Morning After
A/N: I wrote a Benjamin Poindexter thing. Not sure why I’ve been obsessed with this little studmuffin lately but hey. Warnings: Some sexual talk but nothing explicit.
Your head buzzes upon waking. This wasn’t anything unusual: most mornings you woke up with your head already aflame with thoughts, plans, musings, images. It was just how your brain worked. This morning, it occurred to you right away that you had woken up without the assistance of your cell phone, so it must have been a Saturday or Sunday. Probably Saturday; you still had fresh memories of work, of writing out case notes and submitting reports, of end-of-week meetings and of surface talk of the weekend to come.
And of Dex.
That particular thought sent an electrical spark down your spine. You two had been particularly flirty yesterday. Of course, it hadn’t always been like that. When you first transferred to the New York office from Oregon, of all places, he had been a dour, silent presence at meetings and amidst the sea of cubicles that were your offices. He was the one begrudgingly picked upon to show you around the office your first day. You joked around with him, because that’s what you did when you were nervous.
Some of those nerves had been simply due to starting over in a totally new place, with people who didn’t know you and whose expectations you didn’t have a firm grasp of yet. However, a good bulk of those nervous feelings had been due to him.
He was exactly what you liked: tall, blonde, the strong, silent type. At least outwardly. You would find out later he had happened to be available to be your tour guide that day because he was on desk duty for a month after an incident in the field. When you heard that news, it gave you pause, but you were still curious. It was that “cat’s curiosity,” as your dad used to say, that drove you to become an agent. That, as with the metaphorical cat, more than once got you in trouble. It was never something you really worked to quell, though.
When it came to Dex, that attribute eventually went into overdrive. When you were eventually partnered up together to work a case, it gave you the opportunity and excuse to get closer, and you took it. He bristled at the attempted closeness at first, but he slowly came to entertain the playful banter and your prodding curiosity.
The last week and a half, you noticed as his eyes drifted to yours more frequently, as he found excuses to talk to you, as the accidental hand contact or back touching in the elevator became more frequent.
Thursday night, as you were both leaving at the same time, he held your gaze for longer than usual in the packed elevator, and something primal yet unspoken passed between you.
The next day, during lunch when the office was fairly deserted, he stopped by your desk. “Hey, y/n, would like to get together for dinner tonight?” Of course, the excuses were fairly mundane: to talk about careers, goals, an upcoming case you were both possibly about to be put on--safe, surface stuff. And in fact, a lot of the dinner talk that night was about precisely those topics. But that unspoken thing that passed between you when you left work the previous day was always hanging in the air.
Close to 10 PM you noticed him spying his watch. Your heart dropped a little, because you thought this was a sign he was bored, or at least he generally thought it was time to wrap things up with you. You never would have guessed what he asked next. “Would you…like to go home with me?”
You almost spat out your rosé. “Agent Poindexter, are you asking me back to your apartment to--”
“Yes,” he answered firmly. He was completely serious, his eyes never moving from yours. Of course, your answer was also yes.
It was funny, you noticed how considerate he was all evening, Opening doors, pulling out your chair, even standing when you went to freshen up. Something about it seemed like it came more from a sense of order than a sense of chivalry.
The sex was amazing, but it was also funny what a dichotomy he was in bed. He was gentle at first, maybe a little unsure, then he’d ask politely to smack you on the arse or before making things rougher. And it was rough. Almost to the point of being too much, but it seemed like he knew where to stop. He knew when to give and when to take. You had no complaints.
You stretched, and it was at that moment that you realized where you were--still in Dex’s bed. And that that buzzing wasn’t entirely in your head.
You sit up and realize your clothes from the day before are neatly folded and placed at the end of the bed by your feet. You look over and see your satchel handbag was sitting ready on the floor by the bed. Your heart drops again.
You scoop up your things and head for the door.
Opening his bedroom door, you are surprised to finally find the source of that buzzing: a vacuum.
Dex was running the vacuum over his floor, but you also saw vacuum accessories lined up on his coffee table, near what looked like freshly cleaned furniture upholstery and curtains.
He had his back to you as he worked the machine over his throw rug, so he hadn’t noticed you yet. You clear your throat, “Um, hi.”
He turns swiftly and, upon seeing you, switches off the vacuum. “Sorry,” he says, clapping any dust and dirt from his hands as he approaches you. “I didn’t wake you, did I?” He explains he bought one of those silent models because vacuum noise always bothered him as a child, and he thought it would be quiet enough it wouldn’t wake you up.
“No, actually I just woke up on my own….” You look down at your belongings in your hands. “You don’t…want me to leave, do you?” It takes him a beat, but he finally realizes. “Oh. No, I just didn’t want to run over your clothes or get dust on them or anything.” He shook his head, and before stopping himself, said, “I always deep clean everything, every Saturday morning. And I always clean out the dust tank every time. I never let it sit there, even if it’s not much.…” You were smiling at him, and he started to smile back. “I guess it’s pretty silly.”
You shrugged. “I like to do the same. Clean out out my whole place every Saturday morning, just to get it out of the way.”
“Yeah, I guess.” The energy in the air shifted between you as you both came to realize you were both very much not wearing any clothes.
He took your clothes and your purse from you and gently set them on his kitchen table. “I would actually like a repeat of last night--if you’re up for it,” he said as he turned back to you.
Your smile grew bigger. “I would too.” You pressed an index finger into that muscular chest of his. “Shower first, though.”
He smirked, and before you can protest, he scoops you up in his arms and you’re both headed for his shower. So he was a little obsessive compulsive…maybe even diagnosed. Though it seemed unlikely if he worked for the FBI. Either way, it wasn’t anything you couldn’t handle....
