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Word Count: 3.2 k

Chapter 2

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You awake with the remnants of a headache, one that’s been pulsing behind your eyes for the past few days since… the incident. After getting mugged and rescued by none other than Bullseye, one of the most feared vigilantes in the streets, you’ve spent the rest of the week trying to shift your mind to other, more important things. Not things like how brutal Bullseye was when he attacked the men who attacked you, or the way he sliced their hands with knives, cutting through skin like paper. More so, how he did it without breaking a sweat, with no ounce of regret or guilt visible on his face. As if he enjoyed killing them, the sadistic prick. You could see in his eyes just how much adrenaline he got from throwing himself into these fights and coming out unscathed. The same eyes that, if you weren’t being paranoid, wouldn’t stop staring at you. Maybe you are, in fact, being paranoid, or delusional, or just deprived of human interaction that isn’t work‑related. Whatever it is, you need to get over it, because while Daredevil and Bullseye are said to be working together, it’s not like Dex is going to become a regular of yours. Not that you wanted that or anything. He’d probably be a major handful, given how cocky and carefree he seemed when you met him.

The day after your mugging, you awoke with a drilling headache, white‑hot pain behind your eyes that left you sensitive to just about everything around you. You were fortunate enough to be off shift that day, so work was the least of your worries. You honestly spent the whole day aching, moaning, and groaning over a stupid headache. Fortunately, as the days went by, all you were left with was the occasional ache, easily eased by Tylenol or whatever you had on hand. Matt had called you about dropping in, and after a bit of heckling, you accepted, mostly to avoid more of his grumbling.

He even went so far as to text one morning:

“I know how to find you,” followed by, “Sorry, that sounded extremely inappropriate and creepy. But please don’t ignore me,” and then, “God, I sound like an ex. I just want to make sure you’re okay and have everything you need to recover. Please let me know if I can do anything to help.”

Being the honest‑to‑god sweetheart that Matt is, when you told him a time he could drop by, he showed up with groceries and Chinese takeout from your favorite restaurant.

“How did you know my order?” you say, incredulous, rummaging through the takeout bag.

“I smelled it on your breath one time. Palace Wok, right?” 

You look over at him, not sure whether to be surprised or disgusted. “How good is your sense of smell, anyway?”

He places his foldable cane on the kitchen counter before sniffing the air briefly. “Well, the last time you cooked was… three days ago?” He tilts his head toward you for confirmation, and when you nod, he continues, “It was just a steak and green beans. Nothing crazy.”

“Wow. Just… wow.”

“Oh, and your fridge— the strawberries in the back drawer have gone moldy. You should probably throw them out.”

“Who needs search dogs when we’ve got Matt Murdock?” He chuckles at your words. 

“So, how have you been holding up?”

“To put it simply, it sucks. I haven’t had to work the past few days, which is a relief. I would’ve gone mad if I had to come in with such a pounding headache.” You groan at the thought.

“Has he visited?” Matt asks delicately. 

“Dex? No, I don’t see why he would. I mean, you and I know each other… I barely met him, and he didn’t seem like the type.” You shrug.

If you were honest, a sliver of you was kind of hoping to see him again, just to learn more about him. Call it intrigue, curiosity, or maybe just boredom. After all, the only reason Matt— a.k.a. Daredevil— is in your life now is because you wanted some change in your routine.

“Dex…” He repeats the name. “Hmm. First‑name basis already?”

“Poindexter, Bullseye, whatever you want to call him. He told me to call him Dex.” 

“I didn’t say anything. I was just repeating what you said.” He puts his hand up defensively, giving a knowing smirk.

“You—” You throw a fortune cookie at him, and he catches it with ease. “Stop assuming things, you weirdo.”

“Your heart rate is pretty fast right now. Are you angry? Nervous?” He tilts his head. “Embarrassed?”

Two more fortune cookies are thrown at him. 

“If you don’t shut up right now, I’m gonna start throwing food.” 

“Hey, it’ll be your mess to clean up, so choose your words wisely,” he taunts.

A ringtone echoes through the house, cutting off the conversation. The phone announces “KAREN PAGE” in a robotic tone before continuing to ring. Matt takes out his phone, answering the call and mumbling into the speaker. 

“I’ll be right there. Just had to run a little errand before work.” He looks over at you and mouths “sorry,” but you wave him off and step aside to give him privacy. He ends the call and gathers his coat. “Sorry— work calls. Remember to stay hydrated, and feel free to call me or anyone you know who can help. I’ll always pick up.” He reassures. You smile, thank him, and walk him out of the apartment. 

The rest of the day is spent rotting on your sofa, watching reruns of a show you’d lost touch with since work started. It was nice to finally relax like this— to not have to worry about an upcoming grueling shift or anything else. And it was that relaxation that led to you sleeping through the rest of the day and straight into the next morning. Fortunately, the headache seemed to have dulled completely— but to be safe, you called out of work. With another day to yourself, you spent it running errands, doing things you couldn’t normally squeeze in before or after work.

And before you knew it, a week had passed in the same routine, and you were back at work as if nothing had changed. At times, walking down the street, you couldn’t help thinking about the chances of seeing him again— seeing Dex. God, Matt was right. First‑name basis with a man— specifically Bullseye— after only one interaction. It was obvious this was starting to cloud your mind, which meant you needed to take your mind off things. Exactly— forget anything ever happened, ‘cause nothing did happen. Why are you thinking so much about this? 

Stepping back into your apartment after another late shift, you resist the urge to toss yourself onto the couch and sink into oblivion. It wasn’t even a mentally draining shift, thank God. You’d had your fair share of those, and they were NOT fun. It all just felt so monotonous. Your mother would tell you to pick up a hobby or something, but nothing felt interesting anymore. With a heavy sigh, you sit down on your couch and stare up at the blank, boring ceiling. You’re still wearing your scrubs— why haven’t you changed out of them yet? At that thought, you start to stand, but freeze at the faint click coming from your bedroom. You’ve gotta be kidding me. Your body goes stiff as your mind races with what to do. “Shit. Shit. Shit,” you mouth to yourself, eyes darting around the room for some kind of weapon. You tiptoe to the kitchen, grab the largest knife you can find, and step quietly down the hallway. Just as you reach for the knob, a faint groan sounds from the other side of the door.

A muffled voice: “Doc, I can hear you out there. If you could come—” he hisses, “—come help me out.”

An immediate exhale and wave of relief wash over you before you open the door.

You scan the darkness of your bedroom. “Dex, holy shit—” He has a hand clamped over what looks like a knife wound in his gut, blood seeping through his gloved fingers.

The knife in your hand clatters to the floor as you sprint to grab your first‑aid kit. Dex sits on your bed, smearing blood across your pristine sheets. He winces and rests his head on one of your pillows. You rush back in, pulling a chair up to the bedside.

“How did this happen?” you ask as he lifts his hand to reveal the wound. Dex hesitates before answering, “Don’t wanna talk about it.” he grits his teeth. 

“Fine, just—” You grab some gauze. “Press down on this, okay? I’m gonna get some rags to clean this up.” You place your hand on his for a second before running out to the kitchen.

The rags stain quickly, soaking up the blood surrounding his wound. 

“Jesus, you’re lucky it didn’t hit any vital organs.” You begin stitching him up.

“I finally get to experience some of your bedside service.” He lets out a gravelly chuckle and rests his arm by your leg— only to jerk when you smack it.

“What the fuck, Dex?” You glare at him. “I— what makes you think you can just waltz in here?”

“Daredevil does it all the time. Why can’t I?” His sharp eyebrows scrunch together.

“Because we know each other! I just— ugh!” You groan. “A heads‑up at least would’ve been nice.”

“Was I supposed to relay the message to Daredevil or something?” he asks, “Should I have just walked through your front door?”

“Don’t get smart with me.” 

“No, seriously. I bet you became Daredevil’s little medic in a similar fashion. Why is it different with me?”

I don’t know— maybe because you’ve actually killed people. You nearly bite back.

“If you must know, I ran into Daredevil one night in an alley. He was hurt pretty badly, and if I hadn’t done anything, he probably would’ve bled out. It kinda just spiraled from there.”

“But you didn’t answer my question. Why’s it different with me?” He looks at you seriously.

You swallow. “Because you’ve hurt people. Innocent people.”

Dex bites the inside of his cheek and breaks eye contact. “I… know that.” He speaks slowly, as if fighting the words in his throat. “I know what I’ve done in the past is unforgivable, but I’m trying to be better. I’m trying to right the wrongs.”

“But it’s not that simple, Dex. What about those men you killed last week— the ones who mugged me?” Your voice cracks.

“They were bad guys. They did bad things, so they deserved it. I only kill bad guys now.” He tries to explain, his tone bordering on urgent. “You have to understand. It’s something I can’t explain, alright?” Dex tries to sit up frantically, stretching the stitches.

“Dex, wait—” You put your hands out. “Dex, stop. Please.” Your hand rests on his chest to push him back down. “This can be a talk for later. For now, rest.” You stand up.

“Where are you going?” Dex’s eyebrows press together.

“The living room. I’ll sleep on the couch tonight.” You grab a pillow and blanket.

“No, I— I should.” He tries to sit up again, but you send a cold glare his way.

“What did I just say? You need to rest. I tell Daredevil the same thing.”

“But you should be sleeping in your own bed,” he says as you step into the doorway. “Does Daredevil sleep here too, sometimes?” Was that a hint of jealousy in his tone? You look over your shoulder to see him staring at you— another unreadable expression.

“Well, yes, sometimes. But he usually makes it to the couch or bathroom, or he’s too stubborn and goes home.” Maybe your brain is making things up, but you swear you hear him scoff. You roll your eyes. “Goodnight, Dex.”

Silence— and then, “Goodnight,” he grumbles.

And with that, you drag your blanket and pillow down the hallway and onto the couch. You wish you could say you fell asleep quickly, but you and your mind lie awake as adrenaline rushes through your veins. It never felt like this with Daredevil— maybe at first. But it wasn’t even that that stuck with you. It was Dex’s floundering response.

 That’s what makes him and DareDevil different. Daredevil has a moral compass— albeit one he veers from sometimes— but with Dex, you could tell how frantic he seemed. It was as if he couldn’t guide himself toward the right reasoning. He looked lost. Maybe you were just overthinking again. It wasn’t any of your business, and you probably wouldn’t see him again after tonight. He’ll probably be gone by morning— just like Matt.

You awake to the sound of sizzling and the aroma of freshly cooked toast. 

“You’re a heavy sleeper. I can’t believe you didn’t hear me rummaging around your kitchen.” A familiar, gravelly voice resonates through the living room. “How do you like your eggs?”

You sit up from the couch, making eye contact with Dex, who stands by the stove still wearing his tactical gear and costume. It’s odd, though, how relaxed he looks in his outfit. Just last night you saw him nearly writhing, blood‑smeared.

“Um,” you yawn before answering, “over‑easy, please.” Your voice crackles with dryness.

Walking into the kitchen, you pour yourself a glass of water and give Dex a once‑over. His dark blue costume fits like a second skin, armored in certain places. What stands out is the white bandage on his side.

Speaking of, you step toward him, extending your hand to touch the bandages covering the wound.

Dex flinches— unexpected. “What are you doing?” he asks, hesitant.

“Oh, sorry. I guess I should’ve asked.” You step back. “How’d you sleep?”

“Better than you, I can assume. Your bed is very comfy.” Of course he’s the type to brag about that. You roll your eyes. Dex clears his throat. “You plan on changing?”

“Hm?” You look down and— wow, you forgot about that. You’re still wearing your scrubs… which also happen to be covered in blood. Lots of blood. You look back up at Dex— at a loss for words, honestly— before giving a quick, “I’ll be right back,” and hurrying to your bedroom to change.

You walk back out in a simple T‑shirt and sweats, and in the time you were gone, Dex has finished cooking breakfast. He’s leaning against the counter, sipping coffee from an old mug of yours, and he slides your plate over as you sit across from him.

“Thank you for breakfast, Dex. You didn’t have to.” 

“It’s become a routine of mine to have eggs every morning. I guess I just can’t break the habit.” His eyes follow you as you take a bite. His eyebrows twitch, almost anticipating something.

“It’s good, thank you. To be honest, I don’t eat breakfast that often,” you admit.

“Why’s that?” 

“I guess I always end up sleeping through it. Night shifts, remember?”

“A doctor who doesn’t prioritize their own health,” Dex tuts. “Haven’t you heard? Breakfast is the most important meal of the day.” He smirks into his mug— that sharp smirk that looks almost sinister.

“Alright, enough about me. Can you tell me what happened last night?” Dex visibly stiffens.

“I already told you— I didn’t want to talk about it.”

“Dex, if you’re going to keep coming here for help, I need something.” You speak, assuming, and hoping, he’ll stay in touch, as crazy as that sounds.

“So you do want me to stick around.” His eyes sharpen, reading your every expression, still smirking.

“That’s beside the point—” You wave your hand. “Why can’t you tell me the truth? I get it— this is only the second time we’ve interacted, so you don’t trust me that much. But if you want to stick around, there needs to be some base level of trust.” You don’t know why you’re essentially pleading, but you continue. “If you want someone who won’t question anything, that’s not me.”

Dex stares at you for a moment before looking away. “I just got caught off guard last night and ended up with a knife in my gut.”

 You raise an eyebrow at him, as if asking that’s it? So he continues, “Given my profession and expertise, I don’t like getting injured on the job. It makes me feel… inferior. Like I’m a failure.” His knuckles turn white. 

“Dex,” you say, placing your hand over his, “that is nothing to be ashamed about— though I can’t relate to the whole ‘I’m a trained killer’ shtick.” You chuckle, trying to lighten the mood. It works; Dex chuckles with you.

He looks down at his wrist and pulls his sleeve back, checking his watch. “I better get going— I’ve got a cat to feed.”

“You own a cat?” you can’t help but ask.

Dex smiles. “My neighbor’s. I give him a little treat every morning just ’cause.”

“That’s sweet…” You smile back at him.

His smile widens, crinkling the corners of his eyes. Dex stands and grabs your phone from the countertop.

“Hey—” You stand and follow him as he walks through your living room. He turns around, scanning your face to unlock the phone.“What— Dex, what are you doing?” you laugh. He starts typing quickly, impressively. “Give that back—” He tosses the phone over his shoulder, and it lands perfectly in your hands. On the screen is his contact: Dex. You roll your eyes and pocket your phone as the door clicks shut and his footsteps fade.

the night before…

Your bed was surprisingly comfortable— silky sheets, soft pillows, and the faint underlying trace of your scent. It took everything in Dex not to grab the pillow and inhale deeply. You seemed like such a warm person; even your scent was comforting. The way you had, without hesitation, helped Dex when he needed it was admirable— exactly what he’d been hoping for. He’d been stabbed before. He knew exactly how painful it was. Dex had also been careful enough to position the knife in just the right spot so it wouldn’t hit any vital organs, like you’d pointed out. God— intelligent, too. He was envious Matt had gotten to you first. If only he’d met you first— so he could’ve formed a good first impression. Not Bullseye, the crazed assassin, but Dex: a good guy just trying to make things right. And that’s what he hoped it was turning into.

Word Count: 3.5 k

Chapter 1

A deep exhale escapes you as you step through the Metro General doors and into the New York night. The bustle of rush hour has died down as the city lights glow, casting a dull haze along the streets. It’s times like these you wish you had a car instead of dealing with public transportation, and given how late you stayed at the ER, you’re out of luck when it comes to catching a taxi. With exhaustion weighing heavy on your shoulders and your feet aching from hours of standing, you trudge along the sidewalk, ready for the warm embrace your bed will give you when you finally make it home. If you make it home, your anxious brain supplies. You aren’t so naive as to think you can just walk home safely these days, so inside your purse you clutch a, fortunately unused, bottle of pepper spray. 

With street crime on the rise and the added chaos of vigilantes roaming around, you’ve learned it’s in your best interest to be ready at any moment. Although it does leave you paranoid at the sound of a rattling can or the sight of a hooded figure standing by the road. Maybe if you had listened to your mother and just moved to a more rural town with lower crime rates and no threats of some crazed lunatic in a costume attacking you, you wouldn’t be feeling so nervous every night. Your phone buzzing in your pocket pulls you out of whatever zoned‑out state you were in, and you pull it out.

 Ha. Speak of the devil – Mom. Just as you’re about to answer, because somehow she always knows when you get out of work, a leaf cracks under someone’s boots behind you. You stiffen, trying not to stop in your tracks and make it obvious you’re aware of the presence behind you. It could just be another person walking down the street. Totally plausible, if it weren’t 3 AM. You glance ever so slightly over your shoulder and make eye contact with a hooded man, two others trailing behind him. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Blood floods your ears, your heart pounding in your chest. Sweat gathers on your palms, nearly making you lose your grip on both your pepper spray and your phone. As subtly as you can, you pick up the pace, scrolling through your contacts until you land on his. DD. It’s rare that you’re the one calling Matt and not the other way around, since he usually comes to you when he’s in dire need of medical attention. Call it your way of giving back to the vigilante who keeps the streets safe… or as safe as they can be, given your current situation.

The heavy footsteps behind you pick up, and you’re certain now that these men are following you. Fear vibrates under your skin, you frantically glance around for someone, anyone, anything that could help you. Your phone continues to ring, and you wait, hoping to hear that dial click and the sound of his voice. The roads are empty: no cars, no people, and the bodega you just passed is closed, so much for 24-hour convenience. The footsteps grow faster, closer, louder, gaining on you. Your plastic badge clacks against your chest as you pick up your pace. Shit. Your heart is hammering, so loud you swear you can hear it.

The dial clicks. “Hello? Doctor?” His unmistakable gravelly voice is honest‑to‑god music to your ears.

“East 62nd Street, at least two men—” A hand clutches your shoulder and throws you sideways. You stumble to the ground, your phone skidding to the side.

 You yank out the pepper spray from your sweaty palm and spray it at the man closest to you. He yells and stumbles back, but one of his buddies steps up and slaps you across the face. The impact is dizzying as you fall to the side, your hands catching you before you hit the ground completely. That metallic, familiar taste fills your mouth, and you try your best to look up at the asshole who hit you.

“What do you want? ’Cause if it’s money, I keep everything on my card, so fuck off.” you hiss, not without a slight waver in your voice.

“Shut the fuck up. Give us your purse, lady.” The man who slapped you reaches down and grips your shoulder, forcing you to face him. Jesus, he’s strong. His grip might even leave bruises with how hard he’s clamping down. 

“Here, take it and let me go.” You throw your purse at him with your free arm, the metal zipper jingling.

“That’s nice. Keep cooperating. Everything in your pockets, now.” He motions for you to hand anything over.

“I don’t have anything else, I swear. I just got out of work, so please just let me go.” You glance down at your scrubs.

“Nah, I think you’re lying to us.” One of the other men steps beside him, looking down at you.

“I think this bitch needs to pay—” The guy you pepper‑sprayed pushes through the two men and grabs you by the collar, whipping his hand up and slapping you again. You let out a sharp, uncontrollable gasp and spit out a gob of blood that had built up.

“I don’t— I don’t have anything else! How many times do I have to tell you assholes!”

“That’s no way to talk to us, bitch.” He pulls out a knife and presses it against your neck. Fuck. This is bad. This is so bad. Your skin pulses against the knife.. 

“Okay, okay. You can take my phone. It’s somewhere in this alley — I don’t know where it got thrown, but it has my card on it, so you can do whatever you want with that. Please just put the knife down.” you manage to say as calmly as possible, voice wavering and body trembling.

One of the men starts scouring the alleyway and manages to find it, the screen illuminating his face.

“Hey! She was on the phone with someone. Shit, who the fuck is DD?” he shouts to the men still holding you.

“Did you call the cops? Goddammit!” He shoves you so your back hits the ground, your head smacking against the pavement. The pain is instant and aching, and it takes a moment for your eyes to adjust.

You look up at the man as he reaches for you. “You fucking bitch, I’m gonna—” A knife cuts straight through his hand.

Then two more hit his knees, and he collapses onto them in front of you. All you can do is stare as knives whizz through the air, more sharp flashes than anything else.The first man is already on the ground, wailing in pain, while the other two frantically search for the source. This can’t be Daredevil. He wouldn’t go this far. You can’t help but think. A figure appears at the entrance of the alleyway. You can tell by his stature that it’s a man — and honestly, an incredibly built one. A mask covering everything but his eyes adorns his face as he walks with a heavy, deliberate gait.

With a probable concussion, you try your best to take in who this man is. You can almost see the sick, righteous smile beneath his mask, especially with the carefree steps he’s taking. With a flick of his wrist, another knife whizzes through the air into one man’s knee — then his head. The same goes for the other man, even as he tries to run, but he’s cut short. The first man, the wailing one, is silenced by a knife to the back of the head, thrown with chilling precision. Matt doesn’t use knives, and he certainly doesn’t kill anyone… it can’t be him. In the minimal light from a nearby streetlamp, you can just make out the bullseye‑like stripes on his chest. Shit. Just your luck. You ask for Daredevil and get Bullseye of all people. You’ve seen the news stories about Bullseye. The perfect FBI agent gone mad, Kingpin’s pawn, and a ridiculously good shot with pretty much anything. Oh, and a notorious, bloodthirsty killer. Like you said, just your luck. He strides toward you, twirling a knife between his gloved fingers. He kicks up the purse resting beside the dead thug and tosses it to you, tilting his head as he looks down. 

“You the doc? The Devil sent me.” His rumbling voice resonates through you, his eyes like daggers boring into your soul.

“Daredevil sent you here? You know Daredevil?” you stumble out.

“We’re buddies, what can I say? Plus, I owe him a couple favors. Call it a good deed.” He shrugs, kicking your phone over from where it landed in the middle of the alley.

You reach for it, turning over the cracked screen.

“Cute photo.” You immediately look up at him, specifically at your ID badge now in his hand. “Bangs definitely suit you.” He chuckles.

“Give that—back,” you huff, reaching up to grab the badge, but he pulls away.

 His gravelly chuckle nearly makes your heart stutter, but your annoyance overpowers it. You lunge for the badge again, and again he moves out of the way, teasing you. You follow him toward the alleyway opening, where the nearby streetlights finally give enough light for you to see him clearly, and for him to see you.

You have to admit, even with the mask, he’s still surprisingly expressive; sharp brows, predatory eyes. His gaze stays fixed on you, and he lets out another deep, gravelly chuckle. 

You step closer for the badge. “The bangs were before—” you snatch it from his hand, “—before they got in the way of my face at work.”

“Right,” he drags the word, “Daredevil’s little doctor.”

“If you’re just going to keep taunting me or whatever it is you’re doing, I’d like to go home now. I did just get out of a 12‑hour shift, and if you couldn’t tell, it’s 3 AM.” You rub your temple, trying to ease the growing ache behind your eyes.

“Alright, alright. Let me walk you home,” he says casually.

“Sorry, what?” 

“Let me walk you home. You‑know‑who wanted me to get you back safely, so…”

“I can walk home fine by myself.” You start to walk away, but he strides right up next to you, his heavy boots thudding against the sidewalk.

“So what about what happened a few minutes ago? What if I hadn’t shown up, hm?”

“That’s—” Okay, maybe he’s right, but it’s not like you’re going to give him the credit to his face. “I called Daredevil, so he probably would have shown up or something.” Even you know that’s a dumb response.

“Well, who’s to say it won’t happen again? I mean, were you expecting to get mugged tonight?” He raises a brow.

You roll your eyes. “No one expects to get mugged. You’re asking dumb questions.” He’s still walking beside you, following you like a dog.

“You really can’t argue, can you.” Bullseye’s eyes lock onto yours with a glint of playfulness.

“Okay, fine. Walk me home. Don’t. See if I care! Even though I’m sure you have better things to do like beat up other people with, I don’t know, forks and spoons!”

“If you must know, I do most of my acts with knives.” He twirls one of said knives in his hand.

“Oh, I’m so impressed, the famed Bullseye—” You’re hit with a nauseating wave and a pounding ache in your head. “Shit—” Your limbs feel heavy, and suddenly you’re leaning against Bullseye.

“Woah there.” He puts his hand behind your head, warm liquid coating his palm. “Shit. Did you hit your head? Why didn’t you say something?” He pulls his hand back and wraps an arm around your waist, holding you upright.

“I kinda forgot about it. That asshole… he shoved me to the ground.” You reach up, draping a hand over your forehead to ease the headache. “Why do you care so much anyway? Is Daredevil gonna be mad if he finds out you let me get hurt or something?” With the growing pain in your head, you’re apparently losing your filter.

“Honestly, yeah.” He scoffs. “We’re not exactly buddy‑buddy. He helps me, and I guess I occasionally help him. He seems to care a lot about your safety.”

“Oh no,” you drag on, “I’m just the one he goes to when he needs to get stitched up. He only gave me his number ’cause I wasn’t at my apartment one time and he needed to know where to find me.” You stumble over your feet, and his grip on your waist tightens. “I mean, I guess if I ended up dead in some back alley, he’d just find some other doctor or nurse or whatever to trust with his secret identity and to wake up in the middle of the fucking night because he thought it was a good idea to take on some yakuza with insanely good knife skills. God, I’m rambling, aren’t I?” You lull your head back to look up at Bullseye.

Suddenly, he reaches up with his other hand and takes off his mask, ruffling his hair in the process. Beneath is a sharp face, and honestly, a pretty attractive one at that. He holds an expression of amusement.

“You’re really somethin’.” He chuckles again, but without the mask it’s no longer muffled. And with you leaning against him like this, you can feel his deep voice rumbling through his ribcage and vibrating through your body.

“What’d you say your name was again, Doc?”

“I don’t think I ever told you, Bullseye.” You blink up at him with a lazy smirk, “But couldn’t you read my badge?”

He smirks, “Maybe I want to hear you say it.” He looks away and into the pitch-black city night, “Dex.” 

“Is that short for anything?” you can’t help but wonder.

He coughs, clearing his throat. “Uh, my name is Ben Poindexter, but everyone I know calls me Dex.”

“Poindexter…” you say in a comically serious tone before telling him yours.

Dex chuckles. “What street do you live on, while I still have you conscious and somewhat alert?” He’s still looking at you, gazing, really. 

You list off your address before resting your head on his shoulder, groaning occasionally when the headache pulses. The two of you eventually make it back to your apartment, and you don’t expect what you see when you open the door, or rather, when Dex opens it while still holding your weight. Daredevil is sitting in your living room. Well, technically, Matt is sitting in your living room, since he isn’t wearing the typical Daredevil costume, just a hood and rose‑tinted glasses. 

“Hey, DD.” You lull your heavy head to the side. “What are you doing here?” The drowsiness in your voice is obvious. Dex looks from you to Matt, his expression unreadable.

“I wanted to make sure you were okay.” He stands up and walks over to you. “I’m sorry I couldn’t be the one to come help you. Christ, it’s funny, y’know? The one time you call me, I can’t return the favor. I had to send this lunatic instead.” He motions to Dex.

“Okay, ouch. I have feelings too, man.” 

“Shut up. You didn’t do anything to her, right?” Matt walks up to Dex.

“What? No. You told me to see what was wrong with her, and I did. You think I just hurt innocent people?” Dex sounds offended by the accusation.

“I think that question answers itself, Bullseye.” Matt steps face‑to‑face with Dex.

“You listen to me, asshole—”

You cut between them, sighing dramatically. “Can you both just shut up and let me rest? If you want to have this conversation in front of me, can you at least do it at a time when my head isn’t pounding?” Dex releases his arm from your waist, looking at you.

Matt clears his throat. “You’re right, I’m sorry. I just— you always help me out, and I hate the idea of you getting hurt from something I could’ve helped avoid.” He frowns.

You sit down on the nearby sofa and sigh. “Let’s face it, Matt. You can’t be everywhere in the city at once. Plus, it was bound to happen.” You rest your head back. “But wait—” You sit up. “What were the two of you doing speaking to each other? If anyone, wouldn’t you have called Frank or some other vigilante?” You look between the two of them and their surprised expressions, Dex pursing his lips.

“You wanna answer that one, Red?” Dex smirks.

“Don’t say it like it’s something scandalous, Poindexter.” Matt scowls at him before looking back at you. “We work together on some missions and stakeouts and whatnot. It’s nothing serious.”

“Nothing serious?” Dex puts a hand to his chest dramatically. “And here I thought we were on at least some level of trust and friendship, given I now know who you go to when you’re injured.”

“And I expect you not to tell anyone either.”

“Who would I tell? It’s not like I’m part of some evil vigilante conglomerate or something.” he says, and both you and Matt give him a disapproving look.

Dex rolls his eyes. “Okay, the Fisks were not vigilantes, for your information. And I’d like to forget my days working with them.”

“For them,” Matt corrects.

“Okay, enough said. You guys are just going to keep bickering no matter what I do.” You let out an exasperated sigh. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, my bed has been calling my name since I clocked out.” You go to stand, but your headache says otherwise. Dex comes over to hold your waist again, cursing under his breath.

“Shit, I forgot to tell you — she hit her head earlier.”

“That’s where the smell was coming from.” 

“Why’d you have to phrase it like that?” You groan, embarrassed. “Ugh. Down the hall to the right. And could one of you grab some Tylenol or something from my bathroom? Please.” 

Dex walks you to your bedroom, his hand resting on your waist the whole time. He helps you sit down gently on your bed, but when you try to lie down, he stops you. “No, no, not just yet. C’mon, we gotta check if you have a concussion. Shouldn’t you know this, Doc?” he tuts.

You groan. “But I’m so tired…”

“I know, sweetheart, but it’ll just take a minute, alright?” You nod, albeit with a heavy, continuously aching head. “You still have your phone on you, right?” You nod again. “Alright, good, good. You know the drill.” He checks your eyes, and you catch him glancing across your face a few times. He clears his throat. “No dilated pupils. Looks like you got lucky, Doc.” Dex stands up, and it makes you realize just how close he was earlier, sitting on the bed across from you.

Matt walks in with a glass of water and a first aid kit, reminding you of the bleeding wound on the back of your head. He sits beside you, in the same spot Dex had been moments earlier, and dresses the wound.

After some winces, a few “ow, ow, ow”s, and copious amounts of Tylenol, you’re finally cleared to rest.

“Home sweet home…” You sink into the cool sheets of your bed. “Oh.” You sit up briefly. “Thank you, you two, for tonight. Seriously, I owe you guys.” Dex nods in your direction.

“Please don’t mention it,” Matt reassures. “Don’t think you have an obligation to give back. Trust me, it’s about time I returned the favor for the amount of times you’ve saved my ass.” He chuckles. “And I won’t let something like this happen again.”

“We won’t,” Dex adds. You look over at him and see he’s already staring at you, another unreadable expression on his face.

He clears his throat again. “Now, I’m sure you’re exhausted, so—” He looks over at Matt. “I think that’s our cue, Red.”

The two start walking toward your window, opening it slightly before your cough interrupts them. “You do know I have a front door, right?” Dex purses his lips, and he and Matt just stare at you in silence.

“Fine! Use the window. At least lock it. The last thing I need is someone breaking in.” You shift onto your side, back facing them, and listen as they silently exit your apartment.

Now alone in the silence, you can hear the faint ticking of the clock on your bedside table. Shifting to face it, you check the time. 

4:03 AM.

I may or may not have written a Ben Poindexter x Reader fanfic on Ao3.... where the reader is a doctor..... hehehheehehhehe