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“My doctor, you fucked him, yet?” Dex asks, like the doctor he’s talking about isn’t in the room with them actively putting pressure on his left shoulder you only realized is bleeding profusely. You look up and you catch not only the smirk he’s throwing your way, but the way his eyes roam your body like he can’t believe you’re actually here, standing directly in front of him.
Dr. Abbot doesn’t even flinch from the question indirectly involving him, even though he’s the only doctor tending to Dex at the moment, aside from the intern you can’t recall the name of. Instead, he says, sarcastically, "Oh, so you can talk. Aren't you charming," then proceeds to continue asking the intern about the depth and length of the wound, irrigation techniques, and appropriate sutures for such wounds.
You see them, but you don’t answer. You stand there and wait for this vivid dream to end, like the scene playing before you is just some stress-induced nightmare and you’re gonna wake up any moment now. Dex sees your stillness and translates it into something else–a weakness he can utilize– and tries, “Don’t glare at me, I know your type in men. Military, big, rough-'round-the-edges like me–”
“Shut your mouth now, Agent,” and just like that you really do snap awake. You clench your fist and feel the indent of blunt nails on your palm. It doesn’t hurt, but it grounds you in the now– you hear the sound of the unnamed intern’s quiet gasp at the unexpected volume of your voice before continuing to put pressure on Dex’ wound; the sight of Dr. Abbot’s hands that don't let up even though you know he can feel the tension in the room swell (a professional all the way, really); and the way Dex’ spine straightens slightly at the tone of your voice, then he flinches like the effort to do just that pained him.
But it doesn’t seem to stop him from still talking, because he follows-up, like a jerk, “So, have you?”
The quiet that follows after he opens his stupid fucking mouth can be described as oppressive. Dr. Abbot huffs a laugh not to mean that this is funny but more like wow this is the shit I'm doing right now instead of clocking out, but remains working at Dex’ side like whatever the thing that's happening around him doesn’t even faze him, like a patient asking whether or not one of the hospital’s HR personnel has had sex with him is an occurrence he’s had unfortunately experienced more than once. Like this is normal.
Inside, you’re incandescent with rage. You feel it burning through your veins, white-hot and aflame. How dare he, you think, how dare he insult me, after everything?
You move. You know the wound on his shoulder is a graze not even worth Dr. Abbot’s nor the intern’s attention (because you already did a quick visual check courtesy of your all-seeing-eyes, and to Jack this was supposed to be a learning experience for the kid he's with, not whatever the fuck this is), and gently nudge him away from his spot next to the hospital bed. For whatever reason, he lets you.
So now, you’re face-to-face with Dex.
(You realize that even though he’s sitting he’s still slightly taller than you.)
At your approach, he stills again from his seat on the corner of the bed. He smiles because you being near means his questions have finally gotten under your skin, his teeth gleaming under the bright white lights of the emergency room, his tongue worrying his left canine with obvious glee now that your full attention is on him.
The blatant amusement on his face doesn’t stay because you reach behind the nape of his neck and pull, rough enough to jar his grin, and you shake him like a stray kitten that got too mean. You feel rather than hear the jolt of the intern away from you, like they were physically scalded by the scene of you tilting Dex’ head up, so instead of looking down, now he's looking up at you. And by all miracles, it seems like Jack doesn’t even deign this as unethical and stops the interaction right then and there. Instead, he just stares at the way Dex’ jaw ticks as your fist tightens at the base of his skull.
When you speak, the undertones of your voice are full of venom. You start, apropos nothing, “I don’t need to be here, but I heard you begged one of the nurses to get me like a fucking child looking for attention, Agent Poindexter. So if you want me to hold your fucking hand while the good doctors stitch you up, you better put a goddamn sock inside your mouth or I walk away and this will be the last time I let you see me again.”
Dex shuts up after hearing the last part. Suddenly, instead of malicious mirth, there’s panic behind his eyes, disliking the idea of not being in the same breathing space as you after three years of no contact.
He gulps, opens his mouth, and-
You audibly tut and grip harder, clenching your fist. Dex doesn’t gasp from the harshness of it but he winces, scalp burning.
“Don’t talk. Nod if you understand.”
He tilts his head up and down. He stays silent, and after several beats, you continue, “Listen. Listen to me. Your entire stay here, you behave. Don’t harass the doctors. Don’t harass the nurses. Don’t harass anyone. You don’t speak unless you’re spoken to. You don’t talk to me unless I talk to you first. But if you need anything, you politely ask. Am I understood? Nod if you’re not stupid and you understand what I just said.”
He inhales sharply, nods.
“Now answer me, are you gonna behave now? Yes or no, verbally.”
“Yes.”
“Yes, what, Agent Poindexter?” You tilt your head sideways, looking at him condescendingly, trying to convey disdain and annoyance.
Silence.
While waiting for his answer, you belatedly realize that this must sound weird to those who're unwilling spectators– the way you're talking down to this hulk of a man with his biceps almost the size of your head, height easily 183 centimeters.
But you know Dex. You've worked with him, all those years ago. Before you got your Master's in Internal Relations (without thesis). Before your deliberate attempt to clean your resume. Before your move to a tiny apartment in Pennsylvania. Before your employment as an Administrative Staff in Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center.
Before you left New York, without looking back.
And, really, you know, intimately, that Benjamin Poindexter values dominance, not always in himself but in the way it emanates from others he deems equal. And when he sees you as an equal, he's able to concede, willing to back down because sometimes having the reigns 24/7 is exhausting even for a man who thrives on structure and rules to maintain his sanity.
Sometimes, he needs someone to walk him through it.
You let the silence simmer, because you know him, because for three consecutive years you've the voice in his ear walking him through point A to location B, the voice confirming the number of hostiles inside a building he's tasked to clear, the voice relaying critical intel while he throws a pencil straight through a tango's eyes.
And then, finally, “...Yes, Ma’am.”
“Good boy.”
His pupils dilate, and you realize you’re standing inches away from his face, his breathing is kind of labored, and he’s gripping the edge of the bed like doing so will stop his hands from gripping something else. You let go of him and back off, letting Dr. Abbot and his intern continue their work on his wound. You turn your back and start to walk out of the curtained cubicle.
“Wait, I thought–”
“I’ll come back and hold your hand when you’re not being an asshole anymore, so maybe between thirty minutes to three years.”
You draw the curtains, and see half of the Pitt staff gawking at your direction, clearly having heard the entire fiasco that was the last ten minutes. You look back at Dex, face unreadable.
“Don’t worry, you’re in capable hands,” you assure him, mockingly. And just to be a little shit: "You know, they’re one of the good guys,” because you want to remind him that while he's already had the chance to stalk you in your new life, you've been doing the same to him, too.
He frowns, puts his hands atop his knees, grips hard, jaw tensed.
You smile, wide and wild.
You hope he sees that it’s full of teeth.