"what you seek is within you, if only you reflect"

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

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

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

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

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

“Hm,” he hums, agreeing with you. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I wasn’t worried,” you mumble.

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

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

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

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

Hm. That's the only reply he gets. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He stares back, “what?”

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

“Why are you looking at me like that?” 

“Like what?” 

“I don’t know.” 

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

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

Too many changes in such little time. 

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

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

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

This was him. This is who he was. 

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

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

“You okay?” 

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

You never know with him. 

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

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

“It’s enough…it’s enough for now.” 

Soldier Boy who recognises you by name, having been mentioned by Hughie and Butcher. Crimson Countess had spilled her guts to him, offering him some consolation for her betrayal, for selling him out, she gave him a last bit of goodness.

Soldier Boy learns that he has a granddaughter somewhere, his kid’s kid was out there, waiting for him, yet when he sees you, he has to catch his breath for a second. You were the spitting image of his daughter, too similar in looks, behaviour from what he remembered and the photographs he found. And now, right in that moment, he decided he needed you alive. 

Soldier Boy who listens as Homelander uses his blood, Ryan’s, yours to reel him in, and for a second it worked, “they are your blood, we are your blood,” as Homelander grips both your and Ryan’s shoulder. 

Soldier Boy wanted nothing more than to be with the people who were meant for him, his family. Though life has a shitty way of giving him a kid who was pretty much a pussy, his other grandchild Ryan who was stuck to his father’s side was just as useless as him. 

Soldier Boy realises there and then, standing in the same room as Butcher and Meave, and on the opposing side Ryan and Homelander, who had you grasped tightly, hands tied facing him; that he would do anything to preserve the memory of his sweet daughter, and also her child, you. And now you were his child by extension. 

Soldier Boy who would re-write what he had missed with his own kid, he would give do anything, do anything for this second chance the universe had given him. He was finally going to do right by his family. 

Soldier Boy who is getting increasingly aggravated as Homelander spews out some emotional bullshit to hopefully convince his father; Soldier Boy to join his side. But he’s not an easy man to convince. Too bad your grandfather has tunnel vision in regards to you when he hears the desperation in Homelander’s voice, the soppy crap that he had conjured up was absolutely boring him to no end, only eyeing your tied hands. 

Soldier Boy knows something is amiss when he watches you eye Butcher and Maeve. The fact that you were taken from your team, landing right in Homelander’s arms whilst your wrists were held by some tight ass rope was a huge indication for him, the brightest red fucking flag ever, and so the deciding factor on which side he should be on was a no brainer.  

“It’s a shame that I’ve missed so much. I wish I could’ve raised you and taught you myself, father to son.” Soldier Boy recites, words blurring with regret and slight consolation for his son.  “That’s okay, we have each other.” Homelander reassures him, nodding his head pathetically.  Homelander glances down at his son, and then back at his father, eyes welling up. Finally he was hearing what he had wanted all his life. All his confusion, his need for validation from a mother and a father was being met by Soldier Boy. 

Soldier Boy who glances at Ryan, then at you; his grandchildren. It’s a fond look, his eyes crinkling, crows feet visible as his mouth ticks up as he watches your eyes, though a little skittish. He knows why, and he can’t help but his eyes travel to Homelander’s fingers that kept you rooted in one place. 

Soldier Boy who gazes into Homelander’s wet eyes, tells him to fuck right off. Indeed his son, though not by choice, was a fucking disappointment, taking it a step further by gripping Homelander’s face between his hands whilst pulling the most disgusted face he has ever made. 

“Maybe if I raised you, I could’ve made you better…”  Hand on his son’s shoulder, words spitting out harshly, yet his volume remains levelled, almost regretfully admitting how much he could have done better than the product of what Homelander had become without a father.  “...not some weak, snivelling pussy…starved for attention. But it’s too late for that now.”  From the side you purse your lips, wanting to break so badly. A giddy feeling bubbles inside you, he really had that coming, and you’re glad his own father gave him a metaphorical smack in the face that did an impossible amount of damage on his soul.  “Weak?” “I’m you.” he says like it’s a matter of fact, disbelief spreading over his features.  “I know. You’re a fucking disappointment.” He utters it in such an abrasive manner, it makes you wonder about his own relationship with his father. 

Soldier Boy who outright rejects his son has your eyes lighting up, delight washing over everyone’s face especially Meave and Butcher as they watch from the side. A fight ensues, escalating the whole thing, he watches all around the room, each person pushing, pulling, clawing at him so that they could put him to sleep. 

Soldier Boy who gets held in a chokehold by MM, arms pulled back by Starlight and Kimiko, but it would only be a matter of seconds before he was able to push them back. As MM says his piece, which was a long time coming from his side. You get passed the spray concocted by Frenchie. 

Soldier Boy who watches as you spray the Novichok through the inhaler directly into his mouth. He inhales the fumes set off by you. Another betrayal. One after the other. Why does this keep on happening to him?

Soldier Boy’s chest begins to light up, pent up emotion, memories that flash though his head, maybe some PTSD that mixes in, and it powers up, shining through his chestplate. He sees your widened eyes, the worry screwing up your beautiful features. 

Soldier Boy is shoved through glass, carried out into the air by Maeve, his arm aiming at you as if he’s torn apart from the fact he can’t reach you anymore despite your actions against him. The blast radiates outwards, far enough that no damage was caused to any buildings or people. 

Your grandfather’s last memory was your face, one that shifted eerily like your mothers’ did when she was upset as a child. And he just wished he had more time. More time to make things right again. Too bad he didn’t have any.

The forest at night was a living thing, breathing in shadows and exhaling whispers that tangled between the skeletal fingers of bare branches. Moonlight filtered through the canopy in silver ribbons, illuminating patches of frost-kissed earth and the occasional flash of movement that might have been an animal or might have been something far worse.

You had been separated from your brothers for what felt like hours, though time had lost all meaning the moment the creature's influence had slithered into your mind like ice water into your veins. One moment you had been following Dean's broad shoulders through the underbrush, Sam's steady presence at your back, Castiel's silent footsteps somewhere to your left.. and the next, you were alone.

Completely, devastatingly alone.

The mind-player, that's what Dean had called it, had found you first. Of course it had. You were the youngest. The weakest. The one whose heart bled too freely, whose emotions were always just beneath the surface, threatening to spill over at the slightest provocation.

And now you were drowning.

No. Not drowning. You had drowned months ago, when Dean had died. When he had been dragged screaming into hell by hellhounds, his blood still wet on your hands from where you had tried to hold him together, tried to keep him from slipping away. You had drowned in that grief, let it pull you under until there was nothing left but the cold, suffocating darkness.

The creature had found that darkness. Had pried open the door you kept locked in the deepest, most guarded part of your soul—the door behind which lived the four months of hell you had endured while your brother burned in the actual one—and had shoved you through it.

You were back there now. In that motel room with the threadbare curtains and the water stain on the ceiling that looked like a face. Back in the bed that smelled of stale cigarette smoke and despair, where you had curled into yourself and wept until there were no tears left, until your throat was raw and your chest ached with a pain so profound it felt like your heart was being torn from your ribcage.

He's gone. He's gone. Dean is gone and he's never coming back.

Sam had tried. God, had Sam tried. He had held you, rocked you, pleaded with you to eat, to sleep, to live. But you couldn't. How could you? The sun still rose and set, the world still turned, and yet your brother, your Dean, was burning in hell. Every second you breathed, he was suffering. Every moment you existed, he was being torn apart.

You had stopped eating first. Then sleeping. Then you had stopped doing much of anything except lying in that bed, staring at that water stain, and waiting for the numbness to take you. But the numbness never came. It was always just out of reach, always taunting you with the promise of relief that never arrived.

So you had found other ways to make it stop.

Your hand drifted unconsciously to your left forearm, where the sleeve of your jacket covered the latticework of scars, and gripped it like it was your lifeline, nails digging in. Some scars were new, some healing, some so old they had faded to silver lines that looked like the tracks of tears. You didn't remember making most of them. That was the thing about dissociation: you could be somewhere else entirely while your body did terrible things to itself.

The memory of that first time—that first real time, after the numbness had refused to come—was burned into your brain. The cool metal of the blade from Sam's hunting knife. The sharp, clean sting as you dragged it across your skin. The way the blood had welled up like tears, like your body was crying for you because your eyes had run dry. The relief that had flooded through you like a tidal wave, washing away the pain for just one blessed moment.

After that, you had done it whenever the grief became too much to bear. Whenever the weight of Dean's absence threatened to crush you entirely. You had learned to be careful, to hide the wounds from Sam, to wear long sleeves even in the heat of summer. You had learned to smile when he asked if you were okay, to say "I'm fine, Sammy" in a voice that sounded almost convincing.

But Sam had always known. He had always seen through the masks, had always found you in the darkness, had always pulled you back from the edge even when you didn't want to be pulled. Especially when you didn't want to be pulled.

And then there was that one time, that terrible, horrible time, when you had almost succeeded in slipping away for good.

But Sam had come back. He had gotten a bad feeling, he'd told you later, a knot of dread in his stomach that wouldn't go away. He had left Ruby, left a hunt, and come back to the motel to find you barely conscious, your breathing slow and shallow, your heart struggling to beat.

He had saved you. Of course he had.

But neither of you had told Dean any of this. You couldn't. How could you look into his eyes and tell him that his death had nearly destroyed you? How could you explain that you had been so broken, so hollowed out by grief, that you had tried to follow him into the darkness?

You had been so careful to hide the scars, to laugh at his jokes, to pretend that everything was fine. And Dean, bless his oblivious heart, had believed you. He was just so happy to be back, so relieved to be alive, that he hadn't looked too closely at the shadows under your eyes or the way you flinched at sudden sounds.

But now the creature had ripped open that carefully sealed door and was forcing you to relive every single moment. Every sleepless night. Every blade of the knife. Every silent scream.

Dean is dead. Dean is dead and it's your fault. You couldn't save him. You couldn't do anything. You're worthless. You're nothing. You should have died instead. You should have-

A sound escaped your throat. It might have been a sob, might have been a scream, but it came out as something broken and inhuman, like the cry of a wounded animal.

You couldn't take it anymore. You couldn't. Your mind was collapsing in on itself, folding under the weight of memories that were too heavy to carry. You had to get away. Had to escape. Had to run and run until you found somewhere the memories couldn't reach you.

The forest around you blurred with memories that overlapped with each other, flashes of light, of faces, sudden whispered words, phrases, thoughts that you remember thinking back then resurfacing as if back there again.

You stumbled to your feet, your legs barely able to support you, and started moving. There was no direction, no purpose, just the desperate need to flee. Branches clawed at your face, roots tried to trip you, but you kept going, kept pushing forward through the darkness.

You didn't know how long you ran. Minutes? Hours? Time had become meaningless, just like everything else. All that mattered was the pain, the terrible, unending pain that followed you like a shadow.

And then your foot missed the ground entirely.

You felt yourself falling, felt the world tilt on its axis, felt the impact as your body tumbled down, down, down, rolling over rocks and roots and frozen earth. The breath was knocked out of you. Something sharp cut into your shoulder. Your head struck something hard, and for a moment, everything went white.

Then you hit the water.

It was freezing—so cold it felt like fire, like a thousand needles piercing your skin all at once. The shock of it made you gasp, and water flooded your mouth, your nose, your lungs. You choked, flailing, trying to find purchase on the slippery stones at the bottom of the river.

The river was shallow, barely two or three feet deep, but the fall had disoriented you, had sent you spinning into the water like a ragdoll. You finally managed to push yourself up with a desperate gasp, coughing and sputtering as you tried to breathe.

The cold was a shock to your system, a jolt of ice water straight to the core of your being. It pushed back against the memories, against the dissociation, against the pain. For a moment, you were here: in the present, in the cold water, in the darkness of the forest.

Then the moment passed, and you were gone again.

You didn't move. You couldn't. You were sitting in the middle of the river, the water rushing around your waist, your hands braced against the stones beneath you. Your hair was plastered to your face, tangled with leaves and sticks. Your clothes were soaked through, heavy with water, dragging you down. The cuts and bruises from your fall were already starting to throb, a dull ache beneath the numbing cold.

But you couldn't feel any of it. Not really. You were somewhere else entirely, floating in that familiar space between consciousness and nothingness, where the pain couldn't reach you.

You stared at nothing. Your eyes were open, but they weren't seeing. Not the water, not the trees, not the moonlight reflecting off the surface. You were looking inward, into the void, into the darkness that had been waiting for you since Dean died.

And you stayed there.

Castiel had been searching for hours. He didn't experience time the way humans did, but he was aware of its passage: aware of the moon tracking across the sky, aware of the growing tension in Sam's voice as the minutes stretched on, aware of the quiet desperation that had begun to creep into Dean's usually confident demeanor.

They had found each other, the three of them, at the designated meeting point. Sam had arrived first, his face pale and drawn, his eyes wild with barely suppressed panic. Dean had come next, looking like he'd just run a marathon, his chest heaving and his hands shaking. Castiel had appeared last, his expression as neutral as ever, though something flickered beneath the surface when he realized you were not with them.

They had waited.

Ten minutes became twenty. Twenty became forty. An hour passed, then two. Sam had stopped pacing and started vibrating, his entire body thrumming with a tension that seemed ready to snap at any moment. Dean had taken to running his hands through his hair over and over, pulling at the strands in a gesture of frustrated anxiety.

"She's not here," Sam kept saying, over and over, his voice cracking. "She's not here, she's not here, she's not-"

"Sam." Dean had been trying to calm him, his voice steady even as his own eyes betrayed his panic. "Sam, listen to me. We're going to find her. She's smart, she's tough. She's okay."

"YOU DON'T KNOW THAT!" Sam had screamed, whirling on his brother, his fists clenched at his sides. "You don't know what she's been through! You don't know what she's capable of when she's-" He'd cut himself off, his jaw snapping shut so hard Castiel had heard his teeth click together.

"Capable of what?" Dean had asked, his voice suddenly sharp with suspicion. "Sam, what are you talking about?"

But Sam had just shaken his head, backing away, his hands coming up to press against his temples. "We need to find her. We need to find her now."

Sam stood rigidly still, his fists clenched at his sides, his jaw tight enough to crack teeth. And then, without warning, he simply snapped.

"I can't do this anymore." His voice was raw, cracking on the edges. "I can't just stand here and wait while she's out there alone. I can't. I can't do this again, Dean. I can't."

"Sammy-" Dean had started, reaching for his brother, but Sam had jerked away.

"Don't. Don't 'Sammy' me. I'm going to find her." He spat with outmost disgust, already moving, striding into the darkness with a purpose that bordered on desperate. "I don't care what's out there. I don't care if I have to tear this entire forest apart with my bare hands, I'm finding my sister!"

Dean had been right behind him, grabbing his arm, trying to pull him back. "Sam, wait. We can't just go charging off. We need a plan. We need-"

"I DON'T NEED A PLAN! I NEED MY SISTER!"

The words echoed through the trees, raw with a pain that seemed to have no bottom. Sam was shaking, tears streaming down his face, his body trembling with the force of his emotions. "I can't lose her, Dean. I can't. She's all I have left. She's-" His voice broke completely, and he covered his face with his hands, trying to hold himself together.

Dean's expression had crumpled. He pulled his brother into a fierce embrace, holding on like he was trying to keep him from shattering into pieces. "You won't lose her. I promise you, Sammy. I promise. We're going to find her. She's going to be fine. She's a fighter. She's our little sister. She's got too much damn Winchester stubbornness to go down easy."

They had stood there for a long moment, two brothers clinging to each other in the darkness, both of them terrified in ways they couldn't fully articulate. And then Dean had pulled back, his face set in grim determination.

"Okay. Okay. We're going to split up. We'll take the east side of the forest, you take the west, Castiel." He turned to look at the angel, who had been watching the exchange with an expression of quiet concern. "Search the riverbank. It's the most dangerous area, so if she got lost and disoriented, that's where she'd end up."

Castiel had nodded, his gaze steady. "I will find her."

And then they had gone, each heading in a different direction, leaving behind the meeting point that had become a place of growing dread.

Castiel moved through the forest like a ghost, his footsteps silent on the frozen earth. His eyes scanned the darkness, searching for any sign of you: a glimpse of your jacket, the sound of your voice, the warmth of your presence. His grace hummed beneath his skin, reaching out, trying to locate the soul he had grown so unexpectedly fond of.

It had been strange, at first, the way you had attached yourself to him. From the moment he had pulled Dean from hell, you had been there: hovering at the edges of his vision, following him like a shadow, asking questions he didn't know how to answer. You had looked at him with those wide eyes, filled with a trust that baffled him completely.

Why? Why would you trust him? He was an angel of the Lord, a warrior of Heaven, a being of unimaginable power. You were a human, fragile and fleeting, and yet you treated him like.. like a friend. Like someone worthy of kindness.

He hadn't understood it. He still didn't, not really. The other humans—Dean especially—were wary of him, suspicious of his motives, distrustful of his presence. But not you. You had welcomed him with open arms, had offered him your trust without reservation, had made him feel… something.

Something he couldn't name.

Dean had laughed when Castiel had admitted he found you endearing, comparing you to a puppy in your affection. Sam had looked horrified, his expression twisting into something that was equal parts offended and amused. And Castiel had been confused, uncertain why his words had provoked such a reaction.

But now, walking through this forest in search of you, he found himself replaying that conversation in his mind. A puppy. Yes, that was the word. You were like a puppy: loyal and trusting, eager for affection, quick to forgive. But you were also fragile, vulnerable, easily hurt.

He was walking along the riverbank, following the curve of the water as it wound through the forest, when something caught his eye. A flash of color in the darkness, a glimpse of something that didn't belong. He stopped, turning his head, and there you were.

Sitting in the middle of the river.

His breath caught in his throat. You were drenched, soaked through from head to toe, your clothes clinging to your body like a second skin. Your hair was a tangled mess, filled with leaves and twigs, sticking to your face and neck. Your skin was paler than usual, too pale, ghostly in the moonlight, and you were shaking, your entire body trembling with cold.

But the worst part was your eyes. They were open, staring at nothing, wide and unblinking. There was no recognition in them, no awareness. You were completely, utterly dissociated.

Castiel felt something twist in his chest. It was an unfamiliar sensation, uncomfortable and sharp, and he didn't know what to call it. But he knew, with absolute certainty, that he hated seeing you like this.

"Child?" He called out your name, his voice softer than he'd intended. "Child, are you injured? Are you in pain?"

No response. You didn't move, didn't blink, didn't give any indication that you had heard him. You just sat there, staring into nothing, shivering in the freezing water.

Castiel moved closer, his brow furrowed with concern. "Child, you need to get out of the water. You will catch hypothermia if you remain there. Or pneumonia. Possibly both."

Still nothing. Your eyes didn't even track his movement as he approached.

He crouched at the edge of the river, close enough to see the cuts and bruises that covered your exposed skin. Close enough to see the way your lips had turned blue, the way your fingers had gone white with cold. You looked… broken. Like a doll that had been dropped and shattered, then put back together by clumsy hands.

"Are you ignoring me?" he asked, and there was a note of something in his voice that might have been hurt. "Dean ignores me frequently, but he always shows some sign of awareness. You are not reacting at all."

You didn't answer. You didn't even blink.

Castiel's concern was rapidly transforming into something else.. something that felt suspiciously like fear. This wasn't normal. This wasn't right. Humans were supposed to respond to stimuli, to react to their environment. You were doing neither of those things.

"Child." he tried again, more firmly this time. "I need you to get out of the water. You are in danger of becoming seriously ill."

Nothing.

He reached out, brushing his fingers against your cheek. Your skin was ice cold, almost frozen to the touch, and you didn't so much as twitch. You were like a statue, a beautiful, broken statue sitting in the middle of a river.

Castiel made a decision.

He moved into the water, not caring that his shoes were getting wet, not caring that the cold was seeping through the fabric of his coat. He reached for you, sliding his hands under your arms, and lifted you up with ease. You weighed almost nothing in his grip, too light for a girl your age, and he felt that uncomfortable twist in his chest again.

Your reaction was immediate.

Your hands shot out, gripping his forearms with a strength that surprised him. Your fingers dug into the fabric of his coat, clinging to him like he was the only solid thing in a world gone liquid. Your eyes widened, pupils contracting to pinpricks, and your head began to move jerkily, erratically, trying to take in your surroundings with the frantic desperation of a caged animal.

Castiel froze, uncertain what to do. "I am sorry." he said, his voice low and soothing. "I did not mean to frighten you. You were in the water, and you would not respond, so I took action. I apologize if I caused you distress."

Your head snapped toward him, your eyes locking onto his face with an intensity that made him pause. You stared at him like you didn't recognize him, like you were trying to make sense of what you were seeing. Your pupils were still tiny, your expression still wild, but something in your gaze was shifting.

And then you made a sound.

It was soft, barely audible over the rush of the water, but Castiel heard it. A small, broken whimper, like the cry of a lost child. Your grip on his arms tightened, your fingers digging into the fabric, and you pulled yourself closer to him.

"Child?" he said again, and this time there was a question in his voice. "Are you—"

You broke down.

It was like a dam bursting, all the tension and fear and pain you had been holding inside pouring out at once. Your face crumpled, your expression collapsing into something raw and wounded, and you started to cry. Not the quiet, dignified tears of someone who was trying to be strong, but the ugly, wrenching sobs of someone who had been holding it together for far too long and had finally run out of strength.

You threw yourself at him, pressing your face into his chest, your hands fisting in his coat. You were sobbing so hard you could barely breathe, your whole body shaking with the force of your grief. And Castiel, confused and uncertain and completely out of his depth, held you.

"Dear child," he said, the endearment slipping out before he could stop it. "I am here. You are safe. Please, try to calm yourself. You are in a state of extreme distress."

But you wouldn't calm down. You couldn't. The tears kept coming, kept falling, soaking into the fabric of his shirt. Your hands were still clutching at him, pulling him closer, trying to burrow into his chest like you were trying to hide from the world.

"You can't have him back-" you were saying, your voice choked and broken. "You can't take him back. You can't. You can't. You can't youcan'tyoucan't!"

Castiel's confusion had only grown. "I don't... I am not intending on taking anything. Dear child, what are you talking about? I'm not going to take anything from you."

But you didn't seem to hear him. You just kept crying, kept clinging, kept trying to make yourself smaller and smaller until you disappeared completely.

Castiel didn't know what to do. He had no experience with this. He had seen humans cry before but he had never been the one to comfort them. He had never been the one to hold them, to try and soothe their pain.

But something in his chest was aching. Something in his heart (did he even have a heart? Did angels have hearts?) was hurting at the sight of you like this, so broken and so small and so desperately in need of comfort.

So he did what felt right.

He gathered you closer, adjusting his grip until you were cradled against his chest, one arm supporting your back and the other holding your head. He lifted you easily, stepping out of the water and onto the bank, away from the cold that had been leaching the warmth from your body.

"You are freezing.." he murmured, more to himself than to you. He could feel it, the terrible cold that had seeped into your very bones. It was dangerous, life-threatening, if left unchecked. You needed warmth, needed to get out of these wet clothes, needed-

His grace answered before he could even finish the thought.

He felt it surge through him, warm and golden, radiating outward from his chest to encompass you. It was a gentle warmth, not overwhelming, just enough to chase away the chill. He felt your shivering ease, felt your muscles relax as the heat seeped into you, felt the tension slowly draining from your body.

Your sobs quieted, fading to wet hiccups and then to silent tears that still tracked down your cheeks. Your eyes, which had been so wild and frightened, grew half-lidded, your lashes heavy with exhaustion. You were still clinging to him, still pressed against his chest, but it was different now. Less desperate. More… trusting.

Castiel looked down at you, taking in your pale face, the bruises on your skin, the tangled mess of your hair. You looked so fragile in his arms, so small and breakable. It was strange, he thought, that something so delicate could cause so much concern. Strange that this tiny human girl had managed to burrow her way into his thoughts, had made him care about her wellbeing in ways he hadn't expected.

"I have you." he said softly, speaking more to himself than to you. "I have you, dear child. You are safe now. You are safe."

You didn't respond. You couldn't. You had gone completely non-verbal, your voice lost somewhere in the depths of your dissociation. But you were still crying, silent tears leaking from your eyes, leaving wet tracks on your cheeks.

"Shhh," he murmured, his voice low and rhythmic. "Shhh, dear child. I am here. I will not leave you. You are safe. You are safe."

His hand came up to stroke your hair, fingers working through the tangles with surprising gentleness. He could feel you relaxing against him, your body growing heavy and limp in his arms. Your breathing was evening out, the frantic gasps giving way to slower, deeper breaths.

"Good," he said softly. "That is good. You are doing very well."

He didn't know how long he stood there, holding you, murmuring reassurances into your hair. But eventually, your tears stopped. Eventually, your breathing steadied. Eventually, your eyes fluttered closed, your body going completely slack in his arms.

He thought you had fallen asleep. But when he looked down at your face, he saw your eyes were still open: just barely, just slits, but open. You were staring at nothing again, but it was different now. Less frightening. More… peaceful. Like you had found a safe harbor in the storm, and you were content to stay there.

Castiel was content to let you.

He gathered you closer, adjusting his coat so it wrapped around both of you. He could feel the warmth of his grace still radiating through you, keeping you safe, keeping you warm. He could feel your heartbeat against his chest, slow and steady, a reassuring rhythm that told him you were alive.

He had been scared, he realized. When he had found you in that river, when he had seen your empty eyes and felt your cold skin, he had been scared. He, an angel of the Lord, a warrior of Heaven, had been afraid for you. Afraid that you were gone, that he had been too late, that he had failed.

It was an unsettling realization. He had never been afraid before. He had faced demons and monsters and the wrath of God himself, and he had never once felt fear. But the thought of losing you—of finding you broken and cold and beyond his reach—had terrified him in ways he couldn't explain.

He held you tighter, pressing his lips to the crown of your head in a gesture that felt instinctively right. "I have you," he whispered again. "I have you, dear child. I will not let anything harm you. I swear it."

He didn't know how much time passed. The moon continued its journey across the sky, the stars wheeled overhead, and Castiel stood in the darkness, holding you close, keeping you warm, protecting you from the cold. He had promised to find you, and he had. He had promised to bring you back, and he would. But first, he needed to give you time to heal.

You shifted in his arms, a small movement, and he looked down. Your eyes were still half-lidded, still unfocused, but you seemed more present than before. You were watching him, he realized, studying his face with an intensity that was almost unsettling.

"Are you feeling better?" he asked, his voice soft. "Do you remember what happened?"

You didn't answer, but your hand came up, reaching for his face. Your fingers brushed against his cheek, tracing the lines of his jaw, exploring the contours of his features. It was an intimate gesture, almost reverent, and Castiel found himself frozen under your touch.

"Dear child..?" he inquired, not quite sure what he was supposed to do.

Your fingers found his lips, pressing against them gently, and he fell silent. You were trying to say something, he realized. Trying to communicate in the only way you could.

He took your hand in his, pressing a kiss to your palm. "Dear child," he'd murmured, his voice low and soothing. "You are safe now. I am going to take you back to your brothers. They are worried about you. Sam is very worried. He was... he was frantic. I've never seen him like that."

A small sound had escaped your throat.

"Yes," Castiel had continued, not knowing what else to say. "Dean is worried too. They both love you very much. They're going to be very happy to see you."

He'd reached the top of the hill and turned in the direction of the meeting point. The forest was quiet now, the psychic predator dead, its influence fading. The only sounds were the rustle of leaves and the soft rhythm of your breathing.

The journey was slow, careful. He didn't want to jostle you, didn't want to disturb the fragile peace you had found. You were still limp in his arms, still pliant and trusting, and he was determined not to break that trust.

He found his way back to the meeting point just as the first hints of gray began to lighten the eastern sky. The clearing was empty, Sam and Dean nowhere to be seen. Castiel settled onto a fallen log, adjusting you in his lap, and waited.

You were still in his arms, still curled against his chest, and he resumed his gentle rocking, his soft cooing. "They will come back soon," he murmured. "Sam and Dean. They will be so relieved to see you. They have been very worried."

You didn't respond, but you pressed closer to him, and he took that as acknowledgment.

Twenty minutes passed. Then thirty. Castiel was beginning to grow concerned when he heard it—voices, raised in anger, growing louder as they approached.

"I DON'T CARE WHAT YOU SAY! I AM NOT LEAVING WITHOUT HER!!!"

"That's not what I'm saying, Sam! For fuck's sake! I'm just saying we need to be smart about this! We can't just-"

"SHE'S OUT THERE! MY SISTER IS OUT THERE AND I'M NOT GOING TO JUST—"

The two brothers burst into the clearing, their faces red with anger, their voices raw from shouting. They were both disheveled, both exhausted, both on the edge of breaking. Sam was in a state of near-hysterical panic, his eyes wild and his hands shaking. Dean was barely holding it together, his jaw clenched and his eyes bright with unshed tears.

"She's hurt." Sam said, his voice cracking. "She's hurt, Dean. I can feel it. she's hurt or worse, if not she'd have already—"

"Sam, man, let's not jump to conclussions-" Dean tried to placate him, his voice was softer now, gentler.

"I should have protected her." Sam choked out. "I promised her I would protect her, and now she's—"

"Sam."

Castiel's voice cut through the brothers' argument like a blade, sharp and clear and impossible to ignore. Both of them froze, their heads snapping toward him.

"Sam." Castiel said again, and this time his voice was softer, almost gentle. "I have found her."

His eyes found Castiel. More importantly, his eyes found you craddled in Castiel's arms.

For a moment, everything was frozen. Sam stared at you, his expression unreadable. Dean stared too, his face going pale. They both looked at you, at how limp you were, and something in them seemed to break.

Sam was the first to move.

"Oh God," Sam had breathed, his voice barely audible. "Oh God, oh God, oh God—"

"Sammy, brother, wait, don't—"

Sam was the first to move. He didn't walk. He ran, sprinting across the clearing with a speed born of pure desperation. "NO!" he screamed, his voice raw and broken. "NO, NO, NO, NO, NO!"

He reached Castiel, his hands reaching for you, his fingers curling into the fabric of your jacket. "Give her to me." he demanded, his voice akin to that of an extremely agressive growl of a rabid dog. "Give her to me, Castiel—"

"Sam." Castiel's voice was calm, measured. "Please, you must calm yourself."

But Sam wasn't listening. He was trying to pull you from Castiel's arms, his movements frantic and uncoordinated. "GIVE HER TO ME!" he was sobbing.

He tried to pull you out of Castiel's arms repeteadly, the angel tugging you back against his chest in confusion, Sam's movements were frantic, uncoordinated, driven by a grief that had overwhelmed all reason.

"Sam, stop." Castiel said, and his voice was sharp, commanding.

"LET ME HAVE HER!" Sam screamed, and tears were streaming down his face, his features twisted with so much pain that it made Castiel's chest ache. "She's my sister! She's my baby sister, and I need to- I need to-"

He didn't get to finish the sentence.

Because in that moment, in the midst of his despair and his grief, you made a sound. A small, whimpering sound, a sound of distress and discomfort.

And Sam froze.

It had been a soft, whiny sound, barely audible over the sound of Sam's hysterics. But it was unmistakably human, unmistakably you, and it cut through the chaos like a ray of light piercing through storm clouds.

"...sweetheart..?"

"Sam." Dean's voice was rough as he caught up, breathless from the sprint he had broken into to reach his brother. "She's—she's alive."

Sam's eyes wide, his face streaked with tears and snot. He looked at you, really looked at you, and saw the slight rise and fall of your chest. Saw the way your fingers were curled into Castiel's coat. Saw the way your eyes fluttered open for just a moment, blinking up at him before closing again.

"She's alive," he breathed, and it sounded like a prayer. "She's alive. She's alive-"

"She was never dead," Castiel said, and his voice was tinged with something that might have been confusion. "Why would you assume that she was dead?"

"Because you were just holding her like that!" Dean shouted, the adrenaline crash making him dizzy. "Because she's all pale and hurt and she's not moving! That's what you do when someone's dead, you carry them! You don't just stand there holding someone like a baby! you don't say 'i found her', you say 'she is alive'!"

Castiel blinked. "That is not logical."

"Nothing about this is logical!" Dean shouted, but his voice was trembling, and he was looking at you with such desperate relief that it made something twist in Castiel's chest. "Just.. just give her to Sam, man. Let him hold her."

As soon as Castiel lessened his grip and offered you up to him, Sam was gathering you into his arms, snatching you away from Castiel with a possessiveness that was almost feral. He held you against his chest, his arms wrapped around you so tightly it was a wonder you could breathe. He pressed kisses to your forehead, your cheeks, your cold nose, murmuring things you couldn't hear.

"Oh, sweetheart.." he whispered, his voice cracking. "Oh, baby girl. You're okay. You're okay. I've got you. Your brother's got you."

"Sam-" Dean started.

"Hey, honey," Sam kept on, his voice cracking, completely ignoring his brother. "Hey, hey.. I'm here. I'm right here. Can you open your eyes for me? Can you look at me?"

You'd stirred slightly, your eyelids fluttering, but you hadn't woken up. You were too deep in your exhaustion, too far gone to respond.

"She's sleeping," Castiel had said. "She was... she was extremely distressed when I found her. I think the creature used her memories against her. She was in the river, sitting in the water, and she wasn't responding to anything. She wasn't even blinking."

"Oh God," Dean had breathed, his voice barely a whisper. "The river? She was in the water? For how long?"

"I don't know. I found her in the water, but I don't know how long she was there. She was freezing. I used my grace to warm her."

Dean had let out a shaky breath, running a hand over his face. "Fuuuuckkkkk...."

"I've got you," Sam was murmuring, over and over. "I've got you, sweetheart. You're safe. I'm right here. Nothing's gonna hurt you ever again."

Dean had approached slowly, his face drawn with exhaustion and worry. "She okay?" he'd asked, his voice barely above a whisper. "She really okay?"

"She's alive." Sam had said, not looking away from you, his voice thick with tears. "She's alive. That's all that matters."

Dean had nodded, his eyes closing for a moment. When he'd opened them again, they were filled with a fierce determination. "We need to get her back to the motel. She needs to be looked at, bandaged up. And she needs to rest."

"I'm not letting her go," Sam had said, his voice almost defiant. "I'm not letting her out of my sight."

"Sam." Dean's voice was soft, understanding. "I'm not asking you to. I'm saying we need to move. She's hurt and she's exhausted and she needs to be somewhere safe."

Sam had nodded, but he'd made no move to stand. He just sat there, holding you, rocking you gently, his face pressed against your hair.

"Sammy, come on-" Dean attempted to reason with his younger brother, taking a step towards you and reaching out with the intent of taking you from his arms.

"No!" Sam's voice was sharp, almost violent, as he curled tighter around you. Shooting his brother a murderous look. "Don't you touch her! Don't you dare touch her!"

Dean froze, his hands raised in a placating gesture. "Woah, Sammy! Easy, tiger. I'm not going to hurt her. I just want to taker her somwhere safe—"

"NO!" Sam was trembling, his eyes wild, his grip on you tightening. "You can't have her. You can't take her. I won't let you. I won't let anything happen to her. I won't-"

"Sam." Dean's voice was gentle, so gentle, and it seemed to cut through the panic. "Sam, look at me. Look at me, little brother."

Sam's eyes met Dean's, and something in his expression shifted. The wildness faded, replaced by something more human. More broken.

No!" The word came out sharp, almost aggressive, and Sam's arms tightened around you. "No, I've got her. She's fine. She's okay. She's with me."

"Sam." Dean's voice was gentle, soothing. "Sammy, you need to breathe, man. You're gonna suffocate her."

"I don't care." Sam said, but his voice was weaker now, more defeated.

Dean moved slowly, carefully, approaching his brother like he was approaching a wounded animal. "Nothing will happen to her." he said. "I promise you, Sam. Nothing. But we need to get her somewhere safe, and warm. Please, Sammy. Let me help."

Sam hesitated, his grip on you tightening for a moment before slowly relaxing. He nodded, a jerky, broken motion, and allowed Dean to take you from his arms.

Dean held you carefully, cradling you against his chest like you were made of glass. He checked your pulse, felt your forehead, examined the cuts and bruises that covered your body. His face was pale, his hands shaking, but his voice was steady when he spoke.

"She's cold," he said. "Freezing. And she's got some cuts that need to be cleaned. But she's breathing. Her heart is beating. She's going to be okay."

"I can't do it again-" Sam whimpered, his voice breaking. "I can't lose another person I love, Dean. I can't. When you died, I- I thought I was going to lose her too. She was just so.. Dean, she just stopped eating. She stopped sleeping. She would spend hours just staring at nothing. And then she started cutting herself, and I couldn't stop her. I couldn't-"

"Sam," Dean said, his voice sharp with alarm. "What the fuck are you talking about?"

"She was so quiet about it-" Sam continued, and the words came out in a rush, like a dam that had finally burst. "She never cried. She never complained. I thought she was getting better, and then I found her in the bathroom and there was so much blood, Dean. So, so much blood. I had to wrap her up and carry her to the car and drive her to the hospital and I thought she was going to die. I thought I was going to lose her too. I can't lose her, Dean. I can't do it. I can't go through that again. I can't."

Dean stared at his brother, his mouth hanging open, his eyes wide with shock. Then he looked down at you in his arms, at your pale, bruised face, at the wrists covered by your sleeves.

"She-" Dean's voice broke. "She tried to..? what..? Sam, why didn't you tell me?"

"I didn't want you to worry-" Sam said, and his voice was barely a whisper. "I didn't want you to blame yourself. I thought I could handle it. I thought I could keep her safe. But I almost lost her tonight, Dean. I almost lost her, and she's- she's- yu were gone, and she was all I had, and I almost-"

"Sam.." Dean said, and his voice was gentle now, understanding. "Sammy, you didn't almost lose her. She's right here. She's okay. She's alive."

Sam looked at you, his eyes tracing the lines of your face. "She's so cold.." he whispered. "She's so cold, Dean."

"We'll get her warm." Dean said. "Get some food in her. She'll be okay, Sam. I promise."

Castiel watched the scene unfold, his brow furrowed in confusion. He didn't understand. He had just watched Sam go through four stages of grief in the span of five minutes. He had watched him scream and cry and rage and then collapse into despair. He had watched him hold you like you were the most precious thing in the world, like losing you would destroy him.

And he understood.

He didn't know how or why, but he understood.

This is what it means to love someone, he thought. This is what it means to care. This is what it means to be human.

Sam sagged with relief, his legs nearly giving out beneath him. He grabbed Castiel's arm, using the angel's steady presence to keep himself upright.

Castiel looked down at Sam's grip, then up at Sam's face. His brow furrowed in confusion.

"Sam?" he asked. "Are you in need of assistance?"

He didn't reply.

Castiel looked from your brother to you, on Dean's arms.

You had been carrying a weight far too heavy for your shoulders. You had been drowning in grief and pain and loss, and no one had been able to reach you.

Except him.

He found you in the water. He pulled you out. He held you as you cried. He gave you the warmth and comfort you had been so desperately needing.

And something in him—something he didn't have a name for—felt proud.

Dean was still holding you, his arms wrapped around you, his face buried in your hair.

"I will carry her." Castiel's voice cut through the silence, and both brothers looked at him with surprise. "I can keep her warm using my grace. I can protect her from further harm. I will carry her until she wakes."

Dean hesitated, his grip on you tightening. But he eventually relented, carefully transferring you back into Castiel's arms.

Castiel held you the same way he had before: gently, reverently, like you were something precious. His grace hummed beneath his skin, keeping you warm, keeping you safe. And when you shifted in your sleep, burrowing closer to him, he felt that ache in his chest again.

"Thank you." Sam said, his voice barely audible. "Thank you, Castiel."

Castiel nodded, his eyes fixed on your peaceful face. "She is a good child," he said. "She deserves to be protected. I will protect her."

Dean and Sam exchanged a glance. There was something in Castiel's voice, something that hadn't been there before. Something that sounded almost like devotion.

And for the first time since the hunt had gone wrong, they felt like everything might just be okay.

⊹ he adores having you as his research partner. instead of being subject to dean's annoying comments and snarky remarks, the endless teasing, he gets to relax and enjoy his evening with you beside him. he reads interesting paragraphs aloud and smiles all soft when you bounce his ideas with your own, so relieved that you're just as intrigued by the lore.

⊹ when the sun has melted low past the horizon and the moon rises in place, sam will brew a late pot of tea for the both of you. you'll have slow, drifting conversations while he fixes your mug; he knows precisely how much cream and sugar you prefer.

"is it good? yeah? i'm glad, sweetheart."

"wanna take a walk outside? the stars are bright, tonight."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A disturbing sight indeed. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dr Glenn has the gun in her hands. 

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

You’re flabbergasted. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fisk will want to hear about this. 

—

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

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

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

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

“Yeah. Okay, I’ll go get her.”

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

“You think?”

“I think he said my name.”

“Who?” 

“...Daredevil.” 

—

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

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

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

“Hi,” you mumble. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Each other then. We saved each other.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You nod, “mhm.” 

“Anybody…going with you?”

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

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

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

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

“You asking if I drive?”

“Sure.” he shrugs. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sorry bout’ your hand Mr Cashman.” 

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

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

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

What a strange man. 

—

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah, just before you called actually.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

Who else other than Benjamin Poindexter? 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

Why sacrifice yourself for other people’s mistakes? 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Emergency call button’s under the table.” 

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

“Didn’t think you'd come.” 

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

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

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

“Why did you do it?” 

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

“Do you wish you could take it back?”

“I don’t know.” That he does answer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Are you insane? Who was it?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How do you think that is gonna happen?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What does that mean?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

— 

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

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

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

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

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

“Do you trust her?”

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

“You know who.”

“No, I don’t”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Fuck you.” Matt spits out. 

—

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

“Hello?”

“Hey, you alright?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m fine, nothing to worry about.”

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

“Sounds good, talk later then.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And so you have to take a couple detours to get around the AVTF, you watch them main, and kill people at random, shoving masks onto their faces. The implication outraged you, innocent people were being put down right in front of you. 

As you weave in and out of the crowds, going around the Task Force, and away from the main part of the mess, you head towards the quieter parts of town and from there you could reach the hospital, your original destination. 

It takes time though, because it seems one of the AVTF members was after you specifically. Has he recognised you? 

You weren't on Fisk’s hit list, not that you were aware of, yet this man had spotted you ever since you were three blocks away from your apartment. You speed walk and take a left, going around a building to lose him, yet he advances towards you.

It would be wise to stop, not confront him at all and just calmly find out what’s happening. You are calm, all sorts of calm, but not when someone you care about is in hospital, lying in a bed, shot. 

It’s like he’s aggravating you at this point, so another detour, but you go the opposite direction of where the hospital is located. You’re running now, why can’t they just leave you alone and pick on someone else. They do plenty of that already. 

Maybe because you seem defenceless and they don’t like that? Most likely. And it pisses you off greatly. 

It’s loud, from a distance you can still hear the hustle and bustle, mixed in with shouts and sounds of outrage all over. For now you decide the best course of action is to hide for a little while.

So you quicken your pace, constantly looking over your shoulder if anyone is following you. You settle somewhere next to a large garbage dumpster and some old wet boxes. 

You crouch down, back against the wall and listen closely. You’ve done this a lot in the past, hiding away from the danger, hoping to come out unscathed from the whole situation, but you knew that was never the case. 

So just in case, you try to send Heather a quick text to let her know you’ll be late because you ran into some trouble. The message comes out funny, but you don’t manage to send it in time because you hear multiple shouts from both directions of the alleyway. 

Heavy boots hitting the ground, rifles clacking against their thick, bulletproof vests. You can hear about three of them, two from the left, one coming in from the right. You already have your trusty pepper spray in hand, as well as a switchblade you grabbed before you left. 

You never know when you’ll need it. Seems like right now is the time, and so you flick it open.

You just pray you make it out alive to see Matt.