"Dex?"

He heard you voice tremble beneath the downpour from above. Dex wanted to attribute it solely to the rain. His mind was desperate to connect the hesitation in your tone to the weather. To anything other than what he witnessed. To what you realized he saw. Your eyes -- the ones he came to memorize in his mind -- were wide with concern. Fear. It was an expression he had yet to see on you. Confidence was the standard and a smile was your default, but fear? It changed your whole body. What once were animated hands now hung limply, fingers restless at your side. Your posture had sunk slightly, crestfallen in the wake of the revelation. Dex wanted to form a concrete thought, but his mind buzzed with activity. He could see your lips moving, but the sound of static was too overwhelming.

"... somewhere and talk about this?"

Dex pushed through the white noise, clearing the thick haze of his mind until he was present once more. The mission. The rain. You. It all came surging back. You had moved closer. Did he miss you closing the distance the same was he missed some of your words? Had his overstimulated mind lose that time? Or had he chosen to ignore you to preserve what last bit of sanity he had left?

"Dex," you implored, "Can we talk? Please?"

The pad of Dex's thumbs pressed against the handles of the blades he held before he moved to slip them into his belt. He took a step back, then another. Your hands wanted to reach out. To connect. Being unable to only seemed to distress you more. He hated that. The mission was still active. He hated that more. There would be no closing it until you were both safe and out of sight.

"Target's eliminated," he reported, turning towards the direction of the stakeout point, "I'll grab the gear. Go back to the car."

"Dex--"

You had moved to follow after him. It was a mistake. Your steps were swiftly halted when Dex spun around. He stared you down, eyes hardened and void of warmth. The sight had you more than just pause. Danger didn't just tease at the edges. It consumed and filled the space between you.

"The car. Now."

The words had you flinching, as if delivered with a sturdy blow. The order had snapped something in you. Dex watched a your lips parted to speak, but no words came as you seemed to decide against it. You reached up to wipe the rain -- or at least what he thought was rain -- from the corner of your eyes before you turned to leave. You passed the two bodies, only slowing to pick up one of the flashlights from the ground. Dex didn't wait for you to leave. The target was down. It was only a matter of time before police would be dispatched and search the woods. The white noise rose in the back of his mind as Dex walked back to the stakeout point. He broke down the sniper rifle, secured it in the case, and collected all traces of your presence onsite. He picked up the now muddy coat that he threw off in haste to get to you, slipped it on to conceal his tactical gear. He found your fallen hat as well, tucking it into the backpack.

It was around that time Dex saw the first man begin to stir. Dex glared up ahead at the men that laid on the ground. They were the reason. The disruption was their fault. He moved without thinking. The slip of a blade cut through the rain, embedding itself into the skull of the first man. The same fate met the second man soon after. He picked up the remaining flashlight without slowing down his stride, continued his trek back to the car.

You were waiting by the rental, leaning against the passenger's side door as Dex cleared the woods and stepped onto the dirt road. He fished the key from his pocket and unlocked the car before he moved to store the bags in the trunk. By the time he slipped into the driver's seat, you had already seated yourself in the passenger's side seat and buckled yourself in. Dex yanked his Bullseye mask from his face and tucked it into the pocket of his coat. Between the rain and mud, the rental would be a mess. They'd have to pay extra fees for the carelessness. Something Dex knew would upset you... or rather upset you further. Dex risked a glance in your direction as he moved to buckle himself in. You were quiet, uncharacteristically so. Your arms were crossed over yourself, fingers curling into the soaked fleece you wore. Reddened eyes stared ahead, silently waiting for him to drive.

The drive back had only the sound of rain to fill the silence. The bed and breakfast had quieted down significantly by the time you both returned, granting the opportunity to grab the bags and make it to the rooms without anyone seeing the disheveled state you both were in. You both walked down the short corridor towards your separate rooms, keys quietly unlocking the doors across from one another. Dex's hand remained on the doorknob. Not yet pushing the door open to step inside. He listened for a pause, for the sound of you turning, for the possibly of even a word.

CLICK.

Dex looked over his shoulder as the door to your room ticked shut, followed by the flick of the lock. His jaw set as walked into his room. He let the door close behind him, dropping his case by his feet. Flipping the lock on the door, he stripped himself from his soaked coat. The fabric felt tougher, made it harder to peel off. Frustrated, Dex ripped the remainder of the coat from his arms. Hands clawed at the rest of his wet clothes until he was rid of them. He ran his hands over his face, raked through his hair as he forced himself to breathe. Steady breath in, hold, then slow breath out.

Just like you showed him once.

Fuck.

Dex dropped onto the bed, face down on the mattress. What the hell was he going to do now? Dex buried his face into the nearest pillow as the noise in his head turned up slowly. For once, he welcomed the static. He let the white noise in his head drown out the thought of you and what he saw, pushed the responsibility of figuring it all out until the next morning. He slept. Barely. Restless, he turned and twisted beneath the sheets. He fell in and out of consciousness, in-between the sleep he needed and the twisting feeling in the pit of his stomach that prevented him from a moment of respite.

"I saw the news this morning, bud. We're very happy about this one. I'll reach out with your next mission once it comes in. Absolutely crushing it, you two."

The message came in early morning from Mr. Charles. Things didn't feel right, even with the stamp of approval from the higher ups. Dex threw on a pair of sweats and a tank before he padded across the hall to your door. His knuckle brushed against the door before he tapped two solid knocks against the wood. He waited, only earning silence in return.

"It's me," he finally said, knocking once more.

Nothing.

Dex contemplated grabbing a knife and breaking the door open, even going so far as to check the hall around him. Setting his hand on the doorknob, he expected the resistance that came with a locked room. Instead, the handle turned completely, clicking open softly. Dex wordlessly slipped inside. Maybe you were in the restroom, maybe you were ignoring him still. Either way, he needed to see you. Better to ask for forgiveness than an apology. Not that he'd actually ask for either. He closed the door behind him, turned towards the room. The empty room. No suitcase. No bed that was slept in. Not a single trace of you left behind.

You were gone.

And you stayed gone for days.

More accurately, you were gone for nine days, one hour, forty-five minutes, and twenty-three seconds.

The first day was wasted in France, where you seemingly turned off your phone and forced Dex to search nearly every five star hotel and restaurant within a respectable distance from the airport for you.

He took a flight back to Washington on day two, where he spooked your address out of the poor girl who sat outside of Mr. Charles's office. Once that was obtained, he searched your apartment, which he suspected was the address you must have supplied to Charles for CIA records. The minimalist space he broke into in no way aligned with your personal style. It was too clean and muted. Boring. It has absolutely none of your touch, your style, or your warmth.

Day three consisted of combing through the dummy apartment, the leasing apartment, and what he could find of your financials to extract your real apartment address in DC.

Days four was spent casing your actual place, waiting for you to reveal yourself.

He lost his patience by day five, inevitably breaking into the window of your living room to take a look around. The sight of your apartment made Dex dizzy. Compared to the bogus apartment the CIA had on file for you, this place felt loud and lived in. Comfortable, if not a little chaotic. Plush seating overflowed with soft blankets and decorative pillows, bookshelves littered with paperbacks and trinkets. Each room had a wall of a different, deeply rich color. There was always something on a wall as well. Artwork, a mirror, a shelves filled with bottles and vases, a plant. There was still no sign of you though. He moved through the space and stepped into your bedroom, where he found a very old, very worn green sweater with NEW YORK in big, bold letters thrown over the small chair in the corner of your room. Dex found himself brushing his thumb against the soft cotton sleeve, contemplating the potential insanity of his next move.

In for a penny, in for a pound.

Getting into New York unseen proved difficult, but not impossible on day six. From there, Dex moved a little more comfortably. This was his city. The same city he almost died and was reborn in. The same city that granted him his new life. He resumes his search similar to his method in France. Only instead of a five star radius around the airport, Dex lined up the top ten most expensive hotels in the city. He knocked the more traditional ones from the list with ease. You weren't going to stay in historic hotels, as nice as they were. Your choice in living space would be as colorful and sleek as you were. That fact was exactly how he spotted you.

Shopping bags swung from your hands and bright red heels click, click, clicked against the marble of the Baccarat Hotel. He kept his head down and stayed a safe enough distance away, but his eyes found themselves locked onto you. You looked... good. More than good, if he were being honest. Dressed in far finer garbs than the last time he saw you. He left a wide space, watching as you walked into the nearby elevator. Once the elevator doors closed with you inside, Dex moved from his cover. He observed each numbered floor above the elevator doors light up. One by one, floor by floor, until it stopped at the top floor. He scouted out the most expensive suite. The only one that occupied the top floor of the hotel. Bedroom, separate living and dining area, kitchenette. An opulent waste to Dex, but to you? He had no doubts you'd book the expensive suite without a second glance.

Dex had initially planned on cutting your trip short. Make his presence known. Yet somehow he found himself on day seven, waiting for you to leave the hotel. It was nearly afternoon when you finally appeared, immediately hailing a cab. He trailed the cab on the motorcycle he borrowed off some guy the night before, following you across town. All the way to... a maximum security prison. Despite his desire to track, Dex kept his distance. He may be working for the CIA now, but he knew better than to tempt fate and follow as you went inside. You were in there for two hours. The visitation time. Though his memory was spotty during his incarceration before Vanessa Fisk broke him out, he remembered how some inmates would receive visitors. Dex waited those two hours, noted the way your lips were set in a firm line when you left. He wondered what -- or who -- in that prison had caused that expression on your face. He wondered if he'd get the chance to ask about it someday.

He succumbed to the agitating feeling in his stomach on day eight and booked two tickets back to DC for the next morning. He kept his distance for eight days. You left without a warning or a trace. Without an explanation. Instead, you chose to run away to New York. He didn't understand it, yet he still sought you out. Still found you. That was honorable in his mind. A politeness. Surely you would agree with his assessment of the situation, if he could just get you alone. A task that currently felt impossible when you planted yourself in the middle of a packed night club that evening.

You wore a winter blue dress that draped over your front and dropped at your back. The fabric looked like it was dusted with sparkles. You looked like stars rippling across dark ocean waters as you danced. The lights in the club reflected against the glitter in your hair. At least that was how it looked from where he leaned on the second floor railing. Dex wasn't a fan of night life. The odd hours of service, the loud and unfamiliar music, the cramped space... It was a sweaty, sensory overloaded mess. He had little interest in it. Although it was impossible not to have his curiosity piqued at the sight of you that night. He watched as you moved to the music in the sea of bodies. The way your hips dipped and swayed, the way your hands trailed along your body and the body in front of you.

Wait.

Dex's grip on the railing tightened at the sight of another dancing near you. Was this normal? Did people just touch one another in night clubs? He watched with a different kind of intensity in his eye as you continued to move. This time his eyes were burning holes into the guy's hands, which trailed a little too close to your lower back. He considered his options, fairly certain he'd tip his hand if that man suddenly dropped dead on the dance floor. So his eyes continued following your movements, his feet stepping to keep you in his line of sight.

You departed sometime in the early morning on day nine, sweat covered and hair mussed from the night. Dex followed you down the streets of Queens, down the city blocks until you made your way up the ramp of a diner. Dex stared up at the giant letters above the building.

BEL AIRE DINER.

The space was nearly empty and looked like repairs had been made since the last time Dex was there months ago. A new lobster tank in place, patched up walls where bullet holes used to be. You sat at a window booth, eyes moving over the plastic menu in your hands. The glow of the lights was softer in the evening. Music softly played in the air as Dex made his way across the room. Your eyes don't lift from the menu when Dex slid into the booth across from you.

"Took you long enough."

You raised your gaze to look at Dex over the top of the menu.

"Over a week," you noted, "I was starting to think you weren't as good as they say you are."

"Sorry to disappoint."

"You didn't. At least not about that."

You set the menu down on the table, manicured nails tapping the tabletop as you leaned back in your seat. Dex set his forearms on the table as he leaned forward. He watched you, waited for your smile. You had smiled during the days he followed you. At the staff in the hotel, at the taxi drivers when you left the hotel, in the stores you shopped in. Your smile had been as carefree as your dancing earlier that night, but now? Now your face had none of that. You were pleasant, not openly hostile. However, the warmth that came so naturally to you had cooled significantly. Your lips parted to speak, but quickly stopped when a waitress made her way over to the table. Thankfully, it was not the same older woman as the last time Dex had visited the diner. The odds of anyone recognizing him diminished greatly. He sat back as the older woman smiled warmly as she approached.

"Aren't you a sight for sore eyes," the waitress said, "How long has it been, honey?"

"Too long," you replied, melting to the picture of ease.

"You're not getting your pancakes somewhere else, are you?"

"I wouldn't even dare to try and replace this place. However, if I were -- which I absolutely haven't at all -- they weren't half as good as here."

The older woman laughed, a hand resting on her hip. Dex watched as the waitress tipped her head in his direction, though she still addressed you when she spoke.

"And is this one the reason you haven't been around?" she asked, hint of a grin on her lips.

Dex raised an eyebrow faintly, interested in hearing your reply.

"Quite the opposite," you replied, "Benji here is the reason I'm back in town."

Benji? Dex made a face at the nickname, as you continued.

"Unfortunately, I got a job out of state," you explained further, "But I had some time and decided to take my friend here to my favorite place for breakfast."

"We'll get you the usual then. Same for your friend?"

The waitress looked at Dex, who nodded faintly.

"Yes, ma'am," he confirmed, earning a kind smile from the woman in response.

"Handsome and polite?" she grinned, scribbling down the order on a pad she pulled from her apron. She sent an obvious wink in your direction. "You got good taste in friends, honey."

You smile as the waitress collected the menu and made her way off to drop the orders into the kitchen. The curve of your lips faded slightly as you found yourself alone with Dex once more. Fingers itching for motion, you found yourself picking up the paper napkin nearby. You twisted it, then unrolled it. Repeated the motion in silence.

"If you're here to kill me," you finally said, eyes focused on the napkin as you continued to twist. "I'd prefer for it to happen after pancakes. Ideally, not in front of the staff. I've been coming here for years. It's a nice place and she's a nice lady. She works as a waitress most nights so she can watch her grandkids in the afternoon while her daughter's at work. If it happens here, the diner will be down for at least a couple days for a police investigation. She'll be out a few days worth of a paycheck. Some people live check to check. It'd be... rude. I don't want my last moment on earth to be an inconvenience in a place I really like."

"I'm not here to kill you."

Your fingers paused.

Your eyes rose.

"You're not?"

His answer was simple.

"Why would I?"

"Why wouldn't you?" you immediately asked, fingers tearing the napkin into strips as you added, "Mr. Charles would have dispatched you the moment you told him I ran. It would be the correct protocol for the CIA. AWOL or whatever..."

"Mr. Charles doesn't know."

Your eyes were touched with confusion.

"You didn't tell him I ran?"

"I didn't tell him anything."

You looked at him for a beat more before you began to lower your gaze to the napkin in your hand. Dex reached out, a large hand coming to rest over both of yours. It lingered there before Dex slowly curled his fingers around the torn napkin. He drew the pieces from your hands, leaving it at the edge of the table and out of your restless fingers.

"You--" you stopped yourself for a moment as the waitress brought over a couple waters, continuing when you were once again alone. "You saw what I did and then you just... sent me back to the car. You didn't give me the chance to talk about it. You were cold--"

"I was direct," he told you, "You were... upset. I was not equipped to fix that. We were in the middle of a mission. The target was just eliminated. Police would have been called. We already had two intruders onsite. You may not have liked it, but what I did was necessary."

Dex took note of your restlessness. The way your hands flexed open and closed, the feeling of your leg bouncing beneath the table. Quietly, Dex reached out and slid his napkin in your direction. He waited for you to take it. It seemed to soften some of the tenseness when you began to tear it to pieces.

"Why are you here, Dex?"

"You left," he simply replied, "I'm here bring you back."

"It can't be that simple."

"Why not?"

There was a brief pause as the waitress arrived with food. Two plates stacked with pancakes, fresh strawberries, and whipped cream. A small dish for butter and a bottle of syrup was left, as well as a few extra napkins. Neither of them moved as the waitress left them alone once more.

"Don't you have questions?" you asked him.

"I do," Dex replied, "I'll ask them when we get back to DC."

"Why?"

Dex gave you a look. Isn't it obvious? He motioned to the plates that sat between you both. Your ridiculously requested sweet treat in the early morning hours.

"It's 2AM, sweetheart."

Dex saw it then. The way you tried to bite down an incoming smile. The attempt was futile. There you were. The smile that was so big it touched your eyes and made them shine. The laugh -- soft at first, then slightly louder -- that took up space in his mind more then he'd like to admit. Dex found himself grinning. His first real smile in days. You picked up a fork and tugged your plate closer.

"These are my favorite pancakes in all of New York," you beamed, reaching out to drizzle syrup over your already sugar sweet plate, "From age six to ten, my parents would take me here before every drop off and after very summer pick-up from boarding school. Didn't matter what time of day. Pancakes were always ordered. I've yet to find a place that makes them this good."

"Why six to ten?" Dex asked, as he picked up his own fork.

"I was six when they first sent me to school in New York," you explained, "And they passed in a car accident when I was ten so..."

There must've been something in Dex's face -- the tilt of his head or a blink in the eyes -- that conveyed sympathy, because you were quick to keep talking.

"It's okay though. Really. I mean, at the time it definitely sucked. No one enjoys being orphaned during their formative years, but I ended up with a decent trust at eighteen. It wasn't a lot, but it was enough not to be terrified of the future."

Dex sat with that information for a moment. He was orphaned around that age. He didn't know why that sat on his tongue or why he wanted to share that piece of himself with you.

"Were you sent to an orphanage too?" he asked you.

Maybe one like Lyndhurst, where he had ended up, but for girls. Dex watched as you bit into a pancake piece before you shook your head at his question.

"A few of the teachers were concerned about a kid with my... condition being placed in the system," you shrugged faintly, "So when most of the kids went home to their families for the summer, I stayed at school. It wasn't too bad. There were other kids who didn't have places to go to and most of the teachers were around. It made it less lonely."

Dex felt his fingers tense around the fork he held, forced himself to soften the hold. Your experience was so unlike his own. Did that environment craft the person you became? Did his own upbringing make him the way he was? Would it have changed anything? He wasn't sure it would have.

"Sounds like a good place to land in."

"It was," you smiled, admiration in your voice, "I kinda owe my life to Xavier's. I make donations as frequently as I can. For a school for gifted youngsters, you can only imagine the kind of maintenance they need to keep that place running."

"'Gifted youngster'," Dex repeated, as he stabbed a piece of pancake onto his fork, "Is that what you are?"

"What I am is a mutant," you replied, thoughtfully, "Human-presenting, which others can't say, but I guess it's easier to call us 'gifted' when we're younger. Makes us feel special instead of different."

"You are different," Dex explained, simply, "But you're special too. You're... You're both."

He noted the way your face tinted faintly, a blush touching your cheeks. Your lips pressed to suppress a particularly deep smile. It took you a moment before you spoke again.

"I guess I stayed in New York because of Xavier's," you said, "Well, that and this place. There were a few years that I wasn't around. I got caught up in something that went sideways. I was advised to cut my losses and skip town, which I did. I tried Boston. I hated it. Thankfully, I got a call a few months back. A favor for a friend. My first time back in a while. I missed the city. I tried to visit this place, but the diner was closed for renovations. Some drug bust with the NYPD--"

"AVTF," Dex corrected, immediately, "And it wasn't a drug bust. It was a vigilante call."

"Whatever," you began to say, eyes focused on your pancake. You paused for a beat, eyes flickered up to look at Dex. "Wait.... How exactly do you know all that that?"

Dex smiled a little too proudly.

"You know what?" you quickly added, "I don't wanna know."

"You sure you don't want to know?"

"Of course I wanna know," you quickly replied, "Tell me everything and leave out nothing."

Dex smiled as you scooted forward in the booth, leaning in as he started to tell his story. You'd both spend the rest of the early morning meal that way. Just two people exchanging words over pancakes without a care in the world. Dex embraced the opportunity to speak with you, to witness your smile once again. It felt like catching up on time lost. It's nearly 3AM when you stacked the now-empty plates and moved to pay at the register. Dex stopped you, suggested you hail the taxi while he covers the tab. You waved goodbye to the staff, whispering for Dex to remember to tip before you left. Dex watched as you made your way outside, through the double glass doors towards the sidewalk.

"Give the girl your jacket, honey."

Dex turned to spot the waitress, who was all smiles as he moved towards the register.

"It's cold out," the older woman advised, "Offering your jacket would be sweet. She seems like the type of girl that likes sweet."

Dex looked over his shoulder slightly, caught the sight of you -- still in your shimmering dress and heels, most likely hopped up on sugar pancakes, and soon to experience the crash that followed -- slowly twirling circles on the sidewalk outside of the diner and not at all thinking about hailing a cab.

"Yeah," he hummed out, under his breath, "She's a sweet one."

He pulled out eighty bucks, dropped it on a thirty buck tab. He murmured a faint 'keep the change' before he made his way out of the diner. You were mid-spin when you came to a stop, eyes landing on Dex... and his jacket. Held open for you. He got the pleasure of seeing the glimmer of surprise, followed by earnest recognition. You said nothing as you turned to slip your arms through the sleeves of the jacket. You're instantly engulfed with heat. You silently insisted to yourself that was the reason your cheeks get warm.

A taxi is hailed moments later, Dex rattling off your hotel to the driver as you both slip into the back seat. The ride to the hotel is spent in relative silence, with only the sound of the radio playing. Some unfamiliar pop star singing some enchanted song. He couldn't focus on the lyrics. Not when the side of your body leaned into his. Not when your head finds its way onto his shoulder. Dex spent the next twenty minutes sitting completely still, unable to move. Not wanting to move for fear of disturbing you.

When the taxi neared the front of the hotel, Dex rouses you with a hand on your knee. You insisted on paying the taxi this time and bid the driver a safe night before you moved to join Dex on the sidewalk outside the hotel.

"Keep it," Dex said, as you began to shrug out of the jacket, "You can give it back to me at the airport. LaGuardia. 11:30AM. Gate B13."

"You were that sure you'd find me by today?" you asked him.

"Got the ticket yesterday," Dex smirked, nodding towards the jacket, "Ticket's in the inner right pocket."

Your eyes narrow playfully as you pat a hand over the right side of the jacket, fingers dipping into the front before you drew out a flight ticket from the pocket. You blew out a small chuckle before placing it back into the pocket once more.

"Where are you staying?" you asked him.

"Got a hotel down the road," Dex replied, "Cheaper. Guy at the front desk doesn't look too closely at IDs. Takes cash."

"Sounds about right," you laughed, "Do you need to get another cab?"

"I can walk."

"You'll be cold without your jacket."

Dex smirked.

"I'll live."

You smiled in return.

"You better."

Dex watched as you shifted on your feet. Weight from one heel to the other as you hugged the jacket around yourself. You shift closer to him. One step followed another until you stood toe-to-toe. You looked up -- and up -- to meet Dex's eyes. Your face softened, grew more heartfelt. Dex felt a chill roll down his spine as you rose onto the tips of your toes, arms reaching to wrap around his neck and shoulders. His hands took a moment before he remembered to move them, placed them cautiously at your hips. You're holding him -- hugging him -- with your face buried slightly into the crook of his neck.

"Thank you for finding me," you murmured against his shoulder, a small laugh in your words as you added, "And for not killing me."

You raise your head just enough to press small kiss to his scarred cheek. He wills his pulse to slow at the contact. It refused to. Instead Dex felt the beating go into overdrive. It continued to beat as you lowered yourself back to your height. A relentless pounding forming two words when you began to pull away. Don't go. Dex's fingers curled around the fabric of his jacket. He drew you closer before your arms could fall away completely from his shoulders.

His head dipped, swiftly closed what little distance there was between your face and his. Between your lips. Dex had never really been one to participate in gestures of romance. He had seen others perform the motions, yet so rarely engaged in it himself. But this moment? With you, in the early hours of the day, still beneath stars and moonlight and city lights? This he can do. So he kissed you. His lips were hesitant at first, unsure. A soft brush against softer lips. Testing. Slowly teasing. Then, when he was certain you wouldn't push him away, he tasted. He kissed deeper, hands slipped beneath the jacket you wore. Fingertips slid against your sides, gripped at your hips. Pulled you closer, kept you pressed against him. Your hands dropped from his shoulders and came to rest against his chest. His lips begged for entry and claimed your mouth completely once granted.

You'd both part slowly with shuddered, nearly desperate breaths. Dex dropped his forehead down, lightly rested it atop your head as you gathered your bearings. His thumbs brushed against your hips slightly before he withdrew his hands, taking the front of the jacket and drawing it closed. You said nothing as Dex brushed a hand along the length of your arm. A small touch. A quiet gesture. Your fingers grazed against his for a beat before breaking away completely. Neither of your spoke again. Dex simply nodded towards the hotel, a silent signal for you to head inside. You didn't question it. You moved on shaky legs towards the large entrance of the hotel doors, looked back slightly where Dex still remained. He waited until you were completely inside before moving from the sidewalk and down the long city block, towards his own hotel.

Something shifted in the air, changed the winds irrevocably, but Dex paid it no mind.

At this point in time, Dex simply existed with one simple fact.

You weren't gone anymore.

It was overcast when the plane touched down in France, a faint drizzle in the air and the promise of heavier rain at night. You were both sent overseas to eliminate a foreign dignitary who was trying their hand at extortion for the first time. Not too much of an offense in Dex's eyes. Their only problem was that they tried to extort the wrong people. Someone high enough on the ladder to pull strings at the CIA.

You had booked a nice bed and breakfast by the countryside. Separate rooms across the hall from one another and complimentary breakfast. A nice enough change from having to share a near-empty studio space. You had insisted on arriving a day earlier and leaving the day after to avoid suspicion, but Dex was pretty sure you had ulterior motives. Like you were determined not to be holed up in anything less than five stars for the night. Dex didn't protest it. The CIA was paying them to get the job done. As long as he was doing his duty as a hero, he wasn't going to question what you did to get the missions set up.

The stage would be set during a fancy evening charity gala held in some chateau in the hills. The same hills just on the other side of the woods from the bed and breakfast. A short drive out on the dirt path, then a walk through trails to avoid drawing attention. Set up the sniping spot, wait it out. It sounded like a good plan.

Until about ten minutes into the dirt walk.

"This sucks," you huffed, side-stepping a particularly large tree branch that had fallen.

Dex had driven a rental as far into the forest as possible before you both were forced to walk. The first few minutes were spent on an easy enough hiking trail. It was when you both had to divert off the path and into the forest itself that the misery set in. Your misery anyway.

"We're almost there," Dex told you, ignoring the fact that he said the same thing to you a minute before.

"Stupid bureaucrats and their lavish parties," you grumbled, hands tugging your hat firmly in place as small sprinkles began to rain down on you, "In their dumb, beautiful, luxurious mansions. Next time Mr. Charles wants us to take out someone at a party, I'm going to demand enough time to craft a good enough alias to be invited to said party instead of creeping around in the mud."

"Not a nature person?" Dex found himself asking, knowing it would send you into a chatting session.

"I respect nature. I think nature is nice and has a purpose, but I like to admire nature from a very safe, very warm distance."

Dex looked over his shoulder, watching as you huffed up a particularly steep step. You wore a fuzzy, faux-fur trapper hat and a fleece jacket beneath a knit sweater, along with a pair of jeans and sneakers. Warm enough clothing, but time will tell regarding how well it will keep against rain. He wore a heavy coat over his tactical suit. His Bullseye mask tucked into the back pocket of his pants. Sniper rifle case slung over his shoulder and a backpack on yours, he nodded just up ahead.

"We should get a clear shot through here."

"Ohthankgod."

You pushed the last several feet, clearing a particularly annoying batch of bushes. Dex stopped by a fallen tree. In the distance was the glow from the chateau and the promise of a target waiting. You watched as Dex knelt by the tree, placing the case down beside him. He went to work, opening the case and assembling the sniper rifle. You dropped the backpack down beside the case, squatting down to his level as you watched him produce a knife and carve a notch into the tree for stability. He lined the sniper, head leaning forward to look through the scope of the gun. As expected, the guests had begun to make their way into the ballroom. Perfectly positioned, as planned. He scanned the faces, the guests in their gowns and tuxes, the staff that walked around with platters in hand.

"Better settle in," he told you, moving to get into a more comfortable position on his knee, "This'll take a bit."

Much more than a bit.

Dex continued to watch the party as you made yourself comfortable sitting beside him. You fished out a pair of binoculars from your bag, peering through in an attempt to aid in finding the target. Dex had never really understood people who lived lavishly. You seemed to enjoy every moment you could spend in that kind of environment. Living life in such bold extravagance. He assumed it was some innate human desire that didn't get absorbed into him upon creation. However, as the night went on -- after nearly an hour trudging through the forest and two additional hours squatting in the same sniper position -- Dex could see the appeal of a comfortable bed and a hot shower. Dex let out a slow exhale. The combination of wet ground and impatience had started to get to him, which could only mean you were in your own version of hell.

"Stop fidgeting," Dex huffed, eye trained on the scope of the sniper rifle.

"I think my sock is wet," you replied, shifting in your position on the ground beside Dex to look at your foot, "If true, this officially makes tonight the worst job yet."

"You should have worn something better than sneakers."

"Not all of us settle for wearing the same boots every day."

Dex pulled back from the rifle, rolling his shoulder slightly to try and ease the cramp that started to form there. You had long abandoned the binoculars by your feet to rummage in your backpack for snacks. He watched as you produced a bag of trail mix, shaking a handful into your palm. You organized the different pieces into small piles in your hand. He noticed you ate them in order of preference. Chocolate pieces and dried fruits first, then the undesirable nuts and seeds last.

"We lost the light," you pointed out, popping the last of the fruit in your hand into your mouth.

"I know," Dex replied, holding out his hand out towards yours.

Without thinking, you drop the remainder of the mix from your hand to his. Nothing but seeds and nuts. Dex popped them into his mouth before he moved back into position by the rifle.

"The party's bright. We won't have a problem seeing the target."

"We should have brought an umbrella," you noted, tossing the trail mix bag into your backpack.

"I know."

You picked up the binoculars before you settled beside him, leaning against the fallen tree Dex used to anchor his gun. The tap, tap, tap of your fingertip against the binoculars the only sound between you two, just barely heard above the sound of the rain. It wasn't until you felt Dex's hand reach out and settle on your hand that you stopped.

"Take your break," he instructed, taking the binoculars and setting them on the ground, "I got this."

"You've been getting it for the past hour."

"Because you have the patience of a hummingbird and I need to focus."

"I'm bored," you sighed, shifting to lean your back against the tree. You tilt your head forward to avoid having more rain on your face than there already was, arms crossing over your chest to keep from tapping once more. "I'm used to doing something. Get me in there, let me find the guy, anything. I've never been good at sitting still and waiting for things. I've got a terrible need for immediate gratification. It was a problem when I was younger. I couldn't sit still to save my life. My brain wanted everything all the time and I didn't know how to regulate those wants. I think it's half the reason my parents sent me to boarding school."

"I'm sorry," Dex automatically said, "That must've been really hard."

You looked in Dex's direction, eyes narrowing slightly.

"Do you do that often?"

"Do what?"

"Use that line."

Dex's eyes flickered from the scope to you, his face blank.

"That's not a line," he told you.

"That was definitely a line," you insisted, pointing in his direction, "And that was a lie."

You leaned forward to stare at Dex, who forced himself to ignore you. He took a moment to check the rifle, adjust the scope. Busy work. Anything to avoid your eyes. Eyes that were determined to lock onto his.

"I read people for a living," you reminded him, "I know when people say what they mean. You didn't mean it. How often do you say that line?"

Dex's lips flattened into a tight line as he focused his attention on trying to find the target.

"I don't mean anything rude by it," you continued, pushing the subject, "It's just interesting, y'know? How your brain works compared to mine. You simulate differently than I do. I pretend to be whoever I manage to be when I'm breaking the law, but you pretend at all hours of the day. That's... really not sustainable."

You scooted across the dirt, closer to where Dex knelt.

"You can't mask all the time. It's not healthy. You need a place where you can unmask and just be. Do you do that? Ever? Or have anyone you can relax around?"

Dex was steady in his decision to remain silence. Until he felt the warmth of your hand touch his knee. He struggled to keep his focus forward knowing what was waiting for him. Big, expressive eyes. A smile that could shine even in the darkness of the woods. Your touch, casual and given to him freely. The warmth seeped through the fabric of his pants. It felt like fire against the chill of the night and the ongoing rain.

"I relax," he replied, not all too convincingly as he scanned the gala attendants.

"You don't have to tell me where or when."

"You're dying to know."

"Of course I'm dying to know," you confessed, inching closer, "I'm rotting away waiting. That's how much I'm dying to know."

Your smile grew as you heard Dex lightly chuckle at your words. Though his focus was still on the sniper, he allowed his voice to ease slightly. A small splinter of sharing.

"I was taught the line," he told you, crosshair of the rifle searching for the dignitary, "When I was very young, someone... important taught it to me."

A beat, then you spoke.

"Someone taught you to be this bad at acting?"

Dex sent a firm glare in your direction, which had you holding your hands up slightly surrender. The look had the desired effect, but it also meant your hand was no longer on his knee. His want for this conversation to change clashed with the curious voice in his head that demanded your hand return to him.

"I didn't mean to offend," you told him, "At least not much. I just think you could use some help. That's part of our whole situation, right? Helping each other. You help me, I help you, and we help the CIA. Big, sparkly heroes."

"This is you trying to help me?"

"In a way," you nodded, before quickly adding, "Mostly just observing, because you don't share anything. Not really. You talk when spoken to, if you feel like it. You make comments. Sometimes you ask questions. Engage enough to feel personable, but not actually be personable--"

"How is that any different than what you do?"

"The difference is that I do it during cons for money and you do it 24/7 as a way to -- I don't know -- get by? That's not feasible long-term, babe."

Babe.

That was new, as was the way Dex's chest tightened upon hearing it.

"So what are you suggesting? Acting lessons to be more convincing to the general public?"

"God no," you laughed, "I'm a half-decent teacher and I promise I'm not saying you're a hopeless case. Lying is a skill that can be learned, no matter who it is learning it. You just have to buy into the lie. I actually think you could pull off a few lies on a con if we lean into your strengths--"

"My stre--"

"Not the killing people part," you added, excitement bubbling at the surface, "Not even the aiming thing. Now that I've seen what you can -- or, um, can't -- do, I can craft around the limitations. Really lean into your silent intensity, your build, your good looks--"

"My good--"

"What I'm saying is that you spent your life masking to the whole world," you sighed, reaching out to place your hand back on his knee once more, "I want you to know that you don't have to. At least not when you're with me, okay?"

That strange feeling in Dex's chest struck again.

"We're partners. That means I got your back. No judgement. Well, maybe a little judgement, but only because I believe you should be able to judge freely amongst friends."

Friends.

Partners.

Babe.

Dex felt the overwhelming weight of those words all at once. It made his gloved hands sweat and his pulse jump. He didn't know how to respond to the words spoken in that moment.

"The target," he finally said. Did his mouth always feel this dry? Dex cleared his throat slightly, shifting where he knelt. A reset. "We still need to--"

"Right," you let out a breath of a laugh. You gave his knee a small squeeze before pulling away, smiling at him as you did. "Go get our guy."

You started to situate yourself back in your sitting position nearby, stopping when you heard Dex's voice again.

"You wanna look through the scope?"

Dex felt his mouth curve into a smirk at the sight of your eyes widening. Your lips parted slightly in surprise before slowly turning into a smile.

"Really?" you asked, voice betraying the elation in your voice.

"You're not taking the shot," he warned, as you began to scoot closer once more.

"Wouldn't even if I could," you promised, as Dex shifted back to give you space behind the sniper, "I'm not really a gun person. My mouth tends to get me in and out of situations before they can resort to, you know..."

Dex watched as you held up finger guns, mimicking shooting them off. His hands hovered as you knelt behind the rifle, placing them over yours as he moved them into position.

"This is the butt pad," he said, moving his hand from yours to tap the end of the rifle. Your shoulders shook as you suppressed a laugh. He dropped his other hand to your side, knuckles tapping your hip as he shushed you. "Yes, that's the name."

"Use another word than butt pad."

"The other word is rear end."

Dex sighed against the top of your head as you laughed. Head tilted back, tapping his chest kind of laugh. He bit back the urge to smile at the sight, waited until you settled down before resuming.

"You're going to keep this pressed firm on your chest," he instructed, tapping the pad at before briefly tapping where he wanted the gun against your chest. "Aim straight ahead. If you angle the rifle, you won't get an accurate shot when you get the shot off."

"I'm not going to--"

"Focus."

"Fine."

He leaned over your body, chest at your back. He took your dominant hand, wrapping your fingers over the pistol grip. You let him take your other hand, resting it against the sniper for stability.

"Lean in, look through the eye of the scope," he told you. His body followed as you did, cheek brushing yours faintly. "Don't have to worry about adjustments. Just get used to the feeling."

He kept his hand over yours at the pistol grip, his other hand dropping to rest at your hip.

"Can you see them?" he murmured, voice low in your ear.

"Yeah," you breathed out, surprise in your voice.

You watched the party.

Dex watched you.

For a moment, the chill from the rain gave way to the warmth of your body against his. You watched the guests with interest, small gasps from your lips when you saw something particularly fun. Dex grinned at the sight, the hand at your side absentmindedly running along the curve of your hip.

"Having fun?"

Your back pressed flushed against Dex's as you straightened slightly. He remained close even as you turned your head to look at him, felt your smile brush against his jaw. Relishing the feeling only lasted a moment before Dex backed up an inch to give you room to speak.

"It's different looking from here than the binoculars," you told him, "It feels kinda personal, if that makes sense? Strangely... intimate. Deeply dangerous."

"That's the point, sweetheart," Dex chuckled, the rumble from his chest brushing against your back as he did. He nodded towards the rifle again. "Go find us our guy."

You grinned at him before turning back to the scope to resume your search. A few minutes passed in silence before Dex felt it. The way you tensed under his hand and how your breathing slowed, as if a slight movement would ruin it all.

"Dex," you whispered, despite being alone, "There he is..."

Dex quickly shifted, gave you room to scoot out of the way. Taking your place at the sniper, Dex settled into position, peering through the scope. There he was. Dex rolled his shoulders before he moved to line up the shot.

SNAP.

The sound of branches breaking in the distance at your backs. You both whipped your heads over your shoulders at the sound. The sight of flashlights blinking distantly around the mess of trees confirmed it. Others were nearby. You were scrambling onto your feet before Dex could realize it.

"Take the shot," you quietly instructed him, "I got this."

"Wait--"

"Take the shot, Dex," you insisted, nodding towards the chateau in the distance, "Finish the job. I'll be back."

Damnit.

You were already off towards the direction of the lights, disappearing past the trees. A growl of frustration rumbled in the back of Dex's throat as he tore his eyes from your direction. The sound of rain drowned out any sound he tried to listen for. He wanted to listen for any sign of a struggle, any signal that you might need him. That wasn't what you wanted him to do though. You wanted him to do the damn job. Dex quickly situated himself, body tense as he peered through the scope once more. It took him a few moments to find the foreign dignitary once more. Another beat to line up the shot. He didn't hesitate when he pulled the trigger. It happened in an instant. The flinch as the bullet found a new home in between the man's eyes. The chaos that erupted as the target dropped dead. That was confirmation enough for Dex.

One moment he was positioned behind the sniper rifle.

The next he was up and moving.

Dex shrugged out of his coat, letting the heavy material drop to the ground as he moved through the trees. He snatched his mask from his pocket, slipping it over his face as he weaved quietly. Light on his feet, ready for action. The sound of heavy rainfall covered his movements, but he wouldn't be able to hear you if you were losing a fight. That knowledge sent a jolt through him as he rushed forward. His eyes scanned the area, locking in as he spotted light breaking through the darkness. He reached for the blades he kept on his utility belt as he broke through the clearing.

He found you.

You stood across the clearing, drenched from the rain. Your hat was gone from your head. Most likely from a scuffle. You were here. You were safe. You were... holding out your arms? Dex slowed to a stop as he watched the event unfold before him. Two men. Armed security. Struggling to move. Struggling to breathe. Their arms struggled to reach for their throats, but were restrained by an unseen force. No. Not an unseen force. Restrained by you. By whatever it was you were doing to them. The two men slowly lost consciousness, their bodies dropping once you lowered your arms.

Dex watched as you flexed your hands, as if trying to get feeling back to your fingertips. Your face was calm against the storm as you moved over to them, bending down to check their pulses. Whatever you discovered seemed to satisfy you enough to straighten and step back towards the stakeout point. You froze at the sight of Dex, who remained where he stood. Neither of you made the effort to move or speak as the realization hit. Dex had seen everything. The rain continued to pour, though the chill that was sent through your bones was not from the cold.

It was from the sight of Dex's eyes -- the only thing visible from his mask -- narrowing.

He didn't need to speak. You could already anticipate the words.

A single, silent question that hung between you in the bitter, storming night.

The safe house the CIA dumped you both in was a previously foreclosed studio apartment that had seen better days. Just a bed, a table, and a couple metal chairs in the open space. There was a poor excuse for a kitchen area. Just a hot plate and an empty fridge. Dex had seen worse places, but he knew this was far from your level of comfort. You were used to finer things and your face was far too expressive to hide your discontent. You had made the most of it though, relieved that at least there was a decently sized bathroom.

Dex could hear the sound of the shower running as he prepared for the night. His gear bag and tactical attire was packed and ready, civilian clothes laid out on the bed. Dex currently sat on one of the chairs, dressed in a simple pair of gray sweatpants. He had started his exercise routine when you had first gone to the restroom to shower. Warm up stretching, followed by pushups, then joint rolls. Daily and nightly drills performed like clockwork to ensure he was at maximum efficiency when in action. He rolled his wrist and shoulder, eyes watching the bathroom door as the sound of running water ceased. He had a decent amount of time with you on missions and in public the past few weeks, but this would be the first night actually spent sharing space with you privately.

Dex had never shared his space with anyone before.

He never had anyone spend the night. Never had anyone visit any past residence in general. There had never been anyone close enough to invite. His space had always been his. A sacred space in which he was able to unmask. Be himself. A level of solitude he had always maintained. Now there was you and knowing there was a level of being perceived that came with your presence.

His watched as the bathroom door opened and you stepped out. Steam poured from the bathroom as you walked further into the room. You wore a rainbow-dyed fuzzy bathrobe, feet tucked into equally fuzzy slippers. The robe was oversized and nearly swallowed you in fabric, the loose fabric only held together by the tie at your waist. He watched you as you crouched down slightly, reaching for your suitcase.

"Shower's all yours," you told him, fishing a large makeup bag from your suitcase.

Dex rose from his seat, slowly moving to your side as you tossed the bag onto the bed. Your reconnaissance intel sat in a standard manila folder, which sat atop the nearly packed clothes. Reaching down, he picked up the file. You busied yourself pulling your clothes for the night as he thumbed through the data you collected on the targets days prior. Photos of the targets, public police reports, a few shots that were available of the compound they all resided at. He moved to spread them across the table as you retrieved a comb from your bag. You worked the comb through your hair as you watched him neatly lay out the documents.

"Walk me through it," Dex said, once the final photo was placed.

When you didn't immediately respond, he looked over to you. Your eyes seemed to snap to his, as if previously distracted by something else in his direction. You looked slightly flushed, a twinge of redness in your cheeks. Dex could only assume it was from the shower you just took. You motioned with your brush slightly in his direction.

"Wouldn't you prefer to clean up after your, uh... sweaty man activities?"

Dex looked down at his chest, glistening slightly from his workout. He brushed a hand over the sweat, a faint 'good lord' muttered under your voice as you did. Dex looked back at you, noted the flush had made it to your ears. He wondered if your concern for cleanliness was linked to the distaste you had for the somewhat seedy location you were both forced to spend the night in. It was more than sufficient enough to get his workouts in, but he didn't want to attempt trying to decipher your strange concerns further.

"Walk me through it first," he repeated, nodding towards the laid out photos.

Your eyes flickered -- from his face, downward, then back to his face -- before you shuffled over to his side.

"Two primary locations," you began, reaching over to draw two photos closer to you, "The first is the bar. It was originally a small church chapel, which they purchased through multiple dummy realty companies. Refurbished about five years ago into a moody little bar where they play live music and overprice their mixed drinks. Did I mention how much I despise how overpriced drinks are these day? Because--"

"Focus."

"Ugh. Fine," you continued, "Two primary entrances, which is the front door and the back kitchen entrance. There's a backroom, but from what I've gathered only the eldest ever goes back there."

"Eldest?"

"Vladimir Barkov," you replied, using the brush in your hand to tap a photo. "Forty-two. Spent his youth gaining multiple almost run-ins with the authorities, which means he toed around the danger enough to be noticed but not enough to get picked up for anything serious. Got popped ten years ago after he was caught during a bank robbery. Six years, only served two. He leads the pack, makes the people bleed, and makes his appearance at the bar semi-regularly. Not to work, but to keep an eye out for the middle one."

Dex watched as you tapped the next photo over.

"Andrei Barkov," you continued, "Thirty-five. His name is on the deed to the bar, though bank records reveal big brother foots the bill to keep it running. He's there every night. From what I gathered, he doesn't have the eye for crime, but he's a numbers guy. Probably runs the money through the bar. Makes it clean. Or as clean as it can be. Probably another thing big bro put into motion. Keep him onsite, give him a role. Busy him enough to make him feel important, but not to get in the way. Something he didn't even attempt with the littlest one."

Pushing a stray piece of paper from the last photo, you point to another man.

"Ivan Barkov," you said, faint laugh a you spoke. "Twenty-two. Ivan here is -- to the surprise of no one -- an influencer. He primarily use his socials to flex wealth and post poorly-lit thirst traps."

"Thirst traps?" Dex asked, instantly regretting it at the sight of you biting your lip to keep from laughing. "Do I wanna know?"

"Not really," you admit, "But I would absolutely pay thousands to sit and watch you discover it for the first time..."

Dex resolved to never let that happen.

"He's not allowed near the bar from what I could observe," you move back to the topic, "Which I was able to observe a lot, because the kid is apparently glued to his phone and likes to post his every movement."

"Why do you think he's not allowed near the bar?"

You shrug a shoulder, head tilting slightly as you turned to look up at Dex.

"My best guess is the bar is where they keep their records and run their less than legal plans," you replied, "If little brother snaps a pic or live-streams, the odds of catching something Vlad doesn't want seen are high. So little brother spends most of his time at the compound."

You move the photos of the brothers to the side, tugging a new set of photos closer.

"Nearly twenty acres, built in 2001. Ten bedrooms, thirteen full bathrooms -- why there needs to be more bathrooms than bedrooms, I'll never know -- and everything from a pool to a wine cellar to a game room. Whatever you expect three dudes ranging from early twenties to mid-forties to own, they've got it. Ask me how I know all this."

You don't wait for Dex to ask.

"Our beautiful idiot Ivan did a twenty-six part house tour on his socials," you grinned, absolutely tickled. "It's about as thrilling as watching paint dry, but it provided a ton of intel on the brothers. Where their rooms are, all possible entrances, where security likes to be posted. It was a treasure trove of intel gathering. You'll never believe what I can read off a man just off a first glance at a bedroom."

Dex's brows furrowed before discreetly glancing around them at the cramped studio space. He tried not to think about what conclusions you'd come to if you ever saw the apartment they had set up for him in DC.

"The compound is about fifteen to twenty minutes minimum from the bar," you tell Dex, "Which... is definitely an amount of time, but I can stall for time."

He watched as you turned away from the table, moving to pick up something from the pile of clothes you placed on the bed moments before. Black silky, thin material. Fuck. Dex forced his eyes to look absolutely anywhere else as you shimmied into a pair of panties underneath your robe. The ceiling, the lamp in the corner, anywhere but where you were. He couldn't unhear the movement of clothes as you continued speaking.

"We'll head to the bar together first," you continued on, completely unaware as you reached for the matching bra next. Which Dex definitely didn't glance and immediately look away after the exact same moment you lifted the bra from the bed. "We'll get Vlad on the hook -- you the overbearing boyfriend, me the helpless soon-to-be ex -- and then you'll have the chance to slip away from the bar once you're dismissed by him."

"And head to the compound."

"Where you'll check Ivan off the board."

Dex frowned as a thought entered his mind.

"You'll be left alone with the other two during that time."

He heard you laugh softly behind him, clothes rustling as you slipped into your outfit.

"I'll keep them distracted."

"How?"

"I'll be charming," you snort, "When you finish with Ivan, give me a call. I'll take it as a sign to separate the remaining brothers. That will leave Andrei at the front of the house for you to eliminate while I get Vladimir to let me into their back room."

Dex's frown twisted further.

"How do you plan on getting access to the one place not even Vlad's own family can get into?"

"I'll give him an offer he won't refuse."

He turned to look at you over his shoulder, watching as you let the last inch of your dress fall into place. The material looked delicate and came to a stop mid-thigh. The fabric looked like it was poured over you the way it clung to your body. Your hair was still damp as you swept it from your face, bending down to pick up a pair of heels from the floor. You had abandoned all color to the outfit, instead opting for pitch black silk. You looked completely unlike the bright and bold colors he had come to associate you with. You looked good, but... not you. Dex knew that didn't make sense at all. He also didn't know how he felt about that. So he chose to say nothing at all.

"Hit the showers, big guy," you instruct, as reaching for your makeup bag once your heels were on, "I'll finish getting ready and then we'll head out. If we get this mission completed in record time, I think it would entitle us to--"

"Don't say 'sweet treat'," Dex said, as he started to turn towards the bathroom.

"There is absolutely nothing wrong with treating yourself after a successful job," you called out, clearing a space on the table before setting your makeup bag on the surface, "What we do is very dangerous and I think we deserve something fun in return. I actually think you in particular could use more sweet treats in your life."

Dex stopped at the bathroom door and turned back to look in your direction. You had perched yourself on the table beside your makeup, legs swinging as you began to unpack your makeup.

"Is that so?"

"Desperately," you confirmed, voice dire even though humor danced in your eyes, "You are a man who has never delighted himself with a well-placed 2AM breakfast in a near-empty diner. I can't explain the science behind it just yet, but there's something about pancakes covered in syrup and strawberries and whipped cream that tastes better around that time."

"Breakfast should happen when the sun is out," Dex told you, earning a short round of booing from you for his troubles.

"You lack impromptu average adventures in the middle of the night."

"You lack a rigid routine to keep you in line."

"Many and much scarier than you have tried to contain all this," you proclaimed, motioning to yourself as you spoke, "You're welcome to try and do the impossible, but you'll end up just like the others. On your knees, begging for me to stop."

"You're real intimidating, huh?"

"I'm terrifying."

Dex saw it then. The sparkle in your eye. The blindingly bright smile. The unfiltered humor and joy as you laughed. This was you. Even stripped of your vibrant colors, it was still you in there. Despite himself, Dex found himself smiling as well, watching as you began to apply the makeup to your face.

"Are you sure you're okay to help me with the hook tonight?" you asked, once your laughter subsided.

Dex nodded. You had explained it enough times. Pretend to be an overbearing boyfriend, get dismissed when the the mark inevitably comes to your rescue. Far from rocket science.

"Then hit the showers," you nodded towards the bathroom, a smile spreading once more as you continued, "See? I'm much better at keeping people in line than the reverse."

"You just want your treat," Dex pointed out, as he turned to move into the bathroom.

"Both things can be true!"

The sound of your laughter followed him into the bathroom. He started the shower and stripped down, thoughts shifting to the mission for then night as he stepped into the shower. You had done the research, planned out the best course of action. You just needed him to play a small part, then he was free to do things his way. Dex could handle a couple minutes of acting to get the pieces into place for you.

How card could it be?

Judging from the absolute chaos that erupted hours later? Apparently lying was very hard. Dex believed he was being convincing enough, but maybe he missed something. A social cue or an inflection in his voice. Something that didn't sell the illusion completely. He thought years of trying to mirror others would be in his favor, but judging by the broken glass due to the bullets that rained over his head from his spot crouched behind the bar? Dex clearly was not on par with someone who made a living out of it.

He heard a should of protest. Your voice. Glancing in the reflection of one of the few glass bottles not shot to hell behind the bar, he watched as you were hauled onto your feet by one of the targets, seemingly against your will. Dex smiled as you disappeared into the back room. Damn you were good. Despite how it looked, you got into the room you needed. That had to count for something, right? A renewed sense of pride swelled. Sure. Shit went sideways, but the job will get done. This just took a bit of a detour to get there, but Dex could take care of this mess easy. He reached over and grabbed several metal bar spoons, tucking them into his back pocket. His eye glimmered with interest at the pour spots tucked beneath the bar. Oh, those will be more than useful. Dex waited for the sound of gunfire to cease. Gun mags that need to be changed.

When the silence came, Bullseye went to work.

Five guys -- not counting the one who had pulled you into the back room -- was light work. The first down had tried to advance on his position behind the bar. Dex repaid the kindness by sending one of the pour spouts flying into the center of his throat. Blood flowed from the spout, much to the horror of his comrades... and to Dex's delight. The second and third -- armed with a cue stick and a broken bottle neck, respectively -- rushed him as soon as he rose from the bar, rounding the corner to meet them halfway.

He dropped his shoulder as the cue stick was swung at him, the wooden stick snapping against his back. He ate the pain as he grabbed the attacker with one hand, watching out the corner of his eye as the other man move to slice at him with the sharp end of the bottle neck. Dex aimed the second man's body, tugging him directly into the path of the third. He used the body as a shield, felt the skin give way to the glass as it pierced. His hand shot out quickly, clasping around the wrist of the man who still held the bottle neck. Pushing forward, Dex kept the man's hand in his as he drove the bottle further into the neck of cue stick guy.

He grabbed the bottom half of the cue stick before the man went down, throwing it clear across the bar to impale itself into the chest of the fourth man, who had just finished reloading his gun. That man -- and gun -- dropped to the floor instantly. He released the third man's wrist, shoving him backward until he fell over two wooden chairs, knocking them over in his attempt to retreat. Dex smiled as he kicked one of the chairs, sending it flying until it collided with the withdrawing man with a resounding crack to his face. He picked up a broken chair leg from the ground before throwing it directing into his eye.

Dex's gaze landed on the fifth -- and final -- in the room. The numbers guy. One of three they were tasked with eliminating. A squirrelly looking motherfucker who was trying to scoot his way over to the fallen gun. That was adorable. Dex reached into his back pocket as the man reached for the gun on the ground. Dex split the handful of metal stirring spoons, sending spoon after spoon after spoon. Into the man's hand, halting his attempt to grab the gun. Into his shoulder, then his leg, to drop him to the ground completely. Then, lastly, into the side of his temple. No more moving.

This was his sweet treat.

Striking down his targets one by one.

Dex sniffed slightly, looking around the bar. Patrons had ran. He could only assume the back of the house kitchen had cleared out too. Just two of the three brothers and a few of their safeguards. He looked down at his outfit. The sports coat he wore was only a little stained with blood, but nothing that couldn't be cleaned with a little hydrogen peroxide. The outfit you had helped choose for him, back when you thought he was capable of helping you on a grift.

You.

His eyes shot over to the back room, where you had been taken. Reaching down, Dex picked up the gun from the ground before moving quickly to the door. He brought his head closer, ears straining for any sign of struggle. When he heard none, he placed his free hand on the door, quietly turning the knob. The door handle gave way. Surprisingly unlocked. Gun aimed, he nudged the door open, eyes scanning the room briskly for the leader.

He found him.

Faced down on the cement floor.

"Took you long enough."

Dex looked up from where the man laid, barely spotting the top of your head just beyond a large desk. You sat behind the desk, sitting cross-legged in front of a safe. Rounding he side of the desk, Dex leaned a hip against the corner, gun resting on his lap as he watched you. You seemed to be cracking the safe. No tools. Just by touch. One hand slowly turned the combination dial, the other seemingly holding one side of your dress in place.

"What happened to your dress?"

A beat of silence as you slowed your hand on the dial.

"Me and ol' boy over there had a disagreement," you explained, slowly turning the dial in the other direction. "I wanted in the safe and he didn't agree."

Dex shot a look over his shoulder, where the man remained on the ground. Still breathing, but there was no way you could have overpowered this guy. Not without some help.

"Then what happened?"

Dex turned his attention back in your direction as you slowed the dial, hand lifting to move towards the safe handle. Fingers turned the handle and the satisfying sound of the door giving way came. It was then that you looked over your shoulder towards him. You looked exhausted, but still spirited. Despite the broken strap on your dress and the unconscious man on the ground, you smiled up at him.

"I won the argument," you simply said.

He flicked the safety on the gun before tucking it in the back waistband of his pants. He held out a hand towards your free one, helping you onto your feet without having to drop your hand from your dress. Once you were on your feet, he opened the door to the safe, grabbing the contents inside. Some loose stacks of cash, a few files, and a large leather bound book. He placed the items on the desk, moving back as you moved to inspect the items.

"Anything good?" he asked, his eyes on the broken strap as it hung limply from your dress.

"Folders are full of bar documents," you explained, quickly browsing the files inside, "Business, but not the right business."

Wordlessly, Dex stepped closer to you as you opened the book to look through the writing there. He reached for the broken strap that hung from the front of your dress with one hand, his second hand brushing against your shoulder faintly as he picked up the other piece at the back. He bent forward and moved to bring the two pieces to the top of your shoulder. His mouth was just above the top of your head as he spoke to you, voice low in command.

"Move your hair, sweetheart."

You flipped to the next page before reaching up to scoop the hair from one shoulder to the other. Your eyes remained down at the book before you as he tugged at the strings until he was able to secure the two pieces together with a knot. You dropped your hand from the front of your dress, taking a beat to look at the work he did. It wasn't a complete fix. The fabric of the dress sat slightly higher than the rest of the outfit, but at least you wouldn't be down a hand having to keep it in place. He heard the murmur of thanks from you as he leaned over your shoulder as you continued to scan the book.

"Looks like a ledger of dealings," you said, "And not the bar business kind. This is what we need."

You turned your head to look at Dex. The tip of your nose bumped his chin. Too close to look into his eyes. Too close in general. You tilted your head back, smile on your lips as you closed the book.

"I'll bring the book," you added, "Pocket the cash for me."

Dex looked at you in confusion.

"Consider it an added fee," you told him, picking up the stacks of bills and dropping them into his hands, "For a job almost well done."

You pull away, book tucked under your arm as you moved from the desk. Dex did as you requested, slipping the stacks into the pockets of his coat.

"We're definitely going to talk about what I mean when I ask for help hooking a mark, by the way," you snorted slightly, as you moved towards the door, "Because what you did back then was not it. Like, at all."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah..."

"You gave me absolutely nothing back there," you continued. Dex followed several paces behind you. "If I knew you were this bad at acting, I would had thought of another way to get my in. I mean seriously. You delivered the lines with no emotion. No wonder this dude wasn't buying it..."

Oh right.

The guy.

Dex continued towards the door as you disappeared from the room, hand reaching for the gun he tucked away as he did. He unlocked the gun with a press of his thumb, aiming the barrel of the pistol behind him and pulling the trigger.

BANG.

He didn't need to look to know he shot the guy in the head.

He never missed.

"We still got the last brother," he remembered, as he moved out of the room and into the bar.

He found you behind the bar, uncapping bottles and emptying it across the bar top.

"Don't remind me," you groaned, dropping the empty bottles onto the ground with a crash. You reached to grab another bottle, trickling the contents across the wood tables and floor as you made your way towards the front door. "You know, this whole mission going sideways really threw off our completion time. We'll never make it to 2AM breakfast pancakes at this rate."

Dex tucked the gun into the waistband of his pants, bending down to pat the bodies he passed down. He fished a matchbox out of the pocked of one of the bodies, moving to meet you at the front door. You tossed the now-empty bottle in your hand to the side, newly free hand out towards Dex. Grabby hand motions in his direction. Dex dropped the matchbox into your palm, reaching to take the book from under your arm as you plucked a couple matches from the box.

"We can go after," Dex offered, "Would that make you feel better?"

You sighed, as if missing pancakes at a specific time carried the same burden as carrying the weight of the world on your shoulders. Dex stood in the moment with you for a beat before you lit the two matches. You tossed one of the matches onto a nearby table, setting it on fire. You used the second match to light the matchbox on fire.

"It wouldn't taste the same," you softly replied, a hint of a pout in your voice, "2AM pancakes are elite, but 3:45AM pancakes just don't hit like they should."

You tossed the matchbook onto the ground in front of you both, watching as a flame quickly caught on the alcohol you poured on the ground. From your feet to all the way to the bar counter across the room. Dex followed you as you turned from the growing blaze, walking out of the bar.

"Maybe the next job will have time for 2AM pancakes."

Dex watched a hopeful glimmer touch your eyes. Either that or it was the glow from the building you had just set aflame.

A successful grift was only as good as your best first impression.

The time of the day, the curve of a smile, the right inflection of the voice... It all played into whether the mark would be receptive to you. You believed in the power of it and made a career out of wielding that power for the greater good. Well, not exactly the greater good. You had pilfered priceless artifacts gleefully, embezzled corporations with pizzazz, and lifted confidential codes without a second thought. The good was how it benefited you, which was the greatest good in your eyes. You'd take the occasional job from some wealthy bigwig and cripple their opposition when you were bored. Earn a check by the end of the week. That felt too much like a real job though. Reporting to someone, adhering to rules... It felt limiting. More often than not, you'd find a mark, secure a bag, and spend a month anywhere else in the world but where you currently were.

What was that saying again?

A rolling stone gathers no moss.

You applied that quote to your life. The affectionate version, not the derogatory one. You weren't held down by silly things like mortgages or taxes or other people's feelings. You had one goal: To experience everything you wanted. Constant movement meant freedom and freedom meant no limits. So you learned the basics, perfected techniques. You researched, practiced, and performed until lying for a living became second nature. Until every alias you crafted felt like a second skin on your body. Like any artist, you'd start with a blank canvas. Whatever colors you used to create were entirely up to you. Some aliases were easy creations. Others required more careful considerations. Taking on a murderous vigilante-turned-government approved hitman was a different kind of gig. One you didn't step into lightly -- or willingly -- but fuck it. You were in it now and you were determined to make the best of it.

It helped that the job meant you had government funding.

It didn't help that your asset lacked the whimsy to truly enjoy your hard work.

"This is pointless."

You rolled your eyes at the third disparaging comment in the past ten minutes.

It had been a month since your first and second-first meeting with Benjamin Poindexter. You completed all of one assignment with the guy. A totally lame one too. It was your standard clean up job. No need for intel. No survivors. Just send Bullseye in and let him play. It was uninspiring and lacked charm. Dex loved it. What he didn't love was finding out the second assignment required subterfuge. Some upstart Russian gangsters were making big enough waves that the CIA needed them permanently silenced and wanted access to whatever records they possessed. Trouble was there were too many pieces on the board. A handful of brothers who were rarely in the same place at the same time.

That meant reconnaissance, which meant a shiny new alias.

Which meant shopping.

"It's not pointless," you called out, absentmindedly flipping through a fashion magazine as you sat outside of the dressing room, "I need you to help hook the mark. You can't show up dressed in a mask. You need a new look. It's part of the persona."

"I don't need a persona to kill people."

You were suddenly glad you paid off the whole store for an afternoon alone. Not having anyone around meant they could speak freely, even if it was about future murders. Closing the magazine in your hand, you tossed it onto the couch beside you. Take the guy to a knife store and you were certain he'd be more excited than the absolute torture of suit shopping you were apparently putting him through.

"Maybe not," you shot back, "But you need one this time to get into the hard to reach places so that you can kill people."

"No, I don't."

You bit back a smile at his instant resistance to... Well, most things. In the short time you've come to know him, you found Dex to be a bit intense. Particular. He liked what he liked and was very clear when something didn't resonate with him. The only thing that Dex seemed to truly enjoy was killing people. He didn't react to words and actions the way most people would. You supposed that was what made him good at what he does. He lacked basic empathy, which -- considering the whole he's a murderer thing didn't bother you much -- wasn't really a deal breaker. You had come across men just as prone to evildoing, if not more. Plus it wasn't like you were some shining beacon of virtue and integrity. You possessed the empathy Dex lacked, yet still your hands were far from being stainless. You knew right from wrong. Tried to do the right thing more than the wrong one. You didn't kill people and treated animals with respect. You just also happened to believe that a person should be allowed to dabble in the occasional white collar crime from time to time, especially if it meant being able to live the life you wanted. You believed in enjoying everything, whenever you wanted, and without having to check a price tag.

Sometimes that meant it resulted in other people taking a monetary loss.

Other times it meant forcing an assassin to try on clothes.

"That the sooner you humor me, the sooner we can leave."

A faint sigh came from behind the black curtain, followed by the sound of clothes shuffling. Impatience ate away at you as the minutes continued to pass. You sat up, padding across the room to linger by the dressing room curtain. There was no door to knock on. Not that Dex would answer if you tried. You hated the silence. Hated the waiting. Leaning closer, you tried to listen for any sign he was ready to come out.

"Do you need help?"

"No."

"If you needed help, you can totally tell me. I know for a fact you only grabbed one suit, because you refused to let me select a handful for you. It doesn't sound like you're even changing in there."

"I'm not."

A gasp of surprise. A betrayal of the deepest cut.

"You promised!"

"The fuck I did."

"I'm coming in--"

"Don't."

Too late.

Fingers curled into the fabric of the heavy black curtains, drawing them open with both hands. Just as he said, Dex wasn't in the middle of changing. He had already fully changed into a suit. It wasn't one you'd necessarily choose for him. The standard government official look. Drab gray suit, white button up, plain tie. It's too stiff, too stuffy. Mid-to-low grade cotton and wool. He filled it out well, but that had everything to do with his build than the suit itself.

"It's... a nice start," you smiled, leaning against the frame of the dressing room entrance. "But I think we can do better."

Dex looked absolutely miserable.

"I can get a few pieces," you kindly offered, "A few casual options for hotter nights, a couple suits. Some various color options and different fabrics. Quality matters. It shows in the stitching and how it falls on your body. Maybe a pocket square for style. You won't believe how many places I slipped into just because I dressed nice enough. There was one event in Italy where-- Hey."

You cut yourself off as Dex, seemingly unable to breathe, quickly turned from facing you. His hands shook as he reached to loosen his tie. There was an urgency in his movement that set off alarms in your head. He wasn't just moody over playing dress up. He was experiencing some sort of... fracture.

"This is... I-It's a mistake," Dex huffed out, breathlessly, "This won't work. I can't look like this. It doesn't work."

He untied the knot from the tie, stripping it quickly from his neck. His hands crumple the offending item immediately before throwing it at the mirrored wall in front of him. You watch as he reached for the button-up, bypassing getting out of the suit jacket completely. You surged forward, hands moving to his shoulders. He's taller than you and his shoulder were broad-broad, but you reach up from behind him and take hold of the lapels of the suit.

"Hold on," you softly commanded, "This first or you'll get tangled up."

Dex allows you to pull the thick fabric off his shoulders, arms dropping and allowing you to pull the jacket off completely. The minute his hands are clear, he's back to clawing at buttons. His hands were too unsteady, his mind racing too fast to do the task. You drop the jacket as you step around him. Squeezing between him and the mirrored wall, your hands find his. They still upon contact, forcing his hands to do the same.

"Dex, slow down."

His breathing still ragged, hands still trembling. Fingers squeeze his when he attempted to move from your grasp. You hold firm. Some part of his subconsciousness had welcomed the intrusion, as the fight in him began to surrender. His gaze -- usually so sure, so steady -- is aimed downward.

Avoidant.

Ashamed.

"Eyes on me, big guy," you urge, thumbs brushing against the back of his hands.

Slowly, his eyes met yours. Progress. You lock onto them, hold them with your own. Anchor them to you.

"Focus on your breathing," you instructed, "Breathing is super fun. It's so easy we do it without even thinking about it. It's even better when it's less shallow. Big steady one in, hold it, then slow steady out."

He doesn't at first, glossy eyes barely registering your words. You take a hand, guiding it to your chest. You demonstrated. Big breath in. Hold. Slow breath out. You keep at it until Dex catches on, does the same. He keeps this hand pressed where you guided it, even as your hands move away. His other hand dropped down, came to rest on your hip as you went to work on his shirt. You moved quickly and silently, not wanting to risk disrupting the slow return to calm.

Button after button, you make your way down the dress shirt. Every undone button was followed by more and more bare skin. You keep your eyes on the plastic buttons, unable to meet his eyes during the act. You release a breath you didn't know you were holding when you get to the last button. The danger button. The one just before the fabric of the shirt disappeared beneath the waist of his pants.

Oh.

Oh fuck.

You must have stared a beat too long down there, jolting slightly when Dex finally moved. He reached down to complete the last button, tugging at the fabric until it came loose from his pants. You help him push the shirt off, letting it fall to the ground without a care. Dex rests his hands on his hips, quietly breathing.

"So..." you slowly drew out the first word, "You must really hate wool-cotton blends, huh?"

The small laugh that came from you was all nerves and he knew it, earning a small look in your direction. Half-exhausted, half-amused. You'll take it.

"You don't have to explain," you offer. You desperately want to know though. It's all over your face. "But if you can provide a little insight, I can try to do better. To help. Or avoid. Whichever one works best. But, again, you don't have to explain... Unless you want to, of course."

The sound that slips from Dex is a blend of a strained huff and a lighthearted sigh. His eyes close for a beat, head dipping down. The movement has his forehead faintly touching the top of your head. You force yourself still until he raised his head back to look at you.

"I used to dress like that," he finally said, "Before. I don't... like that. That's not who I am now. I'm not that guy."

"You're not... the guy who wears suits?"

"That guy made decisions that weren't right," he confessed, "He had other people poking around his head, taking control. I'm not that guy."

Not anymore.

"Then who are you?"

"I'm..."

A good guy.

"I'm Bullseye," he finally said.

"Okay," you nodded in understanding, "Then be Bullseye, Dex. You can still be you. Bullseye gets the job done, right? By any means necessary?"

You wait for him to nod in confirmation before speaking again.

"Sometimes that means doing things differently than you originally intend, Dex."

A different perspective. An attempt at salvaging the day's outing.

"I can't get where I need to go without your help for this job," you confess, softly. "There needs to be a draw. Something that hooks the mark in. It sounds dumb, I know, but sometimes I'll need you to get to the target. That means wearing something like that suit. Not forever. Not you being that guy again. I promise. Just... until there's an opening and you can be who you really are. That's what we do, remember? I line 'em up, you take 'em out. We're a team, right?"

Dex remains silent. The quiet brings a touch of sadness to your eyes. Then, as if the sight of you stirs him, he nods. A small lift of the chin. A silent confirmation. You were a team. He was with you on this.

"We won't go with this kind of suit," you told him, smiling softly. Encouragingly. Hopefully. "I didn't like it anyway. I was lying about it being a nice start. I actually really hated it. It was so boring. I mean, you looked great in it. Don't get me wrong, but it was so plain and it made you look so stiff. Like, rip my eyes out kind of hated it on you. It was an awful start, Dex."

That draws a laugh out of him. Quiet, maybe a little breathless, but it was there. Emboldened, you reach out to poke your finger into his bicep. The smile on your lips grew as the tenseness in the air finally dispersed.

"We'll go a little more casual tonight," you tell him, "Still something a little more fashion-forward and probably out of your comfort zone, but..."

Dex watched as you took a half-step forward, eyes sparking as you moved closer. The hand that just poked his arm flattened as it came rest on his shoulder. A calmness sits in the small space between your bodies. You think you imagine the feeling of his fingertips grazing your hip.

"If you can be good with this for just a little longer, it'll make tonight go so much smoother. You'll help me hook the mark so I can get access to their records, then I promise you can do whatever you want with them after. This is a partnership. It should be mutually beneficial. So let me have my fun for a little bit, then I'll make sure you feel good too. Just help me get what I need first tonight, then you'll get to be Bullseye. You'll be back to being you in no time."

He holds your gaze, finds himself settling into the closeness.

Then, voice deep and heavy, he spoke.

"You're maneuvering me."

His eyes sharpen faintly. An attempt to read the answer in your eyes.

"I don't like having my mind messed with."

Well damn.

"Not a complete maneuver," you said. The closest thing to an admission as you'll get. "We're still a team. I don't use my abilities on you. It was just a little nudge. A little inspiration. No harm meant by it. Scout's honor. You can trust me on that too. I was a scout counselor once. Or, well, I pretended to be one for a job. Basically the same thing."

You wait a beat, unsure.

"You believe me, right?"

He stares as you for a moment, rolling your question around in his head.

"I do."

Dex reached up, fingers wrapping around your wrist. A firm vice. He doesn't move his hand. Not even when you try to pull back. Your laugh comes out nervously, fingertip tapping his shoulder. A small plea for release. After a moment, he releases you. You wasted no time tucking your hand behind your back.

"Don't do it again, grif."

"Grif?"

He smiled then. A little unsettling given just what passed a moment before, but somehow a welcomed change from a Dex void of emotion.

"Short for grifter," he admitted, "You said I could call you whatever I wanted."

"I mean, yeah, I did say that," you begrudgingly concede, "I was sorta hoping for something a little cuter. Not a shortened version of what I do for a living. You called me sweetheart once. That was nice. You... Well, you got the voice to pull it off. Maybe you can throw a couple of those in there sometimes instead."

Dex's smile deepened. A little warmer. A little friendlier. He took a step back from you, bending down at the waist to pick up the suit jacket and button-up that was discarded earlier. Straightening, he held them out for you to take.

"Stay out of my head and I'll consider it," he told you, as you took the clothes into your arms. "If you mess with me, I mess with you. If you play nice, so will I."

"Sounds fair to me," you said, instantly. "I pressed against a line, you made your boundaries clear. I've pretended to be therapist enough to know not to cross boundaries."

Thinly veiled threats aside, that was about as level-headed of a response as you could hope for while working with a guy who pierces people to death with knives for a living.

"Give me five minutes and I'll pull some better options for you," you tell him, brushing against him as you moved to leave the dressing room, "No stiff suits and ties. Something so comfortable and soft you'll be thanking me before the end of the night."

You don't wait for him to respond, instead opting to make haste towards the section you know the high-end fabrics and suits were. He called out orders as you made your way off. No gray, nothing too heavy, no overly bright colors. You don't turn back in his direction, but he hears your laughter loudly as you disappear around a row of racks. When you return no less than ten minutes later, you have several hangers worth of suits on your arm and a stack of shirts tucked into your side. He allows you to dress him with minimal stinging commentary, even noting the improvement in fabrics. You take a total of six suits with you by the end of the trip.

He holds each of the bags and the door open for you on the way out of the store.

You smile your brightest smile yet on the drive back to the safe house.

When Dex followed Mr. Charles onto a plane to Washington DC, he expected to be brought to an office, like his work with the FBI. He'd wear his gear, get his assignments, and do the job. A routine he could follow. The dependable kind. The kind that used to quiet the noise in his head. It had been easier to mimic and mirror in an office environment. Stability had been the goal back then. However, it was clarity that had blossomed in the months that followed his near-death and second chance at life at the hands of Daredevil. It was as if he had seen a new light. A different perspective. Understood his true purpose. To balance the scales. To provide his skills. To eliminate evil. The life of a real goddamn hero. A good guy. Dex felt the corner of his lips tug. A small smile. A bit of pride. How could he not take pleasure in that fact? He was one of the good guys now and, like all heroes, Dex had to overcome the odds and deal with the challenges that were thrown at him.

It was hard, but noble work.

That afternoon, the current challenge was... being in public.

At a mall.

Maybe mall was too small a word for the massive shopping center he found himself in. Countless stores and people at every turn. High end brands so expensive that one item would have cost about what Dex used to pay a month in rent in New York. He stood at the center of the plaza, eyes surveying as people moved from store to store. Their arms were loaded with bags. Probably thousands of dollars worth of junk. It was not what Dex imagined when he received a call from the hotel lobby front desk that morning and was informed that a car had been sent to him. The driver had picked him up from the hotel and dropped him off here. No Mr. Charles and no further instructions.

A small reprieve came when the phone in his coat pocket went off. He retrieved the ringing device, staring blankly down as it continued to ring. His phone was tucked in his back right pocket. This phone wasn't his at all and certainly wasn't in his pocket when he left the hotel room that day. He turned the phone over in his hand. It was flamingo pink and buzzing along to some pop song he wasn't familiar with. The caller ID name was a single sparkle emoji. What the absolute fuck? Dex answered the call, eyes sharp as he scanned the area. He gave no greeting, instead waiting for the other end of the line to speak.

It was your voice that came through.

"Took you long enough."

It was the kind of voice that curved around each word spoken. Made each sentence feel like an invitation. Casual. Kind in tone. Light. More than a little playful. Not at all the voice he expected to fill his ear. It was unfamiliar. Not just your voice, but the sound of someone -- anyone -- speaking to him warmly. It instantly set Dex on alert.

"Who is this?"

"Do you always take so long to answer calls or do you have an aversion to the color pink that I should know about?"

Dex frowned at his question being answered with a question. It instantly drew a giggle out of you. He turned where he stood, eyes trying to lock onto whoever was clearly watching him.

"You're going to be a fun one. I can already tell."

PING!

"See you soon."

The line cut. Dex dropped the phone from his ear, thumbing through the screen until he opened the messages. A simple instruction. The name of a coffee shop. The intention was clear. He was meant to go there. He pocketed the phone as he began to move, only slowing when he neared a store directory. The coffee shop looked like a local spot. The kind that decorated with the intention of providing customers with good vibes and fun aesthetics with their cups of coffee. It was the kind of decoration that Dex just didn't understand. It served no purpose. It didn't make the coffee taste any better. Dex didn't order a drink, instead opting walk past the small line towards the table in the back corner. Unfortunately, the table was located beneath a neon sign that read 'IT'S A MUG STORY (BABY, JUST SAY YES)'. He placed a chair on one side of the table before sitting directly across from the chair. Back to the wall. No surprises.

Well, one surprise.

You.

Dex's eyes flickered to the register at the sound of your voice. It was soft and sweet as you thanked the barista. He watched as you adjusted the handbag hooked on your arm before you took two to-go cups in your hands. You turned and looked over in his direction, eyes landing directly where he had chosen to sit. A smile spread across your lips as you made your way over to the table. The long peacoat you wore was a rich royal blue. It also was cinched at your waist and hung over your curves in a way that could only emphasize the swing of your hips as you neared. More importantly, it also concealed most of your body, which made it difficult for Dex to note any sort of weapon in sight.

"There's my guy," you happily said, setting down the cups on the table, "Made it here just in time for drinks too."

Instead of taking the seat across from him, Dex watched as you curled your fingers around the back of the chair and drag it over to his side. You set the chair far too close to his own. It was the lack of distance often reserved for close friends. The kind of dynamic Dex had absolutely no experience with. He sat straighter in his seat as you dropped down into the seat beside him, hooking the strap of your handbag on the corner of your chair. It was all too... friendly. Like this was something the two of you had done countless times. An act that Dex knew to be untrue since he had no idea who the hell you were.

"You will not believe how many coffee places are in this shopping center," you continue on, as you tug at the sash around your waist. You loosen and shrug out of the coat you wore, moving to hang it onto the back of your seat, alongside your purse. "Eleven. Such a strange, uneven number for one location and way too much caffeine in a five block radius. Have you--"

Your words are cut with a soft gasp as Dex pressed the tip of a blade into your side. Not enough to pierce, but enough to get your attention. In your distraction, you missed the way he reached into his jacket. Dex watched your face, waiting for the act to drop. It never comes. Instead, he watched as you look down to where the blade was. An incredulous look touched your face. Like somehow he was in the wrong in this exchange.

"Well, that's just rude," you pointed out, too casual for someone currently with a knife aimed in your direction. "I went through eleven coffee websites trying to find the best one in anticipation of today and now I'm going to have a hole in my fourth favorite shirt--"

"What is this?"

"I thought it was a lovely little coffee catch-up," you instantly replied, confusion in your eyes as you looked at him. "But apparently sweet treats trigger the fight response with you, which feels very strange, but who am I to judge? I'll note it for the next time, I guess."

You leaned back in your seat, clearly disappointed as you cross your arms over your chest. Dex tried not to acknowledge the way that motion dipped the fabric at your neckline on your fourth favorite shirt.

"Figures Mr. Charles would stick me with a total--"

"Mr. Charles," Dex jumped in, grasping onto the first thing that made sense to him that day.

The name earned a nod from you, as well as the beginning of what Dex anticipated was another earful.

"When I agreed to this arrangement -- and god did I not even want to agree to it in the first place -- I specifically requested--"

"Hey, no. Stop that," Dex stopped you, lightly tapping your side with the tip of the blade, "Focus. Who are you and why am I here?"

He had the good sense to stop you before you could throw yourself into a long winded response.

"Five words or less," he ordered.

You remain silent, looking pointedly from Dex's eyes to the blade in his hand. He relented after a beat, drawing his knife and concealing it back in his jacket. Once it was out of sight, he watched as you considered your next five words. You took your time, eyes aimed skyward as you thought. Once the words came to you, you sat up straighter, ready to play.

"New recruit."

You grinned, hands in the finger gun position as you pointed to him.

"Handler."

You motioned to yourself.

"Coffee catch-up."

You make a show of wiggling manicured fingertips at the two coffee cups that sat on the table still. You nodded. Not so much to Dex, but to yourself. Apparently a self-congratulations after a job well done. Dex's face pinched slightly in thought. You were... strange. Far too sunny and unsubtle. Your eyes were too expressive, your smile too welcoming. There was no fucking way you were CIA.

"That can't be right," he muttered to himself.

"It's right," you nodded, seemingly in understanding and not understanding at the same time, "Five words or less. Catch-up has a hyphen. It's a common error. People think of the action of catching up when really the hyphenated version is when you're trying to describe--"

"I thought Mr. Charles was the guy."

That gets a scoff of a laugh out of you.

"Oh, he's definitely the guy," you replied, a light roll in your eyes as you spoke, "But even the guy has to answer to someone and he's got so many players in the game that sometimes even the best of coaches need some assistance."

You find yourself slowing slightly as you took in the sight of Dex. He was clearly trying to work through the information in his mind. This was a new development for him. One that you weren't sure he approved of.

"Seeing how Mr. Charles didn't take it upon himself to break the news to you," you softly probe, "I'm assuming the gift basket I sent to your hotel room was probably really weird without the context."

Dex's brows furrowed in further confusion.

"I didn't get a basket."

It was your turn to look confused.

"Room 303 at the Four Seasons?"

Dex shook his head.

"Room 302."

Fuck.

"Well..." you said, mildly embarrassed as the realization hit, "Your across the hallway neighbor received a very confusing care package consisting of assorted fruits and snacks, a bath bomb shaped like a toaster, massage balm, a t-shirt of cartoon George Washington with the words 'WE THE PEOPLE SERVE NO KINGS', and one of those musical greeting cards that plays a song when you open it."

"Musical greeting card," Dex slowly repeated.

"Private Eyes by Hall and Oats," you confess, "It all seemed like a good idea at the time, but honestly? Halfway through shopping for items I just started grabbing things that looked fun and the theme I was going for just went out the window. I promise to aim for a more consistent theme next time."

You shift in the chair, turning your body towards Dex to face him fully. Dex watched as your shoulders dropped slightly. Disappointment was evident on your face.

"Man, I really dropped the ball not getting your room right," you added, solemnly, "Such a rookie mistake. That's going to haunt me for at least the rest of the day. Like, head in my hands in the middle of the night, unsettled sleep kind of haunt. The massage oil is actually one of my prouder moments too. It's topical CBD and really helps with aches and pains. I figured you'd need it after jobs. I put a lot of consideration into it and now some random is going to use it and not understand..."

There was something in the way you looked broken up over the whole thing that cracked something inside of Dex. He found himself fighting back a smile, a short breath of a laugh escaping his lips in spite of himself. The sound seems foreign coming from the man beside you and throws you for a moment. Then, as he came to expect, your expression brightened instantly.

"If you still want the basket, I have no doubts a man of your... abilities can obtain it. Just try to avoid leaving a body, if you can manage that," you suggested, before you motioned to the to-go cups. "Anyway, I tend to try out hot chocolates when I go to new places. I got you a black coffee though. I made an educated guess. You just seem like a black coffee kind of g--"

"You know who I am," Dex cut in.

"Sure do," you chirped out a confirmation, reaching out to draw the hot chocolate closer to you. Your eyes widen in anticipation as you did. "It's the perfect amount of chilly outside and it'll make the drinks so much more enjoyable. We should take advantage of the weather and make this coffee catch-up a coffee walk-n-ta--"

Dex stops you with a touch of his hand to yours before you could lift the cup from the table.

"You know what I've done," he tried to draw your focus back to the point once more, "What I'm going to do... and you still accepted the assignment?"

"I'm aware of your escapades," you replied, voice lowered to keep things between you, "My line of work was similar. Minus the violence and bloodshed and irreparable destruction left in the wake. So I guess it's actually not really all that similar when I really start to think about it..."

"Focus," he found himself telling you, earning an impatient huff from you as a result.

"You have targets. I had marks. Instead of your... y'know, tools," you explained, hand mimicking stabbing the air with a knife, "I used my words to... liberate specific types of people from a range of excessive and costly objects or semi-regularly an undisclosed amount of government issued currency."

That got his attention.

"You're a thief?"

You sniffed at the accusation, nose crinkling in distaste.

"Thievery is a thing I do, not who I am."

Dex didn't rise to the bait.

"You're not CIA," he hissed out.

"Technically speaking, neither were you until recently," you reply back in kind, voice dropping to a near-whisper. "At least you weren't until you signed whatever contact Mr. Charles put in front of you, same as me. If anything, I'm CIA-adjacent—"

Dex pressed a hand to your upper thigh when you tried to rise from your seat, forcing you back down. You freeze at the feeling of his fingers against the fabric of your jeans and the warmth that radiated from them. His hand remained as he seemed to search your eyes for answers you both knew he wouldn't find.

"Why would the CIA give me a grifter as a handler?"

In a totally mature act of rebellion, you slap at his hand. The sheer audacity caused the desired effect. He drew his hand back just long enough for you to slip out of your seat. You hurriedly grab your jacket and purse before taking the first two steps to leave. Dex watched as you appeared to second-guess yourself, turning back towards the table. You lean in quickly, voice dropping low enough that he alone could hear you.

"Probably for the same reason they gave me a murderer instead of an agent."

You made a point to grab your to-go cup before turning on your heels and storming off. You manage to clear the entrance of the coffee shop before he's half a step behind you. You feel the sharp point of a knife at your back. The second time that day you found yourself in this position. Dex looks about as calm as a guy like him could look to the general public. To-go coffee cup in the hand people could see. A blade threatening to cut into your spine in the other. He kept that hand blocked from sight, his large frame overshadowing yours as he crowded your space behind you.

Typical.

"You got a car?" he asked you, earning a nod in response. The order that follows is unnecessary, but spoken anyway. "Take me to it."

The walk to the parking garage takes less than ten minutes. You both spend it in uncomfortable silence. The car is tucked away in the corner of the garage, far from the other cars parked on that level. You dig the key out of your purse as you near the car. Dex watched as you unlocked the doors, tossing your coat into the backseat and storing your purse at the floor of the passenger's side. He ignores the way you need to bend at the waist to do the latter. Surprisingly, you turn back to him, motioning for his coffee cup with your free hand.

"It's a rental," you told him, unfiltered in your honesty, "I don't want to spill. They charge you more if you spill."

Dex watched you for a beat until you muttered a hasty c'mon, fingers making an impatient grabbing motion until he relents and set his to-go cup into your hand. You take the time to secure both cups in the center cup holder before sliding into the driver's seat and shutting your door. Then you waited. For him. He stared at you for a beat before rounding the car, situating himself into the passenger's side seat and closing the door.

"We're not driving yet," he pointed out, as you buckled yourself in.

You frowned down at the buckle in your hand before undoing the lock and letting the strap zip away.

"Force of habit," you said, "You should always wear a seat belt while in a car."

"I'm not here to talk about driving habits."

"I know you're not," you sighed out, "As evidenced by the knife poking holes into my fourth favorite shirt again. I mean, I know knives are your thing, but--"

Dex's arm shot out, large hand reaching out towards your face. Large fingers gripped your cheeks, squeezing them until you stopped speaking. He turned your face until you met his gaze. He tanks the dirty look you send him as an acceptable loss, shifting his body to face you fully.

"Focus," he instructed, feeling your nod under his fingers before releasing your face. He pressed a finger to your lips when he saw you draw in a deep breath to speak again. "Stay on topic. Start where we left off. Why did Mr. Charles pair you with me?"

You wait until he dropped his hand from your face before responding.

"My best guess is they're covering their bases. No way they'd risk one of their own with us. If I decide to cut my losses and skip town, it wouldn't be some random agent I'd ditch and run from. It'd be you. If I screw you over, I get Bullseye on my ass. If you decide to go into business for yourself and the result gets me killed... Well, they'd consider it an acceptable loss compared to the alternative. Either way, they can wipe their hands of a problem with minimal to no true loss on their end."

You pause, waiting for Dex to respond. When he didn't, you continued.

"The other reason seems pretty clear. There's a non-zero chance we cover each other's shortcomings. You take out targets. No question, no hesitation, no pesky little thing called guilt. You've got the mind for it. You've definitely got the build for it. Nerves of steel and the skill to execute it. The perfect hired hand."

Dex's lip curves into a smirk.

"I'm not hearing any shortcomings, sweetheart."

"Write it all out and you'll read like a perfect candidate, but guys like Mr. Charles don't just read what's written for all to see. He'd have dug deeper until every dark and dirty little secret of yours is lined up alongside all of the potential for good, then he'll weigh his options. Is it worth it to take on someone like you if the endgame means a job well done? For the CIA, it's a risk they're willing to take ten out of ten times."

"Someone like me?"

Dex watched as you ran your eyes over his face. You seemed to take in every curve and scratch there. He wondered what you saw. If you'd see the carefully crafted persona he had wore for years before or the man he became when he finally dropped the mask and simply existed.

Your answer was simple.

"Someone broken," you replied, softly, "You spend enough time gaming people and it gets easier to spot the flaws at a first glance. I can read it all over you. The cracks. The chips you tried to smooth over. The spaces you left sharp. You're broken... but the government doesn't mind you broken if you prove you could be of service. So yeah... You're broken, but useful. Just like me."

You picked up the to-go cups from the cup holder, flashing him a small -- albeit sympathetic -- smile as you hold his cup out to him. An olive branch of sorts. You waited until he took his own cup before taking a sip from your own.

"You get gold stars in the physical and even the mental of the job," you continue, knee bouncing as you spoke. "But not the emotional. You can take the shot no problem. Maybe you even intimidate the target into position or wait them out until they're in your sights. Not every target can be where you want them to be every time though. Some take maneuvering. Convincing. Some targets you might also need something from them. Something more than the lack of heartbeat. Information, objects of importance--"

Dex's free hand reached out to tap the knee you were bouncing. A silent request to stop. You shift in your seat, letting his hand fall away, but forcing your knee to stop nonetheless.

"That's where you come in then," he offers, nodding for you to continue before taking a sip from his cup.

"Where you view people as pawns to knock off a board permanently, I see them as moveable pieces. Same game, different approaches, but -- when working in tandem -- it can produce the desired results."

You drop your gaze down to the cup in your hand, free hand tracing circles around the to-go lid.

"You have a killer's instinct. You wear a mask and get the job done through brute force. You conceal your identity, but over time your mask has become one of your calling cards. People know to be afraid when they see you dressed up, but for the most part you're able to walk freely without it. I don't conceal my identity when I go to work."

Dex watched as your eyes flickered up to meet his. There was a glimmer in them now as you spoke. He listened as you continued, excitement growing in your voice as you did.

"I become a hundred different people instead. All with their own different histories and personalities. I know what each of them did for a living. I know each one of their dislikes and likes. Their preferred drink, what flavors and scents they associate with. I know what their comforts are, what makes them scared, what they torture themselves about in the middle of the night, what turns them on... and I use all of those things to get my targets to relinquish anything and everything I want from them. All while convincing them it was their idea all along to do it."

You sigh wistfully, as if reliving each and every one of the lives you previously cultivated.

"So that's your deal?" he asked, drawing you back to reality, "You got the gift of gab?"

"It's a bit more nuanced than that," you pointed out, an easy laugh on your lips. "But pretty much, yeah. I give good gab. It's one of my favorite talents, among other things. When you discover a gift, it feels like a waste not to use it to your advantage."

Dex leaned back in his seat, thumb absentmindedly tapping against the side of his to-go cup. What you said -- as lengthy as it was -- made sense. He knew his reputation. The CIA wouldn't risk losing an agent, even with his sudden change in allegiance. It shouldn't have surprised him to find out they reached out to someone else to work with him. You were a talker, but seemed capable enough. If what you said about your skills were true...

"You'll gather intel and extract what's needed," he said, "Then you'll get the targets in sight--"

"And you'll go on to do what you do best," you completed for him. "It's violent and manipulative and exploitive and dangerous and disgustingly perfect, if I'm being honest."

You laugh. Soft at first. Almost in disbelief. Dex watched with a mix of confusion and fascination a your laughter grew. Louder. Harder. You laughed with your whole body. Head tilting back and arms clutching your side. Tears nearly spilling from your eyes. You laughed until it looked like it hurt. Dex had laughed before. A reserved sort of laugh he gave to former coworkers. The odd chuckle. It was the laugh he'd mirror to make other people believe he was like them. He laughed other times as well. When his mind felt freer, he'd laugh. A deep laugh. A dark laugh. After he succeeded on a hit or felt the satisfaction of getting away from a scene. Your laugh felt different though.

It wasn't for anyone.

Only you.

Well, now for you and him.

"This'll be fun," you decided, more to yourself than to Dex.

With that, you set your cup in the cup holder and moved to buckle yourself in. A silent signal that you were going to start the car. Dex had no choice but to do the same. You were a stickler for safety apparently. At least when driving was concerned. You flipped on the radio, cranking the volume before peeling out of the parking spot.

"You said you had more talents," Dex said over the sound of the radio.

"I did say that."

Dex waited for you to continue, speaking again when you didn't.

"You chat my ear non-stop this whole time, but you're choosing to not share now?"

He watched as your lips curved in satisfaction.

"Some things are better experienced in the heat of the moment."

The rest of the drive is spent in silence. Song after song filling that silence as you drove. Windows down, wind whipping your hair all over. Somehow, it was enough. You killed the music once you slowed to a stop outside of Dex's hotel. The car stays idle at the designated drop off sidewalk. You take a quick second to smooth your hair before flashing him a smile.

"All things considered," you admitted, "I'm going to consider our first coffee catch-up a roaring success. If you can resist poking holes into the shirt I wear to the next one, I'm confident it'll top this one."

Dex blinked.

That was what you took from this conversation?

"Right..." he slowly said, unsure how else to respond.

Your hand found his when he moved to unbuckle his seat belt. It remained there when you spoke again.

"Phone," you simply said, holding out your other hand. When Dex didn't immediately move, you explained further. "When you see Mr. Charles next, it might be best to keep this first meeting out of the conversation. He doesn't look it, but he's one of those undercover alpha types. He wouldn't appreciate not having things reveal themselves on his terms, which means I need the phone back. Don't worry. I'll give it back at our second-first meeting. It'll be like the first time. Only not as fun, because I'll be handing it to you."

This stays between us.

That was the understanding. A secret meant to be kept between confidants. It was a concept Dex had tried to imitate with others. In his professional life with Nadeem, even in his personal life with Julie... Neither of those times worked out well. Both of those times his mind was not his own though. Not the way it was now. That meant things were different. Good guys kept their secrets, because it was necessary. They even had companionship. People they trusted. People in their corner, willing to die for them. Matt has that. Sure Dex eliminated one of those people, but he had others. He had Karen Page. Dex knew from experience the kind of force she was in Matt's corner. The kind of unyielding loyalty that only comes from people who believe in their hero. Perhaps this was the universe's way of reinforcing his decision to join the side of the angels. Another balance of the scales. The old him wasn't allowed this kind of fellowship, but this new him? The better him?

This he can make work.

Dex nodded before reaching into his pocket and handing you the pink phone. He slipped out of the car after, to-go cup in hand. He shut the passenger side door, leaning in beside the open window with his arm resting on the hood.

"I never got your name."

"I got a hundred of 'em," you said, humor in your eyes, "I can give you one of them today, but it'll be different by tomorrow."

"What do I call you?"

"As long as you keep me alive, you can call me whatever the hell you want."

You flip the radio on and let the music blast through the speakers once more. Dex stepped back from the curb as you waved farewell, music fading into the sound of traffic as you tear away from the sidewalk and drive off. Dex smiled into his coffee cup as he turned to return to his hotel room. Well, after a quick detour to retrieve the package from the room across from his own. You had intended for him to have it. Seemed like a waste not to recover what was clearly his.

It's hours later when Dex gets the call from Mr. Charles.

"I had back-to-back meetings with some serious VIPs, but I've got an assignment lined up for you. We'll be getting you in touch with a... Well, a handler of sorts."

Mr. Charles's voice poured in from the speaker phone as Dex removed the countless decorative tissue papers from the care package.

"Think of her as your own Girl Friday."

"She got a name?"

Mr. Charles let out an exasperated sort of laugh.

"Several. Real one is unfortunately sealed away. You two can figure out a solution to that issue when you meet. You'll love her. She's, um... spirited, but useful. Gets the job done."

Dex picked up the package and carried it over to the hotel bed, placing it beside phone. He poked through the snack bags and fruits, taking a seat on the edge of the bed as he did.

"Sound like a real peach," Dex dryly replied, picking up a peach from the basket and examining it before dropping it back into the package.

"That's the spirit! I'll send you the time and location tomorrow. Welcome to the team, Bullseye."

Dex ended the call not long after, settling onto the bed completely. Back to the headboard, he pulled your care package closer. He found the card tucked between the ridiculous cartoon t-shirt and the small container of balm. Against his better judgement, he opened the card. Sure enough it began to play a song. Private Eyes. His own eyes moved over the hand written note inside before setting he card down -- still open -- so the song could continue.