May Your Dreams Stick With You

The first light of dawn slipped through the window, thin and amber, around seven in the morning. Dex blinked, disoriented. The ceiling was not his. The pillow did not smell of him. And the warmth pressed against his back, the gentle weight of two arms draped over his waist, jolted him back to reality in an instant.

He lay perfectly still, holding his breath. It had been years since he had slept so deeply, and now, upon waking, the only thing he felt was panic. Panic at having allowed himself to be so vulnerable. At having asked for an embrace in the darkness like a frightened child. What the hell had he been thinking? He did not do things like that.

He had no idea what he was supposed to do now. Wake you? Wait for you to open your eyes? Say something? What? Good morning? Was that alright? Thank you for not running away?

Slowly, he turned his head, watching you out of the corner of his eye. You were sleeping with your lips slightly parted, your hair a mess against the pillow. He shifted carefully, careful not to touch your hands, and the movement made your arms slip gently from his waist. And he stayed there, watching you; he did not know for how long. He was not looking at you with the cold, calculating intensity he reserved for targets or subjects. This was something softer, clumsier.

His first instinct was to leave without a sound. It was what he always did. But as he sat on the edge of the bed, his eyes swept over the apartment and landed on last night's cups still on the table, the blanket on the sofa crumpled into a ball, a couple of cushions out of place. He frowned. This was disorder. And disorder unsettled him, badly.

So he rose, dressed in the same clothes he had worn the night before—he was irritated to find his shirt hopelessly wrinkled—and began to move through the apartment in complete silence. He gathered the cups, washed them, placed them upside down on the drying rack with an almost pathological symmetry. He straightened the sofa cushions, folding the blanket with military precision over the armrest. He wiped down the countertop. Each gesture was a way to soothe himself, to regain control. To prove to himself that he was still functional, useful, still capable of maintaining order even when his head was chaos.

Once the apartment was spotless, he found a pen in one of the drawers and tore a sheet from the notepad beside the phone. He wrote four lines. He left the note propped against the coffeemaker and stepped out, pulling the door shut behind him with a click so soft it was barely there.

Out in the hallway, he stood frozen for a moment, his hand still resting on the doorknob. He did not want to leave. That was the worst of it. This time, he wanted to stay. And that was so new, so strange, that it terrified him far more than any ambush.

So he did what he always did when something terrified him: he fled. He took the stairs two at a time, burst out onto the street, and breathed in the cold morning air as though he had just escaped something. He had no idea what to do. His mind was blank, unable to decide what to think. Had it been right to leave? Should he have stayed? What if you were angry about it?

He had not even eaten breakfast; the thought had not crossed his mind. He needed time. But as always, he had to stick to the routine, and that meant going back to his own apartment. So he walked, heedless of the weather or the hour. Everything had to follow its own order. His order.

He reached his building, but he did not go to the kitchen. No. If he was going to restart the routine, he had to begin at the very beginning.

With his bed.

He went into the bedroom, undressed, folded his clothes with care, placed them on his desk, and climbed into bed, pulling the covers up.

He did not sleep. He simply stared at the ceiling in a heavy, uncomfortable silence.

The whole time.

The alarm went off at eight o'clock sharp. A shrill, metallic beep that shattered the silence of the apartment. Dex silenced it with a slap, never taking his eyes off the ceiling. He stayed still a moment longer, savouring the emptiness. Then, with the precision of a machine clicking into gear, he rose from the bed and began the usual choreography. First, he went to the bathroom, stripping off the last of his clothes and turning on the tap.

The water streamed down his powerful, muscular back, all the way to his feet. He braced his hands against the tiles and let the water pound the nape of his neck. He ran a hand over his abdomen, as though he could feel something inside—a dull ache, a deep unease. It was as if his stomach were throbbing over and over. Perhaps he was nervous. He had not taken his pills yet.

He shut off the tap with a sharp twist and stood still for a moment, water dripping from the ends of his hair. Then he dried himself with a towel and planted himself in front of the fogged mirror.

The steam slowly cleared, and his reflection surfaced from the mist like a ghost—just a faceless silhouette at first. With the same towel, he began wiping the glass, from top to bottom.

And then, in an instant, between one pass of the towel and the next, your reflection appeared before him.

He startled violently. He blinked and stumbled backward without meaning to, slamming into the rack that held a spare towel and sending it clattering to the floor. His gaze shot to the mess, then back to the mirror.

The glass was completely clear now. And there was nothing there but his own face.

Dex blinked, terrified.

His hand gripped the edge of the sink so hard his knuckles went white. His heart hammered against his ribs like a trapped animal. He squeezed his eyes shut, counting to three, and opened them again.

Nothing had changed. His own face still stared back. But he could have sworn he had seen your face there for a couple of seconds.

It was not real. He knew that. It was his head, his goddamn head, playing tricks on him again. Like the buzzing of flies that sometimes filled his ears. Like the voice of his dead therapist, the one he still heard in moments of crisis.

He turned away from the mirror with a sharp movement and finished dressing without looking back. A spotless white shirt, buttoned from the bottom up. A dark suit, left open, and shoes that reflected the lamplight like a mirror. Once dressed, his eyes drifted for a moment to the bottle of pills.

Normally, he took one with breakfast, lunch, or dinner to stabilise himself better in his daily life. So he grabbed a pill, popped it into his mouth without water, and swallowed it dry. He stood still, hands resting on the countertop, waiting for the churning in his stomach to subside. It did not. He simply stopped paying attention to it.

Then he went to the kitchen, turned on the coffeemaker, and waited on his feet, arms crossed, watching the dark liquid begin to drip. Decaf. Always decaf. Caffeine made him jittery, and he was already jittery enough without chemical help.

He slid his hand toward a newspaper lying on the counter and brought it over to the table. He had exactly fifteen minutes to read it while he drank his coffee. He sat down, back ramrod straight, and opened the paper with careful hands.

It was nothing more than another story about Fisk's transfer. As before, the press had wasted no time criticising and dissecting the decision. The paper tore into the FBI officers, mocking their lack of judgement and competence.

What most people did not know was that the bulk of the FBI was being manipulated, both by Fisk and by Hattley.

Dex was on that same path, still in the process of being drawn in. He knew, absolutely, that he should not trust Fisk. Of course not. Who would? The man was dangerous, playing his part as the helpless prisoner to perfection. And yet, despite everything, a few of his words had lodged themselves firmly in Dex's mind. Especially the moment Fisk had told him he valued his work, that he had been extraordinarily brave during the assault on the convoy.

The article also mentioned the hotel—the staggering sum it cost to keep Fisk in a luxury penthouse—and the outrage of ordinary citizens who watched a criminal receive five-star treatment while the agents who had died in the convoy attack barely earned a single line of tribute buried on page twelve.

Dex simply tightened his jaw. He might not feel that strange thing called empathy for them, but he knew it was wrong to give a man like him more weight in the story than the colleagues who had fallen.

He drank his coffee, his eyes fixed on the words of the newspaper, until a glance at his watch told him time had run out. He returned to the kitchen, washed the cup, and set it upside down in the exact same position as the other one. He pulled on his jacket, and was almost out the door when a photograph caught his eye.

It was from his time at the Brooklyn Suicide Prevention Center.

After his therapist's death, Dex had been left without any figure of attachment. Mercer had taught him to build a life on what she called "the pillars of order": a clean physical space, a disciplined vocation, and a rigid structure to keep him stable. Thanks to the cassette tapes she had left him, he could still summon her voice. It helped him, truly, whenever he was overwhelmed or on the verge of breaking.

He had followed her advice: enlisted in the army, sharpened his aim and his affinity for weapons. Later, he had found work at the Brooklyn Suicide Prevention Center.

His gaze drifted to one corner of the photograph. There she was. Julie. His "Northern Star." His "North Star." The one he had always stalked. The one you knew about.

Julie had been his coworker, and she was everything he was not: warm, sweet, genuinely interested in helping others. Dex had fallen for her almost immediately—or at least developed a fixation, an obsession, that he had always mistaken for love.

In front of Julie, Dex pretended to be an exemplary colleague. He showed interest in the cases, listened attentively, acted like someone who genuinely wanted to help. But when Julie wasn't around, his true nature came to light. Once, a young man called the helpline explaining that his abusive stepfather was making his life impossible and that he was considering ending his own life. Dex's advice wasn't to seek help or to report his abuser; it was direct and brutal:

"You have a weapon. Fine, use it. But why turn it on yourself? It's not worth it. If the bastard stepfather is making your life hell, why not use it on him?" He even gave advice on whatever weapon the kid had, offering his own critique. "A Glock 17? That's a good pistol. Reliable, accurate... seventeen rounds in the magazine. Lightweight, the frame is polymer, not metal. Your hand won't get tired. Plus, the Safe Action system makes it very safe: three internal automatic safeties. It won't go off on its own. And the recoil is low. If you squeeze the trigger right... it won't miss." He very nearly convinced the young man to murder his own stepfather. If Julie hadn't intervened, the kid probably would have ended his stepfather's life, feeding Dex's coldness in the process.

He didn't see any contradiction in his own behaviour. To him, that advice was perfectly reasonable: eliminate the threat rather than surrender to it. It was the same logic he applied to his own life. He didn't understand why it was wrong, and he only held himself back when Julie was around, because he knew she wouldn't approve.

Julie never got to know this side of Dex. To her, he was a kind coworker, maybe a little strange, but harmless. Dex, for his part, began to follow her, to memorise her routines, to watch her without being seen. The suicide prevention centre thus became the stage for his first major stalking. It was there that he learned to feign normalcy while hiding his darkness—a skill he would later perfect at the FBI, passing unnoticed (though everyone there still saw him as a weirdo).

He smiled at the photograph, just a little, staring at Julie's silhouette for a moment before opening the door and stepping out of his apartment.

The light from your bedroom window flooded the room, the morning sun blinding you. Your eyes squeezed shut, and you buried your face into the pillow, groaning in protest. Slowly, your hand reached out, searching for the warm body beside you, but there was nothing there.

You turned your head, opening your eyes and confirming that, indeed, no one was beside you.

You sat up, the blanket sliding over your t-shirt, your face still drowsy. What time was it?

You looked at the clock: ten in the morning.

Your gaze swept the room. Dex's clothes were gone, and there was no sign that he was still somewhere in your apartment. You slid out of bed, your feet shuffling across the floor as you rubbed your face.

When you reached the living room, you frowned.

The room had changed—well, not that much. But everything was noticeably tidier. The blanket, for instance, was folded and neatly arranged among the cushions. The cups the two of you had drunk from had been washed and left upside down in the same position on the drying rack. Dex had definitely done all this.

You walked over to the counter, spotting the folded note, and carefully opened it.

"I tidied up a bit. Hope you don't mind. Thanks for letting me stay. —D."

Your heart gave a little flutter, and you smiled. Even though he had gotten up without you, without saying goodbye, he had at least left you that note. Plus, he had left the apartment tidier (though in your opinion, it hadn't been necessary) and the coffeemaker ready.

You grabbed the same cup from yesterday, this time filling it with coffee, and drank it in a profoundly awkward silence that filled the entire room. Truth be told, since you weren't working, you could go out for a while, right? You could at least keep yourself busy with practical things.

So, by mid-morning, you left your apartment. The wind outside slapped your face.

The streets of Hell's Kitchen carried on as usual—cars passing by, the smell of a nearby bakery... You walked at your own pace, hands tucked into the pockets of your jacket, in the full grip of autumn.

As you turned a corner, the sound of sirens caught your attention. An FBI car was parked next to an apartment building. It wasn't all that strange—in fact, it was fairly normal for these streets—but the tense posture of the agents caught your eye. They moved with their hands resting on their weapons, as if something deeply dangerous lurked inside that building.

Right next to you, in the alleyway, you began to hear footsteps on the fire escape—the metallic clang gave it away. You looked over and noticed a man climbing down with difficulty, limping, as if he were badly hurt.

The poor guy was so exhausted that when he finally jumped to the ground, he had to brace himself against the wall just to keep from collapsing.

He propped himself against a dumpster, sliding down until he reached the ground, one hand pressed to his side, hissing and breathing with obvious difficulty.

You looked around twice. Should you... help him? you wondered. I mean, you were literally right next to him, but was it the right thing to do? What if he rejected you with disdain? Maybe you shouldn't get involved—who knew what kind of trouble you'd be walking into.

Nonsense! You were far too bored doing nothing; you needed action, to be useful. And this man was the salvation of your aimlessness.

You began to approach cautiously, just close enough for him to see you.

"Hey, are you okay?" you asked. The man looked up, and you realized that, no, he was definitely not okay. His face was covered in wounds.

God! What kind of question was that? Of course he's not okay! He's bleeding out like a ketchup bottle.

Great start.

"Okay, my bad... Sorry," you said, laughing a little nervously, eyeing his hand. "You don't look good, honestly."

You squinted as you studied him. His face was... familiar, somehow. You felt like you'd seen him somewhere before, but you couldn't place him—at least not yet.

He, on the other hand, seemed to have recognised you. He just wasn't speaking, hesitating instead. What could he even say to you right now?

Slowly, you knelt down, looking at him. "Listen... maybe you don't want help, and I completely understand that, really. But if you stay here, that wound's probably going to get infected and cause you a world of pain, which I'm sure you don't want. So... how about I take you back to my place? And I won't ask any questions, I promise, if that's what you want." You raised your hands in surrender.

He let out a soft sigh. "Is your apartment far...?" he managed to ask.

You nodded. "A few minutes from here." Your hand brushed his greenish jacket. "May I?"

"No, no, wait. Better not," he said, getting to his feet on his own, hissing in pain. "It's better if we act normal..."

"You're literally dripping blood," you replied.

"People have seen worse things. I doubt anyone's going to stop and ask," he answered with a touch of humour, laughing despite the pain.

You stared at him for a few seconds, brow furrowed, until finally, you shrugged. "Fine. Have it your way. Let's go." You gestured with your head.

You walked in silence through the streets of Hell's Kitchen, passing coffee shops and fruit stands with the same naturalness as two strangers sharing a pavement. Except one of you was utterly wrecked.

He walked beside you, jaw clenched, breathing controlled. He didn't complain, but every few steps his hand drifted back to his side, pressing the wound as if sheer willpower could contain the pain. It was admirable. And completely stupid.

"Did you get in a fight with a shredder or something?" you asked, without looking away from the path ahead, your tone light and not really expecting an answer.

"Something like that." His voice was hoarse, but not hostile. He even managed something close to a smile. "It was a very big shredder..."

You snorted. At least he had a sense of humour.

When you reached your building, you moved ahead to open the door for him. He hesitated a moment, as if stepping into unknown territory, then followed you up the stairs. He climbed the steps one by one, without complaint, though his breathing grew more ragged with each flight.

When the two of you finally entered your apartment, you shut the door gently and guided him to the sofa.

"Sit down," you said, in a softer tone than you'd intended. "I'm not going to ask you anything, but I am going to patch you up. And I won't take no for an answer..."

He gave a tired smile.

"You're very persuasive."

"Well, I'm a forensic scientist," you admitted. "I'm used to dealing with shattered bodies that can't complain. So..." You moved closer to him, setting the first-aid kit on the table, and knelt in front of him.

"Take off your jacket," you added.

"Shouldn't we have dinner first?" he murmured, his voice a thread of pain.

"Very funny... but take it off, seriously. Or I'll do it for you."

He obeyed, with slow, pained movements. When the jacket fell to the floor, you saw what it had been hiding. The black t-shirt underneath was soaked in blood, and a deep gash ran across his ribs. It wasn't fatal, but it was bad enough to need stitches.

Stitches you couldn't give him.

"Okay... uh... when I offered to help, I didn't exactly mean stitching you up, honestly," you pressed your lips together, looking up at him. You could see his face up close, the bruise on his cheek. "I'm going to disinfect the wound, so fair warning... it's going to hurt."

You sighed and soaked a piece of gauze in hydrogen peroxide. When the liquid touched the wound, he hissed through his teeth but didn't pull away. His hands gripped the edge of the sofa so tightly his knuckles went white, and he tried to stifle a groan. It didn't work.

"Sorry, sorry..." you whispered, moving the cotton around his abdomen. "Do you think if I bandage the wound... it'll hold until you get wherever you're trying to go?"

He shook his head. "You have to stitch it," he insisted.

You sighed again, and finally, you had to nod. You went to your bedroom for a few seconds to get a needle and thread, and returned to him.

You looked at him for a moment, the needle between your fingers. "Are you sure?" you asked.

And he nodded without hesitation, eyes closed.

You stayed quiet for a while, and with care, you drove the needle into his skin, threading it through. You heard a soft groan from him at the sharpness of it.

As you repeated the motion, you wanted to ask him something—though, as you'd said earlier, you'd promised not to ask any questions.

"Hey..." you began.

He hummed in response, looking down at you.

"I know I said I wouldn't ask questions, but I have to say I'm curious... have we seen each other before?" you asked, pausing to look up, studying him.

There was a brief silence between you, and you began to frown, slowly.

"Maybe," he replied, his gaze unfocused.

You hummed in response. "That's not an answer. So... I'll take it as a yes."

"We met at the Fisk protest, at the hotel..." he finally said, and you kept stitching the wound. "You helped me with the elevator. Remember?"

You bit your lip, trying to recall, until your mouth fell open. "...Oh! So it was you. What a joy to see you again, then," you said, with a hint of irony.

"Yeah, well." He slid his gaze to another part of the room, frowning now and then, as if he were concentrating on something else.

"So, another accident on the stairs?" you asked, with a touch of sarcasm. This man definitely hadn't just fallen down some steps; he looked like he'd climbed into a cage with jaguars.

He snorted a little, but looked exhausted, almost sorry for what had happened. "Something like that," he said, staring at your distant window.

You finished stitching the wound and applied more gauze around it, trying to clean up the fresh blood. Then you pressed a white patch over it, just to be safe.

He pulled his t-shirt down slowly, in silence. He stayed there a few seconds, his gaze lost on the window, as if mentally calculating how much time he could allow himself to rest before leaving. Then, he pushed himself up from the sofa with a stifled groan, one hand going to his freshly bandaged side. He stayed like that for several minutes.

"You should rest," you advised.

He shook his head gently, rising from there and starting to walk, wobbling a little.

You frowned. "Where do you think you're going?" you asked.

"I have to go... I can't stay here long," he said, without looking at you. "Really, I value your... empathy." He let the word slip as if it cost him to admit he hadn't seen that in you. "But I can't stay. Besides, if I stayed here, I'd bring you trouble."

You rose to your feet, watching him. He was pulling on his oversized greenish jacket, covering his t-shirt and, above all, his wounds.

"Thank you, for everything. I owe you quite a lot... I promise I'll repay you in the future."

"It's nothing," you waved a hand, vaguely. "Are you sure you don't want to stay?"

He shook his head again. "I have to see someone," he said, naming no one.

He headed toward the door, before looking back at you. "If... anyone asks, you haven't seen me. You don't know me, you don't know who I am or what I was doing in that alley. The people looking for me aren't very kind to those who help me..."

You blinked a couple of times, then nodded. "Alright... I won't say a word to anyone."

He gave you a brief smile, and stepped out of your apartment, disappearing from sight.

You were curious to know who he really was; however, you were certain that if you asked for his name, he'd dodge the question—that's exactly why you didn't ask. But the curiosity burned... You wouldn't tell anyone (at least for now), because if you did, it would backfire on you. You'd be implicating yourself as an accomplice, and besides, being suspended, it wouldn't be seen as a heroic act—quite the opposite. It would be a disgrace to the FBI and you'd probably be fired.

So, just as that man had said, you wouldn't tell a soul.

You stayed in your apartment for several more minutes, alone with the hum of the refrigerator accompanying you in that deep silence. With nothing to do, you felt that familiar itch. That need.

That need to see Dex again.

It had only been a few hours, but you wanted to see him, again. It wasn't rational. It was something more primitive—a compass that always pointed toward him. You knew that at this hour, if he was following his routine, he'd be running the streets near the hotel, perhaps following Julie, perhaps just clearing his head. You hadn't dressed for spying, but that had never stopped you before. A light jacket, the hood over your hair, and you stepped out onto the street.

The fresh air slapped your cheeks again. You walked unhurriedly, hands in your pockets, until you reached the route Dex usually took. You'd memorised it long ago, just as you'd memorised everything else.

And there he was.

In the distance, his unmistakable silhouette. The straight back, the steady stride, the measured breathing. He wore a dark sweatshirt and track pants, jogging a few metres ahead of you, focused.

You smiled to yourself and began to follow him, at his back.

It wasn't hard. Dex was focused on something—or rather, on someone—else. Julie was jogging a few metres ahead of him, oblivious to it all, and he followed her with the same devotion with which you followed him. A chain of watchers. Three links. You, Dex, and Julie. Like that pizza night, but in broad daylight.

You'd been following him for several minutes now, keeping your distance, concealing yourself with the same skill you'd perfected over the years. But something had changed. You were no longer invisible to him.

Not anymore.

Dex stopped.

He didn't slow down. He stopped dead, his feet planted on the asphalt, his back still turned to you. Julie kept running, just now pausing under a bridge where a homeless man sat. She seemed to be giving him some money, or maybe food, but Dex didn't move. His head turned slightly—just enough for you to see his profile.

"Can you stop following me?"

Dex turned around fully. His eyes found you instantly, with that inhuman precision that defined him. He seemed... resigned, as if he'd been waiting a while for you to show your face.

You froze. Your first impulse was to deny it, to make an excuse, to pretend you were there by chance. But Dex's expression told you it wouldn't do any good. He knew.

"I wasn't following you... I don't know what you're talking about," you looked around, lying anyway.

He raised an eyebrow, slightly. "Yeah, sure. And I'm the President of the United States..."

"You could be... or at least one of those presidential bodyguards," you wiggled your fingers toward him, dramatically. "You've got good aim."

His face was a mask of discomfort, and he shook his head. "That's not funny..." he ran his hands over his face, then turned away for a few seconds, not wanting to lose sight of Julie.

"I just wanted to see you," you shrugged, as if it were the most natural phrase in the world.

"You saw me last night..." His voice came out rougher than he probably intended. "And this morning... well, no. Not this morning. I left before you..." He cut himself off, as if he'd just realised he was about to admit something. He lowered his gaze. "Did you read the note?"

You nodded.

"Did it bother you?" he asked again.

And you shook your head.

He nodded to himself. His hands slowly drifted toward his own pockets, as if he didn't know what to do with them.

"Why do you follow me? I mean... you already know everything. You've seen me... and you've been with me. Why do you need to...?"

"Because I like it," you interrupted, with the same naturalness you'd use to say you liked the colour of the morning sky. "I like everything... about you," you added, with something that might have been interpreted as... shyness? As if in front of him, it cost you to say it.

Dex looked at you, in silence, and then let out a short sigh, relaxing his shoulders.

He took a brief step toward you. "No... you don't have to follow me. You can walk beside me. If you want."

You stood there a few seconds, looking at him. "Oh, really?"

And he nodded, determined. You fell in beside him, at his side, without quite touching him. Dex looked forward again, watching Julie for a few seconds; she was still with that homeless man.

"Are we going to follow her?" you asked.

He stayed quiet for several seconds, until he managed to answer. "No." You turned your head toward him, and then he added, "I've had enough for today..." and shifted his gaze toward you.

You laced your own fingers together, swaying your hands alongside your arms as you looked at them.

"There's a coffee shop nearby... do you... want to go?" he asked, looking at you. You simply nodded, your lips curving downward into a smile.

He started walking at an unhurried pace, and you followed. He didn't speak to you, but he seemed to be enjoying the shared silence. You zipped up your black hoodie, pulling the hood off as you kept walking beside him.

Eventually, you reached the nearby coffee shop. It was a surprisingly warm place inside, considering it sat in the middle of a cold, grey street. Ceiling lamps decorated with plants illuminated everything, casting orange highlights on your faces. You followed in his footsteps, at his back, as he headed to the counter.

He tossed a bill onto the counter. "I'll have a decaf... and whatever she wants," he announced. You tilted your head toward the barista, giving him a little smile.

"I'll have a cappuccino, please."

The barista nodded at the order, turning his back to start preparing them. Dex turned around, too, looking at you, and opened his mouth, letting it out without any context whatsoever.

"I want you to know... I'm not interested in Julie. Not sexually," he blinked a few seconds, uncomfortable with the word. "At least, not in that way," he added. It seemed like he wanted to make sure there were no misunderstandings between you, though the funny thing was that you hadn't even asked.

You frowned, slightly bewildered by the sudden change of subject. "...Okaaay...?" you laughed a little at his words. "I appreciate your honesty, but... I didn't ask. Doesn't it feel weird to just blurt that out like that?" you asked, laughing sweetly.

He let out a shaky sigh, slightly embarrassed by his own words.

Shit.

"No, no, no..." Dex raised a hand, waving it slightly as if trying to erase his own words from the air. "I didn't say it right. Or I did say it right, but it wasn't the right moment. I mean... I didn't mean to just blurt it out like that. It's just that..." He pinched the bridge of his nose, a gesture you'd seen on him far too many times. "Last night we were talking about her, and you asked me if she was a great girl to me, and I said yes, and it's true, she is, but not in that sense. It's more in the sense that..." He paused, searching for the words. "I admire her. That's it. I admire her."

He fell silent for several seconds, watching you, trying to read your expression. "Sorry, I'm... getting nervous," he let out a short laugh.

You smiled at him. "Don't worry, it's actually kind of cute to see you like this, honestly..." you said, with charm.

He fell silent again, and swallowed, frozen. He could feel his cheeks heating up for a few seconds. Luckily for him, the barista arrived right then with your orders, giving him an excuse to turn away from your gaze and grab the two cups.

"You're not mad... right?" he asked, holding your cappuccino out to you.

"No, not at all. Why would I be?" you replied, wrapping both hands around your cappuccino, feeling the warmth of the cup between your fingers.

He didn't answer your question; instead, he started walking toward the most isolated table, as far away as possible so the two of you would have your own space. You sat facing each other, studying one another.

You sipped your cappuccino softly, watching him. He, on the other hand, only looked at you now and then, out of nerves.

"So..." you began, holding your cup. "Had you already been inside my apartment?" you asked directly, this time without any context whatsoever.

"W-what?" He looked at you.

"Last night, when you came to my apartment. I never mentioned it, as far as I remember..." you traced a finger along the table, playing with the wood grain. "That means you must have been inside before, when I wasn't there. Were you stalking me?" you added, with a smile. For you, being stalked by him didn't bother you in the slightest; on the contrary, you loved it, because it meant you'd caught his attention.

"No, no... I wasn't stalking you," he shook his head, drinking a little of his coffee. "Though... I know it might look that way, but no."

You hummed, not quite believing him.

"After the thing with the magazine... I didn't know if you were a threat... if you worked for someone or if you were trying to toy with me." He looked up, meeting your eyes directly, with an intensity that wasn't aggressive, but rather something vulnerable. "I had... I had to make sure. So yeah. I went into your apartment... I'm sorry."

You simply smiled, not averting your gaze. "You don't have to apologise. It's okay. No problem..."

"It doesn't bother you?" he asked, brow furrowed, incredulous.

"No, not at all... It means you wanted to get to know me," you smiled, and then added, "Besides... I like that it's you watching me, for once."

Dex blinked, processing your words. Then, without warning, he let out a soft, shaky sigh.

"And what were you able to see in my apartment?" you placed both hands on the table, resting your cheeks on them, full of curiosity and attention on him.

"Are you interested?"

And you hummed in reply.

He swallowed, sliding his hand across the table in a nervous gesture.

"Well... uh... I took a look at your books," he fidgeted with his hand. "I didn't understand half of what was in them... but the pictures were very interesting. Most of them, I think, were kind of explicit."

"Like the lobotomy picture? You know, when they push the trephine through the patient's eye socket," you gestured with your hands, explaining it to him. He nodded, intrigued by your way of expressing yourself. You smiled for a few seconds and went on explaining. "Lobotomy was performed to try to 'cure' or control severe psychiatric disorders... like schizophrenia, deep depression, and extreme anxiety, back when there were very few effective pharmacological treatments. But... far from curing them, ablation of the frontal lobes usually caused irreversible brain damage. The patients who underwent it often suffered severe apathy, drastic personality changes, loss of decision-making capacity, and in many cases, ended up in a vegetative state or died..."

As you explained with interest and enthusiasm, Dex watched you this time with more enchantment, fascinated by the subjects you knew—he seemed to melt just listening to you talk about them.

"If I remember correctly, it stopped being performed on a widespread basis in the 1950s, because they started developing antipsychotic and antidepressant medications... Today it's considered one of the most brutal and raw practices in history. Did you know that?" you asked him. He shook his head definitively.

"You're... very intelligent. In those concepts, anyway. I... wouldn't know," he admitted, looking at you, still spellbound. "What other horrible medicines do you know about?" he asked, curiously.

You smiled again, delighted. "There were medicines with mercury, years ago... They used it to fight syphilis and other infections back then. But as you can imagine, mercury isn't exactly a friendly substance for the human body... So... it destroyed patients' nervous systems, they lost their teeth, got ulcers, dementia, organ failure, and sometimes even death, from poisoning."

He was smiling sideways, listening to you. "Have you always been interested in medicine?"

You fell silent for a few seconds, your hands still wrapped around the cappuccino. It was a simple question, but the answer wasn't—especially not the main reason behind it. Dex noticed immediately and squinted for a few seconds, a little regretful. "Sorry... did I overstep? I shouldn't have asked, it's—"

"No, no, it's fine," you tried to soothe him, with a slight smile, which relaxed him a little. "I've always liked understanding how things work... The human body is fragile. It breaks easily, psychologically as well as physically. It's truly fascinating... Every bone, every organ, every tissue in the body... it has a function. And when something fails, you can figure it out." You paused, fiddling with the rim of your cup. "As a child, I didn't have much control over my life, because of my parents. Like I told you last night, my father was a shitty abuser, and my mother was too deranged to understand that the pain he caused her was love."

You looked up for a few seconds, watching him, and then glanced around the coffee shop. There weren't many people in your area, but either way, with a slight smile, you lowered your voice, looking at him.

"Do you want to know something?" you asked. "Do you want to know the real reason I became interested in this?" You pointed a finger, swirling it around.

He nodded, listening. "Alright, I'll tell you." You licked your lips, lacing your own fingers together, studying him. "Like I said before, my father beat us both... It was exhausting. The days went by and I was filled with this feeling of resentment and hatred toward him."

"I wanted him to die," you added. Dex, who was just taking a sip of his coffee, froze with the cup against his lips, staring at you, as if that had surprised him for a few seconds—or intrigued him.

"I didn't care how. I wanted him to die any way possible: an overdose, an accident, murder, even suicide." You took a sip of your cappuccino, so your throat wouldn't go dry. "And one day, I asked myself... if no one else is going to stop him, why not me?" you said, matter-of-factly. "So I decided... to kill him." Your voice sharpened into something serious, and then you looked at him.

"It was very easy. All I had to do was wait until he fell asleep on the sofa. I grabbed a knife..." Your hand drifted to your own neck, and with your thumb, you traced a line. "And I slit his throat."

Dex set his coffee down on the table, processing your words, and asked, "How did you feel?" Not with morbid curiosity (or maybe a little), but with genuine curiosity. He wanted to understand you better.

"I felt... that I did the right thing. I don't regret what I did. And if you asked me whether I'd do it again... the answer would be yes," you said, looking at him.

He nodded slowly, without looking away. He didn't say anything for a few seconds, and then murmured, "Then you did the right thing." It wasn't an opinion; it was an affirmation of your decision. You smiled again at that. Then, he added, "And now? Would you kill again?" It wasn't a challenge, but a genuine curiosity. He wanted to know how far your darkness reached.

"Yes. If I had to, I would," you admitted, looking at him. He smiled again, off to one side, satisfied with that answer.

"You know... I used to kill when I was little, too. Well, not people, of course... it was animals," he confessed, and you tilted your head to one side.

"Oh, really?" And he hummed, taking another sip of coffee.

"They were street animals... you know, weasels, some ducks, cats..." he toyed with the rim of his cup. "At first I felt sorry for it, but then... I liked it. It was an incredible sensation," he looked at you. "Though my therapist didn't agree," he added, with a short laugh.

You laughed a little with him, and he added, "I even skinned a chicken once..." he said it with a hint of pride, for your benefit.

And then, without warning, after a pause, he opened his mouth and let out a guttural, high-pitched noise—a clumsy imitation of a chicken's clucking. Literally. And the best part was that he did it so well that even he surprised himself. It wasn't an exaggerated noise; more like a raspy "CRŌ-CRŌ," as if he were trying to remember how chickens sounded in the old farm movies.

There was a silence between the two of you, your smile vanishing entirely at the sound. What the hell had just happened? Had you just witnessed Dex imitate a chicken?

The poor man was staring at you, and when you didn't laugh, he grew embarrassed and began to laugh at himself, resting his elbows on the table and covering his face with both hands, hiding his flushed cheeks. "Oh, god.."

You pressed your lips together, suppressing a laugh. But you just couldn't help it—he was too funny like this. And you laughed at it, covering your mouth. It was possibly one of the few times you'd laughed for real, and at something so ridiculous, no less.

Dex looked up after a few seconds, and seeing you laugh, began to follow your laughter, laughing with you as he let the embarrassment fade.

"Did you just... imitate a chicken?" you asked, holding back laughter, speaking in gasps because of how funny it was to you.

Dex nodded. "Yeah... that's what it sounded like. More or less."

"I think the sound's deeper..." you laughed in between. "More barnyard." And without warning, you went along with it, doing your own imitation of that chicken. "CRŌ–CRŌ."

Now it was Dex who fell silent, though not seriously. On the contrary, he was mesmerised. He laughed a little, and shook his head. "I have to say, mine is definitely better," he said, without remorse.

You opened your mouth, pretending to be offended. "Excuse me? Yours sounded like a run-over hen. Mine is so much better."

He shook his head again, taking a sip of his coffee. "No."

You narrowed your eyes, displeased with his answer, and listened to his next question. "And what happened next?"

"Well, my mother abandoned me later... and I was put in psychiatric centres or reformatories. Nobody took me in, so I lived there until I was eighteen."

He blinked, and nodded. "I was also... well, in an orphanage, in my case," he admitted, opening up to you. "Until I was eighteen, and then I enlisted."

You frowned for a few seconds. "What... happened to your parents?" Curious.

"They died," he mentioned. "I don't really remember how... but I imagine they passed away in an accident," he looked at you.

"Oh... I'm sorry about your parents," you said, looking at him. Your hand moved softly toward his, without quite touching.

Dex looked at your hand for a few seconds. "It's okay... Either way, it's not like they were very pleasant, to say the least. My childhood was shit, in general," he added, without remorse.

"Do you think they deserved to die?" you asked, directly.

He sighed. "I feel like they abandoned me, honestly. But... yeah, I'd say they deserved to die," he admitted, looking at you.

You smiled a little, without moving your hand.

"They sent me to the orphanage after that. I was there for quite a while. Didn't make any friends, but I passed the time playing baseball with the other kids. The only person I was really close to was my coach. He said I was pretty good at hitting the ball." He smiled at the memory. "But sometimes he wouldn't let me play enough... He told me I had to let the other kids have a turn, but why? I was the best one on the team. It made no sense to bench me. It made me feel useless, not being able to do anything. And in a moment of rage, I threw the ball at him, and well... I killed him." He blinked, letting the last words drop as if they meant nothing.

You stayed quiet for a few seconds, then tilted your head softly, studying him.

"That man clearly didn't understand your talent for the sport. You were right to strike him down..." you replied, trying to justify his act, your eyes gleaming. He simply laughed a little.

"Then I met my therapist, Doctor Mercer... She helped me a lot," he added. "Sadly, she passed away from her illness. I felt so much rage..." he sighed at the abandonment of his therapist. "After that, like I said, I joined the army for a few years, and then I signed up for the suicide prevention group," he added. "And that's where I met Julie."

You rested a hand on your cheek, humming as you listened to him.

"You know the rest. I've been watching her since the day I met her. But... like... like I said before, I'm not interested in her that way... sexually," he commented, that uncomfortable word making him reach for his coffee cup.

You smiled, and asked directly. "Have you ever had sex?"

The question caught him off guard, and he choked slightly on his coffee. He wiped the corner of his lips with the back of his hand and stared at you, his eyes slightly wider than normal.

"Excuse me?"

"It's a simple question," you said, without erasing your smile. "Yes... or no?"

He fell silent for a few seconds. His fingers drummed on the table. Finally, he shook his head.

"No. Not... in the strictest sense." He paused. "I've had... opportunities. But I didn't..." He shook his head again. "No."

You knew it. A virgin.

"Why?"

"Because I'm not interested, I think. At least not right now." He looked directly at you. "I didn't... I didn't feel anything. And without that, it's..." He ran a hand over the back of his neck. "I don't know. It's strange. It's like my body and my head are two completely separate things. And sex is..." He grimaced. "...complicated."

Dex averted his gaze, his fingers still drumming on the table. Then, his voice even lower, he added:

"There was this one time... a woman. From the FBI." He swallowed. "We were colleagues, I guess. But her way of expressing herself was different. She'd touch my arm sometimes, let her hand brush against my... chest. I thought it was normal at first, but I wasn't really comfortable with it. I tried to tell her so many times... pushing her away or saying I didn't like it, but she never listened. One day, I remember she called me for a meeting, said everyone would be there. I believed her at the time, in those early years. And when I showed up... she took me into a small room and started undoing my belt. She touched me. She tried to... you know. And I didn't... I didn't want it. I told her, but she didn't listen."

He looked up at you, and for an instant, you saw something in his eyes that you had never seen before: fear, or something broken.

"I left. I just... got up and left. And she insulted me, called me a faggot, a freak, an abnormal, said I didn't know what I was missing." Dex shrugged, as if to downplay it, but his voice betrayed him. "I've never told anyone at work. I haven't even... well, reported it or told Hattley."

You fell silent, processing his words. Then, with an almost clinical calm, you asked:

"What's her name?"

Dex looked at you, bewildered.

"Why?"

"Because no one gets to hurt you and just walk away like it's nothing." Your voice turned cold for a few moments. "Tell me her name. I'll take care of her."

He blinked, his eyes fixed on you, and shook his head softly.

"No, no. I don't want you to do anything. I just... wanted you to know," he said, his fingers drumming on the table. "It's the first time I've ever told anyone... I don't want you to end up... doing something stupid."

"I don't see it as stupid," you replied, with a smile that didn't reach your eyes. "It would be justice, don't you think?"

It was the very same thought Dex had once had, back when he was on the phone with that young man. Even if a part of him wanted the woman who abused him dead, it would bring more trouble. And he didn't want you to do it, for your own sake.

He shook his head again. "No. I don't want you getting into trouble because of me. You've already got enough with the suspension..."

You frowned, scoffing. "I don't care about the suspension anymore."

"Well, I do." His voice came out harsher than he probably intended. You fell silent, watching him. "I'm not going to let you ruin your career over something that happened years ago. I've already gotten over it."

You pressed your lips together, doubtful. If you were him, you'd end that woman's life, honestly. But you respected his limits, or the ones he was forbidding you to cross.

"Alright... I won't do anything you don't want me to," you said.

Dex squinted for a few seconds, as if he couldn't quite believe you were capable of respecting his boundaries without questioning them.

"Do you mean it?"

You nodded, looking at him. "I won't do anything you don't want me to," you repeated. "But believe me... I would do anything for you," you admitted, serious.

He nodded to himself, and his shoulders relaxed a little. Slowly, his hand moved toward yours, the one resting on the table. He touched the back of your hand with his thumb. You gently turned your hand and laced your fingers through his, without saying a word. He didn't pull away; on the contrary, he squeezed your hand a little, still stroking it. And you stayed like that, in silence.

After a while, he glanced at his wristwatch, breaking the silence. "I should get back to the hotel..." His voice sounded more like a lament than a farewell.

You nodded, without pulling your hand away. You knew he had to go back there at some point; after all, he was still "working."

"Fisk will be waiting," he added, as if he needed to justify it. "And Lim can't cover my shift all day."

"I know." And it was true. There was no reproach in your voice.

Dex squeezed your fingers for an instant, then gently withdrew his hand.

"Would you... would you like me to walk you home?" he asked finally.

You smiled for a few brief seconds. "That won't be necessary... but thank you." After several seconds, seeing he was about to leave, you remembered something. "Oh, wait. I can give you my number, if you want. That way we can talk whenever." You grabbed your phone, offering it to him.

He stood frozen for several seconds, his gaze dropping to the phone. He took it firmly and typed your number into his own cellphone. "I will... thank you," he said, then handed the phone back to you. He stood, adjusting his jacket with that mechanical gesture of his. "See you around. I hope to see you again."

"Me too," you replied, watching him from your seat.

You watched Dex leave, disappearing among the crowd on the street. And with that, you were alone once more. You drank the last few sips of your cappuccino, now completely cold, and then left yourself.

You watched Dex leave, disappearing among the crowd on the street. And so you were alone again. You drank the last few sips of your cappuccino, now completely cold, and then left yourself.

Your hands were tucked into the pockets of your hoodie, smiling inwardly at that warm conversation, paying no attention to your surroundings.

You didn't even notice that someone was watching you from a distance.

Someone with bad intentions.

That afternoon, at the hotel, Fisk was reading reports at his table. But not just any reports.

Dex's files.

Donovan, under Fisk's orders, had delivered several reports on Dex—on his private and psychological life. Fisk had been reading all those files, all that data, while you and Dex were sitting together in that coffee shop.

In his mind, he envisioned the whole story from Dex's childhood, watching the catastrophes of his life unfold as if he were there. The accident of his coach, Doctor Mercer, the drawings, the tapes, Julie, the suicide prevention center... All of it, with Fisk observing. He even imagined how Dex stalked Julie. It was like a drama, a play in black and white.

He snapped back to reality, simply looking at a photo one of his operatives had taken: Dex behind Julie, pursuing her as she ran, just like this morning. Only you, exactly, did not appear in that picture.

"If you don't mind my asking, Mr. Fisk... uh... you don't need to go into detail," Donovan began, "but what's all this about?"

Fisk rose, clasping his hands behind his back. "Right now, I am New York's scapegoat. There are protesters on the street screaming for me to be put back behind bars..." He paused. "And that's nothing more than a nuisance to my plan. Fortunately, it's very easy to distract people." He went on. "Which is why the solution to my problem is very simple..." He glanced at another photograph. "The city needs another villain," he confessed, sliding his hand over the photos, and among them, he revealed a new one.

It was you, this time, with Dex, in that coffee shop. Two specific moments: one where you were both laughing (probably at that ridiculous chicken imitation), and the other where your hands were intertwined. Out of context, someone might think something else, but for Fisk, it was enough to know that you were an obstacle to his plan. For Dex.

He slid another photo across the table—a shot of you walking toward your building. Fisk observed you through the photo with cold detachment, choosing the best course of action to continue his plan.

"But first... I need to get rid of the people who ruin my plan. Who distract..." He raised the photograph of you, showing it to Donovan. "And I would like it to be done as soon as possible. I would not want to... waste the valuable time I have," he added, and sat back down.

Donovan's face froze, staring at Fisk for a few seconds before looking at the photo.

You were in big trouble...

Just below the hotel, in the restaurant, Dex was seated at the bar, dissociating. Toying with a coin between his fingers.

He was thinking about everything that had happened today; this time he didn't feel so overwhelmed. On the contrary, he felt good. Calm, as if a weight had been lifted from him. And the best part was that now he had your contact, and he wanted to see you again as soon as he could.

He could barely believe it himself—that he'd be capable of meeting someone like him, someone who understood him.

"Would you like something to drink?" That question made him blink, returning to the world. He turned his head, and his eyes widened slightly.

It was Julie. Wait, what?

She was looking at him with that same charming smile as always, and all he could do was open his mouth, unable to answer her. Finally, he laughed. "I think you need more time... I'll bring you some water if you like."

Dex turned his head away, not quite believing that the woman speaking to him now was actually Julie.

She tilted her head gently, smiling at him. "This might sound strange, but... did you work at the Brooklyn Suicide Prevention Center?" she asked, watching him.

He looked at her again and stammered until he managed to answer. "Y-yeah, yes... I did. It was... a stressful job."

Julie laughed a little. "You bet..." and she extended her hand toward him. "I guess you don't remember me... I'm Julie."

He stared at her for a few seconds before lowering his gaze to her outstretched hand. "Dex," he reacted, reciprocating by extending his own hand and giving hers a slight squeeze. "And... of course I remember you."

"What a coincidence, right?" she laughed.

"No... we happened to coincide."

"Well... today's my first day at the hotel. They offered me double what I was making at my other job if I started right away. And honestly, I didn't need much convincing." She smiled again. "What about you? Are you staying at the hotel?" she asked him.

"No, no way... I live here... in New York—I mean, uh... no, at the hotel." The words got tangled in his mouth, embarrassing him, but it drew a laugh from Julie.

Oh, God.

"The FBI has an office upstairs," Dex added. "We're guarding... Wilson Fisk."

Julie looked him up and down, somewhat intrigued by his job, and she spoke with an enchanting voice. "A federal agent..."

He gave a lopsided smile, as if flattered by her charm.

Suddenly, a distant voice interrupted the moment, probably a customer. Julie tilted her head toward a woman's table before looking back at him. "I have to go take care of that table or they'll fire me on my first day..." she said, with a touch of humor. She was about to leave, but Dex's question stopped her.

"When does your shift end?"

She turned back, looking at him. "In an hour," she said, and added, "Would you like to meet up afterward? So we can chat..."

He hesitated to answer. If Dex were a believer, he would definitely be kissing God's feet right now, because holy hell, he was having a lot of luck today. "Yeah... uh... yeah, I'd love to."

And so he stayed another hour, all just to spend a little more time with her.

Now the two of them were sitting at a table, drinking wine. Julie was smiling at the conversation they were having. "That's my favorite route, too!" she said. "There's nothing better than running along the west river." She added, and Dex smiled.

"Between your running routes... and the new job, you could say you're stalking me," he laughed.

How ironic.

"Whoa! You caught me," she played along, laughing.

"Tell me... why didn't you stick with social work?" he asked.

She set her glass down on the table, thoughtful. "Well... the truth is, I wanted to be a dancer, and I made it... It went really well, until I tore my knee for... the second time," she added, with regret.

"Oh... I'm sorry. That must've been really hard... but it's admirable that you tried," he managed to say, trying to cheer her up.

"It's just... I didn't have a Plan B. My parents were wrong when they told me I could be whatever I wanted." She shrugged.

"Even if it didn't work out... it must've been nice to hear that..." There was a brief pause. "My... my parents never told me things like that..." he added.

"I don't think you needed it... You've gotten by just fine on your own." That answer of hers made his face light up with the same enchantment he'd had at your words. Only now, it was directed at Julie.

They both laughed together, nervous and a little clumsy. Suddenly, Julie leaned forward, curious. "So... what's it like... working for Wilson Fisk?"

He shook his head. "I don't... I don't work for him... I work for the Federal Government."

"It must be... really scary being so close to someone like him," she said, with a touch of pity.

He scoffed. "I don't have a choice. It's my job."

After a pause, she added, "Do you think someone like that deserves a second chance?"

Without hesitation, he answered. "You worked three years in suicide prevention... You should know better than anyone." He spoke without seeing the consequences.

She frowned. "How do you know I worked there three years? You were only there for one."

Shit.

Dex opened his mouth, trying to control himself. His hand drummed softly on the table. "You... you mentioned it earlier, you quit for ballet..."

"I don't remember mentioning that... specifically ballet," she replied, a little frightened.

"I guess... I just assumed," he tried to justify.

Julie looked at him for a few seconds, then gave a smile that didn't reach her eyes. She was uncomfortable.

"I should probably go... It's late. And I need to rest."

"Are you standing me up?" he asked, not quite believing it, smiling nervously.

"No, no! Not at all. It's just... I have to feed my dog," she mentioned, gathering her things.

"You don't have a dog," his expression shifted to something colder as he looked at her.

She turned her head, more frightened than before. "How do you know that?"

Neither of them moved after that revelation. Until Julie stood up quickly.

"Julie, Julie, wait." He tried to grab her. "You're misunderstanding... Let me buy you dinner, let's take a walk and I'll explain it, really..."

She tossed a bill onto the table. "I'll buy," she said, turning away again. But this time, Dex grabbed her arm, with some force, stopping her.

"Julie." He looked at her. "You're very special to me."

"Let go of me, Dex..."

"Please..."

"I said let go of me!" she repeated, her voice loud, wrenching her arm free from his grip, and she left quickly.

The people in the restaurant were stunned by the scene, some staring at Dex, others simply ignoring it. Meanwhile, inside Dex's head, he was starting to get nervous, agitated. Those flies buzzed back and forth, over and over, and he couldn't control it.

He had ruined his own chance.

Night fell over your apartment. Your bedroom was lit by the orange glow of the lamp on your desk. You had been reading a new book you'd picked up at a nearby bookstore—it was about strange diseases and how they formed in the body... You still remember the look on the shop assistant's face when she saw what book you were carrying, as if you were some kind of weirdo. And the truth was, you were.

Your fingers slid over the pages, studying the images with attention and fascination. Someday, you were interested in possibly conducting some kind of experiment like that. Though you doubted you'd ever pull it off.

At some point, you felt the urge to drink something, so you slid your chair across the floor to stand up. Your bare feet padded silently as you walked into the kitchen. You grabbed a glass and filled it with water, drinking it slowly.

You held the glass away for a few seconds, looking at it for no apparent reason. But then you frowned as you noticed something reddish pointing at it, like a laser, right next to your cheek.

It took you a moment to realize it wasn't just a simple laser.

Your eyes flew open and you dropped the glass just before a shot rang out from somewhere. Your window shattered from the bullet, and the glass in your hand exploded, its fragments spraying against your face, cutting your cheek and chin.

You ducked behind the counter, your heart racing. Your hand reached out blindly, trying to find something on top of the counter, but another shot sounded right beside you, making you startle again.

You slid across the floor, opened the utensil drawer, and grabbed a sharp knife. Out of the corner of your eye, you glanced at the shattered window, revealing a sniper in the building opposite.

"Shit..." you muttered under your breath, trying to spot an exit. On the other side was your bedroom; you could make it back there, but you'd need a lot of luck to get there unscathed. You braced yourself, ready to run.

Your feet sprang into action, dashing toward the bedroom, but another shot rang out—one that went straight into your arm. You screamed in pain, pressing your hand against the wound, feeling the blood run through your fingers. You gritted your teeth and kept moving toward your bedroom.

Quickly, you yanked open the closet door, shut yourself inside, and waited to see what would happen, the knife clutched in your hand.

You tried to stifle your cries from the intense pain the bullet was causing in your skin. You could feel tears sliding down your face, mingling with sweat.

And suddenly, you heard footsteps. First, the sound of glass—probably the window being completely smashed. Then someone entering, walking slowly.

You waited for the right moment to attack when he came close, wanting to see who had attacked you. But the night was long, and luck was not on your side.

Something started buzzing in your pocket.

You squeezed your eyes shut, your hand trembling. You felt around to see what it was, and it was nothing other than your own phone.

It was Dex. Calling you.

"Not now..." you whispered to yourself, not answering. You didn't know whether to hang up, because then he might think you didn't want to talk to him, which was a lie. You did want to, just not right now.

You cracked open the closet door, tossed the phone onto the bed, where it let out a soft buzz before going silent.

The footsteps you'd heard earlier changed direction, moving cautiously toward your bedroom. You held your position, waiting.

Again, another insistent buzz. Dex was calling you again, impatient. What did he want?

The good thing was that it drew the attention of that suspicious person, who moved closer to your bedroom. And through the sliver of light from your closet, you could make out his silhouette. It was a man, wearing almost military-style clothes, but not like a cop—more like a street thug. He was pointing a pistol everywhere as he moved, until he reached your phone.

He stared at it for several seconds, and without hesitation, he declined the call, which only pissed you off.

With a kick, you burst out of the closet, hurling yourself at him. You slashed the knife toward his torso, trying to cut him, but he recoiled quickly. Instead, he seized your face and slammed it hard against the closet, sending blood pouring from your nose. You fell to the floor in agony, trying not to move your left arm because of the bullet lodged there, but it was impossible.

He laughed a little at the state you were in and began reloading his pistol, aiming it at you.

With your other arm, you grabbed the knife and drove it into his leg, making him let out a groan and fire a shot into the floor by accident.

"You bitch!" he spat through clenched teeth, the knife still buried in his leg. You scrambled to your feet quickly, limping as you tried to escape his grasp.

But he caught up with you. His hand seized your ankle and yanked hard, sending you crashing face-first into the floor. The impact tore a grunt from your throat. You rolled over, kicking, struggling, as he tried to pin you down with his weight.

You managed to reach the handle of the knife still jutting from his leg. You pulled it free with a sharp jerk, drawing a sharp hiss from between his teeth. The blade came out smeared in dark red, and without a second thought, you raised it to bury it in his chest.

He saw it coming. His fist slammed into your stomach, just below the sternum. The air fled your lungs; you spat saliva and blood, doubling over yourself, but you didn't fall.

With a growl, you lunged forward and drove the knife into his side. The man's eyes flew wide, a wet gurgle escaping his throat. He staggered back and dropped to his knees. He ground his teeth, spitting up a gush of blood, but he didn't get up again.

You rose as best you could, panting, the knife still in your hand, ready to finish him off—and you did. You stabbed him again, over and over, gasping, broken, as the blood splattered across your face.

"Die!" you shouted, your voice shattered, driving the blade deeper and deeper. But then a figure seized your hand with force, stopping your movements cold.

"Hey, hey. Enough." A raspy voice spoke. You spun around, the weapon raised, and you saw him. There he was. The stranger in black. The same figure who had been tailing you, the same compact silhouette that had appeared in your apartment. His face was hidden behind a black mask. You couldn't see his eyes, but you knew he was staring at you.

"That's enough," he repeated.

"And who the hell are you?" you demanded, raising the bloodied knife toward him. Your vision was slowly blurring. Finally, without any answer from him, you lunged at him.

The knife carved a swift arc toward his chest, but the stranger moved with impossible fluidity. He dodged the slash effortlessly, twisting his torso just enough for the blade to graze his clothes without cutting him. He took a step back, raising his hands, palms open.

"I don't want to hurt you..." he said. "I'm just trying to help."

"I don't need your help!" you screamed, and attacked again.

This time, he caught your wrist in midair. His fingers were like a vise, but they didn't squeeze. They only held you. He pulled you toward him and, with a sharp movement, disarmed you with ease. The knife clattered to the floor, beyond your reach, and you tried to struggle, already drained of strength. You punched his chest with your fist, once, twice, three times. He didn't even flinch. Your breathing was a reedy whistle, your body at its absolute limit, but you refused to give up.

"Let go of me, goddammit!"

He released you, and you pitched forward as your body gave out. The man caught your shoulders, trying to steady you. "You're not okay..."

"I'm fine... I don't need your... fucking help..." you said, your words ragged, strengthless. You were definitely not fine; your head was spinning relentlessly, your vision was failing. Blood was dripping from your nose onto your lips, your face was cut, and that bullet in your arm had surely cost you a great deal of blood. You simply didn't want to feel weak.

But your knees gave way, and you crumpled to the floor. By some stroke of luck—thank God—the man caught you before your skull hit the ground.

"You're so stubborn..." he murmured. Slowly, he slid one arm under your knees and another beneath your back, lifting you carefully against his chest.

You had no idea where that figure was taking you, but at times, your fading consciousness caught fragments of words.

«Who is she?» asked a woman's voice, stern.

«Someone who helped me once... I'm returning the favor,» he replied. «She needs help now.»

You suddenly felt cold hands on your face, and a damp cloth.

The woman stared at you for a moment. «Leave her here... I'll take care of it. And go, before she recognizes you.»

He nodded, looking at you one last time, without his mask this time, before turning away and disappearing from that unknown room.

What was happening? Where were you? Who were these people?

Your questions went unanswered, because in the end, you closed your eyes one final time. Your body lay still and relaxed, letting unconsciousness claim you. Letting you, at last, breathe.

Willow | @sun-hashira

prison was never going to stop Dex from finding you again.

I Can See You | @/sun-hashira

you should’ve known Dex would have unusual ways of keeping an eye on you.

what he holds when he holds you | @thefateofelia

kiss it better | @lvely-prose

everyone knew dex was an unstable man incapable of being alone. which was why you stayed by his side, guiding him like he needed—his north star. 

the push and pull | @strangelure

Drabble | @killshotx

The first time Dex sees you fall apart, he doesn’t handle it well. 

the whetstone | @/killshotx

Dex kills someone for you. You deal with it.

Obsessive/inexperienced Dex | @nneoww

To Love Me Is To Suffer Me, pt 2 | @whorrorbellee

Dex takes a liking to the regular at the diner, after a couple of weeks he decides to follow them home.

Polaris : Masterlist | @weneesworld

Polaris explores the fragile line between comfort and control—between being seen and being kept. At its core, the story follows two people shaped by instability, drawn together not by something healthy, but by something familiar. In a situation where escape is blurred and dependence becomes inevitable, attachment begins to form—quietly, persistently, dangerously. When love is built on fear, need, and recognition… is it still love—or just survival dressed as something softer?

Dex Hates the Technology in Your Apartment | @bellaxgiornata

walk him like a dog | @imsarawoods

“Meet”-Cute | @honeymeringue

You meet a cute stranger on your walk home.

New Girl | @/honeymeringue

The New York FBI office needs an immediate cyber agent transfer, and that just so happens to be you. You meet a handsome agent who shows you around the office.

Bandages and Green Tea | @awesome-badass-cafeteria-sauce

Dex is mid-spiral when he gets a visit from his kind neighbour.

Ben Poindexter/Bullseye/Dex Headcanons | @ms-nesbit

SERIES - four counts | @i00que

benjamin isn't a man who stumbles, not anymore. but, when his north star is so close he stumbles, shin smacking into a book cart that sends him sprawling, and there you are above him, shocked and worried for the clumsy man on the floor whose looking at you like you hung the stars.

Your cat doesn’t like him | @sweetjellytea

your cat isn't a big fan of you bringing dex around the apartment

benjamin poindexter x reader | @/sweetjellytea

back to the old house — miniseries masterlist | @/sweetjellytea

a chance meeting on a flight and sharing headphones with a stranger somehow leads to building your (fairly unusual) lives around one another. or, a series of connected oneshots that follow your atypical relationship with dex

hitting on older!ddba!dex at the bar | @poindexeye

HER, pt 2 | @ladybirdswritings

being the little sister to karen page has its downsides. when dex’s bullet finds the wrong girl, so does his obsession. 

Behind the Mask. | @dazened

You’re the only person on a corrupt task force who knows the “Daredevil” they’re hunting is actually your co-worker, Special Agent Poindexter. But between the embedded corruption and the way Dex looks at you, you’re starting to realize you’d rather be on the wrong side of the law with him.

❝luke 10:30❞, pt 2 | @devilfic

“You’re standing in your nightclothes in the dark, crying over spilled fucking milk, with a fridge full of food and a dinner going cold upstairs. Dex could think of worse things to cry about in this city. For the first time since the money had changed hands, he kinda gets why your ex paid him to kill you.”

Kiss It Better | @paniniimpressed

After witnessing something you weren’t supposed to, there’s a price on your head. It would be easy for the excellent marksman to finish the job, but something about you makes him reconsider.

a bad man | @eu-nicola

you hated him and you hated what he had done but that didn't even stop you from doing what you wanted deep down

Turn me on | @dontyouworrydaddy

Jealous Type | @/dontyouworrydaddy

When you and your boyfriend went to the bar, he couldn’t help but notice someone staring at you causing him to be a little Jealous.

Fbi!dex jealous hc | @monguideetoile

On a visit to your local supermarket with your boyfriend Dex you noticed a young cashier looking at you and smirking flirtatiously your way. You usually were a more reserved but also polite person so you smiled back due pure kindness towards another human being. What you didn’t notice was how your boyfriend was stiffening up beside you as he saw how that cashier was eyeing you. Pure jealousy flowing through Dex made him definitely more protective who lurks at his star from that situation onwards.

Benjamin Poindexter x Psychologist reader | @reidluvr9

You worked as a prison psychologist, you were face to face with the worst criminals of New York every day, but was it scary? Yes. It was. But somehow the thrill of it all overruled the feeling of fear. The information you got, stored, gave away. Since your friend Foggy Nelson died you decided to seek out his killer, Benjamin Poindexter. To what end? You didn't know yet. All you knew was that you had to meet him. What you didn't know when you took the job was that it would make your life a whole lot messier. Your friendships were at stake, your life, your morals. Would you give it all up? For a certain criminal?

Training | @deerfawnn

dex teaches you how to throw knives.

𝙈𝙮 𝘿𝙧𝙪𝙜 𝙄𝙨 𝙈𝙮 𝘽𝙖𝙗𝙮. | @brunchable

Imagine | @/spaceyaemonds

the devil of hell’s kitchen saves your life. or, at least he looks like him.

DARLING! GUESS WHO’S BACK FROM JAIL! | @/thefateofelia

a woman grapples with the aftermath of her lover’s sudden departure and imprisonment.as she tries to rebuild her life with the help of a therapist and a safe new romantic interest, she experiences increasingly disturbing signs.

Just a joke, right? | @/dontyouworrydaddy

You, Foggy, and Karen had just left Josie’s Bar to check on Cafaro when the loud crack of a gunshot filled the air and pain hits you from behind. It rips through your right shoulder, taking your breath away before you fully understand what’s happened, as the force of it sends you stumbling forward.

But what made you stiffen was the blood splatter on Karen’s face as you realised that the bullet had exited your shoulder and hit Foggy, who had collapsed onto the ground as people around you screamed in horror, and for a few seconds you froze in pain and panic before adrenaline kicked in and you were moving before your mind caught up.

Yelling for someone to call an ambulance, you press your hands firmly against Foggy’s wound, willing your powers to stop healing you and to heal Foggy.

To keep him breathing, and to keep him stable. To keep him with you.

You were so lost in your panic that you didn’t even notice when Karen put her hands against your shoulder until she pressed down hard enough to make you gasp in pain as she tried to keep as much of your blood where it should be.

“Stay with me.” Her voice broke as each word filled with more panic. “Both of you, please.”

But you don’t answer. You can’t.

Not when you're forcing everything you have into Foggy. Not when you can hear your brother fighting on the roof of Josie’s Bar, knowing that he’s listening to Foggy’s heartbeat, to your blood dripping onto the street.

With your body begging to heal the hole in your shoulder, your vision blurs as you push through the pain, putting everything you have into Foggy. You hadn’t even realised that you'd been repeating the same things over and over.

“Keep breathing. Just keep breathing. Stay with me.”

But the strain keeps building, becoming sharper with each passing moment, when a heavy impact lands behind you three. Your breath catches as your powers flicker for just a moment as you silently pray that you won’t lose them both tonight. Not Foggy and Matt.

Not your brothers.

Breathing deeply, you steady your hands, channel your powers, and check that Foggy is still breathing as the paramedics that have just arrived rush to help before you turn your head and let out a sigh of relief.

Not Matt.

You slouch into Karen's waiting arms, your pain finally catching up with you as you fully turn to look at Benjamin Poindexter on the ground, barely conscious, and as you make eye contact, it happens.

The pleasant burning feeling on your left collarbone. The sign you've been waiting nearly your whole life for.

The sign that you have met your soulmate.

And yours has just shot you.

Breathing deeply, you push the memory out of your mind, reminding yourself that you’re in your apartment tucked away in your warm bed and not bleeding in the arms of your friend.

But the ache is still there, still pinching, and you realise that no amount of gentle rubbing is going to relieve it tonight. Sighing you toss your covers back, slide your feet into your soft slippers to make your way to your kitchen, where you last put the pain relief balm.

Slowly you push yourself to stand, your aching shoulder throbbing in protest as you put on your fluffy robe, fingers brushing against the scar, and take a deep breath.

Checking your clock that reads 1:44 AM, you tighten the robe and step into the hallway.

The apartment is pitch black except as you make your way towards the kitchen, you don’t bother turning on any lights, using the moonlight to help lead you to the balm left on the center island.

Opening it, you gently massage the soothing gel onto your scar, letting out a sigh of relief as you feel it take effect. Placing the lid back on the tin and tucking it into your robe's pocket, you turn back towards the bedroom when the sound of fabrics moving against each other comes from the darkness of the living room.

Slowly you grab a knife from the wooden block and move carefully towards the sound, slippers gently slapping against the wooden floors. Keeping your breathing as quiet as possible, you slowly crept around the corner and quickly flicked the lamp on, flinching at the brightness and nearly dropping the knife when you saw who was sitting on the sofa.

Benjamin Poindexter was supposed to be imprisoned and serving multiple life sentences. Not casually sitting on your new sofa.

Blood darkening the side of his shirt as one of his hands pressed tightly against it, though a slow trickle of blood slips through his fingers. His head lifts the second the light turns on, and for a moment he doesn’t move; he just stares at you with a look in his eyes that you can’t quite place.

For a few seconds, neither of you speak. You just look at him, cataloguing everything that has changed since you last saw him. He’s bigger and bulkier than before, as if he had nothing to do in prison except gain more muscles. You ignore how it makes your heart stutter.

Dex’s eyes flicker briefly towards the knife clutched in your hand, and a smirk appears on his face as he looks you in the eyes. “Are you going to use that?” he asks quietly.

“Why are you here?” Your voice comes out stronger than you expected. “What do you want?”

Soulmate or not, this is still the man who shot you.

Dex’s eyes lower briefly to the blood staining his side. His hand still tightly clutching the wound. “I needed help.”

Then his eyes lift back to yours. “And I wanted to see you.”

Something tightens in your chest because part of you understands exactly what he means.

For a moment you stay where you are, knife still low at your side, eyes flickering once again towards the blood dripping from his hand and staining your sofa.

“You’re staining my sofa,” you say, placing the knife on the shelf, hands more steady than you feel.

Dex tilts his head, eyebrows twitching in confusion. “What?”

“My sofa is brand new, and you’re ruining it.”

“Oh,” he says, finally noticing his blood soaking the cushions. “So I am.”

You exhale slowly, feeling the last bit of adrenaline leave your body. When your brother told you this morning he was going to see Dex in prison, this wasn’t how you expected your night to go.

“Let me see it,” you say.

Dex stills at your words, his hand moving to his ribs, his eyes slightly hopeful.

“Your injury,” you sharply say, face flushing red. “Not that.”

His eyes stay on you for a second before he slowly moves his hands away from his body. Blood immediately gushes through the tear in his shirt, a stab wound from what you could see and probably a few hours old.

You swear softly under your breath. “You should be at a hospital, especially with those face wounds as well.”

“No.” His answer was quick but certain. “Just you, only you.”

You don’t bother arguing as you step closer, removing your robe and setting it below you on the coffee table. He looks worse up close, pale even in the light of your warm lightbulb, and the left side of his face was bruised.

But his eyes never left you, slowly roaming up and down, taking in your light blue PJs, and smirking at your fluffy cow slippers.

“What?” you ask, reaching for the box of medical supplies you kept in the ottoman. Usually you would have used your powers, but tonight you were too tired and drained from helping out at the back-alley clinic your boss ran.

“Fluffy cow slippers?” His amusement was clear in his voice.

“Shut up,” you say, putting all your supplies on the table beside you. “They were a gift from Karen, and they’re very comfortable.”

Dex snorted. “Sure.”

“Are you armed?” you ask, pulling on gloves and sliding to your knees.

“Yes.” He said, spreading his legs to give you more room.

“… Are you planning on using it?” You ask, facing your supplies.

“No.” His answer was quick and certain again. “Not on you, never on you.”

Again. You couldn’t help but think.

“You’re nervous,” Dex says quietly, still watching you, and you begin to wonder if he’s even blinked.

You snort at that. “You broke into my apartment in the middle of the night and are now bleeding all over my sofa.”

“You’re still helping me.” He says like this means something.

You refuse to answer that as you reach for his shirt because deep down it does.

“Lean forwards.” You say quietly.

Dex obeys immediately and you lift his shirt. The movement exposing his defined muscles, and a few inches above the wound in black letters was your name. Unblemished, like he had done everything to protect it.

You freeze slightly at the sight of it, feeling the rush of emotions that happened every time you thought about him. Shaking the feelings away, you grabbed the disinfectant and soaked a gauze.

Silence settled between you as you dabbed at the wound, soaking up as much blood as you could before grabbing a fresh gauze.

“You didn’t come to see me,” he whispered breaking the silence, his eyes leaving you and going towards his blood-soaked hand.

“Don’t,” you say quietly, pressing the alcohol-soaked gauze harder against the wound than intended.

Dex barely reacts as his eyes move back to you. “Don’t what?”

“Talk like this changes anything.” You whisper, grabbing a new gauze to wipe away the remaining blood.

And for the first time since you walked into the living room, something shifts in his expression. Not anger, not hatred, but something you didn’t expect to see on him.

Hurt.

“I was in prison,” Dex continues quietly. “You knew, but you never came.”

You still at his words because what was there to say? For months you’ve refused to talk about what happened that night, focusing on your family and pushing every thought or feeling about him away.

For months you’ve kept your bond with him to yourself despite how much you wanted to cry and rant to someone about it without being judged or scorned.

You force yourself to keep working, fingers steady despite the sudden tightness in your chest. “Yes,” you say evenly. “I knew.”

The quiet is heavy as it fills the room before you clear your throat, reaching for the needle and thread in the kit. “You need stitches.”

“Sit up properly if you can,” you instruct, pulling all the necessary items closer to you.

Dex watches you for a second longer before pushing himself upright from the cushions, his jaw as he straightens himself up.

“Take the shirt off.” You say, preparing everything that you needed to stitch him up.

Dex drops the blood-soaked fabric onto the table behind you, exposing the full extent of the wound. The weapon grazed more than it pierced, but it still tore enough flesh to make a mess of his side.

Wiping the surrounding area with a fresh gauze, you gently rubbed some numbing cream around the wound and threaded the needle while waiting for it to dry.

“This is going to hurt.” You say, leaning closer towards him.

Dex goes still at your words, his attention once again focused fully on you.

You try to ignore his eyes on you, focusing completely on stitching the wound perfectly and not on how close he was now that you’re kneeling between his legs and leaning against him to get better access to the wound.

“You should’ve had this cleaned hours ago,” you mutter nearly halfway done.

“I was busy.” He answers as his hand gently brushes against your shoulder.

“With?” You ask, eyes still not leaving the wound but not shrugging his hand away.

His eyes scan your face. “Finding you.”

Your hand slips slightly. Not enough to hurt him, but enough for him to notice.

“You already knew where I lived.”

“I wanted to see you.”

There’s that sentence again. So honest, like there was nothing else more important.

Silence settles between you again, broken only by the quiet rattle of paper as you open fresh gauzes and the sound of rain against the windows. Focusing once again on your task, you quickly lose yourself in what is familiar.

Then Dex quietly says, “I couldn’t stop thinking about you.”

You tie off the last stitch before grabbing more gauze and soaking it in antiseptic alcohol. “Most prisoners send a letter.”

“I didn't think you’d like letters from me.”

You couldn’t stop your quiet snort.

“Did you think about me?” he says quietly after a while. Hand tightening on your shoulder like the answer to this question could hurt him more than his wound.

You press the gauze against the stitches, cleaning them and the surrounding area. “You were all over the news, quite hard to miss.”

“That’s not what I meant.” He says cupping your face and forcing you to look at him.

His face is blank, but his eyes are looking at you like he’s already decided you belong in his life.

And maybe you did. But it causes that familiar complicated feeling to twist in your chest.

“You shot me,” you say softly before you can stop yourself. “I waited years for you, and you shot me.”

Your confession settles heavily between you, and for the second time that night, Dex looks away.

“I know.” He says his face filled with something you couldn’t place—guilt, maybe.

The apartment smells faintly of antiseptic, rain, and blood. Outside the storm gets stronger.

Inside the living room, neither of you move.

“You’ll live,” you say, taking off your gloves.

Dex looks down at the neat line of stitches crossing his side before his gaze drifts back to you. “I know.”

Standing up, you move all the soiled items aside so that you can toss them in the kitchen bin. “You should go before the numbing wears off.”

Moving back to the table, you pack up the remaining medical items, making a mental note to restock and place them back in the ottoman.

Leaning down to grab your robe, your breath catches as Dex reaches out his hand, gently grabbing your wrist, his thumb gently pressing against your pulse.

“You’re shaking,” he says quietly.

“I’m tired.” You say, making no move to pull away.

“You’re drained.” He states.

You almost deny it. But what would be the point? He noticed everything else about you tonight.

“I’ve had a long night,” you remind him.

“And you still helped me.” He states like this means something.

Before you could reply, Dex’s gaze drops to your shoulder. To the scar barely hidden by your shirt. His expression shifts into the same look as earlier.

“I didn’t mean to hit you,” he says honestly. “You moved in front of him so quickly I didn’t have time to stop.”

You look away at his admission, part of you wanting to believe him while the other part wants to shoot him to make it even.

Rain hits the windows harder as you begin to feel it again, that persistent and wanting pull between you becoming tighter the longer he stays.

“You need to leave,” you say quietly.

Dex looks at you for a long second. “Why didn’t you come to see me?”

The question hit you like a punch to the gut. Months of knowing exactly who he was to you, and you’d done nothing.

No visits. No letters. Nothing except pretend the name on your skin didn’t exist.

“I was in prison,” Dex continues quietly. “You knew where I was.”

You couldn’t force yourself to hold his gaze. Not when you knew what he was really asking. Why didn’t you come? Why didn’t you choose me?

But you can’t answer that. Not honestly. Not when the truth was that every day you wanted to see him, to betray your friends and your family just to get a day with him.

“You need to leave.” You say, instead of spilling the truth, pulling your wrist out of his grip.

For a second, you think he might argue. His stare fixed so intensely on you that you almost cave and spill the truth.

Then he stands, pulling his shirt back over his head, and makes his way towards the window. Pushing it open wider, as storm blows cold air and rain into the living room as he tosses one leg out before he pauses and turns to look back at you again.

“I’m going to see you again.” He states.

Then he disappears into the night, and you’re left standing alone in your living room.

Your fingers slowly brush his name on your skin, and you can’t stop the feeling of wanting to see him again.

A/N: This is my first one-shot written so feedback is welcome!

"Dex?"

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

"... somewhere and talk about this?"

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

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

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

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

"Dex--"

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

"The car. Now."

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

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

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

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

CLICK.

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

Just like you showed him once.

Fuck.

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

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

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

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

Nothing.

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

You were gone.

And you stayed gone for days.

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

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

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

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

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

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

In for a penny, in for a pound.

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

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

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

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

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

Wait.

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

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

BEL AIRE DINER.

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

"Took you long enough."

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

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

"Sorry to disappoint."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The waitress looked at Dex, who nodded faintly.

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

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

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

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

"I'm not here to kill you."

Your fingers paused.

Your eyes rose.

"You're not?"

His answer was simple.

"Why would I?"

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

"Mr. Charles doesn't know."

Your eyes were touched with confusion.

"You didn't tell him I ran?"

"I didn't tell him anything."

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

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

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

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

"Why are you here, Dex?"

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

"It can't be that simple."

"Why not?"

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

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

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

"Why?"

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

"It's 2AM, sweetheart."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Sounds like a good place to land in."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dex smiled a little too proudly.

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

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

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

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

"Give the girl your jacket, honey."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Where are you staying?" you asked him.

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

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

"I can walk."

"You'll be cold without your jacket."

Dex smirked.

"I'll live."

You smiled in return.

"You better."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You weren't gone anymore.

⭒ Adrian Chase/ Vigilante Masterlist (Peacemaker) by @scarletttries

⭒ NOW OR NEVER  by @whirlybirbs

you patch adrian up. feelings come to a head. adebayo just hopes you two don’t fuck on her desk, y’know?

⭒ complex simplicity by @bingoboingobongo

Adrian has to share a room with her, and he’s not sure how he feels about that.

⭒ vigilvntes masterlist! By @vigilvntes

⭒ My Favourite Girl  by @/vigilvntes

Vigilante pays you a visit at work.

⭒ Don’t You Wanna Kiss Me?  By @/vigilvntes

After a night at the bar, you find the courage to kiss Adrian.

⭒ A Very Real Possibility by @/vigilvntes

a broken shower and a gorilla on the loose resulted in you spending the night at adrian’s.

⭒ The First First Date by @/vigilvntes

⭒ Need Some Help? By @multifandomfanficss

Adrian comes to your apartment to check on you when your team hasn’t seen you in a while. After seeing you’re struggling with doing your daily tasks because your mental health isn’t very good right now, he offers to help you get back on your feet.

⭒ Drunken Confessions by @/multifandomfanficss

After a difficult mission you go out to the bar with your team and decide to get hammered. When your teammates suggest you have a crush on Vigilante you just get more embarrassed and drink to avoid the feelings. You just hope you can get through the night without Adrian finding out you actually have feelings for him. AKA  Adrian Chase taking care of you while you’re drunk.

⭒ Safe In His Arms by @/multifandomfanficss

When you get captured and tortured you’re saved by your teammates, but is it too late? Harcourt demands you be rushed to the hospital as you bleed out in Adrian’s arms. Can they save you in time?

⭒ You Can’t Get Rid Of Me That Easily by @/multifandomfanficss

The rest of the team goes on a mission while you and Economos are stuck at base giving directions through comms. After teasing you for having a crush on Adrian, Economos tries to quiet your worries when Adrian goes missing and the comms go dead.

⭒ our very own butterfly by @lunaticsandidiots

some of adrian's deepest secrets start to slip out. you couldn't care less, until you realise they involve you a lot more than you thought

⭒ fennel fields forever [pt.1] by @/lunaticsandidiots

you’ve worked at the same restaurant as adrian chase for a long time. it turns out the both of you have been harbouring some pretty big secrets.

⭒ Like, On A Date by @sluttyenthusiast

⭒ Hot Nurse  by @/sluttyenthusiast

⭒ Jealousy by @navstuffs

After dating Adrian in secret for a few months, Amanda Waller’s inspection might make you reveal your secret.

⭒ Operation Date Night by @sadtrombonemusic

adrian’s lies catch up to him and he needs to find someone to pretend to be his girlfriend.

⭒ Double Life by @/sadtrombonemusic

y/n’s misunderstanding leads to adrian confessing a secret he’s been keeping from her.

⭒ the chase by @goosical

adrian’s day job was never the highlight of his day, but you might just be enough to change his mind.

⭒ A Sunday kind of love by @/goosical

their love was one that lasted past saturday night.

⭒ Injury by @goddessofmischief

⭒ “Vigilantes Hot.” by @theowritesstuff

You tell Adrian what you really think about Vigilante

⭒ Going Fuckin’ Ham by @pagesfromthevoid

⭑.ᐟ

Two cups of ramen, more contemplation for the deceased crew, and fidgeting with each picture that you just scattered indise of a named box of yours. Those were the activities you did several times, plus extra pulling your hair, and screaming at the sleeping chamber like a mad man, all that while that scientist, Dr. Ryland Grace, had pacing back and forth observing you. 

Previously, he was in the EVA suit, telling you to just stay seated when you were still processing your death comrades, Ilyukhina and Yao. He was preparing his first contact to explore the mysterious tunnel connecting the Hail Mary’s hull.

But now, you clutch the only photo that you have with Ilyukhina, Yao, and Dubois from months after training together for this project. This project that makes you end up alone in the vast outer space with the only person that you do not want to spend time with. What if he knows the real you? What if he knows you were the one who kicked his butt down the grass and sedated him?

Clenching your fist against the wall, you stand slowly, your consciousness telling you to stand up and wake up. This is your own choice to be a part of this project, this is your choice to be so away from your home, this is your choice to amend your guilt. The front pocket feels heavier as you recognize the guilt surge through your body. The dog tag, yeah, this is your choice to amend your late boyfriend. Your Bob.

You lift from the slump and head to the main laboratory. This is your choice to volunteer as the co-pilot for redundancy next to Yao. You grasp all that self-encouragement you just produce yourself. There is no Carl to say good luck anymore, you need to make and insert your own words of encouragement.

As you trudge away from the sleeping chamber, a muffled scream emanates from the hull to the main lab. That was the scientist. You run to that area of the spacecraft, the valve is tightly closed. But, you can hear his voice through the EVA suit emanator embedded at the wall beside you. The scientist is hovering in front of a border-like wall made of different materials, with a clear glass-like wall at the corner of it.

“You want me to go back on my ship?” Dr. Ryland Grace’s voice echoes to the emanator on your side.

“But, I just got here,” he slowly backs away, “okay, okay, I’ll talk to you later.”

“Are you talking to the alien, Dr. Grace?” You click a button in the emanator for a direct communication to the EVA suit he wears.

He screeches, again. You facepalm.

“Sorry, didn’t know you were listening.” He puts his right hand on top of his chest, “yes, he looks like a rock.”

As he approaches the valve to decompress, he finally walks in from the hull with the entire EVA suit, stumbling a little after noticing you are fixated to his face; waiting for any information. 

“So, what did you get?” You ask, bracing for any information prior to his first screech in the tunnel.

“He wants me to get back in the–,” his voice still amplifies through the emanator.

“Your helmet, Dr. Grace.” You say sternly, what is wrong with this guy anyway? Has lack of communication with humans made him this reckless?

“Ah, that is right,” he switches open his helmet, revealing his blond hair, curled at the bump of the helmet’s round edge.

You drag your eyes briefly from his hair, back onto his face again, waiting for his answer. And yet, he drifts past you to zip off the entire EVA suit. While still waiting eagerly for an answer, suddenly an unidentified activity is notified on the monitor.

You rush there to spectate, Dr. Grace follows alongside you after he finishes taking off the entire EVA suit minus the white-inner, along with the tubes hovering like a snake. He hangs the EVA suit just beside the hatch and pushes his glasses as you sit down in front of the monitor.

You narrow your eyes to the monitor, trying to know what is happening outside the hull. As Dr. Grace approaches the monitor, he places one hand in front of the desk, “What are they doing, Mary?” he murmurs.

‘Right, now he personified the ship.’ You think, feeling invisible at his own monologue towards the ship after he did not answer your question.

“Sorry, Lieutenant.” Dr. Grace stretches his arms just in front of your face to reach clicking there and then, you recoil, lean away to the back of the seat as your vision now are mainly his clothed biceps. 

Your breath becomes shallow from the sudden movement and the annoyance of being ignored. Clicking your tongue, you push away the chair, away from the scenery of his arms stretching in the desk, “I’m activating the centrifuge.” 

Hovering around the cockpit, you reach for the centrifuge panel, shoving all the flying trinkets that the scientist does to your cockpit. 

“It is not advised to modify the centrifugal settings of the ship,” notifies the robotic voice after .

“Oh  right, thank you, Mary.” He suddenly bumps into the cockpit, drifting just beside you, reaching for the same centrifuge switch.  

“I’m sorry,” a punch to your dignity. You grasp the pilot seat with your left hand to support you, and your right one reaching for the switch panel. But, the guy blocks you again with his outstretched arms to the switch first.

Flabbergasted, signs of annoyance may write itself clearly upon your face, yet you realized, you should've not seen and too fixated at his biceps rather than the centrifuge switch. Regaining your composure, you lift up as soon as he drifts away from the cockpit to another side of the ship. 

“You know what, Lieutenant, I recognize you now.” He shouts from the other side of the ship. 

You clamp your hand to the hatch connected to the main laboratory, bracing for whatever he is about to say. Heart beats drums your ear, anticipating while your mind rushes to form any kind of excuse.

“You were the fighter jet pilot Stratt appointed to carry me after Carl and I had a baby.” He states, creasing your forehead at the words.

“Huh?” You retort, but there is a memory etched to your brain there. It replays your first ever encounter with him; you throw pills for him to alleviate the dizziness by the g-force, and the obnoxious scream he made during your flight to the aircraft carrier.

“That wasn’t an enjoyable flight, Lieutenant,” he titters, eyeing you while scouring every drawer in the laboratory for something, “at least I’m safe, unlike the recent fighter jet accident in the pacific ocean, the media said it cost our tax to recover the damages.” 

He babbles again, “Military propaganda, the news said.”

You do not respond, so he casts a swift look to you with a strained smile, “Well recent is not quite right, four years has passed for us, so that accident would be five years ago,” he corrects himself.

Still no response from you. Standing idly by the hatch, you follow his every movement from scouring the drawers to ducking his head lower to the inside.

“Anyway, I saw you at the meeting room during the Hail Mary presentation, too,” he adds,  “You seemed close with Stratt.”

A pang rushes to your gut. “Dr. Grace?” you call him.

He whips his head to you, swinging his glasses to fall onto the bridge of his nose in the process. “Yes?” he replies fast.

“What other things do you remember about me?”  

Roots in the main laboratory’s floor, his eyes scanning your face through his crooked glasses at his nose. A momentarily silent before he continues to latch several cables off the floor, and seizes the emergency lights from the drawer, “No more than that. In fact, all my memories become blurry past that moment.” 

As much as your distress about the matter fading off from your mind, you still are not comprehending what Dr. Ryland Grace does with all the emergency lights and the cables. Stepping another foot forward, you scan the floor from any obstacles, afraid to fall for the second time.

“Dr. Grace,” you call him again.

He turns his body fast, and clumsily hit his head on one of the opened drawers.

“You okay?” You walk forward, reflex courses to your right hand, automatically reaching for the impacted skin, near his temple. His blue eyes dart from your hands and your face, then he backs away, “I’m okay,” he winces.

“Please,” he pauses, caressing the impacted skin with his own palm, “Please, no need for modesty, just call me Grace. Or Ryland.” he puts on a wry smile.

“Grace,” you emphasise the word, “As the two of us now are crewmates. Would you please let me know what you are planning to do?” You raise your voice still, despite the awkwardness from almost touching his temple out of nowhere.

He corrects his glasses, fidgeting with his arms before pointing to all the lights and scattered cables he put on a desk, “I’m planning to light that alien tunnel, it’s so dark in there.” 

“That’s a great idea. Please let me help.” You affirm, and scour for any spare cable and emergency lights at the other end of the ship.

“You don’t have to, Lieutenant, I’m okay with –”

You cut his words before you leave the laboratory, “Just call me (y/l/n) or (y/f/n), Grace. No need for a title, like you said,” you pause, “I don’t want to miss my chance to talk to E.T.” 

Then you walk away after confirming his lopsided smile from across the ship, “Okay, (y/l/n).” He says.

.

.

“Where are the tapes, Grace?” You inquire.

“Here,” he hands the extra tapes and cables here and there. 

After some time gathering all the checklists Grace had made, you drift off the room to wear your EVA suit on. 

“Do you need help?” He asks, still fumbling with all the equipment he carries.

You zip it down fast and put your feet one before the other without answering his offers, not because you did not care, but because you are too nervous for trying your first ever EVA suit after months training with the death comrades. It is as if your entire senses are blocked by the nerves.

“Ah, yes, you don’t need one, sorry,” he trudges awkwardly to his EVA suit right after you, flinging all the cables again upon his shoulder after he completely wears it, along with the helmet on.

As you open the valve and make the entrance first, you wait for Grace before you shut the hatch. Clutching your hand to the light you carry and move away to give him space to walk in, you catch his eyes and notice his breath in your comm. Everything that you said and unsaid are recorded and transmitted to the others. 

Waiting for several seconds before he closes the hatch to the ship completely, he asks you through the comms, “Ready?” 

“Here goes nothing.” You remark with a short laugh at the end, easing the nerves away, preparing yourself to decompress the hull, and unlatch the hatch.

THUD

The air pressure seems strange, you are shoved away instantly by the gravity force, hitting your back to the unfortunate guy beneath you. 

He groans through the comms.

His body moves, you can feel him just beneath you even through the EVA suit. 

Reaching for a hand hold, you lift yourself up and sweep away all the cables covering your helmet like a slither snake. Reassuring his condition, you turn your body, “Grace, are you okay?” 

He lifts a thumbs up instead, though a red flush smeared visibly even through the visor.

“Come on, let’s meet up with the alien,” you offer him a hand, and he accepts it hesitantly. 

“Maybe don’t say here goes nothing, next time.” Grace softens his gaze after he stands up taller just in front of you.

You let out a soft humming chuckle in response, handing him the ramen ship that looks like a ship he had made. He takes it and installs it in his pocket, before strutting forward, “Anybody home?” He shouts.

“I like what you’ve done with the gravity!” You add. 

“I made you a ship. It’s ramen, I only made one.” He pulls the dry ramen out as he approaches the clear glass wall. You perch right beside him, inserting the lamp at each side of the wall.

“I’m not sure how many of you there are.” He says again, resounding throughout your helmet.

When you finish installing the lights, you drag your feet to see the dark tunnel beyond the clear glass. Grace said, it was made of xenon when you both were preparing the equipment. And now here you are, seeing it for yourself. 

Too focused on the hard material of a xenon gas, something creeps in just beyond it, finally making you shift your focus. Is this the alien Grace talks about?

As the light helps to cast its shadow, you dredge your eyes fully to the approaching creature. It makes a soft chitter sound to Grace and to you, it seems. It has a carapace but legs like a spider, except there are only five. It crawls to the glass in front of you.

“Hi,” you tap the material with your finger.

It chitters again. 

You cackle, “So you are entirely made of rocks, huh.” You glance at Grace who looks at you back  attentively while you  tapping the glass.

But, when you whip your head back to the front, the creature jumps out to the glass, making you and Grace shriek together. In return it also screams a high pitch voice.

“No, no, no, sorry you scared us when you went.. aaa!” Grace imitates the scream to the rock while hovering his hands upward. Is it rock? Is it a he? It feels wrong to consider a living creature as ‘it’, right?

The creature screams back and lifts two of its feet or hands upward just like Grace. As funny as it is, Grace is drawn to the idea to pose several poses and the alien imitates back. He laughs and it also chitters.

“This is amazing!” You scream, join in the laughter and drag your feet closer to the creature again. “Can’t seem to see a face,” you mutter, scanning any slope or any weird angle surface on its carapace.

“Mysterious,” Grace chimes in inside the comms, standing behind you, “Faces are overrated.” He exclaims. 

You snap at his remark, "Couldn't agree more.” 

There is a mere seconds of silence, and it hits you in the head whether the silence built after what you just said or not. But it doesn’t take longer, not until Grace taps the glass, and the creature taps back. They both tap the glass and it grows more frequent and more aggressively after each tap. You pull your eyebrows into a taut, and notice an object stowed just slightly at Grace’s right.

“I don’t think he’s tapping.” You point out, walk to the object. 

Grace turns his attention as the taps slowly recede, “You’re pointing. You’re not tapping. Sorry.” 

You open the canister and grab what it seems like a necklace or decoration. You lift it to the creature, “Thank you, this is beautiful.” 

The creature chitters with its hand swaying above. Grace snaps, “What? You want her to put that on her head?”

“Ah like a crown?” You raise your intonation and gesture a crown above your helmet.

“No?” Grace continues, “take off her head?” He implores.

You choke on the words.

“Take her helmet off?” Grace now mimicking the ‘helmet off’.

You hand him the object inside the canister and Grace grabs it from your clothed palm while mimicking another pose, “No, it’ll whoosh,” he balls his fist, “explode,” then opens it, imitates an explosion.

“That’s a big ask, sorry.” You put your hands on your chest for an apology gesture.

The light flickers while the creature still determines to persuade you and Grace to open your helmet.

“This has taken a turn,” Grace tells the creature and motions you to go back to the ship with his free hand. “Thank you for what I hope is not handcuffs.” Grace chuckles again through the comms while you are next to him, taking one last look at the creature beyond the xenon glass.

“I’m sorry for the whole helmet thing,” you said to the creature.

Grace nods his head, walking to the hatch while still carrying the mysterious object, “unfortunately we need oxygen to breathe, so,” his word halts abruptly.

“What’s wrong?” You gaze up to see his countenance.

“Two rings of eight.” He murmured, exchanging a glance at you. “O2,” you replied fast.

“E.T shows off.” You remark. “You little rascal.” Grace retorts to the creature.

A sliver of worry cast in his blue eyes. He looks at you as if saying don’t do anything stupid. His gaze roots you in, and stops you from doing any reckless behavior, halting your hand to reach your helmet.

“I don’t think we can do it, though. Sorry. It’s just, if I’m wrong. I’m really wrong.” There was a hint that the latter words are directed to you then the alien. But, your hand remained steady, inches away from opening your helmet.

“(Y/l/n), no.” He recalls gravely.

You walk a couple steps forward and turn to face him, scanning his face from the stray hair glued on his forehead to the twitch in his eyes. You also face the rock creature that is strangely quiet when you two talk. “We do it together.” You reassure him, eyeing the two rings of eight objects again in his hands.

After a brief exchange of reassurance, you guide your hand to your helmet, and him too. 

“Here goes something.” You awkwardly snort as  both of you switch the helmet off.

You maintain your eye-level to his, quelling the desire to press your eyes shut if something bad could happen. But, here you are, fully believing your life to that rock creature. You halt your breath for a moment as if it will alleviate the issue if the air pressure is too hard for your body to handle. Instead, a hiss emanates as you lift the helmet off. 

A surge of relief wash over both of your countenance as you face each other. You inhale the air while pressing your eyes shut, Grace does the same, and both of you exhale the air at the same time. 

You throw a big thumb to the creature, before you walk back again into the Hail Mary.

.

.

Everything went by so fast. That first encounter with the E.T had the both of you, you and Grace, bonded over a mere curiosity about Rocky. His name is Rocky, Grace decided. After your first encounter, you followed along all the crazy ideas to use clocks and general math as a form of universal language. Of course, you gave in to that idea, he’s the scientist, you’re the pilot. Besides, this interaction has taken a turn to another level; Rocky’s planet is also counting on him to deal with the Astrophage.

Grace used a program to translate every little instrument Rocky transmitted into English. Curiosity washed over you, intrigue to know what your name is like in his language. It turned out that your name sounds like a broken string of guitar scrubbed with a cheese grater. Okay, then, it makes sense. After a while, there was a moment where you also bickered with Grace and Rocky whether to use Meryl Streep's voice or not. In your defense, her voice was pretty soothing, but Grace and Rocky voted for no, so it was you against the two of them.

When you and Grace were busy calculating distance to Tau Ceti with cups of ramen, a rap knock in the hull broke your argument to still silence. That day you rushed your feet first to the hull and found Rocky was inside of a ball. More like a sphere, and he deliberately shoved the both of you from your way to roam freely inside the ship. 

Of course, there was so much commotion here and there before the three of you agreed to make space, because you three were distinct individuals per what Grace said. Even before Rocky arrived at the Hail Mary, you and Grace would argue for a simple thing like where to hang up your jumpsuit, he would hang it mindlessly near the rope he made in the laboratory, but the other day you almost stumbled to the ground when his jumpsuit blocked your way. Seeped with anger, you almost broke one of the Spectrometers because of that, and he would just repress all his anger, while saving it for his video log later, calling you not good for being a crewmate. 

But you are glad now that Rocky doesn’t need clothes to hang, although his existence packed the Hail Mary even more with all his xenonite glass installed everywhere along with his trinkets. Yes, Grace calls it xenonite now. 

Nonetheless, that moment when he said all 23 crew members of Blip-A had died mysteriously and he had been sleeping alone ever since with no one watching; as how it supposed to be in his culture, had made you more compassionate to the rock spider.

And here you are right now, after adapting to share your personal space with two different living-beings, you begin to enjoy this company. Although, sometimes you feel the air in the room feel thin, as your skin senses a prickling gaze for too long, but when you look at the source, the subject shifts away.

“Am I still doing it? You still want it?” Grace inquires, his hand carries the mini-ship, his glasses falling to his nose as he slouches to Rocky’s sphere. Leaning his hand in the sphere, while occasionally darting his eyes to your way, noticing you approach the discussion.

You come back from the cockpit to do your regular inspection and find the two creatures have an argument. “Yes, yes show time!” The alien exclaims. You nudge your chin to Grace’s direction to show agreement with the alien, crossing your leg just beside Rocky’s sphere. 

Grace continues his monologue again, muttering his presentation again with a sigh. 

“No, use planet gravity to move with line!” Rocky blurts.

“You mean sort of rests in its orbit?” Grace halts his puppet show, and the alien confirms his question; making him look dumb. 

“I did not think of that.” He smacks his lips, straightens his shoulder and throw the mini puppet spacecraft, more like tossing it.

“I did.” Rocky replies sternly. 

You raise your shoulder and purse your lips to the annoyed Grace, who now drowns in his train of thoughts of how dumb his brain is perhaps. “I’m on it. Let’s orbit Tau Ceti-e.” You put your clenched fist in the sphere to toss Rocky’s fist.

“Fist bump,” you say.

“Fist my bump.”

“No, Rocky, we’ve talked about this.” you slump your shoulders, one knee to support you from standing up. “Okay, time to orbit, you ready, boys?” Arms cross in front of your chest, quivering your eyebrow to the only two participants in the room. 

Rocky throws  a thumbs down, and Grace puts both of his hands on his hips, casting a smug look to you after he lost an intelligence battle to a rock.

“I’m gonna need my aviator glasses!” You gear up to the cockpit, throwing two-fingers salute at Grace and Rocky from your right eyebrow. Rocky follows along in his xenonite tunnel that has taken up spaces in Hail Mary, and Grace wraps up his puppet show before trailing you two to the co-pilot seat.

The cockpit welcomes you three with the same smell of technical metallic machinery and computer as usual. The pilot seat designated for Commander Yao is now yours to take control, while the co-pilot seat designated for you previously was now Grace’s to take over. Though, his pilot ability is still doubtful.

Aviator sunglasses that you don’t need clutch in the collar of your jumpsuit, hands busy switching handles and buttons to calculate the estimation of arrival. 

“150 million kilometers away,” you mumble while tilting up your chin to the handles above you.

Grace responds quickly, “Racing along at 162 km/s, means we should arrive at Tau Ceti-e at–,”

Mary’s voice echoes throughout the cockpit, “Arrival at Tau Ceti-e in 11 days, 3 hours and 14 minutes.”

“Thank you, Mary.” Both of you reply back at the same time.

“You’re welcome, Lieutenant (y/l/n). You’re welcome. Dr. Grace.” Mary chimes.

“Thank you Mary,” Rocky follows. “You’re welcome, Rocky.” The robotic voice replies back.

Adrenaline rushes through your vein, turning your head to the scientist, anticipating a fist bump in which he already outstretches it on his left without seeing your face. Both of you are about to do it but missed, his hand hovering just above the control panel.

“Okay do it again, now, don’t play smug like that, you might hit the controller.” You shift your seat to actually looking at him, while still outstretching your fist.

Still plastered the same smug look, he looked at you through his glasses, reaching for the fist bump.  “Fist bump,” both of you say it the same time again, and retract both of your respective hands after the impact, mouthing “shooo’’, like a torpedo about to launch. 

Childish indeed, but as soon as he regains his focus back to the control panel; flicking one of the handle above him with his right pointer finger, the nosepad of his glasses slides down the bridge of his nose, the Project Hail Mary hat hide his hair, and the stubble framing his jawline, you can’t help yourself to admire it. Admire would be a wrong word to use, it recalls a memory from the past that should have been forbidden to evoke at this particular moment. Not when it is completely a different person, not when the dog tag is still there in your front pocket. 

You let the words roll down your tongue unrestrained, “You remind me of someone.” Your hand grip the armrest too tight when he snaps back at you, his gaze casts a soft look, placing you back in the center of his attention.

“Oh yea? Who is it?” He lets out a chuckle, a furrow in his eyebrows. 

A deliberate furtive glance to his lips, you let him catch your gaze while doing something so recklessly. Your lips tightly pressed together, your body feels like stuck and swallowed by the pilot seat; unable to form the right word to reply or to mention the subject that occupies your mind now. No, this feels wrong, this is wrong. 

“I’m sorry.” You hit the autopilot handle, and swift your way to the other side of the ship. Anywhere, anywhere else away from him. It's sickening to think that his face even overlapped with another subject in your mind. Heartbeat drums your ear, it blocks your senses, making your step aimless and almost stumbling you by the equipment of the puppet show he made recently.

A rehab room, you need a rehab room. Rushing to the controller, you swift the scenery into a beach again then sitting down at the panel. It is not wise you know, the sand, the waves, everything, reminds you of your late boyfriend. So, you press shut your eyes, and just let the sounds of rolling waves crashing against the shore sooth your mind. 

Deep breath, deep breath. 

“(y/f/n), you okay?” Bob’s voice spiralling in your mind along with the squawking of the birds and the rolling waves. 

No, no, what is wrong with you? You shake your head, pressing your eyes shut again, you can feel your eyebrow almost touch to one another.

“(y/f/n), you okay?” that question again.

“No, please go away!” You burst out, open your eyes wide, and catch Grace kneeling in front of you, Rocky also at his side.

You blink twice, did he just call you by your first name? It doesn’t matter anyway.

“Oh, sorry, I just want to ask you if you’re okay,” Grace lowers his head, hands awkwardly taking off his hat and brushing his hair, “Tell me if you need anything.”

He almost stands up and leaves you there alone, but you grasp his hand immediately. “No, please, I’m sorry, I don’t know what happened to me.” 

His gaze staring so intensely at you. There are seconds there where his muscles in his arms flex at the impact of your touch. He slowly shifts to sit beside you, Rocky rolls down at your left.

“(y/l/n) is okay, question?” Rocky inquires after a minute too long.

“I’m okay Rock. My mind is just playing with me I think.” You sway your hand above your head, letting out an awkward sigh.

“Mind is a trickster, I still don’t know why I’m here for example,” Grace adds. A hitch in your breath. You don’t need to be reminded again of this pressure to defend yourself against him someday.

“Let’s light up the mood, why don’t we utilize this facility?” Grace pushes his glassed to study your face better, and once he acknowledges that hint of a smile from you, he walks towards the controller.

Hours had passed by for the three of you in the rehab room. From travelling virtually to gazing at New York skyscrapers, to a beautiful island on Bali, to a snowy mountain in Sweden, you finally caved in to every circus that Grace had shown. Movie scenes from Rocky, karaoke time, and this time you change the song to Drive By by Train.

“Drive By, favorite song, my time to sing now.” You holler.

Rocky rolling chaotically anywhere within the rehab room as you mimicked playing a drum while hitting your foot to the floor, and Grace standing up beside you, perching the mic just in front of you like a makeshift mic stand.

After some time, the dopamine subside a little, and you lay on your back in the metal panel letting your leg hang freely just below it, Rocky is between you both, and Grace is leaning his back to the sphere.

“I like Earth.” Rocky states. 

“I like Earth too.” You raise a lazy hand in agreement with his statement.

“I miss the fog, what about you, Rock? What do you miss most about home?” Grace responds again, still catching his breath from the impromptu dance and karaoke.

“My mate.”

You jolt up from your laying position, Grace also abruptly shifts his position to face Rocky inside of the sphere.

“You got a mate?” Grace asks in disbelief, his tone is slightly mocking in your ear.

“I mean–not that you–what’s their name?” He jeer after noticing your facial expression across Rocky’s sphere, unspokenly written there ‘are you being for real’

“Name is—-” and he continues his instrumental language that both you and Grace don’t understand.

As soon as he finishes, Grace nods to him, “It’s beautiful.”

“Grace, have mate, question?”

The question lingers in the air for a moment. Your hand gripped the metal panel too tight. It should not tingle your brain to know about this matter. But your body automatically shifts as Rocky bursts that question out. You notice him slants away from the question.

“No,” he pauses, “I mean, I did. But she thought I had my head in the clouds, and I didn’t really want to live in the real world.” he sighs.

“She was right. Anyway now she’s with Mark.” Grace looks back to Rocky and slightly share a cursory glance towards you.

Rocky hum for a while, “Rocky hates Mark.”

You snort, and Grace does the same way.

“(Y/l/n), have mate too, question?” Rocky turns his attention to you. 

It feels like the spotlight of the theater is above you now, every attention is on you, but you’re unable to articulate the script for the show. 

There is always a lump in the back of your throat, every time you think about him. Grace is waiting attentively, slightly avoiding your eyes when you catch him.

“He died not long ago, Rock.” the words feel bitter in your tongue. But, it is enough to snap Grace’s attention back to you, seeing you with a slight squint in his eyes, as if he solved an equation in his little science experiment.

“I’m sorry, (y/l/n).” Rocky chimes.

You stifle a crack voice, clearing your throat, while your periphery catching Grace clearly perusing your countenance.

“It’s fine, Rock. It’s been five years. In fact, if he didn’t die I would not volunteer to be a part of this crew and meet you both.” You smile at the alien and Grace. Grace nods almost motionlessly, “I’m sorry to hear that, (y/l/n).” 

“It’s okay,” you gaze at the distance to the virtual sky.

“What’s his name, If I may ask?” Grace asks slowly, as to not hurt you by his spontaneous question.

You click your tongue, still gazing at the virtual sky, “Bob. His name is Bob.”

“Well, we find out why Tau Ceti doesn’t dim for Bob, then.” Grace raises his hand as if he grips a wine glass.

“For Bob.” Rocky follows. 

You look at the both of them, chuckle, “well, enough about me. How long have you been together, Rock?” you sweep away the gloom.

“186.3 years.”

“It’s like the honeymoon phase.” Grace jokes.

“No understand.”

“That’s a joke, Rock.” You poke Rocky’s sphere, “that’s a long time.” you continue.

Grace softens his gaze to Rocky who whips his attention between him and you, “You’ve been together a long time.”

“It’s not enough.” The alien chitter softly.

His answer sends your heart dropping to your stomach. It’s never enough. It’s never enough for one to hold their dear one for a time limit, it’s never enough. And here you are, listening to a living-creature validates your feeling that even a hundred years is not enough to spend your time with your loved ones. 

The rest of the activity drifts by with the three of you talking about the similarity and the difference of Earth and Erid, while you occasionally make a cursory glance every time your skin tingles from being watched. You know for a fact, it’s not Rocky with his echolocation. It is someone else that is trying so hard to solve you like a mystery.

There is an imperceptible shift in the air every time you catch his gaze. Indescribable feeling creeps into you, weighing your thoughts even more between cautious and infatuation of someone dear who used to do this too. 

You snap, the more you think about it, the more his face and his memory etch into someone else’s only for a bit of similarity. Your mind is doing the trick. He is years older than him, wears a different type of glasses than him, and yet, every subtle clumsiness and outburst from Grace reminds you more about him.

You grunt, “I think I need to rest for a bit. Thank you for– for everything.” You pinch the bridge of your nose and pull a thin smile to Grace and Rocky.

“Rocky watch (y/l/n) sleep.” The sounds from the sphere make a ring cacophony as you both walk your way towards the sleeping chamber.

“Now I remember.” Grace says out of the blue, clicking his tongue.

The floor suddenly feels like clasping your foot from moving forward. Swallowing your pride and defense, you turn back slowly to observe Grace’s countenance. 

“You were there when Stratt sang. You raised your cup with Ilyukhina and both of you sang along with her,” he takes off his glasses and rubs his hands to his jaw, “what’s the song, what’s the song,” he buries his head in his palm.

“Ah! Sign of The Times, by One Direction.” He shouts, showing his bright smile to you.

“Harry Styles.” You correct him, but your face turns deadpanned at his exhilaration.

“My bad,” he groans, “but, if we didn’t do karaoke like this, I think that memory won’t appear. So, um,” Grace fidgets with his glasses in his hand, while maintaining to look you in the eye.

“Thank you, (y/l/n).” He awkwardly coughs.

⋆˚꩜｡ 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘶𝘦𝘥 ⋆˚꩜｡

THREE DAYS. it was currently three days before the launch of the hail mary. you’re also currently exploring the station where the launch will take place. hands neatly folded behind your back, your white pristine coat framing your body— others would think you’re one of the leading authorities in the project with how you radiated professional aura. but you were just… you. a person who got dragged into this madness unwillingly with your ex, dr. ryland grace.

speaking of the scientist, after that night— you two seemed closer than before. not that close, but still closer than before. whenever ryland would spot you during lunch break, he’d sit with you— whether in your clinic or the cafeteria, it doesn’t matter. he needed to make sure you were eating well, even if he doesn’t say it out loud. if he does not see you having lunch though, he’d go out of his way just to bring you food.

you appreciate his gesture very much, but this made it difficult for you to look him straight in the eye. if ryland thought you were drunk the night of the party, he was wrong. you’re completely sober— yes, a bit tipsy— but conscious enough to make sensible decisions. so did you meant it when you said you never regretted meeting him? you’d say, statistically, it was 10% alcohol and 90% you therefore… yes, you meant it.

back on the station, you were simply enjoying the fog out in the grassy field. you missed the land with how long you’ve stayed at sea. as you were enjoying the fresh air (that was accompanied by slight smell of metal and gas), you felt the ground shake. from a distance, you saw a mushroom cloud erupt near the station. the walkie-talkie in your coat pocket cackled, carl was frantically paging you.

your heart was beating so fast you were sure it’d jump out of your chest. once you arrived at the station, you immediately tended to the people involved in the explosion— which contained dubois and another supposed crew of the hail mary. you felt vertigo at the sight of them. they were gone, and there’s nothing anyone can do to revive them. you look up at carl and shook your head.

the mission has been compromised. with just three days away from departure, the project is in need of a science officer replacement. so eva held a spontaneous meeting, consisting of: you, grace, the remaining crew, and the other leading scientists. “if we miss the orbital window, it’ll set us back months.” you sat across from ryland as you let out a frustrated sigh into your hands. “yeah, but if no one’s trained to do the mission, it won’t matter,” the man in front of you replied worriedly.

“casualty projections go up if we delay. we launch on schedule with a replacement science officer,” eva explained with urgency. “okay? but… who?” the blond asked, rubbing his nose bridge in exasperation. you were curious too as to who they might be thinking of. would anyone be willing to risk their lives on such short notice? you look at eva, only to see the rest of them staring straight at ryland.

no… no. silence filled the table as ryland and eva had a stare down. “i’m not an astronaut,” he retorted. “i don’t need an astronaut. i need an expert on astrophage who’s mission ready,” the dutch argued. “i’m not ready. i don’t have any training,” the scientist added, to which ilyukhina said, “you’ll pick it up.” as if it was the easiest thing to do.

“i’m not an astronaut.” ryland stomped his hands on the table, trying to make a point. you felt your heart gradually beat faster. “i put the ‘not’ in ‘astronaut’.” hot tears started to well in your eyes. you don’t know why, but it’s coming. because admit it or not, ryland has become special to you. you can’t name it yet— was it platonic? romantic? you didn’t decide thus far, but one thing’s for sure… he’s placed himself in your heart once again.

“i’ve never done anything— i’ve never done a spacewa— i can’t even moonwalk!” he listed all the things as to why he’s not the perfect pick for this. but it’s not enough to convince all of them. your brain couldn’t comprehend it, your heart felt like it was being squeezed so tight, and your lungs were running out of air. you can’t do this. you don’t want to hear the rest of the conversation.

you stood up abruptly, garnering the attention of everyone in the room. ryland stared at your figure, your breathing quickened and your hands were shaking. he mumbled your name, seeing if you were okay when he knows for a fact you’re not. it was sweet of him to check up on your panicked state when he, himself, is panicking. you have to thank him for that, but now is not the right time and place.

you quickly grabbed your coat and stormed off the room, shoulder almost bumping into carl. this time, ryland shouted your name, but you dare not to look back as your tears were already drenching your cheeks. “isn’t it about time you tell her?” you hear yao ask eva faintly. she only held a hand up, signifying the captain to wait and glanced at the scientist who was confused. “what’s that supposed to mean?” ryland asked.

eva ignored his question and continued, “you have no immediate family. you don’t even have a dog.” “i have…” the blond said too quickly, staring at your now empty chair. “i have her,” he whispered. “are you sure?” the dutch’s questions was short and simple. a simple ‘yes’ or ‘no’ question, yet it held so many implications. doubts started flooding his mind, all coming back to the thought of you.

you rushed into the restroom, not caring if someone was there. you locked yourself in a vacant cubicle. you sniffle, trying so hard to silence the sobs coming out of your mouth. i can’t lose him, you thought. i’ve already let him go before and i… deeply regretted it.

“why?” you ask no one, looking up at the ceiling. did you think someone would answer you? the stars? the galaxies? a higher being? or maybe… god himself? “why now? when i just got him back?” you cried, slapping your head as if wracking your brain could give you answers the stars or any higher being couldn’t.

you continued to cry, eventually letting the sobs out. and you slap… and slap and slap and punch and hurt yourself. your chest only kept tightening, the pain was starting to get unbearable that you… just want it to all go away. outside the hallway, ryland was desperately searching for you. he only has three hours to decide and you’re the only person he wants to see right now.

unexpectedly, a woman approached the scientist with a worried look on her face. “she’s in the restroom, in the cubicle at the very end,” she pressed. “i think she’s… hurting herself.” ryland didn't hesitate to run inside as soon as he heard the last phrase, not caring about a thing as he only cared about you. he opened the door, and there he saw you… repeatedly hitting yourself.

ryland couldn’t explain it but you looked so deflated, like life was sucked out of you and it hurt him. “hey, hey.” he held both your wrists, refraining you from acting out again while still staying gentle. your breath was ragged from crying. the blond called out your name softly, “look at me.” he continued to call out for you to snap out of it. which it did.

you look up through blurry eyes, eyes slowly focusing at ryland’s face. his eyes were red, like he's been holding back liters of tears. he held your wrists firmly but soft. “breathe with me.” and he tried to steady his breathing for you to follow along. you exhaled, and inhaled, your trembling gradually stopping. ryland whispered you name as he noticed you finally stabilising.

without thinking, you engulf the blond in a hug. “don’t go,” you muttered, voice breaking, making ryland’s resolve broke down. a tear falling from his eye, but he stopped before all of it could pour. he couldn’t let you see him be vulnerable, not when you’re this fragile. he can be vulnerable later— maybe when they still force him to go— but right now, what you need is an anchor. to hold on to, to lift you back to the surface.

"i have three hours," ryland spoke and you immediately let go. you frowned, lips trembling. "that's what stratt told me. i have three hours to decide," he added. you only shook your head in dismay, looking down as you can't face the scientist. your tears were threatening to fall again. "hey, it'll be okay." even though nothing about this will be 'okay'.

ryland could only sigh as you let out silent cries. "h— how about we go out of here and talk?" he asked, to which you nodded with all the energy you could muster. "okay? okay." the blond helped you stand up from the toilet, your knees jelly from all the crying. the two of you walked out of the restroom, not giving a damn about the stares given by other workers present in the scene.

hour one. you and ryland found a bench outside of the building. the air was cold and fog spread throughout the field. ryland is fond of the fog, he liked it very much, but right now— it symbolizes nothing but the impending doom waiting for him... waiting for you. the two sat in silence, the whistling wind serving as their background music, humming a sad tune.

ryland shuffled in his seat, his shoulder bumping into you. "um..." he murmured, not exactly sure where to start. "i don't want to go," he whispered, to himself and to you. you stayed silent for a good minute before replying, "then don't." easier said than done, and you knew that.

ryland huffed, thinking of all the possible ways he could fix this. but words... it cannot simply fix. "i'll try to talk to them," he stated, uncertainty under his tone. you glance at him and queried, "will that work?" of course not. "it's worth the try," he answered.

hour two. "for all you know, they'll coerce you to it. they could— they could drug you or, or something," you stuttered, the scenarios playing in your head stinging your heart. ryland rubbed his thighs nervously. he doesn't want to face the truth but he knows there's no going away with this.

"stratt won't do that to me." you whipped your head to the blond's direction, looking at him like it was the most ridiculous thing you've heard. "are you kidding me? you're the first person she thought of as replacement." your tone was rising that you were almost shouting. ryland faced you, holding up his hands to calm you.

"i— i trust her," he tried to convince you, or rather, himself. your brows furrowed and eyes squinted. "how can you trust her?" you scoff, "she forced us here in the first place. as far as i know, she's keeping something from me. and for all i know, she might be planning on getting me on that ship too."

ryland froze. he suddenly remembered yao's question as soon as you left the room. and how eva avoided it with that look on her face while she stared at him. no... no that can't be.

hour three. the scientist stood up, straightening his posture. "then let's run away," he blurted out, surprising you. "that's impossible," you sarcastically laughed. "i'll talk to stratt..." ryland trailed of, then looked down at your still sitting figure. "... and if she does use violence. i'll run away. we'll run away," he finished, the statement tugging at your heartstrings.

you stood up also, letting out a quick sigh. "alright," says you. the two of you stared at each other's eyes for quite a while. letting yourselves get lost in each other. it was like that seven minutes after you die, where your life flashes by quick within those minutes. the memories of you and ryland— old and new— plagued your mind.

unexpectedly, ryland hugged you, his shoulders dropping like he's been trying to keep his guard up since earlier. you didn't hesitate to hug him back as he buried his face into the crook of your neck. he mumbled your name that turned more like a helpless sob. "ry..." you mumbled back, the nickname only saddening the man more.

before you turn into a crying mess, ryland has let go. the sadness was evident on his face but he tried to stay stable for you. there was this unspoken connection between the two of you despite years of no contact. you thought it was just “high school sweethearts” but no. it was indeed deeper than that.

soon enough, you were mere inches away from each other that you could feel his body heat against you. ryland’s movements were slow, but you didn’t dare stop him. he placed a firm hand on the back of your head that secured you. his lips graced your forehead ever so lovingly— like he’s always done before. and before you know it, he’s on his way to eva.

you waited patiently, pacing back and forth as your heart beat through your ears. then you saw that familiar yellow coat running, men following behind him. carl was quick to block your way, but you were already filled with rage and evaded him. you watch as they tackle ryland to the ground, desperately begging them to don’t do it. “ryland!” your knees scrape the grassy land as you drop to the ground. it hurt, but it doesn't compare to the betrayal and heartbreak you're feeling at that very moment.

ryland called your name, crying, begging. carl appeared behind you, saying, “you know who you are. you’re gon’ do great.” you gripped the grass, annoyed by carl’s words of encouragement. you watch helplessly as the blond drifted to unconsciousness, mumbling your name as his last word.

you stand up, pushing carl harshly. “what is this?! how dare you do this to him?! he trusted you!” you repeatedly punched his chest but it didn’t do anything. carl only shook his head and looked behind you. you turned around harshly it almost gave you whiplash. you see the doctor that sedated ryland come closer to you.

you laugh amidst your tears, “so i was right? you were thinking of bringing me up there too?” “i’m sorry,” eva’s voice rang, she had her hands behind her as she walked over to you. you stare at her, eyes devoid of life. “a ‘sorry’ won’t cut it,” you said through gritted teeth.

“he trusted you stratt.” your voice came out, barely a whisper. the dutch only tilted her head, a look of pity displayed on her face. carl, out of his own will, refrained your hands behind your back. “why are you doing this?” you ask. “that serum was supposedly for you,” she answered, to which you laughed.

“what are you saying?” your shoulders bounced as you laugh with how ridiculous the situation is. “you’re the designated medic to board the ship,” the woman replied. “and you couldn’t tell me that before dragging me into this project?” your head hang low, you didn’t have any energy left and you couldn’t bring yourself to face her. you would just see red.

“you’re the best option we have. you were perfect to help dr. grace in understanding astrophage behavior and you’re the most commended in the medical field. space is vast, being lightyears away from human contact can do numbers on our astronauts psychological and physical state. of course, we want them to be in good shape to focus on the mission,” eva rambled.

“but your relationship with dr. grace is— what you would call in your field— an ‘extraneous variable’. it is something out of my control and it can greatly affect your decision in joining the crew,” she added. you scoffed, “you should’ve just stayed honest, stratt.” “well, would you have joined if you didn’t meet dr. grace in the first place?”

you fell silent. your thoughts drifted to your parents, to your beloved grandmother. you didn’t really have anyone before meeting ryland again. before all this... madness. you spent most of your days locked up in your clinic, barely going out. the only people you talk to are your patients. you can’t even bring yourself to get a pet because you’re scared of being abandoned, of being all alone.

a stinging sensation snapped you out of your thoughts. the doctor had inserted the syringe in your arm. you finally face eva, eyes blurring with neverending tears. “this isn’t ethical, stratt,” you slurred. the dutch sighed at the sight of you losing consciousness.

“nothing about this mission is ethical, doctor.”

end note: this might be the longest chapter i've written in the series (on average, i write 1k+ words per chapter and this one is almost at 3k) lol. anyways, this won't be the last chapter BUT i will be busy this upcoming week because i have research to do so i might upload... next week :( or! by saturday (Philippine time). also, thank you guys for all the love!! i'm glad y'all are enjoying this xx