This ain't a WHORE HOUSE

Dex was, looking in from the outside, objectively doing better than the majority of the population. He took care of his body, rigidly adhering to his carefully curated schedule and eating as recommended. He stayed as healthy as possible on his own, though he occasionally indulged himself to keep you company while trying a new restaurant or simply to be spontaneous. After some trial and error, he had found medication that reduced the violent oscillations of his mood to manageable levels. And yet—

He'd been plagued by growing restlessness.

One such instance occurred when he found himself admiring the slope of your neck a bit too long on a random afternoon. The day was unremarkable, he was seated on the couch while you sat on the floor, your back against the couch and frame between his spread legs. He'd occasionally lean over and point out a number that fit a specific cell, causing you to whine at him for interrupting your focus and spoiling the fun of Sudoku, to which his eyes twinkled with mirth as he reclined back. But his eyes wandered, over your neck, to your shoulder, and he felt his skin get a little hot. How he wanted to grab you and claw at you. He wanted to press so deep he'd leave indents in your skin as if it were plasticine. He wondered which button he had to push to make you feel that desire that was boiling over within him. He had to excuse himself because he felt a tremor in his hands and a tightness in his stomach. He never told you about it after that, but it was torturous to sleep cuddled up to you so keyed up. He tried to keep his touches tender, and in return he received your sweet kisses all over his upper body and a pleasant gratitude for his conduct. He gnawed on his lip until it was sore to hold himself back.

The next time it happened was when you decided it was time to deep clean the apartment. He was elated to help, and proud you understood his need for cleanliness and perhaps adopted some yourself. Seeing you adopt some of his habits soothed an itch he hadn't realized was there, and he jumped in to help. It was a little difficult because you kept touching his forearms and back and smiling knowingly, but he persevered to actually finish the tasks you had outlined. He had been wiping a window when he heard you keen and jolted, quickly rushing into the bathroom to see your hand split on a broken tile. He grabbed the first aid kit and patched you up while you sniffled so adoringly, he couldn't help but snort at your reaction to which you pushed him with your foot. 

But my goodness, wasn't it hot. He wanted to be the one to trace your delicate veins and arteries with his knife, and he had a specific one in mind too, to gently nick you here and there while you were below him, preferably worked up and begging for his touch, any touch. There certainly were parts on your body which yearned for the pressure of his blade, and he could find them and give you that overwhelming pleasure. Afterward, he could kiss the little marks and patch you up. The stupid tile stole his thunder and he swore he'd replace them all. His hands shook as he clumsily finished wrapping you up and he wiped his sweaty face, feeling his cock jump as he saw some of your blood mixing with it. He took a long shower after that, scrubbing more violently when he remembered your cute, confused expression at his disarray.

The need that's been building up within him finally boiled over when he came home one night, tired and slightly drained from the perils of public transportation. He kicked his shoes off and walked into the living room, hesitating to sit in his outside clothes, but also too worn out to change immediately. He heard a shuffle and glanced up, seeing you smiling shyly in your sleepwear. He felt his heart tug and he smiled back in greeting, his crow's feet deepening until he noticed something was different — your skin was glowy, as if freshly moisturized, hair obviously styled meticulously for such a late night, and some bolder makeup emphasizing your lips and eyes.

His eyelids lowered as he took you in, and stepped closer, gently grabbing your hips. He didn't want you to touch his dirty suit so he leaned down to press a chaste kiss against your sticky lips, but your eagerness in response surprised him. You pulled him closer by the neck and pressed your torso against his, making him gasp into your mouth, and mere seconds later he felt your warm tongue licking into his mouth. You tasted a bit like toothpaste and something sweet you probably ate not too long ago. Dex tilted his head and walked you back into the bedroom, changing angles as his hands began to roam the curves of your body. He's been holding himself back for so long that restraint had begun to feel brittle. He tried to be careful but your scent, your skin and mouth were too intoxicating, your blatant expression of desire — the kiss — along with the obvious preparation made his heart thud heavily; you wanted him. He panted as he pushed you onto the bed, quickly pulling on his tie to loosen in while you shrugged his blazer off. Between bated breaths, you murmured his name softly. He grunted in response, delirious as he pulled at your clothes. 

—Would you, um, could you... Tie me up? I'd like to try it. A-also you can... You can bite a bit harder.

You punctuated the request with that shy little smile that made your lips glisten as they stretched. He froze, then let out a needy moan. You were gonna be the death of him.

— Are you sure? I don't want to... He clicked his tongue, shaking his head as he pushed his hair back. I don't know how to pace myself.

He waited for your reaction with bated breath, looming over your body. There were so many things he wanted to do, and he wanted to do them perfectly — he wanted to be the only one to please you, to have you, to hurt you. But your encouraging, tender smile in turn undid him.

— Yes, I'm sure, baby. I trust you, I... I'll tell you if it's too much.

You’d be lying if you said you were never enticed by the idea of using it for your dinner prep. It was much sharper than any regular kitchen knife, and would probably slice through your veggies like paper. 

The thought made you shiver.

You pulled it from the open drawer and squeezed the handle tight, taking notice of how the metal pressed indents into your palm–likely the very same ones that graced his.

It was lighter in your hand, the blade jutting out thicker than its handle making it aerodynamic. You ran your finger along the blade and realized it wasn’t sharp like you assumed. 

It was dull–even more blunt than your kitchen knives which made Dex’s throw a lot more impressive than you once thought. 

He must have thrown it on a whim, a straight shot into the stereo console with just a flick of his arm fueled by distress and rage. 

He certainly had the upper body strength for it.

You held the knife up and scanned your kitchen walls for something you wouldn’t miss—no pun intended. 

The walls were sparsely decorated because you took most of your hangings down for a stick-on wallpaper project and hadn’t gotten around to putting them all back up.

There was that old painting of the moon you thrifted when you first moved in. It was bought just for the sake of covering your white walls so you wouldn’t feel like you lived in an asylum, and now it wasn’t really your style anymore.

With the moon in the center of the painting as a focal point, you took a breath and flicked your wrist out, releasing the knife from your grip. 

It zipped to the wall, sticking right into a spot beside the painting’s frame.

“Oh god,” you rushed over to pry the blade from your stick-on wallpaper. “Definitely not getting that deposit back.”

A firm knock at your front door startled you out of your panic. 

In your eagerness to play badass secret agent, you totally forgot you had only been goofing off because you were waiting for the owner of the knife you were throwing around to show up at your apartment. 

See, your admiration of his physique the other night hadn’t just been you plain objectifying him. You had a giant box in your living room waiting to be opened up and assembled into a lovely walnut display cabinet.

And Dex still owed you that favor for leaving you all alone at the wedding. 

While you could have put it together yourself, you had repeated that exact sentence in your head every time you passed the cardboard eyesore (or stubbed your toe on it) ever since it was hauled into your apartment a month ago. 

So why not spare yourself the back pain?

The favor was requested by you the night you went to his place after the wedding. Just before you left, standing in the doorway of his apartment, you were suddenly struck with the perfect way for him to finally make up for his string of disappointments.

“Can you come over and help me rearrange my living room this weekend?” your eyes were lit up like Christmas morning. 

He coughed awkwardly and nodded. Then, gave you a quiet goodbye as he closed the door.

It took you ten minutes of sitting in your cab before you realized what his problem was. 

“Oh my god,” you audibly gasped, which made your driver briefly look in the rear view mirror. “I think I just invited my friend over to sleep with me.”

You thought your request was normal enough, but maybe it was the context in which you asked that made him pick up on an innuendo that wasn’t intended. 

It was late at night, both of you having just made up after a difficult fight, you left wearing his hoodie, and then asked him to make it up to you by coming over. 

It sounded like you were asking him to come rearrange something else.

The thought made you burn up and you wished the ground would open up and swallow your entire taxi whole. 

At least your driver didn’t mind you venting the entire story of your friendship to him. He called you a hot mess as you were getting out but at least he was a good listener.

To make matters worse, Dex was out of the city for the past week so you didn’t even get the chance to clarify that there was actual work to be done, and not on you. 

Before you rushed to the door, you considered pushing the furniture box into the middle of the living room just so he’d see right off the bat that there was a very real cabinet that needed to be put together. 

But then, he knocked again and you were out of time for any other protective measures.

A small prayer was said in your mind as you held the doorknob. You don’t know why you were so freaked out over a slip-up. 

A small part of you wondered what would happen if you just went with it. He still showed up at the address you texted him, so did that mean he was…down? 

You tried to blame the twist of desire in your stomach on anxiety.

It was also the hottest day of the year, and you were about to be in your enclosed living space with him for an hour putting together furniture…

You press your cold palms on your face to sober up. Now, when he was literally outside your door, was not the time to be having these thoughts.

You pulled the front door open.

“Kept me waiting,” he said, and it almost annoyed you that he was observing rather than chiding. And that he seemed a lot more unbothered than you were. 

You were already uncomfortably hot, and it wasn’t because of the failing A/C in your unit.

“You deserve it a little bit,” you put a hand on your hip in a playful manner. “After you kept me waiting.”

You weren’t still angry with him about the wedding. You just wanted to get on his case for being so casual about all of this when you were close to running a fever. 

Like a frisky kitten trying to rile up her littermate.

And Dex took the bait. His lip pressed into a line, a tendon in his neck twitched. 

Then, he walked past you into your apartment like he was owed entry.

You felt his hard body brush against yours as he did, and hated how you caught yourself mapping the feeling of him against you to memory. 

He stood in the middle of your apartment and you shut the door after recovering. 

“Come on in, why don’t you.”

“You were going to let me in anyway.” Amusement laced his tone. He spotted the large box in the corner taking up enough space to count as a second dining table. “Is that the one?”

So he did think he was here to build furniture. You should be wiping sweat off your forehead right now.

“That’s the one!” you answered a bit too fast, causing him to raise an eyebrow. You motioned to your open toolbox on the coffee table. “I’ve got a box cutter in there.”

He gave a quick shake of his head, as if to silently say ‘don’t need it’ and pulled the box tabs open with his bare hands. The tape went taut and pulled apart without much effort.

“Suddenly you’re above using knives?” you chimed quietly, mostly to yourself. 

You both began pulling the walnut stained particle board out, organizing them by order of the instruction booklet you found in the bottom of the box. 

If only the entire process of building the cabinet had been that smooth. 

While the parts list made perfect sense, the instructions were an odd collection of pictures that didn’t look anything remotely like what you were building. All accompanied by one word instructions. 

Screw. Hammer. Slide. 

It was messing with your head more than the heat.

You took turns flipping the instruction booklet upside down and right side up, trying to make sense of it until finally resorting to improvising. 

Which went well enough until you turned a page and saw a picture that did make sense.

“Uh,” you wiped sweat off your brow. “I don’t know how to tell you this, but we made a mistake.”

He moved to stand behind you. So close you could feel the heat of him against your back and you were forced to remember how it felt to have him against you. 

“What did we do wrong?” 

Right. Maybe you should stop imagining him pressing you up against your half-built display cabinet and answer him.

You cleared your throat. “We were supposed to attach the doors while the cabinet was still lying flat...” 

“Hmm,” he grunted and you felt it low your stomach. “One of us will have to hold the door while the other screws it in place.”

The doors had to be screwed in from three hinges, at three different heights to support the weight.

And to reach the lowest hinge, the person with the screwdriver would have to be on their knees.

This is what you get for letting your imagination run wild while he was breathing the same air as you. The universe was punishing you–or, maybe your filthy mind subconsciously brought this reality closer to you as a gift. 

You swallowed hard, throat bobbing. “Right. Okay, I’ll hold the door.”

He frowned. “It’ll be heavy. But okay.”

It could weigh a ton for all you cared–you weren’t going to get on your knees in front of him right now.

So you ignored the trembling in your arms from the weight and tried to silence your pathetic whine of effort as you lifted the cabinet door and lined it up at the hinges. You had to balance it against your hip to keep from dropping it. 

Dex was changing the screw-head at your toolbox, taking his sweet time while you were standing there beside the cabinet shaking like a leaf. 

Oh, you realized, this is a game to him. 

Of course he didn’t protest to you holding the door that was clearly too heavy for you. He wanted to watch you struggle and beg for his help. 

Well, you weren’t going to. You wouldn’t let him get the upperhand on you with that stupidly handsome concentrated glare of his as he fiddled with your tools.

“There we go,” he held up the screwdriver for you to see, and then approached the door, “keep it steady.”

A bead of sweat rolled down your neck as if on cue.

 “I’m sure you can manage, Mr. ‘I work for the CIA’,” you said breathlessly. “What do you do for them anyway?”

Now probably wasn’t the best time for asking questions. It was so hot that the glass door you were holding had begun to fog up from your mingled labored breathing. 

But you had to distract yourself from how close to you he was standing. 

“Their dirty work, mostly.” 

He had alluded to something like that before. Contract work he called it. 

Good thing you didn’t use that knife of his to cut salad like you were planning to. It could have been in someone’s skull before, and you didn’t want to be haunted for trying to eat healthy.

Once the first hinge was screwed in, it took some of the weight off your poor arms. 

“So you’re a lapdog?” you provoked.

The middle hinge was secured after, and you were about to breathe a sigh of relief. But then you noticed the intense gaze he was directing at you. 

Cold. But not like you were on the other end of his knife. He was looking at you like you put him on the other end of yours.

“I’m not their lapdog,” he said. “They call and I answer.”

You swallowed hard. “Okay, so more like a merc. Noted.”

He didn’t like your insinuation that he was owned by someone. Got it.

“Yes, more like a merc,” he confirmed. 

He rested the screwdriver on the cupboard so he could grab a few loose screws from the bag left behind in the box. 

“Dex, can you hurry?” your arms were starting to tremble again. “It’s getting really heavy.”

He was likely punishing you for your remark, making you wait because you insulted him. But how were you supposed to know? It’s not like he ever gave details on his own. You had to interpret everything yourself unless you asked directly.

“Yeah. If you hand me the screwdriver.” he requested, returning to your side.

You balanced the door against your upper body so you could grab the screwdriver and hold it out for him to take. 

He smiled at you gratefully, like your handing him the screwdriver was doing him some sort of favor, and grasped the other end. 

Only, he wouldn’t take it from you. Just held onto it. Your fingers just far enough apart to not touch.

And then still holding your gaze, he knelt onto the ground in front of you. The movement was slow, drawn out as he balanced his weight on one knee. He was looking up at you now.

Your mouth went dry.

“Thanks.” Dex finally took the screwdriver out of your hand.

You swallowed hard and squeaked out a “sure” like you didn’t just have the dirtiest image possible conjured into your mind. 

You weren’t entirely convinced he hadn’t been scheming to put those pictures in your head, either.

The low hinge was right by your hips, and you could feel his hand brush your skin over your shirt with every turn of the tool in his calloused hands.

Once the last screw was in, you let go of the cabinet door and stepped away from where he was kneeling beside you.

“Your turn to hold the door,” you stammered out. Kneeling in front of him didn’t seem like such a bad punishment after what he just put you through.

“Too heavy? I won’t say I told you so.” 

“Good, then don’t,” you huffed, waiting for him to balance the other door without breaking a sweat. 

He didn’t even have to balance it against his hip like you did. 

Show off.

With a soft breath tumbling past your lips, you focused on screwing the door to the hinge. 

It was a little taller than your height, so you had to reach up to get the screw in. Your fingers trembled with effort as you lined up the first screw up at the top. 

Your gaze flickered to his face. Dex was watching you. 

Another bead of sweat slid down your neck. His eyes followed it, unbothered that you caught him looking.

The screw slipped from your clammy fingers and slid across your wooden floors.

“Need help?” His tone was void of concern. 

“No. My hands are just sweaty,” you huffed, and picked up the screw that rolled towards the couch. “It’s hotter than hell in here, if you haven’t noticed.”

You tried to ignore his leering by lining the screw up again and twisting it into the hinge.

The second screw went in smoother than the first. 

“You’re not making this easy for me, just so you know,” you murmured, grabbing another screw from the bag. 

“How can I make it easier for you?” he asked. 

You decided to ignore him. You didn’t trust your voice right now.

Now for the last hinge.

“Want to switch again?” His tone was overly saccharine, like he was a concerned neighbor or something. 

“You’re not funny,” you muttered, lowering to your knees. You turned the screw in slowly, careful not to drop it this time. 

When you stood from the floor, your head spun. You were already faint from the heat, and getting up too fast was turning your brain to mush.

A soft groan left your lips and you rubbed your temple to ward off an oncoming headache. 

“Just sit back,” you heard him say in your daze, “I’ll do the rest of the work.”

You were too spent to argue. You took a few steps backward til the heels of your feet hit the couch and you let yourself sit down. 

The cabinet was fully built with the glass doors you two just secured onto it, so he got to work pushing it into the exact spot against the wall you had shown him earlier. 

You were grateful he was attentive enough to remember exactly where you wanted it.

The sound of furniture sliding across the floor barely registered in your mind. Then you heard your refrigerator open. 

Before you could succumb to your heat-exhausted stupor, something cold was pressed to your cheek. 

You blindly reached for it and your eyes fluttered open to see him standing above you. He was pressing a cold water bottle to your face, and you took it from him gratefully.

“Drink up.” 

“Thanks,” you obeyed, unscrewing the cap. “Your debt is officially repaid.”

As you tilted the bottle back, letting the cool liquid quench your thirst, he began wandering your apartment. 

His glances around were a lot more subtle than yours when you were eyeing his place. 

You watched him peer down the hall at the closed doors and could guess what he was thinking with that focused, analytical expression darkening his eyes.

Which was your bedroom? Your bathroom? He was making a mental map of where you lived. Where each room stood relative to the other.

Then, he looked at your kitchen. At the indent in your wall from where you had chucked the knife–his knife–into the wall by accident.

He pointed to it. “What happened here?”

You shrugged. “Just a scuff.”

Like he’d buy that. He probably recognized the exact outline of the knife model he used. 

But he left it alone anyway, letting you get away with your terrible attempt at a lie.

“Right.” 

You missed the knowing smirk he wore.

It was late by the time the apartment was cool enough for you to feel like moving around again.

You were organizing books and thrifted ornaments into your new cabinet. They had been on the floor of your closet for a month, waiting to be shelved and now you had Dex to thank for their new home.

Heat prickled your skin every time you opened or closed those cabinet doors, remembering what it took to get them attached. 

You had made a huge mistake showing him how easily he could get under your skin.

You wouldn’t be participating in a cat and mouse game with him if it wasn’t thrilling for you too, but that didn’t mean you were happy about him somehow making you the mouse again and again.

Deflections and taunts weren’t enough to put him in his place. He was too familiar with that game. 

Dex managed to disarm you with simple brushes. He never even directly touched you once–not with his hands, anyway.

Not when he walked into your apartment. Not when he stood behind you to read the instructions. Not when he was holding the other end of the screwdriver. Not when he was handing you a water bottle in a manner that felt a little too similar to aftercare…

Yet still, you were undone by him.

You shut the cabinet doors with a loud thud, and stopped when you were about to pass by the indent you left in your kitchen wall. 

He definitely knew you had his knife. That you were using your wall like a dartboard instead of treating it like the weapon it was. 

You recalled the way he, too, stopped to admire the notch before he left your place. You lifted your hand to run your fingers over the crease. 

The jagged stretch of the ridge in the wall against your skin pulled your thoughts to the rough scar he had running across his cheek.

It was always tempting you to reach out and touch it when he spoke to you. Distracting you, pulling your eyes to it and making you wonder how he got it in the first place.

Your hand pulled back slowly, returning to your side.

Maybe it was time you looked his name up on the internet. 

The blue light on your laptop screen strained your eyes as you sat at the kitchen counter. 

A bowl of popcorn was strategically placed next to you–which was for your nervous chewing habit, not because you thought you were about to be particularly entertained by anything you found.

This was your friend you were going to be digging up dirt on. Someone you had come to care about deeply. Not just some random name you heard on the news.

Your skin tingled from anticipation as you typed his full name into your internet browser. 

Benjamin Poindexter. 

The search pulled up a number of links for you to click. All of them referenced a lengthy criminal record attached to him dating back nearly ten years, along with a publicized psychiatric record.

That part tugged at your heart. It seemed too invasive to release something like that online for anyone to read. So you ignored it.

You perused the Bulletin articles that named him as one of the FBI agents complicit in Fisk’s crimes. 

You remembered hearing about that corruption case because every New Yorker at the time was talking about it. But with how busy your life was back then, how were you expected to have retained the names of every single agent involved in that case?

It’s not like you ever thought you’d be involved with one of them.

There was more focus on Dex than the other agents in the article, though. His name was connected to the attack at the very journal you were reading from, where he was dressed in a fake Daredevil costume. 

He had a trail of bodies behind him. And not just the ones he was ordered to kill–innocents, lives taken out of his own volition. 

You had expected it. It still didn’t prevent the sweat gathering in your palms. You distracted yourself with caramel popcorn.

Another article from two years ago. Dex spent six years in jail, then was let out on mysterious circumstances where he assassinated a target and multiple innocent bystanders. 

The bowl of popcorn beside you was half-empty now. You’d hate to be his lawyer during the trial for this case.

It wasn’t hard to find the videos online of said trial. You skipped to the end where his life sentence was being read, focused on the way his lips were pulled into a lopsided smile. 

You couldn’t understand why he seemed so pleased with himself. Maybe he knew prison wouldn't keep him long. 

As they led him out of the courtroom, something caught your eye. Something that pieced together the rest of the story.

You had it all wrong. The knives were never his weapon. It was his hands.

The comment section of the video confirmed it for you, with half of them being about the alias ‘Bullseye’ and theories connecting him to different attacks that happened just before he was arrested again.

Wait.

You thought back to a few weeks before your flight.

Your best friend was hosting her engagement brunch so you had skipped your usual morning at the diner. When you got home, you saw on the news that Bullseye had attacked AVTF soldiers and they were closing it for investigation. 

You were a little more concerned about making breakfast at home for the next week rather than the attack. That sounded bad, but you were just desensitized from years of living in proximity to Hell's Kitchen. 

But it was different now. You knew the attacker. 

Part of you wondered what would have happened if you were there that day. He hadn’t attacked any bystanders according to the articles, so it’s not like you would have been hurt.

Would you have still been able to form a bond with him if you had seen him killing in front of you like that?

You weren’t completely numb or anything–you’d have been terrified. Probably hiding in the very booth you now sat with him at every morning.

But you’d been harassed repeatedly by the AVTF on your way to work just for the crime of crossing paths with one of their patrol routes. 

And they didn’t show you any mercy with inappropriate comments, ‘random’ searches, or vaguely offensive remarks you had to bite your tongue at.

So a little part of you would have been grateful to see them get handed back the same respect they showed you tenfold.

You snapped your laptop lid shut with trembling hands. 

It should have disgusted you more. He’d taken innocent lives. Tore families apart. 

But his actions in the past didn’t require justification or forgiveness from you. He never asked you to absolve him of his sins. 

Just acknowledge them. See them for what they were. No amount of exaggeration journalists added to his crimes distracted from the fact that his crimes were heinous, so he knew exactly what you’d find when you eventually researched him.

Maybe that’s why he told you in the first place. He knew you weren’t going to run.

You always gave him grace, gave him solace from the memories of being manipulated, used for murder, and discarded again and again. 

Dex would tell you who he was, and you would stay every time. 

Your hands brushed the bottom of the bowl when you reached for more popcorn.

Time for a refill.

You rolled out of bed early the next morning. Mostly because you didn’t get much sleep last night–but more importantly, you were determined to get to the diner before Dex. 

He was always there before you, claiming your table before anyone else could. You’d watch him remove his headphones as you sat across from him and thank him for the coffee he ordered for you while he waited. Always piping hot, because by now he knew how to predict when you’d come in to drink it. 

Today, though, you were making it your job to claim the table. 

You were hyperaware of everything in the diner when you sat down. The silverware on the table wrapped in a cloth napkin, the wooden stirrers by the coffee pot. 

Above all, the empty spot in the middle where the lobster tank used to be. In the past, it was so insignificant to you that you didn’t even realize it was gone when you came back to the diner after it stopped being a crime scene months ago. 

But after reading the attack details last night, it was impossible to ignore how peculiar it was that Dex–or, Bullseye–deliberately chose to involve the lobsters in his grudge against the AVTF.

The bell above the door rang, and your eyes followed him. His expression shifted a moment when he saw you there at your usual table, early for once. 

Knowing how analytical Dex could get (especially over you) he probably suspected something was up immediately. 

That was alright with you. It’s not like you were trying to hide from him.

When he sat down across from you, before he even got a word in, not even a hello, barely even a breath—you reached into your bag and stuck his knife down onto the table.

You did so casually and without any regard for the permanent score it would leave on the surface of the table. It was about time you carved your signatures into it, anyway.

Dex’s eyes fell to the knife, and then looked up at you. Not asking questions yet, just watching. Gauging your expression. Searching your eyes for malice or contempt. 

When he confirmed you weren’t angry with him, he leaned forward, hands folded on the table.

“So?”

“I looked up your name,” you explained calmly. “Your full name.”

He nodded, and then tilted his head. “You think you know everything now?”

He was asking in a roundabout way if you knew he was Bullseye.

“I put some of it together on my own already. But I know you’re…” you trailed off. You glanced around to check for any eavesdropping customers, and then dropped your volume. “Familiar with the lobster tank.” 

Dex chuckled at your retort. He picked the knife up from where you had stuck it in the table and twirled it between his fingers. 

It wasn’t just a neat trick to show off for you. His eyes were dead set on you. Watching you for signs of fear. Checking if your pupils would dilate, for the slightest flare of your nostrils indicating your breathing quickened.

But you were the very picture of calm. Content, even. Maybe even a little hungry since you waited an hour for him.

“I still have questions though.” you leaned back, crossing your arms.

“You always do.” he quipped.

“Just to piece the rest of the story together,” you clarified. You read the news, but you wanted to hear him tell it. “Three years ago you were sprung out of nowhere and then you….”

You made a gun cocking gesture with your pointer finger and thumb–just in case anyone was listening.

He was looking down at the knife in his hands. 

“I made a deal with Vanessa Fisk. She let me out in exchange for,” he copied your gun gesture with his hand. “I didn’t have a choice. I was…out of my mind.”

You had a feeling that had more to it than just being incarcerated.

“Did they have you on some kind of drugs?”

He stayed silent. Not because he didn’t want to answer, but because he was deep in thought. You were bringing him back to a time he likely didn’t want to remember. 

You didn’t want to push his head underwater like that. But there was one more thing you had to know.

 “What I don’t understand is,” you tapped your nails against the table idly. “You ended up back in prison anyway.”

Dex looked up at you. His eyes met yours but he was far away.

“Wasn’t a fight I planned on coming back from.”

His words knocked the air from your lungs. 

The psychiatric record you found last night came to mind. You had been so wrapped up in getting to know him, you never even thought about the idea of losing him. 

And not just to any old threat. Losing him to himself.

“Oh…” your voice came out barely above a whisper. “Um, so. Vanessa Fisk–did you…you know, out of revenge?”

He shrugged. “It was more like a favor.”

“A favor?” You were intrigued. The fact that he met with you everyday clued you in that he didn't really see anyone else outside of work. “A favor to who?”

“The enemy of my enemy is my friend.” he quoted to you, putting the knife in his jacket pocket.

It was just a saying he used to satiate your curiosity. But you took it as a riddle. Your eyes narrowed as thoughts turned in your head.

You remember reading that there was another vigilante at the scene during the mayor’s boxing match.

“You mean Daredevil?” the corners of your lips twitched up.

His brow furrowed in annoyance. “Yes. Daredevil. Why do you care?”

“It’s really cool that you know him, that’s all. I mean, the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen?” your voice went all high pitched, and it made his eyes narrow more. “He’s an underground symbol of hope. He’s badass.”

Dex didn’t seem to share your sentiment.

“Will you introduce me?”

“No.”

“What? Why not?” your lips formed a pout.

You were cooking dinner in your apartment alone later that night. It was fortunate that your throwing knife was now safe and sound with its owner, no longer calling you to use it for peeling potatoes.

It was also probably lodged in someone’s throat now. At least, that's what your imagination fed you. You'd never actually seen Dex in action.

Did giving Bullseye back one of his knives make you complicit? Hopefully not.

Soft music played from your speaker over the sizzling of the pan on the stove and low hum of the exhaust fan above it. You were humming along, idly passing the time while you watched your rice cook and fluff up in a sauce pan. 

A small smile was etched onto your lips as you recalled your meeting with Dex this morning. 

He probably wasn’t expecting you to let him explain himself to you. To let him give you his version of the events. You just wanted to hear his perspective, not judge his actions. You took them for what they were. He seemed to understand that.

The vibration of your phone on the counter startled you. 

Dex’s contact name he had typed in himself popped up. You lowered your music–ignoring the thudding of your heart against your ribs now audible in its absence–and answered.

“Hello?” you wondered if he could hear the smile in your voice.

“You should open a window while you’re cooking,” he said. “It’s a lot more efficient than a fan.”

“I don’t know if that’s true–”

Your stomach swooped. 

“Can you see me right now…?” 

You walked to the balcony window where your curtains had been pulled open. All you could see past the glass was the city lights reflecting in from other skyscrapers and apartments. 

With a small tug, you slid your balcony screen open. 

“Dex?” you called into the phone. 

Before you could take another breath, something zipped past your head and into your apartment. You whipped around, facing the kitchen wall. 

A knife–the very same knife he had stolen back–was lodged into your kitchen wall. Next to your painting of the moon. The very same spot that you had accidentally carved into your wall yesterday.

Your phone was still pressed to your ear as you approached the blade in the wall. 

There was a message etched into the onyx blade. 

You’re cute.

A soft syllable of laughter fell from your lips. You reached up to trace the white etchings in the blade, imagining how long he sat up at his vantage point, looking into your open curtains and carving that message just for you.

“Very funny Dex,” you turned towards the window again, unable to wipe the grin off your face. “You’d come say it to my face, if you were brave.”

You held your breath for a beat. Come over. Please.

“I would. But I like the view.” 

You sighed, wistful and disappointed as you walked back to your balcony. 

“Seriously, where are you?”

You squinted in the dark of the night, closely watching the nearby rooftops for the slightest of movements, indicating someone was there. That he was there.

Finally, you spotted a dark form on a nearby rooftop.

“Just wanted to return what’s rightfully yours,” his voice rasped into the phone. “Figured it was my turn to deface your souvenir.”

You thought back to the red pen you left on the back of the photograph he still has. You wondered where it was now. If he still kept it in that CD case, or if he had it hung on his wall. Or maybe…he carried it with him.

The idea of that made your heart skip. 

You slowly lifted your hand up and waved. Hesitantly, not quite sure if the lump on the roof you were looking at was really him.

But you got a vague wave back from the dark figure. 

“Coward,” you said into the phone pointedly, your face hurting from how hard you were smiling now.

“I’ll see you soon,” he said. 

“Sooner than I’ll see you, apparently,” you jabbed before he could hang up. “How long have you been up there?”

“Hmm,” he hummed into the line. “Lost count. I’m multitasking. Watching my perp.” 

You squinted. He was technically working. He must have been watching you through a rifle lens.

“Well, watch your perp and let me finish cooking dinner,”

“Enjoy your stirfry.”

“How did you–?” the line went dead. 

You laughed and walked back to your food on the stove. 

Then, a dizzying thought crossed your mind. He must have been watching your building because his target was in your area.

You looked behind you in your kitchen, where the knife was still stuck into the wall. It was hung up exactly where you planned to rehang all of your expensive art.

You were planning on turning it into a gallery wall anyway.

What Dex told you about his job hadn’t made you blink twice since you last spoke. You told yourself that the man who could turn any item into a bullet just by wielding it had no reason to fear death. The man who had escaped prison not once, but twice and got away with murdering the matriarch of the Fisk underground crime ring had no choice but to believe he had nine lives. 

But that lost all meaning to you the moment you saw him sitting on your fire escape, slumped over and holding his side. There was a trail of dark crimson blood on the metal stairs that ended at his shadow visible in the pale moonlight. 

Cold fear tightened your lungs. 

Dex was hurt. Badly bleeding still, his breathing shallow and barely there. He must have dragged himself up the fire escape steps and gave up, falling against the railing once he saw the light coming from your door.

“Oh my god,” your voice broke as you dropped beside him. “Dex?”

He lifted his head when he registered you were speaking to him, and leaned back against the railing with a grunt of effort.

“I’m fine.” he said through gritted blood stained teeth, lips quivering into a pleased smile. “You had to live on the second-highest floor?”

Without wasting a second to respond to his smug statement, you reached for his arm and pulled it around your shoulders. 

“You’re bleeding, so I’ll move slow.” 

You were trying to stay calm at the sight of his blood seeping through his compression shirt, darkening the blue fabric. But your voice was shaking and giving you away.

“I can handle a little pain. Nothing I’m not–” he groaned when you helped him lift off the ground. “Fuck–not used to…”

“Stop talking.” you pleaded, dragging him into the threshold of your apartment. 

“Yes ma’am,” he dropped onto your couch like dead weight and you don’t even think about the blood he’s soaking into it. 

Anger bubbled up in your chest. How could he be so casual about this when you were about to lose it on him? He’s bleeding out, still shivering despite being in the warmth of the apartment now. 

“How long have you been like this?” 

You grabbed one of your dining chairs and sat across from him. He gave you a barely registered nod of consent when your trembling hands hovered over the harness on his chest. 

“Don’t know,” he winced when you unlatched his chest harness and dropped it onto the floor. “Saw you through the window. Your light was still on. Followed it without thinking.”

You gasped at the sight of the wound when you lifted his tight shirt. A long gash spread across his skin, definitely needing stitches and you were far from equipped to mend him. Tears brimmed in your eyes. 

“Not sure why I even came,” he mumbled, eyes glassy and unfocused, and panic gripped you harder at the sight. “Maybe I’m selfish. Wanted to…be with you. Even if it meant seeing me die.”

The tears came all at once, rolling down your face and clinging to your lashes. His gloved hand raised to your cheek, catching a salty tear and smearing your skin with his blood in the process. 

You shoved his hand away, rejecting his touch. He wasn’t doing it for your comfort, anyway. 

The crying never stopped even as you began cleaning the wound. You would wipe your tears on your sleeve when your vision became too blurry to continue. Then you’d check his eyes, gaze on you sometimes piercing, sometimes vacant as he was slipping in and out of consciousness. But always on you.

You knew he could tell you were checking for signs of life when you did it because he still had half a mind to twitch his lips into an exhausted smile. As if it was satisfying to him that you were fretting over him. Sobbing over him. Mourning him even though he was right in front of you.

His eyes shut again, listening to every sharp breath you took from crying, every sob you tried to hush, and imagined the salty taste of your tears on his lips.

Dex woke before sunrise. The only light in the room was the living room lamp, painting you both in soft dusky yellows. 

He was lying on your couch with an uncomfortable sting in his side and foggy memories of you stitching him back together. Pleading for him to stay awake, keeping him warm when he started to twitch and quiver from the blood loss.

You had paused with every few agonizing tugs of the needle to wipe your tears away. Or at least the ones that he hadn’t felt drop onto his skin while you worked. His shirt and gloves had been removed by you at some point but he must have been passed out during that part.

And there you still were beside him, with your chair pulled a little closer to the couch than he remembers. Your cheek rested on his thigh, head turned away from him so he couldn’t see the red streaks on your face from the crying or how you looked when you slept.

Dex didn’t stress over the inevitable crick in your neck you’ll get from your position. He just thought about how much he wanted you there, worried sick to tears over him and staying the night by his side in case his body went cold for good.

If you had the means, you’d give your own blood to keep him breathing. He heard it in the uneven rhythm of your breaths as you slept and the occasional frantic whisper that fell from your lips. 

You talked in your sleep. He’d remember that. If only you had elected to sleep with your head turned in his direction. Whatever image he was forming in his head, he knew you looked so much sweeter in reality. 

Another sharp pain shot through his side and he involuntarily twitched his leg that you were sleeping on. 

He held his breath. Prayed. Don’t move. Not yet. 

But your head shot up quickly when you woke, having never managed to make it to a deep sleep when you were so sick over him. 

“Dex,” you called his name before you even processed you were awake, and that made his chest tighten. 

“I’m good,” his voice rasped when he spoke. “I’m alive. Somehow.”

That was the wrong thing to say, apparently. He saw how your face scrunched up angrily at him. 

“Somehow?” you rubbed your eyes and leaned closer to his stomach, examining the bandages. “I spent a good hour trying to keep you from meeting God. That’s how you’re alive, you asshole.”

In his delirium he found your slip-up amusing, a smirk painting his lips. 

Meeting God after the life he’s lived. Dex didn’t believe in that stuff anyway. He wasn’t even sure if you did. If there was a God, he sure wasn’t looking out for Dex. 

You were, though. And his smirk melted into something softer.

“You are, by the way–selfish for coming here,” your voice trembled with indignation. “Making me drag you to my couch and soaking it with blood. And what would I have done if you died?”

“Could tell the police you caught me for them,” he suppresses another pained groan.

He paused when he saw the resulting anguish in your eyes.

“That’s not what I meant.” Your voice was small. Hurt. 

You couldn’t believe that after everything, he thought you were asking what you’d do with his body. Not what you’d do without him. Not if he had died on your watch, with you being the last to have touched him, the last voice he heard.

Maybe that’s why he came–so you’d be haunted by him forever. It both sickened you and sent a rippling ache through your heart.

Dex let his head fall back onto the couch in resignation. His fingers twitched, tapped the couch a few times. Your words must have gotten through to him.

You reached out, gripping his fidgeting hand in both of yours. 

“You need more rest.” you whispered. “We’ll talk in the morning.” 

A beat of silence between you.

Then, to your surprise, you watched him push himself further against the back of the couch. Just enough, like he'd admired your body from afar enough times to know exactly how much space to leave for you. 

He wasn’t looking at you, though. Like he was trying to save himself the trouble if you didn’t catch the meaning of his gesture.

A plethora of excuses came to your mind. I shouldn’t irritate the wound or it won’t be comfortable with us both. 

They were all abandoned when you rose from your stiff dining chair and pressed your knee onto the couch, the weight sinking beneath you. You lowered your body beside him and his arm had slid beneath you as you did, lying on your side with your head rested on his arm. It was much easier on your neck than your earlier position.

It terrified you how icy his skin still was. So lifeless and frail. Nothing like the usual heat you felt whenever he was near. 

You stared at him in the dim living room light. He was already staring at you. Not willing to let you escape his wish to see what you looked like as you slept. 

It was silent, but not uncomfortably so. Even with your heart pounding rhythmically, and your chest rising and falling a little faster from the proximity. It was the kind of quiet that spoke louder than any words you could say to one another right now. 

With your eyes scanning his face, you lifted your weight onto your elbow. It was easier to see him this way since he was confined to lying on his back. He watched you look down at him, gaze flickering over your face. Cataloguing every flaw and feature to memory even though by now he could place your lips alone out of hundreds of pairs.

You were doing the same. Remembering when you first saw him, the glance you stole when he was unaware. You hand lifted to his cheek. His chest stuttered when you dragged your thumb over the jagged scar he had there. Back and forth, slowly, your lips parted ever so slightly. 

He watched you for as long as he could. His slow blinking became occasional squints as he tried to keep his eyes open, but once you heard his shallow, even breaths you knew you had lulled him to sleep. 

You stayed right where you were. The sight of his face, relaxed for once instead of tense from his mind running faster than he could catch up to it made you tender. But then, that awful, harrowing thought made you hollow again. 

That you almost lost him.

The sight of him gasping and bleeding was all too sobering. It reminded you of a fact you had spent too long ignoring, too caught up in uncovering what he hid beneath the surface to acknowledge. That Dex wasn’t invincible.

Eventually, his nine lives would run out.

So you stayed bent over him, listening to him breathe until the cusp of blue hour broke through the window. Afraid the room might become silent of his breaths if you didn’t watch over him, or that his body would go cold if you weren’t there to keep him warm.

The restlessness in your bones made your joints tingly and numb. Exhaustion crept into your body and with a gentle push off the couch, you sat up. Looked about the room.

The gear you had haphazardly stripped from him was strewn on the floor at your feet. You reached for the leather chest harness he kept his gun in. 

The dull sound of the metal latch involuntarily put the memory of removing it from him into your mind. Your fingertips ran over the cool leather, caressing it the way you did his skin moments before.

Your fingers stopped when you reached the small pocket meant for a smaller throwing knife. When your fingers tucked into the pocket, you felt the worn texture of old paper.

As if this night couldn't get anymore complicated, you pulled it out. This moment was so familiar to you and even pulled a soft laugh out of you.

Remembering the first time you found this folded up square in a CD case in his apartment. Dex hiding it from your eyes before you came over so you wouldn't think he was a creep.

But now, to find it in the harness he wore to his very dangerous job, in the very pocket that rested just over his heart...

It was so unfair of him. The way that he cared for you was tender and punishing at the same time. Loving you from a distance. Loving you as an observer and never sharing himself with you. Loving you, whether that love be platonic or not, and not caring if you loved him too by walking into danger every single night.

You wished he knew how it felt for you. To be cared about in a manner that's self-serving. To do things for yourself and not considering how it might affect him.

But on the contrary, that was the only love he knew. At least, before you.

That thought softened your resolve.

Fine. You could cut him a break—but you wouldn't let him get away with it completely.

Dex’s mind was quiet when he slept for once. Whether to credit the blood loss making him delirious or your body heat keeping him grounded during the night, he didn’t know. But he was certainly partial to one of those in particular. 

It was the sensation of his phone vibrating in his pocket that woke him. Anticipating the call to action had become a constant he relied on, but lately it felt like he was only getting sent away when he was with you. But it’s not like he had many career options left. 

Speaking of, you seemed to have left him during the night. Slipped away, likely into your bedroom. He was watching your closed door unwaveringly the entire time he was getting ready. The pain still echoing in his side from the still fresh wound was nothing compared to the wanting thoughts coating his mind.

He wanted into your bedroom. Badly. 

Dex never got to see your sleeping face like he wanted to because he fell asleep first the night before. He was almost pissed off at you for taking his chance away like that after he let you sleep beside him. 

Even while he was on his mission, stalking his target with the deadly stillness of deep water, his mind was on that closed bedroom door. Taunting him with the morning light that shone from under the crack. Beckoning him closer. 

The urge to turn the knob and take a peek at you sunk its claws into him. He knew most people kept their most intimate items where they slept, too. Old family photos, poorly written poetry, keepsake boxes kicked under the bed. Dex wanted to know if you had any of them. 

But he had resisted for one reason alone: you hadn’t invited him in.

It was a strange feeling to be stuck outside your door with some invisible force keeping his boots rooted to the ground. Like he was a vampire who needed permission to enter a home. Like he was above sneaking into your room while you slept. 

You hadn’t invited him in. 

Did he ever ask you permission for anything before? No. So why now was he suddenly unable to act? 

That question plagued his mind as he stepped out of hiding to take out his target. By now, completing a mission like this was second-nature to him; but he went a little overboard on securing his kill so he could feel his stitches tug and sting. 

When it was over, Dex slipped his mask off to breathe the cold night air into his lungs, catching his breath. He reached into the pocket of his gun harness as he always did afterwards and pulled the folded square he knew would be in his pocket.

This was his ritual after a mission. It kept his thoughts at bay, kept his mind quiet.

But when he pulled it out in his gloved hand, he immediately noticed something off with it. The paper wasn’t worn and flexible from being folded and unfolded time and time again. The red ink that had become splotched and runny wasn’t visible on the back anymore.

He quickly unfolded it.

Oh.

That’s not right.

When you had found the photo in his harness, you didn’t just find it touching. You saw it as an opportunity. If he wanted to play around with his life and show up scaring the soul out of you, then you could have your own fun too.

You had taken the stolen photo back and replaced it. With your beach photo. He’d seen it before, your figure lying on the sand with a silk veil draped over you. The outline of your body was barely visible through it, every curve or straight line appearing like carved stone. You looked like art, in short.

It wasn't like you gave him a nude—your pose and some help from the natural shadows covered enough to make it barely not x-rated.

Dex didn't find any of this as amusing as you did. It sent blood rushing away from his head and he was supposed to be calming himself down. Not working himself up. He was caught between irritation and arousal, both combining into a frustrating cocktail of inconvenient emotions he wasn't expecting to feel when he reached into his pocket initially.

And after he was so nice about not coming into your room earlier, too. He took some comfort in the fact that the correct photo was at least safe with you, but still. Not cool. 

That photo was his. 

He took another look at you posed on the sand. Ignored the burning heat on his skin. Folded it up into a square. And shoved it back into the holster.

He'd deal with you once he got home to New York.

The dull pattering of rain outside the window was a welcome start to your Saturday evening. It was thundering, the grey sky flashing with lightning and the air outside muggy and uncomfortably warm. 

You were safe and sound in your apartment with a hot cup of tea, because no one in their right mind would step out into weather that bleak and unfavorable. 

None except Dex apparently. 

You were standing in your kitchen when you heard a drop onto your fire escape. This time, not producing a sound that sent you into cardiac arrest. 

The mug in your hand was set down in favor of stepping out into the living room and looking at your fogged up screen door. You could see his shadow outside the door and your lips curved into a smile.

Dex,—still clad in his full Bullseye suit and gear—pointed to the door handle, signaling for you to open up for him. You shrugged your shoulders in a mock question, as if you couldn’t understand what he was asking.

You watched him raise a gloved hand to the foggy glass. He dragged his finger across it, drawing a target symbol into the window. Then, he pointed at you through the center of the target. That got a giggle out of you.

When you slid the door open, he came in dripping wet. He must have just returned from his mission. One you wanted to punch him for going on considering he had just been gravely injured the night before.

You almost flipped out when you left your room in the morning and saw that he and all his things were gone. Leaving behind only the blood stained into your sofa and memories that made you short of breath.

“Where is it?” he asked, not even bothering to greet you first.

“What, you don’t use the front door anymore?” you crossed your arms over your chest and looked into his eyes. “Is this some kind of villain protocol I wasn’t aware of?”

“The photo,” he emphasized through tightened lips, which he only did when he was wound up. Your joke on him must have really hit a nerve.

“Who’s asking? Bullseye?” you gestured to the mask he was wearing. “Because I believed it was Dex who that photo belonged to.”

You were trying to get on his case, yes. And you did think he was hot with the mask on, yes. But you liked his face a whole lot more. You knew he’d oblige if you asked, too.

He huffed out a breath and slipped the mask off his face. The way his blond hair stuck up for a moment made your smirk widen. Cute. Like a vicious golden puppy.

“What, you didn’t like the new one?” you teased.

“I–” you watched his throat twitch as he swallowed hard. “I like it. But.”

The other one is special. 

Your heart leaped at the unspoken words. Even with your (artistically) revealing photo in his possession, he was still missing the original. 

“Okay, fine. You can keep both.” you sighed out mockingly, like this was all a big inconvenience for you.

His shoulders relaxed.

“Follow me, I’ll get it for you,” you said over your shoulder, starting down the hall. “It’s in my bedroom.”

Then his body went taught.

Permission. Explicit, intentional permission for him to enter your bedroom. To think he had been driving himself mad the past 24 hours, trying to find a reason for his reluctance to sneak inside, and now here you were with an open invitation. 

It was like you could read his mind. Anticipate just what he wanted from you without having to ask. But you were still always asking him anyway, just to rile him up. And he would entertain your questions because he was always rewarded for it.

Such as now, as he stood in the door frame of your bedroom. Different than he envisioned when he was outside of it yesterday morning, but still so you that it almost suffocated him.

His eyes went straight to your bed (which you forgot to make this morning). Not because he was curious about the colors and patterns of your sheets. But because he had a suspicion to confirm. 

The shark plush was, in fact, there on your bed. Dex just knew you slept beside it nightly based on how it was partly concealed by your quilt.

He had the urge to hide it from you. It came over him so quickly he didn’t know what to do with it. So, he let it keep reeling. 

He had finally gotten a taste of what it was like to be that plush in the photo. Taking up a space at your side, being pressed to you until his scent was indistinguishable from yours. And now he wanted more.

Without it, you'd still need something to hold at night.

He stepped into your room finally, watching your back. You were digging through your dresser drawer, searching for the photograph you owed him.

No one ever gave him their back. Not anymore. It was too big a risk. But there you were, knowing anything in your bedroom could be weaponized against you by him, and still–you trusted him.

When you turned back around, folded photo in hand, he didn’t have the chance to fix his face into something more pleasant for you. 

His hand brushed yours when he took the photo from you and he tucked it away into his pocket. 

Your gaze dropped from his face down to his side. He had half a mind to think you may have been checking him out before his erratic brain remembered your fingers had been digging in his wound just two days ago.

“How’re your stitches doing?” you asked, concern veiling your voice.

Dex thought back to the feeling of them pulling apart during his mission last night. “Could use a touch-up.”

While he was eager to get you fussing over him again, he also knew you’d have to leave the room to get the first-aid supplies.

And you did, not before giving him a gentle scolding that he was reckless and needed to take it easy. “I’ve still got blood stains on my couch, by the way."

“Comes out easy with hydrogen peroxide.” he called after you.

“I’ll ignore how fast you answered that.” 

Once your voice was far enough away, Dex walked to your still open dresser drawer and peered inside. As he thought, it was an underwear drawer so he diverted his attention quickly beside it and spotted your laundry hamper.

Resting on top was a crumpled pajama set with a blur of navy blue mixed into the pile.

His hoodie. On your pajamas. You wore it to bed. It wasn't a question in his mind. There's no other reason for it to be there, tangled up in your sleep clothes. Dex tore his eyes away from the sight when he felt a tug at his heart.

He stepped away from the hamper and moved to your bedside table.

Slow and stealthy, he pulled the top drawer open and catalogued what you kept inside. Supplements. Meds. Sleeping pills. An expensive chocolate bar you were saving for later. Half-stamped rewards card for a local book store. Wired earbuds. 

He shut it and opened the bottom drawer. Raspberry gum. Receipt for the overpriced chocolate bar. And pressed to the very back of the drawer—a worn journal.

That urge, much like before, rushed through his veins without warning. Take it. It wasn’t so much a thought as it was a need to be met. An itch he couldn’t ignore.

With a quick glance at the door to make sure you weren’t coming, he pulled the journal from the drawer. It was closed securely with an elastic cord he pushed aside. 

Dex flipped to the last page. It was dated back a week ago. He didn’t even read what was on the page. Just skimmed to see if his name was written. Eyes darting to every capital D on the page until...

“Sorry it took so long,” your voice called from the hall. 

It startled him from his snooping and he tore the page out, shut the journal closed, and shoved it back in the drawer.

You appeared in the doorway holding the kit. 

He was sitting at the edge of your bed, resting weight on his hands behind him. You sat beside him and opened the kit up on your quilt, grabbing tweezers and a cotton ball.

“Let’s see the damage,” you requested, “probably just needs to be cleaned since you don’t seem to be bleeding through your clothes this time.”

“Sure thing doc.” he murmured sarcastically at your jab. 

You watched him unlatch the chest harness and remove his gloves. Unblinking, eyes half-lidded following his hands. Not to watch for the off-chance he might use them against you, though. He realized when he saw how your chest rose and fell a little faster. Your lips parted. This time, you were definitely checking him out.

He lifted his shirt haphazardly with no regard for his injury, tossing it over his head. 

You winced at the sight. “You can afford to be more careful, Dex.”

But all he could focus on was the cadence in which you said his name. There was some dried blood underneath the bandages, indicating he had bled a little from the pulled stitches during his mission.

You tutted and shook your head. The sight pleased him and he didn’t bother hiding that on his face, leaning back on his hands again.

With the cotton ball squeezed between the tweezers prongs, you began cleaning up the wound.

“Have I mentioned I hate your job?” you mumbled.

“Didn’t need to.” 

He watched your face. How your eyebrows scrunched together in concentration. How your tongue peaked out when you were focusing. Both more than reason enough to crawl to you every time he got hurt from now on. 

"Well, I do," you spat. "And I hate how much you don't seem to care what happens to you."

Oh, he realized. So that's what had you so pissed at him.

“How’d you deal with this before me?” you asked, reaching back into the kit for another cotton ball. “Better question, how have you never succumbed to your injuries by now?”

“A lot of luck. And some help,” he hissed when you pulled at his stitches. Maybe on purpose. For some reason his mind went back to that racy photo of yours when you did.

“Yeah, well.” you pulled away and closed the kit. “Good thing you’re so popular.”

A breathy laugh escaped him at that. Then, he leaned down to reach for his shirt and heard you gasp. A horrified, sharp intake of air.

When he turned back to you, brow furrowed, you had your hand over your mouth. It reminded him of your expression when you found him bleeding out on your fire escape.

You motioned with your hand for him to turn his back to you again. 

Oh. Right. That.

He assumed you had just wanted to see his scar again out of morbid curiosity. It was pretty gnarly, a crooked red centipede-like line down his back that never healed right. 

But then he felt your hand on his back. A warm contrast to the cold that always crept onto his skin there from the cogmium replacing what was once bone and rushing blood. 

He let out an involuntary groan when your nails inadvertently met the indent in his skin. 

You pulled your hand back quickly. “I-I’m sorry, did I hurt you?”

He shook his head. God no. It was the exact opposite.

“No,” he rasped. “First time in a while it’s stopped hurting, if you can believe it."

His eyes fell shut as he anticipated the next touch of your hand now that he had eased your worries. When it came, he let out a deep, pleasured sigh. 

Your fingertip traced his scar from between his shoulder blades all the way down to his lower back, stopping just at the waistband of his pants. 

“How did this happen?” 

Your voice was so small. You weren’t asking about the cause. You wanted to know who did this to him. Who would hurt him like this.

“Same thing that always happens to me.”

His words were intentional. Void of any responsibility. Unwilling to acknowledge his part in any of it. As if nothing was consequence to him. As if things were just done to him with no rhyme or reason.

“I wouldn’t have let that happen to you.”

He had to laugh at your words even though they were far removed from humor. It was an automatic reaction caused by a sudden breathlessness in his chest. A sound akin to a cough, trying to get air back into his lungs while he tried to derive meaning from your simple phrase. 

But maybe there was some truth to it. You weren’t just a presence to aspire to, or just a constant he could guarantee in his otherwise out of control life like he thought you’d be to him.

You were more. More than his pain. More than his self-loathing. More than his anger.

He thought this was about getting to know you. Dissecting you. Taking your photos and ripping out diary pages and ordering the same food as you at breakfast to know what you were tasting.

But you were dissecting him, too, and he was too distracted to notice. Taking his knife and leaving it hung on your wall, soaking your hands in his blood, wearing his hoodie to bed so you’d smell his presence beside you. 

You craved him just as much as he did you. 

And it wasn’t clarity that hit him in that moment. It was a gripping terror that seized him, sinking its claws in deep around his heart. Because everyone who’s ever been close to him has wound up dead, by his own hands or otherwise.

That swarmed in his head mercilessly. His body trembled. He couldn't quiet the onslaught of fear that settled in his mind and blocked him from hearing anything but shrill, unrelenting noise.

Then, soft pressure on his back. Warm and inviting between his shoulder blades. He’d traced the shape of your lips with his gaze enough times to know you had them on his skin. Kissing the ugly scar he had just revealed to you.

A violent shiver ran down his back. But pleasant. Then cold again when you pulled away. 

“Again.” he knew it sounded demanding. But really he was begging. “…Please.”

It was unfair how easily you remedied his pain. And now that he had proof that it was you who made all of it better, tangible in the way your lips calmed the chronic ache in his body, and the one in his mind telling him he was broken--he wasn't going to give you another chance to slip away from him.

In a motion so swift it nearly startled you, Dex turned towards you and slid his hand through your hair to grip the nape of your neck. Using the leverage to pull you closer to him as he leaned down to your level, his fingers pressing against your skin where he held you.

You gasped sharply when his nose brushed yours, and he felt your breath on your lips. Quick, uneven. But not afraid. Never afraid.

He swallowed hard, his grip on your nape tightening as if he was trying to hold back. The only thing preventing him from having you was that annoying voice in his head again. Permission.

“Dex…” your lips trembled out his name. 

And then he was done for.

His fingers pressed into your nape, guiding your lips to crush against his. You let out a surprised wince at the feeling of your teeth clashing, hands flying to his face so you could fix you both into a softer angle.

But he thought you were trying to pull away, and he let go of you swiftly. If he didn't release you from his grip entirely right then, he wasn't going to have the strength to.

You, on the other hand, weren't done just yet. You weren't going to let him sink into dejection when you so clearly wanted him. Needed him.

So you took his face into your hands, turning his head back towards you and pressing your lips against his in one smooth motion. Only relaxing into it when you felt him kissing you back again with just as much desperation.

With your eyes half-lidded, you caught him watching you. You had only been trying to check for his expression, and it tore you up inside to realize he already had his eyes on you. Wanting to see your face for himself as you both kissed, every micro-expression as you melted between want, fondness, and most prominent in the way your eyebrows scrunched as you bit his lip—greed.

It was a good thing you were both sitting, because your knees weakened when you felt his tongue brush yours. A soft grunt into your mouth from his throat that made your other hand fly to his hair. Pulling on dirty blond strands, tugging roughly just to hear him crumble from how much you needed him. Because you were falling apart at his proof of how much he needed you, too.

His hands reached out to guide you when you shifted onto your knees on the mattress, crawling into his lap without breaking the kiss. Your lungs burned and you could tell his did too when your hands fell to his chest and found it motionless from his lack of air intake.

But you wouldn't part just yet. You were too busy devouring him, tasting the lies he fed you on his tongue and how they unraveled into sweeter truths over time.

And he was just as gone as you were, soft groans leaving his mouth. Possessive, but also frustrated that he couldn't consume you completely. That he couldn't read your thoughts just by kissing you. Something this intimate should let him peer into your mind, he thought. His hands gripped your hips tighter, squeezing over your hipbones and then groping the flesh of your stomach above it in a way that made you shiver and finally break from his lips.

His hand lifted back up to the back of your neck, keeping you there against him. Not letting you stray too far. He wanted you to breathe against him just like that, with his forehead pressed to yours so only he could have the air from your lungs.

Dex's hands then dropped back to your middle, pulling you against him until no space remained. He dropped his head against your chest, no longer panting for air but still trying to get a grip on himself. Your lips pressing a kiss to his head in that same instance both soothed and tortured him more.

He retaliated by gripping your hips again and flipping you both, letting you fall back against your unmade bed with a gentle bounce. He leaned over you, watching your coy smile melt into timidness the longer he stared.

“Have you blinked in the past ten minutes?” you teased, lips stretching into a grin.

Dex, unimpressed by your comment, leaned down to swallow your laugh with another kiss. His teeth sank into your bottom lip as punishment and he delighted in the pained whine from your throat that followed when he bit you harder.

He pulled back to look at you again.

“I let you get away with a lot.” he said. “Not anymore.”

“We’ll see about that,” you hummed gently, your hands around the back of his neck. “And just so you know—if you show up at my door on the brink of death again, I’m making you sleep outside.”

“What, like a dog?” he huffed, leaning down to catch your lips again. But you turned your head, making him press against your cheek instead. “I think a bullet in the side is punishment enough.”

“Dex.”

Your voice came out so stern it made his blood run cold. He pulled back to look down at you.

“I used to have my coffee by myself every morning. Then I’d work all day and come home to my empty apartment, and all I’d think about was how the next day would be the same lonely routine. I'd stay up late just to put it off,” your voice wavered. “But I don't lose sleep anymore. Because you’re always around."

His chest tightened.

“Don’t make me go back to being alone," you pleaded.

Don't go where I can't reach you.

You weren’t mad at him for being away. You were terrified of the very same thing he was—that every goodbye would be the last.

He had people who wanted him dead, and you had…well, him. The man who was cursed to be alone, death tainting every person who ever got close enough to touch him.

If that curse took you next...

“I could say the same to you.”

You gave him a watery smile. “I told you before. I’m not going anywhere.”

Dex believed you, because he wasn’t going to let you out of his sight ever again. He wouldn’t give anyone the chance to take you away from him.

Instead of going to the diner, you both had tea in your apartment. You let the rain be a backdrop as he helped you clean his blood off your sofa that afternoon, music playing from your speaker as you did.

You asked Dex to stay the night. You didn't want to part from him just yet. He didn't tell you that he planned to stay anyway as he accepted your invitation.

And as you lied beside him in your messy sheets, curling yourself into his chest to listen to his steady heartbeat, he made sure not to fall asleep first this time. Observing your face in the moonlight creeping through the curtains as you dreamed away. Stealing a kiss from your sleeping lips before letting you rest.

The page he ripped from your diary was still in his pocket, too. He couldn't wait to read what you'd written about him.

a/n i had this absolutely amazing art in mind when writing part of the kiss. i def believe dex would have his eyes wide open while kissing someone especially for the first time.

feedback always welcomed and appreciated! tysm to everyone in my taglist for following the story so far. and to everyone reading regardless of course!

thinking about him escaping from prison, after all the carnage he's caused at the diner, he comes to your place. you haven't moved since he went to prison, and you haven't changed the locks either.

he waltzes in, mask still on, covered in blood as he stands in your kitchen. you're in the shower - he debates walking in to see you again, to surprise you. he decides against it, he can hear you humming to yourself and wants to truly see the look on your face when you realise he's escaped to come home to you. He makes himself at home, sitting on the stools at the kitchen island and eating some strawberries from your fridge.

your relationship with Dex ended incredibly abruptly when you found out about his secret acts before he went to prison. everything he did for the Fisk's, the FBI, everything he had done, everything he took pleasure in doing. it made you feel sick. the relationship ended the night he killed foggy. your friend, foggy. you didn't go to Josie's that night, opting for a quiet night in after work, until Dex stumbled home from the bar covered in Foggy's blood, telling you he had done it for yours and his future. Matt broke into your apartment and continued to fight with Dex until you threw the two of them out and vowed to never engage in anything to do with their "stupid side shit roles" ever again.

"Hey there, sweetheart." The voice startled you. Dex couldn't help himself. how could he when you looked so angelic after just getting out of the shower? smelling of rose scented shampoo, your hair and body still damp, the same shampoo he loved before he went to prison.

"Dex..." You uttered, the mask only showing you his eyes as he rose from his seat on the stool. "Do not come any closer. I have guns hidden all over the apartment and I swear-"

"Attagirl, just like I taught you, huh?" you knew the smug bastard was smirking underneath his mask. "didn't you miss me, sweet girl? I missed you."

"you killed my friend. you had an entire secret life you kept from me. you ruined everything I ever had." you harshly responded as he took a few steps closer to you. "Dex I fucking mean it, stay the fuck back or I swear I'll-"

He raised his hand to pull the mask from his face and you lost any sense that was left in your brain. his hair was longer now, with the grey strands coming through, with his prominent scar next to his lips pulled up into a smirk as he stared at your dumbfounded expression. you had to fight every urge to touch him, to run your hands through his hair, to look down at his lips. do not look down at his lips. "you'll what, huh?" he chuckled to himself. "you could've told me to leave at any point, yet here I am. and you're doing that look." Dex began to step closer to you, your feet itching backwards across your carpet to the wall. "you've got that look in your eye."

"i..." you really didn't know what to say. all you could do was focus on his eyes. they hadn't changed, he still looked at you with adoration and love (in his own fucked up way). "w-well leave then!"

"now you're just saying it because I put that thought in your head pretty girl. you still need me to think for you, huh? can't use that big brain of yours to tell me all the ways ive ruined your life and you hate me?" he laughed, knee raising between your legs.

"I hate you, Benjamin poindexter. I fucking hate you for everything you've ever done." You quipped, seeing him lower one hand to his belt holster and you gulped. "I d-don't need you to do anything. I was fine before you went to prison, I was brilliant while you were in there and I'm perfect now!"

"oh honey, don't lie to me. I know when you're lying, you're so bad at it." he laughed, brushing your hair back as you trembled under his touch. "you need me, pretty girl. you can't have been doing that good, huh? I know you. I know you inside and out, I know you haven't even thought of anyone else whilst I've been gone, let alone acted on it-"

You wanted to play a game, albeit, a dangerous game that would break him before he broke you. "That shows how well you know me, Matt was here last night." You smiled and the smirk dropped from his face, now replaced with a vengeful scowl. "We've got in contact again, all thanks to you. We had a few glasses of wine, watched TV and then he followed me into my room-"

A harsh hand wrapped around your throat quicker than you could react, eyes wide with shock as Dex growled. "Don't fucking test me, sweetheart. You can't lie to me, especially about that, do you understand?" When you didn't answer (more focused on trying to pry his wrist from your throat as you gasped for air), he tightened his grip and held your wrists above your head. "Do you understand huh? or have you become that stupid since I've been gone you forgot who you belong to? Do I have to remind you?"

"D-Dex." you wheezed out, barely making out the words as your vision became blurry whilst he squeezed the sides of your throat tighter. Your feet were no longer touching the ground and the towel that had once wrapped around your naked body was now dropped to the floor. You kicked your legs out in an effort to try and gain some control over the situation but it was no use.

When he thought you had enough, Dex roughly released you onto the floor. You knelt down gasping for breath - panting like an animal who was thirsty for water. Your hands clawed at your throat to try and alleviate the pressure. "Now, sweetheart, let's try this again, huh?" Dex now knelt down to your height on the floor, still towering over you as you focused on the carpet. "Eyes up here, pretty girl, look at me." His fingers gripped your jaw and you winced in fear. "I would never hurt you sweetheart, never ever." He smiled. "Were you lying to me just then, about him?" You stayed silent and he squeezed your jaw once again and you nodded with a quiet whimper. "Now, what do we say?

"'m sorry Dex, I-i didnt mean to!" you exclaimed, looking up at him with glossy eyes as he smiled down at you. "m sorry, promise, didn't mean to hurt you, just wanted to-"

"I know sweetie I know." he smiled, pulling you in for a tight hug as you scrambled closer to him. "you just wanted to make me jealous huh? wanted me to get angry?" you didn't know what to say. Dex was unpredictable, irrational and terrifying all at once. opting to do what seemed best, you nodded sweetly. "I know, honey, it's okay. don't ever, ever do it again. do you understand? and don't ever mention that fuckers name or I'll ruin you so good the only name you remember is mine, huh?"

It was such a stupid thing to get hurt over.

Not a mission. Not some dangerous situation. Not anything remotely worthy of the way Frank Castle was eventually going to react to it.

Just a loose cabinet door in the kitchen.

That was it.

The hinge had been hanging crooked for almost a week now, making the stupid thing sag every time you opened it. Frank had noticed immediately, of course. He’d muttered something under his breath, grabbed a screwdriver from the junk drawer, then gotten distracted by three different emergencies before he could actually fix it.

“I’ll do it tomorrow,” he’d promised absentmindedly two days ago, kissing the top of your head on his way out the door. Tomorrow became another day. Then another.

And honestly? It wasn’t even bothering you that much anymore.

It just became one of those tiny things that sat in the back of your mind every time you walked into the kitchen. The loose hinge. The crooked door. The unfinished task. So when Frank left that afternoon to meet Micro for “an hour, tops,” you figured you’d just handle it yourself.

How hard could it be?

Turns out: harder than expected.

Because apparently the tiny metal spring inside the hinge was under enough tension to become a literal weapon.

You sigh dramatically as you crawl onto the kitchen counter, cracking your neck.

"Okay.." You hum, reaching up into the cabinet. You brace one knee carefully against the marble counter, tongue poking slightly between your teeth as you squint up at the crooked hinge. The cabinet door hangs open awkwardly beside your head, swaying every time you move.

“Frank literally said this would be easy,” you mutter. In hindsight, that probably should’ve been your first warning sign. You reach deeper into the cabinet with the screwdriver clenched in one hand, trying to line the hinge back into place while simultaneously holding the stupid door steady with your shoulder. Immediately impossible.

“Okay, no, that’s fine,” you mumble to yourself as the cabinet door slips sideways again. “Didn’t need both hands anyway.” You awkwardly adjust your balance higher onto the counter. The hinge suddenly shifts.

There’s a loud metallic snap. Then—

“Fuck—!” Pain explodes across your palm. Bright. Sharp. Immediate. You jerk backward instinctively as the screwdriver slips clean out of your grip. The cabinet hinge springs loose like a trap, one jagged metal edge slicing straight across the center of your hand. For one stunned second, all you can do is stare at it. The cut opens slowly. Then blood pours out.

“Oh my God—” Your stomach lurches instantly. The pain hits all at once now, white-hot and throbbing hard enough to make your fingers spasm. You clutch your injured hand automatically, which is unfortunately the exact moment you realize you are still balanced precariously on the kitchen counter.

“Oh, shit—” Your foot slips. The world tilts violently sideways. And then you’re falling. You hit the floor hard enough to knock the air straight out of your lungs. Your shoulder slams into the cabinet first. Then your hip. Then the back of your head bounces lightly against tile with a painful crack.

“Jesus Christ—” The cabinet door comes down with you. It smashes beside your leg in a horrible explosion of wood and metal. For a second, you just lie there spread across the kitchen floor in complete silence, staring at the ceiling while pain radiates through approximately every inch of your body. Your hand throbs violently against your chest. Something warm drips down your wrist. You slowly sit up with a groan—and immediately regret it when dizziness washes over you.

Blood.

So much blood.

It’s running down your palm fast now, dripping off your elbow onto the tile in fat red splatters. Your shoulder aches where you hit the cabinet, and there’s already a nasty pulse forming at the back of your skull.

You stare at the demolished cabinet door lying beside you.

Then at your bleeding hand. Then at the streak of blood now smeared across the kitchen floor.

Your hand pulses violently in time with your heartbeat. The cut is deep enough that every movement sends fresh blood spilling between your fingers, hot and slick and impossible to ignore. You press the sleeve of your shirt against it with a shaky hiss You push yourself upright using the counter and nearly crumple again when your hip screams in protest. Apparently you landed harder than you thought. Great. Fantastic. Love that for you. The kitchen looks like a crime scene.

The cabinet door is snapped clean off one hinge. There’s blood on the tile. Blood on the counter. A suspicious streak on the fridge somehow.

You stumble toward the sink, dizzy enough that your shoulder clips the counter on the way there. The impact makes pain spark behind your eyes.

“Motherfucker—” The second cold water hits your hand, your knees almost buckle. The cut burns so viciously you actually gag a little. Blood swirls pink down the drain in endless ribbons no matter how hard you try to rinse it away.

“Oh my God,” you whisper, staring in horror. “Why is there so much?” You grab paper towels with your good hand and wrap them frantically around your palm. Within seconds, red blooms through all the layers.

Cool. Cool cool cool.

Your breathing’s getting too fast now. Panic mixing with adrenaline and pain until your thoughts feel slippery. Frank is gonna freak out. Not angry freak out—worse. That terrifying quiet kind where he looks at you like you’ve been shot in front of him. You cannot deal with that right now. So instead, you start cleaning. Which would maybe be more convincing if you weren’t actively swaying on your feet. You wipe down the floor first, crouching carefully while your injured hand throbs hard enough to make your vision pulse. Every time you move your fingers, fresh pain shoots up your wrist.

“Stupid,” you hiss at yourself, scrubbing another streak off the tile. “So stupid.”

Your shoulder aches. Your head aches. Your hip definitely feels bruised already.

And your hand— Your stomach turns every time you accidentally glimpse it beneath the blood-soaked paper towels. You should probably get stitches. That realization lands heavily in your chest.

“No,” you say out loud immediately. “Absolutely not.” Because stitches would require a hospital. And a hospital would require explaining. And explaining would require Frank finding out. You look toward the clock. Forty minutes until he gets home. Panic spikes fresh and hot. You force yourself upright again and immediately have to grab the counter when dizziness crashes over you hard enough to tilt the room sideways.

“…Okay maybe concussion-adjacent,” you mumble. Your reflection in the microwave startles you a little. Pale. Sweaty. Hair a mess. Eyes glassy with pain. Frank is going to know something’s wrong instantly. You rush to the bathroom anyway. By the time you’re done wrapping your hand in gauze from the first aid kit, it looks bulky and suspicious as hell. You stare at it miserably.

“Maybe if I just keep my hand behind my back the entire night.” Even you don’t buy that. You try to fix your hair next. Wash the blood off your arms. Change your shirt. Halfway through pulling the clean shirt over your head, pain slices through your shoulder so sharply you gasp and nearly pass out again.

“…Jesus Christ.” You lean heavily against the bathroom sink breathing through it. This has officially become the worst decision you’ve made all month. And somehow—somehow—the thing making you most emotional right now is the stupid broken cabinet. Because Frank said he’d do it. And instead of waiting, you made everything worse. Your eyes sting unexpectedly.

“Oh, come on,” you whisper miserably. “Don’t cry. That’s pathetic.” The lock clicks at the front door. Your entire body freezes. Then Frank’s voice echoes through the apartment.

“Baby?” A pause. “Why’s it smell like bleach in here?”

Shit.

Shit, shit, shit.

Your stomach drops straight to your feet. You stare at yourself in the mirror one last time—pale face, pupils blown a little too wide, gauze already spotting pink through the bandage—and try desperately to look normal.

“Coming,” you call, and your voice comes out weirdly breathless. Too high. Frank notices immediately. You hear his boots stop moving in the other room. A beat of silence. Then slower:

“…You okay?”

“Yep!” you answer way too fast. Oh, fantastic. You close your eyes briefly against the wave of dizziness rolling through your skull, then push yourself off the sink before you can think too hard about it. Your knees wobble the second you step into the hallway. Frank’s standing near the kitchen when you finally emerge. And immediately - immediately - his expression changes.

Not dramatically. That’s the scary part. Frank goes still in the way predators do. His eyes flick once over your face. Your posture. The too-careful way you’re holding your arm. The damp little flyaways around your hairline from sweat. The fact that you won’t quite meet his eyes.

“…Baby,” he says slowly. You smile so hard it hurts.

“Hi.” Frank doesn’t move.

“What happened?”

“Nothing.” Instantly:

“Bullshit.”

“It’s literally nothing.” His gaze drops. Right to the trash can beside the bathroom door. Stuffed full of blood-soaked paper towels.

Shit.

Frank’s head lifts very slowly. And the look on his face makes your stomach turn over.

Not anger.

Worse.

Fear.

Pure, cold fear already blooming behind his eyes. He crosses the apartment so fast you barely process it before he’s in front of you, hands hovering at your waist like he doesn’t know where he’s allowed to touch yet.

“What happened?” he asks again, voice lower now. You instinctively tuck your injured hand behind your back. Frank notices that too. Of course he does.

“Baby,” he says carefully, “show me your hand.”

“It’s fine.”

“Show me.”

“I said it’s fi—” The room tilts. Hard. You stop mid-sentence, grabbing blindly for the wall as nausea crashes through you in one violent wave. Frank catches you before your knees fully buckle.

“Whoa—hey, hey—” You hear his voice go sharp with panic as his arms lock around you. “Jesus Christ.”

“I’m okay,” you mumble automatically.

“You are visibly not okay.” The words come out rough and frightened. Frank half-carries you toward the couch, one arm braced around your waist while the other cups the back of your neck. The movement jostles your hand and pain shoots all the way up your arm. You hiss. Frank freezes instantly. His eyes snap to the bulky gauze wrapped around your palm. Then to the blood slowly soaking through it. His face drains completely.

“…Oh, baby.” That tone almost makes you cry on the spot.

“It looks worse than it is,” you whisper weakly. Frank just stares at your hand for one awful second before very, very carefully taking your wrist.

“You’re bleedin’ through the bandage,” he says quietly.

“I tried to fix it.”

“You what?”

“The cabinet,” you mumble, suddenly unable to look at him. “I just wanted to fix the stupid hinge because you kept forgetting and then the spring thing snapped and I fell and—”

“You fell?” Okay. Apparently that was the wrong detail. Frank goes pale under the stubble.

“You hit your head?” he asks immediately. You hesitate. Frank’s voice sharpens.

“Baby. Did you hit your head?”

“…Maybe a little.” His entire body tenses. He looks back at the cabinet, then back at you, his fists clenched.

"I told you I would handle it."

“I know,” you say quietly. “I just thought—”

"This is exactly what I was afraid of. Fuck !" He yells, shaking his head. The shout cracks through the apartment so suddenly you flinch. Not because you think he’s angry at you. Because Frank sounds terrified. He turns away sharply, dragging both hands over his face before pacing two steps into the kitchen like he physically cannot contain the panic burning through him. His chest heaves once. Twice.

“You’re bleedin’ all over the damn apartment, you hit your head, you almost passed out, an’ you’re tellin’ me it’s nothing?”

“I didn’t want you to freak out.” Frank actually laughs at that. One short, wrecked sound.

“Little late for that, sweetheart.” He turns back toward you immediately after, anger already collapsing into something rawer the second he sees the way you’re shrinking into yourself on the couch. His expression crumples a little around the edges.

“Hey,” he says quieter. “No, c’mere. Don’t do that.” You hadn’t even realized your eyes were watering again until his voice softened.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper. “I just wanted to fix it before you got home.” Frank’s face twists like the words physically hurt him.

“Baby, I don’t give a shit about the cabinet.”

“You said you’d handle it and I know you’ve been stressed and busy and I thought maybe if I just fixed one thing—”

“Stop.” He’s back in front of you instantly, crouching down between your knees. “Stop talkin’ like you did somethin’ wrong.” Your injured hand throbs violently in your lap. Frank notices the way you flinch and immediately gentles further, like someone turning down the volume on a storm.

“Lemme see,” he murmurs. You reluctantly hold your hand out. The second Frank carefully unwraps the blood-soaked gauze, he goes white.

“Oh, Jesus Christ.”

“It’s not that bad—”

“It is that bad.” His voice shakes. Actually shakes. “Honey, you can see how deep this is, right?” You look away immediately. Frank exhales hard through his nose, visibly trying to get himself under control. Then he reaches up and cups your jaw carefully.

“Look at me.” You do. And God, he looks devastated. Not annoyed. Not frustrated. Just scared out of his mind. Guilt crashes through you so hard it almost hurts worse than the injury itself.

“I’m sorry.” You hum. He sighs, shaking his head.

"S'alright. S'alright, just stay there, kay ?" He darts off to the bathroom, thudding and clattering echoing from the room. You hear him ripping drawers open before he comes back with the first aid kit clutched in one hand and a wet washcloth in the other. His face is still pale. Jaw tight enough to crack teeth. But the second he kneels in front of you again, every movement turns painfully gentle.

“Okay,” he murmurs, more to himself than you. “Okay, sweetheart, lemme clean it up first.” You nod weakly. Frank sits beside you instead of staying on the floor, close enough that one of his thighs presses against yours the entire time. Like he needs constant proof you’re upright and breathing. He carefully lifts your injured hand into his lap, holding it so delicately it almost hurts worse.

“You dizzy right now?” he asks immediately.

“A little.”

“Nauseous?”

“…Yeah.” His mouth flattens.

“Probably got a concussion,” he mutters darkly. “Jesus Christ.” Then, softer: “You shoulda called me, baby.”

“I didn’t wanna bother you.” That gets a reaction. Frank’s head snaps up so fast it startles you.

“Don’t ever say that again.” Your chest tightens instantly.

“You are never a bother to me,” he says firmly, eyes burning straight through you. “You call me. Every time. I don’t care if it’s a broken nail or the damn apartment’s on fire, you hear me?” You swallow hard and nod. Frank exhales shakily, calming himself back down before looking at your hand again. The washcloth turns pink almost immediately when he starts carefully wiping blood away. You hiss through your teeth.

“I know,” he whispers instantly. “I know, honey. I got you.” His thumb rubs absently against your wrist while he works. Grounding you as much as himself. “Just gotta clean it up.” The cut looks even worse properly cleaned. Deep across the center of your palm, angry and red and still slowly bleeding. Frank goes quiet. Not detached quiet. Scared quiet. You watch his throat bob once before he reaches for antiseptic.

“This’s gonna sting,” he warns softly.

“It already stings.”

“Yeah, well.” He gives you a tired little look. “This part’s gonna sting disrespectfully.” Then he pours the antiseptic over the cut. Pain detonates through your hand.

“Oh, fuck—Frank—”

“I know, baby, I know, I know.” He catches you automatically when you jerk toward him, one arm wrapping around your waist while the other keeps hold of your hand. “Breathe. C’mon. Look at me.” Your eyes burn instantly. Frank presses his forehead briefly against yours while the antiseptic drips pink into the towel beneath your hand.

“You’re okay,” he whispers. “You’re okay. Got you.” The tenderness in his voice almost makes you cry harder than the pain does. Once the cut is finally cleaned and bandaged properly, Frank sits back just enough to inspect his work with a deep frown.

“You probably need stitches,” he mutters. Your face immediately falls. Frank notices instantly.

“…You really don’t wanna go to the hospital?”

“No.” Normally he’d argue. You can see it on his face—that instinct to drag you somewhere safe and medically supervised whether you liked it or not. But then he looks at you again. The exhaustion. The dizziness. The tears you’re trying not to cry. And he softens immediately.

“Okay,” he sighs quietly. “Okay. We monitor it tonight. But if you pass out again or start throwin’ up, I’m carrying you into an ER whether you like it or not.” He carefully rewraps your hand with fresh gauze from the first aid kit, movements painfully gentle for someone with hands that rough. Every time you hiss, his jaw clenches harder.

“There,” he mutters after tying it off carefully. “Pressure’ll help a little.” You watch him quietly. Frank avoids your eyes while he cleans the blood off your wrist with a damp cloth, expression thunderous and miserable all at once.

“…You were cleanin’ it up.” The realization lands suddenly in his voice. You swallow.

“I didn’t want you to come home and panic.” His head snaps up.

“Baby.” The word comes out shattered. “You were bleedin’ bad enough t’pass out and your priority was makin’ sure I didn’t panic?” Your eyes sting again immediately. Frank looks like he might actually lose his mind.

“Oh, sweetheart.” He puts the cloth down instantly and crowds closer, big hands settling carefully at your waist. “C’mere.” You practically fall into him. The second your forehead hits his shoulder, Frank wraps both arms around you so tightly it almost hurts. Like he’s trying to physically hold you together.

“I got you,” he murmurs into your hair. “I got you now.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Stop apologizin’.”

“But you were right and I should’ve just waited and now the cabinet’s broken and—”

“Baby.” He pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes fierce suddenly. “Listen t’me real careful right now.” One hand slides up to cradle the back of your head with unbelievable gentleness.

“I do not care about the cabinet.”

“…You don’t?”

“I’d rip every damn cabinet outta this apartment myself if it meant you didn’t end up hurt.” His voice breaks slightly around the edges. “You think I care about wood an’ screws right now?” That finally breaks you a little. Your face crumples instantly. Frank’s expression softens so fast it’s almost painful.

“Oh, honey. Hey, no.” He kisses your forehead immediately. Then your temple. Then the corner of your eye. “Don’t cry.” You curl into him, your head pounding.

"I should've listened to you." Frank exhales slowly through his nose, like he’s trying to physically push the panic out of his body before it turns into something sharper.

“Yeah,” he says at first—and you tense immediately—but then he shakes his head. “No. No, that ain’t it.” His hand stays steady at the back of your neck, thumb moving in slow, grounding strokes.

“You don’t get to turn this into somethin’ you did wrong,” he says quietly. “You hear me?” Your throat tightens.

“But I—”

“Hey.” A little firmer now. Not angry. Just absolute. “No.” You go quiet. Frank watches your face for a second like he’s making sure the point actually landed, then his expression softens again—like something inside him physically deflates when you stop arguing. “That cabinet?” he says, voice lower. “That’s on me. I said I’d fix it. I didn’t. That’s it.” You blink at him through the haze in your head.

“Frank, that’s not—”

“It is.” He cuts in gently, but firmly. “And you hurt yourself because you were tryin’ to take care of somethin’ in this place I should’ve already handled.” His jaw tightens for a second, like even saying it costs him something.

“That’s on me,” he repeats, quieter. The words don’t sit right in your chest either. Too heavy. Too unfair.

“No,” you whisper, shaking your head a little too fast—then immediately regretting it as your skull throbs. “No, it’s not like that. I just… I didn’t think it would—”

“I know.” Frank’s thumb brushes your cheek, catching a fresh tear before it falls. “I know you didn’t.” Silence stretches for a beat. Then his voice drops softer than before. “But you’re hurt,” he says. “That’s the only part I care about right now.” You swallow hard. Frank shifts closer without thinking, like gravity just decided you belong in his space and he stopped arguing with it. His forehead touches yours again, careful this time—no pressure, just contact.

“I need you to do somethin’ for me,” he murmurs. You let out a shaky breath.

“Okay.”

“No more fixin’ things when I’m not here.” A pause. “No more climbin’ on counters. No more ‘I got it’ when it’s somethin’ that can wait.” You almost protest out of instinct, but his hand tightens slightly at the back of your neck—not restricting, just anchoring. “Can you do that?” he asks. It isn’t a command. It’s… fear, shaped into a question. So you nod.

“Yeah,” you whisper. “Yeah, okay.” Frank lets out a breath like he’s been holding it for hours.

“Good,” he says softly. Then, after a beat, his mouth quirks just a little—barely there, but real. “‘Cause if you try to give me a heart attack again over somethin’ that dumb, I’m gonna start boltin’ every cabinet shut in this place.” Despite everything—your head pounding, your hand throbbing—you let out a weak laugh.

“That’s insane.”

“Mhm.” He presses a kiss to your forehead. “Welcome to bein’ married to me.”

“I’m not married to you.” Frank pauses.

“…Not yet.” That gets another small, broken laugh out of you, and he visibly relaxes at the sound of it, like it’s the first real sign the world is righting itself again.

“There you go,” he murmurs. “That’s it. Stay with me, yeah?” His hand slides down to your shoulder, steadying you as he shifts to lie beside you on the couch, pulling you carefully against his chest like he’s trying to replace every shaky part of you with himself.

“Oh my God.” His voice muffles against your shirt. “I’m never lettin’ you hold a screwdriver again.”

taglist !

spencer is hardly phased by it. or you think he is. you can’t really tell between his babbling about the snow and how unfortunate it is that the bau sent out its youngest agents out here.

you barely manage to open the door, when spencer cuts in, saying -

“i’ve read that um-” he starts, too fast too casual - “sharing a bed in cold environments improves sleep due to shared body heat”

you blink at him. once.

spencer swallows.

“are you suggesting anything?” you ask, one eyebrow raised.

“just data”

right. yeah right. cool of him to say such things when you can’t stop thinking about two things.

one, how the hell you’re gonna get through the next three days. two, sleeping in the same bed with spencer reid. someone you like. someone you’ve had a crush on since… day one probably?

just data spencer, yeah.

you step into the room first, dropping your bag by the chair, suddenly very interested in anything that isn’t him.

behind you, spencer is hovering for a second too long before closing the door.

you can swear that the click echoes.

neither of you moves to the bed.

“i can take the floor” he suggests.

“no, please don’t” you immediately shake your head. “we can- we can share the bed?”

“yeah if you’re- if you’re okay with it?” spencer says, scratching the back of his neck.

morning fades into night - and the next thing you know is that you can’t go to the police precinct.

warnings about a heavy snow storm, and not being able to go out for the next twenty four hours is what spencer can only offer you when you’re hunched over the tiny desk of your tiny motel room.

great. twenty four hours with spencer reid.

“we’ll figure something out.” he says, hoping to cheer you up.

you can only nod, dragging your tired feet to the bed. spencer does one thing that makes you melt in this state.

he pulls the covers, tucking you in. all while murmuring something about the case.

you’re already falling asleep when he asks -

“you’ve been quiet all day”

his voice is softer now, careful.

you just hum, pillow pressed into the pillow. “m just tired, spence”

there’s a pause. you can feel him watching you - you can feel his hand near you.

“that’s not it” spencer says.

you almost smile.

“damn you profilers” you mumble, eyes closed.

“don’t have to be one to realise something’s off with you”

oh.

you shift under the covers, suddenly wide awake. aware of how close he is. of how easy it would be just to… say it.

“it’s nothing, really” you push, weaker this time

“you don’t have to tell me- i just-” he stops.

you open your eyes, wishing you could stop the tremble of your lips.

“i don’t like it when you’re not okay”

that surely does it.

spencer can physically feel his heart breaking when your lips press into a thin line - eyes visibly glossy and holding back tears.

and it’s stupid, it’s really stupid. nothings even happened. you’re just cold, tired, stuck, and too aware of him - of the silence, of how close all this feels.

but your throat tightens anyway.

“i’m okay” you say again, and this time your voice gives you away.

spencer goes still.

“hey” he shifts closer, a tentative hand on your cheek as you press your face against the pillow.

you shake your head, eyes squeezing shut.

“i don’t know- don’t know why i’m even-” you croak out, voice breaking.

you try to wave him off, you really do. turn to your side so you can sleep and forget about it. that all stops when a sob falls past your lips.

spencer doesn’t hesitate this time.

“come here” it’s so simple. gentle. like the most obvious thing in the world.

you hesitate. just for a second. and then you turn.

he’s warm. warmer than the room, warmer than the blankets, warmer than you ever expected.

his arms wrap around you carefully at first, giving you a chance to pull away.

you don’t, of course.

so he pulls you closer.

the second you press into him, another sob comes out. muffled this time - against his sweater.

“hey, hey” he murmurs, softer now - one hand coming to cradle the back

of your head. “it’s okay, you’re okay sweetheart”

you shake your head against him, fingers curling weakly into the fabric at his chest.

“i know” he says, even though you hadn’t explained anything. “i know, it’s a lot right now”

that also does something to you. despite trying to distance yourself from spencer, you found it hard to believe how he’d understand you - without you having to say anything out loud.

the storm hums faintly outside, wind brushing against the windows, but in here - in this room, it’s just his voice.

the soft circles he’s drawing on your back don’t stop - not when you flinch due to the storm, not when you pull away slightly to steady your breathing - especially then.

you try to collect yourself, breathe normally. but it comes out uneven, catching on the last few tears.

“shh” he murmurs, thumb brushing against your temple. “it’s alright, i’m here. i’ve got you”

and you believe him.

your body begins to loosen in his hold, the tension melting away piece by piece. like the way your fingers stop clutching at his sweater so tightly.

his hand keeps moving against your back, like he’s giving you something to hold onto.

outside, the wind hums against the windows. but inside?

inside it’s warm. quiet.

it’s just him and you.

your breathing evens out eventually, matching the slow rise and fall of his chest. you can feel your eyes growing heavy.

and for the first time all day - your mind goes quiet. no more thoughts about the case, about the storm. or about how spencer saw this version of you.

tomorrow you’ll be able to get the hang of this awful case.

but now?

it made you feel deranged. made you act it too.

he's above you, chest to your back — near full weight of him keeping you in place. keeping you exactly where he wants you. where you need.

he's close, hands wormed around you beneath him; elbows anchored beside your head for his own support, fingers snaked around your face between. his hold on you is firm, grasp possessive with the way he manipulates it. you. 

you're almost bound, in a position like this. with your own arms sandwiched under your weight, dex's too, you're utterly restricted. forced in place, unable to rid your clit of that dull, tedious, slow speed vibrator you've been made to hold against it. it's almost agonising, the low pace not one that you typically favour.

it's all part of the control he craves, you believe. anything he can possibly govern, he will. even if it meant what you can feel in your own body.

his hold on your face shifts slightly, each moving from either cheek and instead to the upper of your throat, the inners of his hands perfectly nestled in the space like it was made for them specifically. his first two fingers follow with the change in placement and they soon find themselves worming between the gap of your slightly agape mouth. 

"suck on them, baby," he husks into your ear, voice low and sort of sinister. "wrap your lips around 'em… yeah there we go, that's it. attagirl… you like that, don't you?" 

you hum, pleased noise sort of muffled.

"god, you're so dirty," he nips at the lobe of your ear, holding the squishy flesh between each set of teeth — tone now gritted ever so slightly. "my dirty girl."

it's all so deliberate, how he moves. the winds of his hips into you below are meticulous, each one slow and timely in a way that's calculated. while they're near full pumps of his cock, they're not nearly as satisfying as what they usually are. and it's almost as if he's being purposely withholding, like he's not giving you exactly what you want.

with the lack you get from the vibrator betwixt your pussy's lips and the pittance you get from his cock, you can't help but make a discontented whine, a sound so desperate that dex can't help but take pity on you. 

"aw," he coos behind your ear, mocking sympathy in a way that shouldn't turn you on as much as it does. "poor thing," he adds, lips brushing at your skin from the closeness. 

his inconsistent grunts hit at your cheek and you're not sure how long you can manage teetering in this directionless void of bliss. it grows too much with the lack he allows you to fully feel. his hold around your throat tightens, just slightly, and it's with that pulse-like squeeze that he lifts it carefully. he elevates the position of your head, in turn bringing you that bit closer to him.

dex licks a stripe along the upper bone of your cheek and his lips hover above the streak of saliva. he keeps himself there, furthering the territorial marking act. 

"can you wait?" he teases, hinting at the release you've yet to be granted with.

you shake your head.

"can't hear you, baby," he tuts, fingers worming that bit further into your mouth. 

"no," you muffle around his two fingers, word just about audible. though not enough. 

the amusement of his is evident in that slight chuckle beside your ear. he slips his fingers from between your lips and grabs a hold of your cheek — wiping his wet spit fingers across your skin just seconds before he hooks his hold onto the side of your face. 

"go on, one more time for me."

"no."

"no?"

"no," you whine, the noise kind of pathetic.

"I didn't think so."

those sporadic winds of his hips become something slightly more consistent, each one picking up until an almost pattern forms. one you've been desperately chasing. 

if you carry on being good, he might let you change the setting on the vibrator. you'll have to be good though.

but even then, he still might not permit your release.