⋆. 𐙚 ˚ Summary: After a bad fight with the AVTF, Dex looks to your apartment for help. He knows you work for the FBI, and that you're on his case, but can a man do when he's bleeding out? And you, curious despite your adherence to duty, help him out. Your lives begin to bleed together until they can't anymore, and you two meet in the middle. Though, it's not what either of you expect.
⋆. 𐙚 ˚ WC: 3.5k
⋆. 𐙚 ˚ Warnings: GN!reader, FBIAgent!Reader, Gun violence, mentions of death, brief descriptions of dead bodies, Blood and Violence, implied stalking, cocky Dex as usual, power play dynamic, enemies to lovers.
⋆. 𐙚 ˚ A/N: I've broken paragraphs up for easier reading <3. I'm so so happy I can finally post this!! Exams have been fucking me over lowk. Anyway, third chapter and a one-shot coming soon my loves! This fic is also posted on my Ao3!
Your nose wrinkled at the smell of copper. It stuck to your hair, your clothing from last night, and most damning of all—Poindexter. Where was he?
You shot awake, hands scrambling for purchase on the edge of the bathtub. White and unbearably sterile, the small space felt lonely without Dex's presence. You glanced around, taking in the blood that smeared into the linoleum floors. The once pearly-white porcelain of the tub. The shower curtains were still halfway off the hook. Slowly, you got out of the tub with aching bones, your phone ringing in the foyer where you'd dropped it in your encounter with him. Bullseye—Poindexter—Dex? The thought of using that name with such casualness made your stomach churn. But you had touched him. You had seen, in his eyes, he was nothing more but a man. Human. Your hand reached down to your back pocket, and a sharp curse tore out of your hoarse throat.
Of course the bastard took it back.
Again, your phone rang, and it vibrated on the floor hitting the baseboard every so often. You rushed to the foyer as fast as you could, your legs buzzing from falling asleep in such an odd position. You crouched to pick up the call, leaning up to the wall for proper balance. There was labored breathing on the other end—wheezy and old—your Director. You instinctively straightened out, even if he was on the other line, oblivious to your current condition. Everywhere stunk like city smog, no thanks to the broken window. Flimsy duct tape had been placed over it by Dex.
"Mornin' Starfall, there was a massacre at the new rendezvous," your Director informed, coughing hard. You ran your tongue over your teeth, holding back an I know. "You oughta get here soon as you can. Shit's all fucked. Fisk's on our asses again—thinkin' of askin' the CIA for help."
Your brows scrunched, and you ran a hand over your face, stifling a yawn. "CIA? Fuck does Fisk want CIA for? This case is ours. Governor McCaffery made sure of that."
"I got a meeting with Mrs. Fisk 'bout it. She's way more reasonable, lemme tell ya."
"Hmm."
Your Director sighed heavily on the other end, and you could picture the way he shook his head with disappointment. It wasn't the first time Fisk's gotten himself involved with the Feds. Wasn't the first time he made quick work of them, bending them to his will. You only hoped the mayor didn't have that in mind. You'd already weighed your options. Accept corrupt, blood-soaked money, or a cheap pay at Bel Aire Diner. You wondered if Fisk had a profile on you, as you did him. Your jaw clenched with irritation, words laced with restrained bite.
"I'll be there soon as I can. Tell Forensics not to touch anything, for the love of Christ."
"Tried. Didn't work. Fisk sent Cashman here to 'oversee the operations.'"
You pinched the bridge of your nose with a scoff. "Right, 'cause apparently years of training and experience isn't enough."
"Not for the mayor, no."
"Fucking-A. Okay, see you soon."
"Drive fast. I'll tell forensics to leave a few bodies untouched."
Your Director hung the phone up, yet you held the phone to your ear longer than necessary, as if waiting for another voice to come on. His. Anger coiled in your gut like the string of a violin tuning itself. Loosening. Tightening. You flexed your fist, balled it up, and held your breath, listening to the cry of Manhattan outside. Cars. People. Oblivious people. The longer Dex stayed in the public, the more chances innocent people had to die. His M.O. might've changed, but you remembered the photos. The attack on The Bulletin. That rage spread upward like wildfire.
Piece of shit.
You chucked your phone across the foyer into the messy living room, the device just barely landing on the couch facing the TV. Nose flaring, fists balling up again, you marched back into the bathroom to wash off everything. You peeled off your dress shirt and slacks, the fabric sliding off of you like dead weight. As you stepped into the shower, you kicked the shower curtain over the edge. You had no time to fix it. You turned each faucet the same direction, patience wearing thin. Lukewarm turned to hot, then to boiling. Maroon streaks dribbled down the walls of the bathtub and circled around your feet, falling into the drain. Shower water sprayed onto the dirty tiles and your soiled clothing. You closed your eyes, exhausted from washing your hair.
The case. AVTF. Fisk. The case.
Failure. AVTF. Failure.
Gone.
The words wouldn't stop repeating. Taunting. You rinsed your face under the water, placing your hands over your face as you sighed into your calloused, open palms. This was rotten work. You wished you never got transferred to the New York unit. You missed Quantico, visiting the sea when life got too overwhelming. Water clung to your lashes as you bat them, and you encircled a hand around your wrist. You replayed Dex's words, the question that threw you off kilter—lingered like the plague, waiting to infect.
"I didn't need saving. Do you?"
Maybe you did need saving. Not from him. Something more pathetic—hopeless.
𖣠
You adjusted the wallet in your back pocket, shoes causing the puddles in the road to splash. The ride on the subway couldn't rush away the stress you were under, the scrunch of your brows permanent. The debrief on the subway only worsened your migraine. A whole rack of bodies was left by Bullseye. You weren't surprised he'd only sustained a bullet wound. You took in the crime scene, the warehouse swarming with AVTF and FBI. You approached your team with a tight smile, your gaze shifting every now and then to officer Powell, who was speaking with a forensics officer. Well. Insulting a forensics officer. You wondered how it'd play out if Dex killed him in broad daylight. A necessary evil.
You froze at the thought, blinking hard to dislodge and forget it. The youngest agent, Darren, spoke up, frustrated. He had a busted lip and an odd quiver in his voice.
"Bullseye's the attacker, I mean. If we could just nab him already—"
"Then what?" You asked, crossing your arms. The agent beside him, Xiomara, turned her attention back to Darren. You threw your hands up in indignation. "That won't fix anything, Darren. He broke out once. He can do it again."
Darren pursed his lips and gestured his hands around, his voice rising. "Poindexter goes to the prison and stays in solitary confinement. It sends a message. Problem solved."
You huffed out a fake laugh. "Huh. If you've got such a brain, why aren't you team leader?"
"Oh fuck you. I was stationed here before you!"
"And I've been in the Bureau longer than you."
Xiomara tutted her lips, annoyed by the bantering. "¡Ay! C'mon Starfall, Fisk's killing us. If he brings in the CIA—"
"Don't call me Starfall, Xiomara," you cut in, interrupting her. "I never gave you that permission."
Xiomara's jaw went slack, startled by the bitterness in your words. She clutched her cross necklace and leaned closer, a gentle hand resting on your bicep. "Are you okay? You sound stressed, hun."
The question threw you off. The slow, almost maternal way Xiomara asked made you sick, and the 3 hours of sleep you got crashed down on you. Nonetheless, you nodded, forcing a lie out from between your teeth. You wanted to throw up last night's coffee. "Course I am. I feel great."
You could almost hear the intentional, mocking stretch of each syllable in your ear from Dex's voice. "Do you?"
Your eyes flicked down to her knuckles, bruised and red, then back to Darren's black eye. You slipped out of Xiomara's hold and swallowed a scoff. You didn't come here to be read. You fixed your posture and relaxed your facial muscles. Xiomara stepped away, though she still had questions. You clapped your hands before she could talk, and pointed at the warehouse.
"Alright, let's get some work done."
The duo fell into step behind you while you shoved past the AVTF officer blocking your way. You wanted to see the carnage in-person. The bodies. The precise anger. You wanted to find what so desperately compelled Dex to be who he was. The putrid stink of death had never bothered you as much as you thought it would. You reached for the recording device clipped onto your belt next to your badge, the soles of your shoes a hair too close to the paled fingers of victim no. 13, or that's at least what forensics labeled the guy as. An apple core had pierced through his eye, his AVTF helmet askew on his head.
Blood misted into the concrete, suggesting Dex had killed the officer from afar. Around victim no. 13 was a careful selection of the most brutal kills. The one that stuck out to you was the officer practically pebbled to death by broken brick, finished off with a pipe to the mouth, their jaw at an unnatural angle from the force of the shove. The sound of cursing and gagging chased your mind back to the present. You clutched the recorder in your hands tighter and crouched down in front of victim no. 13, balancing on the balls of your feet.
"A fuckin' apple core, now I've seen it all," Darren croaked out, actively pinching his nose from the smell. "How aren't you gaggin' from the smell?"
"Experience, Darren. Take notes."
One finger clicked the recorder on as you counted down from three. You brought the recorder close to your lips and sighed.
"Starfall reporting. It's October sixteenth, 2027. Lots of blood all around—huge massacre as usual when it comes to Bullseye. The attack occurred an estimated ten hours ago given the state of the bodies." You poked at the apple core slowly, with a pen that'd been in your pocket, amused. "Mr. Poindexter has a funny sense of humor, usin' an apple."
A joke entered your mind, tumbling out in a bored voice.
"He should've eaten more apples."
You hadn't meant to say that out loud.
Static silence droned into the recording, an awkward scoff leaving you when you realized no one laughed. Darren and Xiomara shared a look. You pulled yourself back up and went up the stairs, noting the blood streaking down each step. Dust collected on the steps from constant friction. Your team behind you had their notepads out, pencils moving fast as you continued your verbal observations. Darren got pulled away by the tech analyst, while Xiomara trailed behind you with a frown, mumbling prayers. She got queasy around the dead.
"Same M.O., same brutality. Nothing much to add here in comparison with the other crime scenes. We found large shipments of firepower meant for the AVTF to use for training and combat purposes. I figure Poindexter wanted to take his own shot at the Northern Star sinking. Daredevil's set a trend among the vigilantes lately to wreck anything Fisk associated."
You paused, a smile pulling at your lips. Good. Xiomara made eye contact with you, her lazy note-taking halted while she tried to form a profile of you. A forensics officer cut between you both, and you let out a breath you'd been holding. Another set of stairs and the floor offered more bodies. Fresher and with a baton impaling one guy's head. His mouth was open, mid-scream, his body thrown into an uncomfortable angle with a deployed taser next to his leg.
Having nothing new to add, you signed off on the recording and attached the device back onto your hip. You approached Xiomara and positioned yourself next to her. She still murmured about redemption. About heaven for the damned. Darren hurried back to complete the triangle.
Darren started, clearing his throat, "Our tech analyst's already trying to find more details on Bullseye. Where he lives, if he works anywhere, fake passports, the usual."
"Our tech analyst should try harder," Xiomara grumbled, covering her knuckles with her other hand. "He's a wanted fugitive with distinctive scars. It can't be that hard to find him."
You nodded, dipping your head slightly as you thought of what to add to the conversation. Poindexter was a complicated man. His kills—the sprees—it was a performance. You'd heard word on the street about Bullseye sympathizers. You'd joined the forum the second you were assigned to the case, but you never cared to contribute. Your eyes drifted from the gray flooring to the broken window, Buck Cashman right in your view. He looked at you with suspicion, hiding it behind a smile that never reached his eyes.
Feigning friendliness, you waved 'hello,' matching his stare with one of your own. Buck pivoted after a minute, going to his car a block down. The tension in your chest loosened, calloused fingers tracing the goosebumps forming on your skin. You blinked, the scent of concrete floating back into focus. Your voice caught up to the conversation before your brain did.
"Director say anything about if we catch him?"
"Turned over to our best interrogator and we pray for the best," Darren sighed out, ruffling his hair. "We'll be off the case."
"Poindexter isn't gonna answer to that guy," you commented. "He's specific 'bout who he wants."
Xiomara waved you and Darren off. "Gosh, I'd be euphoric if he even states his name."
That got all three of you chuckling, a small smile on your face. It didn't have to be that way. You could get answers. You could go back to Quantico after that, fuck if you care if Poindexter wasted away in prison. You wrapped your arms around Xiomara and Darren's shoulders, giving them a good squeeze before bringing them in closer to whisper.
"If we catch him, I'll pull rank so we get to interrogate the bastard."
Xiomara's face screwed up. Rank was a last measure; a desperate tether to having control. Daren beamed however, and wiggled out of your grasp at the same time Xiomara did. He barreled questions at you with the excitement of an amateur at their first job and you patted the younger man's back. Xiomara scrambled for words, a breathless laugh leaving her.
"Why? Fisk'll stay on our backs if we don't get reassigned."
"You're kiddin' right? We'd get paid so much more," Darren exclaimed to Xiomara, already hopping around like he'd gotten the aforementioned pay raise.
Xiomara rolled her eyes and a glare settled onto her face. She gave you a side glance and pulled Darren away, gritting out curses and arguments that it was 'downright reckless.' That they didn't even know how to catch him. You pocketed your hands into your FBI windbreaker, smirking, making a mental note to stop by the film store later. You were running low on cassette tapes.
𖣠
The sun dragged downward like the bags of groceries and empty tapes in your hands. Your work bag added extra bulk you didn't want. It was only a few miles more from the store to your apartment. Bel Aire was nearby, you thought. I should stop for dinner. You hadn't eaten in the last eight hours, consumed by processing photos and driving to different homes to deliver condolences for people you gave no shits about. The stench of the warehouse lingered in your nose like cocaine.
You tried to weasel your hand through the loops of each shopping bag to open the door. A kind man approached, holding the door open. You didn't see his face. You stumbled into the familiar eatery and threw an insincere thanks at him, not even caring to properly give him a kind smile. The smell of coffee and greasy late-night food elicited a growl from your stomach.
Settling down in your spot by the door, you placed the shopping bags into the space beside you, some of them under the table next to your feet. A waitress—couldn't have been older than twenty—came up to the booth to take your order. She grinned, flashing her teeth as her pen clicked on her notepad.
"Good evenin', what can I get you today? Any drinks or appetizers to start?"
"Just the steak, please."
"How would ya want the steak done?"
"Whatever's best."
The waitress hummed, pressing her lips together. She scribbled the request down on top of a mess of orders. "What sides would ya like?"
"I'll take potato wedges. I understand you're closing down for the night soon?"
"At two A.M., yes. What drink would ya like?"
"Just a—"
"A coffee," Dex purred, sliding into the booth seat across of yours. He grinned up at the waitress, ignoring the guffawed expression on your face. "Black. Make it two."
The waitress blinked a few times, subconsciously shifting to the stand at your side, putting as much distance as she could between herself and Dex. That made you smirk, seeing how Dex's carefully executed civilian facade faltered for a half-second. The darkness in the hood of his eyes—frustration. The waitress wiped her nose and cleared her throat.
"Would ya like anything else, sir?"
This time, you cut Dex off.
"He'll take an omelette."
Dex perked up and leaned forward, wanting to change his order. He'd tried the omelette last night—it sucked. The waitress now stood closer to Dex than you.
"Oh—are you changing—?"
You frowned at the waitress and Dex, the roughness in your voice surfacing. "The omelette."
The waitress nodded and murmured the usual spiel about your food being out in a minute. She tucked her notepad back into her apron and rushed off, her fingers tapping her pen anxiously. You crossed your arms and leaned back, your teeth grinding together so hard you thought you'd taste bone dust. Dex removed the baseball cap on his head with a psychotic grin on his face.
"That's no way to treat a waitress, Starfall."
"Don't call me that." you hissed, pushing your back off the wall of the booth seat. "You've got nerve showing up here right now. When I finally get a fucking second to eat."
Dex shrugged, pouting a bit now. "I held the door open for you."
You paused, replaying the interaction you two supposedly had fifteen minutes ago. The hands laid flat on the table in faux surrender looked the same as the ones that had wrapped around the door handle. Piero Piccioni's Easy Lovers played softly throughout the diner while you observed Dex, adding to the profile in your head. In the kitchen, the cooks spoke in all sorts of accents, and the city outside waned into the honey light of the lamp-post. Dex continued to let his eyes wander over the curves of your face; the slope of your nose. He landed on the shape of your eyes, watching the way your irises flit side to side, conflicted.
"Are you stalking me, Poindexter?"
The question hung in the air, heavy and electrifying. Dex shook his head, the seriousness in his voice almost convincing you that this run-in was nothing more than coincidence. That him showing up was just some funny move orchestrated by the universe.
"'M scouting."
You raised a brow, uncrossing your arms to unwrap your utensils from the carefully folded napkins. "What for? New targets?"
Dex just smiled again, and directed his attention to the waitress. The young woman placed down the food, then the two coffees along with a few creamer cups and packets of sugar. Dex nodded at her and winked, the word thanks slipping from his lips like smooth butter. You recoiled into yourself, trying to ignore the admiration simmering in your gut at how easily he slid into the role of normalcy. Your stomach ached from the emptiness now, and you picked up your knife and fork to dig into your steak. Dex prepared his coffee the way you liked to drink it. The both of you enjoyed the silence of the diner now, and you hummed in delight, earning a head tilt from Dex.
"Their steak really that good, or are you just hungry?"
"Gosh," you exclaimed, setting the knife down to lap up the excess juice on your lip. "Shit—both. It's amazing."
"I see," Dex commented monotonously.
"That's all you have to say? No 'Ooh, it does look tasty'?"
He took a sip of his coffee and set it down next to the napkins, his fingers poking at the knife on the plate to grasp it. As if he were bored, Dex exasperatedly sighed and looked right at you. His eyebrows rose, crows feet creasing in the corners of his eyes.
"Ooh, it does look tasty."
You shift the knife away from his hand.
"Fucking weirdo."
"Gee, thanks, pal."
You accusingly pointed the fork in your hand at Dex's face, your voice clipped.
"I'm not your 'pal,' Dex."
"Dex?" He repeated, feigning surprise. "That's new."
"It's easier than Poindexter. Less syllables. I waste less of my breath."
⋆. 𐙚 ˚ Summary: After a bad fight with the AVTF, Dex looks to your apartment for help. He knows you work for the FBI, and that you're on his case, but can a man do when he's bleeding out? And you, curious despite your adherence to duty, help him out. Your lives begin to bleed together until they can't anymore, and you two meet in the middle. Though, it's not what either of you expect.
⋆. 𐙚 ˚ WC: 3.3k
⋆. 𐙚 ˚ Warnings: GN!reader, FBIAgent!Reader, Gun violence, mentions of death, Dex kills someone, implied stalking, unresolved tension?, cleaning his wound is strangely intimate, close space, reader has internal conflicts, Dex is a cocky bastard, reader is kinda rough, reader and dex both smoke.
⋆. 𐙚 ˚ A/N: I've broken paragraphs up for easier reading <3. I might write a second chapter too, but lmk fs if I shouldd. I'm so down bad for Dex help..also posted on my Ao3!
Guns. It was always guns.
Blood seeped out of Dex's side as he staggered over the dead bodies lining the halls. He kicked a helmet on the way to the stairs, swallowing a gag that threatened to climb his throat. He ripped off his mask and shoved it into the empty holster attached snug around his chest, his breathing labored as he ran his tongue over his split lip. Dex trudged down the building's stairs, each step reverberating a sharp sting into his bullet hole in his side. Boots heavy on the concrete, Dex finally reached the door. He threw it open, hazel eyes fluttering shut for a moment. Only for a moment, he allowed himself to breathe in the sickly city air without a grimace.
Dex pushed off the wall he was leaning on and began his descent to his apartment. He stopped short at the thought of ruining the well-maintained facade he had going. Tony, a good boy, and a decent man who loved thy neighbor. Tony, a good man who fed the cat, Mr. Meowgi, every morning, and flashed his most friendly smile at the cat's owner like he'd never seen a sweeter thing. He wasn't sure if he was searching for praise or a flicker of a life he gave up ten years ago. Either way, he scratched out the idea of heading to his apartment. Too risky.
A crooked smile graced his lips now. Fisk would tighten his security. Go on the air and condemn these new terrorist attacks—these crimes of the highest degree—all in the name of resisting his wonderful Safer Streets Initiative. But Dex gave less of a shit about the movement. He liked what he did. He woke up every morning yearning for it; a little violence to help him sleep. Keep the buzzing out of his ears; the flashes of betrayal and manipulation he was a victim to and perpetrated. The FBI would continue their fruitless investigation over his work—his art. One by one, each officer leveled the playing field. One by one, each dead body counted toward the grand finale. The turkey of the feast. One good deed would fix it all; make him whole again.
One good deed, huh?
Dex continued on his lost path to wherever his feet led him. As he turned the corner, an AVTF officer responding to the distress call sent out earlier paused. The both of them stared at each other, waiting. Dex's fists tightened, his fingers itching to grab the throwing knife on his belt. At the same time, the officer reached for his gun and cocked it, aiming it at Dex's chest. Just before he could fire a shot, Dex pulled out the throwing knife and spun it around his palm, the blade curving through the dense, rainy air to sink right into the center of the officer's forehead. The officer's gun clattered onto the wet concrete and their body slumped next.
Annoyed, Dex bent down to take his knife back. The weapon left with a weird squelch, blood coating the sharpened blade. He wiped it off on his cargos and continued on his merry way, stepping over the dead body. The former agent retrieved the notebook he carried in his back pocket. He flipped a few pages, red fingerprints marking themselves on the off-white paper. Dex's attention narrowed in on your photo, your address written in blocky, military handwriting next to it, along with your position in the FBI. His other palm pressed against the open wound on his side that shined under the lamplight. Dex's shirt practically glued itself to the bullet wound, offering more discomfort than anything else.
The stars must've aligned tonight. Dex only had to lift up his head to see your apartment complex. The place was decent enough. The garden lining the front was managed through the community get-together every month. Your balcony twinkled like a glimmer of salvation, the fairy lights calling out to Dex who pathetically stood leaning against the nearest alleyway entrance.
Without hesitation, he rounded the back of the building, using his good arm to yank the fire escape stairs down with a grunt. He limped up each creaking step, biting back a whimper of pain. His body began to tremble from the loss of blood. Dex craned his head over the edge to check the parking lot for your car. He cursed under his breath when he saw the empty spot, his abs tensing as he nearly dug his fingers into the bullet hole.
He arrived at the railings of your balcony with newfound fervor, gritting his teeth while hauling himself over the edge. Dex almost laughed at the welcome rug placed in front of the door. Your balcony was minimally decorated otherwise, only a foldable chair with a cushion on it to establish your homeliness. If he wasn't actively dying, Dex would've entertained the idea of playing house by taking off his boots to place them next to your sports sneakers. Instead, Dex teetered backward until he brushed up against the cool railings to ready his right shoulder for contact. He charged at your window, the sound of glass breaking piercing his ears. He crashed into the floor of your apartment, the faint, lingering scent of the fragrance you used hitting his nostrils immediately.
Carefully, he hauled himself up. Dex imposed on your living space like a stray cat who just wandered in, cataloging whatever his eyes lay upon. The empty coffee pot. The envelopes stacking up on the counter coupled with manila folders no doubt filled with his work. His blood smeared on the hardwood and carpet as he hobbled in the direction of what he thought was your bathroom.
He froze when he heard the turn of your doorknob, his shoulders squaring to appear more intimidating. Dex lowered his hand to the belt his knife was in, the other shifting to the ballpoint pen attached with his notebook. Dex could feel his knees buckling—vision spotting black—body slowing. He fluttered his lashes when you walked into your apartment, exhausted from a hard day of work, and an over-the-phone talking-to from your Director about Mayor Fisk's growing impatience with the FBI's incompetency on the AVTF murders.
Media like The Bulletin and The Daily Bugle wrote haphazardly on the delicate subject, nothing more and nothing less than what would sell the most papers. The FBI director had called everyone assigned on the case into the conference room the next day and publicly humiliated one of your colleagues, just to fire and assign you the role of team leader. The head of the case that had wormed its way into every part of your day and burrowed deep into that disturbingly fascinated hum that left your lips at new crime scenes. You'd been so caught up with mumbling the first few lines of the draft to your report that Dex's presence went unnoticed.
Dex remained silent, watching you settle in with the curiosity of a friend kept at arm's length. He'd gathered the obvious information about you: your full name, previous occupations, and educational level. Here, in your apartment, he got to pick you apart with the languid stare of a man starved of a distraction. Every micro-expression and every bit of furniture spoke to him; welcomed him. With your back turned to Dex, you removed your work shoes and ran a hand through your hair, ruffling it at the nape to alleviate the growing headache in the back of your head. You stretched your arms up, slowly rolling them behind your back until you heard the soft crack of your worn joints.
"Hello there, stranger."
On instinct, you dropped your keys and pulled your handgun from the holster belted to your slacks. With a sharp, drilled turn, you clicked the safety off and clenched your jaw. You used the bottom of your foot to kick the front door closed, the deadlock rattling against the force. Dex sighed, his lips curling up in amusement. You, on the other hand, were fuming. Anger coursed throughout your veins like wildfire. Dread doused it before the fire could engulf you completely, instead leaving a nauseous feeling in your throat. He reeked of gunpowder and blood.
Each second of silence stretched between you two like a taut wire ready to snap. Several choices passed your mind: Call the Bureau. Call your Director. Shoot him in the head and call it in. In the academy, you were forewarned by the newer behavioral analysts about Benjamin Poindexter; perfect agent turned monster. An excessive profile, possibly, but at the brunt of it you were more concerned with your life.
"Poindexter," You whispered through gritted teeth.
Dex hummed, bowing his head in salutation. "Agent."
Judgment rested at the barrel of the handgun still trained onto him, clinical and second-nature. You recalled the sheer number of bodies he's dropped since escaping Rikers—since the Fisk's lost their grip on him. You swallowed hard, taking a tentative step closer to Dex. He held his hands up in surrender, showing that he wielded no weapon to harm you. The wound leaking underneath his torn compression shirt worried you. It quelled the initial fear you had, and you deemed him weak. And yet, the man in front of you was capable of the impossible. An aim that rivaled supernatural ability. A lack of remorse that reflected a severe absence of empathy. He ticked all the boxes of someone that should be dead.
You tilted the handgun to the left, a silent order to drop all weapons onto the ground. Dex tilted his head back, ordering you to drop the gun instead. Unrelenting, you aggressively directed the gun in the direction of the ground again. The soles of his boots dragged across the floor as he approached you, his abs flexing under the sudden pressure of the barrel. Your nose scrunched up in disgust. His hair was matted with concrete powder, floppy and dry under the overhead light in your apartment. Shards of glass from your broken window decorated the top of his head and cheeks. The shit-eating grin on his face never wavered despite the subtle twitch of his brows, and the tightening of his fists. You still hadn't fired a round into his chest, and it made Dex smile all that more.
"You gonna put that gun down and help me or should I keep tracking blood all over your floors?"
"Put your weapons on the floor first, Poindexter."
You aimed the gun at his belt. Dex finally gave in, tossing the knife onto the carpet like it was loose change. It landed upright, an etched out 'Fisk You' on the blade. He stared down at you, his lips drawn into a thin line. Dex let you roughly turn him around. You tapped your ankle against each of his like he was some sort of perp and patted him down, removing the notebook off to tuck it into your own back pocket. Could help at work. Dex lazily turned his head over his shoulder, trying to watch you through his peripheral. You pushed the gun into the curve of his back, eliciting a quiet huff that bordered on agony. His spinal injury—the scar—still sensitive.
"You're going to walk to the bathroom down the hall to the right, and clean yourself up with the aid kit under the sink. Do you understand?"
Dex's Adam's apple bobbed in his throat. "Yeah, I get it."
You steered him in the direction of the hallway, your arm wrapping around his waist to steady him. Dex's breathing changed, minuscule but alarming. He heaved now, gloved hands pawing at your hand to move it lower against his wound. You seized up with repulsion at the way Dex's blood stained your clean palm. His head began to snap down, arms going slack at his sides. He leaned on you entirely now, his knees buckling.
"Few more steps, Poindexter," you assured, grunting as you walked backwards into the closed door of your bathroom. He managed a hum, the sound coming out more like a choked gurgle.
You stared at your gun a moment, then discarded it with a toss. It hit the door of your bedroom and dropped with a loud thud that made Dex jolt awake. His hands grasped at the doorframe of your bathroom while you switched the arm that held him up to open the door. You bent your knees slightly for more support as his weight pressed on you and carefully moved the both of you into the room. Dex escaped your grasp and collapsed onto the edge of the bathtub, the shower curtain flying off the hooks. You pinched the bridge of your nose at the way Dex seemed to lose all ability to even turn his head.
"Shit."
"I gotta—"
"Shut your mouth."
You threw open the cabinet door, crouching, your wet hands further destroying the clean space you once had. Dex's blood smeared everywhere you touched. The toilet paper. The backup gun taped to the side. You chewed on your bottom lip when you found the aid kit. Dex tried to pull himself up into a sitting position, but sank back into the bathtub. He propped one leg over the edge, the other folded up to his chest. He whimpered as his fingers brushed over his side, eyes closing while his head fell back.
He opened them again upon seeing you remove your blazer and roll up your sleeves, and he filed away the way your hands were soiled with him. You swung a leg over the edge of the tub, then the next, lowering yourself until your knees rubbed the porcelain floor. Dex shimmied his hips to give you better access, and you pushed his shirt up past his abdomen.
"Officer shot you point blank?"
"Mhm," Dex answered, his eyes trained onto your lashes. He chuckled, "Don't worry, I got him after."
You purposefully placed the alcohol wipes right over the wound just to see the way his brows knit together. His voice aggravated you—grated your nerves like nails on a chalkboard. Because of Dex, you were up to the neck in work. Because of him, Fisk paid attention to your every move. Kept sending his right-hand man Buck to your office for debriefs. Dex bit down hard on his lip, his stomach tensing as he held back a loud groan.
"Goddamnit!"
Feeling slightly bad, you gently wiped off the remaining blood in a ring around the bullet hole. As you set the dirty wipes down, you rummaged through the kit for the needle and thread. You weren't a medical professional of any kind—just wanted to stop the bleeding. Dex observed the different things sitting on the bathtub shelves. Shampoo. Conditioner. Nothing special. Your voice guided him back to reality. Him bleeding out, you knelt before him with aching knees chafing porcelain, trying to fix him up. Dex would've considered the whole ordeal domestic if it weren't for the way the needle stabbed his raw skin; how your other hand held him down to ground his flinching body.
"You've been a pain in my ass, you know that? Then you come stumbling into my apartment, needing my help. I should turn you in."
Dex's head tilted at the gruffness in your words. The uncertainty of each syllable that left your mouth, as if you weren't sure whether you needed to be professional or let loose. He wanted to unravel the string that held your insults back on a leash—words you didn't dare say.
"But you won't," He challenged.
You scoffed, "You don't know that."
"I do. The second you took that step toward me, you weren't going to."
He snaked his calloused hand around your wrist. His grip was tight, holding you in place like you did him. The hand stitching his skin together stilled, and you met his half-lidded gaze with a glare. He cast a dismissive glance at the mirror, then back at you, a smirk appearing on his chapped, injured lips. A shiver traveled up your spine, and you broke eye contact.
"You didn't shoot to kill, agent. You're forgettin' I was with the FBI too."
"We're taught to incapacitate, not kill." You hissed, and Dex released your wrist. He'd pulled the string. You chewed on the inside of your cheek, recalling your training. Stay calm. Stay leveled. Control the situation. But Dex's accusation singed your ego—humiliated the careful facade you put on. Your Director's talking-to echoed in your mind, taunting you that Dex was right. You leaned forward, your voice dropping to a cruel whisper, "You were never an FBI agent, Poindexter. We save lives. You can't even save yourself."
His eyes darkened at the insult. Dex felt your breath hot on the shell of his ear. Smelled the scent of your hair. Between the broken window and the thread, he'd decided he wanted war. You reluctantly picked up on stitching Dex, while he mulled over your words like it slapped him across the face. When you finished, he craned his head up, nudging his head to the side. His lips brushed your temple as you turned your head away from his burning gaze.
"You've got it backwards, Agent," Dex murmured. "I didn't need saving. Do you?"
You swallowed hard, the roughly whispered question now choking every witty response you had lined up. You sniffled and searched through the aid kit for the roll of gauze. Dex, satisfied with his victory, gladly lifted his back off the cool tub to help you out. He extended his arms dangerously close to your back pocket as your hands smoothed the gauze over his waist, your own calloused fingertips leaving dots of warmth on his body.
You inched away with a spent sigh, your shoulders sagging with the weight of tomorrow. Pretending your prime suspect, the killer of your case, hadn't been inside your apartment. You rested your throbbing back against the bathtub, the surface soothing over the exerted muscles. You eyed the pack of cigarettes and a lighter next to your thigh, thrown over to you by Dex, who'd nabbed it off a dead AVTF officer. He gestured at the pack with his own burning cigarette.
You dragged your tongue over your lip in lieu of a fucking asshole, your gaze catching on your hands. His crimson clung to your skin like a dye too stubborn to wash out. You wiped it off on your slacks, a sad attempt to remove Dex from your conscience. Another tap at your ankle with his combat boot was enough to feed the temptation that began to stoke itself deep in your stomach. To know him, even if it were highly unprofessional—a disgrace to everything you've worked hard for.
Silently, you opened the pack and brought the cigarette to your lips, using the dying lighter to ignite it. As you breathed in the nicotine, the furrow in your brows came undone, and you unfolded your legs, leaning back further into the other end of the tub. You mirrored Dex's pose without thinking, down to the way he let his head hang to the side.
Your heart stuttered on how expressive those hazel eyes of his were now—unguarded and trained on you like a vice. Like he needed you to see him. Really get him. To unravel the string he's looped tight around your finger. Disgust mixed with morbid fascination. 'He needs a compass,' your colleague's voice echoed, cutting through the puffs of smoke. You exhaled slowly, the smoke curling past Dex's scratched cheek.
The two of you studied each other. He memorized every bit of you he could, while you tried to focus solely on his face. The dull buzz of your bathroom overrode your thoughts until sleep washed over you, and you faintly heard him climbing out of your tub to leave. A delirious plea—please, you're hurt—snagged itself behind your teeth and dissolved into your tongue, never to be said aloud.
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