❝ ꒰ . .𝚠𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚢 .#ッ

"Ohhhhh," you groan cuddling into the bare chest you had slept on throughout the night.

Chest.

Bare.

Your eyes snap open. Whose chest was this? It certainly wasn't Adebayo's. Or Economos'. So the only other person it had to be.....

Was Adrian.

When your eyes clear a little, you look up at the face that belonged to the chest. Adrian slept soundly, mouth slightly agape as he breathed. Silly goose still had his glasses on and his hair was a wild curly mess from everything that went down last night. He looked so handsome and at peace.

You bit your lip, eyes slowly making their way back down over his body. Was he wearing a robe? It looked like a robe. Two sizes too small but a robe nonetheless. It was wide open for the world to see and showcased everything he normally hid under baggy clothes or his Vigilante suit.

After gazing at him for a few minutes, you drunkenly raise a finger and begin to trace a line along his collarbones. He shifted slightly but never woke up, only licking his lips and going right back into a deep sleep.

Your finger then continues the journey across his body, finding its way to the hollow of his throat and down over his impossibly smooth chest. A smile takes shape on your face when you realize his skin was reacting to you; goosebumps rising underneath your finger along the path it traced. You move down to his abs and feel each one, the curves and bumps feeling both soft and hard.

It's only when you feel the line of his hipbone that he begins to stir and wake up. Adrian lets out an open mouth groan that cracks along the end (which sends a thrill of excitement throughout your body) and stretches. Once settled back into the recliner, he squints and glances down at you on top of him.

"Oh. Good morning," he croaks. His voice is an octave lower than usual and you have to hold back a scream at the sound of it.

"Good morning to you too. How did you sleep?"

"Hmm," he closes his eyes. "Like there was a weighted blanket on top of me. Warm and fleshy."

You feel his arms tighten around you which was a pleasant surprise since he never initiated physical contact like this. "Well I'm glad my warmth and fleshiness felt nice. But I have to pee. Badly."

His arms automatically raised and you got up from the recliner to head to the bathroom. Economos was passed out in the bathtub, much to your disgust, but thankfully he was passed out enough to the point he never woke up as you did your business. From the kitchen you could hear talking, something about quizzing Adrian about spiders and crows. You roll your eyes while you wash your hands. Not even 10 in the morning and he's already being his normal self as if he didn't have a shit ton to drink like everyone else last night.

"No one ever quizzes me about crows or spiders!" His voice suddenly whines behind you. In the mirror he looks pouty but insanely adorable while standing in the doorway. "Are you finished pissing? I have to go too."

"All yours. I'm just brushing my teeth. My breath tastes like shit."

Beside you, Adrian takes out his dick and begins to pee. He sighs in content, even humming a little song as his stream continues. "Do you need a toothbrush? I have extras in my car."

"Ull ooze mefunguh," your finger in your mouth muffled your sentence. When he shoots you a confused look, you take it out and spit out the build up. "I'll use my finger."

"Oh. That's not as effective as a toothbrush though."

"I'll survive. I'm headed home in a few anyway so I can use proper dental hygiene there. But thanks for the concern, Doctor Chase."

He shrugs and zips himself up. After flushing he positions himself by the sink and washes his hands. "Sit on the sink for a second. I need to talk to you about something."

Uh oh. Immediately your mind tries to think of what he could possibly want to talk about, starting with last night. Did you say something? Do something? Oh god, did you guys fuck on the roof? Try as you may, not a single memory of last night's adventures came to mind. But regardless, you did as you were told and sat on the side of the sink where he stood in front of you, his bright green eyes looking you over with concern.

"You hit your head pretty hard last night," he says in a low voice.

You reach up and feel around your forehead. "I did? How?"

He taps a spot on your forehead and you hiss in pain. "Tripped and fell. You were dancing and didn't see a cord on the ground so down you went. Everyone laughed."

".....and you didn't?" This surprised you considering what he was like.

Adrian tilts his head. "No. I'd never laugh at you. Only if you say something funny. But that looked like it genuinely hurt last night. Now where's the first aid–Harcourt! Where's your first aid?"

"Under the sink where a normal person keeps it. Now stop fucking yelling! My head hurts!" She yelled back.

Adrian pulled out the first aid and popped it open. "The first rule of first aid is knowing what you're dealing with. The next is knowing how to handle it."

"Oh? And what are we dealing with? Do I have a concussion?"

He looks directly into your eyes. "I don't think so. You seem to be alert and you're not slurring your words. May I?"

He shows you the rubbing alcohol and you nod. The liquid feels cool on your forehead but it stings at the initial touch, so Adrian starts gently blowing on it like how a mother would blow on a child's cut on their knee. This was oddly touching and it made you wonder where he picked that up from.

"I should've cleaned it last night but I was so fucking out of it," he snorts at himself. "I can just barely remember taking all my clothes off while Ads and Economos doused me in beer. Do you remember that too?"

"I can barely remember cracking open the first beer. Everything after that is just murky waters." You stiffen when he gently holds your chin with two fingers and places a bandaid on the cut. "You have remarkable bedside manners. Have you done this before?"

"To someone else?" Adrian shrugs a shoulder. "No. To Peacemaker maybe but he's not as nice about it as you are. To myself? A lot. But it's not as fun doing it to yourself as it is to someone else. There you go! All cleaned up!"

You look over your shoulder at yourself in the mirror. Your forehead was starting to turn red and you feared that it was going to bruise badly. "Not bad, doc. But you still haven't told me what you wanted to talk about."

Adrian scratches the back of his neck as he puts the kit back under the sink. "Yeah. About that.....you said you loved me last night."

Fuck. "Did I? Pfft, that's probably me drunk out of my mind. I say a lot of shit when I'm plastered."

"Drunk words are sober thoughts."

His voice dropped to a whisper. You could feel his body heat as he leaned in closer, eyes dropping to your lips. When his lips touched yours, it felt like bells and whistles were going off in your head. A train whistle blew. A siren started wailing. It was a cacophony of sounds that you couldn't turn off.

What a lovely mouth he had. His lips moved slowly and sensually with yours which only made you wonder if he's done this before. He had to. With who didn't matter but movement like this only came with practice. And a lot of it. Even when his tongue lightly brushed yours, you knew damn well that he'd been waiting for this since the day you both met.

"You smell like Ivory soap," he suddenly whispers.

"Odd because I don't use that kind."

"I know but I used it on you last night. You vomited on yourself so I cleaned you up. Didn't like Harcourt's body wash so I went with that instead. It smells nice."

He was being so kind to you that you couldn't help but mash your mouth onto his again, this time with more desperation. His hands found your waist and began to massage the bone there with his thumbs. You let out a low moan, reaching for the material that held his robed closed–

"Damn, y'all finished here yet? I gotta take a shit. That dip isn't sitting well with me–" Adebayo stopped at the bathroom door, a big smile creeping up on her face. "Am I interrupting something here? Some kissing and smooching? Perhaps some snogging?"

You pull away and lick your lips. "Nothing to see here. We were just talking about stuff. I'm headed home now anyway. I just need to order an Uber." Hopping off the sink, you peck Adrian on the lips again. "Call me later. We'll talk more."

He beams. "Okay. I get off work at 11 tonight."

"I'll be awake."

You make your way out to the living room to grab your bag but not without hearing Adebayo and Adrian talking in the bathroom.

"Sir, you landed a hottie. One that will actually quiz you on animals too," Adebayo giggles.

"Isn't it great? That was our first kiss and I felt tongue!"

You roll your eyes when the two giggled again.

"Alright now get out. I gotta poop and I'm not doing it with you standing there watching," said Adebayo

"You mean I can't?"

"Fuck outta here, Adrian! Quit being weird and let a woman poo in peace!"

"Okay fine! But I'd let you do it if you asked! Just putting that out there!"

all 5 of you were thrown into one shitty hotel room. harcourt and ads claimed one bed, economos claimed the other, refusing to share and you were on the fold out with adrian.

actually you didn’t really mind, in fact when everyone was doing rock paper scissors to see who got stuck with him, you just volunteered. everyone looked at you like you were crazy but you didn’t care, you liked adrian, and the look on his face when you told him you were sharing the bed was totally worth it.

“this is so sick! it’s like a sleepover!”

a loud groan echoed through the room as you just smiled at his enthusiasm, nodding and shoving some blankets into his arms.

after showers and arguments about what to watch on tv, everyone finally settled into bed.

adrian was already in bed, sat up against the pillows playing his nintendo.

you scoot under the shared blanket and lean over to see what he’s playing.

“i’m getting really far on princess peach showtime! and it’s not easy just cause it’s about a girl,” he whispers loudly to you.

you giggle at him and lean over a bit further to watch him play.

“do you wanna try?” he tilts the switch in your direction.

“yeah! but i’m definitely not gonna be good at it,” you say shyly, taking the switch from his hands.

cut to you kicking ass at the level he was struggling with and then both of you getting yelled at by harcourt for being too loud.

“go the fuck to sleep!” she yells through the darkness, rolling over and throwing a pillow over her head.

you both laugh quietly and turn off the switch.

you’re both a bit afraid of harcourt so you decide it’s best not to piss her off anymore.

as you try to get comfortable you realize you might’ve made a mistake. you had a bit of a crush on adrian and now you have to sleep in the same tiny bed as him.

which way do you face? is it weird if you face him? what if you turn over and he’s facing you? what if your leg accidentally brushes his? what if your ass touches him? you’re suddenly regretting your pajama choices, your usual little shorts, big shirt combo. cringing at how much bare leg is out.

you nervously fidget with the blanket for a moment before deciding just to face away from him and not think about how close he is to you.

you feel him fidgeting and tossing around for a moment as well before he finally gets comfortable. you somehow manage to drift off pretty quick.

adrian’s woken up by something touching him. he’s about to freak out until he grabs at it and realizes it’s your arm.

he lets out a small sigh, as he runs his hand down your arm, gently making his way to your hand. you let out a small whiny noise and he pauses his movements, scared of waking you up and ruining this moment.

you’re sleeping soundly and you’ve moved over to his side of the bed, your hand resting on his chest. looking down he realizes his legs are also intertwined with yours. he turns his head slightly to look at you, your head resting gently on his shoulder, breath fanning against his neck, making him ticklish and suddenly very aware of how close you are.

you look so cute when you sleep, and you’re so close and you’re touching him. he can feel his ears turning red as his heart starts feeling like it’s going to beat out of his chest. he wonders if you can feel it, even in your sleep.

adrian was very obsessed with you. from the second he met you he had the biggest crush on you. everyone knew about his crush except you, ever oblivious.

he realized quickly that you were the nicest person he’d ever met and that you actually saw him as a close friend, he didn’t wanna mess that up by asking you out, especially if you didn’t feel the same.

so he lays there, with you hanging onto him. he tries to steady his breathing and stay still, he wouldn’t want to wake you up or cause you any discomfort.

he finally gets the courage to put an arm around your waist. placing it so gently, almost as if he’s afraid to touch you.

adrian really does try to go back to sleep but it’s just not possible. he stays up gently running his fingers up and down your arm, brushing hair from your face, sweeping his knuckles softly against your cheek, trying to focus on your breathing over economos’ snoring. he takes in your pouty face and listens for any soft noises you make.

morning sunlight filters through the shitty hotel curtains as everyone stirs awake.

you remain asleep as the team members start to shuffle out of bed.

adrian hardly notices, he’s still focused on you. sometime during the night you moved even closer to him. adrian had gently turned on his side and you buried your face in his chest, arms thrown around him and leg thrown up on his hip. adrian really thinks he might pass out with this new position, you’ve never been this close to him before and you smell so good. your soft bare leg hiked over his hip,

this angle perfect for…..

“what the hell are you doing?” harcourt’s voice breaking him out of his thoughts, his eyes snapping open.

“huh?” adrian looked up to see harcourt and ads standing near the end of the fold out, staring at you two. panning over he sees economos still in bed but also staring at you guys.

“were you just sniffing her hair?” harcourt grimaces.

adrian opens his mouth to answer but ads cuts him off,

“are you guys together?” she asks, her eyes getting wider.

“what? no! she just did this! i don’t know, i woke up and we were like this—“

“spooning?” ads cuts him off again, grinning.

“w-i don’t think this is considered spooning, actually, i think it’s just cuddling. but anyway! maybe she has some kind of magic powers that makes people cuddle her! we don’t know!”

“magic power?” economos deadpans.

“i think the “magic power” is just you being in love with her.” ads laughs.

“i’m not—“ adrian starts to defend himself, voice getting louder, but is silenced by your shifting, he looks back down at you.

“ade?” you start to blink awake.

your voice is so soft and your eyes are all bleary and the first thing you said was his name?

yea he might actually pass out this time.

“hey,” he says softly.

“sorry, did i wake you up?”

“no it’s ok.” you respond, closing your eyes again and tightening your arm around him trying to bring him impossibly closer as you breath in his scent.

“see!” adrian whispers loudly, turning back to the three people watching, pointing his hand towards you.

“ew,” is all harcourt says as she turns and heads for the bathroom.

that wakes you up. it’s like it just smacked you across the face what was happening. your eyes fling open and you remove your arm from him, starting to push yourself away from adrian.

“shit sorry, i didn’t mean to- i must’ve just done that in my sleep,” you refuse to make eye contact.

“no no! it’s ok! it’s fine! really! i didn’t mind at all! i was really comfortable actually and i slept really good so like, maybe its better that i sleep with you.”

“what?” you look back at him.

“not like that! like actually sleep! not like have sex with you. even though i would definitely like to have s—“

“adrian, shut up,” ads looks at him nervously.

“well i just meant like, it’s ok that we cuddled! i liked it!”

your eyebrows furrow but you smile at him, choosing to ignore the fact that he just said he wants to have sex with you, you can worry about that later.

“i just know you don’t really like soft touching. i didn’t wanna make you uncomfortable,” you tell him quietly, leaning closer and wishing this conversation wasn’t happening with an audience.

“i don’t mind when it’s you. i actually really like it when it’s you,” he whispers back.

you smile over at him and his mouth works its way into that huge goofy smile of his that you love. you examine his sleepy morning face, its kinda weird to see him without his glasses.

“wait!” you suddenly move back a bit and throw your hand over your mouth.

“what? what happened?”

“morning breath!” you say as you move back further from him.

“i don’t care about that! i definitely have it too,” he huffs into his hand and sniffs, shrugging.

“ok well i do care,” you tell him, starting to get out of bed as he grabs at you to stay.

“no i like it!” he laughs.

you laugh and try to escape his grasp.

it’s easy to forget how strong adrian is. he easily pulls you into him and puts his face directly infront of yours.

“no!” you giggle and try to cover your mouth again as he holds you.

“you guys are gross.” economos gags.

“next time get them their own room!” he shouts to anyone.

Adrian had rolled over to your desk in his chair, your name leaving his lips in a childish drawl. “It’s so boring. Say, you wanna quiz me on crow facts?”

You didn’t move your gaze from your monitor. “Don’t you have work to do?”

“Well, yeah, but there’s only—” He rolled closer to squint at the time on your screen. “—2 more hours until lunch, and I don’t want to start something and then have to stop. One, it totally disrupts my flow, and two, I just won’t stop and eat, and skipping lunch is, like, one of the worst things you can do.”

You furrowed your brows, but you were no stranger to this Adrian-logic. “Maybe you should divide your work into smaller sections with breaks. That way you can do work and eat lunch.”

He gasped like you told him you’d cured the common cold. “Oh, man, that’s smart! No wonder you’re a doctor.”

You were tempted to remind him that you had your doctorate in creative writing, so you weren’t sure how that correlated to solving his time management skills, but you instead opted to just take the compliment on this one. 

Upon noticing he hadn’t rolled back to his desk, you glanced at him.

As if he read your mind, he explained, “Well, I can’t start that now. The day’s already started, and that’d totally screw my flow up.”

You laughed, rolling to face him. “How can you screw up something that’s, like, nonexistent? You don’t even have a flow right—hey!” You looked down at his shirt—a maroon polo shirt—and then down to your own—a maroon blouse. “Look, we’re matching!”

“Oh, no way.” Adrian looked back and forth between your shirt and his own, even tugging it gently from his torso to get a better look. 

At that moment, Adebayo happened to be crossing through the office, a cup of coffee in her hand. 

“Hey, Ads, look!” Adrian didn’t hesitate to call out to her. “We’re matching!”

You smiled at her, gently holding your own shirt out from your torso.

She smiled back. “Yeah, you are. That’s nice.” Her gaze caught Adrian’s blank monitor. “Adrian, have you done anything since you came in this morning?” 

He looked to the ceiling in thought. “Well,” he started. “I googled ‘Do puppies have dreams like humans—”

“I mean work. Have you done any work?”

His lip curled as he thought. A moment passed and he shook his head. “No.”

“Well, do some work!” Adebayo gestured at his desk.

You turned to face your computer, biting back a laugh as Adrian slowly and begrudgingly rolled back to his desk, his head sitting low between his shoulders. You didn’t miss the way his eyes darted down to his shirt, then over to your blouse quickly.

It happened again a few days later. You were sitting with your nose nearly kissing your monitor when you heard wheels rolling. “What’s up, Adrian?” you asked, not looking away from your screen.

He cleared his throat.

“What?” you asked again, not unkindly. “I really don’t wanna lose my place right now.”

He cleared his throat louder.

You sighed, slowly looking to him. He quickly looked away, his eyes darting across the ceiling in the way one does when they are hoping someone would notice something about them. You furrowed your brows, giving him a once over. 

Same glasses. Navy shirt tucked into blue jeans. White sneakers.

Your face scrunched in thought. You squinted at his neck—no new jewelry or anything like that. Your sight rose to his face and hair. You blinked. 

His lips were curled, and the gentle indent in his cheek was showing. You couldn’t stop your gaze from wandering down to his adam’s apple and the short expanse of his neck that was showing from the V in his shirt. 

Not much was showing, but you could still see how defined his chest was. He was a little dorky with his tucked-in sweaters and high waters; it was easy for you to forget how…charming he was. 

Curls flopped against his forehead. Maybe his hair was shorter? I mean, it was hard to tell with the curls.

“Did you…get a haircut?” you eventually asked.

He released a breath, shaking his head.

When he didn’t offer any answer, you added, “Well?”

He ran both his palms down his shirt. 

“Oh! Is it a new shirt?”

He huffed. “No! We’re–we’re—” He gestured between the two of you.

You finally looked down at your own shirt. A navy long sleeve. “Oh! Yeah. We’re matching again.” You smiled. 

“Yeah. We are.” He blinked at you.

“Yeah.” You laughed a little. When he didn’t say anything else, you said, “Okay, well, I’m gonna turn around and do some work now.”

“Oh, yeah, yeah, totally. Me too. Gonna totally use that new strategy you taught me.”

You turned around. “That’s good, Adrian.”

“Yeah.” 

You didn’t hear his chair roll away, so you glanced over your shoulder at him. You instantly locked eyes and raised your eyebrows.

“Yeah, yeah, just gonna—” He threw a thumb over his shoulder. “Go this way now.”

Then, it happened again the following week.

Adrian strolled into Checkmate that morning, and you noticed his grey sweater bore an undeniable resemblance to the one you were sporting.

“Adrian!” you called, grinning. “You must be snooping around in my closet or something.” You gestured to your sweater, sure he would get a kick out of it.

His brows rose and he blinked at you owlishly. “Uh, no I haven’t. Why would you say that? I’ve only been to your house once, and that was when you hosted Adebayo’s birthday party. I wouldn’t even know which room was your bedroom if I did snoop—”

You shook your head, amused. He always took everything so literally. “I’m just kidding, Adrian—we keep wearing the same color, that’s all.”

“Oh.” He released a puff of breath, making his bangs pop off his forehead. “Oh, I know you were kidding. I was just–just kidding too.”

“Sure, Adrian.” You turned around, smiling, and missed the bewildered look on his face. 

A few days later, you greeted him with a tilt of your head, flicking through papers on your desk.

“Oh! Um.” He cleared his throat. “Nice shirt.” He was smiling like he’d said a joke and was now waiting on the punchline to land.

You glanced down at your green button-down. “Thanks. Yours is too.” He was wearing a blue striped shirt.

“Yeah, I said ‘nice shirt,’ like, you know, because we have the same color on and my shirt’s nice, so yours is too.” 

You furrowed your brows, looking down at your shirt and then back to his. “Well, I wouldn't say it’s the same color. Yours is blue and mine’s green.” You quickly added, “I mean yours is still nice, though.”

“Okay, mine is teal. But I’d say they’re pretty close.”

You weren’t really sure why you were arguing with Adrian over the color of your shirts when you both had work to do, but stranger things had happened in the Checkmate office. “Not quite.”

“Okay, well, this is all I had!”

Your finger stopped where it was tracing along the page you were reading, and you looked up to squint at him. “What?”

“Nothing. I didn’t—nothing.” He started shaking his head, his lips squeezed tightly together.

He’s so odd, you thought, smiling and shaking your head.

That afternoon, you left for lunch, and Adrian insisted on joining you, as he nearly always did.

The moment the door shut behind you, Economos piped up, “So, what’s his deal? Adrian’s gotta be stalking her.”

Harcourt shook her head. “Probably. It’s Adrian we’re talking about.”

“Should we—do we need to take this to HR?” Economos asked. He stopped abruptly to turn to Adebayo. “Do we even have HR?”

The only sound in the office was Adebayo typing on her keyboard.

The sun had just begun to streak through your blinds as you picked out your outfit for work. In your camisole, you stood in front of your wardrobe, thinking. You pulled out a green shirt before remembering you’d just worn green yesterday, and sure, it didn’t matter, but it mattered to you.

You put it back to pull out a red one. Frowning, you remembered that the fabric was itchy and quickly put it back. You were reaching for yet another shirt when you heard a clunk! against your bedroom window.

You froze, your mind immediately going to the pepper spray in your nightstand. Did pepper spray expire? Surely even if it were expired it would do some damage, right? You slowly backstepped until your fingers reached the drawer, and you fumbled it open. Your fingers had just closed around the tool when you heard a familiar voice say, “Aw, fuck!”

You dropped the pepper spray back into the drawer and walked over to the window. All you could see was someone in a navy tactical suit, face down in your bushes. 

You flung the window open. 

“Ma’am, uh, nothing to see here! Nothing to worry about!” He wriggled about in the shrubbery.

You recognized the v-shaped blue mark on his suit. “Are you…the masked vigilante they talk about on the news?”

“Vigilante, yes ma’am, that’s me. Please don’t mind me.”

Perhaps if he had been standing at full height in your window, you would’ve been afraid. It was hard to fear someone thrashing around in your landscaping. “Do you, uh, need some help?”

“No ma’am, I have it under control.”

“It doesn’t look like it.”

“Well, I do!” 

Something about the whiny cadence of his voice— “Adrian? Oh my God, is that—”

“No.” His voice suddenly dropped ten octaves. “Ma’am, I do not know an Adrian. There’s no Adrian here—”

“Oh my God, it totally is—Adrian, you’re the masked vigilante?”

“Like I said, I do not know an Adrian, but by that name, he sounds like a super cool guy. Also, it is Vigilante—” By this time, he’d finally managed to become vertical again.

“Why’re you creeping outside my house?” You put your hands on your hips.

“There’s been a lot of crime reported in this area, ma’am, I’m just trying to keep you—”

“I think the closest thing to crime in this neighborhood was when Mrs. O’Sullivan’s chihuahua escaped and she thought someone kidnapped him.” 

“Dog theft is a serious crime—”

“She found him, like, literally weeks ago.”

“I am just…ensuring that it doesn’t happen again!”

“Adrian, can we just drop the act?” You sighed, running a hand through your hair. “I have so many questions—does everyone at work know you’re Vigilante?”

“Ma’am, again, I do not know an Adrian—”

You reached through the window and began to tug at the mask from around his chin.

“Hey! Stop it!” He was no longer even trying to conceal his voice as he attempted to bat your hands away. “Stop! Okay! Fine, it’s me.” He sounded so dejected you almost felt a little bad.

“What are you doing here, Adrian?”

He looked back and forth at your neighborhood. “Keep your voice down!”

You shook your head, sighing. “Just get in here.” 

You moved back towards your bed so he could step into your room through the window. Given his incident with the bush, you were surprised at how easily he climbed in, closing it behind him and even closing the blinds for good measure. He pulled his mask over his head and felt around his pockets until he found his glasses, tucking them onto his face. 

“How’d you know it was me?” He sounded like a kid who’d been found during hide-and-seek.

“Your voice,” you said. “Now, what were you doing outside my window?” He opened his mouth to speak, but you quickly added, “And don’t tell me any bullshit about dog theft because we both know that’s a lie.”

He deflated, glancing back to your closet, and in that moment, it felt like lightning had struck you. “You have been snooping in my closet!”

“No!” 

“That’s how you’ve been matching with me—”

“I have not been snooping!”

“Okay, then what have you been doing?”

“Just looking through your window and seeing what color you put on.”

“Oh, and that’s not snooping?”

“Well, no, I’ve never actually gone through your closet. I’ve only peeked through the window—” 

You gasped, suddenly very aware of the fact you were only in bottoms and a camisole. You crossed your arms over your chest. “Have you been watching me change?” 

His face grew red immediately. “No, no, no—”

You sat down on your bed, covering your face with your hands.

“No, no, really, I am not being a pervert—I have not been a pervert. I just—I just want to match with you!”

You huffed, removing your hands to look over at him. He was nervously rocking back and forth on his heels. If it were quite literally any other guy, you would be sure he was bullshitting. What man creeps in a woman’s window without being a pervert?

Adrian, apparently.

You sighed. “Okay, fine. You weren’t being a perv.” You waved your hands at him. “But you have to stop, okay? This is…weird. And crosses, like, so many boundaries.”

He deflated even further as his eyes dropped to the floor.

“How would you feel if…let’s say Economos was looking in my window while I got dressed in the morning?”

Adrian’s head shot up. “Oh, man, Economos is my friend and all but…” He shrugged like it was obvious. “I would have to kill him.”

You held your hands out as if to say See? and for once, it looked like Adrian really did see. 

“Okay,” he said, nodding like he was in thought. 

“Thank you.” 

“I’ll stand out here every morning and make sure no one is creeping in your window—”

“No!” you exclaimed. “No one would be creeping in my window, Adrian—no one but you.”

He looked a little too proud at that. 

“That’s not really a good thing!” you scolded.

He deflated again.

You rubbed your temples. You had to be losing it.

You might be the first to ever admit it, but the idea of Adrian looking in your window didn’t really freak you out as much as it probably should have. I mean, it was Adrian. Your coworker who insisted on joining you for lunch nearly every day. Your coworker who lit up like the sun when he noticed you’d color-coordinated outfits. Your coworker who was apparently so excited about matching that he wanted to do it almost every day.

Not to mention you found his dorky ways kind of hot.

Okay, more than kind of.

He said your name softly. “I’ll–I’ll stop.” He was looking everywhere except for you. “It was just…it gave us something to talk about. When we matched.”

You frowned at him. “We talk about other things all the time.”

“Well, yeah, you did quiz me on spider facts that one time, but, like, you looked so excited that first day when we were both wearing red. I just wanted you to be that excited to talk to me all the time.” 

Your frown deepened. “I’m always excited to talk to you, Adrian.” Well, that wasn’t entirely true. “It’s just, we’re at work. So we have to, you know…do work.”

“I guess.” He kicked at something on the floor. 

“We could…” You swallowed, suddenly bashful. “I mean, we could do something outside of work. If you wanted.” 

His head shot up and he locked eyes with you. “Really?”

You nodded, unexpectedly unable to keep eye contact. “Yeah. It would…it’d be fun.”

“Like a date?” he asked, eagerly.

You blinked. “Do you…do you want it to be a date?”

“Uh…yeah.” He said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

“Okay.” You laughed. “Okay, yeah. It’s a date.”

“Yes!” He pumped one fist in the air. “Wait ‘til Peacemaker hears about this.”

You shook your head, still laughing.

“Okay, well, I’m gonna—” He gestured to your window. 

“Okay, Adrian. I’ll see you in the office.”

He put his glasses back into…wherever they’d come from and pulled his mask back down over his face. You had moved to stand back in front of your wardrobe when he paused opening your window.

“So, uh,” he started. “What color’re you wearing today?”

Three weeks later

Adebayo entered Checkmate and did as she usually did. She flicked all the lights on and sat her bag down at her desk. She was moving to turn her monitor on when she noticed something in the reflection of the dark screen. She squinted at it before turning around for a better look.

On the wall was a new calendar, with words scribbled onto it.

She rose from her chair and walked over. Each weekday had a color listed on it—some in your neat handwriting, others in Adrian’s scrawl.

She couldn’t do anything other than shake her head, a small smile on her lips.

“What the fuck is that?” Emilia screams as you snatch the piece of cloth, revealing a small tank with a hairy creature inside.

“A tarantula,” you beam, bending your knees to observe the spider.

“I can fucking see that. What the hell is it doing here?”

You straighten up, catching a glimpse of Economos as he rounds the table to see what the commotion is about.

“Oh my God, what the fuck is that?” He exclaims, bringing his hands behind his neck and locking his fingers there, acting like a bomb has just dropped on the building.

“Can you guys calm down?” you frown at both of them, because their reactions are, in your opinion, slightly exaggerated. “It’s a present for Adrian. I just picked it up and I wasn’t going to drive all the way home just to drop it off and drive back here.”

There was quite a few options to choose from in the pet store, and since Adrian has never mentioned his favorite spider, it made it easier for you to pick one. You asked the pet store employee for a beginner-friendly spider, and she showed you bunch – the brown wooly tarantula, the Brazilian black, the beautiful Gooty Sapphire. But as soon as you saw the orange Mexican red-knee, your mind was pretty much made up. It is just perfect for him.

When a new sound of the door being open reaches your ears, you quickly move your body to shield the cage in case Adrian has arrived at the scene. You turn around in the process, only to see Ads strutting towards you, sliding her headphones from her ears, and looping them around her neck. A frown overtakes her face when she watches you release a breath of relief, then her eyes jump to the see-through box on your desk as you step aside, her eyes widening.

“Woah, what is that? Is that Adrian’s?”

“It’s for Adrian. For his birthday.”

When Adebayo approaches the three of you, she leans over, watching the spider with a minor distaste.

“Man, he’s gonna love that,” Adebayo says.

That only makes your smile grow and your body rock on your feet. But as much as you appreciate her approval, her reaction doesn’t really mean anything compared to what Adrian’s going to say. His reaction is the only one you truly care about.

“Whatever, just keep it away from me,” Harcourt grumbles before trudging back to her working space. You cover the tank and hide it under your desk for the time being, hoping Adrian doesn’t notice.

Since it’s Chris’ turn to host, the birthday party takes place at his house. It’s not your usual rave, because this is supposed to be a quiet neighborhood and you don’t need his neighbor calling the police on you. But the music is still on, drumming against the small speakers that Adrian brought, Emilia is already relaxed enough to cozy up to Chris on the couch, and John is delivering new gossip to Adebayo, while you gaze at Adrian as he dances around the coffee table.

You stand up and disappear into Chris’ father’s bedroom, because he refused to let you hide the tarantula in his room. When you return to the living room, you get everyone’s attention by lowering down the speakers.

“Okay, Adrian, come here,” you say, waving him over. He steps over Chris’ stretched out legs, catching himself on the table as he almost loses his balance, before towering over you with a dimple-forming smile. “I hope you’re having a great birthday and that this will make it even better,” you say, handing over his present. “Happy birthday. It’s from all of us.”

It makes him look around, sending every one of his friends a smile of gratitude as they say Happy birthday, Adrian in unison. Then he removes the cover, and you swear you could watch over and over again, the way his eyes light up, growing comically wide as his jaw drops to the floor, his lower lashes creating downward crescents and crinkles adorning the corners of his eyes.

Damn it. You should have asked Ads to record this.

“No fucking way! I love spiders! That is so fucking cool.” Adrian lifts the box above his head, rotating it and trying to get a good look at it from every single angle. He turns to you then, “I could literally kiss you right now,” he says before finding a space in the kitchen to get a closer look at his new pet after Emilia lifted a finger at him with a don’t you dare as tried to fit next to her on the couch.

You are glad that he didn’t wait for your reaction to his words, because otherwise he would see your breath hitch, your eyelids flutter, and how sweaty you’ve suddenly become. You sink into the armchair next to Ads, your eyes never leaving Adrian.

“Girl, you’re down so fucking bad.” A nudge from Adebayo brings you out of your trance.

You roll your eyes when you see the smirk she’s giving you. “Shut up.”

“Dude, do not take this thing out inside of my house,” Chris tells him when he sees Adrian reaching for the lid.

The very next day, you help Adrian pick a bigger terrarium, some substrate and decorations to create a proper habitat for the red-knee.

“He’s gonna be so pumped when he sees the scrubland we’ve prepared for him,” Adrian beams, filling the tank with peat moss while you spread it around and fluff it up a little. When there is enough substrate for the spider to burrow, Adrian’s hand joins yours and as you spread it around, your fingers brush against his. A surge of electricity runs through you, making you flinch away like you just got burned.

You clear your throat.

“D’you think of a name yet?” you ask, reaching for a piece of bark.

“Michelangelo.”

So that is a specific name, clearly intentional, and you wouldn’t expect nothing less from Adrian – except maybe finding inspiration in his best friend and naming the spider Spidery. It takes you a minute, and he patiently waits for you to make the connection, but eventually, you do.

“You’re gonna name your spider after a turtle?”

“Yeah. Cool, right? He’s, like, the best Ninja Turtle and his favorite color is obviously orange. Did you know that orange is complementary to teal? What a coincidence, huh?”

 Of course you did. That’s why you picked it in the first place.

“Yeah,” you smile. You move towards the smaller tank where the red-knee is still waiting for you to build his new home. “Did you hear that, Mikey? It’s gonna be hard to tell you apart from the other Michelangelo if you end up being a mutant ninja spider.”

Adrian rushes over to your side, a serious expression on his face as he watches him. “You think he’s a ninja spider?”

“Well, if he is, he’s probably gonna want to keep that identity secret, don’t you think?”

You grab his wrist and guide him back to the vivarium, handing him some fake plants for him to pick a place for. You put in a broken flowerpot too, some other bark pieces and branches and finally a bottle cap with some water.

“This looks great, Adrian,” you say, admiring the habitat.

“Well, it probably wouldn’t look so great if you didn’t help,” he says, poking you into your hip.

You smile at each other, and before the silence gets too awkward, you speak up.

“You wanna move him into his new home?”

Adrian leaves your side to retrieve the smaller tank before coming back just as quickly. He opens the lid and without flinching, he sticks his hand inside, letting the spider climb over his fingers and into his palm.

“Here you go, buddy,” Adrian says to him as he transfers him into the newly set up tank. “Gosh, he’s so freakin’ cute.”

“Yeah,” you say absent-mindedly as your eyes follow Adrian’s features, teeth gleaming, creases apparent in his cheeks and around his eyes. God, you want to kiss them. His lips, his teeth, his wrinkles, every part of him. You have never lied to yourself about the feelings you are harboring for Adrian, but you have lied about how easy it is to be around him without being able to wrap yourself in his arms.

The truth is, it is becoming harder and harder, almost to the point of it being painful, your heart lurching into your throat every time he smiles – at you, at Chris, at anyone. Your love for him has been spreading through your organs with every passing day, and now, it has finally reached the depths of your bones.

“You okay?” His voice is soft when he speaks, and his eyebrows are pinched together. It makes you finally blink, moisturizing your drying eyes.

“Yeah, sorry. I was just thinking.”

“About what?”

You stare at him, contemplating whether or not you want to take the risk of ruining the mood or even your friendship by offering him insight into your brain.

“I think Chris is jealous that he’s not the only one with a sidekick anymore.”

Adrian grins again.

“Totally.”

“I think you need to tell him how you feel. What’s the worst that could happen? He rejects you? So you move on!”

You thought that confiding in Ads would set your mind at peace. So far, it’s kind of the opposite. At least you’re giving her another thing to gossip about with Economos.

“Gee, thanks, Ads,” you scoff, taking a sip of your water before you fold your legs under you, leaning your elbow against the back of the couch, palm cupping your head.

“Tsk. I didn’t mean it like that. He probably won’t, because you’re like his favorite person, but trust me on this one. Not knowing where you stand is the worst. That’s what’s truly eating at you.”

She is right, but that doesn’t mean that it’s not combined with the fear of being rejected by Adrian. Two things can be true.

“Chris is his favorite person.”

She gives you a pointed look.

“Please. I don’t think even Adrian believes that. They have history and that’s all there is to it.”

“Still. Adrian’s brain is like a fucking kaleidoscope. All the fucking colors blur together and I just can’t see through them.”

“That’s the thing, though. You can. Why do you think you two mesh together so well? Not just as friends, but in the field, too? You’re made for each other.”

You shook your head dismissively, not buying anything she’s saying. You have never been insecure about stuff like this, not to the level where you went fishing for reassurance from your friends. Love feels pathetic at this moment but dare you say it’s one of the most exciting feelings you’ve ever experienced.

“Honestly, I thought he was just fucking around with the spider stuff.” Ads speaks, pulling you out of the thoughts that have piled up on you. “Personally, I wouldn’t trust him enough to give him a live spider. He didn’t even know how many eyes they have for God’s sake.”

You frown. “It’s all he talks about, though. Didn’t you hear him when he talked about the dispersion of the jumping spiders throughout Europe?”

She stares at you, eyebrows raised. “Right,” she drawls out. “See what I mean? And don’t even get me started on how he behaves in front of his mother when you’re around.”

“What do you mean?”

“Imagine how mean he is towards someone who fucks with Chris. Now multiply it by ten. But subtract the killing part. He treated her like shit whenever we came to his house. And then you joined, and suddenly, he’s like a baby angel.”

Honestly, it sounds like Adrian. He still curses her out from time to time when you visit him at his home, but never to her face. You can’t say you blame him, though, because if your parents fussed over you in front of your friends like that, you’d be embarrassed too. But seeing as you are not in his shoes, you find it quite sweet, the way Mrs. Chase cares about him, and even sweeter how flustered and red he gets. You are pretty sure he is a mama’s boy, and it makes your heart grow warmer whenever you think about it.

“Also, no offence, but you’re a freak, too.”

“What? Why?”

“Well, first, when that tarantula escaped. Too fucking calm. Normal people just don’t go and pick up a big hairy spider like that.” She’s talking about the day you brought it  into work. It appears that the placement under your desk wasn’t the best, and you accidentally tipped the cage over with your foot, the lid swinging open and setting the tarantula free. It made Economos gag at the thought of a big ass tarantula wandering around, and Emilia also left, barking at you to find it ASAP, which you did. “And then there’s the time when you killed a guard your first week in prison.”

You clench your teeth at the memory. Yeah, the asshole fucking deserved nothing less. To put it lightly, he was taking advantage of your fellow prisoners, and when you saw the state some of them were left in, you decided to take matters into your own hands.

But wait.

“I only told Adrian about that.”

“Yeah, and it looked like he was going to write a poem about it. I swear, he had heart eyes the whole time he was telling me that story. Seriously. You should tell him.”

You find yourself sitting on a barstool at Fennel Fields, completing a quiz on Alpacas created by Adrian for you to fill the time that you spend waiting for him until he finishes his shift. You’re already reading question number five, when an arm stretches next to you, palm flat on the bartop, the digital watch shifting as he flexes his forearm. Your nostrils flare at the familiar smell of cardamom, making your pupils dilate. His other hand brushes against your back and then you feel a hot breath tickle the shell of your ear.

“I’ll give you a hint. The answer to the third question is not A, neither B, nor D.” He whispers enthusiastically like he’s providing you with a groundbreaking revelation. You cross out the already circled letter B and make a new circle, marking the only answer left.

“A baby Alpaca is called Cria?”

“Yeah, and so are baby Llamas. In Spanish, they call human babies crias, too.”

“Cool. Now, shoo, I can do this on my own,” you say, elbowing him lightly into his chest, making him stumble backwards. He refills your water before he makes his way around the restaurant, cleaning and refilling other customers.

It is quiet at this hour, only a few patrons left – a couple in the far corner, a family of four close to the entrance and two friends chattering right in the middle of the restaurant, already pulling out their wallets. You glimpse at your watch – only twenty minutes left until the closing hours. The kitchen has already closed, and you saw the cook leaving, as well as some of the waiters.

The only employees left were Adrian, Dave, some waitresses you did not recognize, and Blake, who was pretty familiar with you at this point. She always took your order – either from you or Adrian, because he had a habit of interrupting her when she was serving other customers, just because he refused to keep you waiting.

You talked to her about it, because you felt bad that Adrian was making her job harder, but she just laughed, telling you that there are customers that make her job harder tenfold. She has also said that she isn’t one to stop a man from pampering his girlfriend, and even though it made you blush and your stomach twist, you sadly had to strip her of that assumption. She chuckled again with a sure, honey, and strutted in a direction of new customers.

“Hey, stranger,” you lift your head to Dave’s voice, just to see him make his way over to you. “Are you doing crosswords again or what?” Dave says teasingly as he looks over your shoulder.

“A quiz on Alpacas, actually.”

“Hm.” His eyes scan over the paper, nodding along. “Bet you’re top of the class. Do you have Science before or after recess?”

You roll your eyes at the remark, shaking your head as return your focus to the quiz - it does look like it's made for first graders, aside from your own doodles of little Alapacas, there are pictures of all kinds of cartoon Alpacas scattered around the edges of the paper, and you can't help but imagine Adrian as he giddily plays around with the design in Canva.

Anyway.

Dave is a decent guy. More than decent, actually. Funny, kind, patient. And as bad as it makes you feel, you can’t help but enjoy all the flirting engaged in whenever he ran into you at Fennel Fields.

“I actually was top of the class, just so you know.”

“I don’t doubt it for a second.”

You don’t fight the smile, but you don’t dwell on the compliment either. You circle letter C after you read all the answers to the ninth question.

“Hey, so listen. I know you’re probably waiting for Adrian, but I was wondering if you wanted to hang with me after.”

You pause, eyes flitting to the top of the paper where you play with the corner, forming a small crease in the sheet. You turn to face him, squinting at him.

You did not expect that. Sure, you know he has been flirting with you this whole time, but you assumed it was something he did with a lot of people. You never expected him to take it this far. And you hate yourself for considering his invitation, even if it’s just for a second.

“You think I’d ditch my friend just like that?”

Dave shrugs. “It was worth a shot.”

You hope that is the end of it, but before you can focus on the quiz, he speaks again.

“So what about tomorrow night? I have the day off.”  

His tone is hopeful, and this time, you give yourself more than just a second to consider his ask, but before you can give your answer, a new person joins the conversation.

“Hey, Dave. Don’t you have some money to count?”

Both your heads snap towards Adrian.                     

“Excuse me?” Dave’s eyebrows shoot up, lips parting at Adrian’s faux order.

You wince. Uh-oh.

“Yeah, you’re paid to do your job. Not to pick up girls who are clearly uncomfortable in your presence,” he says, sticking his free palm out towards you, fingers spread so wide that the skin between his digits tightens.

“Adrian, relax, please. I’m good. He’s not making me uncomfortable.”

You know that harassment is in Adrian’s book of violations pretty high up, and you don’t need him killing his boss first thing he gets off work.

“Oh! Oh, so you do wanna go out with him? Great!” He forces his body between Dave and you and slaps his palm on the quiz before lifting the sheet and scrunching it up in the process. “Then he can make you his own quizzes from now on.” He says, turning on his heel before heading towards the back. You spring from your seat and rush after him, indifferent to the eyes of customers that currently follow you.

“Adrian, wait, I didn’t agree to anything!”

You follow him, grabbing at his suspenders that hung from his hips in an attempt to stop him, but he ignores you completely. You can think of six different ways to effectively stop him, but as there are kids present, you’re sure their parents probably wouldn’t leave a good review on Yelp if you were to carry on that here, and Adrian is already in enough trouble as it is.

You wouldn’t have a problem with following him into the restricted area, though, half expecting Dave to stop you, but to your mild surprise, it’s Adrian. He stops in his tracks, spinning around right in front of the door before he jabs his finger against the sign, reading the words aloud.

“Staff. Only. Don’t you dare stepping a foot over this threshold. Or I’ll have the security escort you out.”

This place doesn’t have any security guards; he’s just being too fucking dramatic. But you listen anyway, hoping he will cool off and then you can talk to him. You return to your seat, slumping over and gulping down the water you had left. Dave is already gone, but you catch his eyes when he’s going table to table, probably trying to do some damage control. He offers you a small, understanding smile, before returning his attention to the patrons.

Fuck. You should be the one apologizing. Dave's EQ score definitely falls into the right range. But what does it matter when he’s not Adrian? Who probably isn’t going to turn up until the end of the shift. You check your watch, twisting the strap around your wrist nervously. Three minutes. The kitchen entrance opens, and you straighten up, hoping it’s Adrian. Instead, you see Blake with a mournful expression on her face as she makes her way over to you. She squeezes your arm in comfort. “Honey, I think you’re gonna want to go out back.”

Confusion is replaced by shock of realization in a span of seconds, your eyes widening before you grab your jacket, hurtling towards the exit. Shit, you didn’t even thank her, but you make a mental note to do it next time you’re here. You round the building just in time for Adrian to exit through the back door, dressed in his own clothes – a polo sweater and regular washed out jeans; hair slightly flat from wearing the Fennel Fields hat. He still looks gorgeous.

“Oh, fuuck,” he groans, tipping his head back as he frowns, his fingers tightening around the strap of the bag slung over his shoulder.

“You wanted to bail on me?” you asked, incredulously, even though you aren’t so surprised in the end. “What the fuck was that? Are you trying to get yourself fired, Adrian?”

He walks past you without even looking at you. “I don’t give a shit. I’ll probably quit anyway.”

“What? Why?” you ask as you stay in place, only twisting your body to face him and hoping he will acknowledge you. He doesn’t. Not with words, not with eyes, he just keeps on walking. Angry tears well in your eyes and it’s enough to make you run after him, swooping past him and blocking his pathway. “Talk to me, asshole.”

He laughs manically, but he does stop walking.

“I’m an asshole now? I am? Well, I guess it takes one to know one!”

You stare at him with glossy eyes, grating your teeth as you try to stop yourself from saying something hurtful, something he probably most definitely deserves, but you might regret later. Your fists are clenched at your sides, nails biting into your palms.

“How am I the asshole?” you ask.

“Well, maybe because you’re flirting with my enemy?”

You know Dave isn’t exactly Adrian’s favorite person, and vice versa, but despite Adrian acting like a brat towards Dave from time to time, you thought that there must have been at least some mutual respect shared between them, otherwise Dave would have already fired Adrian a long time ago. And Adrian wouldn’t have gushed to you about Dave being a fucking icon when he had thrown out a customer who was trying to pick up a fight with one of the busboys for not doing the job the waiters and waitresses are supposed to do. He said that Dave was essentially defending every busser’s honor.

“Since when is Dave your enemy?”

“Since he’s been stealing away my friend I guess.” Your heart skips a beat. Wait, is he jealous? Could this possibly mean that he… feels the same way? “Next thing I know, he’s stealing Chris, then Eagly, then Economos, and even Harcourt.” Okay, stupid, nevermind.

You take a deep breath, tilting your head towards the sky as if gravity is supposed to stop the tears from beading in the corners of your eyes. Then you face him again, lips trembling before you finally find the courage to reveal your most vulnerable self to him.

“You know, I’m so fucking tired, Adrian.” A tear finally slips down your cheek, and you quickly wipe it away as you sniff. “Ads says that you follow me around all the time like a lost puppy. But I feel like I’m the one following you, wagging my tail all the fucking time like a Goddamn poodle and waiting for you to throw me a bone, but you never even notice me.” Your voice cracks at the last words.

His eyebrows knit together, and his lips form a confused pout. You force the heels of your palms against your eyebrows, squeezing your eyes shut. There’s nothing soft in the way you massage your forehead, bone against bone as you dig your hands into your forehead like it’s supposed to free you from some of the strong emotions that are flooding your brain. You drop your arms to your sides again, and more tears streak down your face. This time, you let them.

“I never thought that loving somebody could be so fucking exhausting, and I’m honestly running out of fuel.”

You bring your sleeve up to wipe the mixture of tears and snot away. Adrian stands there, eyes jumping over the small fragments of rocks scattered around the ground as he mentally rewinds to the beginning of the night. He adjusts the strap on his shoulder, looking back at the backdoor he walked through a few moments ago before his eyes meet yours.

“You’re in love… with me? Not with Dave?”

You want to smack him, you really do.

“Jesus Christ, Adrian, did you listen to what I just said?”

He strides over to you, outstretching his arms as if to stop you from running away. But he doesn’t touch you.

“Yes! I’m just making sure. I don’t want to make a fool out of myself.”

You give him a pointed look, raising your eyebrow. Little late for that, no?

“Not any more than I already have, anyway,” he adds when he reads your expression.

You cross your arms over your chest. You sure as hell hope this is not all he has to say.

“Right, okay. So first of all, if you were a dog, you’d totally be a Dachshund. Poodles aren’t so stubborn, and they are too afraid to take on bigger animals like Dachshunds do. I have nothing against Poodles, but Dachshunds are way more cooler. Second of all, how can you say that I never notice you? I’m looking at you, like, all the time.”

He says it like it’s the most obvious thing, like you’re supposed to somehow know that. But is he even talking about the same thing? Fucking kaleidoscope.

“But you don’t look at me.”

“Ehh, I just said–”

Ugh, fuck.

“No, just… I look at you. Differently than I do at the rest of our friends.”

“But that’s what I’m trying to say. I literally told you that I wanted to kiss you. At the birthday party! See? I’m not the only fool here,” his smile stretches.

You twist your face, shaking your head as you try to make sense of his words. “But that’s just what people say. It’s an expression.”

“Well, I’ve never said it to anyone else.” He shrugs.

Your mind is hazy from all the crying and confusion, from all the overlapping emotions, from Adrian. You don’t know where you stand anymore.

“I have no idea what you’re trying to say, Adrian.”

“Okay. I don’t think I’ve ever experienced love for another person. I’ve said that I love Chris, because I thought I did. But then you gave me Michelangelo, and I immediately fell in love with him too. I realized that love can be even stronger.” He stops, eyebrows knitting together as he thinks. “Different might be the right word.”

Your heart flutters. You had never doubted that he would like the spider before you gave it to him, but you didn’t expect him to grow this fond of him.

“And then I thought about the time when Ads had caught me 'gazing' at you one day – when we went to the farmer's market with you and you were taste-testing all the different kinds of honey?”

Yeah, you remember Ads telling you afterwards that she’s never going somewhere alone with you and Adrian ever again, because she refuses to reduce herself to a third wheel.

Adrian bought five jars of ginger honey for you that day, because that was the one you took most samples of and the one you were feeding to him until he agreed that it was the best out of all of them. Truly, he was not convinced.

“She told me that I look like I’m ready to make the moon shine just for you. Which didn’t make sense because I can’t light up the moon, especially not in the middle of the day...” Adrian’s arm waved to the natural satellite, the waxing gibbous moon reflecting in his glasses when his duh expression is replaced by a scrunch-up as he tilts his head. “But then I started thinking about what I would do if you did ask me to make the moon shine, so I decided to watch Despicable Me, thinking it would give me some answers, but it actually–”

You ignore the churning in your stomach caused by his words and step forward, grabbing his forearms to stop him from getting sidetracked. “Adrian.”

He stops rambling, his green eyes connecting with yours.

“I think I’m in love with you, too. I have been for a while, I just didn’t realize it until Michelangelo helped me see that.” God, he’s such a fucking oddball. “I care about you more than Chris, and you’re basically on par with Michelangelo.” Adrian’s face twists into a grimace as he mulls over his words. “Even though I don’t think I’d want to steal the Moon for him. And I definitely don’t want to kiss him,” he finishes, licking his lips before chewing on them with his teeth.

Fuck. You have no right to be angry at him for not telling you this sooner, because you didn’t exactly set a good example, but Adrian is a blabbermouth and if you expected anyone to share each and every single piece of their mind with other people, it would be him.

You grab the lapels of his sweatshirt and tug him down, your lips colliding harshly and foreheads bumping together, making Adrian whimper a small ow into your mouth. The kiss is messy at first, teeth clashing together before you manage to find a rhythm. You let him suck on your upper lip, lightly nipping on his bottom one before soothing the dent in the thin skin with your tongue.

Goosebumps swarm every part of your body as you feel his fingers thread into your hair, your roots tightening when he forms a fist in order to hold you firmly to his body. An invisible force pulls you to your tiptoes, eager to get swallowed by him as you let your palms travel upwards over his shoulders, folding your arms behind his neck. The fingers of his other hand find the loop on the side of your jeans, curling his thumb and index around it and tugging you closer.

You are literally consuming each other in the quiet alleyway, the hooting of owls accompanied by the sounds of your lips smacking and puffs of air escaping through your noses. When you pull away to take a proper breath, Adrian’s lips chase after yours, catching them in one last peck before he pulls away with a smile, mirroring yours.

“Fuck. I can’t believe I didn’t do this sooner.”

Yeah, you can’t either. You try not to dwell on what could have been, instead choosing to embrace this present moment and cherish the fact that he’s finally yours.

Adrian leans in one more time, kissing away the remaining tears that glimmer under the night sky only to realize he's smearing them rather than removing them. He brings his hand up, his long sleeve stretched over his palm, swiping at your skin with the soft material instead, soaking it in the process.

You let out a light giggle, bringing your hands up to cup the sides of his neck, thumbs brushing over his jawline and nicking his earlobes, enjoying the feeling of his skin under your fingertips. Both his hands fall to your hips again, preventing you from moving further away. Not that you want to.

“You wanna go over to my place?” you ask. You were supposed to into the woods to practice combat in complete darkness – no night vision, no flashlights, relying solely on your instincts and senses – but it was really hard to ignore the bulge in his jeans when your bodies were pressed up against each other.

He tilts his head, his glasses inching down the bridge of his nose. You bring your index up, shifting them back into place. “Are we gonna have sex?”

“Probably. If you want to.”

“Sick.” Adrian grabs your hand, compressing your fingers in his big palm as he drags you towards his car. He opens the passenger door for you before rounding the car and slipping into the driver’s seat with the backpack on his lap.

“Want me to take it?” you ask, reaching over for it, but he just shakes his head, tugging onto the zipper.

He fishes out a crumpled-up piece of paper. You are surprised that he didn’t just tear it up and throw it into the trash.

“I graded your test. Not bad, just a few errors. We can go over them after the sex. Or before, I don’t care. I gave you some bonus points for the Alpaca doodle, but then I had to deduct them for… flirting with Dave.” The last part of the sentence is said with a hint of guilt, his head hanging low. You lean over the console, one hand on his thigh as the other squishes his cheeks together, turning him to face you before you peck his plushy lips.

“Maybe I can earn them back?” You smile, tickling the tip of his nose with yours and batting your eyelashes before you pull back.

“Fuck. I take it back. Definitely after,” he says, stuffing the paper back into his bag before throwing it onto the backseat.

It was a quiet night for the both of you. The sun was setting, and you could finally unwind with a hot shower whilst your ex-neighbour was in the living area watching the news.

An evening where you wouldn’t think about what had been done and to whom, an evening to escape from the madness that had infiltrated your life ever since your neighbour had moved into the apartment next to yours, and then proceeded to turn your life upside down. 

Yet you both had come to accept what was the new normal,safer together than apart. Coming to terms with each other’s actions was hard enough, and for the time being relying on him was what you needed to do, he had reminded you of that already. 

These past few months you both had been lying low, staying away from the limelight. You wouldn’t exactly call it that since Dex had made his little debut, doing right by his internal beliefs of being a good person, and you trailed after him with little to no question. 

You sigh, “this is nice,” neck facing downwards as Dex fluffs the towel through the back of your hair, using the pads of his fingers to rub into your scalp in soothing motions. He can see that you’re relaxing. 

“Hm,” he hums, agreeing with you. 

Eyes locked in on your form. From how your shoulders have dropped and how your neck slouches in a way that looks slightly uncomfortable, revealing a small bump formed from the bone that naturally sticks out. 

He moves a few curls aside, tracing his thumb over it, a featherlight touch, but you can feel the thick skin of his finger, it tickles as it travels up making your shoulders raise up from the sensation. 

He chuckles at the reaction, smoothing his hand over where he had just touched, knowing that you would have scratched the area instead. He’s seen how you always itch the same area that has been tickled, an attempt at shaking off the sensation. 

An odd thing you do that he has come to notice. 

Then he carries on drying your hair, taking his time like he is savouring this time with you. The last time he had done this was years ago, it felt almost unfamiliar to him as he rakes his fingers through your semi-dried locks. 

“It’s been too long, hasn’t it?” he thinks out loud. Head tilting to the side as he thinks about his time before being in Rikers Island, before being shoved into the psychiatric facility for the purpose of recovery, before everything went to shit. 

“Yeah it has been,” you reply, voice tired from his ministrations. It was lulling you into a sleepy state, it always did when your hair was touched. 

“But I'm here now. You don’t have to worry anymore.” 

“I wasn’t worried,” you mumble.

He stills a little, that made him pause for a moment. 

“No? You weren’t? I don’t think that’s true Star.”

“I was fine by myself. I had people, friends. ” Your last few words start to slur. 

“Oh yeah? Are you saying you didn’t need me? You were fine without me?” You don’t notice the change of tone, focused on the feeling of his fingers in your hair. 

Hm. That's the only reply he gets. 

He pauses again. That wasn’t the correct response. 

It’s funny how seriously he takes it. He has that tingling feeling in his hand that urges him to do something, anything to make you change your answer to his question. Even though it came off rhetorical, he wants an appropriate answer. A correct one. 

He is a man who wields blades, sharp and lethal, makes use of anything blunt, anything he can use to injure, subdue, and you can safely say you have never felt threatened around him. 

A few times you did feel a jolt of fear course through you, more for the person on the receiving end of his violence, his figure looming over them, never you. He unconsciously softened his posture, his expression easy looking, approachable when you were with him. So that you would never view him the way others do. 

Yet he cards his hand through, a faux action to comb your hair with his fingers, and instead he yanks a handful of locks backwards till your neck is on full display. 

The abrupt action rips a gasp out of you, a borderline moan. Surprised at the semi-aggressive action inflicted on your hair. 

With your head tilted back like this, you swallow harshly due to the constriction of air flow, attempting to stay calm. Body frozen, rooted in your spot, not knowing how to react. 

And though you don’t fear him. You are careful. Very careful with what you say, and at times you slip, or you speak your mind when you deem it necessary. Like when you had confronted him, questioned what his motives were, his sincerity. 

You tiptoe around him. Living with him has made you aware of the way you act. You know what to say, which topics to avoid. You do like to rile him up occasionally, but never with the insecurities he had buried deep within, that would be cruel. 

And so his unpredictableness has you on edge ever since you came into contact with him, even before Foggy’s death, the time together was when you had begun picking up subtle signs that he portrayed. 

Now you know how troubling it is to you, because it reminded you how unstable he had become. 

It was funny at times, though it shouldn’t be something you find amusing, it actually scared you a little. Actively walking on eggshells around him, carefully picking your words in case he took it the wrong way or began tearing into what was meant to be your true intentions. 

He lowers his face to your cheek, nosing it, the tip travels up along your jaw till it reaches your cheekbone, then his eyes are level to yours. 

Your pupils rolled to the side to look at him, waiting for him to say whatever he’s been meaning to. 

You know he acts upon things without reason at times, always with an intention behind what he does. These small actions are no exception. 

“Don’t test me, Star. You know how I feel about that. About who was taking my place in my absence.”

It’s followed by a tug, not enough to yank you further back, just enough to punctuate his deep seated envy that just won’t seem to leave his system. 

It had only intensified over time. Not able to pinpoint when exactly. 

He loosens his grip a little, scratching your scalp lightly, looking almost apologetic for turning such a tender moment into projecting his insecurity onto you. 

Showing such impulsive behaviour to you. Acting so recklessly when you were in a defenseless position, sat on the ground with you back to him. 

“I didn’t know you were so jealous, Dex. Maybe you should have thought about that before going after my friends.” A lopsided smile graces your face. 

You tease him. The only way you know how to de-escalate this tension he had created. 

His hands are too large to wrap around your hair, but he gets the desired effect by jerking it further back, neck craning even more. 

You let out a strained sound that was close to a pleasurable hum that had him smirking. Your upper back hits his knee, causing you to arch it. The tension is gradually dissipating as you throw these little digs at his face. 

You keep going because you love to provoke him, but you should really know when to stop. He won’t let up, stubborn as hell, but patient when it comes to you, at times that is. 

“I’m just saying, it’s not my fault you keep disappearing. You can’t expect me to rely only on you,” you breathe out through your mouth, trying to keep your voice even, “I’m not sure you realise, but you keep talking like a deranged man.” 

“Careful now, Star,” he says lowly, “otherwise this deranged man is gonna do something you aren’t going to like. We don’t want that right?” 

His grip went slack in your hair, no longer tugging it, wiping the damp feeling from his hand onto the towel. Instead he places his other hand on the front of your neck, covering the larynx with his palm. 

Your breath comes out shaky, feeling his hand glide around. No doubt he can feel you swallow thickly. 

“That arrogance is really shining through Dex,” giving him a knowing look. 

He warningly squeezes your windpipe a little, not enough to hurt but to remind you he has the upper hand here. 

He’s got you in a compromising position, too intimate to be seen as average behaviour. Not that he was normal about it or anything, but it reflected who he was, who had always been. Just less restrained. 

It’s after he bought his freedom back from Vaneesa Fisk that he had become more comfortable in his own skin to act this way, the affection and touch coming much more easily to him. 

Now you’re left too open, vulnerable in his hands. 

It was times like these that truly showed you his personality, the man he had become. So volatile and confident in his ability, even his personality had switched, you had seen it years ago, it was the same qualities he had. 

Now, he’s fully embraced it and you internally shake your head thinking about the magnitude of change he had gone through, so different from the man who used to be your neighbour. 

He knows how to placate you, a little bit of emotion, sweet honeyed words to get you to settle down. 

His head is bent as he speaks near your ear, “I don’t like it. There shouldn’t have been anyone else, and it’s my fault, I…I know. You also know that I’m trying right? For you? Shouldn’t that be enough?” 

Sinking down a bit so that you could rest the back of your head on his knee instead

Your eyes shut for a moment, the heat of his palm felt nice on your skin. “I’m tired, Dex. Shall we head to bed?” 

He keeps stroking the area, grazing his blunt nails against the soft skin. You turn your head to the side, slightly twisting your body to lay your cheek on his thigh, curling your body inwards and peering up at him. 

He stares back, “what?”

“Nothing.” you mumble, cheek smushed against his thigh. 

“Why are you looking at me like that?” 

“Like what?” 

“I don’t know.” 

You say nothing. He pokes the fat of your cheeks that protrudes out. 

You think it would do you well to remember that this man was not the same man you knew six years ago. He had changed into someone that was unrecognisable, in his ideals, beliefs, how he carried himself after all these years. 

Too many changes in such little time. 

But many of his feelings reflected by his actions remained the same, like now, how he’s drying your hair like he once used to do. 

It was more hesitant before, now he had outright offered to do it for you, insisted even. The best example of the change within him. 

Though the major difference lay in his demeanor and the certainty of his feelings associated with you. 

This was him. This is who he was. 

All in all, the fact that he does somewhat recognise that someone besides him was there for you, helping you, was your friend for the time he was away was enough for you to know he was trying. In his own strange way that is. 

For your sake, he understood that he knew his envy was misplaced, albeit very much present, and you were faultless here. The circumstances tore you both apart. That is what he believes. And maybe he does admit that he should take accountability for that.  

“You okay?” 

You nod. Hearing his concern thick with emotion, the change in his tone, it was overwhelmingly his style. At least how he is now, very on brand for him to switch through emotions as each sentence that comes out of his mouth. 

You never know with him. 

“Yeah.” It’s breathy, whispered lowly, knowing it could be heard as he was already so close to you, exchanging each other’s warmth. 

You decide to throw him a bone, a little bit of acceptance for him to chew on. 

“It’s enough…it’s enough for now.” 

Soon enough the third session comes the week after the dinner with Heather and Matt.  

Things had been stirring as of recent, it was unnerving, tension filled streets with no way of knowing where the danger lies. 

Yet people move, they persist, because they have to. Things will not come to a standstill due to uncertainty, it has always been that way. So what was so different this time?

You wait outside, on the long couch arranged with plush cushions. You hold one close to your chest, the velvety feel of the material gives you something to fidget with. Dr Glenn should be out soon, you had finished work early today, giving you a headstart to her office. 

The hour is almost up. It’s five minutes past the beginning of your appointment. Then six, then seven, then eight–

You hear loud grunts and a muffled scream? The office isn’t soundproof, and the walls aren’t exactly thin either. Your heart pulses, jumps. 

She’s in danger. You can’t not interfere, your heart blazes with fear for Dr Glenn. She’s in danger, what to do? What to do? 

You push past the door, swinging the door open with the purpose of mitigating the issue. And the sight before you does not disappoint, there lies Dr Glenn in the centre of her office getting dragged by her ankle by a man in a white mask with dried blood dripping from his eyes like tears. 

A disturbing sight indeed. 

He’s choking her with two hands squeezing her windpipe, she attempts at gasping for air her lungs couldn’t get. You yank him off her once you’re close enough. Shoving him backwards, his back meets the floor. 

She breathes, an almost piercing sound comes out of her. 

His mask makes him look a lot scarier than what you assume he actually looks like. His actions are much more menacing than any expression grazing his face. He’s grasping at the knife he used to cut Dr Glenn’s arm and looking at it now, her wound is becoming an alarming issue of blood loss. 

He’s charging at you, as a defense your arms come to hold him back, trying to push him away from you. Your back hits the wall, groaning at the force. 

His knife is raised, aimed at your face. You push, panic driven by the sharp point of the blade right near your eye, and only when Heather screams, you realise that his blade is running across your face.

Also the pain, that too, blooms hot and wide. Pulsing with an unimaginable sharpness. A choked scream penetrates the room, Heather cries watching helplessly as your skin ruptures from the sharp blade. 

You can hear the skin splitting, flesh breaking open unnaturally, blood gushes out across your face, starting sideways of your nosebridge to the very edge of your nose. 

It drips steadily like a thin stream, the crimson liquid covering the majority of your nose, upper lip, travelling all the way down to your chin, the copper taste hits your tongue. 

You spit out the acrid taste that had mixed with your saliva, it doesn’t help. 

And you don’t know how, but you are able to knee him between his legs. He falters, knife dropping to the floor as he uses both hands to cover his groin. 

A mighty punch to his mask, you always did have a lot of strength in your arms, more so after starting working out; and he crumbles onto the floor once again.

You are blinded by a certain type of anger that you feel when someone touches you, hurts you so that the pain you feel becomes anger, channeling that annoyance into strength, pushing you forward to hit, hurl, hurt anything, anyone. 

When you land another punch to his face he pushes back this time. On his feet now, he spins around, leg raised, a flying kick to your jaw sends you to the floor. And then he stalks back towards Heather with his gun. The window smashes open, bits of glass flying past. 

And now it’s a fight between Daredevil and Muse. At some point his gun slides past you as you look over at Dr Glenn’s wounds, both of you trail after it, then back up at the masked man, or clown really. 

He’s charging at Dr Glenn at an alarming pace, with Daredevil momentarily subdued by a sequence of kicks aimed at his head, Muse has his knife in hand again. You shakily go to grab the gun, only for it to disappear from your line of sight. 

Dr Glenn has the gun in her hands. 

Three bullets are lodged into Muse before she drops to the floor. She’s looking straight at you, eyes slightly unfocused, tears fling freely. Then she promptly passes out. 

You’re flabbergasted. 

“Dr Glenn!” You shake her, grab at her, anything to make sure her heart is still beating, that she’s alive. Hands frantically searching for her pulse, “no, no, come on, come on.”

Matt’s right beside you, he shakes her awake, rubbing at her temples, “Heather, Heather, it’s over, it’s over.” 

Her eyes are half open and roll in the general direction of Daredevil, then she slips back into unconsciousness. Her heart beat steady. Safe, alive. 

“They’re coming, they’re coming.” He taps your arm repeatedly and goes to stand up.

“What should I say? What do I do?” you think for a moment, eyes unfocused, brain wracking through the options, “knock me out,” but it seems everything is catching up to you now. You gasp, holding onto the wall for support.

He hovers over you, he can taste the blood in the air. It’s practically everywhere, yet he can differentiate all four smells. Yours is the strongest, iron curling around his nostrils. You’re bleeding heavily, too heavily. 

It’s your face, he can hear the pulsing of the wound. He can tell it’s going to scar badly, too deep for it to be a surface wound. 

He doesn’t have time to do anything, because the second you ask him, you pass out in front of him from the blood loss, the sharp dip in adrenaline when you knew Heather was okay, or it was likely from the kick to your face, disorienting you.

Shit. He hears them coming, your heart is steady, so is Heather’s. He’s gone. 

The door is shoved open, the newly formed Anti Vigilante Task Force steps through searching the room, attempting to fit the pieces together. Three bodies on the floor, unconscious, covered in blood.

Fisk will want to hear about this. 

—

“...We can take you home, first thing in the morning, okay?” Voice gentle, too gentle given what had happened. 

“I killed him, Matt,” she whimpers, looking away, “he hurt her. Where is she? Is she okay?” Head turning back his way. 

“Yeah, she’s gonna be fine,” Matt takes her hand, pressing a kiss to the back of it, “they discharged her already, she’s outside, waiting for you.”

She nods, a soft sad sound escapes her, “I wanna see her, Matt.” 

“Yeah. Okay, I’ll go get her.”

Then she turns her head away to her side once more, “there was someone else there, right before Bastian tried to…he was there, he showed up. I think.”

“You think?”

“I think he said my name.”

“Who?” 

“...Daredevil.” 

—

Matt beckons you inside the room. Heather looks worse for wear, tear marks on her face, she’s been crying. You walk towards her side, opposite of where Matt was and look down at her bandaged arm. 

“Hey, how are you doing?” She begins, looking concerned as ever. 

There’s a white piece of gauze taped down on your face, all the way across your nose bridge in a diagonal line. Veins in your eyes red, exhaustion prominent and there is a nasty looking bruise blooming around your jaw. 

“Hi,” you mumble. 

She holds out her hand for you to take. Your lip curls inwards, top teeth biting into the flesh, contemplating whether or not you should. She wouldn’t have offered it if she blamed you for what happened. 

You take it, her thumb swipes the back of your hand, like she’s attempting to soothe your wound. As if it was her fault you were put into that position and in turn her job was to correct it somehow. 

If it wasn’t for you, she might have been in a worse state, or actually be dead right now. She owes you her life. 

But her debt had been paid, she killed him. In the end, it was a matter of self-defense. She couldn’t let you have that on your conscience, and when she saw you advancing towards the gun, she acted upon instinct. 

Taking the weapon for herself, unloading the remaining clip, killing him right there and then. Now she recognises whilst being able to reflect back on why she did it, the answer comes down to not wanting the blame being placed on you. 

She had spent a couple sessions with you already, your reluctant storytelling of the past, recounting what had led you to feel such shame and regret over things that were never in your control. You, like her, didn’t have a choice when facing these trials and tribulations. 

She does not know the whole story, only bits and pieces you shared and trusted her with, and still she acknowledges that you do not deserve to kill in the name of her. 

Assessing you in the way she usually does, her assumption was that you would be wracked with guilt till it would consume you to the brim, then eventually it would overflow from withholding the natural process of your trauma. 

That was why she did it. She saw the awful opportunity and she took it. She ended it before anyone else got hurt, before Daredevil got hurt. Before you acted upon the same intentions as she did. 

And now she will face the internal consequence of killing a person, a human. All for the sake of the safety of the people, the public, you. 

And for that, the regret comes in waves, but it dies down faster than she had expected. Already processing it all and discarding the feelings that came with it. It will take time to make a full recovery of course, but coming to terms with killing Muse is already on the way. 

You know what you failed to prevent, what you allowed to happen to Heather is your fault. There is blame to be taken. You won’t let yourself think so otherwise. 

If you hadn’t entered the room, then she would have been dead or she would not have shot him at all. Or if you came in earlier, a few extra seconds would’ve given you time, that leniency would stretch past you and it meant the gun would be in your hands like it was meant to be.  

“Sweetheart?” She asks, bringing you out of your thoughts, “are you blaming yourself?” It’s uttered in disbelief. 

You stiffen, eyes meeting hers, “no, don’t do that. It wasn’t your fault. Not at all.” Her head shakes when she speaks, assuring you even now. 

“Star, you did the right thing.” His pitiful smile, his attempt to placate you, the same one he had given Heather moments before. 

“You saved my life,” she chokes on her words, trying to swallow the lump in her throat. She blinks away her tears, but they keep coming. 

“No, you saved mine Dr Glenn,” you swallow harshly, “you cannot deny that.” 

She concludes you will not change your mind regarding that fact. Once you believe something so deeply, experience it, you will not let go. Holding tight to the truth you had curated in your mind. It was true, you saved her life, but so did she. 

“Each other then. We saved each other.” 

You grasp a few of her fingers, squeezing them. You didn’t know how to console her, or anyone without it feeling like it was not what they they needed. 

“I’m sorry,” you look at her, then up at Matt. and then sniff, tears falling freely till you’re a crying and sniffling mess. Hot in the face, the deep cut getting more and more aggravated due to the screwing up of your features.

The edges of the gauze stuck on your face crinkling, as your hand goes to cover your face up. 

The stitches pulling and tugging at your skin. It hurts. It hurts so bad. 

How can you let yourself cry like this when the woman who faced a near death experience is lying in the bed next to you. You can’t be crying and breaking down in front of her, or Matt. 

You had essentially compounded the issue where it had led her to kill the masked man. The person he loved, the person Matt loved, was traumatised, in hospital because of you. Because you didn’t grab the gun fast enough.

“Shit,” you desperately need to leave, get away from them. You can’t stand being looked at, perceived by him the way he does. 

It’s overwhelming, and your body is at its limit, burning hot all over, ears and cheeks pumping with blood that pulses till it bites with heat. You hate it, you want to leave. 

Matt rounds the bed, gently taking your hand away from your face to not irritate the wound further, so that you wouldn’t tear your stitches out. “Hey, hey, hey,” he pulls you flush against him, “let it out, let it all out.” 

Heather simply observes, head turned your way. Her own tears mixing into the air, a salty tang permeates the room. Matt swallows, it’s the scent of thick emotion, stress and sadness. Overwhelming to his senses, and he’s surrounded by it in the small hospital room. 

The uninjured part of your face lies on his chest. He cradles you like a baby, wanting to cocoon you with a semblance of safety, a momentary haven cloaking you completely. 

Hand on the back of your head, he feels you sighing, ragged breaths taken to calm yourself, to bring yourself back to a neutral state. “It’s okay, you’re okay, Sweetheart.” 

And finally he releases you, albeit reluctantly, wiping at your face. Swiping under your eyes, feeling the soft skin of your eyebags under the pad of his thumb. The salty liquid dissolves into the air, drying out on your cheeks. 

“Star. It’s neither of your fault, I promise you that. This happened because of him. Tell me you understand that.” 

You nod, hesitant. Like your mind doesn’t want to believe it, but your body resigns once hearing how earnest and desperate Matt sounded.

Eyes back on Heather, she smiles, small this time. Eyes on eyes, blink after blink, you smile back, tired. 

This is another stepping stone, isn’t it? You’ll get past it, won’t you?

You pray Heather’s opinion of you remains the same, doesn’t change the way she views you. That you were incapable of doing anything right, to keep others safe. 

Her view has changed. It has developed into something much more profound, it makes her feel alive when she thinks about how much you cared enough to put yourself in front of her. So willing, so fierce when you could have just stood back or called for help. 

But no, you stayed. You stayed with her till the end. A good person, doing the right thing because that is what good people do. They stay, they endure and they do not inflict. 

Defended her till you bore the consequences of a vigilante’s unrestrained violence on your face. An innocent person in the midst of aiding another innocent, caught in the crossfire of something so useless. Yet something so utterly unavoidable. 

Once her mental state recovers, she will be present. She will make sure you get the help you need, get what you deserve. 

A fully capable brain that has the capacity to move forward, not become haunted by the ghosts of the past. 

—

Recovery had been alright, not the best but there wasn’t much fatigue that came with the aftermath. Only towards the end of the night, when your head pounded against your skull, urging you to go to sleep. Refusing to take your painkillers may have been the leading cause for the migraine as well as the burning you felt on your face. 

Your stitches were still fresh, the jagged cut across your nose that crept towards the start of your cheek was scabbing over gradually, the skin pulling together day by day. It was raw and ugly looking, stitches were tight and clean, but still it was a pain to look at yourself in the mirror some mornings. 

It was a major change, your typical plain face devoid of anything that made you stand out was now marked by a thick line that made you stand out. It hurts to move your face, not able to react the way you normally could, it hurts to smile or even cry when you need an outlet. 

A week had passed and your stitches were to be taken out today. You felt slightly nervous, having no one to go with you, but you think to yourself that it should be over soon. 

It’s just stitches, and now you should breathe, you need to breathe. Coffee, you need a hot drink to calm you down, maybe some toast. So that is what you do, make some toast, then half a cup of coffee. You had some instant coffee powder laying around, your favourite kind you always have stocked. 

Little bit of milk, a teaspoon of sugar in the cute cow mug you got as a gift many years ago, slightly chipped around the rim, but still functional. 

You stir your drink, take a sip and sigh in content. At least something positive that can be taken out of today. Just as you were about to take another gulp of your coffee, there’s a knock on the door. 

That is odd, unexpected even, seeing that no one really comes to your apartment, well…ever. 

You look through the peephole, then when you decide he is no threat, you unlock the door. 

You sip your coffee, waiting for him to state his business, “yes?” 

“Lovely to meet you,” he hands you an envelope, “an invitation to attend the ball for your admiration and courage you portrayed alongside Dr Heather Glenn.”

You take it, looking at the cursive writing that had your name on it, your nickname too. That makes you scoff, “that all?”

Polite as ever, but this time with a slight lilt to his words, “the mayor wanted me to deliver this to you personally. We hope you attend this evening.”

You take another sip of your now lukewarm coffee. He watches as you do this, attention going towards your mug. It looks a little childish now doesn’t it? 

You furrow your brows at his funny expression. “What? Never seen a cute cow mug before?” You mumble, cheeks flushing, heat spreading towards your ears. 

Your hard exterior during this interaction contradicts the cuteness of the cow print, mug a little too big in your hands. He hums, amused, “I haven’t actually. Nothing wrong with cute little mugs…kid.” 

“Woah, hey now,” to which he laughs, side dimple deepening, an unexpected sound meeting your ears. It makes your lip tilt to the side, irritating your wound, you grimace straight after. 

He stares, eyes boring into the stitched up cut, face blank as he takes in the jagged wound. It definitely looks as if it had done unimaginable pain when you were being carved out like a pumpkin. 

“Umm…thanks for the delivery, but I have to get going.”

He makes a stupidly wild guess, “stitches? Getting them taken out?” 

You nod, “mhm.” 

“Anybody…going with you?”

“Why?” eyebrow quirks up at that. What was he trying to extract from you?

“It’s nasty work, just thought you would have someone with you, that’s all.”

“Uhh…no. I don’t. Just myself.” You sip your coffee, feeling a little out of place having a conversation with a stranger about your stitches.

“Do you at least have the means to travel?”

“You asking if I drive?”

“Sure.” he shrugs. 

“It’s a short walk from here, not too long. Can’t drive, too expensive.”

He agrees, but with one look at him, you’re not so sure he truly believes that. He is donning what looks like an expensive suit, along with a watch that you probably could not afford in this lifetime. 

“Allow me to take you there. Streets are becoming increasingly unsafe.”

There had officially been a broadcast introducing the Anti-Vigilante Task Force to the public, there was a set curfew, too many riots and the rapid rise of crime had led to them patrolling the streets every hour of every day.

They were bad. Some of them were out there doing inhumane things, murdering those who were in a mask, to set an example of what would happen to them if others did the same. A necessary evil. Oh how you hated those words. 

It was plain violence and bloodshed with no justification. Nothing could ever make that right, and so your face screws up when he mentions the streets becoming unsafe. 

Yeah, whose fault is that? Is what your face expresses. 

"Wouldn't want you to get caught up in something so easily avoidable, if…” his brow raises, “...you’d let me take you to the hospital.”

You do not want to take any favours from the man who works for Fisk. You know to never be indebted to people like that, where it may come back onto you. The worst kind of karma that you want to avoid. 

Wondering why he seems so insistent on dropping you off. He doesn’t seem the type to take pity on someone like you. From what you have taken in, he seemed perturbed for a single moment when eyeing your face, maybe he hated ugly looking scars. Whatever. 

Thinking on it, it would be rather counterproductive for him to ensure the safety of the people who have been a pain in Fisk’s ass for about a decade now, the quicker they get rid of you guys, the better. Their operations would be smoother than ever without you in the picture.

It must be some sort of game they were playing, Mayor Fisk to the rescue! 

The mayor is doing all he can to make the streets a safer place when in actuality he’s making them worse, raids and protests perpetuated by the violence caused by the AVTF, orders originating from Fisk himself. 

It’s a joke really, how could Fisk ever think that he could convince the public he has changed, that he is not the same man he was when he essentially controlled major parts of the city back then, illegally that is.  

You have the right to overthink in this situation. The guy is intimidating for God’s sake, you should be skeptical. You shouldn’t have made meaningless conversation with a stranger, he probably has a gun on him, but then again he would've used it already if he wanted you dead. 

“That’s very kind of you Sir, but I should be alright. Wouldn’t want you to divert you from your schedule now.” A tight lipped smile sent his way. 

“Oh no,” he smirks, albeit gentler than his previous look, “I insist. We want to ensure your attendance tonight, lovely.”

You frown, your resolve is crumbling as each second ticks by, you are gonna be late, really late even if you want to walk it to the hospital now. 

“I’m only accepting because I will be late for my appointment,” placing your mug in the sink and moving quickly to put your shoes on, “nothing else, okay?” You say as you shove your keys, wallet and phone into the back pocket of your jeans.

“Understandable.” He nods, watching as you shuffle through your apartment. 

The journey is faster than it would’ve been on foot, no doubt about that. Before you know it, he’s opening the door for you, escorting you out which feels a little more embarrassing than it should have felt. 

And now he’s walking towards the entrance, leaving you behind, watching his back getting further and further away. You speed up till you’re by his side, “I thought you were dropping me off here?” 

Does he want to go to the appointment with you? How strange. 

“Oh, did I? If I do recall correctly, I said I would take you to the hospital. I’m doing just that, aren’t I?” 

“Yeah, guess you are.” You mumble, wanting to get this over with, so you don’t argue for once. 

Now that you both have taken a seat, waiting for your name to be called, you’re not as skeptical as you were before, somehow having entered the doors of the hospital with him, it’s as if you have entered a new stage of acceptance, not exactly treading carefully as you did nearly twenty minutes ago, but he’s still a stranger after all. 

“I don’t want you to get your hopes up,” you start, breaking the silence, “but it’s unlikely that I’ll be attending.”

“I assumed so, you still have time to mull over accepting the invitation.” He looks from the side, “Dr Glenn will be there,” as if her name would entice you to reconsider. 

You sniff indignantly, “that’s good for her.” He chuckles lightly. 

You decide you don’t want to hear from him anymore, so you pull out your phone and play a game of tiles. An easy, mindless game that you have become very good at with the amount of time you invest playing it while you’re on your way to work and back. 

Basically ignoring him as you’re waiting. He’s literally doing too much, no way he doesn’t want something from you. But then again he hasn’t asked much of you and you did want someone to accompany you for a smoother extraction process. 

You’re getting what you wanted, just not in the way you expected. Yeah, you’ll try and complain less. 

Towards the end of the second game, you get a little stumped, the tiles are all jumbled in their positioning, no way of clicking two tiles together that matched without sacrificing a life, or watching a studpid advertisement to undo your previous move. 

You’re about to use up a life when a finger comes into your line of sight, tapping your phone screen a couple times. The screen shows a banner with confetti spreading across. You’ve won the game. 

You’re stumped. “Huh?” How’d he manage that? You are an expert at this game, or well you thought you were. Clearly you aren’t. 

“I enjoy a fair share of puzzles in my free time,” he chuckles, shrugging his shoulders casually. 

You’re still flabbergasted when your name is called for your appointment. He looks utterly amused by your slightly gaping mouth, so he decides to pull you up by your upper arm. 

“We don’t have all day.” You stand up and head towards where you’re being directed. 

They talk you through the steps of numbing the area, seeing that it’s your face and the pain might have not faded in the past week. They ask if you’ve been taking your painkillers, and as the lousy liar you are you stiffen but choke out a yes, of course.

You know you’ve been made with your lie when Mr Chashman side eyes you. They numb the area, you never have had much issue with needles, so that part goes smoothly. 

The part that has you worried is the sensation of the stitches tugging your skin. You can feel it underneath, the flesh pulsing, eye twitching each time the skin pulls in the opposite direction. 

Your hand wants to grip something, anything, it ends up clenched into a fist.

Buck has never been squeamish, his line of work is bloody, distasteful to the majority of the population, yet seeing the twitching of your eye, the vein underneath popping out as you dig your nails into the flesh of your palm. He feels a little sympathetic. 

He watches you try to stay calm, but ultimately fails to do so, as your teeth tugs at your lip. It looks like it hurts, not the stitches that are getting taken out, but the sensation that causes the nerves under the skin to flame up. 

He’s not all ruthless and cold. He has emotions, strong ones. Though he may not show them outwardly like other people do, the fact does remain that he feels. And so, he grants you a small kindness. 

His hand grips your wrist, with his other hand he unlatches each finger from the fist you have created. Rubbing along the half moons dented into your palm. Then he holds it loosely, taking in the slight bruising of your knuckles, a possible outcome of punching the daylights out of Muse he assumes. 

A surge of pride passes through him, it’s not often he comes across those who can confidently defend themselves and others in times where that is the last thing they should be doing. 

Given your reputation of not running from the first sign of danger, it makes a lot more sense that you acted the way you did in Dr Glenn’s office last week. 

He allows you to squeeze as tightly as you wished, to release some of your stress and discomfort into his hand. After all, you managed to inadvertently save two people from succumbing to their deaths, Dr Glenn and yourself. 

“It’s alright. Breathe, darling.” The name sounds strange, but you don’t dwell on it any longer. Instead you side eye him, why’s he being so nice? 

For a second you are reminded of someone. You think he would have acted in the same manner as Mr Cashman. Though he would have comforted you more sweetly than this man, which is understandable seeing as you barely know the man in front of you.  

And yet, there are mild similarities, their dry humour poking out naturally, the refusal of letting you do things alone, the simple act of taking initiative to relieve your distress. 

If he were here, you would be fine. If he had been here, you wouldn’t have to look at the ceiling to take your mind of flesh tugging around. 

But he isn’t. That’s his own fault, not yours. 

So you clasp his hand more firmly, re-arranging his hand in a way that permits you to have a grip on his fingers rather than his palm. He doesn’t complain at the change or at the harsh manner in which you have locked his fingers in a vice-like grip. 

Once it’s all over, you let go reluctantly. More instructions on how to keep it clean and to keep taking the painkillers if the pain gets worse. Then you’re out. 

You’ve entered a new stage once you both have left the hospital. Sprinkle in some shyness that has overtaken you, behaviour a little timid now that you’ve basically mauled his hand in an unruly manner. 

“Sorry bout’ your hand Mr Cashman.” 

“Don’t sweat it,” he lingers around by the bottom steps, “hope it heals up well,” he gestures towards your face, “no creams, no picking at it, hydrate it once it scabs over. And…take your painkillers for heaven’s sake.” 

You nod dumbly, he probably has more experience with this stuff. “Alright, thanks anyways.” 

You nod in gratitude, giving him a small wave as you start walking away from him. 

What a strange man. 

—

You get a call just as you’re walking away from Mr Cashman. It’s Heather. She asked you if you wanted to get some pastries…and coffee. Coffee was your suggestion to which she teased you about your caffeine consumption. Claiming it wasn’t the antidote to your anxiety. 

The bakery she has picked has your eyes glazing over in excitement. So many choices, too many choices. It doesn’t help that you’re hungry, only having toast a few hours before, so you work through a process of elimination. Bread, something cheesy? With a filling, sweet or savoury? 

You settle on something that would fill you up, the coffee is your normal order. Maybe a little sweeter than normal given that the conversation you would be having with Dr Glenn would be less than positive is what you assumed. 

She watches you scanning the bakery items with hardened concentration, like you’re making a difficult decision for the sake of your stomach. Her brows crinkle in an amused manner. This was much needed enrichment for you, she should do this often with you, maybe bring along Matt as well, when he starts to get his priorities straight. 

“Did you get your stitches taken out?” She sounds surprised, she asks as soon as you both take a seat. 

“Yeah, just before you called actually.” 

“I didn’t know. I would have gone with you.” 

“Oh. It’s okay, it was just stitches.” 

“How does it feel? Still hurts?” A gentle look passes her, the scarring may cause some issues for you in the long run. Many people do after suffering an injury visible to others. 

“Feels uncomfortable, but they said it should heal well enough as long as I don’t pick at it and keep it clean.” you recall Mr Cashman’s words, you heed his warning. 

You eat in silence, there’s something unspoken that passes through. The quiet in the bakery stretches, like there’s an elephant in the room that needs to be addressed. 

You both can feel it, so you fill yourselves with some tasty carbs, drink your respective drinks before pushing the plates to the middle of the table, indicating the end of your meals. 

“So,” she begins, “let’s dive right in shall we? How are you really doing?”

“Me? What about you? How are you?” You know she’s concerned, whether it's a professional concern or a personal one, she did invite you here, “you lost a lot of blood, experienced a major trauma, and you’re asking how I am?” 

“Oh, Sweetheart. You were there too. We both suffered at the hands of him,” she explains in a calm manner, in a way that wouldn’t startle you as she speaks the vile truth of the experience. 

Then she sighs, a little resigned, “I think it’s better to work through this slowly and…together maybe?” 

There are light bags under her eyes, yet when she’s talking to you, her eyes clash with the weary look she wears, her posture, especially the slight frown she sports. 

They gleam with some kind of hope perhaps, or an openness to explore the option talking this through with someone. 

“That’s not a bad idea,” you think it over, maybe it would help to put this past you by talking it out if that was what she was suggesting. 

 “Why did you take the gun?” Straight to the point. 

The line down her forehead is visible as she frowns, “the situation was not ideal for either of us, and well it couldn’t be helped that he latched onto the first person that gave him guidance, or perhaps some clarity over his actions. And I couldn’t just sit by and let you do something you may regret.”

“That wasn’t your responsibility, Dr Glenn.” The name you used has her biting back a retort, but she lets it be, “you shouldn’t have to feel as if you owe me something because you’re…treating me.” 

“I understand, but you’re already working through so many things, and this feels like another burden placed upon you,” she sighs, “look, I’ll admit it may have crossed a professional boundary, it bled into personal territory and…and…I…”

You interrupt her train of thought, “it should have been me. Why did you do it for me?” 

“You’re letting my actions define your inaction. That is not on you, I made a choice and I do not regret it.” She spills, her face has become a little flushed after her confession, “I’m glad he’s dead. If it wasn’t for the gun, we would have been dead. I simply couldn’t let that happen.” 

And that was the full truth laid out in front of you, she doesn’t regret it, she’s known this ever since she woke up lying on the hospital bed whilst looking at your red, inflamed cut that had been stitched back together. Like they were holding your sanity together, alongside the skin. 

“You understand me don’t you, Sweetheart?” She gives you a knowing look, “because you were about to do the same thing.”

You look down at your mug. You would have done the same thing as her, it is also possible that you would have broken right apart after killing Muse if you had the chance, your mental capacity for such a ruthless action is unknown to you, and someone like Dr Heather Glenn assumes that your fragile state of mind would not have been able to cope with committing such an act. 

Her insinuation isn’t lost on you, a subtle type of manipulation is being used here, and though you can recognise it, you cannot avoid believing her. Despite it all, you understand her meaning, her point is valid, logical even, at least to you. 

Her justification is that it’s better her than you, because at least then you would still be able to live with yourself, knowing you did your part when it came to doing the right thing. 

What she hadn’t accounted for was how much your failure would lead you down a dark path, but even then, that was much better than the alternative. 

“I just want you to be okay. Is that too much to ask for?”

And again, she’s doing it again, but you can’t bring yourself to call it out. After all it’s in the name of concern, using that guilt against you. 

You can recognise the signs of coercion because that is what Dex used to do. It wasn’t healthy by any means, but you played right into his words. Believing he wanted the best for you, even going as far as sealing it with his touch. Reeling you in like bait. 

“Is it?” She asks again, reaching out and taking your hand in hers, “tell me,” a sort of demand for your understanding. 

You shake your head, “it’s not too much, Dr Glenn.” 

“Heather. Please call me Heather.” This time she corrects you, the tension easing once the words of mutual agreement were spoken, the air was somewhat cleared for now.  

She got what she wanted, for you to be able to recognise that her deep consideration for your well being went beyond the average person’s concern. 

And the defining act of this was her murdering Muse in self-defense. 

There is no trace of regret that follows, the only mistake was allowing someone like Muse to get close enough to her, a masked man, a Vigilante. 

Another fact that remains, underlined in red, bold enough for you to see, she would do it again. 

—

The implications made by Heather should give you a reason for concern, but instead it has given you a newfound clarity in regards to Muse’s attack and in extension how to navigate your feelings towards your old neighbour’s actions. 

Matt calls. He asks how you are, of course he does, seeing how you had been the last time you were in the same room together. You tell him what you had been up to, getting your stitches taken out, meeting Heather right after. 

That makes him smile a little, relieved to hear that you had someone in your corner, no less someone he deeply cares for being that someone for you. 

Then he pauses, an odd change in his tone. He asks if you’ve had any requests from Rikers Island for visitation purposes as of late, he doesn’t mention from whom, but it’s obvious. 

You can easily predict who it is, you don’t know many people that are directly connected to you that are in Rikers, only if you count those who have been somewhat involved or had come across Nelson and Murdock in the past. 

Who else other than Benjamin Poindexter? 

You put two and two together from the connection of Matt’s words. Dex wants to see you and possibly him. It’s a slip up on Matt’s part, he really shouldn't have told you anything. He should have avoided this phone call altogether. 

Because now you are heavily considering the option of visiting him behind Matt’s back. You know he’d refuse if you suggested seeing him, deeming it too dangerous. You think he’s scared that Dex will get in your head seeing the close relationship you had with him. 

The thing is that Matthew has no hold over you, try as he will, but when it comes down to it, you can do what you please. You don’t need his permission to see him. At times you wonder if he knew the extent of your friendship with Dex.

You remember spilling your guts to both Karen and Matt at the Church when you had been hiding from the FBI. How you knew Poindexter, and for how long, parts of your friendship, mostly how you never thought Dex would commit such heinous acts. 

Then again, you had kept it mostly to yourself, never trusting anyone enough to hold those soft memories in the palm of their hand, too intimate, too painful to think back on. 

It was embarrassing too for some reason. How could you have been fooled so easily? He was right next door to you, and you never had an inkling of what he had been up to. 

Maybe you do trust too easily, and that may have been your downfall. 

You both were a little tight lipped when it came to work talk, keeping it to a minimum, having enough of what was happening at that current time and rather not re-visiting it, wanting to finally diminish those heavy thoughts till you both went back to the real world; work. 

Instead it was kept light and funny, at times taking turns wallowing in your sadness or anger, but you had each other, albeit for a short while. 

Now you have come to miss it. You still had a small pile of photos that you got printed for the sake of reminiscing. It sure came in handy now, especially now. 

Eyes gleaming, clinging onto each other, too immersed in having the perfect picture taken. Sun too hot to fully open your eyes, thus squinting at the camera, smile too wide to discern anything other than unadulterated joy. Beaming, all teeth. Scrunched features staring right back at you, and your heart aches at the sight. 

When will you be able to smile like that again? Do you deserve to when you feel like this for him even now? After all these years, even after killing all those innocent people? 

—

Why sacrifice yourself for other people’s mistakes? 

Heather’s words drones in the back of your mind as you sit in the back of a cab taking you to a particular destination; Rikers Island. 

You had caved, indecision swaying you both ways, until you clogged your brain with the only option available; you had to see him today. 

What were you even going to say to him? How do you act? Ask him why he murders? That would be a bit straightforward, but valid all in all. It depends on why he wanted to see you in the first place. 

Your palms are sweaty by the time you step out of the cab. You get checked, a few harsh warnings given to you, signed a few forms, patted down before they lead you down three different hallways and into the visitation room. 

You wait, leaning against the wall for about three minutes before the door opens. There stands Dex, guided by a guard. He’s cuffed to the table, hands fully restrained in some kind of encasing. 

He’s watching you, ever since he’s entered the room, his eyes were set on you. You’re standing slightly facing away from them.

“Emergency call button’s under the table.” 

You nod at the guard. Body tilted away from him, clear sign of your apprehension of being here, though that might be an exaggeration. You did come here on your own volition. 

“Didn’t think you'd come.” 

On the way to Rikers, you had tried not to get into your thoughts, rather hoping that whatever comes to mind you would just say it when you were in front of him. Now being in the same room as him, the only words that help you are Dr Glenn’s once again. 

Do you not deserve to live a life without guilt eating away at you at every waking moment? 

You can’t look at him. Already intimidated by his mere presence, it’s unusual for you to think of him as such a scary, violent person, because that is not who you came to know. Yet he sits there, so many deaths under his belt with a lack of remorse for his actions. 

“Why did you do it?” 

He knows what. What else would you ask him? He doesn’t reply. 

“Do you wish you could take it back?”

“I don’t know.” That he does answer.

It’s not what you’re looking for at all, you want him to admit to you that he hates himself for killing Foggy. For destroying the lives of those who did not deserve it. 

And for some reason you believe he would do it again, because he simply lacks the understanding of how much it has affected those close to Foggy. 

Finally, you take a seat, a slight slump in your posture as if you’re bored, but that is far from how you feel. You feel the need to hide your face from him. You can assume his reaction to the wound on your face, so cover half of it by massaging your temples to look like you’re in deep thought. 

Natural enough to give yourself cover, away from his prying eyes that seem to want to analyse you every second. 

He sniffs, waits in the silence till you say something, anything. He does not like the way he can’t see your eyes, he needs eye contact, wants you to look back at him whilst he talks. 

“Look at me, please,” tired of you avoiding him while you’re literally in the same room as him. 

And you listen to him, you raise your head in the dark room, finally looking into his eyes. 

“What the fuck happened to you face?” He sneers, chains rattling against the metal table, he pulls at his restraints, grunting when it doesn’t get him anywhere.

“That’s not what you should be worried about.”

“Are you insane? Who was it?” 

“Actually you are insane.” You curl your mouth into a sarcastic look.

“Funny. It looks fresh,” he mirrors your expression, then it turns blank, “how?”

“He’s dead. You don’t have to worry about killing him.” It’s a jab at him, he doesn’t care. Rather he takes it as a compliment because you know what he would do, what he’s willing to do. 

You sit in silence again. He’s so tiring to talk to sometimes, he never budges, too stubborn for his own good. He was never like this before. Maybe he was, not that you knew. 

He’s calmer now, hearing that the guy was dead alleviated his irritation for the time being, “say something. Talk to me.”

He can bear the silence, but right now he needs noise, distraction from the mild buzzing that has started up yet again. 

“What do you want me to say? That I forgive you?”

“It doesn’t matter if you forgive me or not, what matters to me is that you acknowledge that I am who I am,” not even once do his eyes divert from yours, “...I don’t want forgiveness Star, I want a chance. A chance at redemption.” 

And again, you wonder if you can ever accept such a man. It’s the same thing you questioned yourself when you found out he was playing dress up in the Daredevil suit. 

He doesn’t care what you think of him even after everything, he just wants to be recognised for who he is, despite the disgusting show of violence, he wants to turn things around in his own twisted way. 

“How do you think that is gonna happen?”

“What happened with your friend, I’m…I’m sorry…” he looks guilty, eyes glazing over with a misty, sad look. Is he even being genuine? Or is this all a show to make you believe him? 

You scoff, a sardonic smile makes its way onto your face, stretching your cut uncomfortably, “you’re only upset because I am, otherwise you wouldn’t feel an ounce of remorse for killing him.” 

It’s an obvious trait he possesses, empathising with your misfortunes was not part of his vocabulary, he had never really practiced it and successfully achieved it. 

That’s hard. That’s really, really hard

What he was able to do was practice sympathy, Dr Mercer instilled that within him, exposing him to that concept from a young age. He was able to exercise compassion, being concerned was something he was familiar with. 

“...did you ever care? Or were you out to use me from the beginning?” 

However, this time around it’s different. It’s different because he can feel, he can feel your words blazing across his chest when you question his love for you. 

Questioning his intentions towards you, and in that moment it’s as if you were rejecting all the good things he has ever done in your name. 

You don’t know how much he does, but he cares, he cares to a point that his thoughts always drift back to you, all the things he wants to experience with you, be a constant in your life, yet sparks of aggression shoots out occasionally when he remembers all the times you sought out others instead of him. 

That when he was put away, he wasn’t the one you went to. That you relied on people other than him for safety, for their company, or simply because you missed them. 

And that in turn you gave your friends what he so desperately wants. He needs all that from you, and you fed them with your love. Not him, never him.

It makes him want to jostle you around till you regret ever giving them anything. They don’t deserve it, not in the way they appreciate you, he’s seen how that plays out. 

They leave, they use you as a vessel of remorse, an issue to fix. It’s always about them, not you, never you. 

He would make it all about you, he would make sure you were content. Have everything you need, make you happy in ways you hadn’t been in a long time, provide you with stability that would never waver. 

It’s hypocritical though, because at this point it seems it’s about fulfilling his desires, not yours. He doesn’t even know what you want, he only knows that you can’t stay away from him. You coming here was a testament to that. Proof that you were willing to hear him, to give him a chance. 

The uncertainty kills him, he wants to know, to consume, to take, but not when he has no idea if you want the same thing as him. 

It irks him that you think so lowly of yourself, that you couldn’t fathom the idea that his actions had been genuine, yet it came from the purest part of him, the only part of him that still believed he deserved someone. 

“Star, I would never…never. What we had…” he winces, head shaking the tiniest bit, “what we have is real. It’s pure. Don’t you see that?” 

It was a friendship that was created from circumstance, but it was nurtured from both sides, the need to be wanted and for him it happened to be you. And it was too late to realise that he would have to make a choice that would ultimately make or break what you had developed. 

He hates to admit it but he knew that when Fisk got to his head, wielded his trauma to manipulate him into being his hitman, he couldn’t fight back, not when he was offered an outlet that scratched that itch which ceased the buzzing in his head temporarily. 

“That doesn’t answer my question, Dex.” 

“No. I never used you. I care way too much to use you like a tool, that’s not what you are to me. I never wanted you to get roped into that. You think I wanted that to happen to you?” 

You shake your head in disbelief, you really didn’t know what to believe. 

He asks you if he wanted for all this to happen, yet you think he never considered the consequences. If he cares, as much as he claims he does; then he would have thought twice before thrusting himself into making decisions because of what Fisk had offered him. 

“Star…I am going to make things right again. I am gonna balance the scales. Whether you believe me now or not, soon you’ll understand.”

“What does that mean?” 

“It means…it means we’ll be together, sooner than you think.”

That sounds suspicious as hell, he’s talking as if he’s not going to be in prison for much longer. 

It takes you back to the time when he washed the blood off your face one morning. Putting you back together piece by piece, holding you together when the blood that spilled onto your face by his doing, was being removed by him.

That action in itself was ironically cruel, yet it somehow aligns with what believes about balancing the scales. What he is saying now must mean that he recognises his mistakes, though he may not outwardly claim to regret what he did, but it’s balancing out the bad by countering it with good. 

Has he been doing that all his life, or was this a recent development? 

He thinks that to make up for a bad deed, he has to commit a good one. 

It’s a pain to think about what his good deed will be to balance out the death of Foggy. But then again, is there even anything he can do to remedy that?

Not in Matthew Murdock’s eyes, nor in Karen Page’s, but yours, however that is a different story. It’s often believed that people can never change, no matter how much they try. 

Given their experience with certain people and the transgressions inflicted upon them, they choose to accept the idea that a person has no way of steering back onto the right path ever again.

That they had only one chance to prove to others or themselves that they are morally good people, that just means that second chances don’t exist for those that have steered away from being good. 

It’s still too early to come to any conclusions, because in a logical sense the words of a man should coincide with their actions. If they have kept a promise, then proving with their actions that their words weren’t just empty, then you believe that you can begin to open yourself to the idea of trusting them. Trusting him. 

That is how you think, how you decide what can be justified or not. In the end you are human, full of error, emotion and compassion. You cannot be expected to always be able to carry out a fair judgement, because no one can. Not even the justice system.

You do what you can with the logic you possess, with the love you hold in your heart and curate an internal code that allows you to navigate the distinction between right and wrong. 

To make a decision where the tipping point lies of bordering into the grey areas of morality. Everyone you know has a different area they deem too far, or not far enough. 

There is a set guidance you can follow to help you make a decision, but then again is there a guidance that covers all the bases that comes with, for example, murder?

That is where Frank and Matt heavily differ, they believe in two different ways to end things. 

One kills, the other doesn’t. But they both hurt, putting an end to violence in different ways. Two sides of the same coin. 

Where Dex lies, you still don’t know. His words say one thing, and now you will have to wait for the action to follow. You have to make sure that he isn’t promising something that doesn’t align with what you have understood from his balancing scales analogy. 

“So that also means…that you won’t lay a hand on an innocent person if…if they truly don’t deserve it? Is that…something you can promise me?” 

“Yes. I can try, for you I will.” A grin threatens to break onto his face, but he stops himself, not wanting you to feel aggravated and take back what you offered him. 

Essentially you are giving him leeway, a mild acceptance of what he does, killing those who deserve it, people who have truly done terrible things. 

Your flexibility with this new version of himself that he had come to embrace would take time to sink in, to accept him the way he wants you to. Isn’t friendship all about reciprocating? 

Because he accepted you as you were, never once had that fact wavered. 

You who showed him what a happy, healthy friendship looked like. When you did something for him, he returned it in his own way. When you comforted him after he had a breakdown, you were there, wiping at his knuckles, cleaning up his apartment when he wrecked the place. 

And what did he do in return? He did the same, saved you from possible death, the highest form of devotion in his eyes, then icing your shoulder because he cared enough to do so, angry for you when you had no energy to act that way. 

All those coffee runs, essentially perpetuating your addiction, but still he did it because it was one of your favourite acts of service he had come to learn, being thought of by someone, to be considered. 

So he gave back to you what you had given to him. And at least to him this translated into a recipe to love someone with no bounds. No matter who they were, what they did, as long as feelings were involved, he was a goner. 

He so wished you would too, but for now he’ll ease into it, once he’s out of here, he’ll show you. He will make things right again. 

Your words mean much to him, it fills that part within that he had gone so long without, a partial stamp of approval, meaning you still want him regardless of who he has killed, or what he has done to you.  

Dex knows that he has to grovel, to get back into your good books, to show you he’s a good guy and that he will listen to you, because if he listens to you, that means he cares and he most certainly cherishes you. 

Your words mean something to him. You mean something to him and he’s going to show you how much you do. 

You just don’t know it yet, but soon you will. 

With that realisation that he has you, almost clutching you in the palm of his hand, he has to make sure where he stands. He tries again. 

“Will you…forgive me for the things I've done to you, Star?” 

Tears line the corner of his eyes for some odd reason he doesn’t know. You answer back with a question, one that cuts deep into his aching heart.

“Will you forgive me for wanting to be your friend?” 

— 

“It wasn’t just for vengeance was it? You did it for someone? Huh?” He wets his lips before carrying on, “you did it for Fisk. Didn’t you?” 

“Another night in here, I might never be able to answer that for you.”

Matt mocks, dangles the power of appeal in front of Dex, who is apparently bargaining for his life. 

“I can tell you, but I need to be outside…”

“I don’t trust you for a second.” He takes a hold of Dex’s hair, yanking it backwards till it exposes his neck. Dex uses the last piece of bargaining power he has over Matt. 

“Do you trust her?”

Matt pauses, body going rigid, “who?” It’s harsh, accusing in how he asks. Deep down he knows who Dex is talking about, but his mind won’t allow him to think that way.

“You know who.”

“No, I don’t”

“You know, at least for her sake you should reconsider. By her standards, I am to be granted absolution for my wrongdoings.” Words holding a sweet, condescending tone. He grins up at the Counselor, eyes half lidded like he’s enjoying himself way too much. 

“Think about what Star would want.” That sets Matt off, grip tightening in Dex’s hair.

“Don’t say her fucking name, you don’t get to call her that.”

His face meets the metal table several times till it cuts deep, blood seeps out from Matt’s anger flaring sideways. It mixes and drips with his saliva, blood coating his teeth as he smiles like a crazed man. 

Poindexter grunts from the pain. “Hey guard! He started smashing his head against the table.”

“You crazy asshole.” The guard comments after rushing in, moving towards hooking the cuffs off the table. He spits and coughs out the blood in his mouth, then he’s hauled up by the guard.

“Thank you, Counselor.” An unhinged grin grazes his face, blood dripping from the cut above his brow as well as his mouth from the loosened tooth. 

“Fuck you.” Matt spits out. 

—

It’s not until late into the evening, when the sky has darkened from blue to a deeper shade, that is when you receive a phone call from Heather. You answer tiredly, setting the tub of ice cream onto the coffee table.

“Hello?”

“Hey, you alright?”

“Yeah, um…no. Do you by any chance know where Matt is? I’ve been trying to contact him all evening.”

“I haven’t, sorry Heather. I talked to him earlier though. He was just checking in, that was all.”

Of course you weren’t going to tell her about Poindexter. You can assume she’s as the Ball you both had been invited to, maybe Matt was going to join her.

“Oh I see. Okay well will you let me know if you’ve seen him. He’s been…absent as of late and…”

“Absent? Is everything okay?” Voice smaller, hearing the beginnings of what you assume is a tumultuous relationship in the making.

“Yeah, yeah. Don’t worry, it’s just a rough patch, I’m sure we’ll fix it somehow. Anyways, what are you doing, sad to hear you didn’t wanna come.”

“I’m watching TV and eating ice cream. You could've joined me if you wanted to,” you let out a short laugh as if to say, you could have been comfy too.

“That does sound nice. Ice cream? You okay?”

For some reason ice-cream connects to sadness in her opinion, a general assumption if you will. 

“I’m fine, nothing to worry about.”

“Okay. We’ll talk about it in our session?”

“Sounds good, talk later then.”

She responds back with something similar, then you settle back and carry on watching your show. 

You’re about one and a half episodes in, another phone call. It’s Heather again. 

By the end of the call your shoes are on. Frantically gathering your things before jumping out the door. 

Matt was shot and you were on your way to the hospital. Once you’re outside, it’s chaos. A literal mess of people crowded around watching the AVTF taking people away into custody. Armoured vehicles on standby, waiting to be filled by those who were seen ‘breaking the law’. 

It causes a chain reaction, looting, raiding, fights breaking out; some random, some instigated by those who sought entertainment. 

As you walk around it all, fires had been started, glass shards over the front steps of the shops that were broken into, it was too dangerous to be out, especially those who didn’t have the means of defending themselves. 

Some were recording the whole thing, maybe for investigative reasons, for informing the public, or it was simply because it was fun, exciting to be witnessing something so out of the ordinary. 

And so you have to take a couple detours to get around the AVTF, you watch them main, and kill people at random, shoving masks onto their faces. The implication outraged you, innocent people were being put down right in front of you. 

As you weave in and out of the crowds, going around the Task Force, and away from the main part of the mess, you head towards the quieter parts of town and from there you could reach the hospital, your original destination. 

It takes time though, because it seems one of the AVTF members was after you specifically. Has he recognised you? 

You weren't on Fisk’s hit list, not that you were aware of, yet this man had spotted you ever since you were three blocks away from your apartment. You speed walk and take a left, going around a building to lose him, yet he advances towards you.

It would be wise to stop, not confront him at all and just calmly find out what’s happening. You are calm, all sorts of calm, but not when someone you care about is in hospital, lying in a bed, shot. 

It’s like he’s aggravating you at this point, so another detour, but you go the opposite direction of where the hospital is located. You’re running now, why can’t they just leave you alone and pick on someone else. They do plenty of that already. 

Maybe because you seem defenceless and they don’t like that? Most likely. And it pisses you off greatly. 

It’s loud, from a distance you can still hear the hustle and bustle, mixed in with shouts and sounds of outrage all over. For now you decide the best course of action is to hide for a little while.

So you quicken your pace, constantly looking over your shoulder if anyone is following you. You settle somewhere next to a large garbage dumpster and some old wet boxes. 

You crouch down, back against the wall and listen closely. You’ve done this a lot in the past, hiding away from the danger, hoping to come out unscathed from the whole situation, but you knew that was never the case. 

So just in case, you try to send Heather a quick text to let her know you’ll be late because you ran into some trouble. The message comes out funny, but you don’t manage to send it in time because you hear multiple shouts from both directions of the alleyway. 

Heavy boots hitting the ground, rifles clacking against their thick, bulletproof vests. You can hear about three of them, two from the left, one coming in from the right. You already have your trusty pepper spray in hand, as well as a switchblade you grabbed before you left. 

You never know when you’ll need it. Seems like right now is the time, and so you flick it open.

You just pray you make it out alive to see Matt. 

“Justice will not be served today…”

The words on his tongue die down as he hears your footsteps approaching the double doors of the courtroom. 

Just as the man on the stand stopped speaking, Dex’s head tilts to the side then down, as if he too could hear someone entering the courtroom, letting the person settle in, before the room fills with the sounds of Matt Murdock’s voice. 

“...will still be dead,” he half points in Karen’s direction, “we don’t get to see Foggy today,” then tilts his head your way, “killed on the whim by a violent and disturbed man that has hurt people…people close to me.”  

Matt was relieved that they were here to witness this act of justice. For the people who have lost their lives, the victims, for you, for Foggy. 

The indifferent expression on Dex’s face shifts slightly, watching Matt closely, to gauge who was here in this room with him. 

You stand near the back, setting your back against the wall. The pressure relieves your aching back, having called out of work earlier today just to attend this with reluctance. You didn’t want to be here. You didn’t want to see his face ever again, not after what he had done. 

“...and that punishment is the closest thing we will get to justice.”

And even if he had killed anybody other than Foggy, you still wouldn’t have any desire to see  him, the quiet fact lingered; he was not the same man you knew. 

You had learned how he worked, well only for the amount of time he had been your neighbour but after that, he was already changing when he started working for Fisk. 

And after that. Afterwards, you experienced how true your statement had been. It was frightening to first hand be in the company of the same man, the man who had the same blood running through his veins as all those years ago, was not indeed the same person. 

Too much had changed, yet still you recognised him. Like he was in a different stage of his life. He looked the same, older, matured even more than before. How he carried himself, his demeanor, his physique was all different. 

What remained the same was the deep seated violence he carried within him, his smile often showed the remnants of who you knew, those lips that stretched out so prettily when he looked at you, and how his desire to be near you had never wavered, despite the distance. 

The shift in his demeanor was discernable, he looked older, much older. Face no longer soft looking, nor his eyes that held that warmth. Blank, like yours.

You were listening, eyes stuck on one spot, somewhere where the ceiling and the back wall began. A safe spot, where you had no eyes to meet, no expression to interpret, just a white wall to disassociate on. A safe spot. 

“...for my friends, for Foggy Nelson.”

Hearing Matt, your cheeks heat at the meaning of what he was saying, the message he was communicating, like it was directed at both Karen and you. You heard him clearly. 

“I have nothing to say, your Honor.”

You want to throw up, it sickens you, he sickens you. His words burn hot on your face. 

And once Dex stands, your eyes avert from the safe spot you had claimed, but begin to trail closer and closer to where you don’t want them to go. 

The noise disperses until you can hear the chair scraping across the floor, heavy steps rounding the table. Walking in a straight line, guided by two officers on his side, restrained by the arms and hands, no way out. 

His head turns. He looks around the room landing on Karen, face unreadable, then around the room again. Scanning the rows, as he’s guided further and further through the room, it’s the hair that catches his eyes first. He would recognise your locks anywhere, an odd feature he tends to focus on, but it is the most recognisable part of you from afar in his opinion. 

His steps falter, the blank face he held throughout this whole trial slips. Mouth parted in disbelief, the crinkle between his brows deepens. Deeper than it had been before. You were here. After all this time he’s in the same room as you. You came to see him. 

Your gaze finally meets him, and as expected he’s got a reaction worthy of a laugh. Hands straining against his restraints, acting on instinct, he tugs at his hands like he wants to escape, which is what the officers beside him interpret it as, and drag him forcefully through the doors.  

His head turns again trying to catch a final glimpse of you, gaze travelling after him. Where was your safe spot again? The corner of the ceiling, though it’s a little clearer looking than you remember, maybe it’s the tears that have begun lining on your waterline that sharpens your vision. 

Breathe, you breathe deeply. Repeating it, waiting until the people have begun dispersing out the room. You're one of the last ones out. You take a bathroom break before meeting Karen and Matt. She's already looking like she’s ready to leave as you approach.

“Hey sweetie,” she has her arms open for you. You settle into her arms for a few moments, “I’ll call, okay?” Then she's gone. You do wonder why she left so quickly, you had wanted to sit with her longer, but a phone call would do, as always. 

You take a seat next to Matt, his head tilted to the side, “that was a great opening statement.” 

“Yeah, it was?” You nod, “it was.” 

“How is work, Star?” It's nice hearing him call you that, the sweet nickname he had given you. “It’s alright, consistent, keeps me busy. You?”

He laughs, “busy, going through a lot of cases.” He pauses before scooting a little closer to you, “Star?”

“Yes Matt.” you reply, smiling lightly, knowing what was coming next.

“You know my offer still stands. You can come work at the firm any time, you know that right? Cherry could really use your help.” 

“I know Matt. If my decision changes, you’ll be the first to know. I promise.” You bite back a grin, you really had missed him. 

“I hope you also know that it wouldn’t hurt to get a coffee together sometime, don’t be a stranger.” 

There had been a gap after Foggy was killed. Everyone retreated into their own lives, shutting each other out, it was as if Foggy was the glue that kept everyone together. Without him it wasn’t the same anymore, too much pain lining each interaction whenever you tried to bridge that gap, and thus far it hadn’t worked.

Karen had reached out, calling you and ever since then you had weekly calls to stay in touch, unable to let the other go. It was harder to let go than keeping in constant touch. 

With Matt, you let him take his time. When he was ready to talk he would come to you. 

And then came his offer for you to intern at his law firm like you used to, like the old days. But that was a long time ago, you had changed, so had he. And to be frank, you were having a hard time yourself. You needed help, and a job offer from him would not fix it. 

And you had acknowledged that you needed to seek help, because getting out of bed was getting harder each day, the only thing that kept you going was the notion of living out the rest of your life in structured monotony. 

The promise of a better tomorrow. Reliving the fantasy of being around those that weren’t in pain nor caused you pain, because every relationship you have had, has been that way. The decision of staying in your apartment next to Dex’s was not a wise choice. It wasn’t healthy to keep being so attached to that building. 

There were too many memories that tethered you to that place. 

Dex’s old apartment had been cleaned out, the main features of his place remained, the cleanliness, the white walls, the plain decorations remained. And when things got too hard, you would creep next door through the fire escape and sit against the old couch, where you used to sit on before he was still here. 

Sometimes the guilt of wanting him back made your stomach upset, even making yourself empty it because you couldn’t bear the feeling of it, needing to get rid of it along with the guilt that would remain, coating the walls of your stomach, a bitter feeling climbing upwards. 

It was wrong of you to want things that were unreasonable. It was disgusting you thought, why would you miss him? All he has caused you is misery. But on the other hand he had made you happy, content for the time being. It had not lasted of course.

If things had not turned out the way it did, you would still be friends with him, happier than you are now. It might have stuck at some point, not living with that quiet cynicism. 

Because before he had cared enough to not judge you, helped you time and time again, even when you had not asked that of him. But how could you still want him? You hate who he has become, so you don’t deserve to think this way, it went against all your principles. 

And the way he had reacted when he had seen you in the courtroom, your breath stuttered, even had a little cry in the bathroom afterwards. 

You took up on Matt’s offer on coffee. Maybe it was to placate him or maybe it was because you had missed him. You hover over his hand, he takes your hand before you clasp his. You see him smiling softly, squeezing your hand. 

He goes to stand, “I know that it’s been a hard few years and we haven't gotten to spend much time together, but I want you to know that I have missed you, Star.” You stand with him, hand still holding yours, you both start waking towards the exit. 

A sweet smile graces your face, more genuine than the smiles you have been giving today. You hum under your breath, he catches the low sound, satisfying his ears. 

Glad that he wasn’t the only one, it almost feels like an olive branch with the things he’s been saying today.

“I missed you too Matty.” 

—

“So you never talk about that time. The time when you left without saying a word.” 

Wow. He really gets to the point doesn’t he? Not even attempting to ease you into the conversation. Means it’s bothered him a lot, it makes sense that it did, you had essentially disappeared, only to call after they were about to go on a frantic search, and had called in the nick of time to tell them you were going away for a while. 

“I just had to take time for myself, it was hard for me during that time, I wasn’t doing well.”

“Star, you didn’t even let us know where you went. We…we didn’t know what had happened to you, do you know how worried we were?”

“I know and I’m…I’m sorry. I really am,” you chew at your lip, “I know you were worried, I just…”

“Where did you go?” He sips at his coffee, “you didn’t really explain yourself.”

“I went to see my Uncle and Aunt just outside the city, you know… to get away for a while.”

He pauses, the room around him dulls down and he automatically searches for your heartbeat. He listens to the consistent beating, it spikes a little. A lie. 

“No, you didn’t,” head turned your way now, “wanna try that again Star?” 

You don’t reply. You didn’t know how to tell him the truth because you were unsure of what he would do if you told him. It’s not like he could do anything, seeing the events that played out today at the courthouse. It didn’t matter anymore, you could get away with a little white lie, right? Give him part of the truth. 

The waitress comes over before you could say anything, giving you just a little more time to marinate in the silence, thinking over his question that he no doubt wanted an answer to. She goes to pour coffee in your mug only to knock it over the side. 

Your eyes were tracking the white mug as it began falling down, hand jutting out on instinct, catching it midair. Matt’s brows shoot upwards as you set it back down on the table and the waitress lets out an apology, pours the coffee and walks away giving you an apologetic smile. 

“When did you…have such good reflexes?” Head tilted to the left, ears sharp, listening to your bodily reactions, searching for anything that would indicate nervousness. 

“uhh..I always did, what do you mean?” you tuck a few loose strands of hair behind your ear, picking up some sugar and milk into your coffee. 

“Star. Whats…What's going on with you?” He looks bewildered, apparently much has changed since even before Foggy’s death. It’s not like he could have known about what you had been up to, seeing that you had left all three of them last year, gone for a couple weeks, then reappearing three months before Foggy’s death.  

He knows deep down that something had happened, but you just wouldn't spill. In the courtroom today, he could hear you. He always listened to you. 

Tracking the sweat that lined your hairline, your deep breaths, how your heartbeat sped up when Dex had attempted to tug at his restraints. All normal reactions when a man who had killed a friend so close was about to be sentenced to life. 

But deep down, he knew the things he had picked up on were somehow different. He doesn’t know how to differentiate it between your normal nervousness that matches the situations and then this, whatever you had shown today.

There was something more going on. And he could have chalked it up as the relationship you both shared as neighbours, friends or whatever. He never really liked the sound of it back then too, but regardless it didn’t add up. 

The dots were in front of him, he just needed to connect them. You were a lousy liar too, and too easily influenced. He knew how to work with that, so he presses, makes assumptions hoping that one of them will elicit a reaction from you. 

“Were you threatened?” you shake your head, “does Karen know? Did…Foggy?” another shake, he pauses, “was it…Poindexter?” your body stutters imperceptively. Bingo. He leans back, he’s got his answer. 

“What happened? And tell me the truth this time.” 

You stay silent, how can you explain to him that you had been taken, for two whole months, cutting all contact with the people closest to you. 

He’s gone on a killing spree, contracted work he had called it. Taking you along with him for a short while to try and prove a point. A moot point actually. Left matters unresolved, even more after the stunt he pulled on the rooftop only three months later. 

How it had been a mishap on your part, saving him, giving him the time of day to listen to him, not that you had a choice in the matter, but then he threw it all away by signing those damn papers, agreeing to Vanessa’s terms. 

How he’d forced you into watching his victims being killed by his hands to get you to understand him. 

If you thought he had gone too far then, imagine the state you were in after finding out he had put a bullet in Foggy. 

Causing damage that was irreparable. He pushed you too far. He insisted that you knew better self-defense to protect yourself, knowing how you operated, so why not help you out this way. 

How to hold a gun and throw knives, all that jazz. It sickened you how easily it came to you, so at times you refused to learn, opting to sit out and give him the cold shoulder. He hated it. And the further deranged he became when you didn’t co-operate. 

Especially when the medication he had been forced to take like clockwork at the psychiatric facility, was something he had been cut off from completely. It cleared his head eventually, though the side effects were what you ought to have been careful of. 

So many heart to hearts between you two, mostly led nowhere, or you stormed off when he just wouldn’t listen. His belief system didn’t align with yours, however that was not the root of the issue. 

The root was sown deep in betrayal, in his lies and his manipulation to make it all alright. He really thought you would forgive him when he had been the one to point the gun at your head, going after your friends, attempts made at them and one actually landed. 

What hurt the most was the fact that you thought he never saw you as a friend, that all those hushed conversations spoken in the dead of the night, where you took turns lending a shoulder to lean on were nothing more than using you, then discarding all that you had. 

And for what? You didn’t exactly know, but you know the reason would be bullshit, like all his other explanations. How his head was fucked after signing those forms and if the cost of freedom was another body in his list, then so be it. 

No matter who it was, even if it was your friend, he would do it. He couldn’t stand being drugged up everyday, unable to think for himself anymore. 

And of course, his other goal, the one that could be accomplished if he was outside of the facility would be to look for you. To make things right again. 

All he wanted was for you to want him back, to understand who he was, to acknowledge his very being. He didn’t need acceptance, because he had already done so himself, he didn’t need that from you, did he want it? Sure, but it was not a need. 

You, who at one point wanted him, understood him when you were both neighbours, unlikely friends but you both surpassed that stage. It bloomed beyond what he could have imagined, he regrets not cherishing those moments more, because those were what played in his mind after he got put back together. 

Then three months later he kills Foggy. Every time you think about how you felt about Dex, you feel nauseous. Sometimes emptying out your stomach from the guilt that accumulated in your belly. It was taking a toll on your body and mental well being, and it showed. 

“I’m sorry Matt. I'm not…” You sigh, he listens, “I don’t know what you want me to say, I wasn’t in the best shape so I left for a while to get myself together.” 

Some part of it was true, you weren't in the best shape. It was going well for a few years, but then Dex happened and now Foggy was gone. And it was your fault, because you believed in his lies, lived with him and almost even forgave him at one point. 

“I…I know you expect more answers, but these are the ones I've got,” you make a move to get up, his head tilts in your direction, “thanks for reaching out to me Matty, I really appreciate it and the coffee.” 

Nibbling on your lip, you contemplate on your next words, “maybe when I…forgive myself, I’ll tell you. And I hope when that day comes, you’ll forgive me too.” 

With that you place a few bills on the table and turn on your heel, walking towards the door. Matt is left bewildered, he scrambles out of the booth when he hears you step away from his vicinity. The words die in his mouth before he can formulate a response. 

His heart aches for you. God knows how much you’re suffering. He wishes he could grant you some counsel, he is able to understand from what you have inadvertently told him that it was about Poindexter. It was the only indication in your conversation linking back to him. 

He just wonders how he fits into all this. 

He thinks back onto what you said, your appreciation for him reaching out. It’s been too long hasn’t it? He ought to support you, he can smell the unease of you, he can smell the residue of salt on your cheeks, almost palpable, you were dealing with your own hardship all alone. 

He has to help, that’s what he does, isn’t it? 

—

You had an office job. It paid well and it was simple enough to do. Collating information into reports and distributing it to the right archives and other responsibilities that could be done in a  mindless manner. At least this time you had normal working hours, no more night shifts that worried the people around you to no end. 

You could have grabbed the opportunity Matt had offered, even Karen had told you she could put in a good word for you around places. You refused. You needed distance. 

That was how you operated, you needed to put yourself in a place that kept those feelings from spilling over whenever you had a conversation with either of them. That was why phone calls with Karen were good for you. There was eye contact, no face to face or her sweet demeanor reeling you back in. This way you could avoid looking into her eyes and allowing that guilt to spread, lying to her face, and instead weekly phone calls that placated you enough for the time being. 

It was not sustainable, you didn't even know when she would be back. You needed someone desperately even if you didn’t know it yet, but you were spiralling some days into a hole you couldn’t climb back out of, it couldn’t be undone, because you had crawled into that space with no means of escape.

Matt was the only one available, and he was catching on, fast. That was why you mostly avoided any contact with him, not reaching out because you knew it would only be a matter of time before he would figure it all out. 

That you had been frolicking in the streets, well rooftops with the man that killed Foggy, still caring for that man, the murderer that took away a decent man, his best friend. 

And you were with him, still worrying over him. A betrayal, you thought. You had betrayed him and he would never forgive you. 

That part you didn’t care about. He didn’t have to forgive you. He just needed to know how sorry you were, that you can’t change what was in your heart, it was set in you a long time ago, before everything. Before, when Dex was simply just your neighbour, a good man who was trying. 

You just wanted the guilt to stop eating away at you, to make it stop your stomach from emptying out your stomach, the listless manner in which you operated day to day. 

Nothing could remedy that. No one could. 

You work, go home, workout, eat, sleep, over and over again. Working out helped to an extent, it made you stop thinking for a while, a different kind of pain that you enjoyed. Muscles aching felt nice, and helped you fall asleep from getting all your energy out by the end of the night. 

A routine you had established, one you hadn’t often strayed from as it kept things consistent, anything different either helped or threw you off. The courthouse threw you off, a new coffee shop helped sometimes, coffee with Matt threw you off, catching a familiar face helped, Matt inviting you over for lunch at his office threw you off completely. 

You couldn’t decline. He already knew you were hiding something. Did he really know? No he wouldn’t invite you over for lunch, much less his office. What was this? Some sort of way to trip you up so that you confessed.

Great. Now you were working up a sweat from all the overthinking. And you’re shaking too. Your legs can’t stop moving up and down, clamping your hand down onto your thigh ceases the frantic movements. 

You re-read the message. Lunch at noon, my office tmr? 

You reply, after typing out a couple messages, but then settling on an okay, I’ll be there :) 

You’ve sealed your fate, now you have to attend.

—

You ask him if you should grab lunch for him on your way there. He tells you shouldn’t worry since he’s already ordered it. You reach the law firm, glancing around the open space, wondering what it would be like if you worked here. Would you enjoy it? 

You spot Matt in the conference room, already heading out and meeting you halfway. “Come on, through there,” he nods towards his office. 

Both settled, you dig into the food. “Thanks for this, let me know how much I owe you.” 

He stills, “Star?!” He isn’t going to lie and say he wasn’t utterly surprised by your seemingly innocent request.

“Hm?” You look up, “what?” 

“You don’t owe me anything, it’s just lunch.” 

“..okay if you say so,” you shrug, agreeing, not wanting him to get riled up. You should really steer clear of that, you’re nervous as it is. 

He nods reluctantly, not sure why you would have suggested paying for you half. It never used to be that way, you always did chip in, but all three of them, Karen, Foggy and Matt insisted that it wasn’t necessary. At times you’d slip a few bills in their pockets, a silly back and forth. 

Now it seemed a little wrong, not when he was able to afford a lot more than what he used to be able to, and so it was a little disheartening that you thought you owed him when he would gladly spend it on you, on lunch, coffee, whatever.  

You eat in silence till he brings up a topic you were not expecting. 

“We should do this more often.”

“You paying for lunch?” 

He chuckles, “that or dinner, coffee. Whatever you want.” 

“uhh..I..sure. As long as you want to.” The hesitance isn’t lost on him. 

“Done,” he looks happy with himself, he thought it would be harder than this to get you to come over for dinner, even lunch like today. 

You easily slip into mild conversation, he talks about how he’s handling cases, comparing it to how he used to operate, the chance of working with a new partner. Somewhat a sore topic, but he keeps it short. 

He shifts in his seat. “Umm…I wanted to tell you something.” He can tell you just nodded at him, “I’m seeing someone.”

“Oh… wow, really?” Your mouth curls like you’ve just heard a secret.

“Yes. She’s lovely, would…you be open to meeting her?” He says it carefully, trying to measure your reaction as each word leaves him.

“Me? Why me?” Confused at his suggestion. 

“I may have mentioned you, and she wants to meet you, because you’re…important to me.”

Your eyebrows crinkle, lip tucking in. it’s the shyness creeping in when hearing him say that. You’re really happy for him, he deserves to love, be loved. Though you don’t know how to approach this situation without awkwardness. 

And you’re curious too. Who was she? What kind of person was she that made Matt like her?

“Oh…I’d love to meet her. I just don’t wanna embarrass myself.” It’s said in a sheepish manner, reluctant even though you’ve agreed. 

“You would? She’s amazing, you have nothing to be worried about. Maybe meet over coffee?”

“Sure. Let me know the details.” 

And sure enough, you’ve scored another meet up. Fantastic. 

—

It’s not that you didn’t want to, it was just that you had a hard time connecting with people who meant nothing to you. It would be slightly more difficult due to the fact that Matt clearly had feelings over this woman. 

That meant you had to as well, or should feel positively towards her. Seeing that she wanted to meet you was a good sign, at least you think it was. 

With Matt moving on from Karen meant he was accepting the past, at least in some capacity. You should too, but it was clear you were struggling with that. Maybe letting him into your life would do you some good, or it would ruin everything. You didn’t know which one it would be. 

It took about a week till Matt had organised a date that aligned with all three busy schedules. Tuesday morning came quickly, following the location of the place, you stopped a block before to lean against a wall to shake off the anxiety that had begun rising as soon as you left your place. 

You check your watch, you had a couple minutes before the meetup time, you take off again, stomach swirling around. You scan the place, you spot Matt first and then her. 

You must say she was beautiful. Gorgeous even, Matt sure knew how to pick them. You approach them, smiling lightly. 

“Hi.”

“Hi,” she says.

“Hi,” Matt also replies. 

All three let out a little laugh. Taking a seat across from her, with Matt on the side of the table. A drink ready for you, one you always order. Milk based with a little sugar.

“Thanks for the coffee.” 

“Please don’t say anything about paying, Star.” 

“Haven’t even said anything,” you mumble, taking a sip, a slight pout makes its way onto your face. A thin line of foam grazing your cupid’s bow which you lick off straight after your third sip of the hot beverage. 

Humming at the sharp taste hitting your tongue. You can feel her eyes on you, eyes never really meeting hers out of timidity or perhaps the intimidating aura she has, or you think she has. 

You take your time gathering your nerve to actually make eye contact with the poor woman who you haven’t even introduced yourself to. That must've been rude on your side. 

“Sorry, it’s nice to meet you,” you finally do look up at her, eyes looking a little struck at her pretty features.

“Likewise, I've heard a lot about you, I’m Heather,” she smiles brightly, brows crinkling fondly at your wide eyes, like a deer in headlights type of expression. 

You nod, not knowing what to say to that. A joke about hoping it’s all good things or laugh at her comment. Is there a right thing to say? Wow, your palms are sweating a lot, you wipe them on your jeans, hoping the denim absorbs it. 

Matt’s head tilts, feeling the dampness around your hands, the air of anxious energy flitting about from your direction, your heart beating a little faster than normal. He doesn’t say anything, he must know you don’t go out often and meet new people a lot. 

“So Matt tells me you used to intern for his law firm.” 

“Yeah, I used to many years ago. It was great experience, and I learned a lot.” You think back on your time with them, how simple times used to be, where you were all able to do good, honest work for people without demanding rates they could not afford. 

It’s so formal the way you utter those words, like you’re being tested for saying the right things. It gives away that something is amiss, all stiff and not fully natural in the way a typical conversation would flow. 

You take another sip of coffee, trying to shove the nerves down. Why can’t you communicate like a normal person today? 

“How about you? Do you have a job?” Again it sounds wrong, but you hope she understands what you mean without sounding so blunt and odd. 

“I’m a therapist. I have an office not too far from here.” She doesn’t seem all too fazed by your behaviour. 

“That’s nice, do you enjoy it?” 

“I do. It’s what I've always wanted to do, help people.” That is a good answer, you think, to help people.

You nod again, smiling at her. “That’s nice.” Matt chuckles. You said it again didn’t you? That’s nice. It’s a safe answer, you didn’t know what else to say. It’s so awkward, you’re being awkward. 

“Sorry, am I being weird?” you look sheepish, apologetic too, lines on your forehead prominent with the way your face shifts. 

“No-” “No,” “-you’re-,” “you’re not,” “not.” Their voices overlap, their pitches mixing, clearly you were being weird. You unconsciously frown a little, which makes them huff at your face. 

“Maybe a little,” Matt replies smiling so wide, apparently it seems he’s finding this much more amusing than you are. 

“Don’t worry,” she taps the table, her rings clinking, “you’re not being weird, promise.” 

She glances at Matt as if to say behave, though he can’t see, but he smirks all the same, like he can tell. 

“So I'm curious, how did you get the name Star?” The conversion flows much better after that, you all talk for another twenty minutes before you see Matt shift around. Was he ready to go, or did he want to say something? 

It was mostly you and Heather doing the talking, but he would chip in ever so often, landing a funny line or adding a detail to your story or to hers when you asked how they met. 

He wants to say something, so you subtly look towards him, he sighs a little before he waits for a gap in the conversation. 

“Star, I wanted to ask. I don’t want you to think I’m…forcing you to do something or…”

“What is it?” You’re skeptical as it is, skimming the rim of the coffee cup with the pad of your thumb.

“Heather here is great at her job, she has a lot of experience in her field and I thought it would be wise to consider talking…to someone. You know someone with more knowledge about mental health and such.”

“Is that why you brought me here?” 

“No, no. Of course not, I just…,” he sighs, “maybe, I just want you to consider opening up to the idea of working through things, I know it sounds absolutely hypocritical, but I think it would be good for you Star.”

You look at the table, where his hand is gripping the side. Eyes unfocused as you take in his words. Is it that obvious that people around you are noticing your deteriorating state? 

You must look miserable then. You don’t feel; well it might not be the most accurate word, betrayed at what he has done, the set up. Disguised as a simple meeting between his girlfriend and him with the kid he became close friends with, adoration filled him when he thought of you. 

Maybe you don’t feel that taken aback by this because deep down you recognise your own mental decline, taking over your life as the years have passed. It might be time to accept help that has literally landed in your hands. 

Literally, because you feel a soft hand clasping yours. Encasing yours with a nice warmth, squeezing you back into reality, eyes focusing again. 

“You okay? Lost you there for a sec,” she looks kindly at you, no pity in sight. 

“Yeah,” you whisper loud enough for her to make out the word. “Uhm, well it wouldn’t hurt to talk to someone.” 

“What? Really? You’ll talk to Heather. I mean Dr Glenn.” A cheeky smile directed to her, she shakes her head fondly. 

“I will, but give me some time to think it over again,” you tell him, then look at her, “Is that okay?” 

“Of course, whenever you are ready,” she pats her pocket, taking out her card filled with her details to contact her, “here, when you have made a decision, my number is on here,” she hands it to you. 

You read her name on the card before pocketing it, nodding at her reassurance. Mumbling a quick thank you. 

You all gather your things, you tell them you’ll head out first, needing to get to work soon. Matt has already extended his cane whilst he held out his other arm, indicating to you to come to him. 

You grab his forearm, letting him know you’re there, not that he needs it, his other arm comes around to pull you into a warm hug, the pressure is nice and firm. You missed him, you really did. 

He pats your head then lets go. Face all soft and fond, smile more genuine this time. You glance at Heather, “hug?” She asks, not knowing whether you wanted to or not. 

You nod, grinning at her, Matt tilts his head as he listens to the sounds that surround you both. Coffee mug clacking against the tables, people’s rings clinking together, the bulbs on the ceiling, electricity buzzing through them. 

Then it narrows down to your shoes hitting the floor as you approach Heather, her hands opening up, welcoming you for the first time into her embrace, her sweet perfume hitting his nose with one inhale, your scent making its way to his nose when he inhales the second time. Then the two mingle together, arms tangled, scents mixed into a lovely, unique one. 

The feeling is much more intimate than the sight of the embrace, his mouth ticks up at what he’s able to discern. 

He’s glad that you didn’t fight him more, almost agreeing with him completely, accepting his suggestion with quiet resignation. Were you struggling so bad that you couldn’t do anything but go along with what he said? Was that it?

You’re stiff in her arms, but you feel yourself melt into her, her perfume meets your nose. You like it, you’d have to ask her what she uses. She rubs your back soothingly before she lets go. 

“We should do this again, maybe over dinner?” Heather’s head inclines towards Matt’s direction, he nods before she even finishes her question, more than happy for that to happen.

You agree as well, it might be good to get out again. You don’t get out at all in the evening, opting to stay in the comfort of your home. You bid them both a good day, exchanging goodbyes. 

They stand around the small table, taking a seat after you have left the place. Debrief time it is. 

Matt waits until Heather says something, not wanting to ask any leading questions. “She’s cute, I like her.” He listens, it’s the truth, she likes you. 

“Yea?” He grins, “you do?” 

“She wears her heart on her sleeve, you can see it on her face. Genuine, I like that.” 

“She does, doesn't she? I can hear it,” Heather cracks a smile at that, she loves hearing how he experiences people from his perspective, it’s fascinating. “She deserves better, after what she’s been through. I just regret not being there for her sooner.” 

“How so?”

He pauses, “there was a time where I decided my friends didn’t deserve to deal with me, I made a decision for them, and then put them in danger, things happened that…they didn’t deserve.” His voice becomes strained, the pain still raw. 

He thinks back on Foggy, that already dampens his feelings, turning them into the overwhelming grief he feels on a daily basis. Karen, gone too. And you, he still can redeem himself by giving you what he meant to all those years ago. Himself, his presence, the simple act of caring despite who he had become. 

And he hadn’t done that, yet you still remained as you were, a little awkward at times, genuine, compassionate. 

You didn’t leave, not when you found out he was still alive, not when you agreed to help him despite there being no obligation to rise up to justice through him. 

In turn, what had you received? Gun to the head by Poindexter, thrust into danger over and over again. Issues that cannot be resolved through simply talking to someone, but at least it was a step into the right direction. 

Now he has a chance, hope for a fruitful future where you may flourish again, if the world allows him to let it happen. 

“Is that why you wanted her to try out therapy? To somehow fix what you think you may have broken?”

He doesn’t answer, opting to remain silent. It may be true, her words may cut through, but they aren’t meant to hurt, not intended to point fingers, simply pinpoint his own intentions in regards to meddling in your life. 

Eventually Heather gives him the reassurance that lets him feel a little less guilty for shoving the idea towards you, “I’ll talk to her, even if she doesn’t want to try therapy, I’ll help in any way I can. I’m sure she’ll agree to dinner sometime, right?”

“Yeah, that’s a good idea. Thank you Heather. I really do appreciate it, you didn’t have to say…do all that.”

“I did,” slipping her hand into his, they both lean in, a kiss is shared. It mellows out the uncertainty that taints his insides, melting just enough that he feels hopeful for the next time you three meet. 

—

It takes time for you to reach a decision. By the end of the week you have been able to avoid thinking about what to do. When the new week begins, you spontaneously decide that you will meet Heather. She seems nice enough from your first interaction, and she won’t say anything to Matt would she, so it was set. 

You send her a short message which turns into a little back and forth, you book in with her for Thursday and also book in dinner with her and Matt for the week after. 

A lot can be done when you put your mind to it, two bookings in one day! Wow, you should do this more often. Actually you’ll hold off on that thought for now. 

Thursday comes faster than you had anticipated, work went by fast, sleep came a little more slower to you though, possibly the thought of talking about your issues made you nervous. 

Thursday comes and you are directed onto a long sofa outside her office. Waiting till she called you in. Hands clammy, sweaty so you rub them against your work trousers. You watch as the clock, ticking, ticking, tic- your name is called, your head swivels in the direction of the sound. 

You give her a half nod as a greeting as you walk into her office. You stand there waiting for her to close the door. 

“Please, take a seat.” She gestures towards the small couch opposite her chair, “So, how have you been since last I saw you?”

“Oh, not so bad, busy with work. I started crocheting recently.”

“You did? What are you working on?” Her tone is open and has a lilt to it, not exactly fascinated, it borders professional curiosity but genuinely interested in listening to you. 

“A bunch of keychains,” you grin, proud at the thought of your little creation. It had been started on a whim, watching a video online led to you ordering some yarn and other materials to give it a go. It clearly led to somewhere now that you've been doing it for a few weeks now. 

“Hobby’s are good,” she nods approvingly, “very good. So how do you feel today?” 

“Nervous, uhm…but not overly nervous like I thought I would be.” 

“That’s completely normal, especially for those who are doing this for the first time. Let’s…let’s start with something simple then: what made you consider Matt’s suggestion of trying out therapy?”

You mull over her question, “I think that if someone other than myself can recognise how terribly I’m doing, then maybe there is some truth in that.”

“I see, did you think about it yourself, reaching out to someone?”

You shake your head, “No. Not really.”

“Why not?” 

“I’m not sure, I didn’t think it was something that could be solved. A lot happened, wasn’t sure it would be safe to talk about.”

She pauses, “everything you say is kept private, a certain type of confidentiality, kind of like Attorney-Client Privilege. So anything you say will never get out of this room, okay?” you nod again. 

“Why don’t you feel safe talking about it?”

“A lot of it was to do with the legality of it all, and the other side was…my feelings around it. I never really managed to figure out how I should feel.”

“What are some words that come to mind when you think about it?”

“Guilt, remorse,” she jots down a few things in her workpad. 

“Those two are pretty similar, why those words?”

“It’s what affects me the most, or what I feel the most when I think about it.”

“What do you feel guilty about?” 

It’s almost a back and forth, you aren’t giving her much to go off on, but you don’t know what’s safe to say or not. Somehow you keep thinking that this will get back to Matt. 

“How things ended. The stuff I did, I…don’t know how to handle the guilt sometimes. It makes me sick some days.” 

“Makes you sick? Physically?”

You nod, “It makes me throw up on bad days. Not often though. Is that normal?”

Her head tilts a little before answering, “it can happen, though it’s not a healthy response even if it happens occasionally. When was the last time you felt like this?”

“Last week.”

“What do you think triggers it? Is it when you think about it, or when something specific happens?”

“Uhh, when I think about it? When I’m near…I don’t know.”

“When you’re near…someone?” She sees your hesitance, knows how hard it is from your refusal to answer. She waits. 

“I don’t know,” you do the little frown thing again. 

“That’s okay, let’s move onto how you can manage some of these symptoms you feel…”

The session carries on with less tension around the topics she brings up. Overall, it was nice talking, you don’t remember when you had used your voice this much before as of recently. Unsure of how you felt, you still booked in another session with her. 

“I think we made some good progress today. Slow and steady, there is no pressure at all. Remember that.”

“Thanks Dr Glenn.” 

She laughs, “it’s Heather, please. See you next week, yeah?” Opening the door for you. 

“See you next week,” a stiff wave in her direction as you’re halfway down the hall. 

—

The time in-between the first session and the second session, you reflect on what you had said. The guilt was the main issue. It rendered you useless in your own head. How can you move on from this when the idea of holding certain feelings you had for Dex won’t leave your system? 

Both Karen and Matt would only feel disgust towards you if they found out the extent in which you cared for that man. The one friend you had actively nurtured intentionally. It went somewhere because you put in the effort to know him, seek him out, and come to need him when it should never have come to that. 

At least that is how you feel now. 

He was simply meant to be your neighbour. The person you would not engage with despite your stupidness, time and time again you pursued him. 

Going over his place to bandage his knuckles. At the time you would have argued that you were only returning the favour. 

No one deserves to be left like that. You think he deserved to feel a presence, an ounce of attention towards him, seeing that there had been no one other than you. Kindness would thus be reflected back upon you. 

You didn’t do it for that reason, you did it because it was the right thing to do. Because he was your friend. He helped, so you helped. He cared, so you did too. You empathised, so he tried to as well. 

And now you’re making yourself regret what you have done. 

How can you, when the fruits of your labour led to you to be in this position. Yearning for something that would not come. Devoting your thoughts and prayers to a man who was guilty of all the crimes he had committed and more. Much more. 

To sum it up, you had betrayed your friends. No one could convince you otherwise. That is where the guilt came from. You hate that you feel so deeply for a person that had taken away a person so dear to Matt, yet you persist. 

Then the second session comes. 

“Would you be more open to talking about what happened in your past?” she asks evenly, referring to the situation all those years ago. 

You think for a moment. You can keep it vague, no names. “I had a friend. It was unexpected, but it turned out great after a while. We could rely on each other, we loved the company. It was sweet, genuine. Then it wasn’t so great.” 

“What happened?” her brows furrows hearing your last sentence. 

“He did something really bad. He hurt me, himself…people around me. He hurt someone really close to me. Then he…he, well disappeared.”

“He?” Brow quirks up at that, you nod. 

“He left? An intentional choice made by him?”

“No it wasn’t his choice. Prison.”

How did you feel about that?” 

“He deserves it, he should…” It’s weak, very weak the way it filters through. Like you’re trying to convince Dr Glenn, or yourself that he truly deserves getting life. Maybe more, maybe less. 

“...but?” She shouldn’t lead with such questions but she can tell it’s on the tip of your tongue. 

“But I wish he was here. We left things unresolved, but I don’t know if I regret what I did.”

“What would you have wanted to tell him if he was still here?”

“I want to know why he ki-,” you suck in a deep breath, words caught in your throat. Heather doesn’t interrupt, knowing how important it is to give you ample time and space to try on your own, to let it out when you choose to do so.  

“I want to know why he hurt the people close to me. If he thought about the consequences. How he could betray me like that when– we’d been together just three months before he–” your heart races, the rage beneath your chest widens, heating your skin gradually. 

This is the most emotion she has seen from you that is negative, filled with unpleasant memories, triggering a visible reaction from you. 

After that she offers you a glass of water, opting to carry on the guilt talk from before. If you had tried to pinpoint when the nauseous feeling came along, or if the symptoms persisted. It leads to the end of your session. 

She has a few minutes to spare, so you decide to ask her what to wear tomorrow. A very important question you had been meaning to ask ever since you all had agreed on having dinner together at Matt’s apartment. 

“Anything you feel comfortable in. You’ll come after work right?”

“Mhm, I think I’ll head home to leave my things before making my way there.”

“I’m looking forward to it. Matt’s cooking, so that’s a bonus,” she lets out a small laugh.

“Oh, I'm looking forward to that then, shall I bring anything?” It would be polite to at least bring something right? 

Warmth grazing her face, “just yourself, sweetheart.” 

—

You skirt around Matt’s front door, conscious of the fact that he could hear you outside, just waiting for a series of knocks to come. A few moments later you do, it’s Matt. 

“Hey, c’mere.” Arm open for you which you gratefully sink into his chest. Strong hints of his scent meet your nose. 

“Heard you’re cooking,” you muse, never really witnessing him ever making food, much less for you. 

He laughs, the happy sound escapes him, he knows he’s never been much of a cook in the past, a new development for sure, “yeah, bet you wanna see that.”

“Is Dr Glenn here?” You step back from his arms to which he groans, mumbling, “already imprinted on her? Course.” 

He follows you after closing the door, dragging his fingertips across the walls of the hallway to navigate towards the open floor of his apartment. 

“Cupcakes? You didn’t have to bring anything, I told you.” 

Right. Heather had told him about booking in a session with her, which also means you’ve been able to spend time with her. He’s not jealous, not at all. He is rather glad you have another person that you’ll possibly get close to you.

Even better if it’s a feminine figure, you lack such people in your life. Now he’s not one to judge who you talk to and who you don’t, and he shouldn’t have any input at all, but does have the right to give advice, and listening to him has already got you in a better place than before.

He’s doing something right, better than before. That’s all he can pray for, doing more, using what he has for good. 

Sometimes it’s not too late to try again, to change how you approach matters with a different perspective. Making different choices for a better outcome, for the livelihood of others. To him, this is what that is. 

Bringing you back in, arguably later than expected, but you had pushed back, far back into your own corner. Choosing to stay away, feeling unsafe and uncomfortable in a place where you didn’t know your own purpose anymore, feeling like you had no one to rely on. 

It was all taken from you, or rather people ran in the other direction. Karen for example, and though she tried, as did you, it wasn’t the same anymore.

Change is an inevitable outcome of distance. No matter how much you deny it, things have changed even with her. 

Phone calls do not do justice to a face-to-face conversation. Even Matt would agree with you here. 

So much left unsaid, so much that was unknown to you all. A journey that was lived individually for a time, and the ache hadn’t lessened when your thoughts travelled south. 

But for now, he would try, again and again. No matter what has happened to you, no matter what you have done, he will never judge you. That is not his end goal here. 

“Couldn’t come empty handed, could I?” You look around his place, it’s so modern. Nothing like his old place, which you happened to love. The glow of the billboards from across the road brings in the sort of light you preferred. 

Warm purples, amber yellow glowing through the windows, harsh reds that spread across your face, reflecting back what you felt on the inside. You missed that place. 

This was a decent place, you’ll have to admit. Filled with little luxuries that you knew he and Foggy wanted for themselves one day. And that day had come, but without him. 

You feel sick again. Thinking about Foggy made you sick. You pin that fact for later. 

Heather takes the bag from you, sliding out the box of cupcakes out and places them into the fridge for later consumption. Matt hovers around, head tilted in your direction, listening, gauging your reaction as you take in his place. 

He can confidently say he had done well for himself, and with him a few metres away he feels a twinge of anxiety. It’s somewhat strange having someone from his past observe what was meant to be his future. What he had created for himself. 

A reflection of what he had worked for over the years all out into the open, physically speaking. 

“You like it?” He can’t help but ask. 

“It’s big, I like it. You can see everything.” 

It may have sounded like an insensitive comment, but you knew he wouldn’t take it like that. 

Instead for him it translated to being able to feel the sun on his face in the morning when it shone bright. That due to the expanse of the windows, he could navigate the space inside and outside with much more ease than having no windows at all. 

“You can, can’t you?” He agrees with you, understanding you in his way. 

The three of you mingle, three way conversation turns to a two way conversation when Matt focuses on cooking. You watch. How he feels the rim of the pots before pouring in the pasta, hovering his hand over the sauce to feel the heat, simmering on low. Using the edge of the counter as his main stabiliser. 

You help set the plates, cutlery, and the cups. You all take a seat, similar to the coffee shop; Matt on the side and Heather across from you. 

As the food has been scooped onto your respective plates, you pause admiring Matt’s work, then you all dig in. It’s hot enough that it nearly burns your tongue, but you can’t stop eating it. 

It has been a long while since you’ve had such a hearty meal, one that rests in your belly, warming up your insides each time you swallow, settling gently at the bottom. You hum, expressing your approval.

It satiates your hunger, but you still go for round two. It has Matt preening at the sound of you piling another heap of pasta, albeit smaller in portion this time. Heather simply looks amused, eating well in her books is definitely a good sign. So no complaints there. 

This weird thing has formed between you three, a silent acceptance of each others’ company. Heather and Matt may be together, but they both agreed it felt different with you here with them, a happy addition, sort of like older siblings or something along those lines. 

As you eat, they talk, you half listen to them. Work, work, laundry, work, vigilantes. Vigilantes? 

You slowly look up. Fork still in hand. 

“I mean you ought to be careful Matt, you know I only worry.”

“I know, I know. I’m careful, I always am.” 

“You come with bruises and I just can’t help but think the worst. What if...because of those vigilantes running around…you…” She can’t seem to round off her statement.

Isn’t that what the system is for? The system took care of them, that’s all we can hope for Sweetheart.”

She doesn’t reply, pauses and thinks, “what about those they have already hurt, huh? What about them Matt,” the implication is clear as day, it’s not lost on you either, even you know who she’s talking about. 

Matt agrees with her, yet he has undertaken a different set of beliefs over the years. Having retired the mask, he has to adopt a different set of ideals that coincide with who he is now. A lawyer. A normal man who works, has a partner, serves justice through defending people. 

That is who he is, who he has fully embraced once he retired from his old life. 

“He…he got life. He was put on trial, Heather. Justice was served.” His patience doesn't thin in the slightest. Time has aged him, so has his restraint, his understanding when conversing over things that bring out an ugly side out of him.

“Okay Matt, oka–”

Matt’s head snaps up before your chair scrapes backwards. “Star, What–”

You stumble towards where you assume is the bathroom. The harsh sounds of you regurgitating the food Matt had cooked can be heard all the way from the dining table. And then again and again till you can’t bring anything back up.

Both of them follow you in a hurry. “Sweetheart, can I come in?” She watches you from the entrance of the bathroom, trying to gauge your state. She quickly closes the lid of the toilet and flushes it, so you don’t have to look at the evidence of Matt’s poor food. 

She grabs a damp towel and wipes your mouth gently. Your eyes are wet from the effects of throwing up, or maybe it’s mixed with your tears. Regardless, she wipes under your eyes, careful of the soft skin pulling from the motion. 

She makes it quick, she knows that people often feel embarrassed when seen in such a vulnerable state. 

“Sorry,” you mumble, sniffing. 

Her hands remind you of comfort, skin on skin. “Nothing to be sorry for, sweetie.” 

Matt stands at the door, listening. Your heart is out of control, so are the sounds emitting within your stomach. Were you getting sick? 

“You okay?” He asks from the doorway, holding a glass of water. He helps you up with his free arm, “come on, rinse, let’s take a seat after, ‘kay?”

You nod, humming in agreement. Heather waits till Matt leaves, you know it won’t do you both any good, the lack of his presence is only a disguise for her. He’s listening.

“Is this because of what we talked about?” You nod, not good enough. “During the session or now?” You don’t reply, that answers her question. “Okay, okay.”

As she asks these questions, you rinse your mouth with the tap water, letting it run longer than you should have. An attempt to muffle her words, but it’s useless. He’s listening. Now you just wasted water. Great. 

When you both return, you sit on the couch, sipping water from the glass that had been handed to you. They insist on finishing packing up leftovers and washing the dishes whilst you rest your upset stomach. 

You can switch off for a bit, focusing on what you can see outside, staring blankly out the window from the couch. It’s mundane but you love it, watching the sky, the softened lights. It’s melancholic yet beautiful during this time, late in the evening. 

You might have to explain yourself to Matt, but you hope it can be passed off as a stomach bug, but he heard you both even though no thorough words were exchanged, but that didn’t matter. He didn’t need words to identify the truth from someone. 

They clean the tables up, washing and drying the plates, Matt is worried. “What happened, do you know why she’s feeling sick?” Concern laces his tone, it’s mixed with a mild accusatory tone, as if he knows there’s more to it.

“Nothing serious, probably an upset stomach, nothing a bit of tea won’t fix,” she doesn’t look at him, carrying on with the task at hand. She swiftly moves past him to fill the kettle up with water. 

Matt follows her, not before grabbing two mugs out of the cabinet and placing them near the stove. “Heather, Sweetheart, do you know why?” 

She had essentially given him a half answer, not a lie, but not the whole truth either. So naturally he has to know. 

It comes down to his need to know, to control anything, something, because it’s you. 

“You know that I can’t talk about my cases Matt, it’s the nature of the job. You must understand that?”

He takes a deep breath, both palms leaning against the counter, “but it’s…Star, I can’t stop thinking about what she’s going through…especially after him…” Who he is referring to is unknown, she can only assume. 

She snakes an arm around his forearm, “you trust me?” He nods, “of course.” 

“Then trust me to do my job. If there is anything that puts her in danger, I will tell you,” pressing a peck on his cheek, “Okay?”

“Okay,” he finally relents, there is no way she’s going to break that confidentiality bound by ethics, and your lips are sealed with the belief that the fault lies within you. 

Matt kisses her forehead, bringing her into his arms. Heather watches you as you sit on the couch, you’re not all there when looking out the large windows that take up the majority of that side of the wall. 

The sky bleeds blue, dark shades panning across the open floor of the apartment, it makes you look cold, tired, like it’s already winter when in fact it isn’t. 

She feels a spark of emotion, somewhere between motivation and a sad ache that passes through her. She wants you to feel safe and possibly have enough courage to face what you seem to be running from. 

You couldn’t hold it all in, it was taking a direct effect on your health, and thus it needs to be managed. Eventually the symptoms will worsen if your state of mind does not clear up, clouded by what you cannot process. 

But she will help, she is going to fix that. That is her job. 

The phones ring one after the other, notifications of messages filtering through the phones packaged in clear bags for evidence. Blood smeared on them, the lives of innocent people coating their own belongings. 

I did this,” Karen claims, looking down at the evidence spread across the table. 

“Wilson Fisk did this,” Foggy knows how it looks, a chain reaction started from one action bleeding into the next. It’s the truth, Fisk is the one to blame. 

“Evans wouldn’t have come to the Bulletin if I hadn’t threatened his son.”

“He made his choice, Karen.” You mutter, glancing up at her. 

Followed by Foggy agreeing with you, “this isn’t on you,” then he focuses on you, “Kid this ain’t on you either. You did what you could, that’s what matters.” He sighs hearing his phone vibrate, “both of you, this isn’t the time to give up the fight.”

How can you when you have nothing to work off on. You’ve hit a dead end, it really is out of your hands. What can you do that will finally expose Fisk for good? 

You’re nothing more than a person on standby, no use for now. 

“I’m gonna go to the hospital.” 

“Are you hurt?” 

She shakes her head. Foggy nods at Karen, understanding what she meant. Ellison and the people who survived after being attacked were there, she should probably check on them. Foggy pats your back as he takes the call and you leave with Karen. 

You walk in silence with her till you’re in the elevator, she suggests you come back to hers, it would be best to stay together for the time being, safer together she had claimed. In case something happened. 

That would be the best for now.  

—

“We have each other. That’s what matters.” whispered in hushed tones, cupping your cheeks, forehead touching yours, you can only nod at her. 

It had been a hard few days. The people attacked at the Bulletin were recovering, and the blame had been placed on Karen for bringing Jasper Evans there for questioning. Ellison had fired her for not giving up the identity of Daredevil. Hell she blamed herself, shouldering the brunt of it. 

Sleep takes over the majority of your time, like your brain had decided to shut down. She had to coax you with takeout for you to get to shower and stretch a little. Knowing the toll it was taking on your mind and body, it was the depressive state you were beginning to slip back into. 

And once you slipped too far, it would take ten times the effort to get back. She’d seen it before, with herself, and before when you had interned at the law firm, when your father passed away. 

That was something she could not relive, no less you experiencing anything similar. It was messy, what she had witnessed. You had to change to part-time work to grieve his death. It had set you back financially, but your friend had aided you to the best of their ability, and appreciation burned deep within you for that. 

It was the same symptoms, the excessive sleep, the constant bouts of tears that came unexpectedly, the hollow feeling in your chest that persisted till today. Getting better, eating well, leaving the house, all for it to be reversed within a few weeks. But then the interning job came to help you set you back on your feet. 

The nature of pro bono work was gratifying, the change in perspective was the reason you started to get back on track, viewing things in a different light meant you allowed yourself to be kind to yourself, so that you could help others, become useful and have a hand in changing someone's life. 

It was similar now, you didn’t have much time to shut yourself into your shell because Karen insisted you stay with her for a few days, whilst she was working on convincing Ellison to publish Foggy’s theory. 

Foggy had the idea that could gain the attention of the FBI, due to Fisk breaching his terms of agreement. With a solid enough plan, it could be something. 

Whilst Karen went to the dinner party as Foggy’s plus one, you remain at her place, waiting till she comes back. Hopefully their plan works out, without coming across any issues this time. 

It was already evening by now, you clean up Karen’s apartment whilst she’s out, the least you could do before she comes back as she’d let you stay over. As you pick up the plates on the coffee table, your phone pings. A text message from Dex telling you he wants to talk, you don’t reply and instead call him directly.

He picks up after the second ring, “Hey, what’s up?”

“I haven’t heard from you since a few days ago, Star, are you alright?”

“I’m fine, remember I’m staying with someone. What about you?”

“You don’t sound fine.” 

“I’m just tired. So how have you been?”

“Yea uhm, I just left the office, had a meeting with a lawyer,” and then a few seconds later, “wait a minute, I didn’t know you were seeing someone.” His typical snark makes its way through his tone, it’s not often you catch him talking this way, but you do internally chuckle when he does. 

You scoff, trying not to laugh, “I never said I was, I’m with a friend Ben. I’ll be home in a couple of days, don’t worry.”

“Did…something happen again? Are you safe?”

“I’m safe, right now I am,” you need to divert this conversation elsewhere before he starts to get stuck on this topic, “so what was it about the lawyer?”

“Well, they said I can be re-instated again, but it’s gonna take six months, Star. What am I gonna do for six months?” He groans. Looks like he really needed to get that off his chest. 

“Wow, that sure is a lot of time. I mean, you’ll find something to do,” you pause for a beat, “...I know we’ve become close as of recently, like friends right? So I'm always here, next door, remember?” 

He mumbles a yeah, you pace around the length of the kitchen, a little jittery as you talk about this, “we could join a club or..or learn how to sew.” 

“Learn how to sew…,” he repeats slowly, then laughs, “really?” 

“Yeahh, why not?” The same incredulous laugh bubbles out of you, “oh come on, it’s a very handy skill, it might teach you a few things.”

“That right? What makes you think I'll be any good?” 

“What do you mean?! Of course you’ll be able to do it, we’ll have a lot of time to practice, won’t we?” You tease. 

“Yeah, yeah,” he mutters through the phone, “you know what, sure. I’d love to do it, if it’s with you.” He waits until you say something back, but decides he needs to ask whilst he has you on call, “are you sure you’ll be back in a few days? If you want, I can come pick you up, bring you home?” 

“I can’t for now, but if anything does come up and I need you, you’ll be the first I call.”

“Promise you won’t get into something dangerous,” he hesitates, “you know I never ask you about the things you do on the side, with your…your…friends,” an odd pause around his last few words, did he have a problem with them? Surely not.

“But you won’t get into anything dangerous, right? Promise you won’t, Star. Things are heating up here at the FBI, and I hate to think you’d be involved in it.”

“What makes you say that?” It comes out quicker than intended, somehow his worry sounds a bit like an accusation even though his tone says otherwise. 

“I meant that I know your friends, the people you used to work for were involved with Fisk. I just hope that you aren’t being dragged into it. You get that right? Look at what’s already happened.” 

If you begin to catch on to the implicit meaning behind his words. He knows that there are going to be consequences for what he is about to do, he just prays you aren’t there to witness it. 

It’s only inevitable that you would go above and beyond for your friends. What he has been able to observe thus far is that for Karen Page, you will. No matter the cost, and in turn she would do the same for you. 

“I get it, I do, but I can’t promise anything.”

“Then promise me you won’t leave, that you’ll come talk to me.” 

“I won’t leave, I promise,” that was it, you sealed it, and he’s going to hold you to it. 

—

There was not enough time to get better. After the stunt Karen had pulled, arranging a meeting with Fisk to provoke him, which ended up with Foggy busting her out, she insisted on disappearing for some time, to get away from all of it, dragging you with her. Foggy was taking on the opposite approach, using the publicity to guarantee his safety. 

You tell Karen you had just one more thing to do, you make your way into your apartment to pack a few clothes, and most importantly inform Dex that you needed to disappear for a short while. You had gotten rid of your sim card, so you couldn’t be tracked and Dex wasn’t in his apartment either, so you wrote him a short note, slipping it through the gap under his door. 

At least he’ll know you haven't up and left without a reason, he would likely flip if he thought you were leaving him. You had promised him, hadn’t you? 

“I just needed to let him know that I haven't disappeared off the face of the earth. He’d be upset if I left without telling him.” You explain to Karen as you slip the note past his door. 

“Why would he be upset? I'm sure he would understand.” 

“He’s… a little sensitive when it comes to being left without being informed,” you purse your lips, shrugging at her. 

“Alright, just be careful,” she seems skeptical for a moment, “okay let’s get out of here.” 

—

The FBI was working for Fisk now, Kingpin they called him. And Dex had never felt this free in his life, under the beck and call of his new boss, he was able to channel his rage by taking lives unapologetically. 

He had been reinstated into the FBI and the first person he wanted to tell was you. He texts you. 

The first one asks where you have been, the second one if you're okay, the third one that got his job back and finally that he misses you. 

None of the messages go through. 

He’s actively seething. The rational part of his brain is telling him something has happened to you, or you’ve abandoned him. You wouldn’t do that to him, you couldn’t. He refused to believe you would just up and leave without telling him. 

Why won’t his messages go through?

His mind wanders, you told him you would never leave. You promised him. 

And of course he is not thinking rationally anymore, fearing the worst. That has become an issue as of late, ever since Fisk had begun using his own weaknesses against him, ever since you had come into his life. 

He hasn’t been able to think straight, thoughts of you haunt him daily, without some sort of assurance that you’re okay, that you still want him around, that Fisk hadn’t got to you too. Like Julie. 

You hate him. That’s what this is. You found out what he has done and decided to run as far away from him as possible. 

That is the most reasonable explanation given the circumstances with Fisk and the FBI hunting down criminals for each others’ gain, and what he did to your friends. That too. 

He has to find you, but first he has to kill Karen Page.

A direct order from Kingpin. The quicker he gets it done, the faster he can search for you. 

—

Hiding under the church for the time being with Karen seemed like a good idea, the discretion was necessary and Father Lantom and Sister Maggie were able to promise that. 

Whilst Karen had gone upstairs to join Father Lantom for mass, you had already taken a seat on the left side. Taking in the words of the sermon being recited, the words touching each and every soul that had joined. Head tilted downwards, hands clasping loosely as you listened. 

Karen stands by the side doors, scanning the small crowd, looking for you. She spots you with your head tucked. Her heart aches for you. She understands the internal turmoil, the wounds still raw. Not just from the moment Matt had died, but from way before. From years ago, the wounds had not yet healed. 

And it was truly upsetting to see how broken you had become. It takes a toll on you, even Karen can tell you that. She’s had a hell of a lot of experience with grief, regret and anger, and she knows what you’re going through right now in her own way. 

So tired and impossible to console, she has an inkling that things aren’t going to be okay for a long time. She hopes that you find some type of solace, some peace soon. When all of this is over, maybe then you can rest. She hopes the same for all four of you, for everyone that is involved too. 

No more pain and misery, because she’s had enough of it for a lifetime. 

“Karen Page. Where is Karen Page?” The rattling of a stick hits the wooden benches as Daredevil walks through the middle of the church. Screams and shouts all around when three men are knocked out by the baton hitting their faces. 

Your head jerks to where the sounds of distress are coming from. You watch the man repeat his question again. You frantically look for Karen, who has her hands cupped over her mouth. She turns to you, telling you to duck down under the benches. 

It's all a blur after Matt comes in to subdue the guy in the suit. 

Father Lantom has a baton in his chest, dead in Karen’s arms. Heart wrenching sobs echo through the walls of the church. The people are out of the church as you guide them through the open doors, whilst Karen makes a break for it upstairs

“Kaaaren. Karen.”

You hear him calling out her name. You shake your head, it was kinda creepy. Nevertheless, you creep up the steps, Matt was already there, punching his way through and as you reach the top you see his body on the floor as he’s being hit, blood pooling out of his nose and mouth. 

You grab a metal rod from the floor, enough to do some damage, and charge at him. He catches the rod, trying to yank it out of your hands. 

“Stop trying to fight me, Star.” 

You don’t listen. Whilst he twists the rod out of your hands, you knee his stomach, he doubles over, grunting. 

Not before Karen hits him with a long wooden pillar that sends him over the ledge. He falls, landing with a sickening sound. You gasp aloud, as you look down at his figure splayed across the ground. 

Hand over your mouth, as you peer down. 

Then it clicks. Did he just call you Star? 

—

By the time you reach back down, you and Karen hauling Matt over each shoulder, it was apparent that there would be no way to escape the church. The FBI had surrounded the building and would soon storm in, Matt’s enhanced hearing giving you all time to hide. 

That is how you found yourself hidden in the depths of the underground part of the church with them. 

You paced back and forth, still trying to grapple around the fact that dex had been in the Daredevil suit this whole time, the one who was going to kill Karen. 

Just thinking about associating Dex and the man in the Devil’s suit was giving you a migraine. It was impossible for them to be the same man. You cannot come to terms with this, what are the chances?

It couldn’t have been a coincidence, right? There was no way he even knew Fisk by the time he moved into the same complex. 

He even mentioned the day he became officially involved in the shootout, that he had to protect a scumbag, but at times it was also the nature of his job, guarding convicts despite who they were. 

He had been banged up that night, coming in the early hours of the night, sporting a cut on his cheekbone and bruises littering his face. 

So there was no way he played you? That doesn’t matter, you actually don’t care about that right now. You can process the lies and whatever shitty feelings you have about Dex later. 

What you can focus on is how he went after Karen. He killed Father Lantom.

His job entailed this type of stuff, taking the lives of others, at times within reason, others not so much. But this? This was because he wanted to. Like he was enjoying it, like it didn’t matter to him who he killed. 

Can you ever accept such a man?  

Did that mean he was going to kill you too? 

“Yeah, that’s her neighbour, right? The one that patched you up the other day?” Karen tries to recall the guy you had mentioned some time ago. At the time she was glad that someone was looking out for you besides her and Foggy.  

“Yeah, that’s the one.”

“Why is this the first I'm hearing of it?” Matt asks, hands on hips. 

“Well we haven’t exactly had the time to catch up, have we?” you retort. He tilts his head to the side, agreeing. 

“What does he want with you? He’s up there, keeps saying he needs to find you,” head tilting upwards, listening in on the agents upstairs, “I can hear him. He’s pacing, it’s annoying.”

“I don’t know. He’s my neighbour, he’s a good guy, or at least I thought he was. We became friends some time ago.” you sniff, trying to suck the tears back in, but they spill freely as you tell them about the nature of your and Dex’s relationship. 

You tell them everything about how you knew Dex, how he became your neighbour some time ago, and how he had come to trust you, he had helped you, and became your friend. That you had no idea what he was up to in the last week, only that you had seen him before the events that occurred in the Bulletin. 

That was a lie, it was a detail you did not want to share. It felt too intimate, too personal to share. 

How you had trusted him. And how he had betrayed you. 

He was going to kill you all. The people who had become your family were going to die because of the man you had come to cherish, almost considering him your family too. 

And there wouldn’t be an ounce of regret in him when he does so. 

And so there would be no ounce of forgiveness within you for what he has done. 

No amount of compassion that resides within you will be able to show mercy for what he has done, for what he is willing to do in the name of Fisk. 

—

Sister Maggie leads the FBI agents downstairs. “Clear!” they weren't here. Dex walks around with his torch, walking up to the bed he finds your belongings. Your cap on the bed, along with packed bags. 

Rifling through your things, finding two photographs of you and your friends, and one of him and you. Oh Star. 

He scrunches it in his hand. Teeth clenched, you had been here this whole time. 

Why would you carry a photo of you two together? Did you care about him as much as he did? Then why did you leave him?

You probably got roped into this mess because of them, you would never up and leave without a good reason. He knows it’s because of the hit on Karen, otherwise you’d still be in your apartment, likely drinking tea and munching on something sweet at this time.

All the more reason to kill Karen Page. 

He knows you, and he knows the lengths you go to for your friends. 

Would you go the same lengths for him? He wants to know.

Things would never go back to normal now that you knew he was far from innocent, and he doesn’t know how to stop you from leaving him after everything. 

—

Sitting in the ring in Fogwell’s Gym observing the myriad of conversations occurring before you, you were set to stay here before Nadeem would head to the courthouse to testify against Fisk, following the route of allowing the law take its course rather than Matt’s way. 

Foggy pats your shoulder, giving you a run down of the next steps, requesting you stay here in case Karen comes back after her press conference, if it goes well that is. 

You figure it would be wise to ask the man who had been partners with Dex, find out if he knew anything at all. Whilst Foggy and Matt are on the side talking, you approach him. 

“Do you…do you know why Dex was looking for me?” 

“He didn’t mention why, sorry. The only thing he kept saying I need to find her, saying the name Star over and over again." He thinks back on it, “is that…what he calls you?” 

You nod, looking to the side. Resignation had set in long ago. Not knowing whether you wanted to see him again or not. 

“I’m sorry too, for how things have turned out for you and your family. I wish things had been different Agent Nadeem.” 

“Thanks kid. But nothing can be taken back.” Nadeem looks wrecked, no doubt the regret being at the centre of everything.  

“Whatever Dex does, don’t let him take advantage of you. He’s…he’s not stable and I think that whatever he sees you as, a friend, a person he could rely on, you need to be careful. Please,” He pleads, so earnest as he warns you. 

You think that Nadeem truly does think that Dex is too far gone, he’s seen first hand how he operates even when he showed his true colours to his partner. 

“Tell me you at least understand that, because I don’t think he’ll stop coming for you,” he clasps your good shoulder, “you didn’t see him up there when we were raiding the church. He was losing it.” 

You stare right into his eyes, he really means it, doesn’t he? You wouldn’t get him back the way he was. Eyes downcast you whisper back a yeah in agreement. “I’ll be careful.” 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t know it would come to this. If I knew, I would have done something, but then again, I didn't.” 

“He was trying really hard, he really was. But Fisk got to him before he had another chance to do the right thing.” You swipe your hand over your face, shame washing over you. 

How could you have let that man fool you? How did he manage to fool Ray Nadeem of all people? 

You never thought you would have a chance to meet new people and learn to trust them after the death of your father, feeling lost and essentially abandoned by the one person who loved you with all their heart.

It was one of the most difficult things losing such an important figure in your life, just as you were understanding the grief, Matt had died, and then he came back. Now this. It was happening all over again. 

The time spent in his company would soon become memories of the unlikely friendship you both had built, the bond burned so deep for you at least, that his betrayal felt worse than it should have. 

You never claimed to know him fully, but you hadn’t expected him to turn towards killing for a wretched man, doing his bidding. Dex wasn’t exactly killing bad people all the time, many of them were innocent, which was something you couldn’t look past. 

What exactly did he think was going to happen once you talked? That you would understand and forgive him like he so desperately wanted? 

“Yeah, I know.” Nadeem knew how much Dex had struggled in the past, how hard he worked to live a life where he was able to help people. He had worked with him for so long, so Dex turning against everything he stood for shook him to his core. 

That is exactly what Ray Nadeem tells Dex when he shows up to kill him. The same exact words you told him earlier that day. When he tries to talk Dex down from killing him, to shake him till he realises that Fisk manipulated him, and as a final resort tells him what you said. 

“You know,” He scoffs slightly, wiping at his mouth, “she still has faith in you. Still thinks you’re a good person underneath all that. And still you decide you’re on Fisk's side, open your eyes Dex, Goddammit!” 

And all the years working with Dex at the FBI, he has never seen his expression so downcast, face so screwed up that he was seconds away from breaking down. Did you still care? 

It couldn’t be true that you still thought he was a good person. That he could change. 

And despite it all, the night ended with Special Agent Ray Nadeem lying down in the backyard of his own home with a bullet between his eyes. 

—

You had mostly stayed at Foggwell’s Gym till things died down, it was unsafe to be out and about when you were involved in all this. While Karen and Foggy were discussing the video evidence of Nadeem's dying declaration, you received a phone call. 

“Star,” it’s Dex, “don’t hang up please. Just…just listen.” You glance at Foggy and Karen, they are still talking behind you. 

“You there?” He asks.

“Yeah.” 

“Good. Okay, good. I know you don’t want to see me or even talk to me, but please. Give me a chance to explain myself.” 

“A chance to explain? After what you did. Are you out of your mind?” You whisper shout into your phone. 

“Star please, I’m begging you…please. Just meet me at our usual place in the park. Then you won’t have to see me ever again, I swear.” 

You cut the call without giving him a definite answer. Well shit. 

You were really considering this, weren't you? You couldn’t help but want to hear him out, despite the horrendous things he had done. Does he deserve to be listened to after everything? Probably not. 

But you care. You care way too much for him when in fact you shouldn't, but the seeds of love had already been sown deep into your friendship. It had just happened as you had sought each other out. 

Somewhere between the late night talks, the coffee runs and morning walks in the park is where the want to be in each other’s company became the norm. Part of each other’s routine. 

The trust that came with it spurred you both on, the reliance would have come next, but it didn’t get to that stage. That is the denial talking. 

Dex would argue otherwise, he had internalised it deeply, far too attached and he realised it too late. 

Prioritising work and not you. His failure of killing Karen Page set it into motion, without you he couldn't function. The buzzing remained regardless of who he forced as his moral compass, but when it came to you it became dull, no longer preventing him from thinking clearly. 

What did that make you?

And now was his last chance to make it right. He hastens his steps to reach you before he has to head to work. He takes a seat on one of the picnic tables scattered around the park. 

The same ones you both sat on a couple weeks prior, drinking coffee in takeaway cups. Both getting your usual, slipping the cap off for him to try your drink order, knowing he had a thing about germs. He only smiled when you did that. 

He smiles, eyes downcast at the memory. It’s funny how much you begin to value the things you can’t have anymore, too late to bask in the feeling it brought him, too late to appreciate you. 

He sees you approaching, pulling your cap downwards as you scan the area. You look uncomfortable as you check if anyone is watching you. He is, he always is. 

And once you reach in the vicinity of the table he was perched upon, he straightens up. Your steps falter, coming to a slow stop. 

You stand near him, hands in the pockets of your jacket. Awkward, just like the day he met you. He hated it. It meant you didn’t know how to behave around strangers. Like he is a stranger. 

“Star, you came.” He sighs out in relief, “I…I didn’t think you would.” 

You sigh, looking down on the grass, “I’m here, what did you want to tell me that couldn't be said over the phone?”

“I was…I was following orders Star,” he blinks rapidly, “I…it wasn’t supposed to turn out this way. You weren't supposed to be involved in all this.” 

You’re not helping him at all, by now you would have shut this down, telling him it’s okay and that it’s not his fault. But it is his fault, he tried to kill Karen, killed Father Lantom. 

He didn’t care who he hurt, but now that he was about to lose you, he somehow regrets pursuing Karen and Matt in that manner. 

“I can’t lose you Star.” He’s frowning, fists clenching at how unresponsive you are. “Say something, please.” 

“You tried to have us killed, what do you want me to say?” 

“I wasn’t going to kill you, never you. I…I would never ever think about doing…that.” He grits out, like he’s unable to say those words to you, he would never think about harming you, ever. 

“You told me that you were trying to be a good person. That your way of practising being a better person was to put bad guys away, to make the streets safer, but now you’re just one of them. 

Your resolve doesn’t waver at the sight of his broken expression, “you had chances. So many of them. But this is the path you have chosen, and you expect me to be okay with the choices you have made?” 

He steps forward, hand reaching out to grab yours, “I didn’t mean for it to turn out this way…you have to believe me Star, I never intended for you to get hurt.”

“I don’t care about that. You killed people who didn’t deserve to die, you almost had my best friend killed because…well who the hell knows why?” 

You grip his wrist tightly to prevent him from touching you. You sigh tiredly, no energy to get any answers out of him, and he’s not being coherent either, it’s clear he’s spiralling because he can’t explain himself when you won’t even listen. 

You both pause, unable to look at him whilst he watches your face. It’s beginning to set in that he’s about to lose something. He just has to make a choice about what he is willing to lose. 

Will he make the right choice this time around?

You say your last piece to him, “we could have had more time together, why did you have to go and throw it all away?” staring right at him, and for once you aren’t shameful of the tears spilling onto your cheeks. Why? Why Dex? Was it worth it?”

“No, no. Please, I tried…” now he’s reaching for your arms, pulling you closer and closer into his chest, “I really did try, just wanted to do the right thing, It felt like the right thing to do. 

“Did I mean nothing to you?”

The sounds of your choked sobs are muffled into his chest. Fisting his shirt as you weep over him, almost like you're in agony, allowing all the ugly sounds to escape. All because of him. 

In the middle of the park, he holds you tighter, stroking your hair gently. Will he make the right choice? 

His own tears clumping up his lashes, he breathes in deeply. He knows this may be the last time he might see you in a very long time, or ever, because he’s made his choice and he knows you have too. 

He basks in the warmth of you, pressing a kiss on top of your head, sealing his silent promise that he would find you again if things go sideways, which it most likely will. 

“Tell me what I can do, I'll do whatever you want,” he murmurs into your hair, you mumble back, “there is nothing you can do.” 

He feels your grip loosen, and in a manner in which he doesn’t deserve, you push his chest gently away from you. 

“Don’t ever come near me again, Dex.” 

You can’t even look at him. A person who usually matches the intensity of his gaze cannot even look at him. To him, anytime you can’t make eye contact, he knows you’re not okay. That something is amiss. 

His own tears spill down his cheeks, he brokenly mutters Star please over and over again. 

—

The end came quicker than expected. You stand next to Foggy and Karen, watching Venessa and Fisk being taken away in handcuffs. 

This surely can’t be how it ends. Where was he? You knew he had been in the presidential hotel on the same floor as where the wedding ceremony had taken place. You fish for details, but there are no reports as of yet. 

Eventually, word did get out that a man with a broken spine had been wheeled out.

It could be anyone, you hoped it wasn’t him. You prayed it wasn’t him. What he has committed shouldn't be a justification for this, so you pray.

Overall, it’s a great outcome despite the damage done, but in the end Fisk wouldn’t be a problem, for now. Now you can all rest, get along with your lives without thinking about the what if’s and what should’ve been. That won’t do any good, you know from experience, it only sets you back. 

You have moved forward. You have to, but this time without him. You will be alright in due time. It will be a long time till you will be, you know it’s not gonna be anytime soon. Possibly years. 

You hope one day that you get to see him. You shouldn’t have told him that you never wanted to see him ever again. You’ll tell him one day. 

Regret. That is what follows, guilt that you feel this way. 

But you can’t deny it, you want him back so desperately. The chances are low, but not low enough. 

He’s near the edge of losing it. He knows what he has to do. 

The words are distorted in his mind, the incessant buzzing wouldn’t cease, and all he can hear is Julie’s voice telling him she doesn’t want him. That the world doesn’t want him. That nobody does. 

I don’t want you

Julie doesn’t want him. And now he was going to kill himself. Gun at the ready, the barrel pressing under his chin. 

His cell phone rings. His voice rings out. Fisk offers him the opportunity to be who he was meant to be. 

I will never abandon you 

He knows whatever he does from here on out will be going against what Dr Mercer had drilled into his young, pliable mind. How he should find a decent person, anyone good will do to guide him onto the moral path. 

The phone call from Fisk had soiled his plans of ending it, he had no one to turn to now. He could never rely upon himself to know how to behave without a certain guidance. He needed assurance that he was on the right path. 

He wanted it to be you. 

You, who had shown him what it felt like to be cared for, he translated it as love, the way you thought of him, patched him up, accepted him despite his past wrongdoings. 

The ultimate test was if what he was about to do would destroy what you have. He’s grown attached in a matter of twelve months. Enough for him to recognise what has been in front of him this whole time. He couldn't ignore it anymore, he had to face the truth. 

Despite the out he had been given. A choice to become who he truly was, he wishes that Fisk never would have gotten involved before he could get even closer to you. It would have all worked out, if only he did not listen to Fisk, to put on that suit and raid the bulletin, leaving dead bodies in its wake. 

Though he strongly does believe that no matter how lost he has been throughout his life, the things that did happen, happened for a reason. Without a doubt it’s the same here, this was meant to happen. 

He meant to meet you, but also he was meant to be whatever he was embracing. It was a matter of time before his true self came out. He just wishes the timing was better. That he could have met you earlier, before he became involved in this absolute shitshow. 

But alas, he had to play with the cards he had been dealt with.

The words of Wilson Fisk echo in his mind. 

If it were honest and true, no one would have destroyed it

If what you two had built over time was an honest and true friendship, or whatever it was, then it can’t be destroyed. 

He knows he has to let this play out. Otherwise he will never find out the truth. What he had with Julie had dismantled too easily, he had to make sure that wouldn’t happen again. 

—

Three days later you get a message from Dex asking to meet up.

He texted you to meet by the park where he usually ended his run. Something about you needing to leave your apartment on your days off to get some exercise instead of holing yourself up in your room. Old habits die hard you had told him, he’d sent you a questioning look. 

He did say he would make it worth your while, so you complied because you kind of didn’t want to disappoint him after he had made the effort to coax you outside. 

And logically speaking he would not have sought you out if he didn’t like your company, he didn’t have to offer you to take a stroll outside if he was being friendly. In your eyes people didn’t invite others to places if they were just being nice, there always was a reason for it, like a mutual benefit or some kind of fulfilment by being with each other. 

While there was a decent gap in age, most people would look at you and assume siblings, despite the stark differences present, people would do a double take, probably since he was more recognisable due to having his face plastered on the front cover of every newspaper, connecting him to being investigated within the FBI. 

But you didn’t really care what people would say if you were both seen together. There wasn’t anything wrong with your relationship, at this point you would call him your friend, a step up from just being neighbours who exchanged awkward and polite smiles as a greeting. 

You recall the apprehension towards being neighbourly towards the new tenant, in no way were you gonna awkwardly try to weasel your way into his life, asking him things he probably was uncomfortable answering, or at least that was what you thought. 

You knew people who worked in law enforcement found it a little suspicious when they were asked questions about their job and such, so it would be understandable if he were too, it was the nature of the job to be quick and wary to distinguish any questions that probe too far. 

If he suddenly began asking you about your personal life that would immediately categorise him into the danger zone, you were tied to too many ends that led to people who were or had been involved in questionable things. So if someone came along, seemingly curious about Matt, Karen or Foggy, you felt alerted because it had happened before, it was always never for good reasons too. 

Thankfully, Dex had not. He mostly preferred talking about the better part of his memories, sometimes his emotional struggles or it would be meaningless conversation with a mix of dumb jokes that set you right into a fit of laughter, and with that he couldn’t help himself but preen at the sound he caused. 

When you meet up with him that day, he looks like a right mess. His eyes were red and had shrunk down a little, still in his work outfit that consisted of some formal navy trousers and a white collared button up. 

When he reaches the picnic table you both routinely meet at, he hands you a coffee, just the way you like it, some milk to lighten the flavour and sugar to sweeten it, still bitter enough to taste it. It’s warm in your hands, you look up at him with soft eyes as he swings his legs onto the bench. 

“Thanks, I really needed this.” you beam at him, eyes blink shut for a moment, expressing your gratitude. 

A pleased look makes its way onto his face, as he sips his own. “Did you have work tonight?” He knows you didn’t, but still asks anyway. 

“No, I thought you knew?” You were sure you had mentioned it in passing when he asked you the same question. 

“I must've forgotten. Oh…um..thanks for the other day, I don’t know how to…” 

You immediately shake your head, “It wasn’t any trouble, really. Do you feel any better?”

“A little. Still, thanks for cleaning up, the stuff you left too,” his voice is low, tired too. Did he feel embarrassed that you saw him like that? You hope he doesn’t, but you do understand if he was, you would be if you were in his position.

“Hey, you bandaged up my shoulder the other day, guess we’re even then?” 

No. No, we’re not even Star.” He huffs, shaking his head not meeting your eyes, they track back to you, “oh is it okay to call you that?”

“Yes. Yeah, it’s fine, I already told you it’s okay.” Your eyebrows crinkle, a delicate expression conveying how it felt to be called that again. No one called you that anymore, it was rare when it slipped out by Foggy or even Karen. The one who used to call you that was Matt. 

“What did you mean by that? That we’re not even,” not forgetting his comment.

“I feel indebted to you for some reason. You’ve helped me through some hard moments, and you’re…you’re just so…you.” He says it rather sheepishly, his cheeks redden when he looks at you.

You giggle lightly, “you shouldn't. Please, we both have helped each other,” pausing for a few seconds before deciding to open yourself up to him, “you know that you’ve made me laugh more than I have in months, and…at times it’s been hard for me, but you’ve made it bearable.” 

His wide eyes gave away his shock, it was so strange to hear how much of an effect he has had on someone. The person who he was starting to rely on emotionally, and at times seeking your company, felt the same way about him. 

He had never had this kind of impact on someone, never had he even opened himself enough to let that be a possibility, and in turn it was doing something to him as well, he just wasn’t able to describe what it was, it was all a swirl in his chest. 

You carry on with, “I love it when we get coffee together and go on walks, I love that you like my company just as much, or at least I think you do.” You mumble the last part. Saying all this with a grin, teeth poking out the tiniest bit over your lip. 

“I do,” he blurts, “I do too,” oh no, you might have melted him a little, you laugh. “I’m glad I met you Ben, I mean Dex, sorry I forgot.” you take a few sips of your still warm coffee. 

He shakes his head, “Ben’s fine, I don’t mind, or even Dex. As long as Star is okay too?” 

“I told you, Ben,” you enunciate his name, “Star is fine.” You nod very sure of yourself. 

And for the first time, ever since his conversation with Nadeem, his chest has been alleviated from the pressure he had felt throughout the day. 

It was you. Always you who was ready to talk, to meet whenever he felt this way. You were able to ease that knot in his chest, too tight to unravel it himself, no one would, but you. And he was beginning to realise that what he was feeling went deeper than what he had anticipated. 

He wants…he wants something he cannot describe in words. Just a concept of a relationship that doesn’t make sense. He wishes that this could go on forever, he thinks he would be content as long as you stayed near him. Being around you felt good.

You were so…soft around the edges, despite how many trials you had faced that had ultimately hardened you from within, but he could still feel the edges, they were pliable, soft enough to break through. 

Seemingly indifferent to what occurred around you, but he could tell things affected you, just didn’t show it explicitly. It was easy to assume you weren't able to react normally, but it was a matter of looking closely at your reactions, you felt things deeply that much was evident, to him at least. 

You were vulnerable to people like him, and that made his stomach churn at the thought of you being taken advantage of. Physically, you were able to hold your own, the events before when he bandaged your injured shoulder was a testament to that. 

It was more the capacity in which you lent an ear to others once you deemed them safe. That you showed them the extent of who you were, your face telling a story worth reading, your begrudging compassion that you revealed because it was you. So human. 

Were you like this with Karen? With the people he read files on. Did you treat them with such love that they couldn't stop wanting you? Did you understand them despite the things they had done? Or were you like this exclusively for him?

No, no, no. Why was he thinking this way? He couldn’t ruin this. He had to think logically, he’s too clouded by his desires of maintaining it all with you. 

If it’s honest and true, no one would have destroyed it

The words remind him of the fragility a relationship has. The way his relationship with Julie crumbled once he said things he wishes he didn’t. He cannot risk anything now, not when he has you in his grasp. 

He watches you drink your coffee, clearly savouring each sip and as his eyes wander down to how you hold your cup, how you lick your lips after each sip, how you look at him. So different from how you look at others. That has to mean something, right? 

What would you do if he told you that he had a gun pointed under his chin a few days prior? That he was ready to die. Would you cry for him, grieve him the way you grieve your father to this day? 

Would you talk him down from committing it? Like how he relied on Julie to guide him when he was reading those lines off the chart at the suicide hotline. 

How he had fantasised about it, imagined it when he couldn't think in a straightforward way. 

What if he were on the other side of the call. 

He thinks you'd be too awkward, too stiff. You'd probably read them a little robotically, that monotone voice when you’re unsure or the lack of care when speaking to someone when you haven’t personally connected to them. 

He knows the tone you'd use to talk to him. It was gentler, more careless, allowing emotion to cling onto each sentence, wrapping around each word as you enunciate certain letters, a slight lilt when pronouncing them. 

And every word that is uttered to him would calm him down like the wind chime outside your window does when you have trouble quieting down your thoughts. 

Then again, why else would you look at him if you didn’t hold an ounce of care for him. You would feel distraught if something happened to him, you carry the same attachment for him. Right? 

He knows he’s actively spiralling when he feels a hand on his. He looks down at your joined hands before looking at you. 

“Breathe…you okay?” The concern does things to him as your sweet face contorts into a frown. 

He nods at your words, gulping down air, then continuing to breathe slowly. His hands tighten on yours, hands intertwining messily. Your head dips to get a good look at his face, you squeeze him back, getting him to lift his face. 

“Are you sure you’re okay? What happened?” 

“Nothing, I'm just…it’s work,” he sighs out. Partly the truth. 

“Wanna talk about it?” You offer, he shakes his head, basking in the contact of your hand in his, flexing his fingers till they loosely intertwine. Then your phone buzzes in your pocket, you unclasp your hand from his to pull it out. 

“Everything okay?” He looks alarmed, did you have to go already? It hadn’t even been that long. 

“Um…” a couple messages from Karen and an incoming phone call from Foggy, “I have to go, it’s important.”

“Who is it?” he asks, his face shifts, face blank. 

“Oh, just my friends, they need me,” you’re reluctant to leave him, it had been hectic as of late, with Matt reappearing, the questions floating around. And so you had required a boost, to stop thinking about it all, and preferably a caffeine boost and maybe some good company, you always do, which Dex had provided graciously. 

You know he wasn’t feeling the best and it was cruel to leave him like this, especially when he thought to message you first. You would have to make it up to him, something that he would be able to see your appreciation for him seeking you out. 

You were glad that you got a well deserved break after getting tackled by a guy in a suit and getting questioned at Matt’s apartment. 

Unconsciously you rotate your wrist, it has been in the brace for many hours now, you should probably give it a break now. His eyes shift down catching the movement. “Star, you never told me what happened.” 

That was true you hadn’t answered him. Maybe he knew the guy that tackled you, given the FBI was involved in all this. You should ask him…no, that was unnecessary. 

“Later. I’ll explain later, I really have to go,” you say as you feel your phone vibrating in your hand.

And before you leave, you shove your phone in your pocket to free your hand, taking a shy step forward, you slowly wrap your arms around him, giving him enough time to back out if he doesn't want it. 

And yet again, he melts a little. He pulls you into him, chest to chest, his chin resting on the top of your head. He can’t help but breathe deeply into your hair, it always looked like it smelled nice, was that odd? Yeah it probably was. 

Still he keeps you there for a few more moments, before feeling like it was time to let go. He didn’t want to, but he knew you had to go. “I’m sorry to cut it short, I'll make it up to you, promise.” 

Tipping your takeaway cup of coffee in his direction as a goodbye, you turn around fishing your phone out of your pocket as you begin your walk through the park. 

He watches you turn back to catch a glimpse of him. He likes that you do that. 

The hug provided him a little warmth, a temporary solution to tide him over, but still his hand clenches into a fist. He thinks about what you said, they need me.

What about him? I need you. 

—

The lights had just turned off. The whole floor was without power. You had talked to Matt already today before he had decided to turn himself in to the FBI with the condition of hearing Jasper Evans and considering him a witness to Fisk’s operations. 

You waited by the door whilst Karen and Ellison were listening to Jasper’s statement, a camera had been set up to film the whole thing as per usual. 

Jasper starts talking, “Fisk made me do it.” You will say he is off to a strong start. Just as Karen finishes her first question the lights on the whole floor shut down, leaving you all in complete darkness. 

You wait with a baited breath, silence fills the room. You head into the room and begin to track the sounds outside the small room. The table had been shoved under the door handle to keep at whoever was on the outside at bay. 

Everyone was backed away from the door, waiting and waiting. Listening to the sounds outside that left you wanting to flee as soon as possible. 

The door smashes from the middle, wood splintering as the person punches through it. To your absolute shock it’s a man wearing Matt’s Daredevil suit. 

With Foggy also knocked out and Ellison crumpled on the floor with a pencil sticking out of his side, he steps past him. 

“Nice to see you again, Karen,” then promptly shoves her to the side, her head knocking against the camera’s frame. Too absorbed in his objective of getting to Jasper Evans. 

Your mind blanks yet your body moves to cover the man behind you. Like your mind knows the importance of his life, the need for his testimony so that Fisk could be finally put away for all the damage and suffering he has caused. The only person who is willing to tell the truth is despite the danger he was putting his family in was about to be killed, and the only thing standing between him and a bullet is you. 

Thus, your body reacts in a manner that shields or attempts to shield Evans from this imposter claiming to be Daredevil. One step back. Two steps back. 

Your hand moves behind you to clasp Evans’ shirt, steadying him. So that he wouldn’t try to flee, because any movements might startle the man to shoot you both. As of now, both of your lives were in his hands, and essentially you were cornered with no way out. The only thing you could do is tread carefully, meaning in your head, no sudden movements that would be perceived as a threat to escape. 

Evans is pressed so far up against the wall, he’s splayed back like a dead fly, almost ironic given the situation at hand. You can somehow tell that this fake Daredevil is getting a kick out of this, his grin wide and not at all in a hurry to leave. 

The man in the suit picks up Karen’s gun off the floor, arm begins to stretch into the general direction of you and Jasper Evans, it slowly lands on you. 

The gun is pointed towards you. The silence is almost deafening as you stare at the barrel. Are you about to die? 

One’s death is inevitable, that is a definite fact. Yet the possibility of dying like this, by the hands of someone else. Is this what you deserve? 

In those three seconds the gun was aimed at you, you could not process anything other than the fear you felt. Shivers climbing up your spine, the bone chilling realisation set into place. But maybe this was not your time to go, because the next thing you hear is a gunshot.

It is followed by Evans’ head hitting the wall, you hear him slide down the wall. His blood splatters across your cheek, a few drops trailing downwards. He dismantles the gun, tossing it to the floor and steps towards you. Now you’re shaking, gasps leaving you with not enough air in your lungs. 

You tilt backwards, not enough space to step further back since he’s all up in your face. The red eyes of the mask stare down at you. 

“Don’t worry, I would never shoot you,” head tilted, still grinning at you, “nice to see you again.”

Inside however, there is a swarm in his head, why are you here? It doesn’t make sense to him. You shouldn’t be anywhere near this place, he should have warned you somehow. But him saying anything would give away what he was about to do. 

He remembers, reading the files of all four of you, the lawyers, and the journalist and you. 

He didn’t know it at the time, but he figured you would get caught up in their messes, paying the price for the danger they got themselves into, because you dove head first in with them. And now he had to figure a way around keeping you out of it, safely tucked away, but now he realises it’s easier said than done. 

It’s a slip up on his part, it’s too fun not to, but his words have the given effect meant to be interpreted against you. No doubt you would be questioned after this debacle, possibly knowing Daredevil’s identity, he knows because the camera on the floor is still recording, he can see the red dot blinking from his peripheral. 

He tells you he won’t shoot, why? To console you? The fear is almost palpable, and he hates it. Though in some twisted way he’s relishing in watching your face contort in manners he had not seen before. Still, he doesn’t want to be the one to elicit such a feeling from you, it felt almost inhumane to do this to someone he deeply felt for. More than you did for him at least, but he says the words anyways, consequences be damned. 

With that, he’s gone. Leaving you in a trembling mess, choking for air.

You can taste the bile in your mouth, you crouch onto the floor, emptying your stomach into a trash can. Then your chest heaves, eyes squinting shut as tears begin to leak out. You press the base of your palms against your eyes to get rid of the salty liquid. 

Unsure of how long you had been sitting on the cushions, you waited for somebody to come. Ears ringing as the FBI finally comes barging in. Special Agent Nadeem walks in, looks at you and crouches down to your level. 

You meet his eyes for a second, lined with sympathy as he takes in your state. Such a young person involved in all this, with drops of blood splattered like freckles on the side of your cheek, evidence of witnessing the brutality of murder, he thinks of Sammi, and he feels sick. 

Your ears are ringing. You're not all there, he can see it in your eyes, unfocused. Most likely disassociating from it all. Nadeem looks to the right, that tells him everything. 

—

The ordeal you had been through was horrible to say the least. You also know this will probably scar you for the rest of your life, because right now you’re still feeling numb, no feeling in your chest, which is where you would normally feel everything. When you get angry, annoyed, excited, giddy any feeling that has your heart rate up, it's felt in your chest. 

That was not a good sign. Will you be able to sleep tonight? To escape it all, to escape the reality of the deaths that occurred in the Bulletin, how Daredevil was framed as a murderer. 

Sat in the conference room with Foggy on your side and Karen on the other, Nadeem across from you three.

“How about we watch it again?” Nadeem offers, turning around to grab the remote control. 

“No, no. He was talking to me.” Karen finally speaks up. 

“Okay. Good.” 

“But I don’t know him, but what I do know is that psycho is not Daredevil.” 

“I got a pretty good look at him, could have fooled me.” 

“The guy didn’t even act like Daredevil, this guy killed people,” she let out an exasperated noise at how dense the agent across from her was being. “What? Based on the two encounters you’ve had?” He shoots back.

“Did you even look into any of the leads I dropped in your lap? Felix Manning? Red lion bank?” her hand gestured towards Nadeem as she spoke to him. 

The frustrating part was he was not listening, not understanding the situation at all. He didn’t have all the facts, only attempting to piece together bits and pieces from what he had seen and witnessed. Too wary that the people involved were on the wrong side of it, not able to trust anyone who was being questioned. 

He directs the topic to the footage of the incident, “he name dropped you. Tell me, why would he do that?” then he turns his attention to you, “and in this entire shitshow, he didn’t lay a hand on you,” pointing to you. 

So many questions with no answers to them. It was clear that everyone was confused, especially when the guy in Matt’s suit literally tossed everyone aside, killing Evans and letting you go. Spilling some bullshit about never wanting to hurt you. It certainly pointed towards the fact that he knew you, or that you both were acquainted somehow.

Nadeem thought you knew Daredevil. You did, but not this guy who decided to play dress up with his suit. Wasn’t the Daredevil suit buried in the Midland Circle explosion? 

Your mind whirls round and round, attempting to comprehend the moving pieces, this was definitely the work of Fisk, you know. You’re sure Foggy and Karen do too, it’s hardly a surprise at this point. Who else but the man that wanted to cover his own ass, and sending Daredevil to kill Evans was killing two birds with a stone.

You can’t even answer Nadeem, too wired, overthinking the whole event and you are running on fumes at this point, having not slept almost twenty four hours ago, and now you were half-traumatised and brought in for questioning. 

“As you can see Agent Nadeem, my client is in shock. A gun was pointed at her, and she was a witness to a murder,” Foggy raises from his chair, “and if my clients are not being charged with anything, I think we're done here.” 

How did he know you? Or it was because he knew the camera would be recovered and you would be questioned afterwards, he talked to you both as if you knew him personally as daredevil. 

It just didn’t make any sense. 

And when you have days off from work, when the fatigue has rendered you immobile in your own bed, too stiff to do anything productive, even if it was picking up tissues or cans from your bedroom floor, or sorting through your clothes that hung on the back of your spinny chair. 

Leaving your apartment was harder too, getting groceries was a huge chore for someone so tired, bones aching from being pushed around, overexerting your body to its limits as you ran for your life last night.

The lack of sleep and the stress of your paid and unpaid jobs was always present, making your brain foggy, bleary eyes staring at the wind chime that hung on your fire escape. The stars attached to it jingled in the wind, the window was slightly ajar so the noise filtered through into your bedroom as you woke from a deep slumber. 

It wasn’t just the exhaustion that had settled deep in your bones, it was the ache in your shoulders that had worsened from your little adventure. One of the dealers you ran into had ambushed you,  throwing your shoulder onto the metal table of the Chinese restaurant. 

Then proceeding to swing a bunch of kitchen equipment in your direction, having dodged most of them, the wok he had thrown over your head had caused you a fat, ugly bruise to bloom across your forehead. 

It was the worst kind of pain too. That was what had made you like this, clinging onto the sleep you had desperately needed to recover. 

You weren't trained to defend yourself from a flying pan, or fend off three guys chasing you through the streets of Hell's Kitchen. They had managed to go through multiple stores and the Chinese restaurant and finally out the back in the alleyway where you managed to swing over a dumpster and hide there until they couldn't find you. You did get a few swings at them, using the back of the garbage can to slam their heads in, so there was a win there. 

Also you had at least managed to get what you wanted, one of the guys had slipped you the information you needed before he ran, he would be found out as a snitch, but regardless, you couldn’t care less about that. He made his choice and you got what you needed. 

That was the only thing that made the pain feel worth it, though the way you were absolutely sluggish and that your migraine would not pass for days meant you were unable to talk to Karen without alerting her that you got into a scuffle at the expense of gaining information, only to be beaten bloody before you could dodge their flying fists. 

She would absolutely flip. She was already stressed with her job, on the cusp of her sanity, and with Matt’s death being so fresh, this would not be helpful to her at all. 

So that was out of the question, you would have to wait a few more days, or until the bruise lightened from its deep blue, purplish colour before you’d tell her. 

You did however realise that you needed more proof of what Karen was investigating for her piece, one of the guys had connections to a part of the minor drug production in the city, and Karen was reporting on it. You had confirmation, and the only thing was she needed solid proof that would support her story. And now you had to go back and find the same guy who messed up your shoulder and perhaps find video evidence or a confession of sorts?

The first issue that had to be tackled was not alerting your neighbour, you couldn't take any chances running into him, he worked for the FBI, he may be sweet and nice to you but due to the nature of his occupation it was a no go, so using the fire escape it was. 

—

And when there was no movement or noise emitting from your place, Dex would want to so badly knock on your door to make sure you were still alive and well. He had become rather invested in your well being. He was your neighbour after all, maybe even your friend at this point. With how much time you spent together late at night, it was only sensible to check on each other when there was literal radio silence. 

Not wanting to come across as overbearing, or too invested in his neighbours’ life. It would sound weird if he told you that he was worried because he couldn’t hear you door shutting at your usual times during the week, or the sounds of your bed frame creaking when you would flop onto your mattress, and most notably you hadn’t contacted him in way too long in his opinion. 

Not that you were obligated to, but at least once or twice a week you would check on him, bring him a few extra groceries or it was him that sought you out for a coffee, on him, of course. 

He lacked experience in this area. A clear indication of this was how he still had not come into direct contact with Julie. He had no intention of seeking her out in person, he did not know how to act, what to say. He couldn’t just go up to her and say, Hey, I’ve been stalking you for some time now, let’s get coffee!

Even he knows nothing good will come out of it. 

Yeah, he was way in over his head if he thought he could act like a normal person around the woman he deemed his guidance, his Northern Star. So for now, he would watch, follow and think about her when the noise became too loud in his head. That was how this worked. This is how he worked. 

And he hadn’t jumped to conclusions, thinking about the worst case scenario, he almost did. He should have given the facts laid out in front of him. He almost broke into your apartment, but that wouldn’t be a great look for him. But he controlled himself, reeling back his anticipation and getting to the bottom of what had happened. 

Through the whole hour of seven, he waited, maybe you were running late for your shift at eight, but no noise. Nothing at all. 

And he was going to find out why you haven't left your apartment the whole of last week. It seems as if you had taken time off of work too, since he hasn’t heard you leaving your place after seven, the time you typically leave before a shift to get there on time. 

And he may have also driven down to the hospital where you work just to check if you had clocked in, maybe he hadn’t heard you leaving the apartment building at all. You hadn’t clocked into work this week is what he had found out. 

It may have been excessive, bordering past appropriate behaviour towards a neighbour, but he was long past waiting normally, or even knocking on your door. He may also be making excuses for your actions, it all came back to you not feeling well or…well he didn’t know, and so he had enough, one of the days, he did what he does best. 

He waited and waited, till he heard faint noises. It was after midnight, he heard your window scraping open. He can hear how quiet you're trying to be, it’s followed by a soft curse as you accidentally hit the wind chime hanging on the fire escape. It would have made him chuckle a little, but given how secretive and withdrawn you had been for the past week, he couldn’t let himself laugh at your expense at how terrible you were at sneaking off. 

But also, where were you going after being stuck in your apartment for over a week?

—

You finally felt a little better. You are in no condition to be up and about, but you can move. Much of the stiffness as well as the migraine has subsided into a dull ache, though your shoulder is definitely messed up that is for sure. You would have to visit the hospital sooner than later. 

You waited until you heard your neighbour settle in for the night, making sure there had been ample time between the entrance into his apartment and when you finally felt pumped up to get this little task done of finding the guy. 

You didn’t want to alert anyone of your whereabouts, especially to Dex, given he worked in the FBI. that would mean he would definitely stop you, would he turn you in for assault charges or something? 

He didn’t seem like he was that kind of guy, he was your friend, and had spent enough time to get to know him. He was a funny guy, a little intense at times which showed he was passionate and sincere when he talked about certain topics, and God was he dedicated to his career. It was more worrying than the position you're in right now. 

He really didn’t deserve to be caught up in your mess, so the best course of action is to silently leave before he hears anything. He was most likely asleep by now, he was strict on getting enough sleep, typically past midnight was when he tried to be in bed. Not that you kept track or anything…

Unless he had to work overtime, which happened on most days. And when he worked overtime, you would see him after you finished your shift in the morning. Oftentimes grabbing breakfast at a small diner or a simple breakfast together somewhere cozy.

It was new for you to be so easily taken with someone. He was easy to talk to, nervous at times though he tried not to show it, but the deep worry lines forming gave away how he was feeling. He had deep frown lines around the curve of his mouth, the sharp crinkle between his brows, the most prominent one whenever his face twisted up. 

It wasn’t difficult to read his face, it shifted often from one thing to another, able to know what he was portraying with a quick scan of his features. And he relaxed. His shoulders were lax, face softer looking when he was listening to you talk or him grumbling about his favourite songs. 

He was just supposed to be your neighbour, but it turns out you found a friend in him. 

A reliable one at that, and soon you would find out how reliable. 

That is why you didn’t want to put him in a position where he had to choose between doing the ‘right’ thing or doing something he may regret later on. 

So this was it, you had to essentially sneak out of your own apartment by using the fire escape, climbing all the way down, and following the location of where you had met these guys in the first place. That would be a great place to start. 

You land on the ground and begin your search where it had all started, the alleyway a block away from the bar they frequented, where a lot of gangs hung out together, it was neutral ground amongst them. When working cases with Nelson & Murdock, you had picked up on this kind of information and eventually stumbled across this kind of stuff yourself ever since you had started making yourself useful for Karen.

So you had a little experience with how to proceed, but you hadn’t gotten down to the defense part of it all. It never got to a point where you had to defend yourself, but some pepper spray, a few right hooks landing correctly did the job pretty well. 

You just hoped for the best. Not caring about the consequences, like you wanted something to happen to you, passively waiting for the danger to come to you and not equipping yourself with the correct defense.

You had refused when Karen advised you to carry a gun around, but you had never felt comfortable enough to carry one around. 

And when Frank had caught wind of it during the diner you and Karen had snuck off to after being put in witness protection, he approved of her message. It had become increasingly dangerous to be left defenseless in the streets of Hell’s Kitchen, there was no way you could take any chances. 

Given the nature of cases you all worked, the people who became involved, and as of late being connected to a vigilante was all the more reason to carry a weapon. Even if it was to ward off any threats late at night or just for your own piece of mind to feel safer when carrying a piece around. 

Regardless of their advice, you had not listened. Too stubborn to reconsider their words, you opted to carry pepper spray and had enough knowledge on self defense to know which points to hit a person’s body to render them unconscious. 

You took the subway, clad in comfortable clothing, a cap on your head to hide the majority of the bruising, as well as your hood from your hoodie covering the sides of your face. You're sure no one would recognise you at this time of night. 

You’re almost there when you hear something behind you, you stop and look back. Nothing there. A block later it happens again, but this time there’s a shadow behind one of the parked cars. You make a swift move to round the car from the front, so that you could catch the person following you. You should have run, but you stupidly decided to ambush them instead. 

Croc ready at hand, the person steps out trying to peek out from the side of the car, you move in their direction, launching your croc at their face with more force than necessary. A thump resounded in the air, no doubt receiving whiplash from the croc slapping them across their face. 

Once you recognise who it is, you gasp out his name. 

“Benjamin!” Hearing his full name is a shock to his system, it sounds so odd coming out of you since nobody really calls him by his full first name. 

He’s so baffled, exasperated even. Catching your croc in his right hand, the other reaching up to feel his cheek where you had hit him. Touching it like he can’t believe you had thrown your croc at his face. 

He will say that your instincts are on point, and an even better shot than he expected. Pretty handy skill to have, if he does say so himself. Though the only thing he would say is that you should have run and not play a game of cat and mouse if it hadn’t been anyone other than him. 

“You hit me?!” gaping at you, “my cheek!” He rubs his cheek. 

“Aw man. Look, my sock is wet because of you,” you grumble, rotating your leg so that you could take a look at your damp sock. 

“Because of me?” His face is absolutely hilarious, his exasperation always did make you giggle. 

“Yes, because of you. You followed me, didn’t you?” Pointing a finger at him accusingly, “I thought someone was chasing me, you dumbass. What did you think I would do?” 

“I don’t know, you weren't supposed to catch me.” He grips your croc tightly in his hand, the only thing tethering him to stay calm. 

“So you're a stalker by night, huh?” 

“Hey, I am a concerned neighbour. And don’t call me that,” he pauses for a second, taking in your face, “wait, hold on a sec,” ducking a little to properly look at you, “what happened to your face?” 

That was the shift you were talking about, his face changes so swiftly you can’t keep up the switch-up. 

You hop in his direction, tugging at your cap, “give me my croc back, I need it.” 

You reach him and make an attempt at grabbing it, he moves it away from your line of sight, “uhh, no. Tell me what happened, who did this to you?” 

“Ben, give me my croc back. Please,” you start wobbling, imbalanced as you're standing on one leg. He watches you struggle, hopping around a little so he decides to stabilise you. 

You sigh, not wanting to play games when you're missing a shoe, or well slipper. “Give me my croc and I'll tell you.” 

He studies your face for a beat before deciding you're telling the truth and drops the croc on the floor, still holding you by your upper arms so that you’re able to get your bearings. You slip into it, the damp sock touches the sole and you grimace, making him huff at your expression. His hands travel up to rest on your shoulders, only for you to yelp. 

“What? What is it?” An anxious look crosses his face, as he scans your body quickly, “shoulder?” eyebrows raised, “how?” 

Since when did Dex become so concerned with people being hurt? Sure he had learned how to become empathetic from his childhood therapist, Dr Mercer, but this came from within, it was instinctual. He didn't have to think about what to say, or second guess how he felt, it just came out naturally. 

Is this what it feels like to be painstakingly genuine? To be concerned for someone’s wellbeing, because it’s tugging at his heartstrings and he can’t control it at this exact moment. 

“Sweatheart, who was it?” He watches you glance at him, you tug at your lip in contemplation, “tell me the truth, please.”

“I was just helping a friend out, for…for something and happened to run into some trouble. And got in a little fight. And now I found out I need more concrete proof.” 

“And now what? You're just gonna go out again, like this?” Gesturing at your shoulder with his head. 

“I mean yeah, I feel much better than last week,” you look away from his eyes, they were too intense for you to focus, you can feel yourself shying away from his concern, “I just need to do this, okay?” 

“How are you even thinking about going back there? You're hurt, vulnerable and the only method of self defense you have is throwing your croc at someone's face.” 

“Hey! It worked didn’t it?” Your mouth opens in shock, slapping at his arm gently, “I’ll have you know, I slammed the guy’s head in with the back of a garbage can lid,” face proud as you recall the events, “he even passed out for a short while.” you nod, like you had accomplished a great feat. 

“Oh yeah, that right?” At least he looks proud too, brows raised as he thinks about how smug you look. His job entails killing, danger and all that jazz, but seeing how accomplished you seem to feel makes him want to pinch your cheek. So he does.

“Aw, your first fight, I'm so proud of you,” pinching the fat of your cheek between his two fingers. 

“Hey! Not my first fight.” 

He decides he is getting involved, so you can safely return home. Hopefully unscathed compared to last time. He laughs then sighs, “okay, so where to?”

—

You point out which guy it is and before you know it Dex has him pinned to the floor, forearm against his neck. You ask him the questions Karen would have asked, the basics in regards to his connection with the underground drug trade and production, the who’s, where, what’s? 

And he thinks that it was worth getting himself involved if he could see you grin like this, all teeth. From the side he could even see the bottom of your teeth, three of them were crooked, huh? That’s cute. 

He feels free. He must admit he’s having the time of his life beating the shit out of this guy. Maybe more than usual, and he knows it’s because the guy had laid his hands on you, and somehow that was not acceptable to him. Even he knew that was not right. He needed to right the wrong, by doing this. For you, and also for him too. 

And just before the guy gets knocked out, another one lunges from the other side, both of you surprised, he takes Dex down with him. 

“You shithead, I'm gonna kill you,” the new guy grunts, rolling over Dex. You scan around, looking for a strong object to hit him with, you find a long, wooden log. You swing it towards him, hitting his side. 

He curses at you, scrambling up to retaliate. Before he can even plant both of his feet onto the ground, a glass bottle smashes onto his forehead. Dead centre. 

Dex approaches, heavy breaths escaping him and fists the guy’s shirt, landing punch after punch. 

And he keeps going, you've already saved the recording, and the guy seems to be knocked out, but he cannot seem to stop. Like he is somewhere else, and with no one to stop him from killing this guy.

An act of vengeance. To right a wrong. 

You watch in slight horror as the guys’ head swings from side to side from the punches he is receiving by the hands of Dex. You have to physically pull him away from the already unconscious body. Eventually you have him sat against a wall as you take a look at his knuckles, split and bloody. 

Your eyes travel up to his, already looking at you. Eyes wet with tears, red rimmed and looking defeated. You have never seen him like this before, it was making the crinkle between his brows all the more prominent.

You are crouched to his level, knees hitting the wet ground. The wetness seeped into the material of your sweats, but your focus was taken by the anguish spreading across his face, thinking about how to help him now. 

How were you meant to comfort him? 

After all, he is here because of you. This is your fault. This was what you were trying to avoid, you didn’t want him to know what you were up to because of this exact reason. He would have to make a choice he would regret. And it looks like he is regretting it. 

However, the reason why he was looking so stricken with fear and defeat was due to your impending reaction. He didn’t know how you would react to him in the midst of violence, or rather when he was engaged in the violence. The realisation of what he was doing hit him as soon as he could feel you fragging him off the guy. 

If you hadn’t been there, he would have finished him off, discarded the body properly, but you were there, you saw him do this. 

Would you leave him? Avoid talking to him because you’re so scared of him?

What would he do if you left him?  

Instead you choose to tell him what you think he needs to hear, the truth. 

“It’s not your fault Dex.”

Hands hovering over him, not wanting to touch him when he was like this, “I’m sorry, it’s my fault. You shouldn’t have followed me, now you’re caught up in my mess.” 

You feel the familiar tingling sensation in your nose, “shit,” you mumble, sniffing from the cold, or maybe it was the tears stinging your eyes, he stops for a moment. That was not what he was expecting, he thought that you would hate him for hurting someone like this, not give excuses to cover his ass. 

He can’t comprehend you placing the blame onto yourself. It was him who did it. “No, it’s not your fault. I thought you got scared of what I did. I thought you would hate me if you saw me like this.” He takes your hands in his, squeezing them reassuringly. 

You let him, looking down where the two of you are connected. It’s warm, his hands are warm, yours are cold, trembling even. 

You twist your hand in a way that allows you to pull yourself up and use your strength to pull him up too. 

“I don’t hate you. I mean, wish I could have landed a punch or two on him,” you grin, shrugging your shoulders only to wince again. 

He just watches you, then nods. He sniffs, turning his attention on your injured shoulder. 

“Yeah. Okay…uhh…let's get that looked at. C’mon we should leave before someone finds us here.” 

Your words seep into his mind, the buzzing reduced after his energy was spent, what you had said had eased him. He is constantly being rendered speechless at how you view him, it’s never in a negative manner, giving him the benefit of the doubt, even when he may not deserve to be given a chance to be seen differently. 

Even when his behaviour is unhinged, not like his normal self that he portrays majority of the time. And now, with the display of bloody violence that he had inflicted upon a man that merely committed an act that Dex had deemed unjustified. 

Something he had to correct, to balance out the bloodshed, tipping the scales the opposite direction. Balance. Stability in his actions, having the control in his hands yet again. 

You didn’t see it like that, what mattered to you was the line, bordering it meant it couldn’t be taken back, that the person causing it would not be able to be brought back from the reality of inflicting such an act and then facing the consequences. 

That he wouldn’t be able to face what he had done, that the regret would kick in. You worried that he would suffer, even though it was him who had beaten the man bloody, nearly to his last breath before you had intervened. 

And yet…you worried about him. Even going as far as blaming yourself for his actions. Like you had influenced him to bloody his knuckles, when in fact it was his choice entirely, despite doing it in the name of his twisted sense of justice, in the end it was him who did it, not you. 

But still, you trace it back to yourself. If you hadn’t done this or that, then he wouldn’t be here. That may be true, if he hadn’t picked up on your mild disappearance, like any decent neighbour does, or if he hadn’t been vigilant to a point of tracking the sounds of your feet roaming across your apartment; and it irked him to a point of breaking into your place just to see if you were breathing, then he would have never followed you here. 

No matter the urge to amend the pain from the beating you had taken and handing it back twofold. Indeed, he has the blessing of acting upon his free will, his own mind chose to do what he did. Despite it all, you kneeled down to his level, wetting your sweats, spilling out apologies to him, to stop blaming himself. 

All so he doesn’t have to carry the burden of almost ending someone’s life over something, in your opinion, small and easy to forget. It wasn’t his fault, you didn’t blame him. It wasn’t his fault. 

Is that what a good person does? 

—

“You aren’t letting this go are you?” You sigh as he gestures you to sit on your couch, already having grabbed the ice pack from your deep freezer. 

“Course not, can’t leave an injury untreated now can we?” 

He eases the ice pack over your bruised shoulder, wincing himself at the different shades blooming over the area. It was nasty as hell, it looked tender and a little swollen. He would temporarily ice it, before urging you to go to the hospital to get it checked out tomorrow. 

And he stayed. Icing it every thirty minutes for a short period of time, then repeating the process a few times till your skin was too cold to feel the ice pack. 

Then you help him wrap his knuckles, again. Smoothing over the bandages like you did last time. He returns the favour by drying your hair after you had a rinse off in the shower, unable to lift your arm due to the pain. 

“Sit, I'll…uhh…dry your hair, if that’s okay,” hesitant enough that you could tell he was asking for permission.

You nod, taking the towel that you had draped over your shoulders and handed it to him. You take a seat onto the floor with a light groan, muscles aching and ready for some much needed sleep. 

He ruffles your hair with the towel, soaking up the moisture from the tips of your hair. You hum tiredly. He then moves to massage your scalp with the towel, digging the pads of his fingers over and over in circular motions. 

“That feel good?” 

You hum again as a yes, “you’re really good at this,” you comment. 

“Yeah?” 

“Hm,” you reply, head lolling to the side which makes him chuckle. He directs your head upwards again gently, not wanting to cause unnecessary movements that would hurt your neck. 

His heart warms when he feels you leaning into his touch, shuffling a little till your back hits his knees, to which he parts them to allow you to be comfortable. 

He likes this, likes that you seem to be melting under his touch, feeling safe enough for your eyes to be drooping. 

Well he thinks they are by the way your head is swinging slightly as he tracks his fingers around your nape. Pulling at the ends which has you humming once again. 

“This is nice.”

He smiles. Hands working slower now, matching your sleepy mood, “yeah, it is,” he mumbles.

He slows to a stop when he knows that you will crumble sideways into sleep if he carries on, so he helps you onto your feet, guiding you by your hand towards your room. He falters a little, you hadn’t come into his room the other day after wrapping his knuckles. So should he not either?

He wishes you did. You could have tucked him in. He shakes his head, embarrassed to have thought it. He decides you need help getting into bed, with your mangled shoulder and all. 

He waits as you brush your teeth, not commenting on his presence in your room. That is a good sign, he thinks. He pulls the covers open for you, to which you slip into. He has a hand under your shoulder blade to allow you to ease into bed without putting immediate pressure on your shoulder, in case you slip. 

Once you’re settled, he slips the blanket over you, he crouches down and tucks in the sides. Your hand drops down, wiggling them around for him to hold onto. He does. He looks down, then back up to your eyes. All sleepy and half shut. 

“Thanks for staying.” 

“Course. You did too.” 

“Hm…I needed you,” you slur the last part, it has him straining his ears to pick up on the last word. 

You. Him. You needed him. 

He’s always been needed, he’s been told so before, but never like this. Not when he wasn’t consciously doing that required being needed. He did it so naturally, following what he saw you do for him, returning it. It felt like the appropriate course of action. Not once did he think it was to make you like him, or to feel good about himself, maybe a little. It wasn’t about doing the right thing. 

It just was. It happened. He didn’t think till you told him you needed him. 

So that means he did something good right? He did a good deed, taking care of his neighbour, didn’t he? 

He doesn't want to think about good or bad, but his mind goes back to default, he can’t help but think this way. 

He took care of you, a good deed. But he will admit, it was for no one but himself. 

jack abbot can remember the day he met you, just a young second year resident transferring to PMTC due to budget cuts. you were still learning, eager with a passion he used to possess, before it became routine, steady. you’d shown up with a notepad that by the end of the way hadn’t been touched once, forgotten in your locker along with a half eaten granola bar. the minor bruise on your cheek, running into a mounted cabinet you’d informed.

he knew it must’ve been difficult, suddenly tossed into a new environment, with new challenges, people who already were accustomed to each other. however he took notice in the way you didn’t waver, chin held high and shoulders back, no matter how often that night he swore he saw your bottom lip wobble. you were resilient, something he admired greatly and found himself drawn too even on the most desolate of nights.

jack could also recount the exact moment you became something more than his favorite resident and trusted colleague, something special.

he’d found himself on the roof, not yet beyond the barrier yet gripping it as if he’d cross any moment, if he decided as much. the sun had began fading into the horizon, the soft, orange glow of morning bright against the overwhelming dimness jack felt festering in his gut.

it was then that the door to the roof screeched in protest against rusty hinges as someone pushed past. a pause as jack pondered if robby had sought him out yet again.

“dr abbot.” you, with your gentle tone that threatened to tug jack over the buildings side. his mind swam, struggling against the tide.

he could hear how your shoes approached, the squeak of the soles so pristine and new. a mark of the shift last thursday when your last pair had been made a vomit mat by a young girl with the flu.

he wasn’t sure if you’d been looking for him or simply decided you wanted to watch the sunrise, maybe both if by coincidence. you appeared in his peripheral, eyes focused ahead mirroring his own watchful gaze of the city.

“tonight was rough,” you spoke, calm, in control. he appreciated that about you, your professionalism and how you knew when to put it to use, and right then he felt properly doctored. he wanted to agree, nod, although he found himself quiet, urging you silently to continue, “it’s always rough.”

if that wasn’t the truth he didn’t know what was. you hummed low in your throat, and jack swore he could sense your next move as you glanced towards the side of his face.

“dr abbot, why do you come to the roof so often?” ah, so you’d noticed, and of course you had. always so perceptive.

he kept his eyes on the horizon of buildings, willing himself to think of an answer.

“why did you become a doctor?” he answers with a question, finally tearing his eyes away from the view to take in the woman standing a few feet away. you probably felt as exhausted as you looked. eye bags heavy beneath slightly red eyes, the look you’d get when he knew you were already clocking out and bidding everyone goodbye. he’d seen the very same on his own face many years before you came into the picture.

you don’t seem bothered by his question, eyes however deviating from his to dance around, probably searching for a response. you’re always quick when a trauma comes in, firing off directions, on the go with medications, prepared and agile and ready. but he pocketed in the recess of his mind how you’d hesitate to answer questions outside of the ER, thoughtful and important, like the words you put out there mattered.

“i don’t know.” is something he isn’t expecting to hear, no life story, no long explanation of how it was your calling, all things he’s heard and respected.

and its final, your indecisive decisiveness, no bother the oxymoron. it was a tad refreshing, hearing someone so sure be just a bit unprepared for once.

jack decides he can reward your candor, sighing like giving any piece of him away will spell doom.

“sometimes i think about crossing the barrier and,” his pause means more than words could allow, a deep set line between his brows pushing together when your breathing stutters, possibly something akin to concern, “this job can get to you.”

he doesn’t have to continue for you to understand the silent storm behind his eyes, emotions you’re far too aware of.

jack watches with batted breath he doesn’t know how to exhale as you shift from one foot to other before looking back to him. you don’t look at him with pity, no, there’s something different hidden in your gaze, something that twists his stomach.

“my intern year we had a suicide attempt brought in, benzos from his aunts medicine cabinet,” you waver, lashes fluttering like you’re just now reliving the memory. your hands tuck into your colombia zip up, shoulders rising and falling like a deep breath that can’t help but be seen. you turn towards the barrier, leaning forward so that your stomach presses gently to it, “16 year old, was being physically abused by his uncle.”

jack doesn’t speak, he listens.

“they got sole custody when he was 11, parents passed in a head on collision,” its awful, and jack can tell it must’ve left a steep mark on your soul if it’s something you can recall so vividly. he’s had those patients, the ones that leave behind burn marks and cause your faith to slip just a bit further down then the last, “poor kid barely lived, all he knew was suffering.”

you sound like you did when jack first met you, the underlying fear that came with realizing lives were in your hands.

“that was my first loss as a doctor,” the light behind your eyes has dimmed just so slightly, and jack can tell you’re reliving a moment you’d long since buried. he knows because he’s been exactly where you are, it’s like looking in a mirror, “i see his face every time i fall asleep.”

it lands in jack’s chest with a dull thud, aching at the raw vulnerability in your voice, the sound of grief.

“it’s true when they say it doesn’t get any easier.” you concede, nodding towards the rising sun like it understands your plight.

silence fills the space between you and jack, a comfortable silence that stretches across the roof. where the two of you stand together, enjoying the way the morning air gradually grows warmer.

“worse if it did.” jack replies, there’s no room for interpretation in his words, just truth.

“the good cases don’t change the bad one, but they remind us why we’re doing this,” you’re sure in your words, and jack isn’t confident if you’re comforting him or just talking to keep him occupied, like if you were to stop he’d end up on the pavement, “and sometimes we just really need that reminder to cement.”

you were wise, in a way jack saw in how you spoke to patients, their families. something that not only comes with time but also from who you are as a person.

“you don’t need to talk me down,” jack speaks, his voice fatigued and quiet, “if anything, the thought of my team scraping me off the tarmac is reason enough.”

it’s morose, he can see the way your face seems to pinch at the picture he’s painted for you.

the subtle warmth of having another body near grows as you shuffle closer, shoulders a few inches away.

“maybe i ought to come up here more often.” it’s posed as an open ended idea, although jack can pick up on the finality in your voice. he finds a himself allowing the tug on his lips to pull into a smile, chin bobbing as he nods. your throat clears.

“as long as you don’t mind the company, dr abbot.”

“jack.”

“what?” your eyes scan the side of his face, searching.

jack turns to face you, that smile still lingering on his lips as he leans into the barrier.

“colleagues that hassle me this much usually call me jack.” it’s a tease on his tongue, a hint of mirth behind his gaze.

you’ve spoken his name before, when his presence has been absent, talking to lena or on the off chance dana. even in conversations with robby. although you always found yourself back at dr abbot, feeling a line you’d rather not cross unless the man himself allowed as much.

“alright,” your teeth show as you smile, light, comfortable, “as long as you follow your own advice and address me the same.”

jack holds your gaze, the two of you drenched in the hazy sunrise, simply allowing the accumulated stress to melt away from the night. he notices your free hand playing with the badge clipped to your scrub pants. the picture is of you a few months ago, wearing the same smile.

you’re nothing short of breathtaking, and jack can acknowledge that as the sun casts rays across your face. he’d noticed since the day you’d shook his hand, face hopeful. he wasn’t blind, he could see it even behind the layer of night shift grim and fatigue, the way your eyes would sparkle. he’d always considered himself a steadfast man, firm in his ideals and grateful for what he was given.

in spite of all that that held jacks self control, he found himself ready to allow you to tear down his walls. the gorgeous young doctor that cared far too much for her own good, and for some reason sought to confront a war torn veteran in his silent qualms.

“i should get going,” you pull at the last word, like you’re contemplating not heeding it and saying with jack in silence, “especially before robby pulls up on that godforsaken donor-cycle.” it’s cynical, an ill-mannered joke that pokes at the bruise of his friends habit of forgoing a helmet. he chuckles, allowing your crude attempt at humor to erode at something resembling hesitation within his chest.

“i’ll see you tomorrow, or tonight, dr-, jack.” it’s a messy sentence of corrections that cause you to huff, and if jack were to observe your mannerisms any harder he thinks he’d notice the way you seem to fluster beneath his gaze. that being said, your embarrassment is endearing to the older man.

“get some rest, knowing our luck shit will hit the fan.” he’s serious beside the way he placates it for the sole reason you’d once mentioned that thinking bad things will happen before they do is bad juju. whatever that means.

“i expect you to do the same.” you know how jack is, always worried about everyone but himself. he shakes his head like the idea of resting is humorous, casting a glance back at your departing smile as his eyes catch the way the sun reflects off something by the collar of your scrub top.

a wedding ring. precariously looped through a thin, gold chain around your neck. the diamond is quite prodigious, layered with clusters of even more diamonds. they lay on a bed of silver and gold, the band thin and delicate, a stark contrast to your dark scrub top.

jack feels something thorny lodge between his ribs, anchoring in place and refusing to adjust. his eyes watch the fine jewelry as it rustles against your movement, eyes casting up to yours in time to return the wave you send his way.

he shouldn’t be surprised, someone as kind as you, as strong willed yet soft and gentle. someone as exquisite as you were, who the day he met set the back of his neck aflame. who just now had opened his eyes to the startling realization that you weren’t simply a pretty thing he often found his eyes searching for, you were enigma. a painfully smart, beautiful woman who just kickstarted something he hadn’t felt since his late wife.

his eyes found the horizon once more, brows furrowing as his predicament seemed fully settle.

jack abbot‘s heart beat for a woman with a wedding ring around her neck. and it sunk in that while his racing pulse stuttered at the memory of your recent smile, yours raced for another.

jack knew he from that day forward he was fucked. the weeks that went by, the months continuing to grow closer to you like it wasn’t a threat to his health when you’d lean in and his lungs would fill with the sweet scent of your perfume. every time you’d save a life, your hand meeting his in a celebratory high five, your palm soft against his rough calluses.

sometimes he’d catch you out by the ambulance bay alone, simple gathering yourself as the brisk night air soothed your panicky, fried nerves. on occasion he’d join you, standing in silence as the only sound to be heard was your joint, steady deep breaths.

“this is the third time this week, i swear her conditions are progressively getting more outlandish,” dr shen commented as he placed a patient chart beside you, the binder making a dull thud as it landed. you glance towards john, brows raised in question, to which he nods. as you open the chart, your gaze roves over the pages, “purposeful?”

you hum, low in your throat. a habit you’d grown to utilize as an indication of your thoughts processing.

“seems like hypochondria, possibly munchausen, is it the same condition worsening or is it different every item?” you probe, eyes dancing across the woman’s patient file.

“we call it FDIS now, you know what that stands for?” jack. he appears from behind, arms crossing as he comes to a halt before you and shen. your head shakes, chin dipping as you find yourself slipping into an easy smile. he always knew when to teach you, however infrequent the moments arose now.

“yes, must’ve slipped my mind, sorry jack,” shen snickers as he watches the two of you, “factitious disorder imposed on self.”

“differing from..?”

“factitious disorder imposed on another, otherwise most commonly known as munchausen by proxy.” you’re proud of your knowledge, despite the flutter of heat you feel rising to your cheeks. maybe it’s the way jack is looking at you, that tired expression of his sinking into content at your answer. or maybe how shen thought your teaching moment was comical, deciding it the perfect time to obnoxiously slurp the remaining coffee water through his dunkin straw.

“this doesn’t help me.” shen speaks after a second of enjoying his beverage, one he’d been slowly sipping for the past 12 hours, something you swore took skill.

you gaze rises from jack, falling on your friend in dire need of his colleagues professional opinion on the matter.

“you’re the attending, you should know this,” your level of sass is only emboldened by the closeness you’ve accumulated with your fellow night shift staff. a tone you would have never used on either of the men in front of you if you didn’t expect their reactions by now, “or, you could question the boss.”

your chin nods up to where jack stands, his shoulders bobbing as he exhales a sound you recognize as a softly concealed chuckle. shen makes an equally exaggerated noise, dipped in exhaustion as he reaches down for the chart he’d allowed you to mull over. he tucks it under his bicep, his free hand grasping his lukewarm latte as if it’s fine porcelain.

“different condition each time.” he continues the conversation from before jack had interrupted.

“alright, next time she’s here have her speak with psych.” you conclude shen’s query, if you squint hard enough you can see how you’ve wrapped it with a nice, shiny bow, metaphorically of course. your eyes find jack’s once more, however you find his already focused on you.

shen’s lips form a solid line, inhaling through his nose like he hasn’t had a second of peace all night.

“it’s a plan. you’ll let me know if you need help with the head lac in 5?” he asks, gingerly gathering himself to see whoever is next on the board. you simply nod, a small hum leaving you as you watch the doctor make his way towards the waiting room.

you feel the sear of eyes on your profile, the shadow of jacks form falling into your line of sight, leaning against the nurses station. you decide to throw the man a bone, watching how he’s eyeing the clock.

“hot date?” your smirk is teasing, creeping further into the apples of your cheeks as his face turns to look both offended and caught off guard. then he simmers, like you’d poured ice water over his head.

“if your idea of a hot date is tossing my prosthetic across the living room and nursing a guinness.” you lean into lena’s swivel chair, already ready to tell her you were keeping it warm if she suddenly reappears with a brow raised. you can recall when you’d learned of jacks prosthetic, it was fairly soon into transferring.

a young body had lost his right leg in a head on collision, he’d been unbuckled in the front seat. you can remember the blood, the way his mothers screams were raw and painful as she arrived hand in hand with her unconscious child on a gurney. paramedics looked dour, it had been raining that day, you can recount the way your shoes slipped a few times as you raced against the trauma.

but he lived, with one less appendage than before. the kid was young, maybe too young to process fully what had happened yet not too young to understand what he was seeing when they pulled his gown up, revealing a very bandaged stump.

you’d been to the side when jack explained what would happen going forward with the boy and his mother, flipping pages of medication orders and treatment plans.

you’d seen the look on the child’s face, too small to have such an expression of desolation. then jack lifted his pant leg, exposing the titanium.

you always wished you’d remembered the joke jack had made, the advice he gave. nevertheless, you could never, nor would you wish to scrub the image of the boys grin, ear to ear and absolutely fascinated.

“hey, if he’s causing you any issues let me know, i’ll take him out back and set him straight.” you hadn’t named his prosthetic, or the second spare he had. although you decided not too long ago that treating it as if it was sentient and capable of thought made you snort. jacks eyes fluttered shut, head shaking like he had no clue how to answer or what to do with you.

“one day you’ll let that shit go and i’ll be eternally grateful,” he quips at your attempt to get him to crack a smile, something that could be fairly rare most nights, “maybe if i pawn you off to robby it’ll be a lesson you won’t forget.”

that makes your jaw drop, stuck between thinking of a jab to return or just staring him the man like he’d offended not only you but also your ancestors.

“you wouldn’t, you think any of the day residents could handle your overly sunny disposition?” it’s not really a question, more a sarcastic rebuttal to the man’s words. the fact you had met all of the day shift staff cemented in your mind they couldn’t handle it like you could, even if it sounded arrogant. you were allowed to be full of it every now and then, a healthy level of confidence was good for the soul.

“and please, i know you’re messing with me but robby is like a disappointed uncle,” you stand to approach jack, nudging the chair with your foot as you do, letting it roll back into the counter, “like that uncle you see every blue moon that doesn’t remember your name or birthday yet can tell you everything you did wrong with that intubation.” it’s a contrived explanation that makes jacks mouth curl, ignoring the way the ac hits his overheated skin and allows him to register the scent of your lotion.

“you’re a pro at intubations, think you taught me something the first time i watched you do one.” his words spill through your gut, a sense of pride following you as your cheeks grow sore from grinning, a grin that hadn’t once slipped since jack appeared.

“oh my g-, stop,” you laugh, patting a hand against the man’s shoulder as his expression mirrors yours, “if you think flattery will get you anywhere, you’re correct.” your laughter grows, like you know no one funnier than yourself. jack watches as your head tips back, your presence setting him in such an easy going stance he nearly forgets where the two of you are. he wants to join your laughter, pretend the feel and warmth of your palm against his shoulder didn’t set something in his ablaze. be jovial and normal, allow you to pull him into the serenity he’s seen you carry.

but he can still feel your touch. the way your fingertips practically burned into his scrub top, despite your poor circulation and chilly hands. it lasts, the lump in his throat he continuously swallows just to feel it rise again. maybe it’s bile, maybe he’s sick because his hands twitch at his sides like they need to caress you or he’ll die on the spot. it’s unprofessional, it’s inappropriate. he’s glad you’re still lost in your own world of lessening giggles that begin to fade into soft breaths.

“how about i buy you a guinness in a few hours and you can bring me a coffee sometime to return the favor?” you slow into the conversation once make, eyes more awake then jack swears they were when he’d seen you chatting with shen.

“surprise me, just no double shots or i’ll not just be bouncing off the walls, i’ll become the walls.” sometimes your humor confuses him, but he stays enjoying the way your words are normally silly and ill conceived.

“i can afford my own beer.”

“consider it a thanks for teaching me about FDIS.” you shrug. jacks brows pinch inward.

“you said you already knew of it.”

“alright, consider it my thanks for reminding me of information i knew prior.” maybe someone had opened a window nearby or maybe jack could just breath better around you. like a weight had been lifted and dropped from his shoulders, no longer overbearing and constantly expecting more.

“tell you what, i’ll think about it.” he responds, eyes on the way of your gaze darts to the clock behind his head.

“thinking about staying late?” late as in far into day shift. you always arrived early into the evening, however lately it seemed like you’d been staying longer as well.

jack observes the way you look apprehensive, a tight smile taking over the genuine one you’d worn seconds ago. it made his stomach twist uncomfortably, an expression upon your features he wasn’t aware you could even muster up.

“i can’t, date night.” the words land uneasy in his chest, unable to place reason for the sudden change in the air.

jack eyes the smile lines beneath your eyes, the slight purse of your lips.

“you don’t talk about him.” jack announces.

“what?”

“your husband.”

“oh, yeah,” you chuckle, a hand coming up to fiddle with your badge, “i like to keep my private life separate from work.”

it’s a common response, one jacks heard more times than he can count. professional, letting whoever’s asking know they’re prying a bit, and to mind their business. kindly.

nevertheless, something about that kind of response coming from you settles awkwardly in jack. he knew your coffee order, he knew you liked to wear a long sleeved shirt under your scrubs. he’d noticed months ago how you like gossip with shen and lena, how you were dr parker’s preferred resident, dependable in your right.

he knew what kind of women’s sanitary products you like since this one day your menstrual cycle started and you were stranded in the hospitals staff bathroom. you trusted him with that phone call, for him to bring them to you. he can picture the look on your face after you exited the bathroom, the way you avoided eye contact and sheepishly told him, ‘thanks jack, please never bring it up though’.

and yet, you wanted to keep work separate from your private life. it felt wrong that it bothered him. he respected you greatly, and you were completely in your right to set that boundary. but if jack said it didn’t sting at all, he would be lying.

“do you keep your work life private as well?” he’s prying, but it’s all he could think of to say, glancing at the patient board. you’re a doctor, more often than not you’re working, how could there not be any overlap?

you shift from one foot to the other. then you say a man’s name, clearly your husbands.

“he doesn’t like hearing about my work, even the good cases,” you pause, almost like you’re saying too much. jack finds his gaze back on you, subconsciously leaning in at the sound of your voice, “says he has enough on his mind without me adding too it.” you laugh, but something in the way you do so sounds hollow, like you’re intentionally distracting jack from how off that sounds.

his brows furrow, his mouth opens to retort about how you husband sounds a little full of it, although he’s cut off when you rush to speak.

“he’s a really good man.”

he finds it disconcerting how you felt the need to inform him of that.

a few days later jack is sitting across from robby in the park, bench cold under him, his prosthetic off to his left.

“a good man listens to how his wife’s day went.” he’s steadfast in his words, like it’s only logical. he was married once, he knew how to treat his wife, the woman he loved. to him it wasn’t even a matter of principle, he simply always wanted to.

robby nods like he’s only half listening.

“have you met him?”

“who?”

“her husband.” jack probes, hoping maybe robby had some insight he’d managed to miss. robby leans back into the back rest of the bench, the wooden beams creaking against his weight.

“i haven’t,” robby pauses like he shouldn’t continue, “i do know he works out of town often, she’s usually alone for days on end.” that definitely tracked with the little jack knew about him. and it makes him a little forlorn, thinking about you coming home from a long shift, exhausted, maybe even upset, hurt, just to be met with an unlit house and empty bed.

jack catches the way robby looks uncomfortable, like he’s keeping something else too himself.

“alright,” jack counters, watching the way robby scratches his chin, “and you know this how?” he secretly hopes the whole time you haven’t been speaking more about your life intimately with robby then him, and he hasn’t been overestimating the closeness the two of you have grown to share.

“she’s friends with some of the day shift staff, confides in cassie, dr mckay, sometimes.” robby says, and jack just nods. condensation from the beer can drips down his hand.

“listen,” jack is all ears, “all i’ll say is, she doesn’t speak very affectionately about the fella.”

“she’s spoken poorly about him?” jack leans in further, punctuating his point as his expression twists into confusion. robby shakes his head, like the idea is absurd.

“no, you know her, she’d never speak badly about anyone,” and jack has to agree with robby’s words, you weren’t the type.

“so, dr mckay told you this?” jack inquires, as causally as he can manage. robby hums, looking towards the brick walkway between them.

“i think she was concerned,” that makes jack pause, eyes locking with the man across from him. he feels a pit form in his stomach, burrowing through his muscle and bone, “just a feeling she got.”

cassie had always been good at that, especially considering her own past and patient experience.

“a feeling?” jack implores.

“i wouldn’t look too hard into it, probably just strain from him traveling often,” it makes sense, although the pit in jacks stomach hasn’t let up, in fact it’s more like a crater now, “they got married young, it happens.”

the beer in jacks hand has been completely forgotten.

something about his conversation sat with jack even after a week of trying to push it from his thoughts. even as he was watching you perform chest compressions, his gaze was far away, focused but preoccupied, much unlike him.

“stop compressions,” he spoke, the monitor droned, the room silent, “asystole, resume compressions.”

it was one of those cases where the patient was unresponsive on the scene, unsteady rhythm in the ambulance, DOA.

but there was protocol, a standard of care they had to give all patients brought in, even if the odds were against them.

sweat dotted at the back of your neck, eyes on the monitor as it remained flat, unchanged.

“alright,” you dreaded the words as they prepared to leave jacks mouth, the go ahead to stop care entirely. no matter how tired your arms felt in the moment, you never enjoyed removing your hands and accepting there was simply no more you could do, “time of death, 11:45.”

your hands pumped a few more times, fingers trembling as they then froze against the woman’s chest. your gaze moved to her face, pale, sickly against the overhead fluorescent. a sight you never got used too.

“you did good,” jack spoke as you moved away from the patient, biting at the inside of your cheek, “you always do good.”

you can’t lie and say his words don’t help the ache, he’s always been a voice of reason against the tidal wave of doubt within your subconscious. your eyes meet his, sighing heavy as the knowledge that you’re still only a few hours into your shift falls heavy against your shoulders.

“i was taught by the best,” jack can physically feel himself soften at your comment, in addition the look directed at him, “I-,”

CRASH

a metal tray goes flying, the impact of it landing on the tile floor echoes across the ED, several gasps ringing out as well as voices speaking in confusion. an apology follows, probably a med student that wasn’t paying attention to their surroundings, an accident. jack huffs a chuckle, ready to comment about interns and their lack of awareness, when his body goes cold.

you’re pressed into the wall near where you once stood, hands pressed into the drywall at your sides, fingers slightly bent like you’re trying to stay grounded. although jack is more taken aback by the expression you now wore.

your eyes are wide, wider than he’s seen even in high stress situations, aggressive patients, family, blood spraying across your front, bones sticking out where they definitely shouldn’t be. all pale in comparison to the sheer terror you now gracing your normally relaxed features.

your mouth is open, taking in deep breaths that only seem to worsen the state you’re in. jack can’t tell if you’re hyperventilating, although he’s not going to wait to find out.

he’s taking steps forward in an instant, hands out like he’s bracing, or approaching a scared, wounded animal.

he speaks your name like a question.

“what happened, talk to me,” he’s insistent in his tone, weary, like he’s going to spook you. before he can get any further you’re putting a hand to your chest like you’ve finally taken in some air, eyes fluttering shut for a second before they reopen and land on jack, “are-,”

“i’m sorry,” you speak, voice no louder than a whisper. you face is pulled in shame, running a hand across your forehead before moving to pass the man before you, “that was unprofessional, i’m sorry.”

“no, it’s okay-,” jack is quick to respond, resisting the innate urge to reach out and grab your wrist, keep your from leaving the room. but his hand clamps at his side, eyes following your form and it exits the glass doors and makes a sharp left. jack finds his back pressing into the side of the doorframe, mind racing.

you had brushed off the interaction when jack confronted you in the break room. you were startled, it happens sometimes, you were fine. all things he didn’t really believe, but he’d decide to trust you on this. you were off the next night, and you mentioned you’d been looking forward to an actual night of sleep, not just during the day or sneaking naps in the moments during the week you could. maybe you were just tired, hence the reaction.

jack didn’t cover the day shift often, especially after discovering he was more of a night owl than anything. but sometimes you have to take the hit for the sake of it, even if it means you’ll lose a few extra hours of sleep.

at least that’s mindset jack has as he walks into the doors of the ED, the smell of various people in the waiting room hitting him as well as the pungent scent of sterile products. his bag is slung over his shoulder, badge in one hand as he readies it to show to security. as he approaches ahmad, his gaze pans over all the people in chairs. he can see a myriad of visible, thankfully minor, injuries.

his heart hits a stutter as his scan lands on a pair of eyes he’s very familiar with, no, it’s just a coincidence. it’s a young woman, in casual, comfy clothes like she’d just rolled out of bed. she’s not wearing a badge, eyes trained on her phone screen and she seems to be frantically typing something.

she has a nasty head lac, a recent looking one as well. she’s holding a dripping, probably mostly melted ice pack to her head with her free hand, he can see a wince throughout her body when she presses it into the cut.

he’s seeing things, on two hours of sleep, but then she looks up, and his worries are confirmed when it’s not just any young woman, it’s you. he’s already on the move before his brain can catch up with his body.

he doesn’t bother to speak any pleasantries as he slots through a small crowd, heart beat increasingly rapidly as he grows increasingly closer to you. he can see red on your shirt collar, down the front of your shirt. it’s wrong, you’re not supposed to be in the waiting room as a case, you’re supposed to be the doctor. why haven’t you been seen yet? why are you sitting out here with your head cracked open?

his breathing is erratic as he finally stands before you, chest heaving.

your eyes pan up, suddenly wide and caught as you stare up at him. the ice pack lowers from your forehead and jack has to physically control himself and not immediately grab it from you and press it back onto the wound.

“jac-, dr abbot.” your correction stings, it feels like a set back, something he doesn’t want to think about as a storm is still raging within him.

“does lupe know you’re sitting out here?” by this point a few strangers are staring, quizzical as to the interaction they’re seeing. jack sees the way you seem to withdraw into yourself, hands finding purchase by fiddling with the zipper on your jacket.

“stand up.” it’s not a request, his voice is rough and strained, it’s a demand. one that makes you swallow so harshly jacks worries you’ll choke. his eyes soften, he takes in every bit of your appearance. it’s his turn to withdraw.

he’s on his knees in a second, ignoring the stares. he takes your bag and slides it over his shoulder where his sits, then places a gentle, hesitant hand on your knee, touch feather light.

“please, sweetheart,” you suck in a breath audibly, the exhale coming out shaky. your eyes meet his, “let me take a look at you.”

your nod is all the push he needs to stand, stepping back to allow you room to follow him. he’s silent as he walks to the double doors, badge in the air as he angles it at security. they nod, permission to enter.

jack doesn’t bother greeting dana as she flashes him a quizzical expression, eyes falling to you only to turn to concern. he’s quick to scan for an empty patient bed, leading you to one a few rooms down. as you enter the space, your gaze stays on your sneakers, ignoring how jack closes the glass door, pulls the curtain closed.

“please, sit down,” his voice is tender, softer than moments ago. you follow as he says, “can you tell me what happened?”

he starts gathering the necessary supplies from the wheeled table in the room.

his arms cross over his chest, sturdy. you shift on the bed, fingers clasping in your lap.

“i tripped going down the stairs, hit my head on the hand rail.” it’s almost absurd to jack, you’re not particularly clumsy, and most definitely not to this degree.

“uh huh,” he doesn’t sound like he believes on second of it, and you wince at he applies some pressure to the wound, he mentions you husband by name, “did he bring you here?”

he wants to ask why you’re alone, why your husband isn’t here with you, but he bites his tongue. maybe he’s out of town, that’s the only logical reason he would abandon his wife to deal with a head injury on her own. you nod.

“he doesn’t like hospitals.” so he’s home right now. while his wife is in the hospital. jack feels something in him very similar to anger begin in boil.

“he couldn’t suck it up?” he chuckles with no humor behind it, you can feel the shift in the air.

“he’s squeamish.”

“his wife has a gash across her face.” he says it with a flat tone, straight faced. pulling the gauze away from your temple, he makes a decisive noise at the back of his throat.

“well it’s no longer actively bleeding,”

“i think most of its on my shirt.” you snicker, trying to get a genuine smile out of jack. he doesn’t take the bait.

“you don’t need sutures, thankfully, does it hurt anywhere else?” god he hopes you say no, but the sheepish look on your face says otherwise.

“yeah, when i fell i smacked my side as well,” your hand rises, gripping the edge of your jacket and shirt, he can see the hesitation in your movements, and he hones in on the skin that comes into view as you lift it, “it’s just a bit tender.”

it’s a dark purple, hues of red and pink fading in at the edges. a colossal bruise, covering nearly half of your midsection. he knows there’s no signs of internal bleeding, especially considering the fact that this apparently happened hours ago, you’d be on the floor by now. his eyes shut at the thought.

as he swallows back the bile rising in his throat, you laugh, something light, he can tell it’s fake just to put him at ease again like you’d tried earlier. it still has no effect.

“you got this from a fall?” he wants to ask more, how. how would falling down a few steps land you in this condition, it made no sense. he glances at the necklace tucked into your top.

“where was your husband when this happened?” you shuffle, eyes casting towards your shoes once more.

“out.”

“and he came home and found you?”

“yep.” they’re simple answers, ones that should quell the anxiety bubbling in jacks gut. however the way you’re avoiding eye contact forces him to think otherwise.

he takes in a breath, pulling a chair from behind him to sit himself down.

“this is a serious injury. i have to ask, do you feel safe at home?” it’s wrong the way your face crumbles like he’s figured it out, just to meld into anger.

“what are you implying?” he leans back at your words.

“i’m not implying, i’m concerned-,”

“don’t be. accidents happen.” you shrug, brushing off his comments.

“seriously jack,” you sit up with a slight grimace, scooting to the edge of the bed to place a hand on his knee like it’s your first instinct. he can feel the warmth of your palm on his scrubs, the way you’re looking at him like you need him to listen, so he does. he tries his hardest to ignore your hand on him, the drying blood on your clothes, the irk in his stomach that these injuries are congruent with a fall.

you seem to notice what you’ve just done. hand yanking back like you’d been burned.

“i’m sorry. that was inappropriate.” he chooses to look past the way you sound nervous, look past the way his heart skips a beat at the sound.

“and i appreciate it, but i’m fine, i promise.”

you move to stand, although jacks own grip is applied to your shoulder, softly pushing you back where you sat. he stands, sighing.

“at least say for an hour in observation, let us run concussion protocol on you.” you can hear the strain in his voice, and you allow yourself to agree to his terms. knowing full well as a doctor, walking out of here after a brief run down isn’t how you treat a patient properly. and as of right now, you were the patient. so you just nod.

“okay. i’ll be right back.” before jack closes the door behind him, he switches the lights to dim the room, sending you a tight lipped smile. he shuts the door quietly, facing the herd of noise beyond the minuscule room he’d just been in.

“everything okay?” dana, she’s appeared from the left holding a chart. jack sends her a look before walking towards the nurses station and leaning into the counter.

“she alright?” she asks, more concerned than a second ago. jack nods, trying to convince himself more than her.

“yeah, nothing that won’t heal, it’s just,” he pauses, scrubbing his hands over his face, this isn’t how he wanted to shift to start, not because it’s messed with his day, but because now he won’t be able to think about anything but you. picture the look on your face when you saw him in the waiting room, the nervous twitch of your bottom lip when you’d laughed about your injuries, god, he couldn’t breathe properly, “it looks like the cut you’d receive from a ring.”

jack insists you take the next few days off, he’s asked for a week but you’d been vehemently against that long. robby agreed. you accepted the time to allow healing, either that or two attendings on your ass for not considering your own health above all.

and he won’t lie, everything feels different, not as lively with you around. you had brought something he hadn’t noticed the ED needed until you left with it. he was lucky to have never noticed this, considering you’d always said you’d rather be at work than bored at home alone. however you informed him you weren’t alone this time, your husband had been back since the injury than landed you in this predicament.

he tried to push down the gnawing in his stomach. you were fine, you were healing, you had someone to look after you. then why couldn’t he reason with his instinct that something was wrong.

the day you returned it was like the incident had never happened. or at least you were deciding to put it behind you, and jack would respect that decision. you worked, joked with shen and dr walsh, assisted ellis, like everything was normal. like jack couldn’t see the fading scar on your forehead of a moment he’d never be able to scrub from his brain. a situation that had been keeping him awake at night, hoping he hadn’t sent you back to the person that had done it.

but at the end of the day, that was just a suspicion. jack couldn’t act on that, it could hurt you more then intended. he had to just let it go, if you had, so could he.

towards the end of the night shift, he found himself looking for your familiar face, hoping to congratulate you on an impressive save today. lena pointed him in the last direction she’d seen you headed off too.

he found you on the roof around 7am, watching the clouds slowly travel past, the sun coming up from behind the myriad of buildings. it was brisk out, enough that goosebumps rose across his bare arms.

he watched your silhouette for a minute, framed like a painting against the orange and blues of the awakening sky.

as he began to approach, he noticed you turn slightly, clearly aware someone was now behind you.

his eyes found yours as he placed his elbows against the barrier.

“you saved that kid in 12,” he says, and although you try to act nonchalant about it, he can see the smile creeping onto your face, “it was impressive. everyone certainly thinks so.”

“it’s part of the job.” you say with a sigh, although your cheeks hurt from grinning. jack chuckles.

“without you here, we’d be at a disadvantage.”

“you really think that?” you turn to him, absolutely failing at hiding the reaction to his comment.

“i do.” he nods, watching the way you light up. he’s glad this place hasn’t taken all chunk of your soul yet, he hopes it never happens. he’ll make sure it doesn’t.

“you don’t come up here much anymore,” you say, leaning over to nudge the man with your shoulder, “i thought it would become like, our spot.”

you’re teasing him, he can tell. yet it doesn’t stop the way he feels a slight warm tickle the back of his neck.

“i don’t have any reason too anymore, i guess.”

“you guess?” you remark.

“someone very important helped me realize that.” your mouth goes dry, hands that gripped the barriers rail tightening. the jewelry around your neck feels like it’s weighing you down, it’s too heavy, it couldn’t have been this heavy the whole time, couldn’t it? you stomach does a somersault, bottom lip biting against your teeth and you bite into the flesh.

happy. you felt happy right now. overjoyed. you can’t even think of the last time you felt that way when you were at home, or on date night, your anniversary.

you breath was stolen, something illogical and tingly and just right planting itself in your lungs.

the only time these last two years you’ve felt true, unbridled elation, had been moments you’ve shared with dr abbot, jack, the man standing in front of you. looking at you like this rising sun paled in comparison to your face mere feet from his, like pulling his gaze away from you would be torturous and inhumane.

but the ring against your chest is scratching uncomfortably against your skin, tearing and putting wear on your scrub top.

“jack-,”

it’s then you notice the breeze across your body, specifically your bare arms, and where jack is now fixated on.

ice filled jacks veins.

“what is that.” it wasn’t a question, he knew what it was. a deep bruise, mottled yellow and purple, probably already a few days old. it spanned most of your forearm, and if jack squinted it kind of resembled, a handprint? his breathing picked up, he was worried his legs would give out from the sudden fuzziness taking over his brain.

your eyes moved to him, blinking with furrowed brows as you followed his eye line, down to where you’d pushed up your sleeves.

jack wanted to puke the second you frantically pulled your sleeve down, covering the injury he hadn’t noticed until today. you looked, embarrassed, for what reason? jack wasn’t sure.

“i fell.”

“bullshit.” it’s blunt and jack feels remorse only for the way you look surprised, caught off guard by his tone and abrupt language.

“excuse me?” your attempt at sounding assertive falls flat as your voice wavers. jack takes a tentative step forward.

“is he home?”

you say your husbands name in questioningly, jack nods.

“why does that matte?” you sound worried, unsure as you blink wildly, looking everywhere but jack.

“because every time you show up skittish, and hurt, it’s coincidentally when he’s in pittsburgh,” he can see the panic set in when you realize he’s noticed the pattern, the waver in you behavior. of course he’d noticed, he’s jack, “and i want to help.”

he’s pleading, face pulled in despair that he hadn’t put it all together until now. he can physically see how you’re pulling away mentally.

“why?” your voice is small, scared, trembling in a way that hurts jack in a manner he can’t articulate.

“because i care about you.” your eyes shoot up to his, wide. your mouth opens and closes, shoulders falling from their tense position.

“is that the only reason? because you care?” he’s never heard you so unsure an fragile. he would laugh at your question if the situation wasn’t so dire.

“of course that’s not the only reason.”

“then why? jack-,”

“i’d do anything for you.” that shuts you up. your mouth closing and throat bobbing like that’s the last thing you expected him to say. jack is ready for you to yell at him, tell him you have too much going on in your life, you’re married, regardless of all of that you don’t want his help, most of all you don’t want him.

your lip quivers, he catches it.

“jack, i,” you look close to tears, stumbling over your words as you pull your jacket tighter around you, a particularly chilly breeze flowing over the roof, “this isn’t-.”

you can’t seem to find the words, blinking away the accumulation of wetness in your eyes.

“let me help you.” he begs, silver curls moving against the breeze.

jacks heart cracks as you shake your head, stepping back away from him.

“no, it’s not that simple.” he knows how this works, he’s spoken to women in abusive situations with their spouse. but it feels like all that training and knowledge flies out the window the second tears begin to roll down your cheeks, your delicate skin marred with desolation.

“please-,” he reaches a hand out.

“i’m fine, leave it.” you put an end to his pleading, wiping at your tears with the back of your hand.

he says your name, in a voice so broken you pause in your retreat to the staircases door. picking up into a light jog, you ignore the second call of your name as you disappear through the threshold, back turned away and unaware of the expression of devastation now on jacks face.

what’s he doing?

he’s racing after you as his body catches up with his brain. but you’re gone, no where to be found in the ED, the upper levels, chairs, hell he even checked the woman’s restroom. as his legs carry him to the ambulance bay, he’s pulled back into reality as the spot your car was once in is now empty. a hand combs through his silver curls, stressed.

and that’s how he spends the next hour feeling. even as he clocks out, commutes home, tosses his go bag on the dining room table and tears his prosthetic off. despair, longing to see your face, hear your voice, your reassurances.

until another half hour passes and his phone rings. he lets it go to voicemail, waiting to hear the tone and whoever’s trying to get in touch with him.

but the voicemail never comes, only more incessant buzzing after a brief moment of silence. torn from his stupor, the man reaches across the couch to grab his cell, already prepared to head back to work or tell robby to fuck off.

he’s not expecting your caller id. you never call him, you exchanged numbers for emergencies, and thankfully you’d never had to use them. but it your name, clear as day. he picks up on the fourth ring, afraid the call with cut off and you won’t return it for the third time.

he brings it to his ear, ready to spew apologies, beg for a proper conversation, but all he gets out is a choked sound as a cry comes through the speaker.

he sits up, all exhaustion gone from his body in an instant.

he can hear you sniffling, saying something incoherently, than a sob. he’s frantic, listening to you blubber about something, ready to plead for you to take a deep breath and tell him what you need, when a sentence full of anguish manages to make it through your cries.

“jack, please, i need you to come get me.”

you’ve reached the end of part 1…

thank you for reading! part 2 will be linked to this post when it’s out 💋

taglist below part 1

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@emmilynsblog

jack finds himself at your place in under 10 minutes, a feat only possible by speeding past multiple red lights.

its early, early enough that the rising sun casts a hazy glow across the parking lot, where jack finds himself immediately throwing the car into park and jumping out. his brain feels fuzzy, fingers trembling slightly as he approaches the apartment number he remembers you giving him.

there’s a few people out, some walking their dogs, the distant sound of the highway. following the walkway, jack finds himself freezing at the sight before him.

it’s you. sitting at the bottom of the outdoor staircase that leads up to your apartment. you’re looking down, a shadow across your face and obscuring your features.

jack immediately notes your clothes, still in your scrubs pants and undershirt, as if you’d just gotten home and still hadn’t had the chance to change. however he’s on edge at what he thinks is drops of red across the front of your top.

your eyes lift, clearly having felt a presence, and widen.

jack in front of you in seconds, hands out like he’s bracing for something, kneeling down on the concrete walkway where you sit.

he says your name, barely above a whisper. however the tone, the way it comes out like a plead tugs at your heart and brings a fresh set of tears to your eyes.

“sweetheart,” his voice breaks at the end, eyes scanning the entirety of you and focusing on your face. it’s littered with cuts, there’s large gash across the bridge of your nose, dried blood around your nostrils and upper lip. your cheeks are swollen, tear soaked and eyes heavy as you cast a glance down towards your hastily thrown on slippers, “what hurts?”

he doesn’t bother asking if you’re okay, he knows it would be useless considering what he can already see. however he needs to know what’s worse, delegate priority to whatever’s giving you the most grief. although he isn’t ready for the choked sob that leaves your lips, and the way it utterly shatters what’s left of his already broken heart.

“everything.”

he shudders, eyes closing for a second at the way he can see blood coating your teeth, the struggle in the way the words left your lips. when your eyes meet again, his resolve has hardened.

“i’m taking you to the ED,” and although part of you wants to disagree, the rational part of you brain sees the look on jacks face, feels the extent of your injuries, and concedes, “we can handle the rest later.”

you nod, a slow, flinching movement following as something pulls at your collarbone.

you begin to stand, a hesitation in your sore muscles as you do so.

“let me… can i,” jack begins, words soft and careful against the night breeze. the look on his face cracks something behind your ribs, the way his face is devoid of anything positive, “can i please carry you.”

you, again, want to decline. keep any dignity you have left intact. but why feel that way? this is jack, you’ve spent a long time hiding this all from him, and now he knows the truth, he’s here, he came without hesitation the second you told him you needed help. there was nothing to shy away from anymore, especially from the one person you didn’t mind sharing everything with.

“okay,” and he’s bending down a bit, arms behind your knees and allowing you room to wrap your arms around his neck. it’s sweet, so much so you almost crack a smile at how gentle he’s being, how careful he thinks he has to be with you. it’s a stark difference to the treatment you’ve been facing head on for months now, “thank you.”

jack makes a noise at the back of his throat, something similar to reciprocity. his body is warm despite the chill of the early morning, arms sturdy around your body as he keeps you tight to his chest.

“no need to thank me.” it’s humble, so so jack. despite the fact he drove to you even when he just got off work and had to be exhausted.

you sigh against him, eyes shutting as you fall into a brief moment of peace. the safety of the man holding you allowing you a reprieve.

“yes i do.” it’s muffled into his shirt, but he catches it. he latches onto every word you speak, heart running a million miles and no longer caring if you can feel it. it beats for you, fueled by his utmost desire to keep you safe, bring you away from those who would case you pain, anger.

he tries not to think about the fact that right up that staircase he found you on, was the person who caused you this harm. the man. the only driving motivation for his current state is his love for you being stronger than his hate for another.

“thankfully the cut of your nose is superficial, it’ll just need a bandage for a few days,” cassie starts, sitting on the edge of your bed and looking like she’s been bared witness to a sight she never wanted to see. her brows are pinched together, staring at you with this unreadable expression, “however, you have a broken collarbone, and hairline fracture in your left wrist, not including the 13 cuts that, in addition, are thankfully superficial.”

jack exhales a breath he’s practically been holding since he sat you in a wheelchair and brought you into the ED.

“what the hell happened?” robby ran up to the two of you, clear panic written across his face.

which was then followed by dana, samira, and several other residents with questions an concerns you didn’t know how to articulate without giving away details you weren’t comfortable with sharing just quite yet.

jack positioned himself at your side, like a guard dog ready to strike, arms crossing over his chest.

“let’s leave the questions until after she gets treated, alright?” and that was that, jack brushing off his colleagues and wheeling you into the nearest available room.

you let out a gasp as you shift, face scrunching up as more of your adrenaline begins to fade. jack grabs your hand, thumb soothing over your knuckles.

cassie exchanges a look with the older man, nodding to herself as she casts you one more glance.

“i’ll get you some medication for the pain.”

“thanks, cass.” you smile, a smile but genuine one at the redhead as she leaves the room.

jack is quick to take over the spot where she was just sat, continuing to caress the back of your hand.

“i’m sorry for calling you,” are the first words out of your mouth, catching jack off balance, he looks like you’ve just personally offended him, “it’s just, i didn’t know who el-,”

“never apologize for calling me, or needing me,” he’s dead serious, an expression so raw it makes you shy away, warmth spreading across your face, “i’ll always come if you’re the one calling.”

and you know it’s the truth, in the way he’s looking at you, how his grip on your hand is grounding yet delicate.

“i shouldn’t have gone home, you were right,” you look to his hand on yours, “i feel so stupid.”

“don’t, none of this is your fault.” jack responds, voice so sure you start to really believe it.

“he just got so angry, and he usually does but-,”

“WHERE THE FUCK IS MY WIFE?!”

you freeze, eyes going wide as a familiar screaming voice reverberates through the hall right outside the room you’re currently in. jack immediately understands what’s happened, who’s shouting. commotion follows outside.

“please, i can’t deal with this right now.”

“and you don’t have too,” jack is sure in his resolve,” stay here.” and jack is reluctantly releasing your hand, casting you a troubled glance as he exits.

jack finds a predictable scene unfolding by the nurses station. a man is still shouting expletives, thrashing as staff attempt to calm him down and get straight answers. it only seems to enrage him further. ahmad is running up the commotion, preparing to psychically restrain the man as jack appears swiftly.

ahmad goes to grab the outraged man’s arm, nearly falling backward as he tosses his arm back and shakes his grip off.

“sir-,”

“if you’re just here to cause problems, you’ll need to leave.” jack says to the man.

their eyes meet, jack doesn’t falter, expression hard.

your husband stumbles, clearly having been drinking.

“are you the guy she’s been fucking?” the words only anger jack, gasps ringing out as people stop to stare at the escalating situation.

“excuse me?”

jack spits out, ready to defend your honor when a fist is suddenly flying at his face. he esmanages to narrowly avoid it, allowing the man to trip over his own feet slam into the wall.

“that bitch,” is slurred as he tries to regain his wits, only to get the wind knocked out of him as ahmad grabs his arms from behind and keeps him pressed to the wall, “you can keep her.” and jack wants to watch the bloody smirk on his face crumble as his fist collides with it. wants to hear bones crunch beneath his hand, but he just breathes, taking a step back so security can escort him out.

his finds himself back in your room after assuring the ED would remain a safe place for you to stay. you’re now laying down, eyes on you ceiling.

“he’s gone.”

“i’m sorry.”

jack blinks, caught off guard. he’s hesitant to sit beside you, the urge to take your hand in his overwhelming.

“what could you possibly be sorry for?” he’s genuinely confused, staring at you like your apologize was a personal offense.

“everything,” you scoff, like it’s obvious, “involving you in all of this, my mess-,”

“for the record, you didn’t involve me, i chose this,” he doesn’t mean to cut you off, however he can’t stand on the look on your face. the way you keep trying to blame yourself, your eyes find his, “but, what he said..,” he trails off, watching your eyes widen.

it’s not impossible to think you heard the yelling, considering how close it was happening. jack takes the pause in conversation to take a seat on the bed, waiting for you to give him a sign you’re uncomfortable, you don’t.

“i know, there’s other ways to be unfaithful,” jack feels his heart stutter at your words, your eyes shine with tears, “the only moments i’ve been happy are the ones you’ve been involved in.”

your hand bumps his, fingers trembling like your worried he’ll reject it. he’s quick, hands latching to yours and thumb immediately caressing the back of it in gentle, firm movements.

the silence is welcomed, warm and inviting. he doesn’t choose to acknowledge the lack of the ring around your necklace, it speaks volumes on its own.

your hand stays clasped with his. words are unneeded as of now, a conversation is due, however how the two of you just enjoy the peace. the knowledge that even if there’s bumps, the path is smoother than it’s ever been before.

taglist

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─── ⋆ CHAPTERS ⋆

PART ONE 𖤓♡ — Jack Abbot values his routine and structure. Work, SWAT, gym... and for the past six weeks, spending his Sunday mornings admiring the enigmatic single mom who's apartment balcony sits across from his. [3k]

PART TWO 𖤓♡ — A scuffle in the hall causes Jack to accidentally take Phoebe’s wallet to work instead of his. He gains himself a new nickname amongst the Pitt and finally learns a thing or two about you and your daughter. [7.3k]

PART THREE 𖤓 — A trip to the ED, a retirement meal, and a phone call with Robby. One leaves you up close and personal with your neighbor, one has Phoebe spilling secrets like it's an Olympic sport, and another has Jack realizing he's got a fucking crush on the single mom in apartment seventeen. [7.1k]

PART FOUR 𖤓♡ — Phoebe's birthday party consists of four sets of eyes ogling Jack from the second he enters your apartment, screaming children, your mom noticing something rather interesting, and a night on the balcony that changes the trajectory of everything. [8.7k]

⤷ PART 4.5 𖤓 — You don't hear from Jack for three days after the kiss. But despite being swamped at the hospital, after he reaches out via text, he doesn't stop. [SMAU]

PART FIVE 𖤓★ — When Jack offers his company in the form of a date to celebrate your book release, he gets to understand the inner workings of your mind a bit more. Unfortunately, it does leave him with an ache he has to tend to using nothing but his own imagination. [7.8k]

PART SIX 𖤓★ — Three months of dating with no label and no real sense of security has you spiralling a bit when Tom demands to meet Jack. And you quickly start to realize that despite your attempts of keeping Phoebe and Jack apart, some bonds form whether you intend for them to or not. [8.2k]

PART SEVEN 𖤓★ — When the double date from Hell roles around, you're left with a new friend while Jack is struggling to come to terms with the type of person Phoebe is stuck with as a father. But despite that, it doesn't stop you and Jack from ending your evening with a bang. [12.2k]

PART EIGHT 𖤓★ — Pizzas, karaoke, movies and a sleepover. All at Phoebe’s request, of course, for Jack to spend Saturday night with them. And when Sunday morning rolls around, she’s got some things that she needs to get off her chest. [7.1k]

PART NINE 𖤓♡ — When Phoebe's field day goes nowhere near as planned, Bella is left to pick up the pieces of your broken heart while Karis goes into labor and Jack and your father have a heart to heart. [10.1k]

PART TEN (FINALE) 𖤓★ — TBA

─── ⋆ BONUS CONTENT ⋆

TBA

─── ⋆ MISC ⋆

#APT.17 (a tag for anything related to this series)

SUNDAY FUNK DAY SPOTIFY PLAYLIST

You look at her through the rearview mirror with a reassuring smile. She’s dressed in a pair of pink shorts and a Pink Floyd t-shirt, sunnies resting on her nose and hair braided back. “No, baby. Jack’s gonna fix it.”

“Can’t fix it.” Jack appears at the passenger side again, lips curled in a thin line as he rests both forearms on the top of the car, leaning in slightly. “Gonna have to take it to a mechanic. Engine’s fucked.”

“Jack!” Phoebe quickly scolds him for the cuss word, and when you dare to look at her through the mirror again, she wears a furiously disappointed expression.

It’s something she’s picked up on since her little scolding two months ago, when she called Tom an ass. Not that you can really blame her, he’s been radio silent since you sent a few shitty messages expressing your anger. 

Hasn’t shown up on the agreed days to see her, hasn’t even sent a message to check in. And despite it, you’ve still reached out to inform him of her field day today. Another one that’s been left on read and ignored.

Jack at least has the audacity to grimace, spluttering out an apology and offering you a sheepish expression. Your hands drop from the wheel with a sigh, reaching up to pinch the bridge of your nose. 

“Can’t do it now, we’ll miss field day.” Jack shrugs, moving toward Phoebe’s door and tugging it open. 

“I can get my guy to take a look tomorrow. I’ll drive us instead.” 

You don’t know why you even allowed yourself to begin to stress. Of course, Jack will just drive instead. You blame your increased annoyance and stress levels on Tom because your resentment toward him has reached an all time high. 

Phoebe hops out of your car when Jack unclips her, skips toward Jack’s which is quite literally parked beside yours. He’s already unlocked it and Phoebe gets herself into the back while Jack retrieves her carseat from yours. 

It’s far too natural and practiced when he locks your car and carries Phoebe’s seat across to the back row of his vehicle. When he fastens it securely and buckles Phoebe in while you get comfortable in the passenger side. 

Jack’s engine doesn’t rumble or splutter like it’s sick when he starts up. It purrs and vibrates to life and the aircon kicks in immediately. 

You’ve always enjoyed watching Jack drive. His relaxed grip on the steering wheel, the focused set between his brows when he checks it’s safe to pull out and onto the road. There’s also something oddly sexy about the way his biceps flex beneath his cotton-shirt when he turns left with the palm of his hand.

You’re not exactly slick with your admiration, but Jack doesn’t comment on it. He does, however, shoot you a wide glance as a smirk curls at the corner of his mouth. It’s something he’s noticed a lot more over the past six to eight weeks; your seeming infatuation with his arms and muscles. 

You’ve been favouring curling a palm around his biceps on walks a lot more recently, instead of intertwining fingers. Not ever something Jack will complain about. He welcomes the ego boost and reassurance that your attraction to him isn’t just for his personality and heart. It’s his old man looks, too. 

And the more time that passes, the bolder you’re becoming with him. Jack doesn’t mean just sexually, he means in the gentle domestic way, too. 

You’ve relaxed more when it comes to him and Phoebe, like you’re finally understanding that Jack doesn’t plan on going anywhere. He’s been spending the night more often than not; settling Phoebe to bed with you of an evening, and comforting her in the middle of the night when she’s startled awake from a nightmare. 

Or more recently, growing pains in her shins. 

Jack’s found his footing in this little family, has grown comfortable in the warmth of your home and hearts. For months, Jack’s worried about overstepping, of being too present. But when you didn’t ask him to come to Phoebe’s school field day—when you just assumed he’ll be there—Jack realized what this was becoming. 

“Jack, your music isn’t on.” Phoebe whines from the backseat. 

He casts a glance at her through the rearview mirror, grins at the disappointed pout on the kids lips and reaches into the cup holder for his phone. With his eyes back on the road, he passes it to you silently. 

The screen lights up, his lockscreen a photo of Phoebe stuffing her face with pancakes when the three of you went for breakfast a few weeks ago. There’s a dull ache that forms behind your heart at the sight of it, at how openly he loves her. 

You swipe the screen up, typing in his password and making your way to the Spotify app. When you go into his library, there are only three playlists. The first is your Sunday Funk Day mix, the one he asked you to send him almost seven months ago when you were only in that odd texting stage. 

The second one has no playlist cover, a generic title of My Playlist.

But the third one, it takes you a moment before you can click on it. 

My Divas.

The playlist cover is a photo of you and Phoebe asleep on the couch, cuddled up under a knitted blanket with mouths agape and heads lulled back. 

When you click into it, you’re met with a list of songs that tally up to 8 hours and 39 minutes of playtime. You hit shuffle, let the music flow through the cars stereo system. Phoebe’s quick to sing along to the familiar tune and you take a moment to scroll through the list. 

Half of the songs are from your own playlist…the other half, you come to realize, are songs that remind Jack of you and Pheebs. 

You can feel yourself growing warm, can feel a tender sensation wrap around your bones and you lock Jack’s phone, tucking it back into the cup holder. 

It’s been on your mind for longer than you’d like to admit; the change between you both, the heaviness and overwhelming feeling you get in your heart when it comes to Jack. 

But you don’t say anything, even if that feeling does bloom across your chest with each day that passes. Instead, you sing along with them both. You dance in your seat and let the sound of Jack and Phoebe’s laughter wash over you. 

Let yourself understand and accept for the first time, that this may be your forever. 

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

Your palm curls around Jack’s bicep as you walk across the field, a laugh barking out of you as the sound of Phoebe’s loud excitement follows you across the grass. The moment you had taken her to her classmates and dropped her bag and water off with her teachers, she rushed over to her friends and didn’t even offer a second glance at you or Jack. 

It didn’t matter how many times the both of you called out to her, she wasn’t having any of it. 

“She’s gonna be exhausted after this.” Jack comments with a fond tone, cocking his head down just enough to grin at you.

You meet his gaze with the same expression, squeezing the muscle of his arm and practically skipping in step with him. “Hm, maybe she’ll actually sleep through the night, then.” 

Jack hums, leaning down just enough to press a kiss to the top of your head while still walking toward the rest of the parents across the various tracks and equipment set up for the kids. 

“Tony will come by tomorrow morning when I’m back from work to take a look at the car.” 

Your brows knit at his words and you turn to him again, still walking toward where you’ve spotted your parents and friends. 

“You’ve already spoken to him?”

Jack hums. “Shot him a text when we got here. Said I’ll meet him out front at nine.” 

You watch him for a moment, blinking at this capable, honest, strong, observant, sexy man that you somehow get to call your boyfriend. One of the only men that hasn’t disappointed you—a man whose actions always match his words. 

And it’s entirely inappropriate for you to feel so hot about it given your surroundings. 

Just like everything else when it comes to you, Jack notices. The heat that sits at the apples of your cheeks, the slight heaviness that passes over your eyes, the slight dents your fingernails mark in his skin when you grip his bicep a bit tighter. 

He stares down at you with a secret smirk and a quirked brow, amusement licking at the gleam in his eyes.

“Yeah? That gets you going, baby?” His voice is a low murmur, deep, teasing, and only loud enough for your ears alone. 

You suck your bottom lip between your teeth, dig your nails into him a little harder. “Shutup. It’s sexy when you fix things…when you take care of things.”

A dark, breathy chuckle escapes him and his voice lowers even more when you grow closer to your parents and friends. “That right? Just things or you?”

You dare a gaze up at him from beneath your lashes. “Both.” 

His grin turns borderline sinful when he gently unwraps your palm from around his arm and gently pushes you to walk in front of him with his hand on your lower back, squeezing through groups of families to reach your own. 

His body is pressed against the back of yours as he keeps close, and when you’re out of the thick of the crowd, Jack leans down to line his lips with your ear, his stubble grazing deliciously at your jaw.

“For what it’s worth, it’s sexy when you let me.” 

“Honey! Jack!” You’re given no time or chance to recalibrate your mind when your mom is calling out to you both, waving her hands as if you can’t see her from just twelve feet away. 

Jack squeezes your hip, the bastard, and waves back animatedly to your parents. As if he hasn’t just riled you up or short-circuited your brain. 

He jumps straight into conversation with David and Ricky, like he’s known them for years. Talking about what, you’re unsure but somewhere mid conversation with your mom, you notice Jack showing off his prosthetic in his khaki shorts. 

It’s midway through Phoebe’s egg and spoon race that Karis comes hobbling over with Bella. The former holds water while the latter stuffs a hotdog into her mouth like it’s the only sausage she’s found enjoyment in for years. 

“You should not be here, you’re a week overdue!” You greet Karis with a playful scold and she grins in return, spare hand caressing her overly swollen bump. 

You reach for it the moment she’s close enough, palms cupping the fabric of her sundress in hopes of feeling a kick. 

“Jack’s here, so if I go into labor I should be fine.” 

The unexpected joke pulls a laugh out of you, bright and genuine and incredibly amused. Before you can make a joke back about your own incident with your pelvic exam, shouts of angry encouragement sound from beside you. 

“Come on, Phoebe!”

“Take her out, Diva! Keep fucking going!”

Chloe and Leone are red in the face, far too invested as you follow their line of sight to find Phoebe almost sprinting with a spoon in front of her, tediously balancing an egg in the dip of the utensil. 

She approaches one of her classmates, hot on her heels and passing her just at the finish line.

“Good job, kid!” Her head whips around at the sound of Jack’s voice calling out to her in praise, the smile on her face enough to light up a dark room. 

“I did it!” she screams across the field, jumping in her spot as she holds the spoon and egg in the air. 

Prue cackles out a laugh as she videos her granddaughter, laughing louder when Florence races to Pheebs to tackle her in a hug to celebrate. 

Bella snorts from beside you, muttering something about the pair of them being nothing but trouble makers when they’re older. The thought makes you feel proud and sick at the same time. 

You hear Jack’s laughter when the girls start dancing, and when you look across your little group, you find him with his camera facing them, a grin on his face and pride in his eyes. 

The sun beats down on him, casting his skin golden, caressing his freckles, brightening his splatter of grey hairs and glinting off the metal of his leg. For once, Jack doesn’t notice your admiration, doesn’t feel your presence grow closer and closer until you’re by his side. 

The moment he does, it’s instinctive for his arm to snake around your waist, to pull you into him while keeping his attention on Phoebe and Florence.

“She’s having so much fun,” he says softly. 

You hum, watching as Flo runs off for her next course and Pheebs remains in her spot, chugging half a bottle of water and picking flowers from the grass.

“Thank you for coming.” 

Jack looks down at you with a frown at your words, pocketing his phone to turn to you fully; both hands on your hips as you reach to wrap your arms around his neck. 

“Baby, you do not have to thank me for showing up for Pheebs.” He wants to say that it’s his job, that he couldn’t imagine not being there for her for anything, ever. You can tell as much by the hesitancy that flashes across his eyes.

“I know,” you say quietly. “But I want you to know that I notice. I see everything you do for us, I—we—appreaicte it, appreciate you.”

Jack’s gaze softens into something tender and understanding. A hand abandons your waist to cradle your jaw, his thumb soothing across your cheek and you go boneless in his hold. It causes a surge of something hot to swarm Jack’s heart.

Because Jack doesn’t think he’s ever done anything overly special or out of the ordinary for either of you. And yet, you gaze up at him like he’s personally hung every star in the sky.

“I don’t show up to be appreciated, I do it because I lo—”

A nervous call of your name cuts Jack off before he can say it. Both your heads turn to your dad, whose eyes are focused and hard on the field behind you. 

You don’t have any time to dwell on the thumping of your heartbeat, to push for Jack to continue whatever he was going to say. Because when you follow your dad’s line of sight, Phoebe is toe to toe with a boy in her class and her fists are tight at her side. 

You watch in anxious fury when the little blond boy steps closer into Phoebe’s space, but she doesn't back down. She continues to frown, to hold her own with her chin held high. 

The kids lips are moving, snickering but none of you can make out what’s being said. Whatever it is, it makes Pheebs laugh, which in turn seems to make the kid angrier. You feel movement from beside you; Jack itching to cross the field and sort the issue himself, but you reach a hand for his arm to stop him. 

“Just give her a second.”

He blinks, but does not argue, returns to your side while David watches from your other. 

When the boy puts his hands on Phoebe’s shoulders and shoves, your blood roars angry and Jack is struggling to stay beside you. His own fists are curled, eyes scanning the crowd for the boy's father. 

He almost misses when Phoebe quickly finds her balance and shoves the kid back with even more force, knocking him on his ass. A prideful grin curls on Jack’s face, and he’s struck with two thoughts. 

One immediate, the other sobering. 

His first thought is that the idea of someone hurting his little girl is enough to make him feral. To screw the oath he took when he became a doctor and to inflict as much harm as humanly possible to anyone that poses a threat to Phoebe. 

The second thought comes a second too late after the first. Realization catching him deathly still. His little girl. How easy it had been to call her that in his mind, to feel that way about her. How quickly he was willing to go against his oath and word and character. 

His little girl.

His little girl. 

His little girl. 

It sobers him enough to realize just how deep he’s fallen. What little right he actually has to consider her as such. His inner panic is lost on you, your gaze still set on Pheebs, a grin of pride on your own face at how well she handled herself.

Jack looks back across the field, watches the way she sticks her tongue out at the little boy before walking away and lining up for the relay race. She’s so much like you that it hurts Jack’s heart. 

Your smile, your resilience, your strength and your humor. Phoebe has become such a prominent little figure in Jack’s life now. To the point that if, for whatever reason, things don’t work out between the two of you, he could never imagine turning his back on her. 

He’s already made it clear that this is not casual. But now, Jack is met with the very real epiphany that he wants this to be his forever. That he needs to be there to watch Phoebe grow like every father does for their daughter. 

That he will do anything to be offered the privilege of being whatever type of figure you’ll both allow him to be. 

“That’s our girl.” The words fall from yours and David’s mouth at the same time, wearing far too identical grins for a father and daughter through choice and not blood. 

Jack swallows thickly, looses a shaky breath when he feels a warm gust of air caress the side of his face—one he now associates with his late Mary. 

Reassuring him, soothing him. 

Too caught up in his mind, he doesn’t notice your phone pinging consistently from your back pocket, or the dejection that plasters its way across your face. It’s only when you’re resting a palm on his bicep and holding out your phone to him that you catch his attention. 

“I'll be right back. Can you take some photos of Pheebs?”

He hums, takes the phone and puckers his lips when you lean up to kiss him. Jack doesn’t watch you walk away, gets the camera ready instead to record Phoebe’s next race as you excuse yourself. 

Tom’s text still echoes in your mind. 

Can you meet me in the parking lot?

There’s a horrible feeling in your gut. One that promises he’s about to ruin Phoebe’s day with his presence alone. Part of you wonders if he’s seen Jack’s car here instead of yours and is about to refuse to show up unless you make Jack leave. 

When you approach the parking lot and spot Tom leaning against the bonnet of his Audi, you throw your hands up at your sides in both annoyance and exasperation. 

“You ignored me for two months and now you can’t even show your face at your daughter's field day?” you call out across the short distance. 

But as you grow closer, stopping just a few feet from him, Tom doesn’t look angry or resentful. It’s so much worse than that. He looks…regretful. Sad. 

“I didn’t want her to see me.” 

Your brows pinch involuntarily at the sombre sound of his voice. It’s a tone you don’t think you’ve ever heard from him before and you can’t put your finger on it but it’s leaving you very unsettled. 

“What’s going on?” Your voice is careful, tedious. 

Tom’s hands are shoved into his jean pockets, shoulder dropping as he blows out a heavy exhale of air. He doesn’t look at you, keeps his gaze locked on the tarmac beneath his feet. 

“I think I need to take a step back.” Tom lifts his gaze to yours and for the first time in years, you can see the pain in them. 

“I’m not—” he exhales shakily, pulls his hands out of his pockets to run them down his face. “I’m not cut out for this. Being a dad.” 

You blink at him, feel your heart stop in your chest before it begins to ache; like it’s being dragged down to the pit of your stomach. 

“What are you saying?” Your tone is hard, voice close to trembling from the anger and heartache. 

Tom remains silent for a moment, chewing on the inside of his cheek. Like the coward he is, he averts your gaze again, focuses on the way his shoes scuff at the ground. 

“I’m saying that I think I need to step away. For good. I never wanted kids, Y/N. When you told me you were pregnant with Phoebe, that didn’t change for me. I’ve tried to be a dad, but it’s just not the life I’m supposed to live.”

You can feel your blood rushing in your ears, can feel an ache in your fingertips as he speaks. You’re stunned, unable to articulate your thoughts fast enough to compose a sentence. 

...It’s just not the life I’m supposed to live.

You stare at him, at the man you once loved, the father of your child. There’s a ringing in his ears as he continues speaking. Talking about his dreams to travel and explore, how Phoebe does not fit into any narrative of the life he’s created in his head. In any of the plans he’s made for his future. 

Your throat grows tight in anger and resentment, in pure, unadulterated hate. 

Because you changed your life and your dreams to fit around Phoebe. You consider her in every single decision you make, in every tiny thought you have. You’ve sacrificed sleep and relationships and opportunities for her. 

Because that’s what a mother does. It’s what a parent does. 

And here Tom is, making it loud and clear that he does not want her. That he doesn’t want to be her dad, he doesn’t want her in his life. That Phoebe is nothing but a burden to him, something that he never asked for. 

“Are you fucking kidding me right now?” Your voice is tight with fury when you finally manage to speak. “I have given you every out possible! I never forced this on you, I asked you several times to just fucking walk away. But you just couldn’t take the thought of us doing well without you. You sit there and you disrespect me, you talk shit on Jack– who, by the way, has been more of a father to her than you ever have—”

“I know!” Tom’s voice raises into a shout, one full of his own anger and hatred. You refuse to shrink away from it, from him. 

“She deserves Jack. You deserve Jack. He is a good man and I fucking hate it.” Tom spits the words with so much venom it makes your blood boil and you can’t help but scoff. 

“Is that what this is? Because of Jack? You’re threatened by him?” Your voice rises with every word. “You’re going to walk away from your daughter because another man is more of a father to her than you are!?”

Tom clenches his jaw, jerks his head to look away from you; a tell sign that he’s trying to calm himself down, and it’s absolutely fucking pathetic.

But he doesn’t say anything else. He doesn’t argue that that’s not the case, doesn’t push to try to be better for her, or to offer any other reason besides the selfish life he’s carved himself. 

You swallow down the bile that’s rising up your throat. “If you walk away from her now, you are not welcome back. Not ever, and I fucking mean that, Tom.” 

He nods to himself, stands with his hands still tucked into his pockets. “I’m not on her birth certificate so I don’t have any legal rights as a father. But if you want to speak with the courts so it’s all legit, we can. Let me know.” 

You stare at him in astonishment, your breathing ragged and vision blurring as Tom rounds the bonnet of his car to get into the driver's side. He doesn’t offer you another glance when the engine starts and he pulls out of the parking lot. 

You’re still staring at the empty space after he’s gone. Unable to truly process what the fuck has just happened, how absolute he is in his decision to walk out on Phoebe. His daughter, his blood. 

Your movements are mindless and subconscious when you trek back to the field, silent streams of silver that glisten on the warm skin of your cheeks. It doesn’t matter that he was absent anyway, it doesn’t matter that all he’s ever done is disappoint…what matters is that he has never loved Phoebe.

That your sweet girl is going to grow up wondering why she was never good enough for her own father. A feeling you’re far too familiar with and something you never ever wanted her to experience. 

Jack’s the one that notices your return first. A cheer halting from the back of his throat as Pheebs wins another race when he catches sight of you. He moves quickly, eyes wide with panic and concern at the pure shock and devastation on your face. 

“Honey? What’s wrong? Hey, what happened?” 

His palms are cupping your face with a ghost of a touch, not wanting to crowd you but needing to help you snap out of whatever the fuck is going on. The moment you feel his skin on yours, when his scent and comforting presence envelops you, a sob tears through the back of your throat.

He wipes away the tears as quickly as they fall, shushing and cooing and trying to get you to breathe. The sound of your cries and Jack’s slightly panicked tone is enough to catch the attention of the others.

“Sweetheart, what’s wrong?”

“Where did you go? What happened?” 

No one touches you but Jack. But your parents stand beside him, Bella too while Karis, Ricky, Leon and Chloe stand back in worry and concern. 

Your friends have been with you since highschool, have watched you through your biggest highs and your lowest of lows. The only other time they’ve ever seen you so distraught is when you lost your fiance. 

It breaks their hearts. 

“Tom was in the parking lot.” You take a breath, struggling to wipe away your tears. 

You feel Jack grow tense at the mention of him and his presence, watch his gaze turn from panic to fury and can tell just by the look on his face that he’s trying to calm down and not cause a scene.

Prue watches with concern, finally finds herself reaching out to rub a gentle hand up and down your arm. David, however, shares the same cold expression as Jack, and he reaches for him with a hand on his shoulder—a silent vow to promise he’ll beat Tom’s ass with him.

“He’s uh…he’s gone.” 

Your mom blinks, shakes her head in confusion. “What do you mean?”

“He’s walking away,” your voice is hoarse. “He said he’ll contact the courts if needed to resign his parental rights over Phoebe.” 

“What?” Jack’s breathless reply is all he can muster up. He can feel his heart sinking to his stomach, the shock and heartache for Phoebe tingling in his fingertips. 

You barely notice movement from your side, don’t turn your head to see Bella stomping off toward the parking lot, don’t hear Karis sending Ricky to follow. But you do hear the cry that slips from your mom, the way she reaches for your dad in comfort.

Because they know what this means for Phoebe. The upset and anger that you went through as a kid toward your biological parents for walking away, is something she will now no doubt struggle with. 

It’s the same thing that’s replaying in your mind, in Jack’s too. It’s enough for him to wrap you in his arms and coddle you to his chest, to cup the back of your head with one hand while the other attempts to soothingly stroke up and down your spine. 

“You are everything that she’ll ever need, okay? She has us. She’ll never not have us.” 

His hold on you is nothing short of secure and safe. A silent promise alongside his words that he is not going anywhere. 

She has us. She’ll never not have us.

Jack pulls away just enough to get a look at you, to wipe the remnant tears from your pretty face. 

“I know she’s better off without him and he has never once been consistent, but I gave him so many chances to walk away, Jack. I told him to leave before she was old enough to understand…”

“I know, baby. I know.” His palms rest on your shoulders, a firm sort of massage to do anything to try and help the tension in your muscles. 

David watches with an ache in his chest, rubbing at the spot with a wide palm like he’s physically pained by the situation. His eyes flicker from you to Bella and Ricky who rejoin the group, shaking their hands that Tom wasn’t there for them to tear into. 

Jack lets his gaze stretch across the field, checking that Phoebe is still okay. She’s none the wiser to the situation, happily skipping through another race where Chloe and Leone have moved closer—most likely to keep her distracted if she looks over and spots the commotion. 

When Jack turns back to you, you’ve wiped your face and appear somewhat more composed on the surface. But he can read you like a book; and he can see the hurt and pain you’re struggling to bury in your eyes. 

“I’ll call in tonight, okay? I’ll get Shen to cover.”

Guilt hits you almost as hard as the hurt and you’re shaking your head before he can finish getting his words out. “No. Work is more important, they need you there.”

He wants to argue otherwise, you know he does. That you are more important right now, that Phoebe is. If his job wasn’t so crucial, you’re ashamed to admit you’d allow him to call in sick, that you’d be selfish enough to ask him to stay with you.

“Hey,” Bella interrupts gently with a soft hand on your arm. “I’ll stay over tonight. The girls can have a sleepover. 

You don’t even consider refusing Bella’s offer. Not because you prefer her comfort or company over Jack's, but because this is something you expect from your best friend. Because you’ve both done it for one another so much over the years. Because you are aunts to one another’s daughters. 

But Jack is just Phoebe’s moms boyfriend. If her own biological father can’t stick around and show up for her, how can you ever expect Jack to. It’s an unfair expectation to have. One that, perhaps you’re not entitled to. 

And he can see it. The thought process as Bella offers herself to you for the evening. He watches all the progress you’ve made together go backwards—watches you sink back into those feelings of unworthiness, of being too much.

Jesus Christ, it breaks his fucking heart. 

And when you nod at Bella through teary eyes and an appreciative smile, he doesn’t even get to pull you aside to talk you down from this undeserving ledge. A gasp sounds from behind you the moment he tries to reach out, and everyone's attention is diverted to a slightly pale Karis and the burst of fluid that’s drenched the grass beneath her feet. 

“Karis…”

“I’m sorry, I think my waters just broke.” 

It’s entirely accidental and completely clumsy when Ricky gently tries to shove through everyone to get to his wife, tripping over his feet and pale in complexion. He doesn’t touch her when he reaches her, hands frozen at his sides as he stares at the wet ground. 

“Okay, uh, we should go…” He sounds so unsure of himself, nothing like the usual Ricky you’ve come to know and love. 

For a split, selfish moment, you forget about everything else around you. It’s shoved to the back of your mind as you watch one of your bestest friends about to become a mother. The hurt and anguish is momentarily replaced with overwhelming joy and excitement. 

But it all comes crashing back to you when you watch Ricky hold Karis so tenderly, when he peppers kisses to her temple and they grin at one another when the shock turns into excitement. It’s a feeling of anguish and envy because that was not the experience you had. 

Tom did not hold or caress you when your labor started. He didn’t breathe with you through contractions, did not hold your hand or reassure you when Phoebe stopped moving and her heartrate began to drop. 

Because Tom didn’t show up. He wasn’t there for any of your appointments, never listened to Phoebe’s heartbeat as she grew. He declined every one of your calls when you tried to tell him you were going into labor, declined your fathers when he tried to update him that you were going for surgery, that there was a possibility that Phoebe wouldn’t make it. 

It makes you feel sick to feel so envious of Karis’ happiness in this moment. She deserves the love and support. She deserves for her birth to feel magical and precious. You didn’t deserve the fear and loneliness of yours, even if your mom was with you. 

But more importantly, it makes you realize that the only thing Tom has ever offered Phoebe is confusion and instability. 

And Jack watches it all like he can see every thought flash across your eyes. The hurt and pain, the mix of envy and happiness. 

He doesn’t say anything as he reaches for you, as he tucks you against his chest and rests his chin on the top of your head. But your arms circle his waist and your nuzzle into him, loosing a heavy breath. 

“It’ll be okay, honey.”

The certainty of his reassurance pierces through your heart. And despite your worry that one day Jack could decide to just up and leave, too, you still let yourself wonder why it couldn’t have been him. 

Why you couldn’t have met him sooner, why he couldn’t have been the one to hold your hand and guide your breathing through contractions. Why he couldn’t have been the one to cry with you in surgery. Why he couldn’t be Phoebe’s father.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

Phoebe and Florence grin at the camera, three trophies stuffed under their arms and one silver medal hanging from their necks. Their cheeks are flushed, hair windswept and knees grass-stained, but they both beam with so much happiness and pride.

“Hold still…” You manage to snap three photos before Phoebe drops the proof of her achievements and races to the kitchen for food, Florence’s footsteps just as loud and urgent as she follows. 

“No running in the house!” Bella calls after them, nursing an iced tea as she lounges at the kitchen island in Prue and David’s house. 

The girls giggle as they climb to sit at the island with her, chugging their plastic cups of water and stuffing cucumber sticks in their mouths. Your mom watches in fondness, cutting sandwiches into small triangles and placing them on an oval platter. 

“Lunch before playing in the yard. You strong girls need your energy before playing.” She says it in the most lovingly stern voice she can muster, but everyone knows she’ll cave the moment the girls batter their lashes and compliment her hair. 

Smart girls. They’ve got Grandma sussed. 

Jack places the trophies back on the counter, watches in astonishment as the girls eat half their weight in sandwiches and veggie sticks (something that is usually a battle for Pheebs), and then race out to the backyard to play in the Wendy house. 

The moment they are out of earshot, all eyes are turning to you and you fucking hate it. 

“I don’t wanna talk about it.” 

“Honey…” Your mom softens, reaches across the island to brush her fingertips against yours.

You pull away with a shake of your head. Not because her comfort isn’t welcomed, but because if you accept it, you’ll crumble. And you don’t want to cry anymore because of Tom, because of what he’s done to Phoebe. 

“No—I… he’s never been a father to her. Never showed up when it matters, never cared enough to put her first. I’m just—angry. So fucking angry and tired and—”

Your dads arms wrap around you the moment you crumble, and he holds you like you’re a teenager again; angry at the world and confused and lost. 

It feels the same to him, like he’s comforting his little girl, trying to protect her from the evil of the world. But you’re not a little girl anymore, and this is not something that he can protect you from. But he holds you tight, anyway. Lets you cry into his chest and lets you sink because he will always catch you.

David’s chin rests on the top of your head when he casts a glance at Prue, who’s covering her trembling mouth with her palm. Bella, who cries silently because while Florence’s dad has never been in the picture, at least he had the decency to walk away before it began. 

And when David looks toward Jack, he holds you tighter. Jack’s eyes are set on the kitchen counter, knuckles white as he grips the corners, jaw set tight and eyes rimmed with tears. 

The sounds of your cries and sniffles tear his chest apart. In his forty-four years of life, he has never felt such anger, never been riddled with so much hate and disgust for one person. And David can see it in his eyes, can feel those emotions rolling off him. 

He presses a kiss to your forehead as he pulls away and lets you have a moment to wipe your tears. The movement catches Jack’s attention and he turns to David, nose twitching as he tries to reign in his emotions. 

David nods his head briefly to you, a silent command that you need him right now and he doesn’t hesitate. Jack pushes off the counter to move toward you, to stand at your back and place steady hands on your shoulders, to lean down and press a tender kiss to your temple. 

Your shoulders drop at the feel of him so close, like a blanket of safety and comfort has been draped over you. One hand comes up to rest on his; your fingertips tracing his knuckles as your head falls back against his chest with another sniffle. 

“She is going to ask questions,” David says softly. “You did, too. But you have time before that happens. Time to decide what truth you want to tell her.”

You nod as you exhale shakily, fingers wrapping around Jack’s and you squeeze one another in a desperate need of reassurance. 

“But you listen to me good, kid. You are a phenomenal mother. You have sacrificed so much for your daughter, you have shown up for her every day and you have never once put a single thing before her. You are all she has ever needed and all she ever will.”

Your father stares at you with so much love and adoration and respect that you don’t quite know what to do with it. To have made him as proud as you have…it has tears burning at your eyes again. 

And you believe him. You are a good mother, you will always put Phoebe before anything, but you have not done it alone. You’ve had your parents by your side every step of the way. Had Bella and Karis, Chloe and Leone. 

And now, Jack. 

Your sweet, incredible Jack. Who has never once complained when you’ve had to cancel a date. Who has always considered Phoebe and planned dates to accommodate her. Who has come into her life and stayed, never once disappointing or not showing up since the moment they met. 

Jack, who loves Phoebe with every fibre of his being. 

And when David’s eyes flick up from yours to meet Jack’s, his head nods in something subtle. Like a silent way of saying, you too, the both of you is all she needs. 

“Now, we are not going to cry anymore. I am going to make my grandbabies some popcorn and we are going to forget about that little asshole.” 

He calls the girls in while everyone else wipes away their tears, makes a show of getting out a pan for popcorn and when you catch Jack’s gaze, he tilts his head toward the yard in silent invitation. 

The air kisses your warm skin as you take your seats on the patio furniture, pressed into Jack’s side as he curls an arm around your shoulder to keep you close. 

You sit in silence for a minute, like you’re both trying to figure out how to broach the subject, where to go from here.

“Can you promise me something?” Jack asks quietly, voice low and slightly pained. 

You pull away just enough to crane your neck up to look at him at the same time he gazes down at you. And it’s then that you notice the redness of his eyes; the worry and concern and hurt that’s buried itself deep in the lines of his skin. 

“You talk to me.” His voice cracks when he requests it. “You don’t get stuck or lost in your head. You have a concern, you voice it. We talk through it. ‘Cause I’m not going anywhere, and I need you to tell me you understand that.”

You swallow the lump in your throat, the need to argue that if Tom can so easily walk away from Pheebs, what’s to say that he won’t, too.

“I know what you’re thinking, and it’s not going to happen.” Jack rasps like he can read your mind, and you don’t miss the hurt in his voice. The fact that you think he could so easily, so carelessly walk away from either of you like that. 

“You say that now, but what if things change.” He hates the pain in your voice, the worry and fear and heartache.

Jack shakes his head, his hand coming up to caress your jaw and stroke soothingly against your cheek; catching the tears before they can fully fall. 

“Baby, I told you before but I’ll happily tell you again…you and Phoebe are all that I care about. Your happiness, your safety, your health…”

His voice is a wreck as he stares down at you, as he catches the sheer vulnerability in your eyes. It’s on the tip of his tongue, right on the precipice of spilling over. But he catches it before it can. 

“There is nothing that I wouldn't do for you, for Phoebe. And even if you and I don’t work out, or you meet someone younger or better—”

“—there is no younger or better—”

“—I will never turn my back on her. I give you my word, that I will be present in Phoebe’s life, no matter what. In whatever capacity you allow me to be, I will be there. Happily. Willingly.” 

You stare at him in awe, with so much adoration that you feel yourself starting to cry again. You have never felt this way about anyone. Not Tom, not even your beloved lost love. 

He leans down to close the small gap, rests your foreheads together as the tip of his nose brushes down the slope of yours. “You two have made an irrevocable mark on me. You are not something I plan to walk away from.”

Your bottom lip trembles at the sincerity of his words, at the soft and gentleness he’s always given you. You’ve never been cared for so openly, so genuinely. No one has ever been so gentle with your heart and mind. No one has ever watered your soul in hopes that it will bloom and thrive. 

No one but Jack. 

Perhaps it’s wrong to feel so significantly lighter when he intertwines your fingers and guides you back into your parents house. Maybe you should still be hurt and sad and inconsolable over the events of the day. 

But you do. 

You let yourself trust him, his words and his heart. You let yourself laugh loudly when your dad makes his so-called ‘crazy popcorn’, where he lifts the lid of the pan to stress the importance of keeping it on and kernels fly across the kitchen. 

When Phoebe and Florence almost piss themselves from laughing so hard. 

It suddenly makes sense to Jack what Pheebs had meant a couple of months ago when he wasn’t as creative and just made the popcorn in the microwave. A mental note he makes for next time. 

He squeezes your hand gently, trying to catch your attention. And when you turn to him with some of the light back in your eyes, it’s like he visibly relaxes. 

“I’m gonna head back to the apartment. Check on Sally, get some shut eye before shift tonight.” 

The thought of not having him by your side right now isn’t one you’re too thrilled about, but you nod anyway, intertwining your fingers. 

“Alright, we’re gonna stay here for a bit.” 

Jack watches you for a moment, like he’s searching for any split second of hesitancy or unease so can insist on calling in sick and staying with you. But he finds none.

“You sure you’ll be okay?” He asks quietly. 

You’re not sure, not even in the slightest. But you have Bella and the girls. You can’t expect or allow him to put his life on pause because of something another man has done. That’s not fair to him.

So you nod, plaster on a smile that’s as believable as possible. “Yeah. Bella’s gonna stay. And our talk helped.”

Jack squints at you, like he can tell you’re trying to save face for him and he doesn’t like it. But he’a already made it clear to you that he’s here, that he wants to help. He worries that if he pushes more you’ll pull away again. So he relents with a sigh and his hands on your waist, luring you into his arms.

“Okay, you call me if you need me and I'll check in through the night.”

Selfishly, you don’t even consider refusing that. You’ll happily take the calls and texts through his shift, if only until you can be with him again tomorrow. 

Jack leans close to press a tender kiss to your forehead, hands gripping your waist like he’s making sure you’re not about to disappear. And it’s like it physically pains him to pull away to say goodbye to everyone else. 

Prue seeks him out first, wrapping him in a mother’s embrace that he hasn’t felt for himself in many years. She squeezes him like he’s her only son, whispers her thanks for looking after her daughter and grandbaby.

Jack doesn’t have it in him to be able to reply without growing upset. So he smiles through pursed lips and untangles from her hold when David approaches to pat a hand on his shoulder and turns their bodies toward the sink to form a quiet curtain of privacy. 

“I want you to do me a favor.” 

Jack keeps his gaze focused on the faucet as David speaks in a low tone; one that’s rich in pain and protectiveness and he hates that he knows what he's about to be asked. 

“You might feel like it’s not your place, but you cannot allow Tom back into their lives. I know my daughter is a strong woman…but she cannot handle this when it comes to Phoebe.”

Jack cranes his neck to the side to meet David’s desperate gaze. There’s more to it in his eyes, more than just asking a favor for this situation. There’s the worry of who will take care of them when he’s gone. Because the years are passing faster than he can keep up with.

“I’m—” Jack’s voice cracks and he clears his throat, speaking again in a much lower and pained tone. “I’m not sure she’d want me to involve myself.”

David shakes his head before he manages to finish his sentence. “You’re already involved, son. You’re in love with my daughter and you treat Phoebe like she’s your own. They are your family now. As men, we protect our families.”

There’s a stinging sensation behind Jack’s eyes, a throbbing that aches around his heart. David is a smart man, he knows. It’s his way of making sure Jack can take care of you both, his way of accepting him, his silent blessing wrapped in protective ribbon. 

You’re in love with my daughter.

He doesn’t deny it. 

“Yes, sir.” Jack nods, voice gravelly. 

David squeezes his shoulder as a sad sort of grin begins to tug across your father’s mouth. “Just David to you.”

He doesn’t say anything else. Just passes Jack with a fatherly pat on his back before returning his attention to Phoebe and Florence—who Jack had no idea Prue and David also considered to be their granddaughter. 

“I’ll stay with her tonight, promise.”

He turns at the sound of Bella’s voice as she stands beside him, leaning against the kitchen counter with arms crossed over her chest. 

“Thank you.” He looses a sigh, eyes immediately seeking you out across the room as you check your phone for any updates on Karis yet. 

Bella notices, she always does. Follows his line of sight and for the first time, she doesn’t feel protective of you—doesn’t feel like she needs to warn Jack or give him a talking to. Because he watches you with so much devotion and care, so much love it almost chokes her. 

If anyone is deserving of it, it’s you. 

The only time his attention is torn away from you is when small footsteps rush toward him and Pheebs is at his feet, arms in the air as she tries to show him her picture.

Jack doesn’t falter when he lifts her—something she’s very close to being too big for—and rests her on his hip, shifting his weight to his good leg and taking a look at her drawing. 

“Look, it’s us!” She points to each figure as she lists them off. “Mommy, me, you, and there’s Sally!” 

The figures are misshapen and different colors, uncoordinated and chaotic but that’s Phoebe for you. She’s tried to write names at the top—something the three of you have been working on over the past couple of months—and the sight of Jack’s spelt wrong and mostly with shapes and a silver crayon used to draw a line for his prosthetic…it has his throat tightening. 

He decides right then that he’s going to pin it in his locker at work. 

“You are such an artist, Diva. I love it, you even put my leg in there.” 

“Duh,” she says, like it’s the most obvious thing to include. 

And Bella watches the exchange. The way Phoebe’s eyes sparkle when she looks at Jack, the way he holds her tight and kisses the side of her head. She watches how your smile widens when you notice them, when you grin something bright and cosmic, when you stand by Jack’s side and Pheebs shows you the picture. 

She listens when Jack tells Diva to behave for you, when he checks if you need her carseat and you tell him Bella has a spare. When Phoebe wiggles out of his grasp and runs off to Florence, when he waves at them both as they scream a BYE JACK at him.

Bella does have the decency to turn away when he kisses you, though. When he promises to see you in the morning and bring breakfast for everyone. When he jokes about stealing your shower to put the chair you got him to good use. 

She lingers long enough to hear your laugh, to hear Jack’s. Waits a beat too long to see if he’ll say it, if you will. There’s a pregnant pause like you both want to, but neither utter what’s on the tips of your tongues. 

Bella doesn’t think it’ll be long before one of you does. 

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

You knew the night was going to end in tears. 

To give yourself some grace, you have managed to hold it in until the girls settle for bed. Your bed, to be precise. They’ve commandeered your bedroom, snuggled up under your sheets as they watch Peter Pan and snack on yogurt covered berries. 

And now that you’ve pulled out the couch bed in the living room and sat with a blanket, chinese food and a bottle of wine…life feels like it’s crashing around you. 

Bella’s hand on your thigh is soothing and grounding, firm enough to keep you from completely floating away in your burning mind. 

“I just feel like I’ve failed her.”

Bella’s heart shatters at your words, at the ache in your voice, the tears that continue to pour down your flushed cheeks. “Babe, you have not failed anyone. You are not responsible for his shitty actions, you know that.” 

She’s right, you know she’s right. But you were the one that had a child with him, you were the one that still allowed him to be in her life up until this point. To confuse her. To now disappear out of nowhere and leave her with the same heartache and anger that your biological parents did. 

“I don’t want her to go through what I did.” Your admittance is passed through trembling lips and salty tears.

Bella’s lips turn downward, her own eyes glistening with fresh tears because she knows all too well what you went through. She was the first friend you ever made when you were put in Prue and David’s care, she was the one you’d sneak onto the back field with during class to smoke weed and be angry at the world together. 

She was there through all those confusing feelings, through all the sadness and anger and then the guilt when Prue and David decided to adopt you. 

“It’s not the same, babe. You know it’s not the same thing you went through.” She coos. 

“It’s close enough. She’s going to grow up wondering why her daddy didn’t want her, why he walked away, why she wasn’t good enough—”

“Stop, calm down, come on.” Bella pulls you into her, cradling your head to her chest and rocking you back and forth on the pull-out bed as she smooths down your hair. 

“She is always going to have you. You’re not going anywhere.” Her voice is gentle when she speaks, wobbling from her own anguish at the sight of you. “Jack is not going anywhere.”

You clutch her tighter. “You don’t know that.”

Bella pulls you out of her hold to get a look at you, to cup your face in her palms and wipe away the onslaught of tears that continue to slip. 

“Yes, I do. Honey, he looks at you like you are the only thing in this world that matters. He looks at Phoebe like she is the most precious thing he has ever met. That man is smitten with the both of you, he is not going anywhere.”

You know she isn’t just saying it to make you feel better. You know that Jack cares so deeply for you and your daughter, that he would never dream of walking away like Tom has. But the truth of it doesn’t stop that worry from festering. Doesn’t stop it from taking root in your mind until you begin to believe it. 

“I’m scared,” you whisper. 

“I know,” she whispers back. 

“I’m in love with him.” It comes out as a breathless whine, an admittance that you’ve been keeping buried for the past couple of months. One that’s been suffocating you from the inside out, like it’s never supposed to have been kept to yourself. 

“I know,” Bella whispers again.

Before you can think to dive into your fears of him not feeling as deeply as you do, the gentle pinging of your phone lights up with a text message from Jack and you’re wiping your eyes as you reach for it. 

Jack: Just checking in baby, you doing okay?

You: all ok, we have wine and chinese, hows work

Jack: Work is fine

Jack: Would much rather be at home with my girls

Your heart stutters at the message. Home. My girls. You want to tell him that you wish he was here, too. That part of you regrets not taking him up on the offer of calling in sick. But you know if you say as much, he’ll walk out and come straight back to you.

His job is more important than this. But you’re grateful that Jack is keeping the conversation casual, like he’s purposely trying to keep your mind off the events of today.

You: promise you’re not missing out on anything exciting 

Jack: I’m missing out on you. You’re the most exciting 

You: anyone ever told you that you’re a massive flirt?

Jack: Once or twice. 

Bella catches you grinning at your phone, takes that as her cue to refill your glasses in the kitchen. You barely register her brief departure before you’re receiving another text. 

Jack: I miss you 

Jack: I’m starting to hate my job

You: liar, you love your job 

Jack: I love being with you and Diva more

You: we love being with you too

There’s at least a minute of your text being left on delivered as Bella comes over with another full glass of white wine and a giant tub of ice cream tucked under her arm, causing a wet patch to form on the pyjama shirt she’s borrowed from you.

You take the wine as you blow her a kiss, your mood slowly lifting as the tears begin to dry. You snuggle back against the pillows, curling into yourself and the scent of Jack’s shirt that you’re wearing when your phone vibrates with another text. 

Jack: Mass casualty incoming, I will try and call you later

Jack: Stay out of that beautiful head of yours, I am not going anywhere. We will figure this out together. x

You stare at the message, rereading it over and over and over again. The words are on the tips of your fingers, eager to be typed and sent. But you refuse for that to be how you tell him for the first time. How you confess it properly. 

You: ❤️ u 

It’s much more casual and lightheartened than how you actually feel, but it’s more than either of you have ever said. You send before you can talk yourself out of it, feel the bile rise up your throat when it’s marked as delivered. Feel it threaten to spill out your mouth when it changes to read. 

Not even a heartbeat later, his reply comes through. 

Jack: I know baby 

Jack: ❤️ u too

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

SERIES MASTERLIST — NEXT PART

Tag list for this series has grown way too big for me to keep up with so it’s unfortunately CLOSED. You can however follow the #apt.17 tag instead for updates on the series!

ok unsure what happened before but hopefully this is working now. i am so sad that the next part is the final part and i hate that i did this to pheebs but it's crucial to the storyline like it just had to happen

Thank you very much for reading! Feedback really means a lot so I would love to hear your thoughts and ideas for where you think this will go!! Reblogs helps to boost stuff for more people to reach so if you enjoyed it please consider reblogging!!

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And of course, it’s something that has to happen on one of the only real nights you get off to yourself. Not a night where you expect a call or text because Phoebe wants to come home. A night where, if anything, Phoebe has most likely begged your mom to just move in with her. 

You have to laugh at the thought, but the movement and contractions of your stomach only heightens the pain. You’ve bled through two pads and pairs of pyjamas, soiled your sheets well enough that you’ve had to throw them out. 

Perhaps it’s dramatic to call an ambulance to get you to the ER, but you’re unsure you’ll be able to stomach getting up, let alone driving yourself the short ten minute trek to PTMC. You consider leaving it, just ride it out for as long as you can. But the thought of Phoebe coming home tomorrow afternoon to a crippled and possibly bleeding out mother… 

A pathetic groan follows your movements as you force yourself to sit up on the bed, allow yourself a moment for composure and a silent prayer to the Universe to just make it stop.

Much like all other times, the Universe doesn’t listen. And the moment you stand, you’re met with that horrifying sensation of blood pooling between your legs and soaking into three pads you’ve stacked in your underwear.

What should take you fifteen minutes to get ready and arrive at PTMC actually ends up taking you almost an hour. The only reprieve you are offered is a slightly quiet waiting room. Twenty to thirty people at most occupy the chairs, all too exhausted or pain-ridden to offer up much conversation between each other. 

You don’t look much better than them. Pyjamas, messy hair, face bare of anything other than a grimace. Every step toward the check-in desk takes you back to when you first had Phoebe. When, for two weeks, you could only just shuffle your feet across the floor to get around after the emergency surgery. 

You’re clutching your abdomen when you finally reach the desk. An older woman sits on the opposite side of the protective screen, dark hair pulled back into a bun, kind eyes that assess you and a soft voice that asks for your name and what’s brought you in. 

“I think my IUD has moved or embedded.” You manage to get out through gritted teeth, hunching slightly over the tall ledge as you take in her name badge. 

Lupe’s head tilts sympathetically to the side. “Can you describe your symptoms and pain for me? When did it start?” 

“Uh, about four hours ago. Very heavy bleeding, the pain is both an ache and a stabbing sensation. Feels kind of like someone’s got a chainsaw on my uterus.” You try to laugh through the pain, but when your stomach tenses you’re met with a blinding sensation of agony that you struggle to blink away. 

Lupe types on the keyboard of her computer, side-glancing you as if checking you’re not about to pass out and smack your head on the ledge or marble floor. “Any nausea or dizziness, hon?” 

You nod, swallowing on a dry throat. “I think that’s only due to the pain, though.”

Lupe finishes typing before the printer beside her begins to rumble and she’s slipping you a write-up through the small gap beneath the safety screen. “There’s free sanitary products in the restroom. Take a seat, hon. Someone should be with you shortly.” 

You offer a weak smile in thanks and she returns one with understanding.

It’s painful to sit but even more so to stand. After ten minutes, you’re slouching in the most uncomfortable chair you’ve ever had the displeasure of using. Another ten minutes and you’re shuffling to the public restroom before you can leak through yet another article of clothing.

It’s only twenty minutes later, when you’re trying to remember labor breathing techniques that the door opens and a gentle voice is calling your name. It takes you a moment to reach her but she waits patiently, an understanding look on her face through pursed lips. 

She introduces herself as Dr. McKay as she slowly guides you to a curtained off section in triage. It’s not until she’s helping you onto the bed with steady hands that you take notice of two other doctors standing behind her. 

Dr. McKay follows your line of sight. “We’re typically a teaching hospital, if you’re okay with two of our students observing tonight?” 

You wave her off. “I’m a mom, I lost my dignity a while ago. The more the merrier.” You manage to joke but when a laugh slips from your lips, your face scrunches in pain and your body curls involuntarily. 

Dr. McKay grins through a sympathetic look, sitting at the stool to the side of you. “Trust me, I know all about that,” she reassures, turning back to the students at the foot of the bed. 

“This is Kwon and Ogilvie. They’re in their third and fourth year as med students and getting a little taste of the night shift. We’ve read through your patient intake report, but do you mind explaining again what’s going on? You think your IUD has moved or embedded?” 

You nod on a sigh. “Yeah, the pain and bleeding started around four hours ago. I’ve leaked through pads and clothes maybe three times since it started.”

McKay hums, snapping on a pair of gloves and lifting your pyjama shirt to expose your abdomen. “Copper or hormonal IUD?”

“Hormonal. I only got it about three and a half years ago. A few months after I had my daughter.” 

She hums. “Any dizziness or nausea?”

Your head bobs, a wince slipping from you when she pushes slightly lower on your mid-section. “A little dizziness, a lot of nausea. I think it’s just because of the pain, though.” 

Kwon moves to your side, as she slips her hands into a pair of blue gloves and reaches for the thermometer. It beeps, flashes green. “Temp is steady at 98.96.” 

McKay moves back, discards her gloves into the trash and slides back over to you. “Are pain and bleeding usual for you?”

You shake your head before she can finish her question. “No, my cramps and monthly periods stopped a month after I got it inserted.”

She nods, a distant look growing in her eyes for barely a moment. “Alright, we’ll do a pelvic exam to check if we can identify the device to rule out any embedding. If it has shifted, we’ll get you ready for an ultrasound to find out what’s going on before attempting removal.” 

You nod with a wince when Dr. McKay stands, reaching over for a robe that she hands to you with a sympathetic smile. “We’ll step out for a moment while you change and get comfortable and then we’ll be back shortly.”

You hear her speak with the students as they pull the curtain closed behind them, questioning something about initial assessments but you zone out when the pain begins to grow. It’s five minutes later when you're situated in a gown on the bed when the three of them return. 

“Our student doctor Kwon is going to conduct your pelvic if you’re okay with that?” 

You hum at McKay’s words, not really caring who is going to be all up in your vaginal canal so long as the issue is resolved. You weren’t lying when you said your dignity left when you fell pregnant almost five years ago. 

Joy Kwon doesn't offer any pleasantries as she slides her hands into a pair of gloves and positions herself on the stool between your legs at the foot of the bed. 

Ogilvie stands behind her, looking anywhere but at your parting thighs. You move silently, without guidance. Knees up, dropping them to your sides, heels together. McKay grins at the sight when you fist your hands and shove them beneath your back, in line with your coccyx. 

You catch her amused look and offer an exhausted grin in return. “I know my way around these exams.”

Kwon cocks a brow as you meet her gaze again, a flicker of amusement washing across her eyes. It’s fleeting, but you catch it nonetheless. She reaches for the speculum, applying the translucent lubricant to the equipment.

Your eyes are closed, an overwhelming wave of pain washing over and you crippling any sense of peace you had begun to find. It’s so intense that you miss the voices from outside the curtain, only just catching McKay informing you that an attending is going to observe Kwon’s exam.

“Yeah, no worries. Let’s call it a party.” The words are rushed on a pained laugh from your lips before McKay is slipping outside before returning with another. 

When your eyes flicker open and a shaky exhale leaves your lungs, the air gets suddenly stuck in your throat at the sight before you. 

“This is Dr. Abbot.”

Jack stares at you with wide eyes and raised brows, his gaze involuntarily trailing down to your parted knees before snapping his eyes to the wall on the other side of the room. Your cheeks feel hot, your heart is thumping against your ribs and you feel like you can’t fucking breathe. 

There is no fucking way this is happening right now. Jack is barely able to meet your gaze again as he tries his hardest to offer the most professional nod and tight-lipped smile you’ve ever seen. 

“Fancy seeing you here, neighbor.” You can’t help it. The words fall from your lips before you can think twice, the tension in the room that the others are only now privy of is too much to remain silent under. 

McKay’s eyes dart from you to Jack, lashes hitting her brows in shock. “Neighbor?”

Jack clears his throat, scratching at the nape of his neck in a nervous tick you’ve never seen before. He blinks at you, lips parting and closing again. You never imagined him to be anything other than confident and composed. 

Bored with the conversation, Kwon moves closer and lines the speculum with your entrance, a hiss falling from your lips at the cool contact of the lubricant. 

“Take a deep breath, you’ll feel some pressure.” She advises, a bit dully. Like she’d rather be anywhere but here. You feel the fucking same. 

Ogilvie frowns at the speculum, eyes darting from the tool to between your legs. Like he’s assessing the physics of the exam. “Is that going to fit?” 

“I can get Shen, instead.” Jack offers abruptly, jabbing a thumb over his shoulder. Perhaps he’s trying to find a way out for himself, maybe he’s the one that’s uncomfortable with the situation he’s accidentally walked into. But the thought of yet another doctor staring between your legs is the last thing you want right now. Your eyes squeeze shut in pure mortification. 

Your hot, widowed neighbor has just seen you in the most unappealing way you could ever imagine. 

“Nope. Four doctors getting an eyeful is enough. I don’t need a fifth.” You keep your eyes closed, unable to bear the thought of meeting Jack’s gaze right now and a wince passes through your teeth when Kwon slowly pushes the instrument into your vaginal canal. 

You blink up at the ceiling through quick breaths, discomfort turning into pain as you struggle to stretch around it. Kwon peeks up between your parted knees, noting the discomfort in your expression, can feel the resistance of the instrument and casts a quick glance to McKay.

“Did you have a vaginal birth?” she asks you softly. 

You laugh through gritted teeth. “Emergency caesarean, baby.” 

Kwon sighs, slowly retracting the speculum and placing it back on the tray. You don’t need to look at it to know it’s covered in blood. “I thought it felt a bit tight.” She comments. 

Your eyes bulge open at that with another mortified laugh. But when your gaze snags on the tool she originally tried to use, you blink rapidly. It’s bigger than anything you’ve ever had inside of you before. Including any and all speculums you’ve had the displeasure of being examined with. “You thought that was going to fit!?” 

“I didn’t think it would. I’m happy to try instead with a Pederson.” Ogilvie offers with a wide smile and you’re far too quick to shake your head for someone who was, at the beginning, happy for students to observe and conduct the exam. 

“No! That’s okay, Dr. McKay—”

“Dr. McKay, there’s a phone call for you. An officer from the PPD.”

“Are you fucking kidding me!?” She doesn’t excuse herself. Just tears off her gloves and stomps through the curtain. Leaving you with two student doctors and Jack fucking Abbot. 

Wearily, your gaze meets his again; your cheeks aflame and a stillness in his shoulders that makes you slightly more uncomfortable than the idea of Ogilvie spreading you open. Ultimately, you know Jack is your best option out of the three. 

More experience, kind and compassionate. Familiar, but maybe that’s not a pro in this situation. No. Definitely not a pro to have your fucking neighbor inspect your cervix. Yet you don’t look away from him. You don’t mean for your gaze to be pleading, don’t mean to ask the silent question that you do but Jack hears it anyway, answers it with a subtle dip of his head and he’s slipping into a pair of blue gloves and clearing his throat before taking Kwon’s position. 

“Asking the patient what birth they had should always be asked before conducting a pelvic exam.” Jack notes, eyes flickering to Kwon in a brief moment of silent scolding before he reaches for the other, much thinner probe. 

You don’t miss the way Kwon shoots a glare at Ogilvie with slightly threatening eyes. He has the right to look sheepish and a little scared before slowly stepping on foot closer to the foot of the bed. 

“That would be my fault, Dr. Abbot,” he admits nervously. “She said she was a mom, so I assumed the birth was vaginal and the largest speculum would be most appropriate.” 

You don’t mean to scoff when you laugh, but you do. Partly in offence for all women across the fucking world that this guy assumes all moms to have loose vaginas. The other part because if he had been watching Dr. McKay when she was checking your abdomen, he would’ve seen the small but visible scar just above your pubic bone. 

Jack blinks as he unwraps the sterile tool and smears a small amount of lubricant over it. “In that case, I highly recommend you brush up on your knowledge of a woman’s anatomy.” 

Ogilvie takes the hint. He tears off his gloves and slips past the curtain to do exactly what Jack has said. A wave of guilt begins to ride over you but it’s also quite quickly replaced with a bigger wave of relief. 

Kwon turns to you with a thin grin, like she’s pleased with his lack of presence. “Sorry about him. I don’t think he’s seen a vagina since he came out of one.” 

You almost choke on your laugh at that, wincing quickly after as your body locks up with another crippling cramp of pain. Jack’s gaze flicks up to your face, assessing the furrow in your brow, the flush to your clammy skin. 

“You doing okay, neighbor?” His voice lacks its usual flirty tone; gravelly now and laced with a thickness he can’t quite shift. But you can hear the lightness he tries to offer, the reassurance he doesn't speak that this is okay and you are okay and you don’t need to be embarrassed that he’s seeing you like this. 

“Oh, just peachy.” You snip back through gritted teeth, fisting the thin cotton sheets beneath you. 

Jack blinks his way to go between your thighs, jaw clenched and having to remind himself to separate any personal sensations right now from his professional responsibility. It’s one thing to think about you being laid in the position, but it’s a completely other thing to have you like it for an entirely different reason. 

Jack tries to block out the actual sight of you. Because in truth, there isn’t anything erotic about this, not even in the slightest. You’re in pain and bloody and hurting, and you’re trusting him to fix the issue. He feels sick with himself for how much he’s internally struggling at the situation.

“I’ve done this plenty of times, promise you’re in good hands.” He clears his throat, lines the speculum with the entrance of your vaginal canal and very slowly eases it between your walls. 

There’s no pain this time, only a slight hint of discomfort but that’s mostly at the cold gel. You can’t help the cock of your brow at Jack’s words. “You examine a lot of your neighbor’s cervixes?”

He laughs at that, breathily enough that you can feel it ghost the side of your thigh. You swallow, blink up at the ceiling. His laughter helps ease this fucking awkwardness and embarrassment of having to dig around in his neighbors vagina. Doesn’t do enough to stop it from haunting you moving forward.  

“No, you would be my first.” Jack promises, and you’re foolish enough to let yourself believe that comment has a double meaning to it. 

“I’m honored.” You mutter it sarcastically and brave the thought of looking down to the foot of the bed. 

You’re met with the sight of Jack peering between your legs, eyes slightly squinted as he works. Kwon looks just as invested as Jack does, handing him another tool when he silently opens his palm toward her. 

“You said you bled through clothes and menstrual pads?” Kwon asks. 

You nod, trying to remember not to tense or hold your breath. “Yeah, why? I’m not haemorrhaging or something am I?” 

“No.” Jack assures you with a firm tone, catching the lick of anxiety growing in your voice. He doesn’t move his head but his eyes flick up to meet yours and your entire stomach turns molten at the sight. 

You can’t look away and despite your best efforts, you do find yourself holding your breath. 

“You’re not haemorrhaging and it’s definitely not embedded, which is good. Looks like it’s just shifted slightly which has caused the pain and the bleeding. Did it start tonight?”

You nod, watching Jack slip into a fresh pair of gloves and reach across the room for a small machine. “Well, I’ve felt a little uncomfortable for a couple days. Just light cramps that I usually get when I should be due on my cycle. But the bleeding and pain started tonight, yeah.”

Jack nods as he approaches your side, a look of reassurance on his face as he turns on the ultrasound screen and reaches for the gel. Kwon moves silently, offering you a large sheet and gesturing to cover your lower part and pull up the hem of the hospital robe to reveal your abdomen.

“I’m just gonna check everything is okay internally and then Kwon should be able to do a quick removal and replacement.”

You nod, loosing a breath as you try to relax yourself as Jack presses the transducer to your lower abdomen. He moves it slowly, tenderly with his touch; not using too much pressure or pushing on your bladder like the midwives did when you were pregnant. 

He keeps his eyes on the screen and you realize you definitely have a thing for doctors. Or more specifically, this doctor. 

“You bring Pheebs with you?” He asks softly, offering a brief glance to your face before returning his attention to the screen again. 

“No, she’s having a sleepover with my parents tonight.” You say softly and you don’t miss the fond grin that spreads across his lips. It warms your heart so much that you can’t help but subtly mirror it. 

“How’s her tummy now?” 

A laugh bubbles up your throat. The irony of him being the one to check you over when only a week ago he was checking your daughter. “Yeah, good. Back to shitting like a pro again.”

Jack huffs in laughter, taking one more moment to assess the ultrasound before removing the probe from your skin and cleaning it off.

“Your uterine walls are thicker than usual. They're shedding, which is why you're bleeding the way you are. Totally normal. Other than that, ultrasound is clear,” he concludes with a smile that you can finally meet. 

That awkwardness and tension has finally begun to ease and disappear. Right now, you’re not neighbors. He is your doctor and you are his patient. 

“So, everything looks okay?” You ask. Jack nods, eyes on you again with that intensity you’ve started to grow used to. 

“Yeah, you look perfect.” It’s slightly raspy when he speaks, both the tone and his words causing a flush to burn across your entire body. 

It feels like air has trapped itself in your lungs and Jack’s shoulders stiffen as if he’s just realized the words he’s used and the tone he’s spoken them in. 

From the foot of your bed, Kwon’s slightly uncomfortable eyes flicker between you and Jack, blinking as if that’ll clear the air as to what the fuck she’s witnessing right now. Before she can open her mouth with a remark, before Jack can splutter an apology or a distraction, the curtain moves and McKay is slipping back into the area. 

Jack steps away from the bed, lips pursed into a firm line and he’s tugging off the gloves and moving toward the curtain. “She’s all cleared for removal and replacement.” He tells McKay, voice slightly strained. 

You can’t help the amusement that starts to curl within your lower belly, a grin stretching across your face and Jack meets your gaze, mirroring it a bit bashfully before slipping past the curtain. Leaving you with your legs spread, heart thumping, and delusional thoughts in your mind that he found this procedure just as eye-opening as you did. 

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

It’s late Sunday morning by the time Jack’s done with his shift, exhausted and almost limping with how sore his leg is. He stayed late. Again. And his knee is protesting at the idea of potentially having to do it once more on his next shift.

It’s been a slight struggle now that Robby is on sabbatical. Jack’s left with the responsibility of staying later or starting earlier to aid Al-Hashimi with the influx of patience as the weather has gotten hotter. The sun comes out and people grow stupid. And Jack has to work through the pain of his prosthetic growing sweaty and unstable.

On top of that, he’s been riddled with something he can only compare to high-school level anxiety. Every time he’s walked through the main doors of the apartment complex for the past week, Jack’s been fucking nervous. Anxious that he may stumble into an awkward encounter with you after performing your pelvic exam. 

It’s stupid, he knows. You’re both adults and Jack’s a professional, for fuck’s sake. He offered to get you another attending, and you declined. You had smiled—grinned—at him when he left you in McKay’s capable hands. And yet he had not heard from you since. 

No text, no collisions in the hall. Not that you owe him anything, he knows that. And it’s not even like you texted religiously before your night in the Pitt. But Jack can feel something strained between you. Perhaps you’re embarrassed by the situation. That your neighbor had pried you open to check for an embedded IUD. Or maybe he had made you uncomfortable with that stupid fucking slip he made when he said you looked perfect. 

What the fuck is wrong with him?

Jack takes the elevator to the third floor, his leg far too achy to brave the stairs after being on his feet for the past nineteen hours. When he makes it inside his apartment, he’s not sure what’s worse. The deafening loneliness or Robby’s contact popping up as an incoming call on his phone. 

He answers before he even closes his apartment door. 

“You’re alive, then.” 

Robby scoffs a breathy laugh down the line at the greeting, something Jack can’t help but smirk at. He makes his way straight to the couch and falls into it, tucking the phone between his shoulder and ear while he works to remove his prosthetic. 

“Yeah, well… who would’ve thought nature could be so refreshing.” 

Jack hums, half listening with a grunt until he slips the metal from his knee and exhales a breath of relief. “You doin’ okay, though? Haven’t heard from you for two weeks.” 

“What? Miss me already?” Robby snides.

It pulls at the corners of Jack’s mouth in the form of a gentle smile. This is good. He’s cracking jokes, his voice doesn’t sound strangled and pained. He sounds better than he did when he left two weeks ago, but Jack is not a fool. He’s all too familiar with what Robby is experiencing, he’s danced toward the line one too many times himself. 

“What are you even doing with yourself out there?” Jack says instead. 

He can almost hear Robby shrugging through the line. He’s quiet for a few moments, likely contemplating, deciding how much or how little he wants to share. “How’s the hospital?”

Jack scoffs, shakes his head and leans back into the couch, allowing his eyes to close for a moment. “Work is not your concern until you’re back from sabbatical. Not a day sooner.” 

Robby grows quiet again and they stay like that for a little while. No words spoken, just breaths shared down the line; both basking in the quiet comfortability of one another. Calming, familiar. Like moments shared on the roof after a particularly long shift.

“Spoke to McKay yesterday.” It’s Robby that breaks that silence. “Said you performed a pelvic exam on your neighbor.” 

Jack can hear his smirk, the teasing churn in his voice. He takes a deep breath and then a laugh is spluttering from his chest; exasperated and exhausted. 

“Brother, I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing.” Jack admits roughly. 

Robby doesn’t push, gives him a chance to add more if he wants to. He doesn’t. So Robby approaches carefully. 

“You like her?” 

The question makes Jack pulse skip. “Barely know her.”

“Not what I asked.”

Jack hesitates. It’s a lie, really. He does know you. Perhaps not in the most stereotypical way, but he does. He knows your love lost, your hatred for the way your ex treats your daughter, how your mind works when you create the excellence that you do. 

Deeper than that, he knows your heart beats solely for your daughter. He knows Phoebe. Her chaos and easy charm, knows how you’ve bled your personality into her unintentionally. 

Jack swallows. Robby waits. 

“I don’t know what it is. There’s just—there’s something there. Something about her…”

“It’s not just her, though, Jack. She has a daughter. Package deal. Big deal.” 

Jack hums, an involuntary smile curling on the corners of his lips. “She’s the coolest kid I’ve ever met, man. She makes her mom sing her AC/DC as a lullaby.” 

Had they been on the roof, Jack would see the softness that smoothes the worry on Robby’s face. He’d see the quiet understanding in his eyes as he listens to every word, as he understands why there’s a certain dullness in Jack’s voice. A reservation.

Robby takes a heavy breath. “You don’t have to feel guilty about that, Jack.”

It makes Jack wince. Because he does feel guilty. Whenever his mind wanders to the thought of you, he’s crushed with an immense wave of guilt. Like he’s betraying his wife, like he’s losing sight of her in the fogginess of his memory. 

Maybe that’s what scares him so much. He’s been with people since. One night stand, casual flings to keep the loneliness and demons of the night away. Physically invested and emotionally detached. It’s different this time. With you. Because there’s no physicality there, just this undeniable pull he feels whenever he looks at you, thinks of you. 

It’s deeper than a surface level attraction. It fucking terrfies him because he hardly knows you. Not truly, not in the ways he wants to. 

“You’re allowed to find happiness somewhere else. With someone else.” 

The phone slips to rest on Jack's shoulder as his gaze falls down to the hands resting in his lap, the silver band that still wraps around his ring finger. 

Time doesn’t heal all wounds. Time just lets you grow around them. 

Jack changes the subject fairly quickly. They spend the next ten minutes talking about nothing much before Jack forces Robby to promise he won’t leave it two weeks to reach out again. He showers, changes, takes some time to tend to the ache in his knee before brewing a coffee and making some eggs and taking them out to the balcony. 

He hears it the second the door opens. 

Music. Singing. Laughter. Loud and carefree and happy. 

It pulls a smile to his face immediately as he sits at the table and watches across the gap between your balconies. Jack sips on his coffee, admires the sound he’s blessed enough to hear, the fleeting catches he gets of you and Phoebe running around or dancing on the kitchen island. 

The sun is warm on his skin, the breeze soothing the ache of his tight skin where a limb once was and he feels himself slowly beginning to relax. 

“Morning neighbor!”

His eyes peek open, a palm out above his eyes to cover the blinding sun. Jack blinks and you’re there. Standing on your balcony, one hand on the railing and the other is waving above your head. Calling out to him, like that night last week didn’t happen. 

So you’re not embarrassed and he hasn’t made you uncomfortable. He can’t see you properly, too far a distance but he can make out the wide grin you offer. 

Jack throws a hand up to reciprocate your wave and you jab a thumb over your shoulder. “What do you think!?” You call back, and it takes Jack a moment to realize you’re asking about the music. 

His hand drops from the air and moves to cup the side of his mouth. “I love The Smiths!” He calls back. 

You lean closer, he’s sure he can see your brows pinching as you call out to him again. “What!?”

Jack huffs a laugh, leaning forward in his seat and sitting up straighter. He cups both hands around his mouth now and bellows across the space. “I said I love The Smiths!” 

He watches you throw your head back in laughter and suddenly wishes Robby never called. Because then he wouldn’t be so aware of the feeling in his chest whenever he looks at you. He wouldn’t have had to acknowledge and verbalize the turmoil that’s been brewing in his head from the moment he first laid eyes on you and Phoebe. 

You don’t say anything else. He watches you retreat back inside and you don’t come back out. The balcony door is closed sometime ten minutes later. And within thirty minutes, the music stops completely and Jack’s left in that horrible, aching silence again. 

After his eggs and coffee, he too is returning inside, leaving the dishes in the sink. He only allows himself a quick shower when the coffee begins to perk him up and decides it’s probably best to run some errands and grab some groceries before he inevitably crashes and sleeps for the rest of the day. 

He dresses in a black t-shirt and a pair of beige chino shorts. It’s not something he’ll ever really admit outloud, but Jack hates the summer. He hasn’t always, but in more recent years, especially since losing his leg, he does. There’s a choice he has to make every time the heat begins to pick up in Pittsburg.

Wear trousers and ignore the sweat and swelling on the tight skin of his knee, or wear shorts and ignore the lingering stares of the general public. He should be used to it by now, it’s been well over a fucking decade since he lost his leg. But in recent years, without his wife’s reassurance that they’re curious glances and not judgmental stares, Jack can’t seem to decipher a difference between the two anymore. 

Still, he knows he has to take care of himself. And with the ache still settling deep in his bones from his earlier shift, he’s aware that shorts are his best bet. It’s just after he clips his prosthetic back on again that there’s an uncoordinated knocking at the door.

The short relief of letting his leg breath allows Jack to move a bit more fluidly now, limp barely noticeable as he makes his way to the front door and slowly eases it open. He’s not offered much of a chance to check who his visitors are before a small body is barrelling into limbs. 

Jack only just manages to catch himself by gripping a hand on the doorframe as he blinks down at a small head of curls of a three-year-old who is blinking in wonder at his prosthetic. He faintly hears your voice, soft but firm and scolding Phoebe for barrelling into him. 

The child beams up at him, excitement laced in her chubby features as she points to his leg. “I like your leg.” 

It makes Jack blink, pulls him back to the present where a throb begins to form around his knee and he grins at her, reaching down to readjust the prosthetic that the kid has somehow almost displaced. 

He misses the way your brows raise as you look at him. You’d never realized he had a prosthetic and you can't help the way your head tilts at the sight of his arms straining when he readjusts the straps.

“SWAT?” you ask, voice thick as his veins pop and muscles flex beneath freckled skin. 

Jack huffs out a laugh, pretends he can’t hear his heart in his ears and the fact that you’ve seen his fucking leg and you’re not being awkward about it. “Military.” 

Phoebe watches him intently as surprise flickers across your face. “Well, aren’t you full of surprises, Dr. Abbot. Thank you for your service.” 

He rises to his full height at the flirty tone of your voice, letting his eyes rove over your body from the painted toes to the hair on your head. A beautiful sage green summer dress kisses your skin. Cinched at your waist, short but puffy sleeves, a neckline that teases the swell of your breasts and the hem stops just mid-calf. 

Jack swallows, admires your face. Hair pinned back in a flaw clip, messy and yet presentable. Your lashes look fuller and darker, a brightness to your face with makeup that doesn’t hide but accentuates your natural features. It momentarily knocks him breathless. 

He’s never seen you like this before. 

“I could say the same about you.” Jack’s voice is low and raspy when he speaks. It prickles your skin in buzzes of excitement, spreads a warmth beneath the flesh that charges your blood. 

Of course, Jack notices. The way your lashes flutter, how your lips part. How, despite the warmth, goosebumps prickle your skin. A smirk kicks at the corner of his mouth and he looks away, back down to Phoebe. 

She wears something similar, a blue summer dress that stops below the knee. Her hair is twirled up into a bun, little white sandals on her feet. It’s the most presentable he’s ever seen the kid look. And from the way she pulls at the dress and rolls her shoulders, he can tell immediately that it was a fight getting her to wear it. 

The fondness in that crevice of his heart aches at the thought. 

“Where are you two off to, in your pretty dresses?” He directs the question at Phoebe, who offers a twirl despite her hatred for the clothing. 

“Grandma is dying.” She chirps. 

Jack’s brows shoot to his hairline at the same time as you whipping your head down to your daughter. “What? No. Grandma is retiring, baby. We’re going for brunch with her company.” You correct her quickly, blinking profusely and both you and Jack are confused as to how she got those two words, of all things, mixed up. 

You clear your throat, taking a step closer to the threshold that Phoebe has occupied. Jack notices the movement from his peripheral and sets his burning gaze on you again. You smile at him, a bit sheepishly and push your arms out to offer him the tray of cupcakes he had missed. 

They’re decorated with multiple colors of messy frosting, some smothered in sprinkles and others decorated with some diced fruit. Jack blinks at you.

“We made cupcakes for Phoebe’s birthday tomorrow, and we made you some as a thank you. You know, for helping her tummy and then… well—mine.” You finish on a nervous laugh, one that Jack reciprocates. 

But he takes the dish from your open palms, a revert thank you falling from his tongue and he lets his finger tips brush against yours as he does. So this was a peace offering of sorts, a way to clear the air. He offers a glance to Phoebe. “It’s your birthday?”

Phoebe nods. “In the morning, and I’m having a birthday party at my house, Jack! Will you come?”

His eyes widen slightly at the request, casting a quick glance to you. You shrug a shoulder, pursing your lips to hide a smile and when he looks back down at Phoebe, she’s got her palms together in a prayer-like position with far too convincing pleading eyes.

Jack breathes through his nose, smiles fondly at the young girl. “Absolutely, I wouldn’t want to spend my day off doing anything else.” he promises. 

You smile at the sight, at how Phoebe brushes a sprinkle off Jack’s prosthetic that fell from the tray. He watches her just as intently, but when she returns her attention to the chipped polish on her nails, it’s like he loosens a breath.

“Everyone’s coming by at like 5 ish. But come whenever.”

Jack nods, allows his gaze to drift over you again. “You both look beautiful.” 

There’s a reverence in his tone, like it’s a physical need that you believe him when he says it. All you can do is smile; soft and shy. You reach for Phoebe, tell her to say goodbye and slowly guide her away from Jack’s door and down the hall. 

Of course, he watches you both go. Phoebe’s hand in yours, your slow steps and her quick skips. He’s about to go back inside when Phoebe halts abruptly, tears her hand from yours and turns to race back to Jack, giggling his name like she needs to tell him something exciting. 

She stops by his feet again, he watches as you wait for her with a sigh at the other end of the hall. 

“Jack! I told Mommy I want to be a doctor when I grow up, just like you!”

He blinks down at her, feels his throat constrict as she admits something that causes so much turmoil within him. “Yeah?” he rasps, clears his throat and bends slightly at the waist. “I think you’ll make a fantastic doctor, Pheebs.” 

Her toothy smile is wide and excitable, it’s almost impossible for Jack not to mirror it. 

“Before, I wanted to be a pop star so I could marry Harry Styles. But now, I wanna be a doctor.” She states it so matter-of-factly, like she’s discussing something as simple as the weather. 

It makes Jack chuckle. “You don’t wanna marry Harry Styles anymore?”

Phoebe shrugs, makes a small noise of contemplation. “Mommy said she’d fight me for him!” She giggles. 

Jack cocks a brow, dares a glance down the hall to you where you’re texting someone on your phone as you wait. “Oh, so Mommy wants to marry Harry too?”

Phoebe steps closer, looks a bit conspiratorial as she whispers her next words. “She said Harry will be a silver fox when I’m old enough to marry him… What is a silver fox?”

He blinks at that, unsure as to how they’ve crept into this territory and why the kid even knows the saying of a silver fox. He blubbers momentarily. “Um… it’s someone who’s old but….pretty.”

Phoebe grins, chin tucked to her chest with wide eyes and raised brows. The conspiratorial look has morphed into something far too mischievous for Jack’s liking. This kid is going to be so much fucking trouble when she’s older.

“Mommy said you’re a silver fox.” There’s a slyness to her tone, like she knows what she’s doing. That she absolutely should not be repeating whatever it is she’s heard you say. 

Little shit. 

Jack stills, lips parted into a soft O shape and he blinks at Phoebe. An amused huff of hair slips past his lips “Oh, I don't think Mommy meant for me to know that.”

“Why not? She told my Aunt Bella so. It's a compromise.”

Jack’s brow raises again, though this time in amusement. “You mean complement?”

Phoebe nods at that, moving even closer now. She reaches on her tip toes and cups her small hands around Jack’s ear. “My mommy is a silver fox.”

He laughs harder at that, pulls away to get a look at her face and he shakes his head, rubs at his eye. “Your mommy isn’t old, kid.” 

“But she is pretty.” It’s a statement, not a question. And she looks about ready to fight if Jack even dares to argue otherwise.

Not that he would. He couldn’t ever. He lets his eyes drift across the hall again, finding you standing in the same place. Jack feels his heart rate pick up, feels his skin grow warm and a rush of pure adoration and fondness overwhelms him. 

“Yeah, Diva. Your mommy is very pretty.”

It makes him realize something very, very sobering. 

Jack’s got a fucking crush on you.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

SERIES MASTERLIST — NEXT PART

Tag list for this series has grown way too big for me to keep up with so it’s unfortunately CLOSED. You can however follow the #apt.17 tag instead for updates on the series!

Ahhh okay, the flirting is beginning, Robby is trying to knock a lil bit of sense into him and Pheebs is just well... she's doing her thing LMAO. This is where things start to get super juicy and I promise you the next chapter will have lots and lots more of flirty playfulness. I would love to know your thoughts so far!! <3

Thank you very much for reading! Feedback really means a lot so I would love to hear your thoughts and ideas for where you think this will go!! Reblogs helps to boost stuff for more people to reach so if you enjoyed it please consider reblogging!!

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