#north star!reader

As a paper-pusher at the FBI, clearance wasn’t exactly something you were ever familiar with. Plug in the USB, scan the document, unplug the USB, deliver to the person with clearance. On this late mid May evening, you spent your overtime shift navigating between the damp basement mail room and upper managements’ much drier, nicer floors, trying your best to stay under the radar. Sensible shoes, hair fashioned neatly and a cotton button down and you could've been mistaken for a desk chair. That was all well and fine until a manager with a particular amount of clearance and a need for the USB in your palm just so happened to have the kind of brain frequency, as you’d come to call it, that your gift could tune into. You don’t know why or how you were able to get into people’s heads, whether cosmic force, mysterious birth or some other meager shape of hapless circumstance, but you did know some people just seemed to have thoughts at the right frequency for you to tap into at will. More awkward circumstances led you to the discovery that if you tried hard enough, they could hear you right back, and once you’d tapped into someone’s frequency, you could tap into it from anywhere. A gift of that magnitude was one you figured out pretty quickly was best kept to yourself; the last thing you wanted was to become anyone’s newest toy. You were careful to only ever intrude quietly, to learn how first dates really felt about you, or if your neighbor was lying to you about where your packages went. Nothing flashy, and certainly nothing heroic. That was, until you tuned in to find out exactly what kind of plans the FBI had for currently AWOL ex-agent Benjamin Poindexter.

So here you found yourself sitting at your desk, with little more than a monitor and a chair to show for your service to your country, a plan slowly bubbling to the surface. The rubbery, chewable eraser from a pencil found its way between your teeth as you awaited his response. Your heart rate slowly crept upwards as you weighed the risks you were about to take; your eyes trailed across the faux fabric texture of your desk’s partition, attempting to counterbalance the pounding in your chest. Just underneath the drums, though, was a curious excitement you couldn’t deny. Vigilantes weren’t really an object of jealousy for you, but sometimes images of a different life did dance deliciously in your daydreams— of which you enjoyed quite a few on your many slow work days. Maybe you’d even have a name that sounded cool, something like Radio-Girl, or like DJ something, or— Echo. Now that’d be a suitable name, you surmised.

“—Uh… Huh?” Dex’s groggy response snapped you out of your wandering. Receptive. That’s a good sign. Your eyebrow arched appreciatively, his response came faster than you’d expected. A familiar resonance traveled across your jaw. Apparently you’d broadcasted that thought directly to him. An apology began forming in your mind briefly before you stopped yourself with a quick clench of your jaw. You’d seen glimpses of his file, heard the whispers and felt their fears when he’d walked by, knew what they said about him at his best, and who he was at his worst. You needed him to think you were in control for him to believe you, for you to get the information you needed to him, for you to help him. A steadying breath and another clamp on your jaw later and you were ready to push again.

“Do you need help, Dex?” The question was more of a taunt, half a rude attempt at regaining control and half investigating what his understanding of his position was. This time, confusion sounded back to you, which always felt a little like dizziness and a soft chorus of similarly puzzling memories bubbling around you like balloons. 

“What is— Who— What?…” You could feel the bubbles clear as he finally reached a state of consciousness you could work with. Time to push.

“Dexxie—“ You sang into his mind again, and ok, maybe that was a little much. “Aren’t you tired of running? Are you feeling… directionless?” That truth twinged at the corners of your ears, and you felt the resonance deep in his core, his mental guards loosening ever so slightly. Bingo. Those guards tightened right back up, though, not a moment later.

“This some new toy the F.B.I. is playing with now, huh? Not even my thoughts to myself, anymore? Great.” His sardonic quip reminded you of the first time you’d dialed into his mind in that office hallway, just a year ago. 

You were standing by the water fountain across from the shrink’s office when he’d burst through the door, wind cutting through the air almost as sharp as his anger. A purple-ish bruise still blooming over the thin line of his scowl and one larger cut shorn over his hairline caught your attention as he passed by you.  He’d met your eyes, if only for a moment, and as the moment passed a small smirk betrayed his thoughts, which quickly invaded yours.  “Gullible bastard” You’d blushed into your water bottle, feeling as though it was a private joke shared between the two of you. A half chuckle escaped your lips, and when you’d looked up you found his ocean blue eyes glancing back toward you, confused, if only for a moment. In those days you didn’t have as tight a grip on your gift as you would’ve liked. The shame at being caught had stirred something in you, and you’d spend the next few weeks thinking about how his eyes met yours.

“If only. They’d never be so lucky.” You scoffed and leaned back in your chair, only letting the memory flick across the back of your eyes, hoping he could taste your honesty through the connection. Honesty tasted like honey and good memories. 

——————

Dex blinked slow, tilting his head back to rest on the motel headboard and taking a deep breath. A water-stained popcorn ceiling with a myriad of other questionable specks met his gaze, but that was the price of cash-only motels that didn’t ask for your name in this city. His eyes scanned the small room, still hoping that maybe a person, a real live person would slink from the shadows revealing themselves. But between the tattered pinstripe curtains and the sticky dresser that housed a meager box TV, there weren’t exactly shadows from which anyone could emerge. The sweat-drenched bed sheets were rough against his torso and hips as he sat up in bed, thankful in an odd way that something had stirred him from his nightmares. What a strange sensation to wake up to, though. A foreign voice whose words rang through the bones in his face like tuning forks. Certain words came with strange tastes and some words resonated through different bones. Not unpleasantly, though, and he couldn’t help but admit to himself that a new voice, maybe real maybe not, was a nice change in pace from his normal night terrors. A hand raked through his sleep-mussed hair and his eyes regained focus as his bottom lip slid through his teeth. Lucky. What uninformed person would ever associate him to that word, well, he’d sure like to know. 

“Maybe one day you will… For now I’d get the hell out of that Super 8 you’re holed up in.” Came your reply, as if reading his thoughts. He chuckled not only at your response but his summation as well, figuring you were in fact reading his thoughts, at least for now. His hand came up to scrub his face, grounding himself further into reality as he weighed whether or not he’d really choose to believe a voice in the sky— or, this strange voice in his head. 

——————

The eraser in your mouth had all but been sheared off from its metal cage as you waited to feel any sign that he was listening to your advice. In less than an hour a squad of agents would be bursting through his door to apprehend him, and you knew all too well what it was like to get so close to being free of your cage only to be dragged back down. You closed your eyes, not wanting to watch the clock tick closer to his doom, searching for any sign that he was moving when it rang through.

“Toothbrush, toothpaste, zip, left quadrant. Shampoo, conditioner, body wash, zip, right quadrant.” 

——————

The early morning dew settled around Dex like a familiar blanket, one he wasn’t too happy to be reacquainted with, but given the events of the last two hours, he’d have been grateful for worse. Perched up in the humid greenhouse of an apartment building just a few doors down from the motel, the sound of Dr. Mercer’s voice filtered through his headphones as the sun was slowly beginning to ascend. He had enjoyed a front row seat to the raid that played out unsuccessfully below him not just an hour earlier. Disbelief had mixed with fascination as he watched the sting operation turn into a circus from his absence. The voice was right… it had helped him. All the public knew was that he was an ex-FBI, gala crashing, trigger-happy mass murderer, but maybe this voice wasn’t a public civilian. They could be a recluse, hell, maybe she was an agent in the very bureau that sought to tank his reputation and paint him a bad guy. The latter sounded most plausible, if not still completely unlikely, Dex thought. She. Well, the voice in his head sounded like a ‘she’ at least. With nothing better to do, he tossed around the idea of what this newfound disembodied voice looked like in his brain as he watched the motel parking lot drain of FBI agents. Was she a blonde? A redhead? Human? Animal? Superhuman? Vigilante? Civilian? He wondered in equal part what her motivation was. What did she know? How much did she know? Could she be rooting around inside his head right now? The question gave him pause, his fingers finding the pause button before ripping the headphones off and tucking them neatly back into his backpack. Maybe not listening to his tapes would keep that part of his life private, for now.

——————

“You made it out.” You tapped into Dex’s brain as soon as you got off work. Sitting in your car, your hands wringing the worn leather wheel, relief flooding your nostrils first as you breathed out. His reply came with the undercurrent of a soft woman’s voice— a ghost from his past, you figured, as did most thoughts you came across.

“Yup… Say, who exactly do I have to thank for making it out alive?” You smirked, one hand inserting your key into the ignition and exiting the parking lot as your car radio came to life, blaring some unbearable billboard top 100 hit. You turned it off, for once grateful to have something you actually wanted to listen to. For a moment you considered telling him your name, like your real name. But you were also an agent with the bureau who went through the same training, and you knew better than to play a hand like that just yet. The name came to you as you eased into an unfamiliar 4 way intersection, a toy that had kept your mind occupied on the many late third shifts you’d endured. A name that you decided then and there most closely represented how it felt to receive others' thoughts, and how you imagined it’d feel to have your thoughts broadcasted to them. Sure, it worked like a radio, but the foggy memories that clung to and followed every thought like ghosts, well, that felt more like an echo.

“Echo. You can call me Echo.” A thrill undeniably shot through your spine with your response, your hands exchanging places on the steering wheel as you turned onto a familiar street. You always took a different route home every night, careful not to ever be too predictable. Your apartment parking structure finally came into view and you pulled into your spot, idling for a moment as you checked your surroundings. You didn’t get paid much but you did get paid enough to afford the luxury of a parking garage and some security measures.

“Now that’s quite the name, Echo. Kinda sounds like a vigilante code name… Are you a vigilante, Echo?” His sly tone landed on your cheeks like hot coals. It was almost embarrassing how quickly he’d clocked you. Not you specifically, you supposed, but you’d figured it was within tolerance. 

“Now, Dex. That’d kind of be giving away the game, wouldn’t it?” Alright, you were a little drunk on the chance to form your own narrative. Truth be told, you were in way over your head. You knew the FBI had bigger plans for Poindexter than just bringing him back to the mental institution, but past glimpses of information, you really didn’t have enough pieces of the puzzle to even call it a game or a plan, not just yet. You’d have to punch in some overtime and actually figure out how to pinpoint signals in the office to actually get more info, but you were sure you could.

“So what game are we playing then, Echo?” You liked how he said it, Echo. It felt like a low, warm hum just under your chin. Almost like you could nestle into it, if you tried hard enough. 

“Well, one that keeps you alive, hopefully. You do want that, right, Dexxie?” Something about calling him Dexxie felt… interesting. It would’ve felt right, maybe, if you were more of a romantic.

“Sure, cuz I’ve got so much to live for.” Metallic and sarcastic.

“I think you do.” You probably sounded more pitiful than you meant to, or maybe more earnest? You realized that you’d been parked in front of your apartment for far longer than you’d meant to be. You gathered your things and rode the dingy elevator up to your floor, winding your way down the hallway to your front door and slipping inside before confirming twice that you’d locked it behind you. Being on high alert from now on was probably a good idea. Knowing Dex’s background, he could already be on your trail, and the last thing you wanted was to be caught off guard.

“So, how exactly does this work? You live in my head and you puppeteer me like Ratatouille, or are you just racking up some good will before calling in a favor?... Are you listening to me all the time or just when you have something to say?” That one came through with a slight sting to your temple, but you couldn’t blame him for it, not exactly. You dropped your backpack next to the single chair and couch that populated your otherwise bare living room and shifted focus to the kitchen island that held a small cluster of wines you’d accumulated, one of the only signs of life in your home. A Malbec, your favorite, found its way into a glass and you found yourself settling into your chair. Your eyes slid around the meager, windowless room, which was stuck in a state of permanently depersonalized decor. The only upside to your home was having a small balcony in your bedroom, where you enjoyed a majority of your daily dose of sunlight. You moved around so much as a kid that you never learned how to make a space your own, and once you were an adult you figured there were better things with which to concern yourself.

“This isn’t Disney. I think your former employers wronged you, and I’d just hate to keep a good man down. I don’t think you need an employer at all, Dex. I think you just need someone to believe in you.” Surprise caught you as you felt sweetness weave through your taste buds. Not because you had intended to lie, but maybe you just weren’t sure of your own conviction until now. It tasted nice with the Malbec.

“And no, I’m not listening all the time. It's kind of like a radio signal. I can promise you I won’t be listening unless we’re talking… Unless you want me to.” You added, playful but slightly metallic, slightly a lie. You weren’t really listening all the time, but you had the privilege of a leash and you had to admit to yourself that you were using it a little. Just enough to know he got out alive. That last part had you swirling in your chair, a slight tingle glimmering in the pit of your stomach. 

“That’s probably unlikely, sweetheart. Let’s keep our thoughts to ourselves, hm?” If you were just a little further into your glass of wine you might’ve had the liquid courage to take it on the chin, but alas, a small swoon managed to escape you. You swallowed it down with another swig of wine. A sly smile tugged on your lips. Now this was a game you knew how to play.

“Oh, come on, you’re telling me you don’t wish, even a little, that you could hear my thoughts too, Dexxie?” 

——————

Dex chuckled. How interesting, this voice, calling him lucky, calling him a good man. Her words clung to him like the sticky, humid air surrounding him in the greenhouse. It wasn’t ideal, but it’d work just fine as a place to sleep for a couple of hours. He found a hose coiled up in the corner and figured it’d have to do for a quick shower. He wasn’t allowed to sleep if he didn’t shower. He peeled off his sweatshirt and folded it into his bag, following the familiar order of unclothing himself before finally reaching back into his bag for his shower caddy. For a moment, as the cold water began to spray across his chest, he considered taking her up on the offer. What would she let him know about her? What would he want to know about her? He reached for his soap when suddenly a memory and its accompanying tastes intruded his thoughts. Not one of his own, that much was evident immediately. 

A young man stood across from him– or, not him– in the mail room of an apartment complex, which at first glance seemed pretty run of the mill. Rows and columns of mail slots lined the right peripheral and just behind the boisterous young man was the front door to the complex which consisted of a large glass pane and a handle. The young man’s mouth formed a string of denials about the whereabouts of some package. But then, the young man’s voice crowded over his own, with words his mouth wasn’t forming: I should’ve never let Shauna run to get my mail yesterday. I knew she hadn’t bought those shoes. Thieving bitch. 

Dex’s eyes readjusted to the early morning glow of the greenhouse as the memory faded away, something unfamiliar and metallic lingering on his taste buds. He pointed the hose toward himself and ejected the water directly at his face to ground him back in reality. It took a minute for him to adjust to the fact that he had just watched someone else’s memory through their eyes… played back for him in his head. It was a certain kind of unbelievable, especially for him, that anyone could watch, could see another’s memories. Chance danced fleetingly across the back of his mind before he squeezed his eyes shut, hoping it would stifle the feeling. Heavy, dizzying breaths accompanied the rest of his shower, his fist wound tight around the nozzle as he completed his mental checklists and wrestled with the strange new reality he seemed to be stepping into. When he was finished he took the liberty of watering the surrounding plants— a kind of thanks, he supposed. His eyes were half lidded with exhaustion when he finally reached for his one other set of clothes. 

“So what was that, then?” Dex finally broke the silence, adjusting his backpack behind his head to find a suitable sleeping position. He was replaying the scene in his head, brows furrowing, hoping to catch a glimpse of any identifying feature of the room or of his mysterious voice that he could latch onto. A clue would be all he needed to get closer to figuring out who she was. His pulse quickened at the thought of finding her, a familiar kind of delicious pace he’d only ever felt a few times before. A challenge, a chase... Now that was something he could look forward to.

“Consider it an act of goodwill. I’m not here to be a mysterious voice in the sky, at least not forever. You don’t trust me right now and I don’t trust you much either. We can both work on fixing that in the meantime.” The tiniest electrical bursts began flicking at the edges of his mind as your response came through, excitement now flowing through him like a current. She wanted to help him. She wasn’t going to leave. He knew it was too soon, but he was starting to feel like he could count on her. Or at least maybe he could in the future. All he knew for now was that you were there for him, in an unconventional, kind of weird way, but you were there. And that could be enough, for now.

Suddenly, a young man exited the elevator, blaring a conversation through his phone speakers and arguing twice as loudly, interrupting the pleasant daydream. Dex angled himself inward as he slid past the man, and as they brushed shoulders he stretched out his palm, encircling his fingers around the man’s forehead and bouncing the unsuspecting skull off the wall. Twice. The other end of the phone buzzed with concern as the now unconscious man landed with a thud behind Dex, who was now entering the unoccupied elevator completely unperturbed. He pressed for the top floor, shaking his head to rid himself of the nagging voices as the elevator rose higher into the midday sky. Once on the top floor, he bee-lined for the stairs, making his way up another flight and finally he was on the roof. Just earlier in the day he’d scouted out the building, and to his luck, there was an old groundskeepers shack that sat abandoned next to a newer groundskeepers shed. Lucky again, he’d thought to himself with a wry smile, stashing his backpack and other personal effects in an old gardening chest. 

——————

The last few days had you on edge. The second you sent him that memory, that damn memory of your collegiate neighbor who never could quite figure out how to turn down his music or his volume in general, you knew you'd made a mistake. Of all the personal memories you could have– would have shared without a second thought– you had to stupidly share one from the apartment building in which you currently lived. You ramped up your daily inconsistencies to combat the potential threat, though it pained you to do so. It meant avoiding the street your favorite coffee shop was on and your favorite arepas food truck situated outside your office's front door. Finding yourself coffee-less and arepa-less at your lifeless desk at lunch time, you were finding it hard to tune in to anything in particular. You hadn’t slept well and it was evident from your disheveled clothes right down to your bloodshot eyes. People thought so much, and it was rarely about anything that actually mattered, even when they were expected to be thinking about the important thing. Not only did you not have much else to report back to Dex, but it meant you were still no closer to forming any further semblance of a plan either. 

That didn’t mean you weren’t tapping in here and there, though, telling yourself that each check in was simply to keep a short leash on your newest buddy. You never plugged in past the surface of his mind, never wandered to the deeper annals of his thought. You’d learned long ago just how much you could regret digging deeper unannounced. It's not like you could right now, anyway. Like a radio, the signal got weaker the further apart you were. No, you were just confirming signs of life. Speaking of, you hadn’t tuned in all morning. The image of Dex sitting in some two-bit diner enjoying pancakes, or maybe waffles, flashed across your eyes and you couldn’t help but swallow the smile creeping onto your face. Just in time for a coworker to drop another stack of files on your desk. You swiped your hand across your mouth and drew a deep breath in, remembering you also had a paying job that needed doing. You grabbed the stack of papers and weaved through the office to the mail room, a small, dank room consisting of a line of fax machines, an island for preparation and sorting, and several massive photocopiers for you to scan. You left your mind open to wander between the frequencies of your fellow agents, preferring to practice fine tuning your abilities to better filter thoughts from feelings from memories.

There’s no way I’m making it out of this alive. If I don’t get him, it’ll be my head he goes after next. I cannot fuck this up. Fear– it ran like ice down your temples, coating your tongue in blood and adrenaline. Now that was something you could work with. Your attention turned away from the stack whizzing through the machine just in time to match the thought to the person: officer Powell. An egregious oaf who might as well have self-righteous tattooed on his forehead. You knew instantly that he had meant to slip into an empty room, of which this one was not. Time for a little practice, you figured. You put on your best startled face and spun around frantically, wide eyes and a slightly agape, rounded mouth. Your hand flew to your chest as you heaved, pressing it inward as you exhaled.

“Ohmigosh, you scared me!” Your voice notched a whole octave higher than normal, coated in a breathlessness you’d practiced so many times in the mirror. You watched for a moment as his eyes scrambled to take you in, assessing you. Non-threatening. How surprising, you thought, fighting everything in yourself not to roll your eyes.

“Didn’t mean to startle you, miss. I didn’t think they still used these things.” Not half bad. His silent remark slid down your neck and dripped onto your shoulders like slime. Resisting the urge to shudder, you gave a coy giggle at his remark and tugged on the side of your bottom lip, pulling your shoulders back as you feigned regaining your composure. 

“Well, bureaucracy is kind of in the name, and where there’s bureaucracy, there’s a photocopier.” You offered, motioning weakly to the machine that had now quieted. He took a step further into the room, closer to you, and adjusted his holster, nodding in agreement as he noted the other prehistoric machines available for use.

“It’s a shame they keep you down in this basement and not up on the ground floor at reception, you know.” Salty sweat prodded at the back corners of your tongue and you bit down on your cheek to keep from dropping your mask. His focus had clearly shifted elsewhere, along with his weight. He propped up his elbow on the small island and rested his hand on the stack of papers you were scanning. 

“Would you like me to forward that request to anyone in particular?” You looked up at him through your eyelashes with a playful but reserved smirk as you moved to swap another batch of papers into the machine, metallic now overpowering the sweat. He received your volley in kind, placing his hand on top of the next batch of papers.

“Y’know, you might just have to forward it to me. I’ve got a little more pull around here than you might think.” Grossest of all, self-aggrandizing pride, which tasted of rusted iron and salt. Like the man was horniest for himself first.

“Is that so, officer? Well in that case, what would be the best way to reach out to you about this… change in position?” You let your tongue dart across your bottom lip, keeping steady eye contact with him. That was quite literally the last thing you wanted, but this was the closest you’d been to any sort of lead. He chuckled low, removing a business card from his vest pouch and placing it on top of the stack of papers.

“My cell is there. Don’t lose it, or I’ll know.” Time to take care of this meddling bastard. We better have a location on Poindexter by the time I’m back to HQ. He winked with a final lean in before straightening himself up, his gait more like a wobble due to the weight of his protective gear. You released your face muscles from the prison of their masquerade and widened your eyes briefly, mocking him just out of vision. Before he closed the door to the mail room, you offered your name and he repeated it back to you with a small wave. You drew a long, heavy breath once the door fully shut. You got him, now you’d be able to tap into Powell from anywhere, listen in on him at any time you wanted. That could be a start. 

“Dexxie. I hope you’ve got a good hiding spot tonight.” The nickname had definitely become your calling card over the last few days. It helped you feel more in control even when you had nothing to report, and it felt like a sense of familiarity that trust could bloom from. At least, for you.

“Echo. So good to hear from you. Happy to report I have the best hiding spot in the city tonight.” There was that warm hum in the base of your chin again, this time accompanied by the slightest pang of metallic sarcasm and a certain playfulness you hadn’t yet registered from him. It was a relief to hear even a sarcastic playfulness from him, a rapport was building between the two of you, and that was a good sign.

“Good job.” You cooed. “I’d be sure to stay away from any large windows or skylights tonight, if I were you.”

“Well, aren’t I just the luckiest guy in the world? I have no doubt that will not be a problem tonight, no.”

——————

That evening, Dex peered over the edge of the rooftop that led down to the parking garage entrance. Another clue he’d picked up from your memory was the hand you had outstretched toward your open mailbox, in the peripheral he could make out the numbers and deduced their order based on the numbers that were in focus. Given the disappointing frequency with which you had checked in with him today, he figured you were clocked in and busy, and starting a timer at 5 o’clock meant that whatever minute you got home was the radius with which he could use to dig further into your background. He watched cars pull into the garage for a while as the sun slowly descended behind him. When he felt satisfied with the amount of time that had passed, he made his way down to your floor, his baseball cap low on his forehead. Something had been nagging at the back of his mind the last few days, something that threatened to wreck the mental guardrails he’d worked his whole life to develop and fortify. You were able to call on him at will, able to hear his thoughts at whim. What did you know, he wondered, and how much?

——————

You stepped out onto your floor with half-formulated plans buzzing around in your brain, your face buried in your phone as you edited and deleted and tried your best to draft a witty yet chaste yet enticing text message to Powell. You would unfortunately need more time in his vicinity to get a deeper hold on his mind, so that meant keeping the act up for now. You were so absorbed in your own thoughts that you barely registered the man loitering in your floor’s elevator lobby. You practically floated past him on your way to your door, the other half of your mind occupied with tuning into Powell’s head to see if you could pick anything else up. But so far, he was just shooting the shit with some colleagues, as far as you could tell. The door to your apartment flew open, and you tossed your backpack next to your chair before remembering to turn around and lock your door. You sent off a quick intro text to Powell– you had decided on a simple identification message to keep things coy– and shrugged off your clothes and into the bathroom you went. You entered your shower just as the steam began to cover your mirror, feeling something odd bite at the back of your neck for a moment before angling your head just right so that the water pressure drowned out the sensation. 

Clean. Tidy. Those two words slid appreciatively like peach pie down your throat and the numbing heat provided a soothing screen between you and caring about the exact location of the words. You brushed them right off, as if they were your own. You lingered a little longer after finishing your shower before turning it off, dreading the creeping cool of your apartment’s AC.  The odd nagging sensation threatened to breach your pleasant but slowly ebbing lightheadedness as you began your skincare routine. It wasn’t until you exited your room and felt a very out of place warm breeze, from your balcony door that was now ajar even though you did not open it yourself, that snapped you out of your steamy haze. What were the odds that he’d fucking found you, was the first thought that came to mind. Wrapped in a bath towel no less, came the second. You tried to dial into his mind but found it empty, too quiet. You’d give him that, he was a quick study, however he had done it– if he had done it… The thought of passing your bedroom door to see Benjamin Poindexter standing in your living room sent a single hard bolt of lightning slamming down your spine. But your clean clothes were on the other side of the room, and you weren’t going to confront him in your birthday suit, even if the smallest part of you could admit that it would kind of rock to pull as an opening move. You took a deep, steadying breath and strode confidently across your room, the whole 5 steps to your dresser. There were no dark or brooding figures visible on the other side of the door as you crossed it, a fraction of relief washed over you. You quickly fished out a t-shirt and some shorts, discarding your towel on the floor without a second thought and getting dressed faster than you ever had before. Once clothed, you carefully and deliberately turned around, scanning the bedroom for his presence, but he was not there. Thankfully…?

A low, gravely chuckle bounced off the bare walls of your living room, providing an undeniable, real life echo. Which faded in step with the familiar feeling of broadcasted resonance in your jaw. Ice flooded from your scalp to your toes and you instantly registered the position of your feet relative to the bedrock on which the whole damn city was founded. There went your plans to meet on neutral turf. You squeezed your eyes shut to stop the spinning, so tight you thought you might invert your eyelids, and then you opened them again. You tried to tune into him once more, allowing yourself to push harder than normal. A cacophony of memories bloomed in your mind as you prodded past the surface. First, a flash of red braided hair, broccoli on pizza, then a blonde, in a church—wait, broccoli on pizza? How that was the memory to make you pause, you had no idea. Nor did you have any idea what those memories meant in relation to him or where he stood metaphorically... Him– holy shit, he’s here. 

You crept slowly from your dresser to your bedroom door, sending prayers out to any cosmic governance that might have a sway over your fate, begging to catch a glimpse of him before he saw you. The fates would have no such mercy as you all but floated from your cramped and shower-humid bedroom to the less damp, windowless living room. Two wine glasses stood like a prayer on your kitchen island and beyond them stood Dex, strategically placing himself in between you and your kitchen knives, of course. A wry smile was all that decorated his otherwise expressionless face. You don’t know why you expected him to be in anything other than a plain t-shirt and— from what you could tell, hopefully—joggers, but it shocked you nonetheless. Almost as much as when he reached for the bottle of Malbec and began to fill each respective glass.

“Dexxie, I was wondering when you’d finally stop by...” You leveled, clamping down on your jaw as you put on your best Mrs. Smith mask. He set the bottle down wordlessly, meeting your eyes with a slight crinkle at the corners, his wry smile unbudging. You both stared at and through the other, frozen like sloths on a branch. Dex broke contact first, boldly sliding his gaze along your figure as he drew in a steady breath before trailing back up to your eyes. At the same time, his hands snaked out to grip the wine glasses.

“Why don’t we sit down, catch up.” His own tight lipped version of Mr. Smith slung right back to you. Not really Oscars worthy, you thought. You nodded, willing one foot to step backwards, toward your couch. Then another. As he emerged from behind the island your eyes immediately dropped to his waist, telling yourself it was to scan his pockets for any hint that he had stashed a projectile somewhere on his body. You carefully padded the few feet until you felt your calf brush against the textured fabric of your couch, lowering yourself onto it like a robot. He stepped into your space then, having moved no faster than you but still managing to clear the length of the room much quicker. His broad shoulders all but swallowed the lights of the room behind him, casting his face in a long dark shadow. His lips stretched into more of a smile, or maybe triumphant sneer, as he loomed over you. You’d read his height in his file, knew he was a taller, more muscular man, but you’d never really considered just how tall, wide, and broad he would be. Maybe being on the run comes with a gym membership, you guessed. He shifted forward, extending his hand, offering you the wine glass. You wrapped your fingers around the stem wordlessly and brought it carefully to your chest. Instead of turning around to sit in your open chair, though, he sidestepped and settled next to you on the couch. The closeness– the intimacy–  sent another wave of ice through your body.

“So, tell me, Echo. Why am I here?” The sarcastic prickle at your temple and the hum under your chin mixed with the feelings of physical closeness almost sent you into sensory overload. He seemed to extend further into your space than his physical body, casting himself over you like a shadow. You cleared your throat, shuffling in your seat to regain your composure. You dragged your eyes along the scar that contoured his cheek and then flicked up to pierce him through your eyelashes, half hoping to disarm him and half out of the vertical necessity. His eyes met yours with no leeway, a burning force of will struggling between the both of you. 

“Well, I have heard rumors that this apartment just might be the best place to hide in the city.” You supplied, careful to only plug into him enough to know honey had hit the tip of his tongue. You searched his eyes for any reaction, but he only raised his eyebrows in amusement and leaned back into the couch. Horror flashed behind your eyes as you watched him slowly reach his hand up to the top of the couch cushion and rest it there, splaying his hands over the fabric before drumming on it with his fingers, almost absentmindedly. You felt your heart jump in your chest but didn’t dare let your body betray you further— his hands, his fingers, he was so close to you. 

“Wouldn’t you know it, I heard those rumors too. And I’m just dying to know how that could be.” His gruff voice stirred around your skull. Seldom did anyone's head voice sound as rough and weathered as their true voice, and the gravel in his rumbled through your chest like a bulldozer. His eyes narrowed in anticipation of your response.

“Some say I have a knack for hearing things that aren’t said out loud.” You parried, hoping he’d ask a different question. Or maybe, he could just stop asking questions all together. The inappropriateness of that thought rushed through you like a blooming heat and you were certain the blush on your face was evident. Your gaze flicked to his eyes again and you watched something almost imperceptible flash across his face. You dropped your eyes slightly and pushed, catching the tail end of a shriek in conflict with that of an older woman’s soft voice, one you’d heard before. Your eyes readjusted momentarily and you found them trained on his lips. Words twitched just behind the edge of his mouth, a silent plea to be set free. In that moment, your wine glass felt heavier than the world in your fingertips, but you didn’t dare to set it down nor bring the liquid to your lips. 

“What do you know, Echo?” No trace of the warm hum came this time, only more sharp prickles across your forehead into your eyebrows, his fingers drumming quicker—impatient. The unspoken part of his question landed heavy between your bodies. He wanted to know what you knew about him, and truthfully, it wasn’t much. You honestly hadn’t been able to poke around in his memories much in the short time you two had been in contact. It felt dirty poking around in anyone’s memories unannounced, anyway, and a part of you secretly wished to learn them on your own. You sat there in helpless silence, weighing what you’d tell him and how to tell him. To mask the moment you finally raised the glass to your lips and let the warm liquid run down your throat. You had figured—but mostly hoped— that poison wasn’t his style. 

“Well, I know you’re a fugitive and that the F.B.I. is cracking their own skulls just to try and figure out how to catch you. I know your name is Benj—“ All so suddenly the fingers drumming on your couch were wrapped around your throat, and all so suddenly, you found yourself hoisted in the air as he bolted upwards, shoving you flat against your drywall. You were no stranger to the position, though you wish you were more acquainted with the other reasons one might find themselves pressed against a wall. Almost as dizzying as his fingers around your throat was how he pressed against you with his body. Under other circumstances you wouldn’t have minded the sudden change in altitude, and for the briefest of moments you imagined that they were. Some semblance of a laugh at the idea forced its way out but the lack of airflow caught it in your throat, the rest of your oxygen now dissipating in your lungs. Your eyes struggled to adjust and focus, but still managed to level with his glare.

“What. Do. You. Know.” He shoved each word out through his teeth, and though his voice was deceivingly even, your ears burnt hot with a bouquet of primal screams—memories of his own screams— like a call to war. Your eyelids fought to pry further open than their half lidded state as you began to feel your capillaries burst, the undercurrent of a nagging, raw need betraying your more evolved sensibilities as your lungs threatened to give out. But all good things must come to an end, you decided, as your eyes slipped shut. You felt a cog click into place and release behind your eyelids, allowing yourself to dig deeper into him. A torrent of pain and fear engulfed him then, flashes of a neighborhood being ravaged by a foreign militia, piles of mutilated bodies lining street corners and flames consuming a home from the inside burrowed deep into the recesses of his mind. His hand released your throat and grabbed frantically at his face, pawing at flames that weren’t there. You did not move, nor raise your hands to retaliate as the blood rushed back into your head, allowing your fear to drain into his mind along with the horrid memory. Tears welled in your eyes as you both bore witness to the memory, your own breathing heavy as your vision slowly returned to normal.

“I don’t know shit.” You spat between gulps of air. “I’m not rooting around in your brain or listening to you when we’re not talking. Take that last example as Reason. Number. Fucking. One.” Your fingers pressed into his chest for emphasis, pushing him back. He allowed it, taking a step back. A placid calm had overcome him, relief replaced his bared teeth. It was like that was all he needed to hear to call the dogs off. The anger drained from his pores and you took the opportunity to gather yourself. Your hand slowly reached up to rub where his fingers had been. As the rush of blood trickled back into steady circulation you scanned the room for where you'd have to clean up your spilled wine. You found it sitting undisturbed on the table, next to his.

“There we go. See? A little honesty… We can be honest with each other.” he slid the words through his teeth, still gritted but lacking the vitriol that was oozing from him not seconds ago. His eyes still searched for a grip on reality as he grappled with the sudden intrusion and exit of the strange memory. It almost looked like he was trying to catch up to how he wanted to feel. You exhaled with him, slowly reaching for your wine glass and drinking deeply. Poison be damned at this point. Your eyes closed then opened once more, locking in on Dex’s, both of you anchoring yourselves in tandem, allowing time to suspend in space while you both regained consciousness, together.

“I’d like to get back to our conversation.” You finally managed to eke out an even tone, all thanks to what little liquid courage had found its way to your brain. You waved your hand behind you until you felt the arm of the couch and then the cushion, sliding yourself back into a seated position. 

——————

“So, what’s the plan here?” Hope trailed behind the one question you didn’t want to answer like a child who only knew broken promises. You were overwhelmed by it all at once, having been all too familiar with the deep cuts of disappointment yourself, now having to stifle the emotions to maintain your own sense of control. The bottle of Malbec taunted you, but you couldn’t afford any more liquid courage with which to coat your senses further. Either you hobble together some semblance of a plan or you fess up. The latter wasn’t an option, you decided, pressing your knuckles into your thigh.

“I’m tuned into an officer Powell, who is apparently heading your search team. Right now, I’ll be able to keep you one step ahead of them until I can get closer to him. The closer I am, the deeper I can plug in, and the more I can do to keep them out of our hair. Then, I figure we’d just reverse engineer their trail until we have the evidence needed to prove your innocence. If I play it right, I might be able to tune into a few others on their team as well. Basically, I just need a little more time to plug in and gather more info. Then we’ll figure out our offense from there.” Dex nods, his eyes drifting to some far off place as the information settled into his mind. He didn’t seem dissatisfied with your answer, which was a good sign, but he didn’t seem convinced of it either, just puzzled. The sudden urge to reach out and trace your finger along the jagged flesh that marred his cheek was only stifled by how anxious his ensuing silence made you. 

“And how do you know? That I’m innocent?” His question slammed into you like a blow to your chest.  The child-like sadness–his– only amplified, now stinging at the corners of your eyes  and vibrating like a quiver in your lips. That wasn’t the question you expected him to ask, nor did it have the same protective edge that flowed consistently beneath all his other questions. You could’ve searched him deeper in that moment, could’ve met the young boy you knew was reaching out just behind the edges of the question, but you couldn’t—wouldn’t. All of your insisting that you hadn’t been listening in and you weren’t going to start now, not when the blooming buds of trust were peeking through your chests; and not when your answer could be the spark to burn it all down.

“I’ve technically been tuned into you for the better part of a year… When anyone gets particularly emotionally… loud… It becomes harder for me to tune it out… Losing your badge, job, and reputation to a government fuck up tends to get pretty loud.”  You offered slowly, like how a guilty dog might tread to greet its knowing owner. “I didn’t have as good a grip on my ability, back then. We must’ve passed by each other at some point when I wasn’t able to tune out the louder frequencies… From what I could make out as it all went down, you were justified. And… I have a personal gripe with rot in our governing bodies.” 

It was the truth, if not for the tiny part you had omitted about when you latched onto him. Worry wrung at your neck, cold and impatient. You wondered if he could accept that answer, or if he’d demand answers about your history you weren’t ready to confront. At least not with him, not yet. He brought a hand up to rub against his chin, taking longer to absorb your answer than you would have liked. His eyes scanned back and forth in a tight, swift line, focused on something that wasn’t there and nothing all at the same time. The quietness of the apartment descended on you then, interrupted only by the faint noises of the city emitting from your balcony door, which was still ajar. You felt your body rise from the couch then, unsure of what exactly willed you forward in the first place. The neck of the Malbec bottle found its way into your palm as a suitable excuse. Dex’s eyes wandered up toward you as you moved away from the couch, and if you were more of a romantic, you would’ve thought he was disappointed to no longer be close to you. A strange desire to close the distance and cradle his face in your hands until he begged to be touched anywhere else bit sharply along the length of your jaw as a sweaty adrenaline taste flooded your tongue. Instead, your legs willed themselves toward your kitchen, overriding your own free will to replace the bottle to its respective home on your countertop.

“So, about me having the best hiding spot in the city…” You trailed off, hands nervously rubbing over your landlord special laminate countertops, trying your best to look at anything but him. That failed, though, because you couldn’t help but meet his eyes– eyes that you’d guess were trained on you the whole time. Disappointment melded deeper into his features as if he knew you were going to ask him to leave, and the fact that he looked like he didn’t want to leave terrified you. Another fact that terrified you was how much you wish you weren’t about to kick him out. Hell, you didn’t even really have a good reason for kicking him out. You’d just denied believing he was a criminal so you couldn’t use that excuse, and you had been the one to insist he find a hideout. You felt a desperate tugging at the hollow of your cheeks that pulled your jaw taut. He wanted to protest, loudly.

Images of waking up tomorrow to find Dex still in your apartment flashed behind your eyes in that moment. The morning sun filtering in through your bedroom curtains as you awoke, hearing him shuffling around your kitchen, familiarizing himself with the layout as he made you breakfast. You fought against the breaching images of him greeting you with a warm smile and a cup of coffee when you emerged from your room. Where he had slept in this daydream remained unanswered, but daydream you didn’t seem to mind the situation one bit. Real life you, however, felt a warmth pooling inside you that sent lightning up through your body despite your best efforts to deny it. What is it they say about taboos and how social prohibition only makes the heart grow… needier? Yeah, something like that… 

Your mouth opened to continue, but stopped dead when your eyes met again. He remained affixed on you with a palpable intensity, like if you had chosen that moment to plug into his brain you’d just see the image of yourself staring back at you. It was almost like a reflex in that moment, a fleeting peek into his thoughts, a glimpse you instantly regretted. Myrrh greeted your nostrils, something much stronger than need that pulled at you from underneath his steel gaze. That stare scared you almost as much as the images in your head did, but most terrifying was how badly you wanted to relinquish yourself to that pull. Before you could weigh the potential ramifications, you plugged in deeper, flooding his mind with the compulsion to leave for the night. His posture straightened up then, and his eyes snapped from analytical to a hollow conduit. 

“I should go. You have a good night, Echo.” The low hum in your chin almost made you take it all back. He stood up then, a glassy stare accompanying the sudden shift in his own intentions. Guilt wracked you deep into your bones, it was almost unbearable to watch him try to reason with the confliction warring inside of him. You hated doing that, you hated telling someone how to think, how to act. Had he really posed that much of a threat to you, that you had to chase him out like that? Was it worth it, betraying the lines you’d drawn for yourself, betraying yourself? The question gnawed at your mind in sync with the teeth gnawing on your bottom lip. He floated all the way to your sink, rinsing and cleaning out his wine glass with a sponge before grabbing the towel that hung on your oven handle to dry the glass. A deep, disobedient yearning joined hands with your guilt as you observed the domesticity of the scene. The exhaustion of the evening finally enveloped you, and you decided to blame your baser desires on the ensuing delirium instead of your own lack of sensibility.

“You’ll hear from me soon.” You promised as you followed him to your front door, forming your mouth into a yawn to mask the shake in your voice. Your eyes met one last time before you closed the door, and just like every other time you’d met his eyes before, you wished you hadn’t. Hope, disappointment, and a raw desperation exploded from him like a siren inside your skull, and you couldn’t tell if you had invited the noise or if it was just too loud for you to ignore. What you couldn’t ignore was the myrrh still lingering in your nose, how it smelled stronger as you stood inches from each other, and how much it felt like… reverence?  He pulled himself together with a short breath and a curt nod before turning to leave, cutting your own musings short. 

“Stay safe, Dex.” You called out, to no reply. But you knew he would.

——————

As Dex made his way back to the rooftop of your building, he couldn’t help but replay the scene that had flashed in his mind before he decided he needed to leave. He didn’t actually want to leave, so why did he? Or at least, he hadn’t decided that he’d wanted to leave yet. It was confusing. Maybe it was how fear flowed electric underneath the intruding image of him standing in her kitchen making breakfast. Maybe it was the reassurance and how unfamiliar it felt to believe her, to trust her so soon. Maybe it was the way it all felt together, to really see her and feel her and trust her and want her. And more than all of that was how badly he wanted, no needed, her approval. Just the thought of knowing more about her had him clawing up the walls of the service stairwell as he ascended.

She was strong, we could be strong together. An easy smile tugged at his lips as he navigated the rooftop back to the old shack. He decided then and there that he would earn your trust, earn his way to entering through your front door, earn his way to abating the fear that shadowed you when he was near you, earn his way to making you breakfast. He would do whatever it took to become worthy of your help, he would not let your efforts be in vain, 

——————

You spent the remainder of the night obsessively tuned into Powell, digging around for any kind of hint as to what the next plan was, desperately trying to occupy yourself with anyone else’s thoughts but your own. Or Dex’s, for that matter. You didn’t end up hearing anything of note, and if you were being honest with yourself, you almost wish you would’ve spent the night fantasizing instead, it would’ve been just as productive. Exhaustion awaited patiently at your bedside with little regard for the mission you clung to, taking full advantage of each moment of weakness to flash that image of Dex in your kitchen making breakfast. As the night wore on, it only grew stronger, playing evil, delicious tricks on your mind, like dropping you center stage of your own musical moment with delirium as your wretched director. There you were, perched on the kitchen island in a nightshirt and boxers— his?— while he hovered close, shirtless, over the stove. In some scenes, you could practically feel his hands on your hips, could practically feel your fingers twisted in his hair as his head nudged your legs open. At your weakest, you imagined him slotted between you, eyes praying to his feet, like he wouldn’t move a muscle or even look at you without your command. You could almost taste him on your lips, could almost hear his appreciative groans, your hand traveling south his reward for telling you what he wanted. Those had you squeezing your thighs, begging to release the familiar yet unwelcome feelings slowly, rebelliously simmering inside you. Unwelcome, you repeated like a mantra until the sun and your alarm finally, thankfully urged you out of your bed. You decided to spend the majority of your morning routine reinforcing the reasons why you weren’t allowed to indulge those fantasies instead, a warning to your own mind to behave.

These days, you harbored loneliness like a leper. It was easier for you to isolate, to push out rather than let anyone in. Relationships never suited you anyways, they always ended with you at the end of the pointed finger. You always knew too much, knew what was going to happen before it did (or always “assumed” the worst). You lived in a constant state of dropping the other shoe on partners and potentials alike as soon as you’d heard too much of their thoughts. You embraced it all the same, though, favoring what you knew to what you could have, it was safer that way. Before, relationships felt like hurricanes, hammering you into a perma-flattened existence that compelled you to consume all their thoughts and feelings, all the time. It wasn’t easy to filter through the deluge of constant snap reactions, or have to weigh initial thoughts against the inevitably ensuing contradictions. Thoughts and feelings are so messy, so disorganized, and worst of all: so utterly untrustworthy. And that was the worst of it all, the hardest lesson for you to learn: that even when you could hear people’s actual thought patterns and had learned to plot data points than their own subconscious wasn’t aware of, none of it was guaranteed to be true. Now, you knew better. What you didn’t know could kill you. And don’t they say old wounds always feel the freshest? 

You decided against breakfast in the morning, opting to close your eyes the extra 20 minutes before you had to get out of bed and start getting ready for work. It took everything in your power to focus on the needs of the day rather than your needs of the night. Powell could be at the office again, and you needed to keep up your ruse a little longer for you to get an adequate hold on his frequency. That would require a little extra effort into your appearance, you figured, opting for a tighter fitting pencil skirt that came just a smidge above regulation’s requirements, a smidge more eyeshadow and approximately an extra 15 seconds to make sure your hair was tied up nice and out of your face. The reflection staring back at you felt foreign in the worst way. You couldn’t tell if you looked like a clown or just like less of a desk chair, but at this point you didn’t have time to fix anything if you wanted to get to work on time. 

The events of the last 8 hours had drained you completely, but there was one relief to Dex having found you so soon: passing by some of your favorite stops on your way to work. You had stopped by your favorite coffee stand, and were patiently waiting off to the side of your favorite food truck that always parked a block from your office. The two egg and cheese arepas on the grill would make your day bearable, if not even pleasant, pending no further disturbances to your day. The warm cakes and coffee blissfully muted your senses as you entered the office, only to be met with the unfortunate face of your obliged honey pot, Powell. 

Naturally, he had his elbow leaned up against the front desk, clearly caught in the middle of schmoozing the poor younger receptionist, Amanda, not a moment earlier. Obviously caught red-handed, he immediately removed himself from the counter and straightened his posture. Awkward… Awkward indeed, you silently agreed while morphing your face into a blissfully ignorant greeting. At least you didn’t put in the extra effort for nothing. 

“Good morning, officer Powell.” You sang, like a schoolgirl greeting the reverend, barely needing more than that to watch the guilt flush from his face. It was almost too easy, and that made it feel all the more disgusting.

“Good morning, Miss.” Was his salty reply, his eyes shamelessly and freely roaming the length of your body. “Would you like an escort to the elevator?” 

Salty, salty, salty. You offered a coy smile in response as you floated past him, turning your head ever so slightly to linger on him as you passed by. It was so easy to reel a man, any man in, but you could never be too easy.

“If I recall, it’s not my first day on the job, officer Powell. But thank you for the offer!” You sent the words tumbling over your shoulder as you continued toward the elevators, your nose punctuating the end with a scrunch. You pressed the button with your knuckle and raised your hand to take a bite out of your breakfast, your eyes closing and a satisfied breath exhaling through your nose. A presence emerged next to you as you waited, and you didn’t need the salty intrusion ruining the corn sweet aftertaste of your arepas to tell you it was Powell behind you. You prayed that your elevator was fast approaching– but alas, not fast enough. A saccharine smile found its way to your lips and you turned around to face him, preferring to be on the offensive.

“You wouldn’t be stalking me, would you, officer Powell?” You batted your eyelashes at him, taking another bite and wandering your eyes over his shoulders and plated chest before peering back up at him as you chewed. He smirked, eating up every minute of your charade like you were reading straight from the gospel on Sunday. The elevator arrived and the doors opened. Your eyes flashed as they pierced into his, and you let a single word flow from your mind into his as you stepped inside the cabin; one simple assurance. Behave.

“Connor, please.” His true voice ripped through you like a cheese grater straight to your cheek as he followed you in. “And, only if you wanted me to, sweetheart.”

Grace shined upon you, though, and you watched as he leaned past you to ring a different floor. Noticeably, keeping his free hand resting passively on his holster. You took a beat to dig deeper, paying attention to anything in that elevator that wasn’t the unfortunate taste of want flooding your mouth. 

“That depends on if you ever plan on responding to my texts, Connor.” You took another bite of your arepas, hoping to drown it out. The door finally opened on your floor. You stepped out quickly, turning back to raise your coffee in his direction and sending an effortless wink his way. The last thing you saw before the door closed was his own self satisfied smirk, but underneath it came through clear: the distinct and familiar feeling that he didn’t do something he wanted to. 

If you were a better person you would’ve felt bad, but you weren’t. And you didn’t. In fact, you wished more than anything that you did worse. Your imagination ran wild with that, delighting in all the different ways that you could ruin his day, or even his life. You could make him empty the contents of his coffee mug on his head and make him totally unaware that it was there. Maybe he could spill the cup full of tacks that sat untouched on the snack table, take off his shoes and socks, and walk across the spill. Or you could have him streak naked through the office until an agent managed to tackle him to the ground. A twisted but pure, unbridled joy bubbled through your cheekbones at that, just barely containing a laugh as you settled into your desk for the day. You realized you hadn’t felt that in a long time: pure joy. For the rest of the day you found yourself stuck on what that said about you. Not just how infrequent joy had become in your life, but how easily it came to you when imagining yourself compelling Powell into committing ultimate acts of degradation. Juggling the philosophical struggle back and forth, and how badly you wanted to give into it, occupied the rest of your workday with ease.