Chapter Text
There’s something that catches his interest the sixth week it happens. Like always you’re sat in the little corner of the small dinner he visits weekly. You’re wearing almost the same outfit. A black bomber jacket that falls just below your ass. A washed out grey hoodie. A dark red scarf and a black cap that's been worn out and shredded over time. Sometimes you wear a black pleated skirt, but for the majority it's a pair of Adidas jeans,with three black stripes down the side and the dirtiest pair of converse he has ever seen. The same piece of gum has been stuck to the bottom of your shoe for at least two weeks.
When you sit down in the corner you shed the bomber jacket and the scarf comes off with it, and then your hood comes up. He watches you press yourself deep into the cracked leather. The server will fill up two cups of the burnt dark roast coffee, always steaming, and then she’ll come over with a slice of cherry pie. It is cold at this time, the bottom is usually soggy. It's why he orders a slice of Banana Bread instead.
He’ll watch you drink the two cups quickly. They do not get refilled and then he watches you stare at the cherry pie, watching the cream deflate for about fifteen minutes with your knees pressed against the table, tucked into yourself. You scoff it down quicker than the coffee. You’ll slam down cash, leaving a two dollar tip. And leave.
The whole thing takes 30 minutes exactly. He knows. He’s timed it thrice.
Every Wednesday for six weeks, around 7:15 you will enter that dinner. You will sit in the same corner booth. And then you will leave. You’ll stand outside with a cigarette hanging from your mouth, the lighter banging into your hand until it lights a strong enough flame. And then you walk away.
On the seventh week, while you bang the lighter against your palm, eyebrows furrowed. You meet his eyes through the window, your expression doesn't change. You don't blink. Don’t shy away as he stares back. Unwavering until you light your cigarette and then turn back on to the street, the red glow of the neon light slips off your shoulders until you dissipate into the darkness.
He can’t help himself, already piecing together the story in his mind. As you walk down the alleyway three men will come out.
One will push you against the wall searching your pockets, the other standing by the entrance of the alley keeping watch and the third will search your bag. They find nothing and because of this they get angry.
So, so angry.
He can’t imagine your face changing from the straight resting look you gave him. So he imagines that instead, a tear will slip out the side of your eye, and he can see his reflection in it as he comes behind the guy that has pushed you into the wall.
The guy pushes you into the wall with a knife, and his friends are already down on the floor.
Yes.
He did this quietly and quickly with a penny, because he never misses.
And he imagines that the knife presses against your pretty little throat. Which he hasn’t seen yet. But he already knows how soft the skin will be. Because he's already imagined how he will hold it, without pressing. His fingers will caress softly. And you will whine.
The knife presses into your throat, but you don't look scared, and the assailant gets angry.
And he's all like. “Look at me! Bitch, Fucking look at me”
Dex would never call you a bitch.
But you’ll look at him instead, eyes softening and the knife slips slowly and nicks the skin. Your breath will catch. But it doesnt even matter bcs the bad man is on the ground. Dead. Toothpick lodged through his skull.
That's about as far as Dex gets before he's slipping out the door to follow you for the first time, following a trail of ash.
Your red scarf billows in the wind, it's like a big red sign that says “Come quick! Follow me!”
And so he does. It's a short ten minute walk before you cross the road and head inside an apartment building. He waits over the other side of the road. Watching at the windows until one on the third floor lights up a shade of orange and he watches a very solemn you. Pearing out the open window before shutting it. Light switches off and then you move to what he believes is the bedroom, shedding your jacket and lying on top of your bed.
He knows your routine by the end of the week.
Following you to work at the little boutique, watching you through the window of some rundown coffee shop, dark roasted coffee burnt on his tongue, that's sacrifice. That's his good deed. He keeps you safe.
He’ll call your phone just to hear your little sighs, soft breathy “hello?” savouring those moments of bliss as he watches the phone press against the heat of your cheek. Your voice rings out like a good luck charm. Watching the huff of annoyance leave your lips as the phone slides down your face. ‘Cold-Caller’ you’ll think. You’ll go along with your day. No notice of who's watching.
When lunch break rolls around you come to the coffee shop, ordering a light salad, black decaf. You take your seat outside on the bright and sunny days, pulling out books, ‘Bad Behaviour’ by Mary Gaitskill, ‘The Monk’ Matthew Gregory Lewis. Or tucked away in a big chair on the rainy ones.
You’ll trace the words with light fingers, taking your bottom lip into your mouth. One foot on the chair as the other rocks Back and Forth.
Back and forth.
You eat slowly, often never finishing a meal. But the coffee is always empty, it doesn't matter how bad the roast is. He thinks its pumping through your veins.
After 30 minutes are up, you’ll pick up your stuff, and then walk back over the road, cigarette in your mouth, you tuck yourself down the alley next to the shop. Smooth clouds of smoke appear from the alley, and it's ten minutes before he spots you back in the shop window. Preening at the display.
He’ll always spend lunch with you. Lunch break. He treasures this time with you. Soft fleeting moment, he's just feet away and you're so blissfully unaware.
He likes Saturdays more, Saturdays finds you sprawled over the couch, a box of take out on the coffee table as you lounge about in underwear and a band shirt. Sometimes Thai food, often a cheap burger and fries. You'll eat half, the rest left in the fridge until you throw away the stale food. He’ll watch you guzzle down a glass of wine, and then watch something on tv. Something light hearted. He sees your eyes light up, giddy from the wine.
When the wine is finished, you'll stumble to the bedroom, pulling off your clothes.
Wine makes your skin hot, he realises.
Flushed and half naked, you pass out over the comforter, window open, blinds half shut. Lights still on. He’ll watch the way your chest lifts up and down slowly till you're asleep.
The first time he did this he felt every nerve in his body light up with proverbial bliss.
Climbing through your window. Shutting the blinds slowly, he double checks the stove three times as he passes. When your skin has cooled and you start to shake, he drapes a thin blanket over you. He leaves two Advil and a glass of water near the coffee, just like you do.
As another Wednesday rolls around over three months later, he's at the little support group you go to at six, just a short walk from the diner that sits halfway between your home. He decides it's time to insert himself into your life.
He hovers over the donuts with a steaming cup of black earl grey. He can smell you before he can see you. Cigarettes, Coffee and Whiskey layered over the fresh caramel smell of your perfume. Drug store. So he knows you sprayed it after your cigarette as you walked in.
“They’re always stale, don't bother” you sigh, stirring the pack of Stevia into your coffee.
It's the first time you've truly spoken to him, He doesn't reply. Too nervous to think. He never noticed you taking your coffee with anything.
His heart rushes. But your presence disappears. He repeats the words in his head until your voice merges into his and then he chooses a glazed donut. The sugar falls apart in his mouth, shedding like snake skin over the floor. And you’re right. The donuts are stale. And he takes to dunking them into his tea so they soften up. He wonders if that's why you order the cherry pie after this finishes.
He sits in the back row for the hour. Staring at the back of your head. Speaking is optional. And you don't make a move to stand, nor do you hang around after the hour is up. So he grabs his coat off the chair next to him and then follows behind you to the Diner. Where this routine starts, he sits at the counter this time watching you, he peers over a book he found in your apartment, some depressing little thing about memories and a library. He orders the cherry pie as well. He watches the cream melt and then takes a bite and a smile cracks into his face.
The pie is terrible. Bitter and sweet at the same time. The crust is warm, gooey but chalky from sitting under a heater all day. He wonders why you like it so much. The cream and coffee help the pie go down easier. When he turns his back to look at you again, you’re pulling your scarf and bomber jacket on. He watched nimble fingers pull out the pall malls from your coat pocket, the pack rattles and you pull out the lucky last cigarette.
Lucky indeed.
It takes place in the corner of your lips, and the cash is placed onto your table, a few extra quarters this time. You smile. For the first time.
And something in his gut tells him something bad is going to happen. He watches you adjust your hat. You take a few steps before stopping in front of him. Grin on your face. You pause. And then walk away. Your posture is different. You stand straighter.
When he follows you home this time, your body sways into the music from the street, you’re almost skipping. He catches up with you fast and dashes for the building on the other side of the road, he sprints up the steps and takes his place on the rooftop, looking through the scope of his gun.
A few minutes past and the light switches on, you shed off your clothes, even your hoodie this time, and you’re wearing a tight black long sleeve that stops an inch before your baggy jeans.
The sliver of skin gives him goosebumps, you bend down to what he thinks is your liquor cabinet. The shadow that falls over your face shows you’re still smiling. You pull out the whiskey. Glass on the counter. And you pour half a cup. His sight follows you as you shuffle towards the bathroom.
His heart starts to pound on his chest and he's already got an inkling of what you may be up to.
Your hand reaches the medicine cabinet and you pull out the codeine pills that have sat in there untouched for months.
He swallows as he watches you dance towards the counter pills in hand. When you get there you reach for your phone, and then count out the pills in a neat little line.
He’s seen you do this five times before, but never with a smile on your face, you have never danced your way into any room, nor had you skipped home.
Usually after counting them out, you had pushed them all back into the counter, taking your head into your hands, rocking back and forth and then bringing the pills back into the bathroom, emerging with a shiny flushed face.
And so Dex watches you gather the pills into one hand and grab the glass with the other, he watches your head tip back, bringing you hand to your mouth, full of pills.
Anyone else and he wouldn't care. But he's been stuck in this routine, for months now, he's been on the right track. He's being good, he thinks you can make him better.
He knows he can help you.
Help you.
Help him.
Together.
He pulls out a hair clip of yours, dropped from your hair weeks ago, fished away into his pocket like a prize. Flinging it through the open window, where it wedges itself between the bones in your hand holding the pills.
You let out a cry, so with taken from the impact you drop the pills, they scatter all over the floor. He watches your eyes look upwards to where the clip was thrown from, blood trickling down your hand. And then you spot him. Well his shadow. You’re sneering.
Looming over the building just over the road, he watches you approach the window slowly.
He thinks you curse at him. He sees you shout. Should’ve wired the place.
He watches you run to the bathroom, pulling out the little piece of metal. Lips wobbling, wrapping your hand in a towel, your face scrunches up. He thinks you’re going to cry. But then your body rocks back and forth like your laughing, mouth wide open.
He wishes he could hear it.
You fall asleep in the tub, but you wake up bandaged in bed. The pills are gone. The whiskey has been drunk.
You don't even think to ask any questions. You already know.
You know you’re being followed. Stalked, even. Mugs moved around, panties missing. Lip balms that had been placed in coffee tables bowls, are gone. Sometimes the bed is made, sometimes the washing is done or your favourite candy is sitting on the counter waiting for you when you get home.
You see his figure looming over the building every night. Always gone in the morning.
This happens for weeks, months even. You half expect him to clamber through the window when you can't sleep. Waiting for the day the door swings open.
You focus on other things, like the cute guy that's started coming to the support group. Never speaking, always sat at the back. You'll catch a glance of him at the coffee station. Never finding the words to say to him.
Until one time, you're late. You find yourself rushing to make a coffee at the back of the hall, scalding hot water rushing out the catering urn.
“Fuck” you shout in pain. You look behind you after a shush rings out, smiling apologetically, the speakers go back to talking. And you press your hand against the water cooler to ease the pain of your burning skin.
“Here”
Your ears perk up, looking behind you, finding the cute guy from the Diner. He's handing you a handkerchief. You pat your hand dry of water. “Thank you” you smile towards him.
“Theres a small kitchenette that way, if you want to run your hand under water”
You nod, taking a leap of faith. “Could you show me?”
He nods in return. You find yourself following after him, as he leads you to the cold kitchen. Slightly rundown. Mold dusts the pale yellow walls. He guides your hand over to the sink, feeling his jacket brush over your hoodie.
You drop his handkerchief on the counter. Hes so close you can smell his cologne. He starts the tap, double checking the temperature before pushing your hand gently under the stream. You sigh, the cool water easing the pain. His hands leave yours.
“Im Dex” You smile, sharing your name in return. He speaks your name like he's tasting it on his tongue. It rings out slowly in his deep voice.
“What do you do for work, Dex?”
“I work for the FBI”
“Oh, shit that must be hard, makes sense why your here” you scoff.
“Yeah, It’s hard. It's really hard. But I like it, I'm good at my job, I like knowing I'm protecting people, what do you do?”
“I work at some snobby boutique, it used to be a second hand shop. But the owner decided she wanted something more elevated” you roll your eyes. “ So now we sell Moroccan scarfs and beaded jewellery.”
“Doesnt look like your type of stuff” he smirks. Eyes running down your body “You seem a little edgier than that”
Is he flirting?
“I think she kept me around, because I have the resting bitch face that scares old women to come in and buy a forty dollar plastic tote bag with ‘she who is brave is free’ written in silver ”
You turn your hand under the tap, watching water droplets run. His gaze follows yours. Eyebrows furrowing, “I wanted to be a writer, I-um, moved here for college, but I dropped out. Because im a~failure”
“I'm sure you're not,” he argues. You watch his eyes falter, grin fading. Jaw clenching.
“No, It's true. I never finish anything. I’ve been engaged twice and I called them off. I've tried to leave my job six times but everytime I go to hand in my resignation letter I just feel this pull to not do it. I've written four books without endings. It's why I'm here. Because I can't go through with it, I have it all planned out and I just can't. I line up all the little pills, the exact amount I need but I just put them back in the pot.” Your head tilts forward. Hat hiding your face. “Its like every time I go to reach the finish line, I turn back.” You pause, lifting your head to meet his gaze. His eyes are restless. “ shit, sorry I shouldn't have said anything. You're probably not even trained to deal with that.”
“That sounds hard, You're not a failure. Even if you think you are. But, it seems like you're clinging on just a little. Why would you be here, if not?”
You pull your hands towards your face, water splashes up your chin. “ I just want to know if other people have it worse, does that make me a bad person?” you shake your head, removing your hands “God you're easy to talk too. Some kind of bullshit fbi technique to make me comfortable I bet”
He doesn't say anything. Instead he grabs the handkerchief of the counter, moving it towards your face, brushing the droplets of water off of your cheeks softly. You look away from his eyes shyly.
“Do you wanna grab a coffee after this?” you utter.
“Is that okay with this group?” He raises his eyebrows.
“Its a suicide prevention group. I'm not trying thirteenth step you." You watch his face for any sign of agreement. “ It's fine we don’t have to, actually I should probably go home. I think I-um, left the oven on?” you send him a quick smile,
“ and I don't want a fire, aha” you walk out the kitchenette shaking your head. Not bothering to finish the session. Windbiting your wet cheeks as you leave.
You find yourself praying for comfort at home, a hand on your back. A thumb grazing your cheek. The bag of candy is left on your counter like always. You want him to break in. You just want comfort. Someone . You pray to god for someone. Bent over the counter. Watching tears run down the wood.