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dex falls in love with you waiting for his coffee before work. you're the barista in front of him, asking him for his order, and for a second he forgets, just because you're so, so beautiful. he blinks, stutters, swallows. spills it out like a secret he's been hiding in his chest for the longest time. if you think anything of it, you don't say so; you laugh and ask him if he's in a bit of a rush today and he says he is, and you promise him that you'll have his order done as fast as possible. he reflects your smile back at you, even when all he wants to do is stay for a couple of hours and engrave every detail of you into his brain.
when you hand him his cup, your fingers brush together and you glance down at it, rereading his name again even though he's already told it to you while ordering. you've never been one to be so forward about these things, but before you can overthink it, you say, "it's a cute name. fits you."
this time, the way his lips curve upwards is not practised and it catches him off guard, leaves him with rosy cheeks and a racing heart.
"thanks," he responds, not quite sure what to say to it. but you're definitely interested, right? the rational part of his brain tells him that no one could ever see him like that, that he's too different, too broken to be sought after. but the irrational part of it dares to hope. just a little.
dex falls in love with you one night when he enters his bedroom to see you wearing only his old fbi t-shirt and no pants, blow drying your hair, sitting on the bed. you aren't supposed to be here, and neither is he—his current thing isn't supposed to end until next week, which you know. you do, however, have a spare key to his place for emergencies. have you done this before? come into his apartment when he's away? have you seen anything—found anything? you startle when you notice him standing there silently, read his microexpressions faster than he can hide them. you're instantly embarrassed.
"i'm sorry." you swallow, not looking him in the eye. "i just missed you. i promise it won't happen again."
but instead of the paranoia and confusion he's been experiencing, a new sensation surges over his being. metaphorically. it's a mix of pride and possessiveness that he'd never admit to feeling, a twisted satisfaction because he's managed to affect you this much. he tilts his head, gives you that (smug) lopsided smirk that you love. "yeah? my baby get lonely without me?"
he knows he's being condescending, more so than you deserve. he also knows you won't protest, not this time.
"yeah," you murmur, low, self-conscious.
he crosses over to you in quick, self-assured strides, cradles your face in one large palm. you put the blow dryer down and nuzzle into it like it's something you do often, even though you don't, and he feels the warmth of your shame soak into his skin from yours. you're not looking at him, and he grins wider. "missed me so much you just had to come over and pretend i was home, now that's sweet. it's okay, i won't leave you like this again, alright? i'll only take assignments closer to home, shorter ones. and you can come over whenever you want. bet you'd like that, hmm?"
he's rambling, drunk off his thoughts and off you. you nod, or try to, even as his hand cups your face, and repeat the word again, yeah, still so shy, and you wrap your arms around his middle while he smoothes over your back with a hand, smiling into your hair like he's just won the biggest prize at the fairground. which, to be fair, he kind of has—you couldn't be more precious, more perfect.
dex falls in love with you when you enter his apartment late one night and find him falling apart on the floor, in every definition of the word. he's sitting against the wall of his bedroom, right under his window, pieces of the fake daredevil suit scattered around. there's blood, so much of it, bruises blooming everywhere you can see. he's hyperventilating, but he freezes like a deer in headlights when you step into his room.
you've heard of them, seen news of the daredevil attacks. you know how the word on the street is that there's two of them now, a good one and the impersonator. you immediately know which one he is. he expects you to scream or run out or call the police, so he scrabbles beside him blindly for his gun. "don't move."
you ignore him completely, eyes widening as the blood drains from your face. instead of running away from disaster, you approach it head on like you always have. before he knows it, you're kneeling beside him, bloodying up your clothes as you feel him for broken bones. "shit, fuck, dex, what'd you do?"
you already know the answer, so he doesn't bother with it, just clicks the safety back on and puts the gun down.
he flinches hard when you accidentally press down on a bruise as you wipe him clean, and you apologise by pressing a quick kiss to the corner of his mouth. you don't think much of it, but holy shit.
he'd thought you were doing this out of some sort of sick responsibility, like you'd seen him here so now you couldn't leave him to die. but you're acting as if you haven't just found out he's a mass murderer, like he's just your boyfriend who got beat up in a bar fight or something.
you look like you're suffering just as much as him, if not more, purely from watching him in pain like this, wincing every time he makes a sound as you stitch him up. he closes his eyes as you press kisses along his hairline, collapses in your arms like he'd burrow under your skin if he could. and you hold him tighter, closer to your chest until he can feel the frantic rhythm of your heartbeat, as if you already know what his next words are going to be.
even as exhaustion overtakes him, he forces out, "you should stay away. just 'til this ends, 'kay?"
"okay." you bury your face in his shoulder. "stay safe, dex."
it doesn't end. you don't see him again for years and years.
dex falls in love with you at his sentencing after he kills foggy nelson. he doesn't expect you to be there, even as his heart yearns for it desperately. but when he enters the courtroom, he finds you immediately; you're a magnet that draws his eyes to you. your mouth is set in a thin line, and he's kind of the same, all cold indifference. he knows what's coming, and so do you. and you know he's presenting himself as someone untouchable, uncaring of what happens, but for that fraction of a second, when your eyes meet, his dark brown ones are all joy and mirth, only for you to see. to most people, your face doesn't change in the slightest. but he's known how to read you since the day you met. his mouth quirks up, lopsided, before he's pushed into his seat. the scar on his cheek is longer and deeper. it makes him more handsome, and you hate yourself for feeling that way.
you're wearing his favourite sweater—not his favourite of yours, or vice versa, but his favourite, the one you'd grabbed on your way out of his apartment for the very last time. it'd been an impulsive decision, but one you don't quite regret.
even though your ex?-boyfriend's going to be sentenced to prison (probably for life) for multiple counts of murder, having it close to you still brings you some semblance of comfort. to be fair, you hadn't even known he was alive until he killed that lawyer, and you want to be mad at him, you really do. and you have every right to hate him for hiding this animalistic side of him from you and making you love him anyway, for that killing spree he'd gone on as daredevil, for holding you at gunpoint, even for a couple of seconds. but all you seem to being doing these days is wish to see him alive again, one last time.
he doesn't notice what you're wearing the first time, too focused on his face. but after the sentencing—eleven life sentences, consecutive—when he stands up again, he twists around, fighting against the people holding him. he could be looking at anyone. the people in front of you think it's them; they gasp and sneer and break into disgusted conversation. he's looking at you.
his eyes drop down; he sees the sweater on you. his gaze goes from searching to predatory, a look you know better than you'd like. his tongue slips out to wet his lips before he's pulled away. that last image of him burns into your brain.
dex falls in love with you a couple of months after he breaks out of rikers. he's bullseye now, wholly and completely. he looks you up as he gets his life back together, except you're gone. it's like you'd never existed in the first place. no records of your employment or the apartment you'd rented, or anything like that at all. he might as well have been looking for a ghost.
he's not the type to give up, but other matters do demand his attention too. so he looks for you in his free time, spends the rest of it killing avtf or taking paid hits. it's on one of these excursions that he realises he's not quite alone in this crusade. when he gets to the group of task force members, most of them are dead already. the shadowy, masked figure that's fighting them moves fast, sending two bullets into one while kicking at the other, ruthlessly shoving hitting the third guy with the back of the gun they're using. he sends a couple of knives into the two that weren't killed, only injured, and then it's just him and them.
he knows it's you when you look back at him, all but fully soaked in blood. you're wearing a mask and tactical gear like he is, but he knows your eyes. he'd know them anywhere. he moves slowly, like you're an injured animal that might lash out. you turn around, square your shoulders like you're going to fight him, too. he raises his hands, pulls off his own mask.
"hey." he's using the same tone you'd use if you were talking to an agitated horse. "hey, baby, it's just me. you're safe."
you take a step back, dropping the gun. it doesn't make a difference whether you have it or not—with it, you wouldn't have been able to do anything to him, even if you'd wanted to, even if he didn't fight back. you tug off your own mask and clip it to your belt.
there's blood on your mouth, smeared on your teeth, too. you don't play fair in these fights. you look like heaven. if such a thing exists, he knows he won't be making it there. but seeing you here, like this, is enough for a lifetime, he thinks.
"dex," you say. flat. monotonous. forced. you're not sure if you're dreaming; you don't know what he thinks of you now. "i heard you got out."
he smiles. "you could say that."
you raise a brow.
"only two people died."
"you mean you killed two people."
"you killed-" he pauses to count, eyes flickering over the mess around you. your mess. you in the middle, beautiful and wretched and fragile and unbreakable. "twelve of these guys. since when do you even do this?"
"they were all gonna end up dead anyway, don't lie." you ignore the question.
"i never said they weren't." he steps forward. this time, you don't move. "baby, when did this start?"
"a while." you don't like how he still calls you baby, and you hate that the thought of him not calling you that is almost worse.
"i didn't know that." stupid, stupid, stupid. he should've known you well enough to have predicted this outcome.
"i'm good at staying hidden," you say.
"i bet."
silence. he clears his throat, hating the way the air is thick with tension, the way you stand like the entire world is weighing you down. "you look tired."
the corners of your lips curve downwards. "i am tired."
when he comes closer and pulls you into his arms, you don't resist, even though you feel like you should, enveloping yourself in as much of him as you can. "can i take you home?"
you don't respond, too busy breathing him in. he uses the same cologne as before, but there's an edge of iron to it, now, one you're all too familiar with. a little to your surprise, you don't hate it. feeling him again is intoxicating; the weight of him, the hand on the back of your neck. he's bigger, so much more than you remember. you sigh against his chest, and he reluctantly takes a step back from you, holding you in place by your shoulders so you don't follow. you let out an embarrassing, petulant sound and try to, anyway; you can't believe you actually convinced yourself that you disliked him even a little, let alone hated him. or that he felt the same about you. he taps the side of your head with a finger, focus. "baby, come home?"
"my apartment," you say. you're not sure where you were going with this. you want him to know you have one. you want to be independent. you want to be rough and hard and mean. you want to kiss him. "i have one."
"okay," he replies, a question.
a shame that you're always picking the worst options.
his tongue drags across your teeth and he tastes blood and moans. you, of course, echo it back. your split lip is bleeding again, too, and it makes him kiss you harder. you're desperate enough to let him do this to you in a back alley near your apartment—you don't even make it inside. he has your suit zipped open from the top, just a little; one leg stays slotted perfectly between your thighs, he's ravenous. tilting your head up, he mouths at your neck before sinking his teeth into the skin; you throw your head back with a gasp before he swipes his tongue over the tender spot and moves onto the next. he smiles at your pain every time, and he gives you a dopey grin when you finally get mad enough to push him away, only to pull him back and kiss him again.