Before everything went to shit, you were something of Dex's handler. It wasn't like you called the shots, but you were almost always around mostly to keep him on track. Everybody knew he was unstable. It's why you were hired in the first place, so that Fisk didn't have to keep up with him outside of work related affairs--aside from ruining everything good in his life.

What you two had was far from romantic. Not even platonic. You didn't allow him to get close but had him on a thread just enough to where he was convinced that if you left, it would be the worst thing in the world. You were his rock. Structure. Nothing more, nothing less. Unless one would count him seeking out specifically your warmth when he was spiraling. Quite literally nothing else would work unless you were holding him. Which was going against contract.

In your direct reports to Fisk you conveniently left out every time he called you at like 4 in the morning after a heart shattering nightmare so you'd come over and rock him back to sleep. Or every time he called you on the way home so you'd be there at the front door when he arrived which would eventually lead to him falling asleep in your lap two hours later. It was impressive and little scary how you still managed to be a rock. Structure. No clear emotions aside from constantly acknowledging that this is (technically) what you get paid for.

It's when everything was starting to go to shit that you just...vanished. No trace. Even the files Fisk had on you were fake and manufactured. Because he was so embarrassed that someone like you outsmarted him and had a clear out without any intention of exposing him, he told Dex you were killed.

Years pass. You're well off the grid and have had the same routine for a long time without a single complaint. Living the life you've always wanted. You kept up with the news. It's fucked up what happened to that lawyer and Dex was going to jail for taking his life and countless other charges that lead back to him.

You were a ghost. Appearing in dark corners or in someone's peripheral and making it look like you were never there to begin with. Dex had an intense sense of loyalty. Like a dog. But now that he lost everything nothing really mattered and whatever compass he had left evaporated. Yet while he was being taken away to be put behind bars, all it took was one glance at the back corner of the courtroom.

Did he imagine that? You're dead. You...died. Fisk said so. Vanessa talked about you in the past tense as if she was still mourning when she released him from the psych ward. There's no way in hell...you were still alive.

Months pass. You hummed while cooking up some dinner without a care in the world. Shoulders relaxed while you listened to the living room TV playing the news. Benjamin Poindexter, also known as the violent killer vigilante, escaped prison a few ago and is still on the loose.

Hairs on the back of your neck react before you do. Still cooking. Still humming. A looming figure was getting closer and closer from behind. You feel the floorboards dip ever so slightly and turn the stove off, looking up, then over your shoulder. You fully turn around and it's him. The man you abandoned and left out there all alone. Didn't come visit him in jail even though you know he saw you in that courtroom.

Despite the deep scar on his cheek doing the frowning for him, he didn't look angry. He looked lost. To you, at least. Anyone else looking at him would think he's about to put them down the second they blink.

He's in uniform. Fresh off a kill, you assumed. You just look at him. Not through him. That was enough. He took one step forward, got on his knees, and hugged your hips. Face resting on your stomach. You still smelled the same. The warmth was still there. His rock. His structure.

He's home.