in your hand.
You tried to stifle your cries from the intense pain the bullet was causing in your skin. You could feel tears sliding down your face, mingling with sweat.
And suddenly, you heard footsteps. First, the sound of glass—probably the window being completely smashed. Then someone entering, walking slowly.
You waited for the right moment to attack when he came close, wanting to see who had attacked you. But the night was long, and luck was not on your side.
Something started buzzing in your pocket.
You squeezed your eyes shut, your hand trembling. You felt around to see what it was, and it was nothing other than your own phone.
It was Dex. Calling you.
"Not now..." you whispered to yourself, not answering. You didn't know whether to hang up, because then he might think you didn't want to talk to him, which was a lie. You did want to, just not right now.
You cracked open the closet door, tossed the phone onto the bed, where it let out a soft buzz before going silent.
The footsteps you'd heard earlier changed direction, moving cautiously toward your bedroom. You held your position, waiting.
Again, another insistent buzz. Dex was calling you again, impatient. What did he want?
The good thing was that it drew the attention of that suspicious person, who moved closer to your bedroom. And through the sliver of light from your closet, you could make out his silhouette. It was a man, wearing almost military-style clothes, but not like a cop—more like a street thug. He was pointing a pistol everywhere as he moved, until he reached your phone.
He stared at it for several seconds, and without hesitation, he declined the call, which only pissed you off.
With a kick, you burst out of the closet, hurling yourself at him. You slashed the knife toward his torso, trying to cut him, but he recoiled quickly. Instead, he seized your face and slammed it hard against the closet, sending blood pouring from your nose. You fell to the floor in agony, trying not to move your left arm because of the bullet lodged there, but it was impossible.
He laughed a little at the state you were in and began reloading his pistol, aiming it at you.
With your other arm, you grabbed the knife and drove it into his leg, making him let out a groan and fire a shot into the floor by accident.
"You bitch!" he spat through clenched teeth, the knife still buried in his leg. You scrambled to your feet quickly, limping as you tried to escape his grasp.
But he caught up with you. His hand seized your ankle and yanked hard, sending you crashing face-first into the floor. The impact tore a grunt from your throat. You rolled over, kicking, struggling, as he tried to pin you down with his weight.
You managed to reach the handle of the knife still jutting from his leg. You pulled it free with a sharp jerk, drawing a sharp hiss from between his teeth. The blade came out smeared in dark red, and without a second thought, you raised it to bury it in his chest.
He saw it coming. His fist slammed into your stomach, just below the sternum. The air fled your lungs; you spat saliva and blood, doubling over yourself, but you didn't fall.
With a growl, you lunged forward and drove the knife into his side. The man's eyes flew wide, a wet gurgle escaping his throat. He staggered back and dropped to his knees. He ground his teeth, spitting up a gush of blood, but he didn't get up again.
You rose as best you could, panting, the knife still in your hand, ready to finish him off—and you did. You stabbed him again, over and over, gasping, broken, as the blood splattered across your face.
"Die!" you shouted, your voice shattered, driving the blade deeper and deeper. But then a figure seized your hand with force, stopping your movements cold.
"Hey, hey. Enough." A raspy voice spoke. You spun around, the weapon raised, and you saw him. There he was. The stranger in black. The same figure who had been tailing you, the same compact silhouette that had appeared in your apartment. His face was hidden behind a black mask. You couldn't see his eyes, but you knew he was staring at you.
"That's enough," he repeated.
"And who the hell are you?" you demanded, raising the bloodied knife toward him. Your vision was slowly blurring. Finally, without any answer from him, you lunged at him.
The knife carved a swift arc toward his chest, but the stranger moved with impossible fluidity. He dodged the slash effortlessly, twisting his torso just enough for the blade to graze his clothes without cutting him. He took a step back, raising his hands, palms open.
"I don't want to hurt you..." he said. "I'm just trying to help."
"I don't need your help!" you screamed, and attacked again.
This time, he caught your wrist in midair. His fingers were like a vise, but they didn't squeeze. They only held you. He pulled you toward him and, with a sharp movement, disarmed you with ease. The knife clattered to the floor, beyond your reach, and you tried to struggle, already drained of strength. You punched his chest with your fist, once, twice, three times. He didn't even flinch. Your breathing was a reedy whistle, your body at its absolute limit, but you refused to give up.
"Let go of me, goddammit!"
He released you, and you pitched forward as your body gave out. The man caught your shoulders, trying to steady you. "You're not okay..."
"I'm fine... I don't need your... fucking help..." you said, your words ragged, strengthless. You were definitely not fine; your head was spinning relentlessly, your vision was failing. Blood was dripping from your nose onto your lips, your face was cut, and that bullet in your arm had surely cost you a great deal of blood. You simply didn't want to feel weak.
But your knees gave way, and you crumpled to the floor. By some stroke of luck—thank God—the man caught you before your skull hit the ground.
"You're so stubborn..." he murmured. Slowly, he slid one arm under your knees and another beneath your back, lifting you carefully against his chest.
You had no idea where that figure was taking you, but at times, your fading consciousness caught fragments of words.
«Who is she?» asked a woman's voice, stern.
«Someone who helped me once... I'm returning the favor,» he replied. «She needs help now.»
You suddenly felt cold hands on your face, and a damp cloth.
The woman stared at you for a moment. «Leave her here... I'll take care of it. And go, before she recognizes you.»
He nodded, looking at you one last time, without his mask this time, before turning away and disappearing from that unknown room.
What was happening? Where were you? Who were these people?
Your questions went unanswered, because in the end, you closed your eyes one final time. Your body lay still and relaxed, letting unconsciousness claim you. Letting you, at last, breathe.
Summary: Dex discovers the sender of the gift. He wants answers. His methods for getting them are a little... rough. And yet, somehow, he ends up spending the night with you.
Dex x disturbed Fem!reader! Stalker.
Warnings: 18+ content. Strangulation. Gun violence. The reader exhibits what could be interpreted as suicidal ideation. Emotional breakdown. Dex is deeply vulnerable. Mentions of Julie. Tender moments, if one could call them that? The reader and Dex are mutually awkward and clumsy around one another. Softness and adoration, in their own strange way. Dex is chivalrous and painfully awkward. This chapter is based on Daredevil Episode 3x04.
Words: 7.9k
Note: Hellooo! Thank you so much for all the support on the previous chapter! I really hope you're enjoying this story ( ◜‿◝ )♡
I've been a bit swamped with my last exams (in fact, I have one tomorrow!), but other than that, I'll soon be on vacation, which means I'll have looots of free time.
This chapter is honestly very sweet, I promise (well, in the last few moments, at least). I really enjoyed writing this dynamic between them. With that said, I hope you enjoy it! Mwah (´ε｀ )
Here the previous chapter!
From the day of the gift, things went further than you could ever have imagined.
At work, Dex began to approach you cautiously. He spoke to you a few times, asking how your day was going, whether you had slept well... and he even started paying you compliments.
"Nice sweater, by the way," he would say with a smile that never quite reached his eyes.
You responded with charm, satisfied by the change in him. You believed that he had liked the gift and that he now felt comfortable around you.
But what you never imagined was that now, he was the one stalking you.
You had always thought that, at least between the two of you, you were the only one who watched and pursued. But from that day forward, it turned out that Dex had been observing you. The entire time.
It began at work. Perhaps he watched you as you worked with precision, and he stood there, observing how you extracted an embedded bullet from a cadaver's skull.
It would not have bothered you, given that this was what you had wanted, was it not? For him to look at you and see how you were from the inside.
But things went further.
When you went to the hotel to deliver reports on the Albanian case or to chat with Nadeem, he watched you through the security cameras. One by one.
If you went to the bar to order something? No matter; he would secretly switch cameras to keep an eye on you. Were you walking through the corridors? He watched you from there. Always, always watching you.
All of this was because he was trying to understand who you truly were. To know if everything you did was a lie. If you worked for someone hidden in the shadows.
The predator had found another predator, and he did not know whether you were a threat or simply someone who understood him.
That is why it reached the point where he was stalking you even in your private life. He discovered where you lived, and perhaps, he had watched you sleep in your warm bed from the window, by the fire escape.
He had been doing it for days.
At times, he thought about entering your apartment, but he did not go through with it because of the reaction you might have. What if you insulted him? What if he was wrong and it was simply a crude joke?
That is why he began to enter on his own when you were not there.
He reviewed everything he found, from simple pieces of furniture to the books you owned. Your personal items—such as clothes, shampoo, brushes, etc.—he did not touch, as they seemed disgusting and unnecessary to him.
Meanwhile, you saw that Dex was now more attentive to things, which made you more cautious when observing him, both at work and outside. You saw how, sometimes, he would look around outside, as if he was beginning to suspect your presence watching him.
Furthermore, lately you had noticed strange things in your apartment. Despite everything being in order, just as you had left it, on occasion, when you picked up one of your books, it felt warm. As if someone had been holding it a short while ago.
Had someone entered your apartment? you began to wonder.
Today was a normal day. Days had passed since the ambush, your wounds were now healed, and you no longer wore bandages. Only a reddish line remained on your cheek. The atmosphere at the FBI was calmer, though most were now more concerned with the Fisk situation. News flew from one side to the other, most of it criticizing the officials' position, and at times you saw Nadeem looking stressed by the press or the police assignments.
You were in the main room, where most of the officers were at their computers or chatting. You had to make photocopies of a couple of analyses a colleague of yours had done. You sighed, waiting, drumming your fingers lightly on the printer.
And in the meantime, from behind you, Dex was watching. With a calculating stare, his jaw clenched tight.
He was one hundred percent sure now that it was entirely you. And that you were not normal, but he prayed that you were simply a little weird, nothing more. It was clear he could not accept the fact that there might be someone like him.
He was taking a huge gamble if you were not.
So he adjusted his posture. He had to make a move once and for all; he was not going to stand idly by. He put on a false smile behind your back, trying to look his best.
"Lots of paperwork?" he asked, and you turned around.
"Oh, well... yes, a lot. But it's my job either way," you replied with a sweet smile.
He nodded, placing a hand in his pocket. "Hattley wants to see you." A lopsided smile flickered across his face for a split second. "She told me to let you know."
You frowned. Hattley? What for? you wondered. "...Ah, yeah?" And he nodded again.
"She's in another room, the meeting room. Don't worry, it's nothing bad." He smiled again, a smile that did not reach his eyes.
You narrowed your eyes for a second, then nodded. "Alright, lead the way, then."
He gave you another smile, turning around and starting to walk. You followed him, moving away from the area. Though you could not see it, Dex's expression was becoming less and less neutral; he began clenching his hand at times, blinking a little, and grinding his teeth internally. It was clear that at some point, he was going to explode.
You, on the other hand, observed that he was leading you further and further away from public areas, into zones with fewer people. You were already smelling something suspicious.
"...So, what do you—?"
You had no time to react. Suddenly, Dex grabbed your arm forcefully and shoved you into a narrow, small room, the typical kind used for storing cleaning chemicals, making you crash against the wall and several objects.
Your eyes had not yet adjusted to the dark, before he flicked on the warm light. And when you were about to speak, with firmness, he seized your throat, cutting off some of your air.
"What do you want?" He asked, coldly. Your hands flew to his arm, giving him light slaps to make him ease the pressure. But the more you did, the tighter he squeezed.
In the end, you laughed softly, despite the lack of air. But you saw how his hand loosened a little, and his eyes watched you with depth. "You think this is funny?" he asked again.
"I don't think Julie would like—..." You let out a soft whimper as you felt his grip tighten on your throat again.
"Don't. Talk. About. Julie," he said, with anger. His breathing began to quicken, slowly. "What's your game? I don't need any of your favors."
"Favor...?" You tried to shake your head. "No, no, no... I don't want a favor. I was just trying to let you know that I understand you." You added, your eyes glossy. "The ambush was nothing more than a resource to get to know you more deeply... And to discover that Agent Poindexter—" you swallowed, your voice hoarse, "—has more history than anyone could imagine. His extraordinary aim... His obsession with Ju—..." You fell silent again, from the force with which he was squeezing your throat.
He lowered his head for a few seconds and breathed deeply. His hand trembled, and finally, he let it fall slowly. Immediately, your own hand went to your throat, coughing a little.
He clicked his tongue for a few seconds, then rubbed his face slowly and sighed. He was annoyed and irritated.
"You think... that just because you watched me a couple of times, you know everything about me?" He asked you, staring. "No. You know. Nothing. About me."
You massage your neck, watching him slowly fall apart, watching him become more vulnerable in a simple, dimly lit room.
"It's true," you say, your voice raspy. You clear your throat. "I don't know anything about you." You take a deep breath. "But I want to. I've wanted to know about you for years."
Dex clenches his hands a little, restless, but it is because he knows you are entering darker territory.
"You probably had a shitty childhood, didn't you?" Your eyes glisten, and you press your lips together. For the first time, in front of him, you were vulnerable. You were pouring your heart out to him, showing him who you really were. He says nothing, just looks at you, but you can see his eyes are glistening too, as if he is holding back tears.
"Me too," you add, seeing he hasn't answered, laughing lowly and looking away. "I had a very abusive father in my life, and to be honest, he wasn't very pleasant, to say the least..." You look back at him.
He didn't respond. He just stood there staring at you, barely blinking.
You swallowed. It pained you to see yourself like this, so... broken and vulnerable. You might even say you hated yourself.
"I don't know how to act like myself around people... I've been faking it in front of them, with emotions I don't even feel. I can laugh, smile, even come across as empathetic... But I just can't. I can't do it."
You rub your face slowly, leaving a short silence, before letting your hands fall.
"I've felt invisible my whole life. To my father, my mother... Even everyone here, except for Nadeem. He respects me. But he doesn't see who I really am." You hug yourself, with an almost childlike gesture. "If he knew what I'm really like... He probably wouldn't want to speak to me ever again."
You sigh.
"Until you came along... That time, when I saw you in the cafeteria for the first time," you let out. "People praised you, they respected you for your work or your aim, whatever it was. And that... that sparked an enormous curiosity in me. I saw that... you were correct in your work, chivalrous, and often very perfectionist."
You could see Dex's face slowly shift into something resembling sadness. Perhaps he felt nothing, but he was trying to empathize with the pain, or the release, you were giving him.
"So... I started following you," you admit. "In a way that most people probably wouldn't understand, but you would." You rubbed your arms softly. "And I thought... what if I gave you back that magazine, if I showed you I wasn't afraid of you... that you don't disgust me... that... I understood you." You pause for a second. "Maybe you would see me. Again."
A single tear falls down your cheek, but you don't wipe it away. It wasn't necessary now.
"And I'm scared," you admit again, laughing to yourself, in front of him. "Now that I'm telling you all this... I'm scared you'll reject me, because if you don't understand either... No one is going to understand. And I'll be alone, again."
You see he makes no gesture, no movement, he is just static, not knowing what to do. You narrow your eyes for a few seconds, watching his hand drift slowly toward his pocket.
"If you're going to kill me. Kill me," you announce. "I'm not afraid of dying." You comment, looking at the pistol inside his pocket. That's when Dex's hand stops, touching the edge of the gun.
He pulls out the pistol. He doesn't say a word. He simply presses the barrel against your forehead. The contact is cold. You stare at the trigger for a few seconds, then sigh softly, closing your eyes.
If this is the end, so be it. At least he will have been the last person to see you.
However, you frown a little as more than several seconds pass, and Dex still hasn't pulled the trigger. And you notice the pistol is trembling slightly. When you open your eyes again, you see his face crumbling, and you were sure you saw a tear fall from his eye. His jaw was trembling.
He couldn't kill you.
He took a deep breath, and despite his efforts to pull the trigger, he couldn't. He simply didn't have the strength to do it.
He lowers the pistol slowly, without saying a word. He puts it back in his pocket and rubs his face again, trying to calm himself with rough movements against his skin. You can hear a soft, trembling sigh escape his throat; he isn't even looking at your face. He couldn't, not right now, not after this. Or at least, not for the moment.
Lowering his hands, he turns around, opens the door, and closes it behind him.
You massage your neck again, confused by his reaction, but then you thought. Of course. If he killed you now, he would be completely alone again. Which suggests that he has accepted you, in his own way, you suppose. Or that he is trying to.
Killing you would have been like killing his own hope, because he doesn't really want to be alone. Your death might have felt like another abandonment, and he wouldn't want that. He wouldn't want to relive that same trauma.
On the other side of the door, he was trying to calm down. And he did the same steps as always: breathe deeply, straighten his suit or tie, and set his face into neutral features. Slowly, you could hear his footsteps moving away from that door, off to wherever he was going.
You stayed inside there, thinking. If he let you live, it must be for a reason, you think. You wipe your tear with your index finger, staring at nothing. You stay like that for a long while.
Then, you leave that little room, returning to your usual spot. The photocopies were sitting on a small table next to it; it seemed someone had already neatly stacked them.
You had to get back to work, to follow protocol while the questions still churned in your head. At one point, you saw Dex leaving with Lim for outside; he didn't even look at you.
So, you understood it wasn't the right time to keep talking, and with that, you went on with your morning's work.
─── ୨୧ ───
Dex was on his way to the hotel in a car, alongside Lim.
His mind was still trying to process everything that had happened a short while ago; he had been vulnerable in front of a person he barely knew. And it bothered him.
"Dex, park here," Lim says, looking out the window. And he obeys, pulling over to the side.
They walked through the hotel, took the elevator up, and as always, headed for Fisk's penthouse.
The white doors were thrown open forcefully by Dex, and he began to walk with hurried steps toward the stairs, annoyed.
"Come on, upstairs. Room check," he says, moving with urgency toward Fisk's room. "Convict, hands and face against the wall."
Turning around, he is a little surprised inside. To see Fisk already against the wall, literally before his orders, struck him as somewhat strange.
"Search everything..." he orders Lim, who immediately sets about tearing the room apart.
Dex positions himself behind Fisk. "We're going to conduct a room search. You are going to follow our instructions, understood?"
"Understood," Fisk responded instantly.
You move his hands and arms with swift movements towards his, patting him down, even kneeling to check his legs and torso. "I'm going to search you to confirm you have nothing to harm yourself or hurt others with, is that understood?" He asks, firmly.
"Understood," he says again.
"Turn around."
Fisk complies, turning to face him. And they stare at each other for a few seconds, in an awkward, tense silence.
"Are we done?" Fisk asks, looking him up and down.
Dex smiles sideways, an arrogant smile, directed right at him. "All clear." And he walks back toward the door of his room, along with Lim.
As they walk down the stairs, he buttons up his black suit jacket. He sighs, until he finishes buttoning it at the bottom. The empty house made him quite uncomfortable, especially because of that empty white color. He turns around for a few seconds and sees Fisk watching him from above.
He feels his insides churn at his stare, and he slowly averts his gaze, leaving the penthouse again, leaving him alone. He didn't know what Fisk's game was, but he didn't like it. It seemed like he wanted to read his mind, and he already had enough with you; he didn't need anyone else in his world.
That is why, at lunchtime, they were going to ruin his meal.
A lady was approaching the door with a cart, holding a plate: a hamburger with fries. It was unbelievable how that man was going to feast by eating that.
Both Dex and Lim were at the two corners, and they checked the cart for any objects (like a weapon or cell phone). And later, they checked the food. Dex grabbed the hamburger, and without any remorse, took a bite, savoring the meat. He smiled at Lim, satisfied. Lim, meanwhile, pushed the cutlery aside, leaving only two pieces, and dumped the fries onto the wooden tray.
And as a final touch, with his sleeve, Dex wiped the metal plate cover and placed it on top of the tray, as a mockery.
Without a word, they headed to the surveillance room while security took the tray (without any comment on the matter) up to Fisk's penthouse.
They looked like two kids playing a cruel prank.
They watched the cameras with a smile, seeing Fisk, waiting for a reaction from him.
Slowly, he opens the lid without emotion, setting it aside. And the surprising thing was he didn't flinch; on the contrary, he grabbed the cutlery and began to remove the lettuce from the hamburger. Only to then cut it into pieces and start eating.
The smile slowly fades from Dex's face, but he lets out a soft snort.
"To tell you the truth, I wasn't expecting this reaction," he says, watching Fisk through the camera. "Who eats a hamburger with cutlery?" He asks mockingly.
Their expressions change a little when they hear the door open. It was Hattley and Nadeem, along with a supervisor.
"Special Agent Poindexter."
"Ma'am."
"Supervisory Agent Wheel, from the OPR," she introduces him.
"Poindexter," Wheel says. "Why don't you step out for a coffee?" He asks, with a look that would not accept no for an answer.
Dex opens his mouth for a few seconds, bewildered by the question. "Yes, sir..." he says, nodding. He lets out another sigh and proceeds to leave that room, staying outside in the hallway.
He was not alone there for even a second, as Nadeem opened the door behind him. "Dex."
He turns around.
"Don't worry about this," he tries to calm him.
"Don't worry about what?" Dex asks, frowning.
Nadeem glances at the door, as if making sure no one comes out, before looking at him. "The Bureau is trying to conduct an interview with Fisk," he explains.
He narrows his eyes, puzzled. "But he hasn't asked anyone else to leave," he says, not understanding the situation.
Nadeem sighs slowly, preparing himself for what he's about to say. "I am... aware that I shouldn't be telling you this, but the Office of Professional Responsibility has opened an internal investigation into the convoy attack..."
Dex bites the inside of his cheek, but Nadeem wasn't even finished yet.
"And I also shouldn't inform you that they've detected a slight discrepancy between your official report and the forensic analysis of the shooting," he adds.
"Yeah... You're risking your job telling me all this," Dex replies, with some irritation.
Nadeem sighs again, stepping closer to him. "Thanks to you, my wife still has a husband, and my son has a father." He then turns around, leaving him space to process everything he's been told.
Dex stands still, before clicking his tongue and proceeding to pinch the bridge of his nose, trying to relax a little, massaging his temples. He was frustrated.
And the worst was yet to come.
In your case, you were downstairs at the hotel. Nadeem had called you half an hour ago; you didn't know the main reasons, he had just told you to come as soon as possible.
And there you were, sitting in a corner of the hotel, fidgeting with your hands. You heard some hurried footsteps and looked up; it was him.
"Sorry for the delay... I had to be in the surveillance room," Nadeem explained, calmly.
"Don't worry," you say, getting up from the chair. You clasp your own hands together, waiting for his explanation. "What's going on?"
Nadeem lets out a slow exhale, as if he wasn't prepared to tell you. "I've received some information that... well, it's quite surprising to me, above all."
You slowly frown a little, confused. "....And?"
"It's not easy to explain... Eh..." He sighs, scratching the back of his neck. "The Office of Professional Responsibility has opened an investigation into what happened during the ambush."
Shit. No. Impossible.
"They've detected a... discrepancy in your forensic report. And in Special Agent Poindexter's official report."
Shit. Shit. Shit.
"They don't match," he added, looking directly at you. "And that... well, it means they're going to investigate what happened."
You stand paralyzed by all this information. You open your mouth and stammer to let out a simple, "Ah..." and then you swallow.
"A discrepancy... you say?" You frown. "That's absurd. My report has been impeccable. I didn't make any mistakes; I always review it, you know that."
"I know, I know..." He raised a hand, trying to calm you. "But the OPR has its protocols. They're going to review everything... But don't worry, maybe there was a mistake in the report, right? Stay calm, really. I doubt very much you would have done something like that," he adds.
He sighs again. "But, in the meantime..." He paused, as if it pained him to say it to your face. "You'll be suspended. Just a few days... until they sort it out."
The silence that follows is short, but heavy with meaning. You exhale slowly through your nose, blinking a couple of times.
Impossible.
"Suspend me, really?" You manage to say, your voice somewhat sharp. "Me? For a fucking mistake?" you add.
"It's just a few days... Then you'll be reinstated."
You click your tongue, smiling with mockery. "Yeah, right." You laugh, unable to believe it. "I haven't done anything wrong. Nothing. My report is correct... I-if... If someone found something, let them say it to my face. Who was it? Sasha, Kevin, Harper? Who said there's a discrepancy?" You ask, your voice choppy and angry.
Nadeem shook his head definitively, looking somewhat sorry for you.
"I can't tell you that, I'm sorry. But it's not personal, I promise. It's protocol. You know how these things work..."
You press your lips together. Your mind goes blank as you listen to Nadeem continue talking through a muffled noise.
«You can rest these days if you want... You've been working all these days... How's your hand, by the way?»
You had a lost look in your eyes, and your right hand began to clench at your side, feeling your nails slowly digging into the flesh of your palm.
You completely ignore his question and look at him again. "And what am I supposed to do now?" You ask, watching him. "Stay at home staring at the ceiling while they look at my report as if I were a criminal?"
"You're not a criminal." Nadeem takes a step toward you. "Nobody thinks that, believe me. But this is how the OPR is; they have to do their job. And I... I need you to trust me, please. I promise you nothing is going to happen."
You stayed silent. Inside, your mind was racing, processing all the information he had been giving you, and there were countless questions spinning around in your head.
In the end, Nadeem sighed, and gave you a few gentle pats on the shoulder, which annoyed you more than they encouraged you. "Take care, and don't do... anything weird, okay? Get some rest."
You nod slowly. And Nadeem proceeds to leave, walking away down the corridor.
The moment he disappeared, your expression crumbled, your breathing had become agitated for a few seconds. You rubbed your face with both hands, roughly, as if you wanted to wipe away all the weight on them. Your hair got a little disheveled from the brusqueness of your hands, and you smoothed it back, tucking it behind your ears.
God, you wanted so badly to hit something.
All afternoon you wandered around the offices. It turns out your personalized card (the kind you used to open the laboratory doors) had been deactivated. Just as Nadeem said, since you were temporarily suspended, you no longer had access to the work rooms.
You felt cornered. If you no longer had access to the materials, what could you do? They couldn't do this just because; it was absurd. A simple mistake on your part.
You'll find another way to fix it.
Meanwhile, across the city, at the hotel, Dex was somewhat paranoid. The interview they had already given to Fisk put him on edge, because it meant that if Fisk confirmed what he'd seen there, that brutal slaughter, his career would be over. And if his career was over, he would break.
He enters the surveillance room again; there's no one there except Lim, his coworker.
Lim nods, and Dex simply replies with a "Good. Very good," his hands in his pockets.
Slowly, he pulls a couple of bills from his pocket, tossing them onto his desk. "Why don't you... go down and grab a coffee? My treat," he proposes.
Lim's face is neutral at first, but then he smiles seeing his colleague offer him that gesture. "Yeah, why not? It'll do me good." And so, he gets up, grabbing those bills.
Dex waited patiently for him to leave, listening to the door close. Good. Now he was completely alone in the room, perfect.
He remains standing, and heads for the computers, pushing the swivel chair out of his way. On the cameras, he observes the live feed closely, but that's not what he wants. He wants to see the interview.
With a button, he rewinds everything, right from the beginning of the interview.
He was trembling slightly, impatient to know what they had asked him, and above all, Fisk's answer.
On the recordings, you can see Hattley throw down a folder and point with her finger at a photo of some Albanian.
"Do you know this subject?" she asks.
"He was among the Albanians who attacked the convoy," Fisk announces.
"Did you see these men die?" Wheel, the supervisory agent, points out.
"Yes, that's correct," he confirms.
"And did you see who shot them?" he asks again.
Dex clenches his jaw.
"Only one FBI agent was left standing... Special Agent Poindexter," he reveals.
"For the record, in the report, could you describe what you saw when he shot them?" he asks again.
Fisk remains silent for a few seconds, before finding his answer. "They were armed." He pauses. "Special Agent Poindexter gave them a chance to surrender, but they raised their weapons to fire at him." Another slight pause. "He killed them in self-defense."
Dex lowers his head gently, unable to believe it. He let out a shaky sigh. Fisk had lied perfectly to the two of them with an incredible naturalness.
While listening to Hattley and the supervisor leave, he raised his head again, watching the camera reflecting Fisk... Why? Why did he lie? What does he want from him?
Slowly, Fisk looks at the camera, creating the illusion that Fisk was staring coldly at Dex through the screen.
His insides churn again under that stare, feeling scared, or so he thinks. But no, he doesn't have to feel that way. He doesn't need any help from him, least of all from a criminal.
He pauses the recording, and to avoid arousing suspicion, he shuts off every camera. Then, he leaves that room, heading for the penthouse. He throws the doors open forcefully and sees him, directly ahead, seated at his table without moving.
He stands in front of him, clenching and unclenching his fists several times. "What's your game?" he asks, just like that time with you.
"Game?" Fisk asks, feigning ignorance.
"I don't need any favors from you, convict," he says, his voice sharp. He was about to turn around, but Fisk responds.
"Not favors. Support," he announces. "Papers... Protests, mockery. I can endure humiliations like that, but you are a dedicated special agent."
Dex steps closer again, with hurried strides. "You don't know anything about me," he says, coldly. And there, Fisk gently tosses the day's newspaper. "The Bulletin, neither." It was a criticism of the FBI, regarding his transfer to the hotel.
"The press has called the attack on my life... an FBI disaster." He lets the silence surround them. "And now they're investigating you for doing your job. They're questioning you for being exceptional... You saved my life!" He raises his voice, as if delivering a motivational speech. "And you saved the lives of other federal agents! But has any of that been mentioned? No." He pauses. "Instead they denigrate... And belittle your bravery."
There is a tense silence between the two of them. Dex doesn't respond to what he's saying; he stays silent, listening to his words. He doesn't want to believe him.
And suddenly, Fisk drags his chair back, looking at him. Immediately, Dex grabs the side of his pants, gripping the edge of his pistol.
"The world is changing. True heroes are ridiculed and... wasted. And that's why... I offer you my support."
Dex blinks a couple of times, that thought in his head. He shakes his head slowly and begins to take a step back, before turning around and leaving.
As he walks out, breathing deeply, he tries to get Fisk's stare out of his head. It made him uncomfortable, but the worst part was that his words made him feel good. Like... valued. Fisk valued him as the agent he was; he offered support. What he needed.
But no, he can't think that. He's a fugitive. One of the worst. Why believe him?
No, Dex, stop thinking about that.
He starts walking toward the elevator, and as he descends, his mind eventually lands on you, for some reason.
You haven't spoken since that scene at the door, which was only... how long? A few hours? He remembered the words you had said to him, how you saw in him a strange support. And he, though he hadn't told you, felt somewhat valued by the trust and the outpouring you had placed in him.
Perhaps that was what he needed now. You. Support. Someone he could talk to about everything, even the darkest of his thoughts. Someone who would value him without disgust or fear.
He suddenly pulled out his phone, thoughtful. Shit, that's right, he didn't have your number.
When he went back to the FBI offices, you weren't there. You'd gone home a good while ago; in the end, you had listened to Nadeem.
What was left?
He only had one option: go to your apartment. But how? If he showed up there, you'd be suspicious about how he knew where you lived. But he had no other choice.
So now, he's standing in front of your door. He took a deep breath, and with his hand trembling, he rang the bell.
A soft chime sounded, and it only took you a few seconds to open the door. The door revealed your state: you were wearing a dark blue t-shirt and plain, short black pants. You were also barefoot, just in your socks. You stood still for a few seconds, not knowing what to say about it, but your expression said it all; you were surprised.
"Hey... uh..." Dex started. He was quite nervous, fidgeting with his hands. "I wanted to... well, I just wanted to come by and... see you. Yeah," he clarified.
You frowned for a few seconds. "What? No... I don't understand. What– what are you doing? How did you know my...?"
"I know you have a lot of questions, but please... please. I need you to let me in," he says, with glistening eyes. "Please." You saw a different expression on him, one you'd say was almost identical to the one in that room—scared and vulnerable.
After a few seconds, you give in. You step aside, silently giving him the invitation. You hear a trembling sigh, and he walks in. Slowly, you close the door behind him.
"Thank you... thank you, really..." he added.
You said nothing, you just looked him up and down.
After a few seconds pass, you gesture with your head toward the nearby sofa. "You can sit if you want... You don't have to stand, you know?" And you see him immediately sit on the sofa, trying not to disturb it too much. He was rigid, but his expression was crumbling.
You approached him slowly, carefully. He had a lost, aimless look in his eyes.
Shit. Was it a good idea to come? What if I'm scaring her?
"Hey," you say, kneeling a little to look at him. "Do you want... coffee or something? I can make you something, if you want," you offered.
He blinks suddenly, as if your question had pulled him from his thoughts, and he looks at you. "Yes... Yeah, yeah. A coffee would be nice. Please."
You nod, getting up slowly. You head to the kitchen, preparing a decaf coffee, plain, just the way he liked it. In the living room, the only thing that could be heard was the noise of the coffee maker; it was awkward.
Meanwhile, you proceed to make yourself a tea, setting the green cup aside.
You carry the coffee cup toward him, handing it over carefully. "It's hot, be careful," you say, your voice soft and warm. He murmurs a "thank you," almost inaudible. He grabs the cup, and his fingers brush against yours—this time, for longer, as if he wanted that contact. You don't pull away, letting him touch you. Then he takes the cup away, bringing it to his lips and taking a sip.
For your part, you go to the kitchen to grab your teacup, sitting down on the lone sofa across from him, but close. You pull your legs up against you, drinking the tea slowly, in silence.
It was an awkward silence, or so you think, because neither of you spoke. Neither he nor you knew what to say about it. For instance, how did he know your address? Was he stalking you too? What did he want?
You broke the ice with a simple, very gentle question, so as not to scare him off. "Are you okay?" you manage to ask, looking at him.
He lets out a soft snort, as if even he can't believe it. "Let's just say I've had a shitty day..."
"Tell me."
He looks at you for a few brief seconds, and you exhale slowly. "They've... opened an investigation into what happened during the ambush. They noticed a... discrepancy between my official report and... the forensic report." He takes another sip of his coffee, looking away.
You hum, drinking.
"Does it have... something to do with you?" he asks suddenly.
"You could say so," you nod, giving him a false smile for a few seconds, as if you didn't like the decision they'd made about you.
"They've penalized me for it," you add.
"Oh," Dex lets out, nervously.
You nod again, in silence.
"I'm sorry, it must... be hard. Very hard." He sets the cup down on the table, pensive. "It's, it's my fault... I shouldn't have shot those two... If I hadn't done it, we wouldn't be in this mess..." he comments, rubbing his face a little, hiding his face in his hands.
"It's not your fault... You did what you had to do," you encourage him, softly. "If you hadn't shot those Albanians, who knows what would have happened. Imagine it: Nadeem, Fisk, me, or other agents would have ended up dead. You saved us," you add.
Dex looks at you again for a few seconds, blinking. "You... think so?"
You hum in response.
He sits thinking for a few seconds, and he nods this time. "Thank you..."
You take another sip of your tea, watching him.
"I-I'm sorry about before... seriously, I didn't, I didn't mean to strangle you... God, are you okay? Did I hurt you?" He asks suddenly, remembering the incident in the room. He was ashamed of his actions, and frustrated for having lost control at that moment.
You raise a hand, trying to calm him. "Hey, relax. I'm fine, it was nothing serious," you say, your voice calm. "In fact, it would be my fault; I was half-mocking you at that moment..." You shrug. "I'm sorry for talking about Julie, really. She must be a great girl to you," you add, naturally.
You aren't trying to compete like you usually do; this time, you've understood how significant Julie is to him.
He nods, and smiles a little. "Yeah... she is." He takes another sip of his coffee. "But she doesn't know I exist... I mean, yes, I watch her, but we've never interacted. And the truth is, I'm scared... that one day she'll see me," he adds.
"Scared of what?" you ask, curiously.
"Because she'll see who I really am. She wouldn't accept me, probably... And I try... I try to change, really," he stammers a little. "She's... She's a great woman. She helps people, she's... kind and very charming. And..." he stutters. "I want to become like her."
Silence floods the room for a few short seconds.
"I think Julie would be lucky to know you, honestly. And if she doesn't understand... it's her loss."
Dex shakes his head softly, giving you a sad smile. "I don't know if you'd be saying that if you knew me completely..." He averts his gaze, as if he'd be ashamed to admit it.
You raise your eyebrows for a few seconds and let out a soft laugh. "I've seen you do many things that, for some people, are questionable. And I'm still here, unflinching," you add, gesturing at yourself from top to bottom.
"I don't understand," he murmurs, looking at you.
You shrug, then take another sip from the cup. "You don't scare me. It's simple. You make me feel..." you search for the right word. "Comfortable. So to speak, yes. You make me feel comfortable." You smile at him.
"Really?"
You nod, looking at him. "Believe me, we're very similar, more than it seems."
You hear a soft laugh from him, gentle. You could see he felt comfortable, because he was relaxing and letting go. He kept drinking his coffee, and his gaze drifted to your hand, the one that had been bandaged before.
"Doesn't it hurt?" he asks suddenly, breaking the silence.
You frown for a few seconds, not understanding, until you look at your own hand. "Oh." You shake your head vigorously. "Not at all, they don't bother me anymore." You turn it so he can observe it; there were slight, short, dry cuts, both on the palm and on the back.
Dex stared at it with attention, but being on the other sofa, he had to stand up a little, narrowing his eyes. In the end, gently, he set his cup down on the table and came closer to you. Kneeling down slowly.
Your heart stops for a few seconds. What was he doing?
He opens his mouth for a few seconds, stammering. "May I...?" And he raises a hand toward your wrist. The question was careful, and he was waiting for an answer from you.
You stayed looking at him for a few seconds, and you swallow, nodding again. "Yes, of course." You brought your wrist toward him, and carefully, he takes it with one hand, pulling it closer to him.
He observes it with more determination, as if it were something precious, though in this case, he looked a little worried by the damage. His thumb went toward the back of your hand, but he stopped, watching you.
"May I...?" he asks again, looking at you.
You nod again, a little nervous. You were never going to imagine seeing him like this, honestly.
His thumb began to stroke the back of your hand with a strange tenderness, brushing his finger over the cuts you had. "You made a foolish move at that moment... You shouldn't have unbuckled your seatbelt."
"If I hadn't, I probably would've had a concussion or something, you know? I was upside down," you laugh a little.
He hums this time, his fingers still brushing over the back of your hand.
Suddenly, he leans in without warning. His lips graze the scar with an almost nonexistent softness, giving it a kiss. When he pulls away, he sees your surprised, but not angry, expression, and he panics.
"Sorry. I... I don't know why I did that. That was... that was weird. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have just grabbed your hand like that. It wasn't my intention..." He stammers, looking away and rubbing the back of his neck, completely embarrassed.
It takes you a few seconds to react, but when you do, you simply shake your head and smile. "It's okay. That was... nice."
"Are you sure...?" He asks, looking at you.
"Sure, really."
He nods slowly, and looks at your wrist again. Slowly, with your other hand, you grasp his jaw, making him look at you. He was a little surprised by that gesture; you could even feel his cheeks blushing, embarrassed. You slide your other hand up to the stitches on his eyebrow, carefully, looking at him.
"Now we're even," you comment, placing your hands on his cheeks, at last, able to caress them after so long.
You see him close his eyes, and let out a soft, trembling sigh. I guess he'd been needing something like this for a while, or he doesn't know how to react.
You stay in that position for a while, until finally you decide to lower your hands, resting them on your legs.
You narrow your eyes for a few seconds. "What time is it?" you ask, curiously, changing the subject.
Dex blinks, and looks around until he notices he has a watch on his own wrist. "It's eleven at night." He looks up, still kneeling.
You hum. "Are you in a hurry?"
He shakes his head. "Actually... I was... Well," he clears his throat. "I was thinking if I... could stay tonight."
"Oh," you let out.
"If you want, of course. It's your house. It's just... I don't want to be alone, at least not today," he adds quickly.
"Well," you shrug. "If you put it like that, I'll have to accept." You laugh.
"No, no, please. Are you sure you want me to stay?" he asks.
"Dex." You raise a hand, trying to calm him. "I don't mind, really. I was going to accept anyway."
He nods gratefully, getting up slowly.
"Would you like something to eat?" you ask, getting up too.
"I don't want to empty your fridge..."
"Are you calling me poor?" You pretend to be offended by that comment, to which he lets out an embarrassed laugh.
"No, no... I didn't mean that," he denies with a hand. "It's just that maybe I'd use up a lot of your food..."
You laugh softly, shaking your head as well. "How sweet... But don't be silly, really. It's not like you're going to eat my whole fridge in one night. You tell me."
He hesitates for a few seconds, until he answers. "Do you think you could make me a hamburger?" He says, looking at you.
"Sure, no problem. Make yourself at home."
That's how you ended up preparing two hamburgers for the two of you. Dex had taken off his black suit jacket, leaving it on a coat rack, keeping on the white button-down shirt.
You could hear his footsteps all over your apartment; the truth is he was restless, looking around and even coming over to watch you cook.
"Is something wrong?" you ask, without looking at him.
"No, nothing," he answers naturally, putting his hands in his pockets and pacing around again.
You serve the plates gently on the table, and you eat, talking a little. It's funny because Dex was doing exactly what he told the psychologist, but now, with you.
He told you about his day, the good and the bad, and you just listened while you bit into your hamburger. In fact, he told you about the rude "prank" he'd played on Fisk with that hamburger, and you frowned, asking the same question.
"Seriously? Who eats hamburgers with cutlery?" you say, laughing with him.
It was a rather quiet dinner, funny considering the people you both were. When you finished, you were watching television, though you were distracted talking to each other.
When the program ended, Dex rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand. He was exhausted; you could see it in his jaw, in his shoulders, in the way he blinked slower than normal. You glanced at the clock. Two in the morning.
"You should get some sleep," you said, turning off the television.
He nodded, but didn't move.
"The sofa is all yours," you added, pointing to the cushions. "Or..." you hesitated for a second, not quite knowing why. "...if you'd prefer something more comfortable, I have a bed. It's big. We can both fit. Without touching, I mean. You don't have to... well, you know."
Dex looked at you, his eyebrows slightly raised. He didn't look scandalized, just surprised. And maybe a little incredulous.
"I don't want to bother you..." he murmured.
"You're not bothering me." You smiled at him. "And besides, your eyes are like two slits. I don't know if you'll even make it to the sofa without tripping over the table."
He smiled, and snorted softly, trying not to laugh.
"You can sleep on one side and I'll sleep on the other. I won't do anything weird to you, I promise." You raised your hands.
He looked at you with a slightly raised eyebrow, as if he wanted to say «you're the one who stalks me», but he didn't say anything. He just got up from the sofa, blanket in hand, and followed you to the bedroom.
He walked in slowly, looking around the room as if it were the first time he'd seen a real bedroom. His fingers brushed the edge of the mattress, testing the texture, and he nodded to himself, as if the touch gave him some answer he needed. Then, without warning, he started unbuttoning his shirt.
You, meanwhile, closed the door, then turned around.
Your eyes went wide as saucers.
"Whoa, whoa, whoa." You raised your hands, stopping him. "What... what are you doing?"
Dex froze with the third button half undone, looking at you with genuine confusion.
"I'm going to sleep," he said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "I can't sleep with a shirt on. It bothers me."
"Ah."
"I swear to you. I'm not trying anything weird," he added, raising a hand, almost offended.
You shake your head. "No, no, I was just..." you stammered, running a hand through your hair, embarrassed. "I just didn't expect it. That's all. Go on, go on." You make a vague gesture with your hand.
He looked at you for a few more seconds, as if he couldn't quite understand where the problem was, and then finished unbuttoning his shirt with precise, almost mechanical movements. He folded it carefully and laid it on a nearby chair.
You turned back around, looking at the wall. You gave him his privacy, though, to be honest, you glanced sideways a couple of times, and you felt bad for intruding on his privacy.
"Done?" you asked, and he hummed in response. You turned around, watching him for a few seconds before diverting your gaze to the bed.
Silently, you both lay down. You turned off the bedside lamp, leaving the room in darkness. You could hear the bed creak a little as he settled himself, on his side, looking at the wall; you did the same, looking at the other wall.
You were realizing that you had never slept with a man, at least, not like this. Were you uncomfortable? No idea. After all, you were the one who had suggested it.
"Goodnight," you say.
"Goodnight."
Several minutes passed. Five, ten, fifteen... You were slowly falling asleep, until his voice brought you back.
"Hey."
"Mhmm...?" You open your eyes a little.
There is a brief silence, before he adds. "It's cold."
At first you frowned; there were plenty of warm blankets, and besides, it was his fault because he'd half-undressed himself for sleeping.
"Can you...?" He asks halfway, and lets out an exhale. "Can you... hold me?" His words came out clumsy, and if it weren't for the darkness, you'd see that his face was completely full of embarrassment.
You didn't answer for several seconds; you were frozen. The truth is you were also a little embarrassed by that request. But you weren't going to refuse.
"Yeah, sure," you said, and slowly you turn, positioning yourself behind his back.
You could see a bit of his straight, somewhat muscular back; you swallowed. You had never done this with anyone, honestly.
Carefully, you move closer to him, just enough to feel his body heat. Your hands lift toward him, wrapping around his waist, feeling for a brief second the brush of his abs and chest. And you interlace your fingers, a little.
Your head, in turn, rests against his back, feeling the flesh against your cheek.
You can hear him let out a trembling sigh. "Thank you..." he manages to say, in a murmur.
You smile inwardly, and finally close your eyes. His hands slowly go toward yours, without asking permission this time, as if he needed it. You feel him grasp them gently and intertwine them with his own, resting them against his chest, feeling for yourself how his heart was beating.
His eyes also closed, able to sleep more comfortably than on other days.
Surely this time he was able to sleep well, thanks to you.
Summary: In the aftermath of Fisk's transfer, you decide to do something special for Dex.
Dex x disturbed Fem!reader! Stalker.
Warnings: 18+ content. Set in the immediate aftermath of the transfer. Heavy blood and gore. Obsession and psycholgical problems. Reader stalks Dex. Dex stalks Julie (canon-typical). Dex is both broken and tender in turns... vulnerable, even, by the end? Features canonical cameos from Daredevil. Based on Daredevil Season 3 and Born Again. (This chapter draws most heavily from Episode 3x03.)
Words: 8.2k
Note: Thank you all so much for the incredible support on the first chapter! It truly means the world to me that you enjoyed it. I hope with all my heart that this chapter lives up to your expectations as well.
If you'd like me to tag you when the next chapter goes up, just let me know (´ε｀ )
Here the previous chapter!
The police cruiser drew closer to the hotel. Fisk remained silent, as though the ambush had truly shaken him.
No. That was not it.
It was Vanessa.
"Move your ass!" Nadeem snapped, pulling him from his thoughts. They had arrived at the hotel. He seized Fisk by the orange shirt and tugged him forward.
"I need to make a phone call," Fisk announced, even as Nadeem dragged him along.
"The lobby is secure," Dex reported, stepping ahead of them.
Nadeem began guiding Fisk inside, weaving through the chaos of agents scrambling to make sense of what had happened.
"What the hell went down here?" one of them demanded, struggling to match their pace.
"An ambush. They were everywhere. What do you know about the others?" Nadeem asked, as additional agents took hold of Fisk.
"Two more agents are in surgery because of this bastard," the man replied, glaring at the prisoner.
As they ascended the stairs, Fisk's lawyers were already waiting.
"Donovan!" Fisk called out to one of them.
"Stay back," Dex warned the attorneys.
"We're his lawyers!"
"Congratulations. Stay back," Dex answered coldly, continuing forward alongside Nadeem while they attempted to follow.
"Find Vanessa," Fisk pleaded. "The Albanians tried to kill me. They will go after her next."
"My client is not implying he knows how to contact a fugitive!" the lawyer interjected.
"You must keep her safe!" Fisk insisted once more, before being ushered into the elevator with the others.
As they ascended, he passed through a swift security scan. An alarm blared, but the agents dismissed it—likely triggered by the handcuffs he still wore.
"Someone get a medic," Nadeem instructed, passing through the scanner himself, Dex and another agent right behind him.
"He's fine," Dex observed, glancing at Fisk from behind.
"The medic's for me, not him," Nadeem clarified.
"Understood. This bastard's all yours." Dex moved to summon a doctor, but Nadeem caught him by the arm.
"Dex, wait."
He turned back, facing Nadeem.
"Brief the chief," Nadeem suggested.
"Agents are dead. The reports can wait," Dex answered firmly, resisting.
"You know the drill. Follow protocol, and get right back." Nadeem held his gaze, and Dex, without further protest, turned on his heel and strode toward the surveillance room to notify Hattley.
Nadeem continued escorting Fisk, swinging open the doors to his new "home." It stood empty, cold, devoid of life.
"You will remain confined to this space. You will be under surveillance at all times—there are cameras everywhere. You will contact no one except your lawyers. There will be armed guards posted at the door twenty-four hours a day." He stepped closer, grasping the handcuffs and unfastening them. "You'll be safe here."
"Safe... They nearly succeeded in killing me," Fisk retorted with a sneer. In an instant, Nadeem seized him, anger flaring.
"Good people died today. You'd better make sure their sacrifice wasn't in vain. Otherwise, you can shove that deal straight up your ass." He released him and strode away.
──── ୨୧ ────
Barely two hours had passed since the ambush. It was around two in the morning, and you were seated in a hospital chair just beyond the treatment area. You had refused, outright, to lie on a gurney. You disliked them. In general, you disliked being rescued, in your own way.
Grudgingly, the nurses had cleaned only the blood from your face, placing a white adhesive strip across the bridge of your nose, another along your cheekbone to close the gash, and finally bandaging your hand where the shattered glass and the impact against the ground had done their work.
They performed a CT scan to rule out a concussion. Nothing. As you had insisted, you were fine.
Your head tilted backward, coming to rest softly against the pastel-blue wall, and you closed your eyes.
Your thoughts returned to what had happened hours before. To that simple sentence of his, which you treasured like a relic. The worst part was how it summoned a faint, satisfied smile to your lips.
"What are you doing here?" Nadeem's voice pulled you abruptly from your reverie. You opened your eyes and turned your head slowly toward him.
"I thought... well, that you'd still be under observation," he added.
"I'm fine. It wasn't that bad," you answered, idly scratching near the edge of the bandage on your cheek.
"It was to me," Nadeem confessed, holding your gaze. You went still for a moment, looking down at the floor, feeling a faint confusion at his words before meeting his eyes again. "I lost men today. Many of them. And I wouldn't have wanted to lose you, too."
You fell silent for several seconds, feeling something stir inside you—as if his words had, for once, made you feel truly valued. You could see the concern in his eyes, hear it in the weight of his voice.
"You shouldn't have been brought along. Honestly. It was... a stupid decision," he added, his gaze wandering for a moment.
"Those were Hattley's orders."
"I know, but look at this." He gestured with his chin toward the rows of hospital rooms lining the corridor. "All of this happened because of me. Families are grieving—people they loved are gone. And it's all because of a goddamn deal..." The anguish in his voice was unmistakable.
"It's not your fault, Nadeem," you said. "You did... the right thing. Maybe you haven't told me the details of that deal, but if you thought it was the right course, there must have been something behind it. I respect that."
Nadeem bit the inside of his cheek, staring down at the floor for a few seconds before giving a brief nod. "Sorry for unloading on you. I'm probably bothering you."
You shook your head.
"I know it's early to ask, but... do you think you could analyze the Albanian bodies? Whenever you can, of course. No rush." He slipped his hands into his pockets. "I need the report to send up to the chief."
"Sure. No problem," you replied without hesitation. "I'll do it as soon as I can. Don't worry. You'll have the reports."
Nadeem nodded, something like relief flickering across his face. "Get well soon," he said, looking at you. He turned to leave, took a few steps, then stopped.
"Oh, one more thing." He looked back.
You turned your head from your seat. "Yeah?"
"Agent Poindexter asked me to tell you, on his behalf, to feel better." He smiled a little, then turned away once more, walking off until he vanished from sight.
You watched him leave, your mind swimming in the wake of his words. A flood of questions surged, even as you ignored the distinct possibility that Dex had simply been polite—he was, after all, the one who had seen you in that state.
(Did he talk about me? To other agents, or only to Nadeem? Is he worried? Is he interested? What if he wanted to see me and couldn't? What would have happened if he had come?)
God, he had asked about you, and you were happier than you had been in a long time. In your mind, it was an act of genuine concern, a sign that you interested him, that he had finally noticed you.
You wished you could speak with him once more. Better yet, always.
You rose slowly, glancing down the desolate corridors, and set about carrying out Nadeem's request. For that, you had to return to the offices and enter the laboratory. But first, it was better to change. You pulled your plain black jacket over the white button-down shirt still stiff with blood, and stepped outside.
The night struck your face. You could still hear the distant wail of police and ambulance sirens. As you walked, you caught sight of another agent being wheeled past on a gurney, his face a ruin. Your gaze followed him until he disappeared into some distant room.
Your apartment, at least, was not far, so there was no real hurry. When you arrived, you changed, selecting a plain gray pencil skirt, a black cotton turtleneck, and a matching gray jacket. Heels, of course.
When you reached the offices, the atmosphere was strained. Most people moved in silence. A few glanced your way—they knew you had been in the ambush—and, for the first time, their stares unsettled you. You did not want to be the center of attention.
Others were absorbed in their own work, trying to push ahead. You greeted no one, walking directly to the laboratory, to the analysis room. Before entering, you removed the gray jacket and exchanged it for a white lab coat, fastening the buttons. You pulled on a pair of blue latex gloves, a surgical mask that obscured half your face, and finally tied your hair back with an elastic band.
You prayed, inwardly, that no one else was in the room. You did not want anyone there. You located the access card, swiped it against the scanner, and opened the door.
The analysis room welcomed you with its refrigerated silence and its harsh white light. Everything smelled of formalin and cheap lemon disinfectant. The Albanian bodies lay waiting on three steel tables, draped in sheets of dingy white. You switched on the recorder, setting it beside you, and began taking full-body photographs.
"Case 447-B. Beginning external examination. Victim one: male, Caucasian, between thirty and forty years of age..."
Your latex-clad fingers drew back the first sheet. The cold of the room seeped into your bones, but you did not care. You were accustomed to it. You noted each wound in the flat, professional tone the protocol demanded: gunshot wound to the torso, entry wound to the shoulder, projectile lodged in the fourth vertebra. Methodical. Precise. The way you had been taught.
You reached the third body. The youngest of them all. It bore no gunshot wounds, only scattered bruises. But as you leaned closer to the throat, you froze.
There, embedded in the trachea, the metallic edge of a pistol magazine protruded. The impact had slightly deformed the piece, curling its edges outward like the petals of a metal flower. Dried blood had formed a dark, nearly black halo around it, which struck you as almost beautiful.
You recognized it instantly. It was the very magazine Dex had used. Slowly, you switched the recorder off for a moment.
"Oh, my God.." you murmured. It was not horror. It was wonder.
You took the forceps in your fingers, gripping one end of the magazine and pulling with a gentle, steady pressure, hearing the faint wet click as it released from the cartilage. You raised it beneath the fluorescent light, turning it carefully. Traces of blood and a few shreds of tissue still clung to its surface. Perfect. You did not clean it. You would not. That blood was the proof of what he was capable of. His signature.
Protocol dictated that the object be placed in an evidence bag, tagged, sealed, and sent to ballistics. But your hands did not move toward the bag. They remained still, cradling the magazine as though you had just unearthed a holy relic. Why consign something so exquisite to ballistics?
An idea began to take shape in your mind. A madness, perhaps. But madness was the only thing that had kept you sane all this time.
You set the magazine apart on a separate tray, far from the other evidence, and continued with the report. You did so with the same efficiency as always, wearing that double mask you had perfected long ago.
With the forceps, you extracted the bullets embedded in the two remaining bodies, cataloguing them later in the report. They likely belonged to the other agents. As for Dex's handiwork, however, you decided it was best to falsify his part.
Technically, you were committing a federal crime by concealing evidence. But... for him, you would do anything.
Because that is what love is, is it not?
When the reports were complete, you switched off the recorder. You slipped the pistol magazine into a small plastic bag, tucking it into the pocket of your lab coat. Then, with meticulous care, you began cleaning the steel tray, erasing every trace of blood. You disposed of the latex gloves in the waste bin, opened the door, and slipped out unnoticed.
To complete the report, you had to enter several pieces of information into the digital system for each victim. You logged in at your workstation and navigated through the required fields: cause of death, victim description, wound measurements, and so forth.
Eventually, you reached the section concerning the cartridge wound. A bullet and a magazine, after all, leave distinctly different profiles. It would be natural for someone to question why the wound was deeper and wider than a standard gunshot.
So a single, simple solution occurred to you. Reclassify it as an ordinary laceration. Since you had taken no close-up photographs of that wound, you could excuse it as a cut from shattered glass or a bladed weapon.
Or you could simply play dumb.
Once finished, you clicked "Submit," sending the report off into the system. You glanced at the time: barely four-thirty in the morning. Only another two hours had passed. You had not yet slept, but you barely needed it—indeed, no one could sleep, not after what had occurred.
You sighed, stretching in your chair, and waited patiently for the report to be accepted.
You closed your eyes for a moment. Now, with the magazine still on your person, you could set your plan in motion.
To give it to Dex.
To present it to him, in a manner of speaking. Your idea was to wrap it in a beautiful package. And to deliver it to his home—outside his door, of course.
The only lingering doubt was whether he might be there. But knowing his habits, and given everything that had happened, you assumed—and prayed—that he was still at Fisk's hotel.
You prepared to leave, first exchanging your lab coat for the gray blazer and slipping the plastic bag containing the magazine into your handbag. You reached your car, still parked on the outskirts of the FBI grounds, slid behind the wheel, and began the drive to your apartment.
Once there, you started searching for a suitable box—something that would be perfect for the magnificent gift you intended to deliver. You found one, a flat box with a pale beige design dotted with tiny black spots. Perfect.
Then you looked for something to adorn it, like a ribbon. It was a soft pastel pink.
Carefully, you opened the bag and placed the magazine inside the box, watching as the cardboard began to stain with blood—the flesh still fresh upon the metal. You washed your hands, tossed the bag into the trash, and closed the box, tying it with the ribbon.
At first, you considered leaving a note. But after a moment's reflection, you decided against it. Your words were not necessary. The gesture alone would suffice to convey your feelings for him.
You returned to the car, placing the gift beside you and glancing at it occasionally. Dex's building was a half-hour drive away. He lived on a quiet street, almost deserted. You remembered his apartment number: third floor, number 131. You had discovered it while tailing him on certain nights.
Watching him from your car at night had become something routine for you. He would often take a short walk through the streets, as though the stillness soothed him after work. And you would simply observe, savoring the view. Sometimes you even imagined stepping out of your car, feigning coincidence as though you were just another passerby.
You always hoped he would speak to you again in that particular tone of his, perhaps inviting you for a drink, or into his apartment. It was your ideal, your dream. But it would be difficult to achieve.
When you arrived, you pressed the buzzer for another tenant and, in a sweet voice, said that you needed to get in to deliver a letter. You were fortunate that someone let you inside.
Carefully, you climbed the stairs—there was no elevator—until you reached the third floor. You gazed at his door, a smooth, flawless brown, with no sign of age upon it. You looked at the box one last time, then raised it to your lips and pressed a soft, brief kiss against its surface. Then you crouched down and placed the box upon the black doormat. After that, you walked back down the stairs.
It sounds incredible, but not much time had passed. It was just past five-thirty in the morning. Despite having claimed you had no need of sleep, you surrendered to it anyway. You had to rest, at least a little, for whatever would come next. A couple of hours, at the very least.
──── ୨୧ ────
It was roughly nine in the morning. You had already retrieved the printed report, and now it was your task to deliver it to Nadeem, who was at the hotel.
Yet as you walked, you became aware of a low murmur of voices, gradually rising into coordinated shouts.
"Free Fisk!" they chanted, over and over, thick with hatred. You frowned. What was going on?
When you rounded the corner, you saw it. A dense knot of people, clutching signs aimed at the hotel's towering facade, screaming for Fisk's release. Not out of sympathy—no—but out of loathing. They despised him.
It was astonishing: barely a few hours had passed since the attack, and already the entire city knew Fisk had been released from prison. You bit the inside of your cheek as you surveyed the scene. To some degree, you could understand the public's outrage, especially over the hotel. Who sends a fugitive to a twenty-million-dollar hotel?
You spotted Nadeem speaking with a blonde woman, though even from a distance, he seemed annoyed by her questions. Some kind of journalist, perhaps. The moment you saw her walking away, you hurried to catch up with him.
"Nadeem!" you called, moving toward him. He stopped and turned around.
"Oh, hey. Sorry about all this chaos." He gestured around. "Seems like some bastard already spilled the story."
You ignored his remark entirely and raised your bandaged hand, clutching the reports in a beige folder, which you extended gently toward him.
"Here. The report," you said, offering a small smile.
Nadeem glanced at the folder for a moment. You pursed your lips slightly. "Thank you. Really. But... I was just heading out." He slid his hands into his pockets. "Seems Andrew—one of the agents—is going in for another surgery. I wanted to swing by the hospital again. You know, check on the others..."
You lowered the folder slowly, still watching him.
"I was planning to donate blood to begin with. So I'll probably be tied up the rest of the day." He paused, then asked, "Do you think you could send it yourself? Or... leave it upstairs in the surveillance room. Someone will get it to Hattley. I'm sorry for the last-minute change."
"No... no, it's fine," you lied. You hated last-minute changes. "I'll take care of it. Don't worry," you added, forcing a smile.
He nodded, smiled back, and gave you a couple of pats on the arm before saying goodbye. "Take good care of yourself."
You watched him leave the scene, and suddenly you were alone again. You let out a sigh, scratching idly at the edge of the bandage where it itched. You remained still for a moment, absorbing the strange new atmosphere, then tilted your head back slowly, taking in the sheer number of floors the hotel possessed.
"Yeah, sure. I'll deliver it myself," you muttered under your breath, incredulous. The number of floors in this place was absurd.
"Excuse me." A woman's voice spoke at your side. You turned your head and saw the same journalist who had been speaking to Nadeem.
"Are you one of the survivors of the ambush?" she asked directly, producing a notepad and a pencil.
You narrowed your eyes for a moment, studying her.
"I'm Karen Page. I work for the New York Bulletin." She paused briefly, as though expecting the name of the paper to impress you. It did not. "I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions about what happened last night. Just a few minutes of your time."
Karen offered you a smile that did not quite reach her eyes. It was a professional smile, the kind rehearsed in front of a mirror before a difficult interview.
You, on the other hand, simply stared at her without a word. It was not the first time someone had tried to extract information from you with good manners. But something in her tone told you this woman would not settle for evasions. Then you shifted your gaze back toward the crowd still shouting in front of the hotel.
"I'm a forensic specialist, not a field agent," you answered, your tone sharper than she likely expected. "I'm not authorized to make statements about ongoing cases. And even if I were, I wouldn't make them to you here and now."
Karen did not flinch. Quite the opposite, her smile turned slightly more cunning; she liked receiving answers like this.
"I understand the restrictions, truly. But there are things that don't add up. Don't you think the public has a right to know...?"
"Miss Page." You cut her off, clearly in no mood to continue this game. "I've just had a horrific night. If you want official statements, speak with the FBI's press office, not me."
You turned on your heel to leave, but Karen raised her voice one final time.
"Not even a comment on why they placed you in that transport? Don't you find it strange that a forensic specialist ended up in the middle of a shootout?"
Without a backward glance, you continued walking toward the hotel and entered through the doors.
"I suppose that's a 'no comment'," Karen murmured, snapping her notepad shut with a dry click.
As you stepped inside, you saw chaos everywhere. Clients were complaining furiously to the staff, refusing to share the building with a convicted felon. Others were already hauling their luggage out the doors. The constant movement was suffocating.
"All right... now I've got forty floors to deal with," you muttered to yourself, trying to locate the elevators. The hotel was new to you; you'd never been there before, and feeling so lost unsettled you. You didn't like it.
Just then, another voice called out to you.
"Excuse me."
You rolled your eyes, frowning. You were exhausted. Why was everyone suddenly speaking to you today? When you turned, your expression shifted. It was a man. You looked him up and down. He wore a long coat that hung open, revealing a hoodie underneath. A cap was pulled low over his brow, but if you looked closely, you could see several wounds on his face—cuts, mostly.
Yet what drew your curiosity were his eyes. They were open, yes, but something was strange. His gaze seemed lost; in fact, he did not seem to be looking directly at you at all.
"Sorry to startle you. Do you know where I can find the restrooms, or the elevator?" he asked, tilting his head slightly.
You stood speechless for a second, then shook your head. He remained there, motionless for a moment, frowning a little. You opened your mouth, abruptly realizing his situation.
"Oh, no. I don't know where anything is, honestly." A brief laugh escaped you. You felt slightly embarrassed. "I'm new here too. I was actually just trying to find the elevator myself."
He hummed softly, giving a slight nod. "Well, in that case, we're two of a kind." He stepped closer to you—too close, in fact. And for you, someone who disliked unnecessary physical contact, particularly from strangers, it was irritating. You took a step back.
You saw him tilt his head gently, as though he had noticed your movement, and that unsettled you. He didn't comment on it. "Lucky me," he said, in a voice that was soft, almost vulnerable. "Would it trouble you if I accompanied you, miss? Two lost souls find the way faster, and I'd rather not bump into more people."
"Yeah... sure." You drew out your words, squinting. You turned and started walking. After a few steps, you paused and looked back. He was moving at a brisk pace, stumbling a little clumsily—or pretending to be clumsy, more likely.
You shut your eyes for a second and let out a soft sigh, then slowly approached him.
"Would you like me to help you?" you asked, your voice much calmer now.
He tilted his head again, just for a tiny moment, and nodded. "Yes, if you don't mind." Slowly, you extended your arm toward his and gently took hold, and as his hand brushed against yours—the bandaged one—a shiver ran up your spine. It was as though he were analyzing you. Now, you guided him through the hotel.
The two of you began to walk at an unhurried pace. You wanted nothing more than to deliver the reports to Hattley and be done with it. Neither of you spoke; you had no idea what to say to him, and he made you uncomfortable, made it difficult to even meet his eyes. Those wide, lost eyes of his seemed to see right into your soul.
"You're a forensic specialist?" he suddenly asked, causing you to glance sharply at him.
"Yes, I am," you admitted, still walking beside him. "How did you know?"
"Intuition," he answered promptly, then added, "Actually, it's the smell. You carry the scent of formalin. No offense." He seemed to be trying for humor.
You nodded slowly. "I see."
"I don't," he shot back, smiling. But his smile vanished when he realized you hadn't laughed. "Sorry, that was a bad joke."
"Do you always make such terrible jokes?"
You kept walking, and since he had asked about your work, you figured you could ask something in return, couldn't you?
"What happened to your face?" you asked suddenly, glancing at him from the corner of your eye. You could feel the slight movement of his head, as though he were thinking it over. "Your wounds are recent, from what I can tell," you added.
"Oh, well, you know. We blind folks have that kind of luck in life. We fall, we get hit, and we carry on like it's nothing." He shrugged with practiced nonchalance. "I'm used to it."
You hummed, narrowing your eyes for just a second. You didn't press him further—after all, he was just a poor stranger. But you didn't trust his words, either.
After that, he didn't say much more. It was as though his mind were elsewhere; occasionally you heard him muttering to himself, sounding annoyed, but you didn't speak to him about it. You passed the small hotel bar, where Donovan happened to be crossing, talking on his phone about Fisk's case. The stranger turned his head, tracking Donovan's voice until it faded away.
And when you rounded the corner, you finally found the elevator. The only problem—for him, at least—was that someone was standing guard.
Dex.
You spotted him from a distance, and you felt your heart skip slightly. God, he looked good with those wounds on his face. You had an urge to step closer and brush your fingers across his cheek, tracing the cuts with your fingertips.
"Is something wrong?" the stranger asked, noticing your pause.
The question snapped you out of your thoughts. You shook your head. "No, nothing. We're here. Just a few more steps," you replied, offering him a fleeting, courteous smile.
The two of you approached, but Dex had already registered your arrival and stopped you with a brief gesture of his hand.
"Your key, sir?" Dex asked.
"Yes, I have it," the man replied.
"No. I need to see it," Dex repeated, raising his hand again to block any further advance.
The man sighed and withdrew his arm from yours. "Yes, of course... of course..." Dex studied you for a few seconds, and you met his gaze in silence while the stranger rummaged for his keys.
After several long moments, Dex realized the man was taking far longer than necessary to locate a simple set of keys. "Sir," Dex repeated, shifting his attention to him.
The stranger laughed, a little nervously. "They gave me three keys... I'm sure..." He began searching other pockets—his jacket, his trousers—with a slowness that seemed designed more to buy time than to find anything.
Dex slowly moved his hand toward his hip, where his sidearm was holstered. You watched for a brief second, then dropped your gaze to follow the movement of his hand.
(You wouldn't dare kill him.)
Finally, the man gave up and looked off to the side with that vacant gaze of his. "I suppose... I must have left it in the car," he excused himself.
"Then you can't enter," Dex told him, still watching. His hand was already resting beside the grip of his pistol, nearly drawing it.
Your eyes glittered at this, watching them both, savoring the scene.
(Go on. Do it. Kill him.)
The man sighed, feigning reluctant understanding. "I see... I'll be right back..." he said, turning away without bidding you farewell. You could see Dex still watching him, eyes slightly narrowed, with the same suspicion you yourself had noticed in him.
Then, slowly, his gaze shifted to you. You smiled softly at him, but he remained still and did not return the expression.
"What are you doing here?" he asked.
"I came to deliver the reports. You know—the Albanians," you replied, still smiling. Your eyes narrowed slightly as you looked at him. "Shouldn't you... be on administrative leave under evaluation?" you asked out of curiosity.
"That's none of your concern," he answered flatly. You simply nodded, pressing your lips together. Then, he let out a long sigh, as though he were holding something back. "How are your injuries doing?" he asked again.
"My injuries?" you repeated. "Well, they're improving, I'd say. Nothing serious, so I'm fine."
He nodded in silence, his gaze slowly lowering to the beige folder in your hands. He gestured toward it with his chin. "Are those the reports?"
This time it was you who nodded, giving the folder a small shake. "It's a lot, isn't it? I put in quite a bit of detail—hoping it'll be enough to satisfy the chief."
"Hattley isn't here," he replied. "She went to the hospital about an hour ago. Word is Andrew might pull through... if you can call never walking again 'pulling through'." Another weary sigh escaped him. "It's hard... really hard," he added slowly, as though trying to sound empathetic or concerned, though the effort came out somewhat strained.
"Yeah... I hope he recovers," you said, glancing off for a moment and letting a silence stretch between you. Then you looked back at the elevator. "May I?"
"Go ahead. But don't take long," he said, stepping aside. You merely gave a small nod of thanks and stepped into the elevator. "It's the fifty-fifth floor. The top."
"Seriously?" you said, incredulous.
He nodded, his expression neutral.
"Understood, thank you." You smiled at him, then pressed the button for the top floor. Slowly, the elevator doors began to slide shut, and in those last moments, you held each other's gaze before the doors closed and separated you.
You let out a deep exhale, dropping your head for a few seconds. Incredible, you thought. You bit your lip, happy simply to have spoken with him—even if it had only been an exchange of words.
Clutching the folder in both hands, you watched the floor numbers tick upward: twenty-two... thirty-four... forty-six... until at last you reached the fifty-fifth floor. The soft chime of the elevator rang out, and the doors slid open. You stepped out, passing through a brief security scan that, mercifully, did not shriek and cause a scene. The sound of your heels echoed along the corridor, and you noted the surveillance cameras tucked into every corner.
You made your way to a dimly lit room, knocked gently on the door, then stepped inside. You walked forward with slow steps, checking to see if anyone was there. Only Agent Lim was present.
"Oh—hey, Lim," you greeted him with a brief wave and a smile. He returned the greeting, his attention still fixed on the monitors. "I'm here to drop this off. Hattley's supposed to be coming by later, right? It's for her to pick up, but if not... could you make sure she gets it?"
Lim glanced at the extended folder, then took it carefully. "Yeah, sure, no problem. I'll let her know it's from you."
"Thanks," you said, nodding. You turned and walked back out, leaving the room behind. Now what? you wondered. You supposed you should get back to work, even if you didn't quite relish the idea of leaving the proximity of Dex. But work was work.
You decided to head back to the elevator, retracing your steps until you descended to the ground floor. When the doors opened, you saw him—his back to you. He turned slowly, his eyes finding you.
"All done?" he asked. You nodded, taking a step toward him. He blinked several times, hands still clasped behind his back, and took a step backward.
The moment was strange. Neither of you spoke; you simply stood there, looking at one another—or rather, you looked at him. You could say something to him. The way you always did.
"You look good. Today, I mean," you said, watching him from where you stood. It was not a lie; he did look good. "Those wounds make you look like a tough guy," you added, offering a small smile as you gestured with your chin.
Dex went silent for a few seconds, then narrowed his eyes, faintly perplexed. "A... tough guy...?" he repeated, as though the concept was foreign to him. It was as if you had cracked some small barrier.
"Yes," you replied, your heart beating a little faster. "I don't mean it in a bad way, I promise. I just meant... you look attractive." The words came out directly. Internally, you bit your cheek, waiting for his reaction.
He blinked rapidly, a nervous tic. He frowned for a second, staring at you, then opened his mouth, but no words came. At last, he rubbed his face with one hand. He seemed embarrassed by the remark, as though he could feel the heat creeping into his cheeks.
"Thanks... I suppose," he managed, without meeting your eyes, still rubbing his temples.
You smiled to yourself, finding the gesture oddly endearing, and let out a soft laugh. You said nothing about it; he would probably just turn serious again.
"You're welcome.." you echoed his last word, a gentle tease, though you had no intention of pushing it further.
He stopped rubbing his temples and looked at you again. "You'd better get going," he said at last. "I'm not kicking you out, of course. It's just... well, there's no real reason for you to be here." He was trying not to sound too blunt.
You gave a vague wave of your hand. "Don't worry, I was already on my way out." You smiled. "I'm sure there's plenty more paperwork waiting for me."
You clasped your hands loosely in front of you, still watching him. He said nothing further, simply resuming his former stance in front of the elevator, his gaze fixed straight ahead.
"Take care," he said, without looking at you.
You nodded. "Thanks. You too." Then you turned and began walking slowly away. The sound of your heels once again echoed against the floor, gradually fading as you left him behind.
Slowly, Dex's eyes drifted toward you, watching your retreating figure, though you were unaware of it. Then he straightened his posture and resumed his vigilant watch over the entrance.
──── ୨୧ ────
That afternoon, you were in the laboratory as usual, analyzing bodies from some recent crime, though you went about your tasks in a manner that, to you, was perfectly ordinary.
"Do you think he likes me?" you asked the body. The recorder was off, and there were no cameras in this part of the room, so it had always been your safe place.
You brushed your gloved fingers along its arm. "Mm... I think he does. Did you see the way he looked at me? Like a puppy." You smiled, imagining the body answering you.
("What's he like?")
"Oh, he's incredible. The best marksman in the FBI, they say. I've never seen him with the sniper rifle, but... God, with just a pistol? It was magnificent." You explained this with a flicker of genuine excitement. "His aim is supreme. Almost inhuman, I'd say." You gazed at the body for a few seconds. "He's... light brown hair, almost blond, I'd say. Hazel eyes..." you continued. "He's serious at work, you know—very correct about protocol. No social life to speak of. He has colleagues and all, but he's not one to go out much. I'd even bet he's still a virgin."
You began extracting shards of glass that remained lodged in the neck, using a pair of forceps. After a few minutes, you brought up another subject.
"Today is Tuesday, which means he'll be with... Julie." The last name slid slowly from your lips. You frowned, as though the body had suddenly offended you. "What do you mean, what's wrong with me?" you said, offended. "Well, first of all, it seems he likes her... I think," you added, confused.
"I'm not going to lie—she's pretty. Perfect." You kept extracting the glass fragments. "I understand she's a waitress; I haven't really investigated her much. But I can see Dex is interested in her... more than interested." You plucked out a shard with sudden force and dropped it on the tray. "As it turns out, he watches her, too, which infuriates me, because I want him to watch me, you know? I mean, come on. What's so special about her?" You continued, your irritation mounting with the forceps, drawing out more pieces. "Don't misunderstand me—like I said, the woman is beautiful... Am I beautiful?" you asked, genuinely curious.
You sighed. "Tonight they'll have pizza. They have some kind of strange ritual..." You paused briefly. "They order broccoli and sausage pizza with extra cheese." A faint grimace of disgust crossed your face. "I find that flavor repulsive."
"But I wanted to join their date, too. So I usually go out at night to watch him. And eat pizza alongside him and her. Impressive, isn't it?" you asked the body.
A silence filled the room as you waited for some kind of answer. Then you exhaled slowly. "I wish you could talk... I'm sure you'd understand me."
A few seconds later, your mouth fell open, offended, and you swatted the body lightly with the forceps. "I am not obsessed—how dare you! That's ridiculous."
Then you shook your head softly. "No, no, no... You don't understand. She doesn't understand him. Him, I mean. But I do." You pointed at yourself, careful not to actually touch. "If Julie knew what Dex does, I'm sure she'd run away. But I wouldn't—because, well, I value it." You gestured with your hands. "I would understand him perfectly. I would stay with him." And with a weary motion, you let your hands fall. "Because..." You paused. "Because I love him." You let another silence stretch between you, staring at nothing.
You cut the conversation off there, as though unwilling to share any more, and resumed your work with renewed precision. You had unburdened yourself, releasing your innermost thoughts to a body that would never judge you—except, of course, in your own mind.
And while you continued there, in the FBI laboratory, things had begun to shift on the other side of the city, inside the hotel.
Dex had now been assigned the surveillance shift on Fisk. It was simple enough: he merely had to stand there, watching him while he ate.
He kept his arms crossed, his gaze fixed forward, his posture rigid, refusing to look at him.
"Bon appétit, you bastard," Lim muttered, setting the tray down on the table before taking his leave.
Fisk pulled the tray toward him but let his hands rest on the table, not yet starting.
"Special Agent Poindexter... isn't it?" Fisk began. "You saved my life last night."
"Yeah, well, we all make mistakes," Dex replied coldly.
A brief silence hung in the air before Fisk continued. "I mourn the loss of your colleagues. To have lost them while protecting someone like me... it must be all the more painful for their families and... loved ones." He paused. "I would offer them my condolences, but... I imagine it might be of greater comfort to them, simply to despise me." He looked slowly toward Dex.
"That is, if you feel otherwise. If you believe my words could have some positive effect... then please, tell them I witnessed their admirable courage."
"Hurry it up, convict. You've got five minutes." Dex ignored his speech, casting a sideways glance at him for a few seconds.
"I owe a debt to all of the fallen agents. One I can never heal." He pulled the tray closer again, staring down at it. "But... I am also in your debt," he said, his voice lifting on those words. "I have known extraordinary people, but no one with a talent quite like yours... May I ask, where did you acquire such skill?"
Dex lowered his arms, exhausted and perhaps unsettled by what he was hearing. "Alright." He stepped forward, snatched the tray from the table. "We're done." And he walked back toward the outer room, leaving Fisk alone.
After that, because of the ambush, Dex was required to undergo several "evaluations" with the psychiatrist. It was standard procedure—a simple therapy session to determine whether he was fit to return to full duty, and also to process the lethal force he had employed. The room was dim, lit only by a single amber lamp resting on the desk.
"I saved him because it's my job. What do you want me to say, Doctor?" Dex spoke with his hands clasped over his lap, on the defensive.
"Forget about Fisk." The doctor waved a hand dismissively, then pointed with his pen. "Tell me about the ambush."
Dex rolled his eyes. "You want the details?"
The doctor sighed. "Come on, Poindexter. You know how this works. We talk, I sign off, you get cleared. That's just the way it is."
Dex shifted his gaze to the side for a moment, uncomfortable. "I lost friends today."
"And you used lethal force against multiple suspects." The doctor studied him.
"Yes," Dex answered flatly.
"You were on duty, though the administrative leave had already been filed..."
Dex leaned forward slightly, his voice firm as he defended himself. "I know you're doing your job. But with all due respect, if I'd been wearing a mask, they'd be calling me a hero, and I wouldn't be sitting here trying to justify protecting myself." He leaned back in his chair, blinking, struggling to maintain control, and let out a short breath.
"I'm not your enemy. I just... look," he paused, clicking his tongue. "Forget the psychobabble for a moment. Just tell me, honestly—how are you feeling?"
Dex looked at him, his head shifting slightly, then let out a slow sigh. "It's hard...Really hard..." The same words as always, a robotic refrain.
"It's not the first time you've used lethal force."
Dex gave a short, arrogant laugh. "I'm an FBI sniper. What exactly do you think the job entails?"
"The thing is, Dex... May I call you Dex?" He paused. "The thing is, living through situations like this... it takes its toll."
Dex exhaled slowly, as if he knew exactly where this was headed. With a restrained frustration, he rubbed his face with one hand.
"And repeating traumatic experiences puts you under enormous pressure..."
"Until the day I can't handle it anymore. Yeah, I know," he answered at last, meeting the doctor's eyes.
"The key is how you manage that pressure." The doctor set down his pen and notebook for a moment.
"I know how to handle it," Dex replied coolly.
"Do you have any kind of support system?" the doctor asked.
Dex shifted uneasily in his chair, as though the question had unsettled him. "I think... she prefers to be called Julie." He spoke more calmly now, as though the mere thought of her soothed some part of him.
"Tell me about her," the doctor prompted.
Dex let out a slow breath, measuring his words. His hand drifted instinctively to the table, tapping idly against its surface as he spoke. "She's a waitress. She's also in the business of listening, like you, though..." He let out another arrogant laugh. "I'm sure she makes more money." They shared a brief chuckle.
"We have dinner together almost every night. Today's... Tuesday? Tonight's pizza night." He smiled, the expression making him look happy and awkward all at once. "Julie orders it with broccoli, sausage, and extra cheese. I tell her about my day—the good and the bad. I know it's not healthy to keep things bottled up. I talk to her. I tell her everything. And... she doesn't judge me. She doesn't blame me. She just... supports me." He looked at the doctor.
"She sounds like a wonderful girl," the doctor remarked.
Dex's smile tugged to one side, satisfied. "Yeah... she is."
After a second, the doctor's pen emitted a soft click as he made a final note. "Good. You can return to duty. But we'll be meeting every day for a while. Understood?" He closed the notebook and rose to his feet.
The two men shook hands respectfully. "Yes, sir," Dex said, returning the gesture. Before he could pull away, the doctor clasped his hand in both of his own. "And... go see your girl. It'll do you good." He smiled.
Dex turned away, a crooked smile flickering across his face once more. He slid open the door and let it close behind him.
That was exactly what he intended to do. See her.
──── ୨୧ ────
You were in your car, beneath the cover of night. Everything was ready; you had stepped into that pizzeria a few minutes earlier. You could smell the faint aroma of melted cheese and sausage meat.
Your hands rested on the steering wheel, though the car was parked in a corner. The view was perfect: the pizzeria stood directly ahead, and just beyond it, a small parking area with two empty spaces. You only had to wait.
After a while, Dex's car pulled into its usual spot. He stepped out as he always did and entered the pizzeria. You watched from the darkness as he ordered, then emerged once more and returned to his car.
You leaned back against the seat, closing your eyes for a few seconds.
"I hope she doesn't take too long..." you murmured, meaning Julie.
From outside, you began to hear the hurried click of heels, and when you glanced over, you spotted her—she had just gotten off work. She crossed the sidewalk and stepped into the pizzeria.
This was the moment.
You rummaged through your bag for the binoculars you had stolen. You raised them to your eyes and watched.
Julie was ordering the pizza, her smile warm and easy. She waited patiently until they handed it to her, then took a bite straight away. Slowly, you shifted the binoculars until you located Dex.
It was true that you could not see much; he was parked in a dark spot, and you could only make out the reflection of the restaurant's light casting a bluish glow across his features. He had started eating too, smiling whenever he saw her laugh or show some positive emotion. And he was doing exactly what you were doing—watching her through some kind of scope.
You picked up your slice of pizza. You studied it for a moment, then took a bite, feeling the melted cheese pull into strings inside your mouth.
Despite the taste (especially the broccoli), you kept eating, watching Dex through your binoculars.
"I wonder what you see in her that you don't see in me..." you whispered, a note of genuine curiosity in your voice.
The night stretched on like this: the three of you eating the same pizza—one of you innocently, the other two locked in a quiet hunt.
When Julie finished, she left the restaurant. The "date" was over. She was headed home, and Dex, to his own apartment. You watched as he started his car and pulled away, heading in her direction—both to keep watching her and because his own home lay that way.
You wiped your hands with a napkin, pensive. Now, only the final flourish remained: the gift.
You could already picture his idealized expression, and you hoped it would be so.
Dex drove at a leisurely pace. As it turned out, he took longer than necessary because he wanted to see Julie safely to her doorway, nothing more. Just to know she was alright, that nothing would happen to her.
From there, he drove home, following the same routine as always. Park in the same spot. Gather his things. Check the mail. He climbed the stairs and walked down the narrow hallway until he found it.
A gift.
He stood frozen, staring at it. At first, he frowned, puzzled. Had a neighbor left him a gift? A colleague? Who?
He stepped closer. There was no note. Slowly, he crouched down, picking it up and studying it. The design pleased him, particularly the dotted pattern: the dots followed a consistent order. Same pattern, same logic. It felt right.
He located his apartment keys, unlocked the door, stepped inside, and shut it behind him. Carefully, he fastened all three of the security locks he kept on the door.
His gaze would not stray from the gift. He walked further inside, reached the table, and set it down.
Who sent this to me? he asked himself again.
His hand found the edge of the ribbon. He pulled it loose, letting it unravel. Both hands gripped the lid, and at last, he opened the box.
And there he saw it.
The pistol magazine he had used to stab that Albanian.
His eyes flew wide, and he recoiled for a second, startled. He blinked several times, unwilling to believe it.
No.
No, no, no, no, no, no.
His mind chanted the word as he leaned in again. It was not a joke. It was real.
His hands began to tremble. Still in disbelief, he picked up the magazine and held it beneath the apartment light. It was the same one. How?
His fingers smeared faintly with blood that was still fresh. He could see that small piece of flesh still embedded inside. Worse still, the bullets were still in the magazine.
Who would do this?
He set it back inside the box, his heart pounding. He was afraid—more of the person who had sent it than of the object itself.
Because he could not tell whether it was a threat or an invitation.
He went to the kitchen, scrubbing his hands clean in haste, his mind filling with that strange, buzzing sound, like flies circling in the air. His breathing grew more ragged. He dried his hands, then dragged them over his face, pulling slightly at his hair.
He tried to calm himself, but he could not. Not with that gift lying open before him.
Hurriedly, he went to his bedroom, to the closet. There, inside a strongbox he opened with ease, he retrieved the cassette tape of his former therapist and slipped on the headphones. That voice always soothed him more than anything else.
He walked with heavy, slow steps, his breathing less frantic now. He pressed his back against the wall and slid down to the floor, his eyes fixed on the gift before him.
And as he listened to the voice of Doctor Mercer, his mind kept circling back to the same question.
Who had sent the gift?
It could not be a neighbor; most of them barely knew him well enough to give such a thing.
A colleague, then? Impossible. No one at work knew his home address—at least, no one close to him.
Unless...
His brain gave a sudden, sharp click.
You.
You were the only one who could have given him this. It was you, or Fisk; no one else had been on that scene, except for those who had been unconscious. And it could not possibly be Fisk.
He clenched his jaw, his hand gripping the cassette player tighter as he stared into the nothingness.
He was afraid. He felt cornered.
Because, in the end, he had found someone just like him. Or far worse than him.
And he did not like that at all.
Because it meant that you had discovered exactly who he really was.
Warning: 18+! Reader's past is revealed. The reader is a forensic scientist! Canon references. Storyline mirrored in Daredevil season 3 and Born Again. The reader has psychological issues. Mentions of abuse. (Non-sexual) Blood. Obsession, manipulation. Fisk being transferred!
Words: 5.5 k (It's a long chapter!!)
Note: This is the first time I've written to Dex here, I hope you like the first chapter! ( ꈍᴗꈍ)
It began when you were just ten years old.
Some are fortunate in this life. They are granted tranquility, steady work, a loving marriage, good health. But in your case, fate dealt you the cruelest hand. Your father was a violent man—not in that way, thankfully—but he struck you often, for any reason, or for none at all. Your mother bore the worst of it. And you wished, with every fiber of your being, that someday, somehow, your father would die. You did not care how. An accident. A murder. Drowning in his own drink. Anything would do.
Then, a thought surfaced. "Why not do it myself?" Perhaps it was a sickening notion, but if no one else would act, the only person who could put an end to the suffering was you.
So one night, while your father lay asleep on the sofa, you seized your chance. Your mother was resting, oblivious. You slipped your bare feet to the cold floor and crept toward the kitchen, silent as a ghost. From there, the glow of the television cast a faint outline of your father's sleeping form. Slowly, you selected a knife—one of the sharp ones, the kind that could open skin with the slightest graze. You approached him from behind. You felt no fear. In truth, you felt nothing at all. What you were about to do was simply necessary. For you. And for your mother.
Measuring the angle from behind, you brought the blade to his throat. You looked at him. Then, with a single motion, you drew the handle across his neck.
Blood erupted from the wound. Your father's eyes flew open, wide as dinner plates, his hands clawing at himself. He pitched forward, thrashing against the floor as he bled out, never once looking at you. Should you finish him off? you wondered. No. It was better to leave him like this, drowning in raw agony. Exactly as he deserved.
You remained there, motionless, watching him die by inches. When you finally decided it was time, you left the knife on the table—unclean, as if it were inconsequential. Then, naturally, you went to bed. You did not even turn off the television.
That night, you slept more soundly than you ever had before. Until the following morning.
A guttural, agonizing scream tore you from sleep. Your mother.
You found her paralyzed, staring at her husband's body sprawled across the blood-soaked carpet. She turned to you. In that first instant, you saw the instinct: she meant to embrace you, to shield your eyes, to do anything a mother should do. But then she truly looked at you. There was no disgust on your face. No sorrow. No anger. And then her gaze fell upon your hands—those soft, warm hands—now stained with dried blood. She was not a fool.
Before you could speak, before you could even flinch, her palm cracked across your cheek. She spat insults at you, vile words she had never uttered before. You could not comprehend her reaction. Your father was dead. Why was she not relieved? What had you done to earn such hatred?
Then came the blows. Her fists rained down upon your head, your stomach—wherever they could land—fueled by a righteous fury. In that moment, you understood: despite everything, your mother still loved him. The realization curdled in your stomach.
You wept. You begged for mercy. You tried to explain why you had done it. To you, your reasons were unassailable. To her, they were monstrous. Without another word, she gathered what little she could carry and walked out the door. She abandoned you there, alone in that house. You still remember chasing her, running after her car, watching it grow smaller and smaller until it vanished.
What followed was worse. You had no close family, no one to turn to. You were barely more than a child, with no understanding of how the world worked. So you stayed. You did not move your father's body. Day after day, you watched it decompose. You remember seeing over a hundred maggots writhing across his flesh. And instead of revulsion, you felt... curiosity. To witness the slow unmaking of flesh and tissue, to glimpse the skull beneath the skin—it was fascinating.
The vulnerability of the human body captivated you. The way its color shifted from pale white to a sickly, verdant green. The way it smelled. You felt no remorse.
After several days of this wretched survival, the police arrived. Your mother, it turned out, had not stayed silent. Though you lived far from the city, she had gone straight to the authorities. When the officers kicked down the door, they were met with the sight of the body. One of them nearly vomited from the stench that had swallowed the house whole. They pulled you from that place and rushed you to a hospital, where your bruises and cuts were treated. Because you were a minor, prison was out of the question. And there was no need for a confession; your vacant stare and blood-caked hands told them everything. What unsettled them most was how you treated the nurses—with warmth and courtesy, like a perfectly well-mannered little girl.
They gave you a cursory psychological evaluation, then transferred you to a juvenile detention center. It was almost ironic; there were other children there who thought just like you.
Over the next four years, from age ten to fourteen, you attended therapy sessions. The doctors diagnosed you with a conduct disorder, compounded by emotional numbness and a profound inability to process what you had done. Dissociation. Post-traumatic stress. A litany of clinical terms.
As for your mother, she was convicted of child abuse and abandonment. The law, harsh as it is, sent her to prison for roughly three years.
But inside those walls, you were a model resident. You befriended children with far worse impulses than your own. You treated the staff with deference and the psychologists with attentive cooperation. To them, you were practically an angel—a lost soul who had harmed no one since. You relished that perception.
By fourteen, having shown no signs of dangerous conduct, you were transferred to a foster home alongside six other troubled adolescents, under the constant watch of professionals.
It was there that your fascination with anatomy truly took root. In a quiet corner of the house stood a bookshelf crammed with dense volumes on biology, psychology, medicine, and even law. You devoured them at every opportunity. You came to understand that trust was a currency, and that to earn it, you simply had to appear good. Generous. Empathetic. Kind.
So you practiced. You learned to value the people around you—both the teenagers in your care and the adults who supervised you. As the months passed without incident, your privileges increased: more time in the library, access to the computer. Tools to sharpen your ambitions.
You had grown exceptionally intelligent—or so you told yourself. You mastered the fundamentals of human emotion, not to feel them, but to deploy them. Trust. Affection. The illusion of warmth.
During this time, the doctors added a new diagnosis: disorganized attachment disorder, rooted in your relationships with both parents. They observed how you oscillated wildly toward authority figures, seeking protection, affection, acceptance from anyone who offered it.
By seventeen, your path was clear: you would become a forensic specialist. The specific branch mattered little; what called to you was the work itself. The only obstacle was your psychological record. The FBI would never accept someone with your history. So you devised a solution: you lied. You convinced your therapists that your emotional numbness was merely a defense mechanism, a scar from your father's abuse rather than a fundamental defect. Not everyone believed you, but in the end, your file was amended to reflect only "Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder." Bland. Unremarkable. Acceptable.
At eighteen, you left the foster home. You were free. And you were utterly alone.
Your supervisors, as a parting gift, funded your enrollment at Columbia University. You threw yourself into a Bachelor of Science degree with relentless focus, chasing the highest grades, hungry for a scholarship. You earned it.
Your professors became your new anchors. With no parents to guide you, you sought them in your instructors, in anyone who might offer validation. Your objective was simple: letters of recommendation that painted you as exemplary.
"You are the most disciplined mind I have ever seen."
Meanwhile, you lived in a cramped apartment and worked long shifts at food markets and wherever else would pay. It did not matter. You needed only enough to survive.
You then completed a Master's in Criminalistics, interning at the New York City Medical Examiner's Office. Standing over human remains once more, evaluating the trajectory of lives cut short, felt like coming home.
After years of study, you applied for a position as a Forensic Specialist with the FBI. To your surprise, they accepted you on the first attempt. A few rigorous exams, a background check that somehow overlooked the fine print of your psyche. They never asked about your psychology—only your academics.
You spent your first years listening to the legends of the New York field office. One name, above all others, echoed through the halls: Benjamin Poindexter.
It meant nothing to you at first. But you heard it constantly. In briefings. In the break room. In the cafeteria.
"Have you seen his aim? It's inhuman."
"He's the best we've got. A star agent."
"He never misses. Not once."
You were holding a cappuccino the day you overheard a colleague joke, "Poindexter doesn't shoot bullets; he shoots laser beams." The repetition gnawed at you. So you stayed late, night after night, digging through his ballistic files. Every suspect he had neutralized bore a wound that was impossibly clean, almost surgical. And it did not look like the work of a standard-issue pistol. Some kind of thrown object, perhaps.
Your obsession took root. It grew with each passing day, week, month, year.
The first time you saw him was in that same cafeteria. You were fumbling for your wallet to pay for another coffee when a button clicked on the machine and the cup began to refill. You turned. A man stood with his back to you—broad-shouldered, upright, dressed in a black cotton polo, jeans, and boots. His hair was short, a sandy brown. You stared at him, confused. Had he cut the line? He said nothing. You watched him order a cappuccino.
Not for himself.
For you.
He turned and held out the cup, a faint smile on his lips. "I thought you might want this. Don't worry about paying me back."
You opened your mouth, and for the first time in as long as you could remember, no words came. Were you... nervous? You closed your mouth and nodded. His smile lingered. Your fingers brushed his as you took the cup. Then he nodded again and walked past you, disappearing into the crowd.
That day, you resolved it would not be the last time you saw him. From then on, you watched him whenever you could: during overtime, on breaks, at shift changes. Always, you were there.
Over the years, you learned his habits. He drank decaf coffee, black. He wore only formal, muted tones—never a splash of color. He had no real friends; colleagues, yes, but no one he opened up to. They invited him out for drinks, and he always declined, his voice gentle but distant.
You noticed his restlessness. The way he aligned scattered papers into perfect symmetry. The way he cleaned up spilled soil from a potted plant without a word. The way his hands were never still—fidgeting with a pen, interlacing his fingers—as if he didn't know what to do when he let go.
Sometimes, your paths would cross. You would offer a small smile, and he would respond with a brief nod, his expression unreadable.
Then, you began to speak.
"Good work today, Agent Poindexter."
"You look well."
"That color suits you."
He always replied with a quiet, halting "Thank you," as though the words were foreign to him. He was not accustomed to praise. You did not know whether to find that endearing or tragic.
As the years passed, you met others. Tammy Hattley, the formidable head of the office, who carried an air of unquestionable authority. Agents Lim, Ramsey, and Johnson. Colleagues like Lilia, Jim, and Doyle.
And then, there was Agent Nadeem. Before he became desperate.
You met him on an ordinary case, in your first months. You were called to analyze a body, and your work was so precise that he was momentarily stunned. From that day forward, he requested you on every case he handled. You found warmth in his presence. Comfort. He spoke to you of his family—his son Sami, his thoughts on the Bureau, his frustrations. And it was through Nadeem that your obsession with Dex deepened. He spoke of Poindexter's skill, his dedication, his impossible precision, with a note of undisguised envy.
Over time, Nadeem adopted you, in his way. And you did not resist. You saw him as something you had never truly had.
A father figure.
You shared laughter and ambitions. You heard stories about Sami's love of baseball and his dream of playing on a team. It reminded Nadeem of his own youth.
With him, you crafted a lie about your past. Not the truth—that you had killed your father and been abandoned by your mother—but a sanitized version: a car accident that claimed your father, a mother who could not bear to live without him. It was brutal, but it served its purpose. Nadeem pitied you. And that pity opened the door to his home.
He began inviting you to family dinners. You met Sami, who begrudgingly admitted he liked you, and Seema, his wife. You had longed for a family, and at last, you had one.
──── ୨୧ ────
That is how you found yourself at a birthday party.
September 2018. Sami was turning thirteen. Nadeem had invited you because Sami, despite his protests, said you were like an aunt to him.
You were barefoot on a bouncy castle, laughing with Sami. The sound carried outside, but within the house, the air was different. Tense. Through the window, you glimpsed Nadeem's face, clouded with worry. Seema's expression mirrored his.
"There's no more turkey. Didn't you go to the store?" Nadeem asked.
Seema held a plastic cup, her smile tight. "I did. But there was a problem at the register."
Nadeem chewed thoughtfully. "Which card did you use? The red Visa?"
She nodded, but before she could elaborate, Sami bounded inside, a toy gun slung over his shoulder. "Hi, Dad!"
Nadeem's face transformed into pure joy. "Hey, birthday boy! Are you having fun?"
Sami waved the toy. "Maxi says you're gonna ruin dinner."
Seema stifled a laugh. Nadeem feigned outrage. "What does he know about my cooking?" He swept Sami toward the kitchen. "Observe and learn." He tore pieces of turkey and spread them artfully across the bread. "I call this the degreaser technique. It takes real skill."
Sami giggled and took the sauce, spreading it with theatrical flair. You descended from the castle and stepped inside, dressed in navy jeans and a pastel pink blouse, your hair loose, your feet still in socks.
"There's the chef!" you called, joining them.
While Sami beamed, Nadeem and Seema slipped into their native tongue behind you.
"Kya aapako yakeen hai ki aapane laal veeja ka istemaal kiya tha?"
("Are you sure you used the red visa?")
"mainne laal veeja, neela veeja, dhaatu ka veeja aur yahaan tak ki pustakaalay kaard ka bhee istemaal kiya hai..."
("I've used the red visa, the blue visa, the metallic one, and I even think the library card...")
Nadeem nodded slowly, then forced a reassuring smile.
"Ham ise theek kar denge, yah pahalee baar nahin hai."
("We'll fix it. It's not the first time.")
You did not understand the words, but you felt their weight. Were they talking about you? Impossible. Something private, surely. Financial troubles, perhaps.
When Sami finished constructing his culinary masterpiece, you placed your hands gently on his shoulders. "Shall we head back out? I'm sure Viv wants to play again." You guided him outside, toy gun in hand, leaving Nadeem and Seema to their quiet worries. He would be grateful for that later.
Outside, surrounded by children and laughter, you felt something unfamiliar. Warmth. As though, for one fleeting afternoon, you had been reborn into the childhood you never had.
Later, you mingled with the other family members, uncovering new facets of their lives and even sampling the Indian food.
A soft chime eventually drew everyone together for a small celebration. The children came running, and you followed at a measured pace, settling yourself near Sami. Nadeem tapped his glass twice, commanding the room's attention.
"I'd like to say a few words," he announced, lifting a glass of wine. "Though Rayan already said it... my dearest sister-in-law has finally beaten cancer." Applause erupted, and you joined in, simply because the others did.
Rayan, her husband, embraced Nadeem with visible gratitude. "We couldn't have done this without you. We're so grateful." Nadeem returned the embrace, his expression caught between sorrow and relief. "It wasn't my doing. The credit belongs to you both. I only signed a few checks."
As the modest celebration wound down and dusk settled in, you noticed Nadeem standing alone outside. You eased open the glass door and stepped out, still in your slippers, approaching him from behind.
"Are you all right?" you asked.
He turned, hands buried in his pockets, and offered you a smile that meant precisely the opposite. "Yes, I'm fine. Don't worry."
"Is it... that again?" You did not name it directly, only gestured toward it.
Nadeem stared at the ground for a moment before meeting your eyes. "It's nothing. I'll sort it out. It's hardly the first time, as you know."
"Nadeem..." Your voice dropped, your brow furrowing. "You know perfectly well you're lying. Do you honestly not want me to send you some...—?"
"No. Please, no." He cut you off, his gaze firm. "You already did more than enough last month. I don't want you getting tangled up in this. Truly."
You pressed your lips together and gave a slow nod, letting a brief silence settle between you. "Still... I owe you. You saved my life."
"Don't talk nonsense." He laughed, not fully grasping what you meant. A moment later, you laughed softly as well.
"I'm serious. Whatever happens, tell me. I would do anything—anything—to keep you and your family safe." Your voice came out steady, absolute. Nadeem was quiet for a few seconds, as though he hadn't expected such fierce devotion. Then a small, genuine smile broke through. "Thank you. I appreciate that."
After a pause, he added, "I was thinking of speaking to Hattley tomorrow. Asking for an advance on my performance review. When the promotion comes through, I'll get the raise."
You studied him. "Did she turn you down again?"
He nodded. "Twice now. I'm starting to think she's got something against me. Unbelievable, really—she listens to everyone else." He sighed, then shrugged. "But we'll see how it goes tomorrow."
You meant to say more, but Sami's voice rang out as he bounded over to join you. In an instant, Nadeem's expression transformed—warm, calm, fixed entirely on his son. You knew he was lying to Sami, just as he was lying to himself. You said nothing.
"I'll go help Seema with the cake," you said with a smile. After bidding Sami goodbye, you slipped back inside.
The day ended gently. Nadeem drove you home so you wouldn't have to walk or take the bus. He said goodbye with a brief wave before driving off.
The following day, just as he'd told you, Nadeem spoke with Hattley. She denied him once more, citing his score: 557. Too low. Too vulnerable. Unfit.
But there were details he did not share. The new assignment Hattley had given him, for instance: a direct conversation with Wilson Fisk.
That afternoon, he ended up speaking with Fisk about Vanessa. After his official duties, she was considered "missing," hidden away somewhere for her own protection. For her sake, Fisk agreed to make a deal with Nadeem. You did not know the terms; he never specified.
Within hours, Nadeem had apprehended a wanted Albanian—one of the bigger fish. The arrest earned him the admiration and congratulations of his colleagues. Seizing the momentum, Hattley conceded that the Fisk case demanded a full-time agent. Nadeem, recognizing the opportunity for what it was, took the bait.
At first, she refused, citing a backlog of other cases. Nadeem confessed that none of the agents previously assigned to Fisk had managed to extract any information—but he had. It didn't change the fact that if he were officially assigned, his file would be placed under a microscope. He would be exposed, vulnerable, subjected to uncomfortable and invasive scrutiny. But Nadeem would not relent. He wanted the assignment. The Albanian's arrest was his doing, born of his newfound connection to Wilson Fisk, and he no longer cared if his record was laid bare.
At last, Hattley consented.
You knew absolutely none of this. You were at your workstation, analyzing blood traces from a recent homicide. You congratulated Nadeem on the Albanian arrest, entirely unaware of the Fisk arrangement. It was not that you were suspicious; you were simply so consumed by your work that you registered almost nothing around you.
Almost nothing, except for Dex.
You observed him arrive at his usual hour: 7:00 a.m., punctual to the second. He wore the long black polo he favored so much and ordered his customary decaf coffee. Then he busied himself—filing reports, running photocopies, attending to some external case. He did not look at you. He was absorbed in his duties. But you, you watched him every chance you could. There were moments when you drifted close to his workstation, attempting to draw his attention with the smallest gesture—pausing by the photocopier, lingering at a nearby desk—but he remained utterly oblivious. He did not so much as flinch in your direction.
Nadeem spent the bulk of that day locked in meetings with Hattley; that was all you knew. In truth, they were discussing Wilson Fisk, along with two other high-ranking officials.
It transpired that there had been a minor incident in the holding cells. Someone had stabbed Fisk—an Albanian—and given his newfound arrangement with Nadeem, he petitioned to be transferred elsewhere, for the sake of his own safety.
And so, as night descended, you were informed that you would be staying several extra hours. The overtime would be compensated. Why? you wondered. Though you did not voice your objections.
You passed the time reviewing reports you had been drafting, until a summons arrived. One of the SWAT officers stood before you.
"Why have I been called in?" you inquired, falling into step beside him.
"Orders from Hattley. She wants you present for Fisk's transfer. In case anything comes up." His voice was flat, clinical.
You frowned, your brow furrowing with confusion. "What? That makes no sense, I'm not authorized to—"
"Shut your damn mouth. Don't ask questions."
You parted your lips, a retort burning on your tongue, but you swallowed it. You followed him outside, where a convoy of at least four black Chevrolet SUVs stood waiting. The officer gestured sharply toward the third vehicle, but your gaze was fixed elsewhere.
On Dex.
He was clad in his tactical gear—military, you might have called it. No helmet obscured his features; his face was fully visible. You pressed your lips together, drinking in the sight, silently willing him to look your way once more.
He did not.
The officer shouted at you again, snapping you from your reverie. You climbed hastily into the back seat, joining the agent and his partner.
In the second vehicle sat Nadeem, another agent, and Wilson Fisk, confined to the back.
Dex had taken his place in the lead car. Another vehicle trailed behind yours.
Thus began the transfer. The cabin was steeped in silence; the two agents exchanged no words. You, for your part, sensed that something was deeply amiss. Why would they embed a forensic specialist in a prisoner transport? Surely nothing was meant to happen. Surely.
In the lead car, Nadeem was reciting the terms of the arrangement to Fisk.
"You will respect my colleagues. You will keep the monitoring device on at all times. You will adhere to the boundaries we set for you. You will follow a strict schedule—meaning you will eat, sleep, and take care of your needs when I say so. Is that understood, Mr. Fisk?"
Fisk's voice emerged, low and measured. "I spent the majority of my life alone. For many years, I believed that solitude was... the source of my strength. I persuaded myself that I possessed free will. And during that time, I accomplished a great many things. Yet I remained unsatisfied. I longed for a connection I could envision but never grasp. One I sought, but could never find." He paused, letting the silence thicken. "Until I met Vanessa. Until I discovered... love. I felt invincible, intoxicated by the power and freedom she bestowed upon me. I believed the world lay at my feet. And then it was torn away. I saw, at last, the great deception that lies behind love. What I had mistaken for freedom was, in truth, its opposite. Prisons may be forged from stone and steel, but to a determined man, those walls are simply a challenge. Anyone with sufficient resolve can escape them. But love... love is the perfect prison. One from which there is no release. As you can see, Agent Nadeem, I will remain a prisoner wherever I go. And if wearing these cuffs keeps Vanessa safe, then I will wear them willingly. For her, I would do whatever must be done."
Nadeem sat motionless, absorbing the gravity of those final words. "For her, I would do whatever must be done." It was, nearly verbatim, what you had told him the night before: that you would do anything for him and his family.
But there was no time to dwell on the echo.
Suddenly, an explosion tore through the night ahead of them. The lead vehicle erupted into a tower of flame, forcing Nadeem's driver to wrench the wheel violently to one side. A second detonation followed almost instantly, flipping their car onto its roof with a shriek of torn metal.
Your own experience was altogether different. The silence that had wrapped itself around you was shattered by a thunderous blast that seized your attention. Through the smoke and drifting embers, your eyes found the burning wreckage of the car ahead. Dex was in that vehicle. Dex and his fellow agents. A cold, unfamiliar sensation coiled in your chest. What if something had happened to him?
Then came the second explosion. From your vantage point, you watched Nadeem's car slew sharply left, only to be hurled onto its back by the shockwave. Your own driver swerved hard to evade the wreckage. But as you stared forward, you failed to register the vehicle barreling toward you from the left.
It struck your side of the car with a sickening crunch. Glass shattered inward, peppering your skin. The world spun end over end as your vehicle flipped across the asphalt, grinding to a halt upside down.
Everything went dark.
When consciousness crept back in, the first thing you registered was the sound: an agonizing, high-pitched whine burrowing into your ears. You grimaced against it. You were lying on your back, your body pinned by the seatbelt. If you remained like this much longer, the blood would begin pooling in your skull. Slowly, painstakingly, you unlatched the belt and crumpled onto the ceiling of the overturned car. A poor decision. Shards of glass bit into your palms and knees. A low groan escaped you.
Blood streamed from your nose—thick and warm, as though you had submerged your face in a jar of fresh pulp. A thin laceration traced your cheekbone. Somewhere deep in your body, a dull, insistent ache throbbed. When you finally lifted your gaze, you found the agents.
They were already dead.
The driver's face was a ruin of glass and mangled flesh, barely recognizable as human. His partner slumped beside him, head bowed forward as if in prayer. You stared at the bodies for a long moment. No disgust stirred within you. No fear. You simply did not know what to do.
Then, gunfire cracked through the night.
You flinched low, pressing yourself against the frame of the overturned car. The bullets, mercifully, did not pierce the reinforced glass.
Dragging yourself toward the window, you peered out.
A firefight was erupting. Special agents were exchanging rounds with a swarm of Albanians. An ambush. The attackers held every advantage: grenades, heavy-caliber weaponry, machine guns and shotguns that tore through the ranks of agents until no one remained standing. Through the fractured darkness, you watched the Albanians advance, stepping over the fallen with casual indifference. Then a single shot rang out, impossibly clean, and one of them dropped to the ground, a neat hole blossoming in his skull.
Another shot. Another body crumpled.
Your eyes tracked toward the source.
Dex.
He was crouched behind a vehicle, firing with a precision that seemed to defy the laws of physics. Then he was moving—vaulting past your overturned car, sliding across the debris-strewn asphalt as he continued to squeeze the trigger. Your face hovered at the window, tracing his every motion. You were utterly enthralled by what you were witnessing.
He pressed forward, methodical and absolute, cutting down every hostile in his path. Two of the Albanians abandoned their weapons and raised their hands in surrender. Dex granted them no quarter. He executed both with a single bullet to the head each.
On the far side of the wreckage, Fisk observed the slaughter with a fascination that mirrored your own.
In one fluid motion, Dex ejected the magazine from a fallen pistol, then hurled the spent casing across the distance. It embedded itself in the throat of a final Albanian with an accuracy that bordered on the supernatural. How was such a thing possible?
And then you understood. You had your answer. He did not rely solely on firearms; he wielded everyday objects as lethal extensions of his will. That was why the ballistic reports had always described his accuracy as impossibly, preternaturally clean.
A sharp noise wrenched you from your thoughts. Fisk had kicked open the crumpled door of his transport and emerged, still bound in handcuffs, surveying the carnage with an unreadable expression. He had only a moment before a pistol found its mark, leveled at his head.
"Convict," Dex said, his voice clipped and unyielding. "Don't move."
You acted on instinct. Pushing open your own battered door, you crawled out into the cool evening air. In the distance, sirens wailed—police and ambulances drawing nearer. You rose unsteadily, your gaze sweeping across the landscape of bodies sprawled across the asphalt: agents and Albanians alike, some dead, some merely unconscious.
You touched your nose. Blood still trickled from it, warm and insistent. Your clothes were ruined, stained dark. You walked slowly toward the two men, but kept a careful distance. At last, Dex's gaze broke from Fisk and drifted toward you.
You stopped the instant his eyes met yours. Something flickered in his expression, barely perceptible. Then he turned back to Fisk, his aim unwavering.
"You should have a doctor examine you," he said, his voice steady. "At this rate, the bleeding will only worsen."
You did not respond. You simply looked at him. You might have pointed out that he was injured as well—superficial cuts lined his face, a thin trail of blood tracing his jaw—but with Fisk still in his custody, you doubted he would spare a moment for medical attention.
You gave a short nod and seated yourself on the curb at a distance. You would wait for the ambulance. But as you waited, you watched how Dex conducted himself: controlled, absolute, a master amidst the chaos.
Nadeem emerged moments later. A smear of blood marked his mouth, and a gash split his eyebrow, but he was otherwise unharmed.
When reinforcements finally arrived, you watched them bundle Fisk into a police transport. Dex climbed in beside him. Nadeem stood back, watching them depart with a weariness that had nothing to do with his injuries.
Your mind began to replay the words, over and over.
"You should have a doctor examine you."
Was it concern? Or simply the correct thing to say? To any ordinary person, it would have been nothing more than professional courtesy, the baseline decency one human extends to another. Dex was merely doing his duty, indifferent to who you were. But to you, with your fractured and ravenous mind, it was a declaration of profound significance. He had seen you. Truly seen you. And he had spoken. That alone was enough to make you happy.
A faint smile curved your lips, smearing them with the blood still seeping from your nose.
Today, you decided, had been a truly splendid day.
I’ve been deep in the trenches of fanfictions ever since I was 12. Life went on and almost a decade later of quitting reading fics, after watching Thunderbolts last year in theaters and saw a post on tiktok, then people recommending writers on comment section, here I am with probably a thousand fics read within nearly a year.
I'm truly grateful for all of the wonderful bucky fanfic writers on this platform as their fics saved me from a very dark place I was in and kept me alive until today.
In honour of my almost a year on tumblr, here are my favourite and re-read worthy fics (and I definitely re-read them more than once as they live rent free in my head lmao):
(warning: most of these are r18+. You are responsible of your own media consumption)
Uncle bucky by @iamthatonefangirl (I sent in anonymously before but she was the writer recommended in the comment section of that tiktok video I found talking about bucky in thunderbolts—basically who I will give credits for restarting my fanfic reading journey. Honestly, I have no other words, but trust me when I say all of her works are chef's kiss. Uncle bucky is just on my top fav)
Rewind by iamthatonefangirl
For the love of game by @pellucid-constellations (this is honestly the one that made me create tumblr acc as I was initially reading for more than a month without one lmao)
Undisclosed by pellucid-constellations
Letters through time by @buckysleftbicep
Wildflowers by @superbassbuck
Grade A pain in my ass by superbassbuck
Lessons in love by @mandoalorian
The Education of James Buchanan Barnes by @danysdaughter
HR can't save you by danysdaughter
Attrition by @crybabycabin
Babydoll by @metal-armed-muse
A fever he can't sweat out by @epiphanyrogers
O come ye all faithful by epiphanyrogers
You up? by @iwritefanfictionsnottragedies
Touch tank by @rosesaints
Oral History by @cursedheartsclub
No strings attached unless by @kryptoclark
To whom it may concern by cursedheartsclub
Nerdy Bucky series Bucky this, Bucky that by @imnotjustreadingg-volume-two (my fav of hers <3)
Invisible by @danitcx
I think I've seen this film before by @bucky-bucky-bucky-bucky
No roster, just you by @salem-s
The right questions by @juniebjonesin
Douced in sequins by @miraclediviner this is the first one I ever saw of talent manager bucky x pop star reader and i'm so hooked
Guilty as sin by @redemptive-truth
Don't you ever end up anything but mine by @flowersforbucky
My neighbor is a prnstar by @brunchable
Show & tell by @nonotwithoutu
Null & void by @smorgaswhored
Property of j.b.barnes by @witchywithwhiskey
AITA by nonotwithoutu
His and his only for 24 hours by salem-s
Yes, ma'am by @night-scare
Lessons in chemistry by @d1stalker
Best laid plans by nonotwithoutu
For your consideration by @daydreamgoddess14
Only you by danitcx
Illicit affairs by @carmenberzattosgf
Happy meal by @sins-write-tragedies
Cuffing season by @phoenix-in-writing
Jealous-capades by @boysoconfusing
You're no good for me by @sinner-as-saint i love all of her writtings istg. This one is my most fav as it lives rent free in my head. Wish I could have a Bucky sugardaddy too
I'll follow you until you love me by sinner-as-saint
The burden of love by danitcx
Silversprings by @thatfoxygrl
Clark Kent talking you through it by @laceyfaeryy
Lovegame by @maiamore
I'm gonna kill Jimmy by @kissmyglxck
Girl next door by maiamore
Like the real thing by maiamore
(you think) he doesn't like you back by @staseras
If you leave, i forget how to breathe by danitcx
Lessons in lovemaking by @artficlly
Honey girl by @violentdelightsandviolentends
Vanilla cookies by staseras
He is touched starved by staseras
Growing pains by @lunexiax
Only ever you by @blowingbarnes my all time fav! Reread this more than five times already because this is of of those that lives rent free in my head. Still waiting for part two
Stormbound by @tw1sters
Superdick by @mcumorningstar
Lay me down by @godmadeaterribleerror
FÍJATE FÍJATE EN TU SECRETARIA by @herejustforbuckybarnes one of my fav congressman! Bucky fics
Pairing: Benjamin Poindexter x fem!Reader Word Count: 4.6k [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
Summary: All Dex needed was one good deed, something to tip the scales of his life and balance everything out a little. Crying, injured, and terrified as you wandered the streets of Hell’s Kitchen late at night, you seemed to check all the boxes of someone in need. But as Dex gets to know you, he realizes he miscalculated what his one good deed would be, and now he's not quite done with you.
a/n: This was supposed to be a one shot, but I broke it into two parts. I could potentially add a bit more than that if there's interest because Dex has been rampant in my brain lately despite me mainly writing for Matt. Feedback and reblogs are always appreciated!
series tag list: @awesome-badass-cafeteria-sauce @snowwythegloww @skollinghunter
Rain water splashed up onto the denim of your jeans as you passed through another puddle that'd accumulated along a dip in the sidewalk. The lights of Hell’s Kitchen reflected off the wet pavement, the nighttime city twinkling underneath your feet while the distant sounds of police sirens echoed off the surrounding buildings.
It’d stopped raining before you’d found yourself wandering the streets tonight, well aware that you were out past the mandated curfew Fisk had put into place. The fear of being thrown into the back of one of AVTF’s vans and disappearing kept you from paying much attention to the cold, wet material now clinging to your ankles. So did the throbbing in your right shoulder and the stinging cuts scattered across your cheek and chin, the pain of them only made worse by the salty tears trailing quietly down your face.
Keeping your head lowered and your chin tucked to your chest, you hurried down the sidewalk without a destination as you attempted to avoid the police checkpoints. The few others still out on the street passed you by without a care as to whether you were alright, no one bothered by the sight of a lone woman walking the streets while bleeding and crying at nearly ten in the evening. The state of you didn’t even cause a single head to turn in your direction, as if you were entirely invisible to the rest of the city. Just another woman in trouble, no one else’s problem.
Taking another turn when you’d reached the corner, you continued down the sidewalk without any idea of where you were headed. Your apartment wasn’t a safe option tonight because he knew where you lived. Would he be waiting there for you if you returned home? Or would he show up shortly after you’d locked yourself inside of your place, wanting to finish what he’d almost accomplished earlier tonight when you’d tried to finally end the relationship?
You could still feel his hands around your throat, the memory of him crushing your windpipe causing your left hand to absently raise to your neck, fingers gently brushing over the tender spots where his own fingers had dug in and squeezed. He’d meant to kill you this time. To show you that you’d never be allowed to leave him. When your vision had blurred white, your mind sluggish and hazy as you struggled for a breath, you really thought he’d succeed.
It was only by sheer luck that you’d managed a swift kick right between his thighs with your last vestiges of strength–a cheap shot straight to the balls. But it’d worked, causing him to double over in pain long enough for you to stumble through his kitchen and towards the door of his apartment. Gasping for air and still struggling to see straight, you’d flung the door open and bolted straight for the stairwell. You’d half-tripped, half-sprinted down the two flights of stairs and ran through his apartment building’s lobby without him managing to catch up with you.
But now you were left with another problem. You had nowhere to go where he couldn’t find you, and you couldn’t realistically stay on the streets all night. Not only were you not safe from Fisk’s task force out here, but it wasn’t safe for a woman alone in general to be wandering Hell’s Kitchen at night. Anyone just as bad as your ex could stumble upon you, and who knew how much further of a deep nosedive your night could still take if they did.
With trembling fingers, you gingerly brushed away a few of the tears still slipping down your cheeks, but a sharp hiss of pain passed between your lips. Despite how careful you’d been with your touch, your swollen cheek stung horribly from where his fist had collided with it a few times tonight.
He hadn’t liked you trying to stand up for yourself for once.
Drawing your hand away from your face, you glanced down at your dampened fingers just as you passed beneath the bright sign of a still open bodega. The gleaming yellow lights overhead illuminated the tinge of red on your fingertips–blood, not tears. You winced at the sight only to feel a sharp jolt of pain sear its way through the left side of your face at the gesture.
Even if you could get back to your apartment tonight, did you have enough supplies left in your first aid kit to properly clean yourself up? What were you even supposed to tell everyone when you went into work this time? The cuts wouldn’t be entirely healed by Monday morning, and you felt as if you’d run out of excuses to explain away all of the injuries you'd sustained over the past year. You wished you could’ve trusted the police to do something, maybe things wouldn’t have escalated to the point they had tonight if the world worked differently. But they'd proven useless, only exacerbating the tension within your relationship.
Entirely caught up in your thoughts as you continued down the sidewalk, you hadn’t been paying much attention to the rest of the foot traffic braving curfew around you. Just as you’d started to lower your bloodied hand back to your side, someone roughly slammed into your right shoulder. With a startled gasp at the sharp pain lancing itself up your injured arm, you lost your footing and stumbled a few steps towards the street, your shoes accidentally splashing into another puddle.
More tears bloomed along your waterline in response, your teeth sinking down onto the tip of your tongue in an attempt to quell a cry of pain threatening to burst out of you. Your gaze nervously darted over to the person you’d just ran into, your pulse thundering in your ears. You were terrified that you’d just pissed off the wrong person tonight with your inattentiveness, and your fear felt validated when you locked eyes with the man who’d also stopped dead in his tracks.
He was standing completely still in front of the bodega’s windows, the bright lights behind him casting a harsh glow that accentuated the sharpness of his cheekbones and lit a few cuts along his own face. At first glance you would have found him attractive with his cropped blonde hair and muscular build, but you noticed something a little off in the way his eyes stared back at you. An intimidating, calculative look held you captive like an animal trapped in a snare, your left hand now cradling your injured right arm carefully to your chest.
“I–I’m sorry,” you blurted out the apology. “I–I didn’t mean to run into you.”
It was a knee-jerk reaction by now, apologizing whenever you did just about anything that could've been deemed offensive, so the words easily rolled off your tongue as they had so often in the past. But the stranger remained quiet, his eyes slowly scanning over your tear-streaked face. You imagined your visibly swollen left cheek and the blood smeared on your face wasn’t helping your appearance, but you weren’t certain whether he was staring at you because he was concerned about you, or because you looked like easy prey.
“I’ll pay better attention to where I’m going,” you promised him, the words coming in a rush.
Turning swiftly on your heel, you ducked your head once more and started back off down the sidewalk, your arm still cradled to your chest as you tried to put distance between yourself and him. But you could feel the weight of his stare on your back like the tip of a knife dragging down the column of your spine, and the hair along your forearms prickled. You’d only managed a few steps before he called out, the tone of his voice causing your feet to halt on the pavement.
“What happened to you?”
With your back still facing the stranger, each of your muscles pulled taut at the question while fear and apprehension flooded your system. He was the first one to actually notice you tonight, but he hadn’t hit you with an “are you alright?” or “do you need help?” The edge in his tone didn’t sound much like concern, but rather something strangely close to curiosity.
Pulling your injured arm closer to your chest, your eyes focused on a particularly deep puddle farther down the street as you struggled to find a response to give him. The green lights of the nearby traffic light reflected off of the water on the road, but with the curfew in effect, there wasn't much traffic at this hour.
“Were you attacked?” he called out from behind you. “Was it the task force?”
Inhaling a quivering breath, you accepted defeat and gradually turned back around to face the stranger. You noticed with interest that he hadn’t moved any closer to you after you’d walked away, remaining exactly where he’d been standing in front of the bodega. But the second your eyes met, his expression shifted oddly fast. One second he was looking at you with a flat, hard to read stare, and the next, a friendly smile spread over his face as he held up both of his hands in a placating gesture.
The strange look in his eyes hadn’t changed, though.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” he assured you. “I’ll even stay right here if that makes you comfortable. But you’re bleeding and crying, and it’s clear someone did something to you. Now, if the task force is nearby–”
He broke off mid-sentence, his hands gradually lowering back to his sides as his gaze swept down both sides of the street. Quietly watching him, you noticed that he didn’t seem to have the normal reaction to the threat of the task force nearby. Most people spoke about them with clear disdain or fear, but he almost seemed to be searching for them. Like he wanted to find them.
“It wasn’t them,” you told him, the words slipping out before you could stop them.
His attention fixed back on you and you stiffened, still a bit uncertain about who he was and what he wanted from you. While you highly doubted that he’d believe you if you said you’d fallen down some stairs and obtained your injuries that way, you also weren’t interested in someone trying to force you to a hospital, either. You didn’t have the money to cover what your insurance wouldn’t from an emergency room visit, but if he was going to press the question, telling him the truth was beginning to feel like the only logical option you had here.
His eyes narrowed speculatively at you, his head tipping just a fraction to the side. “Who was it then?”
Still clutching your arm to your chest, your fingers curled into the fabric of your shirt sleeve as you internally debated on how much to share with him. You’d never openly admitted what your ex had done to anyone before, but here you were being put on the spot to tell a stranger. Mouth opening and closing a few times, you struggled to find something to say, but with no believable lie coming to you in the moment, the truth fell right out.
“It was my ex,” you answered awkwardly. “I–I tried to end things, but he…didn’t like that.”
“So he attacked you because he didn’t want you to leave him,” the man clarified.
You hesitated at his completely blunt, straightforward response. Here you were visibly bleeding and shaken up, telling him that you’d tried to end a relationship and gotten attacked over it, yet he still hadn’t even asked if you were alright. He'd offered no words of comfort or sympathy. If anything, he seemed more focused on the situation than your well-being, which was…odd.
If he had stopped and taken an interest in you because he intended to mug you or assault you, why would he continue to stand here wasting his time talking to you? Because if he genuinely was concerned about you, he certainly wasn't acting in the typical manner of someone showing sympathy. Which left you wondering if there was another reason as to why he was still asking questions, a third reason you couldn't quite grasp.
“And you're out past curfew because you just left him?” he pushed.
“Well, I–I can’t exactly go home,” you sheepishly admitted. When he only stared at you, waiting for more of an explanation, you continued weakly. “Because he knows where I live. And I’m–I’m afraid he’s going to show up if he isn’t already at my apartment. So I can’t go home.”
There was a brief silence after you’d finished where he continued to study you, and you swallowed thickly under the uncomfortable weight of his attention. After a moment the man took two steps in your direction, but when you instantly took a hesitant step backwards on the sidewalk, he abruptly stopped his approach. Both of his hands raised up in the air again in that gesture meant to remind you he meant no harm. The bodega’s sign behind him cast half his face in heavy shadows now, and a part of your brain screamed danger even though he kept trying to assure you that he wouldn’t hurt you. You weren't entirely certain what to make of him, but fear seemed the most reasonable reaction to his presence, especially after the way your night had already gone.
“So are you on your way to a police station then?” he pried, not moving any closer. “Or one of those women’s shelters?”
Lip curling back in distaste, you shook your head as a bitter huff met his questions. You weren’t entirely sure what it was about him that seemed to be drawing forth such extreme candor from you tonight. Maybe it was just the adrenaline still coursing through you after everything you’d already endured with your ex, or maybe you were just sick of hiding the truth now that it was finally out.
“The police don’t do shit to help. Everyone knows that,” you spat, eyes dropping down to your shoes. They were both drenched from all the puddles you’d stepped in while walking the streets, your socks inside of them squishing uncomfortably as you shifted your weight. “And I don’t even have any idea of where one of those shelters is located.”
Your phone had also died about twenty minutes ago, making it impossible for you to even search up the phone number to contact a place like that and find their location. But you had the good sense not to share that information with him. Whoever he was, you didn’t need him to think you were even more defenseless than you already looked as you tried to figure out what he wanted with you.
“I just…wanted to go home,” you quietly finished.
“Maybe I can help.”
The offer took you by surprise, your eyes slowly drifting up from beneath your lashes and landing on his face. That friendly smile had returned to his features again, the one you assumed was meant to be disarming to a lone woman roaming the streets at night. Your stomach gave a nervous twist at the sight of it, but the prospect of help was too hard to entirely ignore. It wasn't as if you had any other options. You couldn’t keep walking the streets.
“Help how?” you cautiously questioned.
His shoulders rose and fell in an easy shrug, his face still half hidden in shadow while the other half was washed in bright yellow. “Sometimes I help people.”
Something seemed left unspoken in that simple sentence and it made you wonder what exactly he meant by it. Whatever it was hung in the air between you both like the evening humidity. With another silence temporarily stretching around you on the nearly empty street, you stood there processing his offer and what it could mean.
Awkwardly shifting your weight between your feet again, you suddenly remembered how he’d almost seemed to be purposely looking for the AVTF after you'd run into him. Something clicked in your mind and you audibly gasped, eyes widening slightly in shock as your head raised to fully meet his stare.
“Are you–” you whispered, voice lowering so that you wouldn’t be overheard as you were struck with understanding, “–are you one of those vigilantes?” You took a few cautious steps towards him, closing a bit of the distance between the pair of you on the sidewalk. “The ones who are fighting against the task force?”
The corner of his lips slowly drew higher at the awestruck question, the smile on his face turning more amused than friendly. For the first time since you’d quite literally run into him tonight, the expression on his features looked genuine, and that helped to ease some of the nerves that'd been churning in your stomach.
Maybe you were in luck for the first time in your life. None of the vigilantes had ever come to your rescue in all of the time that you'd lived in Hell’s Kitchen. But whoever this man was, he was offering you assistance at a time when you could desperately use it.
“You could say that,” he answered smoothly. “And I’m going to make things right. I’m going to help you.”
What luck Dex had running into you while he’d been out tonight.
For the months that’d passed after he’d killed Murdock’s friend and escaped from prison, Dex had been needled by this voice inside of his head telling him that something felt off. He thought he’d have gotten his mind back now that he was finally free, no longer being fed copious amounts of pills to keep him sedated and stupid, and no longer trapped in solitary confinement, but he hadn’t accounted for all of the damn noise inside of his head that’d returned with it.
It wasn’t his conscience, no. Dex didn’t exactly have a fully functioning one of those. He figured it was the ghost of Mercer’s voice still lingering in his mind, his therapist telling him that he needed to find balance again. To try to fix all the shit that the Fisks’ had twisted up inside of his head when they convinced him to do all the awful things they had.
If only he could've just died in peace when Murdock had tossed him those four stories down. There’d been a handful of times now that Dex should’ve just died in the past, but he hadn’t. He’d spent countless nights stalking the city trying to find a purpose, to make sense of why it seemed like he kept surviving when he knew he shouldn’t still be alive.
Eventually he’d figured it out.
He knew he needed to right the scales of his life, balance them out a little more to make up for all the things he'd done. Dex initially thought that helping Murdock fight the AVTF and Fisk would be enough, but the noise was still drilling a hole inside of his head. What he was doing hadn’t quieted it down, so he'd begun to think that maybe he needed to find another good deed. Something seemingly more selfless somehow–because killing Fisk was also about exacting his own revenge.
Which was where you had come in.
He honestly hadn’t been paying any attention to you earlier before you’d both collided on the sidewalk, but the abrupt hiss of pain you’d loosed at the impact had caught his attention. People didn’t generally react like that from a rough shoulder bump on the street. But when he’d taken one good look at you, he’d seen a terrified woman staring back at him, one with bloodshot eyes, a swollen, bloodied face, and panic written beneath the tear tracks. He didn’t need his years of experience in the FBI to know that you were in need of help, which was the only reason why he’d even stopped to talk to you.
And while he’d been talking to you, that's when he realized what he needed to do. Killing your ex-boyfriend to keep you safe would be Dex’s One Good Deed. That would keep you–a stranger he absolutely did not fucking care about, which to him screamed selfless–entirely safe from your ex. You would be able return to your apartment with no more fear of retaliation from the real winner you’d chosen to date.
He would be saving your life. Surely saving the life of a complete stranger would even the scales. That's what Murdock would've done, right? That was what a good vigilante did. Save people.
So Dex had personally walked you back to your apartment, continuing to let you ignorantly think that he was one of the vigilantes being hunted in the city for fighting back–because in a way, he was. But he wasn’t going to correct your thoughts about who he really was since there was no need. Telling you the truth didn’t fit into his plans because the situation was straightforward–he just needed to make sure you were safe. That was all he had to do. That was his One Good Deed. Keep you safe.
After he’d walked you home and checked to make certain that no abusive ex was lurking in the hallway outside of your apartment, you’d willingly given him the asshole’s address. Dex had left you with a promise to help and a charming smile, and whatever you’d made of what he was going to do, he'd left that up to you to imagine.
Now he was slowly ascending the second flight of stairs in your ex-boyfriend’s apartment building stairwell, taking each step one at a time in the dingy, cramped quarters. Having decided to come straight here after walking you home, he figured that he’d take care of the task before something could happen to you and you wound up dead. Because that would ruin everything. He could easily take a half an hour of his evening to walk a few blocks and kill your ex and complete his task.
That was what a good vigilante did.
When he’d reached the top of the stairwell, Dex pushed open the metal door and slipped into the hallway. His eyes scanned over the multiple apartment doors on either side of it, searching for apartment number fourteen. Padding quietly down the outdated tiled floor in his boots, one of the overhead lights blinked in and out, flickering repeatedly as he walked. Outside of the building, the sound of rain beginning to fall once more came muffled through the walls.
Eventually, Dex found apartment fourteen at the far end of the hall on his right–your ex’s place. He turned and stopped in front of it, extending a hand forward and letting it hover over the doorknob. He paused for just a moment, wondering if your ex would be stupid enough to leave his door unlocked, or if he would have to find a way to break the lock to get inside. Grasping the knob, he gave it a firm twist. The door easily gave way and inched right open for him.
So he was an idiot. Just like Dex thought.
Pushing the door open the rest of the way, he casually stepped inside the apartment as if he'd been invited. Dex could hear the faint shuffling of footsteps moving in a room nearby, so he quietly closed the door after himself. It wasn’t like he intended to be here long, but he still had no interest in drawing the attention of the other tenants in the building to what was about to happen here.
Silently moving through the little entryway towards the kitchen, Dex wasn’t surprised to find a mess. Dirty dishes filled the kitchen sink, mail and garbage cluttered the countertops, and a handful of empty beer bottles were scattered about whatever other available surface was left. Papers and bits of food were spread out over the tiled floor, and Dex’s nose scrunched in distaste at the chaotic disorder.
How did men like these attract women in the first place?
“Who the fuck are you?”
Realizing that your ex had finally noticed that he wasn’t alone in his apartment anymore, Dex’s attention turned away from a precariously stacked pile of overdue bills and focused on the asshole he’d been looking for. Upon a quick once over, he noted the man was tall and carried some strength in his build, and he supposed he held some semblance of society’s conventional idea of attractiveness, but he looked so much like the stereotypical abuser with his messy hair, stained white wife-beater tank top, and the pungent reek of beer that he wanted to roll his eyes.
“I think the better question is, what the hell did your ex ever see in you?” Dex countered. He gestured a mocking hand at the man who swayed on the spot as he added, “Who the hell looks at you and thinks ‘that’s the guy I want to be with’? I don’t get it.”
A myriad of amusing emotions passed over his face right before Dex’s eyes. Initially, the man's expression briefly went blank, but then he became momentarily confused as he tried to process Dex’s insult in his inebriated mind. Afterwards, as if it had taken his few brain cells a minute to finally rub together and start working, his features eventually twisted into something furious.
“So the slut is fuckin’ you, you little shit?” he snapped, jabbing a finger in Dex’s direction. His voice rose a few octaves as a vein grew visible in his neck. “That’s what’s goin’ on? The stupid fuckin’ bitch was sleepin’ with you, wasn’t she?! That’s why she was saying all that shit tonight ‘bout ending things. ‘Cause you’ve been fuckin’ my girl, is that it?”
Standing by the kitchen sink, Dex found himself already tired of this entire confrontation. He hadn't come here to talk, he'd come here to solve your problem.
From across the kitchen, your ex let out a bitter, humorless laugh as he stumbled a few steps towards Dex, and the scent of his sour, rank breath crossed the small distance between them before hitting Dex right in the nose. Unable to find the patience to deal with him any further, Dex reached onto the kitchen counter and grabbed one of the beer bottle caps discarded on it. He couldn’t stand here in this filthy apartment smelling this asshole’s breath for longer than necessary.
“After I’m done with you,” your ex continued in a rage, his finger still jabbing the air in Dex’s direction, “I’m gonna go to her place and–”
He broke off mid-threat, swaying once more unsteadily on his feet beside his refrigerator. His mouth went slack and his brows drew faintly together, right beneath the cap-sized hole now situated in the center of his forehead. A trickle of blood trailed down from the wound as his eyelids fluttered faintly, then he toppled forward with a heavy thunk, falling face first onto the dirty, paper strewn floor of his kitchen right at Dex’s feet.
Looking down at the now lifeless body, Dex let out a long, apathetic sigh. “Did you have to be such a fucking cliche?”
With a shake of his head, Dex casually stepped around the man's dead form that lay limp on the kitchen floor and headed back out the way he'd come in. He didn’t need to waste another second in this dirty apartment.
His task was almost finished now. With your ex dealt with, he figured he would need to return to your apartment and share the good news that he would no longer be bothering you. Maybe he'd even grab a first aid kit on his way back to your place and check on your injuries, just for an extra measure of doing the right thing.
In which the government (Eva Stratt) shows up at your door and gives you no choice but to join the Petrova Taskforce. The reason? Ryland Grace recommended you, your old friend (or whatever you were) from college. And for some reason, you said yes.
or
the tether tying you to earth was always very thin, but now it seemed ready to snap.
word count: 10.7k (lol)
content warning: some (a lot of) inaccurate science (I hate to say it but I would not be on the Petrova Taskforce), some plot alterations for my convenience, cussing, slight (very slight) references to sex, mention of parental death, mention of needles and going under, miscommunication trope (yasss) and someone tell ryland grace to just say something!! ( as always, lmk if I missed anything)
a/n: wow this has been sitting with me for a while! this is like my passion project, I have been so excited to get this out and I hope you all enjoy it too! this is my first time writing for Ryland (and writing in a while so give me some grace...see what I did there?). excited to be back and hopefully writing some more!
ANYWAYS, I would happily write a part two of if the people want it! (or just rant in my inbox about headcanons)
If there was one thing you knew it was that Ryland Grace and you perfectly orbited each other, even when he was far off in San Francisco teaching the next generation of young scientists. It had been that way since you met him in college and it just never stopped. Part of you thought it was written in the stars that Ryland Grace and you were meant to do great things together.
Even after everything that happened with his research paper, even after your lab group dropped you post college from lack of funding, it was still the two of you. Science Partners, pen pals, best buds….among other ambiguous unstated things. You stayed in contact over the years, frequent calls, letters, the stupid punny e-cards he would email you on your birthday every year. There was a time, in college, when the two of you were together almost every day. And your excuse was always that we just work well together.
You knew Ryland Grace, you would say it was your next best subject. However, in this specific, very rare instance, you had no idea what the fuck Ryland Grace was even talking about.
Have you ever considered helping save the planet?
You must have reread the email a thousand times. Enough where your brain eventually shut off from confusion and your head met the keyboard in place of a pillow. Only when a loud thudding rattled through your dingy apartment did you finally realize that you had even fallen asleep. You blinked at the screen, lifting your head from your keyboard, the sun shining through the windows onto your desk. Reaching up, you peeled a small sticky note off your face, rubbing your eyes.
BANG, BANG, BANG. The sound rattled through your thin walls again and only on the second time did you realize it was coming from your front door. You paused for a second and glanced at your small digital clock, it was only six in the morning. Shooting up from your chair you made your way to the door, grabbing an umbrella on the way over, just in case.
You peered through the peep hole, only relaxing for a second when you saw a woman…then her two, what you could assume were body guards, behind her. Right about now you would have called Ryland but he had been off the grid, that email being the first sign of life you had gotten in days.
Shit. Shit. Shit. What do you even do? You glanced back out, seeing them talking amongst themselves before knocking again, the woman calling your name through the door. Quickly turning to the mirror on the wall near the door, you let out a groan at what you saw. There was mascara smeared under your eyes from sleep and your hair stuck up in fifteen directions, all completed by the oversized t-shirt you had on reading “This gal believes in aliens”.
Fuck it!
You threw the umbrella to the side, brushed some hair out of your face and opened the door, casually leaning against the frame like everything was under control.
“Hi,” you spoke up, voice rough from not sleep, quickly clearing your throat in response, arms crossed over yourself to hide the stupid shirt. “Hi…uh is there anything I can do for you?”
The women did not look amused, only offering you a nod, slightly peaking into the small studio apartment behind you.
“Yes, actually, you received an email,” she spoke, sharp, straight to the point. It wasn’t a question really, more like a confirmed fact she was repeating. Her eyebrow quirked ever so slightly at your silence. “Am I wrong?”
You shook your head quickly.
“Yes or no? It is really that simple”.
“Yes, yes, sorry…” you hesitated for a second, coming to the quick realization you had no idea who these people were. And yet, you were so scared to see what would happen if you lied. “Yeah I got an email”.
“Not my decision. Dr. Grace thought however that it would be most efficient,” she continued. “He has spoken very highly of you and from my own research, I can understand why”.
Dr. Grace? Ryland?
She gestured past you which you could only respond by moving to the side. Her presence commanded space and you respected it, or feared it, there was a lot to unpack. She stepped past you, turning to give a nod to the two men with her who remained outside.
“I am sorry,” you began, closing the door, turning to face her. “Maybe you got the wrong person-”
“That is not possible,” she replied. “He was very insistent that we must contact you in order to move forward”.
For what? Contact you for what?
You watched as the woman moved around the room like it was her space, picking up books and skimming through old pages of notes you had written. Then she turned to face a white board you had mounted messily in your kitchen, scribbled with notes and doodles that surrounded three big words: THE PETROVA LINE.
“Seems we are on the same page,” she mused, the first time you had heard any significant change in her tone.
The space and the stars and the idea of infinity above had kept you up late into the night as a child. Your parents should have expected your world was one far away from the grounds of Earth, that you would live your life with your head in the stars. Your father used to have to drag you inside from your backyard, you set up with a blanket and a small telescope that they had bought you for your birthday that year. Each night would end the same, your parents calling you to come inside and you asking for five more minutes, which turned into ten, which turned into hours. But your little sixth grade self could not fathom how school was more important than the world above, the possibilities of the stars.
And when you went to college to study that world it was the easiest decision of your life. Then the stars turned on you and you could not understand why.
The Petrova Line kept you up at night.
“You studied the Tau Ceti System, yes?”
The name of the planet system sent a shockwave through you in a way you didn’t even know was possible. Tau Ceti was your whole life, or it had been in a distant past, it was a system you believed to have more potential than people truly gave it credit for. Yes, you knew Tau Ceti, however you had let that ship sail a long time ago.
“Yeah,” you spoke up, quieter than before. “Yeah I did some work on Tau Ceti”.
And you could not help the wave of disappointment that hit you at those words. You had been recruited to a lab group after college that was specifically dedicating funding to researching the Tau Ceti System, and when it fell through, so did all your plans. You had dropped every other offer for the one that, it was everything you had wanted. It was a risk, and it fell through. No one really prepares you for post college as an Astrobiologist, no one ever tells you that you will end up working as a waitress at the Extraterrestrial Eatery near your house. At least you got to wear a cool space suit there. Tau Ceti and your other research had been benched, pushed to the side for evenings when you had nothing else to do.
“Perfect. Now that is cleared up, grab anything that might be important and we can be on our way”.
The women turned to move past you back for the door and you felt like your feet were suddenly glued to the ground. You opened your mouth to speak, before closing it, then opening it again. Yet no sound seemed to come out.
“What is this?” she asked, turning back, gesturing to your face. “I do not need the fish impression right now, this is a serious matter, we do not have the time”.
You immediately shut your mouth, then took a breath.
“Who are you?” you finally cried out. “What is this? No one is telling me anything!”
You felt insane, like you were living in some simulation where everyone knew what was going on but you. Where were the cameras? When were they gonna jump out and say it was all some weird, honestly unnerving, prank?
“I am Eva Stratt, head of the Petrova Taskforce” she began. “And you have been selected by Ryland Grace to help solve the Petrova Line”.
“I have work tomorrow,” you breathed out, a loss for words. The Petrova Taskforce, some of the world's most brilliant minds coming to you…a waitress at an alien restaurant. The email came back to you, the ominous words from Ryland, saving the world. This was news that a long time ago would have been everything you had ever wanted to hear…now you felt like some imposter, out of place.
Why you? Why now? Why after years of beating around the bush did Ryland Grace need your help to solve one of humanity's greatest emergencies. Why was Ryland Grace solving one of humanity's greatest emergencies?
“That will not be a problem,” Stratt countered. “We have already contacted your place of work and put you on an indefinite time of leave”.
“You can’t just do that!” you fought back, even if you knew that was the least of your worries. It was all so much, all at once. Ryland and Tau Ceti and the Petrova Line and saving the fucking planet.
You remained still glued to the floor, grasping at straws, scared of saying yes…maybe even more scared of saying no. You glanced around the room, the books, the hours of work, the pictures of Ryland and you scattered around the room from college. It had been years since you saw him and maybe that scared you too, seeing him again, reopening feelings you had sworn to bury too deep to ever reach again.
Your curiosity for the world remained, your love for space had never quite gone away, that would be impossible. It was just more of a hobby now, you looked less like someone with a PhD in Astrobiology and more like a crazed conspiracy theorist. You weren’t the same scientist from college, bright eyed and ready to fly into space if she had to.
Dr. Stratt spoke your name from the silence, your eyes snapping back to meet hers, “the sun is dying.”
The word settled heavy, lingering in the air between the two of you.
“Dr. Grace is my last hope,” she continued, honest, blunt. “And you are his”.
And that was all it took as you nodded, a loss for words, moving in a sort of trance to gather your things.
-----------
If there was something you would be fine never doing again it was that fuck-ass fighter jet. But now, standing in front of the door to the conference room, you think you might rather go back and ride the jet a few more times to stall. You hadn’t seen Ryland Grace in years…and now you were there, feet away from him and the idea overwhelmed you more than you thought it would.
The ride over had been a bumpy, hazy mess. Anyone you tried to ask about what was happening would ignore you as if you were a ghost…which only left you with more questions. By the time you landed on a boat your brain was too tired to even try to make sense of it all.
You had met Ryland in college. You both ended up in the same class, ‘The History of Extraterrestrial Life’...better known on campus as That One Alien Class. It filled both of your general education requirements, or at least that’s what you told him was your reasoning. It had taken him weeks to get you to admit that you believed in Aliens and even longer to admit that the class really wasn’t a joke to you.
The two of you were paired up for most of the semester, spending time whispering in class and making jokes about how deranged the content was. Even if it did open your eyes up to the whole Tau Ceti system.
You remember the last day of class so vividly. It was your final presentation and Ryland had taken it upon himself to get you these dumb matching shirts reading, “This gal believes in aliens” paired with “this guy probably is an alien”. It was stupid. And it was so perfect.
The thought made you smile, only for a second, before the nerves of it all settled back in.
There was too much there, floating, left unsaid. And it scared the shit out of you.
Before you could even fully prepare, the doors opened, your body moving in autopilot as Eva Stratt led you into the room. There you were, suddenly standing in front of what felt like a million eyes, all looking to you like you had answers. You had to remind yourself not to do the whole fish thing again as you just awkwardly gave a small wave, trying hard to keep your mouth shut. What am I doing? You were a waitress at an alien themed restaurant, not a scientist…at least not anymore.
Stratt introduced you to the room, briefly detailing your credentials to be here. You had kept your gaze straight, scared to look in either direction, straight was safe, straight was easier. You had imagined what it would be like seeing him again, more times than you would ever like to admit, and this was nowhere close to what you thought it would ever be. In a room surrounded by some of the world's most important people.
“This is Dr. (last name),” you hadn’t been referred to as that in a while…and you could not lie, it felt kinda good. “She has researched the Tau Ceti system most of her career and will help us identify why exactly the Tau Ceti star is the only one not losing energy”
Great. They really loved leaving out the important details. You knew the star, probably more than the back of your hand but there was still immense mystery to it.
“Anything you want to share, Doctor?” Stratt finished, turning the room over to you and you made the one mistake, moving your head. There, at the left end of the table was him, Dr. Grace. Not an email, not a letter or postcard, not a lingering memory…no it was really him, looking at you. Every emotion you had ever felt about him hit you at once in a way that made you want to grab on to the nearest wall so as to not crumble to the ground. Ryland, your Ryland, the same one you remember, albeit a little older, a little more tired. Your heart stuttered for a moment, actually stuttered, like it too had forgotten how to function. And all you could do was muster a small wave. Nothing could have prepared you.
You had spent years pretending that he wasn’t the sun of your own personal solar system. It turned out that was much easier when he was not standing feet away from you, his glasses practically falling off his face.
You swallowed, mouth running dry. And funny as it was, after all the years, after all the anticipation and wondering, your body eventually went back to the familiar state it always did when it saw him. You softened. Your heart beat steadied and your breathing returned to something much more normal.
Stratt cleared her throat, your eyes snapping back to hers.
“Um…Tau Ceti is… pretty dang cool,” you finally choked out, the people around the room sharing looks between each other. “...Thank you”.
Sporadic, unsure claps filled the room as you took a step back, ready to smash your head through the nearest wall. You did not lie, Tau Ceti was pretty freaking cool. But you were sure that was not what the Patrova Taskforce really needed to hear from you at that moment.
“Thank you,” Stratt said, a slight shake of her head, before she gestured towards the empty chair in the one section of the room you had planned on avoiding for at least a little longer. You tried to ignore her before one of the men in suits began to guide you there himself.
Each step you took felt heavy, like your body was trying to stop you. But there was the other part, your heart racing in anticipation, in want. This was what you had wanted, your work hadn’t been the same without him. You two brought out a fire in each other, seeing the best in the mess of crazy ideas the two of you brought to the table. The two of you.
As you walked down the table, a few of the other scientists took turns shaking your hand, welcoming you on board. Maybe your speech was not a total mess afterall. You hadn’t even realized you had made it to the end of the table, his hand reaching yours before your brain could catch up.
“Tau Ceti is pretty dang cool,” the familiar voice spoke. Your eyes immediately met his and you felt like the world had stopped for just a second. Every version of him you remembered and every version you didn’t hit you all at once. Then you felt him squeeze your hand, his head slightly tilting. “Earth to alien girl?”
It was an odd feeling, seeing someone after so long. The memory of him was hazy until that very moment. You had tried so hard to remember the shade of his eyes and the way they kinda squinted up when he laughed. You had tried to commit those things to memory, tried to live through the pictures, but nothing compared seeing them in-person, in front of you.
You tried to form words, frozen in place, only coming back to reality as Stratt began to talk once more. You quickly sat down, pulling your hand from his and forcing your attention forward.
There were a few seconds where neither of you spoke, ignoring the weight of his eyes on you. You were supposed to be professionals…since when were you ever professionals? You were on a boat, with the world's best scientists, saving the planet…next to your best friend. And somehow, that felt like the most overwhelming part. You were sure your brain would eventually catch up one day, the shock fading with every minute that passed.
Then he slightly shifted in his chair, “Pretty dang cool?” he asked, just loud enough for you to hear, just like the two of you used to do in those alien class lectures. A smile grew on your face, one you tried to bite back.
“I panicked,” you whispered back, eyes still focused forward on Stratt, nodding along to words you weren’t even hearing. You didn’t have to look at him to know he was smiling too.
The silence again, the silence of years of pushing off visits and ignoring the hard questions. It made you twitch slightly, racking your mind for anything to ease it.
“So, are you the one responsible for the U.S. government pretty much knocking down my door this morning?” you whispered from the quiet, a slight quirk of your brow, gaze still set forward.
“Guilty,” he said, seeing him lift his hands in mock surrender in the peripheral of your vision. You could almost roll your eyes at how predictable the response was, slightly nudging his foot with yours under the table. He let out a quiet, breathy laugh, one you wanted to be the reason for forever.
“I didn’t think you would come,” he spoke again, his words softer this time, real.
Those were the words that broke your focus, your head turning to meet his gaze, really meeting his gaze, for the first time.
“Kinda didn’t have a choice,” you replied, half-joking, the other half completely honest, thinking back to the morning and the woman who was now commanding the room. Then you smiled, looking back at him, “But I would have come regardless”.
Even if you still weren’t exactly sure what all this was, what you had somehow signed up for. Even if it made you question who you were, why you were here…what you were to him.
You looked down to your lap. You were among the greats because Ryland Grace said you should be. You were not quite sure yet if that was reassuring or terrifying.
“It’s gonna be like old times, huh?” he added, as if it would make it all easier. “You know, you and me, figuring things out, putting the pieces together”.
Fuck. That did not make it any easier.
The meeting breezed by in a blur, words flying all around you as you tried to catch up to speed with what exactly was happening. You could pick out Petrova Line, Astrophage, Tau Ceti, among several other things you weren’t quite sure on.
And then it was quiet. Just you and him, alone, in a room that now felt much too big. You both started talking at the same time-
“So-”
“Hey-”
You stopped, laughed, apolgized…tried again.
Then you did the exact same thing once more.
“Out of sync,” you joked, a quiet laugh, as the adrenaline wore off and gave way to a feeling you could not describe. You knew him but then again, it had been years. It was finding the balance between an old friend and a stranger.
“It’s been a little bit, huh?” he added, hands digging into the pocket of his jeans. You finally got a glimpse of his shirt, a science pun you were sure he was so excited to show his class of middle schoolers.
“Yeah, just a little bit,” you added, feeling exposed now without the other people in the room, the slightest bit bitter that it had taken all this to see him again. But then again, who really was to blame for that? You looked down at the ground for a second, shuffling your feet against the floor, racking your brain for anything.
“So…saving the sun?”
You barely got the words out before he stepped forward, closing the space between the two of you, pulling you into a hug. So tight, like you might disappear. You stood there for a second, air caught in your throat before you caved into the feeling. Your arms looped around him, head rested against his chest, as if this was something the two of you just did.
“I missed you,” he said, honest, real.
You stayed there, just together, quiet in the chaos of the day.
“I missed you too,” you finally let yourself say, quiet as if the whole world was listening and you wanted it to be just for him. “Why me?”
He quickly pulled away, as if he was shocked into motion, a wild look on his face, you almost started laughing.
“What?” he gasped out, dramatic as ever.
‘What do you mean ‘what’?” you countered, slightly shoving him in the chest. “Why am I here, dumbass?”
“Hey, so first, we are not cursing anymore,” he scolded, his voice morphing into something you only imagine came from years of teaching. “Second, you are the only person I know who would be crazy enough to show up here”.
He shrugged as if it all was nothing, that dumb smile on his face, as he began to move towards the door. “And you would kill me if I got to research Tau Ceti and you didn’t get the invite”.
You wanted to interject, fight it, but you knew, deep down somewhere, that Ryland never stopped knowing you and you never quite stopped loving him.
“You just gonna stand there?” he asked, already at the door, holding it open. “Or are we gonna do some science?”
It really was like no time had passed between college and now…well if you ignored the millions of dollars worth of equipment now at your complete disposal. It’s funny, the way the body reverts back to old habits. The way Ryland and you moved in the lab was your own sort of rhythm, brains connected in a way that seemed almost superhuman. You needed to grab a tool, he dropped it on your desk before you could even move. He had a question, you were answering it as the question left his mouth…then he would smile at you and roll his eyes and go back to his work. It should have felt different after all this time…and it just didn’t. It was dangerous. And it was so wonderful.
The Vat, or Stratts Vat as everyone began to call it, was a hodgepodge of every science you had ever dreamed of. You could talk to a biologist from across the world and then suddenly meet an engineer who happened to be from your hometown. For a while you pretended that this wasn’t what you wanted, you ached to go back to what was safe and comfortable. But as you stood there, another day on the boat, you realized that maybe this is what you had been waiting for. You were researching again, being curious, all the things your younger self could have only dreamed of.
Your days were mostly spent with Ryland, the two of you poking at astrophage while you dug through old research papers you had on Tau Ceti. Your presentation was coming up, only revealed to you a few mornings ago by Dr. Stratt. She had come into the lab early, you had just woken up, believing it to be a perfect time to tell you that you would be addressing the taskforce with any details you had on the planet system. You sat there, swiveling back and forth in your chair, your sidekick on the other side of the room jumping up and down about a new development in Astrophage breeding.
“I wish I had your energy right now,” you groaned out, shuffling through your notes.
“Tau Ceti not treating you well?” he asked, peaking his head around a shelving unit that slightly blocked your view. “Did you try taking it out to dinner first?”
All you could do was flip him the finger, scribbling notes at the same time. “You think I haven’t tried that yet?”
He let out a laugh, coming around to stand behind where you were sat working. You had been really trying, but there were some things that just needed to be seen to be understood…and one of those was Tau Ceti. You had theories, tons of them, hopefully enough to be of help.
“She is still my greatest mystery,” you admitted, turning your chair to face him.
“Well Rome was not built in one day,” he looked at you, a serious look on his face regardless of the word choice. “And Tau Ceti is not gonna be understood that quick either".
You let your head dramatically fall to rest on the desk, quietly groaning into the sleeves of your jacket. Then you felt Rylands hands on your head gently shaking it.
“Hey,” he began, a laugh already escaping him, you mentally preparing yourself for whatever he would be saying next. “Remember they used to call you the brain!”
“Uh, you used to call me the brain,” you retorted, lifting your head up and shoving his hands away. “and it was and still is stupid”.
He grabbed your head once more, shaking it around, “C’mon use the brain, I know it is in there somewhere”.
You turned to glare at him, his lopsided smile making it hard for you to be upset at anything. The energy settled down, the man leaning back against the desk across from you.
“Do you think this is all gonna work out?” you spoke up, looking back to your notes. “Tau Ceti and the Astrophage and all of it?”
“I don’t know,” he admitted, blunt and honest. “But beats sitting around and waiting for it to solve itself…ar at least that it what I choose to tell myself”.
You just nodded, letting him fade back into his work as you faded back into yours. If Tau Ceti wasn’t enough, the constant push and pull between Ryland and you was. You told yourself to keep it easy, to ignore it, all those dumb feelings squashed down from college that threatened to bubble over any second. You buried yourself in your work, that was easiest. But there would be nights where you would fall asleep at your desk and wake up to a blanket thrown over you. Or mornings when the mess you left in the lab were cleaned up…and there would be Ryland, a small wave and a smile, doing a ‘cheers’ with his coffee mug. You could not let yourself read into it, because then it would be all the much harder to eventually pull away.
The presentation day had come in a blur, you now standing once again in the front of that room, papers gripped so tightly in your hands. You were never good at the presenting part of it all. In the bustle of the room you were able to find him, him waving his hands above his head to get your attention. You smile, he shot over two giant thumbs up, and all you could muster was one half as enthusiastic one back. You turned to look through your notes when he caught your eye again, pointing at his head and mouthing “the brain”, which you could only roll your eyes in response, a quiet laugh fighting its way out of you.
“Alright everyone,” the powerful voice of Eva Stratt entered the room, coming to stand beside you in front of the projector screen. “As you know, Dr. (LAST NAME), has been working hard gathering information on Tau Ceti, which will be our final destination for this trip”.
Everyone around the room turned their full attention to you as the women gestured to you and took a seat. Deep breath.
Your heart was jumping in all sorts of directions, as you fidgeted with the clicker, trying to get the presentation to flip to the next slide.
“Hi,” you began.
“Tau Ceti, it is pretty dang cool!” Ryland called out from the back, heads turning to him, him once again shooting the thumbs up.
“Uh, yes…as Dr. Grace put it, "Tau Ceti is really ‘dang cool’,” some of the scientists laughed at that, the stress easing the littlest bit off your shoulder. You began clicking through slides, diagrams of the systems and the potential planets in its orbit. “Thank you for your enthusiasm”.
You took one last deep breath before diving right in, trusting yourself and the years of work you had put into this already.
“What makes Tau Ceti so interesting, while not an exact match, is that it has the potential to be the closest relative to our own solar system,” you began. “Which means, there is a great likelihood of it supporting life or even already having life within it.”
“Now we know that the Tau Ceti sun is the only star to have not been impacted by the Astrophage, however what is harder to understand is exactly why,” you continued, switching to the next slide, getting into a rhythm. It was easy when it was your whole life's passion. “Which is why our mission is going there, to better understand it…however I have some theories that could be useful to prepare our travelers for what exactly might be going on”.
There was first, the idea that the spectral output on Tau Ceti did not match that of what Astrophage was looking to feed on. However the spectral output is very similar to the Sun so it would have to be significantly off to be a problem, which was unlikely. Along with this, there could be some sort of natural defense, like dust specific to that atmosphere. However, the most exciting idea was that of evolutionary pressure…another lifeform that could be eating away at the Astrophage to keep it in balance. While so extremely far fetched, it was the one that made you the most excited to get the data back from the scientists on the Hail Mary. It could change everything that scientists know about that system.
“But the honest answer is, we don’t know until we get up there and bring back some samples,” you closed out. “Now we do have to be aware that this planet is around twelve lightyears away from us”.
You were in a rhythm now, comfortable enough to really look up and around at the people in the room, several of them taking notes and nodding along. “Which means we are kinda looking at it in the past. The light we are seeing right now left Tau Ceti twelve years ago. Which is incredible, but there is the risk that this system is already gone or changed and we wouldn’t know until we get there”.
“However,” you flipped to your final slide. “The data we are able to gather from here points to strong evidence that this system is very alive and this trip will not only open doors for Astrophage but open up a world to an entirely new solar system that could be inhabited by human life”.
You clicked again, the slideshow coming to a close, “And, uh, yeah that is it from me…thanks guys”.
The sound of applause filled the room and you finally felt like you could actually breathe again rather than having to remind yourself to. Your face hurt from smiling, looking around the room, taking it in. You imagined your younger self, sat with her big telescope and book of constellations in a chair in the back. She is smiling, the biggest smile you have ever seen. She knew all those late nights would eventually pay off. Even after your original Tau Ceti lab fell through, even when you couldn’t find a job and ended up at an alien restaurant, even when your door got busted down by Eva Stratt…all those days led to this moment, right now. You wished you could go back and tell the girl in college that it would be okay, that she was enough, that one day she would do big things. But eventually she would learn and that made it all the more worth it.
And there was him too. You found his eyes in an instant, it seemed to be the first thing your body did. It was an old habit, one you could not break, nor really wanted to. He was beaming, an ear to ear smile, waving at you like you had just accomplished something so incredible and not just given a presentation. You made your way towards him, your bodies drawn together like magnets. However with each step you took, you felt like you were being pushed further and further away as people began to come up and shake your hand or ask you questions. Further and further until he faded away in the back of the crowd, now a lone hand stuck up above the crowd trying to get your attention. A thumbs up and you knew everything was gonna be okay.
----------
You were sitting at the bar, hot off the mic with Ilyukhina, who had forced you up against your will. The slight buzz in your head was enough to make you cave, you were sure that was the whole reason Ilyukhnia had insisted on getting you a few drinks at the start of the night. All of it leading to a horrific and yet kinda beautiful version of “Space Oddity” by David Bowie …it felt fitting.
She had bought you a final drink as a thank you, one you were nursing now, looking around the room. Grace had stayed late in the lab, normally you were there too, but the others in the lab had started to joke that you hated fun and you were determined to prove them wrong. You were fun! Very Fun.
You hadn’t been down to the bar before, didn’t quite understand how people could celebrate knowing what was approaching. You weren’t even on the ship and you could barely get your brain to settle at night enough to fall asleep. The room was full of people, singing, laughing, leaning into each other and finding comfort. It made you smile, maybe made this whole thing feel more real. It made the pit in your stomach worse.
Your eyes caught on DuBois, a drunk Shapiro leaning against his arm, the two of them laughing together, in their own world. Your gaze lingered, unable to pull away. The way they could laugh togethering knowing that DuBois would be gone, not set to return. They had people here, people they were leaving and for the first time that really hit you. You tugged your gaze away, looking back down to the bottle of beer in your hands, half empty…it would stay that way. You couldn’t help it though, like it was a piece of art, you found yourself looking back at the two of them. She looked at him with a quiet kind of intimacy, like the two of them could know what the other was thinking without speaking a single word. They moved in a perfect rhythm, a messy, beautiful rhythm. They weren’t just leaving behind Earth, they were leaving behind their people…a chance at a normal life.
You were gonna be sick. Quickly you set your beer on the table and left the bar pushing through the groups of people singing until you were finally out onto the deck of the ship, cold wind smacking you in the face. You gasped for air, but no matter how much you took in, it still didn’t feel like enough.
The ocean was dark ahead, it was like an abyss and as you looked up, you were met with the bright stars, their shine almost too bright with no other lights around to dim them. You felt so small, and in the grand scheme of things you were, and it both terrified you and brought you some peace.
Your grip was tight on the railing, it almost hurt. You needed to be stable, grounded, anything-
“Hey,” a familiar voice approached from behind, your body tensing before slowly relaxing. You didn’t have to turn back, just slightly nodded your head, an invitation.
“Hey,” he repeated himself, this time softer, as he came around to your side, gripping onto the railing next to yours. “Earth to alien girl?”
“I thought you were working late?” you spoke up, anything to take your mind off earlier, get rid of the image of people who would never see each other again.
“The lab gets kinda lame without a certain scientist analyzing everything I do,” he joked, but you could not get yourself to laugh. “I love your analyzing…that’s uh, that’s what I meant”.
It was almost a compliment, a small smile crept on your face that quickly faded out as another gust of wind hit you, the waves crashing below you. The two of you sat there in silence for longer than you ever had before.
“You okay?” he broke from the silence, turning his head to look at you.
You nodded, “Just cold”.
He nodded back, unconvinced you could tell, as he began to reach for his jacket regardless. You did not fight him on it, you were cold, maybe it would help. The chunky fox cardigan draped over your shoulders as he absentmindedly buttoned the top to keep it from falling off of you. You mumbled a quiet ‘thank you’, bundling into the thick yarn.
“So are you gonna tell me what is really wrong?” he spoke again, him still standing in front of you, adjusting the sweater so it covered you. You met his eyes, his head slightly tilting.
“Have you seen Dubois and Shapiro?” you finally allowed yourself to speak your thoughts into the air.
He nodded, returning to stand next to you, leaning once again against the metal rails, "Yeah, they are definitely hooking up”.
“No,” You shook your head, “There’s something more, you can see it in the way they look at each other”.
The silence met the two of you again, the waves below you getting louder and louder, them in their own conversation. You wondered if the waves too had problems like this, if they thought about the world and what they were meant to be. You felt nauseous, you chose to blame sea sickness. It hurt even more because maybe you wished he would look at you like that. You supposed that was your last tether to Earth, last tether from making you lose your mind…it seemed to be him.
“I just cannot imagine knowing the person that you loved was gonna be gone in a few days, just out in space, floating…and you just never see them again. And you can’t even do anything about it” your voice slightly quivered, it was all too much. The several drinks in your system did little to ease your worry, you actually think it made it worse. “After I lost…after my parents, I mean, it took so long to be okay with not getting a goodbye. But they, I mean Shapiro gets to say goodbye. How do you even say that kind of goodbye knowing they are out there and will die, alone?”
You hadn’t realized how blurred your vision had gotten until you looked up, finding Ryland’s gaze, his eyes scanning your face. He had been there, in college, when your parents had passed, had sat up with you for weeks on end keeping you distracted, helping you stay on top of work when your world felt like it was ending.
He carefully reached to wrap his arm around your shoulder, pulling you close to his side, a silent kind of comfort, the kind you liked. You rested your head against his chest, melting into his touch, allowing him to be strong for you for a little. It made your head hurt, all of this and him…there was always him.
You weren’t sure how long it was before he spoke up again, you had counted at least twenty crashes of the waves against the boat. It seemed to be the only thing you could think about without falling apart.
“Where do you see yourself after all this?” he asked, pulling you the little bit tighter against him. You were not in the headspace to dig into that, nor the question he was asking. Because where did you go? You were doing the thing you had worked your whole life for and then what? Back to the restaurant? Back to serving punny dishes named after planets and pretending you were fulfilled?
“Probably go home,” you began, your voice thin, a little shaky. “Can’t keep the Extraterrestrial Eatery without their best server for too long”.
It was supposed to be funny but it came out dejected. A quiet laugh escaped him at your words.
“That’s not-”
“That’s exactly what it is,” you cut him off, sharper than you meant it to be, gaze set down at your shoes, at the hem of his sweater, at anything that wouldn’t make you think so much. “That’s my life, Ryland”.
Before this your life had been small, so miniscule…your dreams seemed so far away. Now you were here, it was all right in front of you. You didn’t even think you would ever get this close to studying Tau Ceti, all the resources right there for you to use.
“This…all of this is everything I ever worked for,” you continued. “Being here, doing things that actually matter, and then it’s just gonna be over”.
The lab, Tau Ceti…him. You had grown so used to it, too comfortable and the feeling of it being torn away felt weird. But that was life, you would adjust, or you would try.
“It doesn’t have to be over,” he offered, trying to comfort the ache in your words. And it hit you, with a force that could have sent you overboard. Your head snapped up, looking at him, you opened your mouth to say something but stopped yourself.
“I gotta go,” you spoke, in a daze of sorts, his words replaying over and over in your head.
“Hey, no. Come on” he too stood up, no longer leaning against the railing. “Talk to me, I am here! We could go sing karaoke or something, be stupid, forget about it”.
“You hate karaoke,” you countered, already edging towards the stairs back down into the boat.
“Maybe I could like it?”
“I am gonna go to bed,” you turned back to him, lying through your teeth. You searched his face once more, took a mental picture of him standing right there, breeze blowing through his hair, glasses slightly tilted. He looked perfect.
“It does not have to be over,” you repeated, more to yourself than to him, before ducking down into the stairs and back down the hall. You were sure he called your name but your body could not turn around. It could have been the alcohol in your system. Maybe you were losing your mind. Maybe it was a little bit of both, but your feet carried you right to Dr. Stratt’s office.
You didn’t even knock, pushing open the door, her head snapping up from the silence. Her eyes slightly narrowed, you standing there in the doorway, trying to catch your brain up to your movements.
“Take me instead,” you blurted out, desperate.
The woman did not react right away, just studied you, like she was weighing something you couldn’t see.
“I have nothing keeping me here”.
At least, almost nothing.
“I have worked my whole life for this,” you continued, words spilling out of you before you could even really think them through. “Tau Ceti is my everything and now I am here. And I can do it, I want to do it”.
You swallowed, a shaky breath, so loud in such a quiet room.
“I need to”.
You stood there, feeling so small in the doorway, waiting for something, anything that would confirm that you weren’t making a mistake. Doctor Stratt just nodded her head, short and direct, like she always was.
“Go get some sleep Doctor,” and you just nodded back, your brain going completely silent for the first time that night.
--------
When the explosion happened a few days later, it was all the justification Eva Stratt needed. The day had been a mess, the loss of those doctors devastating, the power of Astrophage even more extraordinary . There was no time to even process though, as just as quickly as it had happened, Dr. Stratt had pulled you into a conference room. The plans moved fast, there was no time to delay with launch day approaching. You agreed as quickly as it was proposed, Ilyukhnia sending you small thumbs up from across the table.
The explanation was a blur. The coma, the four year trip, the three hours until you would have to be ready. Three hours before your life changed forever. That was all it took for everything to become real. But you nodded along. You had a duty now, not only to yourself but to Dubois and Shapiro and all of humanity. For Ryland Grace and his students, for the young girls out there dreaming of studying the stars. It would all be worth it, for them. It had to be.
You made your way back towards the lab, moving in a sort of hazy trance. You were allowed a few personal items to bring with you on the ship, most of the ones you wanted to bring were stored on the shelves of your desk. A picture of you and Ryland at a weird alien museum your class had gone to. A photo of you with your parents on move-in day at college. Your favorite book. A journal of your personal notes. And that stupid alien shirt.
You smiled, piling the items into a box you kept in the lab, when the door came rattling open.
Ryland Grace came stumbling into the lab practically lit on fire, out of breath, a million emotions on his face. You knew it before he even spoke the words.
“What are you doing?” he asked in a panic, searching your face, his eyes shooting in every direction, him taking steps closer to you.
“I don’t-”
“No, you aren’t doing this,” his stopped you. “What are you doing? They can’t just take you?”
“I volunteered,” you countered back, simple, straight to the point…it would make it easier. You turned back to the box, finishing placing the items, scared what looking back at him would do. He was quiet behind you and that hurt the most. Maybe it hurt because of the quiet, maybe it hurt because he didn't have more to say.
“This is it for me,” you said, still facing the box, busying yourself with organizing and reorganizing the objects, anything to keep from facing the truth. “I have studied Tau Ceti my whole life and now I am going to see it, I am going to help save this planet”.
“You don’t know that,” he bit back. “I mean we can hope but you have no idea if this is even gonna work-”
“Beats the alternative,” you countered.
“And what's the alternative?”
That made you turn, you finally facing him. He looked so tired, a mix of confusion, anger, sadness… somehow all at once.
“This,” you admitted. “Going home to that apartment, living through pictures of a better time while I work that shitty job. That’s not living, that is not how I am going to live!”
“So what, now you are just going off to die?” he was upset, you hadn’t seen him like this in a while, not since his theory about water had not been received well in college.
“I am saving humanity”.
“Oh wow, yes, real courageous of you,” he retorted, shaking his head in disbelief.
“Fuck you Ryland,” you said, quiet, cold. “You’re the one who brought me here”.
His eyes snapped to yours, the two of you just looking at each other, breathing.
“And it was supposed to be a temporary thing,” he bit back. “Empahsis on the whole temporary part of this all. I mean, just a couple of days ago you were saying how you couldn’t imagine people having to say goodbye like this.”
You didn't have the heart to tell him that you hadn't planned on saying goodbye to him at all. It was wrong, you knew that, selfish, but you couldn’t get yourself to do it. He was your last tether to Earth and it was growing thinner and thinner.
“I have nothing here for me,” you spoke from the silence.
“You have-” and then he stopped himself and your head once again snapped up to meet his eyes.
“Say it,” you spoke, quietly, pleading for him to say the one thing that could make you stay. “Please Ry, just say it”.
Everything hung there, floating in the air and he couldn’t, his head just slightly shaking in disappointment. The tether snapped right there.
“Okay,” it was so breathy, barely even a word. You had no more fight left in you, no words left to say, nothing he could do that would change your mind. He was too stuck in his ways, too stubborn. You grabbed the box, looking at him once more, before you shoved your way past him and out the door of the office. It was quiet, too quiet down that hallway and when you looked back he was looking at you and you just gave him a smile, a small one…I will learn to forgive you.
You felt no regret.
Not when Eva Stratt thanked you for your sacrifice. Not when the doctors came in and prepared the injection that would put you under. Not even when the needle pierced your skin. You only did, just for a second, when you heard your name. When his voice called through the room, faint but desperate. It was muffled, your vision growing thinner and thinner, fading at the edges. The voice just grew quieter and quieter. A hand gripped tightly onto yours, shaking you more and more until you felt nothing at all.
----------
The first thing you realize is that you cannot open your eyes, like they are glued shut. You squeeze them a couple times, blinking over and over until they finally force themselves open.
So bright!
You should have just kept them close. You blink a few more times.
Then you realize that you can’t move, and not because your arms are stiff…no, there is a giant, what you could best describe as, plastic bag wrapped around you.
“Eye movement detected,” you practically jump out of your skin at the sound disrupting the silence. The voice is clean, almost inhuman, as it once again repeats its previous statement.
You try to move your arms, nothing. Your legs, nothing. Your fingers…just a little bit. The feeling of helplessness crashes all over you at once as you come to the slow realization that this was not just a bad case of sleep paralysis.
Before you could even begin to make sense of it, a giant robotic hand swept across your vision, reaching down to unzip the human sandwich bag you were being trapped in. Now was your change, you shifted your weight as much as you could side to side until you rolled and made contact with the hard floor. A groan escaped you, the only sound you could really get out.
What the actual fuck?
There are tubes, connected in places you didn’t even know were possible. But nothing was as alarming as the realization that you had no idea where you were…no idea who you were. You looked around in a panic, trying to worm around off the ground, the robot hand stopping you in your place, lifting you off the ground and placing you back onto the table. You left out a mix of muffled objections, the most you could muster…your vocal chords were somehow still waking up. The computer acted before you could even protest, removing all the tubes, sensations you had never felt before and hoped to never feel again. At least, you assumed you had never felt them before.
You saw it as your chance, the robot hand busy putting the tubing away, you jumping off the table and immediately crumbling to the ground.
“Fuck!” the sound surprised you…you were making progress. Using the little strength and feeling in your limbs that you had, you scooted and crawled across the floor. Where was the door? Your head snapped back and forth, up and- There it was, on the ceiling, of course it was. The ladder connected to it seemed daunting but what choice did you have.
The robot spoke again, speaking a name, or you assumed it was, “detected, alive”.
It must have been your name, huh, you didn’t completely hate it. You continued to move across the floor, slow, scared that the robot arm might just yank you right back into the air.
“Movement detected in the dormitory," the robotic voice spoke once again, causing you to speed up. It was trying to blow your cover, ruin your plan. Who knew, there might be a whole army of robots up there ready to get you. With each scoot across the floor, the feeling in your limbs began to find itself again. By the time you reached the ladder you were able to somewhat pull yourself up, each step getting harder and harder. You were tired, even if it seemed you had just woken up from some coma-like situation. You reached the top, banging the door over and over until it eventually popped up.
Reaching the top, standing on solid ground again was a feeling you had a new respect for. Then you turned your head…and you came to the jarring realization that you weren’t on solid ground at all. A giant window looking out into the great plane of stars…you were in space. You took slow, cautious steps towards the window, scared that you might somehow get sucked out.
It was beautiful, you were at a loss of words for a reason other than your inability to talk.
“Holy shoot,” a voice spoke from behind you, you stumbled slightly turning around, throwing your hand up in defense. “You are awake”.
“Am I?” you asked, genuinely…you wouldn’t have been shocked if you had died and were now in some weird waiting room.
The look on the man's face was one of relief and that was enough to slowly allow your hands to fall back to your side. He seemed slightly more put together than you were, except for the glasses titled slightly on his face…though he made no move to readjust them. Maybe he was an alien and that was how they wore their glasses? Were you an alien too?
“Where am I? What is this? What…” you trailed off, once again catching a glimpse of the stars. The feeling was hard to explain, like you were floating in your own head, nothing there but faint blurry glimpses of something that you knew came before this. But no matter how hard you fought, you could not get yourself to decipher the memories. “I can’t remember what…”
He nodded as you spoke, and you knew he understood. You couldn’t understand, but your body softened slightly, your heart beat became steady and your breathing returned to something much more normal.
“I, uh, I woke up a couple days ago…in that room,” he tried to explain, looking as if he too was piecing it together in real time. “Where do I even start…”
You stood there, helpless, waiting for something.
“We are in space,” you rolled your eyes at his words, pointing out at the window next to the two of you. “Oh right, well, just clarifying”.
“Anything else genius?” you didn’t mean to come across as on edge but you were confused and hungry and annoyed that your brain could not do what it was meant to do.
“We aren’t in our own solar system,” he spoke again, finally with some seriousness to his tone, you perking up and meeting his gaze. “We are, according to the map in the control room, in the Tau Ceti system about twelve lightyears away from Earth”.
He trailed off on the last word, giving you a second to absorb…but you were not a sponge and your brain was rejecting all of it. It made no sense, it was insane…but so was the giant robotic arm that picked you up earlier.
“We were sent here for a reason,” he finished. “I just am not sure what exactly that is yet”.
He then paused, a long pause, like he was choosing his next words carefully, “we were sent in a group of four”.
“Oh,” you looked up at him, a feeling of relief washing over you, maybe they knew more, maybe they had been awake for longer. “Well, let’s just go pick their brains?”
“They didn’t make it,” he added, the words sitting heavy in the air.
You just nodded, unsure of what to say, scared of how it would all feel once your memories began to trickle back like his were.
Would they have been your friends? Would the grief hit you later? The words sat weird in your stomach, even weirder knowing that there was a time where you knew everyone on this ship, there was a time where you knew why you were there. People who were your friends and now it was just you and strangers, chosen by some sort of fate to survive.
“What happened to them?”
“What am I? Your magic eight ball,” he joked, a weak attempt at trying to lighten the mood…you hated that it made you smile the way it did. “Don’t fight it, I know it was funny.”
“Oh wait, the memories are coming back…” you pretended to think, before letting a blank look spread on your face. “You’re an asshole”.
He threw his arms in mock defense and you weren’t sure why but it all felt so natural.
“I found some vodka earlier,” he offered up, a shitty solution, a temporary one for sure, but a solution nonetheless.
“We brought vodka?” you paused. “At least we know we had fun”.
He laughed and you laughed too, anything to keep you from thinking about what this all was, what this meant and how exactly you get back to Earth from twelve light years away.
The man, who you learned was named Ryland Grace, took you around the rooms he had already spent time exploring. The labs…so you were scientists? Then the controls, and the space suits and the shelves of equipment that you could not even begin to understand. He eventually showed you a small closet, one containing boxes labeled with four names, pulling the one with yours on it down.
In yours were some pictures…one of the two of you, so you were friends? Maybe? You should go with friends for now. Then a picture of two older individuals stood next to you, in front of the sign of a college…they must have been your parents. Did they know you were up in space? Did they send you up here? The thought made your head hurt so you stopped, tucking it away, it was for another day. There were too many questions floating as is. Then the shirt, a giant shirt that confused that shit out of you even more. You took it out of the box, holding it up to show him and the two of you just burst out laughing.
“So I have bad taste in clothing?” you asked, trying to regain your breathing, him wiping away the tears from his eyes.
“You should see some of the other clothes people brought,” and those words were just the start. Too much vodka flowing through your system, the two of you found comfort in trying on stupid hats and shirts packed throughout the ship. At some point you found yourself collapsed on the floor with him, laying there, the bag of alcohol laying between the two of you.
You talked for hours that night…well you assumed it was night, trying to hypothesize about who the two of you might have been. Were you smart? Where had the two of you met? Were you friends? Somewhere in your mind you felt like there was something else there. But you did not want to dig there, when you tried your head would just pound right back. So you laid there, accepting the silence of space, accepting that none of it made sense.
“I am glad I am not alone,” he spoke up from the silence, so quiet you might have missed it.
“I am not sure why, but I feel like we were meant to do this together,” you replied, turning your head to the side to look at him.
He was already looking at you with a soft smile on his face. Tomorrow you would wake up and it would be overwhelming all over again. But for now, you were wearing an alien shirt and laying beside a man with a beautiful smile and titled glasses. Floating absently among the stars and you felt like you have never felt so at home.
Word count: 1008 words | masterlist(still working on it ;-;)
Tonight was a quiet one. Soft and simple—like a pale pink sakura petal drifting from its branch and landing on white, untouched snow. A contrast so gentle it almost felt unreal. Pretty enough to make your chest ache a little.
You'd once seen it on television and told Mike about it afterward, the way the petals fell, slow-motion. How beautiful it was. How badly you wanted to see it with your own eyes.
You imagined catching one in your palm. Imagined Mike catching one and tucking it behind your ear, fingers lingering just a second longer than necessary. Maybe that's how it would go. You weren't sure. You'd never seen sakura in person before.
“I'll take you there. To see the flowers,” he replied.
“When?”
“One day.” he said with a finality that made your heart flutter.
But that was yesterday's dream.
Tonight, though—no matter how pretty that imagined scene was—it couldn't compare to the sight beside you now.
Mike sat next to you on the couch, valiantly attempting to read the library book he'd borrowed earlier that week. His curly hair was a complete mess, falling into his eyes, his head tipping forward every few seconds before jerking back up. The warm lamp light makes his face look extra soft, lashes casting shadows under sleepy eyes.
You wouldn't trade this for a lifetime of sakura petals.
Lowering your book slightly, you nudged his arm with yours. An amused smile on your lips as you silently asked him if he's ready to go to bed.
It was past midnight on a weekend. Your parents were out of town visiting a friend a town over, and what, or who better to accompany you for the time than your boyfriend.
Sure you meet him every other day but to have the house to yourself… and with him…
Your parents trusted you. Trusted Mike. The only deal was to not throw a house party yadda yadda yadda.
The only type of party you were having was either his D&D campaign or the one you're doing right now—reading together, curled up on the plush sofa in your living room until it was past your bedtime(yes, you yourself still have a bedtime to maintain your meticulous routine).
“Hm?” An eyebrow raised as he acknowledged your touch. Eyes trying so hard to focus on your face in the low warm lighting.
A chuckle left your lips. “Okay, that's enough for tonight.” Placing a bookmark in between your current page, you closed the book and lifted the blanket you were both sharing to stand up.
Mike groaned, dramatically dog-earing his page before letting the book flop into his lap. He stretched, rubbing at his eyes with the backs of his hands. “I just got to the best part,” he mumbled, looking up at you with half-lidded eyes and the faintest pout.
“You're sleepy,” you said fondly. “And I’m sleepy.”
Leaning down, you caged him in gently—arms braced on either side of his head against the couch—and pressed a kiss to his forehead. Then you grabbed his hands and tugged.
He let you drag him up without protest, movements sluggish, socked feet shuffling across the hardwood. When you reached the stairs, he tightened his grip on your hand, refusing to let go as he followed you step by step, like it was the only thing keeping him upright.
Inside your room, you twisted the doorknob and pulled him in. He kicked the door shut behind him.
You would think that he was playing around when he landed on top of you as you got comfortable on the bed. But no. You didn't even get to pull the covers over you, Mike had already covered you with his own body. And he was warm, under the purple sweater he wore.
Eyes closed, cheek to your stomach, arms wrapped around you.
He was like your personal weighted blanket.
Comforting, yes. Practical? Absolutely not.
“Mike,” patting his back, you looked down to his sleeping face, “Lie beside me. Also, it's cold. I need the blanket.”
He responded with a series of unhappy, muffled grunts, wiggling just enough to yank the blanket up and over both of you—still very much on top of you. The fabric barely covered his face, leaving just enough space for breathing. At least his survival instincts were intact.
“Mike…” you tried again, even though you were smiling now. Wrapped around you like this, he felt safe. Solid. You didn't actually mind the weight.
“No.” Again, the sound of finality in his voice, albeit muffled by his squished cheek, came again and it gave you the signal that you were not going to move him in any sort of way.
You were pretty sure you'd fall asleep like this—until he lifted his head just enough to grab your hand and place it squarely on top of his hair before settling back down.
A demand. Not even subtle.
You, your fingers through his hair.
He never said it out loud, but you knew he loved this. Loved when you played with his hair—dark, soft curls slipping through your fingers. It was something you did without thinking.
It was something you unconsciously do.
When you both were sitting together, then suddenly he would lay his head on your lap. Your fingers would automatically find their way into his hair. Carding through each tangle, twirling each strand.
His eyes would close, breathe in a deep inhale and exhaled as he relaxed into your touch. A moment later he was dozing off.
Just like now. But this time, he was the one to ask for it.
Mike never asked you for anything. Only this time he did. And you were more than happy to oblige.
Figuring that he won't really move from this position, you settle into your pillow while your fingers gently massage his head. You swore you could hear the boy sighed in content. Happy that he got what he wanted.
And you were happy too, to have the prettiest boy sleeping on you. Only this moment, there's only this.
your father gives you the talk, after he catches luke and you sneaking around
dionysus!reader
Just Play the Part | @lyssaluvs
A makeover from Silena and the Aphrodite girls gives you the confidence boost you need.
dionysus!reader
fit for a princess | @breadbrioche
am i making you feel sick? | @blu3vs
when percy arrives in the infirmary in critical condition from a scorpion sting, you find out who was behind it all
Scandalous | @indecisivemuch
The reveal of a scandalous detail about yours and Luke's relationship left you both flustered and everybody else gaping.
Message in a Bottle | @/indecisivemuch
You got a secret admirer and recruited Luke to help you find out who they are...ignoring the most obvious option
Please Princess | @fangirlmermaid
You were kidnapped by Kronos goons, and just when you thought it couldn't get any worse, a familiar face proved you wrong
daughterofPoseidon!reader
The two times you trusted him, and the one time he betrayed you. | @noblebynura
Child of Apollo! Reader
Us before you and me | @kaciebello
Luke and the readers’ relationship before they became a couple. Luke is an absolute loser when it comes to crushes.
Hades! reader
Band-aids of death | @/kaciebello
Percy meets the bandaid dealer who has his friend so smitten
Hades! reader
“Shells and Secrets” | @strawberries-and-summer-days
you and your best friend luke take your daily walk together but this time its different
Posideion!fem!reader
THE GRUDGE (or: the 7 things luke castellan hated about you) | @kamaluhkhan
luke hated your guts. he really did. he just hoped that no one could tell how, even after all this, you’re still everything to him.
child of nemesis!reader
SETTLE DOWN! | @ohodie
you hate his guts. he hates yours. but you’d by lying if you said you didn’t want to make out with him until his lips start bleeding. and he’d be lying if he said he didn’t like that idea.
i promise, angel | @sovksluv
luke changes your lastname
fem!Hera!reader
sleepy girl | @/sovksluv
fem!Hypnos!readr
kiss your tears away | @kofiilicious
Jumpy | @veryberryjelly
Cherry Lip Gloss | @greatestexpectationss
Fem!Aphrodite Reader
Poison Ivy | @/greatestexpectationss
Fem!Daughter of Persephone
Luke x Poseidon’s daughter | @slu7formen
Princess | @urmom3001
Luke never would have thought he'd ever have eyes for the daughter of Hades and Persephone.
Fem! Hades & Persephone reader
child of ares!reader | @percyluvr
luke sneaks into your cabin because he can’t sleep without knowing that the two of you will be okay
price of dreaming | @atlabeth
luke’s spiral and the part you play in it.
daughter of poseidon!reader
HELL-FIRE. | @7s3ven
IN WHICH… Y/N doesn’t want to admit it, but perhaps she and the mischievous son of Hermes have more in common than she originally thought.
A/n: this is an apology for the "Upside Down" version of this fic. I hope you like this one ^-^
Eighteen months ago, the world stopped pretending it was safe.
It didn’t end in fire or noise the way movies liked to imagine. It ended in fractures—deep ones. In the way the ground split open and swallowed what it wanted. In the way people learned how to speak around loss instead of naming it.
Eighteen months ago, Hawkins broke.
And eighteen months later, it learned how to walk again with a limp. (A really bad limp)
Buildings were rebuilt. Streets were repaved. New paint covered old scars that won't fade. People talked about the earthquake like it was a singular event—something natural, something finished.
You knew better.
So did Mike.
You loved him. God, you loved him in a way that had survived monsters and dimensions and fear that most people never had to touch. You loved him before the world ended and after it restarted wrong.
And you watched him carry grief like it was something fragile and radioactive all at once.
Something he was terrified to drop, terrified to let go of.
El was gone.
That was the truth. Solid. Real.
You had held Mike’s hand as the portal closed. You had screamed her name as light swallowed her whole. You had searched until your lungs burned and your throat bled and your heart broke clean through.
And still—nothing.
Mike knew all of that.
And still, he believed.
“She always finds a way,” he’d say quietly, staring at nothing. “She has to.”
You never argued with him.
Not because you believed it too, but because grief didn’t need to be debated. It just needed to be held.
Grief didn’t follow construction schedules. It didn’t care about graduations or ceremonies or speeches about resilience.
And it certainly didn’t care that tomorrow was supposed to be one of the happiest days of your lives.
🔻🔺
The phone rang late.
You were sitting on your bed, cap and gown folded neatly beside you, staring at the ceiling like it might give you answers about your future. When you picked up, Karen Wheeler’s voice came through tight and worried.
“I—I can’t find Mike,” she said. “He left after dinner. He didn’t say where he was going.”
Your chest tightened.
“I know where he is,” you replied softly.
“Oh—thank God,” she exhaled. “Could you… could you bring him home, Sweetheart?”
“I will,” you promised.
You grabbed your jacket without another word.
🔻🔺
The memorial column stood at the bend in the road, pale stone glowing under tired streetlights. Names carved deep. Flowers gathered at its base like offerings left behind by people who didn’t know what else to do with their hands.
Mike sat on the bench in front of it.
He was hunched forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped together so tightly they looked painful. He didn’t notice you at first. He rarely did when he came here—when his world folded inward, retreating to a place only memory could reach.
You approached quietly and sat beside him, the steel cold through your jeans.
He stiffened but didn’t pull away when your shoulder brushed his.
“Hey,” you said gently.
He swallowed. “Hey.”
You slipped your hand into his, fingers threading together out of habit. It was one of the few things that still felt automatic.
Neither of you spoke for a long moment.
“I don’t like this place,” Mike said finally, staring straight ahead.
“You never do,” you replied.
“And I still come,” he muttered.
“So do I.”
That made him turn.
“You do?”
You nodded. “Sometimes.”
His brows pulled together. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
You shrugged slightly. “You didn’t ask.”
He looked back at the column, jaw tightening.
“I keep thinking,” he said quietly, “that if I sit here long enough, something will happen. Like she’ll get sick of waiting and just—show up.”
Your chest ached. His denial had stretched for so long that it pained you to see him like this any longer.
“That sounds like her,” you said.
A weak smile flickered across his face before collapsing.
“She would hate this,” he continued. “The way people talk about her like she’s just a story now.”
His grip tightened around your hand.
“I didn’t want her to be brave,” he said, voice cracking. “I just wanted her to live.”
You leaned into him, resting your head lightly against his shoulder.
“I know,” you whispered. “Me too.”
The wind cut through the bend, sharp and cold.
“I… I cope by believing,” Mike said suddenly. “By keeping the door open. If I stop—if I let myself accept it—then it’s really over.”
You closed your eyes.
“I cope by closing the door gently,” you said. “Not because I don’t care. But because I need to survive what’s on the other side.”
He tensed.
“So you’ve already decided she’s gone.”
The edge in his voice surprised you.
“Mike—”
“Because if you haven’t,” he continued, words rushing out now, “then how can you be so calm about it?”
You pulled back, hurt flashing across your face.
You understand that this wasn't him that's speaking but it hurts just the same. You were grieving too.
“I’m not calm,” you said. “I just control it.”
He scoffed, sharp and unintentional. “Feels the same from where I’m standing.”
That stung.
“And from where I’m standing,” you shot back quietly, “it feels like you forgot she mattered to anyone but you.”
He turned toward you fully now, defensive panic flaring in his eyes.
“That’s not fair.”
“She was my sister, Mike” you said, voice shaking despite your effort to keep it steady. “Not just part of the party. Not just someone you loved. She was mine too.”
Silence slammed down between you.
Mike opened his mouth—then snapped.
“Well, I watched her die.”
The words hit like a slap.
You froze.
His face drained of color immediately.
“I—” He sucked in a breath. “I didn’t mean—”
“I did too,” you said softly. “I was there, Mike. I held your hand.”
The anger drained from him, replaced by horror.
“I didn’t mean it like that,” he whispered. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
You looked away, blinking hard.
“I know you’re scared,” you said. “But don’t turn your grief into a weapon.”
You looked at him. Really looked at him to search for the boy you genuinely loved and cared for under all of that anger and guilt he carried.
“Don't use it against me.”
His shoulders slumped.
“I just—if I let go,” he said, voice breaking, “then what was it all for?”
You reached for him again, slower this time.
“It was for love,” you said. “And love doesn’t disappear just because she’s gone.”
That did it.
Mike folded into you, forehead pressing into your shoulder as a sob tore out of him. His body shook, months of fear and guilt finally spilling free.
“I don’t know how to do this,” he cried. “I don’t know how to be without her. Everything is just not the same anymore.”
You wrapped your arms around him fully, holding him like you always had.
“You don’t have to know,” you murmured. “You just have to stay. Here. With me. With Dustin, Max, and Lucas and everyone.”
His breathing evened slowly, tears soaking into your jacket.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered again. “For everything. For acting like you didn’t lose her too.”
You kissed his hair.
“We both did,” you said. “That’s why it hurts.”
Together, you sat beneath the memorial column until the night softened around you.
Tomorrow, you would graduate.
Tomorrow, the world would keep moving.
But tonight, you chose each other.
And that was enough.
🔻🔺
The graduation ceremony ended with Dustin making an explosive valedictorian speech of “Fuck the system!”
There were cheers, of course—parents clapping loudly, camera flashes going off at the wrong moments, caps tossed into the air like everyone was trying to prove something to the sky that you were all free.
You smiled when you were supposed to. You clapped when Mike’s name was called. He squeezed your hand hard enough to remind you that you were both still here.
That felt like enough.
Afterward, the crowd spilled out into the parking lot, buzzing with plans and promises and futures that sounded too big to hold all at once. Karen hugged Mike, kissed his cheek, told him she was proud of him in that voice that meant she really was. Your own family fussed over you, straightening your gown, taking pictures you knew would end up in frames somewhere along the staircase.
Eventually and mercifully, it thinned.
Mike stood beside you, cap crooked, gown half undone, looking exhausted in that familiar way that meant he’d given everything he had just to make it through.
You were proud of him.
“So,” he said, rocking slightly on his heels. “You hungry?”
You laughed softly. “Always.”
He hesitated. “I was thinking maybe… not with everyone else. Just us.”
Your chest warmed. “Yeah. I’d like that.”
“But let's go somewhere else first.”
He took your hand in his and pulled you excitedly.
🔻🔺
The record shop was quiet in the late afternoon.
The bell above the door chimed when you walked in, and the familiar smell of dust, cardboard sleeves, and old vinyl wrapped around you like muscle memory. Sunlight filtered through the front windows, catching on album covers stacked too tightly together.
Mike exhaled as soon as the door shut behind you.
“God,” he said. “I forgot how much I missed this place.”
You smiled. “You say that every time we come here.”
“Because it’s true every time,” he replied, already drifting toward the rock section.
You shrugged off your gown and draped it over a chair near the counter, watching him move through the aisles like the world hadn’t ended eighteen months ago. Like he was just a boy in Hawkins again, killing time after school.
You followed him.
Your fingers brushed as you flipped through records side by side, the soft thwap of cardboard sleeves filling the space between you. You pulled one out, squinting at the cover.
“You still hate this band,” you said.
“I don’t hate them,” Mike protested. “I just don’t get them.”
“That’s because you refuse to listen past the first track.”
“That’s because the first track is bad.”
You bumped your shoulder into his. “Wrong.”
He laughed—actually laughed—and for a second, the sound startled both of you.
It felt too easy. Too normal.
You caught his eye, something unspoken passing between you.
Normal wasn’t gone forever.
It was just… quieter now.
Mike pulled out a record and held it up. “Okay, but this one’s good.”
You leaned in to look, your shoulder brushing his arm. “I’ll believe you.”
He glanced at you sideways. “You don’t have to.”
“I know,” you said softly. “But I want to.”
Something in his expression shifted—not sadness, not grief. Just appreciation. Relief.
You wandered deeper into the shop, occasionally pulling out records, occasionally just standing there together, reading tracklists like they mattered more than they probably did.
“A good album needs a good continuation of the story telling in each song! It's the lore!”
At one point, Mike stopped in front of the used bin.
“Hey,” he said, quieter now. “Look.”
He pulled out a worn vinyl with a familiar artist.
“She loved this one,” he added carefully.
You didn’t flinch.
You stepped closer, reading the title. “Yeah,” you said. “She played it nonstop that summer.”
He nodded. “Drove Dustin insane.”
You smiled. “Worth it.”
Mike slid the record back into the bin. It had a sense of finality to it.
Thank you, his eyes seemed to say.
For letting the memory exist without breaking either of you.
🔻🔺
Later, you sat across from each other in a booth at the diner down the street, fries between you, milkshakes sweating onto the table.
“This is nice,” Mike said, stirring his straw absentmindedly.
“It is,” you agreed.
The jukebox hummed quietly in the corner. Someone laughed loudly two booths over. A waitress refilled your water without asking.
Life. Ordinary, stubborn life.
Mike reached across the table and took your hand.
“I’m really glad you stayed,” he said.
You squeezed his fingers. “Me too.”
Outside, the sun dipped lower, casting long shadows across the street.
For the first time in a long while, the future didn’t feel like something you had to survive.
Just something you could step into.
Together.
A/n: mike deserved a better ending than what they wrote him😭😭 istg.
Anyway! When I write fics, I always get two ideas with one. So for all stranger things fics that I will be writing in the future, there will be an Upside Down(angst ver.) and Right side Up(fluff ver.). I would feel more satisfied if I didn't have to scrap all of my ideas and only choose one. That's all, thank you for reading btw! Here, have a cookie 🍪
A/n: Just watched the last episode and I couldn't move for a solid 30 mins, and I can't sleep l. So this birthed out of me. Not proof read yet. I just had to post this.
Eighteen months ago, the world stopped.
Eighteen months ago, the bridge collapsed.
And eighteen months ago, it was the past.
Eighteen months now, the world has continued.
But it was not the same eighteen months for Mike. Not anymore.
Hell, it's not the same eighteen months for everyone.
The town picked itself up along with the help of the people rebuilding it slowly. With each brick they put down, a part of themselves was made solid again.
However, the same couldn't be said about Mike.
After he shut the basement door, after the party left, after the whole house was dark, Mike found himself walking outside in the cold midnight air.
His breath puffed out in front of him, white mist breezed past his face as he walked with a steady rhythm, opposite of the building beat of his heart.
Under the warm street light, he had only one person in mind. It was you.
Mike saw you leave after the campaign was done. After every one of you promised that you believed. You didn't stay for dinner though, and Mike understands. Each of you was recovering in your own way.
He was disappointed that you didn't stay for dinner, but he didn't stop you.
Now somehow, he stepped through the gates of your house, he knew he would find you here now. You moved here the first thing the next morning of the ending.
“That old place haunts me,” you told him. This place is much better. A new one.
He saw you sitting outside on the grass, looking up at the stars with your knees drawn up to your chest, arms hugging it.
The clouds tonight seemed to clear the path for the light of the stars to reach your eyes.
He froze for a moment, breath caught in his throat. He almost didn't want to disturb your image. So peaceful, and quiet in your own reverie.
But he was selfish, and he needed you.
His steps were light, careful as to not spook you as if one wrong snap of a twig under his worn shoes, you would run away.
But he knew you wouldn't run away from him. You promised to always be there for him. Did you?
“Hey,” voice soft, he greeted you as he took a seat beside you on the cold dewy grass. Your shoulders were almost touching. He sat in the same position as you.
“Hi, Mike.” You turned your head towards him with that soft sad smile of yours. It's not the same bright smile as Mike had remembered all those time ago when you two spent together with the rest of the party. Or when it was just you two.
The bright smile you gave him when he first invited you to play D&D with them after a month of you moving in to Hawkins and trying to fit in the new community. He admitted it once, that he thought you were cool with your different style of clothing and the force you carry yourself with. It took a lot of courage and encouragement from Lucas, Will, and Dustin to get Mike to talk to you.
He never once regretted the choice.
Then he remembered the night he finally confessed to you about his feelings towards you. Nothing grand, it happened spontaneously. But it was enough to make you smile so wide, he feared that you would laugh in his face.
Because in his mind, how can you, one of the bravest and smartest girls he had ever met, could like a wimpy guy like him? He had no specialty like the athletes at school, or the cool shit that the jocks had.
He was just Michael Wheeler.
“And I like you too because of that,” you had said through your teary eyes.
Now sitting here beside you, he still felt and craved your comfort even more. He wished he was brave enough now, in this moment to pull you in for the touch he desperately needed.
The comfort through your arms wrapped around his torso, through your words, through the feeling of your fingers carding through his hair, and to the feeling of your beating heart against his own.
But he had to hold himself back. For now, he can only hug himself. As you were right now.
“I just… I just needed to talk to you,” He started, looking down at the spot of dark earth in front of him. The silence stretched for him as he thought of a question.
“Why—why didn't you stay for dinner?” his eyes trained on your face. Searching for something. What? He didn't actually know.
When you turned your head towards him, he could see the stars twinkling in your eyes. God, you were breathtaking even in the dark shroud of the night.
“I can't stay there too long,” you answered apologetically, hugging yourself even tighter, as if the thought of staying in his house was making you too claustrophobic.
He nodded solemnly, breaking your eye contact to the ground once again. God, it was hard for him to speak to you. The lump in his throat grew with each passing second.
In his mind, Mike felt like he was Atlas, carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders. The world being his own thoughts, his regrets, his guilt. It felt like it wasn't fair to you for him to want to speak about his problems when you yourself were battling yours.
But again, he was selfish. He needed you.
“I…” he started, but when nothing came out after, he let out a frustrated sigh. Eyebrows furrowed as he glared at the stars above. How can their world stay the same when his was destroyed? Changed. Remade new.
He didn't want this.
“Are you okay?” your voice asked again, softer this time.
Mike laughed.
It came out wrong. It came out thin, broken, almost hysterical. He pressed his lips together immediately after, like he could shove the sound back down his throat if he tried hard enough.
“Yeah,” he lied automatically. “Yeah, I’m—”
His voice cracked. He swallowed. “I’m fine.”
He wasn’t.
His hands were shaking now, fingers curling into the fabric of his jacket like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to the ground and from trying to reach for you. He stared straight ahead, afraid that if he looked at you again, he’d lose whatever fragile control he had left.
“I keep thinking,” he said quietly, “that if I just… if I think hard enough, it’ll make sense.”
You didn’t interrupt him. You never did. You were always there to listen.
“The bridge collapsed,” he continued, words spilling faster now, tumbling over each other. “The portal closed. Everything just, just ended. That doesn’t mean she’s gone. El doesn’t just… disappear. She always finds a way. I know it.”
His chest tightened painfully.
“She escaped before. From Brenner. From the lab. From everything they did to her.” His voice grew desperate. “Why would this be any different? Why would this be the thing that finally—”
He stopped himself, breath hitching.
“—that finally takes her?”
Silence.
Mike finally turned to you then, eyes searching your face like he was afraid of what he might, or might not find there.
“You believe me, don’t you?” he asked, too quickly. Too urgently. “You always believed me.”
Your eyes were shining now, tears clinging to your lashes. That familiar ache bloomed in his chest at the sight. He felt protective, tender, and unbearable.
“Please,” he whispered. “Just tell me you believe me.”
You opened your mouth.
No sound came out.
His heart stuttered.
“Hey,” he said, panic creeping in, sitting up straighter. “Hey, it’s okay, you don’t have to—just—just nod or something. You can do that, right?”
You didn’t move.
The night seemed to press in around him then, the air heavier, colder. The stars above flickered for a second and then it warped, like his vision was going out of focus.
And suddenly—
He was back there.
Smoke choking his lungs. The sharp sting of the fingers of the soldiers cutting into his wrists as soldiers held him back. His feet scrambling uselessly against the concrete as he screamed her name.
El.
And you.
You were there too, closer than anyone else. You always were.
He remembered the sound first.
The gunshot.
He remembered how time seemed to slow, how he’d broken free just enough to reach out. How your body collided with his, knocking him backward as pain exploded through you instead.
The way your breath left your lungs in a sound he still heard in his nightmares.
“No,” Mike whispered now, shaking his head violently. “No, no, no—”
The portal had collapsed moments later. Light swallowing everything. Soldiers shouting. El vanishing into nothing.
And you—
You never got back up.
“Stop,” he begged, clutching his head as if he could physically push the memory away. “You’re right here. You’re—you’re sitting right here!”
He reached out then.
His hand passed through empty air.
The cold hit him first. The absence second.
Mike froze.
Slowly, impossibly slowly, he looked back at where you were sitting.
You were still there.
Still looking at him with that same sad, knowing expression.
But something was wrong now.
The grass beneath you was undisturbed. No crushed blades. No shadow where your body should’ve been under the streetlight’s glow.
“You don’t…” His voice trembled. “You don’t come over anymore.”
You never did.
“You don’t text. Or call. Or complain about my mom’s cooking.” A weak, broken laugh escaped him. “You hate her meatloaf.”
You tilted your head, tears finally slipping free.
“I visit you,” he whispered, realization creeping in like frostbite. “I always come to you.”
The truth settled into his bones, heavy and immovable.
“You died,” he said hoarsely.
The word felt unreal in his mouth. Like saying it might finally make it true.
His knees hit the ground.
Mike folded in on himself, sob ripping from his chest as eighteen months of denial shattered all at once. His hands pressed into the dirt like he was trying to feel something solid—something real.
“I tried to save you,” he cried. “I swear I did. I should’ve been faster. I should’ve—”
Your form began to fade at the edges, like mist unraveling in the night air.
“Don’t go,” he begged immediately, reaching for you again. “Please. Just stay. Just—just for a little longer.”
"Please..."
You smiled at him then.
The same smile you always gave when you wanted him to be brave.
