Chapter Text
Dex wakes in the same fashion he always does now, familiar enough to be considered a sick routine all its own. Adrenaline crashes through him sharp as if he'd taken a syringe of it straight to the heart, jittering like a current through every nerve as he jolts on his cot before his muscles seize tight.
His breath catches in his chest behind the ache of his racing heart, nausea curdling in his gut threateningly for more than one reason. He fights stubbornly against it, pressing his face hard against the scratchy fabric of his pillow as he focuses on forcing his breathing to steady, to still his body against flinching as the sounds of the prison coming back to life trickle in around him.
Another day in hell. Predictable in its unpredictability. It brings a mirthless laugh to his lips, the taste of despair more acrid on his tongue than the bile threatening to rise.
His instincts flair raw and brittle, the constant lack of safety leaving him feeling flayed open even as his own skin feels too tight, and the desperation he can scent wafting from his pores makes it crawl in shame and disgust.
A reedy whine threads in his vocal cords, frail and anguished as his Omega miserably seeks some answer of stability, of safety, an anchor against the impending wrongness of each day, but Dex knows it always falls on deaf ears.
Maybe things could have been different before, when he'd first been thrown to the animals in the lawless jungle that was gen pop, but the only lifeline he'd had to cast had met only empty air.
It had been expected, so understandably valid that he would be left to silently rot, and yet the disappointment had still slithered in, shame and regret digging around in his chest.
He'd understood that, too. Everything he touches eventually crumbles or dies, in relative silence or a bloodbath of his own making. It's a leaden weight in the pit of him, the knowledge of never being good enough to keep anything, that no matter how long he’s able to stick to the act of normality there is no path for him that doesn't end in collapse and destruction.
He has nothing left now, not even the boring but relative security of solitude. Nothing but this miserable existence, carrying on until it's decided that his number is up.
Dex pulls himself upright as the cell door screeches menacingly along its tracks along with every other one in the block. He'd been surprised at first to not have a cellmate, but he supposes it's just another intentional torment, the illusion of a safe space if only at night.
But there is no safe space.
They're loud at night. Calling out taunting vulgarity, whistling hungrily, a pack of hyenas in the dark that often follow him even into his dreams to fill whatever space is left amongst his other nightmares.
Then they're there every day, in more than just voice. Needling, a tense push and pull to keep him from knowing the exact moment things will come to a head. A game where he's their favorite toy.
They'd stopped his scent blockers. His suppressants too, though he’s been getting fucked enough he figures a heat wouldn't have even been necessary in order to knock him up. But they come now, frequently, his hormones more scrambled than his mind has ever been.
He can feel it. It's still early, his body unchanged at a glance. But he can feel it — the life growing in him.
It's not the first. Likely not even the last.
The same instincts that leave his Omega trying to cling to each little flicker of life are the very reason none of them stick around for long, a pitiful wailing of protectprotectprotect when the only protection that can be offered is steeped in the opposite result desired.
What his Omega wants can not be sustained, not here, and still it fights again and again to keep, like clutching at water that always trickles through no matter how tightly together you squeeze your fingers.
He's relieved though. Despite the inner chaos it causes, he's grateful it never takes. He doesn't want them. He's never stopped to realistically consider having a kid, not with his fractured mind, sure he'd only be a risk to them or worse — but he'd never want one like this.
The disgust is a constant, jarring presence, the relief brief when his body fails to sustain the rooted seed. It's never long before he's pitched back into another heat, a despairing cycle stuck on repeat. Part of him wishes for the moment he can't take any more, when his biology fails completely, but that thought always leaves him feeling even more ill.
He can't hide in his cell all day. They'll corner him regardless, but he still has a spark of that stubborn refusal to make it any easier.
Dex still fights every time, as much as he can while outnumbered and with his hands still bound in front of him, chain too short to properly make use of. All it ever earns him is a beat down on top of the inevitable rape. His body eventually betrays him out of self preservation, Omega whining to just comply as slick coats his thighs like blood coats his tongue.
It never stops him.
It's after some of the Russians have had their way with him that something switches up the familiar routine. A guard comes after lunch to fetch him, lip curled with a mix of distaste and perverse satisfaction at his bloody lip and disheveled state, the obvious reek of sex and sour distress coating him like a grime he might never be able to scrub off.
Dex doesn't let anything show in his expression, face kept carefully neutral in defiance, the same mask of airy boredom he’s always displayed since arriving at Rikers. Keeps the look even when a jolt of surprise runs through him when he's told he has a visitor.
It couldn't be him, not after all this time. Which meant it was likely to be one of the Fisks, or probably somebody sent by them. He bites his cheek in revulsion at the memory of the last visit, of the threatening promise he’d been given.
Just one more reason to be grateful he's unlikely to ever carry to term.
The surprise wears into thin apprehension as he's manhandled to where the isolated visitor rooms are, and it's only once he's practically at the door that he's able to pick out the faintest trace of the last scent he'd been expecting to ever breathe in again.
Dex nearly stumbles as this time it's full-on shock that crashes over him, laced with the nervousness of walking into the unknown, especially in his current state. He's an open book to all the unsavoriness he's experienced in this hell and he hates how off-center it suddenly throws him, pulse stumbling and skin pricking with the same shame he feels when his body responds to each scumbag that takes a turn at him.
It's unlikely Murdock could think any less of him — even if he did, why should he care? What should it matter now?
Dex holds back a grimace as he thinks of the deal he'd intended to offer the devil, a trade of truth in exchange for getting him out of gen pop. If he'd only known then exactly what was in store for him perhaps he'd have tried harder to draw the man out.
It almost feels pointless to try now, and yet, he can't deny he's more desperate than ever to secure any shred of reprieve.
Dex doesn't have time to settle the spiraling thoughts and emotions before the door is pushed open and he's dragged into the room, but at least his mask doesn't slip, remains the one thread of dependability amongst the betrayals of the rest of his body.
He immediately locks onto Murdock’s stiff form where he's standing at the other end of the table, watches the quick flicker of open revelation twitch over his face before the features harden, uninterpretable. The quick exchange with the guard as he's cuffed to the table reaches him as if through cotton, unimportant and forgettable with his focus sharp on Murdock alone.
Then it's just the two of them.
The silence drags out as Dex studies the other, every line of tension apparent even hidden beneath primly pressed fabric. Dex licks over the backs of his teeth, drawing in quiet breath before making the first move to break it, fingers twitching lightly in their restraints.
“I didn't think you'd show.”
It's been eight months, he doesn't add, but it sits heavy in the subtext nonetheless. Murdock shifts his stance subtly but doesn't reply, and Dex feels the buzzing under his skin intensify uncomfortably, stomach clenching under the sharp focus disguised by that sightless gaze.
All at once it's practically intolerable.
“I don't need your pity,” he finds himself snapping out in a tense tone, unable to bite the comment back under the growing pressure of Murdock's continued refusal to speak. Restlessness itches under his skin, half from himself and half his Omega, anxious and wary of the current situation as it acknowledges the threat in the room. Murdock is both better in some ways and more dangerous in others than the ilk he's been kept with, even without being an Alpha to boot.
His outburst seems to snap something finally, a low chuckle rumbling up from Murdock’s chest that's anything but humored as he straightens with a clear air of superiority that sends a small shiver down Dex's nape.
∆
Matthew Murdock stands in the visitor’s room. His fingers twitch with the need to do something, he feels the urge to pace the room but the three strides it would take doesn’t feel like enough space to vent all the feelings roiling through him. He has no idea why he decided to finally come. For answers? Because Foggy would have wanted him to? Because he needs to know the truth or he’s going to burst out of his own skin? Because he wants to lash out at something and he needs validation and vindication to point him in the right direction?
It’s been eight months since Kirsten told him that Benjamin Poindexter had asked him to visit. Eight months the man had been subjected to the general population of Rikers. Matt had had a hard time telling himself the man didn’t deserve it. No one had blamed him for ignoring the invitation, but it had buzzed in the back of his mind. Eight long months he had this repeatedly pinging off the walls of his brain asking him why. Why would Bullseye want to talk to him? What more did he have to say? What did he have to offer after taking Foggy from him the way he did? Matt had ignored it for as long as he could, but then he had been to Josie’s that morning and well, that had led him here. Standing and twitching at every clang of a door he could hear as prisoners and guards moved about and he waited for the murderer of his best friend to finally spill whatever secret it was that he still held.
Matt had to tell himself that no matter what it was he needed to keep his head clear to play this game. Whatever Dex wanted to say he couldn’t let it fuck with his mind. He needed answers and he was here to get them. That was it. This game, whether it was some cat and mouse chase or some game of chess that Poindexter thought he was in control of, Matt needed to hold all the pieces. He needed to keep his cool. He didn’t think he needed to tell himself to hold onto that anger and grief over the loss of his best friend.
He hears the harsh buzz as locks are engaged and released from down the hall. A guard and prisoner being let into the hallway, a guard and Dex being let into the hallway. The faint scents of mint and ivy creep in first with that hint of clove coming in sharper as the pair approached. The last time he had smelled those scents had been when he had fought Bullseye on that rooftop. When he had listened to Foggy gasp as he struggled to breath. The memory causes Matt’s hands to tighten at his sides. He takes in another breath, this time trying to settle himself but only managing to inhale a sharper breath of that same scent getting stronger as the man himself approaches. It churns a sense of wrongness in his stomach. It's wrong that this scent lingers stronger in his mind now than Foggy’s own scent. It's been eight months and he fears every moment of it that his friend will fade and this monster will still be here.
There’s a bitter bite to the scent as they get closer, a tangle of something acrid and astringent, maybe– fear? He can hear the erratic rhythm of Dex’s heart as he approaches the door, then the handle turns and Matt is hit with two things simultaneously. The scent of sex and violence flood the room as a disheveled and bruised Benjamin Poindexter shuffles in, hands encased in cuffs as he is shoved into a chair and chained to the lone table. Matt scrapes enough manners to nod and acknowledge the guard before the door closes. As they’re left alone Matt’s second realization is that he can smell Poindexter at all. The last time he had seen him had been in court, when he had been on suppressants and scent blockers, like all omegas who were in prison. Dex has been in gen pop for the last eight months. How many of those were spent like this? Is he off of his suppressants too? It smells like it.
Matt isn’t proud that his first thought is good, let the man suffer. He had taken Foggy. The pain lashes fresh at him like flies biting a still bleeding wound, and the guilt that flushes soon behind does nothing to soothe the ache. It’s more like pouring vinegar in to drive the flies away, a sting that does nothing but drag his attention to the raw hole torn into him by the very man that sits before him.
“I didn’t think you would show.”
The words fall like stones at Matt’s feet, heavy and dragging. What would Foggy think of his callousness? His alpha side seems to have opinions on that too, as it pries at the gap between his anger and his guilt. It cries with outrage at the obvious signs of abuse, trying to redirect his anger. Here is an omega that needs protection! A weak thing with no alpha to claim him, in need and frightened. Matt’s lips tighten as the storm of emotions threaten to tear him in every direction at once. His hatred for this man is still there, it simmers under his skin with a heat that threatens to burn at the slightest touch, but the more the scents clinging to the omega permeate the room the louder Matt’s alpha side demands answers and retribution. His instincts yell that this is wrong. The bitter salt and bite of copper are strong enough to taste on his tongue in this tight enclosed space and still there’s something else that itches at his alpha hindbrain, something that demands attention but is faint enough even his senses can’t pin it.
The snap of the man’s next words drag him back to the forefront of his mind. He has to stay focused. He came here for a reason, not to let his bleeding heart drown him with someone else’s problems. He draws that anger back around him, clings to it like a lifepreserver to protect himself as he inhales deeply and straightens up, taking a step closer to the table and leveling Dex with a raw glare of contempt.
“Shut your mouth. I’m not here to pity you,” he spits the words out with as much venom as he can muster, “I want to know why the Fisks want you dead. Were you hired to kill Foggy?”
He uses every ounce of authority in his voice to demand answers. His tone would be perfectly at home in a courtroom, and yet there's still the sharp stab of disdain behind each word. He catches the flinch from the omega, the uptick in his heartbeat, the smell of sweat as a bead trickles down Poindexter’s forehead. Matt’s alpha wars with his own inner turmoil, but he squashes both sides down until he knows he is in control. His hands are steady and his gaze is unflinching as the tension in the room ratchets skyward. He's not here for pity, he repeats to himself, he's here for answers.
∆
For a moment the abrupt rejection stings, even if it had been Dex’s own demand to not be looked down upon that way. The small flinch provoked by the thinly-veiled vitriol in the other's voice is instinctive on two ends, deeply rooted worthlessness digging at the cracks in his mind against his will. That the damage he'd caused would make even someone of Murdock’s moral fiber so thoroughly merciless in regards to his condition–
It's enough to give him pause as he lets the questions register.
He can't tell.
It's a bit surprising. Though Dex doesn't quite understand the full extent of Murdock's enhanced senses, he'd nearly expected the stink of his newest pregnancy to somehow be obvious to the man, even if it's barely noticeable to his own nose.
Unless it’s just too buried under the rest of the filth clinging to him, he thinks bitterly.
The bark of laughter that leaves him is wholly impulsive in the wake of his realization, loud and sharp. He feels the split on his lower lip reopen as his mouth stretches in a grin that's more a churlish baring of teeth, the tang of iron in the air a familiar companion.
“You think they want me dead?” he goads, as if daring the man to refute the clear and damning evidence surrounding them both, that if death were a pressing goal it would have been met as soon as he'd been released there. It could still end that way eventually, of course, so maybe Murdock doesn't have it completely wrong — but as they say, it's all about the journey not the destination.
Death would have been simpler.
Dex’s quick burst of bitterness fizzles out as quickly as it had come as he draws in a steadying breath, catching the subtle scent of cedar and a flash of ozone that makes his Omega squirm even as Dex finds something both grounding and thrilling about the combination, like a storm setting upon a forest. The fact that he can detect Murdock's scent at all is testament to the man likely being too busy with something to keep on top of his blockers.
That Dex is at least a part of all that rushing around makes sharp amusement curl through him. Murdock has to hate that he's come here more than anything, and yet, he's here all the same. Dex’s heart gives an unruly flutter at the fragile reversal of power, tentative leverage that requires him to tread carefully.
He shifts in his seat, redirecting his gaze as his tongue darts out to lick away the blood that's collected on his lip. The cacophony of the prison is impossible to block out, a buzzing hive comprised of the worst of the worst.
“You hear that?” he starts again, words chosen with probing cautiousness. “Outside. That is the roar of the jungle, counselor.”
Dex’s tongue prods once more at the sluggish bleeding, gaze drifting back to Murdock. “Is that what I am to you? An animal? One of them?” All his attempts to keep a good path, all his hard won achievements, all for naught; burned bridges and rubble that only a creature of pestilence could survive.
Movement finally comes. Murdock starts forward, closing the distance between them at a leisurely pace, a looseness that's all for show, as if proving Dex's next point before he's even made it. Dex pushes the words out as Murdock settles on the edge of the table and leans in, close enough to feel the shift of air around him, the faint presence of heat.
“Cause that's what this is all about, right? Who's the predator, and who's the prey,” he says as his gaze briefly falls away alongside the drop-flutter in his gut, the tingling of gooseflesh on his skin as some of the hairs raise on end.
Dex forces himself to look back up in calm defiance, staring the man straight in his face as he waits for a reply, pushing back the rising anxiety coming from his Omega at his continued stubborn refusal to defer to every threat he ends up facing.
“But I have questions too.”
∆
Matt repeats to himself he’s only here for answers. He has no pity for this man, he can’t, no one would blame him if he didn’t. He had killed his best friend and as much as the tapestry of events wants to weave a picture of an act of revenge Matt’s here to pull at the loose threads to unravel the truth. He bats aside the bitter words lashed at him, subterfuge meant to distract surely. He doesn’t need to see to sense the desperation clinging to Dex. The way his muscles are wound tight with every movement, how he leans back as if expecting violence, prepared for it. Dex is wary and with the pandemonium of the prisoners as the soundtrack to their meeting it isn’t hard to guess why.
There’s a weight in the air as Agent Poindexter begins his plea, more subdued than before as he points out the din and chaos that reigns just beyond the walls of their room. Matt’s inner alpha snaps at it, at the words Dex utters as he backhandedly accuses Matt of seeing him as nothing more than an animal. His alpha teethes at the frayed edges of his resolve, a steady rhythm of protectprotectprotect chanting in his ear as claws of guilt shred at his heart for even entertaining the idea that Dex is just another animal, that he belongs in this jungle of beasts.
He can hear the desperate sounds Karen made as she bloodied her hands in a vain attempt to buy Foggy more time. The shattering, crushing pain as his best friend lay on the cold sidewalk, never to get up again. It’s sickening that he has to relive that moment here, now, with Dex sitting a few feet away from him pleading that he’s not a monster. He squeezes his eyes shut for a second, as if he can close out the memory and rewrite history. A year and eight months of trying to move on with his life and heal only to be thrown back to the day everything unraveled. His hatred for the other man bubbles up anew. He huffs, frustrated with himself that he could find even a sliver of sympathy for even a second for someone as heartless as Benjamin Poindexter, but then again he had always tried to emulate Foggy’s best qualities.
He tries for nonchalance as he steps closer, each motion careful and loose as he settles on the edge of the table within reach of the omega. It’s even harder to ignore the combined souring and sweet scents of cooling semen and slick from this distance. It’s a medley of various alpha scents coated over the much crisper notes of mint and clove and earthy smells Matt has come to associate with the assassin. Dex is being killed in this place, one day at a time. Smothered out of existence with each assault. That isn’t up for debate. So he tells himself it isn’t his problem, even as it curdles his stomach to think about it.
He doesn’t care. He can’t care. He promised himself when he came here that he would get answers and he’ll intimidate them out of Dex if he has to. He towers over him from his position on the table, sitting up straighter as he hears the rustle of the omega casting his glance to the side. Prey indeed. Matt is here on a hunt for the truth, for justice or revenge or whatever else it is called.
The cowering doesn’t last, as in defiance Dex lifts his head once more to demand his own answers. The chant continues deep within Matt to protect; he ignores it. His lips draw tight in a mock smile, blustering past the omega’s words as if he doesn’t hear them or as if he's amused that Dex would think he would even care what answers he wants.
“Everyone thought you were just a shooter on a rampage didn’t they? Settling scores, getting vengeance,” Matt keeps his voice level but accusatory as he verbally stabs at Dex with each word. He's building to a point, like he's done so many times in court. Like he had done so many times with Foggy at his side. The man begins to shift uncomfortably and he doesn’t let up, following him with his sightless gaze as if to say there is no escaping this. This is justice, this hopelessness that is seeping in from every side. If Matt has to feel it, he'll make sure Dex feels it too.
“But it wasn’t, was it? You did it for someone. You did it for Fisk, didn’t you?” He doesn’t raise his voice and he can hear how it makes Dex squirm, like a bug under a microscope there’s nowhere for him to run. No leaves left to hide under with the truth dragged out into the open and the sun scorching him with judgement.
“If I stay in here I might never be able to answer that,” the omega tries to make another bid for amnesty. Matt can feel how he’s grasping at straws to save himself and his alpha howls at him to allow it, to just back down and soothe, but Matt isn’t here to take home nothing. He thinks of Foggy again, how he’ll never get to have another drink with him, joke with him, even just talk to him after a long day. He thinks of the hell that he’s been through trying to drag himself back to some semblance of normal ever since that day. Dex had asked for no pity. He had demanded it.
Matt’s hands tremble as his anger froths again, nearly rising beyond his control. He’s been boiling these last few months, building pressure with nowhere to vent the steam. Everything with Heather and Kirsten and Cherry. Fisk taunting him, simmering some unseen plot behind the scenes, and here’s the key sitting right in front of him refusing to unlock the last obstacle.
“Oh, sweetheart,” he says, his words dripping with sarcasm and mockery as he lets that anger rise in his voice this time, “What do you want me to do? You want me to get you out? You want me to file an appeal?”
He doesn't intend on doing either. He wants Dex to rot in here, and that thought slams into him with each beat of his heart, more real than the blood that pumps through him. He has to believe that, or there is no justice, right?
He's leaned in close now, crowding the omega against the back of his chair, the chain holding his cuffs stretched taut in front of him. Matt breathes in to steady himself and that’s when he catches it, that sweetness that has been itching his nose this entire time, the scent he has been vehemently ignoring. It isn’t clove or ivy or even mint. It’s subtle but floral, different then any of Dex’s other scents. It gives Matt pause as pieces begin to click into place one by one. The desperation, the bargaining, the thrashing and resistance of his alpha instincts. His eyes flick to where he knows Dex’s gaze glares at him accusatory where it should have no right to accuse, and Matt can feel as the first chip in his anger breaks even before the omega utters another word.
∆
Dex stares at Murdock for a long breath, the sarcastic pet name needling at him along with the mockery of a grin. For some reason it doesn't actually irritate him, not exactly, maybe because he understands the man really has no reason to help him outside of the small sliver of honesty Dex could give him, pointing him in the right direction of the retribution he so desperately clings to.
Though, to what end? Would Murdock finally cross that line, finally put a stop to Fisk for good, one less behemoth of corruption in this dog eat dog world?
It isn't that simple, not anymore.
Dex knows Vanessa has become just as dangerous as her husband, as much of a threat even without the strength to back it up quite the same way. She doesn't need it though, her power is all in persuasion, in lethal charm. Even if Murdock became willing to take out Wilson, if he couldn't or wouldn't extend the same solution to Vanessa…
Who knows what those loyal to her would do on her behalf with her still puppeteering the strings. Dex is sure she could continue her command from prison just as well as Wilson had, maybe even better.
He pushes away the urge that Murdock's words provoke from his Omega, to bare his throat and beg for the leniency or forgiveness he knows he doesn't deserve, but then a different itch takes hold of him.
“You know in another life, you might be defending me,” he says, a petty statement even if he does believe in the truth of it, and he watches Murdock freeze, tension creeping back into his form. It sparks something in him. He'd nearly forgotten how it feels to be in the man's orbit, the perverse delight of the push and pull between them.
He presses on that wound, voice steady through the small tremble he feels but can't distinguish as due to instinct or adrenaline. “Cause that's what good men do, right? Defend their worst enemies.”
Dex expects retribution in some form for his loose tongue, finds himself yearning for it even — some measure of familiar violence, of the twisted normalcy of their bloody bond. But Murdock merely stands up, face unreadable even if Dex can smell the storm hidden underneath, moving away to collect his cane before passing Dex with the clear intent of summoning the guard.
Honest fear strikes Dex then. If Murdock leaves now it's over for good. He knows he won't see the man again, knows that with his stubbornness he might just eventually dig up the truth himself. The helplessness returns, squeezing his chest as he makes a desperate last attempt.
“I'm bargaining for my life here, counselor,” he calls out, hearing the scuff of shoes as the other stops short at the door. He has his attention, at least for a little longer, and he latches onto the only topic Murdock has use of him for.
“You wanna know,” he starts as the footsteps resume, this time closing the gap between them, “if Fisk hired me.”
Dex feels fingers thread into his hair before gripping harshly, forcing his head back, forcing submission. It's clear Murdock's patience has worn thin, close to breaking, though his expression remains just as much of a mask as the one he dons when he's slinking through the dark cover of night.
Dex swallows, tensing to hold back a shudder. “I can tell you. But I need to be outside.”
“I don't trust you for a second,” Murdock growls immediately, the devil in his voice. Dex’s heart pounds hard in his chest, elevated, and he knows Murdock is listening, just as he knows it hadn't skipped.
“I'm not lying.”
The grip in his hair tightens sharply, a sudden painful pull that makes his scalp ache and catches him off guard just enough that a small whine threads high in the back of his throat. He can practically taste the violence on his tongue, how badly Murdock wants to do something — anything. Leave him bruised and bloodied, a token of proof to that usually carefully disguised side of him that likes taking matters into his own hands.
Yet at the soft sound Murdock's grip promptly loosens, lip curling in a snarl of disgust as the fingers fall away completely and he turns once more.
As if Dex isn't even worth that much, the violence.
The plea tears out of him before he can stop it, too open, too hurt in a way that spills shame through him to mix with the desperation.
“Please.”
Murdock doesn't seem to plan on stopping this time and Dex’s throat squeezes shut, mind racing. There's only one thing left to leverage, a truth that's shadowed by an omission that complicates it, turning into a manipulation.
“They'll keep it,” he forces himself to say. Murdock halts again though he doesn't turn back to Dex, and Dex doesn't look away this time, even if he wants to. Keeps his gaze on stiff shoulders and clenched hands as his stomach churns and his Omega whines pitifully in the back of his mind.
“If I don't die. If I…” He hates it. Hates all of it. But he has to push the words out. He knows Murdock had finally sensed it when he'd drawn close enough, had seen the subtle pinch in expression as the man had drawn a slow, deep breath. Dex knows if there's anything he could care about, it might be this. “If I carry to term. The Fisks. They’ll take it. They'll raise it as their own.”
He licks his lips nervously as the silence stretches. Murdock doesn't speak, doesn't turn around, but he doesn't leave just yet either. He's thinking, weighing the information and the bias that comes with it.
“Please. I know you don't give a shit what happens to me, I get it. But…”
His voice drops low, soft — genuine. He doesn't expect this one to turn out any differently than the last, even if he's released, but the honesty of the what if is easy to hide behind, easy to weaponize to try and aid himself.
“They've done nothing wrong. Just exist. No one should have to be punished for that….”
∆
Matt’s thoughts swirl around the revelation as with each breath that floral scent becomes more solid, more certain in what it is. Undeniable. Violets, it’s so simple to put a name to the scent now that he can’t shake it from his senses, even as he’s still reeling from the new information.
Dex is pregnant.
He's still trying to gather back his anger, trying to get his resolve back on solid ground when Poindexter pierces him with one sentence.
You know in another life, you might be defending me.
He can feel his heart seize up at the words, his whole body going rigid. Because wasn’t that what he was always telling himself? Before Foggy— before Dex had done what he had done, Matt had prided himself in never playing the executioner. Here he was condemning the man. It wasn’t even the first time either. He had pushed Bullseye off that roof with intent.
It was easy to let Poindexter’s words flay open his heart. He had cut himself on similar sentiments plenty of times. The whole time he had given up his mask he had been stabbing himself with words like those. Words about defending those who can’t defend themself and being a better man, a good man.
Sometimes he feels like the good man in him died that day. Whether he slipped away with Foggy’s last breath or jumped off that roof when Bullseye was pushed. It’s so much easier to think of how this mess is Dex’s own making instead of letting himself be haunted by the ghost of the man he was before he crossed that line. Dex is the one who murdered Foggy. He’s the one who agreed to help the Fisks with their plan. He’s the one who dug his own grave. He has no right to start asking to be pulled out now just because he doesn’t like the taste of the dirt.
Matt’s alpha thrashes inside his head as he shoves off of the table. It demands that he stays, that he protects this omega. But he only grabs his cane in a white knuckled grip like it’s his own resolve that he’s holding onto. He makes it the three strides it takes to cross the room, ready to wash his hands of this whole ordeal and just root out the information he needs on his own, but Dex lashes out with one last plea.
“I’m bargaining for my life here, counselor.” It’s desperate and greedy and such a simple cry for help.
It strikes a nerve.
Foggy didn’t get to bargain for his life. He didn’t get to make his case on why he should be allowed to live. It rings in his head. He tries to tell himself to just leave, but his hand is snagged in Dex’s hair before he knows he’s even drawn close enough to reach him. His grip tightens and his hands tremble in barely contained rage. He should just go. He can still walk away from this right now. But he doesn’t listen to himself. Dex is trying to bargain with him and all he can think of is smashing his face into the table to shut him up, but this is one fight that his alpha seems to win. As pissed as he is he can’t bring himself to draw blood. Not from a pregnant omega. His arm tenses as he still considers it. He wants to so badly. He can taste the ozone of his own scent, snapping in the air.
“I don’t trust you for a second.” He grinds the words out with all the barely contained fury that he has bottled up. Years of hatred and venom spilling into seven little words, and yet the well of vitriol isn’t dry yet. He hears the fear in Poindexter’s heart, can smell it on him like he’s bathing in pheromones. He could hurt him so easily like this. Throat bare, hands restrained, no one else in the room.
“I’m not lying.” Dex says the words like they’ll be his last, one final lifeline before he goes under.
Matt tightens his grip. He could just give in. He could give Dex something to really beg for. He has so much rage built up it’s almost begging for a target and here is the perfect one, a bullseye already painted on his back. A high pitched whine threads its way from the omega’s throat, laced with pain and desperation, and suddenly it is like all of Matt’s strings have been cut. He can taste bile in the back of his throat at the disgust he feels with himself for what he had almost done.
His lips twist into a snarl as he lets go of the other man. Suddenly the scent of violence is too much in this place, overwhelming as much as it is alluring. He needs to get out of here, he needs to leave before he makes another mistake that he’ll regret. He turns to go and Dex shouts a single grasping “Please.” Begging for help from the wrong end of a loaded gun. He shakes it off, restless to be out of here now, needing to breathe fresh air that isn’t stifling. His hand is raised to knock on the door to notify the guard when Dex plays his final card.
“They’ll keep it.” It sounds like the words are dropped on the table like lead and the weight of them locks Matt in place, hand still poised in the air.
“If I don’t die. If I…If I carry to term. The Fisks. They’ll take it. They’ll raise it as their own.” There’s a pause as the omega wets his lips, and Matt can feel the chill curl its way up his spine at the implication. The Fisks are vindictive if anything. He can play out a million ways this will go and none of them end well for an innocent child.
“Please. I know you don’t give a shit what happens to me, I get it. But…They’ve done nothing wrong. Just exist. No one should have to be punished for that…”
It’s like a death knell for Matt’s anger. He has every right to condemn Poindexter, but a child? An innocent unborn baby? In the hands of the Fisks? He sucks in a breath through his teeth before pulling back and slamming his hand against the door.
“Guard!” he yells before he hears the click of the lock and the door swings open. He draws himself to his full height, radiating authority as he projects his alpha status throughout the tone of his voice. “This man needs to be put on a 48 hour psych hold. He has disclosed some worrying thoughts and I believe he may cause harm to himself or others.”
The guard looks irritated and annoyed as he mutters to himself. Matt paces to the back of the room as the cuffs are unlocked and Dex is pulled out of the chair. He wipes at his jaw, unable to believe what he’s doing for this man after everything, but his inner alpha is pleased with the turn of events. He turns back as Dex is set onto his feet. He sways unsteadily. Matt straightens up, facing him head on.
“There’s your reprieve,” he says coldly.
∆
Dex sees the strike as it happens but still nearly flinches at the abrupt clang and rattle of the door. He goes cold as Murdock shouts for the guard, sure of what it means, that the man is so thoroughly embittered that he's willing to allow even that kind of collateral if it comes tied to Dex. The shock of it leaves him sinking into a spiral he knows too well — I'm drowning in deep water and I-I don't know if I'm swimming for the surface or the bottom — his mind fizzing with static, muffling his surroundings.
His chest feels tight and he feels– he feels so small, helpless, adrift. His Omega wails just as powerlessly at his state but no sound escapes him. Murdock’s words to the guard register on a delay, hands already being undone from the table restraints, and he feels even colder, so much that it burns.
He's not being ignored. He's being hastened to the executioner's block.
The devil refuses to bloody his own hands with death, but he's always been good at setting up the dominos and watching them topple, whether for good or bad, accidental or deliberate.
A hysterical laugh dies soundlessly in his throat as he's pulled to his feet, swaying slightly with the disconnect he's mired in as he's shoved forward. He doesn't know what his expression might reveal, but at least neither will Murdock.
There's your reprieve, he snaps as the distance between them reaches its most narrow, and Dex wonders if, maybe, he's less a devil and more an angel of vengeance, justice cold and absolute. He feels his lips crack into a grin that's all shattered glass, brittle and jagged like the rest of him, the words leaving him in hushed, bittersweet reverence.
“Thank you, counselor.”
Dex hears the low growl as he's manhandled out the door and absently thinks that it isn't a terrible farewell to bear.
Two days of refuge before inevitable ruination. Like a death row inmate’s last meal.
It's not what he'd hoped for, but he'll take the scraps, try and let himself feel more grateful than disappointed at the likely demise waiting at the end. Twists the hope until it turns from escape into not making it to the middle of the following week, if only so that he's freed from it all. No more abuse. No more regret or disappointment. Not a worry for the world left behind.