sunfairyy

You stood in your kitchen staring at your phone while rain hit hard against the windows, exhaustion heavy on your body. Your apartment felt colder now and empty in a way it hadn’t been for a while.

Like something else had quietly left when you told him to leave.

Your fingers brushed unconsciously against your mark again, a gesture that once brought you a small bit of comfort now made tears well up in your eyes.

Sighing softly, you unlocked your phone again despite knowing what you’d see.

23 unread messages.

14 missed calls.

9 voicemails.

All from Dex.

You hadn’t answered a single call, hadn’t listened to a single voicemail, and hadn’t opened a single message. 

Tapping the messages app, you saw that they had started normal the messages had gradually got less coherent as the days passed.

Dex: Are you okay?

Dex: Please answer.

Dex: I’m sorry.

Dex: I’m trying.

Dex: You said leave you alone.

Dex: I’m trying to do that.

Dex: Please answer the phone.

The last message had arrived nearly seven hours ago, and the lack of anything else since has left you feeling more unsettled than relieved. But the ache in your chest still deepened as you locked your phone again and tossed it onto the counter.

Leaning heavily against the counter, you closed your eyes to try to stop the tears from coming because this was what they wanted, wasn’t it?

Distance. Space. No Dex.

So why did it feel like something was broken and bleeding inside you now that he was gone?

Because he had noticed you. You thought to yourself.

Because Dex had noticed everything about you.

He had noticed when your shoulder hurt, when you skipped meals, when you were exhausted, when your smile wasn’t real.

How he looked at you like you mattered, like you were something precious.

And now the silence he’d left behind haunted your apartment like a trapped ghost.

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Your phone ringing loudly on your bedside drawer startled you awake hard enough that your heart jumped painfully.

Grabbing it with a groan, the brightness of it blinded you before the name flashing on the screen made your stomach twist immediately.

Dex.

Glancing at the numbers on the top of the screen, you felt your heart begin to race again.

2:17 AM.

Dex never called this late. He knew your schedule too well and knew how little sleep you got between the apothecary and the clinic. Your stomach clenched again as the ringtone ended and a ping indicating a voicemail came through a few moments later.

But what made your chest tighten was the notification that showed he had already called four times before this one had finally woken you up.

You knew that you had been tired last night, but tired enough to miss four phone calls? You bit your lip with worry.

Then your phone rang again, and before you could think yourself out of it, you answered.

“Dex?” You asked into the phone.

He didn’t answer, but the sound of heavy, uneven breathing came through the phone.

But it was the sound of something falling somewhere made you worry instantly.

“Dex?” You asked again.

A long pause.

Then finally he spoke quietly, “I’m sorry.”

Your eyes closed briefly as your stomach settled, but hearing those words from him made your chest ache.

“What happened?” you asked softly.

More silence.

“You told me to leave you alone.” His voice sounded wrong. “I was trying to.”

The words hit painfully as you swallowed hard.

“Dex—”

“I can’t think when it’s quiet.” His voice was frustrated now as something crashed faintly in the background.

You straightened up immediately. “Are you hurt?”

Another pause.

“… No.”

A lie, and you could hear it instantly.

“Where are you?” You asked as your fingers tightened around the phone.

“At home.” His breathing stuttered unevenly again. “Baby, I’m trying very hard not to come see you.”

You felt a tear slip down your cheek at his words. Because he had listened, even if it was destroying him.

You stared out at the rain streaking your apartment windows before moving out of bed and through the apartment.

“I’m coming over.” You said sliding on your shoes and then grabbing your coat and keys.

The silence on the other end was immediate.

“You don’t have to.” He whispered.

“I know.”

Another long pause.

“Okay.”

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Dex’s apartment looked like a war zone.

The moment he opened the door, you immediately froze. Glass littered the floor, a lamp had been shattered against the wall, one of the dining chairs lay broken near the kitchen, there were dents in the drywall, and blood was smeared across the edge of the counter.

And standing in the middle of it all was Dex.

Barefoot, breathing unevenly with his knuckles split open and bloodied.

Your chest tightened sadly because now every unread message felt heavier. More desperate.

Dex’s eyes immediately found yours and stayed there as if he was checking you were real.

“You came.”

The words sounded almost uncertain as your gaze slowly swept over the apartment again.

“What happened?”

Dex looked away for the first time since opening the door.

“I got angry.”

Your eyes dropped to his bleeding hands.

“You punched the wall.”

“Yes.”

Apparently several times you thought to yourself.

You stepped carefully over shattered glass as you entered his apartment and shut the door behind you. The place smelled faintly of blood and something electrical from the broken lamp.

But Dex didn’t move. Didn’t come closer. He was still doing what you’d said that night.

Leave me alone.

“Sit down,” you said quietly, pointing to his sofa.

He obeyed immediately.

You grabbed the first aid kit from where it sat untouched under the kitchen sink before kneeling carefully in front of him.

His eyes never left your face. Not once.

The cuts across his knuckles were messy and swollen already as you gently took one of his hands in yours. The soulmate mark on your collarbone burned faintly at the contact.

Dex inhaled sharply.

You ignored it.

“Why didn’t you clean these?”

Dex watched your thumb brush carefully beneath his split knuckles.

“I couldn’t focus.”

Your chest ached at his words as you carefully soaked a gauze and gently cleaned the blood from his skin.

The apartment remained painfully quiet except for the sound of heavy rain against the windows.

Dex looked exhausted. Like something inside him had been wound too tightly for too long and finally snapped.

“You should’ve listened to the voicemails,” he said quietly after a while.

You glanced up briefly. “Were they coherent?”

“… No.”

Despite yourself, a small, tired laugh escaped you.

Dex’s mouth twitched faintly at the sound and then disappeared again.

“I tried,” he admitted softly.

Your hands stilled slightly against his skin. “I know.”

“No,” he said quietly. “You don’t.”

His jaw tightened once. “I stayed away.”

Guilt twisted low in your stomach.

Not because his spiral was your fault. It wasn’t.

But because you suddenly understood how hard he’d actually tried.

“I know,” you repeated softer this time.

Dex finally looked away again. “I kept thinking about what you said.”

Leave me alone.

The memory made your chest tighten painfully.

“I didn’t mean forever, baby,” you whispered before you could stop yourself.

Dex’s eyes snapped back to yours immediately. Something desperate flickered there so quickly it almost hurt to look at.

You quickly focused back on healing his hands.

Your powers stirred faintly beneath your skin as you carefully brushed your fingers across his bruised knuckles. Warmth spread softly from your touch, easing some of the swelling before the wounds closed.

“All done.” Your hands faintly shook as you pulled them away from him.

Dex exhaled softly as the pain left his hands.

“You’re tired,” he murmured immediately.

Of course he noticed, you thought to yourself. “I’m fine.”

“You’re lying.”

You snorted quietly. “A little hypocritical coming from you.”

His mouth twitched again. A tiny, almost smile.

God, you had missed that.

The realisation settled heavily in your chest.

Carefully setting the supplies aside, you leaned back slightly against the sofa, Dex still watching you like he was afraid you might disappear if he blinked.

“You destroyed your apartment,” you muttered softly.

“I know.” He whispered.

“You probably scared the neighbours.”

“I know.”

“You called me at two in the morning.”

At that, something conflicted crossed his expression.

“I didn’t know what else to do.”

The honesty in his voice hit harder than anything else tonight.

You looked at him quietly for a long moment, then slowly reached out and touched his face.

Dex immediately went still beneath your hand. His eyes fluttered shut briefly as he leaned into your touch.

Your thumb brushed gently beneath the bruise near his cheekbone.

“You should’ve called earlier.”

Dex opened his eyes again slowly.

“You told me to leave you alone.”

God.

The fact he treated every word you said like they were sacrosanct made your chest ache.

You swallowed thickly. “I know.”

A softer silence settled this time as Dex leaned further into your touch almost unconsciously, like he needed it.

Your heartbeat stumbled painfully.

Because this right here felt dangerously close to the tenderness you had wanted for years, and maybe that was what scared you most. Not the violence, not the obsession, but this.

This softness.

“I missed you.”

The words left your mouth before you could stop them.

Dex froze completely as his eyes searched your face like he didn’t trust what he’d heard.

Then something inside him visibly unraveled.

His hand lifted slowly toward your face like he was afraid you might pull away. When you didn’t, his fingers brushed your cheek carefully.

Reverently. Like you were something breakable.

“You did?” he asked softly.

Your chest tightened. “Yes.”

The confession settled heavily between you.

Dex stared at you for one long second before suddenly leaning forward and kissing you.

This kiss felt nothing like the last one.

It wasn’t desperate, wasn’t forceful, and there was no panic like before, just warmth and careful hesitancy in a way that almost hurt more.

Your breath caught sharply.

Then slowly you kissed him back.

The soulmate bond burned warmly beneath your skin as his other hand slid carefully to your jaw, thumbs caressing against both your cheeks like he still wasn’t fully convinced you were real.

And God, you wanted this, wanted him.

The realisation hit hard enough that you pulled back abruptly.

Dex immediately stiffened as panic flashed across his face so quickly it hurt to see.

“I’m sorry,” he said instantly. “I thought—”

“No.”

You cupped his face quickly before he could spiral again.

“No, that’s not—”

But his breathing had already started changing again, sharp and uneven.

You moved closer instinctively.

“I wanted that,” you admitted softly.

Dex stared at you. “But you’re upset.”

“No, baby, it’s—I liked it.”

His expression shifted into something stunned and painfully hopeful all at once.

You let out a shaky breath. “This is complicated.”

“I know.”

“You don’t actually.”

That nearly made him smile again as your thumb brushed carefully across his cheek.

“I just…” your voice softened, “I don’t want this to happen because you’re vulnerable right now.”

Understanding slowly crossed his face before it turned almost unbearably soft.

“You stayed anyway,” he whispered.

The vulnerability in his voice nearly wrecked you as your forehead gently rested against his.

“I’m still here.”

Dex went completely still beneath your touch. Then slowly his eyes closed. Like those words physically settled something broken inside him.

The apartment remained quiet around you, the rain still landing hard against the windows.

Your fingers slid gently through his hair as his breathing finally began to even out beneath your touch.

“You should sleep,” you murmured eventually.

Dex opened his eyes again immediately. “You’ll leave.”

The certainty in his voice hurt. You shook your head softly.

“Not tonight.”

Fragile relief crossed his face then.

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The apartment was less like a war zone come morning light after you spent the three hours that you couldn’t sleep tidying it up as best as you could.

You stood in Dex’s kitchen wearing one of his shirts while making coffee as the sun shone in through the windows. Behind you, Dex leaned silently against the counter watching you.

“You stare a lot,” you muttered softly.

“I like looking at you.”

Heat crawled faintly into your face as you turned toward him, holding out his coffee. Dex took it carefully, his knuckles looking significantly better this morning after your healing.

“You didn’t sleep much,” he observed immediately.

“Neither did you.”

“But I slept.”

You blinked slightly at the quiet honesty in his voice before you realised that he meant he slept because you stayed. The thought settled pleasantly deep in your chest as you leaned lightly against the counter beside him.

The silence this morning didn’t feel awkward.

Just…quiet.

“You’re not scared of me.”

The words came suddenly.

You looked at him carefully. “No.”

Dex studied your face closely. “You probably should be.”

You snorted softly. “There’s the self-awareness.”

His mouth twitched slightly, then faded. “I never wanted to hurt you.”

The sincerity in his voice made your chest ache again. “I know.”

Silence stretched softly between you.

Then Dex spoke again. “What do you want?”

The question caught you off guard.

Not because of the question itself. But because no one had really asked you that through all of this.

What do you want?

Not what would Matt want? Or what would Karen think? Or what’s morally right?

Just…you.

Your fingers tightened slightly around your mug.

You. You thought to yourself. 

“I don’t know,” you said quietly. 

Dex nodded once like he understood.

“One date.” He said after a moment.

You looked at him.

His expression remained calm, but there was something careful underneath it now. Something uncertain.

“I’m not asking for anything else,” he said quietly. “Just one date.”

Your heartbeat stumbled.

Because this wasn’t fate demanding something from you, it wasn’t obsession, this was a choice. Your choice. And for the first time since all of this began, you let yourself think about what you actually wanted.

Not what everyone else feared.

Not what everyone else expected.

You thought about the warm takeout left on counters, the flowers at the apothecary, the eye-colored rocks, his gentle calloused hands against your skin, and someone who looked at you like you mattered.

Your lips parted softly “… Okay.”

The word barely left your mouth before something in Dex’s expression softened so completely it almost took your breath away. It wasn’t triumph, not total possession, but quiet happiness.

Real happiness.

Happiness that felt far more satisfying than anything else.

Like a book you liked left three days earlier, your favorite snacks in the kitchen, and a smooth rock placed on your coffee table that you still hadn’t figured out the meaning of.

So the pretty red flower sitting on the counter when you and Karen entered the shop for a day of restock and date checking didn’t surprise you as much as it should have.

“What’s that?” Karen asks, already reaching for it before you can say anything.

She turns it between her fingers, brows knitting slightly before a teasing grin grows on her face. “Have you got a secret admirer you haven’t told me about?”

You only shrug in response.

Because you know exactly where it came from and who left it.

“…hun?” Karen asks, now frowning in worry. “You okay?”

“It’s nothing.” You say stepping forward and plucking the flower from Karen’s hand a little too quickly. “Just a flower.”

“A pretty flower,” Karen says teasingly, watching you twirl the flower. “Do you know what type it is? What it mean?”

“It’s a red salvia.” You force a small smile. “It means forever mine.”

But your grip tightens around the stem as you tell her the meaning. 

Karen’s teasing expression softens slightly as she watches you turn the flower between your fingers. “Well,” she says slowly, “that’s either very romantic or mildly concerning.”

You snort quietly. “Probably the second one.”

“Hm.” Karen narrows her eyes at you for a moment like she’s trying to piece something together. “At least your mysterious admirer has good taste.”

You roll your eyes, moving past her towards the shelves lined with herbal teas. “You say that now, but wait until he starts leaving dead animals on my door like an unwanted cat.”

Karen gasps in mock horror. “Are those the standards these days?”

You hum noncommittally, carefully placing the flower back on the counter before throwing an apron towards Karen and putting on yours.

The rest of the morning passes quietly.

You and Karen work your way through the apothecary together, checking dates, organising shelves, and restocking the herbal remedies that always sold quickly once flu season hit. 

Normally, this monthly routine soothed you.

But today every time the shop bell rings, you find yourself tensing, and every tall silhouette outside the frosted window makes your stomach tighten for a second.

It annoys you that he’s affecting you like this.

By the time the shop closes for the night, your feet and head ache.

“You’re distracted today,” Karen says casually while pulling on her coat.

“I’m tired.”

“You reorganised the same shelf three times.”

You pause halfway through locking the door. “… Did I?”

The look Karen gives is filled with worry.

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The warmth of the diner feels welcoming compared to the cold outside.

Sitting across from Matt and Karen, you’re happily stealing fries off your brother’s plate while Karen animatedly tells a story involving a customer she had this morning, and for a little while you manage to relax like everything's normal.

Until the second Karen casually says, “Oh, and someone left a flower for her this morning.”

You nearly choke on a stolen fry.

“What kind of flower, you ask?” Karen continues, clearly enjoying herself.

“Red salvia,” she answers before you can stop her. “It’s romantic.”

Matt’s fork stops halfway on his plate.

“It’s a flower.” You say it with a smirk, ignoring your brother’s stare.

“It’s not just a flower,” Karen corrects, standing with her empty glass. “It's from your secret admirer.”

That makes Matt go quiet, and you can feel his full attention on you.

“You’ve been distracted lately.” Matt comments after a moment.

“It’s nothing,” you reply too quickly. “Just work.”

“You have been working more hours at the clinic recently,” Karen adds concerned. “Are you sure it’s nothing?”

“You’re both making this a bigger deal than it is." You force a laugh, pushing your empty glass towards Karen. “Go get us those drinks, would you.”

“You sure you’re okay?” Matt asks quietly a few minutes after Karen arrives at the bar. “You can tell me anything, remember?”

You glance toward him. Even with the glasses hiding his eyes, you can see the worry written across his face, and for a second you want to tell him everything.

About Dex, about the bond, the break-in, and the gifts. About the way your stomach pleasantly twists every time you think about him.

Instead, you force a smile. “I’m fine, Matty. Really.”

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Dinner with Matt and Karen had left you feeling lighter than you had felt in days as you walked inside your apartment building.

That last Manhattan cocktail had been exactly what you needed, keeping you warm beneath your coat as you rode the elevator upstairs, your cheeks still flushed from shared laughter.

The apartment is warm and cozy when you step inside, making sure to lock all the locks before sliding your shoes off and shrugging your coat onto a nearby chair.

Walking into the kitchen, you pour yourself a large glass of water while already dreading the dehydration you'll have tomorrow morning after tonight’s drinks.

Sipping from the glass, you make your way to the living room for an hour of mindless television before bed when something on the coffee table catches your attention.

A familiar cardboard box sits neatly in the middle of the table.

“Seriously?” you mutter quietly. “What is it this time?”

Because somehow, despite locking every window before leaving that morning, Dex had apparently been inside your apartment… again.

Sighing softly, you place your glass down before grabbing the box and lowering yourself onto the sofa.

Cardboard damp beneath your fingertips as you carefully lift the lid to see what he’s left you this time.

Your brows pull together slightly as you reach inside and pull out the knife resting in it.

It’s smaller than the ones you have in your kitchen, the handle worn in a way that shows it's often been used, and beneath the warm glow of your lamp, you can see the dried blood staining parts of the blade.

“Jesus Christ, Dex.” The words leave you quietly, more exhausted than alarmed. “This is the worst one yet.”

You turn the knife slightly in your hand, seeing where he had attempted to wipe the blood away.

The sight should concern you more than it does, but after everything that has happened over the past few weeks, you often find yourself feeling irritated, in disbelief, and occasionally flattered.

But this? Who leaves someone a bloody knife as a gift?

Setting it carefully back into the box, your mind drifts to the other gifts left in your apartment by Dex when you weren’t home.

A pretty purple hyacinth had been the first thing he left, followed by your favorite snacks, a book you’d wanted to read, and lastly the smooth rock sitting on the table.

Which you’re still confused by.

For a long moment you stare at the knife inside the box before laughing under your breath.

“Next he’ll bring me dead animals like a stray cat,” you mumble to yourself, putting the box back on the coffee table and grabbing your glass of water.

You know you should throw it all away, the knife especially.

But instead, you pick the box back up and carry it towards the hallway cupboard where the others already sit neatly on the top shelf.

The sight of them all lined up together makes something uncomfortable twist in your gut. Because somewhere over the past two weeks, this had become normal.

The gifts. The break-ins. Dex finding his way into your apartment whenever he pleased.

You hate how little it all unsettles you.

Carefully sliding the newest box beside the others, your thoughts lands on the first one he left. A purple hyacinth that has since been pressed and turned into a bookmark.

A bookmark that now rests inside the book that has made itself a home on your coffee table, half-finished after too many late nights spent reading instead of sleeping.

And the flower from this morning now sat in a glass of water beside the till because part of you couldn’t bring yourself to throw that away either.

Instead you close the cupboard door and head towards your bedroom.

The apartment is quiet as you complete your nightly routine, trying not to think about the fact that Dex had once again been inside your home while you were gone.

Outside, the chilly wind had turned into rain that tapped softly against the windows as you finally slide beneath your blankets.

Exhaustion pulls heavily at your body, helped by the drinks and the lingering comfort from dinner with Matt and Karen.

You reach over to switch off your bedside lamp, your thoughts drifting toward the smooth rock in the living room.

“What does a rock even mean?” you mumble tiredly to yourself.

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The next day unusually sunny for New York.

The city moves at a gentler pace than usual, a soft breeze blowing through the park while birds sing through the noise of traffic.

Arms linked with Matt, you two walk at an easy pace that makes it harder to hide how distracted you are.

“You’re quiet today,” he says after a while.

“It’s a nice day for quiet,” you reply, adjusting your grip on the ice cream in your hand.

“I’m serious,” Matt continues, slowing until you both come to a stop. “You’ve been… distant lately.”

“Work, the clinic, life in general.” You let out a small breath that could almost be a laugh if it weren’t so forced. “Take your pick.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

You don’t answer immediately.

Because you know exactly what he means but you don't know how to explain it.

Not the gifts. Not the feeling of being watched. Not the way your apartment no longer feels like just yours.

“It’s nothing,” you say, a little too quickly, gently tugging him to walk again. “You’re imagining things.”

Matt doesn’t respond again.

He just walks beside you, quiet in a way that he usually is when trying to understand you.

For the rest of the walk, you fill the silence. Talking about the apothecary, about how the clinic has been busier lately, about anything that comes to mind.

Anything that doesn’t remind you of him.

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By the time you got home that night, rain had started falling again.

Droplets clung to your jacket as you unlocked your apartment and step inside. Shrugging your jacket off you throw it over the sofa before freezing.

Sitting in the middle of your coffee table was the medium-sized rock. Brows furrowing as you picked it up and admired the unique colours of it again.

Pretty, you think to yourself, running your thumb over the smooth texture before a deep voice speaks from your bathroom.

“It’s the same colour as your eyes.”

You gasp as you turned sharply, your arm now raised in a position to immediately throw the rock in your hand if needed.

There, in the doorway of your bathroom, stood Dex. Sleeves rolled up to his elbows as he wiped blood from his hands with a damp cloth.

Your eyes immediately scanned him. The healer in you searching for any injuries that might need attention but not finding any.

Good. You were far too hungry to be dealing with that again.

Lowering your arm, your gaze dropped back to the rock in your hand.

“The same colour as my eyes?” you repeated.

Dex threw the cloth into the hamper as he left the bathroom, flicking the switch as he walked out and into the living room. His hair was still damp from the rain as his eyes stayed fixed completely on you.

“Yes.” He said, stopping a foot away from you as his eyes roamed your body.

Your fingers curl gently around the stone. Nobody had ever noticed something like that before. Sure, Matt knew how to read you like a book, but you doubted he remembered the colour of your eyes.

But Dex did.

Your mouth slightly curves before you could stop it.

Dex stilled the second he saw it grace your face, his eyes focusing on your smile like he’d never seen anything more beautiful before. A small smile of his own appeared.

You felt your cheeks flush as you looked away, clearing your throat. “You better have not bled all over my bathroom floor,” you muttered.

Dex’s expression shifted slightly. More teasing this time.

“It’s not much blood.”

“Say that to my sofa.”

“That was also not much blood.”

You snorted softly despite yourself.

Oh God. This was becoming dangerously normal.

Setting the rock carefully back on the coffee table, you walked towards him before noticing the streak of dried blood he’d missed near his jaw.

Without thinking, you pulled the sleeve of your shirt over your hand and gently wiped the remaining blood from his face.

"There," you murmured quietly.

Dex didn’t move, didn’t blink. His eyes focused on you with the same intensity as two weeks ago. The same look that made your chest feel too tight.

Neither of you stepped away.

Your warm fingers still lightly brushing against his jaw as his name on your collarbone tingled pleasantly.

“How did you even get in here again?” you asked softly, taking a few steps away from him.

“The bedroom window.” Dex answered, his footsteps following yours as if the distance was something he couldn’t bear.

Your eyes fluttered closed as you sighed.

“You know I have a door, right?” you ask, turning around to make your way to the kitchen.

“The windows work,” he says, shrugging.

“You keep leaving them open,” you reply, rummaging through your cupboards for a quick meal.

“I close it.” He states, following you.

“Not properly,” you say, now rummaging through the fridge. “My heating bill is going to kill me.”

“Windows are quieter.” He tells you while sitting at the island.

A laugh escaped you before you could stop it.

Dex’s expression softened at the sound, looking at you like he was memorising it.

Your chest tightened again as you stopped laughing. This is bad, you thought to yourself.

Because two weeks ago Dex had been an escaped prisoner bleeding on your sofa, and now he’s sitting barefoot in your apartment after just using your bathroom to wipe blood from god knows where off his hands and after weeks of him bringing you gifts like a stray cat.

But what was worse was the realisation that you wanted him here.

Dex’s eyes slowly scanned your face as you moved towards the island, a tray of chocolate-covered strawberries in hand.

“You’re exhausted,” he noted quietly, reaching for a strawberry.

“I’m fine.” You dismiss him while grabbing two bowls.

“Your hands are shaking again.”

Your fingers curl slightly. “I worked all day.”

“And then went to dinner instead of resting.” He stated.

You frowned. “Were you following me?”

“No.” The answer came too quickly.

You narrowed your eyes at him, still holding the bowls.

Dex blinked once. “… Mostly no.”

"Dex." You stared at him in disbelief.

“You looked happy.” He commented.

The irritation that was rising quickly turned into something warm that made your stomach clench because the way he said it sounded almost relieved.

Like your happiness was important to him.

For a moment neither of you spoke as you slid a bowl towards him and his growing pile of strawberries.

“You ate the food.” He said, looking towards the empty takeout wrappers.

“I was hungry.” You shrugged, shoving a strawberry into your mouth.

“You forget to eat when you’re tired.” He said, adding more strawberries to his bowl.

“Ugh, you sound like Matt.” You groaned, dropping your head onto the counter.

Dex’s jaw tightened at your brother’s name. “He notices too?”

“Matt notices everything.” You say grabbing a handful of strawberries after noticing how full his bowl was getting.

“I notice more.”

The words landed like a slap. Too honest, too intense, too real, and you think you should’ve shut this down sooner.

Should’ve reminded him that none of this changed what he’d done, should’ve said that none of the gifts were working, and should’ve reinforced the boundaries you created in your head.

“Are you hurt?” You ask instead.

Dex looked down at his bruised hands. “Not badly.”

“You could stop doing stupid shit.” You tell him.

“You’d stitch me up anyway.” He replied.

You hate how right he was.

Dex leaned in closer, his eyes never leaving yours. “You smiled,” he said quietly.

Heat immediately flushed your face.

“It’s just a rock.” You say. 

“It made you smile.” He smirked.

God, you wanted to punch him.

Looking away quickly, you hated how those simple words affected you, how your heartbeat sped up when he smiled, and how a rock, of all things, gave you butterflies.

“You should probably go,” you uttered softly.

Dex stayed quiet for a moment before he nodded once, getting up and putting his empty bowl in the sink.

He moved towards the living room window before pausing. “The flower looked nice by the till.”

Your eyes widened. “You were watching the shop?”

Dex glanced back at you. “I was watching you.” 

Then he disappeared out the window and into the rain.

Your gaze drifted towards the rock sitting on the table, and butterflies filled your stomach again before your eyes lowered to your bowl only to frown.

“Asshole ate my strawberries as well.”

A/N: Part 2 of this series! It should hopefully have main 12 parts total if all goes well 🤞🏻. Like before feedback is welcome! 

He only knew how to aim, how to follow through, how to kill. So he told himself that if he pointed all of that in the right direction, it would count. It had to count. 

Bad people existed. That much was obvious. And if bad people were gone, then… that had to count for something, right?

The Anti-Vigilante Task Force were easy enough to categorize as bad. They hunted vigilantes, tried to shut down the kind of people Dex had convinced himself were doing something close to good. And vigilantes were good. They had to be. 

So if he removed the ones hunting them, if he cut those threads before they tightened around someone else’s throat, then that meant he was helping. It meant he was balancing something, somewhere, even if no one was there to see it. Even if no one thanked him. Even if the city didn’t change at all.

That was how he justified it. The only problem was that no one paid him for being good.

His rent didn’t care about intention. His bills didn’t pause because he was trying. The notice on his counter sat there, the very proof that the world moved even as he was laying down the foundations of whatever moral framework he was trying to build. Dex had been ignoring it for days, like it might disappear if he didn’t acknowledge it. 

He was staring at it when his phone buzzed.

The sound was unsettling, mostly because Dex knew that people only messaged him for one of two reasons nowadays: to threaten him (best possible outcome, he could handle it) or to give him a job. When he looked at the notification, he knew it was going to be the latter. 

The text came from an unknown sender. It was encrypted, of course. Dex picked it up slowly, thumb hovering for just a second. He frowned. He really shouldn’t. This was the part of his life he was supposed to be moving away from. He opened it anyway. 

The file loaded quickly. As he suspected, it was an anonymous contract labeled high priority, with a bounty of… oh. 

2.5 million dollars.

Dex leaned back slightly, exhaling through his nose as that figure settled into place. It was much more than rent or bills. This kind of money would give him… breathing room. It would fund his good deeds for years. It would help his progress, right?

His eyes moved down to the target profile: a Former Red Room Widow. 

Objective: extract intel regarding active Red Room operatives. 

Secondary objective: termination upon completion.

Dex’s knuckles shifted slightly as he kept reading, attention narrowing the deeper he went. This wasn't a surface-level hit, like the usual contracts pushed into his number. He usually got the odd job of eliminating a business man’s biggest competitor (he never took those anymore) or a mother giving most of her life savings to him to kill her abusive husband (he did those ones more often than not), but this wasn’t it. Whoever had put this together knew what they were doing. They layered intel, cross-referenced sightings, stitched fragments of reports into something coherent enough to act on.

And then there was the ledger. Not labeled that way, but Dex knew what he was looking at.

Target Activity Log (Condensed): Kiev — 12 confirmed targets, political dissidents turned assets. Execution, no witnesses. Istanbul — Arms broker extraction turned termination. 7 additional casualties during exfiltration. Lagos — Undercover infiltration of rival weapons trafficking ring. Operation successful. Entire network eliminated. Collateral: high. Madripoor — Unverified mission overlap with Yelena Belova. Outcome classified. Buenos Aires — Diplomatic attaché poisoning. Death delayed 48 hours to avoid suspicion. Moscow — Internal Red Room purge survivor. Multiple handlers eliminated. 

Dex’s thumb paused against the screen as he read through it again. The pattern was obvious to him in a way it wouldn’t be to anyone else. This wasn’t chaos. This wasn’t someone losing control. On the contrary, this was someone who was terrifyingly in control.

This target was a dangerous killer, and Dex didn't arrive at the conclusion lightly.

He liked patterns, needed them. They made the world more predictable to the point where he could sort through without it splintering into noise. And this file was full of patterns.

He scrolled back up, then down again, slower this time, eyes catching on the details most people would skip over: the timings, the methods. 

The target made clean exits where possible and didn’t care much about collateral. Every action fed into the next like it had been mapped out long before the target ever stepped into the room.

Dex’s jaw tightened slightly as he read through the Kiev entry again. Twelve victims. It was not a firefight. It was twelve decisions. Twelve moments where the target could have stopped and didn’t. Istanbul, seven more added during exfiltration. They were not part of the objective, but handled anyway. 

He understood that, and that meant he also understood what it took to do it.

You didn’t rack up a body count like that by accident. You didn’t walk away from operations like Madripoor, with entire networks wiped out and “high collateral” written off like a footnote, unless something in you had already accepted the outcome before it happened.

Dex leaned back slightly, phone still in his hand, thumb hovering but unmoving now.

People liked to pretend there was a line. A moment where someone chose to be good or bad and stuck to it. But that wasn’t how it worked. It was smaller than that. It was in the repetition. And this file read like repetition, over and over. It might happen in different cities and to different victims, but it always had the same result.

Dex couldn’t find signs of deviation or hesitation. There was no indication that the target ever stopped to question it.

His eyes flicked back to the ledger, this time reading the latest additions, entries that hadn’t had time to settle into history yet.

Recent Activity: Prague — Corporate intermediary tied to OXE shell accounts. Interrogation lasted 18 minutes. Target terminated. Two security casualties. No witnesses. DODC Supermax Prison — Perimeter sweep. Three armed contacts neutralized before engagement escalated. Surveillance equipment disabled. Exit undetected. New York — Intelligence courier intercepted en route to New Avengers safehouse. Package recovered. Courier terminated. Civilian exposure: none.

Right. 

The target was still active. 

“Yeah,” Dex muttered, more to himself than anything else.

That was what tipped it for him.

Because even now, even with everything he’d done, Dex felt the resistance. The part of him that tried, however poorly, to redirect what he was into a force for good.  The file didn’t show that.

It showed someone who had been made into a weapon and never really tried to put it down. That meant the target wasn’t in the same place he was. This target wasn’t trying to balance the scales like he was. 

And that made this person not a good person in a way he could act on.

His eyes looked to the image of the target, like he was trying to reconcile the almost fragile and delicate-looking features with everything he’d just read. It didn’t match. It never did. Faces rarely carried the weight of what they’d done. But the file didn’t lie. The patterns didn’t lie.

Dex exhaled slowly, and decided this person was bad.

Not because of one mission. Not because of one mistake. But because of all of it stacked together.

And at this point, in order to preserve what precious progress he had made, he’d rather kill a killer for rent than his landlord. That would be inconvenient.

His thumb moved, tapping the file open fully, letting the image expand across the screen.

And for the first time, Dex really looked at you.

—

Dex expected you to be harder to find.

Most people with a body count like yours didn’t settle. They didn’t usually stay anywhere long enough to be known, didn’t leave behind anything that could be traced twice in the same way. He expected burner phones, rotating safehouses, and multiple fake ids that dissolved the second they were used.

But you hadn’t done that.

You were… easy. He found your address almost immediately. He found your number, your card details, and your passport quite quickly. 

It took him a couple of hours to accept that it wasn’t an error in the data. Financial records were always messy, layered under shells and proxies, but not impossible. He followed the money the same way he followed anything else— patiently, methodically, letting the inconsistencies stand out instead of forcing them to make sense too quickly. One payment turned into a trail, then into repetition.

But still, he found nothing out of the ordinary. You were just a regular person living in New York, paying rent on time. Unlike him this month. 

He stared at the screen longer than he needed today. The more he followed it, the clearer it became that this wasn’t temporary, wasn’t a waypoint or a cover that would disappear in a week. You weren’t passing through. You weren’t hiding. You were living here.

The rest of the records only reinforced it. He found your utility bills, with groceries spaced out in a way that suggested routine. He found nothing excessive, nothing careless. It was almost jarring, how normal it looked on paper, for someone with a history soaked in blood.

Next, Dex visited your building and expected that to be where the illusion broke, maybe an indication that this was all a front.

There wasn’t anything.

It was just a building. Unremarkable, forgettable in the way most of the city was. There were no visible security upgrades, no controlled access beyond the standard high rise. There was nothing that suggested someone with your file should be walking in and out of it every day.

He watched long enough to be sure. You came and went at predictable times, no visible countersurveillance, no adjustments to your movements that suggested you thought you were being watched. You carried your own groceries up the steps. You held the door open for someone once, an older man who thanked you without hesitation, like you were just another tenant, just another face he recognized in passing.

Dex didn’t like that it didn’t fit the rest of you. So he kept digging, because if there was going to be a crack, it would be in the routine and… you had one.

It took him three days to map it out in full, not because it was complicated, but because it wasn’t. You woke early. You jogged through Central Park along the same route almost every morning at the same pace, like it was muscle memory. You didn’t scan constantly, didn’t treat every passerby like a potential threat. You just ran.

After that, you hadcoffee at the same place every time, the same order. 

Dex watched all of it from a distance, writing it down in his little notebook. He told himself it was for this job, that he needed to remember things accurately if he was going to finish the job. 

By the fourth day, he knew watching wasn’t enough. It never had been. Patterns only got you so far before they started turning into assumptions, and assumptions got people wrong. 

The problem was, he didn’t have a plan for that. He wasn’t a spy. He didn’t build relationships, didn’t ease his way into proximity. 

But standing across the street, watching you disappear into the crown like you’d done every morning that week, he understood one thing clearly enough: He didn’t know how he was going to do this. He just knew he had to get closer.

—

The next day, he “accidentally” ran into you on that jogging trail in Central Park.

He already knew the exact time your foot would hit the gravel. All he had to do was figure which way you were going: was it the route you’d take when you wanted to clear your head, or the one you’d take when you wanted a challenge?

He waited outside your apartment today and…. You were taking the hard route.

He followed, and his plan of taking you until you got to the cafè, where he would sit next to you, would’ve been perfect until… Dex timed it wrong.

He knew he did the second he adjusted his pace to match yours and felt the rhythm slip. He was too fast for a clean pass, too close for it to look incidental. 

This wasn’t what he was good at. There was no distance. Only proximity and the vague, uncomfortable awareness that if you were anything like the file said you were, you’d clock him immediately.

You didn’t. You just kept running.

He tried to correct it, cutting slightly across your path like he meant to pass you, like he belonged in your space. The movement was off by half a second, just enough to turn clumsy. His shoulder clipped yours, momentum carrying him forward a step too far. You caught before you could trip and looked at him like, what the hell, man?

“—shit, sorry,” Dex said quickly, breathing unevenly. He turned back, forcing himself to meet your eyes. “I didn’t… are you okay?”

Up close, everything went a little sideways.

He’d seen your photo. But a still image didn’t account for the way you actually were when you looked at him. You were focused, yes, but there was no immediate suspicion or recalculation behind your eyes. He could tell you were doing a quick assessment and—

“You’re fine,” you huffed, brushing it off like it really had been nothing.

Dex blinked once, recalibrating, trying to drag himself back to the whole point of this endeavour: Intel. 

Simple, right? 

Except now you were standing there, waiting just long enough that it demanded a response.

Right. Say something. Anything.

“Uh… there’s a coffee place just up ahead,” he heard himself say, the words coming out before he could fully filter them. “I can make it up to you. Buy you one or something.”

There was a lull of silence where even he registered what he’d just done.

That wasn’t part of any plan. That was stupid.

Dex forced himself not to react to it outwardly, even as his chest tightened in irritation. This wasn’t how he should’ve handled a target like you. He shouldn’t’ve improvised like this. What was he thinking, basically asking you out like some idiot who didn’t know what he was doing?

But you were still just looking at him.

And up close, all he could think about was how… disarming you were.

That was the word his brain landed on, unhelpfully. You made him lower their guard without realizing he was doing it. 

Dex swallowed, keeping his expression neutral, like this was intentional, like this was just another step in a plan he actually had control over.

This is for intel, he told himself, firmly. Just intel via proximity. That’s all this is.

You tilted your head slightly, considering him in a way that made him feel, for a split second, like he was the one being assessed.

“Coffee?” you repeated. 

“Yeah,” he said, a little more steady now. “Least I can do.”

“For what?” you managed an amused chuckle, and Dex could’ve sworn that hearing you make that noise lit up the world around him. “bumping into me? Is this a line?”

“I just…” he stammered, and bit the inside of his cheek. “I’ve seen you around.”

I’ve seen you around??? He mentally slapped himself. What kind of fucking stupid explanation is that? What does that have to do with anything?

Surprisingly, though, all you did was tilt your head and said, “Okay.”

Oh?

Dex forced himself to nod once, like he’d expected it, like this hadn’t just gone completely off-script.

“Okay,” he echoed, turning slightly to fall into step beside you as you started moving again.

He kept his focus forward, matching your pace, already running through what he needed to ask, what he could realistically get without pushing too hard, how to steer the conversation where he needed it to go.

And still, somewhere in the back of his mind, something felt off. Dex ignored it, because this was a job. You were a target.

And this was just the easiest way to get what he needed. Nothing more.

—

The café was small, tucked between a bookstore and a laundromat.

On the way there, you exchanged your names— he said he was “Tony,” and you, surprisingly, had given him your real name. You were easy to talk to, and you talked about the weather, the park, the surprisingly little snow last winter.

When you got to the café, Dex was relieved to see that it wasn’t too crowded, just a couple of people on laptops, a murmur of conversation, the hiss of the espresso machine every so often. Fewer variables, Fewer eyes.

You ordered first: iced latte, like you’d done it a hundred times. He followed with an Americano, mostly because he panicked and it sounded normal enough.

Now he sat across from you, fingers loosely wrapped around the glass cup, watching the condensation bead along the outside of your glass as you stirred your drink with your straw. You looked… relaxed.

You took a sip, then glanced at him over the rim, and there was mischief in your expression. A second later, you let out a giggle, tapping the straw lightly against the lid.

“So,” you said, dragging the word out just a little. “Why does Bullseye want to take me out to coffee?”

Dex choked.

It wasn’t subtle. The coffee went down the wrong way, and he had to turn his head slightly, coughing into his fist. For a split second, he thought he might actually spit it out all over you, which—thank fuck—the café being mostly empty made slightly less of a disaster.

His eyes snapped back to you.

“…You knew?” he asked.

You blinked at him like that was the stupidest question you’d heard all day, then shrugged, taking another sip like this was a casual conversation. “Of course,” you said. “Don’t pretend like you don’t know me.”

There was no accusation in it. You said it as if it was a fact.

Dex just stared at you. His brain tried to catch up, running through possibilities, angles, trying to figure out where this had gone wrong. Had you clocked him earlier? On the run? Before that? Had he missed an obvious tell?

You didn’t look alarmed. You didn’t look like you were about to bolt or reach for a weapon. If anything, you looked… curious.

“Oh,” he said, because that was all that came out at first.

Great. Perfect. Real smooth.

He forced himself to take another sip of his coffee, buying a second to gather his thoughts, to shove everything back into place where it belonged.

She’s a target. This is a job.

“Yeah,” he added, steadier now, nodding once like this hadn’t just blindsided him. “I mean—yeah. I just…” His teeth tightened for half a second before he settled on the first thing that felt even remotely usable. “I’m a fan of your work.”

You didn’t react immediately. You watched him over your drink, eyes narrowing slightly.

Dex held your eyes, forcing himself not to overcorrect, to let it breathe. Let it land.

“Right,” you said finally. You didn’t sound entirely convinced, but you let it go.

The silence stretched, but not too uncomfortably. It was just charged. You knew there was no chance of going back to a civilian conversation as you leaned back slightly, exhaling.

“Alright. No, we’re not doing this version,” you decided, more to yourself than him. Then you straightened again, meeting his eyes properly. “Can we start over?”

Dex blinked, thrown just enough to answer honestly. “I… yeah.”

You nodded once, resetting playfully. 

“Hi. You already know my name, so I’m skipping that part,” you said, gesturing vaguely with your cup. “I’m a former Red Room Widow. I live in New York now.”

You said it like a random woman introducing themself as an accountant.

Dex opened his mouth, then closed it to filter through the responses. “Hi,” he tried again, because apparently that was all he had today.

You waited.

“Hi,” he repeated, then dragged a hand down his face, exhaling through his nose. “I’m Dex. Not—” he made a vague, frustrated gesture, “not Tony, I don’t…”

Your lips twitched. “I got that.”

“Right. Yeah.” He nodded once, a bit too quickly. Then, as if he was forcing the words out his throat. “I’m… a good guy.”

The second it left his mouth, he knew how weird it sounded. You blinked at him. Then, to his surprise, you chuckled, and it was not unkind.

“Hi, Dex Not Tony,” you said, teasing him. “That’s a strong introduction.”

His mouth pressed into a thin line, but his shoulder reluctantly eased a fraction. “It’s… yeah,” he muttered. “Workshopping it.”

That earned him a small huff of laughter, and just like that, the tension changed. It was not gone completely, but it loosened enough to breathe around.

“Mm,” you hummed, tapping your straw against the rim of the glass. “Maybe workshop faster.”

That earned you the smallest exhale that might’ve been a laugh.

“So,” you went on, glancing at his drink. “Americano?” 

He looked down at it like he’d forgotten it existed. “Mmm.”

“Do you actually like that,” you took a sip of your own drink, “or did you panic-order?”

Dex hesitated, but decided against lying. “Panic-order.”

You grinned. “Thought so.”

“Yours?” he asked, nodding toward your cup.

“Iced latte. Always.”

He nodded once, filing it away without thinking. “Predictable,” he said.

“Consistent,” you corrected.

“Same thing.”

“Not even a little.” Your smile tugged a little wider, and for a second, it made your whole face look gentle in a way that didn’t match anything he’d read.

The conversation after that was not awkward, even as it came in uneven starts. You both drifted out half-finished sentences, small corrections, circling around what you weren’t saying more than what you were. But eventually, it found a rhythm. 

You talked about nothing, mostly. The weather again, somehow. The park. The café. You made an offhand comment about the coffee being great here but the pastries were better two blocks over, and Dex filed that away without meaning to. He asked a question that sounded almost normal, and you answered it like it was. 

For some reason, he could not bring himself to ask about intel. Still, neither of you got up as time stretched right before your eyes. 

“Okay,” you said after a moment, glancing at your drink, then back at him. “For the record, this is the weirdest coffee I’ve had in a while.”

“Same,” he said.

“And I’ve had coffee in worse places.”

“Same.”

You narrowed your eyes slightly, amused. “You’re just copying me now.”

There was that pause again. This time, neither of you rushed to fill it. 

You checked your phone briefly, then sighed, like you didn’t actually want to say what came next. “I should probably…” you started, gesturing vaguely toward the door. “…go.”

Dex nodded immediately. “Yeah. Yeah, sure.”

You stood, grabbing your jacket, then hesitated just slightly. You looked at him, like you were weighing your options, then reached into your pocket and pulled out your phone. “Give me your number.”

Dex tilted his head. “…What?”

You held it out, unfazed. “In case you decide to bump into me again,” you said. “Might as well schedule it next time.”

He stared at you for a second, like he was trying to find an explanation, a reason not to… 

Then he took the phone.

“Right,” he nodded. “Yeah.”

He put it in and handed it back. After all, he had convinced himself that it was just so he could get the intel he was supposed to do today.

“See you around, Dex Not Tony.” 

“Yeah,” he said, quieter now. “See you.”

You turned, heading for the door. The bell chimed again as you left.

Dex stayed where he was for a moment longer than necessary, staring at the space you’d just occupied, the echo of your laugh still sitting somewhere in the back of his mind.

Something about that had gone very, very wrong. Or very right

—

That night, Dex had trouble sleeping.

The apartment was too quiet, the city noise bleeding faintly through the windows, the weight of the day sitting wrong in his chest. He laid there for a while, staring at the ceiling, replaying the conversation in fragments: your voice, your eyes, the way none of it lined up with the file. Eventually, he gave up trying to sleep at all. 

He sat up, reached for the notebook on his nightstand, and flipped it open. The logs he had on you were already there: Times, routes, and observations.

He stared at it for a moment, pen hovering. Then he added a new line, pressing just slightly harder than necessary: 

Likes iced lattes

—

Two days later, Dex’s phone buzzed.

He didn’t get messages he wanted to open. He didn’t need another contract— he got his hands full as is. So for a second, he just stared at it from across the room, letting it vibrate once. Unknown number.

His jaw tightened before he picked it up and unlocked it.

There was a photo of a newspaper, slightly crumpled, held down by what looked like your hand. The headline was clear enough:

THREE ANTI-VIGANTE TASK FORCE AGENTS FOUND DEAD IN ALLEY

Below it, you had texted: 

is this you?

Dex stared at the screen, figuring out exactly who it was. He read it again, trying to wrap his mind around this. His thumb hovered over the keyboard.

You knew. Or you suspected. Or you were testing him. All three were problems.

Dex exhaled slowly through his nose and typed.

Dex: no. Why would you think that?

He was lying, but then again, he was the one who’s supposed to do the interrogation here. It would be stupid to give anything away. 

He hit send before he could overthink it. Three dots appeared almost immediately.

You: just thought I’d ask

Dex frowned. That was it? No pushback? No follow-up? Did you not think he was interesting enough? 

Dex: You just ask people that? “hey did you kill three people”?

There was a pause this time. Dex found himself watching the screen, shoulders slightly tense without realizing it.

You: not usually, but you don’t usually “accidentally” run into me either so

Dex’s grip on the phone tightened just a fraction.

Right. You weren’t letting that go. Dex: I said I’ve seen you around.

He only had to wait a few seconds 

You: sure

He could hear the tone in it. That same almost-amused voice from the café. Not hostile, but curious. Dex leaned back against the wall, phone still in his hand, mind already thinking about what you knew, what you were pretending not to know.

You sent another message before he could respond.

You: also for the record, if it was you, I know you’d say no anyway

Dex managed a smile.

Dex: Probably.

You texted back just as quickly

You: so I’m choosing to believe you 🙂 You: congrats

He huffed, a dry laugh catching in his throat. This was… strange.

You weren’t pushing. You weren’t backing off either. You were just… there, talking to him like this was normal.

Dex stared at the screen for a moment longer, then typed again. 

Dex: Why’d you actually text me?

The typing bubble came and went once. Then, it stayed.

You: because I wanted to You: ??? You: do I need a better reason than that

Dex frowned slightly. That answer didn’t fit neatly anywhere that his brain could  categorize, 

Dex: People usually have reasons.

This time your reply took longer. Long enough that Dex caught himself rereading the earlier messages, analyzing tone, punctuation, timing, looking for something he might’ve missed.

You: okay, fine You: I was bored You: and you’re interesting You: better?

Dex froze.

Interesting. Was that what you thought of him?

Dex: You don’t seem like you get bored.

He could almost picture you rolling your eyes 

You: wow. you are a fan

He stared at the screen for a second, then forced himself to snap back into place. 

You were a target, he had to remind himself. Nothing more. He needed intel to pay rent, and he could only get that after he eliminated you, so… 

Dex: if you’re bored, we could go on another date

He hit send and immediately had what did you just do moment. This wasn’t part of the job. This wasn’t… date wasn’t the word he should’ve used. 

The typing bubble popped up, disappeared, and came back within three seconds. 

You: is that what that was the first time? a date??

Dex blinked.

“…No,” he muttered under his breath, already typing.

No. It was—

He stopped. What was it?

Dex: maybe?

That was all he could send. Oh, he was never playing spy after this job was done. Not ever again.

You: right You: with a guy who “sees me around”  You: very normal

Dex pressed his lips together.

Dex: Do you want to go or not?

During the wait, Dex felt something unfamiliar settle in his stomach. It was something he could only describe as butterflies. 

You: yeah sure 

His grip on the phone loosened slightly.

You: same place? or are you gonna “accidentally” run into me again?

Dex huffed.

Dex: how about the pastry place you were talking about? 

Oh so now he was paying attention to your recommendations?

You: okay. Friday?

The only thing he had on his calendar was killing task force, and that could wait, so… 

Dex: Friday works.

He tapped on his phone screen, anxiously waiting for confirmation.

You: cool You: try not to kill anyone before then. It ruins the vibe

Dex stared at that one for a second.

Dex: No promises.

There was no reply after that.

That night, in his notebook, he wrote another thing about you:

Initiates contact.

—

The second date felt different before it even started.

You were standing at the counter of the bakery when he saw you, pointing at something in the display case, smiling at the cashier like this was the easiest thing in the world. “Hey, Dex.” 

You ended up at a small table by the window, a couple of plates between you. A flaky and golden croissant, a banana-flavoured donut-like dessert dusted in powdered sugar (his choice), a molten-in-the-middle pain au chocolate, and one with custard that looked like it might fall apart if you breathed too hard near it.

Adorably, he knew you had picked too many things. Dex didn’t comment on it, but he noticed then, how you pointed without overthinking, how you changed your mind halfway through, how you added one more at the last second “just in case.”

It felt indulgent in a small, contained way. Like this was the only thing you let yourself have. 

The plate between you looked excessive now, but you nudged it toward him anyway.

“Try that one,” you said, already reaching for another.

Dex picked it up without arguing. It was… good, but he didn’t say that out loud.

You watched his face anyway, like you were waiting for the reaction.

“It’s fine,” he said.

You snorted. “Liar.”

“I’m not—”

“Don’t pretend it’s just fine,” you rolled your eyes, though you had said it with your mouth full, so it sounded more like downt pwetend it's jusft fwine.

“I’m not pretending.”

“You are.”

He hesitated, then let you win this one. “It is good,” he admitted begrudgingly.

“There it is.”

The conversation slipped into place easily after that. It was not smooth, but it didn’t catch as often. You didn’t circle each other as much. You just… talked.

You even went on for a good fifteen minutes about watching a squirrel in the park yesterday. You said something about how it would grab something, run halfway up the tree, stop, look around like it forgot what it was doing, then go back down and start over. You went on saying, it did this, like, five times, I think it lost the nut at some point but just committed to the bit.

Dex was surprised a former Red Room operative would even concern herself with things as trivial as a little rodent. He was even more surprised that he let you go on and on about it. It was as if he liked listening to you, no matter what you said. 

You reached for the sweeter pastry next, taking a bite, and Dex’s eyes automatically tracking the movement. A small smear of custard caught at the corner of your lip.

You didn’t notice. You kept talking, mid-sentence about the squirrel again, something about it being “committed to chaos, like hoarding random park objects were its hobby,” and—

Dex raised his hand before he could stop it.  “Hold on,” he said, almost a whisper.

You paused. “what…”

His thumb brushied lightly at the corner of your mouth, wiping the custard away, before licking the liquid off on his own tongue. The contact was brief and altogether too gentle for a man like him. For a second, neither of you moved.

His hand dropped back to the table. “You had…” he gestured vaguely. “Custard.”

“Oh.” You blinked once, then let out a small, surprised laugh. “Thanks.”

“Yeah.” Dex looked down at his hands. That felt… Unfamiliar.

He didn’t know when the last time he’d done something like that was. He didn’t know when the last time he’d wanted to.

There was this strange warmth sitting in his chest now, almost weightless. He didn’t even have a name for it.

And while he wasn’t sure he liked that, he definitely didn’t hate it.

You were the one to break the silence, coughing awkwardly like you couldn’t stand another second of silence. 

“Ummm speaking of hobbies?” you echoed, wiping your mouth just in case. “You… don’t strike me as a hobbies person.”

“I had some,” he said, easing back into the chair. Thank fuck you could carry the conversation for the both of them, because his brain had just fully stalled. 

“Past tense is concerning.” You leaned forward just a little. “What, like, knitting?”

“No.”

“Scrapbooking?”

“No.”

“Be honest,” you taunted, “I can see it.”

He almost smiled, and looked down when he said it. “Baseball.”

You paused, then nodded, like that made perfect sense.

“Yeah, I can see that,” you said, then added casually, “I used to do ballet.”

Dex blinked. He looked at you differently now. like he was trying to fit that into everything else he knew. “Oh,” he managed to say.

You shrugged. “Standard Red Room stuff.”

Dex’s posture shifted slightly, attention narrowing. 

Oh, this was it. This was what he came for. This was the thread he needed. This was the confirmation that you had been trained in HQ, right? If you had survived it, then there were doors inside you that led back to places he couldn’t access any other way. 

These were not guesses, not patterns he had to infer from distance, but direct proximity to the Red Room itself, to its methods, its remnants, its current reach. He just needed to keep you talking, keep you close, long enough to pull it apart piece by piece. So he asked, “What does that mean?”

You froze, as if a flash of memories ran through the back of your eyes. Then shook your head once. “Mm—nope.”

“What?”

“Not here,” you said lightly, but there was an immovable conviction underneath it now. “I’m not getting into that here.”

Dex watched you as held his hazel eyes. Then, just as quickly, you leaned forward, resting your chin lightly against your hand, expression shifting back from dark to a lighter tone. “Come by my place on Saturday,” you said, like it had just occurred to you. “We’ll call it our third date.”

Dex blinked. “What?”

You shrugged, completely unfazed. “If you’re really curious,” you added, a small tilt to your head. “There’s… fewer people.”

He stared at you, his eyes empty and calculating at the saw time, fingers anxiously tapping the underside of the table. This was… this was not in the plan. This was not one of his controlled outcomes. This was not…

“Okay,” he said anyway. The answer seemed to have left his mouth before he fully processed it.

“Okay,” you echoed.

And somewhere between the pastries, coffee, and conversation, he realized, a little too late… 

This doesn’t feel like a job.

—

Dex had expected a decoy. A secondary location, maybe a shell apartment. He was expecting something stripped down and impersonal, designed to be burned the second it was compromised.

Not this. Not the exact place he had already mapped out in his notebook.

So yeah, you had given him your real address.

For just a second, he wondered if this was the play. If you knew how much he knew. If this was some test he hadn’t caught onto yet.

The building was exactly what he expected. It was a high-end high rise. The doorman glanced at him once, then nodded like he’d already been cleared.

“You’re expected,” he said simply.

Dex didn’t respond, already moving past him. The elevator took him straight up.

By the time he reached your door, he had an uneasy feeling in his chest. Was this… a trap? 

He knocked, and the door opened almost immediately.

“Hi,” you said.

Dex opened his mouth to respond, but you interrupted his train of thoughts by pressing a quick kiss to his cheek, right at the scar.

Dex froze. By the time you pulled back, his brain still hadn’t caught up.

You smiled like nothing had happened, stepping aside to let him in. “Come in.”

He couldn’t find words to say, because apparently, his brain was on pause now.

Still, Dex stayed half a step behind you as you pushed the door open, his eyes already scanning past your shoulder and realised…

The place was… expensive.

Not in a loud, gaudy way. You had no gold fixtures or ridiculous statement pieces. It was intentional. It had floor-to-ceiling windows stretching across the far wall with a view that swallowed half the city. It had two bedrooms, if he researched it right.

“How…” he started, then cut himself off. What he meant to say was, how can you afford this? But decided against it. 

You didn’t seem to notice. “Make yourself comfortable,” you said, already shrugging off your jacket and tossing it onto a chair like it wasn’t worth more than half the furniture in his apartment. “I just need the bathroom. I’ll be quick.”

And just like that, you disappeared.

Dex stood there for a second longer than necessary, processing everything. 

You lived here. And not as a cover, not temporarily. There were no signs of rotation, no packed bags, no readiness to leave at a moment’s notice.

“That’s stupid,” he muttered under his breath. Or reckless. Or you were just arrogant to a fault. Maybe you just didn’t think anyone could touch you.

Dex stood still for a second, listening to the water running. He heard the slightly delayed pipes and realised you weren’t rushing. Good.

His eyes tracked the room the way they always did, scanning for inconsistencies. He didn’t try to look for what was there, but what didn’t belong. Because people like you didn’t leave things out.

Which meant if anything existed, it would be hidden. His gaze slowed down and shifted… There. A section of the wall paneling near the shelving was barely misaligned. It was not enough for anyone else to clock, but Dex didn’t miss patterns like that.

He stepped closer, fingers brushing lightly over the seam. There must be a pressure point. Eventually the panel gave just enough of a click to confirm it. Dex didn’t hesitate before easing it open.

Inside was a compact hidden compartment.

The first thing he saw was a keycard, worn at the edges. The insignia was barely visible, but he didn’t need it to be clear. He knew what it was the second he saw it: Hydra.

“Of course,” he muttered under his breath.

Red Room had a historical overlap with Hydra. Old, but not irrelevant.

It surely was a small enough thing that you wouldn’t miss it, right?

He pocketed it and moved on to the only other thing hidden in the panel: Documents. It wasn’t exactly a full archive, but it was enough.

He flipped through them, scanning fast. Inside were names of Red Room operatives. The dead ones were labeled. He assumed the ones who didn’t have a red Xs on their files were still active. 

You had annotated them too, with locations, partial intel, and movement patterns.

This was the kind of access people killed for.

His thumb moved, grabbing his phone. He flipped through quickly, taking a picture of each page, each note, each annotation. He made sure, of course, that it was legible.

This was high-level access, closer than anything he’d gotten from a distance. This… This was the job.

Then he heard the sound of water shutting off.

Shit. Dex froze. Then, he moved. He closed the folder immediately, sliding it back in.

Everything went back exactly as it was, the panel sealed until the seam disappeared into the wall again like it had never existed. By the time you stepped back into the room, he was already on the couch.

“Sorry,” you said, drying your hands casually, completely unbothered. “That took longer than I thought.”

Dex looked up at you. There was a split second, where something in his expression didn’t line up. The. it was gone.

“You’re fine,” he said evenly.

You nodded, like that settled it, and stepped closer. You dropped down onto the couch beside him, close enough that your shoulder brushed his, as if this was normal. As if he wasn’t here to dismantle you piece by piece. He didn’t even realise that you had a bottle of wine and two glasses on your hand. 

You leaned back slightly, turning your head toward him, “…So,” you said, more direct. “What do you want to know?”

—

It can’t be this easy right? Dex thought. 

Turns out, it was. 

Which was weird, because people like you didn’t just… hand things over. So either this was the cleanest setup he’d ever walked into, or you really didn’t think he was a threat. Neither option sat right with him. 

His fingers flexed slightly against his knee as he watched you pour two glasses of red. You handed one to him, and Dex took it quickly. “Thanks,” he said, smaller than usual.

He didn’t even usually drink anymore. He turned the stem slightly between his fingers, watching the liquid catch the light. For a brief second, his mind did what it always did: it ran through possibilities. 

It might be a sedative. It could be poison. He could handle most of that, maybe. And if he couldn’t…  Well.

He huffed quietly to himself. What the hell.

Dex took a sip. It burned a little on the way down. Not unusual, just normal wine. 

The first sign that it wasn’t poison was that you were drinking it, too. The second sign was that you didn’t react; you didn’t watch him like you were waiting for something to happen. You just leaned back into the couch and tucked your leg under yourself.

It was cute, Dex thought. You looked like a bird, nesting. He liked it.

Then, he took a deep breath and started asking questions. At first, it was light, like where did you grow up? Where were you trained?

You answered, and you sounded detached for the first couple of sentences. It was as if you were testing the limits and throwing pieces out to see what stuck.

But when the alcohol kicked in and your cheeks turned rosy pink, you spoke more candidly. About the Red Room. About being taken. About being trained.

Even Dex, who was starting to feel more bubbly, didn’t interrupt.

At first, he listened like he always did. He filtered, sorted, and pulled out what mattered. But somewhere along the way, that changed. Because you started giving less intel and more… context.

“You don’t really realize it when you’re in it,” you said, staring into your glass like the answer might be somewhere at the bottom. “It just feels normal. Like this is what life is supposed to be. You don’t question it because there’s nothing else to compare it to.”

Dex’s grip tightened slightly, and you kept going.

“They don’t just train you. They… build you. Strip everything out first. Then put back only what they need.” You gave him a small laugh.“Honestly? It’s basically a cult. You have no idea what it’s like to be manipulated like that.”

Dex looked down, and exhaled slowly through his nose. “Yeah,” he said. “I do.”

You glanced at him then, and your eyes shifted. You were not shocked at all, but you recognised it as well as you would recognise kin. “Oh,” you looked down. “Right.”

Dex poured himself another glass without thinking. You kept talking, but slower now. It was less like you were explaining, more like you were… unloading. Like you didn’t have anywhere else to put it.

That’s when it clicked: This must not be a trap or a strategy, he concluded, because the reason you were telling him all of this on a third date was… because, like him, you had no one else.

You might have neighbors, maybe even actual friends. But surely, you had no one else who could possibly understand you the way he did, because who else could you possibly know in this line of work? 

That was why you decided that he was the safest place to put it.

Dex stared at the rim of his glass for a second too long. That was stupid of you. And dangerous. And—

“…And you?” you said suddenly, nudging his knee lightly with yours. “C’mon.”

He blinked, pulled back into the moment.

“If we’re trauma dumping,” you added, a crooked smile pulling at your mouth, “we might as well commit. This is probably our only chance to say it out like.” You took another sip, then shrugged. “Doesn’t exactly look like either of us go to therapy.”

Dex huffed. “Yeah,” he muttered. His brain caught up half a second later.

He shouldn’t, though, right? He shouldn’t tell you anything about him that could possibly be compromising but… The booze was getting to him. 

And, besides, what harm could trauma dumping to you be? The job ends one way: with you dead after he got all the intel. So did it really matter what you knew about him?

Dex leaned back slightly, exhaling a little. 

And then, before he could stop himself, the extra bit of liquid courage bypassed his brain, and he told you everything. 

The words came out flat at first. But the more he drank, the less he cared about what he gave away and what he did not. 

You didn’t interrupt him. You just listened. And that, more than anything, kept him talking. 

At some point, the wine started to blur the edges for you, too. Your shoulders leaned closer. Your knee stayed pressed against his. Your laughter came easier as he cynically explained being in prison, and because you felt bad when you did, you gasped and covered your mouth. 

Dex didn’t seem to mind. He even smiled, the corner of his mouth warping the pronounced scar on his cheek. At one point, you tilted your head slightly, watching him with an understanding that hadn’t been there before.

“God,” you said, almost to yourself. “We’re so fucked up.”

Then, unexpectedly, you giggled. Dex, for once, cannot help but chuckle himself. 

“Yeah.” He took another sip, “You more than me,” he added, almost immediately.

Your head snapped toward him immediately. “Excuse me?”

A faint smirk pulled at his mouth. “Y’know,” he said, “Child soldier and all.”

You stared at him for a second, before letting out a disbelieving laugh. “Really?” you shot back, leaning closer, eyes narrowing in mock offense. “I’m more fucked up?”

He lifted a shoulder slightly in a shrug.

You pointed at him with your glass. “Your boss broke your spine and you lived.”

Dex managed to roll his eyes. 

“You got thrown off a roof and you lived,” you continued, leaning in further now, your voice picking up energy. “Sounds like you’re pretty far from normal.”

Dex huffed again. “Didn’t say I was normal.”

“Mm,” you hummed, satisfied. You sipped again. 

The space between you closed without either of you noticing when it happened. Your knee pressed against his. Your shoulder brushed his arm. Neither of you moved away.

The wine kept going. Half a glass. Then another.Words came easier after that, less filtered, less controlled.

You interrupted each other more. You laughed more. You even talked over the ends of sentences like it didn’t matter who finished them. At some point, you were both smiling for no reason.

Dex didn’t realize when the room started to feel warmer. He didn’t realize when your voice started to blur slightly at the edges. He didn’t even realize when he stopped thinking about the job entirely. He just knew, at this point, that you were close. Really close.

And you looked… Pretty.

That was a stupid word. It was too simple. It didn’t cover the gnawing claws that were starting to take over his heart.  

But it was the only word his brain gave him. You were smiling at something (he didn’t even remember what) and it made you look… harmless. 

Dex felt a warmth shift in his chest. As unfamiliar as it was, he didn’t pull away from it. For a second, you looked at him, too.

Dex swallowed the last of the wine, mostly because it was the only distraction that could possibly take up all the space you had started to occupy in his mind.

The room had dimmed at the edges in that deceptive way alcohol always did. The lights seemed warmer. 

Dex didn’t usually get to this point. He knew that with uncomfortable clarity. He also knew he should stop.

You were sitting too close, closer than before, closer than necessary, your shoulder pressed lightly into his as if neither of you had noticed the distance shrinking over time.

Your voice had gone gentler, words starting to come in slower waves instead of quick exchanges. There was less explanation, more confession disguised as conversation. And he was doing the same, even if he wouldn’t have admitted it out loud.

Parts of him he usually kept locked down were just… loosening, one by one, without permission.

You laughed at something he said, he didn’t even remember what it was, and the sound stuck in his head longer than it should have. 

“You’re smiling,” you observed suddenly, tilting your head slightly like it was a fossil discovery.

“I’m not,” he said automatically.

You hummed, unconvinced. “You are.”

He should’ve corrected you. Instead, his eyes drifted without meaning to, down to your mouth when you spoke again. The way your words drooped at the edges when you were tired, or tipsy, or both. For the love of god, he could not get over you the way you kept licking your lip absentmindedly, like you weren’t even aware of it.

It made something in his brain go pop.

You noticed. “…What?” you asked, pouting adorably.

Dex didn’t answer right away. Because, really, there was no tactical reason for him to be looking at you like this. There was no intel angle. No extraction logic. No job framework he could hide behind.

It was just you. And him. And the space between you that didn’t feel like space anymore.

He leaned in before he could reassemble himself. He hadn’t planned on doing it. It wasn’t even a decision he consciously made, really. 

It was, for lack of better word, gravity. As if he was a meteor falling into your orbit. 

For a while, you didn’t move away. 

Your breath caught in your throat, but you stayed there, watching him come closer instead of stopping it. Your eyes flicked down once, like you were considering it too.

Dex stopped just short of you. He wanted, no needed— to know you wanted it, too. 

Still, he was close enough that he could feel your breath now. Close enough that if either of you moved even a fraction—

That would be it. The line would be crossed.

You lifted your hand slowly, but you were not pushing him away. You weren’t pulling him closer, either. Your palm was hovering for a moment against his chest like you were testing whether this was real.

Dex didn’t move. Neither did you.

You exhaled. It was a small, almost reluctant sound. “…Dex,” you murmured, and his name sounded different like that. His eyes flicked to yours again.

Too close. This was way too close.

Your eyes dropped again to his mouth again, and stayed there. For a second, he could clearly see that fraction of hesitation where neither of you could pretend anymore that you weren’t thinking the same thing.

Dex leaned in that final inch… but you didn’t meet him halfway. Gently, your hand pressed into his chest.

“Mm,” you murmured softly, almost like you were trying to convince yourself this was wrong. Then you pushed him back.

“No,” you said, breath hitching slightly, but your smile was still there, playful, light. “It’s only our third date.”

Dex blinked, still a little too close, like he hadn’t fully processed the words.

You laughed under your breath, giving him a small shove to create space.

“Besides,” you added, eyes flicking down to his mouth for just a second before meeting his again, “I want you to kiss me when you’re sober.”

Oh.

He leaned back this time, letting out a deep breath. There was only one way he could describe how he felt, and that was disappointment. 

Oh, well. What else can he do?

“Yeah,” he managed to say. “Okay.”

Still, he didn’t move far, and neither did you.

And of course, his thoughts, intrusive as they always are, decided to ruin the only tender moment he had in years.  

You have enough. Kill her. 

Honestly, he had more than enough intel on the Red Room. Even the old Hydra keycard was a welcome addition to his anonymous employer’s request. It would most definitely make up for anything else they could have possibly wanted. 

What are you waiting for? Kill her. 

It was definitely more than what that had bargained for. So yeah, he could do it now. 

He had clocked many sharp objects he could throw at you— from your vase to a cheese knife you left out on the island kitchen. He didn’t even need a gun. 

Kill her.

And no, you wouldn’t even see it coming. His fingers flexed slightly against his leg.

Kill her.

But then he made the mistake of looking at you. And from there on out, all he could think was… 

I want another date.

No. He shouldn’t want that, right?

Kill her.

He didn’t want that either. 

But… he needed the money, and you had a body count higher than the Empire State Building. Killing you would make sense right? It would help balance the scales, right?

Right? 

Would it still make sense, even after you laid your heart and soul to him? Would it still make sense, even after he realised you were brought up as an enslaved child soldier? 

Kill her. 

No, he told himself, Not yet.

I want just one more date. 

And to Dex, that was reason enough not to kill you. Yet. 

—

Dex didn’t go to rest when he got home.

The second the door shut behind him, he frowned, burying his head in his hands before pulling himself together. He had called forth the part of him that knew what to do, what this was, what it had to be.

He pulled the notebook out before he’d even taken his jacket off.

He sat down, pen moving across paper. It started the way it always did: Structured and efficient. Intel, in detail.

He wrote of the interior of your apartment; top floor, two-bedroom, open sightlines, minimal obstruction points. Entry points limited. Windows large but not easily accessible from exterior. Security: building-controlled, doorman compliant, prior clearance confirmed.

He flipped the page. He wrote about the hidden compartment: wall panel, right side of shelving unit. Pressure point activation. Contents: Hydra-era keycard, confirmed overlap with Red Room operations. Documents: active survivor list, partial intel, movement logs. Photographic evidence captured.

Another page. This was where he started writing about your routine vulnerabilities, your Behavioral patterns. Trust threshold: high. Counter-surveillance: minimal to non-existent. Open, disarming, prone to disclosure under informal conditions.

His handwriting stayed tight. 

2.5 million dollars would only come after you were dead. That would fund his makeshift crusade for years to come. It was important work he was doing, balancing the scales. 

Dex paused, just for a second. Then he kept going.

Timeline: Saturday meeting. Entry granted without resistance. Physical proximity established quickly. Target displays—

His pen slowed to a stop. It hovered there, a warmth blooming in his chest. Dex frowned slightly, staring at the page like it had changed on him.

Then, almost absentmindedly, he wrote… she kissed me on the cheek, right on the scar.

The pen froze again.

That wasn’t— He exhaled, teeth clenching. —this wasn’t important. 

But still, he crossed nothing out. He just moved on.

Target displays lowered threat perception in close proximity. Conversational drift toward—

His handwriting had changed. Not messy, just less rigid.

… her past. She smells like vanilla. not perfume. Most likely clean laundry and sugar from baking.

Dex blinked. He looked at the lines then at the rest of the page.

What the fuck.

He flipped to the next page like that would fix it.

Red wine is her favourite.

His grip on the pen tightened slightly.

He should stop. This wasn’t relevant. None of the last couple sentences was relevant. Dex leaned back slightly in his chair, staring at the notebook in his lap.

He had everything he needed. He didn’t need to write anything else.

Dex scoffed quietly under his breath. Had he gone soft? 

Then, without really deciding to, he added one more line underneath it…

She laughed when she said “we’re so fucked up.”

He stared at it for a second longer than necessary. Then he snapped the notebook shut.

—

The restaurant for the fourth date was nicer than most places he even bothered to go to nowadays. But if this was going to be your last meal, he might as well make it memorable.

It had soft blue lights, a low hum of voices, the whoosh of knives behind the counter. Dex noticed all of it the second he stepped in, cataloguing angles and exits, the reflective panel behind the chef that gave him a partial view of the room without turning his head.

You need to kill her today.

He exhaled slowly through his nose and followed the host to the table.

When you sat down across from him, smiling like you hadn’t just walked straight into the middle of your own funeral, the room blurred at the edges for Dex.

“Hi,” you said with a smile

Kiss her.

He blinked once, forcing his brain back into place. “Hi.”

You tilted your head slightly, studying him like you always did, like you were trying to solve a puzzle with a missing piece. “You look like you’ve been here for a while.”

“I haven’t.”

“You definitely have.”

“Maybe five minutes.” That was a lie. He had been there for more than ten, cataloging what he could possibly use to finish the job.

You smiled, pleased. “Knew it.”

She’s faking it. She actually likes me. Kill her.

Dex picked up the menu just to give his hands something to do. “You’re late.”

“I’m two minutes late,” you corrected, leaning forward slightly to peek at what he was looking at instead of opening your own. “And I brought personality, so it cancels out.”

He huffed, hiding a smile. “That’s not how that works.”

“It is.” You insisted, tapping the menu. “Also, you picked sushi? I didn’t think you were a sushi person.”

“I’m not.” He immediately said. 

You blinked. “Then why…”

“Seemed efficient.” What he meant was; it’s a nice meal. You deserve a nice meal for the last day of your life. It’s efficient for him, who had an array of ceramic and silverware to kill you with.

You stared at him for a second, then broke into a grin. “You picked it based on efficiency.”

“Yes.”

“That is the least romantic thing I’ve ever heard.”

Kiss her. Tell her she’s pretty.

He didn’t do either.

“You’re still here,” he pointed out instead.

“Yeah,” you said easily, settling back in your seat. “Because I actually like you.”

Liar. Kill her.

Somewhere between you stealing sushi off his plate and laughing at how aggressively he held chopsticks, you asked, almost casually, “You know anything about the ports here?” Dex paused slightly at that, eyes flicking up to yours over his glass. 

The question should’ve put him more on edge than it did, but you just looked curious, relaxed, like this was normal conversation. “Not much,” he admitted after a second. “Fisk uses them to move things through there sometimes.” 

You hummed thoughtfully, listening closely, and Dex found himself talking a little more than he probably should’ve just because you kept looking at him like that.

After a while, though, he managed to change the topic. Work was getting a little old. He found himself wanting to talk about you. “You always order too much.”

You lit up like he’d just handed you a piece of chocolate. “Oh, we’re judging now?”

“I’m observing.”

“Rude,” you said, already scanning the menu. “Also, it’s not too much, it’s strategic.”

“Strategic how?” He tilted his head, genuinely curious.

You shrugged, but there was a stillness underneath it. “You ever go hungry enough that your brain just… rewires? Like you don’t trust ‘enough’ anymore?”

Dex had never felt that way before. He wondered if you were indulgent because you had gone through missions with little food. Would you have gotten days without it, a week maybe? Your Buenos Aires mission was six days, your Lagos mission was seven days. Was it those missions?

How did you even survive? 

She’s a widow. She’s a weapon. She’s a person.

“…Yeah,” he said anyway.

Your eyes flicked up to his, and recognition passed between you. “Yeah,” you echoed. Then you nudged the menu toward him. “So I’ll over-order. It’s fine. We deserve it.”

We’re so fucked up. Kill her. Kiss her.

He nodded once. “Okay.”

You spent the next ten minutes ordering together, leaning over the table, arguing quietly over rolls like it mattered.

“Okay, this one,” you said, pointing. “We’re getting this.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“It has too much…. whatever that is.”

“That is eel,” you squinted.

“Exactly,” he shrugged.

“It’s just eel,” you pointed out. “You’ve eaten weirder things.”

He paused. “That’s not the point.”

You grinned. “I have enough of an appetite for the both of us.”

Kill her. Kiss her.

“…Fine,” he said, pushing his intrusive thoughts away.

You beamed. 

By the time the food arrived, the conversation had settled. You didn’t hold back when you ate, and you never did. You leaned forward, talking between bites, pointed things out like it mattered that he experienced them properly.

“Try this,” you said, holding your chopsticks out toward him without thinking.

Dex looked at it, then at you. You didn’t even realize what he was going to do to you.

Kiss her. Kill her.

He leaned forward and took the bite. Your eyes stayed on his face, waiting.

“It’s good,” he admitted.

“I know,” you said immediately, all too pleased with yourself.

He shook his head slightly.

She’s dangerous. She could kill you. Kill her first.

You wiped a bit of sauce off your thumb absentmindedly and kept talking. “We used to have this thing—training-wise—where they’d reward you with food if you hit certain targets.”

Dex’s attention shifted immediately.

There it is. Focus.

“Targets?” he repeated.

You winced slightly. “Okay, that sounded worse out loud.”

He didn’t respond.

You laughed, a little self-aware. “I mean—it was worse. But at the time it felt like a game, you know? Like ‘hit this, get that.’ Pavlov, but with putting bullets between your classmates' eyes.”

You popped another piece into your mouth like you hadn’t just said that.

She’s a monster. She’s a victim. She’s both. Kill her.

“Do you ever miss that?” he asked before he could stop himself.

You tilted your head, chuckling at the absurdity of the question. “The food or the brainwashing?”

“Either.”

You smiled faintly. “Sometimes I miss knowing exactly what I was supposed to be.”

That…. He understood.

Kill her. Ask her about OXE. Ask her about the DODC. Kiss her.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “Me too.”

You didn’t make a big deal out of it. Instead, you just nudged his foot under the table. “Hey,” you said, lighter now. “At least now we get sushi instead of, like… boiled cabbage or whatever.”

His lips formed the ghost of a smile. “I didn’t get cabbage.”

“Oh, sorry,” you deadpanned. “Did your government program have better catering?”

“No.”

You grinned. “Then you get it.”

He did. He really, really did.

You started talking about stupid things again—bad takeout, a guy you saw trying to fight a pigeon, the way you animated everything just enough to make it feel real.

Dex found himself watching your mouth when you talked.

Kiss her. Kill her. She’s faking it. She actually likes me.

He picked up his chopsticks again, turning them slightly between his fingers. These would be a good weapon to finish you off. He had calculated the angle, trajectory, and distance. He could do it from across the table. It would be clean, straight through the throat.

You wouldn’t even—

You laughed suddenly, bright and unguarded, and it snapped the thought clean in half.

“Earth to Dex?”

He blinked, refocusing on the world around him. 

You were looking at him like you’d caught his mind somewhere far away.

“What?” he said.

“You spaced out,” you said, narrowing your eyes slightly. “That was intense. Should I be concerned?”

Kill her. Kiss her. Tell her she’s pretty.

“No,” he said, coughing a little

You leaned forward slightly, studying him. “You do that a lot. Go somewhere else.”

He held your stare, feeling like an utter fucking coward. “I’m here,” he said. It came out quieter than he meant it to.

Your eyes softened. After that, you kept talking, and he kept listening, but the thoughts didn’t stop.

Kill her. She’s dangerous. She’s a Black Widow. She’s killed for corrupt governments. She’s taken down entire networks. She could kill you. Kill her. Kiss her.

He watched the way your fingers curled around your glass, the way you leaned closer when you got excited about a topic, the way your voice softened when you cared. 

He imagined reaching across the table, but this time not to put a piece of cutlery through your windpipe.

Instead, he imagined reaching out with his hand, touching your wrist. He imagined pulling you closer, kissing you.

—

When the bill landed between you, Dex felt his chest pulled tight, like a thread being yanked too hard. 

His hand moved first, grabbing it before you could even look properly. “I’ve got it,” he said, but it came out quieter than he meant, like the words had to push past thorns  lodged in his throat. You started to protest, but he cut in, “I want to.” 

That part slipped out, honest in a way he didn’t like. His fingers fumbled just slightly as he pulled his card out, a barely-there tremor that shouldn’t exist in a man like him, and he focused hard on the motion—insert, wait, sign—because that was simple, and that was something he understood. 

Kill her.

He could do it after this. He would. After all, that was the plan. But when he glanced up, you were watching him. and it threw everything off balance in a way that made his chest feel too full.

His thoughts only sped up after that. 

Kill her. She needs to go. She’s a monster. She’s a widow. She’s a fucking Black Widow. She could kill you. Kill her. She’s faking it. She’s dangerous.

He signed the receipt, but his grip was wrong. It was too tight, the paper crinkling under his thumb. When he set the pen down, his eyes betrayed him. They dropped to your mouth without permission. 

It wasn't strategic. It wasn’t calculated. It was instinct, human and stupid all the same.  

He imagined leaning forward instead of walking away, closing the distance instead of planning your doom, your lips against his instead of blood on his hands.

Focus.

His breath caught, and he looked away like that would fix it, like he could force himself back into the job he was supposed to do. 

He needed to do it. Now. Outside. 

He slipped a metal chopstick into his pocket. 

But the idea of ending it before he knew what your lips taste like made him recoil.

Kiss her. Tell her she’s pretty. Kiss her. Kill her. She’s a bad person. She’s dangerous. She’s so fucking pretty. She actually likes you. Kiss her. Kill her. Focus.

He stood too quickly, the chair scraping harshly against the floor, and reached for his jacket like movement might help ground him. It didn’t. You stood too, close enough that your arm brushed his.

He could still do it but his eyes betrayed him again, flicking to your lips like he was starving for something he didn’t deserve.

The realization hit all at once: he didn’t want to kill you before he kissed you. 

He needed that first. Just once. 

“I’ll walk you home,” he said, and the words came out before he could stop them. You looked up at him, surprised. When you said “Okay,” it didn’t make anything easier. It just gave him more time to ruin himself, one step at a time, chasing something he shouldn’t want before he did what he came here to do.

Kiss her. Then kill her.

—

The street outside your building felt eerily quiet, like the world had thinned down to just the two of you and the glow of the lobby lights behind glass. The doorman had the day off, you mentioned. There were no footsteps. No interruptions. 

Good. No witnesses.

Dex barely registered the thought this time. It flickered and passed, swallowed immediately by the thundering anxiety brewing in his mind.

Kill her.

“Hey,” you said. It was absurd, really, how shy you sounded.

He gulped. “Hey.”

His heart melted when a smile tugged at your mouth.

“I think,” you started, stepping just a little closer, your voice lowering like it was meant only for him, “you earned it.”

Dex didn’t get to ask what that meant, because you stepped in, closing that last inch of space like it meant nothing, and your lips met his…and everything in him just gave way.

His hand dropped from his pocket instantly, the weapon forgotten as his fingers caught your waist instead, pulling you closer like he was afraid you’d disappear. The kiss wasn’t gentle. It was only warm for half a second before it deepened, before he leaned into it with a careful urgency that didn’t belong to him.

Kiss her like you mean it.  

When you pulled back slightly, just to breathe, just to smile that pleased smile that made your whole face light up, he followed. He actually chased your lips, closing the distance again before you could get far, like he couldn’t stand the idea of it ending already. His hand slid higher, thumb brushing your jaw, tilting your face just enough to kiss you again. It was slower this time but no less hungry, like he was trying to memorize it.

You tasted… fuck! Sweet.

His brain latched onto it immediately, irrational and completely useless: Strawberries and cream. Probably lip gloss, but it didn’t matter to Dex. 

Kiss her like you fucking mean it. 

He smiled into it. It felt wrong on him, but he couldn’t stop it, not when you leaned into him like that, not when your fingers curled into his jacket like you wanted him just as much.

Kill her.

The thought slammed back in hard enough to almost make him flinch. His hand paused at your side. He knew the metal chopstick was still in his pocket.

Do it now.

He could, theoretically.  You were right there. You were more than close enough. More importantly, you were trusting enough.

One movement, and you would be dead. He would cradle your lifeless body in your arms and the last thing you would ever do was… kiss him. 

“I’ll see you soon?” you asked hazily when you finally pulled back, your voice carrying the echo of the kiss.

Dex froze.

You were smiling at him. You were not suspicious or guarded. You were just…  hopeful. And all he could think about was the way you’d kissed him. The way you’d let him.

Kill her.

His fingers curled in his pocket, brushing the metal again. He imagined it: a quick thrust, handled efficiently…

No. Not like that. I can’t kill her like that.

It was too slow, too messy. You’d bleed. You’d feel it. You’d die a slow, painful death…

She didn’t deserve that.

That was it. That was his excuse this time.

You deserved to die a quick, painless death. Maybe a shot in the back of the head when you weren’t looking. Just… bang! 

His chest ached at the thought. He was still leaning toward you, like part of him hadn’t caught up yet, like he might kiss you again if you gave him half a second more.

“I—yeah,” he said, voice, rougher around the edges. “You will.”

You smiled like that was enough. Like he hadn’t just made a decision that should’ve gone the other way.

Dex stood there for a second longer than necessary, like he was trying to memorize you again. He thought about your mouth, your eyes. the way you were still a little flushed… Then he stepped back, because if he didn’t—

Kiss her.

He almost did.

Instead, he let you go. And when he got home, all he wrote in the notebook was:

She tastes like strawberries and cream. 

—

The park on a Sunday felt too bright for what Dex had come to do.

Sunlight filtered through the trees in shifting patterns, the grass warm and uneven beneath the blanket he had brought.

It was your idea, “a picnic!” said so casually over the phone, like it was something people like you did, like it didn’t involve him sitting across from you with a gun tucked under his shirt, pressed against his side like a second heartbeat.

He’d decided before he even got there, that today, he was going to kill you.

It ends today. Kill her.

Then you showed up. And the world tilted for him.

You were wearing a sundress that moved with you when you walked. It wasn’t tactical, it wasn’t anything like the person he’d read about in that file. You looked… beautiful.

Kill her.

He swallowed it down. “You look…” he started, then stopped, like the word wouldn’t come out right.

You tilted your head, smiling. “What?”

His eyes dragged over you again before he could stop himself. “Nice,” he settled on.

It was insufficient. He knew it.

You laughed anyway, pleased, like you hadn’t just undone him.

Kill her. She’s dangerous. She’s a weapon.

He swallowed, hard, forcing himself to look away, to move, to do something before he stood there staring like an idiot. He dropped down onto the blanket he’d set up, hands already busy unpacking what he’d brought.

You noticed immediately. “You brought strawberries and cream?” You asked in disbelief. 

Dex shrugged, like it wasn’t a big deal, like he hadn’t thought about it too much. “You like sweet things.”

You went quiet for a second. “I…” you started, “I do.”

He didn’t look at you. If he did, he’d…

Kiss her. Kill her. Focus.

You sat across from him, smoothing your dress under your legs, and that was so normal it made his chest ache.

For a while it was just conversation, the kind that didn’t feel like work. You started with small things, normal things. Then, maybe out of morbid curiosity, you asked him about Fisk, almost casually, like it was something you were only half-remembering. Dex hesitated before answering, more out of instinct than suspicion.

Red Hook came up next, and that made him pause longer, because it wasn’t the kind of thing people usually asked about in passing. Still, he gave you what he had, watching you the whole time for a reaction that never really came. You just nodded along like it made sense to be talking about it like this, and that made him talk more than he should have.

But how could he focus on any of that when his mind…

Shoot her in the head.

“I’ve never done this before,” you said after a moment, glancing around. “A picnic, I mean.”

That caught Dex off guard. “What?”

You huffed a small laugh, a little embarrassed. “Yeah. Not like this, anyway.” You picked at the edge of the blanket. “We used to pretend, though. In the Red Room.”

You said it so lightly. Like it wasn’t something that should gut him. “In the basement of the facility I was raised in,” you went on. “Some of the girls would lay out scraps of cloth, call it grass.” You smiled, but it was fragile. “We’d share whatever we could steal from the kitchen and pretend it was… nice.”

Dex stared at you.

Kill her. She’s a Black Widow. She’s killed people. She’s—

“You deserved better,” he said.

You looked up at him, surprised. Then you smiled. “Yeah,” you said, after a second of consideration. “I think so too.”

Make it quick, coward.

He grabbed a strawberry just to have something to do with his hands, dipped it into the cream, and held it out toward you. It was an imitation of what you had done with sushi the other night. 

You chuckled, then leaned forward, taking it gently, your lips brushing his fingers just slightly.

Kiss her.

He watched you bite into it, watched the way your mouth curved, the way your eyes closed like you were enjoying it. Cream caught at the edge of your lips, but you didn’t notice. And that was it.

Kiss her. Indulge.

He leaned in because he couldn’t help it. He did it slowly, like he was giving you time to stop him.

You didn’t.

Your lips met his, and it was not rushed, not desperate like before. His hand came up to your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek as he tilted your face slightly, deepening it just enough to feel you respond, just enough to feel you lean into him.

You don’t deserve her. Kill her. Get it over with. 

His chest tightened painfully as he pulled back, breathing uneven, forehead almost brushing yours.

You smiled at him, a little dazed, and he knew. He couldn’t do it here. Not like this.

He leaned back fully, dragging a hand through his hair, trying to put himself back together. “I don’t…” he started, then stopped.

You tilted your head. “What?”

He looked at you again, and felt his heart break in real time. “I don’t want to stay here,” he said.

You were now confused and a little unsure. “Did I do something wrong?”

“No,” he said immediately, more panicked than he meant to. “No. It’s not that.”

Kill her. Do it right.

He let out a deep breath. “Come back to mine,” he said.

Fucking coward. What are you waiting for?  She’s a terrible person. She’s killed more people than you. 

Your brows lifted slightly. “Your place?”

He nodded once.

If he did it there, it would be quiet. He would still make it quick and painless. And afterwards… he could mourn you in peace. He could hold your body as he cried into your neck. And maybe, some part of you would stay with him forever. 

“Yeah,” he said, voice smaller now. “I just… want more time with you.”

That part wasn’t a lie.

You studied him for a second, then you smiled the same trusting smile. “Okay,” you said.

And just like that, you followed him home.

—

The walk should have been simple. It was a straight line, a familiar route, nothing Dex hadn’t done a hundred times before without thinking. 

But inside his head, his thoughts were deafening.

Kill her.

It wasn’t a thought anymore. It was a command, pressing in from all sides until it felt like it might split him open from the inside.

Kill her. She’s dangerous. She’s lying. She’s done this before. You know what she is.

His jaw tightened, teeth grinding together as he kept walking, forcing his steps to stay even. You were beside him, close enough that your shoulder brushed his every few strides, like you hadn’t noticed the tension winding tighter and tighter in him.

Kill her. Do it before she does it first.

The words didn’t fade after they came anymore. They repeated, layered and stacked on top of each other until they stopped sounding like language and started sounding like pressure.

Kill her. Kill her. Kill her.

But then, another voice cut through.

Kiss her.

It didn’t argue. It pulled.

Kiss her again. Don’t let this end. She chose you. She’s still here.

His breath hitched slightly, chest tightening as the two sides collided, over and over, faster now, louder now, until there was no space between them.

Kill her. Kiss her. KILL HER. KISS HER.

It built and built, escalating into unbearable noise. They clawed and scraped and demanded all at once. His fingers twitched at his side, curling slightly like they were reaching for an answer, like his body was trying to decide for him.

One pull of the trigger. That’s all it would take, that’s—

Then, he felt your hand slip into his.

And for the first time in a long time, his brain was… quiet. 

It wasn’t sudden. It wasn’t forceful. It was almost tentative at first, how your fingers trace his thumb lightly before settling into his palm like you’d done it a thousand times before. Like you hadn’t even considered that you shouldn’t.

Dex stopped breathing. His step faltered, just slightly, like his body didn’t quite know how to move without the noise driving it forward.

The commands that had been screaming seconds ago, the overlapping voices, the relentless pressure…they just ceased. As if you had reached inside his head and flipped a switch.

Dex stood there for half a second too long. His mind, which had been a constant storm of instruction and contradiction, felt… clear.

His fingers closed around yours slowly, almost cautiously, like he was afraid the moment would shatter.

You didn’t pull away. You didn’t even hesitate. You just… walked with him. 

And the quiet stayed. Step after step, it stayed.

By the time you reached his building, a fact had already settled into place inside his chest. He didn’t have to argue with himself about it. There was no internal debate, no weighing of outcomes or consequences.

He just knew he wasn’t going to kill you anymore.

Not tonight. Not later. Not at all.

Good person be damned. Bad person be damned. Rent be fucking damned. Whatever fragile system he’d built to justify what he did, none of it held any weight here, not anymore.

He wasn’t looking for redemption, and he wasn’t chasing some shallow kind of bliss that killing you might give him. That had never really been the point, no matter how many times he told himself it was. He just wanted you.

And it was a primal, wild want. 

He wanted your mouth on his again. He just wanted you to kiss him deeply and show him everything he’d missed, everything he’d never been given.

Dex slowed as he reached his door, keys already in his hand, but he didn’t unlock it right away. Instead, his eyes dropped briefly to where your fingers were still threaded with his. Then he looked at you. And there was nothing in his head telling him what to do anymore.

His thumb brushed lightly over your knuckles, a small, almost absent motion, before he finally unlocked the door. “Come in.”

—

His apartment was nothing like yours. In was just one open space, a bed pushed too close to the wall, a kitchen that barely separated itself from the rest of the room. No personality, no indulgence other than you. 

You didn’t say anything, though. No teasing comment, no subtle comparison, just that same acceptance you always gave him, like this was enough. Like he was enough.

Dex barely gave you time to take it in. The second the door shut behind you, he lost any semblance of restraint. 

His hand caught your waist and pulled you into him, his mouth crashing against yours with a kind of hunger that didn’t belong to a man who was ever in control. The kiss was messy, as if he was trying to take something he didn’t know how to ask for.

You gasped against him, your hands coming up to his chest, then his shoulders, leveling him and undoing him all at once. 

He walked you backward without breaking contact. One step, then another, until the back of your knees hit the bed and you fell onto it with. He followed instantly, like space between you was unbearable.

His hands were everywhere, your neck, your sides, your thigh, like he needed to confirm you were real, that you were still here, that you hadn’t disappeared the second he let himself want you this much. And then you felt him shudder just a bit, shoulder shaking. 

You pulled back just enough to look at him, your breath uneven, your hands coming up to his face, thumbs brushing his cheekbones.

“Dex?” you whispered, concern threading through everything. “What’s wrong? ”

“Nothing,” he insisted, almost defensive. “Nothing.”

But his eyes were glassy. He swallowed hard, like he was trying to force it down, trying to push it away before you could see it. After all, he didn’t know how to explain it.

How would he even begin to explain that you made his head quiet? That just being near you feels like something he’s never had before? That he doesn’t know what this is, but it’s too much and not enough at the same time?

“I’m fine,” he added, but it didn’t sound convincing. Not even to himself.

You said his name again, gentler this time. 

And that was it. That was the last thing holding him together.

“I wanna taste you,” he said honestly, almost reverently. 

You were caught slightly off guard. A small, breathy laugh escaped you. “You’ve kissed me before.”

But he shook his head, his big hands already frantically bunching the fabric of your sundress with an urgency that didn’t feel casual anymore. It felt like a need. Like an instinct he couldn’t hold back even if he tried. One hand gripped on your ass as the other hooked on the waistband of your panties, tugging it down desperately.

“No,” he said, voice deeper now. “I want to taste you.”

Oh.

Your breath hitched, but you didn’t stop him. You didn’t pull away. You let him move closer, let him guide you, let him fall on his knees like he was praying to a goddess in the altar of an ancient temple. You let him take that space between your legs as he wondered how much sweeter you could get. 

Here, he could at least pretend that he hadn’t been thinking about killing you not that long ago.

Dex sank lower, slower now, like he was trying to learn you, not take from you. His hands steadied himself against your thighs, his forehead dipping for just a second like he needed to breathe you in. He felt… wrecked.

His breath hitched softly as he leaned closer, the space between your heat and him shrinking until there was almost nothing left and then—

click.

It was quiet, but unmistakably the sound of safety coming off. 

Every instinct he had lit up at once, snapping back into place so violently it almost hurt. His body froze, breath catching.

He lifted his head slowly. And there you were, with a gun pointed at his head.

It was small, and easy to hide, the red room insignia etched to the side. You probably pulled from that little purse you always carried like it was just an accessory.

Of course.

Dex didn’t reach for anything. He didn’t flinch. He didn’t even try to put space between you. He just… looked at you.

And instead of anger, his chest folded in on itself. What he felt was closer to heartbreak than it was rage. Because for one stupid, moment he had naively believed you felt safe with him.

“…Oh,” he said softly.

The gun wasn’t the most horrifying part. It was the fact that even now, even with the metallic click of the safety still ringing in his ears, even with death staring him directly in the face, Dex could not stop looking at you.

You were sprawled beneath him on his bed, dress dragged up your thighs by his own hands, your breathing still uneven from the way he had kissed you seconds earlier. Your lips were swollen and puffy. Your chest rose and fell too quickly. One of your sandal straps hung loose around your ankle where he’d nearly pulled you apart getting you onto the mattress. And somehow… he still wanted you so badly it physically hurt.

How could he be this fucking stupid?

He should’ve known. Especially with questions about Red Hook. The ports. Fisk. That was why you kept asking.

Every little question over food and coffee and pastries. Every casual mention between laughter. Every moment he thought you were trying to know him better—

No. You were working. Just like him.

Your employer wanted information, and you had been sent to pull it out of him piece by piece while he sat there completely fucking mesmerized by you.

And now you had what they needed. Or maybe they realised he didn’t know enough to be valuable. That was worse, because it meant that he was just another loose end.

His stomach twisted hard enough to hurt. Not because you’d played him, because some pathetic, starving part of him had genuinely believed this had stopped being a job somewhere along the way. That maybe the way you kissed him outside your building had been real. That maybe when you held his hand and silenced every screaming voice in his head, it had meant something to you too.

Humiliating. Absolutely humiliating.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered.

It you had looked cold, detached, amused, even cruel, this would have been easier. He would have known where to put it. Would have known how to hate you properly. But you looked devastated.

Your hand trembled slightly around the weapon pointed at him, and your eyes kept betraying you, flicking down to his mouth before snapping back up again. You looked like you hated this.

“I…” You swallowed. “You’re not useful to OXE anymore.”

He had known something felt off. He just hadn’t cared enough to stop. He just wanted you more than he wanted to survive.

Dex let out a shaky breath that almost sounded like laughter. “Fuck,” he murmured softly, and you twitched, feeling his breath on your naked core. 

You flinched immediately. “No. Don’t do that.”

His eyes flicked back to yours.

“Don’t act like this was just me manipulating you,” you said, and your voice cracked slightly now. “I know there was a contract on me. I know you got sent it. I know about the gun under your shirt. Don’t you dare pretend like you weren’t planning to kill me too.”

He opened his mouth, then closed it. Because what could he even say? You were right.

The notebook was sitting in his apartment right now, pages and pages documenting your routines, your apartment, your vulnerabilities.

He had memorized the ways to kill you before he ever memorized the sound of your laugh.

And all this time, you had let him follow you, let him think he was in control in that “accidental run in” in Central Park, when you were planning to eliminate him, too. 

And somehow, the two of you still ended up tangled together on his bed, half-dressed and breathing hard from kissing each other like starving people.

Dex’s gaze dropped involuntarily to your thighs, to the skin exposed beneath the ruined hem of your dress. To the way your body was still open for him despite the gun in your hand.

Fuck.

His fingers tightened unconsciously where they still gripped the fabric pooled around your hips.

You looked vulnerable.

And the absolute worst fucking part was that he still wanted to bury himself between your legs so badly he could barely think straight. Even now. Even knowing this was the end.

What the fuck is wrong with me?

“You know what’s pathetic?” he asked quietly.

Your brows pulled together slightly.

Dex looked up at you from between your thighs, eyes dark and wet and unbearably earnest. “I still want to taste you.”

Your breath caught audibly.

“There’s a gun pointed at my head,” he whispered in disbelief. “and all I can think about is that I never got to know what you taste like.”

“Dex…” you breathed shakily.

But he shook his head immediately. “No, listen,” he said quickly. “I know what this is. I know what happens next.”

You looked away for half a second. That almost destroyed him, because he realized then that you didn’t actually want to kill him either. And that made him want you even more.

God, I’m so sick.

“I know you’re gonna kill me because it’s the job,” he continued. “Fine. I get it.” His eyes dropped again helplessly to the way your thighs trembled around him, then back up. “But Christ…” His voice cracked. “Just let me have this first.”

Dex looked humiliated and ruined all the same. And still completely sincere.

“I could die happy,” he admitted. “Just… let me taste you first, sweetheart.”

Your hand trembled. Not enough to miss, but just enough that Dex noticed.

The barrel of the gun was pressed against the center of his forehead now, cool metal against flushed skin, and still he didn’t move away from you. 

“Do it, then,” you whispered.

You swallowed hard, trying to steady yourself, trying to force your hand not to shake while he knelt there between your thighs looking at you like this was the closest thing to worship he had ever known. Amazed that even like this, you were soaked for him.

“Fucking do it,” you said again, almost pleading now. “Before I…”

Before you what? Changed your mind? Cried? Dropped the gun?

Dex could see every possibility running through your brain all at once.

His hands slid down your thighs reverently.  “You’re shaking,” he murmured quietly.

“So are you.”

That almost made him smile.

The apartment felt impossibly small around the two of you. The warm yellow light above the kitchen sink made you look divine, coupled by the sound of your uneven breathing. The mattress dipped beneath your weight every time you shifted. Dex tilted his head slightly against the gun like he was accepting his fate. Accepting you.

That should have terrified him. Instead, all he could think about was how beautiful you looked above him— dress ruined, eyes glossy with tears you clearly didn’t want him seeing.

He had wanted you from the beginning, even if he hadn’t admitted it. But this was something else entirely. This hurt.

Dex tilted his head just enough to press a slow kiss against the inside of your thigh, and the sound you made nearly destroyed him. 

His eyes flicked up immediately, watching your reaction with awe. He couldn’t believe he was allowed to touch you like this. Like he couldn’t believe you were reacting to him this way.

Dex kissed higher, and your hand flew to his hair immediately, fingers tangling there hard enough to pull a rough sound from his throat in return. He moaned against you.

The vibration of it shot through you so suddenly your back arched off the mattress, breath breaking apart, embarrassingly needy.

Dex's eyes kept fluttering shut every time you touched his hair, every time your thighs trembled around him, every time another helpless sound escaped you. He looked less like a man in control and more like a vampire feeding on his first prey. It was overwhelming.

Every time you twitched or gasped or tried to pull away from how intense it felt, he noticed immediately. He adjusted immediately, making you feel good mattered more than breathing. Like your pleasure mattered more to him than the gun pressed to his skull.

And fuck, did his tongue feel so fucking good. You could barely think straight. The room blurred at the edges, your thoughts dissolving one by one. Every nerve in your body felt lit raw, burning hotter and hotter every time he moaned pathetically against you again like he couldn’t help himself.

Dex sounded addicted to you already. He was too consumed by you and the sounds you were making now. They were small broken noises you clearly hated letting out but couldn’t stop anymore. Too consumed by the way your body kept reacting stronger and stronger beneath him despite your obvious attempts to stay composed.

Your hands tightened helplessly in his hair as another wave hit you, harder this time, your thighs trembling violently around his shoulders. “Dex—” you gasped brokenly.

He looked up instantly at the sound of his name. His eyes were blown wide. His lips swollen from kissing your skin. Hair ruined beneath your fingers. 

Then he sank back down, a man eating his last meal. He needed it to be a feast. 

Too much. It was too much.

Your body tightened all at once, every nerve pulling taut as pleasure crashed through you so hard it hurt. A sob tore from your throat before you could stop it, your entire body shaking as you finally came apart beneath him. Dex held onto you through all of it.

Your fingers slipped from his hair eventually, weak now, trembling as you tried desperately to catch your breath. Tears blurred your vision completely by the time the waves finally started easing enough for you to think again.

Dex pulled back immediately the second he realized you were crying harder.

“Hey,” he whispered instantly, breathing unevenly as he came back up toward you. His hands slid shakily to your waist, then higher, like he didn’t know where to touch to make sure you were okay. “Hey— look at me.”

You were still trembling beneath him, chest heaving as you struggled to come down from the drug-like high of the orgasm he gave you, the barrel of your gun on his temple now.

His thumb brushed shakily beneath your eye, catching tears against the pad of his finger. “Did I hurt you?” he asked, like the idea genuinely horrified him.

“Fuck—no,” you sputtered immediately, breath still wrecked as you stared at him through blurred vision. “Dex, fuck! How could you even say that?”

The concern on his face was so raw it physically ached to look at.

You were still shaking, your body trembling, your thighs dripping with spit and arousal like neither of you knew how to stop this anymore. 

You could trace every conversation backward now, see all the moments you carefully guided him toward the information you needed while he sat across from you like some fucking idiot who came to the conclusion you actually liked him. Except… 

You had fallen utterly in love with him.

Somewhere between the pastries and the wine and him writing down your coffee order in that stupid little notebook of his, the job had become real. Somewhere between him kissing you and him looking at you like your body wasn’t shameful or weaponized or ruined… you had stopped wanting this to end. 

And now here he was. Kneeling between your thighs with your gun to his head and your taste still on his mouth, looking at you like he’d die grateful if you asked him to.

It was as if, somewhere deep down, Benjamin Poindexter truly believed that if loving you ended in death, then maybe that was simply the closest thing he would ever get to being loved at all. That thought almost made you vomit from grief.

Your breathing broke unevenly as you stared down at him.

He still had one hand on your thigh, so fucking gentle.

“I don’t understand you,” you admitted shakily.

A sad smile ghosted across his mouth at that. He was exhausted. “I don’t either.”

You let out this awful sound halfway between a laugh and a sob as tears spilled harder down your face. “Fuck, Dex,” you choked out, “you were supposed to be a job.”

“So were you.”

You swallowed hard enough it hurt. “I should kill you,” you whispered suddenly. The sentence sounded wrong coming out now, like it was collapsing under its own weight before it even reached his ears.

Dex lowered his forehead slightly more firmly against the barrel of the gun, offering himself to you. He readjusted it, making sure that if you shot him now, it would be painless, like he was going to do to you. 

“Do it,” he whispered. “It’s what you were sent to do.” He sounded like he genuinely believed his life was worth less than your mission.

Your vision blurred hard. “I can’t,” you whispered.

He exhaled through his nose. “Yes, you can.”

“No!” You shouted out, panicked. “Don’t fucking… don’t even try to make this easier!”

When your finger jerked against the trigger, Dex still wouldn’t move. Fuck, he really trusted you to end it quick, did he? Even with doom pressed cold against his skin.

Your eyes squeezed shut hard enough to ache. You tried to force yourself back into training, back into discipline, back into the little girl who would get extra pieces of scrap food if she finished her mission well enough. 

But all you could feel was him. His mouth on your skin. The way he’d looked at you while you fell apart beneath him. The way he kept loving you despite knowing exactly what you were. “I’m gonna…” you whispered shakily, but you couldn’t finish the sentence.

You didn’t want to kill him. And that was the first truly selfish thing you had ever wanted.

You pulled the trigger anyway, and the gun went off.

The sound exploded through the apartment violently enough to shake the walls, but the bullet slammed into the floor behind him instead. You had missed a point blank shot intentionally. 

Your hand dropped. You stared at the damage of the splintering wood, breathing hard, horror rushing through your body all at once like ice water. “Oh my god,” you choked.

Dex thought he was dead.

For one longs excruciating second. He truly thought you had killed him. When he realised he wasn’t, he said your name immediately, climbing up the bed toward you “Hey, look at me.”

You genuinely couldn’t. Your entire body started shaking harder now, all the adrenaline and terror and grief finally catching up at once. “I can’t fucking do this,” you sobbed. “I can’t… I can’t—”

Dex cradled your face in both hands immediately.

“I’m a monster,” you whispered brokenly. “Dex, I’m a fucking monster.”

Dex said nothing. He only leaned forward slowly and kissed the tears from your cheeks one by one, like guilt itself had become holy.

And suddenly you understood something terrible about him: He does not love cautiously, nor rationally.

Every ounce of affection he gave came directly from the part of him that had been hurt the most. His soul had been beaten bloody and kept reaching anyway. The heart is a muscle, and his had torn itself apart trying to hold both of you afloat.

“You don’t get to say that like you’re different from me,” he whimpered against your skin.

Your breath hitched and that was when he kissed you like he was trying to pour every shattered piece of himself into your mouth before the world took it away again.

When his mouth parted against yours, you could still taste yourself on him. That made it more devastating. This ruined, trembling man was still carrying evidence of your pleasure on his tongue while he kissed you like you were worth saving.

Dex made a small sound against your mouth when you started crying harder, and suddenly his hands were everywhere, trying to hold you together physically because he didn’t know how else to do it.

His forehead dropped against yours when he pulled away. “We’re both monsters,” he whispered.

But it didn’t sound cruel. It sounded heartbreakingly close to love.

Reader/oc is currently either in their final year of residency or a attending doctor in ptmc, now their secret is that they're a former or rather retired vigilante. Reader/oc also provide a paid services where they could be hired by daredevil or any vigilante/superhero etc for medical aids.

Well you could say that Dex and Reader/oc has a past; Reader/oc could potentially been Dex "Northern Star" and would genuinely help him but it was too late because Kingpin had mentally and physically grasp Dex first and dd s3 happened and then ddba s1 ep 1 happened where our Reader/ofc closest friend died (rip foggy). Which led Reader/oc in ddba S1 to give up their vigilante days and decided to work in a regular hospital under a new name.

Jack enters the plot. Months have passed by as the Reader/oc worked in ptmc with the pitlings. Both Jack and the reader have this situationship that was never official because they're both scared and insecure with themselves about making it official. More angst plot here and there. Maybe some Jack is flirting with Samira to spice things up and add drama and more dramatic and chaos during their shift in ptmc could be nice.

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

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

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

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

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

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

But you don’t answer. You can’t.

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

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

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

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

Not your brothers.

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

Not Matt.

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

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

The sign that you have met your soulmate.

And yours has just shot you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Let me see it,” you say.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dex snorted. “Sure.”

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

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

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

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

Again. You couldn’t help but think.

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

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

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

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

“Lean forwards.” You say quietly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hurt.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His eyes scan your face. “Finding you.”

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

“You already knew where I lived.”

“I wanted to see you.”

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

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

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

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

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

You couldn’t stop your quiet snort.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Inside the living room, neither of you move.

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re shaking,” he says quietly.

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

“You’re drained.” He states.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You need to leave,” you say quietly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Fire Nation's palace gardens were deliberately vast, designed to remind any visiting dignitary of their grandeur, but at this late hour, they felt abandoned. Lanterns burned low along the winding paths, their amber glow softened by drifting night air, and the distant murmur of the capital had faded, like the memory of a sound rather than the sound itself. 

You had not intended to wander this far from your assigned quarters. Having been here for almost three months now, your days followed a familiar pattern—meetings layered atop meetings and tedious negotiations with men who liked the sound of their voice too much. Today was supposed to be your day off, but you had decided not to join your fellow Earth Nation delegates in their eager exploration of the Fire Nation capital. 

Back home, your colleagues liked to joke that you'd rather choose a ledger over leisure, and that even your dreams must be filled with parchment and policy. They weren't entirely wrong. You simply liked to stay ahead of your tasks. Nonetheless, even you needed a break, which is what led you to wander the grounds at this outrageous hour, your eyes burning from hours spent poring over scrolls with a posture so abysmal it would have made your grandmother whack you with her cane. 

That is when you saw him.

At first, he was only a dark shape against the lighter stone of the pavilion steps. The Fire Lord looked nothing like the man you had spent weeks stuck in meetings with. In council chambers, his every word chosen with care, his presence filling the room whether he spoke or not, but here, his posture was unguarded, elbows resting loosely against his knees, hands hanging between them as though he had forgotten what to do with them. His head was tilted back, his gaze fixed upon the sky as though searching for something. 

It was strange, seeing him without the armour of expectation. His hair, usually bound in that precise, formal half-knot befitting his station, had come loose and dark strands slipped free, stirred gently by the night breeze, brushing against his cheek and the sharp line of his jaw. This was the man who had once been a prince in exile, a figure whispered about in war stories and political cautionary tales alike, but right now, he looked rather young and a little forlorn. 

The absence of guards around him was also alarming. You had grown accustomed to the invisible wall that surrounded him during the day, a careful choreography of soldiers and attendants ensuring that no one came too close, but here, there was nothing. No steel or watchful eyes lurking in the shadows. Just him, the openness of the garden, and you, spying on him like some oddity. 

You reminded yourself that you should leave him be, because this version of him was not yours to witness. You were merely a guest here, a representative of a nation that had once stood in bitter opposition to his own, and there were lines that you were meant to respect.

But you couldn't stop yourself from observing him, wondering not for the first time, what it must be like to carry a life so steeped in contradiction. To be both ruler and exile, victor and penitent, feared and respected. He looked rather lonely. 

The breeze shifted then, cool against your skin, and with it came the scent of smoke and night-blooming flowers, an odd but not unpleasant pairing, like the Fire Nation itself. 

You thought to yourself absently that he would make someone a good husband. The notion was absurd because it was so at odds with everything you had been taught to expect. Fire Lords were not meant to be good husbands. They were meant to be the axis upon which an empire turned, but over the course of your endless meetings, you had noticed a hard-earned patience from Fire Lord Zuko. He was a man who listened, even when his advisors spoke over one another in their thinly veiled desperation.

And oh, how desperate they were in their singular goal to see him married. They all circled the matter with varying degrees of tact. The Fire Nation needed a future, they said. The Fire Nation needed continuity.

The Fire Nation needed a queen.

You were unfortunately a part of that effort, and one of your many assigned duties was to review the eligible noble daughters of Ba Sing Se with Zuko and ensure that he picked the one best suited to the future of both your nations. If you succeed and return home having orchestrated such a match, your future will be secured as neatly as his. Promotions, accolades, and the envy of your peers, it would all be yours.

But it was the most difficult of your tasks, because the damned Fire Lord had avoided every attempt of yours to sit down and actually make a selection. 

When you turned to leave, your shoes made a whisper of a sound, but it was enough, and suddenly Zuko was no longer looking up at the sky, but at you. He didn't look particularly angry, and you had half a mind to pull out your scroll of eligible brides and demand he make a choice so you could finally go home. But that would be rather ridiculous. 

You straightened instinctively, your body remembering protocol even as your mind lagged behind it, and you dipped your head politely. "Forgive me, my lord," you murmured, the words smooth from repetition, though they felt strangely out of place. "I did not mean to intrude."

When you lifted your gaze, he simply shrugged with an odd smile. "You need not be frightened," he responded gently. 

His choice of words made sense, you supposed, coming from a boy raised in the shadow of his father, a father you have heard stories of. Perhaps Zuko's gentleness came as a rebellion against what came before. 

"I am not afraid, my lord," you said bluntly. 

"You are not?" There was something boyish in the question that did not quite belong to the Fire Lord, but undeniably belonged to him.

"You're not a particularly frightful sight right now, truth be told..." The pause that followed was long enough for realization to strike, and you added belatedly, "...my lord." 

For a heartbeat, you were certain you had overstepped, and that even his patience could not excuse it. But then he laughed, startling you more than his anger would have. 

"That is good to hear, I suppose."

Only when you were no longer bracing for reprimand, you noticed the slur in his speech, so subtle that you might have dismissed it if not for the hours you had spent listening to him speak with precise, measured clarity. His words now were a fraction softer around the edges, the consonants not quite as sharp. 

Today was your day off because it was his day off too, you remembered. You had been told by his advisors that he had taken leave to meet old companions in the city. Rulers were permitted their reprieves, however rare, but the image of Fire Lord Zuko drinking in a tavern, surrounded by boisterous friends, was a hard one to conjure. 

Not knowing what else to say, you tilted your head back toward the sky and reached for the safest thing you could find. "The moon is quite lovely tonight."

You expected him to offer something equally benign in return, but instead he said, with complete and utter sincerity, "I have a friend whose girlfriend turned into the moon once."

You gaped at him, certain you must have misheard. There was nothing in your training as an envoy that could have prepared you for that, and no diplomatic phrasing that accounted for friends whose girlfriends became celestial bodies. 

Yes, Fire Lord Zuko was most certainly drunk. 

He made that even clearer when he attempted to rise, and his foot caught on a stray pebble. With a flick of your wrist, the stone skittered out of the way, pulled by your bending as easily as breath, but it was too late to prevent his awkward misstep. Zuko pitched forward, and you moved without thinking, your hand darting out to catch the back of his robes, pinching the fabric to halt his momentum before he could meet the ground face-first.

For a brief moment, the two of you were caught in an odd, suspended tableau, him leaning forward just enough to feel the pull of your grip, you standing just behind him, holding a Fire Lord by the back of his clothing like one might a particularly troublesome cat.

When he straightened, his cheeks were aflame, though you were certain half the flush was due to whatever he'd been drinking. 

"Well," he mutters breathlessly, "this is rather undignified."

You released your hold and shrugged. "We all have our moments. Even a Fire Lord cannot avoid the errors of being a mortal man."

Determined to salvage what remained of his dignity, Zuko huffed and turned to walk, but he made it only three steps before he bent forward, one hand braced against his thigh. "Damn you, Sokka," he grumbled under his breath. "I know I shouldn't have had that last—"

He broke off with a hiccup, and you resisted the urge to laugh. 

"Do you want me to get someone for you?" you asked, when you had composed yourself enough. "An attendant, perhaps?"

Zuko waved his hand dismissively. "I am fine. I do not wish to inconvenience anyone."

"You look on the verge of collapsing where you stand...my lord."

"I am fine."

You sighed, debating whether it would be appropriate to leave him be. But then you remembered that if something were to happen to him, your promotion would be out of reach, so in your own selfish best interest, you had to ensure that he returned to his chambers. 

"Very well," you sighed, holding out your arm. "Allow me to escort you."

You hoped he would refuse, likely to preserve whatever remained of his authority in this increasingly compromised state, but he took your arm almost eagerly. At first, your support was merely precautionary, but with each step, he leaned in a little more, and by the time you reached the threshold of the palace interior, you were practically lugging him. 

You had not realized, until now, quite how solid he was, or just how much of him there was to support.

By day, the palace was all order and intention, wide corridors lined with guards, servants and courtiers drifting about like bright fish through a controlled current. You had learned its shape in pieces, the path from your chambers to the council room, the turn toward the library, and the sunlit courtyards where meetings sometimes spilled over. 

But at night, it was a labyrinth. Dimly lit braziers cast flickering light along the halls, and every turn looked like the last, every carved doorway indistinguishable from the next. It might have been manageable if you were not half-carrying the Fire Lord. 

"Where am I supposed to be taking you, my lord?" you demanded brusquely. 

Zuko was draped over you in a way that would have been scandalous if anyone were around to witness it, one arm slung heavily across your shoulders and his breath warm against your temple. 

"I cannot very well wander the palace indefinitely with you in this state."

He made a sound that might have been agreement, or it might have been a laugh. It was difficult to tell.

"Left," he murmured after a moment, one hand pointing in a direction that may or may not have corresponded to reality.

You briefly considered tossing him over your shoulder. It would be a more efficient way to go about this, but the idea of striding through the halls, carrying the Fire Lord like a sack of grain, was ludicrous. 

So you continued as you were, half dragging, half carrying him, your steps uneven as you compensated for his shifting weight while he muttered directions into your shoulder at irregular intervals.

"Not that one," he said once, when you veered toward a doorway that looked identical to the last three. "Other—no, the other other—"

"You are being exceedingly helpful," you remarked sarcastically. 

"Thank you. I try." He sounded smug enough that you had the sudden urge to dump him right there. 

Eventually, by some combination of his vague guidance and your stubborn persistence, you reached his chambers. You knew it before he confirmed it, though he did so anyway with a triumphant hum.

The Fire Lord's private quarters should have been the most heavily attended area in the palace, staffed with guards and attendants alike, ready to respond at a moment's notice, but there was no one around. You glanced around once more, hoping someone would materialize if you looked hard enough, but no one did. 

"Well," you complained, more to yourself than to him, "that is inconvenient."

"You wanted help?" Zuko asked. 

"Yes. That would have been ideal."

"But I am here. Who else could you possibly need?"

"You are why I need help, my lord."

With no one to relieve you, you had little choice but to continue, somehow managing to push the doors open while keeping him upright. His chambers were dimly lit, the glow of a few low-burning braziers casting long shadows across polished floors and rich fabrics. It was spacious, though not ostentatious, far less adorned than you might have expected, though perhaps that said more about him than the Fire Nation itself.

Your focus remained fixed on the singular goal of reaching the bed without collapsing under the effort, thinking that you deserved a promotion for your efforts. Babysitting a drunk Fire Lord was not in your list of expected duties as an envoy. 

However, when you reached the bed, you stumbled, and Zuko's grip on your arm tightened reflexively, pulling you forward enough to disrupt what little balance you had left. The two of you tipped together in a graceless tangle of limbs and fabric, until suddenly you were on the bed. 

Or rather, you were on him. 

Your hands had come down to brace yourself, your elbows planted firmly on either side of his head, caging him in without intention. For a moment, neither of you moved, and then you became aware of everything all at once.

Zuko's robes had shifted in the fall, loosened at the collar, and his breath feathered your chin, close enough to make you curse the gods once more for filling your nights with such inconvenience. 

His eyes were half-lidded, but there was a clarity there that did not belong to a man in his state. He was watching you with an expression that could only be described as mesmerized, and you arched a brow. 

"Would you mind letting go, my lord?" you deadpanned. "I believe putting you to bed is far beyond my scope of duties."

Because his hands were still clutching your arms, and at your words, they tightened slightly. 

"Right," he murmured, the slurred words ghosting against your skin. "Of course. Forgive me for inconveniencing you."

But he still didn't let go. 

If anything, one of his hands slid along your arm, followed by a gentle tug to draw you closer. It was not a decisive movement, as though some part of him had decided, without consulting the rest, that the distance between you was unnecessary.

Then Zuko tipped his head slightly and brushed his nose along your jaw. It was so light it was barely there, but it wasn't something to be dismissed, his breath following in its wake. When he inhaled, you flinched, scrambling to untangle yourself, trying to reclaim distance, propriety, and anything that resembled sense. 

He, too, seemed to realize the position you were in, and his cheeks turned three shades darker. "Oh."

His hands loosened reluctantly, as if they disagreed with the decision, even as he made it.

You shot upright immediately and nodded. "I bid you goodnight, then, my lord."

But when you attempted to depart, Zuko reached forward to snag your sleeve. 

"Must you leave?"

He had pushed himself up onto his elbows, his hair slightly dishevelled and his expression woefully earnest. 

You were at a loss. "Why would I remain in your chambers?"

Zuko let his head fall back against the cushions with dramatic resignation. "It does get awfully lonely."

He meant it as a jest, but you sensed the truth behind it. 

"Well, perhaps you ought to be less picky, then," you said tartly. 

He cracked one eye open to glance at you. "Picky?"

"Yes. Your council seems to be trying quite desperately to find you a wife, if I recall correctly. Someone to keep you company and alleviate this terrible loneliness you suffer from."

"They show me portraits like they're presenting battle strategies," Zuko huffed, rolling his head to the side so he could look at you properly. "This one has a strong lineage. That one has excellent posture. Another plays an instrument I've never heard of."

"And none of that appeals to you?" you demanded. 

"Not particularly."

"How unfortunate. Some of those 'battle strategies' are quite promising, I am sure. You might even find one you like, if you tried."

"Mm," he hummed, his gaze not leaving yours. "Or I could simply wait."

"To grow old and grey while your advisors worry themselves over your future? Sounds like a brilliant plan."

Zuko's responding grin had nothing to do with the fire that burned within him, and he shrugged. "I could wait for someone less diplomatic."

"You are the Fire Lord. I am not certain you are permitted that luxury," you deadpanned. "Might as well do as you're told. Though I suppose you will not. Not as you are, like this."

"And how am I, exactly?" 

"Currently? A great deal of work."

That drew another warm laugh from him. "Why do you remain, then?"

You turned to the door with a roll of your eyes. "Only because it would be highly irresponsible to leave the Fire Lord to fend for himself in such a state. You ought to have a night guard in place."

"How dutiful of you," Zuko drawled. 

"It is my best quality, I am told, my lord."

“Karen? Karen Page?” The sing-song voice cut through the quiet church like a blade. “Come out, come out, wherever you are.”

Nothing

“I know you’re here,” Dex’s voice dropped, humour gone.

Karen slowly appeared from behind a pew, hands up.

“What do you want?” She asked, voice shaking, even though she knew the answer.

Dex turned around and grinned. He was dressed head to toe like Daredevil, but he himself was nothing like the real one.

“Hello, Karen.” He raised his gun and shot it. The bullet whipped through the space between them, and Karen could feel the breeze it created as it grazed against her hair, embedding itself into the church door behind her.

She gasped, terrified and frozen, whilst Dex just stood there, smirking.

“Nice to see you again.”

Then Matt appeared, knocking Dex to the ground, causing his helmet to come off and his head to crack against the concrete floor. Matt stood protectively in front of Karen.

“Leave her alone, Dex! She has nothing to do with this! It’s me you want, right? You want to kill me? Take me to Fisk? Whatever you want, just do it. But leave her out of it!”

“See, that’s where you’re wrong, Murdock,” Dex stated, standing up and pointing the gun at Karen again, ignoring the blood slowly trickling down his face. “She has everything to do with this. Fisk wants her dead, so I’m here to kill her,” he shrugged, not bothered by Matt’s showing up.

“Then why didn’t you kill me that night at The Bulletin?” Karen asked, feeling braver now that Matt was with her.

“He didn’t want you dead then. But now,” he paused, “he does.” His tone was matter-of-fact, as if he were listing off a set of instructions.

“Why now?” Karen continued, trying to buy her and Matt some more time.

“You crossed him. Took away something important to him. And now, it’s time you pay the price,” Dex smirked.

“You know that Fisk is using you, don’t you?” Matt interrupted. “Using you to do his bidding. To kill anyone who does something he doesn’t like. He does that to everyone around him. How many more innocent people will he have you kill? Before you’re no longer useful to him. Until he gets someone to kill you? Or does it himself? It’s what he does. It’s only time.”

“Does he always talk this much?” Dex asked Karen, already bored and itching to pull the trigger again.

“D’y’know, he had Julie killed?” Matt continued.

That made Dex pause.

“Yeah. He’s the one who got her the job at the hotel." Dex had assumed, but Fisk hadn't confirmed it. "And then had her shot. So he could replace her. As your North Star,” Matt told him.

“No. You’re lying.” That’s when the buzzing became more noticeable to Dex.

“Am I? Come on, you know him. You know what he’s like. He’s not fond of distractions.”

“Stop it!” The buzzing continued.

“And Julie, well, she was your distraction, wasn’t she, Dex?” Matt chuckled.

“Stop!” The buzzing grew louder.

“And distractions need to be dealt with,” Matt goaded.

“She’s not dead!” The buzzing was almost too loud for him to hear Matt, but not quite.

“Well, I suppose she really just wants you to leave her alone then,” Matt shrugged.

“Shut up!” The buzzing was taking over every part of his body.

“Don’t believe me? She’s in a storage unit. In a freezer. 16 Canal Place. Why don’t you go and see for yourself?”

“SHUT UP! JUST SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP!!!”

The buzzing became too much. Dex clutched his head in his hands, the gun waving as his body shook.

In a quick move, he put the gun to his temple, eyes screwed shut as if to make the buzzing stop.

In all of the commotion, no-one had noticed you appear. Not until you spoke.

“Wait.” Your voice was low and soft, but it cut through the air and tension like a hot knife gliding through butter.

“It’s Benjamin, right? Benjamin Poindexter?” His eyes snapped open as he realised that someone new was talking to him. “Can I call you Ben?” He just looked at you, not sure what was going on, but the buzzing dulled slightly.

Matt tried to grab your arm as you walked slowly towards Dex, but you pushed his hand away.

You told him your name, and he repeated it, speaking as if he were tasting the way the letters felt on his tongue.

“We can help you, you know?” Dex tilted his head, still watching you move towards him. “We can keep you safe from Fisk. You don’t have to do this.”

Dex shook his head, mumbling incoherently.

“Just give me the gun, yeah? And we can talk.”

“I can’t.”

“Yes, you can.” You held out your hand.

“Everything will stop.”

You shook your head. “It won’t. He’ll just find someone new.”

“But the noise will stop. I will stop.”

“Hey, no, don’t talk like that. We can help.”

“You can’t. No-one can help me.” He cocked the gun.

“We can! I promise! Let us help you. Let me help you,” you pleaded.

Dex looked into your pleading eyes. He wanted help. He really did. He wanted out of this hell that Fisk had thrust upon him. He just didn’t know how to let someone in. Not after Dr Mercer. Or Julie. Or even Fisk. He felt that pulling the trigger was the only way out. But what if what you were saying was true? What if you really could help? You looked so earnest and genuine. You seemed good. Even though you knew what he had done, what he was, you still wanted to offer him help. For the first time in a long time, he wanted to believe. In someone. In himself.

The gun lowered a little, but it was still cocked, his finger still on the trigger.

“That’s it. There we go,” you coaxed, reaching one hand out for the gun and the other towards his other hand that was hanging limply at his side. “Nice and easy, yeah?” You could see the fight slowly draining out of him, his body deflating.

Your eyes were locked as he brought the gun down to his side, both of you moving slowly so you didn’t startle the other.

He lowered the gun to his side, and you grabbed it by the barrel, passing it behind you to Matt.

“There we go,” you whispered, grabbing Dex by his upper arms as he slumped to the floor. “I’ve got you. You’re okay. We’ll help you.” You stroked his hair and held him to you as he sobbed.

“I just want to be needed. I want to be good.” His voice was muffled against your chest as he clung to you.

“I know,” was all you said as you continued to comfort him.

When his sobs had started to subside, and you could feel him becoming exhausted, you slowly turned to look at Karen and Matt.

“Can you call Frank?” You asked. “He might be able to help.” They both gave you an incredulous look. “Please?”

They turned to each other and finally nodded. Karen walked away, dialling a number as she went, while Matt listened to you and Dex.

“Who’s Frank?” Dex asked, his head tilting to look at you.

“Don’t worry about that right now. Let’s just get you somewhere safe to rest, yeah?” You gave him a small smile, but his eyes were wide with panic at the thought of someone new. “I’ll tell you later, okay?” That seemed to ease him a little.

“Matt?” You asked, turning back to look at him. “D’y’think we can stay here?”

“Of course,” a new voice spoke, and you felt Dex tense. “Churches are sanctuaries for anyone who needs shelter.”

“Thank you, Sister Maggie,” you replied.

“This way,” she motioned. “There’s a bed and tub downstairs, and I’ll get you some food and clean clothes.”

“Come on. It’s okay,” you soothed, pulling Dex up with you to stand.

“Matthew?” Maggie began, turning to look at him. “Go and tell Father Lantom what’s going on.”

“And what exactly is going on?” Matt raised an eyebrow.

“Now, Matthew.” Her tone left no room for arguing, so Matt sighed and left.

Dex clung to your arm as you followed Sister Maggie in silence through the church and into the cellar.

“Here we go,” Maggie spoke as you followed her deeper into the room. “Apologies for the mess. Matthew has been staying here while he’s been recovering. The tub is over there,” she pointed to a metal tub in one corner of the room behind some clean laundry, “as well as clean sheets and towels. I’ll go and fetch some clothes, soap, and food. Do you need any first aid equipment, Benjamin?” She asked Dex directly.

He just nodded, looking down at the floor as his feet shuffled nervously.

“I’ll be back in a moment.” And then she was gone.

You started towards the tub, with Dex still attached to you, but he didn’t expect you to move and stumbled.

You both muttered an apology, embarrassed.

“How do you like the water?” You asked, but he just shrugged.

You turned the water on so that it was hot with a little cold, so it wouldn’t burn his skin but would ease any aches.

Dex just stood there as you checked the temperature periodically when Maggie returned.

“Thank you, Sister Maggie,” you told her as she wheeled a small doctor-like trolley towards you.

She just nodded and left quickly.

Once the tub was full enough, you switched off the taps and moved the soap and clothes closer.

“I’ll leave you to erm…” You waved your hand in his direction and then towards the tub.

“Could you help with this?” Dex asked quietly, gesturing towards the Daredevil suit he still donned, almost like he didn’t want to be speaking at all.

You nodded, and you both started to peel the layers of the suit away. You knew how it worked, as you had helped Matt numerous times while he was injured.

You gasped as the final layer covering the top half of his body was removed. His chest and arms were covered in bruises, cuts, and many, many scars.

“Ben,” you murmured, fingers going to a particularly nasty-looking scar on his forearm.

“Don’t,” he said, grabbing your wrist.

“Okay,” you replied softly. “Okay.” You curl your fingers inwards as you pull your arm away.

“Don’t call me that,” he continued. “Never that name.”

“Do you prefer Dex?” You asked, and he moved his head in a half nod. “Okay then, Dex.” The corners of his lips twitched slightly upwards as if he approved.

The rest of the suit was removed, and his legs were in pretty much the same state as the rest of his body. Luckily, there wasn’t too much to patch up, and you were confident that you could do it easily if he needed help.

“Do you want me to stay?” You asked, looking towards the tub.

Dex nodded, and you turned around to give him some semblance of privacy while he removed his underwear and got into the water, hissing as it hit the fresh cuts and scrapes.

“Can I?” You asked, moving slowly towards him with the medical supplies.

He just nodded again and was mostly silent as you cleaned, stitched, and dressed the wounds.

When you were done, he tried to wash his hair with the soap, but his body ached, and the buzzing was still sounding in his mind, so he gave up with a scoff.

You held out your hand for the soap, and he looked at you. Really looked at you. You noticed his eye colour as they pierced your own. They reminded you of a green bottle that was held up to the sun and filled with light roast coffee. His gaze unnerved you, but you held your own, not wanting to show anything that might cause him to pull back.

He clearly thought you were safe as he handed you the soap. You massaged it carefully through his darkened tresses, being mindful of any possible cuts or bruises that you hadn't noticed before, along with the fresh stitches.

In Dex’s mind, this was what heaven felt like. He wanted to feel this forever. He wanted the feelings it gave him to never stop. Even as you got him to almost lie down in the tub and filled a cup with water to wash away the suds, you were slow and gentle. Never moving too fast so as not to startle him. You touched him like he was fragile and something you didn’t want to break. Like he was worth protecting. You were wonderful. Maybe you could help make him believe that the world could be good. That he could be good.

When you finished, he got out of the tub and wrapped himself in the warm towels. You noticed that his movements were slow and helped him sit at the small table. The warm water and your touch had relaxed him in a way he didn’t know he could feel. You dried his hair as best as you could and helped him pull a clean shirt over his still-bruised body. He winced slightly when a movement pulled at his new stitches and bandages. He didn’t want to think too much about where some of his injuries had come from and was grateful that you didn’t ask. He knew that you knew, though. The way that you had looked at them. With familiarity. You knew what he had done. He guessed that you had some too. He didn’t like that. Didn’t want you to feel like he does. He tensed at the thought but wondered if he would ever see them. You soothingly smoothed his hair when you saw his face pinch, and he automatically leaned closer into your touch.

You ate the soup that Sister Maggie had brought for the both of you in silence, and you put freshly cleaned sheets on the bed that Matt had once occupied.

Dex felt the weight of the day gradually growing heavier upon him as he put on the rest of the clothes that had been left for him, then made his way over to the bed. His body ached with each step, and you came to his aid, noticing his struggles. With your arm around his waist and his around your shoulders, you helped him shuffle across the room and gently lowered him under the blankets.

Dex sighed with relief, sinking slowly into the mattress. You smiled softly as you stroked his hair, watching the tension ease out of his body.

“What happens now?” He asked, staring at a loose thread on the sheet.

“Now, you sleep. We can worry about tomorrow in the morning.” But your words didn’t seem to placate him.

“But what about–?”

“Rest,” you told him sternly. “I will talk with Matt and Karen, and we’ll come up with a plan.”

He grabbed the sleeve of your shirt.

“Stay?” He whispered, and you nodded, sitting down on the edge of the bed, rubbing your thumb back and forth against his hand.

“Will you talk to me? To help me fall asleep?” He asked.

“What do you want me to talk about?”

“Who’s Frank?”

“Frank Castle. You probably know him since you’re FBI and all. You might know him as – ”

“The Punisher?!” He interrupted. “Oh, Murdock was his lawyer, right? But I thought he was dead?” He questioned.

“Nah, not Frank. He keeps on going,” you smirked.

“Like a cockroach,” he muttered, shrugging when you pierced him with a look.

“He’s not a bad person. Could just use a lot of therapy.” Dex chuckled at that, which made you smile.

“Why are you still in touch with him?”

“He’s in love with Karen,” you shrugged, like that explained anything. “And I’m pretty sure she’s in love with him, but of course they’re both too stubborn to say anything.”

There was a slight pause before he spoke again.

“Did you and Murdock date?” The question stunned you for a moment before you laughed.

“I love him, but not like that. He also needs a lot of therapy, and the women he’s with never seem to stick around long. I want to be in his life for a long time, so it’s better if we don’t. He’s great in bed, though,” you winked, and Dex’s face flushed, his eyes widening slightly. “We were drunk.” Dex raised an eyebrow. “It was Comic-Con!” You defended, laughing.

Dex cleared his throat before asking his next question: “So, how did you two meet?”

“I met Foggy first. It was just after we started college. I thought it was a good idea to take a language class. One that I’ve never heard spoken before, let alone looked into,” you began.

“What was the language?” Dex looked curious.

“Punjabi.” Dex let out an actual laugh, and you couldn’t help the grin that took over your face.

“Why?”

“Thought it might be fun and interesting. And it was. I just couldn’t get the hang of it, so I dropped it after the first semester. Foggy and I were partners for the class, and he was really easy to get along with, so we hung out outside of class. Then just after that, I met Matt.” Dex noticed a look in your eyes but couldn’t quite place it. “And like most of the students on campus, I immediately had a crush on him. And of course he knew, although I didn’t know it at the time, so sometimes he would play up the ‘oh I’m just a poor orphaned blind boy, please help me’ thing. I ate it right up! ‘Oh, here, Matt, let me help you carry your books! Hold onto me, it’s icy today! Let me move everything out of the way so you never hurt yourself!’ I’m still a little embarrassed, but I was young, and he was nice.”

“That doesn’t sound very nice of him,” Dex remarked.

“Yeah, well, sometimes Matt is an asshole. But I think that’s sometimes why we love him.”

Dex hummed and then yawned.

“Oh, I’m sorry, are my stories, that you asked for by the way, boring you?” You joked.

Dex started to protest, but saw a smirk curling your lips.

“Tell me something from when you were at college,” he said sleepily, settling down under the covers.

You moved to sit beside him, your hand automatically going to his hair without you being conscious of the action.

“Okay, so there was this one time where…”

But Dex couldn’t concentrate on what exactly you were saying, something about avocados?

He noticed that the buzzing had stopped.

Because of the sound of your voice.

Because of the feeling of your hand in his hair.

And that lulled him to sleep.

And for the first time in a long time, Dex believed.

fin

Hope you liked it!

you take one look at them and your lips pull into a line, "really? you couldn't even call ahead?" you're already moving from your spot, making your way towards them. then you're tucking yourself into dex's other side, taking half his weight, "come on before you ruin my damn floors. i just had them cleaned, i'm sending you the bill."

from his left, murdock chuckles. "i wouldn't expect anything less."

dex is a bit delirious from blood loss, and lets their conversation pass him by. he is able to note that the woman helping him has to be an angel, your beauty ethereal in the awful fluorescent lighting. you lead him through a curtain, and into a back room that looks like a crudely formed emergency room.

"gotta get him on the bed," you mutter, nodding at the hospital bed in the center of the room. this seems to be a familiar process for his… enemy? friend? he isn't quite sure what terms him and the lawyer are on. he's trying to make amends, by taking out the task-force, and fisk— well he hasn't managed that second one yet but— surely he'll notice soon that dex is being good now.

the pair of you situate him on the bed, and then murdock takes a step back, arms crossed. "bullet to the side during a standoff with the avtf."

dex blinks slowly, half-lidded as the angel's figure swims in his vision. you hover over him frowning, "alright i have to get these clothes off you. can you help me or do i need to cut them open?"

"i can get 'em off," his voice is slurred and he's vaguely aware he feels almost embarrassed, something he hasn't felt since he was a child. he awkwardly begins to raise his arms and try to tug the sticky red stained fabric over his head. he grunts, feeling the pain sear through his side, then it gets caught over his head and he starts to yank harder and—

"stop that!" you hiss, your hands coming up to gently tug the shirt off the rest of the way. "you'll make things worse jerking your body like that." your eyes narrow as you reach down and touch the tips of your fingers to the flesh just outside the wound. then you glance back at murdock again, "is he one of your hero friends? you guys really need to be more careful."

you turn your attention back to the wound, blood still seeping out in rivulets. dex's head turns to look at murdock, so slowly, almost like he's stuck in molasses. he watches as the devil's lips form a grimace. "no, not exactly."

dex's eyes trail back to you, and you huff "okay, this should be pretty easy but i'm going to have to remove the bullet first and it won't feel good." you glance up at him, and he feels himself getting lost in your eyes. "hello? you still with us?"

he blinks again, "yeah. go ahead."

you nod and turn away, heading over to the countertop, opening a series of drawers to pull out whatever equipment you need. he's able to note that you've slipped on vinyl gloves, a surgical mask, and have a group of instruments laid out on a metal tray now. you double check your materials then carry the tray over to the bed, laying it against a mobile side table.

"grab him something to bite down on," you say without even looking at murdock. you're probing at the flesh again, eyes seemingly seeing straight through the puddle of blood that's flooding the wound. a moment later there's a rolled up hand towel being placed in his hands.

you hum, then look up again. "bite down, i'll be quick."

he does as he's told, taking the plush fabric between his teeth and applying pressure. then you're using some sort of metal instrument to keep the skin spread apart, his molars gnash down hard at the searing stretch of his skin. you spray some sort of clear liquid to dispel the blood a bit, then delve into the wound with some sort of clamps. he feels you probe around, and you find where the bullet is and grip it. you gently begin to pull and frowns when it doesn't give.

"shit," you mutter. "i'm going to have to cut it out."

dex doesn't say a word, towel still between his teeth.

you look up at him, eyes apologetic. "we don't have the luxury of time for me to give you sedation. this is going to suck, but it'll be better when i'm done." he hardly has time to prepare himself before he feels something sharp slicing around where the bullet is wedged inside him. his hands shoot out gripping the edges of the bed, knuckles turning white from the sheer force.

it doesn't last long. you go back in with the clamps and pull out the offending piece of metal and set it on your tray. "alright, hard part's done." your tools are resting on the tray now as well. he doesn't have the faintest idea of what comes next, perhaps you'll stitch him shut now?

what he doesn't expect is for you to place your palms directly over the wound, blood beginning to coat the bottoms of your gloved hands, swelling between the cracks of your fingers and making a mess. you close your eyes, your eyebrows knitting together in concentration, and then— your hands begin to glow a soft gold, and a feeling of warmth floods the area you're working on. he can feel the way the damage inside begins to repair itself, the way his skin begins to knit back together.

eventually you pull your hands away, and shed your bloodied gloves, tossing them in the trash. then you calmly stand and wash your hands off in the sink, before drying them and putting on a new set of gloves. on your way back you grab something to clean his skin with. it appears to just be a damp rag. you carefully wipe the area off, and dex cannot help but stare at the spot a gaping hole had been mere moments before. it's a soft pink now, like a freshly healed scar.

"should be good as new," you say before dropping the rag down with the instruments. "don't make a habit of doing it again yeah? i already see someone else enough as it is."

murdock's lips twitch up behind you.

"i'll try," dex can't help but grin. "thanks, doc."

you wave him off, nodding. "alright, get out so i can clean up." you then stand up and start clearing out everything you used. "and i really am sending you a damn bill, matt." you realize your slip up, and look between them. "shit—"

murdock waves her off, "it's fine, he found out who i am ages ago." his voice is dry, filled with barely hidden disdain.

dex can't help but keep watching you. "and what's your name? should know the name of the woman who saved my life."

he ignores the pointed look from the devil across the room.

"well on the streets they call me the night witch," you snort. "still don't know who came up with that."

"and what do your friends call you?"

you look at him, tilting your head, a small amused smile playing on your lips. "just y/n."

dex holds onto it, letting it sit in his chest. he rolls it around in his head a few times. "pretty," he says. "like you."

"alright," murdock's voice cuts through the air hard. "time to get you back to whatever hole you've been hiding in." then he's hauling dex off the hospital bed, and shoving him back towards the curtain. "thanks y/n, send the bill to the office."

dex feels his eye twitch at the sudden departure, but he has to remind himself he's still trying to atone in murdock's eyes. he lets the man lead him out onto the street, where they stop and look at each other. "thanks," he says. "for not leaving me for dead."

"yeah. well, foggy would still want me to—," he presses his lips together. "quit making a mess with fisk. got it? you're making this really difficult."

"i'm just trying to help—"

"don't." then, he turns, and he leaves. and dex stands there for a moment beneath the moonlight, he has no idea where the hell he is. he glances around, takes in the building they'd been in, committing it to memory. then he looks at the nearest street signs, and begins walking.

an idea already forming in his head, on how to be able to see the pretty doctor again.

── ・⸝⸝ ⟢ ⸝⸝・ ──

you make time on one of your days off to stop into the office, cleaning invoice in hand. the office is busy, bustling with life as it always is, even after the tragedy of foggy's passing over two years ago. matt had long since gained a new partner in none other than kirsten mcduffie, who you quite liked. she was able to keep up with him and put him in his place when need be.

"hey!" the woman herself calls out from where she's standing beside an intern, you watch as she murmurs something to the college student and they scurry off. she notices the paper in your hand, "you don't need legal help do you?"

that makes you laugh, "god no. but, i do need matt's money, he owes me for… a favor i did." kirsten still is unaware of matt's other half, so you have to phrase things carefully. "is he in the office?"

kirsten raises her eyebrows and nods, "yeah, he's over in the office."

you glance over her shoulder, and see the man himself sitting at his desk in the clear glass room, his hands skimming across the ridges of his case files. "perfect, thanks kirsten." you squeeze her arm and brush past her. you know damn well matt heard you the moment you got here, but he can't exactly show that in front of all his coworkers.

he glances up when you open the door and slip in, shutting it behind you. "cleaning bill?"

you hum, dropping into the chair across from him. "yep, you owe me two fifty."

matt sighs, "leave it on my desk and i'll get it paid."

being here in front of him now, you shift in your seat. you'd been curious about the mystery man he dragged into your place bleeding everywhere. neither of them had ever mentioned his name or what exactly he does. matt notices your antsiness immediately and calls you on it.

"you want to ask me something," he says. "what is it?"

"the man from the other night… who is he?"

matt goes still, in that way that shows he feels like keeping the information private is much safer for your wellbeing. you hate when he does that. "just an acquaintance."

"yeah, okay." you roll your eyes on instinct, even though he can't see you. "he's not a hero yet he got shot when fighting the avtf, and you brought him to me. i think i deserve to know who i'm treating don't i?"

he knows you've got him there. while you don't exactly care who you're treating, whether they're hero, criminal, vigilante— you like to at least know who the person is.

"benjamin poindexter."

that takes a moment to register. "what? you had me save the life of foggy's murderer? matt what the hell—"

you watch as he leans back in his chair, it's obvious he's warring with himself internally as he rakes a hand through his hair. "it's complicated."

"well, uncomplicate it."

he gives you a look, "you're pretty insufferable. have i ever told you that?"

you shrug, "yeah, doesn't really mean much to me though."

matt reaches down to pull his glasses up just enough for him to gently massage the bridge of his nose, before setting them back in place. "vanessa fisk got him out of the facility he'd been in and forced him to do the hit. he… has shown signs of remorse, and it's why he's been trying to dismantle the avtf and kill the fisks."

"so… you're friends? because he feels remorse for killing foggy?"

"no, we're not friends." his voice is flat. "but i don't want him to die and if he can… do good, that's better than having to be against him."

you furrow your eyebrows, "and you think he's capable of doing good?"

"he's trying to model it. in his own very misguided way, but… yeah. maybe."

silence stretches between the two of you as the words settle. "huh." then you look at him, fully. "just give me a call ahead of time when you intend to bring in someone bleeding out yeah? there's a backdoor for a reason."

matt nods, "okay, i'll pull my phone out as we're being pursued and they're bleeding out."

you push to your feet and glare at him, "i want you to know, i am giving you the dirtiest look i can."

"yeah. i can tell," his lips quirk up. "go sleep, i know it's your day off. you need to let yourself rest too you know."

"yeah yeah, whatever."

you toss a hand in the air as a wave goodbye, knowing he can sense it with that odd sonar vision of his. he's right though, you really do need to get some sleep. between your twelve hour shifts and treating people at night with your powers, you're burnt. as you leave the office building you hum to yourself, entirely unaware that across the street, a pair of hazel eyes are tracking your every move.

── ・⸝⸝ ⟢ ⸝⸝・ ──

a few weeks after you'd visited matt's office you're sitting downstairs at the front desk, usually you sit down here until around midnight. after that you retire upstairs to your apartment, though the place isn't the nicest, it was inherited from your old crotchety grandmother and it helped to not worry about rent during your time in college. now it also doubles as your 'night witch' clinic, the front appearing to be some sort of apothecary that's never actually open.

it's a quarter to midnight when the front door opens, your eyes lift from the book you'd been reading to see none other than benjamin poindexter standing in your doorway clutching his left bicep. you can see the blood seeping between his fingers from here and you're immediately dropping the book face down on the desk as you spring to your feet. this has to be at least the seventh time you've seen him since matt brought him in.

"do not get blood on my floors, they were just cleaned again."

he grins, and it's got this certain manic edge to it that makes your hair stand on end. "i'll do my best, sweetheart."

you huff, and part the curtain. "go sit down on the chair beside the counter," you tell him. he obeys without complaint and steps into the back, going right to the indicated spot. at least he has that going for him, despite the whole psychopathic murderer thing. "what happened?"

"got into a fight." that's all he offers you, and you roll your eyes before you reign yourself in.

it's like a switch as you slip into what foggy used to refer to as your 'super serious doctor mode.' he always loved it because you'd reprimand matt like he was a child. you swallow the lump in your throat and get to washing your hands and pulling on your gloves. when you turn to face bullseye, he's already watching you with this intense stare, as if you're the only thing in the room. "i need you to take the jacket off, and then push the sleeve up so i can get a proper look."

once again, he does as told without a single word. when his bicep is on display for you, you take it gently in your hands and tilt it to get a good look at the wound. it's not a bullet wound. no, this is definitely some sort of stab wound. "this is pretty deep," you say. "what hit you?"

"sword."

you pause, your hands stilling against the muscle of his bicep. "excuse me?"

he shrugs his unharmed shoulder, "some thug with a sword was cornering a shopkeeper in an alleyway."

"alright…" you nod as if that makes complete sense. but you're reminded this is new york and once upon a time an alien wormhole opened up in the sky and destroyed half the city. stranger things have happened. "and the sword wielder, what did you do with him?"

"dispatched."

you feel your heart begin to race. "you killed him."

"…yes." he looks up at you then, furrowing his eyebrows like he's genuinely confused. "i did the right thing, he was going to kill the shopkeeper."

"that isn't—," you inhale through your nose trying to steady yourself. "you can't just kill someone for attempting to kill someone else. you should've restrained him and called the police."

he frowns, "he'd just do it again though."

your eyes flicker to the ceiling for just a moment as if you're begging the higher powers for strength. "i suppose you're not entirely wrong but… murder isn't a solution. it should always be a last resort."

bullseye goes quiet after that, and you decide to finish looking his arm over. normally something this deep would need staples, but you're not normal so you place your palms over the wound, the blood a trickle compared to the bullet wound he had weeks ago. your hands begin to glow hazy and warm again as they work to knit the muscle and skin back together.

when you finish you take in your handiwork and nod. "wash off in the sink," you tell him as you discard the gloves and move to wash your hands first. when you finish he appears at your side to do as you ordered, and you take a few steps back and try to recollect yourself.

you hear the water shut off and the sound of him pulling paper towels from the dispenser. when he tosses them in the trash you turn back to him, "you're good to go, bullseye. please do try to wait at least a week before you injure yourself again."

"dex," he says to you.

"huh?" you tilt your head, slightly confused.

"that's the name i was given on the streets," he says, mirroring your previous statement from when you'd met. "my friends call me dex."

you purse your lips, "i wouldn't say we're friends."

"you're friends with the lawyer."

"well yeah matt and i have known each other forever and—," you cut yourself off and look off into the distance, pointedly away from the hazel eyes boring into you.

he seems to realize then, "you were close to the other one too."

you sharply turn to look at him, jaw clenching as you wrap your arms protectively around yourself. "his name was foggy nelson, not 'the other one'."

bullseye absorbs this. "he… seemed good."

your nose begins to burn and you grit your teeth trying to will away the tears beginning to brim your eyes. "yes, he was good. very good, the best of us actually." your voice is tight as you speak, and you watch as several different things flicker across his face.

"i'm sorry," his voice is odd as he says it, almost flat. like he doesn't know the proper tone for an apology. "i'm trying to make things right."

you reach up and scrub at your face tiredly, an exhausted wet laugh bubbling up from your throat. "yeah i know, matt told me. you're on some misguided crusade to destroy the avtf and kill the fisks." when you drop your hand back down you look directly into his eyes, "none of that is going to bring him back, bullseye. if you want to truly atone? do some good, real good, not whatever the hell it is that you've been doing."

his eyebrows pinch and his nose wrinkles as he looks to be deep in thought. "how? i don't know how to do that. what i'm doing is good, it's helping—"

"you're asking me how to be good? that's not something you can just study and learn." you tell him, "it needs to come from inside of you, you need to want it."

"okay."

"okay?"

he nods slowly, "i'll try that."

you pause for a second. "…alright."

the moment draws out, stretching for what feels like an eternity. then you shake your head, "okay get out of here i need some sleep. try to stop getting hurt." he leaves after that without much resistance, and he thanks you, just as he did last time.

when you're alone, you lean against the front desk, letting your head drop to the surface. "dammit, it's happening again foggy. i'm so sorry that it's him," you frown. "but i know you believed in frank so maybe… maybe there's hope for him too."

── ・⸝⸝ ⟢ ⸝⸝・ ──

working at one of the most demanding emergency rooms in new york city certainly was not for the faint of heart. your days were often grueling and disheartening, but you always managed to make it through them. it's just a regular tuesday when it happens, you're standing at the nurses station, eyes skimming over a chart when you begin to hear muffled sounds from just outside the heavy metal doors, in the lobby.

something in your gut shifts, and you feel all the hair on your body stand on end. this isn't the typical noise of a patient getting rowdy or a drug seeker wandering in off the streets. your stance shifts instinctively and you carefully set the clipboard on the desk, your hand inching beneath the hem of your scrubs. you were no ninja like matt, but he'd certainly made sure you knew how to defend yourself should you ever need to, and well— frank had rounded out the course, leading to the weapon you always keep firmly strapped to your waist now.

the doors blow open, and smoke billows through like a hurricane. you narrow your eyes trying to make out the shapes of whoever is inside the smoke. you're crouching down now, hidden behind the desk, and you've drawn your pistol and racked it.

adrenaline begins to course through your body and you really wish you had time to contact matt or even frank but you know that right now? there's none. right now you've got to stand between your patients and whoever is attacking the hospital. you suck in a breath, and rise slightly from your crouch, making out multiple figures in tactical gear. why the hell are men like that coming into your damn emergency room?

your finger hovers over the trigger, you've lined up your shot on the one closest to you.

bang.

the sound rings in your ears and you wince, but you can't let that stop you. he drops to the ground, red blooming in the center of his chest.

"you never aim at something you aren't willing to destroy, princess." frank's voice rings in your head. "and none of that shooting to injure bullshit. some crazy motherfuckers can walk that off, like me. shoot to kill."

your hands are shaking as you tighten your grip on your pistol and drop back down. from what you can tell there's at least seven men left. and you'd just taken out the eighth. you glance behind you to see multiple other nurses and the current doctor on the floor, crouched beneath the countertops and desks in the station. internally you do a head count, you know you're missing at least two.

cursing internally you slowly move from your position and begin to wind around the nurses station. the men are looking around trying to find you but the smoke is thick. they must've used an explosion as a distraction so they could get in here without much resistance. as you get into position and aim at another of the men, you feel the barrel of a gun press to the back of your head.

you go very, very still, a cold sense of dread washing over you. shit, you didn't realize there was one on this side of the room. "drop your weapon," the man demands, pressing the muzzle harder. you slowly raise one hand, and use the other to carefully set the pistol down. fuck, what the hell are you supposed to do now— "shame to waste a pretty face like yours," the moment the words leave his mouth your stomach sinks. you hear the sound of him drawing the trigger back, but right before it can click, there's the sound of something slicing through the air overhead.

then the man is careening backwards, falling straight onto the tile floor. your eyes widen and you snatch your handgun, turning to see a sleek black throwing knife sticking out of the center of his forehead. then there's the sound of more knives sailing through the air and gunfire spraying in arcs across the walls and ceiling, then the sounds of more bodies dropping.

you get to your feet quickly and lean down to the man who'd been about to shoot you, shove your pistol back in your holster and pick up his rifle. you test the weight of it in your hands, give it a quick glance over, before you begin to sweep the room.

standing across the hallway from you, a man in a black and purple tactical suit stares back at you. he has a hooded mask that covers his face except for his eyes. recognition flickers in you, you've seen those eyes before but you're not quite sure where. you raise the rifle, aiming it at his chest, "who the hell are you?" you demand, shifting your feet into a firmer stance.

he tilts his head, and something in his eyes looks faintly amused. then he reaches up, and you realize he's got some sort of grappling hook, and he disappears into an open ceiling tile. you blink, staring at where he'd just been. with a shaky breath you begin to stalk through the department, and thankfully everyone seems unharmed, only bodies left of the attackers. the sounds of sirens begin to fill the air, then the police arrive and begin taking control of the scene.

you're forced to give a statement, especially considering you shot one of the men. they take you down to the station and you have to wait in an uncomfortable chair for your turn to be questioned. you can't get the amused look of your savior out of your head, the eyes were so familiar. two hours later they call you back, the questions go on for a while but in the end they thankfully let you go, everything deemed self defense.

by the time you make it back home you're trudging through the doorway like a zombie. you rub your eyes and yawn, before letting yourself drop into the seat at the front desk. that's when you notice the bundle of flowers in the center, along with your favorite takeout. you stare for a moment, before slowly reaching your hand out to touch the container— it's still warm. as you inspect it, noting that it's your regular order— you see a napkin peeking out from beneath it.

a singular bullseye is drawn in the center.

your mind flashes back to the masked man who'd taken out the assailants— and you put the puzzle pieces together and think to yourself — you've had the owner of those eyes in your treatment room twice.

a sudden realization crashes into you— you've somehow acquired a morally questionable… vigilante? mercenary? escaped convict? you aren't even sure what exactly he is. but you do know him taking this… interest in you probably isn't… good.

── ・⸝⸝ ⟢ ⸝⸝・ ──

matt had already checked on you after everything that happened, he'd called the night of, visited you the next day, and taken you out for brunch with karen. he was usually sensible, so he didn't berate you for holding your own, though he did inquire a bit about the person who'd saved you— but you could tell he was doing his best to keep you from connecting the dots about his visitor from several weeks ago.

what he doesn't know is that you've seen bullseye multiple times now.

you don't bring this up though because you'd rather not sit and listen to matt reprimand you about your choice to help less than savory folks. in your eyes, it was your duty to help whoever you could regardless of their status as criminal or not. that is a conversation the two of you seem to have over and over, and well you're just not in the mood.

now unlike matt who uses a phone to arrange meetings like a normal person— frank castle shows up at your job after you finish your shift, by sitting in the passenger seat of the car you definitely locked earlier that morning. you noticed him immediately, he wasn't exactly trying to hide. though he is dressed down in civilian clothing with a baseball cap tipped over his face a bit.

"and to what do i owe the pleasure, mr. castle?"

he rolls his eyes, "don't bullshit, i'm seeing how you're holdin' up after that shit tuesday."

you hum, settling into your seat, digging into your bag for your car keys. you slot them into the ignition and let your engine rumble to life. "i'm fine, frank."

"mhm," he says it in that tone of his that you hate. it's mocking, almost like he's calling you a liar without any real words. "sure, we can go with that."

"whatever," you mutter. then you turn and look at him, "am i taking your broke ass to eat or what?"

he chuffs a laugh at that, "i could use something decent, been eatin' fuckin' cold ravioli all week."

frank is technically still a wanted vigilante, and he doesn't quite care to change that fact. so he lives off of whatever shit he can steal, which is usually canned food, because he refuses to just come over and let you cook for him like a normal person. sometimes though, he'll take you up on your offer to go get food, usually you only go to diners towards the north side of the city where people look the other way and don't ask too many questions.

the drive there is quiet, frank filling it every so often with passing comments about different things he gets up to when he isn't on a bender taking out criminals left and right. apparently he's adopted a cat with one eye, he said it wouldn't shut the fuck up at his window, and now they share his canned ravioli. you do tell him that a cat needs y'know… cat food. to which he states the cat is a prick and won't eat it, he's gotten it multiple kinds. you don't ask how he acquired multiple kinds of cat food.

you park several blocks away from the diner and do a scan to make sure nothing valuable is visible. as you round the car and step onto the sidewalk beside frank you shove your hands into the pockets of your coat. the two of you walk down the familiar streets, he listens to you as you ramble about how you're trying to perfect a new cinnamon roll recipe. he's always liked that you could give a fuck less that he's the punisher, you still talk about the softer things in life with him. something he lacks, and while he won't ever admit it, he tends to absorb those things from you, karen, and even matt.

you're about four blocks from the car when he nudges your side subtly. "you notice that you've got a ghost trailing you?"

you have to consciously make an effort not to stop walking. "excuse me?"

frank doesn't turn or look around, he keeps his eyes straight ahead. "he's been following us since we got out of the car, think he may have been after us since the hospital." he glances at you sideways, "who exactly was it that took out those assholes on tuesday?"

you swallow. "i uh, i think it was bullseye."

"and you're aware he's following you around?"

"well no— but i guess there's been… a few signs?"

frank exhales like you're exhausting him. "what the hell does that mean?"

you laugh nervously, drawing your shoulders in a bit. "when i got home after being questioned at the station my favorite takeout was on the desk, still hot. with some flowers and uhm—," you chance a look at frank who's looking at you like you're a fucking idiot. "a little napkin with a bullseye on it."

"you've got to be fucking kidding me," he mutters, reaching up to scrub a hand over his face. "you somehow acquired a fucking psychotic escaped prisoner, like a stray cat."

"i… guess?"

"and this doesn't ring any warning bells?"

"well—"

he cuts you off, "does red know?"

you go silent, pursing your lips and purposely look away.

"he doesn't." frank's voice is flat, and you refuse to look at him. "you know that son of a bitch is the one who killed ol' foggy right?"

that makes you stop walking. you turn and look fully at frank, your face contorting slightly. "yeah, i know he fucking killed him. it's been weighing on me nonstop that i've saved his life multiple times now—," you rake a hand through your hair and close your eyes a bit trying to center yourself. "but you know as well as i do that foggy wouldn't want me to leave someone to die, not even someone like him."

frank is silent, he scrutinizes your face. "you're sympathizing with him."

you crack your eyes open just a bit, glaring. "i'm not sympathizing, i just think in his own misguided and fucked up way he's trying to atone. he didn't want to kill foggy—"

"he could've walked away."

"do you know the fisks?" you laugh, incredulous. "vanessa would've put him in the dirt the moment he disobeyed." then you sigh, and you look at frank, really look at him, and loosen your defensive walls. "he's lost, frank. you know what that's like."

frank's eyes do something, and you know even if he won't say it out loud, that yeah. he knows exactly what that's like. "if he tries any shit, you tell me."

your lips soften into a smile and you pat frank's shoulder. "what a lucky girl i am, the big bad punisher and the evil daredevil as my very own bodyguards."

"yeah yeah, don't go braggin' about that shit."

you laugh, and then you turn back down the sidewalk and resume your walk to the diner. frank falls back into step with you, and you feel a bit lighter, having talked to someone about it. and out of the corner of your eye, you catch a flash of purple and black on a rooftop across the street. you aren't quite sure if you're terrified, flattered, or a strange mix of both. but that's a problem for later, for now you need a nice greasy burger and some fries.

── ・⸝⸝ ⟢ ⸝⸝・ ──

over the next few weeks you continue to receive little gifts on the front desk of the shop. they range from a pretty antique teacup you'd looked at a few days prior, to your favorite snacks, and at one point even a pretty golden bracelet with little amethysts encrusted in it that you'd tried on at market but decided you couldn't justify the price of. you've noticed that he likes to leave little notes with them too, short and simple—usually never relating to the gifts themselves.

and now you'd even catch glimpses of purple and black on rooftops or around street corners— sometimes you would swear you saw him in civilian clothes but he'd always blend into the crowd before you could look twice. despite all of that he'd yet to show himself in the clinic again, ever since you'd told him to stop getting hurt.

you aren't quite sure what to do with the situation. it feels as if you're being courted in some bizarre way, but who knows, maybe that's not how it is and he's just… being kind? you aren't sure.

it's your night off when the front door opens, and you glance up and he's standing in the doorway. immediately your eyes do a sweep, and you notice he's leaning heavily against the doorway, one of his hands clutching his stomach. your eyes widen when you see the blood dripping to the floor, and your gaze quickly snaps back to his face where you can see bruises beginning to form and a trickle of blood at the corner of his lips.

"oh my god—," you're on your feet immediately and crossing the small distance. "what the hell happened?" you slide beneath the side he's not bearing weight on, and begin to help him towards the back room.

he coughs, then winces. "fisk."

your eyes widen a bit. "he did this to you?"

the curtain swishes as you walk through it, and you carefully guide him to the hospital bed. that's when you realize his left leg looks wrong.

"caught me when i was trying to take him out," he coughs again and a spray of blood permeates the air. "can you fix me up, doc?" even bleeding out and injured his eyes are bright and he's got that smirk on his lips.

you sigh in exasperation, "this isn't a joke, bullseye."

"dex."

"i'm not—"

"you like the gifts right? i think you can call me dex."

you pinch the bridge of your nose. "fine, dex. we need to get you out of these clothes, but judging by your injuries… i'm going to need to cut them open."

he nods, gesturing at himself. "whatever you need, you're the doctor."

"i'm a nurse. get it right," you do a quick inventory in your head before rushing to the counter to wash your hands and slip on gloves. you grab your medical shears you keep for instances like this and briskly walk back over to him. "fuck," you realize these are not strong enough for whatever the hell he's wearing. you frantically look around the room, and then come to the realization that you don't have anything strong enough.

"okay… i don't have anything that can cut these open—"

he shifts slightly, reaching into his pocket, and pulls out one of the same blades he'd used to take down the hospital assailants. "here."

you stare at it for a moment, before your brain catches up and you take it from his hands and quickly drag it down the center of his armored shirt. the fabric peels apart seamlessly, and you gasp at the gaping wound just below his ribcage. "what did he do to you?"

"threw a piece of rebar at me."

you feel sick for a moment. then you pull yourself together and hover your hands over the spot. it takes longer than most wounds do, it's deep, and you can tell he has some internal damage from it. you begin to feel a faint throbbing in your head as you continue to work. eventually the wound closes, and you breathe a sigh of relief.

now you focus on his left leg, cutting that side of his pants open to get a better look. it's mangled and twisted in such a way you can't quite comprehend how the hell he could walk at all. this takes a significant amount of energy from you as well, but you force yourself to push through despite the ache in your head growing sharper.

by the time it's set back into place you exhale shakily. "where else?"

he looks at you with his eyebrows pinched. "are you okay?"

you ignore him. "let me see your face." your lips are beginning to feel dried out, you run your tongue over them trying to regain any hint of moisture. you bring your hands to his jawline on either side, tilting his head around. then you let your energy seep into him, fading the bruises that had begun to form.

your stomach begins to clench, and you can feel sweat starting to collect along your hairline. "you have some internal damage from that hit i think," you tell him, your voice slightly hoarse. "i'm going to work on that now."

he watches you with close attention as you place both palms over his abdomen again, willing your energy to penetrate deeper into his system. you don't spare him a look, focused only on your current work. the ache is now a sharp stabbing like an icepick, and you feel your skin growing clammy. but you can feel the bleed inside starting to repair as you work, so you can't stop yet.

you blink slowly, your vision starting to swim. sweat drips down your temple now, collecting along your cheekbone, accentuating the flush of your cheeks. black spots begin to dot your vision but you shake your head trying to clear them.

"hey," dex says, looking concerned. "i think you need to stop."

"not yet," your voice comes out in a whisper as you pour the rest of your energy into him. "there. it's done—," the world begins to spin, and you're blinking trying to regain your sight, but then you feel yourself sway to the side, weightless, and everything goes black.

── ・⸝⸝ ⟢ ⸝⸝・ ──

dex had absolutely no idea what the hell to do. you'd been healing him and he started noticing the warning signs that something was wrong. he tried to get you to stop but you're so damn stubborn and now here you are, a sweaty pale mess passed out in his arms.

freshly healed, he shifts and manages to lay you down on the bed where he'd been right before you began falling. he'd managed to catch you in the nick of time. now he stares down at you trying to figure out what he's supposed to do. he can't exactly call you an ambulance because he's pretty sure this side hustle of yours isn't exactly legal.

then he realizes he can call the lawyer or the marine. he weighs the options on which one he should get a hold of, and he decides that while the punisher wields guns, he's probably less likely to kill him than the lawyer. so he finds your cellphone out front on the counter, entering the passcode he's seen you use before, and finds the contact he needs.

the phone call is quick and frank hangs up within thirty seconds. it doesn't take long for him to arrive looking thoroughly pissed off. "what the hell happened to her?" he demands, coming up beside the bed to get a good look at you. "did she overextend?"

dex stares at the other man and nods his head once. "i had a chest wound and my leg was broken. she mentioned something about internal bleeding too."

frank looks at him like he's an idiot. "and you didn't notice her starting to get to her limit?"

"she refused to stop."

the other man scoffs, and it comes out as a bitter laugh. "of course she did." then he shakes his head. "she's going to be fine, but she's going to be down for a few days. look, i can't be here the entire time so i'll need to call red—"

"i can take care of her."

"you?" frank asks. "you expect me to leave her vulnerable with a psychopathic criminal who's on the run?"

"you just described yourself and yet she'd trust you to help."

frank stares at him flatly. "i see why red fuckin' hates you." then he sighs. "fine. i'm only doing this because of your weird… routine the two of you have developed. she hasn't complained to me about it and if you really wanted to hurt her you would have by now."

dex frowns. "i would never hurt her."

"yeah, you better keep your word or i'll make whatever that fat bald prick did to you look like you went to sunday school." then he glances off to the side of the room where another door is. "stairs are behind that door, her place is upstairs. sometimes she's out of it for two days, if she goes longer than that find me or red. got it?"

"got it."

frank pauses. "she'll need to rehydrate and get in some protein. and for the love of god do not let her out of the damn house until she's stable. that means her ass ain't going into work."

"i'll call in sick for her."

"…i'm not even going to ask." frank says, seemingly to himself. "you got it from here?"

dex nods. "yeah."

frank mutters something under his breath, then looks back down at you and lightly presses his hand to your hair before he walks back towards the front. the door clicks shut, leaving just the two of you again.

he finds himself a bit nervous at the prospect of being left alone with you, of taking care of you. maybe this will give him the opportunity to show you that he can, and maybe he won't have to get injured to come see you anymore. he did his best to listen… because you'd asked him to stop getting hurt. you're too good for the world. he wants to preserve that.

a few moments pass before he tucks your phone into his only working pocket. then he slides his arms beneath your shoulders and knees, lifting you gently into his arms. he wasn't about to admit to frank that he already knew the layout of your space, but he's glad he does, it makes it easier to get you situated upstairs.

he watches you for a moment in your bed, before he leaves to grab himself new clothes and enough supplies to stay here for a few days. on his way back he even stops at the corner store to stock up on your favorite snacks and candies. he'd still make you hydrate and eat right, but… you deserve a treat.

when he returns you're exactly where he left you, so he settles into the armchair you have near your bedroom window, tilting his head back and letting his eyes fall shut.

── ・⸝⸝ ⟢ ⸝⸝・ ──

you wake up in the familiar softness of your bed, sunlight spilling over your skin. for a moment you lay there, feeling drained, before your eyes slowly open. that's when everything comes flooding back to you. the last thing you remember is healing dex and passing out downstairs, so how are you in bed?

"oh, you're awake."

immediately your eyes snap towards the window where dex sits in the armchair, he's wearing plain clothing, and you hate that the white t-shirt and gray sweatpants he has on look good. "what? did you—," you then realize that you're not in the clothes you'd been in, you're in soft pajamas.

he notices you clock this and his eyes widen a bit. "that wasn't me."

you stare at him.

so he continues, "the blonde woman, she came by the next morning and got you into those. she also braided your hair, to keep the tangles to a minimum she said."

oh, he must mean karen. you feel yourself relax a bit.

"why are you here?" you don't mean for it to come off as rude as it does.

if he's offended he definitely doesn't show it. "your friend frank said he couldn't. so he asked me to, he gave me details on what to do, that you need to rehydrate and eat protein… no work. don't worry i already took care of that," you vaguely wonder what the hell that means. "he said to keep you here until you're actually better."

fucking frank.

and what a hypocritical son of a bitch, warning you about dex and then leaving you with him? you're going to punch him in his throat later.

"are you hungry?"

you look back at dex, he looks almost sheepish sitting there in your armchair, it looks tiny in comparison to him. "uhm, sure."

he nods. "be right back."

you watch as he retreats and you can't help but admire the way his back ripples, and you curse internally. what is up with you and checking him out? he's a maniac— but you have to admit, you find him almost… endearing in a weird way.

time doesn't seem to exist as you drift back to sleep, not fully, but that soft awareness where the background noise lulls you just enough for your mind to dim. eventually you hear footsteps and the door open again, dex comes back with a tray in hand and carefully sets it beside you on the bed.

you stare at it. "you made me steak and potatoes, how did you even have the time—"

"i started it earlier, had a feeling you'd wake up this afternoon." he shrugs a shoulder. "water's on the nightstand."

the day passes by lazily, and you can't help but wonder what led you to this point. to be taken care of by a man that for all intents and purposes should still be behind bars at rikers. yet here he is, taking care of you, having taken some sort of vested interest in you for months now.

by the second day you've gotten a bit more comfortable, and on the third— you're willingly conversing with him as if he's just another person in your circle. you're sure if matt were aware of this, he'd have an aneurysm. karen most likely kept this bit of information to herself, knowing you needed to be fully recovered before dealing with the wrath of matthew murdock.

you're lying in bed, sitting against your headboard, a book in your hands. dex is in the armchair, he's also reading something you can't quite make out. eventually he sets it down on the small end table beside him and looks over at you. "can i ask you something?"

you hum, eyes trailing over to him as you set your book face down on your lap. "what?"

dex shifts awkwardly. "when you're better and not… forced to deal with me taking care of you," he furrows his eyebrows. "can i take you on a real date?"

a real date.

the words settle and sit there for a moment in the silent evening light. you suppose you should've anticipated this. he'd had this look ever since matt brought him into your damn clinic, and he'd gotten hurt on purpose to see you over and over. after you requested he stop getting injured, he did— but he began to… pursue you, in his own weird, mildly extremely concerning way.

you aren't sure what's crazier, him asking you on a date or…

"yeah, okay. why not?"

the fact that you're agreeing to one.

AUTHORS NOTE: hi guys, not sure exactly what this is but it was fun and silly, hope you enjoy !!! [ahem, im currently working on a long-fic. but... struggling bc it was meant to be an oc fic,, but I do want to share it with you guys... hm.] [p.s it's wolverines!daughter x dex ... hehe. he thinks she's a cute sweet waitress who needs protection. she is not. <33]