Chapter Text
D — 1
When Dex wakes again, he's still chained to a cot with nothing but a singular, scratchy pillow beneath him that wears the scent of stale smoke and coffee grounds. It's dim inside, fluorescent lights casting their dull blue glow. He’s in a storage room of sorts, like a forgotten locker room. Wherever he is, the lack of any noise but for Matthew Murdock breathing at his side and the distant hum of an HVAC system lets him know he's safe—so long as Murdock continues this charade of wanting to save him, or whatever.
"She's dead, you know," Murdock states out of the blue. He states so as if Vanessa’s death were some kind of weight that should burden Dex. It doesn’t.
"Good. I hit the mark." Dex lays his head back onto the pillow, giving a long exhale. The scales have been balanced. Vanessa Fisk. Gone. Deceased. Someone removed from the world who was a net negative, who saw him as just another pawn to be used. The world is better without her, and he doesn't care what Murdock has to say about it.
To his side, Murdock breathes heavily through his nose, as if to rein himself in—and he probably is, considering the violence he's unleashed on Dex every time they meet.
Except that Murdock doesn't punch him.
Doesn't do anything.
Murdock sits in the little plastic fold-up chair placed beside the cot and stares at the ceiling like he'll find answers there. It's interesting seeing him like this; no helmet, no glasses, just a man in part of the devil suit, eyes sightless, like Dex was always curious they would be for a man so adept at fighting.
"They're going to come down on us, harder than ever. You can stay here for now, upon the agreement that you won't go after Fisk anymore."
Dex snorts, smile peeling open at the naivety of Murdock. "I have a bullet waiting with his name on it. M' not letting that fucker get away again. You may be happy to let him continue living on, but not me."
"I'm not– Happy," Murdock retorts heavily. "But I won't allow murder, either."
"Then what's your plan? You have a grand design to stick him behind bars again? Where half the officers revere him? He'll stick for what, one week? Two? Much shorter than the last time, I'm sure. Karen was right, you know—if you don't kill him, who knows who'll be the next Foggy."
Murdock shoots to his feet, chair scraping behind him. His fists are curled up. Murdock doesn't have a solution—it doesn’t take a genius to devise that—and not having a plan, or any proper solution, makes him cagey. Good. Dex would rather this than the stale air of Murdock pretending to tolerate him.
Bending down at the side of the cot, Murdock makes no preamble. He runs fingers through his hair, his bare hands warm and intimate compared to the body armour. His grasp tightens, pulling hair away from the roots, eliciting a gasp from Dex. It shouldn't send a thrill through his body, he knows it shouldn’t, and yet it happens every time the Devil's hands are on him.
"Don't think for a second because I saved you, that grants you grace from me."
"No enemy of my enemy is my friend, and all of that?"
"Enemy of my enemy is my nothing," Murdock whispers harshly. His face is inches away. "Swear to me you won't make Fisk a martyr. That you won't prove to the city that he's right."
Warm breath tickles his face, Dex's pulse kicks up, and he wonders how they keep finding themselves back here. One heartbeat apart from either snapping or fucking. It's like some sort of frenetic energy shakes loose when Murdock does this, where he's barely able to contain himself, anger and passion showing in full force. And Dex? Well, he'd be lying if he said it didn’t do anything for him.
"Swear it," Murdock hisses, grip tightening. He smells a lot like cinnamon, like he'd been chewing gum earlier.
Instead of swearing anything, Dex closes the distance, pulling Murdock's arm in closer, the best he can with his wrist chained up. Just to piss him off.
His mouth captures chapped lips.
For a second, Murdock hesitates—Dex thinks for sure he’ll push him away, punch him, do anything but respond. But Murdock growls, practically smashing his face into Dex’s, all teeth, heavy breaths, and red-hot hatred. Dex can practically smell it on him. The thought sends elation down his spine, getting his heart pumping in a way few things do.
This is just two fists meeting in another form. Pure, unadulterated lust drawn in by passion. Murdock bites him, adding to the pile of bloody scrapes on his face, and Dex pushes back the best he can in his chained-up condition, trying to bite at the Devil’s lips as well. He smiles, almost laughs, really. And it pisses Murdock off enough that he pushes Dex backwards with such force that he bounces down onto the cot.
Murdock stumbles backwards in a move so sudden you’d think he’d just been burned.
"The fuck?" Murdock demands, just as robbed for words as he'd been when he broke into Dex's apartment. He's still keyed up, still angry from before, but—
Dex smiles, all blood and teeth. "Denial doesn’t suit you, councillor. But sure, go ahead and pretend you didn’t enjoy that."
Murdock doesn't waste a second this time—he's atop Dex in the blink of an eye, hand on his throat. His left bicep twitches; he'd like nothing more than to deck Dex again, he's sure of it. He doesn't, though. "Don't pretend to be familiar with me."
Dex raises a brow. Unable to keep the amusement out of his voice, "You've made yourself awfully comfortable in my space lately. One could argue that's familiarity."
Murdock's thighs bracket his, the heat of them leeching into Dex, a warm balm in the cool of the room. Murdock says nothing, uncharacteristically silent for a lawyer and a self-righteous vigilante. Dex opens his mouth—only for it to snap shut when Murdock grasps his neck in a tight vice, his other hand coming to rest right beside the bullet wound, pushing into the skin enough to cause a sharp flare. Dex can’t help it; a wet gasp is pulled from his lips.
It's only once the wave of pain subsides that Dex feels the hardness pressing into him.
Murdock leans in, lips brushing the shell of his ear, just the lightest of touches, almost to the point where Dex wonders if he imagined it. Goosebumps erupt on his neck regardless.
"I want you to lie on the chair. Sideways across it. Arms and legs bent inwards beneath it. And hold it."
Dex tilts his head at the sudden request. "You trying to fuck me or interrogate me? You think I don't know what a stress position is?"
"Do you want to find out which?"
Oh, so now the councillor wants to play a game. “Try me.”
Murdock uncuffs him with swift movements, the cuffs jangling in his grip once Dex’s wrists are freed.
Dex pulls himself up off the bed, a groan ensuing. His head goes fuzzy and light, dots blotting out his vision. He should probably be having a glass of water and a meal. Yet he can't find it in himself to care, not when he has Murdock's attention on him like this; it’s better than any hot shower or warm food.
When the dots clear, Dex leans backward onto the fold-up chair, placing himself across it sideways, just like Murdock asked. The plastic of the chair groans under his weight. His face scrunches up, the staples on his abdomen pulling taut as he bends backward around the chair, just as Murdock instructed. His lower back is barely supported, the rest of his body hanging off the chair, legs awkwardly splayed open on the other side. Some deep, human instinct shouts at him to cover his bare tummy, to stop baring it to his nemesis-turned-saviour, but another part of him is stuck in a fugue state. Like anything after he killed Vanessa is just an afterlife, so therefore, none of anything matters anymore. So, if Murdock wants to hurt him, or to do some weird sex-thing, he can't quite bring himself to care.
The position Murdock instructed him into places strain on the upper body, Dex notes. His neck, shoulders, upper arms, and even somewhat his torso muscles are already engaged, unable to find anywhere to rest to lessen the burden of gravity.
"Good. Now, pull your pants down."
Ah, so it is a sex-thing.
Dex leans up to work the spandex pants down to his ankles, where Murdock pulls them off, leaving him in briefs. By now, they're starting to tent, heat gathering the longer Murdock keeps his attention on him.
"Those, too."
Dex snorts. "And you get to remain fully clothed?"
"Be quiet. I'm the one calling the shots."
Another time, Dex would protest, maybe put up a bit of a fight. But already, the position Murdock instructed him into begins to wear on his muscles, so sitting up again to rid himself of them is a welcome break from the strain. He works the briefs down, throwing them off somewhere into the room, leaving just himself and his half-hard dick bared to Murdock.
Without a word, Murdock steps up to Dex's side, grabbing Dex's arms to place them further folded beneath him, then cuffs them to the bottom of the chair.
"Don't move."
Dex quirks a brow but says nothing; instead, he tries to gather what Murdock is up to out of his peripheral vision; it's not easy to. Not when he's stuck staring at the mouldy ceiling and his mind half-centers on keeping himself upright between the strain on his muscles and the throbbing in his abdomen.
Murdock slides a hand up his thigh, the calloused and warm fingers causing Dex to inhale sharply at the touch. His hand travels all the way up to Dex’s hipbone, where it suddenly halts, and Dex wonders at Murdock’s next move. Will Murdock finally touch him, or maybe hit him? But Murdock keeps going, further up Dex’s abdomen, hand deftly avoiding the bullet wound. Is Murdock mapping his body? Learning its grooves and muscles by hand? Dex finds himself intensely curious as to how Murdock knows the world so well, if not through his eyes. Said curiosity, though, is quickly forgotten when Murdock brushes against a nipple, a jolt going straight down to Dex’s dick.
Dex isn’t sure what he’d been expecting when Murdock instructed him to sit on the chair like this, of all things, but it’s—it’s so raw. He doesn’t know what to do with himself when Murdock’s touches send goosebumps down his body, aside from squirming and vain attempts to get more comfortable. Dex wishes he cared more about how vulnerable he’s made himself, but against all logic, it only leads to making his cock grow harder.
“What do you get out of this?” Dex asks. It comes out weaker and more breathy than intended.
“You. In pain.”
“Not very Catholic of you.”
Murdock quickly stands, wasting no time to slide a hand over Dex’s mouth. “Remember what I said earlier? Be. Quiet.”
The room goes still, Murdock not moving a muscle, until Dex finally realizes what he wants. Dex gives a slight incline of his head, Murdock’s hand still covering his mouth.
Murdock removes his hand from Dex’s mouth, but it still hovers near his face. “Good. Now, open.”
Dex follows the instruction, looking to Murdock’s eyes as if he’d be able to read any intent there. He can’t.
Murdock slides three fingers into his mouth, the skin tasting of salt and earth. “Get them wet.”
Dex sucks the fingers in, tongue swirling around, getting them ready for whatever it is Murdock wants to do. The noise is wet and filthy, even to his own ears.
Murdock withdraws the fingers from his mouth, a string of spit drawing taut and then breaking. “Good,” Murdock says, almost in monotone, like a doctor giving orders to a patient. And yet, the praise lightens Dex. Makes him want to do even better.
Unfortunately, the position he's been put in works against said goal of pleasing Murdock; he tries lifting himself to relieve some of the tension growing in his neck and shoulder muscles, but with nowhere to go, he just struggles.
“Stay still,” Murdock instructs. “Or I won't touch you.”
Dex takes in a deep breath, engaging his core muscles the best he can to shift the weight from his upper body. Doing so causes a new pain, a stretch in the staples holding together his bullet wound. Any way he moves, there’s just pain. But at least this way, he can stay still, can please Murdock.
Murdock takes Dex's cock into his grip, and Dex can’t stop a grunt from falling out of his mouth. He’s fully hard now, practically aching for the touch, and now that he has it, it’s almost enough to cause him to forget the deep ache starting to form in his neck and arms. Even in top condition, nobody can withstand positions like this for too long—nobody. The strain borders on that boundary between pain and tiring, enough that his head starts to go fuzzy, and each second that ticks by begins to take on more air of surreality.
Murdock strokes him slowly, as if to tease rather than actually get him off. But something about sitting on the chair like this, so exposed, so pulled taut, has an intensifying effect, and before he can help it, he moans in earnest.
“You like that, sweetheart?”
Sweetheart. Murdock had called him that when visiting him in prison. At the time, he'd wanted to retort, but hearing it now, just as mocking, with Murdock in arguably more power over him than before, it fills Dex's head with something warm. Something soft. A part of himself feels shame for it, but as quickly as it comes, it floats out of his mind again. His head’s going fuzzy. Distantly, he wonders if it’s from the position or blood loss, but he can’t find it in himself to care when he has Murdock’s hands on him like this.
Dex's arms start to tremble first, muscles protesting their position with all their might, but he can do little more than move them a couple of inches before the cuffs start cutting into his wrists. Murdock seems to notice; he stops stroking Dex until he settles again, locking his screaming muscles into position again. At this point, he’s practically arched on the chair, trying with all his might to get his legs to take on more pressure, but they can’t; all he succeeds in doing is arching into Murdock’s touch.
Dots dance in his vision. His entire lower body is tingling, pleasure racing out and meeting pain from strained muscles like some kind of chaotic storm that doesn’t know what it wants. He thinks he might’ve whined, or maybe moaned, but it’s like his mind has become distanced from his being.
“Keep up the form. Keep going.”
Murdock said that. His voice steady. Strong. Guiding.
Dex is shaking. All of him is shaking. Every touch on his dick is like it’s amplified by a hundred volts. It’s so good. He wants more. He wants free of the chair. He wants to be stuck in it forever.
Murdock is saying something to him, but it falls on his ears as though said through water—all blurry and muffled. It’s just Dex, the pain, and the wonderful hand providing him pleasure.
And when his orgasm comes into view, the pain all falls to the wayside, like it’s some glorious light at the end of a tunnel. It crashes into him like a cleansing waterfall, clearing his head from everything—thoughts, sensations, all disconnected. Like he’s floating above himself. It’s wonderful. It’s heaven.
Someone is speaking, and all he can do is blink. He’s aware of someone moving him, but he simply closes his eyes. How wonderful it is to not think; to not feel. The state lasts for some unknown amount of time, the world only beginning to filter in first with the sensation of a cloth being run over his abdomen. But he doesn’t want this; he wants to be in that space forever, weightless and freed.
Only does the space come collapsing down when his wound starts stinging like a bitch, pain crashing into his little cloud-like state and splitting it down the middle. He blinks his eyes open, blurry vision slowly sharpening into focus on the hand cleaning the bullet wound on his side. The corners of his eyes are damp, and the muscles in his arms won’t stop jittering and twitching, no matter how much he tries to get them to stop.
To his surprise, he finds no racing thoughts or unbearable burden. He is just himself. There in a cot. With Matt Murdock cleaning his bullet wound. Even with the wound stinging, he’s still floating on a cloud.
“Did you drug me?” Dex asks, slightly slurred. Whatever he was given, he wants more of it. It’s nothing like the whole slew of concoctions he was given while he was institutionalized; those made him nothing more than a zombie, incapable of doing the most basic task. But this? It’s just. Existing. With nothing to drag him down.
“Drug you? Do you mean medication?” Matt asks.
“I feel…nice. Good. I can’t remember the last time I…” He trails off. He’s still finding it a bit difficult to process thoughts right now.
“Good for you,” Matt replies, clearly not meaning a word of it. “You went somewhere else after you came. I don’t know what happened.”
“Whatever it was, can you do it again?”
Matt pauses in the middle of putting away some gauze. “No,” Matt says, and stands, taking the box with him to a cupboard to put it away.
Somehow, the absence of Matt in Dex’s space hurts ten times worse than the words. It’s wrong, like Dex just shot himself in the foot, and part of him that felt all floaty has gone cool and hollowed out. Matt should be there. Matt should fill that space. More than a gun in his face and the sweet embrace of nothingness, Dex wants Matt.
He wants him like a sun to fill his void, a weight to even out his burden on the scales.
“Come back,” Dex finds himself asking without really thinking about it.
Matt pauses, turning around. “What's wrong with you?”
“Wrong? I–?” Dex falls back onto the bed, staring at the ceiling. What is wrong with him? He knows he doesn't usually want for something like this.
Maybe this is how he moves forward. How he keeps himself in check. He never expected sex with Matt Murdock to have much of any effect; sex never has in the past. It’s been a passing pleasure quickly forgotten about in the stream of time, life pushing its other pressures onto him. It was never a goal, something to look forward to, or a release. Just something that happened. But if it can be like this? If it can wipe his mind down into nothingness like that again, just one more time? He’ll be chasing it for the rest of his life.
“Are you sure you didn’t drug me?” Dex asks again.
Matt heaves a sigh. “No. I didn't drug you. I don’t know what happened there.”
“And you won't do that again?”
“Yes,” Matt confirms.
Dex wets his lips, readjusting himself in the cot. “What if– what if I help you? Do whatever you need to help you take down Fisk.” Not that Matt seemed to have any solid plan, but maybe Dex could tolerate the Catholic bullshit if it meant sex like that again.
“And what's in it for you? Just sex? Didn't really take you for that kind of person, Dex.”
“No, it's like—it's something else too.” Something he really, honestly doesn't want to say to either himself or Matt.
“I don't…” Matt pauses, searching for the correct words. “I'll…consider it. For now, you should probably go take a shower.”
That, at least, sounded like an agreeable plan.
The gentle patter of water hitting a wall overtakes Matt's thoughts. It splatters in an unpredictable, but frequent pattern, enough to be soothing if not for the fact that just behind that curtain of water falling, there is also the steady pounding of a heart belonging to a killer. A killer that he had sex with. It’s not the first time he's been intimate with someone like that, he supposes, but the difference there being Elektra never killed anyone he loved. She'd never taken away Foggy or Father Lantom. That made what she did more impersonal, more separate. But this? All Matt can imagine are their faces up in heaven, eyes alight with disapproval and betrayal.
It's just. When he'd gotten back to the safehouse after trying to plead Fisk down, Matt had been like a bolt of lightning: destructive, angry, and loud. He had to strike down somewhere to discharge. And Dex practically made himself into a lightning rod the way he kept taunting him with his failures, with Foggy.
Worse yet, seeing Dex in that chair, upper body shaking under the pressure it was forced under, ready to give out, and his heart working so hard to keep him going, it was practically fluttering...it filled Matt with great intrigue. How long could Dex keep going? Would he eventually cry out? Beg for mercy, reduced to a puddle of tears and terror just like his victims? But of course, the fucker enjoyed it. That was something they unfortunately seemed to share in common: the love of the challenge, the pain, the strain of it all. They live on it; it's what keeps them going.
Watching Dex pushing himself to keep going, watching him push his dick into Matt's hands, it was perverse. Fuck, it'd gone straight to his cock. The tears in Dex's eyes, the way he'd reacted to Matt's cruel mockery of support. There must be something wrong with him to see someone in pain like that and love it; to want to get off to it. He'd wanted to do more after, but Dex had...passed out, or whatever that was. And while Dex had been in that state, all it had taken was a couple of tugs on his cock, and Matt came all over himself.
There have been many a time he's had a sudden shame or regret fall over himself after sex, but that was a definite contender for top spot.
It's only when the pattering of water comes to a halt that Matt suddenly sits up straight.
Karen. Karen hasn't come back yet. Here he's been, stuck in his selfish ruminating, and he had yet to notice she'd been gone much longer than usual. When they left the safehouse, they'd usually send a message to check in at some point, or at least let the other know how long they expected to be out before leaving. She'd done none of that, and it's been hours now. Usually, Matt wouldn't worry too much. Karen knows how to take care of herself.
Except—she'd left their hideout furious at him. And a furious Karen is a Karen that's a fuse ready to blow. It's when she'll practically walk herself into danger just to get results.
"Fuck," Matt mutters, standing. He rushes to put on his suit, putting his limbs through the arms and legs with practiced ease.
"What's got you in a rush?"
Matt nearly jumps. He'd heard Dex finish his shower, but let himself become consumed by his own thoughts.
"Nothing. Get back into the bed, I need to cuff you again."
Dex crosses his arms. "Really? After I just suggested helping you? I'm not dense, Matthew. I know you're going back out there to fight again; where's the trust?"
"Don't—" call me Matthew. But it dies in his mouth. It doesn’t matter, not right now, not when he has to get out there and look for Karen. "There is no trust. Trust is earned, and right now? You, my friend, are at the bottom of the pit. So get back in the bed, heal up like a good boy, and I'll be back soon."
"Only if you bring me back some food, and I can have some water."
Matt nearly snorts. He can't help it—the ridiculousness of it all. The murderer is asking for him for food and water like he's some kind of warden, all while Karen is somewhere out on the streets, possibly in danger.
Matt grabs his helmet and straps it on. "This isn't a prison. Sure. Grab yourself some water, whatever. Then get in the damn bed."
Dex manages to find a plastic water bottle from the kitchen, sets it in the bed with him, and sits down, leaving his hands raised for Matt to cuff them back to the bed. It's almost too easy to cuff this trained killer back to a bed—meaning Dex wants him to be fully aware he's making this easy for him. All it does is leave Matt with another worry to stack somewhere down below his search for Karen and the need to take down Fisk.
Matt leaves without saying a word.
Karen is gone. No, not gone. But taken. Captured. The absolute worst scenario that Matt could've imagined. He overhears from an AVTF officer being pulled to go guard her in this so-called safehouse of theirs. They don't say her name, specifically, but one has to imagine this high-value prisoner they just picked up isn't some random protester picked up off the street. He also hasn't heard her voice or picked up on the distinct smell of her conditioner or deodorant either. She's nowhere to be found. Fisk must have her.
Matt isn't naive enough to hope that her being legally obligated to a trial will be enough to spare her from Fisk's wrath. Fisk, Matt's sure, would love nothing more than to take a loved one from him in retaliation for Vanessa. Would love nothing more than to crush the head of Wesley's killer.
Matt’s heart pounds a million miles an hour, enough to hear in his ears. His eyes have a tacky and dry sensation, and his movements, jumping along rooftops, aren't as sharp as they should be.
He's been awake for longer than twenty-four hours, has been in motion nonstop throughout the day, and now his best friend has been captured.
God is cruel indeed to always have him backed into corners like this.
His next move needs to be seeking out information on this safehouse: location, weak points, personnel. Anything to get to Karen faster. He’s running on diminishing time for his mind to stay sharp before the need for sleep becomes too great.
He follows the AVTF officer across rooftop to rooftop, confusion growing the closer they narrow in on Central Park. There, just at the edge of a plethora of greenery, sits the Met, as imposing as ever with its limestone facade towering over every tree surrounding it.
Matt tilts his head. He followed the correct officer; he’s sure of it. But then…why the Met?
The closer in he listens, past the roaring fountains and nearby traffic, the more he hears; the clinking of weapons and armour, the murmurs of orders being given, and much more distantly, a humming.
Security systems.
That's why. Fisk commandeered the Met, arguably a building stuffed to the brim with some of the most sophisticated systems of detection in New York.
It's like a dare, like Fisk wants him to try it. Therefore, it’s a trap. He can't come rushing to save Karen without a plan, not without tripping up alarms to let every officer in the building know exactly where to come rushing in to take him down.
He growls, sagging backward onto the building, eyes growing warm. "Dammit, Karen."
Fisk wouldn't go through all this trouble just to execute her. They want her alive as bait for him, but he's not reckless like that. Not anymore. It won't do good to have both himself and Karen captured. He needs a plan, and a good one at that, or neither of them will be making it through this alive.
Matt strolls back into the safehouse, a singularly-minded man.
That, though, quickly changes when he finds Dex asleep in the cot, heart working faster than it should be, and his body drenched in sweat.
It doesn’t take a medical degree for him to realize Dex has an infection.
Matt's eyes go warm and wet again. He takes a deep breath in, then exhales purposefully long. He can’t fall apart now.
Up at the bedside, Matt shakes Dex's arm.
Dex comes to with a slow blinking of his eyes. "Mm?"
"I need you to tell me; when you were planning to take out Vanessa Fisk, did you ever see her go to the Met? Did she have any connection to it?"
Dex takes a moment to fully come to, sitting up somewhat to likely meet Matt’s gaze. "What, you're back and no food?" Dex asks, a tilted grin playing across his face.
"I'm not in the mood for playing around. Get up, and answer the question."
"Neither am I. If you want me to live so badly, I need to eat. And I think I have an infection."
"I'm aware of both issues. Answer my question first. Trust-building, remember?"
Dex takes a minute. "No. Never saw her there, or around it. Though she often met with boards of people. Wouldn't be surprised if some of them owned the Met; they wore enough intricate jewellery you'd think they raided the collections for themselves."
Matt nods to himself. Okay, there could definitely be a connection there. He'll have to pry into it deeper, perhaps ask Jessica what she can dig up, and—
Dex groans.
If Matt is being honest with himself, he knows he'll need Dex's help if he's going to break into a nest of security and AVTF officers. It's a help he barely knows if he'll be able to count on at all, and yet, he knows he's been backed into a corner. He can't fight his way out on his own.
He—if he's being honest, he hates that the thought of having sex with Dex again like that is nothing short of thrilling. That he got to unleash his worst urges like that, and that he enjoyed every minute of it. He didn't want to give in to said urges again, but maybe a dance with the devil is a necessity, just like it always seems to be ever since he took up the mask. And if he can toe that line properly with Dex without falling into bed with the Devil, then maybe it's the way forward.
"You said you wanted to help me, right?" Matt asks.
"You deaf now too?"
Matt steels himself against the clearly laid bait. "You want me to...have sex with you again, and you'll help me?"
"Well, don't make it sound like such a burden on your part. You enjoyed that, I could hear it in your voice."
Matt squares a fist. At every turn, Dex would rather crawl under his skin than be pleasant. Some kind of partnership this'll be. And yet, still. He needs him.
"I'll do it. And you help me. A partnership. Deal?"
Dex sits up, grimacing while a hand subconsciously tries to come up to the bullet wound. But he tries his best to form a crooked smile. "Sure. Deal...partner."
Matt nods, not knowing what else to say in return. "I'll be back."
Within fifteen minutes, he's returned with a bottle of strong, pungently bitter-smelling antibiotics stolen from a pharmacy in one hand, and with a warm bowl of bibimbap ordered from the Korean restaurant on the corner in the other.
Matt tosses the bottle of pills to Dex, who catches it with scarily good reflexes for a man recently injured, sick, and chained to a bed.
Right.
Matt takes the cuffs off again, to which Dex rolls his wrists, then happily digs into the bowl of bibimbap as if he'd been starved.
"Those are going back on again after," Matt informs him.
Dex doesn't seem to hear him or care, and Matt just doesn't have the energy to fight with him on another little thing. Instead, Matt finally undresses himself, leaving just a t-shirt and underpants on. He practically collapses onto the cracked leather couch in the corner, promising himself he'll just shut his eyes for a couple of minutes, then get back to getting Karen back.
But as his eyes slide shut, the relaxing of the muscles drains the fight out of the rest of his body.
Thoughts start drifting into nothingness and eventually, oblivion.
The handcuffs never do go back on.
