ᯓ★ Art and Punishment ᯓ★

Frank's morning had begun as peachy as usual. Wake up ungodly early, go for a run, and listen to Lieberman yapping over beyond-done scrambled eggs. The conversation wasn't unpleasant, it's just that there wasn't any coffee. Frank hadn't bothered getting some from his place since he and Lieberman had intel to discuss. He figured that if that was the situation—and so early—then Lieberman would have coffee.

"You good?"

Frank grunted as he ate the last bite of eggs. "Yeah, yeah. Just can't believe we'd be doin' this without anythin' to drink. I mean, who just runs out of coffee?"

David raised a brown, his mouth set in an agape frown. "I'm feeding you, aren't I?"

With a shrug, Frank took his plate to the dishwasher. "Sure. I 'preciate it, but breakfast is usually enjoyed with a warm cup of joe." His tone was sly and jabbing. Frank wasn't entirely mad, per se. He just wanted a damn cup. If he cut out some stuff and was at least physically active, he should enjoy caffeine whenever he pleased. 

David scoffed. "Right, my bad." He leaned back in his seat, and looked away, gaining some composure. His words were just as toying. "Fine. There's a cafe a few blocks away if you want to go. Sarah goes all the time. They've got good muffins."

A moment of contemplation passed. Did Frank really want to walk out and go to some cafe? Coffee was at the forefront of his mind. The hipster allegations would be even harder to beat, though—especially if he ended up liking it... high risk, high reward. 

Frank pushed off the counter edge and uncrossed his arms. "How far is this place?"

[+]

"Hi, welcome in," called a barista. Frank wasn't sure which one, they were both scurrying around behind the counter, steaming, blending, pulling shots. 

The cafe was only a few blocks and was part of a suburban endeavor to make a communal shopping and gathering area. It was honestly nice. Second after the barista's greeting, Frank was immediately hit with the warm coffee aroma. The scent was chocolatey, slightly nutty, with a bright backing of flowers. The latter was aided by the amount of plants inside and shrubs outside. 

Overall the building was modest with a stucco exterior, a lot of tan and mocha brown. Between that and the plants, everything was natural and easy on the eyes. Edison bulbs glowed in wrought iron fixtures, miss-matched and hanging from the ceiling. There was a line of about five people and a cluster waiting at the other end of the counter for their drinks. Some people were sat at tables conversing together or working individually. 

It was a picturesque setting and put Frank at ease, for the most part. As he stepped in line and turned his focus to the menu, a mild concern arose: he had no idea what half of the shit up there was. For how busy it seemed to be, the line moved fast. Frank had Lieberman's order down, and he guessed he wanted just a black coffee. But was there anything else he could try? A tiramisu latte..?

"I can take the next order!"

Frank brought his head down to look in front of him and swallowed hard.

[+]

"How are you doing today?" you asked. 

The man in front of you did not completely register until he towered in place. With a deep breath, you mustered all the air you could because holy shit. You heard a customer walk in, you knew there were people in line, but no one like him had entered your field of vision. Hell, no one who looked like that had ever come in. 

"I'm good. You?"

"I'm alright, thank you for asking!" The line was rehearsed, a part of your register script. "What are we thinking about getting?" The next part was easy to get out, but a lump was rising in your throat. It had been warm behind bar, but now it became stifling. 

"Uh, a hazelnut latte. Hot. A twenty ounce."

"What kind of milk for that?" you forced yourself to look at him. Eye contact was hard but that was the least you could do to make any sort of 'move.' It wasn't a move really, either. But you could try, for sure. 

"Whole?"

"Of course."

"Anything else?" Like my number? You glanced at your coworker. They managed to catch your eye, their gaze flicking between you and the customer. They mouthed, "oh my god." You were just as surprised as they were but your expression had to stay reserved and customer-friendly. It was rare you were on register, but of course you were when that guy came in. 

"Yeah. Just a black coffee. Twenty ounce." 

You nodded, grateful he was competent enough to comprehend the sizes. It was easy to know who was ordering for someone and if they were familiar with coffee houses. This guy was definitely not that, but was clearly trying to order right. 

"I have a medium roast from Honduras, and a dark roast from Mexico. Do you have a preference?" If you taking his order was a litmus test, then this was going to be really indicative of whether or not he knew coffee. 

"Is the dark roast burnt?" He had a squinting looking to him in general, but it grew tighter with the question.

A more genuine small graced your lips. "Yeah, the beans are roasted longer. I'm not much of a dark roast person, but I like how smooth and rich that one is. I usually prefer milk and sweeteners, but this one I drink plain."

The man gave a small nod, considering. "Sure, I'll do that." He looked at you with less of a squint, now more observant. "That'll be it."

"Of course." If you were a basketball player, this is where you were gearing up to shoot. "And could I get a name for that order?"

"Pete."

You cataloged the name. It didn't suit him in the slightest. After he paid and even thanked you for the suggestion, he went to the other side of the bar to wait. 

Your coworker from before, Brydan, picked up the ticket to make the latte. "Bro, that guy is wild. Never in my life..."

"You're telling me, dude!" you whisper-yelled as you got his drip ready. After putting the sleeve, lid, and stopper on the cup, you moved to steam the milk for the latte. Over the espresso machine, you snuck a glance at him. He wasn't insanely tall. That didn't matter in comparison to the rest of him. The man was a tempest, less brooding and more observant, considerate. You were totally pulling a glittering profile out of your ass, but how could you not? His jaw was hard, lined with slight stubble. His hair was well-kept and clean, so were his clothes. If he was able to pay and tip 25%, then he had to have a job. These were all good things you wanted to look out for. It has become a pact between you and Brydan to not admire scrubs. There were a lot of people like that who came in. None were as subtle as 'Pete' was. Between his had-to-have-actually-worked-in-work-boots, loose dark wash jeans and a Carhart look-a-like, there was a nondescript way about him. If he was trying to blend in with the public, he still managed to stand out just because of his looks. 

"Do you want to give him the drinks?" Brydon asked despite the answer being obvious. 

"I want to say something, but I have no idea what," you sighed. 

"You'll figure it out," Brydon breathed, tapping 'Pete's ticket off of the monitor behind them. 

Sliding the drinks across the counter, you caught his eye before needing to call them out. 

"Here you go."

He picked up the drinks with a nod and took a sip of the coffee. There was a twitch of surprise of his head. His brows knotted and you worried it wasn't good. 

"It's just plain coffee?" he asked.

"Yeah. What do you think?" You were worried that it got brewed wrong, that there were grounds in it. Any of those could be very likely oversights. 

"I taste some chocolate and a bit of fruit. Like raisins. It's weird."

A smile graced your lips. "That's how it's supposed to taste! When the brew is done right and the beans are higher quality, you can really get the different flavors."

He took another sip and considered the factoid. "Don't get me wrong, I like this. I really like it. Thank you for the recommendation."

Your smiled depeened and your cheeks grew hot. "No problem. I love this part of the job."

He gave you a single nod of amendment. "You know what you're doin'. Have a good one."

"Thanks you too!"

With that, he made his way out of the cafe. When you turned around to Brydon, their arms with crossed with mild amusement plastered on their face. 

"I can't believe you didn't choke."

You held up your hands in exasperation. "Dude, shut up. That was the most mid conversation."

"But it was with a hot guy. A win is a win."

You leaned on the counter, taking a minute to gather some air. "Oh absolutely. It was a mid conversation with an outrageously hot guy that I'm never gonna see again."

And you thought that was going to be true. It had been nine days since you saw Pete last. Nine excruciating days. It wasn't rare to make suggestions about beans or drinks like that. Though, talking about the beans weren't as common. There were also attractive customers from time to time too. But no one looked like him. No one had been as surprised at the taste, and so accurate when describing the notes. It made the little barista in your heart sing. Finally, someone who just got it. 

You weren't expecting him to come in the next day or the day after. When three stretched to five, then a week, you were losing hope fast. Some regulars only came every other week—understandable given how expensive everything was. When day ten was on the horizon, you had almost completely lost hope. 

Finally, during one of your boring evening shifts, he came back. The sky had gotten dark faster than you expected. With half an hour left in your shift, you had begun to busy yourself with closing tasks. Dishes steadily got done, sweeping, wiping down tables. No one hardly ever came in during the last hour. On the off chance that people did, or some chose to stay late, the last hour was still fine for business. Due to the low foot traffic, though, you wore an earbud to fill the silence. Your favorite music overpowered the shop's jazz and acoustic covers as well as the door chime. 

Turing around from wiping down the back bar counter to see Pete at the register made you jump. Not because of him, but because of how in your own world you had been. Once you realized it was actually him, that's when a second shock passed through you. You pulled out your earbud and stepped up to the counter. Only a foot of marble and wood separated y'all. 

"Hi, sorry, I didn't know someone came in," you greeted.

"Slow night?" 

"Yeah, it's about average. Been awhile since I've seen you, though." The comment was a major shot in the dark, like a basketball player making a shot from the moon to earth.

"I meant to come back sooner, but some things got in the way. Cheaper coffee was easier some days." he lightly shrugged a shoulder. "Made me notice how much different yours is. I felt kind of guilty drinking it."

You made the shot. Holy shit. "That's one thing that good coffee will do to you. I've stopped going to a lot of places after learning the differences. I also only use certain beans at home because of it."

Frank glanced around the shop as the last customer inside packed up their things to leave. "Do you sell your own?"

"Yeah actually," you leaned forward to point at the display a few feet away, past the end of the rounded counter. Then deciding something else, you walked around to join him before the shelf. Your rule of never crossing the other side of the bar was broken. Nick Miller was right—you never had a good time on that side. But to help Pete out, you were sure the risk was worth it. 

After scanning the shelf, you pulled a small bag off it and showed it to Pete. "This one is what you had last time."

He gingerly took it from your hands, reading over its front. "Chocolate, raisins, hazelnut, hearty and smooth. I didn't really get the nuttiness, but I know everything else was there."

You hummed. "And we can grind them for whatever machine you use at home."

"For a coffee pot?"

"That, a pour over, espresso, whatever. Did you want a bag?"

Pete flipped it over and saw the $15 dollar price and didn't hesitate. "Sure. Do you have it on tap right now?"

You made a nefarious grin to your self when your back was turned, walking back around to the register. As soon as your face was within eyesight, you wiped it off just as quick. "For sure! What size?"

"Just a sixteen ounce. And would you mind grinding the beans for just a plain old coffee maker."

"Sure, no problem." You grabbed a twenty ounce paper cup and set it to the side. Then, typed the beans on the tablet, but left out the coffee. 

Pete pulled out his wallet, but his hand hesitated over the bills when he read the total. "The coffee isn't on there."

You mustered up an air of nonchalance. "It's on me."

"I'll pay for both," he insisted.

You waved a hand dismissively. "No, it's the last one I'm brewing tonight, and I didn't think you were actually going to get the beans."

Pete gave you a look of minor admonition, and pulled out a $20. "Keep it."

You returned his look and closed the drawer, setting a $5 underneath for yourself. "I appreciate that."

Pete made an indifferent shrug. "You're a good salesperson."

It made you grin as you poured is coffee and put a lid on it. "Yeah right. I just talk too much about this stuff."

Pete adjusted his stance. He never got comfortable, just more present. "This stuff is your job, course you know what you're doin'."

You tutted, about to interject. 

"I don't want to argue 'bout it."

"Thanks," you sighed, then turned on the grinder. It was a medium course, a perfect middle ground that should work for whatever set up he had or lack thereof. 

After turning it off and sealing the bag, you gave it back to Pete, who had been silently sipping the coffee. 

"'Preciate it," he said. 

"Of course."

"Have a good night. Be careful closin' up."

"You too. I will."

And with that, you were able to ride a no Pete high for another nine days, eighteen days. However many it took.

He bought beans, he listened to the explanations, wasn't too chatty or creepy at all. He was perfect regular material, perfect work crush material. You ate up the interaction as it replayed in your head while you finished up closing. It played again in the mid-morning when you rehashed the details to Brydon. Thankfully you didn't have to open, they did. And thankfully, you wouldn't have to go much longer without seeing Pete. 

Two days after you sold him beans, he returned in all of his work boots, jeans, and stoic glory. 

"HI," you said, casual. Probably the most casual greeting you've offered him so far. It felt more deserving, but you hoped it wouldn't be too lax. It is closer to the way you greet other regulars who know the bits, who are understanding of the fact you're a person behind a bar, not another machine.

"Hey," Pete replied. "The beans are good. I've really been enjoyin' them."

A gleam shone in your eyes and your heart warmed. "Really? I'm glad. It's good that they've worked out. How are you doing?"

"'M alright. Just workin'. What about you?"

"The same," you laughed. "It's hard to complain since I work here, but the hours, the repetition, some of the people... they wear you down like anything else can."

Pete nodded.

A small lull descended between the two of you. Or maybe it was in your head. Whichever it was, you weren't comfortable with letting it linger; weren't comfortable if it made Pete uncomfortable. The latter was also likely not the case given... everything about his demeanor and manner of speech. Better safe and professional than sorry and unemployed.

"Did you need a drink or something?" you hopefully wanted to shift away from some awkward topics that might arise.

Frank rolled out his neck ever so slightly. "Yeah, a large, hot, hazelnut latte with whole milk. To-go. That's all."

You nodded and charged for a smaller size and ignored his protests with a knowing smile.

"You go around not charging the right prices and this place'll go out of business."

"I hardly ever do it," you admitted offhandedly as you go through the motions of pulling a triple shot of espresso. You're an adult, why not get involved in some shameless flirting?

"You seem more principled." He looked to his left and right, eyes lingering off to the side. "So you either have pity on me."

"Or?" you prompted over the low whir of steaming milk in the pitcher between your hands.

"I don't know, what's the other option?"

"It's definitely not because I think you can't afford it. You're probably some wealthy restaurant owner with dubious gambling debts on your back," you joke.

"Right, right."

"Honestly, because you bought beans and talked about the machine you use, it seems like you have a roof over your head. And I know the drink is for someone else. So you've got things to do."

"Sleuthing, huh? Are you an undercover cop or somethin'?"

You chuckle as you pour the milk in with the syrup and espresso. After adding a lid and stopper to the cup, you slide it across the bar. Pete stays looking at you from over the top of the espresso machine.

"Hah, no. I don't think it'd pay better. I just keep an eye on people. this job can get boring. Baristas love customer drama anyway."

"Oh yeah?"

Emphatically, you nod. "One hundred percent yes. We talk about you too."

No retort or goading was given. Pete just awaited elaboration.

"About how quiet, stoic, weird you are. Good stuff."

Pete scoffed and grabbed the latte from the counter. "If you say so. You think I'm bein' quiet now?"

"No, and this is going in the logs: 'Pete opens up when bantering with me about himself.' Very important."

Pete gives you an inquisitive look but nothing that lets you in on what his feelings about the statement are. "Good to know: my favorite barista hates me."

Your arms cross in front of your chest and you survey him, miffed and amused. "I'm your favorite barista? I'm like, the only one you've talked to."

"As far as you know. Call it recency bias, then."

"Way to make someone feel loved," you quip

The words hung in the air.

"No one said you aren't cared for. I always tip even though you don't ring in orders right. Always getting the size wrong or forgetting to put in a drink."

"For someone getting discounts, you're sounding pretty ungrateful."

"I could say the something about you and your tips to spot the difference."

You shift on your feet, unsure how much longer you can keep this up. Pete had leaned closer against the counter—his shoulders and face had gotten a breaths closer. It was enough to make you panicky. What was he up to? Surely he meant something... but it was just flirting.

"Then we've reached a stalemate."

Pete eased a step backwards from the bar. "Maybe I need to just be your favorite costumer."

"You wish." Little did he know he was the new favorite as soon as he'd stepped in front of the register.

The heart palpitations he had continued to give you whether he was in the cafe or not had to be bad for your health. Once the conversation died down and Pete left, you went to the back to gather your bearings. What were you doing? Never had you and a customer ever gotten that close before. Sure, it was kind of a dream come true. It also wasn't as if you'd get fired for going on a date with him... if it ever got to that point. Business was doing well enough that someone else's money would replace what contributions he had made so far. But it wasn't as if you wanted it to come to that. What it would come to, though, that you were unsure of.

you take one look at them and your lips pull into a line, "really? you couldn't even call ahead?" you're already moving from your spot, making your way towards them. then you're tucking yourself into dex's other side, taking half his weight, "come on before you ruin my damn floors. i just had them cleaned, i'm sending you the bill."

from his left, murdock chuckles. "i wouldn't expect anything less."

dex is a bit delirious from blood loss, and lets their conversation pass him by. he is able to note that the woman helping him has to be an angel, your beauty ethereal in the awful fluorescent lighting. you lead him through a curtain, and into a back room that looks like a crudely formed emergency room.

"gotta get him on the bed," you mutter, nodding at the hospital bed in the center of the room. this seems to be a familiar process for his… enemy? friend? he isn't quite sure what terms him and the lawyer are on. he's trying to make amends, by taking out the task-force, and fisk— well he hasn't managed that second one yet but— surely he'll notice soon that dex is being good now.

the pair of you situate him on the bed, and then murdock takes a step back, arms crossed. "bullet to the side during a standoff with the avtf."

dex blinks slowly, half-lidded as the angel's figure swims in his vision. you hover over him frowning, "alright i have to get these clothes off you. can you help me or do i need to cut them open?"

"i can get 'em off," his voice is slurred and he's vaguely aware he feels almost embarrassed, something he hasn't felt since he was a child. he awkwardly begins to raise his arms and try to tug the sticky red stained fabric over his head. he grunts, feeling the pain sear through his side, then it gets caught over his head and he starts to yank harder and—

"stop that!" you hiss, your hands coming up to gently tug the shirt off the rest of the way. "you'll make things worse jerking your body like that." your eyes narrow as you reach down and touch the tips of your fingers to the flesh just outside the wound. then you glance back at murdock again, "is he one of your hero friends? you guys really need to be more careful."

you turn your attention back to the wound, blood still seeping out in rivulets. dex's head turns to look at murdock, so slowly, almost like he's stuck in molasses. he watches as the devil's lips form a grimace. "no, not exactly."

dex's eyes trail back to you, and you huff "okay, this should be pretty easy but i'm going to have to remove the bullet first and it won't feel good." you glance up at him, and he feels himself getting lost in your eyes. "hello? you still with us?"

he blinks again, "yeah. go ahead."

you nod and turn away, heading over to the countertop, opening a series of drawers to pull out whatever equipment you need. he's able to note that you've slipped on vinyl gloves, a surgical mask, and have a group of instruments laid out on a metal tray now. you double check your materials then carry the tray over to the bed, laying it against a mobile side table.

"grab him something to bite down on," you say without even looking at murdock. you're probing at the flesh again, eyes seemingly seeing straight through the puddle of blood that's flooding the wound. a moment later there's a rolled up hand towel being placed in his hands.

you hum, then look up again. "bite down, i'll be quick."

he does as he's told, taking the plush fabric between his teeth and applying pressure. then you're using some sort of metal instrument to keep the skin spread apart, his molars gnash down hard at the searing stretch of his skin. you spray some sort of clear liquid to dispel the blood a bit, then delve into the wound with some sort of clamps. he feels you probe around, and you find where the bullet is and grip it. you gently begin to pull and frowns when it doesn't give.

"shit," you mutter. "i'm going to have to cut it out."

dex doesn't say a word, towel still between his teeth.

you look up at him, eyes apologetic. "we don't have the luxury of time for me to give you sedation. this is going to suck, but it'll be better when i'm done." he hardly has time to prepare himself before he feels something sharp slicing around where the bullet is wedged inside him. his hands shoot out gripping the edges of the bed, knuckles turning white from the sheer force.

it doesn't last long. you go back in with the clamps and pull out the offending piece of metal and set it on your tray. "alright, hard part's done." your tools are resting on the tray now as well. he doesn't have the faintest idea of what comes next, perhaps you'll stitch him shut now?

what he doesn't expect is for you to place your palms directly over the wound, blood beginning to coat the bottoms of your gloved hands, swelling between the cracks of your fingers and making a mess. you close your eyes, your eyebrows knitting together in concentration, and then— your hands begin to glow a soft gold, and a feeling of warmth floods the area you're working on. he can feel the way the damage inside begins to repair itself, the way his skin begins to knit back together.

eventually you pull your hands away, and shed your bloodied gloves, tossing them in the trash. then you calmly stand and wash your hands off in the sink, before drying them and putting on a new set of gloves. on your way back you grab something to clean his skin with. it appears to just be a damp rag. you carefully wipe the area off, and dex cannot help but stare at the spot a gaping hole had been mere moments before. it's a soft pink now, like a freshly healed scar.

"should be good as new," you say before dropping the rag down with the instruments. "don't make a habit of doing it again yeah? i already see someone else enough as it is."

murdock's lips twitch up behind you.

"i'll try," dex can't help but grin. "thanks, doc."

you wave him off, nodding. "alright, get out so i can clean up." you then stand up and start clearing out everything you used. "and i really am sending you a damn bill, matt." you realize your slip up, and look between them. "shit—"

murdock waves her off, "it's fine, he found out who i am ages ago." his voice is dry, filled with barely hidden disdain.

dex can't help but keep watching you. "and what's your name? should know the name of the woman who saved my life."

he ignores the pointed look from the devil across the room.

"well on the streets they call me the night witch," you snort. "still don't know who came up with that."

"and what do your friends call you?"

you look at him, tilting your head, a small amused smile playing on your lips. "just y/n."

dex holds onto it, letting it sit in his chest. he rolls it around in his head a few times. "pretty," he says. "like you."

"alright," murdock's voice cuts through the air hard. "time to get you back to whatever hole you've been hiding in." then he's hauling dex off the hospital bed, and shoving him back towards the curtain. "thanks y/n, send the bill to the office."

dex feels his eye twitch at the sudden departure, but he has to remind himself he's still trying to atone in murdock's eyes. he lets the man lead him out onto the street, where they stop and look at each other. "thanks," he says. "for not leaving me for dead."

"yeah. well, foggy would still want me to—," he presses his lips together. "quit making a mess with fisk. got it? you're making this really difficult."

"i'm just trying to help—"

"don't." then, he turns, and he leaves. and dex stands there for a moment beneath the moonlight, he has no idea where the hell he is. he glances around, takes in the building they'd been in, committing it to memory. then he looks at the nearest street signs, and begins walking.

an idea already forming in his head, on how to be able to see the pretty doctor again.

── ・⸝⸝ ⟢ ⸝⸝・ ──

you make time on one of your days off to stop into the office, cleaning invoice in hand. the office is busy, bustling with life as it always is, even after the tragedy of foggy's passing over two years ago. matt had long since gained a new partner in none other than kirsten mcduffie, who you quite liked. she was able to keep up with him and put him in his place when need be.

"hey!" the woman herself calls out from where she's standing beside an intern, you watch as she murmurs something to the college student and they scurry off. she notices the paper in your hand, "you don't need legal help do you?"

that makes you laugh, "god no. but, i do need matt's money, he owes me for… a favor i did." kirsten still is unaware of matt's other half, so you have to phrase things carefully. "is he in the office?"

kirsten raises her eyebrows and nods, "yeah, he's over in the office."

you glance over her shoulder, and see the man himself sitting at his desk in the clear glass room, his hands skimming across the ridges of his case files. "perfect, thanks kirsten." you squeeze her arm and brush past her. you know damn well matt heard you the moment you got here, but he can't exactly show that in front of all his coworkers.

he glances up when you open the door and slip in, shutting it behind you. "cleaning bill?"

you hum, dropping into the chair across from him. "yep, you owe me two fifty."

matt sighs, "leave it on my desk and i'll get it paid."

being here in front of him now, you shift in your seat. you'd been curious about the mystery man he dragged into your place bleeding everywhere. neither of them had ever mentioned his name or what exactly he does. matt notices your antsiness immediately and calls you on it.

"you want to ask me something," he says. "what is it?"

"the man from the other night… who is he?"

matt goes still, in that way that shows he feels like keeping the information private is much safer for your wellbeing. you hate when he does that. "just an acquaintance."

"yeah, okay." you roll your eyes on instinct, even though he can't see you. "he's not a hero yet he got shot when fighting the avtf, and you brought him to me. i think i deserve to know who i'm treating don't i?"

he knows you've got him there. while you don't exactly care who you're treating, whether they're hero, criminal, vigilante— you like to at least know who the person is.

"benjamin poindexter."

that takes a moment to register. "what? you had me save the life of foggy's murderer? matt what the hell—"

you watch as he leans back in his chair, it's obvious he's warring with himself internally as he rakes a hand through his hair. "it's complicated."

"well, uncomplicate it."

he gives you a look, "you're pretty insufferable. have i ever told you that?"

you shrug, "yeah, doesn't really mean much to me though."

matt reaches down to pull his glasses up just enough for him to gently massage the bridge of his nose, before setting them back in place. "vanessa fisk got him out of the facility he'd been in and forced him to do the hit. he… has shown signs of remorse, and it's why he's been trying to dismantle the avtf and kill the fisks."

"so… you're friends? because he feels remorse for killing foggy?"

"no, we're not friends." his voice is flat. "but i don't want him to die and if he can… do good, that's better than having to be against him."

you furrow your eyebrows, "and you think he's capable of doing good?"

"he's trying to model it. in his own very misguided way, but… yeah. maybe."

silence stretches between the two of you as the words settle. "huh." then you look at him, fully. "just give me a call ahead of time when you intend to bring in someone bleeding out yeah? there's a backdoor for a reason."

matt nods, "okay, i'll pull my phone out as we're being pursued and they're bleeding out."

you push to your feet and glare at him, "i want you to know, i am giving you the dirtiest look i can."

"yeah. i can tell," his lips quirk up. "go sleep, i know it's your day off. you need to let yourself rest too you know."

"yeah yeah, whatever."

you toss a hand in the air as a wave goodbye, knowing he can sense it with that odd sonar vision of his. he's right though, you really do need to get some sleep. between your twelve hour shifts and treating people at night with your powers, you're burnt. as you leave the office building you hum to yourself, entirely unaware that across the street, a pair of hazel eyes are tracking your every move.

── ・⸝⸝ ⟢ ⸝⸝・ ──

a few weeks after you'd visited matt's office you're sitting downstairs at the front desk, usually you sit down here until around midnight. after that you retire upstairs to your apartment, though the place isn't the nicest, it was inherited from your old crotchety grandmother and it helped to not worry about rent during your time in college. now it also doubles as your 'night witch' clinic, the front appearing to be some sort of apothecary that's never actually open.

it's a quarter to midnight when the front door opens, your eyes lift from the book you'd been reading to see none other than benjamin poindexter standing in your doorway clutching his left bicep. you can see the blood seeping between his fingers from here and you're immediately dropping the book face down on the desk as you spring to your feet. this has to be at least the seventh time you've seen him since matt brought him in.

"do not get blood on my floors, they were just cleaned again."

he grins, and it's got this certain manic edge to it that makes your hair stand on end. "i'll do my best, sweetheart."

you huff, and part the curtain. "go sit down on the chair beside the counter," you tell him. he obeys without complaint and steps into the back, going right to the indicated spot. at least he has that going for him, despite the whole psychopathic murderer thing. "what happened?"

"got into a fight." that's all he offers you, and you roll your eyes before you reign yourself in.

it's like a switch as you slip into what foggy used to refer to as your 'super serious doctor mode.' he always loved it because you'd reprimand matt like he was a child. you swallow the lump in your throat and get to washing your hands and pulling on your gloves. when you turn to face bullseye, he's already watching you with this intense stare, as if you're the only thing in the room. "i need you to take the jacket off, and then push the sleeve up so i can get a proper look."

once again, he does as told without a single word. when his bicep is on display for you, you take it gently in your hands and tilt it to get a good look at the wound. it's not a bullet wound. no, this is definitely some sort of stab wound. "this is pretty deep," you say. "what hit you?"

"sword."

you pause, your hands stilling against the muscle of his bicep. "excuse me?"

he shrugs his unharmed shoulder, "some thug with a sword was cornering a shopkeeper in an alleyway."

"alright…" you nod as if that makes complete sense. but you're reminded this is new york and once upon a time an alien wormhole opened up in the sky and destroyed half the city. stranger things have happened. "and the sword wielder, what did you do with him?"

"dispatched."

you feel your heart begin to race. "you killed him."

"…yes." he looks up at you then, furrowing his eyebrows like he's genuinely confused. "i did the right thing, he was going to kill the shopkeeper."

"that isn't—," you inhale through your nose trying to steady yourself. "you can't just kill someone for attempting to kill someone else. you should've restrained him and called the police."

he frowns, "he'd just do it again though."

your eyes flicker to the ceiling for just a moment as if you're begging the higher powers for strength. "i suppose you're not entirely wrong but… murder isn't a solution. it should always be a last resort."

bullseye goes quiet after that, and you decide to finish looking his arm over. normally something this deep would need staples, but you're not normal so you place your palms over the wound, the blood a trickle compared to the bullet wound he had weeks ago. your hands begin to glow hazy and warm again as they work to knit the muscle and skin back together.

when you finish you take in your handiwork and nod. "wash off in the sink," you tell him as you discard the gloves and move to wash your hands first. when you finish he appears at your side to do as you ordered, and you take a few steps back and try to recollect yourself.

you hear the water shut off and the sound of him pulling paper towels from the dispenser. when he tosses them in the trash you turn back to him, "you're good to go, bullseye. please do try to wait at least a week before you injure yourself again."

"dex," he says to you.

"huh?" you tilt your head, slightly confused.

"that's the name i was given on the streets," he says, mirroring your previous statement from when you'd met. "my friends call me dex."

you purse your lips, "i wouldn't say we're friends."

"you're friends with the lawyer."

"well yeah matt and i have known each other forever and—," you cut yourself off and look off into the distance, pointedly away from the hazel eyes boring into you.

he seems to realize then, "you were close to the other one too."

you sharply turn to look at him, jaw clenching as you wrap your arms protectively around yourself. "his name was foggy nelson, not 'the other one'."

bullseye absorbs this. "he… seemed good."

your nose begins to burn and you grit your teeth trying to will away the tears beginning to brim your eyes. "yes, he was good. very good, the best of us actually." your voice is tight as you speak, and you watch as several different things flicker across his face.

"i'm sorry," his voice is odd as he says it, almost flat. like he doesn't know the proper tone for an apology. "i'm trying to make things right."

you reach up and scrub at your face tiredly, an exhausted wet laugh bubbling up from your throat. "yeah i know, matt told me. you're on some misguided crusade to destroy the avtf and kill the fisks." when you drop your hand back down you look directly into his eyes, "none of that is going to bring him back, bullseye. if you want to truly atone? do some good, real good, not whatever the hell it is that you've been doing."

his eyebrows pinch and his nose wrinkles as he looks to be deep in thought. "how? i don't know how to do that. what i'm doing is good, it's helping—"

"you're asking me how to be good? that's not something you can just study and learn." you tell him, "it needs to come from inside of you, you need to want it."

"okay."

"okay?"

he nods slowly, "i'll try that."

you pause for a second. "…alright."

the moment draws out, stretching for what feels like an eternity. then you shake your head, "okay get out of here i need some sleep. try to stop getting hurt." he leaves after that without much resistance, and he thanks you, just as he did last time.

when you're alone, you lean against the front desk, letting your head drop to the surface. "dammit, it's happening again foggy. i'm so sorry that it's him," you frown. "but i know you believed in frank so maybe… maybe there's hope for him too."

── ・⸝⸝ ⟢ ⸝⸝・ ──

working at one of the most demanding emergency rooms in new york city certainly was not for the faint of heart. your days were often grueling and disheartening, but you always managed to make it through them. it's just a regular tuesday when it happens, you're standing at the nurses station, eyes skimming over a chart when you begin to hear muffled sounds from just outside the heavy metal doors, in the lobby.

something in your gut shifts, and you feel all the hair on your body stand on end. this isn't the typical noise of a patient getting rowdy or a drug seeker wandering in off the streets. your stance shifts instinctively and you carefully set the clipboard on the desk, your hand inching beneath the hem of your scrubs. you were no ninja like matt, but he'd certainly made sure you knew how to defend yourself should you ever need to, and well— frank had rounded out the course, leading to the weapon you always keep firmly strapped to your waist now.

the doors blow open, and smoke billows through like a hurricane. you narrow your eyes trying to make out the shapes of whoever is inside the smoke. you're crouching down now, hidden behind the desk, and you've drawn your pistol and racked it.

adrenaline begins to course through your body and you really wish you had time to contact matt or even frank but you know that right now? there's none. right now you've got to stand between your patients and whoever is attacking the hospital. you suck in a breath, and rise slightly from your crouch, making out multiple figures in tactical gear. why the hell are men like that coming into your damn emergency room?

your finger hovers over the trigger, you've lined up your shot on the one closest to you.

bang.

the sound rings in your ears and you wince, but you can't let that stop you. he drops to the ground, red blooming in the center of his chest.

"you never aim at something you aren't willing to destroy, princess." frank's voice rings in your head. "and none of that shooting to injure bullshit. some crazy motherfuckers can walk that off, like me. shoot to kill."

your hands are shaking as you tighten your grip on your pistol and drop back down. from what you can tell there's at least seven men left. and you'd just taken out the eighth. you glance behind you to see multiple other nurses and the current doctor on the floor, crouched beneath the countertops and desks in the station. internally you do a head count, you know you're missing at least two.

cursing internally you slowly move from your position and begin to wind around the nurses station. the men are looking around trying to find you but the smoke is thick. they must've used an explosion as a distraction so they could get in here without much resistance. as you get into position and aim at another of the men, you feel the barrel of a gun press to the back of your head.

you go very, very still, a cold sense of dread washing over you. shit, you didn't realize there was one on this side of the room. "drop your weapon," the man demands, pressing the muzzle harder. you slowly raise one hand, and use the other to carefully set the pistol down. fuck, what the hell are you supposed to do now— "shame to waste a pretty face like yours," the moment the words leave his mouth your stomach sinks. you hear the sound of him drawing the trigger back, but right before it can click, there's the sound of something slicing through the air overhead.

then the man is careening backwards, falling straight onto the tile floor. your eyes widen and you snatch your handgun, turning to see a sleek black throwing knife sticking out of the center of his forehead. then there's the sound of more knives sailing through the air and gunfire spraying in arcs across the walls and ceiling, then the sounds of more bodies dropping.

you get to your feet quickly and lean down to the man who'd been about to shoot you, shove your pistol back in your holster and pick up his rifle. you test the weight of it in your hands, give it a quick glance over, before you begin to sweep the room.

standing across the hallway from you, a man in a black and purple tactical suit stares back at you. he has a hooded mask that covers his face except for his eyes. recognition flickers in you, you've seen those eyes before but you're not quite sure where. you raise the rifle, aiming it at his chest, "who the hell are you?" you demand, shifting your feet into a firmer stance.

he tilts his head, and something in his eyes looks faintly amused. then he reaches up, and you realize he's got some sort of grappling hook, and he disappears into an open ceiling tile. you blink, staring at where he'd just been. with a shaky breath you begin to stalk through the department, and thankfully everyone seems unharmed, only bodies left of the attackers. the sounds of sirens begin to fill the air, then the police arrive and begin taking control of the scene.

you're forced to give a statement, especially considering you shot one of the men. they take you down to the station and you have to wait in an uncomfortable chair for your turn to be questioned. you can't get the amused look of your savior out of your head, the eyes were so familiar. two hours later they call you back, the questions go on for a while but in the end they thankfully let you go, everything deemed self defense.

by the time you make it back home you're trudging through the doorway like a zombie. you rub your eyes and yawn, before letting yourself drop into the seat at the front desk. that's when you notice the bundle of flowers in the center, along with your favorite takeout. you stare for a moment, before slowly reaching your hand out to touch the container— it's still warm. as you inspect it, noting that it's your regular order— you see a napkin peeking out from beneath it.

a singular bullseye is drawn in the center.

your mind flashes back to the masked man who'd taken out the assailants— and you put the puzzle pieces together and think to yourself — you've had the owner of those eyes in your treatment room twice.

a sudden realization crashes into you— you've somehow acquired a morally questionable… vigilante? mercenary? escaped convict? you aren't even sure what exactly he is. but you do know him taking this… interest in you probably isn't… good.

── ・⸝⸝ ⟢ ⸝⸝・ ──

matt had already checked on you after everything that happened, he'd called the night of, visited you the next day, and taken you out for brunch with karen. he was usually sensible, so he didn't berate you for holding your own, though he did inquire a bit about the person who'd saved you— but you could tell he was doing his best to keep you from connecting the dots about his visitor from several weeks ago.

what he doesn't know is that you've seen bullseye multiple times now.

you don't bring this up though because you'd rather not sit and listen to matt reprimand you about your choice to help less than savory folks. in your eyes, it was your duty to help whoever you could regardless of their status as criminal or not. that is a conversation the two of you seem to have over and over, and well you're just not in the mood.

now unlike matt who uses a phone to arrange meetings like a normal person— frank castle shows up at your job after you finish your shift, by sitting in the passenger seat of the car you definitely locked earlier that morning. you noticed him immediately, he wasn't exactly trying to hide. though he is dressed down in civilian clothing with a baseball cap tipped over his face a bit.

"and to what do i owe the pleasure, mr. castle?"

he rolls his eyes, "don't bullshit, i'm seeing how you're holdin' up after that shit tuesday."

you hum, settling into your seat, digging into your bag for your car keys. you slot them into the ignition and let your engine rumble to life. "i'm fine, frank."

"mhm," he says it in that tone of his that you hate. it's mocking, almost like he's calling you a liar without any real words. "sure, we can go with that."

"whatever," you mutter. then you turn and look at him, "am i taking your broke ass to eat or what?"

he chuffs a laugh at that, "i could use something decent, been eatin' fuckin' cold ravioli all week."

frank is technically still a wanted vigilante, and he doesn't quite care to change that fact. so he lives off of whatever shit he can steal, which is usually canned food, because he refuses to just come over and let you cook for him like a normal person. sometimes though, he'll take you up on your offer to go get food, usually you only go to diners towards the north side of the city where people look the other way and don't ask too many questions.

the drive there is quiet, frank filling it every so often with passing comments about different things he gets up to when he isn't on a bender taking out criminals left and right. apparently he's adopted a cat with one eye, he said it wouldn't shut the fuck up at his window, and now they share his canned ravioli. you do tell him that a cat needs y'know… cat food. to which he states the cat is a prick and won't eat it, he's gotten it multiple kinds. you don't ask how he acquired multiple kinds of cat food.

you park several blocks away from the diner and do a scan to make sure nothing valuable is visible. as you round the car and step onto the sidewalk beside frank you shove your hands into the pockets of your coat. the two of you walk down the familiar streets, he listens to you as you ramble about how you're trying to perfect a new cinnamon roll recipe. he's always liked that you could give a fuck less that he's the punisher, you still talk about the softer things in life with him. something he lacks, and while he won't ever admit it, he tends to absorb those things from you, karen, and even matt.

you're about four blocks from the car when he nudges your side subtly. "you notice that you've got a ghost trailing you?"

you have to consciously make an effort not to stop walking. "excuse me?"

frank doesn't turn or look around, he keeps his eyes straight ahead. "he's been following us since we got out of the car, think he may have been after us since the hospital." he glances at you sideways, "who exactly was it that took out those assholes on tuesday?"

you swallow. "i uh, i think it was bullseye."

"and you're aware he's following you around?"

"well no— but i guess there's been… a few signs?"

frank exhales like you're exhausting him. "what the hell does that mean?"

you laugh nervously, drawing your shoulders in a bit. "when i got home after being questioned at the station my favorite takeout was on the desk, still hot. with some flowers and uhm—," you chance a look at frank who's looking at you like you're a fucking idiot. "a little napkin with a bullseye on it."

"you've got to be fucking kidding me," he mutters, reaching up to scrub a hand over his face. "you somehow acquired a fucking psychotic escaped prisoner, like a stray cat."

"i… guess?"

"and this doesn't ring any warning bells?"

"well—"

he cuts you off, "does red know?"

you go silent, pursing your lips and purposely look away.

"he doesn't." frank's voice is flat, and you refuse to look at him. "you know that son of a bitch is the one who killed ol' foggy right?"

that makes you stop walking. you turn and look fully at frank, your face contorting slightly. "yeah, i know he fucking killed him. it's been weighing on me nonstop that i've saved his life multiple times now—," you rake a hand through your hair and close your eyes a bit trying to center yourself. "but you know as well as i do that foggy wouldn't want me to leave someone to die, not even someone like him."

frank is silent, he scrutinizes your face. "you're sympathizing with him."

you crack your eyes open just a bit, glaring. "i'm not sympathizing, i just think in his own misguided and fucked up way he's trying to atone. he didn't want to kill foggy—"

"he could've walked away."

"do you know the fisks?" you laugh, incredulous. "vanessa would've put him in the dirt the moment he disobeyed." then you sigh, and you look at frank, really look at him, and loosen your defensive walls. "he's lost, frank. you know what that's like."

frank's eyes do something, and you know even if he won't say it out loud, that yeah. he knows exactly what that's like. "if he tries any shit, you tell me."

your lips soften into a smile and you pat frank's shoulder. "what a lucky girl i am, the big bad punisher and the evil daredevil as my very own bodyguards."

"yeah yeah, don't go braggin' about that shit."

you laugh, and then you turn back down the sidewalk and resume your walk to the diner. frank falls back into step with you, and you feel a bit lighter, having talked to someone about it. and out of the corner of your eye, you catch a flash of purple and black on a rooftop across the street. you aren't quite sure if you're terrified, flattered, or a strange mix of both. but that's a problem for later, for now you need a nice greasy burger and some fries.

── ・⸝⸝ ⟢ ⸝⸝・ ──

over the next few weeks you continue to receive little gifts on the front desk of the shop. they range from a pretty antique teacup you'd looked at a few days prior, to your favorite snacks, and at one point even a pretty golden bracelet with little amethysts encrusted in it that you'd tried on at market but decided you couldn't justify the price of. you've noticed that he likes to leave little notes with them too, short and simple—usually never relating to the gifts themselves.

and now you'd even catch glimpses of purple and black on rooftops or around street corners— sometimes you would swear you saw him in civilian clothes but he'd always blend into the crowd before you could look twice. despite all of that he'd yet to show himself in the clinic again, ever since you'd told him to stop getting hurt.

you aren't quite sure what to do with the situation. it feels as if you're being courted in some bizarre way, but who knows, maybe that's not how it is and he's just… being kind? you aren't sure.

it's your night off when the front door opens, and you glance up and he's standing in the doorway. immediately your eyes do a sweep, and you notice he's leaning heavily against the doorway, one of his hands clutching his stomach. your eyes widen when you see the blood dripping to the floor, and your gaze quickly snaps back to his face where you can see bruises beginning to form and a trickle of blood at the corner of his lips.

"oh my god—," you're on your feet immediately and crossing the small distance. "what the hell happened?" you slide beneath the side he's not bearing weight on, and begin to help him towards the back room.

he coughs, then winces. "fisk."

your eyes widen a bit. "he did this to you?"

the curtain swishes as you walk through it, and you carefully guide him to the hospital bed. that's when you realize his left leg looks wrong.

"caught me when i was trying to take him out," he coughs again and a spray of blood permeates the air. "can you fix me up, doc?" even bleeding out and injured his eyes are bright and he's got that smirk on his lips.

you sigh in exasperation, "this isn't a joke, bullseye."

"dex."

"i'm not—"

"you like the gifts right? i think you can call me dex."

you pinch the bridge of your nose. "fine, dex. we need to get you out of these clothes, but judging by your injuries… i'm going to need to cut them open."

he nods, gesturing at himself. "whatever you need, you're the doctor."

"i'm a nurse. get it right," you do a quick inventory in your head before rushing to the counter to wash your hands and slip on gloves. you grab your medical shears you keep for instances like this and briskly walk back over to him. "fuck," you realize these are not strong enough for whatever the hell he's wearing. you frantically look around the room, and then come to the realization that you don't have anything strong enough.

"okay… i don't have anything that can cut these open—"

he shifts slightly, reaching into his pocket, and pulls out one of the same blades he'd used to take down the hospital assailants. "here."

you stare at it for a moment, before your brain catches up and you take it from his hands and quickly drag it down the center of his armored shirt. the fabric peels apart seamlessly, and you gasp at the gaping wound just below his ribcage. "what did he do to you?"

"threw a piece of rebar at me."

you feel sick for a moment. then you pull yourself together and hover your hands over the spot. it takes longer than most wounds do, it's deep, and you can tell he has some internal damage from it. you begin to feel a faint throbbing in your head as you continue to work. eventually the wound closes, and you breathe a sigh of relief.

now you focus on his left leg, cutting that side of his pants open to get a better look. it's mangled and twisted in such a way you can't quite comprehend how the hell he could walk at all. this takes a significant amount of energy from you as well, but you force yourself to push through despite the ache in your head growing sharper.

by the time it's set back into place you exhale shakily. "where else?"

he looks at you with his eyebrows pinched. "are you okay?"

you ignore him. "let me see your face." your lips are beginning to feel dried out, you run your tongue over them trying to regain any hint of moisture. you bring your hands to his jawline on either side, tilting his head around. then you let your energy seep into him, fading the bruises that had begun to form.

your stomach begins to clench, and you can feel sweat starting to collect along your hairline. "you have some internal damage from that hit i think," you tell him, your voice slightly hoarse. "i'm going to work on that now."

he watches you with close attention as you place both palms over his abdomen again, willing your energy to penetrate deeper into his system. you don't spare him a look, focused only on your current work. the ache is now a sharp stabbing like an icepick, and you feel your skin growing clammy. but you can feel the bleed inside starting to repair as you work, so you can't stop yet.

you blink slowly, your vision starting to swim. sweat drips down your temple now, collecting along your cheekbone, accentuating the flush of your cheeks. black spots begin to dot your vision but you shake your head trying to clear them.

"hey," dex says, looking concerned. "i think you need to stop."

"not yet," your voice comes out in a whisper as you pour the rest of your energy into him. "there. it's done—," the world begins to spin, and you're blinking trying to regain your sight, but then you feel yourself sway to the side, weightless, and everything goes black.

── ・⸝⸝ ⟢ ⸝⸝・ ──

dex had absolutely no idea what the hell to do. you'd been healing him and he started noticing the warning signs that something was wrong. he tried to get you to stop but you're so damn stubborn and now here you are, a sweaty pale mess passed out in his arms.

freshly healed, he shifts and manages to lay you down on the bed where he'd been right before you began falling. he'd managed to catch you in the nick of time. now he stares down at you trying to figure out what he's supposed to do. he can't exactly call you an ambulance because he's pretty sure this side hustle of yours isn't exactly legal.

then he realizes he can call the lawyer or the marine. he weighs the options on which one he should get a hold of, and he decides that while the punisher wields guns, he's probably less likely to kill him than the lawyer. so he finds your cellphone out front on the counter, entering the passcode he's seen you use before, and finds the contact he needs.

the phone call is quick and frank hangs up within thirty seconds. it doesn't take long for him to arrive looking thoroughly pissed off. "what the hell happened to her?" he demands, coming up beside the bed to get a good look at you. "did she overextend?"

dex stares at the other man and nods his head once. "i had a chest wound and my leg was broken. she mentioned something about internal bleeding too."

frank looks at him like he's an idiot. "and you didn't notice her starting to get to her limit?"

"she refused to stop."

the other man scoffs, and it comes out as a bitter laugh. "of course she did." then he shakes his head. "she's going to be fine, but she's going to be down for a few days. look, i can't be here the entire time so i'll need to call red—"

"i can take care of her."

"you?" frank asks. "you expect me to leave her vulnerable with a psychopathic criminal who's on the run?"

"you just described yourself and yet she'd trust you to help."

frank stares at him flatly. "i see why red fuckin' hates you." then he sighs. "fine. i'm only doing this because of your weird… routine the two of you have developed. she hasn't complained to me about it and if you really wanted to hurt her you would have by now."

dex frowns. "i would never hurt her."

"yeah, you better keep your word or i'll make whatever that fat bald prick did to you look like you went to sunday school." then he glances off to the side of the room where another door is. "stairs are behind that door, her place is upstairs. sometimes she's out of it for two days, if she goes longer than that find me or red. got it?"

"got it."

frank pauses. "she'll need to rehydrate and get in some protein. and for the love of god do not let her out of the damn house until she's stable. that means her ass ain't going into work."

"i'll call in sick for her."

"…i'm not even going to ask." frank says, seemingly to himself. "you got it from here?"

dex nods. "yeah."

frank mutters something under his breath, then looks back down at you and lightly presses his hand to your hair before he walks back towards the front. the door clicks shut, leaving just the two of you again.

he finds himself a bit nervous at the prospect of being left alone with you, of taking care of you. maybe this will give him the opportunity to show you that he can, and maybe he won't have to get injured to come see you anymore. he did his best to listen… because you'd asked him to stop getting hurt. you're too good for the world. he wants to preserve that.

a few moments pass before he tucks your phone into his only working pocket. then he slides his arms beneath your shoulders and knees, lifting you gently into his arms. he wasn't about to admit to frank that he already knew the layout of your space, but he's glad he does, it makes it easier to get you situated upstairs.

he watches you for a moment in your bed, before he leaves to grab himself new clothes and enough supplies to stay here for a few days. on his way back he even stops at the corner store to stock up on your favorite snacks and candies. he'd still make you hydrate and eat right, but… you deserve a treat.

when he returns you're exactly where he left you, so he settles into the armchair you have near your bedroom window, tilting his head back and letting his eyes fall shut.

── ・⸝⸝ ⟢ ⸝⸝・ ──

you wake up in the familiar softness of your bed, sunlight spilling over your skin. for a moment you lay there, feeling drained, before your eyes slowly open. that's when everything comes flooding back to you. the last thing you remember is healing dex and passing out downstairs, so how are you in bed?

"oh, you're awake."

immediately your eyes snap towards the window where dex sits in the armchair, he's wearing plain clothing, and you hate that the white t-shirt and gray sweatpants he has on look good. "what? did you—," you then realize that you're not in the clothes you'd been in, you're in soft pajamas.

he notices you clock this and his eyes widen a bit. "that wasn't me."

you stare at him.

so he continues, "the blonde woman, she came by the next morning and got you into those. she also braided your hair, to keep the tangles to a minimum she said."

oh, he must mean karen. you feel yourself relax a bit.

"why are you here?" you don't mean for it to come off as rude as it does.

if he's offended he definitely doesn't show it. "your friend frank said he couldn't. so he asked me to, he gave me details on what to do, that you need to rehydrate and eat protein… no work. don't worry i already took care of that," you vaguely wonder what the hell that means. "he said to keep you here until you're actually better."

fucking frank.

and what a hypocritical son of a bitch, warning you about dex and then leaving you with him? you're going to punch him in his throat later.

"are you hungry?"

you look back at dex, he looks almost sheepish sitting there in your armchair, it looks tiny in comparison to him. "uhm, sure."

he nods. "be right back."

you watch as he retreats and you can't help but admire the way his back ripples, and you curse internally. what is up with you and checking him out? he's a maniac— but you have to admit, you find him almost… endearing in a weird way.

time doesn't seem to exist as you drift back to sleep, not fully, but that soft awareness where the background noise lulls you just enough for your mind to dim. eventually you hear footsteps and the door open again, dex comes back with a tray in hand and carefully sets it beside you on the bed.

you stare at it. "you made me steak and potatoes, how did you even have the time—"

"i started it earlier, had a feeling you'd wake up this afternoon." he shrugs a shoulder. "water's on the nightstand."

the day passes by lazily, and you can't help but wonder what led you to this point. to be taken care of by a man that for all intents and purposes should still be behind bars at rikers. yet here he is, taking care of you, having taken some sort of vested interest in you for months now.

by the second day you've gotten a bit more comfortable, and on the third— you're willingly conversing with him as if he's just another person in your circle. you're sure if matt were aware of this, he'd have an aneurysm. karen most likely kept this bit of information to herself, knowing you needed to be fully recovered before dealing with the wrath of matthew murdock.

you're lying in bed, sitting against your headboard, a book in your hands. dex is in the armchair, he's also reading something you can't quite make out. eventually he sets it down on the small end table beside him and looks over at you. "can i ask you something?"

you hum, eyes trailing over to him as you set your book face down on your lap. "what?"

dex shifts awkwardly. "when you're better and not… forced to deal with me taking care of you," he furrows his eyebrows. "can i take you on a real date?"

a real date.

the words settle and sit there for a moment in the silent evening light. you suppose you should've anticipated this. he'd had this look ever since matt brought him into your damn clinic, and he'd gotten hurt on purpose to see you over and over. after you requested he stop getting injured, he did— but he began to… pursue you, in his own weird, mildly extremely concerning way.

you aren't sure what's crazier, him asking you on a date or…

"yeah, okay. why not?"

the fact that you're agreeing to one.

AUTHORS NOTE: hi guys, not sure exactly what this is but it was fun and silly, hope you enjoy !!! [ahem, im currently working on a long-fic. but... struggling bc it was meant to be an oc fic,, but I do want to share it with you guys... hm.] [p.s it's wolverines!daughter x dex ... hehe. he thinks she's a cute sweet waitress who needs protection. she is not. <33]