summary: it's exam season. you and peter take turns on night patrol to maximise rest and productivity for your exams, but some mornings can't help but be slow.
wc: 0.7k
Peter is awoken by the way the mattress shifts next to him. He sighs, a hand instinctively finding your waist as he blinks slowly, trying to ease himself back into sleep. “Y’okay baby?” Peter asks, his words slurred with sleepiness. You only respond with a hum, and Peter predicts that you’re not fully awake either.
He truly feels for you.
The two of you have been spending your full days studying for finals, and last night you had taken the patrol shift. Despite the fact that you’ve been alternating nights, Peter had been fast asleep when you returned from your rounds last night, so he guesses that it was a long haul. He wonders if you’re hurt, but the thought is out of his head as soon as it arrives.
Peter’s hand slips off your back when you push yourself off your stomach, kneeling next to him on the mattress. Peter groans quietly, listening as you rub at your eyes tiredly. Neither of your alarms have gone off, so Peter knows it’s still early, but he still can’t help but worry that you’ve woken up so early. Did something go wrong last night? If everything had gone to plan, you’d probably still be asleep because of how tired you were, and Peter would have instantly turned the alarm off when he woke up, letting you sleep for an extra hour before waking you up with soft kisses pressed to your forehead.
When Peter finally opens his eyes, he needs to blink a few times to orient himself. His face morphs into a confused expression when he doesn’t find you next to him, and he flips over onto his back, tangling his legs in the sheets as he pushes himself up into a seated position. Peter groans, kicking the sheets off his legs and immediately getting up to find you. Though his movements are slow, he still makes his way to the bathroom, knocking on the door and calling out “Everything okay baby?” Your boyfriend’s gravelly morning voice sounds through the door as you observe yourself in the mirror.
You open the door, smiling at the sight of Peter. His eyes themselves are enough to tell you just how tired he is, so you tilt your head to the side when he brings you into a hug, murmuring “Go back to bed, honey, it’s still early.”
Peter doesn’t budge for a long moment, softening in the hug when you run a hand through his hair. “Come on, go back to sleep otherwise I’ll go back to mine next time I patrol.” Peter grunts, pulling back from the hug to look at you. His face is loud in telling you he disagrees with those words, and despite your light threat, he asks “How come you’re awake?”
You shrug, mumbling “I’m just sore. Think I’ve got some bruising but it’s fine.”
Peter frowns, fingers grasping the hem of your oversized sleep shirt that you’ve stolen from him, but you place your hands over his, repeating “Go back to bed.” Your boyfriend shakes his head. “Whole point of you staying with me during exam season is for convenience. How is it convenient for me to go sleep when you’ve been injured?”
“I just want you to start the day feeling energised.” You explain, but Peter easily begins tugging your shirt up again. You raise your arms up to help him, swallowing thickly when he says “And I just want to make sure you’re okay.”
He scans your skin from head to toe for any discolouration, lightly pressing his fingers on areas he thinks are bruised, watching your reaction. “Nothing hurts badly.” You tell him, and he nods slowly, offering you his t-shirt again. “Come back to bed, then.”
Peter leads you out of the bathroom, and you settle down next to him on the mattress, sighing in satisfaction when he brings you close to him, pressing his chest to your back. To your luck, just as your eyes begin blinking shut, a loud alarm fills the room. You groan in annoyance, but Peter quickly reaches a hand out to turn off the alarm, mumbling “Just today. We deserve it.”
SUMMARY. after a long time of being forgotten, peter parker shockingly meets someone who remembers him: a girl he used to see in high school. but their relationship doesn't start off with sunshine and rainbows; they will have to learn to choose each other, even when it's the harder thing to do.
WORD COUNT. 17.4k
CONTENT. post no way home. female reader. dual pov. hurt / comfort (emotional & physical). angst with hopeful ending (blame the trailer for having angsty vibes). both peter and reader are sad. peter needs a hug. peter carries reader while swinging. loneliness and finding the one person who understands. a lot of crying. canon-typical violence. reader gets a gunshot wound. blood. explosion. death (of no one named). crime organization. reader has to fight at some point (i tried). not beta read. home-related title yay.
NOTES. i really hope you like this. let me know your thoughts in the comments / reblogs / my inbox! also let me know if i'm missing any tags. english isn't my first language, and i've never been to new york. if there are any inaccuracies, consider it the mcu version of the city. the gif is by @manny-jacinto
it was a rainy morning, dark clouds had covered the sky, and the atmosphere was melancholic. you had just stepped out of the book cafe you usually went to study or read in, it was a hidden gem in the ever-crowded streets of new york city, usually quiet and peaceful. this time, you’d just paid a visit to buy a drink with some pastries.
today’s gloomy weather felt right to you, somehow, it spoke to your soul and fit your mood. you’d stuffed the pastries you’d bought into your bag, and you were going to walk around a little bit, holding your drink in one hand, your umbrella in the other. you thought you might sit somewhere, maybe go to a park after walking for twenty or so minutes, you enjoyed the smell of rain mixing with earth to bring life to the world.
and that’s when you saw him.
he was standing at the other side of the road, wearing a simple hoodie, getting wet from the rain. an expression on his face as gloomy as the weather. he’d grown, his face had taken a sharper shape, his hair had curled on the tips from meeting with water.
peter parker, the boy from your ap chemistry class, from days long forgotten, and much less destructive.
you froze, your gaze set on his face, which had been painted in subtle and few scars, and bent downward from either the rain getting into his eyes, or life. the regular noise of the city was reduced to background buzzing in your ears, all the pedestrians walking past you, and the people waiting to cross roads around peter had turned blurry and faceless, the cars passing by had become trails of colors. the boy, or perhaps now man, you had just noticed, was someone you’d never thought you’d see again.
peter parker had been the smartest student in the class you took together, you used to keep notes and read ahead before every lesson, and he’d come sleep-deprived, busy himself with unrelated trinkets, and answer every unexpected question coming his way correctly. later, when you learned that he was spiderman, you realised he must’ve been so tired and out-of-it every day for saving lives and fighting crime.
you had learned of his superhero activities, like everyone else in the world. you didn’t use to see him outside of your shared lecture hours, not because you were actively avoiding him, fate just hadn’t coincided a conversation between you two. after you’d passed the course and stopped seeing peter entirely, you hadn’t busied your mind with thoughts of him, until that incident with mysterio. learning that he’d been trying to help people every step of the way, back when you used to see him, had changed your view of him.
and then, suddenly, no one remembered anymore. you saw it all happen. you saw the sky shatter and shadows watch the earth through its cracks. you saw what you could only describe as hundreds of aliens preying on your planet. you knew spiderman fought to save the world from their clutches. yet when it was all over, no one remembered the hell-torn skies. or peter parker.
no one remembered he was spiderman. no one remembered he was peter parker. no one remembered peter parker was. no one from your old high school, not even his best friend, not even his girlfriend. they all looked at you as if you spoke of a ghost, he was a painted over memory, he’d escaped from the weak grasps of the growing brains of the youth and the ever-tired minds of the grown.
he’d even escaped from records and photos, like how short-lived cherry blossoms disappeared in a week, as if trees had never been pink. like how spring never lasted. you’d questioned whether you’d made him up, if something was wrong with you. but how could you make up a whole person, that you simply never had a relationship with? he wasn’t an imaginary friend, he had never been a friend.
trying to catch a glimpse of his existence had been like trying to catch smoke with bare hands. and yet, now, he was standing right in front of you, waiting to cross roads. waiting to come towards you.
the lights turned green for pedestrians, and peter snapped out of his stillness, he gained motion, he slowly came closer. people around you made noises indicating they were annoyed at your inaction, but you could barely hear any of them. you were focused completely on one person only.
he crossed the road, and started walking the opposite way from where you had been nailed to the ground, unable to take your eyes off him.
no, don’t go. i must know. i must talk.
you ran after him, forcefully making yourself a way amongst bodies covered in layers of clothing. you closed your umbrella, so it wouldn’t get tangled in others’. you caught up to peter, and grabbed his arm.
he turned instantly, gripping your arm in return, a shocked expression on his face, ready to take you down, had you posed a threat. he looked into your eyes; questioning, confused, hesitant… sorrowful? how had he grown so solemn? how had he lived forgotten?
“peter?” you asked, “peter parker? is that you?”
his eyes widened, grip loosened, lips parted. he looked completely dumbfounded, drops of water dripping down strands of his hair, and the tip of his nose. he searched for something in your eyes, just silently thinking. trying to process, you assumed.
he opened his mouth to talk, and his breath hitched.
“you…” he started, seemingly talking feeling like labor to him, “you know who i am?”
you couldn’t help giving him a sincere smile, he really was peter parker. the boy from your class who was remembered by no one. he was real.
“i was in the same ap chemistry class as you in high school,” you explained, he might not have remembered you, as you’d never interacted outside of topics regarding course materials, “if you don’t remember.”
“no, no,” said peter, his voice still laced with shock, and a tune that dropped a tiny piece of despair into your chest, “i remember. you were the smartest student in class.”
“that’s… debatable,” you said, your surprise clearly read from your face.
“it wasn’t,” he said, defensive, “everyone borrowed your notes, and you always had the correct answers.”
“so did you,” you said softly, the bitter taste of nostalgia repainted with a blue hue catching up to you, tightening your chest, placing a lump in your throat. “what happened, peter?” you asked, “why have you disappeared?”
peter closed his mouth, and his grip slightly hardened, he hadn’t let your arm go. you hadn’t let his go, either.
he lowered his head, and fixed his gaze on the grey stone ground. you couldn’t quite name the emotions you saw in his eyes, but they made you tear up. what must it have been like to suddenly cease existing? what must he have been through? what must he have thought, watching his chosen family from afar, like a vampire looking at a mirror, erased from his own reflection?
the cloudy weather truly felt fit for the day, maybe peter had been feeling it too, today. raindrops fell on earth like shattered glass pieces, you thought you might’ve been bleeding with your umbrella down, but peter wasn’t, was his skin thicker?
“would you like to sit down somewhere, peter?” the tale must have been long, how else could a person, and a rift in the atmosphere, be erased from the minds of billions? “like a bench at the park, or maybe my place?”
he looked deep into your eyes, thinking.
“okay,” he said at last, determination adorning his words now, “we can. we can,” he said while nodding.
“okay,” you repeated after him, and finally let his arm go.
────── 𓆩˚.⋆🕸⋆.˚𓆪 ──────
peter had been on his way to his small apartment, by himself, as always, after another long, sleepless night, that rainy morning. clouds had covered the sky, obscuring the sun, as if to match the weather inside his ribcage. the sun hadn’t shone on him since it had seen space ripped apart because of him, for his mistakes.
it was a day the same as any other; he was walking in the crowd, unseen without a mask, faceless. then, someone he hadn't sensed had touched him, must have been because no harm was intended, yet he'd felt alarmed.
a girl, he'd realized, a familiar face. that wasn't strange, he was used to seeing people he used to know, what was strange was... the look you had in your eyes, almost like you recognized him. a kind of tiny beam of light in your irises, aimed at him.
and then you called out his name.
the world tilted. he felt as if hit by a shockwave, rolling backwards, losing the tightness of his grip on reality, on you. he’d been completely dumbfounded, he could barely process what was happening. someone remembered him. you remembered him. you knew.
he looked you over again, he remembered, too. he remembered how you sat at the front seat, carefully trailing the teacher with your eyes, focus unbreakable. you didn’t use to look his way unless he was asking or answering a question related to the course, he wouldn’t think you would recognize him under normal circumstances, without happenings made foggy through magic, let alone when the whole world has left him behind. the whole multiverse.
he couldn’t get out of the shock he’d been thrown into, not even enough to wonder the why, the how, or think of the implications of the possibility that someone(s) might not have forgotten. he had been erased even from stone and paper, ink had evaporated, computers had lost their binary numbers. human memories couldn’t even be held, they must’ve been so easily broken apart and mended without wholeness again, didn’t people always forget things, anyway?
that had been hard to accept, of course. the fact that the feelings people reserved for him were fragile and unresistant, that they could be so fully erased, that they could be erased at all. but you remembered, was your mind stronger, or was it the impression he’d left on you? was it you, or him?
he hadn’t even been able to ponder if this was a good thing at all, if he should be worried, if he should accept this, how he should react. the past year had been so soul-crushing, so lonely, that after slightly getting over the initial shock that had hit him, holding back his tears had been all he could manage to do. you were wet from the rain, a drink forgotten and an umbrella folded in one of your hands, the other one holding him, looking at him expectantly, worried. you had come after him. you were holding onto him. he tightened his grip again.
you’d even wanted to talk more, to learn of his story, to listen. so he’d agreed, he suspected he would chase you on that road if you’d walked away. his chest had been closing in on his veins and heart, increasing the pressure and twisting his organs, breathing had become harder every day for the past year, he was suffocating. you’d held his arm like a tree branch offered to a drowning kid, an olive branch offered to a warring people, a willow… willows were hunched and weary, weren’t they? he was like a willow, layers of leaves covering his face, unseen.
he didn’t have anywhere to go, or anyone waiting for him. he hadn’t wanted to let you go, now that someone had finally, truly seen the shape of his face. so he had just followed you, let you draw a destination for two.
you had brought him to a small apartment, similar to his own, in an austere street lined with buildings that were short compared to the signature buildings of new york city. you’d told him you were staying there for the time being. your place, as you’d put it. the inside was much nicer than his living space, expectedly, and it contrasted with the grey view of the street from your windows and the pipe-filled outer layer of your apartment building. the floor was covered in soft carpets, the living room was filled with books, its walls covered in bookshelves, academic books left open and stationary scattered about on a table, notebooks filled with your handwriting, it was lived in.
you had taken him to the kitchen, said you’d just bought pastries and had some leftovers to reheat for him, he’d insisted it wasn’t necessary, but you’d shut him down. “how could i send my guest off on an empty stomach?” you’d asked, made him sit down at the kitchen table, and gotten to work on the countertop. the living room had smelled of a flowery incense he couldn’t name, the kitchen was now smelling of baked dough and vegetable soup, making him feel his hunger. he hadn’t eaten anything for breakfast, or during the night.
“i apologize for the mess,” you said, while putting two bowls of steamy soup on the table, “i wasn’t expecting a guest.”
“oh, no, no,” he quickly scrambled to apologize himself, “i don’t mind at all, i’m sorry for… for…” he gestured around himself, trying to find the right words. being a burden? interrupting?
“for accepting my invite? i’d say that was the polite response,” you said, finally sitting opposite to him, having brought the pastries you’d sliced and placed on plates nicely, and the fruit salad you’d quickly put together. “thank you for that, by the way.”
he didn’t know what to say, he looked down flustered, “i- of course- i mean, thank you for inviting me,” he said, gesturing towards you with his hand, a slight smile on his face. how long had it been since he last smiled? it sure didn’t feel like an every day occurrence.
you gave him back a smile that made him… feel warm. he was still on the verge of tears, he was barely holding it together, focusing on the moment, trying not to let all the overwhelming feelings leave his body.
“please, enjoy,” you said, as you slid the plates closer to him, and he nodded in gratitude. he was hungry, and looking at the warm vegetable bisque… he hadn’t eaten a homemade meal in a very, very long time, especially one that was delicious, one that was warm.
and it was delicious. it tasted like a hug, a hearthfire, a blanket. it tasted like something you would eat at your home, like something your mother would cook for you. “this is,” he started, in between spoonfuls, “this is great. you’re a good cook.”
“thank you,” you said, and then started explaining. “i roasted tomatoes, carrots, zucchini, potatoes, bell peppers, and an onion, and blended them with vegetable broth and cream, so probably the easiest way to make something like…” you trailed off as you realised peter was… crying. he was looking down on the bowl of soup in front of him, and tears were silently rolling down his cheeks, as he kept taking spoonfuls.
peter was mortified at his reaction, he quickly scrambled to wipe his face with the tissues you’d placed on the table, and apologize. you told him it was fine, and he could take however much time he needed or wanted. you let him eat and think in silence for as long as he needed, you gave him time and space as he filled his stomach with warm food and sweet fruits. he didn’t know why tears had won against his willpower this time around, considering how good he’d gotten at holding them in. he didn’t know why just eating in your kitchen, with you, had made him feel emotions overwhelming enough to rush out of him. he was embarassed, despite your reassurances. it was the first time he was meeting with you in years, the only person who still remembered him, and he had started crying over a soup. he wasn’t a teenage high schooler anymore, why was this happening?
after a silence long enough to make someone less patient uncomfortable, he finally felt he could talk, and decided to tell you everything that had happened. all of it. you were the only person who knew him now, was it wrong to want to be known fully? to be understood?
so he told you everything, from the start… from a time too early, one might’ve thought; from before he even became an avenger. there had been people in his life who knew of his journey, how he became a hero, how he became an avenger, who he fought against, who he fought with, what really happened with mysterio, and then… then aunt may’s death… then everyone else’s little deaths.
peter used to be talkative, he used to converse with even the people he was actively battling, yet telling you all he wanted made him realise it had been a long time since he’d spoken so much. so transparently, willingly. had life crushed him under a fallen bridge without him noticing? he had been feeling it, but couldn’t guess how dire his cuts and walls had been drawn.
you listened all of it, without looking away once, without looking at the time. and then, once he concluded his speech and drifted off to silence, you let it fester. it seemed as if you had a hard time proccessing everything peter had dumped on you, or maybe couldn’t find the right words to continue with. this time, peter left you in your own silence, his hands slightly shaking in nervousness. what was your reaction going to be? what were you thinking?
“i’m truly sorry,” you said at last, a rueful expression adorning your face, making you look older than you had when telling him of the soup recipe. you had grown older, peter had noticed, more beautiful. “i’m sorry about your aunt, too. i had no idea. i thought… i guess i assumed at least your family would remember you.”
“yeah,” said peter in defeat, “there is no one.”
you looked deep into his eyes, pain visible on your face, “i remember,” you said. “and now i know.”
peter sighed and put his face in between his hands, closing his eyes in despair. “there is nowhere i belong, now. i fight for this city, and… and no one cares.”
this was horrible. truly horrible. a weight had been lifted off his shoulders when you’d recognized him, listened to him, welcomed him into your home. but he also felt bothered by it, too. had being known always been so scary? he hadn’t meant to say the last bit, he hadn’t even thought that to himself before. he’d been on the verge of it, but hadn’t actually thought it. why did he say it out loud now? why did he tell you?
you took a deep breath, “a lot of people care, especially the ones you save. you’ve been making a huge difference, peter. yours can be a thankless job sometimes, but many are grateful.” you paused for a moment, “i’ve always been grateful. when i learned how you’d been fighting for people this whole time, my respect for you skyrocketed. i thought i would help you in any way i could if it ever came to that.”
peter pressed his hands harder on his eyes, he didn’t want to start crying again. he didn’t know if you realised how your words had fallen into the deepest part of his soul. it was strange, how only a few words could help people keep going, how humans could be built merely by caring, and how humans could be so worn-out that they could stop tasting without even realising.
his phone vibrated silently in his pocket, taking him out of spiraling. he sighed again, what was it now?
strong fire in a building, spreading speedily, authorities unable to protect the citizens despite doing their best. he stood up abruptly, “i should go,” he said.
“what is it? what happened?”
“fire in a tall building, i need to save those people,” he said while walking towards the door, you trailing behind him.
“okay- be careful, peter. and come back here after you’re done there, okay? even if it’s late, because i’ll wait for you, and if you don’t come back, i’ll wait until morning,” you said quickly as he was wearing his shoes, the door to your house open.
“okay,” he said, stuttering slightly, “thank you.” truly. you’ve made breathing possible for me again. thank you.
and he left you behind like that, because he never had a break. he didn’t know if he deserved a break. none of that mattered though, there were people suffering, and he couldn’t leave them behind, no matter what.
────── 𓆩˚.⋆🕸⋆.˚𓆪 ──────
you were leaning on the metal handrails of your small balcony, looking at the few people and cars that passed by the road in front of your apartment. it was desolate, compared to most of new york, but it was steadily never-ending, there never was a time when people stopped in this city. your view was made up of other grey apartments like yours, sharp corners and square shapes, nothing tasteful added to their designs. could this be good for the soul?
you looked up at the sky, to watch the stars, but as always, not many were visible. you counted four stars that could be clearly seen from your balcony. the same as yesterday. you sometimes wondered: if you could reach greater heights, would more of them shine on you? the city had offended the stars in an effort to be independent from them, brighten night time, they didn't show their faces anymore. even if they wanted to, they couldn't be seen.
peter had been shining since he was a kid; clever, kind, righteous, fair-faced in a way the cleanness of his heart had reflected on his features. how big of a loss was it for the world to be forsaken from his face? it was lucky that peter was good-hearted, for he kept showing up under a mask anyway, offering those who looked a glimpse into his light.
it was past midnight already, and peter was still nowhere to be seen. he'd left you a little past noon, the fire had been extinguished by now, and spiderman had left the premises after saving dozens of lives (that the firefighters would've been too late for, despite their best efforts), and yet, peter was nowhere to be seen. it worried you, you wished you had asked for his phone number; you'd considered asking, but decided against it, thinking he might be bothered by the request.
after you'd talked to michelle, his girlfriend, some time back, and she hadn't remembered the boy she’d been in love with, you'd been thinking of peter regularly. even if you had made him up in your mind, it had just flooded your chest with such profound sadness, that you had decided at least you would remember him, whether it would matter to him or not.
and, he was real, he was spiderman. and he’d been so lonely. graveyards had become his only sanctuary, teenage diaries and late night messages had been buried next to the corpses of anyone who'd ever taken care of him, and he did not know their hiding spots. he just wandered around graves, knowing they were somewhere under his feet, to stay there forever. if he tried to dig them out, he would be swallowed up by lava, dooming the rest of the world to a volcanic apocalypse.
it seemed like volcanos had already been erupting behind his eyes, in his lungs. the peter you remembered used to be a jolly kid.
your head perked up as you heard your doorbell ring, and quickly rushed to open the door. a smiling peter greeted you, clothing changed. he looked more put-together than he had in the morning; a clean shirt under a black jacket and denim pants, not the baggy sweats he had on before.
you welcomed him inside, and brought him to sit on your couch, in the living room.
“are you all right?” you asked, “does anywhere hurt? do you need anything?”
he hesitated for a moment, a little surprised. “no, no- it’s fine. i didn’t fight anyone, so didn’t really get injured… much. it’s fine. i took care of it.”
you looked at him in silence for a few seconds, thinking. “liar,” you said.
“what?” he said in low voice, sounding worried. did he think he’d messed up somehow?
“you gave me your word that you would come straight to me, instead you took your sweet time tending to your injuries and changing your outift? you showered too, didn’t you?”
“i… i-” he quickly started talking, and then stopped to think. that was fine, he didn’t need to rush a response, never with you. he would learn that you’d always wait for him patiently. with time, he’d become more comfortable. you assumed this must be… somewhat of an uncomfortable experience for him, after being alone for so long. “i thought-”
he didn’t know what to say, you supposed.
“did i sound mad? i’m sorry. i was just worried. i.. uh, i’d wanted to help you with your injuries and stuff, too,” you weren’t exactly used to these kinds of conversations either. “since you’re not alone anymore… and all.”
“oh…” was all he could say.
“i mean, i’m glad you’re okay, and you look great, and i don’t mind that you had some alone time before coming and all, but you could, uh, if you want to, just come straight to me as well. after a fight or whatever. and you can take care of… your stuff here,” you forced the words out, you had to take these kinds of initiatives, if you wanted to have a closer relationship with him. because he wouldn’t impose anything on you. “if you want to, of course,” you added.
“i… thank you, i would, uh, yeah,” he said. you supposed that was a positive answer.
“so, what happened?”
he recounted the fire and the struggles in detail, how he saved the people trapped, how he had to deal with the authorities after him, how he got injured (only a little, he emphasized), and then how he went home to wear something better to come back to you. he’d wanted to rid the smell of ash and soot off his skin.
“i got tired just listening to you,” you said.
he chuckled slightly, “ah, yeah, things like this happen sometimes.”
“would you like anything to eat or drink?”
“no, no. not necessary, thank you,” he said quickly, raising his hands.
“okay, just tell me if you need anything.”
“all right, thanks… again,” he had a beautiful smile, but it looked like guilt had mixed into his skin, stopping him from smiling fully, with his eyes, or eyebrows. you wanted to tell him that none of this was his fault, he wasn’t responsible for the cruelty of others, he wasn’t at fault for being a victim. his aunt hadn’t died because he’d shown mercy, he was just being humane, the fault lied solely with the… whichever supernatural freak had done that, it was getting harder to keep track of them now. and the spell hadn’t gone wrong because of him, couldn’t doctor strange tell that he obviously wouldn’t want his own family to forget him? why wouldn’t he automatically add that to the spell? and the second time? surely he could’ve just kept two people out of his spell. none of it was his fault.
but you couldn’t bring yourself to, you didn’t want to push too hard, or overstep your bounds. peter didn’t know you, not really. you assumed he must be happy that someone remembered him, but you wouldn’t be too surprised if he had forgotten you.
why had you remembered? you weren't magical, as far as you knew, so what had gone wrong? wasn't this... somewhat bad news? if you remembered, could it be possible that someone evil might, too? you didn't know, you supposed maybe you should try to ask doctor strange, somehow.
after a while of silence, you decided telling him how you feel, being straightforward, should be better than leaving thoughts to go back and forth in your head, bothering you. “peter,” you started, “i know what kind of a person you are for the most part. i know that you have a good heart, and you’re loyal, and honest. i… don’t doubt that you’ll be a good friend, that’s why i can be… this comfortable with you. i know, because i’ve been able observe you quite well until now.”
he was listening to you, eyes getting wider and smile dropping slowly, as you went on.
“i also know that you don’t really know me as well, so i’ll have to prove my character to you, in the way that you’ve already proven yours,” you quickly added, which was the point you’d wanted to make. “so, uh, i just wanted to say that… is the reason why i would like to be… good friends with you, even though we didn’t interact much back then. telling you just in case… you were wondering.”
he gave you a shy smile. "thank you," he said, occasionally glancing away.
then a small chuckle escaped his lip. “all i’ve been doing the whole day has been thanking you."
you giggled in return, "i thank you as well."
"for what? i haven't done anything."
"for saving this city and the world over and over again."
his expression turned serious, thoughtful. "i just do what i should. it’s my responsibility."
you leaned back on the couch, observing him. was it? did he really have to do what he did? he didn't have to, no one had to do anything. but it was right that he did. you supposed, being able to help people did mean you should, would it be wrong if he didn't interfere?
"what are you thinking?" he asked.
you hummed. "i think you are right, but then it's our responsibility to be grateful, and to help you in any way we can, even if that's just emotional support." you looked into his eyes carefully, "you've been doing your duty, but most others in the city haven't."
"that's all right," he said. "i don't expect anything. i don't do this to get anything in return."
"well," you started, "you can expect things from me, and feel free to let me know."
the shy smile returned to his face, "thank you again," he said. "you as well," he hastily added, raising his eyebrows while gesturing at you.
you were glad he seemed to be in a better mood now, compared to this morning. he was more put together, and somewhat more confident. you assumed having more time to process your situation must've helped.
the two of you talked for around another hour, peter got more talkative as you went on, and by the end, he was the only one talking. he'd started to tell you all about the various villains he'd been fighting, and you were very interested; you enjoyed listening to him.
but the time was getting closer to two in the morning, and you were having to fight your own eyelids to keep yourself from dropping to the floor right at that moment.
peter stopped abruptly mid-sentence, looking at you concerned. "oh," he started "i'm sorry, it's really late, i talked too much."
"no, no," you said, shaking your hand, "i really want to know about all of these things. let's continue tomorrow?"
"okay, sure," he said, smiling. "i'll get going now, and uh, see you tomorrow."
"get going? i could arrange my living room for you, if you'd like to stay the night? should you be alone when you're injured?"
"i don't want to bother you," he said as he stood up. “it’s fine, this isn't really all that bad, I've had much worse."
"okay, but call me if anything happens. i'll be more upset if you don't," you said as you followed him to the door.
"i will. you call me too," he said, having gotten out, wearing his shoes.
"deal."
“good night."
"good night."
and he was gone.
and you were so sleepy that you could fall asleep standing there. as you made your way to your bed, you decided to go over today's events tomorrow, when your braincells wouldn’t be forming a union to counter your abuse.
────── 𓆩˚.⋆🕸⋆.˚𓆪 ──────
peter opened his curtains to look outside, as soon as he managed to get out of his bed.
the sun was shining down on him, bathing his room and face in its light. he opened the window, and took a deep breath in. the air had the beautiful smell of rain, still lingering, left from yesterday.
he leaned on his window, and for the first time in forever, a smile graced his lips for the sun, for the day ahead of him.
he wanted to put on his spiderman suit and swing around in the city, not out of obligation or because he didn’t have anything else to do; he had an unfamiliar motivation in him to do something with his day.
so he did. he quickly got ready for the day, and all the steps felt less intimidating today. even brushing his teeth had become a tiring chore. he'd supposed it must've been because he was so tired all the time, but today, it had been easier, all of it. even breathing.
and it wasn't like he'd gotten more sleep than usual, either. sleeping was something out of routine for peter. sometimes he could only get a few hours at night, having to be spiderman. sometimes he would stare at the ceiling, unable to drift off to sleep. sometimes he would end up sleeping for more than ten hours, not wanting to get out of his bed, forcefully scraping his body off of it with a mental spatula, skin tearing apart from muscle, using every bit of his willpower. but, no matter which scenario happened to play out, peter would never feel rested.
he got mad at himself sometimes. for sleeping. or not sleeping. surely none of this was supposed to be this hard, everyone always did them just fine. so why was he like this? what was wrong with him?
he shook his head, getting out of his window as spiderman, and started wandering new york from the tops of buildings. not today, though. today he felt rested. and like something good could happen, strangely. and his chest could host the air he breathed in, unlike any day he could remember in months. he hadn't realised how air had been refusing to get into his lungs, until it finally did today.
he watched people walking towards their destinations without looking anywhere else. the streets of new york were always overfilled with motion and a million faces, and no one stopped to look at one another.
how had you seen him, yesterday? were you looking? were you always looking at people? were you searching for someone, something?
clouds had poured more rain on the city at night, and towards the morning. it was almost as if they had only stopped momentarily for the fire in the building to spread.
peter had gone to his apartment as soon as he was done rescuing civillians from the fire. he'd wanted to wear something nice, look cleaner for you. he was sort of embarrassed that your first meeting had been when he looked... less than ideal, let's say.
while showering, he'd spaced out, and ended up thinking for almost an hour. mostly about you.
he'd tried to remember everything about you, any kind of clue about your exceptional situation, but there was nothing. you used to mostly keep to yourself, peter hadn't even interacted with you all that much.
despite that, you'd been so accepting of him so quickly yesterday. he had wondered why, before you explained that you… knew him.
not only remembered, you knew him. not completely, but enough to trust. his heart fluttered in his chest, making a gentle movement for the first time since the last time he'd been called peter by anyone at all. thinking about your words excited him, energized him, made him move faster,
you wanted to get closer. you offered to patch up his wounds. you weren't afraid or displeased. you wanted to be close. his friend.
he would call you around noon, he'd decided. he'd kept you up quite late and didn't know when you would wake up. then maybe you could meet up this evening. outside, perhaps? he could take you to... he would come up with some ideas, by then.
he stopped and perched on top of a building, examining the back alleys. he knew the way to your house from where he was, he was really looking forward to seeing you again. was that why waking up had been easier today?
he shook his head and took a deep breath, preparing himself for the day, and the task in front of him. he needed to focus, do his job. he would get to see you when the time came for it. you would respect him more for his service, anyway... or at least he hoped so.
────── 𓆩˚.⋆🕸⋆.˚𓆪 ──────
the the sun had just started setting, the orange hue of dusk hadn't settled in the sky yet. you were sitting on the stairs at the entrance of your apartment building. the ground was still wet, but the upper part of the stairs had been protected from yesterday's rain thanks to the architecture of the building. you would just need to dust off its filth once you stood up.
peter was supposed to come any minute now, he'd called you around noon and asked if you'd like to meet up this evening, and he could take you to see some places. you had started preparing some hours ago. you hadn't known what to wear, or what he had in mind, and had been too nervous to feel completely good about an outfit. you didn’t want to mess this up. at last, you'd just decided to get out of your house and wait. sitting on cold stairs. you were beginning to regret your choices slowly.
“hi,” appeared a head suddenly in front of your nose, making you yelp in surprise and slide backwards on the stairs. you put your hand on your mouth, wide-eyed, and finally processed what the dangling head in red was: peter. he was hanging from your building, held by his web, upside down, in his spiderman suit. he wouldn’t be as instantly recognizable from afar, as he was wearing a jacket, pants, and sneakers on his suit. it looked good.
“sorry,” he said, landing next to you, but not moving towards you. “sorry,” he repeated quickly. “i didn’t mean to scare you.”
“my goodness, peter,” you said, exhaling a deep breath. “no, sorry, spiderman.”
he chuckled lightly. “did i make you wait too much? sorry about that, too.”
“no, no, you are…” you looked at your watch, “right on time, actually.”
“uh,” he started, then hesitated for a moment before taking out a piece of cloth… no, a mask from the pocket of his jacket. “this should be really comfortable, i brought it in case you wanted to, you know, keep your identity hidden.”
“oh, you will stay in your spiderman costume?” you asked, taking the mask, and putting your hand in it so see what it looked like.
“yeah,” he said, “i can’t do what i want to do with you without my suit.”
you looked at him questioningly, “what is it that you want to do with me, peter?” you asked with mock seriousness.
he made a low-volume laughing sound. “i was planning on carrying you in the sky with me. if that’s okay.” he raised his hands in hurry, “it’s okay if you don’t want to, of course. just… i just thought you might like it, is all.”
you looked at the mask, and swiftly wore it. fixing it on your face, you looked at peter. “how do i look?” you asked.
“wait, let me help,” he said as he came closer to you, and fixed the back of the mask.
“thank you.”
so peter took you to the skies.
you held onto him like your life depended on it (it did), arms wrapped around his shoulders. his movements in the air were fast and sharp, the wind felt like a slap to the face at points. yet, you didn’t feel an ounce of fear, if anything, excitement and joy would be descriptive of your feelings. peter had a strong grip on you, somehow, you trusted that without doubt, he would never drop you.
──────
he had taken and placed you on top of a skyscraper, with a view of busy streets and the decorated balconies of shorter buildings. having ascended on the city as rain yesterday, clouds in the sky had thinned, and the atmosphere was clear. the sun was half gone by now, and all your gaze rested upon was dusk-touched; bathed in the burning scarlett of the sun’s farewell.
you smiled, looking over at the city. the wind was caressing your face gently, and breathing had become easier since seeing peter. being where you stood now, it felt freeing.
“this is amazing.” you glanced at peter briefly, and saw he’d been looking at you.
“i’m glad you like it,” he said, then joined you in gazing towards the horizon.
──────
you’d been sitting where peter had caried you to, on top of the skyscraper, for a while now. topics chased each other with ease, built onto each other, and you ended up talking about things you’d never told anyone before. but peter listened, contributed, he seemed truly interested, and then he outclassed your yapping, so words ended up spilling out of your mouth naturally.
“my favorite tree is willow, actually. i love willows, they are so pretty, they have leaves like drapes. they look magical," you said, adding onto the conversation that you’d ended up talking about because… the city layout, then parks, then trees, then if many people have favorite kinds of trees, then his being olive trees…
he looked into your eyes carefully, like you'd said something that struck a cord, something he'd considered before.
"really?" he asked, then turned his gaze towards the city again, eyebrows laying heavier, eyes looking below. "willows look hunched," he said, "they look weary."
was he hunched? had he grown tired? was he trying to tell you that was how he saw the world now? hunched, instead of magical?
"hmm, " you thought for a moment, "do you know why willows are hunched?"
he looked at you questioningly. "no?"
"i've been told a story from someone who'd been told a story; there once was a willow next to a lake. you know how willows like wetlands. and there once was a child sweet as a sugar beet, yet did not know how to swim. choose one day from the countless days the old willow had seen, the sweet child fell into the lake right next to its roots, he couldn't stay on the surface, so he asked the willow for help. the willow bowed its leaves as fast as it could, to offer a branch to hold onto, but it was too slow, and the leaves touched the water too late. after that day, the willow's leaves never rose again. word spread to every willow with time, and they lowered their branches one by one, so if a child were ever drowning, they would never be too late."
he was still looking down, but his expression had changed lightly. his brows were slightly tented, his eyes seemed watery. you studied him, it looked like the story had touched him; he was quietly in thought.
was he a willow? had he failed to save a drowning child? had he been hunched?
had he realized being hunched didn't have to be ugly?
"stories are great," you said, not to fill the silence, but because you now felt comfortable enough to share your thoughts with him. "they can verbalize things you keep in your head, and make you realize; oh, someone else thought the same thing back when who knows how many years ago, and i’m not the only one."
he nodded after another moment of silence. "that was a beautiful story," he said, looking at you, "do you know many like it?"
"short tales like these? not many. i generally read novels."
"maybe i should start too."
you perked up. "you could!" you said, voice coming out too excited for your liking, "i'll lend you some."
"okay," he said, smiling in his usual, reserved way, "thank you."
poor, innocent peter. he had no idea what he'd just signed up for, basically accepting to be subjected to a reader's propaganda of their favorite books.
"i should be thanking you," you responded, "for bringing me here."
the sun had fully gone down, no traces of orange left in the sky, although it hadn't gotten fully dark yet. the moon could be seen, finally getting out of the sun's shadow. or more so, light. too bright for anything else to stay visible near it, yet nothing on earth would be visible without its light, including the moon.
you looked down at the ant-sized citizens of new york, ever-moving, flowing like a river. the wind was caressing your face, chilly, up here was colder than down below, yet it didn't feel as hostile.
"i used to really like it," he said while nodding, a half-smile left on his face from your previous conversation, and perhaps memories of years gone.
"sitting atop buildings?"
"yeah. sitting or swinging or... just height."
"it is kind of freeing."
"and just... you know, a different kind of perspective."
"yeah, i get it," you said, looking at your ant subjects, "why don't you like it anymore?"
he seemed to search for words for a moment, looking around. and then shrugged. "i guess i just... don't really like things anymore."
you sighed, nodding. "well, it's a miracle that you liked my below-average vegetable soup, then."
"it was very much above average!"
"as i said, a miracle."
"why am i having to defend my tastes in the middle of a date right now?"
he stopped abruptly, his smile fading, eyes widening. "i mean!" he quickly scrambled to fix his mistake, "not like- not a date like a date date, you know, i was just saying... just-"
was this a time for you to interrupt? he didn't seem like he wanted to finish that sentence.
"i know," you said, chuckling, "don't worry. i'm also really glad we're doing this. take me soaring the skies more often."
"i wouldn't necessarily call it soaring."
"well, whatever it was."
and then, once again, hours chased one another, carrying your long-winded conversation back and forth, and the deep black of night had fallen on the two of you like a blanket.
peter was sweet, it was like honey dripped from his lips; you hadn't found a conversation so enjoyable in years. you were glad he'd opened up more, back in high school, you had no idea he was so talkative.
you had brought a homemade meal with yourself, considering how much he'd appreciated that yesterday. and you’d shared it over the hours you’d spent together.
peter seemed to relax more and more around you, smile actually coming naturally to his face now, dangling his feet with comfortable, quiet joy.
“ah,” he said at some point, “this is… somewhat hard.”
“what is?”
he thought on it for a moment. “no, nothing. forget i said anything.”
“nooo,” you grabbed his arm and slightly shook him, “i’m curious now!”
he chuckled, “no, it’s embarrassing.”
“peter, listen to me,” you started with mock seriousness, “whatever it is, it cannot be as embarrassing as my cringeworthy memories, so i won’t even register it as embarrassing.”
“okay,” he said after a short silence, “i guess… i guess i got used to being alone too much, now i find it kind of hard to… be known, i guess. it leaves me with a kind of anxiety.”
“it wasn’t like that before?”
“no,” he turned his gaze to the city, “i don’t remember it being like this.”
you hummed, nodding your head. you were going to tell him that you understood, that you felt similarly occasionally, that it was normal, but he kept going before you could.
“at least, the bad parts.”
“what bad parts?”
“you know, my mistakes and flaws and other such things,” he took a deep breath before continuing. “i told you everything but… i wish you didn’t know some of it, now.”
you studied his face; he definitely looked more youthful, like the weight of the world wasn’t crushing him anymore. like he could put his burden down for a moment, take a break. peter didn’t seem like a person who would have a hard time being vulnarable, or being known, but pain did change people. was it just being alone, or being alone with what he thought were his mistakes, scenes repeating over and over in his head as he stared at empty walls, with no one to talk to?
“i like you as you are,” you said, “with your mistakes and flaws; that’s being human, and you’re not lesser for any of it. not objectively, and not in my eyes.”
he was looking into your eyes now, he’d become more comfortable resting his gaze upon yours; you found it comforting, you tried to make him feel the same.
“isn’t that the part of being known that matters?” you asked. “knowing the imperfect parts, the harder to accept parts, and accepting anyway, and loving anyway. doesn’t it make you feel better that i know you fully and like you even more for it?”
peter seemed truly lost for words, for the second time since you’d met. you’d wanted to make him feel welcome into your life, so you’d done your best to tell him things you’d wish to hear yourself, and they were the truth, but you really hoped it would come across right. he wasn’t the only one to overthink conversations.
he opened his mouth to give an answer, and then, suddenly, chaos erupted.
the thunder of a bomb going off shook the ground and the buildings around you. screams mixed into a deafening whistle of the wind that carried them as people ran away from the sound collectively, pushing each other.
peter stood up instinctively, looking towards the explosion. it had happened close enough that you’d felt the shockwave.
“what was that?” you yelled, trying to be heard over the sound, clumsily standing up next to peter, as you were quite high up. he held your arm to steady you.
“i’m not sure, but i think i know who’s responsible for it,” he said with a serious expression on his face, brows furrowed, thoughtful, voice lower than yours, but you could still hear him.
“are you going to go?”
“i have to, this is… these people are dangerous, you should go home.”
he grabbed you by your waist and brought you down to the ground in a hurry, gently placing you. “i’m sorry,” he said, “i’ll come back, uh, to your house, if that’s okay?”
“of course,” you responded, “i’ll be waiting. and don’t be sorry.”
and he dissapeared into the sky, swinging.
────── 𓆩˚.⋆🕸⋆.˚𓆪 ──────
peter hated villains, truly. criminals who committed heinous acts of terrorism, knew nothing but cruelty, unashamedly hurt people, kidnapped, wounded… there were so many of them, too. he kept defeating those hurting new york, and new ones kept popping up.
well, he thought he hated them, but he didn’t know how exactly he felt. he remembered a time when feelings so negative and irritating hadn’t ever been inside him, it was like they added onto each other. one would think it would get easier with time, that he would get used to repeated things. like losing… but not only had losing aunt may been harder than losing uncle ben, he was now more bitter, and more mournful over the past deaths he’d thought he’d gotten over, as well. or, how instead of growing numb to seeing horrible crimes unfold, every act of abuse and cruelty made him angrier, every time he hated… he hated more, although he wasn’t sure exactly what he was hating.
when he tried to track the target his hatred was pointing at, he saw blurry pictures. villains were a part of it, surely, but he didn’t feel a burning rage while fighting them, it was more so weariness, or disgust, mostly, he just wanted all of it to be over. he didn’t want to… ponder more on it, after that point. he had tried once, and then felt an untangible pain. he couldn’t admit it to himself, but he was afraid of what else he could find in that blur. himself? tony? aunt may? mj? new york? the world?
so the picture stayed anonymous, and he couldn’t fully direct his fury at anything, and he disliked all the villains, but could hardly muster up the energy to truly hate them. and perhaps it wasn’t in his nature, either. anger and hatred, he’d never been very good at those. was that why his heart was withering? because he couldn’t feel well? because those were all there was to feel in his life now, and he failed at it?
he felt so done with everything, currently. was he not going to be able to spend time with you uninterrupted? the conversation was going well, too. or at least he thought it was. he hoped you would agree.
back in high school, he knew you were smart, and funny, and would be a good friend if anyone could approach you, but you’d prefered to stay away from him, and he hadn’t had the courage to initiate a relationship with you, he’d found you intimidating. now getting to know you better, he wished he’d just done it, back then. but maybe not. maybe then he would lose you too.
would he lose you now, as well? he’d lost everyone, hadn’t he?
or he’d break your heart, maybe. he’d left liz, he’d left mj, he’d left ned. thrice taken, something was wrong with him.
he arrived at the site of the explosion, looking from above. the thick, suffocating hotness, the pain-filled wails of the survivors, the rubbles of the building crumbled down, his eyes searched for certain signs in between the horrors. he would first save those who couldn’t save themselves, then he would stop whoever was responsible.
as he started carrying survivors out of flames and rubble, he also started scanning everything around him carefully. a sign, a clue, a mistake on the culprit’s part… he knew who it was, he was almost sure the organization he’d been tailing down for the past few months was responsible for this. they were onto him, too, they knew.
he’d found out the position of their base was last week, a site with several factories and buildings in it, towards the border of the city, in a mostly desolate area, as it used to just be an industrialized site, but had now turned into an unpreferred place for bussiness. he’d wondered if they had something to do with that as well, but he supposed that didn’t matter much, in the grand scheme of things.
he would go there, and… and confront them. fight them. end them. something. somehow. the police were rendered useless for the most part, when it came to these underground syndicates, some were bought puppets, some were too powerless, peter knew better than to give away his knowledge now. he’d been burned enough. he would have to do it himself, and do it quick, before any other disasters struck his city.
────── 𓆩˚.⋆🕸⋆.˚𓆪 ──────
you hadn’t gone back home, you were waiting next to a shop near the place peter had left you, looking at the exploded building from afar. you were growing more worried by the second; peter had seemed serious, and talked about a criminal organization who would bomb a whole building like it was a normal thing. was he engaged in a fight, currently? how often did things of this magnitude happen to him?
your phone buzzed, you immediately looked at the screen, it could be important in these circumstances. peter. peter was calling. he’d gone to fight, said he’d come back to you, and now was calling-
“peter?” you answered before you made any assumptions.
quick gasps cut short responded to you, and peter’s voice had taken the shape of slow, low wailing, or wheezing, or… regardless, it was obvious he was in pain.
“i…” he started, clearly having a hard time speaking, “i’m stuck. it was a trap.” he was breathless, his voice kept cracking.
“you- where?” you asked, choosing your words carefully. he was stuck. trapped. time. time was important. ask only for the information that matters right now.
“the building- that- there were people, i wanted to save them,” he was crying, it was obvious. “but i couldn’t, they are stuck too, and unconscious, some are dead. i couldn’t-” he cut his sentence short, taking quick breaths, most likely trying to keep himself awake, or too pained to continue. you understood it anyway.
“where are you, peter?”
“the building crumbled down, and it’s all rubble- but, it’s a huge- a huge, i don’t know. i’m under a heavy part, big, i can’t move it. not safely. i can’t try anything too dangerous, or the- the others might get crushed,” he managed to say in between his gasps and pained groans.
your heart sank, an awful dread dropped into the pit of your stomach. what to do now?
“i’m sorry,” he said, “i just- i didn’t know what to do, and i’d told you i’d come back, i don’t know. there is no one else i could call, i’m not- i’m sorry.”
no one else.
“don’t apologize,” you said, voice firmer, having gotten slightly angry. you weren’t angry at peter, you were angry at… at the reason why peter was hurt. it had only been two days since you’d truly gotten to know him, and you wanted to scream into a void at the top of your lungs already.
you started walking towards the road, looking for a taxi, or you would call one. the initial chaos had subsided, but now people wanting to immediately go back home around you had taken its place, taxis were working, you just didn’t know how fast you could go to wherever peter was.
“send me your location or describe where you are,” you said.
you could only hear his gasps for a moment. “no,” he said, “no, no, i don’t want you to come, that’s not why i-” his breath hitched, he started coughing.
your eyes had gotten teary, you blinked harshly a few times to get rid of the blurriness. would a bicycle be faster? a… motorcycle, perhaps? you started looking around to see any unclaimed ones, you could maybe pay someone-
“i’ll come either way, i’ll help you,” you said, as you started walking towards the site of the explosion, you thought finding an abandoned vehicle might be easier there… maybe even one that no longer had an owner. maybe even a gun. “send your location or i will go into the flames and try to find a clue.”
another pause.
“okay,” he said, exhaling in pain, “but be careful, run away the moment you see anyone dangerous. okay?”
“all right.”
────── 𓆩˚.⋆🕸⋆.˚𓆪 ──────
it had been a long while since peter had been in such peril, had he underestimated his opponents? had he been too rash, reckless? it was highly unlikely that his street-level work would be as dangerous as the avengers-level threats, and he’d survived those, hadn’t he? so why was he crying now?
when he’d arrived at the site, and looked around a little, he’d found people, kidnapping victims, being sent to somewhere. he’d thought he’d needed to act fast to save them, but he’d fallen into a trap. not a trap specifically set for him; it more so looked like a last resort to cover up their traces while killing anyone at their tail, just destroying the building with evidence and their enemies in it. peter was just one person though, was that enough for them, or had they not bothered to check?
he didn’t know where exactly he was wounded under the rubble, everything was hurting. somewhere on his abdomen, he assumed, and legs, they were stinging like a thousand needles were sinking into his flesh at the same time.
he sighed, putting his forehead on the fallen stone in front of him.
he hated himself. that was it, yeah. that was the true target of his hatred. more than anything else. he realised so when he admitted it to himself; hating had suddenly gotten much easier, much deeper.
he’d just killed the last person on earth who knew him. why had he called you, anyway? he should’ve just… done as he always did before meeting you, deal with it himself. or die. the world wouldn’t lose much if he did, there was no one to mourn him. well, maybe you could get a little sad, but it wasn’t like you were particularly close to him, you’d never really been friends before. and you had a life, other people around you, you had no reason to hold onto him like he did you. so why were you even coming? why would you do this to him?
he killed everyone around himself. he would kill you. he would kill you. he would lose you.
no, no, stop. you could survive this, right? sinking into despair had never been helpful. he would need to stay sharp for you. he would… you could survive this much, right? and then he would never see you again. he would block your number, and… good thing he hadn’t brought you to his apartment.
he’d been so selfish, thinking only of himself, the happiness he felt at being remembered. what was he thinking? he should’ve never talked to you. he should’ve told you to raise your umbrella and go home without getting wet. he’d been erased from existence for a reason, hadn’t he? had he forgotten why he hadn’t gone back to mj and ned? how could he do this? how could he keep doing this? why did he never learn from his mistakes?
────── 𓆩˚.⋆🕸⋆.˚𓆪 ──────
you were breathless, having ridden a bicycle (that you really had managed to find abandoned next to the explosion) until a point where traffic wasn’t jammed, then taken a taxi to the point where the driver would be willing to drive to, then ran until you could see the eerie factory site peter had told you about. you’d stopped to catch your breath briefly, your throat was hurting, sweat was coming down on your face like rain had been on the morning you’d grabbed peter’s arm. you put your hand on the right of your abdomen, you had a bad case of side stitch pain. you were holding a metal pipe in your other hand, you hadn’t been lucky enough to stumble upon a gun lying around, unfortunately. you had wanted to find a shield of some sort, but the blown off car bits were mostly too heavy, and couldn’t be carried on a bicycle.
there it was, the area of a dangerous mafia organization. how many cameras were there? you wore the mask peter had given to you, even though you really didn’t want to when you needed so much air.
you could see the remnants of a big dust storm behind a few buildings, you would need to get closer to truly figure it out, but you assumed you could go towards that direction to find peter. your heart was drumming against your chest, your fingertips had suddenly gone cold. a tiny portion of it was because of your previous marathon, mostly your nervousness and… fear were the cause.
but you had to do this. there was simply no other choice. someone needed to save peter, and the authorities wouldn’t do it, and the heroes wouldn’t do it, and you were there already. so you got a move on.
you mostly walked behind walls and next to corners, nervous about being seen and shot dead on the spot before you could even get into the mafia’s base. you reached… a chain-link fence, surrounding the complex.
“NO TRESSPASSING” the sign on the fence read, “PRIVATE PROPERTY”.
well, you’d already stolen a bicycle.
you took a shaky breath, and put your foot into one of the chains. you’d never climbed over a chain-link fence before, but everything had a first time, right? so you gripped the chains for dear life, and although you probably looked ridiculous and unnatural doing it, managed to climb to the other side. you did scratch a few places on your legs and hands, but it was mostly a success.
now you needed to sneak deeper into the complex, somehow.
you walked half-crouched down, mostly next to walls, looking around yourself nervously, yet as fast as you could. as you got closer to the collapsed building, you started hearing screams, and gunshots. there was a commotion going on somewhere close to you, was it the kidnapped people? the ones peter had been able to save, the ones who’d gotten out? you stopped where you were and pressed your back to the building next to you, where did you go from here? where were the gun noises coming from? what did you need to do to avoid that, yet still reach peter?
your hands had started shaking, would it be possible to find an abandoned gun as you walked closer? it would be so easy for them to kill you.
you'd only managed to make a few turns from that point before you were caught. by a man with a gun in his hand.
"look at that," he said, as he pointed the gun at you. “it seems a little mouse sneaked in, in this chaos."
you stopped, completely frozen. your heart was beating in your throat, your hands were trembling, you'd forgotten how to breathe. you'd never been so fear-stricken in your life.
what could you do? one shot and you would be dead, what could you do with the metal pipe in your hand? you couldn't look away from the man to see what else you could use.
he started walking towards you slowly, saying things that would only distract you and make you more nervous if you focused on them, so you blocked them out.
he was clearly enjoying cornering you like a prey animal, that must have been why he was walking closer to you; to scare you. you fought against your urge to back away, to protect a distance between you two; you had a metal pipe. a gun was a long-range weapon, being closer might make it harder to run away, but would make it easier to fight back, and running away in this situation would do you no good. if he missed the first time, he would get you in the second. so you forcefully nailed your feet to the ground, ignored the alarms setting off in your mind, and tried to prepare yourself for a confrontation. your legs were trembling; you hoped the man would just think you'd frozen in fear.
he came close enough to put the gun to your head, just an arm's length of a distance between you. “you can't run even when the gun is in your face?” he asked mockingly.
would begging work? would it keep you alive long enough to catch an opening?
you would die. you would die.
you hadn't opened your mouth to form a single sentence since this man had found you, and you didn't think you could now. one wrong word and it would be over. you needed to act.
was there anyone else around? why was he alone? had you lucked out, somehow? they weren't going to take you into custody, you were a transgresser, they were going to kill you. you assumed this man had stumbled into you coincidentally in the ruckus, and hadn't felt the need to call for reinforcements. even if there were others in places you couldn't see, you had no choice but to act now.
the gun's tip was touching your forehead. seconds. i must act in seconds. by bending your knees, you ducked your head faster than he could process what happened and pull the trigger, and while ducking, swung the pipe in your hand as fast as you could, with as much force behind it as you could muster, and hit him in the groin.
you immediately made a move to get behind him while he buckled over; there was no running away from someone with a gun.
should you hold his hand with the gun, or hit it with your pipe? he was turning his face towards you, and would shoot you the moment he got a good view.
no, you’d taken too much time to think, and he’d already directed the gun at you, pulling the trigger. you immediately hit his hand with your pipe. the shot wasn't completely wasted, however, and grazed your leg.
you screamed in pain.
he reached for you with his other hand, grabbing your hair.
no time.
you gripped your pipe with all your strength, and hit his hand again while he was yanking your hair. and then kept hitting his hand, lest he direct the gun at you again. one, two, three, four, five— he kicked your leg. you buckled over in pain as he put your head to the ground, your hair still entangled in his hand. he was saying something, eyes bulging, looking very mad, but you weren’t proccessing any of it. your ears were still ringing because of the gunshot, and the pain in your leg was so powerful that you couldn't focus on anything. it was as if endless knives were constantly stabbing you. it was unbearable.
his hands were occupied with your head and the gun, you were nowhere near strong enough to set free from his grip, but he'd forgotten you were still holding onto the pipe. or maybe he'd just thought you'd be in too much pain to use it now. or maybe he just hadn't had the time to do something about that yet, everything was happering in seconds.
you swung it again in one last, reckless effort to fight back, and hit his head. the momentum tossed him to the side while taking you with him as he hadn't let go of your hair. before he could turn to face you back, you hit his head again, with all your might. he let go of your hair while balancing himself with his other hand, and hit you across the face before you could land your third hit, but you planted yourself to the ground, and landed another hit anyway. his head was bleeding, and he was clearly distraught.
what now? a few seconds. this had given you a few seconds of decision time. what now? should you keep hitting him? take the gun, somehow? how could you get rid of him?
you tried to move reflexively, to get away. but your leg was done for, you couldn’t get up. no. no. you couldn't move.
your heart was going to burst out of your chest, your nerves were completely wrecked; you couldn’t get up.
what, then? did you have to… kill? you were going to throw up. your hands started trembling even more violently. you couldn't. you just couldn't.
you wished you could yell for help. but you were supposed to be the help. it was as it had always been before, pick yourself up and dust yourself off.
no time to think.
you hit his head again, and when he flailed, this time you put his head to the ground, climbing on top of him, twisting his gun-holding arm under his body. now… now you could... how could you stop him? if you managed to take the gun, and told him to stay put until you could run away... you couldn't move, though. you couldn't even properly restrain him because you were having to drag one leg. the concussion he had was doing most of the heavy lifting.
an idea did come up in your mind. you supposed you had no other choice.
──────
you were lying on the floor, your back towards the sky. you’d left your unconscious attacker where he was lying, and managed to drag yourself for a few centimeters before you’d stopped, and leaned your forehead against the ground. you needed to get away, you knew. at least near a wall, somewhere you wouldn’t be seen so clearly, but your leg was hurting too much to use.
you couldn’t raise your head, and just started sobbing openly. you’d already been crying, but trying to hold back, keep quiet. you needed to sit up, and look at how bad the wound was, and how much blood you’d lost. the pain was all you could think about, your head was hurting from stress and forcing yourself to think through the pain, your eyes and throat were hurting from crying (and maybe also sleep-deprivation, as time was diving deeper into the night), your face was hurting from the hit you’d taken, and yet, nothing could be compared to the pain you felt in your leg. you wanted to take off your mask, it was suffocating enough even without it, but any cameras catching your face would be more of a disaster long term.
you took a deep breath, and put your hands on the ground. you pushed yourself up while shaking, and turned around. you looked at your leg, and immediately regretted it. it was bleeding a lot, and your flesh had been ripped apart. you didn’t know what to do, there was no one you could call.
you took out your phone from your pocket, and found peter’s number. you really didn’t want to, but you had no other choice.
peter answered by calling out your name questioningly, his voice came across better than last time; it still did sound like he was in pain, but he was calmer.
“peter,” you said, failing to sound like you weren’t crying. “a guy shot me. my leg is hurt.”
“a- what? where are you?”
“i’m near the collapsed building you should be in.”
“i- i-”
you took a second to breathe. “no, no, i… i just don’t know what to do,” you said, sniffling and gasping, “i can’t get up. i, uh, should i wrap something around my leg?”
“yeah,” he said, “a piece of cloth until you can get out, how close are you to the exit? you should call an ambulance or a taxi or—” he also had to stop to take a breath in pain, “i don’t know— i’m sorry. i’m really sorry.”
“what are you sorry for? it’s the fault of this piece of— well, garbage. at least i have a gun now.”
“who was it? is he still there?”
“i don’t know, some random guy. he’s unconscious.”
“… how?”
“well, i… kind of strangled him? he was,” you huffed, “he fainted because he couldn’t breathe, he’s alive though. i did hit his head a few times, i don’t know how that bodes for him.”
“probably not well,” he said, now with a hint of surprise and amusement in his voice, “you, uh, you did well. very well.”
“huh, thank you.”
good, this was good, hearing peter’s voice had been good for you. you pushed yourself up somehow, and sat up straight.
“what happened?” he asked, “why is the pain worsening?” probably because of your increasing groans.
“i was trying to sit up. i need to find a piece of cloth.”
you looked around, and decided to take anything you could from the man who attacked you. you went through his pockets, and sure enough, found a knife. you cut a piece off of his shirt, and used it as bandage.
“how tight should it be?”
“you should be able to slide a finger under it.”
next, you needed to drag yourself away from the middle of the road, to somewhere you could hide—
no.
no, that wasn’t why you were here.
“how are you doing, peter?” you asked, but couldn’t add that you would be there soon.
“i’m…” he started, but drifted off. and then you heard silent sobbing. “i’m sorry,” he said.
“you have nothing to apologize for.”
“no, it’s all my fault. i never should’ve dragged you into this mess.”
“you didn’t drag me into anything, i stole a bike and ran a marathon to get to you,” you’d sounded firmer now, although still couldn’t stop your crying; the pain just wasn’t getting any better.
“i let you down along with everyone else,” he wasn’t listening to you, “and i don’t know what to do, i can’t come to you, i don’t know how to get you out,” his voice had gotten frantic again.
you sighed, trying to get your sobbing under control, and think of a reply. was it his fault? no, you were certain it wasn’t. had he let you down? no, the thought hadn’t even crossed your mind. should he stay away from you? were you afraid of pain or death? would you rather live a more stress-free life than stay with peter?
you closed your eyes to let the tears roll down your cheeks as the realisation that you couldn’t immediately say “no” set in, you felt betrayed by yourself. you’d thought about this, yesterday… or two days ago, you supposed, as it was past midnight. he’d told you everything, so you knew the risks, and you’d thought about it. you’d decided it would be fine; worrying for his safety or being at risk yourself. and if you got injured, then you could handle some pain. and if you died, well… there was no getting ahead of death. if you died, that would mean your time had come.
so where had your conviction gone to? had the pain been too much, after all? it was the pain, the stabbing sensation was making your brain foggy, demanding all the attention be on it. you hated it, you hated everything. you were mad at yourself; why couldn’t you just be better?
“peter,” you cut him off, “i know i can’t understand you fully, but i get it,” you’d decided to just ramble. you couldn’t come up with the perfect answer to make his worries disappear, so you would just… tell him whatever was going through your mind.
“i lay awake some nights, randomly afraid of the dark. then i curl up under my blanket, and try to comfort myself. because there is no one to lie next to me. i look out from my window and see grey walls. i look up at night and see no stars. i walk outside and hundreds of people just walk past me without even looking at my face, and i don’t remember any of theirs the next hour. all i hear all day are the honks of cars, and depressing news. abuse. crime. kid died. alone person went missing. don’t go out at night. don’t talk to anyone. there is no one anyway, who would i talk to?” you paused to sniffle again, and catch your breath.
“i come home and say ‘hello’ to emptiness and darkness, i turn on the lights myself, then think about what i’ll eat. and i don’t properly eat most days, because i just don’t want to prepare something only for myself. yesterday, i was so happy you liked the food i made, i wanted to cook something for the first time in months while waiting for you,” words were just coming out of your mouth without restraint now, was it the sleep deprivation?
“in high school, i used to watch you and your friends, and wish i could find someone who would be in sync with me too. i used to wish i had a reason or an excuse to join in when i saw you three laugh or talk. i go to university now, and i attend lectures, and i make small talk with a few people, and then i drown in my own thoughts the whole day. i tell myself that i’m fine by myself, but i feel like my soul is getting thinner by the day, looking at walls. is it just me, or is everyone just disconnected now, i don’t know.”
you finally stopped, and let silence stretch after your words. your crying had gotten worse as the suffocation of your life had built up enough to rush out of you; you didn’t cry much, not really. sure, you sometimes shed silent tears, sitting by yourself on your couch, but normally, you just kept going without thinking much about it. you had your exams, and job, and volunteer work, and projects to worry about, so pitying yourself was at the bottom of your to-do list. but now? you were crying waterfalls. was it because you’d finally found someone to tell what you were really thinking? no, it was probably because of the pain you were already in.
peter didn’t answer, for a long while, it was just silence.
“you were right,” you said, “being known with your negative sides sucks.”
“no,” he said, “you were right. i’m glad to know you as you are.”
he didn’t sound good. he didn’t sound good at all. you sighed in resignation, closing your eyes tightly shut to clear your view of tears. “i’m closing now, peter, wait for me,” you said, and closed the call before he could reply.
you looked at the ground, and furrowed your brows in concentration. you would get up. you had to. you had no choice. peter had called you for help. he had no one. no one else to call. no one else to save him from making a choice between death and killing innocent victims under rubble. no one else to save him from death.
you gritted your teeth, your leg hurt as the deep cut touched the bad guy’s shirt, and in some parts, the cold air of the night. the wound kept bleeding, and hurting more by the second. but you gritted your teeth anyway, through your tears and gasps for air that you had an abundance of, but your lungs refused to take in. you put your hands on the ground, and pushed yourself up, using all the strength you had.
you whimpered and groaned in many attempts to stifle your screams before they could come out, and alert whoever was close enough to hear, and managed to set your back straight. it was unbearable, the pain was holding you from the collar, trying to drag you down, making your vision red, exploding in your brain.
it’s just pain, you kept repeating to yourself, it was just a feeling, you could move through it. so you would walk now. towards peter. as quickly as possible. you needed to reach him, that was why you’d come this far, how could you let pain make you forget? it was simply unacceptable, the thought of peter dying under that rubble.
so you put one foot in front of the other, and made your way to peter through every force working against you.
──────
"peter?" you asked, trying to walk through the rubble, and then heard your name back.
"i'm here!"
you tried to reach him at least enough to see his face, as fast as you could, but it was still taking too long with your injured leg. too long for your impatience currently, anyway.
"i'll remove the victims so you can get out of there," you said as you stretched your head enough to see his face, not being able to get closer. he was... he'd taken off his mask, and he looked horrible; his eyes had become red from tears and most likely his injuries, his face was covered in dust and some drops of blood. looking at him stung your chest. "tell me where they are."
──────
peter was strong. he truly was. not only mentally; you were currently watching him lift what was essentially an entire ceiling with other pieces of rubble on it off himself, with most likely many crushing injuries. insane. he was insane. no wonder he couldn’t move with all with those unconscious people around.
you had somehow managed to move them out of his way, seven people in total, much more than you’d anticipated. how could you get them out of here now? you were injured, peter was probably in worse condition… although he did seem to be able to carry significant weight. maybe you could carry them until the exit and call an ambulance, for yourselves, too.
──────
peter walked towards you until he was a breath away, his face was covered in sweat on top of everything else, and he was gasping for air, as were you. he looked at your leg.
“i’ll carry you,” was all he said. he seemed so tired.
“we need to carry these people first.”
“no, i’ll carry you first. until you’re out of this complex.”
──────
you were sitting on the sidewalk, waiting for the ambulance you had called. well, ambulances, as they’d be carrying nine people. you had, also, finally taken off the mask you’d come to despise at this point, associating it with very negative feelings.
you saw peter swing down with the last one of the survivors. he landed, placed the unconscious man on the sidewalk, and sat right next to you.
you sat together in silence for a while, until you took a deep breath, and chuckled lightly. it was over. you’d done it. everyone was alive.
peter looked at you questioningly, although it was hard to read his face; he’d turned mostly expressionless. because of how much effort it must have been taking to even stay awake for him, you assumed.
“it’s over,” you said, “we did it.”
he looked away again, to the desolate road in front of you. “you did it,” he said, “i messed up.”
“how so?”
“i acted rashly. i should’ve been more careful. now they’ll find a new base, and i have to start from nothing to track them down again. and they know i’m after them. and i couldn’t change anything in the end, i just made things worse. all of this was for nothing, it could have been completely avoided. it started with the collapse of one building and then it ended with the collapse of another for no reason.”
you were watching him carefully. lines of exhaustion had formed on his face, the sorrow and… and whatever it was that dropped a boulder of burning despair into the pit of your stomach from when you first met had come back; you’d thought the youth had somehow returned to his face this evening.
“so,” you started, taking another deep breath, “you came here after they exploded a building to stop them, like, end them in general, or at least weaken them, do something. that makes sense to me. then you acted rashly here? why?”
“i saw… the kidnapped victims, and they were suffering, so i wanted to save them.”
“then you didn’t mess up, right? you saved them.”
“not all of them, and i wouldn’t have without you.”
“well, a big majority of them, you did save. all of them would die without you. and what else could you have done but to directly interfere? you did the only thing you could.”
he just stayed silent, was he not convinced?
“i don’t think this was a failure, peter. i think you did well and saved many people, and i think it was worth it.”
his eyes were teary, but he didn’t look at you again, he turned his gaze to the ground, and just stayed silent.
──────
you had decided on what to tell the authorities before the paramedics had arrived, and then you’d been separated, put into different ambulances.
then… well, the rest was as you imagined it would go. still a lot of pain, and a lot of hasty doctors as they asked questions and barked orders. it was horrible, really, with the way your head had been aching, but at least they were numbing your leg. and you would most likely be allowed to drift off to sleep at some point, right?
──────
you lied on the hospital bed, staring at the ceiling. it was almost noon, and you’d waken up not so long ago. you just kept playing what happened again and again in your head, trying to make sense of every detail.
it was a miracle you were alive. you’d faced off a gun. an actual gun.
it was good that all you could do by yourself in this hospital bed was think; you’d been asking yourself the same questions for a while now. did you still want to be involved with peter? you’d known him only for two days, and you’d ended up in a hospital already.
you’d considered every outcome and every reason, every choice you could make. in the end, it boiled down to a few core options. would you rather live a less risky life by yourself, or risk getting hurt like this to be with someone? someone who can meet you as deeply as you crave?
not just that, human bonds were too important to be disregarded because of what external threats might arise. the reality now was that you loved peter, he was a good person, he didn’t deserve to be abandoned because of what evil people did. your choice didn’t come out of loneliness; even if you had a dozen bonds like this, you would still choose to stay with peter, because you’d formed a relationship with him now. and that was that.
out of every outcome you considered, the worst one was definitely living your life without peter, and then getting news that spiderman just died somewhere, by himself. even the thought of it was nausiating. then again, the thought of just him getting hurt like this, and having no one to go to was just as horrible. so you needed to choose the opposite of what would cause that outcome to happen.
it hadn’t been that hard a decision to make; staying involved with peter. you’d already been tangled, it wasn’t much of a possibility to untangle yourself now, a part of you would be left behind.
besides, you somehow remembered him, didn’t you? that had to mean something. there had to be a reason for it.
──────
after finally being discharged, the first thing you did was look for peter, but he’d somehow gotten out before you. not because his wounds were less severe, quite the opposite, the nurses had said he’d been restless to get out, and they couldn’t keep someone against their will.
the orange of dusk had faded away, although it wasn’t fully dark yet. you were on your way to your apartment while you kept ringing peter’s phone, he was stubbornly refusing to answer.
you huffed as another attempt turned out to be in vain. you looked at the taxi driver, who did not acknowledge your existence, and then turned back to your phone.
“peter, are you okay? is everything all right?”
you messaged him. then waited for him to see. aaand waited. still waiting.
you huffed again, three minutes of staring at your screen impatiently and he wasn’t responding.
although you’d asked him if he were okay, you knew the truth. it wasn’t that he couldn’t answer, it was that he’d decided to go through with his stupid “i’ll never see you again because i’m ruining your life” nonsense. in your heart of hearts, you knew. so you sent another message.
“if you’re thinking about cutting ties with me, then do it properly. come and talk to me about it.”
and then looked out the taxi’s window for the rest of your journey.
────── 𓆩˚.⋆🕸⋆.˚𓆪 ──────
you were right, peter knew. after everything that happened, opening up to you and accepting you into his life, if he wanted to step away now, he needed to respect you, and tell you about it properly. so he was standing in front of your door now, trying to gather up the courage to ring your bell, and tell you he’d never see you again. this door had seemed so inviting one night ago, and it had tricked peter. he was not supposed to be invited into any house, didn’t your house know that?
he took a deep breath, and rang the bell. when you opened the door, you looked tired. not your expression, but the lines on your face and the look in your eyes gave it away. that was his fault, wasn’t it?
you stepped aside to welcome him, and he followed you into the living room, the couch he’d sat on the night he’d told you everything.
bidding you farewell was going to be hard, he didn’t know if he could be brave enough, or selfless enough. he’d been so when he had been wiped from the memories of every living being, and that was much harder a task, wasn’t it? so couldn’t he do it a second time?
but he hated waking up every day, and hated… well, he couldn’t even properly hate. getting up, putting one foot in front of the other was becoming harder every day, he didn’t want to do anything, anymore. so circumstances had changed since then, but he still kept fighting every day, and he still kept doing what he thought was right. so he could do this too.
or you would die. he’d lost enough people. to love was to lose. to love was the possibility of loss eventually.
he shouldn’t even have sat on this couch, actually, why had he done so? he should’ve just told you he was leaving, and then leave. he made a move to get up again, you grabbed his arm to stop him.
“you should stay seated,” you said, “i’ll bring something to eat for dinner.”
“please don’t, i’ll be on my way shortly anyway.”
“no,” you said as a statement, firmly, and left him alone in the living room.
peter never should’ve come. you deserved to have one last conversation, but how could peter move on from you? he supposed it would’ve been impossible even if he hadn’t come to your place today, even if he’d told you to turn back without getting wet the day you first recognized him. he would just have to live missing you forever, and that wasn’t unrealistic. it’s what he was doing now, missing everybody he’d ever known. and he was living, wasn’t he? well, he was alive.
you brought pasta with chicken, obviously freshly made, and put down two plates on the couch.
“we could eat in the kitchen,” he said.
“couch is comfier.”
he sighed, looking at his plate. he really didn’t want to eat anything made by you again, he didn’t need more things to miss. you’d said you didn’t feel like preparing a meal just for yourself, that he made you want to cook something… he remembered everything you said, of course. that you’d apparently wanted to get closer to him in high school too, why had he been so nervous? afraid?
it was for the best, though. otherwise, you might’ve died years ago. no matter what you felt, he couldn’t be selfish enough to assume he could be there for you, or good for you.
“so,” you started, “you decided to go forward with your plan of ignoring my existence for the rest of your life?”
“it’s not ignoring,” he had a defensive tone, “i was wrong to even confirm i’m peter at the start, i’ll fix my mistake.”
“it wasn’t a mistake, how can you say that? would you prefer i believed i’d lost my mind?”
you had a hard time walking now, limping although you tried to hide it, and several wounds were visible on your face. you’d beat up a man with a metal pipe, what kind of damage did that leave on your psyche? peter didn’t know, he’d been warring since he was fifteen.
“you wouldn’t be in pain, at least.”
“you’re unbelievable,” you sounded exasparated, and seemed offended, but peter didn’t know what else to say. it was the truth. “i’d rather know the bitter truth, or suffer from its consequences than believe a lie any time. besides, you couldn’t have known this would happen, it’s not on you.”
“you can’t tell me you would still get a gunshot wound yesterday if we hadn’t met two days ago.”
“maybe not, but i don’t blame you for it and i don’t care.”
“you don’t care?!” peter was getting angry, was it because you were getting angry? he was angry at himself, was it dripping out of his chest into his tongue as poison?
“no,” you backtracked, “i mean, i’m fine with it. i can live with it. and i don’t hold it against you, i don’t have any resentment for you. i don’t know how else to explain this.”
he took a deep breath to hold back his tears. he couldn’t let your words get to him, make him feel better about what had occurred. he needed to protect you, he kept reminding himself.
“i can’t put you in harm’s way,” he said.
you paused for a moment.
“do you take care of your wounds by yourself? you did so after the fire the other day, and you basically ran away from the hospital this time around.”
peter was taken aback. “uh, yeah?” he answered.
you grabbed a bag that was positioned right next to the couch on the floor, and took a… first aid kit out of it. and then a salve, and bandages, and… what was going on?
“i bought these today after being discharged, figured you might need some.”
“i’m… fine?”
your expression was very unimpressed when you looked at him.
“so you think i don’t see your arm, or the way you have a hard time eating or breathing, or even just your hands?”
ah, right. his hands were bruised, not enough to warrant bandaging though, this happened regularly. and his arm did hurt, but the pain would go away in a few days or so. his abdomen… that was taken care of, too, the dressing they did at the hospital would be enough.
“it’s all taken care of,” he said.
“we need to put salve on your hands, and then wrap-”
“we don’t, this happens all the time.”
you looked at him in surprise for a moment. “this happens all the time and we don’t need to treat it?” you repeated with your eyes wide, tone something between offended and shocked.
he didn’t know what to say, so you just started doing whatever you’d set your mind to even before he came to your house. you gently held his hand, and started applying the salve. he sighed, and closed his eyes, leaning his head to rest on the couch. he shouldn’t have, but you didn’t give him much choice.
“i’ll learn how to suture,” you said, “and anything else that’s necessary.”
peter spoke your name, “i’m sorry,” he said, “i am so, so sorry. i don’t want to leave you either, but you saw what happened. mj and ned have forgotten me, and they are happier for it. this is what i need to do.”
“peter,” you said, as you started wrapping the bandage around his hand, “i haven’t forgotten you, and if you leave now, i still won’t forget. i don’t know how mj and ned are doing, having forgotten, but you can’t compare me to them. and even if i had forgotten, i still would want to know. how else can i put this?” you searched for the words, “i care about you more than i care about happiness. i’d choose you over happiness, i’d rather be in pain with you than be painless by myself.”
peter had straightened his back, his gaze fixated on your eyes, as you spoke. a lump in his throat, tears threatening to roll down his cheeks in his eyes, his hand in your hands… a warmth in his chest, how he hadn’t felt in so long. your words did soften his edges, but he couldn’t accept it. he still held back his tears, and still wanted to escape. run away. was that why he wanted to leave you? was his true reason to protect you, or his fear? he wanted to run, he wanted to run as fast as he could and hide, from anyone who could see him.
it was too much, but he couldn’t exactly tell what was too much. he was afraid of hurting you, but that wasn’t all he was afraid of, yet he couldn’t recognize what else scared him so.
“but,” you continued, “being with you will make me happy anyway, do you understand? i’ll be happier with you than alone, even if my life is at risk, and even if guns chase my back.”
you had teared up too, peter realised, but were wiping your tears away, to keep your vision clear while working on his now other hand, he assumed.
and that was it, the last drop of water to make his glass overflow. silent tears started finding their way to his chin, his gaze lowered in embarrassment. he’d already cried a dozen times in front of you, and he wished he hadn’t, he wished he could be stronger, firmer, he wished he could aspire confidence instead of silently crying. he hadn’t been able to cry for a while, before meeting you. even when it hurt deep inside his bones, his tears had dried up. were they all spilling out now?
he wanted you to stay, too, he was tired of being alone. he was tired of imagining “what if”s. he was tired of walking directionless with his hoodie covering his face, face a blur in crowds, never known by anyone. if you could bandage his hands every time after a fight, or have your textbooks scattered around in his room, then-
he didn’t want to imagine it. he just couldn’t accept it.
you were done with his hands, even though peter didn’t want you to let go. “how about this,” you started, “why don’t we give it some more time? i mean, how many times did mj or ned get wounded while knowing you?”
“… never, really.”
“yeah, so, either i’m also cursed, or this was a rare occurrence. either way, me staying with you won’t change anything. so, instead of making a rash decision like this, why don’t we try to be friends first? and if it doesn’t work out, then you can put some distance?”
that was… peter thought on it. and then his silent tears turned into straight-up sobbing. because that could work. he could accept that, it made sense to him.
he leaned down and buried his face in his hands. you started caressing his hair, which made it impossible for his tears to stop.
when everyone had forgotten, you'd remembered him. when faced with a gun, you'd survived. when injured, you'd walked. maybe he really was cursed, considering what had happened to you after you just met, but you seemed determined to break it.
and it might not be perfect, but it would be.
it must’ve been hard for you to make such a decision, you must’ve thought about it; staying with peter. you’d chosen him anyway. he could do the same, too. despite his fears, his horrible instinct to shrink and escape, he could stand his ground, and choose to stay, as you had. and maybe with time, it could get easier.
he stopped his sobbing, calmed down enough to face you, and raised his head.
“i don’t know what tomorrow will bring,” he said with a hint of nervousness in his voice.
“right,” you smiled, “exciting, isn’t it?”
ghost towns (youtube music) by radical face... as we part ways for now.
summary: benjamin poindexter does not believe in fate. he believes in structure, routine, and predictability. but then, he meets you. his new next door neighbor.
pairing: benjamin poindexter x f!reader
content/warnings: 18+ (mdni), mentions of PTSD/OCD/schizophrenia/anxiety, medications, coping mechanisms (fairly healthy…for now), obsessive behavior, canon divergent, no use of y/n
word count: 2.3k
A/N: wow. my first fanfic written and published in over 6 years!! actually insane. i’ve been lurking on Tumblr recently and rediscovered the absolute goldmine of works that i had forgotten existed since like 2014 (lol). i’ve read works from so many amazing authors here who reignited my love for reading and being a part of creative spaces, and in turn finally felt that desire to write again for fun <3 also introduced me to this deranged blonde man who bewitched me heart and soul and pussy fr. this is all to say apologies if this is a bit crusty, i’m still dusting off the ol’ keyboard and getting back into it. i’m planning that this will be a mutli-part series that i regularly update, but full disclaimer that other responsibilities may get the best of me!! also apologies for the lack of action in this chapter, i promise x100 it’s on the way. anyways, hope you enjoy and i hope i can keep creating :-)
part II
Benjamin L. Poindexter did not believe in fate.
No, he did not. Because in order for fate to inhabit this world, that would mean there would have to be something higher than man. Something that created the structure the little lives below were meant to follow. A higher being would imply the existence of God, or Yahweh, or Brahma, or whatever deity man chose to worship. And God, in turn, implied that there is a distinction between good and bad.
Unfortunately, nobody had ever bothered to explain the difference to Dex.
Other people claimed to know, like priests or teachers or politicians when they had a point to prove. They could preach and teach and debate all they wanted, but it just…never made sense.
If good and bad were as clearly defined as everyone insisted, then somebody should have been able to explain, really explain it by now.
Nobody ever had.
So…that must have meant that there was no God. And that meant there was no higher being. And no higher being, of course, meant no fate.
For a long time, Dex was content with that explanation. He didn’t need theology or karma or the cosmos to keep him going. What he needed was routine. Structure. Rules. Baseball, once. Mercer. Then the Army. And now, the FBI.
What could be more ordered than working in bureaucracy? There were procedures, badges, clearance levels, dress codes… It was, in theory, exactly the sort of environment a 33 year-old man with a multitude of mental health disorders should find for himself.
And the best part about it was that it worked.
The paperwork, the filings, the endless codebooks and all the cogs of a federal interagency machine churning, it kept things…quiet. Subdued, even. Sure, Dex still had his moments. Times where the cool steel of a federally-issued gun felt too heavy in his hand. When he would pass by a bar on his way home and overhear the crack of a bat and the rise of a commentator’s voice from a television inside. When the aripiprazole would take a bit longer to kick in and memories of Mercer’s voice felt closer than just a fragment of his mind.
But the system always brought him back. Because no matter what, he knew what the next day held. Wake up, morning jog, coffee, newspaper, badge, suit, commute, work, home, exercise, shower, dinner, television, meds, sleep, repeat.
It was good for him. Good for who he was.
What he was.
This is all to say, that no, Benjamin Poindexter did not believe in fate because he had no need for it. It was not needed to explain, or justify, or defend.
He did not believe in fate.
Until August 9th, 2018.
8:37 PM.
Yes, Dex remembered the time. What type of man would he be if he forgot? He wouldn’t. Couldn’t.
It was hot outside that day. So hot that he had considered not taking the subway after work for how crowded and smelly and sweaty he knew it would be (he took the train anyway. Detours from routine had a tendency to create problems.). So hot that by the time he had arrived at his apartment building, perspiration had glued the fabric of his white button-down to the middle of his back. So hot that he wondered if he should turn the fan on when he got into his apartment (but what if the force was too strong and it knocked off the papers on the coffee table like it had last week? Nope, not acceptable.).
Dex was so deep in heat-agitated contemplation that he nearly missed the stack of boxes outside the apartment across his. It wasn’t until he put his key in the door of unit 415 that he recognized there was something behind him.
He turned.
Boxes. Cardboard. Stacked neatly against the wall, like they were waiting for their turn in line.
And more than that, there was…music? Piano. Saxophone. Jazz, maybe. Something slowly flowing out of the cracked open door to apartment 416.
He paused, key still stuck in the doorknob.
A new neighbor, then.
No one had told him anyone was moving in. He corrected himself. No one needed to tell him, it just…would have been nice. New neighbors meant new information, new routines. New personalities to deal with.
The old resident of 416 was a twenty-something year-old named Casey who worked somewhere in finance. JP Morgan, maybe. Dex didn’t like him. Not just because he left trash in the hallway or he talked too much if they happened to ride the elevator together. It was more than that.
Casey had a complete lack of consistency. His schedule was erratic. One day he would be out the door by 7:23 AM, clad in his yuppie suit and tie, yapping on the phone while chugging an energy drink. The next day he wouldn’t emerge from the apartment. Then the day after that, music and drunken laughter or yelling from his equally-as-annoying friends would blast out of the apartment from dusk til dawn.
So yes, maybe it was a blessing that Casey was gone, because in a way, his behavior and whatever semblance of a routine (if you could even call it that) was, in a word, stressful. But Dex had gotten used to Casey.
Looking at the open door, the boxes on the hallway floor, Dex could feel that familiar tightness spreading across his chest.
Fuck.
He turned away and forced himself into his own apartment, closing and locking the door behind him. He couldn’t hear the jazz anymore. Dex squeezed his eyes shut.
Breathe in, breathe out.
In…and out.
On the last breath, he slowly peeled his eyes open. He clenched his fists, and then unclenched them. He did it again. Once more, for good measure.
Okay. It was fine. He was fine.
Change is inevitable, he reminded himself. The routine he relied upon would remain. A new neighbor would not derail what time he woke up, or took the train, or how he made coffee in the morning.
Dex took more deep breath, filling the breadth of his lungs, and then…silence.
Nothing had happened. He was not altered. A stack of cardboard had not unleashed whatever was caged in him, clawing to get out.
He nodded to himself in confirmation of his own humanity, and then went about the rest of his evening.
The night’s routine was, for the most part, unaffected. Dex changed out of the sweat-damp button-down, put the laundry in the hamper. He stretched in front of the window. The workout was the same as always. Thirty pull-ups on the bar mounted on the bathroom doorway. One hundred push-ups after. Then one hundred situps. Afterwards, he let himself sit in silence, feeling the ache in his muscles and allowed himself to catch his breath for approximately six minutes. And then he got up, showered, changed, and started dinner. Salmon in the airfryer, bag of rice in the microwave, because it was Tuesday.
It was only after dinner, in between washing dishes and before watching TV (local news first, then one episode of a sitcom rerun) that the routine altered.
There was a knock at the door.
Dex paused at the kitchen sink, sponge in one hand and plate in the other.
Another knock. Timid, like the sound was unsure of itself.
He turned off the faucet, put the sponge and dish down. Wiped his hands on the dish towel. Walked to the door, and gazed into the peephole.
The fisheye lens revealed a young woman, probably close to his age or a few years younger. She was holding something (a plate, maybe?), shifting back and forth on her feet. Chewing on her lip, she looked behind herself at apartment 416.
An unusual sight for a Tuesday night.
His years at Quantico would tell Dex he probably shouldn’t open the door to strangers. Especially strangers holding an unknown object. But a woman knocking on his apartment door at night was not a typical circumstance, or at least one that the Bureau or Riveria or Lyndhurst or Fort Moore had prepared him for.
So, he unlatched the deadbolt, unlocked the knob, and opened the creaking door.
It was you.
He blinked. You blinked back.
“I, um…” Something about the sight of him must have derailed your train of thought. Your face flushed, and then you smiled. Truly smiled. “Hi.”
Dex blinked again. You looked at him, smile faltering only slightly. Your gaze flicked downward briefly before returning to his face. Shifting slightly, you craned your neck to look behind him. Were you trying to…look into his apartment?
“Sorry, I uh…I didn’t mean to interrupt anything, I just–”
“No,” The word left his mouth before he could stop it. His voice continued, sounding distant, like someone else was talking. “No, you’re not… You’re not interrupting anything.”
“Oh! That’s good. That’s, um…” you paused, then shook your head and laughed nervously. What was funny? “Sorry, let me just start over. I've been moving all today and have totally forgotten how to speak normally, apparently.”
You took a breath, then straightened your shoulders and presented the plate in your hands. It was covered in tinfoil. You still had that smile on your face as you shared your name.
“I just moved in,” you gestured behind yourself. Apartment 416. “I wanted to introduce myself to the hall, so I thought I would make some cookies. But I couldn't find the baking sheets in my boxes, of course, and so by the time I actually got around to the cookies and had them ready, it was way too late to be running up and down the hall, banging on people’s doors like a crazy person so…”
You looked down at the plate again, then did a little shrug. “I figured the person right across the hall was probably the most important one to win over, so…here I am, and I guess you get all the cookies to yourself!”
You laughed nervously again, and then waited, cookie platter presented.
Dex looked at the plate, and then back at you.
Silence.
After a few seconds of this, you cleared your throat. “They’re…chocolate chip. In case you were…wondering.”
Dex knew what the regular response to this should be. He watched enough television and movies to know at this point, he should take the platter, spare you the confusion as to why your new neighbor was so socially inept, thank you for the kind gesture, and introduce himself. He just…his brain wasn’t working, for some reason. Nobody had ever brought cookies to apartment 415 before.
The silence was seeming to unnerve you. You continued speaking, hands tightening slightly around the covered plate. “If you don’t like chocolate chip, or– or if you’re allergic to dairy or gluten, which, God that would be so me to give a new neighbor anaphylactic shock on my first day in a new apartment, I could–”
Something about seeing you so worried forced Dex’s brain to finally connected nerve-endings. He found his voice once again. “No, I–I like chocolate chip. I’m not…allergic.”
His hands stiffly made their way from holding onto the door frame to gingerly taking the plate. It was still warm when he took it from you. “Thank you.”
You seemed more than relieved that your new neighbor was not selectively mute. A bright smile had returned to your face. “Yeah, of course! I love to bake. It’s hard to find the time to do it, especially nowadays with my work, but I actually used to want to own a bakery when I was younger...” You trailed off and rosy tint in your cheeks deepened. “I’m sorry, I have the tendency to ramble a lot. Anyways, I just wanted to introduce myself. Sorry it’s so late. I promise I don't have a habit of shoving baked goods in strangers' faces.”
“It’s..it’s okay,” he stammered. His voice had gone a bit shaky. He didn’t know why. “Really.”
You nodded, looking a little relieved to almost be done with the encounter. You glanced down at the cookies in his hands, and then at his face again. “Well…I won’t keep you anymore. I’m sure I’ll see you around!”
You turned and walked the three steps it took to cross the hallway to apartment 416. You put your hand on the knob.
"Dex," he suddenly blurted out. You looked back at him over your shoulder, an eyebrow raised in question.
"My name," he clarified. He could feel his own face growing redder by the second. What were you doing to him? "It's...Dex."
"Dex," you repeated slowly, like you were feeling the weight of his name on your tongue. The sound was like warm honey dripping down his spine. Your lips curved softly after and it did something strange to his guts. "Have a good night, Dex."
He watched as you slipped into the apartment. Only once the door closed behind you did Dex return back into apartment 415. He put the locks back into place and set the plate on the countertop, then carefully peeled the tinfoil back. The plate was green, like the color of a frog. Atop it sat six chocolate chip cookies, each one nearly identical to the next. He took one, and bit into it.
It was good.
He took another bite, and then another. The cookie was gone.
He placed the tinfoil back onto the frog-colored plate, and after thinking about it, gently pushed it into the middle of the counter.
Dex looked at the clock above the stove. It was 8:37 PM.
He let the remainder of the evening unfurl as it should have. He watched the evening news where the anchor droned on about ongoing city council budget disputes and a robbery in Midtown. After that, he flicked through stations until he landed on a rerun of some 90s sitcom he had already watched twelve times before.
Afterwards, he brushed his teeth, swallowed his prazosin and aripiprazole, flicked off the lights in the apartment, double-checked the stove was off, triple-checked the door locks, and finally made his way into the bed.
As he lay in the sheets, staring at the ceiling and listening to the distant sirens that never seemed to stop in New York City, he reflected. Not on train time schedules like he usually did before he attempted sleep, or bureau mandated procedural sequences. Calm things, routine things.
Instead, Benjamin L. Poindexter thought about chocolate chip cookies.
He thought about the frog-colored plate sitting centered on his kitchen countertop.
He thought about you, with your pink cheeks and nervous laugh.
Part Two of For a Minute, I Lost Myself | Read Part One here!
Pairing: Benjamin Poindexter x Reader
Summary: After all that had occurred between you and Poindexter when you saved his life, the anger, the tears, the touch, you knew that whatever this was, it wasn't over. And as Fisk's hold on New York City grows, Poindexter may be the only person you can turn to.
Warnings + Tags: MORE T E N S I O N, graphic violence, explicit language, use of Y/N, stalking, mentions of grief and death/murder, more debates about morality, hospitals, Dex is a mish mash of Born Again Dex and Daredevil series 3 Dex, based on episode 2x07 of Born Again, reader is in an ethical pickle, Dex really yearns in this one
A/N: Thank you so much for all the likes, comments, and reblogs on the first part of this fic, and for the encouragement to continue! I hope you enjoy the second part <3
Word Count: 4.5k
---
It had all gone horribly wrong.
You had heeded Matt's call for aid. Which, much to your dismay, had actually been for Benjamin Poindexter. Bullseye. The man you despised. And against your better judgement, you had stepped over the line that you yourself had drawn when you lost your temper with him. When you broke any distance between you and Poindexter, lunging yourself onto his thighs as you gripped his hair so hard that he had moaned. When you came to your senses, but still inexplicably refused to move away from him. When he had pressed his forehead ever so gently to yours, calming you down, and you had enjoyed it.
You had been so distracted by him that for the first time since assisting Karen and Matt, you had assumed their footfalls. And you had been wrong. You had heard the weight of Matt's boots against the concrete hallway, and had automatically taken for granted that Karen would be there also. But she wasn't.
You're standing by the doorway to the hideout, cheeks still flushed and fists clenched to ease the shaking, when only Matt staggers through, beaten and bloody. Your heart sinks at the sight. From behind you, you can hear Poindexter moving on that damned make-shift bed, curiosity getting the best of him. Immediately attending to Matt, you throw his arm over your shoulder and help him to the nearest seat.
"What happened?" You say softly as possible, trying to hide the panic in your voice but failing. "Where's Karen?"
"They got her." Matt winces. "She'd planned to expose Fisk at the protest, with the interviews we'd filmed from those he and the Task Force had imprisoned. She was gonna plaster them all over City Hall. But Powell found her. She's at the 15th Precinct. And it's all been done legally."
He pauses, and you can tell that he's trying to get his thoughts straight.
"Fisk means to hold her as an example- as proof of the legitimacy of his Vigilante Court, and as a consequence of those who act against him. He won't stop until this is over."
"Shit." The word escapes you before you realise. "What do we do?"
"Well if we break her out, we're the criminals he says we are. We're going to have to beat him at his own game."
He pauses again.
"For now though Y/N, it's best if you lay low. Keep to normality. We may need you if things go wrong, and they can't know that you're helping us. It'll only get you hurt."
You go to protest. How can I go back to normality when Karen's locked in Fisk's cell? When she's in danger?
Matt's words, however, interrupt your objection before you can even speak it. He turns towards Poindexter.
"You, however."
Matt rises from his seat, slowly moving towards Poindexter. Your eyes follow Matt's every move. You know what Matt is capable of, and it is for that reason that you're never quite sure what he will do.
And once again, he surprises you.
Poindexter's hands are released from the handcuffs. As he turns his wrists, the bones crack a teeth-clenching sound. You grimace at the noise.
"You wanted one good deed, right? So we could balance the scales?"
"Yeah. Sure." Poindexter responds nonchalantly.
"Well then, I've got it for you." But then Matt stops, his breathing uneven, as if he's trying to restrain himself from losing his composure. "But first, know this. I hate you for Foggy. I hate you for Father Lantom. For Agent Nadeem. And for every life you've wasted for no reason other than your own twisted soul."
Your chest aches at his words. Aches at the agony in his voice. Your hands clench into fists, the tremor still present.
"Part of me wants to kill you...And part of me needs to forgive you."
You're not surprised, however, at Matt's will to be kind, adamant to forgive and show grace towards others, especially to those undeserving of it.
"Well...thanks."
Poindexter's response seems to come off as if it's mockery, but to you, the tone strikes you as though he believes he is past the point of forgiveness. There's a sadness hidden deeper beneath his brief words, and it makes you feel almost pitiful towards him. But unlike Matt, you have not chosen to forgive just yet.
Poindexter stands from the bed, letting out a small groan as his hand covers the gauze on his abdomen. As he does, you're taken aback by just how tall he is, not to mention how toned his body is, which must be from the years of military and federal service Matt once mentioned. He holds such a presence just simply standing there. You dread to think what he must be like in action, be like as Bullseye. No wonder people fear the mere mention of his name. Even standing here, you can't seem to tear your eyes away from him. You're not afraid though.
You try to maintain your focus on Matt, who's sitting beside you, rather than stare at Poindexter.
"Don't do that. It's not for you. It's for them." Matt retorts back, whilst throwing Poindexter one of his own jumpers. "Now go, disappear, die, I don't care. But if you mean what you say, you wanna do one good thing in a life full of shit, then I've got it for you."
'You know I can't make any promises, right?" That stupid smirk is back on Poindexter lips, taunting Matt.
"Wouldn't believe you if you did."
As he looks down towards the jumper, his smirk fades. He seems lost in thought. Oh. It would be so easy for him, the thought appears in your mind without hesitation. He could finish what he started. Starting with us. You’re trying not to doubt Matt’s actions, you trust him completely, of course you do. This isn’t just anybody though. He should not be underestimated.
But then Poindexter’s eyes are lifting to fall upon you, softening as they catch your gaze. A small, gentle smile appears on his lips. There's no sense of malice or smugness in his expression, and you feel no fear, no dread, your thoughts quietened. You let out a breath of surprise. No one has quite looked at you like that in a long time.
His attention returns to Matt whilst he puts the jumper on.
"What do you need me to do?"
"We think that Fisk is targeting the Governor. She's the only one who has the power to stop him, and if he gets his hands on her, and puts one of his puppets in place then it's over."
"And you want me to protect her?"
"Yes."
Poindexter contemplates this, before his eyes flicker to yours again.
"I will do what I can."
Tearing his eyes away from you, Poindexter gathers his bloodied shirt and holster before making his way to the door. He looks back at you one last time, nods as if to say goodbye, and then he's gone. Your eyes linger there.
"What did he do?" Matt's voice catches you off guard, making you jump.
"What?"
"Your heart, it's racing. Did he hurt you?"
"No! No, he didn't."
"Did he threaten you?”
"No, he did not. Thankfully, he was unconscious for the most part." Until he wasn't. Until his large hands were on my thighs, and his forehead was on mine-
"Thank God." He murmurs. "I don't want anyone else to suffer. There's been enough of that lately as it is."
His words break your heart. Your hand finds his, and then you reach round to hug him.
"It's going to be okay. Karen will be okay. There's a whole bunch of people out there who care, who want to help. And we will help. You are not alone in this, Matt. You call me, I'll be there."
-------
It's mid afternoon now. You had left Matt at the hideout to head to your shift at Metro-General Hospital. So far, it has been a relatively steady morning, all things considered. You had checked in on a number of patients, and assisted a fair few emergencies.
You're passing through the hallway to collect your next patient, an elderly lady named Janice, to take her to physiotherapy, as you do weekly. You enjoy listening to her stories every now and again, as she keeps you up to date with her familial goings-on, and the latest gossip amongst her book club. Occasionally, she tries to set you up with a friend's grandson or her postman or someone, to no avail.
As you make your way to meet her, you hear Kristen's voice echo through the halls of the hospital. Looking across the corridor, you see the television on the waiting room's wall screening Karen's court hearing.
"Prosecution can now call its first witness." You hear the Judge speak.
"Your honours, before we proceed, I'd like to bring in my co-counsel." Kirsten's voice cuts through.
You roll your eyes as District Attorney Hochberg tries to berate Kirsten. What a prick.
But then the doors to the court open. And through them enters Matt Murdock. You hear some patients in the waiting room gasp at the sight. Oh God. He's thrown himself directly into the lion's den. You try to reassure yourself. He wouldn't do this if he didn't have a plan, surely.
It's at that moment you spot Janice in the corner of your eye, sitting across the room patiently waiting for you. Keep to normality Matt said. Focus on your work. Don't draw any attention to yourself. You make your way towards her, greeting her as cheerfully as you can and offering her your arm.
------
All Dex could think of was you. He can still feel the ghost of your hand tugging his hair, the weight of you on him, and your perfume is following his every step.
He had tried to control himself, he really had. Not with you, he had thought to himself. Must be better for you. History wouldn't repeat itself. He would do things differently this time. Not like Julie. It wouldn't, couldn't, be like that.
He had tried to be gentler, softer, compassionate. Just like you.
"I'm glad that you weren't there." He had said to you, earnestly.
But then the rage, the heartbreak, had been too much. He couldn't bear to see you with such expressions on your face. Not you.
He knew he'd lost control of himself as soon as he had pressed his forehead against yours. And after years of being so distanced from you, he couldn't help but want more. He needed you closer.
He thinks of how you relaxed in his arms. How you didn't pull away. He'd be lying if he said he wasn't pleased about that. That he had an effect on you. That he enjoyed it. And that you had enjoyed it too, he'd noticed. He caught the heat on your cheeks. He saw how you were desperately trying to conceal your trembling hands.
He hadn't left afterwards. Instead he'd remained within enough distance to hear Matt's interrogation. He had heard you lie to Matt, someone you considered family, for him. He had smiled to himself at that. That moment was yours and yours alone. It made Dex feel more protective over you than ever.
He enters Metro-General Hospital. He's searching every face for yours. It's risky being here, he knows that. Those AVTF bastards are everywhere.
But his mind replays your words that you spoke to Matt over and over again, burning them to memory, as you soothed him with a tenderness that Dex needs.
"It's going to be okay. You are not alone in this. You call me, I'll be there."
And suddenly as he turns the corner, there you are. Across the hallway, he can see you, listening intently to the elderly woman on your arm. He tries to ignore the jealousy creeping in at the sight of the woman's hand on you, and how she's clearly said something humorous enough to make you chuckle.
You look so beautiful.
In that instant, his choice is made. He knows what he has to do. He knows that he has to make things right, to balance the scales. One good deed for Foggy Nelson's life. One good deed for you.
-----
You're listening to the latest outrageous happenings of Janice's friend, Nora, and her visits to their local Zumba class when Janice abruptly stops her story.
Your laughter fades as you turn to look at her, concerned. She's noticed something across the room. All of a sudden, your stomach drops.
She leans into you, and begins to whisper.
"My dear, there's a very tall, very handsome man looking your way over there."
Oh no.
You don't need to look at him to know who it is. But you do nonetheless.
Poindexter is standing there, amongst the crowd. It’s alarming, the speed at which you find him. Even though he’s tried to disguise himself as an ordinary civilian, with his black baseball cap and his black bomber jacket on, you’d recognise him anywhere. His hands are crossed in front of him, making him look patient, polite, as if he's waiting for someone. You can't seem to stop the flashes that appear in your mind of those very hands on you.
But you can make out the blue of his tactical 'Bullseye' shirt peeking out from over the top of his jacket. Is he here as Bullseye, or as Benjamin? The uncertainty makes your chest burn.
What if he's going to help? What if he's going to do as Matt asked?
You could slap yourself, really. What a ridiculous thing to think. As if you could trust him. As if you would want to trust him. After everything he'd done to Matt, to Karen, Foggy.
He had said it himself.
"I can't make any promises," He'd said to Matt, with that goddamn smirk wiped across his face.
But after the way he'd acted towards you this morning, his rough hands holding you so securely yet so gently, and like some cruel joke, calming your fury, not to mention that look he’d given you before leaving, one so charged with affection, you couldn’t be certain.
What you are certain of, however, is that he's observed you before, of course he has. But being here, in front of you, making himself known to you. And in a public space. This is new. This is dangerous.
Though it feels like much longer, you must've only seen him for a brief moment before he disappears back into the crowd. Your mind is buzzing.
---
Since the night fell, Dex has been waiting for Fisk's latest puppet to break into the Governor's home. Finally after a couple of hours, the bastard decides to show up, sauntering in like he's already succeeded. He won't, Dex smirks to himself behind his mask.
Following him towards the Governor's office, he throws two of his blades at the man, one into his elbow and one to the back of his head, causing him to release his chokehold on the Governor and fall to the ground. The hits won't kill him instantly, no, he's needed as a witness. It doesn't stop Dex from making him suffer though. He deserves it.
The Governor turns to look at Dex, eyes wide and frantic in a state of shock. He gives her a casual salute, as if to say you're welcome, to let her know that he's one of the good guys now. His mask hides his smile.
You're going to be so pleased. He's done his one good deed.
He cheerfully strolls out of the Governor's home, with you on his mind once again now that his mission is complete. He's humming a tune that he's heard coming from your apartment on several occasions, one of your favourite songs it seems.
One night in particular, he had found himself on the rooftop opposite your apartment after a particularly shit assignment. Sent in as Fisk’s personal hitman, he’d been tasked to take out the latest gangsters and their mob boss. He hadn’t bothered learning their names. It was supposed to be quiet, a quick in and out job, as if he was never there. Then there had been a bullet aimed at his thigh, disarming him. That pissed him off. He had staggered out with blood oozing down his leg, two more wounds to his shoulder and bruises scattered across his face. He'd survive though, he always did.
He had arrived on that rooftop, the wounds still raw and bleeding, his suit now growing more red than blue, with an urge to see you. You were the only thing he felt that could sedate him.
He had watched you through his scope. You had seemed especially joyful that evening. Your hair was free, your pyjamas on, your makeup removed. He thought you looked like the image of perfection.
You were swaying to the music playing from your stereo system as you poured yourself a glass of something colourful. You had stopped suddenly, making your way towards the front door excitedly and returning with a takeaway bag in hand. He had chuckled at that, as he begun to stitch his wounds with shaky hands. It hadn't mattered that his blood had pooled on the concrete. Hadn't mattered that he'd massacred over fifteen men just hours before. You were here with him and that was enough.
---
By the end of your shift, you feel exhausted. What with the usual hustle and bustle of Metro-General, checking Karen's court case every now and again (especially after Matt's surprise appearance) and then to top it all off, everything to do with him that had all occurred in the span of one damn day, you were ready to go home.
You had clocked off your shift later than intended, staying longer to assist an emergency regarding a little boy and a broken ankle, and it was now pitch black outside. The closer you get to home, the less life there seems to be around.
Tugging your coat closer to you, you try to pay attention to the street ahead. You're very nearly home, just two blocks away. Thank God.
Ever since he had stepped foot inside the hospital earlier today, you had struggled to shake him from your mind. This was the first time he'd done this, but you knew it certainly wouldn't be the last. Why? Why me? It surely can't just be because of this morning, can it? Maybe it can. But you have the dreadful sense that this runs deeper. What had he said this morning?
"I'm glad that you weren't there."
He'd known you wouldn't be there to witness Foggy's murder. His surveillance of you was obvious, he did this with everyone. But somehow this felt different. Did he keep watch over you regularly? Aside from observing you with Daredevil? And the sentiment behind those words. It had sounded...earnest. Not cruelty, but relief in the way he'd breathed out the words. That look he'd given you. The gentleness of his forehead to yours. It had been so intimate. More intimate than anything you'd know before. Did you like that? After everything he'd done, and you had liked it-
Your thoughts are interrupted when your phone buzzes in your pocket. Looking over your shoulder subconsciously as if someone is there, you take out your phone to see Cherry's name pop up.
We've been compromised. The AVTF attacked. Do not go home.
Panic rises in your chest. You knew as soon as Matt appeared in the courtroom, that it would put an illuminated target on his back. The AVTF were brutal, unrelenting towards civilians. But for Daredevil, for Matt, it doesn't bear thinking about.
What do I do?
So you can't go home. You don't have anyone else who you can go to, no family nearby. Karen's locked away in a cell, and Matt's God knows where, probably fighting for his life. You suppose you could go back to the hospital, there are always trusted friends and colleagues around, always a safe space for you.
But they'd find you eventually.
You don't know what compels you to do it, you shouldn't have done it really, but it’s the only option.
Clutching your phone, you turn around to face the shadows of the street. The words leave your mouth before your brain catches up.
"Dex?" You speak to the shadows. "You there?"
There's silence. You hold your breath with anticipation as you try not to berate yourself for indulging in this stupid idea.
But then you hear his heavy footsteps. And out of the shadows, he steps. Bullseye. As he comes closer, he removes his mask for you, his blonde hair dishevelled but his face less bloody than it had been this morning.
"You know, you shouldn't be walking at night on your own." He says, and there's a small smile playing on his lips, not quite the smirk but close.
"I haven't been on my own since I left the hospital, have I?" Your response is quick. Challenging.
He doesn't respond to that. But the look on his face is confirmation enough.
You're trying to find the words to do what? Ask him for help? Ask him to protect you? You haven't got a clue. But his words fill your silence.
"I did what Murdock asked. He was right, Fisk is trying to kill the Governor. But she's safe now. I made sure of that."
Your eyes widen at his words. He did help.
"You can't go home." He says suddenly. How on Earth-
"What? Why?"
The assassin suddenly seems shy under your gaze. He's struggling to find the right words, awkward, like a child who's just been caught doing something they know they shouldn't have done.
"Fisk knows you're in connection with Murdock. Those AVTF assholes are there, waiting for you."
So he's been to your home tonight. Most likely between visiting the Governor's house and meeting you at work, you assume. You shouldn't have been surprised really.
You breathe out a sigh. A faint siren in the distance blares in the silence between you and Dex as you deliberate.
"What do we do?" You ask him, meeting his eyes.
We. Dex loves that you've said that. He begins to move closer to you, slowly, as if you may run from him if he steps too far. The gloves he's wearing are removed and tucked into his pocket. Your eyes don't leave his.
As soon as he opens his mouth to offer a solution, he closes it again, his head turning away from you as his stare darkens.
A bullet whistles between you, just narrowly avoiding you.
Before you can even begin to comprehend what just happened, you feel Dex’s hand on your wrist, wrenching you both away from the glow of the streetlights and into a nearby alleyway.
He's behind you. His hand that was holding your wrist now comes to wrap securely around your waist whilst his other hand rises to cover your mouth, his forearm against your shoulders, as his back hits brick. A small grunt escapes him from the impact, and the hand over your mouth softens the shock that escapes from your lips as your back hits his firm chest. His jaw clenches at the feeling of your soft gasp against his fingers.
There's a beat. The gunfire has ceased.
Dex's hand that is over your mouth shifts, his forefinger dragging over your lips until it stops against them, warning you to be silent. You close your eyes, nodding. He can feel your lips parting, a breath escaping you, but the touch feels like a kiss. He wills himself to pull his hand away from you, retaining any shred of self-control he has. But his other hand still remains on your waist, gripping with fierce possession. He can feel you shifting closer towards him, pressing into him, as you turn your head slightly as if to hide your face against him, your breath hitting his collarbone.
He reaches into his pocket, his fingers finding his knives. In his peripheral vision, he sees movement. He doesn't hesitate. The blade slips from his grasp, the body hits the ground with a thud.
You can hear a voice shout, rallying his squad to your whereabouts, but the voice is soon silenced. Another fire is shot into the darkness where you are. Without thinking, your hands come to grip Dex's arm that's around you as you flinch at the sound, attempting to ground yourself. You feel his hold on you tighten.
Two different voices shout at each other. You turn to spot them closing in on you. You don't even think you see Dex's hand move as he throws two blades at once, so effortlessly yet so precise. They fall.
Dex immediately notices the final man with the AVTF symbol on his chest. This one looks afraid. Good. He should be. The man is hesitant, his eyes alert as he surveys the shadows of the alleyway you're hidden in. It seems they're extending the search to find you beyond your street. Not on Dex's watch. The knife goes clean through his chest.
It's fallen silent, the air still. Your grip on Dex's arm releases, but his grip on you doesn't. Not straight away.
Only when his touch eases, when he feels it's safe for you to leave, do you. You're trusting him. You pull yourself away from his hold with heavy breaths. What the Hell just happened.
"There'll be more." You hear Dex say behind you.
Turning to face him, you note how he's not meeting your gaze. Instead he's blinking rapidly, whilst his eyes flicker between the bodies. There's a brush of pink dusting his cheeks.
"So what, are you my guardian angel now or something?" A small quip. Something to ease the tension. It's for your own sake, you tell yourself, or is it for his? You can't help the small smile that accompanies your words.
A chuckle comes from him. You like the sound. He likes to think he's been your guardian angel long before tonight. And finally, he's looking at you, his breathing more steady.
He watches your face turn serious. Concern or suspicion? It could be either. He’s tense with anticipation.
"Why are you helping me?" You ask, quietly. Of all the things, he wasn't expecting that.
There's many different ways he could respond to this. He could lie. He could hide. But he knows you would be honest. And so should he.
"You're.." You can see him thinking, treading carefully with what words he says next, and how he's saying them. He sighs.
"You're very special to me."
He watches your eyes widen. Oh no. He's fucked up again. He's dreading what you're going to say. Dreading that you're going to leave him. The last time he'd said those words, it had been panicked, desperate, the last resort.
But you haven't left. You're distanced from him, but still there. You're looking at him with emotions he can't quite decipher, and it seems like you're about to say something.
All too soon, sirens blare, significantly closer this time. You both jolt back to reality.
[3+1]: three times bullseye wakes you up in the middle of the night, and one time you're waiting for him
pairing: benjamin "dex" poindexter x fem reader
word count: 2.6k
content&warnings: breaking and entering, threats of violence, swearing, blood/wounds, making out, partial nudity, highly suggestive, dex spinal scar :p, benjamin poindexter. lmk if i missed anything! proofread & may be crossposted onto ao3. like and reblog to support your authors ♡ thank you for reading! dividers by @.honeyluvsw
the first time, of course, is scary—you wake to a masked man in your apartment, in the middle of the night, pointing a gun at you.
"scream, you're dead. got it?" bullseye switches the safety off.
you nod, whisper out a yes. your lungs have stopped working at maximum capacity.
"give me your phone," he says plainly; oh god, you think, he's taking it so you can't call for help while he kills you. wait, do you throw it? or—
"slide it over. on the ground. don't try to move, i can shoot without looking." he sounds less patient this time, though there wasn't much of that in his voice in the first place. gun still aimed at you, he picks it up, examines it.
"okay," he says, putting it in one of his multiple pockets. "you got a first aid kit?"
you nod, speechless, shaking, and that's when you see the way the fabric darkens around his left side. "holy shit—"
he ignores you. "where is it?"
"in the bathroom," you respond, but your mind is moving a mile a minute. "oh my god, you're bleeding, i can't have a dead guy in my apartment!"
"your cat's orange," he deadpans. "your bedsheets are blue."
"what?"
"oh, i thought we were stating the obvious." you're going to throttle this man; now is not the time for jokes.
you swallow, clear your throat, hope your voice doesn't shake as you go into autopilot. "listen, um, bullseye, you should sit down. i'll get the kit, okay?"
he stares at you suspiciously, gun still raised as he sinks to the ground. "okay. but you try something—"
"and you'll kill me, i get it. but seriously, something's wrong with you, so let me help, please."
he glares at you; his gloved fingers graze over the bloody patch lightly. "i know there's something wrong with me."
"oh, god." you're just realising what you said a moment ago. "that is so not what i meant!"
"i know." his voice is an agonised rasp as he repeats himself, and also really attractive. now who said that?
you rush into the bathroom to get the rectangular box, hands fumbling as you open it in front of him. the gun's still almost in your face. nervous, you tell him to take the top half of his suit off, and he obliges, but even with the most careful of movements, his breathing quickens painfully. now he's only in his mask, cargo pants and boots, head tipped back against the wall. blood leaks out of the wound just below his ribs, but it seems shallow enough that it can be sutured shut.
you rip open a packet of sterilised gauze; on second thought you put on a pair of gloves before you take one out. he sucks in a breath through his teeth when you press it against the wound, tensing up.
"i—you need to hold it like that," you whisper, and his right hand comes up to cover yours. for a moment, it's strangely intimate, his gloved one absolutely dwarfing yours as he adjusts his hold on it with a groan, before he gives you the okay to let go. incredibly selfishly, you notice just how firm his body is, even now.
he's holding the gun in his other hand, and you jump at the click when he switches the safety back on and quietly puts it down on the ground beside him—it's enough to show that he's trusting you for now, but you're still not completely safe.
when his blood overflows the first piece of gauze, you hand him a second one and he nods in thanks.
but now you actually have to clean and stitch it up, and you're no professional.
you decide to start from the outside, dabbing at the dried blood gingerly; he remains stoic. by the time you get to the actual wound, however, his breaths come in shallow and fast, fists clenched. and when the needle finally breaks skin, you think you actually feel the way his heart rate speeds up. you're repeating i'm sorrys under your breath, hating that you're hurting him, even if he is a homicidal maniac with scarily accurate aim.
"it's fine," he murmurs when you're done, tone unlike anything he used before. "it—i should go."
you stand up from where you'd been kneeling between his legs—which, in hindsight, sounds a lot more sexual than it had been—and dust off your pyjama pants, looking down at the large pile of bloody cotton and gauze.
"uh, yeah, you should…"
you watch as he examines his gear before putting it back on, then holsters the gun across his chest again. he's so built, you think lazily as he stands up in front of you.
he's saying something—
"huh?" you respond, only to realise he's holding out your phone to you. it's mortifying. "oh."
you take it from his hand as he walks back to your open window, then turns back.
"thank you," he says; if it'd been anyone else you'd have thought his voice was gentle. "and lock your window."
oh.
you really don't expect bullseye to come back again, not until he's already in your room, weeks later, swearing and apologising under his breath.
maybe you'd neglected closing the window—just to have something to think about before sleeping at night, okay? it's not a big deal.
this time, he's not as vigilant with the gun, although he's not as roughed up as last time, so you think he might be able to fight you if you try to do something. not that you were planning to, of course. and either you're extremely delusional, or there's definitely tension simmering underneath your interactions, the way your fingers brush against his gloved ones, or the look in his eyes when you catch him staring for a moment too long.
you only realise he didn't take your phone this time when it buzzes from your nightstand moments after you finish washing your hands of his blood. he looks at you enquiringly and you lean over to check; it's your ex-boyfriend. he's probably drunk, you tell him, and he says fuck that, like he's more important, and even though you've only met him twice and you've seen him more on the news than with your own two eyes, you think he might be right.
you offer him water, turning away respectfully when he pulls up the mask. he helps clean up after himself, so meticulous, you think.
"this won't happen again," he says when he's leaving. he's standing right in front of you, and for a moment you're stupid enough to think something will happen. he raises one hand cautiously to brush some hair out of your face; the smallest contact of his glove on your skin is enough to make you feel like a live wire. "and lock the damn window."
"you know i can't," you reply, entirely aware of how stupid how sound right now, and you think he smiles.
"okay, then."
the third time is when you finally get to see his face. you wake at the sound of his boots landing on the floor, and you're awake enough to register who he is, but not enough to realise that he'd already pulled his mask off.
it takes you a second.
he's pretty, for lack of a better word. his hair is messy, dark golden brown, and there's a healed scar dragging across his cheek (you could find home in there). he's not "perfect" in any way, but you think you've never seen something more beautiful. there's crow's feet at the corners of his eyes, something you hadn't noticed before, the slightest shadow of stubble on his jaw. you have to physically tear your eyes away from him.
"what?" he asks, when he realises you're staring. you shake your head, embarrassed, before looking over him for any injuries.
"i'm not bleeding," he inputs helpfully. "just need to hide out for a bit."
"oh?" you say, sitting up.
"task force's being a bitch."
"so the usual." you get out of bed, stretching lightly. "so, um, you want some, um, tea or something?"
you're awkward, this is new.
his lips twitch up at your discomfort; his smile is sharp, the kind to make butterflies erupt in your stomach. "sure."
it's oddly domestic, having a vigilante at your kitchen table like this. there's a pile of belongings on one side, a gun and gloves (his), phone and hand cream (yours). he's as quiet as you'd imagined; neither of you speak much until your phone lights up. you both look at it simultaneously, and you sigh. "it's him again."
"he do this often?"
"fairly."
another text. then another, then—
he reaches over and switches it off, placing it facedown. "why don't you just block him?"
"it's… weird," you say. "i know we're not together anymore, but it's kind of nice to have someone to turn to or think about. occasionally."
"so you're broken up, but not really."
"kind of?" to tell the truth, you haven't thought of him at all since bullseye's world collided with yours.
"you deserve better," he comments.
you lean forward, interested. "like who?"
maybe it's the lack of sleep making you so adventurous today.
he leans back, holding eye contact. the word stays between you, unspoken, heavy. after a moment, he changes his mind. "someone… nicer."
you know you'll regret it as soon as you say it. "you're nice enough."
"you don't even know my name."
"you know you can just tell me, right?"
there's a pause. you tell him your name, and he there's a self-satisfied half-smirk on his face. "i know."
you don't question it, and it's kind of nice that he cared enough to find out.
you can call him dex, he tells you. it's not his actual name—you'd asked—but it's what everyone calls him. or used to.
"okay, dex." you like how it rolls off your tongue. (and he does too.)
then, when he's leaving, he looks at you like this meeting, like you had been a moment of weakness. "this was a mistake."
"no," you respond vehemently; it's the first time you've really gone against him since the two of you met. the fire in your eyes intrigues him.
"no?" he tilts his head to one side, amused. his mask is still in his hands.
"i'm a grown ass woman," you argue. "i know what a mistake is and what isn't."
"is that so?"
you stride up to him, pulling him down to your level by the front of his shirt. "yes, dex, it is."
his hands automatically come up to cup your face, mask forgotten—he's not wearing gloves, you realise. are they still on your table? was he planning to leave them behind?—and his thumb smoothes across your cheekbone, gentle. you cannot imagine these to be the hands of a killer, though you've seen the carnage he's left in his wake firsthand. "you're going to regret this."
"don't care—"
he kisses you. it's fast; you don't see it coming until it's already happening—not that you mind, of course. your hands fly the back of his head, the nape of his neck. he closes the window with one hand (your body screams at the loss of contact) before it comes back to you again, thumbing at your jaw, then lower, finding your pulse point. you whine into his mouth; he grins into yours as he walks you backwards towards your bed. you let go of him long enough to sit down, taking the opportunity to finally catch a breath. he sinks down between your legs; this time, he's yanking you down to kiss him again, hand on your thigh like puzzle pieces fitting together.
"don't you dare regret this," he pants, leaning back on his haunches. you laugh, breathless; you know you won't.
you scream when dex pulls his mask off. the lower half of his face is covered in blood, the origin appearing to be his nose. he winces at the noise. "don't panic, it was just one good hit. nothing's broken."
you're clambering out of bed, already headed for the bathroom. "i still need to clean you up!"
"it can wait."
you pause at the sound of his voice. it's different—deeper, more intense than usual somehow. you can tell he's not in the mood to be bossed around.
"what?"
"c'mere," he says. not exactly an order—but you do as you're told. "you mind the blood?"
you shake your head, no. if anything, he looks good, in his natural habitat—covered in the bloodshed he spends most of his time in. when he kisses you, you're already reaching back to unclip his holster; there's blood in (and smeared around) your mouth when he pulls back to unlace his boots, shedding the rest of his gear in quick succession until he's only in his boxers.
you're lying on the bed under him now, breathing hard. he places one hand over your heart, feeling the elevated pulse. "excited?"
you roll your eyes, propping yourself up on your elbows so he can kiss you again. when his knee slides between your legs, you let out a choked noise, and he takes the opportunity to lick into your mouth, greedy. your hands pull at his hair in the way you know he loves, and he's letting out little whimpers almost subconsciously. he grinds down once, twice; he's the excited one, you think.
"how come you still get to keep everything on?" he demands, whiny. you like when he gets like this, all hooded eyes and swollen lips and everything that haunts him forgotten because he's so focused on you.
"just a sec, baby." you're about to pull your cami top off when one of his big hands reaches past yours and rips it down the front. you sit up, outraged. "dex, that was my favourite!"
you cut yourself off with a gasp when his teeth sink into your neck; he licks over the spot before moving lower, and his words are slurred, running into each other when he speaks. "mm, i'll buy y'one, no, ten more, m'kay? lemme have this—"
he doesn't even bother to finish his sentence before sucking a bruise into the space right under your collarbone; from the way he's holding you, you know there'll be marks from his fingers all around your hips and thighs. not that you mind, of course, not when he'll see them later and be almost possessive of them and of you.
he watches like a hawk, you beneath him, glassy-eyed and panting, voice hoarse. no one else gets to have you like this, no one but him. you're his, and his only, and in return—
"dex, you're mine," you breathe, fingers dragging oh-so-slowly down the scar on his spine. he shudders; a broken sound spills from his lips as he nods into your shoulder, blunt nails digging into your flesh.
it takes a second for him to regain composure before he looks up. there's a foreign glint in his eye—he's never seen you be this possessive of him, and he's not sure how to feel about it. proud? turned on? or maybe both. "that's right, baby, 'n you gotta take care of what's yours, right?"
his lips curve up into a self-satisfied smirk.
author says: i want him so bad hahaha i meannnn 👀 lmk what you think! requests are also open !!! thank you for the love on the other fic, i didn't expect this at all :3 !!
could you write a fic with sweet reader and dex who has chronic back pains sometimes because of his spine so reader always makes him lay down and then massage his back and hes just in heaven the whole time because its just so gentle and sweet:)))
Omg, exactly the type of scenarios I think about trying to fall asleep like u get me anon! (Slightly suggestive) and got kind of off request topic (but not really) w this one my bad I’m high but this was so fun I want to make something longer w this concept now!!
I think at first Dex would be so grumpy when you mention his wincing.
He would literally wave you off, immediately straighten his posture and act like he wasn’t just halfway limping. And you’d scoff, chastise him for it, maybe call him a prideful old man who just can’t admit he’s hurting.
He’d shoot warning looks like punishment would mean anything other than his mouth on yours and so much pleasure he’d make you cry, but anyways.
But you can’t just ignore it, that’s not you. No matter how much he shrugs it off at first. He does a lot with his body, to his body, and no matter how skilled or supernatural Dex can seem to others around him and yourself included, he’s just a man. And cogmium framework in his spine can’t feel great.
So one night, you’re just fed up with it.
He comes out from a shower, greying blonde hair stuck to his forehead before he pushes it out of his face. The dishwasher has just started, and you’re washed in a domestic comfortability now that night has fallen and the hazelnut scented candle is filling the room with such a gourmand fragrance and your boyfriend chose right now to come out in just boxers briefs.
(Like!)
But his brows are furrowed, deepening the line between them and his scar has tilted towards his right eye at the corner because his lip has upturned into a grimace.
He doesn’t meet your eyes and that’s how you know that he knows you’re already locked in on the stiffness of his shoulders and the clenching of his heavy fists.
You uncross your arms from your chest and stomp over to him, and he could laugh at how frustrated you look if he wasn’t so sore from last nights masked endeavors and the pain radiating throughout his spine.
“Go lay on the couch, and don’t argue with me please. I want to take care of you.”
You state is plainly and firmly, but your bottom lip is pouting and every fiber of his being suddenly aches to please you, to be good, to quell the worry creased in the corners of your mouth.
Wanting to take care of him?
He can’t say no to that.
“When have I ever argued with you? Just doesn’t sound like me, sweetheart.” He likes the way your face lights up when he says it, like him giving you attitude amuses you.
But then you reach out and the tips of your fingers splay against the broadness of his chest, palm centered right against his sternum and the warmth instantly makes him forget about, well anything.
You just look at him through your lashes, refusing to give in to his brattiness.
So he grits his teeth, stares at you stubbornly for only a second before his features soften into something tender and wanting. So he just nods, shuffles to the couch and you make your way to the bathroom to find your body oil in the cabinet.
His head lounges on the arm rest, hands on his taut stomach. Body too straight to be lying on a couch that he’s familiar with, in your home, which he is also familiar with. He looks so amusingly out of place that it makes you laugh.
“What?” He quips, and you set the oil on the coffee table before leaning over him, cupping his heavy jaw.
He’s lost now, forgets what he was even thinking before cause your hair is haloing your face and your lips are on his mouth and it’s so gentle despite how teasing your tone is.
“Lay on your stomach, silly. I’m gonna massage your back.”
He just grunts, like he was gonna do that the whole time and you watch him with your tongue in your cheek as he sits himself up and flips over. Shuffles a bit to get comfortable, places his hands underneath his cheek. You’re glad he can’t see the way you’re staring at every tendril of muscle moving underneath his freckled skin.
You only waste a little bit of time staring. Mapping the massive expanse of him, the raised pink strip of flesh that starts just below the nape of his neck and ends in an even skew just above his tailbone.
You climb onto the back of his thighs, testing your weight against him. He’s unflinching, but still you ask.
“Can I sit on your lower back? Tell me if it hurts please.”
You can feel the smirk as if it’s an entity of its own, the vibration in his chest.
“Sit wherever you want. I can take it.”
And you’re not lost on the fact that he’s secretly loving this, and the suggestiveness in his tone is laced with the palpable ache. That the intimacy of your giggle and punching at his sides isn’t eating away at his heart and making a permanent home in the gaps.
You roll your eyes, grabbing the oil. You warm it in your palms before settling yourself in a comfortable straddle.
He flinches at the first touch.
Makes this sound like he didn’t mean for it to come out, like it caught him by surprise too. So you’re slow, gentle with your movements. Palms fully pressed against his lower back, thumbs out to rub in slow circles as you push them forward and into the rigid surface of his skin and muscle.
You’re not sure if he’s breathing, so you lean forward and kiss his shoulder where it’s bulging. His ears are pink, lips parted.
“You okay? Too much pressure?”
Your voice is melodic and soft and your breath is warm against the side of his neck. He shakes his head.
“No it’s good. Can be rougher, won’t break me I promise.”
You nip his earlobe before sitting back up and pressing the heels of your palms into his back with a bit more force, digging your thumbs in deeper. He’s taking big, deep breaths now and you can see that his eyes have fluttered shut.
He’s enjoying it.
His skin is reddening and hot with the shape of your fingertips, but everything feels a bit less tightly coiled now. The knots have faded to small points of tension, soothed by your knuckles and then traced with your nails.
Ten minutes pass, and when your doting hands cease their movements he groans at you, cranes his neck back to see why you’ve suddenly stopped.
“Feels better? You look sleepy.” You rub absentminded patterns over the dips and valleys of him, ring finger catching the pink strip of raised flesh and he hopes you somehow haven’t noticed each time you’ve touched the scar his skin erupts with goosebumps.
You have.
You lean over when he doesn’t respond, kiss his cheek. He twists with the urge to feel your lips and you oblige him easily, effortlessly. It’s slow cause of the awkward angle but it doesn’t matter, not when you’re on his back and your mouth is warm and comforting and forgiving.
Your hands are even better, in his hair and on his face.
“If you let me do that more often it might help, if you’d like that?”
You’ve got him in a vulnerable position, admittedly. But who is he to deny you? You’re asking so gut wrenchingly soft, and truthfully it has helped. Can it take away years of chronic pain? No, but it soothes him in other human ways that he’s needed his entire life.
Summary : Meeting Dex for the first time in two years doesn’t go as planned.
Pairing : DDBA! Benjamin Poindexter x new avenger! reader (she/her)
Warnings/tags : violence, injury, gun use, self-inflicted injury, Dex licks your blood, grief, reader used to be a good friend of Matt, Karen, and Foggy. Dex is obsessed with you, codependency, suggestive content, sex is heavily implied, freak4freak, dex in handcuffs, bondage is mentioned, emotional manipulation-ish?, both reader and Dex desperately need therapists. Food. Overall just angsty. Set in DDBA season 2 episode 6 (let me know if I missed anything!)
Word Count : 8.1k.
Notes : would you look at that? Another freak4freak. The fic is inspired by the song Supervillain by Frank Carter and the Rattlesnakes. Enjoy!
Your phone rang.
To you, it was just noise. It was loud, but it didn’t even startle you. It was nothing compared to Bucky giving orders in your comms, or John talking about extraction windows and airspace and things that feel important.
When you realised it wasn’t just white noise, it dawned on you: Your phone wasn’t supposed to ring.
It didn’t anymore. Not for real people.
Everything you do now was encrypted, filtered, approved, routed through people with clearance levels that didn’t include personal calls.
So when it rang, you ignored it.
You kept moving, eyes forward, hand steady on whatever weapon they’ve put in your grip this week— Val had sourced an experimental firearm, similar to a 9mm, modified to house adamantium bullets. She gave it to you and told you to get used to it, to practice assembling and disassembling it. So yeah, you’ve been doing that for the past thirty minutes in the tower’s common room.
Your phone rang again. You ignored it again.
Ava said your name. You answered automatically. She asked what you were having for dinner. You said you’ve already had dinner; Yelena accidentally ordered too much Chinese takeout.
It rang again in the middle of disassembly.
That pissed you off. You were trying to get a sub-10 second time, but that just frayed your focus.
You turned the sound off on your phone and didn’t even bother to check who was calling. It was probably Bob, asking you if you were up for a game of Catan. Or maybe Alexei, calling to ask whether or not his request to get a (highly illegal) Soviet missile launcher from the Smithsonian has been approved.
The answer would most likely be no.
Focus. Focus.
You looked at the tool, the mat, and the stopwatch.
You turned it on again.
One. Left thumb hit the magazine release, falling into your palm. Two. Right hand pulled the slide back, checking the empty chamber—clear. Three. Let the slide fly forward. Four. Grip the rear of the slide, pulling back just a millimeter while you index finger and thumb push down the takedown lever simultaneously.
Five. The slide slid off into your hand.
Six. Recoil spring pulled out. Seven. Barrel slid out.
Disassembled. Five seconds down.
You didn't even pause to breathe.
Eight. Barrel back into the slide. Nine. Recoil spring snapped into place. Ten. Realign the slide with the frame rails, sliding it back on. Eleven. Rack the slide once. Twelve. Pull the trigger to lock it in. Click.
Thirteen. Magazine back in.
You stopped the timer. 9.2 seconds.
You set the tool back down on the mat and looked at the timer.
Perfect. Some bastard’s gonna get fucked up by getting adamantium between their eyes.
Breathing the moment, your phone vibrated again.
You pulled it out, already irritated. Who could it be? Mel? Charles? The fucking president? The secretary general? If they wanted an answer, it better be one of them.
Unknown number.
You stared at it. Huh. Weird.
Your thumb hovered, debating if you should decline it.
You answered instead.
“Hello?” You said it flatly, professionally.
For a second, nothing answered you.
“Hi.”
Everything stopped.
Suddenly you weren’t where you are anymore.
You were back in a cramped office with bad coffee.
You were at a bar with Foggy, laughing too loud.
You were at a funeral trying not to look at anyone, trying to get the fucking hell out of here—
You stopped breathing.
“Matt?” you said, and it came out quieter than you meant it to.
There was a pause on the other end, like he wasn’t sure you’d say his name at all. Maybe he wasn’t even expecting you to recognise his voice.
“Yeah,” he said. “It’s me.”
You swallowed, throat feeling tight for no reason you want to examine.
You didn’t ask how he got this number. You didn’t ask why now. You didn’t ask anything.
Because he wouldn’t call you after two years of silence unless something had gone very, very wrong.
Matt exhaled softly.
“I—” he started, then stopped. You could hear him recalibrating the way he always did when things mattered too much to get wrong.
“You’re… okay?” He asked, finally.
It’s such a Matt question.
Careful, yet loaded with everything he wasn’t saying. And out of everyone you knew, you weren’t going to let him do his lawyer thing on you.
You almost laughed.
“Yeah,” you said automatically. “I’m fine.”
The lie came easy, but he didn't call you out on it. You almost forgot he couldn’t tell if you’re lying through the phone.
Another bout of silence stretched, and you felt it settle between you.
Something’s wrong.
You swallowed. “What happened?” you asked. You were tired of small talk.
For a long, unbearable second, you thought he might hang up. Like maybe hearing your voice again made him reconsider. Like maybe he didn’t actually want you here, or needed you for whatever he thought he needed you for.
You wouldn’t have blamed him. Not after everything that happened.
But it was you he was talking to.
Sure, you had talents that made you suited to the vigilante life more than most, but you were more than just another fist in the streets of New York— you were both Matt and Karen’s friend.
You had been Foggy’s friend too.
And for whatever reason, all those years ago, you had gotten attached to him.
Benjamin Poindexter.
Matt still didn’t understand it. He wasn’t sure he ever would.
It didn’t make sense. You didn’t just wake up one day and decide to fall for a man like that.
But you saw something in him. Something broken you recognized. Something that reflected back pieces of yourself you didn’t talk about. You saw someone worth saving.
Matt called it a coping mechanism. Said you needed to believe people like Dex could be saved, because otherwise… What did that say about the rest of them?
Karen thought it was your pattern. Your history with men who needed help, who gave you just enough to keep you trying. She said you were always one for the “I can fix him” trope.
Foggy…
Foggy had just shrugged, and said it was love. He never attempted to condone it, but he understood it. He said sometimes love had no rhyme or reason. He trusted you enough to not question your decision to keep visiting, day in and day out, making sure he was okay.
He was right.
You just… couldn’t help it.
Still, even Matt couldn’t help but have teeny tiny growing resentment for you because of it.
After all, the last time you met, and the real conversation you had was at Foggy’s funeral. And even then, it was only a few clipped sentences. You had gone from trusting Matt and Karen with your life to being distant overnight. You changed, just as Foggy’s death had changed every single one of you.
You weren’t even at the trial. You went even at the sentencing.
It had made sense— the man you loved had killed one of your closest friends.
There wasn’t a guidebook for surviving something like that.
After that, you were just… gone.
He knew you had been doing black ops for a little under six years now, one day mission at a time for a mysterious woman you called “Val.” After Foggy died, you had thrown yourself at the job. You’ve disappeared for months to another continent until you had no time to even text a simple “how are you?” to any of them. Perhaps, you had needed all the distraction you could get.
And Matt and Karen weren’t the only ones who felt the impact of what you left behind. You had gone from visiting Dex at least three times a week at the mental institution, to not even once visiting him in prison. Matt didn’t know why, but he could… assume.
Then, one day, Karen had turned on the TV to the announcement of the New Avengers. She had joked that they had gotten the greatest hits of earth’s mightiest heroes’ rogue gallery, from the Winter Soldier to Ghost… until the camera panned to you. Even Matt flinched when they said your name.
You were part of this now. Whatever this was. You were monitoring space and shooting off in jets. You defeated a void of a monster, and he didn’t even know how.
But if you weren’t gone before, you were definitely gone now. Avenger-level gone: Classified missions, neutralising world-ending events, things he only heard about in pieces, if he heard anything at all.
Your world had gotten bigger than New York. Your problems had gotten bigger, too.
Anyway.
“We have him.” Matt said simply, bad phone signal slightly distorting his words.
Oh.
The world dropped out from under you.
There was only one person that could mean. Your grip tightened around the phone so hard it almost hurt.
“Dex?” you whispered.
The nothingness you were met with was answer enough.
You closed your eyes. For a second, everything you’d buried— the blood, Foggy, the way you couldn’t even look at Dex without feeling like you were going to come apart— came rushing back so fast it made you dizzy.
“He’s alive,” Matt said quickly, as if he heard it in your breathing. “And he’s hurt.”
Alive.
You didn’t know what to do with that word.
You knew he was out there somewhere, but hadn’t built a version of the world where he was tangible.
You’d built one where he was gone, or locked away, or not your problem anymore. This dragged everything back into reach.
“I don’t know who else to call,” Matt added.
And there it was.
He didn’t call for forgiveness. Or reconciliation. It was simply a necessity.
You pressed your thumb harder into the side of the phone, grounding yourself in the pressure.
“We haven’t spoken in two years,” you said. It came out quieter than you meant it to. You said it almost as a reminder. To him, or to yourself? You weren’t sure.
“Yeah,” he exhaled. “I know.”
There was an exhaustion in his voice. It was worn down.
“I—” you started.
I’m sorry. That was what you meant to say. You needed to choke it out. The words sat right there, overdue by two years. “I’m—”
“No.” Matt cut you off immediately. “I don’t—” he stopped, then tried again. “Don’t.”
You went quiet.
“Just… don’t,” he said, gentler now but no less certain. “I wouldn’t have called you if it wasn’t this.”
He was right. This wasn’t the moment for apologies. Not after everything. Not when the only reason he was even speaking to you was because he had no other choice.
You swallowed hard, forcing the word back down.
“Okay,” you said. It felt like swallowing glass.
“You were the only one…,” Matt started, and there was something strained in it now, “…we’ve ever known to talk him down.”
You closed your eyes again, just for a second.
“Can you come?” He asked like he didn’t know if he still had the right. “Karen just… she can’t watch him. I…” he trailed off, not knowing what to say or how to say it. “I’m out of options.”
You didn’t answer right away.
Because this was the line you’d drawn. The one that kept you moving forward without looking back.
If you crossed it… you might as well drown yourself in your sorrow now.
What the hell.
“Send me the address.”
—
You found the building quickly.
There were no complications, just a straight line from the coordinates Matt sent you to a door that looked like nothing in an unassuming building.
You stood in the hallway outside it longer than you should have.
You should’ve known it was a safehouse from the dim lighting and faint hum of electricity.
And yet, behind that door…
You swallowed.
He was there.
Close enough that if you reached out and opened the door, you’d see him.
Your hand hovered near the handle, but didn’t touch it as footsteps approached from the other end of the hall.
“You’re early.”
You turned, and there he was.
Matt Murdock, no, Daredevil.
The suit surprised you first. Stark red under the chipped black paint, the mask unchanged. He held himself ever so slightly differently than before. A bit more… uptight, believe it or not.
You hadn’t seen him up close in years.
Not since…
Foggy at the bar, knocking his shoulder into yours, slurring slightly, insisting he was not drunk while ordering another round anyway. “C’mon, you’re the worst liar I know—”
You managed to blink, dragging yourself back.
“Good to see you, too” you shot back automatically, the words slipping into place like muscle memory. “Is it just us?”
He didn’t react.
“Karen needs time,” he said, straight to it.
Right.
You let out a breath, glancing at the door beside you, before looking away again. “Let me guess, she wants to kill him?” you asked, a dry, almost disbelieving edge creeping in. “Is that it?”
A short, humorless laugh left him. “Is this funny to you?”
Matt had spent years learning the shape of you without sight— your voice, your breath, the rhythm of your pulse when you lied and when you didn’t. He knew what you’d become long before tonight. You killed. Not recklessly, not blindly, but when the line you drew in your own head said there wasn’t another way.
He hated that line, argued against it. He pushed against it until it put a strain on your friendship. And still, he’d learned to live with it.
Not comfortably. But he trusted your judgment, even when it made his stomach turn, even when it sounded like everything he stood against.
Rebuilding with you, though? Going back to what you all were, what you were to him, a good friend— that was something else entirely. That, he didn’t know how to do.
You shook your head, folding your arms loosely. “I forgot how preachy you can be, Murdock.”
“Yeah, well.”
Your eyes drifted back to the door without meaning to. Your mouth, however, found a safer topic to latch on to: Karen.
“She’s a ticking time bomb, Matt,” you sighed. “She always has been.”
“Would you rather she kill him, then?”
That pulled your attention back to him.
“It’s not his fault,” you said abruptly. You forced yourself to breathe, slower this time. “It’s not his fault,” you repeated. Your eyes dropped, unfocused. “Foggy…”
His name caught in your throat like it didn’t belong in the air. You pressed your lips together, trying again.
“Foggy didn’t just—” you stopped, teeth tightening hard.
You could see him, leaning over your shoulder, complaining about paperwork, stealing fries off your plate like you wouldn’t notice. Sitting between you and Matt and Karen, always talking, always there…
“He didn’t… ,” you said, voice rough now, thinner than you wanted it to be. “He didn’t deserve to… to die. He shouldn’t have died.”
The hallway felt smaller. Even Matt flinched.
“But that’s not on Dex,” you continued, resolute. “It’s my fault. I could’ve prevented this.”
You barely heard yourself say it.
But Matt did.
“What?” he said immediately, like he thought he misheard you. He started listening for irregularities in your heart beat and found none. So yes, you were telling the truth. At least you thought you were.
“It’s something I’d rather not unpack with you,” you said, brushing it off like it didn’t matter. Like it wasn’t clawing at your ribs.
“C’mon,” you said, nodding toward the door even as your chest tightened. “We didn’t come here to chat, right?”
—
The door opened, and there he was.
Dex was on a narrow cot, wrists cuffed on either side, bruises dark and blooming across his face and throat, breathing shallow like even that took effort.
Your chest tightened so hard it hurt.
And your brain, traitor that it was, dragged you into the memory of the last time you had a saw him.
The visitor room of the mental institution had always been too bright for your liking.
It was clean and controlled. It looked like it was designed to remind you that nothing in it was normal, no matter how hard you tried to pretend otherwise.
But you’d gotten used to it because of him.
Dex was already there when you walked in that day. He sat straight-backed at the table, hands folded too neatly, like he’d been waiting long enough to start counting seconds.
And the second he saw you, his entire nervous system lit up like fairy light behind his eyes.“You’re late.”
You huffed out a laugh, already walking toward him. “Relax,” you said, leaning down to press a quick kiss to his temple, like you always did. “It’s been, what? A day since I last saw you. You can handle five minutes of me being held up in security.”
“It’s not enough,” he said immediately. His eyes tracked you still, even if the movement was a bit slower from the meds.
You paused, just for a second, pulling back enough to look at him properly. “You see me every other day.”
“I know,” his eyes stayed on you, finger tapping the table. “It’s still not enough.”
You swallowed it down, forcing a lighter tone as you dropped into the seat across from him.
“Wow,” you said, reaching into your bag. “And here I thought I was doing something nice.”
That got his attention. “What?”
You pulled it out with a small flourish, holding it up between you. “Don’t you ever say I don’t bring you anything good.”
His eyes locked onto it instantly. “is that…?”
“Banana flavoured marshmallows,” you confirmed, a little smug.
There it was, a smile.
“You remembered,” he said. You had a mission in South Korea five months ago— you were barely there for a day, but you managed to grab one of those for Dex at the airport. You remembered how much he liked it, so you had managed to source an importer. It took a while, but there were very few things you wouldn’t do for him.
“Of course I did,” you replied.
You slid the bag across the table toward him, your fingers brushing his. He opened the plastic and picked one up carefully, turning it between his fingers like he was committing it to memory before taking a bite.
You watched him, watched how his shoulders relaxed.
Just like that, all the effort was worth it.
“You okay?” you asked after a moment, your voice lowered now.
He didn’t answer right away. His eyes lingered on the table, on the half-eaten marshmallow in his hand.
“Better when you’re here,” he said finally.
You looked away for a second, like that might make his words easier to stomach. You leaned forward and put your hands on his. “Yeah?”
“I think about it,” His eyes lifted back to yours, steady, unguarded in a way he rarely allowed himself to be. “When you leave.”
“What do you think about?” You tilted your head.
“When you’ll be back,” he said. “How long it’s going to take.”
He said it carefully. It’s as if he didn’t want to push too far but couldn’t help saying it anyway.
“I’ll always come back,” you reassured him.
That mattered. You saw it in the way his focus sharpened, in the way he leaned just slightly forward like he was holding onto the words. He readjusted his hand and squeezed your palm.
You sat with him that day and talked about nothing and everything. Let your knee bump his under the table like it was normal, like you weren’t separated by a bureaucratic line you so desperately want to tear down.
And when the visiting hours finally ended, you didn’t want to leave.
You never did. You would give anything to listen to him talk for more than a few hours at a time. You would give anything to coax another laugh, another smile from him.
“You’re going to be back soon?” he asked as you stood up, showing the smallest crack in the certainty he tried to keep around himself.
You smiled at him. “Soon.”
You leaned in, pressing a quick kiss to the corner of his mouth. It was brief, but it still made his day.
When you pulled back, he nodded. “Soon,” he repeated under his breath.
You nodded. ‘Soon’ was good. ‘Soon’ was non-specific.
Because little did he know, you’d already agreed to a seven-day mission. Val had barely given you a choice.
You’d never been gone that long before.
Usually, missions were two days. Three days, max. And even those ones were few and far between. And then you’d come straight back to him, no matter how exhausted you were, no matter what you had to wade through to get there.
But you decided he didn’t need to know about this… extension.
You told yourself it wasn’t a big deal. That he’d be fine. That telling him that you would be gone three times as long as you usually do would only make him spiral, make him worry, make him count every hour in a way that would hurt more than help.
So you kept it to yourself.
On the sixth day of the mission, Foggy was dead.
You snapped yourself out of it.
Because now you were here, standing in front of a man you haven’t seen in more than two years.
Dex didn’t move at first.
For one horrible second, you thought he was still out, chest rising too shallow under the dim light, like whatever it took to bring him in had hollowed him out and left the shell behind.
Then when he realised someone else was in the room, his head turned slowly, and then… his eyes found you.
Oh.
For a second, he stared at you like you weren’t real. Like this was a hallucination his brain had made up to cope with his injuries. His lips parted, but nothing came out at first.
“Y-you…” his voice cracked. He swallowed hard, throat working like it hurt. “You came back.”
What he had in his voice wasn’t relief. It wasn’t even hope. It was disbelief so raw it sounded like it might collapse in on itself.
Of course this was how he reacted.
Because he had waited, back in the institution he was assigned to. He waited for every sound in the corridor. Every footstep that wasn’t yours. Every door that didn’t open.
On the fourth day, he started asking the facility staff over and over, until the answers became rehearsed, clipped and annoyed. They said you were “busy,” “not scheduled,” or “unavailable.”
Still, he waited.
On the fifth day, a staff member told him he had a visitor.
And for the first time in while, he lit up.
It had to be you, right?
He sat up too fast, eyes fixed on the door before it even opened, already bracing for the moment you’d step through and make the last five days feel like a misunderstanding he could recover from.
The door opened and… it wasn’t you.
It was Vanessa Fisk.
The light in him shut off instantly.
As he sat down, he had a hollow, sinking realization that he might’ve wrong to expect you at all.
Maybe you had gotten sick of visiting him. Of not being able to touch him as much as you wanted, of not being able to hold him as much as you wanted. After all, why would you settle for a broken man when you could have a free man?
Behind you, Matt went completely still, listening, measuring, probably hearing the way Dex’s heart was starting to race, the way his breathing kept catching like it didn’t know how to settle.
“You came back,” he said again, gentler now, like he was afraid saying it too loud would make you disappear. His eyes dragged over your face, searching frantically. “I thought… I thought you wouldn’t. I thought you—”
“I know, ” you said, but it came out thinner than you meant, as if the words had to fight their way out.
Your voice alone was enough to undo him further.
His breath hitched again, like your voice made it real in a way his eyes alone couldn’t.
“You’re here,” he repeated, and now there was something fragile in it. “You actually… y-you came back.”
He tried to push himself up, instinct overriding his senses, the cuffs snapping tight with a harsh metallic sound that made his whole body jolt. It didn’t stop him immediately. He strained against them anyway as he got on his knees, like he could get to you if he just tried hard enough.
“I-I…” his voice came faster now, stumbling over itself. “I thought you left, I thought—”
“Dex…”
“You said soon,” he cut you off, the words rushing out like he’d been holding them in for two years too long. “You said you’d be back soon.”
Your stomach dropped.
His eyes were shiny now. Not crying yet, but right there on the edge of it.
“You didn’t come,” he said. “I waited. I kept…I thought maybe you got held up, I thought maybe—”
His breath stuttered, like the memory of it was catching up to him all over again.
“And then you didn’t,” he finished, voice thinning.
Behind you, Matt shifted slightly.
“You don’t have to do this alone,” Matt said, directed at you, but Dex flinched anyway, like any sound that wasn’t yours was an intrusion.
His gaze snapped onto you, almost panicked now, like he thought he might take you away again.
“You’re here now,” he said quickly, like he could rewrite the past by insisting on the present. “You came back.”
The words were breaking apart as he said them. He needed them to be true.
Your chest ached so bad it felt like it might cave in.
“Leave us alone.” It came out rougher than you meant.
“He’s not stable,” Matt said again, more firmly this time.
He was right. You could hear it in every fracture, every broken piece.
But Dex was still looking at you like you were the only thing holding him together, barely.
“Matt,” you said, and your voice almost gave out on his name. “Please.”
You knew he had somewhere to be anyway. Why was he even here, with you? Did he just now realise that this might be a bad idea? That you ever had one true weakness, and that it was him? Did he just now realise that if he left, he might just come back later tonight to an empty room?
Dex didn’t move now. Didn’t even try to fight the cuffs again.
“You came back,” he whispered like a prayer.
Behind you, Matt exhaled reluctantly. “You don’t know what state he’s in.”
“I do,” you said, and he had no idea. You knew him better than anyone in the world, so Matt insisting on playing chaperone was only irritating you. “Please.”
You heard him sigh.
The door opened, then closed.
Just like that, he was gone, footsteps disappearing down the hall.
It was just you and Dex now.
Dex let out a breath that almost turned into a laugh, except it fractured halfway through.
You had no buffer. No witnesses.
You stepped forward without meaning to. “What did you do?”
You knew, of course. You’ve seen the news. You just wanted to hear him say it, you needed him to know what he thought he did and why he thought he did it.
“I fixed it,” he said immediately, a little too quickly. “You don’t have to… I fixed it.”
“What did you do?” you asked again.
Against all odds, Dex looked pleased. “I balanced it.”
“No,” you let out a deep breath you didn’t realise you were holding, “you didn’t.”
“I did,” he insisted, words starting to tumble now. “I took something from you, so I took something from him, it’s even now, it’s—”
“Dex.”
“I killed your friend, I killed Foggy,” he said flatly. “So Vanessa had to die.”
Oh. So that was what this was about.
It might not make sense to you, but you could see now, how it would make sense to him. How it would twist the cords in his mind and pretend to untangle it.
“I balanced the scales,” he said again, faster now, unraveling, beads of sweat travelling down his temple, to his neck, to his bare chest as the restraints rattled. “You don’t have to hate me anymore, it’s equal, it’s fixed, you can love me now, I can die knowing you love me—”
“What?” you snapped, putting a hand on your face. “You want to die? What the fuck does you that have to do with anything you’ve done?”
“My job here is done.” he shot back, agitation spiking. “You’re just not seeing it yet, but you will, you always do—”
“Stop.”
He didn’t.
“I did it for you,” he pushed on, voice rising, cracking, desperate. “So you’d come back, so you would forgive me, and once you do, I can finally—”
“Stop talking,” you put your hands through your hair, exasperated.
“You’re here now, see? It worked, it—”
“Shut up, Dex!”
He froze for half a second, but the silence didn’t last long. He snapped right back into his spiral, this time worse.
“I fixed it,” he insisted, louder now, breath coming fast, shoulders jerking against the restraints. “You don’t get it, I had to make it even or you’d never come back before I go, you’d never—”
Fuck.
Fuck’s sake.
Did you really have to do this?
You grabbed your concealed gun from under your shirt and raised it into his view.
His eyes snapped to it instantly. “What are you—”
You pressed the barrel under your chin.
“Hey!” He pulled on his restraints. If there weren’t dents in the metal before, there were definitely now.
You stared at his angelic hazel eyes as you clicked the safety off.
Dex broke. “No!”
He surged forward, the cuffs yanking him back hard with a metallic crack. The cot screeched against the floor as he thrashed, sanity tearing loose under his skin.
“No, no, no! Don’t do that—don’t…”
Metal slammed, his whole body jerking, twisting, fighting restraints that didn’t give.
“Please,” he choked out, voice breaking apart as he pulled on the cuffs as if he could rip through them, wrists straining, breath turning wild. “You don’t… p-put it down! put it down right now—”
“Dex…”
“NO!” he barked, frantic, eyes locked on the gun like it was the only thing in existence. “Not you, not you, not you…”
You sighed, resting your finger on the trigger. You could pull at any second now.
“Dex!”
He didn’t stop.
“I fixed it for you,” he was spiraling now, words slurring into each other desperately. “I made it right, I made it equal, you’re here now so it worked, just put it down, j-just—”
“Goddammit, Dex!” You shouted, and it echoed through the room.
He finally stopped, and you finally spoke a language he understood: that the only way to get him to listen was to threaten to hurt you.
“Shut up and fucking listen!” you snapped, voice shaking with an emotion hotter than anger, “or you’re going to have to fish an adamantium bullet out of my cold dead body until your fingers are smeared with my liquified brain, you understand?”
All you got from him now was silence.
It worked.
His chest was still heaving, eyes wide. They were glued to you, on the gun, on your finger, on the very real, very immediate possibility of losing you again.
So you stepped closer.
The gun stayed where it was, pressing even further into your skin. The rest of you gave in, closing the distance inch by inch until you were standing right in front of him, close enough to feel the uneven rhythm of his breathing.
Dex didn’t retreat.
He was still there on his knees on the cot, shoulders drawn.
His eyes tracked you like you were the only fixed point in a collapsing world.
You raised your free hand slowly and reached out slowly, giving him time to flinch, to recoil…
He didn’t.
Your hand found his face, cupping it carefully, thumb brushing over the scar carved into his cheek. He hadn’t had it the last time you saw him.
You had assumed that Matt had given it to him at Josie’s on the night that Foggy died.
That scar was a reminder of what he had done. And he had to carry it everywhere.
You exhaled, your touch softening without thinking, tracing it again like you could map the moment it happened, like you could undo it just by understanding its shape.
Dex made a whiny sound. It was small, broken, as if it sat between a breath and a moan. His eyes fluttered for half a second, leaning into your touch before he could stop himself.
You studied him. It had been a while since he was this close to you.
He was… pretty.
You’d always thought so. Not in a conventional way, or a safe way. It was almost unnatural, the kind of beauty that wasn’t meant to comfort, but to unsettle. It was the kind of beauty you imagine ancient gods to possess: radiant and terrible all at the same.
Your thumb moved from the scar to his mouth. You pressed lightly against his lower lip, testing.
He parted for you immediately. He didn’t even have to think about it. It was pure instinct.
His breath hitched as your thumb slid past his lip, resting against the warmth of his tongue.
Fuck, he missed this.
His tongue moved, brushing against your thumb in a slow, searching motion, as his eyes rolled back slightly to the back of his skull.
It was trust, desire, and recognition all the same.
You didn’t pull away.
Instead, you pressed down slightly, feeling the way his breath faltered around it, the way his body went still again, utterly focused on you and what you were allowing. What you weren’t taking away.
After a moment, you drew your thumb back out, slow enough that he followed the motion without meaning to, lips parting just slightly before he caught himself.
You didn’t give him time to think about it.
Your thumb brushed across his lower lip again, smearing the moisture of his spit there, grounding him in a physical sensation.
“Nothing…” you choked, then tried again. “Nothing you do will balance the scales,” you finally managed to rasp out.
His breathing hitched again.
“Foggy’s death…” you paused, forcing the words through the tightness in your throat, “…was my fault.”
For a second, he just looked at you. For once, he was the one trying to make sense of your beliefs and judgement..
“No,” he murmured against your skin. “It’s not.”
Your breath hitched, but you didn’t pull your hand away. Your thumb stayed near his cheek, your palm still cradling his jaw, holding him there even as your fingers tightened slightly.
“It is,” you said firmly.
His head shook faintly against your hand, rejecting it. It’s as if he physically couldn’t let it settle.
“But you hated me for it,” he said, voice thinner now, searching your face for confirmation, for a fact he could anchor himself to.
“No.” You shook your head immediately, your grip on his face tightening without meaning to. “No, no, sweetheart. I never hated you.”
What?
“But you didn’t come back,” he said, a swell of tears spilling down his cheek. You caught it and wiped it away. “You didn’t go to the trial. You didn’t go to the sentencing. And you… you don’t visit anymore.”
It fucking hurt to see him this was.
“I didn’t go,” you said slowly, each word dragged up from the pit of your stomach, “because I couldn’t look at you… and see what I made you do.”
His brow furrowed immediately, confused.
“I should’ve told you,” you cut in, your voice tightening now, the words starting to spill faster. “About the mission. I should’ve told you I’d be gone that long. I should’ve—”
Your hand trembled against his face, but you didn’t stop.
“I didn’t think, I didn’t know… I didn’t know Vanessa would know I was gone,” you continued, choking on your words, “I didn’t know she’d take advantage of that. That she’d come to you when I wasn’t there to talk you down—”
“No.” Dex shook his head harder now, the movement pressing into your palm. “That’s not—”
He couldn’t even finish it, because he believed there was no version of this where you were the one at fault. Not in his mind. How could you possibly do anything wrong?
“You’re not—” his voice hitched, desperate now, like he was trying to put a puzzle piece of the truth into place, “you’re not responsible for that. You didn’t make me do anything. I—”
“What did Vanessa tell you?” you interrupted suddenly.
He blinked. “What?”
“What did she say would happen,” you pressed, your thumb brushing his cheek again without thinking, “if you helped her?”
Dex hesitated for a second. “She said… I could be free.”
Your chest tightened.
“That I wouldn’t have to be…” he swallowed, eyes flickering down for half a second before finding you again, “…half a man for you anymore.”
Fuck.
“Dex,” your hand tightened on his face again, your other still holding the gun in place beneath your chin, the barrel pressing harder now as your jaw shifted with every word. “Don’t you see?”
“No.”
“If I hadn’t gone on that mission,” you pushed on, faster, louder, the words tumbling over each other, “if I was there, I would’ve talked you out of it. I always do.”
Your fingers trembled against his skin, but you didn’t let go.
“I would’ve stopped you,” you said, convinced with terrifying certainty. “I would’ve stopped your fucking rampage, I wouldn’t have even let you get that far! I….”
The barrel pressed harder into your skin as your mouth moved, your grip tightening around the gun without realizing it.
“Don’t you see?” you repeated, voice cracked. “It’s my fault.”
Dex’s eyes snapped to the gun.
He hadn’t stopped watching it, but now he saw it. The way your finger trembled on the trigger. He saw the way it pressed deeper every time you spoke, every time you believed what you were saying a little more.
“No,” he said.
Dex’s breathing turned uneven again, but not the same as before. Not frantic in the way it had been when you walked in.
“No,” he said again, louder this time, his body tensing against the restraints as far as they’d allow. His eyes flicked between your face and the gun, tracking every movement of your hand. “You don’t get to—” his voice strained, tightening with every word, “you don’t get to say that and then—”
His breath hitched when your finger shifted slightly.
“—and then do that,” he finished, voice breaking at the edges now.
Because now, he could see the way you were starting to believe you deserved it. “Put it down. Please.”
But you didn’t hear him.
“Balance, huh?” you whispered, almost taunting.
Your thumb drifted back to his scar beneath your palm, tracing the line of it again, like you were committing it to memory in a different way now.
If you believed that you were as responsible for Foggy's death as he was, and you did, shouldn’t you have something to remember it by, too? Something you had to carry everywhere, too?
Dex’s breath hitched.
“You want balance, Dex?” you asked, genlter this time, but you sounded off.
His head shook immediately, frantically pressing his face into your hand like he could stop you just by being close enough.
“Not like this,” he said, voice tightening. “No.”
“You want it so bad,” you went on, almost like you weren’t hearing him anymore, your attention flicking between his face and the gun still pressed beneath your chin. “You killed Vanessa to make it even, right?”
“No. No, that’s not—”
You tilted your head slightly, considering him, your grip on the gun shifting. “Then let’s make it even.”
The resolution in your voice made his entire body go rigid.
“Please,” he said again, panic breaking through. “No, don’t—”
You adjusted your wrist, quickly angling the barrel. It was not directly under your chin anymore, titled it forty-five degrees.
“Stop,” he choked out, pulling hard against the restraints, metal biting into his wrists. “Stop, baby, please. Please…”
You were tired of this. Tired of him thinking he deserved it when you knew for a fact you were the deciding factor in why Foggy had died…
So you pulled the trigger.
The sound boomed through the room, deafening in the confined space. You stumbled back, hand pulled away from his face, as your grip on the gun faltered. It clattered to the other side of the room
For a split second, you didn’t move.
Then you felt the pain.
It was white-hot and blinding, tearing across your cheek as the adamantium round grazed your skin instead of ending your life.
Dex flinched.
Your hand shot up, fingers brushing the wound.
You stared at the blood on your fingertips like it was exactly what you wanted.
Then you laughed.
It came out wrong. It was a little too high, like one of those cute little giggles that he adored so much.
You could already feel the vertical cut on your cheek, matching the horizontal one on his face.
You were his mirror drawn in flesh.
It was unwise, you knew, especially because it wasn’t just any weapon. It was experimental, and even you weren’t fully briefed on it. Adamantium rounds weren’t meant to graze skin. They were meant to pierce, to hold, to do things that conventional physics couldn’t. It was meant to kill supersoldiers. It was meant to cut through thick alien skin. You had no idea what they would do to living tissue at a superficial angle.
But right now, you didn’t give a shit.
You pressed your hand back to his face anyway, smearing blood across his cheek with the same gentleness as before.
“Balance, Dex,” you said again, voice shaking now but still smiling.
You lowered yourself onto the cot, the thin frame creaking under your weight, your balance still slightly off, but you didn’t care. The room still rang faintly in your ears, your thoughts moving too fast, too sharp, like they were skipping steps.
Dex moved closer the second he could reach.
He pressed his forehead to yours like he needed to make sure you were real. His eyes snapped to your cheek again, to the blood that hadn’t stopped, a thin line still slipping down your skin.
“You’re bleeding,” he said, tighter.
You let out a breath that almost turned into a chuckle.
“I know,” you said, a little too brightly. “It’s fine. It’s…” you shook your head faintly, like you were trying to catch up with your own thoughts, “… it’s good.”
He frowned, but didn’t argue.
Instead, he leaned in. His breath touched your cheek ghosting over the blood like he was measuring where to start.
And then he licked you.
The tip of his tongue brushed lightly against your skin, just at the edge of the blood. He was testing, making sure you wouldn’t pull away.
You didn’t.
Why would you? You liked it. Even when it stung a little.
“It’s okay,” you said, relaxing your head back a little, letting Dex clean up the red from the start of the wound, all the way to the liquid that had made its way down. “We’re okay.”
Dex leaned in closer, lapping up nearer to the wound. He didn’t rush it, like he was trying to clean you without hurting you further.
Your head tilted slightly, giving him more space without thinking.
“We both paid,” you said suddenly, almost thoughtful. “See? That’s what you wanted, right?”
He shifted closer, his breath catching faintly between each pass, his focus narrowing completely to the cut, to the blood still lingering there. His tongue moved slower, tracing near the edge of the wound but never pressing into it.
His hand shifted as much as the restraints allowed, fingers brushing against your arm, then settling there. He was holding you in place, or maybe holding himself steady.
He licked the stream down your neck, and you gave him a breathy, angelic moan of pleasure that sent a jolt of satisfaction straight down his spine.
“It matches,” you whispered, like it was a revelation. “We match.”
As much as he hated seeing your scar, he couldn’t help but smile a little.
“You’re not supposed to get hurt,” he mumbled against your jaw, teeth red now.
You let out a breathy laugh.
“Too late,” you said.
What had been slow, deliberate licks turned lighter and shorter. It became less about cleaning, more about touch. His lips brushed your skin in their place, tentative at first.
A pressed a soft kiss near the edge of the wound. Then another just beneath it. Then again, closer to your jawline.
These kisses came unevenly in scattered, small, points of contact, like he was trying to map you back into his memory. Each one lingered a fraction longer than the mass, his restraint slipping away.
You didn’t stop him.
Your breathing had slowed, but your head still felt light, your thoughts still running a million miles an hour.
He just kept pressing those small, almost reverent kisses along your cheek, your neck, your temple, your face until they edged closer to your mouth.
There, he hesitated.
He was close enough that you could feel his breath against your lips, like he remembered exactly what this was, exactly what it meant, and didn’t trust himself to take it without permission.
So you were the one who closed the gap.
You pressed your lips against his. Your hands came up fast, wrapping around the back of his neck, pulling him in like you needed to prove he was still human.
He made a small, broken sound against your mouth as he kissed you back.
Fuck, your lips.
For him, it hit all at once.
You were as warm, as soft, as sweet as when he first kissed you all those years ago. You had remained unchanged, like no time had passed at all. It was just as he remembered, just as consuming, just as euphoric. It was as if everything else in the world disappeared the second you touched him.
It was like breathing after drowning.
His whole body reacted to it, straining forward, instinctively chasing more as his hands pulled hard against the restraints with a sharp metallic clink. He tried to close the distance further, like the cuffs were an insult now. It was just another unbearable barrier between him and what he’d been missing for two years.
The kiss deepened quickly as you tightened your grip at the back of his neck, fingers threading into his hair, holding him there as much as pushing yourself flush against his bare chest.
more, closer, don’t stop, he thought.
The restraints rattled again, louder this time.
He was breathing harder now, frustrated, his hands flexing uselessly against the metal as he tried to reach you properly, to touch you the way he wanted to.
The sound was loud enough to grab your attention that time.
You pulled back just enough to look at him. His eyes were blown wide, locked onto you, his whole body pulled tight with restraint in more ways than one.
You glanced toward the other side of the room. It was a pair of keys hanging by the door. It most likely belonged to the handcuffs.
“If I let you go…” you said, looking back at him. You trailed your hand down his stomach, settling on the waistband of his pants “…will you behave?”
“Yes,” he said immediately, breathlessly, desperately. “Yes, please. I’ll…” his voice hitched, then he rushed out, “I’ll do whatever you tell me.”
You could tell he pathetically meant it, too
He just wanted to touch you. He needed to.
His eyes flicked back to your lips like he couldn’t help it, like he was already half gone again just from the memory of it.
So you made a choice.
A very you kind of choice.
Let’s just say…. you had no idea what you were going to say to Matt when he came back.
You had no idea how you were going to explain why you were the one chained to the bed (you very much asked for it), wrists pulled taut, skin flushed and marked in ways that you liked. You had no idea how you were going to explain why your breathing was still uneven as Dex sat free at your side, patching up a bullet graze wound on your cheek with the kind of focus that felt indecent after what you’d just let him do to you.
So yeah.
It’s safe to say that you made up.
-end.
extra note: I cannot stress this enough, the song this fic was inspired by is so Dex x reader coded. I strongly suggest reading this while listening to the song.
⋆ 𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒 ; Riding the NYC subway with a wanted killer. What could go wrong? / short a.n but tysm for all the love on this fic! Had prom last weekend and lots of planning for my youth group but we're back at it again with a new chapter <3 this one is kind of short but we're getting to a good part soon so here's some filler
⋆ tags/warnings. Benjamin Poindexter x female!reader. This chapter is a LOT of Dex POV. 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! Reader's powers are weird. Warnings for mild body horror/violence/murder. 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 can find this fic on Ao3 as well @/cupid360!
⋆ chapter directory. previous chapter / next chapter
♫ “I don't have any reasons / I've left them all behind / I'm in a New York state of mind.” New York State of Mind by Billy Joel
It smells like you. That's the first thing he noticed when he slung it over himself. This jacket. The remnants of floral perfume. White jasmine...black locust...roses.
He pauses mid-step when you two exit, the fabric still warm from where it had been draped across the chair, and draws another breath before he can stop himself. The scent clings low in his throat, delicate and stubborn.
How do you get a scent like this out? Why would you ever want to?
It's only curiosity. You left it behind for him, as to not endanger yourself. That's all it is. But his fingers tighten on the lapel anyway, tracing the seam where the perfume has soaked the deepest.
Who would wear something like this? Who would move through the world leaving traces of themselves so carelessly?
He catches himself lifting the collar closer again, eyes half-lidded, before forcing his hand back down. Not yet an ache, not quite. He wonders, without meaning to, what exact perfume you wear. It's good enough to eat.
His eyes flicker to you while you walk, opting for the stairs.
"...I really don't understand why we can't just take the elevator-"
Not a sound escapes him as you mumble and pout. The meaning of your words dissolves almost immediately, turning to mush before they can take shape in his mind. He's not listening- not really.
And still, he hears everything.
He notices the slight catch in your throat when you grow frustrated. The soft press of your lips between sentences. The way your voice lifts at the end of certain words when you're trying to sound more convincing. He hears the faint wetness of your tongue against your teeth, the tiny breaths you take through your nose, the delicate quiver that slips in when you're tired and trying to hide it.
It's unsettling, how closely he listens to details that most people would never register. Your voice is cataloged with the same obsessive precision others reserve for fingerprints or crime scene evidence.
And yet, even as he tunes you out, your voice is the most tolerable- perhaps the most pleasant- sound he has heard in years, rivaled only by the crackling cassette tapes of his old therapist.
He glances back at you. You fed him breakfast. Him.
"Mr. Poindexter?" You call, waving in front of his disassociating eyes. "Hello...? Anyone home?"
His head raises at the sound of his name. On your lips. Out of your mouth.
"What." He says with more force than necessary. The scent of your perfume is giving him a headache. Too…sweet.
"Damn. Okay, Sunshine. I'm going to let that slide," You continue walking ahead. A hand surges around your wrist before you can blink. The grip is near bruising, though he doesn't pull you back to him.
"Stay close."
Closer, is what he means to say.
It's an order. His voice is low, almost conversational, but there’s a razor’s edge beneath it. He doesn’t loosen his hold as he falls into step beside you, matching your pace with that eerie precision. Suddenly the weight hits you- if anyone recognizes his face, it really is game over.
"If you die out here," he murmurs, eyes scanning the crowd ahead, "it’s going to be an inconvenience. A big one."
A humorless smile touches your lips. He doesn't know. Of course he doesn't. How could he? Daily Bugle never mentioned your own inability to kick the bucket. He probably thinks Matt sent you on a suicide mission.
His eyes narrow in on the sight of your smile, face twisting with confusion. Frustration, maybe. Or something...deeper, you realize- when his grip tightens on your wrist. Yeah, okay, that's going to hurt in the morning.
"Why are you...smiling?"
"I’m touched by your concern."
His lips twitch into something you recognize as amusement for two seconds before he pulls you roughly along with him.
"Easy. Don't touch the merchandise." You huff while he manhandles you. The way one of his arms snaps shut around your shoulders, the heavy weight of him tugging you beside him. You feel like a ragdoll.
You don't understand why until you catch a glimpse of a man in an AVTF uniform.
He's locked and loaded, patrolling the streets of New York like he's running the navy. He's harassing some other young boy who can't be older than seventeen. You frown.
"I should've gotten you a baseball cap or something." You huff underneath your breath. "Pull up the hood."
He obeys the command with little resistance. Shocking. You miss the way he inhales through his nose again.
The two of you fall into silence for the remainder of the walk.
You let him lead.
Navigating New York City is second nature to him, effortless in a way that makes you suspect he could weave through these streets blindfolded and still arrive exactly where he intended. He moves with the confidence of someone who belongs here. A true local. Everything you've learned about this city came exclusively from the mouth of Steve Rogers.
Late at night, when conversation drifted into softer territory, Steve would always tell you about Brooklyn. Stoops crowded with kids in the summer, corner delis where everyone knew each other by their last name, women leaning out apartment windows to gossip across the street.
He'd go on and on about the smell of fresh bread and car exhaust, about stickball in the road, about neighborhoods that felt less like a grid and more like one big family. The way he would smile and shake his head in remembrance.
New York was worn and imperfect, but warm. Human.
This city feels nothing like that.
This is Fisk's New York. Perpetually holding its breath. The armed patrols, the angry crowd with pitchforks. All of it feels less like a home and more like a machine.
You should've picked somewhere brighter to live in. After Steve passed on, you stuck around here. You took his word for it.
"New York’s a good place to stay, if you’ve got someone worth staying for."
You always wondered what he meant by that.
The answer doesn’t come to you as Poindexter leads you down a flight of grimy concrete steps and into the bowels of New York City Subway.
You're taken out of the moment when he roughly shoulder-checks someone, causing you to lurch a bit forward. Oh yeah, you remind yourself, this guy is an asshole.
The tiled walls are stained with decades worth of dirt...and god knows what else. Fluorescent lights buzz overhead. Somewhere farther down the platform, a saxophone player butchers a jazz standard to an audience of exactly no one.
So this, apparently, is how fugitives travel. Awesome. Kind of badass.
Poindexter releases your wrist only long enough to steer you through the turnstiles. His nails are still digging in, guiding you toward the far end of the platform where the crowd thins.
"You know," you mutter, glancing at the tracks, "This is some real double-o seven shit. We need a helicopter. The Avengers had a helicopter."
Could the Quinjet be considered a helicopter? Regardless, you miss it. Stark would've preferred killing himself over taking the subway, and you're beginning to understand why.
"That would be conspicuous."
"...And this isn’t?"
"No one looks twice at people on the subway."
An unfamiliar feeling of gratefulness for your lack of license bubbles up. Childish. But not...bad.
"Good thing I'm naturally charming." You give him a thumbs-up.
"...Good thing you're with me." He counters, and you weigh it over in your head. It's awkwardly ironic, and you think he's trying to tell a joke in response. Copying you. Stuck with an apex predator.
"Is it? Is it really? A good thing?" He's the reason you're in this mess, and not on said helicopter to The New Avengers tower. His jaw clenches in response, maybe embarrassment, and you briefly feel bad for the guy. "...Okay. Um. Yeah, man. Could be worse."
A distant rumble builds beneath your feet. Wind rushes through the tunnel, lifting the ends of your hair. The headlights appear a moment later, cutting through the darkness as the train screams into the station.
Poindexter’s hand closes around yours again as the doors slide open.
The car is mercifully sparse. A few exhausted commuters stare at their phones. A woman in scrubs dozes against the window. No one pays either of you any attention.
Poindexter ushers you into a pair of seats near the back and takes the one beside you, shoulder pressed flush to yours.
The train gives a violent jerk forward as it pulls out of the station.
It’s sudden- ugly. As the train lurches forward with a violent screech of metal on metal, you stumble hard. Years of Avenger-level threats and H.Y.D.R.A torture chambers apparently did nothing to prepare you for basic public transportation. Your foot slips on the grimy floor and you start to go flying toward a metal pole.
You don’t handle it well. And you damn near stumble straight into Poindexter’s space.
His arm comes up fast, catching you before you can fully eat concrete.
"Careful." It’s flat. Not unkind, just matter-of-fact. For the second time today you have his arm wrapped around you, far bigger in comparison. The jacket has warmed him up like an oven, and in the cold air of the subway...it's not exactly unwelcome.
You blink up at him, steadying yourself. "The fuck. Why's it so fast?"
"It’s a train."
"Yeah, but still." The doors slide shut behind you as the car settles into motion, and you adjust your footing like you’re negotiating with the ground. A few people around you don’t even look up. Poindexter notices though.
"...You’ve never done this before,” he says.It’s not really a question. More a statement of fact.
You hesitate just a second too long, scoffing and sputtering like you've been insulted. "Wha- hah- of course I-"
The lie falls flat at his unamused stare.
"Okay, yeah, not this exact thing, no."
"Hm."
You open your mouth, then close it again as the train sways and you instinctively shift closer to him without thinking.
His hand is still near your arm, ready in case you lose your footing again, but he doesn’t comment on it.
"You're fine," he says after a beat. "Just don’t stand too close to the edge of anything when it starts moving."
Oddly specific advice, but you're thankful for it. You hold on tight to whatever surface you can find, which does happen to be his bicep. You sit down before he can decide you shouldn’t be standing anymore, and he follows a second later. Neither of you decide to move away.
For a few moments, neither of you speaks. The city flashes past in fractured glimpses through the window- graffiti-scarred walls, flickering tunnel lights, brief reflections of your faces in the glass.
Eventually, you glance sideways at him.
"So," you murmur, "we’re really doing this."
His gaze remains fixed ahead.
"Yes."
"Albany."
"Yes."
"With no plan."
He turns to look at you then, expression tired but no less certain.
"I am the plan."
Despite yourself, you laugh.
His eyes narrow slightly, like he can't quite understand, but he doesn’t look away. The sound of your laugh isn't so bad, either. For a moment, he thinks he could listen to it on repeat for the whole ride. Loop the sound for hours.
He can't remember the last time he made someone laugh. You're offbeat. Everything about you should set him off. Unorganized, messy, wide-eyed. But you are a hero. You saved the world.
Probably saved him, too, along with a slew of other nobodies.
He swallows, and decides to parrot the sound of your laugh. It comes out in another clumsy, clunky noise that he quickly covers up with a clear of his throat. You don't notice. What, does he have a hairball?
The train rattles north, carrying the two of you farther and farther from the place Steve loved, and deeper into whatever mess this is becoming. Finding a shitty apartment is a lot easier than finding someone to stay for, you think. Good thing you're on your way out.
⋆ 𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒 ; You decide to treat Bullseye to breakfast.
⋆ 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! 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 can find this fic on Ao3 as well @/cupid360!
⋆ tag list. @xreader1989 @tvdumarvelhpsimp @xjyuto @gojoswhkre @not-the-teen-witch @cpuffz @memeorydotcom @kkkkisworld @astrozonaut @itsneversirius @urm0msoldcar @andi-o-geyser @vvitchesh3x @starlitflora @mewmew222 @redpool @njutul @skollinghunter @triciawritesstuff @noble-17 @spderless @cricketmeow @ancientbeing10 @sprinkles260 @lillycore @eternallovers65 @cicikinby @montagoves @yyiikes @benspoindexter @that1weirdweebgirl @she-elfworld @celleryxo @mistalli @badbishsblog @bitch-spaghetti-o (let me know if you'd like to be added 💛)
⋆ chapter directory. previous chapter / next chapter
♫ “I'm a winner, I'm a sinner / Do you want my autograph?” Breakfast In America by Supertramp
Poindexter is practically whistling in the corner of your bed. Almost like a cartoon character, you'd never guess this man would've been responsible for the murder of Vanessa Marianna Fisk. But, you suppose, stranger things have happened. Like super soldiers and aliens and the very blood in your veins.
He's twiddling his thumbs. You're grateful the man has seemingly given up on trying to rip the restraints around his wrists in half. You're positive that one more tug to the thin, cheap material that is your HomeGoods bedsheets would've resulted in the man freeing himself.
Every so often, you swipe a look at him over your shoulder. He looks pretty...content. Bored, even. Picking at his nails as he studies your room.
You put on a brave face and decide to focus on the task at hand- which at the moment, is frying an egg and buttering some toast. Probably should've asked him how he takes his eggs, lest he decides he's too good for sunny-side up and launches a frying pan at your head. You cringe at the thought. Ouch.
The sunlight is coming through the blinds, highlighting all of the dried and sticky blood to your clothing and his skin. Whole apartment looks like a murder scene, but hey, you guess it could be worse. At least there isn't an actual body.
Looking back over your shoulder, you catch him already looking back, expression unreadable. You quickly turn back around to this cursed egg that is taking much, much longer to cook than normal.
"That for me?" His voice cuts in without warning. You wince while you nod, turning your back to him so he can't see the pallor of your face. He knows who you are. You turn the spatula anxiously in your hand.
"...Your pan is too hot."
What.
"What?" You almost scoff, offended. You can cook a damn egg. You...you think. At least. The more you actually do think though, you realize there wasn't much room for eggs between H.Y.D.R.A torture chambers and saving the goddamn world. You feel your eye twitch, and his must twitch too, because his voice tightens at your disorganized approach to frying.
"The butter’s browning too fast." He tilts his head. "Egg'll crisp on the bottom before the yolk sets."
Oh, go fuck yourself. You don't say that though, because he's probably right, and your first ever hostage is giving you culinary tips.
"Is...are you joking?" You say, shaking your head, but he doesn't seem to take the social que to quiet down.
"I'm helping." He nods, smiling. The words are spoken more to himself, like he's proud. Leaning back, a crooked and pleased grin on his face. He rests and lounges into the bloodied sheet like a smug cat. "I’ve been told I should try to be more personable."
"Who told you that?"
"My therapist."
"Something tells me that didn't work out."
You don’t notice the way his jaw tightens at that. It’s quick, gone almost as soon as it appears, but something in the air shifts anyway. Subtly. Like a wire pulled just a little too taut.
The egg sizzles and you decide to begrudingly lower the heat.
"…There," he murmurs, watching the pan like it personally concerns him. "Better." Like suddenly everything wrong in the world has been corrected. He closes his eyes in pure satisfaction at the click click click of the burner knobs.
"Right. Cool. Awesome." You mumble under your breath. "You're lucky I'm even feeding you."
"That remains to be seen."
You pause.
"…You think I’d poison you?"
"I think," he says carefully, eyes flicking over the spatula in your hand, the pan, the distance between you, "you and Murdock are still deciding what you're going to do with me."
You clear your throat. "You don't really seem that...worried at the prospect of dying, Mr. Poindexter."
Mr. Poindexter? What is he, a teacher? He's a criminal. You should be calling him...an...an asshole! Yeah. You got this, Angel! WWDD. What would Daredevil do?
Leave you alone with a mass murder, apparently.
He cracks an eye open at the title, but makes no move to comment. But you see his lip curl with confusion at the polite, formal treatment.
"Go ahead. Doesn't matter what happens to me now. It's just an equation." He seems entirely more aloof and unconcerned at the idea of death-by-egg than he is at having it be cooked incorrectly.
The egg hisses in the pan as you slide it onto toast, more force than necessary. You turn off the heat and grab the plate, but you don’t move closer right away.
You step toward the bed.
“Okay, A-asshole!” you say again, stuttering, and momentarily curse yourself. Did your voice just crack? "Here’s your equation!"
You throw the plate down at his feet, and it slides pretty pathetically on the edge of the bed.
Oh yeah. That's badass. Total aura farm. In your defense, you were never in The Avengers for your offence skills. Steve would've never let you get ten feet in the radius of an actual fight. Your particular skillset was much more beneficial off battlefield.
His eyebrows knit together as he looks from the plate back to you. Clearing your throat at his clearly bewildered and confused expression, you take the plate and re-place it in your lap.
He waits expectantly for his restraints to be undone, to which you look at him like he's gone crazy.
Then he looks at you like you've gone crazy as you cut a piece, stabbing it with your fork and holding it out to him.
"…You’re not untying me," he says.
You blink. "Why would I do that?"
A pause. His eyes flick down to the plate in your lap, then back up to your face.
"So I can eat."
You stare at him for a second, then gesture vaguely with the fork. "You are eating."
“That’s not-” He stops himself, jaw tightening slightly. "That’s not the point."
You tilt your head. "What?" You scoop another bite of egg, unsure what to do, holding it up absently. "You were bleeding out in my bed and now you're worried about table manners?”
"I’m not worried about manners."
"Then what are you worried about?"
His gaze drops to the fork. Again.
Then the plate. Again.
Then the small trail of crumbs already scattering across your sheets like evidence at a crime scene. His fingers twitch once against the blanket, as if he wants to brush them away but knows moving too much will just make it worse.
"Crumbs," he said flatly. "Grease. You’ve got dried blood under us and you’re dropping food particles directly onto the sheets. Do you have any idea how unsanitary that is? Bacteria doesn’t care how convenient it is for you. They’ll set up shop in a heartbeat." His voice stays even, but the tension in his shoulders is obvious. "I don’t eat in beds. Ever."
"Oh, I'm sorry, princess. Here comes the airplane." You scoff, shoving the bite near his face. He let's out a sound akin to a growl, a huff of air, before deciding to let up take the bite. Success!
You slide the bite in. Then another. His teeth close around the fork with a borderline surgical precision, never touching the metal more than necessary. He chews methodically. Says nothing.
After he swallows, he exhales through his nose, breathing heavy. "This is ridiculous. I can feed myself if you untie one hand."
"And risk you putting a fork through my carotid? No thanks." You scoop more eggs, voice softening despite yourself. He lets out a scoff, lips twitching into something amused.
"You’re an Avenger," he said quietly. "You could've left me to die. Most people would have."
"Was an Avenger." You correct. "And I’m not most people." You lift the fork once more, waiting for a moment, letting him come to you. He does- leaning forward just enough, eyes never leaving your face.
"Still," he said, voice low and even, the way he spoke when he was putting pieces together in his head. "You could be out there. Could have the kind of life people like you are supposed to want." His bound hands shifted slightly against the cuffs, the movement small but restless. "And instead you're here. Playing nurse. Doing favors for Matt Murdock."
You don't miss the accusatory tone. The false righteousness in his own words. You pause, letting the silence settle. Then it kicks in.
"Wait- hey, are you profiling me right now?"
"You could be anywhere. Doing anything. Instead you’ve got a blind vigilante dumping half-dead bodies on your doorstep and you just…let him."
With another forkful of eggs, you deliberately leave a few more crumbs to tumble onto the sheet near his hip. His eyes track the falling pieces with visible irritation.
"Open," you say softly.
He stares at the fork for a beat longer than necessary, then leans forward just enough to take the bite. His lips brush the tines. When he pulls back, a tiny, glossy fragment of butter clings to the corner of his mouth. Without thinking, you reach up and wipe it away with your thumb.
You feel him go rigid. You pull back like you've been stung.
But he doesn't jerk away. He just watches you, breathing steady but shallower, like he's calculating the exact risk of every millimeter between you. Studying every plane of your face. Eyes zeroing in on the corner of your own lips before turning away.
"...You’re still making a goddamn mess," he says. The words came out rougher than before. Quieter.
"Yeah?" You finally pull back, if only to take pity and spare him from the germs. "You’ll survive some crumbs, Poindexter. Survived worse last night."
He refuses to look at you now, but you note the throb of the vein in his throat and forehead, fists wrapped around the restraints once more.
You watch him swallow again, this time with no real bite to go down.
⋆ 𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒 ; After saving the most wanted man in New York, the Angel of Hell’s Kitchen finds herself locked in a standoff with something far worse than the average criminal. Benjamin Poindexter isn’t grateful, and he isn’t afraid of her. But he is…interested.
⋆ 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! 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!
⋆ tag list. @xreader1989 @tvdumarvelhpsimp @xjyuto @gojoswhkre @not-the-teen-witch @cpuffz @memeorydotcom @kkkkisworld @astrozonaut @itsneversirius @urm0msoldcar @andi-o-geyser @vvitchesh3x @starlitflora @mewmew222 @redpool @njutul @skollinghunter @triciawritesstuff @noble-17 @spderless @cricketmeow @ancientbeing10 @sprinkles260 @lillycore @eternallovers65 @cicikinby @montagoves (let me know if you'd like to be added ❤️)
⋆ chapter directory. previous chapter / next chapter
♫ “I am the conscience clear / In pain or ecstasy.” Staring at the Sun by TV On The Radio
Emptiness. Chronic Emptiness. Loneliness. There is a dark pit waiting to swallow the body of New York- his body. He can feel it behind his eyelids, in the soreness of his triceps, somewhere inside him. Feeding off of him like a sickness.
It's only instinct to attack. Make it go away. That darkness.
His wrists rattle against the bloodied sheets of your bedpost, twitching in a rough motion. Like his hands are starved- willing to grab onto anything he could get them on. He twists his body, and you watch as two hundred pounds of pure muscle fight against the pitiful restraints.
You freeze like a deer in headlights.
Think. You rack your brain, looking at the empty space Matt left. Something about needing to speak with Karen Page and an AVTF Storage Facility.
The man pulls on the restraints tighter.
Aw, Fuck. You want to curse Matty for not just letting this guy kick the bucket. Or giving you some weapon of self-defense. Your eyes flicker to the discarded throwing knife across the room.
"I really, really wouldn't do that if I were you." The gravel of his voice suddenly rings out, causing you to jump. The sound is thick and heavy, tired. More of a growl than anything. Your lips part as you watch him sit up.
His eyes don't leave yours at the implied threat, not until you watch his eyebrows furrow to look downwards at where his bullet wound definitely should be.
You swallow when he looks back to you, chest heaving, perplexity momentarily eclipsing the severity of his expression. He cocks his head, face contorting into something scary.
"What the hell did you do to me?" He immediately tugs against the restraints, attempting to lunge forward. The bedpost creaks under the force, sheets stretched thin. The clatter is sudden and deafening, coupled with the force of his question.
"…I saved you," you say finally, voice steadier than you feel.
It sounds stupid the second it leaves your mouth.
His expression doesn’t soften. If anything, it sharpens, eyes narrowing, head tilting just slightly, like he’s trying to place you. Then he scoffs.
"Don't need to be saved." He heaves out between breaths, still trying to push off the bed. His eyes follow the trail back to the knife. You notice. "Already fixed it. Balanced it."
You blink at him. Unsure of what he's trying to say. This guy really must be fucked in the head. You swallow again, unsure if asking him to elaborate is the best course of action. Fuck it. Keeping him occupied with his own warped psyche might be your best bet.
You frown. "Balanced...what?"
His gaze drags back to you, something cold settling into place behind it. Cosmic.
"The scales," he says. "What she did to them."
A beat.
"You don’t get it," he continues, almost like he’s explaining something simple. "It was wrong. Before." His jaw tightens in exasperation. "Loud. Not mine. Had to get my mind back. It's....It's the correction. The trade."
His wrists flex again, slower now. Testing, not fighting. His gaze flickering back to the knife- almost as if he can already feel the weight of it in his hands. All he needs is a clean shot in-between those two doe eyes of yours...
"I made it stop."
Your stomach twists.
"…As long as she's dead." He finishes.
He doesn’t flinch when you do.
"...Yeah." He drawls, more to himself, watching your face. His own is still bloodied, the red having dried into his skin, hair, and mouth. He smiles.
It's silent for a moment, and he continues to grin bitterly at your tense expression.
"...Nothing ever dies." You whisper. It's clearly not the response he was expecting, throwing him off kilter. "Not really."
The absence of the bullet wound suddenly feels a lot more prominent in the thin, dry air.
The more he studies your face, he leans in closer, tension leaving his tight wrists struggling against the make-shift ropes. A brief flicker of recognition, perhaps, passes in his gaze. Like he's seen you somewhere before.
"Are you-"
His slow, increasingly bewildered voice is cut off by the sound of your phone ringing. You whip your head around at the noise. Bucky. Shit. Should've known he wouldn't just let you hang up without a word.
This man, Benjamin Poindexter, as you've come to understood, lets out another dry scoff. He finally sits back into the bed, opting to rest with his features pulled into a taunt.
"Should probably get that." He notes, dryly. You momentarily curse yourself that he's right, lest Bucky decides to take matters into his own hands and show up right in the middle of this fuckfest Matt Murdock has thrown into your hands.
Another ring.
You step back, finally breaking whatever strange, suffocating line had formed between the two of you. Your fingers brush your nightstand, grabbing the phone a little harder than necessary.
"Don’t-" you start, not even sure what you’re telling him not to do.
He doesn’t move, and you thank every god you can possibly list.
"Relax," he says, almost bored now, leaning back into your pillows like he belongs there. Like he hasn’t been tied to your bed for the past eight hours. “Not going anywhere. Clearly."
Sassy.
You answer the call anyway, turning just slightly away.
"What?" you snap, quieter than usual.
"You hung up on me," Bucky’s voice cuts through immediately, sharp with irritation- and something underneath it. Concern. "Someone was there- what's going on?"
Your eyes drift back to Poindexter without meaning to.
He’s watching you. Not casually. Not impatiently. Watching. Smiling sharply, mockingly.
"Nothing," you say, too quickly. "False alarm."
"Hey, let me talk to her-" Another voice sounds on Bucky's end, cutting through. Butting in. A woman with a Russian accent that briefly reminds you of Natasha- if not more petulant and childish. Your fingers twitch nervously.
"…That doesn’t sound like nothing." Bucky ignores her.
"It’s handled."
Another pause. Longer this time.
"I said let me talk to her-" The woman's voice prods again, before continuing too casually. The phone is easily swiped from Bucky, who you can hear huff.
Behind you, there’s a subtle shift of fabric- Poindexter adjusting, slow and deliberate. You don’t turn, but you feel it anyway. Like the room itself has tilted toward him.
“Hi.”
The woman's voice is bright. Too bright.
"…Hi?" You answer cautiously. Still focused more on the man tied up to your bed.
"Okay, haha, good, you are real person," she says quickly, words clipped like she’s checking something off a list. "Bucky is terrible at explaining things. I thought maybe he made you up."
"Yelena-" Bucky cuts in somewhere behind her.
"No, no, he is done talking," she dismisses, and you can practically hear her wave him off. "He has been trying to recruit you for-what-weeks? Months? It is very embarrassing."
You swallow at the god awful timing of this call. You run a hand over your face.
Behind you, Poindexter lets out a quiet exhale. Not a laugh. Colder. Amused. As if he can't believe the situation he's winded up in himself. Of course.
This woman...Yelena, keeps talking. You tune her out when you meet Poindexter's eyes, which are still studying your face.
"...For team," she says, like it’s obvious. "New team. Not Avengers Avengers...."
Yelena continues. You find yourself unable to listen to the same speech Bucky's given you a hundred times before. You and Poindexter continue to stare into each others eyes, trying to figure out the other. The woman's voice sounds more like a distant dream, building white noise. The two of you don't seem to pay one ounce of attention to her on the other end of the line.
"...Hello? Hi? Yoo-hoo?" The woman snaps her fingers. You don't listen.
The mattress creaks underneath Poindexter as he leans in closer, still trying to remember where he's seen your face. Your power. What you could have possibly done to completely erase a .380 ACP entry wound.
"Can she hear me? You are Angel, yes?" Yelena's voice asks, suddenly sharper. More precise.
Your stomach dips. Heard that one. You don’t answer. You can't.
"That is you," she continues anyway. "Former Avenger. Disappeared. Big reputation. Lots of rumors." A pause. Then, more casually- "Most of them are insane..."
Poindexter’s breathing shifts. You hang up the phone without a word, throwing it across the room like it's burned your hands. It hits the wall with a sharp crack, clattering to the floor.
The silence is thick. His eyes narrow onto you, split lips parting as his breath quickens.
"…Angel," he repeats.
Your name doesn’t sound like a name in his mouth. It sounds like he’s testing the weight of it. Turning it over. Matching it to something...an image already sitting in his head.
You don’t turn around.
You don’t want to see his face. But you can feel it anyway, the shift in the room is palpable.
"Oh," he says, softer now.
A beat.
"...That's how."
Your jaw tightens. "Don’t." You tell him for the second time today, suddenly praying for Matt Murdock to finish up as quickly as possible to come collect his pet.
He's watching you like something has slotted into place. A pause. His breathing is even now, controlled in a way it wasn’t when he woke up. That’s worse. That means the panic is gone. The noise is gone- every muscle in his body suddenly focused on you with an accuracy and curiosity that borders on frightening.
"What are you doing...here?" he asks. His voice is still taunting, though it's been mostly displaced by a genuine confusion. You helped save the world. And now he's gesturing around your small, messy, bloody apartment.
It's not accusatory. Not even demanding. Just…trying to place you in the system he understands. Where you suddenly fit into the scheme of New York, of Matt Murdock's life. His hands flex with minimal movement, testing limits, finally not attempting to break them. Learning the room instead of fighting it now. Shit.
"I don’t get it," he says finally, quieter. Noting. There’s no frustration in it. Just fact.
How does someone like you wind up in a place like this? He doesn't say it, but it's clear. Almost belittling.
It doesn't make sense. There's no order to it. That clawing feeling of emptiness bubbles up inside him again that he can't quite place. Another imbalance. You are an imbalance.
"Yeah. Me neither." You decide on, tired of this conversation.
Neither of you moves after that- just the low sound of his breathing, and the restraints finally resting as the silence settles in again.
"...Are you hungry?" You ask him, awkwardly, anything to tear his piercing and questioning gaze away from you. You note how much quieter he's suddenly gotten at the confirmation of your identity. It's unnerving.
He stares at you for a few more moments. Then something halfway between confusion and something...tense and awkwardly friendly. He's trying too hard for a man who was ready to kill you minutes ago. Like a brightly colored, poisonous frog. The way his features suddenly melt into a righteous, smarmy, welcoming smile.
⋆ 𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒 ; 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.
⋆ 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!
⋆ tag list tba (let me know if you'd like to be added 💙)
♫ “We set fire to these skies for our love and I'd do it all again / 'Cause I'm damned to loving you.” 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.
“Look,” he starts again, quieter now. “I’m...not calling to check in. Not this time.”
The dry laugh you've been holding in finally decides to escape out of you. "Could’ve fooled me."
You’ve 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?"
There’s a faint exhale on the other end, like he’s already tired of the answer.
You snort softly, eyes still on the flickering TV. "Yeah? Retirement not treating you well, Barnes?"
"Don’t start," he mutters, but there’s no bite to it. Just habit. "I’m serious. I’m just… there," he says. “Keeping an eye on things.”
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 don’t 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.
“...Is...is someone there with you?” Bucky asks immediately, voice tightening- the rapid fire knocks sounding more like muffled scuffling on his end.
“No,” you say, already standing. “No, I-”
BANG.
“Hey!” you snap, moving toward it. "Door’s still attached, you know-”
“Open it. Now. Please.”
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 that’s 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 didn’t have to," Matt shoots back, already straining. "He needs help."
"And you thought of me," you say, eyebrows pulled together. "Gee, thanks."
"He’s dying."
“Yeah, I can see that...Matty, you've got to take him to a hospital-”
"No time."
"There’s always time for a hospital-"
“Not for him.”
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 man’s chest.
One breath.
Another.
Barely.
"…You’re tracking blood through my apartment," you mutter. The man is thrown in a similar fashion you threw that damn book onto your bedspread.
"I’ll clean it."
"You won’t."
"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.
"…I’ll tell you later," he says.
You stare at him for a second.
"…That bad?"
He doesn’t answer.
Yeah.
That’s 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 ‘highly 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.
He drags slow circles over your back with his big hand under your shirt while you sleep. You fall asleep to it almost every night, skilled and calloused digits drawing shapes and figures over flesh.
Sometimes, you think he’s mapping you or writing you secrets he’d never even tell to the dark.
Being in bed with you helps, but unfortunately sleep is not something he gets very often. Most insomniacs despise lying next to someone who’s softly snoring, barely shifting because the tiredness of the day has taken them into its weary and drowsy arms.
Dex loves it. It’s quiet, nothing but moonlight and street lamps casting bleary light into your dark room.
He gets to watch you.
It doesn’t bother you. As soon as your head hits the pillow and your nighttime debrief and chatting starts to fade and your eyes start to look like they can’t keep themselves shut - he just pats your head, strokes your cheek, kisses your shoulder. Watches while you fall and fall and fall.
It’s incredibly peaceful for him.
So he relishes in moments like this. Your skin is so hot from sleep, soft and plush and he wonders how someone can be so desirable while doing nothing. How someone who’s not even currently conscious could have so much power over him.
You shuffle, and he stills for a moment - worried he’s roused you. But then you make this heart achingly soft sound, settling against his touch like even when you’re not awake your body is so aware of him.
“Sometimes I wish you knew how much I love you,”
He does this sometimes too. Well, a lot. Talks to you while you’re asleep, says things he’s scared to say out loud.
“It hurts. That’s how much I love you, and I can’t even put it into words sometimes.”
He keeps his voice as low and gentle as his fingertips against your lower back. He swallows hard, and if you could see his face you’d probably be startled by his expression - the watery eyes, the tense clench in his jaw, the furrow of his eyebrows like he’s trying to hold something back but now it’s all coming out before he can stop it.
“There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you, nothing. And when you cry - I actually can’t even think about it. It makes me want to burn the world down for you.”
Your skin starts prickling with goosebumps, texturing the softness and adding a pleasant sensation to the tips of his fingers. He likes it, makes him want to touch you more but he can exhibit more self control than that.
“I’ve killed for you, you know? I know you’d probably hate me for it. I know I’m sick, and you take such good care of me. I’ve never had that, y’know? And i-it makes me think I’m on the right path maybe, I’m doing good now. Because of you.”
He turns on his side, places his free hand underneath his cheek. You’d like the way his tank top has risen up over the bottom of his stomach, exposing the taut flesh.
He just stares at your face, memorizes the lines like this every single night because deep down, he’s afraid he’s gonna come home one day and you won’t be there.
That you were just a beautiful, perfect, cynical mirage. And that he really is irredeemable, and you were never real.
“I can’t live without you. I can’t and I won’t, ever. I’ll keep you safe forever. Just me and you baby, just me and you.”
So when I am stressed ab something, or having a depressive episode, I go through periods where I wake up super early in the morning and can't fall back asleep for a couple hours. Like I am just tossing and turning for hours and sometimes the only thing that helps is playing rain sounds on my phone.
SO i am thinking ab dating dennis and being up w him while he gets ready for work and he always tells you to go back to sleep but ur like babe I literally will not sleep. so u just sit on the edge of the bed or on the toilet seat while he gets ready just watching him and occassionally talking. he would never tell you this bc he doesn't want to encourage bad sleeping habits but mornings like that are secretly his fav bc u always look so cute w absolutely cazy bed head and a puffy face from sleep. he's constantly kissing ur forehead while getting ready.
or like when he wakes up when you're awake and can't go back to sleep, and he feels so bad bc he knows ur tired and just want to sleep. he'll tell you to put your rain sounds on and pull you on top of him so you're laying on his chest. he's switches between running his fingers through your hair and rubbing your back. you're back to sleep in no time basically, being surrounded by his scent of laundry detergent and his body wash and the consistent beat of his heart immediately relaxing you. Once you're back to sleep, he relaxes his arm around you and also goes back to sleep, content that you're are once again sleeping.
summary: you get a concussion while at work, courtesy of a med student panicking over a bit of blood.
pairings: dennis whitaker x RT!reader (respiratory therapist)
cw/tags: head injuries (obviously) including a concussion and a scalp laceration. established relationship, no use of y/n. emetophobes BEWARE! includes nausea and vomiting (twice), dizziness, headaches, etc etc. ct scans, staples, medications (zofran, compazine, lorazepam aka ativan), ivs/needles. typical pitt warnings (blood and medical procedures). fluff, hurt/comfort, swearing, yes evil whitaker is responsible for your injury but it's accidental okay! everyone being extremely worried about you including dennis obviously. garcia calls you 'hot shot' like once i think! one tiny mention that you and dennis have a cat but can be ignored if you...don't want that lol
word count: 4.7k
dennis x RT!reader masterlist
general masterlist
taglist
sort of requested here (I did not write exactly that sorry!) and there's a lot of messages in my inbox regarding hot shot and dennis angst so shout out to all of u as well!!
“Hey, can you get a VBG for fifteen?” Samira asks. “I wanna’ see if it’s come up since he’s been intubated.”
“Definitely,” You say, already pulling up the chart on your tablet, nodding. “I’ll go right now.”
“Could I observe?” Ogilvie questions, perking up from where he’s standing, having heard the brief exchange.
You look at Samira, who shrugs. “Your call.”
“Sure, come on,” You say, already walking towards the patient’s room. “You ever done one?”
“A VBG?” He clarifies. “A couple.”
“Great, you can get more practice,” You say, pushing the door open.
He smiles. “Seriously?”
“Yep,” You confirm, already grabbing the syringe he needs from one of the drawers, setting up a tray. “The less work for me the better.”
You ask him a few questions as he sets himself up, leaning over his shoulder to watch what he’s doing—how deep he needs to go, what angle, which vein. He answers without hesitation, unsurprisingly, and you nod for him to go ahead. The blood fills quickly, and he pulls the needle out once he’s done, capping it and setting it on the tray beside him.
His eyes widen when he turns back to the patient, seeing blood dripping off his arm and onto the floor.
“Oh, shit,” He says, not realizing that you’re right behind him, already holding a wad of gauze. He pushes back on the stool, reaching for the drawers, knocking you off balance when it collides with your knee.
You step back to try and catch yourself, not realizing that the suction canister is sitting farther from the bed than usual, making you fully trip. You try to grab something, but it’s futile, and you feel something sharp thack against the back of your head before you’re on the ground. White spots flash across your vision.
“Oh my god, are you okay?” Ogilvie asks, eyes leaving the patient, who’s still bleeding.
You blink, embarrassment washing over you. “Yeah, I’m good—hold pressure.”
“Right, right,” He says, finally grabbing gauze and pressing it to the wound. “Did you hit your head on the monitor?”
Ah. That’s what it was.
“Possibly,” You say, carefully pushing yourself to your feet and setting a hand against the back of your head. It’s warm, and you already know that there’s going to be blood on your fingers when you pull away. You grab more gauze for yourself, moving your hair out of the way to get it as close to your scalp as possible.
“Are you bleeding?” Ogilvie asks, a small amount of horror in his voice.
“I’m fine, you know scalp lacs bleed like crazy,” You insist. “Keep holding pressure, it’s just because he’s on anti-coags.”
You continue to watch him for a few minutes, until the bleeding slows enough to put a dressing over the wound, all while trying to keep your own under control. By the time Ogilvie’s finished you’re starting to feel a bit nauseous, dizzy, and your head throbs with your movements.
“You need a CT,” Ogilvie says, holding the door open for you. “Again, I am so sorry-”
“Hey, it was an accident, you’re alright,” You promise. “You can make it up to me by finding some dermabond.”
“What happened to you?” Dana calls, speedwalking towards you, setting a hand on your shoulder as she looks you over.
“I tripped on the suction canister,” You explain. “I’m okay, seriously, Ogilvie’s already grabbing dermabond.”
Dana ignores you, spinning you around to look at the injury. She pulls the gauze away, despite your protests, shaking her head.
“This is not a dermabond situation, sweetheart,” She says. “Let me see what’s open.”
“There’s no need for that,” You counter, but it’s no use, because she’s already looking up at the board.
She steers you towards an open room, holding the door for you, keeping her hand up to guide you inside. You sigh, stepping in, sitting on the bed when she gestures for you to. She lifts the head up so you can stay upright, then passes you a new piece of gauze, throwing the old one in the biohazard bin.
“I’ll be right back,” She says. “Don’t go anywhere.”
Frank opens the door thirty seconds later, Dana hot on his heels. He smiles a bit, raising his eyebrows.
“You better not be out for the day,” He jokes. “I don’t want to spend the rest of my shift without an RT.”
You roll your eyes, the action sending a shot of pain through your head. “Just put some staples back there, or whatever, then I’ll be fine.”
He leans over, already pulling his penlight out. “Can you tell me your name and where you are?”
“Seriously?” You ask, but he doesn’t let up. You say your name, first and last. “I’m at PTMC.”
“Great,” He says, flicking the light away and taking your hands in his. “Squeeze my fingers.”
You do, satisfactorily. Frank steps back as the door opens again, revealing Robby.
“What happened here?” He asks.
“She fell and hit her head on a monitor,” Dana explains, clearly having gotten the full story from Ogilvie while she was gone. “Occipital laceration, bleeding pretty badly, about three centimetres long.”
“Neuro exam okay,” Frank adds. “Do you have any pain, nausea, or dizziness?”
“My head hurts a little,” You admit. “But other than that it’s fine.”
Robby watches as Frank leans you forward, examining the cut himself. You stop yourself from grimacing when he palpates the surrounding area.
“Yeah, sorry, that’s gonna’ need a couple staples,” He decides, letting you sit back again as he stands up. “You want a CT to be safe?”
Robby thinks for a second. “Let’s hold off for now, but you’re staying down here for the time being.”
“As long as I don’t have to be the one to break that news,” You say. Everyone chuckles, and Dana volunteers to let the ICU know what’s going on. Robby steps closer, arms over his chest, face comforting.
“You want me to give Whitaker a call?” He asks. You shake your head, immediately regretting the action.
“He’s probably still sleeping,” You say, seeing that it’s only nine on the clock hanging on the wall. “I’ll talk to him later.”
He nods. “Okay, come find me if anything changes.”
“Will do,” Frank says, already logging on to the computer, making a chart for you and filling it in. He asks you about allergies, prior injuries, and a handful of other things before Dana comes back. She sets up a tray for the staples, then draws up lidocaine. Frank puts on a new pair of gloves, taking his place beside you.
“Lean forward, hon,” Dana says, and you listen, giving them access to the wound. Frank picks up the syringe, adjusting his grip on it and placing the other hand on the back of your head.
“Small pinch,” He says, inserting it. You clench your teeth for a second, but then the worst of it is over. He pulls back, passing the empty syringe to Dana, who disposes of it. “Some pressure as the staples go in, doing okay?”
“Yep, all good,” You say, feeling the tool press against your head. A resounding ‘snap’ echoes in the room when he puts the first one in, making you flinch.
“Still okay?” He asks, moving higher up the laceration.
“Mhm,” You hum. The next few are easier, and he’s finished in a few minutes. Dana disinfects the area as he updates your chart.
“Alright, just hangout for a bit, yeah?” He says. “Let us know if anything changes.”
“Okay, I will,” You say. “Thank you.”
You’re only alone for about twenty minutes before Dana comes back.
“How’s it going?” She asks, and you give her a smile.
“Good, no changes,” You say. “My head still hurts, but nothing crazy.”
She does another neuro check, making sure everything’s functioning the way it should be. Your vision starts to swim a little as she’s finishing up, making you blink a few times, trying to clear it. She frowns at the action, ducking so she’s in your line of sight.
“You alright?”
You swallow, still blinking, trying to quell the nausea that’s building in your chest.
“Uh, I’m a little nauseous,” You admit. “Dizzy, too.”
“Okay, that’s alright,” She promises, setting a hand on your knee, squeezing it. “Lean back, close your eyes if you need to.”
You listen, screwing them shut, taking a few deep breaths.
“I’m gonna’ go grab Langdon,” She says.
You start to get anxious when the feelings don’t subside after a couple minutes. Your head is still throbbing, you feel like the room is spinning, and the nausea is unlike any you’ve experienced before.
“Litre of LR, four of zofran?” Frank suggests, and Robby nods. Princess has taken Dana’s spot, setting up your IV. Robby watches as your heart and respiratory rate tick upwards on the monitor, and he can see the nerves creeping in on your face. He sits beside your bed, wheeling the stool close, resting his arms on the guardrail.
You don’t look at him. You’re avoiding moving your head as much as possible, and you don’t think you can take his casually disapproving gaze right now.
“We’ve got you,” He promises.
“I know,” You insist, trying to keep your breathing even. Princess hangs the requested fluids and medication on the IV pole, adjusting the pump settings.
“I think we should get a CT,” Frank says.
“Agreed,” Robby confirms, and your heart rate jumps as you close your eyes again. The three of them exchange a look, but no one gets the chance to say anything before you speak.
“Can you call Dennis, please?”
“Absolutely,” Robby says. “I’ll do it right now.”
“You might have to call twice to get it to go through,” You say, eyes still closed.
“Okay,” Robby says. “I’ll get a hold of him, don’t worry.”
He steps out, already unlocking his phone and clicking on Dennis’ contact. He heads towards the central hub as the line rings, leaning against the desk.
“Calling Whitaker?” Dana asks. Robby nods, hearing the intern’s voicemail. He calls again, just like you said he might have to, putting the phone to his ear.
“Hello?” Dennis’ voice comes through, slower than usual, a byproduct of the phonecall pulling him out of a deep sleep.
“Hey, it’s Robby,” He says. “Sorry to wake you.”
“All good,” Dennis says. “You need some extra hands?”
“Actually, no,” Robby clarifies, then he says your name. “She hit her head earlier, gave herself a pretty decent head lac. She’s probably got a concussion, and we’re sending her to CT to be safe.”
There’s rustling on the other end.
“What’s going on?” He asks, the phone clearly now on speaker as he gets himself together.
“Neuro exam is normal, but she’s not feeling great,” Robby explains. “Dizziness, nausea, headache. She’s getting some fluids and Zofran right now.”
“Okay, uh, I’ll be right there,” He says. “Thanks for calling, Robby.”
“Yep, ‘course,” Robby says. “See you soon.”
Frank watches as Princess takes your hand in her’s, patting it a few times, trying to reassure you. You haven’t opened your eyes since Robby left, and you keep shifting as your anxiety continues to rise. You feel as though you're on a boat, even with your eyes closed, and the Zofran has barely touched the nausea.
Robby comes back in.
“You talked to him?” You ask.
“He’s on his way,” He says, looking at your monitor. “Do you want some lorazepam?”
You think for a moment, wondering if you can make it until Dennis gets here, but the tachycardia is starting to get uncomfortable.
“Yeah, please,” You say.
“Dr. Langdon?”
“One milligram,” Frank says, and Princess goes to grab the medication. “Any estimate on when CT will be ready?”
“Hopefully soon,” Robby says.
Keeping your eyes closed is starting to not be enough to keep the nausea manageable, but you do not want to throw up right now. You focus on your breathing, fingers curling into the sheets.
“How’s the Zofran feel?” Frank asks. You don’t dare open your mouth, simply giving him a thumbs down in response. “Alright, you think you could swallow a pill?”
You shake your head.
“Okay, we’ll get you some more through your IV,” He says, trying to reassure you as best he can. “I’ll go find Princess.”
Robby silently grabs a bin, placing it beside you on the bed before reaching over and dimming the lights. You place the bin on your lap, relishing in the sensation of the cold metal against your fingertips.
“You’re doing great,” He says.
Princess and Frank come back a few minutes later, and she administers the medications. He does a repeat neuro check, which makes you feel even worse, but at least there’s still nothing suggesting it’s anything more than a concussion.
Trinity sees Dennis first, making her brows furrow. He’s wearing jeans and a sweater, his curls more chaotic than usual as he walks through the doors, looking around as though he’s trying to find something.
“Hey, what are you doing here?” She asks, stepping away from the trauma room that she just finished up in. “Missed me too much?”
He barely reacts, he just says your name. “She hit her head earlier, Robby called me.”
“Oh, shit,” Trinity says. “She okay?”
“Sounds like she’s got a concussion,” He says, walking further into the department, Trinity beside him. Dana sees him coming closer, and she calls his name.
“She’s in fifteen,” She says. He nods, pivoting towards the room. Trinity follows, at least wanting to lay eyes on you before she gets back to work. Dennis pushes the door open, slowly, seeing that the lights are dimmed. Trinity steps in after him, closing it behind her to keep as much noise out as possible.
Robby’s been pulled away, but Frank’s still in there with you, his hands on the railing as he watches your vitals. You’re clammy and visibly shaking now that the adrenaline has fully worn off, leaving you with nothing to work with. Your hands are clutching the emesis bin like your life depends on it, breathing slow and uneven as you try to keep it together. You don’t open your eyes when he walks in, assuming that it’s Princess or Robby coming back to check on you.
“Hey, he’s here,” Frank says, softly, and you squint. Relief crashes over you at the sight of your boyfriend, and tears start to pool along your lower lash line. He’s by your side in a second, setting a comforting hand on your thigh, squeezing it softly.
“Hey, sweet girl,” He says, keeping his voice down, not wanting to make your headache worse. “How’s-”
You lean forward, throwing up, cutting him off. He jumps into action, steadying the bin with one hand and putting the other on your upper back, rubbing softly.
“Okay, it’s okay, I’ve got you,” Dennis murmurs, taking the tissues that Trinity’s holding out once you’re seemingly finished. Frank takes the bin wordlessly, passing you a bag instead. Dennis keeps his hand on you, but he looks towards your monitor, then to Frank.
“First episode,” He says. Dennis nods, helping you lean back, letting you take the tissues from him and wipe your mouth.
You slump against the bed, curling into yourself slightly, tears starting to drip down your cheeks.
“Den,” You whisper, reaching for his hand. He takes it, coming closer, kissing your hairline before taking a seat on the stool.
“I’m here,” He says. “Do you feel any better?”
“No,” You say, voice trembling. Your heart rate has come down with the lorazepam on board, and the nausea has eased a touch, but your head hurts worse now. “Not really.”
“I’m gonna’ call CT, see how much longer,” Frank says, leaving the room. Trinity leaves too, not wanting to hover.
He doesn’t talk for a minute, instead lifting his hand, pushing some hair off your forehead. He rubs his thumb over your cheek a few times, closely listening to your shaky inhales, making sure you’re okay.
“What’s the prognosis?” You mumble, leaning into him. He smiles.
“Probably a concussion,” He says. “You’re alert and oriented, tracking well—some vomiting’s expected.”
You nod, fingers curling into the sleeve of his sweater, moving to play with the ring that he wears whenever he isn’t at work, spinning it. He flattens his hand out, letting you focus on the movement, not saying anything.
“Knock knock,” Princess says. “Antoine’s gonna’ get you up to CT.”
Antoine waves as he steps into your room. “How’s it going, kid?”
“Okay,” You say, begrudgingly letting go of Dennis’ ring, letting him put his hand in his lap. Antoine makes sure your bed is ready to move, then he sets his hands on the guardrail as Princess takes the other side.
“I’ll be here when you get back,” Dennis says. “You’re gonna’ be fine, promise.”
You nod, keeping your eyes on him for as long as you can, then shutting them the second the bright overhead lights hit. You cover your face with your arm, making Dennis frown as he steps out behind you, trailing off once you’re past the nurses station. He can’t go with you, despite how badly he wants to. Robby comes out of a room as you’re wheeled by.
“CT?” He asks. Princess nods, pushing you towards the elevators.
Frank catches Robby before he can make it to Dennis, gesturing in your direction. “She had a single episode of vomiting, but seemed a bit better after that.”
Robby nods, humming. “Probably had more to do with him showing up than anything else.”
Dana smiles when she overhears that, glancing over at Dennis, who has both hands in his pockets as he watches you go.
“How you doing, Whitaker?” She asks, coming over to him, setting her tablet down on the counter.
“Oh, yeah, I’m fine,” He insists, then pauses, hesitating. “She looked…worse than I expected, I guess.”
Dana hums. “The nausea came on pretty fast, before that she was insisting that she just needed a little dermabond.”
He laughs a little, shifting his weight between his feet. “Sounds about right.”
“She stubborn?” Dana asks, smiling.
“No, well, a little,” He admits. “Doesn’t really like to be ‘babied.’”
The quotes around the last word make Dana chuckle.
“She must’ve been feeling pretty crappy then, hey?” She says, and Dennis nods.
“Yeah,” He says, frowning.
Dana rests her hand on his arm for a second. “Why don’t we go get you some water?”
He watches the clock tick while he waits, allowing himself to feel anxious when it hits thirty minutes since you left. It should’ve only taken ten to get the image, maybe twenty total. Everyone else in the vicinity keeps glancing over too, awaiting your return. Frank’s moments away from calling to figure out where you are when the elevator dings, and Princess and Antoine wheel your bed back into the department.
Dennis stands, wiping his hands on his jeans. You look worse, somehow, and Princess taps Frank on the shoulder as she walks by. She leans in, saying something to him before pushing you back into your room. Dennis waits for a second, letting them get you back in place.
Frank slips past Antoine as he’s leaving, standing beside your bed. “Status?”
“Neuro’s still good,” Princess says. “Another vomiting episode before we got upstairs, but the nausea’s better now, right?”
“Yeah, mostly,” You say, already closing your eyes, fatigue starting to take over.
“How’s the pain?” He asks.
“Not…great.”
“Yeah, I bet,” He says. “As soon as your CT comes back we’ll talk about pain meds, okay?”
“Okay,” You say. “Where’s Den?”
“Right here,” Dennis says, stepping fully into the room, letting the door close behind him. “How you doing?”
You smile when he sits on the stool, putting his hand back where it was, letting you fiddle with his ring again. “A bit better.”
“Good,” He breathes.
“Let’s do two more of Zofran,” Frank says, quietly, and Princess nods. “I’ll be back once we get results.”
You’re falling asleep when you’re left alone again, Dennis watching your chest rise and fall, holding your hand. You grimace when the dizziness returning with a vengeance. He notices immediately.
“What’s going on?” He asks, shifting closer.
“Dizzy,” You answer.
“Okay, just keep your eyes closed,” He says, checking your vitals quickly. “I’ve got you, angel.”
He lowers the guardrail, his knees touching the edge of the mattress, letting you hold both his hands tightly until it passes. Your grip relaxes, and you slowly open your eyes, exhaling with relief when you confirm that it’s over.
“Better?” He asks, and you nod.
He eventually puts his arms on your bed, resting his head on them, keeping his eyes on you while you sleep.
Robby knocks half an hour later, and Dennis stands up, moving quietly. He blinks, trying to adjust to the chaos of the rest of the department once he’s out of your room.
“How’s she doing?” Robby asks, and he nods.
“Okay, yeah,” He says. “CT back yet?”
Robby hands him the tablet, showing your scan. He lets go of a breath when he realizes that it looks completely normal, scrolling to read the radiologist’s comments, which confirm exactly that.
“All clear,” Robby says. “We’ll monitor her for a few hours, make sure she can keep things down, then you can take her home.”
Dennis passes the tablet back. “Thanks, Robby.”
“Of course,” He says. “Get back in there.”
He doesn’t need to be told twice.
A few people come and go over the next few hours, but they mostly leave the two of you alone, trusting Dennis to come find someone if anything changes while you rest. Dana brings another blanket by at one point, draping it over his shoulders without a word. One of the ICU nurses comes down with your belongings, quickly asking him how you’re doing before leaving too. He notices the way people keep poking their heads over the frosted glass, which makes his chest warm with how much everyone cares about you.
You wake up around one, eyes fluttering open, and Dennis immediately lifts his head up.
“Hi,” He says.
“Hi,” You repeat, quiet, squinting a little despite the lights being off. “My CT come back?”
“Yeah, yeah,” He says. “Everything looks great, but you’ve got a pretty bad concussion.”
You nod. “Could be worse, I guess.”
“Definitely,” He agrees, moving closer, picking your hand up and intertwining your fingers. “I’m really glad you’re okay.”
“I’m sorry if I scared you, Denny,” You whisper. “I didn’t think it was that bad.”
“You don’t have anything to apologize for,” He insists. “But you did scare me a little.”
The door opens slowly, making both of you look over. Frank steps inside, smiling when he sees that you’re up.
“You’re awake,” He says. “How’s it going?”
You shrug. “Bad. But better.”
“I’ll take it,” He says. “How’s the pain?”
“Not the worst,” You answer.
“Nausea? Dizziness?”
“Yes and yes,” You say. “Not as bad as before, though.”
“Okay, I'll get you some Compazine, and then maybe you can try to eat something?” He suggests. “If that helps then I’ll send you home. Usually, I’d keep you overnight, but I think Whitaker’s got you covered.”
You laugh a little. “Sounds good, Langdon, thank you.”
He gives the okay for you to go home a few hours later, once you’ve perked up a bit and your headache and nausea is under control. Dennis helps you off the bed, holding your discharge papers, letting you lean against him once you’re on your feet. He takes your hand in his own, holding the door open.
“Hey, heading home?” Robby asks, stopping in front of the two of you.
“Yeah, good to go,” Dennis says, holding the discharge papers up.
“Good, I’m glad you’re okay,” He says, looking at you, giving you a soft smile and setting his hand on your shoulder for a second. “Would hate to lose my favourite respiratory therapist.”
You smile. “You couldn’t get rid of me if you tried, Robby.”
He points at Dennis. “I better not see you in this hospital for at least a week.”
“Yes sir,” Dennis says, definitely not wanting to argue that. He’d stay home with you for months if he had to to make sure you were okay. “See you next week, boss.”
Other people tell you to feel better as you go, letting you know that they’re happy it wasn’t anything serious, then you finally make it through the front doors. The bright, summer sun beams down on you, making your head spin. Your grip on Dennis’ hand tightens, and he stops, turning to look at you.
“What’s wrong?” He asks.
You exhale. “Dizzy. Again. One second.”
He adjusts his grip, holding your lower back, keeping you upright. You try to breathe through it, but that doesn’t work—the dizziness just gets worse.
“Let’s sit down for a minute,” He says, guiding you over to a bench. “Deep breaths.”
He positions himself so the sun isn’t hitting your face, keeping a hand on your shoulder until you open your eyes again.
“I’m gonna’ go grab the car,” He says. “I’ll be right back.”
You’ve never been happier to be home in your entire life.
Dennis sets you up on the couch, propping your head up with a few pillows and tucking a blanket around you once you’ve changed out of your scrubs. You sit in silence as he moves, closing blinds and turning on a few lamps that won’t be too hard on your eyes.
“What am I supposed to do?” You ask, dramatically. “I can’t read, I can’t go on my phone, I can’t watch TV.”
He laughs a little, poking his head over the back of the couch. “I’ll keep you entertained.”
“Really?” You ask, grinning.
“Absolutely,” He says, going over to the bookshelf, scanning the several options that you’ve collected over the years. He pulls your favourite off, then sits in one of the chairs. You whine, extending your hands towards him, making him smile.
You lift your head up, pushing the pillows onto the ground and letting him take their place. He smoothes your hair back once your head is on his lap, before opening the book and reading aloud. You fall asleep within minutes, and he just watches, scratching your scalp gently, making sure to avoid your staples.
He moves you into the bedroom at one point, putting your cat in there with you, smiling when he curls up on the bed beside you. He opens the fridge just after six, frowning at the lack of food, already thinking about what he could order you for dinner. Then, there’s a knock on the door, making him raise an eyebrow.
Garcia’s standing on the other side, holding a bag of takeout, along with a few plastic bags.
“Dr. Garcia,” Dennis says. “What’re you doing here?”
“Santos texted me, said Hot Shot lost a fight with a monitor today,” She says. “I brought dinner and some groceries for the next few days so you don’t have to leave the house.”
She thrusts them towards him, and he’s stuck for a moment, but then he takes them in his arms.
“Oh, uhm, thank you,” He says, setting everything on the bench by the door. “That’s…really nice.”
She nods, moving on from his gratitude quickly. “How’s she doing?”
“Her head hurts, and she’s still pretty nauseous,” He explains. “I can give her some more Zofran in a bit.”
“CT was fine?”
“Yeah, totally clean,” He says. “She should be back to normal in a couple weeks.”
Garcia exhales, and Dennis thinks it’s the most emotion he’s ever seen her show. “Good, I’m glad she’s alright.”
“Me too.”
“Take care of her,” She continues. “Let me know if you need anything else, okay? I can come babysit if you’ve got anywhere to be tomorrow, and people are already fighting over who gets to bring dinner for the next few days.”
“Okay, yeah, will do,” He says, slightly shocked by the amount of support. “Thanks again.”
“Have a good night, Huckleberry.”
A/N - love u currently working on a little part two to self explanatory and also poly!garsantos x reader 🤩🤩🤩
