Chapter Text
The warehouse stinks of rot and rain, a metallic, earthy scent that settles heavy in his lungs.
For a moment he pauses there, letting his eyes adjust to the dim darkness and straining for any sound. If Fisk’s intel could be trusted, the target was here and had been for days, laying low.
A heavy hitter, Vanessa had said, lip curling in displeasure. Pledging loyalty to an unknown party. The directive was simple: Get rid of them before they became a problem. She’d recommended exercising caution and urgency, and from the stiff way she’d held herself, he would guess it to be a personal matter.
He’d have liked to have seen to Nelson first, an easier target with less room for error and more forgiveness for the shake in his hands, but freedom had conditions. His did, at least, and he’s in no position to argue.
Slipping a knife from its sheath, he drops from the scaffolding to a metal catwalk with as much grace as he can muster, gritting his teeth at its protesting groan. He creeps forward, forcing restraint where none comes naturally, and hears rather than sees that he’s headed in the right direction.
It’s not a language he knows, but it’s undeniably a chant, the words lilting and weaving together in an intricate dance. It slows his steps and chills his blood, something older and ancient and buried in his bones recoiling from the sound of it. He rarely feels small, hasn’t allowed himself to since the Home and the decadent years of childhood, but it creeps forward now, clogs his throat and floods his limbs with the unshakeable urge to flee.
He’s never fled. Not from anything, and so he pushes it down and forces himself forwards.
His life is two deaths away from being his again. Two deaths, and the leash that chokes and tightens will slip from his neck. He can be done with the Fisks, the city, all of it. He can disappear and start over, create something new for himself, something clean.
The thought rankles and soothes in equal measure.
The closer he gets the more bizarre his target’s positioning appears, and he’s grateful for the foresight to approach from above. The woman was tucked amidst a variety of crates and barrels, trash littering the floor and rustling with every shift of her feet, but it’s what lay on the crate before her that brought him up short.
Blood, dark and congealing within the bowl it rested in, and around it, a slew of bones and trinkets and crude, carved sigils.
Witch, his brain supplies helpfully, and the feeling of unease doubles. For all that the world had shifted into that of mutants and aliens and gods, he’s never dealt with their kind, wonders what sort of bad juju killing one would even bring.
Vanessa had kept this from him, had looked him dead in the eye when he’d pressed for details and said there were none, and he has no doubt it had been purposeful, he just can’t think of why. Leaving him in the blind would only cause more issues, would kill him if the conditions were right.
Maybe that was the idea, a part of him whispers, and it sticks like tar, refusing to shake.
The chanting rises in volume, the woman’s hands lifting high above her head, and he swears that the blood begins to move, swirling in a slow gliding wave.
Adrenaline spikes, focus narrowing to the pale skin of her neck and unprotected back, and he raises his arm to throw.
“Take this flesh and shape its death,” The witch suddenly says, head lifting to look right at him, eyes dark and cold and damning. He freezes. “Your soul sings to me. A cur you have been, and always to be, never to break free.”
Her voice is still that soft, dangerous lilt, flowing like the calmest of waters, and no matter how he fights to move, his body stays caught, tense. Trapped in the weight of her stare and the unseen thing that grips his limbs.
The panic hits, sharp and hard, and the sight of it brings a new light to the witch’s eyes. Her lips curl in a slow, satisfied smile.
“Born unknown, disgraced to all, a hound you are destined to crawl. Shrink and crack and don’t come back, until the last wall falls.”
Something in his chest bends, so harshly he can feel the strain of it, before it snaps. Pain erupts so violently within him that his vision whites out. The sound that rips up his throat is inhuman, bones breaking in such violent succession that the cacophony of agony robs him of breath. Skin tears and sound leaves him, everything narrowing down to pain and blood and the wracking process of being unmade.
He doesn’t know how long it lasts, only knows he’s suspended there for an eternity, forced to feel every dragging second. Long enough to where he finds himself clawing for death, begging for it with a mouth vomiting blood and a tongue bitten to ruin.
When the darkness pulls him under, he hopes that it keeps him.
He wakes to pain.
That in itself is not unfamiliar, but the shape of it is.
It sings through his blood and cracks against his joints, flaring white hot with every stuttering inhale, and for a moment he can only lie there, blinking out at nothing and trying to drag the fraying edges of himself back together.
His hearing is back, static crackling in his ears and reverberating in his skull, and he closes his eyes against a wave of nausea, swallowing it down with difficulty.
He's alive, and he carefully does not think about the stab of disappointment the revelation brings. He allows himself another moment to breathe, reorienting himself with his own body, before he begins to take stock.
The first thing he realizes is that his vision is off, distorted and the slightest bit dull. The world is stripped of all significant color, and no amount of heavy blinking is enough to change it.
Not good, he thinks, and tries to struggle upright, gritting his teeth at the pain that flares up his spine. His arms feel different, stiff and uncooperative, and when he looks down the sight at first doesn’t register.
His brain goes strangely, oddly quiet. The buzzing stops. The only thing he’s aware of is his own wet breaths and the image set before him.
Paws, large and clawed with blood staining the pads of them. They flex when he shifts, curl when he tries to clench his fists, and the sound that escapes him is all panic and disbelief.
Fuck, he tries to say, but all that comes is a high yap.
Fuck fuck fuck.
He scrambles upright with all the grace of a newborn fawn, craning his neck to look at himself more fully. His fur is a dark sable, near black in places and trailing lighter at his flank and sides, and he blinks at it stupidly. It is unmistakably, damningly, a canine’s form.
‘A cur you have been, and always to be…’ The target’s voice croons in his mind. ‘…a hound you are destined to crawl.”
Fuck you, he thinks harshly, and feels the anger rising within him, swelling larger with every panting breath he takes. The urge to finish the job, to bury a knife in her throat and watch the blood pool warm is so visceral that his teeth ache, the bloodlust so sudden and intense that it overrides all rational thought. It’s an animal sort of instinct, foreign and not, the echoing chant to bite, maim, tear.
She may have bought herself time, a few precious days where she’ll inevitably try to run, but he vows to everyone and everything, to a God he doesn’t believe in, that he will kill her. The timetable has simply shifted, not been destroyed.
The thought is a comfort, and one he clings to desperately.
He’s just begun to take stilted steps forward, cataloguing distantly that the witch and her belongings are gone, when he hears a scrape of cloth on cloth. It’s so faint he thinks he might have imagined it, but then there’s the scuff of a boot against concrete, and his head snaps to the shadows along the far wall.
The vibrations that rattle up his throat are pulled from something not entirely himself, deep and instinctual. It grates at his ears, the growl, but it’s as unstoppable as the hackles raising along his spine.
“Hey, buddy.”
Daredevil doesn’t come closer, but every one of Dex’s senses are locked onto the vague shape of him. He can smell the sweat and rain clinging to him, the blood and metal permeated into every stitch of his suit, and he wonders how he could have missed his approach. The Devil reeks of sin.
“You’re alright.” The man says quietly, taking one slow step forward, out of the shadows and into the wane light. There’s an undertone to his scent, soot and smoke, like he’d been standing at the edge of a fire and absorbing all the heat of it, and the harshness stings at his nose. “I’m not gonna hurt you.”
His ears pin flat to his skull, lips pulling back to bare sharp, pointed teeth. He’s not naive enough to believe such promises, not anymore. Pain seemed to be the only language he spoke fluently with others, and lately it’s been a one-sided conversation.
To his credit, the vigilante seems to recognize the threat for what it is and draws up short, hands raising in deference.
“Hey, okay,” He acquiesces, voice liquid smooth, and it irritates Dex how calm he is. Like this is nothing, just a script, a part of his routine, soothing half feral dogs he finds in abandoned warehouses. “That’s okay, I get it. Not gonna hurt you, buddy. I just want to help.”
He lets the growl pitch higher, steps back and ignores the ache that flares in his paws, the tang of blood that curls in the air to catch at the back of his throat. His heart is beating a hard, discordant rhythm, and it’s not fear, not quite, but it’s close. It belongs to the part that’s not quite him, animal in its simplicity, and he loathes it.
“Yeah,” The vigilante whispers, mostly to himself as he lowers into a hesitant crouch. “I know, I’m a little scary, I’m sorry.” His hands lift to his cowl and pause there, hesitating only a second before he begins to work it off in careful pulls.
It brings him up short, the rumble dying in his throat, because surely the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen isn’t going to unmask in the middle of a warehouse. Why he would take the time, the risk when at any moment a junkie or squatter could stumble upon them makes no sense to him. It doesn’t track with what he knows, and he struggles to piece the gentle disposition before him to the vigilante that had put him down with brutal and violent efficiency.
The cowl is off now, abandoned to the side, and it’s not a shock to him that Murdock’s face greets him. He’d had his suspicions, had more or less connected the dots himself, but to have it confirmed is another beast entirely. He takes a moment to drink him in, the sweaty mess of his hair and the unfocused weight of his gaze.
He looks kind, and he has to remind himself that it’s not directed towards him, the real him. It’s for an injured, frightened dog he’d found abandoned in a warehouse, an easy mercy for something broken and bleeding. Not for you, he tells himself. Never for you.
“There,” Murdock says with a smile, bright and genuine, and he starts to move closer again. “Not so bad, huh? Just a regular guy.”
Dex blinks. His brain is quiet again, the buzzing nothing but a low, distant hum. He watches Murdock approach with the sort of stillness that the military beat into his bones, careful, assessing.
“What a brave boy,” The guy hums, and Dex’s lip twitches with the urge to snarl. Of all the humiliating, unfortunate circumstances he’s found himself in, he thinks this might take the cake. “Don’t you want to go home? Find someplace safe?”
A gloved hand slowly reaches out, close enough to touch but not quite.
A silent, trusting offering.
Dex doesn’t even think about it.
He bites.
Murdock calls his friend, and Nelson picks up on the second ring.
He can’t hear much from the corner he’s backed himself into, but he can faintly hear the tension in Nelson’s tone and the stress creeping into Murdock’s.
“No,” The man is saying, phone held tight to his ear. He keeps stretching his injured hand, slow, careful flexes that have him wincing. “You don’t have to do that, just—“
He hadn't held it long, the bite. It had been hard, with a significant amount of power behind it, but he’d released it quickly. He hadn’t wanted to stay in range of those fists any longer than necessary, and he’d ripped himself away before Murdock could recover from the shock.
He’s been here since, crouched and curled into himself to try to ride out the pain thrumming through him. He doesn’t let Murdock close, growls and snaps and postures every time the man tries, and he finally seems to have gotten the hint. He keeps a respectable distance, though his head stays tilted in his direction as he picks up his cowl, tugging it back on.
He favors the injured hand, and judging by the crunch of tendon Dex had felt beneath his teeth, the grind and groan of ligaments, he wouldn’t be using it for his night job any time soon. Not if he wanted it to heal correctly, anyway, and something about that thought gives him more satisfaction than the bite itself.
“Fine.” Murdock says to Nelson, already pulling his phone away from his ear. “Just get here.” And then his phone is snapping shut and his full attention is back on Dex.
He very carefully does not move.
Something about it has Murdock softening, hands unclenching, tone shifting into something quieter. “We gotta get you out of here, buddy. I’ve got some help coming, but you have to be good, okay? No bite.”
He repeats it again, very firmly, no bite.
Dex just watches him, unblinking. He wishes more than ever that he could speak, just so he could give him a solid fuck you in return.
He settles for a growl.
Murdock sighs. “Yeah, I hear you.”
The rest of their wait passes in silence, long, dragging moments where he almost loses himself to sleep, eyes drifting shut and breaths slowing. Murdock has been busying himself with checking the place out, removing a glove to run his hand across the crates, head tilting towards occasional sounds, and Dex has been content to let him, curious as to what brought him here.
Perhaps they simply shared the same target, a blip on both their radars that had felt too big to ignore. If so, then maybe this whole situation wasn’t such a bad thing after all. If he was stuck like this, tracking the witch down would be near impossible, getting close downright improbable. But if he let Murdock do the work, do all the heavy lifting long enough to where she was in his sights again…
He has to stay close.
The thought brings an instinctive curl to his lip. He doesn’t want to rely on outside help, doesn’t want to debase himself so fully that he play the part of dutiful dog, but if it’s what finished the job, what helped him get back to his true self, what other choice did he have?
Beggars can’t be choosers.
He hears Nelson before he sees him, the frazzled gait of his steps and the sharp scent of a woman’s perfume clinging like a second skin. He wrinkles his nose at the same time Murdock does.
“In here.” The vigilante calls, and he can hear the way Nelson’s steps falter before continuing towards them.
“Do you know what time it is?” He’s hissing as soon as he comes into view, hair mussed and eyes bright with exhaustion. He’s glaring at Murdock, huffing and puffing like he’d run here, but Dex knows he didn’t. He can smell the exhaust from a car on his hoodie. “Seriously, Matt, I thought you were done with—“
Nelson’s eyes catch on Dex. They widen.
“No,” He says immediately, shaking his head hard. He ignores Murdock’s exasperated call of his name. “No no no, you are not doing this. What the hell is wrong with you? That thing is a fucking hell hound.”
He finds himself preening at that, if only slightly. Finally, a fraction of the respect he deserved.
“He’s hurt,” Murdock argues, looking genuinely upset. “And he’s scared. I can’t just leave him here.”
“You can, actually. You don’t even know whose he is, what if somebody shows up and gets pissed that you dognapped their Cujo?”
Fuck you, Dex thinks, and bares his teeth.
Nelson waves a hand, as if to say, see?
Murdock sighs. He seems to be debating with himself about something, hesitating for only a second before he says, carefully, “He smells like Poindexter.”
Nelson freezes. Dex freezes, too, gaze snapping to Murdock and staying there.
“I don’t know how,” He continues, “It’s faint, surface level, but he was here, and he had contact with the dog. It can’t be ignored.”
“That psycho is supposed to be locked away.” Nelson whispers furiously, and Dex can smell the small bloom of fear in his scent, in the sweat that gathers along his brow. “How the hell is he out?”
“That’s what I intend to find out.” Murdock turns to him, and this time, Dex swallows the growl. Compliant, that’s what he has to be. No more posturing or biting. If he wants to be human again, this is the path of least resistance. “But not tonight. He’s bleeding, we need to get him out of here.”
“Yeah,” Nelson murmurs sourly, digging in his pockets. “Sure, whatever, let’s take home the strange dog we found in an abandoned building, that’s exactly what I was thinking.”
He hands something to Murdock that Dex can’t see, but he can tell by the stiff set of the man’s shoulders, the way he hides it, almost guiltily, that he won’t like it.
Comply, he repeats to himself, even as his hackles raise and his throat aches with the effort it takes to keep silent. Murdock steps towards him, ignoring his friend’s echoing hiss of be careful, and gives him a small smile.
“Hey, sweetheart.” He murmurs, and Dex blinks. He’s not sure if it’s the words or the tone that soothe, that quiet the rankled thing that coils in his chest, but it’s involuntary, the way he settles. An animal reaction to a scrap of kindness. “I know you’re scared, but you gotta work with me here, okay?”
Dex blinks again, slow. What are you playing at, he thinks, holding himself perfectly still, watching his approach.
Murdock slowly brings his hand forward, the one that had been held behind his back, and in it is a cheap, nylon leash. It’s a bright shock of blue, one of the most vivid colors he’s seen since he woke, and tension ripples across his frame like a wire pulled taut.
Fuck no.
“You’re okay,” Murdock tells him, in that same soft, even tone, but Dex isn’t listening, his attention arrested solely by the outstretched hand and the final humiliation lying within it.
The gravity of the situation hits him like a slap in the face, that this is real, that he’s a dog and will be treated as such.
Compliance, he reminds himself, even as he trembles so violently it’s audible, claws scraping the floor and bloody fur scratching against the wall. Be good. Be good.
“Matt,” Nelson says, sounding worried for the first time. “Maybe you shouldn’t—“
Murdock moves so quickly he doesn’t see it coming. One moment he’s a careful distance, leash outstretched and tone apologetic as he murmurs platitudes, and the next it’s looped around Dex’s throat, slack and weightless but undeniably there.
It had been such a smooth motion that he hadn’t even had a moment to react, and so he sits there, shocked and begrudgingly impressed. Murdock doesn’t drag him forward, doesn’t tighten his grip and choke him into submission like he would have done had their positions been reversed. He just waits, letting him think it through, letting his pants fade into something smaller, quieter.
Only then does he step back, applying the faintest pressure to the leash.
Dex fights the instinctual urge to thrash and instead follows, a slow, hesitant step that brings a smile to Murdock’s face.
“There you go,” He murmurs, private, just for the two of them. “Good boy.”
He doesn’t think about the odd tightening in his chest, focuses on following the man, step for step, as he leads them out of the warehouse and into the cool night air. He's hurting all over, a dull, rhythmic ache from an unnaturally violent reshaping, and he knows Murdock can tell from the way his lips thin, worry sharpening his scent into something bitter.
“Where to?” Nelson says, unlocking the car and keeping a healthy distance from the both of them. “Shelter? Emergency vet?”
“Neither,” Murdock says immediately, like the thought hadn’t even crossed his mind. “My place.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Foggy.”
“You’re blind, there’s no way I’m letting you take him home.”
He’s not going to hurt Murdock, not now. He needs him in a way he’s never really needed anyone before, and he wouldn’t jeopardize that on something so petty as another bite.
It’s deliberate manipulation that has him shifting closer to Murdock, close enough to where his side brushes against the worn leather of his suit, a coy play at fear. He even lets a whine thread up his throat, high and puplike. Murdock goes still in surprise, before his hand slowly comes down to rest on his head, a gentle pet he barely feels.
“He stays.” Murdock says firmly.
If Dex could, he would smile. He thinks Nelson can see the smug pride emanating from him anyway.
Dex: 1 Nelson: 0
“—serious, Matt, this is insane, even for you.”
To be fair, Dex agrees.
“You know what they’d do if I brought him in.” Murdock says, hands on his hips and oddly defensive. “He’s… decompressing. He’s just scared.”
“He’s not a chihuahua,” Nelson hisses, waving a hand in his general direction. “And you don’t even like dogs.”
Dex mostly tunes them out, taking the time to peek around Murdock’s apartment. The space is tidy, if a little lackluster, and the light that spills through the windows sets the whole place in a faint, homey glow. It’s a well lived in space, a loved space, and he pads around the perimeter with all the curiosity he can muster.
He’s mostly tired, pain still riding him hard, and so on his second pass around the place he jumps onto the couch.
“Off.” Murdock calls immediately, not even disengaging from his friend, and Dex flicks an ear in irritation. He very pointedly does not get off, and instead circles the cushion until it feels right, plopping down to curl in a tight ball. He’d been lenient on the ride here and had stayed in the floorboard of Nelson’s car, and that was the extent of his goodwill.
“Jesus,” Nelson is saying. “He’s just— Made himself at home. This is happening, you’re actually doing this.”
“If he bites anybody else, they’ll euthanize.” Murdock’s voice is muffled from where he rubs hard at his face. “I have to.”
“No, actually, you don’t. That’s the great thing about free will, you don’t actually have to do anything. Let alone take in weird, psycho dogs you find on the job.”
“Foggy,” Murdock sighs.
“It’d be different if he was cute, like one of those little Pomeranians or something, but he is seriously terrifying. Like, I can’t even describe to you right now how dangerous he looks.”
For the first time, Murdock seems to listen to what his friend is saying. “Is it really that bad?”
Nelson makes a dying noise. “I’m talking creepy, weirdly intelligent eyes, dark fur, the whole shebang. It’s like you have a dinosaur in your living room, buddy. It isn’t safe.”
“I think I’ll manage. And I’ll… figure it out. Make some calls. Maybe Frank will be interested.”
Dex’s blood goes cold, eyes snapping open from where they’d drifted shut. The thought of it, being given to the Punisher of all people, has something close to dread constricting his lungs.
That cannot happen, he thinks, and feels the panic rise the more the two talk about rehoming, finding rescues in the area.
“Two days.” Nelson says firmly, resolve strong in his voice. “I’m giving you two days, and then he’s out.”
Murdock blows out a harsh breath. “Yeah, fine. Two days.”
They speak some more, things that don’t interest him and don’t concern him, so he stares out at the flashing billboard and stews.
He can’t let Murdock get rid of him. It would undoubtedly complicate things a great deal, if not outright seal his fate. Somehow he has to prove his usefulness, his worth as something more than a problem in need of a solution, and he finds it not unlike his life as a human.
Tomorrow, he tells himself. Tomorrow will be different.
Nelson leaves soon after, calling out a loud goodbye, and when the door shuts behind him Murdock’s shoulders drop, exhaustion heavy in his scent.
“Sorry about him,” The man says, and Dex watches him shuffle into the living room through half lidded eyes. “But he’s right. You have to be good, okay?”
You know I can’t make any promises.
Murdock tidies the space up a bit, never straying too close but keeping his head tilted towards him, listening. The caution is good, Dex thinks. He doesn’t even trust himself, and with the way the man favored that injured hand, wincing every time he tried to use it, it’s warranted.
“Off,” Murdock snaps his fingers and points to the floor. “Or I’ll never get the smell out of those.”
The cushions are worn and fluffy, holding his hurting body with more warmth than he's felt in a long, long time, but if he wants Murdock to keep him, he’ll have to play by his rules. Be a good dog.
He obeys begrudgingly, sliding off the sofa and biting back a groan when his hip twinges. It’s not ideal, these aches, and he can only hope they’re a side effect of the curse, a temporary pain that will fade with time.
He ignores Murdock entirely, giving him a wide berth as he passes and finds a corner to settle in. He circles again, frustrated, and plops down with a low grumble.
It’s infinitely less comfortable, the floor hard and unforgiving, his bones protesting immediately, but it’s the best he’s going to get. He closes his eyes and curls that bit tighter, trying to ignore the tremor that’s begun to wrack through his frame.
There’s silence, a clear hesitation, but Murdock doesn’t say anything else. He heads to his bedroom and slides the door shut, getting ready for bed with all the efficiency of a long held routine.
Dex listens to him, helpless not to, and waits until the man slides into bed. He listens as he prays, voice quiet and tone reverent, and then waits until his breaths deepen with sleep.
He gets to his feet and pads to the couch.