#poor proofread

You find him seated cross-legged on the living room floor with an oasis of lethal order in front of him when you enter to your home.

As you approach, your eyes are drawn to each weapon laid out in neat rows, fitting together like a puzzle despite their different shapes and sizes. The disassembled pistols are arranged in orderly rows in the center, their metal parts aligned with geometric precision. The knives are placed at identical angles, arranged sequentially, even the dirty rags you can make out when the light helps, are folded impeccably beside them. There are several small bottles on the other side.

Dex is whistling casually with his shoulders relaxed as his hands are moving meticulously, rubbing the rag on the weapon in his hand. He only breaks his concentration when you're close enough for him to say a little goodnight.

And the problem you have with that is that his tone of voice is too familiar to you; he can't hide the amusement dripping from it, and you're aware that, thanks to your silence—which speaks volumes—he already knows what you're going to start complaining about.

So clever, it makes you sick.

Exhaustion seeps into your bones with every step you take toward him, the irritation building in your chest, ready to explode as you start “stop it,” your voice is sharper than any knife he's polishing.

Dex doesn't tilt his face up to see you; his eyes glance up at you, needling with such creep stare and if it weren't for this angle, you'd realize he's about to give you a little smile.

Instead, what actually comes next is him raising an eyebrow, a hint of confusion in his expression, pausing briefly before continuing with his activity. “Stop what?”

His innocence is so feigned it manages to surprise you.

“Stop following me around every time I step foot outside.” It sounds more like an order than an answer to his question. Your fists clench at your sides. “Seriously, you have to stop.”

He sighs at the aggressive, scolding undertone of your demanding voice. His eyes drop to rest on the cloth in his hand, which slides along the edge of a gorgeous kunai. His firm fingers massage the solid material through fabric, and you feel jealous of his calm demeanor because you can't afford to feel that way.

Dex places it with the others when he finishes polishing it, perfectly aligned, before picking up the next one and then saying, “wasn't following you.”

That's it. He doesn't give you anything more.

His attention fully returns to his weapons now, as if you've already been dismissed and you just close your eyes taking a deep breath, trying in vain to contain the anger that rises at how he acts so ignorantly, so dismissively.

It's exhausting and terribly sad that he lies to your face like this when you know he's been breathing down your neck for so long.

You know him too well, you can feel his breath on the back of your neck every time you go out, a prickle behind your head when you go out to eat with your friends, when you're walking around campus, anywhere, even at work, from afar. You know he's there in the distance, watching you.

The ironic part is that you can't hate it how you want it because there's something strangely comforting about it; you like having the knowledge that no matter where you are, someone lethal is paying attention and nothing gets too close without him knowing first.

Even so, that doesn't take away how suffocating it can become and the fear that runs through you when he's behind you, because if he's watching you, who's watching him?

This leads to the overwhelming stress of work and college; it's already too much to worry about to also feel afraid about him going out while the AVTF is on the streets, committing their disgusting brutalities at night like ravenous predators.

You're aware that they won't approach him because it's clear that Dex is a target who must be eliminated from a distance, which would lead to chaos that would be even harder to stop, engulfing people who were simply in the wrong place at the wrong time without knowing it, people walking at night whose chances of being caught in the crossfire are never zero, terrified and with no way out of what will explode when the authorities discover that Bullseye is prowling the same streets every night.

Turning them into collateral damage.

Those animals would do horrific things to civilians to get information about him. Hurting innocents before planning to reach their dangerous target.

Your imagination takes flight, and the images that appear in your head cause a lump to grow in your throat, making you swallow hard in an attempt to get rid of it so you can continue with your little intervention.

Dex continues working, but you know he's listening closely; he can probably even hear the change in your breathing, how your voice falters before you speak again, this time in a more controlled way.

“I understand it’s hard for you to have nothing to do when I’m not around,” you begin carefully. “But Dex, I’m working. College is killing me, and sometimes I need time to be with my friends or just by myself.” Your lips seal, waiting for a reaction, but he knows you're not finished.

“You can't be following me around when that happens,” you continue, stepping closer, “you can't risk being discovered by someone including my friends... They know exactly who you are.” This finally makes him look up at you, his gaze now completely fixed on you. “And I know they would never say anything if they found out I live with you, but this is my way of protecting them, and if you keep following me everywhere they could—” You sigh, shaking your head. “...It's dangerous.”

He doesn't hide his negative reaction to your words. A small crease forms on his brow, becoming more prominent as you continue, and you hear him humming, absorbing your words. What he can process is that you're asking him to get away, to do something different than keeping an eye on you, and he can't do that to a certain extent.

Dex sighs, and you think maybe there's hope, maybe he'll agree with you, but he just looks up, and you can't tell if he's challenging you with that look.

“I said I wasn't following you... I went out to visit our counselor friend,” and there's a grain of truth in that, but that thread of truth is woven into a lie.

And you stare at him, feeling your composure crumble.

“Come on.”

“Hmm?”

“Don't treat me like I'm stupid,” you hiss. “Don't even think about it. You're good at hiding but you're terrible at lying,” you whisper dryly. “Don't give me that shit because I'm not our neighbor for you to lie to as you please, Tony.” you spit the false name he uses on his daily basis in a mocking tone and he rolls his eyes for then grin with amusement at your irritation.

“This isn't a joke,” you insist, raising your voice despite you trying to remain calm. “I like my time alone when I get it. But what do you do when you have yours, huh? What do you even do?”

That question hits him like a slap, and you don't stop; the absence of his smile gives you the urge to continue.

“You need a job,” you continue, relentless. “Something to do with your life besides following me around and that isn't just your little ‘good deeds’ while you’re stalking Daredevil like the guy didn’t throw you off a roof after you killed that attorney, man, your gay shit makes me want to kill myself in front of you.”

That elicits a genuine, natural reaction.

He smiles sharply, so smug and proud, with his bunny teeth on full display like you just said the funniest thing in the world and you can’t stand it. You’re tired, exhausted, your job sucks, your assignments are about to be due, and he’s laughing at you, not even trying to help and you close your eyes tightly taking a breath, trying to push away the need to grab one of the neat knives and slit his throat.

“All you do is kill people, eat crackers, and follow me around!” you spit suddenly, the words tumbling out. “And when you’re not doing that, you’re doing the first two.” Your frustration keeps you talking. “Your brain needs to be occupied with something, obviously that’s why you need to focus on anything other than what’s screaming inside your head, but oh my fucking God, focus on a job, Dex.” You order him, crouching in front of him, careful where you place your knee and your hand slides to the back of his head, your fingers threading on his short hair until you grasp it roughly and Dex tenses, frowning, but doesn’t back away.

“You are smart, dedicated, you know how to pretend when it suits you... you have amazing skills, you aren't—ugly and can be so charming and sweet for your own benefit.” Your grip tightens just slightly, “You could work somewhere where nobody cares about anything. A kitchen, night shifts. Sometimes you can’t even sleep, Dex, you could drive a damn taxi all night and just…” you huff out a breath, “anything. You could find a hobby if you don't want a job.”

“I have one.” he mutters, piercing eyes burning yours.

You let out a humorless laugh. “Throwing paperclips at flies when you're bored isn't a hobby.” You release his hair from your grasp, remaining crouched in front of him and he keeps his head down, his fingers pinching the rag in his hands, and you feel bad for a second.

“Why are you doing this?” you hear him whisper and when his gaze flickers back at you his expression is blank, stripped of everything.

“Because you’re drowning me,” you admit, quieter now. “And I care about you too much to just ignore you, that's why I'm asking you to do something ”, Dex frowns because of the softness of your voice, as if your suggestion wasn't directly an order.

“I am doing something.” His voice sharpens as his eyes lock onto yours. “So why are you telling me to stop? I’m helping you. I’m doing it right. I don’t want to stop, and I’m not going to. You don’t get to—to tell me what to do.” his words quivered for a second there, but it was so tiny your brain didn't catch it.

He keeps going when you remain silent. “I never tell you what to do,” he adds, leaning forward slightly until your breaths intertwine and you are glaring at him, annoyed, despising his response when he adds at the end. “So don’t do that to me.”

“You are not helping.” you declare and you see the twitch in his mouth, slowly losing his composture.

“I keep this place stable for you.” he spits.

“Because you need to please me even if I don’t want you to!” you fire back immediately. “Don’t you see that? I offer to pay rent. I try to help you when you're dying on the floor and you refuse, you even threaten me. And yeah, I’m grateful when you take care of everything this place needs—but sometimes I feel useless, Dex. I want to contribute. I want to keep this shitty place standing too.” your voice trembles, cracking when you contine. “We’re in this together.”

“Yeah, we are so why are you ditching me?” he shoots back, a hoarse laugh slipping out as he's feeling his eyes suddenly wet and you freeze. “You just contradicted yourself, why?” he asks in a small voice, and you turn away from him, standing back to your place before you say something you can't take back.

“You know exactly what I meant,” you mutter.

The silence lingers, and when you turn around to look at him again, you see that vulnerability and fear in his eyes; all his previous behavior disappears, replaced by that part of him that you have seen too little of for your liking, and it hurts to see him this weak and exposed, small where he's sitting, thinking, processing, feeling so many things at the same time that he can't fully express them, burning his throat as his chest rises and fall, you think about getting close again, but you are tired of doing the same thing every time he cannot accept what you tell him.

“Stop following me,” you say firmly, “or I will leave.”

His eyes widen slightly, not so much surprised because his mind was already warning him that you would say that, but hearing it is much worse than just imagining it.

“You won’t,” he says immediately, not able to stop what comes out of his mouth.

You tilt your head, eyes narrowing. “Or what?” you challenge, “you’ll kill me?”

His hands curl into fists and there’s a twitch at the corner of his mouth, clenching his jaw and you don't wait for an answer.

“Find a hobby.”

Those are your last words before walking to your room, closing the door with a quiet click that feels louder than any slam.

Dex stays on the ground, his heart pounding, the air suffocating him with a nonexistent toxicity in its element. The silence is dulled, becoming a loud, familiar buzz that used to be under control most of the times and his blurry gaze is dropping, taking in each weapon, observing the organization, and feeding off the control he wields over them with just a glance.

Thoughts overflowing in his mind beg him to pick one up and let whatever happens, happen, because your words are still penetrating his brain, burying themselves in every flaw in his neural connections, making him feel as he did in those times when he was lost, alone, trying to find structure in less-than-ideal forms, and suddenly he misses those tapes that burned before him.

The blond man closes his eyes tightly, relaxing the tension in his shoulders, adjusting his posture, twisting his neck from side to side, clenching and unclenching his fists.

He inhales, exhales.

Again.

And when he opens his eyes, there's a relaxed smile, regardless of how his body is throbbing all over, how the control was about to slip away, and your last words are all that stick in his head in the end.

Hobby, hobby, hobby, hobby, hobby…

If you want him to find a hobby, he'll find a fucking hobby and make you proud, so proud.

Days pass after the argument.

And for the first time, Dex stops following you.

As expected, you had to test whether your argument had finally paid off first, and so you did for about three days, taking longer routes home, stopping to enjoy the fresh air, double-checking once or twice just to be sure, and finding nothing. It was liberating, and you feel good, trusting that Dex will take care of the suggestions while you're busy enjoying the space you demanded.

At home, everything remains the same.

However, Dex moves carefully around the apartment, replaying and taking into account everything you said and evaluating what he can do to make it up to you and help you feel good again.

During this process of improvement, he gave you a detailed list of how much you could contribute towards the bills, without much debate about him keeping the larger amounts. Both of you also discussed which days you would alternate cleaning and which days you would do deeper cleanings, among other things. He also gave you simple tasks that you could do without affecting your studies or work to contribute. Of course, if you ever can't do them, he will take care of them without hesitation.

Although it all stemmed from that intense conversation, the topic hasn't been mentioned again even once. You both act as if nothing happened, as always, but the positive change is palpable, and you keep in mind that Dex thinks about the argument every minute.

The guilt remains under your skin because you believe you were harsh, and yeah, maybe you said some things out of pocket, and yeah, you were also overwhelmed; both can coexist.

You still bother him as always, he still watches you obsessively, but he doesn't leave when you leave.

Things are going well.

It's late one night when you return home.

Your keys jingle softly as you push open the door, and you find Dex sitting at the table with a laptop in front of him and you're one hundred percent sure he didn't buy it, so there's no need to ask.

You pause, staring at him for a second and he doesn't even look up when you enter, completely absorbed, his posture slightly hunched forward as he listens intently to the voice coming from the device. You walk over to him, curious, and on the table is a small knitting kit along with thin white and blue yarn resting on the left, and you focus on the video, your eyes wide with curiosity, drawn to the title.

Knitting for Beginners: Basic Chain Stitch Tutorial.

You can't help but smile with pleasure. Dex's hands move with careful precision, a hook between his fingers, yarn looped and pulled with methodical intent. He takes his sweet time with each step and grumbles under his breath when he makes a mistake.

The sad reality of a perfectionist: he's not good at something he has just started learning.

He's watching, pausing, rewinding occasionally, but every movement is clean. He's memorizing the rhythm, scanning the video, rewinding it with a quick click when a step isn't clear. You feel good seeing him like this. You want to ask him so many things, but you don't interrupt.

For once, he's focused on something that isn't you.

And you're not about to ruin that.

You put a hand on his shoulder and feel him relax at the touch, and while his fingers are busy, he mutters “night” with a small smile.

“Goodnight, Dex,” you murmur back, turning away to head to your room.

And the next morning, you wake up earlier than usual, wishing anyone would investigate in depth the phenomenon of waking up early on weekends while on weekdays opening your eyes is a chore.

You're yawning while rubbing the back of your neck, and stop just outside your room when you find him already at the table.

Correction, Dex hasn't moved.

He's in the exact same position as last night, laptop still open in front of him. The only change is the natural light illuminating him, and the final results of his nighttime process are placed besides the laptop. You raise an eyebrow, curiosity urging you to basically run over to him for a good look, and the laptop displays a different video.

This one's not for beginners. The person on screen works quickly, hands moving in a blur, creating something intricate, multicolored, moving those hands in hypnotic loops.

Dex mirrors it perfectly.

His hands move faster than they should for someone who started last night, two strands of yarn running through his fingers, switching seamlessly, tension controlled with surgical precision.

It looks like he's been doing this for weeks.

There's disbelief settling in your chest; it's just too impressive. His brow is furrowed, his mouth tightly closed, and his gaze is intense over the screen.

“Dex…?”

He hums, clearly waiting for you to speak while he's still on his thing and you take a good look at what he's doing.

It's beautiful.

A compact, clean spiral with colors that blend smoothly into one another; there are no loose stitches, the yarn obeys him so devotedly leading it into becoming art, and your surprise must be evident, because he finally looks at you with an expression full of pride, with a touch of arrogance.

He says nothing.

You let out a little laugh, shaking your head slightly, making no attempt to hide the joy you feel.

“…of course you can do all this in one night, freak.”

“Mhm,” he smiles.

That's the moment when nothing will ever be normal again.

Hours later, a navy blue cushion appears on the sofa, with the same muted spiral pattern he was knitting that morning.

Then another cushion appears the next day.

After that, a throw, folded perfectly over the armrest.

Five days later, you return home and find a thick, heavy, circular rug, with a spiral much larger than the one on the cushions. It's placed in the small living room, and he seems pleased with it.

“Dude—”

“I made it.” he doesn't even look up when he says it, hands already working on something smaller.

The thing intensifies, spreading like a pretty mold, reaching the bedrooms.

Now there are covers on the beds, custom-made with impeccable edges and no imperfections; he doesn't expect you to use them suddenly, they're a silent suggestion. But they're so soft and large that you do consider it.

After the large comes the small... Oven mitts, coasters, table runners.

Your eyes widen as you realize there are also holsters for guns, holsters for all his weapons that don't even look good, but it's obvious he does it for reasons other than just aesthetics.

Each one fitted so precisely over his weapons it makes your skin prickle.

“…Are they necessary?” you begin, asking somewhat worriedly, picking one up and frowning because it looks like a sock.

“They protect the metal.”

You don't know what to say.

At some point, he acquires an open bookcase that appears out of nowhere. It's very tall and full of compartments; inside there are countless of yarn organized by thickness, texture, and color. The dark tones are grouped together, the light ones separated, the materials arranged like a catalog display.

Now there's polyester fiberfill too, bags full, carefully stored for stuffing.

The sofa is piled high with cushions, the kitchen looks nicer, the apartment becomes… warmer, so soft, and you hate how much you love it because, if you analyze it too much, you worry about how his dark circles are spreading.

But you stop thinking about it when he gives you an adorable keychain; it's small and it's about something you love, with such a pretty shape, recreated in wool with incredible attention to detail.

You stare at it for a while in your hand, so well made, so soft and cute. “For me?”

“Yes,” he says, looking at you with a slight smile at the corner of his lips. This time there's no arrogance; he's pleased to see the gleam of adoration in your eyes for the little gift.

“It's really nice, thank you.” you say eagerly, feeling the need to hug him and slap his face for being lovely whilst concerning.

A month has passed and he hasn't stopped; on the contrary, it's getting worse, because now Dex is always knitting and you feel like you're losing your mind.

Sitting, standing, talking… he always has yarn in his hands. His fingers move without him even looking, looping, pulling, hooking unconsciously, muscle memory doing the work, and you've seen him talk to you while finishing an entire section of yarn work without even looking down.

With thicker yarn, he doesn't even need a crochet hook anymore because his fingers work with experience.

One of the worst parts is that you don't even know which rich piece of shit he's currently terrorizing to get money for his fixation because, obviously, this is expensive, he enjoys very specific textures that are not easy to find anywhere.

And it's Sunday morning when you finally grasp the gravity of the situation.

You're on the couch, half asleep, watching the news more out of habit than interest, and that fucker is nearby with a ball of yarn between his dangerous fingers like a big cat; you just can't quite place him, but you can feel his presence.

“…In other news,” the reporter says firmly, pulling you from your thoughts, “several AVTF agents were found dead under unusual circumstances.”

You frown slightly, paying closer attention to what's on screen because Dex hasn't been out much since finding his new reason for living, so who could possibly be killing members of the task force? You wonder as the reporter keeps speaking.

“They were discovered with what appear to be small handmade dolls—”

The screen displays images, and your eyes widen immediately.

They're plushy, small knitted figures, clothed in dark blue and black, adorable little masked dolls.

Perfectly shaped little… Bullseyes?

The reporter mentions that each stitch was placed directly over the fatal wound on the corpses.

Like a signature... And you can't believe a single thing you're seeing and slowly turn your head.

Dex is already looking at you and the TV, and oh he's wondering if you'll make the same face when you discover that little chip inside your beloved keychain. He's wondering if you'll like his next project which is a life-sized replica of you so he can have two of you as friends.

The mere thought makes him smile with excitement, and he winks at you, so happy for his actions.

“What the hell were you thinking?” you mutter.

He just grins at you as he continues stitching.

“You told me to get a hobby.”

© machiavelliam | masterlist | 27 / 04 / 26

I was listening to I'm Just Ken on repeat while writing the first scene and ended up making some bullshit as usual.

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