my guiding moonlight

He isn’t sure why. He can’t exactly place it, but it’s just…there you are. Running right into him like that. Asking if he’s okay when you look like his shoulder bone might have fucking concussed you.

He reaches down, picks up your phone, and offers it to you.

“I’m fine.” He says, softer than he means to, and you open your other eye.

“Are you made of concrete or something?” You huff a laugh, accept your phone, and slide it into your pocket. He’s staring too hard. He needs to break the gaze but it feels impossible and wrong to even try.

“Not that I know of.”

A feeling like desperate need claws its way up his throat when you smile again. When you laugh at his words like you really hear them. He doesn’t know exactly what it is he needs, but it’s overwhelming to the point of near-pain.

“I’m sorry about that.” You say again, and you mean it. “If I left a bruise, don’t sue me.” You glance down, notice the badge clipped to his belt. “Or…arrest me.”

He can’t remember how to speak. How to breathe right. But he needs to act…normal. He can’t just yank you to him in the middle of the street, bury his nose in your neck and inhale your perfume. Not like he wants to.

The world is narrowed down to a pinpoint. The crowded, chaotic streets of the city are gone. The honking of taxis, the bustle of people trying to get to their destinations, the towering buildings, it’s all gone. It’s just you, and your smile, and your eyes looking up at him.

His smile twitches a little before it finally forms on his lips, lopsided and genuine. You relax at the sight of it.

“Don’t have my cuffs on me, so I guess you’re safe.” And you smile at the joke, and it’s perfect.

He’ll buy you coffee. He’ll talk to you. He’ll make you smile more.

Your phone dings, and you curse as you glance down at it. “Shit. I gotta go.” You murmur, shooting one more apologetic glance up at him. “Sorry again. Really.”

“It’s…okay.” But it’s not. You can’t leave. You can’t walk away from him he just found you he’s not done-

But you’re gone, and your sudden absence shudders his breath and makes his chest feel too tight. No. No, you need to be here. With him. He just found you. You can’t leave.

He doesn’t move for a good few seconds, frozen in place as the noise and chaos crashes back in, crippling and horrible.

The bell to the coffee shop dings. There. That’s where you are. Where you’re going. Not gone. Not too far for him to find again.

He waits sixty seconds, counts his breaths, and follows.

-

“Yikes, what happened to you?”

You’re rubbing your forehead. You’re hurt. His shoulder hurt you. The dull ache in the spot where you slammed against him feels like a connection. A tether holding you to him.

“Too embarrassing.” You grumble, but he can hear a hint of humor and familiarity in your voice. “Don’t make me say it.”

“Well now I have to know.” You smile at the blond man. Nelson. The lawyer. Dex knows about him. Are you with him, somehow? Is Nelson trying to take you away from him?

You huff a laugh, and plop down unceremoniously into the opposite chair, still rubbing your forehead. “I was trying to respond to your millionth text, and I just absolutely slammed into this smoking hot FBI guy.”

“FBI?” Nelson repeats, but you said hot. You called him hot. He’s so distracted by that that he barely hears your next words, dripping with sarcasm as you pull one foot up onto the chair and wrap your arms around your knee.

“Yeah, and then I told him all about my extra curricular activities, and my home address.”

“Your jokes aren’t as funny as you think they are, you know.”

“Neither are yours, and we’re still friends.” You accept the cup of coffee Nelson slides your way, and Dex’s heart stutters again as you smile over the rim of the mug.

“So, speaking of which…”

“I knew it. I knew it. You never just wanna hang out and get coffee.”

“We hang out and get coffee all the time.”

“The ratio is off, lately. You ask for favors more since you went into that corporate law job. Now your pro-bono work always goes through me and all my incredible skills like some dirty little secret.”

Pro-bono work. Secrets. What do you do? You’re kind. You’re good. He can feel it. Sense it like second nature. But the questions and lack of answers are making him grip his own mug a little tighter, making it difficult for him to lean back in the shadows and hide like he’s supposed to.

Nelson looks sheepish, but you give a good natured wave of your hand. A silent ‘go on’ gesture that Dex can’t help but find painfully charming.

“I have a case. This guy…” Nelson slides a file towards you, “didn’t do it. Works for a big company, going down for financial crimes that he didn’t commit. They’re trying to cover their tracks, and a little bit of proof might keep him from missing his kids’ elementary school graduation.” You raise an eyebrow, and Nelson smiles a little. “And middle school. And high school. And…college. The point is they’re gonna try to put him away for a long time, and he didn’t do it.”

You squint, and slide the file closer to yourself. “Financial crimes?”

“Just saying, a little bit of…evidence towards his innocence will really help.”

“Hm.”

“And it shouldn’t be a problem for the best hacker in New York.”

You raise an eyebrow again.

“Okay, the east coast.”

Your eyebrow climbs higher.

“America?”

You grin, and Dex twitches with the need to be closer to you. To see that grin directed at him.

“You’re gonna have to start paying me soon.”

“And if I do, it becomes illegal.”

You tilt your head back again, puff out a dramatic sigh, and curl your fingers around the file.

“I want one of your mom’s sandwiches, at two am. The one with the provolone that I like.”

Nelson grins, wide. “Done and done.”

And then, you tilt your head back towards Nelson. “Does this have anything to do with Fisk?”

Fisk. Fisk? That asshole? That annoying detail he’s about to be stuck on?

“Wilson Fisk?”

“No, the other one. The other crime boss who just got out of prison and has a bone to pick with you.”

Nelson rolls his eyes. “Still not funny.”

“Foggy.”

He hesitates, and frowns. “No. But don’t…just stay away from that, okay? We’ll figure it out. You getting involved, especially with your tendency to…piss people like that off…”

“I haven’t been caught.”

“You will be, if you keep up that little Robin Hood act you have going on. There’s only so much legal counsel I can give you. This is extra legal council. I should be charging you for this.”

“Those companies don’t notice any money missing. You know who does? Mr. Stevenson next door, who can pay off his damn bills and not have to work an extra six hours a day to afford medication for his bad leg.” Your tone is sharp. Defensive.

So you’re a criminal. A good one. Because stealing from the rich and giving to people who need it… that’s good. His own moral compass might be a little off-kilter, but he knows that much.

Then again, you could be a serial killer and he would probably still feel this way, but oh well.

Foggy frowns, like this is a conversation you’ve had many times before, and gives you a familiar little nod, like he knows arguing won’t get him too far. “Just…don’t get involved, okay? Stay away from it. This is more dangerous than you think.”

“Vague.” You grumble, but you’re sliding the file into your bag. “Sandwich with the provolone, three am.”

“You said two.”

You stand, finish your coffee, and smile. “This one’s gonna take a while.”

-

Watching you work is…fascinating.

It’s a slow process, Dex realizes quickly. You don’t click at your keyboard and bust through firewalls like in movies. You lay on your couch, bite your nails, and seem to work through problems one by one. It takes a while. It frustrates you. It makes you smile to yourself when you solve one of those problems.

You get your sandwich. You talk to Nelson for a while. Update him. Get back to work.

The sun is going to rise, soon. You’re still working. His eyes are starting to hurt from watching you through this telescope, but he can’t make himself look away.

When you move to the kitchen, you slide on the hardwood in your socks. You play music. You tap your fingers on your keyboard to the beat.

He watches every second. Every single twitch of your eye. Every frown when you can’t figure something out. Every bright little spark when you do figure it out.

Perfect. You’re perfect. And when you finally do fall asleep, computer resting on your stomach and eyes dropping closed like they’re weighed down by anvils, he wants more than anything to make his way into that dingy little apartment and carry you to your bed in the adjacent room. To slide his fingers through your hair, feel you smile, and listen to your heartbeat until he’s positive that nothing will ever be able to take you away from him.

But for now, he watches. He stays, long after you’ve fallen asleep, and he watches.

-

It takes planning. It takes hours of working himself up to it. Of watching you from afar, plotting every scenario out bit by bit and talking himself out of it a thousand times.

You consume his thoughts like a poison. He follows you to your work. Back to your apartment. Watches every interaction you have with everyone else and wishes it was him you were looking at until he stops fucking sleeping with the need to have you near him.

So, when the torture becomes too much, he follows you to a bar, and he sits in the corner, and he watches you laugh with your friends. Watches and watches and craves to be closer to the light that seems to emanate from your very being.

And he gets up at just the right time, and allows you to bump into him as you start walking back towards the group you came with.

Not a single drop of his drink spills on him - he’s still a little too organized to allow that to happen if he can help it - but he makes it look like it does. He catches your waist as you stumble with an ‘oomph’, and just like that you’re close to him. You’re touching him. He’s touching you. You’re here. With him.

“Oh, fuck. Sorry. Sorry.” You’re not drunk, barely even buzzed, but he knows you well enough now to know that you’re just a little clumsy, and this place is just loud enough for this to work.

Your eyes turn up to his, and you nearly stumble back.

Practiced smile. Fingers curling against your back a little because he just can’t help it. “We’ve gotta stop bumping into each other like this.” He’s practiced that line in the mirror, and it works. You laugh.

You laugh. At his joke. At his line that he’s practiced for this specific scenario. It worked.

“I know you.” You grin, wide, and then flinch a little, but you’re still laughing. “Have I said I’m sorry yet?”

“You did.” He has to let you go. He would rather die, but he can’t be holding you like this. You don’t know him yet. Not yet. “Never got your name, though.”

“I never got yours. Figured you hated me for dislocating your shoulder.”

“Dex.”

“Dex.” You repeat, and his blood hums in his veins at the sound. “Nice to meet you, Dex.”

“Nice to meet you…public hazard.” Lame joke. Bad joke. He just can’t string a fucking thought together when you’re near him and-

You snort. His heart bursts into flames.

“Do you want to get out of here?” Fuck. It’s too soon. Way too soon. You’re gonna say no, and leave, and he’s-

“Yeah.” You set your drink down. “Yeah, I do.”

-

“So…hobbies?” You take a bite of your pizza, heels clicking against the pavement, and he can’t stop looking at you.

“Not really.”

“Hm.” You don’t seem bothered by it. By his lack of interesting traits. He’s not lying to you. He doesn’t have to. You’re meant to be together, after all. He doesn’t have to lie about himself. Right? “Okay. Any special skills then, Special Agent?”

Actually, yeah. “I have one.”

You perk up, raise an eyebrow. “Really?”

He grins, real and genuine, and pulls a quarter out of his back pocket. “Think you’re ready for it?”

“More than.” You’re excited. Really, truly excited. It’s fucking adorable.

“Nah.” He flips the coin over his fingers, feigns pocketing it again. “Don’t think you are.”

“Aw, come on. Please?”

Butterflies swarm in his chest. A smile curls on his lips. He nods towards the darkened street before you. “Pick somethin’.”

You frown, cock your head to the side, and purse your lips when he doesn’t budge to give you any more information. “Okay….street sign. That one right there.”

“Letter.”

“What?”

“Pick a letter.”

Your brow furrows a little more, and your lips twitch in a smile. “T.”

The throws the quarter out, and the sound of metal on metal sings through the air.

There’s a dent in the T. It’s so small, so subtle, that you have to move over to the sign to inspect it.

“Holy shit.”

Do you like it? Are you impressed? He has to stop himself from grabbing your shoulder and demanding to know.

“Can you do it again?”

Yes. Yes of course he can. He’ll do anything. Anything to make you look at him with those wide eyes and that big grin.

You name five more things, he hits them all perfectly, and he doesn’t want to stop. He wants to keep impressing you. Keep hearing your startled noises of approval.

But you make it back to your apartment, and he has to force himself to let you leave. To not follow you upstairs and learn every inch of your skin until it’s locked into his memory forever.

Instead, he asks you to dinner, and you agree. You smile, and you agree.

-

He kisses you for the first time on your second date. Dinner and ice cream.

He’s walked you to your door, like he did the last time, and you’re standing there in your dress with that smile of yours and your eyes looking expectantly into his and he doesn’t know how to do this right. Sure, there have been women in the past. He’s kissed girls. Slept with them when the time was right, because that’s what you’re supposed to do, and never really…felt anything. Never wanted anything like this. Fuck, he feels more excitement just looking at you than he did with every hookup he’s ever had.

He has to do it. Make it romantic. Make it perfect. He’s looked up the right way to do this. Studied romantic movies like it was some kind of assignment with life-or-death consequences.

Reach up, brush your hair behind your ear, drink in your shy smile, lean closer so his breath ghosts over your lips-

“You have ice cream on your nose.”

He freezes, fingers still cupping your jaw, and pulls back.

“What?”

You giggle, oblivious to how much his mind is spinning, and reach up to swipe it off with your thumb.

“Shit.” He mumbles, shaking his head and stepping back. “Shit. I’m sorry. I-“

You tilt your head to the side, curious and confused and beautiful as you seem to realize that he’s actually freaking out a little. Because it’s not perfect. It was supposed to be perfect because that’s the only way he gets to keep good things. Order. Focus. But he fucked it up and now you’re-

“Woah, hey. Hey.” You reach up, and turn his face towards yours. “Hey, it’s okay. I’m sorry, it was cute. Just…try again.”

Try again. Yeah, he…he can try again. It can still be good. Still be perfect.

So he does. He leans down, and when his lips brush yours his breath comes out as a shaky exhale.

And then your mouth is on his, warm and soft and everything he’s ever wanted. Electricity shoots down his spine, through his blood, and some tether of control within him snaps. He presses closer, the hand on your cheek moving to the back of your head to keep you in place, and kisses you like he’s trying to devour you with a passion he didn’t know he possessed.

You gasp against his lips, arms coming up to wrap around his neck as you meet him with just as much enthusiasm. Just as much hunger. And this…this is perfect. This is rough and desperate and perfect. This didn’t need to go according to plan. This is so much better than the plan.

When you finally break apart, he’s out of breath and more than a little pleased to see that you are, too.

“Wow.” You whisper, and he grins as his nose ducks back down to brush against yours.

“Yeah.” He breathes, unable to think of another response. Any other word to describe this feeling. “Wow.”

-

When you see the caller id, you can’t help but smile at the screen.

“Geez, you look so weird with the cartoon heart eyes.” Foggy’s voice breaks you out of your little trance, and you snort as you answer the phone, confirming that Dex is off work and headed back to his apartment. You feel a twinge of excitement, cheesy as it is, at the idea of seeing him soon. You try not to flag down the bartender too quickly, lest the mockery get any worse.

“FBI guy?” Foggy raises an eyebrow, and you smile again.

“His name is Dex.” Foggy’s eyebrows rise even higher. You flush. “I dunno, I like him. A lot, actually.”

“He’s in the FBI. You’re a pretty notorious hacker.”

“So we don’t talk about work.” You take a sip of your drink. “Plus, he’s not gonna turn me in. I’m too good in bed.”

“But he knows?”

“Of course he knows.” You raise your eyebrows, leaning forward like you’re explaining something imperative. “One you start having sex with someone, it’s important that you confess all of your crimes to each other.”

Foggy laughs, and shakes his head. “You’re insane.” And then, curious and caring as ever, “so what’s he like, if he’s got you risking federal prison?”

Your smile returns, cheeks heating a little, and you shrug. “Cute. Nice. A little weird. Well, actually a lot weird, but…I like it.” You think about the precise way Dex loads the dishwasher. How he carefully makes the bed every morning. How he makes an odd joke every now and then, and then looks absolutely panicked until you laugh, and that panic will always melt into an expression of relief and adoration.

Sometimes his emotions are a little…intense. He can get frustrated, and sometimes he doesn’t seem like he knows how to handle it. But you help. You always do. You tell him to breathe and help him work through whatever’s bothering him, and it works. He always listens. Always tries, even if it takes a moment.

You just…work. Something about you, and something about him, and all the weirdness in between…it works.

When you get back to his place tonight, he’s holding a bouquet of flowers and looking genuinely nervous.

“I don’t get this.” He admits before you even drop your keys onto the counter, frowning down at the colorful petals. “They’re just gonna die in a couple of days.”

“Then why did you get them?”

He cocks his head to the side, but you can see a tinge of pink on his cheeks. “They did it in the movie we watched last night. You smiled.”

You smile now. Wide. “You know, you’re kinda cute, Poindexter.”

Something like vulnerability sparks in his eyes. “Do you not like the flowers?”

You snort, and move forward to slide your hands up over his shoulders, feeling the crisp fabric of his white button-down against your palms. “I like them. You did good. Really good.”

He smiles at that, like those words are the best thing he’s ever heard, and you pull him down to kiss you.

Your conversation with Foggy flashes through your mind. You forgot to tell him that one thing. That one major reason why you like Dex. Why you’re with him.

You get him. And he gets you.

You just…work.

-

The newspaper sits on the counter, Dex’s picture stamped right on the front page. FBI investigates one of their own.

You try not to talk about work with him. After all, you’re technically a criminal and he’s in law enforcement. But you knew about the investigation. It’s unjust, Dex says, and you believe him because…well, of course you do. It’s Dex. He saved lives that night, and the few coworkers of his that you’ve met since you’ve been dating have confirmed it.

And then the suspension came.

“It’s bullshit. It’s fucking bullshit.” In what feels like only a few words, his voice morphs from a frustrated growl into something as sharp and loud as the crack of a whip. His hand moves faster than you can even register, and in a split second there’s a kitchen knife sticking out of a photo on the wall. Right in the forehead of the person you recognize as his boss.

“Shit, I keep forgetting how spooky that is.” You breathe, and Dex’s eyes whip back to yours.

“Breathe, Poindexter.” You raise your hands in surrender, and step ever-so-carefully forward, like one wrong move might frighten him off.

“Don’t.” He snaps, fingers curling on the counter, but his eyes don’t leave you. He’s breathing too heavily. Too raggedly.

You reach up, and turn his face down to yours. Gentle, but firm. “You gotta breathe. Tell me three things you can see.”

He freezes, eyes scanning your face like he’s trying to tell if you’re kidding or not, before he speaks. “Your eyes.” He finally says, voice softening a little with each word. “Your nose…your mouth.”

Okay, it’s usually supposed to be things around the room, but this works too.

“Three things you can feel?”

He blinks, eyes still fixed on you, and raises one hand to your cheek. “Your skin.” He leans closer, helplessly. His hand moves up to your hair, curling a lock of it around his finger. “Your hair…” his free hand drops to your waist, bunching in the fabric of your borrowed t-shirt. “Your shirt.”

“Your shirt, technically.”

He grunts, and buries his nose in your temple.

“Three things you can hear.”

“Your voice.” You hum in response, and he presses closer. “Your heartbeat. Your breathing.”

You nod, and reach up to wrap your arms around his broad shoulders. He holds you a little more tightly. “Your breathing is better, see?”

He nods, and pulls back to kiss you. It’s slow, hard and desperate, like he’s trying to memorize the feeling. You pull him closer, and he makes a soft noise against your lips before he lifts you up and carries you over to the counter.

“Do you feel better?” You ask against his lips, feeling his fingers push the hem of your shirt up so he can trace them over your skin.

“I’m still being framed.” He murmurs, pulling back to trail his lips over the line of your jaw. “It’s still bullshit.”

“I know.”

“You make it better.” His hands move up, higher, warming the bare skin of your back. “You make everything better.”

“Hell of a compliment.”

“I mean it.”

“Me too.”

You kiss him again, feel him press his body closer to yours until your fingers are moving up to fumble with the buttons of his dress shirt and his are sliding your t-shirt up over your head. Moving down to skate over the hem of your underwear.

“Bedroom?” You breathe, and he shakes his head, lips never leaving your body for a second as he lowers himself to his knees right there before the counter.

“Here.” He rasps, teeth scraping against the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, and pulls you to the edge of the counter in one sharp movement that has you locking your fingers in his cropped hair. “Please.”

“That’s my line, I think.” You’re breathless, his lips are trailing higher.

“No, it’s not.” His blue eyes are on yours, filled with something so much like worship that it halts your breath in your lungs. “It’s mine.”

-

“One more.”

The word is warm and sweet in your ear, a low hum paired with wandering hands and a soft, languid kiss to your jaw.

You snort, and you can feel him grin against your ear.

“I think one more will kill me.” You murmur, feigning misery, and his hand slides down over your hip, teasing. “Seriously, how do you have so much stamina?”

“Mm, it’s just you.” He murmurs, and trails his fingers over your stomach. “I can go all night.”

“We have gone all night.”

It’s been hours since he snapped in the kitchen, and your brain has become too mushy to even remember when the two of you migrated into his room. The problem with Dex’s…ability, is that he really never misses. He can take you apart almost embarrassingly quickly, immediately finding every spot and movement that has you seeing stars. And, with his obsessive personality, he has a tendency to try to one up himself. A lot. To see how many times he can make you fall apart until your legs are shaking and you’re spending the next day aching in all the best ways.

Which is why you’re pretty sure, even as his fingers find the apex of your thighs once more and he swallows your gasp with a smile against your lips, that he’s going to kill you. Death by too-many-orgasms has to be a thing, right?

“Dex…” you breathe, arching beneath him as your hands fly up to grasp at his muscled biceps.

“One more.” He repeats, the words a quiet rasp. “You can do it. Just give me one more. Please.”

How the fuck are you ever supposed to say no to him?

You kiss him, and he groans as he presses his body closer to yours.

One more turns into three more.

-

You can’t get a hold of Foggy. Or Karen.

Their names aren’t on the list of people who died at the Bulletin, so that’s something. Still, the chances of either of them being in the building during the attack are pretty damn high. And you don’t blame them for not answering. If they really were there, they must be fucking traumatized.

You would absolutely love it if one of them could pick up the damn phone, though.

Dex shows up around midnight, and you’ve already pulled on your jeans. Already grabbed your keys in preparation to run out the door and start banging on apartment doors. Hell, you might even go to the church Matt’s been hiding out in since he got back. Self-appointed recluse or not, you want answers. Before the news makes the information public, this time. There’s only so much information that hacking can give you, and if the cops and news outlets are currently scanning through the cameras for information of their own, it’s going to take a lot longer for you to find anything out than it will if your friends would just fucking talk to you.

“Hey, where are you going? What’s wrong?” Hands are on your shoulders, moving up to your cheeks, and you wonder if you look fucking insane with worry and confusion right now.

What the hell are you supposed to tell him? Oh yeah, Daredevil is my friend Matt. You know the one who died and kinda sorta came back? Have I mentioned him? Well apparently he’s gone fucking berserk and tried to kill Karen, but I’m absolutely fucking positive that it wasn’t him, which means that someone is out there murdering people in his old suit-

“I’ve…gotta go.” You say weakly, lamely, and start to pull back.

His hands tighten on you. Fast.

“Where? Where do you have to go?” He’s holding you surprisingly firmly, large arms locked around your body and making a frown curl your lips.

“Dex, let me go.” You can’t tell him. Of course you can’t. You have to figure this out on your own.

He doesn’t. In fact, he holds you even more tightly. “You can’t leave. You can’t leave me.”

“I’m-huh?” You turn to him, now, and blink in surprise at what you find. His eyes are dark. He looks like he’s sweating. Shit, he might be shaking. “Dex, what’s going on?”

“I need you here, okay?” He’s breathing a little strangely, hand smoothing up over your back with something like desperation. “I…you need to be here.”

You frown, and reach up to brush your fingers over his cheek. He closes his eyes, and leans into your touch.

“Okay. Hey, it’s okay.” He wasn’t able to help tonight. That’s it. He’s just been suspended. All of the order and structure he relies so heavily on is gone. You didn’t realize just how much it must be affecting him, and you feel like a shitty girlfriend for not immediately seeing just how off he is. “What’s wrong? What’s going on?”

He ducks down, fingers curling against your cheek and lips hovering over your own. “Tell me you need me.”

“Dex-“ you start, but his fingers slide into your hair and he backs you against the wall. It’s not aggressive, not quite, but it’s firm. Determined. Almost overwhelming in its desperation.

“Say it. Please.”

You frown, but reach up to wrap your arms around his neck. “I need you.”

He groans, and kisses you so hard your knees give out. He catches you, all-but scooping you into his arms as he traces his tongue over your lip and slides his arms around your waist.

You have to go find Foggy and Karen and Matt. You have to make sure they’re okay, and the four of you need to come up with some kind of game plan. Or, they do, and they’ll probably need your help because you just had to learn Matt’s secret. Just had to get mugged that night and recognize his voice. Just had to check security cameras and figure everything out and confront him about it.

So, with your particular skill set, and the information you have, they’ll probably need you, as outside of all this as you like to keep yourself. But Dex needs you more right now, and that matters more. You’ll get to the bottom of this mystery another time, when your boyfriend’s trembling hands aren’t pulling at your clothes and his lips aren’t trailing over your throat as he whispers your name like a prayer over and over again.

“What’s wrong?” You ask again, breathless and worried as he lifts you against the wall, as he wraps your thighs around his waist and curls his fingers against your skin hard enough that you worry it might bruise. You hope it does.

“You make it quiet.” He murmurs between kisses, tugging at your clothes until your shirt slides up over your head, discarded on the floor in a second. Messy. Disordered in a way that isn’t like him. “You make it all quiet. I need it to be quiet. Please.” His voice is shaking. Desperate.

You’re not quite sure what he means, but you nod anyway.

The moment you do, his body is pressing impossibly closer to yours. His lips are moving down your neck, kisses so rough and starved that you can feel his teeth scraping over your skin. His hands are tight on your body, hips rocking forward and making you gasp, and you can still hear the shakiness in his quickened breaths as he moves back up to kiss you so hard your head knocks lightly against the wall.

Your fingers move to the buttons of his shirt. His breaths are getting quicker. His grip is getting tighter.

“D-Dex.” You’re so breathless yourself that you can barely get his name out, but he doesn’t stop kissing you. Doesn’t slow his desperate movements until you finally reach up to pull his face away from yours.

His pupils are blown. His gaze is starved. He’s still shaking.

“Hey, stay with me.” You card your fingers through his hair, and kiss him slowly. Warmly. He doesn’t need rough and desperate right now. He needs reassurance. Grounding. Love.

He releases a shuddering breath, kisses you back, and nods as he rests his forehead against yours. “I’m here. I’m good.”

You nod, and as he carries you into the bedroom and lies you back on the mattress, you can see in his eyes that he’s telling the truth. He’s here. He’s with you.

He peels the rest of your clothing off slowly, trailing his mouth over newly exposed skin, and you do the same for him, barely able to keep your lips and hands off of him for a second.

It’s slow, and loving, and painfully intimate. He murmurs your name against your ear as he moves with you, and you drag your nails over his muscled back as you tell him how good it feels until he falls apart with a groan that almost sounds like a sob.

He holds you after, presses his lips to your forehead and trails his fingers over your body like he’s trying to memorize the feeling of you.

“Do you think I’m a good man?” His voice is low, quiet and vulnerable as he slides calloused fingers through your hair.

You look up, surprised by the question, and he holds you a little more tightly like he’s worried you’ll bolt.

“Of course.” You frown, reaching up to brush your own fingers over his cheek. He turns his face into your palm, kissing it once, and you turn his eyes back to yours. “You’re a good man, Benjamin Poindexter.”

He makes a soft noise in the back of his throat, something raw and pained and full of hope, and tucks you closer to him like you’re the most precious thing in the world. “I love you.”

“I love you, too.” You kiss his shoulder, and let your eyes fall closed. “You’re gonna be okay.”

And for a moment, as he breathes something like a sigh of relief into your hair, you think he believes you.

-

“I need you to listen to me, and listen carefully.”

“Oh, now the zombie hiding in the basement is making demands. It’s good to see you too, Matt. I’ve been great, how about-“

“The man in the daredevil suit is Special Agent Benjamin Poindexter.”

That shuts you up, right the fuck away. “Very funny.”

“I’m not joking. He’s working for Fisk. He’s killing for him, and framing me.”

You feel cold. “No, he’s not. He wouldn’t do that.”

Matt’s expression is intense, his words are low and pointed. Urgent. This is his stupid fucking Daredevil voice. “He would. And he is. Fisk has him convinced that doing this will keep you with him. You have the means and the skill to prove me right. I need you to do that, as soon as possible. You need to get as far away from him as you-“

“Stop.” You snap, holding up a hand you know he won’t see. He’ll feel it though, or whatever. “Stop, Matt. You have the wrong guy.”

“You know that’s not true, and we don’t have time for you to come to terms with it. You are in danger, and you need to-“

“It’s not him.” Your ears are ringing. Your voice sounds desperate. Angry, even. “He’s…he’s a little intense. He’s a little weird, sure. But he wouldn’t…he wouldn’t do that.”

Matt’s jaw tightens. He shakes his head.

“You look into it the way you know how. You know. You’ll see it.” Matt reaches to grab your shoulder, and you flinch back. He looks pained, like he’s genuinely worried and didn’t call you here after all this time to falsely accuse the man you love of mass fucking murder. “I’m sorry. I haven’t been here for you enough. For Foggy and Karen. But I’m here now. I can protect you now. And you need to stay away from him.”

You pull back, and shake your head again. “I…no. You have the wrong guy, Matt. He’s…you’re wrong. We’ll find who’s doing this, but it’s not Dex.”

“We can keep you safe. You can hide-“

“No.”

“Please. He’s unpredictable. He’s dangerous. He could kill you if he knows you know.”

“I don’t know. I know you’re…you’re wrong.” He is wrong. He has to be wrong. “I’ll find out who it is, okay? But it’s not Dex. Just…it’s not Dex.”

And yet…

No. No. It’s not possible. There’s no way.

Matt spends the next ten minutes trying to convince you, and you block all of it out. You refuse to listen. You tell him you’ll go home, and you’ll avoid Dex until you can find the proper evidence.

You lie. And as you walk out of the church into the suddenly too-bright, too-loud city, you wonder if… if he could…

Fuck. You need to get to your computer. You need to prove him wrong.

-

He killed Ray tonight.

It doesn’t bother him. That kind of thing never has. What bothered him was Nadeem talking about you.

“He’s lying. He’s using you. He’s using her.” Dex’s hands had tightened reflexively on his gun. “You think he’s gonna keep her safe? You think this is how she stays in your life? Whatever he told you, he’ll hurt her the second it’s convenient for him, and he’ll take you out too.”

“You need to stop talking about her, Ray.” Dex’s voice is low. Quiet.

“When she finds out, you think she’s gonna stay with you? You think Fisk is gonna make her stay with you? How does this plan of yours work, exactly?”

Yes. Of course. Whether Fisk needs to make it happen or not, you’ll stay with him. And it will be okay, because you love him. Sure, you’ll be upset, but he can make that better. He will make it better. All of it. Everything he does is to keep you happy. Keep you by his side. But for now, you don’t have to know anything. You can just be with him, and love him.

If you learn a little too much, learn about the darkness that lives inside of him, about the things he’s done, Fisk will do what he needs to do, what he promised, and make sure you stay. Simple as that.

And you’ll still love him, right? Right. You’re meant to be together.

The shot lands perfectly between his former friend’s eyes. And, once it’s all said and done, he goes home to you.

-

You’re on the couch when he walks through the door. You’re chewing on your nails. You’re staring at your computer screen.

So perfect. So beautiful. All his. Just like he’s all yours.

Like he has a hundred times before, he moves over to gently move the laptop out of your hands, leaning you back against the cushions with a smile that surely holds all of the affection that feels like it’s about to overwhelm him.

“What’re you doing?” He presses his lips to your nose, your cheek, your jaw.

You’re tense. Something’s bothering you. He can fix that.

“Looking something up.” You murmur, soft and hesitant. “Or…I should be. I can’t…make myself do it.”

He can see in his peripheral that your screen is blank. You’re still tense, and when he kisses you he can taste the faintest tinge of iron from where you were biting your lip.

You’re wearing his t-shirt. He moves to slide his hands under it, reveling in the softness of your skin, and presses another kiss to the shell of your ear. You relax, like you just can’t help yourself, and he smiles as he settles a little more comfortably atop you.

“Hm, you know you’re not supposed to tell me about any of your hacking stuff.” He jokes, but you don’t smile like you usually would. Don’t tease him back. “Might incriminate yourself a little too much. And you know there’s only one way I wanna see you in cuffs.”

You do smile now, though there’s something in your eyes that he can’t place. He wants to ask, but you kiss him and he forgets everything that isn’t you.

“Or, you know. Put me in cuffs.” And you hum, and smile a little more.

He peels your clothing off nice and slow, trailing his lips down to follow every movement. It’s warm, and safe, and soft and gentle in all the ways the rest of the world is not. You gasp his name, look into his eyes even as yours threaten to flutter closed, and he loves you so much it hurts. So intensely that he worries it might swallow him whole. He wants it to.

When it’s over, and he’s pressing his lips over your cheeks and nose again, heavy breaths matching your own, he tastes the saltiness of tears on your skin and pauses.

His brow furrows, and he pulls back.

You reach up, and smooth your thumb over his cheek. “You’re a good man.” You whisper, and you sound like you’re talking to yourself, but he melts anyway.

“I love you.” He breathes, and drags you closer so he can kiss you again. “I love you.”

“I love you too.” You murmur, and there’s never been so much of this strange emotion in your voice before. He can’t quite place it.

But you’re overwhelmed by your love for him, too. That’s all.

That’s all.

-

The worst part of it all is that you know you’re going to find it before you even bring yourself to open your computer.

And yet, it still feels like a punch to the fucking gut.

“Hello, Karen. It’s nice to see you again.”

You would recognize that voice anywhere.

It took you five minutes to get into the security cameras. Of the Bulletin. Of the church.

It took five more minutes for you to find all of the other evidence. The therapy sessions. The people he’s killed. The people he’s manipulated. Threatened. His lack of empathy. His obsessive behavior. His enjoyment of killing. Fuck, you even figure out that he was stalking you before you ever ran into him at that bar. You like to say, in your cockiest moments, that everything can be found online. Everything is documented even when people think it isn’t. You just have to look.

You didn’t look. In ten minutes, you found it all. In an hour, you’ve found too much for any excuse to ever work. For anything other than the truth to make sense.

And then, with perfect timing like the universe is making some sort of sick joke, Foggy Nelson tells you to come down to the old gym. He shows you Nadeem’s video, and you have to drag a trash can over so you can puke your guts up as the world drops from beneath your feet.

You cry silently. Curl in on yourself against the boxing ring while Foggy and Karen watch you, expressions filled with sympathy and guilt. Because they weren’t here. They didn’t check in on you. They let this get this far and it blindsided you because you were too wrapped up in stupid domestic bliss to even hang out with your friends like you should have.

Foggy’s hand comes down on your shoulder, comforting and kind. “Can you do it?”

You don’t look up from the phone screen even as you take it from his hand.

You nod.

-

“What are you-“

You aren’t supposed to be here. You aren’t supposed to be here. You aren’t-

Matt is gonna kill you, if Dex doesn’t do it first. And yet, you know without a shadow of a doubt that he won’t hurt you. Everyone else, maybe, but not you.

That doesn’t make him any less dangerous.

You grab his arm, and pull him outside with you, into the alley. It will be on camera. It will be obvious that you know, when Fisk sees it. But it doesn’t matter. None of that will matter soon, anyway.

His brow is furrowed, that look of frustration when he doesn’t have control of the situation tightening his features. After all, you did just show up to his work unannounced and drag him outside.

He reaches for you, and you step back.

“What the hell are you doing?” He asks, something in his face cracking a little. “Come here. Please.”

“Tell me it’s not true. Please, tell me it’s not true.”

Panic. Immediate, sharp panic. He knows. He knows you know. “Come here.”

“Dex.”

“It’s not true.” He says immediately, lies immediately, and reaches for you again. You back up again. “It’s not true. None of it’s true. Just-“

You pull out your phone, and play the video. Ray Nadeem’s confession. His eyes widen, and you already knew but the confirmation from him is fucking shattering.

“In three hours, it’s going out to every phone in the immediate area. To the cops. To the public. Everywhere. And if you kill me, it still goes out.” Your voice is tight, shaking. “You’re not gonna stop it.”

Dex tries to grab you now, not the phone, you, desperate. You jump back into the street. Into the public. Away from the dark alley and into the light of day.

“Don’t touch me. Do not fucking touch me.”

“Don’t do this.” He sounds dangerous now. You should probably be afraid of him. You’re going to fucking cry again and it hurts so bad you can’t think. You’ve never felt more stupid in your life. “Don’t you dare do this. Don’t leave me. You can’t leave me. You promised.” His hand catches your sleeve, and you rip it back.

“Don’t touch me.”

“Don’t leave me. Baby, don’t do this. You love me. I love you. We can-“

“What is this, fucking Barney?!” You snap, horror and shock making your voice shaky and shrill. “You’ve been murdering people.”

You’re fully in the street, now. You’re still shaking. He’s still approaching.

“If you come any closer, I’ll scream.” You mean it. He looks like he’s about to risk it. Like he’s moments away from covering your mouth and dragging you back into the alley. Into the shadows with him.

You turn, and walk away.

You hear him scream from a block away. It’s loud. Primal, even. It turns heads.

You keep walking.

-

He goes to prison that night. Matt defeats Fisk. You see it all on the news, from where you’re curled on the couch with tears drying on your cheeks.

He tried to kill Fisk at his wedding. Broke into the party in Matt’s Daredevil costume. It’s on the news. It’s on film.

He says your name before he starts killing people. Tells Fisk and Vanessa that the two of you wish them a world of happiness. You watch the clip. Newspapers call. You watch the clip again. You shut out the world.

It takes some time for you to leave your couch. Even longer to leave your apartment.

But time heals all wounds, even if they have to scab over and reopen a few too many times.

You meet Matt, Foggy and Karen at Josie’s on a Tuesday. They don’t mention it. You do. You apologize, and Foggy hugs you so tightly that your ribs creak.

And you heal. Slowly, surely, you heal.

Or at least, that’s what you tell yourself.

-

It’s a nice, normal Friday night.

Cherry’s retirement party is fun. You’re having fun. You’re laughing with Matt and Karen, listening to the laughter and jokes around you, teasing each other about Foggy’s attempts at hitting on Keirsten, and not thinking about Dex. Because you never think about Dex.

You don’t think about the way he made breakfast in the morning. Always so careful and precise. Always plating it perfectly like the act was a science, watching you when you ate it like he was either trying to figure out just how much you liked it or just…watching you. So much of him looking at you felt like he was basking in your mere presence.

Or the way he would leave on his way to work. Always the same pattern. The same habits. Wake you up with a kiss, get dressed, make breakfast, kiss you again on the way out the door.

The way he would smile at you like you hung the moon in the sky. The way he would hold you when you watched a movie on the couch. The way…

Warm lips against your temple. Your forehead. Your cheeks.

You hum, and feel Dex smile as his arm slides more tightly around you. “Morning.”

“S’the middle of the night.” You complain weakly, turning in his arms to hide your face in the warm skin of his chest.

“Five forty-five.” He murmurs, hand already coming up to slide through your hair. “Gotta get ready for work.”

“Play hooky.” You mumble, nuzzling closer, dreading the moment his warmth leaves the bed.

“Would if I could.” He means it, and you can tell, so you keep trying.

“You’re reinstated and promoted now…” you press a kiss to his collarbone, warm and slow and as tempting as you can make it. “Their apology should come in the form of as many days off as you want. Or going into work after dawn.”

His body relaxes a little. His hold on you tightens, like he’s thinking about it.

And then he sighs, and pulls back to press his lips against your forehead.

“I can’t.” He sounds so genuinely remorseful that you just might be falling in love with him all over again. Still, you plaster an exaggerated little pout on your face as you sit up.

“Goody two shoes.” You accuse, and if you were more awake you might think his laugh sounds a little…different. But he sits up with you, and kisses your neck, and wraps his arms around you again and any doubt or confusion flutters out of your mind as you melt into-

“Hey, you okay?”

Your eyes whip up, reflected in Matt’s glasses. You swallow. Smile. “Hm?”

“Your…” he lowers his voice, leans a little closer, “your heart is racing.”

Karen is looking at you, too closely, too kindly. You smile wider.

“I’m fine.” And you are. You’re fine. You’re absolutely, totally fine.

Ten minutes later, everything goes to shit.

Foggy goes outside. Matt hears something wrong. Karen follows You stay in the bar.

A gunshot outside. The bang of a flash grenade. The screams of panicked patrons.

You’re frozen for a moment, smoke and shock filling your lungs and fogging your mind. Gunshots. Screaming. The heavy sound of footsteps and-

“Hey, baby.”

A low, familiar growl of a voice, barely raised enough to be heard over the commotion but cutting through it all like a knife and zeroing your attention on the approaching figure.

Speaking of knives, you hear one whir through the air just before your wrist is slammed back against the wall, a blade attaching your sleeve to the surface with perfect precision. You reach up in a panic to remove it, only for another knife to slam your other arm back against the same wall. Neither blade comes close enough to even nick your skin, but you’re still completely trapped against the old wooden surface, eyes wide as Benjamin Poindexter stalks over to you like he has all the time in the world.

He’s wearing a mask, but you’d recognize his eyes anywhere. You’ve never seen them so fucking crazed.

“I missed you.” His hand is on your waist, large and gloved and firm even as you try to kick him away from you. He grunts, and halts your movements with a knee pressed between yours.

And then he rips off his mask, and kisses you. Hard. Rough. Tongue forcing its way past your lips and arm locking tight around your hip as his body presses against yours like it’s drawn there by a gravitational pull. It’s been so long, and you are most certainly in shock, but you can’t help the soft noise that pulls its way from your throat at the feeling. The way your toes curl a little at the rough sound he makes in response.

He reaches up, and pulls one of the knives out of your sleeve before throwing it towards Daredevil so quickly you almost miss it. He doesn’t even look. He keeps his gaze right on you.

The knife is deflected. Of course it is, because it’s fucking Matt, but Dex looks down at you, grins, and presses his lips to your cheek before pulling his mask back down just in time to be knocked to the ground.

The battle happens all around you, too quick for you to keep track of, and it takes you a good fifteen seconds to register that you need to get the fuck out of here.

The knife attaching your sleeve to the wall is in the wood so deep that you can’t get it out. You grunt in frustration, and finally rip your sleeve to free yourself. You think, vaguely, that you liked this jacket, before the sound of glass shattering makes you flinch and stumble back towards the door.

Your ears are ringing. You can’t think. You make it out into the street just in time to fall to your knees beside the body of your friend, nearly get trampled by people screaming and running and Karen is crying and you can’t think.

And Foggy Nelson dies on the sidewalk.

And, a few horrible moments of silence later, you hear a thud behind you.

And you don’t scream. You don’t cry. You still don’t even speak. Your clothes are stained with blood, and you can still taste the mint of Dex’s toothpaste on your tongue. Foggy dies, and Dex’s body just hit the pavement behind you.

You crawl to him in a haze of screams and the ringing of a thousand bells in your ears, and you can hear Karen sobbing behind you.

You think you might throw up. Or pass out. Or die right here next to Foggy Nelson and Benjamin Poindexter.

Dead. He’s dead. Oh God, Foggy isn’t breathing and now…and now Dex…he’s-

Blue eyes shoot open, wide and pained and crazed, and a gloved hand grabs your wrist. You didn’t even realize that you were touching him, hands shaking as they move over his body like you can fix it. Like you should even want to. Your palms sting. Knees, too. You think you scraped them on the pavement when you crawled over here.

“What did you do?” You ask, numb and confused and horrified, and Dex groans and presses his injured face into the pavement like the sound of your voice is the sweetest relief. His hand tightens on your wrist, relaxes, doesn’t let you go. “Dex, what did you do?”

-

ONE YEAR LATER

There is a deep, prominent scar on his cheek. He’s even larger than you remember. His eyes are different, like he’s allowed the illusion of control and sanity to shatter.

You’re here for Foggy. You haven’t seen Matt or Karen in almost a year. You are not here for Benjamin Poindexter.

But you’re here. Maybe you shouldn’t be, but you owe it to Foggy. To the other people this man has killed.

So many people. So many deaths. So many, because of you. And now Foggy, for reasons you still can’t understand.

The sentencing comes. The gavel is banged. You can’t hide your flinch at the sound. Dex’s eyes move right over to you, and lock in.

He smiles, eyes filled with a sick sort of love, and your fingers dig into your palms until your nails bite into the skin hard enough to draw blood.

They take him away, and he doesn’t stop smiling at you.

-

“He refuses to speak unless you’re in the room.”

Your fingers curl painfully tightly against your coffee cup. Your eyes fly up to Matt’s face.

“No.”

“I need information. We need information. He’ll be cuffed the entire time. He won’t touch you.”

“I’m not worried about that. I don’t want to speak to him.”

“They moved him to gen pop.”

You try to hide the way your heart pounds at the implication. You fail. And it’s Matt, so there’s no use pretending.

“Is…did they…” Gen pop. They’ll fucking kill him in there. Good, right? Someone like that shouldn’t be walking the Earth. He killed Foggy. He killed so many people.

“They will. He won’t last a week. Which means Fisk wants him dead.” Matt’s hand rests on the table before you, and he leans closer, adamant. “We need to know why. And then he can rot in prison until-“

“I want him out of gen pop.” You hate yourself so, so much for saying it that you feel like you’re going to be sick. “I want you to get him back in protective custody.”

Matt looks like you just slapped him across the face. You don’t blame him.

But he agrees. So you go. God help you, you go.

-

“Hi, baby.” His grin is fucking manic. His eyes are starved as they rake over you like he’s filing away every inch.

You glare, and sit down across from him. He leans forward, almost jerking in your direction, like he momentarily forgot about the cuffs in his desperation to touch you. Well, he’s not going to get to. Never again.

“You killed Foggy Nelson.”

“Your hair is longer.”

“You killed Foggy.”

“Do you think about it? The way it felt when I touched you again?”

“Shut up.”

“I’ve thought about it every minute. You tasted just like I remember.” His tongue darts out, smile lopsided as he traces it over his lip, eyes raking over you again so intensely that ice trickles down your spine in a way you really wish was unpleasant. “I wonder what else tastes just like I remember.”

You slap him, the sound cracking through the room, and his head whips to the side. His smile doesn’t fall.

“Do it again.”

“Fuck you.”

“Get me out of these cuffs, baby, and I will.”

“If you think I’ll ever, ever let you touch me again, you’re more fucked in the head than I thought.”

His smile cracks. Falls a little. His eyes darken. “Don’t talk like that.”

“Why did you kill Foggy Nelson?”

“You still love me.”

“No. I don’t.”

“You’re lying.” He’s still looking at you, intensely enough that you have to fight the urge to squirm. “Say it.”

“Fuck. You.”

His head rolls back, like those two words were a confession on their own. “Fuck, I missed your voice.”

“You said you’d speak if I came here. Answer me.”

“Do you remember our three month anniversary?” He asks, unbothered, and you want to throw something at him. Cuffs or not, the asshole would probably catch it. “Chinese food on the couch. The first time I told you I loved you.” Pain twists in your chest at the memory, and Dex leans forward when he sees it, another horrible smile curling on his lips. “I took my time with you that night. I had you making these noises, do you remember? These high pitched, sweet little begging sounds.” His fingers tap absentmindedly against the arms of his metal chair, and your face bursts into flames. “Think about them every night, but you know it doesn’t compare to the real thing.”

“You’re trying to get in my head.”

“I’m already in your head. Just like you’re in mine. We’re connected, forever.”

“Did you kill Foggy to punish me?”

He frowns, eye twitching a little when you refuse to give in. “No. But you shouldn’t have left me.”

“So what? Are you gonna kill me if you get out? Are you gonna kill me now?”

He looks genuinely pissed that you would even suggest something like that, jaw clenched and fingers flexing on the metal table again. “When I get out of here, I’m not going to hurt you.” The intensity of his gaze makes your blood feel cold. “But you’re not leaving me again. Ever.”

“You don’t get to decide that.”

“I do. I already have.”

“Fuck this.” You push yourself to your feet, the metal chair scraping against the floor like a gunshot. Like the shot that killed Foggy. Fired by the man in front of you. “Fuck you.”

That gets to him. “You’re not leaving. We’re not done.”

“We’re done.” You lean over the table, eyes hard as they look into his. His hands are already struggling against the cuffs locking him to the chair. “We’re done, Dex.”

“I haven’t seen you in a year. You can’t walk out like this.”

“And you’re not gonna see me for another eleven life sentences.”

His voice is a low, violent growl. “Don’t say that.”

And, because you’re a fucking idiot, you do exactly what you told yourself you wouldn’t do.

They confiscated your phone when you came in here. They didn’t confiscate your watch.

One button. One stupid thing you set up in anticipation for this meeting. That you promised you wouldn’t use. And yet, reckless fool that you are, you knew you would.

The security camera light flickers off.

Dex notices immediately, and the hunger that burns in his eyes and curls on his lips lights something aflame in your stomach that you don’t want to think about. Not right now.

You lean both arms on either armrest of his chair. His hands jerk against the cuffs, still trying to reach for you.

You lean closer. You don’t break eye contact. His mouth moves up to chase yours, and you pull back just enough to pull a frustrated grunt from his throat.

“If you ever, come anywhere even close to the people I love again…” you whisper, leaning in so your lips are close enough to his ear that he moans and tilts his head to the side, like he’s silently begging you to rip his throat out with your teeth. “I will kill you myself. Do you understand me, baby?”

For a moment, the thrill of it all makes you forget just how stupid you were for this. Just how dangerous this man is.

And then, as if to remind you himself, you hear a pop. A sharp, pained intake of breath.

Your eyes drop down to Dex’s right hand, just in time to see him slide it out of the cuff.

The crazy motherfucker dislocated his own thumb.

You jerk back, but Dex is faster. Of course he’s fucking faster. His arm locks around your middle, yanking you down onto his lap hard enough to pull an ‘oomph’ from your chest, and his breath is hot on your neck as you squirm against him.

“Shhh, shh.” His rough voice is too soft. You turned off the cameras. You’re a fucking idiot. Something hotter and more intense than panic shoots through your veins, and your breath catches in your throat. “I’ve got you.”

“That’s the problem.” You gasp, but his hand comes up to the back of your head, fisting in your hair and pulling you back so he can look at you.

“I did it for you.” He whispers, reverent. “I bought my freedom with it. For you.”

And then he kisses you, rough and hard, and your attempts to shove him off are met with nothing but a low and hungry growl.

There’s a moment, brief but painfully there, where the feeling of sparks lighting down through your blood is too overwhelming. Where his lips moving against yours is too familiar. Where you kiss him back, and his groan is nothing short of victorious as he wraps his arm more tightly around you.

And then the door opens, and he doesn’t let go. You sink your teeth into his lip, and bite down hard enough to draw blood. He moans shamelessly, but holds you tighter.

It takes two guards to get you out of his vice-like grip. His lip is bleeding. You can taste the iron of his blood. He’s smiling. Wide.

It’s only when the guards start pulling you toward the door that his smile falls, like he hadn’t expected that. Like he hadn’t even considered that you would be leaving again.

“No. Don’t take her. Stop it.” He snaps, as two more guards force his hand back into the cuff. “Don’t take her from me again. Stop it!”

They close the door behind you, and you wipe his blood from your lip with the back of your shaking hand as his scream echoes through the prison.

-

“You didn’t do it. You didn’t help him.”

Matt turns to you, and you can feel the surprise emanating from his very being at the sound of your voice. Here. At this fancy gala to celebrate the esteemed mayor.

“What are you doing here?” He asks. Deflection. And then, concern. “Have you slept?”

No. No, you haven’t. But you’re not going to tell him that. That ever since you went to that prison your thoughts have been more consumed by him than ever. That every beat of your heart has been chanting Dex, Dex, Dex and it’s getting more and more difficult to tell yourself that it’s because you want answers.

And you have them, now. Because you couldn’t help it. You couldn’t ignore it anymore.

“I did it for you.”

“It’s not exactly an invitation you can refuse.” Your dress is uncomfortable. Your heels hurt your feet. You can feel eyes on you from all around the fucking room and you’re going to crawl out of your skin. “And yes. I’ve slept.” You don’t care that he knows that you’re lying.

“I-“ he’s going to come up with an excuse, an apology, but Dex is probably already dead. You’ll probably be dead soon, too. So what’s the fucking point? What’s the point of being subtle? Of trying to be careful, anymore? You weren’t careful when you looked into all of this. You didn’t cover your tracks, and you know. You know it all. And they know you know. You’ll be in the ground in a week at best.

“It was Vanessa. She was in charge of his businesses. She did it.” You don’t even lower your voice. You’re exhausted, and you’re hurting, and you’re angry, and who fucking cares anymore?

Matt grabs for your arm, already beginning to steer you away from watching eyes and listening ears. You pull back, whirl to face him. “Stop. They know I know. They know what I do. That’s why I’m here. They’re probably gonna kill me too, tonight.”

For a moment, you think Matt Murdock might actually be speechless. You just keep talking.

“It’s fine. It’s a long time coming, right?” You run a hand through your hair, and your smile is a pained and humorless thing. “Do you know how many people have been killed, just from me loving him? Because he loved me too, and they used it to manipulate him?”

And Matt is still looking worried, still bothered that people might hear you. But who fucking cares?

“But it’s fine, right? At least the ‘weapon of mass destruction’ who did it is rotting in a prison morgue now. He didn’t deserve help. I didn’t deserve to ask for it. Not for him.”

Matt’s hand is on your arm. You want to cry, but you’ve cried all night and the tears won’t come anymore. You’ve cried so many tears for him. Maybe that makes you a monster, too.

“Keep it down.” Matt says, hand tightening on your arm, but you ignore him.

“I know everything, too. Do you know how many pills he was on in that prison, when she got to him? The inside of his body was a fucking pharmacy. I saw the signature. He couldn’t even hold the pen right.”

Matt Murdock’s jaw twitches. He looks right at you, through his glasses, and you can feel his unseeing gaze on your face. “He still did it.”

He’s right. He did. But-

“You don’t know him. He…he doesn’t think like other people. They got to him. They did this.” Matt opens his mouth, and you raise a hand. “I’m not an idiot. He did it too, okay? He did it. But…” and your exhausted eyes rise to the dance floor, and it all makes sense.

Fisk took everything from you. From so many people. Foggy is dead. Dex is dead. And they’re dancing and smiling like this is the happiest day of their fucking lives. They don’t care. Sure, you don’t care. You’re numb. You’re hurting and confused enough that you don’t care what happens to you, but them… these people did all of this, and they’re happy about it.

“They did this.” You murmur, just to yourself, and start to move forward.

Matt catches you, hard. Fast. In one smooth move, he twirls you onto the dance floor, deflecting your momentum and still trying to fucking cover for you.

“You’re delirious.” He says, voice low and grip tight. “You’re acting irrationally. Don’t-“

But you’ve made it close enough. Just close enough to hear what Buck says to Fisk, quiet and serious but very much audible over the din.

“Benjamin Poindexter killed three guards and escaped prison.”

The world narrows. The floor tilts beneath your feet. Matt holds you upright, and you barely register what he’s saying over the rapid beat of your heart.

Dex. Dex. DexDexDex-

“We have to get you out of here.” Matt’s voice by your ear, his feet already beginning to move you away. You blink, too shocked and…relieved to even force your own feet to move. “He’ll be coming for you.”

Alive. Alive. DexDexDexDex-

You may not have Matt’s senses, but you swear you hear the click of the gun at the same time his head whips up to face the balcony.

“Not me.” You whisper, eyes on the dark shape above you. The dark, achingly familiar shape of a man who should be dead.

And the gunshot launches the party into chaos.

Matt. Matt just jumped in front of the fucking bullet and you’re trying to get to him but you’re being dragged away by the crowd, nearly carried off in the commotion and panic as people rush to the door. You almost fall at one point, stumbling in your heels and nearly getting trampled before you’re saved by the arm of some kind civilian, and by the time you make it back into the ballroom to where the paramedics are crowding around your friend you can’t see the shape on the balcony anymore.

You reach towards Matt, and something on your wrist catches your eye. A small etching of marker on your skin that definitely wasn’t there before.

A bullseye.

-

Hours later, you climb the stairs to your apartment, aching and tired and knowing damn well what you’re going to find.

You spent every free minute tracing the bullseye on your skin with the tip of your finger, sitting in the hospital waiting room and listening to the beat of your own heart.

Alive. Alive. Dex. Alive. Dex. Dex. Dex.

The power is still out. You’re exhausted. There’s still blood on your dress.

Matt begged you not to go home, but he would find you anyway. Anywhere.

There’s a bullseye painted on the door of your apartment. Small, but noticeable. Right above the handle.

You drop your keys on the counter. Loud. No use in trying to hide.

“You moved.”

“Yeah.” You say, voice steadier than it should be. “My boyfriend ended up being a serial killer.”

“I don’t really fall under that definition.”

You hum, casual, and move to the dingy fridge in the open kitchen. Pull out a bottle of wine.

“You look tired.”

“You’re missing a tooth.” You pop the cork with your teeth. Take a swig right from the bottle. “You gonna kill me now?”

“Stop saying that.” It’s still dark, you still can’t see much more than his silhouette, but the words sound like they’re gritted out through his teeth. “I love you.”

“I trusted you.” You grit your own words out, fingers tightening on the bottle.

“You still can.”

You take another swig, and lean against the counter. “Now that’s funny. Didn’t know they taught comedy classes in prison.”

“I thought about you every day. Every minute.” His boots thud against the hardwood, and you turn before he can reach you.

“Funny. I thought about Foggy.”

“That sounds hard. Really-“

“Shut the fuck up.” And now, you have to stall. You have to find your phone, and dial Matt’s number. Or reach one of the panic buttons you installed that will call him. With the power out, there’s a pretty good chance neither of those things will work anyway. “Get out.”

“You don’t really want me to.” It sounds like a plea, beneath the roughness of his words. “You still love me.”

You pull out your phone. It flies out of your hand in a second. Shatters against the wall. You jump back.

“Was that a fucking knife?”

“Bottle cap. I don’t wanna cut you.”

“But you’ll shoot at me.” Well, not at you, but you know mentioning it will bother him.

“I would never in a million fucking years-“

“You. Killed. Foggy.”

“And we’ll work past it, baby. We can work past it.” And there he is, turning you in his arms and walking you back until your lower back hits the counter. His breath is warm, ghosting over your lips, and you hate how your body responds to it.

“You’re delusional.”

“You want me. Say it. Please.” Too close. Too close. His hand is wrapping around the wine bottle, pulling it from your grasp and raising it to his own lips. The moonlight spilling in through the window illuminates the lines of his face, so agonizingly familiar. So beautiful.

You reach up like a woman possessed, and brush your fingers over the scar on his cheek. He groans, and leans into your touch.

In a blink, your other hand whips up, and you press the blade of a kitchen knife to his throat.

He smiles, and you wonder if he’s always been this crazy. He leans forward, letting the blade dig into his skin to brush his lips over yours again, and now you genuinely wonder if he would let you do it.

“I should kill you.”

“I’d let you.” He murmurs, a truly sick confirmation, and your hand is trembling and you hate yourself for it. “But you won’t.”

“I don’t have Daredevil’s moral code.”

“No.” His mouth closes over yours, just enough to feel his teeth scrape against your bottom lip. “You love me.”

“I don’t.” But your voice catches on the word, and your hand shakes more, and he’s bleeding and he doesn’t seem to care.

You pull the knife away, and his fingers curl around yours on the handle, guiding your hand to lower it onto the counter beside you.

“You asked Murdock to get me out of gen pop.” He hums, still so close that you can feel his heartbeat against your own. “Didn’t work, but I appreciate the thought.” The confirmation. “Helped me get back to you.”

“I didn’t want you to get back to me.”

“Liar, liar.” He murmurs, teasing and soft, and kisses you again. These kisses are nothing like the last couple of times, so rough and nearly violent with their desperation. No, these kisses are brief and soft, gentle presses of his lips against yours between words like he can’t help himself.

“I thought you were dead.” You don’t mean to say it. You don’t mean to acknowledge it. “Matt left you to die.”

“And you mourned me.” Another kiss. Slower this time. More lingering. You need to pull away from him. You need to shove him the fuck off of you. This is so wrong. So fucked up. He has killed so many people. Lied so many times. He’s fucking batshit insane. “I saw you. You were about to confront Fisk. For me.”

“I don’t know what I was gonna do.” You breathe, and your eyes are already falling closed. Your body is giving in to him like it doesn’t belong to you. Your heart is still beating heavy in your throat.

Dex. Dex. Dex. Dex.

This time, you lean up and press your lips to his. Wrap your arms around his neck. Tangle your fingers in his hair and devour him. He makes a noise that’s almost akin to a whimper against your mouth, his own hands flying up to your face to angle your head so he can kiss you fucking breathless.

You bite at his lip. Pull at his hair like you’re trying to punish him for how much you want this. How much you missed him. How fucking good this feels.

He moans, lifts you onto the counter and presses his body up against yours like he can’t get close enough. Cradles the back of your head and all but sobs into your mouth when you whimper and kiss him hard enough that his teeth click against yours.

You hear a soft, metallic noise, and feel cool metal on your thigh as Dex slices through the fabric of your bloodstained dress to allow himself more room to press his large body between your legs, the prison guard uniform digging into your burning skin and making you arch against him.

You slide your hand over his neck, thumb digging into the thin cut beneath his chin. His moan vibrates through your entire body, and you smear the blood over his throat as you angle his head to pull him closer to you.

His hand slams into the cupboard by your head like he’s trying to brace himself, the fingers of his free hand gripping your hair so tightly you see stars, blunt teeth digging into your lip like a silent and desperate plea for more.

“Say my name.” He whispers, rough, and you don’t. You fucking moan his name, a sound you’ve never heard from yourself before ripping its way from your chest and making him shake as he releases you to rip his gloves off like separation between your skin is physically burning him.

He doesn’t leave you for long, warm fingers sliding up your thigh and trailing sparks in their wake until you’re trembling against him. Until you’re gripping the back of his head and yanking him down to kiss you again. His fingers slide higher. Higher. Until they’re curling in the waistband of your underwear and every kiss comes on a swallowed and ragged breath.

You nod your consent, fingers curling even more tightly against his scalp, and he kisses you again. You hear the click of the knife, feel the flat end of the blade slide up your thigh again, and can’t find the words to complain as he slices your underwear from your body.

When his long, skilled fingers reach the apex of your thighs, and he feels just how desperate you are for him, the noise that rips from his throat sounds like the most fucked up prayer that’s ever been uttered.

“Fuck.” He pulls back, presses his nose against your temple, and when his fingers immediately find the spot that has you fucking whining you hear a breathless chuckle against your ear.

“Never miss.” He whispers, cocky and infuriating and agonizingly intimate in the dark apartment, and you’re going to fucking kill him.

Kill. Kill.

All those people. Father Lantom. Nadeem. Foggy.

Clarity rips back into you like a fucking car crash. Like a bolt of lightning. It freezes your burning blood, rises to your throat, and makes you shove him so hard his back hits the wall across from you with a dull thud.

You’re just as breathless as him, and his eyes are on fire as they look into yours. As they rake over you, slow and hungry, and he doesn’t even try to catch his breath even as he realizes why you pushed him away.

“Why?” He asks, but he knows. He knows and he’s goading you and you need to make yourself-

“I hate you.” It is the least convincing sentence you have ever uttered. You’re still breathless, still flushed with need, still spread out on your kitchen counter with his name lingering on your kiss-swollen lips.

Slowly, without looking away from you, he raises his fingers to his mouth, and your next breath catches on a whimper at the sight.

He moves forward at the sound, and your foot flies up to stop him, heel digging into his chest.

Something flashes in his eyes. Something you can’t place. You don’t know what’s in your own expression, but you see him scan it. Watch the breath shudder out of his chest as his hand rises up to trail lovingly over your calf.

And then, scarred and beautiful and illuminated by moonlight, he drops to his knees.

Benjamin Poindexter looks up at you like he’s worshipping at your fucking altar, and refuses to look away from you as his lips press against the skin below your knee.

“Stop it.” You try. You really do.

He shakes his head, and blunt nails drag down over your thigh as he moves closer. Kisses higher. Keeps his eyes locked on yours as he guides your heel over his shoulder.

“Dex.” It’s supposed to be a warning. It comes out as a plea.

And then he’s right where you need him, on his knees before you with your hands gripping at his hair and his fingers digging into your thighs to keep you in place, and it feels so good that your eyes are watering with something between pleasure and emotion so intense it’s going to drown you.

Your hand leaves his hair, flying up to scramble for purchase on the creaky old cupboard behind your head as Dex doubles his efforts like he’s desperate to pull more noises from you. He moans into you, gripping you more tightly as your heel digs into his back, and your hand leaves the cupboard to slap over your mouth as a near-wail of pleasure echoes off the walls. It doesn’t do much. Doesn’t muffle your helpless noises nearly enough, and before long Dex is sliding his large hand up your body to pull your palm away from your mouth, fingers tangling with yours as his too-skilled tongue turns your blood to lava in your veins.

You fall apart in minutes, shattering with a sharp gasp of his name as your thighs tremble and your nails dig into his scalp. He pulls back like it’s the hardest thing he’s ever had to do, resting his head against your thigh and staring up at you with a breathless smile on his lips and you want to hate him so badly it hurts.

But you pull yourself off of the counter, slide onto his lap and kiss him hard as you fumble blindly with the belt of his stupid fucking prison guard uniform, and before you know it he’s rolled you onto your back and you’re ripping his shirt open as he hikes your ruined dress up over your hips and-

“Tell me you want this.” He rasps, low against your ear, and when you nod emphatically he grabs your chin and turns your face towards his. “Tell me.”

“I want this.” It’s a sick, horrible confession, but it’s true. “I want you.”

He groans, like it’s the most wonderful thing he’s ever heard, and his first thrust hits home and your moan is loud enough to wake the neighbors.

“I love you.” He breathes against your lips, as you scramble at him like a wild fucking animal, desperate for more. “I love you.”

You won’t say it back. You can’t say it back. This is already fucked up beyond belief.

He holds you like he’s trying to touch every inch of you at once, lips trailing down your jaw until every near-whimper is vibrating against your ear. You can’t stop touching him, either. You yank at his open button-up shirt so hard you hear it rip, until he moves to help you pull it the rest of the way off of him, bracing himself against the floor beside your head and rolling his hips into yours until you’re sobbing his name on every breath.

When you break for a second time, your nails are dragging thin red marks down the skin of his back. He doesn’t stop. He keeps going, keeps relentlessly hitting that spot inside you until the pleasure builds up all over again and it is fucking unbearable.

“Dex.” You manage to gasp, mindless, head rolling back against the floor as he bites at your shoulder and speeds up his movements until you’re practically sobbing.

“One more.” He growls, low and rough and just as wrecked as you are. “Give me one more.”

The third time, he’s right there with you, pressing his nose into the hollow of your throat with a groan of your name that burrows its way into your very bloodstream. Locks itself in your soul and becomes just as much a part of you as the color of your eyes and the bones beneath your skin.

It takes a long time for you to come back to earth. Longer for Dex to pull himself away from you, just enough to roll onto his back and tug you into his side.

“I love you.” You whisper, like a shameful confession, and he shudders like the sound of it is a drug and he’s more than happy to relapse.

He pulls you closer. You rest your cheek against the sweat-damp skin of his chest. Try to even out your breathing as he cards his fingers through your hair.

You have to go. You have to get out of here. Fisk is gonna be coming for you soon.

He grunts, and you make a soft noise as he sits up and gathers you into his arms, drags himself to his feet and carries you into your bedroom.

Everything is so different, now. Dex is a killer. A monster. Your life has been flipped upside down and shaken like a damn snowglobe. You’re probably going to be assassinated soon.

And yet, as Dex helps you out of your ruined dress, skating his fingers and lips over the newly exposed skin, and reaches into your dresser drawer, it’s all so familiar that you ache.

He digs to the bottom, and his grin is triumphant as he pulls an old FBI t-shirt out. His T-shirt. The one you couldn’t bring yourself to throw away.

He slides it over your head, presses a kiss to your cheek, and smiles a little wider when you relax.

And then, when he’s cleaned you up and pulled you into the rest of your pajamas, he smooths out the sheets behind you like a ritual before he lays you down atop them, sliding his body over yours and kissing you until you melt into your cheap comforter.

You make love again. You don’t think either of you even mean to. It isn’t as desperate as the first time, not nearly as mindless and rough, but his kisses deepen and he slides his scarred hand down your back until he’s shifting you beneath him, murmuring a quiet plea against your throat as his fingers tug at the waistband of your shorts that you respond to with another emphatic nod. And then he’s sliding them off, and you’re unbuttoning his pants again, and his tongue is tracing silent sonnets over your skin until you’re writhing against him.

He doesn’t tease, but he still seems to savor every second. He nudges your knees apart with his own, and pushes into you with a groan of your name. He moves with you like the tide, builds you until the wave crests and whispers praises against your ear as it crashes through you. You kiss him, tell him how good it all feels, and he tells you he loves you until he’s hoarse with it.

When it’s over, and you’re lying together in the rumpled sheets and he’s breathing shakily against your forehead and holding you like you might vanish at any moment, you finally speak again.

“We’re not back together.” You mumble, and he hums like you just told him the sky is purple but he couldn’t care less. Like it’s such a ridiculous lie that he may as well indulge it for now.

You frown, but you don’t double down. There’s no point, really. You know him. You know he’s not letting you go anywhere.

“How do I fix it?” He finally asks, and your brow furrows as you sit up a little to look at him.

“What?”

“How do I make you forgive me? For Fog-“

Your hand flies up to cover his mouth as if of its own accord. The movement surprises even you.

“Don’t say his name.” You snap, pain curling in your stomach. Guilt, too. But not enough. You’re lying naked in bed with the man who killed one of your best friends, and you don’t feel guilty enough, and you hate yourself for it. “You still don’t get to say his name.”

He looks at you. Nods. You pull your hand back, and he chases your lips with his own.

He kisses you. You kiss him back. You keep trying to hate yourself for it.

“What do I do?” He asks again, and he looks so earnest that you want to die.

You don’t know what crosses your face. What expression is in your eyes, but his own melt into a look of pure desperation.

It takes you a while to speak, and even when you do, the words spill unpracticed and quiet from your lips.

“He was good.” You whisper, and grief tugs at your stomach with enough force to nearly cripple you. “Foggy was so…good.”

“You said I was good, once.” Dex murmurs, brow twitching a little in that way it does when he’s trying to understand something.

“I did.” You reach up, hesitate, and give in. Your fingers trace over the scar on his cheek. “I think…I think you can be. You can be good.”

He melts. He turns his cheek into your palm, looks at you like you are both heaven and earth and everything in between. “I’ll be anything you want. I’ll do anything for you.”

Your heart crumples, and you see it. You shouldn’t, and you’re fucked up for it, but you see it. You see how he thinks. How he is. How he’s been manipulated and hurt and how he’s hurt others and you still fucking love him.

“I want to kill Fisk.” You whisper, like it hurts, and he reaches up to curl a lock of your hair around his finger like you just admitted nothing more intense than liking sugar in your coffee. “I want them both dead. And I don’t want it…I don’t want it for the right reasons, I think.”

“Why do you want it?”

“Revenge.” You whisper. “The greater good, yeah, but revenge. They killed Foggy. They hurt you. I want them to die for it.”

“Hm.” He slides his hand up your back, palm flat and warm, and turns his nose into your cheek. “If I help you kill them…it balances the scales.”

You frown. “It-“

“A good deed, to make up for the bad. Right?” He presses a kiss to your ear, and your eyes fall closed. “It balances out. You’ll forgive me.”

“I can’t forgive you.” You can’t. You shouldn’t. You won’t.

Even if you understand how his mind works. How he was tricked and manipulated and taken advantage of. Even if you understand him.

You pull back, look into his eyes, and the look on his face breaks something inside of you. The desperate hope. The need.

“We’re probably gonna have to move tomorrow. Fisk definitely wants me dead.” You murmur, and brush your lips over his.

He smiles. “We’ll move.” We. You and him.

“If we do this, you don’t do it for me. I’m not making you do anything.”

“I do everything for you.” He says, matter-of-fact, and closes the distance enough to peck you on the lips. “But okay. Let’s kill ‘em all.”

-

“Such a sweet boy.” The old woman across the hall is absolutely enamored with Dex, or should you say ‘Tony’. Sometimes you think he’s enjoying it a little too much. Especially now, as he crouches down to slide a fried egg into her cat’s bowl. “And what are you two up to?”

“Takin’ the missus to lunch.” He answers smoothly, sliding his arm around your waist and pressing a kiss to the side of your head. You smile brightly, and endure a few more minutes of cooing and fawning before making your way down the hall. He keeps his arm around you the whole time, humming absentmindedly as you make your way out into the street.

“You have got to stop telling her we’re married.” You chastise, and he doesn’t let you go even as he flips a coin behind him into a homeless man’s cup.

“I didn’t.”

“You just called me ‘the missus’.”

He’s smiling, a little too proud of himself. “Could mean anything.”

You still insist that you’re not back together. He still allows you to, but he seems to find it more amusing than bothersome. Which, you suppose, is understandable. After all, you woke up in his arms just this morning, like you do every morning. And, like you do most nights, you spent the majority of the evening moaning his name.

But fuck, he’s like a drug to you. You tried so, so hard to hate him. To pretend like he was a monster. Maybe he is, but maybe you are too.

Because whatever Benjamin Poindexter is made of, it calls out to something intrinsic within you. He knows it, and he’s just waiting for you to admit it.

You don’t know if the spring in his step and the smile on his face is from your activities last night or anticipation of what’s about to happen, but you would say it’s safe to blame both as he holds the door of the diner open for you with an exaggerated chivalry. And, because it’s him and he’s an asshole, he makes you yelp as you walk ahead of him with a playful swat to your ass.

You glare. He smiles, and leads you to the counter.

“You two ready to order?”

The woman behind the counter looks tired. Dex smiles like he’s been practicing how to, sweet and with his eyes crinkled in the corners. Sometimes, when you look at him, scarred and huge and absolutely fucking bonkers, you wonder how much he’s changed since you bumped into him on the street all that time ago. How much you’ve changed.

“My wife and I will have a…banana milkshake, then.” He grins at you, and it is so annoyingly hard not to smile back. “Does that sound good, sweetheart?”

You snort. “Sounds perfect, darling.”

His fingers come up, catching your chin and turning your head to him so he can press a soft, smiling kiss to your lips.

“Cute. I’ll be right back with that.” The woman says blandly, disappearing behind the counter as Dex pulls back.

“Menace.” You accuse, and he pats your cheek before he pulls out his phone.

He makes the worst, least convincing phone call you’ve ever heard. So unconvincing, in fact, that you almost giggle as he says “oh shit, he’s got a gun” in the most monotone voice you’ve ever heard. His eyes don’t leave you for a second. They rarely do. Like when you’re near, he’s locked in on a target.

Then again, hasn’t it always been that way?

You did the research. You did the tracking. All you have to do now is wait.

Dex unwraps two straws, carefully places them both in the milkshake, and leans down to take a sip.

You smile at him, roll your eyes, and lean down to the other straw.

You swear, in moments like this, that his eyes could be little cartoon hearts. He doesn’t stop smiling. Doesn’t look away. And shit, if you don’t feel like baby bluebirds could be tweeting around your own head. Like you’re the only two people in the whole world. Cue the cheesy, romantic music. Cue the world vanishing around you until it’s just you and him in this diner, smiling like idiots and sharing a milkshake.

You glance down at your phone. Watch him finish the milkshake. “Forty five seconds.”

He grunts, calm and relaxed, and starts pulling on his gloves. Pulls a toothpick out of the cup beside you.

“Aren’t you gonna tell me to take cover?” You hum, and the corner of his mouth rises even higher.

“No one’s gonna touch you.” You believe him, and you like that he acknowledges that you know what you’re doing.

“Everybody get on the ground!”

You throw your hands in the air, view blocked by Dex’s large frame, and shriek like a dramatic damsel in a movie.

His shoulders shake once. A silent laugh.

“Too much?” You ask, just as they shout again and come closer.

A toothpick finds its home in the ATVF officer’s eye, and all hell breaks loose.

You climb onto your chair, just in time for Dex to push you over the counter. You land with a roll, and in a second he’s on top of you, hands over your head and body covering yours.

“That was a really great milkshake.” He mumbles almost conversationally as the bullets slow, and you reach up to pull his mask the rest of the way down for him before he climbs off of you and snatches up a handful of silverware.

You manage to get to your feet just in time to watch three officers fall with forks sticking out of their eyes. Unfortunately, it’s also just in time for another man to grab you and press the barrel of a gun to your temple.

“Stand down!” He shouts, right by your ear, and digs the barrel in harder. Deeper.

Dex turns, and tilts his head.

“Ow.” You pat the arm wrapped around your throat. “Wrong move, dude.”

He screams as a fork impales the back of his hand, and you feel two more whir past you before they find their homes in his face. Not kill shots. Not yet. When you turn, he’s moaning on the ground with cutlery sticking out of his cheek and eye.

You tuck yourself into a booth as the rest of the men go down, bullets and weapons finally coming to a stop. Heavy bootsteps land beside you, and Dex pulls his mask off as the man in front of you trembles and clings to a tiny dog in his lap.

“Dogs in restaurants are unsanitary.” He says, genuinely perplexed but not quite annoyed.

“P-Please don’t kill me.” The man whimpers. Dex smiles in that unnerving way he has, and you smile too as you grab a bottle of ketchup off of the table.

“Don’t worry.” He takes your hand, stands you up with him, and throws a final pair of forks behind him to slam home into the retreating form of the man who just held the gun to your head. “We’re the good guys.”

You draw a bullseye on the door. He kisses the side of your head as you make your way out of the diner, stepping carefully over shattered glass with the sound of sirens wailing down the street.

-

ONE YEAR EARLIER

“This is no way to live, Benjamin.”

Vanessa Fisk sits across from him. He tries to focus on her. On anything. His mind has been scrambled since he was checked into this place. The cocktail of pills they have him taking every day makes it hard to think.

But you’re still there. You. You. You.

He lies in his bed at night, stares at the ceiling and blinks like his eyes are weighed down by anvils, and if he focuses hard enough he can almost feel your head on his chest. Almost feel your soft hair against his nose. Maybe your fingers tracing over his skin, soothing and warm.

Your voice, lips barely brushing his own. “You’re a good man, Dex…”

And he’ll reach up, searching for you, wanting to pull you to him and feel your body against his. Wanting you so badly that the pain is overwhelming.

And there’s nothing there. And the room is cold.

“I miss you.” He’ll murmur to the darkness, tongue heavier than his eyelids. And he won’t hear anything back.

Now, Vanessa Fisk pushes something towards him. A picture.

Of you.

His near-useless hand paws at the table, something like desperation surging through him as he grasps for it. They won’t let him have any pictures of you here. They call you one of his ‘victims’. He hasn’t seen your face in so long.

“She misses you.” And a part of him knows Vanessa is manipulating him. Even through the drugs, and the longing, he knows it.

And yet, she pushes the picture toward him a little more, and there you are.

You. You. You.

You, at that bar he found you at. The second time you met. You’re with Foggy Nelson, Matt Murdock, and Karen Page. You’re smiling, but not with your eyes. He knows what it looks like when you smile with your eyes.

You look sad. His eye twitches with the urge to fix it. The urge to touch you.

His fingers curl against the picture.

“I know what it is to love someone so much that being separated feels like…” Vanessa’s voice is gentle. Kind. Vulnerable, even. Dex can’t stop looking at the picture of you. That vulnerability in her voice is reaching him, matching with his own. “Like a hollowness in your soul.”

He makes a soft noise. It sounds desperate, even to his own ears.

His fingers curl a little more against the picture. Brushing over your cheek. Missing the feeling of your skin against his.

“They talk to her about you.”

His eyes, still slowed by the pills, move up to her face.

“They tell her that you were evil. Horrible. She is trying to convince herself that it’s true.” Vanessa leans forward, earnest. “If you want her, you cannot let that happen.”

His eyes fall helplessly back to the picture of you.

Vanessa slides a contract his way. He doesn’t look at it. His trembling fingers trace the printed line of your cheek.

“You can have her again. I only need one…favor. But you will have your freedom, and she will have hers.”

You. You. You.

Vanessa’s manicured finger taps the picture. Taps the face of Foggy Nelson. “I need you to kill him, and one of his clients.”

Dex looks up, a muddled question in his eyes. Foggy is your friend. You like Foggy. Foggy-

“They are poisoning her mind.” Vanessa repeats. “I do not want to see you lose the woman you love, Benjamin. I am offering you a mutually beneficial opportunity.”

You are so beautiful it hurts to look at you. His shaking hand holds the pen. Hesitates. He tries to form a clear and straightforward thought.

“With your freedom, you can get back to her.”

Back to you.

He signs the contract.

-

One good deed, and it’s all better. And you forgive him.

Not like you haven’t already. Even if you won’t admit it, he knows you have. He can see it on your face. Feel it in your quickened breaths at night when he’s got you laid out on the sheets, or on the couch, or against the wall…

And when you eat breakfast together, and he’s staring at you and you’re grinning right back at him, and the sounds of the chaos and the city and the world around him fade and everything is just you. You. You. You.

You’re out at the bodega down the street, grabbing more bandages and water. You’ll be back in ten minutes, tops.

You’re gonna be mad at him. He hates that.

But Matt Murdock showed up four minutes ago, and now the apartment is an absolute fucking wreck, and the lady down the hall is screaming and terrified because Dex had to use her as a human shield for a minute there, and you’re gonna come home to that wreck and worry but…

One good deed. He can do it now. Earn your forgiveness. Earn his redemption. If he doesn’t move now, he might lose his chance. And then what? What’s the point of living if it’s in a world absent of your love? Despite everything, he can’t help but fear a day when you decide that you can’t forgive him. That his sins were simply too much. Where you deprive him of the love you offer now because you just can’t seem to help it, where you stop smiling at him and letting him touch you completely.

No, he has to go now. Killing Fisk solidifies your forgiveness. Allows him to keep you. Keeps the world balanced right.

So he leaves. He leaves the apartment for the last time, and prays to whatever God might exist that you’ll forgive him.

- 

He throws the snowglobe. Plans the trajectory against Wilson Fisks’s swing. Watches the shard pierce Vanessa Fisk’s temple.

It was easy. Almost too easy.

But the bullet. That’s the problem. That landed home, and it hit all the wrong places.

He’s going to bleed out. You’re going to be upset.

But he did it. One good deed. He didn’t kill Fisk, but he killed Vanessa. At least, at the very least, he took that pain away. She ordered the hit on Foggy. Your friend. She made you hurt. She just made him the weapon. And now, she’s going to die.

-

“Mrs. Smithers, please shut up.”

She’s screaming, and crying, and you should probably be comforting her. ‘Tony’ just held a gun to her head, after all. And yet, you have bigger things to worry about.

Two minutes, and they’ll be here. Cops have been called. AVTF is on the way, guns blazing and you have seconds to find him and your heart is hammering in your chest in that familiar staccato beat.

Dex. Dex. DexDexDex.

There. The church. The fucking church, of all places.

Vanessa Fisk, mortally wounded. Daredevil and Bullseye at the boxing match. Dex Dex DexDexDex.

You smash your computer against the counter, cracking it in half, and bolt.

You take the fire escape, and begin scrambling down just as you hear them bursting into the hall.

And you pray, with every last shred of your desperate heart, that you’re not too late.

-

He’s bleeding out. He knows it. Seen it enough times to know he doesn’t have long, and Murdock isn’t gonna stick around to help him.

He misses you. He wishes you were here.

The dizziness of blood loss is a little frustrating, but Murdock is busy calling him a piece of shit. Fair. He shot his best friend, after all. If you’re still mad about that, it makes sense that he would be too.

“One last good deed.” He hums, propped up against the wall as blood leaks between his fingers, pooling onto the floor beneath him. “N’then she forgives me.”

“Asshole.” A whole conversation in the pews a minute ago, Dex’s whole speech about how he’s making it better and earning forgiveness and getting his mind back, and that’s all the guy can say. He thought lawyers were supposed to be more eloquent.

“Take care of her when I’m gone.” You. You. You. He sees Daredevil tense. He’s pissed at you, sure, but he cares about you. So Dex smiles, tired, and tilts his head back against the wall, confident in his next words. “Yeah, you will.” And if he ever touches you, Dex will return as a ghost and put a pencil through his eye. But hey, just something to worry about in the afterlife.

Murdock stutters some sort of apology. Has a whole little crisis about whether or not he can save him. He’s so stressed it’s almost funny, but he’s not gonna save Dex. He did it. He earned forgiveness. It’s time for judgement day.

The room pulses. The sounds of ATVF bootsteps echo above. His eyes close, and you’ll be okay. You forgave him. You didn’t admit it aloud, but he doesn’t need that. Never did.

Judgement day ticks ever-closer.

“Dex!”

His eyes open, and it’s too bright in the dark room. He’s too tired, but…

There you are. In the church and illuminated by low light like an angel. He smiles, bloody and exhausted and more than a little out of it. “Hey, baby.”

“Wake up. Dex, wake up.” You sound so panicked. So scared. For him. You love him. You. You. You….

“Dex! Fuck, please wake up. C’mon.” You’re pulling at him, trying to drag him across the floor and failing miserably, and he wishes you would just stay. Just admit that this is hopeless and let him hold you close. Admit that you love him, and that you need him, and let him feel your breath and smell your hair in his last few minutes on this earth.

“Fuck. Why are you so heavy?! Where’s Matt?” You’re trying to get your hands under his shoulders. It’s a little funny, but it hurts like a bitch when you jostle his bullet wound, so he grabs you and spins you down in front of him.

“In the wind.” He reaches up, fingers sliding over your cheek and smearing it with red. Fucking beautiful. They write poems about this shit. About women so lovely they steal souls and start wars. “You gotta go, too.”

“Fat fucking chance.” You press your forehead to his, unbothered by the blood, and cradle his own face in your hands. “I’m not going anywhere. I’m not leaving you. I love you. Do you hear me? I love you.”

Oh, that’s the best thing he’s ever heard. It’s the first time you’ve said it since that night on your kitchen floor, when you were still lying beneath him and still catching your breath and still all his after so much time. Back then, you whispered it like some horrible confession. Sweet music to his ears.

“My girl.” He’s fading. He’s fading fast. You hold him more tightly, smearing his own blood on his face as he does the same to you, the matching stains like a tether. Like a claim. “North Star….”

“Dex. Dex. Stop. Wake up. Don’t leave me don't you dare leave me-“

The sound of your voice is swallowed by the tide, and he doesn’t close his eyes, refuses to look away from you, but his vision begins to blur.

And then, from deep under the water, he hears it.

The door creaking open. Your panicked voice as your head whips to the side, dislodging his bloody hand from your cheek.

“Matt?! Matt! Help him! Please-“

…

-

You’re by his bedside. You have been for hours.

Karen is not happy with you. Neither is Matt. Soledad is stitching up Dex’s wound, pulling the bullet out, and he keeps waking up.

Not only does he keep waking up, he keeps jolting awake from the pain. Keeps squeezing your hand so tightly you wonder if he’ll break bone. Keeps finding your face in the haze of sleep and agony, and grinning like a lunatic when your eyes meet.

And then he’s healed. Somewhat. For now. And you’re fighting exhaustion of your own in the chair you’ve pulled up to the cot he’s asleep in.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Karen sounds pissed. You get it. But Dex is pale and his breathing is ragged and slow and you can’t let go of his hand.

“Hey, Karen.” The casual tone of your voice is insulting. You know it. You think you’ve been spending too much time with Dex.

“Him?” Matt isn’t here. Not now. You see sweat on Dex’s brow. Look down to make sure that his bandages are still in place. Every time his breathing slows even a little, your ears ring and your vision narrows.

“Yeah.” You don’t look away from him. You’re still covered in his blood. “Cute, right?” A lame joke, like he’s some boy you just met at the bar, rather than…well, fucking Bullseye.

“We’ve been trying to find you. We thought he kidnapped you.”

Your thumb trails its way over bruised knuckles again. “Well…I mean, he kinda did.” However things ended up that night after the party, you’re pretty confident that he wasn’t going to let you leave. Not without him.

“Are you sleeping with him?” You’re getting a little tired of the twenty questions.

“I’m in love with him.” You answer simply, and hear her suck in a horrified breath.

“He killed Foggy.”

“I know.” Dex stirs, just barely, like he might be reacting to your admission even in sleep. You squeeze his hand, and when you reach up to brush your thumb over his cheek he turns his face into your palm. “And I still love him. Isn’t that fucked up?”

-

He wakes cuffed to the cot. They’re worried about what he might do. Honestly, you’re surprised they didn’t cuff you too.

He winces as his eyes open, and smiles when they land on you. His low rasp of a voice is even more gravelly, hoarse with sleep and pain.

“Hey, baby.”

He always says that in the most fucked up situations. It always makes your heart beat a little faster.

He sits up, slowly, and pulls at the cuffs on the bed.

“Do your staples hurt?” You ask, eyes falling down to the bandages. 

He grunts in acknowledgment. “C’mere.”

You do, slowly, and it’s only then that he seems to notice the gun.

“You gonna shoot me?” He asks, smile widening a little as he tilts his head to the side.

“I might.” You reach down, slip a paper clip into the cuff on his right wrist, and hear it pop free. He makes a soft noise, rolling his wrist once before sliding his hand up your back as you sink down to straddle his lap.

He leans in to kiss you. You press the barrel against his forehead and push him back. He smiles even wider.

“You disappeared.” You hum, and he pushes his forehead a little more into the gun. “You tried to get yourself killed.”

“Balancing the scales.”

“You got shot. You almost died. I watched you die.”

“You love me.” He breathes it like the memory is a fucking treasure - a shot of heroin straight to the system. His hand tightens on your back, pulling you more firmly onto his lap.

“I still hate you. For Foggy.” It’s a lie, but it should be true. He hums, and you slide the gun around to his temple.

“You love me.” He repeats, and brushes his nose against yours.

“I do.” You admit, soft, and he kisses you. Hard. Slow. His fingers slide up into your hair, curling into a fist behind your head as he completely ignores the firearm digging into his skull.

You pull back, and push it in harder.

“Listen to me, Poindexter.” You murmur, low and dark as your own hand slides up to his hair, pulling his head back and making him groan as he looks at you with a blissed-out grin on his scarred face. “Never do that shit again. You don’t get to leave me. Not now, not ever.”

Words he’s said to you before, albeit in different forms, back when you told yourself you hated him.

“Never.” He agrees, and his eyes fall closed like he would die happy if you pulled the trigger right now. He opens them after a moment, and leans up to bump his nose against yours again. “Wanna put that down?”

“I could shoot you.” You don’t know why you’re saying it. You’re smiling too.

“No bullets.” He hums, pleased. “And it’s not loaded.”

You laugh, and wonder just how crazy you’ve become. “The FBI trained you too well.”

He uses his free arm to tug you a little closer, until there’s no more space between your bodies, and you drop the unloaded gun in favor of wrapping your arms around him again.

“Not the FBI. I know you.” He kisses you again, in that slow and determined way, and slides the palm of his hand up beneath your shirt. “Uncuff me.”

You smile, and shake your head. Push him back down and chase his lips with your own.

He hums, nips playfully at your lip, and tugs on the other handcuff until it rattles.

“You’re injured.” You murmur, muffled by his kiss, and he tangles his fingers in your hair again.

“Feels better.”

“Liar.”

He grunts, and rocks his hips against yours. “This feels better. Let me touch you.”

“You are touching me.”

“Let me touch you more.”

You reach down between you, as wrong and stupid as it is, and unbuckle his belt.

He makes a very pleased noise, and moves his free hand down to unbutton your jeans.

“Uncuff me.” He growls again, demanding, as you shuffle out of your pants and move to pull his down.

“No.”

He pulls you back down to him by the back of your neck, traces his tongue over your ear. “Don’t wanna do this with one hand.”

“I could cuff your other hand.”

He grunts, and the next roll of his hips is harder. More punishing. You gasp, control slipping a little more than you want to admit, and he pulls at the hem of your blood-stained shirt.

“Off.”

You comply, and he leans back to look you over like you’re the most incredible thing he’s ever seen. You love how he looks at you like that. You love him so much it hurts.

“Your staples.” You murmur, as he drags himself back up to a sitting position, pulling you more firmly onto his lap until you can feel the very prominent evidence of his desire against you.

“Doesn’t hurt.”

It’s getting harder to breathe. Harder to focus as he moves his hand down to slide your underwear over your legs. You maneuver to help him, and his own breath catches in his throat.

“Liar, liar.” It comes out as a whisper, soft and teasing as you press a soft kiss to his lips, and his own lips curl into a smile.

“I want it to hurt.” He noses at your jaw. Down to the hollow of your throat. “Reminds me I’m alive.”

You kiss him, hard, because he is alive and he’s here with you and you suddenly need him so badly it hurts. When you finally sink down onto his lap, bodies joining and breath shaking with the feeling of becoming one, he buries a groan into your hair, hips stuttering as you begin to rock against him. Your thighs burn already at the angle, and he meets your movements with his own as he crushes you to him. It must hurt, and you want to tell him so, but when you open your mouth he groans low against your neck and finds that spot that has your toes curling and hands flying up to find purchase on his shoulders.

You slide your hands over his cheeks, pull his face back so you can kiss him breathless, and pleasure begins to build almost alarmingly fast in your core. You almost lost him. You love him. He’s kissing you like you’re the only oxygen he’s ever wanted to breathe and dragging his rough palm up over your bare back as he meets your movements with his own. The cuff rattles against the chair, but despite his restricted movement and injuries he’s still using his one arm to move you in his lap, angling your body to hit that spot in your core that has you gasping desperately against his lips.

One particularly rough thrust has him hissing in pain, and the reminder of exactly why he’s hurting like this possesses you in the strangest way as you slide your hand down to grip his throat, forcing his gaze to your own.

And there’s so much power in it. In watching this large, scarred, deadly man stare at you like he’s in awe of your existence. The sight of it alone has you falling apart, moaning his name as your body spasms against his. He clings to you, and your hand squeezes around his throat as he pushes his forehead against yours like he’s drinking in the sight of you, too.

“Mine.” You whisper, and he falls over the edge so violently you wonder if he might pass out, hand dropping down to grip your thigh tight enough to bruise.

You sit there for a while, tracing your fingers down the scar on his back as he catches his breath with his forehead pressed against your shoulder.

“I have to re-cuff you.” You murmur eventually, pressing a kiss to the side of his head. He uses his free arm to grip you tighter.

“No. Don’t move.”

“If they walk in here and see you uncuffed and inside me, they’ll probably cuff me too.” You hum, and feel him smile as his teeth dig playfully into your collarbone. You turn your head, lips brushing his ear in a conspiratorial whisper. “They think I’m crazy.”

He laughs, broad shoulders shaking as he pulls back to kiss you.

“Love you.” His fingers trace up your body, trailing slowly over your heated skin.

“Love you too, psycho.” You kiss his cheek. “No more suicide missions, or it’s both cuffs.”

Something sparks in his eyes. “Promise?”

“Both cuffs, and no touching.”

He frowns, and kisses you again like he’s trying to prove that he’s allowed to touch you now. “No more suicide missions.”

-

When Matt comes an hour or so later, you’re fully dressed and back in your chair at Dex’s bedside, one eye closed in concentration as you aim a knife at a bullseye you drew on the wall.

You throw it, and it bounces off the wooden surface and clatters to the ground.

“Flick your wrist.” Dex says, but his eyes are on you, hungry and dark. He’s tried to teach you how to aim weapons a few times before, and the lessons have more often than not been cut short by whatever seems to ignite in him like a bonfire at the sight of you holding a knife. It helps now that he’s in cuffs, but despite your activities earlier he looks damn close to trying to break out of them.

You pick up the knife, and try again. It sticks a little outside of the center, but it sticks. You turn to grin at Dex. He grins back, and the expression is downright feral.

“Uncuff me.”

“Bad boy. You’re gonna get me in trouble.”

Any response he may have, inappropriate or demanding or whatever it may be, is interrupted as the door swings open and Matt walks in. Angry. Silent.

He uncuffs Dex roughly. Sits across from him and doesn’t even acknowledge you. Rude, but fair. You can still understand why he and Karen are so pissed at you, even if you find it a little difficult to care.

“Let’s get one thing straight. I hate you for Foggy. And Father Lantom. And Agent Nadeem.” Dex’s eyes are right on you as he rolls his wrists, stretching the no-doubt stiff muscles and seemingly oblivious to how off-putting it must be that he won’t even spare a glance toward the man telling him how much he hates him. “And I even hate you for what you did to her. Whatever you did that broke her mind.”

“Woah, hey. I’m of completely sound mind.” You snap, defensive. Matt doesn’t turn around.

“Your shirt is on inside out.”

You look down, flush, and look back up in time to see Dex smirk.

“Dick.” You grumble, because he definitely knew, and he definitely didn’t tell you on purpose. You frown at Matt again. “I didn’t uncuff him.”

“Not all the way.” Dex supplies, and you glare so hard his smirk turns into a manic grin.

“Shut up.”

“Stop. Both of you stop.” Matt snaps, annoyingly serious Daredevil voice and all, and it takes a significant amount of effort to swallow your response and sit back in your chair.

He talks about forgiveness. About how he needs it for his own sake, and not for Dex’s or even yours.

But you saw Matt’s face, when you found him at the gala. When he tried to pull you out of there before you got yourself hurt in your anger and grief. And in the church, when he pulled you and Dex to safety as you begged the near-unconscious man to stay with you. To live because despite it all you couldn’t fucking lose him.

He’s angry. He’s hurting. But he cares about you. And you care about him, too. Your love for Dex doesn’t make those years of friendship just go away.

And then, the ultimate question. Aimed directly at Dex. “So, do you wanna do one good thing in a life full of shit?”

Benjamin Poindexter turns to you. You smile at him, an entire conversation passing between the two of you in the span of a second before he rolls his shoulders and turns to Matt.

“What do you need me to do?”

-

The whistle echoes through the vast expanse of the room. Three floors up. Directly and strategically across from the courthouse.

Four ATVF officers whirl, guns raised, and…

And then lowered out of pure confusion.

A woman stands in the doorway, in casual clothes, with her eyes wide and her hands raised in shocked and horrified surrender.

“I-I was just looking for the bathroom.”

Shit. A civilian. They’re gonna have to figure out what to do with her, now. There’s no way she didn’t see the fake Bullseye across the room, and if she tells anyone-

“Wait, please don’t shoot! I know what you do, right? You’re the good guys? You find vigilantes and…you know…” she curls her fingers into the shape of a pistol, aiming at the closest officer’s head, and pretends to fire in demonstration.

Exactly where the woman ‘shot’ him, a knife appears, jutting out right between a pair of wide eyes.

He goes down.

She jumps, surprised, and inspects her hand with alarm like smoke might start coming out of her fingers.

And then, she aims again, almost experimentally, at the second officer. The moment she ‘fires’, another knife flies through the air and hits home.

Just as the shock begins to wear off, spurring the startled men into action, she lowers her other hand into the same shape, and ‘shoots’ the final two men in rapid succession before they can even think to lift their guns.

And then, when all that’s left is the ‘fake Bullseye’, who is still standing there frozen and confused, she laughs.

The sound of heavy bootsteps echoes through the room.

“That was even more fun the third time.” She says, tone bright and amused as she tilts her head back towards the source of the sound.

Bullseye, the real one, appears behind her, and his low chuckle is the most frightening sound the other man has ever fucking heard.

The new Bullseye fires his gun, and screams as his hand is impaled by a knife. He goes down, crumpling to his knees and cradling the bleeding appendage, and his counterpart walks casually forward with the mysterious woman behind him.

He’s only in pain for a few seconds, just long enough to be pushed to the ground, and just long enough to see the glimpse of another knife before it finds its home in his eye.

-

“Holy shit.”

“Hm?” The click of the rifle. The subtle shift of his shoulders as he adjusts his shot. So careful and calculated, and yet you can feel him locked in on every word. Every blink. Every movement.

Even with another target in sight, he is always focused on you.

“Matt just told everyone he’s Daredevil.”

Dex hums, cocking his head to the side. “And?”

“And he’s probably gonna go to prison for it.”

Dex loads the sniper, the shell of the bullet clattering onto the floor. “Prison’s not so bad.”

“Says the guy who broke out of it.”

“For you.” He turns, and you can see his eyes crinkle in the corners even if you can’t see him smile behind the mask. “For romance.”

You hum, and pop your headphone back into your ear, eyes moving back to the monitor as you sit cross-legged atop the table beside the gun. “You’re a fucking psychooo~” you sing, under your breath, and feel him catch your chin between his gloved fingers before you have time to look back up. He tilts your chin towards him, and you feel the warmth of his lips beneath the rough fabric of his mask as he pulls you into a kiss.

He moves back to the gun with the grace of a cat, satisfied, and you do your best not to worry too much about Matt Murdock. Your friend. Daredevil, who has just outed himself to the entire world and sealed his own fate.

The shot is fired and thus your location is given up. It’s time to go.

You hesitate. You sit by the computer, and you watch the screen after it goes blank.

A gloved hand comes up, a warm chest against your back as that same familiar hand guides yours away from your lips.

“What’re you up to?”

Dex’s couch, so long ago. Your eyes locked on a screen. Warm fingers curling around your own. You must have been biting your nails again. It must be late. You barely even heard him come in.

“Tech company. Innocent employee. Spreadsheets.” You tilt your head back, sleepy, and catch his lips with your own. “Not supposed to talk about it though, remember?”

“Criminal.” He kisses you again, but he’s smiling.

“Not technically.” You kiss him back, pulling him closer, catching his hand to guide him around the couch and over to you. “You gonna tattle, Special Agent Poindexter?”

“Never.”

“Time to go.” That same voice is lower now. Raspier. Still just as achingly familiar. So much has changed, and everything is so different, and he’s still so incredibly yours.

“Matt…” the word is released on a breath, and that breath feels too heavy. Too weighed down by memories. Matt. Foggy. Karen. So many memories. So much loss.

“Can’t do anything for him now, baby.” His nose against your temple, his arm around your waist. He took his mask off, at some point. “But if they catch us up here, it’s gonna be a lot worse for him.”

You turn, still frowning, still worried, and reach up to brush your fingers over the deep scar on his cheek. He tilts his head into the touch, like he always does, and smiles.

That smile, sweet and scarred and as familiar as the palm of your own hand, will always feel more like home than any place in the world.

And that’s how it was always gonna go, wasn’t it? Since the day you ran into him in front of that coffee shop, the night he kissed you for the first time, the moment you saw the bullseye etched on the door of your apartment…

It was always him. It was always going to be him. The trajectory of your life changed before you even knew it was happening, jolting in a different direction like a ricocheted bullet, and always still pointed home.

Home, to him.

You smile back, and meet his eyes.

“Where are we going?”

-

Benjamin Poindexter rolls a coin over his knuckles, glances out the window of the airplane towards the earth thousands of feet below, and smiles.

The flight attendant speaks to the man in the seat beside yours, welcomes him into the ‘Million Milers Club’ or whatever, and he does his best not to glare at the noise. The man is beaming - annoying -  but you would tell him that it’s rude to glare if you were awake.

Speaking of which, your head is snuggled up to his shoulder, breath soft and even and both arms wrapped around his bicep like he’s some kind of teddy bear, rather than a dangerous assassin.

Then again, you’re almost just as unhinged as he is these days.

He hums, content, and turns his nose into your hair, inhaling deeply and feeling you sigh and shift a little closer.

“You two seem happy.” The too-friendly guy in the seat beside you is smiling, and Dex resists the urge to wrap his arms around you and pull you onto his lap, hiding you from the world because you’re his only his no one else-

He’s gotta reel that under control a little more. That possessiveness. But, well, you’re his. And he’s yours. Two sides of the same coin. Soulmates in every way.

And he knows that you do seem happy. You always do, because you are. You walked onto this plane together in an almost sickening display of blissful love. He lifted your bag into the overhead bin for you, pulled you into the seat after, wrapped his arms around you and basked in your laughter as he shamelessly pressed kisses to your neck and shoulder. You’d leaned back, grinned at him like you were the only two people on the plane, in the world, and slid your hand into his own.

No one suspected that you’d helped him kill people only a few hours before. That you washed the blood off of each other before you came to the airport.

He raises his eyebrows. Too-friendly Guy keeps going. “You headed to your honeymoon?”

The corner of his mouth quirks up. He rests his chin on top of your head. He has a ring in his pocket, and when you land in the next country, and he gets the very first opportunity that comes his way, he already plans to drop to his knee and beg you to marry him.

But for now, he nods, and fixes the stranger with a practiced smile.

“Yeah.” He hums, feeling you shift comfortably against him, sighing contentedly against his shoulder. Perfect. His. “It’s long overdue.”

The man looks the two of you over, and seems to be about to say something else, but you shift again and Dex’s attention suddenly couldn’t be any less focused on him.

Honeymoon. Yeah, you’ll have a thousand honeymoons. A thousand lifetimes of happiness and togetherness and love so intense it’s taken lives, saved lives, shattered governments, and so much more.

the heat reaches your face and a fluttery feeling sits low in your stomach. he always knew how to throw the words back at you. but alas, the show must go on. you stroke his hair back once more, cupping his face with both hands to kiss his sweet face. jason melts into it immediately, but he shrugs like he were shy from this attention. when you pull away, a piece of him was disappointed.

“you hungry?” you ask him. “i was gonna make something to eat.”

he shakes his head, “don’t worry about it. i came home to take care of you. i’ll cook.”

you raise a brow as you reach for your water bottle, ready to play in his face. “take care of me? i’m a grown adult babe.”

he watches as you lift the bottle to your lips, his eyes trained hard on how they part and press against it. taking in how your throat swallows down the water and he gulps in anticipation as though he was drinking it too. his lips part as he leans in to kiss you again. though this time, you bring the bottle between you and put it to his lips.

“you look dehydrated,” you say like it’s the easiest thing in the world. tilting your head slightly and watching the gears turn in his head. “have you been using the bottle i bought you?”

he sighs and nods, “yes but i like using yours.”

sitting up enough to take the bottle and take a long sip. probably draining your ice cold water from how thirsty he was and didn’t even realize. he makes a sound of approval and hands it back to you when you do the unspeakable.

you take the bottle from him, lift your opposing hand and wipe it with your sleeve. jason is absolutely dumbstruck. his lips part in confusion as his brows furrow. he looks to you, then the bottle and then back to you again. he scoffs softly and then points at the bottle.

“the fuck was that?”

he’s blinking hard at you and waiting for a response. you just take a long sip and furrow your brows back.

“what do you mean jay? i’m drinking water?” feigning confusion.

“you just wiped me off of it i’m some freeloader, with germs and shit.”

you can’t control your laughter and shake your head at him. “i’m just wiping your spit off of it jason. it’s not a big deal.”

then he’s stammering, pointing between you and the bottle again. “but babe you just kissed me! how is that any different! wait, does my breath smell?” before he leans back and puts his hand in front of his mouth and breathes out to sniff his breath. “i didn’t smoke or anything and i brushed my teeth i swear.”

this only makes you laugh harder, pushing this chest and grasping tightly at he bottle in your hands. jason only seems to get even more confused. he sits up completely and watches you giggle to yourself, finding this entire thing amusing. jason however, does not. but he knows you, and he knows you have never cared about germs with him before. besides, you live in gotham, it’s hardly the cleanliest place to live.

with a loud scoff, he takes the water bottle from your hands and tongues at the mouth piece. he fully lets his tongue fall out of him mouth and licks it all around before pulling back and handing it to you. you grimace a little at the wet sheen on it.

“ew jay, what the hell.” holding the bottle like something toxic.

“take a sip.” he says with the most stern expression you’d ever seen on him.

oh, he was pissed.

you decide to play along longer and shake your head in defiance at him.

he blinks at you, “i’d let you spit in my mouth and you’re sitting here telling me you won’t drink from the same bottle as me?”

“no, not until i wash your slobber off of it.”

that’s when he huffs out a kid throwing a tantrum and grabs the bottle from your hand, mumbling in his breath. you watch him with genuine confusion while he is the one to take another sip before grabbing your chin and pulling you closer.

he squeezes your cheeks until your lips part and spits the water directly into your mouth. you make a sound of surprise the sudden intrusion makes your eyes widen but you were definitely not opposed. you swallow it down immediately. he keeps his hold on your cheeks as he squints and a small smile begins to take form on his face.

“you liking this,” he states rather than asks.

the contagious smile takes home on your face as you stare back at him and nod. “it’s a prank.”

“ha,” he says flatly, “now can you lay back down please?”

sighing as you lay down for him, he immediately follows after you. weight resting directly over you like a weighted blanket that wouldn’t budge if you tried. when you squirm a little, he wraps his arms over yours so you’re bracketed between him and the mattress. then he really does give you some sloppy, wet kisses that leave a trail in its wake.

he’s mumbling lowly as he starts to tug on your shirt, pulling the fabric up and huffing like he’s still annoyed. kisses getting a little rougher as he starts to bite the flesh beneath it and knead it with his teeth. you can’t help but tilt back for him.

“slobber, huh? i’ll show you slobber.” murmuring against yours skin enough to tickle you. he pulls his head up to look at you while you’re still giggling, “okay jokes over. was gonna do all the work but—”

jason lifts you from beneath him and places you firm onto his lap. hand tight in your hip as you straddle him and he settles his back on the headboard. he clears his throat and something behind his light eyes darken enough to tell you you were really in for it now. the thick bulge beneath you was unmistakable now. you open your mouth in a gasp and say his name.

“there’s no way that turned you on.” making the horrible mistake of letting a giggle out again.

he breathes out of his nose and pinches your side to make you jolt. groaning like he’s not the cause of you moving around and tightening his hold on you so you’d stop moving.

“i spat in your mouth. of course i’m hard.” he sighs as his fingers slide across the waistband of your underwear and tug them just to let them snap. you jolt again but he doesn’t stop you from moving or say anything about the desperate sound you make at the friction.

instead, jason smiles a little harder, “go ahead then.”

guiding your hips back and forth until your breath caught in your throat and you grips his shoulders for dear life. you breathe out his name again but it’s barely a whisper. he tsks and bucks up into you, dragging his hard length against your clothed core. you were dangerously close and he’s just grinning like he’s already won. your hips with a mind of his own as you chase your own release, dragging your hands down his chest and pushing him further into the mattress. you’re already a mess, panting heavily and saying his name.

one of his hands come up to the back of your head and pulls you down towards him, whispering lowly in your ear.

“there you go ma, take what’s yours.”

movements getting sloppy and uneven while he’s keeping you folded against him. one strong palm kept your faces close and the other moved you in accordance what he knew got you there. he knew you were a gone before you let go, gasping and stilling just for him to continue moving against you.

you’re catching your breath when he finally stops and kisses the side of your face sloppily again. his hands rubbed up and down your back like he’s soothing you. but this time, he’s the one laughing while he whispers in your ear like a coo.

“gave the camera a good show, didn’t we?”

Then the pain starts settling in.

At first it's distant, muted beneath the fading anesthesia. But slowly, steadily, it crawls up your thigh like fire spreading beneath your skin. Deep. Throbbing. Relentless. It coils around the muscle and bone until even breathing feels difficult. You suck in a sharp breath through clenched teeth, your fingers twitching weakly against the stiff hospital sheets.

“We managed to save your leg and restore blood flow to the severed artery. That tourniquet saved your life, Lieutenant.”

You can finally make out enough of the doctor's words to understand him, though opening your eyes feels like dragging sandpaper across your skull. When you manage it anyway, the harsh fluorescent lights overhead stab into your vision so violently you immediately regret it. White. Endless white. It burns behind your eyes.

“You’ll be off active duty for several months,” the doctor continues, voice calm and practiced. “You’ll need physiotherapy. We can discuss the details of your recovery before discharge.”

His voice sounds farther away now, as though he’s standing at the end of a tunnel instead of beside your bed.

“Okay,” you rasp out, "thank you."

Even speaking hurts.

You try shifting your weight, desperate to find a position that doesn’t feel like someone is driving nails through your leg, but the slightest movement sends a violent flare of pain through your thigh. Your entire body tenses instinctively. A strained groan escapes your throat before you can stop it.

The doctor offers you a sympathetic look, scribbles something onto the clipboard tucked beneath his arm, then finally leaves you alone.

Silence settles over the room or something close to silence. Machines continue humming softly around you. Somewhere outside, muffled voices drift down the hallway alongside the squeak of rubber soles against polished floors. The IV taped to your arm pulls unpleasantly every time you move your arm and your mouth tastes stale and metallic.

You should probably sleep, let the anesthetic finish wearing off, but even lifting a hand to rub at your burning eyes feels exhausting.

With a frustrated exhale, you give up trying to get comfortable. Nothing helps. The pain isn't worth the effort. Instead, you slowly roll your head from side to side against the pillow, trying to ease the stiffness lodged in your neck.

That’s when you notice the figure in the bed several meters away.

At first, your blurry vision struggles to make sense of him. Just a shape beneath dim hospital blankets. Broad shoulders. Dark clothes folded over the chair beside the bed. Then your focus sharpens enough to realize, the figure belongs to a man. Your brows knit together immediately—you could’ve sworn the men’s and women’s recovery rooms were separated.

As if sensing your stare, the man slowly turns his head toward you.

The movement is sluggish, clearly painful. His face comes into view little by little, littered with scars, rough around the edges and pale beneath the hospital lighting. There’s faint surprise in his eyes when he realizes you’re awake, quickly followed by visible confusion at the expression you’re giving him, like he's the reason you're stuck in that hospital bed.

Before he can tell you off for it, you speak first.

“Why are you here?”

Your voice comes out rough and hoarse, stripped of its usual sharp authority.

“Too many casualties,” he says after a moment, his tone low and gravelly. “Hospital’s full. Had to stick you in a spare room.”

You blink slowly, processing his words through the lingering fog in your head, followed by a soft nod.

“Okay.”

And just like that, silence returns.

─☆*:・

You can’t sleep, not even close.

The pain keeps gnawing at your leg, the mattress feels too stiff, the IV needle in your arm is irritating enough to make you want to rip it out entirely, the smell of disinfectant hangs thick in the air and the fluorescent lights buzz faintly overhead. Every distant sound from the hallway drills into your skull.

But worse than all of it is the realization sitting heavy in your chest: You can’t walk—not yet, at least.

A lieutenant reduced to lying helplessly in a hospital bed. Useless. The thought sours your mood almost instantly.

Eventually, the boredom outweighs your irritation.

You glance toward the man again. “What happened to you?”

He doesn’t look at you this time.

“Got shot,” his answer is short, straight forward and his tone awfully flat. “Upper abdomen,” he adds a second later, followed by a quiet groan as he carefully shifts against the bed.

“Oh, fuck,” you mutter weakly.

“Yeah,” despite his—still flat—tone, there’s dry humor buried underneath it. “Didn’t hit anything vital, though.”

“Lucky, I guess.”

“Still feels like shit.”

A breathy laugh escapes you before you can stop it, and to your surprise, the corner of his mouth twitches upward into something resembling half a smile. The room feels a slightly less unbearable after that.

“What’s your rank?” you ask once the silence stretches too long again.

“Lieutenant.”

That catches your attention immediately. You study him more carefully now, eyes tracing over the sharp lines of his profile. The broad frame, the military posture even while half-drugged and injured, the roughness in his voice.

“SAS?” you ask cautiously and he gives a small grunt of confirmation.

Weird. You know the faces of almost every lieutenant attached to the force. At the very least, you know their names, but his face doesn’t ring any bells at all.

It takes a few moments before the realization clicks into place, making your eyes narrow slightly.

“You’re Simon Riley?”

That finally gets a proper reaction out of him. His head turns toward you again, slower this time, and you catch the unmistakable flicker of surprise crossing his features. A tad of confusion and suspicion too.

How the hell did you figure that out?

“I’m pretty sure it’s you,” you continue, voice quieter now. “Only lieutenant whose face I’ve never seen.”

For a moment, he just stares at you. “Yes. It’s me.”

Your brows lift in amusement despite the pain pulsing through your leg.

Well.

That’s one hell of a roommate assignment.

─☆*:・

The Simon 'Ghost' Riley is lying three beds away from you in hospital issued clothes that looked one size too small.

The name alone carried enough reputation to make most recruits stand straighter. Half the stories about him sounded fabricated, stitched together from barracks gossip and post-mission exaggerations. Cold as winter steel. Mean enough to scare grown men into silence. Efficient enough to make enemies disappear before they realized they were being hunted.

“You’re staring,” he says flatly.

You blink, realizing you absolutely are. “Just making sure you’re real.”

His visible eye narrows slightly. “Disappointed?”

“A little,” you admit. “Thought you’d be uglier.” A rough chuckle leaves him, it's low and brief, like the sound surprised even him.

“You always this chatty?” he asks eventually.

His voice is rough with exhaustion, scraped raw around the edges like gravel dragged across concrete. The words come slower now, dulled by painkillers and fatigue, but there’s still something dryly amused underneath them.

You shift slightly against the stiff hospital pillow, immediately regretting it when your thigh throbs in protest beneath the layers of bandages. The pain has gone from sharp to heavy now, deep and pulsing, like someone lodged molten metal into the bone and left it there to cool.

“Just heavily medicated, don't get used to it,” you mumble and he just grunts in response.

The fluorescent lights overhead buzz faintly above you, one of them flickering every few seconds in a way that’s starting to feel personal. The air conditioner hums somewhere near the ceiling, pushing cold recycled air through the room that smells faintly of antiseptic, old coffee, and hospital linens washed a thousand times too many.

You slowly turn your head toward him, narrowing your eyes. He looks terrible. Not in an insulting way—he got shot, and he looks like it, which is absolutely normal. His skin’s paler than before beneath the harsh lighting, shadows sitting dark beneath his eyes. The bandaging visible above the collar of his shirt disappears beneath the fabric wrapping around his torso. One arm rests across his abdomen instinctively in a protective manner.

Somehow he still manages to look intimidating lying half-dead in a hospital bed. Honestly impressive. You can't imagine how much more intimidating he gets when he's on duty. You have to admit: the mask really matches his demeanor.

"You're staring. Again."

"I've got the Ghost laying a few meters away, I'd say it's understandable"

"I'd say it's rude."

“You're the man people describe like some kind of cryptid in tactical gear talking to me. It is understandable.”

Simon’s brow furrows almost immediately.

“You're dramatic.”

"Oh bollocks," you momentarily let you head drop to the side, your entire face visible to him, “you've got quite the reputation.”

His lips crack into a faint smirk, "the mask helps."

"Definitely," you agree with him, “probably terrorize recruits with it.”

"Efficiently so," that earns him a low chuckle from you.

You sink lower into the pillow with a tired exhale, letting your head rest fully against the mattress for the first time since waking up. The pain killers are finally settling in properly now, smoothing the jagged corners off everything around you. The pain’s still there, buried beneath your skin and stitched into your leg, but it feels farther away. Manageable enough not to grit your teeth through every breath.

Your limbs feel strangely heavy, oddly warm, like gravity suddenly doubled. It's probably the medication making you groggy.

Ghost watches you from across the room for a moment before speaking again.

“You look less murderous now.”

You crack one eye open toward him. “Don’t worry,” you mumble sleepily. “Still judging your face.”

"Scars 're a turn off?" he raises his eyebrows.

"Quite the opposite" you respond, the words escaping your lips before your brain could process them.

"What if I told you my back's filled with 'em?"

"Don't tease me like that, lieutenant."

Then air leaves his nose sharply in something dangerously close to a laugh—not a full one, though. He probably hasn’t laughed properly since birth, but it’s there enough to count and you look absurdly pleased with yourself.

─☆*:・

Morning arrives without permission, not gently either.

Your eyes crack open reluctantly, every inch of your body still wrapped in that strange post-surgery heaviness where even existing feels physically expensive. Pale morning light bleeds weakly through the narrow hospital window, washing the room in cold blue-grey instead of the aggressive fluorescent white from yesterday, since the overhead lights are off.

The world feels quieter, softer around the edges. You're not used to this. Staying in bed after waking up, taking in the silence of the early morning. It feels odd. You try to enjoy the calmness of it all, until you do the mistake of moving your legs to get comfortable. Pain immediately shoots through your veins in your entire body, tensing up, a low groan escaping your lips, "fuck me."

"Mornin' to you too." the gruff voice of your roommate slices through the quiet morning.

His shirt hangs crooked across broad shoulders, his buzzcut already slightly overgrown from being stuck in bed for the last five days. The morning light catches against the rough edges of his scars, softening some and sharpening others. He looks less intimidating half-awake like this.

“Go back to sleep,” you groan, eyes shut tightly, waiting patiently for the pain to subside.

“Tempting,” he mumbles, "should I call a nurse?"

"No. I'm fine."

"Doesn't look like it."

"Shut up."

The agonizing pain finally dies down and you feel like you can breath again.

"I hate this."

"Everyone does."

The room falls into a quieter silence afterward—not awkward this time. Outside the window, rain taps softly against the glass in uneven rhythms. Somewhere farther down the hall, a nurse laughs at something muffled beyond your hearing.

“First time being benched?” he leans back carefully against the pillows, studying you for a moment with that same unreadable expression he seems to wear instead of normal human emotions. You don't glance toward him, it feels wrong—being this vulnerable, exposed. Instead you stare straight ahead at the ceiling tiling, "that obvious?”

“A bit.”

You exhale slowly through your nose. “I don’t know how to sit still,” the honesty comes easier than expected. Maybe because neither of you has enough energy left to pretend much right now. "Feels wrong," you admit quietly.

Simon gives a faint hum of understanding. It's not out of pity for you, he knows exactly what you're feeling.

“Yeah,” he says after a moment. “Gets ugly in your head when you stop moving.”

The words settle heavily between you.

You look at him more carefully, past all the scars, the sharp edges of his features. You stare at the exhaustion carved into his eyes, the stiffness in every movement he makes, the instinctive way his hand still guards his side even while resting, like his brain refuses to believe he's safe. Now, Ghost feels less like a myth and more like a man held together by scar tissue and stubbornness.

"Any advice?" you ask, returning to lazily staring at the ceiling.

"Try not to kill yourself."

"Oh, okay," you exhale deeply, "you've got more pessimistic shit to say?"

"It's true."

"Who on this bloody earth gives that as a piece of advice?"

"I'm no motivational speaker." he defends himself.

"Could've fooled me," that makes him huff out another breath through his nose.

Hours pass strangely after that. Slow and syrup-thick beneath pain medication and rainstorms and terrible television neither of you actually watches, but the noise is a good enough distraction from your thoughts. Nurses drift in and out checking vitals. Time moves a lot differently when you're stuck in a hospital bed.

—☆*:・

 By the third day, you learn two things about Simon Riley.

Firstly, he wakes up violently alert, not like a soldier ready to fight the enemy, but more like a man trying to fight his life's demons away.

One second asleep, the next fully conscious like somebody flipped a switch inside him. Eyes sharp, his breathing steady and his hand already halfway toward the knife that isn’t there before reality catches up.

The first time you witness it, a nurse accidentally drops a clipboard outside the door. The crack echoes down the hallway. It has Simon jolting upright instantly with a sharp inhale, every muscle in his body locking tight enough to snap steel cables, eyes darting wildly around the room for half a second before settling, before he realizes he's at the hospital and the tension drains in visible increments, even though his jaw remains tight.

You pretend not to notice. Mostly because the brief glimpse of genuine panic beneath all that control feels strangely private.

Secondly, he hates asking for help with almost pathological dedication.

You discover this around noon when he decides, for reasons known only to himself and whatever ancient curse fuels male stubbornness, that he can absolutely reach the cabinet across the room without assistance.

Despite being four days post-op with a bullet wound on his chest and the shit ton of painkillers.

You wake up from a light nap to find him standing. Debatable if that's even considered standing.

One hand grips the IV pole while the other braces hard against the wall, his shoulders tense. His face has gone concerningly pale with effort.

You stare at him for a long moment.

“Riley.”

“I got it.”

You shift slightly, as much as your wound will allow you, "Simon."

"Said I got it."

“You look like one inconvenience away from meeting God.”

“'M fine.”

“I'll smash the IV poll on your head. Go sit down.”

His visible eye narrows immediately.

“Thought ya leg didn’t work.”

“Temporarily,” you shoot back. “Unlike your brain apparently.”

A dangerous silence follows.

Then, somehow, he takes another step.

Pain flashes across his face so quickly most people probably wouldn’t catch it, but you do. His breathing shallows almost immediately afterward.

You sigh heavily.

“Congratulations,” you mutter sarcastically, "you're a fuckin' idiot."

“I was getting water.”

“There is literally a button beside your bed to ask for help.”

“I can do it on my own.”

You blink at him.

"No, you can't. You got shot, for fuck's sake.” you say flatly. “You’re allowed to ask for help, just—go sit down.”

His mouth twitches faintly at that. You’re strangely caring with him. Part of him likes it more than he wants to admit. Likes that his name, and whatever ugly reputation dragged itself all the way to your team, didn’t make you flinch. Likes, embarrassingly enough, the way you called him a fucking idiot like it was the easiest thing in the world.

But there’s another part of him that hates this. Hates that the first time he meets someone as pretty as you, he’s a complete bloody wreck who can barely stand on his own two feet. You got shot and still somehow look gorgeous. He got shot and looks half-dead.

Doesn’t feel fair.

─☆*:・

The next morning is quiet, wrapped in rain and pale grey light.

The hospital room looks softer this early, less clinical—sort off. The harsh fluorescent lights overhead remain switched off, leaving only the dim glow of dawn filtering through the wide window across the room. Rainwater slides slowly down the glass in uneven trails, blurring the city skyline into streaks of silver and charcoal. Somewhere far below, traffic hums faintly through wet streets. Tires hiss against pavement. A siren wails in the distance before fading back into the rain.

You wake slowly at first, trapped somewhere between sleep and consciousness while pain medication drags heavily through your veins. Everything feels warm and sluggish beneath the blankets. Your thoughts drift lazily in disconnected fragments. The scent of antiseptic lingers thick in the air, tangled with stale coffee from the nurses’ station and the faint metallic smell of rain pressing against the cracked window seal.

Then the pain hits—one brutal pulse tears through your thigh hard enough to wrench a broken sound from your throat before your eyes are even fully open.

Breath vanishes from your lungs instantly.

Your body locks around the agony, muscles seizing beneath the blankets while another pulse crashes through your leg like a live wire buried beneath skin and bone. Heat spreads viciously through the injury, deep and swollen and unbearable, pressure building inside the muscle until it feels like the stitches themselves might split apart.

Your eyes snap open.

The ceiling above you blurs immediately.

“Oh, fuck—”

The words barely make it out.

Your fingers twist violently into the sheets as instinct takes over, your body curling inward around the pain despite knowing movement only makes it worse. The bandages around your thigh suddenly feel too tight. Too hot. Every heartbeat sends another sickening throb through the damaged muscle, radiating upward into your hip and lower spine until even breathing becomes difficult.

Cold sweat prickles along the back of your neck.

Your stomach twists sharply.

Another pulse hits.

White flashes behind your eyes.

For one terrifying second you genuinely think you might pass out.

Across the room, you hear movement, it's fast, sharp.

Simon wakes instantly. The mattress creaks beneath sudden weight, sheets rustle violently. There’s the sound of bare feet against polished floor before his voice cuts through the haze surrounding your thoughts.

“What happened?” still rough with sleep, lower than usual, but alert immediately after.

You try answering him—you really do, but the pain swells again before words can form properly and all that leaves you instead is a strained gasp that sounds humiliatingly fragile in the quiet room.

You hate this—how helpless it feels. You hate how one moment later your breathing is ragged and labored.

You’ve spent years training your body into something dependable, useful, strong enough to survive things other people wouldn’t. And now you can barely breathe through pain without feeling like you’re falling apart at the seams.

The realization sits ugly and heavy in your chest.

Simon reaches your bedside, his hand clutching his abdomen—he had his stitches removed yesterday so it doesn't hurt the same when he's walking anymore, makes it easier to get to you.

Tears are already burning unexpectedly behind your eyes, you turn your face sharply toward the wall before he can see them, but it's too late.

The mattress dips slightly beneath his weight as he braces one hand carefully against the bed rail. You can feel his presence before you properly look at him. Warmth cutting through the cold recycled hospital air. The faint scent of soap and antiseptic clinging to his skin. The uneven rhythm of his breathing, slightly tighter now from moving too quickly.

“Hey,” he says quietly, the word lands softer than expected.

You squeeze your eyes shut harder. Another wave of pain tears through your thigh and suddenly your breathing stutters apart completely. A broken noise slips from your throat before you can swallow it down, your entire body tightening instinctively around the pain.

Then his hand settles against your shoulder, instinctively you grab it and squeeze—hard, maybe too hard.

The contact startles him, you feel it immediately in the way he stills afterward, like reaching for you happened before he consciously decided to do it, but the pain is too much to care right now.

His palm feels warm, solid, steady. The weight of it anchors you enough that your breathing slows by the smallest fraction.

Still, embarrassment crashes over you almost immediately after.

“Don’t,” you mutter weakly, voice rough around the edges.

Simon’s brows knit slightly.

“Whot?”

“Don't look at me like this,” the words come quieter than intended, raw enough that you instantly regret saying them out loud.

For a moment the room falls silent except for rain tapping softly against the window and the low mechanical hum of hospital equipment surrounding you both. Simon doesn’t answer immediately. His hand remains where it is, holding yours tightly, grounding you.

“How’m I looking at you?”

You don’t answer, mostly because you don’t know how to explain it. He is looking at you like you’re something fragile and your pain matters, like seeing you hurt bothers him more than he expected it to.

Another pulse of pain rolls through your leg and your composure cracks completely this time. Your breathing shudders sharply. Tears blur your vision despite every effort to stop them.

Humiliation burns hot beneath your skin.

You lift a trembling hand to cover your face instinctively.

The movement is weak.

Exhausted.

Simon goes very still beside you, before you feel his hand slide slowly from your palm until his fingers close carefully around your other wrist instead. Not restraining, just holding on.

Your pulse jumps strangely beneath his fingertips.

“You need a nurse,” he says quietly.

“No.”

The refusal comes too fast, you hear it yourself immediately, it's not stubborn this time, but something else, something weaker, more fragile.

Outside the window, rainwater races down the glass in silver streams while distant thunder rolls softly somewhere across the city. The room feels dim and close around both of you now, wrapped in early morning shadows and the quiet rhythm of your uneven breathing.

Simon studies your face for a long moment. There’s exhaustion carved into every line of your expression this morning. Shadows are darker beneath your eyes. Healing bruises fading yellow along the edge of your jaw. Your shirt sticks to your sweaty skin, the shorts you're wearing visible since your thrashing pulled the thin blanket to the very end of your feet. Your bandages around the gunshot are clean, that's good, you didn't bust a stitch and you're not bleeding out. But that doesn't mean you're not tired, you look exhausted. Despite all the sharp edges he usually keeps wrapped tightly around himself, there’s something openly unsettled in his eyes right now that wasn’t there before. Because of you, of your exhaustion, your pain.

Another wave of pain rolls through your leg, though weaker now, dulled slightly by whatever medication still lingers in your bloodstream. You suck in a shaky breath through your teeth.

Simon’s grip tightens instinctively around your wrist. Not enough to hurt. Just enough to steady, to let you know he is here.

Your eyes lift toward his without meaning to, your free hand searching for something to hold onto. He immediately notices and your fingers interlock with your grip so tight you obscure normal blood flow to his fingers. His attention moves over you carefully, tracking every flicker of pain that crosses your expression like he’s trying to memorize how to soften it. It unravels something within you more than the pain does.

Nobody’s ever looked at you that way before. It has your chest tightening strangely.

His jaw shifts slightly, gaze flicking away toward the rain-streaked window, but his hand never leaves yours.

The silence stretches. It's not awkward or comfortable either, just full—heavy with things neither of you knows how to say.

Eventually, when your breathing returns to a steady rhythm, he exhales quietly through his nose, the sound roughened by exhaustion.

“Scared me for a moment,” the confession comes so softly you almost think you imagined it it has your breath catching unexpectedly.

He doesn’t look at you after saying it. His eyes stay fixed somewhere toward the floor instead, expression unreadable again except for the faint tension pulling at the corners of his mouth. Like he regrets letting the words slip out at all, but they settle warm and aching beneath your ribs anyway.

You stare at him, "me too." Without thinking, your fingers shift slightly against his hand, squeezing it, not like before, it's soft now and he goes completely still beneath the slight movement of your fingers.

Most people wouldn’t even notice it, but you do. You feel it in the way the muscles in his hand tighten faintly before relaxing again, careful and controlled like every instinct inside him is suddenly being held back by force. His thumb shifts once against your skin, absentminded almost, brushing lightly over your the back of your hand.

The contact sends something warm and disorienting through you.

Outside, rain continues slipping down the windows in silver trails, turning the early morning skyline into a blur of pale concrete and distant lights. Thunder rolls low across the city again, softer now, like the storm is beginning to drift farther away. The room smells faintly of rainwater sneaking through old window seals, tangled with antiseptic and the bitter scent of stale coffee lingering from somewhere down the hall.

The silence settles around you slowly, thick without becoming uncomfortable. It feels oddly fragile now, as though one wrong word might crack whatever this strange new thing between you has quietly become overnight.

Your breathing finally begins to steady beneath the pain.

Your leg still throbs viciously beneath the bandages, deep enough to make your stomach twist every few seconds, but the sharpest edge of it has dulled into something survivable again. The agony no longer owns your entire body, exhaustion starts creeping in behind it instead, heavy and slow and impossible to fight.

That doesn't go unnoticed by Simon.

His gaze flicks briefly toward your face again, studying you with that same quiet intensity that’s become strangely familiar over the last few days. You’re beginning to realize Simon Riley pays attention to everything when he cares enough to—tiny shifts in expression, changes in breathing, the way your fingers tense before pain hits harder.

It should feel invasive.

Instead it makes something low in your chest ache softly.

“You should sleep,” he says eventually, voice roughened by exhaustion and something gentler buried beneath it.

The words settle into the dim room quietly.

You glance toward him properly for the first time since he crossed the room.

Up close like this, he looks exhausted in ways that go deeper than lack of sleep. The pale morning light softens the harsher angles of his face, catches silver against old scars and tired shadows beneath his eyes. His overgrown hair sits messily flattened from sleep, the collar of his shirt hangs unevenly near one shoulder, exposing the edge of white bandaging wrapped around his torso beneath.

He looks worn down. Human in a way Ghost never sounds in stories.

And suddenly you become sharply aware of the fact he’s still standing despite the pain he must be in himself. Your gaze drops instinctively toward the hand pressed unconsciously against his abdomen.

"You just got your stitches off. Go sit down," your tone is less demanding and more caring, it has Simon’s eyes flicking back toward you, one corner of his mouth twitching faintly upward. There it is, that tone he has grown quite fond of.

“'M fine.”

“Go lay down,” your tone is strict, matching at the slightest the one you use to bark orders.

"Said I’m fine," he repeats dryly, before walking towards the room's far corner where a chair is discarded for visitors.

The scraping of the chair's legs against the floor stops you from asking what he's planning on doing. A moment later he is finally lowering himself carefully into the chair he dragged beside your bed instead of returning across the room. The movement is slow and controlled, tension tightening visibly across his shoulders as he settles back with obvious effort, a quiet breath slips through his nose afterward.

"Go lay down," you repeat, voice softer than before, the adrenaline from earlier completely wearing off by now.

"Negative."

"You're insufferable."

“Hm.”

“You’re injured.” you debate a second later.

“So’re you.”

“Yes, but I’m clearly the more emotionally compelling patient.”

That finally earns you the smallest exhale of laughter. You hadn’t realized how tense the air felt until that sound loosened it.

The rain outside begins falling harder again, tapping steadily against the windows now in soft rhythmic waves. Somewhere farther down the hallway, a nurse laughs quietly at something muffled beyond the walls before the sound disappears again beneath the hum of hospital machinery.

Your eyelids begin growing heavier.

Pain medication and exhaustion drag at you relentlessly now that the worst of the agony has passed. Still, you fight sleep instinctively. Partly because you’re afraid the pain will spike again the second you let your guard down. Mostly because Simon is still sitting beside you, and some selfish, odd part of you doesn’t want him to leave yet.

Your fingers remain loosely tangled with his, but neither of you mentions it.

“You don’t have to stay over here,” you murmur eventually, voice quieter now from exhaustion.

Simon glances toward you.

“I know,” the answer comes immediately, but he chooses to stay, he wants to stay.

You stare at the rain for a long moment, watching droplets race one another down the glass while silence settles softly around the room again.

Your thoughts feel slow, heavy, dangerously honest around the edges. "I fucking hate this," you say quietly.

"You'll get used to it"

"That's what I'm afraid of," the confession hangs in the air.

"Everything about the job is scary."

"Is that supposed to make me feel better?"

"You took a bullet. You're still here tryin' to recover to get back out there. That's something to be fucking proud of."

"I can't even walk."

"You got shot on the damn leg, give yourself some time."

"Still sucks."

After a long moment, his voice breaks the quiet.

“I know.”

Just two words, but they land heavily.

Because suddenly you realize he truly does, not in a hypothetical or sympathetic way. He knows exactly what it feels like to wake up for the first time changed by pain and wonder if the person left afterward still fits inside their own skin.

Your eyes drift toward him again without meaning to. He’s already looking at you, his gaze quietly present in the dim morning light while rain shadows move softly across the room around him.

And for one suspended moment the hospital, the pain, the machines humming softly around you both—all of it disappears beneath the simple realization that neither of you feels quite as alone as you did a week ago.

Simon’s gaze drops briefly toward your joined hands then returns to your face.

Something unreadable flickers across his expression. It vanishes almost immediately beneath the familiar rough edges he wears like armor, but not before you catch it. That brief glimpse affects you far more than it should.

Simon shifts slightly in the chair beside you, exhaustion finally beginning to weigh visibly against him. His head tips back briefly against the wall behind him, eyes closing for just a second too long before reopening again.

You study him quietly.

The tension still lingering around his mouth. The faint lines exhaustion carved beneath his eyes. The stubborn effort it clearly takes for him to stay awake despite his own injuries.

A strange tenderness catches you off guard.

“Go sleep,” you murmur softly.

One corner of his mouth twitches faintly again.

“Bossy.”

“You like it.”

─☆*:・

 Night settles slowly around the hospital room, quiet and blue at the edges.

The overhead lights are turned off, leaving only the soft amber glow from the hallway slipping through the cracked door and the far away muted city lights beyond the rain-streaked windows. Somewhere outside, water still drips steadily from rooftops and fire escapes after the storm, the sound faint beneath the distant hum of traffic moving through wet streets.

Everything feels softer after dark. The hospital itself seems to exhale. Voices lower into murmurs beyond the walls. Footsteps grow less frequent. Machines continue their endless quiet beeping around you both, but even that begins blending into the atmosphere after a while, becoming less noise and more heartbeat.

At some point after the nurses finish their evening rounds and repeatedly tell him to return to his bed—advice that he doesn't follow, he shifts his chair closer to your bed, close enough that he can rest his arm on the mattress, you let him. You like it.

Instead he sits beside you now, fingers occasionally brushing lightly against your forearm whenever either of you moves.

Tiny accidents that neither of you acknowledge.

Your leg still aches relentlessly beneath the bandages, but the pain medication has dulled it into something distant enough to tolerate. Warm heaviness settles through your body instead, leaving your thoughts slow and dangerously unguarded around the edges.

Simon sits close enough now that you can feel the warmth radiating from him, that you notice details you probably shouldn’t: The rough scar disappearing beneath the collar of his shirt, the faint shadow of stubble darkening his jaw by the end of the day, the way his hands flex unconsciously whenever pain pulls through his healing abdomen—fingers curling slightly against his knee before relaxing again.

The strong hands, scarred knuckles, they're careful too, he is a sniper after all.

“You’re staring again,” he murmurs quietly beside you, voice roughened by exhaustion.

You glance toward his face and immediately regret it because he’s already watching you, head tipped slightly back against the wall. The dim lighting softens the harsher planes of his face, shadows settling deep beneath tired eyes. He looks unfairly good like this, worn down enough to seem real. Dangerous enough to still make your pulse trip every time he looks directly at you.

“You make it difficult not to,” you answer before thinking better of it.

The words settle into the quiet room between you.

His gaze lingers on your face a moment too long before shifting downward briefly. Your mouth. Your throat. Then back up again.

A subtle movement.

Still enough to make warmth spread slowly through your chest.

“Should I be concerned ya flirt with the entire force like tha'?” he asks eventually.

There’s dry amusement in the question.

You study him for a second before answering.

“No,” the honesty slips out easier than expected.

Simon’s expression changes almost imperceptibly afterward.

Not surprise exactly.

Just awareness.

The room feels smaller suddenly, neither of you looks away.

Your pulse feels loud in your own ears. You both let the silence settle, it doesn't feel awkward, or comfortable. Just something you've grown used to.

Several minutes pass before Simon glances toward you again, his gaze dropping briefly toward your leg before returning to your face.

“How bad is it?”

“Better now.” You answer without looking at him.

Something flickers behind his eye at that—relief. It's real enough to affect you immediately.

No one should look that relieved over your comfort. No one should stay awake watching your breathing like it matters. But he does.

You look down briefly at your own hands twisted loosely in the blankets.

“You stayed all day," the observation comes quieter than intended.

Simon leans his head back slightly against the wall again, “Didn’t have anywhere else to be.”

He could have asked to have you transferred once a bed cleared. He could've left this room whenever he wanted. He could have disappeared back behind all those carefully built walls and sharp edges and distance, hide his face like he does with everyone. But he wanted you to see him like this, to stay next to you.

“You know,” you murmur softly, “you’re not nearly as cold as everyone says.”

Simon’s eyes drift toward you slowly, one corner of his mouth lifts faintly "Meds are doing their job."

"Oh?" you raise your brows, acting offended, "and here I thought I was special."

He rolls his eyes in response, still smirking faintly.

You let the silence linger again, it's somewhat comforting at this point. Charged with things you don't think you'll ever share with each other.

His eye drifts shut briefly before reopening again a second later, like he caught himself slipping. “You should sleep,” you whisper.

Simon turns his head just enough to look at you properly. “Eventually.”

You roll your eyes softly. “You’re impossible.”

“I’ve been told.”

There’s a quiet ease to it now, the kind that sneaks up on you without permission. Minutes pass by and you allow the quiet of the room to swallow you whole. Your gazes are fixed on anything but each other. Your eyes dart around the room, searching for something more interesting than the hospital ceiling, you’ve been staring at for the past three days while Simon’s stare blankly on the floor, lips slightly pursed into a thin line, deep in thought.

The sound of the rain from outside and of your breathing fills the lack of words.

“We should go out once we’re discharged.”

His words are so casual it takes your brain a full second to process them. “Are you asking me out?”

One corner of his mouth lifts slightly. “Thought I was being obvious.”

A soft laugh escapes you before you can stop it, warm and sleepy and a little disbelieving.

“You know you'll have to put up with my limp, right?” you question a second later, looking at him with a raised eyebrow.

Matching your expression he also raises a brow at you, entirely unimpressed, “not a problem.”

You smirk satisfied with his response, tilting you head softly at him, “Date sounds fun."

Jason liked taking care of people. It was buried somewhere deep beneath the violence, the sarcasm, the helmet, the terrifying reputation, and the lifetime’s worth of anger issues, but it was there. Raw and instinctive. He liked memorizing what people needed before they asked for it. He liked patching wounds, carrying heavy things, walking on the outside of the sidewalk, checking locks twice before bed. Maybe it came from a childhood where nobody took care of him properly. Maybe it came from being Robin once upon a time, before the world had split him open and rebuilt him meaner. Whatever the reason, taking care of someone he loved felt as natural to him as breathing.

Unfortunately for him, y/n would rather throw herself into oncoming traffic than accept assistance gracefully.

Which was deeply inconvenient considering Jason Todd had money now. Not respectable money, obviously. Not “stocks and mutual funds” money like Bruce. Jason’s finances existed in a morally gray area populated by terrified drug lords, black-market deals, confiscated cash, and the occasional envelope Bruce shoved into his hands disguised as “mission funding” when they both knew it was guilt money.

Jason accepted all of it without shame.

And when he got a girlfriend? Jesus Christ.

He immediately developed the overwhelming urge to spend every cent on her.

Not in an obnoxious way. Not because he thought she couldn’t survive on her own. If anything, y/n surviving independently despite Gotham actively trying to eat people alive was one of the things he admired most about her. She worked herself ragged, paid her own bills, handled her own problems, and carried herself with this stubborn, infuriating pride that made Jason want to simultaneously shake her and marry her.

But he loved her. Of course he wanted to make her life easier.

Apparently that made him public enemy number one.

Every single attempt at paying for something turned into a war of attrition.

Coffee dates were the worst. Jason would buy their drinks with the smug satisfaction of a man fulfilling his divine purpose as a boyfriend, only for his phone to buzz ten minutes later.

Y/N SENT YOU $10.00

Jason would stare at the notification with pure resentment.

Once, after their fourth argument about it that month, he’d deliberately paid for dinner while she was in the bathroom, thinking he’d finally outsmarted her.

The next morning she’d transferred him exact reimbursement down to the tax.

Psychotic behavior.

Another time, he’d tried being direct about it.

“You know normal girlfriends let their boyfriends spoil them,” he muttered while leaning against her kitchen counter.

Y/n, sitting cross-legged on the counter eating a banana with the confidence of a woman impossible to embarrass, looked unimpressed. “Normal boyfriends don’t source their income like Batman’s most wanted.”

“That’s hurtful.”

“That’s accurate.”

Jason narrowed his eyes before pulling a thick stack of cash from his jacket pocket and tossing it onto the counter beside her. “Take it.”

She glanced at the money, then at him, then back at the money. “I don’t want your guilt money from your daddy.”

“It’s not guilt money,” Jason corrected immediately. “It’s drug money.”

Y/n stared at him slowly, banana halfway to her mouth, looking genuinely uncertain whether she should kiss him or book him a therapist.

Jason had shrugged like that clarified everything.

Because to him, honestly, it did.

Then there were the bills.

God, the bills argument nearly killed him.

It had been late evening, rain tapping softly against the apartment windows while Gotham drowned itself in neon and smog outside. Y/n’s apartment wasn’t terrible, but it was small in that distinctly Gotham way—thin walls, unreliable heating, pipes that screamed like dying animals whenever someone showered. Jason practically lived there anyway despite technically owning a much nicer place. Mostly because he preferred her cluttered little apartment over any penthouse money could buy.

She was sprawled on top of him on the couch, wearing one of his hoodies and soft sleep shorts, her cheek pressed into his neck while he worked on his laptop balanced precariously against her lower back. One of his arms rested around her waist automatically, hand underneath the hoodie, fingertips tracing absent patterns against her skin while he typed with the other hand.

“Ugh,” she groaned suddenly into his throat. “My landlord is up my ass about rent.”

Jason’s fingers paused over the keyboard instantly.

“How much?”

“No.”

“You don’t even know what I was gonna say.”

“You were gonna offer money.”

“I was gonna offer money.”

She made a triumphant sound against his skin. “Exactly. Denied.”

Jason clicked his tongue in annoyance, shifting slightly beneath her. “Baby, I basically live here anyway. Let me help with bills.”

“No.”

“You’re working doubles.”

“I’ll survive.”

“You shouldn’t have to survive,” he muttered.

That made her lift her head slightly. Her expression softened around the edges when she looked at him, because no matter how much they argued about this, she knew where it came from. Jason wasn’t controlling. Wasn’t condescending. He wasn’t trying to own her.

He just loved hard. Recklessly. Like a man who never learned moderation.

“I wanna do things myself,” she said quietly. “I need to prove I can.”

Jason looked at her for a long moment.

Most people saw anger first when they looked at him. Violence. Volatility. But underneath all of that, Jason understood pride better than almost anyone. Understood what it meant to claw your own survival out of the dirt with bloody hands. Understood how humiliating dependence could feel.

So instead of arguing, he just sighed softly through his nose and kissed the top of her head.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “Okay.”

Which should’ve worried her.

Because when Jason Todd stopped arguing, it usually meant he’d already decided to do something significantly worse.

The next afternoon, while Jason was in the middle of interrogating a weapons trafficker, his phone vibrated in his pocket.

He glanced at the caller ID and immediately smiled beneath the Red Hood helmet.

“Hey, gorgeous.”

“You paid my fucking rent?”

Jason leaned casually against the damp brick wall beside him while the criminal tied to the chair whimpered quietly in the background.

“For the next six months, yeah.” He checked his gun lazily. “Oh, and your car’s in the shop. Your brakes sounded like a dying walrus. Figured I’d get them replaced.”

There was silence on the other end.

Then came one long inhale that positively radiated fury.

Jason grinned harder.

“I’m going to kill you.”

“Yeah?”

“You are insane.”

“You still love me though.”

“I’m considering arson.”

“That’s my girl.”

The line went dead with an aggressive beep.

Jason stood there for another second staring at the phone in his hand, helpless affection spreading warm through his chest before he could stop it. The kind that made him feel seventeen again. Human again. Soft in places he usually kept armored shut.

If anyone ever saw the look on his face right now, Jason would actually have to kill them.

With a sigh, he slid the phone back into his jacket and finally turned toward the terrified criminal still zip-tied to the chair in the abandoned warehouse.

“You know,” he muttered while pulling another zip tie tighter around the guy’s wrists, “I buy one woman six months’ rent and suddenly I’m the bad guy.”

The guy had apparently developed a death wish.

“F-females,” he laughed nervously, sweat dripping down his temple. “Am I right?”

Jason’s smile vanished instantly.

Gone was the lovesick idiot paying for brake repairs. This was the man criminals whispered about in panic.

Jason grabbed the chair sharply, yanking it forward until the man nearly choked on his own breath.

“That,” Jason said quietly, “is my girl you’re talking about.”

The criminal went pale.

“And trust me,” Jason continued, voice calm in the way that scared people most, “you do not wanna disrespect the woman willing to date me voluntarily.”

“R-right. I’m sorry. Sorry.”

Jason stared at him another second before sighing heavily and releasing the chair.

©𝓐𝒏𝒈𝒆𝒍𝒑𝒆𝒅𝒊𝒂𝒂. do not copy, translate, or repost my work on any other sites without my permission. 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐨𝐫𝐬 𝐝𝐨 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭.

“I cannot believe someone accused me of being a man-eater. Or… a man stealer… whatever! Like I give a shit about other men!” You scoff, “They don’t even exist to me! We were going around, talking about our ideal types. Y’know, the usual. After I shared mine, one of my friends who’s talking to a guy that she really likes told me that he’s similar to my type.”

“We’re close enough for me to joke with disgust that she can keep him because, number one, I don’t care for men. And two, he literally taken and does not fit my bill; I don’t care for men who aren’t you. And I verbally said all of this, right? Well, except the latter part.”

Jason folds his lips inward, trying not to laugh at your immediate rant. Instead, he nods along to your story, face twitching here and there.

“You know what she said?”

“What did she say, babe?”

“She said, ‘yeah, I’ll keep him, alright’ and glared at me. Glared! I just told her I don’t give a fuck about her ugly ass soon-to-be-boyfriend! I wanted to tell them that, ‘the only man I want to eat is waiting for me at home’!”

You’re both secure enough and aware that you being a man-eater is so far from the truth, but he understands your relationship with him not being public knowledge and having to make excuses surrounding the topic can frustrate you on a really bad day.

He tries to defuse your anger by fueling it just a tiny bit. He's also really enjoying how riled up you're getting about wanting to talk about him to your friends.

“Oh, yeah, and who would this man be?”

You let out a humorless scoff.

“Take a wild fucking guess, babe!”

He bends his torso to grab his mug and takes a sip. It’s at a perfect temperature. “Is it wrong to admit that I find you really hot right now?”

“Yes. Literally, I’m upset because people can think I’m hot,” you turn the other direction to prove your point, but you mean nothing by it. Mumbling away, he can hear you say, “Hot enough to steal their boyfriends, apparently. Me? Hell no, even if I wasn’t in a loving relationship, I would never!”

“I completely forgot that people can perceive me in that way, just so… wrongly.”

He sets the mug back down to put a consoling hand on your shoulder, coaxing you back to him. “I’m sorry, baby.”

You huff, unmoved by his affection. “No, you aren’t.”

“No, I am not. I just so happen to agree with them.”

You sigh, turning back to him just to frown at him. His hand drops to rest it on your thigh. As you bring up a hand to rub your eye, he softly swats it away and shakes his head, prompting your frown to grow deeper. However, it was a vital reminder that you still had your makeup on. Your expression relaxes by the slightest.

Jason leans back in his seat with a growing smirk on his face, taking your silence as an opportunity to prod you. “Actually, I’m curious. What were the traits of your ‘ideal partner’?”

You turn your head to the side with so much intensity and sarcasm that it he finds scarily attractive.

“Glad you asked, boyfriend. I said I wanted them goofy, but kindhearted. Makes me laugh, doesn’t complain even if I’m difficult; if they do, it’s out of good nature. Taller than me, strong enough to toss me around.”

The fact that you went on to name all these traits in an ideal partner, only for them to be about him flushes his body with a whole lot of bashfulness. He’s sure that if you weren’t in your riled up state, you’d point out the change of color from his face down to his neck. He’ll do what he does best instead of admitting that your words had an effect on him: feigning nonchalance.

“To be fair to your friends,” you squint at his words immediately, “that sounds like a lot of people.”

You let out an exasperated sigh, frustrated as to why no one gets what you mean.

“Yeah, but I wasn’t thinking of ‘a lot of people’. I don’t care for other people; I was thinking of you!”

For your well-being, he stops picking on you, grabbing your hand to pull you close. His other warm hands slithers around you, rubbing the length of your back. You melt into him as he murmurs, “We should really tell everyone before our first anniversary.”

“Yeah, but it’s so fun to keep them on their toes when I say I’m going on a date and they ask, ‘really?!’ And then I just lie and say no.” Your reply is muffled by his chest, both of you unbothered if your makeup transfers to his tee. There’s no place you’d rather be.

His chuckle rumbles you both.

“Baby, I love you, but you really are the problem.”

You withdraw from him with a melodramatic gasp. “I am not!”

You stepped out of your car with your partner, Andrea, the cold hitting you the second you opened the door. You pulled your coat a little tighter around yourself and sighed softly, your breath visible in the chilly air. It would snow soon, you could tell. Gothamites could always tell when the first snow of the year would arrive. They could feel it in the sudden rise in humidity as the snow-carrying clouds approached, hear it in the eerie calmness of the air, and see it in the clouds—darker and gloomier than usual, looming with the promise of snowfall.

“Any idea who it is?” Andrea asked as she closed the car door, tying up her thick, jet black hair into a ponytail, like she always did before entering a crime scene. 

“Maybe it’s a Wayne,” she joked.

She was, of course, talking about the victim. You didn’t know much about the scene yet, but you knew from the call on the radio that it was a high profile case. Someone famous or important.

You raised an eyebrow as the pair of you walked towards the yellow tape, pushing past the small crowd.

“Guess we’re about to find out,” you responded.

You reached for the badge on your belt to show the uniformed officer standing at the yellow tape. “We’re the homicide detectives assigned to this case,” you told her. 

The officer—whose name tag, you noticed, read “Jordan”—nodded, allowing the two of you to pass. 

“Witnesses say they saw her be pushed,” she told you. “It checks out. With where she landed, and where she fell from, just jumping wouldn’t have been strong enough to create that distance. In fact, it’s more likely that she was… Well, thrown.”

Andrea nodded along as you neared the body. You winced slightly at the sight.

See, that’s something you always hated about cop shows. Hardened cops on TV always seemed to have this certain imperviousness to crime scenes, even the most gruesome ones. In reality, it never got easier. Each new homicide weighed just as much on the heart as the last one. The weight would linger, never really getting lighter until the killer was brought to justice, but even then, it hung around just loosely enough to be impossible to forget. In a lot of ways, that weight was what drove you to be a great detective, to give your all to every case, but you often found yourself wondering whether the persistent impression of the crime scene was worth it.

The woman appeared young. Too young to have died so soon. She was dressed in expensive clothing, and the jewellery that adorned her wrist, fingers and neck spoke to her high status.

“Lacey Holland,” Officer Jordan said, putting a name to the victim. “She was 19 years old, an up and coming pop star born and raised right here in Gotham. Her parents are socialites and philanthropists that live up on the West End. We’re attempting to contact them as we speak.”

“Shit,” you murmured to yourself.

Your mind immediately occupied itself with finding details in the crime scene. Things people often missed at first glance. One of her heels was unbuckled, you supposed that could have happened during a struggle. As could the large tear on the back of her dress, but what it revealed was more curious—a dainty tattoo of the initials, T.M.

A partner, maybe? You considered. As you knelt down to observe the body at a different angle, you could hear Andrea gathering more initial information from the responding officers, the two of you falling naturally into your discovered roles in the partnership. You weren’t as good with people as Andrea was. It was good to have her around to run point on things like this.

You reached for the pen in your pocket to carefully lift the bracelet around Lacey’s wrist to examine it more carefully. A charm bracelet. Most people put personally relevant charms on their charm bracelets. You took a mental note of the charms—a gold microphone, a crystal daisy, a silver soccer ball, and a gold book. Most of the bracelet was bare, a testament to the amount of life Lacey should have had left to live.

As you worked, your mind pulled you back to over half a decade ago, to memories of another case, another partner, another time entirely. Against your will, you recalled what had been taught to you by the first and only father figure you’d ever had, and how it had all been cut short so brutally.

No. Not now, you told yourself, shaking off the memories. You needed to focus on the case.

You sighed and stood, dusting off your clothes and catching up with Andrea. “Well, it’s not a Wayne,” you said.

Andrea gave you a small yet heavy smile, the kind she always gave you when you were around crime scenes. “Did you find anything?” she asked.

“Not much,” you answered. “Just that she liked daisies, soccer and reading. I’d have someone look into the people in her life and try and find someone with the initials T.M., though. You?”

Andrea nodded as you responded. “I didn’t find much either. But—...” Her voice drifted off as her eyes focused on something in the near distance behind you. “Your best friend is here again.” One side of her lips quirked up in an amused smirk.

“My best—?” you began to ask, your eyebrows furrowed in confusion before you turned around and your face fell. “Fucking hell.”

Red mask. Dressed from head to toe in tactical gear. And an invisible smirk you’d bet money was hiding under that damn helmet. Red Hood.

You grumbled angrily under your breath as you made your way over to where he stood, leaning against your car, just a few feet away from the crowd at the yellow tape. You ducked beneath it, pushing back past the group of people to get to him.

“What are you doing here, Red?” you said, glaring at the Red Hood as you came to a stop before him, crossing your arms impatiently.

He shrugged in a way you wer sure was designed specifically to piss you off. “Heard on my police scanner that you got a homicide on your hands here.”

You raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. “Is that so?”

“Mhm,” he hummed, the sound slightly distorted through the filter on his helmet. “Thought you might need my help.”

You scoffed in response, rolling your eyes. “And why would I need your help?”

“Because I knew the girl,” Red Hood responded. “Well, I knew of her. And I think I have a pretty good guess at who killed her.”

“Let me guess, it was you?” you responded sardonically.

“Detective, please,” he responded with a scoff of his own. “I kill criminals, not 19-year-old wannabe Britney Spearses.”

“Jesus Christ,” you muttered exasperatedly under your breath as you rubbed your temples. “Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t cuff you and shove you in the back of a squad car right now.”

The Red Hood only laughed in response. “Well, for one, you wouldn’t be able to, but you’re cute for thinking you could.” Your blood boiled, but he went on. “And secondly, if you did that, I wouldn’t be able to tell you who killed little Miss American Idol there.” He nodded towards the crime scene.

You gritted your teeth as you glared up at him, tapping your foot to try and stay calm. As… unpleasant as your feelings towards him were, Red Hood had given you reliable information in the past, and it helped that Commissioner Gordon was all about maintaining a good relationship with the Bats. In fact, he wouldn’t shut up to the GCPD benefactors about how yes, indeed, the Red Hood is one of his top detectives’ confidential informants. Of course, the act of bragging about a CI sort of negated the “confidential” part of that agreement, but you supposed Red Hood was a special case.

Nevertheless, he wasn’t one of your CIs. You had tried on numerous occasions to make that very clear, to no avail. He wasn’t a CI. Just a really annoying vigilante who kept showing up at your crime scenes.

But besides that, your brain once again involuntarily brought you back to your first partner and mentor, and as you closed your eyes to try to calm yourself, his warm, approachable face materialised on the back of your eyelids.

You knew what Healy would’ve said. People can be difficult, but it doesn’t mean they aren’t helpful.

“Fine,” you relented, though your glare didn’t let up. “What information do you have for me?”

You could practically hear the satisfaction rushing through his veins like a cheap high. It made you want to gag, and you never were too good at keeping disgust off your face. You were sure the look on your face was only feeding into Red Hood’s sick amusement.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

“Well, this is the place,” Jason told you.

Him and you were standing in front of the one place in Gotham that didn’t look like somewhere drugs would be exchanged.

He looked over at you with a proud grin, only to be greeted with that death glare of yours that he both loved and feared.

“I’m arresting you for wasting the time of an officer of the law,” you told him.

“What?” Jason responded with a scoff. “I’m telling you, this is the place Lacey got her drugs!”

“This is an old age home, Red!” you yelled back. “Unless she was buying Viagra from someone’s senile old grandfather, I highly doubt this is where she was getting drugs! In fact, I shouldn’t have been stupid enough to believe you about the drugs at all. Everyone in her life said she was straight as an arrow.”

You groaned softly, and checked your watch, rubbing your temples with frustration as you turned to leave. Jason felt something within him fall out of place as you attempted to leave. 

“Stop!” he called, his gloved hand instinctively reaching to clutch your wrist and keep you from leaving. “Detective.”

You turned your head to look back at him with that same adorable exasperated look on your face you seemed to always have when he was around. Jason couldn’t help but smile under his mask, grateful you couldn’t see it. He always felt this giddy around you. He wasn’t sure why it was, but something about you was addicting. It was why he went out of his way to look out for your name and callsign on his police scanner. Why he scrounged around in the lowest of the low places in Gotham to find something, anything that might help you with one of your cases. Sure, his methods were questionable, but his heart was in the right place.

“Just trust me,” Jason said, his voice falling a few decibels, betraying his sarcastic, cool persona. He was desperate to keep you around, and if you looked closely enough, it was painfully obvious. “Please. If we don’t find anything here, I promise you I’ll let you kick me in the balls.”

You let out a rare, restrained huff of laughter. “What?”

“I’m serious!” he responded. “I just need you to trust me on this one, okay?”

He watched as you raised an eyebrow at him, as if deciding whether or not to trust him. Your eyes darted over his figure, no doubt looking for signs of dishonesty, although he let himself revel in the fantasy that you might have been checking him out. Your eyebrow fell as you let out a relenting sigh.

“Fine,” you murmured. “But I expect you to do good on that deal when it turns out that you were wrong about this place.”

Jason restrained himself from letting out a sigh of relief, though his shoulders visibly deflated from tension. “I’m not wrong about this place,” he said, reluctantly letting go of your wrist as he walked towards the entrance.

He didn’t look back at you, but he could practically hear you rolling your eyes at him.

“This sounds like the beginning of a bad joke, huh?” Jason said playfully as the two of you walked. “A cop and a vigilante walk into a retirement home…”

He didn’t receive a response, yet Jason was certain he heard the quietest, amused exhale escape your nose.

The receptionist, a middle aged man with hair that grayed at the roots, dressed in purple scrubs, glanced up from his magazine, half expecting one of the usual visitors, Jason guessed. He had to do a double take, as if he couldn’t quite believe the sight before him. After all, Jason didn’t think vigilantes were particularly regular visitors to the retirement home.

You reached for your badge and sighed as you showed it to the receptionist. “GCPD,” you said. “We’re here investigating the murder of a Lacey Holland? Did you ever see her come through here?”

The receptionist, still visibly dumbstruck, stumbled over his words. “Well, I can’t say I recall the name, but I don’t normally work the reception…” he murmured, reaching into a drawer to grab a thick record book. “But you are welcome to look through the records.”

“Oh,” you responded, clearly surprised. Probably about the fact that the receptionist hadn’t asked for a warrant. Still, you shrugged and thanked the man.

Jason followed your gaze as you flipped through the book. Each visitor from the beginning of the year to now had signed in. He smirked in triumph as he noticed Lacey’s name repeating over and over again. Almost every week. 

“Fuck,” you muttered before looking up at Jason, before narrowing your eyes. “This doesn’t prove anything, alright? Maybe she has a family member here.”

“The girl’s family were millionaires, Detective,” Jason said, rolling his eyes and leaning against the reception counter. “I don’t think they’d stick their elderly in a cheap nursing home.” He glanced at the receptionist. “No offense,” Jason told him.

“A friend, then?” you said, unimpressed, turning your attention back to the record book. “Looks like she came every Thursday to meet a Molly Reefer.”

Jason burst out laughing, earning a few stern looks from the attendants and residents around him, and an even sterner look from you.

“Molly Reefer?” he laughed. “Are you serious? Come on, that’s obviously a cover name for someone she buys drugs from. They haven’t even tried to make it less obvious.”

You closed your eyes for a few seconds and took a few deep breaths, presumably to keep yourself from strangling him. Jason’s amused grin grew at the sight.

Eyes still closed, you asked the receptionist, “What’s the room number for Molly Reefer?”

Jason turned to look at the receptionist, who quickly looked through the records on his computer and answered, “806.”

“Alright then, Detective,” Jason said, already turning towards the elevators. “Off we go to prove I was right about this whole thing.”

You glared at him for what felt like the hundredth time that day, and Jason felt his insides stir again for what felt like the hundredth time that day. It wasn’t long before the pair of you stood before room 806. You knocked on the door.

“Ms. Reefer?” you called, and Jason stifled laughter again, earning a swift elbow to the midsection from you. “GCPD! We need to talk to you about Lacey Holland!”

When there was the response, Jason shrugged, feigning cluelessness. “Maybe Molly Reefer had a little fall.”

“I really hate you,” you muttered as you flagged down an attendant to ask for a key.

“Oh, the door shouldn’t be locked,” the attendant responded, swinging the door open for you. “This room has been unoccupied for months.”

“Has it?” Jason said, his voice laced with victorious amusement.

The attendant, also obviously surprised at the presence of the Red Hood next to a GCPD officer at her place of work, nodded. Her eyes betrayed an air of confusion.

“Thank you, miss,” Jason told her as he walked into the unoccupied room with you.

You looked around, taking in the sterility of the room. The sheets were perfectly made, the desk empty and free of any memorabilia or personal items one would expect in an occupied room. It was a complete blank slate.

“Now will you admit I was right?” Jason asked, raising an eyebrow as he sat on the bed, bouncing on it listlessly.

You didn’t respond, but Jason watched as you grit your teeth unhappily, a sign of defeat he loved to see more than almost anything else in the world. You carried out a methodical search of the room, and beneath the mattress, you found what you were looking for.

“Well, fuck,” you muttered.

“Language, detective,” Jason responded teasingly, just to get you riled up. He turned his head to look over at you on the opposite side of the bed. “What is it? What did you find?”

You let the mattress down and put on a pair of gloves from your pocket before lifting it again and pulling out the item in question. A little zip-lock baggie filled with white powder. You held it up and sighed in defeat.

Jason grinned wickedly beneath his helmet. “Say it. I want to hear you say it.”

You grit your teeth again. Your lips hung open for a second before you spoke, as if it was physically painful for you to say the words you said next. “You were right.”

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Over the next 2 hours or so, the nursing home had become swarming with police. Each worker was interviewed. Well, each worker except for one, a Thomas Melrose, who had apparently clocked into work at the start of his shift, but was suddenly missing.

Red Hood had been particularly smug about the whole thing, using every possible opportunity he got to gloat to you, and it was making you want to tear all your hair out. He was also certain that Thomas Melrose had been Lacey’s killer. You finally had a few moments of peace when he took his leave to ask his contacts if they knew any drug runners with the name.

“Thanks for that, old man,” you murmured to yourself in the silence of the station’s elevator as you rode up to your office. It was silly, but sometimes you liked to pretend that Healy could hear you from wherever he was now.

It had been almost three years since he’d died, but Healy’s advice and wisdom still guided you through the job.

You sighed softly when you got back to your desk at your station and sank into your admittedly quite uncomfortable office chair. Andrea looked over her computer screen at you from her own desk opposite to yours.

She gave you a knowing smile. “Heard the Red Hood gave you a good assist.”

You groaned, burying your face in your hands. “I hate you.”

Andrea laughed. “That bad, huh?” she asked.

“No,” you responded stubbornly. “No, I can admit when I’m wrong, you know? It’s just… He’s such an asshole, Andy.” You sighed, rubbing your temples.

“I don’t know,” Andrea replied. “Maybe you’re too tough on him.”

“Whose side are you on?” you said, defensively.

She just rolled her eyes in response. “Anyway,” she said. “I looked into Tom Melrose like you asked me to. He’s a GothamU student. His parents are pretty wealthy bigshots in the business world. He works at the nursing home for a social service credit. The only connection between him and Lacey is that she also went to GothamU before dropping out. But the tattoo is too big of a coincidence to rule out.”

You nodded along, propping up your elbows on your desk and resting your chin on your fist as your mind reeled with the facts of the case.

Andrea sighed before she added. “There’s more. The autopsy came back,” she said. “Lacey was pregnant when she died. And there were injuries that showed signs of abuse.”

“Oh,” you said quietly. “Shit. That changes things.”

Your heart broke for that poor girl. You wished you could say a situation like this was uncommon, but the truth was in a city like Gotham, almost every other 911 call was a domestic disturbance, and most of them were ugly situations. Times when the abuser nearly killed or did kill their victim. Every cop in the city knew the feeling of being assigned to a domestic disturbance and the silence in the squad car as they drove over, both them and their partner silently praying they wouldn’t be calling in a homicide unit that day.

Andrea nodded solemnly. “If we can get one of Melrose’s parents to agree to a DNA test, or get a court order for it, we’ll be able to tell if he was the father or not.”

“So, a frat boy decides to rebel against his rich parents by selling drugs. Definitely not unheard of,” you hypothesised. “He meets a girl at college and gets her into drugs and starts abusing her. She finds out she’s pregnant and gets clean. She tells him about it and threatens to go to the press about it or tell his parents, or something else that would effectively ruin his life or get him cut off by his parents. He panics and kills her. Then he realises the cops are onto him and makes a run for it.”

“Makes sense,” Andrea affirmed. “But where would he run?”

You sighed and leaned back in your chair. “That’s the question, isn’t it?” you murmured. “Where is he now?”

“Have you heard back from your red friend yet?” Andrea asked.

“No,” you answered. “I’m hoping I won’t either.” You rolled your eyes.

“He wouldn’t be of any help, trust me,” you added. “He’s an arrogant dickhead who thinks he’s god’s gift, like he’s saving the world. I mean, buddy, you run around town in a silly costume shooting people. You’re not Batman or Superman, you know. I don’t even know how the other Bats put up with him.”

She smiled and chuckled softly to herself, turning her attention back to her computer screen, no doubt hitting refresh on Melrose’s bank records to see if a new expense had popped up.

You narrowed your eyes at her. “What’s that laugh about?”

Andrea shook her head. “Nothing,” she answered with a cool shrug. “Just that you seem awfully wound up about him.”

“No,” you said with a sarcastic laugh. “Oh no. I know what you’re implying and that’s not it.”

She only laughed again. “No? You seem awfully obsessed with him, though,” Andrea teased.

You scoffed. “Me?” you said. “Obsessed with him? Come on, you and I both know that’s crazy. He’s the one that’s constantly showing up and undermining our crime scenes. No, if anyone is obsessed with anyone, it's him that’s obsessed with me.”

“So defensive…” Andrea murmured playfully.

You glared. “Again, whose side are you even on?”

She rolled her eyes. “I’m an adult, babe, I don’t play sides.”

You rolled your eyes right back at her. “I’m going to find out who this asshole is,” you declared.

“Is that so?” Andrea responded sarcastically.

“Jesus, Andy, you could at least pretend to be supportive,” you responded, crossing your arms defensively.

“I don’t like it when you get this obsessive,” she answered frankly. “You get a little cuckoo.”

“I am not obsessive!” you huffed. “And I do not get ‘a little cuckoo’.”

Andrea only shook her head again in response, deciding that this was a battle she’d never win. “I’m emailing you Melrose’s bank records,” she said. “Make yourself useful and help me go through them, will you?”

A few weeks passed. Melrose had been missing for long enough to be considered an official missing person, and after obtaining a court order for his father’s DNA, the GCPD had been able to conclusively state that Thomas Melrose was the most likely father of Lacey Holland’s baby. The press coverage around the murder had been relentless, and despite Melrose already having lost in the court of public opinion, the unsolved case ate away at your mind slowly but surely, like all your unsolved cases did. When it came to unsolved cases, you learned fairly quickly that you’d be better off taking a few days off to get your head back on right, otherwise you failed to give your all on other cases.

Still, staying home was its own special kind of torture. You tended to spend so much time at the station and in the field that home was really just a place to sleep. You never really took enough time to make it your own. It was like living inside an interior design magazine cover. Beautiful, spotless and tidy, but unwelcoming, and soulless. It wasn’t cozy the way Andrea and her wife’s house was cozy, or homey in the way that your parents’ house was homey. 

It didn’t help that the last time you’d stayed at home for so long at a stretch had been right after Healy’s funeral. The death of your mentor had been so emotionally and physically taxing that for a week, you struggled to leave the house, surrounded by the pristine, almost sterile, environment of your house that now only served as a reminder of your immobilised state at the time.

You sighed faintly as you trudged out of your bed one morning to get a start on breakfast, but as you reached your door, you noticed a shadow moving around through the crack between the door and the floor. 

What kind of an idiot breaks into a cop’s house at 7 in the morning? You thought to yourself, instinctively reaching for the place on your hip where your radio would have been before realising you weren’t on duty.

You let out a quiet, undignified curse in frustration and reached for your phone to call 911 for backup before arming yourself with your gun and preparing to confront the intruder. Whoever it was, you knew, was about to be a very sorry boy.

“GCPD!” you yelled, bursting through the door and pointing your gun at the intruder. “Get down, put your hands behind your head!”

“Jesus, Detective,” the intruder said with an all too familiar laugh. “Didn’t realise you were kinky like that.”

Red Hood. Again. You sighed and put down your gun at the sight of his quintessential red helmet. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” you yelled.

“Well, I had to see you, and I couldn’t find you at the station,” Red Hood responded with a shrug, as if breaking into your house was an obvious next step that anyone would have taken.

“So you broke into my house?!” you rebutted. “Are you actually nuts?”

Red Hood didn’t respond, only watching as you called 911 again and let the dispatcher know your previous breaking and entering call was a false alarm.

“You called the cops on me?” he asked.

“What did you expect me to do, Red?” you shot back. “Again, you broke into my house!”

“This is hardly a house, you know,” he said, looking around, running his fingers over various pristine surfaces and looking up at the art you had hanging from the walls. “Well, I guess it is a house. But it’s definitely not a home. For a while there, I was worried I had the wrong address. Thought this one was staged for an open house or something.”

“Are you just here to insult my interior design choices, or what?” you scoffed, though you had to admit, his snide remark had hit a bit too close to home.

“Of course not,” Red Hood responded, turning to look at you with what you could only assume was the biggest smirk mankind had ever seen. “I also wanted to compliment your PJs.”

You looked down at your faded sleep shirt—an old Star Wars graphic t-shirt—and pajama shorts, before looking back up at Red Hood and angrily throwing a beige couch pillow at him. 

“Get out of my apartment!” you yelled.

He flinched at the pillow attack and relented. “Okay, okay! I’m sorry,” Red Hood said, even though he was laughing as he spoke. “I need your help. I’m serious this time.”

“Take it down to the station, Red, I’m not working today,” you said.

“Come on, you know I don’t trust cops,” he responded.

“News flash, Red,” you retorted sarcastically. “I’m a cop. Yeah, a real, live cop. Believe it or not.”

“Yeah, but you’re different,” he responded, a hint of something that sounded awfully close to sincerity in his voice. 

You exhaled exasperatedly, finally relenting. “What do you need?”

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

“This is insane,” you murmured as you drove to Blüdhaven. “If you already have a cop friend in Blüdhaven to help you with this so-called trafficking case, why do you even need me?”

Jason leaned back in the passenger side carseat, getting comfortable for the long drive to Gotham’s sister city. “I told you,” he said. “Because you arrested three of their goons a year ago. You know more about this case than my other guy.”

You sighed gingerly, but didn’t respond. Jason looked over at you to try and read your expression. Your eyes were fixed straight on the road ahead, and your shoulders, which had been tense since this morning, were slowly relaxing. So slowly, in fact, that he wondered if you were even aware of it. 

Of course, Jason was bending the truth, just a little. He probably would’ve been fine without you. Maybe you could have shot a quick email to Dick at BPD with the arrest records and information from your previous arrests, but Dick was a perfectly capable cop. He would’ve been fine with or without you.

Jason just wanted you around. For some inexplicable reason, he wanted to do this with you. Maybe if you saw him do this, take down this trafficking ring—preferably without killing anyone, since you seemed to have a bit of an issue with that, as did Dick and Bruce—maybe you’d see him in a different light. Maybe you’d see him as more than just some annoying vigilante that always followed you around like some sort of pathetic puppy.

God, he really did feel pathetic. But he couldn’t help it.

The need to be around you grew greater with every second he spent around you, his heart never quite satisfied with however much of you he was getting already. He wanted all of you, in a way that he’d never wanted anyone else. He knew now how Dick felt about Kory and it sucked that Jason couldn’t tease him about it anymore. It was a silly feeling, really. The silliest.

Jason just couldn’t get enough of you.

Of course, it helped that he didn’t really know what adult feelings were supposed to feel like. The last time he’d liked a girl was before he died. He was fifteen and hormonal and incredibly stupid. Everything felt like it was so much bigger than it was. He supposed it was possible that a little bit of that fifteen-year-old boy was still inside him and he was just making whatever he felt for you out to be much bigger than it actually was.

Surprisingly, it was you who broke the silence, interrupting him from his thoughts. You cleared your throat somewhat awkwardly.

“I hate driving in silence,” you confessed. “Do you mind if I turn on the radio?”

Jason shook his head. “No,” he answered. “No, of course not.”

You gave him an amusing expression, with your lips slightly quirked upwards, like you were trying to smile but weren’t quite there yet. Despite himself, Jason found it adorable. Baby steps, he told himself. You were getting more comfortable with him. He wouldn’t take that for granted. Jason smiled beneath the helmet as you reached for the centre console to turn on the radio.

It wasn’t long before you were parking in Dick’s building’s parking lot. Jason led you down the familiar path to the elevator, and up to his brother’s apartment.

“Dickie bird!” Jason announced as he burst through the door with a key that Dick had given him for safekeeping.

“Jason?” he called back from somewhere within the apartment. Jason froze at the sound of his name—his real name—being called. Beside him, you raised an eyebrow and looked at him curiously.

“Jason, huh?” you murmured with a playful lilt. “Wouldn’t have pegged you for a Jason.”

“Jesus Christ, Dick, I’m with company!” Jason yelled frustratedly back into the apartment. He’d never been more grateful for the helmet than now, knowing you couldn’t see the bright red flush that had most likely taken over his face.

Dick walked out of the bedroom, and narrowed his eyes at Jason. “Well, maybe if you’d fucking knocked instead of barging into the house, I’d have known that,” he shot back, hitting Jason over the back of the head. “I gave you that key for emergencies, not free reign over my apartment.”

“Ow!” Jason complained. It hadn’t hurt, not really, thanks to the helmet, but it was more about the bruise to his ego than anything. Jason continued to glare at Dick as he introduced you to him. You smiled politely. The same smile you had in all your police and government photos—the one that never quite reached your eyes. Dick shook your hand.

“So this is the famous detective,” he said with that stupid, shit-eating grin on his face.

“You know of me?” you asked curiously, raising an eyebrow. “Does Red—or, uh, Jason—talk about me?”

Dick’s grin grew wicked as he glanced at Jason.

God, please no. Jason thought to himself.

“He’s… talked about you before,” Dick said. “Quite a bit, actually.”

Jason resisted the urge to tackle Dick and shove his face into the stupid green carpet in his living room.

“Huh,” you responded, looking over at Jason. “Interesting.”

Jason cleared his throat, desperate to talk about something, anything, else. “Can we please talk about why we’re actually here?”

“You’re no fun, Jaybird,” Dick teased. “Besides, we should get to know each other a bit more before we begin, wouldn’t you say? After all, you never told me you’d be bringing someone along when you told me about the trafficking ring.”

You raised an eyebrow at the nickname. Jason’s face burned even brighter. What was he thinking, bringing you right to the lion’s den? Dick loved embarrassing him. He should’ve known better.

“No!” Jason insisted, bringing Dick over to sit down at the couch, shooting him a glare from behind the helmet that he prayed his brother had somehow telepathically sensed. “We need to get to work. Start explaining the plan, Dicko.”

“Bummer,” you said with a small smile—a real one this time. “I was hoping to learn a little more about how you got that nickname, Jaybird.”

“You should come over when he isn’t around,” Dick said playfully. “Boy, I have the best stories. Like this one time—”

Jason cut Dick off. “She doesn’t need to hear any stories, Dick,” he insisted, hoping he didn’t sound as desperate as he felt. 

You rolled your eyes and snickered tacitly before playfully mouthing the words “next time” to Dick.

For a moment, Jason seriously contemplated throwing you over his shoulder and dragging you back to Gotham, but he decided you’d probably tase him. Or bite him. Or kick him in the balls. Or all three.

To his relief, Dick began to actually explain the background of the trafficking ring, talking about how it seemed to have migrated from Gotham to Blüdhaven. Together, the three of you were able to pinpoint the place their headquarters, where they kept all their victims, would most likely be. A warehouse at the docks, down by The Narrows, where one would easily be able to load a bunch of beaten and bloodied girls into a ship bound to Europe or South America in the cover of night, without anyone ever batting an eye.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

“So, uh… You and Dick know each other pretty well?” you asked carefully, not wanting to step on any toes, as you and Red Hood—or, as you’d recently learned, Jason—sat on the rooftop of another warehouse near the one the three of you were scoping out. Dick was waiting on the ground, in case he needed to jump into action.

Jason sighed, as if he was expecting this question, but didn’t quite know how to answer it. “You could, uh… Well, you could say we’re like brothers,” he responded. His tone indicated there was more to the story than he was telling you, but you knew better than to push.

Still, the cop in you wouldn’t let up.

“Right.” You nodded. “It’s just that you have a key to his house and everything.”

Jason groaned this time. You let out a soft laugh. “How’d you meet him?” you asked.

He was quiet for a few moments, as if debating how much to tell you. “Through family,” he responded curtly.

“So he knew you as Jason before he knew you as Red Hood?” you questioned curiously.

“He did, yeah,” Jason answered.

You took a quick peak through the binoculars and stiffened up. “Heads up, there’s an armed man walking into the warehouse…” 

You absent-mindedly passed the pair to Jason so he could look too, letting out a light laugh when you realised he was wearing a helmet that covered his entire face, and therefore couldn’t use the binoculars.

“My bad,” you said through soft snickers, reaching for the radio to alert Dick. “One entering the building. He is armed, repeat, he is armed.”

“Copy that,” came Dick’s response through the warm crackle of the handheld device. “I see him.”

“Should we call for backup?” you asked.

“Negative,” Dick answered. “We’ll wait until we see some concrete signs that they’re holding the victims here.”

“Copy that…” you responded, sighing and placing the radio back down.

There were a few more minutes of waiting before you could hear a gruff voice yelling commands in the distance, getting closer. As the man’s voice got louder, you could hear it accompanied by soft, crying whimpers.

“Shit,” you cursed under your breath. “I really hope that’s not what I think it is.”

Jason reached for the radio to alert Dick as you chewed your lip nervously. Indeed, soon enough, a line of girls who couldn’t have been older than twenty came into view, their hands bound with zip ties and mouths covered with duct tape, wearing clothes that were dirty and ripped from struggle. They were led by a large, burly man with an automatic. Your eyebrows furrowed together, the looks on the girls’ faces were haunting. The fear for their life, the desperation for a miracle to come save them. You tugged at Jason’s arm before even realising your hand was moving.

“Let’s go,” you said softly.

“We have to wait for backup,” he whispered back. “We’re seriously outgunned and outnumbered.”

“If we wait, those girls could be gone already!” you retorted. You didn’t sound strong, or frustrated, or stubborn in the same way you normally did. You were desperate to save these girls. Jason could hear it in your voice.

“It’s too risky,” he said, reluctantly, like the words hurt him to say as much as they hurt you to hear. “I can’t lose you, alright? We’re gonna stay here, where it’s safe.”

You’d already failed Lacey Holland. You couldn’t fail these girls too. This was why you got into the force. To be the protector that these women needed. If you didn’t do everything you could to save them, then you’d be failing not just them, but yourself.

“Jason,” you said hushedly. “Please.”

The sound of his real name must have softened him, because Jason sighed under his breath, shaking his head and looking out towards the girls being shoved into the warehouse. “We wait until he brings them back out,” he conceded. “If we go into that closed space with guns ablazing, it’s almost certain death.”

You nodded, grateful that Jason had trusted you with this. “Okay.”

A short pause, and then you added, “Thank you.”

Sure enough, before too long, the man returned, accompanied by a few compatriots, although he seemed to be the boss amongst them. He stood at the front of the line, with two other men, followed by the girls, moving in a single file line, hands and mouths still bound. You counted 6 of them, with two more men at their tail end.

“I’ve only got a nine millimetre," you murmured. “It’s a cop gun. Can’t shoot that far.”

“Yeah, I don’t exactly carry around sniper rifles either,” Jason muttered back, grabbing the radio with one hand and your hand with the other. “Come on, let’s go in.”

“Dick, we’re moving in,” Jason told Dick over the radio.

“Copy that,” came Dick’s response. “Backup is 3 minutes out.”

3 minutes.

A lot could happen in 3 minutes.

The pair of you rushed down the stairs to the ground, and Jason led you swiftly, yet soundlessly to duck behind the wall of the warehouse, only a few short metres away from where the girls were being led onto the docks. He peaked out to scope out the fire power the men were carrying.

“All five have automatics,” he murmured. “We might stand a chance, but only if we can even the playing field and take at least two of them out.”

You knelt down to shoot from a lower angle. “Andy and I used this move once during a tactical training session. You shoot together on three, it takes down multiple suspects and only alerts them once. Never actually done it out on the field.”

Jason looked down at you and chuckled breathily. “Will it work?”

“Depends,” you answered, taking aim at one of the men. “How good of a shot are you?” 

Jason shook his head, as if the question was redundant. “Detective, please,” he murmured, his tone that of the familiar cockiness you’d grown to expect, taking aim.

You smiled. “Three,” you began the countdown. “Two… One..”

Two gunshots, so precisely timed that one might have mistaken them for a single gunshot. But the pair of immobilised bodies on the floor would beg to differ. Their ringleader and the two at the front of the line immediately turned at the sound as the girls began to whimper and huddle together in fear, each one still too terrified to seize the opportunity and make a run for it.

You stood back up as quickly as you could, pressing your body against the wall as the burly man sent the other two to investigate. You took a deep breath, and your nostrils filled with the all too familiar scent that thickened the air whenever a gun had recently been fired nearby. The bitter, metallic smell of gunpowder paired with the rush of adrenaline through your veins. 

Jason grabbed the barrel of their gun as the braver of the two, the one in front, turned the corner. Jason pushed it away from the pair of you as the man began firing reflexively, as did his friend. You ducked, instinctively covering your head at the sound of the bullets as Jason managed to wrestle the gun out of the lackey’s hands and aimed it back at them, firing back at them. His quick, clean and precise shots were a stark contrast to the incessant firing of the other two.

“Grab the other one!” Jason instructed as Dick managed to shoot the remaining ringleader in the leg, giving him an opportunity to disarm him as well. 

By now, the sound of bullets had alerted the rest of the goons inside the warehouse to join the ensuing fight, but the sound of sirens in the distance assured you that your own backup was close.

“I don’t know how to shoot an automatic!” you yelled back over the sound of gunshots.

“Then use your handgun!” Jason responded, firing at a group of maybe five that emerged from the warehouse. “Stay down!”

You nodded, your grip on your gun tightening as you shot at the group, who were still yet to pinpoint the location of the gunshots. You took advantage of their cluelessness and fired thrice. Only one of them hit, but you effectively took down one of the men.

“Stay here, I’m going to run around the warehouse and get them from behind,” you told Jason.

Out of the corner of your eye, you could see Dick engaged in hand to hand struggle with the ringleader. He’d managed to disarm him and kick away his weapon. You didn’t see much, but you’d definitely seen enough to tell he didn’t fight like a cop. A curious observation, but one you didn’t have time for at present.

You could hear your heart pounding in your ears with adrenaline as you made the long run around the back of the warehouse. The sound of sirens in the distance getting closer and closer was interspersed with the sound of gunfire behind you. The smell of gunpowder still lingered in your nose as you took deep breaths, like you were trained to do. In and out through both your nose and your mouth, to stay cool and run faster. 

You were out on the other side of the warehouse within seconds—a new record you might have celebrated if not for the circumstances. You shot the man in front of you in the leg and tackled him from behind when he buckled down, kicking away his weapon and grunting with effort as he struggled beneath you. The impact of the tackle had definitely hurt your knees, an ache you’d feel the next day, but you supposed you could’ve been shot, like the man beneath you, and that would definitely have been worse.

You managed to get handcuffs on his wrist and looked back up to shoot a few more similar shots at the legs of the two men Jason was fighting. A quick glance back at Dick would tell you that the two men had eerily similar styles of fighting, except for the fact that Dick was perhaps a bit more flexible.

What was his last name again? Grayson? It was a peculiarly familiar name. You wondered if you’d met before.

You didn’t have much time at the moment to ponder the question though. You aimed your gun at the chest of the ringleader and Jason raced to help in the fight, waiting for a clean shot that wouldn’t hit either of the other two.

Bingo.

You squeezed the trigger just as the police cars arrived.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

You’d left not long after the ordeal at the docks. You’d offered Jason a ride back home, but he’d declined, preferring to find his own way. Well, that, and the fact that he’d been wearing the helmet for nearly 12 hours straight now, and wouldn’t you know it was getting dreadfully stuffy in there.

Back at Dick’s apartment, Jason breathed a sigh of relief as he pulled the helmet off, rubbing the back of his neck and feeling how the sweat had caused his hair to stick to his skin.

“God, that thing is suffocating,” he murmured.

Dick laughed, shaking his head lightly as he walked into his kitchen to fetch two ice cold bottles of water, tossing one to his brother. “You should have Tim install some A/C in there,” he joked.

Jason rolled his eyes affectionately, catching the bottle and twisting the top open. He brought the bottle to his lips and thirstily guzzled sip after sip, almost finishing the entire bottle in one go.

Dick stretched his back out and yawned, coming to sit next to Jason on the couch. “So that’s her, huh?”

Jason shot his brother a sideways glare. “You could’ve been a bit more subtle about the whole thing, you know,” he grumbled unhappily.

Dick only laughed harder this time, placing his bottle on the coffee table before turning to face Jason on the couch. “I had to give you a hard time, come on,” he said playfully. “That’s what big brothers do.”

“You’re evil,” Jason replied. “That was the most embarrassing thing I’ve ever had to sit through.”

Dick waved a hand dismissively. “Come on, you’re exaggerating.”

“I’m not!” Jason insisted, crossing his arms and narrowing his eyes at Dick.

He only rolled his eyes in response, instead changing the subject. “She’s pretty, you know,” Dick said. “I guess I just didn’t expect you to go for a cop. Seeing as you seem to have plenty of reservations about people in my line of work.”

“She’s one of the good ones,” Jason responded, his expression and his voice softening as he talked about you. He let out a quiet sigh. “You know, despite everything, I actually trust her. She makes me feel lighter, like I’m… normal.”

He watched as Dick’s brows knitted together and his pursed lips parted to say something, but Jason interrupted him.

“I know what you’re going to say,” he said. “That I am normal. But I’m not, Dick. Nothing about my life or what happened to me is normal. I’m not even supposed to be alive right now.”

“I know,” Dick conceded with a soft, concerned exhale. “I’m just worried about you, you know? I’m glad you feel a sense of normalcy around this woman, but I don’t want you reliant on someone else for that.”

Jason smiled, one that actually reached his eyes. “Thanks,” he murmured, not quite sure how to express his gratitude. “It’s… It’s nice to know someone cares.”

Dick smiled back, his bright charming smile that Jason knew lit up every room he walked into. “Don’t get all sappy on me now, little bird,” he teased, patting his brother on the back.

Jason rolled his eyes again, chuckled softly to himself as he shook his head and playfully pushed Dick away.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Back in Gotham and out of your rut, you’d found yourself inexplicably drawn down another rabbit hole, and in true you fashion, it had consumed you. You couldn’t sleep at night, your thoughts racing about this new mystery to be solved, and of course, you had to drag your partner into it, like you always did.

It was a habit you’d inherited from Healy. He was the kind of detective to become obsessive over his cases, especially when they were of personal relevance or interest. You’d been around him so much during your formative years as a detective that you’d adopted the quirk yourself, something that Andrea, who had a much healthier work-life balance, was forever cursing.

“Andy, there’s something very fishy going on here,” you said, greeting her at the elevator when the doors opened and welcomed her to your floor. It couldn’t have been past 8 a.m. “With the Red Hood and his cop friend, I mean.”

Andrea groaned and yawned tiredly. “Good morning to you too,” she murmured sarcastically.

You rolled your eyes, not letting her tiredness deter you. You’d been bouncing off the walls with caffeine since three in the morning, and you were just itching to present your findings to someone, much like a child wanting to show off her newly designed dance routine to her mother.

“So this guy, Dick Grayson, I knew the name sounded familiar, right?” you said. “Well, I looked it up, and of course, this guy is Bruce Wayne’s first kid!”

Andrea raised an eyebrow, unimpressed as you scampered after her into the bullpen, watching as she fixed herself a cup of coffee in the kitchenette. “Bruce Wayne has plenty of kids, doesn’t he?” she responded. “He’s like Brad and Angelina. Collecting those damn children like they’re Pokémon or something.”

“Well yes,” you continued. “It wouldn’t be significant, if it wasn’t for the fact that Jason, or well, Red Hood, said that they met through family.”

“Is this going anywhere?” Andrea asked with a tired sigh, grabbing her cup from the coffee maker and going to sit down at her desk, with you once again scrambling after her at her heels.

“Come on, Andy, think about it,” you said. “They met through family, and Dick Grayson’s only living family is Bruce Wayne and his menagerie of adopted children.”

“Maybe Dick knew Red Hood before his parents died,” she responded with a shrug. “Did you consider that?”

You rolled your eyes as you walked around her desk to sit at yours. “Of course I thought of that,” you said. “It’s an entirely plausible possibility, I suppose, if it wasn’t for the fact that Jason told me they were like brothers.”

Andrea raised an eyebrow at you again. “When was the last time you slept, sweetheart?”

“I’m onto something, Andy!” you insisted defensively. “I’m not crazy, will you just listen?”

She sighed, putting two hands up in concession. “Fine,” she said cynically. “I’m listening.”

“Thank you!” you said, taking a sip of the coffee on your desk, brewed almost an hour ago and gone cold already. You’d been at the station longer than you’d have liked to admit, caught up in the need to investigate. “So, Dick Grayson and Jason, a.k.a Red Hood, are like brothers.”

“This is relevant, of course, in the fact that Dick Grayson is the ward of Bruce Wayne, a man known for his habit of adopting children,” you continued. “So, I’m thinking… This Jason is somehow related to Bruce Wayne. Specifically, I think he’s his adopted son.”

“Great theory,” Andrea responded sarcastically. “Except for the fact that I think if Bruce Wayne had a son called Jason, we’d know about it. I think all of Gotham would know about it, actually. The Waynes are practically royalty in this city.”

“Aha!” you said, pointing at her. “And that’s the question, isn’t it? Why hasn’t anyone heard of a Wayne called Jason?”

“Probably because he doesn’t exist?” she guessed, sounding as unimpressed as ever.

“Except…!” you said with a victorious grin tilting your computer screen towards her, the wires connecting your monitor to the rest of its components twisting around its base. On it was an article, titled “Young life taken by the Joker.”

“This article talks about the death of a boy, Jason Todd, almost 15 years ago,” you said. “He was 15 when he died, and there’s a picture of the funeral. Right here, see.”

You zoomed into the picture, at a shadowy figure in attendance. “Doesn’t that look an awful lot like Bruce Wayne?”

Andrea blinked at the photo, and then at you. “You know, I think you should really get some sleep—”

You interrupted her. “How many random children’s funerals do you think Bruce Wayne goes to?” you said. “Come on, Andrea, are you telling me you don’t see where this is all leading?”

“I’m telling you that that photo could be of literally anyone!” she responded. “And besides, even if Jason is Bruce Wayne’s kid, according to your theory, he should be dead, which, clearly, he’s not.”

“Exactly,” you said. “Jason Todd should be dead. Unless Bruce Wayne faked his death and paid the media good money to keep word from getting out about it, for whatever reason.”

“And why would he do that?” Andrea asked with another sigh. “Also, what exactly do you want to do about it? Storm up to Wayne Manor and confront the man?”

“Well, I don’t know why he’d want to do that,” you said. “But I do know what I want to do about it. I’m going to prove my hypothesis.” You smiled proudly.

“I don’t like that expression,” Andrea muttered. “What are you thinking?”

“I need your help, Andy,” you said.

She narrowed her eyes at you. “I don’t like where this is going either.”

“I want to dig up Jason Todd’s grave.”

Andrea took a deep breath, closing her eyes and attempting to steady herself. “Are you nuts?” she asked, clearly restraining herself from an outburst.

“Think about it!” you urged. “We’ll just hit up the cemetery tonight, and then we’ll have concrete proof about this whole conspiracy! You don’t even have to do anything, just be a look out for me.”

“I’ve put up with a lot of your crazy ideas, but this is actually a goddamn crime,” Andrea responded, whisper-screaming at you, looking around the room to make sure no one was listening. “You want to dig up a dead kid’s grave so you can, what? Satisfy the tinfoil hat-wearing conspiracy theorist weirdo inside you? And worse, you want to make me an accessory to that crime? I mean, fucking hell, we could lose our jobs over this!”

“Well then, let’s hope we don’t get caught, yeah?” you said.

Andrea rubbed her temples. “You’ve gone insane,” she said to no one in particular. “You’ve actually lost your marbles. There’s no way in hell a sane person would come up with this plan.”

“You owe me a favor, remember?” you coaxed. “Please, Andy.”

She glared at you in response. “You are way too much like the old man, you know that?”

You only grinned triumphantly in response, knowing you’d worn her down. Besides, it wasn’t like being compared to Healy was an insult—at least, not to you.

And so that’s how you ended up at Gotham City Central Cemetery in the dead of night with a shovel, standing before the tombstone that read Jason Todd’s name.

Andrea stood just a few feet away from you, perched on a slightly higher hill that gave her a better vantage point as a lookout. 

“How much longer are you gonna take?” she whispered impatiently.

Her arms were crossed and her foot tapped nervously as she looked around, making sure no one was nearby.

“I think I just hit the coffin!” you whispered back. “I’ll need your help prying it open!”

“I’m missing Disney night with my toddler for this…” Andrea murmured unhappily.

“Camille and Dana will be fine without you for one night, Andy, Jesus,” you shot back, rolling your eyes. “Besides, Dana is one and a half. She won’t remember a thing. This is important work we’re doing. We’re uncovering the truth. We’re carrying out justice, Andrea. Don’t you want your daughter to know her mother carries out justice?”

Andrea rolled her eyes right back at you as you shoveled away at the dirt around the coffin. Beads of sweat pooled at your brow and dripped down your face as you worked, your arms burning with effort as you looked back at the large mound of dirt forming behind you. You’d been digging for at least 45 minutes now, and its effects were starting to wear down your body.

“God, my back is killing me,” you muttered.

Andrea glared at you. “You’re graverobbing a child’s grave right now. I think you deserve a bit of a backache.”

“We’re not graverobbing!” you retorted. “It’s not like we’re stealing his body. We’re just… checking to see if it’s there. Now come on, help me pry this thing open.”

She groaned softly as she walked over, carefully climbing down into the pit you’d just dug.

“Alright, grab this shovel, and we push together on three, okay?” you instructed.

Andrea sighed. “Okay.”

“One… two… three…”

The two of you grunted with effort as you used the shovel to pry open the coffin. The lid fell out of place and you bent down to grab it and lift it open fully to reveal…

“It’s empty,” Andrea murmured, her voice dazed and disbelieving.

You smiled with the adrenaline of victory and knowing you were right charging through your veins. “It’s empty.”

You looked over at your partner, her hands covering her mouth in shock. “I think you owe me an apology, Andrea,” you told her.

Once you were in your twenties, you made peace with the fact that it wouldn’t happen for you. The relationship thing wasn’t in your cards, you just weren’t built for it. It created a sad acceptance within you, but one that was needed to not go into a mental spiral.

“-ey, were you listening?” The words drifted to the forefront of your mind, dragging you away from your trail of thoughts.

You paused in folding the shirts on display before you, turning to your coworker that was looking at you expectantly.

“Uh yeah, the closing right?” You struggled to remember what Jess had walked over to you for, but you were sure it was because she needed something. Nobody really spoke to you when they didn’t need something.

“Yeah, you can do it right? I can’t do it and Marcus needs someone to cover.” Her green eyes stared at you pleadingly.

It was a request, but it didn’t feel like one. Especially since you were the only ones still working in the clothing store this late.

“Ah, I don’t-" You thought about what was waiting for you back at your apartment. A relaxing shower, the usual quick dinner, and a puzzle of choice. Not the most exhilarating routine, but you enjoyed it. You really didn’t want to close alone.

Just do it, say no. It’s not fair for you to do everything yourself and it’s not like she’ll appreciate it.

You almost did. The refusal was on the tip of your tongue when you had a flash in your head, the disappointment on her face, the awkwardness of the next shift. How she would talk about you to your other coworkers.

“Okay, I can cover.” You blurted, adverting your eyes to continue folding.

She gave you a quick grin, already turning towards the break rooms before replying, “Great! You’re a lifesaver. I’ll definitely pay you back.”

She wouldn’t, just like she didn’t for the four other times you covered her shift. 

“You’re welcome.” It’s muttered with a sigh into empty air, Jess was long gone. You thought about all the unfinished work you had to do alone, already regretting your decision.

You went into autopilot for the next few hours, slipping into the mindless task of organizing displays and adjusting price tags. The small upside was that the clothes in your store kind of sucked, so you didn’t have any customers to tend to.

“You set?”

The words made you jump. You looked up in surprise to find Marcus, who had meandered out of his office without your notice. Being a middle aged man on the heftier side, you didn’t know how he could move so quietly.

“I’m sorry, what?”

“The drawer, are you ready for me to take it? I’m gonna close a little early, don’t think it’ll be picking up anytime soon.” He motioned a thick hand towards the empty room to accentuate his point.

You nodded jerkily, shuffling out the way as he unlocked the cash drawer. Another beat and a ring of keys were being tossed your way.

“We’ll, I’m gonna count this out then I’m off, you know what to do.”

Marcus was already shuffling down the hallway before you could form a response.

He wasn’t wrong, you did know what to do. Once he was gone you got back into the automatic motions of clean, lock, organize, until the shop is fully shut down.

There was no stress, no talking or loud music, it was almost fun in a way. Fun if you forgot how you were forced into working at least.

You clicked the last light off with a sigh, shrugging your purse up your shoulder where it threatened to fall off. Going out the back door sent a wave of trepidation within you, but unfortunately it was required. The alarm was already set on the front doors and you didn’t have the keys to those.

You took a deep breath, steeling yourself. New York had only gotten more dangerous in recent years, with the corruption in politics and anti-vigilante outrage.

Once you were outside, you had to be careful to avoid any trouble. No one could be trusted, not even the police who were put there to protect citizens like yourself. You imagine if you got mugged on your way to the train, the officers on the corner wouldn’t even flinch.

Definitely not an anxiety inducing thought. Not at all.

You swung open the door, locking it quickly behind you. Ignoring the trembling of your hands, you started to make way to the front of the building.

The alley stunk of pee and other things you really didn’t want to identify. The only light around was motion sensor activated and perched on the doorway. Said light was already fading the further you stepped away, the alley delving into darkness.

You quickened your steps.

There was a slight relief in making it back onto the main street. At least there you had streetlights and the buzz of the city around you.

The sidewalk was mainly empty, and you could count on one hand the amount of cars that passed by. Most people out at this time were like you, getting off work, or getting to an early shift with a bleary look in their eyes.

You kept your head tucked down, avoiding eye contact with anyone around you. All you had to do was make it to the train, from there it was a straight shot to your apartment. Easy, simple. You could do this.

You reached the subway entrance, practically flying down the steps. The trains were relatively reliable in this part of town, so you shouldn’t have to wait too lon-

Your thought process was interrupted by a series of grunts, followed by a shout. Ducking behind a pillar, your eyes grew into saucers as you scanned for the cause of the noise.

It wasn’t a hard search, in the middle of the station was a group of men standing over something-no, someone. There was a man there, curled into himself on the cracked tile of the subway. You could barely make out his face past the blood streaming from his nose.

“Please! I don’t have it, I- just give me one more week I’m begging!” His words could barely be understood past a thick Brooklyn accent and the gurgle of blood in his throat.

One of the men snapped his fingers, and another kicked the whimpering man in the stomach, the impact making a sickening crunch noise.

You covered your mouth in an attempt to not scream, mind racing with options. Calling 911 was firmly out of the question, but running back up the stairs seemed promising. You just didn’t know if you’d be quick or quiet enough that they didn’t notice you.

Then there was the train. A quick glance at the schedule showed a less than three minute wait. If you timed it right…

“Please, I’ll do anything please-“

He was cut off by the man before who gave the attack order. “You should’ve thought about that before trying to steal from Moretti, fuckin’ rat. You should be grateful it’s just you and not your fucking family too, that’s how nice boss is.”

It was clear the man speaking was in charge, at least of the small group there. He was faced away from you, but a wayward glance from any of the men could put you in danger.

You stifled a gasp, sucking a sharp intake of air. In focusing on the group, you had forgotten to breathe.

Your heartbeat was a staccato in your ears, the blood flow dimming the sound around you.

They were going to kill that man, and there was nothing to do but watch. They were going to kill him, then they were going to kill you. Oh god, they were going to kill you if they found you.

You felt the telltale beginning of a panic attack start up, your heart rate escalating even further. This was not the time to freeze up. You pinched the skin of your hand between two fingers, the pain sobering you.

This was not the time to freeze.

The man was saying something else, the tone threatening. He was speaking in a much lower tone than before, and you couldn’t make out the words.

In a blink, he dove forward, hand jutting towards the man below him in quick successions.

It wasn’t until the growing pool of red that you realized he had stabbed him. There was a sick gurgling noise that reverberated around the subway that took the strength out of your legs.

Your purse slipped off your shoulder, clinking to the ground.

The sound alerted one of the guys closest to you. A frown quickly overtook his face as he looked you up and down.

“Hey! What’re you doing over there?”

This is how you’ll die, in a dirty subway all alone. Your family probably won’t even find out what happened.

Light flowed onto the platform from the incoming train. The screech of wheels flipped a switch in your brain.

No, you scrambled to your feet, not like this. You were not going to let it end like this.

You could hear a series from shouts and pounding footsteps behind you as you ran down the platform. Nearly tripping over a bench, you righted yourself as the train finally screeched to a stop.

The doors opened, but you kept running, an internal timer ticking in your head.

A little bit more… five, four, three-

You shoved your self to the side, slipping into a train car right as the doors closed. The others tried to follow, but they were too far behind.

You stared, wide eyed as they pounded on the window in anger. You could hear muffled threats behind the metal, but your eyes focused on the man from before.

He wasn’t yelling, or beating on the door. He only stared at your chest with a scowl. More specifically, the logo on your work shirt and your printed name tag beneath it.

Shit.

Dex was unbelievably, inconceivably, bored.

This meeting was already taking longer than he usually tolerated, and if he didn’t have good work with them before he would’ve left.

But no, this gang boss in particular was quite an egotistical bastard, and liked to pay a very nice penny on all his hits. It probably made him feel important to wave an excessive amount of money around and have people disappear.

Quite frankly, Dex couldn’t give a shit about what he felt. Money or not, his patience was running thin. Another five minutes waiting in this damp warehouse and he might just leave, or start throwing things.

He hadn’t decided which.

“Taking his sweet time huh?” He wasn’t really speaking to anyone in particular, just musing aloud, but one of the nearby goons replied anyway.

“Sorry, he had something else to wrap up. He should be here any second.”

Dex only clicked his teeth in response, busying his hands with a dagger absentmindedly. The other man’s eyes widened slightly at the display, tracking the dagger is it was thrown in the air.

Behind his mask, Dex’s lips flicked into a smirk. He wondered what the man would do if he started using the wall behind his head as a dart board, that would be interesting.

The seconds ticked by, and he was about to start some impromptu target practice when the man of the hour walked in.

“Bullseye, my friend! So kind of you to join us.”

Moretti was a small man, much smaller than one would expect the boss of a crime empire to be. There was nothing overtly menacing about him other than the beady gleam of his eyes. Of course, no one vocalized their surprise at that, because they’d end up at the bottom of the Hudson.

He reminded Dex of a small pet with a snappy temper. Like a rabid chihuahua nipping at people’s heels.

“I would think with all that money you’d own a clock.” The man’s words had ignited a flare of irritation within him. He was always annoyed by fake niceties, especially after he had waited thirty-five minutes.

Moretti’s thick eyebrows scrunched in faux concern, “My apologies, I had something else to finish up, I would never mean to keep you waiting-“

Dex cut in before he could finish the bullshit speech, “Who, and where?”

He was here for a job, not to have a tea party. All he needed was the marks information and the payment, then he’d be on his way.

Despite being cut off, the smaller man didn’t show any sign of anger. He knew better than to start unnecessary fights. “A small problem, you shouldn’t have much issue. It is time sensitive however, if she talks it would cause a great deal of issues for me.”

A woman then. Unlikely she’ll put up a fight. Disappointing.

“She saw some things she shouldn’t have. Here,” he stepped forward, a folded paper in his outstretched hand. “they got the job and her name, you should be able to take it from there yes?”

He snatched the paper, scanning over the information quickly before turning on his heel. “Fifteen thousand, same as before.” His voice carried behind him as he walked to the exit of the warehouse, hands in constant movement.

Moretti clapped his hands as if he were signing off on the deal. “Agreed, you’ll receive the wire tomorrow.”

“She’ll be dead by the end of the day.” Faster than anyone could track, he flicked the paper behind him, the point of a paper airplane imbedding into the forehead of the wide-eyed grunt from before.

The man let out a startled shout as blood trickled over his nose.

Dex ignored the commotion, grinning as he walked into the crisp night air.

Time to find a little tattle-tale.

Maybe you did have powers.

It wasn’t super strength, or advanced intelligence. It wasn’t even the power to turn invisible.

No, it had to be the ability to get in the worst situations imaginable. Super bad luck. No one’s life could be this laughably bleak, it had to be a higher power.

After that night at the subway, you couldn’t even sleep, much less leave your house. The day after the incident was your off day, so it didn’t affect much. You did however have to call off two days after that, feigning sickness.

You don’t know if your boss bought it, but considering you have never really taken a sick day before, you felt it was due.

But you couldn’t stay inside forever, you had to go back to work eventually. Getting fired would definitely do you no favors.

There was something else.

In the last few days you’d had a feeling, like spiders crawling over your skin. It was the sinking feeling of being preyed upon. Watched.

You knew they were there. You didn’t know how you knew, but you did.

There was no evidence, no threatening letters or anything out of place. Anyone listening to you would think you were insane, but you knew it wasn’t just your hysteria. You could feel it.

The only thing you were confused about was their inaction. Why hadn’t they killed you already? Not that you were complaining of course, but it just didn’t make sense.

Were they waiting for you to try to call the police? Were they not fully sure it was you at the station?

It was the cycle you went through. For days just driving yourself mad with questions and counting down the time. You hadn’t come up with a plan yet, but time was running out.

You had to go out into the world eventually.

The time went quicker than you expected. You had called off your fourth day when Marcus firmly hinted that your job might be in danger if you didn’t come in for your next shift.

You agreed, one last day of hiding and then you would come in.

Your hands trembled as you clicked the combination to your locker in the break room. Taking a deep breath, you took one last furtive glance at your belongings before turning to clock in.

“Didn’t know you hated customers that bad Oranges.” A mocking voice chimed behind you.

You tried to ignore him altogether, but he picked up his pace to walk by your side. “Don’t worry, I won’t snitch.” Matthew shot a conspiratorial glance your way, winking.

It took all your resolve to not roll your eyes. As if today wasn’t already horrible, you had to work with your least favorite person.

Matthew always found a way to antagonize you somehow. It wouldn’t have been that bad, if it weren’t non-stop. He always singled you out about something, with a fake friendly tone as if you were both in on the joke.

It started with the first week you started working. You were eating your lunch quietly, and as you started to unpeel the included orange a stream of juice shot at your face.

You could only sit there in mortification as Matthew cackled in your face. He insisted on calling you Oranges after that.

“What are we so worried about?” He continued, like you weren’t ignoring him. “If you need to relax I think they have a stress ball in the back rooms. I know you have issues with that stuff.” He could barely get out the words without laughing.

More silence from you.

“Alright then. Don’t blame me if you freak out, see ya Oranges.”

You let out a relieved sigh at his retreating frame, grabbing the clothing rack near you and resigning yourself to eight hours of torture.

Your neck let out a series of pops as you stretched it in your doorway. The house keys in your hand were tossed in the dish by the door and your jacket was shrugged off your shoulders into a pile on the ground.

“You should take better care of your things.”

The words stopped you in your tracks. You’d been so focused on the aches in your body and getting to the shower, you failed to notice the large figure in your living room until they spoke.

There was a man shrouded in shadow sitting on your lounge chair. In his hands was one of your puzzle boxes, and he seemed to be reading over it like it was the most important thing in the room.

“Please don’t.” You could barely recognize the way your voice squeaked out, strained with fear.

He looked up for the first time, eyes glinting behind a blue ski mask. “Don’t what?” His voice was deep but scratchy as it travelled across the room, as if he’d worn it out by yelling.

You could also hear a hint of amusement in his tone. He was enjoying toying with you.

“Don’t mess up my puzzles, or my apartment please. If you can, make it quick.” Your reply was more stable than before, having overcome the initial shock of his appearance.

In truth, you’d come to the conclusion you’d probably die no matter what days ago. At first, you were scared out of your mind, but like every other bad hand in your life, you accepted it. You just didn’t want whoever found you to have to deal with a mess.

His head tilted as if considering your answer, one finger twirling the box like one would do a basketball. “Not gonna beg for your life? Plead for another chance?” There was still the mocking tone, but now it carried confusion as well. He genuinely couldn’t understand why you were so calm.

Taking careful steps over to the couch, you could make out more details of him in the light of your living room lamp. He looked like a textbook assassin, wearing all black, save for the blue mask covering his face. The dark fabric of his ensemble held more compartments you could count, and the rest was stretched over a sturdy frame.

He was leaning back in your recliner chair leisurely, legs spread to take up even more space.

You let out a deep sigh as you flounced down on the couch across from him. “No, not really. I’m sure you’ve noticed, but it’s not much to plead for.”

He stopped spinning the box and looked around, as if taking in the apartment for the first time. Your lack of personal photos, the books and puzzles lining the walls. Every item spoke of a very monotonous lifestyle. “This is pretty depressing, yes.”

Of course, what were you expecting? Hopefully he doesn’t make it too difficult for anyone to clean your blood out the place.

You nodded in acceptance and closed your eyes, waiting for the inevitable. After about a minute of waiting, you opened them to find him staring at you.

The piercing gaze kept you still until he spoke again, “What’re you doing?”

‘Waiting for you to kill me’ just sounded silly, so you said nothing, adverting your gaze.

After a few more moments of quiet, you cleared your throat, “If you don’t mind, how long have you been in here?”

It was a morbid curiosity that drove the question. The idea of him waiting in your living room just to kill you, twiddling his thumbs was enough to make a sardonic chuckle rise in your throat.

You pushed down the urge. The man seemed fairly calm so far, but laughing at him definitely would do nothing in your favor.

He reached up a gloved hand, scratching at his jaw. “About a half hour.”

You blinked, “Oh, okay.”

Quite frankly, you were running out of things to say. How does one even strike up a conversation with their killer? You shouldn’t have even felt the need to make the man comfortable, but you did for some reason.

In a flash he was leaning over you, one hand on the back of the couch to speak directly in your face. “What’s your problem? Hm? You didn’t even do anything wrong and you won’t fight for your life? How is that fair?”

His other hand gripped your chin firmly, you could feel the warmth of the of his hand seeping through the fabric. With his face so close, you could see every detail of his brown eyes scrunched in anger.

You could also see more of the little items strapped around his waist and in the compartments of his pants. Knives. More knives than anyone (murderer or not) should need, in your opinion.

“I’m sorry?” Now you were a bit peeved. Who was he to lecture you about valuing your life when he came in here to kill you?

Unless… he wasn’t here to kill you, but do something much worse. A new flash of fear goes through you. You were prepared for a quick death, you were not prepared for torture, or the other ways a man could hurt a woman.

He must’ve seen the change in your face, because the hand on your chin swiftly dropped to his side.

He moved slightly out of your space, mumbling to himself. You could barely catch the words ‘balance’ and ‘worth it’ in the rambling.

“Okay,” he dipped away, back to the chair. “okay.”

You blinked at him again, “Okay?”

“Yes.” His tone, despite being amused again, invited no further questioning. He had reached a decision within himself, you just had no idea what that decision was.

With that, he settled back into your chair with all the ease in the world.

“You should go to sleep now. Been a long day.” Like before, his tone was closed off. What might’ve been misinterpreted as a request was definitely a demand.

You slowly rose to your feet, half convinced it was a trick and he’d shoot you at any moment, but nothing stopped you from gathering your bag and going into the bedroom.

Even as you shut and locked the door, there was no action, just a glinting gaze following you in the darkness.

You didn’t remember falling asleep. The last thing you recall was the unnerving conversation with the intruder before jerking awake the next morning.

A quick check showed that none of your clothes had been moved and there were no injuries on you. Despite your hair looking like a birds nest, you looked exactly did after work the day prior.

You were alive. Another day knowing someone was out to get you, and another day of being able to do nothing about it.

You groaned, trying to settle your hair with one hand as you rolled out the bed. Washing up in the bathroom was quick business. After feeling clean again in new clothes you moved to unlock the bedroom door.

Wait. He wouldn’t still be here, would he?

You highly doubt the intruder would stay for coffee in he morning, but the whole thing had been so strange you couldn’t rule anything out.

Slowly, you pressed an ear to the door, straining to hear anything on the other side.

Nothing.

You un-clicked the lock, still moving at a snails pace. Once there was a half inch sliver open, you took a peek into the living room. Empty, no homicidal men with a hundred knives in sight.

You let out a breath of relief, walking into the room. One last search throughout your place proved that there was truly no one there.

Even so, there was an unsettling feeling you couldn’t shake. You ignored it, moving to start up your coffee maker.

It wasn’t until you were halfway through your breakfast that you realized the issue. Your place was spotless, much cleaner than you’d usually keep it.

You didn't consider yourself a slob, but there was always little things here and there left behind. A few dishes in the sink, a bit of dust. The room was now so clean it looked clinical.

Every can or box of pasta in your cabinet was neatly organized and turned to the front. Swinging open the door to your fridge, you found that all your old food you’d been ignoring was thrown away. Each shelf was sparkling clean and just as orderly as the cabinets.

All your puzzle boxes were in straight, dust free columns next to books sorted by size.

What the hell is happening?

It’s just because you’ve been bored. Nothing else.

Dex had been rationalizing his actions since that first day. He had yet to come up with a solid reason for letting you live, and it sent a distressing feeling up his spine.

He did not do things for no reason.

That was a quick way to spiral, to sink into nothing. No, everything in his life had a reason and purpose. So what were you?

It started the day after the meeting with Moretti, he was poised just across from your window. There was a bolt-action rifle in his hands, and he was perfectly poised to take the shot as promised.

As he watched, you walked around your bedroom in circles. He could see your mouth moving at certain points, but no sign of you talking on the phone. It was clear you were in distress, but made no attempts to get help.

He already had access to your phone line. Throughout the night into the next day, you didn’t try calling the police, not even once.

It seems New York is catching on, those scrubs in uniforms can’t help you. If you want justice, you have to take it yourself.

He continued to watch you with a detached expression, not taking the time to consider why he hadn’t finished the job yet.

He watched as you left to take a shower, coming back a bit later in loose pajamas. He watched as you put a show on your tv, your distracted expression half aware.

You eventually found the television insufficient at calming you, and started digging through the haphazard boxes of puzzles on your shelves.

His fingers practically itched at seeing it, old habits compelling him to march in there and line everything up neatly.

He shook it off, eyes trailing to where you sat on the floor beginning the edges of a very large landscape puzzle.

You were losing yourself in it, the frown in your eyebrows lessening the more progress you made through the picture. Eventually, you had calmed enough that there was almost a smile tilting your mouth.

His eyes stayed there for a moment, wondering what a full smile from you would look like. He definitely hadn’t seen one today, and no search online showed any pictures of you exhibiting anything other than mild discomfort or apathy.

He could almost imagine it, the plush of your lips tilting up, then slowly growing. How your eyes would crinkle, glinting up at him.

At him?

At him?

The fuck was he doing?

He had a job to do, a job he was paid quite handsomely over, and he was sitting here on his ass playing make believe.

He whipped the rifle in position, capturing your face in the scope. He didn’t really need it, your shot was clear enough, especially with his abilities.

Even though it was simple, the clearest shot in the world, his fingers never pressed the trigger. He sat there, as the sky darkened into reds and melted into a dark navy, never taking a single shot.

He couldn’t even pretend that the sick worm inside of him wasn’t hungry for more. He didn’t try to act like he wasn’t coming back the next day.

He thought that would be enough. One more day of observation would be enough to satiate him. Just one more.

Dex felt like the sad sons of bitches at the liquor store on the corner. Just one more bit, I can quit any time I want to.

But he did need just one more bit, and he could quit any time he needed to. This was nothing like Jul-

He broke that train of thought with a snarl. Tonight. Tonight he would end this game and get it over with. She got off work at ten, and when she did he’d be waiting there. After that, it be simple, one shot to the head and she wouldn’t be his problem anymore.

Moretti didn’t exactly ask for proof of delivery, nobody was stupid enough to question Dex after he worked a job. If he said he did it, then he did it.

Except he didn’t do it. Moretti hadn’t asked, and he didn’t tell. But the man wasn’t an idiot, he’d find out eventually.

Even more reason to get rid of you as soon as possible.

He had the plan solidly in his mind. Wait until you walked in with your guard down, lodge a knife in your throat before you could blink.

This night, you took a bit longer than usual. Dex was dully aware that this didn’t bother him. He wasn’t upset by waiting, there was a tingling anticipation within him.

Eventually, you walked through the door, shutting it behind you with a click. You didn’t notice him at first, stretching out your neck and the muscles in your back.

You dropped your coat to the ground, stepping over it without a second glance. You were still shifting your head from side to side, trying to alleviate some tension.

He would be able to do it almost immediately. With his hands on your neck he could target the exact points of your muscle pain. His index finger flinched at the thought.

His eyes flickered to the flash of skin on the side of your neck, words coming out of his mouth before he could recall the plan he came in with.

He was barely even aware of what he said, just your response. He watched with rapt attention as your eyes widened, taking him in.

As your eyes scanned his frame, he could feel his hips shift forward slightly.

A myriad of expressions flickered through your face, fear, surprise, anger. He took them all in with delight. The buzz of anticipation from before rose to a crescendo, he couldn’t wait to see what you’d do.

Would you beg? Offer to pay him for your life?

Despite coming in your apartment with a clear directive, he wasn’t sure exactly what he’d do if you asked him to spare your life.

Not important, focus.

You didn’t do anything he expected. Instead of a blubbering mess, you were composed, if not a little annoyed.

If he didn’t already know it before, it was clear you valued your small possessions. You seemed to care about the puzzles more than your own life.

It made him angry.

Who were you to throw him off? Why were you doing this to him? This is not how this was supposed to go.

He got within a hairsbreadth of your face, trying to intimidate you. Break the facade. It didn’t work, you only seemed more annoyed by the attempt.

Until you weren’t. Something about his stance towering over you seemed to ignite a thought process. He wasn’t a mind reader, but he could tell the cause of your discomfort pretty easily.

He let you go quickly, as if he were burned. He would not hurt you, not like that.

Dex weighed his options. Killing you would make things a lot simpler, both with Moretti and the urges in his mind. This is what he knew best, the only real thing he’s good for. You would be no problem to take care of.

Only issue? The more he thought about putting a bullet in your head, the more he was sure that was the last thing he wanted to do.

This wasn’t even his typical area. The snitches he usually tracked down had blood on their hands, a dark past they were scrambling to escape.

You weren’t necessarily a good person, you didn’t volunteer at food drives or regularly give to charity, but nothing warranted your death. There was no scale for him to equal.

You were just in the wrong place at the wrong time.

He’d reached his decision. Fuck Moretti, he’d deal with that weasel bitch later. For now, he’d have to get you shuffled off to bed.

There was something he was itching to do since he got there.

He didn’t show up that day.

Your off day was spent with anxious anticipation, like he would randomly jump out of your cabinets and scare you shitless.

Despite your worry (hope), Knives never showed. You took a page out of Matthew’s book and gave him a nickname, if only to avoid calling him ‘the man’ in your head.

The more you thought about it, the more perplexed you were.

A masked killer came into your home, had a fairly civil conversation with you, then did your chores?

No matter how much you thought about it, none of that made sense. You should have been dead days ago. If they decided not to kill you, they should at least know by now you weren’t going to snitch.

You didn’t even consider calling the police.

You groaned, head tilting back against your apartment elevator. Your day at work had been relatively uneventful.

Nobody really spoke to you much, sans Matthew who always had something to say. This time about your dark circles and whether or not you had a mental breakdown. And he wondered why his girlfriend left him.

You crack open bleary eyes to look at yourself in the metal walls and wince. Maybe they had a point, you wouldn’t talk to yourself either looking like this.

There was prominent darkness under your eyes, framing the haunted look within them. Your face was pinched in a permanent frown, and you lifted up a hand to relax the expression.

The elevator doors opened with a ding, and you started the trek over to your door. You raised a hand to unlock it, pausing half way.

Putting your keys back in your pocket, you tried the handle of your door. It opened easily.

Your heartbeat quickened but you didn’t halt your movement, continuing inside the apartment. Everything was just like you left it earlier, dim lights and the tv on as background noise.

You took slow steps to the center of the room, spinning in a circle. He wasn’t there.

The living room and kitchen were both empty, and you didn’t know whether to be happy about that or not.

Why would he just leave your door unlocked when he wasn’t even here? There were robbers in the area, what if someone happened to try your door?

You ran a hand through your hair, barking a laugh. You had forgotten for a moment who he was. He was not a friend or visitor that would care whether or not you were robbed.

But why would he clean your house then?

You weren’t sure if you’d ever find the answer to that last question.

Still on edge, you tip toed towards your couch, where you unceremoniously dumped your bag and coat. Stretching out your shoulders, you walked towards the bedroom.

You were expecting a boiling shower with warm pajamas to slip into before crashing. You were not expecting a six-foot something man to be leaning over your bedside drawer, rifling through its contents.

“Hey!” You said, equally in surprise and indignation. “That’s private. Put that down.”

Brown eyes flicked up to you from where he’d been reading your notebook. It wasn’t a diary per se, but it held some personal thoughts you’d rather stayed private.

Knives leisurely sat the book on your bed, putting up his hands in faux surrender. “Were you looking for me?”

His voice was just as gravelly as the first night, snaking over your ears. It was much lighter however, he sounded almost… happy?

You cleared your throat, fighting back a shiver. “What?” Did he see you searching your apartment like a goof? Probably.

You could see his lips curl into a smirk beneath the mask, capturing your attention for a moment.

You wondered what he would look like without it.

You could see more of him in the daylight, like the light eyelashes framing his eyes and the similar tone of his eyebrows. The mask was filled out with a sharp frame, and you could see the cut of prominent cheekbones under the fabric.

“Nothing. What’s that about?” He nodded towards your notebook he had been reading.

He was still holding his hands up, for what you had no idea. Maybe he thought it was funny to act like you were the one in power here.

“It’s a notebook, you write in them.” You didn’t care to go over your innermost thoughts with a stranger, briskly avoiding the subject.

His eyes flashed in an emotion you couldn’t place, hands finally coming down to rest at his sides. “How was work?” He asked placidly.

What?

The hell?

Your eyes burned with tears that had yet to fall, sucking in a sharp breath to compose yourself. “Haven’t you had enough? I have been waiting for the day you finally-“ you waved your hands around animatedly. “And then you just-“

He only stared on with the same solid expression.

You took another breath, “Are you going to kill me or not?”

“No.”

You swore you could feel your heartbeat hiccup, “No?”

Before you could pull it back, the words were out of your mouth. “Why not?”

You regretted the question immediately, watching as his eyes darkened.

There was a stretch of silence, and you were wondering how to do damage control when he spoke again, “Because I don’t want to. You…”

His gaze rakes up and down your frame. “You aren’t my North Star, no, something else. I want to find out what you are.”

Your words were little more than a whisper. “What I am?”

He sauntered towards you, slow as if walking towards a spooked animal. Or like he was hunting one. He only stopped once he was directly in front of you, toe to toe.

“Yes, I’m going to watch you and learn you. Why I feel this urge to-“ he cuts off abruptly, eyes widened in surprise.

“I’m not going to hurt you.”

It seems like he wasn’t even prepared for what the answer was.

You stared at him, heartbeat still thundering in your ears. It was silly to believe a masked intruder from his words, but you did.

Nothing about that seemed like a lie. Despite what he’d initially found you for, he didn’t look like he wanted you dead. So, you believed him.

Your only worry was what he would do with you.

“O-Okay.” Was all you said before grabbing your clothes out the dresser and locking yourself in the bathroom.

You could only hope you turned fast enough that he didn’t see the redness in your face.

He was gone from the bedroom when you got out the shower. Everything was put back in its place, there was no sign of him. It made you wonder how many times he looked through your things without you knowing.

It should’ve made you unnerved… it didn’t.

He said he wanted to learn you. That you weren’t a north star. What did that mean? Why were you kind of excited about finding out?

You sniffed the air, there was a smell drifting from your kitchen filled with spices and butter. Like it were activated, your stomach suddenly released a large growl.

It seemed no matter how shocked you could get, there were still more surprises, Knives was at the stove, stirring something in a pot. You could see your oven was on as well, the light showing loaves of garlic bread on a sheet inside.

“You should go start a puzzle, it’ll be another five minutes.” He spoke without turning around, still continuing to stir the pot on the stove.

There’s a breaking point in a persons life where they stop asking questions. You were at that point.

So you pushed aside the wonder of why he was cooking, or where he even got the ingredients from, and sat down in your lounge chair.

You froze. It smelled like him. Gunpowder and metal, with a tinge of spearmint, the chairs leather still held a hint of him. You wondered how many times you could breathe it in without him noticing.

He was still focused on the food…

No. Stop. Get yourself together. You can’t just turn into a weirdo at the first attractive man you meet. Who’s to say he’s even attractive? He could be hideous under that mask.

You glanced over at him, eyeing the broadness of his shoulders and the muscle shifting under cloth.

You didn’t notice before, but he had taken off his gloves. His hands were big but deft, he probably would’ve made a good piano player in another life.

The evidence of this life was there as well. White scars marred his hands and trailed up his forearm to disappear under his shirt sleeve. You had no doubt they continued to the rest of his body too.

You tried to remind yourself of what those hands could do, why they were dangerous. Unfortunately your brain didn’t think it was that important at the moment, because the only thing you could remember is how they felt on your face.

You shook off the thoughts, blindly grabbing the closest puzzle box to you, it was a city landscape.

The pieces tumbled onto your living room table, sound echoing throughout the apartment. The only other sound past your moving pieces was the crackle of fire in the kitchen.

You needed some background noise.

You clicked on the tv, the low droning of the weather report filling the empty space. The screen had half your attention, but that was enough for your ears to perk when you heard the next segment of the news.

“And here we have the aftermath of another brawl from the vigilante known as Daredevil, he was in this very warehouse last night when the reports of gunfire started-“

The newscaster was one you’d seen before, usually for the more serious cases around the city. Her mouth was set in a hard line as she continued her warning.

“-advising all citizens to report any vigilante activity to the NYPD or AVTF whenever you become aware. If you do encounter Daredevil, do not engage-“

The tv went out in a wink, making you flinch. Like a bullet, a flying quarter had hit the power button dead center on your remote. Didn’t need many guesses to know where it came from.

The man in question was sauntering over with a steaming plate, glaring at the tv like it had personally offended him.

“You could’ve just asked me to turn it off.” You mutter, loud enough for him to hear you.

He didn’t answer, setting the plate in front of you with a clink. “Eat.”

You looked from him to the plate of food, then back again. It looked wonderful, a creamy heap of pasta with sautéed vegetables and garlic bread. It was all neatly arranged on your only kitchenware you hadn’t chipped.

You only wondered why the hell he had cooked it.

He seemed to misread your trepidation, leaning down to tug up a corner of his mask and shovel in a bit of the pasta. “Not poisoned. Not my style.” He said after a thick swallow.

The flash of lips, regardless how quick, distracted you. You stared on as a pink tongue flicked out to swipe at his mouth before he tugged the mask back down. It took you another few seconds to get it together.

“I know. You prefer to give people a million paper cuts.”

To your surprise, knives barked out a laugh, “That’s one way of putting it, sure.”

You turned to the food and started eating in an attempt to bypass the awkwardness. It was hard to suppress a groan when the first bit hit your mouth, the food was as good as it looked. If not better.

Do all hitmen take culinary classes or was it just his hobby?

You thought he would find something else to do, maybe vanish into thin air like he’d never been there at all, but the man chose to sit right across from you on the couch.

Dark eyes fixated on you as you ate in complete focus. He didn’t seem to want more conversation, just be a spectator. His only movement was circling a small knife around in his hand, but the movement didn’t seem threatening, more absentminded than anything else.

You didn’t realize how hungry you were until you were finishing the meal in record time, only clearing your throat to speak once you’d cleared the last bite, “It was great, thank you.”

He was grabbing the plate from you before you could even offer to clean up, making his way back to the kitchen and placing it inside your dishwasher with the other used pots and pans.

“Really, you don’t have to-“ you started, but he was already finished and walking back over to you.

“I know. I don’t have to do anything at all, advantages of self employment.” It was clear by his tone and the crinkle of his eyes that he was smirking. He took his time walking back to the couch, this time spreading his arms across the back in the appearance of complete comfortability.

What he said made you curious, “You don’t work for the man at the train?”

He tilted his head as if considering the answer. “I don’t work for anyone,” a new tinge of bitterness coated his tone, “but if you’re referring to the bozo who took a hit out on you, yes. I was the one given the assignment.”

“Ah, I figured.” The response came out more nonchalant than intended, but he truly didn’t tell you anything you hadn’t already suspected.

“You’re not bothered by that?”

You shrugged, “Nah, I trust you.” You meant for it to be fully sarcastic, and almost succeeded, but there was a bit of honesty that shone through. Against all better judgement and sound mind, you did trust him.

He stared at you, only providing a small scoff and muttering under his breath as response.

With the newfound silence, you decided to follow his earlier request and complete the puzzle that was started. You almost invited him to do it with you, but your mouth closed with a snap after looking over at him.

He seemed to be lost in thought about something, dark blonde eyebrows furrowed as he stared somewhere out your window.

Your eyes went back to the puzzle, the only sounds being the soft scrape of the pieces and faint breathing. You grimaced while reaching for some of the further pieces, the movement had aggravated the neck pain you usually had after a long shift.

Rolling your neck in a circle only slightly helped, there was still a crick in the muscle that most likely wouldn’t go away until after a lengthy soak in epsom salt.

Your distracted mind was only half aware of the other figure rising from the couch and making his way over to you.

“Sit back.”

You looked behind you in surprise, wondering how he’d gotten right behind your chair without you knowing. “Why?” You weren’t really concerned about the request, just curious what he intended.

“I can’t keep watching you do that without doing something. Sit back.” He tapped the headrest for emphasis.

Okay, bossy.

You rolled your eyes but did as he asked, sliding back to fully rest in the chair. It was a moment of nothing until you felt warmth against your shoulder blades.

You let out a full body flinch at the contact, but his hands didn’t falter, continuing a path from your shoulders into the sides of your neck. Strong thumbs dug into the muscles and nerves causing you pain, and you couldn’t keep a satisfied sigh from seeping out.

You practically melted into his hands as they traveled over every aching part of your back. Every time he dispelled a knot it knocked a quiet sound out of you.

It was firm but precise, every drag of his warm calloused hands left a tingling sensation in their wake. You couldn’t help but think about what else his hands could do…

The idea created a burning within you. The smell and feel of him so close was dangerous, and you were already wanting more of it. Needing more of it. You were absently aware of his breathing kicking up, almost delving into a pant in your ears.

He eventually slowed down, rubbing his fingers in circular motions on the top of your spine before retreating completely. He didn’t retreat too far, barely taking a step back as he stood behind your chair.

You didn’t look at him, focusing on calming your breathing and not appearing like the mess you were on the inside. You didn’t need a mirror to know your the flushed expression you wore.

You opened your mouth, then closed it, not trusting yourself to beg for his hands to touch you again.

He spoke before you could work up the nerve of a response, “I have to go.”

“Wait-” But it was too late, he was already closing the front door when you turned around.

Knives arrived more frequently after that night.

He didn’t stay as long, or touch you again, (much to your disappointment) but he would usually pop in without rhyme or reason with gifts and a bit of conversation.

You never asked him for anything, but he somehow always knew what you needed.

A new detergent when the old one just ran out, some more butter in the fridge, your favorite ice cream when you were craving it.

As far as you remembered, you never told him what your favorite flavor was, nor did you ever have one in the freezer since meeting him. He still knew.

Someone knowing so much about you should’ve probably unnerved you, but it only gave you a sense of serenity. You didn’t have to worry about explaining yourself to him, there was no pressure on your end. He just watched, and learned.

Except in one area. He seemed to be oblivious to your attraction to him, not flirting with you even once. There were his snarky remarks and knowing smirks sure, but that seemed to be less hitting on you and just more of who he was.

Unless, he does know you’re into him and just doesn’t feel the same so he’s ignoring it.

You brushed the thought off, sighing as you unlocked the door to your apartment. It was really no use wondering about it, even with all the time spent with Knives, you barely had a clue what was going on in his head.

Besides, after the day you’d had it was hard to think about anything else.

To say it was a bad shift would be an understatement. You’d overslept that morning, rushing through your morning routine but still arriving twenty-five minutes late to clock in.

It was a rare busy day in the store, and you could barely push past people to get to your register.

“About time.” Matthew shot you a dirty look between filing away the bills in his hand.

Your job was severely understaffed, and today was no different, which meant that in your absence Matthew had to handle the hordes of people on his own.

You gave him an apologetic nod, waving the next person in line over to you. Soon enough, the lines dwindled into nothing as the rush passed.

You wiped your sweaty hands on your pants leg, signing out of the POS to go work on other things. A stack of boxes caught your eye, and you moved closer to start unpacking the items inside.

“Go do the inventory. He wants it in the front on the orange display.” Snapped Matthew behind you. He was pointing at the very boxes you were already walking towards.

You didn’t bother correcting him in saying you were already going to do that, instead giving a curt nod.

“What, you can’t speak today? Didn’t take your meds?” He raised a brow, grinning at you.

Breathe, don’t let him get to you.

“I’m just going to do my job.”

His grin only widened at your answer. “Heh, okay. You do that.”

You ignored him, quickly pulling a dolly from the back transport the boxes to the front of the store.

You wiped a hand over your brow, starting to sweat with the effort. It would be a lot easier with two people, but like hell you were going to ask that asshole.

Matthew wasn’t really nice to anyone, except maybe the new hires he wanted to flirt with, but you still never understood why he seemed to hate you so much.

Because you’re always the odd man out, the one no one really likes, the one-

“Shut up.” You spat out the words, making sure you were quiet enough for no one else to hear. Matthew didn’t need more ammunition to call you crazy.

You directed your attention to the store display and away from your bleak thoughts. You couldn’t help what others thought of you, the only thing you could do at the moment was finish the stupid display and move onto your other work.

You vacantly slapped the folded clothes onto the shelves, mind drifting elsewhere.

I bet knives never had to work in retail.

You’d be very surprised if he ever had a real job before. Trying to imagine his scowling face behind a cash register made a chuckle bubble within you.

He’d probably stab someone on his first day.

Shit, he can stab Matthew for all I care.

You half scolded yourself at the thought, realizing how fucked up it sounded to wish that someone stab your coworker. You weren’t as upset by the thought as you could’ve been.

There was a sharp creaking noise, and before you could react, the metal shelf you had been stacking on crashed down on your arm.

“Shit-” You jumped back to avoid falling with it, but the damage had been done. The edge of the shelf dug a cut down your forearm that was already spurting blood over you and the merchandise.

“Oh no, shit, shit, shit-” You couldn’t think straight, only standing there in a panic as you gripped your bloody arm.

“What the fuck did you do now?” If you thought Matthew was mad at you before, he was pissed now. “I asked you to do one simple thing and you can’t even do that? Who’s gonna clean this shit up?”

He’d left a customer at the desk to see what the sound was, but he didn’t seem to care about their existence as he yelled at you.

“Fuckin disability hire, can’t even stock a shelf. I don’t know why you’re standing there, you should be-”

You didn’t wait for him to finish, bumping into him as you rushed towards the back room with tears in your eyes.

Don’t cry. Don’t you dare cry in front of him, he’s not worth it.

You ignored his calls for you to come back, slamming your work locker open and grabbing your things. You didn’t even bother clocking out, only stopping by the lunch corner to grab paper towels and wipe down your arm.

The harsh wind from outside only aggravated your eyes more, but you steeled yourself against the cold.

You got plenty weird looks on the train ride home, but nobody said anything to you. It was probably the mix of blood staining your hands and scowl that discouraged conversation.

A ten minute ride followed by a brisk walk brought you back to where you were, standing at your apartment door with an aching cut.

You shouldered the door open with your uninjured side, immediately dropping your things to the ground once you were inside.

The cut hurt like a bitch and was still freely bleeding, but you shouldn’t need stitches or anything dramatic. The med kit from under your sink in the bathroom should more than suffice.

You turned the corner towards the bathroom, but stopped short at the figure standing there.

The visitor was more expected than not these days, but you didn’t think he’d be here this early since he usually met you after your shift.

“What did I say about taking care of your things?” He half turned from the window where you assumed he’d watched you come in.

You’d usually muster up something equally as playful in response, but this time, you were not in the mood.

He seemed to sense the shift, whipping his head over to you. It didn’t take long for his eyes to rake over you, gaze landing on your right arm.

“Who did that?” His demeanor changed completely after seeing the injury, voice turning steely.

It only took a few strides for him to reach you, hand snapping out to grasp your forearm. His eyes were blazing with anger behind his mask and he looked two seconds away from disemboweling someone.

Even though you knew his anger wasn’t with you; it still took a moment to stutter out a response, “No one, I-i did it myself. Well, not did it, it wasn’t on purpose. An accident at work.”

Your clarification didn’t seem to calm him much.

He stepped to your side, scooping an arm under your legs to pull you to his chest, his other arm supporting your back. He walked towards your bathroom with purpose.

You let out a squawk of surprise at being airborne, “Hey, I can still walk. It’s just a cut, you don’t have to carry me.”

“Blood loss causes dizziness, and it looks like you’ve already lost too much.” Someone would’ve thought you were bleeding out by how aggravated he sounded.

You didn’t want to mention that the main reason you were dizzy was his close proximity, not the injury. You were closer to him than you ever were before, and you couldn’t stop yourself from taking in a deep whiff. Blood, metal, mint.

He knocked your bathroom door open with enough strength to make it rattle, marching over to your closed toilet where he set you down gently but firmly.

As always, he knew where you put everything, so you didn’t have to direct him as he pulled out your small med kit.

It was just the buzz of the fluorescent lights for noise as he rummaged through the kit, occasionally pulling out select items he’d need.

You watched as hazel eyes narrowed in concentration, stomach doing a flip at how focused he was on helping you. How caring.

There was a mix of disinfectant and many bandages on the counter (more than you’d probably need), and he looked over them quickly before washing his hands and snapping on latex gloves.

“It’s going to hurt, you can hold onto me if you need to.” Was the only warning you got before he was gripping your arm with one hand and wiping down the cut with the other.

The antibacterial liquid was cold and stinging, you let out a sharp hiss at the stab of pain. As the blood was cleaned away, you could see that the cut was a bit deeper than you thought.

“I-ah, you don’t think I’ll need stitches, right?” You were a bit scared to ask, his frown had only deepened once he started working on you.

“No. It’s not to that point, but you’ll need to keep it wrapped tightly for a while so the skin can join back together.”

And he was right, after cleaning the wound thoroughly, he stuck some hefty bandages over the opening and wrapped it all in a tight cover of gauze.

He tucked the end of the fabric inside to secure it, and tugged off his gloves to clear away the mess of dirty wipes and wrappers on the counter.

You didn’t bother thanking him, knowing by now that he wouldn’t accept it.

You looked down at his work, neat as usual. You startled as a pill bottle was being shaken in front of you, eyes focusing to read the label.

“It doesn’t really hurt that much.”

He shook it again, insisting, “It will later, take one.”

You knew there was no chance of changing his mind, and it didn’t seem like the worst idea, so you grabbed the container and swallowed down one of the pills.

Satisfied, Knives leaned back against the wall opposite you, muscular arms folded over his chest.

Despite his quietness, you could still sense the underlying anger rolling off him. Knowing the answer, you asked anyway, “Are you upset?”

“Explain what happened.”

You hesitated for a moment, then started the retelling of what happened that day. You kept your composure for the most part, voice only hitching when you repeated what your coworker had said about you.

Knives stood stock still through it all, watching with that calm dangerous air that he had.

By the time you were done, you felt the telltale signs of tears, but you pushed it down again. You didn’t want it to bother you, but it did. After a life of dealing with rejection, it still stung.

A warm hand lifted up your chin, thumb swiping away tears you weren’t aware had fallen. “You don’t deserve that, none of it. It won’t happen again.” There wasn’t an ounce of question in his tone, he was sure of it.

You let out a weak laugh, sniffling. “I could only hope, he’ll probably be worse after today though. Especially since I left early.”

He hummed, “I’ve always disliked the name Mathew, all of them are annoying.” He sounded like he usually did again, slightly amused as if he were in on a joke that you weren’t.

You laughed again, stronger this time. “I can’t say I’ve had experience with that many Matthew’s to agree with you.”

He ran his thumb over your cheek one more time before backing away. “Trust me, they are. You should take tomorrow off.”

There he goes again, giving demands veiled as suggestions.

“I would love to, but unfortunately some of us common folk need jobs, and if I call out again I’ll probably be u employed. I’m sure you’ve never worked one, so it’s hard to understand.” Your tone is playfully mocking, but it’s the truth. There was no way your manager was going to be okay with that, plus, you needed to make up for the money lost by leaving early.

“I have.” He adverts his eyes to your left, “worked a job that is.”

You perked up, it was rare that the man offered information past what model his knives were, and you didn’t want to lose the opportunity to learn more about him.

“Oh really? As what?” You kept your tone light, to not seem like you were prying.

“An officer.”

“Like, a police officer?”

“No. Not exactly.”

You blinked in confusion.

He shifted in his stance, like the conversation was suddenly making him uncomfortable. “Agent, would be the better term. I-” He paused, finding the right words. “I locked away the monsters of the world, and protected the people I needed to.”

You cocked a brow, “So, you were a spy?”

He huffed, giving you a look. “No. How the hell did you get spy out of that?”

“You are amazingly vague at every answer, I figured it would fit.” You shrugged, wincing when the movement aggravated the skin of your arm.

He zoned in on the expression, eyes narrowing again. “You should go to bed, especially if you’re insisting on going to work tomorrow.”

It was clear that was all the answers you’d get out of him, this night at least. You let out a huff of breath, using the counter to pull yourself into a standing position.

There was a wave of wooziness, and you fought to keep balance. Clearly the pill was doing its job.

An arm snaked around to your back, steadying you as you walked to your bedroom. As if there were an invisible barrier, he stopped at the threshold. In the dim lighting, you could only see the dark outline of him and the glint of metal strapped to his person.

To anyone else it would be menacing, terrifying even, to have the attention of the killer focused on them. You only craved more of it.

“There’s soup in your fridge if you want it. Change the wrapping in the morning, it shouldn’t cause any issues before then.”

You could only blame the strength of the pain pill for your lack of restraint, “Do you have to leave right now?”

A pause. “I do. I have something else to take care of.”

You tried not to take it as a dismissal, but it hurt nonetheless.

Something else. Not you.

“Right, okay.” The disappointment was obvious in your voice.

Steady steps made their way over to your bedside, “I don’t want to, but are some things I need to do. I’ll see you soon.”

You could barely make out the shape of him standing over you, drowsiness and the pain medicine muddling things together. “Aye, aye captian.”

A deep chuckle, and then a quiet response, “Dex.”

Dex. It suits him. You couldn’t tell if you’d said the name aloud or in your head, already giving way to unconsciousness.

The last thing you felt was a hand lightly trailing down your face before blackness.

Other than feeling like a sledgehammer hit you, your next day at work was uncharacteristically peaceful.

Even though Matthew was scheduled alongside you for the week, he never showed up for work that day.

Or the next day. Or the next one after that.

He didn’t call out, and based on the grumble from your manager, hadn’t quit either.

You never said anything, never even thought the words in your head, but you knew what happened.

If you were really honest with yourself, you knew what was going to happen when you heard the assurance in his voice that you wouldn’t have any more problems.

Kni-No-Dex, was a killer, regardless of how he treated you. You knew how he solved problems.

You were a little nervous at how little it bothered you. You had the same tingling feeling you got when he replaced one of the lightbulbs in your apartment without asking.

Cared for.

But there was another problem, Dex was nowhere to be seen either. He’d never shown up again after that night, and you were starting to get concerned.

Even though he didn’t show up every single day, missing several days in a row was out of character for him. You could only hope that he wasn’t dead or arrested somewhere.

It seemed silly to worry about him, especially with how competent he seemed. You didn’t steadily watch the news, but everyone in the city had heard of a man in a blue mask who could lodge a knife in your head faster than you could blink.

Bullseye.

He’d never told you it was him, but you weren’t an idiot, all the traits aligned. Not to mention his name, Dex, most likely short for Benjamin Pointdexter. The man who was sent to prison a while back for murder.

You didn’t care about any of that. Your only concern was that he was M.I.A. and it was out of character.

Maybe he just got bored, found someone else.

You ignored the slithering thought, knowing it’s not true.

Despite not knowing all of his life, you knew him, he was obsessive to a fault. His cleanliness, the order of his knives, and seeing you all fell into a cycling routine that he didn’t stray from.

He wouldn’t just dissapear.

Your leg shook nervously as you focused on the television. The news was covering a recent stock drop or something related. You were half listening for anything that could be related to him.

You were sure that an extremely wanted convict being detained would make front page news, so if anything happened, they’d talk about it here.

So far, it was nothing of substance, just the economy and a new court case with the slime-ball mayor.

You were shaking your leg so vigorously that you almost didn’t hear it at first. Your hand shot out, muting the tv before straining your ears.

There it was, a soft shuffling sound coming from your bedroom. You jumped up, heart fluttering in your chest as you rushed over there.

You only stopped short of your bedroom door to grab a nearby book, just in case it wasn’t Dex in your room and you needed a weapon.

Turns out, it was unnecessary, you saw him immediately upon entering, slumped against your open window.

“Dex-” His name was expelled in a relieved breath, but you only grew concerned again the more you looked at him.

Dark patches covered his mask and the fabric of his suit. His gloves were on, but you could see the clear glisten of blood coating them.

“Hey. Thought you’d be asleep. I can go soon, just gotta take a breather.”

You scoffed indignantly, quickly going over to him, “A breather? Jesus, what happened?”

“Not Jesus, just me.”

You glared at him. It was not the time for jokes, definitely not as he was dripping blood on your floor.

“You can explain later, here.” You supported him under his shoulder as you guided him to your bed.

“Gonna get it dirty.” He pushed back slightly as you tried to sit him down, but fell back anyway when you applied more force.

“It’s okay, I have other sheets. I’m worried about you right now.”

You could tell he was smirking based off the look in his eyes, further proven by the next statement. “Worried about me?”

You didn’t even bother hiding the emotion in your response, “Yes, I do. A lot.”

That made him quiet, glinting eyes searching your face for any hint of a joke or lie. He seemed to find none, but had no response for you. It was hard to tell his full expression behind the mask, and you found yourself sick of it.

Besides, it’s not like you didn’t know who he was.

Your fingers curled under the edge, lifting it gently, but a firm grip on your wrist stopped you.

“Ben, it’s okay.”

His eyes widened in slight surprise at your use of his first name, but it did the trick. The hand holding you fell away and you pulled the fabric fully off his face.

You sucked in a breath at the injuries before you. A trickle of blood coated his blond grey-flecked hair where it stuck to his forehead, and there was a bruise blooming on his cheekbone.

The lips you had admired not that long ago were sporting a cut, but even with all that, Dex didn’t appear to be in a lot of pain. His face showed an openness and tiredness that you’d never seen on him before.

Without thinking, you raised a hand to brush lightly over his mouth, relishing in the slight flutter of his eyes as you did so.

You couldn’t stop, addicted to the reaction. Your hand trailed from his lips to the side of his face, and over his sharp jawbone. You mapped out everything that was hidden to you before, ignoring the smear of blood on your hand.

His piercing gaze stayed fixed on you as he pressed his head into your palm. His only other movement was twitching hands where they rested over his thighs. He stayed still, not trying to stop you or rush you, just accepting.

It wasn’t until your fingertips brushed over his throat that he shivered beneath you. The movement was nearly imperceptible, but he had definitely tilted his head back slightly to give you more access.

It made something swirl in your abdomen. How much he trusted you, how willing he was beneath your hands. How good he looked, injuries and all.

You told him as such, and his eyebrows knit together like he had been hit.

“Don’t say that, you don’t know what you’re starting.” His voice was weak, barely a whisper in the quiet of the room.

“I do.”

“No you don’t. You said you care about me, I’m not easy to care for.” The words weren’t said in self deprecation or a stab at sympathy, just factual. He truly believed that care and tenderness wasn’t made for him.

It sent a pang through your heart, for so many years you held a similar sentiment about yourself. You were difficult to understand, to accept but he did, and you could do the same for him.

“I know.” You held his face in both palms, a hairsbreadth away from him, “Neither am I.”

Your lips meeting his seemed to ignite action within him, hands that were previously dormant snapping up to grab at your hips firmly.

You were pulled down to straddle his lap, already feeling a poking hardness in the fabric. It was your turn to shiver, giving an experimental grind forward as you continued to kiss him breathlessly.

That caused a deep groan to flood from his throat into your mouth. He quickly found purchase over your ass to guide you into repeating the movement.

While you grinded over the hard length in his pants, his tongue explored the expanse of your mouth, flicking over the ridges and smoothness inside. You could taste the uniqueness of him, but also the metallic tang of blood from his lip.

You only pulled away to breathe once the burning in your chest couldn’t be ignored. Chest heaving, you pulled back and watched as he did the same.

He couldn’t seem to see enough of you, eyes raking from your chest down your frame and back again. His lips were swollen and spit slicked, and you were sure you had a similar look of dishevelment.

His hands trailed up your spine and back down to where you sat on top of him. You could hear the swallow he took before speaking, “If I’m going to have you, it’s going to be all of you. If you go through with this, you’re not leaving me, you get that?” His voice was steady despite being out of breath, tone deadly serious.

You could read between the lines for the warning. There was no going back for Dex if you continued, no breakups, no do-overs.

Lucky for him you didn’t want any.

In lieu of response, you surged forward, attacking his mouth with your own as you drug yourself firmly over his crotch.

You gasped out a moan as the movement caught between your legs, right where you needed it most. But it wasn’t enough. You needed to be closer.

You shrugged off your top, throwing it to an unseen side of the room. Another shiver racked your body as lips made use of the newly exposed skin, nipping and sucking over your chest and sternum.

His fingers grabbed onto the latch of your bra, but you stopped him short. “No, get out of that suit first.”

He backed away from you with a half lidded gaze, trademark smirk flicking on his lips. “Yes ma’am.”

He seemed to enjoy watching you squirm as he unlatched all the zippers and buttons of his suit, moving much slower than necessary. The utility belt came off first, knives clinking as he threw them on your nightstand. The top part of his suit was soon to follow, dark fabric peeling away to reveal fair skin.

He wasn’t as injured as you’d assumed, just a dark blooming bruise on his ribs and left shoulder. Every other mark was old and weathered, the raised scars scattered across his torso spoke of years of pain.

You took him in unabashedly, eyes raking over pronounced pectorals and the defined abs that covered his stomach. Light hair dusted his chest and led in a trail past the waistband of his pants.

His smirk only widened as he watched you watching him. Patiently waiting, he sat there for your next move.

It was only fair that you lost the next bit of clothing, so you rose off him to shimmy out of your pants, leaving the underwear on.

His brow rose as he caught onto the little game you were playing. His pants came off quickly after, joining yours in a dark heap.

The only thing shielding the prominent bulge in his lap was dark grey briefs. They didn’t leave much to the imagination, clinging to the long rod of him and wrapping around solid thighs. You could see a dark patch in the fabric where he’d already started leaking, your core throbbing in response.

You settled on his lap again, smiling at the soft hiss he let out from the pressure. Your hand wrapped around his wrist, guiding him to your bra clasp as you trailed fingertips past the waistband of his briefs.

His fingers deftly unlatched the clasp, and the cover fell away right as you pulled his length free.

It slapped loudly against his lower stomach, smearing white across his skin and your hand.

His eyes weren’t focused on that though, only staring at your chest with intimidating focus. “God, the things I want’ta do to you.”

It was spoken under his breath so quietly, you were unsure if the words were meant for you to hear.

“So do them.”

He only laughed, leaning back on his elbows to watch you.

He knew what you wanted, he just wasn’t going to give it to you that easily. Your frustration only made him impossibly harder.

Despite his blasé act, you could see you were having an effect on him. Every rock of your hips made his cock twitch, a bead of white dribbling out the top. His neck and chest were covered in a flush, and every breath he took seemed labored. Shaky.

You decided to play his own game, fuck with him a little, “C’mon Dex, show me what you promised.”

You reached down, rubbing a thumb over the leaking slit between you. He let out a breathy moan, hips involuntarily bucking up into you.

You didn’t stop in your ministrations, leaning down to speak directly in his ear. “You said you wanted all of me, so take it. You have me.”

Your words caused another twitch in your hand. “You have me, I’m yours.”

The words were barely out your mouth when you were flipped onto your back, bouncing against the mattress. You let out a startled giggle at the movement, only sobering when you looked down.

The look Dex gave you made your heart stutter for a moment. The only way you could describe it was carnivorous. His eyes were dark and shadowed, and if you didn’t know him well enough to recognize the want in his expression, he looked almost pissed off.

It only made wetness pool in your core.

“You want this?” He left a trail of open mouthed kisses down your stomach.

It was a rhetorical question, but you nodded anyway.

“Where do you want me? Here?” He bit at your hipbone, soothing the flesh with a lick afterwards.

“Or here?” His breath ghosted across the damp patch of your panties, making you thrum in anticipation.

“Yes, right there.” Any more dilly dallying and you’d probably start begging. You had a feeling that’s exactly what he wanted.

“Hmm, interesting.” He ignored the area, trailing lips down your inner thighs. His hands gripped your knees, preventing you from closing yourself off to him.

He bit random spots all the way down your thigh, licking a stripe on the way up.

“Dex- c’mon.” You huffed. The feeling of his mouth on yours was amazing, but it wasn’t nearly enough and he knew it.

“Whose are you?” The words are spoken into your skin, in the crease of your hip.

“Yours.”

“And who do I belong to?” He grasped the waistband of your underwear between his teeth, dragging them down slowly.

“Me.”

You only saw the flash of a smile before his mouth was on you fully. You let out a shuddering moan as his lips latched onto your clit, sucking hard.

He juggled between your bundle of nerves and trailing his tongue down to your entrance, licking inside.

You could feel him groan against you as you grabbed a fistful of his hair, holding him steady.

Between your existing wetness and his mouth, you were soaking, juices dripping down to the bedsheets past his mouth.

His mouth traveled up again to focus on your nub while one of his hands snaked around to press two fingers against your entrance.

They slipped in easily, quickly building a rhythm trusting into you while his tongue lapped at you from the outside.

You couldn’t even make a sound as your peak quickly approached, your body just seized with the amount of pleasure rolling through you.

Your eyesight blanked out, and you took a few heaving breaths before you were able to find your voice again.

Even as your moans turned to over sensitive whimpers, he didn’t let up, only slowing down the movement of his hands and mouth. He seemed to be lost in the action, only focused on you and your enjoyment.

You had to yank his head back to get him to stop, and he did so with a bit of reluctance.

His hands trailed over you, running smoothing circles over your hips and legs.

Impatiently, you dug your heels into his back, nudging him upward towards you.

He followed happily, the same hungry expression on his face, except now there was a lack of tension. He seemed more relaxed, like he was the one who came and not you.

“I might not last too long. Don’t do this much, or at all really.” He analyzed your face after he’d said it, looking for any shift in your expression.

You were kind of shocked by the revelation, but weren’t put off by it at all. For a normal guy that looked like Dex, you’d assume they had a steady stream of people coming into their bed.

He wasn’t normal, and he definitely wasn’t the type to have one night stands. In fact, before tonight, you weren’t completely certain he was interested in sex at all.

You would’ve accepted him either way of course, but it was nice to know he shared the same want as you did.

“That’s fine, I just need you inside me.”

The words shocked a groan out of him, and he nuzzled his head into the juncture of your neck.

You could feel his hands wrap around your legs to reposition you accordingly.

He slid out of the last piece of fabric covering him and reached down to position his head at your entrance.

It slipped at first from the wetness, but after a few tries the tip caught onto you, slipping inside halfway.

The pressure punched the air out of you, mouth falling open in an ‘o’ shape. Even with his preparation it was a tight fit.

Dex let out a noise somewhere between a whine and a moan, dipping down to capture your mouth in his, siphoning heat into your mouth.

The taste of yourself on his tongue only heightened the experience, and you could barely catch your breath between that and his slow ruts forward.

Every movement pushed him further into you, and before you knew it he was sheathed inside you fully.

You both shuddered at the feeling, and you were sure you could feel every ridge and vein of him in your walls.

“Shit- you feel so good. I gotta pause for a sec.” He breathed against your mouth.

So you waited.

Until you didn’t.

His head tipped forward with a groan as you squeezed around him. One of his hands held your hip in a vice grip, sure to leave bruises later.

“Don’t do that.” His eyes flashed at you in warning.

You couldn’t even focus on a teasing response, you only wanted him to move.

Then he did, starting in shallow thrusts into you, building into longer drags where he pulled almost fully out before snapping into you again.

He grabbed your wrist, planting the palm firmly over his throat and guiding it to squeeze.

You followed the instruction even as his hand fell away, tightening around the corded muscles of his neck.

His eyes fluttered, hips stuttering before speeding up into a faster pace.

His breaths panted against your face as he pounded into you with quick succession. The angle shifted slightly, and he flashed a sharp grin at me hearing your higher pitch.

He pinpointed that spot, hitting it over and over again, only pausing to slip your ankles over his shoulders before continuing.

You couldn’t tell where you began and he ended, mind so blissed out. It was clear from your noises that you were reaching your peak again, and he slipped a hand down over your clit to accelerate it.

He didn’t rub, just pressed down his thumb firmly over you as you tightened around his shaft again.

The feeling of your fluttering walls made him follow right across the edge with you, letting out a shuddering moan as he pumped a few more times and released inside you.

All the strength seemed to sap from him once he came, body falling onto you heavily. You could still tell he was holding himself up a bit on his forearms in order to not crush you completely and you pulled him down solidly to increase the weight.

His rapid heart rate beat in unison with yours where you were pressed to his chest, the slick feeling of sweat and other fluids clinging to your bodies as he softened within you.

The time stretched on as you both sat there in breathless blissfulness, neither one eager to move positions.

His face hadn’t moved from where it sat nestled in your neck, warm breaths disturbing the strands of hair there. When he spoke, you felt it more than you heard it.

“You okay?” It was spoken with an air of unsureness that was unlike him. Based on what he’d said before, you had an idea of what his worries were.

“That was amazing.” And you weren’t lying, the entire experience had knocked a bit of your soul out your body and you were certain there’d be consequences of soreness the next day.

He made a humming noise, satisfied with the answer, and moved to lift off you.

A flare of panic lit up within you. Eventually, you’d have to go back to the real world, real responsibilities and concerns, but at the moment you didn’t want the stretch of peace to end. “Wait, not yet.”

He lowered himself back down immediately even though a frown creased his expression. “You need to get cleaned up, it might feel worse later.”

“Well,” you let out a soft chuckle, rubbing a hand along his scared spine, “that’s for later me to worry about. Just a bit longer.”

He didn’t make much argument about it, settling his head back over your chest where he gave soft nips at your collarbone.

Despite relishing the peacefulness, there was something else nagging at your mind.

“Hey Dex?”

He hummed out a response, still mapping you out with his mouth.

“What happened?” You didn’t have to clarify, you knew he knew that you were referring to the event that caused him to show up in your room covered in blood.

A soft sigh, and he was leaning back to respond, “The one who put a hit on you, he found out that I hadn’t exactly,” he paused deliberating the words, “followed instructions. He sent a team to finish the job, and I made sure that didn’t happen.”

“I won’t let anyone hurt you.” There was a burning in his eyes that showed the extent of violence he was capable of.

The idea of him choosing to not kill you even though he’d been ordered to do so, and fighting off anyone else who tried was… rousing to say the least.

His eyes tightened in a wince of overstimulation as you involuntarily tightened around him.

“It’s gonna be a bit longer for that.” He sounded like he detested that fact just as much as you did.

You grinned, “I’ll be counting down the minutes,” you were going to continue with something teasing, but the look on his face stalled you.

The light from your open window casted a bluish tint over his face, contouring the edges of features softly. He fixed you with a searching gaze, like you were the only thing worth looking at.

“I meant what I said before,” You started, “it’s no going back for me either. I’m with you.”

He traveled up to your face silently and your eyes fluttered closed in preparation. Instead of kissing you on the lips, his mouth pressed firmly over your forehead. The touch trailed down to press two consecutive pecks over your eyelids and finally melt against your mouth.

“I’m with you.”

You knew that no matter what was coming in your lives that you weren’t afraid, fully willing to delve into the future with the person that knew you best.

Div by: @pixopix

Your work just happened to be ridding the streets from legally protected by emotionally corrupt Anti-Vigilante Task Force agents. 

They weren’t exactly hard to track and they weren’t subtle when they swept through a place. They always used black gear, textbook formations, masks on, and a false sense of “order.” You’d been tracking them for weeks, picking them off where you could, dismantling routes, breaking patterns. Not out of heroism, really. You just didn’t like being hunted.

And they were definitely hunting you.

You were an “Asset Gone Rogue.” At least, that’s what you were in their files.

In truth, you were a former SHIELD operative. When the organisation collapsed, you were offered a government contract. You refused. After all, you were done working for people, for agendas. People are corrupt. Agendas were worse. The only person you trusted was yourself. 

Because you refused, because apparently, if you weren’t loyal to them you were a threat, the CIA and FBI had labeled you as a high-risk individual, and you knew they monitored the hell out of you. 

You didn’t mind, and you had nothing to be scared about. You had been on your best behaviour. You had been living a normal life since 2014. At least, as normal as it could be. Aliens still invaded, people still disappeared, the president turned into a rage monster, and you could be taken hostage by your own void of a mind any time. But hey. Privileges, right?  At least you were still alive, and nobody was out to get you. 

Until Fisk became mayor. 

That’s when your profile got reactivated. Fisk saw many unaccounted for “assets” as a threat. So they slapped the label “vigilante” on you and processed your arrest warrant. 

The first night they tried to get you, they shot up your favourite bar. Two bartenders got caught in the crossfire.  

They were your friends. 

Layla gave you staff discounts and went to concerts with you. Darren had a roommate who works in a dispensary. He’d get them for cheap and you would all get high on a rooftop, chatting shit about life and how absurd the existence of your consciousness was. You’d told them that one day, when they had saved enough money to open up their own bar, they’d need a bouncer. Private security was important, and you promised to volunteer. 

Layla would laugh and ask, “You? C’mon. You’re not stopping nobody from coming in.”

Darren would say, “My cousin’s like 6’5. He can do the job.”

You’d laugh, because they didn’t really know your past. They didn’t know your skills and what you had done to survive. They didn’t know the blood on your hands. 

You’d take a drag out of the blunt. “Trust me, man. I’m scary as fuck.”

They’d laugh and say, “If you say so.”

But now they were six feet underground because they were caught in the crossfire meant for you.

And no, you had never intended to go back to the life of being judge, jury, and executioner. But your friends were fucking dead. So if they want a vigilante, they’ll get a vigilante.

Your only advice to them: be careful what you wish for. 

Because if there’s one thing you’re good at doing with your hands, it’s killing for sport. 

—

What you didn’t expect when you started to hunt them… was competition.

On the first night, you found the warehouse already ruined. Knives where there shouldn’t have been knives. Pencils where they shouldn’t be pencils. And glass where they shouldn’t be glass, all stuck in lethal ways on the bodies of Task Force. 

You crouched beside one, studying the entry wound left by what looked like a stapler. 

You smiled a little. “‘M not the only one, huh?”

—

The second time you tracked AVTF agents, you found them alive. 

It must be my lucky day, you thought to yourself, sliding your brass knuckles on. 

Before long, you were seeing red, clashing metal against bone. You had knocked out the breath out of their lungs. The dull, sickening rhythm of a fight that had already been decided, you knew the pendulum was swinging in your favour. 

One agent swung wide after you disarmed him. He was sloppy.

You stepped in.

Your knuckles cracked across his cheek with a sharp snap, his head whipping to the side before his body followed. He dropped hard, and he didn't move after that.

Another came at you from behind.

You didn’t turn.

You just shifted your weight and drove your elbow back into his ribs. You felt a crack; then pivoted and planted your fist straight into his jaw.

He folded.

You exhaled, rolling your shoulders like this was nothing more than a warm-up. Blood slicked your knuckles, dripping in lines down your fingers. You flexed once, admiring the work. 

The man with the broken ribs, unfortunately, was still alive. He reached for a gun, only to be stopped by a throwing knife sent the direction of his neck. In response, he let out a blood-curdling scream. 

You, however, was the one to take the knife off him, taking the pressure off the wound and letting him abruptly bleed out. You took the knife and sheathed it in one of your pockets. 

Shiny, you thought. It’s mine now.

“Messy,” you heard a voice say from the darkness. 

You tilted your head. Then, slowly, you turned.

The man you saw stood at the mouth of the alley like he’d always been there.

He was tall and lean, but the suit caught your attention first.

It was dark blue with silver accents. Sleek, almost seamless against his frame. Not tactical in the bulky, obvious way AVTF agents wore theirs. This was built for movement, not protection. A mask covered his face, but he was not concealing his identity. It was made evident when he took off his mask, presumably so you could get a better look at him. His hair was sandy blond or light brown, you couldn’t tell in the lighting. He had a scar on his cheek, but you kinda liked it. It suited him. 

What unsettled you, however, was how his eyes tracked you.

Your lips curled into a smile before you could stop it.

“Oh?” you said, almost amused. “You got notes?”

His eyes dropped to your hands. To the brass knuckles, slick with fresh blood, catching what little light filtered into the alley.

“You were in my line of fire,” he said bluntly.

You let out a huff of laughter, glancing around at the bodies scattered across the pavement before looking back at him. “I’m pretty sure I was in the middle of my kill.”

To emphasize it, you stepped back, stomping hard onto the wrist of the last agent trying to crawl away.

You felt bone crunch under your heel.

You didn’t even look down when you finished it, dropping a quick, brutal strike with your knuckles that silenced him.

You lifted your hand slightly, tilting it so he could see the blood coating the metal clearer. “You see something unfinished?”

His eyes followed the movement again, but ended up at your face. “They were mine.”

Before you could stop yourself, you stepped toward him. Close enough to test, not close enough to threaten.

“Well.” Your head tilted. “You should’ve come down here and gotten your hands dirty with me.”

“I don’t need to be close,” he replied.

“Mm.” You hummed, unconvinced, dragging your gaze back up to meet his. “Shame. You’re missing out.”

“And you probably compensate for your terrible aim with proximity,” he said, stepping forward. You could see the depth of his eyes now, the exact shade of it. And they were beautifully hazel, like universes were swimming in them.

“It’s more fun,” you shrugged. “I like it when I feel it.”

You saw the smallest shift at the corner of his mouth. A smile. 

“Oh,” you said with a cynical grin. “There it is. You do have a personality.”

The tension didn’t ease, but it changed. It was less of a standoff, more like respect being built in real time.

“Got a name?” you asked casually, like you weren’t standing in the middle of a massacre flirting with a stranger.

A fraction of a second passed before he answered. “Dex.”

It fit him.

You nodded once, like you approved. “Dex,” you repeated, tasting it.

His eyes narrowed slightly. “You?”

You clicked your tongue, shaking your head. “Tsk. Tsk.” You stepped a little closer. “I’m not that easy.”

Dex managed a real laugh. “I didn’t think you were.”

That sounded less like a dismissal, more like interest. It was the first time in a long time that Dex was interested in something he didn’t understand. 

—

You kept running into each other. 

Three days later, he had already finished circling the perimeter of a Task Force safe house you planned on infiltrating when you got there.

Two agents dropped before you even stepped into the scene, and you knew who it was immediately, and his methods were bound to flush them out of hiding. 

You barely had time to crack your knuckles before an agent rushed at you, thinking you were responsible.

You handled him up close. It was quick and brutal. Four more came up to you and you handled them, too. Dex handled the rest.

When it was over, you glanced at the bodies, then at him. “You stalking me?”

“You’re predictable,” he replied.

You smirked. “And yet, here I am. Still alive.”

“…For now,” he said. There was something almost playful in it.

A week later, you found yourself dockside on a shipping yard, falling into place with him. At this point, you’ve started actively looking for each other before fighting. 

This time, you moved without speaking, like you’d done this a hundred times before.

You drew them in. Dex picked them off.

At one point, you ducked just as a knife flew past your ear and dropped the man behind you.

You didn’t even look.

“Gotta be careful,” he called.

“Relax,” you shot back. “I trust you.”

Dex looked down, unsure of what to do with that information. “You shouldn’t,” he finally said. 

You grinned. “Too late.”

By the time it happened again, it was a pattern.

You’d show up. He’d already be there. Or vice versa.

You caught his eye across the street once, both of you watching the same target.

You tilted your head as you fell into step behind him. “You gonna share?”

“Depends,” he shrugged.

“On?”

“Whether you slow me down.”

You stepped closer, just enough to blur the line. “Or speed you up.”

That got you a sweet smile. “We’ll see.”

And somewhere between the blood, the banter, and the way neither of you ever missed when it mattered—

“The enemy of my enemy…,” you trailed off once while glancing at him, as another body hit the ground.

Dex eyes locked on to yours.

“…is useful,” he finished. Whether or not he meant it, is a different question altogether. 

After that meeting, you finally gave him your name.

—

Dex was already there on the rooftop of the insurance building when you arrived.

He was perched at the edge like he belonged to the skyline more than the ground, body angled forward, rifle steady. The city moved below him in noise and chaos, but up here, around him, there was only control.

“You’re late,” he said, not even turning. 

He learned your footsteps, you realised. How flattering.

You landed behind him, boots scraping against gravel, rolling your shoulder like you hadn’t just sprinted across half the block. “Just got back from a hot date.”

That got a pause. Was he… jealous?

“Really?”

You gave him a deadpan look he couldn’t see. “Yeah. With candlelight and classical music. Maybe a little murder after dessert.”

His head tilted just slightly.

You breathed out, waving it off as you stepped closer. “Of course not. I don’t have time for dates.” You huffed, almost amused. “My laundry, though? That needed folding.”

As if relieved, you saw his shoulder relax, just a little.

“Target’s moving,” he said.

You leaned beside him, peering over the ledge. Three agents in a tight formation. It was predictable.

“Mm,” you hummed. “You taking the shot, or do you want me to make it interesting?”

“I’ve got it.”

You stayed anyway, close enough to feel the intensity rolling off him. The way everything in him narrowed down to a single point. It was… fascinating. A different kind of violence than yours. 

His finger almost tightened on the trigger when you saw a light flickering across the street. On the opposite rooftop.

Your stomach dropped. This was a trap.

“Dex—”

The shot was fired through the air, and it was not his.

Your body moved before your brain caught up, instinct overriding logic. You lunged forward, slamming into him hard enough to knock his aim off just as the bullet tore through the space where his head had been, and into your shoulder. 

It felt like impact, like it slammed straight through you, stole the air from your lungs, hollowed you out from the inside.

Your breath hitched as your body folded into his, vision staggering at the edges.

“Shit!” Dex caught you before you dropped, one arm locking around you like a reflex. He looked to the opposite rooftop, and that coward of an agent had gone. They probably saw that they got you and took it as a win, leaving to safety and decided to take him down another day. 

Or maybe he was waiting for a cleaner shot.

“What did you do?” He demanded, almost a sneer.

You tried to laugh, but it came out thin and uneven. “You’re welcome?”

Blood was already soaking through your side, warm and slick, sticking fabric to skin. You could feel it spreading with every heartbeat.

Another shot rang out.

Oh, so that bastard was still there. 

Dex knew he had to go now. 

His grip tightened on you as he shifted, adjusted, fired,  like the world had narrowed down to a single correction.

A body dropped across the street.

“You’re hit,” he said, attention turning back to you. 

You huffed weakly. “Wow. Observant.”

Your knees buckled. This time, they didn’t recover. He held you up anyway.

“Why?” he asked.

You blinked, trying to focus on him through the blur creeping into your vision. “What?”

“Why the fuck would you do that?”

You let your head tip slightly, a crooked, strained smile pulling at your lips. “Wow. No ‘thank you’? I’m hurt.”

“You are hurt.”

“Yeah,” you breathed, looking at your wound and thinking oh well. “At least I’ll get a cool scar from it.” Your hand reached up, fingers tracing the healed cut on his cheek gently, impossibly intimately, “like yours.”

His teeth tightened and his grip shifted, almost like he was anchoring you in place. Almost as if he was scared to lose you. 

What a foreign feeling, indeed.

“Stay with me,” he said.

You let out a small, shaky laugh. “That bad, huh?”

“Stay. With me.” You’ve never heard him sound so… serious.

Your fingers curled weakly into his jacket. “…Alright.”

For once, you didn’t fight him. You didn’t joke or deflect.

Your head dipped slightly forward, brushing closer to him as your strength started to slip in uneven waves. “You owe me,” you murmured.

“What?” He asked, as if he couldn’t believe where your priorities lay right now. 

You managed the ghost of a grin. “Saving your life. Obviously.”

“I didn’t ask you to,” he managed, exasperated.

You exhaled, breath catching halfway. “Yeah… well. I did.”

He adjusted you again, more carefully this time, like he was suddenly aware of every inch of you he was holding.

“I’m getting you out of here,” he said.

You tilted your head just enough to look at him, closer than you had ever been before.

His eyes weren’t steady anymore. 

“C-Careful,” you managed, voice fraying at the edges. “You’re s-starting to sound like you care.”

Dex tried not to look at you, not to panic. But then, he simply said, “I do.”

Your breath hitched, not from the pain this time.

“…Huh,” you whispered.

And for once, as you lost consciousness, head lolling back, you had nothing to say back.

—

You came back to the land of the living slowly.

You didn’t just wake up all at once. It started with fragments. From the faint hum of electricity, to the clean sheets beneath you. You weren’t at a hospital— there were no sirens, no shouting, no chaos, just… peace and quiet.

Your eyes open, just a little. You saw the ceiling first. It was clean. No cracks, no stains.

And it was definitely not your ceiling.

You shifted slightly, and pain flared sharp enough to drag a groan out of you. Your hand instinctively moved to your shoulder, fingers brushing over a clean, tight bandage, wrapped meticulously well.

Your eyes drifted, taking in the room. It was aggressively minimal. It had a bed, an armchair, and a tv. The kitchen, on the other side of the studio apartment, was spotless. Everything was placed with intention, like nothing existed here unless it served a purpose.

“You decorate like a serial killer,” you muttered, voice rough from disuse.

“You’re awake,” Dex said. He was standing by the window, half-turned toward you, like he’d been watching the city and listening for you at the same time.

You let your head fall back against the pillow. “Was hoping I died. This is disappointing.”

You could tell he was rolling his eyes, but he managed a chuckle. “Tragic.”

You could feel his attention on you as you turned your head slightly, meeting his eyeline. “…How long?”

“Eleven hours and forty-three minutes.”

“Mm.” You swallowed, throat dry. “You carry me all the way here?”

“Yes.”

A faint smirk tugged at your lips. “Didn’t know you cared that much.”

Dex shook his head, but he gave no indication of confirming or denying your theory. 

You pushed yourself up to your elbows, wincing as your body protested. You tapped the space on his bed. “Come here.”

He didn’t move. “Why?” he asked.

You tilted your head, studying him. “I just got shot for you. The least you can do is sit.”

He stopped in his tracks, as if thinking what to make of that request. But in the end, he sat on the edge of the bed, not too close, not too far.

You watched him for a second. “You’re weird,” you said.

“Mmhm,” he managed a laugh.

“At least you’re self-aware.”

You let silence befall you again, but this time it stretched softer.

You leaned back slightly, exhaling through the lingering ache. “You ever get tired of it?”

“Of what?”

“All of it.” You gestured vaguely. “Of this.”

“No,” he said, and it was resolute. 

You studied him, like you didn’t quite believe that. “I do,” you admitted quietly.

That earned his attention.

Your gaze drifted to the ceiling again, voice losing its edge. “When I left, I thought that was it. No more orders, no more handlers, no more… being pointed at things and told to make them disappear.”

Your teeth tightened slightly.

“I tried to be normal,” you continued. “Did the whole thing. I had a job, got friends, made a routine.” You managed a faint humorless smile. “Turns out I’m not built for normal.”

Dex didn’t interrupt. In fact, it surprised him just how much he liked listening to you. 

“They came after me anyway,” you said. “Didn’t matter that I walked away. To them, I don’t get to just… stop being what they made me.”

“And that is…?” Dex looked at you now.

“A killer,” you replied, sighing, “that’s all I’m good for.”

“Well,” Dex started, and for the first time, you could actually detect the sympathy in his tone, “that makes the two of us.”

You watched him from where you were half-propped against his pillows, arm slung carefully across your middle, bandage still tight around your shoulder. The pain had dulled from unbearable to manageable. It was annoying, but distant. What wasn’t distant was him. The way he sat there, elbows on his knees, hands loosely clasped, eyes not quite meeting yours.

That was new.

“I knew who you were,” Dex finally admitted, breaking the silence. It was as if this secret had been eating him alive. “Even before you told me your name.”

“That so?” you replied lightly, like it didn’t matter. Like your name hadn’t gotten people killed before. 

He nodded once, finally looking at you. “Your MO was familiar."

Your lips curved faintly. “Flattered.”

“I knew I read something about brass knuckles,” he continued. “Used by a close range combat specialist.”

You just watched him, eyes sharper now.

“I was a fed,” he added. “I read your files a few years ago.”

That made you smile properly.

“Yeah?” you said, amused. “How much did you remember?”