:) @whimsicallygirl - Tumblr Blog

Aug 2

To Be Loved

Benjamin “Dex” Poindexter x Female Reader

: ̗̀➛ Summary: Having history with Bullseye might seem dangerous, but it’s not that bad. After all, he doesn’t remember you. However after a few “coincidental” encounters with him, you realize that he might remember more than you think. AKA: Your ex-boyfriend, Dex, doesn’t remember dating you and finds himself drawn to you.

: ̗̀➛ Word Count: 19.3k

Warnings/Tags: Amnesia, lovers to kinda enemies to reluctant friends to lovers, reader is very conflicted on how to deal with Dex, the most unintentional intentional stalking ever, canon typical violence (heavy emphasis on this), some events of the show may happen sooner/later depending on how I need them to occur for plot reasons, eventual happy ending, don't be surprised by grammatical errors I proofread this at 3 AM

: ̗̀➛ A/N: Hiiii I’m back and writing for a new character, so forgive me if anything seems ooc. I gotta find my footing. Anywayy enjoy :)!

Masterlist

Mayor Almost Killed After Bullseye Escapes Prison

You blink slowly at the headline, wondering if the headache you had earlier that day was causing hallucinations. Clicking on the article proved that no, you are not hallucinating and Benjamin Poindexter was somehow on the street again.

Not that you are going to do anything about it. That ship has sailed, and you are okay leaving that ship—or more accurately, shipwreck—behind.

You reread the headline with a sense of detachment, only really noting that the caption says he used his teeth as projectiles to escape. You almost laughed at the sheer absurdity of it, but the reality of the situation stifled any real amusement.

You put your phone away, rubbing your temples before attempting to move on with your day.

The keyword being “attempting.”

It feels as though it had been ages since you last saw him, mostly because it has been. While it was true that it had been years, and you should’ve moved on long ago, the reality was more complicated.

No matter how much you tried to differentiate them, Dex and Bullseye, you could never entirely let go of him, any version of him. You didn’t dare to scroll back too far in your photos, and you couldn’t bring yourself to delete them. It was a twisted longing you held for a time that was long gone.

So maybe saying you’ve “moved on” is a bit of a stretch, but you haven’t actively sought him out. Part of you fears that he may look at you like a stranger, and you don’t know if your heart can take that.

So, as a result, you've kept your distance.

You didn’t try to visit him, but you thought about it. After hearing of the incident with Fisk and Daredevil, the real Daredevil, you wanted to.

You wanted to check on him the second it happened. You wanted to ask him what he had been thinking.

However, you never got the opportunity.

Sure, you had loved him. You had loved him so much that somehow his name still lingers on your tongue despite the fact he no longer knows yours.

But he killed so many people, so many good people. You did not know all of the intricate details of his life; you still don’t. Sometimes you wonder if carries guilt for those he wronged, or if he can even remember them. You certainly did. You could barely bring yourself to look Seema in the eye after he killed Ray.

You mourned Dex, yes, but you felt awful about it. The people who knew your history with him never directly asked, but you could see the question in their eyes. How? How did you love somebody like that?

It was so easy back then, back when he loved you. You wanted to believe it wasn’t all fake. You aren’t sure if it’s possible for somebody to pretend to love a person the way he loved you.

Being realistic though? You have no idea. You never got that closure, and it’s too late to get it. You can’t delude yourself into thinking that Dex loved you without faults or even understand the true scope of his adoration.

It was painful, so, so painful. It was an agonizing ache that you could never find a remedy for. The only remedy was him, but he couldn’t be both the solution and the problem.

Years have gone by and you still haven’t seen him in person. Sometimes you catch yourself staring at the blurry photos that you so rarely get to see. Now, they’re more common, courtesy of his time as Bullseye. However back then, he wasn’t making headlines inside a prison cell.

You exhale, grabbing your keys before exiting your apartment. You lock the door behind you apathetically, staring blankly through the door knob.

Ever since he killed Foggy Nelson, he had been haunting you, metaphorically speaking, of course. You went from not hearing a peep from him (not that he’d contact you anyway) to hearing him kill at least a dozen people in a single night.

You miss the peace his silence brought.

Him killing Foggy reminded you of that pain his presence brings, and after his recent failed attempt on Fisk?

You might have to block the word “Bullseye” from your phone.

Sad thing is, for a split second you found yourself rooting for him. You loathe him for what he’s done, but if he had succeeded in killing Fisk?

Well, that death certainly wouldn’t be on your conscience.

You're thrown out of your thoughts by your phone vibrating. Checking the caller ID, you frown at the unfamiliar number. Clearing your throat, you answer the call.

“Hello?” You greet cautiously.

“Hi.” A woman responds, her voice is unfamiliar. She confirms your identity, simply asking your name.

Hesitantly you nod, “Yes.” You sound more confident than you feel, “May I ask who this is?”

She releases an exhale, “I… We haven’t met. I believe you met Matt recently, right?”

You nod slowly, “That's correct.” You shift uncomfortably. You weren’t sure if it was a good sign that one of Matt’s friends is calling you.

After all, the circumstances you met him were… less than ideal.

“I’m Karen. I’m a friend of his.” She introduces. You nod slowly, and the name sounds familiar. Matt talked about her briefly, back when explaining his history with Nelson, Murdock, and Page.

“He has mentioned you.” You stop walking. “Is everything okay?” You frown.

Karen is silent for a moment. “You see the news last night?”

You inhale sharply, not caring if it was audible. Would Matt tell her about your past relation with Bullseye? You don’t think he would with strangers, but you aren’t sure with Karen. “With Fisk?” Your mouth feels dry.

“Yeah,” she whispers, “yeah, did you hear about Matt?”

You get the sense that something is wrong. “No… I didn’t—” you swallow, “I never read the article. I just saw the headlines.” You grimace.

“Oh,” Karen doesn’t sound surprised, only fueling your theory that Matt told her your history with Bullseye. “Well, he was there that night, at the gala.” She begins, and you feel your stomach churn in anticipation.

“Shit, is he okay?” Just your luck for Matt and Bullseye to both be trouble.

“He’s alright now.” Karen reassured you, “But last night he was the one who took the bullet meant for Fisk.” She sounds (reasonably) upset about this.

Your jaw drops slightly, and you take a moment to recompose yourself before speaking again. You had assumed that something must have happened for Bullseye to miss his target. “He what? Why would he do that?”

There’s a few things you know about Matt. One of which is his longstanding history with Fisk, not to mention, his hatred of Bullseye. You two are similar in that regard. Thus, it begs the question of why the hell he’d not only let Bullseye shoot him, but save Fisk.

“I…” Karen seems to be thinking about the right thing to say. “You’d have to ask him that yourself. Part of me wants to ask him too.” She huffs softly.

You hum, “Yeah,” you reply lamely, “I can’t imagine why he’d do something like that.”

“It’s Matt.” She replies, as if that’s enough of an explanation.

The two of you are silent for a moment, and you wait for the inevitable change in topic. You know where this is going. You know Karen was friends with Foggy, so it makes sense she has questions about you.

“I was wondering if we could meet, later tonight maybe? If you’re available.” She asks, and she sounds friendly enough. You imagine the invasive questions will come later.

“Sure.” You reply dryly, “You have a place in mind?”

“Yeah, I can text you the address.” She sounds just as enthusiastic as you do. “I…” She starts slowly, “I’m sorry about all of this.”

You shake your head, offering a small smile she cannot see, “It isn’t your fault.”

She remains silent for a beat, “Well, I’ll see you later then,” she says your name. You bid her goodbye before hanging up. You slowly put your phone away, taking a deep breath.

Matt has always had an interest in your history with Bullseye. He never pushed you, but you could see that he wanted to. You don’t blame him, after all, Bullseye killed his best friend.

It only makes sense that Karen would share that curiosity. You don’t blame her either, but you are so tired of being tied to him.

You walk into the diner just across the street from your building. You weren’t planning on getting breakfast, but after the sequence of events of the past hour?

It’s probably a good idea to prepare for the day.

You frown, looking at the boarded up windows of the address Karen gave you. It reads "Josie’s" in bolded letters. You haven’t been there yourself, but you knew of it. It’s where Foggy died.

You never really knew much about Foggy. Matt doesn't like to talk about him much. The only time he ever talked about him, he told you that Foggy would've liked you. He didn't elaborate as to why, and you didn't want to push him. He never mentioned it again.

You look around the building to see if anybody is nearby, and jump slightly when the door swings open. You stare at the woman for a moment, and you recognize her. You look each other up and down appraisingly. Her stare is less judgmental, and more asserting, as if trying to see whether you’re a threat.

“Hello,” you smile disarmingly, “Karen, was it?”

She attempts to mirror your smile, “Yeah,” she steps aside for you to enter. You watch as she closes and locks the door behind you.

She goes to take a seat at the bar. You follow slowly, still standing. The two of you don’t talk for a moment. “I’m assuming you’ve talked with Matt?” You begin the conversation. You won’t be the one to bring him up.

She huffs, “Not as much.” She sounds bitter about it. You nod slowly, taking the seat next to her. You both stare blankly ahead. “I… I had a couple questions I was hoping you could answer.” She begins.

You look to her, and she seems apologetic, but not enough to stop. You nod slowly, “I figured.” You tap your fingers idly. “If it’s about Bullseye. I really don't know anything.”

She furrows her brows in disbelief, “Nothing?” She turns to face you, “Forgive me, but I find that hard to believe.” Her words weren’t unkind, just honest.

You look at her for a moment before taking a deep breath. “I haven’t known him for years.” You tell her. “Sometimes I wonder if I knew him at all.”

She is silent at that, and it almost feels pitiful. She waits a minute before asking her next question, “When was the last time you saw him?”

You scoff, “I… I don’t know. That night Fisk got married maybe?” You look to her, “I haven’t exactly wanted to see him.”

She seems to understand that, nodding slowly, “Well, I can’t say I blame you.”

You smile wryly, not having a response for that.

“Has he attempted to contact you in the past? After he went to prison?” She asks, leaning closer to you.

You chuckle, “No,” you shake your head, “he won’t.”

She narrows her eyes, frowning, “How can you be so sure?”

You blink at her, and her intrigue is obvious. You haven’t even told Matt why Bullseye will never contact you. He just knows that you are oddly certain that he never will. It’s not that you like hiding it. It’s simply not something you bring up or find joy in discussing. It hurts less that way.

“He doesn’t know who I am.” You reveal. Karen stares at you, silently prompting you to continue. “After that night, I think during their fight Fisk slammed his head into a wall… or something like that.” You shrug, crossing your arms.

“I was informed he had some type of amnesia. He doesn’t know who I am.” You lean against the counter, a spark of wry amusement shoots through you seeing Karen’s astonished expression. “It’s not the worst ending I could’ve gotten, I suppose. I could be dead.”

“Wait, wait, wait,” Karen holds her hands up, “he forgot you? Everything about you?”

You purse your lips, “I guess. I think he forgot some others too. I’m not sure who. They didn’t really let me ask too many questions.” You clench your jaw.

“Do you think there’s a possibility he does remember you?” She asks hesitantly.

You chuckle, “I… I really don’t know. They said there was a possibility that he’d remember over time, but not to count on it. He hasn’t ever looked for me, so I’d say that the chances are pretty slim at this point.”

Karen takes time to process your answer, and you prop your elbow on the table to lean on. “I am sorry you went through that.” Her words are spoken carefully.

You give her a small smile, “It is what it is. It’s probably for the best. I’m not exactly his biggest fan, and I know you aren’t either.”

She lets out a humorless huff at your comment, “That’s one way to put it.”

Your smile falls, “I’m sorry too. I know he has caused… irreparable damage.”

She nods slowly, “It’s not your fault.” She gives you a grateful yet resolute smile.

You aren’t sure how to respond to that, so you settle for a nod. Neither of you are “okay” with anything that has occurred, but you have each learned to accept the circumstances.

“Did Matt tell you?” You ask.

She tilts her head slightly, “Which part?”

“My…” you nod to her slightly, “My history with...” You trail off. The words are barely audible, but you know she heard them.

She purses her lips, something akin to guilt filling her eyes, “Something like that…” She says, and she doesn’t elaborate.

You hum noncommittally, “I figured. I don’t blame him for that.” You swallow, “You think that he’d tell anybody else?” You look towards her dubiously.

She sits up straighter, “No, no. Matt wouldn’t do that.” She vehemently shakes her head. “I may not always understand the choices he makes, but I know he wouldn’t reveal something that personal with other people.”

You nod slowly.

As if sensing your disbelief, she tacks on another statement: “He wouldn’t reveal anything that could put you in danger.”

You give her a weak smile. “You talk to him yet?”

She shakes her head, “Not yet.” She pauses for a moment, “Probably later though. There’s a lot we need to discuss.”

You chuckle, “You and me both.”

The two of you sit in silence for a moment, and it’s less awkward than the initial introduction. You find yourself relaxing a bit. “Do you think he could remember?”

Karen frowns contemplatively at the question, “Maybe." She doesn’t sound hopeful at the prospect. “Do you want him to?”

You chuckle, “Maybe once.”

“But not anymore?” She prompts softly.

You shake your head, “No,” you match her softness, “not anymore.”

You felt lighter after talking with Karen.

It was… nice. Something about the way that she handled the whole ordeal made you think that, on some level, she understood. She didn’t hate Bullseye any less, but she understood your pain.

The two of you agreed to meet more often, and not due to your mutual friend getting shot by your ex-boyfriend.

The weeks continued on as expected, and slowly dragged into months. As time went on, Fisk began to take more drastic action to “help make New York safer.” You scoffed each time that man made a new headline.

The ones that truly interested you were the vigilante headlines. The Anti Vigilante Task Force continued to see a lot of push back from heroes like Daredevil. Occasionally, you saw that even the Punisher and Spider-Man would aid in the fight against them.

The vigilantes were a strange topic for you.

Working in Hell’s Kitchen for as long as you have, you’ve developed a fondness for its resident hero. You haven’t encountered him before, but Karen has told you about him.

You harbor substantial respect for him. You had followed him briefly in his earlier days, and held a passing interest. However, you never researched him thoroughly.

Not until Dex, at least.

You had only found out after the whole ordeal that he had been masquerading as the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen himself.

Somebody who had followed more closely might’ve realized that something was wrong when “Daredevil” started murdering people. You thought your lifestyle to be so distant from the chaos back then that you hadn’t truly thought about it.

After all, it’s not like your (at the time) boyfriend going around killing people in Daredevil’s suit sounds like a reasonable conclusion. Absurd didn’t even begin to describe it.

After the whole Dex situation, you had done more research. Now, you’d even dare to say that you’re a fan of Daredevil, the real one.

So meeting him in person is both exciting and terrifying.

“Hi.” You greet lamely, frozen in your spot staring at Daredevil himself standing in your apartment. “Is… there something you need?” You feel your heart sink at the idea that he may think you are still connected to Dex. You desperately hope that’s not why he’s here.

“No,” his voice sounds rough, and you can’t tell if it’s intentional for his identity, or if he normally sounds like that. “I came to check on you.”

You furrow your eyebrows, “On… me.” You slowly point to yourself.

“Yeah,” Daredevil sounds vaguely amused, like he’s in on a joke you’re not. He doesn’t smile though.

“Is this something I should be worried about?” You sigh.

“Just keep an eye out.” Daredevil continues, not helping you at all.

“Are we talking police? Task force? General criminals?” You cross your arms, narrowing your eyes at Daredevil. You feel your heart start to speed up.

“The first two most likely.” He responds.

Your lips part, surprised, “I haven’t committed any crimes, and I’m not doing anything vigilante-like.”

“They don’t care about that.” Daredevil shakes his head.

“Then what about me do they care about?” You ask incredulously.

Daredevil is silent for a moment, “You know Murdock?”

Your blink, surprised, “I… Yeah, but I haven’t seen much of him recently.”

Daredevils looks at you expectantly, “They might come for you to get to him.”

“I don't know where he is though.”

“That doesn’t matter to them.”

You both stare at each other for a long moment, “Do you know where he is?” You ask, and you can tell Daredevil didn’t expect that question. “You— I don’t know if it would be better for me to know where he is, but if you know, could you tell me whether he is okay?”

Daredevil stares at you, and you see his sharp posture soften ever so slightly. “He’s alright.”

You give Daredevil a small smile, “That’s good… What about Karen too? I imagine you paid her a visit as well.”

Daredevil lips twitch minutely as if you said something humorous, “She’s doing well.”

“Good.” You nod, “If you see them again, could you tell them I’m available if they need help and wish them well?”

Daredevil nods slowly, pacing around your apartment. “I can’t be everywhere at once,” he stops before your window, “but if you ever feel that something is off, call Murdock, he can contact me.”

Good to know that Matt has Daredevil on speed dial, as crazy as that sounds.

“I will, thanks Daredevil.” You smile at the vigilante. He offers another nod to you.

“And for the future,” he grabs the sill, “you might want to lock your windows.” He smirks, lightly tapping the glass, and leaping out before you get the chance to respond.

You are left standing in your apartment excited, terrified, and confused in that order. It’s not every day a vigilante pays you a visit in your home, so the rush of excitement is expected.

Then comes the dread.

As cool as Daredevil is, him paying your apartment is a bad omen. What could you possibly do against the police? Call Daredevil and pray that he finds you before you get stuffed into one of their tanks and “vanish under mysterious circumstances?”

The confusion is more akin to general shock than anything. How does Daredevil know where you live? How does Matt know Daredevil? Did Matt tell Daredevil to go look for you?

All of these are questions won’t get answered, at least not anytime soon.

You debated contacting Matt to ask what just happened, but ultimately settled for a single text.

Please don’t die.

He doesn't instantly respond, but you don’t expect that from him. You walk over to the window Daredevil exited through, locking it.

Perhaps it’s best to listen to the vigilantes advice.

Outside of locking your window (thanks to Daredevil), your routine didn’t change. Sure, your paranoia may have spiked through the roof, but you’d rather be paranoid than dead.

It was only a few days later when you almost called Matt for the first time. In fact, you had half-hysterically wondered if Daredevil truly was a bad omen and you were cursed.

You had gone to your normal coffee shop before heading off to work. The same coffee shop you’ve gone to for nearly a decade now. You had changed nothing in that routine. Stepping inside, you smile at the barista who greeted you by name and confirmed your regular order.

It was, by all accounts, an average morning.

And right now with New York’s current condition? Average was perfect. You had stepped aside to wait for your order, scrolling to see the recent news. A few task force busts, nothing to write home about. When they called your name, you walked up, thanking the barista before turning around to leave, taking a slow sip of your drink.

Then you froze.

You wish time had frozen or slowed down like in the movies because you needed at least one minute to process what you are seeing. Your drink went forgotten in your hand as you openly stare at Bullseye walking into the coffee shop.

Against your will, you note his appearance. He looks good, something you begrudgingly admit. He isn’t in his suit, but you can practically see a danger warning over his head. Noting the scar on his face, you find yourself unable to look away for what feels like an eternity but what is realistically less than ten seconds.

Dex had always been observant though.

As if sensing your gaze, his eyes meets yours.

You think your heart may combust from the sheer speed it pounds against your ribcage. He doesn’t outwardly react when he looks at you. There’s no softening in his eyes. His posture remains casual, but not in a friendly way. His face remains unchanged.

In his eyes, you’re just another stranger who might’ve recognized him as Bullseye.

It’s that realization that allows you to tear your eyes away from him; the action feels long and laborious.

You don’t immediately fumble for your phone. Part of you wants the reassurance that somebody could protect you if Bullseye decided that you looked at him the wrong way. You can only imagine how he interpreted your stare.

With measured steps, you make your way to exit the shop. The glaring issue being that you need to pass him to do so. You make a deliberate point to not make eye contact.

As you get closer, you realize with a horrifying twist in your gut that he is still looking at you. Not directly, but in the same way you’re still looking at him. It’s more of an awareness of his surroundings rather than blatantly staring. He looks straight ahead, but you can tell his focus is on you.

You try not to relish the fact you can somewhat read him. You shouldn’t be surprised that his mannerisms never changed.

His awareness doesn’t necessarily feel dangerous in nature, but you aren’t willing to try and deduce exactly what he is thinking about.

As you get closer to him, your heart begin to thump in your ears, quick and frantic. You try not to seem too hasty to escape him, for the last thing you want is his attention. The chances he’d take notice of you in more than a passing interest are low, but you aren’t willing to give him material to work with.

You open the door, and it chimes on your way out. The sound doesn’t seem as friendly as it usually does. When it closes behind you, you let out a shaky exhale before walking to your job.

On the way there, you debate whether you should contact Daredevil via Matt. Is this beneath Daredevil’s focus? He has bigger things to focus on, not you panicking over seeing your killer ex-boyfriend who doesn’t remember you.

Additionally, Bullseye didn’t even do anything. Sure, he stared at you, but you had technically been staring first—not that you're defending him. He is certainly dangerous, that you would not dispute, but his eyes didn’t light up with recognition upon seeing you.

You still weren’t sure how to feel about that, but you won’t deny that it feels safer that way. As the day continued, you didn’t hear about Bullseye killing anybody in a coffee shop and took that as a good sign.

In the end, you don’t contact Matt.

Part of it is, ironically, fear. You don’t want to risk Matt being put in more danger by making him contact Daredevil, and you don’t want to contact Daredevil over you overthinking.

Besides, he’s bound to run into Bullseye eventually. They certainly know one another. You doubt asking Daredevil to harass Bullseye over coffee is a productive use of anybody’s time, so you don't.

You avoid your normal coffee shop for a few days after your anticlimactic reunion. However, you eventually cave and go back because you miss the coffee, and you tell yourself that’s definitely the only reason.

The first day you return there, you swing your head over your shoulder every five seconds. The barista making your drink gives you a mildly concerned glance when they hand it to you.

You attempt to reassure them with a smile, but it feels more similar to a grimace.

The following days start out similar, but you eventually settle back into your normal routine. It becomes evident about a week later that your chance encounter with Bullseye was simply that: a chance encounter.

Of course, after settling down, fate throws a curveball at you and sends you into a panic. That curveball is him showing up to the coffee shop again.

You’re caught off guard, but much more prepared than you were the intial encounter (if you could even call it that). You don’t stare at him, for one. In fact, you don’t dare to breath in his direction. And what do you do in order to avoid looking at the man who you once loved, the man who is now a killer, served time in prison, and no longer remembers your face?

You stare blankly at the barista making your drink, or more accurately, through them.

“Could I have a black coffee?” You pretend you don’t hear his words. He doesn’t sound different. He sounds relaxed—well, maybe relaxed isn’t the word, self-assured would be more accurate.

You don’t entirely listen to the rest of his order. You try not to feel bothered by additional evidence that parts of him haven’t changed. First the mannerisms, now his taste.

You kind of hate it.

You only start giving your attention to him again when he begins to head in your direction. You cross your arms and avoid his eyes, hoping your closed-off body languages discourages conversation. You pray that maybe he’d sit down and wait for his name to be called. Instead, he decides to wait for his coffee while standing, just like you.

Great.

You tell yourself not to make any sudden movements, and then toss the irrational thought aside. Just act normal. It shouldn’t be difficult, it’s not like he should mean anything to you anymore.

You notice him shift offhandedly in your peripherals. He changes his stance, taking his hands out of his pockets. You wait to see if he does anything else. He doesn’t.

It’s odd.

You don’t feel the weight of his stare on you, but you are feel the prickling sensation of being judged.

A minute of silence passes by before you can’t take it anymore. You pull out your phone, not to use, but to appear distracted. You debate opening Matt’s contact. Once was a coincidence, twice could be the start of a patten. You shift apprehensively on your feet.

Then you make the mistake of looking up.

Your eyes find him, and you take in how normal he looks for a moment. If you didn’t know better, you’d think he was another stranger starting his day with a cup of coffee.

Of course, since he’s not a normal stranger, he turns his attention to meet your eyes. Instead of being across a room, this time you two are less ten feet apart.

Part of you wonders if he was waiting for you to make eye contact.

Once again, neither of you saying anything. However, unlike last time, you see his face shift minutely. Last time, he was indifferent.

This time, he is contemplative.

You don’t have to think about what he is pondering. Most likely, he’s trying to figure out how (or if) he recognizes you. You don’t expect him to remember you from all those years ago, but he could remember you from that initial encounter getting coffee.

The exchange could barely be called an exchange, but Dex had always been observant like that.

Then, as if finishing his assessment of you, he reacts. His head dips down slightly. It could be a nod of acknowledgement to test the waters, but it could simply be a shift in posture.

For your sanity, you choose to believe it’s the latter.

Also for your sanity, you pretend you don’t see the gesture.

Hearing your name called for your drink could truly be considered a blessing. You immediately break eye contact with him before grabbing your drink and leaving. You’re offhandedly note that you were moving fast, almost suspiciously so, but you can’t bring yourself to care too much.

Your encounter with him felt noticeably worse the second time around, and not just because he was physically closer.

You left with a sense of forboding that something about that second encounter was what sealed your fate. Why?

Because third time around, he spoke to you.

You had been more prepared the third time, but hearing his voice directed at you?

You wanted to yell at him for forgetting everything you went through. You wanted to stare so intensely at his face that he would be incapable of forgetting you ever again. You wanted to burden him with the same pain you endured for far too long. You wanted to discover every difference between him and the man you knew. You wanted to ignore him and pretend that you’ve never heard the name “Bullseye.”

“The coffee is good, isn’t it?”

You slowly turn to face him, only to find he is already looking at you. Once your eyes narrow on him, he turns his head to face you.

“Yep.” You keep your reply short, detached.

He nods, his lips twitching microscopically as if he found your monosyllabic response amusing. You frown slightly, and you find yourself theorizing what he could possibly be thinking about. He probably thinks that you know that he’s Bullseye and is enjoying tormenting you.

Technically, not wrong.

“Have you tried their pastries here?” He continues, and you take a deep breath.

“Once or twice.” With him.

He turns his body to face you, rather than just his head. “And? Find them any good?”

It’s nigh impossible to avoid looking at him now, “Yeah, passable.”

His smirk widens, “Such high praise.” He drawls sarcastically.

You give him an unimpressed look, not deigning to respond.

You can see the gears turning in his head, trying to figure out if you’re usually this standoffish or if you just really hate him.

Thankfully, before he could come to a conclusion, your name was called. Grabbing your drink, you turn around and face him. His face is frustratingly blank. You see his eyes flicker to the coffee cup in your hands before meeting your eyes again.

You’re the first one to break eye contact, not bothering with goodbyes. You suppress the desire to look at him when you exit.

At this point, you should’ve said something to Matt, even Karen. You also should’ve stopped going to that coffee shop. It’d solve all of your issues. Plus, you got what you wanted. You now have confirmation that Dex no longer remembers you. You know that he just sees you as an apprehensive stranger at the coffee shop you both frequent in early mornings. You have your answers.

But you don’t stop going to the coffee shop.

You justified it by telling yourself if he wanted to hurt you or anybody in that shop by now, he would’ve done so already. Bullseye showing up to the same coffee shop, while terrifying, changes nothing. It’s something normal, and you remember how much Dex craved normalcy.

Part of you wonders if he still unconsciously wants that, even after his life has gone to shit.

“Hello,” you smile at the barista. Usually you follow a script when it comes to this shop: greet each other, confirm your usual order, you pay, and you thank the barista. Occasionally there is some small talk thrown in there, but aside from that, there is little deviation.

“Oh, hey, your friend already ordered for you.” She smiles at you, and you can see a teasing glint in her eyes.

You blink, “What?”

She turns her head over to the pickup counter, and you follow her gaze.

You sigh, of course.

“We aren’t friends. I barely know the guy.” You tell the barista, pulling your card out.

She purses her lips, “Uh,” she looks between the two of you, “he already paid for you.”

“I don’t want anything from him.”

She nods slowly, “I can ‘forget his order’ if you want.” She winks at you, and you have never felt more grateful.

You smile at her, “That’d be great.” Your smile grows as an idea pops into your head, “Actually, today can I get the vanilla latte?”

She smiles, “Something different?”

You chuckle, “Yeah,” you pay for the drink, apologizing for your “friend” inconveniencing her, but she waves it off casually.

Standing in your normal spot, you can tell he is watching you. You can also tell that he is attempting to hide that fact.

“Was the order wrong?”

You look at him in the corner of your eye, “Yeah,” you lie, he got your order right, but telling him that would not help you.

He tilts his head slightly, as if trying to understand how he got it wrong. He releases a quiet huff, offering a fake smile. “I’ll remember for next time then.”

You give him a placating smile, “Don’t worry about it. I order differently based on how I’m feeling.”

He hums in understanding, slowly nodding. “Do you?”

“Yep.”

“So what mood is the vanilla latte?”

“My current one.” You reply dryly.

His eyes light up intrigued and mildly amused by your answer, and you get the distinct impression that your attempts at being aloof have had the opposite effect you desired. For a moment, you think he gets the hint and stops talking. It makes you wonder, was he always this talkative with new people?

When you met, he wasn’t exactly forward. There was never really one instance where either of you had to explicitly start conversations like this. It was continued exposure over time, and so it didn’t feel as forced when your relationship had progressed.

“Black coffee and a blueberry muffin for Tony.” The barista calls out.

You furrow your eyebrows as he walks to the counter to pick up the coffee. Who the hell is Tony?

When he turns around, he blinks twice at you, “Something wrong?” He feigns innocence.

“No.” You grumble, and he goes to grab a few napkins. It was wishful thinking for that to be the end of the conversation.

“If you say so,” he sounds way too pleased for your liking. He breaks a piece off the muffin, taking a bite. You see his eyebrows shoot up slightly, “You were right, their pastries are passable.” He mocks your words from your last encounter.

You nod slowly, watching cautiously as he breaks off another piece. Neither of you say anything, and you find yourself wishing, once again, that he’d leave.

He breaks a bigger chunk off the muffin, and you cross your arms, avoiding his eyes.

“Want some?” He offers.

Why? Why does this happen to you? You turn to him, and his hand is holding the piece of the muffin. It’s a good chunk of it too.

He must sense your hesitation because he gives you what he must interpret as an appeasing smile, “It’s not poisoned if that’s what you’re worried about.” He doesn’t move, still offering the piece to you.

“It’s not.” You reply honestly. Poison doesn’t seem to be Bullseye’s style. “I’m not hungry anyway.”

He doesn’t immediately retract the offer, “Hm, breakfast already?”

“Yeah,” you lie.

The two of you stare at each other, and you have a hunch that you each know the other is full of shit.

“Suit yourself,” he shrugs, and you watch as he opens the napkin and places the piece onto it. His eyes flicker up to you, and you raise an eyebrow.

“What are you doing?” You find yourself asking before considering whether it’s actually a good idea.

“If breakfast wasn’t enough.” He takes a slow sip of his coffee, tapping the counter the napkin rested on, pushing it closer to you. You furrow your eyebrows, watching as he simply leaves. You don’t hold back your dumbfounded stare as he exits the shop, and you catch the smug vestige of a smirk on his face.

What the hell?

It took three more visits before you caved and accepted his offerings. You still eyed it as if it would explode in your hands, but he didn’t seem to take offense to it.

The next time after that, he orders two muffins.

You aren’t fazed anymore, and that’s how you know you’re past the point of no return. Upon entering the shop, he offers the muffin to you like it’s routine. You raise an eyebrow, walking over and taking the proffered bag, looking inside, “Coffee cake?” You’re surprised he chose something different.

He shrugs, “It looked good.” You had to agree with him, it looked divine.

You pick off a small piece, and your eyebrows shoot up. It was good. You turn to him, not shocked to see him staring intently at your reaction. “Good pick.”

You can see him carry himself lighter at your comment, as if being told that he made a good pick satisfied him.

“Figured you would like it.” He comments casually.

You raise an eyebrow, “Why is that?”

He smiles conspiratorially, shrugging, “Just a hunch.”

Frowning at the vague answer, you take another piece of the muffin. You notice him staring at it. “Want a piece?” The words leave your mouth before you have a chance to reevaluate how smart of an idea they are.

His eyes crinkle in a way that makes you feel like he somehow planned this moment. Which is kind of insane, but it’s too late to rescind the offer.

It’s not like he could plan for you to specifically offer him food anyway.

“Sure,” He replies, and you break of a piece before looking for napkins. You frown when you notice that they’re out. Dex watches your eyes scan the shop for a minute before he interrupts, “I’ll survive without the napkin.” You can hear the smile in his tone.

You blink at him before looking down at his hand. Then, you reach over to place the piece onto it. Your hands inevitably meet with your fingers lightly grazing his palm, attempting to keep the crumbs from spilling all over the table.

When he takes a bite, he hums contently. “It’s good,” he declares, “just like you said.”

Your heart speeds up, “Right,” you reply, attempting to mask your breathlessness.

In order to escape the awkward silence, you tell him you’re going to order your coffee. He nods, and you make your way to the front, ordering your regular drink.

It was surprisingly empty this morning, so your drink was ready by the time you finished your quick conversation with the barista.

When you return to him, you grab the leftover muffin you didn’t finish. “Thanks for the muffin.” You don’t offer to pay him back, and you internally berate yourself for feeling slightly bad about that.

He smiles at you, and it looks like the most genuine smile he has given you in a long time. “Of course.”

You offer a tentative smile before walking out the shop. You don’t turn around, but you know he is watching you because despite everything it’s still him.

The routine becomes concerningly normal.

He would wait for you at the coffee shop, and would buy you some pastry because “he insists.”

You stopped declining that long ago, and you were beginning to appreciate having a meal before going to work, not that you would admit this to him.

You didn’t contact Matt or Karen, and at this point you can’t really make an excuse for not doing so. Bullseye is dangerous. Bullseye killed Foggy. These are all simply facts.

Yet you don’t contact Matt. You don’t tell Bullseye that you are aware of who he is. You don’t tell him to leave you alone either. At this point, you’re digging your own grave, and part of you wonders if it’s only a matter of time before you must lie in it.

Morbidly, you wonder who will the honor of putting you out of your misery: Bullseye or Fisk?

It’s a few weeks after this odd routine has begun where you start to realize just how much you fucked up by interacting with him again.

Your favorite diner was supposed to be something that was exclusively yours. You may have introduced it to Dex a few times in the past, but it was your favorite before him and your favorite after him. You weren’t going to let your abysmal relationship tarnish the sanctity of this place for you.

It wasn’t truly anything that special, another diner in New York. The food was satisfactory. Sometimes you convinced yourself that it was even good, but you suspected that was due to nostalgia more than anything. The prices were reasonable. The ambiance had nothing unique that made it shine above the rest.

So, just like the coffee shop, you’re left wondering why the hell Benjamin Poindexter was walking in here like it was a routine of his. You were sitting in one of the booths, and you held the menu up to your face to cover the fact that you were blatantly staring because what the fuck?

Either you have the worst luck in the universe and he keeps showing up in places that are supposed to be safe for you... or he is stalking you.

Both options are a nightmare for you.

You don’t hear what he orders, but you find yourself attempting to listen anyway. Usually, he has a sixth-sense for when you’re in the area. He would always find you first whenever you arrive at the coffee shop every morning.

The fact that he hasn’t turned once to see you leads you to believe that you might just have the worst luck in New York, and that’s saying a lot.

You watch him pull out a phone before bringing it up to his ear. You can barely hear the conversation, but you do catch two details.

One: he said the name “Frank Castle.”

Two: he said, in the most apathetic tone imaginable, that he “has a gun.”

This becomes an issue when you scan the restaurant and don’t see Frank Castle or a gun in sight.

Now, perhaps at this point you should’ve approached him. Maybe even left because perhaps Frank Castle is on his way, and while Karen has spoken somewhat fondly of him, you aren’t exactly frothing at the mouth to meet him.

You do none of that, and simply watch as Bullseye chugs a milkshake in a display that leaves you equally impressed and mortified. That’s when the sirens start to ring across the street. It appears he notices this too because you see him put his gloves on.

Yep, that is your sign to get out of here.

You didn’t get your finish your meal, but you also don’t want to get involved with any task force activity. You grab all your personal belongings before heading towards the door.

“Get back inside now!”

You narrow your eyes as the agent points his rifle at you, forcing you back into the building. You didn’t even step outside the doorframe yet.

You hold your hands up in surrender, but you don’t feel scared so much as frustrated.

You watch as one of the agents continues to point their rifle at you as the others search the building. Do they seriously think you’re part of the problem here?

“Clear…” The last agent echoes the sentiment the last five have said.

Then they make a mistake.

“Hey, Milkshake.” That agent calls Bullseye out. He doesn’t immediately turn to him, but when he does, his hands are held up, straw in mouth.

You didn’t even see him load the straw with anything, and you were watching him for a while. You watch in horror as he shoots a toothpick into the agent’s eye. He whips around, pulling his mask on, and grabs the utensils next to him and launching them to the three agents near you. For a split second—after the forks find their target—his eyes land on you.

Somehow, despite the fact that he is about to be shot at, his stare lingers on you. However, it’s not for long, and he takes two more forks before launching it toward a booth. The utensils (somehow) avoid the innocent bystander before situating themselves into the eye of one agent and the neck of another.

At this point, the task force agents recompose themself before shooting towards Bullseye. You wince at the sound of gunfire, ducking behind one of the booths as bullets fly over the counter he was at.

You don’t have a clear view of Bullseye anymore, but you hear the distant cry of another agent. You can hazard a guess as to what that means.

Eventually, the gunfire slows to a stop, but you don’t dare to stand up. You hear Bullseye talk to one of the customers, something about bringing his dog into the restaurant and how that is unsanitary.

You take this opportunity to open your phone, and you pull up Matt’s contact. Just as you are about to send a message to him telling him that Bullseye is at Bel Aire Diner, you realize the light above you becomes obscured. You look up, noting that he isn’t wearing his mask anymore.

“What are you doing?” He looms over you, raising an eyebrow. He seems genuinely confused.

“Trying not to get shot.” You retort, gradually standing up.

“I meant before that.” He grabs a ketchup bottle off the booth you hid behind.

“Eating?”

“Oh.”

The two of you stare at each other for a long moment.

“Did I ruin the meal?”

“What do you think?”

He has the decency to look chastised. It doesn’t last long, “I didn’t know you’d be here.” He sounds genuinely surprised, “Do you come here often?”

You cross your arms, “That's your first question?” You ask incredulously. “I don’t see how that’s any of your business.”

He doesn’t appear deterred by your words, “I’ve never…” He muses to himself, and you can see him attempting to figure out how you managed to get here.

He frowns, furrowing his eyebrows at you, “You…” The emotion behind the words is indecipherable. He pauses for a long moment before abruptly turning to stare at the fallen agents he killed less than a minute ago. The bewilderment on his face is evident, and you doubt it's from the task force. You wait for him to finish his sentence, but he doesn’t, not immediately. He stares at the agents, the floor, the booth, and then you.

“What were you thinking?”

What?

He sounds upset, genuinely upset. The shift from from mild exasperation to fury has your head spinning. “What?” You say your question out loud.

“You— Why would—” He looks at your befuddled expression, and it's like he has so many questions that he can't figure out which one to ask first.

You raise an eyebrow, “Why what?” You ask nonplussed.

The sound of sirens catch both of your attention. You both look at each other, and you open your mouth to speak, but he bolts out on you.

Eyes wide, you turn to survey the scene before feeling sick at the sight of dead bodies and looking away. For once, you weren’t the only trying to avoid him. Bullseye walked out on you.

As if this day couldn't get any weirder.

I think I messed up.

You tap your finger idly against your phone, staring at the message before pressing the send button.

It has been a few days since Bullseye killed the task force agents at the diner. You hadn’t seen him since, and that in itself was unsettling. When you entered the coffee shop the day after the incident, he wasn’t there. Even the barista commented on it. You scoffed, as if you knew where he was.

Your phone starts ringing, startling you. You sit up straighter on your couch, answering it. “Hey.”

“Hey,” Matt greets, and you can hear the tension in his voice, “are you okay?”

You let out a huff of air, “I’m fine right now.”

“Good,” he pauses, “good… Did something happen?”

You hesitate, but it’s too late to tell Matt to ignore you. You swallow, “You know that diner? The one that Bullseye killed those task force guys in?”

Matt is silent for a moment, “Yes.” He sounds even more tense. “Did he recognize you?”

You smack your lips, “About that…”

Matt says your name, disgruntled.

“He doesn’t recognize me from then.” You assure him. “I— He recognizes me from somewhere else.”

Matt curses and you grimace, “Damn it. Why— Why didn’t you say anything sooner?”

You shake your head, “I don’t know. I thought that—” you swallowed, “I didn’t think he’d notice me.”

“How’d you meet him?” Matt asks, ignoring your excuses.

You blink, “He began going to the coffee shop I go to every morning.”

Matt curses again, “This is the kind of stuff you tell me. You should’ve told me the second you saw him the first time.”

You know. “I know.” You whisper.

“He didn’t hurt you?”

“No.”

“Did he talk to you?”

You hesitate. Matt says your name again.

“Yes,” you shut your eyes.

“What did he say?”

You shrug, “I don’t know. We talked about coffee.”

“Coffee.” Matt scoffs. “You two talk about the weather too?” He comments sarcastically.

You narrow your eyes, “Want me to ask him next time?”

Matt says your name again, a warning. “Don’t. Don’t go back there to the diner or coffee shop or wherever you saw him for the first time.”

You pause, contemplative, “Okay…”

“I’m serious.”

“I know. I won’t.”

Matt is silent for a moment, deciding whether or not to believe you. “If you see him, let me know immediately.” He exhales. “I find it difficult to believe you seeing him is a coincidence.”

“Me too.” You reply honestly.

“I need your word that you’ll call me.”

You sigh, “Fine. I promise I won’t go looking for him, and if I see him I’ll call you.”

Matt exhales, “Thank you.” He doesn’t sound angry anymore, merely weary. “I’m sorry you had to get involved in this.”

You sigh, “It’s not your fault.” You reply sincerely, albeit slightly bitter. He doesn’t respond to that, so you continue. “Have a good night, Matt.”

“You too.” He says, and you hang up.

Groaning, you flop onto the armrest of your couch, flattening your face against the cushions. You try and ignore the emotion in your chest, the one you refuse to label as disappointment because you should be relieved. Matt knows your dilemma now, and Daredevil will know soon enough. You shouldn’t have to worry about a diner incident ever occurring again.

It apears that you’ll have to go back to your breakfast-less lifestyle once again it seems.

The following morning you forced yourself to walk past the coffee shop, and look away from their windows. He hadn’t been showing up at the shop either way, so no point in trying to search for someone who isn’t there.

Your life returned to something that that resembled a routine. You would wake up, go get coffee, go to work, eat, and come home. The routine should’ve been sufficient. However, something had undeniably shifted. No matter how resentful you were over Dex, seeing him—a version of him at least—stirred up feelings that you hadn’t had in years.

Part of you was angry at him because now those wounds feel fresh. All the progress you thought you made getting over him turned to dust in a couple weeks, regressing to a state of longing for something that you know you’ll never have again.

You grab your keys, giving your apartment one last look over before opening the door. Your eyes widen at the sight of a delivery guy at your doorstep.

He says your name and you furrow your brows.

“I didn’t order anything.” You look at the bag in his hands, it’s from a bagel place down the street that you used to go to for breakfast.

The guy shrugs, “Well, it has your name on it.” He turns the label for you to read.

You eye the bag dubiously, “I don’t have any cash.”

“Tipped through the app,” he responds, “so do you want it or not?”

Tentatively, you reach your hand out to grab the bag. You look inside, and it’s fresh. Your stomach rumbles at the sight. “Thanks?” You thank the man, but he doesn’t appear to care about your gratitude, seeing as he left the second you grabbed the bag.

You smell the bagels, and you have a suspicion who sent them.

It’s not like you have a way you have to contact Bullseye. What would you even say? “Sorry if I offended you at the diner after you killed a bunch of people, no idea what I did. Thanks for the bagel!”

You take the bag with you, exiting your building as you pull out your phone.

I think he sent me food.

You take a bite of the bagel, waiting for Matt’s response.

Matt calls you again.

“What did you do?” He sounds drained.

You make an offended noise, “What makes you think this is my fault?”

“Have you been in contact with him recently?” Matt wastes no time asking questions.

“No,” you scoff, “I told you I’d contact you if I saw him.”

“Right,” Matt replies, evidently skeptical. “Did you toss out the food?”

You look at the half-eaten bagel in your hands, “Yeah,” you lie. Now probably isn’t a good time to tell him about the muffins you’ve shared with Bullseye.

Matt sighs, “He might’ve tampered with it.”

“I figured if he wanted me dead he’d shoot me.” You respond wryly.

Matt huffs sardonically, “You’ll only encourage him.”

“Has Daredevil talked to him recently?”

Matt pauses, “Maybe, why?”

“Then can you tell Daredevil to tell Bullseye that while I appreciate the food, he has to knock it off. I can't exactly contact him and tell him to stop.”

Matt goes silent, not finding your request as humorous as you do. “Next time, toss out the food.” He pauses, and you hear some distant rustling on his side of the call. “You aren’t actively in danger right? I’m sorry, I have to go.”

“I’m alright. Go do what you need to do.” You smile, finishing the bagel.

You bid each other goodbye before hanging up, and you go to work as if nothing happened. Part of you wonders if Matt took you serious and will actually tell Daredevil to pass your message along. Matt was right telling you that you shouldn't accept the food Bullseye was “anonymously” ordering for you. You are aware that it’s a bad idea.

But it was nice to have someone who cared like that.

You hadn’t had that in a long time, and perhaps Bullseye was using that to his advantage to manipulate you. Because at the end of the day, you know he isn’t doing it out of the kindness of his heart. You aren’t that blind.

On your walk home, you pick up takeout from whatever is nearby, too tired to cook. You grimace at the sight of the task force across the street. Rushing into your building, you take the elevator up. You fumble for your keys, frustrated at the low lighting in the hallway. It’s been broken for years, and it makes it difficult to see where you’re looking at night with the constant flickering.

Entering your apartment, you take your shoes off before closing the door and locking it. You take a few steps into your apartment before releasing an undignified gasp and jolting.

“Shit,” you gasp, “what are you doing here?” You place the takeout onto the kitchen counter, never taking your eyes off of Bullseye. He has the mask off, but he is still wearing the costume. He is sitting on the corner of your couch as if this is normal.

“I wanted to see you.” His voice isn’t loud, yet it carries across the room.

“So you broke into my apartment?” You scoff, subtly reaching for your phone behind the counter.

“Yeah,” he replies, tone low and unbothered. Then, as if he knows what you're attempting to do, continues, “Without Daredevil, preferably.”

You pause, grip tightening around your phone, “Why would Daredevil be here?”

He turns to face you, “I don’t know. You tell me.”

You go silent at that, placing your phone atop of the counter for him to see, pushing it away. His eyes never leave your face. “What do you want then?”

He imperceptibly shakes his head, “I said I wanted to see you—”

“Bullshit.” You cut him off scathingly, “You’ve been seeing me at the coffee shop for weeks. You show up at the diner I go to. You have breakfast delivered—”

He raises an eyebrow, “—I thought you liked that place?”

“That’s not the point, Dex.” You raise your hands up wildly.

He readjusts in his seat, going silent at your words. “I wasn’t sure I was ever going to hear you say my name.” He says hoarsely.

You blink, taken aback. “How did you know I knew your name?” You narrow your eyes at him defensively.

“You made eye contact with me that… first time we met.” He rolls a coin over his knuckles casually.

You scowl at him, “Okay? Doesn’t mean I know your name.”

“You made a face when the barista said my name was ‘Tony.’” Dex tilts his head at you.

You shrug, “You don’t look like a ‘Tony.’ None of this is actual evidence.”

“You weren’t surprised to see me in the suit.” He looks down, a small smirk on his face.

You click your tongue, “Okay,” you admit, “fine. Maybe I recognized you online.”

He chuckles, “Online, huh?” He asks distantly.

You roll your eyes, “If this is what you came to talk to me about, then I’m gonna have to ask you to leave.” You cross your arms.

Dex blinks, setting the coin down, “Come back to the coffee shop.”

You snort, “Absolutely not.”

“Please,” he doesn’t quite yell, but the volume startles you.

“Please,” he swallows, and you watch him attempt to get his breathing under control, “we can pretend this never happened. I’ll pretend that you don’t know who I am.” He clenches his jaw. “Just please come back there. I need—” he falters, “I want to see you again… in the mornings.” His eyes train on you, “Every morning.”

Oh, this is not healthy.

“Dex…” You shakily inhale. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

He inhales sharply, eyes going towards you. “Did Daredevil tell you that too?”

You furrow your brows, “What does Daredevil have to do with this?”

His eyes narrow, “He did, didn’t he?” He laughs lowly, and you aren’t sure whether you’re supposed to answer that.

You grit your teeth, “Maybe he did, maybe he didn’t.” you shrug. Matt did tell you, multiple times, that this was a terrible idea, but that is not Dex’s business or problem. You take a deep breath, steeling yourself for what you’re about to do. It’s best that you end… whatever this is with Dex anyway. You’re getting too emotionally invested in something you shouldn’t, and you know you will get burned if you allow this to persist.

“And you’re just going to do what he says?” He scoffs.

“Again, I don’t see why that should matter to you.” You narrow your eyes, loosely gesturing to him.

“It shouldn’t, should it?”

“No, it shouldn’t.”

Dex’s jaw ticks, and for a moment you remember who you’re talking to. You take a step back, and he inhales deeply.

“Don’t— Don’t do that.” He sounds pained and aggravated.

“Do what?” You hold your hands up in mock surrender.

“Act like you’re afraid.” He spits out the word as if it disgusts him.

“You come into my apartment at night telling me to meet with you against my will all while wearing your suit.” You spit out the final word disdainfully.

He shakes his head, standing up, “I would never hurt you. You know this.”

“No,” you raise your hands up, “I don’t. Not anymore at least.”

He doesn’t have a response for that. He says your name quietly.

“You should leave, Dex. I’m going to call Daredevil.” You warn him, turning to face him.

He clasps his hands, his leg bouncing lightly as he turns to face the ground. You wait for him to make eye contact. When he does, he looks distraught.

He doesn’t say anything as he makes his way to the window Daredevil used. He stops before leisurely turning around, “You might want to lock your windows next time.”

“Don’t pretend like you weren’t happy that you could climb in.” You retort disapprovingly.

He tilts his head slightly, a wry expression on his face. He pulls the mask back on, and you turn around.

“I wouldn’t want other people climbing up to meet you too.” He replies, and when you turn to look at him, he is gone.

You rub your temples, unsure whether to cry or scream.

Your eyes burn, the low lighting combined with the vivid colors straining them. You aren’t even sure what’s happening on the TV anymore. You had played a series to distract yourself, but now your eyes hurt and you were stressed.

You weren’t bluffing when you warned Dex. You did call Daredevil—well, you called Matt who called Daredevil who…

Point is, Matt told you to expect Daredevil to check on you. Perhaps if you felt better, you’d make yourself look more presentable for the elusive vigilante. However, you couldn’t really bring yourself to care at this point. Matt hadn’t really given you a time, so you had settled yourself onto your couch with the intention of waiting until he popped in.

Half an hour passed, then an hour, then two hours, then three, and now it was two in the morning.

If this happens again, you’re asking Matt for a better time estimate.

You’re resting your eyes when you hear the faint knocking on your window. Blinking the sleepiness away, you watch as Daredevil lets himself in.

“Hey,” he greets, and you frown at him.

“It’s late.”

“I know.” He holds his hands up placatingly “I’m sorry.” He does sound apologetic.

You prop yourself onto the armrest, “How much did Matt tell you?”

“All of it.”

“All of it?” You repeat incredulously.

“The more I know, the better I can help you.” He justifies.

“So you know about…” You mimic a throwing motion with an airy whistle and eyebrows raised.

He doesn’t immediately respond, “Yeah,” he responds dryly, “I know about him.”

What the hell, Matt? First Karen, now Daredevil?

“Great.” You respond sarcastically.

Daredevil ignores you comment, looking you up and down, “You said Bullseye visited you?”

“Yeah,” you nod, crossing your arms, “climbed in through the window.” You gesture to the window he entered through

Daredevil frowns slightly, “He know I’m here?”

You shrug, rubbing your eyes, “I don’t know.”

Daredevil nods slowly, “Then it might be for the best that you don’t stay here, at least until the city is safer.”

That wakes you up, “What? Where would I go?”

Daredevil is silent for a moment, “You could stay with Murdock and Page.”

You frown, “Have you even asked them?”

“Yes, they’re alright with you staying.”

Your expression doesn’t change, and Daredevil notices this. “If you don’t leave, Bullseye will keep coming back.”

“What if he finds me and puts Karen and Matt in danger?” You rub your temples, shaking your head at the idea.

“He won’t—”

“How can you be certain?” You whisper, placing your hands on your lap and examining them.

Daredevil doesn’t say anything, and you feel uneasy by his silence. Then you hear his suit rustle lightly, and you look up to see what he is doing.

“You have to be kidding me…” You rub your eyes more intensely, maybe you’re still asleep?

“I’m afraid not.” He offers a remorseful smile, “And before you ask, yes, I am actually blind. I have a method that helps me see.”

Your wide eyes look him up and down, “This whole time…” You trail off, speechless.

He purses his lips, “I’m sorry about lying. I just need you to trust me when I say Bullseye is dangerous, and the safest thing you can do is stay somewhere else right now.”

You barely even process his words, still trying to connect the dots of Matt being Daredevil. Then you reach a sinking realization. “Wait,” you whip your head towards him.

“When we met… You bumped into me.” You recount the events, “This was after Foggy’s death…” You furrow your eyebrows, and now you don’t even know if he can see the action. “You did that intentionally, didn’t you?” You whisper.

Matt doesn’t interrupt.

“You… You befriended me because I knew Dex.” You narrow your eyes at Matt, betrayed. “How did you find out?” When Matt doesn’t immediately respond, you steel your tone, “How, Matt?”

He swallows, “Karen found out when we were… digging into his history.”

You scoff, “Unbelievable,” you mutter, standing up and pacing around your couch. “So all of this… Was this just a way to try and get me to talk about Dex?”

“No, God, no.” Matt interjects, holding his hands up as if the idea is preposterous. “At first, maybe we wanted information, but… but it became clear you were kept in the dark.”

You fight down the tears, “So it was pity?”

Matt places his hands on his hips, turning his gaze to face the ground, “It was understanding. We know what loss like that feels like.” He sighs. “I… I’m sorry for never telling you, but Karen and I, we didn’t befriend because of Dex. If that was the sole reason, then it wouldn’t have lasted. We befriended you because we liked you and thought you would like to know people who could understand what you were going through.” Matt gestures to himself.

Your heart pounds in your chest, and you bite your tongue to keep the tears from falling. “I… That doesn’t—” Matt suddenly tilts his head toward your window, “You lied to me—”

“Get down!”

Matt tackles you, and you both fall limply on the ground. You cover your head instinctively before looking up and seeing a knife where Matt’s shoulder would’ve been.

You and Matt, who already put his helmet back on, turn to your window. Bullseye narrows his eyes at the two of you on the ground. He lazily uses the window to hold his weight, one hand hidden from view and the other holding the bottom jamb to keep it open.

“Was I interrupting something?” Bullseye asks, looks between the two of you, eyes narrowing on Matt.

“Why are you here?” You mutter to yourself, using your couch as cover as Matt stands up, ready to fight. You take a peek to see where he is.

“Just needed to confirm something, that’s all.” He ignores Matt, focusing on you.

“Confirm what?” You ask, and Matt looms over you. Trying to shield you from Bullseye’s view.

“That you were talking to Daredevil.”

You straighten your posture against the back of the couch, “You’re attacking him because I’m talking to him?” You ask, befuddled.

“That among plenty of other reasons he has given.”

You look to Matt, who looks unfazed by this. He isn’t jumping to brawl with Bullseye, and you can see the uneasy combination of caution and restlessness in his stance.

“So why attack me too? Thought you said you wouldn't hurt me—” You scoff.

“—I wouldn’t.” Dex interrupts before you can finish the sentence.

“Then why are you throwing knives in my apartment?”

“They would never hit you.” He sounds offended that you even asked.

“How can you be sure?”

You sneak a glance, noting Dex’s bewildered expression. “I’m sure—”

“Are you two done yet?” Matt interrupts. You both turn your focuses to Daredevil.

Dex grimaces, disgruntled, as if only now remembering that Daredevil was witnessing this.

“No.” Both you and Dex chorus. You stand up, using the couch to push yourself off the ground. Matt moves to try and hide you again, and you glare at him. “I’m still mad at you.” You point a finger to his chest.

He tilts his head as if to say “Really, we’re doing this now?”

You rub your face, exasperated. “Fuck", you curse to yourself, but you know Dex and Matt heard you, “could you both just leave?” You gesture to the door, knowing full well that neither of them have ever used it.

Neither of them move. Matt vaguely looks in Dex’s direction, and Dex furrows his eyebrows, eyes flitting between Matt and you. The sentiment seems obvious on both ends: There’s no way I’m leaving you with that guy.

When it becomes clear that no progress will be made, you grab one of your jackets laying around, snatching your keys off the counter. Neither of them say anything, so you break the tense silence. “I would ask you don’t fight in here, but if you insist, then you both are paying for repairs and anything you break.” You slip your shoes on. “I’m heading out.”

“At this time?” Dex looks like he is about to follow, and he tilts his head slightly.

“Well, I’m clearly not sleeping tonight.” You pointedly glare at them both.

Matt calls your name, a final attempt to get you to return to him. Dex’s eyes don’t leave your own. You both stare at each other for a moment. You swallow, attempting to calm your racing heart. He doesn’t react, and you’re unable to read the expression in his eyes. Turning back to the door, you open it before slamming it shut.

You don’t break your stride as you make your way to the elevator. Once inside, you lean against the walls, closing your eyes and running a hand over your face.

You’re so tired of this. You should’ve just ignored Dex and never looked back. Now, Daredevil… Matt is involved.

Of course, Matt and Karen are a whole other issue.

You decide to make your way to the twenty-four hour diner across the street. You see a group people yelling at each other and try ignore them as you pass by. Thankfully, they don’t pay you any mind.

“Rough night?” The waitress at the counter asks as you sit down on one of the stools. You prop your elbow onto the table, resting your chin on your hand.

“You have no idea.” She snorts softly, sliding a menu to you. You take a moment to shut your eyes, the bright artificial light exacerbating the exhaustion you already feel.

You don’t feel hungry. You can’t feel hungry after everything that just happened, so you order some tea in an attempt to decompress.

You tap your finger idly against the counter, turning to the window. You frown, watching as a man is shoved against the glass, his hands pinned against it. Their yells are muffled from outside, and you turn away from them. The waitress brings the tea and you thank her.

You pull your phone out, and are slightly surprised to see zero notifications. Taking a slow sip of your tea, you search up the Bulletin’s recent headlines.

Unsurprisingly, a lot of them are about Fisk.

The remaining ones are about the task force or the vigilantes of New York. You scroll past them, and your thumb pauses when you see Bullseye mentioned.

You cannot escape him. You sigh, shutting your phone off and placing it on the counter.

“Everybody out.”

You whip your head around to see a line of task force agents entering the diner. You toss an alarmed look to the waitress, who looks just as confused as you do.

“We heard reports of vigilante activity in the area, so we're going door to door to see where they may be hiding.” He walks over to the waitress. Her eye twitches, but she doesn’t say anything.

Two other agents strut around the diner as if they own the place, and you bite your tongue to keep yourself from saying anything stupid. They make a couple rounds and just as you think they’re about to leave, the main one stops next to you. You make a point to sip your tea and avoid his eye.

“Do I recognize you from somewhere, ma’am?” He rests his hand on his pistol. You look at him from the corner of your eye.

“Don’t believe so.” You reply curtly, taking another sip.

He situates himself on the stool next to you to get a clearer view, “No… No I think I recognize ya from somewhere.”

Your hands clench around your mug, “You must be mistaken.” Your eyes flicker to your phone.

“Erickson!” The agent calls out without turning away from you. “Come take a look, doesn’t she look like one of the people we were informed Murdock runs with?”

Another agent walks over, Erickson you presume, narrowing his eyes at you. You casually rest your hand on your phone. “She does,” he notes thoughtfully. Your hands clench the mug so tightly that they shake.

Unceremoniously, you’re slammed onto the counter, and you gasp in pain. “Ma’am you’re under arrest for aiding a vigilante.” You stare at your phone on the counter as they cuff your hands behind your back.

They don’t read your rights as they grab your shirt, forcing you to stand up. One of the agents points their gun at you as the other two escort you to the truck outside.

Just as they’re about to shove you into the truck, they grab some goggles before roughly placing them on your head.

“I’d try catching some sleep on the ride there.” One of the agents whispers into your ear, you shiver in disgust. “The… others can get very noisy.”

You turn roughly towards where his voice was, glaring at him through the mask. “You guys won’t keep getting way with this.” You whisper back to him.

He chuckles lowly, pushing you into the back of the truck and slamming the door closed. You lurch forward as the armored tank starts to move.

Any attempts to figure out where you are going are lost. You are slammed against the walls of the tank more times than you’d prefer. You eventually find a corner, crouching down and remaining there for the rest of the ride.

Your only hope is that Matt finds you.

Your phone was left in the diner, and you don’t know if he’d ever track it—if he can track it. Hell, you don’t even know if the agents took it.

So you must have faith that Matt will realize something happened to you, and will come searching for you.

As the tank slows to a stop, you wobble slightly. You hear the back doors open, and blotches of color fill your vision.

“Out, let’s go.” A stern voice commands you, and you can’t tell if it’s the same guy who stuffed you in here. When you stand up, he clicks his tongue impatiently.

Firmly, he grabs your shoulder, squeezing it as he guides you. You remain quiet, attempting to focus on what little you can see. Distantly, you can hear the soft patter of rain outside.

He takes you through multiple twists and turns, giving no warning before roughly shoving you. Eventually, you slow to a stop and you feel the agent let up on your shoulder a little. You hear him search for something before a confirmation sound rings, and he squeezes your arm once again.

You hear sniffling, sobs, and yells echo across the new room you enter. Must be spacious. The agent guides you and you hear some people yell at him as you pass by. He stops, removing the goggles from your head. You wince at the bright light, and he shoves you into a cell.

Upon further examination, “cage” would be accurate.

“Don’t bother calling for help. Nobody can help you here.” He slams the gate closed and gestures for your hands. Begrudgingly, you stand up, turning your back to the gate. He grabs your wrist before removing the cuffs.

You grab the bars, pressing yourself against the cage to try and get a better view of your surroundings. There’s dozens of other cages identical to your own. Some are lined up in your row while others are on the opposite side.

You let out a long breath, slowly falling to the ground. Some of the other prisoners yell and attempt to spit at the task force agents, but they get ignored.

Judging by the states of some of them, they’ve been kept here for a while. You can only imagine how long you could be here for.

In fact, you realize morbidly, you could die here. Death seemed like such a distant concept mere hours ago, but now you aren’t so sure.

As hours passed, you didn’t see any new additions to the empty cell on your left, nor did you see any task force agents return after sticking you in your cell. Your hands clench around the cool metal of the bars.

Slowly, the other prisoners begin to fall asleep for the night. By this point, it's probably morning, but their sense of time is likely screwed up. The yells become less frequent, and the people pacing their cages began to settle down.

You examine the floor beneath you, leaning your head against the bars of the cage. It’s uncomfortable at best. For a while, you stare blankly at the floor beneath you. You aren’t sure how much time passed exactly, but it felt like hours before you fell asleep despite your prior exhaustion.

You jolted awake the next morning. Blinking rapidly as one of the agents banged his rifle against the bars of your cage.

“We have a few questions for you.” He holds up the goggles tauntingly.

Do you? You want to ask, but you settle for glaring at them instead. They gesture for you to put slot your hands through the bars, and you slowly comply.

When they unlock your cell, they situate the goggles over your face. You blink, adjusting to the disorienting view. “Move it,” one grunts, shoving you forward. One of the guards keeps an arm on you, guiding you around the vicinity.

The walk is shorter than yesterdays. Upon reaching your new destination, they open a door and push you in. You hear it close behind you, and they remove your blindfold.

Two of the agents make their way behind you, and you turn to watch them leave. If you had to guess, they’re standing watch in case you could escape.

“Sit.” A man across the table orders you. You turn to face him for the first time. You blink, looking him up and down. He is dressed professionally with a suit and tie, nothing like the task force guys. You narrow your eyes at him, and he looks unimpressed. “I won’t ask again.”

Hesitantly, you take a seat across him. “What do you want?” You ask, voice rough from disuse.

“I have been informed of your prior exposure to vigilantes.” He opens a manila folder, and you can see a file of yourself inside. He shifts, holding it out of your view. “Namely Daredevil.” He taps the pages lightly, “However, I did some more digging.”

He takes a photo out of the folder, “That’s you, isn’t it?” He slides it across the table. You don’t have to look at it to know what it is.

You clench your jaw, “How did you get this?”

The man shrugs, “It was easy enough.” He replies mildly, “Answer my question.”

You glare at him, refusing to look down at the photo of you and Dex. It was one of the first ones you had posted on social media long ago. You’d taken them down the night Dex went to prison the first time.

The man doesn’t appear deterred by your defiance, “That,” he points to a photo, “That is Benjamin Poindexter, otherwise known as 'Bullseye,' correct?”

You follow his hand to the photo before looking to him. What do you think? You don’t say anything.

“Your relations with Matthew Murdock and Benjamin Poindexter are well known by this point.” He continues. “When did you meet Poindexter?”

You glare at the man, not saying anything. He waits for an answer, hands folded on the table.

Then he slaps you.

He did not hold back, and you gasp at how it makes your head spin. You look towards him, aghast. “I will not ask again.”

You readjust yourself, “Go to hell.”

His eyes narrow slightly before slapping you again, even harder than last time. This time you can taste blood fill your mouth. You raised your cuffed hands to wipe it.

He adjusts his tie, waiting patiently, “I am not here to play games. Nobody will find you here, that is, if they’re even looking for you.” He sighs, “Answer my questions, it will make our lives easier.” He taps the photo again, “When did you meet?”

“… A few years ago.” You wipe the blood escaping your mouth, holding back a wince.

“How many exactly?”

“I don’t know.” You huff, “Like nine?”

He hums, “What was your relationship with Poindexter?”

“We were friends.” You lie.

The man pauses, giving you a long look. “And when did you meet Murdock?”

“A little over a year ago.” You still feel the sting of his hand against your skin.

“Did you aid Benjamin Poindexter in any of his crimes?” He leans forward, putting his weight on the table.

“No.” You reply truthfully.

He tilts his head, “When was the last time you two had communication?”

Yesterday. “Haven’t seen him since he went to prison after impersonating Daredevil.”

“So you knew him before that.” He muses. It’s not a question, so you don’t respond. “Tell me, did you suspect that he’d go down a path like this?”

You furrow your eyebrows, “How would I know? I’m not his psychiatrist.”

“Don’t get smart with me.” He shakes his head, unamused. “Now, about Murdock, did you ever aid his crimes?”

“What crimes?” You play dumb.

His lips twitch, and he leans back. “Don’t play dumb. We both know who he is.”

You place your hands onto the table, “I don’t, actually.”

The man narrows his eyes at you in disbelief, “Do you know where he or Daredevil is now?”

“No.” You wince.

“What about Bullseye?”

You scoff, “I said I haven’t seen him in years. How would I know where he is?”

“If you two were ‘friends,’” he does air quotes, “why had he never attempted to reestablish contact?”

You shrug, “I don’t know. He’s probably too busy being Bullseye to care.”

He narrows his eyes, “You see, I don’t believe you.”

Your mouth dries, “Well, then I don’t know what to tell you.” You shrug. “You’re better off asking him yourself.”

He looks at you before letting out a long sigh. “Let me be clear here when I say that you’re merely a piece in this puzzle. I truly do not care about your past relationship with Bullseye or Murdock.” He stands up, “All I care about is getting answers to their whereabouts.” You glare at him as he maneuvers himself around the table before grabbing your head and slamming it down onto the metal table.

You can’t hold back the cry of pain your release. He continues to pin your head down to the table, “With how many connections you have, you’re lucky that I want answers from you and not your death.” He releases your head, and you watch him knock on the door behind you out of the corner of your eye.

“Take her back. We got what we needed.” He tells the agent. He looks unmoved by your state, abruptly blindfolding you again and dragging you out.

When you make it back to your cell, you glare at him through the mask. His grip was so tight that you wouldn’t be surprised if he bruised your arm. Before he leaves, you meet his eyes. He seems amused by your suffering. “This is funny to you?” You whisper, sneering at him.

He sneers at your question, and you take a moment to memorize his face. He raises the keys in front of your face, outside the bars, jingling them. You keep your face purposefully blank, unwilling to give him the reaction he desires. When he leaves, you can hear his quiet chuckles.

Once alone, you slowly lay yourself on the ground, using your arm as a pillow. You attempt to keep your breathing steady as tears well up against your will. Your soft sobs go unheard, the cacophony of the other prisoners drowning out your sorrow.

You don’t think it would matter anyway. You wipe the tears, attempting to close your eyes once more.

Your lip trembles as you rub your eyes. It is freezing here. The sound of distant gunshots make you flinch, yet you aren’t surprised to hear them. The sounds of chaos had become normal in the past couple days.

At least you think it has been a couple days. It’s hard to gauge time without a clock or the sun.

You hadn’t been pulled out to be interrogated since the first morning. It was a small mercy, but one you were grateful for, nonetheless. Not that these monsters deserved your gratitude. However, the lack of action does make you a bit antsy.

Part of you hopes something… someone worse will come for them. You think if Frank Castle were to walk in you might just start cheering. After all, who knows how many victims the task force has unreasonably taken and killed?

You sigh, finishing the last of the water they provided. The gunshots haven’t quieted down yet, and you can only hope they aren't murdering an innocent prisoner.

Then, you realize with growing despair, that they are getting closer.

You turn to face the exit of this nightmare, expecting some task force guy to storm through angrily. Perhaps he would be yelling, dragging out some of the other prisoners, hopefully not you again. You move towards the back of your cell.

Then the door slams open, and every single prisoner, including you, turns their attention as a task force agent stumbles over himself. He raises his rifle to shoot the perpetrator, but before he can get a shot off he crumples to the ground, blood splattering from the wound directly on his forehead.

Well, that's not Matt.

You hear some prisoners cry out for help, and you move toward the front of your cell. Gripping the bars, you watch as the killer steps into view.

Your mouth parts in surprise, what is he doing here?

Bullseye looks to the cells on the left side first, evidently searching for something or someone. He ignores their pleas, and you see one of the prisoners reach out to him, begging him to set them free. He doesn’t linger on them. He strolls over to the right side, your side. He passes each cage leisurely, scanning left and right.

Then his gaze lands on you. You two stare at each other for a long moment before he approaches your cell.

“What are you doing here?” You rasp, narrowing your eyes at him. You clear your throat after speaking.

He tilts his head, “Helping you?”

You’re too tired to hide your startled expression, “I thought you were mad at me.” The words feel ridiculous the second they leave your mouth.

Despite the fact the mask covers most of his face, you can see the genuine befuddlement on his face. “And so you… you thought I’d leave you here?” His words are quieter.

You swallow, watching as he grabs the bars of your cell, testing their strength, “You seemed pretty upset when you saw me talking with Daredevil.”

He laughs, dumbfounded, never looking away from you. “So you thought I’d leave you to die?” His eyes are narrowed on you as if trying to figure out how you possibly conceived such an outrageous concept.

“I don’t know!” You whisper-yell, and the cell door swings open. “And I’m not dead yet.” You use the bars to help push yourself off the ground.

Bullseye watches as you slowly walk out of the cell. In the corner of your eye, you see the familiar task force vest. You open your mouth to warn him, “Dex—”

He throws a knife behind him without looking, and it bounces off another prisoner’s cell causing them to let out a scream before hitting the task force guard in the eye, knocking him to the ground. Your eyes widen, looking to Bullseye, lips parted in surprise.

“Is he even alive?” You ask, dismayed, looking toward the fallen guard.

“Does it really matter?” Bullseye responds, unperturbed.

You whip your head towards him, appalled. You hate the task force, but you aren’t sure if you can condone murder. Perhaps you were bluffing slightly earlier when you hoped for Frank Castle's appearance.

He crumbles under your stare slightly, “He’ll live.”

“You hit him in the eye.”

“Yeah?” He straightens himself, “He’ll live.” He loosely waves a hand in the guards direction.

You scoff, “What about the guy you shot when entering?”

Bullseye shrugs.

“Oh, so it’s like that?” You mock his shrug, pushing past him. He slowly trails behind you.

Dex chuckles lowly, “I can see why you and Daredevil get along.”

“Ah, you are still mad about that.” You can hear the strain in your voice.

“Hm,” he hums, not exactly disagreeing, “but I wasn’t going to leave you to die.” His voice turns more severe, catching your attention. You pause your stride.

Turning to face him, the retort dies on your tongue, not because of the words themself, but because of his delivery.

Despite the blood covering his suit, the countless weapons strewn across his body, and the many years that have passed, he still looks at you like Dex used to.

He looks like Dex. The words loop in your head. You stare at him, dazed. He looks like the Dex you once loved with all your heart. He is still looking at you like he holds the weight of the memories that you’ve solely beared for years.

“I…” You trail off, before shaking your head and dismissing the thoughts. “Thank you.” Your voice comes out smaller than intended. He continues to stare at you for a long moment before walking past you. “Where are you gonna go now?” You ask.

He pauses, looking towards you, then the exit, then back at you. “I thought we were leaving?” Dex sounds confused. You look towards the cells of the other prisoners, and you can see the imprint of a frown against his mask.

“We can’t just leave them here.” You gesture to them, and you hear a prisoner behind you frantically agree.

“I came here for you.” At your disapproving face, he hesitates. Neither of you seem to budge. Then, his shoulder fall slightly, and you know you’ve won.

You make your way over to him, and you grab his arm, catching him by surprise judging by the way his eyes widen faintly. “Come on, faster we do it, faster we leave.”

Dex looks between your hand and your face. Then, resigned, he allows you to pull him back to the cells. The two of you make your way around the room, breaking the locks off each cage. When you break the last one off, you turn to face him. You're unsurprised when you notice he’s already looking at you.

“We’re leaving.” He decides, grabbing your arm similar to the way you grabbed his earlier. It wasn’t rough, but it was firm in a way that told you he wasn’t going to be swayed anymore.

“How are they gonna escape?” You ask as he pulls you past the now empty cages. You note that some of the prisoners give him a wary look, and you don’t necessarily blame them.

Dex looks exasperated, but you can hear the hint of fondness in his voice. “We just broke them out. They can figure out the rest. I told you, I didn’t come here for them.”

“Yeah, but—”

You yelp in surprise as a billy club hits Dex in the chest, causing him to stumble and reach for his knives. Your eyes widen in recognition, “Daredevil?” You call out, watching as Matt emerges from the darkness shrouding the exit.

“Let her go.” Matt demands evenly.

Dex narrows his eyes at Matt, and you look between the two of them. “I didn’t take her.” He straightens himself, attempting to put himself between you and Matt, “I imagine the blame for that falls to you.” Dex grits out.

Matt scoffs, “Don’t try and act like you’re innocent.”

Dex clenches his fist, reaching into his belt, and you look between him and Matt. This was just what was needed. “Can we not do this here? There’s over a dozen hostages that don’t have a way out.” Matt doesn’t ease up, and Dex doesn’t either. “Do you have a way to help them?” You ask Matt.

He is silent for a moment, “We can figure a way out.”

“Alright,” you turn to Dex, “you said you came here for me. Does that mean you figured a way out?”

“Yeah,” he sneers, “for us.” He says slowly.

The conversation is interrupted as another guard comes running out, gun in hand. The three of you turn to face him. Instantly recognizing his face, you grimace, catching Dex’s attention.

“You know him?”

“Regrettably.” You absentmindedly rub the bruises he left behind, Dex’s eyes narrow on your arms before snapping towards the agent.

Matt, as if somehow sensing where this was about to go, extends his billy club, intercepting directly with one of Dex’s knives. You watch as it clatters to the ground, frowning. Then, you turn your attention back towards the agent.

Oh.

The agent collapses on the ground, one of Dex’s knives lodged into his temple. When you turn to Dex, there is not a single bit of remorse in his eyes. In fact, he turns to you as if waiting for approval. Matt curses on your left, and Dex’s posture loosens with a smugness that makes you wonder if he killed that agent for you, to aggravate Matt, or because he enjoyed it.

Probably all three.

“Back up is arriving.” Matt tilts his head slightly towards the door, and you wonder how he could possibly know that. He goes quiet for a moment, “We have to leave now if we want a chance.” He pointedly ignores Dex.

“Alright.” You nod, turning to Dex. He looks suspiciously apathetic to the development that has occurred. “Thanks for breaking me out.” You offer him a grateful smile. For once, it's genuine.

He stares at you for a moment, not giving a response before looking towards Daredevil. “Go.” Matt commands. Dex narrows his eyes at him.

“I’ll see you soon.” He mutters. He doesn’t move to leave, and you give him a confused look.

“C’mon,” Matt’s voice softens ever so slightly, grabbing your shoulder and turning you away from Dex. You give Dex one last look over your shoulder, and to your surprise he winks at you, a small smirk on his face.

You get a sinking feeling he is planning something, and not anything good.

Matt guides you to the rest of the prisoners, “Move!” He points to the exit, and the group scurries to follow his instructions. You turn to Matt before falling in line behind the last prisoner. They whisper to each other, and you can hear some people sobbing in relief that Daredevil has arrived.

Matt escorts them through the hallway, and you stay close to him the whole time. You turn around, frowning when you see an agent moving to get up, their radio seems to be on the fritz. You nudge Matt slightly, and he turns to face you. You nod your head over to the agent, and he returns the nod before making his way over to the floored man. He grabs the two-way radio, holding it up to speak.

“Fisk has people in here,” he puffs, “not just vigilantes. I’m bringing them out now.” He tells the radio before putting it down and raising his hand. “Follow me.” He orders. Matt guides you through another hallway before reaching a wooden door, he slides it open.

“Go,” he huffs repeatedly, and you can see that the door leads outside. He ushers them through, and you hear the familiar wail of sirens. Then, without warning, he freezes, “Down! Everybody, down!” He yells out, and all of you hit the deck.

You gasp as bullets rain over your head. You attempt to locate Matt, but between the low lighting and crowd of people, it’s a lost cause. You press your body against one of the crates that are shielding you from the bullets, heart pounding.

You hear Matt yell something inaudible before a knife lodges itself near your hand. You jolt, about to scream for Daredevil when you get a closer look at the knife. It reads the words: “OVER HERE.”

You try and retrace the trajectory of where it came from, and look up to see Bullseye waiting just inside the doorframe you exited. The way he has positioned himself makes it impossible for any of the task force agents to see him, or really, anybody who isn’t you. He tilts his head, giving a casual nod.

You scowl at him, grabbing the knife, and scanning the area. When you find a break in the gunfire, you crouch and run back inside. Upon reentering, you straighten yourself. “What are you doing? When you said ‘see you soon’ I didn’t think this is what you meant.”

He looks you up and down, “I did tell you that I was only here for you.” He shrugs, “Your fault you thought I’d actually leave.”

“Daredevil has it handled, I would’ve been fine.” You cross your arms, pushing him more in the building, paranoid that the task force or Matt would spot you two.

Dex nods slowly, “Yeah, being shot at sounds like he has it ‘handled’ to me.” You see his eyes narrow slightly. “We should go before he can stop us.”

“Are you serious?”

“Do you want to go back out there?”

You don’t have an answer for that, and he nods as if he knew you wouldn’t. “He’ll be fine.”

“He’s going to think I went missing.” You snap at him.

Dex says your name and you pause, “He probably already knows I’m here. If he wanted to stop us from leaving, he would try to.” His voice goes quieter, “I had to— I wanted to make sure you’re okay. All of the task force is focused on him right now. There are other exits we can take while they’re distracted.”

You cross your arms, feeling the exhaustion of the past two days catch up to you. “Fine,” you acquiesce, “but if anything goes wrong, you get to be the one to explain it to him.”

Dex huffs, but doesn’t disagree, “Yeah, I’ll be sure to mention it the next time we meet.” He starts walking down the hallway you came from, you follow him side-by-side.

Neither of you speak for a few minutes, but he, surprisingly, breaks the silence. “About the other night,” he begins, catching your attention, “I didn’t mean for it to go down like that.”

You raise an eyebrow, “Then how did you intend for it to go down?”

Dex doesn’t respond immediately, and you follow him up a set of stairs. “I… don’t know.” He replies measuredly. “I just…” he grunts, “I couldn’t stand seeing you with him.” He replies honestly, shaking his head. The two of you make it through another set of doors.

You process the information, grabbing the railing of another staircase. You descend downward, and when you reach the bottom you turn to him “You knew Daredevil was gonna show, didn’t you?” You ask, walking side-by-side with Dex.

He turns to face you, removing the mask off his face, and you catch yourself staring. “I suspected.” He shrugs.

You hum, “Is that why—”

“If you still want to talk about Daredevil, we can turn around.” Dex interjects sarcastically, tossing a glance behind you both.

Your eyebrows raise, and you let out a startled breath. “Huh,” you muse, pausing to turn around, causing Dex to stop too, “alright, well seeing as that was the original plan. I’ll see you later then, and not later as in five minutes—” You ramble, bluffing. You don’t get very far before Dex stops you, grabbing you by the waist and pulling you closer. You stagger over yourself, your hands falling to his shoulders.

You look at his eyes, scanning his face. Dex mimics the action, looking over your face. You can’t tell if he is examining you for injuries, or if he is trying to commit this moment to memory. Perhaps both. Your breath hitches at his intense gaze.

“I’m filthy.” You whisper, shivering as his hands come up hesitantly to touch your cheek, as if he is waiting for you to deny him the pleasure. Perhaps the nights spent caged made you delusional because you physically lean in, and he follows the motion.

He chuckles quietly, the sound for your ears alone, “And you think I’d care?” He whispers back.

You smirk softly, “Fair enough.” You laugh, and he leans closer to you, as if drawn in by the sound of your joy. Neither of you say anything before meeting each other halfway.

His shoulders drop instantly, and his hands pull you closer as if he physically cannot let go of you. You smile through the kiss, and you feel him mirror the action. His lips move with yours as if they can predict your every action and match it perfectly, as if he has done it a million times before. He kisses you with a desire that you haven’t felt in years. It is both the most heavenly and agonizing experience all at once, to be readily given what you’ve wanted for all this time. Slowly, you pull away to catch your breath. Dex doesn’t move, and when you open your eyes, his are still closed.

You let the moment linger before breaking the silence, it felt too familiar to not say anything. “You know who I am, don’t you?” You croak.

His eyes flutter open, flickering down to his lips before meeting your eyes again. “Hm?” He hums blissfully.

You chuckle softly to hide how exposed you feel at the question, lightly tapping your fingers across his chest, “You do, right?” You ask again.

He swallows, and you can see his throat move with the action. Then he says your name tenderly, reverently. “I’ve remembered for a while now.”

That surprises you, “Have you?” You ask, raising a hand up to his chin, gently brushing your fingers against the scarred skin.

He nods slowly, leaning into the touch. “Back at the diner.” Your lips part, and he blinks, patiently waiting your response.

“That’s when you remembered me?” You raise an eyebrow, and his hand idly rubs circles against your skin.

“You sound surprised.” He notes, clearly attempting (and failing) to bite back a smile.

“Forgive me, but you had walked into the diner, killed like ten task force agents, then asked if my meal was ruined.”

“Was it?” He sounds way more proud about murder than he has any right to. “You never did give a clear answer to my question.” He muses, thoughtful.

“Yeah,” you huff, “because I was upset at the crime scene I was witnessing.” You emphasize your point by pushing your index finger against his chest.

“Well, I gathered that.” Dex responds dryly. “I didn’t actually know you were there until it was too late.”

You raise an eyebrow, “I find that hard to believe. You just coincidentally visited the same diner I frequented?”

“I don’t know ‘bout a coincidence.” Dex shakes his head, “I… I think some part of me knew you liked that place.” His voice wavers a bit.

“So you visited it often because it reminded you of the life you couldn’t remember?” Your voice is solemn.

“…Yeah.” He whispers, almost vulnerable.

You frown, lip trembling, and your next question is filled years of pent up sorrow and fury, “You remember me, truly?” Your voice trembles, unable to meet his eyes as you ask him to reconfirm everything he just told you. “I don’t mean the coffee shop, the diner, or even the nights you visited me.” You feel the tears begin to well up in your eyes. Dex freezes the moment he notices them. “I mean before all of that.”

Dex waits for you to look up, and you blink the tears away. “I remember,” he begins slowly, “you told me that you didn’t like it when I vanished on those nights. You told me you were afraid that, with how Daredevil—how I—was acting back then, that I’d get killed.” He takes a deep breath, “I remember I told you that I’d make sure that you knew I was alive.” He smiles wistfully.

“If you forgot to eat dinner, I’d order Italian from that one place you liked down the street of our apartment.” You let out a quiet sob, “I remember that one time, you had a bad day coming home from work.” He inhales, “Fisk told me to go…” he shakes his head, “That part isn’t important, but all I remember is you telling me that you wanted me to come home that night.” He shakes his head slowly, “I remember you saying that so… so vividly. When I came home, you greeted me with the biggest smile, and for a moment I could forget everything else that wasn’t you.” Tears are openly running down your face, yet Dex doesn’t stop.

“I remember during the confrontation, before I forgot,” his eyes look from the ground up to yours, “before Fisk broke my spine, I thought back to what you said. That you wanted me to come home.” He blinks a few times, “All— All I could think about was the fact that I wouldn’t be coming home that night, and you wouldn’t know why. I would never be able to tell you myself.” You don’t bother holding back the sobs that wrack your body. “And I… I couldn’t help but hate myself in that moment. I hated him too. I was so upset that Fisk stole my chance to explain myself.”

You take in a deep breath, your chest shuddering, “And when I woke up, something was missing. I couldn’t remember you, but you haunted my life for years.” He admits, chuckling softly, but the sound is more troubled than anything. “Sometimes I could remember bits of what it felt like to be loved by you, but I could never remember your face. Not— Not until much later.”

“Dex…” You warble.

“Do you believe me?” You don’t get a chance to respond, “Please believe me. I…” His breathing begins to quicken, “I don’t know how else to…” he trails off, and you take the opportunity to pull him closer, wrapping your arms around his neck.

He falls into your chest, and you can feel his heartbeat fluttering underneath your fingertips. “I believe you, Dex.” You sniffle.

His glassy eyes meet your own, swollen and red from tears. “I never wanted to leave you. I never wanted—needed anybody as much as I need you.” He admits, and the words spill out. He licks his lips, meeting your eyes, desperation evident. “Finding you again was like taking a breath of air after drowning for so long.” He takes a deep breath, “I love you. I need you.”

You melt onto him, and Dex basks in your presence. Perhaps his words may be concerning, but part of you resonates with him. “I missed you so much.” You whisper. “Do you have any idea how much I missed you?” You ask. He blinks, and you continue: “All these years, I... hated that you left me with this burden where I remembered everything, but you lived on as if I didn’t exist.” Dex's eye twitches, but he doesn’t interrupt you.

“I was hoping that if I pretended you weren’t apart of my life, I could eventually convince myself that it was true.” You trace your fingers along his shoulders, and you watch him look down. “All these years, despite the fact that you had forgotten me, I could not erase my memory of you.” You laugh, wiping a few stray tears. “Life is cruel, isn't it?”

“Do you still wish you could forget?” He asks, meeting your eyes. His hands shake slightly in anticipation, and his breathing is unnaturally still.

“No,” you admit truthfully. “Not anymore, at least.” Dex exhales in relief at your words.

“I’m… I’m really sorry that you went through that.” The apology is clunky and pathetic—laughable even. You let out a tearful snort at it.

But it’s Dex, it’s so purely Dex that it hurts because you know he means it. He recounted memories of you as if they happened yesterday and told you he needs you.

He must see how unimpressed you are, “I know that doesn’t sound like much…”

“It doesn’t.” You quip coolly, and he winces slightly. “But I know you mean it.” You whisper softly. He exhales, and you feel his chest rise and fall. “I missed you.” You repeat the words, quiet, vulnerable, a confession in their own right.

He doesn’t say anything this time, as if afraid of saying something would mess everything up. Instead, he holds you tighter.

Neither of you let go and when you part, his eyes dilate upon looking at your face again, and no more words needed to be said.

A few days later, you were resting on the couch, his arm around you. You are scrolling through some articles before pausing and turning to Dex. He watches as you furrow your eyebrows at him.

“Did you ever tell Daredevil I was okay?” You ask.

He blinks once, “No,” he shakes his head slightly, “we don’t exactly talk if it can be helped.”

You frown, “So… You think he thinks I’m missing?”

Dex adjusts slightly as you lean closer to him, “I think he knows you left with me.”

You raise an eyebrow at Dex, “How could you possibly know that if you haven’t talked with him?”

“Call it intuition.” He smiles.

“Alright...” You blink at his cryptic response, “I’ll text him.”

Hey, just checking in, hope everyone is doing well. Wanted to let you know I got out of the whole Red Hook situation and am not missing.

“You think he’ll be mad?” You muse aloud. “Actually, he can’t be too mad at me. I’m still upset about how he went about meeting me.”

“If it was me, I would’ve just cut him off.” Dex comments helpfully.

“Of course you’d say that.” You deadpan before standing up, “You think he’ll be upset that we’re…” you gesture between you both.

Dex shrugs, frustratingly indifferent to the whole situation. “Probably.”

You hold your hand up to your mouth, contemplative. “How do I even tell him that?”

Dex is about to say something when your phone vibrates. Usually Matt prefers to talk on the phone rather than texting, so the fact that he texted you says a lot.

“What’d he say?” Dex asks, not bothering to hide his curiosity.

“Uh…” You trail off as you read his response.

Matt: I’m aware you left with Dex.

I’m sorry for not telling you sooner.

Matt: It’s fine. However, for future reference, you might want to wait until you’re home for conversations like that.

Like what?

Matt: Ask him.

“I think he’s mad.” You conclude. “He told me that I might ‘want to wait until I’m home for conversations like that.’” You turn to Dex, “He neglects to mention what ‘that’ is referring to.”

Dex slowly nods, his lips twitching in amusement, “Anything else?”

“He told me to ask you about it.” You put the phone down, “Do you know what he is talking about?”

Dex clicks his tongue, “He probably heard us.”

You blink slowly, “What do you mean?”

He raises an eyebrow, “Did he not tell you?”

You furrow your eyebrows, “Tell me what..?”

“He has super-hearing.” Dex explains slowly.

“What?” You stare at him blankly.

“He really didn’t tell you?”

“Clearly not.” You laugh, dazed. “…So you’re saying he heard our entire conversation?”

“Probably.” Dex doesn’t sound surprised by this world-shattering realization for you.

You stare at him for a long moment, and he watches as you silently settle yourself next to him. “I don’t think I can ever speak to him again.” You declare, appalled by this new information.

Dex’s eyes crinkle in amusement, “That doesn’t sound so bad.”

You chuckle, “Yep, it’s only us now.” You joke.

Dex nods solemnly, “Only us.”

You smile, snickering softly, and he smiles back at you. When you stop, you raise an eyebrow, “You aren’t joking, are you?” You ask astutely.

Dex’s smile grows in response.

: ̗̀➛ A/N: Matt being forced to listen when you and Dex finally reunite for real: “Please, God, make it stop.” Yayyy I finished a fic!!! Anywayyyy, "I’m back" is a bit of a stretch but guess who just finished DDBA? Seeing Dex on screen sparked some motivation for me. Yes, you can expect more of him from me in the future, so lmk if you’d want to be on a taglist for him/fill out the taglist form. In fact, I’d also be willing to write for Matt too… so there’s that. Also, don't mistake Matt and Karen's inital treatment/intentions toward us in this fic being me hating on them, I love them both dearly. Anyway, yes I will be actually answering asks again. I know I said on like four separate occasions I’d do that, but I MEAN it this time, look I even posted a fic :D! I’ll be trying to catch up on old asks for the next few days, but feel free to leave stuff in my inbox! I'd love to hear any of your thoughts on this :) I also know I said “here’s some fics I have planned or whatever” and this was NOT one of them. I am still going to write those fics, but uh… just accept that whatever gets posted is purely based on motivation lmao. So I guess shoutout to Dex for getting me through a couple month long fic slump and making me write for Marvel for the first time in ages? I hope he wasn’t too ooc. I know I wrote him to be pretty tame in comparison to some of the stuff I’ve seen, and I say that knowing he stalked us and killed people for us in this fic lol. I’ll try to crank some more fics out soon. They’ll probably be a mix of Dex and Batfam characters idk, maybe even a Bucky fic if I’m feeling it. Okay this is getting WAY too long, I hope you all enjoyed the fic :D, lmk if you guys liked it cause I am absolutely willing to write for Dex if that’s what the people want!

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