Chapter Text
Dex doesn’t make it a habit to save people.
It was something he did on a case by case basis when or if it aligned with his interests. Ever since Matt Murdock had given him that green light– that one little favor, saving the life of some bureaucrat from Fisk, he’s more or less free to do as he wishes without the burden of his past weighing him down.
The equation was always simple; take a life, save a life. Sometimes it saved several. And if it worked, if it was this effective, he thought, why the hell didn’t everyone do it?
He thinks you might’ve had the same logic once.
He’s met you on occasion. Never at a good time, it seems. Sometimes you were with Daredevil, most of the time you were alone. You’re fast and you’re a little reckless, but not in a martyr holier-than-thou way that grates on him with most other vigilante-types. You just seem to be… full of rage. Unsure of where else to put it.
Dex’s first meeting with you went poorly. So did the second. Then the third, and well possibly he’s never had a good meeting with you. He remembers how cold it was the night he first saw you.
“Your friend Foggy’s killer?” The first words he heard leave your mouth on the top of a parking structure. It made his skin prickle in annoyance. You were panting, blood clung to your forehead that wasn’t yours, and Matt stood there supposedly meant to be introducing the two of you.
“Yes. He was contracted by–”
“Marianna Fisk, yeah you told me.”
Dex had stood there in his suit and balaclava, tight-jawed and unspeaking, tracking your every movement with a trained eye. Calculating how much time you’d have to reach for that knife at your hip if you decided to pull it on him. How much faster he’d have to be.
“And you’re what?” You stood up straighter, sizing him up as if he were a threat despite him saving your life earlier. “Flipping sides now?”
“No side to flip, sweetheart. I do what I need to.”
Matt shook his head, held his hand up towards Dex as if he was telling him to shut up. “I asked him to cover us, just this once.”
It was a pointed comment. Something meant to sound definitive because the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen would never stoop so low as to work with Bullseye– disgraced murderer he was. He would have been offended but he found that he didn’t really give a shit what people thought of him. Typically.
“Just this once.” You repeated, voice flat but scrutinizing. Dex squinted his eyes at you, taking in the mostly black suit with dark red hand wraps. Something meant for boxers, he thought. A good choice in color. Hides the blood.
From his view through his scope on this rooftop, watching you and Daredevil fighting side by side, he noticed some similarities in style. Mixed martial arts and brute force and being able to take a fucking punch, that’s for sure. Although Matt was much bigger, hit harder, you were stealthy. Every punch timed and aimed for spots that would do the most damage. He wondered if you were holding back.
Then Matt spoke about tracking down the leader of whoever the hell the two of you were beating on tonight and Dex tuned it out. You never took your eyes off him and he repaid that in kind. He measured your height, build, the way your shoulders moved with every breath— because to see someone is to know them. And now he knew you. When he was done talking, you broke eye contact with Dex and his fists tightened at his sides.
“No need to call in the G-man next time.” You told Matt. “Don’t like having a watch dog.”
Dex decided then that he hated you.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
The second meeting Dex had with you was missing a Daredevil buffer.
It was late. He’d been alerted that some former AVTF agent was trying to get gone out of the city before he could be detained with the rest of his lot. There wasn’t a ton that he’d consider himself passionate about, but putting down the people responsible for enforcing Wilson Fisk’s mayoral power trip may have qualified. When he arrived at the docks you were already there.
He stood back and watched for a while, arms crossed. A swing to your head was blocked, then you kneed a man in his ribs. You sustained an elbow to your jaw and you stumbled, then went right back into it. Dex had to wonder why the hell you were even doing all this in the first place. What drove you into covering the lower half of your face at night and beating on criminals instead of doing what most people do– watch the news to find out what happened.
Another man approached you from behind while you were still busy throwing punches at the first guy. Dex instinctively pulled a blade from his belt, ready to throw it into the man’s throat, but he stopped himself. Decided to watch how it played out instead.
You did say you didn’t like having a watch dog.
The man grabbed your shoulders and wrenched you to the ground. You grunted, wind knocked out of you. Then you kicked upwards, popped a kneecap from the man’s socket and he yelled out in agony. Dex raised an eyebrow at the scene. Aren’t you a brutal thing, he thought.
Another couple minutes and you had both of them down. You leaned against a post then yanked your black neck gaiter down, exposing your face. Blood seeped from your nose and you wiped at it. Dex stepped out from his hiding spot and walked over, clapping. You snapped your head towards him, ready to fight again given the tension in your jaw and the furrow of your brow. When you saw it was him it didn’t go away.
“The fuck are you doing here?” You asked him, fists raised.
“Same as you.” He got close enough to lightly kick at one of the men’s shoulders. The guy flipped from the position on his side to his back, groaning. Still alive.
“A little late.” You retorted. Then your fists dropped and you put a hand on your shoulder like it hurt.
“Actually I was right on time, but you seemed to have a handle on it.” He grinned beneath his mask, enjoying how angry him speaking seemed to make you.
“Right. Forgot you like that.” You said with a slight sneer. “Watching.”
Dex narrowed his eyes on you, less amused all of a sudden. You’d obviously done some extra digging on him and his history after your initial meeting. He did some on you as well. Journalist by day, vigilante by night. Funny how normal you must seem to everyone else, he thought.
“Watched you get your ass beat, that’s for sure.” He said.
“Yeah well…” You groaned and stretched a little, then bent over to swipe something off the ground. One of the men’s wallets. “I’m still here, Ben.”
He bristled. “Don’t call me that.”
“What, you like Poindexter better?” You smirked, then lowered your voice. “I wouldn’t.”
He really did hate you.
“You can call me Bullseye.” He said, walking closer while you stood and shuffled through some cards.
“Mhm.” You shove an ID in your pocket. “Or I could call you nothing and you leave me the hell alone.”
Dex stared you down while he stalked closer. You didn’t budge from your spot.
“Is this all because I killed someone you never even met?” His voice lowered. When he did his research on you he found no real connection between you and Murdock’s friend. Nor any substantial connection to Matt himself other than your shared interest in bloodying your fists when you got bored.
You sighed, pushed past him to get over to the other guy’s unconscious form. “No, Bullseye.” You took his ID too. “I have my own issues with you.”
He scrunched his face beneath his mask, confused. He felt something twist in his chest– sharp and uncomfortable. He let it go so he could fixate more on his anger. Despite the way you turned slightly away from him, he could see you watching him from the corner of your eye, distrustful.
“Get home safe.” Dex said, a lilt to his voice that could’ve been threatening. You tracked his movements until you couldn’t anymore, then he followed you.
Well, he tried to follow you. It started off okay. He knew how to stay in the shadows, how to make himself invisible. You walked fast and looked over your shoulder often, stuck to the sidelines and alleyways where no one could see you.
Then you started taking convoluted pathways that led nowhere, doubled back around, threw a blade at his head that he narrowly dodged.
“Shit.” He muttered.
“Leave or I’ll make you wish you did.” You said, then turned your back on him.
He almost continued to follow you just to have something to do for the rest of the night. Maybe you’d put up a good fight and he’d be forced to kill you. But then he’d have Daredevil to deal with again. Killing one of his friends was bad enough. Still, he’d made it a point to keep tabs on you after that night.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
The next few times the two of you ran into each other was more or less the same.
Always you were in your vigilante persona, which did a lot to hide your skin– covered from neck to toe. Hair always pulled away from your face, styled protectively so no one can get their hands on it. Dex thought briefly about what you’d look like relaxed in civilian clothes, hair down, talking in a way that wasn’t so biting. His lips twitched and then faltered at that.
He tailed you as often as he could. Recon, he said to himself. Know your enemy. The facts he learned about you were baseline. Something convenient to have, but still not enough to truly understand you. You almost always caught him and it led to more than a few fights.
“Didn’t I say not to follow me, freak?”
“Do I look the type to do as I’m told?”
“You look like the type who’s so pathetic they have nothing better to do than obsess over me.”
“Don’t flatter yourself, if I was obsessed with you you’d know it.”
“No, I’d be dead just like your last girlfriend.”
Dex swung at you for the first time that night. You blocked him, locked an arm around his neck, took him to the floor. Then he flipped you over and your head slammed to the concrete. You hissed and he got down close to your face.
“Don’t talk about that.”
Now, months later, Dex has discovered quite a few more things about you. You’re living alone, for one. No houseplants. No pets. Probably don’t have enough time to take care of something so needy. When he found your place he had to circle around a few times, make sure you weren’t around. Didn't want another knife thrown at his skull. After a while he found a nice cozy spot on a fire escape across the building from you. He couldn’t stay for long periods of time. He knew you were the type to notice, to analyze your surroundings the same way he did. Also, he could barely see inside. The curtains get drawn the moment you arrive and then all that’s left to observe is your silhouette, moving around, getting changed or making dinner.
He didn’t dare enter your apartment. Probably have the fuckin’ place booby-trapped he thought, bitterly. You were hardly ever here though. Mostly you would just crawl into bed late, sore and bloody, sleep off whatever you could and then go to work in the morning just like every other poor sucker in this city.
The first time he saw you in the early hours exiting your building he straightened up a little. No black suit. No mask or hand wraps. You hid yourself beneath nice long-sleeve blouses and professional slacks. You smile at a coffee vendor and tuck a strand of your loose hair behind one ear. It was softer than he’d ever seen you. He felt something twist in his stomach that he ignored.
It grated him.
Something else he finds is that you have a penchant for not knowing when to quit.
Dex stays far back tonight, farther than he would usually with anyone else, and keeps his head down– he follows your movements inside some old dive-bar. You obviously didn’t come here for the drinks. People scramble around, trying to get away from the commotion you’re causing. There’s shouting, debris flying as you try to combat four men at once. Dex checks around the street to see if anyone else is witnessing this, but the few people around went about their business like it was any other Tuesday.
When the last man you’re fighting is laid out on his back, you lean onto a cushioned chair, catching your breath. You don’t see one of the thugs stumble back onto his feet nor do you see him picking up a jagged piece of glass, about to ram it into your neck by the looks of it. Dex takes a step forward and then stops. Lets it play out.
He doesn’t get you in the neck but you weren’t quick enough to stop him altogether. The glass slashes your arm and you wrestle with the guy for leverage. He punches you in the face once, twice– you have to stabilize yourself against the dark brown bartop. You kick at him with a heavy black boot when he gets too close to you. Now he’s back on the ground, groaning in pain. Dex watches you sluggishly make your way back over to him, then pick up a splintered leg from a barstool and bring it down onto his head, knocking him out.
Dex is close enough now to a shattered window to hear how you groan. Then a scared voice draws his attention.
“Is it over?” Some young guy asks from behind the bar.
“Uh huh.” You tell him.
The bartender stands, hands up like you were some police officer. “T-they’re… are they dead?”
You tilt your head, looking around yourself as if to double check. Dex smirks at that.
“No. But I’d still get out of here. Usually mobsters have more than a couple dumbasses on retainer, probably be sendin’ more…”
The bartender looks around frantically as if you meant that very second. Then Dex watches him grab his jacket and bolt outside. Wow, he runs fast. He sees you pull the black mask down and crack your neck. Blood seeps from your mouth and you lick it instead of wiping it away. It’s something so small but all of his attention narrows onto it anyway. Not a fact. A trait. He stores it away in his mind, categorizes it under mannerisms.
You aren’t doing well, he notices. You’ve overexerted yourself and now you can barely stand let alone walk. He hears you call the police, tell them some wanted criminals are waiting to be scooped up, before pushing yourself outside. You don’t see him this time. Don’t even bother to check. Too exhausted, he thinks.
It takes a few minutes of slow walking for it all to catch up to you. Now you’re clutching a brick wall, head down while you try to fix yourself. He hears your deep breaths for a bit, then your next step has you tumbling to the ground hard.
Dex considers leaving you here, letting the next good samaritan that strolls by deal with you, but he finds that he can’t move. You’re on your back in a bad part of the city, not that there were many good parts, and unconscious. A ridiculous mess of tangled limbs that nagged on a part of him– made him pity you.
When he gets close enough he squats down next to you. He observes your shallow breaths, the crease in your brow that remains there despite being out cold. Then he gives you another once-over and sighs.
“I could kill you right now.” Dex says, voice light as it can be underneath his mask.
You don’t respond to him. Don’t even twitch. His eyes track the bruise alongside your eye socket that extends to your cheekbone. Your split lower lip. He grins, then slides his arms beneath yours to haul you upwards.
“Maybe another night.”