Archive of Our Own ^beta

the room was heavy with heat and the kind of silence that hums. the air conditioner had died sometime in the night, its blinking red light casting weak pulses over the cracked motel wallpaper. outside, thunder crawled low through the sky, one of those summer storms that seemed to soak into the bones of the city, that carried static and sweat and the faint smell of burnt ozone.

dex woke up hard. his body lurched before his mind did, gasping, ribs tight, lungs catching like they’d forgotten how to work. he didn’t know where he was for a moment, didn’t know what had pulled him from the dream or what the dream even was. it was gone the second his eyes opened, leaving only the noise of his pulse and a wet ache in the center of his chest. his throat felt raw, like he’d been shouting.

the sheets stuck to his back. he peeled them away, every movement stiff and deliberate. he was drenched in sweat, shaking, heart still stuttering in uneven bursts. the scar on his right cheek burned, a deep, old sting that caught the light when lightning split the sky outside. he pressed the heel of his palm against it until the sensation dulled, until the world steadied just enough to breathe through.

this wasn’t new. the panic, the waking confusion, the physical ache that came after. it was all old hat by now. just worse. deeper. more ingrained in the way his body functioned. sometimes the nightmares were vivid, sometimes blank. sometimes they left him trembling and half-convinced that the walls were moving. he knew better than to trust what his mind showed him in the dark.

he swung his legs off the bed, slow, wincing at the stiffness in his back. every part of him hurt. some mornings he woke up and it was manageable, just a dull hum of pain that sat beneath his skin. other mornings, like this one, it roared. his lower spine felt like it had been fused with glass. his head throbbed on the left side where a scar hid beneath his hairline, the skin there still sensitive to touch after over a year.

he’d learned not to curse it. pain meant he was alive. that was something.

he stumbled toward the bathroom, the floorboards creaking under his bare feet. the room tilted for a second, an echo of dizziness that made him grab the wall. sometimes, when he was too tired, too wired, the hallucinations slipped in around the edges. shadows bending wrong, reflections lagging behind his movement. but tonight it was only the stormlight, flickering white-blue through the blinds.

he turned the tap. the water came out rusty at first, then clear. he cupped his hands and splashed it over his face. it hit like a shock, cold enough to sting. he leaned against the sink, chest heaving, staring at the water dripping down his arms.

the reflection that looked back at him was fractured by the mirror’s crack running across the middle. his face split into two versions, one human, one almost spectral. his right cheek was hollow where the scar cut deep, like something had taken a piece of him and never given it back.

he didn’t remember the dream, but his body did. his body always did.

the thunder rolled again, closer this time. somewhere in the room, the sound made the metal lamp rattle. he glanced toward the window. the curtains trembled in the draft, city lights bleeding through in dull orange streaks.

he tried to count his breaths. in for four, out for six. he’d learned that once, years ago. it never quite worked, but it was something to cling to.

he thought, distantly, about fisk. about vanessa. about how they were both still out there, still untouchable, and how every inch of his ruined body pulsed with the need to fix that. he thought about daredevil too. the fall, the rage, the humiliation of being broken in every way a man could be. and still, somehow, getting up again.

he rubbed at the scar on his cheek again, the movement almost unconscious. sometimes it tightened in the cold. sometimes it burned for no reason at all. he’d grown used to it, the same way he’d grown used to the pain in his spine or the tremor in his hands when the panic got bad.

he was tired, but he couldn’t lie down again. he knew how it would go. close his eyes, the storm would move closer, and the walls would start to breathe. he’d wake up gasping all over again.

so he stood there in the half-light, bare skin slick with sweat, heart slowing but never calm, the taste of rust and adrenaline on his tongue.

the storm had moved closer. it filled the room with that low electric growl, the kind that lived in the chest and made everything feel too alive. dex sat on the edge of the bed, shoulders hunched forward, elbows on his knees. he hadn’t bothered turning on the light. the only glow came from the street outside. neon bleeding through rain-soaked glass, flashing red and white and blue, a rotation of colors that reminded him too much of sirens.

his breathing was steadier now, but his hands wouldn’t stop shaking. he kept them clasped between his knees like he could hold them still through will alone. his skin felt too thin, too open. every sound, every drop of rain against the window, every distant car tire sliding through wet asphalt, was too loud, too sharp. his mind tried to match every noise with a meaning, a threat, a memory. he couldn’t stop it from doing that anymore.

ten years. it had been ten years since fisk crushed him, since the surgery that rebuilt his spine and left him half-metal, half-ghost. ten years since the man who’d given him purpose had also stripped it from him, piece by piece, until there was nothing left but pain and the memory of obedience.

he thought he’d gotten used to the pain. sometimes he almost believed it. but then nights like this came around and reminded him, pain wasn’t something you got used to. it just got quieter until it didn’t.

the scar along his cheek itched again. he rubbed it absentmindedly, feeling the ridge of it, the rough edge that dipped like a canyon through his face. sometimes he could still feel the pressure of the devil’s hand, the moment of impact, the cold nothingness after. his body remembered everything his mind tried to forget.

he looked around the room, one chair, one bed, one half-broken nightstand. the kind of place people passed through, not stayed in. it smelled faintly of bleach and mildew. the carpet was stiff beneath his bare feet. he’d been in hundreds of rooms like this over the past couple months, cheap hideouts that blurred together into the same dim pattern. each one felt like a stop between lives.

his duffel sat open on the floor. inside, there was a half-empty bottle of painkillers, a knife, a few files, a gun he’d cleaned twice that day just to keep his hands busy. and folded papers, notes about fisk, vanessa, old contacts, the web he’d been building in silence. his plan was coming together, slow and methodical, the only thing keeping him upright some days. revenge had a shape to it now. it gave him something like structure.

but there were moments like this, late and quiet, where he wondered if he was building toward anything at all. or if he was just orbiting the same pain, waiting for it to burn him again.

he reached for the glass of water on the nightstand, took a slow sip, and set it back down. his reflection shimmered faintly in the window. he barely recognized it. there were more lines on his face now, shadows under his eyes that never faded. the scar made him look older, harder. he looked like someone who’d survived something he shouldn’t have, and sometimes he wasn’t sure that was a good thing.

his thoughts drifted the way they always did. to matt murdock. daredevil. he could still see the flash of red, the sound of his own body breaking on the pavement. he told himself he hated the man, and maybe that was true, but there was something else under it too. envy, maybe. or understanding. matt had a cause. a mission that didn’t collapse under its own weight. dex had nothing but ghosts.

he leaned back against the wall, staring up at the ceiling. the paint there was peeling, exposing old water stains shaped like continents. thunder rolled again, softer this time.

he thought about how much had changed. and how much hadn’t. the world kept moving forward, faster, louder, crueler. and he stayed stuck in the same loop. wake up, plan, hide, survive, repeat. he told himself it was because he had work to do, that vengeance was a purpose. but there were nights like this when the quiet crept in and he couldn’t stop wondering if that was just an excuse to stay angry.

the tremor in his hands had faded to a subtle pulse. his chest still ached, but the panic had passed, leaving him hollow in its wake. he ran a hand through his hair, fingers brushing the hidden scar beneath. it was jagged under his touch, still sensitive after all this time.

he wondered what kind of man he’d be if fisk had never found him. if julie had never existed. if daredevil had never stood in his way. probably the same, he thought. some things were inevitable. some people were built to break.

the rain started to ease. the hum of the city returned, slow and steady.

he sat there until the sky lightened slightly, waiting for the shaking to stop, waiting for the room to stop spinning, waiting for morning. because that’s what he did. he waited, he endured, he kept going, because he didn’t know what else there was to do.

he’d survived ten years of pain, loss, and silence. maybe he could survive another. maybe.