Skin off my Bones (blood from my veins)
A Benjamin Poindexter x (F) Reader story.
Summary:
You never thought you'd see him again and you never wanted to, yet here he was in your kitchen begging for your help.
Warnings:
Toxic relationship, post break up, angst, hurt/comfort, swearing, blood and injury
Word count: 3.5k
Title from Vampire at the Beach by Luvcat
Waking up to the sound of shuffling coming from the living room of your apartment was not how you wanted to rise, especially on your only day off after working a double at Metro General Hospital. Twelve hour shifts with barely a minute to sit and breathe tends to take a toll on the human body, so hearing what could be an intruder in your home sounds like a minor inconvenience.Â
Living alone in New York does come with a price and that price is a home invasion. Just what you need.Â
As stiffly and quietly as you can, you roll over to check the time on your blinking alarm clock that sits on your wooden bedside table.Â
2:30 A.M. blinks in neon green.Â
Reaching for your phone that lays beside the clock, attached to its charger, you notice that it hadnât been charging at all since going to bed three hours prior. The cold chill of sweat settles over your skin when the realization hits you that you donât have another form of contact to reach the police when the dark screen fails to light up after multiple muted taps.
Dread fills your body when a muffled thud sounds from the kitchen.Â
Damn open floor concepts, you think to yourself. But what can you get for cheap rent in New York? A shoebox. As slowly and soundly as you can, you slip from your bed and reach into the drawer of your bedside table where your pistol lays, intended for times like this.Â
Again, living alone in New York has its price, but you always come prepared. Making sure the pistol is loaded, you place your thumb on the hammer and slowly pull it down to cock it. With one hand holding the pistol away from your body, you use your other to open your bedroom door as smooth and hushed as possible. The worst thing you could do is alert the intruder this soon.Â
Okay, okay okay. You can do this, you think to yourself as you force yourself to slowly leave the haven that is your bedroom.Â
Overlapping your hands on the frame of your gun, you slowly bring it in front of you. In the dark, it takes your eyes a second to adjust but this is your home and you have it memorized, your intruder doesnât. With that reassurance in mind, you tiptoe across the wooden floor of your hallway, trying to even your breaths and steady your racing heartbeat. You cannot pass out with a stranger in your home. Breathing in through your nose and exhaling quietly through your mouth, you make it to the end of the hallway where your living room lies with your kitchen behind the couch, and next to it is your front door which remains firmly shut.Â
A chill that isnât induced by fear crawls up your arms when you slowly turn your head to face the window, curtains swaying with the humid night breeze. Only one person knows that a certain window in the whole apartment doesnât lock properly.Â
How is he here? He swore he would never find you again, not after everything he put you through.
The sound of hushed âshit shit shitâs,â pulls you from your racing mind and a new feeling rushes through you which causes you to tighten your grip on the frame of your gun.
Anger.Â
Your strides become more confident but still smooth, you donât want to give yourself away too quickly. Although you are still frightened and shaking with adrenaline, you know just how to handle him.
Or so you thought.
Rounding the corner of the kitchen counter, you see him in all his messy glory. Disheveled blonde hair, ripped pants and shirt matching in color, sturdy combat boots stained with what you know is blood.
 His? Youâre not sure. Probably not.Â
Laying beside him, you notice multiple crumbled paper towels stained with blood as he continues to press more into a wound that does not seem superficial and slow to stop. Knowing heâs wasting your products annoys you more than you thought it would, and with a sneer, you raise your gun and make yourself known.Â
âWhat the fuck do you think youâre doing here, Benjamin?â you ask, your voice shaking with unbridled anger. The audacity of this man. You keep your gun steady as your presence causes him to jump an inch into the air, grinning when you see him wince at the movement. Good, you think. His head whips to look at you and thatâs when you notice the light sheen of sweat coating his face. Itâs been almost two years since you last saw him and he barely looks recognizable. His face, littered in scars and lined with years of exhaustion and fury, looks mature since the last time you saw him. During those three years together, he was just baby-faced and lanky. Now, though, he looks broad and untouchable but you know thatâs not true. Not true at all.Â
With a whisper of your name, like he didnât expect to see you in your own home, he tries to push himself up off the tiled kitchen floor but quickly stumbles due to the blood loss. You move out of the way when you see him stumble towards you, your gun raised to meet his eyes when he looks up after catching himself on the counter. His eyes narrow when he sees the barrel of the gun staring at him.Â
âIâm only going to ask you one more time, what the hell are you doing here?â you ask through gritted teeth.Â
âI know I swore Iâd never come back, but I need your help. Please-â Dex begins, reaching for you. But with a single harsh nudge with the barrel of the gun, you hold him in place.
âDonât fucking touch me and donât get any closer. I owe you nothing so get the fuck out of my house.âÂ
You know heâs only here because youâre the only one who can patch him up.Â
Well fuck that.Â
With a pained groan, he rests most of his weight on the edge of the kitchen island and holds the bleeding wound on his stomach with a heavily saturated napkin. Thatâs not the only place heâs bleeding, you notice a deep cut on his left eyebrow, a slash across his cheek which looks like it was caused by a knife, and a⊠bite mark on his right hand. The napkin used to soak up his blood decides its had enough, and the wound begins to drip on the floor so he peels the useless towel away from his marred skin with a disgusting squelch. Youâd think with your profession that sound wouldnât bother you but hearing it in a surrounding thatâs not the hospital is different.Â
âPlease. Just help me and Iâll leave after,â Dex practically begs and tries to step forward again, both hands up in the air to show you that heâs not a threat. Bullshit.Â
âI will shoot you if you come any closer,â you threaten and raise the gun which you hadnât noticed you lowered. You know you wonât shoot him, you canât no matter how much you want to. And you know he knows this too by the cock of his head. âI donât know how you got inside,â Â you know exactly how he got inside and you make a note to yourself to get the latch fixed, Â âbut you can see yourself out the same way you got in and go find a nice gutter to bleed out in,â you say and you hate that your voice shakes. You hate that his pain still affects you and you hate that you do want to help him.
âYou know how I got in and Iâve told you time and time again to get it fixed. Thereâs no telling what can get inside,â he jokes with a slight tilt of his mouth. That smile is quickly replaced by a grimace and groan that sounds eerily similar to a whimper.Â
With a roll of your eyes, you bravely step forward and push him back by his right shoulder. You continue to do that until you're about a foot away from the same window he came in.Â
âGet out,â your voice comes out in a whisper, tears evident in the way you say it. Your gun shakes as you continue to hold it, partially due to sore arms and partially due to the onset feeling of defeat that is creeping up. Youâll always be a fool for him and you hate yourself for it.
âSweetheart,âÂ
âDonât! You donât get to call me that. Not after everything youâve put me through. Not after you lied to me about your job. Not after you killed an innocent man.âÂ
You wonât ever forget the day the version of the Dex you thought you knew shattered right before your eyes. Seeing the video evidence that somehow ended up on your computer of your Dex murdering a man in cold blood. Not after confronting him and having him hit the wall beside your head with his fist, not after being taken from your job in a blacked out van and being threatened that if you ever spoke about what you saw, no one would be able to find you. Not after you left shellshocked and with a broken nose.Â
After Dex was arrested you thought youâd never see him again and you hoped and prayed you never would, even if a little part of your brain thought otherwise. So seeing him standing in your apartment, bleeding out and begging for your help, you selfishly found yourself in awe of the situation. Him, broader and more mature than the last time you saw him, you barefoot and in your pajamas holding a gun to his forehead.Â
You felt euphoric which is why the next sentence out of your mouth not only shocked you, but him as well.
âGet on your knees,âÂ
Dex must realize youâre not bluffing, and with a pained whimper, he forces himself to his knees and looks up with glassy eyes and cocky smirk, blood lining his teeth. âThereâs my girl,â he chuckles but is cut off by a wet cough, blood spitting out through his parted, cracked lips.Â
Lips that used to kiss you awake, small butterfly-like presses to your forehead. Then your eyebrows, the apples of your cheeks, the bridge of your nose, and finally your lips.Â
Lips that used to make you sigh in ecstasy.Â
Lips that used to press worshipful and reassuring words to your skin when you felt beaten down by the world around you.Â
Lips that used to form the words I love you. Â
Even if that love wasnât the traditional kind, it was still there. It felt real and raw. It was what he needed to feel normal and it was what you needed to feel wanted.Â
Which is why a choked sob left you when his words registered in your brain. His girl. You havenât been anything in so long and seeing him with blood dripping down his chin, glassy eyes unfocused, the smell of blood swelling around both of you, it only made sense for you to give in.Â
A fool, your brain whispered but you held firm in your decision.Â
âStay,â is all you said before slowly backing away from him. You never lose eye contact until your back hits the closet door where you keep your first aid kit. After grabbing the massive bag, you move to another closet to find a sheet that you donât mind discarding after this. You donât need anymore blood stains on your floor and you sure as hell arenât staining your couch. Walking back to the living room, you see that Dex hadnât moved once but you notice that heâs rapidly declining. Part of you sings at the sight, it likes seeing him suffer.Â
You push the spare pillows and throw blankets off the couch before draping the sheet across the upholstery. Youâre aware this man now weighs at least two hundred pounds, so you brace yourself knowing youâre going to have to do most of the lifting. The position heâs in makes it easy for you to get an arm under his, and with a push and a shove, you manage to get his knees off the floor. Dex stirs with a grunt and almost keels over, but he must realize youâre holding most of his weight, and he stumbles over to the couch.Â
Having him in your arms again almost makes you freeze. Itâs been so long since you last touched him, since being this close to him. The last time you were this close, he put a hole in the wall next to your head. That thought makes you feel queasy but you knew he wasnât going to hit you. He never misses. That doesnât mean it doesnât piss you off, so you shove him down on the couch and suppress a smirk at the pained wheeze that leaves him. Heâs able to roll over on his back but not without looking green in the face.Â
âIf you puke, Iâll kill you,â you utter under your breath as you reach into the first aid kit, brandishing a suture kit and gloves. Your apartment is already covered in blood, doesnât mean you want it on you. Knowing the profusely bleeding wound is on his stomach, you grip the hem of his shirt which feels like kevlar, and push the material up. There youâre greeted with the sight of incredibly defined abs and muscles. Shaking your head to clear your mind, you find the wound which looks like it was caused by a gun shot.Â
Wonderful, you think to yourself. Without the correct equipment, you arenât able to see the full extent of Dexâs injuries. Inspecting the bullet hole wound with the flashlight you grabbed, held between your teeth, you begin to prod the wound to see if it went clean through, but with the amount of bleeding you know thatâs not the case.Â
âFuck!âÂ
With a rough exhale and the assumption that forceps wonât be able to find it, you say a little prayer and dig your finger into the wound to search for the bullet.Â
The feeling of your fingers digging into his flesh causes Dex to jump and try to get away from the sensation but by some magical force, youâre able to hold him down and explain what youâre doing, but you swiftly realize itâs pointless because heâs passed out. After about three minutes of searching and drenching yourself in his blood, you find the pesky thing thatâs been causing all of the trouble, and pull it out of the wound. Unfortunately for you, the gash continues to ooze blood but youâre able to find the source of said fluid, and replacing your dirty gloves with new ones, you begin stitching the injury.Â
Once youâre through with that, you douse a piece of gauze in betadine and you start to clean the superficial injuries on Dexâs face, starting with the eyebrow which needed a few stitches, and ending with the bite mark on his hand. Luckily the knife laceration on his face or bite didnât call for stitches, but you took extra care cleaning the mark on Dexâs hand knowing he wouldnât get proper care for it.Â
You never realized you were crying while patching Dex up, nor did you notice he woke up some time during the treatment you gave him. As you were carding your fingers through his hair, he gently grasped your wrist and brought your hand down to his cheek. You shouldâve pulled back, you shouldâve put space between the two of you but you didnât. Instead you felt your face crumble and your bottom lip quiver. To which Dex then turned his face into the palm of your hand that was still resting against his cheek, and pressed a chaste kiss to the heart of your palm. Any restraint you had left, perished from your body and you collapsed over his torso, sobbing.
So many emotions were coursing through your veins. Anger, hatred, loneliness, betrayal, optimism, tiredness, love. You despised yourself for the last one, and you always will, but witnessing him slowly wither away made you realize you couldnât bear to lose him in such a violent way. You knew the second you saw him for the first time that he would fuck you up forever, and here you were. Bending over backwards for a man who would never truly know what it was like to love for real, but youâve given so much of yourself to him before, whatâs one more time?Â
The feeling of fingers weaving through your hair brought you out of your daze and your tired, dried eyes met blue that were slowly regaining focus but Dex was still out of it. With careful, steady movements, you licked the pad of your thumb before bringing it to Dexâs chin and wiping the dried blood from his mouth.Â
âThank you, baby,â Dex whispered because thatâs all his body could fathom. You wanted to grimace at the pet name but it had been so long since you last heard it, that your treacherous stomach did flips. Without saying a word, you slowly moved up closer to him and laid down on your side, your back to the living room. With one hand, you cupped his face and slowly brought your lips to his. Not yet kissing, but resting. Eventually, it seemed that the two of you were on the same page, and Dex tilted his head to the side and slotted his bottom lip between yours. With an anguished groan, Dex lifted his hand to tangle his fingers into the hair at the back of your head to deepen the kiss.Â
At the hint of tongue brushing against your bottom lip, you pulled back with a small gasp and opened your eyes to see Dex already looking at you. Not knowing what to say, you just hold eye contact until Dexâs eventually flutters shut and he pulls you closer to his chest, pain and discomfort be damned. Silent tears drip down your cheeks when you think about the fact that this could have been the last time you ever saw him and as much as you canât stand it, you donât ever want that day to come. But with the life he leads, the chances of that are greater than none.Â
The feeling of a kiss being pressed to your forehead brings you up for air and you lay your head in the crook of his neck where it meets his shoulder, and you close your eyes for the first time in what feels like days when really it must have been two hours. With a sigh, you resign yourself to this spot for the rest of the night and however long it takes for Dex to heal.Â
âGo to sleep, sweetheart. You deserve it,â with one final kiss pressed to your head, he whispers, âthank you.âÂ
Heâs not there when you wake five hours later.Â
Heâs not there when you stay awake for nights on end waiting for him to come back.
Heâs not there after a month of nothingness.Â
Heâs not there.Â
Slamming the front door to your apartment shut was as cathartic as you knew it would be, your night shift coming to an end three hours after it was supposed to. Dropping your coat and purse to the floor, you kick off your sneakers and make your way to the kitchen that was only a few paces away. Washing your hands and filling a cup up with water, you rest your hip against the kitchen counter and look out of the window that faces towards the bustling city below you, curtains billowing in the wind.Â
A shiver runs down your spine when you realize you never opened the window before leaving for work. Slowly turning your head, there on the center table in the middle of the living room, is a vase of lilies. Your breathing picks up when you see that thereâs a note stuck between the petals. Apprehension fills your body like lead as you slowly trudge towards the flowers. Your head is on a constant swivel, feeling like a stranger in your own home. With trembling fingers, you pluck the note from the powder white petals, and open the folded paper.Â
                 âYou should really get that window fixed.â
A/N: My first fic in years and I'm so sorry if it's trash. This is probably out of character Dex and I don't have an explanation for that lol. Not written with AI and please do not repost to other sites, this story is also cross posted on Ao3 with the username blackstarrr. Likes, reblogs, and comments are deeply appreciated! If I'm not hit by the Ao3 curse, there is a possibility of a part two.

















