The sun’s been up for an hour now. Normally you’d be up before the rays reach your vision, but the unusually comfortable position you find yourself in decided otherwise. A cave isn’t exactly the first thing one may think of when it comes to comfort. This one, though, had the smoothest stone and purest pools of water that could only be described as a unique kind of heaven.

Your coat on the bottom, his on top. You can both rest under it that way. The fur is no longer cold, easing the goosebumps once dancing on your skin the night before. Attempting to open, your eyelids feel too heavy, weighing down the contrasting feather-like lashes that bat once, then twice.

A yawn rises from your chest, too aware of the world to fall back asleep now. Awake? Certainly, but not enough to get up just yet.

His heartbeat steadies your already wandering thoughts. Jon Snow, a man of many titles. Never quite a Stark, once of the Night’s Watch, now of the free, and soon after, your man, as you are his. The one who’s dropped all titles and gained the honor of sharing this very cave with you every night.

The same man whose chest rises and falls right under your head, his arm kept tight around your back through the dark hours. You scoot closer to him, if that was even possible. Your hand rests where his abs are relaxed, the muscles still prominent when your fingers glide up and down softly. Your palm lays on his chest now, wanting to give him as much rest as he needs.

He stirs then, and you watch his eyebrows push together before his features ease again. A few minutes pass with no major action, just steady breaths and the occasional scooch to fully embrace his warmth. You weren’t sure how long this would last, but you never wanted it to end.

“You’re awake.”

Too bad.

It was an almost hilariously blunt statement spoken deep and gruff, followed by a yawn from Jon. His hand runs up and down your arm, as if to ground himself amidst adjusting to his conscious state.

“And I’ve been. Just wanted to keep watch.” you speak gently, tilting your head up to get a better look at his face. His eyes are low, meeting yours almost instantly.

You find him to be most vulnerable at times like these, and it’s all in the eyes. They run along every corner of your face like he’s struck the luckiest coin, but you were much more than that.

“That’s usually my job.” he mutters with little effort. He’s right. It’s more often that he’s up much before you, sometimes out hunting breakfast before you wake to him crouching over and admiring your morning form. The guilt on his poor, perfect face is shown when he speaks.

“A pretty face like yours requires many hours of rest. You know stress can catch up.” he watches you smile after your words, the sight reminding him of all the right reasons he ended up separated from his loyal men.

He lets out a huff, the small flustered smile making up for all the things he wanted to say. If that were true, how come yours is always prettier?

“I’m not stressed.” Is what does leave his lips, “Not with you.”

Your head dips down, resting on his chest again. Now it’s your turn to blush. His other hand tangles with your own, rough and warm.

“They could be looking for us.” you state simply, playing with his fingers and smoothing yours over the callouses on his palm. Tormund and Orell, that is, likely searching for the crow and his missus.

“Let them. I’ve got what I need.” he gets quieter towards the end, still hesitant when it comes to romantics. Not that this met up to the flirtatious banter a couple would have over a lavish dinner, but he wouldn’t be able to handle that either.

“What’s gotten into you this morning, Snow?” you prop yourself on your elbow, getting a better look at his expression. “The key to your heart is a night with a spear wife?”

He would have liked to respond. Truly. But when your hand moves up, up, up, and tangles right in the pile of curls atop his head, he’s gone. He hates when you’re right.

He hates it with all of the burn in his heart and the love in his eyes. The hate that travels through his veins, that cuts the circuits in his brain when you lean over his face. When your eyes trace down to his lips, using the locks of hair in your hand to angle him and land the perfect kiss.

It wouldn’t be a kiss with a man of the Watch if he struggled to find rhythm for at least a few seconds. He’s not particularly experienced, yet a clueless girl wouldn’t suspect a thing. That’s coming from experience as the clueless girl yourself. It’s not long before he melts into it, both hands sliding on your hips under the blanket of fur and jaw tilting to capture your upper lip.

Pulling back all too soon, you hear him nearly gasp. How dare you.

“You’ve got chills. I figured you had gotten over the cold by now.” you’re half on top of him now, surely enjoying the view. His eyes still glossy from waking up, kiss-swollen lips just barely parted like he’s expecting another. “Suppose I could leave a bit more warmth with you.”

Gods.

He’s barely woken up fully and you’re sending his mind in spirals. Fingers smoothing through his scalp, moving down to cup the side of his face.

Right before you go for one last kiss, the padding of footsteps echoes around the cave walls. Jon is quick to sit up, covering you from any view the mysterious person might want. But what sounded like footsteps turn into closer, more quiet—paws.

Sure enough, the giant shadow of a familiar direwolf rises before shrinking smaller when the pup actually comes into vision.

He seemed to have just woken up too, a yawn and a shake starting his morning off before settling on one of the rocks above the lake to, naturally, fall back asleep. His productivity was admirable.

“Your guard dog’s here. Don’t think we should take any chances, though. Handsome boys don’t get an exception.” you, cruel, cruel you, start grabbing your clothes from the side of where you rested. You’ve not leaving! You promised you’d keep him warm!

“We can be quiet.” Jon flips over to his hands, looking down at you now. His head lowers to your collarbone, leaving light kisses and bites scattered about. “Can’t go now…”

Your hands rush to his back, decorated with scratch marks and nail imprints from prior antics.

They stung when he stretched, but only a little.

“Not now..” you breathed, trying to push his shoulders away, but it’s no use. You act on instinct, face turning so his lips can trail back up to your neck. “I promise, tonight. We have to go—”

“Must you interrupt it?” he pauses, waiting until you finish talking to move to the other side of your neck. His hands are working between smoothing the fur beneath you and occasionally running along your thighs. He needs to make sure you’re comfortable, but forbid he gets just a tad greedy. “I know what you want. They’ll have to wait.”

“You know nothing, Jon Snow.”

“Aye.” he’s only getting lower, but lifts his head once to gaze up at you one more time before his focus switches to something more important at the moment. “I know some things..” words get muffled in your skin, tender touches blurring your vision. “I can show you again.”

⟡ extra yap — forgive me 😞 this is kind of all over the place but i very much enjoyed writing this.. i love him

You’re barely standing, crimson-stained knuckles clutching onto the edge of the doorframe like a lifeline. Your dark clothes bear sporadic slices and rips, blood clearly visible underneath and soaking the fabric that now clings to your skin. He hopes that most of it isn’t yours, but with how pale your face looks, he can’t count on it.

“Hey, Dex,” you murmur, trying to smile but it comes out as a grimace. “Hope it’s not a bad time.”

He doesn’t answer, just surges forward and scoops you up into his arms, your own wrapping around his neck instinctively.

Rage, white-hot and corrosive, floods through him—rage for whoever dared to do this to you, that they warped your first visit to his place into something filled with shock and horror. That they tried to destroy the only light in his darkened life.

Whoever “they” were, he would make them pay. Not with his normal expediency, oh no, their demise would be drawn-out; choking on their own spattering blood and pain while he watched. And he was going to enjoy every goddamn second of it.

You curse under your breath and it snaps him back to the present. Then, he does what he spent so many years perfecting: he shoves the rage down and buries it, ignores the metallic buzzing in his brain ordering him to punish, punish, punish.

He gently lowers you onto the couch, treating you like the most precious artwork he’s ever seen. You don’t wince too badly as he does it, though, which he takes as an encouraging sign.

“What’s the worst of it?” he asks as calmly as he can.

You sigh.

“Pretty sure I cracked a rib, maybe both, I’m not sure.” You tap your shoulder. “Got stabbed here. And I think my hip got grazed on the way out, but I didn’t have the luxury of time to check. Doesn’t feel like the bullet’s in there, though. You chuckle. “My lucky day.” You pause, shaking your head as you stare up at the ceiling. “And I’m just … tired.”

Dex drops to your level, wanting to do so many things at once.

Part of him wants to hold your hand, part of him wants to lick every last drop of blood off you, and part of him also wants to scream at you—that you should’ve been more careful. Because didn’t you know how special you were, how utterly irreplaceable you were to him? Sure, you’d had injuries before—a natural job hazard—but nothing like this. He could’ve lost you.

That thought cuts through the vestiges of the remaining anger, flooding his veins with ice. He can’t lose you, he just can’t.

“I know it’s really hard. But you’re safe now,” he says, nodding vigorously, trying to adopt the steady, soothing tone he learned back at the Suicide Hotline. “I’m gonna make sure you’re ok. I’ll be right back.”

“And I’ll be right here,” you deadpan, giving him a flicker of a smile through your split lip. A glimmer of relief ripples through him—if you can still smile, your injuries probably aren’t immediately fatal.

He jogs into his room and rips down the medical kit from his closet. He’s used it on himself plenty of times, sure, but this is the first time he’s grabbed it for someone else.

And then the truth suddenly dawns on him:

You needed him.

In the most primal, intimate way imaginable: to keep you alive. And you trusted him to do it.

Him. You chose him. No one else.

He gives himself a second to savor that truth, a wide grin breaking over his face as his eyes close. Was it fucked up to feel happy right now? Absolutely. But how could he not?

It might not have looked like anything he’d envisioned, but … maybe your arrival was better than that. Of course, he didn’t want you hurt, but he couldn't deny there was no better opportunity to prove to you that he was worthy, that he was valuable. That he could be good and that he was good for you.

And he sure as hell wasn’t going to blow it.

Taking a second to rearrange his features back to a look of focused concern, he walks back out into the living room.

“Shoulder first,” he says, popping open the kit and sliding on the latex gloves. He’s rooting around for antiseptic and when he looks up, his heart nearly stops at the sight of you there, bare skin and sports bra exposed as your hoodie now hangs half on and half off.

You've only gotten one arm free though, wincing as you start to raise the other.

“Goddammit,” you huff, and then your eyes meet his.

Dex's pulse immediately quickens, seeming to reverberate straight through his whole body.

“Can I …” He swallows, mouth suddenly dry. “You want some help?”

You nod without hesitation, so Dex slowly scoots forward, trying to keep his breathing even.

He’s so close to you. So, so close. It’s not fair—how can you still be so fucking pretty when you’re covered in blood? And are you somehow even more attractive to him because of it? The vivid, scarlet remnants of chosen violence across your face; clear, undeniable proof that, in some way, your internal wiring was twisted up like his.

No time to unpack all of that right now, though. So his hands—feared weapons in all other circumstances—go feather light on your wrist as he lifts your arm up, gently sliding the sleeve forward. He guides the blood-stained fabric up and over your head, an electric current flooding through him as his fingertips brush against your ribcage.

For the two seconds your vision is obscured, he can't help himself. His eyes flicker down, roaming across the contours of your chest, the bright colors of tattoos no longer hidden, scars and fresh wounds alike.

He drags his eyes back up as he tosses the sweater over the couch. Now, there you are, bruised and battered and half-undressed about a foot away from him. And somehow, you never flinched at his touch. And your eyes are still trained on his.

"Thanks."

"No problem," he replies, his chest tight. Seconds pass but it feels like an eternity to Dex as you both sit there in the stillness, and it feels like he's hovering at the edge of something more, something real, something that both scares and enthralls him far more than bullets or blades ever have.

He drinks you in, practically hypnotized at this point, and it's only when his eyes betray him, flickering down to your split lip, that he remembers what he's supposed to be doing.

“Right," he says, clearing his throat and turning you slightly to get a closer look at your shoulder.

"You'll need stitches, but I've seen worse," he says, and you hum in acknowledgement. He grabs some antiseptic and a cloth, brushes it over the wound, and watches for your reaction: you frown slightly but don't move.

Then, onto the scissors, needle, and thread, lining his hands up at the start of the wound. "You ready?"

You nod and Dex gets to work, finding a rhythm as he sews you up, skilled fingers moving with ease. It only takes a few minutes before he finishes and snips off the remaining thread.

“Done,” he says, gently brushing his thumb under the stitch, relishing any excuse to touch you.

You turn and look down.

“That was fast.” You smile. “Nice work, Dr. Dex.”

“Well, you’re a good patient,” he replies, and he’s not lying. You barely shifted as he wove the needle through you. “Give me two seconds, ok?”

You nod again and he walks to the kitchen, grabbing a glass and filling it with the coldest water he can.

He walks back over and hands it to you, being sure to brush your fingers with his.

“Drink.” The corner of his mouth twitches. “Doctor’s orders.”

“Aye aye, Doc.” You take a sip and start to shift up slightly on the couch, a low hiss escaping your throat.

Dex is there in an instant, one hand wrapping around your waist to guide you up further as the other places the cup on the side table next to you.

"Let me look at the rest, now." His fingers pause for a fraction of a second, hovering just above your torso, deep bruises blooming like indigo flowers. It's unusual for him, being so tentative. He's not used to it, the hesitation, the nerves, of trying to be delicate for anyone.

You're the exception.

Slowly, he pushes in against your bones, feels the slight crunching underneath his touch. Your body pulls away reflexively, and for the first time, you flinch as your eyes shut tight.

“Yeah, that’s definitely broken,” he says.

“Mm." Your eyes are still closed, but there's now a strained grin on your face. "I think the proper medical term you’re looking for is ‘totally fucked,’ Doc.”

And Dex can’t help himself—he laughs. And so do you, the bright sound reverberating inside him, filling up all the empty spaces.

It's short lived though, your laughter morphing into a pained cough as you grab your ribcage with one hand, his forearm with the other.

It's not like your grip is anywhere close to hurting him, but part of Dex wants you to. To dig your nails in, draw blood, leave bruises; to let him absorb your pain as his own.

"Give it all to me," his brain begs. "Let me take it."

"Jesus Christ,” you mutter, your fingertips loosening against him. But before he can get too disappointed, instead of pulling away, your hand stays, and warmth surges through his entire being.

He looks downward toward your hip. You're right, you got lucky—it's a shallow graze, no remnants present. Reluctantly, he slides his arm out from under yours, quickly repeating the same process as before: antiseptic, needle, thread, stitch. He's just about done when you speak up:

"Do you have any Vicodin?”

He frowns, feels a twinge of panic. He doesn’t.

“No. But I can go get you some," he quickly adds.

“From where?” you ask, amusement evident in your tone. “Mr. FBI's got a narcotics plug?”

Dex shakes his head. “There’s always medicine cabinets. Hospitals. I’ll find some."

“And people say chivalry is dead," you say lightly, and then your tone shifts, gives way to something more sincere.

"Thank you. I don’t know what I would’ve done without you today.”

“Probably collapse in the street,” he says dryly, hoping the joke will make you smile. It does, and he melts.

God, he is so fucked. Absolutely, pathetically, fucked for you. And he doesn't mind it.

“That’s fair," you reply. "But really, Dex. Thank you.”

“Yeah, of course." His eyes meet your own. "I’d do anything for you.”

Your gaze burns back through him.

“Do you mean that?” you ask quietly.

Dex nods, his heart racing. It feels like he’s moving through water as he decides what he’s about to do, and then, somehow, he just does it; places his hand on your thigh and draws slow circles with his thumb.

You lean into the touch, moving even closer toward him, your leg now grazing his own, fully igniting something deep and buried within him.

“Well, in that case, I have a request.”

Dex swallows, tries to remember how to breathe, how to think, but it’s hard—really hard—because how is he supposed to function properly when you’re there with that voice and that look and that goddamn half-undressed body of yours?

“Yeah?” he asks, his voice slightly strangled. “Name it.”

“Kiss me.”

Finally.

And so he does, grabbing the hinge of your jaw as he brings your lips to his, desperation and want drowning out the usual din in his head; obscuring everything that isn’t you, you, absolutely fucking perfect you.

You’re right there with him, nails scratching at the back of his hair as you coax his mouth further open with yours, sliding your tongue in to taste his. There's the faintest tinge of iron, and his body hums with a strange exhilaration as he realizes he’s tasting your blood—tasting you from the inside out.

It’s everything all at once: hard and soft and sweet and fast, too fast for Dex’s brain to keep up with, and so he reacts to your touch without thinking, grabbing your hips and yanking you onto his lap because he needs you closer, needs all of you, now.

But it all comes to a screeching halt as you pull back from him with a gasp, not from pleasure, but with pain.

“Fuckfuckfuckfuck,” you hiss, grabbing at your ribcage, and the last syllable is laced with faintest whimper that floods Dex with dread, his emotions spinning on a dime.

He hurt you. He had one fucking job: to make you feel good. And he couldn’t even do it right.

“Pathetic,” his brain hisses at him. “You ruined your chance. You always ruin everything.”

“Shit, I’m so, so sorry,” he says, panicking. “I wasn’t thinking, I just-“

Your voice overlaps with his.

"No, no, it’s ok, it’s not your fault. I was, uh, I was definitely all for it.” You smile, brushing some of his now-disheveled hair back from his forehead, and his anxiety lessens.

“I'll just have to make it up to you when I’m not falling to pieces.” You trace his jawline with your nails, sending shivers through him, your eyes reflecting back the same hunger that fills his own.

“I'm nowhere near done with you yet.”

Thank fucking God. He hadn't ruined everything.

“I’m counting on that,” he murmurs. He pauses, biting at the corner of his lip.

Dex has never done drugs before, convinced that they’d just fuck up his mind further (and the FBI tends to frown on illicit substances). But now, sitting here next to you, he wonders if this is what addiction feels like: this insatiable, pulsing current through him demanding more, more, more; willing to do anything at all if it means he can keep the high going. Even if it’s just a small taste.

“If I’m more careful though … can I kiss you again?”

You smirk slightly, propping your head on your arm against the top of the couch.

“How long have you thought about this? About me and you?”

Dex chuckles.

“It's, uh, gonna sound like a shitty cliche, but probably since the day we met."

“Good. Me too.” You shift forward, your tone softening. “Now, come here.”

Dex does just what you ask, kissing you gentler and slower this time as he savors you more fully—the feel of your lips against his, your face cupped in his hand, burning it all into his memory.

You pull back first, grazing your lips against his neck as you turn to rest your head there, nestling into him like it's the most natural thing in the world.

His hand finds yours and you sit there like that, together in the quiet; taking in the sounds of the city drifting in from his open window.

"You ... you need anything else right now?" he asks.

You shake your head against him. "Right now, just you."

Just you.

Dex could laugh at the absurdity of it—just him? Who's ever needed him before? Who's ever chosen him before?

"Actually, I lied." You sit up. "There's one more thing I need.”

Of course, there it is. You need to leave, you need to tell him this was a mistake. You need someone else.

"Yeah?" he asks and his hand squeezes yours, subconsciously trying to keep you close.

"Can I shower and borrow some clothes?" You smile. "I'll do my best to keep the stitches dry, I'm not gonna ruin all your hard work."

Oh. Relief floods through him. You're staying. You're staying. He didn't fuck everything up.

“Yeah, yeah, of course you can.”

You follow him down the hall as he grabs you a towel from the closet. Then, he switches on the light in his room, opens the dresser drawer.

"I, uh, I'm not sure what you're looking for, but you can pick whatever you want."

Your hand runs over the neatly folded clothes, settling on one of his old FBI t-shirts and some grey sweatpants.

"These work." You stand up on your tiptoes and kiss his cheek, his skin immediately heating up underneath.

"Thanks, babe."

Babe. You say it so easily, like it's nothing, but it's everything. You're speaking like he's something precious, something familiar.

Like he's yours.

"You're welcome," he replies, voice barely above a whisper, and he sits down at the edge of his bed as you walk into the bathroom.

As soon as you shut the door, he falls backward onto the mattress. He stares up at the ceiling and lets himself grin, runs his hands down his face in utter disbelief.

Then, he notices the red tinge on his fingertips, your blood staining his skin and parts of his shirt. He gets up and changes into a dark grey one—the same color as the one you took—and heads to the kitchen to wash the rest off, telling himself he should probably work on cleaning off the couch, too.

And yet, even with his OCD, he hesitates. Because those crimson splotches are a visceral, tangible confirmation that this wasn't all in his head, that he's not going to blink and find you've disappeared.

But, on the other hand, he’s also just sane enough to recognize that keeping your blood as some kind of a fucking souvenir is probably not a good look.

So, to the sink he goes.

He washes his hands and dries them, then starts to work on the couch. He's pretty much gotten it all out when he hears your footsteps, and he looks up and stops mid-scrub.

Your hair is wet and tousled, standing there with his shirt and rolled-up sweats loosely hanging on you. He surreptitiously pinches his forearm, double checking to make sure he's not hallucinating, but the scene doesn't change.

You're really there. Whatever this is between you and him, it's real.

“Hey," you say, then gesture at the couch. "Sorry about that."

He tries to give you a reassuring smile. "Don't worry, it comes off easy."

He grabs the rag and cleaning supplies, tosses them under the sink, and washes his hands again.

You walk over next to him.

"Do you have an ice pack I can borrow? Or frozen anything, I'm not picky."

"Yeah, I got it." He walks over to the freezer and gently tosses you one, which you throw between your hands.

"Thanks.” You pause for a second. “I’m gonna go get some sleep."

"Ok." Dex frowns. "Wait, you still need Vicodin."

You wave him off.

“I’m ok. Really.” You grab his hand, skimming your thumb across his knuckles. “Kissing you and taking a shower brought me up like 40%." You look up at him.

“You coming with me?”

If his brain wasn’t already short-circuiting, it sure was now.

"Yeah, I’ll be right there.” But then he stops himself, suddenly unsure. “That’s what you want, right?”

You squeeze his hand and give him a look he can’t quite read. It’s not pity exactly, it’s more like … understanding. Like somehow, you can see straight through him, right down to the deepest parts of himself he’s tried to hide.

“Yes, that’s what I want.”

You walk back down the hall into his bedroom while he stands there in his kitchen. He leans over the sink and closes his eyes.

He hears Mercer’s voice, reminding him gently of how alone he’d been in his childhood. He hears you saying “kiss me,” the way you called him "babe." He thinks of the way you just looked at him, without horror or confusion or anger.

You looked at him like you knew him, really knew him—and somehow, you were still here.

He lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding.

“Don’t fuck this up,” his brain warns.

Then, he turns and walks down the hall to his room. Logically, he knows you’ll be in there, but taking in the sight of you already half asleep in his bed still feels surreal.

You look up sleepily and pat the mattress next to you. Carefully, he climbs in next to you, lets you slowly shift to lay on his chest. He’s sure you can feel his heart hammering there, but if you do, you don’t say anything.

Until you do.

"Are you ok?" you ask softly, looking up at him.

Dex swallows and nods, lies through his teeth. “Yeah, why wouldn't I be?"

"You just seem ... intense. More than usual.” For the first time that night, apprehension enters your tone. “Was this too much too soon?”

And he almost laughs because it's so absurd, the idea that anything to do with you could be "too much." "Too much" to most people was barely scratching the surface for him. He wants it all, to capture every single thing about you, in every way and every minute and every shade and color in between—how you laugh, how you cry, how you feel underneath him; empty it all into the hollow expanse in his chest and carry it with him forever.

“What? No, no, absolutely not,” he says, shifting so he can look you in the eyes, to make sure you know he means it. He brings one hand to your face, strokes away some of the damp hair clinging to your cheek.

“You are perfect,” he says firmly. “And I just. You're so special and funny and beautiful and I ... I want you to be happy … with me.” His voice quiets. “I don’t want to fuck this up.”

"I know,” you murmur back. “But let me ask you something. Who did I come to tonight when I needed someone I could trust?"

Dex gives a half smile.

"Me."

"Who did I summon enough energy for to make out with on the couch even though my body was beat to shit today?"

"Me."

You spread your arm out wide.

"Whose literal bed am I laying in right now?"

He can’t help it, he smiles for real this time.

"Mine."

"Right. Those were all my choices. All you.” You bring his forehead to yours. “And I don’t plan on that changing any time soon. Ok?"

"Ok."

You kiss him again, slow and sweet, before you tuck back into him.

"Night, Dex."

"Night."

Your eyes close immediately but his stay open, watching the slow rise and fall of your chest, grounding himself in the warmth of your body against his.

After a while, he checks his watch and realizes he's been watching you sleep for over an hour. He knows he could do it all night, but he also knows he needs to be functioning in the morning.

After all, he's got a plan to execute: he needs to pick up your favorite Starbucks and make breakfast before you wake up, figure out where he wants to score your Vicodin from, set up Netflix so you can watch whatever you want.

Anything to make you stay.

So he brushes his lips against your hair and finally lets his eyes close, the humming in his mind starting to slow.

You leaned back on your chair and crossed your arms. "Some idiot who's now got a red dot sight right at the centre of his forehead."

"New job?" He hummed as he sat down across from you.

You nodded. "I just don't get how people are that dumb. Do they really think that they can get away with trying to sell classified data?"

"It's idiots like him", you said, pointing at the profile image printed on the paper, "who are the ones that keep me from getting jobs that are actually fun."

"I could always join you."

Looking back, you should have told him no. You should have told him it was not worth it. That you could handle one target on your own and that you would do something together some other time. Maybe when the prospective kill count was higher.

Because one former Black Widow out on the streets is one thing; adding Dex to the equation was another. You worked well together—no, that was an insult. You worked great together. Truly a force to be reckoned with.

But in some cases, even two can be company, and before you knew it, the target had escaped and called for backup. Fifteen minutes and a pile of dead bodies later, you were crawling back into his apartment through the fire escape.

Dex clutched his stomach, and you pressed your hand over the bullet wound on your thigh.

"That file was disgustingly unupdated." You winced when you sat down, placing your free hand on the couch to help you drop to the floor.

"Who thought the bastard would have backup, huh?"

You laughed, coughing up blood in the process. "Hey, did you have fun at least?"

Dex nodded his head, a small drop of blood dripping from his temple to his cheek with the movement. "They did get a few good hits on us, though."

You lifted your hand from your thigh, opening it up and observing the red that stained all across the lines of your palm. "Nothing we haven't seen before. Besides, they're dead. We're not. We won."

That was when Dex's smile got wider, allowing that same drop of blood to slip into his mouth. That was the sweet flavour of victory. Of knowing that despite how big your own wounds were, your enemy's were greater.

His eyes had that wicked shine in them that they only ever got in moments like this. He looked entirely pleased with himself. He was now a good person, he told himself. An even better boyfriend. Because helping your girlfriend take down seven different agents is the epitome of love.

Bleeding out for you was the best gift he could give you.

Dex's hand came to your waist, adding yet another red stain to your clothes when he pulled you closer. His head dropped lower with a small wisp of hair now dyed crimson falling over his forehead.

Your own hand brushed his chin and then his cheek. Your fingerprints left marks on his skin, right where he wanted them. The carpet beneath you—which Dex usually kept squeaky clean—was now a bloodied mess.

Holding each other close like this, your breath had evened out. The adrenaline had mostly worn off, and the only thing left was the sweet aftermath. Without a second warning, Dex pulled you into a messy kiss.

It hurt him to breathe and it hurt him to move, but right then and there he didn't have it in himself to care. At all. He tasted the blood on your lips—no longer sure if it was his or yours. He couldn't have wanted you more than what he did in that very second.

There were little things more intimate than this. Your blood in his mouth meant knowing you completely, consuming you obsessively in a way only Benjamin Poindexter could. It meant having a piece of you in his system, because to him, you already were his whole horizon.

His North Star that guided him in all the wrong directions.

Eventually you had to pull away, no matter how much you wanted to merge your body with his. Your head dropped to his shoulder with a tired huff. Your tongue licked your own lips, wiping the remnant blood. Once again, Dex's eyes fell over your face. You had red stains on your cheeks and on the left corner of your lips, over your right eyebrow and under your chin.

You had never looked more beautiful, a painting he had helped to paint. The red brought more shine to the colour of your eyes, he thought. He pressed one hand to the wound on his stomach, hoping it would keep the wound from interrupting his moment.

Stitches could wait for later.

divider by @uzmacchiato