jubi likes everything

---

It had all gone horribly wrong.

You had heeded Matt's call for aid. Which, much to your dismay, had actually been for Benjamin Poindexter. Bullseye. The man you despised. And against your better judgement, you had stepped over the line that you yourself had drawn when you lost your temper with him. When you broke any distance between you and Poindexter, lunging yourself onto his thighs as you gripped his hair so hard that he had moaned. When you came to your senses, but still inexplicably refused to move away from him. When he had pressed his forehead ever so gently to yours, calming you down, and you had enjoyed it.

You had been so distracted by him that for the first time since assisting Karen and Matt, you had assumed their footfalls. And you had been wrong. You had heard the weight of Matt's boots against the concrete hallway, and had automatically taken for granted that Karen would be there also. But she wasn't.

You're standing by the doorway to the hideout, cheeks still flushed and fists clenched to ease the shaking, when only Matt staggers through, beaten and bloody. Your heart sinks at the sight. From behind you, you can hear Poindexter moving on that damned make-shift bed, curiosity getting the best of him. Immediately attending to Matt, you throw his arm over your shoulder and help him to the nearest seat.

"What happened?" You say softly as possible, trying to hide the panic in your voice but failing. "Where's Karen?"

"They got her." Matt winces. "She'd planned to expose Fisk at the protest, with the interviews we'd filmed from those he and the Task Force had imprisoned. She was gonna plaster them all over City Hall. But Powell found her. She's at the 15th Precinct. And it's all been done legally."

He pauses, and you can tell that he's trying to get his thoughts straight.

"Fisk means to hold her as an example- as proof of the legitimacy of his Vigilante Court, and as a consequence of those who act against him. He won't stop until this is over."

"Shit." The word escapes you before you realise. "What do we do?"

"Well if we break her out, we're the criminals he says we are. We're going to have to beat him at his own game."

He pauses again.

"For now though Y/N, it's best if you lay low. Keep to normality. We may need you if things go wrong, and they can't know that you're helping us. It'll only get you hurt."

You go to protest. How can I go back to normality when Karen's locked in Fisk's cell? When she's in danger?

Matt's words, however, interrupt your objection before you can even speak it. He turns towards Poindexter.

"You, however."

Matt rises from his seat, slowly moving towards Poindexter. Your eyes follow Matt's every move. You know what Matt is capable of, and it is for that reason that you're never quite sure what he will do.

And once again, he surprises you. 

Poindexter's hands are released from the handcuffs. As he turns his wrists, the bones crack a teeth-clenching sound. You grimace at the noise.

"You wanted one good deed, right? So we could balance the scales?"

"Yeah. Sure." Poindexter responds nonchalantly.

"Well then, I've got it for you." But then Matt stops, his breathing uneven, as if he's trying to restrain himself from losing his composure. "But first, know this. I hate you for Foggy. I hate you for Father Lantom. For Agent Nadeem. And for every life you've wasted for no reason other than your own twisted soul."

Your chest aches at his words. Aches at the agony in his voice. Your hands clench into fists, the tremor still present.

"Part of me wants to kill you...And part of me needs to forgive you."

You're not surprised, however, at Matt's will to be kind, adamant to forgive and show grace towards others, especially to those undeserving of it.

"Well...thanks."

Poindexter's response seems to come off as if it's mockery, but to you, the tone strikes you as though he believes he is past the point of forgiveness. There's a sadness hidden deeper beneath his brief words, and it makes you feel almost pitiful towards him. But unlike Matt, you have not chosen to forgive just yet.

Poindexter stands from the bed, letting out a small groan as his hand covers the gauze on his abdomen. As he does, you're taken aback by just how tall he is, not to mention how toned his body is, which must be from the years of military and federal service Matt once mentioned. He holds such a presence just simply standing there. You dread to think what he must be like in action, be like as Bullseye. No wonder people fear the mere mention of his name. Even standing here, you can't seem to tear your eyes away from him. You're not afraid though.

You try to maintain your focus on Matt, who's sitting beside you, rather than stare at Poindexter.

"Don't do that. It's not for you. It's for them." Matt retorts back, whilst throwing Poindexter one of his own jumpers. "Now go, disappear, die, I don't care. But if you mean what you say, you wanna do one good thing in a life full of shit, then I've got it for you."

'You know I can't make any promises, right?" That stupid smirk is back on Poindexter lips, taunting Matt.

"Wouldn't believe you if you did."

As he looks down towards the jumper, his smirk fades. He seems lost in thought. Oh. It would be so easy for him, the thought appears in your mind without hesitation. He could finish what he started. Starting with us. You’re trying not to doubt Matt’s actions, you trust him completely, of course you do. This isn’t just anybody though. He should not be underestimated.

But then Poindexter’s eyes are lifting to fall upon you, softening as they catch your gaze. A small, gentle smile appears on his lips. There's no sense of malice or smugness in his expression, and you feel no fear, no dread, your thoughts quietened. You let out a breath of surprise. No one has quite looked at you like that in a long time.

His attention returns to Matt whilst he puts the jumper on.

"What do you need me to do?"

"We think that Fisk is targeting the Governor. She's the only one who has the power to stop him, and if he gets his hands on her, and puts one of his puppets in place then it's over."

"And you want me to protect her?"

"Yes."

Poindexter contemplates this, before his eyes flicker to yours again.

"I will do what I can."

Tearing his eyes away from you, Poindexter gathers his bloodied shirt and holster before making his way to the door. He looks back at you one last time, nods as if to say goodbye, and then he's gone. Your eyes linger there.

"What did he do?" Matt's voice catches you off guard, making you jump.

"What?"

"Your heart, it's racing. Did he hurt you?"

"No! No, he didn't."

"Did he threaten you?”

"No, he did not. Thankfully, he was unconscious for the most part." Until he wasn't. Until his large hands were on my thighs, and his forehead was on mine-

"Thank God." He murmurs. "I don't want anyone else to suffer. There's been enough of that lately as it is."

His words break your heart. Your hand finds his, and then you reach round to hug him.

"It's going to be okay. Karen will be okay. There's a whole bunch of people out there who care, who want to help. And we will help. You are not alone in this, Matt. You call me, I'll be there."

-------

It's mid afternoon now. You had left Matt at the hideout to head to your shift at Metro-General Hospital. So far, it has been a relatively steady morning, all things considered. You had checked in on a number of patients, and assisted a fair few emergencies.

You're passing through the hallway to collect your next patient, an elderly lady named Janice, to take her to physiotherapy, as you do weekly. You enjoy listening to her stories every now and again, as she keeps you up to date with her familial goings-on, and the latest gossip amongst her book club. Occasionally, she tries to set you up with a friend's grandson or her postman or someone, to no avail.

As you make your way to meet her, you hear Kristen's voice echo through the halls of the hospital. Looking across the corridor, you see the television on the waiting room's wall screening Karen's court hearing.

"Prosecution can now call its first witness." You hear the Judge speak.

"Your honours, before we proceed, I'd like to bring in my co-counsel." Kirsten's voice cuts through.

You roll your eyes as District Attorney Hochberg tries to berate Kirsten. What a prick.

But then the doors to the court open. And through them enters Matt Murdock. You hear some patients in the waiting room gasp at the sight. Oh God. He's thrown himself directly into the lion's den. You try to reassure yourself. He wouldn't do this if he didn't have a plan, surely.

It's at that moment you spot Janice in the corner of your eye, sitting across the room patiently waiting for you. Keep to normality Matt said. Focus on your work. Don't draw any attention to yourself. You make your way towards her, greeting her as cheerfully as you can and offering her your arm.

------

All Dex could think of was you. He can still feel the ghost of your hand tugging his hair, the weight of you on him, and your perfume is following his every step.

He had tried to control himself, he really had. Not with you, he had thought to himself. Must be better for you. History wouldn't repeat itself. He would do things differently this time. Not like Julie. It wouldn't, couldn't, be like that.

He had tried to be gentler, softer, compassionate. Just like you.

"I'm glad that you weren't there." He had said to you, earnestly.

But then the rage, the heartbreak, had been too much. He couldn't bear to see you with such expressions on your face. Not you. 

He knew he'd lost control of himself as soon as he had pressed his forehead against yours. And after years of being so distanced from you, he couldn't help but want more. He needed you closer.

He thinks of how you relaxed in his arms. How you didn't pull away. He'd be lying if he said he wasn't pleased about that. That he had an effect on you. That he enjoyed it. And that you had enjoyed it too, he'd noticed. He caught the heat on your cheeks. He saw how you were desperately trying to conceal your trembling hands.

He hadn't left afterwards. Instead he'd remained within enough distance to hear Matt's interrogation. He had heard you lie to Matt, someone you considered family, for him. He had smiled to himself at that. That moment was yours and yours alone. It made Dex feel more protective over you than ever.

He enters Metro-General Hospital. He's searching every face for yours. It's risky being here, he knows that. Those AVTF bastards are everywhere.

But his mind replays your words that you spoke to Matt over and over again, burning them to memory, as you soothed him with a tenderness that Dex needs.

"It's going to be okay. You are not alone in this. You call me, I'll be there."

And suddenly as he turns the corner, there you are. Across the hallway, he can see you, listening intently to the elderly woman on your arm. He tries to ignore the jealousy creeping in at the sight of the woman's hand on you, and how she's clearly said something humorous enough to make you chuckle.

You look so beautiful.

In that instant, his choice is made. He knows what he has to do. He knows that he has to make things right, to balance the scales. One good deed for Foggy Nelson's life. One good deed for you.

-----

You're listening to the latest outrageous happenings of Janice's friend, Nora, and her visits to their local Zumba class when Janice abruptly stops her story.

Your laughter fades as you turn to look at her, concerned. She's noticed something across the room. All of a sudden, your stomach drops.

She leans into you, and begins to whisper.

"My dear, there's a very tall, very handsome man looking your way over there."

Oh no.

You don't need to look at him to know who it is. But you do nonetheless.

Poindexter is standing there, amongst the crowd. It’s alarming, the speed at which you find him. Even though he’s tried to disguise himself as an ordinary civilian, with his black baseball cap and his black bomber jacket on, you’d recognise him anywhere. His hands are crossed in front of him, making him look patient, polite, as if he's waiting for someone. You can't seem to stop the flashes that appear in your mind of those very hands on you.

But you can make out the blue of his tactical 'Bullseye' shirt peeking out from over the top of his jacket. Is he here as Bullseye, or as Benjamin?  The uncertainty makes your chest burn. 

What if he's going to help? What if he's going to do as Matt asked?

You could slap yourself, really. What a ridiculous thing to think. As if you could trust him. As if you would want to trust him. After everything he'd done to Matt, to Karen, Foggy. 

He had said it himself.

"I can't make any promises,"  He'd said to Matt, with that goddamn smirk wiped across his face.

But after the way he'd acted towards you this morning, his rough hands holding you so securely yet so gently, and like some cruel joke, calming your fury, not to mention that look he’d given you before leaving, one so charged with affection, you couldn’t be certain. 

What you are certain of, however, is that he's observed you before, of course he has. But being here, in front of you, making himself known to you. And in a public space. This is new. This is dangerous.

Though it feels like much longer, you must've only seen him for a brief moment before he disappears back into the crowd. Your mind is buzzing.

---

Since the night fell, Dex has been waiting for Fisk's latest puppet to break into the Governor's home. Finally after a couple of hours, the bastard decides to show up, sauntering in like he's already succeeded. He won't, Dex smirks to himself behind his mask.

Following him towards the Governor's office, he throws two of his blades at the man, one into his elbow and one to the back of his head, causing him to release his chokehold on the Governor and fall to the ground. The hits won't kill him instantly, no, he's needed as a witness. It doesn't stop Dex from making him suffer though. He deserves it.

The Governor turns to look at Dex, eyes wide and frantic in a state of shock. He gives her a casual salute, as if to say you're welcome, to let her know that he's one of the good guys now. His mask hides his smile.

You're going to be so pleased. He's done his one good deed.

He cheerfully strolls out of the Governor's home, with you on his mind once again now that his mission is complete. He's humming a tune that he's heard coming from your apartment on several occasions, one of your favourite songs it seems.

One night in particular, he had found himself on the rooftop opposite your apartment after a particularly shit assignment. Sent in as Fisk’s personal hitman, he’d been tasked to take out the latest gangsters and their mob boss. He hadn’t bothered learning their names. It was supposed to be quiet, a quick in and out job, as if he was never there. Then there had been a bullet aimed at his thigh, disarming him. That pissed him off. He had staggered out with blood oozing down his leg, two more wounds to his shoulder and bruises scattered across his face. He'd survive though, he always did.

He had arrived on that rooftop, the wounds still raw and bleeding, his suit now growing more red than blue, with an urge to see you. You were the only thing he felt that could sedate him.

He had watched you through his scope. You had seemed especially joyful that evening. Your hair was free, your pyjamas on, your makeup removed. He thought you looked like the image of perfection.

You were swaying to the music playing from your stereo system as you poured yourself a glass of something colourful. You had stopped suddenly, making your way towards the front door excitedly and returning with a takeaway bag in hand. He had chuckled at that, as he begun to stitch his wounds with shaky hands. It hadn't mattered that his blood had pooled on the concrete. Hadn't mattered that he'd massacred over fifteen men just hours before. You were here with him and that was enough.

---

By the end of your shift, you feel exhausted. What with the usual hustle and bustle of Metro-General, checking Karen's court case every now and again (especially after Matt's surprise appearance) and then to top it all off, everything to do with him that had all occurred in the span of one damn day, you were ready to go home.

You had clocked off your shift later than intended, staying longer to assist an emergency regarding a little boy and a broken ankle, and it was now pitch black outside. The closer you get to home, the less life there seems to be around.

Tugging your coat closer to you, you try to pay attention to the street ahead. You're very nearly home, just two blocks away. Thank God. 

Ever since he had stepped foot inside the hospital earlier today, you had struggled to shake him from your mind. This was the first time he'd done this, but you knew it certainly wouldn't be the last. Why? Why me? It surely can't just be because of this morning, can it? Maybe it can. But you have the dreadful sense that this runs deeper. What had he said this morning?

"I'm glad that you weren't there."

He'd known you wouldn't be there to witness Foggy's murder. His surveillance of you was obvious, he did this with everyone. But somehow this felt different. Did he keep watch over you regularly? Aside from observing you with Daredevil? And the sentiment behind those words. It had sounded...earnest. Not cruelty, but relief in the way he'd breathed out the words. That look he'd given you. The gentleness of his forehead to yours. It had been so intimate. More intimate than anything you'd know before. Did you like that? After everything he'd done, and you had liked it-

Your thoughts are interrupted when your phone buzzes in your pocket. Looking over your shoulder subconsciously as if someone is there, you take out your phone to see Cherry's name pop up.

We've been compromised. The AVTF attacked. Do not go home.

Panic rises in your chest. You knew as soon as Matt appeared in the courtroom, that it would put an illuminated target on his back. The AVTF were brutal, unrelenting towards civilians. But for Daredevil, for Matt, it doesn't bear thinking about.

What do I do?

So you can't go home. You don't have anyone else who you can go to, no family nearby. Karen's locked away in a cell, and Matt's God knows where, probably fighting for his life. You suppose you could go back to the hospital, there are always trusted friends and colleagues around, always a safe space for you.

But they'd find you eventually.

You don't know what compels you to do it, you shouldn't have done it really, but it’s the only option. 

Clutching your phone, you turn around to face the shadows of the street. The words leave your mouth before your brain catches up. 

"Dex?" You speak to the shadows. "You there?"

There's silence. You hold your breath with anticipation as you try not to berate yourself for indulging in this stupid idea.

But then you hear his heavy footsteps. And out of the shadows, he steps. Bullseye. As he comes closer, he removes his mask for you, his blonde hair dishevelled but his face less bloody than it had been this morning.

"You know, you shouldn't be walking at night on your own." He says, and there's a small smile playing on his lips, not quite the smirk but close.

"I haven't been on my own since I left the hospital, have I?" Your response is quick. Challenging.

He doesn't respond to that. But the look on his face is confirmation enough.

You're trying to find the words to do what? Ask him for help? Ask him to protect you? You haven't got a clue. But his words fill your silence.

"I did what Murdock asked. He was right, Fisk is trying to kill the Governor. But she's safe now. I made sure of that."

Your eyes widen at his words. He did help.

"You can't go home." He says suddenly. How on Earth-

"What? Why?" 

The assassin suddenly seems shy under your gaze. He's struggling to find the right words, awkward, like a child who's just been caught doing something they know they shouldn't have done.

"Fisk knows you're in connection with Murdock. Those AVTF assholes are there, waiting for you."

So he's been to your home tonight. Most likely between visiting the Governor's house and meeting you at work, you assume. You shouldn't have been surprised really.

You breathe out a sigh. A faint siren in the distance blares in the silence between you and Dex as you deliberate.

"What do we do?" You ask him, meeting his eyes.

We. Dex loves that you've said that. He begins to move closer to you, slowly, as if you may run from him if he steps too far. The gloves he's wearing are removed and tucked into his pocket. Your eyes don't leave his.

As soon as he opens his mouth to offer a solution, he closes it again, his head turning away from you as his stare darkens. 

A bullet whistles between you, just narrowly avoiding you.

Before you can even begin to comprehend what just happened, you feel Dex’s hand on your wrist, wrenching you both away from the glow of the streetlights and into a nearby alleyway.

He's behind you. His hand that was holding your wrist now comes to wrap securely around your waist whilst his other hand rises to cover your mouth, his forearm against your shoulders, as his back hits brick. A small grunt escapes him from the impact, and the hand over your mouth softens the shock that escapes from your lips as your back hits his firm chest. His jaw clenches at the feeling of your soft gasp against his fingers.

There's a beat. The gunfire has ceased.

Dex's hand that is over your mouth shifts, his forefinger dragging over your lips until it stops against them, warning you to be silent. You close your eyes, nodding. He can feel your lips parting, a breath escaping you, but the touch feels like a kiss. He wills himself to pull his hand away from you, retaining any shred of self-control he has. But his other hand still remains on your waist, gripping with fierce possession. He can feel you shifting closer towards him, pressing into him, as you turn your head slightly as if to hide your face against him, your breath hitting his collarbone.

He reaches into his pocket, his fingers finding his knives. In his peripheral vision, he sees movement. He doesn't hesitate. The blade slips from his grasp, the body hits the ground with a thud.

You can hear a voice shout, rallying his squad to your whereabouts, but the voice is soon silenced. Another fire is shot into the darkness where you are. Without thinking, your hands come to grip Dex's arm that's around you as you flinch at the sound, attempting to ground yourself. You feel his hold on you tighten. 

Two different voices shout at each other. You turn to spot them closing in on you. You don't even think you see Dex's hand move as he throws two blades at once, so effortlessly yet so precise. They fall.

Dex immediately notices the final man with the AVTF symbol on his chest. This one looks afraid. Good. He should be. The man is hesitant, his eyes alert as he surveys the shadows of the alleyway you're hidden in. It seems they're extending the search to find you beyond your street. Not on Dex's watch. The knife goes clean through his chest.

It's fallen silent, the air still. Your grip on Dex's arm releases, but his grip on you doesn't. Not straight away.

Only when his touch eases, when he feels it's safe for you to leave, do you. You're trusting him. You pull yourself away from his hold with heavy breaths. What the Hell just happened.

"There'll be more." You hear Dex say behind you.

Turning to face him, you note how he's not meeting your gaze. Instead he's blinking rapidly, whilst his eyes flicker between the bodies. There's a brush of pink dusting his cheeks.

"So what, are you my guardian angel now or something?" A small quip. Something to ease the tension. It's for your own sake, you tell yourself, or is it for his? You can't help the small smile that accompanies your words.

A chuckle comes from him. You like the sound. He likes to think he's been your guardian angel long before tonight. And finally, he's looking at you, his breathing more steady.

He watches your face turn serious. Concern or suspicion? It could be either. He’s tense with anticipation.

"Why are you helping me?" You ask, quietly. Of all the things, he wasn't expecting that.

There's many different ways he could respond to this. He could lie. He could hide. But he knows you would be honest. And so should he.

"You're.." You can see him thinking, treading carefully with what words he says next, and how he's saying them. He sighs.

"You're very special to me."

He watches your eyes widen. Oh no. He's fucked up again. He's dreading what you're going to say. Dreading that you're going to leave him. The last time he'd said those words, it had been panicked, desperate, the last resort.

But you haven't left. You're distanced from him, but still there. You're looking at him with emotions he can't quite decipher, and it seems like you're about to say something.

All too soon, sirens blare, significantly closer this time. You both jolt back to reality.

He comes out from a shower, greying blonde hair stuck to his forehead before he pushes it out of his face. The dishwasher has just started, and you’re washed in a domestic comfortability now that night has fallen and the hazelnut scented candle is filling the room with such a gourmand fragrance and your boyfriend chose right now to come out in just boxers briefs.

(Like!)

But his brows are furrowed, deepening the line between them and his scar has tilted towards his right eye at the corner because his lip has upturned into a grimace.

He doesn’t meet your eyes and that’s how you know that he knows you’re already locked in on the stiffness of his shoulders and the clenching of his heavy fists.

You uncross your arms from your chest and stomp over to him, and he could laugh at how frustrated you look if he wasn’t so sore from last nights masked endeavors and the pain radiating throughout his spine.

“Go lay on the couch, and don’t argue with me please. I want to take care of you.”

You state is plainly and firmly, but your bottom lip is pouting and every fiber of his being suddenly aches to please you, to be good, to quell the worry creased in the corners of your mouth.

Wanting to take care of him?

He can’t say no to that.

“When have I ever argued with you? Just doesn’t sound like me, sweetheart.” He likes the way your face lights up when he says it, like him giving you attitude amuses you.

But then you reach out and the tips of your fingers splay against the broadness of his chest, palm centered right against his sternum and the warmth instantly makes him forget about, well anything.

You just look at him through your lashes, refusing to give in to his brattiness.

So he grits his teeth, stares at you stubbornly for only a second before his features soften into something tender and wanting. So he just nods, shuffles to the couch and you make your way to the bathroom to find your body oil in the cabinet.

His head lounges on the arm rest, hands on his taut stomach. Body too straight to be lying on a couch that he’s familiar with, in your home, which he is also familiar with. He looks so amusingly out of place that it makes you laugh.

“What?” He quips, and you set the oil on the coffee table before leaning over him, cupping his heavy jaw.

He’s lost now, forgets what he was even thinking before cause your hair is haloing your face and your lips are on his mouth and it’s so gentle despite how teasing your tone is.

“Lay on your stomach, silly. I’m gonna massage your back.”

He just grunts, like he was gonna do that the whole time and you watch him with your tongue in your cheek as he sits himself up and flips over. Shuffles a bit to get comfortable, places his hands underneath his cheek. You’re glad he can’t see the way you’re staring at every tendril of muscle moving underneath his freckled skin.

You only waste a little bit of time staring. Mapping the massive expanse of him, the raised pink strip of flesh that starts just below the nape of his neck and ends in an even skew just above his tailbone.

You climb onto the back of his thighs, testing your weight against him. He’s unflinching, but still you ask.

“Can I sit on your lower back? Tell me if it hurts please.”

You can feel the smirk as if it’s an entity of its own, the vibration in his chest.

“Sit wherever you want. I can take it.”

And you’re not lost on the fact that he’s secretly loving this, and the suggestiveness in his tone is laced with the palpable ache. That the intimacy of your giggle and punching at his sides isn’t eating away at his heart and making a permanent home in the gaps.

You roll your eyes, grabbing the oil. You warm it in your palms before settling yourself in a comfortable straddle.

He flinches at the first touch.

Makes this sound like he didn’t mean for it to come out, like it caught him by surprise too. So you’re slow, gentle with your movements. Palms fully pressed against his lower back, thumbs out to rub in slow circles as you push them forward and into the rigid surface of his skin and muscle.

You’re not sure if he’s breathing, so you lean forward and kiss his shoulder where it’s bulging. His ears are pink, lips parted.

“You okay? Too much pressure?”

Your voice is melodic and soft and your breath is warm against the side of his neck. He shakes his head.

“No it’s good. Can be rougher, won’t break me I promise.”

You nip his earlobe before sitting back up and pressing the heels of your palms into his back with a bit more force, digging your thumbs in deeper. He’s taking big, deep breaths now and you can see that his eyes have fluttered shut.

He’s enjoying it.

His skin is reddening and hot with the shape of your fingertips, but everything feels a bit less tightly coiled now. The knots have faded to small points of tension, soothed by your knuckles and then traced with your nails.

Ten minutes pass, and when your doting hands cease their movements he groans at you, cranes his neck back to see why you’ve suddenly stopped.

“Feels better? You look sleepy.” You rub absentminded patterns over the dips and valleys of him, ring finger catching the pink strip of raised flesh and he hopes you somehow haven’t noticed each time you’ve touched the scar his skin erupts with goosebumps.

You have.

You lean over when he doesn’t respond, kiss his cheek. He twists with the urge to feel your lips and you oblige him easily, effortlessly. It’s slow cause of the awkward angle but it doesn’t matter, not when you’re on his back and your mouth is warm and comforting and forgiving.

Your hands are even better, in his hair and on his face.

“If you let me do that more often it might help, if you’d like that?”

You’ve got him in a vulnerable position, admittedly. But who is he to deny you? You’re asking so gut wrenchingly soft, and truthfully it has helped. Can it take away years of chronic pain? No, but it soothes him in other human ways that he’s needed his entire life.

“I’d like that, a lot.” He says.

You kept moving, eyes forward, hand steady on whatever weapon they’ve put in your grip this week— Val had sourced an experimental firearm, similar to a 9mm, modified to house adamantium bullets. She gave it to you and told you to get used to it, to practice assembling and disassembling it. So yeah, you’ve been doing that for the past thirty minutes in the tower’s common room. 

Your phone rang again. You ignored it again.

Ava said your name. You answered automatically. She asked what you were having for dinner. You said you’ve already had dinner; Yelena accidentally ordered too much Chinese takeout.

It rang again in the middle of disassembly. 

That pissed you off. You were trying to get a sub-10 second time, but that just frayed your focus. 

You turned the sound off on your phone and didn’t even bother to check who was calling. It was probably Bob, asking you if you were up for a game of Catan. Or maybe Alexei, calling to ask whether or not his request to get a (highly illegal) Soviet missile launcher from the Smithsonian has been approved. 

The answer would most likely be no.

Focus. Focus. 

You looked at the tool, the mat, and the stopwatch.

You turned it on again.

One. Left thumb hit the magazine release, falling into your palm. Two. Right hand pulled the slide back, checking the empty chamber—clear. Three. Let the slide fly forward. Four. Grip the rear of the slide, pulling back just a millimeter while you index finger and thumb push down the takedown lever simultaneously.

Five. The slide slid off into your hand.

Six. Recoil spring pulled out. Seven. Barrel slid out.

Disassembled. Five seconds down.

You didn't even pause to breathe.

Eight. Barrel back into the slide. Nine. Recoil spring snapped into place. Ten. Realign the slide with the frame rails, sliding it back on. Eleven. Rack the slide once. Twelve. Pull the trigger to lock it in. Click.

Thirteen. Magazine back in.

You stopped the timer. 9.2 seconds.

You set the tool back down on the mat and looked at the timer. 

Perfect. Some bastard’s gonna get fucked up by getting adamantium between their eyes.

Breathing the moment, your phone vibrated again.

You pulled it out, already irritated. Who could it be? Mel? Charles? The fucking president? The secretary general? If they wanted an answer, it better be one of them.

Unknown number.

You stared at it. Huh. Weird. 

Your thumb hovered, debating if you should decline it.

You answered instead.

“Hello?” You said it flatly, professionally.

For a second, nothing answered you.

“Hi.”

Everything stopped.

Suddenly you weren’t where you are anymore.

You were back in a cramped office with bad coffee.

You were at a bar with Foggy, laughing too loud.

You were at a funeral trying not to look at anyone, trying to get the fucking hell out of here—

You stopped breathing.

“Matt?” you said, and it came out quieter than you meant it to.

There was a pause on the other end, like he wasn’t sure you’d say his name at all. Maybe he wasn’t even expecting you to recognise his voice.

“Yeah,” he said. “It’s me.”

You swallowed, throat feeling tight for no reason you want to examine.

You didn’t ask how he got this number. You didn’t ask why now. You didn’t ask anything.

Because he wouldn’t call you after two years of silence unless something had gone very, very wrong.

Matt exhaled softly.

“I—” he started, then stopped. You could hear him recalibrating the way he always did when things mattered too much to get wrong.

“You’re… okay?” He asked, finally.

It’s such a Matt question.

Careful, yet loaded with everything he wasn’t saying. And out of everyone you knew, you weren’t going to let him do his lawyer thing on you. 

You almost laughed.

“Yeah,” you said automatically. “I’m fine.”

The lie came easy, but he didn't call you out on it. You almost forgot he couldn’t tell if you’re lying through the phone.

Another bout of silence stretched, and you felt it settle between you.

Something’s wrong.

You swallowed. “What happened?” you asked. You were tired of small talk.

For a long, unbearable second, you thought he might hang up. Like maybe hearing your voice again made him reconsider. Like maybe he didn’t actually want you here, or needed you for whatever he thought he needed you for.

You wouldn’t have blamed him. Not after everything that happened.

But it was you he was talking to. 

Sure, you had talents that made you suited to the vigilante life more than most, but you were more than just another fist in the streets of New York— you were both Matt and Karen’s friend. 

You had been Foggy’s friend too.

And for whatever reason, all those years ago, you had gotten attached to him.

Benjamin Poindexter.

Matt still didn’t understand it. He wasn’t sure he ever would.

It didn’t make sense. You didn’t just wake up one day and decide to fall for a man like that.

But you saw something in him. Something broken you recognized. Something that reflected back pieces of yourself you didn’t talk about. You saw someone worth saving. 

Matt called it a coping mechanism. Said you needed to believe people like Dex could be saved, because otherwise… What did that say about the rest of them?

Karen thought it was your pattern. Your history with men who needed help, who gave you just enough to keep you trying. She said you were always one for the “I can fix him” trope.

Foggy…

Foggy had just shrugged, and said it was love. He never attempted to condone it, but he understood it. He said sometimes love had no rhyme or reason. He trusted you enough to not question your decision to keep visiting, day in and day out, making sure he was okay. 

He was right. 

You just… couldn’t help it.

Still, even Matt couldn’t help but have teeny tiny growing resentment for you because of it.

After all, the last time you met, and the real conversation you had was at Foggy’s funeral. And even then, it was only a few clipped sentences. You had gone from trusting Matt and Karen with your life to being distant overnight. You changed, just as Foggy’s death had changed every single one of you. 

You weren’t even at the trial. You went even at the sentencing.

It had made sense— the man you loved had killed one of your closest friends.

There wasn’t a guidebook for surviving something like that.

After that, you were just… gone. 

He knew you had been doing black ops for a little under six years now, one day mission at a time for a mysterious woman you called “Val.” After Foggy died, you had thrown yourself at the job. You’ve disappeared for months to another continent until you had no time to even text a simple “how are you?” to any of them. Perhaps, you had needed all the distraction you could get. 

And Matt and Karen weren’t the only ones who felt the impact of what you left behind. You had gone from visiting Dex at least three times a week at the mental institution, to not even once visiting him in prison. Matt didn’t know why, but he could… assume. 

Then, one day, Karen had turned on the TV to the announcement of the New Avengers. She had joked that they had gotten the greatest hits of earth’s mightiest heroes’ rogue gallery, from the Winter Soldier to Ghost… until the camera panned to you. Even Matt flinched when they said your name.

You were part of this now. Whatever this was. You were monitoring space and shooting off in jets. You defeated a void of a monster, and he didn’t even know how. 

But if you weren’t gone before, you were definitely gone now. Avenger-level gone: Classified missions, neutralising world-ending events, things he only heard about in pieces, if he heard anything at all.

Your world had gotten bigger than New York. Your problems had gotten bigger, too. 

Anyway. 

“We have him.” Matt said simply, bad phone signal slightly distorting his words.

Oh.

The world dropped out from under you. 

There was only one person that could mean. Your grip tightened around the phone so hard it almost hurt.

“Dex?” you whispered.

The nothingness you were met with was answer enough.

You closed your eyes. For a second, everything you’d buried—  the blood, Foggy, the way you couldn’t even look at Dex without feeling like you were going to come apart— came rushing back so fast it made you dizzy.

“He’s alive,” Matt said quickly, as if he heard it in your breathing. “And he’s hurt.”

Alive.

You didn’t know what to do with that word.

You knew he was out there somewhere, but hadn’t built a version of the world where he was tangible.

You’d built one where he was gone, or locked away, or not your problem anymore. This dragged everything back into reach.

“I don’t know who else to call,” Matt added.

And there it was.

He didn’t call for forgiveness. Or reconciliation. It was simply a necessity.

You pressed your thumb harder into the side of the phone, grounding yourself in the pressure.

“We haven’t spoken in two years,” you said. It came out quieter than you meant it to. You said it almost as a reminder. To him, or to yourself? You weren’t sure.

“Yeah,” he exhaled. “I know.”

There was an exhaustion in his voice. It was worn down. 

“I—” you started.

I’m sorry. That was what you meant to say. You needed to choke it out. The words sat right there, overdue by two years. “I’m—”

“No.” Matt cut you off immediately. “I don’t—” he stopped, then tried again. “Don’t.”

You went quiet.

“Just… don’t,” he said, gentler now but no less certain. “I wouldn’t have called you if it wasn’t this.”

He was right. This wasn’t the moment for apologies. Not after everything. Not when the only reason he was even speaking to you was because he had no other choice.

You swallowed hard, forcing the word back down.

“Okay,” you said. It felt like swallowing glass.

“You were the only one…,” Matt started, and there was something strained in it now, “…we’ve ever known to talk him down.”

You closed your eyes again, just for a second.

“Can you come?” He asked like he didn’t know if he still had the right. “Karen just… she can’t watch him. I…” he trailed off, not knowing what to say or how to say it. “I’m out of options.”

You didn’t answer right away.

Because this was the line you’d drawn. The one that kept you moving forward without looking back.

If you crossed it… you might as well drown yourself in your sorrow now.

What the hell. 

“Send me the address.”

—

You found the building quickly.

There were no complications, just a straight line from the coordinates Matt sent you to a door that looked like nothing in an unassuming building. 

You stood in the hallway outside it longer than you should have.

You should’ve known it was a safehouse from the dim lighting and faint hum of electricity. 

And yet, behind that door…

You swallowed.

He was there.

Close enough that if you reached out and opened the door, you’d see him.

Your hand hovered near the handle, but didn’t touch it as footsteps approached from the other end of the hall.

“You’re early.”

You turned, and there he was.

Matt Murdock, no, Daredevil.

The suit surprised you first. Stark red under the chipped black paint, the mask unchanged. He held himself ever so slightly differently than before. A bit more… uptight, believe it or not. 

You hadn’t seen him up close in years.

Not since…

Foggy at the bar, knocking his shoulder into yours, slurring slightly, insisting he was not drunk while ordering another round anyway. “C’mon, you’re the worst liar I know—”

You managed to blink, dragging yourself back.

“Good to see you, too” you shot back automatically, the words slipping into place like muscle memory. “Is it just us?”

He didn’t react. 

“Karen needs time,” he said, straight to it.

Right.

You let out a breath, glancing at the door beside you, before looking away again. “Let me guess, she wants to kill him?” you asked, a dry, almost disbelieving edge creeping in. “Is that it?”

A short, humorless laugh left him. “Is this funny to you?”

Matt had spent years learning the shape of you without sight— your voice, your breath, the rhythm of your pulse when you lied and when you didn’t. He knew what you’d become long before tonight. You killed. Not recklessly, not blindly, but when the line you drew in your own head said there wasn’t another way. 

He hated that line, argued against it. He pushed against it until it put a strain on your friendship. And still, he’d learned to live with it. 

Not comfortably. But he trusted your judgment, even when it made his stomach turn, even when it sounded like everything he stood against. 

Rebuilding with you, though? Going back to what you all were, what you were to him, a good friend— that was something else entirely. That, he didn’t know how to do.

You shook your head, folding your arms loosely. “I forgot how preachy you can be, Murdock.”

“Yeah, well.”

Your eyes drifted back to the door without meaning to. Your mouth, however, found a safer topic to latch on to: Karen.

“She’s a ticking time bomb, Matt,” you sighed. “She always has been.”

“Would you rather she kill him, then?”

That pulled your attention back to him.

“It’s not his fault,” you said abruptly. You forced yourself to breathe, slower this time. “It’s not his fault,” you repeated. Your eyes dropped, unfocused. “Foggy…”

His name caught in your throat like it didn’t belong in the air. You pressed your lips together, trying again.

“Foggy didn’t just—” you stopped, teeth tightening hard.

You could see him, leaning over your shoulder, complaining about paperwork, stealing fries off your plate like you wouldn’t notice. Sitting between you and Matt and Karen, always talking, always there…

“He didn’t… ,” you said, voice rough now, thinner than you wanted it to be. “He didn’t deserve to… to die. He shouldn’t have died.”

The hallway felt smaller. Even Matt flinched. 

“But that’s not on Dex,” you continued, resolute. “It’s my fault. I could’ve prevented this.”

You barely heard yourself say it.

But Matt did.

“What?” he said immediately, like he thought he misheard you. He started listening for irregularities in your heart beat and found none. So yes, you were telling the truth. At least you thought you were.

“It’s something I’d rather not unpack with you,” you said, brushing it off like it didn’t matter. Like it wasn’t clawing at your ribs.

“C’mon,” you said, nodding toward the door even as your chest tightened. “We didn’t come here to chat, right?”

—

The door opened, and there he was.

Dex was on a narrow cot, wrists cuffed on either side, bruises dark and blooming across his face and throat, breathing shallow like even that took effort. 

Your chest tightened so hard it hurt.

And your brain, traitor that it was, dragged you into the memory of the last time you had a saw him. 

The visitor room of the mental institution had always been too bright for your liking.

It was clean and controlled. It looked like it was designed to remind you that nothing in it was normal, no matter how hard you tried to pretend otherwise.

But you’d gotten used to it because of him.

Dex was already there when you walked in that day. He sat straight-backed at the table, hands folded too neatly, like he’d been waiting long enough to start counting seconds.

And the second he saw you, his entire nervous system lit up like fairy light behind his eyes.“You’re late.”

You huffed out a laugh, already walking toward him. “Relax,” you said, leaning down to press a quick kiss to his temple, like you always did. “It’s been, what? A day since I last saw you. You can handle five minutes of me being held up in security.”

“It’s not enough,” he said immediately. His eyes tracked you still, even if the movement was a bit slower from the meds. 

You paused, just for a second, pulling back enough to look at him properly. “You see me every other day.”

“I know,” his eyes stayed on you, finger tapping the table. “It’s still not enough.”

You swallowed it down, forcing a lighter tone as you dropped into the seat across from him.

“Wow,” you said, reaching into your bag. “And here I thought I was doing something nice.”

That got his attention. “What?”

You pulled it out with a small flourish, holding it up between you. “Don’t you ever say I don’t bring you anything good.”

His eyes locked onto it instantly. “is that…?”

“Banana flavoured marshmallows,” you confirmed, a little smug.

There it was, a smile.

“You remembered,” he said. You had a mission in South Korea five months ago— you were barely there for a day, but you managed to grab one of those for Dex at the airport. You remembered how much he liked it, so you had managed to source an importer. It took a while, but there were very few things you wouldn’t do for him.

“Of course I did,” you replied.

You slid the bag across the table toward him, your fingers brushing his. He opened the plastic and picked one up carefully, turning it between his fingers like he was committing it to memory before taking a bite.

You watched him, watched how his shoulders relaxed.

Just like that, all the effort was worth it.

“You okay?” you asked after a moment, your voice lowered now.

He didn’t answer right away. His eyes lingered on the table, on the half-eaten marshmallow in his hand.

“Better when you’re here,” he said finally.

You looked away for a second, like that might make his words easier to stomach. You leaned forward and put your hands on his. “Yeah?”

“I think about it,” His eyes lifted back to yours, steady, unguarded in a way he rarely allowed himself to be. “When you leave.”

“What do you think about?” You tilted your head. 

“When you’ll be back,” he said. “How long it’s going to take.”

He said it carefully. It’s as if he didn’t want to push too far but couldn’t help saying it anyway.

“I’ll always come back,” you reassured him.

That mattered. You saw it in the way his focus sharpened, in the way he leaned just slightly forward like he was holding onto the words. He readjusted his hand and squeezed your palm.

You sat with him that day and talked about nothing and everything. Let your knee bump his under the table like it was normal, like you weren’t separated by a bureaucratic line you so desperately want to tear down.

And when the visiting hours finally ended, you didn’t want to leave.

You never did. You would give anything to listen to him talk for more than a few hours at a time. You would give anything to coax another laugh, another smile from him. 

“You’re going to be back soon?” he asked as you stood up, showing the smallest crack in the certainty he tried to keep around himself.

You smiled at him. “Soon.”

You leaned in, pressing a quick kiss to the corner of his mouth. It was brief, but it still made his day. 

When you pulled back, he nodded. “Soon,” he repeated under his breath.

You nodded. ‘Soon’ was good. ‘Soon’ was non-specific. 

Because little did he know, you’d already agreed to a seven-day mission. Val had barely given you a choice. 

You’d never been gone that long before.

Usually, missions were two days. Three days, max. And even those ones were few and far between. And then you’d come straight back to him, no matter how exhausted you were, no matter what you had to wade through to get there.

But you decided he didn’t need to know about this… extension.

You told yourself it wasn’t a big deal. That he’d be fine. That telling him that you would be gone three times as long as you usually do would only make him spiral, make him worry, make him count every hour in a way that would hurt more than help.

So you kept it to yourself.

On the sixth day of the mission, Foggy was dead.

You snapped yourself out of it.

Because now you were here, standing in front of a man you haven’t seen in more than two years. 

Dex didn’t move at first.

For one horrible second, you thought he was still out, chest rising too shallow under the dim light, like whatever it took to bring him in had hollowed him out and left the shell behind.

Then when he realised someone else was in the room, his head turned slowly, and then… his eyes found you.

Oh. 

For a second, he stared at you like you weren’t real. Like this was a hallucination his brain had made up to cope with his injuries. His lips parted, but nothing came out at first. 

“Y-you…” his voice cracked. He swallowed hard, throat working like it hurt. “You came back.”

What he had in his voice wasn’t relief. It wasn’t even hope. It was disbelief so raw it sounded like it might collapse in on itself.

Of course this was how he reacted.

Because he had waited, back in the institution he was assigned to. He waited for every sound in the corridor. Every footstep that wasn’t yours. Every door that didn’t open.

On the fourth day, he started asking the facility staff over and over, until the answers became rehearsed, clipped and annoyed. They said you were “busy,” “not scheduled,” or “unavailable.”

Still, he waited. 

On the fifth day, a staff member told him he had a visitor.

And for the first time in while, he lit up.

It had to be you, right?

He sat up too fast, eyes fixed on the door before it even opened, already bracing for the moment you’d step through and make the last five days feel like a misunderstanding he could recover from.

The door opened and… it wasn’t you.

It was Vanessa Fisk.

The light in him shut off instantly. 

As he sat down, he had a hollow, sinking realization that he might’ve wrong to expect you at all.

Maybe you had gotten sick of visiting him. Of not being able to touch him as much as you wanted, of not being able to hold him as much as you wanted. After all, why would you settle for a broken man when you could have a free man?

Behind you, Matt went completely still, listening, measuring, probably hearing the way Dex’s heart was starting to race, the way his breathing kept catching like it didn’t know how to settle.

“You came back,” he said again, gentler now, like he was afraid saying it too loud would make you disappear. His eyes dragged over your face, searching frantically. “I thought… I thought you wouldn’t. I thought you—”

“I know, ” you said, but it came out thinner than you meant, as if  the words had to fight their way out.

Your voice alone was enough to undo him further.

His breath hitched again, like your voice made it real in a way his eyes alone couldn’t.

“You’re here,” he repeated, and now there was something fragile in it. “You actually… y-you came back.”

He tried to push himself up, instinct overriding his senses, the cuffs snapping tight with a harsh metallic sound that made his whole body jolt. It didn’t stop him immediately. He strained against them anyway as he got on his knees, like he could get to you if he just tried hard enough.

“I-I…” his voice came faster now, stumbling over itself. “I thought you left, I thought—”

“Dex…”

“You said soon,” he cut you off, the words rushing out like he’d been holding them in for two years too long. “You said you’d be back soon.”

Your stomach dropped.

His eyes were shiny now. Not crying yet, but right there on the edge of it.

“You didn’t come,” he said. “I waited. I kept…I thought maybe you got held up, I thought maybe—”

His breath stuttered, like the memory of it was catching up to him all over again.

“And then you didn’t,” he finished, voice thinning. 

Behind you, Matt shifted slightly.

“You don’t have to do this alone,” Matt said, directed at you, but Dex flinched anyway, like any sound that wasn’t yours was an intrusion.

His gaze snapped onto you, almost panicked now, like he thought he might take you away again.

“You’re here now,” he said quickly, like he could rewrite the past by insisting on the present. “You came back.”

The words were breaking apart as he said them. He needed them to be true.

Your chest ached so bad it felt like it might cave in.

“Leave us alone.” It came out rougher than you meant.

“He’s not stable,” Matt said again, more firmly this time. 

He was right. You could hear it in every fracture, every broken piece.

But Dex was still looking at you like you were the only thing holding him together, barely.

“Matt,” you said, and your voice almost gave out on his name. “Please.” 

You knew he had somewhere to be anyway. Why was he even here, with you? Did he just now realise that this might be a bad idea? That you ever had one true weakness, and that it was him? Did he just now realise that if he left, he might just come back later tonight to an empty room? 

Dex didn’t move now. Didn’t even try to fight the cuffs again.

“You came back,” he whispered like a prayer.

Behind you, Matt exhaled reluctantly. “You don’t know what state he’s in.”

“I do,” you said, and he had no idea. You knew him better than anyone in the world, so Matt insisting on playing chaperone was only irritating you. “Please.”

You heard him sigh. 

The door opened, then closed.

Just like that, he was gone, footsteps disappearing down the hall.

It was just you and Dex now.

Dex let out a breath that almost turned into a laugh, except it fractured halfway through.

You had no buffer. No witnesses.

You stepped forward without meaning to. “What did you do?”

You knew, of course. You’ve seen the news. You just wanted to hear him say it, you needed him to know what he thought he did and why he thought he did it. 

“I fixed it,” he said immediately, a little too quickly. “You don’t have to… I fixed it.”

“What did you do?” you asked again.

Against all odds, Dex looked pleased. “I balanced it.”

“No,” you let out a deep breath you didn’t realise you were holding, “you didn’t.”

“I did,” he insisted, words starting to tumble now. “I took something from you, so I took something from him, it’s even now, it’s—”

“Dex.”

“I killed your friend, I killed Foggy,” he said flatly. “So Vanessa had to die.”

Oh. So that was what this was about. 

It might not make sense to you, but you could see now, how it would make sense to him. How it would twist the cords in his mind and pretend to untangle it. 

“I balanced the scales,” he said again, faster now, unraveling, beads of sweat travelling down his temple, to his neck, to his bare chest as the restraints rattled. “You don’t have to hate me anymore, it’s equal, it’s fixed, you can love me now, I can die knowing you love me—”

“What?” you snapped, putting a hand on your face. “You want to die? What the fuck does you that have to do with anything you’ve done?”

“My job here is done.” he shot back, agitation spiking. “You’re just not seeing it yet, but you will, you always do—”

“Stop.”

He didn’t.

“I did it for you,” he pushed on, voice rising, cracking, desperate. “So you’d come back, so you would forgive me, and once you do, I can finally—”

“Stop talking,” you put your hands through your hair, exasperated.

“You’re here now, see? It worked, it—”

“Shut up, Dex!”

He froze for half a second, but the silence didn’t last long. He snapped right back into his spiral, this time worse.

“I fixed it,” he insisted, louder now, breath coming fast, shoulders jerking against the restraints. “You don’t get it, I had to make it even or you’d never come back before I go, you’d never—”

Fuck. 

Fuck’s sake. 

Did you really have to do this? 

You grabbed your concealed gun from under your shirt and raised it into his view.

His eyes snapped to it instantly. “What are you—”

You pressed the barrel under your chin.

“Hey!” He pulled on his restraints. If there weren’t dents in the metal before, there were definitely now. 

You stared at his angelic hazel eyes as you clicked the safety off.

Dex broke. “No!”

He surged forward, the cuffs yanking him back hard with a metallic crack. The cot screeched against the floor as he thrashed, sanity tearing loose under his skin.

“No, no, no! Don’t do that—don’t…”

Metal slammed, his whole body jerking, twisting, fighting restraints that didn’t give.

“Please,” he choked out, voice breaking apart as he pulled on the cuffs as if he could rip through them, wrists straining, breath turning wild. “You don’t… p-put it down! put it down right now—”

“Dex…”

“NO!” he barked, frantic, eyes locked on the gun like it was the only thing in existence. “Not you, not you, not you…”

You sighed, resting your finger on the trigger. You could pull at any second now. 

“Dex!”

He didn’t stop.

“I fixed it for you,” he was spiraling now, words slurring into each other desperately. “I made it right, I made it equal, you’re here now so it worked, just put it down, j-just—”

“Goddammit, Dex!” You shouted, and it echoed through the room. 

He finally stopped, and you finally spoke a language he understood: that the only way to get him to listen was to threaten to hurt you.

“Shut up and fucking listen!” you snapped, voice shaking with an emotion hotter than anger, “or you’re going to have to fish an adamantium bullet out of my cold dead body until your fingers are smeared with my liquified brain, you understand?”

All you got from him now was silence. 

It worked.

His chest was still heaving, eyes wide. They were glued to you, on the gun, on your finger, on the very real, very immediate possibility of losing you again.

So you stepped closer.

The gun stayed where it was, pressing even further into your skin. The rest of you gave in, closing the distance inch by inch until you were standing right in front of him, close enough to feel the uneven rhythm of his breathing.

Dex didn’t retreat.

He was still there on his knees on the cot, shoulders drawn.

His eyes tracked you like you were the only fixed point in a collapsing world. 

You raised your free hand slowly and reached out slowly, giving him time to flinch, to recoil…

He didn’t.

Your hand found his face, cupping it carefully, thumb brushing over the scar carved into his cheek. He hadn’t had it the last time you saw him.

You had assumed that Matt had given it to him at Josie’s on the night that Foggy died.

That scar was a reminder of what he had done. And he had to carry it everywhere. 

You exhaled, your touch softening without thinking, tracing it again like you could map the moment it happened, like you could undo it just by understanding its shape.

Dex made a whiny sound. It was small, broken, as if it sat between a breath and a moan. His eyes fluttered for half a second, leaning into your touch before he could stop himself.

You studied him. It had been a while since he was this close to you.

He was… pretty.

You’d always thought so. Not in a conventional way, or a safe way. It was almost unnatural, the kind of beauty that wasn’t meant to comfort, but to unsettle. It was the kind of beauty you imagine ancient gods to possess: radiant and terrible all at the same.

Your thumb moved from the scar to his mouth. You pressed lightly against his lower lip, testing.

He parted for you immediately. He didn’t even have to think about it. It was pure instinct. 

His breath hitched as your thumb slid past his lip, resting against the warmth of his tongue. 

Fuck, he missed this. 

His tongue moved, brushing against your thumb in a slow, searching motion, as his eyes rolled back slightly to the back of his skull.

It was trust, desire, and recognition all the same. 

You didn’t pull away.

Instead, you pressed down slightly, feeling the way his breath faltered around it, the way his body went still again, utterly focused on you and what you were allowing. What you weren’t taking away.

After a moment, you drew your thumb back out, slow enough that he followed the motion without meaning to, lips parting just slightly before he caught himself.

You didn’t give him time to think about it.

Your thumb brushed across his lower lip again, smearing the moisture of his spit there, grounding him in a physical sensation. 

“Nothing…” you choked, then tried again. “Nothing you do will balance the scales,” you finally managed to rasp out.

His breathing hitched again.

“Foggy’s death…” you paused, forcing the words through the tightness in your throat, “…was my fault.”

For a second, he just looked at you. For once, he was the one trying to make sense of your beliefs and judgement..

“No,” he murmured against your skin. “It’s not.”

Your breath hitched, but you didn’t pull your hand away. Your thumb stayed near his cheek, your palm still cradling his jaw, holding him there even as your fingers tightened slightly. 

“It is,” you said firmly.

His head shook faintly against your hand, rejecting it. It’s as if he physically couldn’t let it settle.

“But you hated me for it,” he said, voice thinner now, searching your face for confirmation, for a fact he could anchor himself to.

“No.” You shook your head immediately, your grip on his face tightening without meaning to. “No, no, sweetheart. I never hated you.”

What?

“But you didn’t come back,” he said, a swell of tears spilling down his cheek. You caught it and wiped it away. “You didn’t go to the trial. You didn’t go to the sentencing. And you… you don’t visit anymore.”

It fucking hurt to see him this was. 

“I didn’t go,” you said slowly, each word dragged up from the pit of your stomach, “because I couldn’t look at you… and see what I made you do.”

His brow furrowed immediately, confused.

“I should’ve told you,” you cut in, your voice tightening now, the words starting to spill faster. “About the mission. I should’ve told you I’d be gone that long. I should’ve—”

Your hand trembled against his face, but you didn’t stop.

“I didn’t think, I didn’t know… I didn’t know Vanessa would know I was gone,” you continued, choking on your words, “I didn’t know she’d take advantage of that. That she’d come to you when I wasn’t there to talk you down—”

“No.” Dex shook his head harder now, the movement pressing into your palm. “That’s not—”

He couldn’t even finish it, because he believed there was no version of this where you were the one at fault. Not in his mind. How could you possibly do anything wrong? 

“You’re not—” his voice hitched, desperate now, like he was trying to put a puzzle piece of the truth into place, “you’re not responsible for that. You didn’t make me do anything. I—”

“What did Vanessa tell you?” you interrupted suddenly.

He blinked. “What?”

“What did she say would happen,” you pressed, your thumb brushing his cheek again without thinking, “if you helped her?”

Dex hesitated for a second. “She said… I could be free.”

Your chest tightened.

“That I wouldn’t have to be…” he swallowed, eyes flickering down for half a second before finding you again, “…half a man for you anymore.”

Fuck.

“Dex,” your hand tightened on his face again, your other still holding the gun in place beneath your chin, the barrel pressing harder now as your jaw shifted with every word. “Don’t you see?” 

“No.”

“If I hadn’t gone on that mission,” you pushed on, faster, louder, the words tumbling over each other, “if I was there, I would’ve talked you out of it. I always do.”

Your fingers trembled against his skin, but you didn’t let go.

“I would’ve stopped you,” you said, convinced with terrifying certainty. “I would’ve stopped your fucking rampage, I wouldn’t have even let you get that far! I….”

The barrel pressed harder into your skin as your mouth moved, your grip tightening around the gun without realizing it.

“Don’t you see?” you repeated, voice cracked. “It’s my fault.”

Dex’s eyes snapped to the gun.

He hadn’t stopped watching it, but now he saw it. The way your finger trembled on the trigger. He saw the way it pressed deeper every time you spoke, every time you believed what you were saying a little more.

“No,” he said.

Dex’s breathing turned uneven again, but not the same as before. Not frantic in the way it had been when you walked in.

“No,” he said again, louder this time, his body tensing against the restraints as far as they’d allow. His eyes flicked between your face and the gun, tracking every movement of your hand. “You don’t get to—” his voice strained, tightening with every word, “you don’t get to say that and then—”

His breath hitched when your finger shifted slightly.

“—and then do that,” he finished, voice breaking at the edges now.

Because now, he could see the way you were starting to believe you deserved it. “Put it down. Please.”

But you didn’t hear him. 

“Balance, huh?” you whispered, almost taunting.

Your thumb drifted back to his scar beneath your palm, tracing the line of it again, like you were committing it to memory in a different way now.

If you believed that you were as responsible for Foggy's death as he was, and you did, shouldn’t you have something to remember it by, too? Something you had to carry everywhere, too?

Dex’s breath hitched.

“You want balance, Dex?” you asked, genlter this time, but you sounded off.

His head shook immediately, frantically pressing his face into your hand like he could stop you just by being close enough.

“Not like this,” he said, voice tightening. “No.”

“You want it so bad,” you went on, almost like you weren’t hearing him anymore, your attention flicking between his face and the gun still pressed beneath your chin. “You killed Vanessa to make it even, right?”

“No. No, that’s not—”

You tilted your head slightly, considering him, your grip on the gun shifting. “Then let’s make it even.”

The resolution in your voice made his entire body go rigid.

“Please,” he said again, panic breaking through. “No, don’t—”

You adjusted your wrist, quickly angling the barrel. It was not directly under your chin anymore, titled it forty-five degrees. 

“Stop,” he choked out, pulling hard against the restraints, metal biting into his wrists. “Stop, baby, please. Please…”

You were tired of this. Tired of him thinking he deserved it when you knew for a fact you were the deciding factor in why Foggy had died…

So you pulled the trigger.

The sound boomed through the room, deafening in the confined space. You stumbled back, hand pulled away from his face, as your grip on the gun faltered. It clattered to the other side of the room

For a split second, you didn’t move.

Then you felt the pain.

It was white-hot and blinding, tearing across your cheek as the adamantium round grazed your skin instead of ending your life. 

Dex flinched.

Your hand shot up, fingers brushing the wound. 

You stared at the blood on your fingertips like it was exactly what you wanted.

Then you laughed.

It came out wrong. It was a little too high, like one of those cute little giggles that he adored so much. 

You could already feel the vertical cut on your cheek, matching the horizontal one on his face.

You were his mirror drawn in flesh.

It was unwise, you knew, especially because it wasn’t just any weapon. It was experimental, and even you weren’t fully briefed on it. Adamantium rounds weren’t meant to graze skin. They were meant to pierce, to hold, to do things that conventional physics couldn’t. It was meant to kill supersoldiers. It was meant to cut through thick alien skin. You had no idea what they would do to living tissue at a superficial angle.

But right now, you didn’t give a shit. 

You pressed your hand back to his face anyway, smearing blood across his cheek with the same gentleness as before.

“Balance, Dex,” you said again, voice shaking now but still smiling.

You lowered yourself onto the cot, the thin frame creaking under your weight, your balance still slightly off, but you didn’t care. The room still rang faintly in your ears, your thoughts moving too fast, too sharp, like they were skipping steps.

Dex moved closer the second he could reach. 

He pressed his forehead to yours like he needed to make sure you were real. His eyes snapped to your cheek again, to the blood that hadn’t stopped, a thin line still slipping down your skin.

“You’re bleeding,” he said, tighter.

You let out a breath that almost turned into a chuckle.

“I know,” you said, a little too brightly. “It’s fine. It’s…” you shook your head faintly, like you were trying to catch up with your own thoughts, “… it’s good.”

He frowned, but didn’t argue.

Instead, he leaned in. His breath touched your cheek ghosting over the blood like he was measuring where to start.

And then he licked you. 

The tip of his tongue brushed lightly against your skin, just at the edge of the blood. He was testing, making sure you wouldn’t pull away.

You didn’t. 

Why would you? You liked it. Even when it stung a little. 

“It’s okay,” you said, relaxing your head back a little, letting Dex clean up the red from the start of the wound, all the way to the liquid that had made its way down. “We’re okay.”

Dex leaned in closer, lapping up nearer to the wound. He didn’t rush it, like he was trying to clean you without hurting you further.

Your head tilted slightly, giving him more space without thinking.

“We both paid,” you said suddenly, almost thoughtful. “See? That’s what you wanted, right?”

He shifted closer, his breath catching faintly between each pass, his focus narrowing completely to the cut, to the blood still lingering there. His tongue moved slower, tracing near the edge of the wound but never pressing into it. 

His hand shifted as much as the restraints allowed, fingers brushing against your arm, then settling there. He was holding you in place, or maybe holding himself steady.

He licked the stream down your neck, and you gave him a breathy, angelic moan of pleasure that sent a jolt of satisfaction straight down his spine. 

“It matches,” you whispered, like it was a revelation. “We match.”

As much as he hated seeing your scar, he couldn’t help but smile a little.

“You’re not supposed to get hurt,” he mumbled against your jaw, teeth red now. 

You let out a breathy laugh.

“Too late,” you said. 

What had been slow, deliberate licks turned lighter and shorter. It became less about cleaning, more about touch. His lips brushed your skin in their place, tentative at first.

A pressed a soft kiss near the edge of the wound. Then another just beneath it. Then again, closer to your jawline.

These kisses came unevenly in scattered, small, points of contact, like he was trying to map you back into his memory. Each one lingered a fraction longer than the mass, his restraint slipping away.

You didn’t stop him.

Your breathing had slowed, but your head still felt light, your thoughts still running a million miles an hour.

He just kept pressing those small, almost reverent kisses along your cheek, your neck, your temple, your face until they edged closer to your mouth.

There, he hesitated.

He was close enough that you could feel his breath against your lips, like he remembered exactly what this was, exactly what it meant, and didn’t trust himself to take it without permission.

So you were the one who closed the gap.

You pressed your lips against his. Your hands came up fast, wrapping around the back of his neck, pulling him in like you needed to prove he was still human.

He made a small, broken sound against your mouth as he kissed you back.

Fuck, your lips.

For him, it hit all at once.

You were as warm, as soft, as sweet as when he first kissed you all those years ago. You had remained unchanged, like no time had passed at all. It was just as he remembered, just as consuming, just as euphoric. It was as if everything else in the world disappeared the second you touched him.

It was like breathing after drowning.

His whole body reacted to it, straining forward, instinctively chasing more as his hands pulled hard against the restraints with a sharp metallic clink. He tried to close the distance further, like the cuffs were an insult now. It was just another unbearable barrier between him and what he’d been missing for two years.

The kiss deepened quickly as you tightened your grip at the back of his neck, fingers threading into his hair, holding him there as much as pushing yourself flush against his bare chest.

more, closer, don’t stop, he thought. 

The restraints rattled again, louder this time.

He was breathing harder now, frustrated, his hands flexing uselessly against the metal as he tried to reach you properly, to touch you the way he wanted to.

The sound was loud enough to grab your attention that time. 

You pulled back just enough to look at him. His eyes were blown wide, locked onto you, his whole body pulled tight with restraint in more ways than one.

You glanced toward the other side of the room. It was a pair of keys hanging by the door. It most likely belonged to the handcuffs. 

“If I let you go…” you said, looking back at him. You trailed your hand down his stomach, settling on the waistband of his pants “…will you behave?”

“Yes,” he said immediately, breathlessly, desperately. “Yes, please. I’ll…” his voice hitched, then he rushed out, “I’ll do whatever you tell me.”

You could tell he pathetically meant it, too

He just wanted to touch you. He needed to.

His eyes flicked back to your lips like he couldn’t help it, like he was already half gone again just from the memory of it.

So you made a choice.

A very you kind of choice.

Let’s just say…. you had no idea what you were going to say to Matt when he came back.

You had no idea how you were going to explain why you were the one chained to the bed (you very much asked for it), wrists pulled taut, skin flushed and marked in ways that you liked. You had no idea how you were going to explain why your breathing was still uneven as Dex sat free at your side, patching up a bullet graze wound on your cheek with the kind of focus that felt indecent after what you’d just let him do to you.

So yeah. 

It’s safe to say that you made up. 

-end.

“Hey, can you get a VBG for fifteen?” Samira asks. “I wanna’ see if it’s come up since he’s been intubated.”

“Definitely,” You say, already pulling up the chart on your tablet, nodding. “I’ll go right now.”

“Could I observe?” Ogilvie questions, perking up from where he’s standing, having heard the brief exchange. 

You look at Samira, who shrugs. “Your call.”

“Sure, come on,” You say, already walking towards the patient’s room. “You ever done one?”

“A VBG?” He clarifies. “A couple.”

“Great, you can get more practice,” You say, pushing the door open. 

He smiles. “Seriously?”

“Yep,” You confirm, already grabbing the syringe he needs from one of the drawers, setting up a tray. “The less work for me the better.”

You ask him a few questions as he sets himself up, leaning over his shoulder to watch what he’s doing—how deep he needs to go, what angle, which vein. He answers without hesitation, unsurprisingly, and you nod for him to go ahead. The blood fills quickly, and he pulls the needle out once he’s done, capping it and setting it on the tray beside him. 

His eyes widen when he turns back to the patient, seeing blood dripping off his arm and onto the floor. 

“Oh, shit,” He says, not realizing that you’re right behind him, already holding a wad of gauze. He pushes back on the stool, reaching for the drawers, knocking you off balance when it collides with your knee. 

You step back to try and catch yourself, not realizing that the suction canister is sitting farther from the bed than usual, making you fully trip. You try to grab something, but it’s futile, and you feel something sharp thack against the back of your head before you’re on the ground. White spots flash across your vision. 

“Oh my god, are you okay?” Ogilvie asks, eyes leaving the patient, who’s still bleeding. 

You blink, embarrassment washing over you. “Yeah, I’m good—hold pressure.”

“Right, right,” He says, finally grabbing gauze and pressing it to the wound. “Did you hit your head on the monitor?”

Ah. That’s what it was.

“Possibly,” You say, carefully pushing yourself to your feet and setting a hand against the back of your head. It’s warm, and you already know that there’s going to be blood on your fingers when you pull away. You grab more gauze for yourself, moving your hair out of the way to get it as close to your scalp as possible.

“Are you bleeding?” Ogilvie asks, a small amount of horror in his voice. 

“I’m fine, you know scalp lacs bleed like crazy,” You insist. “Keep holding pressure, it’s just because he’s on anti-coags.”

You continue to watch him for a few minutes, until the bleeding slows enough to put a dressing over the wound, all while trying to keep your own under control. By the time Ogilvie’s finished you’re starting to feel a bit nauseous, dizzy, and your head throbs with your movements. 

“You need a CT,” Ogilvie says, holding the door open for you. “Again, I am so sorry-”

“Hey, it was an accident, you’re alright,” You promise. “You can make it up to me by finding some dermabond.”

“What happened to you?” Dana calls, speedwalking towards you, setting a hand on your shoulder as she looks you over. 

“I tripped on the suction canister,” You explain. “I’m okay, seriously, Ogilvie’s already grabbing dermabond.”

Dana ignores you, spinning you around to look at the injury. She pulls the gauze away, despite your protests, shaking her head. 

“This is not a dermabond situation, sweetheart,” She says. “Let me see what’s open.”

“There’s no need for that,” You counter, but it’s no use, because she’s already looking up at the board. 

She steers you towards an open room, holding the door for you, keeping her hand up to guide you inside. You sigh, stepping in, sitting on the bed when she gestures for you to. She lifts the head up so you can stay upright, then passes you a new piece of gauze, throwing the old one in the biohazard bin. 

“I’ll be right back,” She says. “Don’t go anywhere.”

Frank opens the door thirty seconds later, Dana hot on his heels. He smiles a bit, raising his eyebrows. 

“You better not be out for the day,” He jokes. “I don’t want to spend the rest of my shift without an RT.”

You roll your eyes, the action sending a shot of pain through your head. “Just put some staples back there, or whatever, then I’ll be fine.”

He leans over, already pulling his penlight out. “Can you tell me your name and where you are?”

“Seriously?” You ask, but he doesn’t let up. You say your name, first and last. “I’m at PTMC.”

“Great,” He says, flicking the light away and taking your hands in his. “Squeeze my fingers.”

You do, satisfactorily. Frank steps back as the door opens again, revealing Robby. 

“What happened here?” He asks. 

“She fell and hit her head on a monitor,” Dana explains, clearly having gotten the full story from Ogilvie while she was gone. “Occipital laceration, bleeding pretty badly, about three centimetres long.”

“Neuro exam okay,” Frank adds. “Do you have any pain, nausea, or dizziness?”

“My head hurts a little,” You admit. “But other than that it’s fine.”

Robby watches as Frank leans you forward, examining the cut himself. You stop yourself from grimacing when he palpates the surrounding area. 

“Yeah, sorry, that’s gonna’ need a couple staples,” He decides, letting you sit back again as he stands up. “You want a CT to be safe?”

Robby thinks for a second. “Let’s hold off for now, but you’re staying down here for the time being.”

“As long as I don’t have to be the one to break that news,” You say. Everyone chuckles, and Dana volunteers to let the ICU know what’s going on. Robby steps closer, arms over his chest, face comforting. 

“You want me to give Whitaker a call?” He asks. You shake your head, immediately regretting the action. 

“He’s probably still sleeping,” You say, seeing that it’s only nine on the clock hanging on the wall. “I’ll talk to him later.”

He nods. “Okay, come find me if anything changes.”

“Will do,” Frank says, already logging on to the computer, making a chart for you and filling it in. He asks you about allergies, prior injuries, and a handful of other things before Dana comes back. She sets up a tray for the staples, then draws up lidocaine. Frank puts on a new pair of gloves, taking his place beside you. 

“Lean forward, hon,” Dana says, and you listen, giving them access to the wound. Frank picks up the syringe, adjusting his grip on it and placing the other hand on the back of your head. 

“Small pinch,” He says, inserting it. You clench your teeth for a second, but then the worst of it is over. He pulls back, passing the empty syringe to Dana, who disposes of it. “Some pressure as the staples go in, doing okay?”

“Yep, all good,” You say, feeling the tool press against your head. A resounding ‘snap’ echoes in the room when he puts the first one in, making you flinch. 

“Still okay?” He asks, moving higher up the laceration. 

“Mhm,” You hum. The next few are easier, and he’s finished in a few minutes. Dana disinfects the area as he updates your chart. 

“Alright, just hangout for a bit, yeah?” He says. “Let us know if anything changes.”

“Okay, I will,” You say. “Thank you.”

You’re only alone for about twenty minutes before Dana comes back. 

“How’s it going?” She asks, and you give her a smile. 

“Good, no changes,” You say. “My head still hurts, but nothing crazy.”

She does another neuro check, making sure everything’s functioning the way it should be. Your vision starts to swim a little as she’s finishing up, making you blink a few times, trying to clear it. She frowns at the action, ducking so she’s in your line of sight. 

“You alright?” 

You swallow, still blinking, trying to quell the nausea that’s building in your chest. 

“Uh, I’m a little nauseous,” You admit. “Dizzy, too.”

“Okay, that’s alright,” She promises, setting a hand on your knee, squeezing it. “Lean back, close your eyes if you need to.”

You listen, screwing them shut, taking a few deep breaths. 

“I’m gonna’ go grab Langdon,” She says.

You start to get anxious when the feelings don’t subside after a couple minutes. Your head is still throbbing, you feel like the room is spinning, and the nausea is unlike any you’ve experienced before. 

“Litre of LR, four of zofran?” Frank suggests, and Robby nods. Princess has taken Dana’s spot, setting up your IV. Robby watches as your heart and respiratory rate tick upwards on the monitor, and he can see the nerves creeping in on your face. He sits beside your bed, wheeling the stool close, resting his arms on the guardrail. 

You don’t look at him. You’re avoiding moving your head as much as possible, and you don’t think you can take his casually disapproving gaze right now. 

“We’ve got you,” He promises. 

“I know,” You insist, trying to keep your breathing even. Princess hangs the requested fluids and medication on the IV pole, adjusting the pump settings. 

“I think we should get a CT,” Frank says. 

“Agreed,” Robby confirms, and your heart rate jumps as you close your eyes again. The three of them exchange a look, but no one gets the chance to say anything before you speak. 

“Can you call Dennis, please?” 

“Absolutely,” Robby says. “I’ll do it right now.”

“You might have to call twice to get it to go through,” You say, eyes still closed.

“Okay,” Robby says. “I’ll get a hold of him, don’t worry.”

He steps out, already unlocking his phone and clicking on Dennis’ contact. He heads towards the central hub as the line rings, leaning against the desk. 

“Calling Whitaker?” Dana asks. Robby nods, hearing the intern’s voicemail. He calls again, just like you said he might have to, putting the phone to his ear.

“Hello?” Dennis’ voice comes through, slower than usual, a byproduct of the phonecall pulling him out of a deep sleep. 

“Hey, it’s Robby,” He says. “Sorry to wake you.”

“All good,” Dennis says. “You need some extra hands?”

“Actually, no,” Robby clarifies, then he says your name. “She hit her head earlier, gave herself a pretty decent head lac. She’s probably got a concussion, and we’re sending her to CT to be safe.”

There’s rustling on the other end. 

“What’s going on?” He asks, the phone clearly now on speaker as he gets himself together. 

“Neuro exam is normal, but she’s not feeling great,” Robby explains. “Dizziness, nausea, headache. She’s getting some fluids and Zofran right now.”

“Okay, uh, I’ll be right there,” He says. “Thanks for calling, Robby.”

“Yep, ‘course,” Robby says. “See you soon.”

Frank watches as Princess takes your hand in her’s, patting it a few times, trying to reassure you. You haven’t opened your eyes since Robby left, and you keep shifting as your anxiety continues to rise. You feel as though you're on a boat, even with your eyes closed, and the Zofran has barely touched the nausea. 

Robby comes back in. 

“You talked to him?” You ask. 

“He’s on his way,” He says, looking at your monitor. “Do you want some lorazepam?”

You think for a moment, wondering if you can make it until Dennis gets here, but the tachycardia is starting to get uncomfortable. 

“Yeah, please,” You say. 

“Dr. Langdon?” 

“One milligram,” Frank says, and Princess goes to grab the medication. “Any estimate on when CT will be ready?”

“Hopefully soon,” Robby says. 

Keeping your eyes closed is starting to not be enough to keep the nausea manageable, but you do not want to throw up right now. You focus on your breathing, fingers curling into the sheets. 

“How’s the Zofran feel?” Frank asks. You don’t dare open your mouth, simply giving him a thumbs down in response. “Alright, you think you could swallow a pill?”

You shake your head. 

“Okay, we’ll get you some more through your IV,” He says, trying to reassure you as best he can. “I’ll go find Princess.”

Robby silently grabs a bin, placing it beside you on the bed before reaching over and dimming the lights. You place the bin on your lap, relishing in the sensation of the cold metal against your fingertips. 

“You’re doing great,” He says. 

Princess and Frank come back a few minutes later, and she administers the medications. He does a repeat neuro check, which makes you feel even worse, but at least there’s still nothing suggesting it’s anything more than a concussion. 

Trinity sees Dennis first, making her brows furrow. He’s wearing jeans and a sweater, his curls more chaotic than usual as he walks through the doors, looking around as though he’s trying to find something. 

“Hey, what are you doing here?” She asks, stepping away from the trauma room that she just finished up in. “Missed me too much?”

He barely reacts, he just says your name. “She hit her head earlier, Robby called me.”

“Oh, shit,” Trinity says. “She okay?”

“Sounds like she’s got a concussion,” He says, walking further into the department, Trinity beside him. Dana sees him coming closer, and she calls his name. 

“She’s in fifteen,” She says. He nods, pivoting towards the room. Trinity follows, at least wanting to lay eyes on you before she gets back to work. Dennis pushes the door open, slowly, seeing that the lights are dimmed. Trinity steps in after him, closing it behind her to keep as much noise out as possible. 

Robby’s been pulled away, but Frank’s still in there with you, his hands on the railing as he watches your vitals. You’re clammy and visibly shaking now that the adrenaline has fully worn off, leaving you with nothing to work with. Your hands are clutching the emesis bin like your life depends on it, breathing slow and uneven as you try to keep it together. You don’t open your eyes when he walks in, assuming that it’s Princess or Robby coming back to check on you. 

“Hey, he’s here,” Frank says, softly, and you squint. Relief crashes over you at the sight of your boyfriend, and tears start to pool along your lower lash line. He’s by your side in a second, setting a comforting hand on your thigh, squeezing it softly. 

“Hey, sweet girl,” He says, keeping his voice down, not wanting to make your headache worse. “How’s-”

You lean forward, throwing up, cutting him off. He jumps into action, steadying the bin with one hand and putting the other on your upper back, rubbing softly. 

“Okay, it’s okay, I’ve got you,” Dennis murmurs, taking the tissues that Trinity’s holding out once you’re seemingly finished. Frank takes the bin wordlessly, passing you a bag instead. Dennis keeps his hand on you, but he looks towards your monitor, then to Frank. 

“First episode,” He says. Dennis nods, helping you lean back, letting you take the tissues from him and wipe your mouth. 

You slump against the bed, curling into yourself slightly, tears starting to drip down your cheeks. 

“Den,” You whisper, reaching for his hand. He takes it, coming closer, kissing your hairline before taking a seat on the stool. 

“I’m here,” He says. “Do you feel any better?”

“No,” You say, voice trembling. Your heart rate has come down with the lorazepam on board, and the nausea has eased a touch, but your head hurts worse now. “Not really.”

“I’m gonna’ call CT, see how much longer,” Frank says, leaving the room. Trinity leaves too, not wanting to hover. 

He doesn’t talk for a minute, instead lifting his hand, pushing some hair off your forehead. He rubs his thumb over your cheek a few times, closely listening to your shaky inhales, making sure you’re okay. 

“What’s the prognosis?” You mumble, leaning into him. He smiles. 

“Probably a concussion,” He says. “You’re alert and oriented, tracking well—some vomiting’s expected.”

You nod, fingers curling into the sleeve of his sweater, moving to play with the ring that he wears whenever he isn’t at work, spinning it. He flattens his hand out, letting you focus on the movement, not saying anything. 

“Knock knock,” Princess says. “Antoine’s gonna’ get you up to CT.”

Antoine waves as he steps into your room. “How’s it going, kid?”

“Okay,” You say, begrudgingly letting go of Dennis’ ring, letting him put his hand in his lap. Antoine makes sure your bed is ready to move, then he sets his hands on the guardrail as Princess takes the other side. 

“I’ll be here when you get back,” Dennis says. “You’re gonna’ be fine, promise.”

You nod, keeping your eyes on him for as long as you can, then shutting them the second the bright overhead lights hit. You cover your face with your arm, making Dennis frown as he steps out behind you, trailing off once you’re past the nurses station. He can’t go with you, despite how badly he wants to. Robby comes out of a room as you’re wheeled by. 

“CT?” He asks. Princess nods, pushing you towards the elevators. 

Frank catches Robby before he can make it to Dennis, gesturing in your direction. “She had a single episode of vomiting, but seemed a bit better after that.”

Robby nods, humming. “Probably had more to do with him showing up than anything else.”

Dana smiles when she overhears that, glancing over at Dennis, who has both hands in his pockets as he watches you go.

“How you doing, Whitaker?” She asks, coming over to him, setting her tablet down on the counter. 

“Oh, yeah, I’m fine,” He insists, then pauses, hesitating. “She looked…worse than I expected, I guess.”

Dana hums. “The nausea came on pretty fast, before that she was insisting that she just needed a little dermabond.”

He laughs a little, shifting his weight between his feet. “Sounds about right.”

“She stubborn?” Dana asks, smiling. 

“No, well, a little,” He admits. “Doesn’t really like to be ‘babied.’”

The quotes around the last word make Dana chuckle.

“She must’ve been feeling pretty crappy then, hey?” She says, and Dennis nods. 

“Yeah,” He says, frowning.

Dana rests her hand on his arm for a second. “Why don’t we go get you some water?”

He watches the clock tick while he waits, allowing himself to feel anxious when it hits thirty minutes since you left. It should’ve only taken ten to get the image, maybe twenty total. Everyone else in the vicinity keeps glancing over too, awaiting your return. Frank’s moments away from calling to figure out where you are when the elevator dings, and Princess and Antoine wheel your bed back into the department. 

Dennis stands, wiping his hands on his jeans. You look worse, somehow, and Princess taps Frank on the shoulder as she walks by. She leans in, saying something to him before pushing you back into your room. Dennis waits for a second, letting them get you back in place. 

Frank slips past Antoine as he’s leaving, standing beside your bed. “Status?”

“Neuro’s still good,” Princess says. “Another vomiting episode before we got upstairs, but the nausea’s better now, right?”

“Yeah, mostly,” You say, already closing your eyes, fatigue starting to take over. 

“How’s the pain?” He asks. 

“Not…great.”

“Yeah, I bet,” He says. “As soon as your CT comes back we’ll talk about pain meds, okay?”

“Okay,” You say. “Where’s Den?”

“Right here,” Dennis says, stepping fully into the room, letting the door close behind him. “How you doing?”

You smile when he sits on the stool, putting his hand back where it was, letting you fiddle with his ring again. “A bit better.”

“Good,” He breathes. 

“Let’s do two more of Zofran,” Frank says, quietly, and Princess nods. “I’ll be back once we get results.”

You’re falling asleep when you’re left alone again, Dennis watching your chest rise and fall, holding your hand. You grimace when the dizziness returning with a vengeance. He notices immediately. 

“What’s going on?” He asks, shifting closer. 

“Dizzy,” You answer. 

“Okay, just keep your eyes closed,” He says, checking your vitals quickly. “I’ve got you, angel.”

He lowers the guardrail, his knees touching the edge of the mattress, letting you hold both his hands tightly until it passes. Your grip relaxes, and you slowly open your eyes, exhaling with relief when you confirm that it’s over. 

“Better?” He asks, and you nod. 

He eventually puts his arms on your bed, resting his head on them, keeping his eyes on you while you sleep. 

Robby knocks half an hour later, and Dennis stands up, moving quietly. He blinks, trying to adjust to the chaos of the rest of the department once he’s out of your room. 

“How’s she doing?” Robby asks, and he nods. 

“Okay, yeah,” He says. “CT back yet?”

Robby hands him the tablet, showing your scan. He lets go of a breath when he realizes that it looks completely normal, scrolling to read the radiologist’s comments, which confirm exactly that. 

“All clear,” Robby says. “We’ll monitor her for a few hours, make sure she can keep things down, then you can take her home.”

Dennis passes the tablet back. “Thanks, Robby.”

“Of course,” He says. “Get back in there.”

He doesn’t need to be told twice. 

A few people come and go over the next few hours, but they mostly leave the two of you alone, trusting Dennis to come find someone if anything changes while you rest. Dana brings another blanket by at one point, draping it over his shoulders without a word. One of the ICU nurses comes down with your belongings, quickly asking him how you’re doing before leaving too. He notices the way people keep poking their heads over the frosted glass, which makes his chest warm with how much everyone cares about you. 

You wake up around one, eyes fluttering open, and Dennis immediately lifts his head up. 

“Hi,” He says. 

“Hi,” You repeat, quiet, squinting a little despite the lights being off. “My CT come back?”

“Yeah, yeah,” He says. “Everything looks great, but you’ve got a pretty bad concussion.”

You nod. “Could be worse, I guess.”

“Definitely,” He agrees, moving closer, picking your hand up and intertwining your fingers. “I’m really glad you’re okay.”

“I’m sorry if I scared you, Denny,” You whisper. “I didn’t think it was that bad.”

“You don’t have anything to apologize for,” He insists. “But you did scare me a little.”

The door opens slowly, making both of you look over. Frank steps inside, smiling when he sees that you’re up.

“You’re awake,” He says. “How’s it going?”

You shrug. “Bad. But better.”

“I’ll take it,” He says. “How’s the pain?”

“Not the worst,” You answer. 

“Nausea? Dizziness?”

“Yes and yes,” You say. “Not as bad as before, though.”

“Okay, I'll get you some Compazine, and then maybe you can try to eat something?” He suggests. “If that helps then I’ll send you home. Usually, I’d keep you overnight, but I think Whitaker’s got you covered.”

You laugh a little. “Sounds good, Langdon, thank you.”

He gives the okay for you to go home a few hours later, once you’ve perked up a bit and your headache and nausea is under control. Dennis helps you off the bed, holding your discharge papers, letting you lean against him once you’re on your feet. He takes your hand in his own, holding the door open. 

“Hey, heading home?” Robby asks, stopping in front of the two of you. 

“Yeah, good to go,” Dennis says, holding the discharge papers up. 

“Good, I’m glad you’re okay,” He says, looking at you, giving you a soft smile and setting his hand on your shoulder for a second. “Would hate to lose my favourite respiratory therapist.”

You smile. “You couldn’t get rid of me if you tried, Robby.”

He points at Dennis. “I better not see you in this hospital for at least a week.”

“Yes sir,” Dennis says, definitely not wanting to argue that. He’d stay home with you for months if he had to to make sure you were okay. “See you next week, boss.”

Other people tell you to feel better as you go, letting you know that they’re happy it wasn’t anything serious, then you finally make it through the front doors. The bright, summer sun beams down on you, making your head spin. Your grip on Dennis’ hand tightens, and he stops, turning to look at you. 

“What’s wrong?” He asks. 

You exhale. “Dizzy. Again. One second.”

He adjusts his grip, holding your lower back, keeping you upright. You try to breathe through it, but that doesn’t work—the dizziness just gets worse.

“Let’s sit down for a minute,” He says, guiding you over to a bench. “Deep breaths.”

He positions himself so the sun isn’t hitting your face, keeping a hand on your shoulder until you open your eyes again. 

“I’m gonna’ go grab the car,” He says. “I’ll be right back.”

You’ve never been happier to be home in your entire life. 

Dennis sets you up on the couch, propping your head up with a few pillows and tucking a blanket around you once you’ve changed out of your scrubs. You sit in silence as he moves, closing blinds and turning on a few lamps that won’t be too hard on your eyes. 

“What am I supposed to do?” You ask, dramatically. “I can’t read, I can’t go on my phone, I can’t watch TV.”

He laughs a little, poking his head over the back of the couch. “I’ll keep you entertained.”

“Really?” You ask, grinning. 

“Absolutely,” He says, going over to the bookshelf, scanning the several options that you’ve collected over the years. He pulls your favourite off, then sits in one of the chairs. You whine, extending your hands towards him, making him smile. 

You lift your head up, pushing the pillows onto the ground and letting him take their place. He smoothes your hair back once your head is on his lap, before opening the book and reading aloud. You fall asleep within minutes, and he just watches, scratching your scalp gently, making sure to avoid your staples. 

He moves you into the bedroom at one point, putting your cat in there with you, smiling when he curls up on the bed beside you. He opens the fridge just after six, frowning at the lack of food, already thinking about what he could order you for dinner. Then, there’s a knock on the door, making him raise an eyebrow. 

Garcia’s standing on the other side, holding a bag of takeout, along with a few plastic bags. 

“Dr. Garcia,” Dennis says. “What’re you doing here?”

“Santos texted me, said Hot Shot lost a fight with a monitor today,” She says. “I brought dinner and some groceries for the next few days so you don’t have to leave the house.”

She thrusts them towards him, and he’s stuck for a moment, but then he takes them in his arms. 

“Oh, uhm, thank you,” He says, setting everything on the bench by the door. “That’s…really nice.”

She nods, moving on from his gratitude quickly. “How’s she doing?” 

“Her head hurts, and she’s still pretty nauseous,” He explains. “I can give her some more Zofran in a bit.”

“CT was fine?”

“Yeah, totally clean,” He says. “She should be back to normal in a couple weeks.”

Garcia exhales, and Dennis thinks it’s the most emotion he’s ever seen her show. “Good, I’m glad she’s alright.”

“Me too.”

“Take care of her,” She continues. “Let me know if you need anything else, okay? I can come babysit if you’ve got anywhere to be tomorrow, and people are already fighting over who gets to bring dinner for the next few days.”

“Okay, yeah, will do,” He says, slightly shocked by the amount of support. “Thanks again.”

“Have a good night, Huckleberry.”

A/N - love u currently working on a little part two to self explanatory and also poly!garsantos x reader 🤩🤩🤩

tags:

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