#gegothruster

He's slower than usual to look up at you, and his eyes don't light up like they normally do at the sight of you. That's how you know this one has really gotten to him.

"Hey," he rasps out, giving you what seems to be a tired smile. It's hard to tell with that mask covering his face.

You watch as he pushes himself off the wall, stumbling on his feet in the process, and climbs into your apartment. You reach out to steady him as his feet touch your bedroom floor, and he mumbles his thanks.

There's still a lot of blood coming out of his side, and you know that if you don't get him patched up soon he's going to have to take an unwanted, and probably very expensive, trip to the hospital.

Still silent, you place your hand on the middle of his back. You then grab his arm and wrap it around your shoulders, urging him to lean his weight on you. He gives in easily, using your body as support as you two walk stumble to the living room. You grunt softly as you lower him onto the couch, happy to get his weight off of you.

"You're heavy," you grumble, eliciting a laugh from him. It quickly turns into a pained groan, and you rush to the bathroom to grab all the medical supplies you brought home from work.

You never thought you would have to steal so much of the hospital's supplies, and then Dex came into your life.

There's blood on your couch when you come back to the living room which only fuels your worry even more.

"Take off your mask and your shirt." Dex raises a brow at your stern tone and words, but chooses to bite his tongue. Whatever sexual remark was about to leave his mouth instantly vanishes from his mind when he peels off his shirt and hears you gasp.

Maybe he should've told you how bad it was before coming over.

You crouch down beside him, peering into the wound the best you can with all the blood in the way. Fate seemed to favor him again because all of his major organs were spared by literal inches.

While you're examining him, he takes off his mask and sets it down neatly right next to his shirt. When he looks down at you, he immediately notices the slight furrow between your brows as you try to see how deep the cut in his side goes.

He thinks it's cute you worry about someone like him so much.

"I'll have to stitch this up," you say, eyes flickering up to meet his. He only nods in response, already expecting you would say that.

He's still as you clean the wound, biting down on the tip of his tongue until he tastes copper to keep quiet.

You're silent as you try to stop the bleeding, doing your best to ignore the way his muscles tense and flex beneath your touch.

It's a little awkward sitting in silence like this, you think, but Dex doesn't seem to mind it one bit. It lets him focus better on how gentle you are as you press the now red cloth back onto his skin, on how soft your fingertips feel as they lightly graze his ribs.

He likes this a little too much, it's so painfully obvious. You have half the mind to believe he gets himself injured on purpose just so he can come back to you.

Once you manage to get the bleeding to settle down some, you grab the needle and thread from the side table. With how gentle you are, he barely even feels the first stitch.

It's when you poke through his skin again that you decide you can't stand the silence anymore. "Do you wanna talk about what happened?" You ask, voice soft as if you're afraid you'll scare him.

His answer is instant. "Not somethin' you need to hear about."

Dex hates himself for telling you that over and over again. He knows the least he could do is tell you what causes him to get this injured while on the job, but he's scared. You're the one somewhat consistent thing he has in his life, and he's worried if you find out what he's really doing while he's out there, you'll run.

He knows he could find you and catch up to you, but you would be scared of him by then. You wouldn't want him after finding out he's killed innocent men, wouldn't look up at him with worry in those pretty eyes of yours.

If keeping you around for a little longer means being selfish and hurting your feelings, then he'll gladly do so.

You pause for a moment, and he notices the furrow between your brows is back. He wishes he could soothe it away with his thumb, but he knows now isn't the right time for that.

"Why not?" You ask, doing your best not to sound hurt. It's so obvious he's hiding things from you and you hate it. You know whatever he's doing out there isn't any good, considering he wears a mask and shows up frequently at your apartment with a hole in his side—but you want to know.

He sighs, partly in frustration, and tips his head back against the couch to stare up at the ceiling instead of your face. He won't look at you while he lies to you, he can't.

"Don't want to worry you." You scoff at his response, not believing a single word of it. Multiple things to say to him fly around in your head, the majority of them horrible, so you decide to keep quiet. For some odd reason, your gut tells you he's been through a lot.

Maybe it's the slight sadness in his eyes, or the loneliness that seems to follow him around everywhere he goes. You can't quite place which it is, but you don't want to add to his problems.

When Dex is sure that your anger has died down, which he is assuming is right now since you've stopped stabbing the shit out of him with the needle, he speaks up again.

"I don't want to worry you more than I already do, is what I meant." You look up at him, but he's not looking back at you. Those hazel eyes of his are still fixated on the ceiling, searching for things that aren't there.

You keep stitching him up while he talks. It's a good distraction from the weird, aching feeling in his chest.

"I'm not a good man, I think that much is obvious. There are people out there who hold things over my head because of what I do."

You don't say anything, but he knows you're still listening.

His throat goes dry and threatens to close in on him, but he keeps talking, counting the dots on your ceiling to ground himself. He would prefer some music, but this works too.

"I'm scared if I tell you the truth, that… that if I open up to you, those same people will come and take the one good thing I have away from me."

Your chest tightens at his words, and you so desperately want to say something to him, but you decide to wait until he's gotten everything he needs to say out of his system.

You're putting some gauze on his now stitched up wound, hands still so incredibly gentle against his undeserving skin. He wishes he could feel this every night, but that's just not possible with how things are.

"If I don't tell you, then you're safe. You not knowing is better, that means no one will come take you away." He finishes, voice a little shaky now.

You stare at him for a moment, unsure of what to say. This is the first time Dex has truly opened up to you, and you're a little overwhelmed by it all.

"Dex…" you start off, mouth opening and closing as you think of what to say. Finally, you settle on the most basic answer of them all.

"No one is going to take me away from you."

Now, he looks at you, pretty hazel eyes meeting your own. It's safe to assume that while he had been telling you about what he's so scared of, he had also been crying.

Swallowing hard, you push the mess of your medical supplies off the couch and climb straight into his lap. He welcomes the closeness like it's the only thing he knows, shaky hands hovering over your waist before finally settling on your skin.

The way he holds you makes you feel like you're something precious.

"You don't know that," he insists, voice breaking. "Every– everything good that happens to me always gets taken away." Tears prick at his eyes, and he quickly squeezes them shut in a desperate attempt to not let them fall.

When one does fall, you gently wipe it away with your thumb.

"I won't let them take me away from you." You whisper softly, hands creeping up to cradle his face in your palms. His skin is stained with blood, and it's sure to dirty your hands even further, but you can't bring yourself to care in the moment.

At that, he lets out a breath he feels like he's been holding in for forever.

One of his hands leaves your waist, moving to settle over your heart instead. You're confused by the gesture for a split second until you realize he's feeling of your heartbeat. You let one of your hands fall from his face to his chest to reciprocate the gesture.

Unlike the steady rhythm of yours, his is wild and frantic as if it were trying to escape.

"Swear it," he says, tone softer, more vulnerable than usual.

You bump your nose against his, light and playful. "I swear it." You whisper back in a tone just equally as soft. You're treating him like he's some sick, wounded little thing, but he doesn't hate it. It's a lot better than being treated like the merciless, depraved man he is.

His hand leaves your heart, now sliding up to cup your cheek. His palm is calloused, worn from years of work, yet you still lean into the touch. He can't resist the urge to drag his thumb across your bottom lip, relishing in the way your breath hitches in response to the touch.

You just sit there, pretty eyes locked onto his while you wait for his next move. The way you're so trusting to let him touch you as he pleases makes him feel strangely human, like he isn't all bad.

Surely there has to be some good in him, even if it's strictly reserved for you.

"Don't deserve to touch you like this," he mumbles, mostly to himself. Despite his words, he doesn't let you go, doesn't stop caressing the soft, plush flesh of your lip.

You speak before you think. "You're the only one who deserves to touch me like this, Dex."

There's a beat of silence, and it goes on long enough for the realization of what you just said to dawn on you. Heat rises to your cheeks, and you're so close to apologizing and pulling away from him, but his grip on your face is firm.

"Say that again," he breathes, leaning in closer. When you look into his eyes, there are no traces of the sadness you usually see, you only find hope and desire staring back at you.

"Please, baby. Let me hear you say that again, please, please, please." He sounds completely and utterly ruined, and you hate yourself for liking it.

"You're the only one who deserves to touch me like–" you don't even get the full sentence out before his lips are on yours, teeth nipping at your bottom lip in order to get access to your mouth. It takes you a second to kiss back, but when you do, he practically melts underneath you.

It's not rough and full of teeth like you expected it to be, but slow and painfully intimate in a way that has heat pooling in your stomach. When your hands find their way into his hair, Dex knows he's done for.

You give the strands an experimental tug, and he can't stop the embarrassing whimper that escapes his throat. The sound does nothing but add to the heat between your legs.

This time, you tug harder, yanking his head back in the process, and he moans like he's in pain. It's a sound you want to hear again and again and again.

His hand comes up to cup your jaw as he licks into your mouth, tongue sliding against yours. You taste like mint toothpaste, he tastes like gunpowder and copper.

When the two of you finally pull away from each other, you greedily drink in the sight of him, storing it in your brain for later. His cheeks are flushed with pink, and his lips are swollen and slick with spit.

He takes a moment to admire you, too. How your pupils are blown wide with desire, how your lips are all slick and swollen—all because of him.

He so desperately wants to lean back in and keep kissing you, but he knows that if the two of you kept going it would lead to a lot more than just kissing. Which he wouldn't mind, and he's positive you wouldn't either, but he has stitches to heal, lest he rip them and get even more blood on your couch.

So he grounds himself. His hands slide underneath your shirt and up the expanse of your back, feeling of the soft skin there. Instinctively, you lean forward, resting your cheek against his bare shoulder.

He's never had a moment like this with someone before, so he's not sure what to do, or even say for that matter. He's thankful that you're able to figure it out before he does.

Almost shyly, you peer up at him, still looking a little disheveled from the kiss. "Stay with me tonight?" You ask, like he would ever say no. He hates following orders, hates being bossed around, but he doesn't seem to mind it when it's you. He finds himself wanting to bend to your every whim.

"Yeah," he says finally, voice rough. "Yeah, I'll stay, sweetheart." You smile up at him, pure and sweet, and Dex is suddenly a little glad that he slipped up and got stabbed tonight. He'd gladly endure the pain if it meant getting to be here with you like this.

With some convincing, and a lot of reluctance on Dex's part, he lets you get up from his lap so you can wrap his stomach with dressing. He wasn't going to argue with you about it, considering you were the nurse here and not him.

He just sits back, obedient as ever, watching as you fret over him.

When his stomach is wrapped, you step back to make sure his side is completely covered. You stare for an extra second longer than normal, acting like you're looking for something out of place when you're really just using that as an excuse to stare at him while he's shirtless.

If he notices, he doesn't say anything.

You clear your throat before speaking. "I have, uh, I have an extra shirt if you want to borrow it."

"Nah, think I'm alright like this." You nod in understanding, watching as he makes himself comfortable on your couch. He sucks in a sharp breath when he turns to lay on his back, feeling the wound pull taut. He would definitely be out of commission for a few days.

He notices you're still standing in front of him, hovering like you're waiting for something. Sighing deeply, he pats the spot in front of him on the couch, an invitation. "C'mere," he says gruffly, and you listen.

You shuffle into the spot beside him, taking a minute to get comfortable. The couch is way too small for the both of you, but you somehow manage to make it work.

Dex is warm and solid when you press yourself against him. His hand comes up to cup the back of your nape, gently coaxing you to rest your head against his chest. You feel safe like this, and he feels fulfilled. "This okay?" He asks, breath ghosting over the top of your head.

When you whisper a soft "yes" in response, he can't help but hold you just a little tighter.

The two of you don't talk about the kiss or what it meant, you just lay there. You, listening to the sound of his heartbeat underneath your cheek, and him, gently running his fingers through the strands of your hair.

It doesn't take long for you to fall asleep like that, but Dex doesn't follow. He stays awake, watching every slow rise and fall of your chest. He even counts the breaths you take.

You're beautiful like this, he thinks. With your eyes shut and lips slightly parted as you snore against him softly. Vulnerable, trusting, and so incredibly beautiful. If he wasn't so tired, he would watch you for hours.

But for now, he watches you until his eyes start to burn, the urge to sleep overtaking his stubbornness. He leans in to kiss away the slight furrow between your brows before he finally decides to let himself rest.

That night, Dex doesn't wake up in a cold sweat with his mind replaying all of the horrible things he's done in a perpetual loop. He remains still and constant against you, the occasional snore escaping his own throat.

And when he wakes, you're there pressed against his chest—soft, real, and still something he doesn't deserve.