❝ Psychoactive ❞
| Poindexter x vigilante!ftm!reader
DDBA season two spoilers / past Daredevil’s friend with benefits!reader / now friend with him / but can be seen as DexMatt x reader / mention of : crimes, murders, violence, psychic institutes, blood, corpses, religion criticisms / top operated!reader
summary : You knew Matthew for several years now, had helped him a few times during his past different duties. And there you were in this disused bar, helping Daredevil once again. Your mission: find and bring Bullseye back to DD’s HQ.
A/N : it all takes place after episode four of Born Again. I took FOREVER to finally manage to write it, you seriously don’t want to see the process lol. Anyway, I pretty much love the results, I think, can’t tell tbh.
wc: 6.8k
English isn’t my first language, sorry for the mistakes
Females DNI
A week had passed since the call, Matthew’s call. You had recognized him instantly—that hoarse voice, threaded with a rough undertone, couldn’t be mistaken. He had said something along the lines of: “Due to logistical issues, your package is currently stuck in our shipping enterprise, we apologize for the inconvenience.” You had cracked a knowing smile at this ingenious method to contact you. “A receipt will be delivered to your address this afternoon,” he had continued. “Our company apologizes for any potential damage caused. Thank you for your trust.” As expected, you found a piece of paper in your mailbox later that day, an address printed across it.
A little over three years ago, Matthew and you had worked together for two consecutive months. It was during that time that you grew closer—saving each other’s lives had oddly a way of forging solid bonds. The two of you had talked a lot during those long, solitary nights. He told you about his father; you told him about your childhood. Trust—that was what defined your relationship. Trust in each other’s abilities, words, demons, actions. When he needed you, you were there. And he was, in return.
You had immediately recognized something familiar in Matt’s glassy gaze. And your intuition had only been confirmed when you saw the rage driving every one of his blows once that devil’s mask was fixed to his face. There was something like déjà vu in the scars cutting across his torso—a recognition of the fragility of his morality. All vigilantes, no matter how different their original motivations are, shared one thing: rejection of injustices. You could always see a fragment of yourself in the broken gaze of a man in a suit bearing American colors, just as much as in the tortured eyes of a green looking woman.
But with Matt, it was different. You had never asked him for stability, because you had none to offer in return. He had never looked for love in your arms, because he wasn’t capable of it himself.
You had spent several nights together though, a way of letting out everything that couldn’t find its way into words. Those were the moments when you were most alike. In that intensity. That deliberate clumsiness. Violence was part of your lives. It had seeped into your DNA from the very first blow struck in a deserted alley. You couldn’t rid yourselves of it anymore. It clung too tightly to your veins—removing it would be like tearing your blood out with your bare hands, draining it from your body while it was still keeping you alive. Violence, hatred, brutality, all those pretty words were bleeding into every act you attempt to do, no matter how small. So when the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen and you spent a night tangled in the same sheets, it felt almost like a fight—liberating, intoxicating.
Consequently, when you found that address in your mailbox, when you heard the exhaustion in Matt’s voice, how could you have refused? He was your friend. One of the dearest.
You followed the numbers written in that faintly ink-scented style, ending up not far from the Red Hook docks. The sun was slowly sinking behind the buildings crowding New York, its light brushing against the calm waves below. And then, from behind an abandoned container, Matthew’s voice reached you.
“Right on time,” he greeted, a smile in his voice.
“Couldn’t miss the opportunity to see your little demon corns” you laughed, pulling him into an easy embrace.
You felt his hands gripping tight on your clothing, and you knew it meant something was wrong.
Matthew led you up to a rooftop, as he always did. From there, the view was even more striking, and more importantly, you both were safe. AVTF agents didn’t bother coming this far during their patrols. The sky had darkened quickly, making the city lights of New York all the more vivid. Matt explained the situation—Fisk’s grip on the city, the Task Force, the damage it had caused…
“I need your help,” he said, his tone serious. You could almost picture those puppy-like eyes behind the red-tinted protection of his mask. “We need help as much as possible”
You both sat at the edge of the rooftop, legs swinging loosely at different rhythms. You had always liked these moments, when Daredevil softened in the presence of someone he trusted.
“So you only call me when you need backup? Good thing I’m not easily offended,” you teased, earning an easy smile from him.
Being around Matt always gave you the strange feeling of being seen. Not emotionally, and even less physically. But you knew his senses caught everything. That his nose captured each of your scents, that every breath you took was like a wave to his ears. It was an unsettling feeling, hard to acknowledge. He could hear your heartbeat, the blink of your eyes, the slight parting of your lips. Sometimes it was too much, overwhelming, especially at the beginning of your friendship. But over time, you learned to ignore the subtle shifts in his posture when he picked up on a shallow breath or a sudden spike in your pulse.
“So what do you have for me?” you continued.
“There’s a man, dangerous one,” he explained, his throat tight. “I need him under control, to prevent his own excess or at least to contain it.” He sounded exhausted. “He’s unstable. He wants to kill the Fisks. And I— need constant eyes on him.”
You let out a faint laugh. “So you’re asking me to babysit?”
Matthew let you glimpse his face, painted with a falsely apologetic expression, like he was about to make it worse. “Actually… I’m asking you to find him. And bring him back to HQ.”
If he had been able to see you, he probably would have laughed at your expression—eyes slightly widened, lips parted. “Why don’t you ask Jessica? She’s a damn detective and for God’s sake—” You stopped yourself from telling Matt's name out loud. “She has powers. I don’t. Do I really need to remind you?”
And there it was, that unmistakable Matthew Murdock grin. Sharp with irony. He knew exactly what he was asking. “You’re smart and Bullseye requires more intelligence than strength,” his croaky voice said. “Most people underestimate him. I know you won’t. I know you.”
And that’s how you ended up joining what you liked to call “Daredevil’s rebellious squad”.
Thick dirt was filling the air, condensed with this nauseous smell of sweat and old blood. Josy’s place had lost its typical welcoming atmosphere. You were still remembering how this bar illuminated every customer. At this time, those horrible tasting alcohols were the source of delight, the toilets’ tagged-walls were often crushed by heated bodies. This place was alive, an appreciating freeze within brutal Time.
But now, as your boot hit another pile of broken bottles, you were struggling to bring back this vanished memory.
“Any questions?” Echoed Karen’s voice from afar.
You cleared a path through the debris that had piled up over the months spent in this place. Torn chairs and sofas had been set up on either side of the room—feigning a semblance of warmth—unfamiliar faces greeted you, a faint smell of cold coffee still lingering in the air. You instinctively searched for Karen among the tired silhouettes, your only other source of comfort in this small group. She stood a little further away, one hand resting lazily on her hip as usual while the other pointed at a corkboard pinned up in front of her. It was covered in newspaper clippings, tiny printed photographs, question marks scrawled in red marker. A neatly organized puzzle that concealed the horrors Wilson Fisk was spreading across the city.
Standing across from Karen was a man dressed in an AVTF uniform, stolen a few days ago by the blonde woman. From what you had gathered, he was going to try to obtain further information by infiltrating the Task Force. God be with him, you thought with a hint of irony.
But you weren’t here for him, you had come for Daredevil.
“Know where’s Red?” you asked the blonde woman who had turned toward you. She gave you a nod, pointing toward the stairwell with the tip of her chin. The warped wooden steps caught your attention for a brief second before you thanked Karen with a polite smile.
The first floor was better lit thanks to the long windows running along the main wall. The windows had been manually covered with paper—newspaper scraps and posters—to ensure discretion within this hideout that was supposed to be abandoned. Brown was a great color—underestimated shade. Easily faded into orange, yellow. The windows of the HQ were tinted brown, which mixed with sunlight created that particular yellow glow the room was bathed in. In this new light, you could now clearly make out the dust particles drifting in the air all around you.
You had been working on the “Bullseye” case for a week now, ever since Matt’s call. Collecting his psychiatric files hadn’t been easy, but it mattered to you. You had used the security pass of one of your contacts at the Riviera Institute, then made a digital copy of the heavy patient file labeled “B.L. Poindexter.” Matthew had offered to help, providing his own experience with the man as testimony. His behavior during fights especially—details so subtle only your blind friend could perceive. The count between each active breath that signaled a strike from one side or the other, for instance. Details so minute you struggled to grasp all their uses.
He had also given you a perfect description of the placement of every weapon Bullseye carried, tracing them in the air with his hands as he spoke. When he did that, you couldn’t help but saw an artist painting a canvas with colors visible only to him—it had always fascinated you. Sometimes you wondered whether what your seeing eyes perceived was far from what his imagined, and during these wonderings you liked to play with abstract numbers to calculate the distance between your visual reality and his.
During that week of research, the city, of course, hadn’t stopped living—and God knew how fast New York had been moving since Fisk took office. Daredevil had fought Bullseye twice in such a short time. Things had accelerated for you after that. Bullseye hadn’t just tried to kill Vanessa Fisk—he had also managed to get himself shot in the abdomen. Which meant you had to find him today.
Four hours had passed since the shot—time for Daredevil to try to track the wounded man, and for you to wake up in the middle of the night to the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen knocking against your kitchen window. “We have a problem,” he had said, out of breath with blood still faintly running along the edge of his jaw. From that moment, a countdown had started against your will.
This task required methodical precision—and at the same time, confusion. Benjamin Leonard Poindexter was outrageously tidy, but Bullseye—oh, Bullseye—was pure chaos. The combination of the two within a single body was terrifyingly dangerous. You understood now why Matt had called you and not Jessica. No superpowers—just a human, in all its beauty and its flaws. No alien traces in your family tree, nor super serum crawling under your skin. But you knew how to fight—more than enough to hold your own against the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen. Strategy was your strength—measured thoughts, a steady mind.
“How’s your back?”
“I can live with it,” Daredevil smiled, his silhouette emerging like charcoal from a shadowed corner of the room. His black suit, streaked with blood-red paint, fully came into view in the honeyed light of the floor. Out of habit, you studied the cracked textures of his “vigilante uniform”, the red carefully chosen by blind eyes that had been told what blood looked like. He pulled you into a familiar embrace, his rough gloves patting your back in a way that felt both grounding and reassuring. “What’s your plan?”
“Basically checking every shitty place around Fogwell’s,” you sighed, voice exhausted. “Pretty much all I can do with so little time.”
Matthew’s face shifted beneath his mask, apologetic. “Sorry about that,” he murmured sincerely. “I wasn’t expecting the situation to turn out chaotic, or at least not so quickly”
This room brought a small sense of comfort to your worn-out heart, its warmth lights probably helping. Of course, you believed Matt, how could he have predicted any of this mess? The fight at Fogwell’s, and now Bullseye’s attempt on Vanessa. New York was truly tipping into its worst impulses, gently pushed along by your dear mayor Wilson Fisk.
Now that Matthew had found Bullseye’s apartment, you were really struggling to pick up his trail again. He obviously hadn’t returned there—the place had been completely trashed by the AVTF anyway.
He was injured and wanted, which meant he would favor abandoned buildings over motels. Unfortunately, Hell’s Kitchen had no shortage of those. “He’ll need to heal his wound,” you had pointed out to Matt, to which he had replied, “The bullet was still inside.” Hospitals would have been the best option—if you ignored the fact that he was a vigilante. Or a criminal. Whatever label had been hung around his neck. From what you had read about him, Poindexter had never formed any real attachments, which suggested he had no contacts in the medical field who could help him.
Keen sense of smell would have helped a lot in your situation. You could have followed the cloying blood scent, or the alcohol from disinfectant. Instead, you used logic and patience.
At four in the morning, you stood in front of Fogwell’s gym shattered glass windows. Task Force agents hadn’t wasted any more time at the crime scene, quickly dispersing into the surrounding streets under Fisk’s orders. You really needed to find Bullseye before they did, otherwise you’d be bringing a corpse back to HQ—assuming they’d only shot him and not tortured him first. In that case, you might end up carrying something much lighter under your arm, like a head or some.
Searching for any trace of your target, you managed to locate the spot Matt had described to you a few minutes ago—where he’d heard the cartridge case hit the ground after the bullet lodged itself in Poindexter. Judging by the caliber, you could easily tell the man must be suffering. You slipped the evidence into one of your pockets; the AVTF didn’t need it anyway.
The place felt frozen in time, caught in some imaginary, icy beam. Overturned chairs and pools of blood were the only witnesses to the massacre that had taken place here five hours earlier. Your fingertips traced the outline of a mark left by one of Bullseye’s knives—he put so much force behind his throws that even a blade that thin had managed to carve into the concrete wall used as a rebound surface, before embedding itself into an eye or any other exposed part of an agent.
You were impressed. Honestly, you truly were impressed by his skill.
Chasing, hunting, was part of your job. The intensity, the thrill—the sharp rush of adrenaline when you finally locked your target. But this time, there was something else. Something you couldn’t quite shake, couldn’t quite put into words. Every mission was different, it could end in a quick fight or stretch into a hunt lasting months. Either way, you slipped into the other person’s mind. It was instinctive—a way to cover your back.
But Bullseye was different. You struggled to process the fact that he stirred a knot of excitement deep in your stomach. This hunt entertained you—more than you ever allowed others to. He was intelligent. Erratic. And there was something strangely human beneath the hysteria that defined him. Matt’s words had only confirmed what you’d already gathered from the psychiatric files. He was euphoric, psychoactive. Emotional in his own way. Matt lost control more easily around him, as if Bullseye released something into the air—something contagious, something that slipped into every organic cell already weakened by it.
He didn’t only act incoherently, he put logic into it. He genuinely believed he was helping Matt by killing the Fisks himself. So it wasn’t quite hard to picture the confusion that must have settled in when Matt met him with nothing but disappointment.
How am I supposed to find him? you exhaled, rubbing your hands over your face as if you could mix your thoughts together and force something useful out of them. You stepped over the jagged edges of the broken glass again, careful not to slice your skin. Your gaze swept over the surroundings, searching for any additional clue in the dusty sketch of alleys ahead of you.
A pigeon flickered into the corner of your vision, your eyes instinctively following its grey shape. That’s when you saw it—your way out.
Flying. Not literally, but you needed height, enough to map out the possible places to search. Where Daredevil climbed to hear the city, you would need to see it.
Your foot pushed off against a dumpster, propelling you with little effort toward the nearest wall. Your hands caught the edge of a window, allowing you to pull yourself up onto the roof of the small building. Straightening your full height, you looked around. From up here, the streets formed a puzzle with strangely linear edges—a map you had learned to read over the years spent carrying out your vigilante work. New York was a disturbed city, broken down to its deepest roots, but it was your home, a home for all of yours.
You methodically analyzed the landscape. From here, you could hear the Task Force sirens more clearly, only a few streets away. They were looking for him. Fisk most certainly wanted his skin hanging high like a trophy above his marital bed—or perhaps laid out like some gory rug.
The nearest church’s bells rang loudly behind, making you almost flinch. The church, you thought instantly, of course the church!
You turned, now facing the sacred building. Didn’t think twice, your feet carrying you into a run that let you leap onto the neighboring roof. The concrete almost vibrated beneath your soles. You quickly mapped out the path ahead, repeating the motion from one rooftop to the next until you reached a point just a few meters from the church.
Forgive me Lord, you murmured as you landed on the slanted roof of the holy place. Matt clung to the Catholic cross often enough—a simple jump didn’t feel nearly as blasphemous.
The old linoleum floor squeaked beneath your feet as you entered the building thanks to a left open window, the faint cry echoing through the emptiness. The priest Matthew had mentioned didn’t seem to be there, you were alone in the now remaining silence.
A pale light followed your steps as you moved down the long corridor. You were walking on a mezzanine, kind of balcony overlooking the most frequented part of the church. From here, you had a clear view of the rows of benches below.
You never found yourself at ease in empty churches. This feeling never failed to provoke shivers down your nape. You had this sensation that they weren’t meant to be empty, that they weren’t allowed to be. That something was always hiding in the smallest corners, watching you—spying on you. God’s eye, or moral conscience, whatever you liked to name it.
You moved forward carefully across the creaking floorboards, each step making your presence more known within the space. One reassuring thought lingered, Bullseye was weakened. But he was still dangerous. Even half-dead, he was just as lethal as a snake bite—precise, painful.
Blood. There was a trace of blood. A cloud undressed the sun enough to allow you to catch the faint gleam of those scarlet stains below. Once, you had found Daredevil covered in his own blood here, beneath this sacred place, in a spacious basement where you had assumed he hid during that time. Maybe Bullseye had followed the same idea.
You didn’t hesitate any longer. If he was somewhere beneath your feet, dying, you needed to find him.
Your palm rested slowly against the already half-open door leading to the basement. Fingers tightening around the metal handle of your knife, every muscle already tense. You pushed the door open, forcing your eyes to adjust as quickly as possible to the darkness swallowing the room.
A narrow entryway, split by a staircase carved directly into the stone. The damp smell in the air almost masked that metallic, iron hint—blood. He had to be here.
You descended the stairs carefully, one hand already resting on a dagger tucked into one of the pockets lining your belt. Guns weren’t your thing. You were good in close combat, in dodge—strategy was far more effective than a bullet. And with this enemy, even a bullet fired from your own weapon could easily turn against you.
You heard sounds at the bottom of the stairs — whispers. A single voice, young, nervous. Your steps landed steadily against the worn stone, your back pressed against the damp wall.
“I must call a doctor sir” the voice trembled, stress was consummating the already tightened man’s throat.
That’s when you heard your target, as distant as a door slamming somewhere far away: “Don’t you dare, Father.”
So the priest was with him, held hostage by his own devotion. To save. To help. Even criminals. You needed to avoid any damage—avoid having a shard of stained glass lodged between the boy’s eyes.
“But you’re losing too much—” the priest cut himself off as he saw your face emerge into the room. The relief in his eyes was quickly shadowed by fear, the kind that imagines one more presence might tip the balance toward death. Die with the Lord, every believer must dream of it.
Your gaze instinctively fell on the body slumped against a bookshelf. Bullseye, in all his glory.
You gave the priest a head tilt, signaling the exit. He hesitated, glancing at the wounded man before looking back at you. In his brown eyes, you read concern and a lack of trust toward your unsettling silhouette. Maybe it was the dark circles beneath your eyes, staining them with something almost raw. Or maybe it was something else—the way you carried yourself, that determination reeking desperation. Maybe he saw marks a demon might have left behind your shoulders. Or simply emptiness—your dearest friend—holding you tightly enough to pierce its mesmerizing claws into your flesh.
You looked away, suddenly suffocated by God’s crooked gaze. The priest obeyed your silent request, his footsteps echoing behind you as he left the room.
Blood framed Bullseye’s body, already sketching the outline of one of those chalk silhouettes from crime scenes. You stepped forward, taking in his features. Even with this unfamiliar form, you recognized him. You could picture the unshakable precision of his muscles—something you had only ever heard described by Matt. Those muscles worked like oil for the true machine, center of his body: his mind.
His mind was the weapon you should fear.
Pigeons saw different layers of reality—sharper, more vivid than ours. Benjamin Poindexter was a pigeon in his own meaning.
You knew that, to his eyes, your body was nothing more than a map not yet annotated. Distances. Mass. That was what his cola-brown eyes were searching on your skin. Within seconds, your gravity center was calculated, measured along the force behind your strikes.
But behind that façade, you saw something else, a wall beginning to crack under your gaze. He was smiling. Not the kind of smile that could be described as a grin—something else. Something you couldn’t put into words. Words, that what had been stripped from you the moment you started breathing the same air as him. Not in a lovely way, nothing similar to those fawning romance starts.
But you felt it—that God’s crooked gaze was no longer fixed on you alone. That emptiness, your closest companion, no longer had its claws buried only in your flesh.
“You need to come with me,” you said, your voice strangely familiar—like those mothers used to scold their child, firm yet still laced with uncontrollable softness.
“Who the hell are you” Not quite a question, because somewhere deep inside him, something was already telling him to pull back his claws, to bare no teeth.
You sighed, as if you were already carrying the weight of his injured body on your shoulders. The rest of the room had almost disappeared from your mental map. Almost. You took another step forward, muscles still tense despite the low, steady hum settling in your mind. The man lying before you made a weak attempt to sit up—as if trying to gather the scattered pieces of his thoughts, to rebuild what you were already dismantling against your will.
“I’m here to save your ass,” your footsteps echoed louder than expected. “Task Force are tearing the city apart to drag you to slaughter. We need to get out of here.”
A deep laugh shattered the atmosphere, breaking the silence into something that sent a chill through the air. Bullseye apparently found it hilarious. You frowned, half irritated, half intrigued by what that reaction meant.
“I don’t deserve mercy,” he argued between blood-laced coughs. “I did what I had to. Let me die here.”
Mercy. Forgiveness. Absolution. Pardon. Pretty words blurred beyond recognition with the rise of vigilantes like you. Like him. Who decides what is right or wrong? Who delivers justice? Who stands still and watches?
This time, it was your turn to let out a short, dry laugh, teeth clenched. “You’re fucking insane, get up” you said as you closed the lasting distance between you.
Your hands gripped the man’s left arm from underneath, pulling him off the ground. You could feel his muscles tense beneath your fingers—but not to help you. No, he was deliberately making himself heavier.
“Get your hands off me!” he growled, shoving you back with bloodied hands, leaving dark stains across your black clothing.
You hissed through your teeth—not out of irritation or pain, but because the impact of his hands against your bicep resonated deeper in you than it should have.
You were friends with Matthew fucking Murdock, so one more stubborn man wasn’t going to make you back down that easily. You grabbed him again, sliding your hands beneath his arms to haul him up against the wall his back had been resting on. A string of insults and pained groans was thrown at your impassive face. In other circumstances, it might have made you step back—pull your hands away—but his strength had been draining with every drop of blood lost over those five long hours.
And yet, as you restrained his clumsy attempts to push you away, you couldn’t ignore the almost deliberate weakness in his movements. Even half-dead, Bullseye was still Bullseye. Weapons were within reach all around your belt, brushing against his trembling fingers. But he didn’t use them. Just like he didn’t truly use his strength to resist.
You managed to get him fully upright, his weight naturally settling against your side. He had calmed down—maybe he cared more about staying alive than he let on.
You both stepped out of the confined space, the air growing increasingly suffocating. The priest was waiting at the basement exit, his black robe wrinkled by nervous hands, looking almost like a ghost in the wash of early morning light. He offered his help to carry the wounded man—martyr in a man of God’s hands, what an irony.
As you weaved past the rows of benches, you couldn’t help but imagine the blood now staining the priest’s immaculate clothing. Maybe he was used to the stubborn traces left behind by dried blood, at least you hoped so. Otherwise, he would truly suffer trying to rid his clothes of it. You had long since given up on that idea yourself—black clothing became your best ally.
The silence pressing into your ears was anything but peaceful, filled instead with everything left unsaid. For a moment, you wondered if Bullseye was even still alive, but you could still feel his hand gripping hard on your shoulder to stay upright.
The lighter stained glass of the door filled the exit with muted color. Despite yourself, you noticed the carefully arranged fleur-de-lis patterns and the simple decorative shapes embedded in the glass. Your ears searched for any threatening sound on the other side, but all you heard was the usual breath of Hell’s Kitchen.
In one motion, you turned toward the priest, who helped you settle Bullseye against the wall behind. Your gaze drifted briefly across the man’s features, noting the natural bounce of the dark brown curls framing his face.
“Thank you, Father,” you whispered.
He nodded in response, his expression still that of an injured animal. “God bless both of you.”
You didn’t answer—God hadn’t set his sanctified gaze on you in a long time. You pushed open the door to your left before taking the full weight of your mission back onto your shoulders.
He clung to you, fingers digging into your shoulder bone. Holding on—to you, to life perhaps.
The alley you stood in opened onto a main street, something to avoid. The sun was already too high in the sky to move freely through the city. AVTF agents were deployed across New York again, and if they weren’t completely incompetent, they would soon return to the crime scene to search the area once more for the man in your arms. Waiting here for nightfall wasn’t an option, so you must came up with something quickly.
“Cat got your tongue?” Bullseye muttered with a weak laugh, his head barely supported by his neck muscles. “That’s what happens when you save sinners from divine judgment.”
“Shut up,” you murmured, more out of reflex than intent. “There’s no divine judgment in this shitty place.”
Your muscles strained under his weight, but you had endured worse. You exhaled slowly, clearing your mind. You’d have to stick to narrower, less-traveled streets—the ones used by people like you. Those who knew the darkness of this neighborhood better than its tourist spots. It was risky, but it was the only option.
“Your horned friend wouldn’t be happy hearing that,” the bloodied blond shot back.
You froze for a second. “How did you know?” you asked, already starting to move again.
You crossed the street as quickly as possible, trying to ignore the groans brushing against your ears. A car passed behind you just as you pulled both of you down behind a dumpster. The stench of garbage filled your lungs, making you scrunch your nose even more than the smell of blood did.
“He already tried to save me, I’m not an idiot,” your companion muttered, resting briefly against the wall. “And you have something— like him,” he added, voice trailing off, his nose twitching in a nervous reflex.
You tried not to dwell on his last words, unsure how to interpret them. It wasn’t the first time someone had told you that. Karen had implied it the first time you met. “I understand now why he likes you so much. You’re similar,” she had said, her voice carrying that knowing undertone.
Josie’s bar wasn’t far in terms of distance—maybe two hundred meters—but measured in the steps of a man who had been shot and was wanted across the entire city, it felt like twice that.
You were moving slowly, and the pauses you were forced to take every time a voice rose or an engine roared too close didn’t help. But you had all the time in the world. It’s not like the man beside you was still losing blood, did it? About that, you took advantage of a quiet corner to improvise a bandage. Pulling adhesive tape from your pocket—something you had brought along in anticipation of this exact situation—you managed, despite Bullseye’s protests, to stop the bleeding. At least for now.
Your gaze swept left and right across the street you needed to cross to finally reach your destination. Bullseye rested behind a pile of cardboard while you cleared the way.
He seemed to have come to terms, somewhat, with the idea of being saved—even if he didn’t look enthusiastic about it. During your improvised journey, he had forced conversation between the two of you, filling a silence that had likely become too heavy to bear. Just a few sentences, not enough to seem invested, but enough to get under your skin.
“So no divine judgment for you?” he had asked between coughs.
“I wouldn’t be here if it existed,” you had replied, trying to end the conversation. But you felt his gaze linger on you, pulling more words from your mouth: “This city its people are forgotten from God. That’s all.” And in the way he looked away, you knew he understood exactly what you meant.
Churches were often empty in Hell’s Kitchen. People no longer bothered to show up for words whispered into void. When Matt spoke to you about his faith, you never argued—because when he spoke, you believed it too. Sometimes, you believed in the possibility of divine justice. And then you stepped outside. A woman was assaulted, another killed. And when you turned on the TV, Fisk filled the screen, his scarred face barely concealed beneath layers of makeup.
There had to be a place on Earth to dump the waste. Even God had a trash heap. It just so happened that you lived in it.
“Come on, we’re almost there,” you murmured, a note of encouragement in your voice that surprised even you.
The alley opened onto a stretch of shops, most of them abandoned since the incident. Josie’s had once kept this part of the neighborhood alive but after it closed, the others followed. Here, you could lower your guard slightly. No one came down this street anymore. No one but people like you. Trash had piled up in the corners of old restaurants. Windows were shattered, poorly patched with pieces of cardboard. A gust of wind brushed against your bodies, making the man at your side shudder on unsteady legs.
He had been quiet for several minutes now. His grip around you had weakened. He was still alive—you could feel his ragged breathing against you.
Out of curiosity, you lowered your gaze toward him and saw his eyes closed, his face slack despite himself. He looked harmless like this. A deer struck by a car. The sudden shift in weight told you he had finally slipped out of consciousness. His legs dragged behind him like an anchor, forcing you to tighten your hold around his waist to keep him upright. No light escaped from behind the paper-covered windows. That was a good sign.
You pressed your cold hand against the glass of the front door, pushing it open with what strength you had left. Your heart hammered against your ribs—from the effort, and perhaps also from the blond head resting against your chest, tapping faintly in a steady, almost soothing rhythm against your tense muscle. Your tired eyes lingered a moment longer on the image Benjamin Leonard Poindexter offered you. Here, you only saw him—not Bullseye. In the fine lines etched at the corners of his eyes, in the blood drying in his dust-streaked hair. It was hard to see the man with flawless aim in this state. He appeared when he opened his eyes—when, deep in his pupils, you caught a color that mirrored something in your own reflection. He was there when a laugh thick with desperation tore through his throat.
But when he slept, it was as if a fire had dimmed. A fire that usually burned through every part of him.
As if he were extinguished—held upright only by your strength. As if Bullseye himself had gone out. As if the flame that kept him standing had burned itself to ash, leaving behind only a shell and embers.
And yet, as you kept moving forward, you thought back to the look you two had exchanged in that church basement. And maybe that even awake the shell and the ashes were still there, drifting in the light stirred by that same flame.
“Oh my God—” Karen’s voice struck like a blow as you stepped inside.
The filthy floor of the HQ welcomed your heavy steps. You lifted your gaze from the man against you, meeting Karen’s shaken expression.
She clearly hadn’t been told who you’d been searching for these past few days. You had assumed Matt, as her boyfriend, would have told her—but apparently not. He never changed. Always carrying secrets too heavy for himself. Of course, you thought of Foggy. You had, the moment Matt asked for your help. You hadn’t really known him—back then, you were part of the hidden side of Matthew Murdock. The one kept in a half-open jar, waiting for him to crack.
“Where’s Red?”
You lowered Bullseye against the wall with a care that made you swallow hard. Others were in the room, Angela among them. They stared at you, mouths slightly open. You hated how used to that look you had become. The disgust you felt toward yourself because of it. They looked at you like a circus animal—half impressed by your tricks, half repulsed by what you were.
Karen ran a hand over her forehead, a bitter smile curling on her lips as she turned away from the sight you had brought in. “Upstairs.” You knew she wasn’t personally angry at you. You weren’t directly involved—but she needed time to process.
The fingerless gloves clinging to your hands only worsened the burning sensation spreading through your body. You pulled them off in a sharp motion, shoving them into your back pocket. The dust in the room felt even more suffocating than the stale air of the church. You glanced toward the stairs, then turned back to retrieve the body you’d been dragging for the past hour. You weren’t about to leave him unattended—not here. Or you were afraid to come back to find him bruised, or with a hole in his skull.
Circus animals without cages always end up with peanuts thrown at their faces.
The stairs creaked under your combined weight, announcing your presence even though you knew Matt had heard you coming from halfway down the street.
“Little help maybe?” his voice echoed, naturally deeper with the horned mask fixed to his face. You could hear the smile in the slight curve of his words.
You shot him a look—half annoyed, half amused—and jerked your head for him to take the weight off you. Together, you dropped Bullseye onto the cot set up in the room. His body bounced slightly on impact. He was still out, deeply submerged in unconscious dreams.
“Tell me,” Matt said, sitting down on a chair he dragged closer, “where did you find him?”
You stayed on your feet out of habit, your hands resting loosely on your hips. “Church, yours,” you finally said, already seeing Matt’s features shift into confusion. He gave a vague shake of his head before bringing it into his hands, as if they could somehow bear the weight of the thoughts pressing down on him. You gave him the time he needed to process it. Your hand came to rest instinctively on his shoulder, offering support in a way you knew he understood.
His hand tapped lightly against yours, thoughtful—then he straightened. He had removed his mask when he recognized your heartbeat in the street, so you could now see his face fully, unobstructed.
“Go get some rest. You look like you need it,” he finally added, reaching into the back of the couch to pull out a phone—the one he and Karen used to contact people without being traced. The one he had used to call you. “I’ll call a friend for him. A nurse.”
You could only nod, your muscles giving in as you let yourself fall onto the couch. The springs shifted beneath your side, creating the illusion of comfort along your ribs.
Red—the fabric stretched tightly across it. Marbled—its texture trembling under your exhausted fingers. Dusty—its smell filling your lungs with every breath.
And further away, stretched out in front of you, perfectly aligned in your field of vision, the last embers of a fire like yours flickered faintly. A fire that had burned beside you for an hour. Spitting sparks at your impassive face. Its black smoke had filled your lungs, staining them slowly with its poison—only to realize they had always been that same unhealthy color.
He slept despite himself. His intensity forcing him into rest. Deep down, you hoped that when he woke, the fire would burn again.
Your eyelids closed, pulled under by your own imposed exhaustion. And you shamefully imagined that when you woke up, Poindexter’s brown eyes would be fixed on yours again.
marvel masterlist
images : Pinterest
dividers : @uzmacchiato , @poiindexters and @/strangergraphics