Eve ‧₊˚♪ 𝄞₊˚⊹

-------------‧₊˚🍋‍🟩✩ ₊˚🌿⊹♡--------------

Fighting was never really your strong suit.

Neither was it Peter's.

Your mutant abilities harmed you, not to an extreme level but something similar to Logan's. The subtle pain was a reminder of your difference, or your strangeness. You didn't enjoy the fight, it stressed you. You were already on stress medication from just being a mutant, add on fighting world-level threats? Not your favorite, but you fought anyways. For mutant kind, you were told. For your people.

Peter's abilities ran within him like blood. His speed wrapped around his soul like a coil, something tethering him to himself. He wouldn't be Peter without his speed. The only side effect was his constant boredom and the need to buy better shoes. Peter didn't dislike the fight because it harmed him, Peter disliked the fight because it was the fight. It was something, something so complex and relentless that it weighed on his mind during bad hours of the night. But he fought, partly out of boredom and partly out of justice. He was a mutant, but he didn't just fight for mutants. He fought for everyone just because no one deserved to be harmed.

Loving was never your strong suit either.

Neither was it Peter's.

You'd never expected to fall for someone so...him. You were silent, still as a bug on a rock or a tree planted in the ground. You were the tree in comparison to Peter's light. He was energy incarnate, a mess of frizzy silver strands and rock vinyls. Your branches slowly and painfully reached out to merely bathe in as much of him as you could. His soul was agate, yours was granite. He was a window during golden hour, you were sandpaper in someone's desolate garage. Two things that weren't exactly opposites, but weren't alike. Just odd.

He'd share his headphones, proclaiming that you just had to listen to one of his favorite songs - one so faintly a confession that it dragged on your hopeless crush for another few months. He just liked the bass, you found yourself watching old interviews of the artist - hoping to understand what each syllable could tell you about Peter's feelings towards you.

You weren't too hard to love, but you were so different from him. You'd sink right into him and drown and he wouldn't even notice the ripple, too caught up in chasing the sun. Speedy and stagnant, a mix that wouldn't work on paper.

It was pathetic.

You were pathetic.

This parasocial yearning you felt for Peter was tainted with pure misery. It came in waves, bursts of emotional need so strong you doubled over in pain some nights. There were weeks, months at some periods where you could get over him. Consider his flaws, consider the downsides. But no matter how long you stayed with someone else or you fell for movie stars, you always reverted back into loving Peter. You were weak, like a dog always going back to a neglectful owner in the hope that something would change.

In the beginning, loving Peter is soft and sweet. But after a certain amount of months, it's a rollercoaster that jerks you around as if it's trying to get you to throw up. It manifests in the tighter outfits you would wear to functions he attended, the odd and sudden interest in the bands he liked, the way your breath shuddered when his hands brushed your skin, etc.

The jerky, relentless torment of loving Peter was one of your breaking points.

The X-men were a group that was supposed to stand together. But even within the tightest of groups, people have their people. And no matter how much you changed, how much you silenced yourself, and how much you tried to stay convenient for everyone - you never felt as important as the others. Never included, never admired, never wanted like the others. Scott had Jean, Raven had Hank, Kurt and Peter and Ororo were a group within themselves, and Logan was a loner by choice. And you were always there, always taking up too much space, taking up too much time.

Around the time you accepted defeat in your infatuation with Peter was also the same time that you accepted defeat with everybody else. You had been falling at Peter's feet for almost 3 years by then. If they didn't want you, if he didn't want you, then they didn't need you - they couldn't have you. More power to you, if they wanted to waste time with pointless mingling, then you could continue to work on your powers instead.

Your hands used to crack and bleed from dryness from all the torn up dirt your hands would grace, your powers reaching down and dancing within long forgotten roots to form towering trees and barbed vines. Your brain would rattle with spilting headaches from the amount of stress on your body, and you'd passed out over and over again. It was a large stretch from the flowers and bushes you were making when you first joined Xavier's. Beauty is pain, but so is power.

And slowly, as it always will, isolation turned to resentment. A snide comment would commonly slip from your lips when around the others, conveniently never towards Peter unless it was a particularly grueling day. Jobs were cut down to just jobs, hang out were unheard of, and on the occasion one of the members would text you, you wouldn't eagerly respond like before. It was always you texting first before, you who would initiate, but never again. Hatred began to fill in your body and seep out like a new layer of skin, a defense mechanism but also a clouding factor when it came to feeling.

William Stryker had entered your life on one of those aforementioned grueling days. Everyone else was laughing, excited for a hangout that you had told them you were too busy to attend - a lie, but they didn't push, they never did. There was a minor villain attack, nothing too big. But the notion in general, leaving your life to accompany a team that didn't care much for you. You were barely scraped up.

A training session followed as usual. You had chosen a small area in the woods, working on copying a poisonous plant from some book that Xavier gave you. It was then you were scouted by William, after a brief duel between you two. Xavier had once told you that you thought with your fists when you were angry - and he wasn't wrong.

Stryker offered you things that the others didn't. A community of others, others who would include you. You began to find a place - a place you could take your anger out. Your powers were so well suited for his mission, and you and Pyro worked in tangent. A terrible two, poisons and flames.

Your absence was immediately panicked over by the X-Men. Your assessment of their dislike for you was greatly exaggerated. You had always been insecure about your position, which led to your distance - and they didn't push you much. It had gotten to the point that they weren't shocked to not hear from you for a few days at the beginning, but after you wouldn't answer even Peter's calls, they knew something was wrong.

It took 14 months for them to actually find you. You always had this strong sense of justice, this belief that all people deserve a life without harm. Working alongside Stryker was a laughably hypocritical act. They didn't want to believe it was you in the news footage.

But it was, and they knew it. No one else had those powers, that fury and those eyes.

At first, it was rationalized. You had to have been kidnapped or brainwashed or something - you wouldn't go willingly. But something in Hank told him you went by choice. He saw the way you behaved weeks before you went "missing". And that notion slowly spread to all the others like a plague in winter - ending with Peter finally accepting it too.

The X-Men planned an attack on one of Stryker's bases, one they believed he would be at. And they were, as expected, correct. Pyro, Lady Deathstrike, Jason Stryker, and some of the other group members were able to handle the majority of the group.

And that left you and Peter. Oh, your sweet, sweet Peter.

You'd lie and say you haven't thought of him, but that would be exactly that - a lie. Those sweet brown eyes and blonde tufts of hair weren't something you could forget easily.

There had been this brief, accidental moment of hesitation from you both when you saw each other again. A quiet whisper had fallen from his mouth.

"Oh, Sprout, what happened to you...?"

Sprout. You hated the name now. It wasn't your hero name, it was a nickname Peter had reserved for himself and himself only. It had occasionally been accompanied with sweet decorum - "my favorite spout", or simply "my spout" - both of which used to send your heart flying.

Hands against hands, legs kicking and bashing and running. From both parties, unsurprisingly. Your hands had grasped his hair, his shoe had sent you flying, your plants grappled his frame and his speed kept your head turning so hard it might have snapped if not for the adrenaline. Your teeth dug into his hand during an attempt to restrain you. All he needed was you to calm down, fuck, just calm down and come home with him and the others. He could bring you back to normal, he knew he could. You had stayed alongside him for so long. A part of you still stayed seated next to Peter like a loyal dog - as much as you'd like to disagree. He could absentmindedly push you down a cliff and you'd wear your hands down to stumps from climbing up to join him once again. The memento of his hand pushing you off would be enough contact to look forward to again. Anything for a morsel of attention. You were no better than a mouse in a kitchen, feasting on the fallen crumbs of a sandwich.

"I don't understand why you're doing this, sprout! This isn't like you, what did Stryker do to you?!"

You twist around, tossing the blonde off you. As his back hits the ground, he coughs up a small bit of blood. You stand, best you can. You knew why you came to fight him. You're here to kill him. So why is every faint skin-to-skin contact still making your heart and brain flutter? You two were fighting. It's nothing like the soft brushes of his hand in the hallways of Xavier's. So why does it make lovesick nostalgia flood your veins like a tsunami on a beach?

"Stryker didn't do anything to me! You all did! Don't think I didn't fucking worship you, Peter, I did! Everyone fucking knew it! Every guy I tried dating saw it, their friends saw it, your friends saw it, my friends saw it, Xavier fucking saw it! Every goddamn part of my body and brain and soul and whatever else was left was taken with you for no good reason! You're lazy and selfish and sloppy and careless! You never actually saw me, you just saw someone you could hang out with! I was never anything more to you!" You curse, teeth slamming against each other as your jaw springs open and clamps shut with each syllable. Spit and blood and sweat were slinging, similarly to the manner of a rabid dog.

He's not too far from you, but you're screaming like he's still miles away.

"Maybe you're still that lovesick little schoolgirl you once were." Stryker's voice rings in your head. "Pathetic. What a shame. I've trained you to be better."

The speedster wipes his mouth, jerking up and tackling you once again. "I promise I never meant to ignore you! I-i- can't help that! I couldn't just magically realize you had feelings! I'm not Xavier or Jean, I can't read your mind! I had no way of knowing! You were one of my best friends, you knew that, at least!"

You thrash around again, slamming your elbows into the ground and your legs anywhere they can reach. Smart move for him to secure your arms. "There were so many signs! Every goddamn day I spent at your heels, chasing you! Chasing any chance I had of impressing you." You scream, spit landing all in his eyes. Normally that's a problem, but there's no real disgust on a battlefield. "I would have taken anything! Just a quick glance, a compliment on my clothes, maybe some sign you thought I was anything more to you! Anything more than Kurt or Scott or whoever else was in your life! I puked my guts out the first time I saw you talk to Dazzler because she was so, so much prettier than me and I knew I didn't stand a chance if she wanted you! I would have ripped my own kidney out and eaten if it meant you'd have glanced at me, Peter!"

The blonde doesn't get a chance to retort as your vines rip him off of you. You're running on fumes here, the last of your powers at your fingertips. You two have been going for almost half an hour now, no breaks.

"You ripped my goddamn heart out of my for no reason but to do it! I don't care if you say it wasn't on purpose, I know it was! I know you knew! You're a man, you lie like you breathe! You're lucky you're breathing now! I could kill you, I should kill you, it's in my orders to kill you." Your hands tense further, matching the rest of your body. Your muscles are moving before your brain or exhaustion can catch up. There was once a time you would have fought with your life alongside the boy, the boy you were now set on killing. Nothing will stop you from killing Peter Maximoff, nothing will keep you from ripping open his chest with your bare hands. Your mission will end. The remaining sparks in your brain will die alongside the speedster, so young and so naive, the two of them.

"I will kill you. I'm going to kill you, Pietro Maximoff. I'm going to fucking end you like I should have years ago!"

Vines are sent out and promptly ripped.

There's a stab in a neck.

A small, minute bit of blood trickles from the attack point.

Peter is on the ground, knees buried into the pulled-up dirt.

But it's your blood on his hands and your body that collapses into his arms.

It's your neck that's got the diazepam in it.

It's your eyes that are shutting.

"No you won't."

You always had wanted to fall asleep in his arms. Held by his sweet hands, resting on his chest and coddled into his lap. His face so close to yours, his hair mingling with your locks. Two cats in a box, two birds in a nest, two mutants on a bloody battlefield, one still pumped on adrenaline and one nearing loss of consciousness. Your silence is much appreciated at the moment. Nothing can be heard, aside from the faint whistles of wind through leaves and possibly a squirrel racing around in an attempt to find a new home.

"Damn", he thinks to himself, brushing his thumb across the spot where he dosed you, "I really should learn how to correctly shoot a syringe. I don't think you're supposed to bleed this much. Or at all. Better get you home fast, sprout."

🏁⋆💨𐙚₊˚⊹🏃♡.👟⌛

OH THIS ONE WAS ROUGH 😭 also I have a LENGTHY Julian Dillinger fic in the works eheh...also here's the song that kinda inspired this 👇

Jason Todd had never been good at feelings.

He’d spent years building walls so high no one could climb them. Death had only made them taller. But you - quiet, patient, stubborn you - had somehow slipped through the cracks anyway.

Now those cracks felt like canyons.

He’d spent the first few days throwing himself into work. Patrols. Warehouse raids. Anything to keep his hands busy and his mind quiet. But every night he came home to an empty apartment and the silence screamed louder than any gunshot.

Then he saw you.

It was at a small café near the university. You were sitting outside with a guy — some tall, friendly-looking idiot with glasses and a soft smile. He said something that made you laugh, head tilted back, eyes bright the way they used to be with him.

Jason’s stomach dropped.

He told himself it was nothing. Just a friend. You were allowed to have friends. But the image stuck - you smiling at someone else while he was falling apart.

That night he did something he’d sworn he’d never do.

He drank.

Not a beer. Not a glass of whiskey.

A bottle. Then another.

The alcohol burned going down, but it didn’t quiet the noise in his head. It only made it louder. By 2am he was drunk for the first time in his life, sitting on the floor of his apartment with his phone in his hand, thumb hovering over your name.

He pressed call.

You answered on the third ring, voice sleepy. “Jason?”

“You’re out there smiling at other guys,” he slurred, the words tumbling out before he could stop them. “While I’m sitting here like a fucking idiot thinking about you every second. You said a break. Not a breakup. But it feels like you’re already moving on. Like I was just a phase. Like-“

“Jason,” you cut in, sounding more awake now. “Are you drunk?”

He laughed — ugly and raw. “Yeah. First time in ages. Congratulations. You made the emotionally constipated zombie drink. Happy now?”

There was a pause. Then your voice, sharper. “Stop it. You’re spiraling. Come over. We need to talk.”

“No,” he snapped, but his voice cracked. “You wanted space. You got it. Go smile at your new friend. I’m sure he’s nicer. Doesn’t have blood on his hands. Doesn’t wake up screaming—”

“Jason Todd,” you said, voice firm but gentle, the way you always got when he was like this. “Stop. You’re breaking my heart right now. I’m coming over. Do not hang up.”

He didn’t.

He sat on the floor, phone pressed to his ear, listening to you move around your apartment, the sound of keys, the door closing. Twenty minutes later there was a knock.

He opened it.

You stood there in sweatpants and one of his old hoodies, hair messy, eyes wide with worry. The second you saw him - red-eyed, swaying slightly, looking smaller than you’d ever seen him - your face crumpled.

“Oh, Jay…”

He broke.

The tears came fast and ugly, shoulders shaking as he tried to hold them back. “I’m sorry,” he choked out. “I’m so fucking sorry. I thought… I thought you were done. I saw you with that guy and I just… I panicked. I don’t know how to do this. I don’t know how to be someone worth staying for.”

You stepped inside, closing the door behind you, and pulled him into your arms. He collapsed against you, burying his face in your neck, arms wrapping around your waist like you might disappear.

“I’m not done,” you whispered, holding him tight. “It was a break, Jason. Not a breakup. I needed space because I was scared too. Scared that you’d keep shutting me out until there was nothing left of us. But I never stopped loving you. Not for a second.”

He cried harder, the kind of raw, broken sound that tore at your chest. You guided him to the couch, pulling him down so his head rested in your lap. Your fingers stroked through his hair, slow and soothing, the way you knew he liked.

“I love you,” you said quietly. “The angry parts. The scared parts. The parts that think they’re too broken to be loved. All of them. You’re not too much. You’re not too damaged. You’re mine. And I’m yours. Okay?”

He nodded against your thigh, fingers clutching the hem of your hoodie. “Okay,” he whispered, voice hoarse. “I’m sorry I got drunk. I’m sorry I said those things. I was just… scared. I saw you smiling and I thought I’d lost you for good.”

“You haven’t,” you assured him, leaning down to kiss his temple. “I’m right here. And I’m staying. We’ll figure out the rest. Together.”

Jason stayed curled in your lap for a long time, breathing gradually evening out as your fingers continued their slow path through his hair. Every so often he’d press a kiss to your thigh or your wrist, like he needed the constant reminder you were real.

“I love you,” he said again, softer this time. “More than I know how to say. I’ll try to be better. Less… constipated.”

You laughed quietly, the sound warm. “I love you too. Even when you’re emotionally constipated. Especially then.”

He shifted, pulling you down so you were lying beside him on the couch, your head on his chest. His arms wrapped around you, holding you like you were the only safe thing left in the world.

The city hummed far below. The argument, the fear, the drunk call — all of it faded into the background as Jason held you close, his heartbeat steady under your ear.

“I’m keeping you,” he whispered into your hair. “For as long as you’ll let me.”

You smiled, pressing a kiss to his chest. “Good. Because I’m not going anywhere.”

In the quiet dark of the apartment, Jason Todd — the man who came back from the dead, the one who built walls so high no one could climb them — finally let someone in.

And you?

You stayed.

Because loving Jason Todd had never been easy.

But it had always been worth it.

Y/n sat on her bed at the apartment, stewing in her sorrow and depression, a bouquet of flowers discarded on her dresser. It was the same day she dreaded every year without fail. Father’s Day. But for some reason, it never bothered her as much as it did now. Well - she did know why. It seemed like there were more kids than normal going on about their plans with their dads after school that day.

“We’re going out to dinner.”

“Oh, us too! And I got him this new tie he’s been looking at. It goes with his favorite suit.”

“I got my dad his favorite chocolates plus I’m making dinner myself tonight.”

“I handmade a card for mine and crocheted a pair of gloves, a scarf, and hat that match.”

We’re doing this and I got that. My dad this and my dad that. Y/n was sick of it. She was sick of the gushing, she was sick of the bragging, and she was sick of the reminder. The reminder of the one thing she didn’t have. A father.

Granted, this wasn’t a new development. Since Y/n could speak and comprehend things, the nuns let her know what happened to her dad; why she didn’t have one. Of course, it was the condensed version - the PG rated one. Eventually Matt would tell her the whole truth. Through the years there would be times she and Matt would talk about things but never anything too deep. Y/n never wanted to bother him.

Y/n was pulled from her thoughts when she heard the door to the apartment open and close.

“Y/n/n, I’m home!” Matt called.

Y/n sighed and rolled over on her bed so her back was facing the door.

In the entry hall, Matt paused and tilted his head, confused by the lack of response from his sister. Steady heartbeat in Y/n’s room. She was definitely there. Maybe she was napping? Matt thought.

Laying his suit jacket over a kitchen chair and his glasses on the table, he walked softly to Y/n’s room. He listened closer to her heartbeat and came to the conclusion she was indeed not sleeping.

Matt pursed his lips before tapping his knuckles on her door. “Hey. Can I come in, Starling?” he said gently. 

Y/n closed her eyes for a second before sighing. “Sure.”

Matt pushed the door open a little further and walked in. He sat on the edge of his sister’s bed behind where her back was turned. He rubbed her arm a couple times before speaking. “What’s going on, sweetheart?”

Y/n shrugged. “Nothing. Don’t worry about it.”

Matt went to respond but caught the scent of flowers. Tilting his head and furrowing his brow, he turned back to Y/n. “Did Peter get you flowers?”

Heartbeat skipped, slightly faster now. They had something to do with why she was upset. 

Y/n knew Matt was probably paying attention to her heartbeat so there was no use even trying to lie. She sighed again. “They’re not from Peter,” she said quietly. 

“Ok…what’re they for then?” Matt prodded gently. 

Y/n turned her face into her pillow, hoping it would impede Matt’s ability to sense her oncoming tears. 

“I got them for dad.” Had anyone else been there, they wouldn’t have been able to hear Y/n. But she knew Matt would. 

Matt bowed his head a bit, feeling his sister’s sadness. “For Father’s Day,” he said, more as a statement than a question. And despite Y/n’s best attempts, Matt could smell the salt from her tears in the air. 

“I feel stupid for missing someone I’ve never met,” Y/n sniffled. “But I can’t help it. And I can’t help but wish he was still here. That I could’ve known him. That I could have a dad, Matt.”

Matt’s heart broke for her. He’d be lying if he said he didn’t want the same things. But being older now, he wanted them more for Y/n. He remembered being younger and how much worse it felt not having his father in his life. He sighed and pulled Y/n up and into his arms, resting his head against hers, using one hand to card his fingers through her hair. 

“It’s not stupid, Y/n. Don’t ever feel bad about those things. You have every right to feel this way. It’s hard growing up without your parents. I’m thankful I had dad as long as I did. More than anything, I always wished that for you.”

“I barely even know anything about him,” Y/n whispered. “I mean, besides the fighting stuff you told me about and what I’ve read and watched. Sometimes people ask me what he was like and I have no idea what to tell them.”

Matt pulled away a bit and turned his face towards hers. He carefully pushed some hair behind her ear. “I can tell you a few things I haven’t mentioned before,” he said, smiling a bit when he heard her breath catch just the tiniest bit. He imagined the hopeful gaze she probably was giving him. “He loved his kids. So much. Especially you. From the moment you were born it’s like he had a new purpose in life; or at least a stronger drive to provide for us. The adoration in his voice can't even be described. It was like he was in awe when he would describe you to me. And I'd hear other people say how he held so much love in his eyes when he looked at you; how he seemed to have this newfound gentleness when he held you. I know he loved you so much, Y/n. And that he would be so proud of the young woman you’ve become. And that he would’ve given anything to be able to see you grow up.”

Somewhere in the middle of Matt talking, Y/n had begun crying harder. And when he finished, she let out a sob and Matt collected her in his arms again. “I wish he was here, Matt. I-I wish I had a dad,” she sobbed, clutching Matt’s shoulders. “I miss him. I never knew him…but I miss him.”

Matt blinked back his own tears and quietly shushed her, stroking her head and squeezing her tighter. “I know, Starling. I know. I’m proud of you for talking it out loud though. And for thinking about visiting him. You’ve never done it before.”

Y/n sniffled before answering. “It was Pete’s idea,” she admitted. “Said it’s something that’s helped him.”

Matt nodded a bit. “He’s a good kid. Who’s also been through a lot of unfair things in this world. I’m glad he’s in your corner too.”

With Y/n more calmed down, she pulled away from Matt to wipe the tears from her cheeks, smiling a bit when Matt kissed her head. “Matt can…can you…do you think you could come with me?…to-to dad’s grave?” Y/n asked, looking up at him through her lashes. 

Matt smiled at her, placing a loving hand on her cheek and leaning his forehead on hers. “Of course.”

About thirty minutes later, Y/n and Matt were standing in the cemetery. Matt held Y/n’s hand until she took a deep breath, let it out, and let go. She walked up to their father’s grave and placed the flowers she bought standing against the headstone. She straightened up and let out another breath.

“I uh…I don’t know if you’re here or if you see me or anything…if you can see me you probably don’t recognize me…I’ve grown quite a bit since you last saw me,” she chuckled sadly. “But uh…I…I went to the library and looked up some old newspaper articles about you. There weren’t many but I eventually found a short one from a local paper where you used to live. ‘Battling Jack Murdock Welcomes New Addition.’ I’m surprised they even cared…But anyway - I printed it and brought a recent picture…they’re both me. So I uh…thought I’d leave them here with the flowers…dad.” The word felt weird coming out of her mouth when it wasn’t just in conversation with someone. It felt weird using it to address him. 

Y/n placed the picture and article next to the flowers and stood again. She took a shaky breath, prompting Matt to grab her shoulder and run his thumb over it. Y/n placed her hand on his as she continued. “I wish I got to know you before you were killed,” she sniffled. “Wish you had gotten to know me as well. I think about you a lot, especially on days like today…Happy Father’s Day.” Y/n paused a moment to wipe the stray tears from her face. “I just hope you know Matt has always taken good care of me. We’re not normal siblings that fight all the time unless we’re wrestling.” Matt chuckled from behind her at this, making her smile a bit. “We love each other. And I think you’d be proud of that….and we love you.”

The girl finally stepped back into Matt’s waiting arm. He put it around her shoulders and kissed the side of her head. “I’m proud of you, kiddo,” he said.

Y/n pursed her lips and wrapped one of her arms behind him. “Thanks, Matty.”

“I know he would’ve wanted to be here for you as you grew up. But maybe somewhere he’s been able to watch. Still would’ve wanted to support you, though. However he could.”

This made Y/n pause for a moment. Support me…however he could. She thought back to earlier in the day when she was talking to Peter about her feelings on Father’s Day.

“I don’t get it. It’s like Valentine’s Day - you have the whole year to show your significant other you love them.”

“Y/n, you love Valentine’s Day,” Peter deadpanned, turning to look at her as they walked through the halls.

She turned and gave him a flat look. “Not the point, Peter. It’s the comparison. Father’s Day is like Valentine’s Day. You have the whole year to show dads they’re loved - why does there need to be a holiday? All it does is make-...” Y/n cut herself off as her explanation began to exceed the one for Valentine’s Day. 

“All it does is what?” Peter asked gently. He had a feeling he knew where she was going with her point but knew it’d be better if she let it out herself.

Y/n stopped at one of the hallway corners and took a deep breath, letting it out slowly, hoping to keep her tears at bay. “All it does is make people without fathers feel bad about not having one,” she said quietly, not meeting her boyfriend’s eyes. 

Peter pursed his lips. “Hey, if anyone gets it, it’s me. I know how it feels. But you know, there are still some things you can do to celebrate him.”

Y/n finally flicked her eyes up to meet his.

“Maybe get flowers and visit his grave. Try talking to him and let out how you feel. I know it can be hard but I do it sometimes for both my parents. Whether or not you do that, remember you have Matt. Maybe get something for him. I got something for Mr. Stark.”

After they talked, Y/n felt bad about having vented to Peter as if he didn’t feel the same pain that she did. He assured her it was ok but she still silently promised to do something for him this week.

But after that, Y/n indeed got some flowers on her way home to take to her dad’s grave and a blank card for Matt. She even spent time in her room afterwards, using the dull end of a sewing needle to try and make braille-like bumps into the inside of the card so Matt could read it himself, hoping he would like the gesture. 

The card! Y/n thought in realization. She put her hand into her hoodie pocket and grabbed the card that was thankfully still in there. 

“Matty, I…I actually have something for you,” she said meekly, turning towards her brother. Even though she knew he couldn’t see, she still avoided his eyes for a moment before handing the card to him. “The front is just a picture of the sky with some clouds. The inside is more what’s important,” she explained. 

Matt, shocked, took the card from her and opened it, his blind gaze forward and his hand grazed the hand-done braille inside. For the brother who’s always been a sibling and a father to me. I appreciate you more than words can ever express. You’ve always loved me, supported me, and been there for me. I love you so much. -Y/n

Matt didn’t notice his own tears until he felt Y/n gently wipe them from his cheeks, making him jump a bit in surprise. He wiped a hand down his face and silently pulled her into a hug. As the two embraced in the cemetery, it would set off an almost tradition of going to visit their dad’s grave every Father’s Day and sometimes between that. Supporting each other in what they lost and also what they still had.

Epilogue

A few years later

“Thanks for coming with us, Peter, but you didn’t have to,” Y/n said as they walked up the hill at the cemetery. 

Peter shrugged. “It’s no problem. I was in the area anyway and I know it’s become a special tradition for you.”

Y/n smiled and squeezed his hand that was intertwined with hers, giving him a quick kiss.

“Ok, ok, gross,” Matt chided playfully, making the other two chuckle.

They finally reached Jack’s grave and Matt started by speaking a bit, then let Y/n take her turn. As they were about to leave, Peter turned his head to Matt, knowing he would hear the motion. Matt gave him a discrete nod and Peter tugged Y/n’s hand a bit to get her attention.

“This might sound weird but…would you mind if I said something, Y/n?”

Y/n’s eyes immediately stung with tears - not in sadness, but in shock and feeling overwhelming love for her boyfriend wanting to say something for her father. She smiled and nodded, not having words to say.

Peter let go of her hand and took a step forward. “Mr. Murdock, sir, my name is Peter Parker, I’m uh…I’ve been dating your daughter for some time now. I truthfully didn’t know much about you until she told me everything she knew and after that, I went home and did my own research on you so I could know everything about the man she and her brother looked up to and missed so much.” At this, a couple tears escaped her eyes. She had no idea Peter had done that. “I have a lot of respect for you, sir, and how you lived your life for your kids. I also respect how well you could take a punch,” he continued, making both Murdocks laugh a bit. Peter smiled and turned back to the grave. “Anyway, another thing I wanted to say was that I hope wherever you are you know what great kids you have and what amazing people they’ve grown up to be. Especially your daughter. I know you didn’t get to know her for very long. I know Matt has probably talked to you about her but sir…she’s amazing. She’s smart, mature, kind, funny…just amazing. I love Y/n so much, sir and only want the best for her. And I wish you could’ve been here for this. I got Matt’s approval but I wanted to do this here so you could maybe be able to see.”

Y/n furrowed her brow, not knowing what Peter was talking about. But Peter turned around, smiling at her and holding something in his hands. He bent down on one knee and opened it, revealing a ring inside. “Y/n M/d Murdock, I love you with all that I am. With Matt’s grace and your dad as a witness, I want to ask you: will you marry me?”

In the way of the truest, most common cliche during proposals, Y/n’s hand flew to her mouth as tears ran down her cheeks. Unable to form words, she nodded her head furiously. She let Peter take her left hand and put the engagement ring on her finger. Peter stood and took Y/n in his arms, letting her sob into his shoulder as she hugged him back. ‘Touched’ didn’t even begin to describe how she felt. Sure, there was sadness at being at her dad’s grave but the relief from getting to talk to him, the joy that Peter wanted her dad to be there in some way or at least be involved, the joy and love of him proposing.

shit, the police force was not a fan of your father, the defense attorney, either

nor were they a fan of daredevil

you kept your mouth shut on those kinds of subjects, tried to keep work and life separate. something your dad never seemed to be able to do

you survived the blip—lucky for you, matt, foggy, and karen

and you really did try to support nelson, murdock, and page to the best of your ability

“hey, kid. listen—i am proud of you. you stuck to your guns, you made a choice despite how others would feel about it, and you’re already succeeding in your new career. to hell with the rest of them, you’re doing good job” -foggy

karen was quietly supportive as well, helped calm matt down with reason whenever he got nervous about your chosen career

“what if y/n gets hurt? what if they try to do the right thing instead of running for their life?” -matt

“then they’ll have learned from their fearless father” -karen

“i should have been a better role model” -matt

“yeah, too late for that one” -karen, patting him on the shoulder

the other cops on the force gave you hell, but that was expected

you were a native new yorker, nothing phased you

and after some time, matt learned to accept reality and damn, he was starting to understand how he made you feel

you hadn’t lived with matt or foggy in a couple of years, since you were a rookie

now you were about 24, been on the force a few years—a real star, up for detective!!

and you could actually drink at josies!!!

“god, it still feels weird serving you” -josie

“remember when you were giving me shots of coca cola?” -you

“you’re making me feel old!” -josie

josie gave you your first drink, a shot of o’melveny’s by foggy’s insistence

you had a shot of it when you turned 21, graduated the police academy, got hired by the NYPD, and a few odd times when NM&P had a win

and foggy loved to see a smile on your face now that you weren’t weighed down by all that matt put on you

“i wish you could see just how happy y/n looks. they breathe easier, smile wider, no more dark circles around their eyes. it’s good to feel like family again” -foggy

“i can feel it, don’t worry. the breaths, heartbeat, and i hear y/n’s laugh all the time. i wish i could have given them this peace of mind when they were younger” -matt “wish i had peace of mind. haven’t since they joined the NYPD”

speaking of nypd, it was weird being there

especially since midland circle. no protective detail. no scared teenager and metahumans. just another badge on duty

you might have been the youngest detective the NYPD ever had, and you don’t think it would have been without your history. growing up at a law school, around lawyers, in a law firm, with vigilantes. THAT was what made you a strong cop. a strong background. strong spirit.

and the day you were promoted you got another shot of o’melveny’s!!!!!!

“fuck, i hate that shit” -you

“always with the mouth” -matt, patting you on the back

“always with the judgment” -you, raising your glass to his “love you, dad. wouldn’t be here without you”

“what? no love for uncle foggy?” -foggy, heckling

“you know what? come here, i’m gonna destroy you in pool!” -you

matt and karen sat together and talked about you

“i remember when y/n was little and so full of fire” -karen

“and full of it” -matt, quickly being swatted by karen “i’m kidding. i just can’t believe they’re grown up now. fuck, when did my kid grow up?”

“y/n’s always been grown up unfortunately” -karen

“don’t guilt trip me now” -matt

“i’m not trying to, i’m just saying y/n’s always had that head on their shoulders. got it from you, obviously. but i can’t help but be proud of how they turned out. a detective by 24? that’s fucking unheard of. and everyone at the department gives them shit for being a murdock” -karen

“life of the defense attorney—always making enemies” -matt

*you approaching and matt and karen shutting up*

“i kicked foggy’s ass” -you

“knew you would” -matt

not long after this day, you’d be at josie’s again and be attacked by bullseye

and as the only cop on scene, you had to do things by the book

“dispatch this is detective murdock—badge number 0464, need immediate backup and mutiple RA’s for an active shooter at josie’s bar. i repeat, shots fired, several civilians down. hurry. please.” -you on the phone with 911, trying not to lose your shit as foggy lay bleeding on the sidewalk “hang in there uncle foggy. help’s on the way”

you took a few shots at bullseye, but nothing seemed to land as your hands were shaking and karen was screaming next to you

by the time help arrived, you had a bullet in your arm and were covered in foggy’s blood

you only took a week of leave

you could have killed poindexter yourself—but that wasn’t who you were.

foggy’s funeral was one of the worst days of your life because you knew he wasn’t coming back

not like matt, where you always had that sneaking suspicion he’d be back—and you were right

or elektra—who didn’t stay dead the first time

you watched as the casket closed on foggy, you watched as everything you knew fell apart. karen moved away, NMP closed shop, matt opened a new practice, and life moved on.

you spent the night at matt’s whenever it was too hard to bear

and the door was always open

sometimes matt would find you sleeping on the couch when he woke up, make you breakfast like old times

you were still his little kid in his heart. the one who’d beat him in the chest when you were mad at him, call him names, slam doors, beg for him to come home in one piece.

now you were his kid who carried a gun and a badge and was one of the few cops on the force worth trusting

but you still liked waffles

“made your favorite” -matt, gently waking you

“thanks” -you

you looked at old photos of you and foggy, matt, karen, whoever. it just made you feel closer to them

and there was a “family photo” on your desk at the precinct

about a year later, poindexter was sentenced and a weight was lifted off your shoulders as he was put away for life

but other problems arose

specifically, wilson fisk’s candidacy for mayor

“this is insane! there’s no way they’re gonna vote him for mayor. after all he’s done to this city? absolutely not!” -you, spiraling

“my thoughts exactly” -matt, not far behind

it was hard not to focus on the looming threat

and when the election results were revealed, it was safe to say you were on the verge of a complete crash out

“dad, i can’t work for that man! after all he’s done to this city and my family? fuck this!” -you

“i know, i know” -matt, hiding the fact he has met with fisk recently and been threatened about his vigilantism

the issue is fisk knew who you were. and you were NYPD, and he oversaw this department

you were purposely picked for the anti vigilante task force he’d put together

“murdock,” -fisk, almost threateningly “it’s been a long time”

“wait, you know y/n?” -powell

“i know their father. matthew murdock” -fisk

oh that shit did not sit right with the rest of the task force. especially after hector ayala’s case

fisk forced you to quit (not that it wasn’t coming anyway. fisk calling the shots just didn’t sit right)

ohhh you were pissed

“fuck! all my hard work in the force—gone! this stupid vendetta fisk has against vigilantes” -you

“this is my fault, y/n—” -matt

“no! don’t even go there. i don’t want to hear it. that was ten goddamn years ago!” -you

you’d started to feel as helpless as you did ten years ago. it wasn’t pretty

and you took this time to rethink your priorities

speaking of—here matt was just starting to enjoy life. you liked his new girlfriend, heather, matter of fact

a step up from elektra. sorry. who isnt. your dad knew how to pick em

“y/n, im sorry to hear about your departure from the NYPD. do you want to talk about it?” -heather

“i’d rather not. lots to unpack” -you

matt was angry you had to give up your career because of fisk. you were forced out. just because of a vendetta fisk had against him. you were never supposed to get involved

but as matt had started investigating as daredevil again, you began to understand him on a far deeper level than ever before

a helpless defense attorney trying to make a difference, a pariah detective who wants to do the same

something clicked in you that day

something you swore you’d never do, never accept, simply never be

matt was busy investigating muse

that case closed quick, but the problems continued without fail

who killed hector ayala? how do you defeat fisk? when would you be safe? was heather really trustworthy? why was foggy really killed? it never really ended—but no matter what career you or your dad pursued, that was a given

“dad?” -you

“yeah?” -matt

“where did it all go wrong?” -you

matt’s heart sank

“i think you know the answer” -matt

“i don’t think i do anymore” -you, realizing you were more in the dark about daredevil than you thought. yeah, you knew fisk was a problem. and you knew bullseye was a psycho. and elektra set you guys back a few times. and you were exposed to some things too young. you knew all that. you just didn’t know where it began.

“one day i think things will be okay again” -matt, lying

“i know you’re they guy with the heartbeat lie detector, but i can tell you’re lying to me” -you

“we’ll figure it out” -matt

you missed the lighthearted days

life so was foreign these days

it was JUST you and him now

you got the occasional text from karen but it wasnt the same

drinking together was always glum, breakfast brought back bad memories, a dinner at a restaurant made you stare at the empty seat beside you, and when matt put the cowl back on you were back to your conflicted self

until you made your way into matt’s stash and took a cowl of your own

matt’s getup mixed with some of your tactical gear from the PD, mixed with some old boxing gear from when you were younger…there you were. the adult child of a vigilante wearing his own uniform. it always comes around

“this is fucking stupid” -you said, ripping it off and shoving it in a bag

not long after this you were sitting in a hospital room after matt was shot in the chest at fisk’s gala

“you never fucking learn, do you?” -you

“nope” -matt

“smartass” -you

“you learned it from me” -matt, groaning through pain

heather was present, still a bit upset from the scene. kirsten brought her out soon after, giving you more time to drill into your dad.

“you know, i have seen you and foggy get shot more than once. it is genuinely insane to me that you are still jumping in front of bullets. i know i’m an adult now, but i still need you” -you

“i’m a shitty dad, just say it” -matt

“no, you’re not. you were. and then you turned your life around but now we’re headed in the same direction with a whole new set of possibilities. this isn’t daredevil versus kingpin. this is the people versus fisk. pick a side” -you

“i wont stand by and let poindexter murder anyone else” -matt

“which is why we keep losing” -you

you left the hospital to get the suit you’d made “in case of emergency” and soon the power went out. a bold move on fisks part

and as you made your way into your dad’s apartment, there stood frank castle in the flesh

“little y/n? damn, it’s been a minute” -frank

“did we ever actually meet?” -you

“nah, your dad was a hard ass” -frank

“still is” -you

“heard you joined the force” -frank

“yeah. made detective and everything. forced out by fisk. now, im doing my own thing” -you, masking up “you have a gun i can borrow?”

“fuckin’ course i do,” -frank, handing you one of his collection “never thought i’d be giving a murdock a gun, but happy to do it. especially if it pisses off red senior”

matt was home soon after and still a bit beat up, luckily you and frank were there to help

you shot to maim, frank shot to kill. matt was horrified nonetheless

“you put on my mask and hold a gun? what is that? what the fuck is that?” -matt

“this is what tonight has to be” -you “fuck, dad. this is not the time! you think i’m here to drop as many bodies as i can? absolutely not! but if we can stop the people who are dropping innocent bodies, so fucking be it! i became a cop to protect this city from this shitty, broken system and now look! i’m wearing this suit i begged you not to put on for years!”

“you think this is what i want for you?!” -matt

“can you fuckers just stop arguing for a minute, jesus. it’s always something with you two. man, if i had my kids back for a minute, i wouldn’t care what the fuck they were doing. and if my kids decided to make a change for the better, i’d be damn proud—so shut the fuck up and let’s put these fuckers down!” -frank

you soon jumped out of a window due to a BOMB <3

oh when karen saw you in the daredevil suit she cried LMAO

“y/n, you have to be kidding” -karen

“can you guys stop parenting me for five minutes? my city is on fire, i only have one way of stopping it, and you know the nypd is on my ass too? murdocks don’t get a break. you started it, dad” -you

angsty ass

i mean. warranted

frank spent the whole car ride chuckling to himself

like genuinely this was so funny to him it really did come full circle

but it did make him a little sad that he didn’t have a kid to bitch at him or for him to bitch back at

matt was lucky nonetheless

but then again, frank didn’t want his kids following the footsteps of the marines or punisher.

once you guys got back to frank’s bunker, he decided to tap out

you handed his gun back

“keep it, kid. you’ve earned it.” -frank “matter of fact, take this smaller piece, too. tuck it somewhere safe, just in case something happens. you get caught or something. i know those cop bastards will look so hide it good” -he shoved another gun in your hand, some additional rounds too

“i used to be one of those cop bastards” -you, chuckling

“i forgive you. at least you got good aim out of it” -frank

you went with karen and matt to see if you could get to the bottom of foggy’s death, which was eating you alive at this point. you were a cop at that point, you wished you’d have known so you could have protected him. somehow. someway.

the storage locker was cathartic. lots of memories. some closure. especially as the red hook information unveiled itself

“it all came down to this” -you

“it’s not over yet” -matt

“sure feels like it” -you

“hey. hey. forget everything i said, all of it. doesn’t matter. im proud of you. i was proud of you then and im proud of you now. i’m honored you put on the mask with me, no matter how much it freaks me out. no matter how worried i am about you. no matter how much we disagree i will never not be proud of you and happy you are here with me trying to make a difference” -matt, grabbing your face

“we came a long way, huh?” -you, starting to cry

“it’s just the beginning, kiddo” -matt

The apartment smelled like her shampoo. It clung to the air, a faint floral ghost threaded between the smell of cleaning supplies and coffee grounds, and Dex could track it the way other people tracked a heartbeat. She’d gotten in the shower ten minutes ago. Ten whole minutes. He sat on the couch, knees bouncing, fingers worrying a seam into his jeans because she’d asked him — asked him — for “just a little space” to finish getting ready.

Space. He hated that word. It opened like a black hole under his ribs every time she said it.

From the living room he could see the pale stripe of light under the bathroom door, and beyond it the shadow of her movement. He catalogued each sound automatically: water shutting off, glass door sliding back, the faint squeak of her foot against tile. She’d be wrapping herself in a towel now, pressing it against skin he could map with his eyes closed. He pictured her exactly the way she’d looked a half-hour earlier, brushing her teeth, sleep still half in her eyes.

His fingers tightened around the edge of the couch until the leather creaked. She’s here. She’s here. She’s here. That mantra kept him steady. She was the first person who hadn’t flinched at the darkness inside him; she’d even reached for it, like it was a wound she could clean instead of a weapon he’d learned to wield. He could still feel the imprint of her nails at the base of his neck from where she’d tugged him down to kiss her before disappearing into the bathroom.

Dex’ eyes flicked to her phone on the counter. He’d already memorized her schedule, the addresses of every place she went, the timing of every commute. The phone’s lock screen glowed once and dimmed again. Messages. He hated the idea of her attention drifting outward. His heart rate went jagged just imagining it.

The front door waited across the room, a slim vertical of brass and steel. It looked like a threat. When she walked through it she belonged to the world again, all the strangers, all the noise, the unknown angles of danger he couldn’t predict. His breath came thin. She has to stay. Just stay. He rubbed a palm over his face, nails grazing his scalp, grounding himself with the pressure.

Water off. A pause. Towel sliding over skin. He could hear it. His pupils blew wide just listening. The space between them stretched. He rose before he even thought about it, pacing two steps toward the hallway. Bare feet on hardwood. Her scent sharper now, steam carrying it out of the bathroom crack by crack. He leaned a shoulder against the wall, eyes fixed on the door. The need for her, the pull, wasn’t romantic anymore, not in the simple sense. It was survival, an animal compulsion to keep the only person who’d ever wanted him exactly where she was.

His knuckles hovered an inch from the bathroom door. Just hovering. He could feel the warmth radiating through the wood, like her presence seeped outward with the steam. His skin prickled. Every second without her felt like a paper cut running deeper and deeper, the sting so small and constant it rewired his nerves. He shifted his weight, shoulder grazing the doorframe.

She’d said something about an event tonight. An event, a word so meaningless but it tore at his chest like claws. People. Cameras. Light. A night where her smile would be thrown across a room he couldn’t lock. The thought made his jaw clench so hard he didn’t even realize he was biting his cheek until after the blood started to gush.

“Hey…” he called, voice pitched like a question but heavy underneath. “You okay in there?”

Her voice came back muffled through the door: “I’m fine! Just getting ready.”

Fine. Getting ready. Dex rubbed a hand down his face until his palm dragged over the stubble on his jaw, nails biting his neck. His pupils were still blown, breathing short. She was fine. But he wasn’t.

Inside his skull it was a loop — She’s putting on makeup. She’s slipping into a dress. She’s walking into a room full of eyes that aren’t mine. Every detail turned into a splinter. He tried to breathe it out but it only curled tighter. He hated the way his mind ran ahead of itself like this; hated the way every second away from her dragged him back to the same cold corridors he’d lived in before she existed. Before she’d put her hands on him and said his name like it belonged somewhere other than a police file.

He leaned his forehead against the doorframe. Closed his eyes. He could picture her drying her hair, looking at her own face in the mirror, maybe humming something soft he couldn’t hear. He wanted to push the door open, slide behind her, wrap his arms around her waist and lock his fingers until she couldn’t move. The image burned in his mind.

“You’re taking a while. . .” A laugh followed, brittle at the edges, like it was supposed to be a joke but it wasn’t.

She’d told him once she liked how intense he was. Liked how focused. He clung to that memory now, because it was the only proof he had that she hadn’t grown tired of it yet. That she wouldn’t.

Another pause. More muffled movement. The soft thud of something set on the counter. Dex’ head tipped back against the wall. He stared at the ceiling, jaw locked, hands balled. The event. She’d have to leave soon, and the city would touch her, and strangers would see the soft parts of her she kept only for him. He could feel the night pulling her out of his hands already and his heart thumped in his ribs.

The seconds stretched so thin they hummed in his teeth. Dex pressed his palm to the wall, forehead still tipped back, every muscle wound. He hated doors. Hated the slice of wood and brass that could shut him out. It didn’t matter if it was a bedroom or a bathroom; a door meant she was on the other side and he wasn’t. The lock clicked once when she’d gone in. He took it like a knife between the ribs.

She never meant it that way, he knew that, but his mind chewed it anyway: she wants space, she wants to be without you, she’s shutting you out. It felt personal, every time. He wanted to be in the warm steam with her, to hold her and watch her face while she got ready. He always wanted to be where she was, even if it was just sitting on the edge of the tub while she brushed her teeth, just breathing the same air. Without it the silence started crawling under his skin.

His hand drifted toward the door, almost knocking. He stared at the tiny flecks in the paint, the way the steam bled through the crack, the faint perfume of her hair products slipping out first. He was seconds from pounding on the wood. Seconds from tearing it open just to see her.

Inside he could hear the soft friction of fabric sliding over skin. She was dressing. The sound dragged a hot wire down his spine. He imagined the dress; imagined her stepping into it, smoothing it over her hips, pulling it into place. All the parts of her the world would see tonight. All the parts that had been his to trace with fingertips now stitched into public fabric.

“Open the door…” he whispered under his breath, not loud enough for her to hear. His thumb pressed to the frame like it might leave a print. Open the door. Open the door. Open the door.

And then, the latch clicked. The hinges moved. A blade of light widened, steam unfurling into the hallway. She stepped out.

For a second Dex forgot to breathe. The hallway’s glow caught on the damp ends of her hair, the shimmer of lotion still not fully absorbed into her skin. The dress she’d chosen clung in places that made his palms ache to touch. Her makeup was soft but deliberate, a line at the corner of her eyes making her look almost unreal. The chain at her throat trembled as she adjusted her clutch.

“You…” he said before he’d even formed the words. “You look…” The rest broke off into a dry swallow. “…beautiful.”

He couldn’t stop staring. His gaze dragged up and down, memorizing every inch. His hands twitched at his sides. The thought bloomed anyway, sour and metallic: other people are going to see this. Other eyes. Other hands reaching out. The city will touch her. The city will stain her. He shifted his weight, still leaning against the wall as she brushed past to grab her shoes.

Why does she want to go out there? Why does she need them when she has me?

Another flicker of an image: him stepping in front of the door, pressing his palm against the frame, saying no. Just stay. Just stay with me.

He swallowed the impulse but it sat behind his teeth, hot as a match-head.

“You’re sure you have to go?” he asked, too calm to be casual. His eyes followed the slope of her shoulders, the place where the dress dipped at the back. The hall light struck his face at an angle, leaving one eye in shadow and one lit.

She didn’t even look up at first, she was bent over in front of a mirror, sliding an earring into place. “I promised Mia,” she said, soft but definite. “I have to go.”

Promised. Have to. Dex’s chest went tight on each word like it was a hook being reeled in. Promised someone else. Have to for someone else. But what about me? He watched her slide the second earring in, the glint of metal against her skin.

He stepped up behind her before he even knew he was moving, hands sliding to her hips, fingers spreading across the fabric of her dress like he had to stake a claim on it. His palms were hot; he could feel her heat through the thin material. He bowed his head until his breath caught against the side of her neck. “Can’t I come with you?” It came out almost like a plea. “I’ll stay quiet, I’ll sit in the corner.”

She shifted slightly, the smallest lean back into him, but kept her eyes on the mirror. “You know if I could take you, I would. This isn’t— it’s not that kind of thing.” She reached to touch his wrist, a small grounding gesture, as if she could feel him winding tight.

His jaw clenched. He looked at their reflection together, his shadow rising behind her. She was so beautiful it almost hurt. The dress wasn’t for him. The hair wasn’t for him. The little gloss at the corner of her mouth — not for him. Then who? Who gets to see this? Who gets to breathe the same air as her when she looks like this?

His hands slid higher, palms grazing the dip of her waist, then lower again, thumbs circling. His fingers were restless; they needed an anchor. He bent and pressed his mouth to the side of her neck, once, then again, harder. The smell of her skin under the perfume steadied him for a heartbeat. He kissed a line upward, to the soft place just below her ear.

He closed his eyes, nuzzling into her hair. Is this what normal boyfriends do? Do they stand here trembling like this, ready to rip the city apart just to keep her home? His thumb stroked the hollow at the base of her throat.

She was picking up her clutch now, trying to keep her hands steady while he covered her. “Dex,” she spoke again, softer. “I’ll be back in a few hours.”

A few hours. Alone. Anything can happen. People staring. Touching. Her laughing at something someone says. He tightened his arms, pressing his forehead to her shoulder. “You don’t have to go,” he murmured against her skin. “Stay. Tell her you’re sick. Tell her anything. Don’t go.”

He knew he was too close, too much, but the thought of stepping back was like opening an airlock. He shifted his weight, turning her slightly so he could kiss her collarbone, then her jaw. His hands slid up her sides, over her ribs, skimming the edges of the dress as if to peel it away. If I keep touching her, maybe she’ll forget. Maybe she’ll stay.

Inside his skull, the questions ricocheted: Why can’t she just take me with her? Why does she need them at all? Why isn’t this enough? What if she comes back changed? What if she doesn’t come back?

His mouth moved almost on its own, following the scent of her perfume, the small tremor at the base of her throat. He hadn’t meant to press so hard, hadn’t meant to linger, just to touch, to taste, to leave a breadcrumb of himself so she’d remember him while she was gone. But his focus narrowed to the sound of her breathing, the pulse he could feel beneath his lips. Each kiss became slower, warmer, heavier, until a sharp edge of hunger bled through the softness.

A startled push on his chest broke the trance. Her voice was sharp—“Dex!”—and she ducked toward the mirror. He blinked, disoriented, only then noticing the hickey blooming on her skin: deep wine-dark against the pale slope of her neck. His hands hovered at his sides, caught between apology and want.

She was already dabbing at it with makeup, muttering under her breath. “I just got ready, Dex. Seriously.” Each stroke of the brush was fast, almost angry. Watching her try to erase him from her skin sent a sting through his chest that felt both humiliating and thrilling. It was proof of how much space he took up, and yet she was scrubbing it away.

He shifted his weight, jaw working, eyes tracking her reflection. In his head the thoughts flared up and curled back in on themselves: Did she hate that I did it? Why is she hiding me? Why isn’t she proud? At least now they’ll know she’s taken.

She caught his gaze in the mirror and sighed. “You can still see it a little. Great.” The faint bruise was stubborn under the layers of foundation, a ghostly outline of his mouth. She pressed another dab of powder, frustrated.

Dex’ hands clenched against his thighs; the shame burned hot, but under it coiled a grim satisfaction. A piece of him would still be visible out there, no matter how hard she tried to hide it. He swallowed and tried to steady his voice. “I didn’t mean to…” he started, but the words tangled.

Because hadn’t he? At least a little? Hadn’t the thought, mine, been curling at the edges of his mind the whole time?

She moved away from him without another word, a small whip of air rising as her dress brushed past his knees. The scent of her perfume trailed behind her like a ribbon he couldn’t grab. Dex stood in the hallway, fingers flexing at his sides, watching her retreat. Every step she took toward the bedroom felt like a subtraction, one more foot of space he couldn’t cross, one more second slipping through his grip.

She was silent now, working with quick, irritated motions at the vanity, fixing the line of her lipstick, tucking a stray curl back into place. He could see her shoulders rise and fall, steady, like she was forcing herself to breathe evenly. He tried to swallow the acid bloom of shame in his chest, but all he could taste was copper. His eyes flicked to the faint mark at her neck, still visible under makeup, a secret dark star beneath the powder.

Her bag thumped softly against the dresser as she lifted it. Phone. Keys. Lip gloss. Small click of a compact snapping shut. She didn’t look at him. She was already somewhere else, mentally at the event. She started toward the door, heels muted against the rug. His body moved before he even registered it, instinct overtaking the thoughts. Two steps forward, then another. He planted himself in front of the door, bracing a palm flat against the frame, the other resting lightly on the knob.

“Don’t go.” His voice came out rougher than he’d intended, but steady in a way that made his own stomach tighten. His pupils swallowed the green of his irises until his eyes looked black. He wasn’t touching her yet, just standing there, but every nerve in his body leaned toward her like iron filings to a magnet.

She stopped a foot away, her bag still dangling from her hand. Her reflection wavered in the mirror across the hall: her, poised, beautiful, irritated; him, wide-shouldered, blocking the exit like a sentinel. For a moment it looked like a painting.

Dex stared at her, drinking in every detail, the sweep of her eyeliner, the slope of her throat, the way the dress hugged her ribs. The longer he looked, the less the room felt real. Everything blurred into that one thought curling under his ribs like a hook: mine. The word pulsed through him with each heartbeat, sweet and sour.

His fingers tightened imperceptibly on the frame. “Just… don’t,” came softer now, almost a plea. In his head the words were sharper, louder, desperate: stay here, stay here, stay here. Because if she walked out, she’d be out in the city, a world that had never been kind to him, a world he didn’t trust with anything fragile. He realized belatedly he was holding his breath waiting for her to speak, standing between her and the door like it was the only thing keeping the night at bay.

Her voice reached him first, soft as a breath but carrying a weight that cut through his skin.

“I can’t, baby. I’m sorry.”

The word baby did something dangerous inside him. It landed like a hand on the back of his neck, gentle but electrifying, and he felt his chest tighten as if she’d just wrapped a cord around it and pulled. She’d called him baby. That meant she still loved him. Didn’t it? Then why was she leaving?

Dex blinked once, twice, everything became unbearably vivid. She was still standing there, bag in hand, lips soft, hair shining, but to him she was already turning away. “What did I do?” His voice cracked without warning. He didn’t remember deciding to speak. It just slipped out. “Why are you leaving me? I didn’t— I didn’t screw up again, did I?” His fingers pressed harder into the doorframe until the wood creaked under his grip.

She shook her head, a small, tired movement. “You didn’t do anything, Dex. I promised my friend. It’s just a couple hours.”

A couple hours. Two hours where she’d be gone. Two hours where she’d be somewhere he couldn’t follow, where faces he didn’t know could lean close, smile at her, drink her in. Two hours without her scent in the room, without her warmth on the mattress, without her heartbeat close enough to lull him out of his own head.

“You’re not gonna come back.” His mouth moved before he could stop it. The words sounded childish, ugly, but they tumbled out anyway. “You’ll go out there, you’ll forget me. People are gonna see you, touch you, and you’ll…” He trailed off, jaw trembling. “You’ll realize you don’t need me. That’s what’s gonna happen, isn’t it?”

She stepped closer, her hand brushing his forearm. “Look at me.” Her voice stayed gentle, but there was a firmness to it. “I’m coming back. I always come back. You know that.”

Every inch of him wanted to believe it. But belief didn’t stand a chance against the pounding in his ribs. The space between her words and his fear was a canyon he couldn’t cross. “Then stay now,” His head tilted a fraction, like a plea he couldn’t articulate. “Just come back to bed. We can shut the curtains, order food, whatever you want. Just stay.”

Her fingers stroked down his arm, trying to soothe him, but even that touch was a knife. Because it felt like goodbye. “Dex,” she said softly. “I have to go.”

He caught her wrist without thinking, not hard, but enough to feel her pulse against his palm. “Why?” His voice trembled now, the anger fluctuating. “You said I was enough. You said—” He stopped, swallowing hard, ashamed of the way his throat burned.

She slid her other hand over his, gently trying to pry herself free. “You are enough. This isn’t about you. Let me go.”

Dex could taste panic. Every nerve was screaming at him to hold on tighter, to press her back against the wall, to keep her here just a little longer until the outside world forgot she existed. If she stays, she’s still mine. If she goes, the city takes her. The panic tipped, just enough, and spilled into anger. It wasn’t the clean kind of anger that could be directed outward, it was the jagged, self-splintering kind, born from fear, the kind that felt like betrayal even when he knew it wasn’t.

He stayed where he was, braced like a barricade, shoulders squared into the doorframe. His breathing came fast enough now that it misted the air between them, and his palms pressed flat against the wood as though he could fuse himself into it. The panic had settled into his bones, vibrating there, shaking every muscle in microscopic tremors. He stared at her, at the bag on her arm, at the tiny shift of her weight toward the door.

“I need you,” he said, the words raw and uneven. “I don’t know what I’ll do if you walk out. You don’t get it. You’re the only thing. The only thing.” His hands came up, fingers hovering inches from her arms, afraid to grab, desperate to grab. “Why are you leaving me? Why would you even risk it? What if you don’t come back?” His voice broke on the last word; his eyes darted, searching her face for an answer that didn’t exist.

She tried to keep her voice calm, tried to keep her eyes soft. “I told you I’d be back tonight. You know I would never leave you.”

He shook his head once, like he could fling the thought out. “They’ll look at you. They’ll touch you. You’ll smile at them.” His throat locked, and for a moment he couldn’t breathe. “You’re supposed to smile for me.”

Her hand hovered toward his chest but then drew back, fingers trembling. She could see it now, the way his shoulders shook under his shirt, the shine in his eyes that wasn’t quite tears but could be. She knew what this looked like: the spiral, the slope he slipped down sometimes when he thought he was being left.

“Honey,” she said carefully, “I know this feels bad. But you’re safe. You’re okay. I’m not leaving you forever. It’s just a friend.”

He shook his head again, more violently this time. “No. I need you. I can’t—” He bit the inside of his cheek until it went coppery, trying to quiet the tremor in his voice. “I can’t be here alone. Please. Stay. Stay.”

She closed her eyes, exhaled through her nose, weighing her options. She’d promised someone she’d go. She’d also seen this before, seen what it did to him when he tipped into this place and no one was there to anchor him back out. If she left him like this… would he even still be here when she came back?

Her bag slid off her shoulder, hitting the floor with a muted thump. “Okay,” she whispered. “Okay. I’ll stay.”

For a heartbeat he didn’t seem to understand, the words taking too long to reach him. Then his shoulders sagged, some invisible thing snapping inside him. He reached out and touched her face, eyes still frantic. “Yeah?” he asked, because he had to make sure.

“Yeah,” she said again, more firmly now. “I’ll stay.”

He pressed his forehead to hers, still holding her cheeks in his palms as though she were something breakable. His whole body felt electric and hollow at once. Relief, shame, need — it all ran together until it left him dizzy. “Thank you,” he murmured, over and over, almost a chant. “Thank you. Thank you.”

His mouth found hers before the second “thank you” was fully out. At first it was almost shy, a brush, a tremor, but then it deepened, the kind of kiss that felt less like an act and more like an instinct. He needed the taste of her, the heat of her lips, the press of her breath breaking against his own. The kiss became a tether; every brush of her mouth against his was another inch of rope wrapped around him, keeping him from floating out of his own skull.

She kissed back, gentle but steady, fingers sliding up into his hair. Her warmth under his hands was the only thing he could recognize with certainty. Lips, jawline, pulse, he mapped them like a blind man memorizing a room. He pulled back only enough to breathe, eyes wide and glassy, then kissed her again, slower this time but more desperate. He took it all in like a starving animal and still it wasn’t enough. He dragged his palms down her arms, over her hips, feeling each contour like proof she still existed.

“Come on,” he murmured finally, forehead against hers. “Come back to bed.” His thumbs swept over her jaw as if trying to erase any thought but him.

She hesitated, still half-turned toward the bathroom. “I need to take my makeup off first,” she said softly, fingers brushing his.

He nodded too quickly, eyes still on her mouth. “Okay. Yeah. Just— I’ll come with you.”

She moved toward the bathroom and he moved with her, like her shadow given muscle and breath. His hands found her again before they’d even reached the sink, sliding over her waist, settling against her stomach, palms flat against the soft fabric of her dress. He pressed in behind her, his chest a solid wall to her back, head tilting down until his forehead rested between her shoulder blades.

In the mirror she could see them both: her reaching for a washcloth, him wrapped around her like a snake. His fingers moved absently at her sides, tracing slow circles as though they were counting her breaths. He buried his face into the curve of her neck, breathing in her scent where her perfume was strongest. Inside his head everything narrowed to sensation: the silk of her hair brushing his cheek, the warmth under his hands, the pulse in her throat against his lips. He pressed a kiss there, then another, unable to stop himself, panic still in his ribs but muted now by her skin.

She leaned a little into him even as she wiped away her makeup, used to this pattern now, the way his need for grounding sometimes crested into clinging. “I’m right here.”

He tightened his arms, chin hooked over her shoulder, eyes fixed on her reflection. She kept moving, cotton pad to eye, rinse, repeat, and he stayed still, carved around her like parentheses. He didn’t even notice how tightly he was holding on until his fingertips started to tingle, but he didn’t loosen his grip.

She peeled the last traces of makeup from her face, dropped the cotton pad in the sink, and patted her cheeks dry. Dex didn’t move until she did, then he fell into step behind her like he was tethered. She crossed the threshold into their bedroom and went for the closet. He was already there when she opened the door, leaning against the frame, taking up all the space. He didn’t even pretend to look away; his gaze moved with her hands, her shoulders, every small gesture.

She reached behind her to undo the zipper. Fabric whispered down her sides and pooled at her feet. She pulled a loose, soft T-shirt from a hanger and a pair of worn sleep shorts from the drawer. The cotton looked almost weightless against her freshly cleaned skin. She slipped them on without hurrying, combing her fingers through her hair once, trying to find a sense of normality in the ritual.

She grabbed her phone to tap out a message — I’m so sorry. Something came up. Can’t make it tonight. — the tiny whoosh of the message sending sounded like a door shutting.

Before she could even lower the phone, Dex’ fingers hooked around her wrist and gave a gentle, insistent tug. Not rough, but eager, needy, a current running from his hand into hers. She glanced up at him, already knowing, and he was looking at her with that blown-out gaze, like he’d been underwater and only she could teach him to breathe. “Come lay down,” He backed toward the bed, pulling her with him. The duvet was still rumpled from earlier; the sheets smelled like them both. He sat, then slid back until he was stretched out, tugging her down with him until her knees hit the mattress and she toppled into his arms.

He wrapped himself around her instantly. One arm banded across her waist, the other across her shoulders, his face pressed to the side of her neck. His legs tangled with hers, hooking at the ankles. His breath shuddered once, then slowed, syncing to hers like a metronome finding its rhythm. Her phone slipped from her hand onto the blanket; she let it.

His hands flattened against her ribs. He counted the breaths.

For a heartbeat he could almost believe it was permanent, that if he just held her still enough, the night couldn’t find her, the world couldn’t call her back.

He stayed there, eyes open, telling himself again and again: Right now she’s here. Right now she’s here. Right now she’s here.

started 9.24.2025. finished 9.24.2025.

( masterlist. )

©️ monicfever 2025

Dex doesn’t reply, not even with his usual stilted “Thanks”.

You’re fine with that, totally; you already know Dex is, well, himself—man of few words and composure and too-sharp jawline… So. You assume he’s just ignoring you as usual, which makes you a little bit pleased knowing you’ve probably stupefied your poor coworker into bewilderment once again.

What you don’t know is that you’re exactly right. Twenty feet away, in a sterile cubicle surrounded by discarded tactical gear and stacks of paperwork, Dex is staring at his screen like it personally offended him.

Dex blinks once, finally, slow like a cat watching a ceiling fan.

“…The fuck.”

 The badly edited puppy has a syringe full of mercury pointed into its brain and someone’s holding an orange bottle of ADHD pills behind it. He rereads the sentence, just in case it holds a secret meaning. 

     theyre doing this to me at work tomorrow btw

He leans back in his chair like a man confronting the unknowable void.

“Is this funny?” he mutters. “Do I say something?”

He opens Google.

     “dog on ADHD medication??”

No luck. It sends him to some Instagram pages with dogs he doesn’t care about, and he closes the tab after seeing a bunch of drama on the PetMD forum. Symbolism perhaps? Puppy = you; mercury = brain damage; the cell tower = some kind of conspiracy… at work… the Bureau...? 

Oh fuck it. He gives up.

     Are you ok?      [Sent 10:40 AM]

Aha, so the man responds. You send back four emojis: 💻💀😭🙏

A few minutes later, your phone pings.

     I hope they don’t inject anything into your head.      [Sent 10:45 AM]

You snort, trying to stifle your snicker. You can hear this guy’s voice in your head. thank u king that’s so thoughtful, you send back.

By lunchtime Dex is three articles deep into “Millennial vs Gen Z Humor: A Brief History of Nihilistic Absurdism.” He doesn’t mean to care, really. You’ve probably forgotten about it entirely but he hasn’t. He’s finally gotten the point of the picture you sent, to his satisfaction, but why is the skull emoticon thing everywhere now? 

     skull emoji meaning      Result: “Used to express laughing so hard you’re dead.”

He shakes his head. That doesn’t make any fucking sense.

The next day, you wake up to multiple messages from Dex.

     Thank you for your dog Meme, it’s very funny.      Work is like that sometimes.      Haha      ☠️      [sent 5:10 AM]

You stare at the screen for a long time.

     ☠️

Actually, you think your hands are shaking now. You message back:

     wtf u know how to use emojis????????????

He replies immediately:

     Yes.      I think

Then:

     🔥

Why is there fire now. What does the fire mean. Is he okay. Your face’s gone hot and you screenshot it for maybe nothing in particular but, well, to look back at later on and laugh harder.

It’s Friday, which is a vacation enough in itself but unfortunately that still means you should be working and processing the latest field report Mockta dropped on your desk. But instead, you’re doing something far more dangerous. You’re messing with Dex again. You send him a photo of someone furiously petting a cat’s head.

     Me rubbing the workweek’s pussy so it finishes faster      [Sent 9:48 AM]

Dex is drinking his coffee—straight black, very sad—when he sees the notification. He reads your caption and almost spits into his sleeve.

What did you just send him.

He stares and reads it again.

“Me rubbing the workweek’s… Oh God…” He trails off, rubbing his brow in anguish. He lowers the phone slowly, looking around the bullpen, the hallway, the exit. Then he turns to his laptop and opens Google. God help him.

     pussy rubbing work week 

He hits Enter and immediately regrets it. A new tab opens. A very not-safe-for-work one accessed through the Bureau Wi-Fi. There’s moaning and a lot of exposed skin. One of the women is holding a calendar. He slams his laptop shut so hard the desk rattles, mind racing.

He didn’t read about this shit in any of the articles he read last Tuesday! Staring into the abyss of his screen, Dex messages back:

     ?

     omg dex it’s a joke      i hopeyou did NOT google that      are u okay

There’s a long pause, an eternity really. You sip your coffee, wipe at your eyes. Then, finally:

     Understood.      Thanks for the explanation     I did but i won’t Google anything ever again.      [Sent 10:21 AM]

The mental image of him in a mortified fugue state, recoiling from his screen, is almost too much—but you manage to swallow your laughter as Ray walks past your desk, shooting you a wary look.

The rest of the day is uneventful. You manage to make a small dent in the field reports. Dex doesn’t message you again and you assume you’ve broken him with the dirty joke, which—honestly—fair.

You don’t see him again until you're heading out, bag slung over your shoulder, keys jangling in your hand. You pass Dex’s desk, and he stands up so fast he almost collides with the corner of his desk. 

“Hey,” he says, voice weirdly formal. He wrings his hands. “Uh. Wait a second.”

You stop. “Yeah?”

He hesitates, squinting as he unlocks his phone, and silently holds it out to you. You blink down at the screen.

It’s a Minion. A fucking Minion. The image is so low-res you can count the pixels, jpeg artifacting all over. The Minion’s mid-stride, throwing up a peace sign. The text reads:

     BestfriEND      BoyfriEND      GirlfriEND      Food      Only Food has no END.

There’s a watermark in the corner that says something like “Susan's Recipe Shack,” straight from the Facebook feed of someone’s divorced aunt. It takes you a second to process what’s happening. And then you wheeze, laughing so violently your knees buckle a little. Two people from Cybercrimes glance up. You wave them away, tears in your eyes.

“Oh my God,” you gasp, clutching your chest. “Dex. Dex.”

He’s standing stiffly, eyes flicking nervously around the room, like he didn’t expect you to react. His phone wavers in his hand. “You don’t have to laugh that hard,” he mutters, starting to pull it back.

“No, no—don’t you dare delete that,” you grab his wrist, still breathless. “You made this? Where did you find it?”

He blinks. “Facebook.”

“Christ almighty, you’re going deeper.”

He swallows, ears red and flexing his hands. “You seem to like them.”

You giggle again and this time somebody mutters something about needing to go home. You don’t care. Dex is still standing there like he’s not sure if he should run away, but a smile’s starting to tug at his mouth too.

“Keep going,” you say, grinning so hard your cheeks hurt. “I want more tomorrow.”

“…Alright,” he nods. He’s serious but the blush’s absolutely radiating off his face. “I’ll look for more Minions.”

a/n: this is what i was talking about btw