(all images above are from pinterest)
how deep is your love
pairing: benjamin poindexter x daredevil/blind!reader
word count: +4k
summary: we all have our secrets. how will you react when you discover that yours are so opposite but so alike at the same time?
warnings: stalking (it's dex, what do you want), freak4freak, lies, kinda fluff in the middle, bad description of a physical fight (the angst is the principal), not really of a good ending for you two :(
notes: i know the summary is bad but i promise it is worth reading (i'm just dying to post this lol). i really enjoyed how this turned out. do i think it deserves a part two? maybe. do i know what to write more for it? absolutely not. again, english is NOT my first language, so there are probably mistakes.
anyway, if you like this, please interact!
You heard that heartbeat for the first time way before you found out who it belonged to.
It is interesting how we pass through so many people, but still don't know anyone at all. The tired blue haired girl who handles your donuts, hurried postmans always late, noisy neighbors. We cross lines so many different times with the same people without even noticing.
Due to your more extensive hearing, you are probably the one who knows it the best. So you had this little game with yourself of finding strangely familiar heartbeats in the wide crowd of the city. An old lady buying flowers, the same one that was in the bakery last week when you were after your favorite cappuccino. The same boys chasing the same ball on the asphalt, a couple on their second date in a different restaurant.
Thousands of hearts racing with the anxiety of a workday morning, quiet and sad or burning with passion. Sometimes known, most of these visitors in your mind.
You told yourself the game was fun, a way of having knowledge of the invisible string that holds all of us together, but deep down you knew better. It's a way of acting, of surviving. Of always knowing who is around you, what waits you. You were someone who never lets your guard down, and that shows it.
So you recognized his heartbeat instantly when you officially met him. When he “accidentally” bumped into you and made it an excuse to help you cross the street, as if you were just another one. His heart was beating fast, not abnormally, but enough for you to know that that was planned. The light sweat on his skin, almost imperceptible, told you that he was waiting for a reaction. And, even if you didn't know why, you gave him one.
It was stupid how much you loved to get into the play of being who people expect you to be. To give that simple smile as if you didn't know the effect it had, to say the words that they would be pleased to hear. You loved to play the poor blind to strangers. You did it like a mask (one of the thousands you wore), because of the sense of being in control. But honestly, you just enjoyed listening to how the hearts of those that were only trying to help you raced with each of your sweet movements.
So you gave him a nod, adjusted your glasses while pretending you couldn't hear the lump in his throat.
Pretending you haven't heard his heartbeat near you for at least a month.
The first few times you heard him, you weren't surprised. He seemed like just another anxious heart among many; it was a coincidence that your paths crossed more than once.
Well, at least that's what you thought before he started to appear more and more. More to be just an accident, a fate thing. His heartbeat started to linger, to be recognizable. You didn't even have to search for anymore, because you knew he was there.
His sound was always around, in some way.
Leaning against a window from the building across where you are, three hearts behind you on the line of the market. Man thought you were so easy to follow; just an unprepared prey. It almost made your blood boil.
But, even if you felt you had a target behind your back (which you did), you let it keep going.
You let him keep chasing after you.
Partly because you knew you could deal with whoever was behind you, unaware of your recently stitched wounds, but you were deceiving yourself about that. You let him keep after you, not only because of your abilities, but because something in him intrigued you.
Something in how subtle he was, not the kind of stalking that man usually does. Something in his persistence, in how you could feel the rush of his blood growing hotter by the way you would play with your hair, doing it on purpose for hearing his reaction.
You know that actually there's nothing really intriguing about a stalker, aside from the fact that they're all crazy and obsessive. So you told yourself you didn't know why you felt that way.
It was sick. It was weird. It probably has a psychological explanation about how every single one of your actions shows all the missing screws in your head.
But in the same way, it was endearing. It kept you entertained between your normal life cases and the underground mess. It kept you constantly acting, with the incessant feeling that you were being watched. Kept you wondering when he would finally make a move so you could understand what he wanted.
The fact that you couldn't exactly put a finger on what he was looking for annoyed you, since you're usually the best at reading people. You always knew almost immediately their intentions, what they wanted from you – that was your thing. But he seemed confused, strangely imprecise to someone so careful to not leave any trace of pursuit. Obviously he was interested in you, but it felt like he didn't know exactly why. Why he had this incessant feeling for the unknown, the thrill for something new. Something that would fit, something that was calling for you.
It was the first feeling you two shared.
After weeks of playing cat and mouse, you two truly met each other. You started your plan to know him, while he started his one to make you his. You two got along, honestly more than it should have. You had “encounters” (not really dates, but dangerously close to), the first time awkwardly in a bar, then in the privacy of your favorite cafe.
You went to his apartment and forgot your chapstick there just to have another reason to see him (not that he wouldn’t make another one, but Dex got happy that you left it there. He would use it just to have a peek of how your mouth tasted like). He learned about your routine, now by your own words instead of the view of your window.
He started to crave your presence.
You, not only learned it, but found comfort in his steady heartbeat, until it became a safe place for you. On quiet nights, you would lay your head on his lap while he read a novel for you.
It turned into something bigger. Not just a game, but comfort. You called it friendship, but that was a lie.
It was trust.
It was love.
Hidden in the small actions, strange because you were both not used to it. But it was there.
When he first kissed you, it was odd. Too much teeth, too messy. Hurried, as if he was afraid you would leave. It was cute, amateur. You, slowly, with your soft lips and hot tongue, taught him how to kiss. With your hands you taught him how to hold someone lovingly, and in your embrace he learned how to love and what it was like to be loved. A part of him was jealous of how experienced you are, as that meant there were others before him, but that didn’t matter now (he would deal with your exes in the future).
Now you were his, and he was yours.
And Dex, even with his lack of experience, wasn’t that bad of a lover. Actually, not even close to that. He would give you a pec on your lips, than hide his head in the crook of your neck. He would hold your arm tightly in public, claiming you as his for everyone to see, proudly helping you to not hit anything and scoffing at loud passengers. He was protective, so much that it almost annoyed you. He couldn’t help it, after all. You’re the best thing that ever happened to him, his sweet angel, his star. How could he let you out there in the cold, (literally) blind to the danger, and just watch it? The thought made him shiver.
Him, of course, didn’t know about your abilities. He knew about the enhanced senses (you would complain about noise coming from two blocks away, somehow predict if it was going to rain just by hearing the movement of the clouds), but not about your past. About your strength, all the martial arts you knew. He memorized your scars as if they were his and saw your injuries, but you made excuses good enough for his naive self to believe. Or at least, partially believe.
“Sweetheart, I’m blind”, you’d say to him and his cheeks would grow hot by the nickname, “I hit things and corners all the time”. It sounded right enough, so he let that in.
So, no – Dex didn’t know about your nighty activities.
He already worries too much about you, and you like it that way. You prefer it that way, since you're not really sure about how he would act if he found out that you weren't actually so defenseless after all. And this life could set him in danger too. Not that he couldn't deal with it, but you knew better than mixing these two aspects of your life.
Besides, you knew he wasn't really… found in the vigilante.
He didn’t know about Daredevil.
He couldn't know about Daredevil.
Just the mere thought of it sends shivers down your spine. Everything would crumble completely if he somehow discovered it.
So you crossed your heart he wouldn't.
You compromised yourself to do everything to avoid it.
That was the thought that always occurred when he kissed you goodnight, turning off the lamp while you felt the guilt coming back to you.
You wouldn't let him know it.
You almost never felt your senses unbearable.
You would feel the particles hanging in the air by your fingertips, would know how old books were by only their scent. You recognized Foggy's laugh from a floor away, people's meanings by their tone, their slipped away lies by a single heartbeat.
You could almost see with your hands and ears.
And even if sometimes your overwhelmed self hated how much you could feel by only your senses, that would be a lie, because you actually feel blessed for it. Because on your knees you speak of gratitude for it, at the same time that you asked why you deserved it.
You saw by your senses, so you shouldn't feel it being unbearable.
You saw by your senses, which means that sometimes you see more than you intended. More than you wish you did.
That feeling comes almost in the same way of the people whose eyes work, but somehow worse. Worse because you feel it not in recognizing features, but movements. You feel it not in familiar dimples and colors, but in how the person's hands move in a familiar way. In how the person's breath flowed, in each soap and perfume sticking to its neck.
You met that feeling only a very few times. And you certainly didn't want to have felt that in the night you found Bullseye.
Bullseye’s work was famous, but not clear. Spoken, but not chased for.
Well, not until the headline announced numerous murders and bodies, killed in a perfect aim. Killed with the same aim.
They didn't notice (as always, the police wouldn't act on the guy), but you did. You understood his methods, learned the almost imperceptible trace he left.
And you followed it.
The building felt dirty on your feets, abandoned in the farthest of the city. The hours were rolling too fast, the lighter shades almost reaching the dark sky.
You could feel his presence on the rooftop, with blood that isn't his stuck to his skin. You were trying to be cautious, but the fury filled you with each step closer, accelerating you towards the final result. Or at least, you tried to tell yourself that feeling was fury.
You moved closer to where he was, and you could only feel it growing. But the closer you got, the more the feeling seemed to dissipate. The anger started to feel like something else, something recognizable. Like an instinct telling you something you didn't want to know, the truth knocking on your door.
When you passed through the last door, leaving the backstairs silently, you found out what the feeling was.
You recognized the way he cracked his sore knuckles. Measured, the manner of someone who knows exactly what they are capable of.
You recognized the lingering scent of the man with his back to you, the same scent that slept in the pillow beside your head.
You recognized the accuracy, and understood why it always seemed so familiar.
You recognized the sweat, the rush, the rage.
Your suit felt too tight on you, the mask too heavy. The wind whipped against your head as if mocking you for not noticing sooner.
You could not see him, but to perceive him in this way is somehow worse.
Bullseye turned his head to you, finally acknowledging your presence.
Again, you two shared the same sentiment, but now on opposite sides of the coin.
You know that, if your eyes worked in the way they were supposed to, you would be staring face to face Benjamin Poindexter.
Your Dex.
— SOMEWHERE IN THE PAST —
“Your eyes are so beautiful.”
You were on his lap, rapid hands hovering over his neck and body while your swollen lips were on his. He interrupted the kiss abruptly, moving away until his back hit the couch again, with his hands possessively still on your hips. The words burst through the air like a mistake.
You were panting, drunk in the moment. You didn't let yourself have enough time to ratiocinate what he had just told you.
“What?”
You said bluntly, gasping for air. Even if it meant more “Shut up and kiss me again”, at the same time the question sounded too honest. Curious, as if it was the first time you’d heard that.
Which, it was.
“Your eyes- I… I just think they are pretty.” He stumbled over his words, as if he had been caught off guard by them too. “I feel I'm sinking deep when I look into them, and I… I like them.”
For the first time around him, you had no words waiting to be said, and he couldn't tell if he liked that or not.
Of course you've had personal moments before, but it felt different now. It felt too sincere, too vulnerable for both of you.
Nobody ever told you your eyes were pretty. Maybe someone did before the accident, but if that happened it was long gone in the sea of memories of your mind. Nobody liked to comment about your eyes or your looks in general, too afraid to sound rude or to offend you. After so long, you were past that already, but that didn't mean you didn't like to hear real compliments once in a while. You are a human being, after all. But you didn't think hearing those words from him would have such an effect on you.
You lowered your head in his direction (knowing that this would make it seem like you were “looking” at him) and cleaned your throat, lightly laughing it off, trying to not sound caught off guard at all.
“Well, I bet they are. If at least they bloody worked.”
The last sentence disappeared into the air, as a confession sinking in.
None of you said anything for a few seconds, but you knew what was trapped in his mind.
Dex had been thinking about this for too long. You knew it had been, so you couldn't blame him for asking the fateful question.
“Do you miss it? I mean… seeing?”
He saw the grin in your face growing small as you went stiff in his hands. Concern was the only thing in his mind.
He made you uncomfortable.
He should have stayed quiet.
What was he on when he thought that was a good idea?
You will never forgive him.
He felt like the worst boyfriend to ever exist.
He was the worst boyfriend to ever exist.
“I-I’m so sorry, I ruined everything. You don't have to answer it if you don't want t–”
His mouth began to act quickly to fix what he had done, but yours were quicker.
“I… I can kinda see in other ways through my senses, so most of the time I don't miss it. I learned how to live without it, until it became my normal.”
A loud sigh escapes from your mouth before you can stop it, a sign that you were digging into a bigger and forgotten hole to find that answer. Dex stayed quiet and listened.
“But… Yeah, I guess sometimes I can't escape it.”
You could feel his stare over you, deep in the white cloud that hid the colors of your unfocused eyes.
“Don’t feel bad, love. It's alright to have questions. Everyone have”
Your hand made its familiar path from his neck up to his cheek caressing while he leaned into your touch. All the worries dissipate from him after that.
“You know, there's a lot I wish I could see again… But there is only one thing I wanted to see for the first time.”
Dex knew what you were going to say.
“No.”
“No?”
Silence stretched between you. His tone was restless, assertive. As if he knew some hiding fact you weren't aware about.
“You don't want to see me. Not really.”
You smile at him, your sightless gaze on his cheeks.
“As if I haven't done that already.”
The words flow softly, as if caressing him.
“I know you, Dex. I know your eyes are hazel blue, and that your hair is short and blonde. I've seen you in every way already, love, with my attentive ears, my mouth and my hands.”
The next phrase dies in your tongue, rolling out too low.
“I've seen you in every way, but never with my eyes.”
And God, how I wish I did. You would complete it if you could.
If he didn't know that already.
He grips your chin carefully, tilting your head closer to his. You can feel his warm breath over your lips, hesitating to continue. As if that would change everything, as if you've never done all this before.
You understood why the moment his words came out.
“I love you.”
You paused for a brief moment.
You knew Dex loved you, obviously, but you never heard him saying those words. Those three simple words that are so frightening for him.
A part of you thought you would never hear it coming from him. Not because he didn't love you, but because of the meaning that they carry. The closeness, the commitment, the trust. All things that he never had.
All things that he had with you.
You closed the distance between you two, kissing him deeply, hoping that he could feel all you felt for him only in the taste of your lips. Backing off just enough so he could hear you, you whispered something that sounded like a prayer to him.
“I love you too.”
—
A knife was thrown in your direction, bringing you back to reality. You dodged it almost too easily, and you knew that the mistake was intentional. A way to see how you would react.
A way to see who you really are.
Bullseye never missed.
Bullseye Dex never missed.
You knew that the lighter tones were invading the sky, revealing the balaclava covering his face to the world. His rapid and hot breath was contained by the mask over his mouth, disheveled and filled with rage. He walked as if he held something heavy, his movements with hunger. You could almost feel his grin, but it wasn't the sweet one he gave you every morning. It was wild, insane.
For the first time, you didn't recognize him.
You couldn't process the fact that this was Dex.
Dex. The one who would ask to cuddle together on cold nights, with his feet on top of yours to keep you warm.
Dex. Who knows so easily how to tell when you are anxious, who makes eggs for the cat from the front door lady.
Dex. The one that, sometimes when you're bored, you make beg for only a touch on your soft skin.
Dex. Who is a little bit too obsessive, but that was always alright because he's yours.
Your Dex.
This Dex is somehow the same one who's running towards you with daggers in both of his hands, attacking you with coldness and precision.
Without any hesitation.
You were fighting back, caught off guard but keeping up with the blows.
You never had trouble deciphering what was on his mind, but now you were lost. Completely hopeless. And that scared you, because you knew this changed everything.
You couldn't tell if he was confused, if he meant every hard coup he throwed at you. You couldn't tell if he was still himself, the one you memorized like the palm of your hand, or if he was picking up the pieces and making a full image.
Making the full image of all the lies you told him all this time.
You couldn't tell anything, only that he knew the truth now. And that he wasn't acceptable about that.
He wasn't being fair about it, so you shouldn't be either. After all, you weren't the only one hiding secrets under the sheets.
You searched into your memories, chasing after anything that you could've lost. His enormous scars that you loved to trace with your fingertips, odd sense of humor, precise and skillful hands…
He laughed it off about vigilantes, politics, murderers…
You froze. He noticed.
Bullseye killed people.
Bullseye Your Dex killed people.
You fought as if it were choreographed, each attack followed by a perfect defense. At the same time that one of his blades hit you in your shoulder, you struck him with a blow strong enough to knock him to the ground, making a snarl draw out from both of you.
You were on top of him on the ground. Calculated, you ripped one of his blades off his belt, threatening his neck.
You couldn't stop the words from escaping.
You couldn't believe anything until you heard his voice.
“Dex?”
It was supposed to sound certain, but the breathless name came out confused. More like a wonder than a reason. You feared his silence and what would come back.
“No.”
In one swift move, he switches your positions, your back hitting the cold floor, ripping a plead from your mouth. You couldn't tell if the pain came from your broken ribs or from the truth. From him.
He had a dagger pointed at your heart, his hand pressing it forward while yours pulled away.
“You lied to me.”
His words came out broken, his tone deafening. He tried to hide it, but it was clear. He was hurt. He was bleeding, and he was defenceless, but not because of your kicks and punches. But how every throw went straight to his heart, crumbling everything he ever thought about you.
“You did it too.”
You hit your head on his, pulling him off of you and standing in a jump. You take a few steps back, trying to not to break. Your bastions are back on your hand.
“You've been killing people.”
He's already back at his feet, cracking his neck and getting his knife.
“I was trying to protect you.”
Despite his cruel demeanor, his words let slip how he truly felt inside.
Hurt. Misunderstood.
And a part of you, a really sick and crazy for him part of you, felt bad to be the reason for it.
You jump at him again, throwing punches and ignoring the void in your heart. He’s hit by some, but dodges and counterattacks most of them. You two fight until it's a mess of blood and grunts, until you're breathless and raw, as if that would distance you from the truth.
“You're insane.” Panting, you manage to answer him, knuckles up to your face and hid tears behind your mask.
You can feel his eyes on you, and you can almost carry all the sorrow he has in him while doing that.
He backs off, as if trying to make a peace agreement.
“I'm still the same you always knew.”
Before his words gets the chance to get to your mind, one of his daggers is thrown in his direction, digging into his collarbone.
You hear the tear of the fabric, the falling from the blood. You feel his head lowering down at it and then back at you.
You did what you thought you could never do: you got him.
The stab destabilizes him, causing him to lose his balance, but the lack of any previous movement shows that he didn't try to move away from it. He didn't try to dodge it.
You told yourself it was because you caught him off his guard, but you knew the truth.
He wanted it.
He wanted the pain coming from you, as if that would balance the scales of errors between you.
As if he deserved it.
The weight of all it was getting to your shoulders, heavier and truer than you wish it was. You could finally feel the water falling down your eyes, moving your head to the other side so he wouldn't catch you crying.
You both knew what you were about to do.
You had your back to him, preparing to leave all those broken pieces of yourself behind with him, alone. But before you jumped from one building to another, like the coward you were, you said your last words:
“I'm not sure about that.”