I saw this and got really excited because I keep lists of all kinds of random shit and one of my lists is characters I relate to most in fiction. So now I will post my full list even though its over 4 characters (I think some have a very obvious theme to them though 😅)
These are in no particular order btw cause I dont think I could really rank them. Also when there is both a book and film for these characters, I'm more often talking about their on screen portrayals.
Another discalimer is none of these gifs are mine cause I'm an idiot who never learned how to make them 😅
1. Charlie Kelmeckis - The Perks of Being a Wallflower
2. Greg Gaines - Me & Earl & the Dying Girl
3. Samara Young - Let's Play (no gif since it's a webtoon)
Oh and let me add one bonus character. I include her because she's clearly coded as disabled and my headcannon is that it's specifically supposed to be tourettes which I have.
Summary: You and Dex had lived on the edge of “almost” at the Bureau. Now, you visit him in prison for the first time since he left, forced to confront the feelings you both still have and how far you're willing to go to finally be together.
Word count: 6,000
Tags/warnings: angsty/spicy/sweet aka my triple decker fic sandwich, hurt/comfort, swearing, mental illness + meds mention, emotional manipulation/lowkey suicide threat (Dex) but the reader is v aware of what he's doing, making out, flash of sub/dom if you squint, breaking and entering, first date
A/N: Title from the Motion City Soundtrack song of the same name: I felt like a fool, kicking and screaming and pretending we were wrong // It had to be you, I knew it was you PS I shortened up the timeline here from the canon multiple years to like one lol
You stand behind the prison guard as he unlocks the metal door with a loud buzz, shoving your hands into your jacket pockets and trying to feign some appearance of calm.
Inside, you were anything but. You were scared, but not in the way most people would expect, considering you were about to visit someone in prison serving multiple life sentences for murder.
No, that part didn't faze you too much. What scared you was that, deep down, you had a very strong feeling that you were going to walk through that door, knowing full well what that someone had done to get put in there, and it wasn't going to make a goddamn difference.
You were still going to feel the same way about him as you always had. Only this time, you didn't see a chance for a happy ending.
At least the rational, sane part of you didn't. It wasn't like you, a federal agent, could just ride off into the sunset with a convict, right?
And yet ...
You had tried to listen to the part of you that had been screaming to just let go of him, to finally move on. But you couldn't.
Because even though neither of you had ever said it outright when you worked together, you knew with your entire being that Benjamin Leonard Poindexter was supposed to be yours.
You take a deep breath and walk into the darkened room, dim light filtering in through the door's small wire and glass square.
"You know the precautions, agent?" the guard asks.
"Yeah, I do.” Your gaze flickers to the cuffs and chains encasing Dex’s hands. “Don’t think they’re necessary, though.”
“Just standard procedure. We don’t take any chances with this crazy asshole. I’ll be outside.”
“Thanks.”
The guard leaves and now, for the first time in what feels like a lifetime, it’s just you and Dex.
You can already tell that there's something different about him, something subtler and deeper than just trading his FBI jacket for a DOC jumpsuit.
The Dex you had known always looked like he was in control. But underneath the cool, composed exterior and the dry wit and smirks, when you actually got close enough to pay attention, there was a faint current of anxiety emanating from him; nerves stretched tight like a rubber band. Like he was working overtime to keep his shit together.
But that kind of uncertainty, that noticeable tension he had carried, had seemingly vanished. In its place was a kind of relaxed ease, a looseness in his being, even as he sat there bound and chained to the desk. And part of you wondered and worried, that the Dex you knew—or who you thought you knew—was truly gone.
The other difference was much more evident: he was fucking jacked, which was not helping your already racing heartbeat, your eyes roaming over his biceps, the veins standing out in his forearms.
Focus.
He breaks the ice first.
“I didn't think you'd show."
You try to keep your head on straight, to not get immediately floored by that gravelly voice you loved so much. But it's hard. Really hard.
"Surprise," you reply, making jazz hands before you shove them back into your pockets, lowering yourself into the chair next to him.
Then, he gives you that same stupid, sweet half-smile that you’d come to know and miss. And even though you try to fight it, relief floods through you.
Because it tells you that your Dex is still there.
"It's good to see you, Y/N."
Fuck.
You want to say it back, but it gets stuck in your throat. Yes, you had been dying to see him. But the fact remains that you're seeing him in prison, a sobering reminder that the kind of future you had once dreamed about having with him was gone.
"Why am I here, Dex?" you ask instead.
"Because I missed you," he says quietly. It’s such an immediate, sincere response that it cuts you like a knife.
“And I wanted to talk. Like we used to.”
"So, talk."
He pauses, suddenly apprehensive, and there’s a flicker of the old uncertainty in his eyes as he meets your own.
"How are you?"
"How am I?" you repeat back slowly, and you want to laugh and scream at the same time because it’s such a loaded question.
I’m ok. I’m a mess. I’m alright. I’m heartbroken. I’m so fucking mad at you. I’m so fucking happy to see you.
"Fine, I guess." You shrug. "I've actually only been back in the city for a few months. They put me on assignment in LA last year, organized crime. It was good, got really tan, surfed a bit. But wearing tac gear in 90-degree heat got old real quick. So, here I am."
Dex looks at you strangely.
"Did you put in for it or did they ask you?"
You pause.
"I put in for it." You start bouncing your leg, unable to keep your anxiety in check.
"Why?"
Your fists clench tighter in your pockets and you avert your eyes away from him, staring at the ceiling.
"Because when you … left, I was struggling. They thought a change of scenery would be good."
It’s silent for a few moments until Dex speaks.
"Y/N?"
"Yeah?"
"Can you look at me? Please?”
You take a deep breath and force yourself to meet his gaze, and the sight you’re met with shatters your heart further than you thought was possible, threatens to break all your resolve.
Because Dex—whom the world has deemed as a volatile, soulless, irredeemable killer—is now sitting across from you with tears in his eyes.
"I’m sorry,” he says, his voice cracking. All that ease you had initially noticed, it’s gone. He looks like how you feel, how you’ve felt every day since he was out of your life: broken.
“For what?” you manage to ask, trying to push down the lump in your throat, the stinging building in your eyes.
“That everything just … fell apart. That I couldn’t say goodbye because I didn’t even know I was saying it until it was too late. That I couldn’t tell you what was going with me. That I was too much of a pussy to just ask you out like I wanted to.” He takes a deep breath. “And fuck, I really wanted to. I was just … afraid. And I’m sorry.”
You brush the back of your hand against your eyes quickly.
“I don’t know what I'm supposed to say to that.”
“Say that it wasn’t just me that felt it,” he pleads, and it’s taking everything in you not to fall apart in front of him. “That it wasn’t all in my head.”
“It wasn’t,” you whisper. “Of course it wasn’t.” And your eyes burn more as they stare back into his own, trying and failing to steady your breathing. “But it doesn’t matter anymore.”
He shakes his head.
“Yes, it does,” he says firmly, and it’s his conviction in contrast to the reality of the situation—the one he put you both in—that finally sends you over the edge.
“No it doesn’t, Dex. It can’t!” you yell, and this time, you don’t bother to wipe away the tears that start falling. Your eyes flicker to the door, and you lower your voice. “I’m still an agent, and you're sitting in front of me in a fucking DOC jumpsuit with multiple life sentences for murder. And every day I go to work and all I think about is how you’re supposed to be there but you’re not, because you chose blood instead of me.”
“That’s not what-” he tries to cut you off, but you keep going.
“And I feel insane because even after all that, I look at you for one second and I still feel the same goddamn way about you that I always have." You laugh without humor. “So I can’t get over you. And I can’t be with you because you’re here. And I am left fucking dying inside in the middle of that.”
You press the heels of your hands to your eyes, and then they land on the table.
Now, you’re the one pleading.
“So just tell me, why? Fucking why, Dex? Why did you do all this, choose this? What the fuck happened to you?” Your voice is shaking uncontrollably now, and it drops to a miserable whisper. “And why didn’t I see any of it coming?”
Dex inches his chair forward, trying to get as close to you as he can with his restraints still in place.
“Listen, you were—you are—the best part of my life,” he says desperately, and you choke back a sob and a scoff at the same time. “You have to know that. But I can see how it could look … otherwise. I’ll tell you everything, ok, you deserve that, but don’t.”
He stops, breathing deeply through his nose, but when he continues, he sounds almost angry; his frustration with your version of events spilling over; possessed by an ardent need to keep you on his side.
“Don’t ever think I did any of this because I didn’t want you. Us. That’s not right at all. I just …” He takes a deep breath again, steadier this time, and sighs. “I’ll start at the beginning.”
So, he tells you everything, all the way back from Mercer's therapy tapes and creating his North Stars to stopping his meds and planning to kill himself, Fisk manipulating him into murder and then snapping his spine.
And throughout it all, the relentless buzzing in his head that only ever seemed to quiet when he was around you.
You sit there, wide-eyed and listening intently, and you find you knew bits of it; the fucked-up childhood, the anxiety, the need for structure and control, the loneliness. But when he lays the full depth of everything out in front of you, the disparate puzzle pieces clicking into place, it's like you're seeing him again in full light for the first time.
And you're not repulsed, you’re not scared, you're not even angry.
You're just sad. So fucking sad, your heart breaking that he had been carrying all this by himself, trying to fight his own mind day in and day out. That Fisk had taken advantage of his trauma, of the deepest, most vulnerable part of him that had never known love as a little kid. That the fear and the pain and his wiring had blocked out any consideration for a different path forward.
And that you didn't know about any of it.
You wipe your tears on the edge of your sleeve.
"Why didn't you talk to me?” you ask.
"I thought if I tried hard enough, I could outrun it," he says slowly. "That I could be different. Better. But we are who we are." He looks at you, and suddenly, he seems exhausted. "I wanted to tell you, but I … I couldn’t handle you looking at me differently.” His voice quiets. “Like I was an animal.”
“I wouldn’t have.”
“And now?”
You shake your head. When you had walked into the room earlier, part of you had wondered if you had just been blinded by your feelings—that maybe you were a lovestruck idiot and he really was just another psycho male shooter. But your heart had won out, and now, he’d confirmed what you had already known deep down.
He wasn’t a monster. He was just Dex: complicated, traumatized, mentally ill, Dex.
And Dex was your person.
"I still don't think you're an animal. I think, to some degree, you actually make … sense,” you say. You sigh, running a hand down your face. “I also think you need help. Serious, professional help, Dex." You wave your hands. "And probably some kind of, I don’t know, some fucking spiritually cleansing Ayuhsaca trip and R&R on a beach in Belize."
Dex suddenly smiles.
"You're still doing it."
"What?"
"Trying to make me laugh."
He’s not wrong. You manage a half smile back.
"Old habits,” you say softly. You shift up in the chair, cross your legs underneath you. “So, after Fisk, what happened? Your phone was disconnected and no one told us anything at the Bureau, it was just like ... like you never existed.”
He explains the operation and how when he woke up, he was in the psychiatric facility.
"It was worse than this," he says, nodding his head up at the prison. "The drugs they put me on, I could barely remember who I was, could barely move, barely think. Like I was drowning in cement. And I was starting … not to remember you." He pauses for a second, and you can see the weight of his time there etched in his face. "So I had to get out. I had to get my mind back."
"So how did you?"
"I got an offer. My freedom for a job. So I took it.” His jaw sets in a hard line. “I wasn't supposed to end up in here. I was supposed to come find you.”
Your eyes widen as the last piece of the puzzle clicks into place.
"Josie's was a hit," you breathe out, and the revelation hits you like a freight train. "Who hired you?”
He shakes his head slightly.
"I can't tell you that."
"Oh, yes you can, and you better," you reply furiously.
"Or what?” He smirks. “You gonna arrest me?"
Goddammit. He could be a such a little shit when he wanted to be, and normally, it'd make you laugh. But right now, sitting across from him at Rikers, you’re infuriated.
"No, but I will punch you in the face for being an asshole! This isn't a joke, Dex, this is your life!" You watch the smirk slide off his face, eyes widening slightly. "This changes everything related to your case!”
"I know,” he says hurriedly. “I just can't tell you. You'll get hurt, and I can't have that.” His voice lowers. "Not again. But I'm supposed to meet with an attorney later. Matthew Murdock."
"The guy who's best friend you killed? Who helped put you in here?” you ask, your voice laden with skepticism.
Dex nods. “He’s gonna want to know who hired me. And I’ll tell him, but only if he can get me outside.”
You stare at him in disbelief.
“That has about a 2% chance of working.”
“I’m gonna take those odds." He gives a smile that doesn't reach his eyes, and even though he sounds nonchalant, you can sense the strain underneath.
"They, uh, they put me in gen pop yesterday, so I don’t have a lot of time to figure out a better plan. That’s also why wanted to see you now. Just in case.”
Your brain starts whirring, real panic setting in.
“What do you mean they put you in gen pop? You’re a former federal agent who can’t use his hands! Dex, you have got to cut the bullshit and tell me who’s behind this.”
“No, I told you, I’m not getting you involved.” His tone suddenly flattens. "But anyways, it doesn’t really matter, right? If I live or die. It’s not like I have anything good waiting for me out there. Not anymore.”
Your stomach drops and you look at him, confused.
“What are you talking about?” you ask.
That ease, that kind of assuredness you caught right before you walked in, it's now suddenly back. He’s eerily calm, his intense gaze boring into yours. And it all tells you that he knows exactly what he's doing.
“You said this, us, it can’t matter anymore, right? And that was the only thing keeping me going, so who knows?" He leans back and smiles, actually fucking smiles, and you really do think you might punch him in the face. "Maybe I won’t meet with Murdock. Maybe I’ll just let karma do its thing, balance the scales. Because if we don’t matter, then my life doesn’t matter to me.”
His words leave you speechless for a few reasons.
1) On one hand, you’re absolutely seething—because after everything, how dare he try to pull some blatant bush league, guilt-tripping, Quantico 101 shit on you and then sit there and look so goddamn smug about it? But it also makes your heart skip a beat, in a twisted way: that he’s willing to try absolutely anything to get you to stay in his life for good. To make you promise that you can still figure things out together.
2) You look at him, really look at him, and for the first time today, you don’t just see Dex. You see Bullseye.
And you like it.
“Jesus Christ,” you chuckle darkly, resting your head in your hands.
And as you sit there, you realize you’re tired. Tired of, as Dex said, “trying to outrun it.” Tired of pretending like you were ever going to be able to walk out the door today without knowing he’d end up back at your side. Tired of pretending like you couldn't be together, that you wouldn't give anything to make it happen.
Fuck it.
You lift your head up, mirroring his calm demeanor.
“Why are there no cameras in here?”
Dex frowns, thrown slightly by the seemingly random ask and looking at you curiously.
“Attorney-client privilege, you know that. And I’m pretty sure the guards use it for drug deals. But don’t change the subject.”
“I’m not.” You drag your chair forward until you’re within inches of him, your pulse picking up immediately. “I asked a specific question for a specific reason.”
And before he can reply, before you can change your mind, before you decide to listen to the voice in your head yelling "this is crazy!!!,” you grab his face in your hands and you kiss him.
As you pull back, your hands still on his face, Dex looks dumbstruck for a second, lips slightly parted as he stares into your eyes. Then, you catch the briefest flash of a triumphant grin before he practically headbutts you, so eager to get his lips back on yours.
You smile against him, dizzy from the dopamine surge as you match his pace, his fervor, before you slip your tongue in to meet his; heat flooding through you at the wrecked little groan he makes. The angle isn't perfect and it's a little rushed, a little messy, but you don't care—because finally, everything that ever went unspoken between you two of you is out in the open.
And there's no going back now.
Suddenly, he bites down on your bottom lip, hard enough that it might've broke skin, and you quickly pull back.
“Hey,” you say firmly, shaking your head. “No evidence here.”
He looks gorgeous like this: hazel eyes fixed on yours, blown-out and ready to devour; breathing gone ragged with want. Simply starving for you.
He gives you a wicked grin, chuckling.
“Have it your way, pretty girl, but just wait until I’m-”
“‘Till you're what?” you cut him off. “You can't do shit since you’re stuck in chains and gonna die here, right?”
“Hm. Change of plans,” he breathes out, and you fight the urge to roll your eyes.
Men.
His gaze follows you as you duck under his restraints, crawling up onto his lap and straddling him. Your hands slide to his shoulders, working your lips, your tongue, up his neck; still mindful enough to fight the urge to sink your teeth in, to mark him up and finally, rightfully, claim him as yours.
"Fuck, Y/N. Don’t stop,” he rasps as you slowly roll your hips against him. You hear chains rattle suddenly and Dex growls with frustration. You look down and see the restraints pulled taut, veins practically popping out of Dex’s forearms from trying—and—failing to get his hands on you.
Five minutes ago, you would've felt bad. But that was before he thought he could play games with you, before he tried to turn his life into a bargaining chip.
So, as much as you love him, you laugh.
“Aw, this is hard for you, isn't it," you coo, tilting your head slightly.
"You finally get what you want, and you can’t do anything about it. Can’t touch me like how you want to.” You bring your mouth to his ear and graze it with your teeth, relishing the low drawl of “fuck” that falls from his tongue.
Your voice drops to a whisper.
“But unfortunately for you, you’re not in any position to tell me what I will or won’t do.
Before he can reply, you grab his hair in your fist, yanking back and tilting his head up to look at you.
“Now listen very, very carefully. If you ever try to pull that manipulative, 101 psyops bullshit with me again, I am gone." Your voice lowers further. "You will never taste me again, you will never get to use those hands on me, and so help me God, Dex, I will fuck every guy that looks my way within a 20-mile radius of here and I will send you detailed letters about it. Do you understand?”
Even though you’re threatening him, Dex just grins at you like he's won the lottery.
“There she is,” he breathes out with an exhilarated chuckle, eyes sparkling with awe as he stares up at you. “You're amazing.”
Your grip on his hair tightens, and the strained, contented little sigh he lets out might be the best sound you've ever heard.
“Answer my question.”
“Yes, I understand.”
“Good.” You let go of his hair and gaze into those hazel eyes, run your thumb across the scar on his cheek.
“Now, stop being a dick and ask me what you really wanted to ask in the first place."
“If I get out," he says slowly, bringing his forehead to yours. "Will you still want me?”
“Yes, Dex, I will still want you,” you murmur. “I never stopped.” You pull back to look at him. “So you’re going to stay alive in here and if you want to ‘protect me,’ fine. But I am only giving you 48 hours to figure out how you’re getting out of here and coming back to me, or I will be back for that name myself, which I will get from you by whatever means necessary.” You poke his chest. “Got it?”
And God, he looks transformed, glowing like you turned on a light switch inside him; brightening the weathered lines on his face, eyes filled with rapturous, slightly manic devotion.
“I’m gonna make things right with us,” he says fervently, nodding his head. “I promise. I can do it.”
And tears start to well up in your eyes, because you know he means it.
“What’s wrong?” he murmurs.
“I just. I missed you, too,” you reply, voice cracking. “So much.”
He kisses you again, softer this time, and you melt into it. Then, you duck back under the restraints, smoothing your hair out and wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. Good, no blood.
"How do I look?" you ask him.
"Beautiful."
You smile.
"Thanks, but no, I meant, 'Do I look like I just made out with you in prison?'"
"Oh. No. You're good." He actually sounds a little disappointed, and you try not to laugh. You cup his face in your hand.
“48 hours. Stay safe. For me,” you add softly.
He nods. “I will.” He turns his head slightly, eyes still on yours as he grazes your fingers with his lips. “See you soon, baby.”
You head to the door and turn back one last time, and you see the version of Dex you arguably love most: the version you obsessively devoted yourself to drawing out at the Bureau, the version that filled your entire body with warmth whenever you caught it; slipping through the cracks in his armor and gaining the privilege to see the rarest, most precious side of him.
It’s the version of himself where he lets himself be happy.
You force your smile away, draw your face back into a what you hope is a neutral expression, and knock on the door. The guard opens it.
"How'd it go?" he asks, letting you walk out as he shuts the door behind him.
You shrug.
"Unproductive. Like you said, crazy asshole."
The guard grimaces sympathetically. Phew. He bought it.
As you move from the lonely bus off Rikers to the familiar bustling rhythm of the city, wandering your way back to your apartment, you feel elated and hopeful and nauseous all at once.
Because holy shit, that had really happened: you’d finally kissed Dex. He’d kissed you back, he wanted you, you were going to be together.
And holy shit, yes, Dex wanted you and you were going to be together—and it would be an ill-logistical, most likely illegal, clusterfuck to make it work.
You had signed your life over the second you’d kissed him, surrendering any semblance of a normal existence.
But yet, you can’t stop smiling on your way home, can’t stop replaying the feel of Dex’s lips on yours, the way he kissed you like he was drowning and you were the only source of air; your body still humming electric from his manic adoration for you, only you.
His parting words to you are stuck on repeat, your new favorite song echoing in your head:
“See you soon, baby.”
And when your head hits the pillow that night, for the first time in a long time, you don’t dread waking up in the morning.
---
The next two days are the longest of your life, punctuated only by your frequent, covert refreshes of the local news website and glances at the TV in the FBI lobby. Waiting for any hint that Dex either secured an appeal or got out by … other means.
And if you’re honest, at this point, you don’t even care which it is. You feel like an addict going through withdrawal, hungrily waiting for another fix.
As the 48 hours approach, you trudge home from work and realize that you’re disappointed. That while you had given him a seemingly impossible, insane task, you really had believed he’d be able to figure it out.
Because if nothing else, you knew Dex liked a challenge.
You get home and unlock the door, kicking off your shoes and flicking on the light switch at the same time. You sigh and head toward the kitchen, fully ready to grab yourself a beer and order consolation takeout before you plan your trip to Rikers tomorrow.
Then, you stop in your tracks.
“What the-”
Your kitchen counters have been covered with a very expansive, very neat buffet from your favorite Mexican restaurant, everything from tacos and a rainbow of salsas and toppings to churros. There’s even two margaritas at the end, adorned with perfectly symmetrical salt rings.
But what gets you the most, what makes your heart want burst out of your chest, is the bouquet of flowers sitting in a vase.
Because, while you'd never admit it out loud, you had daydreamed wya too many times about getting flowers from your favorite FBI coworker.
And now, there they were. And clearly, so was he.
“Dex?” you call out, and then, he’s there; rounding the corner from your hallway into your kitchen.
Suddenly, you’re breathless, heart racing like a teenager.
Except for the neat stitch on his forehead, Dex doesn’t look like someone who just escaped from prison.
He just looks like an ordinary guy who’s nervous before a first date. He looks, well, good. Like he took time to think about what he was wearing, which makes no sense considering where he just came from. Dark jacket, grey jeans, and a hesitant half-smile, his eyes flickering from you to the kitchen.
And you know without a shadow of a doubt that he’s waiting for your approval.
You break the silence.
“I take it you’re not getting an appeal,” you say.
Dex shakes his head.
“Nah. Murdock wasn’t interested. But it all worked out anyways.” And now I don’t have to wait to see you.” He smirks slightly. “Your locks are shit, by the way. I expected better security from you.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, the next time I know you’re planning to break in, I’ll make sure to turn the laser beams on.”
“It’s fine, I’ll get you better locks this week.”
Fresh out of prison, and he’s worried your safety. And maybe you should think that's insane. But you don’t.
You think it’s romantic.
“Just to be clear, you’ve just been out for like a day, right?” you ask. “And you somehow managed to do … all this?" Your voice quiets. "For me?”
His gaze softens as he nods, fingers tapping on his leg.
“I told you, I was gonna make things right. To do this right with you. Like how I should’ve in the first place.”
And you can’t help it, heat rises in your cheeks, a giddy little smile blooming on your face at his words, at the way he's looking at you.
“Well, I’d say you’re off to a very good start.”
Dex looks relieved, smiling fully this time, and it feels like the goddamn sun is inside your chest.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
And you were right. Dex was just waiting for the green light—your validation—and it sends him half-running across the kitchen, practically tackling you into the counter as he kisses you.
His freed hands roam from your face to your hair to your waist; curious and ecstatic and possessive all at once, like you’re the precious treasure he’s spent a lifetime searching for and finally found.
You pull back only to bury your face into his neck, your arms around him and his own wrapping you so tightly against him that you’re surprised you can breathe.
Happy tears spring up in your eyes as you savor how he feels, how he smells (delicious); warm and solid and real and finally, finally back where he belongs, where he was always meant to be.
With you.
“You’re really here,” you whisper, and he shifts you back slightly, one hand framing your face.
“And you’re really mine,” he murmurs, grinning broadly, the corners of his eyes creasing. You match his smile.
"Always was." You swat his chest lightly. “But we have to be so fucking careful, Dex. Not to insult your intelligence, but so I don’t have a panic attack, you’re not on any CCTV footage around here, right?
“That is insulting, actually; it’s a good thing you’re cute,” he says, smirking, brushing some stray hair behind your ear. “No, and the camera closest to here now has ‘mysterious damage.’”
“Ok. And you’re obviously staying here until any press dies down but, after that?”
“Somewhere in this neighborhood, close to you,” he murmurs, kissing the top of your head. “Until we can find a new place together.” He sounds excited—almost too excited. “Wherever you want. You liked California, right?”
Tires screech in your head, everything coming to a jarring halt because woah, woah, wait, California, what?!
“Uh, yeah,” you say with a half laugh. “But I don’t work in California anymore, honey, I work here. In New York.”
Dex frowns, looking confused.
“Wait, you’re still planning on going to work?”
“Yeah, why wouldn’t I?”
He looks at you like you’re insane, the irony of that not escaping you.
“You’re a federal agent harboring a fugitive. And you were the one who went off about how we couldn’t work as agent-convict.” His laugh is too sharp, a mocking grin appearing on his face that makes your eyebrows raise. “Now, not to insult your intelligence, but how could going into the Bureau every day make sense?”
Your heartbeat accelerates again, but this time, it’s because you’re pissed—at his shitty tone and because you know he’s not exactly … wrong.
“I know it doesn’t,” you huff. “But I’m just trying my fucking best here, given the circumstances. You got any better ideas?”
“Yeah, quit.”
“What?!”
Dex shrugs.
“I can make more in 5 hits than you make in a year.” The bite in his tone vanishes entirely, going sweet and earnest so quickly you feel like you have whiplash. “Then you wouldn’t have to worry about anything.” He grabs your waist again, thumbs tracing your ribs. “You could do whatever you wanted, we could go wherever we wanted, and you could just," he pauses with a smile, “let me take care of you.”
You’re silent for a few moments. Honestly, you don’t really have a strong rebuttal. On the surface, the offer seems thoughtful, domestic, even—even though, yeah, it involves homicide. Because you know Dex really will do anything, will give absolutely everything, to keep you safe and happy with him. To create your own little world together.
And also, hell yeah, early retirement!
But there's also the faintest chill running up your spine as you let his words, that light-switch change in his demeanor, sink in. Because despite the genuine care in his voice, you know that his offer isn’t really an offer.
It’s a demand.
You should be more unnerved by that fact, should be running full speed in the opposite direction. But you're not. Because if you're honest, there's a small, secret part of you that wanted to be wanted like this, chosen so fully that everything else in the universe just faded into the background.
You want to be mad at Dex, but you can't, can't blame him for being who he is—not when you were the one who saw the danger in the riptide and still dove in headfirst.
Now, it was time to go where the current wanted to take you.
“I need at least a month,” you finally say.
Dex opens his mouth to reply, but you hold up your hand, stopping him.
“I can’t just up and leave without it seeming suspicious. I need to make it seem reasonable, drop hints around that I’m burnt out.” You sigh. “Which is not a total lie. But I'm gonna miss it. So just … let me at least pretend I can have you and still do the job I love for a little while.” Your voice quiets and you blink back unexpected tears. “Please. You owe me that much.”
Dex nods quickly. “That’s fair.” Now, it's his turn to sigh, genuine distress appearing on his face as he cups your face in one hand. "Fuck, sweetheart, I didn’t mean to upset you. I don’t want to ruin tonight and-
"Hey, stop, you haven’t. I mean, between the two of us, you’re actually presenting the more logical option. It’s not like I wanna keep my boyfriend a secret forever.” Dex visibly perks up at the word “boyfriend,” and you can't help it, you smile.
“So I guess the ‘murder sugar daddy route’ does have its perks.”
Dex’s brow furrows.
“I wouldn’t call it that,” he mutters sulkily, and you have to fight back a laugh.
“Oh yeah?" You wrap your arms around his neck. "What would you call it, then?”
“Hm. The ‘being an extra good boyfriend’ route.”
“You know what? That does sound better.”
Dex chuckles before he kisses you again, slower this time but with the same pressing need that leaves your head spinning; flooded with how good he feels, how right this feels.
So, consequences be damned.
He takes your hand in his, eyes never leaving yours as he brings it to his lips with a tenderness no one else would ever believe; butterflies dancing throughout your whole being.
“I’m gonna make this worth it for you. All of it. I promise.”
And you smile and tell him the truth—the most irrational, beautiful, simple truth you know:
⊹ synopsis | being the little sister to karen page has its downsides. when dex’s bullet finds the wrong girl, so does his obsession. STEAMY. slow burn. dark romance. obsession. dom!dex & page!reader.
⊹ warnings | this is DARK. stockholm syndrome, obsession, stalking, mentions of mental illness / addiction, harm, religion, age-gap romance, etc. read at your own discretion.
⊹ next chap | lmk if you’d like to be tagged | ♫
you didn’t know what was worse, the fact that you’d refused to go to the hospital for a bullet wound in your stomach, or that you’d been hunched over your corkboard for two hours and your spine felt like it had adopted a new, crooked shape.
in your defense, you had a rough history with hospitals.
you winced as a thumbtack bit into your finger, but gratefulness settled warm on your shoulders shortly after.
the puzzle was finally piecing together.
fisk. the mayor. the hit.
manila papers scattered the board. faces of people you’d never met stared back at you, and somewhere in the blur of it all was a picture; grainy, but true. countless smear campaigns against fisk, the satirical broadcasts, someone with media access trying to wake hell’s kitchen up.
that someone was your sister.
your stupid, stupid sister.
you’d never been more sure.
and from there it all clicked. this apartment was listed under PAGE per public record. fisk took a shot at silencing who he thought was karen. it was simpler than money, power. no, he had that already so it was even worse.
he was protecting himself. his name. his carefully constructed image. from what? you didn’t know. but you were certain it was more than karen’s whistleblowing.
you were just a loose thread he’d tried to pull. er— karen was.
you’d buried yourself in all of this, probably to avoid the more pressing reality which was that you’d been traumatized approximately forty eight hours ago and could very realistically go septic and die if you didn’t google how to properly tend to a bullet wound soon.
it could wait.
foggy’s face gazed back at you from beneath a green tack. the only photo you had of him. karen had dragged him along on the annual summer trip and you’d braced yourself for some insufferable lawyer who would spend the whole week mansplaining the ocean to you.
and then you’d met him. warm and ridiculous and the kind of person who could talk about a fucking marble until two in the morning and make it the most interesting conversation you’d ever had.
a once in a lifetime person. that’s who foggy nelson was.
it made sense why your sister had arrived on your doorstep in pieces only a week after his death. she’d loved him, and she’d carried his blood home with her.
and then there was matt.
you ground your teeth.
the insufferable prick who had all but emotionally abandoned your sister when her grief didn’t move at the speed of his caseload.
so it all tracked. karen running the broadcast, trying to shake hell’s kitchen awake with both hands. some elaborate chess game between her and fisk, one you were almost certain matt had walked her directly into. but why?
it was a game that could have cost her everything if you hadn’t been the one at the sauce pot.
and still, one question sat unanswered at the center of the board.
who shot me?
and more pressingly, why the hell had they stitched you up rather than left you in a ditch somewhere. you were fairly certain fisk’s reach allowed for ditches.
you pinched your brows together.
“i watch too much NCIS,” you muttered, rolling your shoulders and forcing your spine into something resembling upright.
you let your head fall back against the couch and stared at the ceiling. wondering if the curiosity was stupid. if you should just lock the door and wait for karen to handle it as per usual. but karen had matt, and matt had a habit of deciding who needed protecting and from what, and you had strong doubts that list included you.
so no. you didn’t feel like choice was something being offered.
a rattle.
soft. sudden.
your head snapped to the countertop.
what the f-
lilies. violet ones, in a slim glass vase, identical in color to the painting hung directly above your bed.
you swallowed.
you were ill, yes. possibly delirious, even. but not so far gone that you’d forgotten accepting a delivery. letting someone in. signing for anything. which meant —
“fuck.”
your phone rang and you nearly came out of your skin.
you were trembling, eyes refusing to leave the countertop, fingers moving on instinct as you pressed the phone to your ear.
“hello?”
“baby? heyyyy, it’s jess.”
a slow blink. the lilies blurred at the edges. realization struck you like a dagger to the chest.
someone had been in this apartment while you were hunched over your corkboard in a blissful, oblivious blur. standing at your counter.
watching you work.
the goosebumps came slow and deliberate up your arms.
“you’re out of rehab.” your voice came out steadier than you felt. low. careful.
“yeah, baby listen — can i crash at yours tonight? pops is on my ass again about the job stuff and— oh shit, kare? hey! babe, did you know your sister is here?”
the warmth that moved through you then was not a kind one. hot and feverish and immediate,
karen. fuck.
your eyes went wide and you dropped to your knees, dragging the corkboard beneath the couch, stuffing crumpled papers under the cushions with shaking hands.
“wh— just— tell her to leave—”
if it was him, the man in the mask, he still had a job to finish.
“we’re comin’ up now—”
“jesse. no—” he wouldn’t listen.
you slammed the phone face down on the carpet.
three minutes. maybe less, depending on ray at the buzzer. not enough time to sweep the whole studio. the bathroom, the bedroom, the balcony; too many places for an assassin to strike.
trembling hands grabbed the vase and turned it slowly, checking the underside, the roots, the water. nothing. no bomb. no death. just— flowers.
and then a flash of blue between the stems. it slipped through your fingers twice before you got it. a little card. blue sky, a rainbow arching across the front. golden letters.
GET WELL SOON!
you unfolded it.
inside, in clean, perfect script:
whoops, wrong target ☹⌖
a juvenile sad face. and beneath it — a hand drawn bullseye.
your brows knit so hard they ached.
you flipped to the back. and there, in sharp block letters that looked like they’d been pressed hard enough to indent the cardstock:
LOCK YOUR WINDOWS, Y/N.
four knocks at the door.
“one second!”
you shoved the card into the bin, curled your hand around your midsection and hissed through your teeth as you limped toward the bedroom. you were not afraid to die, no. not yet. you’d watched enough true crime to understand exactly what this was.
a moth in a jar.
you were just something being played with before being snuffed out.
the bedroom was colder than it should have been.
your breath was short as you shoved the window down with both hands, the window you were certain had been closed, and flipped both locks. a sharp look into the bathroom. a painful glance under the bed.
nothing. no one.
more knocks.
you wiped your face with the back of your hand, sniffled once, and limped to the front door. you kept the chain on and opened it three inches.
“i’m contagious.”
karen’s steel blue eyes moved over what little of you she could see, and something in them shifted immediately. jesse’s face fell behind her with the disappointment of a man whose plans had just been fucked.
“y/n.” karen’s voice was careful. “are you alright?”
the note. the lilies. the window.
the man who had crouched over you on this very floor and tucked your hair back like you were the moon and it was his first time seeing it.
you swallowed all of it down.
“peachy keen, karen.”
she didn’t believe you. she had that page look in her eye, the one dad used to wear when karen would lie about being drunk despite reeking of liquor. the one karen gave you when you were dosing all the time.
“contagious with what, exactly?”
a gulp. nervous eyes snapping toward where jesse pinched the skin between his brows. karen didn’t give you a chance to answer, she knew it was bullshit anyway.
her steel eyes cut to jesse, then back to you. and whatever morphed across her face in that moment made your stomach ache worse than the wound sitting behind the door.
“are you both using again?”
you went rigid.
you understood, on surface level, why she’d go there. this was weird. you were acting weird. but that accusation still landed like an open palm across your cheek. you clenched your jaw tight.
“no, karen. i’m not using again.”
she pursed her lips, exhaled slow through her nose. white-knuckled on the strap of her purse. your next breath was shaky and smelled of smoke and heroine.
you started naming cities in your head.
“but you’re back with jesse.”
not a question. the way she said it made you sway on your feet. the throbbing in your midsection sharpened all at once.
“i found out he was here when you did, kare.” a beat. “but thanks — for the backhanded concern. i think you’d know if i was sticking the needle in again.”
something cracked across her features then. regret, quick and unmistakable. she frowned, pressed her lips together, and without a word dug through her purse and pressed a folded wad of cash into jesse’s hand. his brows jumped to his hairline.
“holy shit, kare — than—”
“don’t.” quiet. absolute. “go find somewhere to stay that is nowhere near my sister. and so help me god, jessie; i have connections. if any of them tell me you were buying, you’ll be prosecuted by morning.”
matt. some perk.
your ex nodded once, slow. his eyes flicked to the crack in the door, tongue dragging across his chapped lips.
“later, y/n.”
that shake. that particular tremble in the way he said your name, the sniffle as he turned and walked away. that was something even karen page couldn’t piece together. something only you knew intimately.
he’d lapse within the hour.
but you wouldn’t tell her that. more pressing matters at hand.
when she turned back to you, you shook your head gently. you should have shut the door, locked her out just in case he was still close. but he would have tried by now, wouldn’t he?
“i’m sorry.”
you forgave her. you didn’t say that, because opportunity had arrived.
“accusations, right? s’my turn.” you pulled the page look on for yourself — pursed lips, steady eyes. “you said the mayor put a hit out on you. tell me why.”
your sister didn’t crack.
“i misspoke.”
“you’re lying to me.”
“you’d know if he’d sent a hit out for you. you’d be dead.”
you almost laughed out loud. if only she knew about the wound you were nursing three inches behind this door. your jaw ticked.
“fine. don’t tell me. fuck if i care — i’ll find out my own way.”
karen shook her head immediately.
“no. you need to stay away from this, do you hear me—”
“so there is something.”
“no — yes — christ, just listen to me! i’ll tell you when the time is right. that time is not now.”
silence fell between you both. the long, tension laced kind. her hand wrapped around the edge of the door where you held it open. tears stung at her eyes, red blooming across her nose and cheeks. she licked her lips and smiled — dry, tired.
“i shouldn’t have accused you. i’m sorry.”
you bowed your head.
it was nothing you weren’t already used to. you kept that part to yourself.
you thought about matt then. the way he looks at you when you’re around. careful, measured, like you’re something that requires fragility.
and it made sense, in a way. you’d ruined their lives once. karen. matt. you. foggy.
but foggy… he never looked at you like that though.
foggy used to look at you like you were just a person.
you swallowed back the tears crawling up your throat and steadied your breath.
“s’fine.” smaller than you meant it. “just — please. as soon as you feel clear weather on this, tell me.”
a single nod.
“i promise.”
you watched her face when she said it.
you didn’t believe her.
𖦏₊ ⊹
it wasn’t planned. of course it wasn’t. none of this was.
his pretty little north star. messy and the opposite of uniform, the antithesis of everything he’d ever sought out in a fixed point. he hated her.
god, he couldn’t get enough of her.
depravity had settled into his chest like a splinter. two agonizing days of it. two days of fisk buzzing in his ear about the importance of eliminating karen page, and ben nodding along like a man whose attention was fully present.
it was far from that.
he didn’t tell fisk, of course. not about her. not after julie. he knew better than that.
but he could control this. right? this wasn’t like julie. he could still perform the hit, get the job done. how different this was, he’d even been apart from her for two whole days!
day one, morning — he meditated. twenty minutes. focused. good.
day one, night — he stalked every crumb of her the internet had to offer until 3am.
y/n, huh… it tasted good on his tongue.
day two, morning — exercise. discipline. structure.
day two, night — he mapped every entrance to her apartment. every window. every weak point in the lock.
east window will be most efficient to see all of her.
day three.
a dream.
her wide, teary eyes. the addictive softness of her skin beneath his fingertips. he’d leaned down in it, watched her tremble, licked the tears from her cheeks while she squirmed beneath him. that last part was his imagination’s finest work, and he woke up with the blanket tented high and every nerve in his body pulled toward her like a compass finding north. he wrapped his hand around himself but by the second stroke he winced, he wanted to wait for her.
the urges had officially outpaced the control.
he needed more. he needed to see more.
getting in was easier than it should have been. he clenched his teeth. did she not care about the risk of some psychopath crawling through her window? he pressed his command down on the cardstock so hard, it dented and bled.
he’d spent two hours watching her from the half wall separating her bedroom from the rest of the studio. she had absolutely no idea. it made him grin.
he was relieved to find the apartment tidy — save for that chaotic explosion she was piecing together on the corkboard. he’d watched her work it, head tilted. she was so close and so very far simultaneously, and every time something clicked behind her eyes he felt a toothy grin pull at the corner of his mouth.
that’s it. almost.
his breaths were loud in his own ears. the vase of lilies in his arms, heavier.
how could he not bring them? he was a gentleman. and they matched the painting above her bed; the bed he had gotten very well acquainted with in her absence.
he’d pressed his face into the sheets and breathed. sweet, indulgent, the kind of thing he could inhale for the rest of his life and never tire of. tobacco and vanilla threaded through silk with something bright underneath— neroli, no- clementine, maybe. soft and warm and entirely, perfectly her. it took everything he had to pry himself away from them.
when he tired of watching her fail to crack the case for the sixth time, he moved. quiet, measured steps toward the island. he set the vase down.
it rattled.
he found the nearest shadow and went still. then retreated to the bedroom doorway, and waited.
the freeze that moved through her was worth every second. every single hair raising on her skin, those wide eyes, that idiotic bravery that made something in him simultaneously want to shake her and bend her over his-
she pried herself up. she found his flowers.
so good.
but then, a voice. male. crackling through the receiver but unmistakably male, and she was speaking to it, and the familiarity in her voice was not the kind she’d been using for her sister.
he went very still.
oh no no no, little star. already?
he leaned closer anyway. just to be sure. the name came through clear enough.
jesse.
one name. that’s all he needed.
with one last look at her, finding his note, reading those four words with that particular shade of fear he was quickly developing a preference for; he crawled through the open window and dropped down the pole to the cobblestones below.
⊹ synopsis | being the little sister to karen page has its downsides. when dex’s bullet finds the wrong girl, so does his obsession. STEAMY. slow burn. dark romance. obsession. dom!dex & page!reader.
⊹ warnings | this is DARK. stockholm syndrome, obsession, stalking, mentions of mental illness / addiction, harm, religion, age-gap romance, etc. read at your own discretion.
⊹ next chap | lmk if you’d like to be tagged | ♫
if your pain had a color, you’d label it black. so vast and endless you felt consumed by it.
you couldn’t take a full breath. your heart stuttered when your eyes found your ceiling.
your ugly, rotting ceiling.
you had never been more grateful to see it.
tears stung and your hands trembled as you tucked your chin to your chest. your white top had been pulled to your ribs. the source of the blossoming ache was bandaged.
“what the fu—ah.”
okay. no talking.
“hmm.” you let your head fall back against the olive threads of your couch, eyes squeezing shut. something tickled at your temples. trembling fingertips found gauze wrapped around your throbbing head.
get up, y/n.
one leg first, then the other. you screamed as your stomach bent, teeth sinking into your shoulder, tears soaking through the fabric. you fell to your knees, palms catching the edge of the coffee table.
you and karen had a rule. some juvenile thing she only agreed to because you wouldn’t shut up about it.
whatever you’re avoiding, you have to do it by three.
both you and god knew this would be the worst countdown of your entire life.
“o-ne.”
still at one.
a shaky breath.
“two.”
fuck fuck fuck just—
“thre—ah—” the meat stitched behind the bandage folded and stretched against its hold and you bit down on everything that wanted to come out of your mouth. you hummed the law and order theme instead, digging your nails into your hips, teeth into the chapped pillow of your lower lip.
and then, slowly, you began to limp.
to where, you didn’t know.
once you reached the middle of your small studio you turned in a slow circle.
empty. no one. no sign of anything.
okay. you were going crazy. that was the only explanation. maybe the knife slipped when you were dicing tomatoes for your sa—
your sauce.
your head snapped to the stove.
four limps and you arrived.
more jarring than the pain in your midsection, the burner was off. and the pot? clean as a whistle. no sauce dribbling down the sides the way you’d last seen it, furious and bubbling and indifferent to what was happening to you on the floor.
you don’t know how long you stood there clutching the white countertop and staring down at the cold, undisturbed surface of it.
long enough that it was the vibration of your phone against the counter that pulled you out. the instrumental of a stevie nicks track hummed against the tile. karen’s face smiled up at you from the screen; cancun, four summers ago, her steel blue eyes doing that thing they did where they made everything feel temporarily safe.
against every better instinct, you picked up.
“h-hello?”
“y/n.” the relief in karen’s voice was immediate and slightly terrifying. “oh thank christ. please tell me you’re alright.”
a blink.
a glance down at your stomach.
a glance back at the pot.
“i’m… fine?” you sounded unsure because you were.
“good. good.” a pause, the particular kind that meant she was choosing her words carefully. “there was — it’s complicated. fisk sent someone to your address. a hit. but i guess they never showed up, so—”
“the mayor sent someone to—”
silence on the line. a flurry of hushed voices disagreeing just beyond the receiver. you swayed on your feet, lips parted, waiting.
“the most important thing is that you’re alright,” karen said finally, and the firmness in her voice meant the conversation was over before it started. “i’ll come by later. i love you.”
“yeah, i—”
you stilled.
because your eyes had drifted back to the island, and there, sitting upright, perfectly centered, clean as the pot and the stitching and every other impossible thing in this apartment… was a bullet.
the bullet.
weathered bronze. cold between your fingertips when you lifted it.
not a drop of blood on it. not a trace of copper, not a single thing to suggest where it had just been.
buried in your stomach…
and it all came back at once. the sauce. the floor. the ceiling doing that horrible swimming thing. the blood soaking through white cotton and the man crouched over you; masked, still, something behind his eyes that wasn’t quite human and wasn’t quite not.
you’re not karen page.
your would-be assassin.
who was either dead in a ditch somewhere or the very same man who had stitched your wound, cleaned the pot, turned off the burner, and placed this bullet here. upright, deliberate, like punctuation at the end of a sentence.
with trembling fingers you peeled back the edge of the bandage. expert stitching. clean edges. no blood smeared on the surrounding skin.
he left it here on purpose. you were certain of that the way you were certain of the moon.
chills moved slow and deliberate up your spine.
“hello?” karen’s voice cut through the static of your thoughts like a lone lantern in the night sky. you flinched.
you stood there for a long moment, thumb pressed against the cool face of the bullet, swallowing back everything rising in your throat.
“i love you too, karen…”
𖦏₊ ⊹
he should have left. practicality or whatever. his banana milkshake was sweating into banana slush at some shitty diner down the road, karen page was still breathing, and fisk would want his head on a silver platter for the miss.
that last part was the lesser of the pressing issues, as it turned out.
untied knots made him itch. hornets buzzing behind his eyes, loud and insistent.
it had to be perfect, there were three leads to follow, karen page was still breathing— and yet here he stood. perfect view from the balcony. shadow swallowed by a fern and the sheer frilly curtains his new little star had hung.
oh, look at her.
the sound she made when she cried out created an ache he hadn’t felt in a long time. not since julie. hot, insistent, spreading through his bloodstream before throbbing at his crotch. he tightened his grip on the rails. her pain was all his doing. the way she moved, like a legless fawn, so very oblivious of her audience.
he’d done that to her.
something about that sat in his chest and purred.
he needed to see more of it.
she’d been asleep two hours by the time he moved. he took the time to tidy the pigsty she called a home. there wasn’t much to see in such a small place, but her bedroom became his favorite very quickly. scattered perfume bottles and paint, and that haunting painting of lilies above her bed. signed page. she was a painter.
he’d learned many superficial things in his short time there.
he’d hovered longer than was necessary. he’d done his good deed, balanced the scale for her prayer. but something…
he catalogued the way her lips parted in sleep, the faint flutter of her lashes, the slow rise and fall of her chest beneath that ruined white top.
such a nice top…
she was young, early 20s at most. far younger than he was. he studied the bandaging he’d done himself, neat and precise, sitting just below the swell of her very pretty—
no.
the little gray bottle on her nightstand was labeled suboxone. recovering addict. rosary under the pillow, afraid or hypocrite. he filed it away with everything else. surface things weren’t enough. he wanted her thoughts. her reactions. wanted to peel back every careful layer and see what was underneath.
what would she do when she finally put it together?
oh, that maniac kept me alive. what is he gonna do next?
the corner of his mouth twitched.
awful things.
it took an agonizing while. his knuckles had gone white around the balcony rail by the time she finally saw it; the bullet. and something in him pulled taut like a wire about to snap. watching her turn it over in her fingers, slow, edging him. watching her eyes swell with fear.
he hummed low, squinting in the scope of his gun as she murmured something tearfully to the phone.
the hornets buzzed so loud his fingers twitched toward the sliding door.
what would she do?
thank him for his goodness? get on her knees and —
“no.”
forced through gritted teeth. one leg over the railing, then the other, quick and controlled.
no. no no no. not this time.
she was good. he had a sense of it after her little prayer. and he was doing good under the fisk administration. that’s what he breathed into his chest like scripture on the way down. concrete. order. something to obey.
because if he spent another moment on that balcony, so close to her.
Pairing: Benjamin Poindexter x fem!Reader Word Count: 5.1k [Series Masterlist] [Dex Fic Masterlist]
Warnings/tags: 18+; stalker-to-lovers, domestic abuse, violence, unstable!Reader, hurt/comfort, angst, suicidal ideation, smut, dead dove do not eat
a/n: I've updated some of the warnings/tags in case y'all haven't noticed! Since this is expanding far past a one shot, I needed to cover a few more things. Feedback and reblogs are always appreciated!
The worn, roughened end of your pen was wedged between your teeth, two of your fingers rolling it between them as you restlessly gnawed on the back of it. Leaning an elbow against your work desk, you sat hunched over the keyboard with your chin resting in your palm. As you scanned over the last few lines of the paragraph that you’d just typed, the words barely registered in your mind.
You couldn’t seem to focus on anything this morning, not with your rising frustration clouding your thoughts. Struggling to care about how to word the current piece you were writing, you willed yourself to give a shit, but instead the cursor on the screen continued to blink tauntingly back at you. Ellison had emailed yesterday and given you an asinine, pointless news story to work on this week, one you felt entirely disconnected from.
And you owed it all to Mayor Fisk.
After the uproar your article about his task force had caused around the city, Ellison had received multiple calls throughout the weekend from Fisk's administration. They'd continued calling The Bulletin throughout the morning even though your story had gone to print three days ago and all of New York City had already seen it. But with the negative attention it'd garnered from Mayor Fisk, Ellison said it was better that you take a step back from covering the hot political topics for a bit, so he’d assigned you a very boring, very safe fluff piece to work on for the week.
He was punishing you. There was no other explanation. You had just written a very in-depth story exposing the truth behind the AVTF's so-called terrorist round-up, and you'd been rewarded with a bottom of the barrel, vacuous story. It was the sort of thing Ellison threw at new reporters to gauge their perseverance and drive, not the sort of story you spent your time covering. It felt like a betrayal, one that’d left you bitter all morning as you’d gone over the notes you’d put together yesterday for your current assignment.
Ignoring the repetitive click clack of fingers dancing across multiple keyboards echoing around the office, the sound melted into the background of your noisy mind as you continued to resentfully chew on your pen. You deserved better than this. You shouldn’t have been tossed aside and given garbage to report on just because you’d covered something that’d gotten people talking. That was bullshit.
But you needed to force your thoughts onto something more calming, you needed to keep a level head. You were still at work, after all. You had a professional appearance to maintain, you couldn't erupt in the middle of the work day. That wouldn't make you look very good.
Forcing your thoughts away from bashing Fisk's bald head in with your computer monitor, you instead remembered the note Dex had slipped under your door this morning. The faintest smile drew itself across your lips as you blankly stared at the computer screen, your eyes glazing over as your thoughts shifted to him instead.
He was the only thing in your life lately that made you feel much of anything anymore. It’d been so long since you’d felt something other than a dissociative detachment from your every day, often wandering aimless through a fog and barely present in your own life. Only the short-lived bursts of fear whenever your exes had flipped on you and gotten violent ever seemed to break through that haze of constant nothingness, which left you beginning to wonder if maybe there'd been a reason why you attracted men like that all along.
But Dex’s continued attention had started to make you feel giddy. It made you feel seen. It’d started to put a smile on your face. At first you’d been frightened of him when you’d realized he’d been watching you, but now it wasn’t fear that seemed to be breaking through the perpetual numbness, it was an entire torrent of emotions you’d felt closed off from for years. And he’d given you that without even realizing it.
He’d done so much more than just save you from your ex.
You’d found yourself growing curious about him ever since you’d run into him at The Little Crow this past weekend. Not just because Dex was admittedly a very attractive man, but because he was still a total mystery to you. He might’ve been following you around and keeping an eye on you, learning all these little details you weren’t aware of, but you knew next to nothing when it came to him. Who was he, really?
“So how goes the great in depth look at New York City’s hottest outdoor dining spots for this summer?”
The question broke through your thoughts as you startled in your chair, teeth clamping down on the end of your pen as if you’d just been caught fantasizing about your stalker. Raising your head from your hand, you swiveled the desk chair around and found Sofia, your self-proclaimed work best friend, leaning against the side of your cubicle wall. She arched a dark brown brow at you while bringing the freshly brewed cup of coffee in her hand to her lips, curiously watching you as she took a sip.
Pulling the pen out of your mouth, you forced a smile onto your face in an attempt to hide the anger at Ellison burning inside of you for the shit story Sofia had just reminded you about. You were at work and you needed to get yourself under control, to slip back into the you that everyone here knew you as and not the one lingering beneath the surface. Though that you felt like it was trying to bleed through the cracks today.
It’d long since felt like pulling a mask over your own face and pretending to be someone else whenever you walked into the office–or truthfully whenever you left your apartment. No one knew about your abusive exes, even if you figured a few had wondered and speculated as to why you’d occasionally come into work injured. None of them knew about your years-long constant state of depression or the growing anger simmering just beneath the surface lately. None of them knew you were often just going through the motions, and that you generally didn't feel as if you knew the face staring back at you in the mirror most days.
You hid behind a persona that you’d crafted a long time ago, one that helped you blend in with everyone else in your attempt to ignore the years worth of trauma you’d endured from past relationships. Except you never quite felt like you fit in. Not even with your group of friends. Everything had always felt like an exhausting game of carefully playing pretend, as if you were always on the outside looking in at the rest of the world.
“Could be better,” you answered, feigning cheerfulness. “I’d prefer to be covering Halpert’s story about the late night break-ins, but apparently Ellison doesn’t think I’m deserving of that.”
“He’s just trying to keep you from being another missing person in this city,” Sofia gently reminded you, waving a dismissive hand. “I think he’s starting to regret letting you publish that article. He’s worried about you.”
“Fisk wouldn’t put me on a hit list for writing one article,” you countered, ignoring the faint grimace on Sofia's face at your bluntness. “No matter how poor it made him look. I imagine offing the first journalist to openly criticize his initiative would incriminate him far more than just ignoring it and moving on."
Setting down the gnawed up black pen onto the corner of your desk, you chose not to mention that you also wouldn’t have minded if he did. With the state of the city, your own bleak life, and today’s steady stream of emotionally spiraling thoughts, you almost figured Fisk would’ve been doing you a favor. What else did you have to look forward to besides the little notes from Dex? And that was strictly your own secret, one you couldn’t share with anyone because you knew you’d be called mentally unwell for starting to find them sweet.
On the other hand, you wouldn't have minded seeing how serious Dex was about protecting you if Wilson Fisk went after you. Would Dex attack the mayor himself just to keep you safe? The thought sent a warm, pleasant thrill straight through your chest, but it broke off sharply as another thought soon crushed the notion. Because there was a part of you that'd begun to wish that you could take care of yourself against men like him. You were sick of needing to rely on someone else to save you.
“Besides,” you continued, “there’s other more interesting pieces that I could’ve been working on that aren’t political in nature. Ones better suited for my abilities. Unless Ellison thinks Fisk is behind all of the crime in New York right now, I don’t see why I got stuck with what he gave me for the week.”
“I think he’s just playing it safe, you know?” Sofia disagreed, shrugging a shoulder. “Wanting to make sure that you aren’t covering anything that might somehow lead back to Fisk. He’s been getting calls all morning, and Logan said he thinks the Mayor’s office is trying to strong-arm Ellison into firing you.”
The smile on your face grew strained at that little tidbit of information, your teeth gritting firmly against each other. It was as if you’d suddenly lost control of your life ever since that stupid article had gone to print, as if everything around you had started crumbling. The nails on your left hand dug sharply into the armrest of your desk chair in an attempt to keep yourself grounded. The last thing you needed right now was to lose your job because of Fisk, and you were certain he would blacklist you from every other paper in the city if you did.
You couldn't take any more of this. You were tired of feeling like you had no control over things. Tired of being kept quiet and held down by men who believed they were stronger than you, better than you. Tired of feeling helpless and weak. The urge to scream had your chest constricting as you sat there, cheeks aching from how hard you were keeping the smile plastered across your face. Sofia took another sip of her coffee and the corner of your mouth began to twitch, hating how nonchalant and unphased she appeared by the whole situation.
She should’ve been furious, too. Wilson Fisk was trying to control the narrative, trying to control the media. He was threatening your wellbeing and your career, and it certainly felt as if he was threatening your sanity lately. And here she stood casually sipping at her coffee thinking Ellison kicking you to the side with a shitty story was no big deal.
Seconds away from standing up and excusing yourself to the bathroom where you could privately mentally spiral in peace, you were caught off guard when the paper’s receptionist, Jessie, squeezed her way past Sofia and stepped into your small cubicle. Eyes dropping down at what she'd brought with her, you stared at the vase overflowing with tulips cradled in her arms, the sight of it managing to break through all the frenzied thoughts bouncing around in your head.
There were a dozen or more tulips innocently sitting in the glass vase, a myriad of stunning peaches, pinks, and oranges gleaming proudly beneath the office lights. You were so mesmerized by the unexpected appearance of them that it took you a moment to catch what Jessie was saying.
“...came in for you at the front desk a minute ago. Aren’t they beautiful?”
“Well, well, well,” Sofia said, visibly perking up as she pushed away from your cubicle wall. “Have you been seeing someone new already? And they’re sending you flowers at work? He must be a real keeper.”
Jessie extended the glass vase out towards you with a smile, but you continued to stare in bewilderment at the flowers. The only person who could’ve possibly sent you the tulips was Dex, there was no way your ex would’ve done that. He’d never been the type to make romantic gestures in the past, and after how things had last gone between you both with him trying to kill you, you highly doubted he’d suddenly decided to try to win you back.
“No,” you answered Sofia distractedly, still focused on the arrangement. “I'm not–not exactly seeing anyone.”
Leaning forward in your chair, you reached out and gingerly accepted the vase from Jessie before turning around and gently setting them down on your desk. They were incredibly fragrant, the bright floral notes filling your nose as you continued staring at them in confusion. Entirely transfixed by them, you’d barely registered the teasing comment Sofia made behind you as she left your cubicle with Jessie following after her.
When they’d disappeared and left you alone in your little corner of The Bulletin, you spotted the small envelope tucked in between a few of the flowers. Slipping your hand into the arrangement, you plucked the white envelope off the plastic holder and pulled it out. Your name was neatly written on the front in handwriting that you instantly recognized. Turning the envelope around, you delicately slid a finger beneath the seal and opened it before pulling out the card inside.
Have you thought about my offer? Meet me for coffee at The Little Crow tomorrow at ten.
-Dex
“I’m going to destroy everything you’ve built.”
Savagely scrubbing at the kitchen counter beside your oven, your fingers strangulated the soapy sponge in your hand. Fisk's voice, along with your ex's, had been provoking you ever since you'd arrived home from work, pushing on nerves that had you on the verge of snapping.
You'd made dinner when you'd gotten home from the office, still furious about the entire situation with Ellison, but eating while watching mindless television hadn't succeeded in drowning out the voices in your head. So ultimately you'd crashed out. The kind which led to you frantically cleaning your entire apartment because you were restless and itching for some semblance of order.
By now your biceps burned from how hard you’d been scrubbing the quartz countertop down, rubbing at the same spot over and over and over. Even the tips of your fingers were sore from where they’d been vigorously rubbing against the counter in your frenzied cleaning. But it didn’t matter how hard you pushed on the sponge, or how tight you squeezed it, or how rigorously you polished the counter, you couldn’t get the voices to stop.
“Ellison believes your work is sloppy,” Fisk continued to taunt you. “Why else do you think he’s tasked you with covering such insulting stories like outdoor dining in the city? He’s lost faith in you. It's only a matter of time before the rest of the city does, too.”
“Shut up,” you grit out between your teeth. “Shut up.”
“Might as well lay down and just let him walk over you,” your ex chortled in your other ear. “That’s all you’re good for, isn’t it, honey? A pretty doormat begging to be stomped all over.”
You could feel your blood heating in your veins as you venomously glared down at the sponge trapped within your death grip. Your entire body continued to grow white hot with rage, and you knew that you were quickly losing the battle to keep everything contained inside of yourself. Furious as hell about being pushed around within another aspect of your life, everything seemed to be spinning out of your control.
You couldn't lose your job. You loved journalism. You loved The Bulletin. You'd spent years working your way up the ranks to earn the respect that you had, and you'd spent years earning your place covering the gritty, real stories around the city. And now Fisk thought he could just take that all away from you?
“Should’ve let me kill you,” your ex needled. “Save you the trouble of this sad existence. But maybe you’ll let the mayor finish the job, huh? Maybe he can stomp you out and finish where I failed.”
Your entire body was buzzing, vibrating with a tempestuous fury that finally crested to a peak like a crack of thunder inside of you. With a savage scream, you drew your arm back and brutally hurled the sponge in your hand across your apartment. It landed with a wet thunk on the floor beside your coffee table, your lip curling back in a sneer at it.
But that didn’t stop the storm of emotions swirling inside of you. Arms shaking as your chest rapidly rose and fell with each heavy breath, the air stung your lungs as it came in shallow spurts. But through your mounting anger, you could hear your ex laughing at you.
“That's all you've got, girl?”
An enraged noise ripped itself straight out of your throat as you grabbed the glass salt grinder on the counter and ferociously threw it into your empty kitchen sink. The glass noisily shattered before scattering on the bottom of the sink along with the chunks of salt. Still fuming, you reached out and grabbed the edge of the nearby fruit bowl and slid it towards yourself. With your left eye twitching, you tightened your grip on the decorative ceramic, prepared to launch it across the room in your fit of rage. But the softest whooshing sound cut through the ringing in your ears and you saw a flash of white out of your peripheral.
Head sharply snapping over to the side, you spotted a sheet of white paper laying on the floor. You knew without a doubt that it was from Dex, that he’d just slipped it beneath your door. He’d probably heard you screaming a second ago. Truthfully, he’d probably already witnessed all of your erratic behavior while you’d been cleaning, most likely watching you from across the street tonight like he often did.
Continuing to grip the edge of the bowl in your fingers so tight you were surprised it didn’t crack, you stared at the sheet of paper lying a few feet from your door. Half of you had suddenly grown terrified at what he might’ve thought about your outburst, wondering if the vigilante you'd grown fond of now thought there was something wrong with you. Would he decide to disappear on you? Leave you to fend for yourself? What would you have to look forward to if he gave up on you because he’d been privy to the real you? The one that he’d seen while you were behind closed doors?
Curiosity winning out, you roughly shoved the fruit bowl away from yourself and it skidded further back onto your counter. Storming over towards the paper on the floor, you bent down and snatched it with your fingers. As you stood back upright, your eyes scanned over the single, quickly scribbled question written on the white page.
What happened?
The laugh that slipped out of you sounded slightly hysterical. He wasn’t asking how you were, but what happened. That was so, so like Dex. But you’d started to assume that was his way of showing that he cared or was interested in you–by asking what the problem was, not by asking how you were feeling. Which also meant that he’d witnessed you spiraling and had decided to inquire about it instead of abandoning you. He hadn’t negatively judged you for it, he'd been curious about it. That was a good sign, wasn’t it?
You could feel your body responding to the adrenaline spike from your fit of rage as you attempted to tamp it back down and get a little control over yourself. A shudder ran through you as your eyes shifted over the top of the note in your trembling hands, and you glanced over at the vibrant bouquet of tulips he’d sent you where they sat beside your coffee maker.
Staring at the beautiful floral arrangement he’d sent to you this morning, you started to mull over his offer of friendship. You had friends, but none of them really knew you. None of them had really seen you. Yet Dex had been watching you for over a month, he’d seen you when your mask had slipped, he knew what your ex had really done to you, and he was still asking you to let him be a part of your life. You weren’t entirely certain who he was, but you were certain that he at least deserved to be given a chance.
Moving with a newfound purpose, you strode back into your kitchen and went straight for your junk drawer and yanked it open. You set his message down on the counter before grabbing the pad of green post-it notes along with a sharpie out of the drawer. With a smile ghosting across your lips, you wrote down the seven digits of your cell phone number before turning towards your sink and leaning over it, sticking your note to the window above your little cactus, Cuddles.
No longer caring that any sane person would’ve thought you were being incredibly reckless giving Dex your number, you made your way over to your couch and sat down. Reaching across the cushions, you grabbed the cute gray and white teddy bear that he’d given you a couple of weeks ago when you were sick and pulled it onto your lap, your fingers absently running along its soft fur. You’d often cuddled it at night while watching television, barely even aware you were seeking comfort from it.
Sitting there and staring at your phone on the coffee table with the bear in your lap, you patiently waited for it to ring. You figured Dex was still making his way back to his spot in the vacant apartment across the street, but you knew he’d call when he saw your note. It’d be far easier to communicate with him through texts and phone calls than through the notes you’d been leaving each other. Which also meant that you’d be able to talk to him far more frequently than you already were if you had his number, which left you elated at the thought.
It’d ultimately taken a total of ten minutes before your phone lit up with an unknown number displayed across the screen as it vibrated on your wooden coffee table. Feeling your mood beginning to lighten just a fraction, you leaned forward and grabbed the buzzing device before answering the call.
“Hello, Dex,” you greeted. The fingers of your left hand smoothed their way over the teddy bear’s head as you settled more comfortably back into the couch cushions. “I see you got my note.”
A quiet, almost breathless chuckle came in response over the line, the sound causing you to smile a little wider. He’d somehow broken through your mental spiral and quieted the voices in your head, the voices that’d been tormenting you all throughout your entire miserable day. You knew there was something special about him.
“I see you got my flowers,” he countered. “I’m assuming that by giving me your number, you’re interested in getting coffee with me tomorrow? To talk? I figured you’d feel more…comfortable in a public place.”
“I’d like that,” you agreed, fingers still absently stroking the bear. “I’ll just tell my editor that I’m running out for an interview in the morning. I’m sure he won’t mind if I disappear for a bit, it's not like he's giving me any actual work this week.”
A bitter edge tinged your words as you continued to soothingly pet the stuffed bear in your lap, your frustration at your Editor-in-Chief still present despite Dex’s presence on the line somewhat altering your mood. Still holding the phone to your ear, you turned your head over your shoulder, spotting the soapy sponge you'd thrown in your anger still sitting where it'd landed nearby on the floor.
“Is he the reason you're deep cleaning your apartment again?” Dex asked curiously. “You looked angry tonight. Usually you don't look ready to destroy the furniture.”
Your hand stilled on the top of the stuffed bear's head, your yellow nails digging into the plushness of it. For a second you almost fell back on your knee-jerk reaction to hide behind a mask of normalcy, you could feel the urge to do so rear its head. But this was Dex. If he was openly stalking you, why couldn't you be honest as well? Why hide the feelings you’d finally started to let yourself feel?
“He gave me a bullshit story to cover this week after that amazing piece I just gave him a few days ago,” you vented, letting the anger spill out of you. “Just one story for the entire fucking week. Me. I'm practically a veteran journalist on The Bulletin, I've been there for years. I shouldn’t be covering dining hot spots in the city, it's a goddamn insult.”
A throaty, rumbling noise came over the line and vibrated beside your ear as Dex thoughtfully hummed at the start of your tirade. Goosebumps prickled along the tops of your forearms at the deep sound, and your heart began pounding a little heavier in your chest. It wasn't quite a sympathetic response, but it didn't lack interest, either.
“On top of that, I found out that Fisk is apparently trying to push my editor into firing me,” you continued irately. “I imagine if he succeeds, he'll make it so that any other paper will be too afraid to take me on. I wouldn’t be able to get a job in the city.”
“Fisk is trying to get you fired?” he questioned, his interest significantly piquing.
“He's trying to fucking destroy my life, Dex,” you fumed, finally losing it. “He wants to discredit me and ruin my livelihood. He's probably got people watching me. And I'm supposed to stand down and just–just write fluff pieces that no one gives a fuck about? Bury my head in the sand and let another man come into my life and shove me around? Is that what I'm expected to do here? Because I am so fucking tired of being the one who gets stepped on. By the men I date, by my editor, and now the fucking mayor!”
The line briefly went quiet as you sat there, your nails stabbing deeper into the teddy bear’s head while your breaths came in sharp and shallow. But as your shoulders heaved and your face heated, you heard something like a low growl coming over the line. It was barely there, but audible enough.
“No,” Dex agreed, something dangerous creeping into his voice. “No, you shouldn’t settle for that. You deserve better. And you shouldn’t let Fisk destroy your life. You said you wanted to fight back the other day? I think you should. Don’t let them silence you.”
You found yourself surprisingly comforted by his words despite the hint of something darker lurking within them. But he was right. You’d initially written that article in order to fight back, so that’s what you should continue to do. Fight back. Why should you stop working on the pieces that would expose the truth of what Fisk was doing? And if Ellison wouldn't publish them, you'd just find another way to put them out there for the public. You could work on these stupid fluff stories if you had to for a paycheck, but Wilson Fisk wouldn't keep you quiet. No one would.
Leaning forward as an overwhelming sense of calm began to wash over you, you grabbed the TV remote from off your coffee table with your free hand. You pressed the power button with your thumb, turning on your television while getting comfortable on the couch. You laid back and rested your head along the armrest behind you as you stretched your legs out in front of yourself.
You liked Dex, you decided. He didn't judge you for your angry outbursts or your past experiences. He seemed almost supportive of you, quite obviously attentive to you, and rather protective. None of those were traits that you'd personally found in a partner before. So what if he'd stalked you for over a month? It was exhilarating to have someone be that interested in you, and it'd made you feel something for the first time in so long that you'd already forgiven him for the initial scare.
Releasing the tight grip you'd had on the stuffed bear, you shifted it in your hold so that you could snuggle it against your chest as you kept the phone to your ear. Looking across your apartment at the windows that overlooked the building on the other side of the street, you focused on the window that you imagined he was sitting in front of watching you from right now.
“Do you have a favorite scary movie, Dex?” you asked, changing the topic. “I don't like watching them alone, but maybe you could keep an eye on me over there. Watch it with me?”
Another almost breathless, incredulous chuckle came over the line at the sudden switch in conversation. The corner of your lips drew back into a small smile, one you hoped he could see.
“You're asking me to watch a movie with you?” he asked in disbelief. “While I’m sitting over here watching you?”
“Might as well,” you answered, shrugging a shoulder. “You're already over there, right? Already settled in to watch me until I go to sleep? So why not hang out with me?”
“You are…” he trailed off, a surprised huff following his words. “You are not what I expected, you know that?”
“Ditto. So is that a yes or a no, Dex?” you asked, grinning at the window.
“I uh,” he began, sounding as if he was almost smiling himself on the other end of the line. “I suppose you might need to turn up the volume on your television if I’m supposed to hear anything.”
“Can do,” you cheerfully chirped over the line.
Lifting the remote in your hand, you pointed it at the television and started increasing the volume. Maybe your day had started off as a nightmare spiraling out of control, but Dex had brought you some much needed clarity. Maybe you could use his friendship after all. Maybe accepting his once strange offer wouldn’t be all that strange in the end.
It was surprising how fast you'd gotten used to being watched.
There were times when you swore you could tell that Dex was across the street in the vacant apartment. Sometimes when you were loading the dishwasher, you imagined you'd felt a brush of warm breath grace the nape of your neck, or sometimes you'd felt the slow, deliberate glide of fingertips dragging down the slope of your shoulders while you were making coffee.
You weren't certain exactly when you'd gone from being scared and self-conscious knowing that he was across the street, to feeling exhilarated and pleased whenever you opened the blinds and curtains in your apartment. At some point you’d noticed the shift yourself even if you hadn’t fully understood the why behind it.
No one had ever taken that much interest in you before, though. No one had ever considered you worthy of that much of their attention. While you knew that you should’ve been terrified of acquiring a stalker–especially considering your past with men–you hadn’t done anything about it. You hadn’t demanded that he stop watching you or filed a report with the authorities.
You knew the truth even if you hadn’t admitted it aloud. Somewhere deep inside of you, a part of you liked Dex’s intense attention even if you hadn’t quite come to terms with that fact. You were accustomed to men being rough with you since nearly all of your exes had been, many of them having laid their hands on you in one way or another. But nothing about Dex actually felt dangerous. At least, not to you. Instead, you’d found yourself gradually starting to trust the notion that he really wouldn’t hurt you.
Nearly two weeks had passed since the day that you’d gotten sick and Dex had shown up at your door. He’d never once appeared to you in person since that morning when he’d initially scared you. He kept his distance, respecting an unspoken boundary that he seemed to have created in order to make you feel more comfortable with his proximity.
Because he was still there.
He continued to slip notes beneath your door–even if those were always in response to the post-it messages you’d left him on your windows first. It was how you felt comfortable communicating with him, because you weren’t certain if you were ready to accept the role of a ‘friend’ who could give him advice. But the offer he’d made to you hadn’t left your mind in the days that’d passed since he'd made it.
Admittedly, you did feel much safer knowing that you had your own personal hero still lingering somewhere nearby keeping an eye on you. Each note he slipped to you, along with the coffees and pastries he occasionally sent to your office, only reassured you that he was still around. That he hadn’t suddenly left you. The odd relief you felt each time you received a little reminder of his continued presence in your life confused you, because you knew you were supposed to be horrified and disgusted by his behavior.
Except you weren’t.
Scanning over your appearance in the mirror above your bathroom vanity, you applied a quick brush of gloss over your lips before deciding you’d done enough. You were only planning to sit in The Little Crow cafe by yourself and drink a coffee while reading your book, you hadn’t expected to see anyone. You just wanted to get out of the apartment for a bit, and maybe you’d splurge on a chocolate croissant as a treat for boldly publishing such a widely discussed article in The Bulletin yesterday.
You couldn’t help but find yourself wondering if Dex would be somewhere nearby this morning, though. You wondered if he’d be watching you as you read your book while sitting in your favorite cafe. You wondered if he cared about the makeup you put on or the sundress you’d chosen to wear. You’d even painted your nails last night while watching a movie–a vibrant, sunshine yellow that matched your mood this Saturday morning.
Satisfied with how you’d put yourself together, you left the bathroom and headed out to the living room, snatching your current book from the coffee table as you passed it. Without losing stride, you slipped it inside of your purse as you continued over towards the door. But just as you’d been about to stop and grab your sandals from the small wooden shoe rack beside it, you noticed a white slip of folded paper laying innocently on the floor. The corner of your lips drew upwards as you realized that Dex had sent you another note.
Bending over, you picked the paper up from off the floor before unfolding it. Eagerly scanning over the page, you started reading the handful of neatly handwritten lines, curious to know what he’d wanted to tell you this morning. You hadn’t put a new message on your window for him last night after the one he’d already answered, so you had no idea what he'd felt the need to tell you.
Rather brazen to publish that article. The whole city has been talking about it. You're the first to openly criticize the task force and question the validity of the people they've detained. Suppose now I understand why all those interviews dragged you around the city last week.
But you do realize how dangerous it was publishing that, don't you? By now Fisk has read it. He won’t like you speaking out. You’ve fallen into his crosshairs. You're going to need my help.
You felt a tinge of fear squirming in your stomach at how true that statement was, Ellison himself had even warned you about the potential backlash for what you'd written. But despite your anxiety, you couldn’t stop the way your smile grew wider as you read the last few sentences of his note.
I liked the little joke you slipped in near the end about the curfew. There's always something that surprises me in your pieces. Apparently this time it was your dark humor.
So Dex had read your article. Not only that, it sounded as if he’d enjoyed it. As if maybe he agreed with your sentiments and you calling out Mayor Fisk. Beginning to neatly fold his note back up, you felt yourself warm at what he’d written, especially the part about you needing his help.
“Well,” you said to yourself, slipping his message into your purse, “guess it's a good thing you're keeping an eye on me then, isn't it?”
For someone so timid and soft-spoken, your journalist counterpart seemed the opposite of meek, and she certainly didn’t know how to keep quiet. What you'd written was nearly as damning as that City Without Fear video that had cropped up online a few days ago. No other news outlet had even come close to taking such a straightforward shot at Fisk like you’d just done yesterday. They were far too afraid of him.
But apparently you weren't.
He’d initially felt a surge of pride this morning when he’d finally had the chance to sit down and read your article while he ate breakfast. There you were on the front page, your picture in the byline beneath the title. His tulip that continually refused to be trampled into the dirt. The one who’d metaphorically spat right in Wilson Fisk’s face with what she'd written. Dex had smiled all the way through his reading, taking an almost giddy delight in imagining Fisk reading it himself.
But then reality struck him when he'd reached the end of it. As much as he loved the idea of Fisk being called out so publicly–especially by you–he knew that article had just put a target on your back. A dangerous one. It altered things from Dex just needing to protect you from asshole boyfriends to Dex now needing to protect you from Wilson Fisk himself.
But you looked rather unbothered about it all this morning. He’d found you sitting in your usual booth at The Little Crow cafe, the golden sunlight from the window beside you creating a halo around you. You were hunched over your book and nibbling on another chocolate croissant while occasionally sipping on your iced latte. You’d even chosen a sundress to wear, which he knew meant that you were in a good mood.
Dex had sat at his usual table in the far back of the cafe, his black baseball hat tipped down to help cover his face. This morning’s issue of The Bulletin was open on the table in front of him with his coffee sitting beside it, but he wasn’t interested in reading. You didn’t have anything published in today's issue, and he’d rather pay attention to you.
A part of Dex quietly hoped that maybe you’d notice him sitting in the corner this morning. He hoped that maybe you’d walk over to join him. With all those little messages you'd left him on your window for nearly two weeks now, it told Dex that you weren’t afraid of him like you’d initially been since you kept choosing to communicate with him.
He refused to push too hard, though. Dex feared that if he approached you first, it would only scare you away from him. And he couldn’t have that. He wouldn’t frighten you. Not when all he wanted to do was to keep you safe, to protect the scales that he'd finally balanced because of you.
But he desperately wanted to get closer to you, which was a foreign feeling to Dex. During all those years he’d followed Julie around, he’d never once felt the urge to approach her, to spend time with her. He was content enough with the distance between them until Fisk had pushed her right into his path and ruined everything. But with every green post-it note you'd stuck onto your window, he felt himself itching to do more than just watch you.
The door to the cafe opened, and the bell above it rang through Dex’s thoughts as the gentle ding ding got lost in the chatter of the cafe. Dex’s gaze shifted over towards the new patron who’d entered out of habit, always aware of his surroundings, but he went rigid in his chair when he recognized the man who’d just casually strolled through the door and had begun looking around the cafe in search of someone.
Daniel Blake. Dex had done enough surveillance on Fisk’s mayoral team to recognize the man dressed in that dark suit anywhere. He was the rather young Deputy Mayor for Communications, and he looked incredibly out of place here. While Dex had seen Blake frequenting cafes, coffee shops, and night clubs, The Little Crow in Hell’s Kitchen had never ranked on his list of places to visit. He'd come here for a specific reason, it was written all over his face.
Dex’s suspicions were confirmed the second he saw Blake’s eyes land on your booth across the cafe. A smile slid onto his face before he purposefully strode over towards you, and something cold instantly washed over Dex. Almost mechanically he pushed his chair back and stood, grabbing his coffee and abandoning the newspaper on the table. Maneuvering his way past the other tables in the cafe, Dex headed over to one of the stools tucked underneath the main counter, his eyes locked onto Daniel Blake as he saw the man interrupt your reading.
When you looked up from your book, Dex caught the flash of recognition cross your face when you saw who was standing there. Almost immediately, you visibly shrank into your booth in fear of the young man who'd suddenly appeared beside your table, aware of who he was. Dex remembered how you’d done the exact same thing when he’d first stopped by your apartment that morning when he’d found you sick, recalling the way you’d cowered against your door.
He hated it then just like he hated it now. But Blake seemed rather unbothered by it, sliding into the opposite bench from yours as if you’d invited him to join you. Which you clearly hadn’t.
Forcing himself to take a seat on one of the stools beside the cafe’s counter, a spot that was just a few feet away from your booth, Dex tried to calm himself so that he could focus on the encounter occurring just behind him. His hand tightened hard around his coffee as he set it down on the counter, struggling not to crush it with his growing fury at the sound of Blake’s voice. Tipping his head to the side and just over his shoulder, Dex attempted to control the shallow breaths now falling out of him as he listened to you and Blake behind him exchanging awkward pleasantries.
But he found it difficult to focus on the conversation, both of your voices sounding almost distorted to Dex’s ears. Everything inside of his head was screaming threat threat threat and kill kill kill, but he tried to rein himself in. He needed to control himself. He needed to concentrate. He couldn’t just grab a nearby fork and launch it at Blake’s temple in the middle of a cafe no matter how badly he wanted to do just that in order to protect you. Because that would only draw more attention to you from Fisk, which was the opposite of what he wanted.
“You wrote that article in The Bulletin yesterday, didn't you?” he heard Blake ask.
Dex could already guess as to where this was going. He’d figured it out long before he’d even heard the topic casually shift towards the paper. Fisk had sent him in response to your article as a warning. A friendly cease and desist. A chance to change your side to his and stop slandering his image. Something venomous and deadly unfurled inside Dex’s chest, yawning awake like a viper ready to strike as he continued to listen.
Fisk would not hurt you. Dex would not let him.
“You know, there were some glaring bits of misinformation in that article you wrote,” Blake continued behind him. “The mayor wasn’t too thrilled to see such sloppy journalism gracing the front page of The Bulletin. He was hoping you’d make a retraction of it.”
“A retraction?” you repeated incredulously. “Of a thoroughly corroborated story? With multiple firsthand accounts? I don’t think that’s a realistic request, even from the mayor himself. Not unless there’s some clear cut facts that Fisk would like to offer up to give credence to his opinion of my sloppy journalism. Like maybe where all of these citizens of New York that he deemed are terrorists are being detained?”
The corner of Dex’s lips twitched at the bite in your faintly trembling voice. You might’ve been completely terrified, but you’d still held your ground. He liked that even if he knew it was inadvisable.
“That’s a shame,” Dex heard Blake reply. “Are you sure there’s no way you’d consider a retraction? Or possibly issuing a few corrections? I think there's some things you might come to find aren't quite right in that story of yours. And I know Mayor Fisk would be very grateful for your cooperation.”
“No,” you firmly replied. “I have a professional reputation to maintain. I don’t write fiction. Not even for Mayor Fisk, and you can go back and tell him that.”
The alarms gradually quieted in Dex’s head as he heard you, a grin drawing itself across his lips. Glancing over his shoulder a little more, he saw Blake beginning to slide out from your booth as you eyed him suspiciously. Despite the heat in your words, Dex could see that you were still fearfully hunched into yourself in the booth. Blake’s visit had clearly unsettled you, even if it was thankfully coming to an abrupt end.
He silently watched beneath the brim of his baseball hat as Blake parted with a few false pleasantries to you, and his eyes followed the back of his navy suit as he made his way towards the cafe’s exit. It wasn’t until he’d disappeared far enough down the street and was out of view before Dex finally stopped watching him, his attention slowly shifting back over to you.
You’d scooted closer to the window on your left, your forehead practically pressed against the glass. Your bright yellow nails were rapidly drumming nervously across the tabletop beside your coffee, and Dex could imagine the way your pulse was probably thumping wildly after that encounter. You looked terrified. He didn’t like that.
Turning to face forward again, his eyes scanned along the counter in front of him. He spotted a napkin nearby and reached over to grab it before focusing on the people working behind the counter. He caught the eye of a guy who looked as if he’d just graduated high school and nodded him over.
“You got a pen?” Dex asked him.
“Oh, sure,” the young man replied with a smile. “Let me grab you one.”
Dex watched impatiently as he walked over towards the registers and grabbed one from behind the counter. When he returned with the pen in his hand, he was still grinning that disturbingly pleasant smile at Dex.
“Here you go, bro,” he said.
Lip curling back in distaste, Dex's gaze dropped down to the pen extended towards him. For the briefest moment, he considered taking it and throwing the pen straight at this idiot’s eye, but he refrained. Good guys wouldn’t do that.
“Thanks, bro,” Dex replied.
He forced a smile onto his face, one that was just a bit too wide and too forced to be genuine, and he delighted in the way the young man recoiled behind the counter. Without another word, he turned and hurried over to the opposite side of the cafe to help someone else.
Dex focused back on his napkin, scribbling a simple message in black ink: Can I join you? Tossing the pen aside, he crumpled the napkin into a ball in his fist before he spun around on the stool. You were still sitting in your booth focused on the window, except now you were anxiously sipping on your iced latte. You still hadn’t noticed him.
He hesitated for a second, considering the potential consequences of his actions. He’d never approached you out in public. He’d never tried to make contact with you while you were out and he was following. It was entirely possible that you’d freak out at the sight of him sitting here, and maybe you’d create a scene just like Julie had done in that hotel bar all those years ago. Then you might not want him around anymore, and your little notes might stop.
But what if you didn’t panic at the sight of him? You looked afraid and shaken by that visit from Daniel Blake. All Dex wanted was to reassure you that he wouldn’t let anything happen to you. He wanted you to trust him. Which was yet another entirely foreign concept for Dex. Usually, he didn’t genuinely give a shit about being trusted. But something about you was different.
Deciding he’d see how this played out and deal with the repercussions as they came, he gently tossed the crumpled napkin across the cafe. It bounced off the window you were staring out of before plopping lightly onto the table beside your fidgeting hand. Dex watched you startle at the unexpected projectile, your fingers halting their nervous drumming. Finally tearing your attention away from the window, you looked down at the napkin in front of you in confusion.
Your brows furrowed together before your head slowly raised, turning to scan around the cafe for who’d thrown that at you. When your gaze finally landed on him sitting just feet away, he saw you visibly freeze in your seat. Trying not to scare you further, Dex offered you a smile–something he hoped was different than the one that’d made the guy behind the counter run off. Very slowly he raised a hand, giving you a small, friendly wave before he pointed at the napkin.
You blinked back at him a few times, still clearly confused, before your attention returned to the balled up napkin on your table. He watched apprehensively as you picked it up and began to unfold it, reminding himself that you hadn’t started screaming at the sight of him. That seemed like a good sign at least.
He hadn’t expected the small smile that spread over your face when you’d read his message on the napkin. Barely breathing where he sat on the stool, he was stunned when you looked back over at him and gave him a single nod in response. Because that wasn’t the reaction Dex expected, but he wasn’t going to question it. You'd given him permission to join you and that was more than enough for him.
Picking up his coffee, he slid off his stool and crossed the brief distance over to your booth, intentionally moving slowly so that he didn’t startle you. He found himself oddly nervous standing beside the table, attempting to appear as nonthreatening to you as possible. But that smile on your face was disarming him in ways he wasn’t familiar with.
“Hi,” you greeted him.
“Hi,” he hesitantly replied. He glanced over at the bench where Blake had just been sitting minutes ago before he focused back on you. “Do you mind if I–”
“No,” you interrupted, shaking your head. “No, you can–can sit.”
Lowering himself down into the opposite side of your booth, he was dumbfounded that you’d actually invited him to join you. But now that he was sitting in front of you, he found himself feeling incredibly uncertain. He’d meant to just reassure you that you were safe with him, that Fisk wouldn’t hurt you while he was around, but the words somehow died on his tongue as he sat there taking in your nervous but warm smile.
“I uhm,” you began awkwardly, gesturing a thumb at where he’d just been sitting by the counter, “I guess you overheard all of that? The–the barely disguised warning Fisk sent me in the form of Daniel Blake?”
“Yeah,” Dex admitted. “I did. I sort of anticipated that reaction to what you wrote.” He hesitated briefly before he added, “Did you–did you get my note this morning?”
Your teeth bit into that plush bottom lip as you shyly nodded in response, your fingers fidgeting with the edge of your paperback on the table. He fought the urge to reach out and still the nervous movement, not even understanding the urge himself.
“So you–you read my articles?” you curiously asked.
Out of everything Dex expected you to ask him, that wasn’t one of the questions he’d anticipated. He figured you’d be upset that he’d followed you here, or that he was eavesdropping on your conversations. He thought maybe you’d be afraid that he was still keeping an eye on you, even if his intentions were what Dex deemed purely good.
“I do, yeah,” he acknowledged. “Been reading them for the past month. You have a strong voice and a way with writing that’s very compelling. And your uh,” he continued, awkwardly shifting along the torn vinyl bench at your continued warm smile, “your passion for the topics you write about is always palpable in your words.”
There was a brief silence that met his rather honest confession, but then he saw you finally straighten on the opposite side of the table. Gone was the fear you’d had cowering in your booth a few minutes ago, the woman who’d been beaten down countless times in her past. In her place sat a beautiful flower that’d just bloomed in the morning sun, and Dex felt strangely light at having been the cause.
“Why'd you do it?” he asked, unable to hold the question back. “Why publish an article like that? You had to know there'd be repercussions.”
Gaze sweeping down towards the half-eaten croissant in front of you, your fingers picked at the pastry. It wasn't exactly nerves that seemed to have you suddenly going quiet, but something else. When you looked back up at him from beneath your lashes, he caught a surprisingly fierce tenacity in your eyes.
“Because I'm tired of not fighting back,” you answered softly.
Dex felt alive tonight. More alive than he'd felt in years. That maddening scratching in his mind like something was desperately trying to escape had ceased, and that aggravating buzzing had been deliciously muted ever since you'd placed that first post-it note on your window for him.
You’d done this to him. But he found he liked it.
Tonight he'd gone out and done surveillance on Daniel Blake, keeping close tabs on him for the past few hours to make certain that he wasn’t planning to do anything more that revolved around you. But when he'd seen Blake heading into a club with some young girl for the night, he figured there was no more use in watching him ignore curfew. He didn't pose a threat for you at the moment, and Dex definitely didn’t want to sit inside of a nightclub.
So he'd circled back, walking through the empty streets of Hell’s Kitchen late at night in his armor, his knives and glock attached to the holster on his chest. He could still feel that electrifying lightness from this morning still humming through his veins, and it translated into the bounce in his step tonight. Dex planned to make his way up to the empty apartment across the street from your place, eager to watch whatever you were doing before you went to bed.
He liked talking to you this morning. He liked feeling the bit of tension between you both slowly dwindle and ease away, and he’d really liked seeing that friendly smile light up your face. A friendly smile that was directed at him for once. But he hadn’t stayed too long at your booth. Just ten minutes. He hadn’t wanted to push his luck with you and ruin the progress he’d suddenly found himself making. Too much water would kill a flower.
It wasn’t until Dex turned a corner that he spotted the two men farther down the sidewalk, the only other people outside this late at night. AVTF officers casually strolling down the empty streets as if the entirety of New York City belonged to them. Behind his mask, a pleased grin slowly stretched its way across his lips.
How many more people would he save by killing them tonight? What a treat for him to end his evening out with.
Bounding forward with an eager lightness in each of his steps, Dex pulled two of the knives from off his chest, twirling them excitedly in his fingers. He’d begun casually closing the distance between them, not attempting to hide the sound of his approaching footsteps, but neither officer noticed they were being followed as they continued on with their conversation. But just as Dex was drawing both of his hands back and preparing to throw his knives at each of them, he paused when he caught what they were saying.
“...posting such bullshit in the paper like that. And The Bulletin no less,” the guy on the left said, shaking his head in disgust. “You know Fisk isn’t goin’ to let that stand.”
“Yeah,” the other agreed with a chuckle. “How soon do you think it’ll be before Fisk puts her on a wanted poster? Bet you fifty bucks she won’t make it a week.”
“That bitch?” the other guy replied. “Doubt he’ll give her that much attention. Bet Powell gets orders to quiet her down in a day or two. I overheard how pissed off Fisk was from one of the guys after reading that piece of shit. He's furious.”
Dex’s head slowly tilted to the side as he neared the men, walking just a few feet behind them as they passed beneath a streetlight. The smile faded somewhat behind his mask when he realized what they were talking about. You. They were taking bets on how soon Fisk would kill you for that article you’d written. While he doubted Fisk was stupid enough to take you out after a single article and bring unwanted attention to himself, he didn’t doubt that Fisk wouldn’t try to make your life difficult now.
Dex didn’t like the way they kept talking about you, though. He didn’t like hearing them repeatedly call you a bitch. Because you weren’t a bitch, you were something special. And you were very special to Dex.
Eyes narrowing at the backs of the two men between the slit of his mask, he twisted his wrists before letting the blades fly from his fingers. They silently glided through the night before hitting their targets, burying themselves into the necks of each AVTF officer. A throaty, wet gurgling noise came in unison from both men before they slunk down to the cement. The sight brought the grin back onto Dex’s face behind his mask.
Closing the remaining distance, Dex stalked his way over to where the officers laid bleeding out on their backs along the sidewalk. Two dark red pools of blood began painting the pavement beneath them, the separate streams flooding together and blending between their bodies. Stopping in the space between the two of them, Dex slowly crouched down and extended his hands, grabbing onto the knives sticking out of their necks. With a distinct, watery noise, he yanked both blades right out, unbothered by the spurts of blood that came gushing out of the holes in their necks.
“You’re both wrong,” Dex corrected them casually, wiping the blades of his knives off on their uniforms. “Fisk will wind up dead before he can touch her. Just like both of you.”
Neither man was capable of speech as Dex rose back up to his feet, sliding the two knives back into place where they belonged on his chest. Satisfied that he’d accomplished another good deed for the night, he strolled onwards as both officers lay bleeding out behind him. With his mood restored, Dex began whistling a song he’d overheard you humming while you were grocery shopping the other day, that wide smile on his face beneath his mask.
Now he got to spend the rest of his night with you, even if it was only watching you from across the street.
Pairing: Benjamin Poindexter x fem!Reader Word Count: 5.5k [Series Masterlist] [Dex Fic Masterlist]
Warnings/tags: 18+; stalker-to-lovers, domestic abuse, violence, unstable!Reader, hurt/comfort, angst, suicidal ideation, smut, dead dove do not eat
a/n: This is currently my favorite part of this entire series so far. I think this is where I became obsessed with them myself. Feedback and reblogs are always appreciated!
series tag list: @awesome-badass-cafeteria-sauce @snowwythegloww @skollinghunter @let-it-go-and-live-again @starlitflora @sunshine-daydreams0809 @scarredtarts @paracosmic-murdock @catsintophats5 @mewmew222 @im-not-very-good-at-nothing @strangeindividual02 @jheelam-23-08 @bitch-spaghetti-o
Something wasn’t right.
It was almost ten in the morning on a Tuesday and you still hadn’t opened your bedroom curtains or raised any of the blinds in your apartment. Dex had been positioned across the street from your place since six this morning watching over you like he always did. Except he hadn’t seen you leave your apartment building and head to The Little Crow before going into work today. He hadn’t seen any proof that you were even inside of your apartment right now.
You’d gone off your routine. You weren't following your schedule. The schedule that Dex had meticulously studied and memorized for the past month that he’d been protecting you.
Something wasn’t right.
Dex had spent last night tailing Murdock around the city, curiously still attempting to piece together whatever it was that he and Page were planning to do to thwart Fisk and his task force. Which meant that Dex had no idea what you'd done after you'd finished eating the dinner you’d made after work. He’d left you when you’d started to clean your dishes in order to stalk Hell’s Kitchen for a while, taking out whatever AVTF members he ran into to keep them from harming innocent people. Because that’s what a good guy would’ve done.
Dex assumed that you'd stayed in and watched one of those boring, predictable dramas on television that you liked, or that you'd curled up and read a book before you’d gone to bed. But what if you’d gone out last night? What if the AVTF had picked you up for being out past curfew? Or with your past history of relationships, what if you’d managed to end up on an evening date with a serial killer? Or maybe someone burglarized your apartment and assaulted you in the process while you’d been home without his protection. Was it possible that you’d had some sort of health emergency and wound up being transported to the hospital by an ambulance?
What’d happened to you while he was gone?
Sitting on the floor of the vacant apartment with the scope still held to his eye, he continued staring at your dark gray bedroom curtains. That’s when he felt it start. That infuriating buzzing inside of his head. That scratch scratch scratch in the back of his skull that he could not stand. Every noise outside of his head abruptly shifted to static as he felt his thoughts beginning to spiral over your safety.
Something wasn’t right, you should’ve left for work this morning.
With his hand tightening around his scope, he roughly lowered it down to his lap as an aggravated exhale blew past his lips. He could feel his frustration rising, anger beginning to uncurl itself like a venomous snake inside of his chest. He couldn’t just sit here staring at your curtains. You might’ve been taken from him. You might’ve been hurt. You might need his help.
The memory of Julie’s discolored and lifeless face unwelcomely flashed through his mind, the image forcing him to recall the way he’d discovered her when he’d failed to keep her safe. Frozen in a freezer. Dead. Nothing more than a hunk of meat. Running a hand across his forehead as his rage continued to mount, his fingers slipped into the cropped strands of his hair.
Julie’s face in his mind suddenly morphed into yours–lifeless, stiff, unnatural–and he gripped a fistful of his hair before furiously pulling at the strands. A low, dangerous noise rumbled in the back of his throat, pain stinging at the place on his scalp where he was tugging at his hair.
That wouldn’t happen to you, you were a good person. You were his One Good Deed. You would not die. Not while Dex was alive. Not while he was keeping you safe. He needed you to keep the scales balanced, to keep him on the right path and not let Fisk win.
He needed you.
A sharp snap abruptly cut through all the noise inside of his head as if something had split in two. Everything quieted in an instant, the tumultuous swarm of bees suddenly silencing as clarity washed over Dex. Releasing the grip on his hair, he calmly began to rise up onto his feet. Dex knew what needed to be done now. There was no other choice.
He would go to your apartment. He would knock on your door. He would make sure you were inside and still safe. Breathing and alive.
And if you weren’t? Well, then there’d certainly be a lot less people breathing in New York City.
Drifting awake once more, the first thing you noticed was how much everything hurt.
Each of your muscles felt stiff and achy, and the headache you’d fallen asleep with after calling in sick to work hadn’t vanished when you'd dozed off again. Your nose was still congested and stuffy, and it made a little whistling sound every time you attempted to breathe through it. With your mind sluggishly returning to you, you gradually grew painfully aware of the fact that your throat hurt even more than it had earlier when your alarm had first woken you. Trying to swallow down what little saliva was left in your dry mouth, you started to think that was its own form of torture.
Staring through the darkness filling your bedroom, you focused on the door of your closet across the room. Through your groggy, sleep-addled brain you wondered what had pulled you out of the reprieve sleep had temporarily offered until you heard it. Three evenly spaced knocks coming from across your apartment and signaling that someone was at your door.
Your eyelids gradually fell shut at the noise before you turned and buried your face into your pillow, an agonizing groan coming out muffled against the fabric. The last thing you felt like doing today was getting out of bed. You'd already called Ellison and told him that you weren't coming into the office today when you'd woken with a fever of one hundred and one, so you knew that your visitor wasn't anyone from The Bulletin.
So why was someone at your apartment this morning?
It had to be someone who’d gotten the wrong apartment number. You weren’t expecting visitors. That was the only logical explanation for the knocking. Deciding to assume that whoever was at your door wasn’t important, you snuggled deeper beneath your covers as a chill shot through you. Whoever was out there would eventually go away when you didn’t answer. If it happened to somehow be any of your friends, they would call or send you a text.
But just as you’d begun to feel your aching body eagerly settle back into the mattress for more sleep, you heard two more knocks coming from the other room. This time they sounded urgent and panicked. A frown slid onto your face where it was buried against your pillow, but it wasn’t until you heard your own name come muffled through the door that your eyes flew wide open.
If they were calling your name, whoever was out there wasn’t someone who’d just gotten the wrong apartment. Unburying your face from your pillow, your brows knitted together in confusion. For some reason you were certain that you knew that voice. It sounded oddly familiar as you squinted at the closet doors trying to will a name to the forefront of your mind. But you couldn’t quite place it.
Whoever they were, they called your name through the door again, and that's when you realized that you’d have to leave the comfortable confines of your bed and go see who was out in the hall. Reluctantly throwing your comforter off of yourself, another chill hit you when you lost the extra layers. Shivering uncontrollably from the fever burning through you, you hugged your arms around yourself in an attempt to keep warm before forcing yourself out of bed as another round of knocks echoed through your apartment.
You padded barefoot out of your bedroom and through your living room towards the door, maneuvering around your sofa with your arms tightly wound around yourself in a useless attempt to stop the shivering. Unfortunately, your fever hadn’t magically broken when you’d been sleeping. But besides a bottle of Tylenol, you didn’t exactly have anything to help with your cold. It wasn’t like you could afford to keep cold medicine around when buying groceries and paying rent was already enough of a struggle.
Once you’d finally shuffled your way miserably to your door, you leaned forward just enough to look through the peephole. Breath catching in the back of your very sore throat, you instantly recognized Dex, the man who’d helped you a month ago with your abusive ex-boyfriend. The second you saw him distorted through the lens, you tensed as you watched him on the other side of your door, wondering why he’d returned to your apartment.
Somewhere through the exhaustion and fever you felt panic flare through your body. At first you considered not opening the door, automatically assuming his intentions were bad–like most men you’d encountered in your life. But then you tried to rationalize his visit through your racing, feverish thoughts. Maybe he’d been keeping an eye on your ex to make sure he’d really left you alone–which he had been so far. But maybe Dex had returned because he’d discovered a reason to believe that your ex was going to come after you. Maybe Dex had reappeared to warn you about something he’d learned that your ex was planning to do?
Deciding to see for yourself what had brought him back to you, you began unlatching the deadbolt before unlocking your door. Swinging it open, you caught the way Dex went completely stiff at the sight of you, his eyes rapidly scanning over you from head to toe as if he was analyzing every inch. Wrapping your arms back around your chest, your fingers anxiously curled around the fabric of your sweatshirt.
“Dex?” you hoarsely croaked out. “What’re you doing here?”
His gaze snapped back up to your face once you’d spoken, his hazel eyes narrowing at you. The second they met yours, you remembered that calculating, penetrating stare of his. The one you weren’t certain whether or not you should feel unsettled by.
“You didn’t go into work today,” he answered. “I wanted to make sure you were alright.”
“Yeah,” you began, “I didn’t go in because I’m sick and–”
Stopping mid-sentence, it gradually clicked in your mind like a key turning in a lock. Lips still parted with what you’d been about to say, you stood there staring at Dex who was standing oddly rigid in your hallway. He shouldn’t know that. He shouldn’t know that you hadn’t gone into work today because Dex didn’t work at The Bulletin. You hadn’t spoken to him in a month, either. Not since the night he’d helped you with your ex and you’d invited him in for a couple of hours as a thank you for his help.
He shouldn’t have known that you hadn’t gone into work today.
Feeling an all too familiar wave of fear rush through you, you threw your hand out and grabbed onto your door. But just as you’d started to slam it shut in his face, trying to put something solid between you both, Dex slid a single foot forward in front of it. When the door hit the tip of his boot, it prevented you from managing to close it very far.
“How do you know that?” you demanded, voice quivering. “How–how did you know I didn’t go into work?”
Dex’s tongue darted out between his lips, licking them in either a nervous or frustrated gesture. You couldn’t quite decipher which it was since his emotions were always just a little too difficult to read. As your fingers tightened around your door, your nails digging into the surface of it, you felt sweat begin to dampen your palms. You already feared whatever answer he’d give you.
But instead of responding to your question, Dex slowly raised both of his hands up in the air, palms facing towards you in a gesture that claimed he meant no harm. The same thing he’d done when you’d first ran into him on the street. But he didn’t move his foot, his boot still wedged against the bottom of your door and blocking you from shutting it on him so you could safely hide inside your apartment.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” Dex assured you, hands still placatingly raised. “I want the exact opposite.”
“Wh–what’s that supposed to mean?” you nervously stammered.
Your heart was frantically pounding away, fear coursing through your veins like ice water. Here you were spending the past few weeks going about your life thinking that this guy had helped you–had saved you from your ex. You thought that you’d finally freed yourself from the men who wanted to hurt you in your life, and you’d told yourself you’d stay away from any more of them in the future. Yet here you were, having attracted yet another dangerous man.
Why did this keep happening to you?
“It means I’ve been trying to keep an eye on you,” Dex answered, hands still raised in the air. “After what you told me that night when you invited me in, I thought you might need someone looking out for you. Keeping you safe.”
“I don’t,” you quickly shot back.
Dex pulled a face, his head tipping contemplatively from side to side like he didn’t believe that. Ever so slowly, as if he was trying not to startle you further, he slowly lowered his hands back to his sides. You swore you could feel your pulse battering away behind your eyes with how hard your heart was beating, your fever and chills completely forgotten at the moment.
“You kind of do,” he disagreed. “You attract the wrong attention. And I get it, me showing up at your door all of these weeks later? You’re scared. I can see that. But I’m not trying to scare you.”
You attempted to swallow the fear balled up in the back of your throat, but your tongue refused to work properly. It sat thick and heavy in your mouth, your breath coming in quicker as another feverish shiver that you barely noticed racked its way through your body.
“I won’t come any closer,” Dex promised, speaking slowly and calmly. “I promise that I won’t come into your apartment. I don’t want to hurt you, I just wanted to make sure that you were safe. I–I was worried when you hadn’t left for work this morning.”
“So you’ve been watching me?” you asked, the last word breaking as it left your lips. “This whole time?”
He pursed his lips, fighting back what almost looked like a grimace. As you inhaled a quivering breath, your knees began to tremble and shake as you stood holding onto the door. That look on his face said everything.
“It’s–it’s not what you think,” he told you. “Can you just–just let me explain? I will step back into the hallway and give you some space if you just–just promise you won’t slam the door on me the second I do.”
Teeth sinking into the inside of your cheek, you considered the offer. You could agree and shut the door on him anyway, safely locking yourself inside of your apartment the second he moved back far enough. But what would you do after that? If it pissed him off and he wanted to attack you, he’d probably find a way to break your door down. What if he succeeded before you could call the police and they arrived? Assuming they even did show up.
Or you could agree to hear him out. Actually listen to whatever his explanation was. You certainly didn’t like learning that he’d been watching you for weeks, but if that was the case, why hadn’t he done something to hurt you already? If that was his intention with you, he’d probably had multiple opportunities already. But he kept saying that’s not what he wanted, so maybe it really wasn’t. But if he wasn’t keeping tabs on you for nefarious reasons, then what other reasons could there have been?
With a single, slow nod of your head, you cautiously agreed to his terms. A small, hesitant smile slipped onto Dex’s face before he slid his foot away from your door, no longer blocking its path to close. You kept your death grip on it though, eyes tracking the two long strides he took backwards until he was no longer crowding your space.
“You seem like a good person,” Dex continued, his words coming in a rush as if he needed to explain himself before you changed your mind. “Admittedly, I was keeping an eye on you because I didn’t want to see anything happen to you again. I was trying to keep you safe. But the more I’ve been watching you, the more I started to see how similar we are. And now that you already know that I'm still…hanging around, I was thinking that maybe you could help me. Because I could–could really use someone like you right now.”
Eyes growing wide in fear, you shrank against your apartment door as if you could somehow disappear inside of it. He could use someone like you? What was that supposed to even mean?
“What?” you asked, the word barely audible.
Dex shifted his weight on his feet, hands curling and uncurling at his sides in frustration as if he was struggling to find the right words. But the second he caught the way your eyes had darted down to his fists, he left his hands open at his sides.
“Nothing like that,” he assured you. “I just meant that I could use someone to talk to, someone to–to help make sense of what’s going on in my head. And you,” he continued, trying to keep his voice even but you could hear the strain, “you’ve been manipulated by people who want to use you. Mistreated by people you trusted.”
Shoulders tensing as you listened to him, you knew what he was talking about–your past relationships. The long list of violent lovers who’d hurt you. You’d hinted at your past to him that night a few weeks ago when you’d invited him in for pizza and beer.
He carefully raised his right hand, lightly tapping his fingers against his chest. “I understand what that’s like,” he explained. “I was manipulated by someone I thought I could trust, too. And now I’m–I’m trying to walk a different path. But I could use help.”
“Help?” you repeated in disbelief. “Like a–a friend?”
“Yes,” he earnestly replied, nodding his head. “A friend. Just someone to talk to. Someone who could give advice. And in return I can–can keep an eye on you. Make sure no asshole ever hurts you again. Or that the AVTF don’t bother you.”
With how damp your palms had become, you could feel your hand slowly sliding down the edge of your door. What sort of a deal was that?
“You mean you'd keep watching me?” you clarified.
A thought abruptly struck you and you tore your attention away from him, glancing back into your apartment. Your gaze jumped from one piece of furniture to another, as if something out of place would present itself to you. How had he been watching you these past few weeks?
“Did you put cameras in my apartment?” you questioned, head darting back in his direction.
“No,” he answered. “No, nothing like that. I just–there's an unrented apartment in a building directly across the street from yours. I've just been…watching you sometimes from there,” he reluctantly admitted. “Only when your windows aren't covered.”
Staring anxiously back at him, you could feel the hair on the back of your neck prickling, not entirely sure what to make of that. On the one hand, it made you uncomfortable and uneasy knowing you'd been watched for weeks without your knowledge or consent. On the other hand, he'd supposedly been doing it to keep you safe. Maybe his watching you had been the reason that your ex-boyfriend had never turned up at your door.
And he had told you weeks ago that he used to work for the FBI. He’d also said that he was a vigilante, one of those ones helping the people in the city. Fighting back against all the insanity Fisk had thrown at New York City after he'd taken his position as Mayor. Maybe this was just how he operated? It wasn’t as if you'd personally met any other vigilantes before, you didn’t know what was considered normal or not normal by their standards of operation.
Maybe this was how his alter-ego kept people safe? Checking in on them? Watching them?
“Are you really a vigilante?” you hesitantly questioned. “One of the ones fighting Fisk and his task force? Like you told me that night? Or…was that a lie?”
One of those rare, genuine smiles crept its way slowly across his lips. It lessened that shrewd look which always seemed to linger in his eyes, warming them only the slightest bit. You felt your fear marginally lessen at the sight of it.
“I am fighting against Fisk and the task force,” he confirmed. “That wasn’t a lie. I am…trying to help.”
He paused for a moment, his eyes once more running over where you stood practically using the door to keep you upright. They moved slower now than when you’d first answered your door as he maintained his distance in the middle of the hallway.
Your teeth sunk into the tip of your tongue at his scrutiny, already imagining how you probably appeared right now. The color of your skin was off, you’d caught that in the mirror earlier this morning when you’d gone to get your thermometer, and you were bundled up in sweatpants and a sweatshirt despite the fact that it was the middle of summer. You looked tired, feverish, and awful, and you knew it.
“Speaking of which,” Dex continued carefully, “you look like you could use some help. You said you’re sick, have you taken any medicine?”
Your face immediately contorted into a look of disbelief. That was not the question you were expecting from him. Especially not after him having just admitted to stalking you. But for some unexplainable reason, you found yourself answering him instead of slamming the door in his face.
“I only have Tylenol,” you said. “Can’t afford all the other stuff. But I’m fine. It’s just a cold.”
He fell quiet after that, his expression shifting to something almost blank. Something uneasy twisted in your stomach beneath his weighty stare before you straightened up in your doorway, visibly shuddering from your fever. As if he sensed your unease, he spoke before you had a chance to say something.
“You should be resting,” he told you. “Not standing here talking to me. Just…can you keep in mind what I said? Think about it?”
There was something oddly vulnerable in the way he’d asked you that, something you hadn’t caught in any of your other interactions with him. Something that sounded almost desperate. Maybe it was because you were quite literally burning up, or maybe it was the earnest look on his face, but you gave him a single, nervous nod. Satisfied with your response, Dex raised his hands placatingly in the air again before he started to slowly back away from you, making his way down the hall and towards the elevator without another word.
Still completely confused, you abruptly shut and locked your apartment door.
Three consistent, uniform knocks caused you to startle awake on the sofa, your eyes abruptly darting open. Your gaze immediately landed on your television across the room, and you noticed just how shadowed your apartment was with how late the day had grown. It didn't help that you also hadn’t opened the blinds today other than the tiny crack of light you’d given your plants in the kitchen, still feeling rather uncertain about the possibility of Dex being across the street watching you.
Blinking a few times at the black screen of your television, it took your mind a few seconds to fully return to you after how deeply asleep you'd just been. When Dex had left your apartment this morning, you’d shuffled back to your bedroom and passed back out again in your bed–something you assumed was only possible because of how incredibly ill you were considering the interaction you’d had with him. But then you’d woken a couple of hours later to some Door Dash delivery person at your door with food, which had completely confused you since you hadn’t been conscious and capable of ordering anything.
Apparently, Dex had ordered you lunch. Your favorite panini from a deli that you often ordered lunch from while you were at work. If you hadn’t been starving when it’d been delivered, you might have stopped long enough to think about how incredibly strange it was that he’d known that before you’d devoured the entire thing. But with how sick you were, you’d just taken more Tylenol and passed back out on your couch buried under your soft blue blanket, not taking the time to give it any further thought with how bad your head was throbbing.
But those three distinct knocks that’d just woken you were quickly becoming familiar to you now. It meant Dex had returned.
You were still undecided on how to feel about the entire situation. You kept telling yourself it was the fever that had you questioning your response to his actions, because part of you had started to believe that he truly meant it when he said that he wouldn't hurt you. Why else would he have sent you lunch? Not even the men you'd dated in the past had been that kind to you before.
And he was one of the vigilantes in New York City.
Maybe you needed to give him the benefit of the doubt. Maybe you were looking at it all wrong. Maybe he was just trying to look out for you. And truthfully, you’d never had that before.
Wrapping your blanket around your shoulders, you pushed yourself up from the couch, ignoring the protest of your muscles as you made your way over to your apartment door. Leaning forward so that you could look through the peephole, you expected to see Dex standing on the other side since you’d recognized his knocking. Except he wasn't standing there. Instead, you were met with the sight of a balloon gently swaying back and forth in the hall, the words “Get Well Soon” written in vibrant letters across it.
Stepping back from your door, you stared at the deadbolt completely dumbfounded for a few very long seconds. Ultimately letting your curiosity win out in the end, especially since you hadn't seen Dex outside of your door, you kept your blanket wrapped around yourself with one hand before undoing all of your locks with the other.
Hesitantly pulling open the door, you were greeted with the sight of two grocery bags on the ground. Beside the bags sat a plush, gray teddy bear with a cute face and the string of the balloon wrapped lightly around its fuzzy, white midsection.
“Did he…?” you whispered to yourself.
Your eyes darted up and down the hallway, but there was no sign of anyone else. Dex must have set everything down and left after he'd knocked, trying to give you some space while attempting not to scare you further. You assumed that's why he’d had the Door Dasher deliver you the food earlier instead of himself.
Crouching partially down while keeping yourself wrapped in the blanket, you picked up the bags and the bear before turning around and bringing them back into your apartment. You paused long enough to awkwardly lock the door with your hands full before carrying everything into your kitchen. Setting the bear down on the counter, you met its sightless stare, trying to imagine Dex at the store choosing it for you.
With a shake of your head, your attention shifted over to the two grocery bags next. Cautiously sticking your hands inside of one, you began to pull the items out of the plastic bag one by one, setting them down onto the counter beside the little teddy bear. That’s when you realized Dex must've gone to the store and bought you nearly every type of cold medicine that he could find.
Shock washed through you in waves as you pulled out a pack of Alka-Seltzer tablets, three different bags of cough drops, daytime and nighttime cold medicine pills, a package with cough syrup, and another bottle of Tylenol. Glancing over at the second bag, you could see that it held even more various types of cold medicine along with a few bottles of different Gatorade flavors.
Your mouth fell open as you stared at everything on your kitchen counter, impressed and somewhat touched by how thorough he'd been. Gaze drifting up towards the balloon, you watched it innocently swaying just beneath your ceiling. Dex must have spent a fortune buying all of this on top of having already bought you lunch. Despite the fear you’d initially felt when he’d stopped by earlier, you were surprised at how oddly moved you’d felt that he’d even gone through this much effort for you. Nobody ever had done something like this for you before.
Overcome with a surprising sense of gratitude that stunned even yourself, you turned around and pulled open your junk drawer in the kitchen. Rummaging through it, you pulled out a large pad of green post-it notes and a black permanent marker. You peeled off a single post-it from the pad and flipped it over before quickly scribbling two words neatly onto the paper–’thank you.’
Picking up your little note, you stepped over towards your kitchen sink and leaned forward, sticking the note onto your window where the blinds were partially drawn up. You didn’t know if Dex would see the message or if he was even still across the street, and you weren’t entirely certain how you felt about him at the moment, either. But he’d gone out of his way to take care of you while you were sick, and he’d respected the boundary he’d set in place earlier of not coming into your apartment. He was at least trying not to frighten you.
Focusing back on the myriad of cold medicine choices now spread out over your counter, you opened a package of one of the daytime pills and took them dry. Afterwards, you shuffled past your kitchen counter and tried to convince yourself that you should finally take a shower. As you passed by your couch, you reluctantly unwrapped the blanket from around your shoulders and tossed it over the armrest before continuing towards your bathroom.
You showered fast in very warm water that quickly filled your little bathroom with steam. The steam had helped with your congested sinuses, but you were shivering uncontrollably when you finally got out. Drying off in a rush, you'd gotten dressed in another pair of sweatpants and a sweatshirt as fast as your tired limbs could manage. Then you’d dragged your shivering self out of the bathroom and back towards your living room, deciding that you’d try to find something to watch on television for a bit since you’d already spent the whole day sleeping.
But just as you’d been about to sit down on your couch and get comfortable beneath your blanket again, something out of the corner of your eye caught your attention. Looking over towards your apartment door, you spotted a folded up sheet of paper on the floor. It looked as if someone had slipped it underneath it.
Head tilting curiously to the side, you slowly stepped around your couch and padded over towards the paper lying harmlessly on the ground. It definitely hadn’t been there when you’d gone to answer the door a half an hour ago and found the bear and bags of medicine. Someone must have slipped it under your door when you were in the shower.
Bending down, you carefully plucked the paper from off the floor with two fingers before straightening back up. Not certain what to expect, you carefully unfolded the sheet, but you were simply met with three neatly handwritten sentences.
You’re welcome.
I ordered you ramen from that place you like. Should be delivered at 6.
Eyes sweeping over the two lines of his message once more, you felt the corner of your lips twitch upwards.
Pairing: Benjamin Poindexter x fem!Reader Word Count: 4.3k [Series Masterlist] [Dex Fic Masterlist]
Warnings/tags: 18+; stalker-to-lovers, domestic abuse, violence, unstable!Reader, hurt/comfort, angst, suicidal ideation, smut, dead dove do not eat
a/n: This entire part is in Dex's POV. Five days, five instances of his stalking. Feedback and reblogs are always appreciated!
series tag list: @awesome-badass-cafeteria-sauce @snowwythegloww @skollinghunter @let-it-go-and-live-again @starlitflora @sunshine-daydreams0809 @scarredtarts @paracosmic-murdock @catsintophats5 @mewmew222 @im-not-very-good-at-nothing
MONDAY - 6:28 AM
The coin tumbled dexterously between each of his knuckles, gliding seamlessly from finger to finger in a constant, repetitive motion. With his shoulder resting against the concrete side of your apartment building, Dex’s eyes remained fixed on the entrance of it beneath the tipped brim of his baseball hat.
It was approaching six-thirty in the morning when he’d last glanced at his watch, which meant that at any minute now, you’d be making your way out of the door to start your day. Dex already knew you'd stop first at The Little Crow for a coffee before continuing on to The Bulletin. That was always your morning routine during the work week.
Ever since he’d dealt with your ex just over three weeks ago, Dex learned to adjust his own morning routine to fit yours. He’d started waking up just a bit earlier to accommodate his own needs, still managing to feed his landlady’s cat the single fried egg in the mornings before he left. Except every time he saw it now, he thought of you. Of how you’d said you wished you could have a cat at your apartment but your lease wouldn’t allow for it. While Dex didn’t personally see the draw in having a pet, particularly one that shit and pissed inside of your apartment, he understood that you were lonely. Probably even more after you’d ended your relationship with your ex–not that Dex deemed him worthwhile company to begin with.
You had your ridiculous plants, though. Five of them on the back of your kitchen sink, perched in their pots on the little lip of a windowsill. A basil you’d named quite simply Basil, a cilantro you’d called Fergus, parsley you’d referred to as Presley, a cactus–specifically an astrophytum, he’d researched it–dubbed Cuddles, and a little aloe you’d named Chloe. You’d pointed out each one as you’d given him their names that night you’d let him stay for pizza and beer, a lopsided smile on your swollen face as the single beer buzzed through your veins.
They seemed to bring you joy when you watered them in the mornings before you got ready for work. He’d watched you do it a handful of times now from a vacant apartment in the building across the street that he’d recently discovered. He found himself smiling at the way you animatedly talked to them as you did, and while he hated to admit it, not quite fully understanding it himself, it was kind of cute to watch.
When one of the doors to your apartment building opened again, Dex easily spotted you slipping out and into the bustling morning foot traffic. He’d glimpsed you long enough to notice that you’d dressed in one of his favorite outfits today–a blue sundress with white flowers. The corner of his lips drew upwards as he pushed off the wall of the building, pocketing the coin he’d been rolling between his knuckles. He’d come to learn that when you wore a sundress, it meant that you were in a good mood. And Dex liked when you were in a good mood.
Moving effortlessly through the throng of people on the sidewalk, the summer sun inched its way ever higher into the sky. He could feel the temperature beginning to increase as he kept a reasonably good distance behind you, making sure to never lose sight of you among the crowd.
He followed you down to the end of your block, and just as he suspected, you’d gone straight into The Little Crow. Ducking inside the small cafe, you immediately took your place in line as Dex eased his way through the foot traffic. He took his usual place against the brick siding of the shop, lowering his head and watching you through the windows as he blended in with the rest of Hell’s Kitchen. It was a few minutes before the line gradually shuffled forward inside of the cafe and you were at the front of it, ordering your coffee before moving to the side to wait for your drink.
For the slightly more than three weeks that he’d been watching you now, Dex had come to learn that you were an avid coffee drinker. Typically, you drank three coffees in a day–one before work, one in the middle of the morning, and one just after lunch. It was the only true vice he’d noticed you had besides the occasional beer after work.
The moment you’d received your iced coffee from the barista, offering them a friendly smile that lit up your whole face, Dex had slipped back into the crowd just in time to continue walking you to work. But now he found himself standing closer than he usually preferred when he followed you, with only three people separating you from him. At this distance, he could see the way the cotton fabric of your dress swished along your thighs with each of your purposeful steps as you contentedly sipped on your iced latte.
He wouldn’t leave you until he made sure you’d gotten safely to work, and then he’d go about the rest of his day for a while. But he’d be back, checking in on you around noon. He wondered where you’d order lunch from today.
TUESDAY - 7:43 AM
You’d forgotten to water your plants before you’d gotten dressed for work this morning. In fact, your entire routine had been completely thrown off because you’d somehow managed to oversleep. Dex wasn’t sure if your alarm just hadn’t gone off, or if your phone hadn’t been entirely plugged in to charge at night and died on you, or if you’d somehow accidentally turned off your alarm altogether. But when he’d been watching you from across the street this morning, he’d seen you throwing your curtains open in a frenzy far later than he was used to seeing you open them.
You hadn’t taken the time to shower this morning. You hadn’t neatly tucked your blouse into your skirt when you’d been getting ready. He’d watched you barely apply the usual makeup and skincare that you generally religiously applied every morning, and you hadn’t taken that final look at yourself in the mirror before you left for the day like you always did.
But you’d forgotten to water your plants. The plants that you’d told him weeks ago were very important to you, which in turn made them very important to him. He knew you'd never remember when you returned home from work later tonight because you always fell back into the same routine you had before going to bed. And that routine didn’t incorporate watering your plants.
Which was why Dex had come back to your apartment after he’d walked you to work. He’d picked the lock on your door and let himself inside, making his way straight towards your kitchen. With how often he'd watched you water the plants in the mornings from his vantage point across the street, he knew exactly which cabinet you kept the little black watering can in.
Pulling it out, he’d filled it up in the kitchen sink while eyeing the little plants sitting innocently on the windowsill behind it. Afterwards, he appropriately watered each plant with the precise amount of water. Except for Cuddles, because you never watered the cactus on Tuesdays.
After he'd finished with the task that had initially led him to break into your place, he'd considered just leaving and continuing on with his own day. He wanted to go check on Murdock and Page in their “hideout,” curious to learn what they would get involved in today. But as he glanced around your apartment, he wasn’t sure if he was ready to leave quite yet. He couldn't resist the growing urge to see everything of yours up close instead of through his scope. You'd never given him a tour that night he'd stayed for pizza, but since he was already here, he figured he’d give himself one.
Your kitchen was small and clean, just like your living room beside it. There was no clutter on the counters, and you never let dishes remain dirty in your sink. But you did have a coffee maker on the counter next to your toaster, and two bags of coffee currently sat beside it. Medium roast blends from the same roastery–some local place in Hell’s Kitchen.
Dex walked over towards the coffee maker and reached out to pick up one of the bags. Lifting it up to his nose, he took a deep inhale. The aromatic scent caused his eyes to briefly flutter closed as he appreciated the warm, fragrant smell. You certainly knew how to pick out a bag of coffee. And now that he knew what it smelled like, he could better imagine how your apartment would fill with the scent of it every time he watched you brew a cup from across the street.
He carefully placed the bag back down onto your kitchen counter, nestling it in the exact place where it once sat before reaching up to the cabinet above your coffee maker. He hooked a finger around the handle and flicked it open, and all of your colorful coffee mugs suddenly glistened in the morning light.
You certainly liked coffee mugs. There were at least ten of them all perfectly lined up on the shelf, each of them with different patterns, designs, or quotes on them. One of his fingers delicately ran along the rim of a pale green mug with a floral pattern on it. You chose that one to drink out of more often than not, and he assumed it was your favorite.
Losing interest in examining your kitchen, Dex closed the cabinet before making his way towards your small living room. There wasn’t much in it, just a little, gray sofa with a navy blue blanket folded on the back of it, a coffee table situated in front of it, and a television on a stand across the room. In the corner was a walnut bookshelf filled with books and candles that’d always drawn his eye. Crossing the room towards it, Dex came to stand just in front of it, his eyes sweeping over everything neatly tucked away on each shelf. He’d always been curious to know what you read, but he’d never been able to make out all of the titles from across the street through his scope.
His head slowly tilted to the side as he took in the way you’d organized the bookshelf–by color and not alphabetically. The corner of his lip twitched before his eyes ran over the spine of each book, darting from title to title as he read them internally to himself. Romance novels, all of them. Except for a small handful of things that seemed…darker, suspenseful.
Interesting.
Turning away from your bookshelf, Dex started to make his way to the short hallway that led to both your bathroom and bedroom. The sound of his whistling filled your apartment as he contentedly showed himself around the rest of your place. He figured he’d inspect your bathroom next, finding himself suddenly interested to know the scent of your shampoo and body wash.
WEDNESDAY - 8:03 PM
You were back at it again.
Dex sat with his legs crossed on the wood laminate floor, positioned in front of the window in the apartment across the street from yours. Lingering in the shadows of the uninhabited space, he watched you through his scope as he often did in the evenings. It was relaxing to see you go through your usual routines, and it’d even begun to feel as if Dex himself had become a part of it with you. Not that you were aware of his presence.
You’d gotten home from work tonight around five-thirty–as you usually did. He’d watched you make some sort of pasta for dinner. Afterwards, you’d unloaded and reloaded your dishwasher with the dirty dishes from your dinner preparations before scrubbing down your stovetop, the kitchen counters, and your table. But he knew what was coming the second he recognized that decisively blank look on your face.
You’d cleaned up the mess from dinner before you’d started cleaning your entire kitchen, including washing the sink so thoroughly that it’d even left Dex impressed. Afterwards, you’d emptied out your fridge to clean the shelves and drawers before organizing your pantry. He’d watched you disappear from your apartment with a basket of dirty laundry to what he assumed was the laundry facility in your building for almost ten minutes. When you’d returned, you’d immediately armed yourself with a mop and began aggressively mopping your floor.
Dex noticed that you’d occasionally get into a cleaning frenzy sometimes, but they were generally on the weekends when you didn’t have much else to do. In the times he’d seen you get like this, you’d get this unsettling emptiness on your face as you worked, and it was paired with a haunting hollowness that lingered in your eyes.
You were somewhere deep inside of your own mind now. Somewhere he couldn’t hope to ever step foot. But you’d never been this intensely focused on cleaning. What drove you to this point? You’d told him you preferred cleanliness the night you’d invited him in, that it kept you from being in a bad headspace. He understood that all too well. He needed order and organization. Clutter and mess made the buzzing inside his head unbearable, it made him itch like the filth was on his skin.
But what had caused this particular shift in you tonight? Had something happened at work today? Were you reliving some past trauma inside of your mind? Remembering the night your ex had tried to kill you? Or had you somehow discovered that your ex was no longer breathing?
Dex genuinely doubted it was the latter. Your ex’s death hadn’t even made it to the news, probably deemed yet another home invasion among countless others. Nothing worth reporting. Not that he could fathom how you could care about that asshole’s fate. He’d tried to kill you that night, and from your account of things, you’d barely managed to escape him. It sounded like you genuinely believed he’d have come to finish the job, so the outcome seemed rather black and white to Dex–it was you or him.
And if you asked Dex, he thought you were more deserving of continuing to draw breath.
But that did leave Dex wondering something as he watched you mopping the same spot on your floor over and over. Would you ever discover that your ex was dead? What would happen if you did find out? Would you know that Dex had done it? Would you feel grateful to him, or terrified of him?
It was his fear of you being scared of him that made him keep his distance. He didn’t want to risk losing you.
THURSDAY - 9:37 PM
Dex had no idea how he’d found himself in this situation. Sex and pleasure were things that rarely ever crossed his mind in his day to day. It was a burden of flesh that he was always far too content to never feel shackled and controlled by. Lust wasn’t exactly something he experienced. He’d certainly had a few hookups in his time, something to relieve his pent up frustrations that desperately needed an outlet, but it’d never quite truly scratched the particular itch that caused the internal buzzing within his mind. It’d never been exactly what he’d been craving as a release. Sex had always felt pointless.
So why the fuck was watching you masturbate having such an effect on him tonight?
You’d forgotten to fully close your curtains when you’d gone into your bedroom a short time ago, and Dex had assumed you were just getting ready to sleep. That’s what you generally did around this time. That was also usually when Dex left his place across the street from yours–shortly after he knew you’d gotten into bed. Except you’d forgotten to turn off your bedroom lights, too. So he’d kept watching you from what he could see through the sliver of curtains in his scope, even if his view initially hadn't been much.
Until he’d caught you laying naked on your bed, holding what was clearly a purple vibrator in your hand. He could only see the lower half of your body, just a section from beneath your navel and to the tops of your thighs, but it was plenty to know what you were doing in your room. He could see the way you were moving the vibrator between your thighs, your hips squirming along the sheets the longer you did.
Dex wondered if you were watching porn on your phone, or if you were thinking about something in particular. Which made Dex curious to know what was currently running through your mind, a place he could never manage to go no matter how desperately he wished he could. Particularly right now.
But the more he watched and wondered, the more he felt his cock twitching inside of his jeans. The more he tried to figure out what you were thinking about, curious as to what you liked when it came to the inane need for pleasure, the more and more impossible it became to ignore his own erection. Because after merely five minutes of tracking the way your hips danced along the bed as he attempted to imagine what sounds you were making over there in your room, he’d found himself painfully hard.
With his teeth grit together, he struggled with this unfamiliar, confusing feeling twisting inside of his gut, the one that currently sat beside his increasing agitation at this entire situation. What in the hell were you doing to him? Dex had never been stuck in a position like this before, not even when he’d followed Julie around in the past. Nothing had ever come close to this. He didn’t care about desire. Sexual gratification barely ever crossed his damn mind, but it was becoming so incredibly uncomfortable to keep sitting on the floor watching you while pretending that he wasn’t in need of a release himself. He knew that he’d inevitably have to deal with his own problem.
“Goddamit,” he cursed under his breath.
With one hand he frustratedly tore open the button of his jeans before roughly unzipping them, continuing to watch you through his scope. His only free hand slipped down beneath the fabric of his boxer briefs before he grasped onto the base of his cock. A deep, throaty growl of annoyance vibrated in his throat at what he was about to do, but his irritation began to fade into something else as he began reluctantly stroking himself.
Exhaling a sharp breath through flared nostrils, Dex continued to watch you through his scope as his hips began to twitch up into his hand. His fingers were wrapped around his length, his hand awkwardly working inside of the confines of his boxers as he tried to get himself off. It wasn’t until he saw your other hand come into his limited view across the street that he started to lose it. Your fingers trailed teasingly along your stomach before dipping lower until they disappeared between your thighs.
So now you were touching yourself, too.
The sounds of his own ragged breaths filled the empty apartment around him, his hand stroking himself faster. He’d never felt more like a dumb animal than he did at this moment. That would’ve bothered him more if it wasn’t for the fact that this actually felt good for once. He didn’t understand how. He didn’t understand why. But soon he felt his cock throbbing in his hand before his cum came spurting out from the tip of it, landing in warm, thick droplets along his abdomen as a choked groan fell past his lips.
Panting heavily when he’d fully spent himself, he drew the scope away from his eye and glanced down at his lap. His own semen was soaking into the bottom of his dark gray shirt, the giant mess impossible to miss. He hadn’t brought a change of clothing with him, so now he’d have to walk home to his own place with the aftermath of his actions smeared over him.
Sliding his hand out from his pants, his lips curled back in distaste. He’d rather be covered in someone’s blood–or even his own–instead of proof that he’d found himself no better than the rest of the human population tonight.
FRIDAY - 6:38 PM
Resting an arm along the bar counter, Dex’s fingers absently tapped a rhythm against the wooden surface. A half-finished beer sat on a wet napkin beside his hand, but it wasn’t the alcohol that’d drawn him out to this bar.
You hadn’t followed your usual routine tonight after you’d finished work. Instead of going home, getting changed into something comfortable, and making dinner, you’d changed into less professional attire, touched up your makeup, and then gone back out.
So Dex had followed you.
At first, he’d wondered if maybe you’d had a date tonight. Had you already found another asshole to replace the last one? But then he’d realized you were just meeting up with some of your friends for after work drinks. Not that your friends seemed much better than the prospect of watching you go on a date, because they were certainly annoying. The brunette on your left had a particularly grating, high pitched laugh that made him wince every time she let it loose. He imagined throwing countless items in the bar at her throat to shut her up a few times, but he knew he couldn’t do that. He figured you wouldn’t be pleased, and that wasn’t what good guys did.
So he’d done his best to ignore your stupid friend’s laugh and the occasional chatter he overheard from your table. Instead, he sipped at his beer while sitting in the far corner of the bar and watched you. He had the perfect view of where you and your three friends sat at your table, and with how crowded the place was with everyone trying to blow off steam before Fisk’s curfew came into effect for the evening, he was well hidden where he sat.
Which also meant that you couldn’t see the way his left hand curled into a fist in his lap, his teeth grinding together when he first saw the tall blonde guy interrupt the conversation at your table. He’d gone straight over to you, leaning down towards your chair and invading your personal space. Dex caught the way you’d instinctively shrank away from him at the proximity, clearly uncomfortable with it, but the asshole didn’t seem to notice.
Dex didn’t like him. This guy clearly couldn’t take a hint. He’d been standing beside your chair for almost five minutes now, and with each minute that passed he kept getting closer and closer to you. When his hand had landed on the back of your chair, Dex had considered throwing his half-empty beer bottle across the room with such force that it would lodge in his temple. He envisioned just how fast it would shut him up, but he could also unfortunately envision the chaos that would ensue.
Besides, you probably wouldn’t approve of that, either. And he was trying to be a good guy now. Good guys didn’t just kill random men in bars because they were pissing them off.
“You ready for another, sweetheart?”
Teeth still gnashing together in annoyance, the bartender’s voice unwelcomely cut straight through his thoughts. Keeping his head still trained forward, Dex’s eyes shifted over towards the woman in her mid-forties who looked rather bored herself, then he followed the direction of where her hand had gestured. To his beer that he was considering using as a weapon instead of a drink.
“No,” he answered flatly. “I’m good.”
Her head turned in the direction Dex was looking before it tipped to the side, her gaze studying you and the blonde. “If you’re that interested,” she began, pointing a finger at you, “you should go talk to her before that douchebag kills your chances, hun.”
When her attention returned to Dex, she stiffened at the hard glare that met her. She held up her hands in a gesture of defeat before turning around and heading back down the length of the bar, moving on to serve another patron. Dex’s frustrated gaze slowly returned to where you sat across the bar from him, his rage churning inside of his chest like a surging storm as he saw that bastard still standing there talking to you.
You would not date another piece of shit. Dex would not allow it. Because nothing was allowed to happen to you, not on his watch. He needed to keep you safe, protect you from your horrible choice in men and the ones who you seemed to attract. Including the ones that couldn’t take a fucking hint. That was his purpose now.
The corner of Dex’s lips curled back into a dangerous sneer. He couldn’t kill the dumbass while he was here in the bar completely out in the open. Technically, the guy hadn’t done anything yet, either. But Dex had certainly begun weighing the pros and cons of following him home and dealing with him in private if that asshole’s hand left the back of your chair and managed to touch any part of you.
Because Dex would keep you safe. You had to remain safe. What happened to Julie would never happen to you.
Pairing: Benjamin Poindexter x fem!Reader Word Count: 4.3k [Series Masterlist] [Dex Fic Masterlist]
Warnings/tags: 18+; stalker-to-lovers, domestic abuse, violence, unstable!Reader, hurt/comfort, angst, suicidal ideation, smut, dead dove do not eat
a/n: Considering all of the interest on the first part, I've decided to expand and make this more than just a one shot. Dex is rampant in my brain, so this part just flew out of me! Feedback and reblogs are always appreciated!
series tag list: @awesome-badass-cafeteria-sauce @snowwythegloww @skollinghunter @let-it-go-and-live-again @starlitflora @sunshine-daydreams0809 @scarredtarts @paracosmic-murdock @catsintophats5
Three evenly spaced knocks ominously reverberated through your small apartment, the sound causing you to startle in front of the bathroom mirror. You'd been leaning forward over the sink, but you’d nearly jumped out of your skin at the unexpected interruption. Your reflection visibly tensed before your gaze drifted cautiously away from your battered face and towards the doorway, your hand still hovering beside your swollen left cheek, fingertips brushing over one of the cuts you’d been examining.
Was that your ex at your door? Had he come back to finish what he'd tried to do earlier tonight? Had the man you'd run into on the street, the one who’d only given you the name “Dex,” not actually handled the situation like he'd promised?
Gaze sweeping back to your damaged face in the mirror, your own fear reflected back at you, the panic clear in your eyes. Feeling your breath starting to come in shallower, your now trembling hand slowly lowered down to the countertop of the bathroom vanity before you pushed yourself away from it.
Padding barefoot and wary across the tiled floor, you stepped out of your bathroom and back into the main living area of your apartment, pausing beside your television sitting on the stand against the wall. Your mind started racing, your thoughts spinning just as fast as your heart hammering inside of your chest. For the third time tonight, you could feel your adrenaline spiking.
But if that was your ex outside of your door, he was being uncharacteristically quiet. Usually when he showed up–even in a good mood–he was shouting through the door at you inside without a care for your neighbors, not standing wordlessly in your hallway. He also didn’t knock politely just a couple of times and stop, he generally pounded his fist against your door impatiently until you answered. Considering what’d happened between you both tonight, you doubted he’d be this calm standing out there.
But who else would be visiting your apartment this late at night if it wasn’t him?
Your tongue slipped out between your dry lips, nervously wetting them as you carefully began making your way through your small living room and towards the door. When you finally reached it, you leaned forward, pressing your palms flat against it as you squinted through the peephole. To your utter surprise, it wasn’t your ex who’d knocked at your door. It was Dex.
Pulling back away from it, you stared at the deadbolt in stunned silence. Why had he come back to your place? What did he want with you? He’d seemed friendly enough when he’d walked you all the way back here a bit ago, and he’d made you feel safer as he searched the apartment building for any trace of your ex on your way up to the third floor. Surely you could trust him, couldn’t you? He’d told you he was one of those vigilantes fighting the task force, that he’d previously been a federal agent, and he had offered to help you out tonight. Maybe he’d just come back because your ex wasn't home. Maybe he'd wanted to make sure that he hadn’t showed up at your door instead, worried over your safety.
Finally coming to a decision, you began undoing the deadbolt before unlocking your door the rest of the way. Swinging it open, you came face to face with Dex standing innocently in your hallway. One of his hands rose, moving almost mechanically in a short, stiff wave.
“Hello again,” he greeted.
You stared at him for a few seconds, still dumbfounded over the fact that he'd returned. Part of you was beginning to fear that something had gone wrong when he'd confronted your ex, that maybe he'd only upset him further and now you were really in for it.
“Hi,” you finally managed, one hand still gripping your door. “I–I didn’t think you would come back. Did something happen?”
A small, tight smile spread over his lips, but you noticed how it didn’t quite reach his eyes. Those same eyes which still held that same, strange calculative look in them from when you’d first met him on the street. But maybe you were reading far too much into it, because you’d certainly endured plenty tonight. You were probably just on edge, trying to see things that weren't really there.
“I just came by to let you know that your ex won’t be a problem anymore,” Dex informed you. “I thought telling you was the right thing to do. So you wouldn’t have to worry.”
Brows rising up marginally onto your forehead, you were shocked at how fast he seemed to have dealt with the situation. It hadn’t taken him very long to leave your place and stop at your ex's. You’d only been back at your apartment for a half an hour, and all you’d managed to do since you’d returned home was change out of your damp clothes and wash the blood from your face before he’d knocked on your door.
“So he–he got the message?” you cautiously questioned.
Fingers tightening around the door, you held your breath as you watched his smile gradually widen. If he'd really gotten your ex-boyfriend to leave you alone, he'd done more than any NYPD officer ever had for you. You were teetering on the verge of relief waiting for confirmation.
“I don’t think I could’ve made the message any more clear than I did,” he stated proudly.
There it was again. That weird way in which he spoke that had something itching in the back of your mind, feeling as if there was something not quite being said. But you couldn’t put your finger on exactly what it was or why you felt that way.
“I thought I’d check on you, too,” he added.
His right hand began to raise and your attention immediately snapped down to focus on it, fear shooting through you in a knee-jerk reaction. But the panic that’d been flooding your system quickly started to dissipate when you saw what he’d brought. A first aid kit. Brand new, as if he’d stopped somewhere on his way back to your apartment just to buy it for you. Swallowing hard, you stared at the bright red canvas with the little white cross positioned in the center of it. It looked like one of those really well-stocked ones, not the cheap little plastic ones you’d bought in the past that contained the bare minimum.
“You–you came back just to check on me?” you awkwardly stammered, staring at the bag in his hand.
Slowly lowering the first aid kit back to his side, you caught the way his expression faltered from your peripheral. Looking back up at him, your brows furrowed faintly together again at the uncertainty that’d suddenly made its way onto his face. His lips had thinned into a straight line, his eyes partially narrowing at a space just over your shoulder as if in thought.
“Should I not have?” he asked.
“Oh–no,” you answered quickly, shaking your head a few times. “No, I just–just wasn’t expecting another visit. I didn’t think you’d be concerned about my, you know, well-being enough to come back with medical supplies. That was very…thoughtful of you.”
And his thoughtfulness had certainly thrown you. Never had someone paid you that much consideration before. You were used to patching yourself up after one of your exes had gotten upset with you, and you were used to hiding behind lies and makeup to cover up what had actually happened. Having someone go out of their way to make sure that you were alright was completely foreign to you. While he’d still never asked how you were doing, maybe this was his way of showing his concern?
Dex shrugged a shoulder nonchalantly as he stood in your hallway, and you couldn’t tell if he was downplaying the gesture, or if he truly seemed that indifferent. He was easily the most difficult person to read out of anyone you’d ever met before.
“Seemed like it was part of the process,” he replied. “Do you mind if I–?”
He gestured his free hand in the direction of your face, implying that he’d wanted to come in and tend to your injuries. A sheepish smile slid onto your lips, but your expression immediately shifted into a faint grimace as the gesture caused a sharp stint of pain to erupt in the left side of your face. Gently placing the back of your hand against your swollen cheek, you stepped to the side of your open door and tried to relax the muscles in your face.
“Sure, come in,” you invited him. Blinking rapidly a few times, you attempted to push back the tears now stinging at your eyes from that burst of pain. “I uh, I actually was rather low on things in my own first aid kit.”
Dex made a deep noise in the back of his throat in acknowledgement as he crossed the threshold and sauntered into your apartment. You closed the door after him and turned around, your hand lowering from your cheek as you watched him. He’d taken a few steps into the open living space of your place, standing behind your couch as he openly scanned over the living room and the small kitchen with the little dining table. You felt heat flush in your cheeks, suddenly growing embarrassed at how small and simple the place appeared.
“It’s not much,” you muttered, almost apologetically.
With his back facing you, you couldn’t quite see his expression as he took everything in. He remained silent for a few seconds longer, still staring at your apartment like he was trying to absorb every detail. But you could feel your unease increasing, as if maybe he was quietly judging you for what he saw.
“It’s very organized and clean,” he commented, sounding almost surprised.
“Yeah, well I don’t like clutter,” you awkwardly replied, hands fidgeting in front of yourself. “It uh, it puts me in a bad headspace, you know? Seeing things messy and out of place. I don’t like it because–”
Teeth clamping down onto the tip of your tongue, you caught yourself before you could overshare. Like about how you often found yourself in cleaning episodes, scrubbing down every inch of your apartment because of stress and depression. But he didn’t need to know that. He didn't need to know how you maniacally cleaned in order to feel some semblance of order and control in your life.
Slowly turning his head over his shoulder, Dex’s stare met yours again. A muscle jumped in his cheek, feathering a couple of times as he took you in. You shifted uncomfortably on your bare feet, feeling a little more seen than you had in a long time, as if he was somehow peeling back your layers and poking at something deeper.
“I understand,” he stated. “I don't like disorder, either.”
Awkwardly clearing your throat, your gaze drifted back down to the first aid kit in his hand and you remembered why he’d returned to your apartment in the first place. His own eyes followed yours, something flickering across his face as if he’d temporarily forgotten why he was standing in the middle of your apartment, too.
“Should we sit?” you suggested.
You gestured a hand nervously towards the small, square dining table in your kitchen. There were only two chairs tucked beneath it because there wasn’t much room for anything bigger. In answer to your question, Dex nodded once before striding over to one of the chairs, setting the first aid kit down onto the table before taking a seat. You followed quietly after him and awkwardly slid out the other chair, scooting it a bit closer to him so you wouldn’t be on the opposite side of the table.
Dex’s gaze darted over your shoulder as he began to unzip the canvas bag, examining your little kitchen behind you. “You have a lot of plants,” he observed.
His attention returned to the first aid kit when he'd opened it, and you turned your head over your shoulder, glancing back at the kitchen. Behind your kitchen sink sat a handful of potted plants in front of a window. A couple of them were fresh herbs you used in your cooking, but the others were just regular house plants. The corner of your lips twitched into a small smile at them.
“They’re my babies,” you confessed.
Shifting your attention back to Dex, you felt your cheeks heat even further at the way he was now staring at you. His hands had stopped midway between pulling out bandages and antiseptic wipes, his head canting somewhat to the side as if in confusion.
“Not literally, obviously,” you fumbled to explain. “They're plants. It’s just that they keep me company. My lease doesn’t allow me to have a cat, so I settle for them instead.”
Another deep, throaty noise of acknowledgement met your explanation, and his eyes flicked back over to glance at your plants one more time before he refocused on his task. He’d gone quiet after that, and you’d fallen silent yourself as you watched him meticulously organize all of the supplies he’d need to clean up the damage your ex had done to your face earlier.
You’d eventually fixated on one of the abstract paintings hanging on the wall behind him once he'd started to tend to your injuries, trying to ignore the tender way his rough fingers held your chin carefully in place as he worked. There was something about his touch that felt like cautious restraint, as if he wasn't used to being this gentle. Strength pulled taut on a leash–not something you were familiar with yourself.
A somewhat comfortable silence had settled between you both as he cleaned out your wounds with the antiseptic wipes before gingerly applying ointment to the various cuts littered across your skin. When he’d finished, he’d started to work on fastidiously bandaging a few of the cuts on your face with butterfly bandages, taking his time as if he'd done this more than once before.
“How’d you even end up with that asshole?”
His question sliced through the air like a knife, leaving you tense in its wake. Your eyes slowly drifted back towards his face, mouth abruptly growing dry. He was leaning a bit towards you in his chair, his face mere inches from yours as he continued to apply the bandages. But he seemed far more unbothered by the proximity than you were, his focus entirely on his hands.
The question had caught you off guard, not expecting him to ask something so personal, and certainly not so bluntly. Your initial reaction was to deflect it with humor and change the subject, but considering he already knew what’d happened to you tonight, and he’d personally met your ex, there was no point in hiding anything.
“He wasn’t like that at first,” you answered quietly. “They never are. It isn't like you can just…recognize men like him.” Pausing for a moment, your gaze fixed on a spot along his cheek, unable to maintain eye contact as you spoke. “By the time I realized what he was really like, I was already sort of trapped. Fear and manipulation kind of do that to you.”
His fingers stopped where they’d been smoothing a bandage gently over your swollen cheek, his eyes lingering on yours. His brows twitched briefly together, the slightest crease forming and unforming between them as you refused to meet his stare.
“You say that like he’s not the first abuser you’ve dated,” he commented. “Or the first who lost it and tried to kill you.”
His blunt way of speaking caused you to swallow hard, and you fought the urge to squirm in the chair with how quickly he'd read you. You probably should’ve expected him to say something like that, because it seemed as if his straightforwardness was just a part of the way he spoke. He significantly lacked tact.
“He isn’t,” you murmured.
Eyes darting back over his shoulder, you returned to staring at the abstract painting on the wall behind him. It always reminded you of rain on the city streets at night. You scanned over the blues and greens and bits of yellow, attempting to ignore the way he was staring at you like he was trying to pick you apart.
“That must be hard,” he replied, slow and stiff. “That must be really hard having gone through that more than once.”
Shrugging a shoulder, you tried to brush it off. Just like you always did. Because you kept your actual feelings about all of your horrible exes locked up in a box inside of your mind, and it wasn't a box you ever wanted to rummage around inside. Tonight's experience would also land itself in there, and you'd try to pretend it had never happened just like all the other times you forced yourself to forget.
“My friends say I'm a magnet for guys like that,” you admitted, slightly abashed. “It's a running joke, actually. I've never dated a nice guy. It's always the dangerous ones who find me.”
Dex finished applying the last bandage to your cheek before he slowly sat back, the wooden chair creaking beneath him as his hands finally left your chin and cheek to rest in his lap. Forcing your attention away from the painting, you nervously chanced a glance at him. That calculating and confusing look in his eyes greeted you once more. It had disappeared for the duration that he'd been tending to your cuts, but it was back now. Like he was mulling something over in his mind, and you wondered exactly what that was.
Eventually, you found yourself growing uncomfortable beneath his silent scrutiny, almost like you could feel him inside of your mind digging around in it with his fingers. Not wanting to discuss the topic of your cursed dating life any further, you blurted out the first thing that came to mind.
“I was about to reheat up some leftover pizza in the oven,” you said, throwing a thumb over your shoulder towards the kitchen. “I didn't have a chance to eat yet. Do you want some? As like…a thank you for helping me tonight? It's from Vinny's, that place by the laundromat? I have beer, too,” you continued, rambling even more at the sight of the increasingly puzzled look on his face. “Unless you're not done with the good guy thing tonight? I mean, I get it, maybe you need to go do something else. Or, you know, remain sober to fight the bad guys.”
Dex blinked back at you slowly three times, growing very still in his chair. A few seconds dragged by before a smile gradually crawled its way across his face. The sight of it eased the tightness in your chest that you hadn't even noticed was there. It wasn't quite a warm smile, but it reached his eyes along with the hint of amusement now gleaming back at you among the green of them.
“You know,” he began almost smugly, “I'm actually off the clock from being a good guy for the rest of the evening. Guess you could say I met my quota for the night. I wouldn't mind some pizza.”
Going back to your apartment that night hadn’t been out of kindness or thoughtfulness. Dex just thought it was the last step in resolving your problem. In doing the right thing. All he'd intended to do was tell you that you were safe from your ex, and tend to the injuries on your face. He hadn't cared about anything else.
But then he'd started talking to you. He'd started to notice the little similarities between you both, things that he could find himself relating to, which was unusual for him. He thought he’d gotten a better picture of who you were as you both talked over the pizza and beer afterwards. He’d been stunned that you’d even asked him to stay in the first place, because no one had ever really invited Dex to stay for something so friendly before. But you had.
You reminded Dex of a flower. Specifically a tulip, he decided. Like the ones during springtime in the park he frequented for his morning runs, the ones he often saw trampled on by the irritating dogs and children stomping through them, not giving a single shit that something was trying to grow there.
You were far more resilient than you appeared. Apparently you'd also been crushed under the foot of numerous assholes, smashed repeatedly into the dirt over and over just like those flowers in the park. And while you certainly bore the marks and the stains, you hadn’t wilted and withered. You'd endured, just like those damn tulips did every spring.
That was admirable. He liked that about you. You weren't as weak as you'd initially appeared, even if you were a little timid. But that was expected considering your history with abusive ex-boyfriends. He understood how they worked. How they used fear, how they manipulated and twisted your mind, tricking you into believing their lies. Dex could certainly relate to that after what the Fisks had done to him.
It was that history you'd barely touched on that night over a week ago which had led him once more to The Little Crow this Sunday morning. It was a small cafe in Hell’s Kitchen, one located just at the end of the block where your apartment building sat. The black baseball hat on Dex’s head was pulled low, the visor meant to conceal his face where he sat at a small table in the back of the place. He held an issue of The Bulletin in front of himself, opened to one of the articles you’d written in it–and he found it ironic that you were a journalist there. But he was barely reading the paper, his gaze repeatedly flicking over the top of it as his attention remained solely fixed on you.
Sitting alone in the same booth he'd seen you in yesterday morning, your head was ducked low as you read the same book, your face bathed in the honeyed morning glow of sunlight seeping in through the window at your left. Your fingers picked absently at another chocolate croissant in between turning the pages of your book, and you sipped at the same coffee order you'd had every morning that you'd stopped here before work–a cinnamon latte with oat milk and light ice.
You were a creature of habit. Predictable. Following a pattern that Dex had already started to learn. He liked that you were easy to track.
Dex had begun watching you in those days that had passed since he'd helped you, finding himself struggling with something ever since he left your apartment once you'd both finished the pizza and beer. If his One Good Deed to balance out his past transgressions was to keep you safe, he assumed that would've been accomplished when he'd killed your stupid ex-boyfriend. That should have been the end of it.
But was it? Was that really the extent of it?
You claimed to have a long history of dating pieces of shit just like the dumbass he'd killed. You said that you'd dated other abusive men who'd also hurt you, and that the one he'd killed the other night hadn't been the only one who'd come close to killing you. He could see the truth of your words in your skittish nature and nervous fidgets. Even your friends claimed that you were a magnet for dangerous men, which he admittedly found amusing considering you'd gotten Dex’s interest.
So what happened if you dated another loser? Considering the types of men he'd seen noticing you while you were out over these past almost two weeks–looks you were completely oblivious to–he assumed there was some merit to what your friends had said. You did seem to attract the attention of a certain type of man.
What if you dated another one and they actually killed you this time? Dex had felt a part of himself bristling at the idea the more he watched you, the more he got to know you. He didn't like the thought of someone so kind and sweet falling victim to another scumbag like that. But if you did, would that somehow negate his One Good Deed?
Would the scales become unbalanced again if you died? Was keeping you alive the only way to keep them balanced? Would saving you the other week have been in vain if someone else killed you in a few months? Two years?
One of his fingers tapped in agitation against the newspaper, his eyes lingering on you from across the cafe. Your fingers delicately tore off another piece of the chocolate croissant, your attention still completely absorbed in your book as you sat entirely unaware of his eyes on you. He watched as you brought the piece of pastry to your lips before popping it into your mouth and chewing.
No, he decided. He couldn't let you date another asshole. You, the kind woman who made the incessant buzzing in his head dull and stop, who ridiculously named her houseplants, who'd told him horrible jokes over pizza and couldn't handle a single beer without getting a buzz. You’d treated him as if he was good. You'd given him a chance.
You were different. Like Julie had once been.
That's when he'd slowly begun to make sense of it all. You were his One Good Deed. Keeping you safe would have to become his priority now. It didn't matter what he had to do, he'd found his purpose for what was left of his life while he tried to help Murdock take down the Fisks.
Pairing: Benjamin Poindexter x fem!Reader Word Count: 4.6k [Series Masterlist] [Dex Fic Masterlist]
Warnings/tags: 18+; stalker-to-lovers, domestic abuse, violence, unstable!Reader, hurt/comfort, angst, suicidal ideation, smut, dead dove do not eat
Summary: All Dex needed was one good deed, something to tip the scales of his life and balance everything out a little. Crying, injured, and terrified as you wandered the streets of Hell’s Kitchen late at night, you seemed to check all the boxes of someone in need. But as Dex gets to know you, he realizes he miscalculated what his one good deed would be, and now he's not quite done with you.
a/n: This was supposed to be a one shot, but I broke it into two parts. I could potentially add a bit more than that if there's interest because Dex has been rampant in my brain lately despite me mainly writing for Matt. Feedback and reblogs are always appreciated!
series tag list: @awesome-badass-cafeteria-sauce @snowwythegloww @skollinghunter
Rain water splashed up onto the denim of your jeans as you passed through another puddle that'd accumulated along a dip in the sidewalk. The lights of Hell’s Kitchen reflected off the wet pavement, the nighttime city twinkling underneath your feet while the distant sounds of police sirens echoed off the surrounding buildings.
It’d stopped raining before you’d found yourself wandering the streets tonight, well aware that you were out past the mandated curfew Fisk had put into place. The fear of being thrown into the back of one of AVTF’s vans and disappearing kept you from paying much attention to the cold, wet material now clinging to your ankles. So did the throbbing in your right shoulder and the stinging cuts scattered across your cheek and chin, the pain of them only made worse by the salty tears trailing quietly down your face.
Keeping your head lowered and your chin tucked to your chest, you hurried down the sidewalk without a destination as you attempted to avoid the police checkpoints. The few others still out on the street passed you by without a care as to whether you were alright, no one bothered by the sight of a lone woman walking the streets while bleeding and crying at nearly ten in the evening. The state of you didn’t even cause a single head to turn in your direction, as if you were entirely invisible to the rest of the city. Just another woman in trouble, no one else’s problem.
Taking another turn when you’d reached the corner, you continued down the sidewalk without any idea of where you were headed. Your apartment wasn’t a safe option tonight because he knew where you lived. Would he be waiting there for you if you returned home? Or would he show up shortly after you’d locked yourself inside of your place, wanting to finish what he’d almost accomplished earlier tonight when you’d tried to finally end the relationship?
You could still feel his hands around your throat, the memory of him crushing your windpipe causing your left hand to absently raise to your neck, fingers gently brushing over the tender spots where his own fingers had dug in and squeezed. He’d meant to kill you this time. To show you that you’d never be allowed to leave him. When your vision had blurred white, your mind sluggish and hazy as you struggled for a breath, you really thought he’d succeed.
It was only by sheer luck that you’d managed a swift kick right between his thighs with your last vestiges of strength–a cheap shot straight to the balls. But it’d worked, causing him to double over in pain long enough for you to stumble through his kitchen and towards the door of his apartment. Gasping for air and still struggling to see straight, you’d flung the door open and bolted straight for the stairwell. You’d half-tripped, half-sprinted down the two flights of stairs and ran through his apartment building’s lobby without him managing to catch up with you.
But now you were left with another problem. You had nowhere to go where he couldn’t find you, and you couldn’t realistically stay on the streets all night. Not only were you not safe from Fisk’s task force out here, but it wasn’t safe for a woman alone in general to be wandering Hell’s Kitchen at night. Anyone just as bad as your ex could stumble upon you, and who knew how much further of a deep nosedive your night could still take if they did.
With trembling fingers, you gingerly brushed away a few of the tears still slipping down your cheeks, but a sharp hiss of pain passed between your lips. Despite how careful you’d been with your touch, your swollen cheek stung horribly from where his fist had collided with it a few times tonight.
He hadn’t liked you trying to stand up for yourself for once.
Drawing your hand away from your face, you glanced down at your dampened fingers just as you passed beneath the bright sign of a still open bodega. The gleaming yellow lights overhead illuminated the tinge of red on your fingertips–blood, not tears. You winced at the sight only to feel a sharp jolt of pain sear its way through the left side of your face at the gesture.
Even if you could get back to your apartment tonight, did you have enough supplies left in your first aid kit to properly clean yourself up? What were you even supposed to tell everyone when you went into work this time? The cuts wouldn’t be entirely healed by Monday morning, and you felt as if you’d run out of excuses to explain away all of the injuries you'd sustained over the past year. You wished you could’ve trusted the police to do something, maybe things wouldn’t have escalated to the point they had tonight if the world worked differently. But they'd proven useless, only exacerbating the tension within your relationship.
Entirely caught up in your thoughts as you continued down the sidewalk, you hadn’t been paying much attention to the rest of the foot traffic braving curfew around you. Just as you’d started to lower your bloodied hand back to your side, someone roughly slammed into your right shoulder. With a startled gasp at the sharp pain lancing itself up your injured arm, you lost your footing and stumbled a few steps towards the street, your shoes accidentally splashing into another puddle.
More tears bloomed along your waterline in response, your teeth sinking down onto the tip of your tongue in an attempt to quell a cry of pain threatening to burst out of you. Your gaze nervously darted over to the person you’d just ran into, your pulse thundering in your ears. You were terrified that you’d just pissed off the wrong person tonight with your inattentiveness, and your fear felt validated when you locked eyes with the man who’d also stopped dead in his tracks.
He was standing completely still in front of the bodega’s windows, the bright lights behind him casting a harsh glow that accentuated the sharpness of his cheekbones and lit a few cuts along his own face. At first glance you would have found him attractive with his cropped blonde hair and muscular build, but you noticed something a little off in the way his eyes stared back at you. An intimidating, calculative look held you captive like an animal trapped in a snare, your left hand now cradling your injured right arm carefully to your chest.
“I–I’m sorry,” you blurted out the apology. “I–I didn’t mean to run into you.”
It was a knee-jerk reaction by now, apologizing whenever you did just about anything that could've been deemed offensive, so the words easily rolled off your tongue as they had so often in the past. But the stranger remained quiet, his eyes slowly scanning over your tear-streaked face. You imagined your visibly swollen left cheek and the blood smeared on your face wasn’t helping your appearance, but you weren’t certain whether he was staring at you because he was concerned about you, or because you looked like easy prey.
“I’ll pay better attention to where I’m going,” you promised him, the words coming in a rush.
Turning swiftly on your heel, you ducked your head once more and started back off down the sidewalk, your arm still cradled to your chest as you tried to put distance between yourself and him. But you could feel the weight of his stare on your back like the tip of a knife dragging down the column of your spine, and the hair along your forearms prickled. You’d only managed a few steps before he called out, the tone of his voice causing your feet to halt on the pavement.
“What happened to you?”
With your back still facing the stranger, each of your muscles pulled taut at the question while fear and apprehension flooded your system. He was the first one to actually notice you tonight, but he hadn’t hit you with an “are you alright?” or “do you need help?” The edge in his tone didn’t sound much like concern, but rather something strangely close to curiosity.
Pulling your injured arm closer to your chest, your eyes focused on a particularly deep puddle farther down the street as you struggled to find a response to give him. The green lights of the nearby traffic light reflected off of the water on the road, but with the curfew in effect, there wasn't much traffic at this hour.
“Were you attacked?” he called out from behind you. “Was it the task force?”
Inhaling a quivering breath, you accepted defeat and gradually turned back around to face the stranger. You noticed with interest that he hadn’t moved any closer to you after you’d walked away, remaining exactly where he’d been standing in front of the bodega. But the second your eyes met, his expression shifted oddly fast. One second he was looking at you with a flat, hard to read stare, and the next, a friendly smile spread over his face as he held up both of his hands in a placating gesture.
The strange look in his eyes hadn’t changed, though.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” he assured you. “I’ll even stay right here if that makes you comfortable. But you’re bleeding and crying, and it’s clear someone did something to you. Now, if the task force is nearby–”
He broke off mid-sentence, his hands gradually lowering back to his sides as his gaze swept down both sides of the street. Quietly watching him, you noticed that he didn’t seem to have the normal reaction to the threat of the task force nearby. Most people spoke about them with clear disdain or fear, but he almost seemed to be searching for them. Like he wanted to find them.
“It wasn’t them,” you told him, the words slipping out before you could stop them.
His attention fixed back on you and you stiffened, still a bit uncertain about who he was and what he wanted from you. While you highly doubted that he’d believe you if you said you’d fallen down some stairs and obtained your injuries that way, you also weren’t interested in someone trying to force you to a hospital, either. You didn’t have the money to cover what your insurance wouldn’t from an emergency room visit, but if he was going to press the question, telling him the truth was beginning to feel like the only logical option you had here.
His eyes narrowed speculatively at you, his head tipping just a fraction to the side. “Who was it then?”
Still clutching your arm to your chest, your fingers curled into the fabric of your shirt sleeve as you internally debated on how much to share with him. You’d never openly admitted what your ex had done to anyone before, but here you were being put on the spot to tell a stranger. Mouth opening and closing a few times, you struggled to find something to say, but with no believable lie coming to you in the moment, the truth fell right out.
“It was my ex,” you answered awkwardly. “I–I tried to end things, but he…didn’t like that.”
“So he attacked you because he didn’t want you to leave him,” the man clarified.
You hesitated at his completely blunt, straightforward response. Here you were visibly bleeding and shaken up, telling him that you’d tried to end a relationship and gotten attacked over it, yet he still hadn’t even asked if you were alright. He'd offered no words of comfort or sympathy. If anything, he seemed more focused on the situation than your well-being, which was…odd.
If he had stopped and taken an interest in you because he intended to mug you or assault you, why would he continue to stand here wasting his time talking to you? Because if he genuinely was concerned about you, he certainly wasn't acting in the typical manner of someone showing sympathy. Which left you wondering if there was another reason as to why he was still asking questions, a third reason you couldn't quite grasp.
“And you're out past curfew because you just left him?” he pushed.
“Well, I–I can’t exactly go home,” you sheepishly admitted. When he only stared at you, waiting for more of an explanation, you continued weakly. “Because he knows where I live. And I’m–I’m afraid he’s going to show up if he isn’t already at my apartment. So I can’t go home.”
There was a brief silence after you’d finished where he continued to study you, and you swallowed thickly under the uncomfortable weight of his attention. After a moment the man took two steps in your direction, but when you instantly took a hesitant step backwards on the sidewalk, he abruptly stopped his approach. Both of his hands raised up in the air again in that gesture meant to remind you he meant no harm. The bodega’s sign behind him cast half his face in heavy shadows now, and a part of your brain screamed danger even though he kept trying to assure you that he wouldn’t hurt you. You weren't entirely certain what to make of him, but fear seemed the most reasonable reaction to his presence, especially after the way your night had already gone.
“So are you on your way to a police station then?” he pried, not moving any closer. “Or one of those women’s shelters?”
Lip curling back in distaste, you shook your head as a bitter huff met his questions. You weren’t entirely sure what it was about him that seemed to be drawing forth such extreme candor from you tonight. Maybe it was just the adrenaline still coursing through you after everything you’d already endured with your ex, or maybe you were just sick of hiding the truth now that it was finally out.
“The police don’t do shit to help. Everyone knows that,” you spat, eyes dropping down to your shoes. They were both drenched from all the puddles you’d stepped in while walking the streets, your socks inside of them squishing uncomfortably as you shifted your weight. “And I don’t even have any idea of where one of those shelters is located.”
Your phone had also died about twenty minutes ago, making it impossible for you to even search up the phone number to contact a place like that and find their location. But you had the good sense not to share that information with him. Whoever he was, you didn’t need him to think you were even more defenseless than you already looked as you tried to figure out what he wanted with you.
“I just…wanted to go home,” you quietly finished.
“Maybe I can help.”
The offer took you by surprise, your eyes slowly drifting up from beneath your lashes and landing on his face. That friendly smile had returned to his features again, the one you assumed was meant to be disarming to a lone woman roaming the streets at night. Your stomach gave a nervous twist at the sight of it, but the prospect of help was too hard to entirely ignore. It wasn't as if you had any other options. You couldn’t keep walking the streets.
“Help how?” you cautiously questioned.
His shoulders rose and fell in an easy shrug, his face still half hidden in shadow while the other half was washed in bright yellow. “Sometimes I help people.”
Something seemed left unspoken in that simple sentence and it made you wonder what exactly he meant by it. Whatever it was hung in the air between you both like the evening humidity. With another silence temporarily stretching around you on the nearly empty street, you stood there processing his offer and what it could mean.
Awkwardly shifting your weight between your feet again, you suddenly remembered how he’d almost seemed to be purposely looking for the AVTF after you'd run into him. Something clicked in your mind and you audibly gasped, eyes widening slightly in shock as your head raised to fully meet his stare.
“Are you–” you whispered, voice lowering so that you wouldn’t be overheard as you were struck with understanding, “–are you one of those vigilantes?” You took a few cautious steps towards him, closing a bit of the distance between the pair of you on the sidewalk. “The ones who are fighting against the task force?”
The corner of his lips slowly drew higher at the awestruck question, the smile on his face turning more amused than friendly. For the first time since you’d quite literally run into him tonight, the expression on his features looked genuine, and that helped to ease some of the nerves that'd been churning in your stomach.
Maybe you were in luck for the first time in your life. None of the vigilantes had ever come to your rescue in all of the time that you'd lived in Hell’s Kitchen. But whoever this man was, he was offering you assistance at a time when you could desperately use it.
“You could say that,” he answered smoothly. “And I’m going to make things right. I’m going to help you.”
What luck Dex had running into you while he’d been out tonight.
For the months that’d passed after he’d killed Murdock’s friend and escaped from prison, Dex had been needled by this voice inside of his head telling him that something felt off. He thought he’d have gotten his mind back now that he was finally free, no longer being fed copious amounts of pills to keep him sedated and stupid, and no longer trapped in solitary confinement, but he hadn’t accounted for all of the damn noise inside of his head that’d returned with it.
It wasn’t his conscience, no. Dex didn’t exactly have a fully functioning one of those. He figured it was the ghost of Mercer’s voice still lingering in his mind, his therapist telling him that he needed to find balance again. To try to fix all the shit that the Fisks’ had twisted up inside of his head when they convinced him to do all the awful things they had.
If only he could've just died in peace when Murdock had tossed him those four stories down. There’d been a handful of times now that Dex should’ve just died in the past, but he hadn’t. He’d spent countless nights stalking the city trying to find a purpose, to make sense of why it seemed like he kept surviving when he knew he shouldn’t still be alive.
Eventually he’d figured it out.
He knew he needed to right the scales of his life, balance them out a little more to make up for all the things he'd done. Dex initially thought that helping Murdock fight the AVTF and Fisk would be enough, but the noise was still drilling a hole inside of his head. What he was doing hadn’t quieted it down, so he'd begun to think that maybe he needed to find another good deed. Something seemingly more selfless somehow–because killing Fisk was also about exacting his own revenge.
Which was where you had come in.
He honestly hadn’t been paying any attention to you earlier before you’d both collided on the sidewalk, but the abrupt hiss of pain you’d loosed at the impact had caught his attention. People didn’t generally react like that from a rough shoulder bump on the street. But when he’d taken one good look at you, he’d seen a terrified woman staring back at him, one with bloodshot eyes, a swollen, bloodied face, and panic written beneath the tear tracks. He didn’t need his years of experience in the FBI to know that you were in need of help, which was the only reason why he’d even stopped to talk to you.
And while he’d been talking to you, that's when he realized what he needed to do. Killing your ex-boyfriend to keep you safe would be Dex’s One Good Deed. That would keep you–a stranger he absolutely did not fucking care about, which to him screamed selfless–entirely safe from your ex. You would be able return to your apartment with no more fear of retaliation from the real winner you’d chosen to date.
He would be saving your life. Surely saving the life of a complete stranger would even the scales. That's what Murdock would've done, right? That was what a good vigilante did. Save people.
So Dex had personally walked you back to your apartment, continuing to let you ignorantly think that he was one of the vigilantes being hunted in the city for fighting back–because in a way, he was. But he wasn’t going to correct your thoughts about who he really was since there was no need. Telling you the truth didn’t fit into his plans because the situation was straightforward–he just needed to make sure you were safe. That was all he had to do. That was his One Good Deed. Keep you safe.
After he’d walked you home and checked to make certain that no abusive ex was lurking in the hallway outside of your apartment, you’d willingly given him the asshole’s address. Dex had left you with a promise to help and a charming smile, and whatever you’d made of what he was going to do, he'd left that up to you to imagine.
Now he was slowly ascending the second flight of stairs in your ex-boyfriend’s apartment building stairwell, taking each step one at a time in the dingy, cramped quarters. Having decided to come straight here after walking you home, he figured that he’d take care of the task before something could happen to you and you wound up dead. Because that would ruin everything. He could easily take a half an hour of his evening to walk a few blocks and kill your ex and complete his task.
That was what a good vigilante did.
When he’d reached the top of the stairwell, Dex pushed open the metal door and slipped into the hallway. His eyes scanned over the multiple apartment doors on either side of it, searching for apartment number fourteen. Padding quietly down the outdated tiled floor in his boots, one of the overhead lights blinked in and out, flickering repeatedly as he walked. Outside of the building, the sound of rain beginning to fall once more came muffled through the walls.
Eventually, Dex found apartment fourteen at the far end of the hall on his right–your ex’s place. He turned and stopped in front of it, extending a hand forward and letting it hover over the doorknob. He paused for just a moment, wondering if your ex would be stupid enough to leave his door unlocked, or if he would have to find a way to break the lock to get inside. Grasping the knob, he gave it a firm twist. The door easily gave way and inched right open for him.
So he was an idiot. Just like Dex thought.
Pushing the door open the rest of the way, he casually stepped inside the apartment as if he'd been invited. Dex could hear the faint shuffling of footsteps moving in a room nearby, so he quietly closed the door after himself. It wasn’t like he intended to be here long, but he still had no interest in drawing the attention of the other tenants in the building to what was about to happen here.
Silently moving through the little entryway towards the kitchen, Dex wasn’t surprised to find a mess. Dirty dishes filled the kitchen sink, mail and garbage cluttered the countertops, and a handful of empty beer bottles were scattered about whatever other available surface was left. Papers and bits of food were spread out over the tiled floor, and Dex’s nose scrunched in distaste at the chaotic disorder.
How did men like these attract women in the first place?
“Who the fuck are you?”
Realizing that your ex had finally noticed that he wasn’t alone in his apartment anymore, Dex’s attention turned away from a precariously stacked pile of overdue bills and focused on the asshole he’d been looking for. Upon a quick once over, he noted the man was tall and carried some strength in his build, and he supposed he held some semblance of society’s conventional idea of attractiveness, but he looked so much like the stereotypical abuser with his messy hair, stained white wife-beater tank top, and the pungent reek of beer that he wanted to roll his eyes.
“I think the better question is, what the hell did your ex ever see in you?” Dex countered. He gestured a mocking hand at the man who swayed on the spot as he added, “Who the hell looks at you and thinks ‘that’s the guy I want to be with’? I don’t get it.”
A myriad of amusing emotions passed over his face right before Dex’s eyes. Initially, the man's expression briefly went blank, but then he became momentarily confused as he tried to process Dex’s insult in his inebriated mind. Afterwards, as if it had taken his few brain cells a minute to finally rub together and start working, his features eventually twisted into something furious.
“So the slut is fuckin’ you, you little shit?” he snapped, jabbing a finger in Dex’s direction. His voice rose a few octaves as a vein grew visible in his neck. “That’s what’s goin’ on? The stupid fuckin’ bitch was sleepin’ with you, wasn’t she?! That’s why she was saying all that shit tonight ‘bout ending things. ‘Cause you’ve been fuckin’ my girl, is that it?”
Standing by the kitchen sink, Dex found himself already tired of this entire confrontation. He hadn't come here to talk, he'd come here to solve your problem.
From across the kitchen, your ex let out a bitter, humorless laugh as he stumbled a few steps towards Dex, and the scent of his sour, rank breath crossed the small distance between them before hitting Dex right in the nose. Unable to find the patience to deal with him any further, Dex reached onto the kitchen counter and grabbed one of the beer bottle caps discarded on it. He couldn’t stand here in this filthy apartment smelling this asshole’s breath for longer than necessary.
“After I’m done with you,” your ex continued in a rage, his finger still jabbing the air in Dex’s direction, “I’m gonna go to her place and–”
He broke off mid-threat, swaying once more unsteadily on his feet beside his refrigerator. His mouth went slack and his brows drew faintly together, right beneath the cap-sized hole now situated in the center of his forehead. A trickle of blood trailed down from the wound as his eyelids fluttered faintly, then he toppled forward with a heavy thunk, falling face first onto the dirty, paper strewn floor of his kitchen right at Dex’s feet.
Looking down at the now lifeless body, Dex let out a long, apathetic sigh. “Did you have to be such a fucking cliche?”
With a shake of his head, Dex casually stepped around the man's dead form that lay limp on the kitchen floor and headed back out the way he'd come in. He didn’t need to waste another second in this dirty apartment.
His task was almost finished now. With your ex dealt with, he figured he would need to return to your apartment and share the good news that he would no longer be bothering you. Maybe he'd even grab a first aid kit on his way back to your place and check on your injuries, just for an extra measure of doing the right thing.
Pairing: Matt Murdock x Fem!Reader Word count: 6.2k [Series Masterlist] [Matt Fic Masterlist]
Warnings/Tags: 18+; sexual tension, light angst, pining, choking, and thigh riding the Devil
a/n: We're baaaaaaack and we're getting spicy! Feedback and reblogs are always appreciated!
You tapped a finger against the screen of your phone and instantly recoiled along your pillow the second it lit up. Eyes narrowing to slits against the bright light, you struggled to read the time on the display. When you saw that it was just after two in the morning, your stomach sank. You’d spent the past few hours tossing and turning in bed and were still nowhere near closer to drifting off than when you’d first crawled beneath the covers.
Irritated at the waste of time and frustrating loss of sleep, especially since you had work in the morning, you shoved your phone away from yourself along the nightstand in annoyance. With an exasperated huff, you grabbed the sheets and finally flung them off of yourself before sitting upright in bed. As a resigned breath passed from between your lips into the darkness, you turned and placed your feet along the floor. Maybe if you gave up on quieting your mind and gave into the odd craving you currently had for orange juice, you might have more luck falling asleep afterwards.
Padding barefoot out of your bedroom, you shuffled down the hall and towards your kitchen while rubbing a hand against your tired eyes. You wore nothing but an oversized shirt and a pair of panties beneath it since today had been an unseasonably warm day for mid-spring, making it far too warm to sleep dressed in multiple layers. You’d wondered if it was the heat in your apartment causing you to struggle to fall asleep tonight, rolling back and forth in an attempt to get comfortable. Though you knew that if you were being honest with yourself, that wasn’t really the reason.
Flipping on the lightswitch as you stepped into your kitchen, you squinted at the abrupt harsh light that flooded your apartment. Dragging your tired feet over the worn wood floor, you walked over to your fridge as thoughts of the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen began to flood your mind again.
You were certain your offer to become friends with benefits had been the cause of the sudden ending to your unexpected friendship with the Devil. Nearly three weeks had passed since that night you’d suggested the idea and you still hadn’t seen him since. You continued filling the Devil’s Pantry for him every single night with snacks, bottles of water, and simple medical supplies, faithfully intending to keep him fed, hydrated, and safe. Yet every morning when you pulled the container back inside, it was clear that he hadn’t stopped by your place. Nothing had been touched.
It’d been over a month and you'd only had that single encounter with him, the one in which you’d opened your big mouth and permanently sent your favorite stray back out into the night. There was no mistaking what his absence meant–whatever had been going on was over. You’d gotten too close to him, pushed too hard for something he’d made clear that he wasn’t going to give, and now he was gone. Your life had returned to being the same boring, monotonous thing that it’d always been, and you cursed the snowstorm which had brought the Devil into your world in the first place.
You grabbed the jug of orange juice out of your fridge and closed the door before turning and taking a few steps further into your small kitchen. Reaching your free hand up, you opened a cabinet and pulled out a black coffee mug, too tired to care about grabbing an actual glass. You set it down on the counter and untwisted the cap on the jug. Tipping the container over the cup, you filled it about halfway with orange liquid before screwing the lid back on.
After returning the orange juice back to the fridge, you picked up the ceramic cup and brought it to your lips, sipping at the sweet, tangy juice. Your aching, tired eyes slowly lowered shut as you leaned forward, resting your forearms along the kitchen counter and stretching your back. Your mind temporarily went blissfully blank amidst the quiet of your apartment and the relative calm of the city so early in the morning, but you were still left with that heaviness lingering in your chest.
This was your life again. Working Monday through Friday at a boring, thankless office job and staring at a computer screen all day every day. Coming home to change into comfortable clothes before making dinner and eating it while having no one to share the details of your day with. You spent your nights watching television shows and movies cuddling pillows on the couch before eventually crawling into your big bed only to fall asleep alone. Then you woke up to do it all over again. Sometimes on the weekends you’d meet up with friends for a bit, or go out to run errands, or curl up with a book on your couch, but otherwise your life was just a string of the same things repeating themselves over and over.
You’d been content with the way things were until you’d met the Devil. Now everything seemed so bleak and mundane, and you'd come to realize exactly how lonely you'd been beneath all that routine. The thrill of getting an unexpected visit while you were cooking dinner or beginning to fall asleep on the couch always had you rushing to get home after work, trying to put yourself together just for the Devil. And whenever he did visit, you replayed that brief encounter over and over in your head until he slipped back through your window again another night.
You had inevitably fallen into like with the Devil. Not love, certainly not that. But feelings definitely placed themselves into the equation against any level of reason. Which was strange considering you technically didn’t know much about him. Though you supposed that while you didn’t know his name, his career, or what he looked like beneath the mask, you had gotten to know the deeper parts of him.
You knew the Devil had a big heart which encompassed the entirety of Hell’s Kitchen, and you knew that he was fearless and headstrong, still running out into the night to protect the city even with the possibility of multiple broken ribs. He was selfless to the point that he never properly took care of himself, and you were positive that he spent his nights with only the company of criminals. You knew he could throw himself off your fire escape and be just fine, and you knew beneath all that grit was a witty, charming man who made you laugh.
During his last visit, he’d made it clear that he didn’t harbor any feelings for you and that all he felt was purely attraction. But at this point, you’d take whatever you could get if it meant he'd return to your fire escape. You’d find a way to be content with only his battered body and a few random nights of pleasure if that’s all he’d share with you, because there was no denying the intense attraction that drew you to him. He plagued your thoughts all day at work before haunting your dreams most nights.
You missed him.
With your eyes still closed, you continued sipping at the juice in your mug, still hunched over your kitchen counter. Running your other hand across your forehead, the tips of your fingers pressed firm circles into the space between your eyes. You really hoped the orange juice would somehow magically quiet your thoughts, otherwise you’d be miserably exhausted at work all day tomorrow from not getting any sleep.
“I don’t know how many times I've said this, but you really should keep your window locked.”
Your entire body tensed at the deep, familiar voice suddenly behind you, your fingers pausing their circles against your forehead. The saliva in your mouth dried instantly, leaving your tongue parched and heavy where it sat. You were too afraid to open your eyes and turn to look behind you, not entirely certain if you’d reached a new low and begun hallucinating the Devil or if he was actually here after weeks of his continued painful absence.
A long, weighted silence engulfed your apartment as you stood half-slouched against the counter, so uncertain whether he was real that you were barely breathing. The longer the quiet stretched on, the more you’d started to convince yourself that you hadn’t actually heard him, your mind beginning to play tricks on you. Until he spoke again and your fingers tightened around the handle of your mug.
“Suppose I deserve the lack of greeting,” he mused, his voice sounding closer now. “I haven’t exactly checked in with you in awhile.”
Sucking a deep breath into your lungs and holding it, you opened your eyes and braced yourself. But as you stared at the dark tile backsplash on the wall in front of you, you weren’t entirely certain what you were bracing yourself for. A fight? Him returning only to officially end the friendship? To turn around and realize you were hallucinating disembodied voices now? Or to brace yourself against the hope that you felt tickling its way through you because he’d returned, and that meant maybe you might not have scared him away as permanently as you'd believed.
“Angel?” he hesitantly called out. “You're uncharacteristically silent tonight. Usually when I stop by you have plenty more to say.”
Exhaling the breath you’d been holding, you let go of the black ceramic mug and turned around to face him. But seeing him actually standing there merely three feet away had you stumbling backwards into the counter behind you. The Devil was not only really here, but he was standing so very, very close to you. You attempted to swallow the lump forming in the back of your throat, but your mouth was far too dry to accomplish the task.
Your eyes began roving over him in a rush as if you were taking stock of him, committing him to memory after the weeks that’d gone by without him. His face was still mostly covered with that ridiculous black fabric which was always pulled down to just past the tip of his nose, leaving his beautiful full lips and that angular jaw covered in delicious dark stubble visible. You had forgotten exactly how tight his black shirts were, clinging to him in a way which further accentuated each of his muscles beneath the dark fabric. While you had never forgotten just how well he filled out those black pants from that time you'd pulled him out of them, you had forgotten the way they seemed to strain at the seams on the sides because of how thick his thighs were. Noticing that little detail again had your heart thundering in your own ears.
But besides all of that, he looked entirely fine. There was no sign of limping or bleeding, no reason as to why he might’ve disappeared for weeks. Not that you hadn’t already heard him featured in multiple news stories in the days that'd passed since you'd last spoken with him. You knew he was still venturing out into the city at night, he just hadn't ventured to see you.
The Devil’s covered head tipped to the side, his lips curving downwards at the corners. You realized you’d just been standing there staring at him in your kitchen for a long, drawn out minute without having said anything yet. But instead of feeling embarrassed or uncomfortable, the question that had been scratching at your mind ever since that last time he’d flung himself over the railing of your fire escape flew off your tongue.
“You disappeared for weeks. Why?” you demanded.
His lips pursed in response, a few of his fingers twitching at his sides inside of his black gloves. Another silence dragged itself out between you both, and you continued to grow increasingly aware of just how close he stood to you in the kitchen. Leaning further back against the counter behind you, feeling the edge of it press into your lower back, you tried to maintain your distance as if that would somehow help contain the tumultuous onslaught of emotions now coursing through you just from seeing him again.
“I thought it was for the best,” he finally answered. “I was afraid you might be getting attached, and I can’t exactly have attachments. Not doing all of this.” He raised a gloved hand, gesturing it at his chest and implying his nightly vigilante activities. “I’m not the guy you should be interested in, angel. So I thought it would be better if I stopped intruding on your evenings and gave you space, but–.”
“It wasn’t better,” you shot back, cutting him off.
The words had come out a bit harsher than you'd intended, so you paused, pressing your lips firmly together while you took a second to rein in your emotions. Telling him off would probably just send him back out onto your fire escape, and that was the opposite of what you wanted.
“I thought we’d become friends after all those times I helped you,” you tried again, managing to keep your tone even. “I thought you would have at least given me some sort of an actual goodbye instead of just ghosting me if you weren’t planning to come back.”
The corner of his lip twitched, guiltily tugging to the side. “You're right, we did become friends over these past few months,” he agreed softly. “And I’m sorry for my absence. I shouldn’t have just disappeared on you like that, but I wasn't necessarily intending to never come back.”
It wasn’t much of an apology, especially considering this wasn't the first time he'd disappeared on you after your strange friendship had begun, yet you couldn’t deny the way the frustration and hurt began to ease its way out of you. He was acknowledging his actions at least, and maybe he was truly sorry. He certainly sounded like it. While it still upset you that he’d just ignored you for weeks, not even leaving you a note or stopping by to take something from the Devil’s Pantry which you dutifully set outside solely for him every single night, you couldn’t deny how elated you were that he’d simply returned to you.
But that begged the question as to why he was here tonight.
“So what brought you back then?” you asked, brows furrowing together. “I thought what I said last time freaked you out after you stopped visiting. It's been weeks since I've seen you, why show up now?”
The Devil took a half step closer to you, shrinking the already small distance between you both, and your reaction was immediate. Your pulse sped up, your heart thudding like a drum inside your chest as he drew even closer. The remaining space between your bodies grew thick and heated as something settled in it, something that had your stomach dipping anxiously as if you’d just jumped over the railing of your fire escape yourself.
The Devil's heavy boots came to an abrupt halt along the floor, his lips twisting into a grimace as his hands curled into fists at his sides. You wondered what that was about, curious to know if he could somehow feel that same tension in the air that you did.
“I came because of what you said last time,” he admitted, sounding oddly pained. “I've been…wanting to know if you really meant it.”
Your heart gave a sharp, unexpected jolt as if it could somehow fling itself from your chest at him, so you grabbed onto the counter behind you to steady yourself. Had he really just spent all this time thinking about your offer of sleeping together? Conflicted over it for weeks instead of being completely put off by the idea? Was that why he'd disappeared for so long? Because he’d actually been considering making that sort of arrangement with you?
“You mean about being friends who are sometimes more than that?” you hesitantly clarified.
“Yes,” the Devil answered.
He took another half-step closer to you, and you swore every nerve-ending in your body sparked to life. His tongue slipped out between his lips, making you acutely aware of how you were currently dressed right now–in just the oversized shirt and panties. Panties which were quite honestly growing a bit damp with the way you could feel him staring at you beneath that mask.
“Do you truly think that's something you could do?” he questioned huskily. “The physical without anything more than friendship? Especially with someone you know so little about?”
“I told you I already know enough about you,” you replied. You’d caught the breathlessness of your own voice, his proximity having a strong effect on you considering the topic of conversation. “I know enough about your character even without your name. I imagine you could say the same about me.”
He shook his masked head from side to side slowly, taking another step closer as he did. There was less than a foot of space left between your bodies now, and you could smell the sweat and the city on him. Your hands curled tighter around the kitchen counter behind you, nails digging into the stone as you leaned against it, fighting the growing lightheadedness as your breaths came in sharper.
“That wasn’t what I asked,” the Devil pointed out. “I asked if you could do the physical and only accept my friendship in return.”
It was impossible not to stare at his lips with him standing as close as he was, your eyes drawn to them when he'd spoken, watching the way they formed each word. Your breathing was coming in short and embarrassingly ragged, and you were certain he could hear the way it’d changed.
Something about the Devil had you constantly wanting more from him. More nighttime visits, more conversations, more touches with or without the gloves, more personal facts accidentally slipping out of his beautiful mouth. You wanted more than friendship because you'd certainly gone and developed feelings for him, but that wasn't what he was offering.
If it was a choice between friends who fucked or nothing at all, you knew the answer. You'd shove down every scrap of feelings you felt for him if it meant he kept climbing through your window at night. And if you got to have just a fraction more of him in the process, you were willing to deal with the emotional fallout later. Maybe all it was between you two was sexual attraction in the end, just like he'd said before.
“Yes,” you told him. “I can handle it.”
Which was true, because you knew that was the only way you'd ever keep the Devil. And right now, you’d have agreed to anything to make that happen.
His head tipped to the side as he fell into quiet contemplation, apparently mulling over your response. You remembered once that he’d mentioned he could tell when people were lying, and you wondered if he was somehow using that ability on you now, however the hell it worked.
While he stood silent, your eyes dropped to the line of his jaw. It was even more exposed beneath the overhead light in your kitchen with the way he’d tipped his head to the side, and you desperately wanted to run your tongue along the length of it. You wanted to taste his skin, to feel the sharp rasp of his stubble, and to hear what sounds he might make. You wanted to twist your fingers into the little brown hairs that peeked out beneath the back of his mask and kiss him until you couldn't breathe.
Having grown so absorbed in the fantasy playing out in your head, your stupid mind only making you more aroused than you already were seconds ago, you were taken by surprise when the Devil abruptly moved. A startled gasp slipped out of you the moment he lunged forward, his rough gloves grabbing onto either side of your face. He closed the remaining distance without warning, and his impossibly soft and warm lips crashed onto yours before your brain had a second to comprehend what was happening.
It took you a moment to register that he was kissing you, that after months of fantasizing about this exact scenario, the Devil was finally kissing you. Your hands released the counter and grabbed onto the thin fabric of his shirt along his chest, your fingers twisting into the dark material. Moving your lips against his, you kissed him back with the hungry determination you’d been holding back for months. Every part of you became hyper-aware of the Devil, because for once you were touching him and it wasn't with the sole intention of helping him.
You could feel the hard planes of muscle beneath your palms, the muscle you’d known was there because you'd seen it before, but now you didn't have to hide how incredibly attracted you’d always been to him. So when he took another step forward and pressed himself against you, trapping you between him and the counter, all of the blood in your veins rushed to a singular point between your thighs. His solid chest brushed against your peaked nipples poking through the thin cotton of your shirt, and you audibly moaned at the sensation. Seizing the opportunity, the Devil’s tongue slid right into your mouth, his gloved hands still firmly holding your face steady in his grip.
With each sensual lap of his tongue against yours, you could feel a bulge straining against the front of his pants. Fingers still tangled in the fabric of his shirt, you reacted without thinking as his erection pushed into your thigh. Your hips bucked forward against his, desperate for more contact–for more of him. But instead he abruptly broke away from your lips with a long, deep groan of pleasure as if somehow it was all too much, and you swore the sound lit your body on fire.
You stared at his kiss swollen lips beneath the harsh lighting of your kitchen, your breath coming in ragged, harsh bursts. Not quite ready to have ended such a heated moment, you inched forward towards him, eager to continue what had been easily the hottest kiss of your life, but you were stopped as the Devil’s hands fell away from your face and he took a partial step backwards.
“Wait,” he hoarsely ordered. His own chest rapidly rose and fell as if he was struggling to catch his breath, one of his hands raising in the space between you. “We should–should discuss things first. Boundaries.”
Still utterly breathless from the kiss, the air rushed in and out between your parted lips. You felt as disheveled and undone as the Devil currently looked, his shirt rumpled and his cheeks flushed. Your panties were noticeably wet, something that was impossible to ignore now. So was the throbbing between your legs that was beating in sync with your pulse.
He huffed out a breathy laugh while nodding his head. But as the grin lingered on his lips, you caught the hard swallow with the bob of his throat before he turned, moving with barely a sound in his heavy boots as he navigated through your kitchen and headed straight towards your couch. Disappointment crept through you, his retreat the equivalent of someone spraying you with a garden hose. Talking was the last thing you were in the mood for after that frenzied kiss you'd both just shared, but you followed after him anyway. Somewhere in your lust-filled mind you knew he had a point, there were details to discuss if this were to work.
“Boundaries,” you repeated. “That–that makes sense. If we’re, you know, doing this.”
“If we are doing this,” the Devil began, voice still tight as he settled onto the couch, “then I need to set some rules.”
“Rules, right,” you agreed breathlessly, making your way through your kitchen. The abrupt switch from wanting to tear through his clothes with your nails to needing to discuss boundaries for this ‘relationship’ had your head spinning. “I can do rules.”
“Even if that means my mask can never come off?” the Devil questioned.
“Maybe I’ll develop a mask kink,” you teased back, bare feet padding towards him. “Or maybe I already have one.”
As you stepped around the side of the couch, about to make your way to sit down beside him, you were caught off guard when he leaned forward. His hand shot out and latched onto your wrist, gently yet firmly tugging you towards him. You stumbled forward a step, letting him guide you down onto what you assumed would be his lap, but instead he settled you down to straddle one of his thighs.
You became exceedingly aware of the length of thick muscle along the top of it, the thin layer of your damp panties not creating much of a barrier between your aching cunt and that heavenly muscle. Your traitorous pussy clenched around nothing as you sat there, silently begging for you both to shut up already and give into the desire burning through you. As if the Devil could feel your impatience, his hands roughly landed on your hips as a throaty hum rumbled in his chest, the sound vibrating through your entire body before heading straight to your cunt.
“You know I can’t ever give you my name, either,” he continued in a lower, huskier tone. “I need to remain anonymous.”
Placing your hands on his shoulders to steady yourself, you felt his gloved fingers digging into the flesh of your hips through your shirt. He nudged you slightly forward along his thigh, dragging your cunt over him just enough. The sweet, delicious friction that resulted elicited the softest whine from your lips and you visibly quivered. The Devil’s grip tightened even further on your hips, his nostrils flaring sharply beneath his mask.
“We don’t–dont need names,” you whispered.
Another low, pleased noise vibrated deep in the back of his throat. He tipped his head back against the back of your couch, staring up at you from beneath the mask as one of his hands released your hip, gliding up the top of your thigh before disappearing beneath your shirt. The coarse material of his glove dragging its way tantalizingly slowly over your ribs caused the muscles in your stomach to twitch.
“This can only ever be sex,” he stated.
Your eyelids fluttered as his hand continued moving further upwards, teasing you with its unhurried pace until it inevitably came to palm your breast. He cupped the weight of it in his hand, the corner of his lips curving upwards as you involuntarily shifted along his leg. The hand on your hip urged you to move against him again, causing sparks of heat to dance under your skin as he encouraged you to grind along his exceptionally solid thigh.
“I have a feeling tending injuries and–and feeding you might also be involved in this arrangement,” you murmured, half-distracted from the conversation by pleasure.
The softest chuckle tumbled past his lips as he looked up at you, a cocky smirk playing along them. “Then I suppose you should get your fair share out of this arrangement too, angel.”
His voice was a low purr that had your eyelids falling shut and your nails digging into his shoulders. Your body started moving in a rhythm all on its own, your hips rocking back and forth along his thigh as the hem of your shirt rode higher up your legs with the movement. The ridge of his thick quad was perfectly slotted between your thighs, allowing you to grind yourself along him at the exact angle that already had your stomach knotting up in pleasure.
Everything else melted away as you straddled his thigh chasing after something to soothe the ache you felt for him between your own. It no longer mattered that he’d been gone for weeks, or how hurt you’d been over his silence, or that it was incredibly late and you were absolutely exhausted and needed to sleep. You’d never felt so good before and you weren’t even fucking him yet. Because there was something there between you both, something that made your pulse pound and your brain go hazy, something that you’d never experienced before.
“Is this what you think about when I'm not around?” he asked.
As your eyes gradually fluttered back open, you were met with the view of the Devil still casually watching you. His lips were parted as his hand beneath your shirt continued kneading your breast. Beneath the black mask, his cheeks were still somewhat flushed, and you could feel the tension in his shoulders beneath your palms, as if all that dangerous power was being held back while he let you ride his thigh.
“Yes,” you breathed out. “This and…other things…”
Releasing your grip on his shoulder, you dragged your nails softly down his chest, letting them skip over his belt buckle. But the second you palmed the tented fabric of his pants, the Devil’s teeth clamped together and a sharp hiss of air passed through them as he arched against the couch. Your tongue slid out, wetting your lips in delight at his reaction to simply being touched. You wanted more of it, so your hand inched upwards towards his belt buckle with every intention of freeing him from the confines of his pants so that you could take care of him.
But when his hand left your hip to abruptly grasp your neck, you froze in place beneath his grip. Your hips stuttered to a stop along his thigh as your hand lingered on his belt buckle, wondering if somehow undressing him was crossing one of his boundaries. While he wasn’t gripping you hard enough to choke, he'd certainly grabbed you with enough pressure to feel his gloved hand pressing against your windpipe.
The Devil gave a single shake of his head. “No. Not tonight,” he said. “Only this.”
There was something laced in those few words that felt like a warning. Apparently sex wasn’t on the table tonight, and while you were moderately disappointed that you’d have to wait even longer for that, you could hardly remain disappointed when his hand beneath your shirt pinched your nipple, rolling it between his fingers.
“Keep going,” he ordered. “You’re not finished until you come on my thigh, angel.”
You needed no further encouragement, your body once more resuming its motion along his leg. His hand remained wrapped around your throat though. The pressure was not enough to restrict your airflow, but it caused little white spots to appear in the corner of your vision.
Being choked by the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen had a thrill tingling its way up your spine. How many men had been strangled by these exact hands? And now here he was holding himself back with you. He could squeeze just a little more, press his fingers into the delicate skin of your neck hard enough to block your breath until you passed out like he’d no doubt done countless times with so many others, but you trusted him completely. Because you knew the Devil wouldn’t cross that line with you.
And the thought of that had you panting and whimpering on him in a matter of minutes, your slick panties leaving wet stains along the top of his dark pants. You could feel yourself inching closer to a release, your stomach tightening with each roll of your hips as you rutted against him like a pathetic, single-minded animal.
“That’s it, angel,” he husked. “You’re turning into such a mess for me.”
With one hand braced against his shoulder, nails digging into him so firmly that you were surprised you hadn’t torn his shirt, your other hand was curled over the top of his pants, palm flat against his belt buckle that he'd stopped you from undoing. Your thighs were trembling around his as pleasure surged its way through your body like a wave cresting against the shore, and you ground against him until finally reaching your breaking point.
Your head tipped back over your shoulders, your eyes clamping shut as a low moan barreled straight out of your mouth, the sound vibrating against his palm. His fingers tightened around your neck as you came on his thigh, your entire body quaking with pleasure. You thought you heard a throaty groan rumble out of him, but your brain was too muddied to know for certain.
Shuddering against him, your hips eventually slowed to a stop, your panties significantly damper than earlier. You were breathing hard, your heart pounding in your chest like a battering ram. Eventually the Devil released your neck from his hold, his hand finding its way back to your hip to steady you on his leg as his other reluctantly ceased toying with your nipple beneath your shirt. Still loudly gasping for air, your head rolled forward and your gaze landed back on him, catching the rather smug smile beneath the hard line of his mask.
“What’s–what’s that look for?” you breathed out.
“You have absolutely no idea how beautiful you sound to me, angel,” he murmured.
His hand lightly patted your hip, the smug smile remaining drawn across his lips. Your brows dipped together in confusion as you stared down at him, heat creeping its way up your neck. Was he talking about the sounds you’d just been making when you’d come? You’d never been complimented on that before. What another odd thing for him to say. But you were far too tired now to question much about his strangeness as your body began to slump forward against his.
“Think I should get you to bed,” the Devil teased. “Seems like you’re up well past your bedtime, angel. I don’t think my visit helped with your energy levels.”
“Mmm,” you hummed back, leaning forward towards him and wrapping your arms loosely around his neck. “On the contrary, Devil, I think your visit helped tire me out so that I can finally fall asleep.”
Simply because you could–and because once wasn’t enough tonight–you leaned in the rest of the way and pressed a kiss to his lips. He returned it, though this time it wasn’t as heated as when he’d cornered you in your kitchen. This kiss was softer and slower, with something almost sweet and hesitant about it. When you pulled back, you smiled down at where you thought his eyes were hidden beneath his mask.
“You sure you’re good tonight?” you asked. “So far this arrangement seems a bit uneven.”
His lips quirked into a mischievous grin, and you fought the urge to lean back down and keep kissing him. That was going to be difficult to stop doing now that you’d been allowed to start.
“I’ll collect what I want next time,” he promised you. “But you sound far too exhausted and I’m sure you have work in the morning, so I think this is where I see myself out and let you get to bed.”
Reluctantly disentangling yourself from his thigh, you maneuvered yourself off his lap and stood back onto your feet, readjusting the oversized shirt that had ridden up. The Devil pushed himself up from the couch after you, and while you weren’t certain in the dim lighting that reached the living room from your kitchen, you thought you saw a damp patch not just on his thigh but also near his zipper. Maybe the Devil had enjoyed himself more than you’d realized.
“So is this how it’s going to be now?” you asked curiously, watching him readjust his pants as he headed towards your window. “We fuck and then you disappear from the fifth floor?”
The Devil slid open your window before he paused, his masked face turning over his shoulder towards you. “Tehcnically we haven’t done that yet,” he pointed out. “But sometimes I suppose that’ll be the case. I’m usually on the go. Things are always happening in the city. And since this isn’t anything more than just two friends who’re attracted to each other, we shouldn’t make it anymore complicated than that.”
“Right,” you agreed, nodding your head. “Just…two friends who want to fuck each other. Really badly.”
His grin grew wider before he tipped his head at you. “Goodnight, angel.”
Before you could say more than a goodnight in return, he turned and slipped out onto your fire escape through the open window. He closed it after himself before walking over to the railing, grabbing it in both of his hands and then gracefully flinging himself over it just like he’d done so many times before.
“I can definitely do uncomplicated,” you told yourself, staring at the place he’d just been standing outside, fingers toying with the hem of your shirt. “That absolutely will not be a problem.”
"Vanderhorst had been under the influence of MDMA and three litres of vodka she had consumed on the night of the offence last September, her lawyer Michael Hill told the court."
//woah im actually sticking to my posting schedule, go me. anyways// tags: @see-the-divine @fallingfavourites // prev // next
Pairing: Matt Murdock x Livia Yersova
Word Count: 7,788
Summary: One night changes her entire life. Livia loses one of her best friends and another piece of herself. How many more does she have to give?
Livia hadn’t planned on going out. She didn’t feel quite herself so she didn’t believe herself to be part of her friend group, at least not in the way she used to be.
She’d only been back from the Blip for a few months. In that time, both her and Matt had been in and out of the social circle, what with her running off to help Yelena and sending him off to California. Neither seemed able to sit and talk to the other, which was just fine by Livia. She didn’t want to address the new skeleton in her closet anymore than the next person.
But then there was Foggy…
Foggy did everything in his power to keep Livia’s head out of the sand. He looped her into conversations, sent June to relay a message when she didn’t answer, dragged her chair away from her desk when he wanted her input. Franklin Nelson refused to be shut out during Livia’s spiral.
It was nice.
So when he insisted they all go to Josie’s after work, how could she say no?
Foggy took up a seat at the bar with June. Livia still had a hard time wrapping her head around the fact that June was an adult and now legally able to drink. She kept wanting to snatch the glass of liquor out of her hands and replace it with soda or apple juice, but it made her laugh to see her wince and cough as she drank it.
Livia was seated at the table with Matt and Karen. She had one leg propped up on Matt’s lap as she swirled her drink. Matt had a hand on her knee, tapping some beat only he knew. She still wanted to reach out, to lace their fingers together, but she refrained.
She still wasn’t sure where they stood. He was keeping something from her, same as June. The two seemed to be getting along better since they got back from California, despite June’s tantrum, but there was still a rift. Whatever was between them, however, paled in comparison to the chasm Livia felt between her and Matt.
It was just enough like old times, which should’ve been a comfort to Livia. Instead it was salt in the wound.
Karen and Matt didn’t seem to miss a beat. Livia would have to be blind to miss it. It was moments like that where she wished she was, wished she didn’t have to be so privy to everyone’s emotions. She wanted to trade her mindwork for any other kind some days, or even trade it away in its entirety.
Accepting it wasn’t possible, she downed the rest of her drink. Maybe a buzz would take her out of it enough to stop thinking.
At some point in the conversation, Matt realized she was stuck in her head. He leaned in, squeezing her knee lightly for her attention.
“Yes?” Livia tilted her head towards him. “Sorry, just thinking.”
“I could tell.” He gave half a smile. “What are you thinking about?”
She gave a tight, forced smile. “Nothing.” She adjusted in her chair, withdrawing her leg. “I’m gonna get a refill. You guys need one?”
“No need.” June announced and came over Livia’s shoulder with four glasses. She plopped into the open chair between Livia and Karen. “I come bearing gifts.”
“Well hello.” Karen laughed.
“Got so bad I had to leave.” June pulled a face. “Foggy does not have the game for Kirsten McDuffie.”
Livia laughed as she picked up her refill.
Matt gasped dramatically. “Don’t you dare!” He feigned offense. “Don’t underestimate our Foggy.”
“I don’t know.” Livia agreed. “Didn’t he try the moves on you way back when?” Livia pointed to Karen.
She tilted her back to laugh. “Oh, I forgot about that!” Karen grinned.
“I wonder where he learned it from.” June gave Matt a teasingly pointed look.
Matt only offered a shit-eating grin, which got a laugh from June.
Maybe those two were okay after all. Livia’s ability wasn’t exactly fine-tuned anymore so it was likely that she had misread it. Maybe she was projecting her own issues onto them. She decided at that moment to put that on the back burner for now.
“Don’t you think so, Livia?” Karen’s question brought Livia out of her thoughts.
She had been withdrawing into her own head so much lately. Who had noticed? Judging by the worry she felt thumping beside her, June at the very least did.
“Sorry, just-“
“Thinking.” Karen nodded, a furrow to her brows that Livia recognized as concern. She hated that it was so obvious she was out of it. “Is everything-“
“Do you think he needs new glasses?” June cut in. The girl knew Livia wasn’t herself, even if she didn’t know why, so she saved Livia from the question.
Livia looked over at Matt, who was already looking at her. He smiled softly in anticipation, brows raised with interest. She cocked her head as she took her time examining him. Livia wasn’t even looking at the glasses. Those made little difference to her. She just wanted a quiet moment to look at him.
June lightly kicked at Livia’s shin under the table and she realized yet another silence had stretched too long.
She had opened her mouth to answer when something outside snagged on her ability. She looked around and noticed Foggy was nowhere to be seen. She patted Matt’s arm but didn’t wait for him to say anything. She was on her feet and headed towards the door.
They met Foggy outside to find out there was an issue with one of Foggy’s clients, Benny. Apparently he had been getting threats so he was ‘stashed’, but something had gone wrong. He was calling Foggy in an absolute panic. Matt said he would take care of it but there was something else about it that didn’t sit right.
Something was knocking against her ability, someone achingly familiar. Who would go after Benny that she had that kind of tether to, she couldn’t say. It didn’t make sense.
As she was trying to piece it together, Foggy tried calling his client again and June was studying Livia’s reaction. Livia looked over her shoulder to where her car was parked, just at the end of the block. In the trunk was her bag of gear.
“Give me two seconds, okay?” Livia began back away.
“No, Liv.” June reached for the woman’s arm. “I don’t like this.”
“Just be ready.”
“What is going on?”
“I don’t know…” Livia’s eyes flicked to June’s covered hands and back. “But be ready for anything.”
June nodded and Livia all but ran down the street. She grabbed the materials out of her trunk and ducked into the closest alley. She kicked off her shoes, hopefully they’d still be there after, and stepped into her boots. She had already left her jacket at the office so she was only in the plain long sleeve. She shoved her arms into the bulletproof top easily and clipped her belt around her hips, wondering if her pants were loose enough not to rip during the action. She could handle a lot of things but a story about Exodus flashing half her neighborhood during a fight was not one of them. Her mask was around her neck as she took a quick inventory.
No guns, four knives, a pouch with shock disks (five or six, it felt like), and a grappling wire. As she was sliding her mask into place, she heard it.
The distinct sound of a silencer.
Then came June’s scream, the slam of panic that rattled Livia to her bones. It was nearly enough to double her over or make her fall to her knees.
Livia almost tripped over her own feet running back. More shots came as she got close and she shoved June and Karen behind her.
Livia couldn’t ignore how bad June was shaking. She spared a second to put her hands on either side of the younger one’s face.
“Hey.” Livia spoke quickly. She tried to ignore that damned presence now clawing at her back. She wouldn’t have been surprised if there were true marks on her skin from it. “I need you to focus right now. Okay? Are you with me?”
June nodded quickly but her eyes were blown wide with panic. Livia groaned in frustration before she shook June slightly. The small action seemed to snap June back to the moment and Livia could almost see the training take over. June glanced around before trying to drop to her knees.
Livia caught June by her arm and righted her.
“No, I need you to help evacuate.” Livia said firmly.
“But Fo-“
“No. Get people out. I will handle this.”
“Let me help!”
“You stay out here, you’ll go down too. That’s not happening. Now get in there and do what I asked. Keep your head down because you’re not bulletproof. Understand? Perchatki snyat'.” (Gloves off.)
June looked down at the fallen person and back. She swallowed hard, blinked away tears, and nodded. As she headed back into Josie’s, she tucked the leather into her back pocket.
That’s not just a person. A voice in Livia’s head scolded. It’s Foggy.
The smoke can that sailed past her head made her shove the voice to the back of her mind. If she dwelled on that, she’d be hit too. Livia whirled around to where it came from and her stomach dropped.
No wonder they felt so goddamned familiar.
“Hello, Karen.” He said smoothly, confidently and unbothered, as if he didn’t just shoot down your best friend.
“Dex?” Livia squinted. The smoke wasn’t bothering her but the mask he hid behind did.
Even with his face covered, she’d recognize him anywhere. His steps never faltered but his emotions wavered. Surprise. He didn’t plan for Livia to be there.
She could use that.
Livia had no choice but to engage first.
She couldn’t risk losing a knife (or giving Dex any more weaponry) so she slid a shock disk between her fingers. She toyed with it for a moment, letting him get just a few steps closer.
Livia had to ignore the tug in the back of her mind, the pull of someone familiar. She blocked it out, imagining a pair of scissors severing the old connection.
It didn’t quite sever but it was weaker now.
As soon as Dex was within her range, she snapped her wrist and sent the small disk flying. There was hardly any bare skin unless she wanted to take his eye out so she simply sent it for his neck. Even through the fabric, he jerked with the shock and his steps faltered. Before Livia could run at him and maybe get him to chase her down, lead him away from Josie’s, away from June, another figure came swinging in to tackle him through the front window of Josie’s. She only saw a blur of a figure, but she was willing to bet money that it was Matt.
Chaos raged inside but her feet were stuck.
Fear. Unbridled, unrelenting fear froze her in her place now that she didn’t have Dex to focus on. Livia forced her eyes closed, tried to find her bubble of silence, but she couldn’t. Not when she knew that her friend was on the ground with a bullet wound.
“Livia.” Karen’s shaky voice penetrated her thoughts.
With a shudder, she forced herself to kneel at their sides. Livia’s lower lip was trembling as she willed herself to keep looking at Karen. She didn’t want to see Foggy covered in his own blood. She didn’t want to have another body burned into her memory.
After the way Elektra’s and Sam’s death followed her, she couldn’t add Foggy to that.
“I don’t-“ Karen tried. Livia could tell the woman was trying not to hyperventilate. “I can’t- What am I supposed to do?”
“Keep pressure.” Livia’s voice was detached. If the Red Room was good for anything, at least it taught her how to pretend death didn’t matter in the moment. She’d fall apart later. “Someone will have called EMS by now…”
“Liv.” She thought she heard Foggy whisper.
Livia didn’t look - she couldn’t - but she did reach out and squeeze his hand.
It felt colder than it should’ve.
“Don’t you fucking die on me.” Livia whispered. The tears threatened under her mask.
Another figure slid to their knees on the opposite side. Livia glanced and saw June, eyes blown wide with tears streaming down her cheeks and her bare hands holding tightly to Foggy’s. She was mumbling something, something Livia couldn’t pick up. Everything was muffled, drowned out by the blood rushing through her, but her resolve was firm.
If there was ever any God that was on her side, Dex wouldn’t survive the night.
Livia pushed to her feet and drew one of her knives. She ignored Karen’s protests, walked straight through the smoke, and found Dex preoccupied with his fight.
He didn’t see her coming till it was nearly too late.
Nearly.
Matt had kicked Dex into the bar top and stepped back to catch his breath. Once Dex turned, Livia was there swinging her blade across what would’ve been both of his eyes. He dropped to his knees and went directly
for her rib.
With a nimble side step, she avoided the blow. Her knee was driving upwards before Dex could react and it slammed straight into his nose. She held her knife between her teeth as she reached down and grabbed his shirtfront to slam him to the floor. She put her knee to his throat and leaned her weight down as she reclaimed her blade.
There was a lot she could’ve said, curses and hateful and cruel things, but he didn’t deserve to hear them. All he deserved was the pain, the suffering he’d inflicted onto her.
She angled to drive her knife through the side of his neck when he yanked her aside by a fistful of hair. Her knife clattered away and she cursed when her back hit the bar. She slammed a fist against the heavy wood as the men continued the fight through the sliding doors to the pool tables.
She was on her hands and knees, trying to regulate her hitching breaths, when a debilitating wave of panic hit her. It churned her stomach, made her head spin, blurred her focus.
Her head turned towards the open front door. All she could see was Foggy’s legs and who she thought was June kneeling. If she pushed her power, she could tell who it was, but she couldn’t afford the distraction. The sensation of wanting to puke was bad enough.
“Help, Cherry!” Matt called out.
Livia turned to see a few people who had been caught in the crossfire. She shook as much of the sensations away as she could while she pushed to her feet. She stumbled past the civilians, past Matt’s reaching hand and Cherry’s hustling frame.
As cruel as it may have sounded, the bat’s patrons weren’t her problem. Livia wasn’t going to stop until she choked the life out of Dex herself.
She followed him up the backstairs with three knives left. Her steps were light, any sound swallowed by the soles of her boots. Like a predator, she stalked intently until Dex paused to catch his breath.
Livia practically tackled him.
She slammed her body against his to knock him off balance. Her knife was drawn in one swift movement and she jammed it forward, piercing deep into his shoulder. He groaned loudly as the blood began to flow.
Not enough. Not enough. Not enough.
She yanked it out and jabbed it forward again, aiming to slice him open so his guts would spill out. He jumped back and earned a shallow wound instead. Livia kicked out and her foot connected with his sternum.
He stumbled back, coughing and rubbing the area. She flicked the blade and watched it bury itself into his leg.
Not enough. Not enough. Not enough.
Livia was moving in for another attack when one of Dex’s knives flew at her. It embedded itself between her ribs, though the top took most of the impact. She still felt the blade puncture skin, only a couple inches at most. She smiled at him as she pulled it out, ignoring the burning pain and steady flow of blood.
Livia flipped it in her grip and threw it right back. His eyes went wide before he ducked. The blade buried into the wall, level with where Dex’s adam’s apple would’ve been.
By the time Dex righted himself, Livia was there.
She grabbed the front strap of his holster and yanked him close. Without her usual padded gloves, her bare knuckles slammed into his hidden face. Cheekbone. Jaw. Nose. Eye socket. Livia didn’t care. She was throwing the entirety of her weight in the punches, watching his head snap to the side with every shot. She didn’t even care about the pain it brought upon her own hand, how it shot in her arm and triggered the old pain of damaged nerves.
She wanted him broken. She wanted him bloodied. She wanted him bruised and swollen and unrecognizable, pleading for her to either kill him or spare him. She wanted the coroner to have to identify him through dental records, that was if he had any teeth left in his mouth by the end of it.
Livia was so consumed by her rage, a mania she hadn’t truly felt in so long, that she didn’t give a reaction when Dex laughed.
Only when her knuckles were raw and bloody did she ease up.
Livia threw Dex to the floor and wrapped both of her hands around his throat. She had her knees pinning his arms down and her nails were digging into the side of the tender flesh.
Not. Enough.
She reveled in the way his eyes bulged in panic, the way he jerked under her weight, the way he clawed desperately at her legs.
Livia was going to watch him die and she was going to enjoy it.
Her focus only broke when Matt’s baton came flying in to break the lightbulb above her. She looked up for a second but it was enough. Her hands loosened by only a fraction but Dex capitalized on the distraction. He slammed his forehead against her nose and she fell off.
Livia could taste the blood trickling from her nose and across her lips. She almost laughed too.
Dex went clambering up the next flight of stairs and Matt was right behind him. He stopped for a moment to haul Livia to her feet. She pushed him slightly away. The blood gushing from her nose was a bit more important than his presence.
Livia pinched the bridge of her nose and braced her other hand against the closest banister. She closed her eyes as the familiar taste of blood settled on her tongue. Her mouth was open enough to allow her to breathe.
She had to remind herself how to do that.
Downstairs, on the sidewalk just outside Josie’s, one of her best friends was bleeding out. Livia had no idea how much time he had left, if the paramedics had arrived, if June was still calm. Her adrenaline had reinforced those shaky walls quite nicely but it was only a matter of time until that was gone.
She had to take advantage.
It took a few minutes but the bleeding finally stopped. She could taste it in her mouth still but it wasn’t leaking down her face anymore. There was still the vague warm sensation in the back of her throat, the pressure in her sinuses, but she’d gone through missions with worse.
That’s what it was now anyways. A mission, with Ben Poindexter as her target.
Livia’s feet dragged slightly as she made her way up to the rooftop, the wire pack in her hand. She shifted it around for her finger to find the trigger.
It was only her and Dex.
She watched his shoulders move with a heavy sigh before he turned and threw a knife. She dropped to a knee and clicked the button, sending the wire to wrap around Dex’s ankles.
Once it wrapped, she yanked with all her strength. Dex crashed to the floor but she continued to pull, spinning the slack around and around until he was at her feet.
Livia showed Dex mercy last time. She spared him years ago.
What a mistake.
She spit on the floor near him, a mix of saliva and blood. Dex’s eyes were wide and she cocked her head. For a brief moment, she wondered what she looked like from his perspective.
She smiled, likely showcasing bloodied teeth, and stepped aside. Matt immediately took her place and began beating on Dex again.
The tug in Livia’s chest brought her to the ledge. She leaned over and saw the flashing lights of emergency vehicles. Bodies were being wheeled out of the bar beneath white sheets. That sight made her wonder what had she ignored on her way through the place.
She noted the top of two blonde heads, both kneeling over a third person.
Karen and June were still with Foggy. It gave Livia some hope that he’d make it, but not enough to silence the voice in her head.
He’ll die. Dex made sure of that… A life for a life.
A thud from behind Livia drew her attention. There was Dex, weak and beaten and breathing heavy.
She grabbed his shirtfront and dragged him to stand on the ledge with her. One hand stayed fisted in the material while the other drew a knife to place the tip specifically in the space between his ribs.
Dex had the audacity to laugh again.
She pressed the blade enough for the tip to break skin.
“Why?” She whispered. She had no voice for anything else. “What do you gain?”
He simply grinned and Livia couldn’t stop herself. She buried her knife to the handle.
Matt grabbed Dex, screamed in his face, and the grief slammed her so hard she had to step back just to ensure she didn’t go over the edge.
Foggy was gone.
Livia fell to her knees immediately. The second she did, the walls seemed to fall with her and she was hit by not just Matt’s pain, but June’s and Karen’s. Her stomach rolled with the sudden feelings. Her body was ice cold.
She couldn’t move even when Matt shoved Dex over the ledge.
Matt stumbled over to her side, his helmet discarded. With shaky hands, she reached for Matt and he didn’t hesitate to pull her close. His arms were around her so tight she thought he might crack a new rib.
She squeezed her eyes shut, mask digging against her skin. She didn’t care. She didn’t care about anything other than Matt’s embrace.
Livia took a massive step away from her social life after that. Karen left. June shut herself in her room for a long time. Livia could hear her voice at night, on phone calls and video chats with the boy she was sweet on. Livia wanted to ask about him, find out some more about him, but she couldn’t find it in herself to try and face June.
On some level, Livia carried the guilt of Foggy’s death. Poindexter was the one who took the shot, she understood that. However, Livia was the one who spared the man’s life years ago. She consented for his spinal repair, albeit in hopes he’d be paralyzed.
It had been years. Why hadn’t Dex moved on?
Why was he still so much the same?
The process of the trial took a year. Livia had testified against Dex, of course. He had stared her down the entire time except there wasn’t any malice in his stare. It was more like he was studying her, memorizing her, admiring her almost.
It left her feeling strange.
Truthfully, she wasn’t sure she should testify when it was brought to her. She thought to deny the subpoena, but the only reason she had was that it would incriminate her in regards to her vigilante involvement. Yet if she was caught lying on the stand, she’d be in trouble anyways.
Reluctantly, she had agreed but only after Matt told her if she didn’t, the next request would likely go to June and she wasn’t going to ask that of her.
When it finally came time for Livia’s statement, she felt relatively numb walking up to the stand. Matt still had
to give his after so she knew most of the heaviness would come from him. The emotion and grief and pain would come from his words. She would only provide facts.
“There is no other way to say this.” Livia began, meeting Dex’s scrutinizing stare with a blank one of her own. His head cocked slightly as he tried to puzzle her out. “The man on trial here today is capable of atrocious violence.”
Dex scoffed to himself.
“He is a man I thought I knew… Even the best of us can be wrong. The man before me today is a man who gunned down a friend of mine, a beloved member of his community, because of a grudge. I’ve seen heinous acts in my life but what happened that night overshadows them all… And it’s because of him. I trust this court will dole out equal punishment today.”
Dex raised his eyebrows in quiet question. He nodded to himself, as if accepting her words as part of a punishment.
He still felt so damned familiar she wanted to jump off the stand and tear his throat out with her bare hands just so it would end.
When Livia returned to the gallery, June laced their fingers. Livia patted June’s hand but didn’t let go. In fact, she squeezed her friend’s hand a little tighter.
Livia didn’t listen to Matt’s statement. She was too busy keeping her emotions in check.
Anger, grief, loneliness, sadness, anticipation. Everything swelled in her chest and she just wanted to scream. She wanted to be alone. She didn’t really know what she wanted.
Dex was sentenced to life without parole. That should’ve made her happy. She should’ve reveled in the fact that he’d never have a life again, that by taking Foggy’s and ten others’ he had his freedom taken away.
She wasn’t.
Not enough. Not enough. Not enough.
Livia still wanted him dead.
After the trial and after Matt spoke to Karen, he convinced June and Livia to come to his apartment for dinner. He stated that he wanted their company and June agreed on behalf of both women. Livia hadn’t found her voice again anyways, which also meant Karen left without a conversation.
At least they still kept in touch via texts.
After eating and chatting, June fell asleep on the couch. Livia didn’t blame her. The lights were low, the room was warm, and her belly was full. Matt was cleaning up while Livia sat in one of the stools by the counter.
“Thank you…” Livia said, her eyes on June. “She hasn’t slept soundly in a long time.”
“You’re both welcome here anytime. You know that.” Matt answered. “Maybe she just needed more background noise so she doesn’t think she’s alone.”
“She stays in her room a lot, talking to her boyfriend.”
“Joaquin, right?”
“You know him?” Livia’s brows raised. “June told you about him?”
Matt chuckled as he nodded. “Yeah, we talked about it when we went to California.”
“I can’t believe she told you more than she’s told me.”
“You and me both.”
“She never even said his name!” Livia threw her hands forward. “It’s always just ‘this guy’ or ‘my friend’.” Livia threw air quotes around to match.
“It took some coaxing to get it out of her, if it helps. I had to tell her something first.” Matt gave her a smile as he faced her. “He seems like a good guy, Air Force I think he said.”
“He said? You talked to him?”
“I interrupted a phone call.” He waved a dismissive hand. “He makes her happy.”
“Yeah…” Livia looked over at June, fast asleep across the sofa cushions. Her gloves were discarded on the coffee table and her hands were tucked under her head.
“Hey…” Matt’s hand landed on Livia’s, which made her look back at him.
“She used to have this jitteriness, like an anxious buzzing. I would feel it coming off her like a phone vibrating or something… It’s part of why I started calling her Junebug.”
“Does she know she reminded you of a beetle?” He chuckled.
“No.” She flashed a guilty smile. “But I came back and it’s basically gone. I assume it’s partly cause of him. Which is fine, of course. I want her to be happy… I don’t know, Matt. I don’t know if I’m angry I missed her growing up or just sad about it.”
“It’s okay to be upset about it. She is, too.” Matt was on his way around the counter.
“But-“
“Livvy.” His hands landed on either cheek. “You’re allowed to have your own feelings about everything.”
“It isn’t selfish to be upset because I missed it? I should just be proud of how she’s started to figure her life out.”
“You’re one of the least selfish people I know. You give so much to the people you care about.”
Livia hung her hands on his forearms, tracing his initials with her thumb. She tilted her head back slightly as Matt took a step closer. He bumped her knees so she shifted the way she was sitting, adjusting her legs to give him a little more room.
Matt didn’t need more than that to come closer.
I love you.
The words were on her tongue. She could taste the syllables. It’d be so easy to say it. Maybe he felt it too, Maybe he was just waiting for her to say it. She just couldn’t find the voice to say them. Saying felt both perfect and out of place.
Instead, she sighed to herself and squeezed his arms slightly. Her eyes closed as she took a deep breath, her lungs filling with the familiar scent of his cologne. Her declaration of love could wait for another time.
“It’s been so heavy.” Her already quiet voice broke.
His hands slid to the side of her neck, his thumbs gently pressing under her chin to keep her head angled towards him.
Silently, she thanked his God she had fair control of her abilities. There was a faint pink sneaking across her vision but she blinked it away.
“I’m glad you’re here.” Matt said softly.
“You’d think I would’ve figured out this whole grief thing by now.” Livia joked weakly. “I’m sorry I’ve been so out of it.”
“I don’t blame you… I can’t imagine what it’s like for you.”
Livia knew the resolve she had was breaking. She knew putting space was the smarter choice. If she started down the road she was thinking, she’d never make it back. She let go of his arms and gently pulled on his shirtfront.
“I still don’t understand. It had been so long. Why would he-“ Livia began ranting about Poindexter. She hoped complaining about the man she hated would distract from the man in front of her.
“Liv?” Matt cut in gently.
“Yes?”
“Shut up.”
Before she could offer an argument, he pulled her lips to his.
The kiss was gentle at first, triggering sparks under Livia’s skin. Acting on nothing but habit, she slid a hand up his chest till her fingers found the nape of his neck. Her other hand remained gripping his shirt.
Matt pushed a hand into her hair, almost desperate to bring her closer. Any sounds she could’ve made were muffled with the kiss but the sensations through her body and mind made up for it, especially when Matt’s other hand hooked behind her knee to hold her leg at his hip.
Her skin was alive. Every inch was lit with a fire she hadn’t anticipated. Her heart was beating fast, pushing blood through her veins at a pace that rivaled an Olympic sprinter. She let the feelings live, let them thrive and grow just so she could revel in the way only he could bring her to such a state with hardly anything.
Her lips were tingling Her were flushed. Her hands were possessively holding onto him but Livia didn’t care.
She felt alive under his touch.
She loved him. She loved him with everything she had, in every way she could. She never wanted to lose him again.
After what felt entirely too short, Matt pulled away first.
He let out a breathy laugh and Livia smiled widely.
“Maybe we should…” He jerked his head towards the bedroom.
“With her sleeping on your couch?” Livia teased.
“TV and stereo are probably loud enough.” He shrugged innocently.
Livia shook her head fondly and glanced over at the TV. Once she saw what was on the screen, she immediately regretted looking. Her shoulders dropped before gently
pushing Matt back so she had room to stand. He reached for her hand as she passed but she kept moving. With the music off, she could hear his words more clearly.
“…declaring my candidacy for Mayor of New York.” Fisk’s voice confidently stated.
Matt was at her side, a hand lightly on her back. She put a hand on his arm and her fingers were digging in slightly. Her stomach dropped to her feet, making her feel sick.
“He can’t be serious.” Livia whispered. As much as she wanted to scream and shout, maybe even panic, she was hyper aware of the sleeping figure on the couch.
How would she keep June safe from that?
“Tell me he can’t do this. There’s gotta be something, right?” She faced Matt.
“I don’t know, Livia.” Matt confessed quietly.
“She’s going to flip out.” Livia put her other hand on the back of the couch. “If he’s Mayor, how can I keep her safe from him?”
“Hey.” He rubbed her back. “I’m right here with you. We’ll figure this out.”
Livia couldn’t stop the scoff as she stepped away from his touch. “Matt, you packed it up. What do you really think the system is gonna do against the Mayor? Against a Mayor who was able to abuse and manipulate the fucking FBI?” She hissed, mindful to keep her anger to a simmer instead of a meltdown. June needed good sleep more than she needed to scream. “If he gets that office, he’ll abuse that too.”
“You think you need to be Exodus for this?”
“I never stopped.” She let out a strangled laugh. “I couldn’t stop. It didn’t make sense for me to hang it up like you did. That’s part of why I hardly came around. I didn’t want to hear you saying how we owed it to Foggy or how we should leave that behind.”
“It’s not just about him, Livia. You know what that life does to us.”
“I know it kept me alive.”
“And I know it killed you.” Matt said sharply as he jabbed. a finger against her sternum. “Twice.”
“Exodus had nothing to do with that.” She defended, smacking his hand away. She could almost hear every single wall of protection locking into place. “It was collateral damage against Russo and the Blip was random.”
Livia hated that term. Collateral damage. Too many people used it to justify hurting those around them. Just because it’s written off as unintended doesn’t mean there wasn’t suffering.
Intent doesn’t justify the results. Livia learned that lesson the hard way on more than one occasion.
“We can figure something out in the morning. Alright? All three of us.” Matt tried. She didn’t miss the desperation laced in his words.
“I don’t trust him.” She shook her head. “I don’t trust he wants to help the city… Do you?”
“What if…” He licked his lips, trying to buy time to come up with something. “I’ll ask Cherry to do some digging, see if there’s any red flags. Let me at least do this before you go running off.”
Livia sighed and rubbed her eyes. She was just so tired. She just wanted her old life back.
“There’s no way to keep this from her.” Livia’s hand fell away from her face and hit her leg with a light smack. “You know that right?”
“She can handle it.” Matt nodded.
“That's not what I’m worried about.” Livia mumbled.
“Liv?”
“I’m just gonna sleep on it.” Livia finally answered. “We’ll talk about it later.”
“Yeah. Okay.” He patted her arm. “I’ll get you some-“
“No, I’m gonna head out.” She cut him off. “Thanks for dinner.”
Livia tried to step around him. As much as her heart wanted to stay, her head was telling her better. Matt was always going to be her safe space. There was never any denying that. No matter who or what was in her life, she’d find a way back to Matthew Murdock.
But in those moments, she just had to think. She had to look at the facts, advantages, disadvantages. She had to consider every angle Fisk could be playing at. She couldn’t do that if she stayed the night.
She was barely two steps when he caught her arm.
“And what do I tell June when she wakes up and you’re gone?” Matt challenged.
“It’s not that serious.” Livia weakly tried to argue. She was just so tired.
“Tell that to the girl who woke up in cold sweats looking for you, the girl who had nightmares because you weren’t there.”
“That wasn’t my fault.”
“No, you’re right. Those five years weren’t on you.” He shook his head and let Livia’s arm go. “But this? Everything since? Alivia,-“
“Alivia?” She whispered, though Matt didn’t stop.
“-you came back almost three years ago and this is probably the most words you’ve said to me. This is the most I’ve been able to touch you without you running off.”
“What do you want me to say, Matt?” Her shoulders dropped. She had to pay very specific attention to the
volume of her voice. “My cousin is dead. My other cousin is a walking suicide risk but she won’t acknowledge it. One of my best friends is dead and another moved across the country, not to mention the one that’s off grid for who the fuck knows how long. And you…”
“What about me?” He asked quietly.
Livia swallowed whatever response she had. What could she say anyway?
“I’ll text her so she sees it when she wakes up.” Livia said instead.
“Don’t bother.” June mumbled from the couch. “I heard enough. If you two wanna argue, can you do it in another room?”
Livia looked down and noticed June hadn’t even opened her eyes. She shooed them away with a lazy wave before readjusting and falling back asleep.
Livia had nothing else to say. She simply squeezed June’s arm lightly and left.
Work the next day was no better. Her trio worked in the conference room on some case notes. June was tapping away on her ipad, glancing between her and Matt every so often. Livia caught her eye occasionally and she’d jerk her head towards Matt with a pointed look.
It didn’t take a genius to know she wanted Livia to say something. Livia simply shook her head.
Nothing outside of work was mentioned.
After Kirsten came in to remind Matt about a meeting, June smacked her hands on the table. Livia sighed before meeting her friend’s aggressive blinks. It was like she was sending a morse code message.
“Did you, um-“ Matt cleared his throat. “Did you wanna come, Livia?”
“No, thanks. June?”
June stared at Livia and kicked her shin, relatively hard.
“Ow.” Livia deadpanned.
“Stop it.” June hissed.
“I’ll see you both later.” Livia closed her laptop.
“Wait.” Matt tried. “We should talk about last night.”
Livia collected her computer and her bag. “Everything was pretty clear for me.”
“Liv!” June stood quickly.
“I’ll see you at home.” Livia told her. “Tell Kirsten I’m taking a flex day. I’ll be logged in if she needs me.”
June huffed in loud frustration as Livia left. The rest of the day was quiet. Kirsten texted to check in, which alivia didn’t answer. June came home ranting about the client meeting which wasn’t a client meeting at all but a blind date. She immediately decided she didn’t like the woman and it was time for Livia to “swallow her pride and get right with Matt”. Livia tried to remind June that it wasn’t just up to her but June kept talking through her plan to get them back together. It all seemed very elaborate and well-thought out. Livia could only guess how long June had been working on that.
At that point, Livia had to stop listening. The debate was on and Fisk had taken all of her attention. The topic was now vigilantes.
“That’s why you guys were fighting last night…” June realized.
“He’s running for mayor but Matt and I can’t agree on what to do.”
“What is there to do?”
“Matt thinks we should wait and let Cherry do some digging first.”
“And you don’t?”
“I’d rather just confront him but I doubt he’d be honest.”
“He might not lie to me.” June offered carefully.
Livia looked over and saw the determined set of her jaw as she watched the debate. Vigilantes were now being comparable to cancer. June’s eyes were stuck to the TV but Livia could see the war raging behind them. This wasn’t something Livia could face for June.
“I’ll go with you.” June nodded.
“Okay.” Livia said simply. “But you pull the plug if you need to. At any point, okay?”
June finally looked at Livia. “I know. As long as you’re there, I think I’ll be alright… We should do it tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?” Livia raised a brow.
“The sooner the better, right? We can lay that to rest and work on operation romance.” June did a little dance with her shoulders that made Livia laugh.
By the next afternoon, Livia and June had found where to catch Fisk. They waited at the end of the block, avoiding the crowd surrounding the door. June was glancing around, rocking nervously on her heels, patting a beat against her legs. The buzzing seemed to return in that moment.
“June.” Livia put a hand on her friend’s arm. “It’s okay. He can’t hurt you.”
“I know.” She nodded quickly. “I just… I haven’t faced him in years. What if I just turn into that scared little girl again?”
“You’re nowhere near that same girl.” Livia smiled softly. “We both know that.”
The noise from the crowd grew and Livia didn’t need to look to see that Fisk was coming. She gave June’s arm a small squeeze.
“Now or never, my dear.” Livia raised her brows. “Still gods?”
June blew out a sigh. “I think so.”
“Okay.” She smiled softly.
After June looped their arms together, they moved a few steps closer. She could see Fisk’s bald head over the commotion. A younger man, maybe around her age, was pushing through. He was clearing a path for Fisk, some sort of bodyguard or personal security.
Now that was something she could work with.
“Step aside, ladies.” He was a few feet away.
June was looking past him, fiddling with her gloves. Livia let the man’s unamused stare with a charming smile.
“We’re old associates of Mr. Fisk. We’d like a word.” Livia said smoothly.
“Not gonna happen.”
June pulled a glove off quickly but Livia covered the girl’s hand with her own. The movement made the man glance down but he gave no reaction other than a slight brow furrow. He met Livia’s gaze again but she maintained an innocent, soft smile.
“Just ask him. You may be surprised. Mister.?”
“Step aside. I won’t ask again.” He said flatly.
“I see.” Livia nodded slightly. “Well, if you try to touch either of us, I will break all twenty seven bones in your hand. It’ll be quick, though. I’m quite good at it.”
“Is that a threat?” He took a step forward.
Livia took one of her own, unfortunately dragging June with her.
“Not at all.” Livia shrugged a shoulder. “Just a statement.”
“It’s alright, Buck.” Fisk called from a few feet back.
Livia felt June shrink behind her. She turned her head and caught June’s wide eyes in her peripherals.
“I can’t do this.” She whispered, slipping into perfect Russian. “I can’t face him.”
“That’s okay.” Livia said in the same low tone, matching her choice of language. “You don’t have to.”
“I want to go home.”
Livia guided June a few steps away as Fisk got closer. On seeing June’s retreat, he froze. Livia thought she felt disappointment from Fisk, maybe even sadness, but she didn’t believe that. Wilson Fisk wasn’t a man capable of such feelings.
When she focused on June, Matt appeared at their sides.
“What’s wrong? You two okay?” Matt asked, a hand on either of their arms.
June nodded quickly, though she didn’t look his way. Her eyes were angled downwards towards their feet. Livia reached forward, pointedly ignoring Matt’s question, and lifted June’s face to meet her eyes.
“He can’t get to you.” Livia promised. “I won’t let him.”
“I know.” She sniffled. How had Livia not noticed the tears in her eyes? “I know…”
“She needs to get home.” Livia told Matt.
He immediately flagged her a taxi and Livia turned to see Fisk watching June go. There was an unmissable longing there and it made Livia want to claw his eyes out so he could never look at June again.
Livia looked over at Matt and June, the two engaging in a hushed conversation. He kissed her forehead before guiding her to the taxi. Livia smiled despite herself. When the door shut, she cleared her throat and faced Fisk.
“If you have the time, we’d love a word.” Livia spoke firmly. Matt was at her side then, taking a gentle hold of her arm. “Just a quick chat...”
“It’s been some time, hasn’t it?” Fisk answered. He looked between the two, glanced in the direction June’s taxi left in, and heaved a sigh. He hadn’t expected to see June again, let alone protected by Livia and Matt. Something about that made Livia happy. “I’d be happy to.”
//A continuation of my Widow!OC lead Daredevil story! Here’s a masterlist to the rest of the series. We’re following DDBA canon this time around. Enjoy!// tags: @fallingfavourites @see-the-divine // next //
Pairing: Matt Murdock x Alivia Yersova
Word Count: 7,802
Summary: It doesn’t count as dying if you don’t stay dead, right? Livia Yersova returns from the Blip to find her friends family is still the same but also very different.
Five years.
When Alivia Yersova took the trip to Wakanda after Nat and Steve convinced her, she wasn’t so sure she’d make it back to Hell’s Kitchen. She knew she could only cheat death so many times. Surely, He would come to collect after nearly taking her after the carousel incident.
So when she collapsed at her cousin’s feet, it was no real surprise to her.
“Tell them.” Was all she managed to say.
It was strange that it didn’t hurt. It was as simple as existing and then not. It took all of maybe two seconds for a higher power to rid the world of her, but those two seconds were a replayed lifetime for Livia.
A lifetime of fighting, bleeding and bruising, screaming and crying. A lifetime of love, laughter, happiness and family.
Foggy Nelson. Karen Page. Frank Castle. Dinah Madani and Amy.
Nat and Yelena.
Marc Spector and Steven Grant.
She even thought of crazy old Ben Poindexter and Billy Russo.
But it all came down to two names. Two faces etched into her memory.
Matt Murdock and June.
For the briefest of time, she wondered how she couldn’t think of June’s last name.
What would happen to her little Junebug? Surely, Matt would take care of her… Right?
Coming back was the strange part.
The terrain seemed the same and everyone around her was just as confused so that made her feel less out of place - if that was possible in a foreign country with no one she knew around her. Glancing down, she saw her suit was still covered in blood, dirt, and alien fluids. Her bodily aches were still there. She recognized the others around her only as people she fought with but Livia couldn’t really name any of them other than the Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes.
Livia quickly realized she couldn’t hear herself think. All she could feel was everyone else. It brought a panic to her bones to think of what that meant. Livia’s built up control, the means of survival she spent years fine tuning, was gone. Her chest was growing painfully tight and she had to unzip her top just to try and breathe.
“Alivia?” Barnes’ voice was muffled, drowning in the sea of panic she was surrounded by. He gently held onto her arm and she flinched away from the sudden contact. “You’re alright.”
“No, I-“ She shook her head, aggravating the spinning sensation. “I can’t breathe. It’s too much. It’s-“
Was she even speaking? Her voice sounded so weak, so small and confused.
She looked over at his expression and found a surprisingly compassionate set of eyes staring at her. She yanked her mask to hang around her neck, ignoring the shakiness in her hands. He was scared, too. He didn’t understand what was happening either, yet he was there trying to comfort Livia. She broke into a small smile and he returned the gesture.
“I’m alright.” Livia forced herself to say. She sure as hell didn’t believe it, but she could lie through her teeth. “Confused but alright… I just need to get home.”
“Come on.” He nodded, offering her a hand. “Let get you home then.”
Livia followed Barnes without hesitation. She looked around in part awe, part confusion. How did everyone come back? She was dead, wasn’t she? Weren’t all of them?
She tried to write it off as the power of the Stones. Maybe they were faulty. Maybe it was a fluke. Maybe the idea of uniting the Stones was a pipe dream, never really possible. That meant she was only gone for a few moments.
As quickly as the thought came, it left. Livia noticed the changes of the shrubbery, what had formerly been bright green was now a faded shade of orange. Flowers were wilting, branches drooping.
Livia and countless others were gone for a good chunk of time.
Livia startled when an orange ring of sparks ignited in front of her. She jumped back, flexed a hand to activate her Bite and reached for a blade with the other. She had one left and she’d sure as hell make it count.
“Good, you’re all here.” The man that stepped through said, surveying the various reappearances.
“What the hell happened?” Livia couldn’t stop the question from tumbling out.
“It’s been five years.” He rushed the explanation. “Now you’re all needed at Aveng-“
Five years. The thought made her head spin again.
“No.” She said firmly as a new determination lit her bones. “I’m going home. Send me home.”
“I’m sorry, but we cannot do that.”
Livia’s fingers found the handle of her knife.
“I wasn’t asking.”
“One person isn’t gonna change what’s gonna happen.” Barnes tried. “She’s done her part.”
“We need everyone.”
“I won’t go.” Livia shook her head.
All she could think was seeing Matt and June again. Reuniting with her friends, being in her own home and her own bed. Getting that stupid suit off. Screaming at Natasha for dragging her out there.
Come to think of it, Livia noticed she hadn’t seen Natasha since she returned. She must not have disappeared when Livia did.
“I don’t think I was really meant to be here.” Livia changed tactics, considering going as far as begging. “Please.”
The man sighed heavily. “Where is home?”
“Hell’s Kitchen in New York.”
“Oh.” He nodded. “I’m sorry.”
Livia’s stomach dropped.
“Did something happen?” She asked in a new panic.
“No.” He turned, swinging his hand in a wide circle for a new ring of sparks. “Just sorry it’s Hell’s Kitchen.”
She made a face to herself then faced Barnes.
“Thanks.” She felt strangely awkward having to thank or directly address the former ghost story. “I owe you.”
“I’d say this makes us even.” He smiled.
Absently, she snuck a hand into her hair for the scar hiding near her ear. It was that failed mission that resulted in the implant… But none of that was directly Barnes’ fault.
Livia smiled slightly and offered a hand to shake.
“You ever come through Hell’s Kitchen, we should talk some more.” Livia offered as Barnes shook her outstretched hand. “Always helps to have a friend that gets it.”
“I’d like that.” He nodded. “Take care, Alivia.”
“Call me Liv.” She slipped her mask back over her eyes and stepped through the portal.
Her feet landed on the New York streets she knew. There was a slight wobble in her step at the sudden appearance but it faded quickly. She looked around, grateful to be in a familiar setting through the chaos.
Livia ducked down the closest alley and sucked in a deep breath. Unfortunately, not even the scent of stagnant garbage water could distract from that tightness in her chest and head.
What was happening to her?
Livia tried her best to shove the thought away. She could figure that out later. Instead, she needed to focus. She needed her bearings so she could get to Matt’s apartment. She couldn’t go to the office because… Well, she didn’t know where it would be or if they even had one. Were they still working out of the deli?
It didn’t matter. Not yet, at least.
Matt’s place first. Everything else could wait.
She balled a hand into a fist, letting her first finger sit up a little higher. She clenched her jaw and shoved the knuckle against her rib. The pain flared almost immediately and that seemed to shove every other emotion out of her head. For a second, she thought she heard them rattling to the ground as she doubled over.
Her entire body faded and was rebuilt, but that damned rib was still the bane of her existence.
It took a few minutes on the nearest rooftop and the help of her mask, but Livia soon had a path. She was moving quickly, with as much agility as her excited state could manage. She scrounged up enough control and focus to exist in a bubble, to block out every other emotion around her and just feel her own. It was still foreign but not as unusual as the other option.
She’d need to work on rebuilding her mental walls soon.
Her feet had landed on Matt’s rooftop when her phone rang. It pinged in her head and the sudden sound made her wince.
Livia had forgotten she had a phone. Hearing the familiar point echo in her skull, she felt a little silly.
“Hello?” She answered quickly.
“Liv?” It was June’s voice, but not the June she remembered. Her voice was mature now, confident. She had grown into who she was supposed to be and Livia had missed it. Tears welled in her eyes when June spoke again. “Is it really you?”
It almost brought Livia to her knees.
“It’s me.” Livia managed. She cleared her throat and took a deep breath before continuing. “Where are you? I’ll come to you.”
She heard a small chaos on the other end of the line. Vaguely, there was another voice there but it was too quiet for her to make out.
“I’m at your apartment… I kinda moved in while you were gone.” She laughed nervously. “I have so much to tell you.”
Livia smiled and her feet moved automatically. “I’m on my way. Who’s with you?”
Silence. The phone was exchanging hands. Livia could hear the small thud of it being pushed into another palm. Hushed encouragement came as well then a sigh, a hesitation, and finally a voice.
“Hey, Livvy.” Matt said softly and she stumbled over her own feet. She would’ve welcomed the crash just to confirm that she was real, that the moment was real. Matt wasn’t sure it was real either. Livia didn’t need her abilities to know that much.
She was struck again by how long it really was. Five years is enough to take hope from even the most optimistic. It made the weight of her disappearance all the more heavy on her shoulders.
“Hi, Matty.” Livia answered with the same tone, a swell in her chest at hearing the voices of her most beloved. If she wasn’t already off balance from the return and the portal home, she was dizzy then.
Her heart was pounding in her chest, blood rushing through her veins, heat flaring throughout her body. So many emotions raged war in her head, abused her via sensations. Her eyes were growing blurry and she couldn’t tell if it was from tears or just a loss of control. She was too overwhelmed to care either.
She trusted her feet and her body to get her where she needed to be. She knew the paths to her apartment like the back of her hand, always aware of how to get home.
One of the many rules of the Red Room that remained etched into her mind.
“God, is this real?” He sighed. His voice served as Livia’s tether to reality and kept her from spiraling into the abyss of emotions nipping at her heels, a dangerously strong riptide threatening to drag her under.
“I really hope so.” She laughed slightly.
She wanted to keep talking but she was at a loss for words. She had so many questions.
What had she missed? How was Karen and Foggy? Was Frank okay? Who else had disappeared? Did anyone explain what had happened?
She had no idea where to start.
“I have so many questions.” She settled on.
“We’ll answer all of them.” He answered. “As soon as you’re here, okay?”
“I’ll see you soon.”
Livia tapped her scar and picked up the pace. Her heart upped gears in her chest, not just from the sprints across rooftops. It was at the prospect of reuniting with her family. She felt a heat on her cheeks just from Matt’s voice.
He would know, she realized as she dropped onto her fire escape. He’d hear her heart, feel the heat of her skin, know her breath was fast and shallow. Livia had no defenses at the moment and maybe, just maybe, she didn’t want them. Maybe it was only right that she be laid bare before Matt in a way she almost never was before. Maybe it would be a relief to both of them or at the very least, remind them they’re both alive.
She pulled her mask to hang around her throat before she shimmied the window up. Her feet barely landed on the floor when a body collided with her. The impact was so sudden she worried she’d fall back through the window.
Livia was hit with a thundering wave of emotions. Disbelief, gratitude, relief, love. So much love. All the colored hazes and sensations mixed into a cacophony of an experience. It all made Livia sway slightly on her feet but the arms around her were like a vice. Hands were balled into the material of her top and the girl hugging her was shaking slightly.
“You’re here.” June mumbled against Livia’s shoulder. “You’re really here.”
Livia hugged her back with the same tightness. “I promised, didn’t I?” She answered, fighting back tears.
“Took you long enough.”
“You’re so grown now.” She laughed sadly.
June laughed and squeezed Livia tighter.
A hand landed on Livia’s shoulder and she looked over. There was Matt.
She was both thrilled and crushed. Both emotions mixed and brought tears to her eyes. She let them freely fall.
It was a relief to see him, to see the soft expression on his face. To have his tentative touch, like he wasn’t sure she was really there. She reached for his shirtfront and pulled him towards her without a word. The three stayed in that tight sandwich of an embrace for God knew how long.
The thing that made Livia’s stomach drop was the sudden understanding.
Neither June nor Matt felt the way she knew.
If there was any way for her to tell that time had passed, it was that.
Livia kept that to herself. She never mentioned it. Not when she was catching up with them, not even when she saw the rest of her friends again.
Foggy and Karen and Frank. All of them the same, all of them completely different people.
She never mentioned it while they worked to help Spiderman.
Livia and Matt were seated with the young vigilante at his aunt’s kitchen table while June lounged on the couch. She was giggling at her phone and typing furiously. Livia had made a face and meant to question it when Matt came back from his phone call with Foggy regarding the case.
“Well, I have some good news, Peter.” Matt announced, which drew her attention away from June. The girl didn’t even look up.
Who was she so interested in? Was the air around her pink or was it just the way the papers on the windows filtered the light?
“I don’t believe any of the charges against you are gonna stick.”
“Wait, seriously?” The boy smiled, sighing in relief. His aunt had a similar reaction and she couldn’t help but smile too. “Mr. and Mrs. Murdock, thank you. That’s amazing.”
“Oh, I’m not-“ Livia tried to argue. Matt decided she wouldn’t get a chance, simply giving her knee a small squeeze under the table.
“However, Mr. Hogan, the feds are actively investigating that missing technology.” Matt nodded.
Peter’s head cocked and his brows furrowed. He didn’t know about the missing tech or at least that the man across the table from him was potentially involved.
“We understand your loyalty to Mr. Stark and his legacy.” Livia began carefully. “My cousin spoke his praises from time to time.”
“Cousin?” Peter asked.
“Natasha.” She answered without looking.
“Cool.”
“If you are involved, I recommend securing a lawyer.” You finished.
“If- If I was involved?” Hogan began and she had to refrain from rolling her eyes.
His guilt was practically pouring out of him as he rambled on. Livia bit the inside of her cheek to keep any expression off and she felt Matt pat her leg under the table. She lightly kicked at his foot in response, a quiet signal that she was fine.
Briefly, she wondered if there were some signs her body was offering that he could pick up on. If he had noticed how vulnerable she was, Matt hadn’t addressed it.
“Regardless, Mr. Hogan.” Livia finally cut off the nonsensical babbling. “You’re going to need a really good lawyer.”
“You may have dodged your legal troubles but things will get much worse.” Matt explained to the younger boy. “There’s still the court of public opinion.”
Peter looked to his aunt and Livia felt Matt shift beside her. She looked over and noticed his head tilt, focusing in on something else. She leaned a little closer, intending to ask, but Matt spoke first.
“Don’t move.” He said lowly.
Livia didn’t, her eyes still on him. She traced the shape of his cheekbones, the line of his jaw, the length of his throat. She didn’t even flinch when the glass of the window broke and Matt’s hand shot out to catch whatever projectile came through. If there was one thing that hadn’t changed, it was Livia’s unwavering trust in Matt Murdock.
Livia could only laugh to herself. Matt flashed her a crooked smile.
“Show off.” She said quietly.
“Well.” He flashed her a full grin. “What can I say?”
After a moment, she looked back to the table and saw Peter had his hand out too, ready to catch the same thing. Based on where they were, it would’ve hit somewhere around the base of Livia’s skull.
“Woah.” June said from the couch. “Nice catch, Matt.”
“How did you do that?” Peter asked carefully. There was something in his voice. Not quite an accusation but a sense of knowing Matt was something more. His expression shifted to confusion and suspicion and Livia tried not to laugh.
“I’m a really good lawyer.” Matt reasoned, handing the brick to the younger boy. Livia elbowed him lightly in the ribs.
“Clearly, this isn’t something you can hide from.” Livia explained, hoping to divert attention away from Matt’s inability to maintain the secret of secret identity. “Popular opinion isn’t something that will change overnight. It may take a long time.”
“So what should he do?” Peter’s aunt, May, asked. Her eyes were full of worry for her nephew. Livia saw something of herself in the woman, a burning need to protect those she felt responsible for.
“Live his life.” June offered. Livia looked over her shoulder and saw June leaning her elbows on the arm of the couch with her knees on the cushion. “He’s still a teenager so he’s got his whole life to make vigilante fuck-ups.”
“June.” Livia warned.
“It’s true!” She defended. “I’d bet every vigilante fucks up, especially young ones.” Livia didn’t miss the way June tugged on her glove. “The point is that he can’t let this break him. So what if people don’t like him? It doesn’t change who he is. Right?”
“She may have a point.” Matt tried.
“Do not start with me.” Livia pointed a finger at him. With a smile, he gently grabbed hold of that finger and pushed her hand down.
The simple touch sent her into a manageable tizzy. His smile grew a bit and Livia knew her body had betrayed her. She reeled in her emotions as best she could, quietly cursed the Blip and its unraveling of her defenses, and returned focus to the conversation at hand.
All of it was doing nothing to counter Peter’s earlier misidentification of ‘Mrs. Murdock’.
“Regardless, it could benefit you to find some allies among local heroes.” Livia suggested.
“He has the Avengers.” May offered.
“Right, but I think people closer to home may be better. There’s a trio in Hell’s Kitchen that might be a good start.”
“Hell’s Kitchen?” June parroted.
“There’s a girl relatively close to his age, calls herself Alter.” Livia continued, ignoring June’s addition. “She hangs around with Daredevil and his friend, Exodus.”
“Friend…” Matt mumbled with a slight nod. He cleared his throat before speaking again. “I think Livia is onto something. It’s not a bad idea.”
“Assuming you’re going to keep your spider persona going that is.”
The boy blew out a long sigh. “I’m not sure right now.”
Livia offered a kind smile. “Do what you think is best, kid. Everyone will have advice for you but ultimately, it’s your decision, okay? And hey, you know where to find us if you need a different perspective.”
The boy met her eyes for a moment and she shot him a wink. His eyes went wide with understanding and his gaze darted between Livia, Matt, and June. He smiled then, as if he was seeing who they moonlit as.
“Thanks.” His smile was so genuine it made Livia’s heart twist. “That means a lot.”
That was the last time she saw the boy without his mask. It wasn’t long until she forgot his name and his face. All she knew was that she had been Spider-man’s lawyer.
At least once a day since then, she looked over the New York skyline and hoped he was doing okay.
She still couldn’t tell Matt what was wrong when she told the office she’d be unavailable for a few days, maybe longer.
“What’s going on?” Foggy asked carefully as he came to join everyone. “Liv?”
“I was trying to tell Matt that I’ve gotta deal with something for my cousin starting tomorrow morning.” Livia explained. “It could be a while.”
“Your cousin?” Karen asked. “For Natasha?”
Livia titled her head side to side. Hearing her late cousin’s name was still a knife in the chest. Processing that kind of grief was a terrifying idea. For the time being, she was avoiding it like the plague.
“Yes and no. Yelena called… She wants my help.”
“Well, what with? I can come, too.” June offered. She had been suspiciously quiet while she sat at Matt’s desk, her feet kicked up on the surface.
“No, she said just me.”
“That’s not fair.”
“Take it up with Yellie, June.” Livia pinched the bridge of her nose. “The point is that I’m just gonna be offline for a week, maybe more.”
“Offline?” Foggy’s brows furrowed. “But you’ll be in town, yeah?”
“Yes, but-“
“Then why can’t I come?” June argued and jumped to her feet.
“Because it’s not up to me!” Livia snapped.
Matt sighed, rubbed a hand along his jaw. Foggy shared a worried glance with Karen. June glared at Livia like she wanted the woman’s hair to catch on fire.
“What aren’t you telling us?” Matt finally spoke. Livia didn’t miss the accusation layered in the question.
Everything.
“Nothing.” Livia answered.
“Liar.” June accused.
“Shut it.”
“Livvy?” Foggy tried. “We know something’s wrong… Talk to us.”
“I don’t want to.” Livia shrugged slightly. “I don’t want to talk about my dead cousin, how I wasn’t here when she died, how she sacrificed her life to bring me and so many others back. I don’t want to talk about losing five years while the rest of you were fine. I don’t want to-“
Her words stopped when she felt a tight grip on her hand. June had quietly made her way over and cut off Matt in getting to her. Livia saw the way Matt stood now, a few steps closer and pulling his hand back. She watched him press his lips into a line and step away, one single step that felt like a mile.
Livia wondered if that was intentional, if June put herself there on purpose. June would never do it maliciously. Livia knew that. Sometimes June was just so zoned in on one thing, she had no spatial awareness.
But there was something off with them. She realized it a few days after her return. They were shorter with each other, not snippy but just reluctant, as if they didn’t know how to talk to each other anymore. Livia had meaning to ask what happened but she also wanted them to tell her of their own accord.
They were hiding something, some sort of fight or argument that was sitting unresolved. It grated on her subconscious, lingering in her thoughts when they were all together, but she had no idea how to ask. Could she just come out and say “What’s going on between you two?” and expect the truth?
Matt was regretful, apologetic even. June was upset, bordering betrayal. Whatever happened was likely Matt’s fault.
Regardless, deep down Livia still yearned for Matt’s comfort.
It would’ve been so nice for him to have gotten to her, to hold her hand with the gentleness only he ever seemed to give her, to just be at her side. She wanted that more than anything. She wanted to go back to what they had before, for things to be normal again.
Maybe that was the new normal. Maybe the want and the yearn was all she’d be able to have where Matt was concerned.
She’d have to learn to accept it.
“Just be careful.” Matt said. Livia noticed something in his voice, not quite concern but something like it. Something that made her skin flush. “You have a habit of getting in over your head.”
Livia couldn’t help but laugh a little. Matt smiled at her response.
She could learn to accept it later… Right?
“When have I ever done that?” She said innocently.
Matt shook his head affectionately and came back over. Livia felt her heart stutter and she forced the emotion down. She tried to lock it in a neat little box but it fought back. She had to settle for the flush on her cheeks when he got to her. June nudged her with her elbow and Livia gently pushed the girl woman away. June giggled but went with it.
Matt gently took Livia’s hand and pushed her sleeve up enough that he could run a thumb over the circular scar of a bullet wound.
“That wasn’t my fault.” Livia reasoned.
“No.” Matt cracked half a smile. “Of course not. Not this one either, right?”
His hand landed on her stomach, fingertips pressing gently into where the scar from Dex’s knife sat.
“No, sir.” She shook her head.
“And these?” Without releasing her hand, he used the other to trail his fingers over the scar on her face, following the shape of her mask.
“Absolutely not.” She spoke, more breathless than she would’ve liked to sound.
It made Matt smile to himself.
“Should we give them some privacy?” Foggy asked, not bothering to whisper.
“Get a room!” June called out while laughing.
“Well hang on.” Karen said. “One of them is bound to do something stupid and ruin it.”
Livia peaked over Matt’s shoulder and saw the three huddled together, smiling as if they were plotting. Livia tried to frown but it didn’t quite work. She broke into giggles almost immediately. Matt didn’t bother to look. His focus stayed on Livia, almost as if she was the only other person in the room. As if he wanted to memorize something about who she was now.
“What do you think?” She faced Matt, who had leaned in a little closer. One hand had stopped to rest at the side of her face, his thumb gently moving against the hinge of her jaw. His other still held on to her hand. “Are they right?”
“It’s usually me.” He confessed. Again, she had to laugh. “I know you have to do this for Yelena.” He spoke quietly.
“That’s not all.” Livia tried to argue in the same quiet tone.
“I just need you to be careful, Livvy. Okay? We just got you back…”
Her heart twisted at the nickname and a new flush climbed her cheeks. She carefully pulled Matt’s hand off her cheek before he could piece anything together.
“I know, Matt.” She nodded, squeezing both his hands slightly. “Yel wouldn’t call if she didn’t think we could handle it. If you don’t trust her, trust me.”
“I do.”
“Good.” She smiled slightly. “I’ll see you in a few days.”
Matt hesitated. He opened his mouth to say something else then decided against it. He pressed his lips together, gave a quick nod, then stepped back. Livia’s friends came up after that and June was focusing a bit too hard. She could feel that familiar sensation of June’s power reaching out, like a ghost of fingertips on her forehead. She always wondered if anyone else ever felt it the way she did. Did they feel Livia’s power?
Livia glanced over, flicked her former shadow’s forehead, then laughed.
June was stunned, eyes wide as she dropped her power. Clearly, no one had thought to do that before. After a few seconds, she laughed about it.
“Take care of them.” Livia told June. “It’s like managing a bunch of toddlers but you’ll be alright.”
“Love you too, Liv.” He shook his head fondly before firmly pointing a finger at her. “But you’ve gotta come back in one piece. Nothing more than bruises or else I’m kicking your ass myself.”
“Oof.” June sucked a breath between her teeth. “He sounds serious, Liv.”
“I know.” Livia nodded.
“Okay, guys.” Karen said with a small laugh. “Foggy just worries. He’s a very concerned citizen.”
“Exactly!” Foggy announced, throwing his arms wide. “I’m gonna have to invest in backpack leashes for the both of you.”
“At least we’ll match.” Livia said to June.
Matt chuckled and June elbowed him in the ribs.
“I actually meant you two.” Foggy pointed to you and Matt.
June grinned in triumph and Matt scoffed in offense. Livia hid her laugh behind her hand.
It was as close to normal as she had gotten since her return. With everything in her, she wanted to stay in that moment, when everyone felt that the people she knew. People she’d lay down her life for. She still would, but that didn’t mean things weren’t different.
Generally, she felt like an outsider amongst her friends. It was like she showed up to a party late and everyone was well into conversations. She was on the outskirts. Usually, it wouldn’t bother her, but not with these people. Not with her people.
She still couldn’t tell them when she returned from Yelena’s mission. That was a flurry of emotion in its own right. Facing the grief of losing Natasha, the anger at Clint Barton for not doing more, the yearning to take her place, the regret of not being there, the frustration of Fisk lingering in her peripherals. She wanted to scream but she didn’t. She maintained her facade throughout, if only for Yelena’s sake, and screamed inside her head.
She forced those shaky walls to hold, to keep emotion away. She had to be strong for her little cousin, even if it was only a two year difference. At least since they both blipped, she didn’t have to lose that too. Seeing Yelena in that type of pain hurt Livia more than almost anything.
It didn’t feel right to leave Yelena after that. Her little cousin insisted that she was okay, that she just needed to be alone for a while. Livia, as stubborn as she was, knew better than to press her lethal family. Instead, she took Yelena’s phone and changed her lock screen to a photo of the two of them.
She held her cousin’s face in her hands.
“I want to take this pain away from you.” Livia said softly, her own eyes brimming with tears. Yelena’s expression was a mirror of her own and it made her heart hurt even more. “I so badly want to fix this.”
“Please.” Yelena’s voice broke.
“A friend of mine once said if we don’t feel this pain, we’ll never learn how to live through it.” She sniffled, repeating Matt’s words from so long ago. “You’re stronger than you know, Cousin. I can feel it… I love you, Yelena. I love you so much.”
“I miss her.” She whispered.
“I do too. But I’m only a phone call away. If you need anything, I promise I will come running.” Livia promised, hugging her cousin so tightly her own rib shifted beneath her skin. Thanks to a well-placed swing of Clint Barton’s bow, her bone was likely broken yet again. Livia was too wrapped up in emotion to care.
She still didn’t tell anyone anything when Matt was slated to go to California.
“Just send June.” Livia shrugged when Foggy offered. She wasn’t looking at him, focusing on some papers on her own desk. “I’m fairly sure I’m on the TSA’s no fly list by now.” She tried to joke.
“You don’t like California?” Foggy asked instead.
“Never been, but it makes more sense for June. She’s his disability assistant sometimes, remember? And I think they’ve got something they need to work out.”
“Okay, sure, but I’m asking you to go.”
Livia didn’t miss the way Foggy purposefully changed the subject. It made her wonder what he knew about it.
“And I’m saying no.” She looked over at her friend working at his desk, though his work was seemingly abandoned. “What difference does it make?”
“Fine.” He dramatically sighed in defeat. “I didn’t wanna have to pull this card.”
Livia raised her brows in question. “Oh, it’s serious now. Hit me.”
“The guy Matt’s gonna defend, Luke Jacobson, he makes super suits. In addition to the firm’s fee-“
“We needed a case to pay the bills I take it.”
“Hundred percent. Anyways, he’s offered to make something for all of you guys.”
“All?”
“Daredevil, Exodus, and Alter.”
“You made a deal for new suits for everyone? Even June?” She raised an eyebrow in disbelief. “That’s interesting considering you’re always the one saying that it’s irresponsible to let June come and the three of us together is too risky for our identities.”
“I wasn’t going to!” He defended. “Dealing with you two is stressful enough but I knew she’d know and then she’d be mad at me for not getting her something. I wasn’t gonna deal with her icing me out for a month!”
“At least.” She nodded. “June’s so petty for someone so small.”
“Exactly!”
“You should’ve seen how bad she hated Billy Russo. The guy called her an ankle biter once and she never forgave him.”
“Can you blame her? That’s offensive.”
“Eh.” Livia shrugged. “I’m pretty sure June threatened to castrate him if he said it again.”
“Jeez…”
“Yeah, takes after her Uncle Frank I guess.”
“Oh yeah. Frank’s to blame for that.” He rolled his eyes.
Livia nodded innocently. “I’d never threaten a man with that. I’d just do it.”
“Okay, can we-“ He gestured vaguely. “Can we get back to the topic of LA? The suits were supposed to be a surprise, by the way. Thank you for that.”
“You chose to tell me!” Livia defended. “Still, I don’t know. I don’t think I can be alone with him like that.”
His head cocked and he pushed his chair all the way across the office to be beside her. She looked on with wide eyes and a laugh as he scooted closer.
“What did he do this time?” Foggy asked when he got to her side.
She smiled slightly. “He didn’t do anything.” She said honestly. “It’s just… me.”
“Oh… Well, what did you do this time?”
“I just need to work through some stuff.” Livia shrugged it off. She couldn’t bring herself to unload everything onto Foggy. Even though he had shown on more than one occasion that he’d support her through anything, it still felt too heavy a burden to put on him. “Maybe sending him across the country will be good for us.”
“So there’s still an ‘us’ with you guys, huh?” He joked, wiggling his eyebrows at her.
“Matthew and I are very complicated people, Franklin. Our situation is very fluid. It changes almost everyday.” She confessed. “But it’ll work out as it needs to. Fate and the universe and all that.”
“Hey.” He said softly, a gentle seriousness in his words. He took her hand and she made no move to refuse the touch. “You know he still loves you, right?”
“I know.” She nodded, even if she wasn’t quite sure in what way. “But you can’t tell me things aren’t different.”
“What do you mean?”
“C’mon, Foggy. Five years is a long time, especially when someone’s supposed to be dead.”
“Yeah but you were in and out for a few years back in college.” He shrugged.
“But I wasn’t dead.”
“You weren’t really dead this time either.”
“You’re not listening.” She pulled her hand away. “It’s fine, just… Just send June with Matt. I’ll cover his cases here while he’s gone.”
“Livia, I didn’t mean to-“
“I don’t want to talk about it anymore, Foggy. Drop it.” She said with a gentle firmness as she turned back to papers. She hesitated, sighed, and spoke once more. “Please.”
“Yeah, okay…” He patted her back. “You know we’re all here for you, right? No matter what’s bothering you, we’re here. None of us are going anywhere.”
“I know.” She didn’t look up. She wasn’t even sure she believed it. “Thanks, Fog.”
“I’m serious, Livvy. You’re not alone.”
“Yeah…”
Wasn’t she?
He shuffled his chair a few feet away before spinning towards Livia once more.
“What if I told you you’d be arguing against Jennifer Walters?” Foggy tried.
“I’d say ‘who the hell cares?’ because I don’t know who that is.” Livia answered easily.
“I would then tell you she's a UCLA graduate.”
“Not impressed.”
“And if I said she’s She-Hulk?”
“I’d answer that with the fact that a bigger head doesn’t automatically make you smarter or better competition. The answer’s still no.”
“Worth a shot.” He shrugged.
Livia’s mind soon drifted back to the thought of not being alone.
To anyone else, her life seemed so full. A steady job at a locally successful law firm, a tight knit group of friends, allies across the globe, experience in various fields, a prodigé that’s become more like family. She was charming, smart, strong. She was kind and honest. All the best qualities a person could be.
But if anyone were to actually be inside of Alivia Yersova’s head, they’d find more comfort in a jail cell.
She felt hollow, like anything that could matter to her was scooped out or just wasn’t returned after the Blip.
She had unique abilities of pathokinesis, the power to manipulate the emotions, yet she couldn’t even register or control her own. The walls she had worked tirelessly at for years under Dreykov’s tutelage had shifted. Instead of protecting her from her own emotions and the feelings of others, it was as if she was trapped with them. She couldn’t keep her own feelings in check or away. She was supposed to blend, to remain a blank, unreadable slate to the outside world.
That was her armor.
No matter what she was going through, no matter who was beating her or taking from her or breaking her, the outside world saw nothing but composure. Nothing but control, nothing but power.
Yet, since she came back from the Blip, she had little control. She fell victim to the blushes and tears and panic. She could barely keep herself composed around Matt, someone who would flirt with a stop sign if he thought it’d make a difference. She had listened to the man talk his way out of problems and into beds since they were in college, and now one stupid smile had her cheeks rosy and her stomach in knots.
Livia hadn’t felt that disadvantaged with her powers since she was a child. It made her feel normal, like she was just a woman in love with the one idiot in New York every woman swooned for. She hated that feeling.
And her friends… Her friends would never understand. They wouldn’t see anything wrong with feeling, with being happy or sad or angry. They wouldn’t understand that it wasn’t about the feelings. Just because she controlled them didn’t mean she didn’t have them. Livia knew what it felt like to love, to fear, to loathe, to despair. She knew what every possible emotion felt like. She’d always known, but she had grown so accustomed to them being at her will. Not the other way around.
At least with June out of the apartment for a bit, Livia was able to sit within herself. She found that her walls weren’t necessarily gone but there were cracks, some deep and fissuring while others were spiderwebs. Enough were threatening to widen every day. She spent almost the entirety of each day when she wasn’t at the office mending the cracks, hoping to stabilize enough to not worry about a full on collapse.
It wasn’t done by the time June and Matt came back, but it was progress.
When June got back from California, she made her annoyance very well known.
“Why would you do that?” June slammed the apartment door shut behind her.
Livia sighed to herself, paused her movie, and turned towards the younger woman storming into their shared living space. June made a point to throw down her bags and stand with hands on her hips and an expectant expression on her face. Livia swallowed the remark of how much she looked like Matt in that instance.
“Welcome home.” Livia said instead. “How was LA?”
“Don’t ’welcome home’ me!” June mocked. “Why would you do that?!”
“Do what?”
“Why make me go with him!”
“I’m sorry.” Livia innocently furrowed her brows. “Are you two going through something?”
June opened her mouth, hesitated, then closed it. She stared at Livia intently, that ghost of a sensation coming again. June was trying to subtly find out what Livia knew or what she suspected.
“Don’t go in my head, Bug.” Livia warned carefully.
“Sorry.” June muttered and the feeling instantly vanished. June crossed her arms if only to hide her hands. “Matt and I are just fine...”
“Then what are you mad about?” Livia prodded, knowing June was lying. “I thought you’d enjoy the sunshine and maybe find a cute boy, experience life outside the Kitchen.”
June’s cheeks immediately flushed bright pink. Livia suddenly had a new topic to fixate on.
“Unless you already have a cute boy?” Livia raised her brows with a teasing smirk. “Is that who you’re always texting?”
“I may be talking to someone, yes.” June said carefully but with a proud lift of her head. “He’s very cute, very sweet… I like him. I think? Maybe? I don’t know. It’s new.”
“Who is he?”
“No one you’d know.”
“That’s how we’re gonna do this?” Livia laughed slightly. “I’ve told you about every guy and you’re gonna hide your first crush?”
“I’m not hiding him!” June defended. “I just-“
“Don’t want to tell me.”
“Don’t know if it’s anything.”
“I can see the pink all around you.” Livia gestured. “Your eyes are basically little hearts.”
“Oh god.” June rolled her eyes. She came over and plopped beside Livia with a huff. “I’m scared he’ll be like Russo.”
Livia shifted to face June, a gentle hand on her leg.
“Why do you think that?”
June shrugged a shoulder. “He’s charming and pretty… What if there’s something demented about him?”
“Seems a bit harsh, don’t you think?” Livia tried.
“Or if we end up like you and Matt…”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You guys are always falling over each other then at each other’s throats then crying your eyes out then screaming at each other. You’re in love with each other on Sunday and by Wednesday you’ve broken the other’s heart…”
Livia frowned at the observation. She knew her and Matt had no real stability but she hadn’t considered how obvious it could be for everyone else.
“I’m sorry.” Livia managed. “I know I haven’t given you the best examples of love and relationships.”
“No kidding.”
“But it’s a learning curve.” Livia continued. “Some parts of it you have to learn on your own. It’s scary and vulnerable to give so much of yourself to another person, not knowing what secrets they might hide. I had to learn that lesson the hard way… But I can promise you, if your guy was anything like Billy Russo, you’d know. If anyone would know, it’d be you.”
“I really try not to use that on him.” June fiddled with a seam of her glove. “It feels wrong.”
“I thought the same of mine at first, too.” Livia agreed. “Now I’m not saying to do a full deep dive for all of his deepest darkest secrets, if he has any. What I'm saying is that a little focus on what he’s already offering up to you isn’t all that bad.”
“Do you do that with Matt?”
“Matt wears his heart on his sleeve a good portion of the time. It doesn’t take mindwork to know what he’s feeling.”
“Can you tell?” June asked carefully. “When I’m trying to use it on you.”
“Sort of.” Livia nodded. “I’m guessing it has to do with my own stuff because I’ve never known Matt or anyone else to really acknowledge when I’m using mine on them unless it’s a drastic shift. It just feels like a really light, really faint touch.”
“What if I try it and he can tell and he freaks out?” June quietly panicked.
“You could try telling him. Lay all of this out for him and see what he says.”
“That doesn’t sound any better.”
“Yes, but it’s honest.”
“It’s terrifying.”
“That’s love, my dear.” Livia patted June’s leg. “Love is embarrassing and messy and fun and terrifying, but if it’s the right person, it’s the best feeling in the world.”
“But how do I know he’s the right person?”
“You just do.” Livia shrugged, immediately thinking of Matt.
She remembered when he implied she was the right person for him. With a pang in her chest, she wondered if he still thought that after five years.
When tensions seemed to have leveled, Foggy managed to wrangle everyone up at Josie’s. The night seemed to be a step towards normalcy and Livia was almost convinced things would work out.
June was laughing. Matt was poking fun at Foggy, who was across the bar flirting with Kirsten McDuffie. Karen was smiling and joining in. Livia sipped her drink with a small smile, hoping that it was the first real step towards finding her way back to her friends.
Crazy (NSFW) - Pope's always been crazy but now he's also a man in love.
Tomorrow - Pope's family always fuck up the good in his life.
Do Over Day (NSFW) - Pope tries to make up for the day before.
Your relationship with Pope begins because of a safe.
A Garibaldi 1965 to be exact.
It’s a beautiful antique of a thing. It’s also a complete pain in the ass to get into, which is why they call in an expert.
The Professional is what you’re known as in their world. Every job you’ve ever pulled is seamless, a complete work of art Pope can’t help but admire. You’re consulting fee shows it too, you know your value and you won’t settle for less. As much as Smurf begrudges it, they need you otherwise the work and the money they’ve already put into this job, it’ll be completely wasted.
When you step through the door every single one of them is taken back because what they didn’t expect was a woman, a damn fine one.
Craig hones on that almost immediately but you shut him down by holding up your hand as if he were a dog, stopping him in his tracks. “Oh honey, you are so far from my type it isn’t even funny.”
His mother’s jaw tenses as she watches you because already you’re commanding the room and she doesn’t like the competition.
“She’s gotta be a dyke.” Craig says later when you and Smurf step outside to discuss bringing you onto the crew for the job because they’ve just realised how momentously fucked they are. “It’s the only explanation.”
“Or she just doesn’t like cokeheads.” Deran supplies, sipping from his beer. “If Smurf can convince her to get on board that’s probably gonna mean you’re gonna have to quit powdering your nose for a couple of hours while we get shit done.”
“Fuck that.” Craig says as the sliding door opens and you and Smurf step back into the kitchen.
“Alright.” You address the group as you stand there with your hands on your hips. “You wanna get into that safe it’s gonna take two of us. My partner in crime needs to be someone meticulous with attention to detail and steady hands. Who isn’t going to flake out going over the same thing over and over and over again so they can get the muscle memory boxed off.”
The last comment is directed at Craig, they can tell from the forceful look you give him.
“I guess that’s me.” Pope says raising to his feet. “Since I’m the only one with an attention span longer that the time it takes to do a line.”
He feels your gaze on him, calm and analytical, taking in his shirt buttoned all the way up to the throat, his stillness as he stands before you.
“You’ll do.” You say before jerking your head towards the front gate. “Come on, we’re going for a ride to my workshop.”
And that’s how it starts. Hours and days spent in close proximity as you teach him the delicate art of safecracking. He’s used to a more brute force approach. Tearing the shit out of concrete, blowtorching the mother fucker but the way you work, it’s like magic. Thorough, mediative. He comes out of your workshop at the end of each session feeling calmer, like some sort of balance has been restored inside him.
“I don’t like how much time you’re spending with that girl.” Smurf tells him, one morning on the way out the door.
“It’s for the job, you know it is.” He tells her before leaving.
But it’s not, not really because the two of you have started getting close. A couple of beers on your back porch overlooking the beach, dinner from a food truck before you kick off your shoes and take a walk along the shoreline, the water cascading over your ankles.
“I want to learn more.” He tells you once the job is over. It’s true, he does but he also doesn’t want this to end. You’re the first woman he’s felt an interest in in a long time, the first one that might actually see him.
You step outside onto the porch instead of letting him in the way you usually do. He knows it’s because of Smurf, that she warned you off him, told you his secrets. You know the truth now about how fucked up he is.
This is what she does when he starts trying to build something outside of the family, she cuts off his life lines, leaves him twisting in the wind until he realises the only place he can go is back to the house he grew up in, the family that steal away little pieces of his sanity until the darkness eats him up.
“Look…” He begins but you’re already wrapping your arms around his neck, gathering him up into a hug. He stiffens at first because he can’t remember the last time someone held him. His muscles relax and he draws you closer, his cheek coming to rest against yours as he breathes in the scent of the ocean clinging to your skin.
“You’re not the only one that’s fucked up.” You whisper, your breath ghosting in his ear. “I killed my father when I was fifteen because he was creeping into my bed at night.”
His grip on you tightens as he buries his face into the curve of your throat.
“Don’t let her use that shit to control you. You’re not the person she’s trying to turn you into, you’re more than that.”
“How do you know?” He murmurs, his forehead coming to rest upon yours so he can look into your eyes. “How do you know I’m not the monster she wants me to be?”
“Because I see your sadness.” You tell him, your fingertips trailing over the copper stubble that mars his cheek. “You do it for the love and all you get back is this feeling in your chest, this emptiness that feels like it eats up your entire soul.”
“I don’t wanna be like this anymore.” He tells you, his voice breaking. “I don’t want to keep losing myself.”
“You don’t have to.” You tell him, your palm coming to rest upon his heart. He can feel it thudding underneath the pads of your fingers as he clasps it there, his connection, his way back to humanity. “The two of us, we’ll figure it out, I promise.”
Love Pope? Don’t miss any of his stories by joining the taglist here.
Before you join the taglist make sure to read the rules here as you otherwise you won’t be added.
Interested in supporting me? Join my Patreon for Bonus Content!
Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee
-Wallflower- @valhallavalkyrie9 - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
