Echo & The Bullseye Man
Summary: After learning about the FBI's plans to ambush and apprehend the fugitive Benjamin Poindexter, you feel obliged to intervene in an… unconventional way. Word Count: 3.7k
Content: T rating, Benjamin Poindexter x fem!reader, North Star!reader, FBI grunt, minimal reader descriptions, no y/n, DD:BA canon verse (loosely), depictions of violence, stalking, BPD, themes of manipulation, Bonnie & Clyde story, suspense, slow build, slow burn, idk I might edit w more tags as I think of them tbh
A/N: Eeee here's the full 1st chapter of my new fic, I hope you guys enjoy it! Credit and thanks to @uzmacchiato for the gorg divider!
Chapter 1 (Chapter 2)
“De-ex”
You felt his name ring from inside his skull, the intruding melody jolting him awake. It wasn’t uncommon to hear voices calling for him, or for those voices to wake him in the night. But this voice was unfamiliar to him, it felt unfamiliar to him, because it was yours. You could feel your words rattling and settling into his molars as they patiently awaited a reply. It wasn’t uncommon for your first contact to be slow going, and truth be told, you hadn’t exactly planned on intruding at this hour. You’d never planned on intruding at all actually, until mere minutes ago, before you’d knocked on his brain. Your… gift… had alerted you to the kind of information you didn’t know what else to do with.
As a paper-pusher at the FBI, clearance wasn’t exactly something you were ever familiar with. Plug in the USB, scan the document, unplug the USB, deliver to the person with clearance. On this late mid May evening, you spent your overtime shift navigating between the damp basement mail room and upper managements’ much drier, nicer floors, trying your best to stay under the radar. Sensible shoes, hair fashioned neatly and a cotton button down and you could've been mistaken for a desk chair. That was all well and fine until a manager with a particular amount of clearance and a need for the USB in your palm just so happened to have the kind of brain frequency, as you’d come to call it, that your gift could tune into. You don’t know why or how you were able to get into people’s heads, whether cosmic force, mysterious birth or some other meager shape of hapless circumstance, but you did know some people just seemed to have thoughts at the right frequency for you to tap into at will. More awkward circumstances led you to the discovery that if you tried hard enough, they could hear you right back, and once you’d tapped into someone’s frequency, you could tap into it from anywhere. A gift of that magnitude was one you figured out pretty quickly was best kept to yourself; the last thing you wanted was to become anyone’s newest toy. You were careful to only ever intrude quietly, to learn how first dates really felt about you, or if your neighbor was lying to you about where your packages went. Nothing flashy, and certainly nothing heroic. That was, until you tuned in to find out exactly what kind of plans the FBI had for currently AWOL ex-agent Benjamin Poindexter.
So here you found yourself sitting at your desk, with little more than a monitor and a chair to show for your service to your country, a plan slowly bubbling to the surface. The rubbery, chewable eraser from a pencil found its way between your teeth as you awaited his response. Your heart rate slowly crept upwards as you weighed the risks you were about to take; your eyes trailed across the faux fabric texture of your desk’s partition, attempting to counterbalance the pounding in your chest. Just underneath the drums, though, was a curious excitement you couldn’t deny. Vigilantes weren’t really an object of jealousy for you, but sometimes images of a different life did dance deliciously in your daydreams— of which you enjoyed quite a few on your many slow work days. Maybe you’d even have a name that sounded cool, something like Radio-Girl, or like DJ something, or— Echo. Now that’d be a suitable name, you surmised.
“—Uh… Huh?” Dex’s groggy response snapped you out of your wandering. Receptive. That’s a good sign. Your eyebrow arched appreciatively, his response came faster than you’d expected. A familiar resonance traveled across your jaw. Apparently you’d broadcasted that thought directly to him. An apology began forming in your mind briefly before you stopped yourself with a quick clench of your jaw. You’d seen glimpses of his file, heard the whispers and felt their fears when he’d walked by, knew what they said about him at his best, and who he was at his worst. You needed him to think you were in control for him to believe you, for you to get the information you needed to him, for you to help him. A steadying breath and another clamp on your jaw later and you were ready to push again.
“Do you need help, Dex?” The question was more of a taunt, half a rude attempt at regaining control and half investigating what his understanding of his position was. This time, confusion sounded back to you, which always felt a little like dizziness and a soft chorus of similarly puzzling memories bubbling around you like balloons.
“What is— Who— What?…” You could feel the bubbles clear as he finally reached a state of consciousness you could work with. Time to push.
“Dexxie—“ You sang into his mind again, and ok, maybe that was a little much. “Aren’t you tired of running? Are you feeling… directionless?” That truth twinged at the corners of your ears, and you felt the resonance deep in his core, his mental guards loosening ever so slightly. Bingo. Those guards tightened right back up, though, not a moment later.
“This some new toy the F.B.I. is playing with now, huh? Not even my thoughts to myself, anymore? Great.” His sardonic quip reminded you of the first time you’d dialed into his mind in that office hallway, just a year ago.
You were standing by the water fountain across from the shrink’s office when he’d burst through the door, wind cutting through the air almost as sharp as his anger. A purple-ish bruise still blooming over the thin line of his scowl and one larger cut shorn over his hairline caught your attention as he passed by you. He’d met your eyes, if only for a moment, and as the moment passed a small smirk betrayed his thoughts, which quickly invaded yours. “Gullible bastard” You’d blushed into your water bottle, feeling as though it was a private joke shared between the two of you. A half chuckle escaped your lips, and when you’d looked up you found his ocean blue eyes glancing back toward you, confused, if only for a moment. In those days you didn’t have as tight a grip on your gift as you would’ve liked. The shame at being caught had stirred something in you, and you’d spend the next few weeks thinking about how his eyes met yours.
“If only. They’d never be so lucky.” You scoffed and leaned back in your chair, only letting the memory flick across the back of your eyes, hoping he could taste your honesty through the connection. Honesty tasted like honey and good memories.
——————
Dex blinked slow, tilting his head back to rest on the motel headboard and taking a deep breath. A water-stained popcorn ceiling with a myriad of other questionable specks met his gaze, but that was the price of cash-only motels that didn’t ask for your name in this city. His eyes scanned the small room, still hoping that maybe a person, a real live person would slink from the shadows revealing themselves. But between the tattered pinstripe curtains and the sticky dresser that housed a meager box TV, there weren’t exactly shadows from which anyone could emerge. The sweat-drenched bed sheets were rough against his torso and hips as he sat up in bed, thankful in an odd way that something had stirred him from his nightmares. What a strange sensation to wake up to, though. A foreign voice whose words rang through the bones in his face like tuning forks. Certain words came with strange tastes and some words resonated through different bones. Not unpleasantly, though, and he couldn’t help but admit to himself that a new voice, maybe real maybe not, was a nice change in pace from his normal night terrors. A hand raked through his sleep-mussed hair and his eyes regained focus as his bottom lip slid through his teeth. Lucky. What uninformed person would ever associate him to that word, well, he’d sure like to know.
“Maybe one day you will… For now I’d get the hell out of that Super 8 you’re holed up in.” Came your reply, as if reading his thoughts. He chuckled not only at your response but his summation as well, figuring you were in fact reading his thoughts, at least for now. His hand came up to scrub his face, grounding himself further into reality as he weighed whether or not he’d really choose to believe a voice in the sky— or, this strange voice in his head.
——————
The eraser in your mouth had all but been sheared off from its metal cage as you waited to feel any sign that he was listening to your advice. In less than an hour a squad of agents would be bursting through his door to apprehend him, and you knew all too well what it was like to get so close to being free of your cage only to be dragged back down. You closed your eyes, not wanting to watch the clock tick closer to his doom, searching for any sign that he was moving when it rang through.
“Toothbrush, toothpaste, zip, left quadrant. Shampoo, conditioner, body wash, zip, right quadrant.”
——————
The early morning dew settled around Dex like a familiar blanket, one he wasn’t too happy to be reacquainted with, but given the events of the last two hours, he’d have been grateful for worse. Perched up in the humid greenhouse of an apartment building just a few doors down from the motel, the sound of Dr. Mercer’s voice filtered through his headphones as the sun was slowly beginning to ascend. He had enjoyed a front row seat to the raid that played out unsuccessfully below him not just an hour earlier. Disbelief had mixed with fascination as he watched the sting operation turn into a circus from his absence. The voice was right… it had helped him. All the public knew was that he was an ex-FBI, gala crashing, trigger-happy mass murderer, but maybe this voice wasn’t a public civilian. They could be a recluse, hell, maybe she was an agent in the very bureau that sought to tank his reputation and paint him a bad guy. The latter sounded most plausible, if not still completely unlikely, Dex thought. She. Well, the voice in his head sounded like a ‘she’ at least. With nothing better to do, he tossed around the idea of what this newfound disembodied voice looked like in his brain as he watched the motel parking lot drain of FBI agents. Was she a blonde? A redhead? Human? Animal? Superhuman? Vigilante? Civilian? He wondered in equal part what her motivation was. What did she know? How much did she know? Could she be rooting around inside his head right now? The question gave him pause, his fingers finding the pause button before ripping the headphones off and tucking them neatly back into his backpack. Maybe not listening to his tapes would keep that part of his life private, for now.
——————
“You made it out.” You tapped into Dex’s brain as soon as you got off work. Sitting in your car, your hands wringing the worn leather wheel, relief flooding your nostrils first as you breathed out. His reply came with the undercurrent of a soft woman’s voice— a ghost from his past, you figured, as did most thoughts you came across.
“Yup… Say, who exactly do I have to thank for making it out alive?” You smirked, one hand inserting your key into the ignition and exiting the parking lot as your car radio came to life, blaring some unbearable billboard top 100 hit. You turned it off, for once grateful to have something you actually wanted to listen to. For a moment you considered telling him your name, like your real name. But you were also an agent with the bureau who went through the same training, and you knew better than to play a hand like that just yet. The name came to you as you eased into an unfamiliar 4 way intersection, a toy that had kept your mind occupied on the many late third shifts you’d endured. A name that you decided then and there most closely represented how it felt to receive others' thoughts, and how you imagined it’d feel to have your thoughts broadcasted to them. Sure, it worked like a radio, but the foggy memories that clung to and followed every thought like ghosts, well, that felt more like an echo.
“Echo. You can call me Echo.” A thrill undeniably shot through your spine with your response, your hands exchanging places on the steering wheel as you turned onto a familiar street. You always took a different route home every night, careful not to ever be too predictable. Your apartment parking structure finally came into view and you pulled into your spot, idling for a moment as you checked your surroundings. You didn’t get paid much but you did get paid enough to afford the luxury of a parking garage and some security measures.
“Now that’s quite the name, Echo. Kinda sounds like a vigilante code name… Are you a vigilante, Echo?” His sly tone landed on your cheeks like hot coals. It was almost embarrassing how quickly he’d clocked you. Not you specifically, you supposed, but you’d figured it was within tolerance.
“Now, Dex. That’d kind of be giving away the game, wouldn’t it?” Alright, you were a little drunk on the chance to form your own narrative. Truth be told, you were in way over your head. You knew the FBI had bigger plans for Poindexter than just bringing him back to the mental institution, but past glimpses of information, you really didn’t have enough pieces of the puzzle to even call it a game or a plan, not just yet. You’d have to punch in some overtime and actually figure out how to pinpoint signals in the office to actually get more info, but you were sure you could.
“So what game are we playing then, Echo?” You liked how he said it, Echo. It felt like a low, warm hum just under your chin. Almost like you could nestle into it, if you tried hard enough.
“Well, one that keeps you alive, hopefully. You do want that, right, Dexxie?” Something about calling him Dexxie felt… interesting. It would’ve felt right, maybe, if you were more of a romantic.
“Sure, cuz I’ve got so much to live for.” Metallic and sarcastic.
“I think you do.” You probably sounded more pitiful than you meant to, or maybe more earnest? You realized that you’d been parked in front of your apartment for far longer than you’d meant to be. You gathered your things and rode the dingy elevator up to your floor, winding your way down the hallway to your front door and slipping inside before confirming twice that you’d locked it behind you. Being on high alert from now on was probably a good idea. Knowing Dex’s background, he could already be on your trail, and the last thing you wanted was to be caught off guard.
“So, how exactly does this work? You live in my head and you puppeteer me like Ratatouille, or are you just racking up some good will before calling in a favor?... Are you listening to me all the time or just when you have something to say?” That one came through with a slight sting to your temple, but you couldn’t blame him for it, not exactly. You dropped your backpack next to the single chair and couch that populated your otherwise bare living room and shifted focus to the kitchen island that held a small cluster of wines you’d accumulated, one of the only signs of life in your home. A Malbec, your favorite, found its way into a glass and you found yourself settling into your chair. Your eyes slid around the meager, windowless room, which was stuck in a state of permanently depersonalized decor. The only upside to your home was having a small balcony in your bedroom, where you enjoyed a majority of your daily dose of sunlight. You moved around so much as a kid that you never learned how to make a space your own, and once you were an adult you figured there were better things with which to concern yourself.
“This isn’t Disney. I think your former employers wronged you, and I’d just hate to keep a good man down. I don’t think you need an employer at all, Dex. I think you just need someone to believe in you.” Surprise caught you as you felt sweetness weave through your taste buds. Not because you had intended to lie, but maybe you just weren’t sure of your own conviction until now. It tasted nice with the Malbec.
“And no, I’m not listening all the time. It's kind of like a radio signal. I can promise you I won’t be listening unless we’re talking… Unless you want me to.” You added, playful but slightly metallic, slightly a lie. You weren’t really listening all the time, but you had the privilege of a leash and you had to admit to yourself that you were using it a little. Just enough to know he got out alive. That last part had you swirling in your chair, a slight tingle glimmering in the pit of your stomach.
“That’s probably unlikely, sweetheart. Let’s keep our thoughts to ourselves, hm?” If you were just a little further into your glass of wine you might’ve had the liquid courage to take it on the chin, but alas, a small swoon managed to escape you. You swallowed it down with another swig of wine. A sly smile tugged on your lips. Now this was a game you knew how to play.
“Oh, come on, you’re telling me you don’t wish, even a little, that you could hear my thoughts too, Dexxie?”
——————
Dex chuckled. How interesting, this voice, calling him lucky, calling him a good man. Her words clung to him like the sticky, humid air surrounding him in the greenhouse. It wasn’t ideal, but it’d work just fine as a place to sleep for a couple of hours. He found a hose coiled up in the corner and figured it’d have to do for a quick shower. He wasn’t allowed to sleep if he didn’t shower. He peeled off his sweatshirt and folded it into his bag, following the familiar order of unclothing himself before finally reaching back into his bag for his shower caddy. For a moment, as the cold water began to spray across his chest, he considered taking her up on the offer. What would she let him know about her? What would he want to know about her? He reached for his soap when suddenly a memory and its accompanying tastes intruded his thoughts. Not one of his own, that much was evident immediately.
A young man stood across from him– or, not him– in the mail room of an apartment complex, which at first glance seemed pretty run of the mill. Rows and columns of mail slots lined the right peripheral and just behind the boisterous young man was the front door to the complex which consisted of a large glass pane and a handle. The young man’s mouth formed a string of denials about the whereabouts of some package. But then, the young man’s voice crowded over his own, with words his mouth wasn’t forming: I should’ve never let Shauna run to get my mail yesterday. I knew she hadn’t bought those shoes. Thieving bitch.
Dex’s eyes readjusted to the early morning glow of the greenhouse as the memory faded away, something unfamiliar and metallic lingering on his taste buds. He pointed the hose toward himself and ejected the water directly at his face to ground him back in reality. It took a minute for him to adjust to the fact that he had just watched someone else’s memory through their eyes… played back for him in his head. It was a certain kind of unbelievable, especially for him, that anyone could watch, could see another’s memories. Chance danced fleetingly across the back of his mind before he squeezed his eyes shut, hoping it would stifle the feeling. Heavy, dizzying breaths accompanied the rest of his shower, his fist wound tight around the nozzle as he completed his mental checklists and wrestled with the strange new reality he seemed to be stepping into. When he was finished he took the liberty of watering the surrounding plants— a kind of thanks, he supposed. His eyes were half lidded with exhaustion when he finally reached for his one other set of clothes.
“So what was that, then?” Dex finally broke the silence, adjusting his backpack behind his head to find a suitable sleeping position. He was replaying the scene in his head, brows furrowing, hoping to catch a glimpse of any identifying feature of the room or of his mysterious voice that he could latch onto. A clue would be all he needed to get closer to figuring out who she was. His pulse quickened at the thought of finding her, a familiar kind of delicious pace he’d only ever felt a few times before. A challenge, a chase... Now that was something he could look forward to.
“Consider it an act of goodwill. I’m not here to be a mysterious voice in the sky, at least not forever. You don’t trust me right now and I don’t trust you much either. We can both work on fixing that in the meantime.” The tiniest electrical bursts began flicking at the edges of his mind as your response came through, excitement now flowing through him like a current. She wanted to help him. She wasn’t going to leave. He knew it was too soon, but he was starting to feel like he could count on her. Or at least maybe he could in the future. All he knew for now was that you were there for him, in an unconventional, kind of weird way, but you were there. And that could be enough, for now.
Until– The front door. Dex wondered how many apartments in the city with large glass panes for doors sat across from a church, and a very distinct looking church at that. His lips twitched up into a sly smile as he drifted off to sleep. He couldn't help but imagine what finding you would be like, how sweet the chase would be, as he surrendered to slumber.