sunburn (benjamin poindexter x reader)
summary: some thoughts of dex allowing you to put on sunscreen and then end the night with a bloody face
warning: fluff, sub dex x female!reader
dex plays being the tough guy. spending a night in bed with a fever, shivering but breaking out in a cold sweat, and unable to breathe? he’ll be fine with an aspirin and staying home. he doesn’t mind seeing a little blood if he cuts himself fixing the sink — “but stop for a second and press the paper against it. you don’t have a fingernail on that finger!” “it’s no big deal, i'm not going to bleed to death, but i will if i keep hearing that dripping” — and he’ll get mad if you suggest him going to the doctor for the knee he’s been complaining about for the last two years every time he sits down and stands up.
however, it’s a different game when it comes to you. he tries, but… he’d rather sleep on the couch when you’re the one with a cold; he doesn’t mind in the least running down to the pharmacy for you, restocking your herbal teas (he swallows his thoughts about the futility of alternative medicine, since he doesn’t support modern medicine either). he even makes you sit down if he hears you groan from the kitchen as you bend over to get the laundry out of the washing machine. he has this hyperactive radar, and you’re the center of it.
he doesn't even have the nerve to contradict you. if you say he needs to regulate his circadian rhythm, he'll follow your lead and spend more time in the sun without complaining—other than through his silent expression. if you say he should start stretching to relieve the back pain he claims he doesn't have, he'll do it.
that's just how it is: dex operates based on what you tell him he needs to function.
so, if you catch him on one of the first days of summer with the bottle of sunscreen that you always carry in your bag he’ll just let out a deep sigh through his nose, looking away as he feels a cold, greasy texture on his face.
“forget about going out wearing just a cap. you’re a white, blond guy strolling around in the middle of the afternoon, i don’t want to have to peel your shirt off your skin with tweezers.”
“this is silly, and we’re wasting time,” he says, dragging a chair away from the table to sit in the entryway, waiting for you to finish while staring at the ceiling. “i’m not going to die.”
and you don’t skimp on the cream, tracing your fingers along the curves of his jaw, the veins in his neck, and the angle of the scar that runs down his cheek. especially there. he doesn’t cooperate, but he doesn’t stop you either.
now he tilts his head to the left and blinks, his gaze half-absent. your hands, so soft, too sweet, well-manicured and delicate, envelop him like clouds.
“i know, and it’s not like you’re going to die from putting on some sunscreen,” you scold him, moving the hand you have under his jaw to turn his face to the other side. “take it. remember to reapply it in an hour, okay? i know it’s sticky, but it’s better than aloe vera on sunburned skin, trust me.”
“mhm,” he grunts, getting up as you step away and closing the door behind you, following you out onto the street.
but unfortunately—and obviously—the only one to reapply sunscreen was you, standing in front of the mirror in the public restroom.
when you got home, you couldn’t help but smile at his pain when dex took off his white t-shirt and revealed red streaks of skin on his biceps and neck.
“i told you so,” you laughed.
“yeah, right. and who was the first one to fall asleep without thinking about the sun moving?” he argued, annoyed, as he headed for the shower.
“well, the same one who put on sunscreen!” you laughed, peeking at him. “and the one who fixed your ability to sleep!”
“that’s arrogance, and it doesn’t suit you,” he said, closing the bathroom door and turning on the cold water full blast so he wouldn’t have to hear you laugh.
a few days later, he started developing a rash, complaining about his clothes rubbing against his back and asking you for something to relieve the itching.
“it doesn’t matter, you don’t need it,” you shrug. “you’re not going to die from this, are you?”
“come on, please! i wouldn’t be like this if it weren’t for you.”
“you’re still too stubborn to admit you are stubborn, huh? you should swallow that pride a little so you don’t choke on it.”
“baby, please!" he sings. "I’m flaking!”
dex follows you down the hall, picking at the skin under his fingernails as he scratches.
now, shrouded in the cloak of night and standing before a mirror that reflects a haggard image—his temples drenched in sweat, thick streaks of blood running down to his chin, and his swollen lip—that's when he thinks back to that sweet moment when you scolded him for not putting on sunscreen
he wonders what you would say if you saw him like this.
(you aren’t dead, just asleep. he’s simply too afraid to wake you and ask you to clean the wounds he’s inflicted on himself.)
