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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