Chapter Text
SATURDAY
first things first, benjamin poindexter is not a stalker. okay, correction: he stalks sometimes. but today, specifically, he isn't, because if no one knows you're being stalked, and you die before you find out, it technically didn't happen. technically. he's not sure why the difference matters so much today—usually, to him, it's all the same.
he never reveals his methods to his so-called clients, never tells them what happens in those final moments. did he follow his victim? did they struggle, or was it quick? any last words? even if he's asked, he shrugs. not part of the contract, he says; sometimes he just doesn't care to remember. but he thinks your memory might just stick.
you walk down the street, eyes glued to the pavement; he follows your figure through his scope. you don't know what's to come, and he almost feels sorry for you. but orders are orders, and cash is cash. and you are a dead woman walking.
he could kill you now, he thinks, almost aims, zeroing in at the back of your neck as you stop to tie your shoe. the crosshairs move up to your head; he feels the little rush of power he's so used to these days, feels the weight of your soul in the palm of his hand. it's up to him, whether you live or die. he thinks it'd be intoxicating to anyone but him, because he's better. different. made for it. he readjusts his grip on the trigger, considering, as you wait to cross the road. it's a fraction of a second, that's all it'll take—
he gets up abruptly (he's not quite sure why) and decides, not right now. he needs more time to observe—if he didn't know better, he'd think you intrigue him. when he looks up again after packing his equipment into his duffel bag, you're gone. not that he's worried about losing you, god, no—he's memorised your route home (it's only been two days since he took your "case") and you don't seem like the type to deviate.
sure enough, by the time he gets down from his preferred rooftop, casual, once more a "functioning" member of society and not bullseye, you've barely made it three blocks down, and you're walking rather slowly. poor girl, he thinks, must be tired. his twisted version of sympathy; you won't be feeling tired later, though, when you're dead. is a predator supposed to feel bad for its prey? he wonders momentarily. the thought doesn't linger, however, you don't, either. you're walking faster now, have you noticed him? that's unlikely—maybe you just forgot something important at home. for safety, he ducks into an alleyway anyway, following the shortcut you'd taken to get home the first time he saw you.
he gets comfortable on the roof of the building that directly opposes your apartment complex, while you get comfortable on your stupid little couch—seriously? he knows why you'd sped up now—because of some sketchy film that you genuinely look excited to be watching. come on, he thinks. have more to do with your life, for god's sake. he really does feel sorry for you, now, if the highlight of your day is a box office flop grossing barely a million dollars out of a $100M budget (thank you google).
he's not going to kill you now, either, he decides. quite frankly, it'd be embarrassing for you, so he's letting you go on this one. imagine being found dead in your locked apartment, in a pool of your own blood, while a movie called Secretly Dating My Ex-boyfriend plays on the TV. now that’d be much more humiliating than being murdered in the first place. correction: regardless of what’s showing, if you stay on this channel and die without changing it, your ego will never recover. yes, it is that bad. everything that'll be broadcast in the next forty-eight hours is just awful, actually; including six more replays each of Secretly Dating My Ex-Boyfriend and another movie—admittedly, this one rather piques his interest—called I Found Out My Best Friend Is Secretly A Man Eating Pelican (he wonders if it only eats men, or humans in general.) it's a little sad that you won't get to watch it—because you'll be dead by tomorrow, just not tonight—but he likes to think it'd be the type of crappy film you'd absolutely adore. or maybe it's such a revolting piece of media it'll make you want to kill yourself with a bullet from an invisible rifle. (his invisible rifle.) 'cause the cops will totally buy that.
Secretly Dating My Ex-Boyfriend stops playing; you watch in confusion and annoyance, and he gets it. stupid film was supposed to be ad-free, and you didn't even get to experience that. what a sad, small life you're leading, you poor unimportant nobody. shame that it'll end before you manage to fulfill what little potential you may have had. he watches you zone out for a second before your head slowly turns to your right, so you're facing the window, so you're looking right at him. this is new. not scary, he's not scared of his victims—wouldn't be much of a paid merc, now, would he? he knows that logically you have no idea he's there, no idea that he exists, even; of course, everyone knows who bullseye is, you included, but in the here, in the now? you're hilariously unaware, and he knows it'll stay like that—at least for today—unless you just happen to have a military grade torch on hand that you'll point in his exact direction. wow, that one was funny. he almost laughed, really. you're just staring at that area in general, he thinks, you can't see anything. even so, he drops down a little lower. you don't see any movement—it would've shown on your face if you did—so he's a little more secure in your cluelessness.
he watches for a while longer, until you pass out on the couch, not even bothering to finish the movie. well. it was a waste of your time, anyway, and a waste of his, because you aren't dead yet. that’s odd, he thinks. he can see your front door through your window. what an odd layout for an apartment—but yours is a quaint old studio thing, so it makes enough sense. does give him an idea, though.
maybe taking a detour isn't such a bad idea tonight.
your welcome mat looks thrifted—or old, but you've been in new york city for just about seven months, and surely you would've bought a new one for your first time living alone. he tries the door with one gloved hand, gentle; it's obviously locked, but looks easy enough to pick—not that it'll ever come to that, of course. and he hates to ruin your door like this, and risk waking you up when you've just fallen asleep, but he writes the note anyway, and pins it to your door with a knife. gorgeous.
he likes that you'll know he was here; he doesn't like how you feel different than every other kill.
get ready. :]
below that, his signature—the bullseye.
actually, he can't wait for you to find out.
the streets are pretty empty for 1:00am on a sunday night, but dex doesn't complain; it gives him time to think. he walks at a leisurely pace, much slower than usual, jacket over his suit to cover up his weapons as much as he can, and the duffel bag slung over his shoulder.
he never asks questions when people buy his services. it's not quite his style, and usually they're all rich and corrupt people trying to get other rich and corrupt people killed without it being traced back to them. and he's pretty good at that—covering up evidence, being untraceable, being a ghost.
he's curious about you, though—why you? you may as well be the most ordinary, inconspicuous person on this planet. why'd someone possibly want to take you out?
the man who'd ordered—well, paid him to kill you was a bumbling fool, obviously a first timer by the way he spoke. he'd even told dex to take your time, no rush, just get it done, okay? he’d been given a way-too-generous twenty days to “get it done”, an unusually high budget “for any necessities”—as if he’d need what, bleach and trash bags to dispose of you—and told to keep the "change". change, as if. and though he technically could've had you dead within the hour if he so desired, he didn't deem it worth mentioning to his latest client. this guy was just making his job easier, anyway.
strictly speaking, he could probably find decent employment with his qualifications, and he doesn't need all of the fees he's paid to live a comfortable life—he could be living just as well, if not better, if that life granted him more structure than his paid jobs and going after the ATVF in his free time. but then again, it's always nice to have some extra money on hand. and since people seem to think it's so important—he wouldn't exactly be doing what he loved then, would he?
he pulls his latest burner phone out of his pocket, switches it on. he doesn't really have any contacts on it—not that he'd want to—so the last few messages (still unopened) are from The Guy, yesterday. Jacob Winkle, what a name. funny, though, he could've sworn it was something else. or maybe he didn't particularly pay attention to it—not that it was ever worth paying attention to in the first place, however.
Jacob Winkle: Hey just checking in
Jacob Winkle: All good right
Jacob Winkle: Take youre time
he ignores the texts, pulling his glove off with his mouth, and sends a reply—kind of—with his bare hand. stupid burner phones, so convenient but sometimes so not. they don't even register his gloves. useless.
You: Why do you want her dead anyway?
jacob winkle answers instantly; dex wonders if he’s been waiting for a text back. like a desperate ex, he thinks.
Jacob Winkle: I thought youre contract said no questions
he winces at youre.
You: I lied.
Jacob Winkle: Im not gonna tell you anything
You: Deal's off. Keep your cash
Jacob Winkle: No please sorry
Jacob Winkle: Shes going to ruin me
Jacob Winkle: I messef up ladt year she was my employee
Jacob Winkle: It wasbt even a big deal but sges makeing it a big deal
Jacob Winkle: I didnt mean any harm i swear
Jacob Winkle: I just needed some cash man
Jacob Winkle: Shit
Jacob Winkle: I cant afford to lose this dude shes gotta go
Jacob Winkle: hello?
You reacted "👍" to "hello?".
he shoves the phone—and the glove—into his pocket distastefully. a higher up at such a famous corporation, and he can't even differentiate between your and you’re. this definitely complicates things a little—more for him to look up tomorrow. he still wants the kill, though; after all, every man has his vices; his just happens to be the type that's engulfed in bloodshed.
SUNDAY
your door looks different today, but you just can't place it. maybe it's the way the sunlight's pouring in so early in the morning—barely six, you usually wake up at 5:30 on the dot, but you're running a little late today—or maybe it's the weird glint of silver smack dab in the middle of the wood, directly at eye level. against your better judgment, you reach out to touch it.
"ah!" you shriek, folding over, left hand clutched in your right. bright red drops of blood stain your carpet, and you swear under your breath, more worried about the damage to the carpet than to yourself.
dex is... confused, to say the least. of course, he hadn't been expecting much from someone who had willingly watched a movie called Secretly Dating My Ex-Boyfriend, but even this is a little too far. who in their right mind tries to touch the tip of a knife blade?
he watches you double over in pain—subtle foreshadowing, he thinks, maybe it should be another knife that ends you, just so you really feel—before you stand up straight again, rushing to the sink for a cup of cold water. you wrap about a paper towel and a half around your bleeding index finger, then get to work dabbing at the carpet with a cloth. what the hell.
only when you're satisfied with the state of your carpet do you get up and tend to your own wound, albeit with barely half the care. you hurry into the bathroom with a change of clothes, and five minutes later you're grabbing your apartment keys and preparing to leave. no breakfast? he wonders, before remembering the diner a few blocks down. perfect.
before that, though—you swing the door open and make eye contact with his knife, and the note. oh, crap, he sees you mouth. you pry the knife out of the wood, handling it like it's something holy, above your paygrade to handle. the note's crumpled in your other hand, and he can see you're shaking as you toss the knife into your sink and sink down onto one of the stools at the kitchen counter. you smooth out the paper again and again, as if the brush of your hand over the writing, his writing, will somehow change the words there. you don't even seem to be aware of why it's there; but you do know who did it, and that, in itself, is terrifying enough.
you let yourself panic for about a quarter of an hour before you stash the note carefully in your closet, and to his surprise, don't call anyone for help or comfort, and head out the door again. he notices you steadfastly ignore the hole in your door.
dex sees you enter the diner, waits exactly three minutes, and then heads down from the roof. he's dressed more casually today; he doesn't intend to do anything other than, well, investigate.
but it's like you're insisting on handing him bits and pieces to the puzzle of you on a silver platter. instead of eating inside, you're carrying a breakfast sandwich in one hand and a coffee in the other, headed towards one of the benches at the edge of the park opposite. and then you almost walk right into him, and he's face to face with you.
he hadn't been meaning to interact with you in the slightest—the goal had always been to watch, never to make contact until the final few moments. but you're an inevitable force, it seems; if his hand hadn't jerked out to steady you, your coffee would've been all over the two of you instead. you startle like a deer, taking a hurried step back. your eyes scan his jacket, then his face, then his jacket again; there's a splash of coffee soaking into the fabric on one side. it's not a lot, truthfully speaking, but it's still enough to keep you up at night for at least the next two months. and you look up again, and your eyes meet. just like that, the rule he's stuck to for most of his career as a—mercenary, contract killer, murderer—bad guy, of sorts, is broken.
"you okay?" he asks you, and you nod, embarrassed. his hand is still on your shoulder. he lets it fall to his side.
"crap, i'm so sorry, i should be the one asking you that—"
"all good," he assures you. then, "are those sandwiches any good? i'm kind of new around here."
a lie, effortless. he almost feels bad when you nod, eager to leave the self-inflicted humiliation ritual behind you both.
"hell yeah," you tell him enthusiastically, before you pause thoughtfully. "hey, why don't you come with me? i'll get you some napkins and a sandwich to make up for, um, the coffee thing..."
you trail off when he smiles at you, and he notices your expression falter for a second. "no, really, you don't have to."
"i want to," you respond.
the two of you exchange names as you enter the diner again, and he thinks back to your studio apartment, the excess he earns that he doesn't need, and now he does actually feel guilty. even if he's going to kill you later. even if you're guilty of trying to ruin some guy's life, you don't deserve to spend your money on the hitman said guy has hired to take you out.
"i'll pay you back," he tries, but you're not having it.
"i think not," you reply, dabbing at his jacket with the napkins while he waits patiently, sandwiches in one hand, your coffee in the other.
oh, well. he'll just take you out twice this week—once to a nice lunch or dinner somewhere, once with a weapon of his choice. whoops.
"then let's go get lunch somewhere, soon," he says. "i'll pay."
"uh," you straighten up, taking a second to decide. "sure! i do gotta get your number, though."
"let's find a place to sit first?" dex suggests; you blink.
"oh, sure," you repeat, and the two of you find yourselves at the bench you'd initially been going to. the sandwich lives up to his expectations, and though it definitely doesn't make up for this little situation, he thinks it's cutting it pretty close. plus, you're unexpectedly good at carrying a conversation, so it's not all bad. and now he has your number in his burner phone—"hey, i'm tony :]"—and he's taking you to lunch on tuesday like a normal, well-adjusted civilian. (take that, fisk. clearly he's not as "crazy" as they make him out to be. and he has morals. see: sandwich dilemma.)
"so, how'd you hurt your finger?" dex asks you. he knows how, of course, but he's more interested in your answer than anything else.
you shrug, light, convincing. "i'm just clumsy like that. one second i'm slicing vegetables, then bam! blood everywhere!"
you laugh, and he does too.
"bet it must've been scary," he says sympathetically.
you nod. "sure was."
he finds it interesting how you're able to lie so easily; he'll look into that more later. in the meantime, might as well build rapport, now that he's here. he turns back to you with a smile that's not all false.