Chapter Text
When Dex followed Mr. Charles onto a plane to Washington DC, he expected to be brought to an office, like his work with the FBI. He'd wear his gear, get his assignments, and do the job. A routine he could follow. The dependable kind. The kind that used to quiet the noise in his head. It had been easier to mimic and mirror in an office environment. Stability had been the goal back then. However, it was clarity that had blossomed in the months that followed his near-death and second chance at life at the hands of Daredevil. It was as if he had seen a new light. A different perspective. Understood his true purpose. To balance the scales. To provide his skills. To eliminate evil. The life of a real goddamn hero. A good guy. Dex felt the corner of his lips tug. A small smile. A bit of pride. How could he not take pleasure in that fact? He was one of the good guys now and, like all heroes, Dex had to overcome the odds and deal with the challenges that were thrown at him.
It was hard, but noble work.
That afternoon, the current challenge was... being in public.
At a mall.
Maybe mall was too small a word for the massive shopping center he found himself in. Countless stores and people at every turn. High end brands so expensive that one item would have cost about what Dex used to pay a month in rent in New York. He stood at the center of the plaza, eyes surveying as people moved from store to store. Their arms were loaded with bags. Probably thousands of dollars worth of junk. It was not what Dex imagined when he received a call from the hotel lobby front desk that morning and was informed that a car had been sent to him. The driver had picked him up from the hotel and dropped him off here. No Mr. Charles and no further instructions.
A small reprieve came when the phone in his coat pocket went off. He retrieved the ringing device, staring blankly down as it continued to ring. His phone was tucked in his back right pocket. This phone wasn't his at all and certainly wasn't in his pocket when he left the hotel room that day. He turned the phone over in his hand. It was flamingo pink and buzzing along to some pop song he wasn't familiar with. The caller ID name was a single sparkle emoji. What the absolute fuck? Dex answered the call, eyes sharp as he scanned the area. He gave no greeting, instead waiting for the other end of the line to speak.
It was your voice that came through.
"Took you long enough."
It was the kind of voice that curved around each word spoken. Made each sentence feel like an invitation. Casual. Kind in tone. Light. More than a little playful. Not at all the voice he expected to fill his ear. It was unfamiliar. Not just your voice, but the sound of someone -- anyone -- speaking to him warmly. It instantly set Dex on alert.
"Who is this?"
"Do you always take so long to answer calls or do you have an aversion to the color pink that I should know about?"
Dex frowned at his question being answered with a question. It instantly drew a giggle out of you. He turned where he stood, eyes trying to lock onto whoever was clearly watching him.
"You're going to be a fun one. I can already tell."
PING!
"See you soon."
The line cut. Dex dropped the phone from his ear, thumbing through the screen until he opened the messages. A simple instruction. The name of a coffee shop. The intention was clear. He was meant to go there. He pocketed the phone as he began to move, only slowing when he neared a store directory. The coffee shop looked like a local spot. The kind that decorated with the intention of providing customers with good vibes and fun aesthetics with their cups of coffee. It was the kind of decoration that Dex just didn't understand. It served no purpose. It didn't make the coffee taste any better. Dex didn't order a drink, instead opting walk past the small line towards the table in the back corner. Unfortunately, the table was located beneath a neon sign that read 'IT'S A MUG STORY (BABY, JUST SAY YES)'. He placed a chair on one side of the table before sitting directly across from the chair. Back to the wall. No surprises.
Well, one surprise.
You.
Dex's eyes flickered to the register at the sound of your voice. It was soft and sweet as you thanked the barista. He watched as you adjusted the handbag hooked on your arm before you took two to-go cups in your hands. You turned and looked over in his direction, eyes landing directly where he had chosen to sit. A smile spread across your lips as you made your way over to the table. The long peacoat you wore was a rich royal blue. It also was cinched at your waist and hung over your curves in a way that could only emphasize the swing of your hips as you neared. More importantly, it also concealed most of your body, which made it difficult for Dex to note any sort of weapon in sight.
"There's my guy," you happily said, setting down the cups on the table, "Made it here just in time for drinks too."
Instead of taking the seat across from him, Dex watched as you curled your fingers around the back of the chair and drag it over to his side. You set the chair far too close to his own. It was the lack of distance often reserved for close friends. The kind of dynamic Dex had absolutely no experience with. He sat straighter in his seat as you dropped down into the seat beside him, hooking the strap of your handbag on the corner of your chair. It was all too... friendly. Like this was something the two of you had done countless times. An act that Dex knew to be untrue since he had no idea who the hell you were.
"You will not believe how many coffee places are in this shopping center," you continue on, as you tug at the sash around your waist. You loosen and shrug out of the coat you wore, moving to hang it onto the back of your seat, alongside your purse. "Eleven. Such a strange, uneven number for one location and way too much caffeine in a five block radius. Have you--"
Your words are cut with a soft gasp as Dex pressed the tip of a blade into your side. Not enough to pierce, but enough to get your attention. In your distraction, you missed the way he reached into his jacket. Dex watched your face, waiting for the act to drop. It never comes. Instead, he watched as you look down to where the blade was. An incredulous look touched your face. Like somehow he was in the wrong in this exchange.
"Well, that's just rude," you pointed out, too casual for someone currently with a knife aimed in your direction. "I went through eleven coffee websites trying to find the best one in anticipation of today and now I'm going to have a hole in my fourth favorite shirt--"
"What is this?"
"I thought it was a lovely little coffee catch-up," you instantly replied, confusion in your eyes as you looked at him. "But apparently sweet treats trigger the fight response with you, which feels very strange, but who am I to judge? I'll note it for the next time, I guess."
You leaned back in your seat, clearly disappointed as you cross your arms over your chest. Dex tried not to acknowledge the way that motion dipped the fabric at your neckline on your fourth favorite shirt.
"Figures Mr. Charles would stick me with a total--"
"Mr. Charles," Dex jumped in, grasping onto the first thing that made sense to him that day.
The name earned a nod from you, as well as the beginning of what Dex anticipated was another earful.
"When I agreed to this arrangement -- and god did I not even want to agree to it in the first place -- I specifically requested--"
"Hey, no. Stop that," Dex stopped you, lightly tapping your side with the tip of the blade, "Focus. Who are you and why am I here?"
He had the good sense to stop you before you could throw yourself into a long winded response.
"Five words or less," he ordered.
You remain silent, looking pointedly from Dex's eyes to the blade in his hand. He relented after a beat, drawing his knife and concealing it back in his jacket. Once it was out of sight, he watched as you considered your next five words. You took your time, eyes aimed skyward as you thought. Once the words came to you, you sat up straighter, ready to play.
"New recruit."
You grinned, hands in the finger gun position as you pointed to him.
"Handler."
You motioned to yourself.
"Coffee catch-up."
You make a show of wiggling manicured fingertips at the two coffee cups that sat on the table still. You nodded. Not so much to Dex, but to yourself. Apparently a self-congratulations after a job well done. Dex's face pinched slightly in thought. You were... strange. Far too sunny and unsubtle. Your eyes were too expressive, your smile too welcoming. There was no fucking way you were CIA.
"That can't be right," he muttered to himself.
"It's right," you nodded, seemingly in understanding and not understanding at the same time, "Five words or less. Catch-up has a hyphen. It's a common error. People think of the action of catching up when really the hyphenated version is when you're trying to describe--"
"I thought Mr. Charles was the guy."
That gets a scoff of a laugh out of you.
"Oh, he's definitely the guy," you replied, a light roll in your eyes as you spoke, "But even the guy has to answer to someone and he's got so many players in the game that sometimes even the best of coaches need some assistance."
You find yourself slowing slightly as you took in the sight of Dex. He was clearly trying to work through the information in his mind. This was a new development for him. One that you weren't sure he approved of.
"Seeing how Mr. Charles didn't take it upon himself to break the news to you," you softly probe, "I'm assuming the gift basket I sent to your hotel room was probably really weird without the context."
Dex's brows furrowed in further confusion.
"I didn't get a basket."
It was your turn to look confused.
"Room 303 at the Four Seasons?"
Dex shook his head.
"Room 302."
Fuck.
"Well..." you said, mildly embarrassed as the realization hit, "Your across the hallway neighbor received a very confusing care package consisting of assorted fruits and snacks, a bath bomb shaped like a toaster, massage balm, a t-shirt of cartoon George Washington with the words 'WE THE PEOPLE SERVE NO KINGS', and one of those musical greeting cards that plays a song when you open it."
"Musical greeting card," Dex slowly repeated.
"Private Eyes by Hall and Oats," you confess, "It all seemed like a good idea at the time, but honestly? Halfway through shopping for items I just started grabbing things that looked fun and the theme I was going for just went out the window. I promise to aim for a more consistent theme next time."
You shift in the chair, turning your body towards Dex to face him fully. Dex watched as your shoulders dropped slightly. Disappointment was evident on your face.
"Man, I really dropped the ball not getting your room right," you added, solemnly, "Such a rookie mistake. That's going to haunt me for at least the rest of the day. Like, head in my hands in the middle of the night, unsettled sleep kind of haunt. The massage oil is actually one of my prouder moments too. It's topical CBD and really helps with aches and pains. I figured you'd need it after jobs. I put a lot of consideration into it and now some random is going to use it and not understand..."
There was something in the way you looked broken up over the whole thing that cracked something inside of Dex. He found himself fighting back a smile, a short breath of a laugh escaping his lips in spite of himself. The sound seems foreign coming from the man beside you and throws you for a moment. Then, as he came to expect, your expression brightened instantly.
"If you still want the basket, I have no doubts a man of your... abilities can obtain it. Just try to avoid leaving a body, if you can manage that," you suggested, before you motioned to the to-go cups. "Anyway, I tend to try out hot chocolates when I go to new places. I got you a black coffee though. I made an educated guess. You just seem like a black coffee kind of g--"
"You know who I am," Dex cut in.
"Sure do," you chirped out a confirmation, reaching out to draw the hot chocolate closer to you. Your eyes widen in anticipation as you did. "It's the perfect amount of chilly outside and it'll make the drinks so much more enjoyable. We should take advantage of the weather and make this coffee catch-up a coffee walk-n-ta--"
Dex stops you with a touch of his hand to yours before you could lift the cup from the table.
"You know what I've done," he tried to draw your focus back to the point once more, "What I'm going to do... and you still accepted the assignment?"
"I'm aware of your escapades," you replied, voice lowered to keep things between you, "My line of work was similar. Minus the violence and bloodshed and irreparable destruction left in the wake. So I guess it's actually not really all that similar when I really start to think about it..."
"Focus," he found himself telling you, earning an impatient huff from you as a result.
"You have targets. I had marks. Instead of your... y'know, tools," you explained, hand mimicking stabbing the air with a knife, "I used my words to... liberate specific types of people from a range of excessive and costly objects or semi-regularly an undisclosed amount of government issued currency."
That got his attention.
"You're a thief?"
You sniffed at the accusation, nose crinkling in distaste.
"Thievery is a thing I do, not who I am."
Dex didn't rise to the bait.
"You're not CIA," he hissed out.
"Technically speaking, neither were you until recently," you reply back in kind, voice dropping to a near-whisper. "At least you weren't until you signed whatever contact Mr. Charles put in front of you, same as me. If anything, I'm CIA-adjacent—"
Dex pressed a hand to your upper thigh when you tried to rise from your seat, forcing you back down. You freeze at the feeling of his fingers against the fabric of your jeans and the warmth that radiated from them. His hand remained as he seemed to search your eyes for answers you both knew he wouldn't find.
"Why would the CIA give me a grifter as a handler?"
In a totally mature act of rebellion, you slap at his hand. The sheer audacity caused the desired effect. He drew his hand back just long enough for you to slip out of your seat. You hurriedly grab your jacket and purse before taking the first two steps to leave. Dex watched as you appeared to second-guess yourself, turning back towards the table. You lean in quickly, voice dropping low enough that he alone could hear you.
"Probably for the same reason they gave me a murderer instead of an agent."
You made a point to grab your to-go cup before turning on your heels and storming off. You manage to clear the entrance of the coffee shop before he's half a step behind you. You feel the sharp point of a knife at your back. The second time that day you found yourself in this position. Dex looks about as calm as a guy like him could look to the general public. To-go coffee cup in the hand people could see. A blade threatening to cut into your spine in the other. He kept that hand blocked from sight, his large frame overshadowing yours as he crowded your space behind you.
Typical.
"You got a car?" he asked you, earning a nod in response. The order that follows is unnecessary, but spoken anyway. "Take me to it."
The walk to the parking garage takes less than ten minutes. You both spend it in uncomfortable silence. The car is tucked away in the corner of the garage, far from the other cars parked on that level. You dig the key out of your purse as you near the car. Dex watched as you unlocked the doors, tossing your coat into the backseat and storing your purse at the floor of the passenger's side. He ignores the way you need to bend at the waist to do the latter. Surprisingly, you turn back to him, motioning for his coffee cup with your free hand.
"It's a rental," you told him, unfiltered in your honesty, "I don't want to spill. They charge you more if you spill."
Dex watched you for a beat until you muttered a hasty c'mon, fingers making an impatient grabbing motion until he relents and set his to-go cup into your hand. You take the time to secure both cups in the center cup holder before sliding into the driver's seat and shutting your door. Then you waited. For him. He stared at you for a beat before rounding the car, situating himself into the passenger's side seat and closing the door.
"We're not driving yet," he pointed out, as you buckled yourself in.
You frowned down at the buckle in your hand before undoing the lock and letting the strap zip away.
"Force of habit," you said, "You should always wear a seat belt while in a car."
"I'm not here to talk about driving habits."
"I know you're not," you sighed out, "As evidenced by the knife poking holes into my fourth favorite shirt again. I mean, I know knives are your thing, but--"
Dex's arm shot out, large hand reaching out towards your face. Large fingers gripped your cheeks, squeezing them until you stopped speaking. He turned your face until you met his gaze. He tanks the dirty look you send him as an acceptable loss, shifting his body to face you fully.
"Focus," he instructed, feeling your nod under his fingers before releasing your face. He pressed a finger to your lips when he saw you draw in a deep breath to speak again. "Stay on topic. Start where we left off. Why did Mr. Charles pair you with me?"
You wait until he dropped his hand from your face before responding.
"My best guess is they're covering their bases. No way they'd risk one of their own with us. If I decide to cut my losses and skip town, it wouldn't be some random agent I'd ditch and run from. It'd be you. If I screw you over, I get Bullseye on my ass. If you decide to go into business for yourself and the result gets me killed... Well, they'd consider it an acceptable loss compared to the alternative. Either way, they can wipe their hands of a problem with minimal to no true loss on their end."
You pause, waiting for Dex to respond. When he didn't, you continued.
"The other reason seems pretty clear. There's a non-zero chance we cover each other's shortcomings. You take out targets. No question, no hesitation, no pesky little thing called guilt. You've got the mind for it. You've definitely got the build for it. Nerves of steel and the skill to execute it. The perfect hired hand."
Dex's lip curves into a smirk.
"I'm not hearing any shortcomings, sweetheart."
"Write it all out and you'll read like a perfect candidate, but guys like Mr. Charles don't just read what's written for all to see. He'd have dug deeper until every dark and dirty little secret of yours is lined up alongside all of the potential for good, then he'll weigh his options. Is it worth it to take on someone like you if the endgame means a job well done? For the CIA, it's a risk they're willing to take ten out of ten times."
"Someone like me?"
Dex watched as you ran your eyes over his face. You seemed to take in every curve and scratch there. He wondered what you saw. If you'd see the carefully crafted persona he had wore for years before or the man he became when he finally dropped the mask and simply existed.
Your answer was simple.
"Someone broken," you replied, softly, "You spend enough time gaming people and it gets easier to spot the flaws at a first glance. I can read it all over you. The cracks. The chips you tried to smooth over. The spaces you left sharp. You're broken... but the government doesn't mind you broken if you prove you could be of service. So yeah... You're broken, but useful. Just like me."
You picked up the to-go cups from the cup holder, flashing him a small -- albeit sympathetic -- smile as you hold his cup out to him. An olive branch of sorts. You waited until he took his own cup before taking a sip from your own.
"You get gold stars in the physical and even the mental of the job," you continue, knee bouncing as you spoke. "But not the emotional. You can take the shot no problem. Maybe you even intimidate the target into position or wait them out until they're in your sights. Not every target can be where you want them to be every time though. Some take maneuvering. Convincing. Some targets you might also need something from them. Something more than the lack of heartbeat. Information, objects of importance--"
Dex's free hand reached out to tap the knee you were bouncing. A silent request to stop. You shift in your seat, letting his hand fall away, but forcing your knee to stop nonetheless.
"That's where you come in then," he offers, nodding for you to continue before taking a sip from his cup.
"Where you view people as pawns to knock off a board permanently, I see them as moveable pieces. Same game, different approaches, but -- when working in tandem -- it can produce the desired results."
You drop your gaze down to the cup in your hand, free hand tracing circles around the to-go lid.
"You have a killer's instinct. You wear a mask and get the job done through brute force. You conceal your identity, but over time your mask has become one of your calling cards. People know to be afraid when they see you dressed up, but for the most part you're able to walk freely without it. I don't conceal my identity when I go to work."
Dex watched as your eyes flickered up to meet his. There was a glimmer in them now as you spoke. He listened as you continued, excitement growing in your voice as you did.
"I become a hundred different people instead. All with their own different histories and personalities. I know what each of them did for a living. I know each one of their dislikes and likes. Their preferred drink, what flavors and scents they associate with. I know what their comforts are, what makes them scared, what they torture themselves about in the middle of the night, what turns them on... and I use all of those things to get my targets to relinquish anything and everything I want from them. All while convincing them it was their idea all along to do it."
You sigh wistfully, as if reliving each and every one of the lives you previously cultivated.
"So that's your deal?" he asked, drawing you back to reality, "You got the gift of gab?"
"It's a bit more nuanced than that," you pointed out, an easy laugh on your lips. "But pretty much, yeah. I give good gab. It's one of my favorite talents, among other things. When you discover a gift, it feels like a waste not to use it to your advantage."
Dex leaned back in his seat, thumb absentmindedly tapping against the side of his to-go cup. What you said -- as lengthy as it was -- made sense. He knew his reputation. The CIA wouldn't risk losing an agent, even with his sudden change in allegiance. It shouldn't have surprised him to find out they reached out to someone else to work with him. You were a talker, but seemed capable enough. If what you said about your skills were true...
"You'll gather intel and extract what's needed," he said, "Then you'll get the targets in sight--"
"And you'll go on to do what you do best," you completed for him. "It's violent and manipulative and exploitive and dangerous and disgustingly perfect, if I'm being honest."
You laugh. Soft at first. Almost in disbelief. Dex watched with a mix of confusion and fascination a your laughter grew. Louder. Harder. You laughed with your whole body. Head tilting back and arms clutching your side. Tears nearly spilling from your eyes. You laughed until it looked like it hurt. Dex had laughed before. A reserved sort of laugh he gave to former coworkers. The odd chuckle. It was the laugh he'd mirror to make other people believe he was like them. He laughed other times as well. When his mind felt freer, he'd laugh. A deep laugh. A dark laugh. After he succeeded on a hit or felt the satisfaction of getting away from a scene. Your laugh felt different though.
It wasn't for anyone.
Only you.
Well, now for you and him.
"This'll be fun," you decided, more to yourself than to Dex.
With that, you set your cup in the cup holder and moved to buckle yourself in. A silent signal that you were going to start the car. Dex had no choice but to do the same. You were a stickler for safety apparently. At least when driving was concerned. You flipped on the radio, cranking the volume before peeling out of the parking spot.
"You said you had more talents," Dex said over the sound of the radio.
"I did say that."
Dex waited for you to continue, speaking again when you didn't.
"You chat my ear non-stop this whole time, but you're choosing to not share now?"
He watched as your lips curved in satisfaction.
"Some things are better experienced in the heat of the moment."
The rest of the drive is spent in silence. Song after song filling that silence as you drove. Windows down, wind whipping your hair all over. Somehow, it was enough. You killed the music once you slowed to a stop outside of Dex's hotel. The car stays idle at the designated drop off sidewalk. You take a quick second to smooth your hair before flashing him a smile.
"All things considered," you admitted, "I'm going to consider our first coffee catch-up a roaring success. If you can resist poking holes into the shirt I wear to the next one, I'm confident it'll top this one."
Dex blinked.
That was what you took from this conversation?
"Right..." he slowly said, unsure how else to respond.
Your hand found his when he moved to unbuckle his seat belt. It remained there when you spoke again.
"Phone," you simply said, holding out your other hand. When Dex didn't immediately move, you explained further. "When you see Mr. Charles next, it might be best to keep this first meeting out of the conversation. He doesn't look it, but he's one of those undercover alpha types. He wouldn't appreciate not having things reveal themselves on his terms, which means I need the phone back. Don't worry. I'll give it back at our second-first meeting. It'll be like the first time. Only not as fun, because I'll be handing it to you."
This stays between us.
That was the understanding. A secret meant to be kept between confidants. It was a concept Dex had tried to imitate with others. In his professional life with Nadeem, even in his personal life with Julie... Neither of those times worked out well. Both of those times his mind was not his own though. Not the way it was now. That meant things were different. Good guys kept their secrets, because it was necessary. They even had companionship. People they trusted. People in their corner, willing to die for them. Matt has that. Sure Dex eliminated one of those people, but he had others. He had Karen Page. Dex knew from experience the kind of force she was in Matt's corner. The kind of unyielding loyalty that only comes from people who believe in their hero. Perhaps this was the universe's way of reinforcing his decision to join the side of the angels. Another balance of the scales. The old him wasn't allowed this kind of fellowship, but this new him? The better him?
This he can make work.
Dex nodded before reaching into his pocket and handing you the pink phone. He slipped out of the car after, to-go cup in hand. He shut the passenger side door, leaning in beside the open window with his arm resting on the hood.
"I never got your name."
"I got a hundred of 'em," you said, humor in your eyes, "I can give you one of them today, but it'll be different by tomorrow."
"What do I call you?"
"As long as you keep me alive, you can call me whatever the hell you want."
You flip the radio on and let the music blast through the speakers once more. Dex stepped back from the curb as you waved farewell, music fading into the sound of traffic as you tear away from the sidewalk and drive off. Dex smiled into his coffee cup as he turned to return to his hotel room. Well, after a quick detour to retrieve the package from the room across from his own. You had intended for him to have it. Seemed like a waste not to recover what was clearly his.
It's hours later when Dex gets the call from Mr. Charles.
"I had back-to-back meetings with some serious VIPs, but I've got an assignment lined up for you. We'll be getting you in touch with a... Well, a handler of sorts."
Mr. Charles's voice poured in from the speaker phone as Dex removed the countless decorative tissue papers from the care package.
"Think of her as your own Girl Friday."
"She got a name?"
Mr. Charles let out an exasperated sort of laugh.
"Several. Real one is unfortunately sealed away. You two can figure out a solution to that issue when you meet. You'll love her. She's, um... spirited, but useful. Gets the job done."
Dex picked up the package and carried it over to the hotel bed, placing it beside phone. He poked through the snack bags and fruits, taking a seat on the edge of the bed as he did.
"Sound like a real peach," Dex dryly replied, picking up a peach from the basket and examining it before dropping it back into the package.
"That's the spirit! I'll send you the time and location tomorrow. Welcome to the team, Bullseye."
Dex ended the call not long after, settling onto the bed completely. Back to the headboard, he pulled your care package closer. He found the card tucked between the ridiculous cartoon t-shirt and the small container of balm. Against his better judgement, he opened the card. Sure enough it began to play a song. Private Eyes. His own eyes moved over the hand written note inside before setting he card down -- still open -- so the song could continue.
'Making sure no one messes with your front so you better watch my back! XOXO'