â đđđđđđđđ ; Bleeding out and hunted, Matt Murdock turns to his last option- the former avenger known as "Angel", whose disappeared after the world took too much from her. When Benjamin Poindexter is placed in her care, healing him becomes more than just physical. The only problem? Some people don't want to be saved.
â tags/warnings. Benjamin Poindexter x female!reader. SLOW BURN!!! Not sure how many chapters this will be yet (but likely a LOT)! LOTS OF PLOT SET-UP!! AGE GAP ROMANCE! LOTS OF EVENTUAL ANGST, FLUFF, AND SMUT! Not much Dex in this chapter. Reader's powers are weird. Warnings for mild body horror. Reader is an ex-avenger, originally an experiment by HYDRA, and naturally has intense trauma (and regenerative/healing powers through her blood! think deadpool just quieter and more depressing). Set during/after the AVTF manhunt for Matt and Dex. Writing this kind of artistically and as character studies for everyone. Dex and reader are doomed soulmates, she becomes his northern star. Basically two characters who do NOT want to be saved consistently being saved by each other...until they learn to live for each other. Eventual smut in later chapters. More about reader is revealed as the story goes on. I'm taking canon out back and beating it with a stick until it stops twitching. You'll be able to find this fic on Ao3 as well once published!
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⍠âWe set fire to these skies for our love and I'd do it all again / 'Cause I'm damned to loving you.â Damned by Miguel
"To the well-organized mind, death is but the next great adventure."
Your eyes track the lettering on the book in your hands. You'd rather be ringing them around your neck, though the thought quickly fades when you digest it would be quite counter-productive.
The cities skyline still feels like an unfamiliar backdrop. New York, New York. If you listen close enough, you think you can hear Frank Sinatra's voice somewhere in the distance taunting you.
The weight of the book feels heavy when you opt to launch it across your bed, falling with a small thud against porcelain white sheets. Set against your porcelain white walls in your porcelain white apartment. Dull. Messy. You really should clean, you briefly think, but you don't own a vacuum.
You don't own anything. You never have.
Sitting up, you sigh at the sound of The Winter Soldier's voice on the end of the line.
"Didn't think you'd pick up." His voice is rough, like the war torn thing he is. Half of a laugh slips out from you, that seems more like a tired scoff.
"Wasn't going too," You murmur, "But I've got nothing better to do."
You lean over, quickly grabbing your remote to switch on the small flat-screen of your television.
The news broadcast flashes bright and stark against the plain setting of your studio apartment. You can hear something shifting on his end- likely his boots against the pristine floors of the newly refurbished Avengers Tower. What a fucking joke.
âLook,â he starts again, quieter now. âIâm...not calling to check in. Not this time.â
The dry laugh you've been holding in finally decides to escape out of you. "Couldâve fooled me."
Youâve been dodging his calls ever since the last one turned into him hovering over you like a paranoid mother bird- checking in every five seconds like you were about to drop dead if he stopped.
You hear him swallow on the line, directing your focus back to your television. The New Avengers. There is something poetically hollow about the group of unfamiliar faces posed heroically together. You make a mental note to thank Sam Wilson if you ever see him again for refusing to endorse this mess.
"You should hate this." You sigh, switching between channels before he gets the chance to grimace.
"I do," He says quickly, almost defensively- voice rising before it softens- "But I'm doing it anyway."
The silence stretches.
"Why?"
Thereâs a faint exhale on the other end, like heâs already tired of the answer.
You snort softly, eyes still on the flickering TV. "Yeah? Retirement not treating you well, Barnes?"
"Donât start," he mutters, but thereâs no bite to it. Just habit. "Iâm serious. Iâm just⌠there," he says. âKeeping an eye on things.â
More clattering sounds from the other end, a group of loud voices raising at each other, the distinct yell of the name "Bob." You bite your tongue when you realize the peaceful, quiet atmosphere of the natural conversation has dissipated. Of course, he's not alone. He's got his new team right behind him.
He clears his throat, obviously strained. Moving closer to the speaker, his voice lowers into something more private, though no less awkward.
"You coming back would help," he says, more quietly this time. Not pushing. Just putting it out there. "We could...we could use an Angel around this place."
Angel. That moniker has haunted you for as long as you could remember. From the dirty mouths of HYDRA's handlers, to the front-page headlines of The Daily Bugle, to the soft sound on an old friends lips.
You donât answer right away. The suggestion is the same one he's attempted to ask a million times before.
You flip the channel again and let the buzz settle into white noise. Static. Some late-night rerun, laugh track echoing too loudly in your too quiet apartment.
Your gaze briefly flickers to the discarded book, pages now bent. The suffocating colorlessness of your studio apartment. The increasingly loud shouts on the line that start to sound more warm than cold.
"I-" You cut yourself off. What do you even say? Send me the details? Where do I sign up? Please, get me out of here?
"Um-"
BANG.
You instantly flinch at the loud noise ripping through your apartment like a bullet. Your head snaps towards the door.
BANG. BANG. BANG.
Another round. Sharper. Impatient.
â...Is...is someone there with you?â Bucky asks immediately, voice tightening- the rapid fire knocks sounding more like muffled scuffling on his end.
âNo,â you say, already standing. âNo, I-â
BANG.
âHey!â you snap, moving toward it. "Doorâs still attached, you know-â
âOpen it. Now. Please.â
You freeze for half a second. You know that voice.
"You've got to be kidding me-" You huff, cutting yourself off, "I'll call you back, Bucky-"
"Wait-" The line goes dead when you hang up sharply, yanking the door open with a force.
And there he is, Matt Murdock. Just barely holding it together, one arm slung tight around a body thatâs very clearly not standing on its own.
Blood. A lot of it.
And...a man. Hanging limp against him, head lolled, soaked through. A blue tactical gear torn, red spreading faster than it should. Completely unfamiliar, though something tells you that you wouldn't recognize him regardless with his face beat in like this.
"Move," Matt says, already pushing past you.
"Who the hell is that?" You gawk, closing the door behind the three of you as Matt, or rather Daredevil, rushes to your bed.
"Who is that?" you demand, sharper now. "What did you do?"
"Nothing I didnât have to," Matt shoots back, already straining. "He needs help."
"And you thought of me," you say, eyebrows pulled together. "Gee, thanks."
"Heâs dying."
âYeah, I can see that...Matty, you've got to take him to a hospital-â
"No time."
"Thereâs always time for a hospital-"
âNot for him.â
That finally gives you pause, though it's less about what he says and more about how he says it.
Your gaze lingers on the slow, uneven rise of the manâs chest.
One breath.
Another.
Barely.
"âŚYouâre tracking blood through my apartment," you mutter. The man is thrown in a similar fashion you threw that damn book onto your bedspread.
"Iâll clean it."
"You wonât."
"No," he admits. "Probably not. Please, Angel."
Angel. Fuck you, Murdock. Fuck you, and your catholic guilt. Thinking I'm a damn miracle worker.
"...Do you have something sharp?"
Without question, Matt leans forward to feel around to swipe a throwing knife from the now unconscious man. He flinches when he hears you take it to your own palm, slicing through the delicate flesh. The small gash bleeds in a slow drip, which you hover over the mysterious dying man.
Matt watches in frantic unease as you use the same knife to cut through the mans suit, exposing the bullet wound. You focus in, pressing your now sliced palm to the bloodied, injured skin.
"It went through?"
"...Clean shot." Matt struggles to acknowledge anything past watching your power work. If his mask wasn't on, you're sure his face would be taut with a strict mix of judgement and reverence for you and your power.
You nod, letting out a sigh.
"Is it...Is it working?" He asks, and you clench your jaw. Matt helicopters over you and the man, leaning in and pacing. He finally takes off his mask with chagrin, sweaty and tired.
"...Who is he?" You ignore the question. "What did he do?"
The distant sounds of sirens outside seem to eclipse whatever answer Matt could possibly give you.
"âŚIâll tell you later," he says.
You stare at him for a second.
"âŚThat bad?"
He doesnât answer.
Yeah.
Thatâs all you needed.
The man violently convulses underneath your touch, body twitching as he strains. As if on instinct, Matt holds him down for you. Something passes between the two of you. An understanding perhaps. It's definitely working.
As Matt works on restraining him to your bed post with cut, bloodied sheets. You begin to feel the familiar, swallowing flatness of your own skin repairing itself.
Then- you hear it. And so does Matt, his head tilting in the direction of your TV.
"Breaking news tonight out of Manhattan: Vanessa Fisk, wife of New York Mayor Wilson Fisk, is in critical condition following what officials are calling a targeted attack at a secured boxing match earlier this evening. Emergency services responded to reports of chaos inside the venue, with multiple injuries confirmed and the scene now under active federal investigation."
You stare slack jawed at the TV you forgot to turn off. The TV you've been previously tuning out since the moment you turned it on.
"Law enforcement sources have identified two suspects in connection with the incident: the vigilante known as 'Daredevil' and the individual Benjamin Poindexter, also known as 'Bullseye'. Authorities are urging civilians to remain indoors as the situation develops, while officials describe the case as âhighly volatile and ongoing'."
A heavy beat of silence before Matt takes matters into his own hands, breathing heavily, and reaching to turn off the television completely.
Your eyes flash when you direct them between the now black screen and the man...'Bullseye', still twitching underneath your palm. You slowly move to back away, hand completely healed.
The bullet wound looks as though it was never there to begin with.
You turn to Matt in the tense silence. You don't comment on the situation, noting the severity of the pleading, desperate look on his face. You try to process the information. Wilson Fisk. Vanessa Fisk.
"...If she's dead-"
"I know."
"He did this?"
"I know." Matt struggles out, voice raising. A plea for understanding, a show of his own.
You swallow, eyes darting between the man, the mask, your phone left on your nightstand.
"He'll be up in eight hours. We'll...we'll go from there." You whisper.
Matt nods, finally relaxing, taking a much needed seat on the edge of your bed, running his hands over his face.
Your room suddenly seems a lot more colorful with all the blood.
âš synopsis | being the little sister to karen page has its downsides. when dexâs bullet finds the wrong girl, so does his obsession. STEAMY. slow burn. dark romance. obsession. dom!dex & page!reader.
âš warnings | this is DARK. stockholm syndrome, obsession, stalking, mentions of mental illness / addiction, harm, religion, age-gap romance, etc. read at your own discretion.
âš next chap | lmk if youâd like to be tagged | âŤ
you didnât know what was worse, the fact that youâd refused to go to the hospital for a bullet wound in your stomach, or that youâd been hunched over your corkboard for two hours and your spine felt like it had adopted a new, crooked shape.
in your defense, you had a rough history with hospitals.
you winced as a thumbtack bit into your finger, but gratefulness settled warm on your shoulders shortly after.
the puzzle was finally piecing together.
fisk. the mayor. the hit.
manila papers scattered the board. faces of people youâd never met stared back at you, and somewhere in the blur of it all was a picture; grainy, but true. countless smear campaigns against fisk, the satirical broadcasts, someone with media access trying to wake hellâs kitchen up.
that someone was your sister.
your stupid, stupid sister.
youâd never been more sure.
and from there it all clicked. this apartment was listed under PAGE per public record. fisk took a shot at silencing who he thought was karen. it was simpler than money, power. no, he had that already so it was even worse.
he was protecting himself. his name. his carefully constructed image. from what? you didnât know. but you were certain it was more than karenâs whistleblowing.
you were just a loose thread heâd tried to pull. erâ karen was.
youâd buried yourself in all of this, probably to avoid the more pressing reality which was that youâd been traumatized approximately forty eight hours ago and could very realistically go septic and die if you didnât google how to properly tend to a bullet wound soon.
it could wait.
foggyâs face gazed back at you from beneath a green tack. the only photo you had of him. karen had dragged him along on the annual summer trip and youâd braced yourself for some insufferable lawyer who would spend the whole week mansplaining the ocean to you.
and then youâd met him. warm and ridiculous and the kind of person who could talk about a fucking marble until two in the morning and make it the most interesting conversation youâd ever had.
a once in a lifetime person. thatâs who foggy nelson was.
it made sense why your sister had arrived on your doorstep in pieces only a week after his death. sheâd loved him, and sheâd carried his blood home with her.
and then there was matt.
you ground your teeth.
the insufferable prick who had all but emotionally abandoned your sister when her grief didnât move at the speed of his caseload.
so it all tracked. karen running the broadcast, trying to shake hellâs kitchen awake with both hands. some elaborate chess game between her and fisk, one you were almost certain matt had walked her directly into. but why?
it was a game that could have cost her everything if you hadnât been the one at the sauce pot.
and still, one question sat unanswered at the center of the board.
who shot me?
and more pressingly, why the hell had they stitched you up rather than left you in a ditch somewhere. you were fairly certain fiskâs reach allowed for ditches.
you pinched your brows together.
âi watch too much NCIS,â you muttered, rolling your shoulders and forcing your spine into something resembling upright.
you let your head fall back against the couch and stared at the ceiling. wondering if the curiosity was stupid. if you should just lock the door and wait for karen to handle it as per usual. but karen had matt, and matt had a habit of deciding who needed protecting and from what, and you had strong doubts that list included you.
so no. you didnât feel like choice was something being offered.
a rattle.
soft. sudden.
your head snapped to the countertop.
what the f-
lilies. violet ones, in a slim glass vase, identical in color to the painting hung directly above your bed.
you swallowed.
you were ill, yes. possibly delirious, even. but not so far gone that youâd forgotten accepting a delivery. letting someone in. signing for anything. which meant â
âfuck.â
your phone rang and you nearly came out of your skin.
you were trembling, eyes refusing to leave the countertop, fingers moving on instinct as you pressed the phone to your ear.
âhello?â
âbaby? heyyyy, itâs jess.â
a slow blink. the lilies blurred at the edges. realization struck you like a dagger to the chest.
someone had been in this apartment while you were hunched over your corkboard in a blissful, oblivious blur. standing at your counter.
watching you work.
the goosebumps came slow and deliberate up your arms.
âyouâre out of rehab.â your voice came out steadier than you felt. low. careful.
âyeah, baby listen â can i crash at yours tonight? pops is on my ass again about the job stuff andâ oh shit, kare? hey! babe, did you know your sister is here?â
the warmth that moved through you then was not a kind one. hot and feverish and immediate,
karen. fuck.
your eyes went wide and you dropped to your knees, dragging the corkboard beneath the couch, stuffing crumpled papers under the cushions with shaking hands.
âwhâ justâ tell her to leaveââ
if it was him, the man in the mask, he still had a job to finish.
âweâre cominâ up nowââ
âjesse. noââ he wouldnât listen.
you slammed the phone face down on the carpet.
three minutes. maybe less, depending on ray at the buzzer. not enough time to sweep the whole studio. the bathroom, the bedroom, the balcony; too many places for an assassin to strike.
trembling hands grabbed the vase and turned it slowly, checking the underside, the roots, the water. nothing. no bomb. no death. justâ flowers.
and then a flash of blue between the stems. it slipped through your fingers twice before you got it. a little card. blue sky, a rainbow arching across the front. golden letters.
GET WELL SOON!
you unfolded it.
inside, in clean, perfect script:
whoops, wrong target âšâ
a juvenile sad face. and beneath it â a hand drawn bullseye.
your brows knit so hard they ached.
you flipped to the back. and there, in sharp block letters that looked like theyâd been pressed hard enough to indent the cardstock:
LOCK YOUR WINDOWS, Y/N.
four knocks at the door.
âone second!â
you shoved the card into the bin, curled your hand around your midsection and hissed through your teeth as you limped toward the bedroom. you were not afraid to die, no. not yet. youâd watched enough true crime to understand exactly what this was.
a moth in a jar.
you were just something being played with before being snuffed out.
the bedroom was colder than it should have been.
your breath was short as you shoved the window down with both hands, the window you were certain had been closed, and flipped both locks. a sharp look into the bathroom. a painful glance under the bed.
nothing. no one.
more knocks.
you wiped your face with the back of your hand, sniffled once, and limped to the front door. you kept the chain on and opened it three inches.
âiâm contagious.â
karenâs steel blue eyes moved over what little of you she could see, and something in them shifted immediately. jesseâs face fell behind her with the disappointment of a man whose plans had just been fucked.
ây/n.â karenâs voice was careful. âare you alright?â
the note. the lilies. the window.
the man who had crouched over you on this very floor and tucked your hair back like you were the moon and it was his first time seeing it.
you swallowed all of it down.
âpeachy keen, karen.â
she didnât believe you. she had that page look in her eye, the one dad used to wear when karen would lie about being drunk despite reeking of liquor. the one karen gave you when you were dosing all the time.
âcontagious with what, exactly?â
a gulp. nervous eyes snapping toward where jesse pinched the skin between his brows. karen didnât give you a chance to answer, she knew it was bullshit anyway.
her steel eyes cut to jesse, then back to you. and whatever morphed across her face in that moment made your stomach ache worse than the wound sitting behind the door.
âare you both using again?â
you went rigid.
you understood, on surface level, why sheâd go there. this was weird. you were acting weird. but that accusation still landed like an open palm across your cheek. you clenched your jaw tight.
âno, karen. iâm not using again.â
she pursed her lips, exhaled slow through her nose. white-knuckled on the strap of her purse. your next breath was shaky and smelled of smoke and heroine.
you started naming cities in your head.
âbut youâre back with jesse.â
not a question. the way she said it made you sway on your feet. the throbbing in your midsection sharpened all at once.
âi found out he was here when you did, kare.â a beat. âbut thanks â for the backhanded concern. i think youâd know if i was sticking the needle in again.â
something cracked across her features then. regret, quick and unmistakable. she frowned, pressed her lips together, and without a word dug through her purse and pressed a folded wad of cash into jesseâs hand. his brows jumped to his hairline.
âholy shit, kare â thanââ
âdonât.â quiet. absolute. âgo find somewhere to stay that is nowhere near my sister. and so help me god, jessie; i have connections. if any of them tell me you were buying, youâll be prosecuted by morning.â
matt. some perk.
your ex nodded once, slow. his eyes flicked to the crack in the door, tongue dragging across his chapped lips.
âlater, y/n.â
that shake. that particular tremble in the way he said your name, the sniffle as he turned and walked away. that was something even karen page couldnât piece together. something only you knew intimately.
heâd lapse within the hour.
but you wouldnât tell her that. more pressing matters at hand.
when she turned back to you, you shook your head gently. you should have shut the door, locked her out just in case he was still close. but he would have tried by now, wouldnât he?
âiâm sorry.â
you forgave her. you didnât say that, because opportunity had arrived.
âaccusations, right? sâmy turn.â you pulled the page look on for yourself â pursed lips, steady eyes. âyou said the mayor put a hit out on you. tell me why.â
your sister didnât crack.
âi misspoke.â
âyouâre lying to me.â
âyouâd know if heâd sent a hit out for you. youâd be dead.â
you almost laughed out loud. if only she knew about the wound you were nursing three inches behind this door. your jaw ticked.
âfine. donât tell me. fuck if i care â iâll find out my own way.â
karen shook her head immediately.
âno. you need to stay away from this, do you hear meââ
âso there is something.â
âno â yes â christ, just listen to me! iâll tell you when the time is right. that time is not now.â
silence fell between you both. the long, tension laced kind. her hand wrapped around the edge of the door where you held it open. tears stung at her eyes, red blooming across her nose and cheeks. she licked her lips and smiled â dry, tired.
âi shouldnât have accused you. iâm sorry.â
you bowed your head.
it was nothing you werenât already used to. you kept that part to yourself.
you thought about matt then. the way he looks at you when youâre around. careful, measured, like youâre something that requires fragility.
and it made sense, in a way. youâd ruined their lives once. karen. matt. you. foggy.
but foggy⌠he never looked at you like that though.
foggy used to look at you like you were just a person.
you swallowed back the tears crawling up your throat and steadied your breath.
âsâfine.â smaller than you meant it. âjust â please. as soon as you feel clear weather on this, tell me.â
a single nod.
âi promise.â
you watched her face when she said it.
you didnât believe her.
đŚâ âš
it wasnât planned. of course it wasnât. none of this was.
his pretty little north star. messy and the opposite of uniform, the antithesis of everything heâd ever sought out in a fixed point. he hated her.
god, he couldnât get enough of her.
depravity had settled into his chest like a splinter. two agonizing days of it. two days of fisk buzzing in his ear about the importance of eliminating karen page, and ben nodding along like a man whose attention was fully present.
it was far from that.
he didnât tell fisk, of course. not about her. not after julie. he knew better than that.
but he could control this. right? this wasnât like julie. he could still perform the hit, get the job done. how different this was, heâd even been apart from her for two whole days!
day one, morning â he meditated. twenty minutes. focused. good.
day one, night â he stalked every crumb of her the internet had to offer until 3am.
y/n, huh⌠it tasted good on his tongue.
day two, morning â exercise. discipline. structure.
day two, night â he mapped every entrance to her apartment. every window. every weak point in the lock.
east window will be most efficient to see all of her.
day three.
a dream.
her wide, teary eyes. the addictive softness of her skin beneath his fingertips. heâd leaned down in it, watched her tremble, licked the tears from her cheeks while she squirmed beneath him. that last part was his imaginationâs finest work, and he woke up with the blanket tented high and every nerve in his body pulled toward her like a compass finding north. he wrapped his hand around himself but by the second stroke he winced, he wanted to wait for her.
the urges had officially outpaced the control.
he needed more. he needed to see more.
getting in was easier than it should have been. he clenched his teeth. did she not care about the risk of some psychopath crawling through her window? he pressed his command down on the cardstock so hard, it dented and bled.
heâd spent two hours watching her from the half wall separating her bedroom from the rest of the studio. she had absolutely no idea. it made him grin.
he was relieved to find the apartment tidy â save for that chaotic explosion she was piecing together on the corkboard. heâd watched her work it, head tilted. she was so close and so very far simultaneously, and every time something clicked behind her eyes he felt a toothy grin pull at the corner of his mouth.
thatâs it. almost.
his breaths were loud in his own ears. the vase of lilies in his arms, heavier.
how could he not bring them? he was a gentleman. and they matched the painting above her bed; the bed he had gotten very well acquainted with in her absence.
heâd pressed his face into the sheets and breathed. sweet, indulgent, the kind of thing he could inhale for the rest of his life and never tire of. tobacco and vanilla threaded through silk with something bright underneathâ neroli, no- clementine, maybe. soft and warm and entirely, perfectly her. it took everything he had to pry himself away from them.
when he tired of watching her fail to crack the case for the sixth time, he moved. quiet, measured steps toward the island. he set the vase down.
it rattled.
he found the nearest shadow and went still. then retreated to the bedroom doorway, and waited.
the freeze that moved through her was worth every second. every single hair raising on her skin, those wide eyes, that idiotic bravery that made something in him simultaneously want to shake her and bend her over his-
she pried herself up. she found his flowers.
so good.
but then, a voice. male. crackling through the receiver but unmistakably male, and she was speaking to it, and the familiarity in her voice was not the kind sheâd been using for her sister.
he went very still.
oh no no no, little star. already?
he leaned closer anyway. just to be sure. the name came through clear enough.
jesse.
one name. thatâs all he needed.
with one last look at her, finding his note, reading those four words with that particular shade of fear he was quickly developing a preference for; he crawled through the open window and dropped down the pole to the cobblestones below.
âš synopsis | being the little sister to karen page has its downsides. when dexâs bullet finds the wrong girl, so does his obsession. STEAMY. slow burn. dark romance. obsession. dom!dex & page!reader.
âš warnings | this is DARK. stockholm syndrome, obsession, stalking, mentions of mental illness, harm, religion, age-gap romance, etc. read at your own discretion.
âš next chap | lmk if youâd like to be tagged | âŤ
itâs silly how random life is. when you were younger you used to think it was all one big game. like, god or whoever the fuck was looking down at you and changing the colors in the sky was manning some big joystick 24/7.
it made sense then. but now?
the blood spilling from your stomach onto the scuffed, dilapidated floors of your unfurnished hellâs kitchen apartment was as red as the tomato sauce still boiling in the pot youâd been stirring four seconds prior.
glug. glug. glug.
your free time was sacred. and that tomato sauce was supposed to go over frozen gnocchi, devoured on the couch with NCIS on and a seltzer sweating in your hand. you never found it realistic; the way actors bled on screen. too much, too dramatic.
but now, here, with your own trembling hands pressed against your midsection, you realized something.
you had been so terribly wrong.
droplets became spills. and as it always did, the sight of blood made your head swim. the copper smell hit the back of your throat and your knees buckled before you could stabilize yourself on the newly red countertop. your head met the floor with a crack that you felt more than heard.
three versions of your ceiling swam above you. all of them blurry.
and a ways away, in a place you couldnât see, the man responsible was still squinting through his scope. still trained on the peephole of what was supposed to be karenâs door.
but you were not karen.
oh no no no.
at surface level, similar enough. a pretty blonde thing, wide-eyed. and now, gorgeously complemented by the crimson blooming across that frilly white top of yours. he stayed a beat longer than necessary, watching the spiderweb of red spread against the fabric.
his work. tidy, even when it was wrong.
then his stomach growled.
fries, he thought. and a banana milkshake. definitely a banana milkshake.
he was already turning on his heel when he heard it. faint. muffled by the door between you.
âfather forgive themâŚâ a wet, rattling inhale. ââŚfor they know not what they do.â
ben stopped.
were you⌠praying? for him?
a long pause settled behind his mask. his head tilted a fraction, the way it did when something didnât compute. heâd just put a bullet in you. and you were down there, trembling on the other side of that door, bleeding out, spending what might be your last breaths on forgiveness.
he didnât deserve that. he knew it plainly, the same way he knew he was hungry, the same way he knew the door in front of him was unlocked when it shouldnât have been. facts. simple ones.
his hand closed around the knob anyway.
the click of the latch was barely a sound. the draft from the hallway kissed your face before you registered the shape crouching over you. masked, still, radiating something you couldnât name but recognized in your gut as wrong.
âdoorâs unlocked.â his voice was even, almost conversational. almost amused. âthatâs not very smart.â
you blinked up at him. or tried to. the tears were making it difficult.
he reached down with ease and tucked a dirty blonde ringlet away from your clammy face. clinical. unhurried. like he had all the time in the world and you werenât actively dying beneath him.
âš synopsis | being the little sister to karen page has its downsides. when dexâs bullet finds the wrong girl, so does his obsession. STEAMY. slow burn. dark romance. obsession. dom!dex & page!reader.
âš warnings | this is DARK. stockholm syndrome, obsession, stalking, mentions of mental illness, harm, religion, age-gap romance, etc. read at your own discretion.
âš next chap | lmk if youâd like to be tagged | âŤ
itâs silly how random life is. when you were younger you used to think it was all one big game. like, god or whoever the fuck was looking down at you and changing the colors in the sky was manning some big joystick 24/7.
it made sense then. but now?
the blood spilling from your stomach onto the scuffed, dilapidated floors of your unfurnished hellâs kitchen apartment was as red as the tomato sauce still boiling in the pot youâd been stirring four seconds prior.
glug. glug. glug.
your free time was sacred. and that tomato sauce was supposed to go over frozen gnocchi, devoured on the couch with NCIS on and a seltzer sweating in your hand. you never found it realistic; the way actors bled on screen. too much, too dramatic.
but now, here, with your own trembling hands pressed against your midsection, you realized something.
you had been so terribly wrong.
droplets became spills. and as it always did, the sight of blood made your head swim. the copper smell hit the back of your throat and your knees buckled before you could stabilize yourself on the newly red countertop. your head met the floor with a crack that you felt more than heard.
three versions of your ceiling swam above you. all of them blurry.
and a ways away, in a place you couldnât see, the man responsible was still squinting through his scope. still trained on the peephole of what was supposed to be karenâs door.
but you were not karen.
oh no no no.
at surface level, similar enough. a pretty blonde thing, wide-eyed. and now, gorgeously complemented by the crimson blooming across that frilly white top of yours. he stayed a beat longer than necessary, watching the spiderweb of red spread against the fabric.
his work. tidy, even when it was wrong.
then his stomach growled.
fries, he thought. and a banana milkshake. definitely a banana milkshake.
he was already turning on his heel when he heard it. faint. muffled by the door between you.
âfather forgive themâŚâ a wet, rattling inhale. ââŚfor they know not what they do.â
ben stopped.
were you⌠praying? for him?
a long pause settled behind his mask. his head tilted a fraction, the way it did when something didnât compute. heâd just put a bullet in you. and you were down there, trembling on the other side of that door, bleeding out, spending what might be your last breaths on forgiveness.
he didnât deserve that. he knew it plainly, the same way he knew he was hungry, the same way he knew the door in front of him was unlocked when it shouldnât have been. facts. simple ones.
his hand closed around the knob anyway.
the click of the latch was barely a sound. the draft from the hallway kissed your face before you registered the shape crouching over you. masked, still, radiating something you couldnât name but recognized in your gut as wrong.
âdoorâs unlocked.â his voice was even, almost conversational. almost amused. âthatâs not very smart.â
you blinked up at him. or tried to. the tears were making it difficult.
he reached down with ease and tucked a dirty blonde ringlet away from your clammy face. clinical. unhurried. like he had all the time in the world and you werenât actively dying beneath him.
âš synopsis | being the little sister to karen page has its downsides. when dexâs bullet finds the wrong girl, so does his obsession. STEAMY. slow burn. dark romance. obsession. dom!dex & page!reader.
âš warnings | this is DARK. stockholm syndrome, obsession, stalking, mentions of mental illness, harm, religion, age-gap romance, etc. read at your own discretion.
âš next chap | lmk if youâd like to be tagged | âŤ
itâs silly how random life is. when you were younger you used to think it was all one big game. like, god or whoever the fuck was looking down at you and changing the colors in the sky was manning some big joystick 24/7.
it made sense then. but now?
the blood spilling from your stomach onto the scuffed, dilapidated floors of your unfurnished hellâs kitchen apartment was as red as the tomato sauce still boiling in the pot youâd been stirring four seconds prior.
glug. glug. glug.
your free time was sacred. and that tomato sauce was supposed to go over frozen gnocchi, devoured on the couch with NCIS on and a seltzer sweating in your hand. you never found it realistic; the way actors bled on screen. too much, too dramatic.
but now, here, with your own trembling hands pressed against your midsection, you realized something.
you had been so terribly wrong.
droplets became spills. and as it always did, the sight of blood made your head swim. the copper smell hit the back of your throat and your knees buckled before you could stabilize yourself on the newly red countertop. your head met the floor with a crack that you felt more than heard.
three versions of your ceiling swam above you. all of them blurry.
and a ways away, in a place you couldnât see, the man responsible was still squinting through his scope. still trained on the peephole of what was supposed to be karenâs door.
but you were not karen.
oh no no no.
at surface level, similar enough. a pretty blonde thing, wide-eyed. and now, gorgeously complemented by the crimson blooming across that frilly white top of yours. he stayed a beat longer than necessary, watching the spiderweb of red spread against the fabric.
his work. tidy, even when it was wrong.
then his stomach growled.
fries, he thought. and a banana milkshake. definitely a banana milkshake.
he was already turning on his heel when he heard it. faint. muffled by the door between you.
âfather forgive themâŚâ a wet, rattling inhale. ââŚfor they know not what they do.â
ben stopped.
were you⌠praying? for him?
a long pause settled behind his mask. his head tilted a fraction, the way it did when something didnât compute. heâd just put a bullet in you. and you were down there, trembling on the other side of that door, bleeding out, spending what might be your last breaths on forgiveness.
he didnât deserve that. he knew it plainly, the same way he knew he was hungry, the same way he knew the door in front of him was unlocked when it shouldnât have been. facts. simple ones.
his hand closed around the knob anyway.
the click of the latch was barely a sound. the draft from the hallway kissed your face before you registered the shape crouching over you. masked, still, radiating something you couldnât name but recognized in your gut as wrong.
âdoorâs unlocked.â his voice was even, almost conversational. almost amused. âthatâs not very smart.â
you blinked up at him. or tried to. the tears were making it difficult.
he reached down with ease and tucked a dirty blonde ringlet away from your clammy face. clinical. unhurried. like he had all the time in the world and you werenât actively dying beneath him.
series: daredevil | pairing: benjamin poindexter x reader | 6.6k
warnings: suicidal ideation / lots of talk and jokes about death /canon typical Dex stuff / everyone has a lot of mental issues
summary: start of this universe
So where the fuck is he?
Is Matt Murdock really so bad of a boyfriend he neglected to show up for your opening night?
Dex thinks back on all his time following you - trying to recall if Murdock had come to any of your studio sessions or if he had even stepped inside the theatre before but nothing comes to mind. Youâd gone on dates, mostly during the weekends when the law office was closed, and you practically lived at the manâs apartment, but the more he goes down the rabbit hole of your and Murdockâs witnessed interactions, he doesnât come up with an instance where Murdock has been around when you dance.
Does Murdock even care about you?
Did he just waste months coming up with a way to torment the Devil for it all to mean nothing?
Would killing you even matter?
Hot white rage pulses through Dex and he decides he will make it matter. He will just need to improvise.
As Dex settles into his seat, he tries to not get frustrated over the fact he can't recall the name of the Governorâs Head of Security. Whatever his name is, he sucks at his job. There aren't even metal detectors set up at the entrance of the theatre and the stationed guards are only carrying tasers. He highly doubts the men even know how to use the weapons -Â they'd probably shit themselves at the first crack of gunfire, instead of doing their job and protecting the Governor.Â
Part of him wants to shoot her and the Mayor by her side, but that would distract from his message and he can't have that.Â
He needs to send his message.Â
But, maybe, if the universe is kind to him, the old hag will have a heart attack from the shock of his display or she'll die of boredom from having to watch her granddaughter perform. He has no idea how that woman is still in the company, but it must be nepotism. She is probably the worst one on the stage and it is clear her lack of skill is not proportional to her ego - he has seen her bitching about favoritism to the crew during rehearsals when the star of the show was on stage.Â
In his very humble opinion, you more than deserve to be the Swan Princess.Â
You are extremely dedicated to your craft and Dex may be a tad bit envious of the control you have over your body. You make leaping around the floor look effortless and there is a smoothness to the way you dance that has him almost understanding why people come to the theatre. If everyone was even half as good at conveying their joy and sorrows through movement alone, without it looking like they are concentrating on their choreography, the stories they are trying to tell might actually be entertaining.
You move like fabric in the wind - organic and without any sort of stiffness. It is a little bit mesmerizing to him because it almost reminds him of fighting. When you pirouette, he can visualize you extending it into a kick - your legs are extremely strong and he can almost feel the bruise he would get if he were on the receiving end of one.Â
You make it all look so easy and he may have more than one recording of your various performances so he can study you.
He could spend hours watching you dance.Â
He has spent hours watching you dance.
Everyday for months - every early morning practice and every time youâve stayed late at the studio. Heâs watched you move through every perfectly memorized placement and heâs watched as you lost yourself to music in freestyle. Youâve performed ballet, ballroom, hip-hop, and all sorts of things he doesnât know the technical names of for him and heâs admired all of them. You have a deep passion for the arts running through you and it's clear you've poured your soul into expressing yourself through movement.
Heâs almost sorrowful heâll be losing the routine of following you, but that is more than overshadowed by the thrumming under his skin he gets before he finally gets to enact one of his plans.Â
Dexâs eyes flick down to the center floor seats, a few rows in where there is a single gap waiting to be filled, a scowl forming on his lips.Â
It is almost curtain call and Matt Murdock is nowhere to be found. Heâs come to accept that the blind lawyer has a chronic issue with being on time, but one would think when his girlfriend is the prima ballerina on opening night for the New York City Ballet season, heâd be there before the doors close. But as the lights begin to dim, the seat remains empty - the reserved sign probably visible from the stage.Â
Dex clenches his jaw to tamper down his annoyance and part of him feels offended on your behalf. Not because he views you as anything beyond a target - but Murdockâs tardiness is disrespectful to all the time that youâve put into training for this night and that is something that resonates in his chest. It has taken so much planning and preparation, on his part and yours, to get to this point and the man has the audacity to roll in late?Â
Maybe Dex needs to send a different type of message.
But that will be for another time.Â
For now, his eyes stay glued to the empty seat until you float on stage, and only then does he look at the performance.Â
It really will be a shame that this will be your final one. Dex has seen all the dress rehearsals, but seeing you dance in front of an audience is a different experience. Everyoneâs attention is on you, but you move like you are truly Odette and are none the wiser to their gaze.Â
Even if Murdock wouldnât be able to see how you are twirling, he knows the man would hear how each attendeeâs breath is being held in awe, too caught up in your spell to remember basic bodily functions. He would know that no one, not even Dex, can keep their eyes off of you.Â
That is how the night continues - Dex alternating between glaring at where Murdock should be and watching you weave your tale.Â
And when the grand moment comes, when Dex should be sending his message and piercing your heart while Odette falls to her death, he stays rooted in his seat, letting the curtains close to applause instead of screams.Â
The buzzing in his head is so loud and so overwhelming that he does not process getting up and leaving the theatre with the crowd - he goes from glowering at the covered stage to standing in front of the fire exit you always use to sneak away without anyone seeing you. His fingers twitch at his side, wanting to throttle something as his carefully laid plans crumble around him.Â
Dex cannot believe Murdock truly just did not show up at all. If there had been some sort of disastrous event that required him to suit up, the Mayor would have been notified in some emergency manner, but the man had been there at the standing ovation. There are no alerts on his phone - nothing to signal the Devil is out on the town, dealing out Justice.Â
There isnât even a sighting of him tagged on social media.Â
So where the fuck is he?
Is Matt Murdock really so bad of a boyfriend he neglected to show up for your opening night?Â
Dex thinks back on all his time following you - trying to recall if Murdock had come to any of your studio sessions or if he had even stepped inside the theatre before but nothing comes to mind. Youâd gone on dates, mostly during the weekends when the law office was closed, and you practically lived at the manâs apartment, but the more he goes down the rabbit hole of your and Murdockâs witnessed interactions, he doesnât come up with an instance where Murdock has been around when you dance.Â
Does Murdock even care about you?Â
Did he just waste months coming up with a way to torment the Devil for it all to mean nothing?Â
Would killing you even matter?Â
Hot white rage pulses through Dex and he decides he will make it matter. He will just need to improvise.
The gears in his head turn as he waits for you to emerge from the building - he is confident you will not be attending the after party and that you will be slinking away into the shadows the moment you are able to.Â
Dex is not the only one Murdock has betrayed and he doubts you are in any mood for celebrations. Beyond your one true passion, Murdock seems to be the only other thing in your life. You donât go out with friends, you donât have any other hobbies, and you seem to yearn only for his approval. He canât really fault you for that, as he understands that sort of devotion, but it is why you were selected to be his target instead of Foggy Nelson or Karen Page.Â
It was meant to be a significant blow to the Devil.
And, in a fucked up way that only recently come to light, it was meant to be a gift to you.Â
Your dancing has brought some joy to Dexâs life the past few months and he had planned to repay your kindness by taking away your pain.Â
He does not need his FBI training to see you are actively suicidal. He recognizes the same Darkness that wrapped itself around his head tightening around your throat. Heâs seen the blank, empty stares and the way your leg muscles twitch when the subway rolls into the platform, wanting to launch yourself in front of it.Â
Seven times heâs seen you stop yourself from crossing that yellow line and each time he wondered if he would have interfered or let you go. Three times heâs seen you sit with a bottle of pills and Jack on your dinner table. He saw you pick up a paring knife and trace it up and down the veins of your forearm, just needing a little extra push to draw blood.Â
You arenât going to survive until morning and Dex needs to control that narrative.Â
The minutes stretch and drag and he stands there waiting until the metal door opens and you step into the cool night air.Â
You are no longer the beautiful swan captivating a crowd - youâve changed into a sad black sweat suit and have scrubbed your face raw removing your makeup. Your eyes are exactly as he expects them to be - hollow and red rimmed.Â
You donât scream when you realize you arenât alone on the small fire escape. You stare at him for a moment, before your gaze flicks up and down his frame before settling in the center of his chest.Â
âOh,â are your first words to Dex, âitâs you.â
The blandness of your words shock his system - he was so prepared for fear and for having to restrain you, but here you are, just standing in front of him like heâs anyone else in the world.Â
Dex quickly regains his composure before leaning in slightly to make himself seem even bigger, even more threatening, and confirms in a low voice, âyou know who I am?âÂ
âBullseye,â you mumble, still not looking him in the eyes. âBenjamin Pointdexter.â Your hand tightens slightly around the bouquet of roses in your arms before you relax back into a state of aloofness. You seem to sway with the wind for a moment before you continue on, your voice barely audible, âI donât know where he is.âÂ
âIâm sure you donât, sweetheart,â Dex replies, knowing he sounds like heâs taunting you, âbut weâre going to find him together.â His hand shoots out and takes your bicep into a vice grip. You donât even flinch at his touch - just slowly tilt your head down to see where heâs wrapped around you.Â
Thereâs no protest as he drags you down to ground level and begins to guide you through the alley ways to stay away from any lingering crowd. Surprisingly, you keep pace with him and the only noise that comes from you is the jangling of your water bottle against your keys in your bag. When the boundaries into Hellâs Kitchen are passed, and Dex diverts into the main roads, you comply with his threats to not call out to anyone for help. You are basically a doll he is puppeting around.Â
Only when Murdockâs apartment building looms over you, do you seem to come out of your dissociative trance - you turn your head to look at him, lips dipped into the slightest of frowns.Â
âAre you going to kill me?â you ask, not sounding scared at all. It's like youâve already accepted your fate and just want confirmation.Â
âYes.âÂ
âOkay,â is your response and Dex wrinkles his nose at that, because even he can be bothered by such a blase attitude.Â
âYouâd be dead either way,â he points out as he pulls open the door and pushes you into the lobby. âIt will be quicker and neater than jumping in front of a train or trying to OD on some over the counter shit. Iâm doing you a favor.â
You actually hum at that, going towards the stairs without him having to direct you there. He keeps his grip tight on you as he follows you up the steps, ready to use you as a shield if need be. âI was going to go to the bridge. Get washed out to sea.âÂ
Dex huffs at that, because that sounds like a highly ineffective plan. âTheyâve upped their patrols along the good spots - someone would have grabbed you before you could make it over the railing. And even then, thereâs no guarantees the fall would kill you. Youâd probably break your legs and back when you hit the water and youâd drown. Then wash up along the river and end up on the front page of some tabloid.âÂ
âMaybe I want to drown,â you counter, some semblance of something finally in your voice.Â
âWe can arrange that.âÂ
The rest of the hike up to the apartment is silent and your hands are steady as you unlock the door to Murdockâs apartment.Â
Dex expects the unit to be empty - Murdock would have been on his ass otherwise - but he orders you to sit on the couch as he clears the space, bringing out his gun to do so. From the corner of his eye he watches you take a seat, dropping your bag and your flowers on the floor by your feet. He supposes you donât care to put them in a vase if you wonât be around to admire them. After securing the area, he takes a few long steps towards you, holding out his hand and demanding your phone.
You dig it out from your hoodie pocket and give it to him without fuss. He drops it to the floor and stomps the life out of it, while you look on with disinterest. When he is done, he turns to fetch the broom hanging by the kitchen trashcan and gathers the mess into the dustpan to toss out.
Dexâs new plan is to wait for Murdock to return home and then execute you. He knows there is a blindspot in the kitchen, so no billyclubs will be able to fly through the window to disarm him before he can react. The Devil will not be able to stop him this time.
He will be sending his message tonight: that Dex is going to take everyone Matt Murdock has ever loved and force him to break his stupid code. Fisk couldnât get Daredevil to kill, but he will.Â
Dex will.Â
He takes his position and lets himself relax into the waiting game - it is something he is very good at. Being a sniper -Â being a soldier - means needing to have patience and waiting to strike seems to be the only time he has an abundance of it.Â
Across the room, you sit like a statue, head tilted up towards the roof access door but otherwise completely checked out. Your posture is perfect as you wait for your end.
He's going to make your death quick. You won't even know it happened - one second you'll be there, then you won't be. There will be no pain. It will be merciful.
He's being merciful.Â
Dex wants to say something to you, but he knows he can't. Even the smallest of noises can alert Daredevil and he isnât stupid enough to let himself be caught because he couldnât keep his fucking mouth shut.
He knows what he would say to you, if he could open his mouth.Â
That's more than most people get. Heâs never wanted to engage with a target before - he doesnât see the point of taunting them before putting them down - why would he waste the breath talking during a fight? They wouldnât even be able to process his quips - theyâd be dead before he could get through any of his words.
But with you, he wants to make sure you hear him before you disappear into the Darkness.Â
He doesn't know why that bothers him.Â
Dex presses his tongue against the back of his front teeth and tells himself to get out of his own head. He needs to focus. Any lapse in focus can ruin what heâs worked so hard for.
He has not come this far to fail. His message will be sent. He will break Murdock.
The billboard outside flicks between ads, bathing the apartment in different neons for a perfectly silent and still three hours, forty seven minutes, and twenty seconds.Â
Gravel crunches under boots on the roof above them and Dex raises his gun so his bullet will go sweetly right into your brain stem. His finger brushes the trigger, but he waits to flex - needing for the perfect moment to occur so he can get his point across clearly. He listens as uneven footsteps drag their way to the access door, his brows knitting together just slightly. The Devil is clearly limping.Â
The buzzing in his head shuts off and everything narrows down to the room around him in anticipation for the fight that is about to occur.
The access door rattles as Murdock reaches it - probably needing to reach out to grab it to steady himself. Time slows to a crawl as Dex waits for the metal to fly off its hinges, but instead of any screeching or buckling, it is a muffled, but very frustrated, âfuck!â that echoes through the night sky.Â
Confusion courses through Dex, because in all his fights with Murdock, heâs never reacted like this. It has always been raw fury and wasting no time trying to pummel each other into a pulp. The man still behind the door is clearly extremely pissed off, but he is not using his âIâm pissed off but very specifically at Bullseyeâ voice.
Is he too injured to realize that someone else is in his kitchen?
Dexâs gaze flicks to you and only because he has watched you for long and Knows you so well does he see that you have become alert. You are still not moving a muscle - just barely breathing as your eyes stay locked on the roof access - but you are once again Aware of your surroundings.
To your credit, you do not react at all when the door finally swings up and bounces off the wall with a tinny âclangâ. The Devil stalks into the open concept apartment in his decidedly armor free Man in Black get up.Â
Or what is left of it.Â
His shirt barely qualifies as such anymore - itâs been shredded by some bladed weapon and it does nothing to hide the new deep clean cuts carved into the manâs torso. His left pant leg looks like it might have gotten caught in a fire - the multiple holes there have a distinct burn pattern and Dex can smell the lingering smoke from where he is standing. Blood coats the lower half of the Devilâs face, fresh from where his nose broken and still dripping like a faucet.
Heâs barely holding himself up as he stumbles onto the landing, but he had clearly won whatever battle he had been in, so woo fucking hoo for him.Â
âReally?â Murdock croaks out, his speech slightly slurred from his beating but not lacking any in its bite. âYou came here instead of going out?â
Daredevil never fails in his ability to be unpredictable, because in every scenario he had playing in his head, Dex had never ever thought of the possibility of being completely ignored. Even if he canât smell an intruder with his face bashed in - shouldnât he be able to hear him? He doesnât fully understand what the fuck Murdockâs deal is, but he knows enough that it has to do with heightened senses and being able to detect heartbeats. Â
He feels like he is short circuiting - like he is frozen and he doesnât know what to do because he cannot comprehend his plans failing because Murdock is not playing his part correctly for a second time that night.
For the first time in hours, your voice breaks the silence. You arenât emotional - you donât waver or wobble with your words- you are quiet and devoid of any other signs of life.
Youâre waiting for Dex to pull the trigger.Â
âWhere were you?âÂ
It is the wrong thing to say and the wrong tone to use - even he knows that. The man in front of him is too caught up in his own rage and his own issues that he canât tell you arenât trying to pick a fight. You arenât trying to do anything - youâre already as good as gone.
A sharp bark of laughter fills the air as Murdock starts to move forward, âwhere was I? Where was I?! I was out keeping the city safe, sweetheart! Thatâs where I was! I was where I was actually needed!â
He makes it down two steps before his ankles give out under his own weight and he has to grab onto the bannister to keep himself up. Murdock leans heavily into the railing, dripping blood everywhere, and you react in concern for him, standing up in an instant and going towards the stairs with your hands out like you could possibly catch him if he fell.Â
Dex tracks you with his eyes and gun, but the rest of him stays still as, despite everything he's not done, you try to help your boyfriend.Â
âWhere were you?â you repeat, still just barely audible, but now there is a hint of a plea in your words. Dex has the feeling that the question you are asking does not equal the meaning you are intending. He is not good at picking up on that sort of thing usually, but he has studied the inflection in your voice. He knows what the different pitches mean - how you emphasize words to get your point across.Â
Murdock snarls at you like heâs some sort of cornered dog and Dex presses his tongue harder into his teeth. Daredevil is the most dangerous when heâs injured and angry and it will be any moment when heâs registered on his radar and the battle begins. To an outsider, Bullseye has the clear advantage, but he knows that isnât the truth.
Thereâs a reason both men are still alive.
The Devil stumbles down more steps towards you, managing to keep himself up by sheer willpower alone. You rush forward, prepared to cushion his fall with your own body, but you stop short when you are swatted at. The dirty muay thai ropes donât come close to connecting with you, but the message of âstay backâ is clear.Â
The repositioning of his aim is automatic - a hair up, a breath left and a bullet would find home in Matt Mudockâs skull. It is the intensity of his training that keeps Dex from pulling the trigger and removing the threat that is in front of you.Â
âYou donât get to do that,â the man hisses at you, the blood trapped in his nose making his words thick and stick together. âI told you - I told you I couldnât promise anything with what has been happening with the Hand!â He makes another motion towards you, jabbing his grimy hand to point at your chest, like heâs accusing you of something. âYouâve seen what theyâve been doing - what they did to that woman! You expect me to - what? Sit there while they tear the city apart because you put something on my schedule?â
For what it is worth, you stand your ground and donât back down from the raging man. You stand just steps below him, poised to keep him from crashing to the ground. Dex canât see your face and he wonders if you are crying.Â
If the Devil is able to tell, he isnât affected by it.Â
Your right hand raises up, your fingers shaking so badly you probably wouldnât be able to hold anything, and you try to reach out to cup Murdockâs cheek.Â
Daredevil catches your wrist before you can even extend your elbow just as you yet again whisper out, voice cracking, âwhere were you, Matt?â
The two of you stand there, caught in something Dex doesnât understand as he watches the scene unfold in front of him, his own mind confused about what he should do next.Â
He should be fulfilling his plan.Â
He should be ending your suffering and starting Daredevilâs.Â
But he once again canât pull the trigger.
Without any idea of the situation he is truly in, Murdock distances himself from you, pushing your hand away with too much force and starting to climb the stairs backwards, âNo. No! Iâm not doing this with you. Not after tonight!â
The Devil turns, his feet thundering down as he reaches the landing again, and with just as much effort as he used to open it, the door is slammed shut, leaving you and Bullseye once again alone in the apartment.
The air is thick with tension as Dex tries to work out what had happened in the last minute and a half.Â
Murdock hadnât been able to tell someone with a gun was in his kitchen because he had been too injured and too pissed off. Beyond the broken nose, he must have had a serious concussion or too much blood loss because Dex canât think of another reason that Daredevil would just walk away from him.Â
If he was in his right mind or not completely fucked up, he would not leave anyone alone with Dex, especially his fucking semi-famous girlfriend.Â
But there Dex was, standing stock still with his weapon still aimed at where Murdock had just been, eyes locked on the door, waiting for it to reopen.Â
It doesnât.Â
Forty two seconds pass, then the billboard across the street switches to a new ad, and the room goes from being a moody purple to being illuminated in a bright sunny orange. Dex feels like he is trapped in a dream or he is experiencing a new type of hallucination because nothing around him feels real. Â
As he moves to reholster his gun, his head starts to throb over the force of the anger washing through him. The disappointment and resentment he felt towards Murdock when he failed to kill Fisk pales in comparison to the rage building inside of his chest. This level of emotion is something Dex has never experienced before and he doesnât want to just scream or kill Murdock.
Dex wants to sever his cochlear and olfactory nerves. He wants to put Murdock into True Darkness, to let him experience True Fear before ripping him apart limb by limb.Â
A quick and easy death is not in his future.Â
The world is pressing down on Dex, closing in and becoming overwhelming as the monster he has always tried to keep at bay roars to life inside of him, desperate to destroy everything around him.Â
Then, for the upteenth time that night, he is mentally knocked on his ass by you turning in place, like you are on a clock work gear and can only make minute movements, and looking right at him.Â
Tear tracks are highlighted by the remainders of your mascara, with fat drops still falling from your lashes. Your red glassy eyes lock with his, and even though you are feet away from him and he feels like his head is underwater, Dex hears you perfectly.Â
âCan I make a request?â your pretty pretty lips ask, barely parting to do so.
âA request?â he parrots in a croaky voice as everything that makes up Dex narrows down to you. The rest of the world - Murdock, Fisk, anything outside the four walls around him - disappears and there is only you and him left in the Darkness.Â
You barely tip your chin down in a nod, eyes darting away from his like you are expecting a similar outburst from him for daring to ask a question.Â
âRequest away,â he finally manages to say, just before his feet start to act on their own and he takes a step towards you. He has no idea what you could possibly want from him, but he hopes it is a desire to drown because maybe, maybe, youâd let him hold you under the water until you stop struggling instead of wanting to jump off a stupid bridge.Â
âCanâŚcan I get some cheesecake before youâŚ?â you gesture vaguely out to the room and Dex realizes that you still expect him to kill you.Â
He had told you he would, but he isnât sure if he is still going to.
He doesnât have a plan anymore.
-----
New York truly is the city that never sleeps because thirty minutes later, Dex is sitting across from you on a bench by the river, poking at a piece of cheesecake with a fork. You are taking small delicate bites of your own slice around the closest thing to a smile on your face heâs seen all night.
You have no qualms about him staring you down, memorizing everything about you he doesnât already know as you enjoy your snack. His jaw ticks as his eyes keep going to darkening bruise encircling your wrist. It mars your perfect skin and is another glaring reminder of just how badly Murdock has hurt you tonight.Â
You might need a splint - Dex can already see the swelling happening and you donât need physical pain on top of all the emotional and mental suffering you are dealing with. There is a pharmacy only a block away and if it is not a twenty-four hour joint, heâll just break in to take what he needs. As he starts to wonder if wearing something on your wrist will hinder your dancing, he remembers the words he wanted to say to you all those hours ago.Â
Dex wets his lips with his tongue, then in a low, calm voice, tells you, âyou were perfect tonight.âÂ
Your fork freezes midair as your eyes go wide at his admission, like you have no idea what he is talking about and him breaking the silence will cause more to crumble down around you. He is quick to follow up with more, wanting to tell you exactly what he thinks of your dancing.
âYou didnât miss a mark. Youâve been practicing and practicing and you pulled it off. You were perfect. The spins, when you were the Black Swan - the um,â Dex snaps his fingers as he tries to remember the correct word - none of them are English and they all sound the same to him.Â
âThe fouettes?â you supply, soft and sweet. You are searching his face, a hint of something positive in your features and no sign of fear or dread. Just curiosity.Â
He feels himself start to smile and he commits the term to memory, âyes, those. Thank you. The fouettes. That was impressive - and adding in the little improvised flair at the end made the crowd go wild.â
Your cheeks start to color and something in Dex crows at being successful at something that night. You look back down to your cheesecake, rolling your bottom lip between your teeth before giving a shy, âthank you.â
He lets you bask in his praise - something that is not easily given - as he takes a bite of his own dessert. He doesnât remember the last time he stepped outside his pattern for food, and heâs glad he did. You actually know where to get good cheesecake.Â
You keep your eyes downcast as you boldly make more conversation with him, âwere youâŚgoing to kill me during the show?âÂ
âYeah,â Dex tells you, not hiding who he is at all, shoving another forkful into his mouth. âThe finale, when the White Swan throws herself in the lake. I figured it would be Poetic or some shit.âÂ
You laugh at that - the smallest huff and your cheeks pushing up into soft mounds. He is quick to latch onto the feeling it gives him because it is so different from everything else he experiences.Â
He likes whatever you are doing to him. He likes you responding to his words with a smile instead of indifference. He likes this fluttering in his chest instead of the buzzing in his head.
âThat would have been a nice way to go.âÂ
âBetter than jumping?â he prompts, curious the know where you are mentally in your journey towards suicide.Â
Dex knows the moment he leaves your side, you will be taking matters into your own hands - Murdock might have well signed the declaration of death himself before running off into the night. Heâll offer his services to you, free of charge if that is the road you want to go down, but he will not be taking your life to get some reaction out of Daredevil.Â
Heâll help you out of the Darkness on your terms, no one elseâs.Â
You shrug at his question, eyes flicking up quickly to look at his face for just a second before going back down to the table. âIâŚdonât really like being coldâŚand with all the increased patrollingâŚâ You trail off, but the little furrow in your brow tells him you want to say more.Â
So Dex waits, letting you mull things over as he finishes eating. Only when he tosses his trash away do you find yourself again.
âI had it all planned, you know? NotâŚnot that. That came afterâŚbut before, whenâŚâ You wrinkle up your nose as Dex hangs on your every word, wanting anything you will give him before he has to let you go. âBefore the show? All my life? This was my dream role, you know, ever since I learned about it? Itâs all I wanted to do. I know itâs stupid and cliche, butâŚâ You duck your chin so it is almost touching your chest, then admit to him, voice dropping so low he can only just hear it. âI promised myself that if I ever got it, my night would be cheesecake and a hot bath. And I have cheesecake. So, thank you. For that.âÂ
Dex searches your face, not knowing what he is looking for. He thinks its sad that your reward for achieving your dream is something so mundane and thing inside him that is so fucked up is latching onto the fact that he has the ability to fulfill your second desire.Â
He can make sure you get a hot bath before you pull the proverbial trigger.Â
He can make you smile again before the sun comes up and the reality of everything sets in.Â
Dex will do that for you and it wonât be something merciful of him. Heâll do it as a proper thank you for giving him such a wonderful show.
For giving him such a wonderful night.Â
----
He means to just give you the keycard and let you be on your way.Â
Heâs already slipped one of his knives and the bottle of muscle relaxants he took from the pharmacy into your bag. Thereâs plenty of liquor in the minibar. You will have everything you need to slip off to sleep, never to wake up again after you soak to your heartâs delight.Â
But, somehow, without his consent or initial approval, Dex finds himself in the suiteâs bathroom, leaning against the counter while you test the temperature of the water before you fill the tub. You are probably about five minutes from passing out from the intensely physical and emotional night youâve had, but for the moment, as he looks you over, you appear content. Your good hand is swirling through the shallow water as it heats up and your attention is on some romcom playing on the television that hangs in the room.Â
He never understood why there would need to be one in the bathroom, but heâs not going to comment if it is helping you relax.Â
Eventually, you plug the tub so it can fill and oh so gracefully push yourself up into standing. His eyes crawl up and down your form, taking in how your muscles sit on you and where your different strengths lay. He was not bullshitting about being impressed with your Black Swan performance - your athleticism is something to be admired. In your thirty two turns, you could stay centered, not tilting forward or moving about the stage as you twirled. You have control over your body that Dex could only dream to achieve.Â
You watch him examine you, tilting your head slightly as you do. He has no idea what you could be looking for, but you seem to find it because you turn away to start to unzip your hoodie.Â
âDo you want to join me?âÂ
Dex thinks that to anyone else, it would sound like an invitation for sex or some other lewd act, but he knows that is not what you are asking of him. He has no desire for that and he thinks neither do you - you just do not want to be alone and in that moment, neither does he.Â
He doesn't want to lose you just yet.Â
So, his response is to start stripping and you are quick to follow suit. He keeps his eyes away from your intimate areas out of respect, but he can't help but zero in on the now purple ring on your wrist.Â
He should never have let Murdock touch you. Dex should have put him down the moment he had raised his voice at you. He had never respected or cherished you in the way you deserved. Murdock thought it was acceptable to lash out at you over his own mistakes.Â
It wouldn't be happening again.Â
Whatever you desire, until the moment your heart stops, will be yours, Dex decides. You like sweet, mundane things so it won't be difficult to spend the night with you. You want to take a bath and watch a movie and stop hurting. And if you get hungry, he'll order you room service and get all the cheesecake you want. He has nothing else to spend all his money on.
The water is near boiling when he steps into it, and only when he is mostly emerged does he understand exactly why you wanted a hot bath. He did not know his body was so sore.
He does not hold back his pleased groan.Â
But he does hold back his surprise when you settle against him, your back to his chest. You are a warm, pleasant weight against him and you show no hesitation in getting comfortable. He is no longer a stranger to you - he is a presence in your Darkness.
It's been so long since anyone's touched him in a kind way and between whatever it is you have bloomed in him and the streaming water, he finds himself relaxing back into the tub.
Your head finds his shoulder, turned so your nose is brushing his throat. Your breath skates across his collar bone, already evening out as you drift off into an unconsciousness you'll return from. You are sinking into him and the water like you just plan to float away.Â
He finds himself smiling at that and he drops his arm to wrap around your waist and keep you snug against him. He places his chin on top of your head, feeling like maybe the universe had smiled on him this night.
The Devil has lost the Swan Princess and Dex has gained an Angel.Â
â đđđđđđđđ ; Bleeding out and hunted, Matt Murdock turns to his last option- the former avenger known as "Angel", whose disappeared after the world took too much from her. When Benjamin Poindexter is placed in her care, healing him becomes more than just physical. The only problem? Some people don't want to be saved.
â tags/warnings. Benjamin Poindexter x female!reader. SLOW BURN!!! Not sure how many chapters this will be yet (but likely a LOT)! LOTS OF PLOT SET-UP!! AGE GAP ROMANCE! LOTS OF EVENTUAL ANGST, FLUFF, AND SMUT! Not much Dex in this chapter. Reader's powers are weird. Warnings for mild body horror. Reader is an ex-avenger, originally an experiment by HYDRA, and naturally has intense trauma (and regenerative/healing powers through her blood! think deadpool just quieter and more depressing). Set during/after the AVTF manhunt for Matt and Dex. Writing this kind of artistically and as character studies for everyone. Dex and reader are doomed soulmates, she becomes his northern star. Basically two characters who do NOT want to be saved consistently being saved by each other...until they learn to live for each other. Eventual smut in later chapters. More about reader is revealed as the story goes on. I'm taking canon out back and beating it with a stick until it stops twitching. You'll be able to find this fic on Ao3 as well once published!
â tag list tba (let me know if you'd like to be added đ)
â chapter directory. next chapter
⍠âWe set fire to these skies for our love and I'd do it all again / 'Cause I'm damned to loving you.â Damned by Miguel
"To the well-organized mind, death is but the next great adventure."
Your eyes track the lettering on the book in your hands. You'd rather be ringing them around your neck, though the thought quickly fades when you digest it would be quite counter-productive.
The cities skyline still feels like an unfamiliar backdrop. New York, New York. If you listen close enough, you think you can hear Frank Sinatra's voice somewhere in the distance taunting you.
The weight of the book feels heavy when you opt to launch it across your bed, falling with a small thud against porcelain white sheets. Set against your porcelain white walls in your porcelain white apartment. Dull. Messy. You really should clean, you briefly think, but you don't own a vacuum.
You don't own anything. You never have.
Sitting up, you sigh at the sound of The Winter Soldier's voice on the end of the line.
"Didn't think you'd pick up." His voice is rough, like the war torn thing he is. Half of a laugh slips out from you, that seems more like a tired scoff.
"Wasn't going too," You murmur, "But I've got nothing better to do."
You lean over, quickly grabbing your remote to switch on the small flat-screen of your television.
The news broadcast flashes bright and stark against the plain setting of your studio apartment. You can hear something shifting on his end- likely his boots against the pristine floors of the newly refurbished Avengers Tower. What a fucking joke.
âLook,â he starts again, quieter now. âIâm...not calling to check in. Not this time.â
The dry laugh you've been holding in finally decides to escape out of you. "Couldâve fooled me."
Youâve been dodging his calls ever since the last one turned into him hovering over you like a paranoid mother bird- checking in every five seconds like you were about to drop dead if he stopped.
You hear him swallow on the line, directing your focus back to your television. The New Avengers. There is something poetically hollow about the group of unfamiliar faces posed heroically together. You make a mental note to thank Sam Wilson if you ever see him again for refusing to endorse this mess.
"You should hate this." You sigh, switching between channels before he gets the chance to grimace.
"I do," He says quickly, almost defensively- voice rising before it softens- "But I'm doing it anyway."
The silence stretches.
"Why?"
Thereâs a faint exhale on the other end, like heâs already tired of the answer.
You snort softly, eyes still on the flickering TV. "Yeah? Retirement not treating you well, Barnes?"
"Donât start," he mutters, but thereâs no bite to it. Just habit. "Iâm serious. Iâm just⌠there," he says. âKeeping an eye on things.â
More clattering sounds from the other end, a group of loud voices raising at each other, the distinct yell of the name "Bob." You bite your tongue when you realize the peaceful, quiet atmosphere of the natural conversation has dissipated. Of course, he's not alone. He's got his new team right behind him.
He clears his throat, obviously strained. Moving closer to the speaker, his voice lowers into something more private, though no less awkward.
"You coming back would help," he says, more quietly this time. Not pushing. Just putting it out there. "We could...we could use an Angel around this place."
Angel. That moniker has haunted you for as long as you could remember. From the dirty mouths of HYDRA's handlers, to the front-page headlines of The Daily Bugle, to the soft sound on an old friends lips.
You donât answer right away. The suggestion is the same one he's attempted to ask a million times before.
You flip the channel again and let the buzz settle into white noise. Static. Some late-night rerun, laugh track echoing too loudly in your too quiet apartment.
Your gaze briefly flickers to the discarded book, pages now bent. The suffocating colorlessness of your studio apartment. The increasingly loud shouts on the line that start to sound more warm than cold.
"I-" You cut yourself off. What do you even say? Send me the details? Where do I sign up? Please, get me out of here?
"Um-"
BANG.
You instantly flinch at the loud noise ripping through your apartment like a bullet. Your head snaps towards the door.
BANG. BANG. BANG.
Another round. Sharper. Impatient.
â...Is...is someone there with you?â Bucky asks immediately, voice tightening- the rapid fire knocks sounding more like muffled scuffling on his end.
âNo,â you say, already standing. âNo, I-â
BANG.
âHey!â you snap, moving toward it. "Doorâs still attached, you know-â
âOpen it. Now. Please.â
You freeze for half a second. You know that voice.
"You've got to be kidding me-" You huff, cutting yourself off, "I'll call you back, Bucky-"
"Wait-" The line goes dead when you hang up sharply, yanking the door open with a force.
And there he is, Matt Murdock. Just barely holding it together, one arm slung tight around a body thatâs very clearly not standing on its own.
Blood. A lot of it.
And...a man. Hanging limp against him, head lolled, soaked through. A blue tactical gear torn, red spreading faster than it should. Completely unfamiliar, though something tells you that you wouldn't recognize him regardless with his face beat in like this.
"Move," Matt says, already pushing past you.
"Who the hell is that?" You gawk, closing the door behind the three of you as Matt, or rather Daredevil, rushes to your bed.
"Who is that?" you demand, sharper now. "What did you do?"
"Nothing I didnât have to," Matt shoots back, already straining. "He needs help."
"And you thought of me," you say, eyebrows pulled together. "Gee, thanks."
"Heâs dying."
âYeah, I can see that...Matty, you've got to take him to a hospital-â
"No time."
"Thereâs always time for a hospital-"
âNot for him.â
That finally gives you pause, though it's less about what he says and more about how he says it.
Your gaze lingers on the slow, uneven rise of the manâs chest.
One breath.
Another.
Barely.
"âŚYouâre tracking blood through my apartment," you mutter. The man is thrown in a similar fashion you threw that damn book onto your bedspread.
"Iâll clean it."
"You wonât."
"No," he admits. "Probably not. Please, Angel."
Angel. Fuck you, Murdock. Fuck you, and your catholic guilt. Thinking I'm a damn miracle worker.
"...Do you have something sharp?"
Without question, Matt leans forward to feel around to swipe a throwing knife from the now unconscious man. He flinches when he hears you take it to your own palm, slicing through the delicate flesh. The small gash bleeds in a slow drip, which you hover over the mysterious dying man.
Matt watches in frantic unease as you use the same knife to cut through the mans suit, exposing the bullet wound. You focus in, pressing your now sliced palm to the bloodied, injured skin.
"It went through?"
"...Clean shot." Matt struggles to acknowledge anything past watching your power work. If his mask wasn't on, you're sure his face would be taut with a strict mix of judgement and reverence for you and your power.
You nod, letting out a sigh.
"Is it...Is it working?" He asks, and you clench your jaw. Matt helicopters over you and the man, leaning in and pacing. He finally takes off his mask with chagrin, sweaty and tired.
"...Who is he?" You ignore the question. "What did he do?"
The distant sounds of sirens outside seem to eclipse whatever answer Matt could possibly give you.
"âŚIâll tell you later," he says.
You stare at him for a second.
"âŚThat bad?"
He doesnât answer.
Yeah.
Thatâs all you needed.
The man violently convulses underneath your touch, body twitching as he strains. As if on instinct, Matt holds him down for you. Something passes between the two of you. An understanding perhaps. It's definitely working.
As Matt works on restraining him to your bed post with cut, bloodied sheets. You begin to feel the familiar, swallowing flatness of your own skin repairing itself.
Then- you hear it. And so does Matt, his head tilting in the direction of your TV.
"Breaking news tonight out of Manhattan: Vanessa Fisk, wife of New York Mayor Wilson Fisk, is in critical condition following what officials are calling a targeted attack at a secured boxing match earlier this evening. Emergency services responded to reports of chaos inside the venue, with multiple injuries confirmed and the scene now under active federal investigation."
You stare slack jawed at the TV you forgot to turn off. The TV you've been previously tuning out since the moment you turned it on.
"Law enforcement sources have identified two suspects in connection with the incident: the vigilante known as 'Daredevil' and the individual Benjamin Poindexter, also known as 'Bullseye'. Authorities are urging civilians to remain indoors as the situation develops, while officials describe the case as âhighly volatile and ongoing'."
A heavy beat of silence before Matt takes matters into his own hands, breathing heavily, and reaching to turn off the television completely.
Your eyes flash when you direct them between the now black screen and the man...'Bullseye', still twitching underneath your palm. You slowly move to back away, hand completely healed.
The bullet wound looks as though it was never there to begin with.
You turn to Matt in the tense silence. You don't comment on the situation, noting the severity of the pleading, desperate look on his face. You try to process the information. Wilson Fisk. Vanessa Fisk.
"...If she's dead-"
"I know."
"He did this?"
"I know." Matt struggles out, voice raising. A plea for understanding, a show of his own.
You swallow, eyes darting between the man, the mask, your phone left on your nightstand.
"He'll be up in eight hours. We'll...we'll go from there." You whisper.
Matt nods, finally relaxing, taking a much needed seat on the edge of your bed, running his hands over his face.
Your room suddenly seems a lot more colorful with all the blood.
Summary: After witnessing something you werenât supposed to, thereâs a price on your head. It would be easy for the excellent marksman to finish the job, but something about you makes him reconsider.
Or- I saw Wilson talking about how Dex needs a weirdo freak gf and was like âwell, yesâ. Reader is implied to be neurodivergent but its kept a bit vague.
Word Count: 15.4k
Warnings & Content: no use of y/n, fluff, smut, slow burn (sorta), swearing, attempted murder, actual murder, stalking, violence, blood and injury mention, mention of death, happy ending, slight angst, toxic attachment, 18+ mdni please
I do not authorize my work to be used for Al or reposted across platforms
For most of your life you felt invisible.
Your friends and coworkers seemed to advance easily in life, getting degrees that led to solid jobs and fulfilling relationships. You, despite your best efforts, did not have the same experience.
In high school, you first became aware of yourâŚdifference. The way people would easily talk to others and make friends, but with you they would only feign politeness and share wordless looks behind your back.
Even teachers thought you were weird. It wasnât said explicitly, they had to be professional of course, but there was only so many times they could call you âan interesting yet quiet young ladyâ without you catching on.
You had tried hard to change it, to âput yourself out thereâ. It never worked out well. Dates would go fine at first until there was something you said or did to unnerve the other person. Even situations you were sure had gone great resulted in you being ghosted.
You wish that they at least yelled at you or complained, then you could know for sure what they didnât like.
Once you were in your twenties, you made peace with the fact that it wouldnât happen for you. The relationship thing wasnât in your cards, you just werenât built for it. It created a sad acceptance within you, but one that was needed to not go into a mental spiral.
â-ey, were you listening?â The words drifted to the forefront of your mind, dragging you away from your trail of thoughts.
You paused in folding the shirts on display before you, turning to your coworker that was looking at you expectantly.
âUh yeah, the closing right?â You struggled to remember what Jess had walked over to you for, but you were sure it was because she needed something. Nobody really spoke to you when they didnât need something.
âYeah, you can do it right? I canât do it and Marcus needs someone to cover.â Her green eyes stared at you pleadingly.
It was a request, but it didnât feel like one. Especially since you were the only ones still working in the clothing store this late.
âAh, I donât-" You thought about what was waiting for you back at your apartment. A relaxing shower, the usual quick dinner, and a puzzle of choice. Not the most exhilarating routine, but you enjoyed it. You really didnât want to close alone.
Just do it, say no. Itâs not fair for you to do everything yourself and itâs not like sheâll appreciate it.
You almost did. The refusal was on the tip of your tongue when you had a flash in your head, the disappointment on her face, the awkwardness of the next shift. How she would talk about you to your other coworkers.
âOkay, I can cover.â You blurted, adverting your eyes to continue folding.
She gave you a quick grin, already turning towards the break rooms before replying, âGreat! Youâre a lifesaver. Iâll definitely pay you back.â
She wouldnât, just like she didnât for the four other times you covered her shift.Â
âYouâre welcome.â Itâs muttered with a sigh into empty air, Jess was long gone. You thought about all the unfinished work you had to do alone, already regretting your decision.
You went into autopilot for the next few hours, slipping into the mindless task of organizing displays and adjusting price tags. The small upside was that the clothes in your store kind of sucked, so you didnât have any customers to tend to.
âYou set?â
The words made you jump. You looked up in surprise to find Marcus, who had meandered out of his office without your notice. Being a middle aged man on the heftier side, you didnât know how he could move so quietly.
âIâm sorry, what?â
âThe drawer, are you ready for me to take it? Iâm gonna close a little early, donât think itâll be picking up anytime soon.â He motioned a thick hand towards the empty room to accentuate his point.
You nodded jerkily, shuffling out the way as he unlocked the cash drawer. Another beat and a ring of keys were being tossed your way.
âWeâll, Iâm gonna count this out then Iâm off, you know what to do.â
Marcus was already shuffling down the hallway before you could form a response.
He wasnât wrong, you did know what to do. Once he was gone you got back into the automatic motions of clean, lock, organize, until the shop is fully shut down.
There was no stress, no talking or loud music, it was almost fun in a way. Fun if you forgot how you were forced into working at least.
You clicked the last light off with a sigh, shrugging your purse up your shoulder where it threatened to fall off. Going out the back door sent a wave of trepidation within you, but unfortunately it was required. The alarm was already set on the front doors and you didnât have the keys to those.
You took a deep breath, steeling yourself. New York had only gotten more dangerous in recent years, with the corruption in politics and anti-vigilante outrage.
Once you were outside, you had to be careful to avoid any trouble. No one could be trusted, not even the police who were put there to protect citizens like yourself. You imagine if you got mugged on your way to the train, the officers on the corner wouldnât even flinch.
Definitely not an anxiety inducing thought. Not at all.
You swung open the door, locking it quickly behind you. Ignoring the trembling of your hands, you started to make way to the front of the building.
The alley stunk of pee and other things you really didnât want to identify. The only light around was motion sensor activated and perched on the doorway. Said light was already fading the further you stepped away, the alley delving into darkness.
You quickened your steps.
There was a slight relief in making it back onto the main street. At least there you had streetlights and the buzz of the city around you.
The sidewalk was mainly empty, and you could count on one hand the amount of cars that passed by. Most people out at this time were like you, getting off work, or getting to an early shift with a bleary look in their eyes.
You kept your head tucked down, avoiding eye contact with anyone around you. All you had to do was make it to the train, from there it was a straight shot to your apartment. Easy, simple. You could do this.
You reached the subway entrance, practically flying down the steps. The trains were relatively reliable in this part of town, so you shouldnât have to wait too lon-
Your thought process was interrupted by a series of grunts, followed by a shout. Ducking behind a pillar, your eyes grew into saucers as you scanned for the cause of the noise.
It wasnât a hard search, in the middle of the station was a group of men standing over something-no, someone. There was a man there, curled into himself on the cracked tile of the subway. You could barely make out his face past the blood streaming from his nose.
âPlease! I donât have it, I- just give me one more week Iâm begging!â His words could barely be understood past a thick Brooklyn accent and the gurgle of blood in his throat.
One of the men snapped his fingers, and another kicked the whimpering man in the stomach, the impact making a sickening crunching noise.
You covered your mouth in an attempt to not scream, mind racing with options. Calling 911 was firmly out of the question, but running back up the stairs seemed promising. You just didnât know if youâd be quick or quiet enough that they didnât notice you.
Then there was the train. A quick glance at the schedule showed a less than three minute wait. If you timed it rightâŚ
âPlease, Iâll do anything please-â
He was cut off by the man before who gave the attack order. âYou shouldâve thought about that before trying to steal from Moretti, fuckinâ rat. You should be grateful itâs just you and not your fucking family too, thatâs how nice boss is.â
It was clear the man speaking was in charge, at least of the small group there. He was faced away from you, but a wayward glance from any of the men could put you in danger.
You stifled a gasp, sucking a sharp intake of air. In focusing on the group, you had forgotten to breathe.
Your heartbeat was a staccato in your ears, the blood flow dimming the sound around you.
They were going to kill that man, and there was nothing to do but watch. They were going to kill him, then they were going to kill you. Oh god, they were going to kill you if they found you.
You felt the telltale beginning of a panic attack start up, your heart rate escalating even further. This was not the time to freeze up. You pinched the skin of your hand between two fingers, the pain sobering you.
This was not the time to freeze.
The man was saying something else, the tone threatening. He was speaking in a much lower tone than before, and you couldnât make out the words.
In a blink, he dove forward, hand jutting towards the man below him in quick successions.
It wasnât until the growing pool of red that you realized he had stabbed him. There was a sick gurgling noise that reverberated around the subway that took the strength out of your legs.
Your purse slipped off your shoulder, clinking to the ground.
The sound alerted one of the guys closest to you. A frown quickly overtook his face as he looked you up and down.
âHey! Whatâre you doing over there?â
This is how youâll die, in a dirty subway all alone. Your family probably wonât even find out what happened.
Light flowed onto the platform from the incoming train. The screech of wheels flipped a switch in your brain.
No, you scrambled to your feet, not like this. You were not going to let it end like this.
You could hear a series from shouts and pounding footsteps behind you as you ran down the platform. Nearly tripping over a bench, you righted yourself as the train finally screeched to a stop.
The doors opened, but you kept running, an internal timer ticking in your head.
A little bit more⌠five, four, three-
You shoved your self to the side, slipping into a train car right as the doors closed. The others tried to follow, but they were too far behind.
You stared, wide eyed as they pounded on the window in anger. You could hear muffled threats behind the metal, but your eyes focused on the man from before.
He wasnât yelling, or beating on the door. He only stared at your chest with a scowl. More specifically, the logo on your work shirt and your printed name tag beneath it.
Shit.
Dex was unbelievably, inconceivably, bored.
This meeting was already taking longer than he usually tolerated, and if he didnât have good work with them before he wouldâve left.
But no, this gang boss in particular was quite an egotistical bastard, and liked to pay a very nice penny on all his hits. It probably made him feel important to wave an excessive amount of money around and have people disappear.
Quite frankly, Dex couldnât give a shit about what he felt. Money or not, his patience was running thin. Another five minutes waiting in this damp warehouse and he might just leave, or start throwing things.
He hadnât decided which.
âTaking his sweet time huh?â He wasnât really speaking to anyone in particular, just musing aloud, but one of the nearby goons replied anyway.
âSorry, he had something else to wrap up. He should be here any second.â
Dex only clicked his teeth in response, busying his hands with a dagger absentmindedly. The other manâs eyes widened slightly at the display, tracking the dagger is it was thrown in the air.
Behind his mask, Dexâs lips flicked into a smirk. He wondered what the man would do if he started using the wall behind his head as a dart board, that would be interesting.
The seconds ticked by, and he was about to start some impromptu target practice when the man of the hour walked in.
âBullseye, my friend! So kind of you to join us.â
Moretti was a small man, much smaller than one would expect the boss of a crime empire to be. There was nothing overtly menacing about him other than the beady gleam of his eyes. Of course, no one vocalized their surprise at that, because theyâd end up at the bottom of the Hudson.
He reminded Dex of a small pet with a snappy temper. Like a rabid chihuahua nipping at peopleâs heels.
âI would think with all that money youâd own a clock.â The manâs words had ignited a flare of irritation within him. He was always annoyed by fake niceties, especially after he had waited thirty-five minutes.
Morettiâs thick eyebrows scrunched in faux concern, âMy apologies, I had something else to finish up, I would never mean to keep you waiting-â
Dex cut in before he could finish the bullshit speech, âWho, and where?â
He was here for a job, not to have a tea party. All he needed was the marks information and the payment, then heâd be on his way.
Despite being cut off, the smaller man didnât show any sign of anger. He knew better than to start unnecessary fights. âA small problem, you shouldnât have much issue. It is time sensitive however, if she talks it would cause a great deal of issues for me.â
A woman then. Unlikely sheâll put up a fight. Disappointing.
âShe saw some things she shouldnât have. Here,â he stepped forward, a folded paper in his outstretched hand. âthey got the job and her name, you should be able to take it from there yes?â
He snatched the paper, scanning over the information quickly before turning on his heel. âFifteen thousand, same as before.â His voice carried behind him as he walked to the exit of the warehouse, hands in constant movement.
Moretti clapped his hands as if he were signing off on the deal. âAgreed, youâll receive the wire tomorrow.â
âSheâll be dead by the end of the day.â Faster than anyone could track, he flicked the paper behind him, the point of a paper airplane imbedding into the forehead of the wide-eyed grunt from before.
The man let out a startled shout as blood trickled over his nose.
Dex ignored the commotion, grinning as he walked into the crisp night air.
Time to find a little tattle-tale.
Maybe you did have powers.
It wasnât super strength, or advanced intelligence. It wasnât even the power to turn invisible.
No, it had to be the ability to get in the worst situations imaginable. Super bad luck. No oneâs life could be this laughably bleak, it had to be a higher power.
After that night at the subway, you couldnât even sleep, much less leave your house. The day after the incident was your off day, so it didnât affect much. You did however have to call off two days after that, feigning sickness.
You donât know if your boss bought it, but considering you have never really taken a sick day before, you felt it was due.
But you couldnât stay inside forever, you had to go back to work eventually. Getting fired would definitely do you no favors.
There was something else.
In the last few days youâd had a feeling, like spiders crawling over your skin. It was the sinking feeling of being preyed upon. Watched.
You knew they were there. You didnât know how you knew, but you did.
There was no evidence, no threatening letters or anything out of place. Anyone listening to you would think you were insane, but you knew it wasnât just your hysteria. You could feel it.
The only thing you were confused about was their inaction. Why hadnât they killed you already? Not that you were complaining of course, but it just didnât make sense.
Were they waiting for you to try to call the police? Were they not fully sure it was you at the station?
It was the cycle you went through. For days just driving yourself mad with questions and counting down the time. You hadnât come up with a plan yet, but time was running out.
You had to go out into the world eventually.
The time went quicker than you expected. You had called off your fourth day when Marcus firmly hinted that your job might be in danger if you didnât come in for your next shift.
You agreed, one last day of hiding and then you would come in.
Your hands trembled as you clicked the combination to your locker in the break room. Taking a deep breath, you took one last furtive glance at your belongings before turning to clock in.
âDidnât know you hated customers that bad Oranges.â A mocking voice chimed behind you.
You tried to ignore him altogether, but he picked up his pace to walk by your side. âDonât worry, I wonât snitch.â Matthew shot a conspiratorial glance your way, winking.
It took all your resolve to not roll your eyes. As if today wasnât already horrible, you had to work with your least favorite person.
Matthew always found a way to antagonize you somehow. It wouldnât have been that bad, if it werenât non-stop. He always singled you out about something, with a fake friendly tone as if you were both in on the joke.
It started with the first week you started working. You were eating your lunch quietly, and as you started to unpeel the included orange a stream of juice shot at your face.
You could only sit there in mortification as Matthew cackled in your face. He insisted on calling you Oranges after that.
âWhat are we so worried about?â He continued, like you werenât ignoring him. âIf you need to relax I think they have a stress ball in the back rooms. I know you have issues with that stuff.â He could barely get out the words without laughing.
More silence from you.
âAlright then. Donât blame me if you freak out, see ya Oranges.â
You let out a relieved sigh at his retreating frame, grabbing the clothing rack near you and resigning yourself to eight hours of torture.
Your neck let out a series of pops as you stretched it in your doorway. The house keys in your hand were tossed in the dish by the door and your jacket was shrugged off your shoulders into a pile on the ground.
âYou should take better care of your things.â
The words stopped you in your tracks. Youâd been so focused on the aches in your body and getting to the shower, you failed to notice the large figure in your living room until they spoke.
There was a man shrouded in shadow sitting on your lounge chair. In his hands was one of your puzzle boxes, and he seemed to be reading over it like it was the most important thing in the room.
âPlease donât.â You could barely recognize the way your voice squeaked out, strained with fear.
He looked up for the first time, eyes glinting behind a blue ski mask. âDonât what?â His voice was deep but scratchy as it travelled across the room, as if heâd worn it out by yelling.
You could also hear a hint of amusement in his tone. He was enjoying toying with you.
âDonât mess up my puzzles, or my apartment please. If you can, make it quick.â Your reply was more stable than before, having overcome the initial shock of his appearance.
In truth, youâd come to the conclusion youâd probably die no matter what days ago. At first, you were scared out of your mind, but like every other bad hand in your life, you accepted it. You just didnât want whoever found you to have to deal with a mess.
His head tilted as if considering your answer, one finger twirling the box like one would do a basketball. âNot gonna beg for your life? Plead for another chance?â There was still the mocking tone, but now it carried confusion as well. He genuinely couldnât understand why you were so calm.
Taking careful steps over to the couch, you could make out more details of him in the light of your living room lamp. He looked like a textbook assassin, wearing all black, save for the blue mask covering his face. The dark fabric of his ensemble held more compartments you could count, and the rest was stretched over a sturdy frame.
He was leaning back in your recliner chair leisurely, legs spread to take up even more space.
You let out a deep sigh as you flounced down on the couch across from him. âNo, not really. Iâm sure youâve noticed, but itâs not much to plead for.â
He stopped spinning the box and looked around, as if taking in the apartment for the first time. Your lack of personal photos, the books and puzzles lining the walls. Every item spoke of a very monotonous lifestyle. âThis is pretty depressing, yes.â
Of course, what were you expecting? Hopefully he doesnât make it too difficult for anyone to clean your blood out the place.
You nodded in acceptance and closed your eyes, waiting for the inevitable. After about a minute of waiting, you opened them to find him staring at you.
The piercing gaze kept you still until he spoke again, âWhatâre you doing?â
âWaiting for you to kill meâ just sounded silly, so you said nothing, adverting your gaze.
After a few more moments of quiet, you cleared your throat, âIf you donât mind, how long have you been in here?â
It was a morbid curiosity that drove the question. The idea of him waiting in your living room just to kill you, twiddling his thumbs was enough to make a sardonic chuckle rise in your throat.
You pushed down the urge. The man seemed fairly calm so far, but laughing at him definitely would do nothing in your favor.
He reached up a gloved hand, scratching at his jaw. âAbout a half hour.â
You blinked, âOh, okay.â
Quite frankly, you were running out of things to say. How does one even strike up a conversation with their killer? You shouldnât have even felt the need to make the man comfortable, but you did for some reason.
In a flash he was leaning over you, one hand on the back of the couch to speak directly in your face. âWhatâs your problem? Hm? You didnât even do anything wrong and you wonât fight for your life? How is that fair?â
His other hand gripped your chin firmly, you could feel the warmth of the of his hand seeping through the fabric. With his face so close, you could see every detail of his brown eyes scrunched in anger.
You could also see more of the little items strapped around his waist and in the compartments of his pants. Knives. More knives than anyone (murderer or not) should need, in your opinion.
âIâm sorry?â Now you were a bit peeved. Who was he to lecture you about valuing your life when he came in here to kill you?
Unless⌠he wasnât here to kill you, but do something much worse. A new flash of fear goes through you. You were prepared for a quick death, you were not prepared for torture, or the other ways a man could hurt a woman.
He mustâve seen the change in your face, because the hand on your chin swiftly dropped to his side.
He moved slightly out of your space, mumbling to himself. You could barely catch the words âbalanceâ and âworth itâ in the rambling.
âOkay,â he dipped away, back to the chair. âokay.â
You blinked at him again, âOkay?â
âYes.â His tone, despite being amused again, invited no further questioning. He had reached a decision within himself, you just had no idea what that decision was.
With that, he settled back into your chair with all the ease in the world.
âYou should go to sleep now. Been a long day.â Like before, his tone was closed off. What mightâve been misinterpreted as a request was definitely a demand.
You slowly rose to your feet, half convinced it was a trick and heâd shoot you at any moment, but nothing stopped you from gathering your bag and going into the bedroom.
Even as you shut and locked the door, there was no action, just a glinting gaze following you in the darkness.
You didnât remember falling asleep. The last thing you recall was the unnerving conversation with the intruder before jerking awake the next morning.
A quick check showed that none of your clothes had been moved and there were no injuries on you. Despite your hair looking like a birds nest, you looked exactly did after work the day prior.
You were alive. Another day knowing someone was out to get you, and another day of being able to do nothing about it.
You groaned, trying to settle your hair with one hand as you rolled out the bed. Washing up in the bathroom was quick business. After feeling clean again in new clothes you moved to unlock the bedroom door.
Wait. He wouldnât still be here, would he?
You highly doubt the intruder would stay for coffee in he morning, but the whole thing had been so strange you couldnât rule anything out.
Slowly, you pressed an ear to the door, straining to hear anything on the other side.
Nothing.
You un-clicked the lock, still moving at a snails pace. Once there was a half inch sliver open, you took a peek into the living room. Empty, no homicidal men with a hundred knives in sight.
You let out a breath of relief, walking into the room. One last search throughout your place proved that there was truly no one there.
Even so, there was an unsettling feeling you couldnât shake. You ignored it, moving to start up your coffee maker.
It wasnât until you were halfway through your breakfast that you realized the issue. Your place was spotless, much cleaner than youâd usually keep it.
You didn't consider yourself a slob, but there was always little things here and there left behind. A few dishes in the sink, a bit of dust. The room was now so clean it looked clinical.
Every can or box of pasta in your cabinet was neatly organized and turned to the front. Swinging open the door to your fridge, you found that all your old food youâd been ignoring was thrown away. Each shelf was sparkling clean and just as orderly as the cabinets.
All your puzzle boxes were in straight, dust free columns next to books sorted by size.
What the hell is happening?
Itâs just because youâve been bored. Nothing else.
Dex had been rationalizing his actions since that first day. He had yet to come up with a solid reason for letting you live, and it sent a distressing feeling up his spine.
He did not do things for no reason.
That was a quick way to spiral, to sink into nothing. No, everything in his life had a reason and purpose. So what were you?
It started the day after the meeting with Moretti, he was poised just across from your window. There was a bolt-action rifle in his hands, and he was perfectly poised to take the shot as promised.
As he watched, you walked around your bedroom in circles. He could see your mouth moving at certain points, but no sign of you talking on the phone. It was clear you were in distress, but made no attempts to get help.
He already had access to your phone line. Throughout the night into the next day, you didnât try calling the police, not even once.
It seems New York is catching on, those scrubs in uniforms canât help you. If you want justice, you have to take it yourself.
He continued to watch you with a detached expression, not taking the time to consider why he hadnât finished the job yet.
He watched as you left to take a shower, coming back a bit later in loose pajamas. He watched as you put a show on your tv, your distracted expression half aware.
You eventually found the television insufficient at calming you, and started digging through the haphazard boxes of puzzles on your shelves.
His fingers practically itched at seeing it, old habits compelling him to march in there and line everything up neatly.
He shook it off, eyes trailing to where you sat on the floor beginning the edges of a very large landscape puzzle.
You were losing yourself in it, the frown in your eyebrows lessening the more progress you made through the picture. Eventually, you had calmed enough that there was almost a smile tilting your mouth.
His eyes stayed there for a moment, wondering what a full smile from you would look like. He definitely hadnât seen one today, and no search online showed any pictures of you exhibiting anything other than mild discomfort or apathy.
He could almost imagine it, the plush of your lips tilting up, then slowly growing. How your eyes would crinkle, glinting up at him.
At him?
At him?
The fuck was he doing?
He had a job to do, a job he was paid quite handsomely over, and he was sitting here on his ass playing make believe.
He whipped the rifle in position, capturing your face in the scope. He didnât really need it, your shot was clear enough, especially with his abilities.
Even though it was simple, the clearest shot in the world, his fingers never pressed the trigger. He sat there, as the sky darkened into reds and melted into a dark navy, never taking a single shot.
He couldnât even pretend that the sick worm inside of him wasnât hungry for more. He didnât try to act like he wasnât coming back the next day.
He thought that would be enough. One more day of observation would be enough to satiate him. Just one more.
Dex felt like the sad sons of bitches at the liquor store on the corner. Just one more bit, I can quit any time I want to.
But he did need just one more bit, and he could quit any time he needed to. This was nothing like Jul-
He broke that train of thought with a snarl. Tonight. Tonight he would end this game and get it over with. She got off work at ten, and when she did heâd be waiting there. After that, it be simple, one shot to the head and she wouldnât be his problem anymore.
Moretti didnât exactly ask for proof of delivery, nobody was stupid enough to question Dex after he worked a job. If he said he did it, then he did it.
Except he didnât do it. Moretti hadnât asked, and he didnât tell. But the man wasnât an idiot, heâd find out eventually.
Even more reason to get rid of you as soon as possible.
He had the plan solidly in his mind. Wait until you walked in with your guard down, lodge a knife in your throat before you could blink.
This night, you took a bit longer than usual. Dex was dully aware that this didnât bother him. He wasnât upset by waiting, there was a tingling anticipation within him.
Eventually, you walked through the door, shutting it behind you with a click. You didnât notice him at first, stretching out your neck and the muscles in your back.
You dropped your coat to the ground, stepping over it without a second glance. You were still shifting your head from side to side, trying to alleviate some tension.
He would be able to do it almost immediately. With his hands on your neck he could target the exact points of your muscle pain. His index finger flinched at the thought.
His eyes flickered to the flash of skin on the side of your neck, words coming out of his mouth before he could recall the plan he came in with.
He was barely even aware of what he said, just your response. He watched with rapt attention as your eyes widened, taking him in.
As your eyes scanned his frame, he could feel his hips shift forward slightly.
A myriad of expressions flickered through your face, fear, surprise, anger. He took them all in with delight. The buzz of anticipation from before rose to a crescendo, he couldnât wait to see what youâd do.
Would you beg? Offer to pay him for your life?
Despite coming in your apartment with a clear directive, he wasnât sure exactly what heâd do if you asked him to spare your life.
Not important, focus.
You didnât do anything he expected. Instead of a blubbering mess, you were composed, if not a little annoyed.
If he didnât already know it before, it was clear you valued your small possessions. You seemed to care about the puzzles more than your own life.
It made him angry.
Who were you to throw him off? Why were you doing this to him? This is not how this was supposed to go.
He got within a hairsbreadth of your face, trying to intimidate you. Break the facade. It didnât work, you only seemed more annoyed by the attempt.
Until you werenât. Something about his stance towering over you seemed to ignite a thought process. He wasnât a mind reader, but he could tell the cause of your discomfort pretty easily.
He let you go quickly, as if he were burned. He would not hurt you, not like that.
Dex weighed his options. Killing you would make things a lot simpler, both with Moretti and the urges in his mind. This is what he knew best, the only real thing heâs good for. You would be no problem to take care of.
Only issue? The more he thought about putting a bullet in your head, the more he was sure that was the last thing he wanted to do.
This wasnât even his typical area. The snitches he usually tracked down had blood on their hands, a dark past they were scrambling to escape.
You werenât necessarily a good person, you didnât volunteer at food drives or regularly give to charity, but nothing warranted your death. There was no scale for him to equal.
You were just in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Heâd reached his decision. Fuck Moretti, heâd deal with that weasel bitch later. For now, heâd have to get you shuffled off to bed.
There was something he was itching to do since he got there.
He didnât show up that day.
Your off day was spent with anxious anticipation, like he would randomly jump out of your cabinets and scare you shitless.
Despite your worry (hope), Knives never showed. You took a page out of Matthewâs book and gave him a nickname, if only to avoid calling him âthe manâ in your head.
The more you thought about it, the more perplexed you were.
A masked killer came into your home, had a fairly civil conversation with you, then did your chores?
No matter how much you thought about it, none of that made sense. You should have been dead days ago. If they decided not to kill you, they should at least know by now you werenât going to snitch.
You didnât even consider calling the police.
You groaned, head tilting back against your apartment elevator. Your day at work had been relatively uneventful.
Nobody really spoke to you much, sans Matthew who always had something to say. This time about your dark circles and whether or not you had a mental breakdown. And he wondered why his girlfriend left him.
You cracked open bleary eyes to look at yourself in the metal walls and winced. Maybe they had a point, you wouldnât talk to yourself either looking like this.
There was prominent darkness under your eyes, framing the haunted look within them. Your face was pinched in a permanent frown, and you lifted up a hand to relax the expression.
The elevator doors opened with a ding, and you started the trek over to your door. You raised a hand to unlock it, pausing half way.
Putting your keys back in your pocket, you tried the handle of your door. It opened easily.
Your heartbeat quickened but you didnât halt your movement, continuing inside the apartment. Everything was just like you left it earlier, dim lights and the tv on as background noise.
You took slow steps to the center of the room, spinning in a circle. He wasnât there.
The living room and kitchen were both empty, and you didnât know whether to be happy about that or not.
Why would he just leave your door unlocked when he wasnât even here? There were robbers in the area, what if someone happened to try your door?
You ran a hand through your hair, barking a laugh. You had forgotten for a moment who he was. He was not a friend or visitor that would care whether or not you were robbed.
But why would he clean your house then?
You werenât sure if youâd ever find the answer to that last question.
Still on edge, you tip-toed towards your couch, where you unceremoniously dumped your bag and coat. Stretching out your shoulders, you walked towards the bedroom.
You were expecting a boiling shower with warm pajamas to slip into before crashing. You were not expecting a six-foot something man to be leaning over your bedside drawer, rifling through its contents.
âHey!â You said, equally in surprise and indignation. âThatâs private. Put that down.â
Brown eyes flicked up to you from where heâd been reading your notebook. It wasnât a diary per se, but it held some personal thoughts youâd rather stayed private.
Knives leisurely sat the book on your bed, putting up his hands in faux surrender. âWere you looking for me?â
His voice was just as gravelly as the first night, snaking over your ears. It was much lighter however, he sounded almost⌠happy?
You cleared your throat, fighting back a shiver. âWhat?â Did he see you searching your apartment like a goof? Probably.
You could see his lips curl into a smirk beneath the mask, capturing your attention for a moment.
You wondered what he would look like without it.
You could see more of him in the daylight, like the light eyelashes framing his eyes and the similar tone of his eyebrows. The mask was filled out with a sharp frame, and you could see the cut of prominent cheekbones under the fabric.
âNothing. Whatâs that about?â He nodded towards your notebook he had been reading.
He was still holding his hands up, for what you had no idea. Maybe he thought it was funny to act like you were the one in power here.
âItâs a notebook, you write in them.â You didnât care to go over your innermost thoughts with a stranger, briskly avoiding the subject.
His eyes flashed in an emotion you couldnât place, hands finally coming down to rest at his sides. âHow was work?â He asked placidly.
What?
The hell?
Your eyes burned with tears that had yet to fall, sucking in a sharp breath to compose yourself. âHavenât you had enough? I have been waiting for the day you finally-â you waved your hands around animatedly. âAnd then you just-â
He only stared on with the same solid expression.
You took another breath, âAre you going to kill me or not?â
âNo.â
You swore you could feel your heartbeat hiccup, âNo?â
Before you could pull it back, the words were out of your mouth. âWhy not?â
You regretted the question immediately, watching as his eyes darkened.
There was a stretch of silence, and you were wondering how to do damage control when he spoke again, âBecause I donât want to. YouâŚâ
His gaze rakes up and down your frame. âYou arenât my North Star, no, something else. I want to find out what you are.â
Your words were little more than a whisper. âWhat I am?â
He sauntered towards you, slow as if walking towards a spooked animal. Or like he was hunting one. He only stopped once he was directly in front of you, toe to toe.
âYes, Iâm going to watch you and learn you. Why I feel this urge to-â he cuts off abruptly, eyes widened in surprise.
âIâm not going to hurt you.â
It seems like he wasnât even prepared for what the answer was.
You stared at him, heartbeat still thundering in your ears. It was silly to believe a masked intruder from his words, but you did.
Nothing about that seemed like a lie. Despite what heâd initially found you for, he didnât look like he wanted you dead. So, you believed him.
Your only worry was what he would do with you.
âO-Okay.â Was all you said before grabbing your clothes out the dresser and locking yourself in the bathroom.
You could only hope you turned fast enough that he didnât see the redness in your face.
He was gone from the bedroom when you got out the shower. Everything was put back in its place, there was no sign of him. It made you wonder how many times he looked through your things without you knowing.
It shouldâve made you unnerved⌠it didnât.
He said he wanted to learn you. That you werenât a north star. What did that mean? Why were you kind of excited about finding out?
You sniffed the air, there was a smell drifting from your kitchen filled with spices and butter. Like it were activated, your stomach suddenly released a large growl.
It seemed no matter how shocked you could get, there were still more surprises, Knives was at the stove, stirring something in a pot. You could see your oven was on as well, the light showing loaves of garlic bread on a sheet inside.
âYou should go start a puzzle, itâll be another five minutes.â He spoke without turning around, still continuing to stir the pot on the stove.
Thereâs a breaking point in a persons life where they stop asking questions. You were at that point.
So you pushed aside the wonder of why he was cooking, or where he even got the ingredients from, and sat down in your lounge chair.
You froze. It smelled like him. Gunpowder and metal, with a tinge of spearmint, the chairs leather still held a hint of him. You wondered how many times you could breathe it in without him noticing.
He was still focused on the foodâŚ
No. Stop. Get yourself together. You canât just turn into a weirdo at the first attractive man you meet. Whoâs to say heâs even attractive? He could be hideous under that mask.
You glanced over at him, eyeing the broadness of his shoulders and the muscle shifting under cloth.
You didnât notice before, but he had taken off his gloves. His hands were big but deft, he probably wouldâve made a good piano player in another life.
The evidence of this life was there as well. White scars marred his hands and trailed up his forearm to disappear under his shirt sleeve. You had no doubt they continued to the rest of his body too.
You tried to remind yourself of what those hands could do, why they were dangerous. Unfortunately your brain didnât think it was that important at the moment, because the only thing you could remember is how they felt on your face.
You shook off the thoughts, blindly grabbing the closest puzzle box to you, it was a city landscape.
The pieces tumbled onto your living room table, sound echoing throughout the apartment. The only other sound past your moving pieces was the crackle of fire in the kitchen.
You needed some background noise.
You clicked on the tv, the low droning of the weather report filling the empty space. The screen had half your attention, but that was enough for your ears to perk when you heard the next segment of the news.
âAnd here we have the aftermath of another brawl from the vigilante known as Daredevil, he was in this very warehouse last night when the reports of gunfire started-â
The newscaster was one youâd seen before, usually for the more serious cases around the city. Her mouth was set in a hard line as she continued her warning.
â-advising all citizens to report any vigilante activity to the NYPD or AVTF whenever you become aware. If you do encounter Daredevil, do not engage-â
The tv went out in a wink, making you flinch. Like a bullet, a flying quarter had hit the power button dead center on your remote. Didnât need many guesses to know where it came from.
The man in question was sauntering over with a steaming plate, glaring at the tv like it had personally offended him.
âYou couldâve just asked me to turn it off.â You mutter, loud enough for him to hear you.
He didnât answer, setting the plate in front of you with a clink. âEat.â
You looked from him to the plate of food, then back again. It looked wonderful, a creamy heap of pasta with sautĂŠed vegetables and garlic bread. It was all neatly arranged on your only kitchenware you hadnât chipped.
You only wondered why the hell he had cooked it.
He seemed to misread your trepidation, leaning down to tug up a corner of his mask and shovel in a bit of the pasta. âNot poisoned. Not my style.â He said after a thick swallow.
The flash of lips, regardless how quick, distracted you. You stared on as a pink tongue flicked out to swipe at his mouth before he tugged the mask back down. It took you another few seconds to get it together.
âI know. You prefer to give people a million paper cuts.â
To your surprise, knives barked out a laugh, âThatâs one way of putting it, sure.â
You turned to the food and started eating in an attempt to bypass the awkwardness. It was hard to suppress a groan when the first bit hit your mouth, the food was as good as it looked. If not better.
Do all hitmen take culinary classes or was it just his hobby?
You thought he would find something else to do, maybe vanish into thin air like heâd never been there at all, but the man chose to sit right across from you on the couch.
Dark eyes fixated on you as you ate in complete focus. He didnât seem to want more conversation, just be a spectator. His only movement was circling a small knife around in his hand, but the movement didnât seem threatening, more absentminded than anything else.
You didnât realize how hungry you were until you were finishing the meal in record time, only clearing your throat to speak once youâd cleared the last bite, âIt was great, thank you.â
He was grabbing the plate from you before you could even offer to clean up, making his way back to the kitchen and placing it inside your dishwasher with the other used pots and pans.
âReally, you donât have to-â you started, but he was already finished and walking back over to you.
âI know. I donât have to do anything at all, advantages of self employment.â It was clear by his tone and the crinkle of his eyes that he was smirking. He took his time walking back to the couch, this time spreading his arms across the back in the appearance of complete comfortability.
What he said made you curious, âYou donât work for the man at the train?â
He tilted his head as if considering the answer. âI donât work for anyone,â a new tinge of bitterness coated his tone, âbut if youâre referring to the bozo who took a hit out on you, yes. I was the one given the assignment.â
âAh, I figured.â The response came out more nonchalant than intended, but he truly didnât tell you anything you hadnât already suspected.
âYouâre not bothered by that?â
You shrugged, âNah, I trust you.â You meant for it to be fully sarcastic, and almost succeeded, but there was a bit of honesty that shone through. Against all better judgement and sound mind, you did trust him.
He stared at you, only providing a small scoff and muttering under his breath as response.
With the newfound silence, you decided to follow his earlier request and complete the puzzle that was started. You almost invited him to do it with you, but your mouth closed with a snap after looking over at him.
He seemed to be lost in thought about something, dark blonde eyebrows furrowed as he stared somewhere out your window.
Your eyes went back to the puzzle, the only sounds being the soft scrape of the pieces and faint breathing. You grimaced while reaching for some of the further pieces, the movement had aggravated the neck pain you usually had after a long shift.
Rolling your neck in a circle only slightly helped, there was still a crick in the muscle that most likely wouldnât go away until after a lengthy soak in epsom salt.
Your distracted mind was only half aware of the other figure rising from the couch and making his way over to you.
âSit back.â
You looked behind you in surprise, wondering how heâd gotten right behind your chair without you knowing. âWhy?â You werenât really concerned about the request, just curious what he intended.
âI canât keep watching you do that without doing something. Sit back.â He tapped the headrest for emphasis.
Okay, bossy.
You rolled your eyes but did as he asked, sliding back to fully rest in the chair. It was a moment of nothing until you felt warmth against your shoulder blades.
You let out a full body flinch at the contact, but his hands didnât falter, continuing a path from your shoulders into the sides of your neck. Strong thumbs dug into the muscles and nerves causing you pain, and you couldnât keep a satisfied sigh from seeping out.
You practically melted into his hands as they traveled over every aching part of your back. Every time he dispelled a knot it knocked a quiet sound out of you.
It was firm but precise, every drag of his warm calloused hands left a tingling sensation in their wake. You couldnât help but think about what else his hands could doâŚ
The idea created a burning within you. The smell and feel of him so close was dangerous, and you were already wanting more of it. Needing more of it. You were absently aware of his breathing kicking up, almost delving into a pant in your ears.
He eventually slowed down, rubbing his fingers in circular motions on the top of your spine before retreating completely. He didnât retreat too far, barely taking a step back as he stood behind your chair.
You didnât look at him, focusing on calming your breathing and not appearing like the mess you were on the inside. You didnât need a mirror to know your the flushed expression you wore.
You opened your mouth, then closed it, not trusting yourself to beg for his hands to touch you again.
He spoke before you could work up the nerve of a response, âI have to go.â
âWait-â But it was too late, he was already closing the front door when you turned around.
Knives arrived more frequently after that night.
He didnât stay as long, or touch you again, (much to your disappointment) but he would usually pop in without rhyme or reason with gifts and a bit of conversation.
You never asked him for anything, but he somehow always knew what you needed.
A new detergent when the old one just ran out, some more butter in the fridge, your favorite ice cream when you were craving it.
As far as you remembered, you never told him what your favorite flavor was, nor did you ever have one in the freezer since meeting him. He still knew.
Someone knowing so much about you shouldâve probably unnerved you, but it only gave you a sense of serenity. You didnât have to worry about explaining yourself to him, there was no pressure on your end. He just watched, and learned.
Except in one area. He seemed to be oblivious to your attraction to him, not flirting with you even once. There were his snarky remarks and knowing smirks sure, but that seemed to be less hitting on you and just more of who he was.
Unless, he does know youâre into him and just doesnât feel the same so heâs ignoring it.
You brushed the thought off, sighing as you unlocked the door to your apartment. It was really no use wondering about it, even with all the time spent with Knives, you barely had a clue what was going on in his head.
Besides, after the day youâd had it was hard to think about anything else.
To say it was a bad shift would be an understatement. Youâd overslept that morning, rushing through your morning routine but still arriving twenty-five minutes late to clock in.
It was a rare busy day in the store, and you could barely push past people to get to your register.
âAbout time.â Matthew shot you a dirty look between filing away the bills in his hand.
Your job was severely understaffed, and today was no different, which meant that in your absence Matthew had to handle the hordes of people on his own.
You gave him an apologetic nod, waving the next person in line over to you. Soon enough, the lines dwindled into nothing as the rush passed.
You wiped your sweaty hands on your pants leg, signing out of the POS to go work on other things. A stack of boxes caught your eye, and you moved closer to start unpacking the items inside.
âGo do the inventory. He wants it in the front on the orange display.â Snapped Matthew behind you. He was pointing at the very boxes you were already walking towards.
You didnât bother correcting him in saying you were already going to do that, instead giving a curt nod.
âWhat, you canât speak today? Didnât take your meds?â He raised a brow, grinning at you.
Breathe, donât let him get to you.
âIâm just going to do my job.â
His grin only widened at your answer. âHeh, okay. You do that.â
You ignored him, quickly pulling a dolly from the back transport the boxes to the front of the store.
You wiped a hand over your brow, starting to sweat with the effort. It would be a lot easier with two people, but like hell you were going to ask that asshole.
Matthew wasnât really nice to anyone, except maybe the new hires he wanted to flirt with, but you still never understood why he seemed to hate you so much.
Because youâre always the odd man out, the one no one really likes, the one-
âShut up.â You spat out the words, making sure you were quiet enough for no one else to hear. Matthew didnât need more ammunition to call you crazy.
You directed your attention to the store display and away from your bleak thoughts. You couldnât help what others thought of you, the only thing you could do at the moment was finish the stupid display and move onto your other work.
You vacantly slapped the folded clothes onto the shelves, mind drifting elsewhere.
I bet knives never had to work in retail.
Youâd be very surprised if he ever had a real job before. Trying to imagine his scowling face behind a cash register made a chuckle bubble within you.
Heâd probably stab someone on his first day.
Shit, he can stab Matthew for all I care.
You half scolded yourself at the thought, realizing how fucked up it sounded to wish that someone stab your coworker. You werenât as upset by the thought as you couldâve been.
There was a sharp creaking noise, and before you could react, the metal shelf you had been stacking on crashed down on your arm.
âShit-â You jumped back to avoid falling with it, but the damage had been done. The edge of the shelf dug a cut down your forearm that was already spurting blood over you and the merchandise.
âOh no, shit, shit, shit-â You couldnât think straight, only standing there in a panic as you gripped your bloody arm.
âWhat the fuck did you do now?â If you thought Matthew was mad at you before, he was pissed now. âI asked you to do one simple thing and you canât even do that? Whoâs gonna clean this shit up?â
Heâd left a customer at the desk to see what the sound was, but he didnât seem to care about their existence as he yelled at you.
âFuckin disability hire, canât even stock a shelf. I donât know why youâre standing there, you should be-â
You didnât wait for him to finish, bumping into him as you rushed towards the back room with tears in your eyes.
Donât cry. Donât you dare cry in front of him, heâs not worth it.
You ignored his calls for you to come back, slamming your work locker open and grabbing your things. You didnât even bother clocking out, only stopping by the lunch corner to grab paper towels and wipe down your arm.
The harsh wind from outside only aggravated your eyes more, but you steeled yourself against the cold.
You got plenty weird looks on the train ride home, but nobody said anything to you. It was probably the mix of blood staining your hands and scowl that discouraged conversation.
A ten minute ride followed by a brisk walk brought you back to where you were, standing at your apartment door with an aching cut.
You shouldered the door open with your uninjured side, immediately dropping your things to the ground once you were inside.
The cut hurt like a bitch and was still freely bleeding, but you shouldnât need stitches or anything dramatic. The med kit from under your sink in the bathroom should more than suffice.
You turned the corner towards the bathroom, but stopped short at the figure standing there.
The visitor was more expected than not these days, but you didnât think heâd be here this early since he usually met you after your shift.
âWhat did I say about taking care of your things?â He half turned from the window where you assumed heâd watched you come in.
Youâd usually muster up something equally as playful in response, but this time, you were not in the mood.
He seemed to sense the shift, whipping his head over to you. It didnât take long for his eyes to rake over you, gaze landing on your right arm.
âWho did that?â His demeanor changed completely after seeing the injury, voice turning steely.
It only took a few strides for him to reach you, hand snapping out to grasp your forearm. His eyes were blazing with anger behind his mask and he looked two seconds away from disemboweling someone.
Even though you knew his anger wasnât with you; it still took a moment to stutter out a response, âNo one, I-i did it myself. Well, not did it, it wasnât on purpose. An accident at work.â
Your clarification didnât seem to calm him much.
He stepped to your side, scooping an arm under your legs to pull you to his chest, his other arm supporting your back. He walked towards your bathroom with purpose.
You let out a squawk of surprise at being airborne, âHey, I can still walk. Itâs just a cut, you donât have to carry me.â
âBlood loss causes dizziness, and it looks like youâve already lost too much.â Someone wouldâve thought you were bleeding out by how aggravated he sounded.
You didnât want to mention that the main reason you were dizzy was his close proximity, not the injury. You were closer to him than you ever were before, and you couldnât stop yourself from taking in a deep whiff. Blood, metal, mint.
He knocked your bathroom door open with enough strength to make it rattle, marching over to your closed toilet where he set you down gently but firmly.
As always, he knew where you put everything, so you didnât have to direct him as he pulled out your small med kit.
It was just the buzz of the fluorescent lights for noise as he rummaged through the kit, occasionally pulling out select items heâd need.
You watched as hazel eyes narrowed in concentration, stomach doing a flip at how focused he was on helping you. How caring.
There was a mix of disinfectant and many bandages on the counter (more than youâd probably need), and he looked over them quickly before washing his hands and snapping on latex gloves.
âItâs going to hurt, you can hold onto me if you need to.â Was the only warning you got before he was gripping your arm with one hand and wiping down the cut with the other.
The antibacterial liquid was cold and stinging, you let out a sharp hiss at the stab of pain. As the blood was cleaned away, you could see that the cut was a bit deeper than you thought.
âI-ah, you donât think Iâll need stitches, right?â You were a bit scared to ask, his frown had only deepened once he started working on you.
âNo. Itâs not to that point, but youâll need to keep it wrapped tightly for a while so the skin can join back together.â
And he was right, after cleaning the wound thoroughly, he stuck some hefty bandages over the opening and wrapped it all in a tight cover of gauze.
He tucked the end of the fabric inside to secure it, and tugged off his gloves to clear away the mess of dirty wipes and wrappers on the counter.
You didnât bother thanking him, knowing by now that he wouldnât accept it.
You looked down at his work, neat as usual. You startled as a pill bottle was being shaken in front of you, eyes focusing to read the label.
âIt doesnât really hurt that much.â
He shook it again, insisting, âIt will later, take one.â
You knew there was no chance of changing his mind, and it didnât seem like the worst idea, so you grabbed the container and swallowed down one of the pills.
Satisfied, Knives leaned back against the wall opposite you, muscular arms folded over his chest.
Despite his quietness, you could still sense the underlying anger rolling off him. Knowing the answer, you asked anyway, âAre you upset?â
âExplain what happened.â
You hesitated for a moment, then started the retelling of what happened that day. You kept your composure for the most part, voice only hitching when you repeated what your coworker had said about you.
Knives stood stock still through it all, watching with that calm dangerous air that he had.
By the time you were done, you felt the telltale signs of tears, but you pushed it down again. You didnât want it to bother you, but it did. After a life of dealing with rejection, it still stung.
A warm hand lifted up your chin, thumb swiping away tears you werenât aware had fallen. âYou donât deserve that, none of it. It wonât happen again.â There wasnât an ounce of question in his tone, he was sure of it.
You let out a weak laugh, sniffling. âI could only hope, heâll probably be worse after today though. Especially since I left early.â
He hummed, âIâve always disliked the name Mathew, all of them are annoying.â He sounded like he usually did again, slightly amused as if he were in on a joke that you werenât.
You laughed again, stronger this time. âI canât say Iâve had experience with that many Matthewâs to agree with you.â
He ran his thumb over your cheek one more time before backing away. âTrust me, they are. You should take tomorrow off.â
There he goes again, giving demands veiled as suggestions.
âI would love to, but unfortunately some of us common folk need jobs, and if I call out again Iâll probably be u employed. Iâm sure youâve never worked one, so itâs hard to understand.â Your tone was playfully mocking, but it was the truth. There was no way your manager was going to be okay with that, plus, you needed to make up for the money lost by leaving early.
âI have.â He adverted his eyes to your left, âworked a job that is.â
You perked up, it was rare that the man offered information past what model his knives were, and you didnât want to lose the opportunity to learn more about him.
âOh really? As what?â You kept your tone light, to not seem like you were prying.
âAn officer.â
âLike, a police officer?â
âNo. Not exactly.â
You blinked in confusion.
He shifted in his stance, like the conversation was suddenly making him uncomfortable. âAgent, would be the better term. I-â He paused, finding the right words. âI locked away the monsters of the world, and protected the people I needed to.â
You cocked a brow, âSo, you were a spy?â
He huffed, giving you a look. âNo. How the hell did you get spy out of that?â
âYou are amazingly vague at every answer, I figured it would fit.â You shrugged, wincing when the movement aggravated the skin of your arm.
He zoned in on the expression, eyes narrowing again. âYou should go to bed, especially if youâre insisting on going to work tomorrow.â
It was clear that was all the answers youâd get out of him, this night at least. You let out a huff of breath, using the counter to pull yourself into a standing position.
There was a wave of wooziness, and you fought to keep balance. Clearly the pill was doing its job.
An arm snaked around to your back, steadying you as you walked to your bedroom. As if there were an invisible barrier, he stopped at the threshold. In the dim lighting, you could only see the dark outline of him and the glint of metal strapped to his person.
To anyone else it would be menacing, terrifying even, to have the attention of the killer focused on them. You only craved more of it.
âThereâs soup in your fridge if you want it. Change the wrapping in the morning, it shouldnât cause any issues before then.â
You could only blame the strength of the pain pill for your lack of restraint, âDo you have to leave right now?â
A pause. âI do. I have something else to take care of.â
You tried not to take it as a dismissal, but it hurt nonetheless.
Something else. Not you.
âRight, okay.â The disappointment was obvious in your voice.
Steady steps made their way over to your bedside, âI donât want to, but are some things I need to do. Iâll see you soon.â
You could barely make out the shape of him standing over you, drowsiness and the pain medicine muddling things together. âAye, aye captian.â
A deep chuckle, and then a quiet response, âDex.â
Dex. It suits him. You couldnât tell if youâd said the name aloud or in your head, already giving way to unconsciousness.
The last thing you felt was a hand lightly trailing down your face before blackness.
Other than feeling like a sledgehammer hit you, your next day at work was uncharacteristically peaceful.
Even though Matthew was scheduled alongside you for the week, he never showed up for work that day.
Or the next day. Or the next one after that.
He didnât call out, and based on the grumble from your manager, hadnât quit either.
You never said anything, never even thought the words in your head, but you knew what happened.
If you were really honest with yourself, you knew what was going to happen when you heard the assurance in his voice that you wouldnât have any more problems.
Kni-No-Dex, was a killer, regardless of how he treated you. You knew how he solved problems.
You were a little nervous at how little it bothered you. You had the same tingling feeling you got when he replaced one of the lightbulbs in your apartment without asking.
Cared for.
But there was another problem, Dex was nowhere to be seen either. Heâd never shown up again after that night, and you were starting to get concerned.
Even though he didnât show up every single day, missing several days in a row was out of character for him. You could only hope that he wasnât dead or arrested somewhere.
It seemed silly to worry about him, especially with how competent he seemed. You didnât steadily watch the news, but everyone in the city had heard of a man in a blue mask who could lodge a knife in your head faster than you could blink.
Bullseye.
Heâd never told you it was him, but you werenât an idiot, all the traits aligned. Not to mention his name, Dex, most likely short for Benjamin Pointdexter. The man who was sent to prison a while back for murder.
You didnât care about any of that. Your only concern was that he was M.I.A. and it was out of character.
Maybe he just got bored, found someone else.
You ignored the slithering thought, knowing itâs not true.
Despite not knowing all of his life, you knew him, he was obsessive to a fault. His cleanliness, the order of his knives, and seeing you all fell into a cycling routine that he didnât stray from.
He wouldnât just dissapear.
Your leg shook nervously as you focused on the television. The news was covering a recent stock drop or something related. You were half listening for anything that could be related to him.
You were sure that an extremely wanted convict being detained would make front page news, so if anything happened, theyâd talk about it here.
So far, it was nothing of substance, just the economy and a new court case with the slime-ball mayor.
You were shaking your leg so vigorously that you almost didnât hear it at first. Your hand shot out, muting the tv before straining your ears.
There it was, a soft shuffling sound coming from your bedroom. You jumped up, heart fluttering in your chest as you rushed over there.
You only stopped short of your bedroom door to grab a nearby book, just in case it wasnât Dex in your room and you needed a weapon.
Turns out, it was unnecessary, you saw him immediately upon entering, slumped against your open window.
âDex-â His name was expelled in a relieved breath, but you only grew concerned again the more you looked at him.
Dark patches covered his mask and the fabric of his suit. His gloves were on, but you could see the clear glisten of blood coating them.
âHey. Thought youâd be asleep. I can go soon, just gotta take a breather.â
You scoffed indignantly, quickly going over to him, âA breather? Jesus, what happened?â
âNot Jesus, just me.â
You glared at him. It was not the time for jokes, definitely not as he was dripping blood on your floor.
âYou can explain later, here.â You supported him under his shoulder as you guided him to your bed.
âGonna get it dirty.â He pushed back slightly as you tried to sit him down, but fell back anyway when you applied more force.
âItâs okay, I have other sheets. Iâm worried about you right now.â
You could tell he was smirking based off the look in his eyes, further proven by the next statement. âWorried about me?â
You didnât even bother hiding the emotion in your response, âYes, I do. A lot.â
That made him quiet, glinting eyes searching your face for any hint of a joke or lie. He seemed to find none, but had no response for you. It was hard to tell his full expression behind the mask, and you found yourself sick of it.
Besides, itâs not like you didnât know who he was.
Your fingers curled under the edge, lifting it gently, but a firm grip on your wrist stopped you.
âBen, itâs okay.â
His eyes widened in slight surprise at your use of his first name, but it did the trick. The hand holding you fell away and you pulled the fabric fully off his face.
You sucked in a breath at the injuries before you. A trickle of blood coated his blond grey-flecked hair where it stuck to his forehead, and there was a bruise blooming on his cheekbone.
The lips you had admired not that long ago were sporting a cut, but even with all that, Dex didnât appear to be in a lot of pain. His face showed an openness and tiredness that youâd never seen on him before.
Without thinking, you raised a hand to brush lightly over his mouth, relishing in the slight flutter of his eyelids as you did so.
You couldnât stop, addicted to the reaction. Your hand trailed from his lips to the side of his face, and over his sharp jawbone. You mapped out everything that was hidden to you before, ignoring the smear of blood on your hand.
His piercing gaze stayed fixed on you as he pressed his head into your palm. His only other movement was twitching hands where they rested over his thighs. He stayed still, not trying to stop you or rush you, just accepting.
It wasnât until your fingertips brushed over his throat that he shivered beneath you. The movement was nearly imperceptible, but he had definitely tilted his head back slightly to give you more access.
It made something swirl in your abdomen. How much he trusted you, how willing he was beneath your hands. How good he looked, injuries and all.
You told him as such, and his eyebrows knit together like he had been hit.
âDonât say that, you donât know what youâre starting.â His voice was weak, barely a whisper in the quiet of the room.
âI do.â
âNo you donât. You said you care about me, Iâm not easy to care for.â The words werenât said in self deprecation or a stab at sympathy, just factual. He truly believed that care and tenderness wasnât made for him.
It sent a pang through your heart, for so many years you held a similar sentiment about yourself. You were difficult to understand-to accept, but he did, and you could do the same for him.
âI know.â You held his face in both palms, a hairsbreadth away from him, âNeither am I.â
Your lips meeting his seemed to ignite action within him, hands that were previously dormant snapping up to grab at your hips firmly.
You were pulled down to straddle his lap, already feeling a poking hardness in the fabric. It was your turn to shiver, giving an experimental grind forward as you continued to kiss him breathlessly.
That caused a deep groan to flood from his throat into your mouth. He quickly found purchase over your ass to guide you into repeating the movement.
While you grinded over the hard length in his pants, his tongue explored the expanse of your mouth, flicking over the ridges and smoothness inside. You could taste the uniqueness of him, but also the metallic tang of blood from his lip.
You only pulled away to breathe once the burning in your chest couldnât be ignored. Chest heaving, you pulled back and watched as he did the same.
He couldnât seem to see enough of you, eyes raking from your chest down your frame and back again. His lips were swollen and spit slicked, and you were sure you had a similar look of dishevelment.
His hands trailed up your spine and back down to where you sat on top of him. You could hear the swallow he took before speaking, âIf Iâm going to have you, itâs going to be all of you. If you go through with this, youâre not leaving me, you get that?â His voice was steady despite being out of breath, tone deadly serious.
You could read between the lines for the warning. There was no going back for Dex if you continued, no breakups, no do-overs.
Lucky for him you didnât want any.
In lieu of response, you surged forward, attacking his mouth with your own as you drug yourself firmly over his crotch.
You gasped out a moan as the movement caught between your legs, right where you needed it most. But it wasnât enough. You needed to be closer.
You shrugged off your top, throwing it to an unseen side of the room. Another shiver racked your body as lips made use of the newly exposed skin, nipping and sucking over your chest and sternum.
His fingers grabbed onto the latch of your bra, but you stopped him short. âNo, get out of that suit first.â
He backed away from you with a half lidded gaze, trademark smirk flicking on his lips. âYes maâam.â
He seemed to enjoy watching you squirm as he unlatched all the zippers and buttons of his suit, moving much slower than necessary. The utility belt came off first, knives clinking as he threw them on your nightstand. The top part of his suit was soon to follow, dark fabric peeling away to reveal fair skin.
He wasnât as injured as youâd assumed, just a dark blooming bruise on his ribs and left shoulder. Every other mark was old and weathered, the raised scars scattered across his torso spoke of years of pain.
You took him in unabashedly, eyes raking over pronounced pectorals and the defined abs that covered his stomach. Light hair dusted his chest and led in a trail past the waistband of his pants.
His smirk only widened as he watched you watching him. Patiently waiting, he sat there for your next move.
It was only fair that you lost the next bit of clothing, so you rose off him to shimmy out of your pants, leaving the underwear on.
His brow rose as he caught onto the little game you were playing. His pants came off quickly after, joining yours in a dark heap.
The only thing shielding the prominent bulge in his lap was dark grey briefs. They didnât leave much to the imagination, clinging to the long rod of him and wrapping around solid thighs. You could see a dark patch in the fabric where heâd already started leaking, your core throbbing in response.
You settled on his lap again, smiling at the soft hiss he let out from the pressure. Your hand wrapped around his wrist, guiding him to your bra clasp as you trailed fingertips past the waistband of his briefs.
His fingers deftly unlatched the clasp, and the cover fell away right as you pulled his length free.
It slapped loudly against his lower stomach, smearing white across his skin and your hand.
His eyes werenât focused on that though, only staring at your chest with intimidating focus. âGod, the things I wantâta do to you.â
It was spoken under his breath so quietly, you were unsure if the words were meant for you to hear.
âSo do them.â
He only laughed, leaning back on his elbows to watch you.
He knew what you wanted, he just wasnât going to give it to you that easily. Your frustration only made him impossibly harder.
Despite his blasĂŠ act, you could see you were having an effect on him. Every rock of your hips made his cock twitch, a bead of white dribbling out the top. His neck and chest were covered in a flush, and every breath he took seemed labored. Shaky.
You decided to play his own game, fuck with him a little, âCâmon Dex, show me what you promised.â
You reached down, rubbing a thumb over the leaking slit between you. He let out a breathy moan, hips involuntarily bucking up into you.
You didnât stop in your ministrations, leaning down to speak directly in his ear. âYou said you wanted all of me, so take it. You have me.â
Your words caused another twitch in your hand. âYou have me, Iâm yours.â
The words were barely out your mouth when you were flipped onto your back, bouncing against the mattress. You let out a startled giggle at the movement, only sobering when you looked down.
The look Dex gave you made your heart stutter for a moment. The only way you could describe it was carnivorous. His eyes were dark and shadowed, and if you didnât know him well enough to recognize the want in his expression, he looked almost pissed off.
It only made wetness pool in your core.
âYou want this?â He left a trail of open mouthed kisses down your stomach.
It was a rhetorical question, but you nodded anyway.
âWhere do you want me? Here?â He bit at your hipbone, soothing the flesh with a lick afterwards.
âOr here?â His breath ghosted across the damp patch of your panties, making you thrum in anticipation.
âYes, right there.â Any more dilly dallying and youâd probably start begging. You had a feeling thatâs exactly what he wanted.
âHmm, interesting.â He ignored the area, trailing lips down your inner thighs. His hands gripped your knees, preventing you from closing yourself off to him.
He bit random spots all the way down your thigh, licking a stripe on the way up.
âDex- câmon.â You huffed. The feeling of his mouth on yours was amazing, but it wasnât nearly enough and he knew it.
âWhose are you?â The words are spoken into your skin, in the crease of your hip.
âYours.â
âAnd who do I belong to?â He grasped the waistband of your underwear between his teeth, dragging them down slowly.
âMe.â
You only saw the flash of a smile before his mouth was on you fully. You let out a shuddering moan as his lips latched onto your clit, sucking hard.
He juggled between your bundle of nerves and trailing his tongue down to your entrance, licking inside.
You could feel him groan against you as you grabbed a fistful of his hair, holding him steady.
Between your existing wetness and his mouth, you were soaking, juices dripping down to the bedsheets past his mouth.
His mouth traveled up again to focus on your nub while one of his hands snaked around to press two fingers against your entrance.
They slipped in easily, quickly building a rhythm trusting into you while his tongue lapped at you from the outside.
You couldnât even make a sound as your peak quickly approached, your body just seized with the amount of pleasure rolling through you.
Your eyesight blanked out, and you took a few heaving breaths before you were able to find your voice again.
Even as your moans turned to over sensitive whimpers, he didnât let up, only slowing down the movement of his hands and mouth. He seemed to be lost in the action, only focused on you and your enjoyment.
You had to yank his head back to get him to stop, and he did so with a bit of reluctance.
His hands trailed over you, running smoothing circles over your hips and legs.
Impatiently, you dug your heels into his back, nudging him upward towards you.
He followed happily, the same hungry expression on his face, except now there was a lack of tension. He seemed more relaxed, like he was the one who came and not you.
âI might not last too long. Donât do this much, or at all really.â He analyzed your face after heâd said it, looking for any shift in your expression.
You were kind of shocked by the revelation, but werenât put off by it at all. For a normal guy that looked like Dex, youâd assume they had a steady stream of people coming into their bed.
He wasnât normal, and he definitely wasnât the type to have one night stands. In fact, before tonight, you werenât completely certain he was interested in sex at all.
You wouldâve accepted him either way of course, but it was nice to know he shared the same want as you did.
âThatâs fine, I just need you inside me.â
The words shocked a groan out of him, and he nuzzled his head into the juncture of your neck.
You could feel his hands wrap around your legs to reposition you accordingly.
He slid out of the last piece of fabric covering him and reached down to position his head at your entrance.
It slipped at first from the wetness, but after a few tries the tip caught onto you, slipping inside halfway.
The pressure punched the air out of you, mouth falling open in an âoâ shape. Even with his preparation it was a tight fit.
Dex let out a noise somewhere between a whine and a moan, dipping down to capture your mouth in his, siphoning heat into your mouth.
The taste of yourself on his tongue only heightened the experience, and you could barely catch your breath between that and his slow ruts forward.
Every movement pushed him further into you, and before you knew it he was sheathed inside you fully.
You both shuddered at the feeling, and you were sure you could feel every ridge and vein of him in your walls.
âShit- you feel so good. I gotta pause for a sec.â He breathed against your mouth.
So you waited.
Until you didnât.
His head tipped forward with a groan as you squeezed around him. One of his hands held your hip in a vice grip, sure to leave bruises later.
âDonât do that.â His eyes flashed at you in warning.
You couldnât even focus on a teasing response, you only wanted him to move.
Then he did, starting in shallow thrusts into you, building into longer drags where he pulled almost fully out before snapping into you again.
He grabbed your wrist, planting the palm firmly over his throat and guiding it to squeeze.
You followed the instruction even as his hand fell away, tightening around the corded muscles of his neck.
His eyes fluttered, hips stuttering before speeding up into a faster pace.
His breaths panted against your face as he pounded into you with quick succession. The angle shifted slightly, and he flashed a sharp grin at me hearing your higher pitch.
He pinpointed that spot, hitting it over and over again, only pausing to slip your ankles over his shoulders before continuing.
You couldnât tell where you began and he ended, mind so blissed out. It was clear from your noises that you were reaching your peak again, and he slipped a hand down over your clit to accelerate it.
He didnât rub, just pressed down his thumb firmly over you as you tightened around his shaft again.
The feeling of your fluttering walls made him follow right across the edge with you, letting out a shuddering moan as he pumped a few more times and released inside you.
All the strength seemed to sap from him once he came, body falling onto you heavily. You could still tell he was holding himself up a bit on his forearms in order to not crush you completely and you pulled him down solidly to increase the weight.
His rapid heart rate beat in unison with yours where you were pressed to his chest, the slick feeling of sweat and other fluids clinging to your bodies as he softened within you.
The time stretched on as you both sat there in breathless blissfulness, neither one eager to move positions.
His face hadnât moved from where it sat nestled in your neck, warm breaths disturbing the strands of hair there. When he spoke, you felt it more than you heard it.
âYou okay?â It was spoken with an air of unsureness that was unlike him. Based on what heâd said before, you had an idea of what his worries were.
âThat was amazing.â And you werenât lying, the entire experience had knocked a bit of your soul out your body and you were certain thereâd be consequences of soreness the next day.
He made a humming noise, satisfied with the answer, and moved to lift off you.
A flare of panic lit up within you. Eventually, youâd have to go back to the real world, real responsibilities and concerns, but at the moment you didnât want the stretch of peace to end. âWait, not yet.â
He lowered himself back down immediately even though a frown creased his expression. âYou need to get cleaned up, it might feel worse later.â
âWell,â you let out a soft chuckle, rubbing a hand along his scarred spine, âthatâs for later me to worry about. Just a bit longer.â
He didnât make much argument about it, settling his head back over your chest where he gave soft nips at your collarbone.
Despite relishing the peacefulness, there was something else nagging at your mind.
âHey Dex?â
He hummed out a response, still mapping you out with his mouth.
âWhat happened?â You didnât have to clarify, you knew he knew that you were referring to the event that caused him to show up in your room covered in blood.
A soft sigh, and he was leaning back to respond, âThe one who put a hit on you, he found out that I hadnât exactly,â he paused deliberating the words, âfollowed instructions. He sent a team to finish the job, and I made sure that didnât happen.â
âI wonât let anyone hurt you.â There was a burning in his eyes that showed the extent of violence he was capable of.
The idea of him choosing to not kill you even though heâd been ordered to do so, and fighting off anyone else who tried was⌠rousing to say the least.
His eyes tightened in a wince of overstimulation as you involuntarily tightened around him.
âItâs gonna be a bit longer for that.â He sounded like he detested that fact just as much as you did.
You grinned, âIâll be counting down the minutes,â you were going to continue with something teasing, but the look on his face stalled you.
The light from your open window casted a bluish tint over his face, contouring the edges of features softly. He fixed you with a searching gaze, like you were the only thing worth looking at.
âI meant what I said before,â You started, âitâs no going back for me either. Iâm with you.â
He traveled up to your face silently and your eyes fluttered closed in preparation. Instead of kissing you on the lips, his mouth pressed firmly over your forehead. The touch trailed down to press two consecutive pecks over your eyelids and finally melt against your mouth.
âIâm with you.â
You knew that no matter what was coming in your lives that you werenât afraid, fully willing to delve into the future with the person that knew you best.
Div by: @pixopix
AN: boss makes a dollar, I make a dime, I wrote this on company time. So if thereâs any typos or inconsistencies⌠sorry. Itâs minimally edited from my flow of consciousness.
If anyone even reads this, lemme know what you think, is it good? Bad? Just meh? Lmk :D
(ho-mam'), (Îś) Pegasi, "the lucky star of the hero, or the whisperer."
synopsis: While watching Matt, he finds a new variable he's never seen before: you.
word count: 11.0k+
pairing: dex poindexter x fem!reader
notes: oh man oh man oh man... the first chapter of this lovely series/baby of mine, ahh i'm so nervy! i truly adore this series, so i hope people like it as much as i do! without further ado, here's the first chapter of a long journey :) and also fuck this country celebrate my fic instead of 4th of july!!!!!!
warnings/tags: no use of y/n, told from dex's pov!, stalking, mentions of St. Agnes, mentions of Doctors Without Borders, some small mentions/insinuations of reader not properly eating, yeah this is pretty much just dex stalking you lol
next chapter | series masterlist ââË･â
Dex had already been watching them long enough to know what ânormalâ looked like on Foggyâs face, which mostly meant loud and animated and a little too pleased with himself, especially when he was carrying a drink he didnât need and talking like he owned the sidewalk. Karen walked like she was pretending she wasnât looking over her shoulder, even when she wasnât actually doing it, and she kept her bag close the way people did when theyâd learned the hard way that a city took whatever you gave it. Matt was harder, not because he was mysterious, but because he was disciplined, and discipline was annoying when you were trying to predict someone who insisted on having control over every inch of himself.
Dex held still in the shadowed recess between a pharmacy window and a closed gate, a spot that gave him the whole corner without putting him in anyoneâs line of sight, and the street noise did the rest of the work for him. The air smelled like roasted coffee and exhaust and someoneâs perfume trailing behind them, and it made his teeth ache in that faint way that meant he was too aware of everything all at once. He watched Mattâs head angle a fraction toward Foggyâs voice, watched the cane tap a steady rhythm, and then watched Karenâs hand flick out to swat Foggyâs shoulder when he said something that made her roll her eyes.
Foggyâs voice carried clearly over the traffic, because Foggy didnât do anything quietly. âTell me youâre at least going to let me buy you dinner,â Foggy said, dragging the words like he was bargaining in a market. âYou come back and youâre like, âhi, Iâm here,â and then you disappear into the lab. Thatâs criminal.â
Karen laughed, warm and sharp at the same time. âFoggy, youâve known her for like five minutes again. Calm down.â
âFive minutes is all I need,â Foggy shot back. âItâs a gift.â
Mattâs mouth pulled into something that looked like a smile but didnât reach his eyes, the kind he used when he was amused and exhausted at the same time. âItâs not a gift,â he said, mild enough that it sounded like he was humoring a child. âItâs a warning sign.â
Then Dex saw you, properly, instead of as a shape that had been there but hadnât registered as important, and the shift hit like a sudden change in pressure.
You were walking on Mattâs right side with your arm linked through his, not pulling him, not steering him, not doing the gentle, careful guiding thing people did when they wanted to prove to themselves that they were kind, you were just there, close enough that it would have looked intimate to anyone who didnât know better, and comfortable enough that it would have looked like habit to anyone who did. You had a tote bag slung over your shoulder, the kind that got heavier the longer someone insisted on carrying their life in paper and books, and you were talking while you walked, your head turning between Karen and Foggy like you belonged in that triangle without needing to ask permission.
Dexâs first thought was simple and sharp: she wasnât part of the pattern.
Heâd mapped the pattern; heâd watched it from rooftops and parked cars and the mirrored glass of storefronts, and he had never once seen you with them. Not with Matt, not with Foggy, not with Karen, not near the church, not near the office, not near any of the places that mattered. New faces happened, sure, but not like this, not inserted neatly into the center of the group like youâd always been there and someone had just forgotten to mention you.
You said something that made Foggy groan dramatically, and Dex narrowed his eyes, listening for the exact cadence. âYou canât just show up and declare dinner,â you told him, voice steady, amused, and not at all impressed by his performance. âI get asked questions all day by eighteen-year-olds who think mitochondria is a brand of Italian food. Iâm not doing negotiations right now.â
Foggy made a wounded noise. âThatâs a lie,â he said, scandalized. âNo one is that stupid.â
Karen tilted her head toward you. âYouâd be surprised.â
Mattâs hand shifted on the cane, not because he needed it, but because he used it like punctuation when he was choosing his words. âSheâs not exaggerating,â he said, and there was something in his tone that Dex couldnât place at first because it wasnât flirtation and it wasnât annoyance eitherâit was fond, but not soft, the way you sounded with someone you had known long enough to stop pretending.
You bumped your shoulder lightly against Mattâs, the movement small and practiced, and you didnât let go of his arm. âDonât team up on me,â you said. âYouâre supposed to be on my side.â
âI am on your side,â Matt replied, and he said it with that calm certainty he used when he was telling the truth and didnât feel like decorating it. âIâm also on the side of reality.â
âTraitor,â you said, but you were smiling as you said it, and Dex could hear it, not just see it.
Dex felt heat crawl up the back of his neck, the same kind he got when something didnât line up, when a number was off in a sequence, when a shot was too easy and that meant it was a trap. You were too close to Matt, too familiar. If you were new, you werenât acting new, and if you werenât new, then Dex had missed you, which meant his surveillance had holes, and he didnât tolerate holes.
He followed the line of you walking like that, like youâd done it a thousand times, like it didnât matter that the contact would read as romantic to strangers, and he found himself focusing on Mattâs reaction instead of yours. Matt didnât stiffen or adjust, and he didnât do the careful thing men did when they were worried about how it looked. He simply let you keep your arm there, and he matched your pace without thinking about it.
You didnât guide him, Matt guided you.
Dex watched the moment your foot hesitated near the curb when a cab surged past too fast, and Mattâs body angled just slightly, subtle enough that no one else would notice, putting himself between you and traffic without breaking the conversation. You didnât even look at him when you stepped forward again, like you trusted him to handle it.
Karen glanced at you and lowered her voice, though not enough to stop Foggy from hearing because no one could stop Foggy from hearing anything. âDid you talk to your department chair?â Karen asked.
You exhaled, the sound full of tired patience. âI did,â you said. âHe wants me to take on an extra section next semester because apparently being short-staffed is my problem now. I told him Iâd rather chew glass.â
Foggy snapped his fingers like heâd been waiting for an opening. âSpeaking of glass,â he said, brightening, âyou know what fixes academic despair? Pasta. And wine. And someone else paying.â
âI knew you were going to say that,â you replied, and there was a warmth in your voice that didnât match the way you were shooting him down. âFoggy, Iâm not letting you spend money on me the first month Iâm back.â
Karenâs eyebrows lifted, and she looked between you and Matt. âFirst month,â she repeated, like she was filing it away. âYou really did just land and immediately get dragged into his gravitational field.â
Matt made a sound that could have been a laugh if he allowed himself the indulgence. âI didnât drag her,â he said.
You squeezed his arm, not hard, but just enough that Dex could see the contact. âHe absolutely did,â you said, and the way you said it didnât sound angry. It sounded like something old between you, something that could survive teasing.
Foggy leaned closer to Karen, stage-whispering like he was sharing a secret even though he wanted everyone to hear it. âHe missed her,â Foggy said.
Mattâs head turned toward Foggy with that quiet warning he did so well. âFoggy,â he said, and the name was enough to shut him up for about half a second.
You didnât look embarrassed, and you didnât look flattered either, you just looked⌠steady, like Foggy had said something obvious and you didnât feel the need to perform a reaction for it.
Dex pressed his tongue against the back of his teeth and forced himself to keep breathing evenly, because his instincts wanted movement and closeness, and for him to cross the street and get a better look at you without relying on distance. He didnât do it; he stayed in the shadow and watched like he always did, because watching kept him clean, calm, and in control.
You were still talking, and Dex focused on details that mattered because details were how you turned a person into something manageable. Your posture was relaxed, but not careless. Your eyes scanned without looking paranoid, like youâd trained yourself to be aware without letting it eat you alive. Your hands moved when you spoke, not wildly, but precisely, and when you adjusted the strap of your tote bag, you did it the same way twice, like you had habits that repeated without you thinking about them.
Habits were useful. Patterns were comforting.
Dexâs gaze went back to your linked arms, and he caught himself calculating the angle of Mattâs wrist, the point where your elbow rested against his forearm, how easy it would be to separate you if he wanted to. The thought came automatically, a reflex, and it didnât make him feel better.
Karen stopped walking and pointed across the street. âThere,â she said. âThe place with the ridiculous pastries.â
Foggy made a noise of immediate approval. âFinally,â he said. âA woman with taste.â
You tilted your head. âIâm not eating a pastry the size of my face.â
âYouâre absolutely eating a pastry the size of your face,â Karen replied, and she started walking again with purpose.
Matt shifted with the group, and as he did, he let his cane sweep forward, not searching, not needing it, just letting it exist. Dexâs jaw tightened at the sight, because the cane was part of a performance and Dex hated performances that worked.
You tightened your link for a second as you stepped off the curb, and Mattâs hand rose a fraction like he was bracing for you to tug, but you didnât. You moved with him as though youâd learned the rhythm years ago and never forgot it. He could read enough from the way you moved and the way Mattâs shoulders eased when you were close. He could also read enough from Foggyâs familiarity and Karenâs tone. You werenât a date or a new girlfriend, and you werenât a fling. You were something that had existed before Dex started watching, which meant Dex had been late and he hated being late.
Foggy kept talking as they crossed, voice loud enough to bounce off the building fronts. âOkay, okay,â he said, âhereâs the deal: pastry now, dinner later, and you canât say no because Iâm invoking the sacred law of âI missed you.ââ
You laughed, a real laugh, not the polite one people used when they wanted to keep someone happy. âYou canât invoke laws you made up,â you told him.
Foggy spread his hands like he was presenting evidence. âWatch me.â
Karen looked over her shoulder at you again, something cautious behind her eyes that Dex couldnât place, and her voice softened. âAre you okay, though?â she asked, quieter than before. âReally. Being back.â
You didnât answer immediately, and Dex watched the pause like it mattered. Then you said, âyeah,â and the word wasnât light, but it was honest. âIâm okay. Itâs just⌠weird. Everything feels the same and different at the same time, like the city kept moving without me.â
Mattâs expression changed, small but visible, and Dex saw that he wanted to say something that wasnât meant for the sidewalk. âIt did,â Matt said carefully, âbut youâre here now.â
Your fingers flexed where they rested on his arm. âYeah,â you said again, and this time you sounded steadier. âIâm here.â
They reached the pastry shop, and Foggy immediately began arguing with the person behind the counter about how many pastries were âreasonableâ for four people, which was not a real argument because Foggy didnât believe in reasonable. Karen leaned in closer to you while Matt turned his head slightly, listening, but not inserting himself, and Dex watched you in that warm indoor light spilling onto the sidewalk.
You looked like you belonged with them, and Dex couldnât stop the irritation from settling deeper, because belonging was something you earned, and you hadnât earned it in Dexâs eyes, not yet. You had simply arrived and taken up space at Matt Murdockâs side like it was yours by right.
Dex stayed where he was, half-hidden, and let himself watch longer than he meant to, because the sight of you next to Matt made something in his chest tighten in a way he didnât like. The feeling wasnât clean enough to name quickly, and Dex didnât tolerate unnamed things.
Foggyâs voice burst out again, triumphant. âTwo boxes,â he declared. âOne savory, one sweet. Iâm a genius.â
Karen rolled her eyes, but she was smiling. âYouâre going to regret that.â
âI regret nothing,â Foggy said, then glanced at Matt. âMatt, back me up.â
Matt didnât even pretend. âIâm not getting involved,â he said, and he angled his head toward you. âYou tell him.â
You looked at Foggy, then at Karen, then back at Foggy, and Dex watched your mouth curve. âYouâre going to regret that,â you told him, repeating Karenâs line with perfect timing.
Foggy clutched his chest dramatically. âBetrayal,â he said, but he was laughing too.
Dexâs eyes narrowed, and he memorized the way you smiled, not because he cared about smiles, but because it was another data point, another piece of you he could file away. He was already building a schedule in his head, already imagining where youâd go after this, already thinking about what it meant that you were âbackâ and that you hadnât been here before.
He didnât move when the group turned away from the shop, pastries in hand, heading down the block with the lazy ease of people who thought the day belonged to them. He waited until they were far enough that the crowd swallowed them again, and then he stepped out of the shadow, crossing the street with the flow of pedestrians like heâd never been there at all.
Dex looked in the direction youâd gone, and he set his mind to the new problem you represented, because a new variable demanded attention, and Dex never did well with anything he couldnât account for.
---
Dex picked a different spot the next week because the city punished anyone who got lazy, and he wasnât in the mood to be punished for something stupid like repeating himself. He stayed across the avenue this time, tucked into the mouth of an alley that smelled like old garbage and rain-soaked cardboard, with a clear view of the sidewalk and the building entrances Matt used when he wanted to avoid being seen. People moved around Dex without noticing him because people always did, and he watched their faces slide past like they were part of the background, because they were.
Matt showed up alone at first, cane in hand, suit jacket open, moving like he had somewhere to be and time to waste at the same time. Dex tracked him without shifting his weight, kept his eyes loose, let the traffic lights and passing buses break sightlines so he didnât look like he was staring when anyone glanced his way. Mattâs head tilted toward the street as though he was listening for something particular, and Dex knew what he was doing even if nobody else did, because Matt never stopped measuring the world.
You came out of a building entrance a minute later, tote bag on one shoulder and a paper cup in your hand, and Dex felt the immediate, familiar jolt of irritation when your arm slipped through Mattâs again like it was the most natural thing in the world. You didnât ask permission; you didnât even hesitate. You moved into his space like you belonged there, and Matt didnât move away.
âIâm telling you, youâre going to hate it,â you said, voice clear enough to carry between the cars. âItâs not a big deal until the week you realize youâve spent three days straight explaining the same concept to people who are absolutely committed to misunderstanding you.â
Mattâs mouth curved in that restrained way it always did when he was amused but refusing to show too much of it. âThat sounds like being a lawyer,â he said, and the words came out easy, like he was comfortable.
âYou donât have to deal with pre-med students,â you shot back, and the edge in your voice wasnât anger. It was affection, which was worse, because it meant youâd earned the right to be sharp without it turning into a fight. âTheyâre relentless. Theyâre convinced every question is a trick question designed to ruin their lives.â
Matt angled his head toward you, and Dex caught the shift in his posture, like he was checking in without making it obvious. âAre you sure youâre not projecting a little?â Matt asked.
âIâm not projecting,â you said immediately, and then you added, âokay, maybe Iâm projecting, but itâs justified. One of them asked me if bacteria are basically, like, tiny animals that want to be people.â
Matt let out a breath that could have been a laugh if he didnât keep everything so controlled. âThey said that to your face?â
âWorse, they said it with confidence,â you replied, and Dex watched you gesture with your coffee cup, careful not to spill. âThey said it like they were waiting for me to congratulate them on being brave.â
Mattâs cane tapped the pavement, steady and deliberate, and Dex noticed the way it never caught on cracks, the way it never searched, the way it existed as a signal more than a tool. Your arm stayed linked through his, and the contact looked close enough that strangers would read it wrong, but your body wasnât angled toward him the way lovers did when they wanted more space than the sidewalk gave them. You were facing forward, matching his pace, letting him set the rhythm.
A delivery truck rolled up too close to the curb, engine rattling, and you slowed half a beat because the sound and the bulk of it made you hesitate. Matt stepped first without any visible pause, not dragging you, not pulling you, just moving like the street belonged to him, and you followed his lead without thinking. Dex watched that exchange, watched the way Mattâs shoulder shifted, subtly, blocking you from the vehicleâs path as it edged forward, and you didnât even glance at him like you needed reassurance.
âYouâre doing it again,â Matt said, and he didnât raise his voice, but Dex heard the change in it anyway.
âDoing what?â you asked, and your tone went lighter, like you already knew what he meant and wanted him to say it.
âYouâre skipping breakfast,â Matt said, and the simple statement landed like it had a history behind it.
You made an offended noise. âI had coffee,â you replied.
âThatâs not breakfast,â Matt said, and Dex couldnât tell if he sounded annoyed or protective, but he knew it wasnât flirtation. It didnât have the softness of that, instead it had the steadiness of someone who was used to being responsible.
âI had a granola bar at like⌠nine,â you argued, and you sounded like you were smiling while you lied.
Matt didnât even pretend to be fooled. âThatâs not breakfast either.â
âSince when did you get so bossy?â you asked, and Dex watched you tilt your head as if you were trying to look at him directly even though you knew you couldnât really catch his eyes the way you wanted.
Matt kept walking, unbothered. âSince you moved back and started pretending you can run on caffeine and stubbornness,â he said.
You clicked your tongue and squeezed his arm, quick and familiar, the kind of touch people didnât do unless theyâd done it a hundred times before. âYou missed me,â you said, and it came out like an accusation and a joke at the same time.
Matt didnât answer right away, and Dex saw the pause, saw the way his jaw tightened for a second like heâd swallowed something he hadnât meant to. âYeah,â Matt said finally, and it was quiet enough that the traffic shouldâve eaten it. It didnât. âI did.â
You didnât make a big deal out of it, which was almost worse than if you had. You just nodded once, like heâd confirmed something you already knew, and you kept walking with him like that simple admission didnât matter, like it wasnât weighty, like it didnât give you any kind of leverage. Dex hated that, too, because it meant the connection between you wasnât fragile.
A group of college kids shoved past in a cluster, laughing too loudly, and you and Matt shifted without speaking, letting them flow around you. Dex tracked the movement automatically, noting how Matt angled his body again so the crowd would hit him first if it came to that, and you didnât even notice you were being protected. You trusted the street because you trusted him, and Dex kept staring until the angle forced him to move if he wanted to keep you and Matt in sight.
Two days later he saw you with Foggy, and the difference in energy was obvious before Foggy even sat down. Foggy was louder in daylight, like he thought being seen was a human right, and he took up more room than the chair gave him by sheer force of personality. The place was a little cafĂŠ near campus with too many students and not enough space, and Dex stayed outside, just far enough that no one would clock him as a loiterer, close enough that he could hear through the half-open window when it mattered.
Foggy leaned forward over the table, elbows wide, talking with his hands like he was trying to physically convince you of something. âIâm just saying, itâs criminal that youâre back and you havenât come to the office,â he insisted. âLike, I get it, youâre busy, youâve got your fancy professor schedule, whatever. Iâm not jealous, Iâm not, but Matt is acting like a kicked puppy.â
You snorted, and Dex saw you rub your forehead with two fingers, like Foggy was giving you a headache youâd had before. âMatt isnât acting like a kicked puppy,â you said. âMatt is acting like Matt.â
Foggy pointed at you like youâd personally betrayed him. âThatâs exactly what Iâm talking about,â he said, and his voice lifted, drawing a few annoyed looks from nearby tables that he ignored completely. âYou say that like itâs normal, but itâs not normal. Heâs sitting there being all⌠all stoic and quiet, and then I bring you up and suddenly heâs doing this thing where heââ
Foggy stopped mid-sentence and waved both hands in front of his own face, as if mimicking Mattâs expression could explain it. âHe does that face,â Foggy finished, frustrated. âThat âIâm fineâ face that is not fine, yâknow that face.â
You leaned back in your chair, and the way you looked at Foggy wasnât indulgent the way Karen looked at him sometimes. It was direct, familiar, and slightly unimpressed. âFoggy,â you said, âIâve known him since I was ten, he has had the âIâm fineâ face for most of his life.â
Foggyâs mouth fell open. âOkay, yeah, sure, but still,â he said, and Dex watched him grab his drink, then set it down again like he couldnât sit still. âYou canât just waltz back into the city and not let us see you. Karenâs been weird about it too.â
Your posture changed at Karenâs name, not dramatically, but enough that Dex clocked it. âWeird how?â you asked.
Foggy hesitated, and for once he looked like he was choosing his words. âNot bad weird,â he said quickly. âJust⌠careful. Like sheâs worried youâre going to vanish again. Which, honestly, fair. You did vanish.â
You stared at your cup for a second, thumb tracing the cardboard edge, and then you exhaled. âDoctors Without Borders isnât exactly a nine-to-five,â you said, and Dex couldnât hear pain in your voice, but he heard the weight of it, the kind of fatigue that came from living in a place where danger was normal. âI didnât vanish because I wanted to. I just⌠didnât have the kind of life where you can pop back for brunch.â
Foggyâs face softened in a way Dex didnât like on him, because it meant Foggy was capable of seriousness, which was inconvenient. âI know,â Foggy said quietly, and he didnât joke for a whole two seconds. âIâm not mad. I just missed you.â
You blinked at him like you didnât know what to do with sincerity from him. âYeah,â you said, a little awkwardly. âI missed you too.â
Foggy immediately seized the emotional high ground like it was a weapon. âGreat,â he said, brightening. âSo youâre coming to dinner Sunday. Iâll cook.â
âYou canât cook,â you replied.
Foggy slapped his hand to his chest again, dramatic as ever. âI can cook,â he insisted. âI cooked in college.â
âYou cooked frozen pizza in college,â you corrected, and Dex watched you smile, small and genuine.
Foggy jabbed a finger at you. âThat counts,â he declared. âAlso, you owe me. I have been carrying Mattâs emotional baggage for years.â
You gave him a look, and Dex could practically feel the history in it. âThatâs not a real thing,â you said. âAnd you love it.â
Foggy grinned, shameless. âI do love it,â he admitted. âBut thatâs not the point.â
Dex stayed outside long enough to see you stand when lunch ended, long enough to watch Foggy hug you without it looking like he was trying to make a point. It was quick, familiar, and brotherly in a way that didnât match Dexâs first assumption about you, and Dex walked away before the two of you came out onto the sidewalk because he didnât like the way his brain wanted to label what heâd just seen.
Later in the week he found you with Karen, and that took more effort because Karen didnât move like Foggy; Karen blended when she wanted to, and she chose places where the light was low and the door was close, and Dex had to stay two blocks away and shift angles twice before he got a clean view through the barâs front window.
You were sitting across from her with a drink that looked untouched, and Karen was talking with both hands wrapped around her glass like she needed something solid. Your face was turned toward her fully, not distracted, not scanning the room the way Karen kept doing, and Dex watched you nod slowly, taking in whatever Karen was saying without interrupting.
Karenâs voice didnât carry as well through the glass, but Dex caught pieces when the door opened and a gust of noise spilled out. âânot the same,â Karen said at one point, the words clipped and tense. âSometimes I think it never will be.â
You said something back that Dex didnât hear, and Karenâs shoulders dropped a fraction, like sheâd been holding herself too tight. She shook her head once, and her mouth twisted the way it did when she was trying not to let emotion show too much. You reached across the table and touched her wrist, not lingering, just contact for a second, and Karenâs eyes closed briefly like sheâd been waiting to feel something simple and human.
âYou donât have to do that,â Karen said, louder this time, and Dex caught it clearly when someone walked out past the window. âYou donât have to take care of everyone.â
You leaned back, and Dex saw you tilt your head, expression dry even from a distance. âSays the woman who will literally bleed before she asks for help,â you replied, and your tone wasnât cruel, it was the same steady bluntness Dex had heard from you with Foggy and Matt, like you didnât do delicacy when honesty would work better.
Karen let out a humorless laugh. âFair,â she admitted, and then she looked at you like she was trying to understand you. âDo you ever regret coming back?â
You didnât answer immediately. Dex watched you lift your glass, take a slow sip, then set it down carefully. âNo,â you said, and the word was even, not dramatic. âI regret leaving the way I did, sometimes, but I donât regret coming back.â
Karenâs eyes stayed on you. âMattâs happy youâre here,â she said, and the way she said it made it sound like she was testing a truth.
You huffed out a quiet laugh, like you were trying not to be affected by it. âMatt doesnât do happy,â you replied.
Karenâs mouth lifted, small. âHe does,â she said, and then she added, ânot often, not loudly. But he does.â
You looked down at your hands for a second, and Dex saw you roll your thumb over the edge of your glass the way some people did when they were thinking. âOkay,â you said, and you sounded like you were accepting the statement more than agreeing with it. âIâll take your word for it.â
Karen leaned forward, elbows on the table now, voice dropping again. Dex couldnât hear what she said, but he saw the shift in your posture, the way you went still for a beat, and then you nodded once, sharply, like sheâd told you something you didnât like but needed to know. When you answered, Karenâs expression changed, relief mixing with something more complicated, and Dex watched the two of you sit there for another long stretch, talking like the noise of the bar didnât exist.
Dex left before you did, because he didnât like standing in one place for too long, and he didnât like the way his attention had started to stick. Heâd meant to watch Matt and his orbit, but now he was spending days tracking where you went and who you met, and he didnât have a clean reason for it that would satisfy anyone who asked. He told himself it was still about Matt, because everything came back to Matt, but the truth was that he kept finding you even when Matt wasnât there, and that was becoming its own pattern.
When he saw you again with Matt the following weekend, arm linked through his while you talked over the top of the crowd like you werenât afraid of the city at all, Dex stayed far enough away that he could pretend it didnât matter. He watched anyway, not because he had to, but because the question of you didnât sit right in his head, and Dex had never been good at leaving questions unanswered.
---
Dex didnât go back to the same places heâd watched you in, not right away, because repeating patterns got people noticed and noticed got people caught. He picked a public library two neighborhoods over, one of those old branches that smelled like carpet cleaner and paper dust, where nobody looked twice at a man with a hoodie and a cheap pair of glasses sitting at a computer terminal. The librarians were busy shushing teenagers and directing tourists, and the security guard by the entrance spent more time staring at his phone than at anyone who walked in, which was exactly the kind of negligence Dex preferred.
He logged on with a guest pass and the screen threw a pale glow across his knuckles, and he kept his posture loose, bored-looking, like he was killing time between errands. People believed boredom more readily than intensity, and Dex had learned that long before he ever wore a badge.
A man two computers down muttered at the screen, volume creeping upward as his frustration grew. âWhy do they make it like this?â he complained, tapping the keyboard like it had personally insulted him. âI just want to print the damn form.â
Dex didnât look over at him, but he spoke anyway, casual enough that it sounded like he was being helpful by accident. âYou have to click âprint optionsâ first,â Dex said. âThen pick âblack and white.â Otherwise it tries to send it somewhere else.â
The man stared, then did what Dex said, and the printer whirred a second later. âOh,â the man said, a little embarrassed. âThanks. Sorry, Iâm not good with this stuff.â
Dex kept his eyes on his screen. âYeah,â he replied, and the conversation died the way Dex liked conversations to die.
He searched you the way he searched everything, starting with the obvious and moving into the layers people thought were private. Columbiaâs public-facing faculty directory gave him enough to start, not everything, but a clean outline that matched what heâd already seen. Biology department, faculty page, office location, office hours that werenât really office hours because professors never stuck to their posted schedules unless they were terrified of their students. He clicked through the publications list and scanned titles without reading the full abstracts, because the details of your research werenât the point yet, but the pattern of your mind was.
When he pulled up a CV, he didnât smile, but something in his face settled, the way it did when chaos resolved into something catalogable. Degrees, institutions, dates, fellowships, field placements, then a stretch of years where the academic timeline was interrupted by work that had its own documentation. Doctors Without Borders didnât advertise their staff like celebrities, but they left traces, the kind that existed because bureaucracies couldnât help themselves.
He found a mention in a newsletter, a bland little paragraph about a field team and a project, and he clicked through the archived PDF without changing his expression. He read your name in a list, then read it again in a different format, then found a photo that had been uploaded with low resolution and worse lighting. You were standing in a cluster of people in front of a tarp-covered structure, sleeves rolled up, face sun-tired but steady. It wasnât the kind of picture meant to show beauty, but it showed something else Dex cared about more, which was that you looked like you were used to holding your ground.
A teenage girl at the next station leaned too far back in her chair and bumped Dexâs elbow with hers, not hard, but enough to break the rhythm. âSorry,â she said quickly, eyes wide, like she expected him to yell.
Dex kept his shoulders relaxed. âItâs fine,â he said, voice even.
She nodded, then returned to her screen, and Dex waited until she was fully absorbed again before he continued. He didnât like interruptions, but he didnât like attention even more, and attention was what you got when you acted like something mattered too much.
He opened another tab and searched your name alongside âSt. Agnes,â then watched as the search engine offered him a handful of irrelevant results, a couple of archived charity posts, and one old article about an old fundraiser at the orphanage. Dex clicked anyway, because sometimes the useless links contained the right names, and names were handles you could grab.
The article didnât mention you, but it mentioned a nun by name, and that name led to a small obituary on a church website, and that obituary linked to a memorial guestbook full of polite comments from people whoâd once been children under her care. Dex scrolled until he found a line that made him stop, because it used your full name and referenced âthe kids who came through together,â and it sat there on the screen like a breadcrumb someone had dropped without realizing what it was worth.
He read the comment twice, then copied the name of the commenter into a new search.
That line took him to a LinkedIn profile that still had a headshot from ten years ago and a job title that sounded too important for a person who typed in short, blunt sentences. The profile listed volunteer work at St. Agnes, years ago, and a current position with a nonprofit in the city that handled youth services and adoption placement support. Dex stared at that for a moment, then sat back slightly, not because he was thinking in circles, but because he was deciding which angle was cleanest.
He didnât call from his phoneâhe never called from his phone when he didnât have to. He walked out of the library and down the block, bought a cheap burner from a bodega that didnât care who you were as long as your cash didnât stick together, then went back inside the library and sat at a different computer so no one could place his face to the call if they reviewed camera footage later.
When he dialed, he pitched his voice slightly higher, a touch more clipped, like he was a hurried assistant who didnât have time to be friendly. He waited through two rings, then three, then four, and he didnât fidget when the line clicked.
âFamily Connections, this is Marla,â a womanâs voice answered, weary but professional. âHow can I help you?â
Dex kept his eyes on the screen, not because he needed it, but because it kept him steady. âHi, Iâm calling on behalf of Columbia University,â he said, and he made the words sound like they had authority without sounding like he cared. âWeâre updating background verification for faculty records and Iâm missing a piece related to St. Agnes. Iâm trying to confirm dates of residence for a former minor. I have a full name and approximate years.â
There was a pause, not suspicion yet, but caution. âWe donât give out personal information over the phone,â Marla said, and Dex heard the practiced firmness.
Dex didnât push immediately, he let the silence breathe just long enough to sound mildly annoyed, like he dealt with rules all day and hated them. âI get that,â he said. âIâm not asking for address history or placement notes. I just need confirmation of whether the person was in residence, because the university is cross-referencing for a scholarship record tied to alumni outreach, and the file is incomplete.â
âAlumni outreach?â Marla repeated, and her skepticism softened into confusion.
Dex made a small sound of impatience, like he wished sheâd keep up. âThe orphanage had a fund,â he said. âThereâs an endowment that was used for education grants and Iâm trying to confirm eligibility for a donor report. Itâs routine.â
Marla exhaled, and Dex imagined her rubbing her forehead the way people did when they were tired. âWhatâs the name?â she asked, and her voice lowered, like she knew she shouldnât be asking and did it anyway.
Dex gave it to her, clean and steady, and he listened as she typed. He didnât move a muscle while she searched, because movement made noise and noise made people look up, and Dex didnât want the librarian noticing him mid-call.
After a moment, Marla said, âI canât confirm anything without written consent,â and then, as if she couldnât help herself, she added, âbut⌠if itâs who I think it is, yes, they were.â
Dex didnât thank her, thanking made you memorable. He kept it transactional. âIâll send an email request through official channels,â he said, like he intended to, and then he ended the call before she could reconsider.
He never sent an email request.
Instead, he woke the computer up and pulled your Columbia page again, then opened the archived alumni database heâd already accessed once years ago while tracking someone else. Universities kept records like religious texts, and once you knew where the rot was in their systems, you could slide through the cracks without even trying too hard. He searched by graduation year ranges that matched Matt and Foggyâs, then narrowed to the same program clusters, because people who grew up together tended to move in parallel even when they swore they wouldnât.
Your name popped up with an old email address attachedâa dormant oneâand a line noting your undergraduate advisor. Dex clicked the advisorâs profile and scanned it, then opened another tab and searched the advisorâs last name with âSt. Agnesâ just to see if there was an overlap.
There wasnât, but the advisor had published an article years ago about trauma-informed teaching methods for students with unstable childhood backgrounds. The acknowledgments section included a list of students whoâd participated in a pilot program, and your name was there, along with Mattâs, which made Dexâs jaw tighten for a second because it confirmed something heâd already suspected but didnât like seeing in print.
He stared at Mattâs name next to yours, then closed the tab, because he wasnât here to think about Matt, not right now.
He was here to confirm where you fit, and the pieces were fitting too neatly.
Dex left the library after another half hour, not because he was finished, but because heâd pulled enough to move the work into the physical world, and he preferred the physical world. The digital traces were useful, but bodies were more honest; schedules more reliable when you watched them in person.
He went to Columbia the next day, not on your block, not near your building, but close enough to see the rhythms around it. He wore a cap and a jacket that didnât fit him perfectly, because perfect fit drew eyes, and he kept his hands in his pockets like he was just another guy passing through campus to get somewhere else.
Outside a biology building, two students stood smoking, their backpacks slung low, and Dex slowed just enough to catch their conversation. âIâm telling you, sheâs brutal,â one of them complained. âLike⌠she doesnât even care if youâre dying, sheâll just stare at you like youâre a specimen.â
The other student snorted. âThatâs not brutal,â she replied. âThatâs fair, if youâre wrong, youâre wrong. Sheâs not gonna coddle you.â
The first student rolled his eyes. âYou like her,â he accused.
âI respect her,â the second corrected, and her tone made it clear that the distinction mattered. âAlso she brought donuts once, so sheâs not a monster.â
Dex kept walking, but he filed that away, because it meant you werenât a ghost here. You were known, you had a reputation, and you were consistent enough that students complained in predictable ways, and predictable meant trackable.
He moved to a bench across from a coffee cart, bought nothing, and waited.
You came out of the building an hour later with two graduate students trailing behind you, both talking too fast, both trying to impress you by throwing jargon into the air like confetti. You listened without looking rushed, but your stride was purposeful, and when one of them said something incorrect, you didnât correct it gently, you corrected it precisely, with enough firmness that it wouldnât happen again, and Dex felt his shoulders ease in a way he didnât notice until afterward.
You stopped at the coffee cart, and the vendor greeted you like you were a regular. âHey, Doc,â the vendor said, cheerful. âSame thing?â
You nodded, already reaching for your wallet. âYeah,â you replied. âAnd if you have anything with actual protein in it today, Iâll take it, because I forgot to eat again.â
One of your grad students made a small, scandalized sound. âYou always forget to eat,â he said, as if it was personally offensive.
You glanced at him, expression dry. âAnd you always forget to label your samples,â you shot back, and there was no malice in it, just the familiar bluntness of someone who cared enough to be annoying.
The vendor handed you your coffee, then slid a wrapped sandwich toward you. âOn the house,â he said. âYou look like youâre about to fight Thor.â
You huffed a laugh, and Dex watched it like it was evidence. âThatâs just my face,â you replied, then you added, âbut thank you.â
You turned, sandwich tucked under your arm, coffee in hand, and Dex watched you walk away with the two students still trying to keep up. Your pace didnât slow for them, they had to match you, which meant you were used to leading without apologizing for it.
Dex followed at a distance, not close enough to be seen, but close enough to stay locked to you. He watched you split off toward another building, watched the grad students peel away toward a lab entrance, and watched you pause at the crosswalk when the light changed. A car rolled through the intersection too fast, and you didnât flinch, but you did shift your weight slightly back from the curb, and Dex noted it because it was a small precaution that suggested you were more aware than you looked.
He didnât approach you, and he didnât want to yet. He wanted the last piece, the one that would explain how you could slip so naturally into Mattâs world without anyone having to introduce you.
That piece wasnât at Columbia, that piece was at St. Agnes, even if St. Agnes wasnât what it used to be.
Dex went there the following evening, when the streetlights were on and the buildingâs new facade tried too hard to look clean. Dex walked past the entrance like he belonged, because he did belong anywhere he decided to belong.
Inside, the church was quiet. A receptionist sat behind a desk with a mug that said âBe Kind,â and Dex almost laughed at it, but he didnât. He leaned in slightly, polite in the way that got people to answer questions quickly.
âHi,â Dex said. âIâm looking for someone who used to live at the orphanage. Iâm helping coordinate an alumni event, and I was told there might still be a contact list.â
The receptionist brightened, because people loved feeling useful. âOh,â she said, eager, âthatâs sweet. I wasnât here then, but we do have a couple of volunteers who were. Are you looking for Sister Maggie?â
Dex kept his expression neutral, interested but not too interested. âPossibly,â he said. âIâm also looking for someone named Marla, last name unknown. She used to coordinate records for placements.â
The receptionist frowned, thinking. âMarla,â she repeated. âI think she still comes in once a week for the youth program, actually. Sheâs here on Tuesdays.â
Dex checked the day in his head and adjusted without showing it. âTuesday works,â he said, smooth. âWhat time is she usually here?â
âLate afternoon,â the receptionist replied. âAround four, sometimes five.â
Dex nodded like that was perfect, because it was. âGreat,â he said. âIâll come back. Thanks.â
He didnât leave immediately, he walked deeper into the building like he was looking for a posted flyer, and he found a bulletin board with old photos pinned under a title that read âOur History.â There were black-and-white shots of children in uniform clothes, nuns lined up with forced smiles, then later color photos of renovation work, smiling donors, and ribbon cuttings. Dex scanned faces the way he always did, fast and ruthless, then stopped when he saw a group photo with a caption that included a year that matched your timeline.
The picture was grainy, but he could make out a boy near the back with a familiar posture, shoulders squared too young, jaw set like heâd already decided the world wasnât safe. Matt Murdock, years before he became something else, was still Matt, and Dex stared long enough to feel irritation prick behind his eyes.
Then his gaze slid left, and he found you, smaller, younger, expression stubborn in a way that looked almost like a scowl. You were standing near Matt, not pressed against him, but close, a proximity that wasnât accidental. You werenât smiling at the camera, but you werenât afraid of it either, and Dex took the image in like heâd been handed proof of something that had been bothering him.
A voice behind him interrupted, and Dex didnât flinch because flinching was weakness. âCan I help you?â an older man asked, cautious.
Dex turned with a polite half-smile that didnât reach his eyes. âJust looking at the history board,â he said. âMy uncle grew up here. I didnât realize they kept photos.â
The older man relaxed slightly, sympathy landing on his face. âYeah,â he said. âWe try. People came through here with nothing. It mattered. It still matters.â
Dex nodded like he agreed. âDo you know if any of them come back?â he asked, casual. âLike, the kids from back then. Alumni.â
The older man shrugged. âSome do,â he said. âNot a ton. Life gets complicated.â
Dex let that sit, then asked, âDid you know a girl who went byââ and he said your name carefully, like he was testing whether it would spark recognition.
The older manâs eyebrows lifted. âOh,â he said, and the recognition was immediate. âYeah, I remember her. Smart kid. Tough. She came back years ago to donate books, and then she was gone again. She came by recently, though, a month back. I think she was looking for Father Lantomâs grave.â
Dex kept his face smooth, but his attention sharpened. âSheâs back in the city?â he asked, as if he hadnât known.
âSeems like it,â the older man replied. âSheâs a professor now, I heard. Good for her.â
Dex nodded again, thanked him, and left with the calm of someone who wasnât burning a hole through the inside of his own skull. Outside, the air felt colder than it had a minute ago, or maybe Dex was just more aware of his skin, of the tightness in his hands, of the way the pieces had clicked together so cleanly it almost felt like an insult.
You werenât new. Youâd always been there.
Dex had missed you because youâd been gone, and now you were back, and you had slipped into Mattâs orbit like a key sliding into a lock that had been waiting for it.
He walked away from the building without looking back, already thinking about Tuesday at four, already thinking about how easy it would be to get more records if he wanted them, and already thinking about the fact that this wasnât just about Mattâs friends from law school, this was older than that, deeper than that, and that meant your connection to Matt was harder to break than Dex had assumed when he first saw your arm linked through his.
Dex didnât like being wrong, and he didnât like problems that required patience, but he adjusted anyway, because adjusting was what kept him alive.
---
Dex started carrying a small notebook again, the kind that looked like it belonged to anyone with a job and a commute, the kind people wouldnât remember if they saw it in his hand while he waited for a light to change. He didnât write in it like someone journaling their feelings, because that wasnât what it was for, and he didnât write in it like he was building a case file either, because case files had names and signatures and consequences. He wrote in it the way you wrote down a route you didnât want to forget, quick marks and times and details that mattered, and then he closed it and put it away like it was nothing.
On Monday morning he got to the subway before you did, because arriving first meant he could choose a spot that gave him the best angle without having to shuffle around once you were there. He kept his hood down and his face neutral, and he stood with his shoulder near a support column where he could see the stairs and the turnstiles at the same time. People hurried past him with their coffee and their headphones and their purposeful little frowns, and none of them looked at him long enough to remember him later.
You came down the stairs with a tote bag that looked heavier than it shouldâve been, phone pressed to your ear while you talked like you were already tired and still somehow making space to be patient anyway. Dex watched you weave through bodies without touching anyone, as if you had learned how to move in crowds without letting the crowd claim you.
âI know,â you said into the phone, and your tone had that careful steadiness that meant you were trying not to snap. âNo, I know thatâs what you want, but thatâs not what youâre asking. Youâre asking me to sign off on a timeline thatâs unrealistic and then youâll act surprised when it blows up.â
Whoever was on the other end spoke fast enough that Dex couldnât catch words, but you answered like you were used to this kind of argument. You stopped near the edge of the platform, looked down the tunnel, then adjusted your stance back a few inches when a gust of air rolled through. âIâm not saying no,â you continued, calm but firm. âIâm saying if you want the results youâre asking for, you either give me more people or you give me more time. You donât get both for free.â
The train screamed into the station, and you stepped on with the same timing you always used, not rushing, not hesitating, but just letting the chaos happen around you while you stayed in the middle of it like a fixed point. Dex stepped into a different car, not far from yours, but close enough to track you through the windows when the train curved. You didnât sit, even when a seat opened up, and Dex noted it because it wasnât about fatigue, it was about control.
When you got off at your stop you ended the call and immediately started typing, thumbs moving quickly, expression set in a way that looked like you were already planning your next three hours. Dex followed at a distance through the surge of students and commuters, watching the point where the crowd thinned as Columbiaâs edges swallowed people into campus and routine.
He didnât go into your building; he watched from across the street and let the day unspool with the kind of repetition that made other people bored and made him calm.
Two students came out first, arguing with each other about something that sounded like it had been assigned and not chosen. One of them waved a worksheet around like it was evidence in a trial. âI swear to God, if she cold-calls me again Iâm dropping,â the student complained.
His friend snorted. âYouâre not dropping,â she said. âYou love acting like youâre dropping. Just read the chapter.â
âI read the chapter,â he insisted. âItâs not my fault it reads like it was written by a robot who hates joy.â
The friend rolled her eyes. âSheâs not the one who wrote it.â
âYeah, but sheâs the one who looks at you like youâre stupid if you say something wrong,â he replied, voice rising with the righteous outrage of someone who had never been in real danger in his life.
Dex watched the buildingâs main doors while they bickered, and he kept waiting for the moment youâd appear again, because you always did, eventually. He was learning the intervals, the gaps between your movements, and he didnât like surprises.
You came out a little after noon, walking fast, sandwich in hand, coffee in the other, and you didnât look up until one of your students practically jogged to catch you. The kid looked nervous in that eager way that meant he was terrified of disappointing you. âProfessor,â the student said, matching your pace, âcan I ask you something about the lab report?â
You didnât slow down. âIf itâs about formatting, the rubric answers your question,â you replied.
âItâs not about formatting,â he said quickly. âItâs about the control group. I think I messed it up.â
That got your attention, but not as softness. Dex saw the shift in your face, the way your focus narrowed. You stopped near a trash can, took a bite of your sandwich like you refused to pause your life for anyone, and then you spoke around the bite without apology. âWhat did you do?â you asked.
The student started explaining, hands moving, stumbling through the logic, and you listened all the way through without interrupting him. When he finished, you took another bite, chewed, swallowed, and then you answered in a tone that wasnât gentle but wasnât cruel either, the way people spoke when they wanted the person in front of them to do better. âOkay,â you said. âYou didnât destroy it, but you need to fix it. If your control group isnât controlled, your results donât mean anything. You canât argue your way out of that, and you canât charm your way out of that, so donât try.â
The studentâs face fell, and then you added, not softer, but more practical, âCome to my office at three and bring your raw notes. Weâll map out what you can salvage and what you have to redo.â
He looked like youâd handed him a lifeline. âReally?â he asked.
You stared at him for a second, expression dry. âDo you want me to say no?â you replied.
âNo,â he said immediately, flustered.
âThen stop acting surprised,â you told him, and Dex watched the corner of your mouth twitch like you were amused despite yourself. âThree oâclock.â
The kid nodded fast and peeled away, and you kept walking like it hadnât taken anything out of you. Dex followed through the campus paths, then stopped once you disappeared into a different building, because heâd already gotten what he needed: confirmation that you ran your day on schedule and that other people adjusted themselves to fit into it.
Wednesday was the late day, and Dex didnât need to guess anymore once heâd watched it twice. You stayed in the lab past sunset, and the buildingâs windows threw pale light onto the sidewalk while most of the campus emptied out. Dex waited across the street near a food cart, pretending to browse the menu without ordering, letting the vendor assume he was deciding, and then letting the vendor get bored of him. Eventually the vendor called out anyway, voice loud and impatient. âYou buying or you just reading for fun?â the vendor asked.
Dex glanced up with a look that suggested he was mildly offended on principle. âGive me a pretzel,â Dex said.
The vendor slapped one into a bag and held it out. âThree bucks,â he said.
Dex paid, took the pretzel, but didnât eat it. He held it like a prop, because props made you look normal and normal was invisible.
You came out around eight, exactly the way you usually did, shoulders slightly tense, tote bag heavier, phone already in your hand. One of your colleagues walked with you for half a block, talking quickly like they were trying to squeeze in a last conversation before going home. âIâm telling you, the department chair is going to push back,â the colleague said.
You let out a tired breath. âHe can push back,â you replied. âIâm not taking another section. If they want another section, they can hire someone, or they can stop pretending adjuncts donât exist.â
The colleague made a sympathetic noise. âYouâre going to make enemies.â
You shot her a look that Dex caught even from across the street, and the look said you didnât care. âI already have enemies,â you replied. âTheyâre eighteen and they think Iâm personally responsible for their GPA.â
The colleague laughed, then peeled off toward the subway. You crossed the street alone, and Dex waited for the moment youâd usually hesitate at the curb, and you did, just a beat, like the city had trained that into you no matter how brave you tried to be.
Saturday was groceries, and Dex didnât have to work hard to blend in because Amsterdam Avenue on a weekend was full of people who looked like they belonged there. He wore a plain jacket, kept his hands in his pockets, and stayed just far enough that if you turned your head youâd see a crowd, not him. You went into the same store youâd gone into the previous Saturday, and you walked the aisles like you had a list in your head.
You stopped by produce first, and Dex watched you pick up a bag of apples, weigh it in your hand, then put it back and choose a different one like you could feel which one would bruise first. You grabbed spinach, then eggs, then yogurt, and Dex tracked the order because order mattered. You didnât wander or browse, you moved with intention.
A woman near you dropped a jar, and it shattered, and people froze for a second in that communal moment where everyone decides whether theyâre going to help or pretend they didnât see. You stepped around the spill without stepping through it, then crouched and picked up the womanâs phone off the floor because it had skidded away. You handed it back and said something Dex didnât hear, and the womanâs shoulders loosened like youâd reassured her without making it a performance.
When you got to the checkout lane, the cashier greeted you like she knew you. âHey,â the cashier said, scanning your items. âBack again. Youâre consistent.â
You smiled in that small way Dex had seen before, the smile that didnât ask for anything. âIâm predictable,â you replied.
The cashier snorted. âMust be nice,â she said.
You glanced down at the groceries, then back up. âIt is,â you said, and you didnât say it like a brag, you said it like a fact youâd earned.
Dex waited until you left before he moved, because he didnât want to share the same exit, not yet. He watched you walk home carrying bags with a steady pace, not rushing, not drifting, and he noticed you always adjusted the strap of your tote bag with the same hand in the same motion, like your body had decided on a method years ago and never bothered to change it.
Sunday nights were different, and he figured that out because you didnât go every week, but when you went, you went with purpose. Twice a month, you ended up with them, and Dex had to admit he liked that it wasnât random. It was scheduled, intentional, almost ceremonial, like you were making sure you stayed stitched into their lives.
He found the dinner the first time by tracking Foggy instead of you, because Foggy was louder and easier, and because Foggy never checked his blind spots. He waited outside a walk-up building with too many steps and a narrow hallway where the smell of garlic drifted down, and he listened through the thin windows because the building made it easy.
Foggyâs voice boomed first, as always. âOkay, everyone shut up, I have an announcement!â he declared.
Karenâs voice cut in immediately. âIf this is about your lasagna again, I swearââ
âIt is absolutely about my lasagna,â Foggy said, offended. âAlso, itâs not just lasagna, itâs a labor of love.â
You laughed, and Dex heard you clearly through the crack in a window. âFoggy, you bought pre-made noodles,â you said.
Mattâs voice slid in, calm and too controlled. âThatâs cheating,â Matt said.
Foggy made a dramatic sound. âYouâre all ganging up on me,â he complained.
Karen sounded amused, but careful in the way she always did. âWeâre not ganging up on you,â she said. âWeâre just united in the truth.â
You replied, and Dex heard the smile in your voice even without seeing it. âItâs okay,â you said. âYou can still take credit. No one else is going to cook.â
Foggy latched onto that like it was a win. âThank you!â he said. âFinally, someone appreciates me.â
Mattâs voice softened, the smallest shift, like he couldnât help it. âWe appreciate you,â Matt said, and Dex could picture the expression even if he couldnât see it, because he knew Mattâs tells by now.
Foggy went quieter for half a second, then recovered like sincerity was a threat. âDonât get emotional,â he warned. âIâm fragile.â
Karen laughed, and then she said your name like she was bringing the room back to you. âSo,â Karen asked, âhowâs the chaos at Columbia?â
You groaned. âDonât,â you said. âI had three separate emails about the same assignment and every single one of them started with âI know you said not to email, butâââ
Foggy cackled. âThey fear you,â he said, delighted.
âThey should,â you replied, and the line made them laugh again.
Dex stayed outside long enough to hear more of it, not because he needed it, but because it gave him something he couldnât get from schedules and public records. It gave him your cadence when you were relaxed, the way you teased Foggy, the way Karenâs voice eased around you, the way Matt spoke more freely in your presence without sounding like he was trying to perform anything.
At some point Foggy said, louder, âMatt, tell her,â and Matt answered, âIâm not getting involved,â and you shot back, âcoward,â and it all sounded easy in a way Dex didnât like, because easy meant stability, and stability meant you werenât temporary.
When Dex finally walked away from the building, he didnât head toward Hellâs Kitchen rooftops or toward any of Mattâs usual routes. He went the other direction, toward the subway, because the next morning was Monday and you would be on the platform at 8:49 a.m., and he wanted to be there before you again, not because he needed to prove anything, but because he didnât like the feeling of arriving late to something that was becoming routine.
summary: sending dex a dirty pic with one of his knives has (un)expected consequences đĄď¸
tags: established relationship, smut, fingering, mention of stalker!dex, knife play, blood â 18+ only! MINORS DNI
note: i normally only cross-post ficlets on here buuuuut this is only⌠a few hundred words over a thousand so! i figured, as a lil treat, iâd post it in full on here. and over on my ao3 as per usual ofc. comments/reblogs are always appreciated! âĄ
âoh, you poor thingâŚâ
the whimper comes out of your throat before you can think twice, unable to control even the most basic bodily functions as dex clicks his tongue behind his teeth. he lets his eyes rove thoughtfully over your body as his thumb rubs feather-light against your glistening flesh.
âyouâre shakinâ, baby,â dex notes, faux concern dripping from his lips with the faintest furrow of his brows and a ghost of a smirk he barely attempts to suppress as he adds just a little more pressure. heâs razor focused on keeping you trembling underneath him, only giving you enough to have you writhing.
he loves to see you squirm, yâknow? like youâre some timid little prey, battling within yourself about just how turned on you feel in his presence. especially when you know it should feel wrong or demeaning to want him as badly as you do.
itâs nothing like youâve ever felt before, he knows. so used to guys not paying attention, never making any real effort in delving any deeper than the surface with you. but he sees you, heâs always seen you.
just the mere sight of him gets you all filled with butterflies though. itâs cute. to dex, itâs exhilarating to be able to have such an impassioned, ardent effect on youâto get your panties damp without so much as even uttering a single word. one look, right into your eyes, and youâre so willing to drop down to your knees right there when he walks through the door after a long day.
he was texting you the entire time, but it definitely wasnât enough for either of you. dex was so tense and distracted, just waiting for that familiar little buzz in his pocket to hum against his thigh, letting him know you responded because even one minute of waiting had him restless. it was the usual, though- just him asking you how youâre doing, updating you on when heâll be home, asking what you want him to pick up for a late dinner, checking in to make sure you remember to drink some water- very domestic.
but when you sent a naughty little picture of you holding one of his throwing daggers, the sharp blade ghosting over the top of your chest?
he doesnât think heâs ever killed anyone faster. so hard under his boxers when dealing with whoever it was tonight while throwing knife after knife, clenching his jaw through the mask while flicking his wrists with the blades zipping through the air before he was headed right for your shared apartment.
youâve been more daring, especially after learning the truth about him and where he always goes at night, and finding yourself thinking things youâd never thought about before. like how you donât even really mind that he can kill someone without remorse, how you even find it thrilling that heâd offered to do it for you when some guy wouldnât leave you alone or even looked at you a way he didnât like, and you knew he would if you just said âokâ. it turns you on to know he loves you that much, willing to do whatever you ask of him like a dog waiting at your feet.
which is why when you sent that picture, so audacious and adorable in dexâs eyes, you were fully expecting it to get him home as fast as possible.
and heâs never felt so wanted with you. so desired. and he didnât even have to try all that hard, did he? no, he just had to tail you for awhile, learn your habits, âaccidentallyâ bump into you. and as soon as you got a real good look at that friendly smile of his face to face? putty in his hands. and itâs only morphed and transformed into something more since that day.
âshouldnât be playinâ with knives, baby. theyâre dangerous,â he muses sinfully before pressing a chaste kiss to your jaw, breathing against your skin, warm and tingly as he slips his thick fingers lower.
he canât help the chuckle that escapes his throat, an amused but prideful exhale when he feels just how worked up you really are as he lets it coat his fingers slick and brings them right back up to that puffy, aching clit. just to feel your own breath hitch in your chest, and that twitch of your hips like youâre trying so hard to not rut up into his touch because he gets just as much of a high off of this as you do. god, he really does love you.
âsâthat what you want? huh?â he encourages, murmuring against your neck, trailing his mouth down to feel your pulse thrum in rapid little beats. oh, youâre just so precious.
âmy sweet girl wants me to hurt herâŚ.use one of my knives to mark her up a little? is that right?â
the whine that comes from your mouth is nothing short of pitiful, meager and desperate with your bottom lip jutted out just so into the sweetest, faint pout. he already knows thatâs what you want, thereâs no use feigning otherwise. but you still feeling bashful about actually admitting it makes his dick throb nearly painfully.
he canât believe his luck. you actually get wetter with him talking to you like this. the idea of your sweet dex who dotes on you and protects you, giving you a little pain? using one of his knives that heâs definitely killed someone with, cleaned it of any sticky ichor before leaving it atop your dresser along with the others he didnât need tonight, now thinking of pressing it to your skin and getting to see a dribble of crimson?
he swears he could come untouched, right here and now.
âfuck, youâd let me do that?â dex asks it like heâs trying to wrap his head around it, dazed and awed that you really mean it because the last thing he wants is to make a mistake with you. heâd never forgive himself for pushing you too far, or scaring you off.
but thatâs not possible, is it? you love him too much, dependent on him being there for you and with you that nothing he could say or do would ever change that. the fearâs in the back of his mind all the time, never fully believing he deserves you. but unbeknownst to him, you feel that same way about him.
âpleaseâŚâ you utter the word so softly, overwrought and breathy, leaning your head against his, rubbing your temple against his hair as your hands find the back of his neck in an attempt to plead even further through your touch. even with how difficult it is to speak all that coherently now, you want him to believe just how much you mean this.
you try to think of a time that youâve wanted something so strongly, how it felt to have that pit in your gut with want and premature disappointment just to prepare yourself for not actually getting it. the nervousness, the longing. but nothing even comes close to what you feel now, under him, his warm skin against yours. the ache inside yourself is more than anything you can bear, with a stinging behind your eyes where stubborn tears threaten to form at just how much you want this.
âiâd let you do anything to meâŚâ you say it with such gentle conviction, like youâre surrendering completely- to control, to your desires, to the small bit of stubborn shame that still clung to your bones now falling away entirely- to him.
the look he gives you when he lifts his head up at last, gazing into your shiny, shimmering eyes, is nothing short of relief and full blown lust, letting you see your reflection in the dilated pupils of his irises.
his fingers slip right back down to your entrance, sliding inside, getting you to gasp out and arch your hips, your head falling to the pillows.
âyeah, i know, baby⌠i know.â
and when he finally lets that sharp steel graze along your inner thigh, using just enough pressure to pierce through that fragile, vulnerable skin? you flinch slightly from the sting and he coos against your mouth immediately, petting your cheek and whispering assurances of how itâll fade and heâll take care of you.
but thereâs a depraved edge to his tone of voice, one that sends a rush of adrenaline through your entire body, makes you lightheaded.
he slides down between your legs with grace, licking up the blood before it can drip down to the sheets with a hum that reverberates through to your very core. you canât help but tremble, exhaling a shaky breath as you watch with awe and reverence. your mouth hangs open just slightly, with your eyes half lidded as he meets your gaze, the evidence of his decadence at the edge of his lips.
heâs still holding the handle of the blade as he rises back up onto his knees, a dark glint in his eyes as he brings the sharp tip up to your exposed chest, letting it drag slow and light against your flesh- a gentle threat of whatâs whirling around in his abject mind.
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